#And bruises. She's got chunks of ice on her and he's probably got a burning in pain back from before

[mushroom-for-art]

Another one, a proper au one this time, I think this is part one of what I'm gonna dumb the Shadow au (I wonder why lmao), the wonderful horrible Syn belongs to @seasidemew

We'll call it a tie

Matt flew weaving between trees of the woods with reckless abandon, on his back he carried a backpack full of stolen human food, he laughed to himself remembering their enraged yelling and hollering, they were furious! And he was very impressed with himself. He'd nabbed it and escaped without being spotted and was far far away from where they were now. He slowed carefully at the end of the woods into a meadow clearing, landing with a stumble he stretched his psychic energy outwards to sense if anyone was around. He only sensed other Pokémon so deeming it safe he ventured into the meadow placing down the backpack carefully before spinning and flopping onto his back into the soft warm flowers scattering petals everywhere as he chuckled.

He stretched in the sunlight purring to himself as he wiggled on his back before sitting up again, psychic energy popping open the backpack as he carefully pulled out the stolen food, mostly tupperwares of things and sandwiches carefully wrapped, it was someone's picnic and now it was his. Well. He'd share it with his sister when she arrived. He sniffed the wrapped sandwiches separating what May would eat to one side, his stomach growled a little at a chicken curry sandwich that smelt deliciously spicy and swallowed as he started to drool. He was DEFINITELY having that one as he put away the food for his sister into the backpack to keep it safe from wild Pokémon. She was probably off collecting berries or something he pondered as he opened a bottled water, also stolen and had a drink satisfied by the coldness of it.

He waited a few moments before unwrapping the curry sandwich, it was in a soft baguette and his tail started to wag at the smell of it and the fact it was a big sandwich, he could tell it was going to be delicious.

"Now that looks tasty." Matt half leapt out of his skin at the sudden voice looking up a bit startled to see a mewtwo he didn't recognise. His eyes roamed over the other gray skin, dark gray tail and a bright crystal coming out of their shoulder, he finally reached the strangers face as they smirked down at him and found himself blinking at the sight of their stunning purple eyes admiring them and the stripes decorating their face.

The stranger chuckled and Matt's face felt hot, going a touch red over his pink hue as he laughed in slight embarrassment and nerves tail still wagging up and down furiously.

"Yes, uh, I could share with you? If you liked." In honesty Matt didn't want to share and wasn't one to willingly share much but he found the stranger rather attractive and did want to get their favor.

"I would like." Matt smiled shyly, focusing his psychic energy to carefully break the sandwich in half to share it with this stranger. He blinked as he felt their hand on his shoulder moving to look at them as they leant in close.

"You'll be quite satisfying." Matt's face went red as he stared bewildered but not at all unhappy about the situation, his smile was a bit timid as he wasn't sure what was happening exactly but having not interacted with another two he wasn't related to he didn't know how they behaved naturally. Unaware of the danger.

The hand grasped his throat in a quick harsh movement slamming him backwards into the grass below as he felt a sudden weakness and his life essence being pulled from his body through the hand that squeezed in his throat, he gasped in shock trying to breathe bringing his feet up to attempt to shove the other away but they didn't budge as his sandwich fell apart on the ground. Panic was setting in as his feet kicked and shoved the other but they were a solid wall of muscle letting out a mewling cry of pain as the stranger stomped a foot down into one of his legs to pin it down, tears prickling and rolling out of his eyes at the pain and confusion.

The strangers mouth became a cruel grin as he looked down on Matt as he absorbed his life, feeling the energy flowing into him in a way that was most satisfying, planning to take the rest of the actual food as well once he was finished. Despite missing both his arms, Syn felt that this odd twos life energy was quite abundant.

In the woods Matt's cry stretched out fading as it traveled but it reached the ear of another, his sister, who dropped the berries she was collecting as she broke into a sprint through the trees towards the meadow in a panic.

"It's nothing personal pinky, you were just nearby while I was feeling hungry." Syn casually mocked as Matt weakened further. "At least you'll be part of sometAH-"

He yelled as something collided hard with his side knocking him away from his meal, he caught himself in a float glaring furiously at the second mewtwo that interfered, their body coated in a shiny metallic layer that glistened and faded as they stood scowling at him bitterly. He looked them up and down as they moved standing protectively in front of the pink one on the floor who was breathing hard before he laughed. The orange hued mewtwo that stood before him was even shorter than the pink one and had a short fat tail and needed glasses, it was almost comical that he'd been caught by surprise.

"Well, looks like this just became a two for one deal." He flew at the other throwing erratic dark energy balls at that flew through the air and struck at them repeatedly creating a cloud of smoke before turning his body using his momentum to slam his tail into their body with force flinging them back, he watched their body hit the ground as it bounced a few times until it stayed grounded sliding along the grass into dirt below till they stopped, it looked as though it had been quite painful as they didn't get back up just lying there. He smirked and chuckled. That was easy. But it had got the blood flowing.

He turned back to pinky and growled at the empty space of flattened flowers.

"Now…where did you go…" He mused looking around and spotting a shade of pink disappearing into the treeline, his psychic energy grabbed hold of Matt who whimpered pulling him back into the meadow "I'm not done with you yet-"

Pain ripped through his back as smoke burst out from the impact point as he took a staggered step forward before turning with a growl to see the orange one annoyingly back on their feet as the pink one ran away.

"Funny. I was gonna say the same thing to you." Stars appeared behind the orange one swirling quickly before shooting out at him which he blocked efficiently with a protect glaring at the smoke created, he leapt back to dodge as they broke through the smoke slashing their dark clawed covered fingers through the air where he just stood, they kept with their momentum slashing at him repeatedly as they attempted to get in range. He grinned widely, kicking his leg to strike across their face sending them flying to the side but they caught themselves this time sliding back and stopping quickly as they snarled at him baring their teeth, though their glasses were cracked.

He blocked with his arm as stars struck him from the side as he was distracted looking directly at his opponent soon to be meal. He oo'ed softly at the trick of striking from the side, clearly this one must've been in fights before. Their body shimmered with a coat of metal again as he lunged for them, elemental energy swarmed around his fist as he swung and punched into their arms that they held up to block knocking them backwards before flames burst up their arms electricity shocked their body and ice crystals rapidly spawned and broke along their body in elemental damage as they stumbled with the pain chunks of ice sticking to their body.

"Mmm, iced," He hummed licking at his lips at the thought of enjoying the energy of this other two as he shook the elemental energy off his hands, they were full of fight and while the other seemed abundant of life energy this one must have a stockpiled. "I suppose for now I'll enjoy having you and I'll have pinky another day."

The blade just missed his eye.

He dodged and stepped as blades of psychic and shadow infused energy shot out at him from thin air, he had only seconds to register the materialization of them as they spun at him slashing through the air cutting with whistles at the sharpness and speed. He hissed at the hot pain as one of them managed to cut his tail and quickly leaning his back far backwards with his knees bending as the orange two swung at him shadow psychic energy creating sharp blade protrusions on the back of her hands between her two fingers like a Toxicroak claw. In that moment everything slowed as he saw an yellow ring around the outside of her brown eyes that had narrowed into hateful glares before time returned and he spun swiping under their legs to knock them over forming his own blade to quickly strike down into them only to stab the dirt as they rolled out the way.

They got back up struggling for the weight of the ice still clinging to them holding themselves ready to strike with their formed blades as he pulled his blade from the dirt, swinging it casually and holding it ready for combat.

"So you were in battle rings?" They began slowly circling each other, he could see them struggling limping for the ice on their body, it was almost a shame they were a good fighter just not good enough to survive him.

He swung at them and they blocked their blades colliding with force which reacted explosively throwing them both backwards away from each other, his front bruised from the explosion and energy outlet while bruises quickly formed on the back of her hands going up her arms from where it collided with her body in turn, blood dripping from the wounds on the back of her hands left behind from her protrusions while blood ran down the inside of his fingers where both his hands had been cut up from his own blade.

His breathing was a bit heavier as he watched them breathing heavily in turn, he could see their hands shaking from her injuries. He collected himself for a moment taking a moment to eye them, watching as they took a chunk of ice off of their body holding it in their palms.

Dark type energy started to collect around his hands as he prepared himself to continue the battle. They snapped their palms together and broke the ice chunk in their hands which created a thick foggy cold white shot out around the meadow.

Syn snarled at the sheer fridgedness of the air as he brought his arm up to protect his eyes from the ice shards in the gusts created from that trick. Bits of frost and snow clung to and cold burned his skin before he created a psychic burst that dispelled the icy mist.

He moved his hand to brush off the frost and bits of snow as he stood alone in the meadow and despite his annoyance he did chuckle slightly at the fact they'd actually managed to escape.

Of course they wouldn't have escaped him forever, he'd find them again he's sure. The pink one had been satisfying but he craved more, and he desperately now wanted a taste of the orange hued one especially after such an exhilarating fight. He wanted to know how she could use those moves… He exhaled before carefully picking up the backpack that had been abandoned in the rush to escape, stolen food would do until he found something more living or ran into them again.

[writingsbychlo]

tea parties | dad!mitch rapp

word count; 14,990

summary; emma rapp loves her dad, and she admires the badass CIA agent that he’s trying to suppress his feelings for, so she does a little meddling.

notes; this is a dad mitch fic, featuring the little girl I made up so long ago, and she is a little miss emma rapp. I adore her, she’s fantastic, and you’re going to love her too.

warnings; reference to injury, reference to death, reference to PTSD.

Mitch’s feet were taking slow and steady steps along the corridor, as a pair of irrationally matched footsteps skipped, walked and jumped along beside him, a small hand wrapped tightly around his own as the nerves in his stomach went haywire over the briefing he had up ahead of him, and the hope that it was nothing too dangerous. He knew he never got called in to talk to Irene unless he was going away to do something big, but he was hoping it wasn't the kind of assignment that made him wonder whether he’d be returning on his own two feet, or in a body bag. 

Crouching down before the elevator doors, the room he needed to be in only a few metres away, he faced the little girl before him, tucking some of the small wisps of hair away behind her ear, fishing around in his pocket for one of the glittery snap-clips he made an effort to always have on him, and internally cheering in victory when he found one. 

Sliding it into her hair to keep the shorter pieces out of her face, he brushed the tip of his finger along the bridge of a familiar nose, one she’d inherited from him, and grinning when her face scrunched up in distaste at the ticklish feeling the action gave her. 

“You gonna’ be good for me?”

“I’ll be on my bestest behaviour, daddy, I promise.” She adjusted the bag on her arm, pulling it down for only a second and placing it on the floor, unzipping the little backpack to root through it, before pulling out the item so wanted, brandishing it to him proudly. A plastic ‘nerf’ gun, loaded with foam bullets as at least three dozen more sat loose and rolling around the bottom of the bag, bright orange foam to match the neon green plastic of the toy, and she waved it excitedly in his face. “Mr Stan say’d that he’d help me practice to shoot things.”

“How very exciting.” He teased sweetly, zipping the bag back up and pulling it onto her arms, letting her push her arms through the straps and hold onto the fake gun in her hands with both hands. “Do you know where Stan is?”

“In the gym.”

He nodded, licking over his lips, checking the time on his watch and hurrying himself along. “And how do you get to the gym?”

“Press the button with ‘three’ on and run all the way to the end of the corridor when the door opens.” He scooped her up, standing up to his full height, balancing his daughter on his hip and pressing a kiss to her cheek. She took his face in her hands, his face crushing a little when plastic pressed into one side, but she pulled his head forwards enough to press a kiss to his forehead, seemingly sensing his nerves and returning the gesture he always gave her when she had nightmares or fears. Tipping his head back up, he dropped her down, pushing the button for the elevator and waiting patiently. “How long is your meeting, daddy?”

“Not long, princess, I’ll be there to get you real soon. We’ll have ice cream tonight, yeah?”

She cheered, her hand held out to him and he tapped his palm against hers in a high five, ruffling her hair as the doors dinged open and he was able to push her instead gently, watching as she pushed the button for the right floor and waved to him as she disappeared from sight.

Mitch paused for a second once she was gone, choking down the fear about what may happen to his daughter, reminding himself that she was wandering around the CIA main building, and that his little girl owned the hearts of almost everyone in the building, so there wasn’t a soul that would let anything happen to him. 

Spinning on his heel before he could change his mind and call the elevator back, and instead pacing the few large strides it took him to reach the meeting room, everyone else seemingly gathered, preparing themselves around the table, and he let out a huff at all of them, not even glancing up at the screens housing the powerpoints and presentations he was going to be seeing. Instead, he got himself a coffee, stirring the wooden stick aggressively through the shitty paper cup that did nothing to stop his hand getting burned if he held it too long, and picking up one of the pastries, squeezing it a little in his fingers to test the softness of it, before placing it into his mouth and holding it there with his teeth as he moved over to the seat reserved for him. 

There was already a brown manilla folder laid out for him, his name on top, and he took the pastry from his mouth, tearing off a chunk and chewing it quickly, before taking a swig of his coffee to wash it down with, wincing when the cheap liquid burned his throat. 

“Okay, Mitch, let's just jump right in.”

He looked up, huffing out as he did and wiping flaky crumbs from his shirt, before opening the first page of the folder and almost gagging at what he saw before him. Piles of bodies, all burned, the photograph clearly showing the smoke coming off of the stack of bodies, charred and fleshy, some dismembered and torn apart, battered and bruised, and he pushed the remainder of the croissant away from his as his stomach churned at the sight. 

“Underground ring of paid fighters, human trafficking, drug empire, it’s all rolled into one. Goods are being traded for bets, every single person so far identified from this pile is a missing person, some going as far back as four years, and there were two more piles.” Turning over the following page, Mitch let out a low whistle as he ran his eyes over the list of names attached to people he’d already  They’re working through people quickly, missing people coming up from all over the world, and he sighed out at the thought. “You’re going in undercover, obviously. We know that there must be a huge list of people adding to this web, with such a quick growth rate and being so well known, word of mouth is travelling fast in a criminal chain, and we need to know who the king-pins are. The next event is tomorrow night.”

“You need me to get kidnapped and put into the next fight by tomorrow night?”

Irene scowled at him, motioning for him to turn over the page, his eyes widened as he took in pictures of all the items that had been traded, everything from raw diamond extracts to people, kidnapped children holding the same worth as the deed rights to mansions, bile once again rising up in his throat, paternal possessiveness crawling in his chest and scratching to be released as he ran his fingers gently over the photograph of a young toddler whom he desperately wished was still alive and well. 

Flipping over the next page, he was equally as shocked to find a new set of false identities to add to his collection placed neatly within the pockets of the folder. A passport, a driving licence, a rendered photo of the look he was going for as well as a basic list of everything his new personality would entail. Picking up the piece of plastic that allowed him to drive a car, he scoffed at the name. “How the fuck do I even pronounce this?”

“It’s Polish. You won’t be doing much talking, if any, you just need to listen and place bets. Observe, photograph, be discreet, and find out who our big bosses are here.”

“So, I’m not fighting?”

“In a gladiator-style ring, fighting to the death with opponents who have probably won a lot of matches already? No, Rapp, you’re not a fighter. You’re a buyer.” She insisted, already sounding fed up with him, and he sneered a little at her, before nodding. 

“What am I supposed to take that’s of such high value?” She nodded to one of the interns beside her, a large cardboard box being lifted that he seemed to struggle to pick up, before he was tipping it out across the table, at least twenty neatly wrapped plastic packages spilling out before him, and he couldn't help the laugh that left his lips, before he was looking towards the other three boxes that she was gesturing to. “Where the fuck did you get that much cocaine?”

“Evidence lock up. A truly useful resource.”

He nodded a little, letting her run through the fact that he’d need to be at the runway for six sharp tomorrow morning, and that everything he needed would already be packed, an agent set to sort his outfit and help test him on everything he needed to know would fly over with him, but other than that, he was running solo. It was no more than a few days worth of work, tops, but he still didn’t like the idea of being away from his daughter for almost a week, and so he couldn't stop his moody huffing and puffing to himself once he’d left the room. 

The journey to finding his daughter was short, and yet he was still equally as irritated when he arrived there, searching for the little girl that ever failed to brighten his day, peering into the room through the windows, and spotting her standing beside his mentor in front of the bullet-riddled targets, as promised, her toy gun in her hands as little orange pellets littering the floor. 

Their focus wasn’t on the targets, however, it was a little further off, in the direction of the boxing bags and the sparring rings, but despite how much he craned his head, he couldn't see what they could, and so he was resigned to simply entering the room to actually find out. Pushing the button on the door to release the magnetic locking, the sounds of punching bags being battered, machines running and several voices in different areas field his ears, the room much cooler than the corridor, the air conditioning keeping it so, and a shiver ran down his spine.

The high-pitched cheering that he recognised as his daughter’s voice called out, and he followed the sound of it, making his way over to where the two people he recognised where standing, watching a lesson go down in the boxing ring, and his breath hitched, feeling as though his soul had physically left his body as his daughter stared up at you with rapt awe. For well over a year now, Mitch had cursed the slight trembles that went along his body and the butterflies that filled his stomach when you were around, because he had bigger responsibilities in his world than dealing with the fact that you somehow managed to render him back to being the same nervous wreck he was in high school as soon as a pretty girl walked past, the same Mitch he’d been in sophomore year before getting his braces off and growing out his buzzcut. 

He was used to pretty girls in little clothing, from high school until now, Mitch has been on various sports teams, and while being a  glorified killer for hire now was a little different to playing college lacrosse, he was used to cheerleaders and gymnasts and dancers surrounding him, tight yoga pants and sports bras and pretty eyes with a firm as and a smirk that made his legs weak. He was used to it, and yet somehow, you had more of an effect on him than the others. He wasn’t sure if it was the fact that you were by far his superior in the field, or maybe that you were also a terrifying killer that turned him on in some sick way, or maybe it was his lover-boy paternal instinct that flared up every time, because much like everyone else, Emma had you wrapped around her little finger. 

His daughter had spoken to you more than he had, his mind seeming to go blank every time he tried to talk to you, and so he often opted to just ignore you, a trait he was grateful that he could disguise behind the moody and darkened persona he’d built up. It was hard to keep that up, though, when he had to remind himself to close his mouth and stop staring at the way your body moves with grace and elegance in every single extremely well-executed move you used as you continued to take down the two other agents in the out-manned battle while barely breaking a sweat. 

You were incredible. Talented and funny and sweet, while also managing to be brutal and vicious and always successful in a field, every characteristic you had made you perfectly suited for this job, and he was half-convinced Irene had just made you in a lab to work for the CIA.

The first time he’d met you, you were wearing a black tank top and some tight leggings, a look that vaguely reminded him of the Black Widow, and so he’d pegged you as CIA eye-candy, before ever getting a look at your file, and feeling all bt blown away as your record made his look like child's play, his work held up next to your own was the equivalent of holding up one of his daughter's drawings from the fridge door up beside the ‘Mona Lisa’ or ‘Starry Night’. 

He was absolutely certain that you owned a little bit of his heart, even though he refused to acknowledge the jumps in his pulse when you caught his eye, or the way he wanted to reach out and hold your hand every time you got a little too close to him, because he was a grown-ass man, and a father at that, a would have been widower in addition, the little girl he had, having barely even reached the age of one when her mother had died on the holiday Mitch had taken her on to propose, never having gotten to see the event. 

His heart had healed since then, he’d been forced to for his job and for the baby he loved more than anything, but having someone else around to project his feelings onto certainly hadn't hurt. He wasn’t the same man he had been five years ago, though. He was covered with scars and trauma, inside and out, with a chaotic and unpredictable job that many wouldn't understand and he was unable to disclose, and so finding someone else to be with was a hard task that he hadn't had any luck in.

He leaned up against the doorway, watching as his daughter cheered on, grunting a little as she threw her own fists in fake punches, before pulling out his phone for only a moment, taking a short video and catching the sweet moment to save forever, before calling out her name, and watching as her little head whipped around to give him her attention instead.

Little feet were dashing over to him, toy gun discarded with her bag as they leaned against the steps of leading up to the ring, and she launched herself up into the air, faithfully believing he would catch her, barely giving him time to swoop down and grab her, but he managed to. She was energetic and enthusiastic, a trait he recognised from himself, and he adjusted her in his arms, allowing her to crawl across his body like a climbing frame, until he had clambered up onto his shoulders, legs dangling down onto his chest as she held fistfuls of hair he needed or get cut, balancing carefully as he held onto her ankles, a giggle on her lips as he looked out from her new height. 

“I’m bigger than everyone else now.”

“Yes, you are, Em. Are you ready to go?” She gave him a hum in reply, and he crossed the room to his mentor, who was now leaning with his arm folded on the edge of the ring and cheering everyone on, excitedly invested in the match that he was pointedly trying not to look at. Lifting her down from his shoulders, he crouched down to pick up the sparkly unicorn rucksack, putting the gun inside and handing it to her. “Go pick up all your bullets, princess, I’m not buying any more this month if you lose them all.”

“It’s not my fault I can’t find them in the street when we go out!” Her eyes were wide as she looked up at him, and he tapped her nose with the tip of his finger gently. 

“Shouldn’t shoot them out of the window then, should you?” She pouted, grumbling to herself as she made her way over to perform her cleanup duties, and he stood up to his full height, Stan facing him now. “Should only be gone about a week, not too bad, but I hate leaving Em for more than a few nights.”

“If you give me the number of your sitter, I can check in a few times with them.”

“I don’t have one anymore, she quit after the last one, saying Emma was too much for her’ with all the shit she does.” He frowned, remembering the summary that the nanny he’d had previously, saying that she was far too aggressive and imaginative, and that the girl never calmed down for even a second, and that she was simply too much for a person to handle. 

He refused to dampen her spirit, and if nobody else would nurture her than he sure would, because whatever Emma wanted to be then that was her call, she didn’t need to be tamed. She was wild, and enthusiastic, and her mind never stopped working. She was an intelligent girl for her age, and Mitch kept intending to have her tested, but that came right behind getting a new nanny, which he still hadn't had time to do between trying to help her learn to read and write, find a good online school for her to attend, and keep up with his job to pay the bills. 

Nobody said being a single dad was going to be easy. 

“What about her grandparents?” Hurley mumbled, eyes flicking up to the sparring match taking place, before back to him, and Mitch felt his own face screw up. 

“Katrina’s parents haven’t spoken to me since the funeral. They love her, and they send a letter once a year on her birthday that I’m collecting for when she’s old enough to understand them, but that can’t look at her without crying, and they can’t look at me.” Mitch shrugged, the pain of the event that had changed his life feeling nowhere near as aggressive as it once had, no longer ripping agony through his body like searing heat burning him from the inside out, but he still felt a little saddened at the thought of himself being the only family Emma ever had. “I have until tomorrow morning to find someone to look after her, and that doesn’t’ exactly inspire much confidence in my focus if I’m worried about the stranger caring for my baby girl.”

“I’ll do it.”

Mitch felt his breath hitch in his throat, a shadow falling over both of the men, before you were dropping down and feeding your legs through the elastic bands, leaning against them and reaching for your water bottle. You were panting front he exertion, skin shining a little from sweat, and somehow you still managed to look radiant, rendering Mitch barely able to catch his breath as you licked a stray drop of water from your lower lip and smiled at him. 

“You need someone to look after Emma, right?”

“Uh, yeah.. that’s, um, yeah.”

“Well, I’m more than happy to do it.” You shrugged, and Stan clapped you on the shoulder, seeming satisfied with the solution, said little girl seeming to choose this moment to come back over, wrapping her arms around one of his legs as she rested a cheek against his thigh, and he dropped a hand down to brush through her hair comfortingly as she waited patiently. “I know your job, and I know your daughter. I’m good with kids, and I have a guest room, I’m more than happy to do it.”

You were staring at him expectantly, and everything within him seemed to go into panic mode, his eyes flicking between you, his daughter and Hurley. Emma was peering up at him, a sweet little face that was mostly confused, but totally happy to just wait for her dad to be ready, while you were narrowing your eyes a little as him as the time dragged on, his throat feeling dry, even drier when he noticed the scrutinising gaze Stan was giving him as he gaped like a fish. Swallowing thickly and licking over his lips, he fixed you with a smile, nodding his head and looking back down.

“What do you think, Em? You want to stay with (Y/N) for a few days while daddy goes away to fight some bad guys.”

She rubbed at her chin, making both you and Stan laugh at her gesture, before she was leaning in a little closer to you, voice coming out like a whisper. “Do you like spaghetti hoops?”

“I do.” You had whispered back, her face lighting up, the craze she’d been so attached to lately of the pasta circles in a tomato-y sauce seeming to seal the deal as she nodded rapidly. “Here, give me a minute to write down my number and address, and you can swing by later tonight, I’ll get everything set up when I get home.” 

Mitch once again felt useless as he simply nodded, watching as you slipped out below the elastic ropes and found your bag, searching through for a pen, but not finding any paper. Instead, you pulled the cap off with your teeth, reaching for his arm and pushing up his sleeve, scrawling your number onto his skin, and tapping it with a triumphant sound when you were done. 

“There! Just give me a text later, and I’ll send you my address, and we can sort everything out.”

He finally managed to find words, promising he would do so, giving you a simple thank you and mustering what he hoped was a smile and not a nervous grimace, before Emma was wrapping her hand in his, and pulling him towards the door, yelling her goodbyes over her shoulder as she reminded him that he had promised her ice cream.

The entire evening had felt like a blur to Mitch, like at some point he was going to wake up cursing himself for having a dream about getting your address and number all in one night, that he was going to see you outside of work for the first time in his life. It was a thrill, an adrenaline rush of fear and excitement all in one. Personal lives in the line of work you both shared were something to be kept sacred, protecting your secrets and guarding them to your chest, and to be so easily welcomed into yours meant you trusted him, but he wasn’t sure what he was ready to find. Would you be wearing a wedding band on your own time? Did you have pictures up with a boyfriend or girlfriend, or were you in fact, the opposite of everything he thought you to be. 

He had absolutely no idea, his breath practically held in his throat as he rapped his knuckles against the door in a few swift knocks, hands place don his daughter’s shoulders as she rolled on the balls of her feet, far more laid back about it all, only having the excitement part of his fear and excitement bundle. 

Swinging the door open, you somehow managed to look exactly the same and entirely different all in one. The usual tight ponytail you wore was gone, your hair falling freely around your shoulders, a ripple in it from where the elastic had held it, and your face was free of makeup or sweat and dirt, leaving you looking raw and natural, a softer edge to your appearance. You were clearly in your relaxing mode, he’d only ever seen you in one of two looks; business formal with pencil skirts and blazers and an officiality to your gaze that made him nervous or in gym gear as you kept your world-class abilities up to spec through rigorous training.

You were wearing a hoodie, and a pair of cycle shorts, socks that were reaching just over your knees covered half of your legs, and he cursed under his breath when you crouched over a little, the hem of you hoodie covering the shorts altogether and sending his mind spinning into a series of fantasies and wonderings that he absolutely could not get caught up in.

“Hey there, Emma.” She threw her arms around your neck, letting you hug her back a little as you fell down to your knees from the impact, struggling to wrap your arms around her and her beloved backpack before she was moving from your arms again, and peering around you into your apartment curiously, but never stepping over the threshold. He all but preened with pride as he watched his daughter look up at you, blinking sweetly as she waited to be invited inside instead of just barging into your house, the manners he’d been working on with her for almost a year clearly beginning to take effect. “You wanna’ come in and put your bag down? The couch is right through there.” 

She buzzed past you the second you’d spoken the words, squealing with glee as she entered the new place she’d be exploring, and he managed to still his erratically beating heart, taming it down to a simple rhythm, and offering your hand to you to help you up from your crushed position to standing up again.

“Hey, Mitch.”

“Hey. I’m sorry about before, I just got caught off-guard that anyone would be willing to take her, you totally saved me on that, though.” He had practised the words in his head for the entire ride over here, his fingers flexing a little around the handles of the bag he held, filled with enough things to take care of Emma for a week. You only opened the door wider for him, inviting him inside, and he took a couple of steps forwards, the trained assassin in him immediately wanting to take in the environment, memorise everything in case he ever needed the knowledge. There was that one small part of him, however, that was searching for anything that might help him turn his feelings for you down, mute them a little, anything to make you seem a little less perfect in his eyes, but he couldn't find even a trace. “You, um, said you had a spare room? I can put Emma’s stuff away before I go, so you don’t have to unpack it.”

“Oh! Yeah, ‘course, my bad.” You took a step towards the living room, letting him call out to the young girl, who had already tipped out the contents of her toy bag onto the floor, and he cringed a little at the mess that had gathered up. “I wasn’t sure if she was scared of the dark, or anything, With a badass dad like you, I don’t imagine she’s scared of much, but kids are kids, right? I picked up a couple of night light things on my way home, and put them in the sockets around the house, in case she decided to get up in the night, or anything.”

“She’s a pretty heavy sleeper, she doesn't really wake up unless she has a nightmare, in which they’ll definitely help.”

Only a second later, Emma was barrelling into his side, knocking the breath from him as he staggered a little, her body practically bouncing as she weaved between his legs, and he scowled, shaking his he'd a little at her, but knowing he only had himself or blame for her sugar rush, having treated her to far more ice cream earlier than he should have. 

It was a simple room - as guests rooms go, but Emma seemed to love it, unzipping her bag and ragging out her favourite blanket to spread over the bedsheets front he second that it had been released, a ‘Frozen’ blanket covering the white bedding in all the spots it reached, looking more like a misplace square in the middle of the large bed, and she star-fished across the centre of it as he busied himself with unpacking her clothes into the drawers, all the lower ones that she could reach, and making sure she could see where he’d put everything for her. 

“I have a big bed now, like yours, daddy.” She was more than contented, and Mitch sat down beside her, watching as he rolled onto her stomach, before crawling over to take a seat in his lap, smiling up at you widely as you leaned against the wall and watched the two have their moment. “Do you have a big bed, too?”

“I have the biggest bed, ever! I could fit, like, seven Emma’s in it?”

She giggled as you stepped over, tickling at her sides a little, and he caught a whiff of the sweet shampoo you must’ve used only recently, the essence of coconuts and mangoes drifting into the air at your close proximity. “Only seven? Daddy’s bed could fit eight!”

“No way, that’s totally impossible!”

“It’s way possible!” She shouted, her voice echoing in his ear as he winced at the volume, but it didn’t dampen the smile on her face as he watched the two of you laugh together like it had been the funniest joke in the world. “Can I show you my dolls? I have to get them ready first, though.”

“Well, I will wait right here until they're ready, then!”

She squirmed in his arms, and he let her go, leaving just the two of you, and you took a seat beside him on the bed, bumping your shoulder to his for only as second, and it was still enough to make his heart skip a beat. 

“She’ll be totally okay, Mitch. I promise, I won’t let anything happen to her, she’ll have a great time.” Your words soothed him a little, the familiar sense of feeling like his throat was closing up every time he had to leave the most precious thing in his life, but he felt a little more reassured by your voice and your statement. 

“I know she will, I trust you.”

The words meant more to him than you knew, it was hard for him to trust people but for whatever reason it was, he trusted you with everything he had, before reaching for the bag, still a few items laying in it. 

“This is her teddy, she’s going to insist she’s a big girl and doesn’t need it because she wants to impress you, but she can’t sleep without it. Also, I wrote down some stuff in this notebook for you, as well as the emergency numbers for her doctor, and such. If you need it, her allergies are in here too, and just some information you might need..” You took it from him, the teddy sitting in your lap as you flicked through the notebook, grinning a little as you settled on one page. 

“Favourite pizza toppings; chicken and sweetcorn?”

He shrugged, grinning a little as heat flooded his cheeks, but you brushed your fingers over the pages, nibbling on your lower lip as you read some of the words he’d scribbled down, and his eyes were drawn into the action. You were talking, he could tell because your lips were moving, and he had to tear his eyes up from your mouth before you caught him staring, and when he managed to tune back in, he was grateful to hear you were just reading aloud, and weren’t saying anything important that he’d missed. 

Emma was calling you through, claiming the doll show to be ready, and he couldn't help but be happy that she had settled in so quickly, making him all that much more confident and secure in leaving her here with you for the time he was away. He followed after you dumbly as you carried the notebook away, placing it on the kitchen counter as you passed by, before he could see his daughter, kneeling on the floor and positioning her toys, the row of dolls lined up along the edge of the coffee table.

“Em, I have to go now, are you going to come say goodbye?”

She turned to look at him, her smile falling away for only a moment, before a smaller one was taking its place guilt clawing at his insides as he watched her stand up and wobble her way over to him on shaky little legs, before lifting her arms up for him to lift her into his arms. 

Her little arms wrapped around his neck, legs sealing to his waist as she buried her face into his neck, cheek pressed to his shoulder, short little puffs of breath washing over his skin, and Mitch buried his nose in his daughter's hair, hearing you leave the room to give them their space, a nation that he appreciated from you as he felt tears burn behind his eyes. 

“Miss you ‘ready, daddy.”

Her words were muffled by the way she was positioned, a breathy laugh leaving him as he nodded, peppering the expanse of the side of her head and face that he could reach with little kisses. “I’m gonna’ miss you a whole bunch, princess, but I’ll be back real soon, okay?”

“‘Kay.”

“You’re going to be good, right?”

“The best, I swears it.” She pulled back, holding out one of her pinkies for him, and he adjusted her to rest her weight on the forearm wrapped under her legs, before linking his pinky with hers, and kissing their joined hands. 

“That's my good girl, now you can go and play.”

She was happy to be let back down to the floor, and you reappeared, giving him a gentle smile before walking him the door, dread and anticipation filling him as he turned back to look at his little girl, waving when she looked up at him, pausing her playing. 

“I’ll be as quick as I can, and thank you so much for doing this.”

“Any time, really, I don’t mind even one bit.” Your words were honest and true, making him feel a little reassured, before he could hear the scuffling of socks on the carpet as Emma appeared behind you, tugging on your hand before raising her arms a little, mailing when you picked her up. Balancing her on your hip, she rested her head on your shoulder, holding on with one hand and reaching out a flat palm towards him, wiggling her fingers the best way she knew how to.

It was far too domestic, the way the two of you already had a dynamic that was intimate and sweet, his breath getting caught in his lungs as he looked at the pair of you, his imagination spiralling to places he didn’t have time to go to right now, but he knew would creep up on him later when he was on the plane. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to the top of his daughter's head, and suppressing the urge to look up and brush his lips to your own, settling for a simple nod, before swallowing thickly as he tried to force himself to move away from you both.

“I heard someone’s favourite pizza toppings were chicken and sweetcorn. How about we go inside and have a little look for some takeout places, yeah? You want pizza?”

You looked up at him for the approval, the distraction he was grateful for as his daughter’s wide eyes finally left him, because if she had stared for much longer he may have broken down entirely and stayed, but now it was easier. The spell was broken as he stepped away, mumbling a final goodbye to you both, before watching as the door closed, your smile and Emma’s wave to see him off, before he was able to release his breath, snap himself out of it, and walk away.

The second he’d landed, he was out of the plane and into the car, snatching up his bag and leaving the runway, encouraging the man sent to pick him up to speed up a little as he headed back towards the main building from the airport. He had to debrief, but it was a quick thing to accomplish, most of the work being documents online that could easily be completed and submitted as he wrote up a report of what happened, but more importantly, he’d have his daughter back by then.

The car seemed like it was only getting slower and slower, despite the fact that he knew it wasn’t, and as they finally pulled up into the parking lot, his stomach finally being able to unknot and relax as he saw his daughter, her hand linked through Stan’s as the man held a face like thunder - as usual - while Emma talked his ear off, uncaring of whether he wanted to hear the words or not.

From the moment he had the door open, he could hear her racing forward to meet him, and Mitch dropped down to his knees to catch his daughter’s body as she hurled herself into him, a collision that knocked the breath from his lungs, but he clung to her tightly. Little arms wrapped around his neck as he sealed his own around her little frame, one hand cupping the back of her head, smoothing her hair down as she gave him a tight hug, before pulling back and holding his face in her hands, scrunching up her face as she pressed a kiss to the end of his nose. 

