#//but like. cripple is still a slur that people have complex feelings about | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

thefanficmonster · 3 years

Text

Darkest Of Nights

Connor Walsh & Michaela Pratt (How to Get Away With Murder)

Warnings: Sexual Assault, Vomiting, Swearing, Spoilers for Season 1 of How To Get Away With Murder

Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Relationship

Summary: On the night of Sam’s murder, it’s safe to say everyone is traumatized, looking for comfort and solace. However, one of them gets the complete opposite: Michaela is only offered more pain and trauma, bringing her to the brink of insanity.

Requested by 🐢 Anon, but also meant as a birthday present for an Anon who recently reached out to me. Happy birthday dear Anon! Hope you have the best one yet! Here’s the fic you requested - I hope it lives up to your expectations! It’s been such an honor to be the person to write you a birthday present and I can only hope I’ve done my job well! Love, Vy ❤

She’s still in utter shock and disbelief. She’s shaking like a leaf as she navigates the roads back to her apartment. It pains her that she’ll have to pass by the Keating house again tonight, knowing what happened there just hours ago. She squeezes the jacket tighter around herself, glad to not see any familiar - or rather any faces at all. The bonfire has gathered every college student, graduate and fan of the sport around itself, giving the streets an emptiness Michaela hasn’t seen before.

Michaela Pratt has always liked planning out her life, having her future laid out in front of her always at her disposal for changing and modifying. She’s always seen herself a successful, envied lawyer in the future, someone other lawyers fear and all wrong-doers want. Because who doesn’t want freedom? She’d pride herself on being the one to bring them that freedom. She’d pride herself on owning a title like Annalise’s - a bitch, a beast and a boss in the courtroom.

However, just like she had everything laid out in front of her eyes, she’s watching it all fall apart. Fall into that very bonfire her and her classmates went to take pictures at to own their alibis. To save themselves from possible suspicion. To paint the picture that they aren’t murderers.

That realization will never soften its blow to her chest and stomach. Every time she repeats the word ‘murderer’ in her mind, her heart skips a bit and her stomach turns, threatening to make her release everything in it onto the pavement she’s walking on. She feels disgusting and dirty, not only because of the ash and mud she has all over herself following the venture into the woods where they dismembered Sam’s body, but because she took part in it. She may have stood aside, crippled by shock, disbelief and disgust, but she’s now a part of it nonetheless.

With her heart and mind racing faster than she’s able to comprehend, she finds herself unable to turn that corner and get onto the street which the Keating house is on. She feels that if she sees that place she might just faint right there on the street and if that doesn’t raise a few questions, nothing will. Instinctively, she continues ahead, heading down the street that will inevitably lead her to where the mob of drunk or half-drunk people are surrounding a huge fire, celebrating something Michaela is less than disinterested in. She feels it’d make for an extra alibi in case the pictures they posted aren’t enough proof of their faux innocence.

Michaela squints her eyes at the brightness of the fire nearby, sensing both a cough and a sickening feeling climbing up her throat. There are reporter trucks everywhere, ones she sees as the perfect hiding barriers to prevent her from being seen by anyone in case that sickening feeling morphs into an urge to throw up. She quickens her pace, eager to find herself in the safe space between two of the reporter trucks and attempt to calm her heart that’s threatening to beat out of her chest. She’s still visible to anyone walking along the street, but as it was established earlier, the street’s vacant and it seems it’ll remain that way for a little longer so she feels almost invisible and tiny in comparison to the two truck that serve the purpose of her protectors in this very moment.

Placing a hand on the wall of the truck, she doubles over, preparing for the inevitable when she hears a whistle from somewhere close by. Or, more specifically, directly behind her.

“What a view baby!“ A drunken slur of a male voice follows that whistle, causing her to straighten up and turn on her heel as fast as possible. “Is that how women ask to get some nowadays?”

Her stomach’s now in knots and she can’t find her voice to say anything. She’s frozen with fear of the man’s silhouette that’s now approaching her. His features aren’t visible in the dark so even if she did know him - which she’s sure she doesn’t - she wouldn’t be able to recognize him. Not that it matters, recognizing him or not, this man’s intentions are more than clear and more than threatening.

“Silence means yes in my book, babe. So...why don’t we have some fun?“ Before she can even register his proximity, he’s grabbed her wrists and pushed her against one of the trucks. The disgusting fucker holds her wrists at either side of her head, firmly holding them there, ridding her of any chance of escape.

The events she’s had to go through have already weakened her enough but even with that put to the side she’s no match for this guy - he’s a lot stronger and bigger in size. He’s basically towering over her like a predator looming over its prey, toying with it before going in for the kill. And when he does, when she feels his lips on her neck, that’s the final straw.

The need to relieve her insides finally takes over and she starts gagging, causing the son of a bitch to pull away and let go of her. And then she throws up, all over him, earning her the perfect distraction that will buy her enough time to get the fuck out of there. Despite the shaking of her legs and her still-turning stomach, Michaela takes off running, feeling sweat drops forming and running down her forehead. She can hear the cursing of that gross fucker behind her, but luckily she doesn’t take notice of another pair of running footsteps, suggesting she isn’t being followed. Even with this knowledge, she doesn’t stop running. Her brain understands she’s somewhat safe but her heart is racing, her heartbeat echoing in her ears warning her that there’s danger all around. So, she keeps running until she’s less then two blocks away from her apartment complex.

Her adrenaline levels refuse to lower but her legs have basically turned into jelly and she can’t find it in her to even keep walking, let alone running. She collapses, a mess of tears, sobbing and fear on the sidewalk. It’s too much. All too much and all too soon and all out of nowhere. She feels violated, vulnerable, unsafe. She feels both fragile and like she’s already been broken into shards. She feels alone and worst part is, she feels like she deserves it. She sees what happened between those two truck as a punishment for having participated in a murder and the gruesome disposal of a dead body.

Michaela Pratt always knew karma would catch up to her, she just never expected it’d be this cruel.

She got taught the hard way that in the darkest of nights, the most evil of demons attack.

* * *

Connor Walsh is known to be laid back and nonchalant to the point of irritative. However, right now, he’s anything but.

He’s anxious, he’s nervous, he’s still under shock and in mild panic mode. He’s restless, pacing the living room of the Keating home while running his hands through his hair, desperately trying to ignore and push away the memories of the events that took place in this very room less than twenty four hours ago.

“Where the hell is she?!!“ He takes a portion of his anger out on the wooden coffee table with a punch that will for sure bruise his knuckles. His eyes skim over the two other accomplices who have never looked so out of it: dead, bloodshot eyes carrying a thousand yard stare, neither of them reacting to his rage nor sharing it with him. “How the fuck are you so calm?! How can you just sit there and-!“

“Cause there’s nothing we can do!“ Wes suddenly snaps, “You heard Annalise - she called in, saying she wouldn’t be able to make it. So what, you want us to exhibit even more suspicious behavior by thrashing and yelling all over the place?“

“No, no, no. She had said she couldn’t make it because she had something to take care of. That ‘something’ could be reporting us, how do you not understand that?!“ Connor lashes out again, his fists only tightening this time, not finding a victim to take their hits.

“Michaela wouldn’t do that, she’s not stupid. It’ll immediately tie her to it too. She’ll go to jail like the rest of us.“ Laurel says, much calmer than the two men in the room though it probably has to do with the lack of energy due to the lack of sleep.

“You never know what’s going on in the brain of that selfish woman!“ He mutters, suddenly getting up and grabbing his phone. He storms out into the hallway, already dialing Michaela’s number.

With the device pressed tightly against his ear, the dial tone piercing his head like a screech straight from hell, he runs a frustrated hand over his pale as a sheet face, squeezing his eyes shut. The call eventually goes to voicemail, but that doesn’t stop Connor Walsh. He keeps trying, each attempt falling through, each call getting sent to voicemail after about five rings. Each time his anger boiling hotter.

“The hell do you want?! Can’t you catch a hint?!“ His seventh attempt is proven successful when a familiar female voices answers from the other line.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Princess. Am I bothering you? My most sincere apologies! I just wanted to know if you feel like ratting us out to the police, but if I’m calling at an inconvenient time, please forgive me.“ He sneers, his sanity restraints breaking one by one under the pressure of frustration, fear and the anxiety attack that’s been building in his chest all day today.

“Listen here, Walsh.“ Michaela hisses threateningly, though Conner doesn’t fail to pick up on the fact that there’s something off about her voice. He doesn’t dwell on that, too over-occupied with his worries of future jail time to care. “I’m not in the mood for your selfishness or for dealing with any of what happened last night so save your shit-talking for a more decent time. And as for the ratting part, I ain’t that kind of scum, though karma will catch up to each and every one of you. Just like...“ her voice suddenly cracks, the words sounding more like a sob than a threat, “Just like it caught up to me last night.“ That sentence is spoken through a cry, which is the last thing Connor was expecting to hear from the woman he deemed so high and mighty and so full of herself she can’t see the world around her nor how she’s affecting it with her selfish decisions.

That last sentence of hers is what the call ends on and what anchors itself in his head. Connor’s left standing in the hallway with a sickening feeling in his stomach that wasn’t there before and a little voice telling him that something is very wrong with Michaela. Her words were all her trademark, expected and explainable phrases but her tone, and that final statement were odd and far too out of place for him to just brush off. That last line she spoke felt like the most sincere and vulnerable thing she’s ever said to him. To anyone, really. There was no show, no tough act in those words. It was nothing but the confession of a broken girl who’s never felt like her life isn’t her own until now.

With that alarm ringing throughout his head and no good explanation, instead of turning and heading into the living room like he originally intended to, Connor storms out the front door of the home with fast and determined steps, heading for the destination he never thought he’d go to.

* * *

Having ordered food twenty minutes prior, Michaela doesn’t find the doorbell sounding throughout her apartment to be weird or unwelcome despite the fact it made her jump and shudder in her seat. With the comfort of the tiny pepper spray bottle in the back pocket of her jeans, she makes her way to the front door, resting one hand on the handle before pushing up on her toes to check through the peephole that the person she’s expecting is indeed the one who’s on the other side.

Her stomach drops and frustration rises through the roof when the peephole reveals the familiar, somewhat distressed face of Connor Walsh.

“GO AWAY!“ She yells turning and placing her back against the door, now not at all willing to open it.

“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on with you!“ She hears his voice coming from beyond the door, sounding strangely honest and deeply concerned.

“Why do you care anyway?! I already told you I won’t rat you out, you’ve got nothing to worry about!“ The lack of hostility in her voice seems to encourage Connor to speak a bit more freely.

“Come on, Shooting Star. Students who kill and dispose of bodies together share problems together.“ He says sarcastically but with true gentility behind his words.

That hint of honesty and a bit of harmless humor is what makes her slowly inch her hand toward the doorknob once again. After briefly hesitating, she pulls the door open, not at all bothered by the fact her rival is seeing her the most unpresentable she ever remembers being: hair a mess, homey clothes she can’t even recall the age of, no make-up, eye bags - the whole pack.

“Don’t like a Princess or a Shooting Star, do I?“ She attempts the same amount of humor he used but coming from her it sounds rather dead and flat, not that it’s not to be expected after everything she went through.

“You look like someone who has seen and been through some shit.“ He says truthfully, still standing in the hallway, unwilling to go inside until she gives him the green light for fear she might suddenly snap at him. “And I’m not only talking about what happened with Sam.“

Michaela’s eyes gloss over with tears immediately, mentally cursing herself for being so obvious. In order to avoid eye-contact, she steps aside to allow him inside.

“Thank you.“ He mutters as he makes his way past her and down the hall, arrogantly comfortable in the new surroundings.

By the time Michaela has started regretting her decision of letting him in, she realizes it’s already too late so she shuts and relocks the door before following after him in the living room where she finds him already situated in the armchair like it’s his 100th time visiting. Hell, like he owns the place.

She takes the seat on the couch closest to him, not bothering to offer him any hospitality in the form of drinks and snacks. Such offer feels ridiculous under these circumstances. Speaking of ridiculous, the circumstances themselves are ridiculous - her biggest rival, and now one of her partners in crime is chilling in her living room with a smug look on his face.

“Karma’s gonna catch up to me, huh?“ He suddenly speaks up, reminding her yet again of how bad of an idea inviting him in was. “Yours caught up to you, you say. Though to me it seems like it beat and battered you too.“

Michaela’s never been a crier. In fact, she’s guilty of silently judging people she’s witnessed crying, thinking of them as weak and spineless. But here she is, fighting back tears at the memories she’d much rather forget.

“It did, but it had the opposite effect. I’m glad we ridded this world of a piece of scum like him. One less man who feels entitled to everything. Who feel free to take anything he wants anytime.“ Her throat feels dry as her eyes fill with tears despite her best attempts at holding them back, “Take a girl’s virginity, take her dignity, her safety, her life, take everything away from her. And all that when she’s most vulnerable and scared and helpless and...“

Her words come to an abrupt halt when she finds Connor has repositioned himself and is now sitting next to her on the couch, has turned to face her and has placed a reluctant hand on her shoulder, “Michaela, what happened to you?”

That’s when she breaks down for the fifth time today. Since that breakdown on the sidewalk on her way home, she’s found it infinitely harder to hold her tears back, keep her emotions at bay. So, instead of easting her energy holding back, she’s been wasting it sobbing into the comforter she had wrapped around herself like a safety cocoon until Connor rang the doorbell.

Instinctively more than intentionally, Connor wraps his arm around her shoulders as she tries to get a few words out in-between sobs, “This guy....h-he t-tried to....” she can’t even finish the sentence without the entire scene playing out in front of her eyes, causing her stomach to tighten and her sobs to grow louder. “But, I-I got away in time. But Connor, what if I d-didn’t? Oh God, what would’ve happened to me if I didn’t?”

“It’s ok, you’re ok now. You’re safe.“ He murmurs, pulling her closer until her head’s resting on his shoulder, “You’re ok. And don’t you ever think of it as karma, you hear me? You didn’t deserve that. No one deserves that. That was in no way your fault or your punishment. That guy’s gonna meet his punishment if I ever lay my eyes on him though, that’s for sure.“

“I-I didn’t see his face, i-it was too dark.“ She manages to say through the subsided sobbing that has now reduced to crying with the occasional sniffle. “I just heard his voice.” Despite having calmed down, she surprisingly doesn’t feel the need to pull away from Connor, create some distance between them. She doesn’t even dwell on how out of character this is for the both of them, nor does she dwell on the slightly off-putting thought that she’s actually glad to have him by her side. To have someone comforting and reassuring her that what happened is not a result of her own bad actions. That thought haunted her all night, preventing her from even thinking about falling asleep.

