#&& the light in the dark; undertaker and liz

[brothersgrim]

SEND 'WHAT IF' SCENARIOS FOR MY MUSES TO REACT TO! || ACCEPTING

Anonymous asked: What if Taker was in a situation in which he felt extremely confused by something 👀  sorry, I’m not that creative with asks

He shifts in his bed, scrunching his face in displeasure at the hazy notion of waking up. He's tired. He's sore. He knows his duties will summon him soon, but for now, his bed is comfortable, and that is enough. It is so much more than he had for so long. 

There's a noise from out in the hall. Footsteps. Now, enough people came and went these days that that noise wouldn’t normally bother him. But even with so many people, the Undertaker knew them all - he wouldn’t bring them here otherwise. He knew their voices, their habits, their rhythms, and, while he wasn’t as keen at it as Kane was, he knew their footsteps. He could usually tell who it was walking past his door.

He does not recognize those steps. 

The Undertaker opens his eyes with a frown, brow knotting as he sits up, and–

And this isn’t his room. 

This isn’t his room, even if it feels painfully familiar. It’s still small, though he wonders if it feels bigger simply because there are more things in it than usual - where did they come from? The rug, the desk, the chair, the lamp… The posters were different, but he recognized the room itself. He knows, if he were to look out the window to his left, he would see the Yard. His Yard. He pushes carefully off the bed and freezes when his feet brush something soft. He looks down, and things get stranger still. A set of slippers rests against his feet. Soft ones, hand-made by a matron in town for a church fundraiser.

He remembered these. He didn’t know why - they should be inconsequential - but he remembers them. And the feet that brush against them move when he wills them to, the toes flex and curl, but these aren’t his feet; they lack the weathering and callouses, the scars on the sides where poorly-maintained boots had worn skin away to bloody messes more times than he could count. He raises his hands to his face, and they’re similarly smaller, unblemished, nails neatly groomed without any traces of grave-dirt or blood or motor oil stuck underneath. This–

This didn’t make any sense. There was an answer, an explanation, to all of this, but it danced and spun and swirled around in illogical circles until all it looked like was a dream. This was a dream. This was a dream, it had to be, it was the only thing that possibly made sense. He pushes off the bed (the blankets felt too soft, too real, and wasn’t this different from how these dreams normally went?) and is halfway to the mirror in the corner when the footsteps come back, and there’s three steady knocks on the door. The voice comes through the door just as he catches his reflection - just in time to see the agony flash across his younger self’s features as recognition twists the knife of grief. 

“Hey in there. You ready for bed yet?” 

That’s his father’s voice. A voice he had longed to hear and failed to properly remember for so long. Any response is caught in his throat, stopped by the lump and the sickly taste of bile that he clamps his jaw against, by breaths that trip and stumble as they make a rapid escape from his lungs without leaving any oxygen behind. 

“Adam?” Another knock and he knew, he’d known for so long, that he hadn’t quite gotten it right in his mind, but he hadn’t realised how many little details time had worn away. That was his father’s voice. The way his accent shaped each vowel, dulled the edge of some consonants and sharpened some others. The hint of concern mingled with confusion, so genuine and authentic and different, so different from how Paul had spoken of them. “You there?” 

This had to be a dream. It had to be. The door handle rattles and his entire body tenses. He knows what will happen next. The door will open and he will see his father’s face, burned and disfigured, and it will tell him that everything was his fault and he will wake up for real, in the master bedroom in his own– His grown– body. That’s what will happen. That’s what will happen because nothing else makes sense. That’s what will happen because he does not know what he will do if it doesn’t. The door opens and it is not his father’s corpse he sees. It is his father. Just his father, but like his voice, the memories of his face, even the photo kept hidden away, lacked so many details. The faint scar on his lip. The furrow in his brow. The way his hair flopped when he tilted his head, the creases at the corner of his eyes from a lifetime of smiling and thinking and squinting alike. 

“Ad-?” His father begins, but cuts off when he meets his son’s eyes. The Undertaker - Adam - does not move. He’s not sure he can. His father’s eyes widen a bit, and he reaches in the room to set his mug (his favourite mug, off-white and coffee-stained from years of use, it had a soup recipe on the side but he always filled it with everything but instead) on the dresser (handmade by Grandpa Abe, years and years before Adam was ever born and longer still before the fire claimed it and everything else). 

“Whoa, whoa, easy.” His father closes the door behind him and crouches down, close enough to study his son’s face but far enough to not crowd. The Undertaker - Adam - studies him in kind through wide, shellshocked eyes. Green eyes, not like his father’s brown. A soft green-and-navy flannel shirt hung on shoulders made broad from ranching, from grave-digging, from casket-building, a strong nose wrinkled just enough as he frowned down. This was his father. “What happened?” (You died.) “What’s wrong?” (I killed you.That’s what’s wrong. You died, I killed you, I didn’t mean to but I did and you’re dead and I lost you and–) His father’s hands, work-rough but gentle, come to rest on his shoulders and he flinches. If he hadn’t felt sick before, he did now. This is his father.

This is his father, and this is not a dream. 

“Jesus, c’mere.” His father sighs and pulls him in for a hug. It’s crushing, it’s suffocating, it’s ensnaring, it’s safe, and it isn’t until his father holds even tighter that Adam realises he is leaving tear stains on his father’s shirt. Oh. He’s crying. He’s crying, and he’s not sure he will ever be able to stop. He is Death. He is the Reaper. Men the size of mountains ran at the mere idea of his presence. His name was a legend, a warning, a curse, a promise. He is the Omega, the ugly truth of the world, and the truth he cannot bring himself to accept is just how much he had wanted this for so, so many years. His hands shake as he takes tentative fistfuls of flannel, then grips hard enough his knuckles turn white as he presses his face against his father’s shoulder.The shuddering, messy inhale that he forces smells like coffee and wood chips and spiced aftershave, fabric softener and earth and embalming fluid. It smells like comfort. It is a smell he had long since forgotten, and even though his lungs don’t work and his chest burns he forces himself to breathe it in again. 

“You hurt?” His father asks and the Undertaker has no idea how to respond, so Adam doesn’t. Only manages another breath that sounds deceptively like a hiccup. His father hums a single note and stands, tightening his arms just enough to lift Adam up off his feet. “Think there’s a bit more cocoa in the pot downstairs. Why don’t we get you some?” The offer only makes Adam cling to him even tighter. (How long had it been since anyone had offered the Undertaker cocoa? The Devil Himself did not need comfort. The Pale Rider had no use for warmth.) “C’mon.” His father opens the door with one hand and shuts it as they step through, leaving the soup mug behind. (That’s right, he had a habit of forgetting where he left things, hadn’t he? Another detail long forgotten.) He clings to his father and one of the boards creaks, and oh, right, he’d always had to be careful of that when he was young, right? And then there’s another creak as a door opens. Another voice the Deadman had resigned himself to never hearing - at least, not like this. Another set of spectral hands ripping into his chest.

“What’s wrong with Adam?” 

“Nothing, Fireball.” His - their - father says, reaching down with one arm to tousle Kane’s hair. His little brother looks up and his throat seizes again. The eyes he meets are grey - both grey, not mis-matched by smoke and flame and infection. His brother, little brother, baby brother, is just how he had tried to remember him for so many years and even through blurring vision he can’t look away. It’s how he was always meant to be. How he should have been, until– “Just a bit under the weather, is all. Go turn down your bed, I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“Okay.” Kane says, not bothering to keep the frown out of his voice. The door closes and Adam thinks more than feels the nudge through the air, that voice he had grieved so deeply peeking in through the disoriented haze of his own thoughts. 

You okay?

Kane. He sent back, squeezing his eyes shut and once again burrowing his face into his father’s shoulder. Is it really you?

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be Kane. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be. It had to be a trick. A lie. It would all fall apart because it always did. It would go wrong and twist and he would lose it - them - again because he always did. 

It’s me. Kane’s voice says and it’s a punch to the gut all over again. Why? Did something get out? Do we need to find Mama? 

Mama.

Their mother. 

Was she here, too? The last time he had seen her had been when Kane - grown, scarred, furious Kane - had thrown him into her casket. Before that, it had been when Paul had brought him to the other funeral home. When he had seen a skeletal grin and blackened glass and bloody, charred flesh– Another shudder wracks his too-small body as the revulsion hits him anew.

“You’re okay.” His father says, carefully setting Adam down on a chair. It feels so much bigger than chairs are supposed to. He doesn’t let go of his father. He wasn't sure that he could. If he does, his father will slip away again. If he does, he will wake up as he was yesterday and he will never see his father again, outside of photographs. If he does– 

His father rests a hand on Adam’s head before pulling away. 

“Sit tight.” His father says, moving to a pot resting on the stove. He rummages around for a mug and finds one, smaller than the now-discarded soup mug with two little mice painted on the side. He lifts the pot by its long wooden handle, pours cocoa into the mug, then returns to Adam’s side. “Here y’are. Drink slow, but see if it helps you any.” Adam takes the mug in his hands and stares.

“It’s warm.” He says, and even he notices the incredulity in his voice. His father lets out a surprised snort. 

“Well, yeah. It’s hot chocolate.” And yes, he’s right, the name should make its temperature obvious, but that’s not the point. The point is that Adam - the Undertaker - can feel it. The point is that it’s another sign that this is all, somehow, impossibly, inexplicably real. He hesitates a moment longer before taking a sip. It’s warm, yes, but it’s rich, sweet, comforting. Something homemade, from scratch, not from a packet. 

“My mama - your Granny Jules - used to make this whenever my siblings and I had a rough night.” His father leans against the counter with a grunt belying stiff muscles. “‘Course, when we started getting bigger, she put whiskey in it. … You still got a few more years before you can give that a try.” His father offers him a smile, and though it still twists at his heart, Adam manages a smile back. This is real. He has to accept that. Maybe… Maybe everything else had been a dream? No. That didn’t make sense, either. It had been fifty years, and he had felt every second of it. … Maybe he should give up trying to rationalise this. His mere existence had defied logic for so long; why would this be any different? (But at the same time, nothing good, logical or otherwise, ever lasted with him. Everything he loved had been taken away over, and over, and over again. Accepting this as reality would only make it hurt more when it was ripped from his grasp.) It’s a debate he’s still having with himself when he takes another sip of his drink. Then there are more footsteps, and these ones are not difficult to recognize. 

“JT! You down there?”

Paul. 

So many things happen at once. Adam chokes on his drink. The light overhead explodes. His father flinches back into the counter and curses. Paul bangs into something upstairs and says something similar. He comes downstairs and Adam cannot stop staring. That’s Paul. That’s Paul. That’s Paul. Paul is here. Why is Paul here? Paul stares at him with a furrowed brow. 

“The hell was that?” Paul asked. Adam gripped the mug so tightly his hands shook. 

“Just a light.” His father said, but there was a different tone to his voice. His words were just a bit slower, a bit more thoughtful. “Think you can go find Iza for me? We’re gonna need to clean this up, get a replacement. She’s out back.” Paul watched Adam a moment longer, then shrugged and made his way to the back door. Adam did not take his eyes off him, nor did he loosen his grip. Paul was here. Paul was here. Paul was here. It’s a thought that consumes him so much he doesn’t realise his father has moved until they’re in front of each other.

“Adam.” His own name makes him jump again, sloshing cocoa onto his fingers. It burns. The sensation, unpleasant as it is, helps ground him. His father carefully pries the mug from his grasp and sets it on the table, before work-worn hands rest on Adam’s shoulders. “You’re not in trouble, but I need you to be honest with me. Did he do something to you?” Adam didn’t answer. How could he? How could he explain forty years of torture to the father who only knew him as– How old was he? Ten years? Eleven? 

“I-” He starts, then stops. Forty years of suffering. Forty years of misery, of slavery, of pain and fear and what he had done to Kane and– Without being aware of it, his hands had moved to his throat. And then he swallows, looks down, and clutches at his own hands. “I…” His father’s jaw clenched and he looked over his shoulder to the back door. After another beat, he turns back and scoops Adam back into his arms. 

“Y’know what? Grab your cup, Mr. Man. We’re having a sleepover tonight.” 

It’s almost robotic, the way Adam does as he’s told. It’s easy to fall back onto that old habit. It’s familiar. Far more familiar than the way his father carries him up the stairs, stopping only to knock on Kane’s door. 

“Hey, Kane! C’mon. You’re sleeping in our room tonight.” His words were met with some shuffling noises from the other side of the door, before the knob turned and Kane’s ruffled head poked out. 

“I am?” He asked, blinking groggily. He must have been settling down already. Their father reached down to smooth Kane’s hair back into place. 

“Yup. Sleepover night.” Their father nodded. “Grab your bear if you want, but hurry it up. It’s getting late.” 

“Okay.” Kane disappeared into his room again, then reappeared and trotted after their father. Adam found himself deposited on their parents’ bed. His father squeezed his shoulders one last time, pressing a kiss to the crown of Adam’s head. 

“Stay here, I’m gonna go find your mama.” And then he leaves. He leaves, and those words cling to Adam like an embrace, like a security blanket, like brambles, like a noose. The bed shifted behind him, but Kane’s voice still almost made him jump.

“You’re not sick, are you?” He asked. Adam worked his jaw, then carefully set the mug down on the nightstand.

“I dunno what I am.” He said after a while. Kane flopped against his back. The warmth, the pressure, helped. The closeness to his brother helped. It didn’t chase the tightness in his chest away, but it helped. 

“You’re scared.” That did not help.  

“Kane-” He started. He didn’t need his brother digging through his head. Not now. He didn’t want Kane to see. Kane didn’t need to know. (He didn’t want Kane to know.) 

“It’s okay.” Kane said, shrugging the shoulder that wasn’t smushed against his brother’s back. “It’s like Mama always says. Nothing can hurt us in this house.” … Adam was glad his brother didn’t see the expression that just flashed across his face. How he wished that was true. How he’d used to believe that was true. How many years he had desperately, desperately longed for it to be true. But it wasn’t. He grips the mug tighter and leans back against Kane. The warmth of both and the weight of his brother feel a million miles away. His chest is tight and he closes his eyes as though that will banish the pain. He needs to breathe. He knows he needs to breathe, but this is all too much, too much, too much– The creak of the stairs.

He’s not ready for this.

His father’s muffled voice.

He’s not ready.

“... Look in his eyes, almost didn’t look like him.” His father was saying. “I’ve only seen that look two other places. Soldiers, and the pigs you bring in on Halloween.” The pigs. Livestock only in the loosest sense. Shepherded in from death row, or rounded up in the wild if they hadn’t been caught yet. Serial killers, repeat abusers, the worst of humanity, and they all squealed when they realised what was going to happen to them. He knew that well enough from his own experience. (He’d had to keep the tradition going. He had to. And he had done it, like all things, alone.) And the door opens. And the air leaves the room again. And he no longer feels the cup, or his brother. And he knows he’s shaking but he doesn’t feel that, either. And he imagines he’s crying again but even that escapes sensation. There’s an image juxtaposed over his mother’s face. One he’d never forgotten, not in forty years. Charred, blistered skin. Lips peeled back to reveal ash-coated teeth. Glass lacerating through reddened skin. Patches of skull where hair had been eaten away. A hole where her nose was meant to be. And only congealed, half-boiled pits where her blue, blue eyes had once been. That is what his mother had looked like, the last time he’d seen her face. And he sees it now. And he feels sick. And his head is spinning. And it’s too light and too dark and his heart is pounding, deafening in his ears and that’s his mother. And he feels like he is falling apart and compressing all at once and his own hair feels hot and itchy against the back of his neck and that is his mother. 

That is his mother. 

That is his mother and she’s getting closer. 

That’s his mother and he still remembers how her charred flesh smelled.

That’s his mother and she’s in front of him. And he can’t breathe. And it smells like smoke and cooked flesh. And it smells like cinnamon and lavender. And she is burned and she is beautiful. And she is in front of him. And his vision is blurring so much it no longer matters what her face looked like; he couldn’t make it out anyways. She folded her hands on the blankets near him - an invitation for comfort, but not making contact yet. 

“Addie, baby?” Her voice was a lance through his heart. “What’s wrong?” The floorboards creak (so loud, so shrill) as his father moves to his mother’s side. Another fuzzy shape in front of him. 