“You’re home!”

“I’m home, for a long time, too, I hope.” He glanced up at Stan, who was pulling out a cigarette from the box behind him, standing back from Emma now that he could smoke without her being too close, and lighting up the death stick in his mouth, making sure to blow the smoke up above his head, just in case. Looking down at his daughter, his brows furrowed at the sparkly blue and pink tutu around her waist, layers of netting sticking out with gems and sequins sewn along the waistline, it was a real eyesore, and exactly the kind of thing a child would adore. “I’ve never seen this one before, where did you get it?”

He picked his girl up, balancing her across his front as he stood up to his full height, and taking his bag with him. “(Y/N) bought it for me! I wanted to play princesses, but I didn't have my dresses. She let out a sigh, smoothing little hands over the netting to press it down, before it was popping up again a moment later, and she seemed satisfied with whatever actions she’d taken. 

“And where is (Y/N)?”

Emma simply shrugged, choosing to busy herself with taking fistfuls of his hair and running her fingers through it before patting it down, and his attention moved to Stan, watching as he smoked quietly and watched the scene. “I took over looking after Emma this morning, she got a call in the middle of the night from Irene, a lead on her big case that she thought had gone cold last year. Popped back up, a sudden occurrence. She wasn’t going to go, but she had to, we both knew it.”

Mitch could only nod, knowing how hard you’d worked on that case, and how much it really did need to be closed, and his heart warmed at the fact you would give it all up to care for Emma, but he completely understood. It didn't stop the spark of disappointment that shot through him when he realised he wouldn’t get a chance to thank you personally, however, because he’d been particularly hoping that he would be functional enough to maybe try and string some words together, and ask if he could repay you by taking you out to dinner.

His confidence was already draining from him, the adrenaline and victory high he’d been on that had spurred the idea on the first place was melting away, and he sighed out a little, not knowing when the next time he’d get to see you would be. 

“Shame, would’ve been nice to see her.” He cleared his throat as Hurley’s eyes narrowed on him for the comment, and he shrugged his free shoulder. “Thank her for looking after Em, check how it all went, you know.”

“Uh-huh.” The man didn’t seem to believe him, but he didn't comment on it, instead dropping the butt of the cig to the floor and stomping it out, before opening the back of his car with a click of his car keys, the bags he had dropped his daughter off with were sitting in the back. “Well she’s gone by now, but I have Emma’s stuff for you, now get in the car so I can take you both home. There’s a reason I didn’t have my own children, y’know.”

Mitch scowled at him, glancing at his daughter, who seemed to know exactly what he meant and was uncaring as she grinned wickedly at Stan, who glared back equally at the girl, before offering her a smile. 

“C’mon, Emma, I’m not moving your car seat from the front, your dad can ride in the back.”

She clapped her hands with a loud squeal, before squirming from his arms and into Stan’s, letting him toss his bag in the back and slam the trunk shut, before clambering into the back seat as his superior started up the car.

It was two months before Mitch got to see you again, and he worried for you every single day because of it. Emma would not stop asking about you, she’d spent at least the entirety of the first month telling him about everything the two of you had gotten up to over your time spent together on repeat, until he felt like he could tell the stories himself. 

Emma had decided that her latest obsessions had moved on from playing house to holding tea parties, her dollies no longer being her children but instead being her guests, and the backpack carrying plastic guns and princess crowns had been swapped out for a miniature briefcase with a portable tea set, one that flipped over to make a table for her to sit at. The entire set had cost him over a hundred dollars, and he was absolutely certain that he could have constructed himself a better one for ten dollars and a trip to target, but he didn’t have the time for that. 

Emma had taken to setting up the table beside the ring, the boxing back, or the equipment that he was working on whenever he came to the gym, Irene beginning to get at him to find a new nanny so that no children were wandering around the building anymore, but he had seen her accept a fake plastic cup on multiple occasions, and even once caught her letting Emma label files with the label maker in her office, so he wasn’t taking the threat all that seriously. 

Other agents had chipped in too, because they didn't have the willpower to resist a four-year-old with pigtails blinking up at them, wide-eyed with a pout as she holds a painted plastic teapot and an empty plastic mug to match. No matter how frequently her attention was taken away - a fact he was entirely grateful for, because he had no idea how to attend a ‘tea party’ - for a split second, her questions always came down to when you’d be back, and Mitch was beginning to lose his mind a little bit, running out of excuses.

He was pounding away on a punching bag, his daughter sitting beside him and singing a little tune to herself in the almost empty gym as she occasionally offered him ‘sips of tea’ from the empty cup, before Stan was bursting in through the doors with extreme force and speed, and Mitch’s stomach twisted at the idea that he was either about to get bollocked, or given an assignment.

Pulling up the edge of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, he placed a hand flat on the sandbag to bring it's swinging to a stop. 

It wasn’t him that Stan was looking for, though, it was Emma. He offered the girl a smile, an expression reserved for her and her only, as she spun around to him, thrusting a teacup into his hand as he came to a stop and crouched before her. “I have a surprise for you, kiddo.”

“You do?” He nodded, and she squealed excitedly, pulling a doll away from one of the seats on the floor by its foot, tossing it to the side in a way that Mitch had certainly done with actual people, a smirk flicking at his lips as the slightly macabre thought of ‘like father, like daughter’ flickered across his mind, watching as she falsely filled Stan’s cup up with tea. “What is the surprise, Mr Stan?”

She sounded exasperated already, and both of them chuckled at her strained voice as she all but bounced on her feet. “Guess who’s back?”

Mitch felt his own heart skip a beat, licking over his lips and trying to control himself from jumping into the conversation, choosing instead to unwrap his hands of his boxing tape slowly, pretending like he wasn’t quite as invested in this news as he actually was. Stan confirmed Emma’s guess when she finally reached your name, coming third in her guesses behind Scooby-Doo and Princess Sofia, and he wasn’t sure when either of the fictional characters had gone missing, but apparently, in her mind, they were a dire missing person’s case.

He only had to wait around five minutes, before he caught glimpses of you going along, two interns following behind you, a whirl of beauty and grace, before you were entering the gym, dead set on making your way towards the lockers and showers.

He could see you more clearly now, anger on your face as blood and dirt covered you almost from head to toe, and you still managed to look beautiful. One of the junior agents following behind you was holding up a phone, microphone pointed towards you as you spoke, listing off every detail of the case that you possibly could, as the other held out a packet of antiseptic wipes and a plastic bag, each time you fingers plucked another one from the packet to scrub at your skin, the old one being collected. 

With a black eye and a bust lip, he still thought that you looked beautiful, the stunning hair and makeup up-do that you must’ve had done was completely destroyed, but the silk gown hugging your body seemed almost intact, save for the blood spatters and dirt, and you ran your fingers through your hair, pulling out the clips holding it up and teasing the knots in the strands.

Every further look he took, you seemed more and more exhausted and battered, the bruises on your arms a chest obvious to him now, the scratches and cuts that were inflamed and red, poorly patched up with in the field medical supplies, a miss matching collection of band-aids and gauze, and Mitch almost had to cover his daughter's ears as he realised just how many curse words and language he wasn’t ready from her to hear yet were spilling from her mouth, but you beat him to it, mouth snapping shut. 

You’d looked around now, noticing the three of them in the corner, and came to a full halt, a deep sigh leaving you as you met Emma’s eyes, his daughter staring up at you in awe and wonder. Lifting a hand, you waved your fingers at her in a sweet wave, dismissing the two agents who were quick to scurry away. You kicked off your heels, leaving them discarded on the floor as you unstrapped a gun from your thigh, dropping it and the holster to the floor, before holding your arms out to her.

“Princess, be careful! (Y/N) is-”

He cringed, words a little too late as he watched Emma barrel herself into you, almost knocked flat on your back as you caught her in your kneeled position, and he heard the breath forced from your lungs as a whine. 

“Injured. She’s injured, Em, just like daddy sometimes is when he comes home. We have to be gentle, remember?” She simply nodded, pulling back a little with a soft apology under her breath, and you brushed her hair back, pinching her cheek and letting her take your hand as you stood back up. “I’m so sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve been waiting to see this little cutie again for months, anyway.” You brushed it off, but he could hear the tiredness in your voice and see the slight wobble as you studio up, swaying despite not moving and walking, and he worried a little more for you. Stan placed a comforting hand on your shoulder, wishing you a congratulations before following in the direction that the other agents had gone, and leaving the three of you alone in the room. Emma took her hand from yours, pulling off her trainers to place her tiny feet into your heels, trying to balance and shuffle forwards, and you reached a hand out to steady yourself on his shoulder, shaking your head clear a little bit. “I haven’t slept for, like, three days. I’m exhausted.”

“Well, you still look nice. Beautiful, really. You look great.”

You raised your brows at him for a second, looking down at yourself and taking it all in, before a soft laugh was leaving your lips. “I look a mess, but I do appreciate the confidence boost.” 

He joined in with your laughs, his heart feeling completely full, and he swallowed thickly to try and choke down his anxiety. You both turned to watch Emma shuffle around, taking tiny steps as she found her rhythm in your heels, looking adorable as she carried around a teacup in one hand and two massively oversized heels in the other.

“Will you stay for tea with us?”

“Oh, Em, I think (Y/N) is probably a bit tired tonight, mayb-”

You squeezed his shoulder, his head cutting to turn to you, and you shook your head at him a little bit. “I would love to, Emmy. Did you make the tea yourself?”

She gasped, nodding excitedly as she abandoned her heels and dashed over to the table again, finding another cup and setting you a place, getting lost in her own world as she listed off the different kind of teas she ‘had’, the list sounding exactly like the aisles at Walmart she’d forced him to stand in for thirty minutes as she memorised them three days ago. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, totally. Why don’t you go shower up, and then when you get back, you can drive me home, because I’m pretty sure I’ll fall asleep behind the wheel if I drive.”

He grinned, ducking his head for only a second, before confirming that he would. “I won’t be long. Promise.”

The next few weeks felt like a slow slide turning into an avalanche, like he’d been slipping on his feet a little for the past few years and was no tumbling like a cartoon down a snowy mountainside, becoming an ever-growing snowball before the brick wall he was bound to hit into sooner or later.

He had been perfectly capable of keeping his feelings under wraps while you barely interacted, greeting one another in the corridor when he was able to pass with simple grunts and on syllable responses, but now you talked. He had somehow managed to make a friend of you, your smiling face every time he passed you by making him feel like he was heating up from the inside, fire bursting from his fingertips anytime, and he wondered if he looked as red in the face as he felt each time.

Mitch could now confirm that without a doubt, he was head over heels in love with you, and you had absolutely no idea. At this point, he didn’t really have anything left within himself to even chastise his heart for making this decision against logic and reason’s advisement, because you were absolutely everything he needed. He never had to lie to you about where he was, or what he was doing, and when he'd had a particularly rough day or assignment, you understood what he needed, sitting with him quietly and swapping the coffee that made him jittery out for a calming camomile tea. You loved his daughter, and she loved you, and you’d managed to support him along his single-fatherhood like nobody else had, making everything seem a little bit easier, because he had a friend to go through it with. 

You were always willing to offer a helping hand, a comforting comment or a funny joke to cheer him up, and you’d never said no at the chance of seeing Emma. Said little girl had attached herself to you like a barnacle, wanting to spend as much time with you as she possibly could, and it was both a blessing and a curse for him. On the one hand, any time you were around, Emma didn’t want his mediocre guest skills, because as it had turned out, you were an excellent tea pastry guest. You had the popped up little pinky, and the small talk to match, and you’d even somehow found a set of saucers that match the pattern to give to her when her fifth birthday had passed by. The problem was, when you were sitting on the gym floor and drinking fake tea with his little girl, his concentration was anywhere but the sparring matches and boxing bags, and he often found himself on his back and pinned to the floor by recruits, or being smacked in the face by a bag that swung back at him with force. 

His body and face were constantly littered with healing bruises, and there was no chance that Emma was ever going to take her sights off of you, because she had decided that you were her new role model, his chest aching at the thought that he couldn't provide a mother figure for his daughter, that she was growing up and scrabbling to learn front the women around her.

He thought it was adorable that she’d started wearing her dresses more, just so she could tuck her nerf gun into the waistband of her leggings in claims that she wanted to match the way wore your gun under your dress too, or the way she’d started trying to tie her own hair up in the same style you did, but she needed more.

She needed someone to teach her how to paint her nails when she was older and help her pick out an outfit for prom, and to teach her about the women’s side of things, because Mitch still didn’t understand the difference between pads with wings and the ones without, and at what age you’re supposed to move onto tampons, and why a skincare routine needed to be so intense, and what the fuck purple shampoo was, and he didn’t know what to do about it all.

Most of all, he was just glad to have someone back in his life that didn’t bark orders at him or rely on him. Emma was a handful, and he loved her with all of his heart, and Stan was a good enough friend but still a tough superior, and he hadn't had a friend of his own in years, and sometimes, when he finally got to sit down on his couch with a cold beer in hand after putting Emma to bed and having some time to himself, he let his mind wander. 

He’d daydream about having someone with him, having you with him, having a friend to talk to. He was lonely in the nights, and when the bed felt cold, and when he never had anyone to share his thoughts with that Emma wasn’t old enough to understand. Being closed off had always helped him, because his number one priority always had been and always would be his daughter, he didn’t want anyone coming into his life that she may not like or that may hurt her, and yet Emma had chosen you all on her own. She had seen you, picked you out by hand and decided that you were everything she wanted to be when she grew up, and he couldn't blame her in the slightest, because he couldn't imagine a better role model. 

All of thee thoughts seemed to come spilling over one day when he had intended to say a simple thank you, catching you just before you’d moved away to hit the showers, while Emma was still built giggling with Stan as he helped her fire her latest new child-friendly firearm addition at the newest targets, one of the interns moving around with a bullseye on his chest as she shot foam bullets at him.

“I just wanted to say thanks.”

“For what?” You were a little bit breathless and sweaty, and you were licking your lips on repeat as you tried to get them to stay wet after your intense workout, and his mind was short-circuiting a little bit.

“Everything. Lately.” He barely even paused for breath, before his mouth was continuing without his mind's approval. “I know you have no obligation to us, or to my Em, but she looks up to you, she adores you, and I think it’s good for her to have a mom-type role.” His eyes widened as you laughed a little, and he felt like he was choking on his own tongue as he tried to figure out how to backpedal from that statement. “Oh, God, not that you are her mom, y’know, just that she has a female role-model, because she needs it, I can’t imagine anyone better for her to want to aspire to be like than you, you're an incredible influence!”

With a hand on his arm, you cut off his rambling, and his ears were ringing with the pressure slamming about inside his head, the internal loop of his thoughts now just have become a loud screaming that accurately represented how he felt. 

Your lips were pursed together now as you tried to hold in a grin, your thumb rubbing over his bicep in what he was sure was supposed to be a comforting motion but was actually just driving him more and more insane, the domesticity of the sweet actions meant he was definitely reading a little to far into them, but he didn’t care, because he was taking a deep breath as he tried to calm himself down, matching the rise and fall of his shoulders with yours, until subconsciously, he was able to relax once again.

“I always kinda’ wanted a kid, but in this line of work, you don’t really get the chance to meet anyone, never mind meet anyone that wants kids themselves, so I’m glad she’s taken an attachment to me.” You seemed to panic a little at your own words there, his lips flicking up at the sides, in knowing he wasn’t the only one struggling with his words right now. “I’m not trying to steal your baby Mitch, I just love her to bits, and I’m more than happy spending time with her. She’s an amazing little girl, and you’ve done such a good job raising her. You are a fantastic father, Mitch.”

He took a moment to wonder if ‘heart eyes’ were a real thing, or whether there were little birds flying around his head, maybe a massive neon sign above him that simply read ‘I am so fucking in love with you that it hurts’, because that is how he felt, hearing you compliment his parenting abilities, his daughter and their family all in one. His voice felt hoarse as he tried to speak, coughing a little to clear it, but unable to tear his gaze away from yours as he spoke the raspy words, voice cracking a little; “Thank you.”

“I’m going to go wash up, alright?”

He could only nod, his eyes widening to the size of golf balls when your hand slipped up from his arm, across his shoulder and to his cheek, before your lips were pressing to the other, brushing smoothly over rough stubble in a soft peck, before turning away from him and disappearing before his very sight behind the set of double doors leading to the shower rooms. He knew his face was red this time, knew that he was absolutely shocked as he felt like he was going to combust at any moment, whilst also wanting nothing more than to let his weak knees give way so that he could collapse down into the cold floor until his instincts were no longer in overdrive. 

Turning around, he was even more mortified to find Emma balanced on Hurley’s hip, watching with a grin as his mentor stared at him with a wide and knowing smirk. 

“Daddy and (Y/N) sittin’ in a tree!”

He fixed his daughter with a stern look, taking a step over, and dread filled him when his boss chuckled, before taking a deep breath, and he already knew what was coming next, the two of them chanting the rhyme together;

“K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

People began to look over at them from the sheer volume of the combined voices, and he snatched his daughter away, scowling at his mentor as he did. He was an assassin, for fuck’s sake, he didn’t have to listen to this shit. Once he knew she wouldn't see it, Mitch was holding his finger up to flip off the older man, before ducking down to scoop up his daughter’s things, and fleeing from the gym before he had to listen to any more of Stan’s teasing, the now knowing for sure that Mitch had one very big weak spot.

That moment had been the result of over a month’s worth of teasing since, smirks in his direction anytime you were within Mitch’s general presence, and like some high school chain of gossip, Stan had passed the information onto Irene, who had told her IT guy and her personal assistant, and he wasn’t sure how many other people knew by now, but it had to be at least half of the people he ever interacted with. Which was a fair fucking amount. 

Now, he really did feel like a high schooler with a crush all over again.

He was actively trying not to think about it, instead watching Emma colour in one of the tigers in her colouring book with a green crayon and blue stripes, red eyes that were a little bit haunting in his opinion, when the door knocked quietly and repetitively, and they both froze up a little. Emma was out of her chair like a dash, though, racing toward the front door before he could stop her, and Mitch felt his heart rise up in his throat as she reached for the handle, swinging it open to the unknown arrival and possible threat, before his breath was hitching in his throat.

He wasn’t sure if he was nervous, elated, confused, or a mixture of all three at seeing you standing on his doorstep. A pair of jeans and a baggy jumper, you hair sitting naturally instead of pulled back tightly once again, but this time you wore a little bit of makeup, and you looked softer than he’d ever seen you, possibly even passing for a simple civilian, covered from being a top-secret agent of the highest calibre for just one night. 

“Uh, hi?”

He hated the way his word came out, wishing he’d managed to sound more welcoming, but instead he’d managed to sound on edge and crass, your brows furrowing a little as you looked at him, before shaking your head fondly. “This was Emmy’s doing, wasn’t it?”

“What is this, exactly?”

You opened your mouth to reply, before the girl he’d been trying to hold behind him damaged to break free, a high-pitched yell on her lips as she wrapped her arms around your legs, crushing her face into her stomach as she laughed excitedly. “You came! You really came over!”

You crouched down when she pulled away, a smile on your lips, but it didn’t reach your eyes, and Emma placed her hands on your shoulders when you were at her height. “You have been lying and keeping secrets, little missy!” You tickled at her sides lightly, and she crumpled into laughter, before you were continuing. “Your daddy did not invite me over for dinner, did he? You can’t just go around inviting people to dinner!”

“I didn’t lie! Or keep secrets, swearsies!” She stuck her pinky out in your direction, and you didn’t accept it immediately, making her sigh over-dramatically. “Daddy says surprises don’t count as lying if it’s a good surprise, and I know you’re his friend and playdates are always fun and I wanted to surprise him.”

He knew she was trying to whisper, but wasn’t doing an excellent job of it, and he felt his frown slipping away, instead smoothing a hand over her hair to draw her attention up to him. “You’d better go and set an extra place at the table, Em. Clear away your drawings, and later, me and you and going to talk about inviting people over to the house without my permission, okay?”

She frowned, her entire face screwing up with the motion, but she nodded nonetheless, and you shifted to show the tote bag that was tucked under your arm, before pulling out a green bottle, a fancy label on the front as you handed it over to her, Emma’s face lighting up as he dashed inside with the gift.

“Did you just give my daughter a bottle of wine?”

You gasped, standing up to your full height before him, shaking your head fervently. “Of course not! I gave her an old wine bottle filled up with sparkling grape soda so she can feel all grown up!”

“You did all that just for Emma’s impromptu dinner party?” You shuffled from foot to foot, nodding a little, and he felt his heart melt as an entirely new side of you shone through, a new you that was different to the confident and bold woman he knew while on duty, and leaving him with a slightly anxious sweetheart in an oversized jumper. “That’s fucking adorable, you know that, right?”

“I’m not adorable.” You mumbled, and he laughed, reaching out to pinch your cheek before you swatted it away, and the energy between you both felt completely different. He wasn’t nervous with the real you, he was only nervous with the work you. This side of you put him at ease, this side of you made him feel comfortable and relaxed, and he didn’t feel his heart try to burst out of his chest too hard when you smiled back at him this time. “Are you sure you want me here? I can go home, I should have known better, texted you beforehand to check, or something.”

“Do you mind eating dinosaur chicken nuggets and smiley face waffles?”

“That sounds amazing, actually.” He beamed, swinging the door open a little wider for you, and welcoming you into his home, your shoes being toed off by the door as you pulled the sleeves down over your hands, before spinning to him with a sudden intake of breath as he closed the door and remembered to put the highest locks on again. “I bought something for you, too.”

“Is it wine in a grape soda bottle?”

“You wish.” You teased presenting him with a bottle of wine, the cork still in it, and he took it from you, grinning as he looked it over, before meeting your curious gaze, and putting your nerves to rest. 

“We can have it after Emma goes to bed, maybe?”

It was a bold move, and he knew it, but at this point, he didn’t have much of his dignity or pride left to lose, and it seemed to pay off as you leaned into him a little, letting out a light breath. “I’d love that.”

He placed the bottle of red down on the coffee table, leaving it there before he had a hand on your lower back, and was guiding you through to the kitchen where Emma was trying to work out which side of the plate the knife was supposed to go on, and which side was the fork.

As much as he admired and adored his daughter’s intentions, he really wished he known, because Mitch found himself dishing up the most un-sophisticated dinner ever, and standing in a slightly messy kitchen to match a slightly messy apartment, covered in children’s toys and carpets he hadn't vacuumed in almost two weeks, wearing sweatpants and a shirt with a hole in the arm that was faded from all the wear and tear it had seen over the years.

He did the best he could, though, because this was the kind of moment he never thought he’d get to have with you, and he busied himself with splitting up the meal, taking all the brontosaurus' and triceratops into your and his plates, because Emma only liked the t-rex’s and the pterodactyls, claiming they tasted different. Arranging them around the outside, he filled the middle with the number of smiley faces that she’d actually at, despite knowing she’d argue for more. Fishing out the ketchup, he squirted the sauce out, shaping it in a couple of hearts, before picking up her plate and placing it down in front of her, placing a kiss to the top of her head. 

Your plate was next, the bottle of ketchup going down into the middle of the table as he sat down opposite you. As predicted, Emma complained about the quantities, before tucking in, constantly talking with her mouthful as she tried to add to the conversation. He drank sparkling grape soda from an old wine bottle with you both, and watched as Emma told you everything she could possibly think of that you may not already know, before offering to show off her bedroom to you after dinner.

He both hated and loved how naturally you bonded with his daughter, and how seeing you sitting across from him eating kids meals and having a biased thumb war with his five-year-old at the dinner table felt like something that was meant to be in his life, and definitely something he knew he could get used to. You helped clean up, standing by his side and washing the pots as he dried and put them away, much to your insistence as he told you you didn't have to, and Emma pinned up her blue and green demon-tiger on the fridge, before clearing away her crayons and going to clean her teeth. 

You let her give you the ‘grand tour’ of her bedroom as he leaned in the doorway, trying not to think about how he’d very much like to give you the grand tour of his bedroom, and distracting himself by picking out the bedtime story he’d read to her once she was settled under the covers. 

He found you again once the girl was asleep, flicking out the lights and finding you sitting on his couch, passing your time by quietly reading the book he’d had out on the coffee table, seemingly already further through it than he’d had the chance to get in over a week, but closing it up when he sat down beside you, two real wine glasses and a corkscrew in hand as he offered one to you.

You shifted as he sat down, resting your feet in his lap once he’d popped the cork out, whispering a quiet ‘thank you’ once your glass had been filled, and just like that, you were once again dragging him down into that hazy feeling he’d spent the entire night in, leaning his head on the cushion, and letting the first things that came to mind spill from his mouth. The conversation took off from there, starting as you conversed the book he had out, and moving to other books, before movies and TV shows, general likes and dislikes, learning one another slowly. 

Everything you told him made him like you a little bit more, your quirks and sharp edges, a kind of devotion finding a place in his heart that he never thought he’d feel again as you continued on, before the topic had switched to the future. He spilled his fears, that he wanted Emma to do private elementary schooling, but to attend an actual middle and high school, to get the full experience like she deserved, but that he also just wanted to protect her from the entire world. He confessed that he constantly felt like he was failing, tearing up when he told you about how he was certain he couldn't give her as much as she deserved, leaning into your hand when you wiped away the tear that fell free, and you spilled your own wishes to him.

Everything before the trauma that had landed you in the CIA at a younger age than him, and that no relationship had ever worked out for you, because you could never get past the ‘so, what do you do for a living?’ stage, and could never move in with someone, plan dates, or make a future. You told him about how you still wanted the same little things all little girls wanted, a pretty wedding and a devoted spouse and a beautiful child to raise into the world and add to society, to leave a legacy behind in the form of a beautiful person who would live their own life, and that you worried you’d never get it. 

By the end of the bottle, the two of you were more than tipsy, and he felt like he'd known you forever, his body pressed to yours, and an arm wrapped around you as your head leaned on his shoulder, deep sighs leaving you both. 

“I’m sorry if tonight was a total fail.”

You shifted, just slightly, before raising a hand, weaving your fingers with his on the hand sitting over your shoulder. “Why would you think that?”

“It’s been.. a while since I last took a pretty woman out for dinner, and it isn’t supposed to be soda and chicken nuggets, and you shouldn’t wear sweatpants, that’s for sure.” You turned a little, pressing the rumble of your laugh into his shoulder, and he didn't even have enough inhibition to be embarrassed about his lack of filter.

“Tell you what, Mitch, if you want to take me out to dinner, then I will dress up all pretty to be on your arm. But, for the record, I am more than happy to spend a dinner date with you and Emma eating kid’s food, in sweatpants and hoodies.” He whined a little under his breath, before pulling back enough to look at you, and resting his forehead on your own. 

“Do you have any idea how perfect you are?”

Your breath hitched a little from his words, and he twisted his head, enough to bump his nose with your own as he tasted your breath on his lips, licking over his own and working up the nerve to close his mouth in against your own, slot them together in a simple kiss.

He didn’t get the chance, before you were both jumping apart in slight shock when Emma’s bedroom door clicked open, the two of you watching the girl shuffle down the hall, rubbing at her eyes, entirely unaware of her surroundings as she moved into the bathroom, the door closing behind her. The atmosphere felt entirely shattered, his confidence shooting back down to the floor, the startle from his daughter sobering him up a little, now.

“I should go, it’s probably quite late.”

He only nodded, grabbing the empty bottle and the glasses, running them through to the kitchen and leaving them for himself to sort in the morning, before meeting you by the front door. You were tugging your shoes back on, your hood pulled up over your head to fight the cold that waited outside, and your bag on your arm again. 

“I meant it, though. I had an amazing night.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You breathed, pressing a kiss to his cheek again, this one lingering, you forehead bumping his temple as you pulled back, before you were waving to him and walking away toward the stairs, letting him watch until you were sealed within the box and taken from his sights, and he locked the front door once again. 

When he turned, Emma was standing there, her thumb in her mouth as she stared up at him, and he reached down, plucking it from between her lips and wiping it off, crouching down before her. 

“Do you love (Y/N)?” He all but choked on his breath, staring down at the little girl in shock, before she yawned again, covering her mouth and shrugging her shoulders. Lifting her arms up, she allowed Mitch to pick her up, flicking off the lights in the house as he went, heading away with a destination of her bedroom as her face settled into his neck. “I love (Y/N). She's my bestest friend.”

He placed her down onto the mattress delicately, the nightlight in her room casting a soft pink glow over her features, and he smiled sadly as he looked at her, little eyes fluttering shut as she snuggled back into her blankets. He could see so much of Katrina in her features, sure that they would only develop more as she grew older, but it no longer hurt to look at her like it did in the first year, and he no longer felt that same pang of pain in his heart at the flash of her face across his mind, just nostalgia that made his heart slow a little, for only a second, in memory of someone it had lost.

In addition, though, he could see so much of you in her personality. His little girl was brave, and confident, and would be truly unstoppable one day, and he loved it, stroking his fingers over her hair and smiling a little when she opened his eyes to peer at him curiously, still waiting for an answer from him.

“I do. I love her too, princess.” She smiled to herself like she’d been told the world’s biggest secret, tucking her face into her pillow some more as sleep began to come back to claim her. “She’s special. She’s like.. like-”

“A queen!”

He laughed a little at her words, finding the teddy bear that had fallen from the bed to the carpet and tucking it under her arm, raising a brow in question. “A queen?”

“I’m the princess.” She murmured, the nickname he gave her so fondly rolling from her lips. “That means you’re the king, and (Y/N) can be the queen.”

The stinging realisation that she was searching for another figure in anyone that she could find made him ache with freezing cold ice from head to toe, his eyes welling up a little bit as he tried to hold a brave face, kissing her forehead as he stood up, bidding her a goodnight as her breathing went shallow, and closing the door again behind him.

“Daddy, can you get married?”

Emma was holding up the last of her Haribo sweets on her finger, before chewing the gummy ring off, and he turned to look at her, raising his head from his work, before turning to glare at Stan as he snickered. “Did you set this up?”

“I did nothing!” 

He peered at his daughter's iPad, another scene from ‘Frozen’ up on the screen as Anna and Hans’ voices barely reached his ears through the headphones she’d taken off, and he let out a deep sigh, Stan texting on his phone and ignoring them both, and Mitch placed down the pen for the work he was signing off on. “I want to get married, daddy.”

“One day, princess.”

“I want you to get married, too. Why can’t we have a wedding, daddy?” He rubbed a hand over his eyes, before giving his full attention to his daughter. He wasn’t sure how to answer, or what to say, but she was staring up at him hopefully as she nibbled on a gummy bear, the crown on her head tipping a little bit to the side, and he reached out to place it on her head properly again.

“We can have a wedding if you want to, baby.” He couldn't help it, but her little hands were clapping together excitedly and her face lit up, and he didn’t regret the choice at all. “Stan will officiate.”

“I will do no such thing!” The man insisted, but Emma ignored that, only getting more excited as her hands became fists while she cheered. 

“Yay, Mr Stan!”

He glared at Mitch, who only smirked back at him, signing his name in confirmation at the bottom of the papers and finishing them off, the man growling under his breath but being unable to refuse, and Emma was leaping out of her chair, fishing out her other crown, and presenting it proudly. 

“Royal crowns! Wedding crowns!”

She stamped her feet excitedly, clutching it to her chest as her entire body all but vibrated with excitement, and he was out of his chair in seconds, scooping her up happily and pressing kisses to her cheeks as the other crown fell away, her childish giggles filling the room as he spun her around. 

“Right, right, c’mon then. I have a meeting in ten minutes, so if we’re having a royal wedding, we’re on a timer.”

Hurley let out a heaving sigh as he stood up, the door bursting open a second later as you all but fell through, a more formal outfit than usual on you, a pencil skirt and tight jumper, your eyes wide and phone clutched in hand. “What happened?”

“What?”

“The emergency! What happened?” Mitch looked over at Stan, your eyes following his, and you growled under your breath, picking up one of the croissants from the cart beside you and throwing it across the room at him. “You don’t just text people ‘quick, help, there is an emergency’ when there is no emergency, Stan!”

“There is an emergency! Someone has to marry Mitch!”

“Are you fu-” You cut yourself off, pinching the bridge of your nose, before walking over to them and covering Emma’s ears. “Are you fucking kidding me, Stan? I was in a debriefing.”

“I thought I was marrying Emma?” Mitch felt like he was talking to himself as he realised he'd been set up, Emma arranging him until he was facing you, her hands on your hips as she turned you to face him, and suddenly, he couldn’t breathe again. Since your dinner a few weeks ago, neither of you had spoken about what had almost happened, slipping right back to being close friends, and he wasn’t sure whether or not to take that as a good sign. 

He couldn't help but think about how odd this entire situation was, the child of the fiancée who had died was holding a fake marriage to someone else, someone she had seemed to have adopted as her own motherly figure, and he felt like it was all a little too weird to actually focus on for too long. 

“Em, do you remember what we said about surprises?”

“Yes! You said surprises are okay!” She growled a little at him, her best wolf impression as she tried to get him to back down, and he returned it, watching as her face screwed up with anger and her arms crossed. “Surprises are okay if it makes everyone happy, that’s what you said, daddy!”

“Yes, but how do you know everyone is happy, Emma?”

“Because you love (Y/N)!” Mitch wanted the ground to open up and suck him in, possibly just let him never return, but then someone has to look after Emma, and he didn't even bother to cover her ears as he let a string of curses fall from his mouth, embarrassment flaring up warmth across his entire body, swelling in his chest all the way up to the tips of his ears in a suffocating heat as his head dropped. “It’s okay, daddy! (Y/N) loves you too! Mr Stan says so!” 

He heard the dull thud of what sounded like a very solid punch being delivered to Stan, and he had been about to take the same action himself feeling a little bit better at knowing the man got a dig in for his sneaky actions.

“You have to get married and be happy, daddy.”

“Yeah, Rapp. You have to be happy. It’s an order.” He looked up at the man, a more genuine look on his face than any he had ever seen, and he gave in a little, finally managing to drag his eyes up to meet yours. You reached out, taking his hands in yours and pulling him in a little closer to you, as you winked at his daughter, and looked back up to him. 

Stan cleared his throat, lifting Emma onto his hip, and she clutched two crowns excitedly in her hands. “We are gathered here today, to join Mitch Rapp and (Y/N) (Y/L/N) in the most epic royal wedding ever.” Emma giggled at his words, nodding in agreement. “Do you, Mitch Rapp, take (Y/N) to be your royally wedded wife?”

He turned, licking over his lips, seeing your little nod to him in a promise that it was okay, before Emma was staring up at him hopefully, and Stan was glaring at him like he’d be shot at dawn by a firing squad if he didn’t agree. 

“Yes.”

“Fantastic. (Y/N), do you take Mitch Rapp to be your royally wedded husband?” You rolled your eyes, laughing a little, before nodding your head, and grinning when Emma cheered loudly. 

“I do.”

“Emma, the wedding crowns?” He lifted her up, allowing her to place the green one into his hair and the blue one into your own, fixing them to her liking before Stan was pulling her back down to a regular level, and placing her down on the floor. “Would you like to say it?”

He honestly didn't think he could get any worse, or that he could be any more embarrassed than he already was, but then his daughter's next words came, and he thought he may actually throw up a little bit; “You may now kiss the queen!”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You may now kiss the queen, Rapp.” Hurley growled at him, and he couldn't believe his mentor was teaming up against him with his own daughter.

“I can’t believe you’re encouraging this in my dau-”

He was cut off with the only action he hadn't been expecting at this moment, his eyes closing as he realized what was happening. Your mouth was pressed to his, a sweet and innocent kiss, pulled in by a handful of his shirt, and he sighed happily into your mouth. Your lips were playing with his delicately, pressing and pulling in soft motions, and he felt like he’d slammed into cloud nine. His hands slipped down to your hips, holding you close to him as he pressed back into you, returning the kiss with everything he had, and feeling like his heart was exploding within his chest. 

It ended way too quickly for his liking, and he chased your lips for a second, pressing another quick peck to your mouth as you smiled at him, before he was opening his eyes, finding you looking just as bashful as he did, as Stan held his hand up for Emma to smash her palm again in a high-five.