“Well, if you ever recognize his voice anywhere, you know you have three experienced killers and dismemberers you can contact to, you know, do the job.“ He says comfortingly, his tone light but still serious.

She can’t help but scoff, “One kill and you’re suddenly hitmen?”

Connor chuckles, “When someone messes with one of our own, we sure as hell are.”

That sentence feels like a bandage on one of Michaela’s many invisible wounds. That one of our own line fills that hole her loneliness drilled into her last night on that sidewalk when she felt so lost and alone and broken. When she felt she had no one to turn to and no one to seek comfort in.

Among the many things she saw, heard and learned, the most valuable lesson these past twenty four hours have taught Michaela is that after the darkest of nights still comes morning. A bright morning, a new beginning and a helping hand with it. A helping hand, a safe embrace and comforting words. Bonus lesson is that one can never guess where, or rather from who those three elements will be given. These two are a crystal clear example: never did Michaela think she’d find a helping hand, safe embrace and comforting words coming from Connor Walsh. But here they are.

It may be odd and it may be temporary, but she’s not complaining, he doesn’t appear to be doing so either.

10 notes · View notes

aslanjadecarlyle · 5 years

Text

Book Review: Out of My Mind

5 Stars ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Fasten your seatbelts, ladies and gents, this is going to be a RIDE.

Here’s a bittersweet truth that some people might get pissed at me for, and I don’t care: No matter how inclusive you try to be, anyone who doesn’t have a disability (physical or mental) is at least a little bit ableist. It’s the goddamn truth. Able-bodied people NEVER stop to think about the little things: the fact that they can wiggle all ten toes, the fact that they can talk to each other or listen to music without a thought, the fact that most of them will never... ever... have a dozen brain surgeries in their life, let alone in their first 8 years of childhood. If someone who was able-bodied becomes disabled, they pity themselves. Because, let’s face it, most able-bodied folk unconsciously (or consciously, and just too much of a lil bitch to admit it) believe themselves to be better than us.

We are used as feel good, pity stories. We make headlines for NO REASON. “Oh, look, the nice boy asked the disabled girl to prom! How sweet!” “Oh, look, the crippled boy raised enough money for his own wheelchair! Such ambition!” “Oh, look, the special needs girl graduated valedictorian of her class! Who knew she was so smart!”

It’s inspiration porn and I’m fucking SICK of it. We, as disabled people, do not exist for you to feel better about yourselves.

I am 20 years old and am legally blind in my left eye, have hydrocephalus (a brain condition that’s potentially lethal if left untreated), and right-sided cerebral palsy. I walk with a limp and cannot wiggle the toes on my right foot. I had over a dozen surgeries in my first 8 years of life (one on my leg), and I could still land in the hospital and need brain surgery at any moment. For 20 goddamn years, my biggest representation was Nemo and his “special fin.” (I fucking hate the term “special needs,” by the way. We’re not “special;” able-bodied folk just continuously feel the need to treat us like fragile little infants).

So, needless to say, I was HYPED when I found out about this book. Disability rep of any kind is hard enough to find as it is, and half of it is written by able-bodied people with a superiority complex. (Side note — it’s meant for a MUCH older audience and has some graphic scenes, but I also love the Netflix series “Special,” whose creator has cerebral palsy in real life).

My CP is not nearly as severe as Melody’s is in “Out of My Mind,” but I can relate a lot of her experiences to my childhood, growing up. The story is told in Melody’s POV, and the author does a FANTASTIC job of calling able-bodied people out on their ableism. Kids are little shits, and often grow up to be even bigger shits, and Melody has to deal with discrimination every day of her life despite the fact that she is only in the FIFTH GRADE. She is mocked by both teachers and students alike, and, while some may believe that to be an over-exaggeration, I can confirm it’s NOT. Especially when I was in grade school, the superiority complex that students and even fucking TEACHERS displayed was fucking unreal. Y’all... aren’t exactly discrete about your pity party, and even Melody recognizes that at just 11 years of age. When I was in high school, more than one person made fun of my limp, and even a fucking TEACHER tried to alter my classes because apparently physical disabilities automatically determine your goddamn mental capacity.

Speaking of underestimating one’s mental capabilities, Melody faces that sort of discrimination even worse than I do/did. Because she is nonverbal on top of being in a wheelchair, kids and adults alike automatically write her off as being unable to understand anything going on around her. Even her TEACHERS. The r-slur is used to describe her more than once, and, when she receives the opportunity to integrate into “normal” classes, teachers continuously write her off.

I have not felt such intense emotion with a book in a... really long time. Perhaps because I can relate to a lot of what she goes through, I easily switched between intense anger to sadness (and sometimes angry sadness), but... GOD. The kids in her “normal” classes are such little shits. Grade school is hard for a lot of people, but it’s ESPECIALLY hard when you have a disability, and... God. I just wanna give Melody a hug.

Overall, I honestly think EVERY able-bodied person needs to read this book. Bordering on Middle Grade and Young Adult, it’s very easy to read and maybe... just maybe... might give some able-bodied folk some goddamn perspective when it comes to living in the shoes of a disabled person.

2 notes · View notes

berevityandquiet · 7 years

Text

The Quiet storm

ao3 link here

Chapter 1 of 3

Author's note: I was so fortunate to be a part of the R76 Big Bang 2017. This is the most fun I've had in such a long time. I was paired up with an artist who I totally adore - ohappyfair is an amazing partner and such a nice person, even when I act like a total putz. I'm so in love with their art, their wonderful attitude, and just the good vibes they have. Everyone did so well in the RBB, i'm so proud of everyone and so honor to be a part of it!

There was a time where the cities were only lit by candle light and the night was as still and quiet as the dawn. You could see all the stars in the sky, the universes in a world of endless black – the night bird song would ring through the air, and the embers that cooled in the hearth would keep the good people warm in their sleep. There was nothing like the cities we know now, the constant movement, the blurring lights and shattering noise; instead, towns were built with brick and mortar, their chimney pipes the only smog that clogged the air. People lived and died by the earth, the wind, the sea, and all clung to each other for support.

We know this as the time of Gods.

The Gods, who had overthrown their Titan parents, created the humans from the baked-red clay of the earth. The little clay figures lived in one spot and grew and grew.

Eventually, the humans broke into factions. Clay figures no more, they were travelers and explorers. Farmers, sailors, doctors and writers. They molded themselves after the Gods, their ever-loving protecters.

The powerful rose among those factions. Kings and queens graced their people with the word of their chosen God, using their wealth and status for gain and prosper. Lords and Ladies cultivated the earth with their citizens. Where there was once simplicity, complexity sprung forth.

Ironically, it was similar amongst the Gods. Although there were many celestials, there were only a handful that held any real power. The gods of sun and moon, earth and water, life and death – all children of the fallen titans and all guided by the one mother-goddess, Her Majesty, the Goddess of Wisdom.

She, who's words were soft as silk and still cut like a dagger, gave her brothers and sisters their titles and duties and let them go about their way. She stayed in her temple above them all, tucked away in the quiet libraries of all collected knowledge, writing in her scrolls and painting her murals. The gods organized themselves well and soon, a select few had collected into a celestial republic

The game of mimicry continued – the humans did the same. Peace, once so common, became a temporary gift. Given enough time and energy, humans will create mayhem the size of the titans themselves.

And so they did – a battle after skirmish after fight, until a war to end all wars rose above them. A conflict between the cities that turned into a war between the gods, all started by the idle tongue of a foolish young prince. He, who soon lost his head in the bloody fray, insulted the goddesses three – she who was filled with mercy, she who kept the hearth a-lit, and she who spurned the hearts of men into battle – by making a shallow choice of beauty. Turned against one another so quickly, the goddesses feuded, filling the hearts of their chosen people with bitterness. A foolish war broke out that would destroy the once crown-jewel of the states and leave the others scavenging to pick up the pieces, as the gods sat back and licked their wounds.

This is where our story begins.

~*~

In the scheme of things, Ilios isn't a very big city – it's more of a town, really.

But to the people of Ilios, their town was their world.

They had survived the Great War with very little collateral damage, one of the rare cities to be so lucky. A handful of their soldiers dead, some damage on the coast, but the Ilios herself was relatively unharmed. Life returned to normal fairly quickly. Sure, some of their sister-cities had taken a serious blow, but Ilios stood firm, the pearl of the ocean town looking towards the sea with a proud zeal.

The lord that lived there, a proud man under the House of Morrison, had headed a fleet into the war with his meager troops in support of the country of Gibraltar. He returned, scared and older, but victorious. It was a fact he almost seemed to gloat in.

Well, seemed in a very absolutely, consistently, non-stop kind of way.

(Let it be known that the House of Morrison, for all the good they do, has one major flaw – their mouthes)

Which started the whole problem in the first place – after a night of indulgence (one of many, we are loath to say), Lord Morrison stumbled through the town with his fellow senators, proclaiming his family the richest amongst the countries, his countryside the most fruitful, his children the most talented. He was blessed by the gods, he slurred to anyone who would listen, why else would he have come back from the war? Why else would Ilios be the town to pull their shattered country back together? It would be his wealth that would spurn the other lords and ladies into action, it would be his wheat that would bake the bread of the poor and destitute. It would be his children that would build a new world on the wreckage of the old.

“Not Gibraltar!” He sang at the fountain in the center of town, his toga coated in mead, “Not the City in the Oasis! Ilios!”

His senators crowded around him and cheered; one suggested wine, the other sent a servant for more and the display got even worse.

“The gods thought they could destroy us, but we survived!” The Lord Morrison sputtered, wine splattering down his front, “Raise a glass to their failure, my friends!”

On-lookers would report the Lord Morrison would make a number of (fairly gratuitous) claims that night, including (but not excluding) comparing his people to the industrious cherubs, his fields to the forest of the celestials and his senators to the congress of the gods.

He slurred to every passer-by: “My son would put Her Majesty of Mercy, in her beauty to shame! Compared to him, Our Most Glorious is a farm girl.”

Grandious as they were, not all of his claims were entirely wrong – the people of Ilios were well known for being hardworking and friendly and the town's congress had made fairly well thought-out decisions in the time of war, decisions that had tempered fate in their favor. Ilios wheat was bountiful, to say the least – ships filled to the brim with grain and corn and fresh produce left the harbor daily. And the children of the Morrison household really were something to behold His eldest daughter had long ringlets of spun gold and a keen tongue, his middle son had eyes as blue as the sea and the aim of a true marksmen.

But his youngest?

Oh...well that was a handsome young man. Fair, young skin dotted with soft freckles, eyes like crystals, hair so blond it was nearly platinum. His voice was as soothing as a coming storm, his body slender and sculpted like the finest marble...it was a beauty that people came far and wide to see, to study, to touch.

Even in his youth, citizens would walk by and talk amongst themselves, A handsome one, what a beauty.

The admiration grew as he became a young man – the royal soothsayer had suggested to the Lord Morrison that his son take to wearing veils when out amongst the commoners (a suggestion that would quickly followed). People who would once give him a passing glance now stopped and watched him walk by; more than once, a person would bow before him and proclaim his majesty, as if they were worshiping in the temples.

The citizens loved him, adored him in a way they had once loved their patron goddess.

It didn't take long for her to notice.

~*~

“A farm-girl, eh?”

Her hands shake, nails cracking into the crystal globe. In the darkness of her chambers, Mercy lets his hair flow free across her shoulders, wisps of spun gold whipping about her. She has thick skin – she has to. A lesser creature couldn't do what she does, caring for the sick, the crippled, the wounded and dying; the goddess of medicine, of relief, of mercy.

It's a fitting title.

But here, in her dark, quiet chambers, she's just Angela. Somber, quiet, tired Angela.

Beauty's not that important in her world. Sure, it feels good to look nice, but beautiful hands don't do much good when you've shoved them deep into the gaping gullet of a soldier.

(at least...at least that's what she thought)

Maybe that's why the comment stung so bad - “A farm girl”. A common, lowly peasant....

Was this what these people thought of her? As a lesser?

Angela places the globe down slowly, the temptation to dash the thing to pieces becoming overwhelming. She lays on her couch, listening to the winds that whistle outside her curtains. In the darkness, the ceiling plays tricks on her, warping shadows into beasts.

A farm girl.

She clutches her hand to the breast, letting the metallic taste wash over her tongue. It's not anger that begins to pulse beneath her fingertips, in the very root of his marrow – it's rage.

She would expect this behavior, this...slander from a city not under her tutelage but Ilios was one of her patron cities. The rare, few cities that actually brought her happiness after the nightmare that was the Great War and it's own leader would spit in her face and call her lowly.

It stings more than she's willing to admit.

There's a great shame that comes with being one of the three goddess responsible for the Horrible War. A niggling kind of burn that never seems to go away. The nail digs into her side one too many times.

Her rage takes shape within her, a burning ball in the pit of her belly. She sits up, brushing her hair down and standing from his couch. With a whisper, Angela calls her cherubs to her side.

“Tell my brother I'm paying him a visit,” She mutters, picking up the crystal globe and looking into it. The Lord Morrison is being escorted home by a young man with white-blonde hair – his tunic is covered in vomit, “Tell him I would like to cash in that favor he owes me.”

The cherubs float away quickly. Angela pulls on her cloak and throws the globe as hard as she can against her chamber walls.

It shatters to pieces.

~*~

The kingdom of the Gods rests in the city at the top of the White Mountains. And it's here that the gods create their home as they see fit – a vast paradise of environments the celestials have hand made. The road that stretches between each individual temple is paved with white marble and a river runs through it all, the crystal clear water cool and sweet.

It is night as she storms to her brother's temple, a garden house with agar walls and turquoise tiles – the smell of petrichor caresses her nose as flings the door open.

The pluck of a kayagum echoes against the lantern lit walls, a soft, sweet voice following each note. Angela lays her saddles at the door; soft grass tickles her toes as she walks through the halls, flowers turning their heads to watch her.

His sprites sing in his atrium, curled at the edge of his fountain – the startle when they see her walk in and quickly stand, bowing in reverence.

“We weren't expecting you so soon,” The first sprite says, rushing over to take her cloak as the second quickly moves the kayagum aside.

“That doesn't matter – where is my brother?” She snaps – they pale at the tone in her voice and quickly lead her towards a doorway where a thin curtain flaps in the night breeze.

