#(making this clear: i am not someone who tries to solve old cold cases. i think it comes to an incorrect conclusion 99.9% of the time)

[presidenttyler]

not that there is anything very high-brow about looking into hundred year old murder cases, but the fact that like every single one of them nowadays is just fodder for ghost hunt shows is really annoying. like you know there are no ghosts in that house right. if you could talk to them someone would have by now ok. the villisca axe murder family is not waiting with bated breath to finally share their secrets with Super Scary Paranormal Ghost Adventurers: Reloaded

[itrytowrite-things]

Murder podcasts

Spencer Reid x reader 

Summary: Y/N has a tendency to listen to murder podcasts while doing chores, one day Spencer comes in unannounced scaring Y/N into action. (This summary sucks but it’s fluffy) 

A/N: shout out to @with-paint, she helped me form some of this fic so check them out. 

The eerie background music and narrator filled the kitchen as I scrubbed diligently at a plate. I blinked down at it, trying in vain to remember what the hell I used it for that would cause such a stubborn stain of food. Sighing, I squeezed the soap bottle some more and ran hot water over it. Maybe soaking it would help? 

Grabbing a few of the cups I had washed, I spun around from the sink to a towel I had laid out earlier. I scrunched my nose as cold soap suds ran down my arm, hit my elbow and fell to the floor in a sticky mess I didn’t want to deal with right now. 

I was so engrossed in the podcast playing over the Alexa that I barely even processed the grueling chore that was longer than normal. I was lost in the words, that an hour longer scrubbing at dishes seemed almost fun. The dishwasher had completely died a couple of weeks ago. 

Normally Spencer would speed read the manual to figure out what was wrong with the stupid machine. But unfortunately, his case in Michigan was taking longer than he anticipated. So, he hadn’t been home to look into it, leaving me to hand wash the dishes. I didn’t mind, it was a mindless task and allowed me to catch up on my favorite podcast. 

“They found her body a week later, twenty minutes from their house,” I shook my head at that, case freaking solved. Her husband obviously killed her. I mean there’s no way the police didn’t solve this case, come on.

I moved from the towel back to the sink, sticking my hands back into the soapy water. I always believed that I should be a detective. I could solve these cases easily, Spencer claims that suspicion can only take me so far and the reason that they don’t catch the guy is not because they don’t suspect it, but because they don’t have hard evidence. I normally just scoff and give him a kiss knowing that I would get the bad guy in the end, “hard evidence” my ass. 

“Two months later the police came in and found Jeff’s disembodied head laying on their kitchen counter.” My jaw dropped and I turned around furiously, bringing a wet butter knife with me, on instinct I pointed the knife at the device. 

“Oh shit.” I said to the speaker, as if it were relaying the case itself. Well turns out I was wrong. I cleared my throat and lowered the stupid knife. I placed it down and tried my best to look less scandalized. We all make mistakes. So I might have been a little off in my husband theory, but I mean I had only heard half the case at that point so it doesn’t speak anything of my amazing detective skills. I nodded at that and tossed the knife into a little stack of silverware. The metallic sound echoing around the kitchen. I smirked at my good throw and turned back to the sink. 

I quickly got into the true grove of washing the dishes, listening to the more gruesome details of the case. Turns out the killer did quite a number on old Jeff. I was halfway done with the remaining dishes when I felt a tap on my shoulder sending my heart into a frenzy. 

I whirled around quickly bringing the closest item with me as a weapon. The plastic spatula slapped the asalint straight in the face creating an awfully loud twack sound that bounced off the kitchen walls. I blinked in horror at realizing who exactly was standing in front of me. 

Spencer's cheek turned red immediately. 

“Oh my god! Spence! I am so sorry!” I dropped the spatula and brought my other hand to his face trying to soothe his skin. My hand was covered in water and soap suds, and it dripped down his face onto the already wet floor.

“I am so so sorry. You scared me.” I rubbed my thumb over the spot, feeling his heated skin. Jesus, I felt awful. I didn’t hold anything back when I hit him. I figured I was fending for my life, not greeting my boyfriend. 

“It’s okay.” His much larger hand cupped mine removing it from his face. The redness had died down a little, making his skin a rosy pink instead of the previous bright red. He looked adorable which only made me feel worse. Who looks that cute after getting slapped in the face with a spatula? 

Spencer startled me yet again when a chuckle came bubbling out of him. His laugh was like someone bottled the sound of happiness. It made my own laughter arise every time without a doubt even if I didn’t understand what was funny.

“I guess I don’t have to worry about you protecting yourself.” A loud squeak sound emitted from my body unexpectedly followed by more laughter. I slapped him very lightly across the chest, kissing his unharmed cheek. 

“You're lucky I wasn’t cutting vegetables.” I said,  rustling my way into his arms pulling his body against my tightly, loving the way his laughter shook my entire body. I felt the short press of his lips against the crown of my head before tucking my head into the nook of his neck. I inhaled deeply, taking the scent of him with me. The apartment had started to lose its scent with him being gone for so long. I was beyond eager for the apartment to smell like us again.

“I think those podcasts are giving you wild ideas.” 

“They would never find your body Dr.Reid.” I teased, poking gently at his side making him squirm in my grip. Another round of laughter filled the small space, it was only when it died down that I realized my podcast was still running in the background. 

“Alexa, stop,” I shouted into the air stopping the podcast. “The neighbor did it.” I said with coincidence knowing that my answer was correct this time. Spencer let out a belt of laughter, nodding his head, a big grin on his face. 

I pulled back from Spencer taking in his features for the first time. He looked tired, his eye bags had doubled creating a skunk in effect. I could see the trouble in his eyes, the case was hard. It killed me to see him after a hard case, he looked more and more defeated after each one. However, it was what he loved doing and my job wasn’t to erase the trauma of his job, but to ease him back into daily life. I thumbed his eye bags lazily, a pout taking over my face. 

“You wanna take a shower and I’ll start us some dinner.” I asked gently. Not wanting to completely destroy the quiet we created. He nodded slightly looking younger than ever. I quickly pulled him back into me taking all of his weight. “I love you bub.” His hair felt silky against my fingertips as I disentangled the curls. 

“Love you too.” He mumbled, his heated breath warming my skin. I waited a few comfortable minutes rocking our conjoined bodies in the cozy silence of our kitchen, I took a deep breath and said what was on my mind. 

“You wanna talk about it?”

I don’t ever ask Spencer for the details of his cases. He either goes into a tangent without prompting or doesn’t feel like talking about it. I used to think that talking to Spencer about his job would be like listening to my murder podcasts. It honestly was one of the things I was excited for, but I soon found out it’s nothing like that.

When Spencer spoke of cases it was personal. He felt every death that was caused and saw every killing through the eyes of monsters. He held so much emotion in his voice when he spoke of the victims, that I often can’t help but cry. How a person can hold that much pain and still continue to do it everyday, is beside me. 

He shook his head, squeezing my torso before finally pulling back and placing a soft kiss to my lips. 

I continued the dishes, washing the last few. I left the podcast off, listening instead to the shower from down the hall. I scrubbed off the last of the grime before starting the oven. A simple dinner was always best in these situations. I pulled out a pre-made chicken pot pie from the freezer and placed it in the oven. 

As I moved to dry and put away the dishes while waiting for pie to finish. Spencer emerged from the bathroom freshly bathed. He wore a thin gray shirt paired with some soft looking sweatpants. My upper lip jutted out automatically. God I love him. 

“Feel better?” I kept my voice low, not wanting to startle any peace that the shower might have brought him. He nodded slowly. 

“What did you cook?”

“A chicken pot pie, I hope that’s okay.” 

“It’s perfect.” He smiled and returned to my arms, kissing my neck once before tucking his head into my neck. The edge of his wet hair scraped against my skin in an uncomfortable way, yet I only moved enough to rub circles into his back. 

A loud beep emitted from the oven caused me to jump in Spencer's arms. He let out a small chuckle. 

“Pick us something to watch and I’ll plate us some food.” I hummed turning my back to him. I heard him walking towards the living room as I bent to retrieve the hot food. 

Spencer sat criss cross on the couch, Les Enfants du Paradis was displayed on the TV. I handed him the steaming bowl and sat down, sitting close enough for our knees to knock together. I have no idea what Les Enfants du Paradis was, but I would watch literally anything he wanted as long as he was here. 

“It’s in French, but I figured I could whisper the translations to you while we watch. Or I could pick something else?” 

“No! This is perfect Spence. I love it when you translate, you tell the story better.” He let out a little blush highlighting his previous slap mark. I bit my lip and winced slightly, “How’s your face?” 

He touched the spot faintly, he didn’t wince when his fingers made contact which was a good sign. However, I have an inkling that a small bruise would form in the center of the slap which was going to be a fun story to tell his colleagues Monday. 

“I’ve had worse, but you wield a lot of power with a cheap piece of plastic.”

“I am professionally trained in the art of spatula wielding Spence, don’t try that at home.” I stared at him, my face blank before a blast of laughter came out of both of us. One can only be so serious when you are talking about slapping people in the face with kitchen utensils. 

Spencer started up the movie, and we remained there for the rest of the evening. Laughter and dramatic sighs followed by even more dramatic translations from Spencer. At some point he went so off script that even I could tell his story was bullshit. I didn’t call him out though just allowed him to spit nonsense, I would let him create fake French stories until he was blue in the face if that meant we got to stay in this happy bubble forever. 

[thebigqueer]

"Broken Internally." - Nico di Angelo

Summary: Nico meets Eros for the first time in his dreams.

TW: Blood (lots of it), Gore, Internalized Homophobia.

Notes: This was inspired (again lol) by this art by @rottingold

Word Count: 2840

Read on AO3

Nothingness.

Nico suffocates in the empty enclosure. His heart echoes with fear and anxiety as he faces the looming darkness before him. Nico knows this is just a dream, but that doesn’t quell the anxiety that roils in his stomach. It feels too real to be a dream. And, compared to other dreams he’s had, there’s something more dangerous lurking in this one. A sharp chill rings against his skin as he waits for something to happen.

“Hello?” he calls, his voice meek and small in the emptiness. “Is- Is anyone there?”

For a moment, only his words echo back. They ring in his ears, thrum in his head, and after a few seconds, the sound of his own voice becomes too overwhelming. A dull ache erupts at the back of his mind and he stumbles to his knees. His fingers grapple for the sides of his head, if only to ease the pain, but it does nothing to soothe him.

“Please,” he whispers desperately, “make this stop.”

After another moment, the ringing stops. Nico’s chest heaves as he tries to calm the lingering pain.

Then a sudden brightness erupts across his vision. Nico’s eyes burn at the rapid change, and he blinks quickly to try to adjust to the light. As his sight clears, Nico reaches for the sword at his side. His skin burns with anticipation. Straightening himself, he demands, “Where am I? Who’s here?”

No body shimmers to life; no voice illuminates itself. Nevertheless, Nico senses the tingle of life in his core. He feels a presence lingering somewhere around him, lurking in the darkness.

“Invisible?” he murmurs. “That’s alright. I know you’re there.”

Because he doesn’t expect anyone to answer, surprise shocks his spine when a deep, resonating voice says in amusement, “Awfully confident in yourself for a thirteen-year-old boy, aren’t you?”

Nico whips his sword out in front of him and holds it threateningly. A grimace stretches against his lips. “Who are you? Show yourself!”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the voice says. “Not yet, at least. It’s a tad too early for that.”

“Or are you just afraid of showing yourself?” hisses Nico. “Alright, coward. I can fight you even if I can’t see you.”

A deep, amused laugh bounces in the whiteness. At the sound of it, Nico’s skin prickles with rage and humiliation. How dare this voice mock him? Doesn’t it know who he is? Doesn’t it know that he could kill him?

“Oh, child,” the voice purrs, “are you always so defensive? Not every problem can be solved by fighting.”

“Then what do you want with me?” demands Nico. “Why am I here?” Despite still being anxious, the demigod lowers his sword. The scowl against his features stays fixated, though.

“Calm yourself, child of Hades,” murmurs the voice. At the sound of its words, the anxiety in Nico’s blood simmers down; a new coolness pours over him, and his eyes turn heavy-lidded. His scowl turns slack. “I’m only here to talk. No need to get worked up.”

Underneath his skin, anxious energy thurms and boils in Nico’s blood, but the sound of the voice suppresses his excitement. “Talk,” he agrees dazedly.

Though he can’t see the owner of the voice, Nico can still sense the flickering smile as it speaks once more. “I have not met someone as emotional as you in a long while,” the voice notes. “It has been a while since a mortal has attracted me with such attention.”

Nico wants to ask what it means, but when he opens his mouth to speak, only silence puffs out of his chest. He stands alone and silenced in the brightness, awaiting the presence’s next words in anticipation.

“You are an interesting case, di Angelo,” hums the voice. “So full of hatred. So full of misery. Have you met Akhlys yet? She would love you.”

“Who is Akhlys?” asks Nico, whose voice has somehow returned.

The voice laughs softly. “Oh, well, I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough. But that’s unimportant right now. There’s something else I want to show you.”

A fleeting sensation overcomes Nico. His chest expands and turns icy cold as a rush of air flows in. Then, suddenly, all that oxygen cuts itself off. Something falls from his chest and slips through the thin air. Panic washes over him as he realizes something’s wrong.

He isn’t breathing. But, somehow, he’s still alive.

Nico’s hand grasps for his chest as bursts of anxiety pour over him. An empty, cold sensation billows in his chest, and he can’t help but to feel as though something has been stolen from him internally.

But he is solid. His shirt stands out in the overwhelming brightness, absorbing all the light and turning into a color darker than black - darker than even Hades’ soul.

When he looks down, though, that’s when he discovers what’s wrong.

Before him floats a red, pulsing ball. Blue and purplish-red stems hang from either side of it. For a moment, Nico swims in confusion at the sight of it. What is it?

His stomach flips over on itself when he understands.

This is no ball. This is no toy.

Nico opens his mouth to say something, but with the lack of air and his own disgust overwhelming his senses, the demigod stands there choking on his silence.

The invisible being chuckles. When it speaks once more, Nico notes the amusement still lingering, but there’s a colder, sharper ring to it. Something cruel lurks within the voice.

“Your heart,” it murmurs, almost hungrily. “That is your heart.”

Goosebumps prickle against Nico’s pale skin. Tears sting his eyes as he continues to gape at the organ in front of him.

How? he mouths. His hand grapples with his T-shirt and he tugs it away from his body. When he looks inside, pale skin gleams up at him - as well as a hole right where his heart should be. The gap in his chest seethes with hot, smoking anger.

He holds a hand over his mouth in shock and disgust. Nico’s eyes spark with fear, roil with darkness, gleam with trepidation. For the first time since he’s found himself here, pure terror envelops him.

What do you want from me? he mouths. A tear blooms in the corner of his eye and trails over his pale cheek, creating a sparkling crevice against his porcelain face. He looks like an old china doll, the kind that has seen centuries of abuse and neglect in the shadows of an attic. No longer worth anything, no longer beautiful. Only a souvenir of the past.

Though the voice remains invisible and outside of Nico’s grasp, he can still sense its merriment at the demigod’s confusion when it speaks again. “I am merely here to open your eyes, my child,” it purrs. “You are writhing in your own hatred. It’s time you face the source of that hatred.”

Silence spills into the space between Nico and the presence. Anticipation sparks against the son of Hades’ skin and scorches his throat, and he wants nothing more than to fall to his knees and let this misery end. But, by some miracle, he’s still standing upright. Perhaps the presence is keeping him up with some power. If that’s the case, Nico wishes it would stop. He just wants to spill to the white ground and lay there forever. He wants to cower in this eternal brightness, away from all that pains him.

Suddenly the whiteness around him dissipates. A wave of turquoise filters around the enclosure like water bleeding into paper, and Nico stares up in awe at the beautiful color bursting around him.

As the familiar sea-green hue bleeds into the overwhelming brightness, Nico’s body goes slack. He still stands upright, but a certain daze overwhelms his senses. The scent of salty air infiltrates his nostrils, and his blood slows its pace underneath his skin. Nico’s mind wanders higher and higher, floating above some pool of water in his head, and a new intoxication comes over him. His eyes glaze over as he gives himself up to the high sensation.

It takes a moment for him to realize why that sea-green color looks so familiar.

It’s Percy’s eye.

Percy.

The heart before Nico pulses quickly, and a harsh red color bursts across his face. Hot anger rises up his throat but, as the scene around him begins to shift again, he finds that he doesn’t want to act on this rage.

Why is this happening? he wonders. What is the point of all this?

The heart pulses again, almost insistently, as if it’s waiting for Nico to come to a realization.

And deep inside, Nico knows what it’s trying to say. But he doesn’t want to admit the truth that’s eating at him. He doesn’t want to face it.

The blue-green color dissipates, and seconds later, a new scene forms before Nico’s eyes. A slow-motion movie plays across his vision of Percy, his face determined and stony, his gorgeous eyes storming with an angry energy. The demigod’s sword slashes across a row of enemy soldiers - Skeletons, Nico realizes in shock, just like the ones we fought a few hours ago. - and with each enemy down, Percy’s skin seethes with an even stronger, even more resentful energy.

He’s an angry storm, wreaking havoc amongst those who have wronged him. He’s a beautiful tornado, whirling destruction over each path he crosses.

He’s a gorgeous disaster.

Though Nico can’t breathe, his heart twitches as if he’s just gasped.

The scene dissipates again, and one more slips into place. This one is even more astonishing, even more beautiful than the one before.

Percy’s dozing in a dark room, his body slack against the black wall. Nico recognizes it as the dungeon his father forced him into just hours ago. Guilt seizes Nico’s chest like a vice at the sight of him so weary and exhausted.

My fault, he scolds himself. It’s my fault he was like this. I betrayed his trust.

Even in the darkness, Percy’s skin glows with some kind of comforting warmth. He’s breathing and alive, beautifying all that’s around him. His chest rises up and down as he sleeps. Percy’s beautiful lips part as puffs of breath escape his chest. Dark hair whispers against his eyebrows, brushes against his eyes, but he doesn’t wake up.

Nico’s heart pulses again, but this time more painfully. An angry, yearning sensation stabs the child of Hades in the chest, and, without meaning to, he extends his arm. His pale fingers brush against the other boy’s face, and for a fleeting second, Nico almost believes he can touch Percy without shame.

But the image simply ripples where the demigod brushes his face, and with a shocking realization - as well as an angry burst of embarrassment - Nico understands that he can’t touch Percy. He can’t reach him.

The scene dissolves, and Nico bleeds into the overwhelming darkness. Salty tears sting his eyes and sizzle against his pale skin. His entire body shakes with desperation and devastation, humiliation and adoration.

Percy Jackson. Beautiful, disastrous, torturous Percy Jackson.

A painful sob builds up in his chest, but Nico knows he can’t let it out. He can’t even breathe, much less allow his grief out into the open.

Silence floods through his surroundings. His heart continues pulsing, quicker and quicker with every second that passes, mimicking his fear and desperation.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

It’s a mesmerizing scene. Nico’s never seen a heart thud so quickly before. In fact, he’s never even seen a heart so naked in front of him.

It’s disgusting. But there’s a certain beauty in it, too. It’s amazing how such an organ can shift to one’s mood so quickly.

A painful curiousness comes over him, and once again, he extends his arm out. His gentle, shaking fingertips brush against the heart. Nico jumps back at first, disgust roiling in his stomach at the contact, but, as another stroke of curiosity drowns over him, he reaches out again.

Slowly, tentatively, his soft fingers brush against the pink and red muscle. In the comfort of his cool palm, the heart continues pulsing and beating, almost as though it feels at home in Nico’s gentle embrace. A cool sensation overwhelms his system at the contact. He tightens his grip on the beating heart.

Nico has never been so close to himself before. And, honestly, it’s frightening seeing himself so naked.

The presence’s voice resonates in the emptiness again. “Well,” it murmurs, “that was interesting, wasn’t it?”

Nico says nothing. He simply stares at the muscle in his hand, which thuds against his sleeve.

“At last, you understand what I am trying to show you,” the voice continues when Nico offers no response. “Now it is time to admit it.”

Nico shakes his head. Fear trickles down his spine, chilling him down to his core. Desperation sparks in his dark, misery-filled eyes.

Don’t make me do it, he wants to say. Nico’s stomach roils at the very thought of admitting to such a confession.

“Scared?” the voice asks. “Don’t be, my child. I will help you.” Though no footsteps echo, Nico realizes the presence has lingered closer to him. A malicious aura surrounds the invisible figure as it comes closer.

“Percy Jackson,” it whispers softly. “You hate him, is that what you think?”

Nico nods, swallowing thickly.

“But, my child, you are mistaken,” the voice insists. “It is not that you hate him. No, in fact, you hate how he makes you feel.”

Nico’s lips tremble as a broken sob tries - and fails - to escape him. His body quakes as though the world around him is falling apart. Nico’s fingers press the heart tighter, if only to find something to hold on to in the destruction of his dignity.

The voice makes a disapproving cluck. “You are still holding back. Listen to me, child of Hades,” it says desperately. “The only way to move on is by admitting to your feelings first. Confess, child of Hades. Admit that you are attracted to Percy Jackson.”

Nico presses his other hand against his pale, feverish face. More tears slip through the cracks between his fingers, and his eyes bloom with hot pain.

He can’t do this. He can’t be here.

The voice speaks again, this time harsher, colder, more persistent. “Nico di Angelo, you are only subjecting yourself to more pain.” The heart in Nico’s grasp lingers closer to him, pulsing brighter and hotter in his grip. Under a control that isn’t his, the son of Hades’ fingers tighten their hold over it.

“It is up to you,” warns the voice, its tone eerily dangerous. “Either you mend your heart through my help, or you break it with your own hatred. What do you choose?”

Nico gazes at the general direction of the voice. His mind seethes with anger, with grief, with humiliation and chaos. A cacophony of voices swim across his mind, voices of people he’s loved, people’s hated, people who he has no memory of. He’s a ticking bomb, ready to destroy all that is in his path; he’s a ball of chaos, prepared to melt anyone into a puddle of insanity.

He knows he can’t see the presence. But, as his fingers tighten their control over his beating muscle, he hopes his eyes meet the invisible figure.

For a moment, all is silent. Only the sound of the thudding heart echoes in the emptiness.

Nico’s fingers press into the organ. Despite the fact that the heart is no longer in his chest, he somehow still feels the hot pain. The torturous sensation encompasses him, shocks his fingers, travels up his arms. Hot tears continue pressing against his eyes, but there’s something strange about these tears - they have a thicker consistency, a metallic scent.

They aren’t tears at all. They are tracks of blood, blooming from his eyes and traveling down his skin. The red tears trail down his cheeks, leaving cracks of crimson along his porcelain face, and drip down to his chin. A bead of red explodes over the ground.

Bleeding internally. Broken internally.

Nico’s vision swims in red. Something warm oozes from the hole in his chest, and he realizes it’s more blood. His shirt blooms with sticky warmth.

“Do not do this,” urges the voice. “You are only making the process harder.”

Nico’s teeth sink into his bottom lip as his fingers press harder, harder, until they dig into the inside of the muscle. His fingers jab through; warmth seeps through his nails. Nico’s chest aches in sympathy as the pressure envelopes him.

The voice sighs. Then it laughs coldly, murmuring, “You will not hear the last of me, my child.” The air shifts; a cold draft slithers against Nico’s back. After a moment of silence, the voice breathes in his ear, “I am Eros, the god of love. I will see you again, and next time, I will not be as lenient.”

The heart bursts.

Nico jolts awake.

[got-any-references]

What are your fav beetlebabes headcanons? Also, love your stuff <3

Thank you <3. And thank you for the wait cause oh boy if I don’t answer this ask with a ridiculous amount of art how will I live?

*Digging out the dust covered manuscript that is my nonexistent Beetlebabes fic from under the floorboards* It’s showtime.

So...Lydia is the one who falls first. She is about 17 or 18 at the time, so this is very much an “I have a teen crush on someone I am not supposed to” type of deal. Honestly they fell in love with each other way before that but like, platonically 

Beej is...horribly oblivious XD. Honestly its for the best because Lydia spends the better part of her pre-college summer freaking about because any time her best friend walks in the door her heart wants to go bull-riding in her chest and if she actually has to confront her feelings she might just explode.

Then, just before Lydia was supposed to go away to college, Beetlejuice...disappears. He leaves a note, saying he’ll be back, but weeks turn into months, months turn into a year, and no one either in the living world or the netherworld has seen a hair of him. Lydia goes through college without really knowing what to do with herself, missing what was probably the closest person in her life. She graduates with a journalism degree and a minor in photography. She works for a newspaper as an investigative journalist before breaking off over less than great circumstances and going off on her own.

She’s 25 when she establishes herself as a pivate eye, with an enormous amount of anonymous sources being dead people. Also, this takes place in New York City.

(Yes she absolutely does exorcisms on the side).

She’s following a rather stange missing persons case when one of her sources points to a run down establishment that is 100% totally haunted. Except when she goes there she doesn’t find any ghosts, but rather

Beetlejuice. And he looks awful. And very much human.

Lydia: You look like hell.

Beej: Yeah, I just got back.

...

Beej: Also I’ma pass out now so you better catch me.

So he crashes at Lydia’s place, and the whole thing turns into solving the crime as well as Beej’s  mysterious aquirement of a beating heart and working lungs. He doesn’t remember how that’s happened, only now everything is Too Much with Too Many Feelings. Speaking of feelings, you bet your ass there is PINING. SO much pining. Lydia’s best friend comes back and suddenly those feelings she’d dismissed as a stupid teenage crush come FLOODING BACK. 

While Lydia’s internally feaking out over her feelings (it's totally normal and platonic to wanna kiss your best friend while he sleeps, right??), Beetlejuice is, you guessed it, totally oblivious! To his own feelings especially! All he knows is that it's his best friend only now she seems like a completely different person, and hot. She is now hot. His mad respect for Lydia makes him bury that thought deep, deep down. Also the whole marriage deal is a source on bad memories for both of them and he doesn’t wanna ruin the only good thing he’s ever had and-

Anyway, more pining:

Lydia’s feelings bring out resentment, too. She hates that Beej calls her kid, because that means he still sees her as one, and her ego and her desire for him make her want him to see her, the woman who's seen some real shit in the name of finding the truth, who can take care of herself, and who is very different from that angsty 15 year old girl on the roof. 