Your arms looped around his neck, pulling him in closer, and your lips brushed against the shell of his ear, making a tremor travel along his spine. “I want to go somewhere hot for our honeymoon.”

He was on an all-time high, and he pulled back, catching your lips in a final sweet kiss. “How about for the wedding reception, we have dinner tonight?”

You hummed thoughtfully before a loving expression was finding itself on your face. “Am I dressing up or dressing down?”

He smoothed his hands around to your lower back, pulling you in a little closer. “How about you come over in the comfiest PJs you own, and when you get cold, I can still be a gentleman and give you my jumper?”

“Sounds perfect to me.”

[schrijverr]

Tender

Trevor has bruised ribs. He doesn’t think it a big deal, but Sypha and Alucard are more concerned about him being injured and show him that he is cared for and that hurting is a big deal.

On AO3.

Ships: none

Warnings: injury, insecurity

~~~~~~~~~~~

It was dark outside and a fire was crackling. They had been on the road for some time now, trying to help where possible with the night hordes, now left wandering with no one to steer them. It was nice and comfortable to be out there for a while even if Trevor was bruised.

“Ugh, I don’t think I’m ever getting up again, my everything is blue,” he groaned as he dropped gently to the ground after returning from gathering some firewood.

“Stop being such a baby, Trevor,” Sypha told him, throwing a log on the fire.

“I can be as much of a baby as I want to with the entire forest ground trying to dig into all these bruises,” he pouted, not really meaning it.

“For a big bad hunter you do whine a lot,” Alucard picked Sypha side, because of course he did. Not that Trevor minded, it was hard to hold a grudge against the dhampir after taking down Dracula together and Trevor had found to his horror that he quite liked Alucard.

That horror had faded quickly and he had rolled his eyes at his ancestors, before happily befriending the other more along with Sypha. So he took their friendly ribbing with grace. Well… his form of grace that was. “You’re all so mean to me, I don’t deserve this.”

“Ahw, did we hurt your wittle feelings,” Sypha exaggerated a pout and put on a mocking baby voice.

“Is your ego now bruised as well?” Alucard added and both laughed as his misery.

It wasn’t that bad, just some bruised ribs, maybe cracked, but nothing more. A common injury on his part that he could function with normally at this point. Still, in the wake of their teasing he played it up, cradling his midriff as he pouted at them, which only made them laugh.

Sypha pushed his side gently with her foot, making him catch his breath slightly as she hit his tender ribs. “We haven’t even traveled that much today.”

He glared at her halfheartedly then snootily sniffed: “You obviously can just shoot beams at monsters instead of getting thrown around all day. That horde was large. And I got thrown into a tree, for your information.”

What he hadn’t expected was for them to look guilty.

“Hey now, what’s wrong?” he asked in confusion when both stayed quiet and the teasing atmosphere that had been there dissipated. “Aren’t you two going to make fun if my brittle little bones or something?”

“You broke something?” Alucard exclaimed wide eyes of horror.

“No, just bruised, maybe cracked them at worst, but I don’t think so,” he shrugged, wincing slightly at the action and completely unsure what to do with the reaction he was getting. “It’s nothing really, happens all the time.”

“Why didn’t you say so?” Sypha practically demanded as she sat up, fingers hovering over his chest as if asking for permission to examine him.

“Guys?” He was now officially confused. “Guys, come on, you’re scaring me here. What happened? There is literally nothing wrong with me, no need to fuss. I’m fine. If it’s about the teasing that was fine too, I swear. I wouldn’t have gone along with it, if I was in any real pain, I promise. Just stop with those faces.”

Both immediately tried to school their concerned faces into something else as if to please him, but it wasn’t working and their concern was still prominent. Sypha broke first, recognizing in his face that he could still see the concern as she pleaded: “Can I at least check your ribs?”

“If that will help relax you again, sure,” he said, struggling into an upright position from where he had been slumped against his pack. In the corner of his eye, he saw them both wince with sympathy and he wondered why they cared now for something relatively routine.

The cross belts, once undone, were easily slipped over his head with minimum arm movement and pain and Trevor was glad his shirt buttoned at the front so that he could just slip it off, baring his chest to them.

When they saw they gasped. He looked down, but saw nothing too bad or out of the ordinary. His chest was obviously bruised, the outline of his ribs clear from where they had pushed against his muscle from the inside when he had hit the tree. It was swollen slightly, but it didn’t look too bad.

“Wow, it’s probably not even cracked. Nice,” he smiled, hoping it would lighten up his companions, but no such luck. They stayed passive, Alucard more so than Sypha, who looked upset. Still, she raised her hand to do what she had asked: examine the injury.

At the first press of her fingers he hissed. He couldn't help it and it was completely involuntarily, but she pulled her hand back as if burned nonetheless. He attempted a smile and said: “You won’t get to feel if it’s broken if you’re scared to touch. I can take it, Sypha, it’s fine. It’s probably not broken anyway, you won’t do more damage, promise.”

“How do you that?” she snapped, clearly upset.

Trevor didn’t know what to do with that. He had never seen her this upset over him and he tried to cheer her up, even if he didn’t know how. “I’ve cracked my ribs enough time to know what that looks and feels like. This is nothing. It just happens, no need to worry.”

“This happens often?” she yelled at him. Okay, so the comfort had not worked and he didn’t know what else could be wrong beside her thinking this was a bad injury instead of a regular one, so he looked helplessly at Alucard, hoping he would step in and save him.

Alucard was no help. “While I wasn’t a doctor, my mother was, and that looks pretty severely bruised. It will take four to six weeks to heal,” he said with a frown. “You said you bruise and crack your ribs regularly? Can you breathe okay?”

“What?” Trevor said, completely baffled. “I can breathe fine. A rasp or a stab here and there, but everyone has their aches and pains.”

“And pneumonia?” Alucard continued his interrogation as he crawled closer, now also examining Trevor’s ribs. “Are you easilysusceptible to pneumonia?”

“I would have died, if I got pneumonia regularly,” Trevor rolled his eyes. The dhampir must know hardly anyone survived that, especially since Dracula’s hordes has swept over the lands. The sigh of relief Alucard gave at his answer confirmed that the other was aware of that fact and had asked it out of fear that he did, which only served to confuse Trevor more.

“Then how have you treated this in the past? When was the last time this happened?” Alucard questioned him, hands ghosting over his ribs as Sypha watched along over his shoulder with great interest.

“I walked and lived on like a normal person,” he said, suddenly feeling very exposed under their heavy gazes and concern. “It’s literally just a bruise, we all have bruises constantly. I don’t- Can you fucking stop that?” he finally snapped.

Both froze with again that guilty, concerned look on their faces that Trevor was beginning to seriously hate.

“How many times do I have to tell you it’s fine? You’re both acting like I’m going to kneel over when it’s literally nothing. I’m injured all the time, this is just a little inconvenience to me and you two didn’t care before, so I don’t understand why you’re suddenly acting like it’s the end of the world that I got a little bruise now,” he ranted.

The gigantic bruise that covered a large chunk of his chest could hardly be called little, but those were not the details the others were concerned with in their reaction.

“You’re injured all the time?” Alucard frowned as Sypha exclaimed: “Of course we care!”

“Uh, yeah, I’m only a measly human, no regeneration for me and I don’t exactly get to stay out of the way of the big hitters. My whip may give me some distance, but it’s not really a shield,” he answered Alucard, because facing Sypha’s comment made him uncomfortable.

“Why didn’t you say so?” Sypha asked, genuinely hurt. “We wouldn’t have teased you, if we had known that you were in pain. And wounds need treatment, what if you got an infection? We could have helped, Trevor.”

“I- I-” What was Trevor supposed to say to that? That he was used to the hurting so much that it hadn’t registered as something notable? That he was used to pushing through alone? That he had thought they’d known, just hadn’t cared enough?

Something must have shown on his face, because Sypha’s fiery look softened as she gently took his hand. “Trevor, we want to know when you’re in pain. You’re our friend, we don’t wish to see you hurt.”

“Oh,” was his only stupid reaction to it.

“Indeed, oh,” Alucard said, before asking, “Can I look over your ribs? I trust you when you say you haven’t broken anything, but just to be sure.”

“Ye- yeah, sure,” he replied, still thrown off slightly.

Alucard pressed where the bruising was worst, making him hiss, but the vampire didn’t stop. He just worked on steadily until he nodded to himself, before leaning down and instructing Trevor to breath deeply, which he did even if it hurt slightly.

When he leaned back, Sypha urged him immediately to give the verdict with a curious and anxious: “And?”

“He is fine,” Alucard told Sypha what Trevor had already deducted, “He should heal perfectly if we keep him still for as much as possible and put ice on his ribs two to three times a day. There is no rattling in his chest and the only out of place rib seems to be old and already healed.”

“I can make ice,” Sypha said happily at the same time Trevor frowned: “Keep still?”

“Yes, Trevor, keep still so that it can heal,” Alucard said. “It’s a miracle your ribs are mostly in the right place still. And we don’t want you to hurt yourself while walking.”

Trevor was quiet for a moment, he really appreciated their concern and the fact that they did care and hadn’t just ignored him being in pain, but he was also a realist and hardened by the road, both with them and all the years by himself. So, he tried to gently break it to them: “Alucard, I appreciate that you care and all that, but we’re in the middle of nowhere and the best we have is a shaking cart while we’re getting attacked regularly. I don’t think resting is really an option.”

“Then we’ll camp here for a few nights,” Sypha demanded sternly. “We can set up here as well as any other place so that you can rest. It might not be the full recovery time, but a bit. Until you feel better. Wallachia can wait until you’re in fighting shape.”

He would deny it to his grave, but he chocked up a bit at that. And while he thought their concern was a bit over the top, it felt nice to be cared for again, that someone was willing to put aside more important things for him.

So, despite his mind telling him it was unnecessary, he gave in: “Sure, yeah, okay.”

The smile he got in return was worth the guilt he would later feel over leaving people to their fate with the night creatures still roaming around and he let them help him back into his shirt as Sypha summoned ice.

The night was still dark and the fire now burning low. The temporary camp would have to wait for the morning and the road for later. It was nice and comfortable anyway, to be out there, even while Trevor was bruised, because he also had Sypha and Alucard and that made it better.

[dragonsareourfuture]

Mello/GN!Reader — I Forgive You (Part One)

⚠️ Warnings: mentions and descriptions of bullying/abuse. Please do not continue if you are sensitive about that kind of thing or do not enjoy reading about it.

I had this idea but did not have a character to put it to yet. I chose Mello because I thought it worked best with his aggression and inferiority complex. This isn’t meant to label him and his character as a bully, I love the man and would never say that, it’s just what worked well for the story. With that out of the way, hope you enjoy the first part, second part can be found here!

When you first arrived at the spiked gates that guarded the church-like building, you had figured it was a chance at a fresh start — an opportunity to build on what you had learned and grow from that in a more stable environment than the dirty streets of town had been. You remember standing eagerly at the entrance of the orphanage, watching the children around your age kick around a soccer ball, seeming so carefree. It made you yearn for the days when you would feel that way. When you could leave your past — pickpocketing strangers in order to eat and being roughed up by thugs and privileged brats with parents who barely regarded their actions — behind you.

What the orphanage brought you, however, was the opposite. Just your luck, the very first day of your stay you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

You had been skipping back to your assigned room after getting a snack from the kitchen. Your mind was blossoming, filled with daydreams of the future to come when you probably should have been more aware of your surroundings. You just couldn’t help let your mind wander when you didn’t have to worry about your survival every spare second of the day.

You were broken out of your daydreams as the sensation of something hard colliding with your shoulder caused your small body to stumble. You toppled to the ground, howling with pain as your arm got caught underneath you and bent in the worst way possible.

With your mind clouded with searing pain as you clutched your arm close to your chest, feeling dizzy already, you searched for the source of your fall. A blurred vision of yellow and black sunk into view. It appeared to be the shape of a person looming above you, saying something that took a few repeats of the same sentence for you to hear without the ringing in your ears. The pain shot up your arm and, though you wanted to make sure the person you had bumped into was alright, you were focused on the fact that your arm, limp at your side as you sat up, was most likely broken.

As the pain got more bearable, the person standing in front of you became clearer. He was dressed in baggy black garments, standing at a height that couldn’t have been much taller than you were, but in this position it was hard not to be intimidated as he leered down at you. His jaw length blonde hair framed his face, casting a terrifying shadow. A scowl contorted his features in a way that told you he was having absolutely no shit today and that you would be better off running.

When you didn’t move, the kid crouched down and moved his hand towards you. For a second, you assumed he was helping you up. But when his fist shot towards your body with speed that made you wince, a brutal blow to the side of the head told you otherwise.

“What’s the matter with you?” His voice echoed, already dizzy from the burning pain in your arm and now disoriented thanks to the new bruise you were sure was forming on your scalp. “Can’t you watch where you’re going?”

As he was standing now, he delivered an aching kick to your stomach, causing your weak and broken body to flop to the floor pathetically. You choked on air, having the wind knocked out of you and your snack from earlier was threatening to show itself again. Your stomach churned painfully as you screwed your eyes shut. It was always best to just wait it out.

Images from the streets swirled around the depths of your mind, the thieves and gangs and bratty children who got sick pleasure out of beating you into unconsciousness resurfacing. This kid was no different. It was all the same and, the more you thought about it, you could never escape the same old shit.

You must have slipped into unconsciousness because after what felt like a blink later you awoke in a bed, your arm bandaged up and an ice pack resting on your head. Upon hearing you stir, what must have been the nurse hurried to your side and berated you with questions — were you feeling alright? Was the ice pack too cold? Did you know where you were?

All you could answer with was, “What happened?” Your voice groggy and rough as you attempted to sit upright.

The nurse pushed you back down, scolding you and telling you to rest. “You should thank that boy,” she said, adjusting your broken arm and the covers around your waist, “He brought you all the way here. Said you fell down he stairs.”

Although your brain was a bit foggy on the details, you were quite sure that was not what had occurred. You began to protest, but the nurse hushed you with her finger over your lips and instructed you to sleep a while. As she pulled the curtains around your bed closed, separating you from the other sick kids, you sighed in defeat. This was how it was going to be?

Once you had recovered enough from your injuries, you were released from the nurse. You scratched at the cast around your arm nervously as you walked down the hall to your room — your intended destination the previous day — however, much more cautious this time. The gray light that shone through the windows made the hall look much more eerie, raising your alertness to the height that it should have been the day you received your injuries.

However paranoid you were feeling, your nerves met their peek when the shadow of someone standing next to the window caught your gaze. Your head whipped around to face the person the shadow belonged to, coming face to face with your assailant from yesterday. He leaned against the glass, one hand buried in his pocket while the other held a bar of chocolate to his lips. You stared him dead in the eye, waiting for another attack that never came. Neither of your glares relented — yours filled with fear and his so aggressive that you felt your bandaged arm throb with discomfort — as you stalked past the blond.

“Nasty fall you took there,” He said, snapping off a chunk of the chocolate with his teeth.

You flinched at the sound, hurrying away after that.

To think that this treatment would cease after that encounter with the boy would be a foolish sentiment. Not only did it continue, but it got worse with each passing day. As you got older and more observant, you noted different behaviors of the blonde who’s name you learned to be Mello. Of course, that was only a code name, but it was his preferred alias so the kids at the orphanage referred to him as such.

Mello was number two in the training program held at Wammy’s Orphanage to become the next great detective, the one who would solve the world’s most dangerous yet interesting cases until their time was up and a new heir would be chosen. Whenever this other kid, Near, who was considered the first in line to become the next great detective, beat Mello in anything (whether it was in class or something as simple as who’s bed was made neater) the blonde would turn right around and take his anger out on you.

You tried to reason with him through the pain, spitting out blood and words of comfort towards the boy, but this only made him hit you harder, screaming about not wanting or needing your pity.

Once you got too old for childish beatings, rumors began to spread around the orphanage, some as tame as saying that you slept with a stuffed animal, while others were particularly nasty. This was worse than the beatings in your mind. You would rather experience physical pain for a short amount of time than have no one that wanted to talk to you for the rest of your life. Well, one person did stick around for you when you needed it most.

Mail Jeevas, or as you called him around the orphanage, Matt, was always by your side no matter what he heard about you from other kids. He seemed to think that the rumors were childish and cruel, going as far as to talk to Mello about retracting them but, as everyone knows, once you say something there is no taking it back.

It meant the world to you that Matt had even tried considering he was friends with Mello (how anyone could be friends with him, you had no idea) and standing up to the particularly violent kid was, in your book, a profound act of bravery. He never failed to stick by you even after Mello had ran away from the orphanage. You were so attached to your wonderful friend that you asked to go with him when he announced that he would be leaving as well.

“Please! I can’t stay here with you gone! I’m gonna go crazy here alone!” You begged, watching as Matt packed his clothes and belongings in a plain black duffel bag.

“(Name), I know you’re scared, but out there, in the real world, there are things that you’re not trained for.”

You lunged are the brunet, grabbing his arm desperately as if that would change his mind. “I don’t care. Anywhere’s better than here. Just...please.”

“This way is more efficient. You stay here-“

“This way is going to get us killed. You can’t handle yourself alone out there, no offense, and I will go insane if I stay here! No one is on my side here besides you.”

Matt glanced at the floor and then back at you. You pushed your bottom lip out and batted your eyelids pleadingly. He let out a breathy laugh and sighed, “Well, are you gonna start packing?”

“Yes, yes, yes! Thank you, Matt! I won’t let you down! We’ll be a team!” You exclaimed, jumping around before bolting off to your room to pack.

<•>

You had elected to stand on the sidelines. Sure, it would have been an amazing feeling to be able to throw that fact that you saved Mello’s life back in his face if he did survive the burns, but you couldn’t even bear the thought of touching him after so long of being free from his torture. 

So, you watched from the sidelines as Matt fearlessly dove into the flames to scoop up the blonde’s near lifeless body, charred and smelling of burning flesh, from the wreckage of the building that once stood as a warehouse, a base for Mello and his mafia associates. The heat from the fire distorted the image as Matt carried the boy closer to where you stood. You gazed down at Mello’s unconscious, helpless form, reveling in the triumph of seeing the previously indestructible (at least in your young eyes) boy so powerless.

Matt broke you out of your trance with frantic words. “We need to get him medical attention.”

“Do we really?”

Matt narrowed his eyes at you and you raised up both of your hands in defeat, “Fine. We can’t bring him to a hospital, so I’ll run out and get some supplies.” you instructed, beginning to walk through the rubble with Matt to the cheap car he drove, the heavily used Camaro being the only thing he could afford considering you both lived on your own with no job. “You take him back to the apartment and I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

Matt nodded in agreement and loaded Mello carefully into the back seat of the old car, being cautious of the bloodied burns that covered most of his left side. He dropped you off at the supermarket close by and took Mello the rest of the way home, fixing him on the bed and waiting until you finally burst through the door with a shopping bag full of medical supplies. You had to remind yourself to keep your face steady as you neared the bed with your childhood “friend” lying on it. Even when Matt had found him and housed him in the apartment, he had no problems with you renting another room in the complex. But now, what with all the medical attention Mello most likely needed, you had no choice but to stay by his side.

You cringed as you wrapped Mello’s body in clean, white bandages, every touch to his otherwise smooth, pale skin sending you back to your days at Wammy’s. You covered his arm with cloth, vivid images of  when you broke your own arm because of him flooding into your mind. But still, you wondered if this was payback, maybe karma. Mello having to endure the flames licking his skin as a punishment for all of the times he’s hurt you. You wondered if he ever thought about you in what he must have figured were his last moments.

You were torn from your thoughts when a gentle groan emitted from Mello’s lips. He raised his good arm to his head and ran his hand over his aching features. “What...hnng?” The blond managed, opening the eye that wasn’t enveloped in flames and now soft bandages to scan the room, jolting as he saw the figures of you and Matt sitting by the bed.

“Hey, Mihael...” Matt greeted softly in an attempt to ease the boy gently into consciousness.

“Who...eh...Matt? And...” Mello trailed off, propping himself up onto his elbows to get a better glimpse at you.

You avoided his gaze, bowing your head so that your chin rested on your shoulder, speaking so quietly that if it weren’t completely silent in the room, no one would have heard you, “So, you don’t recognize me when I’m not covered in bruises, then?”

Mello’s eye widened for a second before fluttering shut. “(Name)...it’s you?” If you didn’t know better you would say that he was exasperated when your name rolled off his tongue.

“Yeah.” You rose to your feet with a burst of confidence as though suddenly realizing that he was confined to a bed with severe burns all over his body and you were free to do whatever you pleased. “It’s me. Disappointed?”

“(Name)—“ Matt started, interrupted as you continued.

“Were you expecting the same weak little child that you could beat on all the time? Oh, but you poor thing, you can barely move, can’t you? I guess karma really does catch up to a person—“

“(NAME).”

You froze, unaware that you were now towering over Mello, fists clenched in fury and face a burning scarlet. Your breathing was heavy and ragged. Your eyes darted to Matt, then back to Mello. If you weren’t mistaken, there was a flicker of genuine fear in his eyes. Rather than filling you with pride, this fact terrified you beyond belief. You had no intention whatsoever of becoming like Mello, and as soon as you realized you were so close to acting upon your rage, you stepped back and retreated to the couch on the far side of the room.

Although you kept your face buried in the couch cushions, you could tell that someone was getting up judging by the shifting of fabric. To your disappointment, the slow and careful movements exemplified someone with an injury determined to not harm themselves any further.

The couch dipped as the blond sat next to you, grunting and rubbing his arm under the thick layer of bandages. “I...I’m...” he began, unable to get the words out before swallowing hard and trying again, “I’m sorry.”

You let out a dry laugh, lifting your head but not to look at Mello. “Oh, really? Because it seemed to take a lot just to get that word out.”

“Listen, you-!”

You jumped when his voice rose suddenly, pressing yourself against the armrest of the sofa, further away from the blond. Matt was listening in as well and at the harsh tone in Mello’s voice he stood from his chair, more than ready to intervene. But Mello had caught himself, releasing a deep breath from his nose.

“I really am sorry. I know you won’t forgive me this quickly but—“

“Tch, yeah, no shit.”

“Y’know, you’re making this really difficult.”

“I’m making this difficult? No, Mello. You made this difficult when you picked on me and tortured me. And for what!?”

“I shouldn’t have taken out my anger at Near on you, but I—“

“You can’t take back the past.” You finished. Mello nodded and stared down at his lap. Matt was still in ready position. “I just...I just need time. Can you give that to me? Some time...”

And that’s what you took, lots and lots of time to think things over. On the one hand, you hated the idea of forgiving him. He made your life, which was supposed to be better off at Wammy’s, a living hell. You had to work for years on rebuilding your shattered self esteem and had to learn how not to recoil when anyone so much as came near you. But, on the other hand, he could have changed. As you have built up your confidence and skill, he may have learnt kindness and guilt. It was possible, but even so, did it change anything?

Over the course of the next few weeks it was Mello’s mission to give you everything he took away from your childhood. The things you dreamed of while you lived out your days fighting for your life. First and foremost, you’d always wanted a parental figure — someone to hold you when times got tough and to give you advice about stupid little trivial problems like boys or what clothes to buy. How he knew this about you was not in the most honorable way, having stolen your journal as a child and made you watch as he smeared mud all over the pages but not before reading every single entry. But, he figured it was the only information he had and he was determined to use it for your benefit this time.

[wonderwomanfantasy]

Today. Tomorrow. Forever.

no one liked the first part but fuck you a part two 

part one

Dabi x reader (we’ll get there)

warnings: Drinking, abuse, cannon divergence, swearing, spooky stuff

word count: 2,000 (about)

summary: the longer you stay with these ghosts the less you feel like yourself, as if something else had taken your place. 

“Shoto, can we talk?” you asked quietly, as he poked at his bowl of cereal. Everything had seemingly gone back to normal, the only evidence that last night had even happened was the marks left around your throat. He shook his head and you sighed. 

“Shoto, we have to talk about last night,” you said. His cheeks went hot with shame. 

“I-I’m sorry please don’t be mad,” he pleaded tears filling his eyes. You blanched not knowing how to deal with this. 

“No, No I’m not mad Shoto,” you reassured him, he didn’t calm down. 

 “It’s my fault!” he shouted putting his face in his hands. 

“Sweetheart no,” you tried again, then on impulse you added “I won’t leave,”  he sniffled and looked up at you. 

“You’re going to stay?” he asked.

“Yeah I’m not going anywhere,” you said, reaching out to him, he winced and you didn’t touch him, not completing the action waiting for him to come to you, eventually he did. Giving you his hand to squeeze reasuringly. 

“What happened lastnight wasn’t your fault, and it’s not going to scare me away.” you declared patting his soft cheeks dry with a napkin. 

“Does that kind of thing happen a lot?” you asked and he nodded. “And did something like that happen and the last nanny got scared away because of it?” you asked and he nodded. 

“The last three,” 

“Well, Not me, that mean old ghost isn’t anything I haven’t delt with before,” you said in an effort to sooth him. 

“He’s not mean- not most of the time anyways,” Shoto defended. “He just gets mad sometimes and it’s scary but he wouldn’t hurt me,”  this supprised you, and you couldn’t help but not believe him. Even if this ghost loved him, even if this ghost was family, it could still hurt him. 

“Do you know his name?” you asked. Shoto crossed over to you and cupped his hands around your ear before whispering in that loud breathy way children whispered. 

“Toya,” 

You didn’t plan on doing much that day, both of you too shell shocked for chit chat about books or a trip to the movies but you were saved from having to do any planning by a loud ringing of the door bell. 

It made you jump. Anyone who worked at the home just came and went as they pleased, as did Enji, and any pakages came through the back door. You realized this must be the first time you’d heard the door bell rung. Shoto looked equally puzzled. 

“Do you want to go see who it is?” you asked and he nodded sticking out his hand for you to take hold of. The two of you went down stares and just as you reached to forer  you saw a white haired man about your age being welcomed in. 

“Natsuo!”  Shoto called out dropping your hand to rush to the man. Natsuo laughed and crouched catching Shoto in his arms and whisking him up in a tight hug. 

“Hey kiddo!”  he laughed happily than turned to you. 

“Sorry for the unannounced visit, If I had had your number I would have called you,” he said, you offered him a tight smile. As bad as you were dealing with children you were even worse with your peers. 

“No truoble at all, I’m (y/n) the nanny,” you said taking the hand he offered you and shaking it furmly. 

“Natsuo, i’m the older brother,”

You warmed up to Natsuo quickly. It was hard not to like him when Shoto was so clearl thrilled to see him.  He seemed like a good guy and you spent the day playing with hot wheeles with the two of them. You even let Shoto stay up passed his bedtime so he could spend somemore time with his brother, and when he was too sleepy to keep his eyes open any longer, Natsuo put him to bed.  

“Can I get you a drink before you leave?” you offered. 

“I’d love that,” he said. The cook had already left for the day, but you could manage yourself just fine. You poured him a glass of wine, then a glass for yourself, you both stood around the counter drinking and talking in hushed tones together. 

“I’m surprised you took the job honestly,” he said, now just taking a quick swig form the wine bottle before passing it to you so you could take a drink too. 

“I needed it,” you admitted. 

“Still, there are better places to work, better people to work for,” he said bitterly. 

“To be fair, I don’t know your father as well as you do,” you siad.

“But you heard the rummors right?” 

“Just the ones that this place is haunted.” He scoffed, taking another drink. 

“That all is bullshit, I’m talking about what people say about dad,” 

“That I haven’t heard,”

“Well they aren’t rummors you know? T’sall true. He beat our mom until she went nuts and killed his own son. Everyone knows he did it too, but he’s got that rich bastard money so all his problems dispeared,” he spat drunkenly. There was an uncomfortable pause after that, you weren’t sure what to say after that, and Natsuo seemd to realized he’s killed the mood. 

“Sorry,” he muttered. 

“It’s okay, can you tell me about your brother?” you asked. Natsuo shrugged. 

“He’s a good kid, but you know that, Shoto’s a good kid.”

“Sorry, not Shoto, your other brother,” you pried furhter. He sighed deaply. 

“Toya was a mother fucker.” he said stuggling to think of anything else. “But I loved him. He was, mean and a son of a bitch but we were thick as theives growing up, he faught with dad alot, but I loved him.” He told you. It wasn’t much to go on but you guessed you should be glad that you had gotten that much. 

“Fuyumi was the smart one she always had her nose in some book but we’d pull her hair to get her to chase us… god I miss her i’should call er,” he mumbled to himself. 

“Natsuo do you want me to call you a cab? You probably shouldn’t be driving,” 

“That be great, thank you.”

You called the cab. And saw Natsou off. And then you were alone, in this large house that felt so small. You turned off the lights in the house, as much as you hated to do so, and started to make your way upstairs. You gripped the hand rail tightly, and looked down at your feet making sure they landed firmly on the stair each time before you trusted your leg with your weight. 

You were drunk, although not as drunk as Natsou and your vision blured slightly around the edges. There was a low groaning sound as the house settled and you stopped for a moment resting your head agains the railing. You were too drunk to deal with any ghosts right now. 

“Please don’t” you said softly, hoping in vain that if someone was listening the would grant your plea. You straightend. Getting dizzy from the sudden head rush, and kept marching up the stairs. You felt your way down the hall using the walls as guidance to your room. Your sad room that felt so small. 

 You needed a shower you decided and stumbled to the bathroom. You took off your shirt, then your pants, then your undergarments. You looked at yourself in the mirror there was another person in the mirror. Ablurry second you. Naked, ecept for your silver locket, thick purple bruises still on your neck. 

You could see there were scars running down your chest and arms from the last time you had taken the locket off. But this time is different. You thought. She’s gone, she can’t hurt you anymore. You felt like you were going to throw up, but whether it was the alcohol or the thought of your mother it was hard to tell. 

Quickly you turned on the watter and stepped into the shower embracing the ice cold spray. You took a shuddering breath and balled your hands into fists. 

You had been devastated when your mother died. Your father had left before you were born and she was all you had. Of course, she was dead, but not gone. It was hard to ignore her screaming and thrashing at her own funeral, demanding that people look at her, see her. But you had to pretend that she wasn’t there. After all, no one else could see her. You had been gifted the locket the next day, and moved in with your Aunt the day after that. 

And your mother followed. Sometimes, you talked with her, sometimes you ignored her. Sometimes she kept quiet and let you ignore her, but often she didn’t. It had been horible watching her spirit wither away, litterally loseing pieces of her self day by day. You had just been a child, you hadn’t known any better. You were just scared of losing your mom. 

When your mother possessed you, it set her back to normal, at least for a little while, all her peices were there. And she was so happy everytime too, so proud of you. She would smile and tell you how wonderful it was to eat again, to sing and be seen, all the things living people take for granted. It was awful everytime, to be ejected from your body and losing chunks of time and memory, you could still rembebr how empty it all felt. 

But it made her so happy, and it ment you wouldn’t have to say goodbye. It became easier and easier for your mom to take over, until she just had to touch your locket to be in control of you while your own contious slipped away. She had started taking over more and more often too. 

It was awful, you had just wanted to be in your own body for a single day so you took your locket off. 

You flipped the watter from cold to hot, deciding that you had sobered up enough and wanting a bit of comfort. You set the water so hot that it burned, but burned in a good way. You breathed in the steam and watched your fingers prune before finally turning off the shower. You towled off and looked at your self in the mirror again. Just one you this time. 

It was late, nearly one in the morning. But you weren’t ready to turn in yet. You slipped on your robe and started padding around the halls. The robe was soft and a deep wine red color. You had never had a robe before, let a lone felt the need to use one, but it had come with the job, provided for you like the soap and the toilet paper. 

The house was stil dark, still empty. Quiet and still except for the sound of your foot steps, your wet feet sticking slightly to the hard wood floor and pealing off of it with ever step. It didn’t take long for you to get lost, it never did, but you didn’t mind. You just wandered, deaftly poking the bruises on your neck to feel the sting. 

Part of the hall way was illuminated by moonlight streaming through a glass door. You looked out and saw a balcony that you had never seen before. You reached out and touched the door nob. Unlocked. 

You opened the door and stepped out into the crisp air night, the cold concrete felt good on your feet as the night breese fluttered your still damp hair. It was a full moon tonight. You could see hundreds of starts above you in the sky, the mansion was so far out from the citty that light polution wasn’t a problem. 

 The stone parapet was thick enough to sit on, so you did, letting your legs dangle over the edge. It was so far down. You noted, then wondered what floor of the house you were even on. Where exactly where you anyway? You kicked you feet back and forth watching them swing above the courtyard. 

And when you looked up, the ghost from last night was there. Standing in the air. He gave you a small two-finger salute. Then he spoke

“Hello there.”

[kinglazrus]

A Helping Hand

Phic phight 2020

Submitted by @trainernick: Lancer telling Danny he knows his secret and admitting trying to help him throughout high school (maybe at prom or graduation) - wholesome found family

Summary: Everyone says prom is supposed to be one of the best nights of Danny's life. And even though he wrecks his suit, ditches his date, and gets attacked by Skulker, it sort of is. But not for the reasons everyone says it should be.

When Lancer sees his student feeling low, he does what he can to make sure Danny knows there are always people rooting for him.

Hurt/comfort

Word count: 3923

People like to talk about milestones. They divide their lives into neat little segments and mark the years with special occasions. First steps, first words, first day of school, first car, first kiss, first job. Lots of firsts. They're important. But they aren't the be-all, end-all of those experiences. People keep talking after their first word. They keep walking after their first steps. They continue to learn, and drive, and kiss—if they're into that sort of thing—and work, and work, and work until that's all they ever do.

The firsts matter, but they don't matter so much that you can never do any of those things ever again.

Some milestones can't be repeated, though. Or, at least, people build them up so much and make such a big deal out of it that even if you can repeat it, it'll never be the same. They make it sound like if you do it wrong then you'll never get to do it right. That's how Danny feels about prom.

It doesn't matter how often he tells people there will be other parties, that this won't be the only time he ever dances with his peers, that this won't even be his only prom because he probably won't be able to graduate this year. Prom is big. Prom is important. Prom is special. He has to do it right or else he'll never get to do it again.

Danny tries his best.

He gets a date, one of his best friends, Sam. It takes him a few weeks to ask her out, because he can't figure out how to do it. He wastes hours writing out what he wants to say. Four days before prom, he sees Sam in the middle of a ghost fight, grinning like mad, hoisting a bazooka on her shoulder, ectoplasm stuck in her hair, and Danny blurts the question out right there because holy shit she's beautiful. It totally throws all his careful, romantic planning out the window, but she still says yes.

