#I’m bored out of my mind and sitting here trying to ward off The Horrors

[whimsyprinx]

i truly should’ve been born to a noble family that has more rivals and enemies than they do allies so that one day I would inevitably be caught in the crossfire and dies tragically coughing up blood (and tea) after succumbing to the poison that has laced my tea

[delimeful]

Community Gardens

this is a donation drive commission for @htmlfroggy! based on the prompt: platonic intrulogical g/t & the song ‘community gardens’ by the scary jokes! this is my first time trying a songfic, so i hope its good!

warnings: remus and all the vaguely squicky things he says, illness, misunderstandings, small mentions of body horror

-

Full disclosure, I am a monster A creature of despair, not that that should be a cause for concern If there's one thing I've learned in all my years here It's that despair is less abundant in those who understand How to plant their hearts in community gardens

-

Logan first met his best friend because he was investigating rumors of a human lurking around the border of his forest. 

He had his doubts, of course; ever since he’d personally visited every human settlement on the perimeter of his woods, the ritual sacrifices done to ‘appease the monsters’ had quickly come to a halt, and the amount of angry humans out for vengeance had dropped concurrently. 

When he gently pushed past the boughs of the saplings marking the border, however, there was indeed a human crouched on the ground, seemingly buried up to his elbows in mud. They looked up at Logan’s approach, and the giant was prepared for a number of reactions to his presence. Swearing, screaming, slumping over in a dead faint. 

Plenty had responded to him like this in the past, and plenty more certainly would in the future. It came with being a monstrous giant.

The human offering him a slightly unhinged grin and a mud-slinging wave wasn’t one of the responses he had prepared for.

As such, his reply was uncharacteristically tentative, as though his voice would snap the human out of the peaceable trance they were in. “...Greetings. I am Logan, denizen of this forest. I’m here to inquire into what you’re doing here at the edge of the woods.” 

“Ooh, an interrogation!” The human didn’t stand, craning their neck back at a painful-looking angle to see him properly. “What if I don’t want to say, huh? Are you gonna grind me into bone meal under your heel?”

Logan blinked. The fear that normally would accompany such words was still completely absent. “No. I will not be harming you unless you move to harm those under my protection.”

The human sighed, almost disappointed. “Yeah, I didn’t take you for the type. Oh, well, guess we’re both leaving unsatisfied then.” 

Logan waited a moment longer, and then sighed lowly, before lowering himself to sit amongst his trees. The human cocked an eyebrow, looking as though another inappropriate comment was on the tip of his tongue. 

“If you don’t wish to explain yourself, then I will be supervising your excursions as the guardian of these woods,” Logan announced, sure that his cold gaze would at least give the strange human some pause. 

Of course, because they seemed to delight in proving his assumptions wrong, the human just stared for a moment before a wide, enthusiastic smile spread over his face. 

Logan sighed again, and steadfastly ignored the bright flare of curiosity the human had sparked in him. Most likely, they were simply a thrill-seeker, looking for an adventure like all the epics humans told about interacting with giants. Surely, they’d grow bored soon enough.

-

You'll be fine, you honeycomb Who could ever hurt you? Who could be so cold? You'll be fine, oh honey pie Who could ever hurt you? Who could be so unkind?

-

“Who did it?” 

The half-growl in Remus’ voice was enough that his gaze was immediately drawn away from the Lewisia cotyledon that he had been carefully coaxing root rot from. 

His unruly human acquaintance had apparently gotten closer while he was distracted, abandoning his small plot of freshly-turned soil and haphazard seedlings. It was a break from their typical engagement, where Logan remained in the treeline and Remus remained rooted in his strange, barely-edible ‘vegetable garden’ as they talked. 

“What do you mean?” he replied once he’d processed the strange question. “Is something amiss?” 

“Is your brain made of stone?” Remus shot back sharply, and Logan’s eyebrows drew together automatically at the insult. The human barely seemed to notice, thankfully. “Of course something’s amiss, you’re bleeding out all over the place!” 

He pointed emphatically, and Logan realized what the human was so up in arms about even as he turned to look. On his left side, stretched over his ribs, a long gash was slowly trickling sap-like ichor. The wound had been mostly hidden by his left arm, but in turning to focus on a new plant, he must have accidentally displayed it to the human. “Ah. Do not be alarmed, it’s a shallow wound and will scab over shortly--”

Remus waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t insult me, I know that much from the look of it alone! What I don’t know is: Who. Did. It?” 

Logan frowned briefly. He wasn’t sure why the human wanted to know, but he certainly wasn’t in the habit of denying anyone information. “I wasn’t informed of their name. A Jorōgumo sought sanctuary, which I granted, and approximately half a day later, a human mercenary attempted to breach the forest borders.” 

“And you killed the bastard?” Remus asked expectantly. Logan couldn’t help the minute flinch that traveled through him, the way his face shuttered back to cold neutrality. He’d thought… It didn’t matter. It was his own fault for believing that the man saw him in any other way. 

“No. I warded the forest against them with a bit of their blood. Once they realize the wards are impenetrable, I believe they will move on to an easier bounty.” 

“Not if I get to them first,” Remus replied cheerily, spinning his slightly-rotted wooden trowel in his hand. Logan felt a thrum of alarm at the idea of him getting in an altercation with a mercenary, though he wasn’t sure why. If two outsiders got in a fight, it was technically out of his jurisdiction.

“You most certainly will not attempt to hinder their departure,” he said firmly. “It would be detrimental to all parties involved.” 

Remus visibly pouted, before sighing and throwing the trowel at the ground hard enough to half-bury it. “Fine, Beanstalk, but at least let me—“ 

He stepped forwards, even closer, and Logan stiffened, all-too-aware of how small the human was compared to him. “What are you doing?” 

His voice came out slightly shriller than normal, and Remus jerked to a stop instantly, glancing up at him before turning his head away, something in his expression dropping. 

“I was just… nothing. Forgot for a second,” he muttered, bringing his hand up to inspect his dirt-encrusted nails. He continued before Logan could ask what exactly he’d forgotten that had prompted such a bitter expression. “Anyways, I’m sure you’re tired of babysitting, so I’m heading back. Seeya, Colossus.” 

Logan watched as Remus whistled off-tune as he turned away,  his shoulders drawn just slightly too-tight, and felt as though he’d missed something important.

-

The culmination of man's mistakes came the day The sun ran so hot, it turned the desert to glass If there's something to be learned from all these losers It's that the price that you pay For arrogance and a false sense of immunity Is to face the wrath of a dying star

-

For the next few moon cycles, Remus barely appeared at their-- his makeshift garden, and when he did, he was simultaneously more subdued and twitchier than usual. He almost always left early.

Logan knew, logically, that he should be glad for this development. The human’s basic survival instincts had clearly finally kicked in, and he was distancing himself appropriately from a monster. It was what he’d been expecting from the beginning, and better that it had happened now rather than go on any longer, what with how… worked up he was over it. 

Ridiculous. He sighed through his nose and turned away from the cluster of bleeding Hydnellum he’d found, attempting to force his thoughts away from the human and what his reaction to such a unique-looking mushroom specimen would have been. He needed to focus on his duties as the curator of these woods. 

However, it seemed fate had other ideas, for it was only a few groves later that he was called upon by a Hamrammr, Alda, who had been wearing the form of a large wood grouse for the past few seasons. 

“I have news on your human,” she said, and her tone was urgent enough that Logan forewent reminding her that Remus was not ‘his’ human. “One of my flock saw him dragged into a town jail two days past, and he hasn’t emerged since.” 

Logan attempted to ignore his quickening heartbeat. He couldn’t jump to conclusions. “Which town?”

Alda watched him keenly for a moment. “The populous one to the northeast of our territory. Be careful, Curator. You know the laws of these woods apply to even you.” 

Logan nodded sharply, and then was moving. Once he reached the fields between his woods and the human settlement, he took a deep breath to clear his mind. Barging into the humans’ space like this would hardly be appropriate, seeing as he worked to keep them from doing the very same to him. 

Instead, he folded in on himself like a withering plant, ignoring the painful cracking of wood and bone as he took on a smaller form. A simple glamor to match, and he didn’t receive a second glance as he walked the streets as an average traveler. 

An average traveler could find someone willing to gossip easily enough. And if Remus would fear him less in a reduced form, that was just a completely unintentional bonus.

“Criminals? We don’t have many here, and none with a valuable bounty.” 

“Really? I believed I heard whispers of a recent arrest,” Logan replied, completely truthfully.  

The shopkeep waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, yes, the resident cursebearer was found guilty of conspiring with the beasts of the enchanted wood to try and bring destruction upon our humble town, but as I said, no bounty--” 

“The denizens of the woods are forbidden from attacking nearby towns,” Logan recited automatically, his mind racing. Remus was a cursebearer? The practice of directing all the magical and non-magical curses of a town onto one individual was archaic, barbaric, and… explained a lot about Remus’s behavior, actually. There was a strange pit in his stomach at the thought.

“That’s what the giant told everyone, but how are we to really trust the word of a monster? Besides, the cursebearer was witnessed haunting the edges of the woods, speaking with that very giant!” Logan kept his face carefully neutral as the shopkeep shook his head. “It’s just too suspicious. He could have struck a deal, could already be one of those beasts at this point, and he spent enough time dragging filth through our streets as it is. Good riddance, I say.” 

The shopkeep broke off as he turned away, hiding the crack in his expressionless mask. Logan barely heard the resulting questions as he walked away with sharp steps.

The next morning, the town woke to the sight of half the jail’s roof torn clean off, and one very distinctive prisoner missing. 

-

You'll be fine, you honeycomb Who could ever hurt you? Who could be so cold? You'll be fine, oh honey pie Who could ever hurt you? Who could be so unkind?

-

Logan carefully cradled the human’s limp form in one hand, seated in their usual spot at the edge of the woods. He hadn’t expected to be so obvious in his retrieval of Remus, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it, either. 

When he’d successfully infiltrated the jail, he’d been subject to an embarrassing lack of control over his magic at the sight of Remus. The human had been barely-conscious, wrists shackled to the wall of his cell and a sickly pallor to his skin. It looked as though what little he’d been fed had been expunged in fits of sickness. 

Worst of all, he’d managed to focus on Logan’s frozen form after a moment, and a haphazard expression of delight had spread across his face. “Itty bitty Logan,” he slurred feverishly, “man, did I die al’rdy? Good. Missed ya.” 

Logan’s grip on his shapeshift had snapped as though he was a youngling again, and somewhere between caving the ceiling in and rusting the cuffs away, Remus had fallen back to unconsciousness. Even now, as the sun rose, he was uncannily still, only the rasps of each shallow breath proving his life intact. 

“I’m unsure what to do,” Logan confessed, studying Remus’s frame. The human was so small without his usual exuberant gesturing. His wrists oozed where the manacles had been, human flesh scabbing over so much slower than Logan’s would have. “I cannot abide the thought of sending you back to live with people who treat you like that, but to bring you into the woods would bind you to them in a way that could not be undone. Bind you to me in a way that could not be undone. I doubt you’d want that.” 

“Are you… stupid?” 

Logan jolted at the voice, mocking but almost a whisper for how loud it was. “Remus?” 

The human was squinting up at him, and even those few words sent him into a fit of coughing. Logan hurriedly drew morning dew up from the nearest saplings and pressed the liquid to Remus’s lips. 

“Don’t waste energy,” he chided; Remus flipped him off. “I apologize for… handling you while you were unconscious, but we cannot waste time. You are seriously ill, and need treatment. Do you have anyone who can provide it? Cost is no obstacle.” 

Remus snorted audibly, and opened his mouth for a heartbeat before his face pinched in with resulting pain. He shook his head with an eye roll. Logan tried not to feel frustration at his friend’s lackadaisical attitude towards his own health, and failed.

“This is not a joke, Remus! If you don’t get immediate treatment, your only options will be making a contract with my forest, or death.” 

Remus held up a finger.

“First option,” he croaked. “Stone for brains.” 

Logan was rendered speechless for a short moment, his fingers curling up around the human. “Wh— Remus, you can’t give up on human treatment so rashly. A contract will change you. You’d be, for lack of a better term, stuck with me until you made a full recovery and paid back the debt at the very least.”

Remus hacked out something that might have been another insult to Logan’s intelligence, and he held up his pointer finger more emphatically. “First option. We’re— ‘m your friend. Not scared of you, big fucking nerd. That’s my final word… maybe liter’lly.” 

And because he was as dramatic as he was vulgar, Remus chose that moment to let his eyes roll back in his head. 

His heartbeat loud in his ears, Logan took a deep breath, pushed all of his concerns and doubts aside, and stepped into the woods. 

-

The years have been hard on this lonely heart If you wanna know the truth There's no more community gardens So I guess I'll have to settle for you

-

“I don’t get it,” Remus mentioned one afternoon, watching Logan finish the last touches of a seal for a dryad’s lightning wound. “If you didn’t know I was a cursebearer, and you didn’t even end up caring I was a cursebearer anyway, why didn’t you ever let me near you when we hung out?”

Logan pressed the seal into the tree and glanced over at him, sighing with exasperation upon seeing him picking at the turmeric leaves ringed around his healing wrists. At least he couldn’t reach the ones working to repair his lungs.

“You’ll agitate your wounds if you do that,” he chided, reaching over to lift him from the mossy, oversized log he sat on. As always, he hesitated a moment before making contact, and as always, Remus leaned up in advance to greet him, as though being carried in the palm of a giant was not only normal, but also the only form of transportation he’d ever accept. 

“Ooh, sounds fun.” Remus grinned mischievously but did indeed stop uprooting the plants embedded in his skin. He laid himself out flat on his back instead, an arm and a leg dangling over the edges of Logan’s curled hand, uncaring of the cool forest air rushing past him as Logan walked. “You still haven’t answered my question, though.”  

“I’m not sure I fully understand it. You’re asking why I didn’t physically interact with you, before, but I believe the answer is obvious.” Logan adjusted his woven sleeve cuff absently. “I simply… found your company enjoyable and didn’t wish to scare you off, I suppose.”

He waited for the typical laughter that came whenever he implied that maybe Remus should be wary around him, since he was by most human definitions, a literal giant monster. It didn’t come. 

Instead, Remus’s face was scrunched up in thought. “So… it was because you wanted to keep being friends. And not because you thought I was gross, or repellant, or better off as juicy blood mulch, or--”

“If anyone wants to mulch you, Remus,” Logan interrupted neatly, “they will have to go through me first.”

“...Not if I get to them first,” Remus responded, a slow grin building on his face. “Since we’re friends and all.” 

“That completely counteracts the point of my protection, but yes,” Logan said, a small smile of his own finding its way onto his face, “we certainly are.” 

[bubonickitten]

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: Jon and Basira make their way to Ny-Ålesund; Daisy and Martin have a long-overdue conversation.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 26: panic/anxiety symptoms; brief descriptions of Flesh-domain-typical imagery; discussion of police violence, intimidation tactics, & abuse of authority (re: Daisy’s past actions); mentions of canonical character deaths & murder; reference to a canonical instance of a character being outed (re: Jon’s coworkers gossiping about him being ace); allusions to childhood emotional neglect; a bit of internalized ableism re: ADHD symptoms; discussions of strict religious indoctrination; a physical altercation, including being restrained with a hold; swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 26: Remains To Be Seen

The journey to Tromsø is… uneventful, comparatively speaking.

Almost worryingly so, Jon observes at one point.

You’re fretting because something hasn’t gone horribly wrong? Basira asks.

Aren’t you?

The tension in Basira’s shoulders is answer enough. They’re both on tenterhooks, all too aware of the dreadful species of things that lurk in the margins of the world, any number of which could be waiting in the wings for them.

That’s not to say there are no complications at all. There’s a learning curve to navigating the world blindfolded, but the two of them settle into something of a routine: Basira guiding Jon with a hand on his arm, talking him around obstacles, across gaps, and up and down stairs. An improvised system of nudges and taps develops organically over the course of their travels, starting when Basira realizes that Jon has trouble parsing her words over the noise of a crowd. It becomes their go-to mode of communication with surprising ease.

It’s an exercise in trust oddly refreshing in its mundanity.

Jon finds the blindfold comforting, in its own way: surreal, but somehow not as surreal as the evidence of normalcy all around him. Consistent, straightforward geography is disorientating enough after so long traversing a world knitted together by nightmare logic and allegory. Even more bewildering are the people. Throngs of them go about their day-to-day routines, each preoccupied with their own affairs, taking for granted their relative anonymity against the vast backdrop of the bustling world around them, secure in the privacy of their own thoughts – and blissfully unaware of the alternative.

This is how it should be, he admonishes himself in a weary refrain. People deserve ownership over their own minds, their stories, their secrets. The Archivist in him vehemently disagrees, of course. It’s exhausting, how relentlessly Jon has to challenge that instinctual voyeurism.

Prone to sensory overload, he’s always hated crowds: the noise, the flurry of movement, the press of bodies, the constant threat of unwanted touches, the lack of freedom to move at his own pace. Becoming the Archivist made the experience infinitely worse. The combination of the blindfold and Daisy’s noise-cancelling headphones does little to stem the tide of intrusive knowledge: random scraps of disconcerting trivia, a steady stream of morbid statistics, insights into the deep-seated anxieties of passersby – and, on a few occasions, the whisper of a story to be chronicled. At least the blindfold prevents him from inadvertently locking eyes with anyone.

They try to avoid traveling during peak commuting hours, but not every crowd can be evaded. The first time he wanders into the path of a potential statement giver, Jon nearly causes a pile-up in a congested station, stopping so abruptly in his tracks that the person in the queue behind him crashes headlong into him. Basira manages to catch him before he’s knocked off his feet, keeping a firm grasp on his arm when the panicked urge to flee overtakes him and nearly sends him careening blindly in the opposite direction. When a nearby stranger snipes at him for the nuisance, Jon is surprised at how immediately Basira leaps to his defense.

Back off, she says, the hint of a threat in her tone, before steering Jon out of the crowd and off to the side, where he can lean against the wall and catch his breath. She stands firm between him and the masses, diverting traffic and warding off anyone else who might seek a confrontation, giving him the sorely-needed time to compose himself. He’s certain that she’ll be cross with him after, but… she isn’t.

Tense, certainly. Concerned even. But criticism is bafflingly, mercifully absent.

There are a few more incidents after that, but none quite so dramatic. The instant he senses the Archivist in him stirring, he chokes out a warning to Basira, who turns out to be preternaturally adept at finding (or creating) spaces for him to recoup. With both of them on guard and communicating freely, they manage to avoid being in close quarters with anyone who might have a story to tell.

Tromsø offers a temporary reprieve from all of that. There are people, of course – it’s the busiest fishing port in Norway, the Eye interposes for the fourth time this hour. Jon takes an aggravated swipe at the empty air beside him, once again momentarily forgetting that there’s no pesky swarm of Watchers tagging along for this particular journey. Not visibly, at least.

Still, the open-air piers of a busy fishing port are a far cry from a densely-packed train. There’s a cargo ship scheduled to leave for Ny-Ålesund within the next hour, and Basira is further down the docks meeting with its captain to (hopefully) arrange for passage. Apparently Jon has earned some trust over the course of their travels, because she didn’t object when he requested to stay back and take a breather.

Although the docks of Tromsø bear little resemblance to the beaches of Bournemouth, the calls of seabirds are familiar enough to be meditative. Nostalgic, albeit in an uneasy, bittersweet way. His childhood was riddled enough with nightmares and alienation that thoughts of the place where he grew up are always laced with remembered horror and punctuated by a nebulous sense of grief for what could have been. If he never caught the Spider’s eye; if he never opened the book; if he wasn’t quite so demanding and easily bored and difficult to manage; if his eccentric reading habits were just a bit less finicky, even…

Left to his own devices, Jon could drown himself in what ifs.

A frigid gust of wind whips his hair about. When he reaches up to smooth it down, he finds it coarse from the brine-saturated breeze. Rubbing his fingertips together and grimacing at the faint gritty residue, Jon pulls Georgie’s scarf up over his nose to fend against the nip in the air and he turns his sight to the sky. It’s a stark, pallid grey, the kind of overcast that manages to be blinding-bright despite the sun’s concealment. The sight stings his eyes, but still he does not blink.

It should be exhilarating to look up and see nothing staring back. Instead, the sight fills him with… well, it’s difficult for him to define succinctly. Some peculiar species of dread, mingled with a disquieting, ill-defined sense of longing. Perhaps he’s simply becoming adrift in time again: remembering how it felt to look up at a Watching sky and hopelessly wish for a return to the world as it was, to clouds and stars and void. But he can’t shake the suspicion that it’s at least partly a monstrous yearning for the ruined future from which he came.

He doesn’t know what that says about him. Nothing good, probably.

You miss it, a gloating, sinister little voice concurs from one of the murky, thorny corners of Jon’s mind. You don’t belong here. You Know where you–

Jon’s phone dings several times, yanking him away from that ill-fated train of thought. Grateful for the interruption, he digs it out of his pocket, instantly brightening when Naomi’s name greets him and eagerly opening their text thread.

Jon is too busy smiling to himself to notice Basira’s approach.

“What’s – oh, sorry,” she says when he starts. “Keep expecting you to just sort of… Know I’m here.”

“The Eye doesn’t seem inclined to help me out on that front, unfortunately,” Jon says with an embarrassed chuckle. “If anything, my being jumpy probably feeds it.”

Basira glances down at his phone, then back up at him. “Everything alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Naomi.” Jon’s grin returns. “All her texts from the last couple days just came through at once. She wants to know whether Krampus is real.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“Haven’t replied just yet.”

“Oh.” Basira opens her mouth to say more, then promptly closes it.

A delighted smirk twitches into being at the corner of Jon’s mouth. “Now you want to know as well, don’t you?”

Basira rolls her eyes, but doesn’t deny it. “Later. We have a boat to catch.”

When Jon reaches into his pocket to retrieve his blindfold, Basira shakes her head.

“Best not,” she says. “The captain agreed to take us, but she was leery about the whole thing. I don’t want to give her a reason to reconsider. The less suspicious we seem, the better.”

“Still getting odd stares, then?”

“Getting used to people looking at me like I’m transporting a hostage,” she replies with a tired, beleaguered smile. It fades into a frown as she looks him up and down, taking stock of his shaking hands and the way he leans heavily on his cane. “Alright?”

“A bit sore,” Jon admits, glancing down at his leg. “Probably just been putting weight on it for too long a stretch.”

“We should be able to sit soon. Until then, try not to fall.”

“Or freeze,” Jon says distractedly, glancing warily upwards again.

“Daisy says the cold always gets to her,” Basira says, quietly enough that Jon suspects it wasn’t meant for him. “Seriously, though – you alright? You keep staring at the sky like it’s going to crack open.”

“I’m fine.” Jon shuts his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. “Just… apprehensive.”

“Sense anything?” Despite her carefully bland tone, the crux of the question is clear.

“Nothing concrete.” No statement givers, he does not say – but Basira nods, understanding his meaning. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Come on, then.” She starts off down the dock – at a brisk pace at first, but slowing when she looks back to ensure that Jon is following and observes his stiffer, more deliberate gait.

He grimaces apologetically. Up until Jane Prentiss and her worms, he was inclined towards speed walking as much as Basira is. Always in a hurry to get nowhere at all, Georgie used to say, simultaneously lamenting and teasing. Not everyone is a power walker, Jon, Martin would gripe from time to time during the apocalypse.

