#...sed scripts as far as the eye can see...

[piratesexmachine420]

Y'know if you get hit in the head enough the 'static' storage qualifier is kinda like a class-based object system. An object system where you can only instantiate a single "instance" of said "class", sure, but that's more or less what enterprise Java devs do and they seem fine.

Well, maybe not fine, but... y'know. Some of 'em are still alive!

[uncensored-aj]

A Nightmare on Elm Street:

(A/N: this is the start of a conceptual draft of my Re-Remake of ANOES, with Freddy being written to be played by Kyle Gallner convenience I’m going to be tagging it ‘Sleeping Brutal: ANOES’ but this is ALL Fanfic and none of it is real although I’d love to fuck around with the idea here as I seriously write it off tumblr. This is written like a script, not exactly like a book or fic!)

—��

Cold Open: Exterior; Springwood Mental Hospital; Day

*Close up of a Street Sign reading ‘Elm St.’, Zoom into the window of the hospital*

A man can be heard Screaming, first seeming far away, but getting louder.

…

Interior; Hospital Room

A man wearing a dingy Striped Red and Green sweater is being cornered by two Nurses. (Rooney Mara or Heather Langenkamp cameo? Both?)

Nancy Thompson stands behind them.

The younger nurse puts her hands out in a peace offering.

Nurse One: Mister Krueger, I promise you, no one is going to hurt you. But you’ve been awake for Nine days, you must be exhausted.

There is no acknowledgement of her words. Freddy mutters to himself quietly, fidgeting anxiously. He slaps himself to stay awake.

The older Nurse is visibly done with his antics, leaning to Nancy.

Nurse Two: Go get Security. I’m not dealing with this again tonight.

She is extremely serious.

Nancy leaves the room, and we follow down the corridor of the hospital to the break room. (Possible Robert Englund and Jackie Earle Haley cameos?)

Nancy: Um… She said to come get you. He’s…

We hear Freddy continue screaming at the Nurses.

The Two security guards give each other a knowing look. They follow Nancy.

Security Guard One: I’m too old for this shit.

The other Guard pats his shoulder.

Security Guard Two: You and me both, man.

They return to the hospital room, and Freddy is further agitated by the guards.

Freddy: I’m not sleeping, you geriatric fucks.

Guard Two: Don’t make me manhandle you again, dude. These ladies are just trying to help you.

Freddy sees this as a threat, punching at the guard and missing. He struggles as the guard puts him in a safety hold. He still manages to start bashing his own head into the wall, drawing blood.

Nancy is shocked, seeing someone like this for the first time.

Nancy: STOP! YOU’RE HURTING YOURSELF PLEASE STOP!

Nancy rushes over, physically keeping him from hurting his head. He looks up at her for a long, quiet moment, bloodied and irate.

Nurse Two: Coming in with the Sedation.

Freddy starts screaming and thrashing.

Nancy and Guard Two shift to make room for Nurse Two and Guard One. Guard One pulls down Freddy’s sleeve, Nurse Two sticks the needle into his arm and pushes the plunger down before quickly moving away.

Nancy, still supporting Freddy’s head, watches him fight the sedative. His eyes soften, almost pathetically. He babbles softly.

Freddy: No, No, No, No…

Blinking, he manages a moment of clarity. He breaks out of the hold, grabbing Nancy. He is frantic and pleading.

Freddy: Don’t leave me there all alone again. Please. I can’t…

Another Needle is plunged into his arm, and Freddys hand leaves streaks of his own blood down Nancy’s face as he falls limp.

Nurse Two: Fucking redheads. They’re always a pain to sedate.

Nancy brushes a strand of dark red hair from his forehead as if realizing this for the first time. The nurses pull back the sheets, and The guards lift him into the hospital bed.

…

(Cont; Hospital room; Moments later)

Nancy is cleaning the blood off of Freddy’s unconscious face with a wet cloth. He’s now in hospital garb, and There is an IV and various machinery. Nancy places an oxygen mask on his face. She runs a hand over his hair.

Nurse Two: I’ve seen that look a hundred times before. No one forgets their first time dealing with someone like him in the field. You’re not leaving his side, are you?

A tear slips down Nancy’s cheek and se wipes it away with her hand before looking to the nurse.

Nancy: He begged me not to….Heather he was so afraid, and confused. What’s going to happen to him?

Nurse Two/Heather: They’ll sedate him a little further and then it’s a game of giving his system time to rest. In about a week we’ll wake him and start trying to balance his medications all over again. That’s the usual with this guy.

Nancy seems to ponder this for a long moment. She is deeply disturbed and sympathetic towards this man she doesn’t know.

[laurenstraka]

Patience.

Have I ever given you a reason to doubt?

What we seek will reveal itself in time.

The elegant script of the message begins to disappear moments after it darkens the page, but I snap the small black book closed before it can vanish entirely. There's no sense in arguing, I never have the last word.

I've not shadow-stepped such a great distance in some time, and I realise quickly I have materialised behind the outer gates, beyond a dimly-lit path to large wooden doors set into the face of a grand cathedral that towers before me like a great beast. I glance at the ancient plaque on the gate, Avernus University of Arcana. Trying to step again and reappear closer to the doors feels like smashing into an unseen wall, a bracing reminder the grounds are warded and I couldn’t have arrived any closer even if I had been more precise. Through the gate then. It screeches hideously as I push through.

The night is black as pitch tonight. The stars have been blotted out by a teasing storm that hides the cathedral’s sharp spires and stained-glass windows, though I remember them well enough, even in the dark.

I walk swiftly along the neat cobblestone path as rain begins to fall, sharp and icy. I don’t bother to raise my hood as I near the doors, savouring the small refreshing stings on my face. As I approach I am greeted by a crest, an ashen engraving of an inverted triangle overlaid with the alchemical symbol for brimstone. Underneath the crest reads Astra inclinant, sed non obligant. The stars incline us, they do not bind us. A phrase drilled into the mind of every impressionable student, including my own more than a decade ago. One of the few pieces of dogma imparted that wasn’t complete nonsense.

The engraving glows a mute red as I whisper, “Intrar.”

I feel the soft brush of the school’s protective magic wash over me, probing to ensure that I am friend and not foe. A precaution that has perturbed others I have known, but one that I have always thought prudent and necessary. The American burnings seemed to have somehow vanished from many minds since we began cursing the inanis to forget our existence. Now we punish any who reveal their arcane nature, risking the exposure of our people. The great lie that protects us all is one I have little faith in.

Two circular black eyes open on the engraving and a low, rumbling lament signals a familiar greeting as the heavy doors swing open to admit me. I enter with haste, what was an initially refreshing mist has turned into a deluge, and I wish to avoid becoming completely soaked through. Inside I am greeted by an empty chamber. It appears naught has changed in my absence. Bleached antler chandeliers cradling dozens of blazing candles hover far above me, bathing the room in a sumptuous warmth and bright light. At the centre of the room is an ancient, gnarled tree with thick roots that curl and knot before disappearing beneath the stone floor. I move closer to examine the leaves and am pleased to see that there are many more white leaves than black. A small half-smile steals across my face, and then a door to my right is thrown open.

“Had I known you were going to make a dramatically late entrance, I would never have agreed to come greet you. You’re interrupting the Headmaster’s welcome speech I’ll have you know.”

My half-smile turns broad. “Did you knock anyone down volunteering to rush out and meet me? You barely have any thunder left to steal as it is without my making a grand entrance into the Great Hall halfway through mealtime.”

He rolls his eyes in response as we move towards one another and embrace tightly, my hands reaching around his neck as I bury my face in his long, wavy white hair. It is as fragrant as I remember, smelling of lavender and vanilla.

“It is so good to see you Schazeraade,” his arms remain on my shoulders as he leans back, his face twisting into a dramatic scowl. “Shame on you for not coming to visit me more often, though I dare say I shall quickly tire of you now that you’ll be teaching here.”

“Yes, well obviously I accepted for precisely that reason, you shall never be rid of me now.”

“Hmm,” His delicate features become more serious, “you will tell me why you really came back here, won’t you?”

“I will,” I hope my voice is sufficiently reassuring, “but not tonight.” I have not decided what I will say. It's unlikely it will be the truth, but perhaps a taste of it. “You’ve kept me from tea and food long enough I think, surely we can make an acceptably dramatic entrance by now?“

His expression softens and he offers me his arm, which I gladly accept. As we pass the tree I barely open my mouth before Dorian snaps at me.

“I don’t want to hear word about the damned tree. There was nothing special about Corvus House when you were sorted into it, and there isn’t anything special about it now, least of all its lacklustre pupils. Domiating the tree from high scores off one lucky round of final examinations does not a dynasty make.”

“Touchy,” I grin, “Could the whispers be true? Could the worst student in the history of House Cerberus become Head of House?”

Dorian scoffs in feigned outrage. “That’s utterly ridiculous. I have it on good authority that there was a Cerberus who failed their Compositions exam two years in a row in the seventies.”

Our echoing voices are drowned out completely by the raucous laughter as he opens the doors he came through and we walk into the Great Hall. A few of the younger students turn to look at me curiously as we pass but most are engrossed in their conversations or meal. I hear snippets of friends recounting their summers apart and discussions of the latest martial duelling matches. For a moment, the wave of nostalgia that moves through me is painful, and I yearn for a time and place that no longer exists, a simplicity of life that I can barely recall. My right hand has remained in the deep folds of my long verdant coat, and my fingers brush the small book that rests there.

A grander hall there may be, but I've yet to see one in the decade since I left, and if I put aside humility for a moment, I am well-travelled. The cavernous ceiling is a alternating construction of rounded arches of immaculate white stone and stained glass, the tops of richly patterned black and white windows that reach from the floor and curve softly into the arches. When there is light the intricately detailed glass tells a story, a great war between two arcane patrons believed to have granted the gift of magic to our forebearers. Our histories say there were many such patrons once and one by one they disappeared without explanation. Supposedly this is why we are so few. Despite the storm and darkness, I can still make out the three-headed beast Cerberus and the thousand-wing moth Corvus twisting and crawling along the walls, rendered beautifully in eternal conflict.

Avernus sorts their students based on affinity with the patrons, the brightest to the House of the all-seeing Corvus, the bravest to the House of the relentless force Cerberus. A divisive and antiquated tradition that I detested from the outset, but one that was frighteningly successful in creating heated rivalries that pushed our magical accomplishments to dangerous and impressive heights. It was inevitable that out of my greatest rivalry would emerge my closest friend, Dorian Voss. A nightmare student whose practical command was unmatched, he complemented my dizzying ability to compose new elixirs and later, curses. His friendship has remained a rare constant in my life since graduation. I would trust him with my life.

You may have need of such a requirement soon.

I can see the sharp script in my mind so clearly I feel tempted to pull the book out and see if it is written. I resist, with difficultly and pull my attention back to Dorian.

"- utter disbelief that Deliaj retired, let alone they hire the most gorgeous man I've ever seen as her replacement!"

"She was at least 200 years ago when we were students, I'm suprised she didn't retire earlier. Please let me come with you when you visit the library though... that place is literally an enchanted maze and I would hate to lose you forever, we've only just reunited. I know for a fact you've never been in there, unless you stumbled in by accident when you were drunk and never mentioned it to me."

"Ha! I've already been to introduce myself, and Gale was kind enough to offer me a tour later this week."

"Gale is it? First name terms already, nice to see some things never change."

"Hardly. An hour in my presence and all I get is a name, some drivel about the school's rare book selection and an offer for a tour? My magnetic charm is clearly dwindling."

We're nearing the Head Table, and at first I don't recognise anyone. A handsome older woman with long, beautiful silver hair and a long, aristocratic nose sits in the middle, the new Headmistress I presume.

My eyes travel along the table to the end where I feel a small jolt through my body when my eyes meet the gaze of a dark-haired man I recognise very well. Severus Kier, Master of compositions and malediction. My study principal while I worked towards my own Masters, before I left abruptly twelve years earlier. I don't look away, and we inspect one another without expression. He's aged well. Pitch-black, shoulder length hair is pulled back into a knot at the base of his neck, a touch of silver at his temples. I remember him clean shaven, but he wears a very short, trimmed beard.

I look away when Dorian tugs me towards two open seats at the other end of the table. He sits down next to a tiny, cherubic woman with a warm smile, and I sit next to him.

"You must be our new Professor," She leans over Dorian and beams, tight curls bouncing as she turns my way, " Welcome! I'm Alina Lumine!"

"Oh.. thank you very much, what do you teach?"

"I'm the Vatican's Divining fellow! I'm quite new myself actually, I was invited to lecture as a guest a few years ago, and I suppose I must have been rather well received because the Headmaster at the time asked if I'd be interested in staying on permanently, and of course I agreed, Avernus is a wonderful-"

She launches into a detailed description of her preferences for teaching rather than the pursuit of pure academia under the Vatican's ever-watchful and occasionally excessive supervision. I nod at the appropriate intervals but I'm so tired I can feel my attention slipping. I am very impressed that the school has attracted a practicing Diviner. I don't know many who are proficient in the theory of Divining, let alone the practice of it. Such an art requires a true believer, and they have never been many.

"- and I bought the most wonderful flat just a few blocks away, the trees turn the most lovely orange in the fall!"

"That sounds lovely." I smile as broadly as I am able. It's uncomfortable, but she's so earnest I don't wish for my exhaustion to be mistaken for being aloof. I could do with more friends. "Tell me Alina, is the Vatican archives as glorious and illicit as we all imagine?"

She giggles, and this makes me smile for real. She's an endearing little thing. She tells me a grand tale of her experiences with rare books and lewd sculptures, and I lapse into an attentive silence. We eat and drink and I tell her of my travels and work as a Seneschal, always an undeserved point of interest from new acquaintances. I trail off when I realise the Headmistress has made her way over to us and is politely waiting for a lull in our conversation.

"Apologies for interrupting, I only wished to introduce myself quickly before I turn in for the evening, its been a frightfully long day welcoming the new students. We've written enough that I feel I already know you quite well, but I thought I should observe formalities regardless." Her voice is smooth and quiet. She has strange eyes, with irises so pale blue they almost seem colourless. She pulls a very plain, but unusually long wand from her satiny robes and offers it with her palm down in traditional greeting. " As you well know, I am Headmistress Augusta Stel, and I warmly welcome you back to Avernus."

I stand and draw my wand from inside the folds of my cloak, a long twist of lilactree whitewood with a translucent glass hilt and present it similarly. She smiles and nods, creasing the many lines around her eyes and mouth.

"Enjoy your evening Professor Black, we'll speak further in the morning." She excuses herself and disappears through a dark doorway at the back of the hall behind our table. I expect to carry on speaking with Alina, but she has become engaged in an animated conversation with a bespeckled man next to her.

"What do you make of her?" I ask Dorian, intentionally speaking softly so as not to be overhead.

"Augusta? Your guess is as good as mine." His mouth is full, muffling his words, but I get the gist of it. "She was a curse-breaker during the war, so obviously the woman is formidable. Or she was once at least. She's been easy to work with, doesn't seem to ask many questions or monitor the staff to closely. I know she's keen to have you help us with martial duelling, I've heard she likes to bet on the National League matches. I suspect you and her will get along just fine."

Dorian casually fills my glass with a rich-looking red wine and soon it is late and I am far from sober. The hall has mostly emptied of all but the oldest students, though most of the instructors remain at our table. Alina returned to our conversation some time later, and I wait for her to finish telling me about the apparently common mistake of mistaking an seraphim for a cherubim before motioning to Dorian.

"Alina, it has been a pleasure to meet you, but I think I should probably be shown to my room before Dorian has to carry me."

He snorts. "It wouldn't be the first time. It wouldn't even be the tenth time."

"Yes, well, let's make it through my first evening back here without adding to the tally."

I'm gratified by Alina's continuing peals of giggling as we rise, and a bit unsteady on my feet. Dorian gracefully holds out his arm once again and I lean into him as we step down from the long table. It feels as natural as breathing. I don't deserve such loyalty.

"I should have visited more… I'm sorry."

"You should have done a lot of things my dear, though prioritising visiting me shows you still have excellent instincts." His voice is playful, but I know better. "I'm not sure why you've come back here, but I know it isn't because of your sudden passion to impart knowledge to the magical youth."

"Presumptuous of you. Perhaps you don't know me anymore."

"I'm certain I don't, but I believe equally that there is no version of you that has a great love of teaching."

As we leave the hall Kier meets my eyes for only a moment before he looks away, and I feel a distant sinking feeling in my chest, numbed by the alcohol. He's owed an explanation just as much as Dorian, if not more, after dedicating so much time to my instruction only for me to abandon him.

Everything seems so easy to justify when you are young. Only time reveals the true cost of decisions that once seemed inconsequential to any but yourself.

We re-emerge in the entry chamber and pass the tree across to a solid span of wall, where Dorian draws a familiar gold-hilted wand from inside his robes.

"Intar operaius."

The wall slowly opens inward and a deep, plushly decorated hallway with a number of doors on each side.

"Staff quarters I presume? Did we not break in here once? I can't quite remember…"

"We did. We were so impressed with ourselves we left without going any further. A unexpectedly wise decision now that I know exactly how badly someone is hexed if they try to force their way into a professor's quarters."

Moonlight spills through another stained-glass window at the end of the corridor. The storm must have cleared. I sigh in disappointment. The sound of rain always lulls me to sleep... though I suppose the wine should have a similar effect. Dorian stops at the last door on the left, and digs around in his pocket before handing me a small key.

"This is enchanted, please don't lose it. The replacement takes an age to re-enchant." He gives me a wink before making his way back to the wall and, I presume, returning to the Great Hall.

I use the key and let myself into a plain room with a dark wood floor. The only furniture in the room is a large four-poster bed, two small bedside stands and an enormous armoire that fills the entire wall across from the bed.

From inside my coat I retrieve my wand, a small leather satchel and the book. I finger the black ribbon that marks a page within and pull, and the book falls open. Turning towards the satchel, I wave my wand with far more flourish than is necessary.

"Recuparrrrrreeee record player. Magna." The alcohol slurs my words and warms my body, but my magic is sure and precise. A small object rises out of the satchel and with a swift motion positions itself on the closest bedside table and begins to grow, becoming a weathered black record-player. I shed my coat and it falls to the floor in a heap, exposing my simple corset and skirt. I position the record-player's needle over the record and with a whisper it begins playing a comfortingly familiar ballad, soft and slow. I collapse onto the bed without undressing and am asleep almost immediately, the wine softening the sharp edges of the memories and thoughts that would have otherwise kept sleep at bay.

I am already softly snoring when the black ink appears in the book lying open next to me.

I think I've come to like this one... thank you for the music. Sleep well.

[wizkiddx]

unusable faces

i have exams hence why i needed to write something exceptionally cringe :)

PSA: this is completely inspired from one of my fave writers own blurb @blissfulparker​ --> completely recommend u go read hers its much better than anything i could ever write!!!! (and just her whole account) = link

Summary: pure exhaustion and mutual pining, Tom Holland x actress!reader

^(just thought this was cute, doesn't really fit aha but full credit to op!!)

A scheduling nightmare would be putting it lightly. Perhaps almost unavoidable but that didn’t make it any less of a hellish form a torture. Harry had very helpfully said it actually was a form of torture, that is sleep deprivation. Y/n loved her job - it was all she’d ever really wanted - yet that thought was quickly becoming not enough to get her through the day. Not when it felt like an interrogation tactic used by the CIA. 

To give a quick timeline of the past few days may give a little context:

Thursday - filming the fight scene all day plus an evening-turned-half-the-night-shoot due to some technically difficulties delaying the process.

Friday - flying to New York while doing read throughs of scenes for the next few days; followed immediately by getting glammed and filming the tonight show with Fallon; then a dash across town to the late late show with James Corden; then straight back on a flight to Atlanta that landed at stupid o’clock in the morning

Saturday - a full day of shooting in a mock grand central station set

The press trip to NY had been unplanned… to say the least. But the star of their studios other new release had taken ill - meaning they had slots booked on some of the biggest talk shows in America that would just be abandoned (angering the shows bookers too). It was a waste of perfectly good promo time and since the studio had their two other stars together doing a block of reshoots - it wasn’t a conversation. Much more a call demanding the two of them to be on the plane.

Normally this wouldn’t be such an unmanageable ask either, except the reshoot block was really rather time pressured. You see, the promo tour wasn’t far from beginning meaning they really needed the final film in the can. So really it was a bit of a mess. Just to free up that single day the two were in New York the whole schedule had had to be rejigged - in doing so they’d lost a rare day off too. It was just typical.  

The joys of success hey?

Well, that’s at least what Y/n was making herself think whilst her incredibly talented SFX artist was in the process of crafting a deep wound onto her upper arm. The reason why she would be ‘dripping with blood’ whilst at a train station was beyond Y/n to be honest - she hadn’t been allowed to read a lot of the script so even now as filming was drawing to a close, the story arc of the movie she was headlining was still a little ‘fuzzy’.

“So I watched your ‘spill your guts’ thing on YouTube” Ellie giggled whilst reaching over for more prosthetic putty- a technical term apparently

“I’m glad one of us enjoyed the experience” Y/n replied with a sigh, rolling her eyes at the mischievous smirk on her face - no doubt Ellie took great joy out of seeing her suffer through eating a thousand year old egg. Which Y/n swore the taste of was still in her mouth… and it seemed as though it’d never leave. 

“Oh don’t worry darling I did too” Nelli called over from the next chair along, where she was doing Tom’s makeup for the day of shoots. “Between that and the animals on Fallon, you made a hell of a lot of people laugh last night” Tom’s artist was referencing the fact one of Jimmys other guests was a zookeeper, so at the end of the interview he had you and Tom join in trying not to scream at the snakes and spiders.

“You mean laugh at us?” 

“Well of course darling!” Nelli exclaimed back in an overdramatic bronx accent making all three of the women burst out laughing, Ellie’s unceremonious snorts echoing through the trailer only egged them all on more.

Tom in response, who had otherwise been absent from conversation for the majority of the morning, exclaimed a curse and jumped up in his chair. While you and Ellie collected yourself, Nelli apologised to him.

“Oh sorry love, I’m interrupting your snooze with my uncontrollable comedic gift” She spoke sweetly, even if still taking the moment to flaunt to the other women, as she squeezed his shoulder compassionately.

“No no” Tom waved off her apology, attempting to rub his eye before Nelli swatted his arm away - a stern look for the risk of ruining all her hard work she’d put into making his face look half presentable. 

“I’m impressed you can sleep while they poke you with all these er instruments” Y/n added in, having only just realised Tom had been in a light sleep for god knows how long they’d been in that chair. It did seem a bit unlikely, being able to fall asleep as you were dabbed, prodded and brushed. 

“Maybe you should try though Y/n… your purple eye bags are proving a struggle even for me” Ellie quipped back, now it was Y/n’s turn to give the stern look. Tom took the explain though, shutting her off from whatever kindly meant insult she was about to throw back at her friend. 

“No normally never, I just….” He was cut off by an ear splitting yawn, appearing almost powerful enough to crack his jaw - which would be a disaster, for no one should ruin such a beautiful and sharp jaw line. “…uh-sorry. I just think I ended up taking my NyQuil and DayQuil the wrong way round in the madness of yesterday.” Only Tom, the poor kid often seemed to lacking in any form of common sense - even if those closest to him knew just how intellectual and passionate he could be about the right topic. Affectionately, Nelli scalded his idiocy by jokingly swatting his head with a little tut.

“I can’t believe your still standing then! I’m barely alive and I don’t have any sedatives in my system.” It was true, Y/n was at that stage where every part of her body felt ridiculously heavy… eyes included … eyes especially. 

“But I did sleep on the jet back while your stupid self was studying the script!” Tom replied with a pretty inarguable point - at the time he knew her actions were stupid;  when their flight took off at 11 PM he was certain that the most valuable asset to his ability to act in the reshoots today would be sleep - rather than character development. And he’d tried to convince Y/n that briefly, but gave up. She was bloody stubborn when she wanted to be. 

“Stop competing about who has it worse cos I think it’s me and Nell”Ellie announced - making Nelli agree empathically with her coworker, nodding her head as she looked first to Y/n in her chair then back at Tom.

“Yeh because we have to deal with your unusable faces!!”

After much sarcasm thrown back and fourth, the trailer slowly ebbed it’s way back into serenity and peace as both artists focused on their work. Once Nelli was done she excused herself, Tom staying in the chair in favour of studying (more like staring blankly) at the dialogue for this mornings scenes. His pretence didn’t last long though and while Ellie was busy adding the final touches of fake blood to the now almost completely believable gash that she’d crafted on Y/n’s arm - Y/n had her attention focused the opposite way.

At poor little Tom. He looked so childlike, his slightly puffy eyes looked as if they had weights tied to them - they way he was having fight against gravity to flutter his eyes open, before loosing the next second only for the process to repeat as they dragged downwards. The broad muscles of his neck occasionally seemed to occasionally let up a little, letting his head tilt slowly at first until it gathered enough momentum to throw him off balance. The then sudden movement of his head unconsciously pulling itself back in line caused his eyes to bolt open prior to the whole cycle repeating again. All Y/n wanted to do was let him lay down someone, her heart feeling a tug in her chest just seeing him like that. 

Ellie proclaimed her completion of the wound, leaning back to admire her work before looking to get an affirming nod from Y/n. Yet instead, she was too preoccupied gazing at the boy slouched across from them. “Someone seems a little distracted.” Ellie smirked, finally garnering Y/n’s attention, only feeling more and more smug watching a light tint appear on the actors cheeks. 

“I-well-no… we need to go.” Y/n ignored her words as though nothing had happened, instead rushing off the chair to get Tom out the chair and onto the awaiting set. They had places to be.

|||||||||||||||||||||||||||| (bcos im lazy)

Honestly when the director, Ed, called for lunch break, it was pretty apparent to be purely as a compassionate gesture to Y/n and Tom. Both of them had tried so hard this morning to fully commit, even so they’d both been almost completely useless. Y/n kept missing cues whilst all Tom’s actions and lines where slow, dragged out and at times completely prompted from someone behind the cameras. 

So when the lunch break was called there was only one thing on Y/n’s mind and what sandwich was available in the mess tent was not it. Still standing on the set next to her fake holdall bag she looked toward Tom, who was pulling himself up to standing from the train station bench - the pace of his movement making him look more like an old man. 

“You good?” His answer was predictable. 

“I’m so fucking shattered”

Tom swore he’d never heard anything sweeter come out of Y/n’s pink lips than her next statement.

“C’mon I know somewhere we can lie down.”

Without any sort of thought Tom blindly agreed, nodding as he took her outstretched hand in his. The gesture in itself brought a fresh wave of comfort to his aching limbs and as his feet stumbled to catchup with her slight head start he leant the majority of his weight into their connected hands. 

Neither would admit it but they were ‘a thing’… whatever the hell that meant. It was clear as day to everyone and anyone that worked closely to the two but neither of them had ever broached the topic with each other. They’d worked on a few films together over the years; each time they got closer and closer to the point any job without the other simply wasn’t as good. It was scary though, especially for two actors in the prime of their careers. If they weren’t working the same film they’d likely be the opposite side of the world to each other most of the time - quality time together would be few and far between, Really their jobs didn’t suit dating at all, yet it would be perhaps easier if one half of it worked a ‘normal’ job. Something with consistency, a regular structure. A level of dependability that neither Y/n nor Tom could offer to the other. 