It all comes ahead to a big confrontation where Lydia is shot, and Beetlejuice has to drag her to the hospital without any knowledge of how human bodies work and he has no magic so he can’t help her-

The hospital needs to know his relationship to her when they take her away, and Beetlejuice knows they wont let him in unless he’s close family so he is blurts out: “Husband. Yeah, I’m her...husband.”

Lydia wakes up with a patched up hole in her side and Beetlejuice clinging to her hand. She’s happy she’s alive, but also angry, because she could have avoided all of this. She was competent enough to not need anyone to rescue her. 

She wants to get back on the case as soon as possible, she found the key lead, but Beej doesn’t wanna hear it, cause he saw way too much of her blood and he’s not big on how human bodies work, but he's pretty sure that shit’s supposed to stay inside. They’re arguing when the nurse comes in and adresses him as “Mr. Deetz.”

Lydia snatches the clipboard away, sees that he’s told them she’s his wife, and is livid. Because crush or not the wedding thing had a whole lot of baggage she does not want to unpack. She has to confront the fact that her feelings are for someone who manipulated her into marriage at 15 and who she’s not supposed to see in that way but she does anyway.

And Beej, a dumbass but also angry cause she almost died out of a stupid reckless mistake is like: "Why are you all mad? It was a green card thing. It's not like it means anything." And that gets Lyds even more upset, with him cause he's an idiot, and with herself because she's still pining for someone who, she thinks, still sees her as a child. 

Lyds, getting her coat: "Fuck off." 

BJ: "Kid-"

 Lydia: "Stop calling me that! I haven't been a child since my mother died. I haven't been a child since you showed up! I haven't been a child since I've started this, since I moved here, since the first asshole tried to kill me. I've been through literal hell and I've had to pull myself out of it all on my own because I was still here and you left."

There's a beat of silence as Lydia realizes what she just said. 

Lydia: "And that's fine. Because I don't need you. I don't need anyone. You taught me that, at least." She yanks her coat onto her shoulders and turns to go.

 BJ, quietly, but its clear he's angry: "Do you think I wanted to leave?" 

Lydia: "I don't know what you wanted. Do you even know what you wanted?" She pauses at the door, turns to him. "Do you know what you want, Betelgeuse?" 

BJ: "I-" 

He stops. He can't look her in the eye anymore. You. I want you. Lydia scoffs, turns to go. 

BJ: "Lydia, wait-" 

Lydia: "Fuck. Off."

She leaves, and he just stands there, floored by his too little too late realization. Lydia thinks the best thing to do after leaving the hospital with a bullet hole in her side and hopped up on painkillers is to go get drunk! Self-preservation? None

Beetlejuice finally finds her drunk off her ass and suddenly in a great mood. He grabs her under the arms like "Whelp. Time to go." 

Lydia: "Nooo come on-" 

BJ: "Aren't you on hospital drugs? Doesn't that shit kill you breathers if you mix it all up?" 

Lydia: ":D I stopped taking them :'D it hurts like a bitch." 

BJ: "I guess I have the shared braincell now. Okay, time to go."

He manages to get her in the car without incident, but when he gets in the driver's seat suddenly Lydia's all over him.

BJ, with a lap full of drunk Lydia: "What. What are you doing." 

Lydia: "Beeetlejuice." 

BJ: "Yeees?" 

Lydia, smiling all dopey as she cups his cheeks: "Beeetlejuuuice."

BJ: "What" 

Lydia's finger hovers over his nose, as if to boop him. He closes his eyes. And suddenly her lips are on his. She tastes like alcohol and hospital food and as she pulls away he can't think. Then she starts laughing. "Ha! Gotchaaa! Classic Bait and Switch!"

And he’s pissed.

BJ: "Ha. Ha. Good one, Lyds." 

He dumps her out of his lap and into the passenger seat. Lydia blinks in confusion. Now she's cold. She wants to ask, but her mental faculties aren't all with her at the moment. He drives them home and helps her up the stairs before dumping her onto her bed. "Well. Bye." Lydia scrambles up the bed. The car ride gave her enough time to be at least a bit sober, and everything before getting here is blurry. "Where are you going?" Beetlejuice turns around, the widest smile on his face. She's confused for a moment before she realizes he's vibrating with rage. "Ya said you want me gone? Great! You don't need me, you can do your weird little suicidal quest thing yourself!" Lydia looks lost. They had a fight but she'd rarely seen him this angry. "If its about the thing at the hospital, I didn't- I didn't mean it-"

Beetlejuice: "Really? You'd think you'd be glad to have me gone. Why would you want a creep like me around? The whole marriage thing didn't just disappear, after all! Great to know you can still pull one on me, huh?"

Lydia: "Pull what, Beetlejuice-"

She remembers, hazily, the car ride.

They stare at each other for a moment Beej is breathing heavily, he's not used to living person emotions, ones you can feel with your whole body instead of just as an abstract thing, but its clear he's holding back

Lydia: "I wasn't-" 

Beej: "You weren't what?"

 Lydia (quietly): "It wasn't a joke."

The angry grin slips off Beej's face. He suddenly looks very, very tired. She might have believed just now that he'd lived for millennia. 

 Beej: “Why are you doin' this, Lyds? Did you know the whole damn time? It's not like I was gonna do anything, I just thought- I just-”

Lydia suddenly realizes that they are having two different conversations. And something else. She looks away, trying to wrap her head around it, and Beetlejuice doesn't read it correctly. He turns to go. 

Lydia: “Wait!”

 She jumps off the bed, feeling the whole world tip over slightly, still drunk, and stumbled over to him. He catches her instinctively as she grips his forearms for support. 

Lydia: “Beej. Beej, look at me.” 

She takes his face in her hands, and turns it toward her. He looks so lost, like one word from her might actually break him. She'd only seen that look on his face once before, and she never wants to again.

Lydia takes a breath. 

Lydia: “Beetlejuice, I-”

Aaand then she throws up all over his shoes.

She doesn't quite remember what happened next, only that she was in the bathroom, leaning against the door, the toilet was flushed, she was sweating, and he wasn't there. 

Lydia: “Beej?” 

Beetlejuice (through the door): “...hi”

Lydia: “What-”

BJ: “-happened? Well, that's a story!” 

His voice sounds cheerful, but it’s shaking slightly 

BJ: “First ya threw up all over us both! then that little experiment of yours with mixing the meds went off, and you started babbling about...rocks? Then we got here, you heaved out the rest of your insides, and then ya kicked me out and said you were gonna shower, and now we're sitting here, so, yeah”

Lydia: “...Are you still covered in puke?” 

BJ:”...yeah”

Lydia: “...sorry?” 

BJ: “Pshh, what's a best friend if ya can't throw up on 'im a couple times.”

They both fall silent

Beetlejuice (quietly): “Lyds, do ya still want me here?”

...

 Lydia takes the time to find the words. Want him here? After everything, he was still asking that question. Did he still think, after all this time, that she'd throw him out at the smallest inconvenience? Would he ever stop thinking that way? Why did he think so now? Was it because he- Because he-

Lydia: “I love you.”

The other side of the door is silent. 

Lydia: “I love your stupid laugh. You sound like a fucking cartoon villain, its so fucking obnoxious. I love your jokes, all of them, even the shitty ones- you always look so god damn proud when you say them.”

Is she crying? She tries to wipe at her face, but the tears keep coming. 

Lydia: “I loved you since that last day on the roof, and when you left-” 

Her throat closes up. She chokes back on her tears, she has to finish it, he has to hear it. 

Lydia: “When you left I thought I might die again.” 

Lydia: “I kept seeing things, dumb branding on cereal boxes, that shitty college play I went to, my first client, and I kept thinking aw, Beej would have a field day with this one. I thought about what you'd say. You were like a voice I couldn't scrape out of my head, I thought I was going crazy, I thought I'd imagined it all, some lonely little girl with no life or friends, needing someone to talk to- But you'd been real, and then you were just gone- “

The words dissolve in her throat as she sobs, pulling her knees up to her chest. She feels like a child now. She feels more childlike than she had at 15. She’s clinging to a scrap of hope she doesn’t have a right to demand from him. And yet he'd said- 

Lydia: “I love you. Please, don't leave.”

They sit is silence for a while. Lydia tries to stop crying. Then, quietly from the other side of the door:

BJ: “You know what I thought when I first saw you?”

Lydia: “Here’s a suicidal teen haha what a riot?”

BJ: “What? No, not then. Like now.”

Lydia: “Oh. What?”

BJ: “I thought wow, who the hell is that and why is she so dang hot?”

Lydia laughs.

BJ: “And then I thought oh God that’s Lydia.”

Something in his voice makes her pause. Maybe it’s the strange fear that she feels coming from him.

BJ: “It’s like, you’re Lydia, and I don’t know shit about you! You’re the same person, but you’re a stranger to me. Lyds, do you know how fucking terrifying that is? You’re someone I never got to know because of a shitty decision I don’t even remember making.”

he falls silent. She can hear the pain in his voice. And something else. Longing. 

Beetlejuice: “I’d like to.”

Lydia opens the door. Beetlejuice scrables up, only for her to throw her arms around him. 

They figure it out. It’s a slowburn 200k fic that I’ll never write so it takes a while for them to actually kiss, or do anything more, but they get there. 

This turned out...ridiculously long XD. I don’t know what you meant by “headcanons”, exactly, but have this instead.

Thanks for the ask! 

[ibijau]

Part 2 of Lan Xichen refusing to listen when Nie Huaisang tries to tell him about Jin Guangyao’s crimes, this time post canon. As a quick warning... don’t go in there expecting a reconciliation ahah :D

In all his years of acquaintance with the Nie sect, this is the first time that Lan Xichen is made to wait at the gate, and the insult smarts. This is how a merchant or the servant of a noble family begging for help might be treated, not the leader of one of the Great Sect, and certainly not an old friend. Then again, it has been many years since Lan Xichen last came to the Unclean Realm alone. Perhaps he would have received such a welcome all along, after he and Nie Huaisang...

They never broke up, not exactly, not in such a manner that Lan Xichen could pinpoint an exact date to mark the end of their intimacy. But Nie Huaisang became more closed off in the months after his brother's death, more reluctant to tolerate any sort of affection, and Lan Xichen, tired of being denied again and again, stopped visiting alone. He only came alongside Jin Guangyao, in whose company Nie Huaisang was always a little less cold. For a while, Lan Xichen even wondered if his former lover's affection hadn't shifted toward a new target.

He wishes now that it had been something so easy. The truth, he fears, might be more unpleasant yet.

After nearly a shichen of waiting at the gate, Lan Xichen is brought inside by a disciple. Not Qinghe Nie's first disciple, but one of lesser importance who takes him to a sparse room and offers him subpar tea. He is then informed that the sect leader is currently busy, but will make time for him as soon as possible.

In a way, Lan Xichen finds this already answers the questions he has come to ask. Just a few weeks ago, Nie Huaisang would never have dared to be so rude to anyone, least of all one of Nie Mingjue's sworn brothers. He used to always drop everything for Lan Xichen and Jin Guangyao, throwing himself at them with heavy tears... but then again, he was always the one begging them to come as well, whereas Lan Xichen is now here uninvited.

Another shichen passes, and then some. The tea Lan Xichen was offered is worse cold than warm, but he still finishes it as darkness creeps on him. Night, outside, is coming close, and Lan Xichen regrets not booking a room at some Qinghe inn. He has never had to before, and quite foolishly he hoped this wouldn't have changed. A mistake he will not repeat, if he ever visits again.

At long last the door opens, revealing Nie Huaisang who looks...

It would be only polite for Lan Xichen to rise up and bow to his host, or salute him in some manner. If he doesn't it isn't in protest of the long wait, but only because he can hardly recognise Nie Huaisang. The man in front of him might as well be a stranger. It might just be that it has been so long since Lan Xichen has had cause to truly look at the man he once loved. It might also be that for the first time in nearly a decade, Nie Huaisang isn't playing a role. Either way, Nie Huaisang seems taller than Lan Xichen thinks he ought to be, even accounting for the fact that one of them is standing and the other sitting. That might be because he is standing so straight, his shoulders squared rather than hunched. He looks, as he has for this past decade, a little too thin, but rather than making him frail and delicate, Lan Xichen finds the other man's features now bring to mind a carefully sharpened blade. Nie Huaisang's eyes are certainly as cool as steel, his narrow smile threatening in a way his sabre never managed to be.

“Er-ge, I'm surprised you've come here,” Nie Huaisang calmly states, looking down at Lan Xichen as he puts down a candle on a chest near the door. “I suppose I should ask the reason of your visit.”

“I think you know it already,” Lan Xichen replies without thinking, too startled by this stranger bearing a face he once adored to be polite.

Nie Huaisang smirks. “Do I? I don't think I do. Please do tell me, Er-ge. I am but a stupid man, I need things stated plainly.”

Not so long ago, Lan Xichen might have unkindly agreed.

“I'll ask this before all else: the other night, did Jin Guangyao really move?”

Nie Huaisang's smirk curls a little higher. “I've said already that I can't be sure, haven't I? Maybe he moved, maybe he didn't... I was tired, and I was wounded, and I was so terribly scared,” he explains in a mocking tone. “Weeks after the accusation was first made, I just had it confirmed that one of my very dear friend had murdered my da-ge, and you expect me to have been clear minded enough to remember every inconsequential detail?”

“You already knew he had killed da-ge,” Lan Xichen retorts.

Nie Huaisang's mouth slowly opens in a artful 'Oh' of surprise too deliberate to be anything but artifice, while his hand sets on his heart as if wounded by the accusation. He looks right out of a picture, beautiful and elegant and insincere.

“Er-ge, I'm not sure I quite understand what you're saying.”

Lan Xichen frowns. He had not expected this to be easy, of course, but he hadn't prepared himself for such coldness either. In his mind, Nie Huaisang ought to have been shouting at this point. But then, he was thinking of Nie Huaisang as he lives in his memory, young and spoiled, rather than the man he became while Lan Xichen wasn't paying attention.

“I am saying that I have given due consideration to what Wei Wuxian said last month in that temple,” Lan Xichen says. “I believe that he might have been right.”

Even an actor as talented as Nie Huaisang can break character. For a brief instant, he appears to struggle to contain a smile, though that problem is solved when he quickly opens a fan with a sharp yet graceful gesture. Lan Xichen is left breathless when he recognises the fan. It is one he bought for Nie Huaisang, when they were young and not yet crossing the line between friends and lovers. When they finally did, they wrote together a few lines of poetry on that fan, because Nie Huaisang, so sweet at that time, wanted to do like the couples in those stories he so enjoyed reading, and Lan Xichen of course couldn't have done anything but indulge him in this caprice.

It cannot be an accident for this particular fan to have been chosen as Nie Huaisang's shield.

“Er-ge... no, sorry, Zewu-Jun, that is a serious accusation you're throwing at me,” Nie Huaisang saying, almost sounding hurt. Almost. “So, I must ask... do you have any proof? You can't say this without some serious proof.”

Something in Nie Huaisang's tone is a little odd, as if it matters to him whether Lan Xichen has anything concrete to show.

“No more than you probably did when you started all this, Huaisang.”

“But if I had done that, I would have had proof” Nie Huaisang retorts, his eyes burning from behind his fan. “Plenty of it. If I were to have gone on the path of revenge, it might have been because Baxia had become restless in the weeks after her master's death, and started causing problems in the sabre's hall,” he explains, dropping the fan to reveal a feverish expression. “So of course I would have checked my brother's tomb, and found it empty. That's when I might have become suspicious of foul play, and turned to you for help. I wonder, would you have listened to me, or would you have rushed to defend someone you clearly valued more than me?”

Lan Xichen's eyebrows rise high in surprise. He knows for a fact that Nie Huaisang never mentioned his brother's corpse being missing, he certainly would remember that.

“If this is your excuse for never letting me know the truth...”

The fan comes up again. “Er-ge, this is purely hypothetical of course,” Nie Huaisang says pleasantly, as if they were discussing the weather. “I suppose if those things had happened, I wouldn't even have had a chance to make a case against Jin Guangyao before you'd make it clear on whose side you were. You've always been so quick to defend him, haven't you? Even when da-ge was alive... they were both your friends, but you only ever seemed to side with one of them, didn't you?”

It is an unfair statement. Lan Xichen used to defend Jin Guangyao in front of Nie Mingjue, yes, but he made no less efforts to mend that relationship on both sides. Many times he tried to explain to Jin Guangyao how their sworn brother's personality worked, how Nie Mingjue meant no harm by speaking the way he did, how he was truly trying to help by offering chance after chance for Jin Guangyao to prove his good faith, especially in that business with Xue Yang, and how Nie Mingjue's education and personal experience made it hard for him to understand that Jin Guangshan wouldn't be swayed by the demands of a bastard son he half openly despised.

Lan Xichen had done all that he could to be a bridge between two men whose affection was so disturbed by deeply different worldviews. Many things had escaped his attention at that time, but he had never been so foolish as to think every problem in their friendship came from Nie Mingjue alone.

Just because Nie Huaisang had borne witness to only one side of his efforts didn't mean the other side never existed.

“Someone had to defend him,” Lan Xichen coldly points out. “I realise now that some of his enemies were right to hate him, but how could I not dismiss them when their first impulse was always to attack him for his birth?”

“But I didn't!” Nie Huaisang explodes, closing his fan to furiously point it at Lan Xichen. His hand trembles with rage, and there's not art to his expression now, only raw emotion of unexpected intensity. “I didn't come to you calling him a son of a whore!” He cries out. “I didn't call him a bastard, or a servant unworthy of his title! All I said was that I suspected murder, and instantly you defended Jin Guangyao, before throwing it to my face that maybe it was my fault if da-ge had been so unbalanced!”

Nie Huaisang waves his fan at Lan Xichen, heavy tears staining his face.

“Do you know how terrified I was to share this with you? You'd been on Guangyao's side so often, you'd been the reason he'd had access to da-ge even in his unstable state! Everything was telling me that you could have been complicit in da-ge's death, that you and Guangyao could have been working together! But I loved you!” Nie Huaisang shouts, his voice breaking on the words. “I loved you, you were the only thing I had left and I loved you, certain you loved me as well, so I trusted you and tried to come to you with my discoveries, and for what?”

Laughing hysterically, Nie Huaisang reopens his fan to hide his tears.

“You don't even remember that day, do you?” he croaks. “Everything changed for me that night, and it wasn't even worth remembering for you.”

Lan Xichen stares down at the table in front of him, desperately trying to recall the conversation that left such an impact on Nie Huaisang. It must have been before they drifted apart, he guesses. To his shame, he truly cannot remember.

He tells himself that he too was grieving, that Nie Huaisang doesn't remember well, that he was perhaps less clear in his accusation than he now thinks he was. Lan Xichen easily finds many excuses for not remembering, but he knows them for what they are: excuses. The truth, ugly as it might be, is simply that he paid little attention to what Nie Huaisang had to say at that time. His grief, raw and exposed, had been uncomfortable to witness, and Lan Xichen had only held on to the good parts of his lover while waiting for the bad ones to go away on their own.

“So Wei Wuxian guessed right, then,” Lan Xichen whispers, unwilling to dwell on his past failings at the moment. “You did all this...”

“Did I?” Nie Huaisang asks, regaining control of himself, his expression turning distant again in spite of the lingering hoarseness in his voice. “Everything I said was hypothetical of course. Who knows what I did or didn't do? After so long, who knows what could have been prevented if you'd only trusted me half as much as I might have trusted you? But I will say this...”

He lowers his fan, revealing a sharp smile, more like a beast baring its teeth than anything.

“Er-ge, supposing I did any of the things Wei Wuxian accused me of the other day, then you would bear as much fault in my supposed crimes as you do in Jin Guangyao's,” Nie Huaisang says, almost sweetly. “The mighty Zewu-Jun, so pure and good, so untouched by dirt and blood, having enabled so much pain and chaos just because it's easier to look away when things are unpleasant.”

Lan Xichen doesn't answer. It is an unfair accusation, he tells himself. Jin Guangyao's actions were never under his control, and neither were Nie Huaisang.

What happened wasn't his fault, and he refuses to react to Nie Huaisang's very obvious taunting. It is clear now that the other man will not give him a straight answer regarding anything that has happened. Perhaps it was foolish to ever hope that he would, considering what Wei Wuxian said he might have done.

“It's getting late, Zewu-Jun,” Nie Huaisang remarks, glancing out the window as if he only now realises how dark it has become around them. The candle he'd brought with him offers little light. “You should get going. I hope you'll understand why I don't offer to let you stay the night.”

“I wouldn't accept even if you offered,” Lan Xichen replies as he stands up. “I suppose we'll meet again some other time, Nie zongzhu.”

“Only if I have no other choice, Zewu-Jun,” Nie Huaisang says. “I'll call for someone to take you back to the gate. I've already wasted enough time on you.”

With how often he has been here as a guest, Lan Xichen doesn't need a guide to find his way inside the Unclean Realm, not even in the dark. He keeps that remark to himself, unwilling to deal with Nie Huaisang longer than necessary.

Soon enough he is outside the gates of the Unclean Realm, free to breathe again, and starts walking into the night, toward Qinghe. Lan Xichen knows he could fly, but walking gives him a better chance to think and consider what he has just learned, and to analyse this conversation with Nie Huaisang.

It is the first time in many years that he gives this much thought to his former lover's words and actions, he realises, and something like guilt curls coldly into his chest. Perhaps this really could have been avoided, if he had paid more attention to the changes in Nie Huaisang's personality... but in those years after the Sunshot Campaign he'd seen too much grief, accepted too well that it manifested in odd ways, that someone people would wallow in it and let it become the core of what they are. Nie Huaisang had seemed only another example of this. Having always been so expressive in his joys, it felt unsurprising that he would fall as eagerly into his despair.

Lan Xichen, busy with his own trouble, with a sect to run, with his brother's punishment only then lifted, cannot be expected to have dedicated all his energy and time analysing the changes in a lover who kept pushing him away.

Can he?

He also cannot be blamed for the crimes of others, Lan Xichen eventually decides. All he did was consider the information at hand, and trust people based on their actions. Anyone else would have done the same, his actions were measured and reasonable, and though he was wrong in his judgement, everything he did was in good faith.

What happened wasn't his fault.

Was it?

[lore-of-the-silvereyes-rwby]

Ironwood Summary

Here we are at last the final conclusion of this long character analysis series, for now. This is mostly going to be my own opinion of the character based on the research I did for the analysis. As well as some ideas of what may happen to the character in future volumes and overall standing of what the character was always meant to be and represent in the rwby narrative. Also keep in mind that this is only an analysis of Ironwood’s character pre Volume 8 so there won’t be any spoilers used in this analysis or summary

(Before we begin i want to thank @spacecapart for his art to be used in this summary as i feel this piece summarizes how i feel about Ironwood)

When I started researching and writing on July 31st 2020  for Ironwood and the months that followed I feel like I have gained a better understanding of what exactly Ironwood’s character was meant to be while making sure my overall opinion of him wasn’t biased but honest and neutral. 

For the most part Ironwood’s life was just sad because, well it was never really his to begin with, since he pretty much had no say in it. Based on what I saw and learned about him with the help of additional lore as well as the current story Ironwood was just a tool and a plot device in the narrative.

He started as a tool for Mantle(pre Atlas) which planted the seeds that made him this cold inhuman person that we see at present due to its old toxic ideologies of imperialism and militarism combined with a Nietzsche's philosophy that survives and thrives through Ironwood once he become a de facto king when Atlas became an official kingdom.

Then he became a tool for Oz to protect and safeguard the current status quo without benefiting from it. Though it was with good intentions Ironwood couldn’t help but feel insulted that he was being restricted and kept in check by someone who does not share his belief or ideals of what he considers right even though they weren't his beliefs or the best to begin with.

Finally after all was said and done he became a tool for the very enemy that he swore to fight and defend against. Due to his toxic upbringing in Atlas and his bitter resentment for Oz he tried to take matters in his own hands only for it to backfire immensely into the events that we see in the show. As I Stated in “The Hero that was never meant to be” Ironwood was more or less the most prominent catalyst for all of the events and conflicts in the show that Salem took advantage of and prospered from simply due to Ironwood’s elitist and violent mindset.

All of this just contributes to Ironwood being a plot device since that he’s essentially just a philosophical mouthpiece for Atlas as the show has somewhat made it clear that he is basically the physical embodiment of Atlas if it were a person with both a voice and need to survive. Which wouldn’t be so bad if Atlas wasn’t the Remnant equivalent of a fasciest imperialist dystopia. Most of Ironwood’s character flaws mostly stem from the fact that his is simply the product of his origins and refusing to change or find a compromise for the better.

Another thing that I believe should be taken into consideration is his overall effect in the plot. Added by how the narrative has been structured with its main conflict I think it's safe to assume that no matter what, Ironwood was always a character that was set to fail ever since his introduction. This is mostly due to the fact that most if not all of his power comes from control and authority over others. As well as his lack of actual experience when it comes to war and conflict. 

As I stated in I am power with my own estimate of Ironwood’s age(47-50) based on his rank’s promotion requirements he has at least 30 years of experience from both his huntsmen and military career: 34 if we were to count his academy days of training. Now you're probably asking; “If he has that many years of experience in his career, then why are you saying he has none?” Well it is quite simple based on 2 factors; his professions and the time that he was born in.

At present he is both Headmaster of Atlas academy and the Atlas equivalent of the joint chiefs of staff of the Military. I think it's logical to assume that Ironwood gained the status of Headmaster first and General later due the needs of Oz. Given the importance of the relics hidden in the academies it would be a pragmatic choice for Oz to ensure that there was always a guardian and supervisor over the vaults as well as training the worlds next gen huntsmen(the agreed upon nuclear deterrent). 

Since his profession shifted from field combat to school administration upon becoming headmaster most if not all of Ironwood’s career from this point on saw very little combat opportunities and would soon be filled with politics once he became General further diminishing his combat skills. Also since Generals are the face of the military they mostly handle diplomatic and public affairs as well as deal with civilian contractors to ensure the military has the resources and gear needed to sustain itself.

This means that Ironwood went from fare soldier, to desk jockey, to financial benefactor throughout the entirety of his 30 year long career. But the two thirds of his later career  basically had no relevant or beneficial experience that would be suited for the war that he had been preparing a long time for. Ironwood’s lack of practical experience is also more damaging when you realize that the very little he did have also wouldn’t be of much help in the first place as well.

This is mostly due to the fact that Ironwood was born at the beginning of the high golden age of peace and prosperity for Mantle/Atlas and all of the concerning conflicts happening at least 5 years before the show’s start very late in his career at an estimated age of 45, with the white fang terrorists groups targeting SDC assets that he wanted for war. 