He gets a suit. Black jacket, black shirt, purple vest, purple tie, because he thinks Sam will like it. She calls him a dork as soon as she sees him in it, which means she does like it, very much so. He gets a corsage of blue poppies for Sam's wrist, to go with his boutonniere. He gets Jazz and Dani to watch the city for the night so that nothing will distract him from the dance.

He does everything he can to make sure he does prom right. But, in the end, he still gets in a ghost fight.

Danny leans his head back against the wall of the shower stall in the boys' locker rooms. His lungs burn, his body aches, and his knuckles are bruised. The water's turned up as hot as it can go. It succeeds in getting the worst ectoplasm out—cold water would have set the stains—but now he's completely soaked, and his suit is still ripped.

Looking down, he catalogues the damage, both to his body and his rental suit. A gash on his right shoulder to go with the torn seam of the sleeve. The left sleeve is ripped from cuff to elbow, his cufflink lost somewhere on the street outside. There's a matching slice in his arm, stretching from his palm around to the outside of his elbow.

The cut stings in the hot water, same with the wound on his shoulder, and he should probably take care of both before he loses too much blood. But he has a couple minutes to spare.

His pants got out of the fight okay, minutes a little tearing on the knees, the skin beneath scraped and red. He doesn't think the store is going to take the suit back.

There's a knock on the stall door and Danny lifts his head. Through the foggy glass, he sees Tucker.

"You good, man?" Tucker asks.

Danny swallows, glad he doesn't taste blood. Skulker really held nothing back today. He calls back, "Yeah, I'm good. Suit's a little torn, though."

"Why'd you fight in your suit?" Tucker asks, a hint of laughter in his voice.

"I think Skulker borrowed some of Vlad's tech. He shorted out my powers for a little bit, but," Danny raises his hand and forms a swirling ball of ectoplasm in his palm, "they're back now."

"Okay. Lancer's doing a headcount. I told him you had gone to the bathroom just before Skulker showed up, so I'll let him know you're safe."

"Thanks. I won't be long."

Tucker's silhouette does finger guns and he clicks his tongue twice, then leaves. Danny waits until he hears the locker room door closing before he stands up. The ectoplasm in his hand turns blue, its temperature dropping a few degrees, and he drags his palm along the cut on his left arm. Ice seeps over the wound, sealing it shut and stopping the bleeding. It also works fantastically at numbing the entire limb so it doesn't hurt to move.

After rotating his arm a few times, testing its mobility, he does the same to the gash on his right shoulder. It's only a temporary measure, until he can get home and get Jazz to help stitch him back up. Sam and Tucker used to be in charge of doing that, but Jazz is by far the better seamstress, and leaves fewer scars behind.

Danny shuts the water off and heads toward the lockers. Rather than going for his own locker, he stops in front of Tucker's. Danny usually has extra clothes for emergencies like this, but he used them last week and hadn't brought them back since. Tucker keeps a few spares, though, because of the last few times Dash and Kwan stole his clothes while he was in the shower.

Turning his hand intangible, Danny sticks it through the locker door and grabs a shirt from the top shelf. When he pulls his hand out the shirt unfurls, and he stiffens.

"You've got to be kidding me," he says. It's a black button-up shirt, which is perfect. But it's also covered cartoonish pictures of Danny Phantom's face. Reaching back into the locker, he tries to find another, but this is the only one. He could use his gym shirt, but he needs the long sleeves to hide his left arm.

With a groan, Danny strips, laying his jacket, vest, tie, and shirt out on the benches. He and Tucker are around the same size, so the shirt fits, for the most part. It's a little tight across the shoulders and bites into his skin when he bends his arms, but it'll do. As long as he doesn't get into another fight and tear this shirt up, too.

Danny pulls his jacket and vest back on, although he does neither up, and drapes his shirt across his arm. With his left hand facing down, you can't even he's injured. Minus the scrapes on his knees, but if anyone asks, Danny will just say he tripped running away from the ghost

When he exits the locker room, Danny looks left and right, checking to make sure the hallway is clear before slipping out. His wet shoes squeak on the floor, and water drips from his hair onto his nose. He probably should have tried drying off. Especially since the water from his jacket is now seeping into Tucker's shirt. But, Fentons are stubborn, and Danny's already on his way back to the gym.

Prom posters featuring smiling members of the dance committee stair down at him as he walks, silently judging him. Their blank eyes follow his every move. Somehow, Danny feels like he's failed them.

He expects the dance to be back in full swing by the time he makes it back, because Casper High is just like that sometimes, but he couldn't be more wrong. The music has stopped. No one's dancing. There's a massive hole in the outside wall, letting in the cool night air. A wave of shame rolls through Danny as he remembers he did that.

His gaze drifts up to the ceiling, where there's another, smaller hole. That's where Skulker burst through, shouting about the glory of capturing his prey on such a momentous occasion. Seconds later, Danny blasted him through the wall and took off after him. Without even a single glance back at the chaos he'd caused.

Paulina, Star, and other members of the dance committee hustled about, directing people to help with the cleanup so they could get things started again. City protocol said to wait for an official cleanup crew, but this was prom, damn it, and Paulina wasn't about to let a couple ghosts ruin her chances of getting crowned queen.

He finds Sam and Tucker quickly. They're helping Elliott move one of the larger chunks of concrete. The front of Sam's dress is covered in dust and her corsage it crushed.

Another wave of guilt pushes Danny out the door. He backs into the hallway, gives the ruined dance one last look, then turns and heads for the front door. There's no point sticking around and risk ruining things even more.

The cold air and his wet clothes shill Danny to the bone when he gets outside, but he doesn't mind. The benefits of having an ice core means he can weather the cold better than most people. But, being half-human still, he's not infallible. Danny sits down on the front steps, slipping his hands into his pockets, and sighs. Maybe he should just go home.

Since Danny doesn't have his license—he never had time, with all the ghost fighting—Tucker gave Sam and Danny a ride. So, if he does leave, he won't be abandoning Sam without a way home. Going for a fly sounds pretty nice right now. There's not much he can screw up when he's miles above the city. Although, if anyone could find a way, it would be him.

The only thing he can ever seem to do right is fight ghosts. It's not too late to make a career out of it. At this point, it's basically his job already, and it'd be nice to get paid for it. Maybe the G.I.W. are hiring.

Danny laughs. It's a bitter, self-deprecating sound.

"They'd probably cut me open first," he tells the open air.

"Modern Prometheus, Mr. Fenton, that's quite the accusation."

"Holy sh–" Danny jumps, nearly toppling off the step, and whips around to see Lancer behind him. "Mr. Lancer! Uh, what are you doing here?"

"Checking on my student," Lancer says. "I wasn't satisfied with Mr. Foley's assurances and wanted to make sure you were safe myself."

He steps forward and looks down at Danny, frowning. "Are you... dripping, Mr. Fenton?"

"Uh." Danny glances down at his soaked clothes. "I fell in a puddle."

"While you were in the bathroom?"

"I went for a walk and then fell in a puddle."

"It hasn't rained in three weeks," Lancer says.

"So crazy, right?" Danny chuckles. He silently wills Lancer to go away, preferring to be alone right now. Instead, Lancer does the complete opposite and sits down next to Danny.

"Is something bothering you?" he asks.

"What makes you think that?"

"I've worked with teenagers for a long time, Mr. Fenton. I can tell when things aren't okay. And I think, by now, your tells are somewhat obvious to me."

Danny refuses to meet Lancer's gaze. He's probably the last person Danny wants to see right now. Not because he hates Lancer, but because he cares too much what Lancer thinks. While he didn't like the man much during freshman year, things changed over time. Lancer started actually believing in Danny. He's the only teacher who never gave up on him, who always had their door open.

Lancer even leant Danny his ear on more than one occasion. Danny tried to avoid this as much as possible, but there were some things he just couldn't talk to his sister or friends about.  And Danny's willing to admit, although somewhat grudgingly, that he's become attached to his English teacher.

"Prom's ruined," Danny finally says.

"Is that so?"

"I mean, yeah. Sk– uh, that big metal ghost dude kind of crashed the party. And then Phantom fucked it all up."

"Language," Lancer says. He gives Danny a critical look. "Why are you blaming Phantom?"

"He kind of destroyed a whole wall. He could have just, I don't know, thrown the ghost back through the hole that was already there?" If only Danny had thought of that at the time. But in his desperation to not ruin prom, he went ahead and ruined prom.

"I think Phantom did a fantastic job," Lancer says.

Danny gapes at him.

"Yes, the wall was damaged, but no one got hurt. And your classmates are displaying wonderful teamwork skills by clearing out the debris so the dance can go on. It wasn't Phantom's fault the ghost decided to interrupt," Lancer says. "Although I have to say, it's extremely lucky of us that he was so close by. In fact, it was almost like he was there before the ghost arrived."

Lancer smiles. Something about it puts Danny on edge. It's a familiar smile, a fond one. It's the smile he gives students who do exceptionally well. It's the smile he gives Danny when he does well.

"Oh, yeah. That's really lucky, yep. Must be because of how often the school gets attacked. I mean, if I were him, which I'm not, I'd probably hang around the place that gets attacked the most, too," Danny says, a little too quickly. He was cold seconds ago, but now he's uncomfortably warm.

"Which you're not," Lancer repeats slowly. His gaze is intense and critical. Danny can only bear to meet it for a few seconds before he has to look away.

He tries to distract himself, looking at the cars lined up along the street. There are a few limousines amongst them. Danny would bet his ghost half on one of them being here for the A-listers', who came together as a group rather than bringing dates. There were so many cars already parked by the time Danny and his friends got here that Tucker was forced to park his old Camaro around the block.

It's a pretty nice car, despite how old it is. A hand-me-down from Tucker's dad, they fixed it up together, making it good as new. Danny tries to picture doing something like that with his own dad. Jack would probably deck the car out in ghost weapons and stamp the word "Fenton" across it.

They could call it the Fentonmobile.

"Danny," Lancer says.

The use of his nickname gives Danny pause. Lancer never calls him Danny. It's one of his most frustrating traits. Every student is always Mr., Ms., or Mx. As annoying as it is, Danny can't deny that it feels nice at the same time. Like Lancer actually respects them as people, doesn't look down on them the way most adults do.

After everything Danny's been through, he thinks he warrants a little basic decency.

Lancer continues. "I know."

Everything stops. Every thought in Danny's head comes to a screeching halt. He stares at Lancer. Maybe he heard it wrong. Maybe he doesn't mean what Danny thinks he means. But the longer Danny stares, the longer Lancer stares right back. At first, dread fills him. His secret is blown. This is it. The G.I.W. are on their way.

That dread quickly drowns in a tidal wave of relief, because Lancer knows. And he isn't hurting Danny, or calling him a freak, or doing anything.

"You know," Danny repeats in a breathy whisper.

"I know."

Danny slops backward, burying his hands in his hair. He lets out a soft laugh. "You know. How long?"

"Almost three years now," Lancer says.

Danny's stunned into silence. Three years. That's nearly as long as he's been a ghost. He had his accident a couple months into freshman year and started fighting ghosts a few days after that.

"I," he pauses, "am a terrible liar. Aren't I?"

"I'm surprised you've lasted this long," Lancer says.

Danny laughs sharply. Sitting back up, he turns to face Lancer proper, running his hands through his hair again. It's a nervous habit he's never been able to kick. "What gave it away?"

"Your first weeks at Casper High, I thought you were a talented student with a lot of potential. You managed average grades on your first couple of assignments, but I could tell you were struggling in the environment. Not a fan of classroom learning?" Lancer asks, quirking his eyebrow.

"It's hard to focus. Sometimes," Danny admits.

"But you managed. And then you disappeared from school for two weeks. When you came back, your grades plummeted. I blamed it on the stress of your accident, at first, which I excused. But then your delinquent behaviour started."

Danny winces. He knows exactly how he looks to other people. A problem child, skipping school, not doing his assignments, barely studying. Coming to class with bruises on his knuckles. Tetslaff tried to "set him straight" once. She said some good physical activity would help him channel his issues and convinced his parents to sign him up for volleyball.

Tetslaff kicked him off the team after his third missed game.

"To me, my students are my children. I want to see them succeed in every way they can, and do what I can to make that happen. In that way, I failed you freshman year. I'm ashamed of how I reacted." Lancer pauses. He looks away from Danny, tipping his head back to search the sky instead.

Danny wonders what he's thinking. He wishes he knew.

"I'm even more ashamed of the fact that if I hadn't seen you transform, I might not have changed my attitude at all."

"You saw me transform," Danny deadpans. First Jazz, and then Paulina—although she was possessed at time, Danny still counts it—and now Lancer. How many times is this going to happen? He asks, "Where?"

"Here, at school."

Danny sputters in disbelief. "What?"

"You were in the middle of the cafeteria, Danny. You stood on a table and cried 'I'm going ghost.' I'm surprised more people didn't see you," Lancer says. He shoots Danny an amused grin.

Danny blushes, burying his face in his hands. "I thought it was cool," he mumbles into his palms. It made him feel like a superhero. Until he wizened up and stopped shouting out warnings to every ghost within earshot.

Lancer had a point, how did people not see him more often? Maybe there's an entire cult in Amity Park of people who have seen Danny transform. They could call themselves the Phentons. Or the Fantoms. Or the Keepers of the Great One. Frostbite would probably like that last name.

"Why are you telling me this now?" Danny asks.

"Because I think you need to know there are people on the sidelines who are willing to help you, who have helped you, even if you don't realize it."

"How do you mean?" Danny already knows he has people looking out for him. Jazz, Tucker, and Sam always have his back and they've helped him more than he can ever thank them for. He's going to miss Sam and Tucker next year when they move on to college and he's stuck repeated senior year.

Lancer reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper. Unfolding it, he smooths it out on his knee and passes over.

It’s a schedule for April, May, and the first week of June. Two dates are circled. April 18th, today, and June 4th, the graduation day. The weeks between are full of markings. Squinting at the thin writing, Danny reads "Packet One: Biology" written over next week. Skipping over the rest of the schedule, he finds "Packet Two: History," "Packet Three: Applied Math," all the way up to "Packet Six: English" the final week before June. They're all classes Danny is taking this year, including ones he already failed last semester.

"What is this?" Danny asks.

"A study guide, of sorts. I spoke to the other teachers about your grades. Because of 'special circumstances,'" Lancer makes finger quotes, "they agreed to give you a chance to redeem your grades. You did well on your exams overall, but it's your course work that failed you. Each of your teachers has put together a packet of bonus assignments that, if you finish successfully, will earn you a passing grade in each class."

Danny's breath hitches. "You mean..."

"With any luck, I will not be seeing you again in these halls next year."

Danny's eyes burn. He lowers his head, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow. He tries to stay quiet, because the last thing he wants to do is cry in front of a teacher, but he can't help it. The tears won't stop. A few gross sobs fight their way through his hiccups. Lancer rubs Danny's back as he cries, a soothing gesture.

"Thank you," Danny says, as soon as he can gather the breath for it. He wipes his nose on his sleeve and shoots Lancer an elated grin. "I hope I don't see you here next year either."

Lancer smiles in return. "We could head back, if you'd like. The dance should be starting up again right about now. Ms. Sanchez certainly knows how to whip a cleaning crew into action. I never expected such leadership from her."

"I did kind of ditch Sam," Danny says. He hopes she's not too mad. "But I kind of need to take care of something first."

"The ghost? I always did wonder what you did with them after capturing them in your... lunchbox?"

Danny laughs and shakes his head. "It's a thermos. But, no, he'll be fine in there for a while. I actually, uh," he trails off. Sheepishly, he pulls back his left sleeve and shows Lancer his injury.

"The English Patient, Mr. Fenton, you need medical attention!" Lancer shoots to his feet, digging his phone out of his pocket.

"No hospital!" Danny shouts. He scrambles up after Lancer and covers his phone. "My body's different. They'd notice something. I just need some stitches and my healing will take care of the rest."

"That's reassuring, I suppose." Lancer lowers his phone. "I have keys to the nurse's office, and I'm no slouch with a needle."

"Oh. I can just take of it myself, at home. Or get Jazz to do it."

"Nonsense, Mr. Fenton. What kind of teacher would I be if I let you go home in that state?" Lancer beckons for Danny to follow. He only hesitates for a second before complying.

Danny doesn't want to see Lancer in these halls again, but he certainly hopes graduation won't be the last time he ever sees the man. It's nice, knowing there's another person out there who has his back. Someone who can give him a stern word when he's being stupid, and a helping hand when he's lost. It's almost father-like, now that Danny thinks about it.

He stares at Lancer's back and thinks. Lancer looks the kids of Casper High and sees them not just as students, but as his children. Danny doesn't mind looking back and seeing a parent instead of a teacher.

[pandastern]

Gravity (Bakugou x OC)

Part 7: A Soldier’s Strength

Bakugou x Vigilante!OC

Warnings: angst, explicit language, violence

Word count: 3488

Genre: enemies to lovers ; angst ; romance, slow burn

When a new student makes an entrance, Bakugou has a real bad feeling. There is something about this girl that just doesnt feel right. From the flaming hair to the calculating glint in her green eyes, everything about her just pisses him off.

Little does he know that his fate is intertwined with the person he despises so much, defining his future path in a way he would have never expected.

“That should be all of them,” Kirishima said, wiping the sweat off his brow as the last of the villains that had attacked them fell unconscious to the ground.

“For now, anyway,” Bakugou growled.

After their attack on the portal villain had gone awry, they’d been sent here, straight into the middle of a group of waiting villains.Bakugou and Kirishima had fought hard and managed to overpower them, though even Bakugou couldn’t deny that it had taken a good chunk of energy out of him. His arms hurt from using his quirk so vigorously. He was well aware that they needed to be careful with their strength. God only knew how many more of those villains were around. Not to mention that wispy bastard. 

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” said Kirishima. “I’m guessing since we’re still here, the others must be inside the USJ. Now that we’re finished here, we should try and find them. They probably need our help, especially since we’re the reason we ended up in this mess. If we hadn’t attacked that portal guy, Thirteen could have just sucked him up... Yo, Bakubro, are you listening?”

Bakugou was, in fact, not listening. His mind was running over the events leading up to this fight. After their failed attack, the black clouds of the portal had engulfed them and dragged them away. He remembered clearly how the wispy villain’s tendrils had wrapped around Artemis’s body, whisking her away by herself.

He looked around. The five villains that had waited for him and Kirishima were still down on the floor. What if Artemis had had to face similar odds? Bakugou could feel his own exhaustion clawing at him, and Kirishima didn’t seem to be much better off. Even though the villains hadn’t exactly been the strongest, it was the amount of them that they had to keep on eye on. Shit. If Artemis really was alone, this could mean serious trouble for her. The image of her face popped up in his head and something in him tensed. Would she be okay?

He shook his head. Of course she’d be okay. As angry as the memory made him, Artemis had wiped the fucking floor with him in their fight. That girl was a force to be reckoned with. Of course she was okay. She had to be.

Unease rose within his stomach. Why was he even worried about her? Perhaps he felt responsible for her in a way, since anything that happened to her now would be indirectly his fault. Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Bakugou shook his head. No, Artemis would be fine. She was strong and fierce. Not that he cared, obviously.

The sound of a bullet hissing through the air past his ear and hitting the wall just inches away from Kirishima’s face ripped him out of his train of thought. Hearing his classmate yelp in surprise, he whipped around, ready to blast the next enemy to kingdom come. He spotted a man dressed in black leather gear in the broken window of the rundown room they were trapped in. The barrel of a gun pointed directly at his face. Shit. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, making his skin prickle. He may be fast, but not faster than a fucking gun! No use in stalling his attack. He needed to hurry. He raised his gauntlet hand and got ready to fire.

With a slam, the door burst open and something sharp hissed into the room. A long ice arrow buried itself into the gunman’s left shoulder. The momentum of the shot knocked the villain off his feet with a pained cry.

Bakugou’s red eyes flickered to the direction from where the arrow had come.

Artemis stood in the doorway, swirling water bow in hand, a wild look in her eyes that sent a shiver down his spine.

For a moment, silence fell over the room as Bakugou’s brain tried to process what had just happened. He realised that she’d shot that man without so much as a hesitation to save them. 

“Whoa, Artemis! Are you okay?” Kirishima’s voice pulled him back to the present.

Kirishima was already on the way to the door. He caught Artemis just before her knees buckled and she sank down to the ground.

“I’m fine,” she snapped, pushing his hands off her.

“Artemis, you’re… you’re covered in blood,” Kirishima gasped as he looked her over.

Bakugou stepped closer, taking a closer look at her. Kirishima was right. Artemis had several blood splatters across her PE uniform. Her clothes were ripped in several places and bruises covered her skin. He noticed a particularly nasty cut on her cheek and right upper arm.

Artemis pushed Kirishima off her again and rose to her feet. “Don’t shit yourself, Kirishima. It’s not my blood.”

“Is that supposed to calm me down? What the hell happened?”

“Villains. Would you rather it be my blood?” Artemis snapped at him.

“Wha- Of course not!” Kirishima gasped.

Bakugou stayed in the background as he observed the situation. A surprising wave of relief washed over him. Artemis was fine. She couldn’t be that bad, considering how she was yapping about again. A few bruises and cuts didn’t usually kill anyone, right? But something about that wild look in her eyes was… alarming.

Ignoring Kirishima’s protests, Artemis walked over to one of the villains lying on the ground and poked them with her foot.

“They’re out cold,” Bakugou growled, crossing his arms. “I made sure of that.”

Instead of answering, Artemis closed her eyes and kept still for several seconds. A familiar anger bubbled up in Bakugou’s gut. He really didn’t like being ignored. “Oi! I said-” he barked, but Artemis held up a hand to stop him. “I can see that,” she said before looking up. “Kirishima, help me out.”

“S-sure.”

She started to strip off her PE jacket. What in the hell was she doing now, Bakugou thought. There were no snide undertones, no cockyness in her voice anymore. Just clear-cut seriousness, like a veteran soldier emerging from his latest battle.

“What exactly are we doing?” Kirishima asked as he helped Artemis put her jacket onto one of the unconscious villains.

“There’s someone on the roof of the building next to us. I want to check something,” she replied.

“And how would you know if someone is on the roof? You came from the back, genius!” Bakugou protested. “Have you got an x-ray vision quirk now, too?”

“No, you idiot. I sensed him,” Artemis replied.

“Sensed him? How?”

Artemis sighed deeply, as if she were having to explain something simple to a child. God, he hated it when she got like this. How the fuck was he supposed to know what kind of stealth wizard magic she had?

“My quirk, Bakugou,” Artemis replied calmly. “I can manipulate and sense water molecules. That means I can read heartbeats. My quirk picks up on water molecules in a person’s blood and can read how fast it’s circulating by the pressure of the heartbeat”

Silence fell as both boys tried to process what she’d just dropped on them.

“Wait, hold on.” Kirishima laughed nervously. “So, what you’re saying is that… you can feel how fast water moves through the body by the pressure of the heart?”

“Exactly that. There’s someone on the roof and their heartbeat is slow and steady. In other words, they’re pretty confident of their position. And since it’s unlikely for one of our classmates to be this calm, I’m pretty sure whoever that person is, they’re bad news.”

The gears in Bakugou’s head had already started turning. It made sense. Blood was essentially water, after all. He remembered how Artemis had drawn the moisture out of the vegetation around them as they’d fought, how the grass and plants had turned to dust, dried up and dead. A shiver ran down his spine. Was she able to do that with everything? Plants and the air was one thing, but what about animals and...  people?

As quick as that thought entered his mind, he pushed it away. No. Who did he think Artemis was? Jesus, or something? No way. While she wasn’t someone to be taken lightly, she certainly wasn’t that strong. UA wouldn’t let someone that dangerous loose among them, would they?

Bakugou watched as Kirishima helped Artemis dress the villain in her uniform jacket and drag him towards the door.

“What exactly are you trying to do?” he asked in a gruff tone.

Kirishima just shrugged. So, Crazy Eyes hadn’t told him anything, either? How annoying. 

“Don’t pout, Bakugou. You’ll see soon enough,” Artemis grumbled before turning back to Kirishima again. “On three, throw him outside the door.”

Kirishima frowned in confusion. Bakugou’s fingers itched for his quirk. Even injured, she still had the strength to look down on him. To think that he’d been worried for her safety just a moment ago…

“The body should be visible from the roof there,” Artemis said.

Bakugou watched as Kirishima shrugged and followed along. A slight suspicion started to grow inside him. Was she gonna use that villain as bait? Begrudgingly. he had to admit that this wasn’t the worst plan he’d ever heard of.

Artemis grunted as she helped Kirishima pick up the body. Bakugou narrowed his eyes. Had she just flinched, or had he imagined it? With a groan, he stepped closer and pulled her off the villain.

“Hey!” she protested, but he ignored her and took her place.

“Just fucking admit that youre tired, woman! You’re gonna kill yourself like that,” he grumbled.

He sensed Kirishima raise his eyebrow, but one glare made him look away quickly. He wasn’t doing this because he cared. Of course he didn’t care. He was doing this because should Artemis overexert herself, he’d be the one who’d have to protect her and that was absolutely not on the goddamn table. 

Bakugou took a deep breath to steady himself. Giving Kirishima a nod, they counted to three and threw.

The body of the villain, clad in Artemis’s PE jacket, hadn’t even hit the ground before a gunshot echoed through the air. The bullet pierced the villain through the neck. Bakugou’s blood froze. Looking over to Kirishima, he could see him pale as well. 

“Tch.” The sound of a tongue clicking in annoyance made him whip around.

Artemis stood unfazed, her brows furrowed as if she’d just encountered a minor inconvenience in her plans. How was she not scared? There were people out to fucking kill them. With bullets!

And here she was, acting like this was just a normal, everyday situation. 

“Of course it would be a sniper.”

“You knew,” Bakugou said flatly. “How did you know?”

Directing her attention back to him, Artemis crossed her arms and took a deep breath.

“I didn’t know, but I had a suspicion,” she replied in a calm voice that sent shivers down his spine. “No one in combat is that calm on a roof during a battle. In my experience, it’s usually snipers.”

“Your experience?” kirishima asked, his voice laced with disbelief. “What the hell did they teach you at that school in Europe? That’s crazy!”

That seemed to catch her off guard a little bit. Artemis shook her head and crossed her arms. “Let’s just say my education was… thorough.”

Thorough, huh? Bakugou could tell that wasn’t entirely the truth. Again, Artemis was hiding something, being vague with who she was. It irked him to the point where he just wanted to grab and shake her.

“So, what exactly are we gonna do now?” Kirishima asked. “I mean, I can be bulletproof for a period of time, but I don’t think I’d be able to shield both of you to get out of here.”

“Just point me in the direction of that sniper and I’ll blast him right off,” Bakugou growled, cracking his knuckles.

“You’d both be dead before you could even reach them,” Artemis interjected.

God, Bakugou hated it when she was right. He turned towards her, eyes narrowing. “What do you propose, then? You seem to have something cooking in that freaky brain of yours.”

For a moment, Artemis froze in place, as if he had managed to catch her off guard.

“Well…” she started tugging at her bottom lip, a habit he’d noticed she did whenever she was deep in thought. “I may have a plan, but I’m not sure either of you is gonna like it.”

“Just spit it out, man,” Kirishima said, flashing her a toothy grin.

“Fine. Kirishima, I need you to get out that door and distract the sniper. Meanwhile, Bakugou and I will take the stairs up to the second level.” Her eyes set on Bakugou with an intensity that froze him in place. “I need you to blast yourself into the air while holding me. If I get high enough to take a clear shot, I can take out the enemy without us having to engage in any further combat.”

“You want me to do what?” Bakugou scoffed. “Carry you? What if you miss? You’d leave us open for attack, not to mention give our location away to any other villains in the area.”

“I don’t miss,” Artemis deadpanned. “I never miss. I know this plan isn’t optimal, but it’s the only possible way to get us out of here. I need…”

Bakugous eyes widened as she stepped closer and grabbed him by the wrist. He could clearly feel the trembling of her fingers. “I know you hate me, but just this once, please… trust me.”

Trust her? Was she joking? Every second word that came out of her mouth was a lie! Bakugou was ready to go off on her, when the look on her face made him stop. This girl looked nothing like the calculating soldier he’d seen when she’d first entered the class. Artemis almost looked… vulnerable and human.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “Let’s do this.”

He gave Kirishima a nod and waited until Artemis had explained the precise details and timings of her plan before taking the lead up the stairs. He cursed himself for not taking both of his gauntlets to the dome, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

When they reached the second floor, Bakugou opened the window and climbed onto the sill. He held out his hand to Artemis.

“Are you going to be okay? You only have one shot.” Her face was so pale. She really was running on fumes. But he couldn’t let that stop him if he wanted to live. He couldn’t help but feel respect for her for willing to push herself that far.

Taking his hand, Artemis let herself be pulled against him. “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna miss. Just blast yourself up and throw me up as high as you can. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Her determination was unbroken, and Bakugou hated that he liked that about her. Taking a deep breath, he waited until he heard Kirishima’s loud voice taunting the villain on the roof and the sound of bullets ricocheting off his hardened skin before jumping. Using as much force as he could possibly muster, Bakugou blasted himself upward with Artemis clinging to him.

“Now, throw me!” Artemis shouted in his ear. He shifted, placing his hands beneath her foot, and launched her as high as he could.

Bakugou watched as her small body twisted in the air, water collecting around her hands to form her bow. She took aim and shot. The loud  thud of an arrow successfully hitting its target echoed through the area. Then she fell.

Quickly blasting upward again, Bakugou caught her in his arms. Now falling together with her, he prepared to lessen the fall with his quirk, but before he could gather his energy, water started to draw towards them and encased them in a bubble.

The moment their bodies hit the ground, the bubble burst, taking most of the blunt force of the impact. Bakugou rolled onto his back, coughing. The landing had knocked the air out of him.

“Well, I gotta say, that went better than expected.” Kirishima’s voice called out to him.

He was right, Bakugou thought. He almost couldn’t believe it himself. He got back onto his feet and looked for Artemis, who’d been unusually quiet since the landing.

Artemis lay on the ground, curled up, writhing slightly. His stomach dropped.

“Artemis!” Bakugou knelt beside her, grabbed her arm and pulled her up.

“I’m fine,” she hissed, her breaths ragged.

Clearly, that was a lie. So, she’d taken a bigger hit than he’d suspected at first. “You’re not. You’re close to collapsing! For fuck’s sake, Artemis, you should have-”

She grabbed his arm with a strength he hadn’t expected, shoved him off and forced herself to her feet again. Was she trying to kill herself? 

“I can still fight! Don’t worry about me. We need to get to the others. The rest isn’t important,” she snapped.

White hot anger bubbled up Bakugou’s gut, setting his veins on fire. “Do you even hear yourself? You’re done! Look at you. If you keep this up, you’re going to fucking die! You won’t be able to help anyone,” he roared.

How could a single girl be so stubborn? Didn’t she care about her own life? Just earlier on the bus, she’d been so arrogant about being a liability in a fight and now here she was! God, he just wanted to smack her.

But before he could snap at her and vent his own anger, a huge explosion made the whole USJ tremble in its foundations.

“What the hell was that?” Kirishima gasped as finally he caught up with them. “There must be a huge fight going on.”

“We need to help them.” Artemis gritted her teeth and started walking.

“No, you dont!”

Bakugou jumped to his feet and went after her with big strides. Enough was enough. He wasn’t about to let her push herself to a point where she’d lose her life through her own stubbornness. If he had to grab her and knock some sense into that thick skull of hers, so help him God, he would.

Artemis had put quite a lot of distance between them when she started to wobble. Bakugou noticed the dangerous sway in her step and sped up, catching her just before her knees buckled.

“Fucking told you, dumbass,” he hissed.

He pulled her into his lap, alarmed at just how hot her skin felt.

“No… I need to…” she mumbled, her speech becoming slightly slurred.

“The fuck do you mean, you need to? You can’t do shit like this! You’ve done enough,” he growled.

A strange wetness spread across her back, soaking through her black shirt and seeping into Bakugou’s glove. Confused, he pulled her closer, his free hand pulling up her shirt to expose the area.

What he saw turned his blood to ice and made his anger simmer down to fear.

There was a deep wound on her back, just below her kidney. The flesh around it had turned an unnatural greenish blue tint. The weaker Artemis grew, the more blood seemed to seep through.

“What the…” he whispered in horror.

When had this happened, and why hadn’t she said anything? How had she just now started bleeding?

“F-fuck,” Artemis whispered weakly, her eyes becoming glassy. “A villain… stabbed me. I held it in… I think… poison.”

Bakugou stared down at her in disbelief. “Held it in? How did you… How the fuck did you even fight with that?”

“Quirk… I controlled my own blood flow.” She coughed weakly. “I had to. It was either fight… or die.”

Artemis struggled in his arms, trying to get up again, but he pushed his arm under her legs and picked her up, putting a stop to her struggles. He needed to get her to the teachers. She was dying. Even he could tell that much.

“Shut the fuck up,” he barked and started walking, Kirishima trailing after him.

Every few steps, he looked down at her, making sure she was still awake. Fear made his head pound. More and more blood leaked from her, soaking his clothes and leaving a trail of droplets.

“You stupid woman,” he growled. “Why didn’t you say anything? You’re fucking dying, goddamnit.”

Why was it that she looked so small and broken in his arms? As if all her walls had finally crumbled.

“I’m… sorry,” Artemis whispered, barely audible. “Thank you… for trusting me. No-one has ever…”

Her voice trailed off and her head fell back. Artemis had lost consciousness.

“Shit! Fucking hell, Artemis, dont you dare!”

In that moment, more shots echoed through the USJ and the loud scream of Present Mic told him that help was here at last. His steps picked up the pace. He needed to get her to the teachers. Now.

[bcbdrums]

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13577191/4/The-Little-Ones

A little Drakgo one-shot.  Trying to get back my creativity bug.

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

The Cure

Shego wore one of Drakken's blue t-shirts but had foregone pajama pants. She had the bedspread pulled up to her waist as she lay on her side in the massive round bed. She had played music earlier from the sound system Drakken had built into the headboard in an attempt to relax, but it ended up irritating her more than helping.

She set a hand over her stomach as it rolled and churned. The ill feeling was getting worse, and she had failed to find any activity or medication, chemical or homeopathic, that would help. She was sure the ginger only had a placebo effect, as she still had to run to the toilet with the risk of vomiting every time she tried to get out of bed.

She felt the almost imperceptible swell in her abdomen and wondered again if she was really feeling the baby growing, or if it was still too early and it was just in her mind. She could barely eat anymore, so she knew for sure any bump was definitely not her stomach digesting a meal.

Behind her she heard the door slide open, and a familiar too-quick step entered the room. She listened to the equally-familiar undoing of buttons and the tossing of faux-leather aside as Drakken removed his lab coat. And then she heard him kick off his shoes and start on his belt buckle. She frowned and lifted her eyes to the clock in the headboard. It was just short of noon.

A minute later she felt the mattress dip as Drakken crawled onto the bed and moved behind her. He gently pushed her hair away and kissed the back of her neck. Her brow rose. So that's why he was coming to bed at lunch time...

She took a deep breath. "No."

He hesitated for the briefest moment, but continued kissing her neck. His hand moved around her waist and slipped under hers where it lay over her abdomen.

She took another breath and sighed long before repeating, "No." Her tone was more insistent that time and he shifted nearer to her so he could move his face over hers and make eye-contact.

"Why not...?"

"Because I feel like I'm gonna throw up even when I'm not moving."

She peripherally saw his expression morph to concern and she turned her head to see him more clearly. Beneath the concern was a strong desire... She knew it well, and it hurt her to disappoint him. But she was too sick.

Drakken's brow furrowed. "You've...gotten me rather used to a routine, Shego."