So it was terrifying, acknowledging the growth in their magnetic attraction to each other. Both were acutely aware that doing that, confronting their feelings, would most likely signal the beginning of the end. 

Although none of this stoped Y/n from returning the gesture, tilting her shoulder into Tom’s left side as they took slow steps through and then out the set building. She steered the two past the hair and makeup trailer and round into a store and extra equipment trailer. Tom tilted his head as she climbed the stairs whilst beckoning for him to follow - it didn’t seem like the most obvious choice. Rolling her eyes, Y/n explained.

“It’s where all the blankets and coats and kept for the raining scenes plusssss no one will disturb us in here.” Again Tom was not in a position to disagree, eyes drooping as his shoulders sagged to the floor. Right now he’d take anything. 

So he climbed up the stairs and shut the door behind him, just as Y/n flipped the light on. She was right, it was well equipped and with an almost mountainous supply of red blankets that normally the crew and extra would all be wrapped up in after the freezing rain scenes with all the ‘waterfall machines’ as Y/n called them. However it was also um…. It was cosy. “Oh I don’t think I realised how small it was” She chuckled lightly, since now the door was closed her back was pressed up against the far wall of cabinets and still her front was mere millimetres from Tom.

“I…I don’t mind… if-if you don’t?”

“I’m too tired to care” She giggled in response, and Tom , now with her seal of approval, immediately started ransacking the piled shelves for all their worth creating a floor carpeted in the pale red of the blankets, in an attempt to make it more cosy. Joining in, it was almost remarkable how quickly their bodies suddenly agreed to move, with the new promise of rest mere moments away. 

Once the trailer was fully drowned, Tom kicked off his costume shoes and threw his jacket off - it haphazardly landing by the doorway. Y/n copied him, leaving her stood up whilst he had the advantaged of already settling down on the floor, her standing and looking down at him.

The space between the two opposing shelving units was not close spacious enough for two people to lie down whilst keeping a respectable level of personal space. Suddenly feeling a wave of awkwardness, Y/n stayed standing, wringing her hands slightly - whilst fairly certain Tom could hear her heart running at 100 mph. 

“You er… gonna stay there or?” Tom, contrary to popular belief, wasn’t a complete idiot - he could see she was suddenly self conscious. He got it too - they’d never crossed this boundary of choosing to cuddle into each other. It had happened once of twice accidentally over there 2 years of knowing each other. Both of those times it was completely accidental, falling asleep watching a movie with a safe distance of space b between the two, only to find hours later their bodies almost completely intwined. Tom would be lying if he said that his heart didnt skip a beat when he had awoken to Y/n’s soft and gently breath fanning into his neck. He’d loved it, but understood that was unconsciously breaking down part of the wall they’d both been the constructors of.

For fear of getting hurt. 

So now, as Y/n awkwardly bent down and lay on her side, he thought it was imperative to make her feel comfortable. Naturally then, his arm slid round her shoulders and pulled her down toward his chest, releasing a little breath as he felt her relax, her legs slowly wrapping round one of his. 

“This okay?” He murmured, now into the crown of her head as she lay half on her side half on his chest. In reply she nodded into him and Tom couldn’t help but grin- unbeknownst to him but Y/n was doing the exact same thing. 

The peace lasted all of 3 seconds until she groaned again.

“What?” Tom enquired as she wriggled out his hold and stood up. Instead of replying though she just leant over and flicked the one harsh light bulb off making Tom chuckle as she fumbled her way back onto the padded floor in the darkness, earning a few grunts from both as she accidentally kicked Tom’s thighs or banged her head on one of the now empty shelves. Fumbling her way back into a comfortable position, occasionally cursing when she stubbed her toe- or Tom did when she accidentally elbowed him in the ribs. 

“Comfy?” Tom asked a little sarkily as he squeezed her a little more into his side.

“Mhmmmm… I’m gonna sleep for 100 years”

“Yeh me… me too”

And with that they both almost instantly and in complete unison sagged into each other and the blankets - the pent up stress and tension of the past few days ebbing away.

What the pair had neglected to remember was that sleeping for 100 years wasn’t really an option. The whole crew of 50 people, who wanted to restart filming after 45 minutes, had not been told about Y/n’s little hiding place. The pair were so completely safe in their own little cocoon of comfort they were completely oblivious to their teams calling there names more and more frantically. Completely oblivious to the game of hide and seek the situation had descended into, completely oblivious to Harrys natural annoyance as the director asked him for the whereabouts of the two stars - as though Harry was childminder to the pair of them.

It was Nelli who found them first. She’d and Ellie and Tom’s manager had all been recruited by Harry as part of the man hunt. Both girls, having seen first hand the state of the two this morning, were fairly certain they’d both crashed out somewhere. So Nelli, already with a sneaking suspicion, opened the door gently, her figure blocking the majority of the light from seeping through to the dimly lit inside. The sight she was met with had her actually pouting at the cuteness - and yes its a cringey word but also the only one appropriate.

Between bedding down and barely an hour later the two had managed to become impossibly tighter pressed to each other. Y/n’s face was pressed into the crook of Tom’s neck and his arms seemed to have pulled her on-top of him almost completely. Her left leg was hooked under his right, which was then sandwiched by his left too. They both looked so pure and innocent and god did Nelli know they both needed any extra time they could get.

Nelli cared a lot about Tom, she’d been working with him from the beginning, from the child star days to now. She cared about him like her very annoying surrogate son and she wanted to see him looked after. She also so completely wanted the two stars to stop pining after each other. Because frankly it was getting a little frustrating for everyone else. 

So she chose to tactically forget about her discovery, sneaking a photo on the sly before silently pulling the door closed and leaving them to their sleep. 

[mirkwoodshewolf]

Falling for you; Tom Holland x reader

*Author’s note*

And here we go with another fic this time I’m posting up a Tom Holland fic. So the premise of this is that you reader are the daughter of RDJ and have been chosen to be apart of Spider-man: Far from home. I won’t spoil anything else but that’s basic characteristics for you the reader. And like I said this isn’t the end. I’ll be posting some more fics coming up in the next little while.

Warnings: FLUFF, teasing dad!RDJ, injuries (falling off a wire).  

Taglist:

@waddles03​

@psychosupernatural​

@plethora-of-things​

@ixchel-9275​

@dancingcoolcat​

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels​

___________________________________________________________

It was like any other day on set. But being the daughter of the one and only Robert Downey Jr. the studio will treat you like royalty, even though I don't want to go to the extreme. And how did I manage to join the cast, well funny story actually for the next Spiderman movie Far from home Director Jon Watts wanted to introduce Peter Parker's new love interest, Carmen Dela Cruz otherwise known as "The Jaguar".

Much like the Black Panther character for speed and stamina, the Snow Leopard was introduced in Spiderman issue 312 number 2, a Latina character from Guatemala, she comes to America hoping to make a better life and save her family from a war that is going on so that they can make a better living in America.

She takes the mantle of "The Jaguar" when she was just 16 years old cause according to the comics, she was beaten and assaulted one night and left for dead but the spirit of the Jaguar warrior came to her and granted her the power and strength of all the jaguar warriors that came before her. She used her powers to get revenge on the gang that assaulted her and has vowed to protect any woman who is threated by assault. She's a protector of women and vows to never let anyone go through from what she went through.

She's teamed up with the Avengers in the past as well as Spiderman but you can see her majorly through the Black Panther comics as being a cat warrior herself, she looks up to T'Challa as a proud mentor and guide.

Now you may be thinking "AHH why another white-washing a character like this?" Well not true, cause you see my mom is actually from Guatemala herself, before my dad met his current wife Susan, after the divorce with his first wife, he met my mom and she ended up pregnant after a one night stand. But even after my birth, I've been constantly taken back and forth between both my parents even though they continued on with their lives and married different people.

But once I became 18, I permanently decided to stay near my dad's while I still visited with my mama. Now I have done acting in school and in college but this was my first breakout and my dad recommended me the part thinking I would be good at it.

So having seen Kevin and growing up with him ever since the beginning he and Jon both gave me a shot and after 2 callbacks, I got the part for Carmen and this would be her big debut onto the screen, as well as my own.

I was currently going over my new lines when I bumped into someone and that someone turned out to be none other than Tom Holland.

"Oh sorry (y/n)." He said.

"No, no it was my fault. Hey, did you get the new re-write of the script?"

"Yeah Jon just gave it to me actually, do you maybe want to go over some lines before we start filming?"

"Sure." We got together along the side and I said, "Can we go over pg.24 I'm having a hard time with that scene."

"Okay pg. 24 it is." We both opened our scripts to pg.24 and Peter first began his line. "What made you change your mind?"

"The same reason why I told you not to get involved with Mysterio in the first place. Maldito you Americans never listen to since or reason, particularly you white boys." I said in Carmen's thicker accent.

"You know, I think it's because you can't resist me. I mean twice in a row we've met you've saved me and always talked to me, even though you said this would be the last time you would."

"Don't be a fool, I'd never fall for someone as reckless as you, Spiderman. Anyone who listens to Stark is automatically a fool to me."

"Don't speak ill of Mr. Stark he is—he was the greatest man to ever live. He—he died a hero."

"I know he did, as did Captain Rogers." For this movie, Carmen always looked up to Steve Rogers as a child because he always knew what was best and he knew to never give up on a fight. He was her hero, even though she never got to meet him.

"Then tell me the real reason why you came and found me?" I turned towards Tom and seeing him so close to me, knowing that our character would eventually be together, but not by the end of this movie, I felt my heart flutter almost chanting out his name as I looked deeply into his eyes. I breathed heavily in character and turned away muttering incoherently in Spanish as it said in the script. "Carmen,"

He took my wrist and a shot of electricity shot up my arm. I turned back towards Tom and seeing him stand so close to me almost made me go weak at the knees. We stared into each other's eyes and just when Tom began to lean forward over a megaphone we both heard my dad's voice.

"Alright you two lovebirds on the set now!" I tensed up and turned towards my dad and flipped him the bird. "Don't you point that finger at me young lady or you're grounded!"

"I'm 20 years old dad you can't tell me nothing!" I cried back out to him. I turned towards Tom and said, "Well we better get to costume and makeup."

"Yeah guess we should." He said solemnly. We stood there in silence before he cried out as he took on ahead, "Race you!"

"Hey no fair you got a head start!"

Filming proceeded as planned, I was now being strapped onto some wires for the last big fight scene with Mysterio.

"You all good?" asked the stunt director.

"Yeah I'm all good. I can do this stunt Erik don't worry about it."

"Okay, but I'll have Stacey on standby should you need her." I nodded and saluted to my stunt double Stacey and Jon then told me how things were gonna go.

"Alright so Tom's already been swung into the crates, you come up from the top of the warehouse and meet up to Jake. All you need to do right now is just grab onto him, don't begin any of the fighting sequences yet, we'll work on that on the levitation bars."

"You got it Jon" I gave him a thumbs up.

"Alright you're all set." Aaron my wire guy said.

"Thanks dude."

"Alright clear the set please!" Jon said into his megaphone. I crouched down on my marker and waited for rolling and then action. "Quiet on the set please!" I took a couple of deep breaths and got into Carmen's mindset as I stared at Jake who was on wires just ahead of me. "And action!" The crates moved around which was my cue to jump out and just before I reached Jake, I let out the Jaguar Warrior cry but on my first take I totally missed Jake by like three feet.

The entire crew was laughing as were me and Jake.

"That was terrible!" I cried out. "Can that please be in the blooper reel!?" I laughed out.

"Reset let's go again!" Jon called out. I was then guided back to my cue point and I set myself down on the catwalk and went back to my marker. "Rolling, take 2! And.....action!" Th crates moved again and this time I jumped from a different angle and let out the Jaguar cry again and this time I managed to grip onto Jake. "Cut! Okay that was great! Let's just get one more for safety!". I released Jake and I was guided back to my catwalk.

But as I got there I noticed that one of the wires seemed a bit loose one me, with Jon starting from the top for a final take, I tried to hurry and tighten the wire as best I could and quickly got to my marker.

"Places please! And.....action!" The scene repeated itself and as I leapt out on cue, suddenly the wire snapped and I was dangling by one wire.

"Okay not good! Not good!"

"Cut! Get the mats under her now! Hang on (y/n)!" I looked towards Jake who was trying to come over towards me and he reached out telling me to take his hand. Just before I could grab it, my second wire snapped and I fell over 10 feet from the air and landed on the mat beneath me.

I let out a groan and soon I heard voices surrounding me and I heard emergency services telling everyone to back up and give them some room. I felt this sudden pain in my arm as I let out a scream of pure agony.

"We know sweetheart, we know but you have to lie still for us" one of them said as they began to examine me. "Broken shoulder, we have to get her to the hospital, get the gurney in here!" I was then set up on a gurney as I screamed and moaned in pain.

I was wheeled across the set and to an ambulance vehicle and I heard one of the men say.

"Now Ms. Downey, I'm gonna give you a sedative, it should help dull the pain and help you sleep. You'll be alright, we're taking you to the hospital now." Next thing I knew my vision was going fuzzy and then I went out like a light.

When I woke up, I found myself in the hospital with a sling over my arm and my shoulder bandaged.

"You're awake," I turned to my right and saw Tom standing before me, as well as Harrison and Zendaya.

"How you feeling chic?" asked Zendaya.

"A little funny, so what do I got?"

"You broke both your shoulder and your wrist in the fall plus a mild concussion. The doctors said you're lucky to be alive, most people falling from that height usually end up in a coma if not dead or multiple broken body parts."

"Gee thanks Harry" I said sarcastically.

"Good to know the Downey sarcasm is still intact." Zendaya praised.

"Hey guys could you give us a moment along please?" Tom asked. Zendaya and Harrison both looked at each other with a know it all grin before Zen said.

"Sure, fine."

"Don't have too much fun you two." I flipped them off as they left my room leaving Tom and I alone.

"How are you feeling?" he asked me.

"A bit in pain, but I've had worse, once I broke my leg when I was just 9 years old doing a risky bicycle stunt that my friends dared me to do. Boy dad was so pissed he never let me ride a bike again for 6 months."

"You serious?"

"Yeah." When I looked back up at Tom, I noticed that his eyes now held such worry and fear as he said.

"When you fell I—I was so worried that you'd....that you were gonna be.... I even tried to ride with you to the hospital but they wouldn't let me. God never before did I wish I really was Spiderman I—"

"Shhh it's okay Tom. It wasn't your fault. I should've spoken up and had the wiring guys tighten my wire before anything. If it's anyone's fault, it's mine." I then felt Tom take my free hand in his and I looked right back into his eyes again.

And damn that heartrate monitor because it was starting to spike up and I let out a groan of embarrassment to which Tom softly chuckled and he said.

"If it helps you feel better, my heart would probably be doing the exact same thing." I looked at him and he continued, "When I first met you I—I thought you were the prettiest girl I've ever seen, I know the press always says that it's me and Zendaya but truthfully I hope and pray that once Far from home comes out that they'll start to say you and me. God I hope I didn't freak you out or ruin this friendship because I—" I stopped him with a kiss.

He placed his hands on my cheeks as the kiss got a little deeper before I finally separated from him.

"You're so much like Peter, you ramble on too much." He chuckled nervously and he said.

"So....when you're released do you—wanna go out for coffee or something?"

"Coffee sounds wonderful, Parker." I teased using Carmen's accent as I said Parker.

"Cara mia Carmen." He leaned in and kissed me once more. Just before anything could go further we both heard my dad's voice say.

"Alright you two, don't be sucking each other's faces off!" We separated from each other and we both cleared our throats in embarrassment.

"Really dad?"

"Hey! Be thankful that once you two lovebirds got together I was gonna allow hand holding and little pecks but after my virgin eyes have been tainted with what I had just seen I may not allow any PDA at all." I shook my head at him and I turned my attention back to Tom and he smiled down at me as he took my hand in his and gave my knuckles a kiss.

Man I wish my release would come faster, I really could use that coffee right about now.

[betaadmin]

-

COUNT.

There is a man, Bren notices soon enough, always posted outside his door. A man that keeps his back too straight for comfort, isn’t bothered by the loudest of screams, and flinches at the smallest sounds. (tw violence, murder. )

The last week has been hell.

There’s an incessant storm pounding at his head, and it’s worse than anything, worse than drowning, worse than bleeding, worse than the room with the black tiles.

Every moment he closes his eyes - which is all the time, because he knows better than to stay too long with his eyes open, here - there’s something new, something he didn’t know, something he hadn’t noticed, something he didn’t remember, and it was… No, not torture. He knows torture. This is much worse. It’s been 8 days, and Bren is just about done sorting through his memories.

The orderlies still think nothing of his newfound state of confusion, because he is confused, and he has not been faking the outbursts of panic and fear that rip at his throat like claws. “He’s just a little worked up.” they say. “Bring some sedatives.” they say. Bren plays along, and only pretends to fall asleep, because the cotton is gone from his head and he can think again, lie again, convincingly not-drink from a cup again, and they don’t suspect a thing.

There is a man, Bren notices soon enough, always posted outside his door. And there are scrapes on the floor next to his bed, where another cot was, and two bedside tables. Bren realizes, grimly, that he’s alone in a room meant for two, and that the man outside the door keeps his back too straight for comfort, isn’t bothered by the loudest of screams, but still flinches at the smallest sounds. He almost wants to call it special treatment.

Bren thinks for another two days. The fear of not finding anything about the past few…past… he doesn’t know how long it’s been, and it’s terrifying. Terrifying to not know if there’s any chance of him walking through the door at any moment, and realizing that this scared little boy knows. He does not want to take that chance.

The nurses and doctors do not speak with the man. They do not even acknowledge the man’s existence, really. It makes Bren wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s a way for him to have a minute alone with the guard. Really alone. Alone enough to put on his clothes and walk out the door. Bren reaches out, lets his weight do the work, and tumbles off his bed.

“What worth are you,” says the horrible voice in his head, “if you can’t handle a single rat lashing out at you?”

He is the rat, now, and as if it were scripted, the man turns and peers in the room through the slot on the door.  He makes no move to call for help, and he’s in the room in a second, with the door closed behind him. Bren can see dark eyes burning holes right through him. Waiting. He stays immobile on the ground, catatonic, careful to not give himself away as he takes in the sight of hair cropped far too short and wrappings hiding under perfectly pressed sleeves. 

For a moment, Bren thinks it’s all a trick. The man dips down, one knee on the floor, and reaches for him, slowly, like you would with a wild animal, and it can’t possibly be that easy, can it? The hand reaches under him, lifts his back off the ground like you would with a sack of grains, carefully expecting the weight to push down against your arm, and that is when Bren springs to life.

The lack of weight causes the man to lose his balance, and Bren pounces on him, hand immediately slapping the man’s mouth shut. No sound, no attention, no magic- he snatches the other man’s arm out of the air, and presses down at the most uncomfortable angle this position allows for. There’s an ugly whine pushing its way past Bren’s hand, and he snarls in return. 

A muffled crack fills the room the moment Bren dips his head and slams it against the man’s nose, and the whining gets louder, and he can’t have that, so he shifts, and his knees are what’s keeping the man’s arms still, now. Bren gets a free hand out of it, and it immediately finds its place around the man’s throat, and squeezes.

There’s something bubbling in the back of Bren’s head, but he stops the incoming thoughts in their track, and just executes. The man’s trachea cracks under the pressure, and his eyes are red, red, redder, and Bren counts the seconds it takes for him to stop moving, and then counts some more, just to be sure, in time with the cracks of the man’s skull against the floor.

His skin feels pierced by a thousand needles, and the sense of urgency becomes overwhelming- he just killed a man. He just killed a man who is just like him, and it’s only right, it’s the only way, how could he ever have escaped without this man alerting him? He did what he had to, he did what he had to.

He rifles through the man’s clothes with the attention of a scholar pouring over a text, except the library’s on fire. He grabs the focus, the amulet, puts on clothes that are too loose on him and covers it all with the coat. Bren blinks, and the frantic beat in his chest picks up even more. The silence around him is deafening, and it takes him a full 10 seconds to open the door without making a sound.

It’s 1:57 am, and Bren is ready to run.

[shooter-nobunagun]

Daughter of the Cosmos

//Continuing off where we left, the truth behind the Great Ones and their Kin...

The four trudged into the dark building, Sio still feeling uneasy about the whole thing but it was too late to turn back now.  Even though Nostradamus assured them multiple times the Cathedral was quite safe, she’d learned enough to know nothing was ever certain.

“Still, I must say I’m surprised dear friend, that you would choose to join a group of hunters...?” Their guide questioned his friend. “You used to always say numbers create more problems than they solve...”

“Hmm...call it a change of heart. We don’t stay the same forever, Nostradamus.” 

“Oui oui, that is true. In more ways than one...indeed.” They were now inside a great hall of sorts, dust covering most of the surfaces and furniture looking like they were one step away from falling apart, but at least there were no creatures wandering about as far as they could see. “Please, have a seat...if you can find one. Although I only anticipated William Tell, I am glad to share my findings with those who are interested. Not many care to learn about our origins anymore, these days...where They came from, our role as hunters in this hunt and our fates in this dream...”

Dream? For some reason that word made Sio shiver, though there shouldn’t have been any reason to. Again a strange feeling that she should know something, but just like whenever she was in the Hunter’s Dream, those thoughts fled the second she tried to focus. “Wait...you know about those things? The monsters that suddenly appeared, after we defeated Rom...and the moon turned red...”

“Ah, the Red Moon...” Though he was blindfolded, it still felt like Nostradamus was looking directly at her. “You, the girl...you had contact with her. The Great One, Rom.”

“Y, Yeah, I did...h-how did you know...”

A tinkling of laughter from Nostradamus; not menacing but still every single hair on the back of her neck stood on end. “Just because my eyes are no longer privy to the world does not mean I do not see, Mademoiselle... in fact I daresay, I can see far more than you, Miss...?”

“Uh, Ogura. Sio Ogura.” 

“Mademoiselle Ogura. You came into contact with a Great One. And since your group defeated her, the veil that was cast over this world lifted and now you can see what I’ve long known; the nightmare this world truly is...”

“What...this world truly is? What do you...”

“Those things. The Amygdalas that Vidocq talks about...you mean those, don’t you? We weren’t able to see those abominations until after fighting Rom...” Adam’s gaze narrowed at Nostradamus’ words. “What do you mean by veil...are you implying what we saw, before...was all a lie?”

“Not quite. And you are Monsieur...?”

“Muirhead.” Adam replied bluntly, not keen to give the stranger anymore information than he had to. “Somethin’s changed since then, it’s fairly obvious. But what’s that to do with these Great Ones? Are you saying they’re some sort of beings that can...influence us?”

The Choir member nodded. “In a way. I’m impressed, that a non-Church group like yours has a surprisingly solid grasp on the basics. But the truth, ah...that is always more complex, non?” He strode over to one of the leaning shelves, pulling out a great tome that was set down with a thud on the remaining table, dust rising from its weight. “Please, take a look. It is part of Master Wilhem’s teachings that have been passed down since the founding of the Healing Church—despite our separations.” The page opened to what appeared to be an ancient drawing, the paper yellow and wrinkled and filled with muddled text Sio could not make out, despite her schooling. But the picture and diagrams on the page...

An eerie creature, with a vertical, gaping maw and a monstrous head that seemed to be all brain, covered with countless stalk eyes all over and long tentacle-like wings on its back; around it were drawings of people kneeling or even praying, as if worshiping this creature. Lines with foreign script on them went from the creature to the humans, and Sio noticed with slight horror how some seemed to be deformed, clutching their heads as eyes sprouted out or others that seemed to be screaming in terror.

“Oh...god!” The huntress unconsciously stepped back, squeaking in surprise as she backed into Adam. “Th, that thing...why are they, what is it? Is it one of those...Great Ones you’re talking about?”

“Ebritias, Daughter of the Cosmos. She came down from the heavens, and took pity on us poor humans, a race beneath their level of existence...” Nostradamus slowly turned the page, showing another image of this Ebritias appearing to interact with humans, including some who looked like they were gouging out their own eyes. “We of the Choir learned a great deal from her, in our quest for the Truth; she taught us about the Eldritch Truth, and gave us access to the Old Blood...”

The floor seemed to waver as Sio sat down; though they all suspected it, hearing confirmation from one of the elite members of the Church that there were indeed otherworldly creatures and forces manipulating their lives... “I-I don’t, I don’t get it...what is this ‘Truth’? Why’s it so important? And if this, Ebritias...if she really is just here to give us knowledge, then how come I feel like I’m about to go insane each time one of them tries to communicate with me?!” 

“It is because most humans lack the ability to commune with them. To understand the Truth, and gain more Insight...” Gloved fingers paused on the drawing of a skull on the page. “Making contact with eldritch wisdom is a blessing, for even if it drives one mad, it allows one to serve a grander purpose, for posterity.”

“...Okay, that’s great and all, but what if I don’t want to? Besides, what’s the point if I’m just going to go insane...” Sio muttered, wondering if Nostradamus himself wasn’t more than a little loopy after spending all this time around the Great Ones. At least she finally knew why she always went into a frenzy when fighting those creatures, but it didn’t help mitigate the problem itself.

“Seeking the Truth is not for everybody; I admit that. However, I am afraid us humans...do not have much of a choice.” Nostradamus gently closed the tome and returned it to the shelf. “I have chosen to dedicate my life in hopes of understanding the knowledge of the Great Ones, and perhaps even make contact with them, eventually. Though, it is not without risks, even to me; there were once other members who sought to commune with them at any means, even if it meant sacrificing their sanity... the School of Mensis, they are an example of what happens when humans foolishly overstep their boundaries. However, that is not to say there are some small...beneficial effects. For example, Mademoiselle Ogura, you suffer the blood sickness, do you not? Have you wondered why you haven’t succumb to the scourge yet, despite your ashen blood?”

Sio flinched at the mention of her condition. “Y-You, don’t mean to say...this, ‘insight’...”

“It counteracts the effects of beasthood. In other words, you may be risking your sanity, yes, but it is also probably the only thing from keeping you from turning into a full-fledged beast,” Nostradamus answered for her softly. “Not what you want to hear I’m sure, but...”

She only heard the first part of the sentence, all feeling having left her legs as she slumped to the stone floor, oblivious to Adam’s concerned queries. Turning into a beast, or losing your sanity... Were these really the only two choices she had? Even worse was the fact that out of all the hunters, she was the only one who suffered from both; none of the others showed signs of contamination, and even their frenzy seemed to be less severe than hers, able to be tempered by an occasional draught of sedative while she downed pills and vials like candy. Her body was trembling with both anger and despair and a tear fell before she knew it.

“I-It’s not...it’s not fair!” Sio choked out a sob, not even bothering to wipe her tears. “I don’t care about the Eldritch Truth! I don’t want to turn into a beast...! Why am I the only who’s suffering...” The last thing she wanted was to give off the impression of an immature child, but the huntress couldn’t help it; to come all this way, only to learn she was nothing more than a puppet for the whims of godly creatures, far beyond their understanding. Sympathetic or not, it seemed the Great Ones did not care if humans went insane; the only thing that mattered was passing on this ‘truth’. “I hate this! Why did I even come here...maybe I should’ve just stayed behind and let the disease run its course; at least I wouldn’t be plagued by those monsters trying to force me to understand things I can’t...”

“Oy now, you don’t really mean that...” Gentle hands helped her up, procuring a handkerchief and wiping her face. “Chin up, Ogura. You’ve come this far already, I know you won’t just give up.” 