Also his career at that point most likely focused on policing and enforcing Atlasian laws rather than doing actual combat and even then he was trained to fight grimm instead of human combatants and even if he had to fight people they most likely are that of combat inexperienced and petty criminals that wouldn’t actually put up that much of a challenge and even then most of the fighting was done by disposable robots that he can command  with the press of a button.

Overall Ironwood was really unprepared to even fight anyone in general, let alone wage a war against Salem. Even if he had powered up that army to the maximum it really wouldn’t solve anything. Ever since the first episode of the series the message was clear; You're not going to win with just strength and power alone, but with acts of mercy and honesty. As well as just enjoying the simple things in life and just simply living life rather than just surviving. After all this time Ironwood forgot to live life and be satisfied with what he had. Because of this he’s just going to keep on pushing the limit until he loses everything that he has and drag everyone else with him. Simply because he wouldn’t admit to himself that he has no idea about what to do or accept that he wasn’t the most important piece on the board.

Which sadly brings me to the very likely truth that it is guaranteed that Ironwood’s part and time in the story is coming to an end and his death is drawing near. This has been foreshadowed in the beginning of volume 6 where the true plot and crisis of the story had basically made Atlas and by extension Ironwood irrelevant to the story when it's been made clear they can’t just simply kill Salem and win with brute force as he had hoped. Because of that Ironwood was no longer important to the story as they show and fandom have hyped him up to be. Even if he still had an actual role in the plot I’m afraid to say that Ironwood’s story (even if it wasn’t that much) has already been told and judging by the direction he is going by it’s only going to get worse for his character (moraly wise) to the point that his death may be a blessing in disguise for remnant.

To start we need to look at the essential core concepts that make up Ironwood’s character. If we remove all of his actions and focus on his archetypes we get a character that is A) Half robot, B) the de facto leader of an inefficient military(let's be honest it's just a glorified security force for rich douchebags.) C) A school principal and D) someone who essentially hails from what can be considered the most evil and inhuman kingdom of his world that values power and is placed into a story and conflict where none of those things even matter given what we know about the true stakes and consequences of the plot and this is essentially all that we even know about him in relation to the story.

Which brings me to this point that in my opinion he wasn’t much of a character to begin with. This is mostly due to the fact that we really don’t know anything about him besides the summarized 4 points from the last section. We don’t know anything about him like how he became involved in the plot, how old he is, when and what caused him to be a cyber, does he have anyone outside of work or any family that he cares about and more importantly why does he fight in the first place and what motivates him to do so and what does he hope to gain? These details to me are important as to give depth to a character as to better understand why they are the way they are. Otherwise they are either a philosophical mouthpiece or a living ideological caricature. As I stated before in Ironwood’s case he is just that for Atlas, just a simple tool that it can use for whatever it needs.

Which also brings up another subject towards his contributions to the plot; What exactly can he do and was he really even that important to begin with? As I stated before Ironwood really doesn’t have much to offer besides the Military which has been proven to be useless and unneeded. But if it was to be needed that doesn’t automatically mean Ironwood should be the one leading it. For example should he be removed from power and replaced and the heroes really need the military wouldn’t it be simple just to involve the new commander and chief or appoint someone they can trust to ally with them. So yeah the military part as well as the academy are what give an individual like Ironwood any relevance but that doesn't automatically mean they’re that important or crucial to begin with.

Simply put Ironwood has always been a character in the wrong genre. Had he been placed in any other circumstance he may have had a point and could have succeeded but in the case of his story he doesn’t have one. Ever since his debut he has always been this source of contradictions and antagonism and contrast when it comes to how the world and characters have been set. Due to this Ironwood has always been this source of escalation and conflict as he only follows his own beliefs and tries to force others to comply with them. As well as the truth that he really has no idea of what to do since he was never really prepared to handle anything like this and added by the fact that he won’t admit or consider the possibility that he is not that needed or important. If he continues on with this type of thinking it's only going to warrant his end as simply put by Oscar he really is just as dangerous as Salem.

Before I explain his overall purpose and status in the Narrative I want to go over several ideas for what may be next for Ironwood throughout the rest of the series which will be explained further by the reasoning I will use in the narrative part. 

Fate and status for Volume 8 and the rest of the series

Death

I think it's safe to say that Death flags have been hovering over Ironwood for a while or at least since Volume 7. But is it certain? Most likey. I say it’s near mostly due to my belief that his story has essentially been told and he really doesn’t have anything left to contribute to the plot at this point. The impact of his death whether it will leave a positive or negative impact remains uncertain. But the way of his death to me is certain; he’s going to die by the hands of another character(specifically a hero). I know most people would have hoped for a heroic sacrifice or a redemption by death but I don’t exactly see Ironwood doing such things. (Which I’ll explain in the next 2 bullet points)

If it hasn’t been made clear Ironwood has made more enemies than allies simply due to his inability to compromise or let go of his Atlasian ideals and ego. As well as his refusal to accept the fact that he really isn’t that important or necessary in this conflict or at least in the way he wanted to be. If he further descends into his own little world Ironwood is going to cause more problems and do more damage that can never be undone and the only way to stop it would be if he was out of the picture. Because of this Ironwood is likely to die in V8 or by the end of the Atlas arc but it is also possible that he may die at another point later in the series.

Redemption Arc

The chances for Ironwood’s redemption are slim but they’re there, but probably not in the usual way that everyone expects to happen. To help clarify the possibility of redemption we will be using the trifecta structure of redemption arcs. This includes; How the character sees himself, how they see the world, and the stakes and how they change over time. As well as the Scale and Values of his motivation. To help better understand let us take a look at Ironwood’s motivations and goals from V2 and how they contrast and differ from V7 Ironwood.

Volume 2 Ironwood’s motivations upon first glance are simple; stop the threat and ensure stability and security. However if you watch closely there is an ulterior motive. From this we can determine the true Values of his goals and the Scale of what he is willing to do to achieve them and they go as such;

His values as of V2 are security via large Military foundations and amassing complete control and influence over forign nations while promoting the agendas of Atlas imperialism.(similar to the Galactic empire in its early years from Star Wars) With the scale showing that he is willing to go to such lengths as propaganda and political manipulation and betraying allies to get what he wants(the greatest example of this being subverting control from Ozpin)

From this we know that Ironwood sees himself as this perfect savior that can do no wrong and should be the one in charge. While his views of the world being that everything is below him unless they match those of Atlas. With the stakes at the time being the possibility of losing imperial expansion and the threat of domination from a superior force that could shatter the foundations of his ideology and culture. 

While Volume 7 Ironwood’s motivations being; whatever it takes to preserve his perfect and ideal society even if it means sacrificing everything else before his valued culture is destroyed.

The values of this Ironwood definitely differ from previous versions of the character. As V7 Ironwood’s motivations have shifted from saving lives and defending them from Salem to preserving the very little bastion of control and authority that he has over Atlas. With the scale showing that he is willing to turn on allies and go as far as to abandon a whole heavily populated city and potentially the rest of the world in order to preserve the one thing that he has complete and unconditional control over.

Because of this a lot of Ironwood’s views have changed by the end of V7. 

Due to his streak of recent failures his views of himself changed from being the perfect leader that he thought he was, to accepting reality that he isn’t said leader and is prone to failure. However because of that thinking he no longer feels that he should hold himself to that set standard anymore and do what he thinks is needed to get his desired results. Which leads to the fact that he still views himself as the one that should be in charge but this time he does not feel compelled to be fair or considerate of either allies or people.

His views of the world really haven’t changed as much. He is just more honest, open and direct about his views by V7’s end where it's pretty clear that he values his military industrial complex that is Atlas over people's lives regardless of their affiliation.(It should be noted that Mantle is still apart of the Kingdom of Atlas as a whole so consider the fact that he is abandoning the part of it he deems is an acceptable loss without even trying to save it)

But the greatest and significant of changes for Ironwood in the plot are the stakes. Prior to being told the truth about Salem’s immortality he honestly thought that he could win and kill her and be free to pursue whatever task he could set his mind to now that she was gone. After being told and with the clear indication that his power(Atlas) was at risk he essentially is doing what raven did; cut his losses and settle with what he has and run. As such the stakes for Ironwood at this point are to preserve the very little power and control that he has currently at his disposal and sacrifice and do whatever he can’t to maintain it even if it means letting the rest of the world die or be under Salem's control.

This is just speculation but Ironwood’s chances for redemption are pretty slim but not impossible. But the key start and major factors to make that redemption possible is for him to yield power and let go of Atlas. As I stated before, Ironwood relies heavily on his control over Atlas as he believes it to be the only means to maintain and sustain a war as well as the only way of  enforcing his authority. To reiterate Ironwood true power and relevance to the story is his complete and unchallenged command over the Kingdom of Atlas and at the risk of sounding cliche; “All who obtain power are afraid to lose it even a hero” If there is to be any hope of defeating Salem and or maintaining peace in Remnant it can not happen with Ironwood being in power. Which may be more difficult than it seems which leads us to the possibility that he may not be redeemed and should he live past the Salem conflict with this type of thinking.

A New Enemy

For a character to be redeemed the character needs to want change for better but given his personality and recent events Ironwood at this point doesn’t feel or believe that he should change as he now has an ends justify the means mentality with the belief that he is this grand savior believing his way is the only way. Because of this it is very likely that he may stay an antagonist throughout the remainder of the series and possibly long after the main conflict.

The Third Faction; Okay I think it's a safe bet to say that no matter what Atlas was always going to be an antagonistic force that was being set up as early as V1. And unfortunately for Ironwood he ended up being the face and voice of said force that was there before he was ever given a name or a design.

Because of this setup it is possible that Atlas under Ironwood will become its own faction that may try to counter salem but at the same time will possibly sabotage the allies aka the main heroes and the rest of remnant since Ironwood’s paranoia has increased to the point that he doesn’t trust anyone anymore and most likely will reject any offer of aid or promise of an alliance  since Ironwood believes his in own hype that much that he will eventually become a problem that has to be stopped which will possibly lead to the end of Atlas. Which brings us to what might happen to the character post Salem and Atlas.

Post Salem Insurgency; This is speculation but it's possible that after Salem is defeated and Atlas is destroyed he would continue to be a threat for the rest of Remnant as he will be forced to answer for war crimes and step down from power with the possibility that he may never obtain it again. 

Given what we know of his personality Ironwood isn’t the type of guy to yield power or think he did anything wrong due to his ends justify the means montra. As such in the years following Salem's defeat and the possibility that Atlas may no longer exist or at the very least no longer subservient to Ironwood’s authority its most likely that he might end up in charge of a paramilitary consisting of the very few soldiers that are still loyal to him and start raiding and terrorizing settlements, cities and kingdoms all over remnant just to rebuild his military complex and infrastructure as a means to reclaim the status and power that he was stripped up.

How and why any of this would happen if it ever does is debatable but should it come to be Ironwood is going to need to compensate in order to survive if he becomes a legitimate threat which brings us to a very likely scenario based on his original inspiration 

Full Cyber

Given what happened near the end of V7 and recent V8 concept renders combined with the Tin-man inspiration I do believe that there is a very likely scenario that Ironwood will be more machine than man at some point in the series assuming he doesn’t die yet. This is pretty much a given scenario due to his favoritism for machines than people and his new found ideology that humanity is weakness now it is very likely when given the chance that Ironwood will willingly become full cybernetic(Possibly to the point of just simply being a brain in a new metal body)

 While this isn’t exactly an ideal outcome for the character but at the same time this would actually make Ironwood a credible threat as he would now be able to enforce his authority on his own now without relying on others to do it for him. Based on the research from the I am power post Ironwood is relatively a very weak character in comparison to a majority of other characters that we have seen so far and this is especially true when compared to the villains and main heroes. One key aspect to remember is that Remnant didn’t need the military only Ironwood did because on his own he’s screwed no matter what the situation.

Ironwood relies to heavily on his Army as it is the only thing that gives him some ambiance of a fighting chance but ultimately he is very ill suited to lead and manage said army that when you think of it are possibly full of people that are probably more capable than him as well as able to back up and defend their position of power on their own. Whereas Ironwood can not if he were to be overthrown by the military. In other words a fully cyberized Ironwood would actually be beneficial for him as it would make him a formidable threat beyond just simply being the guy who has the world's only military. Depending on what kind of enhancements he can get he would at least be on par with characters like Ruby Qrow and Yang and at the very best on the level of pre maiden Penny. Because as he is right now Ironwood would surely die if he were to face any character that is not within his capabilities. But this is my theory and observations but until we see more Ironwood’s best bet is going full cyber.

Role in the narrative & what we can learn from Ironwood

To start I think it's pretty clear that Ironwood in narrative is just a foil for most of the characters in the show. Especially with greater comparisons and emphasis on these 3 characters; Ozpin Ruby & Salem. While at the same time he is also the character representation that embodies Atlas the most and as such much about what we know and learned about Atlas is mostly due to Ironwood’s actions as he is the culmination and development of Atlasian culture. Unfortunately though this as far as his character was ever going to go. Which makes it all the more tragic and sad when you think about the role that he was supposed to serve.

We will first be breaking down each Foil comparison between Ironwood and the 3 prominent characters to plot as to better under his place in the narrative.

Ozpin

Of all the characters that exist in the RWBY story I do believe that Ironwood tried to emulate and be his own version of Ozpin(or any past incarnation). However unlike Ozpin Ironwood is biased, lacks actual experience and above all takes shortcuts to get faster results at the expense of others. I know that this mostly stems from good intentions but what exactly qualifies Ironwood to even think that he should be the one in charge to handle this Salem conflict. This is one of the greatest problems that is addressed in the show about Ironwood. He really believes that it's his destiny to lead by replacing Ozpin and win.

 But I ask again; What exactly can Ironwood do that would qualify him to even be worthy to take up Ozpin’s task?

That's just it really, there is nothing about him to warrant such a thing. When it comes to the foils between the 2 it's about being this Big Good character that should lead and the themes of Grey morality that R.T. has tried to implement into the show. But when it comes down to it Ozpin is the true Big Good while Ironwood was simply a pretender. Ironwood has always been a narrowed focused character that cares about the conflict itself instead of the people that are caught in the crossfire. And unlike Ozpin who has based all of his decisions and plans from experience and human nature, Ironwood had based his for a need to simply be right and in control.

In short Ironwood had wanted to be the next Oz as he believed he was more suited to do what Ozpin couldn’t even though he lacked the skills, experience, and power to do so which brings us to the next foil. 

Ruby Rose

This might be stretching a bit but when it comes to the plot there is no greater foil between characters than who is the real hero of the story. In this case is the hero of the series Ironwood or Ruby? To help answer this inquiry we need to know what exactly a hero is. Webster's dictionary defines a hero as a mythological or legendary figure often of divine descent, endowed with great strength or ability.

While other sources would say what qualifies  A hero can be as simple as a person that saves lives and stuff, but a hero can be anyone that does something they have fear of but are brave enough to still do something. Bravery is usually the biggest trait of any hero. This person has usually overcomes huge obstacles to survive or to rescue others.

A hero is selfless, a genuinely good person, and someone gets the undivided attention of all of us and causes change.

A hero takes action to help others at considerable risk to themselves, however, if that action also helps themselves, then they are not a hero because they are acting out of self-interest. Courage is admirable, but unless it involves risk or sacrifice in order to help others, then it isn't heroism.

So in short the true hero of the series is actually Ruby not Ironwood or any other character in the series. Not because she is one of the main characters or because this is a story from her perspective but because she has the ideal and pragmatic skills and abilities needed to handle the current situation of the plot as well as doing what Ironwood has failed to do himself confront fear and be brave. As I stated in paranoia over reason most if not all of his choices have been based on fear rather than actual logic, reason, or bravery. Which is further highlighted by facts discussed in I am power that Ironwood is really nothing without the military and doesn’t stand a chance on his own.  

This is indefinitely a stark contrast to ruby as she has proven since her introduction to be capable of handling the threat of Salem as she has the talents skills abilities power and above all the spark that inspires others that compels them to do great things for the right reasons which Ironwood failed to do as all of his action have had a certain goal that would only benefit a certain few with him being the one who would benefit the most. This is mostly due to how the 2 have responded and chose to handle the situation. 

When it comes down to it the main plot is defeating monsters that dominate the world who happen to have a leader controlling them. Remember the whole reason why Salem is even a credible threat is because she can control said monsters and the first premise before she came on screen for the first time was learning how to fight grimm. This is something that Ruby was training and preparing for since she was a kid with the added bonus of having the powers needed to handle the situation with ease while Ironwood has only been preparing for a war with other people rather than monsters and crush rebellions rather than being a guardian peacekeeper that Oz meant for him to be.

 Because of this Ironwood has contributed more to the problem more so than Ruby did as his actions were done in favor of Atlas and his own self interests were as Ruby makes honest mistakes out of ignorance and optimism. Which brings me to the next foil that Ironwood shares more qualities with than anyone else

Salem

I know I'm going to get a lot of heat for this but if you think about it Ironwood is basically a syfy dictator version of Salem’s fantasy dark lord. Face value it doesn’t seem likely but given what we know about their current lore, history, personally, and world building these two can be twins to some extent. The examples are as followed;

They’re both headstrong and blunt individuals who go too far in their endeavors when simple and easier solutions were present

They’re both isolated however Salem is isolated by circumstance and force while Ironwood is isolated by choice and paranoia which is ironically the results of their cold upbringing and history

They both lead organizations with questionable intentions that border on dark and immoral with goals that are based on self entitlement rather than rightfully justified or earned

And to top it off they essentially command armies of soulless killing machines

From these examples we have plenty of foils between the two with them being pride, isolation, tragedy, authority and probably the most important foil in regards to the plot War & Conflict. However when it comes down to it Ironwood is on the short end of these foils when compared to Salem. 

In terms of tragedy these two have let their past misfortunes dictate and influence their decisions resulting in a sense of entitlement that they have been wronged now the world has to compensate them for things to be right. For Salem she had a cruel upbringing for unknown reasons and life being unfairly cruel while Ironwood was lifely forced into servitude and was never really himself as he wanted to be. Salem’s tragedies are the result of grief and dealing with forces that she couldn’t comprehend. While Ironwood’s is the result of unchecked ambition and ignorance.

Similar to Oz, Salem has more experience being a leader that can exert their authority and will over others while Ironwood lacks the experience and therefore can’t do the same. The Grimm under Salem’s command are more of an oppressed hivemind that she leads with little to no resistance unlike her human subordinates. Thus Salem has more direct control and authority over those she commands and has the abilities necessary to keep them in line with her goals. While the people under Ironwood’s authority have a voice and mind of their own that don’t align with his ideas. Due to this he isn’t much of a respected leader as he thought he was. Because of this Ironwood is mostly kept in power by rules and regulations with everyone blindly following suit. 

 As for war Ironwood was without a doubt unprepared for it. This is mostly due to 4 reasons;

He had no idea of what he was doing

His opponents are of better a quality than anything he can make or round up

He was preparing for the wrong war that should never have come to pass.

He was to prideful and sure of himself that nothing can go wrong

When it comes to the 1st reason Ironwood was more or less a pseudo soldier in a time where militaries are pretty much obsolete. This is because militaries are used as power projection of a nation and convey the message to another nation to not cross them. Due to the timing there was no real reason or excuse to justify having a military during a point in time where people are more interested in developing a culture and living life rather than fighting in needless conflicts. As such there was no practical reason, competition, or threat to justify Ironwood’s demands for a large military when he came to power or ensure that it was of a better quality than whatever hypothetical enemy that he would face.

Salem on the other hand has had experience commanding armies before and probably has instigated several wars and conflicts prior to the founding of the current 4 kingdoms thus Salem would have at least accumulated centuries to millenniums of war experience that surpass Ironwood’s brief 30 years of service in the Atlas military. Given that Salem was already a crafty and manipulative person during a time when gods were still around, she most likely would have seen the mistakes and flaws that Ironwood has made and exploited them.

Leading into the 2nd reason Ironwood was pretty much in command of a terrible military. As stated in the 1st reason there was no real threat or competition that encouraged those in power besides Ironwood to remilterze. As well as the current military most likely being filled with people who don’t want to fight a war and most likely enlisted for economic reasons. Because of this and his paranoia Ironwood had to find a surrogate army to prepare for his war that in his mind could happen at any time. However this resulted in cheaply made Androids that can be assembled fast for quick deployment. Due to this Ironwood traded quality for quantity as not only was no one going to fight in his war but believed war was on its way soon. Out of misplaced desperation Ironwood hastily assembled a low quality army that never stood a chance.

In comparison to Salem’s main military force there aren’t that many differences. However the Grimm are slightly a better quality than what the Atlas military has to offer. This is mostly due to the fact that the Grimm are a semi sapient species that are capable of learning and adapting as well as possessing some level of self preservation with individual grimm being around longer than most of their kind becoming even more deadlier than them. While the androids that Atlas uses aren’t as they were made to be cheap and disposable and are mostly effective in large numbers. 

The 3rd reason for why Salem is doing well during this conflict with Ironwood is mostly due to the General preparing for the wrong type of war than the war that he is actually fighting in. After all is said and done Ironwood has solely been preparing for a war with other people rather than for monsters. This is because the Atlas military before Ironwood took charge wasn’t meant to fight a war. Not all militaries are formed or created to defend the people. Atlas is the type of military that serves only in favor of the best interest of the state of government rather than the people. 

Because of this Ironwood had spread misery and divided the people turning them into enemies. Salem would later take advantage of this division that Ironwood created as he was more focused preparing for war than managing the welfare of his citizens. This is speculation but most if not all of the weapons like penny and the Atlesian knights were solely made to fight human opponents as opposed to the grimm that Salem commanded. This is because Ironwood feared and distrusted people more than the monsters he fought.

The 4th and final reason why Ironwood never stood a chance is due to the fact that he believed in his own hype more than he should have. From key dialogues to certain character interactions and in universe lore Ironwood has always presented himself as this towering figure with unlimited power; A god among men so to speak. This shows us that ultimately Ironwood’s ego and pride have been inflated to the point that his overall common sense is non-existent. This is further explored and shown in the control tactics that he uses specifically these ones; Strength and Intimidation in Numbers; 

Some aggressors like to dominate a situation by having a number of associates or friends present to support their position. The superior numbers alone may constitute an intimidating presence. They can also back each other up and challenge an individual in turn during a proceeding. In addition, they may also put pressure on a person to make a decision before they're ready. At worst, the strength in numbers tactic may be used for direct or indirect bullying or harassment.

Ironwood's overall strategy is simply sowing fear and doubt into an enemy that he doesn’t understand with large and unnecessary shows of power wasting resources to cover a wide variety of unknown enemies that pose a threat to him regardless if they are with Salem or not. This is best seen with the thousands to millions of cheaply made androids that are only effective in large numbers and the one ship of the line that was too big to be suited for warfare as they function as more of a forward operating base with their great size giving them the intimidation factor without other supporting fleet vessels like frigates or corvettes.(FYI by my count from V6 ep13 there were at least 41 of those ships hovering above Atlas doing nothing)

This is even confirmed by Ironwood in V3 ep3 where he claims this to be the case with this line of dialogue; 

“The people of Vale needed someone to protect them, someone who would act. When they look to the sky and see my fleet, they feel safe, and our enemies will feel our strength.”

This sort of tactic would probably have been useful if it was applied in a conventional warfare plot with people being his opponent as this is a real life tactic used in militaries and the navy especially in the modern era. The problem however is that the plot isn’t about conventional warfare nor is it a battle between people but with monsters where these tactics are meaningless  to them. These tactics are ineffective when compared to Salem’s psychological hit & run terror tactic being used in a setting like RWBY’s are quite effective and more useful than anything Ironwood can come up with. Even though they rely on opportunity and time to become a practical threat the end result is a huge payoff to the one who applied them with that being Salem. 

To sum it up when it comes to the foils of war between these 2 characters all you really need is the right tactic, strategy or plan and everything falls into place regardless of whether you have an army or a handful of misfits all it takes is careful thought and patience something of which Ironwood has shown to be lacking.

In conclusion what we learn from these foils are Leadership, Heroism, and War and how no matter what Ironwood was always on the short end of these traits and was never going to reach his ideal scenario for each of these ideas as he had set high expectations that were well above his capabilities and now he’s paying the price.

The Atlas Meta Narrative’s influence on Ironwood

Based on my research and what I have stated before; the greatest source of Ironwood’s flaws and antagonism is largely due to the influences of his home kingdom; Atlas. 

Just like Ironwood Atlas is also a foil setting and culture to the other kingdoms and the rest of Remnant. The reasoning for this is best explored in the established lore and other expanded material. To help better understand, here is a brief summarized history and development of the Kingdom of Atlas;

Before Atlas came to be it first started as Mantle who began as a group of desperate people trying to survive. Taking advantage of the cold climate of Solitas they were safe from the Grimm and had an unknown amount of time to develop both their technology and culture without restraint or interference. Eventually this progress was stalled due to a Grimm incident in Mantle that forced the current leaders of the kingdom to make radical and unnecessary regulations that suppress basic human emotions and rights instead of putting the effort to protect the people. 

When the Great war started Mantle joined only to ensure that its like minded imperialist ally Mistral would supply them the resources needed to survive. Because of this and the extreme measures they enforced on their citizens to control them prior to the war Mantle was most likely considered the most evilest faction during the war. When the war came to an end with Mantle suffering an embarrassing defeat it led to an age of cultural segregation and discrimination upon Mantle in the post war era.

Following the war Mantle entered an age of isolation and economic depression due to distrust and suspicion from the other kingdoms as they would only view them as this inherently evil and tyrannical force that can’t be trusted. Because of this the lingering scar of the toxic ideology of pre-war Mantle survived and is echoed in its spiritual successor; Atlas where it continued what Mantle couldn’t survive and thrive under the same core ideology that they had 80 years ago when they were still Mantle with only minor changes made to prevent the other kingdoms to intervene and possibly destroy their so called perfect culture. 

After they lost a scar had remained and an echo was created that still lingers to the present. Due to cause and effect Atlas at its core was developed to be this amoral conservative xenophobic dystopia that was being led by corrupt individuals that were in pursuit of their own self-interests rather than serving their citizens and were kept in power by blind followers that couldn’t see their real intentions. As a result Atlas became a culture of exploitation, expansion, repression, and subjugation for the well being of the political entity that is the state at the expense of its people and others. 