“I’m sorry.” He manages. His voice croaks and it hurts to say the words. He tries again anyway. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” The indistinct shape of his mother shifts, likely looking up at his father, but she will find no answers there. He wouldn’t know. Neither of them would know the blood and soot that stained their oldest’s hands. They wouldn’t know how badly he’d hurt them. How he’d-

“I’m sorry.” He repeated, though even he barely understood it. “I’m sorry.” It’s a mess of syllables, fumbled together and dropped from the shaking grasp of his lips until they fell on a floor in a heap. He curls in on himself, wrapping his arms around his chest as though that might stop the last pieces of his heart from shattering further. 

It doesn’t work. 

“Oh, baby.” His mother says, wrapping him in her arms and pulling him close. She kisses the top of his head and it aches, it burns, it’s agony and it’s a redemption and a forgiveness that he has done nothing to deserve. He does not deserve her love and yet he has craved it so desperately he can’t bring himself to pull away. She holds him tighter still and at some point, he had started clinging to her in kind. He doesn’t remember when. All he knows is if he tried to hold on to the back of her blouse any tighter his hands would break. He tries anyways. He tries another apology, too. Neither attempt is successful. His mother holds him anyway. And just like with his father, eventually, he wears himself out. He does not let go, but the tears slow down. His breathing steadies to shaky hiccups. But he doesn’t let go until she pulls away and he has to. Her hands find his face and her thumbs brush away the lingering moisture on his cheeks. He raises his own hands to hold on to her wrists, pressing his face into her palms. He had tried to memorise this feeling after she had been gone. (He’d had no way of knowing he’d be forced to forget.) 

Feeling the real thing now, his memories didn’t come anywhere close. 

His mother sighs. It’s not an annoyed sigh, nor is it condescending. It’s a release of tension. It’s permission to relax. She leans in and kisses the top of his head again. For another moment, she stays with her face pressed against his scalp. He blinks; his eyes still sting. 

“You okay, baby?” She asks. He sniffs, and for the first time since he could remember, he answered that question honestly. 

“I don’t know.” 

“And that’s okay.” She smooths his hair and smiles down at him and he sees her face, and it’s even more beautiful than he remembered. “Why don’t you stay here with your brother? I gotta talk to your daddy for a minute.” She moves to stand and the ‘no’ that leaves him is involuntary. Don’t go. Don’t leave me, not again. I just got you all back, don’t go. 

I need you. 

Her lips flicker into a frown, concerned and- angry?- but it vanishes just as fast. There’s a fluctuation in temperature, a drop that he swears must have been his, but her hand is freezing when it runs through his hair again. 

“We’ll be back, Adam, sweet boy. I promise.” And despite the warning signs, she was as gentle towards him in tone and action as she had ever been. She turns and leaves quickly, their father following behind. The door closes behind them. Adam sniffs and wipes at his face again. There’s silence, filled by the staccato ticking of the clock on the night stand and the soft rustling of Kane squirming around in the sheets. Adam keeps staring at the door. Then Kane plops his chin on Adam’s shoulder and speaks. 

“Would it make you feel better if we listened?” He asked. “Then we won’t be so far away.” Adam scrunched up his faze and scrubbed at his eyes one last time. Kane was right. Adam didn’t want to know how much he’d picked up–

“Not a lot.” Kane shrugged.

“Cut that out.” Adam mumbled into his own sleeve. Kane huffed, flopping backwards onto the thick down-stuffed pillows his parents enjoyed. 

“Well, you won’t tell me what’s going on! I’m worried.” He said, pouting at the ceiling. “You’re never like this.” And maybe he was right. Adam absolutely hadn’t been that way when he had stopped being Adam. He didn’t remember what he was supposed to be before the fire. Apparently, not like this. 

“Yeah.” Adam ended up saying. “Let’s go listen.” Anything to avoid letting his brother know what he was thinking. They both slipped off the bed, their socks helping to muffle the impact of their feet against the floor. And the door opens slowly, quietly, careful of the potential squeaking hinges, and Adam leaves first, finding his spot at the top of the stairs. He can’t see his parents, no matter how he manoeuvres. They must be in the back entryway. But he can hear them, and hear them well. 

“What happened, JT?” She was asking. She sounded mad again. “What happened to my little boy?”

“I don’t know.” Their father said. His voice was more level than their mother’s, but had a hard edge. He’d had enough time to gather himself. “I was doing the usual bedtime routine and found him like that, just like I told you. Had him calmed down a bit, but…” Their father sighed. 

“... What is it?” Their mother still seemed agitated, but concern had returned to her voice. Adam leaned forward, grasping the bannister for support and pressing his face between the beams. He could just see their shadows in the butter-yellow light that spilled in front of the staircase. It was a good thing he’d leaned in, because his father spoke much more softly now. 

“I think it was Paul.”

“What?!” He could see their mother’s shadow take a step back. “What do you mean? What did he do?” 

“All I know is, he showed up, and Adam looked like someone just walked over his grave. Pale as anything, kept staring, I swear, I called his name three times and he didn’t hear me. Something happened even if I don’t know what.” 

“You’re sure?” Their mother asked, and this time, their father replied instantly.

“Sure as I need to be.”

“Fine.” Their mother says. “So we get rid of him, then. Nobody gets to hurt our boys, I don’t care who they are.” Their father hummed his agreement, and his shadow nodded. 

"I’m with you on that. Only thing I'm hung up on," his father says, a creak of wood belying a shifting of weight, "is what we tell Keith." 

"Why does he have to be told anything?" It's mama's voice, a coldness in it he isn't sure he ever heard. 

"Because. No more disappearances, remember?" 

"J." His mother tuts. "It's only a disappearance if someone comes looking." Adam tightens his hands on the bannister. It’s a struggle to keep his breathing quiet. It's them. It's really them. And he still does not know for how long he will have them back, so he is determined to re-learn their voices. Even if they are talking about murder. They are going to kill Paul. It is a thought that calms and terrifies him in kind - Paul is a monster. He deserves what he is getting. But what could someone like him do when cornered-? 

“Got a point.” His father says with a sniff. “Don’t think I’ve heard him really talk much about his family, so I don’t imagine they’re close.” 

“So we should be fine.” His mother replies. There’s a moment of silence that he imagines is filled with his father nodding. 

“Mind if I take the shovel?” His father’s voice again. “I just-” And then his father’s voice lowers and Adam has to strain even harder, leaning forward to not miss a single syllable. “The way Adam was when I found him-” 

“It’s all yours, J.” His mother said. “But that’s my baby too. So I get his heart.” In spite of the nature of the situation, a faint smile tugs at Adam’s face. He had been told before that he took after his mother; apparently they were right. Then he heard Paul’s voice, muffled and unintelligible, and the smile vanished as he shrank back. 

“Yeah, Paul, we’re coming.” His father called, loud enough to be heard in the back, and loud enough for Adam to hear easily. And as the door slid open, his mother’s voice, in a promise that would be terrifying if it was aimed at him, but as it was, carried a sense of security, of safety. 

“We’ll be right behind you.” 

And then the door slides closed. Adam lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and eased away from the bannister. His fingers ached when he uncurled them. He glances behind him, and Kane is peering out the door to their parents’ room. 

“What was that about?” He asks, but Adam just shakes his head. 

“I dunno. I’m tired.” He slouches into the room, and as much as it’s a deflection, it’s the truth. He’s tired. No, he’s exhausted. His eyes ache and his head throbs and his shoulders feel so heavy he feels like he’ll collapse at any moment. 

“You still feel sick?” Kane asks, clambering up into the bed. Adam nods.

“Yeah. But I think I’ll be better soon.” 

“That’s good.” Kane says as they both make themselves comfortable under the old duvet (one Nana Tulip had embroidered herself, if Adam remembers right). “It’s always boring when you’re not feeling well.” Adam closed his eyes, pressing his face into the pillow even as he shifted closer to his brother. 

“Night, Kane.” He mumbles. 

“Night, Adam.” His little brother, his happy, healthy, safe little brother, replies, and it’s the last thing Adam hears before he starts nodding off - aside from some screams that might have been a coyote, if you didn’t listen closely enough. 

He’s not sure how long it’s been when he hears his parents enter the room. They’re trying to be quiet, and if he slept like he used to, they’d have succeeded. But he still has the world-weariness from the life he lived, so he peeks his eyes open as they approach. His mother sits on the bed first, sighs, then notices his stare and smiles. 

“Hey, baby.” She says, reaching down to stroke his hair. “You can get some sleep now, alright? You’re safe.” And somehow, somehow, he believes her. It might have something to do with the flecks of red on her teeth when she leans down to kiss his head - the same red he catches traces of under his father’s nails when a strong arm pulls him close. Whatever the reason, he feels safe - safer than he had in decades, even with the immense power he’d held. Regardless of the reason, he feels safe enough that this time when he sleeps, he sleeps heavily, and does not wake up until morning. And when he does wake, he’s still in his parents’ bed. And it is their bed. It still has the duvet his grandmother decorated, with the jewellery strand his father had made for his mother perched on the vanity. He’d been convinced he would wake up and find it all had been a dream, or hallucination - that it would vanish when he opened his eyes. That the other shoe would drop. 

But it didn’t. 

Every day, he would wake up and check his hands, check his face, check his surroundings. And every day, aside from the ordinary signs of time’s passing, he stayed the same. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, months to years. The other shoe never came. Eventually, he stopped waiting for it. Yes, he would still get dreams. Yes, some things still scared him more than they should. (He never truly reconciled with the smell of burnt meat.) But he carried less tension in his shoulders, he stopped thinking he would lose this new chance, he stopped worrying so much about the future. Somehow, this was just going to continue. Something about gift horses and mouths or whatever. But he was happy. 

He was happy. 

His days became too busy to worry about a forgotten past and a discarded future. Going to school (again, in some aspects, but for the first time as he grew older), tending the yard (under his parents, not alone), spending time with his brother… Taking care of the dog. They hadn’t had a dog before. But a few years after the fire should’ve happened, a stray mutt had shown up on their doorstep. Now the mutt - lovingly named Fish - was a fixture of the family. And now, years later, Fish was running around the yard, barking happily, while his humans sat about getting various graves dug, cleaned, or otherwise looked after. So it was that Adam found himself in a hole, six-by-eight-by-three, shovel in hand as he dug with his brother. They’d fallen into a steady rhythm, as well as a comfortable silence after the usual chatter had died down. (They didn’t have to bury that.) The weather, homework, the upcoming school dance (now that they were both in high school) and what to watch on TV before bed had all been discussed. Now they just worked. The sun beat down mercilessly and left sweat beading on their backs and dripping down their necks. Neither light clothing nor trying back their hair had helped any. There weren’t even any clouds to offer shade. But Mama had a fresh pitcher of home-made strawberry lemonade in the fridge waiting for them, and the thought of it was enough to spur them on. (Though Kane had asked a few times if Adam would cause a storm - just enough to block the sun. Adam had refused, though he was tempted to agree, now.) It was shaping up to be another usual day, until his brother almost bowled Adam over with one simple question. 

“Are Mom and Dad supposed to be dead?” Kane doesn’t look away from his hands, but Adam’s head snaps up.

“What?”

“I dunno. I get these… Dreams, sometimes. But they’re not dreams. They’re hazy, but they’re real.” Kane shakes his head as though he might dislodge those thoughts and find the answer underneath. Adam hopes he doesn’t notice how tense his shoulders are, how his breathing has quickened.

“And I feel like you know something you’re not telling me.” Here, Kane does look up. “We’re supposed to tell each other everything. We don’t do secrets.” Adam runs his tongue across his lips like that could change the dryness in his throat. He can’t look at Kane. Can’t stomach whatever he thinks he might see, so he looks anywhere else.

“Kane, I-”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve been here, is it?” 

He could argue that it is. That before, he had never gotten this chance. The chance to watch his brother grow up, the chance to ease into their future as the caretakers. This was new. But that was not what Kane meant, and they both knew it. He sighs, closes his eyes, and lets his chin drop to his chest, gripping his own hand so tight the bones in his fingers creak.

“No.” The silence that follows the admission is infinite, an abyss, stretching out to swallow him whole. He wants to beg Kane not to hate him. That he’s sorry for what happened. That he’s worked hard, so hard, to leave that reality behind and just be happy for what they had now, their home, their family, their freedom, but those words don’t come. Much like his brother in a faded world, he cannot speak.

“Well,” Kane says after an era, “I don’t know how you did what you did, or- Really, I don’t even know what made you do it. But I’m glad you did.” That makes Adam open his eyes again. There’s a weight off his shoulders and an ache in his heart as he looks at his brother, his baby brother, his little brother who he had once sold his soul for (who he would sell his soul for again, should this life demand it). Kane isn’t looking at him, now, using his teeth to stretch a hair elastic over his fingers before he continues. “Like I said, it’s hazy. I don’t really understand it. But I get the feeling I wouldn’t’ve liked it much.” The absurdity of the thought, the wild understatement, makes Adam laugh. It’s quiet and surprised, but it’s still genuine.

“No,” he says, wiping his hand down his face and sniffing. “No, you wouldn’t’ve.” 

“So thanks.” Kane finishes tying his hair back and butts his shoulder against Adam’s, then bends to grab his shovel. He jams it into the earth, stomps it lower with his foot, and throws his reward back over his shoulder. Adam does the same. Once, twice, three times. He steals another glance at Kane, then frowns down at the dirt. 

“How much do you…” He trails off. ‘Remember’ isn't right. Kane shakes his head. 

“Not the word for it.” He agrees. Another shovelful of earth moved before he answers. “I dunno. It’s dark, mostly. Sometimes it’s the opposite - just blinding white. But it always feels like- Like I can’t move.” Adam grits his teeth and represses a shudder. Kane nods. “Yeah. And I wake up hungry some nights. Real hungry. And there’s this weird taste in my mouth I can’t place. It’s almost like the time we went to the Davids’ barbecue, and the burgers weren’t cooked all the way.” Adam grimaces. He has an idea about why that might be. He doesn’t say it, though. … He doesn’t need to. Kane coughs. 

“Please, please tell me there’s a different reason you’re thinking about rats.”

“I dunno for sure.” Adam says quickly. Judging by the pathetic look his brother gives him, it doesn’t make him feel any better. “I could be wrong.” Kane wretched and choked back a gag. 

“I hope you are.” He manages. Adam shrugs. Another moment where the silence is broken only by the sound of their shovels impaling the earth, the distant croak of ravens lounging on a tree somewhere overhead. 

“It’s the opposite for me.” Adam finally says. “It feels like every day, more and more of- ‘the other time’, it’s fading away. There are some things I still remember really well, but other parts… Ain’t nothing there anymore.” 

“Huh. Weird.” Kane mumbled. More silence, more work. At some point, they’d gotten close to being finished; just needed to sharpen up the corners. Take pride in the details, their parents had taught them. It’s the family business. It’s our reputation. Gotta do it right. It had been strange to relearn everything. It had been eye-opening to see how much he had missed. The little tricks he had never been taught. Even just having the extra hands helped more than he could say. There’s a dull chink as Kane’s shovel hits a rock. He frowned, stooped down, and dug the rock out with his hands. With a grunt, he heaved it out of the hole, then reached to pull in an armload of the dirt they’d removed and fill in the dent the rock had left. Adam shoved his own shovel into the dirt and wiped his forehead again. He was exhausted - from the work, yes, but from the conversation, too. Kane looked over at him again. 

“Can I ask one more thing?”

“Shoot.” Adam replied, even though he wished they’d never broached the concept. (On some level, he was glad that someone else knew the truth. Kane was right; they didn’t do secrets. And it made him feel less crazy. But he didn’t want to think too deeply about that, not now.) 

“How did they–”

“Boys!” There were few times his mother’s voice had been more of a mercy than it was now. 

“Yeah?” He and Kane call in unison. They look up just in time to see their parents approach the edge of the grave. They were silhouetted by the sun, but if Adam squinted, he could make out their faces. 

“It’s almost noon; we’re going inside.” Their father said, tilting his hat up. “Break time.”

“Come on, both of you, before you wear yourselves out.” Their mother crouched down, tilting her head with a smile. 