Shego bit the inside of her cheek as she considered his words. She'd been almost forced to do the research and knew that libido increased in the first trimester of pregnancy. But her sex drive was insatiable. She frequently wondered if the intensity had to do with her unique biology, or if it was really just normal.

But Drakken was right; she had gotten them into a routine. He'd been a bit annoyed and tired for about the first week and a half of her predatory behavior toward him, but after that and after she explained what was going on, he rapidly got on board. And she realized suddenly that that was the first morning in weeks that they hadn't made love immediately upon waking.

She glanced at the clock again. It was eleven fifty-six, and they usually woke up a little before seven o'clock. That morning she had commandeered the bathroom to throw up several times and he'd gone straight to the lab. Considering the workout she was always giving him in the mornings—not to mention the occasional afternoons or evenings—she was impressed that he'd made it till almost noon.

"Sorry..." she said, and she meant it. His behavior made perfect sense. But she was so sick.

His hand left her abdomen to run slowly down her bare thigh, and he pressed himself against her to spoon her. His arousal was unmistakable.

"Are you sure?" he asked.

Her eyes narrowed. "Yes."

He looked dismayed. He slid his hand between her thighs. "What if I just—"

Shego grabbed his hand and removed it and then turned toward him and ignited her hand. He was startled and moved away from the green glow.

"Unless you want to be cleaning barf out of your bed, you'd better get over it and get used to not having a routine anymore."

He was distinctly startled by her behavior, but he backed away with his hands slightly raised in surrender. His expression morphed rapidly from afraid to sad to frustrated. Shego looked him over in his white t-shirt and blue-and-white striped boxers. He'd clearly not expected her to say no.

She let her glow go out and sighed. "If you want, maybe I can..." She trailed off and made a particular gesture with her hand.

He shook his head. "Not the same." He spun away from her and scooted off the bed.

"What are you doing?" she called as he headed toward the bathroom.

"Cold shower," he tossed over his shoulder with an irritated expression. Her eyes narrowed again when the bathroom door closed, and she carefully rolled over to see the door more clearly as she battled the morning sickness.

"Jerk..." she muttered to herself.

He had a serious problem if he couldn't go one day without sex. But to expect her to even attempt to be intimate while she felt like death was even worse. Drakken had always had a selfish streak, but that was a new kind of low.

She wondered what she could destroy to appropriately convey her annoyance, since yelling at him wasn't really an option; it would only make her feel sicker. Just breathing made the nausea worse.

She closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep. It was the only place that the churning of her stomach was slightly less.

When she heard the bathroom door open awhile later, she didn't even look as Drakken silently re-dressed and left the room.

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

"Shego?"

Shego woke from her very-light sleep at the sound of his voice. And then her face pinched in irritation. If he wasn't back to apologize, she was going to set his coat on fire...

"Are you...going to get up today? It's past dinner time."

Shego opened her eyes and peered at the clock. So it was. She felt...perhaps slightly less nauseous? She tried rolling over to face him...and had to swallow down bile as a result.

"No," she gasped when the burn in her throat subsided, giving up trying to look at him. As her stomach continued to turn, her annoyance with him built back into anger. It was his fault she was so sick anyway. He was the one who had gotten her pregnant despite her birth control pills, with his ridiculous fertility... Why was he so virile at his age anyway?

She realized he wasn't saying anything else, and when she turned her head he was already on his way out the door. She blinked in surprise, but then settled her head back on the pillow and frowned in satisfaction. Clearly he had learned his lesson. But if he thought he was touching her when he came to bed that night...

A few minutes passed as she contemplated making him leave the bed altogether. They hadn't slept apart even once since they found out she was pregnant, even though she still technically had her own room. Half of her stuff had been moved into his, and the rest was still in hers. And if she was mad or needed space, sometimes she would elect to sleep in her room. But it had been many, many weeks since she'd done that...

The door sliding open again caught her attention, and she held her breath as she made the effort to slowly roll over. She could threaten him with kicking him out at least, if he was thinking about—

Her train of thought ended abruptly as she stared at a loaded tray of food Drakken was carrying. She leaned up on her elbow to watch as he carefully set it down on the bed.

"Here. Take what you want, and I'll put the rest of it away," he said.

She stared at the tray with wide eyes. There were two kinds of ice cream, a red-orange colored smoothie, a huge tray of saltine crackers and cheese, a steaming cup of tea, a bowl of watermelon chunks, and two small ramekins with one containing a full zest of lemon and the other bruised mint leaves.

"What's this...?" Shego asked.

"The smoothie is watermelon and pineapple... The tea is lemon ginger. The ice creams are...lemon-ginger-coconut, and watermelon-orange sorbet."

Shego painfully sat all the way up. "...Did you make ice cream?"

"Well...you're feeling so much worse today, and I know you said the ginger isn't helping but...maybe you just need a little more. Oh, and the mint and lemon zest are just for...uh...is it called scent-therapy?"

"Aroma therapy..."

Shego looked up at Drakken's concerned face and then back to the tray.

"I guess...I'll have the ice cream?" she said.

He lifted the bowl of lemon ginger coconut with a raised brow, and she nodded. He passed her the bowl and spoon, and then after setting the mint and lemon zest on the headboard he picked up the tray and left the bedroom.

Shego stared at his back until he was gone, and then dipped her spoon into the ice cream and took a cautious bite. It wasn't too sweet, wasn't too tart, and wasn't too rich either. He must have altered the recipe in some way so it wouldn't be too heavy. And it was delicious... And swallowing it didn't upset her stomach.

In fact, after a few slow bites her stomach started to feel better. But her heart started to hurt as she felt a bit guilty. She'd been mad because he didn't get something she'd been offering sometimes multiple times a day... And his response to her refusal, which she'd initially thought selfish, was to pamper her.

It wasn't until she had finished the ice cream and set the bowl atop the headboard that she realized Drakken wasn't back yet. After a moment of thought she understood that the clean-up from all he had done and prepared was going to take awhile. He would probably clean the whole kitchen after making two ice creams and a smoothie... And had he even eaten anything?

She lay down on her side as her stomach turned again, though less fiercely, and waited. She wanted to thank him for all he had done, and apologize for getting upset before. The scent of lemon and mint above her head further helped calm her tortured stomach, and as she continued to wait she found herself drifting off to sleep again.

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

Shego started awake at the feel of the mattress sinking behind her. Her stomach rolled and she grimaced, but a feeling of peace began breaking through the sickness as Drakken's familiar weight settled behind her in the dark.

She was surprised a few moments later when she didn't feel his arms around her as was their normal, and she slowly turned over to face him.

"You're awake?" he asked softly.

"I slept on and off most of the day."

"Oh... Right."

She watched the slight furrowing of his brow as he looked at her. His lips parted as he took a breath to speak, and then he seemed to second-guess himself. The furrowing of his brow deepened and he closed his eyes.

"Good night, Shego," he said gently.

She stared at his face in the dark. He looked concerned... She rolled her eyes at herself. Had her mild threat that morning affected him so badly?

"Drakken..." she said softly. His eyes opened in cautious question. "Kiss me?"

The worry in his eyes began to fade, and when she opened her arms to him he closed the small distance between them on the bed and slowly drew her close. She nuzzled her way into a gentle kiss, and when his lips pressed back so familiarly and lovingly against hers she knew everything was fine. More-so when his hand softly rested against her abdomen.

"You're gonna owe me for these nine months..." she said against his lips as she continued to kiss him.

"All nine?" he asked. When she pulled back to look at him she saw he was half-teasing, as was she.

"Maybe less... If you keep bringing me homemade ice cream in bed."

"Done," he agreed, and kissed her.

His hand gently rubbed her stomach, and she continued kissing him softly until his responses became tired and few. She rested her hand on the side of his head and stroked his hair until his breathing evened and he began slipping into sleep. She leaned closer to his ear to whisper.

"I hope I'll feel up to getting back into a routine soon..."

She watched as the corners of his mouth turned up, and his arm settled heavily around her. Closing her eyes, she rested her face against his and hummed in happiness.

[bazypitchandsimonsnow]

Being Simon

Chapter 2: The Present

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff/Angst

Word Count: 9856

Chapter 2/2 (All chapters)

Summary: Simon is back in his own time, but all he can think about is the man from his past.

Read on AO3

AN: Time for some pining!

———————————————

I wake up on Sunday feeling just as shitty as I did Friday night. No amount of comfort food, hitting my punching bag, or mindless TV have helped. And sleeping it off has done jack shit, because all I could dream was Ty’s soft looking black hair and pretty eyes.

I barely know who he is. I don’t even know his bloody last name. Yet I desperately want to see him again. How that’s going to happen is...well, that’s something I haven’t figured out yet. Every time I’ve opened a door, I’ve hoped I would walk into Dr. Margaret’s office. She can time travel and teleport, surely she’ll know something about one guy I talked to. Right? Right...

I throw off my blankets, sitting up and staring out at the London skyline, lit up in violet and gold by the rising sun. I wonder if he’s out there, looking at the same horizon I am. I wonder if he’s working at his mother’s law firm, or if he’s reading forever like he truly wants. I hope it’s the latter. I want him to be happy. Fuck, I can’t stop thinking about him. The urge to see him again is burning in my chest and gut and everywhere. I’ve never felt like this before; so intensely focused on one person. If only I had looked at his bloody number!

“God,” I groan, “I want waffles. At least I can have that.” I get up and stomp to my door. The second I walk through, I stumble onto a cold stone floor, bright lights flooding my vision.

“Nice pants,” Dr. Margaret says. I pull the hem of my shirt over my Monty Python boxers.

“Seriously, why do you always get me at literally the worst times?”

“Not my fault you never have a good time.”

“Oh, fuck off.” I sit heavily on her couch with my arms crossed. “So what happened? You usually do the post-regret session earlier than this.”

“Time is an illusion. Stop stalling. What did you learn?”

I sigh, sinking further into the cushions. “Well, I learned that Agatha and I didn’t just fall apart, I let it fall apart. I put myself and my own stuff before her time and time again. And I’ve done the same with everyone else after Agatha because I refused to see my part in our relationship ending, so I never tried to fix it. I need to actually be present in and put the work into my relationships. That’s the lesson, right?”

Dr. Margaret scoffs and laces her fingers together, elbows on her desk. “What the hell am I here for?”

I shrug with a little smirk. My ego feels way too inflated right now. “Dunno. You got something else to add?”

“Hm.” She leans forward and pins me with her intense eyes. She’s really good at that. “You’re too scared of being alone to end things when they’re not going well. Why you get dumped every time. See that?”

And pop goes my pride. My face heats up, most likely turning an impressive shade of scarlet. I sink into my seat. “Okay, yeah, you’ve got a point there...”

“Simon.” She moves even closer with a kind smile. “Don’t feel bad. Not a bad person. Were alone most of your childhood, don’t want to be alone again. But can’t keep making choices from fear. Have to make them for the right reasons.”

“What are the right reasons, then?”

“Happiness, growth, all that good shite on greeting cards.”

I let out a small laugh. “Okay, I’ll go pick some up at the corner store.”

“Get some ice cream too. Deserve it after such a long regret.” She leans back in her chair, strong arms crossed behind her head. “Maybe give Agatha a call on the way there. Might know something about a raven haired bloke.”

My pulse goes into double time. I lean forward with eyes wide. “Wait, you mean-”

“Have fun.” 

Dr. Margaret nods, and the world spins into a blur of colour around me. Then I'm stumbling through my bedroom door like I haven’t been anywhere at all. Fuck, I hate when she does that. I have to stay against the wall for a few seconds, just until I don’t feel like I’ve been on a bloody tea cup ride for a million years. Part of that might be caused by Dr. Margaret said. My heart is still beating like mad. It’s bruising my fucking rib cage, I swear. Holy shit. Holy shit.

I scramble to grab my phone, half charged on my bedside table. Fourth in my contacts is one Agatha Wellbelove. It’s relieving to see for so many reasons. The phone rings three times, each one making my anxiety ratchet up, until it finally cuts off.

“Hello?” Agatha answers.

“Aggie!” I say a bit too loudly.

“Simon? What are you doing? It’s four in the morning here.”

My stomach sinks. Right. Major events don’t usually change after a regret. “Oh my god, you’re in California. I completely forgot about the time difference, I’m so sorry. I’ll go-”

“It’s alright, I’m already awake now. What’s up?”

“Um...this is going to sound random, but do you remember Ty? Your friend from third year uni?”

“Wow,” she chuckles, “that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.”

Fuck, that’s not a good sign. “Have you, uh, seen him since uni?”

“A little, but not in awhile. We only had a couple more classes together before exams started. We had drinks a few times after, then I went to California right after graduation and he went to Oxford. Both of us were too busy to keep in touch, I guess.”

“Oh. Okay...” I lay down on my bed, Part of me just wants to curl up under my blankets forever. Another part wants to stuff my face with pastries. (Maybe both.) (Both is good.)

“What’s up with asking about Ty?”

“I dunno. I was just thinking about that time we talked. It just, uh, popped into my head” Because I literally just lived it a couple days ago while in time travel therapy, but I can’t say that. I learned a long time ago that no matter how rationally I explain it, no one will believe me.

“Right, you talked to him after our breakup.”

“Yeah. He helped me a lot. I’m pretty sure we wouldn’t still be friends without him. He was nice. In his own weird way.

She laughs quietly. “Yup, sounds like Ty. He acted all haughty but he was such a sweetheart. Wish I had kept more in touch with him more.”

“Me too.” I hug myself, and it helps a little. “Me too.”

“Oh, I think I might still be Facebook friends with him.”

Almost all my despair washes away in an instance and I bolt upright. “Really?!”

“Lemme check.” She makes little contemplative noises through the phone. “Okay, yeah, there he is, Ty Black.”

“Black? That’s his last name?”

“No, he told me he had a crush on Sirius Black and wanted to pretend they were married.”

“Oh...okay.” I start to deflate again. I feel like a leaking balloon. “Does it say anything?”

“Looks like he hasn’t used it in awhile. His last post was a couple of years ago. Says he made partner at a law firm.”

“Does it say which one?”

“No, just that it’s in London. Not surprised, he always wanted to be in the big city.”

I’m grinning ear to ear. He’s in London, my city. He’s here with me. I can find him. “Cool, cool, good to know. Um, anything else you can tell me, Ags? Like his full name?”

“No idea, Si. I actually didn’t know much about him. We spent most of our time gossiping about our classmates or getting shit faced. If I asked him something about his family or past, he’d always change the subject. So I just don’t know.”

I’m not sure how to feel about that. Ty told me things about his family, about his past. But was that because he trusted me instinctively, or because I was just some random bloke who probably wouldn’t remember? Was I convenient? Well, he gave me his number, so he must’ve seen...something in me. Not sure what though. I've never seen much in myself.

“Okay,” I sigh, “makes sense, yeah. Thanks, Agatha.”

“Welcome, and good luck. From what I remember, he was really cute.”

My face turns a bright shade of scarlet. Luckily Agatha can’t tell over the phone. (I think.) “Um, I’m not sure-”

“Please, give me more credit, Simon. I’ve known you for most of your life, I can absolutely tell when you're smitten. Not sure why you’re thinking about him over ten years later, but I support you. I hope it goes well.”

I smile, and I kind of hope she can hear that. “Thanks, Ags.”

“Welcome. Now I’m going to go back to bed. Love you.”

It’s impossible to describe the utter joy and relief I feel at those words. I’ve got Agatha back in my life. Hell, as far as she knows, we never lost touch to begin with. I’m so, so happy.

“Love you too, Ags. Night.”

“Night,” she yawns. The phone clicks off, but I keep grinning. Well, even if I can’t find Ty, this is absolutely a victory. But I’m going to damn well try.

My stomach growls louder than a lion. Waffles first, though. Definitely waffles.

———————————————

“You don’t remember anything about him?” I ask through my mouthful of sweet, delicious fried batter and syrup.

“No, Simon,” Penny sighs. “I don’t remember the guy you mentioned, like, once in the few weeks before our third year exams.”

I grumble. Stupid past me, not saying more. It’s not his fault though. Past versions of me only remember bits and pieces of a regret, just enough so they don’t seem like total weirdos who blacked out and can’t remember a big chunk of time. So it's more like stupid time travel shenanigans.

“Damn, okay. I’ll just keep looking.”

“Are you really going to scour all of London looking for one bloke you met over ten years ago?”

“When you say it like that it sounds stupid.”

“Yeah, it really does.”

“Bye, Penny, got more work to do.”

“Simon-”

I hang up before Penny can talk me out of this. She absolutely will, and I don’t want that right now. I want to find him, no matter how impossible it seems.

First stop is the alumni website, obviously. We went to the same uni, he has to be somewhere in the system. My fingers fly like lightning across the keyboard. No one in the political science or English departments that looks close to him, just a lot of uptight white dudes or hippie looking magazine writers who probably smoke too much weed. None of them have his gorgeous skin or dreamy grey eyes. (God, I want to see those eyes again.)

Next, I try the Oxford law school site. It’s even more impossible to navigate than most uni websites. There aren’t even any pictures of their alumni, just a list of stupidly posh names. Lewison, Pemberly, Grimm, Fairchild, Abbot, Harrington, none of which have a first name resembling Ty. That’s another issue. His name could be a nickname for so many other names. Tyler, Tyson, Tyrell, Tyrone are all possible. (Hope it’s not Tyrone, bloody hell.) Or maybe his name is just Ty, for some reason.

That’s why London 411 is absolutely no help. Apparently there are literally thousands of Ty's living in my city. I narrow it down to people my age, plus or minus a few years and there are still hundreds of Ty’s and Ty adjacents. I groan and rake my fingers through my hair, nails digging into my scalp. Why the fuck didn’t I get his last name? I want to scream at myself but all that would achieve is getting noise complaints from my neighbours.

Eventually, I resort to just straight up Googling. I try everything I can think of. “ty university of manchester,” “ty university of manchester english,” “ty university of manchester politics,” “ty university of manchester english politics,” “ty oxford law,” “ty london lawyer,” “ty london,” “ty sexy hot university of manchester student ashwerhuertjwerh.”

I faceplant my keyboard for longer than I would like to admit. “This is hopeless,” I groan into my table. I lift my head up to the ceiling. “What’s the point of this, Dr. Margaret? Is this some sort of test? Are you trying to give me a bloody ulcer?! Cause the last one is absolutely happening!”

Of course, there’s no answer. I’m not even sure where Dr. Margaret’s office exists relative to myself, or to our reality period. Trying to figure that out makes my brain hurt. I look at the clock, and it’s already seven. Christ, have I really been at this for that long? I should be grading homework like a good teacher. I need to stop. I’m a thirty three year old person, dammit, not a love struck teenager. (Okay maybe I’m both.) I slam my laptop shut and go on a hunt for food.

I heat up some frozen macaroni and take out my munchkins’ worksheets. Okay, these are easy. Math tests are universally understandable and simple most of the time, unlike stupid time travel therapy tests. I shovel bad pasta in my mouth as I fly through grading. 

“Good job, Matt,” I mumble through my shitty food. “Got the formula right.”

This is easy. I can do this. And I’m not thinking about Ty. Not at all. Maybe if I keep telling myself that, it will come true.

———————————————

“Nice job there, Roy,” I say. “You summarized the text wonderfully.”

“Thank you, Mr. Snow.” He beams at me with his gap toothed grin.

“You’re very welcome, bud.” I turn to Sufia, who seems to be stuck on the second question. I get down on her level, making my knees ache in the process. It’s worth it. “Need any help, Sufi?”

She holds up her worksheet to me a little too close. “What’s this word mean?”

I gently push the paper back so I can actually read it. (My vision isn't bad enough for that yet.) “‘Ascend,’ it means going up. For example you can ‘ascend the stairs.’”

Her eyebrows knit together. “Why doesn’t it just say go up then?”

“Well, that involves a longer discussion about poeticism that we’re going to have next week, alright?”

“Okay.” She goes back to the worksheet, sticking her tongue out in concentration. I chuckle under my breath. The strange and hilarious things kids do, gets to me every time.

I wander around the room, helping any kid who needs it and giving suggestions when asked. Teaching is less about telling and more about guiding children. It makes me wish a certain someone would guide me instead of leaving me to suffer for the last week.

I’ve still got nothing on Ty, no matter where and how I search. Everyday my hope gets whittled down bit by bit. I’m this close to giving up. There’s only so many hits one person can take, really.

“Yes, that’s a good point, Maeve, I like where you’re going with that,” I say. “How do you think that fits with our earlier readings?”

Maeve scratches her head with the top of her head with her pencil eraser. “Um...I don’t know...”

I crouch down near her. “Well, is there a way for you to remember? Do you have the books on you?”

“No, but I have something better!” She reaches into her absolutely massive backpack (I’m surprised she doesn’t tip over wearing that thing) and pulls out three notebooks. They’re all labeled with divider tabs. It’s insanely organized for a nine year old. “I keep a lot of notes.”

“Wow, I can see that. You like doing that?”

“Yeah! I keep all my notebooks, I like to read them.”

“Smart plan. Wish I kept-”

My mouth snaps shut. The gears are turning in my head. Creaking and slow, but still turning. I’m flung back to a vague memory of being 24, moving into my current flat from my old uni one, and Penny sorting through my random crap. She stood over a mess of all my uni papers next to my desk. Literal years of collected worksheets and notes that I never got around to throwing away.

“Why the hell do you have all these?” Penny asked.

“I wasn’t sure what I’d need for later classes,” I’d said, “then it all just piled up...”

She shook her head at me. “Well, you can’t keep all of it. Pick some stuff you want to keep and we’ll donate or throw out the rest.”

I nodded, then sat cross legged in front of the anxious student hoard. I tossed all the random papers profs handed out but I never read, along with most of my notebooks. But I remember one moment, a single instance that might change everything, when I decided to keep the notebooks that looked nice. Like the green one with vines on it I used in third year. I always kept it in my book bag. I liked the pocket just inside the front cover.

Holy shit.

“Mr. Snow?”  I’m snapped out of my weird memory trance back to my reality as a teacher who needs to, y’know, teach. I smile down at Maeve.

“Sorry, mate, spaced out a bit there. Anything else you need help with?”

Maeve points to a new question. “What does this mean?”

I explain the question to her as calmly as I can, not showing how I’m simultaneously panicking and ecstatic inside. Like a fireworks display in every lobe of my brain. Holy fucking shit.

———————————————

The second all the munchkins are out the door, so am I. Luckily I’ve been distracting myself from the Ty search by furiously doing all my lesson planning. I’m set for the next week. But all I’m really thinking about is where I put my bloody notebooks.

I slam my door shut, only vaguely wondering what my neighbours would think. My office (really a repurposed storage room) is a huge mess of textbooks and lesson ideas, like a tornado tore through a Michael’s and a college book store. I make it even worse by throwing object around, searching for one stupid thing. I have to have it, I need to have it. It’s my last chance, honestly. Please, universe, let this go right.

Under my Teaching Theory 5th Edition textbook is a pile of old notebooks, including a green one with vines on the cover. I scramble to open it. My heart skips a beat when I feel a piece of paper. Slowly, I pull it out, and gasp under my breath.

023-345-9876 Give me a call sometime, Snow - Ty

I’ve never typed a number so quickly in my life, though I have to keep hitting backspace because my fingers are shaking so much. And I’m even more nervous as I bring the phone to my ear. Fuck, this is so stupid, but I’m not turning back now. The phone rings three times before it finally gets picked up.

“Basilton Pitch,” a smooth, strong, most likely male voice replies. Well, that sort of sounds like him, but wrong name. My stomach sinks a little.

“H-Hi,” I squeak. I clear my throat so I don’t sound like I’m going through fucking puberty again. “Um...”

“Hello? May I help you?”

“Uh, possibly.” I rub the back of my sweaty neck. “I don’t know if you can help me, but I’m looking for someone who gave me this number a long time ago. Do you know a man named Ty?”

There’s a long, extremely awkward pause on the other side. My face gets more and more red each passing millisecond. I’ve really fucked up, haven’t I? I should just hang up-

“No one has called me that in ages,” he says. “Who are you?”

I gasp very audibly. Holy mother of all fuck. It’s him. I’ve found him! “It’s me!” I shout far too loudly. “I-It’s Simon. We met once in uni, after your friend Agatha broke up with me. I’m not sure if you remember-”

“You’re...you’re Simon Snow.”

“Yeah! That’s me! And you’re Ty, the really nice posh gay bloke who was getting his degree in politics and English then went to law school, right?” I’m grinning, I can’t stop grinning.

“Holy shit, it really is you.”

“Yeah, and you’re you!”

He chuckles, and his voice sounds even brighter than it did all those years ago. “Yes, I am. Though I’ll admit, I’m a bit...confused. Not that I’m ungrateful, but I gave you my number over ten years ago, and you’re only calling me now?”

“Um, yeah...” I scratch my blushing face, quickly concocting up a reasonable story that lacks time travel. “I got caught up in exams, then I, uh...kind of lost the notebook where I put your number. I was so pissed at myself for awhile but what could I do, y’know? Then I was, um, going through my old uni stuff today and take a wild guess at what I found.”

“A notebook with an ancient piece of scrap paper.”

“Still pretty smart, huh?”

“Well, it doesn’t take a genius to figure that out, but I’ll take the compliment.”

My cheeks are starting to ache from smiling. I don’t mind at all. “Happy to give it, and that you haven’t changed your number in over a decade.”

“Thank God for being loyal to a mobile carrier.”

I’m about to say something else, anything to keep talking to him. But then there’s commotion on the other end of the line, and Ty (Basilton?) moves away from the speaker.

“What?” he says. “Yes, I can take a look at your notes, Vadoma, give me a moment.” His voice becomes louder again. “I’m very sorry, I wish I could keep talking, but I have end of the week work to do.”

My shoulders slump. “Oh, okay.”

“From your area code, I’m guessing you’re in London too, so how about we have coffee tomorrow and catch up? Around noon good?”

“Yes!” My voice squeaks again, fuck. Calm down, Simon. “Yeah, that sounds great. Any suggestions?”

“I know a nice little place in Camden if that’s alright.”

“Yeah! I actually live in Camden.” 

“What a lovely coincidence. I’ll text you the address?”

“That would be amazing.”

“Great, I’ll see you then, Simon.”

“See you.”

The phone clicks off, but it stays by my ear for another long moment. My brain is still playing catch up.

I found him. I actually found him. My stomach is filled to the brim with a thousand butterflies. I’ve never been this excited about...anything, really. How is it that one guy can make me feel like this? I have no clue, but I don’t care. I’m just looking forward to tomorrow so much.

———————————————

My leg won’t stop bouncing. No matter how deeply I breathe or push down, it just keeps jerking around like a hyperactive toddler. I’m somewhere between excited and completely, utterly terrified. What if he doesn’t show up? Worse, what if he does show up and he doesn’t like me anymore? It’s been over ten years, I definitely don’t look like I did when I was 21 anymore. He could be horribly disappointed with 33 year old me, with my dark circles and crow’s feet and only marginally better fashion sense. I would be.

Fuck, he’s going to laugh in my face isn’t he? My leg bounces even more. I stuff the last of my scone in my mouth then wash it down with strong coffee. Unfortunately that does nothing for my anxiety. I’m stewing in so much worry and fear that I don’t notice a shadow over my table until it decides to speak.

“Hello,” the same smooth, strong voice from the phone and from ten years ago says. I look up, and my heart skips more than one beat.

He’s just as beautiful as he was back then, but in a very different way. Same reddish-gold skin, same deep sea grey eyes, same raven black hair. But instead of looking like some preppy statue, he looks, well, human. He’s dressed in a tucked in white button down with a soft floral pattern. His collar is open, the sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, and it’s even wrinkled in some places, but none of that seems to bother him. More astounding, he’s wearing distressed black denim that hugs his legs in all the right places, a thumb casually hooked in one pocket. Never would I have imagined the uptight bloke I met in jeans. His hair reaches all the way to his shoulders now, falling in a lazy wave that softens the sharp lines of his face. His kind smile absolutely helps too. 

This isn’t the same Ty from twelve years ago. This guy is a lot more grown up, and looks so much happier.

“Hello?” he says again. “You there, Snow?”

I shake off the second Ty induced pan-panic of my lifetime. “Uh, yeah. H-Hi, Ty. Oh, wait, you go by Basilton now, right? Or do you like something else?”

He chuckles as he takes his seat across from me. It’s a simple movement yet surprisingly graceful. “Just Baz is fine. It’s less of a mouthful than Basilton.”

“Okay. Hi, Baz.”

“Hello again, Simon. How have you been?”

“Good, good. How about you?”

“Alright. Honestly, I’m still in shock that I’m seeing you again.”

I chuckle and rub my neck nervously. “Yeah, me too. But, uh, you look good. Twelve years later and you’re still stupidly attractive.” My face immediately heats up. “Sorry, that’s weird-”

“I don’t mind. Not at all.” He leans back, arm casually slung over the back of his chair. “You’re still cute as ever, though I am glad your fashion sense has improved.

I must look so ridiculous right now, a thirty three year old man blushing like a smitten schoolboy. How can I help it when he talks like that? “T-Thanks. Your clothes have definitely changed too. What happened to the tweed jacket?”

Baz groans and hangs his head over the back of his chair. I like the way his hair falls. It’s pretty as hell. “Please don’t remind me. God, I don’t even know what I was trying to do back then.”

“Be some posh and professional prat while also being gay as hell?”

His head moves back up and he snaps his long finger and points at me. (I still want to know if he plays piano or not.) “Yes, that sounds right. Conformity and rebellion all at once. I had such insane cognitive dissonance back then, god.” He leans his cheek into his palm, pretty eyes fixed on me. “So what do you do now? Still attacking random men then stealing their cigarettes?”

I chuckle to try to hide my utter embarrassment. “No, but if I remember correctly, you offered me the cigarette.”

“Touche. You still haven’t answered though. What’s your life like?”

I shrug and sigh. “It’s pretty normal. I live in a tiny flat and I alternate between box food and take out, but I’ve got a pretty great job. I teach little kids.”

“So you did end up going into teaching like you wanted?”

“Eventually, yeah. I got sidetracked for...well, until a year ago. But I’ve finally been getting my life together lately. I do my laundry once a week now instead of once a month.”

He laughs, head bending back over the back. It’s so free and open, I’m amazed. “Yes, truly a sign of adulthood, I agree.” Baz sighs and runs his hand through his hair. I like how the black strands fall over his fingers. “I understand being derailed all too well. You should’ve seen me six months ago, I was a train wreck.”

“Really?” It’s hard to imagine Baz as a train wreck. He was so pristine in uni, and even now he still looks absolutely perfect.

“Oh absolutely. I’m humble enough nowadays to admit that you were right, Snow.”

“About what?” I don’t mind being right, but I’m not really used to it.

“About me.” He leans forward, arms crossed and elbows on the table, offering more but still a bit closed off. “All those years ago, you asked why I couldn’t just do what makes me happy. And I said that what I wanted didn’t matter. I had many reasons back then, but in the end they were all bollocks. I learned that the hard way. So, you were right.”

Is it strange that I’m both happy and sad that I was right? It’s absolutely a bittersweet taste on my tongue, like figuring out a lesson about myself from a therapy session. “Well, uh, thanks, I guess. But that sucks. Was the hard way, y’know...really hard? I hope it wasn’t.”

He sighs and runs his hand through his hair again. Honestly, he looks like some romantic hero when he does that. And I didn’t think he could get more attractive. “Well, it wasn’t fun, I can certainly say that. I did what I was supposed to do. Went to Oxford, became a lawyer at the family firm, fought all the cases the way I was supposed to. I kept waiting to not feel like shit every single day, but that never came. Nothing ever got better, and bit by bit small things piled up, completely crushing me. Then, well...” He winces, like someone has kicked them in the shins. “I did something pretty ridiculous.”

My head fills with a flurry of probably insane ideas. I only now realise that I’m leaning a lot closer, entranced and nervous for what Baz has to say. “How ridiculous are we talking?”

“Well,” he bites the corner of his lips (it looks way sexier than it should), “one morning over six months ago, I was looking over my case for the day. Checking notes and arguments, drinking too much coffee alone, smoothing out my suit, the usual. And for some reason, in that moment, a realization hit me; This was going to be the rest of my life. Reading cases, arguing for clients I hated, feeling completely numb all the time. I had been doing all this bollocks for almost ten years, and realistically I would be doing for decades to come. The thought sent me into a terrifying meltdown thanks to years of untreated mental health issues. I didn’t know what to do so I sort of ran away.”

“Ran away?” I chuckle. “In your thirties, I think they usually just call that a vacation.”

“It would have been, if I had told anyone I was leaving and hadn’t stopped answering my phone for weeks.”

My eyes go very, very wide. “Wait, what?!”

“Yeah...” It’s hard to tell in this lighting, but I think Baz’s cheeks turn red. Embarrassment looks cute on him. “After pacing around my flat for hours, I decided to simply leave. Packed a small bag, grabbed my car keys, and just started driving north with no destination in mind. Of course my colleagues started blowing up my mobile, then later my family and friends joined them. I couldn’t bear to answer because I didn’t even fully understand what was going on. I just needed to get far, far away from everything I knew and hated.”

“Where did you go then?”

“To a lot of places,” he sighs. “Mostly bad bars though. I basically drank and danced my way up the British Isle. I think. Honestly, I barely remember that time. It was an alcohol laden haze with brief moments of sober lucidity when I drove. And when I was lucid, I got depressed about my life again so I would drink more that night and pass out.”

“And you did that for how long?” My heart is beating a bit too fast. I know he’s fine, yeah, but still, the worry is eating away at me.

“Only a month,” he says, like that’s in any way a relief. “At the end of September, I stayed at a shitty inn in Scotland. I remember walking down the hall, and the next thing I knew I was in a hospital with my aunt by my side. She equal parts screamed at me and was relieved I was okay. Turned out I had fallen down the stairs while severely hungover like a bad Monty Python skit.”

He laughs, but there’s sadness behind it. Just like his smile over ten years ago. The more things change, the more they stay the same, I guess.

“Obviously I was fine.” He waves dismissively. “I spent two weeks recovering in the hospital. Which gave me a lot of time to think about myself and my future. By the end, I had decided to take an actual leave of absence from my work to focus on my mental health. And I did. Started therapy, stopped drinking, bought some clothes that weren’t bloody lawyer suits.” I can’t help but giggle. Baz’s smile has no sadness behind it this time.

“So I guess you’re not a lawyer anymore?”

He shakes his head. “Absolutely not. I quit a week after I got back to London, then started applying for book editor jobs.”

I grin wide. I can’t stop grinning. “Reading books forever.”

There’s a lovely glint in his eye. Like someone ripped Polaris from the heavens and put it in the deep sea grey of his eyes. (God the poetry unit is getting to me.) It’s a kind of playful happiness that I really, really like.

“You remember,” he says amused.

“Of course!” He smiles wider, eyebrows raising up. Now it’s my turn to blush like a teenager. I sheepishly rub the back of my neck, thinking of a reason that doesn’t include time travel. Or obsessing over our one conversation for a week. “Well, I-I’ve remembered some stuff. You just kind of, uh, y’know, stuck in my head.”

“Hence why you still called me ten years later.”

“Yeah.” I tilt my head down a bit, uselessly trying to hide how ridiculous I look. “I mean, I’m not really sure why. You were just...really different from anyone I’ve met. You were so, pretty and posh and smart, and at first I found it annoying. But the more we talked I realised you were nice, in your own strange way. And without your help I would have lost Agatha in my life forever. I dunno. You made an impression. You’ve come up in my head from time to time.”

Technically that’s not a lie. By time to time I just mean all the time for days. Though I have a vague feeling, a whisper of a half memory, that past me may have thought about Baz too. Some things always stick post-time travel no matter how much past me is supposed to forget. Usually it’s only the super important, impactful things. Looking at Baz’s incandescent smile, framed by wavy black hair, I think he might count.

“Honestly,” he says, his voice low in a very private way that I like, “you’ve come up in my head too. Especially during my crisis. I thought about how right you were back then, how I should have listened to you and maybe wouldn’t have wasted so much of my life if I had. But I was too stubborn and blind back then to” 

“Hey, stop that.” I somehow lean even closer. I’m this close to actually getting out of my chair. “Don’t beat yourself up so much. Remember that you had good reasons back then, and yeah it really sucked to go through all that, but you learned stuff right?”

“I suppose...”

“Then it wasn’t a waste.” Baz’s eyes narrow. A softer version of a glare, but he's still not totally happy. “Yeah, I know that’s easy to say, but I do kinda get it. Working in jobs I hated, never dating, never really doing anything for years, that all felt like a total waste. Sometimes it feels like my life is only just starting now at bloody 33. But I think struggling also gave me the drive to work harder now, live better. So did being a lawyer give you anything good?”