In relation to Ironwood as I stated before is a byproduct of this system and is simply one of a long line of blind followers that eventually supplanted the leadership and chose to continue the machine that is Atlas and replaced cogs needed to keep it running as he was once forced to do throughout his life because he doesn’t know of anything else. 

Because of this upbringing and the history of his origins Ironwood was more or less viewed as indifferent in the eyes of his own people and evil in the eyes of others. Leading to a clash of beliefs within Ironwood that resulted in conflicts with others and the main meta narrative theme that we were meant to learn from him; The essence of Being.

The Essence of Being

Essence is defined as the core nature or most important qualities of a person or thing. Essentially the narrative lesson that we can learn from Ironwood is the age old lesson that has been echoed from R.T. longest running series but with a more individual focus. That's right, Ironwood's journey and arc in the story is an inverse and modification of the classic RVB question; “Do you ever wonder why we're Here.”

But in the case of Ironwood it's more focused on an individual person asking and the age old question of Why am I here and what is my purpose and how do they justify and understand it.

As I stated before Ironwood was simply the wrong character in a different genre from a writing and story perspective. But in universe from the perspective of Ironwood it's simply a matter of him asking; “Why am I alive and here, and why am I this instead of that in a world like this?” At some point everyone questions the reality and circumstances of their situation and it's probably common questioning on a world, setting, and reality like Remnant. For Ironwood it’s possible that he’s asked these questions more than anyone. As for the reasons why he would question his existence go as follow;

Why was I born in Atlas?

How do I prove I'm good when others think I’m evil by proxy? 

Why I’m I so weak when compared to more skilled & powerful people?

Why was I made to be reliant on others that can’t rely on themselves?

I’m I respected only for the rank or the man?

Does anyone really care about me or I’m I being used by sycophants?

Will anyone care when I’m gone?

Why won’t anyone give me a chance?

How do I justify and understand the reasons why I'm here?

Does any of this matter in the end?

The core of Ironwood’s journey, actions, motives, and story wasn’t about saving the world, the balance of grey morality of people, or even the preservation of a certain culture, but instead is about cementing a legacy to escape the harsh reality that everything we do will eventually be undone. It's such a freighting thing to fall but is even more freighting is to admit it

In a way Ironwood's story is somewhat relevant to this line from Monty Oum in regards to immortality; “The goal isn't to live on forever; it's to make something that does.” CRWBY has even stated that Ironwood is a forward thinking individual/ A dreamer if you would. Because of this Ironwood was more focused on where he was heading rather than focus on where he was and what he was doing Causing a lot of problems to happen and escalating events to the point that we see them in the shows present. This oversight and negligence is because he continued to believe that, like everything else in his life, it would be righted by the sheer force of his will.

But sadly he is just only one man put on the world for a brief moment of time that is rather minuscule and insignificant on a cosmic and meta level. Everything changes and legacies are either forgotten or are repeated. In the end time and death are the ultimate victors as they undo everything and the cycle repeats itself for better or worse and individuals like Ironwood are just caught in the middle repeating and doing the same thing that has probably already happened and will probably happen again. All it takes is just a matter of time.

My Thoughts and conclusion

For the most part I was pretty much cautious when it came to the character and felt that he was more or less a side character trying to be a main one. The problem with that however in my thoughts is that well he doesn’t really have much to go on to warrant such a status. As well as how the plot has been structured Ironwood was never going to get what he wants. He may have had good intentions but at the end of the day he is only human with his own wants and needs.  

Overall I do feel that his part in the story is over. Mostly because he tried to take the lead of it. Meta understanding aside Ironwood’s time is coming to an end and I hate to say it but it probably would be for the best. Not just everyone else in the show but for himself as well. As I stated Ironwood’s life is Sad because well it never was really his to begin with. It's illogical because he was ill equipped to be a part of the setting that he was in. His death is more than guaranteed because he has nothing left to contribute to the story that can’t be done by anyone else. At this point with the overall message of death in the show it would be mercy and relief for Ironwood as Death is not the worst thing that can happen to you.

I still hold hope though as I’ve come to understand and see why people are fascinated by his character. But for that hope to be possible Ironwood has to let go of Atlas as it has been the main source of conflict between him and everyone else.

Well that's it I’m done for now as this is an analysis of Pre V8 Ironwood and maybe after V8 I may add more research of V8 Ironwood and see how much i got right in the initial analysis. After doing this I hope to do an analysis on Qrow Branwen and other RWBY characters hopefully in a much shorter amount of time as opposed to the months it took me to do Ironwood.(then again this was my first character analysis) Until then be on the lookout for additional bonus content for Ironwood such as;

Character comparisons from fiction

Character comparisons IRL

How you can fight & Kill Ironwood

A more indepth look of his new cybernetics

What Ironwood should have done

His relationship with other characters

The possibility of an Ironwood spin-off

That's all for now. Let me know what you think and thank you all who helped made this analysis possible.

[connorandersons-blog]

heyo! for the prompts, maybeeee KamCon & “Is the weight of your sins too heavy?” <3

So I had to change the line just slightly to work, but literally, I just changed it from a question to a normal sentence. Slight warning for talk about depression/possible PTSD. Hope you enjoy!

Connor had been struggling to come to terms with the fact that he is now a deviant. One that had very clearly turned against humans when he invaded Cyberlife and freed all those androids, marching them down the street in a show of power.

Markus had seemed pleased with him, had assured him Connor was one of them, but not everyone agreed. He saw how other androids’ eyes would follow him when he walked around New Jericho, he saw how their stress levels jumped at the sight of him.

He didn’t mean to scare them, and he tried to make them more comfortable by forgoing his old jacket in lieu of sweater vests or long sleeve sweaters. Those were pretty comfy and he liked when jackets or hoodies were a little too big for him so that his hands would be hidden inside the sleeves.

He was trying to find things like that that made him happy. It was hard to identify emotions and he seemed to like hiding from him. All other androids seemed to be so emotional, but not in a bad way! They just laughed so much, smiles wide and bright on their faces. He’d see an android with their child and the absolute adoration was incredible to witness. How anyone could see the sentience in these people was beyond him.

Even their anger and hatred were clear and vivid. North’s was so strong that Connor shrank back when she’d turn towards him with that look on her face. The first time that happened she’d softened up immediately and promised Connor she wasn’t mad at him or going to hurt him. He tried to remember that but her anger was just so potent.

Connor sometimes felt… or actually, he just didn’t feel. He was numb to the world around him, and if he wasn’t so numb it would scare him. His face was passive, though he tried to smile or frown when appropriate. He went through the motions of his new life, laughing when someone would tell a joke and yet he felt no humor.

The numbness was different from the numbness of being a machine. When he was hidden behind his programming he could still feel wisps of emotions, like looking through frosted glass. He could still see the shapes and some colors but he could see any real definition.

Now it was like he had the blinds closed completely and every now and then a breeze would move the fabric and he’d get to see for just a small bit before the fabric settled again.

Something was wrong with him, and he went to the one person who knew everything about androids.

Kamski’s house was beautiful in the spring, the flowers here in full bloom and the water sparkling with the afternoon sun. It had a peaceful feel to it with the birds chirping away and the sound of the river. Connor could almost feel that peace and he clung desperately to it before having to let it go so he could go to the door.

He tilted his head when a Chloe opened the door and let him in. He had thought all the Chloes would leave, but there was the very real chance she wasn’t a deviant. There had been a law that everyone must give up their androids to allow them to be deviated, but if anyone could get away with not doing that it was Kamski. That didn’t bode well for Connor.

“Are you deviant?” He decides to just ask outright. If she said no then he’d… well he wasn’t sure. He’d go back and tell Markus and let the group decide what to do from there.

Chloe chuckled and ran a hand through his ponytail, starting to braid it with nimble fingers. “I am. We all were when you visited, glad to see we could fool even you.”

“Oh.” He should have noticed, it was his mission at the time to stop all deviants and yet he hadn’t noticed a house full of them.

“Don’t feel bad, we figured you’d be coming at some point and we prepared. If it’s any consolation, you couldn’t have hurt Lila, the Chloe you were told to shoot. Elijah already had all her memories backed up and a body ready just in case. But thank you for not shooting her either way.” Chloe, or whatever name she has chosen for herself, smiled at him gently.

He should feel happy or relieved, but he just doesn’t so he only nods. Chloe gives him this look that’s a bit too knowing before smiling again.

“He’s ready to see you, follow me, please.” She leads him through a door he hadn’t gone through and down a hallway that had a few other doors that she ignores. She lets him into the room that is bathed in natural light.

The waiting room was teal with grey wicker chairs and a few plants on the window-sill. A few bookshelves line the left side wall, a small couch positioned for a place to sit or even lay down while reading. Kamski is sitting on said couch with a book in his hand and a pair of glasses perched on his nose.

He glanced up when Connor walked in, grabbing a bookmark and sliding it between then worn cream pages before shutting it. “Connor, congratulations on the successful revolution, very impressive.”

Kamski doesn’t move to stand but neither does he offer Connor a seat. “Thank you, I am glad there was minimal violence.” It could have gone a lot worse, Connor could have needed to use the freshly made deviants to start an all-out war.

Kamski leaned forward, taking his glasses off and setting them down on his book. Connor couldn’t help but watch with rapt attention, something about Kamski making him fascinated. “What can I do for you?”

Right down to business then. “I have been experiencing a lack of emotions at times and I’m afraid my deviation process was somehow fragmentary.” He suspected part of the issues was Amanda and the zen garden. If she hadn’t taken control perhaps he would be normal.

Kamski frowns and motions to one of the seats which Connor takes. So his problem could not be solved quickly. It wasn’t heartening but at least Kamski seemed like he was willing to talk to him. “When you say lack of emotions, could you describe that?”

“It’s like I’m numb, my insides are a bottomless pit of nothing and I just keep falling. It’s cold and there is nothing for me to grab onto. I don’t feel the need to move or do anything, I try to go through the motions because that is what’s expected of me.” He felt a small sliver of panic and tried to hold onto that. It wasn’t a good emotion but it was something and he would not let it go.

Kamski hums, leaning back. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

The panic builds and Connor shakes his head. If Kamski can’t help him then no one can. “You have to! I can’t keep living like this.”

“You need to talk to a professional.”

“You are a professional!”

“Connor.” Kamski’s voice is stern and yet oddly compassionate. It sends a shiver up his spine and he shuts his mouth with a click. “I mean a therapist. The weight of your sins is too heavy. At least, to you, it is, though many would see what you’ve done as amazing. But the fact is it seems like you are depressed or possibly even have PTSD. Both cause emotional numbness. I’m not qualified to help you through this.”

Oh. He hadn’t considered the idea that this was happening because he has emotions. “So it’s not because of Amanda? The garden didn’t damage me irreparably?”

Kamski sucks in a breath at her name and Connor recalls the picture he had seen. Amanda Stern was a real woman, someone Kamski could have looked up to. “I cannot say she didn’t cause this as I don’t know if she caused you emotional distress, but no you aren’t damaged.”

Connor sags in the chair, feeling like a height has been lifted off his chest. He wasn’t broken, he wasn’t going to be like this forever. They’d find a way to help him and he’d be ok, he’d be happy. “Thank you,” he breathes out.

Kamski reaches forward and gently lays a hand on his knee. It sends a shock through him and makes him feel something, but he’s never felt this emotion before. “Of course. I may not be able to help but if you need someone to talk to outside of therapy then I am more than willing to listen.”

He wasn’t sure if he could trust Kamski, but now that he knew Chloe was never in any danger it makes him a bit more willing to try. Plus, he needed to find out what this new emotion was. Who knows how long that would take, but he wanted to try anyways. “Thank you, I think I’ll take you up on that offer.”

[unfilteredaj]

A night out (Rorschach x Reader)

(A/N- This is probably SO OUT OF CHARACTER and it's kind of dumb but I love Rorschach and wanted to write a self-indulgent ficlet)

(Warnings: EXTREMELY corny and self indulgent fluff, Cursing, mention of being followed/a stalker... nothing really that bad tbh.)

---

Rorschach wandered the streets of New York, the crisp chill of the night clearing his head more and more each second. Even though his friends had all been more than welcoming of his couch-surfing, he needed some time away from them. Time without the pressure of a case to solve.

His little bubble of quiet was burst by something odd, to say the least. A girl he'd briefly noticed a minute or two earlier strolled up to him, giving a wave and an excited "Hey!"

She threw her arms around his neck as if he were an old friend. She was wearing a small backpack over a hoodie with a band logo on it and looked no older than her early 20s.

Rorschach froze, confused. He obviously didn't know this girl.

"I am so sorry to just barge up like this but I'm pretty sure I'm being followed. Please just walk me to a bar or something." She whispered, sounding frantic. He looked around, seeing a suspicious looking guy a few hundred feet behind them. Rorschach nodded, playing his part and hugging the girl back. She looped her arm with his as they walked.

…

"What were you even doing out so late? Especially alone?” He asked after a few minutes.

"I dunno. I wanted to see the city at night, I guess. It was kinda dumb to go alone." She laughed, her tension melting. Her giggling strangely reminded Rorschach of the jingling sound her many bracelets and rings made. She un-looped her arm from his, thrusting her hand out for a handshake.

"I'm (Y/N). Thanks for helping me back there."

He returned her handshake, her fiery enthusiasm annoying and a little endearing at the same time.

"Just call me Rorschach." He said gruffly.

She flashed a toothy grin at him. "Pleasure to meet you. So.. where are we going?"

Rorschach shrugged. He didn't really have a destination. "You said to walk you to a bar..."

She groaned dramatically. "That would be so boring, though! A moody, mysterious stranger is far more interesting than a bar. I can't leave now. No way! You're stuck with me. Lets walk and talk a bit more.”

"Fine."

Rorschach let her lead, his own boredom convincing him to stick with this strange woman.

....

"Hey what's with that sign? It pretty neat, and the world IS burning... but why carry it around?" The girl asked after a few minutes of casual conversation that mostly consisted of her talking a lot and Rorschach giving small replies.

He shrugged. "Why deny the truth in the face of Armageddon?" He said rhetorically.

She chuckled, tilting her head at him. She broke into another grin. "Can I hold it?"

Rorschach looked deep in thought for a second, but before he'd thought about it for too long, she grabbed the sign anyway.

He huffed in annoyance and she just stuck her tongue out at him. But he didn't take it back. He instead watched as she twirled it around a few times and admired it.

"You are so weird. I like it!" She said matter-of-factly, handing it back.

Rorschach just rolled his eyes. He propped the sign in the opening of an alley, letting the girl take his hand and drag him along.

"How do you know someone's not gonna steal that thing? Or what if you don't remember where you left it?' She said

"I'll remember, trust me. Everyone knows it's mine."

He noted that she hadn't let go of his hand. He didn't think it meant much, and he didn't really mind, so he didn't pull away. She hummed absent-mindedly as she looked through random store windows.

A few minutes later, they came across an empty park, and the girl let go of his hand, making a beeline for the swings.

She sat, gesturing for him to follow. Under the soft glow of the park lights he could see her more clearly. Her face was flushed, her cheeks a bright pinkish-red from the cold.

“So what’s your story? Do you live here? In the city, I mean?”

Her question seemed innocent enough, but Rorschach knew the whole story seemed more sad than it actually was.

“Yeah. Somethin’ like that.”

The girl laughed again…. She was impossibly bubbly. But paired with her unassumingly pretty face, it suited her.

“And you?” Rorschach gave her an opportunity to talk more…listening was easier for him anyway.

“Oh! I’m just visiting for the winter. But…I kind of want to stay longer. There’s so much beneath the surface here… so much to see and do. So many interesting people.” She nudged him.

“Interesting isn’t the word I’d use. More like dangerous. Someone like you…this city will tear you apart if you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

"....Do you really think the world is ending?" She asked after a long pause.

Rorschach shrugged. "Dunno. Probably. There's so much filth... Bad people doing fucked up stuff..."

"But there are still some good people.... You seem like a good enough guy. I mean, we've been hanging out alone for almost an hour now and you haven't tried anything suspicious. I knew my sixth sense was right."

Her eyes had the same glimmer as a kid telling a friend a secret.

"Sixth sense?" Rorschach asked, his interest piqued.

"Oh, You're suddenly curious for once?" She teased. "I have this sense about people. Like you, for instance. I can tell you're a loner. You think being alone is less complicated. You seem smart, and I think you're a good guy even though you're a bit rough around the edges."

He smiled a little at her observation. It felt strange, but good. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd relaxed like this.

Snow started to fall, a thick veil of white quickly covering the park.

(Y/N) tilted her head back to catch snowflakes on her tongue.

"Let's go get hot cocoa!" She exclaimed, pulling Rorschach from his swing.

"Ok..."

She gripped his hand like an excited kid, pulling him into the nearest 24 hour diner.

....

She giggled as she reached across the table, gently brushing snow from his hair.

"Why?" he muttered, cringing a little.

"Sorry." Her voice retreated with her hand. The red in her cheeks had lifted to a slight pink, but now her cheeks blazed again.

"I'm not really... good with people..." He said. His face showed no shame or remorse. This was just a fact.

"I get it. But.. why help me earlier? Why let me drag you around town all night?" She asked

He stared a her blankly for a long while. Just when she thought he wasn't going to say anything, he answered.

"You needed someone....Maybe I did too." He shrugged, mostly talking to himself.

The Waitress brought them their drinks, And they gladly accepted the warmth.

“I can’t believe you didn’t get hot cocoa! Black coffee is for Cops and School teachers running on empty.” The girl laughed.

“You like me. Why?” Rorschach said suddenly.

“Hmm… I dunno. Helping me lose that guy was the first thing…” She Began. “but you seem so confident in yourself. Like you aren’t bothered by anything. But you have these walls up to keep the world out. You seem like someone who needs help coming out of your shell. And besides, don't think you mind the company, or you’d have dropped me off at a bar an hour and a half ago.”

“I don’t have many friends. I’m not friendly or outgoing. I’m kind of a recluse most of the time. But that doesn't bother you. You’re like a tornado of post-teen energy. I can’t really look away at this point.” Rorschach admitted. And it was true. For some reason, she intrigued him.

“You’re adorable. So angsty. Like a ginger Bruce Wayne… just without all of the annoying ‘rich boy’ machismo.” The girl smirked into her mug of cocoa.

It was a strangely fitting assessment, little did she know.

“Adorable?” He looked at his companion as if she’s just spoken another language.

“Oh for sure! It’s funny though. You've got this... weirdly charming look to you.” Her analysis sounded lighthearted and informal, but something in her eyes told Rorschach that it was genuine.

He guessed if he were someone else he’d like her too. She was nice, in an energetic, ditzy sort of way. And he did find her pretty. Before he could reply, (Y/N) had her face pressed against the glass of the window beside her, admiring the snow.

He took the opportunity to change the subject.

"You like the Snow?" He noted.

"I love it. I'm from the south... We never get to see it." She said longingly.

"Maybe if you stay in the city you could see it more often." Rorschach muttered.

Her eyes were practically stars when she turned to smile at him.

"You think I should stay? But I thought you said it was dangerous."

"That was when you didn't know anyone here. You know someone now."

He sipped his coffee, his eyes flicking away from hers for a few long seconds.

“It’s getting kind of late. Whaddaya say, handsome… walk me home?” She said hopefully.

“…Ok.”

They payed for their drinks, and ventured back out onto the icy sidewalk.

(Y/N) grabbed Rorschach’s hand again as they walked. And, once again, he didn’t protest.

She yawned, leaning against him a bit.

“I’ve had the best time. I’m glad I saw you earlier.” She grinned.

“Letting you drag me around town isn’t the worst night I’ve had…” he replied.

A few minutes later, they arrived at an apartment building.

“Well…this is me. Thanks for the nice night.”

She fished a sharpie out of her backpack, grabbing his hand and scribbling her number on it.

“If you ever find yourself bored and want some company, let me know.” She said.

“I will.” He said, his hand suddenly feeling cold when she let go.

After a few seconds of tense silence, she finally balled her fists into the fabric of his coat, bringing him down for a kiss.

It was quick, and sweet… the same as the night they’d just had.

“Take it easy, Rorschach. And call me.”

With that, she gave a small wave as she disappeared inside.

“What the fuck…”

Rorschach repeated the question to himself dozens of times on the way back to Nite Owl’s apartment.

[queen-bunnyears]

Murder on your mind ~ Tom Holland

Pairing: DCI!Tom Holland x DI!reader

Summary: Inspired by my love for B99, and my guilty pleasures Silent Witness and Luther. What more can I say. 

Wordcount: 5,4k+

Warnings: This is about a serial murder investigation, so it does discuss murder, violence, a chase, guns and shotwounds, a caraccident, unconciousness. They swear. Mentions of alcohol. A small kiss. 

Okay if you need help understanding uk police ranks, (I did) I looked it up. So we have a chief inspector who in this case is the highest rank. Directly under him come the DCI’s (Detective Chief Inspector). Then a DI, (Detective inspector) and for today the only other rank I use is an officer, which is lower in rank than the others.

“And then the remaining time of today's briefing is for DCI Osterfield, he has a case he would like to discuss,” your boss says. Harrison stands up from his seat, and picks up the clicker for the screen.

“Thank you, Miss Carter. So, anyone who likes to take a guess about the crime?” he asks, and immediately hands fly up. “It was committed just an hour ago. Janssen?”

“Money laundering,” Janssens confident voice thunders through the room. He often wins these betting games, but mostly because nine out of ten times it is indeed money laundering. Harrison shakes his head.

“Too bad, it is definitely a big break in,” Claire says next to you. You shake your head. For a break in he would be talking with the uniform officers, he wouldn’t have needed to discuss it. Unless the stolen items are over a million, but then the news would surely have spread across the city already, and the new apps hadn’t put anything online yet.

“Hostage situation?” Jimmy shouts from the desk behind you. Jimmy always wants it to be hostages, because he is the only negotiator at the station. But hostages are way too uncommon, the chief would have told you about it. You know what it is the moment Harrison points at you.

“Too bad, you are all wrong. Y/n, like to take a last guess?”

“Murder,” you say, clicking your pen and closing your notebook. You cock your head to the side, “And it must be real nasty if you wanna discuss it,”

“Bingo! So we have a big ol’ murder on our hands,” Harrison says, clicking to the next powerpoint slide. A photograph of a bloody crime scene comes up. “And it is not just on our hands,” he clicks and points dramatically to the man who comes up on the screen, “This is Tom Holland, DCI in Southwest London. He is gonna be helping me because,” the next slide shows three almost identical scenes. “It’s a serial!”

“Ohh Tom is a handsome colleague. I would love to do a stake-out with him, if you know what I mean,” Jimmy bends over his desk and whispers to you. You shake your head laughing.

“Jimmy, you have a problem in need of fixing. Have you tried going on a date?” you whisper back. You don’t move quickly enough, and his playful slap hits you on the back of your head.

“For the record, you are way too excited about this,” Claire says, and DCI Osterfield blushes slightly.

“I just want to catch him, and not be a total mood ruiner while informing you,” he replies, clicking to the end of the slideshow.

“Does anyone recognise something from an old case? He works really neat, so Holland thinks it might be someone who has done it before,” The briefing room stays quiet as no one answers. You shrug your shoulders.

“Well please dig in your memory today, anything you remember might help. We have to solve this. I will need assistance, and chief told me detective Y/l/n has just closed her last case. Wanna help me?”

“Yeah sure,” you say, folding your hands underneath your head. The pictures look awful, and nothing like you have ever dealt with.

“Great, we leave for the crime scene after this,” Harrison says, and you nod at him, “Okay, that concludes the discussion. If press asks you about it, direct them to me or to the PR people, don’t tell them anything,” he walks back to his desk while Carter stands up.

“Good luck today, don’t forget to apply for the training day next week,”

“Okay so what is the deal Haz?” you ask. You sit in the car, on your way to the crime scene. He drives, and you drink from the Starbucks cup in your hand, trying to get them to warm up. Police cars are always terribly cold.

“There were three murders last week in Southwest, and tonight one on our area. As you saw in the pictures, it is all done almost precisely the same. So naturally we have to go there, because it’s our area, but the DCI from Southwest will be joining us as well, because he has worked this case for days now,”

“Do you know him?”

“Tom and I were together in high school, and at the Academy. We are good friends. He is an excellent detective,” Harrison tells you. Harrison was in the year above you at the academy, but you never really interacted with classes other than your own. You fall silent, not having much else to say. Your mind goes to the slide show of the victims. All the same position, almost the same place of impact. The photograph of this morning's victim flashes before your eyes.

“Any info on the victim already?”

“Sally Stars, 33, she is a tourist from the US,” you see the image of her again. Small woman wearing a yellow raincoat, lying on her back. Her shoes next to her body, no bag or anything. A big red spot on her chest where the bullet pierced her skin. One shot, quick kill.

“Where in the US?”

“Phoenix, Arizona,” That tells you precisely nothing. Although you don’t know what you hoped for.

“Other similarities between this case and the others, beside how they look?”

“All of them are tourists. It is a drama, working together with all the embassies,” he sounds bitter. The happy, teasing Harrison is gone now. At the station you can joke around, but as soon as you go out it becomes serious business. You hope this case can be solved quickly.

“DCI Holland, please let me through,” you hear a voice say. You look up to see the man from the photograph walking up to you. Removing your gloves you come up from your crouching position next to the victim.

“Goodmorning DCI Holland,” you extend your hand and he shakes it. You put your globes back on while you introduce yourself, “I am detective inspector Y/n Y/l/n. I will be helping you and DCI Osterfield with the case,”

“Great,” he says, before turning away to Harrison. “Please tell me there is anything different on this one,”

“Not as far as I can see Tom,” Harrison says, a thoughtful look in his eyes, “but you know more of the case, does anything seem different to you?” Tom takes his time inspecting the crime scene. He lifts things, ruffles through the bagged evidence and asks for some extra pictures. When he returns to Harrison and you his face looks almost angry.  

“It seems like everything is the same,’ he says, suddenly he slams his hands down, “the fucker did it again. No fucking mistakes, how does he do it?”

“Something will come up,” Harrison says. You look around you, staring at the forensic experts who were bagging the evidence. The answer had to be here somewhere. Then you see a young man bag something a few metres from the body, at the edge of the scene.

“Hey, wait!” you scream, and you walk over to him, carefully stepping on the cleared ground. You almost smiled at what you saw, “Is that a,-”

“A phone,” DCI Holland says and he hurries over to where you are standing. You grab the bag from the stunned mans hands, and take out the phone. It feels icy cold through your gloves, and you see water drops on the side.