“Don’t gotta twist my leg.” Adam said. Their father reached down, and Adam accepted his hand as he clambered out of the grave. Kane was given the same help, and then, after dusting themselves off, they headed back to the home. Adam knew what his brother wanted to ask. He hoped he would never complete that question.

He hoped they would both forget before it ever came up again. 

Fish trotted up beside them, whuffing a greeting. Adam reached down to scratch his ears. Well, if it did come up, he would have to address it. For now, he could focus on living the (relatively) normal life he had been gifted. A normal life that included lunch breaks and lemonade with his family, and dinners together later in the night, and regular school, and homework, and weekends, and high school football games - kind of like this one. 

The whistle ran through the air, sharp and splitting. 

“Let’s go, get your warm up in!” Coach shouted. Across the field, Victoria’s coach was barking similar instructions at his players. Adam was aware of this because he’d been staring in that direction since they’d gotten off the bus. 

“Careful,” Kane said in between up-downs. “Look any harder and your eyes’ll fall outta your skull.”

“Shut up.” Adam grumbles. He strands and rolls his shoulders; a moment later, Kane stands with him and stretches his neck from side to side. 

“How do you know he’ll even be here?” He asked. “Everything’s so different now. Maybe he doesn’t play football anymore.” 

“I guessed.” Adam narrowed his eyes at the opposing team, searching for any hint of the person he was looking for. It was hard to make anything out. That was the point of a uniform, but it didn’t stop it from being annoying. Had he ever mentioned a number–?

“Hey, witchblood!” Chester’s voice. Adam and Kane rolled their eyes and turned in unison.

“What, Hanson?” They said. Chester knew them well enough to not be put off by this. He stopped a few steps away from them, helmet under his arm. The light breeze blew his fluffy blonde hair out around him, and he scrunched his face in annoyance as he pushed it back behind his ear. 

“Stop drooling over the enemy and get in position. Coach wants to give us a pep talk.” He says. He shoots one last glare towards the opposing team, one more glance at the brothers, and jogs back to where the rest of their schoolmates were gathering.

“Told you it was obvious.” Kane bumps his shoulder against Adam’s, who rolls his eyes and scoffs in return. 

“‘Drooling over the enemy’, shut up. Why’s he gotta be such a dipshit when he talks?” 

“Yeah, sure sounds like an asshole.” And the voice is younger, not as gravelly, but Adam would know it anywhere. He turns, shock melting to hope melting to a brilliant grin on his face. Pale blond hair, big blue eyes, a lopsided smile - that’s what greeted him. He reached for the person he’d been looking for, and his hand was accepted, held close, stroked with gentle movements of his forever’s thumb. 

“There you are, Cueball.” Any bite left in the insult was erased by the pure relief in Adam’s voice. He was greeted with a laugh, genuine as ever.

“Missed you, too, ya big dead bastard.” Steve Austin - Stevie Williams, toughest player on Victoria’s team - smiled back. “You too, little brother.”

“Oh, my god.” Kane said, letting his helmet hang at his side. “You had a bowl cut.” 

Of all the things that had changed, sometimes, it was those that stayed the same that reassured him. It reminded him that he wasn’t losing his mind. By now, most of what had been was gone. It had faded away - and he didn’t make any effort to think about it. Not before, not now, not ever. But even with so much of those memories leaving, he never forgot her. 

Coming here had been half his idea, half Steve’s. He’d been talking about her - he wasn’t even sure how she came up in the conversation - and how he wondered if she was okay. What she was like in this version of reality.

“Why not find out?” Steve had asked. It was a thought Adam had humoured more than once, but it had been different. He and Steve had still been married when whatever happened had happened. Adam and Kane’s parents had died. In each case, he knew how that story ended. He knew what happened to them. But Liz… He’d been the one who left her. In a way, she’d died because she met him. So, if he never met her, would she live longer? Would she get the chance to grow old like she deserved? (But what about his boy? What would happen to Jon? His son, his perfect boy who he had failed in a different world–)

“All you can do is try. You changed so much, why not change that?” And Steve had said it so confidently Adam couldn’t argue. Nor did he want to. (He missed her.)

And so he came to the coffee shop. He hadn’t been sure it was the right one until he stepped inside and got hit with the nostalgia. This was it. This was the place. … But he had no idea what the date had been when he’d first seen her. He’d been nineteen, that much he knew, but beyond that? He had no idea. So he’d become somewhat of a regular here. Whenever he went to the city, he’d stop for a coffee. Sometimes he’d bring Steve or Kane or both up just to pass time. Every visit would be at least thirty minutes, but he’d always try for longer, just in case. It had been a fluke meeting before. Fate, chance, whatever you would call it. Not something he could plan for. But he hoped for it. And that hope kept him coming back, time after time. This time was in June, about midway through the year. He’d come up to get some cosmetic supplies and a few replacement parts for the cremation oven (his parents had wondered, once, why he was so thorough in maintaining it, but had settled on it being good practice and leaving it at that), and he’d stopped in at the coffee shop for a full meal. He’d finished his sandwich already, and worked his way through two cookies (his treat to himself for surviving the Bywater funeral last week). Every time the door opened, he looked up, like he always did. Every time he looked up, he was disappointed, like he always was. She still wasn’t here. When had he met her-? He’d asked himself that so many times. He sighed, let his head drop in resignation. He downed the last dregs of his coffee and crumpled the sandwich and cookie wrappers into a ball. A quick glance to make sure he hadn’t left a mess before he made his way to the recycling. He stopped one last time, looked over his shoulder on the off chance he’d missed her. Still nothing. (He wondered if he would recognize her. If maybe he’d passed her a hundred times and the fading had taken her face from him–) The bell jangled as he pushed through the door. His Harley was where he left it, still gleaming from the last polish. Dark blue paint that he retouched when needed, the custom V-and-skull hood ornament Dad had made him for his birthday that year (difficult to get in all the nooks to clean, but worth it). And the saddlebags, black leather, sturdy and reliable. He crouched down, ignoring the gravel that tried to bite into the knee of his jeans. He just had to put his wallet away, and then he’d head home. Maybe he’d come back another day. Maybe he’d see if Anything Else knew where she might–

“Hey.” And that voice immediately sent a flush of calm through him, of security, even if he hadn’t been afraid, even if he hadn’t heard it in so long. “Cool bike.”

And he did what he could to keep the emotion off his face as he looked up at her and gave a nod.

“Thanks, nice to meet a fellow Harley fan. I’m Adam, by the way.”

[champagnepodiums]

for the file thingy majiggy! 1) WHAT ON EARTH is the funeral au; are they undertakers?? WHO are the undertakers??? 2) scotty/josef; what r the bus bros up to 3) pato/colton; ive never seen this ship before, same with-- 4) illot/rossi ngl all the indy files are very intriguing but these r my top 4

1. OKAY so the funeral home AU was started in 2020 and my way of coping with working in the death industry during the start of COVID so it actually involves F1, IndyCar and NASCAR drivers.

So it’s like The Office but with funeral homes. Each series has their own funeral home — IndyCar is Newgarden-Power & Rossi, NASCAR is Earnhardt Family Funeral Homes and F1 is Prost-Lauda Funeral Home. And it’s meant to raise awareness of death and dying (this fictional documentary show) but in the process of filming, there is a dark secret uncovered. It’s broken into episodes with talking heads which is hard to write but I think it’s funny to read? So like they’re alll funeral directors. I admittedly only work on it like once every six months when I need to work through some work related trauma, eventually I’ll get it done and release it into the world but here’s a snippet:

“You know, the dream always was Prost-Lauda. That’s where every mortuary student in the state wants to end up.” Alex Palou -- another apprentice -- shifted in his seat before he snapped back into his composed, easy-going smile. “But I’ve found a home here at Newgarden-Power & Rossi. I’m not disappointed at all that this is where I’ve ended up. I plan on having a long career here.”

“Yeah, I mean. Newgarden-Power & Rossi is a great place to work, don’t get me wrong. But if an opportunity at Prost-Lauda opened up, I’d jump ship immediately. And Colton and Alex -- they’re lying when they say they wouldn’t. I just know. Because Prost-Lauda, they are elite. And if you get one of those embroidered jackets, you know you’ve made it.” Patricio -- more commonly called Pato -- ran a hand through his hair with a worried smile. “I probably just said way too much.”

“Does it bother me that some of my younger employees have their sights set on Prost-Lauda?” Josef folded his hands. “In short, no. They’re young, optimistic kids who just see the sparkle and shine. They see the prestige but they don’t see the mental toll that working for that funeral home can take. And that’s okay. They learn that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side and they figure out that maybe Newgarden-Power and Rossi might not have the embroidered jackets but we are just as well respected and talented.”

2- THE BUS BROS— teehee this one is a recycled something I worked on years ago so i’m still in the process but the short of it is that Josef goes through a bad break up and doesn’t recover, Scott is new to the US and Liz Power sees an opportunity so she gets Will to suggest to the powers that be at Team Penske to have Scott room with Josef to transition. It’s kind of an rivals to lovers vibe. (I’m not super far into that one so I don’t have any good snippets)

3- YES O’HERTA MY BELOVED. they were teammates in indy lights!! this fic is like set after they won the Rolex 24 together in 2022 and it’s based off the taylor swift song and it’s just angsty Colton wondering if they’ll be able to fight for championships in IndyCar and still stay the same.

4. ROSSI/ILOTT listen, this pairing is made up mostly for mine and @dystini’s entertainment lolol. We’re co-writing this (I’m the worlds slowest writer, very lucky to have the world’s most patient co-writer).

So the premise currently is as follows: Callum is feeling a bit disillusioned so he joins a band that needs a singer. He gives them a fake name because he desperately needs something completely separate from racing.

At his first performance, Alex Rossi is there and he doesn’t recognize him (it begins in the early 2022 season, Callum is a rookie and Callum has makeup on because he’s gotta look the part). They hook up and the story follows them through that (i don’t want to give the whole plot away hehehe).

A snippet (and honestly, this passage might be the best thing I’ve written ever):

The stage lights were so bright.

Callum blinked away a memory, a Bahraini night where all of the lights were on them. Where Callum hadn’t been enough, falling just short. But the way he unbuttoned Callum’s shirt afterward, soft lips on skin made Callum feel like for a fleeting moment that he was actually enough. Limbs tangled under bed sheets, affirmations, and promises exchanged. Everything was perfect and nothing was okay all at once.

The fresh start in Indianapolis had been meant to be a way to heal and Callum had thought he had been doing a good job of that. But Elle had decided the setlist should tell a story -- the story of heartbreak.

He knew she had no idea about what had happened, nobody had known about them. Nobody knew about their rise and fall, of triumph and despair. Nobody knew that Callum had meant his promises, nobody had known that he kept his love like a sacred oath, but Callum’s love was treated like a secret -- a loaded weapon type of secret that could and would ruin everything, and it was handled accordingly.

He was handled accordingly.

Feelings he had thought were gone had returned, and the memories that he had locked away stung his eyes and clogged his throat. Relentless memories that made it hard to sleep at night, hard to not wonder what might’ve been, what could have been, what should have been.

so yeah!! feel free to ask more, ngl talking about them motivates me to actually write them 💀💀💀💀

[zeenmrala]

By The Light Of The Second Moon

A Darth Maul x F/AFAB!Reader Fanfiction

chapter fourteen: never let me go

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CHAPTER SUMMARY: You and Maul face the fallout from the duel, the water, and the depth of your attachment to one another. 

RATING: Explicit. This work is strictly for those 18+ due to sexual content. MINORS, DO NOT INTERACT.

CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 7.7k

CONTENT/TRIGGER WARNINGS: Angst, injury, grief, distress. Themes of death and drowning. Blood mention.

CHAPTER SONGS: rescue my heart, liz longley. never let me go, florence + the machine.

A/N: Thank you @kimageddon​ and @maulslittlemeowmeow​ for beta reading this chapter for me, for being patient and answering all my questions and reassuring my shaken confidence (do you find my lack of faith disturbing?) I’m beyond grateful. I love you!

My dear readers, I can only apologise for the length of time that it has taken me to update this. Thanks for your patience, and as always, for reading. Best, El ♡

Chapter 14 Never Let Me Go

Water.

It is the central constant of your life on the Planet. It lingers and leaks from the clouds, it flows and thrashes in the rivers. It is that stubborn and insistent reoccurrence of your dreams, the element of many forms that endures in haunting both your sleeping and waking reality. Water is the sustenance that all life requires, seeks and orbits. It is what your body is crafted from, what relentlessly pours from the sky and pummels into your home, the woods, your skin.

In this moment, as it ends your life, the water is all that you feel and all that you are.

But then you notice something else, something other than the aquatic force of life that is crushing you to death. It is a feeling, a branching genre of despair.

Sorrow.

An encounter with death so soon is a surprise, your life having always been so safe and secluded. It has always seemed so inevitable, to keep living.

Until now.

For now you are here, all alone beneath the depths, in the dark. You have been thrown to the merciless waters of mortality, forced to face the fact of a body – of your body. Your body that can break, wither and drown.

You realise that you have never truly considered what it is to die, how it may feel to cease existing. What does it mean to no longer be? How is it, to be nothing? It seems such a strange occurrence, to face and suffer your own death, though it is inevitable for all in the end. It is surreal to consider that you will soon be robbed of that vast and most valued wonder: to be, to live. All that you have become, all that you know will soon be gone. Snuffed out in a mere matter of moments. Suffocated.  

This is it.

The finality of it all is frightening – though somewhat wondrous. For it is an ultimate journey, one which nobody ever returns from, a dream that none can ever wake from, an undertaking beyond the bounds of your body, your world and the galaxy itself. Beyond everything. Your adventurous heart beats to that impending drum of death, your fingers somewhat itching to turn the first page and embark on such an epic and untold story.

Mortality is a glorious, cosmic nightmare, your demise a horror of an opportunity. And what lies outside the limits of it all – well, surely that is terribly, immensely large.

You do not feel fear anymore. You do not feel awe.

You cannot feel…anything. All that you can sense is the soft buzzing in your skull, what pain there was now bleeds into a soothing, rhythmic vibration. The violent sting that zaps up your arm is usurped by numbness, the sharp ache in your chest is overthrown by peace, until it does not hurt anymore. Until nothing hurts anymore.

Bliss.

You are aware yet unaware at the same time, and as you wander the line between life and death, a surprising image blossoms into the front of your mind.

It is of him.

Him and his cruelty, his beauty, his violence. His fingers laced with yours as you walk along the dark, grey sands of a rugged coastline. The ocean screams in crashing blood-red waves, lapping up and into the land so close to you – but he keeps you from its aggression, he holds you back from its crushing, weighty embrace. 

As you fight in those last moments to stay awake, to not inhale the stifling allness of the river-water, you smile. And you reach your arm forward as if to take his hand in your own.

You forsake the water, the sorrow and the bliss, and you think only of him.

Maul. 

--

The moment that Darth Maul dives into the water, he abandons all of his misgivings concerning her awareness of his truth. The cold caress of the harsh current washes away his doubts and smothers his hesitation, it strips him of any qualm or unease or insecurity. 

It all feels so irrelevant now: what she does and does not know, what could or could not happen, anything else concerning this: the connection that he shares with her. Because any moment now, it could be gone. It could all die with her, everything that they have done, all that is between them - it may disappear entirely in a cruel, cold second. 

How can anything else matter, when confronted with such a disappointing, abrupt conclusion? He cannot fathom the severity and strangeness of this sudden fidelity to her. It is all that he can comprehend for a moment, how all that is not her seems so irrelevant to him, that anything other than her survival is inconsequential.

Though he is soon rattled once more when he notices the growing emptiness of his recent victory festering deep within him. There seems to be that same void each time he slaughters Jedi - no satisfaction, no glory, no all encompassing strength or power or gratification that he has been promised. He always expects something, anticipates at least a brief moment for it to all feel worth something but -

Nothing.

His bloodthirst can never be sated, the fight is never enough. And whatever it is, this vast and unyielding void of a feeling, it is now also intermixed with a thick, suffocating dread that surrounds him, that coats each thought of her and her impending death. 

Grief.

His hearts furiously pump the heavy disappointment and sheer nothingness throughout him, and what should be a glorious, sweeping triumph - his destruction of two more Jedi - is just a never-ending, agonising vacuum. 