“Apologies, Mademoiselle. A hunter’s life is not easy...I am surprised you chose such.” Nostradamus bowed in sympathy. “Please, take your time to rest here; it is safe, I can assure you.” The other two mercifully left the immediate vicinity, giving Sio some privacy. 

Sio only continued sniffling, grateful for Adam’s handkerchief. “I know...I know...! Still, in hindsight...I can’t help but wonder if I made a mistake...hell, even the ‘paleblood’...those were all just lies, too...” The huntress hugged herself tight, wishing she were anywhere other than this damp, cold cathedral, where monsters and alien creatures prowled about and she never felt truly safe, even in the Dream. “I just want this to end...”

“And it will, Sio. You have to trust me. Trust yourself,” Adam firmly chided, brushing the girl’s tangled locks. “I know you’re feeling awfully discouraged, and hell so would I, if I were in your shoes. But you’ve also done remarkably well, even with those conditions. Think about it; most normal hunters barely make it this far, but you discovered something most people never find, in spite of your illness.” He patted her on the back, offering a small hug as Sio blew her nose. “Don’t forget, you’re not alone in this fight; you’ll always have me an’ Hunter. We won’t leave you behind, Sio.”

“A-Adam...th, thank you...” Though her body and mind were exhausted, she knew Adam was right—giving up was not an option, not after all they overcame, and the small, precious moments of happiness she found during this journey... “U, Um, A-Adam? C-Can I ask you for a small favor...?”

“Hmm?”

Sio blushed under his curious gaze; those green eyes were almost too piercing at times. “I-I, it’s just...I’m sorry if it seems silly, but...c-could you, hold me really tight?” She half-expected him to laugh or scold her for wasting time, but then a pair of strong arms encircled her, and as she buried herself against his broad chest his embrace tightened. A couple of tears fell as she couldn’t help but contemplate her future, but Adam simply held her until the hiccups subsided. 

“Feelin’ a mite better now?”

“M-Mmm...s-sorry about that...” Slowly she unwound herself from his grasp. “Thank you...I feel like, that’s the only place I ever really feel safe...when you, hold me...all tight like that...” Her cheeks were rosy from both the tears and shyness, Adam feeling his own face grow rather warm.

“...Of course, Sio. I’m glad to hear it.” Good thing neither Tell or Nostradamus were around, but at this point Adam couldn’t have cared less; if the others began finding out about his relationship with the huntress, then so be it. Things were getting more desperate than ever, and if indulging in these moments of tranquility meant risking the attention of others...well, it was worth it. “But did you get what you wanted here? The truth about your condition...”

Sio nodded as she pulled her overcoat back on. “Y-Yeah...I mean, I kinda already figured out some of it, but hearing it from Nostradamus himself...” she sighed, turning her back towards him. “...I was hoping he’d be able to have some sort of cure for either of them, but it looks like, there really isn’t...except for ending the hunt. Still, it pisses me off knowing that those, creatures just play around with us like toys...can’t they just leave us alone?”

“I am afraid not, Mademoiselle Ogura,” the two whirled around as Nostradamus came back with Tell. “To creatures that might as well be gods, our wants do not matter. However, perhaps you could try asking her yourself, if you wish...”

“Her? As in, Ebritias? She’s here?” 

The man in the blindfold cap nodded. “Oui. She still exists, hidden below us in this Cathedral, at the Altar of Despair...She granted us the knowledge that allowed The Choir to become what it is now.” 

The two hunters looked downwards below the balcony. Though nothing was visible, Sio felt the familiar stirrings of frenzy the longer she stared. “N-No...th, that thing...even up here, it can...influence me...”

“Sio!” Adam pulled her back from the ledge, immediately grabbing a sedative from his pouch. “Don’t go down there; it’s not worth th’ risk, ‘specially with your condition... We should leave and head back. There’s no more reason to be here.”

“Alas, I am afraid you cannot go back the way you came.” Adam looked at Nostradamus in shock. “The only lamp in this vicinity is below; where Ebritias dwells.”

“Bloody hell!” Adam swore violently, the Stakedriver nearly primed by the time he paced over. “There’s no way I’m letting Ogura get near that thing! If it’s as powerful as you say, she’ll go mad in an instant! There has to be another way!”

“There may be.” Tell’s deep voice chimed in, the duo having nearly forgotten about the mysterious hunter who asked for their company on this trip to begin with. “We may not be able to backtrack, but if you’re worried about the girl’s condition...then we’ll just get rid of the creature.”

Neither Sio nor Adam could respond; what Tell said made sense, but it was shocking to think the hunter who appeared to be on good terms with this Choir member would turn face against his friend so quickly. Then again, who could say for certain whether or not Tell and Nostradamus were truly friends? In Yharnam, ‘friends’ and ‘companions’ were loose terms, often lacking the finer points of their true meanings. It could very well be the two simply decided to work together on the mutual basis of information exchange; as soon as the situation shifted, there was no need to uphold any sort of honor or obligation.

“Th, that’s...possible, but...why are you helping us? I thought this Nostradamus was your friend,” Adam muttered, exchanging wary glances between the other two, though the blindfold made it impossible to determine Nostradamus’ true feelings. “Just who are you anyway? Why d’you care about what happens to the rest of us?”

“That’s insignificant; but if you must, consider me as someone who wants to see this Dream come to an end,” Tell answered simply, striding over and now unsheathing his Bowblade. “Since the girl cannot be in close proximity to the Great One, I will help you. Unless, you think to tackle the creature alone?”

Adam stared at the hand, before reaching out and reluctantly shaking it. “No, I’m fine with that. But what about him,” he jerked his head towards Nostradamus, who remained standing a ways all this time. “He’s not gonna...try an’ stop us or anythin’, is he? From the sounds of it, The Choir reveres these things...”

Tell shook his head slightly. “No; Nostradamus may be a member of the Choir, but he also understands the Truth; possibly better than anyone else. Why do you think he has survived all this time? I know you do not trust me fully, Adam Muirhead—as you rightly should. But I can guarantee on my life, no harm will befall Miss Ogura nor will Nostradamus attempt to dissuade us.”

“...Very well...I’ll trust you, but just this once, Tell...you wrong about any of it, and I’ll run a stake through you myself.”

The archer nodded. “Fair enough. Get ready, then. As soon as you’re prepared, we’ll have to jump down; the elevator is broken.” 

As the two men readied their weapons and gear, Adam strode over to the huntress, who was hunched against an old bookshelf, eyes closed in a restless sleep with her cloak wrapped tightly around her. “Oy, Ogura. You feelin’ alright? Should probably take some sedative, just in case...even if yer out of sight, don’t exactly want to take chances with somethin’ that powerful...”

To his surprise she shook her head weakly, eyes furrowing open. “N-No...I, don’t want to keep taking sedatives, unless I have to...ooh,” she moaned as another pulse of pain shot through her head, Adam looking on in great concern. “D-Don’t worry about me, Adam...I’ll, be fine, I promise...the sooner you and Tell take care of that, thing...the sooner we can go back, and I’ll be better...”

“Sio...! Tch...” Though he knew she was right, that taking unnecessary blood ministrations would worsen her reliance on them, her strained visage worried him greatly. “Alright...but promise me, if yeh feel like it’s about to burst, then take it, alright?” Sio nodded, and he left the extra bottle by her side, alongside a molotov cocktail. “An’ take this, just in case...I know Tell had that whole speech about Nostradamus not interferin’ an’ all, but we can’t be careless...”

���I, I know...don’t worry Adam, I can handle myself up here. You be careful, too; I have a feeling, this Great One...she’s even more powerful than Rom. E-Even if, you aren’t as affected by frenzy...who knows what they’re really capable of.”

He nodded silently, before pulling her into a quick embrace. “I’ll be careful. I swear to god, I am not dying here. You just sit tight, an’ we’ll be back soon.” Pulling his balaclava up and settling the hunter’s cap back on his head, Adam joined Tell at the edge of the balcony, the archer having split his weapon into its bow form. Nostradamus stood off to the side, staring what seemed to be into nothing. 

“Well, better get started.” The two men shared a glance, before leaping off onto the floor below. The floor was surprisingly wet, Adam’s boots nearly ankle-deep in the fetid water as they slowly splashed towards a massive, quivering mound of glowing tentacles and undulating false eyes growing from her wings. Even without engaging in a direct line of sight however, Adam could tell this Great One exerted far greater Insight than Rom; the close they got, the more his head ached as well, and strange whispers seemed to hover around his ears, even though Tell was silent the whole time.

‘Damn...better watch myself and take a sedative soon, otherwise the frenzy’ll be fatal...’

The Altar of Despair... Adam’s first thought was it was certainly appropriately named; grotesque statues (or were they) of villagers and worshipers scattered in different states of disrepair, some bent over in prayer while others seemed to be bemoaning some unseen horror. At the center was a strange rock, with eye-like craters that had candles stuck inside them...as they circled the alter Adam realized where he’d seen this creature before.

“Rom?! It can’t be...I thought we killed her...” Adam breathed in hushed tones as the two men walked closer to what had to be Ebritias, though she made no move. “An’ this big one, doesn’t seem interested in us either...yet. Just like Rom...”

“Rom? Are you referring to the other Great One you and Miss Ogura encountered?” Tell cast him a questioning glance. “As Nostradamus said, most Great Ones tend to be more sympathetic towards humans...although I’ve no doubt they will defend themselves, if provoked.”

“Yeh, the girl an’ I, we encountered her at the bottom of the lake, in Byrgenwerth...was after her defeat all this weird shit started happenin’,” Adam muttered, unsure of what to make of this Rom-like alter. “Arg...my head...” A sudden stab of pain that caused a temporary deafness, forcing him to uncork a bottle of sedative. “Damn, didn’t think the frenzy would be this bad...”

“Then we’ve no more time to waste. I will keep my distance Muirhead, and leave the melee range to you.” Without even waiting for a response the marksman darted back, leaving Adam to stare at the glowing, hulking creature, its eyes blinking curiously. Sighing heavily, Adam charged up the Stakedriver, getting ready to unleash the charge attack.

“Let’s get this over with.” ------ Even before the otherworldly shriek rose up from below, Sio knew the two men had engaged Ebritias. Though she hadn’t lied to Adam, the truth was if they didn’t finish this battle soon, she might very well lose her sanity past the point of no return. Being in constant contact with the Great One, and even encountering their smaller kin earlier outside—her head throbbed incessantly as she stared at the sedative, wondering just how long she could hold out, and if the medicine would even help at this point. ‘Damn it...why does it have to be like this? Why am I the only one so affected by all this? Is it because I’m not from Yharnam...’

“You seem unwell, Mademoiselle.” She jerked around at the unexpected voice, Nostradamus having been entirely silent until now. “Perhaps you should take a sedative soon?”

“N-No...I-I mean, if I have to...but, I’d rather not until then...” She wiped the sweat from her forehead, trying to sound more certain than she really was. Though she had a feeling there was no use in trying to hide much from Nostradamus; as he said earlier, just because the man was blindfolded didn’t mean he couldn’t see. “I-If, this exposure to Insight is reducing my beasthood...then at least there’s something to be gained.”

“True, the forces of kin and beast counteract each other. Is that why you came here? To find the fabled paleblood? You’re an outsider, aren’t you?”

Sio didn’t answer; she had a feeling Nostradamus knew already, anyway. The more she tried to understand what Yharnam was about, the creatures they hunted and why this cycle existed, the less she seemed to understand. Her history books made it sound simple enough: the town of Yharnam was plagued by an endemic blood disease that turned people into bloodthirsty beasts, which in turn were eradicated by skilled hunters. But then there was the addition of the Church, who, one the surface seemed to be administering these miraculous cures made from blood, but now after wandering around for so long and picking up what snatches of gossip she could, it seemed that was all a scam—for while the blood could provide cures, it also brought healthy people ever closer into becoming a beast themselves.

“...I wonder, why these Great Ones are so interested in us. If we’re so insignificant to them, then why do they try to make us understand them...”

To her surprise Nostradamus sat down next to her, seemingly unconcerned by the sounds of combat below. “That, I cannot be certain; despite my studies, I have never successfully communed with another Great One.”

“But I thought you learned a lot from Ebritias?”

He nodded. “Yes, but...it is not communicating in the sense that I am having dialogue with her. She...’passes’ me information, but it is up to me to make sense of it. And I admit, there are times where my mind is just as baffled as yours, Mademoiselle Ogura. The Great Ones, they were the source of the Old Blood; the original blood ministrations that let the Church rise to its prominence. Master Wilhem always said to ‘fear the Old Blood’, that mis-use will lead to great tragedy, and yet...it was our carelessness that led to the beasts in the first place.”

“Wait, what are you saying?” Sio was taken aback by this revelation. “Are, are you saying...it was the Great Ones who created the beasts in the first place?”

“Non, not the Great Ones. Us humans, driven by greed and arrogance; for using the Old Blood in blood ministrations will eventually cause humans to turn into beasts, despite their miraculous healing prowess. And thus the Healing Church recognized a need to keep this fatal mistake a secret, leading to the creating of the hunters—led by the First Hunter, Robert Capa. And now the Church has splintered into many different factions, each with their own goals and regards for the Old Blood and Great Ones: we the Choir, who faithfully adhere to Master Wilhem’s teachings and look into our own selves for Insight; the School of Mensis, who broke off and are determined to commune with the Great Ones at the cost of their sanity; Master Laurence, who disregarded Master Wilhem’s adage and used the Old Blood to further the metamorphosis, in his own way to transcend humanity...” Nostradamus shook his head, slowly rising up from the floor. “Non, Mademoiselle Hunter. It is the weakness of mankind that created this nightmare.”

The huntress couldn’t answer to that. Good and bad, right or wrong...in the end, those were human concepts forced upon a world that contained more than them. “I think, I understand more, now...thank you for telling us what you know, Nostradamus. I’m kind of surprised you’d do so...after being here for so long, I can’t exactly say Yharnam’s a friendly place.”

“My wish is to learn and spread the Truth, that is all.” Nostradamus answered quietly. “Though, I am glad you were able to make use of my knowledge.”

Just then an roar shook the entire building, Sio fearing for a second the flimsy railing would fall apart. “Aagh! Wh-what’s going on down there...!” Slowly she crawled over to the edge, careful not to fall off. Below, two figures were darting among what had to be Ebritias: a giant head with eye stalks and wings, just like the illustration in the book. The entire floor was littered with blood and some other fluid Sio couldn’t discern, with streaks of arcane magic bouncing around as the two continued to subdue it. 

“Oh no, watch out—!” But there was nothing she could do from her position except watch helplessly as a giant, whip-like tentacle swung through the air, flinging both men against the stone wall. “Adam!” The building shook again, this time knocking down the huntress as her equipment scattered about her. ‘No, I have to...help them!’ She desperately felt around for her gun, only to realize it had rolled away during the tremors. “Nostradamus! Pass me the gun!”

“...I am afraid I cannot do that, Mademoiselle.” Oblivious to Sio’s look of shock, the man only stood and watched, despite the cathedral beginning to crumble. “I cannot and will not interfere; that goes both ways.”

“Tch...nevermind!” Ignoring the risk of frenzy, she lunged forward and grabbed her firearm before it rolled of the edge, hanging on to the railing with one hand and firing with the other below to stagger the creature. “Adam! Tell! Get her now!” She saw a mane of white hair glance up briefly at the shot, before diving back in with a charged Stakedriver. A hail of arrows rained from above, Ebritias giving one final cry before it sagged into a motionless heap, turning into tiny particles of light as she slowly disappeared.

“Heh, gotcha...wh-whoa—!” A split second of glory later the railing snapped, sending Sio into a free-fall, limbs flailing as she desperately tried to right herself. 

“Adam!”

“What th—oomph!” Just when he’d finally shook all the dirt off his clothes the huntress landed right on his back, sending him face-first into the muck. Again. 

“Ow...oh my god, Adam! I’m so sorry—are you okay?!” Ignoring her aching bum, Sio quickly pulled the man back up, wincing as she saw his now mud-covered face, glancing at her with a look that said ‘really’? “I’m sorry! I really didn’t mean it! I didn’t think the railing would break...but, thanks for, er...breaking my fall...ahh, your clothes! Sorry, sorry...!” Sio fussed about him all the while babbling away in her native language, using her cloak to wipe off the grime as best she could.

“...Don’t worry too much, squirt. Just glad you’re not hurt...” Admittedly his ribs were now sore from her literally knocking the air out of him, though Adam supposed he should count himself lucky the girl didn’t weigh very much. “Besides, if yeh hadn’t fired that shot, I wouldn’t be here acting as your cushion.” 

Sio grimaced in embarrassment at his comment. “...I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“Nah. I’m tougher than that, squirt.”

“Your timing was impeccable. Especially considering how far you were from the battle...” Tell limped over as well, a couple of nasty scratches on his face but otherwise didn’t seem any worse for wear. “We can safely light the lamp, now.”

“R, Right...” With the rush of adrenaline now fading her headache returned with full force, Sio rubbing her temples in an attempt to ease the pain. “What, what about him? Nostradamus?”

Tell looked up at the second floor where they’d come from. “Nostradamus? I presume he will remain here; he is not a hunter, after all, and here he can continue his studies. Why, did you wish to extend an invitation to him?”

“A-Ah, uh, n-no I was just, wondering...” she muttered, turning away in guilt. In truth, she wasn’t sure if it was a good idea to increase their numbers even more, given the tensions lately and multitude of factions in their group. Then again, it seemed cruel to just leave him behind in a place like this, especially since he didn’t seem to harbor any ill will.

“C’mon squirt, let’s get going. You shouldn’t stay here any longer than necessary,” Adam reproached, guiding the girl towards the lamp. “If that fella wants t’ come, it’s his choice. We shouldn’t force it.” 

Sio wanted to say something but decided against it; Adam was right, no matter how much she wished for everyone to get along and work together, she knew reality didn’t work that way. If anything, they should be glad Nostradamus wasn’t outright hostile towards them, like so many others. 

Just as the light was about to swallow them something flew through the air, Sio whipping her hand to her neck, only to come away wet with blood. “What th—”

“Tch, a miss...what a pity, could’ve ended it painlessly.”

She didn’t even have time to react before the blow to her head, sending her sprawling to the ground. Dimly she could hear Adam and Tell’s confused yells, before more shouts and the sound of metal weapons clashing against each other...groaning, the huntress tried to right herself, but her vision and hearing were still blurry from being struck by a blunt force, blood dripping down her cheek from the wound. “What’s...going, on...”

“Sio! Leave the girl alone you bastard!”

“Ah but Muirhead, you of all people should know, the real danger she possesses...”

“Fuck you Mirza!”

Mirza? ‘He’s here...? No, he must’ve followed us...! Back in the Hunter’s Dream, he must have overheard our conversation with William Tell...’ Fear threaded itself throughout her body, Sio stumbling half-blind as she groped frantically for her weapons. Just as she finally got a handle on her Rifle Spear, a boot stomped right on her fingers, Sio screaming with pain as the bone cracked.

“Tsk tsk tsk, Miss Sio Ogura...I did ask, what a sweet thing like you was doing, playing hunter in a place like this...” Dark eyes glowed malevolently, as Sio finally came face to face with Mahesh Mirza. “You should’ve stayed behind like a good girl, and not come to Yharnam..."

“Nnng...y-you, bastard...! What do you want?! I haven’t done anything to you!” She desperately tried not to cry, though the pain was almost unbearable. The huntress tried looking for either Adam or Tell from the corners of her eyes, but they were nowhere to be seen; panic crept into her veins, Sio staring wide-eyed at the hunter who revealed his true colors at last.

“Not yet; you think I’m that stupid to not realize your blood sickness? After all my specialty is ferreting out and assassinating those who are about to turn, in the name of the Healing Church...and you my dear, are as close as I’ve ever seen in all my years on the job.”

[toycarousel]

How to Dissect Love (Yandere!Kankri x Listener x Cronus)

This is a SFW but very gory script.  I wrote the script based on the commissioner’s ideas, so credit for the concept of this story and its prequel belong to them~! (To the commissioner: Let me know if you’d like to be credited by name, url, or remain anonymous!!!)

Summary: You've been trapped at Kankri's hive for a few days since he decided to keep you prisoner.  Your boyfriend, Cronus, decides to check in on Kankri and ends up in an unfortunate position.

***Warnings: (Please heed these!!!) Gore, violence, sharp objects, needles, body horror, mutilation, dissection, blood, surgical/medical themes, abduction, vague mentions of hard drugs.

The full script is beneath the readmore:

When he finally awakens, the storm outside is what Cronus hears first.   It was raining, hard, when he sprinted to Kankri’s hive in search of you.  Cronus knows Kankri as his moirail -- but also as a recently unpredictable, furious rival for your affections.

He groans, eyes adjusting to particularly unkind fluorescents.

Cronus: (Confused, in pain, and mumbling) What… where am I? Kan, are you in here somewhere? I… came to visit… you… Kan?

Kankri is seated beside you, on one of the hospital beds he’d stolen from school.  Though your wrists and ankles are firmly buckled, you do prefer it to the metal gurney you’d originally woken upon, those few, long days ago.  Cronus is strapped, unclothed, to an identical bed; fully bound.  Kankri is tenderly unwrapping your most recent bandages, exposing the wrongful destruction of your feet.

Kankri: Yes, Cronus! I’m right here.  I thought you’d come to visit us soon. Sooner than this, actually.  Though it’s not in my nature to be overly critical, I must say I’m a bit disappointed in you!

Cronus: That abandoned car, with the blood… they were missing… and you too! I thought, I mean -- shit my head hurts -- are… are the cops here?

Kankri: Now why would there be human law enforcement in the basement of my hive, Cronus? I know I hit your head when you rudely barged in here -- without even texting me first, might I humbly add -- but despite the blow, you must still realize how silly and unwarranted that sort of question is!  

You: (Attempt to address Cronus, with the intent of both warning him, and announcing your presence).

Kankri: (Interjects before you can utter a word.  He speaks to you directly, aware of your intentions) There’s no need for fearmongering, and you know that! Haven’t I taken good care of you these past few days? I’ve fed you, clothed you, bathed you, and, of course… perfectly tended to your new fins! They’re healing quite beautifully...

Cronus: (Slurring) Who are you talking to…? (He finally turns his head, braving the lights’ harsh radiance through a brutal headache.  When he sees you -- and then your “fins” -- his face contorts into an odd collection of abject relief; horror, sorrow, and revulsion).  No… no, no, no, no, no! What happened to you!? Oh, God, I was so afraid, I thought… (he shudders) that I might never see you alive again, and… and now you’re hurt… what… who did that to you…?

You: (Shakily state that you knew he’d come for you.  You’re sobbing quietly -- alongside a grim, throbbing heartache -- as you fully recognize just how much danger Cronus is now in).

Kankri: Alright, my dearests.  As important as it is to verbally connect with our loved ones, and thoroughly examine all avenues of conversation and detail possible, in order to truly understand a situation and therefore maintain a valid and lasting opinion on any given topic -- I’m afraid I’ll have to stop you two for a moment.

Kankri: You see, Cronus.  I know you’ve been dating each other for a while… you’ve told me all about your little relationship with them (he tilts his head toward you), and you seem happy… but I, too, enjoyed time with them -- before you did, actually… and during that time, and the past few days, we connected, more than I thought possible between any two respectively disparate beings! I know what’s inside my heart.  I know it’s true, and good, and pure.

Cronus: (Catching on, despite his desire to believe anything else) What are you… talking about? You did this!? I thought that… that I was just being protective… taking a shot in the dark...

Kankri: (Continuing blithely) However, what you have with them… well, I’m sorry, Cronus, but it’s a falsehood.  It’s not the same as what they and I share.  I love them.

Cronus: (With his wits steadily returning to him in dire straits) So you... what? Ran them off the road? Kidnapped them!? That’s not love, Kankri! I thought you supported our relationship! You’re my moirail… how... how could you do this!?

Kankri: Precisely.  I am your moirail, and therefore it is my personal responsibility -- and duty, in fact -- to inform you of the truth.  You can’t possibly love them the way I do.  Look at what I’ve done for them! They said they love the sea, and I gave them fins! The most powerful, symbolic freedom... I’ve given to them.  Now, they’re closer to what they love than ever!

Cronus: You hurt them! Kankri, this is all wrong… it’s so wrong… (he turns to you) don’t worry, Baby, I’m gonna get outta here and go get help, I’m gonna get you out of --

Kankri: Though I do hate to interrupt you a second time, as interrupting a person is highly unprofessional -- and I am a professional, as you can clearly see -- I feel obligated to let you know that neither of you are in need of help from anyone but me.  I know how to help you both, how to set things right… I know just what to do to free you two from this facsimile of a relationship.  Then, all three of us can be happy together, in all the right ways; forever!

Kankri: You’ve always liked spending time in my hive, haven’t you, Cronus? Why shouldn’t you stay here with me, as my dear moirail, and you (he turns to you again) as my matesprit -- my one, true love…

Cronus: Kan… I’m in love with them… and… and you can stop all this right now, before (he swallows, dryly, eyes flickering to the various spectres of medical equipment surrounding him)... before it’s too late… before you do something you can’t take back!

You: (Fearfully whisper that you love him too.  Kankri doesn’t hear you, but Cronus does).

Kankri: (Speaking softly, as if to a child in the throes of a small tantrum) You don’t love them, Cronus, you’re simply infatuated.  They’ve seen true love in me, and in my actions.  They’ve seen what’s inside my pump-biscuit -- ah, pardon, I don’t mean to use language that isn’t fully applicable to humans, and thereby alienate you both -- they’ve seen what’s in my heart… they haven’t seen what’s in yours.  Not yet.

Kankri: Fortunately, they will! That will clear this all up nicely, and then we can move on with our new lives together! Just a moment…

He stands to tend an IV pole and pull a tray of cruel instruments toward Cronus. A standard ECG is positioned nearby.  Kankri quickly patches several electrodes to Cronus’ arms, lower stomach, and legs.  He conspicuously avoids the chest area.  

Kankri: I’ve performed several autopsies before, but never on living subjects.  Of course, this won’t exactly be a true autopsy, but I promise you, I’ll be as thorough as possible! (He smiles, as if to calm Cronus, who is struggling more fervently) Now, now… it’s alright.  It’s just a little pinch -- deep breath in! (He expertly inserts the IV needle into Cronus’ forearm.  The process is quick, and smooth, as Kankri’s had many opportunities to practice on you).  Deep breath out!

Kankri: … And we’re done!

Cronus: (Still half disbelieving) Kan, please...

Kankri: Now, I don’t want you to think that I’m going to give you painkillers or sedation until after the procedure is complete.  I’ll be monitoring your heart-rate with the ECG and my own eyes.  Though, given the area I must dissect, I won’t be able to promise an accurate reading.  There’s really no purpose in placing any electrodes directly on your chest, as they’ll simply be peeled away during the surgical process… still, I thought the gesture might be a comfort to you.

Kankri: (He lovingly sweeps Cronus’ hair back from his sweat-slicked brow) As I implied, you will be given a sedative and painkillers when I choose to sew you back up -- after they’ve seen, firsthand, what’s in your heart!

You: (Feverishly begging Kankri to stop, offering yourself forever if he’ll just spare Cronus).

Kankri: Don’t be absurd! We’ll all be together forever regardless, so there’s no point in you begging me to set him free.  Besides, he’s in good hands.  You should know by now that you can trust me to take care of my loved ones… here, let’s begin the procedure.  That will set you both at ease.