Baz looks really cute when he’s thinking. I like the way everything in his face pinches up, from the furrowed manicured brow to the slight pout of his bottom lip. (Don’t think about kissing that pout, do not think about it.) (Fuck I’m thinking about it.) Slowly, his expression softens.

“I learned,” he starts, “that I can’t force myself to love something. I thought if I was a lawyer long enough, I would at least learn to tolerate doing it, but I still hated every moment. I can’t keep living for other people’s expectations. At least that’s how my therapist puts it. Maybe I’ll fully listen to her one day.”

I let out a laughing snort and immediately cover my mouth in embarrassment. I hate when I do that. But Baz grins at me. The amused, affectionate glint in his eyes makes me want to blush even harder. My stomach feels like it’s full of rocks and butterflies all at once. It’s so overwhelming and wonderful.

“Took me a while to listen to my therapist too,” I say. “Actually fixing yourself is hard.”

“Tell me about it,” Baz groans, hanging his head for a moment, hair like a wavy curtain around his face. “It took ages for me to realise that I didn’t know everything that was wrong with me. Instead I had to actually listen to someone else’s assessment of me and not interject my own thoughts every time. Do you know how frustrating that is for a know it all like me?!”

“I can only imagine,” I giggle. My thoughts immediately go to Penny and the first time she got drunk. My ears rang for hours from all her yelling about not actually being drunk. She and Baz might get along. (Maybe a little too well. God, could I deal with two of them together?) (Hopefully, because I want Baz to stick around for awhile.)

“I live in absolute agony.” He puts the back of his hand against his forehead like a dramatic Victorian maiden. I’m about to call him that when my stomach decides to rumble louder than a bloody earthquake. The corner of Baz’s mouth quirks up. “You hungry there, Snow? I can get us something.”

“Uh, yeah, I’m always hungry. But I can buy it, don’t worry.”

“Nonsense. I was the one who asked you out and picked the place, I’ll happily pay.”

“Out like a date?” The words spill out before I have a chance to stop them. 

I’m pretty sure even the tips of my ears have turned bright pink at this point. Shit, why did I say that? Calm down, Simon. This is (technically) the first time we’ve seen each other in twelve years. No need to make this something it may not be. I expect Baz to be shocked, or confused, or annoyed at worst. But once again today, Baz surprises me. All he does is smile, looking at me with such kindness, far more open than I remember he was back at uni.

“Would you like this to be a date?” There's no pretense or implication in his words, he’s legitimately asking me. I don’t feel pressured, but luckily I already know.

“Yes, yeah, I-I would. I’d like that a lot.” I reach my hand forward across the table and just barely brush our fingers together. The tips of his are rough. Maybe he plays guitar or something, not piano. Doesn’t matter. I like the way he feels anyway.

Baz grins pointy ear to pointy ear. He flips his hand over, long callused fingers pressing into the much softer skin of my inner wrist. He can probably feel the way my pulse jumps. Luckily, I can feel the way his own is hammering. “Me too, Simon.”

We spend a bit too long just staring at each other before my stomach grumbles again. Baz chuckles and flags down the very nice waiter. I get another cherry scone and hot chocolate (yes I am 12 on the inside), and Baz gets something called a pumpkin mocha breve.

“What on Earth is that?” I ask when Baz gets his drink. It’s pale orange with a mountain of whipped cream on top.

“Try it.” He offers the cup to me and I take a sip. My tongue is immediately assaulted with more sugar that I’ve ever tasted at once. I blink rapidly from the shock.

“It tastes like a candy bar.”

“What can I say, I have a sweet tooth.” He licks the whipped cream off the top like a toddler with ice cream. A dollop gets on the tip of his nose.

“You’ve uh, got something right...” I flick the cream off with my thumb, “there.”

He laughs quietly. “Thank you. Allow me to return the favour.” Baz brushes some scone crumbs from my cheek. My skin feels like it’s on fire.

“T-Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome.”

We eat and drink and talk in between. Baz tells me about his work at the publishing house. It’s a small place that does mainly e-books and a few print ones, focusing on indie LGBT+ writers. He’s currently working on a book he describes as “gay polyamorous steampunk pirates,” which honestly gets me way too excited. I plan on pestering him for more details in the future. He looks animated the whole time, so passionate about what he’s doing. It makes him more beautiful.

He asks about my teaching. I tell him about my students, how incredible they are no matter how much they drive me crazy. I describe my lesson plans and all the new things I’m trying. Structured word inquiry, collaborative maths work, mixing subjects together to get kids engaged with stuff they don’t like. Luckily my principal is in favour of more out there ways of teaching too. Baz pays attention, asks questions and listens raptly. I can’t tell if he’s faking it. Most people do. I can’t blame them, it’s not very interesting. But as I go on and on, Baz never tries to change the subject or stares off into space. It’s not like he’s an angel for paying attention to me. It’s just nice that he’s making the effort. He’s really, really nice.

We eventually move off the topic of work. I tell him about my fencing class, something I haven’t done since I went to Watford. Baz calls me a bronze haired knight. I’m not too proud admit that made me blush. In turn, Baz tells me about getting back into playing the violin since he quit being a lawyer. (So that’s what the calluses are from).

“Cold I hear you play sometime?” I ask.

“My skills are still rusty,” he says over his near empty mug.

“Is that a no then?”

He sighs, but it’s with a small smile. “More like a ‘listen at your own risk.’”

“I can live with that.”

“Alright, another time then.”

I grin. Another time, I really like the sound of that.

Eventually, we somehow get onto the harder topics. I tell him about being in group homes, not having friends until Penny and Agatha, still feeling out of place and worthless sometimes. Baz talks about growing up without his mother, trying to live for her instead of himself until recently. Turns out we’ve both had a lot of hardship. We understand each other. We sort of match, I guess.

“I did like being with my younger siblings,” Baz sighs. “No matter how much I pretended I didn’t. Part of me felt like I was betraying my mother if I loved her husband’s children with another woman. But they were still my siblings and good kids, though I’m glad they’re all mostly tolerable ages now.”

I chuckle, leaning my cheek on my fist. “Mm, understandable. I always wanted siblings. Other kids to play with, y’know?”

“Group home kids didn’t play with you?”

“Nah, I was the weirdo who preferred punches over talking. No one liked being around me.”

Baz reaches out and brushes against my forearm. How can someone make me feel like I’m going to melt with just a touch? “If it’s any consolation, I certainly like being around you.”

I grin and touch his arm in turn. “I’ll certainly take that.”

We get away from all the dark shit, turning back to happier things. Baz describes the techniques and difficulties of the violin with dramatic gusto. I relay some of my worst customer service work experiences. I’ve never been good at talking, never liked it much. But I like it with Baz. He feels easy to talk to. I barely feel scared or awkward. We talk so much that we don’t even notice the sun setting on the horizon.

“Holy shit what time is it?” I say.

Baz looks down at his fancy leather watch. (A leftover from his prep days.) “Much later than I think either of us realised.”

I laugh and run a nervous hand through my hair. “Damn, sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologize, Snow, unless you regret being here?”

“What?!” I gasp. “Of course not!”

He grins cheekily. I grumble and glare at him. Teasing bastard. Baz grabs my hand, lacing our fingers together. Any bad will immediately vanishes. “You said you lived in Camden. How close are we?”

“Uh, not that far. I walked here.”

“Wonderful. How about I pay then walk you home like a gentleman?”

I hope my face doesn’t look as hot as it feels. I squeeze his hand. “I’d like that a lot.”

He squeezes back. “Good.”

Baz does just as he says, and soon enough we’re strolling down the streets under the dimming London sky. We chat some more, but also occasionally just walk in comfortable silence. I don’t mind either, because Baz doesn’t let go of my hand the whole time. I’ve never felt so excited just from someone holding my hand. I don’t know why. I don’t care, really. I just want to bask in it forever.

Unfortunately though, we do reach my building. Never have I hated my own home more. I consider not telling Baz so we can keep walking, but then I remember all the homework I was supposed to grade yesterday while I was too excited about Baz to focus. I’ll need a good night’s sleep to survive. Life is too cruel sometimes.

“This is me,” I say.

“Nice place,” Baz replies.

“You don’t need to lie.”

“I’m not, I promise.” His head tilts to the side, a smirk on his lips. “Maybe I could see if your flat matches up sometime.”

I swear to god, my face is going to melt off from how much I’m blushing today. Baz laughs at my obviously flabbergasted expression. I playfully smack his shoulder. “Haha, very funny. Buy me dinner first, arsehole.”

He tugs me a bit closer by our joined hands. My nose is almost touching his. The smell of his post coffee peppermint gum hits me so hard I’m afraid I’ll stumble from the wonderful shock. “Are you free next Friday?”

I gulp, then nod slowly. I can’t look away from his mouth, fuck “Y-Yeah.”

“Good for you.” He takes a large step back, snapping me out of my daze. He’s got a cheeky little half smile on his lips. “I’m not, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy the free time.”

I gape at the absolute bastard. I shove his shoulder a bit harder this time. “Arsehole!”

Baz throws his head back laughing. It’s the most beautiful sound in the noisy London night. He takes my other hand and runs his thumb over the back of it. “Unfortunately, I am actually tied up for the next week, but I’m free the week after. Any ideas, Snow?”

I grin at him. “How about a scenic walk in Hyde Park?”

One of his eyebrows goes up in playful confusion. “Not dinner?”

“We’ll get to dinner eventually. I expect to be romanced a bit more first, Basilton.”

He smirks again and pulls me closer again “That doesn’t sound bad at all. Hyde Park will be lovely this time of year.”

“Agreed.”

Even though by all rational logic we should let go, our hands stay linked. Neither of us make a move to get away. I can smell the peppermint again, every time his hot breath brushes against my face. It’s somewhat shaky. But I imagine mine is about the same. I’m not sure. I’m too focused on his sharp cheekbones and blown pupils and pouty mouth. Mostly his mouth. Before I know it, we’re nose to nose. I’m getting whiffs of something other than his gum. Cedar, maybe, and bergamot. It’s perfect for Baz. He moves his face slightly, and our mouths almost touch. A spark still runs through my veins.

“Simon,” he sighs, and the sound of his voice hits me in so many places. Baz’s head moves again, brushing our noses together. I watch his eyes flutter like a pair of butterflies until they fully close. Mine follow suit. I’m overwhelmed by the smell of cedar and bergamot as I press my mouth to Baz’s.

He’s colder than I thought they would be, colder than anyone I’ve kissed before. Yet I like it so much more. Baz’s tepid mouth sends a calming wave through my constantly overheated body. He’s soft too, like how I imagine a cloud could feel if I was ever able to touch one. Our lips slot together so easily. His hands clutch mine tighter, nails even digging into my skin. Not good enough. Not close enough. I let go of Baz, but only so I can slide my arms up to hold his shoulders, pressing our bodies together. Baz immediately winds his arms around my waist, getting us even closer. He’s all lovely lean muscle pressed against me. And I fit into his arm so well. My lips fall open and Baz quickly follows. His tongue slowly over my back teeth, making stars explode behind my eyes and in my brain. I kiss him more fervently. Baz groans into my mouth. 

Part of me can’t believe that we’re doing this. Two thirty three year old men, snogging like stupid teenagers on the steps of my apartment building. Sounds so embarrassing. The other part of me really doesn’t care. I’ve never felt like this just from a kiss. Like I’ve left my body and entered another dimension where all there is happiness and pleasure and Baz. Is this how all kisses are supposed to feel? Or is it because of Baz? I don’t know, and I don’t care. I just weave my fingers through his silky smooth black hair and keep kissing this wonderful, wonderful man.

Baz pulls away, and I nearly whine. Luckily I still have a bit of dignity. (Just a bit.) He doesn’t let go of me, thank god. He keeps his lovely hands on my waist, eyes still half closed, bright red lips pulled into a grin.

“Do you always kiss on the first date, Snow?” he whispers playfully.

“No, you’re the first.” I twirl a bit of his wavy hair around my index finger. “Feel special?”

“Extremely.”

I lean forward and kiss him again for a moment. Just a quick, hard press against him. Baz leans forward slightly when I pull away. My heart flutters happily in my chest. “As much as I’d like to keep doing this, it’s late, and I’ve got grading to do.”

He makes an over dramatic groan, leaning against my hands. “How dare you be a responsible teacher who is truly committed to educating the next generation?”

God, he’s making me want to kiss him again. He does it so easily. “I know, terribly inconvenient. We’ll figure something out, yeah?”

“Yes, give me a call. And don’t wait twelve years this time.”

I sigh while Baz smirks at me. I’m about to retort when he leans down and kisses me. My head is spinning like a tumble dryer. I don’t want this day to ever end. Unfortunately, reality is a thing that exists. And because of it, Baz has to pull back, leaving me wanting more.

“I’ll text you when I get home,” he says, “alright?”

“Alright. Have a good night, Baz.”

“You too, Simon.”

He pecks my forehead, and I nearly melt into the pavement. We then slowly disentangle ourselves. My fingers trail on Baz’s as he lets go. He waves one more time. I smile back. And I keep smiling as I watch him walk down my street, only going for my keys when I lose sight of him as he turns the corner. I literally skip up my steps to my door. I’m so dazed with happiness that I barely notice that I walk into Dr. Margaret’s office instead of my dingy lobby.

“Snogging in public?” she says. “How very adolescent.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “That’s what you say after abandoning me for a week?”

She snorts, leaning back in her chair. “Didn’t abandon you. Just let you figure things out on your own. Point of therapy, remember?”

“Well, yeah, I know that. A little heads up would be nice though.���

“Not my style.”

It’s my turn to snort. I plant myself on her couch. “I know, you’re more of the ‘toss in the deep end and yell swim’ kind of therapist.”

“Mhm. And look how it turned out. Found your Baz.”

My eyes narrow even more. “How do you know his name?” Dr. Margaret just keeps smiling at me like a cat who’s caught a canary. The realisation slaps me in the face. My jaw drops open. “You knew exactly who and where he was the entire time, didn’t you?” No change, still smiling. “How?!”

“Though about him. Saw his whole life in my mind’s eye.”

My jaw falls further. Holy shit, how powerful is she? “Really?!”

“No.” She pulls a plastic card out of her pocket, holding it between her index and middle finger like a throwing star or something. “Swiped his uni ID and Googled him here. Much faster than powers.”

I can’t help but burst out laughing. Godlike abilities have nothing on a good search engine, it seems. “Of course you did.”

She shakes her head sarcastically. “Can’t believe you. Send you back in time, and you wonder how I know about one bloke?”

“Uh, yeah. Knowing everything is a bit different from time travel.” I lean forward with elbows on my knees. “Why didn’t you tell me about him then? Why make me suffer for a week?”

“Suffering now?”

“Well, no, now that I’ve found him-”

“And what made you want to find him?”

I rub the back of my neck, trying to coax the words out from my brain. “Uh, I dunno. I know we met only once, but he just stuck in my head. He was interesting, smart, funny and nice in his own way. And I wanted to talk to him again, learn more about him. It was overwhelming, really. How much I wanted to be around Baz again. I-I’ve never felt something like that so strongly before.”

“Exactly.” Dr. Margaret picks up a pen just to point it at me. “Felt strongly for the first time ever. Made you determined even to find him when it was hard. And never felt this strongly because you always settled for okay. Felt okay with Agatha, with Todd, with everyone. Need better than okay. Need to want someone more so you can build more. Make a relationship that’ll actually go somewhere.”

My eyebrows furrow. “I thought I needed to focus on the present more.”

“You do. In the present, desire Baz right?”

I think about Baz’s pretty eyes and his pretty laugh and the way he made my head do somersaults when he kissed me. My flushed face splits into a grin. “Yeah, I really do.”

“Good.” She leans back again with her hands linked behind her head. “Build from there. Put the effort in like you did searching for him. Will want to put the effort in, because you actually want him, not just because he’s nice and you should like him.”

The puzzle pieces start to slide into place finally. It was all one big, weird life lesson, of course, like everything Dr. Margaret gets me to do. Looking back, I cared about Agatha, and I did love her as a friend. But I never desired her. I never desired Todd or any of my other exes either. They just seemed like the kind of people you should date. They weren’t even bad, they just weren’t for me, weren’t who I wanted.

But dear lord, do I want Baz.

“You couldn’t just tell me I was dating people I wasn’t actually attracted to?” I ask. “That I was actually supposed to feel more but I was settling for nice people I didn’t really like instead?”

Dr. Margaret shakes her head. “Not how therapy works. Supposed to guide you to find the answers, not tell you outright. Where’s the fun in that?”

I cross my arms and smirk at her. “Since when is therapy fun?”

She glares at me hard. “Brat. Lucky that I like you.”

“Aw. I’m touched.” My voice is sarcastic, but my bright smile is genuine. I’m glad she likes me. I’m glad she’s here to help me finally live my life. I hate to think where I’d be without her help. From her returning grin, I think she knows that.

“Go do your grading. Be a responsible teacher. See you next time.”

“See you later, Dr. Margaret.”

She waves her hand, gold rings flashing in the light, and the world spins like a cyclone. I yelp as I fall flat on my arse on my apartment floor. Well, at least she didn’t put me back in the lobby so I had to climb all those stairs. Small blessings, take 'em where I can get ‘em. And Dr. Margaret herself is already a huge one.

After getting out of my day clothes and into trackies, I set about to my teacher's work. It’s not the most fun part of the job but it’s certainly the most important. I’m lost in a haze of spelling tests and math activities when I feel my phone buzz. There’s one text on the screen, and it makes me smile instantly.

Baz Hey, made it home safe. I had a lovely time today and can’t wait to see you again. Call me tomorrow at lunch?

Is it possible to die from such pure happiness and excitement? I hope not, because I’ve still got so much more of my life I want to live. And I want to see if Baz will be a big part of it.

Simon  me too. call you at noon <3

———————————————

AN: Mushy ending, as usual for me haha. I really hope you all liked that! Even if you don't know the original show, I hope it was good. I really liked the idea of Simon in time travel therapy, it would be good for him. Tbh I thought about making Ebb his therapist because she was such a mentor for him, but I wanted to try out Margaret and she ended up being a lot of fun. I may write more in this universe. There are other Being Erica plotlines that could be fun. And exploring Baz and Simon's relationship in this AU further could be great. We'll see. I'm taking writing day by day due to my health. Anywho, thanks for reading!

[starship-squidlet]

Kurta’s Moving Castle: Chapter 2

Summary: Leorio wonders about his mysterious saviour, gets cursed by a creepy wizard dude, and makes a new feathered friend.

Word count: 2,926

Disclaimer: Kurta’s Moving Castle Preface

Original A/N: I have no self-control, so here’s chapter 2 already...

Previous chapter: Chapter 1

Next chapter: Chapter 3

“I have so many questions,” Zepile sighed, handing Leorio a towel-wrapped bundle of ice cubes to hold against the throbbing bruise on his face.

“So do I,” Leorio grumbled.

“What happened?” Melody asked gently.

“I’m not really sure,” Leorio sighed. “One minute, I was getting punched by this soldier, and the next I was running around with some cute blond twink, who, by the way, saved me from said soldier and his beefcake buddy.”

“But how did you end up on the balcony?” Zepile demanded, passing Leorio a drink and ignoring another customer at the end of the bar in favor of Leorio’s story.

“I’m… not really sure,” Leorio sighed. “I think… I think we flew, but that’s not possible. I probably just hit my head harder than I realized.”

“You know who flying isn’t impossible for?” Zepile poured the other customer’s drink and slid it down the bartop. “Wizards. Wizards can do anything, and flying counts as anything. They said the Moving Castle was spotted out at the near edge of the Wastes recently. Maybe you ran into its wizard.”

“Kurapika?” Leorio laughed. “He’s as much of a legend as that castle. And anyways, the legends say that he only goes after the Spiders. They don’t say anything about rescuing damsels--or doctors--in distress.”

Zepile shrugged and crossed his arms. “You never know.”

“The legends also say that Kurapika steals the hearts of the people he meets and eats them,” Leorio retorted. “Clearly, I still have my heart.”

“Are you sure?” Melody teased. “I’ve been able to hear yours pound since we found you on that balcony. Maybe he stole it figuratively, not literally.”

Leorio bit back a retort, opting instead to curse Melody’s inhuman hearing, and chugged more of the drink Zepile had passed him than was probably advisable, given his head wound. He stood up, just barely catching his stool before it could fall to the floor, and handed the now-damp towel back to Zepile. “Look, whatever, happened, it kind of killed my desire for a night out. I’m just going to head back. I’ll see you two later.”

“Are you sure?” Melody asked, instantly worried.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Leorio sighed. “I just want to get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Hey, don’t be a stranger, okay?” Zepile said. “You haven’t been coming around much. It’s been too quiet around here!”

Leorio glanced around the nearly-empty bar. “I’m not really sure that’s my fault,” he laughed. “I’ll start coming by more often once I pass my final exams, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” Zepile sighed. “Good luck!”

“Thanks!” Leorio called over his shoulder, already on his way out the door.

Thankfully, his trip home was far less eventful.

.*.*.*.*.*.

When Leorio got into the infirmary, he locked the door behind him. It had been a long night, even though he hadn't even been gone a full two hours, and he was ready for bed. He peeked into the main ward, where long lines of occupied beds stretched down the length of the huge room, broken here and there by curtained dividers to give patients a modicum of privacy. At the far end, the night nurse and on-call doctor had set up a card table and were playing a game. They glanced in Leorio's direction when the light from his candle illuminated the entry, offering small waves and shushing motions when they recognized him. He held up a hand, partly in greeting, partly in apology for any disturbance he may have caused, and slipped back out into the waiting room.

When Leorio turned around, he had to stifle a shriek. Directly behind him—literally, the guy was only about two steps behind him—stood a well-built, well-dressed man, not much older than Leorio himself. His dark hair was slicked back so that it actually glinted in the moonlight (Leorio couldn't quite tell if it shone from grease or gel, and he didn't much care to ask), and an eerie smile, unechoed in his dark eyes, played across his lips.

"Um, hi…" Leorio squeaked, sidestepping to put the reception desk between himself and the stranger. "Can I, uh, help you?"

No response.

"The main part of the infirmary is closed right now actually—I could have sworn I locked that door—but if you have an emergency, I can take you back into the ward to see the doctor on call."

The man arched a deliberate eyebrow. "Why would I come to a dingy little place like this if I were injured? I'd be more concerned about the risk of infection than the injury itself."

Leorio glanced around at the infirmary's spotless walls and floor. Dingy? "Sir, I think it's best you leave," he drew himself up to his full height, an easy six inches over the stranger, and marched towards the door, yanking it open—a little harder than was strictly necessary—and holding it there.

The man grinned a wicked smile, all teeth and no emotion, and swept forward, his coat billowing behind him. As he approached, he picked up speed, and Leorio couldn't help but flinch back into the wall as the man passed him—passed through him?—and vanished into the deep shadows in the street lamps. As he blew past, Leorio thought he heard the words "And you won't be able to tell anyone if you try!" sung gleefully on the wind.

When Leorio tried to straighten himself, he discovered that he couldn't quite seem to reach his full height. The more he stretched, the more pains shot through his back, and the more snap, crackle, pops he heard, echoing vaguely in the empty waiting room. "What the…" his voice trailed off as he caught sight of his reflection in the nearest window.

No. Fucking. Way.

He bolted back towards the dormitory he shared with a few of the visiting doctors and nurses. The whole way, his ankles, knees, hips, and even spine continued to pop and crack, and his legs were unsteady as he tottered along the hallway, which suddenly seemed about three times as long as normal. By the time he reached his room, he was gasping for breath.

Only once the door was securely latched behind him did Leorio risk a glance in the mirror over his washbasin. He was unable to contain the inhuman sound that escaped his mouth at the sight.

"What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?" He chanted the phrase like a mantra, pawing at the wrinkled skin that now covered his face with long, thin fingers covered with even more wrinkly skin. His knuckles and wrists were knobbly, and throbbed with a deep-seated burning ache. Now that he noticed it, the ache was everywhere—every joint in his legs, his wrists, his elbows, even his shoulders, and a long streak of fire ran up his back, along his spinal cord.

This isn't possible. I'm seeing things. I hit my head, and the drink at Zepile's is coming at me harder than I expected. I'm hallucinating. I'm dreaming. Maybe I'm dead back in that alleyway and this whole night has been a dream. He wasn't sure which possibility he preferred. He took a deep breath, ignoring the rattle in his chest and the fact that it somehow made him even more out of breath to do so, and steadied himself against the small table that housed the washbasin. "Just go to bed, Leorio. Everything will be fine in the morning."

Somehow, saying it out loud didn't help him believe it.

.*.*.*.*.*.

Sleeping wasn't as easy as Leorio had hoped. He got in a few hours, but when the sun came up, it found him seated on the edge of his bed, bundled in a blanket against the chill of the night. Sleeping also hadn't proved the cure for Leorio's sudden aging. He actually felt somehow older by the time the sun came up.

By the time Melody knocked on his door, he had resigned himself to his fate.

"Leorio?" her gentle voice seemed as loud through the light door as if she were standing next to him.

"Don't come in!" he croaked in reply. "I've got a really bad cold, and I don't want you to get it. Too many nights up studying late. Can you tell Cheadle I need to take the day off?"

"Of course," Melody's voice was sympathetic. "You do sound awful. I'll pass on the message, and I'll be back up to check on you after lunch, okay? Call down if you need anything."

"I'll be fine, thanks," Leorio called back. "No need to check in. I'll let you know if I need anything."

He listened to her light footsteps fading away. Through the floor of his room, he could hear the residents of the dormitory eating breakfast before heading to their shifts.

I'll have to time this carefully.

Leorio had made up his mind shortly after waking up to realize that he, quite literally, hadn't gotten any younger. I can't be a doctor if I can't use my hands. No sense staying around here to be a burden to anyone, not to mention they'd probably make me a subject of scientific study, since I can't tell them what happened. He'd already tried to talk about the curse—because what else could it be?—to his reflection in the mirror, but whenever he tried his jaw would lock up and the words would stick in his throat.

Leorio gathered up his things, packing only a few extra changes of clothes and his most comprehensive notebooks—just because I can't be a doctor doesn't mean I can't be a medic in a pinch—listening carefully to the activity below. He would only have a short window of time before the hired cooks finished making breakfast and started cleaning up from breakfast, while they were eating. As soon as he heard the sounds of cooking stop, he bolted down to the kitchen. At least, he did whatever the 90-year-old grandpa version of "bolting" was.

He only snitched a few things from the kitchen: a loaf of bread, a chunk off a wheel of cheese, a few apples, some dried meat. Once these were securely bundled in a kerchief and tucked into the top of his rucksack, he stepped outside. Immediately, he was glad he had put on his good coat, because the autumn chill that had been so brisk and pleasant the day before was now biting and frigid, cutting straight to the bones of his exposed hands and face. He yanked his hat further down over his ears, shoved his hands in his pockets, and appreciated his heavy knit scarf as he headed for the edge of the city.

.*.*.*.*.*.

Leorio was fortunate enough to score a ride on a cart traveling out to one of the more distant farms between the city and the wastes. The farmer and his son were nice, and his wife tried to persuade Leorio to spend the night in their hayloft, insisting that it was far too dangerous for a gentleman of his stature (meaning: age) to wander out in the wastes in this weather (clear, but chilly). Leorio politely but insistently refused, promising that he wasn't going much further, just out far enough to visit an old friend, and he would reach his destination long before nightfall.

Clearly, it was all a lie.

As Leorio trudged up the hill past the farm, bundled up tightly in his coat and scarf, he bemoaned his fate. With the city laid out before him like a painting, he seriously considered going back to the infirmary. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe they wouldn't use me as a test subject. But, as he gnawed on a piece of hard cheese, he knew that he was just lying to himself.

He already missed Melody and Zepile, too. It wasn't fair to run off and leave them wondering about his fate, and he knew that. I should have left a note. Melody was so kind and caring; his disappearance might send her into a panic (realistically, Leorio knew her well enough to know that was unlikely). Zepile wouldn't be as frantic, but Leorio knew he would worry too. Leorio sighed and stood up as abruptly as he could, wincing at the pops that burst from his knees and hips.

"No point thinking about what I should've or could've done," he declared to the open air, trying to get used to the sound of his new voice. "Looking on the bright side, I'm pretty healthy, aside from the obvious rheumatism. I don't think I'm senile, and I still have all of my teeth. Things could be worse!"

He turned around and nearly screamed. Standing behind him, for some reason, was an enormous chicken with brilliant red plumage atop its head.

"Who the fuck are you?" Leorio wheezed.

The bird cocked its head to the side, as though it was asking Leorio what exactly he meant by that question.

Leorio took a shaky step backwards, fully aware that he was much older than he was used to being and a simple fall could prove disastrous. "Look… friend… I'm not gonna lie to you: I've never really been a fan of chickens. I mean, you're better than pigeons—I swear those damn things are out to get me sometimes—but I just really don't like birds, and you in particular are way bigger than any bird is supposed to be and… I don't like that."

The bird cocked her head—Leorio didn't know why he thought it was a girl, he just did—and gave a gentle squawk.

Leorio sighed. "Well, if you're determined to stick around… I don't suppose you could help me find a cane or a staff or something in those woods over there, could you?"

The bird chirruped happily and bounded away, head held high so that her feathers flounced in her wake.

"Well, I guess that worked pretty well…" Leorio mumbled, hurriedly packing up his supplies and heading off. The way he saw it, this was a win-win situation: either the bird never came back, or she brought him a cane of some kind to walk with. He spared a thought to her intelligence. Maybe she's cursed too?

To his surprise, it wasn't long before the bird was fluttering along behind him, half-flying in her excitement, a long, knobby stick clutched in her beak. She skidded to a stop beside him and dropped the stick at—nearly on—his feet, cocking her head proudly to the side like she was waiting for adulation. Leorio had to chuckle and reached out to scratch her neck.

"Good girl," he sighed. "Now"—(and this one he was really, truly proud of)—"what do you think about finding me somewhere warm and dry to sleep tonight? It looks like it could storm any minute."

The bird let out an ecstatic screech and took off, racing along the winding, hilly road. Leorio arched an eyebrow and chuckled to himself. Old people are craftier than I ever have them credit for.

.*.*.*.*.*.

Leorio never expected to see the bird again. Therefore, it was one of the biggest shocks in his life when she sprinted back into view, screaming wildly.

"What the hell!?" he squawked, unwilling to admit how much he sounded like the bird in that moment.

The true source of his shock, however, was not the bird racing towards him, but instead the massive, disheveled building lumbering along behind it. "The Moving Castle," he gaped, recognition striking him like a lightning bolt. "Kurapika's palace… that's what passes for a castle these days?"

In the time it took him to make these observations, the bird had latched onto his scarf with her beak, half unwinding it. It tried to tug him towards the castle, which was already nearly on top of them. "Okay, fine, I'm coming!" Leorio yelped, stumbling forward.

He ran towards the castle as fast as his aching legs would carry him, dodging spindly legs and a low-hanging doorstep. He gulped and grabbed onto the railing of the step as it flashed past him, his arm nearly ripping out of its socket as he was yanked along behind the castle. While he struggled to keep up, he felt his scarf tear away from his neck, fluttering away in the wind that had picked up as the storm began to pick up. “My scarf!” he shouted, grabbing at it with his free hand, to no avail. The bird sprinted off after the garment, and Leorio gave them both up.

With not a small amount of effort on his part, Leorio eventually managed to haul himself up onto the stoop of the lumbering castle. He laid back on the steps and gasped for breath. When he heard a tremendous squawk off somewhere in the distance, he propped himself up on his elbows. To his lessening surprise (considering how many times it had happened at this point), the giant chicken was racing towards him, his scarf clutched in her beak.

“Thanks!” Leorio shouted to be heard over the noise of the wind and the creaking of the castle’s alarmingly skinny legs as he reached out to take his scarf from the bird. “Look, I hate to leave you out here in this weather on your own, but it would be a shame to have climbed up here just to decide not to go inside.” He opened the door and popped his head in, then turned around to look at the bird again. “It’s nice and warm inside. I could do worse. Thanks for all your help, bird! Maybe we’ll meet again someday!”

[bee-kathony]

Four Years | June 13th, 2014

January 2nd, 2014 - February 15th, 2014 - March 8th, 2014 - April 12th, 2014 - May 2nd, 2014

a/n: thank you to @acidkydd for helping me with medical terms as always!

Year One - June 13th, 2014

My first round of chemo went exactly how I expected. When I got home, after spending the past 2 hours getting the drug ‘Temozolomide’ injected into my system, I immediately threw up. And I didn’t make it to the toilet.

I stood there in the middle of the living room while Jamie tried to reassure me that it was okay. He cleaned up after me and then helped strip me of my vomit covered clothes. I laid in bed with a bucket beside me for the next 26 hours, only getting up when I needed to use the bathroom for anything more than to vomit.

Food wasn’t an option, nothing would stay down but Jamie had received explicit instructions that he’d written down and kept on the nightstand, to keep me hydrated during this process. He woke me periodically in my crazed state of sleeping to make me drink water.

After the first few days it got better and I began to feel more like myself. Amelia told me that we would do my chemo in two week cycles so that meant my next treatment was tomorrow.

My hair was already falling out, not in chunks yet, thank God but I still found hair everywhere around the house. Jamie didn’t voice this but I knew he was not looking forward to the day when I would shave my head; which was today.

“I’ve got the scissors here, we’ll cut most of it off first and then I’ve got the razor here,” Geillis held up the razor so I could see it in the reflection of the mirror. I said I wanted to watch, a final goodbye to my curls that had always been a part of me. It would grow back, Beauchamp.

Yeah, if you live long enough…

Jamie was sitting in the living room or rather he was pacing in the living room. He told me he would be there for me if I needed him but he’d rather not watch. I promised I would tell him when it was over and the hair was put in the bin so that he could come and see my new look.

“Jamie, you might want to play some loud music so ye dinna hear the sound of the razor ye ken,” Geillis shouted to him and there was no word from him but one minute later the familiar sound of “Coldplay” was blaring through the speakers.

Geillis put her hands on top of my shoulders and met my eye in the mirror, “Are ye ready, Claire?”

“I don’t know when I’ll ever be ready but I suppose we should get it over with.” I bit my bottom lip to hold back my emotions. She picked up the scissors and I almost jumped when I heard the first ‘snip’ and chunks of my hair began to fall on the bathroom floor.

I hadn’t cried the entire time that she cut my hair and I sat stoned faced looking at the reflection as she turned on the razor and started to shave the rest of my hair.

“Jamie!” Geillis shouted, sliding the razor and scissors in the drawer and tying up the bag full of my hair. “Ye can come and take a look at yer Sassenach.”

I held my breath and my heart rate quickened when I heard the music shut off abruptly. His footsteps echoed down the hall. When I saw the look on his face, then I cried.

He didn’t say anything but walked forward and bent down, placing a gentle kiss on the top of my peach fuzzed head. I felt wet drops on my head and knew he was crying too. Reaching behind me, I grabbed his hand and squeezed it as tight as I could. Jamie wrapped one arm around me and the chair and kissed my temple.

“You are beautiful, Claire. My God, ye are so beautiful.” That made me cry even more because what I felt was exactly the opposite of beautiful. I felt hideous, weak and I feared that this would break me.

++++++

The next day we drove up to the hospital, once a place that I loved, my second home. Now it was a place I dreaded, to be poked and prodded. I was on the other side of the needle and I didn’t like it one bit.

Joe greeted us as he always did and gave me a hug, not commenting on the scarf I had wrapped on top of my head. What a good friend.

“You look good Lady J, I know you probably don’t feel it.” Jamie held my hand as Joe held my other. We walked down the hall and he told me about a particularly tricky operation he had performed the other day on a child that had swallowed a plastic toy car. He was trying to keep a sense of normalcy in our conversations which I was grateful for but it was also hard to hear him talk about operating when I hadn’t been able to in months.

Would I want to return to medicine after all of this was over?

He parted ways with us when we reached the treatment room. I waved hello to a few people that I had met on my last visit and got choked up when I noticed that there was one less person in here than the last time. Only two weeks had passed, life was never certain.