Everything seems so petty and frivolous, it is all so tiny compared to what is about to happen. Now that he faces the consequences of entangling her with his destiny, now that he is facing her death and the starkness of his own reality: nothing else matters. 

Only her, and her survival.

He wants her to live. He knows that coming to her rescue goes against all that he has been taught and trained in, defies all expectations of his Master, of himself. He understands that she should already be dead - that he should have killed her the moment that she witnessed his arrival, the very second that he inadvertently revealed his abilities to her. At the least, he should have walked away and left this wretched planet once he had slain the first two Jedi.

He definitely should not have given in to her call from the water, allowing her to distract him from his most basic instinct, to veer his course from the destruction of his enemies. Her scream lured him from the battle, revealing the extent of his attachment to her. He hesitated at a most critical moment. And though the depth of such feelings surprised him, he was skilled enough to overcome them. He was able to use his training to withstand the complication, to streamline and harness those emotions to his benefit.

Despite her interference he won. Of course, his power endured and he eradicated the Jedi. But though the battle was won, he still admitted defeat. He was beaten by his own weakness after the fight was done, when he resorted to abandoning all that he is because of her fragility. 

Maintaining the secret: it is at the core of all he has ever known as heir to the Sith, and by coming to her rescue, does he not relinquish his greater purpose?

What use is this?

His upbringing and all that he has come to be, the rational parts of who he is bleats these incessant, glooming questions to himself. 

Was her death not always a surety? 

She already knows too much, and he has already risked so much. And yet here he is, coming to her aid, his body resolutely slicing through the water. 

Is her demise not inevitable? 

Is she not destined to die at his hands, alongside the Jedi and all that pose a weakness, a threat to the survival of his Order? To keep her alive is to reject who he is, to contradict his purpose. He knows the risk is great, and he knows better: and yet he cannot stop himself from swimming. 

Why not let it end here?

He wants her, and he cannot deny himself that any longer. He deserves her. Even though the endurance of the Sith could very well hinge on her drowning tonight, even though his decision to save her is only delaying this roiling devastation: he does not stop swimming. 

Because Darth Maul wants her to live. And what he wants matters. 

He is more than a meagre student whose only dedication is proving his worth. He has assumed and excelled in his apprenticeship, and has now surpassed the mantle of being a simple weapon for his Master. He has become an unyielding force to be reckoned with. He does not fail. He is unstoppable. He has proved it, time and time again.

Maul knows that he has fraternised with her for but a handful of moments, but still cannot deny the strength with which he craves her - he burns for her in a way that he has longed for no other. He desires her body, yet also yearns for her mind, has become devoted to the innocence and the softness of her being. What he wants, his desires, his passions, his cravings: they are all of absolute importance. They are imperative. 

And so he will have her. 

She will live, she will know. He will find a way. He is now steadfast in that she can survive the secret, that she can survive him, his Sithhood, even his Master.

If only she can survive this.

His sense of her strengthens: she is close, and it is not much farther now. He will soon get her back. But now that his finding her is so imminent, he cannot seem to think about anything else, not clearly – there is an unusual, uncomfortable numbness that muddies his senses the closer he comes to locating her.

He worries for her. It is a sickening, pathetic and unhelpful deficiency. It startles and shakes him to his core, and it worsens with each moment. The nearer he gets, the sooner he must face what he has done, what he has allowed to thrive and then perish. 

Worry. He knows that he can now only be rid of this foul, debilitating flaw by finding her - one way or the other, whether she lives or dies, this will soon be over. He pushes on, and now, he cannot think. He can only swim. 

He uses his connection to her, his familiarity with the roaring volume of her feelings to home in on where she is. He centres himself to the essence of who she is, listening to and following the call of his name from her mind. In the Force, it’s as though she reaches out to him with beams of taunting brilliance, rays of light that flutter in their intensity as she stares death in the face. Her glow is fractured, broken and dampened by the shadows of his own despair the closer that he gets. 

Darth Maul swiftly cuts through the water, his strong body efficient and dedicated to his cause. He blinks his glowing golden eyes in the vast darkness of the depths, trying his hardest to just catch a glimpse of her. But he cannot see or hear anything. As he drives forward, the veil of the water blinds him and the silence is utterly deafening.

Maul feels a smouldering ache in his chest, then. It is sharp, a burdening, scorching internal wound, so heavy that he would not be shocked if he started to sink – the pressure is so severe that he feels as though he could plummet directly to the river floor. It is a realisation of immense weight, that he finally feels at its maximum capacity.

She may die.

With each stroke, each kick, it is as if he loses more and more of his surety, his confidence is failing, rotting from within him. 

She could soon be lost to him forever. 

But then there is a flicker, a stirring. A growing in her brightness, a flaring creative warmth that is undeniably her. He senses her proximity, and she is right there. Her closeness both hurts and heals him, that familiar incandescent comfort is a soothing balm to his scorching chest - but he knows how weak that spark is, how dampened it is in comparison to her usual radiance. 

He now knows that there are precious moments before she will suffer irreversible damage. An aggressive flutter of unfamiliar panic shoots through him as he desperately attempts to pinpoint the exact location of her body – he surges onwards and now, he is so close. 

He stretches out his hand to her, and then they are but two people lost beneath the depths, suspended in the water and reaching towards one another. All alone, yet together in the darkness: connected between the realms of all the worlds – one languished in life, one vibrant in death. Both suffering two vastly differing strands of the same torment. Both moments from despair, and Maul now feels as though he may collapse in on himself. 

He finds her, magnetised as though she is a beacon of light calling him to where he needs to be, where he is meant to be. At her side, beneath the rays of her luminous devotion. He follows that glowing tenderness, her light.

The light that now begins to flash, stutter and fade.

He cannot see her at all, but the closer he gets, the more that he can feel her. The crux of who she is – deep, sweet, opulently innocent. The shimmer in the gloom. He senses her, her life force, that flickering light, the only light that he is complicit in preserving, the one light he allows to shine unperturbed in his world of darkness.

He feels it as it is smothered.

But then there she is.

His hand finally finds hers and he grasps tightly, swiftly tugging her forward and pulling her into the sanctuary of his arms. He then reaches deep into his pain, using the Force to propel them to the surface as quickly as possible. 

And as he ascends, his hearts sink.

Because though it feels right to have her back in his arms, it also seems so wrong. He has never known her body so limp and weak, has never known her thoughts to be so quiet, has never felt such a deep sense of nothing from her emotional state. The ache of her stillness spurs him on, strengthening his resolve. 

Soon, they are nearing the surface.

He breaks the water, and holds her head up as high as he can, clumsily swimming to the bed of the river, the current having moved the two of them so far away from the clearing. He returns her to the land, then pulls himself to her side.

With his lungs heaving greedily for air and his eyes glazed in utter distress, he carefully arranges her down on the wet grass. He delicately rolls her from her side to her back, then takes in the sight of her as she lies there: weakened, bleeding, broken. The storm mercilessly beats down on both of them, and as he looks upon her body, so cold, drenched and unmoving, he feels a shattering in his chest. Something in him breaks.

“No,” Maul says in disbelief, the word so quiet under the thundering pummell of the rain. 

Loss. 

So imposing and putrid in its agony, that familiar affliction, it snakes through the crux of who he is. He laments to himself that it always has, and it always will. Such is his way of life. 

He takes a deep breath and his vibrant eyes slowly close. He dips into his connection to the Force, that grounding, shuddering power - and allows his body to pulse with it. It stuns his nerves, reassuring him in his mastery, reminding him of his efficacy. 

Darth Maul does not fail. 

As he cradles her into his arms, as he pulls her face to his, he embraces the breadth of his competence. 

He found her through the will of the Force.

He positions her cold lips to the hot skin of his cheek, his hands wrapped around her head and her waist, and waits for a sign of life. 

He will not lose her now.

It is the most harrowing, tortuous second of his existence. Then -

A breath.

His hold on her tightens as he so nearly topples over, the consoling rush that now settles across him overwhelming his senses. He did not fail her. 

He does not understand her resilience. How she is able to breathe, it is confounding, it is a marvel. Did he simply underestimate her and her fire, her will to live? Was she in the water for much less time than he first thought? Did he miss something? Whatever it is or could be - it is inconsequential now. Because she lives, she survived. He relishes in the beauty of that feeling -

Relief. 

It is stunning and gorgeous for a fleeting second, because then: a spike of terror. Trepidation engulfs him as he looks between her fragile neck and his gloved hands. He considers what he should do. 

She knows. She witnessed it. She witnessed the blade, the power, his wrath. That reality strikes true, deep into his very soul. The voice in the back of his mind that tells him he should have let her go, it rears its head in urgency. His purpose screams at him, and the might of such recklessness, of such risks resurface. He has time to change his mind - he could still do it, do what his muscle memory and his bones insist.

End her. Take her life, as he has taken her body, her innocence, her heart.

He can and should murder her. He could do it now: his kiss on her lips, his arms across her waist, the Force around her throat. 

She would not know any different. 

The dilemma screams inside of him once again, an unyielding, crashing crescendo - but soon it is quiet, soon it is over. He does not take long to decide. He has felt what it means for her life to end, that emptiness, the grief. It spears him as he imagines a galaxy without her wide eyed wonder, without the softness of the tips of her fingers trailing his tattoos. Without her smile, the flutter of her eyes as she awakens beside him, her sweet and unwavering desire. 

He wants her to live.

And so he stays his hand. His fingers instead stroke across her soaked hair, his other hand on her chest, feeling the weakened thud of her lone human heart. His glowing eyes roam over each part of her, assessing her injuries. He sees the blood that flows from her head, and fury burns in his stomach, acidic and immediate. 

“They will pay,” he mutters, pulling her closer, his words spilling from shaken lips, lips that kiss her freezing, blood-leached skin. “All of them. All of them. They will pay.”

The perseverance of the limpness of her body, her weight so slack in his arms - it soon motivates him: he needs to move. There is much to do, to revise, to fix.

He flickers his eyes around his surroundings, through the blinding darkness of the night, the rain so heavy and disorienting. He scoops her forward so as to carry her, and carefully stands. With her unconscious and sickly in his arms, Maul then begins to manoeuvre through the ever thickening jungle, the flora across the river already so vastly different to the Great Wood that they have grown to know so well together.

As he walks he formulates a plan. He prioritises his many tasks, settles on a course of action to put the events of the past day behind them both. He eventually discovers a place for her to rest, an area that is dry and protected by large, thick trees and their draping leaves, the ground softened by foliage. He lays her down, and it tears him up: to leave her here alone after all that has happened, so vulnerable and exposed to the elements. 

But he has no choice. 

He must act fast, and he cannot take her with him. He cannot impose such perilous weather upon her any further. He wants to keep her in his arms, to make certain that she is safe - but there is no possible way, less she suffers more damage. He cannot. Not until he can destroy the evidence of the battle, fetch the Scimitar. Not until he can give her the medical attention that she needs. 

He turns, and readies himself to run, to begin the journey to the ship - but then stops, and takes one last look at her. A woman of the forests, sleeping soundly in the brush. Beautiful, bright, resilient. 

She survived.

It is then, in that moment, that he commits part of himself to her. Because he decides that he is going to get her out of here: out of this vicious, violent storm. He will free her from her confinement, from this prison of a planet. He will take her far away, and he will show her the galaxy. He will take her to every world that she wishes to visit, he will show her everything, until she has filled thousands of pages of hundreds of books with her words and her drawings. 

She will know him. She will know it all, she will know everything that she wishes to. She will never again feel the regret of not seeing what lies beyond the Great Wood, what is past the moons and the stars of this system. He swears it.

By the Force, he swears it. 

--

When you awaken, your first thought is that your limbs feel so heavy. Your eyes blink open slowly, a fuzzing blur to your vision. A small groan slips from your lips, and there is an astute soreness in your head, your wrist throbbing sharply. Stars, your entire body aches. What in the Galaxy -

The Jedi. You remember. In broken bits and pieces, it all comes rushing back. Your family, the rain, the duel, the lights…

The river.

You recall the crushing weight on your chest and cannot stop yourself when you suddenly inhale a greedy gasp of air. You are immediately coughing, and you roll over, your body so weak and unprepared to take such a large breath. As you move to the side, you naturally lean on your wrist which sends a shot of hot, sharp pain up your arm, and you cry out, flinching your limbs into yourself, bringing the afflicted arm to your aching temple. The broken moan of a noise you make is enmeshed with the patter of the unforgiving rain, though it is muted by the thick foliage above you. You peer up to see long, trailing vines and the most odd leaves, fat and curved unlike any you have seen before…

What?

You throw yourself into sitting and nausea overcomes you, dizziness lapping at the sides of your vision. You have no idea where you are, or how you got here, and what by the Moons is happening. But you are alive, and it throws you into a deepened sense of awe. How? Did he come for you? You cannot remember being pulled from the river. The last thing you can recall is the all encompassing water, his face in that dream, his grasp on you tight as he kept you from the blood-red of the foreign waves…

Maul.

Is he alright? Images of his rampaging violence emerge: the fury of his blade, the way he moved so quickly and with such brutality. Though they seem so nightmarish, you know that they are recent memories. You remember Avona, her grace and her resilience. Where are they both? 

Are you alone? You look around, your body shaking from the cold, everything so damp and wet and heavy. It is so dark, and your eyes fill with tears, the worry for him and for yourself begins to rage, the sudden stress of this situation is already so burdening. What should you do? You try to recall your medical training, that you have a head injury and feel terribly dizzy, which is not good. You lightly touch at the soreness on your forehead, hissing at the sharp pain as you do so. You bring the tips of your fingers in front of your face, and though there is a lack of light, your eyes have adjusted enough for you to notice blood. Your stomach drops at the sight of it, panic webbing across your chest. You wonder how long you were out, if you washed up beyond the river, or if it was -

Then you think that you hear a clattering in the distance, a clang and then…a hiss? You freeze and try to focus on the noises, to listen beyond the leaves of your current refuge. Your heart sinks as you understand your predicament, as you realise where you are, where you must be. In the jungle beyond the river. You recall the injuries of the hunters rushed into the surgery once they had returned from such excursions. The deep gouges in their skin, their torn and bitten limbs, gaping wounds inflicted by beasts the size of trees, beasts who no doubt lurk within these very woods. 

You flutter your eyes closed and exhale a shaky breath, willing yourself to calm. It’s then that you notice the splashing sound of running feet on the wet ground, a noise that comes closer and closer, too quick for you to react or move to, and you suddenly fear that you may not make it out alive after all but then -

Warmth. 

It engulfs you, tight, hefty and secure. You cry out, startled and unprepared for such an impact, but then the warmth grounds you. Because it’s a familiar heat: the recognisable blaze of crimson-black skin. The security of a strong muscular frame, the kind caress of gentle gloved hands, the soothing kiss of thin, fervent lips. You hear your name uttered with devotion in the rich tone of his voice. Your body naturally submits to him as soon as you register that without any doubt, you are back in his arms. You are safe.

Maul is okay.

When his palms cradle your cheeks, when his lips find yours, there are tears streaming down your face - from relief, from concern, from that persistent desire he awakens within you. His kiss is soft and protective, greedy and devouring. You kiss him back, whatever pain you feel bleeding into the background, as you are only able to register your feelings of security, of safety. Your appreciation for Maul’s being here clouds any other thought from forming. 

Once again, he is everything. 

Then his lips are on your neck, your face, your head, his breath a sweet caress that you keen into as he showers you in affection. You practically melt into him, and he is so gentle - his arms cradle you as if you are made of glass, cracked and poised to shatter. 

You attempt to ask if he is okay, but you can only croak a ragged noise, your mouth unable to form the words, and so he hushes you. He pulls you closer, rests his chin on the part of your head that is not wounded. You let him hold you in wordless silence, the only sound is the unrelenting pour of the rain, and salty tears continue to drip from your eyes. This momentary pause is totally soothing, and you want to stay here.

But you are so dizzy, and so cold. 

He stirs, positioning your face so as to look upon you with that muted, sad smile you so rarely see. You gaze at him, and as you take him in, trying desperately to further adjust your eyes to the darkness of the night - you can hardly believe that he is real, that this moment is real. Your hands make their way to his chest, your shaky fingers already pulling at the material of his clothing. You need proof of his existence, you crave his skin and more of his warmth, you want to feel him, confirm that he is really here. You want to be immersed in his scent, his taste. You suddenly want it all.