Maybe some of us want to slow down and take in the scenery, he grumbled on one occasion, as they traipsed through a predictably grisly Flesh domain.

The forest of pulsating meat sculptures, you mean? Jon replied primly.

Oh, you’re telling me you don’t feel the overwhelming urge to stop and take notes on the ecology of flesh spiders?

Not as much as I want to get to a place where the ground isn’t a spongy skin trampoline.

Flesh domains always had a tendency to bring out the worst (best?) of their morbid humor, Jon notes upon reflection.

In any case, Jon has always had a tendency to hurry, too impatient to reach his destination to appreciate the journey. Internally, that impulse is still there. On good days, he can almost satisfy that restlessness. Today is not a good day.

Basira stops and waits. It’s a practice that has become second nature to her ever since Daisy emerged from the Buried: learning all the unspoken signals and warning signs of a bad pain day, from barely-suppressed winces and cold sweat to waspishness and stifled, winded breaths; gauging all the fickle fluctuations in mobility in real time through careful, constant observation; and discreetly adjusting her own walking pace to accommodate without question or complaint.

“You know, I haven’t spent much time on boats,” Basira says, apropos of nothing – probably to break the silence as she waits for Jon to catch up. “I’m hoping motion sickness during long car rides isn’t correlated with seasickness. Does the Eye have any statistics handy? Seems like it would qualify as terrible knowledge.”

“Let’s just say you should keep the Dramamine at the ready,” Jon says wryly as he reaches her position.

“Wonderful,” Basira sighs, and she resumes walking, this time matching Jon’s stride.

Martin will be the first to admit that, between the two of them, Jon doesn’t have a monopoly on obsessiveness.

Case in point: Jon and Basira have been gone for five days now, and – in between bouts of worrying over their safety and mounting apprehension about Peter’s inexplicable, persistent hiatus – Martin is still replaying everything he said and did in the moments leading up to Jon’s departure.

Or, more precisely, what he didn’t say.

Nearly two months have passed since Jon returned from the Buried. It’s been nice, it really has, spending time with him. He’s changed – How could he not have? – but he’s still Jon. Even more wounded and jaded than he was before – How much abuse can one person take? – but it hasn’t made him cruel or cold. Harder in some respects, to be sure – namely on himself.

Which is saying something, Martin thinks with a pang. In all the time that Martin has known him, Jon has never been kind to himself. It’s always been a struggle to convince him to take care of himself in the most basic of ways, let alone spare a thought for comfort.

But in other respects, Jon has grown softer. More open, more communicative – more trusting, somehow, despite this world and the next piling on reason after reason for him to detach and withdraw. Martin thinks about that every time the Lonely starts to whisper in his ear. The fog is still there, firmly planted in his mind, choking out his thoughts from time to time like an invasive weed. It won’t be easily uprooted. Seeing Jon alive and trying, reaching out, grasping at warmth, clinging to humanity with all his trademark stubbornness… it makes Martin want to try, too. It makes him want to hope, to look forward and see – to fight for – a future where things are better.

So, yes, Jon has changed. They both have.

I’m not the person you remember, Martin said the first time they spoke after Jon came back. I’m not the person you fell in love with.

Jon had locked eyes with him then, and Martin found that he could not look away.

Martin has spent the majority of his life walking a tightrope, striking an uneasy balance between competing instincts. The part of him that excels in flying under the radar takes comfort in being inconspicuous. There are people out there who see kindness as naivety and trust as a weakness to be exploited. The best way to avoid their notice is to avoid being seen at all, and Martin learned early on that to be unremarkable has its own advantages. All too often, to go unnoticed is to survive.

It isn’t enough to just survive, though, is it? Barely hidden underneath all the abysmal self-esteem and the carefully constructed mask of agreeability, there is a spark of indignation and outrage and want. To be seen is fundamentally terrifying; to demand acknowledgment is to welcome exposure. But Martin has always had a rebellious streak, carving out a space for itself amongst all the loneliness and fear and self-deprecation.

Look at me, it seethes. See me.

And when Jon did look at him – Saw him – an unmistakably pleased little voice jostled its way to the forefront to triumphantly declare, Finally.

Martin, I fell in love with this version of you, Jon said. With every version of you.

It was difficult to believe. Martin didn’t want to believe it. He was afraid to believe it. But he did, and he does, and he feels the same way, and he has for so, so long, and that defiant chip on his shoulder never truly let him forget it, even when isolation had him by the throat–

So why can’t you say it?

Since that day, it hasn’t come up again. Jon is affectionate, far more than Martin would have expected. Sure, Jon has always seemed more natural at expressing his feelings through actions rather than words, but Martin never imagined he would be so… well, cuddly. Jon always struck Martin as averse to touch, keeping people at arm’s length both figuratively and literally. He still is, sometimes. But more often than not, Martin gets the impression that Jon would cling like a limpet if given explicit permission. Martin doesn’t know whether that’s a new development, or whether it’s just that he now numbers among Jon’s rare exceptions.

Maybe I should ask Georgie, Martin thinks, only partly in jest.

There’s still a lingering hesitancy there, though. Yes, when Martin invites contact, Jon jumps at the opportunity to be close. Initiating, though… Jon doesn’t quite walk on eggshells per se, but he moves with a gentleness perhaps too gentle at times. Excessively tentative – but not subtle.

Martin long ago perfected the art of stealing furtive glances at Jon. It’s not difficult. Jon is prone to tunnel vision, predisposed to lose himself in his work or a book or his own mind until the rest of the world outside his narrow focus dissolves around him. If he ever noticed Martin’s eyes on him, Jon never called attention to it.

Jon’s staring doesn’t have the same finesse. His gaze is heavy. Concentrated, unwavering, penetrating – and Jon is painfully self-conscious about that. Prompt to stammer apologies whenever he’s caught watching, quick to avert his eyes. According to him, most people find the Archivist’s attention unnerving. Martin supposes it can be at times, but he’s long since become acclimated to it. Endeared to it, even. It’s grounding, despite how ruthlessly being Seen clashes with the Lonely aspects of Martin’s existence.

Maybe that disharmony is precisely why it’s grounding.

So Jon’s eyes flit to Martin whenever he thinks Martin isn’t looking, and cautious glimpses stretch into riveted, unconscious watching, and Martin graciously pretends not to notice. This has been the status quo for weeks now: faltering not-quite-touches and longing, not-so-surreptitious gazes, interspersed with understated handholding and a few sporadic sessions of what Martin can only call cuddling. All of it has been underscored by three simple words dangling in the scant expanse of empty space between them, waiting for acknowledgment.

Jon is waiting – waiting for Martin – and Jon… Jon has never been good at waiting, has he? Not like Martin. Jon’s directionless fidgeting and bitten-short declarations and absentminded stares betray his buzzing impatience despite his best efforts, but still he’s waiting, with as much valiant restraint as he can muster.

I love you. It’s a truth so obvious that speaking it aloud would hardly qualify as a confession. I love you, Martin thinks, and he feels it down to his bones, woven into the very atoms of him.

It’s difficult to pinpoint when it began. Early on, Martin only wanted to appear qualified to his new supervisor, then to impress him, then to prove him wrong – and then, eventually, to genuinely take care of him. Jon was in need of care, and resistant to receiving it, and that was familiar, wasn’t it? Maybe some desperate, stubborn part of Martin just wanted to be useful for once. To be seen. To succeed with Jon where he had failed with his mother.

Then Prentiss happened. Martin had been certain that Jon would dismiss Martin’s story, reprimand him for his prolonged absence, and snap at him to get back to work. And then… he didn’t.

Your safety is my responsibility, Jon said curtly, showing Martin to his new, hopefully temporary lodgings. I failed you, Jon’s contrite grimace read. I won’t fail you again. Then he immediately strode off to meet with Elias, leaving Martin loitering idly in Document Storage, speechless and bemused.

Maybe that’s where it started: Jon barging unannounced and uninvited into Elias’ office with brazen, unapologetic demands for safe haven and fire extinguishers and heightened security. He even went so far as to persistently badger Elias for customizations to the building’s sprinkler system. That tenacity may have been partly driven by guilt and obligation, but Martin swore he caught glimpses of something more from time to time. Something deeper and more personal, sympathetic and kind.

It started, as so many significant shifts do, with the small things.

Martin retired to Document Storage one night that first week to find extra blankets folded neatly at the end of his cot. I thought you might be cold, Jon admitted upon questioning. It can get chilly in here at night. The pressing question of exactly how many times Jon must have slept here overnight in order to know that was promptly crowded out by a vivid mental image of Jon wrestling a heavy quilt onto the Tube during the morning commuter rush. The thought brought a smile to Martin’s face. He said as much, and Jon immediately fabricated a clumsy excuse to exit the conversation.

On another occasion, Martin opened the break room cabinet to find his favorite tea restocked. He’d been putting off shopping, too anxious to leave the relative safety of the Institute’s walls. I noticed you were running low, Jon mumbled. And I was already at the store anyway, he added almost defensively, eyes narrowing in a stern glare to discourage comment – as if drawing attention to Jon’s random acts of kindness would destroy his curmudgeonly reputation.

Those circumspect displays of consideration were touching in their awkwardness. Jon was gruff and reticent, to be sure, but he cared, in his own unpracticed, idiosyncratic way. And one day, when Martin looked at him, he thought, I’d like to kiss him, and then: Oh no. Oh, fuck.

Jon never seemed to pick up on Martin’s feelings back then. But he knows now – not Knows, just knows – and, impossible as still seems, he returns those feelings. Jon said the words in no uncertain terms, left them in Martin’s care – and now he’s waiting for Martin to make the next move.

So why haven’t you? What are you waiting for?

“Want some tea?”

Martin jumps at the sound of Daisy’s voice.

“Sorry,” she snorts. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I –” Martin clears his throat, recovering. “Tea. Right. Uh, I can get it–”

“Let me. I need to stretch my legs anyway. And I wouldn’t want to interrupt your pining.”

“Wh-what?” Martin sputters.

“You haven’t turned the page in at least twenty minutes,” Daisy informs him, nodding at the statement resting on the table in front of him. “Liable to burn yourself on the kettle while you’re spacing out, fantasizing about snogging Jon or whatever.”

“Wh– I – you – I’m – why would–”

“Don’t know why you’re being so coy about it.” Her blasé shrug is offset by the devious grin on her face. “Not like it’s a secret you’re on kissing terms.”

“We… we haven’t,” Martin blurts out, heat rising in his cheeks. Immediately, he kicks himself. Given what he knows of Daisy, there’s no avoiding an interrogation now.

“You – wait, really?” Daisy raises her eyebrows. “Why not?”

“It just hasn’t – I – it’s really none of your–” Martin huffs, flustered. “I don’t even know if he does that.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“B-because, he…”

Because Martin has a tendency to fade into the background, and people will say a lot of things when they assume no one else is in earshot.

Do you know if he and Jon ever…

No clue, and not interested! Although… according to Georgie, Jon doesn’t.

Like, at all?

Yeah.

Martin cringes at the memory. He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He still wishes he hadn’t overheard. Jon was always so tight-lipped about his personal life back then. It felt like a violation of his privacy, knowing something that he would in all likelihood have preferred to keep to himself and share only at his own discretion. Martin tried to put it out of his head, to avoid thinking too hard on the specifics of what Jon “doesn’t” – and, conversely, what he maybe, possibly does – but, well…

Martin shakes his head to clear his thoughts before they can meander any further into the realm of imagination. In any case, he certainly isn’t about to repeat that piece of gossip to Daisy now.

“I – I just don’t want to assume,” he says instead.

Daisy tilts her head, considering. “Well, have you asked him?”

“W-well, no.”

“Why not? Sure, some people aren’t into kissing, I guess, but I doubt he’d mind you asking. Even if the answer is ‘no,’ I guarantee he wants to be close in other ways.” At Martin’s lack of response, Daisy heaves an exaggerated sigh. “He reaches for you every time you’re not looking, you know. Always fidgeting with his hands, like he wants to touch but he doesn’t know how to ask. He’s as bad as you are, pining face and all.”

“I do not have a ‘pining face,’” Martin says. “If you must know, I was worrying just now.”

“You definitely have a pining face, and it’s different from your worried face. When you’re worried, you get all scowly and you chew your lip bloody. You’re focused, intense. When you’re pining, you get this faraway look to you, like you’re not taking anything in. And you touch your fingers to your lips a lot – yeah, like that.”

Martin yanks his fingers away from his mouth as if scalded, glowering indignantly at an increasingly smug Daisy. “What are you, a mentalist?”

“I’ve gotten used to reading people – picking up on openings, weak spots, stress signals, you know. Don’t know whether that’s a Hunt thing or a me thing. Both, maybe.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, you went from worried to pining about ten minutes ago now. And Jon, he’s even easier to read than you are. He’s so far gone for you, I can tease him mercilessly about it and never get a rise out of him. Even when I can get him to bat an eye, he never does that… that flustered denial thing he usually does when you hit a nerve. He just goes all… soft and wistful. Retreats into his own head, gets that smitten little smile – you know the one?”

“Yes.” Martin is blushing furiously now, he’s certain. Daisy flashes him another knowing, unabashedly victorious smirk.

“Point is, our lives are messed up, water is wet, and Jon Sims loves cats and Martin Blackwood, but he’s terrified of crossing some invisible line, so instead he’s just openly pining and it isn’t even fun to tease him about it because he’s too lovestruck to be properly embarrassed about it.” Daisy pauses for a breath. “So, if you want to kiss Jon, you should ask him, because I doubt he’s going to make the first move anytime soon, and it’s getting ridiculous watching the two of you tiptoe around the elephant in the room. So what are you waiting for?”

“How is any of this your business, anyway?” Martin snaps.

“Well, seeing as Jon’s my friend–”

That strikes a nerve, and Martin is reacting before he can properly evaluate the feeling.

“Okay, yeah, about that,” he says sharply. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Well, all you wanted to do before was hunt him down and hurt him.” Instantaneously, Daisy’s playful demeanor evaporates. “Even after Elias blackmailed you into working for him, you still looked at Jon like he wasn’t human. Not even a monster, either, just – just something you wanted to tear apart, just because you wanted to see him afraid. And now all of a sudden you’re friends? I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Jon’s willing to overlook a murder attempt. He… he has so little respect for himself, his standards are so…” Martin captures his lower lip between his teeth and bites down until it aches. “He’s so used to being treated badly, the bar is six feet below ground.”

“Yeah,” Daisy whispers.

“But – but what I can’t figure out is what your angle is. You wanted to hurt him, you did hurt him – he still has a scar from where you held a knife to his throat. You would’ve killed him if Basira didn’t stop you.”

“I–”

“He was so afraid of disappearing without a trace, did you know that?” Martin interjects, his face growing hotter as over a year’s worth of pent-up fury boils to the surface.

Martin has read enough statements to know that even one of the encounters representative of the Institute’s collection is one traumatic experience too many. Even so, it’s only a small fraction of the horror stories that have plagued humanity throughout history – that continue to unfold in the present day. How many people suffer something horrible and don’t live long enough to tell the story? The Archive, chock-full of terror though it may be, is an ongoing study in survivorship bias.

“When Prentiss attacked the Institute,” Martin fumes, “Jon was more afraid of that – of leaving nothing behind – than he was of dying. You were going to bury him where no one would ever find him, and no one would ever know what happened to him, and now… now you say you want to be his friend, like nothing ever happened? And I’m supposed to just trust you?”

For a long minute, the only sound is Martin’s rapid, heavy breathing. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Combativeness, maybe. For Daisy to get her hackles up, to defend herself against Martin’s implications, to take offense to his accusatory tone. Instead, her entire posture wilts and her shoulders curl inward. It’s as if an invisible weight is pressing against her on all sides, crushing her into something small and taut.

“I guess we’re doing this now, then,” she mumbles.

“Guess we are,” Martin says stiffly, one foot tapping frenetically against the floor as his agitation continues creeping ever upward.

Daisy nods and releases a heavy exhale. “This isn’t just about Jon, is it?”

“I…” Martin trails off as he considers the question. “No. I guess it’s not.”

“Well.” Daisy rubs at her upper arms, eyes fixed on the floor. “Go on.”

“When you questioned all of us – when you interrogated me, you didn’t – you didn’t actually want to find out the truth. You just wanted to get to Jon, because you assumed he was guilty, and…” Martin huffs. “No, it wasn’t even about guilt, was it? You didn’t care about solving Leitner’s murder, you didn’t care about finding Sasha – she could’ve still been alive for all we knew at the time, but you didn’t care whether she was in danger, whether she could be saved. And – and even if we did have proof that she was dead, we deserved to know what happened to her. She deserved better than to be a mystery.”

“You’re right.” Daisy’s soft agreement does nothing to temper Martin’s burgeoning wrath.

“She was my friend, you know that? She was my friend, and you just – dismissed her, like she wasn’t worth remembering, like her life was some – some trivial detail. I didn’t know whether to be afraid for her or – or – or to mourn for her, and all you had to offer was, ‘Jon probably killed her, tell me where he is or else.’ You were a detective, you were supposed to help, but all you cared about was getting to Jon, and you – you – you threatened me because you thought I could tell you where to find him. That you could use me to hurt him.” Martin breathes a bitter chuckle. “I guess Jon was right not to trust the police to figure out what happened to Gertrude.”

Daisy doesn’t deny it.

“So… yeah.” Martin shrugs as his rant tapers off. “That’s where I am, I guess. I know you’ve changed – haven’t we all – but… every time I see you near Jon, there’s a part of me that panics. Maybe I’m not being fair, but I – I can’t forget. I don’t know how to feel.”

Daisy is quiet for a long minute, fingers digging into her arms now, a pained expression lingering on her face.

“I’ve done… a lot of things I’m not proud of,” she says slowly. “Hurt a lot of people. Most more than they deserved. Many who didn’t deserve it at all. Can’t even make apologies to most of them, let alone make amends. I don’t even know if I could make amends. Some things are unforgivable.”

It doesn’t undo what I did, Jon’s voice plays in Martin’s mind. I can’t erase it.

“You should know,” Daisy says, “complete lack of self-respect aside, Jon doesn’t… he doesn’t overlook what I did.”

“What?”

“He knows what I am. What I’ve done. He doesn’t pretend I’m something I’m not, he doesn’t lie to me about what I could become, he doesn’t offer me forgiveness that I don’t deserve, but he still… he still doesn’t expect the worst from me, either. He expects me to make the right choice, even though I gave him every reason not to trust me.”

“He’s still too forgiving,” Martin mutters.

“That’s another thing. I… I don’t think he does. Forgive me, that is.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No.”

“Because you’re afraid to know the answer?” Maybe that’s uncharitable, but Martin never claimed to be an easily forgiving soul. Most people wouldn’t assume it at first glance, but he’s always had a tendency to nurse a grudge.

Daisy hunches even further, her shoulders drawing in tighter.

“Because if he did forgive me, he would tell me,” she says, her throat bobbing as she struggles to swallow. “But he doesn’t. I know he doesn’t, and he shouldn’t, and I’m not going to put him in a position where he has to justify himself, or sugarcoat it, or comfort me for what I did to him.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that.

“And the same goes for you.” Daisy steals a quick glimpse at Martin before lowering her head again. “I won’t ask you to forgive me. Ever. But I am sorry – for how I treated you, for what I did to Jon. I’ll never stop being sorry. That doesn’t make it better, I know. But I want to do better. I’m trying to be better. Too little too late, maybe, but I won’t go back to how I was before. I can’t take it all back, but I can at least make sure I don’t hurt anyone else.”

“You sound like Jon.”

“First and second place for guiltiest conscience, us,” Daisy says with a tired chuckle. “And I don’t know which of us is in first.” She sighs. “Look, I know you have no reason to trust me, but I do see Jon as a friend. Not just because I’m sorry, or because he saved me, or because I owe him, but because he… well, he sees me as I am, and he sees me for who I want to be, and he doesn’t see those as mutually exclusive, but he also doesn’t deny the contradiction.”

“Wish he could apply the same logic to himself.”

“Yeah. He’s an absolute mess of double standards. Best we can do is call him on it at every opportunity. Maybe eventually he’ll get it through his head.”

“Yeah,” Martin scoffs. “Maybe.”

“Anyway,” she says, “I care about him, and he cares about you, so…”

“So you thought you’d appoint yourself his wingman?”

“Maybe a little.” Daisy gives him a hesitant, sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Martin sighs. The resentment is still there, but he does feel a bit lighter after getting it all out in the open. Besides, he's so emotionally drained from his outburst, he can’t quite work up the energy for mild annoyance right this moment.

“Well, in that case – if you want to kiss him, you should ask. That’s all I’m saying,” Daisy says hurriedly, holding up her palms in a placating gesture when Martin gives her a tired glare. “I’ll drop it now. I meant it when I said I wanted tea.”

Daisy winces as she rises to her feet.

“And I meant it when I said I can get it,” Martin says.

“I’ve got it.”

“Then at least let me come along and–”

“Uh, no.” Daisy gives him a quelling look. “Jon warned me about how you are with tea.”

“What?”

“Says you’re a micromanager.”

“He what?” Martin demands.

“Okay, he didn’t say it like that. Actually, I think the word he used was persnickety.”

“Oh, as if he has room to talk,” Martin mutters. “He’s just miffed that I caught him microwaving tea once and I refuse to let him live it down.”

“What’s wrong with microwaving tea?” Martin recoils, affronted – and then Daisy snorts. “Settle down. I’m just messing with you.” She starts to leave, pausing only briefly to glance over her shoulder. “I won’t be long. Yell if Peter decides to finally show his face.”

“Will do,” Martin groans, reluctantly returning to the statement in front of him. Yet another alleged Extinction sighting, courtesy of Peter, for Martin to dutifully pretend to research.

Stringing Peter along is the best way Martin knows to keep in check. In that sense, it’s an important job – one only Martin can do. Nonetheless, it’s reminiscent of how it felt to be left behind when the others went to stop the Unknowing. Distracting Elias was important, sure, and dangerous in its own way, but it wasn’t exactly on the same level as storming the Circus to stop the apocalypse. Comparatively, Martin felt useless.

Now, with Basira and Jon off on their mission, Martin is beset by a similar sense of futility. There’s certainly enough work to keep him busy, given that Peter delegates most of his job responsibilities to Martin. (Martin is fairly certain that, fraudulent CV or not, he’s more qualified to run the Institute at this point than Peter is.) Performing routine administrative duties can be a boring and demoralizing enough endeavor in the context of a mundane underpaid office job; doing so in service to an unfathomable cosmic evil is, to put it mildly, soul-destroying. Perhaps in a literal sense, as far as Martin knows.

That’s not to mention the customary gloom that comes with reading account after dreadful account of senseless, indiscriminate suffering.

Martin wishes there was something practical he could do, is his point. Patient though he may be, indefinite waiting is less tolerable when what he’s waiting for is the other shoe to drop, so to speak. He has no desire to interact with Peter in any capacity, but the longer he remains scarce, the more Martin’s trepidation soars.