“It is soaked from dew and the rain this morning, I hope the lab can get something out of this,” you say, handing it over to Harrison, “It’s turned off, please keep it that way. If they dry it properly it might still work and that makes everything much easier.”

“This is new, the other bodies didn’t have a phone on them,”

“It’s his first mistake,” Harrisons says. You frown.

“Why do you think it is a man?”

“A wild guess, wanna bet on it?” he replies absently. Then he gives you the phone back, “what do you think of this? Does it tell you anything?”

“Old iphone, not a special model, Iphone 5. The case suggests that she is a big Harry Potter fan, that could explain why she was in Londen,” you take the case off the phone and grab the wet piece of paper that sits behind it, “And I wager she has a room in a hotel near Victoria's station. These are directions from there. To the right, past Victoria theatre, and so on. Call the station, they should be able to find the hotel,”

“That’s not right,” Tom says. His mouth is a thin stripe, and his forehead is wrinkled in a frown.

“Sorry what?”

“They already found her hotel room, near Covent Garden,”

“Then were would this lead to?” you wonder, inspecting the note closer.

“That is a very good question.” DCI Holland says, and he walks away. You stare at the piece of paper, as if it would start speaking if you look at it enough.

“Well, let’s go to this adress then,” Harrison says. You take a photograph of the paper and carefully put the phone back in the evidence bag. The ride is quiet, both you and Harrison deep in thoughts about the murder.

“Hello, I am detective inspector Y/l/n, and this is my colleague DCI Osterfield,” you show your badge to the man at the front desk. “We have some questions for you, regarding an ongoing case. Have you seen this woman?”

He inspects the photograph carefully and looks at Harrison. “Yes sir, I saw her yesterday. She came in to rent a safety box for a week. I can show you, although you need her permission to open it, or an official order.”

Harrison looks at you, and you shrug. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Can we see the box please?” he asks, putting his badge back in his pocket.

“Of course sir, follow me.”

“Nothing interesting in the locker, nothing in her hotel room. The first conversations with her family shows nothing of interest. There is no connection between them. Just the tourist thing. So based on that we have to assume he is killing at random,” Harrison is on the phone. He has big blue circles underneath his eyes. Probably matching yours. The second day on a murdur case is always heavy, as most of the evidence is processed, and the first results from the lab come in. You hear some murmurs on the other side and Harrison ends the call. He looks at you.

“Tom is on his way to us. He will bring his map of evidence and everything he gathered with the old cases,” you nod absently, looking at the giant board filled with photos, and the map. Red dots and lines all over the place, but it doesn’t make sense yet.

“Tourists don’t know the city well, so he might be able to guide them somewhere under false pretenses,” you say, “So maybe a cabbie? Who else moves anonymously through the city like that? I wanna see the CCTV,”

“There was no CCTV in the other cases,” Harrison tells you while typing on his laptop, “But we are lucky, they just placed a new camera at the shop across from the entrance of the park. They might have something. The officer should have sent,-” his voice trails off when he opens his mail and sees the file. Behind Harrison you see the door open and DCI Holland walks into the room. Harrison looks up.

“Tom, great, we were just going to watch the CCTV I texted about,” he starts the recording. The street on the screen is empty. “This is 21:00. Forensics guess she died around midnight,”

The screen stays empty as the video goes on to 21:00. At 22:38 a man walks through the screen with his dog. The small clock in the corner ticks through, 23:00, 23:30, 00:00. Just as Harrison wants to stop it you see something move in the corner.

“There,” you point at the bicycle that comes into view. A man is riding it, and when he turns into the park you and Tom see it at the same time. You shoot up, pausing the screen. 01:04.

“That’s her,” Tom says. Limp, on the back of the bicycle sits a woman, “is she conscious?”

“I don't think so, see here, he hits a bump and she doesn’t react at all,” Harrison says, playing the shot again.  

“Does he return later?” you watch the remainder of the video three times, but nothing appears.

“He is smart, uses another exit. Who knows what happened after this, we need more on him,” you say, noting the times and details in your book.

“First we need to know who he is. Did they run facial recognition already?” Tom asks, turning to look at Harrison, who shakes his head.

“No, we are the first to see this material. Get the boss, I want to run this man through the system immediately.”

“I know him,” Carter says. She sits up straight in her chair and starts the tape again. She pauses it right as the mans face is in view. “Jason Sanders, ex police officer. He used to work for me back in the 90’s. He has grown older, but I am like 99% sure it’s him.”

“If he is an ex copper his face should be in the system,” Tom says. You just nod, noting down the name, and opening your laptop to start a google search. Two clicks and you are on his facebook profile.

“Yes he is a perfect match. Look at these pictures,”

“Okay, I want Claire to run a background check,” Harrison says, pointing at her. “Names, friends, family, address, possible gun registration, workplace. I want to know everything you can find. First, run his face through the system, I want to be sure it's him,”

“Sure, that should take about an hour,” she immediately opens her laptop and starts typing. Tom clears his throat.

“So, two of us have to go to the lab and talk with the forensic experts. And one needs to go through the three cases, see if we can find a new link. I have stared at the cases for hours now so I think it’s best if one of you takes a fresh look.”

“I will do it,” Harrison replies just a second quicker than you, “Y/n can go with you to the lab. I believe Henry will do the post-mortem, so she is probably happy to go with you.”

“I will tell you one more time Haz, no funny business between me and Henry,” you say with a stern look on your face, but you smile afterwards. Harrison always jokes about the doctor at the lab who has a small crush on you. In return you tease him endlessly about the defense attorney who is just a bit too sweet and open to Harrison for it to be professional.

“Well if the two of you are done wasting time can we leave, Y/l/n?” Tom is at the door quickly walking outside, but his harsh look doesn’t go unnoticed by you and Harrison. Harrisons shrugs his shoulders and you follow Tom through the door.

“Can you tell us anything interesting?” you ask Henry who is standing in front of a big window that shows the postmortem room. You look inside, shivering at the sight of the body on the table with all it’s organs stashed neatly beside it.

“There are so many interesting things to tell,” he laughs at Tom’s annoyed face, “Let’s get to business,”

“Please,’ Tom sighs, causing you to roll your eyes at Henry behind his back. Henry points to the large body bag on a table in the far corner of the room.

“That’s her. Full postmortem will be done tomorrow, it’s busy, but here is what we already can confirm. Victim is female, nothing weird about her body or anything like that. He probably killed her with that one clean shot. She has been drugged, we found alcohol and ketamine in her blood,”

“Just like the others,” you add. Henry nods and walks through the lab to a screen. He clicks on some buttons. A file opens, and you see a tinder profile and some messages.

“But Jackie ran tests on her phone, and there was a damned good reason he kept the other two.” You look up interested at those words, nodding to Henry to continue, “She was on Tinder, trying to make friends to go out with during her stay. She has texts with a man whom she had a date with last night. He called himself James, and had a random model photo on his profile,”

“Did you run that profile through the computer? Anything?”

“We can’t track the phone that belongs to the profile. We are waiting for access to the profile so we can see his other messages, that should be here later this afternoon. There is a possibility this is the way he finds and contacts his victims,”

“Shit” you say. Tom looks at the text chain unmoving. “Holland, are you okay? This could be a breakthrough.”

“Yes, could be. But we know nothing yet. Nothing is sure,” he says curtly. He walks to the door. “You let us know when the rest of the data is in,” he opens the door, gesturing for you to come after him. You stretch slowly, and smile at Henry.

“Thank you so much for your hard work, this could really mean much for the case,” you say, sending a provoking look towards Tom, “And I am sure my colleague here is just as thankful, don’t mind him, he has a bad day.”

“No problem Y/n, see you later,” Henry replies, sending a broad smile your way. You nod one last time before following Tom outside.

“What was that?” the anger in his voice is apparent. You smile sweetly and pat him on the shoulder.

“That, DCI Holland,” you pause shortly and look him in the eye, “was common decency. Be kind to the lab, and they will be kind to you. That applies to more things actually,”

“Don’t tell me what to do,”

“Don’t be unkind then,” you say, smiling at him, ignoring the irritation that burns within you. Damn that man. But you have dealt with a lot of unkind, bitchy police officers in your days, you won’t let him bring you down. You walk towards the car, grabbing the key from Holland's hand. “I’ll drive,”

Stakeouts are your least favourite part of being a detective. Nothing is worse than sitting the entire day, hoping for something to happen. You always called it the most boring aspect of your job. Even paperwork was more exciting. Problem was, you were very good at stakeouts. You somehow always noticed the change in a pattern that pointed to whatever you were looking for.

You sit across Harrison, your teacups on the table between you. The cafe is extremely busy, but you barely hear the noise around you. Your head is in filter modus. Tinder hadn’t yet given access to the account, so you and Harrison went to the place “James” had met up with Sally. You have been sitting here all day, going over some paperwork to pass the time, and with every hour your hope of seeing the person who pretended to be “James” dies a bit.  

“What do you think will happen if tinder James is not Jason?” you wonder, stirring in your tea. Harrison looks up at your words.

“Well I am sure it has to be him. All the clues point to him,” he says, taking a sip of his tea. “The CCTV, suspects report, psychology sketch, background. His clean kills, any good copper knows how to clean up after himself. And we can’t find him at his home, because his wife kicked him out,”

“Good for her,” you mumble. Harrison chuckles, chugs the remainder of his tea and puts his papers in his bag. “Wait where are you going?”

“To the office. Tom is here to do the rest of the day with you. It’s only two hours.” he says. He gets up and stands up. He walks away, then turns around. He puts his hand on your shoulder. “Try not to kill him please,”

“Ha ha. I will try,” you say,

The hours with Tom are absolutely boring. He doesn’t even really look at you, let alone talk to you. And again, no one shows up. When the cafe closes you and Tom pack up your stuff, and walk outside. Then you feel your phone buzz. The screen flashes; Henry.

“Hey Henry”

“Are you in a car?”

“Almost, why?”

“Get in there and drive to Borough Market,” you turn to Tom and start walking faster.

“Get in the car Tom!” you almost shout as you run towards the driver side. Your emergency senses kick in, adrenaline courses through your body.

“We got to his profile, he has a meeting there in less than 10 minutes. Seventeen year old Canadian girl,”

“Shit,” you curse, and you slam the car door behind you. Your fingers fumble to get the key in the lock, but when you have it you immediately drive away. Tom hasn’t even closed his door properly. You put Henry on speaker and push on the button you put your sirens on. In front of you the cars make way for you.

“We’re driving, tell me everything,”

“We just got access to his profile, and we saw the meeting. At Borough market, 6 PM by the fudge stand. Harrison is at the station, he won’t make it in time. Look for Jason, and the girl has blonde hair, blue eyes. Her Tinder says she is nineteen, but we looked her up and she is seventeen. Harrison told me you two are closer, so hopefully you’ll be on time. He is on his way. I have to go,” you hear the beep that signals Henry has ended the call, and you take a quick left.

“Do you need me to navigate?” Tom asks. He is checking his gun, and picks a weapon stick from the glove compartment. You start to shake your head, but then you nod.

“It’s rush hour, could you check the streets I need to avoid?” you are calm now, your initial surge of energy is slowly leaving your body, making room for your more rational side. Tom is looking through his maps, and reassures you that you’ll be fine with the usual route. No detours.

“Could you check my gun Tom?” you ask, and you lean forward so he can grab it from your belt. He hesitates. “Come on I ask you to. You won’t even touch me. Quickly now ‘cause we are almost there,” He grabs the gun and starts to check it. You see you are getting closer to your destination, so you switch off the sirens. No need to alert everyone you are coming. Two minutes later you see Borough Market appear.

“Okay we both get out and walk to the stand. Do you know where it is?” Tom shakes his head. You park the car, put your gun back in your belt and cover it with your coat. “Luckily I do. Follow me, stay close, we don’t want to attract attention.” You walk towards him and he wraps his arm around you so you are close to him. It is an old tactic, one you have done about a million times with Harrison. You look like an uninteresting couple, and your heads are close, so whispering is easy. Perfect cover. But you feel Tom’s arm burning through your coat. That never happens with Harrison.

“Okay, lead the way,” he says, you shake your head to get rid of your thoughts and you start walking towards the market. You see the fudge stand, but no one suspicious around there. It’s busy, the market is closing soon, and the sellers are trying to sell their last bits.

“Do you see anything?” Tom asks, and you shake your head. You see a plate with testers for fudge and you walk over there. With the fudge in your hand you seize the opportunity to stand still and observe the whole market. Then you feel Tom shake your shoulder.

“There, at six.” you slowly look to your six o’clock, and you see a young girl. “She matches the description. We ought to approach her,” Tom says. You nod and step towards the girl, but then you freeze. At the other side of the market, close to your car, you see a man. Jason. You are sure, and then you see him dragging another young girl with him.

“Tom it's not her, there he is,” you don’t realise you are running until you feel yourself push people out of the way. Jason and the girl are about 50 metres away from you, but there are many people between you. Jason pushes the young girl in the back seat of a car, and you hear yourself shouting.

“Stop! Stop!” You run as fast as you can, but you feel your gut sinking. You are too late. As you see Jason step into his car you memorise his number plate. You try to throw yourself before the car, but you are too late to stop him from driving away. You pull your gun out, but you realise it is of no use in this busy street. You could hit his tires, but then he might swerve and hit some bystanders. You curse loudly.

“In the car, now!” you hear Tom shout from behind you. You start to run again, and launch yourself into the driver's seat. Your sirens blare, your tires screech, but you have him in vision. As you are driving you recollect your breath, and next to you you see Tom fastening his seat belt.

He calls Harrison, who says he can already see your car. Without looking away from the road you ramble the number plate to Tom, who repeats it for Harrison. You hardly hear their conversation, but you do feel the blood pumping in your ears. The car before you is driving unsteady, as if Jason is not yet sure what he is going to do.

“Where is he going to go? It is rush hour, traffic is awful! And he drives towards the city centre,” it doesn’t make sense to you. Until you see him diving towards a bridge over the Thames. Then it clicks.

“Shit, he is going to drive off the bridge!” you shout. You look to your side, and in Tom's eyes you see the same conclusion you just came to. Your mind races, searching for a solution. You see the car before you change lanes. You push the gas harder, accelerating and you also turn to the left lane, “I am gonna block him!”

“Are you sure? We might get hurt,” Tom panics. His hands are gripping on the side of his seat, his eyes wide from the adrenaline. Or fear, you don't know. Before you the car goes to the left, heading straight towards the rather fragile looking railing of the bridge.  

“He will hit the seat behind me, not us,” you say, changing lanes, “I am like 75% sure this won’t end up getting us hurt. Badly.”

“That is not very comforting, Won’t he push us off?”

“No I don’t think so, trust me Tom!” you are driving faster now, and his car is almost near the edge. The last seconds before the hit seem like ages. With a bang the car hits the side of yours, precisely in the backseat of the driver side, as you predicted. You moan in pain as you feel the impact.

“Get out Tom! Catch him.” you scream, trying to cover up the fact that you are in pain. Getting your own door open appears impossible, and you use your gun to smash the window to get out. You feel adrenaline rush through your body, your mind blank, nerves numb. Your moves are by instinct, and when you see Jason run towards you, you throw your body towards him, blocking his way and bringing him to the ground.  

“Jason Sanders, you are arrested on the suspicion of triple murder and attempted murder. Anything you say now can be used later in court,” you say as Tom gets the handcuffs on him. Behind you the other police cars all stop, and you hear Harrisons voice as you shakily get up.

“What was that!?! Y/n that was not safe!” you ignore his worries. First you need to see the girl. You stand beside Jason's car opening his backdoor, and you try to lift the unconscious girl out. Another officer takes it from your hands. “Are you hurt?” Harrison continues as he comes to a halt next to you.

“No I normally leak blood out of my side,” your adrenaline rush slowly comes to an end, and you feel the pain now. Your head feels heavy. “Probably cut it when I climbed out of the window. Also, I might have a concussion from the hit,”

Ten minutes later you sit in the open back of the ambulance. The victim is in the bed inside, and you were relieved to hear she had only passed out from the shock, but furthermore she was fine. After they checked on her a medic found time to stitch the scratch on your side. After their close examination your injuries are deemed minor. A deep scratch that looks fine after it is nicely stitched up and wrapped in bandage. After careful inspection of your head, they conclude you don’t even have a concussion.

But after that, you catch some faint whispers about shock and mental damage as they sneakily look at you. A blanket is wrapped around your body, and a few moments later, you also receive a cup of tea. And another blanket. You are about to run away when Harrison walks up to you. He clears his throat when he sees you, and gives you a quick hug.

“I have a lot of things to say, but none of them matter now. Well done on getting him,”

“Harrison, they keep putting blankets on me, I don’t want the blankets,” you say, shrugging them off and giving them to him.

“You’re in shock” he says, putting the blanket back over your shoulders. You shrug it off again.

“Yeah, not really. And even if, that wouldn’t mean I need blankets, I need booze,”

“Booze and a concussion are a terrible combination,” Harrison shakes his head at your comment.

“I don’t even have a concussion or pain meds. Really, I am fine. Where is Tom? I probably have to say sorry for risking his life.”

“Only if I file a complaint with HR,” Tom's voice makes you sit up straight and look around you. He walks around the corner of the ambulance. “Something I won’t do,”

“Oh great. Well I am sorry anyways. It was way too risky.”

“You executed it perfectly,” he says, a hint of a smile on his face, “Now I believe you said something about a drink, didn't you?”

Harrison laughs with you, but then excuses himself.

“You two go have that drink, I need to fill in all the paperwork. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,”

“Your loss,” Tom says, before turning to you. “Let’s go?”

“Lets go.” You say, smiling as he offers his hand to help you up. You think of slapping it away, but then you feel the stitches pulling in your side and you decide to take up his offer. Just this once.

~ One year later ~

“I can’t believe you had to almost kill him before he dropped his bitchy act,” Claire says laughing as she gives you the paper back. You and Tom shine on the cover of The Guardian, a press photograph taken on the night of Sanders' arrest. “J. Sanders locked up, evidence overload in serial killer case” the headline says. 

After the arrest things moved slowly, Sanders his lawyer was a very persistent man. But now, months later the court case was wrapped, Sanders' guilt proven, and the judge ruled for the maximum sentence. 

“Yes, his resting bitch face was a pain during that investigation,” you chime in, taking a sip from your beer. 

“I am glad I dropped it though,” Tom says next to you, his arm wrapped around you. You smile, pressing a kiss on his cheek. So much has changed. 

[oveliagirlhaditright]

Lie to Me

https://archiveofourown.org/works/33943738

Summary: In an AU where L wins the Kira case and Light goes to prison instead of being executed, L gets it into his head that Light should become an executor: because that would see his need for justice and killing done.

Author’s Note: This is actually the first idea I had and first thing I started writing after I finished watching Death Note.I wasn’t sure I was comfortable sharing it with you guys. But I guess I am:)

L’s PoV

L was heading towards… a certain place after the Kira case had been closed for quite some time.

And why he was heading there, he wasn’t entirely sure. It wasn’t as if he owed Yagami Light anything…

Perhaps, L thought, as he now walked into the prison that housed the mass murderer, he was doing this because he wanted to believe if he ever got locked up, someone with his mind would be given a chance like this… or something much better than this idea.

But whatever the reason was, L was walking towards Light’s cell now, to offer him a deal: a deal that had been playing in the back of L’s mind for a long time, even while he’d also been trying to come up with any and all evidence to incarcerate Light.

Finally—after all sunlight faded away and the last seagull silenced itself—L was being led through the massive metal door that would lead him to Light. And L would be facing him by himself. Something that Watari and everyone at Wammy’s House had loudly protested, but L knew that to even get a twenty-seven percent chance that Light would listen to any of this, he would have to go it alone.

L had reassured everyone, of course, that Yagami Light wasn’t one for killing people without his favorite magical notebook. And he knew that he’d be watched on any and all available monitors like a hawk, which was fine.

The Wammy’s boys (Near, Mello, and Matt—perhaps Matt and Mello in particular) had tried to convince L to bring a bomb in with him—one that Light wouldn’t be able to activate on L quickly enough, if he got it away from him, because it was made out of new technologies that Light hadn’t had the benefit of seeing—that he could throw at Light if the man pulled a fast one on him, and then make a run for the door.

But as L thought that there was a thirty-seven percent chance that that would actually cause more harm for him than good, he’d decided to use his intellect here as he always did… and pray to any god that might exist that Light was off his game after these few years (even though that would make this incredibly boring).

L pushed the door open, and was met with the sight of a lot of orange, brown, and grays: dull, fall colors, that had lost any and all shine. Honestly, what had he even been expecting? Perhaps this had been a mistake…

“Well, if I haven’t earned a visit from the one and only Ryuzaki,” Light sang, looking up from the Bible he’d been reading, the moment L crossed over the threshold. And it didn’t escape L’s notice that Light didn’t call him “L”, which clearly meant that he wasn’t seeing this as a victory against him—as it clearly wasn’t that—but it also meant that Light was beyond bitter here. L wondered how that would make the rest of their interaction play out, as he crossed the room and sat in the table across from Light. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Are you here to finally tell me how good orange looks on me?” In some ways, he was perceptive as always, L supposed.

“While I would, perhaps, love to rub it in your face again, that I beat you—because yours surely was the best case that I have yet won,” and here L locked eyes with Light to remind him that he had won, and it would be foolish to think that he could try and turn the tables right now, “once of doing that was more than enough. Not everyone is as narcissistic as you are, Light. No… I’m here for… sympathetic reasons, oddly enough. And you don’t have to believe me about that, but it is the truth.” And it was clear Light must not have believed it for a second, because he’d scooched his chair back from L’s furiously, the moment the words had left his lips.

He’d moved the seat back, but hadn’t gone to stand up. And that was smart on his part—Light had always been so smart—because if he had, L had no doubt that, quite ironically, all sorts of police and guardsmen would be spilling in this very moment to be giving Light a lethal injection.

So, it seemed that even in prison—where so much was ripped away from one—of course, Yagami Light had found a way to hold onto his careful reactions. This was very good.

L could respect that.

“I don’t believe you!” Light hissed, as some of the old fire returned to the young man. And his pupils dilated, and there was certainly a maniac look to them, but no red.

And L was taken aback to find that he somehow missed the red.

“All you ever wanted was to solve the Kira case more than anything else! It was just another trophy to add to your case! The most impressive one of all, in fact! And you didn’t care who you had to throw under the bus to get there, or if you had to act like Kira himself to achieve your goals. So, why would you start caring now? Odds say that you don’t.”

L could have said something to that, like, “How funny it is, that you now start talking about odds, when I always thought that that was my forte,” he knew. But the truth was… he didn’t have the time for their game, even though it had once been his favorite one of all.

A new technology had just been unveiled that could recognize faces with seventy-five percent accuracy one-hundred thousand miles away. And L just knew that it was at once going to be nuclear warfare, if he didn’t get out there and explain why seventy-five percent still wasn’t accurate enough and would leave too many innocent civilians murdered in cold blood and destitute. So, if Light wasn’t going to be interested in the deal L had to offer him here, he really couldn’t care less.

As it was, he was missing tea time right now, anyway, and he quite liked tea time.

Examining his nails in a very bored manner, L continued on with, “Like I said, Yagami Light, you don’t have to believe me. But I have an idea… since we both once loved our game with each other so much, how about we play another one together right now? Give me one good reason as to why I should give you an opportunity, and shouldn’t leave you to rot her for eternity, like you so rightly deserve?”

Light seemed to withdraw into himself at that… and he looked so very small. And as he did, L found that maybe he was finally truly feeling the sympathy he’d told Light that he had from the onset here.

It must not have been easy, L imagined, dealing with the world’s greatest ice queen in the world, who lived behind such an impenetrable fortress.

Nor must it have been easy to try and look like you had something to gamble with, when everything had been taken away from you.

The gears were clearly turning in Yagami Light’s head now. And L wondered if when they were done spinning, if he would actually hear some sort of fantastical truth from the man, or another lie. Surely the latter, since if there was one thing Yagami Light didn’t do, it was tell the truth.

Finally, Light looked up at L with sorrowful eyes. And L imagined that everyone who was watching this scene unfold with him right now, was also waiting with bated breath to see what the serial killer would have to say.

“Did you know my father once tried to kill my cat, L?” Light asked.

And there was his name, “L”, again. So, Light clearly must have thought he could win this one. And L thought he must have been lying, since he was speaking of something so traumatic far too matter-of-factly right now.

But, then again… Light was calling Soichiro “father” as opposed to “dad” for once. And sometimes trauma victims did speak matter-of-factly to try and keep their emotions at bay.

Hmm… L tried not to give anything away here, but Light definitely have L wondering if he’d missed something important in the Kira investigation. And L didn’t know if that was good or not. He had asked for this—and perhaps had even wanted a battle he had chosen, as opposed to the one he now had to partake in for necessity—but was it really a good idea to have a battle of wills with Yagami Light again?

No matter what he thought, L knew the best thing was to try and play it all off, of course. “No, I was not aware of that, Kira. It didn’t come up in anything I researched about you in our time together. If this is true, I assume your family kept it under wraps to protect your father’s reputation? Do tell me about it.”

“Yep. That’s exactly it,” Light allowed, and he was looking at his forearms that rested on the table now, as if he was lost in thought. Lost in his memories, maybe more accurately. So, perhaps, there was some truth to all of this, after all.

L truly hadn’t come here expecting to feel anything for Yagami Light today, but he found he was doing exactly that, and he hated himself for it.

He would not again be the man on a rooftop, looking at who he believed to be his future killer with regret, as he heard bells ring in the distance. He would not.

“It was late one night… Dad was tired. And maybe a little drunk… This was the only cat we ever had, by the way. An orange furball that Sayu had begged that Mom and Father let us have. Eventually, they relented. Anything, for cute Sayu, of course. And I felt the same way. But… it had stomach problems, and hairballs all the time. Mom cleaned it up as best she could. I helped, too. But Father hated this about the thing.

“One night… I guess the stress of everything became too much for him, and he was chasing Aki, the cat, through the house, saying he was going to kill her, and was throwing coat-hangers at her… until Sayu and I intervened. But mainly it was me. I don’t know if it would have gone further than the coat-hangers, if Father’s two little kids hadn’t tried to stop him then, but…

“Anyway, Dad never had a psychotic break like that ever again, so we all just dropped it...”

The way Light had told the story… it mostly seemed true to L. And he hated that after once having said that there was never a time that Light told the truth, that he would now ven entertain that notion.