A low chuckle, a smirk on his lips, as if to say there she is.

“Y-you,” you begin, “you are...”

“My wicked girl,” he whispers.

Stars. You sob a laugh, leaning forward to bury your face into the crook of his black neck. You inhale that heady smell, his scent. You whimper, then try to speak, but are only able to mumble. 

He does not reply, but you feel him slightly squeeze you. 

“Why d-did…”

He hushes you again, sweeping you up further into his arms as he brings himself to his feet. You wrap yourself around him, clinging on to him as though he will disappear if you at all relent in your affection.

“W-where,” you are able to stutter, “are the - ”

“Do not worry yourself with the likes of them,” he asserts. “I have handled it.”

“T-tha…,” you attempt to reply in a broken whisper. Your teeth chatter, and in frustration you try again. Your head suddenly throbs, that horrific tightness in your chest bursting to life once more. “I c-can’t…”

“I know,” he says. “Do not hurt yourself further, do not speak anymore.”

You obey him, settling into his arms as he moves you through the wet jungle. Your pain gradually worsens, and you try to alleviate it by relishing in the magnificence of him. His warmth, his scent, his safety. You are so besotted with the comfort of him that you do not even register the intensity of the raging sheets of rain, the ominous peril of the jungle and the storm. You simply close your eyes to bask in him, breathing away the sickness, the dizziness, the pain - but then your serenity is dashed. 

The safety shatters as you recall a violent, ruby glow. A red flash across your vision: a fierce blade of light that is run through a teenager before your very eyes. 

You feel rooted to the spot, though Maul keeps moving. You release a quivering breath that aches in your throat as it is expelled.

“W-wait,” you whine.

Your shaking intensifies, the trembling hands that are laced around his neck weaken even further. There is a roiling in your stomach that makes you feel more nauseous than you already were. That memory, the last memory before the water - it burns in the front of your mind, replaying over and over again.

A glowing red light falls past and then through him from behind.

“Not now,” he groans with slight indignation, as though he was expecting this. His arms tighten around you. “We are almost there.”

“Wh-what…” your eyes are streaming again, a thick, heavy weight dropping through your middle. “What did…you do?”

He doesn’t reply. He just marches towards the starship that you are now able to clearly see before you. You shake your head, a sob slipping from your aching throat. 

You know what he did. 

In a crashing wave of awareness, everything hurts. It all hurts so much. The pain of your physical injuries violently flare, and the emotional anguish of what he did explodes deep within you. He…murdered the Jedi apprentice. Farley, the young man with the kind eyes. He is..is he really dead? You feel a clashing of emotions inside of you, horror, disbelief, roaring guilt. He was so young. How could Maul do something like that? Without a moment's hesitation? 

Easily. 

He did it easily. You recall the swiftness with which he reacted, the glaring fury in his eyes as you were pushed through the air away from him. Your anxiety spikes, and you begin to cry as you understand just how dangerous he is. How threatening this impassioned, severe man is - this man that you dearly cherish. This man that you have so quickly grown to love.  

He halts. 

The starship now looms before the two of you, and the rain is the worst that you have ever known it to be. You quiver and cry in his arms, too weak and frozen with shock to do much else. Though you are wracked with disbelief, and though you are terribly frightened of the fatal nature of what has happened: you do not wish to struggle, or even escape him.

You hate yourself for it, because despite what he has done, what you witnessed him do: you want to stay in his arms. Even now, you do not want to leave him. You do not fear him. It is inexplicable, not at all rational. But you still trust him, and you still need him.

He releases a deep, measured breath as you then go entirely limp in his arms. You succumb to your fatigue and your sickness, your ailing form unable to handle anything more.

He kisses the top of your head as the entry ramp descends, and then soundlessly carries you into the ship. 

–

The next few hours are some of the most difficult and revealing of your life. You drift in and out of consciousness as he cleans you up, as he tends to your wounds in silence. He uses a variety of medicines and remedies, administers you with substances that you have never heard of before, including the most magnificent pain relief that devours any discomfort almost immediately. What shocks you the most is how liberally he applies bacta. The miracle liquid is used in only the most dire of circumstances at home, and it is strange for him to have so much to hand. And it seems absurd that the contents of a medpac on a starship are more effective at healing you than a week in the surgery ever could.

The drugs cause the concussion to bleed away first, and the clarity it brings you is heavenly - he places a bacta patch upon the wound on your head, and you already feel so much better. He then peels off your clothes and carefully washes you down. He makes sure that the water is warm on your skin, and he checks over every part of you methodically. Of course, you have been naked with him before, sometimes it seems that you are naked around him more than you are not - but you have never felt so bare before, so vulnerable.

The intimacy is like nothing you have ever experienced. How precise he is with his hands, how his eyes drink in every part of your exposed body. He takes the opportunity to really look at you, and he sees everything, every fibre of your being. You notice that he strokes and grazes his gloveless fingers over all of you, the injured parts as well as the areas that are totally unscathed. 

He takes his time.

You smile at the contact, his touch is as electric as ever, and you watch him closely beneath tired eyelids. He is especially scrupulous with you, his fingers making delicate work of restoring your body to health. That is what hurts the most, really. How gentle his hands are, how tender and tentative he is. 

How can they be the same hands that so violently slaughtered the Padawan?

You come back to such thoughts frequently, the spearing memory so intense, the image of him cutting through Farley so vivid. You are unable to let it go, and you are not sure that you will ever be able to do so. You notice a tensing in his jaw when you first think such things, when he senses your displeasure and vexation concerning what has happened. But it does not take long for Maul to cease reacting at all, his veil of severe apathy swiftly returning to him. By the time he has finished cleaning and healing you, when you are once again draped in his clothing and laying on the sleep cot, he just seems so dejected. 

You have been lying here in silence for almost twenty minutes now, and you cannot put the conversation off any longer. You lie on your back, eyes to the top of the bunk. You turn your head and look at him. He is across the room, kneeling on the floor in silence, now watching you expectantly. 

“Maul,” you whisper. Your voice is strained from both your physical and emotional distress. “Tell me what happened. You…he is dead, isn’t he?”

He does not hesitate. “Yes.” 

You take a deep breath, and flinch at the pain of it. Though the ache in your chest is now muted due to the medicine, you are still sore nonetheless. Maul flickers his line of sight away from you when you cannot find the words to respond. 

“The Jedi tried to kill you,” he says. His eyes briefly close, then when they open again, they are back on you. You hold a pause, summoning your courage. 

“Maul, I do not know if that is true,” you reply, meek though honest. “He was so - ”

“He cast you to the water as though you were nothing.” You watch him as he measures his anger. 

“I do not believe it was on purpose.”

He raises his voice slightly. “You almost died.”

The way he says that last word, the candid torment expressed in it - Stars, it breaks your heart. The intensity is so overwhelming you cannot bring yourself to acknowledge his words. You swallow down a thick lump in your throat, your voice shaken when you eventually reply, asking what you already know the answer to.

“Avona?” 

“The Umbaran is also dead.”

He says it so casually. You exhale a whimper. Tears fill your eyes again, and when you blink them down your cheeks, you see him look at you in anguish. His eyes darken as he comes closer, as he closes the space between you.

“Since facing what I believed to be your death, my perspective has changed. I have pledged to be entirely honest with you. That you shall know whatever it is that you wish to know.”

You nod slowly, still trying to absorb the fact that the two Jedi are dead. 

“You should not mistake my concern for what happened to you as regret for what happened to them,” he says. “I feel no remorse for my actions. I would do it again. I would cut through them, infinitely and mercilessly without a second thought. I would end them with pleasure, over and over again. And I will do it again. This is my purpose.” 

Your body tenses, and you want to look away from him, but you can’t bring yourself to do it. 

“Precious girl,” he finally admits. “This is who I am.”

The sincere brutality of his words leave you shaken and hollow, as though you are just an empty shell. His gaze then softens.

“I repent only one part,” he confesses quietly. “Your involvement. Your suffering.”

You shift, rolling over slightly, so that you can face him directly. You curl your body into yourself as you look at him. He remains kneeling, eye level with you, but now close enough for you to touch him.

You reach your hand forward. He moves toward you, watching in disbelief as you lace your fingers with his. Your voice warbles from shock, but slowly steadies the more that you speak. “I am unable to fully grasp this. I am missing context, Maul. I find myself wanting to defend you, to justify your actions but I - ” 

“My actions are justified,” he interrupts you with a bite to his voice, his eyes cold.

The most quiet of sighs slips from your throat. “Then help me understand. Why? Why were you both fighting like that?”

“What do you know of the Force?” he says, so softly that you almost cannot hear the words.

“Only what the Jedi have told me.”

He hesitates one last time as that daunting, odious threat closes in around you both.

“Tell me,” you insist. “I wish to know. It’s my choice.”

He squeezes your hand.

“I am a Sith Lord,” he says slowly, as though the words stick in his throat like thick syrup or honey. 

Sith. You heard Avona say that of him.

“What does that mean?” 

“I wield the Force. Though in a way that is different to them. This difference is what caused the Jedi to persecute my order, driving us to near extinction over a thousand years ago. We have existed in the shadows ever since. Living in secret has been imperative to our survival. The Jedi do not allow us to be.”

You take in what he says, your breath hitching at his candour, at the agony and fury that coats his words. You try to keep your thoughts and feelings as muted as possible as you hold the silence for a moment, unsure of what to say next. He seethes as he continues speaking, and though you struggle to follow exactly what he is referring to, you can see the pain that this conversation is causing him. 

“Only two of us remain. Two. And there are thousands of the Jedi. They act as though they are simple peacekeepers, but they enforce law. They pretend that they have no sway over how the galaxy is run. They are hypocrites.”

You blink your eyes slowly, watching as the rage wrecks him, the ferocity of it rotting him from the inside out.

“I saw it, I felt it,” he continues. “The cruelty that they inflicted upon my Order. How they descended upon and murdered so many. All because the Sith desire to be free.” 

You try to make sense of his revelations.

“You…felt it?”

“Yes. I saw it all happen. I felt every cut the Jedi inflicted on my brethren. I felt what each one of them felt as they were annihilated.”

You think: How? It was over a thousand years ago. But then it clicks.

“Like…like in a memory-vision? Like what you showed me?”

A sad smile. He nods. “Similar.”

You feel your heart break at the scathing anguish smouldering behind his expression. Everything seems to slip into place, his intensity and secrecy. The hurt behind his eyes, the hesitancy in his kindness. The way that he fought, how much he detests the Jedi. He is a man tormented by so much, and it goes a lot deeper than what he tells you now. It is much more colossal than a vision or a duel in the woods.

Even so, the image of him murdering the child still burns in the front of your mind. His sincerity does not make it go away. 

“I am aware that you are not accustomed to such bloodshed, that you do not know the power of the Force or the history that concerns my way of life. And I do not expect the truth to be received easily. I only hope that -”

He abruptly cuts himself off. You softly sigh, knowing that he will no longer speak until you reply to him. It is as if he needs you to reassure him that you are there, that you hear him.  

“This is a lot to make sense of…I find that I am still…” you try to say, but you feel numb, your emotions thrash around in a confusing, thundering mix up. He looks at his hand as it holds yours, and his expression returns to its neutrality as he patiently waits for you to compose your thoughts. Eventually you are able to do so, and when you speak, the words come straight from your heart.

“Maul, I am so sorry that you have suffered through such horrific experiences,” you say quietly. 

He doesn’t reveal anything through his expression, and for a moment you worry that your sympathy offends him. But when you lightly tug on his hand, he leans forward, he comes closer.

“I know that there is much more to this than what you have shared with me tonight. A great deal is left untold.”

He nods, and then you cannot stop yourself when you catch his lips in a sudden, ardent kiss - a kiss he clearly was not expecting by his flustered and startled reaction. But he kisses you back, his hands so slowly cradling your face. 

“I am…I don’t think I truly understand,” you whisper into his mouth. “Not yet. If ever. I cannot know exactly what it is like.”

He slips a hand to the back of your neck, resting his forehead to yours. When you do not recoil from him, he kisses you again, then pulls himself up into the cot and takes you in his arms.

“I care about you. Deeply. Much more than I ever expected to,” you admit. “And I know the despair of being hidden from the world, from the wider galaxy. Oppressed and alone in the shadows. I know the isolation of it. I can empathise with that, at least.”

“You are truly not frightened,” he states, not asking it as a question, because he already knows the answer. 

“Maul, you do not frighten me.” 

You register the warmth of him in front of you, the gentle caress of his fingers against your skin. You think over your interactions with him, assessing why you feel this way. It’s the meticulousness of how he healed you, the distress in his eyes as he confessed to you who he was. The possessiveness of his kiss and the passion of his sex. That after having witnessed his inherent violence, and the depth of his destruction, you have not once feared for your own safety tonight. He did frighten you, once. But now you know that he would never harm you, and has proved that he would not allow anything to hurt you with the swiftness in which he came to your aid. Somehow, now that you know, you cannot fathom ever fearing him again. Despite your shock and the jarring aggression of who he is and what he stands for, this feels right. It once again all slips into place.

“Not anymore,” you whisper, as you close your eyes and rest your head against his chest.

Fool, he thinks, as he places a kiss atop your head. Beautiful, radiant little fool. 

–

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[shadowphoenixrider]

A Moment of Peace

(Not a conventional Valentine’s fic, but it’s got Draggka and Khadgar being sweethearts to each other, so it counts! I consider this a partner piece to Quickening, though it’s set after that one. Enjoy!)

(Tagging: @highpriestessbriyanna. @elfgirl931, @fer8girl, @galleywinter and @sigurdjarlson)

“I still tink dat we be better off try’n break da sword down into smaller pieces, den slowly pull it from da wound.” Draggka said, looking up at the mage that paced by her position on the couch. “Dere be no way we can be pulling dat sword out in one go. It be takin’ you and da whole Council to move Dalaran. Don’t tink even all of ya, Jaina and Medivh could shift it right now.”

“I understand, and you’re right about us lacking the power to move it in its current form, but we still don’t know how deep the blade goes.” Khadgar replied, stepping carefully over Spike’s tail. “It is clearly deep enough to cause Azeroth to bleed, and provoke Azerite eruptions across the surface of the planet, but we need to know exactly how deep. We cannot afford to shatter the sword and leave fragments of it inside Azeroth. It is bad enough we have Old Gods buried within her, without pieces of Sargeras’s sword in there too.”

“But we drained it of its dark energy.” The hunter said. “It be as dead as a rock.”

“Yes, well. Our Gul’dan was dead, but his skull was still a powerful demonic artifact - indeed, Illidan’s powers were taken from it.” The wizard pulled a face. “And it talked to me.”

“Tink dat might be a feature of da skulls of demons. Remember Thal’kiel, dat skull dat Liz were using against the Legion?” Draggka said, shifting position. “Apparently he were very talkative.”

“That doesn’t exactly bring me comfort, dearest.” Khadgar remarked dryly. He sighed, closing the book he had in his hands. “Light curse Sargeras. I thought that maybe, maybe...”

Draggka sat up, reaching to take one of mage’s hands, squeezing it gently. He glanced down at her, a smile pulling at his lips.

“I’m sorry, love. You don’t want to listen to me complain about Sargeras for umpteenth time,” he said, setting the book aside and moved over to the couch she was lying on, Spike opening one blue eye to regard him.

“Still be better den Nathanos grumbling ‘bout da Zandalari fleet, or makin’ remarks ‘bout how I somehow don’t be havin’ time to help da ‘Honourbound’ out.” Draggka replied, rolling her eyes as Khadgar lifted her feet up to sit down, setting them in his lap. “No doubt he now be whining ‘bout me going on leave for da baby.”

“Champion of the Banshee Queen or not, even he cannot demand you charge into battle with a belly swollen with a child.” Khadgar said, his eyes tracing down her legs to the troll’s rounded stomach. “Hmm. It's only been a a week, but I’m sure its gotten bigger. When you first came to Karazhan, one could have mistaken it for gut rot. Now it is clearly a pregnancy.”

“I thought so too.” Draggka nodded. “Armour be gettin’ uncomfortable before I came here. Little adjustments were fine, and it be easily hidden, but now? No, dere be no way to be wearing armour witout people knowing.” She ran a hand over her stomach. “I couldn’t be risking it. Not any more.”