There’s no way Peter has conceded his bet with Jonah, but there’s no telling whether he’s simply biding his time and observing how events unfold, actively plotting his next moves, or already enacting an revised scheme from the shadows. Regardless, he’s a clear and present danger for as long as he’s around. He may not be hasty, but he’s still a wildcard. Jon told Martin about the last time: how Peter released the NotThem to rampage through the Institute, solely for the sake of causing a distraction. As long as he has The Seven Lamps of Architecture in his possession, he–

Oh.

Martin smiles to himself. Maybe there is something more he can do.

The warehouse is, unsurprisingly, dark. Even with the door propped open, the daylight filtering through illuminates a radius of only a few yards before it’s swallowed by unnatural gloom. As Jon and Basira move further into the cavernous space, the beams of their torches barely penetrate the velvety murk.

“Any idea where she is?” Basira whispers from Jon’s left.

“Waiting in ambush, I assume. I can’t See much of anything.”

“See or See?”

“Either. Both.”

“And you’re certain that applies to Elias as well? He won’t be able to See us here?”

“Positive,” Jon says. “The Dark has–”

An enraged bellow sounds out from behind them. Basira’s torch clatters to the concrete floor, its light promptly extinguished as the casing cracks and the batteries come loose. In a flash, Basira is on the ground, locked in a furious scuffle with–

“Manuela Dominguez!” Jon says. Manuela looks up reflexively, surprised to hear her name. It’s all the opening Basira needs to gain the upper hand, grappling Manuela into a prone position on the floor and pinning her in place with a wristlock. Manuela cries out in pain, but her wild thrashing continues unabated.

“Jon,” Basira grunts, increasingly winded as Manuela attempts to break the hold. “A little help?”

“Manuela, listen, we – we’re just here to talk–”

Manuela briefly pauses in her struggling to spit at Jon’s feet. Funny, how some details remain the same. A second later, she’s resisting again, now attempting to twist around and bite at whatever exposed skin she can find.

“Stop.”

The command crackles up Jon’s throat and sparks off the tip of his tongue like a static shock, hundreds of iterations of the word coinciding. The air itself seems to quake with the force of it, and Jon is left shivering in its wake.

So, it seems, is Manuela: her voice shudders out of her when she speaks.

“Who are you?” she hisses. “What do you want?”

“To make a deal,” Jon says, the words slightly slurred.

“Why would I deal with you?” In the flickering glow of his torchlight, Jon can see the baleful glint in Manuela’s eyes. “You’re of the Eye, aren’t you? What could you even possibly want? You’ve already taken everything – you lot and your Archivist. Where is she, anyway?” Manuela makes a show of scanning the room as best she can, pinioned as she is. “Too much of a coward to witness the wreckage she’s wrought?”

“Gertrude is dead,” Basira says.

“Stopping us took everything she had, then.” Manuela smirks. “Serves her right.”

“You wish,” Basira scoffs. “She was murdered. Completely unrelated.”

“That’s –” Manuela’s smug expression vanishes. “Who–?”

“Elias,” Jon says. “She was too much of a thorn in his side. Too much of a force to be reckoned with.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I told you,” Jon says. “We want to make a deal. A temporary alliance.”

“An alliance?” Manuela repeats. What starts as a weak, dismissive laugh dissolves into a wheeze.

“We have a mutual enemy.” Manuela’s eyes narrow in something more like curiosity now. “I take it I’ve piqued your interest. Will you hear us out?”

Manuela deliberates for a protracted moment, torn between rebellion and intrigue. “Let me up.”

“What, so you can throw more punches?” Basira says.

“It’s fine, Basira,” Jon says. Manuela is still seething with defiance. The more powerless she feels, the less open she’ll be to negotiation. Better to make a few concessions and let her feel some control over the situation.

Judging from her furrowed brow, Basira is running through the same calculations. She hesitates a moment longer before sighing, releasing her hold, and standing. Manuela staggers to her feet and backs away several steps, brushing herself off and panting shallowly as she catches her breath.

“Did you come here alone?” she asks, massaging her abused wrist as her suspicious gaze flits back and forth between Basira and Jon. “Just the two of you?”

“Yes,” Jon answers. Basira shakes her head with an impatient tsk – which Jon interprets as something like stop volunteering free information to every Avatar you parley with, Jon. “Like I said, we’re just here to talk. And to offer you the opportunity for revenge.”

“What revenge? Gertrude is dead,” Manuela spits out. “Who else is there? Her replacement?”

“I’m her replacement.”

With that, Manuela lunges in Jon’s direction. Basira swiftly moves to intercept her, but Manuela stops in her tracks before Basira can grab her. A tension-filled standoff ensues, the two of them eyeing each other warily. After nearly a full minute, Basira seems satisfied enough that the situation has been defused to take her eyes off Manuela and treat Jon to an exasperated glare.

“Do you have to antagonize every single person who wants to kill you?” she scolds.

Jon ignores her grievance in favor of addressing Manuela directly: “You wouldn’t have any luck killing me.”

Basira dips her head down and plants the heel of her hand on her forehead, grumbling under her breath. It’s mostly unintelligible, but Jon thinks he can make out the words fuck’s sake somewhere in there.

“I could try,” Manuela snarls. Her hands ball into tighter fists, trembling with rage at her sides, but she continues to stand her ground.

“You could,” Jon says mildly. “And you would fail.”

“You’ll just compel me, you mean.”

“I could.” He would rather avoid it if possible, but Manuela doesn’t need to know that. He can only hope she can’t tell just how much he’s only pretending at nerve. “Or, you can listen to what we have to say. Gertrude is dead, and lashing out at me isn’t going to satisfy your thirst for revenge. We can offer up a more satisfying target.”

“Unless you have a way for me to unmake the Power your Archivist served.” When Jon doesn’t deny it, Manuela lets out another harsh, scornful laugh. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Well – arguably, Gertrude didn’t serve the Eye. She followed her own path.” Manuela breathes a derisive huff. “Like her or not, she did. Formidable as she was, none of that was due to the Beholding’s favor. That was all her. She never embraced the power it promised – not like most Archivists do. Striking a blow against the Eye wouldn’t be an insult to Gertrude’s memory. If anything, it would do her proud.”

“Killing it with the sales pitch,” Basira carps.

“But the head of the Institute does serve the Eye,” Jon presses on, “and he’s the one responsible for appointing Gertrude the Archivist in the first place. Hurt the Eye, and you hurt him.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Manuela says, bristling. “Your patron may pale in comparison to my god, but I’m not arrogant enough to believe that I would stand a chance of vanquishing it.”

“We can’t vanquish it, no. But we could destroy the Institute that serves it. Same as happened to the Dark’s faithful.”

“An eye for an eye,” Basira adds.

“Well, you’ve wasted your time coming all this way.” Manuela’s disparaging chuckle gets caught in her throat. “I’m the only one here. An abandoned disciple, guarding a lost cause. There’s nothing left of our former power.”

“The Dark Sun,” Basira says.

Manuela tenses. Then her shoulders slump, weighed down by dawning, solemn resignation.

“Of course,” she says bitterly. “It isn’t enough to decimate our numbers. You need to steal the only remnant of our crusade.”

“We’re giving you the opportunity to reclaim its purpose,” Jon says. “Or would you rather it rot away here, diminishing until it collapses in on itself?”

Manuela is silent for a long minute, a shrewd look in her eye. “Why would you want to betray your god?”

“The Beholding isn’t my god,” Jon says. “I’m not a willing convert. I was drafted into someone else’s crusade without my consent – and you know what that’s like, don’t you?”

Manuela just scowls.

“I Know your story.” Jon’s voice turns sibilant with power as the Archive rears its head. “Indoctrinated into a faith that never spoke to you –”

“– brought up to believe in the light of God, his radiant, illuminating presence –”

“Shut up,” Manuela says in a low growl.

“– deep down they were vicious, spiteful people who used their faith to hurt others, and I fondly imagined them discovering themselves in an afterlife other than the one they had assumed was their destination – I broke with them as soon as I could –”

“Jon,” Basira interrupts. The firm squeeze of her hand on his shoulder is enough to snap him out of his shallow trance. She jerks her head at Manuela, who looks about ready to charge him again. “Maybe not the time?”

“S-sorry,” he gasps. He shakes his head to clear the residual static clouding his thoughts before looking back to Manuela with genuine contrition. “Didn’t mean to do that, I swear. I only meant to say that I – I read the statement you gave to Gertrude. I know that your parents were zealots. They envisioned a perfect world that seemed to you like hell on earth, and you did everything you could to rebel against their arrogance. To spite the god they worshiped. We have some common ground there, you and I.”

Granted, Jon didn’t grow up in a religious household. His grandmother was content to let him explore – and he did.

Even as a child, he had an inclination for research. A topic would catch his attention and he would voraciously seek out as much information as he could. His grandmother didn’t take much interest in the content of those fixations, but she did encourage them as a general principle. Not with overt praise, necessarily, but by facilitating his endeavors: procuring reading material on the obsession of the month, escorting him to the library every so often and allowing him to max out his card. He suspects now that she was simply grateful for some way to occupy his attention. If his nose was in a book, he was keeping out of trouble.

He never told her how wrong she turned out to be.

In any case, one of his many early “phases,” as she liked to call them, was comparative religion. Part of it was simple curiosity. Part of it was a genuine desire to find something to believe: some conception of the afterlife that would resonate with him, some straightforward framework for understanding the world, some sort of certainty to assuage his fear of the unknown. His grandmother never seemed to care whether he found what he was looking for. She never really asked.

It was for the best. He never liked admitting defeat. Not back then.

They returned all the books to the library on the day they were due, and Jon brought home a new haul, this one centered around the field of oceanography. The seas were brimming with mystery, but at least there was a very real possibility of turning those unknowns into knowns. New discoveries were being made every day, newer and newer technology being developed to push the boundaries of that knowledge. There were sure answers, and they could be grasped, so long as humanity could invent the right tools for the job.

Still, Jon found himself envying people of faith from time to time. Sometimes he wished he had someone to point him in some sort of direction, like many other children seemed to have. But hearing of Manuela’s upbringing… well, if Jon was forced to choose between extremes, he has to admit that he prefers the complete lack of guidance he received as opposed to strict proselytization. His grandmother may not have shown interest in his opinions, but at least she gave him the freedom to come to his own conclusions. She may not have had reassurances to offer, but at least she didn’t foist upon him a worldview that made no place for him in it.

“It’s not the same thing as childhood indoctrination,” he tells Manuela, “but… becoming the Archivist – it was like being drafted into the service of a god that I never would have chosen for myself. Had Elias told me the terms, I never would have signed the contract.”

“I take it he didn’t tell you beforehand that he murdered your predecessor?”

“That I had to find out the hard way, unfortunately.”

“So you’re saying you’re not so much a traitor to your faith as you are a disgruntled employee.”

“Elias is my boss. Is that a trick question?” Jon is surprised to hear Manuela give an amused snort. “But yes. I’d like to… tender my resignation, so to speak.”

Manuela scrutinizes him intently, as if trying to solve a riddle. “You would give up your power?”

“I don’t want it,” Jon says truthfully.

If he’s perfectly honest with himself, there was a time that at least some aspects of that power were alluring. There was something intoxicating and liberating about being able to ask a question and not only receive a guaranteed answer, but be certain he wasn’t being presented with an outright lie – especially after spending so many months beholden to unchecked paranoia, distrust, and frantic, futile investigation.

But there was never anything benign or inconsequential about invading a victim’s privacy or compelling someone to surrender a secret, no matter how he tried to justify it to himself. Even if there was, even if it wasn’t both reprehensible in principle and harmful in practice, it still wouldn’t be worth the irrevocable costs.

“I want out,” he says, “and if getting out isn’t an option, then I at least want Elias to know what it is to be offered up to a god inimical to every atom of his existence. I thought you might be able to assist with that.”

“How?”

“The Institute is a seat of power for the Beholding,” Basira says. “If we introduce it to your Dark Sun…”

“A mote in the Eye,” Manuela says, intrigued. Her attention swivels back to Jon. “Do you Know what would happen?”

“No,” he says. “But I imagine it will hurt.”

“And then what? What happens after? You let me pack up my relic and walk away?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I don’t believe you,” Manuela says.

“You don’t pose an existential threat,” Jon says with a shrug. “I have no doubt that the Dark will attempt another Ritual someday, but it won’t happen in our lifetimes. We have no qualms letting you walk away after our alliance is finished.”

“And the Dark Sun?” Manuela presses.

“I don’t know what condition it will be in after exposure to the Eye,” Jon admits. “But you’re free to do as you wish with it after. We won’t stop you.”

So she can hurt more people, Jon’s battered conscience chimes in.

“And if I say no?”

“Then I walk in there right now, Behold it, and destroy it entirely.” It comes out sounding more menacing than Jon had initially intended, but maybe that’s not a bad thing, given the way Manuela freezes up.

“You wouldn’t survive.” Manuela sounds far from certain.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But your Sun certainly wouldn’t.” Jon pauses for a moment to let that sink in. “Do you want to see its potential wasted here and now, or do you want to make all that sacrifice worth something?”

“If you’re so certain you have the upper hand, what’s stopping you from just taking it, then?”

“I’m not its engineer or its keeper. I wouldn’t even Know how to safely transport it. Too many unknown variables.”

“So you need me.”

“Yes. Beneath the Institute, there’s a… a sanctum of the Eye. A place of power, like Ny-Ålesund is for your patron. If you can bring the Dark Sun there, I… well, I’m hoping it will sever the Eye’s connection to that place. Destroy the Institute.”

“How would that work?”

“I’m… not certain,” Jon confesses. “Call it a… a hunch.”

“There’s precedent,” Basira says. “We found a statement that hinted at worshipers of the Dark destroying a temple to the Eye in 4th century Alexandria.”

Manuela’s eyes light up with interest. “How?”

“We don’t know,” Jon says.

“Oh, right. Foolish of me to ask,” Manuela says pertly. “Why would I expect you to know things? It’s only the entire point of you.”

“I never claimed to be good at my job,” Jon retorts. “Look, maybe I don’t Know exactly what will happen, but a focus of the Dark should hurt the Eye in some capacity, I think.”

“You think,” Manuela mutters under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear the derision in her tone.

“Whatever happens, it’ll be more satisfying than anything you’ve got going on here,” Basira points out.

Manuela barks out a contemptuous laugh. “You don’t even have the shadow of a plan!”

“We… haven’t ironed out the details, no.” Jon rubs the back of his neck, chagrinned. “We figured that if you did agree to an alliance, you would want to be part of the actual planning process.”

“And if you don’t cooperate, it’s a moot point,” Basira says.

“Also, I was… I suppose I was hoping you could offer insight,” Jon says. “The Dark is something of a blind spot for me, shockingly.” Manuela shoots him a withering look. “So even if I had any clue how to wield the Dark Sun, I wouldn’t be able to channel its full potential. Not like you could.”

“That much is obvious,” Manuela sneers, teeth gleaming in the torchlight as her lips stretch in a taut, wolfish grin. “You Beholding types always assume that knowledge is synonymous with control. Putting yourselves on the level of Powers greater than any mortal, assuming insight into things you could not possibly understand… you fly too close to the sun and then have the gall to indulge in outrage when you burn.”

We didn’t come here for a sermon, Jon almost says, but he bites his tongue.

“But I accept that I am a supplicant, not a god,” Manuela says, reverence seeping into her tone to supplant the reproach. “It’s pure hubris to assume that you could wield the Black Sun like a tool. It’s a communion, and only those with true and dutiful faith could ever hope to win its favor. Approach it with anything less than respect and devotion, and it will devour you.”

“If you’re done pontificating?” Basira says. She doesn’t give Manuela an opening to respond. “We’re well aware that we stand no chance of wielding–” Manuela looks up sharply, and Basira hastily corrects herself. “Fine – communing with the Dark Sun ourselves. That’s why we’re looking for an alliance rather than just taking it.”

“Do you think you could–” Jon pauses as he searches for a way to phrase his question that won’t unleash another tirade. “Would you be able to arrange for the Dark Sun to be brought into the Eye’s stronghold? Expose them to one another, let them… I don’t know – have it out with each other?”

“I’m capable of bringing it to London, if that’s what you’re asking,” Manuela says primly. “But it would be at a disadvantage on the Beholding’s home turf. If – if – I were willing to test this hypothesis, I would only do so on the condition that I could level the playing field as much as possible. Wait for ideal circumstances, as it were.”

“Which would be…?” Basira asks.

“The winter solstice. The Dark Sun will be the strongest on the night of the winter solstice.”

“That’s months from now,” Basira protests. “Can’t you just –”

“Ideally, I would insist on a total solar eclipse,” Manuela snaps, “but it will be quite some time before London witnesses another. Not until 2090.”

“Looking ahead, are you?” Basira asks.

“It is likely the soonest opportunity for another attempt at a Ritual.” Manuela pretends at nonchalance with a shrug, but she can’t quite conceal her profound disappointment as her voice grows measurably more subdued. “It gives me ample time to study our failure. To discover what went wrong.”

“To refine your Ritual, you mean.”

“There will always be faithful to take up the mantle,” Manuela says, her chin lifting marginally in defiance as she stares Basira down.

“But you won’t be around to see it.” Basira meets Manuela’s eyes with equal nerve. Jon remains silent, looking from one to the other as they face off against one another.

“No,” Manuela replies evenly. “I’ll have to settle for passing on my findings to those who come after. Leave behind a legacy to guide their steps.”

“In the meantime, the Dark Sun will stagnate,” Jon chimes in. It’s a bluff, of course: he has no idea whether or not it’s true. Judging from the unsettled look on Manuela’s face, neither does she. Jon latches onto that uncertainty, carefully twisting the knife just a little further: “Or, you could let it serve a purpose.”

“Its purpose was to usher in a world of true and holy Darkness,” Manuela says acidly. “You’re proposing I give it scraps.”

“Like it or not, you can’t give it the apocalypse it was promised,” Jon says.

Manuela’s fingers flex and clench back into fists. Jon suspects she would love nothing more than to wring his neck. She’s a truth seeker at heart, though. Ambitious, rebellious – idealistic even, albeit in a twisted sort of way, harboring an aspiration that most would rightfully find horrific. Adept at detecting and exploiting the more malleable aspects of material reality where possible, infusing the scientific method with just enough magical thinking to bend natural laws.

However, there are some truths that even she cannot deny, and she isn’t the type to ignore a certainty when it’s right in front of her face. And so, despite the unconcealed vitriol in her eyes and the contrariness sitting at the tip of her tongue, she does not deny his assertion.

“But it can still pay tribute to your god,” Jon coaxes, striving to stop short of needling. It’s a razor’s edge he’s always struggled to walk, but Manuela is still right there with him, toeing the line. “It’s better than nothing at all.”

Manuela directs a venomous glower towards the floor as she vacillates between summary dismissal and the temptation of vengeance. Basira side-eyes Jon as the standstill stretches from seconds into minutes, but all Jon can offer her is an awkward shrug. The ball is in Manuela’s court, and it seems she has no qualms leaving them in indefinite suspense as she painstakingly examines all the variables and weighs her options. The best they can do is wait and hope that tangible revenge will prove more enticing than spiteful noncooperation.

Eventually, she lets out a sharp exhale, raises her head, and breaks her silence.

“The winter solstice,” she repeats, her voice teeming with tension and lingering aversion. “Barring an eclipse, I would have to settle for the winter solstice. The longest, darkest night of the year… it’s second best, but it should suffice. Shame about the light pollution, of course,” she adds, wrinkling her nose with disdain, “but the power is in the symbolism.”

“Jon?” Basira prompts.

“Dream logic,” he says, massaging his forehead wearily. “It tracks.”

“Fine,” Basira sighs. She looks back to Manuela. “So does this mean you’ll do it?”

“I’m tired of haunting this place like a ghost.” There’s a sharp, predatory look in Manuela’s eyes now. “The Dark has lost its crusaders. The Watcher should have a taste of loss.”

Just then, a loud, metallic thunk interrupts the negotiations, reverberating through the space and drawing everyone’s attention to warehouse entrance. The light that had been percolating through from outside had been preternaturally dimmed before, but now it’s been snuffed out entirely.

Jon glances anxiously at Basira. “The wind, maybe?”

“There was no wind.” Basira is already drawing her gun. Like a switch has been flipped at the prospect of danger, her voice goes steely with manufactured composure. “Not strong enough to blow the door shut. I propped it open very securely.”

“We’re near the water, though,” Jon murmurs. “Strong gusts sometimes blow in off the sea–”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut at Basira’s quelling look. Manuela’s posture is defensive again, eyes darting suspiciously between Jon and Basira in the muted torchlight.

“I thought you said you came here alone,” she says accusingly.

“We – we did,” Jon says. “We–”

“Oh, Archivist,” a new voice sings out, oozing with an exultant malice. “Long time no see!”

It’s been ages since Jon last heard that cadence, but it’s horrifyingly, heart-stoppingly familiar even after all this time. It pierces Jon like a knife in the dark. He takes a frantic step back, nearly tripping over his own feet as his panic skyrockets and a tidal wave of adrenaline crashes over him.

“We just want to talk,” croons a different voice, rougher and more ragged-sounding. It’s difficult to gauge the newcomers’ positions through the impermeable gloom, but judging from the sounds of their voices, they’re drawing ever nearer. “Won’t you come out?”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Jon breathes an incredulous laugh, distraught enough to border on a whimper. “Now?”

“Who are they?” Basira asks urgently. Jon is still frozen in place, eyes straining against the darkness. Any answer he could make is bogged down with terror, snagging in his throat and forestalling coherence. “Jon!”

Jon swallows hard and finally looks at Basira, his eyes wide with dread.

“Hunters.”

End Notes:

naomi: hey jon. jon. consider: surveillance state kink jon: shut the hell your mouth

____

Both instances of Archive-speak are from MAG 135. A few pieces of dialogue from the beginning of the conversation with Manuela are taken/reworked from MAG 143. The Melanie and Basira gossip is from MAG 106.

Once again, had way too much fun with the text convo btwn Naomi and Jon. Cannot resist those chatfic shenanigans vibes.

In other news, Daisy WILL point at Jon and loudly exclaim, “Is anyone gonna volunteer as wingman for this lovesick disaster or do I have to do everything myself?” and not even wait for an answer. (Jon made the mistake of confirming that he doesn’t mind her lovingly dunking on him about this sort of thing and now she’s a menace. Listen, playful ribbing is basically her platonic love language.)  

Sorry for the cliffhanger!! But hey, I think we all knew that there’s no way things would go entirely smoothly for Jon and Basira. And now I finally get to add some new character tags.

I’m very behind on replying to comments. (Tbh, spent most of the last month grappling with this chapter. I was stuck on a scene that REALLY didn’t want to cooperate.) I’m gonna try to catch up this weekend, though. <3 As always, thank you for reading!

[soundofez]

@mastar-week​ 2021, day 3// solace

The Untamed AU. In the end, even Black Star cannot defy his own death. The clans gather to facilitate his fall.

Maka doesn’t let them. It drives her own clan half-mad, but she will not give the world a dying man to execute. She will not give up the man she has left so long abandoned. She will not let Black die unloved.

Warnings: hurt/comfort but mostly hurt, insanity, major character death. this one's a big ouchie my guys ಥvಥ

Ten Years Ago.

After the last surviving branch of the Star clan finally submits itself to the judgment of the Death clan, the wards around the Sunken Hills fail.