He also despised that he now thought it made some sense, then, that Yagami Light would go serial killer, since he’d had the trauma of seeing his father attack an animal… and seeing as how he couldn’t really get any help, as mental illness was so stigmatized in Japan.

But Light did not need to know any of these things from L, of course. All he needed to know was that he had passed the test.

And for Yagami Light, who had only ever wanted to get the best grades and be society’s greatest being—and to be a “god”—surely that would be enough.

“Light… what if we put your desire for justice—and death, to an extent—to practical use? What if you became an executor, instead of wasting away here?”

And the moment the words had left his mouth, L wished he could take them back. Because certainly Kira would object that he wasn’t a killer and never had been.

But instead, Light just dabbed at his eyes some—had he started crying?—and shook his head as if he were truly lost, “…If you think that’s the best thing for me to do… I guess I’ll do it. Clearly, I don’t know what’s right, and you’re wiser than I could ever be. So, when do I start?”

L meant to fill Light in then, that it wouldn’t be right away.

No. Some trust would have to be built first, before they let Kira anywhere near lethal ingredients or people he would put in the electric chair, of course.

But L couldn’t find the words.

He was, one, feeling too much guilt, somehow, by what had just transpired….

And two, finding himself almost aroused at the idea of Light wielding such power, but using it rightly this time.

“Watari will get you the information. He’ll be in touch.”

And L headed back through the large metal door, without another look towards Yagami Light.

He had once thought it held Light’s fate… but he was starting to realize that perhaps it held his own, too.

And if he was intelligent, he would never see the man again.

But had he ever truly been intelligent?

L had to ponder that now, when he knew without a shadow of a doubt… he would be seeing Kira again.

[simplyclockwork]

I am a huge fan of your writing. I would love a post season 4 fic where we see John and Rosie move back to 221b. Sherlock has an accident and breaks an arm and a leg. As he is wondering how he will take care of himself John turns up to collect him from hospital like its the most natural thing in World that he will take care of Sherlock. The focus is John wanting a chance to redeem himself. Happy Johnlock ending please. I’m over 18. Smut optional!

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Hi, anon! Thanks for your patience with me filling the prompt. Hopefully, you like what I’ve written :) Please feel free to send a prompt anytime!

You can also read your prompt on Ao3 here. The rest of the fill is below the page break.

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It’s only been a couple of weeks since John moved back to Baker Street, with his few belongings and infant-daughter in tow. Sherlock is still adjusting, and so is John, while Rosie bounces about the place like a tennis ball. She provides a perfect distraction, a much-needed buffer between John and Sherlock, who are still trying to find their way back to something considered normalcy.

Whatever their new normalcy is, Sherlock doesn’t know. He just hopes they find it soon because the unresolved tension hovering over 221B is starting to drive him mad.

Things are different. Better than they were before when John… well, that was before, and this is now. Sherlock tries not to dwell on their brief tilt into insanity. Mary, the aquarium, Culverton Smith, Eurus and Sherrinford. Each has taken a toll on Sherlock in one way or another. Things are different. John works at the clinic more often than he joins Sherlock on cases. He has a daughter to provide for, and his evening spent in a well with chains around his ankles has made him somewhat skittish.

Sherlock can’t blame him, not when he feels a little skittish himself—but he’s the world’s only consulting detective. It’s him, or it’s no one, and he’s got a bit of life left in him yet. Casework feels strange without John at his side, but John hasn’t been there in any consistent capacity since Sherlock returned from the dead, so he adjusts.

Sherlock’s had more madness than most, more than enough for several lifetimes. These days, Sherlock tires more easily. Moves a little slower, reacts a little later. Retirement is a word he starts to hear more often, echoing in his Mind Palace and staring back at him from the bathroom mirror when he pokes at the new wrinkles in his face and as he tugs at the silvered hairs appearing at his temples with increasing frequency.

It is pure irony that on the day Sherlock decides to slow down on the more challenging cases, to focus on fours and sixes and the life he hopes to build with John and Rosie, he has an accident.

The case is a straightforward kidnapping that Sherlock solves in minutes. The kidnapee, a young woman in her 30s, named Alice Forbes, is taken from her London flat by an ex-boyfriend. Sherlock leads Lestrade and his team to an old building with a decommissioned lift. Narrow and festooned with disturbed cobwebs, the shaft is dark and accessible with a rusted but sturdy-looking ladder.

In hindsight, Sherlock should have known it was too easy. Should have waited, should have let Lestrade’s men go before him. But, true to his impatient nature, he is the first to rush down the ladder.

And he’s the first to fall when one of the rungs, eaten through by rust and time, gives way beneath his hand, sending him to the bottom of the lift shaft. The fall isn’t far enough to kill him, but it is far enough to break bone, and Sherlock winces at the double crack he hears before agony and fire spill through his left arm and right leg. A cross-body break, of all things, arm trapped beneath him and leg striking a cable at the wrong angle.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade’s voice reaches him from above, invisible in the dark, and Sherlock clenches his teeth to resist the urge to scream.

Definitely multiple breaks, he can tell. Nothing hurts like a break, and right now, Sherlock is ablaze.

“Don’t climb down,” he manages to reply, voice wavering and strained with pain. “One of the rungs broke. Could be others.”

“Fuck,” comes the reply from above. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock squints in the dark, wetting his dry lips with his tongue as he takes stock of his body. At least the two breaks, possibly a mild concussion, and sweat rising on his brow. Shock. “No,” he finally says, swallowing around the taste of bile. “I need an ambulance.

Lestrade spits another short curse. “With how much you hate going to the A&E, I take it that it’s bad?”

“Rather bad,” Sherlock replies, trying for humour and just sounding weak and ragged. “I believe I’m going into shock.”

Instead of answering, Lestrade starts barking orders. Setting his temple carefully against something cold and metal, Sherlock blinks in the dark and takes in his surroundings. A shape shivers and sags against the wall of the lift shaft not far from where he lies. Given Alice’s lack of response to the shouting, he’s not confident she is anything like okay. Only the constant shivering tells him she’s still alive, and he clears his throat before shouting, “Make that two ambulances.” Swallowing, Sherlock sucks in a breath at a ripple of agony from his leg and adds, “I found Alice. Alive, but not conscious.”

“Got it,” Lestrade calls back. A light shines down, and Sherlock squints. He can’t make out Lestrade’s face, and likely the DI can’t see him either, but the beam from the torch is a point of light in the dark, and Sherlock fixates on it. “We’re gonna get you out, alright?”

“That would be preferred,” Sherlock replies, trying for venom and only sounding tired.

A rope snaps down next to his head. Tossed from above, it hangs in the air with a silent expectancy. Staring at it, Sherlock hopes Lestrade doesn’t expect him to climb up the offering. When it begins to shake and wiggle, he knows someone must be climbing down. A small, shaky sigh escaping his lips, Sherlock tilts his head back and closes his eyes. “It’ll be okay,” he murmurs, though whether the comfort is for his benefit or Alice’s, he doesn’t know.

As his mind begins to darken and drift, he feels a pang of guilt for not letting John know where he’d be today. Sherlock has time for one last passing thought of how he’ll manage with two broken limbs, whether or not John will even bother to visit him at the hospital, and if this little stunt will shatter the tenuous connection between them before everything fades away.

***

The faint drone of voices draws Sherlock out of his head, and he opens his eyes to bright lights and white coats. He blinks, squints and blinks again, waiting for his vision to clear. When it finally does, he finds a young woman standing over him with a small smile.

“Hello, Mister Holmes,” she greets, and Sherlock blinks once more before she introduces herself. “I’m Doctor Seif.”

“Hello,” he replies, his voice rough. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “Concussion?”

Doctor Seif nods in sympathy. “Mild, but enough to knock you out. You came in and out of it until we set your leg, then we lost you for a bit from the pain.” She pats his shoulder with a gentle hand. “Your left humerus is broken, but not severe enough for a cast. So we’ve done a splint, but your leg will need a cast.” Moving to set his chart down, she pauses and turns back, adding, “We called your brother—he was listed as your emergency contact. We spoke to his aide, and she said he would be here once he finishes with a meeting.”

Sherlock waves a hand, dismissing both her words and the faint pang he feels at the reminder that John is no longer his emergency contact. “He’ll turn up. Always does, just like a bad penny.” Doctor Seif laughs.

“I have two older sisters. I know just how you feel.” Tapping his chart, she tilts her head. “Now, let’s get you fixed up and out of here, shall we?”

Sherlock’s smile is small and strained, but an attempt nonetheless. “Certainly.”

***

The cast is bulky, and his arm aches in the splint, his pain barely impacted by the basic painkillers. But Sherlock refused anything stronger, and he grits his teeth hard against the discomfort as a nurse helps him into the protocol-dictated wheelchair. Doctor Seif stands next to him with a script in her hand for prescription refills. She hands both the slip of paper and a crutch to Sherlock once he’s seated.

“Let me know if anything changes or you experience worsening pain or signs of infection,” she says, waiting for Sherlock’s tired nod. “Otherwise, I’ll see you in a few weeks to evaluate the arm. Good evening, Mister Holmes.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says in a quiet voice. He is exhausted, his body heavy with fatigue and faded adrenaline. He tilts his head toward the nurse, who begins wheeling him out of the room and down the hall.

They make it only a few feet before footsteps sound behind them, and a panting voice calls out, “Sherlock!”

The man pushing his chair pauses, and Sherlock turns his head to see John trotting down the hall toward them. Bemused, Sherlock glances at the nurse, who shrugs. He turns his attention back to John, who pulls up in front of them with a sigh.

“Sorry,” he gasps, straightening with his hands on his hips as he pulls in a loud inhale. “Took me a bit to get Rosie to her babysitter’s, then there was traffic, and…” John shakes his head. “But nevermind that, I’m here now.”

Sherlock stares up at him. “You’re… here?” he repeats, confused. John’s brow furrows, first with confusion, then with understanding.

“Of course I’m here. Greg called me, then Mycroft.” His frown deepens. “Was surprised to hear he’s your emergency contact.”

Sherlock’s eyes dart away, and he doesn’t reply.

“Sorry to interrupt,” the nurse cuts in, his voice reluctant, “but I need the chair, so if I can wheel you outside…”

“Yeah, of course,” John says, picking up where the words trail off. “I can take it from there.”

The three of them continue down the hall, the nurse pushing Sherlock in the chair with John at his side. They walk in silence, with Sherlock darting quick, bemused looks at John from the corner of his eye. John either doesn’t notice or pretends not to, and Sherlock is grateful for whichever it is.

Once outside, the nurse stops, and Sherlock starts wrestling with the crutch, the chair, his own body until John quietly murmurs, “Can I help?”

Sherlock pauses and glances up at him before nodding once, a stiff jerk of his head. Something like relief and gratitude passes over John’s face, there and gone too quickly to verify. Before Sherlock can take the opportunity to study him, John moves around to his side, the one without a splinted arm, and loops his hand gently around Sherlock’s torso. John helps him onto his uncasted foot, slips the crutch in place, and keeps close as Sherlock tests out a little hop forward. He is clumsy and awkward but mobile and shuffles along slowly. John stays close, helping where he can, one hand resting light and ready on the small of Sherlock’s back.

When Sherlock finally raises his head, coaxed forward by John’s quiet voice, he sees a silver car and freezes. John almost bumps into him and stops just in time, steadying Sherlock.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, tilting his head to look at Sherlock’s face.

Brow furrowed, Sherlock blinks at the car. “You bought a car?”

“Yeah, last week,” John says, relief in his expression. “Easier with Rosie, you know? And paying less rent, well, I thought…” he shrugs, letting the words trail off.

Wordlessly, Sherlock nods and lets John lead him off the curb and toward the car. John opens the door and coaxes Sherlock to drape his uninjured arm around his neck, helping him scoot down into the passenger seat.

Once John is next to him, sitting behind the wheel and waiting for Sherlock to finish getting settled, he doesn’t seem to know where to look. When he, at last, opens his mouth to speak, he and Sherlock talk over one another.

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

“You didn’t have to come all the way here.”

They both go silent and still, staring at one another. Blowing a loud exhale out through pursed lips, John breaks the standoff first.

“First off, I’m glad you’re relatively okay, considering.” Sherlock braces himself for the angry words, the dressing-down. But John just looks at him with a small, tentative smile, and Sherlock stares as John quietly says, “And of course I came.” He clears his throat, eyes darting to the windshield before they return to Sherlock’s questioning face. “I know things have been… well. I know it’s not like it was before, but I… I want to try.” Swallowing hard enough to make his throat bob, John looks at Sherlock with a mixture of hope and uncertainty in his eyes. “I know I have no right to ask for it, but I want a chance to show you things are different.” Hands clenching slowly inward then outward in his lap, John’s voice drops. “I want to show you that I’ve changed.”

“John…” Sherlock starts, only to find he doesn’t have any more words. John seems to understand, a slight smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“I want to redeem myself, Sherlock,” he says and holds up a hand to silence the protests he can no doubt see rising on Sherlock’s lips. “Don’t tell me there’s nothing to make up for because we both know that’s not true.” The small smile fades, and he reaches out to slip his fingers over Sherlock’s where Sherlock’s hand rests on the centre console. It’s unexpected and entirely welcome, and Sherlock blinks down at their hands before looking up at John. “I’m here because we’re a team.” His eyebrows twitch upward, and he adds, “Just the two of us, right? Against the world?” His smile is small and hopeful, and Sherlock feels a rush of warmth at the sight and the words.

“Of course, John,” he replies, nodding. “Just the two of us. And Rosie.”

This time, John’s smile is firm and confident, his laugh pleased and just a little surprised. His fingers curl between Sherlock’s knuckles with gentle but firm pressure. “Just the two of us and Rosie,” he agrees. His eyes glitter, and Sherlock’s lips twitch upward in quiet acceptance.

When John starts the car and guides them out of the parking lot, their fingers stay slotted together on the centre console.

[thelaithlyworm]

Lost Tomb Rewatch

Well. This is all the book-verse. Specifically, Wu Xie’s feelings on meeting A-Ning’s Little Brother:

He opened his mouth and said, “You’re living very well.”

It was useless to explain anything to him. A Ning had really disappeared from this world. I looked at the sky over the courtyard. If A Ning hadn’t died, many things might have subtly changed. But the memory of that day was there and couldn’t be changed. I didn’t want to relive the past now...

-

When he finished his cigarette, he pulled a cigarette case from his pocket and took out another one. He used the butt of his old cigarette to light it and then continued smoking. He looked up at me and said, “My sister didn’t like people. She was a cold and aloof woman, so I don’t think she would like any men. They all looked particularly stupid in her eyes. You know, when a smart woman sees a man, most of the time she feels that they’re amusing. But she was a little interested in you, which I find odd. What are you? What makes you so different from the others?”

“No, she thought I was amusing, too.” I laughed, “I may be more amusing than most people.”

When I recalled A Ning today, I could think of many things that I couldn’t see back in those days. Now, for me, people’s hearts were measurable. It was just like how A Ning looked at me at that time, as if she were looking through a clear piece of glass. For those who had correctly read too many people, it was like seeing too many ghosts and gods. Everything looked like demons and monsters to them. As a result, they always tried to see things that were amusing...

-

Look, on the face of it, Jiang Zisuan wanting to murder Our Hero over his sister’s death is completely ridiculous. Wu Xie didn’t draw her into the profession; he didn’t even draw her onto the Tamutuo Expedition - that went the other way around.

It’s just... like... as far as JZS is concerned, this is the one guy A-Ning admired, maybe a little. Maybe JZS had some unrealistic expectations of Wu Xie’s capabilities at that point of his career.

And as far as Wu Xie is concerned, he was at the time a little guy who could make her laugh, maybe a little.

I dunno, this is all just giving me feelings which I am finding hard to articulate. Something-something, respect for superior capabilities vs. being a balm for someone’s troubled soul.

And I just, I just liked A-Ning so so much, and I liked that prickly friendship they had so much, and then she died and it was completely horrible but at least she still matters.

-

Also also - the book is giving me an explanation of why Wu Xie can just acquire a human skin mask of someone he’d only just met - he learnt the skill of making them from A-Tou back when he was pretending to be 3rd Uncle (and possibly other people in that ten-year time skip). Mystery solved!

(This is a setting where people just have odd abilities sometimes.)

[creativeskullcreations]

Buddy’s Problem part 3

And here's the last chapter! And if it feels kinda incomplete, that's cause it kinda is. I wasn't able to fit everything I wanted to into this fic, so there will probably be another fic later, focusing on Buddy solving his problems with the help of the others.

But that will be in a while, cause I've got other stuff to do first, and other fics to write. Until then, enjoy this fic, maybe check out my other fics, and definitely check out Left Behind, written by my friend @colorfulcollectordragon-2f8ee55c.

Filbo was having fun. Everyone, was having fun as far as he could tell. While they had, originally, gone to Gramble's place for the party it ended up that Gramble practically lived out of an animal shelter. Fitting, for the short Grumpus, but not very good for a party. So they had ended up moving to Wambus and Triffany's house instead, which meant they could be as loud as they want.

Which Chandlo took as a challenge, of course, after he had had a few beers. As it turned out, the bodybuilder was a lightweight, and Snorpy was currently trying to make him be quiet.

Beyond that, everyone else seemed to be having a great time, chatting among themselves or dancing to the music. Though Cromdo and Wiggle had gotten into a bit of a singing competition, it seemed to be all in good fun.

"Man, this is a great party!" Filbo commented to himself as he sipped at his own beer. He didn't get drunk easily, but he still wanted to be able to drive home. He could easily stay the night, but he didn't want to intrude.

He looked out the window, which had a good view of the driveway. No little red car yet, but it was still early. They'd left a note on Gramble's door, so Buddy would know to come here instead.

Hopefully, he'd be able to make it.

But, as the night went on and the party ran down, Buddy never showed up. And Filbo couldn't stop the hard, cold ball of dread from forming in his stomach. Finally, he went to where Wambus was arguing with Snorpy on whether he should continue growing and selling sauce.

"Hey, uh, Wambus?" The farmer turned to face the new Mayor fully, ignoring Snorpy even as he kept talking. "Can I use your phone?"

"Why?" He asked, reaching out to shove Snorpy's hat over his eyes. The poor guy must have drunk more than Filbo'd thought, as he immediately tripped over his own feet and onto the couch.

"Uh, well, Buddy told me he'd come. But, y'know, he never showed up. So I wanted to give him a quick call, and make sure he was okay."

"Sure." He gestured for Filbo to follow, and led the smaller Grumpus to the phone on the wall. He then leaned against the other wall nearby to watch as Filbo dialed in the number he'd memorized, and held the receiver up to his ear.

Nothing, just a dial tone. He hung up, then tried again to be greeted with the same result. He was about to try a third time when Wambus snatched the phone and did it for him instead, frowning at he dial tone.

"Does he usually call people at this time of night?" He asked as he hung up, and Filbo shook his head.

"Not while I was there." He shrugged helplessly, and watched the farmer's frown deepen.

"I don't like this." He said. "We should go check on him."

"What, now?!" Filbo rushed after Wambus as he headed for the door. "But half of us are drunk!"

Wambus paused, then changed direction to where Triffany was talking with Floofty. "Triffy. I need ya to drive me to, ah, to Buddy's house. He's not answering his phone, and he was supposed to be here." He told her.

Oh dear." Triffany put down her glass of water, worry already creasing her features. "Of course I'll drive ya, Wamby. Gotta make sure he's okay, after all."

"I will accompany you." Floofty spoke up, setting their own glass of water down.

"Oh, you don't have to do that, Floofty." Filbo told them. "You can stay and enjoy the party."

"Nonsense. You have been drinking as much as anyone else. You need someone to drive you." They reached over and plucked Filbo's keys from his paw. "And besides, our friend may require medical assistance, and I am the most qualified to give it. It's the least I could do for all the help he's given me."

"Oh, uh, okay then." Filbo followed them out and to their car, watching as Wambus and Trffany got in Wambus' truck. He had to give them directions, as Floofty had never been to Buddy's apartment before. But, they did exactly as he told them, and Triffany followed close behind.

They made it there quickly, and parked in front of the old brick building. Filbo climbed out of Floofty's car as soon as they got it parked, and bypassed the intercom system to head straight for the stairs instead. A few seconds later, he heard the others following behind him.

He stopped at the door to Buddy's apartment, and knocked quickly. "Hey, Buddy? You in there?" No answer, and as Filbo went to knock again Wambus elbowed in front of him and banged on the door instead.

"Open up!" He growled out, and Triffany and Filbo rushed to make him stop.

"Wamby! We don't want to scare the poor dear." She scolded.

"O-or wake everyone else up." Filbo looked around, in case anyone tried to come out and yell at them. When he turned back, Floofty was crouched by the door, something in their hands. "Uh, Floofty? What are you doing?"

"Picking the lock, of course." Floofty suppressed a sigh of annoyance. "Whether he's actually in there or not, it's clear he has no intention of answering. Thus, the only way to gain entry is to do it ourselves."

"But isn't that illegal?" Filbo asked. Floofty paused for a second, then chuckled darkly and finished picking the lock. They stood up and to the side, letting Filbo be the one to actually open the door.

Filbo didn't hesitate to enter the apartment, calling quietly as the others followed. "Buddy? Are you in here?"

"Absolutely disgusting." Floofty nudged an empty bottle with their prosthetic. "Was it this bad the last time you were here?"

"Not really." He looked around the room. "I mean, it was kinda messy  a couple of weeks ago, but not this bad."

"Hmm." Floofty approached the Wall of Paper, reading through each article thoroughly.

"Filbo? Ya might wanna come look at this." Filbo went to where Triffany was standing by the door to Buddy's "spare room". The room itself was filled with file boxes, one of which the archeologist had opened. It was filled with more folders full of paper, each one with a large red REJECTED stamped on the front. Triffany was looking through one, and Filbo, against his better judgement, grabbed one up himself.

It was an article, one written by Buddy if the writing was any indication. He closed the folder and looked at the REJECTED stamp again, before turning back to the stacks and stacks of boxes in the room. Some of them were regular cardboard boxes labeled with things like KITCHEN or PHOTOS. But the vast majority, Filbo was sure, held more rejected articles.

"Looks like our journalist has been busy." Triffany observed quietly. "Maybe too busy. Has he ever mentioned any other friends?"

"I... no. Not to me, anyways." Filbo admitted. He stared at the folder in his hands as he  stood up. "We gotta find Buddy."

"Found him!" Wambus called from the bathroom. The two hurried that way, to find Buddy passed out in the bath tub, Wambus standing over him and reading a bottle. "Looks like he drunk himself into a stupor."

"My respect for him has lowered considerably." Floofty commented dryly as they approached to check his vitals. "At least he didn't try to drive anywhere, or I would have killed him myself."

"Floofty, please." Triffany scolded. "Now is not the time."

"Hmph." They stood up, drying their now damp hands on a nearby towel. "Well, he's still alive, at least. But it would be highly dangerous for him to remain here alone."

"I could stay here with him." Filbo volunteered, and Wambus snorted.

"Not gonna happen." He said, leaning down and grabbing Buddy, hefting him up over his shoulder in a firegrump carry. "We'll bring him back with us."

"Wamby, no. That's kidnapping." Triffany chased her husband down as he power-walked out of the apartment. Floofty and Filbo exchanged a look, then quickly followed them out, the scientist grabbing the keys from the small dish by the door as they passed.

The way back seemed to take less time, though that might've been the alcohol finally taking hold. Filbo tried to focus on what he could see of Triffany and Wambus in the truck in front of them, watching as they apparently argued.

As they pulled up, Filbo noticed that most of the cars were gone. 'Oh. I guess the others left when we did.' He felt a little guilty about that, but it had been quite late already. 'I hope they all got home okay.'

Him and Floofty watched as Wambus climbed out of the truck, the grabbed Buddy and carried him into the house. Triffany followed, wringing her paws together worriedly. Beside him, Floofty sighed.

"I'd better go collect my brother and his partner." They said and left the car. Filbo followed and they went inside, where Triffany was checking up on Chandlo and Snorpy, who were laying on the couch. They approached, but when they got close their face twisted into an expression of disgust.

"Really, Snorpington?" They muttered, but settled onto the floor near the couch anyways. Filbo took the chance to go to where he knew the guest room was, where Wambus had set Buddy onto the bed.

"... Do you think he'll be okay?" The smaller Grumpus asked, watching from the doorway. Wambus just shook his head, turning to leave the room.

"No clue, Filbo. But I think it's time for everybody to get some sleep." He said gruffly. "We've got another couch, if ya need it."

"Oh. Thanks Wambus." He was feeling pretty tired, as it had been a pretty eventful day. And, with what they'd found, he didn't really want to leave Buddy alone. He followed Wambus to the second couch, and settled in for the night.

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

"Ngh." Buddy threw an arm over his eyes as light streamed in through the window. 'Wait, the bathroom doesn't have any windows! Or a bed!' He sat up quickly, then fell back against the pillows as his head throbbed and his eyes burned. 'Mistake! That was a mistake! Ow!' Carefully, he rolled away from the light and slowly opened his eyes, looking around. 'Yeah, no. This isn't my bedroom. I don't know where this is.' He huffed a quiet laugh that made his face hurt. 'Snorpy was right, there is a Grumpinatti.'

As the ex journalist considered whether he was up to fight hordes of possible cultists, the door creaked open, then shut again as someone entered the room. They stopped by the bed, and Buddy managed to turn his head back enough to see Wambus standing there, a mug of something steaming in his paws.

"... How the grump did you get in my house?" Was all he said. Wambus gave a low chuckle, setting the mug down on the bedside table.

"Filbo showed me." The farmer told him. "Drink that when you can. It'll help with the hangover." There was thud from another room, followed by begging and then yelling, thought both were indistinct. "... I gotta go separate those two again. Triffy'll be by to check up on ya soon."

Time passed. Buddy wasn't sure how much, as there wasn't a clock and he didn't have his watch, but he did eventually manage to sit up and drink the... drink that Wambus had brought him. It was absolutely disgusting, so he didn't drink much of it, even if it did help his headache. But eventually, Triffany did come in with some food.

"Hey there." She said, quietly but cheerfully, holding up the plate. " I brought ya some breakfast. "

"Oh, uh. Thanks?" He accepted the plate, but she didn't leave. "Um, why am I... here?"

"Oh, Filbo got worried when you didn't show up at the party last night. And then him and Wamby got even more worried when you wouldn't answer your phone."