“I do wish it hadn’t taken an Alliance attack on Dazar’alor to bring you home to us.” Khadgar said, reaching for her hand and squeezing it. “When I felt you contact me after the battle, and your first communication was ‘I’m alive’-” He shook his head. “Light, Draggka, I dropped everything to get to you. If I’d known what was happening I would’ve-”

“Ya would’ve gotten yaself killed.” The hunter said, steel in her voice. “Like I said back den. Da Zandalari would have attacked ya for bein’ human, as would da Horde. Dat’s why I hid it from ya.” She sighed, Spike lifting his head up from the ground to rumble sympathetically. “I broke my heart to be lying to ya. But I needed to be keeping ya safe as well. If I lost ya, I...”

She stopped herself from completing that sentence. Her mate did not need to know that he and their child were one of the few anchors keeping her on Azeroth.

“We be here now.” Draggka said instead, her other hand going to pet Spike’s head, avoiding his knowing gaze. “I promise, I not be goin’ anywhere else now.“

“I would hope not.” Khadgar replied. “Even when you said you were taking leave, you stayed to help Talanji undertake trials to become Queen, and then you went and spoke with the Lich King!”

“I be owing dat to her and Vol’jin!” The hunter spat back, her fur prickling at his tone. Spike whined, and she sighed, her ears drooping. “I be sorry, Khadgar. I...I know ya be my mate, but...dey be my people. Dey be my family for a long time, before Dranka came home. Before you. Vol’jin still be my Warchief in my heart.” She stroked her thumb listlessly against his hand. “I’m sorry. Curse dis war. Curse dis war and Sylvanas for making me choose between my people an’ my family.”

“I know.” Khadgar replied, breathing out his own sigh. “I know. You know how I feel about it all. I’ve only just found you, a love I’d never thought I’d have in my life, and I...I’m so frightened of losing you. Of losing our child. I want to lock you in Karazhan to keep anything from happening to you. But I know that you need to be free. Your honour drives you to protect the people of Azeroth and the Horde - one of the many reasons I fell so deeply in love with you. You cannot stand by when they suffer, selflessly throwing yourself into danger again and again for them. Especially as dark clouds gather within their ranks once more.”

His fingers gently interlaced with hers, the golden band on his ring finger glinting in the light.

“I don’t begrudge what you did. I understand why. I only selfishly wish that you’d put yourself first a little more. Or rather, you’d put me first.” He smiled weakly, lifting a shoulder. “A flaw in my character, I’m afraid. I’m rather scared of losing things I care about.”

“So am I.” Draggka replied, a slight smile on her lips. “I understand, Khadgar. I know why ya be mad. I were upset when ya be throwing yaself into dose tings when we be fightin’ da Legion. It only be fair dat ya be upset when I be doin’ da same.”

“In my defence, you are carrying our child too,” he said, tapping her stomach with a spare finger. “Regardless of how strong trolls are, and you in particular, I can’t help but worry.”

“I know, I know.” She squeezed his hand again. “But, it be enough adventuring for me for now. I be putting myself first now, like ya wanted me to.” And thankfully, away from Sylvanas.

“Mmmhmm.” The mage hummed, raising an eyebrow. “I will believe it when I see it. No doubt your need to wander will return, and I will make myself available as an escort when it does.” He smiled warmly. “I intend to make sure you don’t give me any more sleepless nights.”

Spike gave a dismissive snort, glaring at Khadgar as if he’d just been insulted. The mage chuckled.

“No, Spike, I wasn’t insinuating that you cannot protect her yourself. You’ve done a fine job getting her this far, after all. It is more to ease my own anxieties, than accuse you of being negligent in yours.”

The raptor looked very disbelieving at that, but he seemed to accept the explanation and rest his head back down on the floor again.

“You two gobble like mother turkeys.” Draggka commented, unable to stop the smile playing on her lips. “Even wit da baby, I can be lookin’ afta myself, ya know.”

“I recall you bursting into tears when you saw Medivh replace one of the chained books in the library.” Khadgar replied. “Something about ‘what did they do to deserve that’?”

“Dat has nothing to do wit being able to take of myself!” Draggka pointed accusingly at the now smirking mage. “An’ ya shouldn’t be chaining books anyway. Not unless dey be dose aggressive flappy ones.”

“They’re precisely the ones that are chained, dearest.” He replied, clearly amused. “With Medivh and I here, we no longer need to rely on their enchantments to keep thieves at bay. That, and we need to protect them from your arrows and Spike’s teeth.”

Both hunter and raptor snorted, the former pulling her hands away to fold her arms in a sulk, the latter glaring up at him.

“I be coming here to rest, an’ all ya be doing is being mean to me.”

“Oh come now, I’m only teasing.” Khadgar’s smirk became one of his winning smiles, one that made his eyes twinkle and Draggka’s heart flip in her chest. “If you cannot spar with your arrows, I at least wish to offer you sport with our words,” he said, pulling his gloves off and setting them aside. “And if you wish to rest instead, I would be more than happy to give you comfort too.”

With that, he began to rub the troll’s feet, tenderly massaging her sore soles. Draggka tried to hold her grumpy pout and sulk, but she couldn’t help but groan in relief at the touch of the mage’s warm hands.

“Does that feel better?” He asked softly, making sure to give her toes the same attention.

“Yeah...Much better. Tank you.” Draggka sighed, laying her head back down against the arm of the couch.

A now familiar flutter of movement arose in her stomach as her baby rolled over, seemingly in reply to her relaxation. Khadgar caught the look on her face, tilting his head questioningly.

“Dey be on da move again,” she said. “I tink dey be- Ow!” The troll winched as she was suddenly struck by a random limb into her more sensitive innards. “Dere was no need for dat!”

“What’s wrong? Are you alright?” Khadgar asked, reaching for her, hand hovering anxiously over her stomach.

“Yeah, I be fine, dey just be givin’ me a punch. Or a kick, I don’t-” Draggka suddenly paused, a thought clicking into place. “Khadgar, ya hand.”

She quickly grasped him, settling his palm over the last impact site. “Come on, little one, let ya father know dat you be here.” He’s been trying to sense you for months, please give him this.

Seconds seemed to stretch into minutes, Khadgar pressing his hand in as firmly as he dared for even the slightest twitch their unborn child could or would make. Disappointment was just starting to crease the mage’s face when the baby finally moved again, and Draggka felt it punch out directly under his hand. The look on her life-mate’s face was, for the lack of a better word, magical. His whole face lit up, his eyes widening and he gasped, lips stretching into a beaming smile.

“Draggka! I, I felt it! Our child, our baby just kicked! They just kicked me!” Khadgar may have looked the ripe old age of eighty, but his excitement shaved the years off him to almost a tender twenty, and his joy was delightfully infectious. He reached over, wrapping her in a hug and pressing a sloppy kiss to her lips, not caring if her tusks dug in his cheeks and chin, before he leant down to her stomach.

“I felt you, young one! Your daddy felt you kick me!” He cooed, almost pressing his face into Draggka. “Oh, I love you so much. You’ve still got a little way to go before we’ll see you properly, but I can’t wait. I love you. I love you and I love your wonderful mother who’s carrying you right now.” Khadgar glanced back up at the troll, still grinning from ear to ear. The hunter couldn’t help but start laughing.

“Oh you, ya be ridiculous!” She reached forward, ruffling his hair and making him chuckle. “Ya hear him, little one? What a charmer ya father be? You’ll love him when ya see him. We both be loving ya wit everyting we have. Jus’ don’t be kicking me too hard, dat not be fair.”

“Yes, be good to your mom.” Khadgar said. “She’s been through a lot, including growing and hauling you around, so don’t make her job any harder for her, okay? Do it as a promise to your daddy, okay?”

“If she be anyting like you, she be takin’ dat as a challenge.” Draggka grinned.

“Actually, I’m sure that will be your blood talking.” Khadgar replied, grinning back. “Thank you, Draggka. I...” He glance down at her stomach, then back up, utterly speechless. “I love you.”

“Love ya too, Ba’la.” Draggka grinned back, before he pulled her back into an energetic, loving kiss.

“Light, Draggka.” Khadgar suddenly said as he pulled away, cupping her cheeks. “I’ve got to tell Medivh. I’ll be right back, I promise.” He almost sprang off the couch, bouncing off out of the room crying: “Medivh! Medivh! The baby! I just felt the baby!”

As there was what seemed like a distant reply in the tower, Draggka stroked her pregnant belly, smiling. Yes. This is my family. This is where I belong.

[jodybouchard9]

Where Does the Trash Go? And 8 Other Things Everyone Forgets When Renovating Kitchens

Daisy-Daisy/iStock

Renovating your kitchen can be a frightening process—especially when you start adding up the costs. In fact, a major kitchen remodel is one of the most expensive projects a homeowner can undertake. So there’s plenty of pressure to get it right.

Luckily, most common kitchen design mistakes can be easily fixed. But it’s far, far easier (and cheaper) to plan correctly from the start! Before you smash a sledgehammer through your kitchen walls, make sure you’ve considered these often forgotten issues.

1. Sufficient lighting

Photo by William Byrd Homes  While we obsess over which lamps and sconces will add the right ambiance in our living rooms, we often forget about properly lighting the kitchen. Weird, right? Because the kitchen is where the bulk of the household work gets done—and this is a place where working in the dark is truly not a great idea. (Plus, don’t you want great lighting to show off your delicious creations on Instagram?)

“Your kitchen needs three levels of light: counter, ceiling, and focal point lighting,” says Leslie Markman-Stern, an interior designer in Chicago.

Why the lighting overload? You need to make sure all your tasks are illuminated, from counter lighting when prepping a meal (knives are sharp, people!) to focal lights pointed at your stove.

2. Trash can placement

Here’s a kitchen nightmare that keeps designers up at night: You’ve spent thousands of dollars transforming your outdated, impractical kitchen into a sleek, beautiful machine—complete with new cabinets, new fixtures, and a brand-new gas stove.

However, you forgot completely about where to put the trash, so your overflowing garbage sticks out like a sore thumb.

“Will it go inside a cabinet, or will your trash can be freestanding in the kitchen?” asks designer Liz Toombs.

Why does it matter? Well, tucking your garbage can into your cabinetry is much easier when it’s planned before installation; otherwise, you’ll have to retrofit an existing space.

And while there’s nothing wrong, per se, with a visible trash can, you’ll need to make sure to build room for the bin into your kitchen plan.

3. A proper kitchen work triangle

Photo by Houzz   The kitchen work triangle is a design element that’s crucial to making most kitchens, well, work. And unfortunately, it’s often overlooked during renovations—especially by DIYers.

The concept is simple: Make sure nothing blocks movement between the range, the sink and the refrigerator. If you don’t, you risk many a mishap. (Think: Your hip slamming into the poorly planned kitchen island every time you travel from the stove to the sink.)

“[The kitchen work triangle] ensures that your kitchen layout is both functional and aesthetically pleasing,” says Wes Gardner, a senior architect product specialist at Vectorworks, a building information modeling company based in Columbia, MD.

Not sure how to integrate this efficiency-focused design into your kitchen? Find out more here.

4. Accessibility

Making your kitchen accessible isn’t just about making sure you can reach your dishes—it’s about reaching your dishes and making sure nothing falls off the shelf and onto your head in the process.

“Homeowners [forget] that reaching will cause accidents,” Markman-Stern says.

When organizing your cabinets or arranging appliances, consider how high you can stretch and how much the item weighs.

5. Backsplash

Photo by New Mood Design LLC  So much of good kitchen design comes down to careful, mathematical planning: How much space does the refrigerator need? How much room should we leave between the stove and the island?

With all that tedium, you’d think homeowners would be eager to tackle the fun stuff—like choosing the backsplash.

“Believe it or not, people can get so focused on the cabinets, countertops, appliances, and flooring that they forget to plan for a backsplash,” Toombs says. “Of course, you can always add it in after the project is complete, but it’s nice to select a cohesive tile design and color when you are picking out the rest of your materials.”

6. Landing space

Your kitchen needs landing space—aka the countertop surrounding your appliances. The National Kitchen & Bath Association recommends 12 to 15 inches of landing space around your range and 18 to 24 inches around your sink. These numbers aren’t arbitrary; this is actually a safety issue.

“Not enough landing space can cause accidents to happen and cause dangerous scenarios when taking hot pots off ranges, food out of refrigerators, and hot casseroles out of ovens,” Markman-Stern says. Where else are you going to put those piping hot pans, the floor?

Some building codes even outline specific landing-space guidelines. When your local building code doesn’t specify, consider following the NKBA’s recommendations to ensure that your kitchen is both safe and spacious.

7. Practical cabinetry

Photo by Denori Design  Glass-front cabinet doors can look gorgeous, but think carefully about what you plan to store inside before you install them. A vintage collection of patterned Pyrex casserole dishes? Or do you only have a mismatched assortment of dollar-store plates and cups?

“Glass doors work well when you want to show off a conversation piece, but it makes the room look messy if you are using the cabinets for everyday storage,” Toombs says.

8. Room for a kitchen table

Many homeowners these days are swapping out their dining spaces for an oversized island. But before you renovate, ask yourself which setup truly works best for you.

“Is it practical for your family to eat on barstools for everyday meals? If so, great!” Toombs says. “If not, be sure to make room for a kitchen table and chairs.”

9. Pet necessities

If you share your life with a furry friend or two, consider accommodating them in your kitchen design by accounting for the placement of their food and water bowls, along with food storage.

Storage can be integrated into your cabinet design, or you might want to add a stand-alone unit (like this $104 mint-green cabinet). Either way, thinking ahead when designing your kitchen prevents shoehorning in an ugly or unwieldy solution later.

The post Where Does the Trash Go? And 8 Other Things Everyone Forgets When Renovating Kitchens appeared first on Real Estate News & Insights | realtor.com®.

[brothersgrim]

DRABBLE PROMPTS

@hauntogenic asked: [ sick ] sender cares for receiver while they are sick  —   liz & 'taker in a better world 

Something's wrong. He knows there is. He just won’t admit it. He can’t admit it. He has to be okay. 

He’s got a little one to look after, now. Jon. His boy. His world. It’s more than just him again. More than just his atonement. More than his punishment. He has to do everything he can to provide for his boy, and for Liz. They deserve the best. Not just the best he can give them - the best they can possibly get. They should be happy. They should be safe. 

He will do anything to keep them safe. Even work though this splitting migraine. He scowls, squeezing his eyes shut and grinding the heels of his palms against his temples. It hurts. It’s a splitting pain, a taut wire from the base of his skull to right behind his eyes prime to snap at any moment. He braces his hands on the sink. A breath in, a breath out, before he cut the sink on and splashed cold water on his face.

It didn’t really help. 

It didn’t matter.

He had to keep working. It's with that duty-bound sense of determination that he trudges back down the stairs. He can hear Liz moving in the kitchen. The clinking of the pots rings in his ears and echoes off the walls of his head. 

“Hey, babe.” She said. “I’m thinking of sloppy joes for dinner tonight; Jon’ll like them, and–” She stopped. He didn’t notice she wasn’t thinking about dinner anymore until her palm was against his cheek. “Whoa, easy. You okay?”

“Hn?” He blinked once, twice, bringing her into focus. Her lips stretched into a frown, her eyes (so blue, so gorgeous) searched his face for an answer to her question. 

“You were kinda swaying there. And you're pale.” 

“I’m always pale.” He grumbles, furrowing his brow and giving his head a shake even as he took hold of her wrist, keeping her warm, gentle hand against his skin. It’s comforting, it’s soothing, and it helps take his mind off the fact that he knows she’s right. 

“Adam, you’re sick.” There’s a stern note to Liz’s voice, even as she teases her free hand through his hair, pausing only to wind a few locks around her finger. He closes his eyes and lets his shoulders fall with a huff. 

“How can I be sick if I’m dead?” He asks. She raises a brow. 

“You got me pregnant dead. Clearly something’s still working in there.” She thumped her palm lightly against his chest and he… Didn’t have a response for that. He opened his mouth, closed it again. There was a bit of triumph in her eyes as she gently pushed him back towards the stairs. “Bed, mister. You need rest.”