Cronus: (Trying to retain dignity through his tearful panic) What about blood-loss, Kan? I… can’t stay with you both forever if I die of blood loss… right?

Kankri: Oh, my dear moirail, I’ve got that completely under control.  The bags I have stored are your precise hue, not to worry.  (Fetches a glimmering scalpel from the tray beside him) You know you both need to learn to trust me more, or we’ll just have to relive these same difficult experiences over and over and over again!

Kankri: Now, time for the first incision! This is so exciting, isn’t it?

Cronus tries to contain his screams as Kankri makes two large, initial deep slices.  Blood gathers to the surface of each cut, extending from Cronus’ right and left shoulders.  The thickish purple fluid dribbles down his sides, and greasily smears Kankri’s hands.

Kankri: My, you’re juicy, aren’t you? Fortunately, highbloods can handle far more physical tests like these than warmer-hued beings can.  Ah, not to suggest that you aren’t human, Cronus -- just that you’re a special case!  

You: (Crying out to Cronus, trying to soothe him against the intense pain.  You tug desperately at your bindings, hoping to escape and find help.  The braces around your ankles cause excruciating discomfort as they jostle each unhealed, mangled “fin.”)

Kankri: Time for another cut! This will be a long one.  You’ll likely experience what feels like extreme heat as I run the knife down your navel.  Don’t fret, I won’t cut too far down!

Cronus: (Delirious with the searing new torture, he speaks to you) Hey… hey… don’t cry… it’s okay, it’s going to be okay! I’m… (he breathes through his unintentional groans) not doing so bad… it’s not so bad…

Kankri: That’s the spirit! Now, I’m going to peel back the tissue, utilizing this scalpel (he snatches a new one from the tray and gazes at it fondly before turning back to Cronus), break a few of your ribs for the sake of visibility of the target organ, and, well… see what’s truly in your heart.

Cronus: (Trying to remain conscious) Oh, God… God… please…

Kankri: It’s not time to sleep yet!  

You try to shatter your hands, and rip them from the cuffs, but it simply doesn’t work.  No matter how hard you endeavour, you’re helpless to save Cronus.  Still, you keep pulling and pulling at your restraints.

Kankri fulfills his threats.  He shifts between callousness and utmost, loyal care as he strips Cronus’ of various membranous and muscular tissues.  Then, peaceful and focused even within the chaotic din of your protesting screams and Cronus’ worst wails, Kankri uses a heavier instrument to snap four of his moirail’s ribs.  Cronus is gripping his own cuffs now, trying to stay awake despite wanting, more than anything, to become oblivious.

Kankri: Wait… hush now.  Something is wrong.  (Blank; in shock).

Kankri: I can see everything… (he steps back from Cronus’ heaving, exposed viscera, and suddenly focuses all his attention on you).

You: (Strain to see Cronus, but with only a side-view, your comprehension of the most extreme damage is limited).

Kankri: Maybe it’s… oh, no… can you see it? You can... can’t you? I’ve made a mistake… (beginning to panic, he presses his hands against parted, lax lips, accidentally staining them an ominous purple).

You: (Shake your head.  You don’t know what sort of sudden trance Kankri’s in, but you softly, slowly ask him to untie you.  It’s as if you’re speaking gently to a deer, dying on the highway).

Kankri: (Nods, and steps toward you, unstrapping your wrist restraints) This wasn’t supposed to be the result… I didn’t know…

You: (Ask him what he’s talking about, distantly, as you realized Cronus’ cries have dimmed far too much).

Kankri: (On his knees, stunned, and very small) See for yourself.  (He points toward Cronus, without turning his head even slightly).

You use your freed hands to release your twisted, oozing feet.  Your struggles have reopened recent wounds.  With trembling effort, you prop yourself on your knees until you can finally see all of Cronus.  

You’ll never forget the sight of your boyfriend, carved open and violated in a manner too pure to be enacted with true malignancy.  He’s still breathing, and his voice is reedy from screams that seems to echo in the air; haunting it. Haunting you.

Kankri: (Flatly) He’s not dead, is he?

You: (Mutter “no,” and prepare to fight Kankri off with all your, unfortunately, diminished strength if he pursues you.  You’re sliding from the bed, tumbling and crawling…)

Cronus mumbles, in a trance not unlike Kankri’s, but you can’t make sense of his words.  He sighs, and then all you hear is Kankri’s voice, following your slow, distressed ascent on the stairs.

Kankri: ...There was love in his heart, after all.

[meetmeatthecoda]

At long last...

... here is Scripted. I don’t think there’s anything to say about this fic that I haven’t already. The only thing I would add is that this fic is definitely something new for me, in a lot of different ways, and it was certainly a challenge to write over the last month. But I don’t think it’s too bad, I’m actually pretty proud of how it turned out :) But, as always, I would love any feedback you guys feel inclined to give me. Also, this fic is pretty massive by my standards (60 pages solid pages and 24k+ words) so, while I am putting it below the cut, I’m also putting it on my FF.net (here) and AO3 (here) for ease of reading. As a reminder, the summary is below. I have an ending (Part 2) vaguely outlined but, if I write it at all, it won’t be for a while. I wanna focus on some of my other projects for the rest of my break. Lastly, I just wanna give a quick shout-out to all my peeps who were super patient and supportive through the whole process of writing this, I couldn’t have done it without you! :D (I know I’m not accepting an Oscar here, just wanted to throw that out there :) Anyway, here is is. If you’ve got a few minutes, please tell me what you think and, more importantly, please, please enjoy! :D Much love y’all! <3

Summary: AU after 5.08, no Tom, Agnes, or daddygate. Lizzington. Inspired by Liz writing on the clipboard in the winter finale. Liz wakes from her coma and is diagnosed with apraxia of speech; she can understand speech but she has trouble speaking herself. Adjusting to her newly silent life proves difficult for her and her AOS and depression drive her into Red's arms. How will they cope?

Liz taps her fingers on her thighs, frowning at the black and red discs arranged on the board in front of her.

“Face it, Lizzie, you’re fighting a losing battle. Just surrender now and I promise I won’t gloat too much.”

Red smirks at her from his seat next to her hospital bed, arms crossed and leaning back in his chair confidently, taunting her.

She holds up her hand without looking away from the board, signaling that he should stop talking. He chuckles lowly at that but falls silent. Liz checks the board over once more and, sure of her move, nods to herself. She leans forward and picks up one of her red checker pieces, skipping it over three of Red’s black pieces in quick succession, her red piece ending up on the row of squares closest to him, a king.

Red’s mouth falls open in surprise and he leans forward to glare comically at the board. Liz picks up his stolen black pieces proudly, grinning, mouth open in a silent laugh.

Silent.

Red’s voice has been the only one sounding in her hospital room since she woke up a month ago.  

Things haven’t been going well.

She’s been poked and prodded by doctors since the moment Red had suddenly remembered that she needed medical attention and stopped kissing her hands long enough to push the call button.

(She still gets flutters in her stomach when she thinks about the sensation of Red’s lips on her fingers.)

The doctors had run about the room, excited and bursting with questions for her. Apparently, she’s the longest coma patient they’ve had that’s actually woken up.

She’s tries not to think about that. 

They’d run bloodwork and taken samples, tested her strength and brought in physical therapists. She’s been working daily with a kind, older woman to build up her muscles again. They spent the first two weeks doing upper body and arm exercises in bed, which was endlessly frustrating for Liz, who felt as though she should be able to stand up and walk right out of the hospital. Her physical therapist assured her she was doing remarkably well and that she shouldn’t try to push herself.

Her physical strength is one thing, something that Liz is fairly confident she can regain with a little patience. But her physical condition is not the only thing under scrutiny.

She is having trouble speaking.

It was an odd thing. After it was determined that she could breathe on her own and the ventilator was removed, the doctors had officially greeted her and asked her how she was feeling. She had opened her mouth to speak, knowing what she wanted to say (something completely stupid like “fine, thanks, how are you?”), and expected her voice to be a little worse for wear, scratchy and hoarse (after all, it’s been ten months since she last spoke), but she hadn’t expected it to not come out at all.

She couldn’t talk.

Liz tried desperately to make her mouth form the words she wanted to say but her lips and tongue simply couldn’t obey her brain. She had worked her mouth repeatedly but couldn’t make herself say anything.

It was terrifying.

She had quickly started to panic and Red had seen that she was having a problem before the doctors did, rushing to her side, and crouching over her, speaking quickly, urgently –

“Lizzie? Sweetheart, what’s wrong? Are you alright, what’s the matter? Doctor, what’s happening, she can’t –”

The doctor was baffled at first but quickly jumped into action, calling a nurse in to give Liz a mild sedative, and promising Red that he would contact a speech therapist.

After many more tests and unsuccessful attempts to speak, Liz was diagnosed with apraxia of speech. She had listened mutely as the speech therapist had quietly explained it, clutching Red’s hand tightly as a few tears escaped her eyes and rolled down her face.

The condition is rare and still a little mysterious but it can sometimes occur after traumatic brain injuries like Liz’s. Her speech therapist has only seen a handful of cases but she assured Liz and Red that it is completely treatable and, in most cases, clears up suddenly on its own. But it is important to attend speech therapy and, for the time being, practice some forms of non-verbal communication. She and the other doctors had suggested sign language and left a packet containing the basics on her nightstand, making sure to leave the neat diagram of the alphabet out on top. They were eager for her to start.

She had angrily shoved the diagram back in the folder.

For some reason, Liz abhors the thought of learning sign language. It’s perfectly reasonable, of course, and it would help significantly with communication but she just can’t make herself open the folder and look. She thinks maybe it’s because it would feel like defeat. It’s only meant to be a temporary solution until she can speak again but Liz simply can’t stomach the idea. Learning a completely new language? No, she can’t. Not when she feels like she does.

(Small and drained and weak.)

No, Liz favors a pen and paper. She doesn’t have to learn any new skills to just write words on paper and Liz is simply too tired to learn new skills.

(She’s not sure how she can be so tried when she just slept for ten months but somehow, she is constantly exhausted.)

Liz feels strangely shy around her doctors, sometimes feeling oddly as though she’s still sleeping and the world is moving around her, taking no notice of her lying there in silence. She’s not sure whether she prefers it or not. They say she just needs to adjust to things but she’s not so sure. She talks only to Red via pen and paper, telling him what she would like to say to the doctors and he graciously acts as intermediary between them, Liz preferring not to be the subject of their clinical gazes and blunt words.

Red has, in fact, been wonderful.

Red.

Liz looks at him now, still examining the checkers board, scowling and muttering to himself as he tries to figure out where he went wrong, and smiles.

He has been here for every step of her slow recovery, spending the days keeping her company with books and games and even spending the nights on a cot in her room. Liz gets the feeling that ten months ago, before her accident and her coma and her general life upheaval, she would have wanted Red to leave her be. She would have asked politely (hopefully) for some space, urging him to wait for her to call before coming back to visit her.

(She’s honestly not sure if she would have called at all.)

But that’s how she would have felt ten months ago. Somehow, she feels very different now. Perhaps all that sleep gave her mind time to absorb and process the whirlwind that her life has been for the past four years before her coma. She has somehow been married, divorced, married, annulled, married, and windowed in what felt like very quick succession.

(Tom is gone now though and though she feels a kind of calm sadness about it, she’s moved on and she doesn’t want to dwell on it. That’s that.)

Just about every aspect of her life had been turned upside down before her accident and she didn’t know which way was up. But throughout the whole process, there was Red. Always Red. And now she can see that he’s always been here for her, even at her worst times.

So, the coma seems to have helped in one respect at least.

Red was the first thing she heard when she regained consciousness and, as she blinked blearily, the first thing she saw when she turned her head.

(He was also the first thing she touched in ten months, her hand gently nudging his shoulder and his hand grasping, pressing her fingers desperately to his face, but that’s another thing she tries not to think about too hard.)

Red has been here from what feels like the very beginning and she honestly doesn’t want anything different. She wants him here with her, by her side, supporting her as he has always done, and while that should feel like a complete about-face for her, it doesn’t.

It feels like she is finally seeing straight.

She just wishes it hadn’t taken a year-long coma to get her there.

“Lizzie?”

Red is here now, of course, having finally accepted his defeat at checkers, and is peering at her, a little concerned at her prolonged silence. She blinks to clear her mind and smiles at him reassuringly, patting his hand where it lays next to hers on the side of her bed.

He is never far from her.

He smiles back, the concern gone now that she’s here in the present again.

“Congratulations, you’ve won,” he sighs, pretending to be put out. She giggles. For some reason, non-language noises can still usually come naturally to her, quiet laughs, sighs, hums, and coughs. The therapist assures her that it’s normal and that she should use these things to gently warm up her vocal chords and get used to speaking again.

(Liz hasn’t been doing that.)

Red touches her hand gently. “Would you like to play again?” he asks softly.

She shakes her head no, squeezing his hand. He nods and picks up the board, tipping the checker pieces carefully back into their box.

“Perhaps tomorrow,” he says, smiling kindly at her, putting the lid on the box and placing it in the small pile in the corner where he’s amassed all their board games. It’s quite a collection at this point. “Would you like me to read to you?”

Tired of head nods and shakes, Liz picks up the notebook and pen that are always within reach on her nightstand, conveniently covering up the folder of ASL materials.

I’m tired.

She scrawls it on the paper and tilts it towards Red, whose eyes scan the paper to read.

“All right, then,” he says easily. “A nap it is.”

He busies himself needlessly straightening up the room and pulling the curtains on her windows.

It’s still light outside.

He pulls his cot towards her bed, where they both like it, so he is within reach while she sleeps. They’ve taken to holding hands while they sleep.

“Perhaps when you wake up we can look at the ASL alphabet together?” he suggests tentatively.

He knows of her reluctance to begin learning but he doesn’t know why she’s so averse to the idea.

Liz isn’t completely sure she knows either.

(But she’s seen him practicing the signs quietly in the corner when he thinks she’s asleep.)

She doesn’t answer, simply turns away from him and closes her eyes as he clicks off her bedside lamp, pretending she’s too tired to answer.

Besides, what does it matter?

She doesn’t care.

“Dembe said he was sad to miss you but he was glad you were resting. I told him that we were talking about a new Chinese checkers board and I asked him to go pick one up for us. He said he didn’t mind but I didn’t quite believe him so I told him to pick up something for himself at the same time. I wonder what he decided on. I’ll have to ask him when he gets back.”

Liz listens as Red tells her of Dembe’s latest visit, one that she had napped right through. She hadn’t meant to, of course, but she can’t help but feel a little relieved. For some reason, she’d rather hear Red talk about Dembe’s visit than talk to Dembe in person. She feels just as uncomfortable around Dembe as she does her doctors and anyone but Red, for that matter. She’d rather hear about things second-hand. But she still likes to talk to Red.

She starts to write a response to him in her notebook.

I’m sure Dembe doesn’t mind, you know how loyal he is to you and –

“He’s been quite a life saver these past few months, you know, bringing me things and running errands so I didn’t have to leave you. He’s been so wonderful. He deserves a fabulous vacation soon, certainly.”

Liz purses her lips but abandons her previous sentence to start a new one, trying to follow Red’s train of thought as he speaks.

Please thank Dembe for me, I haven’t had the chance yet. You’ll have to –

“And his daughter sent flowers as well, a few months ago, beautiful sunflowers to brighten up the room, she said. Isabella is a wonderful girl, beautiful and bright, with a little one of her own now. She grew so fast, I swear.”

Liz frowns, getting annoyed now. How is she supposed to keep up with Red with he goes from topic to topic so quickly? She can’t just interject her contribution verbally into the conversation as she would have normally, she has to write what she wants to say, and it would be a lot easier to keep up if he would just slow down –

I’ve heard a lot about Isabella from you and Dembe. It’s a shame I’ve never met her. What did you say her daughter’s name is –

“Maybe I should send them all on vacation, what do you think, Lizzie? Isabella can take some time off work and her little one would love the beach, I’m sure of it –”

Liz slaps her hand against her bed tray in frustration, unable to stand it any longer. Red jumps a little in his chair, not expecting the noise, and looks at her, startled.

“Lizzie? What’s wrong, are you in pain?”

He takes her hand quickly, an instinctive move, it seems, and only then notices the red pen she’s holding.

“Oh,” he murmurs. “Were you writing something? I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

He gently pulls her abandoned notebook closer to him and peers at it. She watches his eyes scan over the paper, taking in her hastily written sentences, each one unfinished, her handwriting getting sloppier as it descends the paper, hurried but still unable to keep up with him.

Red’s eyes widen as he understands and he pushes the notebook aside, his hands going back to hold hers, trying to sooth her.

“Oh, Lizzie, I’m so sorry, sweetheart, I thought you were just listening, I didn’t know…”

She sees the obvious sympathy in his eyes as he presses a kiss to her hand and suddenly her throat tightens and her eyes fill up with tears. She’s been so emotional since she woke up, crying at the drop of hat, constantly feeling sorry for herself. The doctors have tried to assure her that it’s completely normal, she’s been through a lot, after all, but it doesn’t help.

She just feels so weak.

Red sees her tears and his face crumples, suffering right along with her as he has been this whole time and that makes her cry even harder.

“No, no, Lizzie, don’t cry. It’s alright, it’ll be okay. We’ll figure this out, we just need to get adjusted to things, that’s all. And it’s my fault anyway, Lizzie, I’ll talk slower, I promise.”

She shakes her head as he pulls her in for a hug, a common occurrence these days, his arms and scent surrounding her with wonderful familiarity. Red has been so patient with all of this, with her, and she’s the one that can’t keep herself together for more than five minutes at a time. She wishes she could tell him that but, even if she took the time to write it down, he would vehemently deny it and give her reassurances she doesn’t deserve so she just hugs him, reveling in his warmth, listening to his deep voice as he whispers to her, letting him comfort her.

“I’m sorry, Lizzie, I wasn’t thinking. When you were asleep, I just talked endlessly because I knew you wouldn’t answer. It seems I’ve got to kick that habit now that you’re awake and I couldn’t be more grateful, Lizzie. I’m so happy you’re awake. I just have to slow down because of course you have things to say, Lizzie, and you need a little extra time to contribute and there’s nothing wrong with that. Don’t worry, Lizzie, we’ll get the hang of things soon…”

Liz’s heart aches at the thought of Red talking to her nonstop while she was in her coma, desperate to keep her alive somehow, so afraid she wouldn’t wake up. She squeezes him as hard as she can with her arms, in a loop around his broad shoulders, feeling so grateful for him.

(She doesn’t know how he made it through those long months alone. She will never ask him.)

Liz feels herself calming down as Red rubs her back gently and, after a long moment, she pulls away reluctantly. Red lets her go and plucks a tissue out of the box on her nightstand, offering it to her kindly. She dabs at her eyes and blows her nose, a little embarrassed, but Red just smiles adoringly at her. She tosses her used tissue in the trash and picks up her pen to scrawl two words on her notebook.

Thank you.

“Oh, of course, Lizzie, don’t be silly.” Red murmurs, rubbing her arm tenderly.

Liz smiles at him and blinks lazily, realizing she is suddenly exhausted.

“That’s enough drama for one day. How about a nap?” Red says teasingly. His attempt at lightness helps and she nods. A nap sounds wonderful.

Red drags his cot over to her bedside and switches off her bedside lamp, quickly getting comfortable as she turns on her side to face him.

“Get some rest, Lizzie,” he murmurs quietly.

Liz stretches her arm out the short distance to his cot and finds his hand in the darkness, her eyes already drooping closed.

They’ll figure it out.

Somehow.

Liz bites her lip, focusing intensely on the notebook on her bed tray and the red pen in her hand, trying to form a flawless lowercase “a” between the lines of the paper, her hand still a little weak and unsteady.

She is practicing.

She doesn’t really want to, her writing is perfectly legible, as Red has assured her, but he doesn’t like to see her apathetic and staring off into space like she prefers to. Red and her doctors like to see her putting her mind to something when she’s not slowly regaining strength in her limbs. Since she’d rather not attract more unwanted attention from them, she has to do something.

And Liz refuses to learn ASL.

It’s so much easier to practice her handwriting instead. She can recall the skills easily and she can practice mindlessly enough while still distracting herself from the torrent of her thoughts. It’s easy. And some clarity in her letters wouldn’t hurt. 

(Red sometimes squints at her k’s.)

Liz peers at the neat row of a’s marching across one line of notebook paper and nods to herself. Good enough. She moves to the next line and, with a small sigh, starts on b’s.

As she writes, she listens idly to Red’s voice, coming to her from outside her room in the hallway of the hospital, talking to Dembe on the phone.

“No, I didn’t say that…I’m not sure why you think I would…No, don’t answer that…Anyway, it doesn’t matter, they’re pleased with her. When are you getting back?”

Liz takes a break from her b’s, shaking out her hand, sore already, and looks up at Red through the open blinds on her hallway window. Amid his leisurely pacing up and down the hallway in front of her room, he seems to feel her gaze on him and turns around, meeting her eyes through the window. Liz feels a little thrill go through her at the sudden attention and she blushes a little. Red’s gaze softens as he looks at her. He smiles and gives a little wave and she can’t help but grin and wiggle her fingers back.

He’s sweet.

“Yes, maybe you should…I don’t think we need that, no…Well, what did they say?”

Liz smiles to herself and goes back to her b’s, listening to the pleasant rumble of Red’s voice as she writes.

She has moved on to c’s by the time he comes back, steadily making progress, but feeling no real sense of achievement, just a bland satisfaction at successfully passing the time. And having something to show Red.

She’s missed him.

He was only out in the hallway for half an hour at most and she could see and hear him the whole time but, nonetheless, Liz feels better, lighter, happier when he walks back in the room, here and present with her.

“I’m sorry that took so long, Lizzie. Dembe and I were catching up.”

Red takes a seat by her side and waits patiently while she writes a response in the margin of her practice page.

(He’s gotten a lot better at waiting.)

That’s alright. Any interesting news to share?

“Well, he did say that –” Red starts to say but he stops short when he sees the lines of letters occupying the majority of her page. “Lizzie, you’ve been practicing?” he exclaims, for some reason incredibly excited by this.

Liz can’t help but return his wide smile. She nods and he lets out a joyous laugh, taking her hand, pen and all, to squeeze it.

“Lizzie, that’s wonderful! Good for you, I’m so proud of you!”

His words fill her with what seems like a disproportionate amount of happiness, like sunshine suddenly illuminating a dim room. She smiles again and, with a renewed sense of vigor, starts work on her d’s, listening contentedly as he chatters animatedly about his conversation with Dembe.

She’s happy that he’s happy.

Liz taps her fingers anxiously on the bed next to her thighs, looking out her window into the hallway outside, biting her lip and watching as Red talks to her lead doctor.

They are discussing her future.

Well, not her future so much as her immediate plans. If there’s anything Liz has learned through this ordeal, it’s that the future is unpredictable. Immediate plans, however, can be arranged. And they say Liz is ready to leave the hospital.

She is nervous.

She would appreciate a change of scenery, given that this room is all she’s known for the last year of her life. Granted she was asleep for the bigger portion of it but it is remarkable how boring the same four walls can become, especially when confined to a bed.

But Liz is still more afraid than excited to leave. She supposes she would be more enthusiastic if she knew where she’s going.

Liz watches as Red shakes his head and gestures wildly, hands flitting about as they try to illustrate his point to the doctor, whose lips are pursed in disapproval. Liz furrows her brow. What are they arguing about? She would be able to hear them but the doctor had closed the door behind him on the way out so all she can see is their mouths moving.

It’s one of the many frustrating things she’s dealt with recently.

Liz doesn’t mind Red talking to the doctors in her place, in fact she prefers it, and she trusts him to arrange what’s best for her but she’d feel a lot more at ease if she could hear exactly what changes they’re discussing, as it will affect her most directly. If she could just hear what they’re saying –

Liz sighs, wishing she could stand up and pace. She could, of course, she’s made wonderful physical progress after all and, if she could get up and pace, then she could just as easily open the door and listen in on their conversation. But she’s already done her physical therapy for the day and she’s tired. If Red would just come back in and tell her what’s going on then she could sleep peacefully. He hasn’t told her anything about what he’s arranged with the doctors. She knows he had to give up her apartment a few months into her coma and he had Dembe carefully pack up all her belongings and place them in a storage unit.

She was very glad to hear that.

She is still worried though. Not about the apartment or her possessions, of course, she trusts Red more than enough to organize all that, but it worries her because that means she has no home to go to once she is released. She has no apartment and it will take time to look for one and she certainly hasn’t had the presence of mind recently to start that process. She supposes she could stay in a hotel while she looks but she also hasn’t given a thought to her financial situation. After all, she hasn’t seen a bank statement for a year. She doesn’t know if she can even afford an apartment.

(Red had completely floored her when he assured her that all her hospital costs had been taken care of. Liz can’t even fathom what that amount had come to after ten months of life support and she’d quite simply broken down into tears when Red told her she didn’t owe a dime. She knew right then that she would, quite literally, never be able to repay his generosity, even if she dedicated the rest of her life to it. The thought puts a strange feeling in her chest.)

But the fact remains that Liz knows frighteningly little about how she would fair if she were tossed out of the hospital and excepted to support herself. This whole process has moved very fast and it would be a very rough re-entry into the real world, so different from this little haven Red has created for her in this hospital room.  

She truly doesn’t know what she’ll do.

She knows what she wants though.

Red.

She wants to stay with Red.

She knows that’s horribly pathetic and needy but she can’t help it. Red has been with her every second since she’s woken up and, by all accounts, every second since she fell asleep. She’s grown very attached to his presence, his support, his voice, his laugh, his smile during her recovery.

She can’t imagine being without him. The thought fills her with a horrible ache.

Yes, she wants to stay with him. She wonders if he’ll want that. It makes her strangely panicky to think of what he’ll say.

Liz glances back at the window to see the doctor frowning, shaking his head and trying to interrupt Red, while Red’s mouth moves as he firmly talks over him. Liz can’t suppress a smirk.

This doctor obviously doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.

Liz’s smile fades as her distracted mind goes back to her current predicament: how does she ask Red if she can stay with him? With a start, she sees that it looks like he and the doctor are finishing up so she’d better think of something.

Quickly.

She snatches her notebook and pen off her nightstand and flips to a blank page. She taps her pen against her bed tray in a frantic rhythm that only serves to annoy her. She sighs, frustrated. There’s no use sitting here agonizing over it. She’d better just try writing something. She puts pen to paper.

Hey, Red, do you think –

No, too casual.

She scratches it out.

Raymond, would you consider allowing me –

Too formal.

Scratch.

Red, may I come and stay with you when I am released?

Ugh, that’s too…something.

Why is this so difficult?

Liz glances up at the window once again to see the doctor, his head hung in something that looks like defeat and Red, wearing an expression that looks curiously like success.

Red has won.

Liz’s heart skips a beat in her chest. She watches as the doctor turns and wanders down the hallway dejectedly, not sparing a glance towards her room, while Red nods triumphantly, looking very happy with himself, and starts towards her door.

Liz panics at the sight and quickly scratches out her last failed sentence. She just manages to flip to a clean page in her notebook to hide all evidence of her struggle when the door opens and Red bursts in, excited.

“Lizzie! Oh, good, you’re awake, I know that took quite a while but your doctor needed some convincing. Not to worry, I got him to see our side of it and everything is sorted out. I have such plans, everything will be fine, Dembe is seeing to the arrangements now, so things will be ready within a day or two and – Lizzie? Is something wrong?”