The other clans swarm, metaphorical pitchforks readied, eager to tear apart the notorious Last Dragon of Star. Maka arrives too late to stop them from trespassing; she flies past trampled gardens that twist her heart with grief and fury. How dare they disregard the toil of the people who lived there; how dare they claim themselves superior to innocents who wished only to survive.

She arrives in the central cave, the so-called Den of the Last Dragon, to find Black Star holding the rioting clans at bay, untouchable even now, shorn hair tied into powerful charms and dried blood applied with morbid skill to woven talismans. The stink of rotting yin is almost overpowering: lesser cultivators lie strewn about, their natural yang insufficient to counter such high concentrations of that dark energy.

Maka waits until she is noticed, until the assembled cultivators finally back away from Black's final wards. They ask her if she wants the honor, and she nods curtly in return. "Only right," they agree, though their voices betray a rapacious hunger for violence. "Only right for the Jade of Death to avenge her young master."

She does not deign to use words with them. They are not the ones who need to hear what she has to say.

When at last they all stand silent and waiting, like circling crows, she walks past their bedraggled ranks to stand before Black Star.

He nods as she approaches, and she walks directly through the wards that had so powerfully repelled the other cultivators. He keeps his charms and talismans to hand, but he makes no move to use them against her.

The look in his eyes frightens her. He is not defeated, not quite; but he is weary and grieving, and to Maka he appears to be awaiting condemnation.

From your sword, he had once told her, I will face my death and consider it just.

Maka casts her own wards in one smooth flourish. They blaze behind her, brighter than Black's wards are dark. "Leave," she says aloud. She does not look away from Black. She cannot bear to, not now, not when there is so little time left between them.

The cultivators grumble with confusion that morphs into surprise and indignation and shock. "She has been bewitched," one of them cries. "He has corrupted her," shouts another.

Maka turns to face them. "Leave," she repeats.

She has to encourage them with a sweeping blow from her sword before they obey. She grants them no more words, even as they express promises to return. (To free her, the stupider ones declare; to slay her, the smarter ones say.)

They do not understand what she is doing. How could they, when they are so utterly convinced of the guilt of the man she is protecting?

Black Star does not seem to understand, either. "What are you doing?" he asks as their opponents flee.

"I'm doing what I should have done a long time ago," Maka replies.

Black spreads his arms. "Kill me, then."

The accusation stings. Maka permits it. She has done nothing to earn his faith. "I won't," she replies.

Black Star smiles at her, coughs— there is blood in his teeth, dribbling down his chin— his wards fail, and her own are suddenly blindingly bright—

She lunges to catch him before he can hit the ground.

—

In the end, even Black Star cannot resist his fate. His cultivation technique, which draws so heavily on natural quantities of yin, overwhelms his body's supply of yang.

Maka had known it would happen. She hadn't known how little time Black had left.

They spend those last months together, her and Black Star and a surprise child she found around the back of the cave. The girl's eyes as green as Maka's, though her hair is that brilliant blue infamous to the Star Clan. She looks startlingly, heart-achingly similar to how a child might look if Maka ever bore one for Black Star.

Maka salvages what she can of the former gardens, replanting radishes while little Hoshino Ao does her best to plant herself, too. They collect Black's favorite lychee from the trees, hard-won little things that Black had been so proud to show the cuttings of eighteen months ago, when they had stumbled into each other in the little town at the base of the Sunken Hills. Maka washes and peels and pits the tiny fruits, saving their precious flesh in a shallow dish specially reserved for them. Ao loves them as much as Black does; Maka has to teach the little girl restraint, even as she wishes that she could peel all the lychees the two Stars could ever desire. Ao obliges even so, sharing the dish with Black while 

Maka inspects the illusory wards alone. They cover a smaller area than Black's old wards had, but there is no longer a clan here who needs the space. Maka doesn't have access to the same techniques Black had used to cover such an enormous area, anyway. She secures the edges of the wards as the clans storm around invisible border, oblivious to her presence; Maka in particular watches her father, who appears more distraught than dissatisfied. He is one of the few cultivators to come daily, and the only one to beg and grovel for her to come home. He has an uncanny knack for knowing when she is present; he always seems to start pleading when she is around to hear him.

Maybe it is not so uncanny. He knows the feel of Death clan wards as well as she does, even if he cannot get through them. Still, Maka cannot safely speak to him, and so she doesn't. Time enough for forgiveness after Black dies.

—

They talk quite a lot in those last months, even as excessive yin rots his body and decays his mind. "Why are you protecting me?" he asks early on, while he still has his sanity. "The honorable Jade of Death shouldn't be helping an evil cultivator such as myself."

"You were never evil," Maka says hotly. "I should have protected you sooner."

Black laughs her off, light-hearted even as he waits for his grave.

At other times, Black is morbid. "You'll have to live here forever," he informs her. "If you leave this place, they'll kill you." He says this with regret. You shouldn't have come for me, Maka hears, even though the words do not leave his mouth.

"They won't kill me," Maka replies.

Still other times, Black flirts with her. "You can have your way with me, you know," he'll say, winking. "Nobody can stop you, least of all me. I'll never tell, either."

He is trying to drive her away. Tough: she's not leaving him until one of them dies. She tells him as much, though instead of acknowledging his failing body, she simply says, "I'm never leaving you again."

His spirit fails. He is tormented by ghosts who do not exist and nightmares that escape the realms of sleep. Still, he seems to recognize her. "I missed you, you know," he tells her, half-delirious. "All these months I spent cooped up in these hills, I missed you."

"I missed you, too," Maka replies, pressing a cup of water or a bowl of radish stew to his lips. He seems to hear her, and he smiles.

He starts to forget that she's there: when she returns from gardening or lychee-picking or checking the wards, he will startle and beam at her. "Maka, you've come to visit!" he will cry, or even, "You! I love you!"

She never knows if these last words are truly meant for her. "I love you, too," she replies anyway, pressing lychee flesh to his lips and letting him lick the sweet nectar from her fingers like a child. The fruit seems to keep the horrors at bay, at least for a little bit, at least while she's with him.

The last time he speaks to her, he is strangely coherent. "You shouldn't have gotten involved, Maka."

She sits beside him. "If I'd gotten involved sooner, you wouldn't be dying," she replies, thinking bitterly of the years she's spent dithering, and for what? She is already twenty-two, fast leaving marriageable age, and the love of her life is dying.

He is only twenty-two, and he is dying.

"You don't know that," he replies. "And that's beside the point. You should have let them kill me. The gods know I deserve it."

She leans over him, takes his face in her hands. "You promised you would be killed only by my hands," she tells him. "I will not kill you. I will not let the world execute an innocent man. I will not leave you because you are dying. I should never—" Her voice cracks on the word. She swallows and continues, staring into his black eyes, wondering if she will ever fall into such blackness again. Never, she thinks. It's impossible. "I should never have abandoned you, Black."

I will not let you die unloved, she wants to tell him later, but by then he is beyond hearing.

—

She buries his body. She does not take down the wards. She steps out from the Den of the Last Dragon and into her weeping father's embrace. She pushes Hoshino Ao into his arms before she submits to the clans' judgment.

She is not executed, as she had predicted. Lord Death is still too fond of her. Still, she is sentenced to daily lashes and seclusion for a year. It takes another year for her to recover.

Of course, she never really recovers. She continues living, and she is dutiful to the clan, and she finds some measure of joy in teaching the new cultivators; but she does not begin to recover until she sees a man in plain grey robes, his hair white but his eyes that impossible black, placing a talisman she’s seen many times before on a corpse who should have been long gone.

[writing-the-end]

LoL Chapter 33- One For Two

Masterpost

A Wizard Hermits tale (AU, designs, ideas belongs to @theguardiansofredland)

The architechs face their most dangerous battle yet, alone against the Magistrate himself. 

And not all survive.

Warning: This chapter features major character death (temporary), blood, impalement, and other dark themes of death. Please use caution proceeding

______________________________________

“Mumbo? Mumbo wake up.” Grian hisses, his wings puffing up at the sound he hears in the distance. Iskall has already run out of the tent the architechs were in, going in search of the noise. But nothing can muster consciousness from his best friend, and unfortunately Grian must resort to ulterior measures.

 He drags Mumbo’s bedroll out of the tent, clambering to hold the limp form. And takes off into the air. The sudden jolt skyward does wake Mumbo up, and he sheds his bedroll like a butterfly from it’s cocoon. “G-Grian, put me down! This wasn’t funny the first time, it’s not funny now!” 

“Maybe if you weren't’ such a spoon and wake up this wouldn’t happen. Iskall and I heard something. It was getting closer, so he went to look.” Grian chuckles, and can’t help but give Mumbo another scare. He lets go of the multi-mage, but only for a second. Less than that, before he grabs hold of Mumbo by the pits. His cackle is only as loud as Mumbo’s scream, and they both return to the ground. 

The nice, safe, hard ground. Mumbo is still trying to reclaim his heartbeat, though the sound of lightning crashing nearby does little to help. A second later, Iskall runs from the brush of the forest. “It’s a husk, a nue.” 

As if in response to Iskall’s words, an eerie cry bounces off the bark and through the canopy. All three architechs are attracted to the bonechilling noise, the magic of the beast calling them closer. “We have to find it- there has to to be a reason a husk would be here.” Grian states, picking up the pace, following the noise through the forest. Leading him deeper. “Maybe there’s a crystal, or something that Dolios is doing here.” 

Iskall chases after Grian, after the noise, and Mumbo stumbles after them, taking up the rear. Sometimes he catches just a glimpse of the beast, the grey and black stripes or the snake tail passing between brambles and bushes. He can’t stop himself from following the beast, the whimpering cry luring them all deeper and deeper into the woods.Until the trees part, and the moonless sky opens up. 

And sitting in the center of the clearing, an enormous, ebony gem eeks it’s black tendrils into the verdant grass. Iskall peers into the darkness, noting how little the crystal has spread the dark magic. “It’s brand new. It was just placed here.” 

“Perhaps the nue was it’s first victim.” Mumbo shakes his head. 

“Or it was sent with the crystal to protect it as it made root.” Grian adds, stepping forward. His wings ruffle, the feeling of being watched a second too late. 

“Neither, as a matter of fact. It was purely to lure you in.” His voice is so clear, so crisp, running ice down their spines. They turn, eyes settling on Magistrate Dolios and his charismatic, calm smile. He’s sitting on a rock, resting against the boulder like it’s a throne, cheek pressed against the palm of his hand and legs crossed. He almost looks bored, would it not be for the easy smile, the hunger in his eyes. The nue appears beside the magistrate, smoke and ash billowing from the fragmented figure. Dolios reaches out, fingers running from the glowing white eyes of the monkey head, running down the spine, before twisting the cobra tail between his fingers. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? A fresh crystal, ready to gather as much magic as it can hold.”

Iskal summons his magic, iskallium energy ricocheting up his arm as he stands ready for battle. “I’m going to destroy that crystal. Then, we’ll destroy you.” 

Dolios’s smile never fades, even as he shakes his head. “You never stop, do you? These past few weeks, you and your band of heathens have been going all over Lairyon, destroying all my hard work. These crystals are important to me, you know. I can’t just replace every last one in the blink of an eye. It takes time.” Dolios stands, striding past the three. The purple fabric of his robes dance along the grass, sauntering to stand before the crystal. “But I’m quite proud of this one. It took me weeks, and you get the honor of being the first people to see it work.” 

Mist swirls from the stone, then strikes out. Like whips, they bend around their master, who continues to smile with his hands tucked behind his back. Grian bowls to the side, knocking Mumbo out of the way before the magic can take hold. Iskall lets loose the ball of energy, sending it flying into the mist. Dispersing it, and crashing into the crystal. Another attack, this time with Grian warding off the magic. In a heavy beat of his wings, slashing the air with wind, he skips above Dolios and the gem, flanking him from the side. 

Dolios shakes his head, not focused on Grian or Iskall. His eyes remain trained on Mumbo, who’s  struggling just to summon his magic. “So much magic, wasted in such a pathetic form. You don’t even know what to do with it all. I don’t need your magic- just the power.” He looks over his shoulder, stepping aside when another sheer wind threatens to even ruin his hair. “The angel, on the other hand. What I wouldn't give for his magic in my repertoire.” 

“You’re no  multi-mage!” Iskall shouts, throwing a rod of iskallium at Dolios’s feet. Giving Mumbo a second to flee, to focus on his magic. “You’re just a mega thief of doom!” 

“Quite the hyperbolic speech, young man.” Dolios snickers, grabbing Iskall by the arm with nothing more than his mind. No matter how hard iskall fights, he can’t get free. “An S-Class of your caliber is quite enticing as well. This whole team you’ve got is stronger than most of those idiots that call themselves the Council.” 

Iskall continues to fight for his freedom, while Grian is battling off the mist that threatens to engulf his friend. Dolios is so focused on capturing Grian, on draining Iskall’s lifeforce that he’s completely ignored Mumbo. Why would he bother? Mumbo can’t even summon his magic at will. 

But if there’s one way to bring Mumbo’s powers to fruition, it’s hurt his friends. Black mist squeezes past the winds that flow from Grian’s wings, striking through Iskall like an arrow through the chest. Iskall stumbles, skin growing grey and pale, flaky. He continues to fight through the pain, despite his strength being sapped. 

Mumbo’s shaking hands go through the motions of summoning his magic. Palms out, coming together and fingers blooming like a flower- or a redstone circuit. Driving his magic from within, organizing it in a way he can control, until the circle glows bright and lightning appears in his hands. 

No one hurts Mumbo’s friends. He gives Dolios a taste of his own medicine, sending the bolt of lightning straight into his chest. Dolios stumbles backwards. Red appears beneath the blue capelet, burn marks and blood crawling from the magistrate’s neck. He turns, eyes boring into Mumbo’s soul, and for a second Mumbo worries if Dolios can drain his power just by looking at him- like a gorgon or something. Dolios only chuckles, brushing his hand and waving the mist away. “I knew it was in there somewhere. You’re just too weak and naive to find true power. Unlike me.” Dolios summons his circle, dark magic coursing through each skittering line and curve. “Don’t make me waste my time on you, I still have to steal the angel’s magic. Just become a good, useful husk alongside your fri-” 

The sound of cracking silences Dolios. The magic circle disappears, the magistrate whipping his curly ponytail around to see what is going on behind him. 

He was so busy berating Mumbo, he didn’t notice Grian and Iskall. Despite Iskall’s weakened state, looking almost husklike, the two S-Class wizards pool together their magic, and launch it into the iskallium spike thrust into the core of the gem. 

It shatters to pieces, fragments raining down over Mumbo and Dolios. The dark magic fizzles and dies, the energy stored in the gem returning to the earth. Where it belongs, rather than trapped in Dolios’s machinations. 

But with each crystal fading back to it’s milky quartz color, the magistrate’s eyes grow darker. An anger fills his eyes, turning his smile into a sneer, lips curling and bearing perfect white teeth. Iskall laughs, whooping and dancing. He already feels so much better, the rosy color returning to his cheeks and the brown of his beard flourishing. “Take that, creep!”

Dolios stares at the broken crystal, then drags his gaze to the architechs. “Do you know how long that took me to corrupt? And you two cretins destroy it on it’s maiden voyage?” He chuckles and closes his eyes. Sts a hand against the sun-shaped clasp at his throat. “I’ll admit, there’s more power in you than I thought, Iskall. Your strength would have been so filling for me and my creation, you’d make such a good husk. Shame I have to kill you now.” 

His eyes snap open, the hungry fervor for blood filling the ambered blue eyes. A predator stalking it’s prey, cornering it for the final blow. His smile holds no joy, none of the calm, charming light it masked the monster with. Now it was a cold snarl, teeth baring for his quarry.

Without a snap or a wave of his hand, Dolios’s circle appears and is cast. Power surges around the magistrate. He crosses the length of the clearing in two long strides. Grabbing Iskall by the collar and pinning him against a tree. “Why don’t you just hang awhile, Iskall?” 

Dolios steps back, a branch has grown through Iskall. Bloodsoaked leaves and wood snagged through clothes. Iskall no longer struggles. He no longer spits curses or taunts. His head is limp, eyes closed. 

Horror is written across Mumbo and Grian’s face. They knew Dolios was a murderer, a monster that was leading all of Lairyon behind a veil of prosperity, but to see it in action…

And he wasn’t done. He turns, and advances towards Mumbo. Grian tries to stop him, blowing gale force wind, but Dolios raises his hand. The blades of grass grow, forming a wall between him and Grian. Not even the feather shaped throwing knives could penetrate the greenery. 

A scream echoes the clearing.

Then the sound of something heavy hitting the ground. From behind the grassy screen, Dolios steps over a limp hand, redstone mixed with blood. The grass shrivels and dies, revealing Mumbo’s body. Despite the blood on his throat, Mumbo’s mustache was still perfectly combed. “Mumbo?” Grian whimpers, “Mumbo wake up.”

A weak whimper escapes Grian, forced to stare at his two best friends dead before him. And him- the guild healer- was unable to stop it. Grian’s vision turns red and purple. Dolios digs his shoes into Grian’s gut, sending him sprawling across the ground. “Now that they’re cared for, let’s get onto more important matters.” 

“I’ll cut you down!” Grian shouts, rising to his feet. Not a thought in his head, singularly focused on one thing- avenge his fallen brethren. One moment, Grian is halfway across the clearing. The next, his fist is colliding with Dolios, the force of a hurricane behind him. As his hand collides with Dolios, a crack of thunder echoes from the storm above. Summoned by Grian’s magic, the anger boiling with his blood. 

Lightning cascades from the sky. Ripping through the air, directed towards the magistrate. Volts of electricity barreling to destroy him where he stumbles back from the punch. 

The lightning strikes. 

Not Dolios. A shimmer of light ripples between the bolt and the magistrate, magical shield turning the lightning back on it’s wizard. The bolt bounces off the light shield, and strikes into Grian’s chest. One second Grian is standing, ready for any battle that Dolios offers. The next, he’s on the ground, body spasming against the shocks that run across his nerves, burns spreading from the impact. “You’re different from the last angel.” Dolios muses, snapping his finger. The husk nue, disappeared in the night until needed by it’s master, presses massive clawed feet onto Grian. Dragging sharp claws into his back and wounding him further. The primate face snarls, foaming for the hope to rip Grian to shreds. “At least you had the dignity to stand and fight. But in the end, I always get my quarry.”

Dolios turns away, flicking his hair over his shoulder and peeking back at Grian. And he starts to walk away. The shadow beast disappears, returning to it’s master’s side. Grian struggles to rise. “Where...get back here! I’m not done with you!” 

“No, but I am done with you. You’ve lost, little bird. You know where to find me- make it easier for yourself, and come without a fight. You’ve lost, just accept it.” Dolios turns away, stepping out of the clearing. 

And Grian is left alone. Left in the destruction, the death. Left in the shattered pieces of the crystal and his life. Left with himself, the only living soul, surrounded by his dead friends. Tears mix with blood, his chest aching and pain growing as he  heaves a sob up his throat before ripping across his lips. They lost. They may have destroyed the crystal, but Dolios got away, leaving only destruction and death in his wake. Like the very magic he spreads across Lairyon. 

Grian stumbles to his feet, his muscles refusing to work against the pain of the lightning bolt and the overwhelming grief. Blood falling from his back, strength sapping away. But this doesn’t have to be the end. Not for Grian, not for Iskall or Mumbo. Grian is a sky angel- a healer beyond all mortals. He just has to be fast enough, strong enough. 

He pulls Iskall free, collapsing under the weight and sorrow. Rolling his friend over, he places his hand on Iskall’s chest and focuses in.

 Light radiates from Grian, and halo appearing over his matted, bloody hair. His wings triple, spreading wide and exuding blinding energy. Each feather is alight in a holy flame, rays beaming from the halo and glowing white eyes opening. The angelic magic twists and dances down from Grian’s wings, running over his own wounds from battle and pulsating through to Iskall. 

Pain sears up Grian’s body, but he ignores it to focus on Iskall. Beneath his hands, Grian feels the wound close. Shrink until all that’s left is a raised scar. And then a heartbeat. Iskall’s chest rises and falls, shallow at first but growing deeper with each new breath. From the clutches of death. Iskall bolts upright, his dying cry falling from his lips. Faced with the sight of Grian’s archangel aura blinding him. 

Grian doesn’t pause, wings beating against the air and ground. He rises into the air, swooping over to Mumbo. Hands shaking, placing gentle fingers against the wound on Mumbo’s neck. Light sweeps from wings to fingertips, cascading across Grian’s own mortal wounds. Light as bright as the noonday sun, ebbing from Grian’s body and flowing into Mumbo’s corpse. 

A gasping breath rasps through Mumbo’s rattled body. He aches, his throat burning like he just choked on something dry and was whipped by a mishappen hand against his adam’s apple. Bright light blinds him. He blinks away the spots in his vision, hand reaching for his throat.

The last thing he remembers is something sharp against his skin, and the Magistrate’s cold, sharp grin in his vision. He doesn’t even know what happened to him until he sits up. Iskall nearly barrels him over, voice swirling around Mumbo but never really reaching him, just a din of death and decay. 

He died. Dolios killed him. Killed Iskall, then him. Cut them down without ever easing his smile. So how is Mumbo still alive? He and Iskall both look around, searching for their healer. They discover Grian crumpled between them both. The halo above his head shatters, light fading and feathers falling apart in the wind. Blood pools beneath Grian, his breath faint, eyes closed. Mumbo presses shaking, pale, cold fingers on the fallen angel’s chest. 

Nothing. No, wait. It’s still there. But faint. 

Iskall and Mumbo don’t waste a second. With Iskall carrying Grian, the architechs flee the forest. Begging for Grian to hold on, just a little longer.

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

Walking away from the clearing, Dolios smiles. That cool, calm smile he knows all of Lairyon is addicted to. Deceived by. He doesn’t need to deal with dragging Grian back to the nearest crystal- he’ll give himself up. Just like they all do, when their hopes are crushed and left with only giving up. Giving in to Dolios. He’ll turn himself in, and save Dolios so much time and effort. 

And Dolios cannot wait to finally have angel magic. He won’t waste such rare, unique abilities by simply sapping Grian’s lifeforce, turning him to a husk. No, he intends to take the magic for his own. Leaving nothing left but sky angel magic. His to claim, growing his repertoire. 

Dolios laughs, and places two crossed fingers over the golden sun that clasps his cape together. “That cretin that calls himself an angel is being quite the nuisance. But alas, I will succeed in taking his magic. And you would want me to succeed, right dear friend?”

He may have won this battle, but the war is far from over. Dolios’s smile fades. They’re getting too strong. Even with those three out of his way, he needs to deal with the hermits. 

Directly

[thousandsunnywrites]

How about law meeting a girl who has the same energy as Luffy and tends to touch him in some way all the time, her favorite being ridding on his back. He has long since given up trying to get her to stop, only to find out when he teams up with the straw hats she’s Luffy’s sister by blood. The oldest of Ace Sabo and Luffy.

Law

Law x f!reader; romantic

⤷ a/n: g o l l y this ficlet was a whopping 2.7k words 😭😭i really do love picking on law; also ps this isn’t proofread yet so enjoy the rawness ty

----

“traaafFFFYYYY!” He stumbles forward to balance the sudden weight tossed on his back, hands instinctively grabbing the legs wrapped around him. His life was never like this, until you came around.