“I brought the blanket in case ye get cold like last time, Sassenach,” Jamie held up the bag we packed and I saw the corner of the fluffy blanket that we kept on the couch.

“Maybe later,” I smiled, “I’m too hot right now.”

He nodded and took a seat next to me and watched as the nurse came over to us and began to sterilise my skin. I watched as the needle went into my arm, not even flinching as it broke the skin. Jamie on the other hand hissed through his teeth and had to look away. He once told me he couldn’t bear to see me in pain. Well… I couldn’t bear it either.

An hour later and I was shivering. “The blanket,” my teeth chattered together, “Jamie, please.”

He put down his book, reached into the bag and pulled out the fluffy blanket, wrapping it snuggly around my body. Jamie held the tips of my fingers, his eyes checking for anymore signs of discomfort.

Once I had stopped shaking, only a slight shiver every now and then, I squeezed Jamie’s hand and he kissed my hand.

“You never did tell me about your accident,” I motioned to his back, “I need something else to focus on.” I grimaced at the bruised feeling on the needle’s entrance.

“Have I no’? I suppose something must have come up,” he quirked up the side of his mouth and then took a deep breath, preparing to tell me.

“It was a plane crash.” He squeezed my hand when I gasped at his confession, “I was on a fairly small plane, no more than forty seats, coming back from a trip in Paris to visit my Uncle Jared.”

“Must of been what, nearly six years ago now, no’ even nineteen years old. There was a storm,” the look in his eyes told me that he was now reliving the crash, “I don’t remember much but I remember the plane going down.”

“I remember the rain hitting against me, soaking me through to the bone and my back —,” he winced, as if his shirt was too tight, “I must have been dragged when we hit the ground, my back… as ye’ve seen,” he blushed then remembering our first encounter.

“How long did it take to recover?” I asked.

“Och, I spent about a month in the hospital, mostly laying on my stomach while the wounds healed. I’d broken my arm as well,” I slid my hand up to stroke his arm.

“Still pains me some days but no’ as much as it used to.”

“I’m so sorry, Jamie. I wish I could’ve been there for you. To heal you.” I was a doctor and my first instinct was to help, to use my hands to heal. That’s why it bothered me so much that I could not even heal myself.

“I would’ve liked that very much.” Jamie smiled, returning to the present, “You’re a good woman, Claire, wi’ a good touch.”

“The healing touch only extends to others, I’m afraid.” Sighing I leaned back in the chair and looked at the clock on the wall, only twenty minutes left.

++++++

June 15th, 2014

2:34am

Claire was shaking in the bed beside me. I turned on the lamp to look at her, she was covered in sweat but when my fingers pressed against her, she was as cold as ice.

“Claire, please,” I gently tried to wake her, “Sassenach, yer scaring me.”

Her eyes opened and she gasped, sucking in a breath so quick, it startled me. I knelt down on the bed beside her, “Sassenach, ye dinna look so good, what do ye need.”

“Ice,” she whispered.

“Ice? But ye’re freezing, I’ll no’ make ye colder.”

“I’m so warm, Jamie.” I touched her skin again and it was suddenly burning up. Her temperature had changed in only a matter of seconds. I knew this was one of the side effects but I didn’t really believe it.

“Dinna move, I’ll get ye the ice.” I stood and left her shivering on the bed, anxiously running to the kitchen to grab as much ice as I could put into a bucket.

I lifted one ice cube and placed it on the back of her neck, watching as it started to instantly melt against her flushed skin. “My God, Sassenach.”

Rubbing ice cube after ice cube on her furnace of a body, my fingers slowly went numb but I didn’t care. She needed me.

[maraudersmessrs]

Ripple (AU)

Ao3

Summary:  Dolohov missed killing Remus by an inch and he went on to face a more complex fate. Tonks never dueled her Aunt Bellatrix and found Remus during the Battle. 2 stones dropped into the pond instead of being taken away entirely; what do the ripples affect? -- Alternate Universe where Remus and Tonks survive the Battle of Hogwarts, but not without cost. How will it change Teddy? How will it change Harry? How will it change Hogwarts? How will it change them?

Part 1

Remus

Remus did not remember an attack. It was...unnerving. He could feel the hard stone steps beneath him. Surmised he was sprawled across them. Quite cold. He was looking...up. Vaulted ceilings, dim, distant. Something about him was...heaving. What....? Very cold.

A movement of lavender across his vision. The bright color brought back a flash of memory of a green light--moments ago? He couldn’t...what….

“--mus? Remus, baby, please--please, are you--?” Dora. Purple hair. Deeply shaken. An edge to her breath, dragged in too sharp, too deep. “Please, pleasepleaseplease--”

Why? He opened his mouth to--what? Assure her? Ask what was going on? It didn’t matter, all that came out was warmth seeping down his cheek, chin and a clotted wet cough. Dora gave a high, breathless sob. “No no, it’s okay, it’s okay, don’t try to talk, don’t, it’s okay.”

But he had to. What was going on? As she moved her hand to stroke his hair, he could see she was shaking badly. “Wh-wh-wh--?” Oh. He must be shaking too. His teeth were chattering like...ice mice. Cold. Ice. Ice mice. What was he doing? Asking. Right. “Wha-what.” That...didn’t even sound like a voice. Like...meat, dragged across a stone floor. Another cough squeezed out of him. His mouth tasted like copper.

“‘What’?” She rose up on her knees over him in frantic attention, eyes huge in her stark face. Very pale, freckles like spots a blood. A burn over half her face. Purple-brown beginnings of a black eye blotting like ink. “‘What’ what, sweetheart?”

“Hhh--” Deep breath, through a gurgle. Try again. “Hhhere?”

“W-what here? What--?” She sounded bewildered and quavery--she sniffed, swiped a hand across her nose. Left a red streak behind. “You mean…you mean where are we?”

A sudden crash and scream nearby, out of his vision. Remus jerked in surprise and Dora threw herself on top of him. Dark. Close. Smelled like her. And burnt hair, sweat. Blood. The green light flashed against the backs of his eyelids again, a memory. Then, a forest, dark and quiet, grim. He could dimly feel the uneven corners of stone steps jutting into his scalp. Shoulders. Back. Hips. Why was everything so disjointed? Dora drew back slowly, staring to the left intently for a moment, then darted back down to him, stroking his hair again. Was he still shaking? There was something lopsided about his vision. “Shhh, shhh, it’s alright, they’re not here,” she soothed, to herself as well as him. “Where? Um,” she looked around helplessly, then back down at him with a bemused smile that crumpled at the edges. “We’re at Hogwarts, Remus. You-Know-Who is here. Do you not--?”

There was a tinny ringing, approaching from far away. As it grew, Dora's blanched face began to dissolve against his sight as her eyes widened, mouth widened. Instead, dark trees pressed against his awareness. He couldn’t...feel. Remus looked around and caught on-- ”Harry?”

The boy looked a mess. Grimy, sweaty, a scrape across his face, eyes shadowed, huge and lost behind his glasses. Grass stains on his knees.

“Remus?” The voice was not Harry’s. That’s--

He jerked around and James was staring at him, looking just as bewildered as his son. Living son. Sirius over his shoulder, young, frowning. Lily was-- Cold was creeping back through him and the world shifted nauseatingly without him, as if he were falling from a great height. Dora slid back over him again, much closer, face twisted in a rictus of panic, clutching his head. Oh, I don’t like this...something in him whined like a piteous child, behind the slow, implacable revolving, rocking. Everything was no longer numb, but tingling like bees had gotten beneath his skin. Swarming, Buzzing. Ugh.

Dora was no longer looking at him, but away, screaming...something. If he pulled himself up, he could hear…. “Arthur! Arthur, please--!”

His vision lolled--or head? She must have let go--and he saw a face, not a foot away. Bloody. Savage. Dead. Familiar. Fenrir? Fenrir. Somewhere, very far in the back of his mind, something started screaming about something. Not here, though. The man’s blank, blue eyes were fixed on nothing, lax. A pattern of trees washed over his face and the world tilted again. A flash of Harry’s face in the forest over Fenrir’s. Then, just Fenrir, mouth and jaw coated in blood, a chunk of something gory oozing from his parted lips. Something closer caught his eye; dark. A dark pool spreading along the stones. How had he drunk so much blood? Something was wrong with that. Not from Fenrir...Oh. Was he bleeding? It seemed absurd, just now. Couldn’t really figure out why. A whirl of motion again and he was looking up at 2 faces. 1 and a half. There was something wrong with his vision, but he couldn’t quite--

A hoarse voice. Not Dora. “We’re going to get you out, Lupin, alright? We’re going to bring you downstairs,” said Not-Dora. Man. Red...glasses.

Remus’ face must have been doing...something, because Not-Tonks leaned down and gripped his shoulder. He felt it through a sheet of glass. Of buzzing. “We’ve got you, Remus, it’s alright.” Arthur. It was Arthur.

“Yes, it’s me; we’ve got you.” He must have said it out loud. Maybe mouthed it. Torches passed by--they were moving? The drag of their after-images was branches. Why? Lily’s voice, as though through a wall, muffled; “You’ve been so brave.”

Something cradled his head. Dora. He could feel his shaking against her, her shaking against him. Everything was trembling. A sudden spear, made of blinding light and fire and sharp electric agony lanced up through him and he sank, like a stone. No more Dora, no more forest.

Black.

Tonks

Tonks felt her husband's shuddering suddenly stop and gritted her teeth, clamped her hands down harder on the gouges in his throat that were steadily pumping blood up against her fingers, seeping, staining everything scarlet. The blood meant he was alive. He was still alive. He would stay alive. He would live. Oh, God….

She must have said it out loud, because Arthur looked back at her from the other end of the conjured stretcher. “What?” There was a bruise that spanned half his forehead.

“Nothing. He-he just stopped moving, but it’s fine.” He didn’t know where we are, he’s not moving, he’s not moving--- “It’s fine. It’s--It’s fine. He’s still breathing. It’s--”

A clatter. Someone staggered around the corner. Both she and Arthur automatically whipped their wands toward them.

A boy, small and blonde, no more than 15 wearing a torn Gryffindor robe, the collar soaked with blood. His face was stark white, making the gashes across his face, throat, and scalp that much more horrific in contrast. Like red open mouths. His fangs had been in his throat---  “Couldn’t...I couldn’t find...Great Hall….” he mumbled, sounding dazed. “He said...I should go but….”

“Here, come with us, it’s alright,” Arthur held out his hand earnestly. “We’re going there, Madame Pomfrey can help. You’ll be alright.”

The student stared at him a moment, not seeming to comprehend. Then, he said, “Oh.” His hand went to his face and, before Tonks could open her mouth to stop him, brushed over the deep slices across his cheek, smearing his face and palm with even more blood. He looked down at it, blankly puzzled. “Oh.” He repeated.

“We need to hurry,” Tonks pleaded, desperately. She would not look down at Remus. She couldn’t. You-Know-Who had just called for Harry, they had a lull in the fight---they had an hour. Remus did not have an hour. “Please!”

Arthur started again, grasping the lad by the hand and towing him along briskly, wand held out to support the stretcher. “It’s alright,” he said again, to no one in particular; probably both of them. “It’s going to be alright.”

How do you know how do you know? So much blood, so so so much, you didn’t see, you didn’t see what Fenrir did, how he had him---

“What’s your name?”

The boy stumbled along obediently beside them. “Uh...uh…” His eyes didn’t seem to be tracking so well, until they wandered down to the body suspended between them. “That’s Profess-ssor Lupin,” his tone sounded bewildered. “No, but...h-he told me...he’s the one…that man Fenrir---” Stop stop stop stop stop---

“Eyes up here, son,” Arthur said, firmly, and his glazed gaze jumped back to him. “Your name?”

“Colin….”

“Colin…?”

“Creevey.”

“Alright, Colin. Do you remember what happened? Talk to me.”

They were taking the stairs, clattering down at speed and Tonks nearly toppled down on a slick step. Blood. His? Some other victim? A shriek sounded, distantly, a crash even though the battle was on hold. Dust coated her throat. Remus still wasn’t moving but his blood was, she could feel the flutter of it against her palms, the cooling, congealing mess down her robe front. She could smell its metal tang. The trembling of her wand, the green light, the Curse she had….

“Not...There was that F-Fenrir Greyback ‘n h-he...Professor said....S’cold….” he slurred, sagging onto Arthur’s shoulder.

“We’re here, we got here, Colin, it’ll be alright, just--”

A young witch darted forward and caught him deftly by the elbow just as his knees gave way just as they entered the Great Hall. 4 other figures converged on them rapidly--Madam Pomfrey one of them--initiating a flurry of movement like a flint striking sparks. Colin was whisked away as Arthur called, “He said it was Greyback, I think he’s in shock.”

Someone tried to move her away by her elbow--whether to lead her away or not she didn’t know but Tonks lunged and clutched the stretcher like it was a raft in the ocean. “NO!”

“We’re not taking him anywhere, but I’ve got to get next to him,” Madam Pomfrey said authoritatively, firmly displacing her with a purposeful sidestep. Suddenly, her ample hips seemed at once a weapon and a shield. “Stay if you want, but I need to be here.” She smelled of a pungent antiseptic, soot and burning, blood and flowers. Tonks’ head spun.

Dimly, she heard Arthur answer, “Greyback, again,” to one of the medical wizards’ question. Then, “No, he’s dead.”

The words sent a juddering through her, like she was caught in the field of some electric hex. Dead. Fenrir was dead. No. No, it wasn’t passive. It was done to him. Killed. Fenrir had been killed. Green light….Can’t move fast enough, can’t run fast enough….

There were hands everywhere on her husband, moving, cutting, pressing, prodding and she fought the urge to knock them all away, to curl around his body. Protect him, retroactively, from the savaging that was done him. Their voices were brusque and controlled--even so, she heard the tightly grasped horror. She heard the shock they suppressed. It repulsed her that she now knew the dull, enveloped crack of breaking bone, she could feel the rip that skin---her tongue felt thick in her mouth, her throat was closing, her stomach squelched---

Remus made a noise; hoarse, torn. It pulled her back to now. Reaching out, she threaded her fingers through his hair, brushed his scalp before a brisk movement of one of the witches jarred her free. She couldn’t look at him. Physically couldn’t lay eyes on his face. Not from nausea, not from disgust; it just laid her bare. That was her face, her gentle eyes, her kind mouth. If he...if he….This couldn’t be how she remembered him if….

[veridium]

Short Story: Theia Gets Cold Feet

It’s night four in The Emerald Graves. Seeker Cassandra and Inquisitor Theia Trevelyan sit by the camp fire, just north of Villa Maurel. Cassandra finally gets the chance to ask the nosy questions for once. 

The greenery was dark and lush around them, new and wondrous for Theia, who for many years would sketch or paint daydreams of faraway places such as these. Laying on her side, legs tucked, she watched the fire crackle and cast flights of shadows on its surroundings. Funny thing, fire. Well, not funny, but something peculiar. Although, she had seen enough of it for a life time. 

“I wonder something. Something about your abilities,” Cassandra said, an elbow resting on her knee, multiple bandages on her arm from the day’s skirmishes. 

“Hm? What specifically?” Theia responded, her voice husky with fatigue, but nevertheless intrigued.

“I know about the pathways of study for mages, but perhaps it is more personal than erudite. Why you do what you do, I mean,” Cassandra rolled her head around, cracking a couple sore bones in her neck tediously.

Theia chuckled in a hush tone. She had been through many phases of her self-discovery, including her powers, her abilities, and what she did and did not like to do. Well, what she’d rather not be able to do, anyway. First it was her family, who had a disdain for any and all ability. Then it was her tutors, who had their own worries and at times seemed to only craft student in their images rather than pay attention their individuality. Templars, who wanted to know to who to blame for the scortched fireplace or the frozen doors. This time, though, from a friend, she felt as though it wouldn’t come back to bite her in the ass. 

“You ask, I’ll answer, Seeker,” she teased, rolling onto her back to gaze up at the abundant stars.

“Why do you favor ice and storm abilities?” Cassandra said, her solid voice had a rare tone of childlike curiosity. 

Theia thought about it for a moment. 

“When I was young, no more than 8 years old, my brother, Tristan decided he would see if my sister’s and my hair could catch on fire. He broke off a candle from the dining hall and lit the thing like a flare. He caught my sister at her mirror, combing her hair, and snuck up behind her. He singed a chunk of it. I still remember her shriek. Tris, you’re banquet meat! She wailed, and wailed. It took months for her hair to go back to normal, because she wouldn’t cut it. Her hair was fair like mine, and the color is coveted in our family. Even if half of it looks like burnt kindling.”

Cassandra scoffed. “Such a petulant child, your brother sounds like.”

“He had foolish phases. Now, he’s a scholar, but he still lacks a certain kind of...tact,” Theia said with a grin on her lips. Her brother was many things, but he was loved.

“So, what happened when he came for you?”

“Well, my sister was older, so he thought I would be easier to fool. He found me in the garden, by our bed chambers. A small terrace with a bird’s fountain. I would go there and splash the water, as if I could cause a great flood if I just splattered my hands fast and hard enough! Hah. But, when he got to me, I was able to see him coming. Candle, and all. I got scared and hid behind the fountain. I heard his steps coming closer and closer, and I closed my eyes as if I could turn invisible.”

Cassandra’s eyes locked on Theia as she seemed to tell a great, epic story out of a childhood memory. How endearing, she thought, to discover such dangerous talents out of something so...docile.

“I thought I was done for, but then I heard something crackling, like the ice thawing on the river. My brother gasped and dropped the candle, and the noise made me look up. The flame on the candle was out. Actually, it was frozen over with ice. He looked at me like I was a demon crawling on all-fours. I didn’t even think at the time that it was me, my magic, defending myself. I was just as shocked and terrified as he was.”

“Remarkable. Did he finally leave you alone?” Cassandra asked.

“He did, for the rest of my life,” Theia replied, a soft yawn escaping her mouth. She shook her head to wake herself up a bit. 

“Oh. I see,” Cassandra looked toward the fire. “I suppose that is predictable.”

“It was. It is. I still write, though. One letter goes to my Mother, and she disperses the details accordingly. It’s best that way.”

“The proclivity for ice, then, stayed with you all this time?”

“Yes and no. I stopped and started, especially when my lack of pyro knowledge became a weakness. I was supposed to be well-rounded. I never enjoyed it as much as I did learning how to freeze entire boulders to break, or strike a tree down with a beautiful stroke of lightening,” Theia’s purple eyes danced with subtle energy. She could still see all the “firsts”: first lightening lock, first ice wall. It was enthralling to be so capable. 

“Some wouldn’t be as jubilant, but we all have paths in life we must give our all too. I remember when we first met, I thought you were a walking explosive with a mouth,” a smirk came from the Seeker’s mouth.

“I thought so of you, too, but look at us now. Dormant as stone,” Theia said, her arms stretching over her head. 

“Stone is anything but, Inquisitor.”

“Valid. Especially when encased in a sheet of ice and whirling through a lightening cloak,” she said with excitement.

“Inquisitor, please refrain from the light show, if you don’t mind.”

“Only in my dreams, Seeker. Only in my dreams.”

There was a moment of breath, where both watched the flames and kept quiet. Then, second question.

“Does this mean abilities are more pertaining to what gratifies you, instead of objective capability?” Cassandra’s chin tilted.

Theia shook her head, lips pursed with care. “Not at all. It’s complicated, friend. You can’t expect such things as magic to be “point A” and “point B” processes. Everyone’s journey is as fraught as being alive is. Just a big, bloody mess at times.”

“But then, where is the line of personal responsibility?”

“When you find it for the Seekers, Templars, and warrior forces of Thedas, let me know. It may be nearby that.”

“Point taken.”

Theia sighed. “I know for me, it was about staying disciplined, and dedicated to myself. I had no one in my corner for...a long while, and I was so young. When I saw ice, when I say electricity come from my two hands, I felt as though I was connecting with myself as raw material. Organic power. I had been taught to hate myself for being alien, unnatural, unwanted, but...everything about my power felt raw and earnest.” The rubbed the back of her head, her hair knotted and dry. Brittle from the cold air. 

“Part nature, part conditioning, those fears...” Cassandra thought out loud.

“It’s part-everything. At least for me, it doesn’t matter. But I knew peers who would beat themselves against standards. Some would kill to be the best and brightest Knight Enchanters one day. Others acted like they wanted the whole world to burn down, roof to soil. Some got to where they needed to be, others suffered for a long time. I was lucky I was in touch with who I needed to be. Not always, but in the end.”

“Would you have done anything different as an apprentice? As a child?”

Theia pondered, and then chuckled under her breath. “If I could, I’d go back and freeze my brother’s hands to his mouth. That would have sent Mother into an episode for a week, though. Worth it still? Probably.”

Cassandra smiled lightly. “Running before walking. I can sympathize. My strategy would have featured more blunt-force-object appeal, though.”

“It’s your style, don’t suppress it,” Theia teased. 

The fire popped with a stray spark, and both the women took it as a reminder to keep noises low while others slept.

“Do you see your views on mages changing since we’ve become friends, Seeker?”

“As much as I understand you, Inquisitor, old habits take long to rest. I feel obligated to a higher standard than heeding the existence of those close to me. If everyone in power yielded to the likeness of one or two friends, boundaries would break down.”

“But, does it then follow that those boundaries which oppress must remain?”One of Theia’s eyebrows raised with question.

“Not at all. There’s...nuance.”

“I wish you could say the same to the conditions of those made tranquil.”

The tension rose, but it was a sorry kind, a bruised kind. 

“We do not have all the answers, Inquisitor. But we do have all the reason to find them.”

“I agree.”

“I am glad you challenge me. Even as I put up a front. We should continue these conversations. I wish more would.”

“And I hope they are paired with actions.”

Cassandra swallowed hard. “Maker, I do, too.”

Theia rolled onto her hip and lifted a hand, opening the palm flat. “Good, I would hate to have things be so...static,” she joked, a spark of purple escaping her hand, gone as quick as it came. 

Cassandra had seen this kind of clever trick from the Inquisitor before. It used to make her flinch with concern, but now it annoyed her like a younger sibling’s chides. 

“Hilarious, Inquisitor.”

[merrymemori]

the three times they meet at the hospital and the one time they’re there together.

For Megan (@bombshellsandbluebells), who requested angst. This is probably going to be cuter than you expected, especially since it’s coming from me. Merry Christmas ;)

i.

He is supposed to take her to prom.

That’s Murphy’s only thought as he sits in the ER waiting room, ice pack pressed against his bruised cheek, bloody lower lip between his teeth. He was supposed to take her -- her being Emori, his beautiful, terrifying, badass lab partner -- to prom, but there’s blood on his crisp white shirt and his hands won’t stop shaking so how could he possibly dance with her?

Fuck, he thinks with vehemence. How did he let it get so bad?

He leans forward, wincing at the ache in his side, and pulls out his phone, staring at the lock screen. Like almost everything else in his otherwise-shitty life, it’s been taken over by her, her big smile, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, her wide brown eyes, the tattoo slashing bravely across the swell of her cheek.

The screen shifts into a different image of her -- one where she’s staring defiantly at the camera with her middle finger in the air -- as the phone vibrates in his hand. He steels himself, clenching his jaw, and picks up.

“John, are you alright?” She sounds breathless, the way she does when she’s nervous. Does he make her nervous? He doesn’t dare hope. “You weren’t here to get me, I just wanted to-”

“I’m at the hospital,” he says, then cringes when she shouts “WHAT?” directly into his ear. “I don’t think I can come get you. I’m sorry.”

“Which hospital?” He hears her screen door bang shut, the rattle of keys in her hand. When she speaks again, her voice is muffled and he knows she’s got her smaller hand occupied locking the door and has her phone jammed between her shoulder and cheek. “Which hospital, John?”

“You don’t have to come-” he starts.

“I’m coming,” she says firmly. “Which hospital?”

He tells her. She hangs up with a promise to be there soon, and he stares at his phone and sighs.

“Your girlfriend?” a nurse asks, standing over him and nodding to her picture on the screen. “Do you want to wait for her before I take you back?”

Murphy shakes his head. “She’s not my girlfriend. And no, it’s fine. Let’s go.”

When he stands, the room sways. The nurse promises to let his not-girlfriend -- “Emori, her name’s Emori.” -- know where he is, and then he’s perched on a hospital bed, staring at a bright penlight while the doctor confirms the concussion Murphy already knows he has.

She appears at his side a few minutes later when the doctor is off getting pain pills. He realizes dimly, through the pounding in his head that would only be gratifying if it signified a hangover, that she’s in her prom dress. It’s a long black number with a fluid-looking skirt and one long sleeve that hangs low enough to cover her larger hand.

“You look incredible,” he says before he can stop himself. She doesn’t blush, but she does look down shyly, tucking her hair behind her ear, an adorable smile creeping across her lips. “I mean it. You’re beautiful.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, John,” she says, but her grin widens and her eyes say a silent thank-you.

“I’m sorry I can’t take you,” he says in a moment of reckless softness. He reaches for her hand, pauses when he sees the blood under his nails, jumps when she reaches out to him. “I got you a corsage and everything.”

She laughs. He’s heard it all semester but it’s even better now, under these harsh lights that expose every flaw. He can feel her joy, her strangely intense happiness at the simplest of remarks, and it makes him want to fall in love with her.

But he can’t. The bruises on his face and the cuts on his hands are proof of why he can never be close enough to her.

After a prescription is written and insistences that no you don’t need to call the cops I’m fine it was a minor accident are made, Emori takes him back to her place. He doesn’t have to say what happened for her to guess, and her righteous anger makes his heart split open in a wonderful, painful longing.

“You’re safer here than there,” she tells him as they mount her front porch even as he has to hop over the hole in their top step. Murphy snorts derisively, then looks around -- really looks -- realizing he’s never been in Emori’s home before. It feels like a victory, in some small way. One step forward before he goes plunging back.

The whole house is falling apart; there are cracks in the ceiling, plaster on the walls, a whole chunk of Formica missing from the kitchen counter. Emori takes her shoes off and leaves them in the hallway somewhere between the entryway and the bathroom, then pours Murphy a glass of water from the tap.

“Drink it,” she tells him. “And take aspirin.”

When he doesn’t argue, she rewards him with another smile.

As he falls asleep on her couch that night, lulled by the sound of her and her brother murmuring in the next room, he wonders if there’s a way to contain a moment forever.

He would like to come back someday.

ii.

Emori hates hospitals.

She hates the sterile atmosphere, the loud sounds, the distorted voices through the loudspeaker and she hates hates hates sitting alone in the ER waiting for news of someone that might not make it through the night.

Not that she’s ever experienced that before. But she despises it now and always will.

There was an accident, she learned both from the nurse and the news. There was an accident involving a gun and a piece of tech Otan had no damn business being near and now he’s in surgery with a bullet in his brain and there’s another girl with a bullet in her spine and fuck if she keeps thinking about she’s going to start screaming and never stop.

“Emori?”

She looks up at the sound of her name. A man, maybe in his early twenties, stands before her, hands awkwardly jammed in his pockets. “John?” She shakes her head. “I don’t believe it.”

He sits beside her, rubs a hand over the stubble on his cheeks, runs his fingers through his shorter hair. He looks good beautiful, especially with those harsh blues eyes), she idly realizes, and suddenly has to restrain herself from leaning into his warmth, reaching for his hand, running her good thumb over his scarred knuckles.

You knew him back in high school, she scolds herself. So much has changed since then, He might not even know you now.

“What brings you here?” he asks. His attempt at a light tone falls flat.

“There was an accident,” she says quietly and hates how her voice trembles. She turns to him, scanning his face for cuts and bruises, then stops as she remembers his mother’s death and, with her, the end of those visits. “My brother’s in surgery.”

“So is my best friend,” he murmurs, and she knows that it’s Raven Reyes under the knife as they try to save her spine.

They share a look and don’t speak again.

She falls asleep on his shoulder somewhere in the space between midnight and morning. He wakes her up and hands her a cup of coffee that one of his friends brought. When John looks at her, it’s with a mixture of fear and reverence that makes Emori’s skin crawl.

When John leaves to check on Raven, the other girl regards her. “I’m Ontari,” she says sharply, eyes cutting down to Emori’s left hand.

She tucks it under her thigh. “Emori,” she says, and everything in her prickles at the dark-haired girl. Her muscles tense, her jaw clenches, and she has to physically bite her tongue when John returns to keep from saying get away from her or there’s something twisted in her that makes me want to run or I never want to run so please listen to me.

They part ways the next day after learning that his friend and her (idiot dumbass) brother would be fine. He gives her a small wave goodbye, then winces when Ontari yanks on his arm. When Emori finds him on Facebook, her friend request is quickly accepted, then rejected.

She knows why. The knowledge burns a hole through her sternum.

iii.

When her phone lights up with a Facebook Messenger request at three in the morning, she almost chucks her phone across the room until she sees who it’s from.

“John?” she whispers aloud. Her heart hammers in her throat. It’s been two years since she saw him at the hospital. It’s been six months since they started messaging secretly, though she doesn’t know why it’s so secret, only that John makes her delete her threads and he does the same.

(She does know, but can’t think of it without plotting a homicide.)

It’s been two hours since she thought of him last.

She accepts the message request, then, after a moment sees, Raven is out of town and I don’t have anyone I can call. Can you come get me? Because I can’t drive right now.

She’s already got her shoes on. I’m coming, she writes back. Just tell me where.

It’s the same hospital she met him at when they were kids, on their way to prom. She laughs at the irony as she walks through the door, then freezes when she sees him standing by the desk.

“What the hell?” she breathes as she approaches him. “John…?”

He closes his eyes when she touches the bandages that wrap around most of his neck. “Don’t ask.” His voice is raw, full of pain and longing. “Can I- Can I come home with you?”

She looks at this boy -- technically, man, but she’s known him so long that he’ll always be that awkward asshole who asked her to senior prom -- and feels her heart swell and break.

“Yes,” she nods. “Of course.”

She takes his hand and leads him to the car. He kisses her on the cheek before sliding into the car. She blushes all the way home.

He makes himself comfortable on the couch. He tells her he’ll stay for one night, but one stretches into two, then a week, then a month, and then suddenly, his things are in her closet and his pillow is beside hers on the bed and there’s talk of finding a bigger bed next weekend when they’re both off work and she has to stop and breathe because holy shit are we permanent now?

“Yeah,” he says casually, off-handedly, as he spoons eggs onto her plate and passes her the milk for her cereal. “I figured as much, anyway.”

It’s been six months. “It’s been six months,” she says aloud. “I didn’t- I don’t-”

“I fucked up with Ontari,” John says softly, pausing to lean forward and look Emori straight in the eye. “But I’m not going to fuck up with you.”

“I kind of figured that,” Emori smirks up at him as his eyes widen fractionally, remembering just what they did last night that reassured her. “But I didn’t think you wanted this to be forever.”

“I want you forever,” he says, and it’s so quiet she has to strain to hear. She can’t stop the delighted smile that spreads over her face at those four words. “I mean, I know your brother is an asshole sometimes and probably hates me for screwing his sister, and I don’t want you to think this is just because of Ontari-”

“I don’t think that,” she butts in. “I never did.”

“Okay, good.” He runs water in the sink and starts washing the dishes. She watches him, his beautiful eyes and strong hands, and when he looks up at the calendar and starts talking about how he has this Christmas Eve dinner for the two of them all planned, she feels something rise in her chest, something new and six years old bubbling to the surface.

“You like roast, right?” he asks as she gazes at him, her body trembling from the inside out. “Because my dad always made roast on Christmas Eve and honestly, it’s kind of an essential-”

“Marry me,” she blurts out, and he freezes. “Marry me, John.”

He sets the pan he’s washing down, dries his hands, and rounds the kitchen counter to stand beside her. “Okay,” he says gently, casually. “Sure.”

She laughs. “Really?” Then, she frowns. “You’re not just saying that, right? Because I never know with you.”

He grins. She melts. “I’m serious,” he says, kissing her softly. “I’ll marry you.”

+i.

When Raven and Otan burst into the hospital room, Murphy is sitting in an armchair holding his baby girl.

“Emori’s asleep,” he whispers, grinning up at Raven as she maneuvers herself to a kneeling position beside him. “Say hi to your Aunt Raven, Jo.”

Raven’s whole face lights up at the sight of Murphy’s blue eyes and Emori’s dark skin. “Hi, you,” she coos, running a gentle finger over Jo’s round cheeks. Above her, Otan stands between his sister and his niece, obviously out of his depth.

“John?” Emori mumbles, waking up with a slow, lazy stretch and a wince. “Oh,” she sighs. “Hi, Otan.”

Her brother kisses her forehead. “You did good,” he says roughly.

Emori beams up at him, then reaches out for the bundle in Murphy’s arms.

“You need to rest,” Murphy says, but it’s a pointless argument; Raven’s already passing the baby off with a glare in Murphy’s direction. Within seconds, both girls are asleep again, Jo’s head resting against her mother’s heart.

“You did it,” Raven whispers, leaning her head against his shoulder, watching as Otan sits in the chair across the room from Emori’s bed. “I’m proud of you.”

He looks at his wife and their little girl and feels a swell of joy rise up in him, threatening to choke him in its immediacy. “Thanks,” he whispers.

In her sleep, Emori smiles.

[an-upset-librarian]

Stardust and Fire -- Chapter Seven

New chapter? New chapter! So I finally finished chapter 7 of Stardust and Fire! I finished moving into my dorm the other day, and found the time to finish off this chapter for you guys. 

Please let me know what you think, and enjoy!

AO3   FFN

“Lucy, what have I said about leaving your room without permission?” Her father’s cold voice called. Lucy, who’d just reached her fourteenth year, froze, clutching at the old telescope in her arms.

             “Where on Earth did you get that?” Jude screamed, snatching the telescope from her small arms. Lucy made a noise of protest, which was met by a fearsome glare. The girl shrank in on herself, and stifled her cries. She tried not to cry, but the traitorous tears fell from her eyes anyway.

She’d found the telescope in the attic, behind boxes and crates of her mother’s old possessions. The long dark wooden case had caught her attention, and she’d dusted it off and opened it up to see a shining metal telescope embedded in velvet. She’d hoped to go out and look up at the stars on the anniversary of her mother’s death.

             “Don’t cry, it’s unseemly. You’re too old for this behavior,” Her father snapped when he saw the tears streaking down her cheeks.

             “But I just wanted to look at the stars, like I used to with mama,” Lucy stuttered, her voice small and quivering with fear. Her father stilled, his face going blank for a moment before rage overtook his features.

             “Your mother was a foolish woman, and now she’s dead because of it. You need to grow up!” He screamed. He raised the telescope with one arm, and Lucy cried out and leapt up to try and grab the precious heirloom. She was too small and helpless to stop her father from smashing it against the floor and stomping on it for good measure. Lucy screamed, a horrible deep scratch that crawled from the depths of her chest. She pushed her father away from the crushed metal and shattered glass, then fell to her knees- ignoring the pieces of glass that dug into her skin.

             She was too focused on the broken telescope to notice how her father went stumbling a few feet back from her shove, her vision too blurred from tears to note the fear in his eyes. She cradled the twisted metal in her arms as her sobs wracked her body.

             “Get up this instant!” Jude spat, grabbing her arm and lifting her from the floor. Lucy cried out as the telescope was knocked from her grip, clattering against the floor again. She reached out for it as her father dragged her away, her fingertips just barely brushing the cool metal.

             “I think you need to be locked in the Room again. You are out of control,” He growled. Panic spread through the girl, and she fought even harder against her father’s grip. She screamed her protests, reaching out to the servants as they passed by, but none came to her aid. Instead, her potential rescuers stood as stoic witnesses to her humiliation, as always. Her father dragged her down to the basement, and unlocked a sturdy metal door with a key from his pocket. Lucy was sobbing, begging for her father to show mercy. He just wrinkled his nose in disgust and tossed the girl into the dark, small room.

             “You will stay here all night as punishment,” He said sternly. Lucy rose to her feet and ran at the doorway, but her father just slammed the door shut in her face. She blinked uselessly in the dark as her vision tried to adjust to the inky black room. Crying, she banged against the door with clenched fists and kicked until her skin was bruised and bloody. She finally stopped when her hands throbbed in pain and her screams became hoarse croaks.

             She curled up in the corner of the room, unable to even see her own hand in front of her face. Silent tears streaked down her cheeks as she stared blankly out into the darkness.

***

             When Lucy felt the pounding in her heart subside, she pushed away from Natsu and bit her lip. She looked over at the distant castle, wincing every time an attack rattled the building and sent more and more debris collapsing to the ground. Clouds of dust filled the air. She looked up at the looming peak of the tower, where she’d literally taken a leap of faith. The feeling of helplessness as she plummeted to her doom was not one she ever wanted to feel again.

             “What’s happening in there?” She whispered. Natsu rolled his neck and stretched, rising to his feet. “After what they did to Team Shadowgear, and after they took you-” his voice deepened into a rumbling growl, “-Master decided it was time to go to war.”

             “War?” Lucy exclaimed. Natsu shrugged and motioned for her to follow him towards the front gate, where most of the battle was taking place.