She has been staring at him blankly, listening to his vague statements, and getting progressively more worried the less specific he is. What has he planned for her?

“Lizzie?”

He is still waiting for some sort of answer from her. Liz blinks, exhaling shakily, and turns to her notebook. Red sees her start to write and comes to her side to read, concerned.

I don’t understand – where will I go?

Liz tilts the notebook hesitantly towards Red and watches anxiously as his eyes scan the paper.

“Oh, Lizzie, I’m sorry, I thought you knew,” he sits on the edge of her bed and takes her hand carefully. “You’ll be coming with me, of course. I have a nice house all picked out, I think you’ll love it, it’s on a beautiful lake, the perfect place to continue your recuperation. It’s not too big but also not too small. Just right, I think, but we’ll see if you agree. And I’ve convinced your doctors not to send any nurses with you, you don’t need them, you’re able to function independently now and, at any rate, I’ll be right there if you need something. It will be –”

Red stops talking suddenly, looking almost frightened as he takes in her expression.

“That is, only if you want to, Lizzie. Do you…I just assumed…Do you want to stay with me?”

The words are curiously timid and Liz marvels at them. She never thought Raymond Reddington could be shy.

What an odd sight.

(It makes her want to hold him.)

Red continues to stare at Liz, obviously waiting on tender hooks for an answer. Liz simply looks back at him affectionately before jumping suddenly, realizing she has just been staring stupidly at him with her mouth open, contemplating how perfectly wonderful his plans sound. How did he know exactly what she wanted?

(She supposes she shouldn’t be surprised. Red has always been good at reading her. Even when she can’t read herself.)

Liz scrambles for her pen, in a hurry to reassure him, and quickly scrawls in her notebook, her words big and off center in her haste.

Yes, of course! Honestly, that’s exactly what I was hoping for!

“Oh, good,” Red gasps upon reading her words, sounding distinctly relieved. “I didn’t even realize we hadn’t discussed it, I just went ahead and made plans, that was very presumptuous of me, Lizzie, I’m so sorry –”

I just didn’t know what you had in mind and I didn’t know how to ask you but really, I don’t know what I’d do or where I’d go, so thank you and I just –

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Liz marvels at the fact that they can be awkwardly talking over one another when Red is speaking and she is writing and Red seems to realize it at the same time she does, giving up on his sentence with a breathy chuckle and Liz stops writing just to listen to the sound.

They look at each other fondly for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes, and Liz feels inexplicably grateful for Red.

Where would she be without him?

(She doesn’t want to know.)

She touches the back of his hand gently.

“It’s truly my pleasure, Lizzie,” he murmurs with a gentle smile and she tries not to cry at the genuine feeling in his voice.

She’s staying with him.

She’ll be alright.

“Mr. Kershaw, I may speak to you for a moment please?”

Red looks up, a little startled, from Lizzie’s notebook where they are playing tic-tac-toe while waiting for Dembe to arrive. It will be his last visit before the move and he’s going to update Red on all the preparations. Red is on pins and needles waiting for him. He wants everything to be absolutely perfect.

(Just as Lizzie deserves.)

But first, apparently, Lizzie’s doctor wants to talk to him.

Hm.

“Certainly, Dr. Lauflan. What is it?” Red replies, curious. Lizzie’s doctor generally doesn’t make a habit of speaking to them more than strictly necessary. He’s never been particularly in favor of Red and Liz’s undisclosed situation, as Red made sure to keep the nature of their relationship fairly ambiguous, and the good doctor resents not being privy to all the details. But as far as Red is concerned, Dr. Lauflin should be interested only in Lizzie’s health and not why Red has barely left her bedside since she was brought in a year ago. Regardless, Red’s not sure whether the doctor’s unsociable behavior is a result of nothing to say since Lizzie has stabilized or out of general disapproval of their current situation.

Red’s also not sure if he cares.

He looks back at the doctor expectantly, who hesitates.

“Perhaps we could speak outside in the hall,” he says bluntly. Red blinks in surprise.

Interesting.

Red glances at Lizzie, wanting to make sure she doesn’t have a problem with him and her doctor talking out of her earshot when the only thing they could possibly being discussing is her. She hasn’t minded lately. In fact, she has been surprisingly disinterested in her doctor’s input after he relayed her initial test results after she woke. She has encouraged Red to speak to him in her place, perhaps feeling uncomfortable with not being able to verbalize her questions and comments. Red doesn’t see a problem with this, after all, his only goal is to assist Lizzie in any way he can, and he takes Lizzie’s reliance on him in this manner as a display of trust. That’s something they had frighteningly little of before her accident and Red’s not about to turn around and ruin it now.

(Besides, he’d die for her. In comparison, this is simple.)

Looking at her now, Red can see a slight pursing at the corners of her mouth, telling him she is vaguely annoyed that Dr. Lauflan is so obviously trying to leave her out of things but she gives a little shrug and nods at Red in permission. He touches her hand briefly in response before standing, stretching, and following Lizzie’s doctor out of the room.

“Well?” Red murmurs, not unkindly, pulling Lizzie’s door shut as quietly as he can.

“Mr. Kershaw, I feel I must speak,” Dr. Lauflan says, his eyes hard as he looks at Red through his dark-framed glasses. “I have tried to be understanding in regard to your and Ms. Keen’s…relationship. I have disregarded visiting hours, included you in every detail of her treatment despite the fact that you are not a blood relative, even consented to send her to live with you without any assistance from a nurse or in-house doctor, although you are unqualified non-medical personnel. I did all of this against my better judgement, in part because of your sizable donation to the hospital and upfront payment of medical costs, but also because I can see how beneficial you are to Ms. Keen’s health. But now, since she will soon be out of my care, I must speak freely. Do you understand, Mr. Kershaw?”

Red blinks, shocked. This is surely the most he has ever heard Dr. Lauflan speak at one time. And there is more to come?

“Of course, Doctor. I urge you to speak your mind. I was under the impression you have been doing that for the duration of Ms. Keen’s stay. Have I been mistaken?” Red raises an eyebrow sternly.

“No, of course not,” he says, bristling and shaking his head firmly. “I have been truthful and concise in every aspect of Ms. Keen’s treatment, according to my Hippocratic Oath, which I take very seriously. I now speak in matters of advice, not strictly medical diagnosis. I could let you leave without saying what I’d like to say and still feel that I treated Ms. Keen to the best of my ability but I’m not sure my conscience would be at ease.”

“Well then, by all means, tell me what’s on your mind, Doctor,” says Red primly, getting a little annoyed with this beating around the bush.

Dr. Lauflan looks at him in silence for a moment before taking a deep breath and opening his mouth once again.

“Ms. Keen has made a remarkable recovery over the past several weeks. To be sure, I’ve never seen anything quite like it. I stand by my belief that, against all odds, she will make a full physical recovery. However, it is not her physique that I am concerned for. She is not as mentally engaged as I would like to see. She only communicates with you and she says little to me or her other doctors. I have a feeling that, away from the hospital, she will be more at risk of falling into serious depression. That is the main reason I would like her to attend therapy but you have vehemently refused.”

“Ms. Keen is not comfortable with that,” Red says stiffly, not willing to rehash an old argument simply for the doctor’s peace of mind. Lizzie has made it quite clear she doesn’t need to talk to a stranger about her problems. “Besides, she is coping just fine, considering all she has been through.”

“Of course, there is no doubt that she has endured considerable turmoil,” Dr. Lauflan agrees, a little impatiently. “But that brings me to other point: she must practice speaking, Mr. Kershaw. She has not spoken in my presence since awakening and I only see her write notes to you. It is my belief that she is too depressed to practice speaking or learn alternate methods of communication, which would at least keep her mind active, and she must be encouraged if she is to improve. If she does not try, she will not regain all of her previous speech abilities. If you continue to coddle her –”

“Excuse me?” Red interrupts, truly angry now. “Coddle her? Ms. Keen has been through awful trauma and I am willing to wait as long as it takes for her to be ready to make progress. I will not force her.”

“Sometimes force is necessary for improvement, Mr. Kershaw,” presses the doctor, desperately. “If you truly care for her, then you must insist that she speak.”

“Thank you for your valuable input, Doctor,” Red says abruptly, refusing to listen to any more. “But this conversation is over. Do not bring it up again.”

Red turns away from the blustering doctor without waiting for a response and reenters Lizzie’s room, shutting the door firmly behind him. As he heads to his normal seat at Lizzie’s bedside, he sees her writing something in her notebook. She turns it toward him as soon as he sits down.

What did the doctor want?

“Oh, nothing, sweetheart,” he says, working to let go of his anger. “He just wanted to go over some medical treatments for you. But it’s nothing for you to worry about,” he brushes some of her hair behind her ear and she smiles at him, easily mollified. “How about another game?”

Lizzie sets to work drawing up another neat tic-tac-toe board and Red glances through the window into the hallway. The doctor has gone, given up, good riddance, but Red notices Dembe standing in the hallway looking at him curiously through the window. How long has he been standing there? And how much of the doctor’s ridiculous diatribe did he hear?

Ah well. It was nothing Red wouldn’t have shared with him anyway.

(There is not much Red won’t tell Dembe.)

Red waves him in.

As Dembe enters, Lizzie offers Red the notebook and he picks up his black pen, drawing a tiny x in the upper right corner, greeting Dembe at the same time.  

Lizzie will be fine, Red tells himself as Dembe takes a seat next to him.

He’ll make sure of it.

“Are you ready, Lizzie?”

Today is the day.

She’s finally leaving the hospital.

And she’s scared.

This room has been all she’s known for what has surely been the longest and most difficult period of her life. It’s been a both comfort and a prison at times but Liz is still nervous to see the outside world again.

After all, it’s been a year.

But Liz is dressed in comfortable clothes, her favorite yoga pants and sweatshirt, kindly retrieved from her storage unit by Dembe, and she has her notebook in her hand and her pen stuck in her ponytail and Red is waiting for her.

“Lizzie?”

Red is here.

She can do this.

Liz looks at his encouraging smile and takes his proffered hand, using his solid strength to pull herself up off her hospital bed for the last time.

She is still a little weak, even though she can walk just fine on her own, but she stumbles into Red nevertheless. He wraps his arms around her automatically, instinctively, and she takes a moment to rest there, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, and breathe in his scent. He hums contentedly, pleased with the impromptu embrace, and rubs her back.

(She never thought she’d be quite this comfortable in his arms. But, alas, she’s never been happier.)

“Ready?” he murmurs after a nice moment.

Liz regretfully pulls back from him but takes his hand and holds onto it. She nods.

“All right, then. Let’s go,” Red says with a final excited smile.

He squeezes her hand and starts to walk, tugging her gently from the room. Liz stays close to his side as he leads her through the unfamiliar hospital hallways to the exit she’s never seen, politely greeting hospital staff and janitors as they pass. Liz watches, marveling at Red’s ability to befriend anyone, no matter their job or station.

(Liz realizes then that Red has probably had many opportunities to develop solid relationships with them all over the past year, probably saw them every single day as he sat patiently by her side, waiting for her to open her eyes.

She presses closer to him at the thought.)

And everyone who speaks to Red also has a bright smile and well wishes for Liz, happy to see her finally well enough to leave, their longest coma patient, awake at last. Liz smiles shyly at them all from Red’s side, clutching both his hand and arm for support. He tugs her along gently, looking back intermittently to check on her, always so attentive to her needs.

She squeezes his hand.

Before she knows it, they’re outside and there is Dembe, standing sentinel-like in front of the car waiting for them. His dark face breaks into a wide smile when he sees Liz walking with Red, his white teeth gleaming. As they come to a stop in front of him, Dembe speaks to her.

“Hello, Elizabeth. It is good to see you up and about.”

He wraps his arms around her in a gentle, warm hug and Liz returns it with one arm, not wanting to let go of Red’s hand just yet. She tries not to tear up at the emotion being shown by the normally stoic Dembe, truly touched by his attention.

Dembe pulls back, gives her a final smile, and opens the backseat car door for her. She thanks him with a nod of her head and slides in, forced to let go of Red’s hand, while Red claps Dembe on the arm and hurries around to the other side of the car to join her in the backseat, sliding in to sit beside her, both of them buckling in.

“Well done, Lizzie,” Red says to her softly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She smiles at him in gratitude and scoots closer to his side, enjoying his warmth against her, taking his hand again.

(It feels right.)

And then they are off, Dembe driving them to their little house on a lake and Liz has done it. She left the hospital and she’s here and everything’s okay. It’s over. She gives a little sigh of relief.

Liz watches as Dembe guides the car gently through the streets of D.C., all the harried movement outside the window drawing her attention, and she turns to look. There are people walking, talking, going about their lives, moving quickly in between the tall, brightly-colored buildings, such a contrast to the year of darkness and sleeping and lying in bed that Liz has had. She blinks, trying to adjust and take it all in, but she finds herself over sensitized by the movement and color, so unlike her calm, still, little hospital room. The buildings seem to loom and tower over her, giving her a nasty sense of being trapped. She hurriedly turns away from the window and instead concentrates on Red’s thumb, brushing gently across her knuckles.

His touch is grounding.

As they leave the city about half an hour later, Liz takes a chance and looks out the window again, this time at the scenery. There are fewer cars and people this far outside the city, buildings and houses further apart, more open. There is green grass instead of pavement and blue sky is visible in the gaps between buildings. The sun is high in the sky, taking turns fading behind clouds only to burst out once again to brighten the landscape with its rays.

The expanse of suburbs they are passing through would not have fazed Liz a year ago – in fact, it would have been a welcome break from the busy city – but right now, after such a long confinement to one room, the open air seems limitless and vast in a way that directly contrasts the claustrophobia of the city itself and Liz feels herself getting a little nauseous with fear.

(First too small and now too big, what is wrong with her?)

Just as she senses herself starting to panic, she feels Red rub her shoulder absentmindedly, gazing out his own window, evidently unaware of her inner turmoil and all of a sudden Liz realizes that it’s silly to feel overwhelmed by the outside world when she tucked safely in the backseat of a car with Red.

(He won’t let her float away.)

She firmly turns away from the window, feeling something like relief, and focuses on his hand instead, still tenderly holding hers. She brings her other hand up to trace the knuckles and veins, concentrates on all the freckles and fine hairs scattered there, and feels herself begin to calm down.

(He has beautiful hands. Strong and capable but still gentle and loving. She is fascinated by them.)

When she looks up, it is to find Red watching her with an expression she has become very accustomed to these past few months.

(How could she miss it?)

She smiles at him.

“How about a game of dots?” he asks cheerfully, after a happy moment of staring at each other. She nods and grabs her notebook from next to her on the seat, flipping open to a clean page. She then pats her pockets automatically in search of her pen and frowns when she doesn’t feel it there, forgetting where she put it. Then she feels a little tug on her hair and suddenly there it is, held lightly in between Red’s thumb and index finger, tilted in her direction in offering.

“Looking for this?” he asks cheekily.

She giggles and snatches it from him, giving him a playful shove. He chuckles lowly and pulls her easily back into his embrace.

As she removes the cap and perches it on the back end of the pen for safekeeping, Liz happens to glance in the rear-view mirror to see Dembe’s eyes on them both, observing curiously, watching them fuss good-naturedly, clearly at ease with one another in a way he has never seen. She looks away quickly, shying away from his direct gaze, and quickly begins drawing rows of dots for their game.

Her and Red spend the ride like this, playing their silly games in her notebook, and laughing quietly with each other. Thanks to these distractions, the rest of the ride passes quickly (which she suspects was Red’s intention all along) and soon Liz feels the road change from paved highway to loose gravel and she looks up to see that Dembe has turned onto off the main road and onto a long driveway. Her heart leaps in her chest.

They must be close.

“We’re almost there, Lizzie,” Red says, answering her unwritten question. “I think we have time for one last game of hangman though and I do believe it’s my turn.”

By the time Liz wins her third game of hangman in a row (Red pinches her side in retribution for spelling “fedora” too quickly for him to draw his signature suited hangman), she can see the lake. She stares in wonder, and can barely breath for the beauty of it.

It is a sizable lake but not too big that she and Red can’t take daily walks around the edge before she gets tired. There is a willow tree hanging lazily on the left bank and a worn bench on the right for sitting, resting, and feeding the ducks that happily paddle across the surface. And the whole beautiful view is perfectly visible from the house.

The house.

Liz gasps as they turn the last corner in the driveway and it comes fully into view. It’s not big, probably less than two thousand square feet, but it doesn’t look small. For all it’s lacking in size, it makes up for in sheer cuteness. It is quaint and compact, just one floor, with blue shutters on the windows and tiny white window boxes underneath filled with blooming flowers.

It’s gorgeous.

Liz has always favored larger houses, wanting plenty of room to expand to a family when the time came. But, looking at this place, she is starting to doubt. It is the perfect size for just her and Red. And it doesn’t overwhelm her like the hustle and bustle of the city or the wide expanse of the suburbs. But Liz hadn’t known how overwhelmed she would be the world outside her little hospital room until they were on their way here. Had Red guessed how she would feel?

He presses a kiss to her hair.

Probably.

“What do you think?” he breathes as Dembe parks in front of the house and turns off the car. Liz can hear the nervousness in his voice.

(Silly Red.)

She finds a few spare lines in her notebook below their last game of hangman.

It’s so beautiful. I love it, Red. Thank you so much.

“Oh, Lizzie, I’m so glad,” Red says, sounding relieved. “Wait until you see the inside, come on…”

They say quick goodbyes to Dembe who, to Liz’s surprise, is not staying.

“Dembe has some things to take care of for me, Lizzie. But don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll visit.”

(Liz can’t help but be secretly relieved. As much as she likes Dembe’s company, she’s only spent a few hours with him since she woke up and she is looking forward to just being with Red again after this stressful day.

Just Red.)

They wave to Dembe from the small, wrap-around porch as he pulls away. Once he is out of sight around the bend of the driveway, Red pulls Lizzie over to the window box to the right of the door. He surprises her by plunging his hand into the soil, digging for a moment next to a bright yellow tulip before removing his hand with a triumphant “aha!” to reveal a small container hiding a key.

Practical, as always.

He quickly unlocks the front door, tucking the key inside his pants pocket, and ushers Liz inside ahead of him.

“Let’s see, where shall we start, Lizzie? Well, to the right is the living room, complete with comfortable couch and flat screen TV…”

Red takes Liz through every room of the house, chatting animatedly about the construction of the rooms and the selection of the furniture, the color of the paint and all the different knick-knacks. Liz listens in silence as he talks, completely in awe. As he takes her through each room, it is painfully obvious that Red had the house furnished with her in mind. There is a sectional couch in the living room like she had had in her brownstone with Tom, a sunroom at the back of the house with a wonderful view of the surrounding field, complete with a chaise longue for napping and reading (she vaguely remembers saying to Red once that she always wanted a room pompous enough to have a chaise longue but it must have been ages ago, she can’t believe he remembered), beautiful armchairs and paintings in the small library which is packed with books of all kinds, several of which she remembers mentioning to Red at some point, and there’s even a framed photo of her and Sam in her bedroom.

Liz tears up when she sees that.

They end the tour there in her bedroom, where Red has had the whole contents of her storage unit moved for easy access to her clothes and other personal belongings. There are two bedrooms in the house, one for her and one for Red, and of course he has given her the one with the best view of the lake and the attached bathroom. From a quick glance in, Liz can see that Red has had all of her preferred bath and beauty items, her favorite scents of shampoos and lotions, arranged inside, as well as some new products that look suspiciously expensive.

(She can’t wait to try those.)

Selfless man.

Liz looks around her beautiful bedroom, knowing she will be comfortable here in that king-sized bed with all those pillows, enjoy looking out the French doors framed by lacey blue curtains, love watching the surface of the lake ripple and flow in time with the gentle breeze.

And then she notices Red standing in the doorway, tapping his fingers nervously on his thighs.

Oh. He doesn’t know that she loves it.

Oh, Red.

Liz simply walks up to him and puts her hands gently on either side of his face, framing his handsome features, taking a moment to gaze into his eyes before wrapping her arms around his shoulders, one hand caressing the nape of his neck. He gets the message quickly, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his face into her neck.

“I’m so pleased you like it, Lizzie, I was so hoping you would,” he whispers, his words slightly muffled by the fabric of her hoodie.

She just nods her head against him, scratching her nails lightly through his short hair.

Yes.

They’ll be happy here.

Red sighs, rolling over in bed for what feels like the hundredth time.

He can’t sleep.

He’s too wired from the busy day of moving and apprehensively watching Lizzie. She had done very well, as he knew she would, he has no reason to be anxious, but he worries for her all the same.

She has been through so much.

He had watched her cautiously explore the house in something like wonder, touching things gently as she went, pointing to things that warranted an explanation and smiling at others she recognized. She had realized that he was in need of reassurance that she liked the house and everything in it and she had done the best she could, obviously not through speech, but instead through touch.

Lizzie has become very tactile.

Red flips his pillow over, searching for the coolest side in last-ditch effort to get some rest. He sighs.

In light of not being able to speak freely, brief but comforting touches to his back, shoulders, and arms have become quite normal in their communications. It is Lizzie’s way of telling him things, subtle messages or obvious answers, when she doesn’t want to write things down.

Red loves it.

It brings a new level of intimacy to their interactions that he hadn’t realized he’d been craving. He regrets the necessity of it, of course, but he loves the fact that Lizzie is never far from him.

Lizzie.

Red rolls onto his side.

He had sent her to bed several hours ago, seeing she was exhausted from the stressful day, repeatedly dozing off on the couch, her head falling forward only to snap up again a second later, her mouth forming an adorable pout when she realized what happened before her eyes drooped closed once more and she did it all again. He had to work to suppress his fond chuckle. Instead, he had escorted her back to her room, making sure she had everything she needed, tissues and a bottle of water on her dresser, her notebook and pen on her nightstand. She had thanked him and wished him goodnight with a quick, sloppy note in her notebook, too tired to do anything more.

She was asleep before he had turned out all the lights.

He had tried not to stare at her while she slept and instead, left her room, pulling the door almost closed as he went. It felt odd to be leaving her to sleep. He had become very used to sleeping on a cot next to her bed in the hospital.

It was comforting for them both.

But she’s out of the hospital now and she surely doesn’t want an old man leering at her while she sleeps, not when he has his own room.

Red sighs once again and sits up in bed, deciding to give up on sleep altogether. He glances at the clock.

3:27am.

Red rubs his eyes. He has never been good at keeping normal sleeping hours but it has never really mattered before. The only person he normally lives with is Dembe and he sleeps like a rock, never waking when Red pads around the house in the dead of night, insomnia his only companion. But, in such a small house, Red is afraid of waking Lizzie. She needs her rest. And frankly, so does he. He needs to be well-rested so he can care for Lizzie the way she requires. He wants to do well taking care of her.

(He wants to be what she needs.)

Well, if he can’t sleep, Red knows from experience that there’s no helping it. He might as well get up and do something that might make him tired. Perhaps he will refrain from leaving his room though. To get to the kitchen or the library, he would have to pass Lizzie’s room and he left her door open a crack. He doesn’t want to frighten her, prowling about in the dark. No, he’ll stay here in his room. He’s sure Dembe packed at least a few books for him in his bag, if he can just find the one –

A shrill scream pierces the silence.

Lizzie.

Red is up and out of bed in a flash, dashing the short distance to Lizzie’s room, throwing the door completely open, terrified.

“Lizzie, what –”

But Lizzie can’t hear him.

She is asleep, tangled in her blanket, scrunched up in a ball on her bed, arms wrapped protectively around her head, right where the scar from her injury lays lurking under her hair.

She is having a nightmare about her accident.

Oh, no.

As he watches, she lets out another bloodcurdling scream, trying to fend off imaginary attackers.

She’s going to hurt herself.

“Lizzie, no –”

Red manages to unlock his limbs and move from the doorway, hurrying to Lizzie’s bedside, gently taking her hands and trying to tug her arms away from her head.

“Lizzie, sweetheart, it’s just a dream, wake up –”

She struggles against him but she can’t come close to breaking his hold.

(She is still so weak.)

“Lizzie, please, wake up –”

She kicks at him, trying to free herself, and makes an odd noise, a cross between a moan and a whimper, that goes right through him.

“Elizabeth –”

And then with a ragged gasp, her eyes fly open, tears gathering there before she’s even fully awake. She stares at him, panicking and failing for a few more seconds before she recognizes him. He holds her hands fast.

“Lizzie, it’s me, it’s all right, it was just a dre–”

But he doesn’t even finish before Lizzie is pulling her hands from his and throwing her arms around his neck, sobbing into his shoulder.

“Oh, Lizzie…”

Red climbs onto the bed and pulls her shaking form protectively into his chest, wrapping his arms around her. He talks quietly to her, speaking words of comfort, feels himself rocking slightly, desperate to calm her.

He can’t stand to see her like this.

She is crying and whimpering and clutching fistfuls of his t-shirt, cowering against him, terrified.

(He wishes that he could kill her attackers all over again.)

Red can’t do anything but let her get it all out. He hates feeling so helpless. It feels like several, long, awful days have passed by the time Lizzie’s sobs finally fade to weak sniffles. Red continues to rub her back in soothing circles as she gradually calms down.

“There we go, that’s better, isn’t it, Lizzie? Are you alright? Do you need anything? Or would you like me to leave?”

He hadn’t been sure if she was even listening to his constant stream of whispered nonsense but as soon as he says this, she latches back onto him with renewed panic and he can feel her shaking her head frantically against his shoulder.

“Alright, okay, I’m sorry, I’m not going anywhere, I’m staying right here,” he says quickly, not wanting to make her start crying again. “What would you like me to do?” he asks gently.

Lizzie thinks for a moment and Red wonders briefly if he should reach over and get her notebook for her but then Lizzie moves her face to his neck and mouths three words into the skin there.

(Red has to suppress a shiver at the sensation of her lips on his skin.)

Stay with me?

Red’s not sure how he understands these non-verbal words from her but somehow, they are perfectly clear and he is answering before he even realizes it.

“Yes, of course, Lizzie.”

He feels her give a little sigh of relief and his heart squeezes painfully. She needs him here to comfort her and that’s all he’s ever wanted.

(In what universe would he say no?)

“Here, let’s get you settled…” he murmurs, disentangling from her gently, squeezing her hand when she gives a weak little whimper at the loss of contact. “Just a minute, sweetheart,” he assures her.

He gets up from the bed to retrieve the box of tissues and bottle of water from her dresser, thankful for his foresight in leaving them. He gives her a handful of tissues and opens the water for her while she hastily dries her face. He makes her take a few sips before pushing her notebook aside to make room the new items, just in case she needs them during the night, or whatever’s left of it.

He then sets to work on her blankets, gently extricating the soft blue one that became tangled around her and ushering her under the covers instead, taking an extra minute to fluff her pillow, which makes her crack a tiny smile.

(He can’t help but feel ridiculously proud of that.)  

Only once Red is sure Lizzie is completely comfortable and ready for sleep again does he move around to the other side of the bed and gingerly lay down next to her. He throws her blue blanket over himself (trying to ignore the residual heat and scent lingering there), not wanting to intrude on her space by joining her under the covers, but he has barely gotten settled before she is grabbing his arms and tugging them back around her, turning in bed so she is facing him, tucking her head underneath his chin.