It was a regular night in the submarine, Law doing his routinely watch through the sub’s finder. What the hell is that, he zoomed in to get a better view of the blurry image, hm, what is that?

He found a floating bucket under the sea with a tightly sealed lid and a hole carved on the upside with a plastic straw sticking out. Confused and hoping it was some lost gold, he made Bepo fish out the container and check it out. Instead of finding what he hoped to uncover, he discovered a limp body of a young female.

“It’s not breathing, captain! What if it’s been purposely tossed into sea... what if...” his words begin to trail off when the horrid realization of the sea being the graveyard to rest the corpse crossed his mind. He shrieked. They messed with the dead! They’re going to die! He watched too many Asian horror films to know where this is going.

Not before long, Law sighed out of annoyance, moving Bepo’s paw from the right side of the chest to the left, instantly calming down his tremors and leaving the poor bear sheepish.

Footsteps approach Law’s office and busted through the door. Low and behold, it was no other than Penguin and Shachi.

“Cap’n!! What’s wrong? We heard Bepo scream!—” Penguin tugged on Shachi’s sleeve, forcing his attention to the corpse curled in the bucket. Bepo covered both mouths before a squall was ripped from their throats, “Shh... it’s alive.”

“Room,” the iconic blue sphere encapsulates the room as Law unsheathes his Kikoku, “Scan.” The sliver glint of the sword flickered against the blue hue as it perused the physique. Producing no results, he sheathed his sword. “None” was all he could report.

“Oh thank god!” Penguin leaned over the large wooden pail, examining the face of the woman. “She’s kinda cute,” his hand reaches out to caress her cheek. “Mind if I say that I saved her?” He bantered with a sly smile.

“Move outta the way, lemme see!” Shachi shoved Penguin, an instant grin apparent inside his face.

“Stop fucking around.” Law jostled the apologetic duo to hoist majority of the body’s upper half out the bucket. “Bepo-ya, grab the feet”

“Roger!” He saluted before doing as told.

“Pen-ya, Shachi-ya,” their attentions turned to him, responding with a “Yes, boss?”, to which Law replied, “Get out.” As they left, the captain and first mate transfer the patient to the resting ward and laid her on a more comfortable bed.

“Catch some sleep, Bepo-ya.”

“What about you Captain? Who’s gonna watch her if she wakes up?”

“I will. Go ahead and sleep. Lack of sleep isn’t good for your fur.”

Bepo bowed, trusting all will go well since the captain was watching over her, and left to do as told. Meanwhile, Law pulled out a chair and raised his feet atop the bed. It was going to be a long night.

Surely, he must’ve fallen asleep because next thing he knows, he’s the one in bed and his crew bustled in the kitchen. It was a different ruckus this time; it wasn’t the same morning liveliness he knew, no, it was something more like... a party?

He made his way to the kitchen, head slightly pounding due to the loud vibrations bouncing off the walls. Swinging the kitchen door open, he’s faced with a festive bunch surrounding a stranger. Who the hell is she and how’d she infiltrate my ship?

Now on alert, he reached for his sword, preparing to attack but was stopped by his lovable white bear, who had multiple syrup stains resting on his fur. “Captain!!! Look!! She’s awake!!”

Who?

Oh yeah, the bucket girl.

“Yeah man that was suuuuperrrr crazy! I really thought I was gonna die out there!” A guffaw rumbled in the room, the crowd listening intently to what you have to say, “dude there was this big—and I mean big— whirlpool! With nowhere else to go, I just hid in a good ol’ barrel and hoped for the best.”

“Woah, you’re so cool Y/n!” The crew chanted as Law made his way through the crowd, sitting rightfully at his bench, head against his propped up hand.

“Hey, you must be the captain!” You greeted him with a hearty laugh while you reached over to the opposite side to pat his back, unintentionally thrusting his body forward with every rough pat.

“Don’t touch me,” he pulled away and dusted himself off, “I take it you’re better. Any pain?”

Completely ignoring his question, you continued, “Yeah how rude of me, I’m Y/n!!! I’m sorry for intruding so suddenly, it’s just I thought I was gonna die out there because—“

He held up a hand and finished the same sentence you said prior, “Yeah, yeah, there was a whirlpool and you thought you were gonna die, so your pea-sized brain said to stuff yourself in a barrel and hope for the best, yes, I’ve heard it earlier.” He said all in one breath. This amount of stupidity reminded him of a certain captain he was supposed to meet soon.

Instead of feeling offended, a big cackle bursted in the suddenly tense room. “I like you!” Slamming down your fist on his table as a sign of determination, he saw that same look of craze. Oh, how he could never forget that gaze.

“From here on out, I’m your crewmate now.” Cheers erupted from your mates, picking you up in rejoice to congratulate your recruitment.

“No, everyone quiet. You are not a part of my crew. Find yourself another place to loiter in. We don’t accept stowaways here.”

“Yeah no, it’s fine! I’ve been looking for a crew anyways.”

“I am captain of this ship and when I say I will toss you overboard if you insist you’re a Heart Pirate, I will toss you—”

“Y’all I’m hungry, got any food? Preferably meat, yeah?”

“Do not feed her.”

They feed you anyways despite his protests. He didn’t need another one like him on his ship, let alone in his crew.

“By the way, what’s your name Mr. Captain?” A piece of meat was ripped right off the bone. What a slob, Law grit his teeth, and as if I’ll accept her messy behavior. I’m tossing her right off the sub when she’s done.

“It’s Trafalgar Law!” Penguin chimes in, beating the captain to his own introduction. He grunts in annoyance. “Address him as Captain or doctor,” added Bepo.

“MMmmmmm,” your face twisted comically after a brief ponder, “Too boring, how ‘bout Lawsy?”

“No.”

“Trally?”

“Not a chance.”

“Gar.”

“Just shut up, I’m losing brain cells from you. Address me accordingly.”

“Okay, Traffy.” You burped as you chugged down the last of the juice.

Law could only sigh, because even if he threw you overboard, he’d still be stuck with you.

And that’s how it all circles back to Law giving you a ride on his back while walking along in the designated plaza. This is how his normal looks like nowadays. And nowadays, he doesn’t complain, even if he hates being ordered around, he just does it. His crew speculates him having only a soft spot for you, but he denies it every time. It was obvious though.

Today was the day he and Luffy agreed to meet at Dressrosa to take down that son of a bitch named Doflamingo. Everything was going as plan.

“Hey, Tra-guy!” The strawhats called putting from the other end of plaza, stirring a commotion contrasting the daily chatter of the citizens. He scans around and only sees Zoro, Usopp, Robin, Franky out of the troublesome gang. Where’s Luffy?

His grip tightened to hold you in place after your legs thrashed around in excitement, that never leaving irksome grin plastered on your features as always. “Stay still,” he sneered as he forced your legs to settle.

“Woah, it’s been a while since I’ve seen Y/n,” Usopp whispered to Nami, to which she nodded in agreement.

“My, they have gotten quite close,” Robin’s chuckle was covered by her hand.

“Wow!” Franky drawled out, his stance in his usual super pose, “Since when did you two get together?” The glint of his shades gleamed as Law approached.

Law simply responded with a “Never” and carried on with discussing the plan that Luffy and most likely his crew won’t follow suit—but it was worth a shot. Hell, he didn’t even bother to explain it to you, knowing you’d do your own thing anyways like what you were trying to do now.

“Traff, Traff, Traff!” With every chant, you kicked your legs outwards to catch his attention.

“What, what, what.” He propped his arms upwards to readjust your sagging position caused by the sudden movements. The strawhats paused their chatter, noting that the stoic doctor had no sign of vexation on his face. That was a first.

“I’m hungry,” you smooshed his cheeks together. With a lilt, you asked, “Food?”

He casually nods, telling you “Later”, inattentive to the cheek smooshing and now cheek pulling. Nobody said anything, but it was obvious he had a soft spot. I mean, nobody can touch him—let alone his face— like that. If they tried, they’d be in a million pieces.

“Guys!!” The scream approached fast along with a mob of angry citizens following, “Got the meat! Now run!” The strawhat captain zoomed by, dragging the rest of his crew and allies along with him until stopping at a hidden alleyway.

During the time of escape, you hung your head down as Law transferred you from his back to his chest, face-to-face, in one swift motion, so you never caught a glimpse of the runner.

“‘Eyyyy, Tra-guy! Didn’t even notice you’re here!” The man gnawed on his meat while stuffing the leftovers into his big orange bag.

“Glad to see you too, Strawhat-ya,” he greeted back, eyes meeting with yours for a hasty second before trailing his gaze to your relaxed lips. It was intimate, seeing you close to him, bodies pressed together, arms around his neck and waist whilst his rested on the underside of your thighs. You and him always been together since the day he was held at gunpoint to recruit you, so it was normal for him to have some form of physical contact, whether it’d be hand holding to prevent you from straying away or the constant elbow hitting the back of his head while you whistled a verse or two. Giving you piggyback rides was common, so why did his heart start racing? This is what he always did, what was so different that could make him feel heated?

His chain of thoughts broke when you ripped yourself off of him to hug Luffy. “It’s been so long,” the shorter make cried, “I missed you Y/n! So nice seeing you out here! Especially with Tra-guy.” Seemingly impossible, your arms drew him tighter to you. “I missed you Luffy. God, I’m so happy to see you alive, I read all those articles. Really making big moves out there, kiddo.” Dramatic tears flowed out both his and your eyes, basking in the nostalgia and memories you shared.

To you, it was a touching moment; but to others, it was a cloud of confusion.

“Wait, you two know each other?” Usopp’s question dripping in disarray. But, their confusion was unparalleled to Law’s. That’s who you reminded him of—Luffy. He fell in love with someone who’s basically Luffy. He fell in love with Luffy’s sister. He fell in lo— no. No he’s not in love, what is he thinking?

“Huh, that’s a shocker,” Law’s lips were dry, mouth slightly agape as he watched the two monkeys hit it off.

Parting ways as the sun retired for business, Law took you to the hotel he had a reservation for. He was definitely gonna ask about Luffy. Grabbing the keys, it was a nonstop travel to the bedroom. Gotta hand it to Mingo, the bastard is a sick fck but he has some classy taste. The hotel was flooded with the natural shine of the moon, decorations silk and simple to compliment each other and the luxurious smell that was hard to miss.

Immediately upon entering the room, the first thing you checked was the fridge, searching for sweets whilst Law leaned idly against the doorframe as he watched.

“Yes, they have kinder eggs,” you shoved an egg in his field of view, “See?” He lowered your hand away from his face and ran his calloused fingers against his hair. It was a long day today, and he was tired as hell, but in this moment, all he wanted to do was to watch you.

“Want some?” Already munching on the Cadbury you found, you waved your face in front of his to break his daze.

“What?”

You simply pointed and broke off a piece to lay it against his outstretched palm.

“No wonder you seemed familiar to me,” he started, “You’re his sister.” Responding in a hum, he continued, “How did that happen? Sister by blood or by choice?”

“By blood dummy,” you popped a jawbreaker in your mouth, “We grew up together. If Ace and Sabo were being a jackass, I’d beat their ass flat. They were such bad influences! But seemingly in a good way..? They were like brothers to me too, ha, I was kinda like their mom if you really think ‘bout it,” Your mouth stopped sucking as the words you said became more and more sentimental. “I miss them. Ace, Sabo, and Luffy. But I’m happy. I guess it’s just... with everything... it’s nice seeing him alive and laughing. Enjoying life. And happy! Must’ve been hard on him all by himself. Besides, I can’t bear to lose another brother, not again.”

“I understand,” naturally that was his response, being that he could empathize since he did lose a sibling, a mother, and a father—twice— because of people. The world was fucked up. No other words were exchanged, effectively ending that convo.

You dug through the multiple bottles of wine, haphazardly throwing them away to search for more candy. A set of hands joined you on this search, crouching right beside you.

“Seems like you need help.” He offered a tiny, yet genuine, smile, to which you smiled back.

After endless digging, you found a can of whip cream and laughed as you sprayed a heaping load on the doctor’s nose before running around. He chased after you, grunting and hitting his long limbs against the small obstacles you placed, and lost you after he moved said objects to clear the path. You climbed onto the wall and pounced on his back, causing him to fall down completely, the cream crushed against his pointed nose and marbled floor.

“I win,” you sat on him as he struggled like a caught spider underneath your weight.

“Okay, I concede. Get off me.”

You flipped him over so his face was towards the ceiling, which was dark after you turned off the lights, and laid back on his chest. His chest had a subtle, yet rhythmic rise to it and made you fall asleep without trying too hard. You peeped a sigh of content before snoring away.

He admired how peaceful you looked when he wasn’t busy babysitting you. The moonlight doused your features in a soft light, turning even the harsh features into something delicate like a flower. The way your lips parted to let out obnoxious snores, the way your hair is tousled in a perfectly imperfect manner, the way your eyelashes contrast your skin tone, the way how there’s something about this moonlight that makes him wanna just lean down and plant a chaste kiss on your lips.

So he does.

You barely felt it graze against yours.

His hand caressed your hair with feathery light touches and his other brushed against your cheek.

Only the moon knew about the endearing look hidden in Law’s eyes that night; it was that same endearing look that showed he was in love.

[reginaofdoctorwho]

weird shit that would probably have something to do with me in a horror movie

no one wanted this but i’m bored and found a bottle so you’re all getting it. yes these are all true. check the tags, if u think i’ve missed something please let me know!

there was a murder (technically, i don’t really count it as a murder) next door when i was four years old on christmas morning

the weird antique glass bottle i found half-buried in the woods in the woods yesterday with living bugs in it that made no attempt to leave it once i uncovered it

there is a local cult in the next town over. this is not the same as the local cult that was in the other town over where my mom grew up

random completed animal skeletons in the woods behind our house, i’m talking prey and predator, both laid out like in a goddamn scientific diagram. for a while there’d be ones in the middle of our yard, always the same type of animal, always just the bones and nothing else, laid out like it was posed. this has been happening for over half a decade and we have no fucking clue how, why, or who is doing it

the screaming from the woods that i’m going to assume is a fox

my sister almost dated a murderer. his niece or something is in my class

there is a house that is now part of a “local ghost tour” that belonged to my great+ grand parents during the civil war where my great+ aunt died allegedly murdered by her husband who is actually blood related to me. family history says she died of childbirth, which given that it was the 1800s... probably is true

there was an actual murderer in our family a few generations back but he married in and killed his wife and her sister. they didn’t find out about it until they read his journals after he died where it apparently told everything he did and they decided. “well, that wouldn’t look good for the family, and they’re already dead anyway” and just kept it hidden??

the fact we have my great great grandmother’s dress from probably 1890s or 1900s. even more so the fact that i fit in it. if this was fantasy horror (vampires, some immortal thing or ghost) i’d be fucking dead or cursed

fairly certain i was possessed by the ghost of a puritan as a kid

my family seems to have a curse with babies and nurses? my great uncle died when he was born because long story short, hospitals were the new hot thing, he was perfectly healthy, then a nurse dropped him and he died instantly. my sister died when she was a toddler and the hospital actively tried to delete her hospital records to cover it up and ended up getting fined by the state for it. the nurses responsible were not arrested or punished in any way.

my family all has fucked up connective tissue, in my brother it was bad enough he had to get a steel bar in his chest so it wouldn’t cave in.

the many times i have almost drowned, sometimes due to intentional actions by humans (my dad, it was my dad)

this in addition to the other fucked up shit he did before the divorce when he still lived here, including but not limited to: killing my mom’s favorite pet goat, hanging its skull in a tree, and leaving the body in the woods. not letting his kids learn how to cook. anytime someone asked him to cook he’d put as much pepper/hot sauce in as he could (even for like, scrambled eggs) and give it to the youngest person, usually a toddler. this was me at times. taking his kids out to the woods and threatening murder. taking his kids out to the woods and threatening burning. purposely locked the basement from the inside so we couldn’t get the gaping hole in the stairs leading to one of three kids rooms fixed. tearing up pictures of the kids whenever my mom did something he didn’t like. i had more here but i tried to cut it down a litttle

people have threatened to murder me before. one time a girl didn’t threaten, and actually acted like she was starting to like me, but her cousin read her diary or something and found out she was planning to commit a lot of murder, and told her parents and she got sent to a psychiatric ward for a couple weeks

my mom lived down the street from a family that got axe-murdered by one of their two sons when she was a kid. the murderer did get out on an insanity plea and is still in the area. also their neighbor’s mom “lost her mind” (how the story was told) when she had to protect their kids while her husband went over to try to protect the non murderer son when he got home from school and ran over screaming about his brother trying to kill him and had killed their parents

also she knew a girl who almost got kidnapped by this really fucked up traveling serial killer that has his own wikipedia page that is,,, lengthy. the girl had [alleged] mafia ties, and the guy ended up dying shot by police despite them being told to bring him in, which sounds kinda suspicious

long story short i’d probably be the sequel where one comes back

apparently i go to the “bad” school, which i found out in a coffee shop when i overheard two girls talking about how one’s dad went there and how horrible and dangerous it is

school fights are weird. either they don’t happen or they come freakishly close to murder. people slam heads into lockers, stomp on bones, drag people by hair along the ground. one time in my brother’s class a 4′9″ girl sent a 6′2″ football player to the hospital. there was video of a fight a couple years ago that’s still around. it was brutal, but also one of the girls fighting was taking one for the team in it and got the other kicked out

we don’t have a ceiling in all of the third floor, and the cafeteria has 2. this is not relevant in any way, but it’s important to me that you know this

also the guys kept ripping the heating vents/radiators/whatever off the walls in their bathrooms and got almost all the bathrooms locked. including the girls’ ones.

also everyone kept punching holes in the walls so on some of them it’s just,,, metal sheeting down the whole hallway

there are so many fucking shootings in the next town over. literally five years ago it was this nice place where kids would go on history tours, i did when my sister worked for that group. now there is pretty much one business that has not been held up at gunpoint, and if u look up to the serial killer bullet point, it is for v similar ties. it’s a pizza place and if u ever stop by u gotta try it

women in my family have weirdly good intuition but every couple generations we get doubtful. my great grandma didn’t want a hospital birth but decided “hey it’s the hot new thing for a reason”, my mom switched churches based on nothing but intuition and it turned out someone was a pedophile there (found out years later), i instantly could tell my friend’s boyfriend was a pos and wasn’t surprised later when he told her he’d murder and dismember me in front of her, and upon meeting him told him he was a fucking coward and couldn’t do it. he broke up with her a month later.

i was really good friends for a while with two guys that burned a building down. yes they were arrested. i was friends before and after the fire. they’re pretty nice, but this girl they used to date (at different times, they were brothers, yes it was fucking weird and uncomfortable for everyone involved except her but that’s it’s own thing) said some fucked up shit and it was the closest i ever got to starting a fight. anyway i’m still friends with both on facebook. one of them shares a lot of king of the hill memes

speaking of that fight, i 100% would’ve tried to kill her in that moment. u know that john mulaney quote like “i didn’t understand how a person could want to kill another person. then i got cheated on, and i was like ‘oh, okay.’”? that was me, but replace “cheated on” with she told me it was good my five year old sister was dead because she was a waste, and told me she hoped i’d die of covid”. it was mainly the sister thing. i couldn’t move because if i did i’d start a fight with the [way] above mentioned shit.

my family has a literal feud with a local farming family. i mean, we keep farm animals (sheep, goats, chickens), these people have that, pigs, and crops too. the feud was because their great uncle (or great grand uncle, i’m a little fuzzy on the details) published an autobiography (despite not being anyone famous/important) and in it talked about when he was friends with my grandfather and how creepy my great grandfather was (this was the one with the dead firstborn son) because he kept newspaper clippings of the Lindbergh baby’s kidnapping and murder pinned to a board on the wall of his office/basement. also because he was a child of german immigrants who wanted to fight against nazis in WW2 (how suspicious [sarcasm]). members of their family are in my grade. they charged my sister for almost half an extra pound of goods, too, which just revitalized it.

i live by corn fields. i am surrounded by cornfields. (joke one)

i was friends for a while with this girl whose baby teeth,,, didn’t really fall out completely? she was 17 the last time i saw her in person, she’s probably 19 now and judging by her facebook pictures they’re still Like That. she had a very symmetrical mouth/teeth, which made it weirder. just to clarify, she had some of her baby teeth pushed forward and up, so they kind pointed out a little? and all her adult teeth. she was literally so pretty.

a teacher who is v sexual with his female students came into my english class (he is a science teacher) to demand why i wasn’t signed up for his class. we then both became increasingly passive aggressive and he told the whole class where i live with specific directions and landmarks. the guy sitting next to me had to try to tone things down despite being obviously confused as to why it was even happening (me too buddy). he lives down the road from my sister. when my niece had her birthday party at our house i was outside setting things up and he slowed his car down and honked at me. fuckin creep

[pellucidity-is-me]

McGonagall vs. First-Year Werewolf

Summary: Professor McGonagall’s mother had been a proud wizard, and she’d heard countless horror stories of werewolves growing up. Now a werewolf student—Remus Lupin—is attending her classes, and she’s not exactly sure what to do with herself. So she and Remus are going to have a Chat: perhaps, with a little creativity, they can work things out before they become too problematic.

Wordcount: 1310

Remus Lupin was in the Hospital Wing, and he was bored.

Over the course of the day, he’d finished all of his homework (including the essays that weren't due for weeks). He read the entire book that Madam Pomfrey had picked out for him. He finished Ancient Greek Roots in Common Spells. He gave his pet toad, Bufo, another bath (some water spilled on the bedsheets, which seemed to annoy Madam Pomfrey, but she didn't say anything about it), and he learned four new hexes.

That evening, he woke up from his nap to Madam Pomfrey softly opening the door. "Are you awake?" she whispered.

"Am now." Remus felt groggy, and he rubbed his eyes.

"I'm sorry to wake you..."

"It's all right. I'll make up for lost time tonight. Besides, I napped all day yesterday." Remus yawned, even though it hurt his jaw to do so. "Did you know that Professor McGonagall is here to see you? She's out in the main ward."

"She's here to see you, actually."

"Me? No, that can't be right. I don't think she likes me much."

"Remus! She likes you just fine. Will you talk to her?"

Well, that was an unexpected turn of events. McGonagall? Here? To talk to Remus? And it was even more surprising that Madam Pomfrey had claimed that McGonagall liked him just fine. Was Madam Pomfrey simply being kind, or perhaps McGonagall really did...? No, that would be ridiculous. Of course McGonagall didn't like Remus; Remus could tell. He yawned once more and then sat up with some difficulty (Madam Pomfrey made a motion as if to help, but Remus shooed her away). "Yes, of course," he said.

Madam Pomfrey went to fetch Professor McGonagall. Remus waited patiently. Two minutes later, a cat stalked into the room.

"Er." said Remus eloquently.

The cat morphed into a human, and Remus winced at the familiarity of shifting bones and limbs. Since there were no screams of anguish and it was relatively quick, he figured that this was the "light magic" type of Transfiguration that McGonagall had talked about.

"An Animagus?" he mused, and McGonagall nodded. "You were different. You weren't you at all."

"What do you mean, Mr. Lupin?"