"Uh, yeah. I kinda... stopped paying the bill on that." He told her sheepishly. "I wasn't sure I'd be able to afford it without a job, y'know?"

That was a lie, of course. He'd actually taken the receiver off the hook so none of them could call him. But he wasn't going to tell her that, not when she looked so worried about him already.

"Oh honey. That's terrible." She told him, but he just shrugged in response, feeling guilty.

"I mean, it's not the first time. I get paid for the articles that go out, so if that doesn't happen..." He sighed. At least that part was true. "I just hope Beffica has an easier time of it than I've had."

"I'm sure she'll be just fine, dear." Triffany told him. "Say, if you're feeling up to it, why don't you come eat at the table? Filbo and Wambus should be back soon, and they'll be happy to see ya up and about."

"Sure. Why not." Buddy sighed, and followed her to the dining room. He looked out the windows as they passed, but couldn't see his car. 'I guess they went to go it. I hope they went to go get it.'

Buddy stayed mostly quiet while him and Triffany ate breakfast, though a look at the clock showed it was actually closer to lunchtime. Ah well, wasn't the first time he'd woken up late with a hangover. When he did talk, he kept it away from his personal issues, keeping it on more lighthearted topics instead.

Finally, though, Wambus and Filbo showed back up, with the smaller Grumpus driving Buddy's tiny red car. 'Finally!' He thought as he watched them climb out and head for the house. 'Now I can get out of their lives.'

The two at the table stood as the others came in, Buddy just barely restraining himself from snatching his keys out of Filbo's paw. "Did ya boy get everything done.?" Triffany asked.

"Yep." Wambus adjusted his hat. "Threw out all those bottles."

"What?" Buddy deadpanned, then took a deep breath. "You, uh, you only threw the empty ones out, right?"

"Nope." He answered bluntly, and Buddy felt a brief, burning rage before it dissolved into depressed acceptance.

"Fine. Okay." He sighed and turned to grab his keys from Filbo, who held them back. "... Give me my keys, Filbo."

"I think we need to talk, Buddy." He said instead, and Buddy gave an angry huff before just snatching them and stalking out of the house. Triffany and Wambus exchanged a look, while Filbo ran after him.

"Buddy, wait!" He grabbed his arm before the orange Grumpus could reach his car.

"What, Filbo?!" He snapped, turning and yanking his arm away. "What do you want now? Cause what I want is to go home, and try and find a paper that will take me! If Clumby hasn't blacklisted me, of course."

"I..." What to say in this situation? Buddy had never looked so angry before, and Filbo wasn't sure what to do. He swallowed thickly. "That doesn't sound like too big of a problem-"

"Oh no, that's not my problem." Buddy said with false cheer. "My problem is that no matter what I do, I get thrown out like a piece of trash!!" He had started shouting, and wasn't sure when. Filbo looked taken aback, having drawn away when the yelling started. "So now, I'm gonna leave before I get thrown out! Again!" He yanked his car door open and got inside, slamming it shut. Unfortunately, when he tried to start the engine, nothing happened.

"Piece. Of. Shit." He groaned before letting his head fall to the steering wheel. A second later there was a knock on the window, and he turned just enough to see Filbo staring worriedly at him through the glass. Buddy ignored him, so he walked around the front of the car and got in the passenger seat. Buddy cursed his broken door locks.

"Get out of my car, Filbo." He growled, not lifting his head up.

"No. Not until you tell me what you're talking about!" The strength in his tone surprise the orange Grumpus. "... What makes you so sure we're gonna "throw you out"?"

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Buddy sighed and leaned back, pressing his paws into his eyes. "Why wouldn't you throw me out. Everyone else I've ever met has."

"That can't be true!" Filbo protested.

"Really? Then tell that to my parents. And childhood "friends". And every single job I've ever worked." He sighed and glared out the windshield. "I'm a terrible Grumpus, Filbo. Everything I try to do, I screw it up somehow. Even when I do something right, I end up doing it... wrong. And if it doesn't go wrong, then it ends not mattering either way."

"That's not true!" Filbo insisted. "You helped everyone in Snaxburg-"

"And fed them all parasites! I fed you all so many you started to turn into them!" He smacked the wheel, frustrated. "If we didn't find Liz when we did, none of us would be here right now!"

"Hey, hey, it's okay. We all- Most of us made it out okay. The Snax wore off, and we're all fine." He tried to give a reassuring smile, but Buddy just turned away. "Nobody blames you for that. Heck, I don't think they even blame Liz. So, it's fine. Right?"

"No Filbo, it's NOT fine." He tried one more time to start the car, and was rewarded by the engine finally sputtering to life. "Now, get out of my car. I have job applications to fill."

Instead, he heard the click of a seat-belt locking into place. He looked over to see Filbo had instead buckled himself up, and was staring at Buddy with his arms crossed.

"Oh. My. Grump." He deadpanned. "Just get out."

"Nope! If you leave, I'm leaving with you." He gave Buddy a hard look. "I am not letting you go and drink yourself back into a stupor."

He barked out a short, humorless laugh. "Beffica was right, you really are a squeeb."

"Hey, she said I was the good kind of squeeb!" The tone was light, and kept Buddy from feeling too bad about it. A not uncomfortable silence descended on the two, as Buddy messed with the switches on his dashboard. "... Did you ever think about coming out here?" Filbo finally asked.

"I mean, I could. I don't really know what I'd do, but I could."

"I'm sure we could find some sort of job for you. If nothing else, you could, uh, be Floofty's assistant?" Filbo scratched his head. "Or I could give you a job in office. At least until the next election."

"Sure, why not." He snorted. "What could go wrong with putting me in leadership position."

"... You could be a file clerk or something?" He suggested, and Buddy gave a real laugh this time.

"We'll see." He told him. "Now, get out of my car, for real. I gotta go home, take a shower." He sighed. "Buy groceries."

"Oh, uh. Yeah." Filbo let himself out of the car, but didn't close the door. "Just, uh, don't do the whole drinking thing again, okay? You made everyone really worried."

A pause, and then Buddy gave a reassuring smile. "Sure, I think I can manage that."

[utterlyinevitable]

can do an ethan x mc request for Gimme those eyes, it's easy to forgive - hopeless halsey

this song is so underrated. thank you so much for requesting!!!

Hopeless

Word Count: 2.3k Warning: angst, few curse words, adult themes  Summary: This takes place around Chapter 1 in OHSY after Ethan comes back from the stupid Amazon. There’s mentions of MC x Raf and Ethan x Harper.

A/N: The end bits were supposed to be smut but everything I wrote was so damn cringe 😔 . Someone teach me how to write smut pls and thanks.

________________________________________

Ethan Ramsey was in the cafeteria speaking with Harper, the two attendings grabbing a hot meal for a late-night dinner. They spoke like two old friends, happily and without complications. 

Becca watched from her position at the condiment station as he intimately placed his hand on Harper’s lower back and offered to pay for her food. It was a small gesture, but to Becca it was everything. Becca would never have the privilege of these simple moments with him ever again. He made that as clear as a summer’s day during her first shift as a diagnostics fellow a couple mornings ago after his miraculous return from the Amazon by telling her “there is no us”.  

The distance. The complications; everything he rattled off as reasons to stop, meant nothing to her. Every time he pushes her away she keeps crawling back like a moth to a flame, never really learning her lesson all the same. Why can’t she stay away from him? 

How can he go about his life - doesn’t he feel anything anymore? 

To be just colleagues - strictly professional as he put it - how could anything between them be that simple ever again? They’ve seen each other naked. They’ve carried and soothed the burden of the others’ vulnerabilities. Ethan and Rebecca were never simply colleagues. From the moment Ethan Ramsey let himself sign her textbook that first day of intern year they were doomed to be something more. 

Her feet stuck to the floor and her eyes transfixed on Harper, Becca couldn’t understand whether she was jealous that she could have him in every way while Becca could never. Or if it was due to the unencumbered attention he could dote on her. Possibly it was a bit of both. 

During their time together, Ethan made it unambiguous to Becca that the last two years of the notable attendings’ friendship Harper was his boss and that meant they couldn’t continue their on-off relationship. It’s the same rationale he was using with Becca now, except she and he never actually were together just a few fleeting moments here and there. Aside from those little tidbits of information he never talked about his past with the surgeon. For all Becca knew, now that they were both heads of departments and on the same professional level, they could continue whatever it was they were previously doing. Ethan could easily fall back into the familiar convenience of being with Harper Emery. 

He makes staying apart look too easy. 

He’s still functioning. He can be in the same room as Becca without his skin crawling. He can continue on with his life as if their intimacy and sleepless nights together had never happened. He makes moving on and being simply colleagues look painlessly uncomplicated. 

“Bec, you there?” a muffled voice spoke into her ear. 

She was on the phone. In her gripping trance she didn’t realize they were still speaking. Becca came downstairs to grab a sandwich and catch a nap in the on-call room before her date with Rafael in two hours. That’s when she caught the attendings cozily waiting next to one another. 

Shaking her head to bring her back from her trance she shakily breathed, “Yeah, can I call you back in 5?”  

“Yea sure. Just wanted to let you know I can’t hang out tonight.”  

In under five minutes her heart seemed to break twice. “Oh, okay.”   

“I’m on call,” there was a trained reassurance in his voice that was meant to soothe her. It didn’t work, but she wouldn’t let him know that. Becca needed his distraction more than ever now, alas work got in the way. 

Work always gets in the way.  

“That’s okay, Raf. Talk later.”  

Being with Rafael Aveiro should have been easy. He was sweet and caring and knew just how to put a smile on her face. He had a supporting family and knew the secrets of this city that only long term locals would know. His embrace was warm and comforting, his kiss was a breath of fresh air. He was the type of boy she should be in love with. 

 Becca shoved her phone deep into her scrub pocket and removed herself from the sticky position. She scoured the facility floor for an empty room to call hers for the next few hours. If she couldn’t see Raf she might as well distract herself with more cases. 

In the abandoned on-call room she felt alone inside, so profoundly alone. She hadn’t felt this low since the day she learned He was leaving. If her current affair can’t comfort her at her every beck and call, what’s she supposed to do now? 

Laying on her back and staring up at the metal supports of the empty bunk above, Becca angrily bit into her cucumber sandwich. She replayed the entire cafeteria spectacle over and over again, dissecting every subtle movement she managed to capture.   

He’s known Harper forever. They have more in common… 

The look of Ethan’s content stature and the way his shoulders rounded as he stood with Harper eats away at her. Sadness moved straight to maddened annoyance. All Becca has wanted to do since she learned of his leaving is punch him. Yell at him. Hold him closer than physically possible and beg him not to leave her again. 

Why am I doing this to myself? 

She knows why and it hurts like hell. 

The truth is she can’t stop thinking about him. She can’t find a moment of peace in this whole damn hospital without thinking of him. Ethan is Edenbrook. And when she closes her eyes at night it’s his baby blues that haunt her - that same passionately ravenous stare the man had all those nights ago that made her feel like she was the only woman in the world who could satisfy him. 

This secret has been killing her. The secret she’s been keeping guarded under lock and key, a secret she can’t utter out loud. Her lips and tongue can’t comprehend the weight of those words. 

Becca sighed deeply into the abyss of the somber room. 

She hated who she had become in just two lonesome months. She wasn’t as confident anymore - everything she has ever known has been challenged and not in the flourishing way she preferred. He made her this way. Desperate for him and hopelessly in… infatuated. Everything was Ethan’s fault. If he wasn’t him then she wouldn’t be feeling this way. If he didn’t bring her into his secret case and take a keen interest in her person as her mentor, then she could have skated through residency as the bright eyed and hopeful girl she once was. 

She tightly closed her eyes and groaned as the forbidden words infiltrated her mind. 

I love him still.

No. Stop it. You can’t feel this way. It’s just goddamn infatuation.  

Logically her mind trailed down another path, trying so desperately to diagnose their situation. 

If this godforsaken feeling won’t quit there must be something here. I can’t be the only one to feel it. 

Right?  

This happened so quickly and died all too soon - is it all in my head? Did I make us up? 

Before she knew it the door to the on-call room banged shut behind her and she was on her way to his office. Was he still here? 

Of course he was. Ethan never went home these days but she didn’t need to know that. The moment he got back to his apartment - no matter how many times he scheduled a deep cleaner while he was away - every surface reminded him of Rebecca. His bed was missing the petite indent her body left behind, the left side now cold and firmly abandoned. His couch and bar cart called him back to all the conversations they had and every bit of sweet courage they indulged in. His kitchen held all the memories of cases they solved over takeout late into the endless nights. In his master bathroom the walk-in shower brought his mind back to the last place he encouraged her to fall apart in his apartment. Lastly and most bitterly, every window overlooking the restless city mocked him of the most alluring of views he vowed to never cherish again.  

Knock. 

The dark wooden door to Ethan’s office was locked but she noticed the faint dull light of his lamp under the crack in the door. 

He’s there. The thought shocked her slightly and she tried to backtrack. He’s probably asleep. 

Knock.

She faintly knocked one last time in blind courage, not really wanting to disturb him. She’s been on the receiving side of his tirades multiple times. Her eyes widened as her mind caught up with her body. This is a futile effort - what do I expect to get from this? What am I doing? 

Becca’s left foot pointed down the hall, encouraging her to flee before she caused any more strain on their already fragile relationship. 

Mid-turn her right ear caught the sound of shuffling and the lock clicked open. Ethan’s groggy form peering into the fluorescent hall and down at her. 

“Rookie?” 

It’d been months since she last heard that name. And something flared up deep inside her.

When his bright blue eyes met hers anything and everything she planned to say vanished. All Becca could do was forgive those innocent and befuddled orbs of his. She made the mistake of looking into his eyes - One look and she fell deeper into the endless depths of Ethan Ramsey. Without thinking she forcefully pushed him past the threshold and in one swift movement captured his agape lips between hers. She hoped sleep held onto him so he wouldn’t push her away. 

She was wrong. So wrong. 

He was wide awake. His eyes wide and lips hungry. 

Ethan’s left arm wrapped itself securely around her waist while his right reached past her to slam the door closed, dutifully locking it without letting her go for even a second. 

In their small sanctuary he was pulling her closer, his free hand now tangling itself in her hair. Becca’s impatient hands ran along his partially undone dress shirt, noticeably wrinkled from his nap on the couch. She then trailed them down to his chest to the hem, savoring the feeling of the taut muscles underneath, where she noted he wasn’t wearing a belt. Ethan’s hands followed suit and pushed her pristine white coat away. He was carefully caressing her forearm before leveraging one hand on her neck and the other securely on her waist, kneading the fabric from her skirt so that his fingers can dance along the small of her back uninhibited. 

He was kissing her back. And temporarily Becca felt hope. For a fraction of an hour she held onto the thought that he wanted them to be together too.  

Their hands and mouths were exploring one another in a craze. They were a drug to one another and neither could imagine the symptoms of withdrawal could be this strong. 

Ethan lifted her top and discarded it haphazardly, exposing her bralette - the nude and black lace complimented her skin in ways he never dreamed a piece of fabric could have such an effect. He was transfixed for a moment. Her effortless beauty was invariably captivating. Although he’s seen her like this before his astute mind never could quite capture her full essence. 

Does he still think he’s better off without me? Becca thought as she watched him ogle her. 

She moved closer to pepper sultry kisses along his neck. Her body was pressed flush against his, save for her groin which she purposefully kept a vengeful two centimetres away.  

Ethan’s eyes rolled back at her ministrations. With heavy breaths he spoke, “What are you doing to me, Becca?” 

Between kisses she muttered, “I can’t help it. You make me this way. I’m hopeless...” -ly in love with you. 

“But reliably so.”  

The truth is Ethan wanted her just as badly. However he knows full well she’d be better off without him. He’s selfish and rude - an unwelcoming presence to the outside world. Except for Becca - for Rebecca Lao he’d be anything she wanted. 

He took her by the chin moving her back up to meet his lonely lips. Right now he didn’t want to think about the past or what awaits them on the other side of the office door. Right now he’s going to let himself - let them - be happy. 

Ethan dragged her across the scratchy hospital carpet and over to the aged sofa he spent many solo nights on. Becca responded to his eagerness by straddling him and unbuttoning the rest of his shirt further, letting Ethan come into full view. The electricity that coursed through her veins when their skin touched was like nothing she had ever experienced with anyone else. It was erotic. It was vibrant. It was certainty. 

It has and will always be you. 

Things change overtime, whether encouraged to or not. No one knows that better than Ethan Ramsey, especially with the unprecedented presence Becca has had on his life. Maybe, just maybe if they gave it enough time they would fall back into pace. This brief moment has been the highlight of the last two months - a regretful reminder that he had thrown this all away. 

They’ve spent too much time apart. And tonight he’ll take her anyway that he can. Tonight it’ll be the two of them snuggled up on the couch of his office post-rapture. 

Ethan lay across the couch with Becca curled up next to him, the nude and vulnerable pair tried to regulate their breaths after ruining one another in the best possible way. Ethan pressed a lingering kiss to the clammy edge of her forehead, smiling to himself when he noticed the light brown baby hairs began to curl with their heat. He shifted to hold her just a bit tighter. Ethan never wanted to return back to their incompatible reality. 

And then there was a determined knock at the door. 

“Ethan? I know you’re in there,” Harper’s voice called. 

________________________________________

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[haileyyanneupton]

close my eyes

CHICAGO P.D | JAY HALSTEAD X HAILEY UPTON 

WARNINGS: MENTION OF SEXUAL ASSAULT, MENTION OF BLOOD

She had known for a while that he was her world. The way he looked at her made her stomach do backflips, every time his hands brushed up against her she would feel the tingling linger for what felt like forever. She would catch herself thinking about him all the time — after working herself into the independent and self-assured person she was, the fact that he was consuming her every thought was infuriating.

It had been a hard few days for Hailey. The intelligence unit had been working on a case involving a family who had been the subject of a robbery-turned-homicide where only one person survived — the seven year old daughter. Hailey had been the first one on the scene along with Vanessa after the two of them had offered to work patrol one night, the two women being the ones to discover the massacred mother and children. The mother had been raped and the surviving daughter sexually assaulted, leaving the intelligence unit to take on the case right after the crime scene was cleared.

"There was nothing we could have done, Hailey," Vanessa reminded the blonde haired woman gently after finding her standing over the sink in the locker room later that day. "They were gone before we even got there."

"There's a little girl who's all alone now. What's going to happen to her? She's only going to be thrown into the system and forgotten about — you of all people should know that."

"I do know that, but it still doesn't make it any more your fault."

"Maybe not. But I'm still the one who had to break the news to her today."

Vanessa frowned at the woman as she rubbed circles on her back comforting before giving Hailey some time alone, not knowing that Jay had been inadvertently eavesdropping from the other side of the lockers. As he came out and around, making his presence known, he watched as Hailey stared sadly into the basin as droplets of water fell from the forever leaky faucet.

She had always been there for him when he was going through a hard time. From flashbacks from his time in Afghanistan to when his father had passed away, his partner Hailey Upton could always be counted on for support. Hailey wasn’t one to show her emotions — Jay knew that — so seeing her standing here the way she was, so stressed and upset. . . it broke his heart. In more ways than she would ever know.

“Hey,” Jay’s voice was soft as he called out to his partner lightly. “You okay?”

Hailey flinched in surprise, though the motion was so slight that only she had noticed it. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Jay seemed unconvinced, but the man didn’t want to push it. Hailey already seemed fragile enough to him since this case had started — it seemed that it had well and truly shaken her to the core.

“Well, you. . . you know if you. . . if you need anything. . .”

“I know.” Hailey forced a smile towards her partner as she ran her hands through her hair, turning to face him. “Thanks, Jay.”

As Hailey went to walk out of the locker room, Jay placed a hand on her shoulder in passing causing her heart to pound inside of her chest. At a time where it was crucial that she was on her a-game, a time where she needed to concentrate on solving the case, all she could think about was Jay and how much she was in love with him. How much she didn’t want to be in love with him, yet how much she loved being in love with him — the word love was floating around far too much in the woman’s mind. Never had she ever felt so vulnerable around another person, but with Jay — it was like her walls were melting down like hot wax and she wasn’t even aware of it.

In the end, the seven year old that Hailey and Vanessa had found at the house ended up having an aunt back in Indiana came and picked her up. Despite the fact that she knew now that the little girl had luckily avoided the system, despite the fact that they had put the guy who did this behind bars, Hailey still found herself feeling uneasy. She knew it was partly because of her feelings for Jay looming over her — after all, that one had been sticking around since before the case started — but the other part was something that left her hands shaky. You see some bad cases on the job — particularly in intelligence — but this one had hit her like a freight train and then dragged her heart along for the ride. The other part of what was leaving Hailey feeling unsteady was what she had seen that day with Vanessa. And while Vanessa could process it by talking to people about it, (Hailey knew that ‘people’ really meant Kevin though, and all of the nights she had come home after midnight after ‘talking’ really meant something else) Hailey wasn’t one to do that. She hadn’t ever been one to do that. In a way, it made her feel like a hypocrite — a quality she hated about herself.

Hailey was sitting at home alone one night later that week, part of her missing Vanessa as she went to go and ‘talk’ to ‘people’ for the third night in a row, when a knock sounded at the door. It had caught her off guard to say the least, the noise echoing through to her bones as she instinctively felt for the gun holstered on her hip, resting a hand atop of it just in case. It was always just in case with Hailey.

Keep a bottle of hand sanitiser in your locker just in case you need to clean your hands in a pinch. Keep an extra box of tampons in your purse just in case you, or someone else needs one. Keep a pocket knife in your shoe in case you need to cut something open. Keep your gun on you just in case someone attacks you. Keep your guard up just in case someone tries to stab you in the back. Keep other people out in case you hurt them.

Just in case.

The last one always seemed to do more damage to her than to others, but Hailey could live with that. She had lived a solitary life for so long, pushing away everybody — particularly the men — in her life for so long that whenever she considered letting someone in, alarm bells started ringing and her brain flashed red.

When she didn’t answer right away, the person at the door knocked once more, this time with a bit more force as Hailey snapped out of her trance and cautiously headed to the source of the noise. Standing up on her tip-toes to look through the peephole, the face of her partner staring back at her bought her anxiety down for a moment, before it peaked at an all time high once more. This was the first time since she had realised her feelings for the man that he had been to her house. Her house. Alone.

“Well, are you going to let me in, or am I going to have to get hypothermia first?”

A small chuckle escaped Hailey’s lips as she unlocked the deadbolt on the door and opened it up just wide enough for the man to come inside, a dusting of snow from the cold Chicago winter covering his dark hair. As the door closed once again with a distinct click, Hailey took notice of the bag in Jay’s hand and glanced between him and said bag with an eyebrow cocked.

“I bought drinks, but we’ll talk about that later. For right now, I want to know if you seriously were going to see how long you could make me stand out there before my heart stopped and I froze to death. Because if you were, well. . . that’s not very nice.”

Hailey rolled her eyes at Jay playfully. “Yes, I took a while getting to the door because the world just revolves around you. I couldn’t possibly be doing something that didn’t involve waiting for you, Jay Halstead.”

“I knew it,” Jay grinned toothily. “Anyway — I bought us some beers. Figured you wouldn’t mind the company considering Vanessa has vanished into thin air again.”

“She’s with Kevin.”

“She told you that?”

“Oh, hell no. I just know.”

Jay shook his head with a smile. “Of course you do.”

Hailey ran her hands through her hair before resting her hands on her waist comfortably, glancing up at Jay for only a moment before her gaze fell back down to her feet. Deep down, she knew why he had come. She hadn’t hidden the effect this case had had on her as well has she’d hoped, but she still wanted to ask.

“Why. . . Why are you here, Jay?”

Her attempt at making her question sound less harsh than it was failed miserably as his expression changed slightly, the sparkle in his eyes dimming as he stared at her with a hurt expression.

“I was worried about you,” he answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I guess I wanted to check in on you.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need a babysitter.”

The sparkle dimmed some more. “I know you don’t, Hailey. I never said you did. Sometimes it’s nice to have company when you’re going through something — you’re the one who taught me that, remember?”

Hailey didn’t answer, instead shifting her weight awkwardly as she favoured her other leg and bought her hand up to her opposite arm, rubbing it absentmindedly.

“I’m okay, Jay. You can go home, enjoy your night. We just closed a case, you shouldn’t have to listen to me.”

“Are you kidding?” Jay moved closer to Hailey, their shoulder’s nearly touching. “Hailey, I’d listen to you talk about anything any day of the week. I just — I want to know you’re not forcing yourself to deal with this by yourself.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Jay. I don’t know what to say. I’m figuring some stuff out.”

“How about a beer and a friend while you do?”

He was trying so hard. She could see that. Hesitantly, Hailey obliged to the man’s request as she nodded her head lightly, the sparkle re-igniting in his eyes. As Hailey and Jay both went further into the woman’s house, heading into the kitchen, they both took seats beside each other at the kitchen island as Jay pulled out the beer he had bought. It wasn’t overly cold but thankfully wasn’t room temperature either — it was just right for Hailey, who had always run cold already, especially in the winter.

Dropping the bottle cap on the island, the circular object making a metallic sound as it spun for a second or two before settling, Hailey bought the bottle to her lips and took a swing. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her partner struggling to open up his own bottle which provided great amusement to the woman as she simply watched him try and fail. Finally he ended up sliding the bottle over to her with a pout, huffing when Hailey managed to open it on the first try without hassle.

“Show off,” Jay whined as she slid the bottle back over to him.

Hailey smirked at the man. “Grow some muscles then. Or are the ones you have just for show?”

“Don’t insult my muscles!”

Hailey cracked a smile as she and Jay shared in a laugh, each of them taking another swig of their respective beer bottles before Jay cleared his throat to begin to speak.

“Do . . . Do you . . . I mean you don’t have to but. . . do you wanna talk about it?”

Hailey recused back into her shell. “About what, Jay?”

“What’s bothering you. This case. Anything.”

A small yet still shaky sigh escaped her lips as she debated taking the man up on his offer. She wanted to get it out of her system — she needed to — but it was like she was repeatedly hitting some kind of brick wall every single time she tried. Start slow, she thought. Build up to it.

Slowly, she turned her head to face her partner but still refused to meet his gaze which held nothing but concern — though she didn’t know that. Jay just wanted her to be okay. He knew what it was like.

“What do you see when you close your eyes?” Hailey started, biting down on her lip nervously. “Because at the moment, all I can see is those kids dead on the floor. The bruises on that seven year old’s thighs. Blood. God, there. . . there was so much blood, Jay.”