             “Phantom Lord has been out to get us for decades, I guess Jose finally grew the balls to come at us,” Natsu explained. She stumbled and felt her heart drop out of her chest. If Jose hadn’t been driven into an all-out attack before she joined Fairy Tail, she- or rather her father- must have been the tipping stone on the scale that made Phantom finally decide to come after her friends. That meant that everyone’s injuries were her fault, all the pain and suffering brought on by this war was her fault. She felt as though she was drowning in guilt. If she hadn’t run away from home, or joined Fairy Tail, everyone she’d begun to care for would be perfectly fine.

             As though he could hear her anxious thoughts, Natsu bumped her shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, we’ve got this.”

             Lucy gave him a weak smile. The wind rustled the grass, creating a low hum in the valley. She tucked the stray hairs flowing in the wind behind her ear and gently covered her keys with her hand. The enchanted metal pulsed with heat, as though her spirits were welcoming her back. Smiling, she absentmindedly stroked Leo’s key with her pinky as they walked. She looked back up at Natsu, who was a few strides ahead of her.

             He was bustling with barely contained energy, his muscles tensed and ready for fighting. His attention was locked onto the distant fighting, his jaw clenching when a particularly intense attack sounded from the fortress. He was itching to return to the fight and to help his friends. Lucy was tempted to let him, to tell him to go running right into the fire and burn away their enemies, but she was weak and did not want to be left alone again. She’d been in that dark, cold cell for what felt like days, but was probably only hours.

As a child, she’d been isolated from the outside world, kept restrained in her father’s manor house with only the servants to keep her company. Her father hired private tutors to educate her, and until she ran away, Lucy never knew what the outside world was like. To say it was a rude awakening was an understatement. She learned quickly that the world could be just as cruel as her father.

She was jarred out of her thoughts by an explosion that sent the earth rolling beneath her feet, causing her to lose her footing, and the towers from above crumbling down around them. Natsu shouted and dove towards her, grabbing her with one arm and waving his other to send a wave of fire to defend them from a chunk of dark stone plummeting down from above. The intensity of the blaze singed her skin and made her cry out. Natsu’s arm tightened around her and he shot her a concerned look. He pulled her along, dodging the debris left and right, until they were near the front gate. They skidded to a stop just before the gate, eyes wide and mouths agape.

Erza stood with the guild behind her, the group slowly backing out of Phantom Lord’s fortress. With her scarlet hair whipping in the wind, Erza- donned in a brilliant silver winged armor- defended her companions with hundreds upon hundreds of blades that appeared out of thin air around her.

“Take the Master and go!” She shouted. Natsu stepped forward, but paused and glanced over at Lucy. She nodded to him, telling him to go and fight. If she could, she would summon Leo, but her magic was still replenishing after being drained away by that cell. Nevertheless, she ran up to where Mira was kneeling with Master Makarov’s small form cradled in her arms. Elfman deflected any attacks targeted towards them, screaming incoherently. Lucy stopped and joined Mira, a shocked gasp falling from her lips when she saw the kindly old man.

His skin was sallow and pale, with a blue tint overcoming his features. More wrinkles than she remembered creased his skin and were it not for the slight rise and fall of his chest, she would’ve believed him dead. While Lucy still couldn’t sense aura’s very well, she knew there was something wrong with Makarov’s. He had no presence. He seemed like an empty shell that had its life-force sucked out until nothing else remained.

“What happened?” She asked. Mira, with tears running down her cheeks, just shook her head. Lucy felt a wave of heat as Natsu entered the fighting and heard his battle cry echo in the courtyard. Erza called for a retreat to the guild, her voice strained. There was a burst of light and ice and a wave of cold air washed over the courtyard as a frozen shield encased the large doors of Phantom Lord, preventing any of their enemies from pursuing them, for a few moments at least.

             Lucy helped Mira to her feet, and together they followed the flow of people running down to a distant growing doorway of brilliant light.

             The portal. She spared a glance over her shoulder, hoping to see a familiar flash of pink in the crowd, but was swallowed up by the transportation magic before she spotted Natsu.

             She stumbled across the floor as she landed in the guild tavern and crashed into the bar top. Nausea swirled in her gut and dizziness blurred her vision. She really hated that damned portal. When she finally regained her footing, and managed to focus on her surroundings, the portal closed behind Erza, who was the last to travel through. Mira was still crying, the tears dripping down her cheeks and onto the Master’s clothing. She carried him into the infirmary with most of the guild hot on her heels. When the crowd bottlenecked at the door, Mira hissed and sent everyone away. She slammed the door shut, but not before telling Happy to fly off and bring Porlyusica to the guild as soon as possible.

             The Exceed had stayed in the safety of the guild with Charle, Wendy, and a few others whose magic wasn’t suitable for battle. Wendy was pushing her way through the crowd, scanning for injuries and helping where she could. Erza waved away the small girl, saying her wounds would heal, and told her to go try and help the Master.

             As the panic and adrenaline faded away, a gloomy atmosphere clouded the atmosphere. Many were sitting with their heads in their hands, or pacing across the floor. Lucy knocked on the infirmary door, asking Mira if she could see Levy.

             The white-haired woman called for her to enter, and Lucy gasped in horror when she saw her friend. Levy, and the rest of her team, were heavily bandaged from head to toe, and had an IV hanging next to their sick beds with a strange glowing liquid swirling inside the bag, flowing slowly down the tube and into their arms. Blood-soaked rags overflowed in the trash bin and Lucy could see dried bloodstains on the floor. Levy’s normal glowing aura was dark and faded, her breathing shallow.

             Hot tears trailed down her cheeks as Lucy sat at Levy’s side, too scared to grab her hand for fear of hurting the demi-fae. Mira was similarly positioned next to Makarov.

             “I’m so sorry,” She murmured. Guilt and shame rolled in her stomach, and she was sure the nausea she felt was not from the portal. If only she’d done something sooner. Maybe if she left for the Heartfilia Manor already, her friends wouldn’t be lying unconscious and barely alive in a sick bed. Makarov wouldn’t be dying, and the guild wouldn’t be at war with Phantom Lord.

             The thought of Jose or any of the scum from Phantom Lord coming after the members of Fairy Tail again turned her vision red and made her blood boil in anger. The image of that vile man smirking at her and taunting her behind the safety of her cell haunted her whenever she closed her eyes. Breathing heavily, Lucy rose from her crouch and stormed out of the infirmary, violently slamming the door shut behind her.

             The guild was now a flurry of activity. Erza hovered above the swarm, directing the chaos. She was still donned in the shining silver armor from the battle, the glorious silver wings spread wide and taking up most of the available space granted by the high ceilings of the tavern.

             Lucy’s fists clenched tight enough for her nails to pierce her skin. She distantly felt the warmth of her blood soaking the pads of her fingers. The hustle and bustle of the guild faded away; the shouts and clamoring fading to the dull ringing in her ears, the smell of blood and sweat clogging her nose, her vision blurry. Soon she saw just imprints of color as people walked by. She felt numb. Her anger drained away, leaving nothing but emptiness in its wake.

             If she went out and fought Phantom Lord, how would she know they’d leave Fairy Tail alone? Jose made his hatred of the guild very clear, along with his lust for her powers. She knew if she told Erza or Natsu or anyone what Jose revealed to her that they would fight for her, even die for her. Despite the short amount of time she’d spent at Fairy Tail, she knew how deep the ties of friendship went in each and every member’s hearts.

             She couldn’t fight Phantom Lord without risking retribution against her friends, nor could she simply surrender and hope Jose would leave Fairy Tail alone. Plus, she had her spirits to think about. How could she willingly subject them to Jose’s whims? Her heart sank. None of her options were good.

             “..y…cy…Lucy!” A voice called. Lucy felt hands shaking her shoulders, and then the world rushed back into focus with an almost audible snap. She jerked back and blinked, relaxing when she saw a familiar pair of dark green eyes staring at her with concern.

             “Are you hurt?” Natsu asked, looking her up and down to assess for injuries. She shook away his concern and rolled his hands off with a shrug of her shoulders. “I’m fine.”

             Natsu raised a brow and she knew he didn’t believe a word she said. Lucy hugged herself and avoided his gaze. She knew that if he asked about what Jose did, she’d tell him. Despite barely knowing him, Lucy’s trust in Natsu was ingrained in her very soul. He had saved her life more than once, and had become a good friend in the weeks since she joined Fairy Tail.

             “It was a dark cell, is all,” She muttered as he inched closer, his shoulder brushing against hers and his breath fanning across her face. Memories of how her father would punish her by locking her in a tiny, pitch black “panic” room flitted through the forefront of her mind. Residual panic and fear bubbled up her throat and she felt her heartrate quicken.

             Natsu smiled down at her and slung an arm across her shoulder, pulling her along into the chaos. Lucy stumbled, but Natsu’s grip remained steady. “No need to worry about that now. My flames will always light up the darkness, and you’re back home. I promise we’ll protect ya,” he said brightly as he dragged her towards where Erza was directing the traffic.

             Lucy’s shoulders shook with laughter and she bit back a smile. Of course Natsu would have such a simple opinion. With her mood somewhat better, Lucy willingly plunged deeper through the fray until they stopped right below Erza.

             Before Natsu could call out to her, the portal flashed and a terse woman stalked into the guild. Her pastel pink hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail and she wore deep red robes. Lucy noted that since she’d joined the supernatural world, the concentration of those with wildly colorful hair had significantly increased. The woman grimaced and glared at the guild members. Everyone had stopped what they were doing and instantly cleared a path to the infirmary.

             Mirajane thrust open the door, as though she could sense the woman’s arrival. She waved the woman over, and muttered her thanks with a respectful bow. The healer, Porlyusica, just sneered and shook her head, muttering about old men with too much foolish bravado, then disappeared into the infirmary and slammed the door. A moment later, the portal flashed again as Happy flew through the doorway and crashed onto the floor.

             The Exceeds wings vanished, and he collapsed in a heap near the doorway. Natsu dashed over to his partner and carefully lifted the cat, cradling the unconscious creature in his arms. She walked over and touched Natsu’s elbow, asking if Happy was alright.

             “He just used too much of his magic at once, is all. He’ll be begging me to take him fishing again in no time,” He said with a gentle smile. Lucy felt warmth bloom in her chest at the adoration she saw in his eyes and the cautious hold he had on the feline creature.

             “Lucy! It is good to see you again,” Erza said, startling the blonde. Erza had snuck up behind her, somehow silent with her bulky enchanted armor and swords.

             “It is good to be back,” She said slowly. While she was extremely glad to be free of the dark cell and reunited with her friends, Lucy knew she was putting all of Fairy Tail at risk.

             “Do you mind telling me why Phantom Lord’s master kidnapped you? It would help me understand his future strategy,” Erza asked, stepping closer to Lucy and looking her up and down for any clues. Lucy blanched at the question. Now was the time to tell the truth, she supposed.

             “Well, it’s complicated,” she began, “but it all comes back to my father.” At the mention of her family, Natsu’s attention was pulled away from Happy. Except for what Leo revealed, and the memories of her childhood that Lucy shared with him, Natsu knew close to nothing about her family.

             “My real name is Lucy Heartfilia, and my father is Jude Heartfilia, head of Heartfilia Co. I ran away from home a little over a year ago. My father is a horrible, abusive person. Jose told me he was hired by my father to kidnap me and take me back to our family estate,” Lucy explained with a shuddering breath. “Unfortunately for me, Jose decided my magic was worth more than my father’s reward and he decided to ‘keep’ me, to use as he saw fit. I don’t know what he planned to use my magic for, but I know it was nothing good.”

             Natsu growled low in his chest and stepped closer to her, his shoulder bumping hers. Erza stared at her with a fierce intensity, then nodded.

             “Thank you. Your celestial magic is rare, so that makes sense. Now I know Jose will attack us again to try and get to you,” She said, but her gaze told Lucy that the Valkyrie would want to know more about her family and why she lied. Lucy was grateful for Erza’s patience. She had no desire to delve into her painful past anytime soon.

Every night, she was plagued by nightmares, each one depicting another terrible memory of her childhood. She’d wake drenched in a cold sweat, her sheets soaked, and a scream crawling out her throat. Most nights, she could prevent the screaming, but others she’d wake with her throat hoarse and the echo of her cries in the air, her body shaking.

             Erza returned to the air to shout out more orders and prepare for an attack while Natsu draped an arm across Lucy’s shoulders and tucked her against his warm body. Lucy tried not to melt in his arms. Now that she was finally free from Phantom Lord’s prison, the exhaustion she’d fought off with adrenaline was starting to seep in.

             “Don’t think that just cause Erza didn’t ask questions that I won’t. I don’t know why you lied, but just know you can trust me,” Natsu said, his breath tickling her ear. Lucy tensed, but nodded.    

             “I do trust you, now at least. Please believe that. I just didn’t want to risk my father finding me, which doesn’t seem to matter now,” she said glumly. She turned her head to peek at his face, and met his burning gaze. He inhaled sharply, narrowed his eyes at her, then exhaled and nodded. His breath fanned across her face, and her mouth quirked in discomfort.

             “Fine. I do trust ya, Luce. And don’t worry, we’ll keep ya safe,” He said brightly. Lucy smiled up at him and tilted her head to rest against his shoulder.

             “Oh, did you ever find out what happened to the master?” She asked as she glanced over at the infirmary door.

             “Apparently during the fight, he went to confront Jose and was causing chaos when a wizard, one of the Element Four, used some spell that sucked all the magic energy out of his body and caused an intense kind of depletion sickness,” He explained. Lucy pursed her lips in thought. After feeling the side effects of a mild case of magic depletion, she couldn’t imagine how Makarov had survived having every last drop of magic drained away.

             “Element Four,” She mumbled, “Hey is there some kind of water woman in the Element Four?”

             Natsu tensed, and she felt his skin grow hot as his magic boiled beneath his skin. He must’ve put together the same thing she did: that a member of the Element Four abducted her.

             “I think so. Someone might’ve mentioned it before, but I wasn’t really listening,” He said softly. She just hummed to herself and strummed her keys with her fingertips. While her guilt and anxiety over what path to take regarding Phantom Lord were temporarily lightened by Natsu’s kind words and presence at her side, the intrusive thoughts remained hovering at the back of her mind.

             She could always try turning herself in, but what would she do with her keys. If she gave them to Natsu, he’d figure out her plan and try to stop her. She’d stay put, for now at least. Maybe Erza had a brilliant attack plan and maybe Porlyusica would come out of the infirmary with Master Makarov hot on her heels, ready to return to the battle. Or maybe Phantom Lord would just leave them alone and her mother would come back from the dead.

             Porlyusica burst from the infirmary door, her expression even surlier than before. Erza and Gray and Elfman ran up to the healer to hear any news, and Lucy was dragged along by Natsu.

             “I’m afraid it isn’t good. The mage literally took his aura somehow. Unless we find it and return it to Makarov, he’ll die within hours,” Porlyusica grumbled. Gasps of shock and unease spread through the hall. Gray cursed and turned and punched a wall, sending crystals of ice shooting across the room. Erza showed no physical reaction, save for a slight frown. Natsu just pulled Lucy closer and growled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.

             Porlyusica muttered some more about what needed to be done to save Makarov, then returned to the infirmary to try and keep his body alive long enough to have his magic restored.

             “Finding Makarov’s stolen aura and returning it to the guild is now our primary goal. No matter what happens, we must save the master.” Erza lifted a clenched fist and stared at the closed infirmary door. Sounds of affirmation and agreement flitted through the hall as the news passed through the guild.

             Before anyone had a chance to sound a plan of action, the upper levels of the guild and the roof disappeared in a sudden flash of purple light, the resounding boom of the magical canon deafening and the rush of air sending everyone sprawling.

             A wave of energy and heat enveloped the guild as the focused magical energy ripped through the guild. Natsu tackled Lucy to the ground and tucked her protectively under his body to protect her from the falling debris, and screams of alarm filled her ears. Lucy peeked out past Natsu’s arm and her eyes widened in horror.

             In the distance, near the riverbank a few hundred feet from the guild, stood- or rather walked- the Phantom Lord castle. The castle was perched on a chunk of earth with enormous metal limbs sprouting from below the fortress. In the center of the castle was a large canon barrel with smoke curling from the end. Lucy looked up in horror at the carnage around her. Luckily, not many were injured from the attack. The attack had vaporized most of what it touched and the only debris was from the backlash of such a powerful force ripping through the air.

             Erza was the first back to her feet, and her armor disappeared in a flash. When the light died down, she was donned in a black armor with silver accents with large bat-like wings protruding from her shoulder. Her legs and arms were covered in thick plated metal, and her stomach was left bare.

             “Good evening, Fairies!” Jose’s voice called out from the castle, magnified by magic, “That was a warning shot, courtesy of our lovely Jupiter canon! Next time, I will not miss. Bring me Lucy Heartfilia, or perish. You have 15 minutes.”

             Lucy felt everyone’s eyes turn to her, and she felt her mouth drop open in shock. It seemed that her choice had been made for her. She had no other option but to surrender herself to Jose’s whims. She wriggled out from underneath Natsu and rose to her feet, her head held high. She marched out of the guild doors, the portal broken and useless from the blast. She could feel the flickering energy of the wards surrounding the guild as she neared the edge of their protection.

             A hand grabbed her arm and yanked her back. Lucy whirled around and was about to yell when she saw Erza standing behind her, with Natsu and Gray at her sides. The three bore equally furious expressions.

             “You are a member of Fairy Tail, and no matter your past, you are family. We do not allow our family to be threatened,” She stated firmly. Erza smiled softly and released her arm.

             “Jose Porla! We will never give up one of our comrades, and you shall feel the wrath and might of Fairy Tail!” Erza screamed, the rest of the guild cheering behind her. Lucy felt her eyes well up with tears at her friend’s actions. Never before in her lifetime had anyone fought for her as valiantly as the members of Fairy Tail now did.

             “Hmm. Unfortunate. Nevertheless, I will take the girl. Sending you cursed Fairies to the netherworld is only a bonus.” Jose’s voice called. A large circular sigil appeared at the front end of the Jupiter canon, and a robotic voice said, “15 minutes until Jupiter canon activation.”

             Dark energy pooled in the center of the symbol and slowly started to grow larger with each passing moment.

             “Pshh, we’ve got 15 minutes to take that castle down? No problem!” Natsu laughed. Right after the words left his mouth, a horde of dark shades poured from the towers of the distant castle, each cloaked soldier streaming towards the guild.

             “Goddammit Natsu!” Gray cursed, unbuttoning his shirt.

             “Ah, well, now it’s really a party. I’m all fired up!” Natsu shouted, punching his fists together with an explosion of fire.

[trulyhappy2025]

If the Trees Could Talk

Uncle Will won’t get up. He just sits in bed, with that odd, dead-eyed stare. “Uncle Will?” Amy says, the words seem to fall flat in the eerie silence of their shared bedroom. Amy watches him, her legs hanging over the edge of her bed.

   “Go away.” Uncle Will groans, taking a long swig from his bottle, amber liquid sloshing around inside as he lifts it. Amy watches, entranced, as he drinks. Like a baby would drink from a bottle. His dreadlocks fan out in a halo around his head as he lays there, his dead eyes looking at nothing and everything at the same time.

Amy watches him for a few moments, her legs swinging back and forth. It’s cold, and goosebumps are already forming on her arms. She shivers in the early morning chill. She can see frost on the window panes, white swirls obscuring the outside world.

Finally, she stands, the pink soles of her feet touching the chilly, rough-hewn floorboards. She tiptoes over to the dresser. She needs to get dressed. She’s got to go to school. Amy quickly strips off her frilly nightgown, shivering when the cold air touches her skin, throwing on her clothes as quickly as she can.

Amy heads down to the kitchen. She passes Great-Grandpa’s room. She does her best to not look at him. He looks like a corpse, pale and sick, with tubes sticking out of him all over, hooked up to machines. She rushes through the hall. Her feet feel like blocks of ice in her socks as she tramples down the stairs, carefully avoiding the third step, which always squeaks “We really should figure out a way to stop that squeaking.” Amy says to no one in particular, her voice echoing through the cold, empty stairwell. The soft wheezing of Great Grandpa’s machine playing like some sort of horrible record stuck on a loop in the background.

Amy continues padding down the stairs in silence, making her way towards the bathroom. The temperature drops nearly twenty degrees when she steps through the threshold into the grimy little cell-like room. The bathtub is ringed with dirt, which lines its outside with streaks of red and brown. Back when Amy’s Mama was still around, she and Uncle Will used to spend whole days trying to clean the bathroom, scrubbing the tiles and washing the floors. Prying black mold from the grout, leaving behind the sharp smell of bleach. But even at its cleanest the bathroom always had a little dust gathering at the corners. A little red in the bathtub. A little mold in between the tiles. No one’s cleaned in here for a long time. Not well enough, anyway. Uncle Will tries, but the bathroom has always been a two-man job.

Amy brushes her teeth. Cleans her face with chilly tap water- there hasn’t been hot water in the bathroom in a long time. So long that she can’t even remember a time when there was hot water. Her Mama used to beg Grandpa to fix it. He never did.

Amy brushes her hair too, which always takes longer, on account of how thick it is. Black and curly, floating up above her head like a cloud. Her Mama’s did the same. And Uncle Will’s, too, before he started his dreadlocks.

Amy then heads for the kitchen, walking quickly. If she looks hard enough she can almost see her breath puffing out in clouds in front of her. The Funny Man is already there, reading an old newspaper from two weeks ago that no one has bothered tossing out yet. “It figures you’d already be up,” Amy mutters. The Funny Man glances up at her momentarily before returning to his newspaper. He mutters something in reply. Amy ignores it. She doesn’t understand him. She doesn’t think anyone can understand him. He always sounds like he’s talking from underwater, his voice echoing and burbling. Like a quiet waterfall, or a brook.

“Are you hungry?” Amy asks. The Funny Man nods. “Cereal or toast?” Amy asks. She gets out some bread for herself out of the ancient bread box, shoving aside a mason jar of old, rusty wedding rings The Funny Man points at the toaster.

“How many slices?” Amy asks. She gets herself two, placing them gently in the toaster and pressing the knob down. There’s blood on the counter, she notices. She gets out a washcloth and wipes up the small pool on the counter. The Funny man holds up one dark finger. Everything about him is dark. When Amy was little she used to think she was someone’s shadow, torn free of their body. Like Peter Pan’s. She pulls out another slice of bread before stowing the bag back in the breadbox. She glances at the wall clock, which has been sitting on the kitchen table for the last two months ever since it fell off the wall. The hands sort of look like a mustache. 6:25, it reads. The school bus should be here soon. She wonders where Grandpa is. Probably still in bed. He doesn’t get up until later. Mornings were always Amy and Mama’s time. Sometimes Uncle Will’s too, but that was rarer, and he never seemed to get up early anymore. So now mornings are just Amy’s. Hers and The Funny Man’s. Her toast pops. Amy snatches both slices out of the toaster quickly. It feels no nice, and warm compared to the rest of the chilly house. Like two squares of pure sunshine. Amy wonders if Grandpa will finally let them turn up the thermostat. He’s always been oddly finicky about the temperature, so she doubts it. She stands there, letting the toast burn her fingertips until she has to drop the slices on the table, tossing The Funny Man’s bread into the toaster. Amy quickly slides the chunks of hard butter over her toast, letting it melt on her slices before she eats them slowly. She savors the warm, buttery taste. The Funny Man lets out something that sounds vaguely like a whine. Amy sighs and rolls her eyes, pulling a bit of crust off of one of the slices and tossing it at him. He catches the crust and gobbles it quickly, greedily cramming it into his mouth, white fangs flashing against the dark, shadowy flesh of his mouth. “Do you even need to eat?” Amy asks The Funny Man.

He shrugs and mumbles something. His toast pops. They both glance at the toaster. Just as Amy is about to go pull it out of the toaster he stands, shoving his chair back, lunging at the toaster and snatching the toast, balling it up and shoving it whole into his mouth. Amy grimaces. “That’s disgusting.” She informs him. He rolls his eyes and continues shoving it into his mouth. Amy wanders into the chilly living room, her small sock-covered feet sinking into the soft carpet. It’s cold in here too. She eats the last of her toast, peering out of the window. “I guess I should get walking, huh?” Amy says to no one in particular. Her voice feels too loud in the eerie silence of the cabin.

It’s a long walk to the highway, through a long, thin driveway surrounded by trees which loom over Amy as she walks, like dark, silent giants. Watching her hungrily, their long branches stretching to brush her. The Funny Man watches from the front window as she walks away, waving, his black eyes boring holes in her back. Amy walks a little faster.

Before long she reaches the bus stop. The bus is already there, waiting for her. The Bus driver glares at her when she walks up, opening the bus door slowly as it creaks. Amy glares back at the bus driver.

“Mrs. Morris,” Amy says coldly.

“Amy.” Mrs. Morris replies. If Amy’s voice was cold, Mrs. Morris’ is freezing. Amy steps into the bus, walking as slowly as she can, just to spite the old bat. She can’t stand Mrs. Morris. She’s horrible. She’s always been horrible- and not just to Amy, but to other kids too. There doesn’t even seem to be a method to whom she hates, other than the kids all being, well, kids.

There’s Angela Davis, who always sits in back and reads Harry Potter, and who Mrs. Morrison once made cry when she took her book. There’s Ty Jefferson, who is always talking with his friends, and Mrs. Morrison yells at every day for being ‘too loud’ no matter what he does, and there’s June Renkin- poor June Renkin. She had to quit riding the bus after Mrs. Morris kept harassing her about her dreadlocks.

The school day passes by slowly, in a dull haze which seems to drag out every moment for hours. Amy slogs through math, and music, and social studies, and every other class, glaring at her teacher, Mrs. Thompson, who stands at the front of the classroom in her stupidly bright dress, chirping every word like she’s some sort of songbird- Amy can’t stand her. She wonders, all throughout the day, if Uncle Will has gotten out of bed yet. She hopes he has. Grandpa hates it when Uncle Will has a sick day. Amy remembers when Mama was still around, and she’d rouse Uncle Will. She’d lay in bed with him and hug him, whispering something in his ear. After a while, Uncle Will would stir. He’d set aside his drink- whiskey, vodka, wine, champagne. Anything he could get his hands on and sit up, look around and go cook breakfast. But Mama isn’t around to fix Uncle Will, and the last time Amy had tried to wake him like her Mama had, Uncle Will had screamed. A furious, guttural scream and shouted at her to get out. She’d spent the rest of the day in the Car Graveyard behind the house after that.

The Car Graveyard is exactly what it sounds like- a massive expanse of land, all covered by hundreds and hundreds of ancient, rusted automobiles. Well, probably not hundreds, but it certainly seems like it. The Car Graveyard must go on for miles- Amy once walked a whole hour and she couldn’t find the end of it. The Car Graveyard has always seemed infinite. Amy likes to keep her toys in an old truck out there, hidden away from The Funny Man. He likes to pull her barbies heads off and tear their limbs out of their sockets.

Before long, the final school bell rings, and Amy rushes outside. She needs to hurry to the bus. Otherwise, Mrs. Morrison might drive away without her. She’s done it before, and Amy had to call Uncle Will in the office so he could have Grandpa drive to the school to pick her up. Grandpa was furious at them both for that, the hand shaped bruise on Uncle Will’s face had lingered for days. Amy gets her backpack out of her cubby, pulling her sweatshirt on and hurrying towards the door. “Don’t run in the halls!” Mrs. Thompson chirps. Amy ignores her, shoving past quickly and darting towards the busses, the soles of her sneakers slapping against the concrete.

Then Amy sees the truck. A vast, rusted, metallic, monster that roars at her, nestled between two buses. Amy glances behind her, back at the door of the school. But it’s too late to run back in- he’s already seen her. He rolls down the window. “Amy!” Grandpa rumbles threateningly. She flinches, staring at her shoes. He sounds angry. Why is he here? Did something happen? Amy can feel her heart, about to leap out of her throat as she slinks towards the car.

“Hi, grandpa.” She says quietly.

“Get in.” He says, in a voice like suppressed thunder. Amy pulls the car door open, tossing her backpack up into the seat and crawling into the car. He watches her closely, with bright blue eyes like chunks of ice that seem to seek out every small crack, every weakness, every flinch.

With a roar, the monstrous truck pulls out from the school driveway. Amy sits in silence in the car. It smells like coffee and stale, greasy pizza. Amy spots an empty pizza box on the floor beneath her feet. She nudges it slightly, and something darts out from under it. Something small and black and distinctly fuzzy. Amy pulls her feet up quickly, pulling her knees to her chest. There are empty coffee cups all over too- the cheap ones you get at a gas station, their labels faded and peeling, the remains of the actual coffee dribbling out onto the seat. Then Amy sees the knife. It rests between her and Grandpa. It’s a big knife- the sort of thing you might see in a butcher’s shop. A meat cleaver. “Grandpa? What are we doing?” Amy asks. She can see her breath in front of her, lingering in the air in clouds. She already knows what they’re doing.

Grandpa does not reply. They’re on the highway now, and Amy can see the trees, tall and dark that surround the road, gazing down at them hungrily. They’re waiting for a meal, she realizes. There’s no one else on the road, and Grandpa cruises down the highway, searching. “Grandpa?” She asks again.

“Shut up,” Grandpa says. “It’s all your fault we have to do this anyways.” Amy glances at him, her knees still pulled to her chest.

“Grandpa, we don’t have to-” Amy starts

“I said shut up.” Grandpa interrupts. The trees begin to sway in the breeze, branches scrape along the hood of the car. It’s silent. Terrifyingly silent. Amy is so cold. Grandpa picks up a knife- it’s a pocket knife. The sort of thing Amy’s Mama used to carry around.

“I want to go home,” Amy says pathetically, hugging herself. He hands the knife over.

“It doesn’t matter what you want,” Grandpa replies gruffly. Amy takes the knife silently.

By the time they finally find someone, the sun is sinking below the tree line. The trees themselves growing hungry and impatient, their branches scraping along the car harshly. This time it’s another young couple. Not unlike the last ones, except for the woman’s odd hair. It’s bright pink, and short. “It’s awful cold out, isn’t it?” The woman says. “My name is Emily.” She adds. “What’s yours?” She speaks with a sort of southern twang.

Amy looks balefully at the woman as Grandpa goes to help the man with whatever is wrong with the car. “It’s usually easier to dispatch the men first.” He once told Amy. She disagrees- it’s usually the women that give people the most trouble. They’re always the ones that seem to fight and scream for help. The men usually just beg. The men always grovel and cry. Amy always tries to block them out.

“Mel.” She says, quietly. Never give out your real name. Uncle Will has told her that enough times. Her ears strain for the sound of a thud, a scream- anything. A signal from Grandpa that they have what they need and they can go. Emily begins chattering at her. Something about her and her boyfriend.

“We’re on vacation, you know,” Emily says, grinning ear to ear. Amy feels a sharp flash of annoyance. How dare this woman be happy. Doesn’t she know she’s about to die?

Grandpa glances at Amy. She stares at her shoes as Emily continues talking. What follows is quick. Precise- Amy tries her best not to look at Grandpa pulls out the knife. In one fluid motion, he stabs the boyfriend in the neck, blood spurts onto the asphalt. Amy frowns. Evidence. That’s evidence, and evidence is bad. Emily screams. A loud, piercing scream. Grandpa sighs, the boyfriend’s blood dribbling down the front of his shirt, like a scarlet bib. “Shut her up,” Grandpa mutters to Amy. She looks fearfully at Grandpa. He glares back, his blue eyes boring deep into her soul, like ice-covered steel picks. Emily continues screaming, running towards the car. Grandpa sighs, and grabs her before she can make it, shoving her to the ground and kicking her in the head, over and over. Amy turns away.

After they’ve loaded the Boyfriend- or, his corpse- into the back of the truck, and covered it with a large tarp, they put Emily in. Grandpa grabs the knife, holding it over her jugular. “Wait, can’t we-” Amy starts. Grandpa glares at her, and Amy folds in on herself, the words vanishing from her mouth as though he’d snatched them away with his old, wrinkly hands.

“Can’t we what?” He asks mockingly, sneering at her. “Let her go? Are you stupid? There’s no way we can do that. Not now.”

He brings the knife down. Amy can’t bring herself to look.

They drive. They drive for such a long time, that Amy is almost certain that they aren’t even driving to The Place. The sun has long since set. Amy leans against the window, her forehead pressed up against the chilly glass as she peers into the windows of the cars that they pass. A family- the mother driving as the father dozes in the passenger seat, behind her two children are curled up in their car seats. One, a little boy, looks like he’s a few years younger than Amy. Maybe five or six, his curly blonde hair disheveled and drool coating his face. Amy would give anything to be in that car in his place.

Grandpa doesn’t talk to her as they drive. He doesn’t even glance at her. Amy doesn’t try and talk to him. She’s long since given up with him.

Finally, they make their way to The Place. It’s just a small driveway, off some back road. Grandpa follows the well-worn path in the truck, the huge wheels chewing up the thin grass on top of the muddy soil. For a second, Amy is worried that they’ll be stuck, when the truck revs, but they don’t move forward. Then, as if allowing them entry, a tree branch smacks the windshield, and they enter The Place.

The Place looks about the same as it did the last time they were here. Yellowing bones litter the grass of the clearing, half covered in dirt as they sink into the ground. The only tree in the waves of uninterrupted grass, about the size of a football field, is a tall, stout pine, slightly bent, with green branches that seem to droop with old age. “Come on,” Grandpa says gruffly, turning off the radio, which broadcasts the tinny, static-filled voice of a man, reporting the weather. Amy hops out, shivering when she leaves the warm confines on the car. Her foot collides with a femur, glowing white in the dim light. Amy kicks it aside.

Grandpa tosses the two bodies out himself. “Help me drag them towards the tree.” He orders, grabbing onto Emily’s cold, dead hand. Amy forces herself to grab the other one, dragging it closer to the tree. The tree is motionless, and for a second Amy is worried that they have the wrong place. But then, branches extend forwards, grabbing onto Emily’s stiff, dead body, drawing her close as the trunk peels open, the bark receding, the wood peeling open to reveal pink, pulsating flesh studded with white teeth. Amy doesn’t hang around to watch, and neither does Grandpa. They retreat quickly to grab the other corpse, returning just in time to watch the tree spit out several pale white bones. Amy shudders, turning away as the tree lifts one thick, smooth root to pick up the other corpse, shoving it into its maw. She doesn’t watch. She doesn’t ever watch. She and Grandpa wait in the clearing, the cold seeping deep into Amy’s bones. “Well?” Grandpa asks, expectantly. Amy wants to shout at him to not talk to that monster. To run, get in the car and drive her out of here. She hates this and she wants her Mama. She wants Mama to hold her, warm arms wrapped around Amy, holding her close.

Moments tick by, and there is no reply from the tree. Grandpa coughs. Amy focuses on the forest floor, littered with bones, and her breath which floats out in front of her in clouds. Finally, the tree speaks, one gargantuan eye popping out of a knot in the trunk. “More.” It groans, so deep and ancient that it gives Amy chills.

“But we’ve given you so many-” Grandpa starts. Amy wants to reach out to him and drag him towards the car.

“More.” Groans the tree, yet again, and then the fleshy trunk closes, another area opening up instead, the bark retreating and the wood splitting to reveal Amy’s Mama.

Amy stares, wide-eyed as Mama pukes, green and red bile that splatters on to the forest floor. Christmas colors, Amy thinks absently. “M-more.” Amy’s Mama croaks, before vanishing back into the trunk of the tree, which closes with a wet splat.

They drive home. The silence is welcome as Amy shivers in the cold of the car. Grandpa won’t look at her. That only makes sense. When they pull into the long gravel driveway, Uncle Will is already on the veranda, drinking from a huge wine bottle. “Is it done?” He slurs. All Amy can do is nod. “Good. Come in an’ eat.” He slurs, stumbling inside. Amy glances at Grandpa. He’s frowning, his icy blue eyes following Uncle Will as he stumbles into the house. He looks at her. Amy follows Uncle Will into the house, tearing her eyes off of Grandpa.

It’s so cold.