“Would you like tea?” The second sprite says weakly, “Coffee? Wat-”

“No.” Angela interrupts her, pushing past, “I would like privacy. We're not to be disturbed.”

The sprites open the curtain for her, bowing once again with a quiet yes ma'am. They close the curtain and take their place at the doorway.

~*~

“Gabriel! Gabriel where are you?!”

Angela pushes a ferns leaves, nearly tripping over a thick ivy vine. She huffs in frustration, yanking a twig from her (already fairly messy) hair, “Don't you ever prune this place?!”

“No,” A voice to her left says loftily, “Normally, that would keep people from bothering me.”

Angela pushes her way past the branches – her brother stands in the small clearing, his flowers and plants all turned towards him affectionately.

She eyes the ceiling, where the glass dome shines with unfiltered moonlight. The grotto that is Gabriel's home is really very lovely in the nighttime – fireflies flutter about happily, moths of all sizes and shapes land peacefully upon her shoulders. There is a breeze within the grotto, making the entire area pleasantly cool (whether this is created by Gabriel or all natural is beyond her)

Angela sits on a fallen log and watches Gabriel work – he's standing at one of his beloved willows, snipping dead leaves from the orchids that have begun their strenuous climb to the top.

He doesn't properly great her, nor stop what he's doing. However, honeysuckle vines begin to creep by her leg, flowers turned upwards. She plucks one and quickly dabs the nectar onto her tongue – it's wonderfully sleep.

“Out of all the people, I really didn't expect this from you, Angela.”

She frowns, tossing the flower away and resting her arms on her knees, “You got my message.”

“Yup.” He snips another leaf, settling it in a basket beside him. They'll be chopped up and used as fertilizer for the next plant – the circle of life continues, “And I'm not doing it.”

“Gabriel-”

“You realize what you're asking me to do, right?” He turns slightly, pinning her with a tired glare, “Amelie trusted me with her tools, and you're asking me to go against everything she said. Sorry, but you'd best find someone else for your dirty work.”

Gabriel's home is in full bloom now, but it won't last long – the cusp of autumn in upon them. Soon, the house will be filled with orange and yellows, sprinklings of red, before everything settles down for it's long, winter sleep. Fragrant marigolds will litter the paths.

He'll keep hollies soon. Holly and pines and the house will smell like the coming of the new year.

Angela plucks another honeysuckle, turning it to look at the nectar that bubbles to the top

“I know I'm asking a lot. More than I should.” She doesn't have the gut to eat – everything tastes sour. She tosses the flower away (and tries to avoid the heartbroken way the flowers turn towards the ground), “Gabriel, you have to understand-”

“One of the humans under your care called you a mean name. That's what it boils down to, Ang.”

“Don't over simplify. It's more than that.” She stands from the log, crossing her arms, “He disrespected my authority. You of all people should understand how that feels!”

Gabriel doesn't respond immediately, engrossed in his work.

He does, to an extent. Gabriel was one of the rare gods that stayed as neutral as possible during the war but that doesn't mean he had no stake in it. After all, his only patron city had burned to the ground.

They cursed him as he tried to save it from the flames – the soothsayers called for the downfall of the gods, the royal family spat on his offerings, the people called for other gods but him and sometimes, in the dead of night, all Gabriel can feel in the lap of flames on his skin...

His sheers slip and he cuts a healthy leaf. Gabriel hisses, quickly catching the leaf and tossing the sheers away.

“Angela, let it go. It's not worth getting worked up over.” He hurries to his workbench, the fragile leaf in hand. A soft cloth is laid on the bench-front along with a glass jar and clean forceps. He grabs up the glass jar and cups his hand. What looks like golden honey pours from it, forming an almost perfect bubble around the leaf, “If we got upset every time a human said something unkind, we'd never have a moment of peace. You know that.”

“I told you it's not that simple.”

“It is, actually.” the bubble of honey quivers slightly, healing the cut ends of the leaf. He heaves a sigh and plucks up the forceps, turning back to the vine.

He didn't expect Angela to be right next to him – nor did he expect her eyes to be brimming with tears. He jumps, quickly catching the honey-bubble before it plops onto the ground.

“Whoa...whoa, Angela-”

“I scarified so much for that stupid city,” Angela sniffles as Gabriel sets the bubble onto his workbench and takes her shoulders in hand, “Don't you know that? Ilios is the one city that I loved that isn't still rebuilding! I felt my cities, my people burn around me, and that was the only city that I kept safe. I made sure they wouldn't be harmed, I tried to keep their people well, and instead of thanking me, he calls me a peasant.”

“It was just an accident, you don't really think they think that, do you?”

Angela wipes away a tear angrily, “How am I supposed to know?! Do you know what the other royal families called me as their cities were torn down? Witch. Demon – it wasn't even my fault, I did everything I could and they still cursed me!”

Gabriel pulls her into his chest, pressing a soft kiss onto the top of her head. Her shoulders shake as she sobs angrily, “Angela, they're scared, dumb humans – they didn't mean any of that, and neither does this one.”

Angela sniffles, fat tears slipping down her cheeks. She tucks her hands into Gabriel's robes, rubbing her face into his chest.

“It's not about mean names and getting revenge,” She warbles, “It's about telling them what is and isn't right. About giving them a little bit of humility, because apparently, I've failed to do that.”

She stands back, looking up at him. Her hands untangle from his robes to cup his face.

He winces – his wounds are still fresh and painful. Her thumb runs across the once smooth skin, across every tear, tracing the blackened flesh. Black steam rises from the exposed flesh.

“They hurt you. They hurt me. They don't understand how lucky they actually are, because we've allowed them to disrespect us.”

His hands mimic hers, a thumb brushing away a stray tear, “Please....please, Gabriel. I don't have anyone else I trust....do this for me, just do this one thing for me and I won't ask you for another thing.”

“I think we both know that's not true, Ang.”

Angela laughs, pulling back to wipe her face clean. She stands on tip-toe to kiss his cheek.

“So you'll do it?”

Gabriel huffs, turning back to the honey-bubble, “Yeah. I'll do it – but this is a one time thing, Ang. I hit the kid and then I'm out – understand?”

“Understood.”

He places the bubble against the snipped stem. The bubble pops, forming around the leaf – stems mesh perfectly, as if nothing had ever happened in the first place

~*~

In the kingdom of the gods, there are two pools. One with bitter water and one with sweet.

There was a time they were guarded and cultivated by the Goddess of Love and Lust – after the war, she abdicated her position and left to wander the underworld to mourn her long lost husband.

And so, when the people pray to the god of nature and life, they also find themselves praying to the god of love. What was once her quiver is now his, fitted for his rough hands, and what was once her waters is now his domain.

In the dark time where the moon has just set and the sun begins it's arduous rise, Gabriel fills two flasks – one with the sweet water and one with the bitter. He straps the flasks to his belt, her soft arrows to his back and looks down amongst the still slumbering mortals.

He begins the search for his prey.

~*~

Time has distorted the names of the people of the past. Language has changed and so translation changes with it – it goes without saying that the House of Morrison probably went by a very different name in the ancients times and this is just how we say it now.

For all intents and purposes, the youngest was called John.

Within the family, they called him Jack.

He wasn't the smartest boy (his sister took that title) and not the strongest (that was his brother's) but he was the bravest. While his sister cared for the household and his brother held the beaches with the remainder of the army, Jack braved the sea with his father and fought alongside him with the preliminary forces. Even in the brief battles that Ilios participated in, he took to danger head on, almost foolishly sprinting into the heart of battle.

There was very little that scared Jack – not the bite of iron, the lick of fire, the roar of the storm.

But this was like none of those things.

It's an unfortunate product of his birth – he's taken down giants of men, stared death in the face and now that it's all done and over with, his responsibility is being quiet and demure to the public. His brother and sister are both married with children of their own – now it's Jack's turn.

His parents have as many grandchildren as they want, as they need – the Morrison name will live on. Now it's all about giving Jack away like a present – such is the role of the youngest.

It's a sad, but true, fact – the moment his parents find a partnership with one of the neighboring cities that benefits Ilios, he'll be tossed to them like meat to a dog.

Formality has never been his strong suit – he's actually about as graceful as a duck on land. Jack would rather work in his garden then have to speak to the public, but this is his job now. He's part of the public face of the House of Morrison, and so it falls upon him to apologize for his father's behavior and pay for the damages.

He's fortunate to be well-liked in town – the barkeep laughs off the tab (“Your father was just having fun!”) and the clay-worker (who's wheelbarrow he'd fallen asleep on and promptly ruined) handed him an red earthen pot when he was finished paying for the broken items (“For your mother! She said she'd wanted me to hold the next one for her.” She waved away his money, “By the gods, she deserves it”)

The city wakes slowly, sleepily blinking their eyes into the sun. The people mill through the street, some going to their jobs, other getting their shopping done – they all nod their heads and smile as Jack walks by.

The Morrison family has done a lot of good in Ilios. Even when the Elder Morrison behaves badly (as has become the norm after the war), there is no debate where his heart truly lies.

Jack's stopped every few steps to talk to the people walking by. They ask their normal questions (When is your sister-in-law due? Will the Master join the hunt this year? What's the Mistress bringing back from Oasis?). Talking to people who treat him like he's a normal human being, not this beautiful angel, not a title...it feels nice.

They all have their roles to play: The Master Morrison leads the town. The Mistress Morrison is the trendsetter amongst Ilios' women, wearing only the latests fashions and speaking of only the highest bourgeoisie, the eldest Morrison sister holds frequent salons to stir the town's intellect, the Morrison son leads Ilios' coast guard and organizes the autumn hunt.

Jack's job is to look pretty, make friends among the people and stay quiet when his parents eventually hand him off to his rich Lord in a marriage that is 100% for political gain.

To a slim margin, he's accepted this as his end goal.

(not really)

The woman who runs the flower cart waves him over and begins to chide him about marriage again. She sticks trimmed white roses behind his ears and tells him about the girl down the street, fresh into womanhood and ready to take a husband.

“A boy just moved into town too, if you're interested in that.” She leans against her cart, taking a deep breath. She's a little grey-haired lady that's been selling her flowers since Jack was a little boy – her ancient donkey chuffs at him when he leans his forehead down against it's broad nose.

“Thanks, but no thanks.” Jack laughs when Mulberry mouths at the front of his toga – he can smell the apple Jack's got hidden in there, “You got daisy's in!”

“Don't avoid the question,” She chuckles as he leans down to sniff at the petals – they're speckled red, little yellow stems bursting from the center, “You're getting to that age, it's something you need to think about.”

“Are any of these in blue?” he asks.

“You're handsome, you're charming-”

“Those two are the same thing,” He plucks the bundle up and drops his coins into her outstretched hand, “I'm just not interested in it right now. If you get any in blue, will you hold them for me?”

“Yes, yes,” The flower-woman waves him off, hiding the smile behind her veil – Jack's not stupid, the next time he visits her, she'll have another person lined up for him to sample. He'll tell her the same thing - “Not now”

He tosses Mulberry his apple before he takes his leave – the donkey knickers in delight and chomps down.

~*~

Jack has a routine – stop at the town center to pick up the flower-woman's latest bunch, walk to the fish market to see how the morning's catch was and then travel the remainder of the town to see where his help can benefit most. Nothing much ever changes around the town.

If he's lucky, he spends his morning in town and his afternoons in his garden house, tending to the fruit-trees and creeping vines there.

If he's unlucky, he'll be roped into the day-to-day chores of the Mistress Morrison.

There was a time where his time would be taken up by his studies – they've reached a hiatus, until he's “married away.” It's up to his future spouse to decide if he would continue his studies or if he'll just have to settle with what he knows.

When he was a kid, Jack would do everything he could to get out of his lessons – now he's wishes he could take them again.

(In a weird way, they continue. They've morphed into lessons about keeping an ordered household, given by the Mistress and her many, many attendants).

Jack takes the steps down to the wharf two at a time, the flowers tucked into the crook of his hand. Sunlight glitters from the ocean's blue surface – from where he stands, the sea looks rough this morning. White crests move along the ocean's surface, the seagulls cry echoing across the sky.

He looks out into the ocean – sometimes he daydreams about stealing a boat and sailing away into the endless blue.

What would he find out there? His brief time away from the town was on the beaches of Gibraltar, but there had to be more than fire and soot. He'd seen it on the murals in the temples, on the paintings that graced his family's walls – deep green forests, cities built from the golden sand, flat plains stretching out as far as the eye can see and filled with flowering trees.

When he was a boy, he would ride behind with his Father to the farms that settled at the edge of Ilios and work in those lucious fields. It was hard work, it was sometimes painful work, but it was good work.

And then, suddenly, he was thrust into the world of adulthood and forced into the tight box that was Formality.

Although his cage is gilded, it is still a cage.

~*~

“No fish?”

“None.” The sailor frowns, leaning over the edge of the boat, “Haven't been fish for days.”

Jack frowns, worrying his lip, “Have you tried fishing on the east side? The west?”

“And the north, hell, we've even pushed our boats to they very edge of our waters.”

Another sailor shakes his head, “Every time we try to go further, the water's too choppy. Ain't never seen anything like it, this ain't the season for the monsoons.”

Jack hums, tapping a foot thoughtfully. Monsoon season wasn't for another three months – the waters should be perfect for fishing right now.

“Anything you could suggest, we'd love to hear Jack.” The captain says – it's easy to tell that he's exasperated. No fish means no fish at market – no money in their pockets and no meat for the citizens. Fish play such a crucial role in the normal Ilios diet, having them go missing is a big problem.

“Have you all tried new bait?”

“Yeah – but maybe we could switch it up again?” The captain scratches his beard.

“Do that – I'll let my father know, maybe he knows what's going on.” Jack says sheepishly, “Sorry I couldn't be more help.”

The captain laughs it off, waving, “Don't you worry, Jack – we'll try switching the bait again. Stop by tomorrow, maybe we'll be lucky”

The sailors say their goodbyes, pulling their ropes and unfurling the sails.

Jack watches as the boat begins to pull away from the harbor – the sea shanties will start soon as the oars pull and the wind pushes the boat along, spurning the sailors on.

He turns back up the path and begins to walk towards the center of the city – it just doesn't make sense, where would the fish be?

~*~

“This is it?”

“That's it.” The grocer shakes his head, his arms akimbo. Jack looks over the meager wares - wrinkled apples and withered grapes, mushy greens and leafs, dehydrated stalks of corn, “I just don't understand, yesterday everything seemed normal.”

“When we went picking it looked like the locust had come back into town,” Continues a farmer, unloading his cart – two measly bushels of grains, the wheat is limp and frail looking, “Practically all my trees have come down with blight...I just don't get it.”