Remus colored slightly. "Sense of smell. Werewolf. It’s how I knew that you were waiting to see me in the main ward. And... the cat... wasn't... like you. It was a cat. An actual cat. That's interesting."

"Hrm. Well, I was hoping to see you before talking to you. I was hoping that you wouldn't notice me enter."

"Because you're afraid of me." Remus hadn't meant to say anything of the sort, and he immediately repented. "I'm sorry. It's all right, really."

"You've noticed?" asked McGonagall faintly, sitting down in the chair.

"Well, yeah..." said Remus. This really was uncomfortable. "It was rather obvious. But I don't mind."

"You... don't mind?" McGonagall did not seem as if she wanted to be there at all.

"Goodness, Professor, even I'm afraid of me."

There was a bit of an awkward silence. "I'm very sorry, Lupin,” McGonagall said (a little stiffly, Remus thought, though he couldn’t really tell). “I should have visited you earlier. I'm your Head of House, after all, and my behavior has been unacceptable. I'm trying very hard, but it seems as if I need to try harder."

"No," said Remus, feeling guilty at her discomfort. "No, it's fine. I get it, I really do." McGonagall did not looked convinced, so Remus tried to elaborate. "They're ingrained prejudices... It's not like you made a conscious decision not to like me. If I were to meet a vampire, I'm sure even I would be a bit wary." Remus did not think he would, actually, but it was a white lie. "I was the same way, before. So was my dad. I..." Remus did not think that he should be telling Professor McGonagall this story, but he continued anyway. "I was actually... you know... because of his prejudices..." He stopped and started over. "The fact is, you're trying, and that's all that matters to me. Take as much time as you need. I don't blame you for something that you can't control. That would be... hypocritical, wouldn't it?"

McGonagall seemed taken aback. "Well. That is a very mature mindset, Mr. Lupin. Very mature, indeed."

Remus smiled faintly. Yes, mature. That was him. She should have told that to his father when Remus had put fruit flies in his trousers.

"And I don't dislike you. I think that you are very kind, calm, and overall a very good student. The fact that you happen to be a werewolf is not your doing, nor is it something that should deter me. I won't accept that I 'can't control' it, and I'm going to do my best. That starts here. Now, why couldn't you cast the charm in Transfiguration? Is there any way I can help you?"

"No," said Remus, remembering his failed Transfiguration test. He’d been too nervous, what with McGonagall standing over his shoulder. Remus had been trying so hard not to scare her that he’d been a bit scared himself. "But thank you, Professor."

"Professor Flitwick told me that you're very good at Charms."

"He did?" Remus felt a bit of pride well up in his chest. He wasn't nearly as good at Charms as James and Sirius, but he was doing all right. He was a wizard, after all, and maybe someday (with lots of practice) he'd be a very good one. Who said werewolves weren't good at magic?

"Yes, he did. So what's the problem in my class?"

"I... get nervous."

"Ah." McGonagall tapped her foot three times in a gesture of deep thought. "I see. You've noticed that I'm not comfortable around you, so you're not comfortable around me."

"That's not it," said Remus, although McGonagall was exactly correct. "I'm just not good at Transfiguration."

"You needn't lie to me. I expect you've been hurt very often by those with my... ingrained prejudices."

Remus was silent. McGonagall was correct again. The Ministry, St. Mungo's,  the boys from Durmstrang that had hexed Remus as a boy... All of them had exhibited the exact same behavior around him as McGonagall did. The obvious contempt and the jumpy nature always raised an immediate red flag for Remus. He was just as nervous around the other teachers... Sidus and Sprout, for instance. "I suppose we have the same problem, then," he said quietly.

"I suppose we do. What do you propose we do about it?"

"I'm... not sure, Professor."

"How about a competition?"

Remus blinked. "A what?"

"A competition. Whomever can act normally around the other first shall be declared the winner."

"Those seem like subjective guidelines."

"Well, it's a subjective problem. How about it, Mr. Lupin?" McGonagall extended her hand, and Remus nearly fainted in surprise.

Ten seconds passed, and then Remus slowly took it and shook. McGonagall didn't even flinch. "That's a start," he said.

"It is indeed. That's one point for me. And one for you, I think, though you hesitated significantly. Now, why don't we see if you can redo your test?"

"All right," said Remus, still stunned, and McGonagall conjured a broken plate out of thin air. "Reparo," he said, and the plate instantly mended itself.

"That's another point to you, not to mention a decent grade on your test. I'll have to take a few points off, of course, because you couldn't do it the first time. But this is a perfectly mended plate."

Remus grinned. "Thank you, Professor."

"Thank you, Mr. Lupin. And... I must warn you that I am extremely competitive." McGonagall smiled and left the room, shutting the door softly behind her.

Remus stared at the closed door for a second before falling back onto his pillow and smiling himself to sleep.

He loved Hogwarts.

A scene from my fanfic! Link in blog description if you wanna read the whole thing

[the--highlanders]

for the drabble game, situation 17 (because I'm predictable dklsjnb) and sentence 2, or situation 6 and sentence 28? :3 <3

“I just want to let you know that I love you. A lot. Never forget that.” 

on ao3.

“Can I see him?”

The nurse bobbed back and forth before him, dithering as if their size alone did not block his view of the door entirely. They towered over him, tall and solidly built, but the tendrils that ringed their face were twitching in alarm, waving back and forth as he tried to peer past them to catch a glimpse of the Doctor.

“I’m sorry, sir,” they were saying with the practised patience of someone who had given the same explanation a thousand times to a thousand different people. “He’s still in a fragile state. We can’t allow him to be disturbed just yet.”

Disturbed. Like he was just some interloper, come to bother the Doctor. Like he had not been the one to carry him into the hospital, cradling him in his arms, Victoria rushing ahead to push open the doors and snap at the reception staff to call for help. “I want tae see him, I’ve – I’ve got tae see him.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the nurse said, as infuriatingly patient as before. “I simply can’t allow it.”

“Please.”

“I can’t. Unless...” The nurse’s tentacles paused in their waving, twitching in place. “Are you family?”

Wordlessly, Jamie reached inside his shirt, tugging out the chain that hung around his neck to hold it out towards the nurse in triumph. The silver of the ring that hung from it glinted in the cold, white light of the hospital, almost making him blink with the brightness of it. “Is this good enough for ye?”

“O – oh.”The nurse looked as if they wanted to ask for something more, papers or tablets or whatever ridiculous system they used to document such things on this planet, but something in Jamie’s eyes must have made them decide against it. Instead they stepped aside, flicking one hand towards the door. “Go right ahead, Mister – er -” They floundered, mind visibly ticking over. “Sir.”

It was kind of them, Jamie thought, to be letting him inside. “Not sir,” he said gently. “Jamie.”

Stepping into the doorway, he hesitated. He had stormed his way through from the reception to the Doctor’s ward – but for what? To see him lying battered and bruised in a hospital bed? To sit and hold his hand until he fell asleep over him and dreamt of how small he had looked when he had collapsed, his limbs all bent at odd angles? Could he really stomach seeing him like this?

“He still needs quiet,” the nurse was saying. “And time. I’m not sure how long it will take for him to wake up.”

“Alright.” He held his hand out to grip the door handle, but did not turn it. “Can I – can I touch him?”

“Gently. No sudden movements.”

“Alright.” Scrunching his eyes shut to brace himself, he turned the handle and stepped inside.

Closing the door to lean against it, he dared to squint out at the room before him. It was not so bad as he had feared, he supposed. The walls were painted a soft blue, and the vase beside the bed held a spray of yellow flowers. There was a low bookshelf against one wall, curtains rather than shutters over the windows to the corridor outside, and the chair in the corner was comfortably upholstered. It could almost have been called homely, he supposed, were it not for the bed itself, clothed in starched white sheets and netted in by a web of softly beeping machines. No amount of homey touches could take away from the horror of that, of seeing the Doctor curled beneath the covers, frighteningly small against a mattress designed for a far larger species.

Stepping closer, Jamie reached out to bump his fingertips against the bars at the end of the bed. He pulled his hands back as soon as he felt the shock of cold metal, looking around as if alarms might start blaring at any moment, but the quiet was unbroken. The machines kept on murmuring away, burbling out the ups and downs of the charts that snaked their way across their screens. Gripping the bars more tightly, Jamie leant forwards to examine the machines, trying to make out what they might be measuring. One of them was clearly monitoring the Doctor’s heartbeats – he had seen the same lines before, on machines hooked up to himself after he had taken one too many risks. The lines on this one were doubled, one for each heart – and wasn’t it terribly lucky, that this had happened on a planet where people knew what to do with two hearts?

Sidling around the bed, he drew the chair up to perch on the edge of it. It was as comfortable as it looked, and somehow that only made him feel worse. There was something permanent about the way the room was furnished, the threat that the Doctor would be staying here a long time woven into the very fabric of it. The Doctor had snuffled a little at the sound of the chair legs scraping against the tiled floor, but he did not wake, nor did he move. It was odd, Jamie thought, to see him sleeping so peacefully. He had always been such a restless sleeper, as busy at night as he was during the day, shuffling around the bed and snoring and occasionally muttering to himself in some incomprehensible language. To see him so still was unnerving.

He lifted one corner of the sheets, just enough to reveal the Doctor’s hand, and drew it out into the open tentatively. The Doctor gave another mumble, but his fingers did not so much as twitch.

“Hello,” Jamie said. “Erm -” What did he think he was doing, talking to someone who would not hear him?

“You’re gonnae wake up soon,” he carried on awkwardly. If talking to the Doctor felt silly, then saying something so confident felt even sillier. Like he was saying it for the benefit of a small child rather than himself. “You’re gonnae get better, aye?”

A Dhia, he hoped the Doctor really could not hear him. It would be awfully embarrassing for him to wake up and remember everything.

“Ye shouldn’t have done that, ye know,” he added, sternness creeping into his voice. That was something he wished the Doctor could hear – and that he knew he would say again, one he was recovered enough to take it. “Ye can’t just go around throwin’ yourself in front of things like that. That’s my job.” He squeezed the Doctor’s hand just a little too tight, and let go hurriedly. “I don’t know what I can do for ye if I can’t protect ye. You’ve got tae let me help ye.”

There was no use replaying the moment it had happened in his mind, he told himself. No use imagining the Doctor shoving him out of the way to take the full impact of the blast himself, the split second in which Jamie had seen him lit up with the flash of it before he crumpled to the ground. The acrid energy-weapon tang that had drowned out his normal honey smell, seeping out of his clothes and hair and skin. But when he turned the Doctor’s hand over, he found his palm bandaged, the skin around its edges still reddened from where he had thrown his arms up to shield himself. Well, he had no choice but to think about it now.

To wish that their places had been reversed.

Was that selfish of him? To wish that he was the one unconscious in a hospital bed, and the Doctor the one left to wait for him?

Maybe it wasn’t. The Doctor would surely be much more rational about the whole thing than he was. Or so he wished he could believe.

“Victoria’s been worried sick,” he carried on. “She pretends she’s not, but she is. They’re lucky she’s good at puttin’ a brave face on things, else they’d be out of tissues by now.”

They should be going home, she had told him. They should have been back at the TARDIS by now, setting off on some other adventure. Not stuck here, waiting for the Doctor to come round again. But the Doctor had made a slight miscalculation, and Jamie had been paying just a fraction less attention than he should have been, and now they all had to live with it. Victoria had not said that last part out loud, and he knew she never would – but surely it was there at the back of her mind.

“Ye know what the worst thing is,” he said flatly. “That they never even caught Wilkins. He’s gone, sure, we chased him off – but he’ll just go on tae the next place through that portal he made, an’ he closed it behind him so we couldnae see where he went. Nothin’ we did will have made any difference. It was all for nothin’, ye endin’ up like this.”

Maybe he should have thrown his knife, he thought. Or better yet, taken some sort of gun of his own, before they had left the city. If he had just thought a little more about it, then maybe he might have struck first. Wounded Wilkins before he could fire back. The Doctor would have disapproved, of course – but then, he would never have known what might have happened. Better to have him a little offended than lying in a hospital bed.

But it was not just the Doctor’s injuries on his conscience, he thought with a pang. The Doctor might have gotten the timing wrong, but it had been his own slowness that had allowed Wilkins to escape. He had run to the Doctor’s side as he collapsed, and only looked up again just as the hateful little man was vanishing through his portal, and all the evidence of his wrongdoing with him. They could have brought him back to the city, put him on trial for his experiments, called on someone to come and take care of him. As it was, he had only moved on to do the same thing somewhere else. All the destruction he could dream up next time – that was all Jamie’s fault, too.

He wondered if the Doctor ever felt the same way. He wondered how he bore it.

“I just want ye tae know -” Drawing in an unsteady breath, he scrubbed his hand over his face. His eyes were blurring with tears, and he rubbed at them until they stung. “I just wanted tae tell ye that I love ye. A lot, ye know? Don’t forget that.” He squeezed the Doctor’s hand one last time, then shoved the chair backwards to stand up. “I’ll be back. I”ll come an’ see ye tonight, aye? An’ tomorrow. Maybe I’ll bring Victoria, if she wants tae come.”

Opening the door, he threw another glance up at the machines. This ought to be the moment when the Doctor revealed that he had been awake all along, he thought. They would have a teary reunion, and Victoria would arrive, and the three of them would bundle together, and he would be able to breathe again. But the graphs were as even as ever, and the Doctor still slept soundly. He had rolled over a little, drawing his hand back into the safety of the covers, looking quite unwilling to open his eyes.

Well, then. No use waiting around and dwelling on it in here.

Jamie stepped through the door and closed it behind him with a click.

[adverb-slut]

To Be Human (Fanfiction) Part 2/?

Okay, okay, I'm sorry that this chapter is so long; in fact, it's the longest chapter I've ever written in the eight years I've written fanfiction, but I really wanted to start writing the boys in the Human World next chapter, so I had to write pretty much all of the setup for them to get there in the past two chapters.

And yes, I realize some parts are confusing (if you need clarification, let me know), but I promise that there are a lot of things that I'm going to clear up in the next few chapters, so fear not!

As always, you can read this story here on AO3.

Title:

To Be Human

Summary:

When a mysterious force attacks the Devildom and destroys it, the brothers are forced to turn to their Father in the Celestial Realm for answers and assistance. However, the Almighty is still miffed at the seven due to their involvement in the Great Celestial War, and sends them to seek asylum in the one place they have yet to make their mark—the Human World.

Without the help of their beloved MC, the brothers must learn to assimilate into this strange new world, all while trying to figure out who is responsible for the destruction of the Devildom and take back their home.

Rating:

T

Word Count:

6812

First Chapter:

Read Chapter 1 here!

-

“Lucifer,” a voice called into the night.  “You awake?”

Lucifer closed his eyes and snuggled deeper under the covers.  He yawned and muttered groggily, “No.”

“Ah, okay.”  

He could hear Michael’s footsteps as the Angel of Destruction walked out of his bedroom.  As he closed the door, Lucifer heard the clanging of the doorknob falling to the floor. 

“Sorry, Luci,” Michael apologized, and Lucifer could imagine the sheepish smile on his face. “And sorry for waking you—I know you have to be in Father’s court early tomorrow.”

Lucifer mumbled incoherently in reply and attempted to once again be overcome by the throes of sleep.  However, guilt weighed upon his chest for sending the angel away, and he called, “Michael, wait, come back.”

A moment later, he could see Michael’s silhouette at the threshold of the door.  His wild black mane of hair had wound out of its ponytail, and his silky off-the-shoulder sleepshirt had well, slipped off his shoulders.  In his arms, he held a well-worn capybara plush, for even adult angels needed comfort in the form of stuffed animals sometimes.   

Lucifer raised himself off the bed and rubbed his eyes.  “What was it you wanted?”

“Well, I … you know that dream?”  

“The nightmare, yes.  Did you have it, again?”

There was no reply from Michael, and Lucifer sighed.  “Come here.”  He beckoned toward his new housemate, but Michael didn’t move forward, and instead, stared at the ground.  

Lucifer shook his head.  Although this living situation was new for the both of them, Lucifer was determined to make the best of it, for his Father had wanted His two most powerful Archangels to live together for some reason.  It seemed, though, that the Angel of Destruction’s history of being shunned by his fellow angels for his destructive tendencies had left him quite socially awkward. 

He pat his bed.  “Come here, Michael,” he repeated.

Hesitantly, Michael shuffled forward, and Lucifer saw his grip on his capybara tighten.  “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me.  Come sit,” commanded Lucifer.  

The two sat in silence for several minutes, neither knowing what to say.  From the corner of his eye, Lucifer saw that Michael hugged his plush to his chest and stared into his lap, his eyes wide in fear.

He must still be spooked by his nightmare, Lucifer realized.  He cleared his throat.  “Would it make you feel better if you slept here with me tonight?”

Instantly, Michael scooted away from him, to the point where he nigh fell off the bed.  He waved his hands in the air with a nervous smile.  “No, no, no!  I don’t want to impose!  I—I’ll go back to my room!”

Lucifer shook his head and clapped a hand on Michael’s thigh.  “You’ll stay here tonight.”

“I … okay.”  

Lucifer scooted over and lay down on his bed, turning away from Michael to give him space.  However, the other angel whomped himself down right next to Lucifer, pulled him close, and draped his leg over him.

He couldn’t help but feel the tiniest blush flush over his face, as he mumbled, “Just … don’t break the mattress or anything.”

Michael, who had already begun to snore, could only mumble, “Occu … pational … haz … ard.”

A small smile bloomed on Lucifer’s face and he gave a deep sigh as he closed his eyes.  His last thoughts before sleep overtook him was how much the House of Great Elation felt like home with the Angel of Destruction around.

“How much longer?” Mammon whined as the four demons with wings carried their three flightless brothers higher and higher into the sky.  “My wings are startin’ to get tired.”  

Asmodeus nodded.  “Yeah, and flying through these clouds is getting me all wet.”  He let out a gasp.  “Holy Father, is this how girls feel when I look at them?  Oh, this isn’t pleasant at all!  Ow!  Belphie, stop kicking me!”

“Whoops,” replied the seventhborn demon drily.  In fact, he had been the one to ask Beel to fly him over Asmo so he could land a couple of solid kicks to his brother’s head if he ever got too obnoxious.

Lucifer rolled his eyes at their antics, trying to hide the smile that blossomed on his face.  “If we keep flying a little higher, we should see the Celestial Realm’s precipice in a few minutes.”

Satan looked down from where he hung on Asmo, and his eyes widened when he saw how high up they were above the decimated Devildom.  “You six fell all this way when you were kicked out of the Celestial Realm?”

Lucifer could feel a storm form in his mind when he thought of that day—the day his Father had decided the He had had enough of His problematic children and hurled them out of house and home.  He grit his teeth and answered darkly, “Yes.”  He glowered for a moment before pausing and turning down to stare at Satan.  “You were there when we fell, too.”

“I remember that,” said Beel, frowning.  “We were all hurtling toward the Devildom and suddenly you just appeared.”

“Completely naked, too, if I may add,” giggled Asmo.

Lucifer sighed.  There was no way he could forget that day.  It seemed like just yesterday that Father had thrown him, Lilith, Mammon, Leviathan, Asmodeus, Beelzebub, and Belphegor out of the Celestial Realm.  

He remembered that he had been cradling Lilith, who’s breaths were getting shallower by the moment, in his arms.  He had flapped his wings furiously to slow their descent, although the sheer force in which they had been thrown was too strong for him to counter and fly all the way back up, even if he wanted to.  Mammon had been carrying Levi as he was now, and Beel was, as usual, flying with Belphie, while Asmo flew beside them.  The five of them had closed around him and Lilith, staring in horror at their dying sister. 

Lucifer remembered his eyes filling with tears as he looked at Lilith, and all at once, the anger and wrath at his Father that had once plagued him so greatly dissipated, and it was replaced by an overwhelming fear for his sister’s life.

It was at that moment when a blond, naked figure appeared falling next to them.  The figure had the appearance of a grown man and stared at the group with blank, blue-green eyes.  

Together, they stared at the new creature and a puzzled dispute went among them as to where he had come from.  Lucifer didn’t know the man’s origins, but he knew that if he was brave enough to fall with them, then he was worth protecting.  He reached out an arm toward the man, who simply stared at him before taking it.

It wasn’t long before they realized that this person had been borne out of Lucifer’s wrath, and they gave him the name “Satan.”

“Ah, I think I see the Celestial Realm.”  Leviathan pointed upward a minute later toward a massive sphere of light that resided on the clouds a few miles ahead of them.

Mammon squinted.  “Just like I remember it—too damn bright n’ too damn shiny.”

“And here I thought if it weren’t for your Father, you all enjoyed your stint in the Celestial Realm,” said Satan.  “At least, Asmo tends to go on and on about how much he en—”

He was cut off when Asmodeus pinched his wrists and hissed, “I can and will drop you, Satan.”

“Don’t drop him, yet, Asmo,” said Lucifer, stepping onto the cloud cover that made up the ground of the Celestial Realm.  He stared up at the huge, pearly gates, which lay several feet in front of him.  “We’re here.”  He peered ahead, squinting at the two Gatekeepers who stood sentinel in front of the gates to ward off unsavory company.

“Is that who I think it is?” Levi asked, his eyes widening.

Mammon’s jaw dropped.  “Since when was Simeon a Gatekeeper?”

Lucifer raised his eyebrows.  When he had last been in the Celestial Realm, Simeon had been his fellow Archangel, and one of the most powerful angels ever created.  What was he doing in the position of a lowly Gatekeeper?

“Isn’t anyone worried that Simeon guarding the gate will make it harder for us to get through?” Beel asked.  “We know what he’s like.”

“Faithful and just.”  Asmodeus yawned.  “How boring.  Oh, well, at least he’s pretty.”

Lucifer pursed his lips.  Beel was right: the fact that one of the Gatekeepers of the Celestial Realm was a friend of theirs made this whole endeavor much more awkward.  Sure, the six brothers were notorious in their former home simply due to their involvement in the Great Celestial War, but they themselves weren’t friendly with any of the other angels anymore.

Nevertheless, he shook his head.  “We have to go in, and if that means going through Simeon, then so be it.”  

“Wait—what do you mean ‘go through Simeon?’” asked Satan.  He raised an eyebrow when he made the connection.  “Oh, you don’t mean … ?”

Belphegor nodded, a strange smile forming on his face.  “We’re not allowed in the Celestial Realm, so the only way that we can get in is to knock out the Gatekeepers.  Those pearly gates over there are the only way in and out of the Realm, and they’re the only ones guarding it.” 

“Yep, it ain’t gonna be pretty, but it’s somethin’ we’d decided on a while ago if we ever needed to come back here,” Mammon added.

Lucifer sighed.  It had been their plan for centuries, now, but knowing that Simeon would be one of the angels that he needed to render unconscious in order to get into the Celestial Realm caused a pit to form in his stomach.  “Perhaps we should try to be diplomatic—at least, at first.”

“I don’t know,” mumbled Levi.  “If videogames have taught me anything, it’s always best to attack first and ask questions later.”  He looked again at the Gatekeepers in front of them and frowned.  “But I guess since this is real life, maybe we should talk to them first and see if they’re willing to bend the rules and let us in.”

“Ha,” Mammon laughed, as Lucifer led his brothers toward the pearly gates.  “An angel willin’ to bend the rules.  That’ll be the day.”  