(The actual warmth and scent of her is so much better than the pitiful remnants on the blanket that he can’t help but pull her little closer, closing his eyes and wishing that he never has to move.)

He waits for her to relax, feeling her let out a deep breath and close her eyes, before pressing a few desperate kisses into her soft, sweet-smelling hair.

He feels intense anger towards the people who did this to her but he pushes it away firmly, not wanting to sully this time with Lizzie. They have been dealt with and there is no point in dwelling on it. He needs to focus on caring for Lizzie. He will protect her, as he always has.

(Even if it’s from her own dreams.)

With that last comforting thought, his eyes drift close as he curls himself protectively around Lizzie, finally feeling able to sleep, here with her in his arms.

(It feels so right.)

She has no more nightmares.

Liz wakes slowly from a dead sleep, feeling groggy and disoriented, struggling to remember where she is and why her head feels so fuzzy. She blinks with difficulty, her eyelids feeling heavy and weighed down. Ugh. Something happened last night, she’s sure of it, it’s lingering on the edges of her consciousness, she just can’t quite remember what it is…she was scared, she had a nightmare, and Red…

Red.

Liz whips around to find herself alone in bed.

Where is Red?

She starts to panic, about to cry out helplessly, when she hears noise from the kitchen.

Red is in the kitchen. Oh. Red is making breakfast.

Liz flops back down onto the bed, covering her face with her hands, trying to get the frantic beating of her heart under control.

She’s so pathetic, descending into a panic attack just because Red isn’t glued to her side every second of the day. She should be able to function by herself, she shouldn’t need him there to sleep, for God’s sake.

She pulls her hands away from her face, heaving a big sigh. She turns onto her side to face her nightstand, spying the tissues and water Red left there last night for her.

(Thoughtful man.)

Liz knows she shouldn’t need Red’s presence to function, she shouldn’t be so dependent. But she hasn’t slept as well as she did last night in…well, over a year. And why shouldn’t she do whatever is necessary to feel better, within reason, anyway? It’s not like she’s going around murdering people and calling it therapy. She just needs the support and love of one person who seems more than willing to help her. Is that so bad?

No, Liz reasons with herself, it’s not. There is nothing wrong with seeking help in a form she sees fit. And that form is Red.

Red.

He was so wonderful last night, consoling her, taking care of her, protecting her, no questions asked.

(She was scared, reliving her accident all over again, and his warmth was the only thing that drove the fear away.)

Lying there in bed, Liz is successfully shedding any guilt she feels about needing Red to feel better but she still feels so endlessly grateful to him for everything he’s done. How will she ever thank him?

Liz sighs again, pushing herself up to sit on the edge of her bed, attempting to run a hand through her hair, which she’s sure is a sight to behold, twisted every which way and halfway out of her ponytail.

Ugh.

She needs the bathroom.

Liz stands carefully (feeling immensely proud of herself when she manages to stand and stay standing without holding onto anything) and makes it successfully to the spacious bathroom. She completes her morning rituals, deciding to forgo a shower until later, settling for washing her face and brushing out her hair. As an afterthought, she picks one of the many sweet-smelling perfumes that are lined up on the wide vanity.

Peach blossom.

(She hopes Red will like it.)

When she’s finished, she wanders back out into her bedroom to perch on the side of her bed again, picking up her notebook and uncapping her pen.

She wants to thank Red somehow, through some grand, eloquent written statement, something that could perhaps begin to convey all the gratitude she feels towards him.

Good morning, Red, thank you for helping me –

No, too impersonal.

Red, thank you so much –

Too serious.

Hey, Red, thanks for last night –

No, no, no. She scribbles that one out quickly, feeling her face heat in a blush. She rolls her eyes at herself.

Ugh, this is ridiculous. Liz tosses her notebook back on her nightstand, groaning internally. How is she supposed to express eternal gratitude through writing, those things need to be spoken.

But she can’t speak.

Liz squeezes her eyes shut, wrapping her arms around her middle.

She feels so broken.

But she doesn’t want to cry right now, her eyes are swollen and puffy enough from last night. She needs to go to Red. Red will help her feel better. She’ll find some way to thank him. Besides, this is Red.

(He’d burn down the world for her.)

Liz pushes up from the bed in a rush, not wanting to give herself any more time to think, and heads to the kitchen.

She finds Red there, as she suspected, fixing breakfast. She wanders in quietly (not being able to speak gives one a certain stealth) and he doesn’t hear her at first so she takes the rare opportunity to lean on the door way unnoticed and watch him.

He is bustling around the kitchen, happy as a clam, humming quietly to himself. The first thing she notices is his attire. At the hospital, he always wore some variation of a three-piece suit, sometimes sans vest or jacket. Today, to her surprise, he’s gone casual. He’s wearing worn jeans and a long sleeve gray t-shirt.

The sight of him, dressed like that, fixing breakfast? It feels utterly domestic.

(She is filled with warmth from head to toe and she’s not entirely sure it has nothing to do with the view that those jeans provide. She blushes.)

He seems very busy, opening cabinets and fetching ingredients. She sees that he has three or four things cooking at the same time and, of course, seems to be managing them all in perfect harmony. (Liz can’t help but cringe. If that was her, everything would either be on fire or on its way there.) As she watches, he sprinkles cheese on scrambled eggs, flips sausage patties over, checks bacon, and pushes toast down in the toaster. Liz can’t help but stand there and just smile at him, working so diligently to make them food. She always figured he’d be a good cook.

He flips a waffle in the air.

She rolls her eyes, grinning.

And a show off.

He notices her then, standing silently in the door way, watching him with what she is sure is a very fond smile on her face.

“Lizzie!” he calls happily. She feels her heart stutter at his obvious joy, feels a little as though she’s taking actual physical strength from his smile. “Good morning! Did you sleep well last night?”

It’s obvious that he’s ignoring her whole…episode, probably trying to spare her the embarrassment, and she’s grateful. She nods shyly in answer to his question and he beams.

“Good,” he says, softer now. “Well, come and sit down, breakfast is almost ready!”

Liz perches at the breakfast bar, her chin on her hand, and watches as Red flits around the kitchen with a new energy, placing breakfast things in front of her, chatting non-stop all the while.

“– and I wasn’t completely sure what you preferred for breakfast, other than knowing that you abhor pancakes, of course –”

Silverware and napkins.

“– so, there’s none of those but I chanced it with waffles, I hope that’s alright, I am fairly optimistic about those but, after all, what are waffles but pancakes with syrup pockets so –”

Cup of coffee, already prepared, just as she likes it.

(He’s nervous.)

“– just in case, I made eggs as well, I figured scrambled with cheese would be alright, though I know I prefer over-easy myself and –”

Glass of orange juice.

“– I wasn’t sure about your likes on the breakfast meat front so I made a little of everything, sausage and bacon, both turkey and full fat, quite indulgent, I assure you –”

Plate overflowing with breakfast food.

“– and, of course, I made some toast, the breakfast food staple, always a safe bet so –”

Liz’s hand darts out and grabs his wrist before he can get away again. He stops and turns to look at her, eyes wide and strangely pleading.

(He was hoping she would stop him.)

She gently strokes his hand and smiles and she can see him relax, the tension and anxious excitement draining out of him.

Thank you, she mouths at him.

A smile slowly blooms on his face, growing into a beautiful, sacred thing, and he turns his hand around in hers to grip back.

(He knows she’s not just talking about breakfast.)

Looking at him now, Liz is suddenly sure that this was the right way to thank him. Just simple and sincere. Real. She doesn’t necessarily owe Red anything. He’s here caring for her because he wants to be and that says it all.

“You’re welcome, Lizzie,” he murmurs, love in his eyes.

The moment ends and they let each other go for the moment. He sets about fixing himself a plate, his movements no longer rushed and agitated. He sits down across from her at the bar and they enjoy their breakfast together, Red talking and Liz nodding or shaking her head, laughing and giving him looks that he interprets perfectly. She marvels at how they can still communicate, even when her notebook is sitting untouched in her bedroom.

(And she doesn’t miss how Red watches her eat, taking note of what she consumes with gusto and what she politely puts to the side of her plate. She has a feeling tomorrow’s breakfast will be filled with her favorites.)

It’s the most wonderful morning she’s had in a year.

(Things settle after that first breakfast 

They adjust to living together in next to no time at all, sinking into a routine with little effort, enjoying the search for things to do to occupy their days, here by the lake.

Together.)

To make the whole transition easier, Red took the liberty of having all of their hospital board games transported to the lake house, thinking Lizzie might want some familiar activities to engage in.

He was right.

They spend their afternoons at the house playing game after game, Red playfully taunting Lizzie while she writes snide comments back in her notebook. Red enjoys seeing Lizzie get to express her more competitive side and he gets a thrill out of watching her calculate her next move, her features set and determined.

(He has lost more than a few games because he was distracted by the intense focus of her icy blue eyes.

He sees Lizzie smirk after one of his particularly foolish moves in chess and wonders vaguely if she’s doing it on purpose. He tries to find it in himself to care.)

Red also had the house stocked with some games that he and Lizzie didn’t have access to in the hospital. With a whole, albeit relatively small, house to themselves, he didn’t see any reason why they shouldn’t branch out a little with all their new space and time.

He discovers through trial and error that Lizzie has no patience for jigsaw puzzles, at least not at first. He has always had a fondness for them and keeps an unfinished one on a small glass table in the living room at all times, tempting him to finish it if Lizzie is napping or reading. She sees him working at them often enough that, one day, with no warning, she plops down across the table from him with a world-weary sigh and sets to work.

She finishes it within half an hour.

He had simply gone to make some sandwiches for them (ham and swiss on rye for him and turkey and provolone on pumpernickel for Lizzie), telling her to feel free to keep working on it, he’d be right back to help her. When he’d returned, there she was, idly examining her nails, the completed puzzle laid out neatly in front of her.

When Red had spluttered and asked in disbelief how exactly she had managed to finish the better part of a one-thousand-piece jigsaw in under an hour she had simply shrugged and wrote in her notebook.

I’m trained to see patterns in things, Red. Puzzles like this are easy for me.

He realizes after that that it’s not that Lizzie has no patience for jigsaw puzzles, it’s that she’s simply bored by them.

(He wonders if she will ever stop stunning him.)

They stick to classic board games after that, though Liz respects Red’s interest in a causal puzzle laying unfinished on the table, to be picked at little by little.

After one particularly invigorating game of Monopoly, (“You should really sell me Park Place, Lizzie, it’s a fabulous financial decision, I assure you.” I’m gonna tell you where you can park your place if you don’t stop asking me.) Lizzie offers to teach Red mancala. She found a board and stones in the auxiliary game closet and, when she’d held it up to suggest a game, Red had to admit that he didn’t know how to play.

Instead of looking put out, Lizzie had been thrilled at the prospect of teaching him something, grabbing her notebook and writing an enthusiastic message for him.

You’ve never played this?! Wow! I finally found something!

(He tries to ignore how his heart skips a beat at reading that.)

Sam taught me how to play this when I was around 13, I think, and we used to play every day when I came home from school! It’s lots of fun and it’s really easy to learn! Don’t worry, I’ll show you!

It’s one of the longest messages she’s written him of late and he is thrilled to see her so excited about something, not minding at all that it’s technically at his expense. How can he?

She wants to teach him something.

Lizzie takes that afternoon to carefully write out all the rules of the game in her notebook, even writing the whole thing out a second time because “the first time was barely legible, just wait, I can do better.” She goes so far as to tear the pages out of her notebook so he can keep them for reference. Red studies the rules, asking questions to clarify, while Lizzie writes out quick answers for him.

Once she’s sure he’s got the basics down, Lizzie jumps right into their first game and Red can’t help but chuckle delightedly at her eagerness. She demonstrates every move, her motions slow and exaggerated so he can see how it’s done. He catches on quickly and soon they are playing happily, Lizzie winning every game. Red doesn’t care.

The real victory is Lizzie applying herself to something.

Red is so encouraged by this that, once the novelty of mancala wears off, he offers to teach Lizzie poker. He thinks this will keep her mind active and engaged. She is excited to learn, tasking herself with memorizing the rules and playing practice games with Red. She understands the fundamentals with no problem – Lizzie is an incredibly intelligent woman, after all – but Red thinks that he probably shouldn’t take her to Vegas.

Lizzie has an awful poker face.

(Her tongue peeks out from between her lips whenever she has a good hand. Red thinks that it’s the most adorable tell he’s ever seen.)

One deck of cards keeps them occupied for days as they rotate between poker, solitaire, rummy, and blackjack. Lizzie loves it, thrilled with the challenge. Red preens inside.

Those doctors don’t know what they’re talking about.

Lizzie takes to leaving letters and notes around the house for Red, a habit which, if he wasn’t already completely head over heels in love with her, surely would have sealed the deal.

They vary in length, content and style, sometimes full pages of beautiful cursive carefully removed from her notebook detailing how much she loves the house or the area or the selection of perfumes he purchased for her.

(He’s gets particular enjoyment out of guessing which one she’s wearing on any given day, subtly sniffing as she walks past him, hoping he’s being inconspicuous enough.)

Other days she leaves little post-it notes for him in odd places around the house with cute messages or silly drawings. He finds pink notes on the fridge with complements on his latest cooking, yellow notes on the cover of his current book reminding him what he should read next, blue notes stuck to the table in the living room taunting him for losing their latest game of Scrabble on the word “veritable”.

He adores finding her handwritten gifts left around the house for him. He knows that it’s probably primarily a way for Lizzie to practice her writing but she’s also told him that she knows how much he likes spontaneity and she wants him to know she’s grateful for him and what he does for her. He tells her he already knows but he likes the fact that she does it because she genuinely wants to. The thought warms his heart.

(It makes him feel loved.)

Some days they read, curled up in the library all day with their respective books, drinking warm beverages, snacks within reach, happy to just be occupying the same space. Lizzie prefers the genres of romance and suspense while he errs more towards non-fiction and historical.

(They complement each other.)

Lizzie doesn’t usually ask him to read to her anymore, not now that she’s out of the hospital and able to pick and choose her own books, perfectly happy to sit sideways in a comfortable armchair, long legs slung over the armrest, absentmindedly twirling strands of her hair around a finger as she reads, sometimes mouthing the words to herself.

(Red doesn’t think she notices but he does.)

Lizzie does sometimes ask him to read at night, when she’s too tired to do any particular task but not quite tired enough to sleep. She usually picks a random book in another language, one he’s fluent in, and he reads to her while she dozes in and out of sleep. She’s written and told him that she finds the unfamiliar cadences of French or Farsi just unengaging enough that she can listen passively, without getting caught up in the story and avoiding sleep.

(Sometimes Red deviates from whatever he’s reading, knowing she won’t notice the difference, and croons to her in Russian or Arab or the language of the night how much he adores her, her strength and her drive. She doesn’t know and he’ll never tell her.)

When either of them finish a book, they’ll summarize it for the other over a meal. Red tells her of the lives of World War II generals or the plight of global climate change or the role of woman in East African society, his hands gesturing wildly, so absorbed in her rapt attention as he explains that he sometimes forgets to actually eat. Lizzie giggles, one of the precious few sounds she can still make, and just points to his plate, nudging it toward him with a smile.

(He loves it when she does that.)

Since Lizzie can’t verbally tell him of the books she reads, she’ll sometimes write out the plot in her own words in her notebook, both to test her memory and to share it with Red. He reads her summary and asks questions about the characters while she lounges with her feet in his lap, curious about her opinions on this love triangle and that murderer. Through her quick writing, he learns more about her psychological knowledge and personal thoughts on life and love. It is a fascinating window to her mind that he cherishes.

(He loves her.)

It is an exciting day when Lizzie shows Red the book.

She comes hurrying into the kitchen from the library where she had drifted one of her traces to find him doing early dinner prep and she smiles widely, waving a small hardcover book.

“What’s that?” Red asks genially, already mimicking her smile unconsciously.

Liz hands him the book and points excitedly to the cover which reads in plain, academic letters: “Shorthand Manual”.

“A book about shorthand?” Red reads, surprised. “Whatever do you need this for, Lizzie? I can read your writing just fine, you know that.”

But Lizzie is already bending over the counter, scrawling a note to him in her notebook. He peers over her shoulder to read it.

I know but a more concise language will be easier and faster for me to write! This’ll make it even easier to communicate!

She looks so happy, taking the book back from him and hopping up at the bar to start reading and practicing while keeping him company as he makes dinner, that he can’t help but smile and nod along with her.

But Red also feels a tingling in the back of his mind telling him that this is a bad idea. He turns away from Lizzie and back to the pan of onions he is sautéing, frowning to himself. All of a sudden, Dr. Lauflin’s words come back and start to echo in his ears.

“She must speak, Mr. Kershaw.”

Red glances over his shoulder at Lizzie, who feels his gaze on her (as she always does) and looks up at him, flashing him a blinding smile before turning back to her book. Red continues to gaze at her for a moment before shaking his head to himself and turning back to the onions.

Nothing that makes Lizzie that happy can be bad for her. Perhaps she just needs to get her confidence up with some shorthand and then she’ll be ready to try speaking again. Yes, surely that’s all.

She’ll be fine. He’ll make sure of it.

In the meantime, he’ll call Dembe and ask him to bring a copy of the shorthand manual when he visits.

It seems that Red has some catching up to do.

At night, they watch movies.

This was something they’d never done together before, since there was no TV in Lizzie’s hospital room, (and she hadn’t exactly invited him over for movie night before her accident), but they take to the joint activity like fish to water.

(Red had the house stocked with about 200 different genres of films in the hopes that this would happen. He’s always wanted to watch movies with Lizzie.)

Somehow, it was completely normal for them to climb into Lizzie’s bed, blankets and pillows creating a warm, safe cocoon around them, popcorn and drinks to share, and watch a movie on the TV in Lizzie’s bedroom.

They take turns, alternating in genres, with Red picking one night and Lizzie picking the next. Sometimes they pick serious informational movies, which Red delights in providing context for. Sometimes they pick romances that Lizzie likes and Red makes sure to have tissues on hand for any emotional scenes. And sometimes they pick silly movies for the sheer purpose of laughing at them. Red will make fun of the characters and, if Lizzie knows the movie, sometimes she’ll make him laugh by writing the actor’s lines in her notebook before they say them.

But Red’s favorite part of movie nights is the contact.

After the first movie or two, Red had found himself with his arms full of Lizzie not half an hour in, leaning back against his chest or resting her head on his shoulder and usually always holding his hand. Sometimes she even lets him play with her hair, his fingers gently stroking through the soft dark locks, her eyes drifting closed at the pleasant sensation.

But Red doesn’t think he’s ever been happier than when he is lying in bed with Lizzie, without a care in the world, feeling the warmth length of her body pressed up against his.

(Except perhaps when Lizzie tugs him wordlessly to lay his head in her lap or against her shoulder. Then all he can do is just sigh contentedly and treasure every second.)

Once their movie is over for the night, Red doesn’t bother leaving Lizzie’s room. Ever since that first awful night, Red stays, sleeping wrapped around Lizzie in her bed until the sun comes up, keeping the nightmares away.

Red didn’t ever think he’d be privy to the sacred knowledge that comes with sleeping in the same bed as Lizzie. He now knows that she likes to pull her hair back in a ponytail to sleep to keep it from getting tangled, she likes to fall asleep on her side but she almost always wakes up on her stomach, and sometimes she has dreams and pulls him closer, letting out a breath in a huff that almost sounds like mumbled words, her fingers grasping for him, only settling when she can hear his heartbeat.

(He loves her so much that it hurts.)

Another exceptional aspect of their new lifestyle, in this little house by the lake, is everyday touch. Liz has become extremely tactile with Red in ways she never was before her accident. Red suspects it is a combination of their greatly improved communication and comfort level and Lizzie’s lack of speech.

(He also suspects he’d have to be crazy to mind it.)

He finds Lizzie using touch to replace words. She rubs his biceps and forearms to thank him for little things, she pats his thighs or calves to get his attention, she wiggles her fingers against his sides to tickle and tease him.

(He loves it.)

Red is tactile by default and touch has always been an important part of relationships for him. Except with Lizzie. He had always been sure to tread carefully where she was concerned, especially when they first started working together and their interactions were tainted by her animosity and resentment for him. He refrained, at least most of the time and always with great difficulty, from patting her arm to console her or touching the small of her back to usher her through doors ahead of him, when he wouldn’t have given it a second thought in anyone else’s company.

But Lizzie is special.

(She always has been.)

Before her accident, Red had long since resigned himself to a strictly professional relationship with Lizzie but that didn’t mean he didn’t long to be free to touch her in all his normal ways.

The way things developed between them after she woke up left Red quite in the lurch. Her casual touches to his hands and arms from her hospital bed were something to be cherished in case she saw fit to stop at any time after being released, which he had fully expected. But now, now, those treasured hospital touches are chaste and formal compared to what they have now.

Because it is not a normal day if Lizzie is not, at some point, plastered against his side or tucked under his arm, soft and warm and wonderful. Whether it’s during their games, their reading, or their movies, they are hardly ever physically apart.

Red is well aware that these close interactions are anything but sexual (though he perhaps would have considered them as such in any other situation) and the thought truly doesn’t cross his mind. He and Lizzie are busy adjusting to this new, quiet, personal lifestyle they have here in this house by the lake and it’s just not sexual or romantic in nature. It’s something different and not at all unpleasant. It has all the intimacy and connectedness of a marriage or long partnership, without the sex. And that’s just fine with Red. He is happy here with Lizzie, helping her recover and function independently again.

And if their new closeness were to develop at some point into romantic territory, it would be strictly on Lizzie’s terms and complete gift to Red. But he doesn’t mind. He’s happy with what they have, which he knows is so much more than he deserves.

(And if something bothers him about the way Lizzie clings to him in her sleep, like he’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the earth, he shoves away clinical words like “dependency” and “depression” and “unhealthy” from his mind, and holds her tighter.)

Lizzie has her bad days too.

They are usually rainy days, when they can hear the rain pattering on the roof and see it making little indentations on the surface of the lake as it falls. On these days, Red watches as Lizzie drifts away from him, all alone in her head, sitting in front of the window, staring blankly outside.

Red worries about her on those cold days, sitting there, wrapped up in a hoodie that’s too big for her, notebook lying next to her abandoned, looking small and sad. The doctor’s words about depression come back to him in full force but he pushes them away vehemently.

Lizzie isn’t depressed. Everyone has days like that sometimes.

(Don’t they?)

Besides, Red knows how to make her feel better. He moves around quietly in the kitchen, making them some hot tea with honey and lemon or hot chocolate with marshmallows and whipped cream. When it’s piping hot and comforting, he takes it to wherever Lizzie is curled up and silent and watches as she comes out of her trance and turns to him, her eyes brightening as she sees him coming towards her.

He watches her come back to life.

(He doesn’t even really need the drink after he sees that look from her, warmth spreading from head to toe inside him at her loving gaze.)

She thanks him in her way – with a grateful smile and a pat on the nearest part of him – and they spend the day enjoying their drinks and talking about anything and everything in that new way of theirs, Red speaking slowly and softly to her and Liz writing neatly in her notebook in answer.

They talk about anything now, moving from subject to subject without any trouble, going from favorite colors to college courses to hopes and dreams. They share details about their childhoods and growing up, Lizzie spending afternoons writing out story after story of her and Sam and the things they did, Red sitting with his arms around her, reading over her shoulder as she goes.

(Red is so familiar with her now, in ways he has never been before, that he can almost guess what she’s about to write before she writes it, taking in her expression and body language, the tears or sparkle in her eyes. He treasures this new mental connection more than anything else in the world.)

When Lizzie doesn’t feel like writing, she’ll put her notebook to one side and just listen to Red talk, sometimes loudly with many topic changes and laughter, regaling her with tales of the people he’s met and experiences he’s had, or sometimes softly and with deep feeling that she can only close her eyes and absorb, her head resting comfortably in Red’s lap, his gentle fingers in her hair.

(On those days, he talks about deeper things, like how it feels to see the sun rise over the Eiffel Tower and the sun fall in Iceland. He stops himself from telling her about he it feels to look at her because, after all, those things are one and the same.)

Red thinks, of all the wonderful times they are spending together, these kinds of days may be his favorite. The rain gives them a blanket of tranquility and peacefulness they can lay under for hours, just being together with nothing to disturb them, no blacklisters, no taskforce, no enemies.

Just them.

It’s so different from that awful helplessness he had suffocated under while she was in her coma and that time that feels a whole world away now, an awful nightmare, the memory of which just makes them cling closer to each other.

(When they’re together like this, everything else fades away, that strange uneasiness that Red feels at Lizzie’s silence shoved away into the back of his mind. Lizzie needs him, here with her, just as he needs her. She’ll be fine.

Won’t she?)

Red receives a call from Dembe, who tells Red that he will arrive for a visit next week, bringing food and supplies. Red can’t wait. It’s been a month since he’s seen his brother and he has missed him. He loves every second of his time with Lizzie, of course, but it will be nice to give Dembe a hug, play a game of chess or two, and catch up.

Red tells Lizzie the news, nearly bursting with excitement, expecting her to be pleased.

She likes Dembe.

However, Lizzie merely smiles faintly and wanders off to sit on the couch, wrapping her arms around her knees and looking out the window. Red frowns. Why isn’t Lizzie happy to hear Dembe is visiting?

(Why isn’t Lizzie happy?)

Well, Red reasons, maybe she’s just having a bad day, and he sets about making some hot tea for her. That will help.

(Won’t it?)

Dembe sees the lake house come into view around the bend of the driveway and sighs in relief.

He’s tired of being in the car.

It’s been a long drive from the city, where he was making phone calls, attending meetings and approving transactions for Raymond. He’s been fully running the things for nearly a year now in Raymond’s stead, standing in as a temporary replacement for the Concierge of Crime. Although, it been so long that the criminals in Raymond’s circle as starting to wonder whether he’s coming back at all. That’s one of the things Dembe plans on addressing with Raymond while he is here visiting.

But first, a warm bed will do just fine.

He pulls up to the house, admiring the picturesque view of the lake, the setting sun reflecting off the flat surface, and parks the car with a low sigh. He looks toward the house as he turns the car off, seeing the curtains on the front windows flick and, a second later, the front door swings open. Raymond stands in the doorway, smiling broadly. Dembe grins back and quickly gets out of the car.

He has missed Raymond.

Raymond laughs happily and hurries down the steps and off the porch towards him, letting him stretch languorously before wrapping his arms around him in a hug. Dembe chuckles and hugs him back enthusiastically, patting him on the back, and letting himself be cradled by the older man.

Raymond is the only man on Earth that could possibly fill the shoes of both a father and a brother for Dembe. He’ll never understand how Raymond took on both roles so naturally.

(Raymond is also his dearest friend.)

Raymond eventually pulls back, giving Dembe a kiss on the cheek, and Dembe can see Liz over Raymond’s shoulder, standing on the porch. Dembe waves at her and she gives a little wave back but she does not move forward to greet him. Dembe frowns a little to himself in confusion.

Liz stands there, her arms wrapped around her midriff, wearing a worn hoodie that looks several sizes too big for her. The fabric drowns her thin form and makes her look distinctly unhealthy as she stands framed in the light from inside the house, spilling onto the porch and out onto the lawn through the open door.

Raymond claps Dembe on the shoulder, drawing his attention away from Liz, and gets his bag from the passenger side of the car, throwing it over his shoulder and telling him to leave the supplies he brought until morning. Dembe nods and follows him up to the porch. He stops in front of Liz and smiles warmly at her.