“Blight?” Jack frowned, “How sick have they been?”

“Not at all.” The farmer insists, “It appeared overnight.”

“Oh c'mon, blight can-” The grocer starts, as he arranges the meager wares.

“It appeared overnight.” The farmer stresses, an almost crazed look in his eye, “I keep my trees healthy, I ain't had a blight outbreak in over twenty years.”

The farmer and grocer continue to bicker as Jack looks over the stalks – they're not just frail, they're diseased, a dusty film covering their surface. He plucks one stalk up, grimacing as it practically falls apart in his hands.

“Go to the temple,” Jack says quietly, looking over the disintegrated plant. He tosses the stalk away, wiping the grit from his fingers on the hem of his robes. The men quiet quickly, “Get one of the priestesses to bless the water you're using. Maybe you've had blight all along, maybe it did appear overnight, but you're going to need the Goddess' graces for this.”

The farmer nods, pulling on his donkey's reigns. Jack plucks the crispest apple from the cart and gives his coins to the grocer.

~*~

The town looks off today.

Rust curls on the sides of the white houses, the plants in the window sills are beginning to curl. The cats (normally friendly creatures who patron the warf and come mewling to people for attention) all hiss and scurry away when approached.

He makes his normal stops – nothing seems to be going right. The smithee can't get his furnace to light, the seamstress needles have all bent, the librarian was fending off moths left and right. He gives what advice he can and they all appreciate it, but it's bandaids on open wounds.

Jack clutches his flowers closer, nails biting into their sensitive flesh. It makes no sense, why would everything in the town just stop working? If he didn't know better...

“Oh!”

A voice breaks Jack from his reprieve – he startles, nearly dropping his packages. Internally, he curses – he's strayed too close to the temple again. An old woman stumbles toward him, her hands pressed against her mouth.

“Oh, angel!” She begins to kneel, reaching for the hem of his stola, “Oh bless me!”

Jack tries to shoo her away, his cheeks flushing red – of all the days to walk out without his veil...

“No-No I'm sorry, I'm no-”

She ignores him, beginning to croon her preyers. A small crowd from the temple follows her, all beginning to croon the same requests – bless us, bless us with health, angel, bless us with fortune and love.

One of them grabs onto the hem and yanks – Jack yanks back just as hard and stumbles into a run, clutching his packages to his chest.

It's not the first time he's had to flee the temple – most days, he's smart enough to avoid it all together, only going to worship late at night. He was so engrossed in his thinking that he took the main path to the estate and stumbled right into the proverbial lion's den.

Wearing the veil has helped considerably; he hides his face whenever the priestess walk past, carefully avoids anything that seems like worship but it still happens more times than he would like – they call to him for guidance when they should call to the very deity that graced them with life.

Looking behind him, he sees the priestesses leading the people back into the temple. He's lucky, they never come to the estate to scold him for interrupting the parishioners – even he realizes it's not his fault.

They understood – it had started fairly early in his life, after all. The Goddess' blessing towards the Morrison family had given them a son of almost perfect beauty, that's nothing to be ashamed of. It's something to be celebrated and rejoiced -.it would make sense that he would look like one of her Messengers. It's not like he likes the attention – frankly, he hates it. It feels like the ultimate blasphemy, having to guide (or sometimes order) them back into the temple. It's the height of humiliation.

He leaps the fence onto the estate and it's only then that he stops, leaning against a tree. The tender stems of the flowers have bruised on his crushing hold. He hisses, pulling the flowers away from him to examine them.

They're a little worse for wear, but they'll be fine. A little plant food, some sunshine, he may be able to coax them into sprouting.

Jack pulls them back into his chest and begins the trek to the villa.

~*~

Morrison Villa is a sprawling estate, filled with trees and flowers. A barn to hold the livestock, a kennel for the hunting dogs, a spring for bathing.

To Jack, it's his sanctuary.

He takes a quick detour to the stables, carefully avoiding the servants and the stablehands. Jack sneaks to the furthermost stall, behind the door and directly to his best friend.

The horse snorts in delight when he enters, immediately stomping towards him and nuzzling his cheek.

“Hey, hey – don't be pushy.” Jack laughs quietly, scratching behind her ear, “And no, these are not for you, Ovid.”

He pulls the flowers away as she tries to chomp down on them, “Be good, or you don't get the present I brought you.”

Ovid nickers, stomping a foot and nodding her head. Her ears flick happily. Jack flops onto a clean pile of hay – the stablehands have come by and cleaned her stall before Jack could get to her.

It's not considered proper for a young man of prestige to clean his own horse's stall, but it's never bothered Jack that much. He remembers mucking when he was a kid, beside his brother and father with the two horses they had – a dapple mare and her spotted foal.

The spotted foal isn't a foal anymore, but she's still Jack's favorite. Her stall is his home away from home, the tiny room packed with all of his comfort items – his favorite sandals, his well-warn saddle back, his prized bow-and-arrow hung on the wall far enough away that Ovid can't pull them down. She protects his things, sleeping on them for comoft.

He produces the apple from the pouch on his robe and tosses it – she catches it midair, happily munching away.

“You glut.” He laughs, leaning against the barns walls – she pays him no mind.

Jack takes the stems of the flowers and starting to braid them together, “The fish are gone. The fishermen said they hadn't seen them for a while.”

Ovid snorts, chomping on the last half of the apple. Her ear swivels towards him.

“Same thing with the grocer – all of his produce was just...mush.” he sticks his tongue out, working his fingers in the delicate knots. Ovid clops to him, flopping down and laying her head against his thigh.

“They said it just started – seems weird, doesn't it?” He smiles at her, running a hand over her mane. Her neck twitches at his touch.

There's a window beside the pile of hay he sits on – tension ebbs from his muscles – a soft wind whistles through the trees. He can smell the ocean, the salty tang that tingles his tongue.

Jack looks out onto the morning, the clouds high and fluffy against a perfectly blue sky. There's a tinge of grey in the clouds – they'll have rain soon, he can smell it in the salty air. Good, Jack thinks. Maybe rain will wash away whatever going on in town.

“Maybe it's a sign...” He says quietly, his fingers still braiding the flowers together. He's almost finished with the crown, tying the final flower on, “We always said we'd run away when we got a chance...maybe the Goddess is telling us now's the time.”

Ovid blinks and huffs again.

“I don't know what stops me. It wouldn't be too hard to buy a boat-”

She nickers.

“Yes, yes, a boat that could hold you too.” He corrects, placing the crown on her head and adjusting her ears, “A few days of previsions, some fresh water, a map...we'd be out of here in no time. I wonder where we'd go...”

She flicks her tail against the ground, nuzzling closer. Jack scratches her cheek and watches a blackbird soar through the sky, lighter than air itself.

Would it be nice to fly like that, he thinks, watching as the bird dips and dives. To just up and leave whenever he wanted – not confined by tradition and title and responsibility just....totally free.

They sit like that for quite some time – his leg is fast asleep, but Ovid's such a peaceful sleeper, he can't bear to wake her.

~*~

Ovid hears the raucous before Jack does – her head shoots up, giving a short whiney.

“What is it?” He asks, leaning forward. His answer is quickly answered.

“Jack? Jack!”

“I'm here,” He says, sitting up proper, “What is it Leslie?”

He can hear his sister storming towards him. She slams her hands on the stall's door.

“Where have you been?? We've been looking everywhere for you!”

Leslie is taller than him, slimmer. Golden hair always pulled up in a messy bun and with a tongue sharper than a sword – out of all the Morrison children, she's the leader.

She was the first married off, to a tradesman from the far east. A good man who made good money and took care of her well. He traveled constantly and so Leslie lived on the Morrison Villa with her two children.

“What's going on?” Jack stands as Ovid gets to her hooves, whinnying in delight. Next to Jack, Leslie is her favorite person.

“What do you mean, “what's going on”?!” She snaps, “Father has his luncheon with the senators today! They're just starting to sit down to eat, you are supposed to be entertaining!”

Jack huffs, brushing stray bits of straw from his robes. Ovid leans over the stall door for pets – Leslie scratches her moist nose fondly, “For real? Again? Didn't they do this last week?”

“And the week before that, and the week before that.” Leslie quirks an eyebrow, “And probably the week before that - How in the world did you forget?”

Jack shrugs, “How long is it going to last this time?”

“How long do they ever last? The senators won't be leaving until tomorrow, if we're so lucky. Malcom's still hasn't slaughtered the hog for dinner, Mother's gone mad. So can you please?”

“All right, all right. Though, I don't know what he even wants, I just sit there.”

“You're the eye-candy.” Leslie teases, opening the stall door for him, “Remember that senator from The City of Oasis? Do you know how many times he asked Father how much you cost?”

Leslie closes the stall door behind him and presses a soft kiss to Ovid's nose – and then she's off, walking towards the house. Jack waves to Ovid and is fast on her heels, struggling to keep up.

“I'm surprised he didn't sell me off.” He grumbles, plucking a stray strand of hay from his collar.

“He probably would have if the price was higher.” Leslie shrugs, “Count your blessings Jack, apparently, the guy's a true bore. You'd probably die from it within a week.”

Ovid huffs and stamps her hooves – they'll be back in the evening with scraps specially for her, she knows that. But she never likes to alone. Her ears prick forward, patiently awaiting Jack's return.

The blackbird lands on the barn's roof, watching the two with careful eyes.

~*~

Morrison Villa is built similar to the classical rustica style – a massive complex with a giant atrium in the center. It housed the main family, the cousins that would stop by periodically and the servants that kept the place in ship shape. Ironically, it was considered one of the smaller royal estates.

They enter through the backdoor into the kitchen – the smell of roasted chicken, baking bread, freshly cut greens makes Jack's mouth water. In the center he can see his mother conducting the staff like an orchestra, pointing this way and that, taste testing every dish that leaves the door and ensuring everyone looks prim and proper.

Mistress Morrison runs the Villa household with an iron fist. She does very well considering the circumstances – she was engaged to Master Morrison at a fairly young age and took to her role quickly. Mistress Morrison is unafraid to get mouthy in a world that really wasn't built for her – she's made her own platform in the town and, subsequently, in the capital her husband as built.

She frowns at them when they enter the kitchen.

“I found him,” Leslie says, ducking under a pair of servants carrying a tray of a full-sized peacock made from watermelon and sugar cane, “He was hanging out with Ovid again.”

“Of course you were.” Mother chides, “What am I going to do with you, you smell like a barn.”

“Sorry.” Jack says sheepishly, “I can go change.”

“Quickly. You know how impatient your father is.”

A young man sits on the counter beside her, chomping at a string of grapes. Unlike his sibling, his hair is curly and wild, his beard full. He kicks his legs, trying to snag morsels from every plate that comes by.

“Yeah – no man wants a horse for a wife.” He gives a sardonic laugh; Mother snatches the grapes from his hands, putting back on the tray they'd been sitting on. She snatches Jack by the shoulders and tilts his head down, plucking bits of grass and hay from his hair

“Aren't you supposed to be cooking, Mal?” Jack grumbles, wincing when she gets a few too many strands of hair with the next pluck.

“Yes he is and if that hog isn't slaughtered and cut in the next thirty minutes, we'll be using your hide as a replacement.”

(She leans to Jack's ear and whispers, “We may be rid of his horrible wife then.”

Jack can't hold back a chuckle.)

Malcom groans and hops down from the counter.

“Fine.” He trots out of the kitchen, off to the livestock, off to slay the fattest hog they have, “Better than being at this bore of a party anyway.”

Leslie plucks the last of the hay from Jack's hair and follows behind Mother to begin serving wine. Jack quickly makes his way to his room to change.

~*~

It only takes a few moments (five of which are spent shoo-ing away Mother's aids and assistants – he can dress himself, thank you very much) but he quickly works his way into his best blue stola. He chews on his lip as he ties the robe together, brushing his hair back – when he returned from across the ocean, he'd found all of his togas and bracce gone and replaced with these too-long, too-heavy things.

His lot in life, Jack supposes - anything to make him seem smaller and gentler. He's probably very lucky – the librarian once showed him scrolls of people across the ocean that paint their eyes and lips in ink and rouge.

Jack's not sure he could do that every day.

He ties his sandals, slips on his finery. He owns a special veil for events, attached to a golden, woven crown of ivy. Perfectly white, barely translucent – Jack has to have help when he wears it, but he knows his house like the back of his hand.

Grandmother had given him a mirror when he was a boy – polished silver, the handle shaped like a lion's paw. He looks at himself...what he's told is himself. The detached self, the self that conforms to his family's wishes. It's like looking at a different person, an entirely separate Jack...

He quickly puts the mirror down – looking too long into it's reflective surface just puts him into a bad mood.

~*~

There's a rambunctious cheer when he enters the dinning hall – the smell of wine is almost overwhelming. Jack has to hold his breath as he takes his place with his mother and sister, sitting in the center of the couches and tables so they can quickly refill drink and food. They hearth still isn't lit, so the room hasn't become sweltering with so many people.

His father, at the top couch, stands and embraces him, kissing the top of his head. There's not a lot of bad you can say about Master Morrison – he's a braggart, sure, and maybe a little too interested in drink but he's a kind soul. A good soul. There's a lot of love in Jack's heart for his father.

Maybe that's what made the entire scene so...embarrassing to begin with. Before the war, they weren't these kinds of people – sure, there were parties every once in a while and well known men and women would stop by the house but more often than not, they would be in town, living a fairly average life.

Now it's seems like Master Morrison is racing at a breakneck pace towards outward appearances of grand wealth. He was never a particularly modest man, but this is extreme, even for him.

“Here he is!” His father booms, slapping an arm around Jack. Jack is very grateful for the veil as his cheeks begin to heat, “My son! My celestial boy. Look at him, even The Goddess herself would feel inadequate next to him!”

There's another cheer, cups clinking together, laughter, and calls. But Jack can see the way the servants hide their faces, their grimaces. Even his mother frowns at the comment.

~*~

“Maybe it'll get better,” Jack thinks quietly, as he slaps away another hand tugging at his veil, “Maybe it will be quick”

~*~

It gets considerably worse.

~*~

Night falls. The storm comes with it, thundering into town. The servants have well prepared for the luncheon (now a dinner) but that doesn't make the pace any less chaotic.

They take turns, getting up to get more food, more drink, more bread and cheese (and just getting a chance to stretch their legs).