He, as well as the others, quieted down as they made their way to the front of the Celestial Realm’s gates.  Lucifer sighed, falling privy to nostalgia as he stared through the pearlescent bars at the place he had once called home.

“Lucifer!”  Simeon exclaimed, beaming at the group.  He held a hand out toward his fellow Gatekeeper, who had whipped out his Sword of the Spirit at the sight of the seven intruders.  “Stand down, Sorath.”

Sorath gave Simeon a frown in disgust.  “Are you kiddin’?  You know who these are, right, Simeon?  Sinners!  The lot of ‘em!  Father threw ‘em down for a reason, y’know!”

“And you sir, are lovely, as well,” Lucifer replied, giving the other Gatekeeper a patronizing smile.  He turned toward Simeon, but before he could speak, the angel pulled something out of his pants’ pocket and handed it to Beel, who raised his eyebrows in surprise.

Simeon laughed.  “I remember how you always loved manna cakes, Beel, so I kept one in my pocket in case you ever decided to visit here, again.  Granted, it’s over four hundred years old, but you know food doesn’t spoil in the Celestial Realm, so it should be alright.”

Beel grinned back and greedily took the cake from Simeon’s hand, munching on it immediately.  “Thanks, Simeon,” he mumbled between bites. “I haven’t eaten since we evacuated the House of Lamentation, but I’ve been too worried to complain.”

Simeon’s jaw dropped.  “Evacuated?   Did something happen?”

Lucifer stepped forward.  “That’s what we’re here for.  We need to speak to Father, immediately.”

“Absolutely not!” Sorath bellowed, swinging his Sword wildly.  “Demons ain’t allowed in the Devildom, much less you six … er …” He did a headcount and scratched his head in confusion.  “Seven?  Swear there were only six males last time.”

“Sorath.”  Simeon’s smile twitched a bit as if he was barely tolerating the other angel.  “I urge you to let me handle this.”  

Sorath frowned but sheathed his Sword.

However, when Simeon turned to the seven demon brothers, his smile fell and he sighed sadly.  “Sorath is right, I’m afraid.  I can’t let you pass these gates.”

Lucifer frowned.  If Simeon wouldn’t let him and his brothers into the Celestial Realm peacefully, they would have to resort to their original plan, and seeing Beel happily crunching on the manna cake Simeon had given him made him really not want to do that.  He decided to try one more tactic.  “If you’re worried that Father will be angry with you for defying His orders, don’t worry, we’ll take the blame.”

Simeon sighed, considering the offer.  “Tell me what happened first.”

Mammon stepped forward.  “There’re all these weird earthquake things goin’ on in the Devildom—which is bad ‘cause Satan says earthquakes aren’t possible in the down there ‘cause of tactical plates or somethin’—”

“— Tectonic plates,” Satan corrected.

“—And all these black fires sprung up, too, in the House of Lamentation and they ain’t natural.  Diavolo’s missin’ and his Castle’s been destroyed by the flames.  We’re thinkin’ someone in the Celestial Realm had somethin’ to do with it,”  Mammon finished.  

Simeon looked shocked.  “That’s impossible!  Sorath and I have been guarding these gates all day—no one who isn’t supposed to leave has gone in or out.”

Belphegor shrugged.  “Humans can’t typically access the Devildom and the only ones who would mess with demons are angels, so whoever started the fires and is responsible for the quakes must be from up here.”

Lucifer nodded.   “We need to speak to Father and get to the bottom of this.”

“What happened to the rest of the demons in the Devildom?” Simeon asked, ignoring Lucifer’s request.

“We assume that most of the lower-level demons fled because of the quakes—they aren’t strong enough to withstand them—and that some were crushed in the wreckage,” answered Satan.  

“And the House of Lamentation?  You said you evacuated it?”

Leviathan scratched his neck.  “To be honest, we didn’t stick around to see what had happened to it; I think, “ he looked around at his brothers, “it’s probably been destroyed with the rest of the buildings in the Devildom.”

Simeon groaned and ran a hand down his face.  “I can say without a doubt that this wasn’t the work of an angel, but … I suppose this is serious.”  He stepped aside and pushed open one of the gates as Sorath stared at him, aghast.  He turned back to the brothers with a stern glare.  “You promise you’re here simply to speak with Father?  And not to incite any kind of drama?”

“Yes,” answered Lucifer truthfully.  “All we’re here to do is have an audience with Father.  Nothing more.”  And with that, Lucifer and his brothers walked into the Celestial Realm for the first time in what seemed like forever.

However, before they could make it more than a foot past the gates, Simeon put a hand out to stop them.  

A collective groan went up from among the group.  

“What now? ” wailed Asmo.      

Simeon locked eyes with Lucifer, who could see the worry pooling in them.  “Lucifer, are you sure that you want to enter this Realm?  I see that you still have Michael’s Mark of Destruction on your forehead, and I assure you, he very much still recognizes it as a symbol of his promised annihilation.”

Lucifer ignored the fearful looks that went up among his brothers and nodded.  “Let him come.”

“Oh, wonderful, another Celestial Realm story I’ve yet to be told,” Satan complained.  “What do you mean, ‘a symbol of his promised annihilation?’”

A silence went up from among the group and Satan raised his eyebrows as all the current and former angels looked to the ground and didn’t meet his eyes.  

Lucifer, who was not so concerned with the black diamond that afflicted his forehead, but rather the long-since forgotten story that went along with it, spoke up.  “You remember Michael, Angel of Destruction, yes?”

Satan nodded.  “Luke’s idol and your boyfriend from the Celestial Realm.”

Asmodeus, Belphegor, and Mammon snickered as Lucifer blushed.  How did so many people come to such a foolish conclusion?  It was a thought that plagued him constantly when he told others of Michael; was it not clear that the pair shared solely what many called a “bromance?”  

“I—no.  Don’t be ridiculous.  As it were, Michael is a powerful angel, so powerful that Father gave him the title of Archangel, as he did for me.  However, I wager that Michael surpassed even me in power,” Lucifer explained.

“Easy winnings, considering Lucifer as an angel was pretty lame,” interjected Mammon cheekily.

Lucifer turned toward his younger brother with a glare.  “And yet somehow I managed to overpower you at every turn.”  He rolled his eyes and continued, “Now, where was I?  Yes, Michael was the extremely powerful Angel of Destruction.  However, Michael was an incredibly peaceful angel, for he believed that his title has cost him more than it gave to him.  As a passive soul, it did not bode well with him when Father made him General of His heavenly legions.”

“Typical Father,” Belphie spat, “putting people into positions that they don’t do well in and then blaming them when they fail.”

Simeon was quick to defend his master.  “On the contrary, Father put him in charge of the armies and gave him the title of Angel of Destruction because he had no desire to destroy, for He knew that putting a more volatile angel in that role could cause unnecessary destruction.”

“Whatever the case may be,” Lucifer explained, “Michael wanted everyone to know that he was careful in what he destroyed—perhaps even to teach them a lesson in caution, so he developed a symbol in the shape of a black diamond to mark upon those he believed that deserved to be destroyed.  That mark can only be passed when the pommel of his Sword of the Spirit is pressed upon the skin, and it lasts there until he destructs whatever is marked.”

“Wait—” Satan interrupted.  “That black diamond on your forehead in your demon form … that’s Michael’s Mark of Destruction?”

Lucifer bowed his head.  “Yes.  It symbolizes a promise that the next time that he and I meet … he will destroy me.”

“Which is why I’m hesitant to let Lucifer into the Celestial Realm,” admitted Simeon.  “Sorath and I let Michael out to do his rounds in the Human World several hours ago, and there’s no telling what time of the day he’ll be back.  And if he arrives to see Lucifer …”

“He’ll have to fulfill the marking he made on me that day,” Lucifer finished.  He bit his lip.  He knew better than anyone that Michael was an angel of his word … but they really did need to get into the Celestial Realm to talk to Father.  

He looked around at his brothers, who stared back at him with eager eyes.  He knew that despite their tendencies to say the most idiotic things, when the chips were down, the six were quite eloquent and would no doubt be able to take a stand in debates with their Father.  However, Lucifer knew that the only one with any real leverage with the Almighty was him, considering his past as an Archangel granted him great favor with the King.

He sighed. 

He had to go in.

Lucifer walked past Simeon and farther into the Celestial Realm.  “Your concern is very kind, Simeon, but it’s imperative that my brothers and I see our Father.”  He turned behind him to ensure that his brothers were following him and nodded.  “If Michael finds me and wishes to challenge me, then so be it.”

“Wait!” Simeon cried, running after the party, eliciting another round of groans.  He panted as he reached them before holding up a finger and saying, “If you’re to go to Father’s Palace, you’re going to need someone to escort you.”

Leviathan raised an eyebrow.  “Uh, we know where His Palace is.  We’ve lived here before!”

“Yeah, we know our way around the Celestial Realm,” agreed Mammon.

“I know,” Simeon affirmed, “but for sure the Palace guards aren’t going to let you in by yourselves.  Having me along might help the process go smoother.”

The Palace guards, Lucifer realized.  He had completely forgotten about the angels that defended their Father’s home.  He massaged his temples.  “I guess it would be better if you came along with us.”

Simeon beamed.  “Sounds good.  Walking there together will also give us a way to catch up on the little things.”

“Oh, goody,” Belphie muttered under his breath as the group waited for Simeon to signal to his fellow Gatekeeper that he was leaving.  Sorath rolled his eyes and turned back to stand sentinel before the Celestial Realm’s pearly gates.

Despite Simeon’s desire to “catch up,” the party of eight walked in silence through the gold-paved streets, which were completely empty.  

“Where is everyone?” queried Satan, raising an eyebrow at the deserted city.  “This looks just like the Devildom before we left, save for the fact that everything in the Celestial Realm hasn't been destroyed.”

It was Belphegor who answered, “Everyone’s usually busy during the day.”  His voice dropped low as he grumbled, “Slothfulness is highly discouraged in the Celestial Realm.”

Beel shuffled closer to him.  “Don’t worry, Belphie, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to rest.”

“Speakin’ of wanting to rest,” Mammon began, “you retire from bein’ one of the Archangels, or somethin’, Simeon?”

“How could you do that?” asked Asmo.  “You’re wasting your good looks on a job as humdrum as Gatekeeping.”  

Lucifer watched Simeon’s omnipresent smile flicker at the question.  Clearly this was a sore subject for the angel, and he could see why.  Archangels were innately mighty beings, and it was for that they were given their titles.  Gatekeepers, one of the subclasses of Guardian Angels, were angels that were weak and not much use to the Father, except for guarding the gates.  Going from almighty Archangel to lowly Gatekeeper was a long way for an angel to fall in prestige.

Simeon sighed and fiddled with the grip of his Sword of the Spirit, which was slung in its sheath across his hips.  “I … didn’t retire.”

The seven brothers stopped in their tracks.  Lucifer could feel his jaw drop.  “You—you didn’t retire?”  That could only mean one thing … “Father renounced your title of Archangel?”  

“What?  Why would He do that?” Mammon demanded.  “Ya were always so good at doin’ that whole condescendin’-but-kind Archangel thing!” 

Suddenly, a horrible thought crept into Lucifer’s mind, and if it was true, he really was glad that they had decided not to pummel Simeon.  “When … when did this happen?”

Simeon wouldn’t meet his eyes.  “A few hundred years ago.”

“A few hundred years ago?” repeated Satan.  He surveyed his ex-angel brothers.  “You mean around the time of the Fall?”

When Simeon didn’t answer, Lucifer ran a hand down his face and groaned.  “Simeon, don’t tell me that you lost your position because of us.”

Simeon looked up, biting his lips.  “Someone had to tell Father that kicking His children out of their home and disowning them isn’t proper discipline!”  He paused to regain his composure.  “After visiting you all in the Devildom for that exchange program all those years ago made me realize that it was there that you were truly happy, but back then, I couldn’t believe that.  I thought it was unjust and unmerciful of Father to throw you out of the Celestial Realm for the War, and I told Him that to His face.”

Lucifer sighed.  It was just as he suspected.  Poor, stupid, naïve Simeon.  Poor, truthful, honest, Simeon.  

Belphegor let out an unsympathetic laugh.  “You lost your high-and-mighty position sticking up for a group of rebels!”

Lucifer tactfully stepped on Belphie’s foot to shut him up.  Although the action had the desired effect, the seventhborn scowled at him and returned the favor with double the force.  “That really wasn’t necessary, Simeon, but, I’ll admit it’s nice to know that someone has our backs up here in the Celestial Realm.”

The angel nodded.  “I’d do it again,” he declared valiantly.  “But I suppose that’s enough chitchat, for we’ve arrived.”

Indeed, the group now stood at the foot of God’s Palace.  The gargantuan structure was bigger than any building in the Devildom and was thrice as fine.  

The Palace was built with massive marble bricks and the mortar that held them together was molten gold (and somehow maintained its structural integrity).  Rare gemstones adorned the hundreds of entryways and the roof was composed of an entire sheet of diamond.  There were no windows in the Palace, for what was the point of natural light when the actual Light of the World resided inside it?

Lucifer stared at the edifice in awe, for despite seeing the Palace thousands and thousands of times, he’d yet to overcome the amazement that someone would build something so tacky. 

“Talk about overcompensating,” Asmo muttered.  

Simeon led the group toward the main entrance, where two Palace guards stood sentinel.  They frowned and immediately unsheathed their Swords of the Spirit with a growl when they saw the seven demons trailing behind Simeon.

However, they stood down and bowed their heads when the angel held out his hand.

Lucifer nodded appreciatively; it seemed that despite being relegated to Gatekeeper, Simeon still commanded the level of respect he had when he was an Archangel.

As the brothers and Simeon walked into the Palace, the seven demons were forced to stop and take in all the splendor.  Lucifer had to admit, despite the gaudiness of the exterior of Father’s Palace, the interior design was sheer perfection.

Rose gold columns broke up the immense foyer, which was covered in white-and-gray dappled tiles.  Enormous rose quartz chandeliers hung from the ceiling and glittering sconces adorned the walls.  Two staircases, railed in marble, were the centerpieces of the room, and Lucifer knew all too well where each led: to the left was Father’s Hall of Judgement, and to the right was His Throne Room.

“I forgot how gorgeous the heavenly aesthetic was,” Asmodeus said, dreamily taking in the beauty of the room.

Lucifer noticed from the corner of his eye that Mammon had floated upward and was unscrewing one of the sparkly sconce covers from the wall.  “Mammon, get your grubby paws off of that,” he hissed.  “Do you want us to get kicked out already? ”

“C’mon,” Mammon grumbled, reluctantly rejoining the group empty-handed.  “Do ya know how much those’d sell for?”

Simeon smiled tolerantly.  “Lucky for you seven, Father isn’t holding court today and is in His Throne Room.”  He bowed his head.  “This is where I must leave you, though.  Going inside to meet Father without being summoned is a grievous offense, and I’d rather not stir the beast if I can help it.”  He looked at Lucifer square in the eye.  “I trust that you will be alright.”

Lucifer nodded and reached out a hand toward Simeon, who shook it amicably.  “Thank you for your help.  We couldn’t have made it this far into the Celestial Realm without you.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Mammon concurred, and the other five chorused their gratitude, as well.

As Simeon walked away, Lucifer surveyed his brothers and nodded.  It was time for them to engage their Father for the first time in several centuries.  

The group walked stalwartly up the staircase, and from among them went a nervous grumble.  

“Anyone else havin’ second thoughts?” asked Mammon, a bead of sweat dripping down his temple.  

Leviathan bobbed his head, frowning.  “I am.  I feel like we’re about to have the final boss fight of our lives.”

Lucifer hated this—it didn’t make sense for children to be this afraid of their father, especially one who claimed to be so loving and good as theirs.  He knew that deep down inside, he too, was frightened to the core of their Father, but damn it, it wasn’t right. Where was the love in all this fear?

“Here’s the door to the Throne Room,” Lucifer announced, as the group arrived.  The door was built for giants, towering above their heads—a symbol that they were about to enter the chamber of the King of Kings.  He turned to Satan.  “You’ve never been here, before.  You do the honors.”

Satan raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue.  Taking a deep breath, he gripped the handle of the door and closed his eyes.  After a moment of silence, he yanked it open.

Lucifer walked in first, his brothers in tow.  The band of demons kept their eyes low to the ground; they knew better than to stare at God Almighty in all His glory head-on.  

“My prodigals,” a voice thundered from before them.  

Lucifer tilted his head so he could glance at the glowing white blur that sat on the Throne.  While he had seen his Father’s corporeal, humanlike form several times, most of the time, He preferred to be shrouded in the pearly radiance of His glory, which was far too bright for even angels to look directly at.  “Father.”

“I see you’ve brought another of your number.  Come forward, Satan.”

He nudged Satan to walk forward, even though the fourthborn scowled at the eldest’s touch.  Lucifer watched as Satan stalked, shoulders slung back, toward the blinding light. 

“A purebred demon,” Father mused.  “Born from your wrath, I hear, Lucifer.”

Lucifer crossed his arms unapologetically.  “You truly do know all, Father.”

“And yet I shall ask: why have you seven gathered before Me today?”

He steeled his posture.  “We need to talk, Father.”

An amused hum came from their Father, and before anyone could respond, God dropped the radiant shroud of His glory, and the seven brothers stared at the unimposing, humanlike figure that now sat on the Throne before them.  

Lucifer sighed in relief; the “intimidation tactic” of covering Himself in His blinding glory so that no one could look at Him was less frightening and more of an annoyance, so he was glad that his Father had dropped the act.  Perhaps that meant He could be reasoned with today.

“Whatever about, My prodigal?” bellowed God.

He raised an eyebrow.  One of God’s fundamental traits that He was very proud of was His omniscience—the fact that He knew everything.  It was utterly deplorable when He pretended to be unaware.  

Lucifer had felt his confidence swell once Father had dropped His glory, and he stared at the manlike form of their Father in annoyance.  “Surely you know.”

Father glared at him with equal irritation.  “I assure you, prodigal, that I do not.  Simply because I possess omniscience does not mean that I make use of it all the time.  There are times when it’s more enjoyable to hear of things as they happen rather than knowledge of them prior.”

He grit his teeth.  Typical Father.  Always trying to make things more difficult than they need to be.  “Our home, the Devildom, has been afflicted by unnatural disasters and we believe someone in the Celestial Realm is behind it.”

His Father looked shocked.  “What?   Someone has been afflicting My Devildom?”

“Technically, the Devildom’s ruled by Diavol—” Mammon interjected.

He was interrupted by their Father, who barreled on as if he hadn’t said a word.  “No one in the Celestial Realm would dare lay a finger on any of My creations, the hellish Devildom included.”  

“You must understand,” Satan implored, and the six ex-angels internally facepalmed, knowing better than to demand the Almighty to do something.  “Humans can’t typically enter the Devildom until Judgement Day, and the only creatures with enough of a vendetta against demonkind to destroy them are angels.  There have been earthquakes which shouldn’t happen in the Devildom by all accounts.  Worst of all, there have been smokeless black flames popping out of nowhere, but only in our House—”

“Smokeless black flames?” their Father asked.  He pursed His lips and held out His palm.  On it suddenly glowed an image of the same dark fire that had shown up in the House of Lamentation.  “Such as these?”

Leviathan’s eyes widened.  “That’s it exactly.”

“I knew the Celestial Realm was behind this,” Belphie spat.

“Unfortunately, Belphegor,” their Father breathed, His voice quiet all of a sudden, “you may be right.”  He closed His palm and the fire snuffed out.  “The flames which I just showed you all are a special kind of fire called Hellfire—it’s only to be used with My permission, and no one has asked of it since it was created, which is beside the point.  Hellfire is supposed to consume the Devildom once Judgement Day arrives and the damned souls of humans are brought into it.  This perpetually burning version of the Devildom will be called Hell, which is simply a pit of Hellfire in which souls are burned for all of eternity.  Therefore, I designed Hellfire so that it does not spread—it has no reason to, for all its surroundings will be Hellfire as well.  In addition, I created it so that Hellfire does not cause smoke, for what is the point of asphyxiation if those who are being tortured by it are already dead?” 

Lucifer raised an eyebrow.  He supposed it was only natural for the Creator and Destroyer of Worlds to talk about death and torture so lightly.  However, he felt the need to point out something much more serious: “You said that Hellfire is supposed to consume the Devildom on Judgement Day.  There were no flames in other places in the Devildom besides the House of Lamentation.”  Suddenly, he remembered the burning remains of Diavolo’s palace.  “And the Demon Lord’s Castle.”

“And besides, it’s not Judgement Day, yet,” Mammon realized.  He gave Father a side-eye.  “Is it?”

Father shook His head.  “No, it’s not even close.”

“So, it’s not Judgement Day, yet Hellfire was spotted without Your permission in the homes of the Devildom’s most prestigious denizens?” asked Satan, his eyes lighting with interest.  “That’s incredibly suspicious.”

“Where is this Demon Lord of yours, anyway?” Father wondered.

Lucifer felt his heart drop to his feet, cursing himself for not thinking of Diavolo in the bustle of coming up to the Celestial Realm.  “We didn’t find him.” 

Mammon, who had seen the distraught look on Lucifer’s face, turned to their Father.  “Maybe Ya could use that impotence of Yours an’ find him?”

Even Lucifer had to crack a smile at Satan’s irritated correction.  “Omnipotence, not impotence!  And besides, He’s going to use His omniscience to find where Diavolo is.  His omnipotence is what He’s going to have to use to get you to shut up.”

Their Father nodded and closed His eyes.  A moment later, He opened them.  “I was not able to find the Demon Lord Diavolo.”

“What?”  Lucifer demanded, his fingers curling into fists.  “You’re supposed to be the Almighty God!  How can You not find him?”

The Almighty shook His head and repeated, “I was unable to find him.”  He rubbed His chin.  “It’s almost like he ceased to exist.”

Lucifer couldn’t believe his ears.  Cease to exist?  What did that mean?  His Father controlled all possible reality; how was it possible that He was unable to locate Diavolo?  Before he knew it, his breaths were coming in quick and shallow, and he began to feel lightheaded.  

“Whoa there, bro.” Mammon gulped as he caught his elder brother before he toppled to the ground.  “I know this looks bad, but c’mon, we’ll get through it.”

“Yeah, maybe Diavolo’s just been kidnapped and brought to an alternate universe that Father doesn’t control,” Belphegor consoled, although he couldn’t help the absolutely devilish gleam of hopefulness at the prospect in his eyes.

“Impossible,” their Father boomed.  “I created the fundamentals of existing.  Nothing can do so without Me.  I control and know of all channels of existence by default.  Although …”  He stroked His chin.  “There is sometimes a way to hide such information from Me.”

“There is?” Asmo asked.

Lucifer lightened considerably upon hearing that information.  Perhaps there was hope for Diavolo after all.  “What do You mean?”

“I told you earlier of how My omniscience works, correct?  As in, I have the capacity to know all, however, that doesn’t mean that I know all at all times.  If I want to know something, I must inquire of My omniscience. I am the only one who is able to access My omniscience, but if someone else were able to do so, they would be able to alter the information found in it.”

“Whoa, so what You’re saying is … someone can hack Your brain?” exclaimed Levi, his mouth agape.  “That’s literally straight out of an anime!”