“But–”

“No buts.” She says in the same sort of tone she uses with Jon when he tries to climb the fridge. It’s enough that the only rebellion he offers is a quick glance to the back door before he relents. Fine. Fine, he’ll rest. (Not like he was ever good at saying no to her, anyhow.) He lets himself be guided up the stairs and she’s right, he’s exhausted. His feet feel heavy and he’s half-convinced that if she took her hands off his back he’d topple back down the stairs. He pauses in the door to their room, wiping his hand down his face. Liz’s hands move up to rest on his traps, kneading at the tense muscle and working her thumbs against the back of his neck. 

“It’s okay, big guy. You can take a day for yourself, I promise things aren’t going to fall apart. We’ll be fine. Go get out of your work clothes and lie down, I’ll see if we have any Advil left, okay?” He nods, keeping his eyes closed as he leaned back into her touch. How was he supposed to argue with that? And then she steps away and the air feels colder already, but he does as he’s told. He’s tugged a different old t-shirt over his head, a clean one that said ‘world’s best grandpa’ that Jon had seen at a thrift store once, when he’d still been learning to read, had only understood ‘best’ and insisted on getting for his father, but it’s soft and it’s comfortable and it’s not damp with sweat or heavy with dirt, by the time Liz is back. 

“Here.” She holds out a glass in one hand, a pill in the other. He accepts each; the medicine is bitter, but the cold, crisp taste of the water chases it away. He sits on the edge of the mattress and sets the glass down on the nightstand. As he slouches forward, she is there to meet him, scratching her fingers through his hair and placing a kiss on the crown of his head.

“I love you.” He mutters, wrapping his arms around her and tucking his face into her neck.

“Love you too.” She holds him just a bit longer before pulling away. “I was gonna get groceries when I picked Jon up anyway. I’ll see if I can get things for soup. And you better still be in bed when I get back, yeah? No sneaking off to get some extra work done.” He rolls his eyes, but it’s all for show - all for the laugh she graces him with. 

“Fine.” 

“Sweet dreams, grandpa.” She teased, flicking off the lights as she left. He was asleep well before his head hit the pillow.  It was a deep sleep. A quiet, dreamless sleep. He had no idea how long he was out - but a rich smell and fingers stroking through his hair eased him out of it. He grumbled quietly, shifted– stopped. Peeked one eye open. … It was hard to see from this angle, but he can just make out his son tucked under his chin, his own arm clutching the tiny body against his chest like a teddy bear. 

“Sorry.” Liz’s voice, quietly, from behind him. “I told him you weren’t feeling well, and- Well, here he is.” He sighs and leans back into her hand, closing his eyes again.

“‘S fine.” He says, then carefully props himself up on one elbow without dislodging Jon. “Soup smells good.”

“Yeah! It’s chicken noodle.” Liz reaches over him to the bowl on the nightstand. “Want some help?” 

“I’m gonna need it.” He smiles, nodding down to where their son continues to nap peacefully against his father’s bicep. “Only got one arm.”

[brothersgrim]

from liz. she WOULD leave if paul was around but she wants to beat paul to death so badly that it didn't feel right marking that down.

He's staring at the paper with his usual stoicism, all six-foot-ten of him, dark and tenebrous...

Which is why you would never know that mentally, he's kicking his feet. He is well and truly smitten. He folds the paper up, tucking it in his coat pocket, before pulling her close enough to kiss the top of her head.

"Always said you were perfect."

[brothersgrim]

send a 😈 if your character has a crush on mine! || ACCEPTING

 alternatively, send a “ 😈+” if it’s more than a crush!

@hauntogenic asked: 😈+ from liz to taker ... so scandalous ...

Oh, the love of his eternity and the mother of his child had a crush on him. He's so shocked. He is, however, gonna see if he can steal a kiss or two.

Or three.

"Yeah, and you hid it so well."

(He's a hypocrite.)

[brothersgrim]

the most fun reveal out of all of this bingo stuff is the discovery that taker met liz and then based all of his preferences around her

[brothersgrim]

TO, ADAM, NAME: "Liz." AGE: "20." DO YOU LIKE TO CUDDLE?: "You're always so cold, I have to warm you up. I run hot, too, so we're a good match, big man." CAN WE MAKE-OUT: "Do you want to? I always want to." A NIGHT IN OR A DINNER OUT?: "A night in's nice, but I might have some money to treat you to the nicest spot in town, if you'll let me. Let me spoil you." ICE CREAM OR CHOCOLATE COVERED STRAWBERRIES?: "Chocolate strawberries. Oh, does sorbet count? I think you'd like sorbet, it's not too sweet. I should buy some." WHAT MAKES YOU A GOOD VALENTINE?: "That's not really for me to decide, is it? I'm pretty sweet, though. Really only to you, but that's what makes it special." WOULD YOU COOK FOR ME?: "I love cooking for you. Remember that one time I poured way too much pepper onto those omelets I made? It was bad. We both couldn't stop sneezing, there was just this big ol' pepper dust cloud. But you still said it was great. I'd cook for you any day of the week, baby." WOULD YOU LET ME COOK FOR YOU?: "If you want to! But I'd wanna help you. I like it when we cook together. Maybe we could try making something together?" ALWAYS YOURS, LIZ

VALENTINES APPLICATIONS || ACCEPTING

Always yours.

Always yours.

Always yours.

He's been reading those words over and over and over again. ... Of course, the other things sound nice, too.

"Nicest spot is with you." He says, pressing his face into her hair.

"But we can go to this new place, too."

[brothersgrim]

🌈 🌋

MORE MEMORIES

🌈- A memory about when they first fell in love

He’d read a lot of books in his life. He loved books. And some of those books, when he’d been in more... Theological institutions, had had angels in them. Fair skinned with flowing blonde hair. Just like her. 

He’s not stupid enough to think angels are meant for him. He is a monster, a demon, by his own diagnosis as well as that of the world. ... But if she is an angel, and she might be, she is not pure. None of them are. This is not a place for the pure. And among these people in particular, your- ‘friends’, the pure do not belong. But that’s okay. He belonged here. He belonged with them. And so did she. And she liked him, didn’t she? She certainly seemed to. 

“You should go for it.” That’s what XPac said. “I bet she wants you, bro.” The chip bag crinkled in Pac’s hands. Kane shrugged. He wasn’t so sure. He just looked down at his hands. Stared at them. Watched the way his fingers moved. 

“C’mon. She’s fuckin’ hot.” Pac said, and Kane nodded. She was gorgeous. Her eyes got squinty when she smiled - did she even know she did that? 

“Here.” Pac held out the bag. Kane stared, then accepted a few chips. It was a bit of a hassle to slip them through his mask, but he managed. Good thing Doritos were so big. “All I’m saying, man,” Pac’s voice brought him out of his cheese appreciation, “is, how many chances like this are you gonna get? Most girls probably aren’t into the whole burned thing.” Kane looked down at himself. A quick study of the long clothes that kept him concealed. Grey sweatpants, dark turtleneck. Leather boots, leather glove, leather mask. XPac was right. He was lucky she even looked at him. He couldn’t even look at himself. 

“And if you won’t say anything,” Pac upturned the bag over his head, sticking his tongue out to see if he could catch any falling crumbs. “I’ll hit it.” He snickered, then looked up and over the back of the couch. “Right, Roadie?”

“What?” Road Dogg looks up from where he’s been hunched over, rummaging through the hotel room’s mini fridge. 

“You’d fuck Tori, right?” Pac leaned back over the couch, throwing his arms to either side. 

“Sure.” ‘Dogg shrugged, emerging with a couple Natural Lights. “If it’s on the table. Or the floor.” Dogg and Pac laughed, and Kane snorted and shook his head. That... Wasn’t really what this was about, but if he said anything... “Why’re you asking?”

“Big guy here’s thinking of shooting his shot!” Pac clapped Kane on the shoulder with an audible smack. Kane glanced down at his hand. There’d be an orange print there once it moved, he was sure. He’d wash it later. 

“Really?” Road Dogg grinned. He almost seemed amused. 

“I’m not sure.” Kane shrugged again. “I don’t know if she’d-”

“Who cares?” XPac scoffed. “Just do it. No room for pussies in DX, right?” 

“... Right.” Kane nods and crosses his arms over his chest. He tunes them out after that. Road Dogg says something and XPac laughs, but Kane’s not paying attention. He’s too focused on pulling his glove tight against his hand and adjusting his fingers. It makes him feel a bit more... Connected. Grounded enough to maybe finally make a choice. 

Of course, it didn’t work out like he’d thought. It never did. 

He slung his bag over his shoulder, shaking out his hair. Drops of sweat flew away. It had been a pretty hard workout. Cardio. He’d shower when he gets back to the hotel. He’s not doing that here. Too open. He might order room service when he gets back, too. Cold drink. Maybe a burger, or a steak, something warm and dead-- 

“Hey, Kane.” He looked up. Oh. 

“Hey, Tori.”  He swallowed to clear his throat. He didn’t want his voice grating now, of all times. It’d just ruin everything. ... His nerves made it difficult. 

“You leaving?” She asked, shouldering her own bag and shifting her weight to one side. 

“Yeah.” He paused, then glanced over his shoulder. “Just finished.”  Tori pouted. It made her cheeks puff out a bit, which made them look even pinker. 

“That’s a shame. I was hoping you might be able to spot me.” She smiled a little smile and Kane stared through his mask. He was trying to figure out the best response, but the she tilted her head and fluttered her lashes and grinned and the words he’d almost put together fell away. Ah. “Well, you doing anything after?” 

“I was going to get dinner.” He managed. She hummed and nodded a few times, small gestures that made her hair bounce. 

“Alone?” Tori asked. Kane tilted his head. 

“You could join me.” He’s pretty sure that’s what she’s getting at. He’s never really had anyone take an interest in him before. Was he overstepping any boundaries? But her smile turned into a grin, so it had to be fine. 

“I’d like that.” She said, and touched his arm. “You’re in the same hotel as the rest of us, right?” He nodded, and she continued. ”What’s your room number?” 

“412.” He adjusted the strap of his bag again. She nodded and folded her arms. 

“So, can I see you there around... Eight? And we’ll make plans from there?” She asked, and he nodded again. 

“Yeah. Eight.” She grinned so brightly at the confirmation he had to blink. Wow. 

“Great. See you then, Kane.” She smiled again and walked off with a bounce in her step, trailing her hand on his arm as she passed. He watched her go, head turning to follow her. He lingered there for a moment, then hurried on his way. 

He had to get ready for his date. 

----

 This city is... Loud. Bustling. Strange. He had been to this city before, yes, but the situation had always been different. He had never been alone before. ... At least, not physically. Had always had someone there with him. Not now.

It was strange. Something had come up - he wasn’t told what, he never was - and Paul had left in a hurry. That was strange. He’d had a very tense phone call before he left, yelled something about extortion and hurried off. He had no idea what Paul was talking about. It wasn’t like anything was ever explained to him. 

So he was alone. He’d been alone for a while. A few hours, give or take, if he had to make a guess. He wasn’t sure. 

Long enough that he’d gotten curious. Well, ‘kicked out’ was the better term. 

“Excuse me, sir”, a quiet voice had said, accompanied by a few shuffling steps. A mousy little woman with round, wire-rim glasses had peered in. She’d squeaked when he looked down at her, and then she stared at him, and he stared at him.

Then she’d asked him to leave if he wasn’t going to buy anything. So he left. He was always good at doing as he’s been told. 

...

What then? He couldn’t just stand in the sidewalk. He’d been told that before, he thought. So he’d started walking. He’d ended up outside. Outside, in the loud, bustling, strange city. Just walking without a destination. The streets here were dirty. They were dusty in the valley, flecked with sand and dappled with pebbles, but they were dirty here. Dingy and grey in the evening gloom, like dishwater, like decay. He wasn’t sure he liked it. ... For some reason, he had a feeling DiBiase would belong here. No idea why. (An oily rat. The perfect habitat for him.) 

Green eyes scan the crowd idly. Nobody seems to pay him more than a passing glance. It’s nice. Not a spectacle, just another scruffy, shabby stranger in torn clothes. Blending into the unremarkable-

“Fuckin’ jerk!” 

Huh?

He stopped, looked around. Someone bumped into his shoulder and kept walking, shooting an annoyed ‘watch yourself, son!’ over their shoulder, but he didn’t care. What was that...? A frown flickered across his empty face. He could’ve sworn... Hm. Maybe not. Maybe he’d only imagined it. A few more steps and--

“C’mon, baby-” 

“Jesus, man! I said no!” Okay, he definitely heard that. He was sure it came from that little side-street, just big enough to graduate from being an alley. Nobody else seemed to care. It was just another noise of the city, blending in just like the horn of the truck that blared past on the busy street. He pushed sideways through the throngs, ignoring the protests it earned. It wasn’t difficult. The people here were loud and ornery, but small and weak. He’d dealt with worse. They didn’t matter. What was going on?

... She was small, too. Denim around her shoulders, a bright picture on the front of the dark t-shirt underneath, hands shoved into her pockets and shoulders tense. Work boots moving in a very deliberate pace down the asphalt. Reddish-gold hair falling past her shoulders and smooth face twisted into a snarl. She wasn’t happy. And behind her... 

He was tall, but not as tall as the corpse that watched them. Thin. Stringy hair and dark eyes, and more fingers than he seemed to have teeth. Pock-marked skin and a threadbare hoodie. He shook a bit- no, a lot. Visibly. He could see it even from some distance away. 

“Hey!” He barely recognized it as his own voice. It wasn’t like he spoke often. He yelled even less. It seemed to do the trick, though. They both stop and look up. He’s not sure which of them is more surprised; the girl in denim, the shaking man, or himself. Regardless, he can’t turn back now. “She said leave her alone.” The woman blinks and smiles. 

“Oh, it’s okay. I’ve got this.” A flash of metal when she withdrew her right hand from her pocket. A loud thud. A raspy yelp. The shaky man’s head snapped back and he whirled, dropped to the ground. After a moment, the shaky man pushed to his hands and feet and crawled, then staggered up and stumble-ran away, hurling a ‘bitch!’ back at them as he did. 

“Asshole!” The woman shouted back. And then she turned back to him. And then he realized he was staring.

Wow. 

Just... Just wow. She had seemed pretty before, but after that punch, she was beautiful. Kept her elbow in and everything.

“Thanks for that.” She said, sliding off the brass knuckles and putting them back into her pocket. “I’m Liz.” She held her hand out to him. After a blink, he took it. Options for an introduction raced through his head. ‘I’m the Undertaker’. ‘I’m a mortician’. ‘I don’t have a name.’ ‘I am th--’

“Uh, Adam.” 

Oh.

Very good, self. Well played. Smooth. She nodded and pursed her lips, looking thoughtful. Stuck her hands back into her pockets. Thankfully, he was used to being inspected enough to not fidget. 

“You’re not from around here, are you, Adam?” She tilted her head to the side. He shook his head once. 

“No.” ... Technically, ‘around here’ might include the valley, but it felt a world away from anything that could be considered a city. She nodded like that was the answer she expected and smiled. 

“Well, I was gonna go get a coffee. Do you wanna come with me? I’ll show you around.” 

Paul would be looking for him. He would wonder. ... But he hadn’t been ordered to stay in the store. Hadn’t been ordered to return at a certain time. And the invitation could be interpreted as an order. So he nodded. 

“Alright.” 

Paul would be gone for a while. 

And it had been so long since he’d had coffee... 

He followed after her, and for the first time in a long time, he did not dread where he was told to go.

🌋- A memory about their first heartbreak

He hates them. He hates them.  How could they-? How could... How? He had thought they were his friends. He’d thought he could trust them. 

Trust. 

What a stupid word. So goddamn stupid. So useless. He could not trust them. He could not trust anyone. (... Anyone?) (Maybe...) But not them. Not anymore.  

He was so worried. 

What were they doing to her? Was she okay? He should have fought harder. He should have been better for her. He should’ve... He... 

...

There was no changing it now. He knew better than most that the past was a fixed series of events. It did not change. It could not change. The ink dried as soon as the words were written. 

She had to be okay. He just keeps telling himself that. She has to be okay, she has to. She has to, and he has to be ready for her when she comes back to him. Because she will come back. He won’t let them take her. And tonight, they let her go. He could see her again and make sure she’s alright. He’s been pacing for a while. Back and forth, back and forth. Burning excess energy. Burning. Scorching. Incinerating. Smoldering. Reduced to ash.