(“We should be happy.” Mistress Morrison wheezes at one point, leaning against the kitchen counter. Her back is close to giving out, the pain apparent on her face, “This could have been a formal party – at least it's just a few of his friends.)

Up and down, up and down. Stay quiet, stay still. Keep conversation with the men that speak to him, but don't have conversation with his mother or sister. Look interested at all the mind-numbing dull things the senators talk about and smile when they look his way.

Jack wonders if empresses and emperors ever get this bored.

He excuses himself to replenish their olive tray, carefully avoiding every wayward brush of the hand.

The kitchen is awash with people running back and forth, the stifling heat of the oven hitting the cool breeze of the rain – the kitchen is humid and uncomfortable and a welcome oasis of calm.

Jack tosses the leftover pits and stems into the garbage and begins to refill his tray, stretching out his back.

He almost misses the tiny meow.

His eyes catch on the tiny creature sitting at the doorway. It's tail curled around it's feet protectively, wide eyes watching every dish. It was a small thing, skinny, it's fur hanging off it's bones.

“Hey,” Jack frowns, putting the tray down and walking to the door. The cat doesn't move when he approaches, mewling, “You can't be here.”

It's ears flick twice and it meows again. It's got a distinct pattern, Jack notes as he stoops to pet the creature on the head. Black fur speckled with white snow. Amber eyes mixed with streaks of gold. It leans towards the hand that dwarfs his head.

“You can't be here.” Jack repeats, scratching the thing under the chin, “We don't feed strays. No scraps for you, kitten.”

He starts as his name is called – his sister stands at the doorway, yelling at him to “get his ass into gear”.

The cat is quickly forgotten.

That is, until he comes back into the kitchen, wiping wine from his stola. He curses, grabbing the first rag he can find and begins trying to blot the liquid off. The dark red stands out strong against the soft blue and he curses again – it's not that important, it's just a stola...but it was his favorite stola.

It's raining harder now, a gentle rumble of thunder now a snarl. Lightning runs across the sky. His eyes dart towards the door once, catching on the cat.

The drenched cat. It's starting to shiver, ears flopped over it's eyes.

“Why are you still here?” Jack asks, still trying to blot the stain from his clothes. He walks over, frowning down at the cat, “You can't come in, we don't have food for you. Go away.”

The cat whimpers, eyes closing miserably. The bitter cold chill whistles into the humid kitchen.

Jack stares at the cat. The cat looks at the ground, whiskers dripping.

Jack feels a headache coming on.

The cat makes a noise akin to a yelp as Jack snatches it up, bundling it into the front of his stola. Like a shot, he takes off running, snatching a roll from the counter before the servants can notice.

“This is so stupid,” Jack mutters, running through the halls to his room, “Stupid stupid stupid.”

He slams his door behind him, dropping the (very confused) cat onto his bed. He makes a soft murr, tilting it's head to the side.

“Look. Just...look, okay.” He drops to his knees beside the bed, holding the roll out, “You're not supposed to be here, I'm not allowed to have like...you know, pets, but you can stay the night. You just have to promise to stay here and not get in trouble.”

The cat considers the bread roll, sniffing it closely. It takes a tentative bite.

“Promise okay?”

The cat grabs the rolls between it's front tow paws, snatching it forward. It meows loudly, devouring the sweet roll.

“I'll take that as a promise.” He throws off the stola, quickly redressing in a clean one, “I'll be back in a few hours, just...I don't know, sleep, whatever cats do.”

~*~

“By the gods, when is that meat going to be ready?!”

Jack can't help but think the same thing – Malcom had left hours ago to slaughter the hog, it didn't take that long to strip the meat! Of course Malcom would take his sweet time, he wasn't the one sitting on his knees watching on an empty stomach as others enjoyed the food.

If they're lucky, the senators would fall asleep after eating and they'd be able to take a rest.

Mistress Morrison stands and says she'll check on the hog's progress. She looks relieved. Jack and Leslie are left to fend for themselves, serving the rowdy guests and keeping them calm.

One of the men grabs Jack's arm and pulls him close, gesturing for another pour – Jack obeys, nodding only half heartedly as he slurs how nice Jack must be in bed.

“I wouldn't know.” He says, untangling himself and returning to his sister.

His knees ache. His back hurts – all he wants to do is go to bed, but he's stuck playing host to drunk men hyped up on their own egos. For a moment, Jack thinks about the blackbird, soaring through the air, dipping and diving at it's heart content. What he would give to taste that freedom...

The door to the dinning chamber opens with a slam and Malcom walks ahead of the servants, ever the victorious.

“Gentlemen!” He proclaims, introducing his slain wares, “May I introduce the most high quality meat you've ever had the pleasure to taste!”

The guests cheer, the servants rush about towards the fire spit in the center of the room, tinder on hand.

Tradition in Ilios dictates that the main meal is cooked before the guests. The thick slabs make Jack's mouth water as he watches them being brought forth – wonderfully red meat with beautiful white marbling.

The tinder is set in the center, servants crowding with a flint and knife to start it...and start it

...and start it.

Mistress Morrison sits forward, beginning to frown. The servants continue to try to light the tinder to...nothing.

The raucous cheers die down until silence fills the room, watching as the now nervous servants try to light the pyre. Master Morrison stands, suddenly sober. He takes the flint from the servants and begins to try to light the pyre himself.

Mistress Morrison leans towards Leslie, whispers, “Go get the priestess.”

Jack looks between them as Leslie runs off, pulling her shawl around her.

In Ilios, the hearth is the most important part of the house The Goddess dictated it so – to make a guest truly feel welcome in the home, let the host entertain them around the hearth. It was a sacred place to her – warmth brings health, after all.

The food is cooked there, the family gathers there, the children are educated there in the evenings. The hearth pulses heat into the entire house, centers the family.

When the hearth doesn't light, something has gone very, very wrong.

Jack stands, walks beside his father, watches as he desperately tries to light the pyre.

His heart thunders in his chest. This is bad...this is so very, very bad. If the pyre doesn't light...that means-

“Master!”

A servant bursts through the door, soaked to the bone. He's panting, a splatter of blood across his cheek.

Master Morrison snaps towards the servant, standing quickly.

“Sir!” The servant stumbles forward, “Sir, the dogs-your dogs!”

“What about them?” Master Morrison, catches the servant as he begins to fall on his knees, “What's going on?!”

“They've got rabid! They've escaped, they're running wild!” He heaves, hands shaking.

It's like a switch is flipped – adrenaline rushes through Jack and it's like he's on the front lines again, giving orders to his soldiers. He bolts past his father, turning towards Malcom, “Keep everyone in here!” “Where you going? Jack, where are you going?!” Malcom calls after him as Jack runs through the house. He pushes past frightened servants in the kitchen out onto the grounds. The quiet storm still thunders on as he runs out onto the grounds, running towards the barn. He can hear yells over the rain, the sharp, terrifying barks and howls of a pack run wild. The kennel door's slam against their hinges as the wind whips past, the chain nowhere to be found.

Servants are helping each other off the ground, more than a few sporting painful looking bites.

Jack bursts into the barn, running towards Ovid's stall – the horse whinnies as he enters, stamping her hooves. She can feel the excitement in the air.

He snatches up the hanging bow-and-arrow, throwing open Ovid's door. Jack doesn't put her saddle on, instead, leaping onto her back and grabbing her mane. She isn't shaken, crying out again as she gallops towards the door at his direction.

“Let's go, Ovid!” They race into the rain towards the sounds of chaos. Her hooves pound against the ground, kicking up clumps of grass.

“Where'd they go?!” He slows her near a dazed servant – they point south, and south they fly The dogs are running towards the fence, he realizes quickly, he has to be fast.

Lighting strikes across the sky, thunder booming through the air, so loud Jack can hear it in his chest. He kicks his heels against Ovid's flank and she lurches forward, running even faster.

They move in almost perfect fluidity – she was a clumsy foal, too small, a runt even by pony standards. He was just a child when they moved onto the Villa and Ovid had just been born – they grew together, learned together, rode together at their hearts desire. As the war rolled across the nations, he chose her as his steed and together they ran headlong into battle, unafraid of the clash of steel.

He can feel the powerful muscles beneath the skin, hear the beat of her heart – when was the last time they got to ride like this? He'd almost forgotten how it felt, the power, the speed.

The grounds flash by them – branches lick at his legs and his arms. Jack ignores the sting, hands still buried in Ovid's mane. She leaps over a fallen log, splattering mud everywhere which way.

Just up ahead he can see the pack running towards the gate – the guards have readied their spears, but there's only two of them – all of the other guards are at the house. A pack of skilled hunting hounds move like the sea – they would drown the solider's easily would take them easily, slam against the gate and flood the streets.

Jack clenches his thighs around Ovid's flank, steading himself on the racing horse. He grabs an arrow from his quiver – if he can take out the alpha, he could possibly stop the entire heard.

Ovid's quick, but the dogs are lower to the ground, more spry. She's racing towards them, but she's out of practice – they both are. She's about to lose stamina – he's only got one shot at taking down the dog.

Jack balances himself on the careening horse; his core aches. He's so close, so close – one shot, he only has one shot. If he fails, the dogs will be in the town, running towards the people... Even in the dark and the rain, he can see the alpha's eyes shimmering in the darkness, wide and wild. There is no more dog left in that creature, no wolf either. Just madness.

He can see the shot now, the arrow in perfect alignment. The alpha howls, they're only a few steps to the gate. He has to take the shot, he doesn't have any time to waste.

He pulls the arrow back and lets it go.

The arrow flies true. With a sharp screech, the dog flies away, tumbling into the grass. Ovid bursts forward, ahead of the dog, quickly taking the place as the leader – she makes a sharp turn left, leading the hounds along the edge of the gates. Jack replaces the bow onto his back and grabs onto her mane once more, steering her into another left – the pack follows behind him dutifully, barking and howling at each other.

“Good girl!” He calls over the rain, “You did amazing – let's get them home.”

~*~

The dogs practically flop to the ground when they finally arrive at the barn's kennel. Two stand, panting, the others literally collapsing onto their sides, heaving, whimpering. Ovid snorts and shakes her head as Jack jumps down and runs to the dogs. They all wag their tails, crawling towards him for love and affection – whatever madness they had fallen under was gone.

A few bleeding nails, a bruised side or two, but the dogs all seem...fine. Healthy even. The servants take their collars and lead them back into their kennel, swarming around Jack to see if he's okay.

“That was brilliant!” One says, taking his bow from him, “You haven't lost your talent, have you?”

Jack says nothing, leaning against Ovid's side. It didn't make sense – Father cared for those dogs like they were his own children. He would have never let a rabid one amongst the flock and he certainly wouldn't have left the door to the kennels open so they could run amok.

He presses a hand against Ovid's chest and leads her back to the barn. She's panting but obviously happy, prancing beside him.

It just doesn't make sense, he thinks, guiding her into her stall, It just doesn't make sense.

His sandals are torn at the edges. There are marks on Ovid's flank – he'll take her down to the town doctor in the morning, see if he's accidentally hurt her. His fingers, his arms are numb, the stinging bite of cold seeping into his bones and there are lashes from the branches etched onto Jack's legs and arms .

The once quite storm seems so much less peaceful...

Ovid snorts, shaking her mane again. She pushes him with her nose, dark eyes boring into him.

“I'm okay. You?”

The horse whineys, pressing his nose against his chest. Jack sighs, leaning his nose against her snout, eyes slipping shut, “That was...that was really...something.”

Scary, he thinks. It was scary. Sure, he'd been on the hunt before, but he'd never seen the hound's eyes take on that kind of horrible gleam...Jack's not sure he ever wants to see it again.

“Thank you.” He breathes, running a hand over the short, bristly hair, “I don't know what I'd do without you.”

~*~

The servants are gone when he enters the house, his pace slow and careful. In fact, everyone is gone – he doesn't hear the chatter of guests, the clank of silverware.

He enters the dinning hall – it's empty, save for his family and a tall woman in dark green robes. The senators have all been escorted home.

“The man of the hour.” She says quietly, standing to greet him. The Morrisons flock to him as soon as he opens the door, Mother pulling him close to her breast.

“Don't you ever do that again!” She demands, pressing her lips against his forehead, “You should have let your father do that!”

“I'm proud of you son.” Master Morrison rumbles, placing a hand on his shoulder. His siblings push past to wrap their arms around him.

“You're freezing. Need a blanket?” Malcom asks softly, examining the red tinge his fingers have taken.

“Yes...yeah that would be really nice.” Jack smiles weakly as Leslie kisses his cheek.

“The priestess is here. She needs to talk to us.” Leslie whispers into his ear, clutching his hand close.

They walk together and take their places.

Her Lady, Orisa of The Goddess of Mercy stands at the mouth of the pyre, looking over the ruined scraps of tinder. She's a beautiful woman, skin dark and rich, eyes filled with a wisdom deeper than the ocean itself. Jack sees her at the temple during service, speaking to the crowds that could sooth a rampaging giant.

Jack bows before her, as is custom. She returns the bow, raising her hands for them all to sit before her. They've pulled a table away from one of the couches and set it up in front of the pyre. Her tools are laid before her, a bowl of clear rainwater is set in the center, branches still brimming with bright green olive leaves at her left.

“You have performed your duties bravely.” Orisa says quietly, “It is no wonder your father chose you to follow him into battle.”

Malcom returns with the towel, draping it over Jack's shoulders. He takes his gratefully, blotting out the water in his hair.

“The dogs were just...it was like something possessed them all, some sort of madness.” he says, fingers curling into the soft cloth, “But the first one...the alpha, he just looked...”

“Evil.” Mistress Morrison breathes, finishing his very thought, “My god, we've never had a dog go sick before. And with the pyre-”

“It's not just the pyre.” Jack worries his bottom lip, “Something's not right – the fish are gone-”

“The fish?” Master Morrison frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, “How? They've had a boon for fish.”

“I know, but it's not just that – the wheat and the fruits...the walls of the houses, everything.” Jack looks to Orisa. Those dark, deep eyes, “You know what's going on, don't you? You have to.”

Orisa says nothing at first. Instead she raises her hands again for quiet Slowly, methodically, she reaches down and takes an olive branch.

She plucks leaf after leaf, placing them gentle into the bowl. Her voice rises, croons a song that Jack doesn't understand the words to. Cold fills his belly, but it's not from the water, he can tell.

The priestess is working her magic.

A hand finds his – Leslie watches the soothsayer closely, but holds onto him. He squeezes back, tighter. He can't tell who's hand is shaking – hers or his.

The water seems to move on it's own, leaves swirling together gently. Her voice carries in the chamber, wrapping them all in cool serenity.