Despite how she looks, it is good to see her. He hopes she is doing well.

“Hello, Elizabeth,” Dembe says quietly. “How are you?”

But Liz only smiles and nods shyly, drifting to Raymond’s side, where her fingers reach for his hand and he takes it without a word, chatting to Dembe all the while.

A sense of unease prickles at the back of Dembe’s neck.

He may have just gotten here but he feels that he doesn’t need much more than a few minutes to see that all is not quite right with Liz.

When Raymond leads him to his bedroom that night, Dembe is rather confused to find himself in Raymond’s room. Having furnished and decorated the house himself, per Raymond’s instructions, he is extremely surprised that Raymond would think he can fool him.

“And you’ll be sleeping in here, my friend, you’ll be comfortable?”

Dembe has slept in far less pleasant places than a large bedroom with a kind sized bed and a flat screen TV. His comfort is not the issue.

“Raymond, this is your room. I will not have you sleeping on the couch.”

Raymond frowns, genuinely confused, before seeing his error and saying what is probably the last sentence Dembe ever expected to leave his mouth.

“Oh no, Dembe, I won’t be sleeping on the couch, don’t worry. Lizzie and I share.”

Dembe just blinks, not believing his ears.

“You and Elizabeth share…a room?” he questions hopefully.

Raymond then has the grace to look a little uncomfortable.

“Uh, no. A bed,” he says, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. “Lizzie…she has nightmares if she sleeps alone.”

Dembe simply stares at him in silence.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, Dembe, it’s not at all what you think. You should have heard her screaming our first night here. She was almost inconsolable. I…I can’t leave her. We both sleep better if we’re together.”

“Yes, I imagine so.”

“Dembe,” Raymond is then uncharacteristically stern, frowning at him in a chastising manner Dembe feels is absolutely out of place in the given the circumstances. “It’s not like that, alright? We just sleep. Lizzie’s not ready for…anything like that. It’s strictly platonic so don’t go getting any ideas. Understand?”

Dembe just shakes his head, befuddled but too tired to deal with matters like these tonight, and bids Raymond a good night.

He’ll figure it out in the morning.

The next morning Dembe wakes, fresh from a good night’s sleep and he decides to take the next day to observe Raymond and Liz. After all, he is not one for making rash judgements and he does not want to jump to any false conclusions, not when there could be a perfectly reasonable explanation for Liz’s behavior last night. And Raymond and Liz sharing a bed. Platonically.

Dembe is skeptical.

After waking, he wanders to the kitchen to find Raymond and Liz awake, Raymond cooking and Liz sitting at the bar watching. Raymond refuses any offer of help with breakfast so Dembe takes a seat next to Liz at the bar, perching on a stool and smiling at her.

“It’s good to see you looking so well, Elizabeth.”

(It’s a bit of a fib but a complement never hurt anyone, especially someone who is in Liz’s condition.)

But just like last night, Liz only smiles at him in thanks. Then, she surprises him by turning to a notebook sitting next to her on the counter and starting to write. It takes a moment but then she pushes the notebook to him across the counter and points very obviously at the sentence she’s written there, her letters painstakingly neat and comically large, clearly trying to make it easy for him to read.

Thank you. How was your drive up?

Dembe’s heart sinks at his eyes flit over the words.

Elizabeth is still not speaking.

He is now officially worried.

“The drive was fine, thank you, Elizabeth,” he manages to say quietly, through the sadness pulling at him.

She just nods happily, oblivious, and, evidently meeting some personal quota for daily socializing, goes back to watching Raymond cook.

Dembe can’t believe it.

He heard Dr. Lauflin confront Raymond in the last days before Liz was discharged from the hospital, though he is not sure that Raymond knows that. He knows how important it is that Liz tries to speak. He knows what bad news it is that she’s not.

This does not bode well.

Dembe continues to observe as Raymond makes breakfast, a big celebratory fry up of eggs, potatoes, bacon, toast, and coffee, all the while keeping up a running commentary to Liz, who occasionally lets out a little giggle or huff, while Raymond turns back repeatedly to look at her, gauging her expression and guessing what she’s thinking by looking at her. Occasionally, Liz will scribble a note for Red in her notebook and he will glance at it as he passes by her seat at the bar, chuckling and responding to what he sees there.

Dembe manages a glance at one of the notes, clearly not meant for his eyes, and finds it completely illegible to him. He squints at the small, neat row of symbols, nothing like the large, obvious print that Liz had taken pains to write for him, and, with a shock, he realizes it is shorthand.

Then the shorthand manual Raymond had requested he bring with him was not purely for educational purposes or, at the worst, a resource to assist Liz with communication while she practiced speaking, as Dembe had foolishly assumed.

She is using it as her sole method of communication with Raymond.

Things are worse than Dembe thought.

Dembe continues to watch Raymond and Liz throughout the afternoon, saying little, choosing a random book from the library and picking a chair in the living room, pretending to read while watching Raymond and Liz play an assortment of board games together, something that is clearly a long-standing ritual.

It’s only when Liz jumps for the fourth time when Dembe gently clears his throat that he realizes that the only human contact Liz had is with Raymond. While in the hospital, she had largely refused to communicate with the team of doctors assigned to her daily care, preferring to be only in Raymond’s company.

At the time, Dembe had been pleased to see it. He knew Raymond had long-since desired the attention from her and wanted nothing more than to help nurse her back to health.

(Raymond had suffered greatly while Elizabeth was asleep.)

As far as Elizabeth went, Dembe had assumed she just needed time. After all, she was very badly injured in her accident and, as Raymond is fond of telling him, Rome wasn’t built in a day. It is only natural that she should need time to recover. And who better to spend that time with than Raymond, the man who loves her to the ends of the Earth, who would do anything for her?

Yes, at the time, Dembe saw nothing wrong with how things were.

But it has clearly gone too far.

Liz is nothing like the confident, assertive woman Dembe knew before her accident. What he sees now is a timid, uncertain woman who has only one thing left in life to rely on: Raymond.

The level of reliance Dembe can see she has developed is distinctly unhealthy.

Raymond and Elizabeth are always touching, their hands always in contact at the very least, their bodies in contact if at all possible. Liz constantly checks for Raymond, even if he’s right next to her at the table and hasn’t moved in the last hour, she checks for him, like she needs to be reassured of his presence. Raymond, for his part, is aware of her uncertainty, perhaps unconsciously, and, whenever he can, touches her arm or brushes her hair, giving her a smile, the touch clearly reassuring to them both.

It is almost symbiotic in nature. Dembe is not sure he has ever seen anything quite like it.

It scares him.

Of course, Dembe would be thrilled for his brother to finally have such a close relationship with the woman he has adored for so long but the circumstances bother Dembe greatly. Liz seems far too dependent upon Raymond and Raymond seems to revel in her neediness. They clearly care greatly for one another and, while the relationship is completely consensual in its way and neither one is necessarily taking advantage of the other, the relationship still seems very unbalanced.

Dembe sighs, watching warily as Red crows in delight at winning their current game of dominoes while Lizzie giggles in that strange, voice-less way of hers. She shoves him playfully at his unsportsmanlike behavior and Red topples over dramatically, pulling her down with him onto the floor, cradling her against his chest all the while, pressing kisses into her hair as her eyes close, so blissfully content that it makes Dembe uncomfortable.

He must do something.

It takes two more days before Dembe can find time to talk to Raymond alone.

In that time, Dembe never hears a single word from Liz. She doesn’t even speak to Raymond. She only writes in her notebook but often just for Dembe’s benefit. She doesn’t usually have to for Raymond. He seems to know what she’s thinking just by looking at her. The level of word-less communication that has developed between them is astounding, driven by a lack of speech from Liz, but the dependence permeating the relationship is not right.

Dembe is sure of it.

Liz has no motivation to get better and Raymond doesn’t want to push her.

It is a vicious cycle.

Liz looks at Raymond as though the sun rises and sets with him, the way Raymond has always looked at her. It would be ideal for them both but for the fact that Liz needs to get better.

Things cannot go on as they are. Dembe is determined to change things for them.

(He loves them both too much to let this happen.)

“Raymond,” Dembe starts on his third evening there, sitting at the bar with Raymond, Liz asleep on the couch in the living room.

(It is the first time Liz has been anything close to being away from Raymond. She will not go to their bedroom to sleep without him. Dembe was afraid there would not be an opportunity for them to talk at all unless Liz was in the bathroom which is never enough time to address the things he needs to address between them. But, tonight, Liz fell asleep on the couch and Dembe wasted no time in asking Raymond to the kitchen for a glass of scotch.

Tonight, Dembe was lucky.)

He gets straight to the point.

“Raymond, you must see that things are not right.”

Raymond frowns at him over the rim of his scotch glass.

(He has not had scotch since Liz woke up.)

“What do you mean, Dembe?” he inquires quietly, sensing the seriousness of his tone, immediately concerned.

“I will tell you what I see between you and Elizabeth, as I always have, and I can only hope that you will hear me and make some change.”

Raymond looks truly worried now and watches him intently as he speaks.

“Elizabeth has not been speaking as the doctor told you she must. She is depressed, Raymond, and she sees only you. She is so dependent that she cannot function without you. It is not healthy, Raymond. She is not healthy.”

But Raymond is already shaking his head and Dembe sighs.

This battle will not be easily won.

“Dembe, that’s nonsense, you’ve only been here a few days, not even close to the month I’ve spent here with Lizzie. You can’t see how much she has improved and is still improving! It’s astonishing, she is truly remarkable. She’s been making great strides, believe me. She may not be speaking yet, that’s true, but that’s only because she’s not ready yet. You can’t rush something like this Dembe, she needs time.”

“It has been a month, Raymond. Do you remember what the doctor said?”

Raymond scowls at the reminder of Dr. Lauflin, whose only fault was telling Raymond things he didn’t want to hear. Dembe can sense Raymond is getting irritated with him now but he doesn’t care. He will persist until Raymond sees sense.

He must.

“The doctor said time is of the essence, Raymond,” Dembe continues. “If she does not try to speak, she will not regain her previous abilities.”

“Lizzie is fine, Dembe,” he snaps, angry now. “I’m with her every second, don’t you think I would know if something was wrong?”

“That is my point exactly,” Dembe presses, ignoring Raymond’s frustrated huff. “She doesn’t leave your side, Raymond. Don’t tell me you’re not the least bit bothered by that.”

Raymond throws back the last of his scotch angrily, wincing at the burn in a way Dembe has not seen in a long time. He has been sober for nearly a year.

“Raymond,” Dembe murmurs, pushing his glass aside and placing a gentle hand on his brother’s arm, relieved when he doesn’t immediately shrug it off. “Raymond, I only want to help.”

Dembe sees Raymond sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

“I know, Dembe,” he murmurs back. “I know. And you’re right. I think I’ve known deep down that something is wrong but I’ve been afraid to see it because we’ve been so happy here, Lizzie and I, in a way I never expected.”

He looks so sad that Dembe can’t help but hurt for his brother, his father. He does love Elizabeth so.

“And you can still be happy, Raymond,” Dembe says quietly. “But first Elizabeth must get better. She cannot be so dependent on you, for her own health. I know you only want what is best for her, brother, but to have that, she needs to be pushed. She must want to get better. That is the first step.”

“Yes,” sighs Raymond, looking more tired than Dembe has seen him since he arrived. “Yes, you’re right, of course. But how do I begin?” He looks frightened and lost.

“Well, I know your interests could benefit from an appearance. I’ve been managing things while you’ve been gone, Raymond, but it’s been a long time. Your allies and enemies are getting skeptical. They think you are not coming back.”

“Maybe I’m not,” Raymond whispers, turning his gaze to Liz’s sleeping form on the couch.

Oh, Raymond.

“Maybe not,” Dembe agrees, only for the night. “But there are more graceful ways to exit. Come back and make an appearance. The time is not right to retire yet.”

Raymond nods sadly.

“There is a meeting not far from here tomorrow,” Dembe says gently. “Nothing dangerous, just a few low-life thugs that need a talking to. They’re getting ideas since you haven’t been around to…assert your influence. I was going to drop in on them on my way back to the city. Why don’t you go instead?”

“What about Lizzie?” Raymond says, tensing as he sees her roll over in her sleep, only relaxing once she has settled again.

Dembe watches him with sad eyes.

“I can spend the day with Elizabeth tomorrow,” he offers, truly wanting the time with Liz.

(He has come to love her as a sister through Raymond and he wants only the best for her. He would like to spend some time with her. Perhaps, with enough exposure, she will be almost as comfortable with him as she is with Raymond. Dembe thinks he would like that.)

Raymond nods, looking exhausted.

“Of course,” he sighs. “There’s no one else I’d trust with her.”

Dembe nods, happy with what was said between them tonight.

“Go to bed then, Raymond,” he says softly. “Get some sleep. You need your rest for tomorrow. I will take care of Elizabeth. You will see her again by dinner time.”

Raymond nods wearily and gives Dembe a hug in thanks before shuffling to the couch and gently waking Elizabeth. Dembe watches in silence as he helps her up and supports most of her weight, walking her gently back to their bedroom as she struggles to keep her eyes open, trusting Raymond to get her to bed safely.

Dembe knows Raymond will hold her tightly tonight.

Tomorrow will be important.

Dembe wakes early to see Raymond off, giving him the details of the meeting and allowing Raymond to talk on and on about his and Liz’s routine, what Liz likes and doesn’t like, what Dembe should do for her, before he gently interrupts him.

“…and Lizzie hates pancakes, Dembe, don’t forget, but waffles are alright. She’ll try to help you with the dishes but don’t let her, she doesn’t need to, I’ve told her a million times. We always play games in the living room in the afternoon. I’ve taught her poker and she taught me mancala and we play Monopoly when she’s feeling up to it but she’s a fiend at checkers, impossible to beat, it’s uncanny, really and –”

“Raymond…Trust me.”

“…of course. I’m sorry. I’ll see you tonight, Dembe.”

Red drives off and Dembe waits until the car is out of sight before heading back inside to start on breakfast for him and Liz.

(No pancakes.)

Eventually, the smell of food wakes Liz and she comes wandering into the kitchen, smiling faintly to see Dembe cooking instead of Red.

She looks around, searching idly for Raymond and, when she doesn’t see him anywhere, she frowns, clearly confused. She turns on her heel suddenly and hurries back to her bedroom with a sense of purpose Dembe has not seen since he arrived. A minute later she is back, notebook and pen in hand. She leans against the counter and bends over her notebook, focusing intently on writing a message, large and clear, for Dembe. He turns away from the stove and waits patiently while she writes.

When she’s finished, she turns the notebook around quickly and points to the message, her brow furrowed.

Where is Red?

Dembe nods understandingly, turning back to the stove and stirring the scrambled eggs in the pan. It makes sense that this is the first thing Liz would ask. Dembe doesn’t mind.

“Raymond has gone to take care of some business,” Dembe responds brightly. “It is just a short meeting. He will be back by dinner time. I will be keeping you company while he is away. We can do whatever you’d like after breakfast, though I understand you are unbeatable at checkers, so perhaps we can –”

Dembe glances over at Liz and abruptly stops talking.

She is standing there, eyes wide and flitting around the kitchen, with her arms tight around her waist, gasping for air. Her lips are making small, frantic movements that form Raymond’s name.

Oh no.

Dembe quickly turns off the burner under the eggs, shoving the hot pan off to the side carelessly, and hurries towards her.

“Liz? What –”

But Elizabeth is backing away from him, panicking, starting to pant and struggle for air, taking in strangled gasps, her eyes wild.

Dembe has been through enough panic attacks himself and helped Raymond through so many of them that he knows what to do. He slowly advances toward Liz, who now has tears streaming down her face and is starting to make odd whimpering noises. Dembe waits until her back thumps into the wall before darting forward and wrapping his arms snugly around her middle, holding her arms down. He knows from experience that it is better to hold a person through a panic attack, keeping their arms close to their sides to prevent them from hurting themselves or other people in their fright.

But it seems Dembe’s arms are not the ones that Liz wants.

She starts to struggle against him immediately, though Dembe has no trouble holding her. Raymond is the one she wants. Dembe imagines that his arms must feel like restraints to Liz, instead of protection, and his scent is probably unfamiliar and frightening to her, instead of comforting.

Poor Liz.

As Dembe slides to the floor holding Liz, trying in vain to comfort her, he realizes suddenly that Liz hasn’t been without Raymond since she awoke from her coma and, judging by the way she would be calling for him if she could speak, he is clearly her touchstone.

She wasn’t ready for this.

What has he done?

With one arm around Liz, holding her securely to his chest as she trembles and cries, tugging uselessly at his arm, Dembe manages to extract his cell phone from his pocket and dial Raymond on the burner phone he gave him this morning. Raymond answers through the blue tooth connection in the car, obviously still on the road.

Hopefully not far.

“Hello, Dembe, I’m not there yet, I told you I’d call when I was, why –”

“Raymond,” Dembe mutters, barely managing to hold onto Liz as she flails her free arm at the mention of Raymond’s name, nearly hitting Dembe in the head.

“What is it?” Raymond responds, suddenly urgent, put on guard by Dembe’s tone of voice and the sounds of a struggle.

“Come back, brother, she needs you,” Dembe murmurs in Arabic, not wanting to further upset Liz by speaking in a language she would understand.

“I’ll be right there,” Raymond snaps, clearly distressed and Dembe hears the squealing of tires and the revving of an engine before Raymond hangs up.

Dembe tosses the phone carelessly to the floor, knowing he won’t need it anymore, and pulls Liz tighter to his chest, hoping that perhaps she’ll get some comfort from his heartbeat and breathing, and settles in to wait for Raymond. He keeps up a constant stream of quiet words that don’t seem to help at all.

“Elizabeth, Raymond is on his way, he’ll be here soon, don’t worry…I’m so sorry, please forgive me…Raymond is coming, Liz…”

They are on the floor for an agonizing thirty-four minutes.

What feels like days later, Dembe hears the crunch of gravel as Raymond’s car speeds up the driveway. Liz hears the noise over her sniffles a second later and freezes in his arms, turning to face the door. When the car comes around the final bend in the driveway, speeding into view, Liz struggles harder than ever, pushing desperately away from Dembe and he waits for the squealing of brakes before he finally lets Liz go.

(His arms are sore.)

Liz explodes out of his arms and stumbles to her feet, managing to make it to the door and wrench it open, tears falling anew, gasping. Dembe slowly gets to his feet, feeling a year older, and follows her to stand in the doorway, watching.

“Lizzie?!”

Dembe can hear Raymond’s hoarse cry through the car door. Dembe watches as Raymond climbs out of the car and leaves the door ajar as he hurries toward Liz, who is running towards him across the drive. They collide, Liz crashing into his arms in a tearful heap, the sheer force of it propelling Raymond back a few steps until his back hits the car.

“Oh, Lizzie, I’m so sorry…”

Dembe can hear Raymond’s words from the porch and watches as Liz wraps her arms in a chokehold around Raymond’s neck, desperate for contact, and presses her face into his shoulder, inhaling deeply. Dembe can see her trembling hands taking fistfuls of Raymond’s windbreaker, her shoulders shaking in broken, soundless sobs.

Raymond’s arms are wrapped around her as well, a hand cradling the back of her head, clutching her tightly to him, seeming to gain just as much comfort from her touch as she does from his.

(For the life of him, Dembe never would have guessed.)

Raymond’s hands stroke her hair and rub her back as he murmurs soft words to her that Dembe doesn’t catch, alternating presses kisses to her face or hair.

(But never her lips, Dembe can’t help but notice. Curious.)

Dembe can see the moment when Liz finally starts to calm, her shoulders slowly lowering, the tension leaving her muscles, the trembles in her hands waning, her gasps slowing to a stop, relaxing in Raymond’s arms.

(Dembe feels horrible. This is all his fault.)

Dembe hears Raymond’s next words to Liz, slightly louder now that the time for immediate comfort has passed.

“We should go inside, Lizzie, you’re not wearing a jacket and it’s chilly out.”

Dembe can see Liz tighten her hold around Raymond’s shoulders, scared to let go of him, shaking her head minutely against his neck. Dembe can see Raymond’s expression soften even further than he thought possible, unable to deny Elizabeth.

(Dembe supposes that much hasn’t changed.)

Raymond whispers something to Liz and, after a tentative nod from her, he leans down and puts his arms under her knees, gently scooping her into his arms. Liz is so thin that she is no burden to Raymond, sitting lightly in his arms, swaying gently as he beings his walk to the house, her swollen, red eyes already starting to close in exhaustion. When Raymond makes it to the porch, cradling Liz to his chest tenderly, Dembe opens his mouth to speak.

“Raymond, I –”

But Raymond just meets his eyes and shakes his head once in one quick motion. He is not unkind but his face brooks no argument. Dembe understands and instead lowers his head and opens the door for Raymond, following him into the house as he carries Liz right to the couch in the living room and sits, placing her on his lap, holding her close to him.

She clings to him, a few stray tears still leaking out of her eyes, as Raymond smooths her hair and straightens her hoodie, murmuring to her all the while. Dembe quickly becomes uncomfortable with the intimate scene and leaves them be, returning to the kitchen to clean up the sad remains of their disastrous breakfast.

He hopes that Raymond and Elizabeth can forgive him.

By the time Dembe returns to the living room, Elizabeth has moved and is fast asleep with her head on Raymond’s lap, his fingers gently trailing through her hair. She must be exhausted. Dembe moves to sit in an armchair opposite his brother. Raymond, who had been staring dreamily at Liz’s face, looks up at him.

“Raymond, I’m so sorry,” Dembe says quietly, so as not to wake Liz, but Raymond is already shaking his head before Dembe has even finished.

“Don’t apologize,” he whispers. “I know you meant well.”

“I did,” confirms Dembe. “I never imagined…”

“I know, neither did I,” sighs Raymond, sounding drained. “But I should have known better than to move that fast. Should have gone by degrees, little by little, not all at once, she doesn’t…”

Raymond trails off, frowning, looking upset with himself.

“You couldn’t have known, Raymond,” Dembe assures him.

His gaze moves to Liz, curled up in the fetal position on the couch, taking up as little room as possible, huddling close to Raymond’s warmth, her hoodie so big that it looks like a blanket covering her.

Dembe marvels once again at how much she’s changed, at the ways that trauma can alter people.

“You are the only thing she has,” Dembe murmurs to Raymond.

At the words, Raymond’s gaze fills with love as he looks at her.

(If Dembe didn’t know it already, he wouldn’t be able to mistake that look: Raymond would do anything for the woman lying in his lap.)

“I will leave by morning,” Dembe says, breaking the silence. Raymond looks up at that, frowning at him, and opens his mouth to protest, but Dembe speaks before he can. “She needs time to recover. She will not want me here for that.”

Raymond stares at him for a moment and then gives in, lowering his head in defeat. They both know he is right.

“But, Raymond,” Dembe continues and Raymond looks back up at him. “If you cannot leave her, please encourage her to speak. I want the best for her, as you do, and I would hear her voice again.”

Red nods sadly. “I would too.”

Dembe nods. After the events of today, he knows that Raymond now sees what is best for Liz and will stop at nothing to help her.

And if anyone can help Liz heal, it is Raymond.

Dembe leaves before breakfast and Red is sad to see him go. Despite everything that happened while he was here (and Red doesn’t blame him for a second), Red is always sorry to see his brother leave. He hopes he will visit again soon.

But in the meantime, Red is on a mission.

He decides to give Lizzie a few days to recuperate from what happened, the most stressful events she has experienced since she woke up.

(Red never would have guessed that him leaving the house for a day, suddenly and without any notice, would have such an effect on Lizzie. He never would have gone if he had known he would come back to a hyperventilating Lizzie, desperate for his touch. He aches whenever he remembers her shaking form stumbling off the porch and into his arms, tears blurring her vision, and he knows he’ll never forget the whimpering noises she made.

He also knows he’ll never forgive himself.)

They spend a few comfortable days returning to their previous routines of games and reading and movies and Red wants it to last a lifetime. He knows now that things must change for them. He will be forever grateful to Dembe for showing him what he was purposefully ignoring, helping him to see how he could best help Lizzie. He now knows that Lizzie must get better and he must push her to get there but that doesn’t mean he is looking forward to it.

Red can see how comfortable and content Lizzie is here with him and Red is afraid she will resent his sudden urge to change things.

(Red gets the feeling that Lizzie could live happily here with him for a long time and that thought feels him with just as much worry as it does all-encompassing happiness. It is a strange combination.)

But if Lizzie resents him for pushing her, for wanting her to get better when she doesn’t want to herself, then he wants to cherish these last few days of complete and utter happiness he has with her. He has felt a joy he has known precious little of in his life while living here with Lizzie and he hopes, whatever happens, that she can understand just how important that is to him.

(How much he loves her.)

He holds her even more tightly than usual at night, reveling in the feel of her body curled snugly around his, content and warm and wanting him, knowing it may very well be the last time.

(He wonders if she will break him.

He thinks she may.)

They are sitting together at the bar eating a light lunch when Red decides it is time. It’s been three days and there is no point in avoiding it any longer. It won’t help either of them in the long run.

(As much as he wishes he could ignore their problems forever, he owes it to Lizzie to speak up. He can only hope she will understand.)

He takes one last longing look at Lizzie, looking beautiful in the bright, midday sunlight shining in through the window and reflecting off the lake, her dark hair framing her face and her blue eyes sparkling with happiness as she picks all the pieces of cantaloupe out of the mixed fruit Red has prepared for them.

(Red picks out all the watermelon and tries not to take it as a sign from the cosmos that they are meant to be together just because they don’t eat each other’s favorite fruit. Because that would be stupid.

Stupid, stupid heart.)

He’ll miss this so much.

“Lizzie?”

She looks up, her eyes curious, her notebook abandoned to one side while they’re eating, raising her eyebrows in her traditional gesture of acknowledgment. Red falters under her intense gaze, quickly eating a piece of pineapple to stall.

Lizzie waits patiently, popping a few grapes into her mouth, and watches him.

“Do you ever…” Red winces and then decides to just bite the bullet and get it over with. “Would you ever consider…trying to speak again?”

Lizzie looks at him oddly for a moment and then her face folds into a delicate frown, clearly confused. She reaches for her notebook which Red immediately takes as a bad sign. Anything that she can’t communicate to him through a look or a touch is surely not good news.

He watches apprehensively as she picks up her pen but she only spends a second writing before she is turning the notebook around to face him.

(He isn’t ready.)

It takes him a moment to spot the one word she’s written in her bright red pen, small and neat in the center of the page.

Why?

Red’s heart shatters in that instant, reading that one word that says everything and nothing all at the same time.

(He feels so desperately sad for her.)

He knows in that moment that Lizzie truly has no desire to ever speak again, she would be content to live in silence for the rest of her hopefully very long life and oh, how did things go so wrong?

It is as he feared. He will have to force her if he wants her to get better. And he does want her to get better. He won’t be happy until she is healthy. Until she is happy.

(It’s been that way for a long time.)

“Lizzie,” he starts, wanting to be gentle but firm at the same time. “Lizzie, things can’t go on as they have been,” she blinks at that, taken aback by his unexpected statement. He plows forward, knowing that there’s no going back now. “You need to speak again because…well, won’t you want to talk to other people at some point?”

Red feels his stomach drop as he sees tears gather in Lizzie’s eyes, sees the hurt blossom across her face, and he realizes how that sounded, so wrong. It sounded like he is tiring of her, wanting to pass her off to someone else, get rid of her.