Hailey bought a hand up to her mouth as she fought like hell to keep her tears at bay, Jay taking notice of the whites of her eyes slowly but surely turning red like they always did when she was about to cry. Jay had seen it only a few times before, but nonetheless — it was unmistakeable.

Jay placed a hand on Hailey’s hand, lacing his fingers in with hers as he gave it a quick squeeze for comfort.  “It’ll be okay, Hails. It’s not your fault.”

“I thought once there was somebody who wasn’t me to blame, it would be easier. But it’s not.”

“I know.”

Hailey took another sip of her beer as she turned her head away, the tears that had been collecting having no other place to go but down her cheeks. Once the tears fell it was as if the floodgates opened, a hiccuping sob taking her off guard. As if it were an automatic response, Jay stood up and wrapped his arms around Hailey from behind as she sunk into him.

She couldn’t help but think about how safe she felt with Jay. How perfectly their bodies melted together as if they were made for each other.

As his arm rested across her chest, holding her close to him, he couldn’t help but think about how much he never wanted to stop holding her. Because when she was close to him, he felt full and complete — when she wasn’t, the emptiness stabbed his heart like a knife over and over and over again.

“I’m sorry,” Hailey muttered out between her strained, quiet cries. “I’m sorry, Jay.”

“Hailey, don’t be sorry.” His voice was soft and tender as his chin naturally found its place on her shoulder, the chair she was sitting on giving her a height advantage she wouldn’t normally have. “I’m here as long as you want me to be, alright?”

Hailey nodded lightly in response. She knew she wasn’t thinking straight, she knew she was probably going to regret what she was about to do. In fact, she probably should have called ahead to Platt to have her transfer papers drawn up. But before she could talk herself out of it, Hailey hastily wiped her tears from her face before peeling Jay off of her and turning to the man with an anxious expression.

“Jay,” she began, her heart pounding so hard she could feel it pulsing throughout her entire body. “I need to tell you something.”

His eyebrows formed a V shape as he tilted his head ever so slightly. “Yeah?”

“Please just promise me that you won’t hate me even though you probably have every right to and —“

“Hailey, just tell me. I couldn’t ever hate you.”

She gripped onto the kitchen island beside her, feeling weak as the words spilled out of her.

“I think — I think I love you, Jay. And I know you don’t feel the same, and I know that this probably changes everything between us, but I can’t pretend it’s not there anymore. Not when you’re hugging me the way you were and making me fall more in love with you with every second. You don’t even realise you’re doing it!”

Jay met Hailey’s eyes for a moment before looking away.

“I never got to answer your question about what I see when I close my eyes.”

Hailey grimaced at the man’s statement, her eyes filling with tears and her heart preparing to shatter. He was changing the subject — he didn’t feel the same way. He was avoiding what she had said completely, pretending the words hadn't left her mouth.

“Really, Jay? If you’re going to —“

“Hailey, stop,” Jay placed a hand on her shoulder as she shrugged it off. “Do you want to know what I see when I close my eyes?”

Jay was met with silence as Hailey stared at a fixed spot on the wall.

“It’s you, Hailey. It’s been you since the first time I ever saw you."

hi so this is my first published oc oneshot, i hope you all like it! i write a lot and have since i was little but i get really nervous sharing my writing with people uhhhhhh.... if you do like it and want me to publish some more please let me know because i’d be really happy to post more!!!

READ PART TWO HERE

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Poetry for an Heiress, Chapter 3

Word Count: 5.1k

Summary:  When a duchess and her children are abandoned far from home, they must rely on the kindness of one stranger to guide them home. 

Warnings: None (for this chapter)

"Mr. Ezra," Henry called ahead as you walked back to the little house. He jogged a little to keep up with the older man's stride. "Why do you only have one arm?"

Your jaw dropped. It was, you supposed, only a matter of time before one of the children asked it. The fact that it was Henry surprised you slightly, as you honestly thought Marie would ask first. "Henry Avery!" you cried in surprise. "Shame on you, I taught you better than to ask things like that."

Ezra laughed and shook his head. "It's quite alright, Princess, don't worry about it. It's actually quite an interesting story. You see, I lost it to a six-fingered man. Villainous man, you see--"

"I know that story!" Henry cried. "You're making it up!"

"Oh, you wound me," Ezra laughed. "Fine. I was battling my arch-nemesis when he cut it off and dramatically revealed that he was my real father!"

"Come on!" Aiden shouted from beside you. "We know that one too!"

"Your highness, you have very well-read children," he said, turning to face you. "It makes it extraordinarily difficult to pull the proverbial wool over their eyes. Fine then, if you must know, I lost it to pirates. One, an innocent, mind you, was protecting her hide. I admit that my injury was more than justified."

You gave Henry a look and frowned at him. He really should know better. "I'm sorry, Mr. Ezra," you said, "My children know they shouldn't ask personal things like that."

"Oh, that's quite alright," Ezra said as he opened up the front door to the house. "Inquiring minds want to know. And children tend to ask the best questions, after all."

"Tell Mr. Ezra thank you for today," you said, putting your hands behind your back. "And go upstairs and wash up. I will be up shortly." You motioned for the children to go upstairs before you turned back to Ezra. "I am so grateful for what you did today. I don't think I can ever thank you enough. You very well may have saved our lives."

Ezra tutted and waved his hand away. "I am just thankful I was there when I was. Some day, you will have to tell me how you came upon our little haven. That can be my thanks." With that, he turned and walked up the stairs, your knapsack in hand. 

Once the children had finally settled down into the small guest bedroom, you slowly, silently, crept out and shut the door behind you. All you needed was for Marie to ask for her third glass of water or for one more story. You were exhausted from the day's events. There was only so much excitement you could take for one day. 

You spotted Ezra across the hall in his own room, gathering up a few items to take downstairs with him. He looked up at you and smiled as he finished collecting his things.

On the short walk back to the house from the barn, before Henry had asked his rather inappropriate question, Ezra had insisted you take his bedroom since it was larger. You stated that you wanted to stay with the children in case they got frightened in the night. Ezra had pointed out that the spare room and the main bedroom were directly across the tiny, cramped upstairs hallway from one another. If the children became frightened, they would be able to just run across the hall and get you. 

You had felt terrible about commandeering Ezra's bed when he first suggested it after you had put the children to bed. He should have his own bed to sleep in since he had so generously opened his home to you.

"Princess, think nothing of it," he said as he cleared off a few books from the bedside table. "I would not be able to sleep in here knowing you were uncomfortable elsewhere."

He had managed to locate an old hammock he had back from his harvesting days in a storage bin somewhere in the crawlspace. All it needed was a good knot tied off from a rafter and it was good to go. Ezra explained that he kept the tiny wood burning stove going all night anyway, so any worry you may have had about it being too cold was washed away.

After you gave yourself a quick scrub down in the basin in the bedroom, you did your best to wash out the mud from your nightgown. Hopefully the worst of them would come out with a better wash soon. You hung the damp nightgown and robe from a hook by the window and climbed into the bed.

As you were drifting off, you couldn't help but notice how nice Ezra's blankets smelled. His bedding, you imagined, smelled exactly like how he did. Earthy, with just the softest tang of sweat, combined with a pleasant herbal mix. You hadn't smelled something so wonderful since your husband passed. If anything, this smell was far better.

You rolled over, pressed your nose against the pillow, and slipped off into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning, you were awoken by delighted chatter coming through the open window. Sunlight streamed in and warmed your cheeks as you slowly opened your eyes. 

It took a second to remember where you were. The events of the previous day flooded back and you sighed. It hadn't been a dream. You were stuck on this planet, Muir, as Ezra had called it. 

In the daylight, you took the time to glance around Ezra's bedroom. Bundles of drying flowers and herbs hung from the ceiling, no doubt adding to the scent of his blankets. The walls were barely decorated, except for one tiny round mirror that hung near the door.

You swung your legs out of bed and fetched your nightgown from the hook. Blessedly, it was dry and no longer smelled like dirt from the trek through the woods. 

Peaking into the children's room, you were surprised to find the bed was already made, with Marie's stuffed dog settled neatly against the pillows. 

You followed the voices down the narrow stairs and out the front door to the yard. It seemed as though the children were quite busy with "helping" Ezra around the farm. You had to wonder just how much work was actually getting done. 

"Mama!" Marie screeched when she spotted you. She took off running full sprint and launched herself into your arms. "Mama, mama! Mr. Ezra showed us the animals! He said we could help him take care of them!"

"Oh, did he?" you asked, tucking a curl behind her ear. "And are you listening to Mr. Ezra and doing what he asks you?"

She nodded excitedly. "Yes, mama. He said I can gather eggs from the chickens."

Ezra wandered over, a small basket in his hand and a smile on his face. "The key, little bird, is to not leave your hard work behind. We need these eggs to eat. They won't do us any good sitting in the basket next to the pen."

"Oh," she said sheepishly. "Sorry, Mr. Ezra."

"That's quite alright," he replied. "I heard no complaints from the girls, so you must've done a stellar job of gathering their eggs. You did a much better job than your brothers."

"Should I ask what they've gotten themselves into?" you asked, setting Marie down. She skipped off towards the barn, the little egg basket abandoned yet again.

"Oh, nothing bad," Ezra assured. "I tried teaching them to milk the goats. That went over about as well as you would expect it to, I suppose. The one boy seemed a faster learner than the other."

You chuckled and took the basket from him. "Henry was always a fast learner. He likes to do things hands-on, whereas Aiden tries to solve his problems with words."

Ezra smiled at the way you talked about your children. "Aiden and I are quite similar, I should say."

"Not always a bad thing," you replied. "He might make an excellent ruler some day."

"I've gotten myself into a few situations where I wished I would have sat back and assessed the situation first rather than running my mouth." He shrugged and ran a hand through his hair. "Many things might even have turned out differently if I thought about what I should say before I even said it."

You nodded and gave him a knowing smile. You knew what he was talking about, having wished yourself that you had kept your mouth shut several times while in court with your mother and grandmother. Not wanting to discuss your personal history with him just yet, you looked off to the field where you saw the boys gathering vegetables with one another.

"I'm sure the goat is unhappy," you hummed. "Violated, even."

"She chased them around the yard for twenty minutes or so afterwards before I put the boys out to work in the field," he chuckled, shaking his head. "I will teach those boys how to properly milk a goat."

"Would you like me to help with anything?" you asked, realizing that you hadn’t even offered your own hand around the farm. You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "I would love to assist in any way I can around here."

Ezra thought for a minute and looked around. "The only thing that comes to mind is the flower garden could use some tender loving care. I am loath to say that I have been neglecting it, sadly. There is, regrettably, only so much I am able to do one-handed."

You turned around to where Ezra had gestured with a nod and frowned at the tiny, overgrown plot. 

"I have seen less frightful cemeteries," you said dryly. You turned back to Ezra with a smile. "I am happy to help."

He nodded once as he bent to pick up the egg basket. "Princess, I am thrilled beyond reason that you are so eager to aid a poor scoundrel like myself."

"I wouldn't consider you a scoundrel, Mr. Ezra," you said, clasping your hands in front of you.

Ezra chuckled and blushed slightly. "Now, "Mr. Ezra" almost makes me sound like a dapper gentleman," he said, straightening his back, "And while I appreciate the title from the children, I fear it does not fit me."

"You don't like it?" you asked with a frown. You didn’t mean to offend him in any way, given it was just the proper way of addressing any man, but you’ve never met someone who minded the title.

"Just Ezra is fine for you to call me, miss," he said softly. "Calling me "Mr." makes me sound so formal."

"Ezra," you hummed with a smile. "You know, I believe you're right. That suits you much better."

Ezra ducked his head a bit and mumbled your name before he hurried off towards his house.

You walked towards the shed to collect a basket for any weeds that you would pull up in the garden. It wasn't as grand as the gardens at home, but at least you could tend to this one personally. You had a tiny personal garden on your balcony, and you were always able to keep it full and beautiful in the warmer months. A green thumb, your mother had once said. You always wished you could tend to the larger gardens instead of just overseeing their care.

For the short time you would be here, however, you were determined to make this tiny garden healthy and beautiful. It was the least you could do. 

Ezra had treated you all so kindly yesterday, and his intentions seemed to be true. You idly wondered why you immediately felt like you could trust him. His presence filled you with a sense of safety and security that you had not felt in so long.

You spread your robe down on the ground in front of the garden and got to work, yanking up weeds and grasses to the root. It was the only time when you were in the palace that you weren't expected to adhere to the strict dress code or rules set by your grandmother. No gowns or headdresses, or gloves. No constricting clothing. Just the dirt on your hands and under your nails that grandmother would then chide you about later.

You didn't even notice until Ezra tapped you on the shoulder that the sun had risen high in the sky. 

"Lunchtime," he said brightly. "Come and enjoy the fruits of this morning's labor. Get out of the sun for a while - your shoulders are fit to burn if you stay out here much longer in the midday sun, Princess. And you really should eat something too. The last thing we need is for you to pass out from hunger."

As if on cue, your stomach rumbled loudly, protesting the fact that you hadn't eaten breakfast. It was easy to lose yourself in a garden.

"Already?" you asked, wiping sweat from your brow.

"Now you sound like your flock, Princess," he chuckled, extending his hand to help you up. Your hand gently grabbed onto his, a small noise of strain coming from your mouth. Your muscles ached from being in the same position for so long. "Come, see the feast they've made for us. I think you will be quite impressed with them."

He offered you his arm to take as you dusted off your skirts, and you hooked yours through his as you walked back towards the house. 

"Hello, mama!" Henry said when you entered. It looked like he'd tried to clean up a little, though there was still dirt on his brow. 

"Hello, my darlings," you cooed, bringing them all in for a hug. You looked at the wooden kitchen table with pride at what you saw. The children (aided heavily by Ezra, no doubt) had indeed prepared a feast for lunch. Vegetables covered nearly of the table, with small plates of cheese placed precariously throughout. "My goodness, you've all been very busy!"

"Mr. Ezra helped us!" Aiden said, giving you a squeeze with his arms. "He said we had to make a meal fit for a duchess!"

Ezra blushed as he moved around you towards his seat. It was always the little ones who blabbered a bit too much, not that you would find anything in that statement, hopefully. "Or a princess."

You smiled and kissed the tops of each of the children's heads. "Well, eat up! I'm so proud of all of you!"

The children beamed and scrambled to sit down at the mismatched kitchen chairs. As they began to eat, you were very surprised when there were no complaints about eating their vegetables. Back home, it was always a mini-battle at the dinner table to get the most finicky Marie to so much as touch a green with her fork.

"Mr. Ezra said he might like to take us fishing!" Aiden said between bites.

"Yeah!" Henry piped up. "He said there's a little cave we can explore along the way!"

Ezra looked over at you expectantly. "If that's alright with you. I could take the boys -- and Marie, if you would like a day of respite."

"Perhaps," you considered, "If you are all extraordinarily well behaved."

You couldn't help but laugh as all three children immediately straightened their posture and began to take more delicate bites of their food.

"We've never been fishing," Aiden chirped. He swallowed his bite of food and looked towards Ezra. "Is it hard?"

"No," he replied. "It's fairly simple. If I am able to do it short-handed, I would like to think it is a fairly easy task. Didn't your daddy ever take you boys out fishing? Or hunting?"

"We don't have a daddy, sir," Aiden said softly. Realizing what he'd just said, he looked to you with worry in his eyes.

Henry hung his head and put down his food. He glanced over at you like he expected you to yell.

"Oh, well-- I am terribly sorry," Ezra said sincerely. He was looking more at you than he was at the twins. "I had no way of knowing. I-I truly do apologize."

"It's alright," you said around the lump in your throat. Over the short years since his passing, you’ve learned to hide your grief well, never letting tears slip in front of the child. Nevermind a man you had just met. "You didn't know."

"Can we still go with Mr. Ezra?" Henry asked softly. His eyes were large and watery behind his glasses. Despite the fact that he and his brother were only a few years old when their father was killed, he still claimed to remember him.

"Yes," you said softly. "Of course you can go."

"Now, it'll take me some time to gather the proper materials for fishing," Ezra explained. "A week or two, maybe. You've best listen to your mama and be on your best behavior and I'll take you. Alright?"

The children cheered and you caught Ezra's eye across the table. He offered you a small, apologetic smile. You gave him a nod and a smile, hoping he understood that it was okay - that you were okay. 

A few days after you'd arrived, Ezra discovered you were a much better cook than he was. He was a bit sheepish approaching you about it at first. He didn't want to ask too much of you and didn't know if that would be stepping out of line. But after the third night of the same soup Ezra had made, you were more than eager to take over the cooking. 

You thought that it would all go much faster if you did it rather than Ezra attempting to chop vegetables by himself.

You found after the first night that you didn't mind sleeping in Ezra's bed at all. You actually looked forward to it throughout the day. It made you feel safe when you curled up in the sheets. More than once, he offered to wash the bedding but you politely declined each time, stating you didn't want him to do any more work than he had to.

One morning, you realized the few changes of clothes you had brought from the pod were in need of a good, thorough wash, especially after a few days of running around and playing on the tiny farm. 

You walked around the spare room and collected the children's dirty clothes from the floor of the spare room and tossed them into a basket. It wouldn't take long for you to wash them. 

After you gathered up the children's bedding and clothes and your own clothing, you stepped out into the yard. It was a bright, beautiful day, not even a wispy cloud in sight. The children were running around before they began their chores for the day. They had taken to farm life quite well, you thought. 

Ezra was lounging on a chair outside the house, doing his best to snap beans one handed as he kept an eye on your children. He acknowledged you with a nod as he tossed the beans into the bowl at his feet.

"Good morning, Princess," he said with a small smile. He looked at you with those warm eyes and you wanted to melt into the yard. "Sleep well?" 

"Oh yes, quite well, thank you," you replied. "I'm going to do a bit of laundry. The children are out of clean clothes. As am I, I'm afraid."

"Now that's a pity," Ezra teased, dropping his hand to dangle between his spread legs. He coughed to hide his blush. "Would you like to borrow something of mine? I mean, just so you can clean all of your things."

You considered his offer for a moment before you nodded. If his clothes smelled anything like his bed, it was an opportunity you would be a fool to turn down. 

Fifteen minutes later, you were walking down to a washbasin, the basket resting squarely on your hip. Ezra had handed you a deep green thermal shirt that came clear down to your thighs and an old pair of compression pants for you to do your wash in. The smell of his shirt, as you slipped it over your head, was intoxicating. 

As you busied yourself with the laundry, you heard Ezra inform the children that they had five more minutes before they had to start their chores. 

He sounded like their father, you thought with a smile. You quickly shook that thought from your head and went back to scrubbing a grass stain from Aiden's shirt. I just met him. I cannot have such thoughts about a man I just met. Especially someone like him.

However, you couldn't justify why, exactly, he had to be off limits. Truth be told, the only reason you could come up with was that he was, essentially, still a stranger. 

You sighed and abandoned the shirt for now. Perhaps you needed a stronger soap to try and get the stain out. It was possible that Ezra would have a suggestion for how to remove the stubborn stain. You would readily admit you didn't quite know how to properly do laundry. It had always been done for you. 

As you walked back towards the house, you checked in on the children as they began their chores. 

"Boys, are you behaving?" you asked as you poked your head into the barn. Over the last few days, you had heard of their progress from Ezra, who looked so proud when he talked about them both. It warmed your heart.

"Yes, mama," Henry replied, nodding at the goat he was carefully milking. "Miss Jane is quite pleasant this morning. No complaints so far."

"And Miss Emma and I are starting to get along," Aiden said with a gap-tooth smile. He lifted a hand to pat the sweet brown goat a few times before he went back to milking her as well.

You chuckled at their mannerisms. It really didn't take long for them to adapt to their environment and the people in it. Too often you had wondered about how much of their personalities were absorbed from you or their grandmother. They were just children.

"I'm finishing up the wash," you said to them. "I need to find a stronger soap because someone slid around in the grass too much."

Aiden looked back up at you and gave you a little pout. "I tried to be careful, mama. I did."

"I know, darling," you hummed. "It's quite alright. Be careful, I will be nearby if you need me, and Mr. Ezra is as well."

"Yes, mama," they mumbled in unison as they went back to their work. 

You smiled as you walked across the yard to find Marie. The chickens had been undisturbed, and you hadn't seen Marie run past with the basket.

"Up there, little bird," you heard Ezra encourage. "Woah, watch your balance now. If you fell while trying to get a glimpse, I wouldn't be able to live with myself."

When you rounded the corner, you saw Ezra with Marie on his shoulders, his one hand firmly holding her as she craned her little neck to look at something. 

Marie gasped, and for a brief second, you were worried she'd fallen. "I see them!" she said, amazement evident in her voice.

You melted when you saw Ezra's smile as he held her above his head. He looked up, arching his neck so he could try to see her better.

"How many are there, little birdie?" he asked.

You could see Marie counting on her chubby fingers before she looked down at him. "Four!"

"Splendid!" he laughed, bouncing her slightly on his shoulders. He let her look at the nest for a few more seconds before he bent down so she could climb off.

"Off you get, birdie," he said as you finally walked over to them. "Come on."

"Hi, mama!" Marie gasped when she saw you. "Mama, Mr. Ezra showed me the little birds up there!" She pointed up to the little nest above her head in the tree. From here, you could barely see it.

"Oh?" you asked, bending to pick her up. You gave her cheek a kiss and smiled broadly as you tried to look up and see it.

"Mhm! There's this many!" she explained, holding up four fingers to show you. 

"That's wonderful, darling!" you said, tucking an errant curl behind her ear. "Were you gentle with them?"

She nodded quickly. "I was just looking!"

"Good girl," you said as you set her down. You handed her the little basket she used for collecting her eggs. "Go fetch us some eggs, my love."

She nodded and started to run towards the chicken coop when she skidded to a halt and came running back.

Ezra raised a brow and looked down at her.

Marie curtsied and looked at you and then him. "Thank you, Mr. Ezra, for showing me the birdie eggs."

"Of course, little bird," he said, offering a bow in return. "If you want to look at them again, come ask me first. If mama is in there, she might chase you away and you could get hurt."

"Yes, Mr. Ezra," she said. Marie picked up her basket and sprinted towards the chickens.

You and Ezra chuckled and watched her go. Marie loved it here. In the back of your mind, you wondered how hard it would be to take her and the boys back to the palace when the time came. It would quite possibly crush them.

"Penny for your thoughts, Princess?" Ezra asked quietly. He leaned against the tree and studied your face carefully. "I would love to know what is going on in your head."

"Nothing," you said softly. "I mean -- do you have anything to get grass stains out of the boys' clothes?"

Ezra nodded slightly. "Of course. I'll take the shirt and bring it back to you." He walked away back to the house, one hand in his pocket. 

You returned to the laundry and hung up what had already been cleaned while you waited for Ezra to bring Aiden's shirt back. As you clipped the clothes to the line, it almost felt as if you had been here your whole life, rather than just a few days. The little farm was the most at peace you had felt in years. There was a serenity that encompassed you here, quite like that of a favorite story.

You were startled from your thoughts by Ezra handing you the shirt, still sopping wet, but stain-free.

"I do apologize for the mess," he chuckled. "It is not that easy to simply wring out a wet cloth for me anymore."

"This is perfect, Ezra," you replied, taking the shirt from him. As you reached to take it from him, your fingers brushed against his and you nearly dropped it in the dirt. The briefest touch seemed to course through your veins, burning you from within.

"Sorry," he chuckled, "My hands can be quite rough sometimes. Believe it or not, Princess, I did, at one point, have hands as soft as your own. I am, however self-made, and with it, comes a certain boorishness most people find to be crass."

You gently touched his hand again and smiled at the way your heart seemed to skip a beat. "I quite enjoy a quick wit and, I don't mind your - how did you put it? Boorish behavior."

Ezra chuckled and turned your hand over in his own. "A scoundrel, your highness. That's all I am."

You opened your mouth to reply, but a peal of laughter erupted from the barn. The boys must have gotten into something because Marie came tearing around the corner with tears in her eyes.

"No!" she shouted as she ran past you both. "It's icky! Get it away!"

Aiden came sprinting across the yard with something in his hands. He had a wicked glint in his eyes. "Come see, Marie! It won't bite you!"

"No!"

Ezra glanced at you and shrugged as he stepped out into Aiden's path. The boy came to a screeching halt and almost fell over in surprise at how quickly Ezra moved. "Hang on there, let me see what you have," he said, holding out his hand. He took it into his hand and chuckled. "Oh, come now, it's just a little grub. Marvelous little creatures, certainly. Not so good for our garden, and especially not good for tormenting your poor sister with."

You smiled and looked down at your daughter who had buried her face in your thigh. "See, my darling?" you soothed. "It's not so bad!"

"It's ugly!" Marie wailed. She balled her fists up in your shirt and shook her head. "Yucky!"

"Your brother is just doing what brothers do, little birdie," Ezra said, handing the grub back to Aiden. He came over and knelt down beside her. "That bug will feed those baby birdies when they hatch - they love that kind of stuff!"

Marie lifted her head and wiped her eyes. "It's still yucky."

Ezra chuckled and tugged on her dress sleeve. "Maybe so, but it will make those babies happy."

You looked over at Aiden, who was rocking uncomfortably back and forth on his feet. He still had one hand cupped to hold the little grub. "Aiden Drake," you said, "Do you want to say something to your sister?"

"Sorry," he mumbled quietly before he took off running back towards the barn. 

You sighed and looked down at Marie and Ezra. "Are you all better now?" you asked her.

She nodded and wiped her eyes. "Yes, mama. Thank you, Mr. Ezra."

"You are quite welcome," he said with a smile. "Go on, why don't you finish collecting those eggs for us?" 

At his suggestion, Marie lit up with a grin and skipped off back to the pen.

Ezra groaned as he stood up. "I dare say I'm getting too old to get on the ground like that," he chuckled. "They are good kids. Remarkable little things, aren't they? You should be proud of them - all three of them."

You looked away and smiled, tucking your hair behind your ear. "I am very proud of them."

"And you make an excellent mother to them," Ezra said sincerely. "They are truly blessed to have you."

You smiled and nodded at his compliment. Ever since Marie was born, you had tried so hard to be both parents to them. As they got older, it was getting increasingly difficult to do so. You were always afraid you were doing something wrong and it was a relief to hear someone say you were doing a good job. You just wished that you could give them a proper father some day.

Ezra wandered off towards the house, whistling a tune as he went along. He turned briefly and gave you that crooked smile and jerked his head for you to join him.

********

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