“What do you see?” Mistress Morrison says, leaning forward, “Orisa, what are the god's saying?”

Her voice reaches a high note, holding it, warbling. And then she stops, the noise echoing in the high ceilings. Orisa places her hands on either side of the bowl, looking deep into the water.

Her hair, in tight braids, unravel from their neat bun. They float around her, like vines in water. Her eyes, so deep, seem to glow in the low chamber's light. The hand in his own tightens, Leslie's nails biting into his skin.

“Oh gods of East and West, Goddess of the Seas, God of Life, and God of Death. Goddess that has protected this island, has brought us prosperity and joy. Speak so that we may hear, teach so that we may know, your glory and your majesty. Shape my lips to your words and let me proclaim your holy word.”

Her head leans forward, eyes rolling to the back of her head. She takes a deep, shuttering breath, in, in, in...out, low and long.

Slowly, she folds her hands into his lap, sitting back on her knees. Her hair, still floating around her, ties back into it's neat bun. With a weak breath, she opens her eyes, hazy and almost distant looking.

“Lord Morrison,” She starts gingerly, not quite looking anyone in the face, “You've committed a grave error. I think Efi calls it “screwing the pooch”.”

“Excuse me?” Master Morrison begins to stand.

“The gods have been angered.” Orisa continues, paling by the second, “You placed yourself above them, do you remember? When you compared your children to the celestials and proclaimed your son's beauty? Humans have no businesses in the arena of the gods, but you willingly stepped inside. They've called your bluff.”

Master Morrison sits, eyes wide. His jaw has gone slack.

“She has taken her blessing from Ilios.” Orisa continues, “For so long we have lived in her good graces...but now, she's turned her back on us all.”

She points to Jack

“My boy, you will have to pay his price.” She says quietly, “They've given your hand away, to one of their pet war beasts. In three moons, the beast will meet you at the summit of Mount Lijian – from there, I cannot say what will happen.”

A palpable silence fills the rooms – Orisa sighs and looks back to her leaves, “If you go, Ilios will prosper once more. The fish will return, the fields will bloom. If you don't-”

“If I don't, then we'll perish.” Jack finishes, his eyes slipping shut. He runs a hand through his hair.

He doesn't quite hear what happens next – his mother and brother begin to wail, his father and sister begin to shout and argue. The Lord Morrison proclaims to his children that he'll gear every soldier on the island, he'll hire any hero to slay the great beast.

In the chaos of it all, Jack's hands fall into his lap and stay limp. Tears well in the corner of his eyes...he doesn't want this, this wasn't...

Well. Maybe it was.

He'd longed for freedom, asked for it, begged for it even. And now, here it was, handed to him on a silver platter – his freedom, directly into the jaws of some horrible creature.

He jolts when he feels a soft hand on his shoulder. Orisa leans in close, a sad smile on her face.

“The leaves know,” She whispers in his ear, “As do I, but I cannot tell you your fate. You have nothing to fear.” She pulls back and takes both his hands into hers, squeezing reassuringly, “Trust yourself and the skills that you have learned. You'll know what to do when the time comes.”

Comes for what? Jack wants to ask.

But he doesn't – he struggles to smile back at her.

She takes her leave from the family quietly, not bothering to address the arguing family.

~*~

He falls into bed face first. His entire body aches, skin itchy and uncomfortable.

All he wants to do is sleep...maybe he'd wake up and figure out this was all some sort of horrible nightmare. He'd bidden his family good night, waving away questions of “do you want to sleep with me?”

Jack just wants to be alone now.

He waves his hand as he feels the paw touch his head.

“Okay, look.” he looks up at the pink nose sniffing at his face. The cat leans forward, giving the soft murr sound as Jack frowned at him, “I just got some really bad news – think you could give me some space for a minute?”

The can purrs and rubs it's face against's Jack's cheek.

“Guess not. And don't get pushy, of course I didn't forget.”

He pulls a slice of dried fish from his robes – the cat's tail flicks and it happily pounces on the morsel, purring as it eats.

Jack forces himself up, leaning back on his hands, “What am I even going to do with you? I can't take you with me...”

He stands, starting to undo the ties to his stola. It falls away easily – his skin, sticky under all the fabric, tingles with relief.

“I don't know what to do, cat. I mean...I guess I do.” He kicks the stola away and searches through his clothes, finding a large shirt. He slips into it eagerly, the soft fabric heavenly, “I just don't...it's not like I'm afraid but who wants to marry a...”

He can't say it. He flops onto his bed, hands between his knees.

All it once it hits him – he has to marry a monster. A “war beast”, a pet of the gods...he would give anything to marry the boring Lord of the Oasis now or even one of Father's drunken friends. Hell, he would rather be forced into the priestesses' nunnery...anything but this.

“Damn it.” his hands cover his face, fat tears slipping through his fingers, “Damn it all. It's...It's just not fair.”

He sniffles, curling in on himself, “I didn't ask to be born this way, I didn't ask for my Father to act like a complete idiot. Why am I getting punished for it?!”

In the dark and lonely cocoon of his room, he cries like a child, muffling his sobs through his palms. He's read the stories, hell, he knows the stories by heart – might as well slit his throat now and throw him to the wolves.

He's a boy, walking into the labyrinth without a ball of golden thread, off to the Minotaur.

“I don't want to!” He cries, shaking, “I don't want to go to some creature, I don't want to be some cow to be sold, I just want to be left alone! Why can I be left alone?!”

A head is pushed against his arm. Jack starts, blinking back red, watery eyes. The cat rubs against his arm, purring loudly. It stands on it's back legs and gently taps at Jack until Jack leans over and picks the thing up. The cat rubs it's head against Jack's chin, purring even louder.

Jack pulls the cat close as it purrs and rubs and begins to lick. He cries into it's soft fur.

“You stupid cat!” He blubbers, “Why did you have to come now...I can't take care of you when I'm being eaten, why didn't you come sooner?”

The cat tolerates being held. It continues to purr as Jack pulls his sheets aside and climbs inside them.

“Malcom will take care of you I guess,” He sighs shakily, “I'll leave him a note. His wife likes cats...you'll see.”

He looks down at the cat blearily, scratching behind it's ear. The cat's eyes close, lips pulling into a grin.

“She's like that – likes animals more than people. She'd spoil you rotten, cat.”

He laughs as the cat meows in delight.

“I can't keep calling you cat, cat. I mean, I guess I can, but it doesn't seem very nice, does it?” He sighs, settling into the pillows, “I guess I ought to think of a name for you so Malcom can introduce you properly. Let's see...”

His bed sits beside the window – he looks out onto the cloudy moon, the rain finally starting to pass, “Dusty? Stormy?”

Jack shakes his head, “No, neither one of those work.”

He lists off name after name, his eyes fluttering shut. It's been an eventful day – it's catching up to him. Even as terrified as he is, his body needs rest.

“What about Reaper?” He jokes, eyes still shut. The cat meows loudly, tail flicking again.

Jack opens one eye, “You like that? You don't really look like a Reaper...but I guess it doesn't really matter, does it? Reaper it is.”

His eye closes. Jack laughs, curling around the cat, “What a silly name to give you. Reaper, Reaper, Reaper....I do like saying it, Reaper.”

He yawns, sleep finally taking him, “Good night, Reaper.”

~*~

“Good night Jack.”

~*~

Jack wakes as the moon rests in the sky, a curled crescent.

There is a man in his room.

He stands at the window, over Jack's body.

Jack's unafraid.

The man leans down. He smells like the hearth, like grass. Like the spring wind and the brook that babbles through the forest.

There is pressure on his mouth. Lips against his. Jack doesn't think, but he does react, pressing back.

A kiss to seal them together.

Jack falls back asleep.

~*~

Jack wakes up once more.

It's in the space between dark and dawn. The time where the sun hasn't begun it's rise and the moon is settling down for slumber.

He sits up, looking over his room.

He knows what he has to do.

It's like clockwork – Jack stands, pulls spare clothes from his cupboard, odds and ends that he'll need for travel. He wraps them together in a bundle and sits at his desk, pulling a scrap of parchment from his leftover scrolls.

It doesn't take long to pen a note to his family.

Dear Mother and Father,

I won't let Ilios die for me. Do not look for me.

I love you.

-Jack

(p.s. - the cat is named Reaper. Please ask Malcom to care for him. His wife will love him.)

His hands shake as he writes. Jack takes a deep breath, sitting limply in his chair. Master Morrison had promised his son he'd kill whatever creature came from him, but Jack's too old to believe in fairy tales. He knows how this ends – the island goes without the Goddess' graces and they all wither away.

He can't do that to his people. He can't do that to his family.

Jack looks around the room once more. The cat is curled where he left it, snoozing peacefully. Jack leans down to kiss it's head before spiriting off.

He packs as much food as he can cary – dried meats, figs, olives. Anything he can easily carry with him that won't go bad too quickly. He fills two wineskins with water, tying them to his belt.

The servants aren't up yet – the halls are empty and quiet and as he looks around his home, he tries to remember every detail, every minute nook and cranny. He wants something to look back on as he stares death in the face.

He walks to the barn and quietly enters, trying not to interrupt the animals.

Ovid starts the moment he goes near his bag. She nickers in greeting, stamping her hooves.

“Quiet! Shh, girl, quiet.” He grabs her snout, petting her nose, “Please, you can't wake anyone.”

Ovid seems to understand for a moment, giving a snort. They're going on some fun adventure – he can tell that's what she thinks. He's finally found that boat for the two of them and they're going to sale away.

Jack packs his items in the bag, tying it shut tight. A lump forms in his throat.

She nickers again as he turns to walk away, catching him by the collar with her teeth. Horses have an uncanny ability to know what's going on at any time...she's always been smarter than she looks.

“You dummy.” Jack says fondly, pressing his nose against her again, fighting tears. He kisses her fondly, “Take care of Mother for me. Okay?”

He steps back from the horse quicker than she can catch him. And then he's off, ignoring her desperate nickers and whinnies.

Where is he going, she thinks. Does the boat not fit them both?

Jack wouldn't leave her, she thinks as she lays onto his pile of hay and looks out the window. Jack would never leave her behind.

Right?

~*~

Jack runs across the estate grounds, taking well memorized paths and hopping the fence. He wipes tears from his face and begins to walk towards the northern star.

~*~

It's grueling.

Jack follows the stars by night and the wind by day. He walks and he walks.

When he tires, he sits on the roadside and tries to rest his weary feet. His food runs in short supply quickly as does his water. He took little coin with him (a poor decision, thinking back on it) so he doesn't waste a dime on inns or restaurants. He scavenges what he can find in the thickets and the trees.

Sometimes a kind farmer lets him ride in their cart some of the way. These are the times Jack likes best – he can rest and gain some traction towards his goal. They all frown when he tells them he's trying to get to Mouth Lijian.

“Best forget about it boy,” One says frowning, “I'll take ya as far as I can go, but if you're looking for trouble, you're gonna find it.”

He walks until his sandals break. He rips them off and continues.

He walks until the hem of his robes are torn.

He walks until his feet bleed from the stones in the road.

He walks and he walks.

And when he reaches Mount Lijian, he begins to climb. His fingers bleed from the jagged cliffs, his already aching feet scream.

He climbs until he can't climb any further. Until his limbs refuse to carry him.

And there, on that ledge, Jack leans against a rock and stands as proud as he can. He flops his hands against his side, eyes searching through the nothingness around him.

“Here I am!” He cries into the clouds. Night is upon them, the sunset a bloody red swatch across the sky, “Here I am you bastard. You wanted me and now I'm here, so come and get me!”

Jack waits. Waits as the bleeding sunlight finally drips across the horizon and the moon begins his rise.

He doesn't startle as he sees the creature fly towards him. Pushes away from the rock and walks to meet it at the cliff.

A giant owl.

Black, with stars speckled in it's wings. A perfectly white mask across it's face. It lands gracefully in front of Jack, pitch black eyes sparkling in the star's light.

“Here I am.” Jack repeats, limping to the bird. It leans forward, extending one wing – Jack climbs onto it's back, legs around it's chest. He twits his fingers into the bird's feathers and holds tight as it gives one flap, two, and takes off into the night sky.

~*~

Gabriel watched him.

In the white flowers...the blackbird, the lonely cat.

He watched.

That night, as Jack slept, he could feel Amelie's arrows heavy in his hands.

One arrow that held sweet water for loyalty. One that held bitter water for longing.

He knows his godly-nature can be fickle – he could love one thing one moment and not the next...but Gabriel knows how to make this love permanent. It's all he wants now.

He embeds the arrows into his own breast as Jack sleeps. Jack blinks up at him and Gabriel can't stop himself – he steals a kiss, binding them together.

And now, flying through the air, feeling the hands tucked in his feathers, joy makes him feel dizzy.

He is in love. His Majesty, Gabriel, The God of Life Itself has fallen in love with a human.

May the Goddess have mercy on his very soul.

#reaper76bigbang #multi-chapter fic #r76 stuff #Reaper76 #man i'm so tired OTL

7 notes · View notes

phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess · 7 years

Text

TF2 - Demo/Spy

A certain artist loves this pairing, so I threw this together in chat for them. - - - - - --

-Title: Explosive Decompression -

. . . . .

He hardly dared to breathe, lest it shatter the fragile moment that the universe had spun between them. Demo's expression seemed surprised, stricken, oddly conflicted yet awed, as they stared.

Spy could not seem to wrench his gaze from the man's eye, the shape of his jaw, his ever-smiling mouth and those lips... They were slightly ajar now, as the Scotsman tried to process whatever this was, happening right now between the two mercenaries. So stock-still that Spy immediately felt his heart, previously beating so hard he could have sworn Demo would hear it pounding away in fear; now sink to the pit of his stomach.

They should not have done this. It was unprofessional, to allow someone like himself to imbibe enough to become rather tipsy; not drunk, just... relaxed enough that he might answer a question directly, rather than with his usual level of mystique and subterfuge.

Spies must take in many secrets, and keep them caged between their teeth; for letting them out could prove disastrous. Their job was to ruin people, topple governments, blackmail, coerce, change the world for good or ill depending on who paid your wages... and to let out any of that information could be a crippling blow to your professional occupation.

But to let slip something personal, that was to sign your death warrant. It gave others power that they could, and would use against you.

Many spies from before, men and women with impeccable abilities that dared to dream of a normal life and settling down, who had confided in others about their pasts... who watched former adversaries hold weapons to their loved ones, or heard the people they trusted sell them out for money, for favours, for praise and promotion.