(As if he could ever tire of her.)

“Lizzie, no, that’s not what I meant,” he hurries to tell her, quickly standing and rounding the bar to her side, pulling her up off her stool and into his arms. She goes willingly enough but he can feel her confusion and residual hurt making her tense and stiff in his arms. “Lizzie, I just mean that writing down everything you want to say isn’t a good way to go about life, you need to speak, sweetheart, don’t you miss talking? I mean…”

He prattles on and on but no he’s not making it better, he’s making it worse, he can feel it in her body, her shoulders shaking as she starts to cry, scared and confused at what must seem to her like a sudden and unwelcome turn of events. She pushes back from him, gentle but firm, staying within the circle of his arms but putting some distance between them. She looks at him, frowning, tears still spilling gently from her eyes, trying to ask all the questions she can’t say.

(He tries to answer her.)

“Lizzie, I miss your voice,” he whispers, desperate to make her understand.

He sees realization dawn in her eyes, sees the weight of it hit her all at once, sees her remember how things used to be before her accident, how she’s let herself go, how she settled for comfort and ease instead of hard work and a challenge like she once would have, how she fell victim to her depression and everything she’s been blocking out. He sees her realize what it will take to do what Red is asking and she is shaking her head, breaking free from his arms and running from him, rushing to their room.

Red lets her go, forcing himself not to cling, feeling desperately miserable as he hears the bedroom door shut between them for the first time since they’ve arrived.

(It hurts even more than he imagined.)

Liz lies on her bed in the dark, curled up on her side, her tears long since dried on her face, thinking.

It has been hours since she ran and left Red standing in the kitchen, feeling as though she left a piece of herself out there with him, and he hasn’t knocked on the door. She’s glad. She needed the time to herself.

She just couldn’t believe that Red was suggesting, completely out of the blue, that she speak. She couldn’t understand where he was coming from, why he would be saying this. She thought things had been wonderful. She was happy here, with him, reading and eating and cuddling together, it was comfortable and happy and perfect and why, oh why, did he want to ruin that?

(She thought he loved her as much as she loves him.)

But then he had said it, the thing that made it all click, that one sentence.

“Lizzie, I miss your voice.”

Thinking of it again, alone here in bed, makes a few more tears slip unbidden down her face. She realized in that instant how far she has fallen, how much she let herself go. She had fallen hard into a depression, a shadow of who she used to be, using the excuse of her accident to justify her lack of motivation for anything other than what she was strictly comfortable with: Red.

(She can’t believe it.)

And she’s spent the last few hours here, alone for the first time in a long time, thinking and, now that she’s calmed down, she knows that Red only wants what’s best for her. Of course. He wants her to get better and he wants her to want that too. And how can she be mad at him for taking care of her, like he’s always done? He wants to help her and, going forward, she’s going to need all the help she can get.

She feels a surge of resolve at the thought and pushes herself up into a sitting position in bed, sniffing weakly and dragging a tattered hoodie sleeve over her eyes.

She knows what she has to do.

Red sits in the living room in the dark, looking out the window at the surface of the lake, black in the night sky, holding a tumbler of scotch. When he had a drink with Dembe, his first glass in a long while, it had been so distasteful to him. He had thought that maybe, just maybe, he had lost his taste for it.

(He’d never have though it possible a year ago but if anyone could cure him of his mild but persistent alcoholism, it makes sense that it would be Lizzie.)

But the second he heard the bedroom door slam shut behind her, sounding an awful lot like finality, he was immediately craving the burn and scorch of alcohol, feeling that old urge to drown his sorrows.

(It seems that his fights with Lizzie are directly related to his drinking habits. He can’t say he’s surprised.)

So here he sits, more miserable than he’s been in a long time, nursing his scotch and wondering what to do without Lizzie here with him.

(The situation is horribly unfamiliar.

Maybe he’s not the only one who’s developed a dependency.)

He’s just wondering dejectedly whether he should throw together some dinner (not for him of course, he can’t stomach anything but alcohol at the moment, but Lizzie will surely be hungry soon), when he hears something behind him he didn’t think he’d ever hear again.

“Red.”

Lizzie.

He jumps at the shock of hearing another voice in the house besides his own, so hoarse and weak, and quickly stands, whirling around to see Lizzie standing there, tears dried on her face and new ones already leaking from her eyes, her hair a tangled mess, her hoodie twisted around her torso.

She’s so beautiful.

“Lizzie,” he gasps, sounding completely gutted.

They stare at one another for a moment and then, by some indistinguishable sign, they move at the same time, rushing across the room to one another, colliding in the middle in a hug that almost hurts because it feels so good.

Red presses a desperate kiss into her hair and he hears himself murmuring to her.

“That was so wonderful, Lizzie, I’m so proud of you, you did so well –”

And Liz is crying and hiccupping into his shoulder, wetting the collar of his shirt and he couldn’t be gladder. He savors the feel of her in his arms, something he was afraid he would never feel again, and then gently guides them to the couch where they sit without releasing each other. It takes a few moments but Lizzie finally calms enough to pull gently away from him, taking his hand instead. She gives a little sigh, looking worn out and exhausted, the same way Red feels, but he can tell there is something she wants to say before she can rest.

Liz looks into his eyes and raises a hand to clearly mime writing in her notebook, much like she did upon waking from her coma. Red nods hurriedly, squeezing her hand and then letting it go to rush to the kitchen and retrieve it from where she left it after their fight.

He hurries back and they link hands again automatically. Instinctively. Liz turns to a fresh page, taking a moment to smooth her hand over it in a calming manner before slowly writing one simple sentence and turning the notebook around to show him.

You’ll help me?

The innocent request, combined with the beautiful vulnerability and complete trust in Lizzie’s eyes, hits Red like a punch to the gut.

As if he would abandon her now.

(Never.)

“Oh, Lizzie, sweetheart, of course I’ll help you,” he gasps, pulling her desperately into his arms as the notebook and pen fall to the floor abandoned and she snuggles into him.

They spend a long time there, huddled together on the couch, comforting each other, making an unspoken, mutual decision to start in the morning. Tonight, Red just wants to hold her. He knows that there are hard times ahead of them, but he is comforted by the fact that he and Lizzie are now on the same page, both committed to getting her better. At least they’re in this together.

Because when they work together, they can accomplish anything.

Lizzie will speak again.

[viasplat]

#the idea that they worked together on it is also excellent btw. kinda maybe want to accept it into my list of headcanons. hmm 

@mintymyths an update! (spoiler alert if anyone who hasn’t finished the game yet finds this) I decided to go through the shots of the book that we see in the opening credits and translate them - the most relevant for this ^ discussion being the fourth (I think) page:

It caught my eye as I was starting my second replay because it’s the first page that we see being written (rather than being erased), the writing changes slightly, and we have Tassing/Kiersau mentioned at the beginning of the page.

Because I’m p sad and far too obsessed w this game, I transcribed the Latin and ran it through Google Translate, some dictionaries, and some common sense to get it into English. If anyone who has studied Latin sees this pls don’t come at me for my mistakes

Latin

Hic incipit historia cadum quae in oppido Tassio et monasterio Kierso inter MDXVII et MDXLIV contingerant [contingerent?]. Fabula est miserabilis dolens reuocarer sed quam debeo narrare ut multis peccatis commisi sicut insciem ministrum horum scelerum expieo.

Credo nutum Dei esse me ut haec fabula ultimum operem mea uitae sit. Quod si non est oro ut meam animam ei nutui mutet aut cadet meam uitam si utilis ei non sit.

Quicumgue huius operis compleo oro ut multus alius id eruditum sit etiam si Deum id non opus esse confessioni ducet. Mea peccata sunt magna et multa et adferre ea in die irae uocabor.

 English 

Here begins the history of all that occurred within the town of Tassing and at the monastery of Kiersau between 1517 and 1544, as it happened. It is a wretched and painful tale to recall, but one which I must tell, for I have committed many sins and must atone for having aided in these crimes.

I believe it is God's will that this tale be the last work of my life. And if it is not, I pray that he wills my soul to change [?], or else that my life will cease if it is not of use.

As I finish this work, I pray that it will instruct a great many others, even if it leads to the confession that God does not need it [?]. My sins are great and many, and I will be summoned to account for them on the day of wrath [Day of Judgement].

So to go back on my original reblog lol, it is Sister Amalie’s authorship on show. The above passage certainly reads like a monastic history, and you’re right that the script is the same. (Plus there’s the obvious reference to her attempts to atone for being an (unwitting) accomplice to Father Thomas.)

So I was wrong abt the author being Andreas, but that being said... I’m fairly certain he’s intended as the artist behind the illustrations, and therefore the one responsible for bringing the book to a close (presuming, of course, that medieval illustrating came after the writing and not before lol)

So I like to think some of my prev comments still stand — plus we now know we can bump the Amalie-Andreas double act to the top of the headcanon list :)

okay this might be a "my brain" issue but was there ever a definitive answer to who was writing the story? was it a character we played? was it the player themselves? or was it left open ended?

[ryanbydefault]

Vacuity (a small script)

the girl: haha you think about these things. I know you do. These things that seem far, far beyond your reach. These things right in front of you. I imagine that the further that I can get them, the more you'll think about them, be ripped apart. I'm very entertained by the idea of suffering, in relation to you because I view you as a suffering thing, a thing that should suffer. I can't say that there is any particular reason besides that I feel that way and it is my right to feel that way until I don't, with those times being very lucky times for you, my "compassionate" moments. It took me quite a journey and some time to decide this. I've learned so much and seen so much and among them, you the most minuscule. I'm not sure if anyone felt this way before I did, before I was born. No one knows, that's the funniest part, because then they'll see that I'm not quite what they thought I was. I imagine the world to be a moral and compassionate world and if they were to see that, then I might be alone, which I don't imagine, in my lifetime I ever will be, but if they find out it will be the absolute end of you, considering that I just must go "off of the deep end" then, and be completely dedicated to my own darkness. I would hope to take the world with me, then, because if not I imagine that I'd be alone, which, again, in my lifetime, with who I am and everything, I never will be.

the boy: I've never been concerned with being alone. I've always been more afraid of becoming bored or possessed with the wrong thing. I was born alone, with my father, who told me once that it's better to be alone than to be a tramp in in the local national rag, you know. Someone who wasn't taught manners, good personal manners. I've also never been concerned with darkness. I remember all the prayers from my parochial school better than I remember my own name, with all of who I am and everything, in regards to a name. I'd probably never say that "with all of who I am and everything". It seems more necessary to say than snooty.

the girl: I'm getting sick.

the boy: a very cunning response. I understand what it takes to maintain ones own very, very personal perceptions of the world otherwise, in your case, more so defined, officially as delusions, necessary delusions, and the desperate world who seemingly needs to believe in anything or a world too hell bent on relativity. You see, that's a great thing when it creates empathy, relativity. It's what waters the best, good things in the world. Then, there is the massive delusion fed by need. You see, you, what you have told me is that you need something. You need something like a sedative, a voodoo doll and a boyfriend. You're very easily crushable because the thing that you fear is aloneness which is one of the easiest things to create in the entire world. The world, as you said, being "hopefully as sadistic as it is compassionate". It's not like a flower. There will never not be water and sun. You get it. They come back in the same places every year, the deciduous daisies and dandelions. What they need is naturally available because the world is deserved of nurturing, it's the job of a thing that makes something to maintain it, in one way or another. The things that you don't know about, like how large the universe is and how absolutely small your are in your stature, metaphorically, in your needs, in your emptiness, in your opinions.

the girl: I don't know what you're talking about!

the boy: you're dead, in one way or another, and you're not much to look on, you have the kind of face that needs money, you know, because money creates codependency or fame and lots of bottom feeders / opportunists, which the world will never be empty of, you're a succubus, you need for someone in the world to actually love you, which I don't, I can say, and I say this because your fixation on me had to come from some idea that I need you to look on as much as you need to look on to me, but you need to have someone weaker to love you, which I guess you assumed was me, someone you can look on and look down on, again, I am not your candidate, I walk with closed eyes and take in everything, these weaker people, not that they REALLY exist outside of something created to keep you "sane", this is to balance off all of the bottom feeding , those moments when you look in on a deaf heart and an open hand and you just very much want to kill yourself because you've realized that no one really loves you and no one ever truly will because they're all like you. you've created that, one small suicide cult, built up on the back of a huge delusion, that anyone gives a fuck. You're mommy's too busy, you're daddy's not there, your parents hate you deep down somewhere because they know exactly what you are and they actually love one another. They actually still love each other. You are, somewhere deep down, the enemy. Everyone real wants real love, in one way or another, that's why, that's how you got here no matter how much that sucks. You'll never see me again in your entire life , at least not because that's what I've ever wanted, and if God here's me, but I thought you should know that your a shit person and that doesn't go well with a face like that, if you wanted to know how I felt.

the girl: but, I thought... Yeah right! Do you know who I am?

the boy: I truthfully don't care. I can say that I tried, you know, at some point, to look through my heart eyes and for no reason at all, maybe it was a rebound. I'd lost my girlfriend right before that. I was a bit heartbroken. Okay, I was completely crushed but, the point is I don't care who you are and there is no mistaking who I am. It's all really just DIE. You're the kind of person who has ghost written poetry because there's nothing there, really. Bye-Bye.

the girl: look I want someone else! Slit your wrists!

the boy: I've only seen you once.

the girl: I want someone else, you hear me! Slit your wrists.

the boy: I don't understand what that has ever had to do with me.

the girl: me? seriously, me?

the boy: it seems your tone and demeanor have changed quite a bit hahahahahhahha upset?

the girl: seriously, come on, that?

the boy: what?

the girl: that?

the boy: I think it's best that you seek help

the girl: you can't be serious!

the boy: think about everything that I've said and what you know and ask yourself if any of it makes sense? besides I've never attempted suicide over a woman.

[bedlamgames]

Q&A #30

Today answers on Twine, slave names, more on slave to slavers, typos, and living armour among others.

Anonymous: I've dabbled enough in twine to know that snapshot of Whorelock's looked painful. Good luck with that! As a novice is there a reason you went with twine 1 over twine 2? Have you considered doing some of it as script calls? I think that's how FC guy does his descriptions, rather than having a twine passage that has all of the if's it just calls a javascript, might even be able to get someone to help with that part. Thanks for letting me pick your brain.

Thanks! I make no claims to have any idea what I’m doing on the Twine front with script calls being entirely foreign but I did try both and found I preferred how Twine handled things over 2. Main reason though was that was how Stranded was done and that was the game that convinced me WR could be done in that program. 

Anonymous: never mind about the expire it was that they took a really long time to. 

Some do have expiry dates in the 40-80 day region and you check them on some of the assignment overviews. 

Anonymous: not really questions, but just some feedback on a couple things, firstly with scenarios if you try to use the remove dominant options the dominant doesn't get removed, which means you can add secretly submissive multiple times as dominant stays there. secondly in scenarios if you pick disgraced noble human female the veteran head maid has the wrong abbreviations for her traits in the inventory box it lists (C:Cu)(Cre)(Pcp)(Flk)(Sed) and examine says she has (Lea)(Trn) instead of the first two

Feedback is perfectly good, I do like feedback as well as questions. 

Huh, okay will check that and thanks for the spots. 

Anonymous: On the subject of switches, in the future when slaves happen to get both submissive and dominant through training crits/paths will it be melded into switch in the future? Seems like it might be good in case switch itself is ever a modifier for an event, or if it could possibly help alleviate having one as a weakness and one as a strength at the same time, although I haven't seen that happen so far, iirc.

Yeah both of those are good ideas. When I do advanced dominance training for promoting to slaver I’ll probably incorporate that then. Cheers. 

Anonymous: Love the game and thought I would see if I can help out a little. When I examine my second in command, it says this: "Tinaslut has gigantic tits... She has sparkling unnaturally pink eyes, beach-blonde hair with pink highlights, and a magically enhanced physique. Carmen's head is decorated by two small horns.(Btf)(Sub)(Con)(Cun)(Per)(Sed)(Sne)" Carmen was her name pre-event (should be Tinaslut now) and the traits appeared after an event in the Deep Mountains gave her the horns.

Thank you! Also oh wow, you have no idea what a mess you caused me with this innocent little spot. Had completely failed to realise that name changes would cause problems with how the horns corruption currently worked and had to completely change it. 

Anonymous: Is there a way to change the name of a slave?

There will be. Possibly next update.

Anonymous: 0.7202: nethemir slaver got the following examination text after into the depth crit: "As a quintari futanari they have hooves for feet and a long silken tail." wasnt part of any corruption event and has no (fel).

Odd one, not sure what caused that. Will look into it.

Anonymous: is crafting completely randomized or are there certain clothing/armor types that are more frequently crafted of certain races? like silk robes are more likely crafter by elves whereas street walker attire could be more likely crafted by succubi? also if you have a dwarven smith he crafts nearly all the time equipment in dwarven style which is too small for everyone except dwarves and goblins, feels like a restriction.

To some extent yes though it varies. I do need to add a general order so that you can ask for small, regular or large versions for ogres and the like as an option.

Anonymous: 0.7202: theres again something wrong with the clothing equipment, storage says its full and assignments dont give additional items. main suspects are a brief foray and shark of the cards.

How many items had you had by that point and had you done one of the assignment starts?

Anonymous: Bug in version 0.7202 (No Haven) - I'm trying to send a slaver to "Infiltration - Lead Astray - (One Slaver) - (Seven Days) - (Common)" and it tells me "You do not currently have enough slavers available to complete this assignment while keeping the encampment secure." I currently have 8 slavers in the camp (myself included).

Sounds like a counter has gone wonky. Will check it. 

xcomcommander12: I managed to somehow get two Keldan students, both exactly the same after the assignment completed again the day after I completed it. Useful, but now it freaks some when I try to send them out on a mission together.

I can imagine! So they were both of the Keldan diplomacy success? 

Anonymous: stumbled upon the new male goblin start which i have somehow missed ^.^ anywho in the ogre rashnags lore there is a line: 'the Countess insisted that Rashnag, nor a single one of his follower, had so much as even a finger on her body' i think theres a word missing (had 'laid' so much as even a finger on her body) maybe? Thanks for your efforts!

Cheers for the typo spot, and thank you. 

Anonymous: something for no haven, maybe its what the healslut will do in future builds, but i had a slightly different idea about a slave who helps to watch over other slaves: headgirl, alpha or prime camp bitch, same traits like a regular camp bitch but also needs leader to command the camp bitches, several other traits improve the status of the camp bitches line faster regeneration or more durable in sexing, or to reduce camp bitch sexing, some qol improvements. got quite some more ideas

That’s got potential and it could be used as part of the progression from slave to slaver to show they can handle it. Added it to my notes. 

Anonymous: whorelocks revengen has an unimplemented feature, all natural. it mentions living and natural clothing like equipment. could this be a thing for no haven too? enchanted clothing/armor that has tentacles inside to boost traits like strength or agi?

It wasn’t actually entirely un-implemented as the Tangle Infestation item was in the game for ages but I disabled it temporarily (course that turned into quite the long temporarily..) due to not being entirely happy with how the quest to remove it was working. But that digression aside, yeah I’m sure I’ll do something with that in No Haven. Probably as you discover more about what’s going on in the depths of the Ever Forest. 

[alienvampireswantmydick]

Sed De Sangre

Part 1

Outis zipped up his hoodie and put on his father’s gloves which had holes on fingertips. His father’s dark grey toboggan, stained with grease and charcoal, was pulled as far down as Outis could stand it. He looked at himself in the grungy standing mirror which had its place in his father’s bedroom. The morning light was a cold blue and hid many details of the young man: the scars he gave himself from night terrors, his starving body under Dad’s clothing, the overwhelming fear and anxiety he had for existing. He was alone, and he drew a deep breath and held it in as tears began forming in his pale blue eyes. The tears which fell cut through the dirt on his cheeks, leaving white lines. He wiped his face, making it red, and groaned. It was his first official day of work. Outis locked the door to their apartment, his apartment, noticing the lock echo and remind him of the emptiness. Before, he heard the lock on the other side, and his loneliness stemmed from Dad leaving for work. He debated with himself between which experience was worse as he walked down the many stairs to the vacant lobby of the apartment block. The sun was not going to shine today, as rain clouds continued to glow the blue hue, which changed from a dingy cyan to what Outis thought of as “sad blue”. He pulled the hoodie hood over his head and braced himself for the rain that would meet him within an hour or so. The street was lined with a small crowd of his neighbors. He didn’t know any of their names, but recognized some of their voices through the walls of the apartments. That man beats his wife, Outis thought, looking up at a tall, grey-haired man who laughed with some similarly grizzled men, I hear her cry out to stop all the time. He’s Dads age… He looked down and continued walking in the stream of workers. He slipped a piece of paper out of the large hoodie pocket and looked at it to remind himself of the location of the work house. His sniffled and wiped his nose which began running from the cold air. The work house, a refurbished parking garage was brightly lit with gas lanterns around the perimeter. Several stalls stood along the walls where overseers stood in clothing that completely covered their forms. Dark leather, polished to a shine met Outis with his own reflection as he walked up to the figure which towered over the tallest man in the garage. “Excuse me,” he said passively, “I’m here to report to work.” The figure slowly turned their head to him and asked, “So?” “I’m new,” Outis looked down and buried himself deeper into his jacket. The figure nodded and then pointed their long arm to the station at the back of the garage’s first floor. “They have all the new assignments, blood,” the overseer said, “report to there.” Outis nodded and whispered a thank you and slipped back into the crowd. His first real encounter with a Child of the Houses, a vampire, was only partially as terrifying as he thought it would be, but his father should have mentioned how large they were… He found his way to the desk. “Assignment?” the figure asked Outis at the desk, their voice sounding like snake’s hiss. “It’s my first day, I- “ “Name, age, and sex, blood,” The figure said leaning forward in their seat and taking the fountain pen which laid on their desk. They held it on a ledger, portrait still, as Outis cleared his throat. “Outis Alistar, I’m 20 years old, m-male...” “20? You don’t look any older than 16. Have you had your mandated blood test?” They wrote the information onto the paper with a gorgeous calligraphic script. “Y-yes, I have it right here,” Outis pulled another piece of paper out of his pocket which fell to the ground. His hands were shaking. He turned to pick it up, when a large man bent down to pick it up. Placing it into Outis’ hands, the man said, “Here you go, you okay there?” Outis looked up at the man. He didn’t recognize him, but was stricken with attraction immediately by the stranger’s chestnut coloured eyes. The man smiled and looked at the overseer, who stood out of the chair and pulled the paper from Outis’ hand. They opened it and examined it’s front and back. They then waved their hand, producing a purple flame and passed it over the paper to confirm its authenticity. Outis held his breath. “Verified. Outis Alistar, you will be assisting Fidel with transporting cargo until further notice. Fidel will train you and you will become his work partner, understood?” Outis heard the man behind him sigh. “Come on, Feeny, this kid doesn’t look like he can do a lot of manual labor. He’s barely standing up!” The figure stood up from the desk and towered over the both of them, “You’re lucky a new worker just fell into your lap this quickly- You will train him Fidel, and this time,” Feeny turned their head to Outis, “it won’t matter if this one dies.” Outis saw Fidel’s eyes dart at him and then back at the overseer. “Come on,” Fidel huffed as he grabbed a paper at the top of a stack on the desk and then took Outis’ arm and pulled him to a corridor hidden in the corner of the work house. Fidel let go of him as soon as he felt him match pace, but did not break his gaze from the work order. “I hope what Feeny said didn’t scare you. She’s got the worst sense of humour.” Outis looked down from the side of Fidel’s face. He breathed in sharply, balling his fist in his hoodie pocket. “What happened?” Fidel finally looked down from the slip of paper as the two of them stopped beside a line of vehicles. He pulled a key out of his pocket and unlocked the doors, “To my last partner?” “Yeah…” “Oh, she got caught under a wall which had fallen down in a building we were demolishing. Died instantly.” “I-I’m sorry,” Outis said distantly, opening the door and hopping in the passenger seat. He’d only been in a car one other time, and he looked at the dirty interior with interest. The car weakly started after Fidel turned the starter over a few times and embellished the situation with a few choice explicative words under his breath. Outis watched the outside move along the car and then turned to Fidel. “So, cargo,” he said trying to settle the intense air that had arisen in the cabin. Fidel nodded and the car turned into a parking space beside a curb. Fidel turned the car off, but did not open his door. “Our job is to pick up shipments of god-knows-what and drive them to the next city, pick up god-knows-what there and return it here for our vampire lords,” Fidel snorted sarcastically. “How is that funny?” Outis asked. Fidel opened up the door of the car, “They can lift hundreds of pounds and fly with no problem- shit, dude, haven’t you seen them out at night?” “I don’t go out at night, I’m not suicidal.” “Neither am I, but all the best hunting is at night, hence all the fuckin’ vampires flying around,” Fidel wheezed out in jest. He placed the order on a clipboard which was hanging from car frame and motioned his head to the building. Outis got out into the rain and began shivering. The two of them walked into the old movie theatre. Fidel continued, “Deer, elk, goat and cattle reclaimed by feral instincts, they’re helpless in the dark mostly. Something scary I noticed though,” “Scary?” “Is that the vampires don’t go for our mega fauna. They only go for us,” Fidel shifted his back to the front door, blocking the way in, “and there’s a rumor that they round misbehaving people and release them at night to hunt them.” Outis stared at Fidel, who met his gaze until he broke into laughter. “You’re so gullible!” Fidel clapped Outis on the back and opened the door, shoving him inside. Outis nearly fell to the floor, but managed to steady himself. Waiting at the concessions stand that was covered in mold as another vampire. Tall and ominous, they turned to the commotion and raised the long staff which resembled a cattle prod in their hands. “Cut that out, blood!” the overseer said, immediately hushing Fidel’s raucous laughter. “We’re here for a cargo shipment, please,” Fidel said, sitting the clipboard down on the counter. The overseer picked it up and nodded after reading it. They pointed to the theater door, to which Fidel nodded and stepped through, Outis following quickly in the tall man’s path. Outis felt his face radiate heat from both embarrassment and a confusing mixture of displeasure and attraction. He patted his face in the dark of the theater. The downward path lead to the ancient stage, lit dimly by a single stage light and the dozens of small tanks which made up three rows. Inside, a horrific amalgamation of fungus and fauna squeaked quietly to the vampiric attendants. Outis squinted his eyes in the light to see a vampire out of their protective garb. This one, holding a tablet which illuminated their respirator from the underside, was absolutely beautiful, tall and androgynous. Fidel raised his hand in greeting. “Master Blue, how are you? I haven’t seen you for a while.” The vampire looked up from their work and tilted their head, “Oh Fidel, where have you been?” “Was on terraforming duty, but my partner beefed it, so I’m back on transport. Meet Outis.” Fidel gestured to him, and looked to see Outis looking in amazement at the casualty of the conversation. He looked up at the Vampire and deeply bowed his head in respect, “House Master, It’s an honor to meet you.” The vampire waved their hand, “The boxes are over there, handle them with care. Save travels in daylight,” and returned to their work. Outis managed to successfully lift his first box as Fidel was already out of the door. He struggled and slowly worked his way up the aisle when he noticed the Vampire looking at him. He had made it halfway when they spoke, “Outis.” Outis clumsily turned himself to face the stage from the side, “Yes, Master?” “Come here.”