His fingers flexed and curled into fists. One exposed to air, the other stretching and compressing the leather of his glove. It scrunched a bit. In the silence - aside from the step-step-step of his pacing and the rasping of his breath - it was like a gunshot. 

Where was she? She should be here by now, shouldn’t she? What time did they say they’d give her back? What time was it now? There wasn’t a clock here. He could go inside to find one, but what if they came around when he was gone? No. No, he had to wait here. Wait for her. 

He needed her back. Now.

A car screeches up and his head snaps to stare at it. He barely acknowledges the rest of them. They don’t matter. Don’t exist. Just her. Only her.

He holds her in his arms and promises he won’t ever let go. Holds so tight. He’s so sorry. Nobody’s ever taking her again. He won’t ever leave her side. Won’t let anyone hurt her.

It’s a promise he makes good on. More than ever, anyone who might hurt her has to face him. He is not merciful. He never has been. But he knows the pain of having her ripped away and refuses to let that wound be reopened. She is back with him. She is safe with him. 

People try to change that. Of course they do. They’re disgusting. Those from DX most of all. False friends. Liars. Monsters. Hiding behind a mask far more repugnant than his own. He hates them. He’ll kill them. Even if it’s not what she asks, he’ll kill them. All of them. One at a time. One by one.

Starting with... 

XPac stood over him. Coward. Useless fucking coward. Of course he needed the others there. His friends. His, not Kane’s. Never Kane’s. 

Rage was a soothing balm to pain. Hard to feel the multitude of breaks and injuries as hatred flared within him. His father had said as much. His brother had said as much. His brother had said many things. All of them had so far been true. He decided not to think about it. Too busy trying to get free. Had to get free. Can’t... He can’t-- 

He continues to struggle. XPac continued to speak. To lie. It has to be lies. It has to! He’s trying so hard not to listen, but (another boot connects with his ribs) it’s so hard. XPac is loud. Incessant. Infuriating. Amplified by the microphone and the blood pumping in Kane’s ears. Shut up. Shut up shut up shut up. 

But he doesn’t. He keeps talking. Keeps lying. And it has to be lies. It has to. She can’t have turned on him! She loved him! She had to. She stares XPac down and he can’t keep his eyes off her. Stares intently. So focused on her he could almost tune out the injuries. Don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her don’t hurt--

She kisses him. 

She kisses him and they both laugh and he can’t breathe. Can’t... He can’t-- 

She leaves with him. They’re still laughing. The others leave with him. Kane is left alone and broken in the ring. 

Every forced inhale grates against shattered ribs. 

And for the first time in his life, he finds himself wishing he had never left the hospital. 

---

The couch shifts beside him, and he feels a hand on his shoulder. A gentle shake that earns a groan, a single monotone note of protest. He didn’t want to move. He was comfortable. He was safe. That was such a rarity...

“Hey,” a soft voice and another shake. “C’mon, babe, wake up. I made lunch.” ... She won. She usually did; knew him too well. He blinked himself awake and sat up with a quiet grumble. She grinned at him and he couldn’t find it in himself to be all that grouchy. Not with her. Never with her. 

She seemed pleased with herself when she held the plate out to him. A hamburger, complete with ketchup and mustard and hot sauce, lettuce, onions, tomato. She’d really gone all out. Why? ... He supposed she didn’t need a reason. She just did that. She always just did things like that. He managed a groggy smile as he pushed himself upright. Nothing was ever halfway with Liz. 

“There you go. Up and Adam.” She grinned and he gave her a wry look. She grinned harder. “Come on, that was good.” He arched a brow at her. 

“If you say so.” He sighed. She nodded, and he snorted and bit into the burger. It was good. Her cooking was always good, even if he’s not picky.  “I’ve heard better.” 

“From who?” 

“You.” He said, and she shed her frown for a grin. She shoved his shoulder before settling against his side. Another mouthful swallowed. Another that he paused around when she spoke again. 

“When you’re done, can we go for a walk?” She asked. He swallowed and frowned at her. She seemed nervous. “I need to tell you something.” 

“Tell me what?” He asked. She looked down and shrugged. 

“Just... Just, can we? I’ll tell you then, I just-” 

“We can.”  He nodded, and that seemed to set her at least somewhat at ease. That was good. Liz was tough as nails. Tougher, even. Something must really be bothering her to shake her so bad. But he knows prying won’t work. So he just leans a bit against her side and finished eating. She’d tell him when she was ready.

He stood and brought his plate to the sink, pushed in an errant chair as he did. He reached to turn on the sink and paused. Looked over his shoulder. Liz looked- Well, not impatient. He knew she’d wait for him if he needed her to. But she definitely looked like her nerves were picking back up. That’s not good. He set his jaw and looked back to the lonesome plate in the sink, then stepped away. He could deal with it later. He absently wiped his hand on the dish towel hung over one of the chairs. 

“Come on.” He says as he moves to stand near her. “Let’s go.” She looks up at him and nods and there’s an emotion in her eyes he can’t quite place. 

“Yeah.” She nodded, pulled her shirt tighter around her shoulders, and pushed open the door. He followed behind her. His hand found its way to her shoulders and that seemed to help. 

The sun outside was bright and searing. Stared down at them without blinking. It made her hair sparkle like bronze. He watched for a moment before turning his eyes back to the sidewalk. 

“Nice day,” she said, putting her hands into her pockets. 

“It is.” He agreed. A few more silent steps. 

“You feeling okay?”  She looked up at him, and he mimicked her concerned expression.

“I was about to ask you the same. You been quiet lately.”

“I have?” She averted her gaze suddenly, shrugging. “Oh.” She shut down for another beat, then looked up. “Hey, Adam. Look.” He followed her gaze and his neutral expression softened. “That’s the coffee shop we went to. Remember? The first time we met.” He nodded and smiled. 

“Think it was the best drink I ever had.” 

“Mine was shit.” Liz wrinkles her nose, then grins and nuzzles her cheek against his shoulder. “The company was pretty nice, though.” He chuckled. It was a rusty sound, still, but had been getting a bit more natural over time. She had a way of getting that out of him. This silence between them felt less tense, more natural. More ‘them’. She let out a breath, as though agreeing with his unspoken assessment. Her hand finds its way to his, fingers twined, and he pretended not to notice the way she looked up at him from the corner of her eyes. The city thrummed around them. It was so alive. So different from what he was used to. That’s one of the reasons he kept coming back, aside from the obvious. He glanced at the traffic light. Red. Alright. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 

“What did you want to tell me?” A pause where she took a deep breath. The light turned green; he waited a second and stepped forward. 

“Okay, so... Promise you won’t freak out?” She asked, and he nodded once. He liked to think he was quite good at dealing with surprising things. Her shoulders squared and she nodded, too. “Remember a few weeks ago, on your birthday?” He nodded. She’d asked when it was, and he’d had to find his own obituary back in the home. And then they’d- ‘celebrated’. He looked down at her, a thoughtful frown on his face. 

“And we-” She was cut off by a cacophony of blaring horns and screeching breaks. Their heads snapped up. A torrent of metal. Blinding lights. A second to decide-- It’s not a choice. He shoves her roughly. He’d apologize for that if he had the time. But he didn’t. Only enough time to see her stumble back, hear a loud roar, a crunching pain, and nothing. He never felt the second impact. Never heard her scream (’ADAM’, high and frantic and wild). Never saw the way she covered her mouth, eyes wide and watery, and how one hand went to rest on her stomach. Only saw black. 

Fell down into the abyss. Down. Down. Down... 

Until he clawed himself back up again. 

Coming back always hurt. It was always cold. He sucked in the first breath and it smelled like smoke. A second one and it smelled like ash. Third one smelled like copper and gasoline. He finally opened his eyes and sat up. Ducked his head to avoid slamming it into the niche and swung his legs out. It was dark. Black as ink, and his footsteps echoed off of the hidden walls. 

As always, nothing stirred in the crypt aside from himself. Unlike always, he didn’t take his time leaving. He ran. He knew the path by now. Had traveled it enough times. The door crashes open, the trap door is shoved without a care. It sounds like thunder behind him. 

He keeps running. He makes it out of the church, out of the yard, over the stream, and almost makes it past the house-

“Where do you think you’re going?” A shrill voice cut through the afternoon. “I just get home from my long trip, working so hard for your career, and the home is a mess, the casket ain’t finished - get back here and get to work! Worthless boy...” 

Paul was merciless. The days were grueling. He knew better than to complain, though. Paul wouldn’t listen. Even if he did, he could never know about Liz. Never. 

So it became a waiting game when he had no patience to give. He had to know that she was alright. So he had to wait until Paul was gone, and as soon as he was... It was a risk. Stepping into the shadows behind the home and out of the shadows of the coffee shop in Laredo. Normally he wouldn’t be so bold, but his head wasn’t in the best place.

Just like he knew the route out of the crypt, he knew the route to her house. Every street seemed too long. Every distance too far. But he found it, eventually. Found her. Staring at her door felt more like coming home than his own bedroom did. Three knocks, plain and simple. 

He could hear footsteps coming closer and he could feel his breath catch. If he had a pulse, it would be racing. 

And the door opens.

And the woman in the door is not her. 

He knows this is the right place, the right address, he knows it is, but this is not Liz. 

Thinning brown-blonde hair in curlers, blue eye shadow that matched her fuzzy robe. This was not Liz. 

He didn’t realize he was staring until she cleared her throat.

“Can I help you?” She pursed her lips. He blinked, swallowed.

“... I’m looking for Liz.” He manages. She raised a penciled-on brow.

“Bless your heart. Think you got the wrong address.” And then the door closed.

No, he didn’t. This was right. He turns and leaves and his feet carry him back to the coffee shop. He stares at the sign out front. 

July 23rd.

It was July 23rd.

He had been gone for months.

And with a tremor in his chest that could only be described as a silent heart breaking, he realized that she was gone forever. 

[brothersgrim]

SEND “💖” AND MY MUSE WILL RECOUNT THEIR BEST MEMORY. SEND “💔” FOR THEIR WORST MEMORY. || ACCEPTING

Anonymous asked:

💖💖 a good memory for each spook

“Hey.” Her voice cut through the sound of the TV. Some sports game they were both only half watching. He looked down and away to meet that now-familiar gaze and she smiled. He forgot what was on TV. “You seen this?” He blinked. He looked past her shoulder to the newspaper she held.

“Seen what?” He leaned in a bit to scan the paper. A small ad, in the bottom corner of the page. Plain text, with a tiny, grainy picture in the corner. “... A bike show?” He looked back to her curiously. She nodded with a wide grin.

“Yeah!” She seemed really excited, eyes glittering and face lit up and glowing. “It starts next week,” she pointed to a series of dates on the page, “so, I don’t know what your plans are, but if you think you could make it up, maybe we could go?” She looked up at him again and he didn’t have the words to tell her that he would do absolutely anything to make her happy. ... But a bike show sounded fun. He’d never been to one before, but he liked bikes. He really liked bikes. And he liked spending time with Liz... He leaned back down to check the date again.

Did he have anything on, then? Any funerals, anything to build? Anything to fix? And, more importantly...  Would Paul be around?

He didn’t know. He never knew. Paul never told him a thing.

“I can try.” And he would. He would do whatever he could. But there were some risks he could not take.

Paul could never get his hands on her. Paul could never know.

“Works for me.” She put the paper down on the table and scooted into his lap, arms draped gently around his shoulders. Kissed his jaw and tucker her head under his chin and he wrapped his arms around her like she was holy. As far as he was concerned, she might as well be. “Says it’s on for a few weekends, so we got time. And there will be more.” Her head came to rest on his shoulder. This was safe. ... This might be the only place he felt safe. Even the yard had become tainted by Paul, but not here. Sunlight spilled through the window, and between it and her, he was warm. A strand of her hair tickled his nose, and he pulled away just enough to toy with it. Run his fingers through it to watch it fall again. Once, twice, thrice, four times...

The oven dinged.

They both looked up.

“Oh.” Liz stood up and he frowned. He’d been comfortable. Oh well. The promise of a warm meal was enough to stop him from grumping. He follows her. Watches her slip the oven mitts on. She glances over her shoulder and offers him a grin.  

“Tried something new today,” she said as she opened the oven’s door. “So you’ll have to tell me if you like it.” He watched her bend over for the tray, and made no attempt to be subtle when he craned his head sideways.

“Looks great.” He says, crossing his arms. She glances over her shoulder with a raised brow. The pan scrapes against the oven rack as she stands, mingling with her amused huff. She set the pan on the stove top and swatted his butt.

“My eyes are up here, buddy.” But she laughed and it earned a quiet chuckle for him, as well. Rusty and unsure of itself, but a chuckle all the same. “Can you get the plates?”

He nodded, turning to rummage through the shelf. He’d have to leave soon enough; Paul is never gone for long. But for now, he would enjoy the time he got to spend with Liz.

----

He fiddled with the sleeves of his shirt. The material crinkled a bit. Just a bit. He’d had worse. This place was pretty okay, actually. Not great, but not terrible. He could handle it.

He looked down at the table in front of him. Pressboard. Plain white on top, a muddied grey on the edges. Tan where someone had picked parts away. In some parts, it looked like they’d been trying to make letters. He spotted an A. A C, or maybe an O. ... Was that an X, a T, or a cross? He couldn’t tell. Whoever carved this had terrible penmanship. ... Nailmanship? ... They didn’t write well.

He scritched his index finger idly against the cross-T-X. The orderly didn’t do anything, so he figured they either weren’t paying attention, or didn’t care. Probably both.

It was usually both.

“Terribly sorry I’m late.” The cheery voice was accompanied by the door clicking open. “Preparations took a bit longer than I expected.” Kane looked up from his chair. Dr. Ven looked much the same as he always did. Bushy beard, brown hair brushed back neatly, eyes bright. Kane didn’t understand what he was happy about. How he got the energy to smile. It must be exhausting.

“Good afternoon, Kane.” The doctor sat down, and the nurse who followed him - a brunette Kane didn’t recognize - pulled up the chair beside him. Kane ducked his head lower to keep his hair in front of his face. “How are you today?”

Kane shrugged. Dr. Ven slid a notebook forward and Kane stared at it. A pause. Dr. Ven shrugged and wrote something down on his clipboard. Kane wondered if he had better nailmanship than the person who’d carved up the table.

“I suppose that is a difficult question to answer.” He said, then set the board down on the table and adopted his usual smile. Kane wondered how many cups of coffee he went through a day. Too many, probably. “Well, today, I have brought something for you.” Kane looked up a little bit, blinking once. He held up both hands, palms together, then opened them, closed them, and opened them again.

“No, it’s not a book.” Dr. Ven shook his head. “I have noticed that you grow uncomfortable when people look at you. Would you say that’s accurate?”

Kane looked down again. His scrunched his fingers in his lap and nodded. Yeah. Yeah, that was accurate. Dr. Ven nodded and wrote some more things down. Then he nodded to the nurse and she frowned, but put a small box on the desk. It looked like a Kleenex box. Kane stared at it as Dr. Ven pushed it forward. Kane tilted his head to the side.

“Take one.” Dr. Ven nodded. Kane did. Ran scarred fingers over elastic and papery blue fabric. He peered through his hair at the doctor. Ven smiled back.

“I’m not sure how much that will help,” he set his clipboard down on the table and folded his hands, “but we do have spare masks in the supply closet. If you think it would help, I will bring them to our meetings.”

Kane nodded and scrunched the mask in his fingers. Dr. Ven slid the box to the nurse.

“Mary, would you-?” Before he could finish asking for a demonstration, Kane had slipped the mask over his face and was shaking his hair out.

Something about if felt familiar.

He chalked it up to the pillow-mask from the basement.

[brothersgrim]

ADAM AND LIZ ARE HADES AND PERSEPHONE

[brothersgrim]

Clan Valdis, Death Valley Branch: 

Where the boys may rock the aesthetic, but the ladies will whoop your ass just as hard.

AKA I’ve been talking family stuff with @sacredandwild and @solarcrafted and I got emo so I had to put the family all together.

[brothersgrim]

third tag drop.