He would never have thought to allow such a thing to happen. He was above such things, and although he loved a woman once, just enough to foster silent fantasies of raising their son safe from the world and its perils... he had always known they were just that. Dreams. Fantasies. Comforting lies that helped you sleep at night.

Divorce yourself from attachments and emotions, remove all ties to living beings, let yourself feel nothing but satisfaction in your work. Each kill a thrill, every blackmail or topple bureaucracy a sadistic delight... let that fuel your desire to survive. For nothing else was allowed...

He had loved her, once. In a time far removed from the now; and even so, pangs of what once was, could have been in a different world, radiated through his chest. Especially on difficult nights of loss or hollow victory... in this endless game of war, where life and death held no meaning.

And he should have let that be it, be content with a hollow want for something long since out of his reach... and yet, even though he remained detached, curt, calculatingly cold and indifferent to the other mercenaries of RED...

In an effort of preservation; for himself, for their sakes too, one would surmise.

Even though he tried to be aloof and alone, as suited a Spy... the team wormed their way in. Conflicts were rife in the beginning, and sometimes there were feuds and spats that lasted months between various classes... but for every fight, so too was there interaction, learning, an odd familiarity that settled into the bones.

As one would expect when you lived and died alongside one another every single day for years without end. Only the scenery changed more frequently than the mercenaries' attitudes towards one another.

He could tolerate the stinking bushman's presence now, a man of few words but deeper insights was intriguing if you ignored the whole... 'jarate' utilisation nonsense. No sane person would collect their urine in jars and throw it on people, as far as Spy was concerned.

Medic was eccentric, but wrapped up in Heavy and his birds; always covered in blood and ready to tell a story of his wilder days as a mercenary medico. Snatching bodies and organs for the hell of it, the way he flayed flesh for revenge... Spy had learned many things from the man, in retrospect. Useful, should he need to... interrogate someone rather stringently in the future.

Heavy seemed dense, until you spoke to him in another language, and Spy had had the chance to polish several of his language skills with that man. A welcome surprise...

He detested Engineer, however. Too friendly, open, everything Spy was not... and the way the man so swiftly adopted the role of paternal figure to both the Pyro and his so-... the Scout, irked him. How dare he? Ugh, Americans and their apple-pie idealism. Disgusting, to his sensibilities.

Soldier was a unique man, under the brusque outward persona. To have been so resourceful in hunting nazi scum, even though his country denied him the resources to do so... it had intrigued Spy. Surely there was more than yelling and misquoting Sun Tzu? It had been a fun diversion, when they first arrived on base; going through the others' files. Everything about them laid bare in red folders filled to the brim with documentation... excepting the Pyro, of course.

An enigma Spy was loathe to solve, as the mask-wearing pyromaniac set his nerves on edge whenever nearby. The BLU firebug had a fondness for burning him as often as possible... and Spy did not ever see himself becoming best friends with the RED look-a-like.

Of course, he knew Scout was... Yes. He knew. Telling him, however, was out of the question; their first encounter with one another left Spy feeling that the boy was an abhorrent mistake. A child with a loud mouth, bad attitude and an accent so thick it could choke a man... how could this be his?

He had been far more severe and unforgiving on that boy, compared to any of the others, in all honesty. Until more recently. The brash attitude had mellowed somewhat, now that the brat knew he had a place here and his inferiority complex didn't act up so frequently. Demanding that Scout bignote himself, be reckless, make so much noise and mess that the whole world had to stop and acknowledge his presence before he could calm down... assured that he was seen.

Spy knew that was partially his fault. No father, seven older brothers and a mother who split her time between parenthood and assassinations? Of course he turned out this way... But such knowledge had not shorted out the Frenchman's disdain of the boy on sight.

However now... they seemed to coexist, neither voicing what they both seemed to know. And if Spy ever found out which teammate told the boy of his paternity, then no god will save them from what he will do... Spy had hoped to tell the boy... in a mythical 'one day' that he would never allow to come. Indeed, one such altercation and hollow accusation of, "You're not my dad!" had contributed to this very situation in which he now found himself.

Of all the mercenaries, Spy found himself becoming more and more intrigued by the Demolitions man, or 'Demo'. The man merged the scientific and supernatural almost frequently, and his backstory was always fascinating to pretend you weren't listening to.

And he had a knowing, about him. "I've got a canny sense for some things, lad." he'd once said to Scout, who was asking Demo how in the hell he could guess that the bluer-than-it-had-a-right-to-be sky was going to be covered in dark, brooding clouds within the next hour or so. He had been correct, actually, it had stormed for several days so severely matches were cancelled until it ceased.

You could see in his eyes, in the slight tinge of a smile in his upturned lips, when he had seen something others had not yet. It made Demo the prime suspect in Spy's investigation as to who had told Scout about his father... And yet, this preternatural ability was as fascinating to Spy, as it was a curse for Demo.

As time passed, the Frenchman found he gravitated to the warmth of Demo's tone, his welcoming nature, could stand cloaked and watch the man tinker with his weaponry for hours in an almost trance-like tranquillity... he was peaceful like that, sometimes. Of course, he was also very much a lit powder-keg; not unlike the bombs he unleashed on the BLUs.

His knowing, the strange things that happened in his life before RED and all the things he never spoke about, like his family, the things you could see in the haunted shadows of his eyes... Those things were like a beacon to Spy; he was a curious person, as Spies often tend to be, and he could not help but build rapport in hopes of unlocking this mystery.

Demo drank. It was a huge joke to some, to make out that he did nothing but imbibe 'scrumpy' all the time. Though Spy knew different. He observed, he knew, he saw. There was a difference between celebratory drunk Demo, and social drinker Demo; and they were both far removed from the near-catatonic, slurring drunk Demo became when he thought no one could see, when whatever haunted him became too much.

It was... close to home.

Spy had been there... only he had switched to cigarettes, and wine; over... what he had once chosen to drown the memories in, instead. It didn't work for long, especially not if you had to put up a facade the whole time as well. Eventually you accepted the past as it was, horrors intact; or you broke, became beyond repair, by your own hand.

And... though he dared not voice even the vaguest notion of sentimentality... Spy had felt disinclined to allow Demo to take that ruinous path. Not while it could be prevented.

Spy was a people-person; it was his trade, refined manners and a natural charm allowed for it to be so. Gaining Demo's trust, however, had felt... more challenging than he was used to. The man could sense someone being disingenuous from across the room, so Spy had to step lightly, work carefully.

It began, not with a conversation, but the end of one. Spy happened upon drunken Demo, sorrowful and slouching, one night in the common room; something about the day had triggered a memory for him, and he'd been morose all evening. At least, under the fake smile he'd pasted on for the other mercenaries, who seemed to have only the slightest of inklings that something was amiss.

They had been a team for nearly a year, by now. Such a long time, and as yet many of the classes were all but strangers to one another. Or rather, like roommates that went to all the same classes, but somehow managed to miss each other in leisure time; except on rare occurrences.

Each class had interacted, and some had stronger bonds than others, but cohesion was a distant dream as of yet. It would take several more months, at the very least, despite the best efforts of the ever-hospitable Engineer and his perpetual barbecue get-togethers.

However, time would tell.

Spy saw Demo properly in that moment, surmised the situation, and told the man straight up, that Spy was going to put him to bed. He was a stinking mess, but that would be the problem of whichever hapless Mann Co. laundry service dealt with their blood-stained clothing and used bedding. Spy didn't care for the details...

In truth, he did. And knew them well. A subsidiary company, part of a chain of cleaning services, called 'Cooee Cleaners' took their laundry four times a fortnight and returned it within six hours. Spy knew when, where and how they did so; and what contracts each of the delivery persons had signed in order to be paid, and not... disposed of via a pink slip and Miss Pauling's pistol.

He rather liked the details, actually.It was his nature.

However, the situation had resolved with the Demolitions expert tucked in bed sans his boots; and Spy aware that he now had an inroads with the man. Whether the Scot recalled the exact events of the night before, or not.

Indeed he did, given the anxiety-tinged glances Demo probably assumed he was covertly throwing at Spy, all throughout breakfast. Trying to gauge whether the night before was real, or if Spy had a good, helpful twin who altruistically tried to ruin the Frenchman's sinister mystique.

He found himself cornered, after battle that day, but the concerned man. Demo was of his game, somewhat; having been blown through respawn a few dozen times in the first five minutes of battle, and things not improving from there on in.

"Look, whatever I said tae ye, could ye forget it?" he'd asked, tone laden with anxiety. It was so out of character, Spy nearly forgot to paste a smug look on his face.

"Oh?" he'd replied, "But I do so love getting new information on my teammates..."

But the normal deflection seemed not to have worked, as usual. Demo had gained that look, the one he associated with his 'canny feeling', and the expression went from concerned to pensive in a heartbeat.

"Aye..." he finally responds, "That ye do, Laddie. Well, ye'd best come along with me then, so we can talk about it... I dinnae want ye dogging my every step to find out why I drink. And I think we both know ye will..."

Spy had nodded. He was discrete, but when something interesting strayed across his path, Spy would chase it to the end of the line...

And so, Demo had taken them to his lab. Fidgeting, tinkering, moving pieces about as if the tactile task somehow helped. Perhaps it did. Spy would often play with his balisong, flicking it open and shut when he was deep in thought. And he had noticed... Scout tended to always do something with his hands when talking, or thinking; it was an invisible thread between them that he found highly amusing and yet, oddly endearing.

Finally... Demo had sighed, sagging in his chair, and gestured for the Frenchman to sit on the chair adjacent the explosive expert. He fumbled for the right starting point for a moment, but finally began... at the beginning, and did not stop until long into the early hours of the night.

Spy was astounded, surprised, sceptical, and slightly off-kilter by this sudden torrent of volunteered information. Certainly, there was the human desire to reciprocate, a story for a story, that he tamped down. A question, as to when he'd earned enough trust from the man to warrant such a telling; Demo was as stubborn as Scout in many ways, and could have easily fobbed of Spy's persistent inquiries if he wanted.

And there was, too, an unease roiling in the pit of his stomach at the conclusion of their one-sided conversation. Spy would never have revealed so much, such personal information; and now he knew everything in intricate detail, about Demo... no, Tavish, before him.

Knowing things made you dangerous. Knowing about governments, about the secrets of high ranking officials... made you dangerous. But knowing details about the people around you, personal information, made you a threat to them. What if it was tortured out of you?

Of course, Spy had doubted foreign agencies would be interested in the time eight-year-old Tavish got detention for blowing up the science lab at school, but you never knew these days. Torture had evolved, and Spy had played no small hand in its evolution.

Still, it had changed the dynamics.

He knew so much of Demo, of Tavish DeGroot, and the mystical, mathematical world he came from... and the man knew practically nothing of him. Certainly, Spy had weasled such information out of wooed socialites, high ranking officials and whomsoever else he had to seduce or coerce in order to complete his mission... but that was different.

Demo had laughed, when he'd stopped talking. "Ye don't need to tell me anything ye're not ready to, Spook... ain't the way you lot do things, is it? Spies?"

He'd felt his lip curl up in amusement as he'd deadpanned, "Non, monsieur DeGroot." before bidding the man goodnight, and cloaking. Stealing away to his own bed, to compartmentalise.

And it had been the knowing that drew him back again and again. Demo had lived a life so different, yet so full of the strange and indescribable, that it was like an odd reflection of Spy's own.

He'd even questioned if the interest was a sign of inherent narcissism, at one point. However, Spy eventually dismissed the theory, the more he started to notice things about the other man... dangerous things.

The light in his eye when a new idea struck, the pride in his tone when congratulating a teammate on a kill or capture, the vengeful angel he became when the same were being mercilessly dominated in battle...

The grace of those rough, scarred hands. How they gently coaxed colatile materials into harmonic alignment, ready to be employed in battle; yet those same hands could knock a man's head clean off his shoulders when necessary. The duality was...

Well, Spy never let himself linger on the nature of those hands for long enough to choose a word for the feeling it gave. Emotions were problematic, at best, and it did no one any good to dwell on phantom feelings.

Still, he noticed. Little things, words, cadence, interactions, moods. Spy could tell by the tightness around Demo's eyes if he was caught in dark thoughts; in the same way he knew that, if Medic was smiling brightly, someone was about to play operation with him.

Things built.

From Spy watching the man work uncloaked, in silence... to simply visiting, and listening to anecdotes, stories, odd ideas and some accusations, it must be said.

"You ever going to tell him?" Demo had startled Spy with, not so many days ago. "The lad?"

"He knows." Spy monotones, recovering swiftly.

"Big difference between knowing something, and having it said aloud, having it confirmed. Not to push ye, but it... might make a difference to both of ye." Demo pressed, and then let it be, when Spy went silent. Eventually switching to a different topic altogether, as if the conversation before had never been.

However, it left Spy wondering what else the man could be picking up on. Of course Demo would have noticed the similarities, the inherent characteristics they both denied were even vaguely similar to one another's. Tavish just tended to know these things... not to say he was not a highly intelligent man who could work it out if he wanted to, but his intuition could trump thinktanks the world over.

And if the man had noticed, in what was not spoken, that Scout was his son... what else had he gleaned from Demo?

Then, like an arrow to the heart he suddenly wondered if it really was that terrible to have someone know certain personal information about him. If it was truly so horrifying a concept, when he thought about it...

And that was more startling than anything else that had occurred. The last time Spy had even considered such a thing was-... well... Her. But that was because he lo-... oh, oh no.

It was four am on a rainy Thursday night, and he had made a realisation that could shatter his nonchalant facade if it should get out or be acted upon openly. No, Spy could allow nothing of the sort... he would simply, ignore it.

Like always, such was was the life of an espionage agent. And so, resolved, the man had resolutely fallen asleep thinking of nothing, save how he would backstab the BLU Sniper the following day... in retribution for all the many, many impeccable suits lost to jarate attacks.

Of course, the complication came in the form of Demo's friendly offer to 'have a drink'. Usually, such invitations were a formality, underhandedly meaning that Spy was free to drop by the workshop later on, or even Demo's room, and talk. As he had a habit of doing after battle, these days...

Outwardly, he had raised an eyebrow, as if questioning. Scout had loudly laughed and made a rather crude joke about Spy being uptight, and how Demo would need far more alcohol than was available on the base to get the guy to 'hang out', much less 'relax'.

Both the older men suppressed their amusement at that statement. But when the siren went off to leave spawn, and Scout had disappeared into the wind as he often did, Spy met Demo's eyes... and nodded, before cloaking.

He would be there.

And so he was. Triumphant, the team had crowed and delighted in their victory through dinner and into the night. Spy had personally killed his rival four out of five times prior to being taken down by the BLU Soldier, so he was in high spirits and open to merriment.

"There you are, thought ye'd bloody forgot!" Demo greets, swinging open the door of the workshop and gesturing to the armchair Spy had mysteriously gotten hold of and had placed in the room for his visitations. He had contacts all over the world, he'd assured, and a comfortable seat was nothing compared to what he could get with a single phonecall to the right people.

Perhaps it was the merriment, a break in the week's losing streak, or it could be simply that he had started to trust in the Demolitions expert... but, Spy felt quite relaxed tonight. Did not even think to guard his thoughts, filter his words, or wonder where the first two glasses of wine had gone...

Sipping champagne or a good vintage wine during an evening by the fire, or whilst seducing a target was one thing... a moderated act, false sips, all compliments and distractions as the other starts to let slip the secrets you seek. This... this was another.

Spy could feel the edges of the world become a little softer, somewhat fuzzier and kinder than they'd been in years. It flagged a warning with his survival instincts, but whatever alarm it caused was muted at best, and tamped down upon at the persistent thought that Demo was not a threat.

Indeed, the man was the opposite, especially on the field. How many times had a stickybomb trap saved the Spy, recently? BLU were getting uncannily good at spotting disguised spies, and it meant he tended to die a lot more frequently...

Wait...

He reeled a little, mentally repeating his slightly convoluted chain of thought. Demo was not a threat?

Demo was not a threat.

Alright, that was easily settled.

Actually, Demo was looking at him in concern. He cocked slightly to the side, and brow furrowed; looking at Spy, like he was a bomb with a misaligned screw somewhere in the design.

"Uh, when was the last time ye got more than a wee bit buzzed from your fancy grape juice, Spook?" Tavish asks, somewhat bluntly.

Spy opens his mouth to reply, but an ugly snort of laughter escapes instead. "Fancy grape juice, mon cheri, I will 'ave you know that some of my wine collection are older than everyone on this team combined!"

"...not a point in their favour, to be honest, lad. Old stuff tends to go off, if ye havenae noticed..." Demo teases, plain on his smirking face.

"Wine ages gracefully, Demo... the older it gets, the more potent and delectable. Very few humans can say the same of themselves..." Spy retorts, laying it on thick at the end to sound mysterious and wise, even though some part of his mind was still stuck on how funny 'fancy grape juice' was as a wine descriptor.

"If ye say so..." Demo rolls his eye, reaching for his bottle instead. His hand pauses on the cusp of grasping it as a thought strikes, eye narrowing to a considering squint. "Oi, ye weren't taking a dig at me spare tire with the aging gracefully comment, were ye? Cause I'll have ye know... I've still got enough muscle to toss ye like a javelin across the battlefield if ye're feeling cheeky..."

Spy nearly spat his mouthful of red wine across the room. "Non. My intention was complimentary, I assure you... I 'ave only known few humans to grow steadily more attractive as the yeas past. We are supposed to decay, and yet, beauty persists in the most unlikely of places..."

There was a pause as he thought about it. "You should 'ave seen Scout's mother when we met, nearly twenty-seven years ago now, I did not even know a word to describe her beauty... and it infuriates me more with every growing year."

"Och, don't sell yeself short, laddie, I bet you're not that bad off under that mask of yours..." Demo responds, skipping casually over the fact Spy just revealed something incredibly personal about himself for no real reason.

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Spy teases, automatically, before covering his own mouth in horror. "I think I 'ave had more to thought than I drink..."

It was too late, Demo was already in hysterics, and the mis-worded sentence only added to his amusement at the situation.

"I think ye have, Spook, can't even get your sentences the right way 'round, can ye?" the Scotsman beams.

"Perhaps..." Spy relents, "Or maybe I just 'ave not thought to let someone else in for a long time... and the wine 'elps somewhat."

Which immediately stifles Demo's laughter. An unintended side-effect of the gravity of Spy's statement.

Tactfully, he says, "Aye, drink'll do that to ye... loosen tongues and let secrets slide on out. I'd warrant ye have quite a few of those rattling around in your head, eh?"

Spy's lip curls up in amusement. "Oh, oui, mon ch-... amie. But if I told you... I would 'ave to kill you and all that dreary nonsense. I'd much prefer your company..."

Demo pounces on the statement like a cat on string. "Oh, would ye now, Spook? Thought ye couldn't stand me to start with... now I get front-row seats to your little secret-spilling show, and I wouldnae miss it for the world."

"It is, unfortunate that my occupation requires such secrecy, Tavish, but... it is as it is." Spy returns, sombrely. Like the words were bitter in his mouth, and he wanted rid of them. "There is much I can never say... even to those I care for deeply, for their safety I must not exist to them. Silence is a far sharper knife than any argument can ever be... even if both parties understand the logic of why."

Demo swirled the bottle, watching the liquid slosh about; a tiny alcoholic ocean thrown mercilessly against the green glass sides, as he mulled over the statement. It wasn't unexpected, but Spy was not one to make such statements lightly; sober or blackout drunk.

"And that is why Scout did not 'ave a father in his life, Demo. Why I had to let his darling mother, mon cheri, go before we got too tangled in emotions to do so. Before they became targets for the things I know, have done, will do... espionage is not at all as exciting as those silly Spy films make it seem. The pretty girls and boys you seduce will be followed by the old, the ugly and the cruel; some you kill, others you must keep alive. It all depends on the mission, and you feel nothing for any of them... you cannot, or it will ruin what you are. Your edge."

Demo does not interject as Spy pauses for breath, for reflection. Just nods along, having seen this storm cloud building from the moment the other man picked up the second glass of wine.

"If you are detached, tell noone anything... learn no secrets but those you are sent to find, then you will hurt no one when retribution finds you." Spy explains, as best he can. "There are few I can tell about anything, about my life and what I have seen, done, learned, lost... it puts them in danger. Mon cheri understood, she has been there herself but found a way to change her fate... a way I cannot follow. So we parted, amicably, if regretfully. And even here, to protect even that happy-go-lucky fool the Engineer, I cannot speak to anyone. But you," he jabs a finger at Demo, "you 'ave a way of making people want to tell you things."

For a split-second, Demo wrinkles his nose in offence, but seemingly decides to let it go. Spy is venting, and to be fair he does have that effect on people. That sense of his saw people confess odd things to him all the time... he couldn't turn it off, though.

"You just... told me all about yourself, everything! And I couldn't stop myself from listening... I should 'ave, to keep you safe, but your voice was-..." Spy coughs, "I mean to say, the tale was fascinating in no uncertain terms."

"Oh sure, just the tale and not the handsome devil telling it to ye, gotcha." Demo beams, giving an exaggerated wink in the drunken Spy's direction.

It earned him a frustrated scowl. "Exactly!" shouts Spy, tossing his hands up haphazardly and nearly slopping wine all over the place.

That pulls the Scot up short. "Ye what now?" he probes, trying to clarify if he's drunk too much or Spy has.

"You... are a very aesthetic-... aestheti-.... beautiful man, Tavish. We both know this, do not deny it; I have seen many people, conventionally attractive and decidedly not, in my life... and you are one of those awful humans that ages gracefully like wine. And you can captivate with your personality, your stories are exciting and informative, your hands are-... I mean, your expressions are always fluid and you are a fascinating creature to behold."

Spy pauses, staring at his almost-empty wine glass in accusation.

"You have no idea how much I want to tell people things, but most of all you, you attractive idiot of a man... with your friendship, and your physique and your-... your-..." he stammers off, looking for a word, only to suddenly freeze.

The gravity of his words seemed to sink in, for the first time that night, and Spy's heart begins to race. Fight or flight is taking over; restless energy floods his body, demanding the espionage agent cloak and retreat. But he cannot.

Everything in the room is trapped in this odd, ethereal moment where not even air seems to exist. He loathes how saccharine it feels, how cliche... and yet, what other descriptors are there?

It was like being paralysed in amber, as his eyes latched onto Demo's face; saw the shock there, and ascribed it to be negative of meaning, in his mind. Demo was staring back, a feature-length film of emotions whirring across his features too fast for Spy's less-than-sober mind to keep up with.

Spy couldn't think of anything to say to defuse the situation, every elongated moment of silence making his heart sink further into his stomach. He couldn't quite find the energy to make his hand stop reaching for the cloaking watch, though... Rigorously ignoring the thought that, even if he got away now, there was always tomorrow, or the next... when they would be face to face.

Of course he had had people rebuke his attempts at seduction, and even a few his active affections... but this was inherently different. Demo wasn't saying anything, doing anything... he was just still. It was eerie.

"Don't."

The words snaps him out of the elongated scene, as does the warm hand caught fast around his wrist, effectively blocking out the watch. Demo's grip could easily release, if Spy gave even the slightest indication he was going to cloak and leave anyway.

Spy stays his hand, feeling very much the foolish deer in headlights; something he hasn't felt in... so long, he almost forgot what it was like to be vulnerable. To be like this, open to rejection, without his usual wall of cynicism and apathy blocking it out.

He must have had too much to drink. It happened, sometimes things just come out when inhibitions are lowered...

"It's... uh, well..." Demo stammers, clearly attempting to be the diplomatic one here since Spy's normal suave tact is utterly failing him.

"You do not 'ave to respond," Spy manages. "And you need not give sympathy or express sentiment... I made a mistake, in admitting something personal, and we can both forget it."

"Oh, can we now?" Demo queries, raising an eyebrow with a strange quality to his tone. "Just go back to the way things are, even though I know?"

Spy nods, looking slightly over the other's left shoulder, expression tight and guarded once more. "If that is what you wish."

"Well," says Demo, dropping Spy's wrist and crossing his arms. "And what if I don't bloody want to, eh?"

"That is... also your choice." Spy interjects, voice monotonous and yet somehow defensive.

Demo wags a finger at him, "I wasnae finished talking laddie. Perhaps, I dinnae want to forget about the fact the bloke I've been trying to woo for the last six bloody months has finally worked out he likes me back under all that emotional repression. What if I want to act on that, instead, hey?"

Spy nearly falls over, but recovers as swiftly as he can. "Would you... care to repeat that, mon amie?"

Demo glares at him. "You're bloody right I do care to, and what's this 'my friend' business about, Spook? You've been accidentally calling me 'mon cheri' for months, had to ask Heavy what it meant and he nearly choked on his sandvich telling me..."

That vivid mental image alone shatters the tension in the room as both occupants laugh aloud.

"Ah, but seriously boyo... you're not all that subtle after a wee bit of time living with the same people. Get to know your eccentricities... and you're as messed up as Scoot is, with your emotions. But if I'd known all it'd take was some fancy wine juice to get you to admit you were hankering for all this..."

He gestures to all of him in a sweeping motion that nearly sends the emotionally-exhausted Frenchman into hysterics again.

"I would have bloody bought you a tank full ages ago... save all this pining and self-realisation nonsense. Ye looked like I was gonnae kill ye just before, when you blurted it out..." Demo adds, thoughtfully.

Trying to piece everything back together mentally, Spy clears his throat. "You never know how people will react, these days, and you are good with explosives..."

"Good? I'm brilliant, Spook! And if ye want, I can show you I'm pretty good at another type of banging..." He accompanies the statement with a lewd grin that lightens the mood and finally dissipates the last shred of tension from the room.

Spy groans and drops his face into his hands. "Why am I attracted to you again?"

"Uh, dunno, ye didn't finish your long litany of the bits of me you like best... got to the hands and ye stopped, didn't even get to my perky ar-..."

This time Spy covers Demo's mouth. "Finish that sentence and I will leave you here alone..." he sighs dramatically, "How will I ever take you in public like this?"

Demo grins and mumbles something. Spy moves his hand to hear him better.

"I said, I can behave if I want to... in public, that is. Probably at one of those upper-class, posh restaurants you like too... the ones with fourteen spoons and expensive old fancy grape juice..."

Some part of Spy despaired at that phrase, but it was subsumed by the odd surge of amusement he felt at the casual way the conversation was flowing positively between them. Gently eroding the spiky emotional chaos of a few moments earlier.

"Please... do not ever use that phrase again, especially in public." he asks, tone slightly strained.

And Demo laughs back. "Anything for you, Spook... uh... actually..."

There it is, Spy had been waiting for the question.

"...if we adopt Scout, do you want to be Dad, or Daddy?" Demo asks, tone entirely innocent, and shiteating grin clearly stating he was enjoying the way Spy suddenly lost the last shreds of composure.

Alright that was decidedly NOT the question he had been anticipating. Spy let out his horrifying laugh, which he personally detested; sometimes he snorted or giggled oddly, and he hated it.

Demo pokes him in the cheek. "Cute laugh you got there Spook..."

"Oh shut up, Demo..." Spy finally calms down enough to say, waving off the other. "That was not what I thought you were going to ask, mon cheri..."

"No, but your face was bloody funny when I did. Or I think it is... hard to tell with-... nevermind." Demo smiles, suddenly realising that the base is very quiet and they're quite close together.

"No, do ask your question, if you have an actual one that is..." Spy invites, hands busily sliding under the mask hem. Meticulous in their removal.

"Well, and ye dinnae have to give me an answer now if ye wanna keep the whole secret identity thing going for a wee bit longer but... you know my name..." Demo leads.

"Indeed, Tavish, mon cheri." Spy smirks back, sans mask.

Demo nearly chokes at the sudden revelation, at how closely he had imagined it, based on mental mapping of the features beneath the identity-concealing mask. He clears his throat when Spy raises an eyebrow in query as to why he'd paused.

"Well, ye know my name... and I was kind of wondering if it'd be okay to know yours?" Demo asks, expression hopeful but trying not to be.

There it was.

Spy had been waiting.

He leans in quite close. "Of course, mon cheri... my name is," he leaned in to whisper hotly into the Scotsman's ear, before pulling back with a killer grin. "And I would adivse you not forget it... you will be screaming it later tonight..."

Then, in the space of a heartbeat... there's a kiss on his lips, something in his hand, and Spy has disappeared.

Demo clutches tightly at the mask, holding onto the physical reminder that everything that just happened was not just an elaborate fantasy... and beams through tingling lips.

This was going to be an adventure.

---------------

The End

_____________________________________________

I hope this makes sense bc it is 5am and I wrote this trash in a blur Need to edit it

#tf2 #spy #demo #spy/demo #camiluna27

27 notes · View notes