“You have to ignore him,” Belphie told their Father drily.  “Levi is a godless, godless soul.”

Lucifer shook his head at the newfound information.  If what Father had described was truly what had happened, then they were in a lot more trouble than they thought.  How could someone access their Father’s omniscience?  What motive could someone have to hide information from the Almighty?  He gulped.  There was no way that this could end well.  

Suddenly, Satan gulped, his face ghostly white.  “I told you all earlier that it was suspicious that the Hellfire was found at both our and Lord Diavolo’s homes, considering all of us compose the Devildom’s government, but here’s what’s more worrying: whoever erased Father’s knowledge of Diavolo’s whereabouts is most likely the one who kidnapped him—which is what we’re believing for Lucifer’s sake, not that he’s dead—and since our house was also targeted, that means we’re next.”

Lucifer watched as the rest of his brothers blanched, becoming as pale as Satan.  He whipped toward his Father.  “Can You discern who is responsible for this?”

“It seems that that information has been taken, as well,” Father admitted, shaking His head.

Lucifer ran a hand through his hair, whether it was from frustration or fear, he didn’t know.  He turned toward Mammon, who looked at him with equally mixed emotions.  “Whoever it was that caused the earthquakes, tore up the Devildom, used Hellfire without Father’s permission, kidnapped Diavolo, stole information from Father, and is possibly coming after us … we can certainly take them on … right?”

Mammon scratched his neck.  “I mean … I don’t know.  I think … I think honestly we should lay low for a bit before we consider gettin’ ready for some kinda confrontation.” 

“Lay low?  Lay low where?  The Devildom is just an amalgamation of lava fissures and rubble now,” said Satan.

“The Celestial Realm?” Asmo suggested.  “I mean—I mean, it’s not like I want to stay here or anything, but if we can’t go back home …”

“Absolutely not,” their Father barked.  “The Celestial Realm is for angels.  You seven lost the privilege of living here centuries ago.”

Lucifer swallowed his rage at his Father’s tone, remembering that the safety of his family was on the line.  “Okay, Father.”  He took a deep breath to calm himself once more.  “Then where do You expect us to go?”

His Father tapped His hands together and hummed, before snapping His fingers.  “The Human World.”

“That’s not a bad idea,” reasoned Satan.  “That’s the last place anyone would think to look for us, especially since we’re able to blend in well.”

“Are ya crazy?  We can’t make it as humans!” Mammon argued.  “Just tryna feed Beel alone would blow our cover.”

Belphegor looked thoughtful as he said, “If we asked MC for help, they could probably help us assimilate into the Human World.”

“No,” Lucifer decided.  “We are not bringing MC into a situation as dangerous as this.  And besides, the exchange program ended over forty years ago; I’m sure MC has moved on with their lives.”

Six demon faces fell at his words, and he had to admit, he was quite saddened by them, as well.  However, it couldn’t be helped.  There was no way he was going to bother MC with this situation.  

“So it’s settled, then,” their Father decided.  “Tomorrow I shall send you and a few provisions to the Human World for your own protection.  Meanwhile, I hope that you seven shall help Me in deciphering who is responsible for this whole debacle.”

Lucifer stared at his Father pensively.  He wasn’t sure how he felt about working with the Almighty, again, but he supposed that it was better than working against Him, as before. 

He nodded.  “Sounds like a plan.”  

[cake-writes]

Six (2/6)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Chapter Warnings: Angst, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (Bucky), Eating Disorder (Reader), Fluff, Slow Burn, 18+

Summary: Bucky knew that there were more important things for him to worry about. Of course he did. He still had to work through the horrors of his past, never mind his present, which was the exact reason why he honed right in on your petty bullshit. You distracted him from the things he didn’t want to think about. You also drove him up a fucking wall.

Part One / Master List

The morning after The Incident (because you were still too proud to admit that you actually fainted), you decided to make him breakfast as a thank you. Despite all of your issues with the end result, you found it relaxing to cook. Therapeutic, almost. Like nothing was wrong with you.

It also felt nice to do something good for another person. Dopamine was in short supply, and you were running on fumes and misery.

You’d just started plating everything up when Bucky came into the kitchen, right on time. Another sleepless night by the looks of it, too. It certainly didn’t take a rocket scientist to realize that he never slept well. Not only were there always dark circles under his eyes, but you knew how much he tossed and turned. You'd witnessed it firsthand during the handful of times the two of you had shared a motel room. Of course, the fact that you usually spat nasty words at each other well into the early hours of the morning never helped matters any.

At some point, however, some small part of you had started to feel bad for him. You weren’t sure when – probably sometime after you read his file and found out what, exactly, he’d been through.

Maybe Bucky needed the dopamine, too.

Glancing over at him from the stove, you offered a casual, “Morning, Barnes.”

The surprise at your choice to strike up a conversation was evident on his face, but only for a split second; then he seemed just as casual as you. “Morning.”

That was when you started to have second thoughts about the whole ghastly affair. You’d never gotten along with him before, so why were you trying now? But you shoved the too-full plate at him anyway, before you could change your mind. It was piled high with bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast – enough to feed an army, or maybe just a super soldier, and he gave you a wary look.

“For yesterday,” you explained. When he hesitated, you rolled your eyes in annoyance. “For fuck’s sake, I didn’t poison it. I’m not an amateur. Here.”

Then you held it out a bit more pointedly as if to say, See, I’m not a complete fuck-up. I can be nice.

His eyes searched yours for a moment or two until he finally took the plate from you with an awkward, “Uh, thanks.”

Unsurprisingly, he set it down on the table at his usual seat, where you’d already laid out a fork and napkin. Even though the two of you had been in a perpetual state of arguing for the last six months, you knew him well enough. Not only did Bucky Barnes never waste food – especially not a home-cooked meal – but he liked routine. You wouldn’t go so far as to say he needed it, but even you could tell that it helped him adjust.

What caught you off guard was that he didn’t sit just yet. Instead he stood there, unsurely, watching as you pulled a bottle of orange juice from the fridge. As unnerving as that was, you somehow managed to fill up two glasses without spilling a drop.

Then you spared another glance up at him as you screwed the lid back onto the bottle. When you caught him staring, he quickly looked away.

“What?” you asked in exasperation, putting the bottle back into the fridge.

“You just… You look better today. I’m glad.”

At that, you nearly dropped the glasses as you made your way to the table. Thankfully, he seemed to miss it, finally having taken a seat.

He was glad. How on earth could he be? He couldn’t stand you.

“Thank you,” you said a little too haughtily, setting his glass down in front of him before you sat down on the other side, putting a proverbial distance in between you both – but not even a sip of orange juice could alleviate the sudden dryness in your throat.

He nodded to the glass in your hand. “Is that all you’re having?”

“I’m not a breakfast person.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it did kill the conversation.

The silence that befell the two of you certainly wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, either. Neutral. For once, the two of you weren’t fighting and it hadn’t taken a battlefield to get either of you to cooperate.

It was actually kind of nice.

Taking another sip, you gazed out the window as he quietly worked on the too-large meal you made. If nothing else, he’d always had an appetite and you secretly envied the way he could eat so much and not gain a pound. It made you wish you were normal. As it was, having juice instead of water was enough to stress you out.  

The day was beautiful, you found, nice and sunny and if you didn’t feel like you’d been hit by a train, you would have gone for a run to enjoy the weather – and to burn off the calories from your liquid breakfast.

Of course, what you were really worried about was where to go from here. You’d hinted at things yesterday that you’d never told anyone else, and you weren’t exactly sure what to do or even how to talk to him. It was him, after all. Bucky Barnes. Your worst enemy.

“Not that I don’t appreciate it,” he began carefully, almost like you'd take offense, drawing your attention away from the lovely weather, “but you didn’t have to do this.”

In the muted sunlight, his eyes were truly stunning: a gorgeous pale blue, just like the cloudless sky outside. There was an unrecognizable flutter in your chest – appreciation, perhaps – to which you responded more dryly than intended, “I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

“Why?” he asked. There it was again: his curiosity. This time, however, he seemed a little suspicious, too. It made sense. You weren’t exactly a friend.

For a moment, you weren’t really sure what to say. Was it a peace offering? Possibly. It was also a thank you; you’d already said as much. You were more for grand gestures than words. Not that cooking breakfast was a grand gesture, of course, but the sentiment was the same.

So you shrugged. “You carried me up to my room. Couldn’t have been easy.”

His stupid comment that you’d been dead weight had been stuck on a loop in your mind since yesterday. It bothered you, but you’d never admit it, especially not to him.

Bucky paused, fork in mid-air, to study your face again – unsettling, just like before. You felt like he could see right through you, something he only further proved by asking point-blank, “Is that why you’re not eating?”

You immediately tensed. “What?”

“You’re light as a feather, doll. I didn’t even break a sweat.”

If nothing else, Bucky Barnes certainly didn’t mince words. That had always been one thing you couldn’t stand about him, not to mention the exact reason why you were always on the defensive. He was also far too observant for your liking.

This time, however, it didn’t bother you nearly as much as it should have.

You let out a noncommittal hum in response, resting your chin on your hand as you peered back out at the clear sky. Although you’d spoken the words a hundred times before, the lack of malice in your tone felt unfamiliar – almost warm. “Not your doll, Barnes.”

To say that the next few days were tedious would have been an understatement.

You’d been relegated to desk duty for an indiscriminate amount of time while you underwent tests and scans in the medical ward. Just because you’d been discharged didn’t mean that they were done with you. You did have a concussion, after all, and Dr. Cho wanted to make absolutely sure you were fit for field duty before she signed on the dotted line.

So far, she wasn’t convinced – especially because you’d lost five pounds since your hospital stay and, if you were being honest, you were in pretty rough shape. Unfortunately, you weren’t an honest person. You kept your troubles bottled up inside until they spilled over in the form of a too-hot temper, which you hadn’t had the opportunity to exercise lately.

It certainly didn’t help that Bucky was nowhere to be found. He’d left for a mission shortly after having breakfast with you, and he hadn’t been back since. Normally you’d enjoy the peace and quiet and lack of bullshit, but you just felt anxious. You didn’t like it.

Filing papers and typing up emails was boring, and your thoughts kept drifting back to him, wondering where he was and when he’d be back. It wasn’t like it was classified information – well, it was, but you had a clearance – and eventually you looked it up because you just needed to know. You weren’t sure why. Curiosity, maybe.

He was in Belgium.

You’d been there once before on one of your first missions, with him, Steve, and Natasha. On the flight home, you binged on so many Belgian truffles that you made yourself sick. Didn’t eat again for a full month after that.

It looked like his mission was pretty run-of-the-mill: extraction and interrogation. Shouldn’t have taken more than a day or two, but now it had been nearly a week. At least he was with Sam and Clint, but it must have gotten hairy if they weren’t back yet.

You probably would have been sent along too if you were in any condition for it. You didn’t like that, either. Not being out in the field made you feel like you were wasting your time.

Needless to say, you weren’t taking well to desk duty. You were going stir crazy, as a matter of fact. You liked to be active, not just because it burned calories but because it was cathartic. You enjoyed getting out and about, going for a run just to enjoy the tranquillity of nature surrounding the compound. A hundred acres to explore, and you were trapped indoors with your anxious thoughts.

“Steve,” you whined, using your feet to push off the floor and roll your chair over to his desk. “Isn’t there anything else I can do? I’ve just about typed my fingers off.”

“Not my problem,” Steve responded automatically, still focusing on the paperwork in front of him. It certainly wasn’t the first time you whined to him, but his patience had no bounds.

You groaned. “Then can I have a half day? I hate this. I hate being stuck in here when I could be out doing something useful.”

At that, Steve finally looked up from his paperwork to you.

You knew you sounded like a spoiled child, but you really did hate it. Filing was useful, of course it was, but your skills were better suited to the field and you felt well enough to go on missions again. Dr. Cho was just being difficult.

While you couldn’t manipulate your doctor, Steve was easy – all you had to do was pout and he’d give right in, the big softie that he was.

“Yeah, yeah, alright,” he said exasperatedly, and you jumped up from the chair in excitement.

“Thank you! I’ll make up my time tomorrow.”

“Go on, get out of here.” He gestured to the door, almost shooing you out. “Enjoy the weather for me.”

“Will do,” you called over your shoulder.

It wasn’t a secret that you liked to run.

And, of course, that was exactly what you did.

You finally returned to the compound around dusk, after your legs were once again thoroughly fatigued. Because of your stupid behaviour after being released from medical, you hadn’t been able to exercise much over the last few days. Your body was too sore.

Thankfully, you were in much better spirits now. Runner’s high may have contributed to that.

Wiping your face with the small towel around your shoulders, you jogged your way up the stairs to your bedroom, attempting to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of your stomach growling. You couldn’t allow yourself to eat, not when you still hadn’t burned off those ten thousand calories from days ago. You’d barely eaten since, and the fact that you’d already lost some weight had no impact on your resolve. There was always more weight to lose.  

On the floor in front of your bedroom door was a small brown box tied with gold string, one you recognized immediately.

Belgian truffles.

Fuck.

Even just seeing the box made you nauseous because you knew what it contained. Well, you couldn’t just leave it there as tempted as you were to do so – so you picked it up, and noticed a small yellow post-it attached:

Thanks for breakfast.

There was something about Bucky’s messy handwriting that made your heart warm, but your thoughts were already focused on something else entirely. Even if Bucky had remembered that you liked these particular truffles, and even if it was incredibly sweet of him to bring some back for you, it set you off all the same. He didn’t know that they’d triggered a binge the last time. Of course he didn’t. You didn’t share your eating troubles with anyone, especially not him.

Not that it mattered.

Your runner’s high was gone in an instant, replaced with stupid, irrational, uncontrollable panic. You couldn’t have these here.  You’d eat them. You’d eat all of them in five fucking minutes. You’d shovel them into your mouth like a maniac, and then you’d get sick all over again. Each one had to be at least a hundred calories, and there were twelve of them.

The walk to his room was brisk, punctuated by swear words muttered under your breath. With each step, you only got more and more irritated. He hadn’t even signed his name. How arrogant. It was obviously from him, but that didn’t matter either. All that mattered was that you needed them gone.

You were pounding on the door to his bedroom before you even realized it, palm hard and unyielding against the wood. “Open up, Barnes. I swear to god, if you don’t open this god damned door—”

Predictably, it opened, and you came face-to-face with those gorgeous blue eyes of his – but there was no time for appreciation, not now.

“Take it back.”

Then you shoved the box out towards him.

Bucky glanced down at it for a moment before he looked back up at you in confusion. Your face was flushed, but it wasn’t because you were happy. Far from it. You were angry.

Why?

“It’s for you,” he said blankly. Wasn’t it obvious?

“I don’t want it,” you spat, voice full of vitriol. Now that certainly wasn’t unfamiliar to him, but it still took him by surprise. “Take it back.”  

Hadn’t you liked those truffles the last time? His memory wasn’t exactly the greatest after, well, everything, but he could distinctly recall you eating a whole box of them – a whole box that looked just like that one. He remembered it because of how happy you’d been at the time. That was always a rare sight for him, because all he ever managed to do was upset you – sometimes intentionally, but usually not.

Just like now.

“Why don’t you want it?” he asked, still not quite understanding. If it was anyone else, he’d probably have taken offense, but it was you and nothing you ever did made a lick of sense to him. This was just another example of it. 

Even still, there was a certain look in your eyes that unsettled him. Panic. He’d seen it before, usually whenever he got on your case about wasting food, but he’d seen it that night at the gym, too. Something was wrong. Something was always wrong when you looked like this, but he could never figure out why.

Then you spoke so quietly, he might have missed it if his senses weren’t enhanced. “Just take it back. Please.”

The way your voice broke on the last word was what prompted him to take the box from you, hesitant, unsure. He didn’t know why you didn’t want it, but it bothered him. It always bothered him when you were like this, especially when he was the cause. Any other time, he understood enough; you hated to be nagged about things, and he got on your case pretty frequently.

This time, however, he didn’t have a clue. 

“Thank you,” you told him, and spun around on your heel to leave – but his free hand caught your wrist. Your skin was so hot to the touch against cool vibranium and he realized, then, how delicate you actually were. Your wrist was so small that his fingers overlapped quite a bit.

“I’m sorry,” he found himself saying, but he didn’t know why. All he knew was that, somehow, he’d offended you. Was it because he was the one who gave it to you?

That was when you offered him the ghost of a smile, one that made his heart ache just a little. You never smiled at him. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Bucky. This is all me.”

If he didn’t do anything wrong, then why—?

“I appreciate it,” you continued, pausing to worry your lower lip in between your teeth. “Really, I do. I’ve just… I’ve got some issues. Nothing worth talking about.”

And if he didn’t know the feeling. That was exactly how he felt whenever he went to therapy.

“You’re upset.” The way he said it wasn’t accusatory, but gentle. “Isn’t that worth talking about?”

At that, you snorted derisively and pulled your wrist free. “Not with you.”

Now that pissed him off. It must have shown on his face, because you immediately grimaced. 

“Shit, I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I mean…” You looked away, chewing your lip some more. Nervous energy. He knew it well. “You’ve been through a lot. My problems are pretty stupid compared to that.”

His tone held a slight note of annoyance. “It’s not a competition, doll.”

When your eyes met his again, he noticed that you seemed a little less panicked, a little more… open, if he could even call it that. So he took a calculated risk.

“I’ll listen.” When you tensed up at the suggestion, he quickly added, “If you want.”

You were considering it; he could see it on your face plain as day. And then, just as easily, he watched you make up your mind, watched you put your walls right back up like they’d never been down to begin with.

“Maybe another time,” you told him with another rueful smile.

“Sure,” he replied, but he wasn’t sure at all.

As he watched you walk away, for the first time all he wanted to do was help you. He just didn’t know how. 

Later that night, he received a text from you. He rarely received any, let alone from you and on the rare occasion you did message him, it always pertained to a mission. This one didn’t.

Thanks for remembering.

Part Three

[dapper-ships-herself]

22 w/ whichever f/o you’d like? :O

So um, this got long and also it’s late so I haven’t really checked it for spelling and grammar errors or anything like that.

Also, I couldn’t decide if it should be Dazai or I doing the comforting, so the reason it’s so long is because I wrote both.

Both are with ADA! Gillian, second one takes place before we actually start dating.

22. Comforting each other after a nightmare.

---

Cornered.

To the right, to the left, and at their backs, towered dark walls that rose high into the murky sky. Before them, a hoard of men in suits stalked forward, their faces constantly shifting masks of horror.

She did her best to use every inch of her tiny body to stand tall in front of the one she had to protect, the little girl shivering and cowering behind her.

The man at the front of the hoard smiled, his mouth cracking his face as it spread from ear to ear, putting on display his shinning white fangs. “Are you the one we’re looking for?” His voice over lapped itself, a mockery of speech.

“Yes.” She bravely spoke the words that damned her.

Was it possible for it’s smile to deepen even further? “Then the other one is useless.” The forms of the other men behind him began to drip and mix together, forming a black, oozing mass of many eyes that bored down at her. The next sound nearly deafened her, the echoing bang of a fired gun, and then she was kneeing on the ground over the cold form of the little girl who’d meant more to her than anything. Blood coated her arms, it covered her face, it dripped down the walls and onto her from above, the monstrosity covering her in crimson tears. Her hands shook and it laughed. The only warmth she felt was from the blood on her hands.

She hadn’t fired the gun, but she’d killed her with her words.

Fire bubbled and built within her. It filled her like lava and she was merely it’s vessel, and when the man’s clawed hand closed around her upper arm, she erupted.

Her scream ripped apart everything around her, shattering reality and turning it to dust. Her throat burned. There was nothing but her rage and sorrow, and then that was gone too, but she was still screaming.

“Gillian.”

Her eyes flew open with a jot, and her hands snapped up to grasp whatever it was hovering above her, her nails involuntarily digging into it. That was when she realized it was saying her name in a soft, insistent voice, and that it wasn’t an it but a who.

Her racing mind slowly allowed her gaze to focus on Dazai. He’d propped himself up in the bed so that she was caged between his arms, his right hand closed around her shoulder. He looked down at her, concern in his eyes. She gasped for breath, and only realized she was crying when she noticed how wet her cheeks were.

His eyes softened to understanding, and it only took one word from him for her to know he knew exactly what she’d been dreaming about. “Ume?”

She sobbed upon hearing her sister’s name spoken out loud.

Dazai pulled Gillian up into a sitting position, holding her tightly to his chest as her buried one hand in her hair and the other rubbed against her back. He let her sob into his shirt, and she held him with the desperation of a drowning woman.

“It was my fault.” She whimpered. Her voice was hoarse, and were normally her ability would mask any fatigue or crack in her voice and make it melodious no matter what, Dazai’s cancellation ability left her no room for hiding, and every inch of her sorrow seeped out in the rawness of her words.

“You know that’s not true.” He whispered against her hair. His low voice burrowed into her, caressing her in the same way his hands did. Still, her sobs continued.

“All I wanted… All I wanted was to save her. I thought that they’d take me and leave her be, I never meant for them to… to…”

Dazai shushed her, pressing a kiss to her hairline. “I know. You tried. You tried to save her.”

“I was her big sister; I was supposed to do more than try. I was supposed to protect her.”

He squeezed Gillian tighter, letting her curl her body into his. He did his best to wrap around her and become her shield against the world, even though he knew he couldn’t protect her from her own memories. They sat there for a while, him whispering calming words to her, and slowly her breathing steadied and her tears became a mere trickle. Even when the tears stopped, and she was exhausted back into sleep, he continued to hold her and whisper his sweet words.

---------

He was drowning.

He was falling.

It was dark.

The light burned his eyes.

He couldn’t breathe.

His breathing was rapid and desperate and he choked on the air.

Hands grabbed his skin and tore into the flesh, ripped at his hair, and clawed for his eyes. One hand grabbed the side of his face and fell away.

Dazai gasped, and his hands fisted into his sheets. He panted, and waited for his body to calm. The nightmares weren’t new.

He knew how to calm himself after them, how long to wait before he could take even breaths in the night air again. This time, though, he found his hands still shook minutes after he awoke. Guess this nightmare shook him more than most.

He sat up, running a trembling hand through his hair. He reached out to his side and picked up his phone, checking the time to see it was still the middle of the night. He sighed, knowing he’d likely not be getting any more sleep tonight.

Idly, he moved the phone between his hands and his thoughts wandered, and he found them moving in the direction away from the horrors of his past to much more recent memories that soothed his soul like a balm. He thought of the way her smile brightened her face, he heard the sound of her laughter and saw her eyes shine with joy when she caught his gaze. Earlier that day, he’d felt her dainty hands grasp one of his in excitement. It was a strange thought, but he found himself wishing he could feel that touch again, rounding him and settling the trembling he still felt.

Dazai considered himself to be a man in control of his every action, he did nothing without explicitly meaning to do so, so the sound of his own phone dialing surprised him. The name of the exact girl who’d been occupying his thoughts written across the screen: Gillian.

He almost hung up, when she answered. Her voice, still half asleep, floated through the speaker. “Hello?”

Well, he’d have to go along with the whims of his unconscious actions now. “And a lovely good morning to you~” he chirped “Though I suppose it’s still too early to be called morning.”

“Dazai,” she yawned, muffled to where he assumed she’d turned her face from the phone “you know I’m always happy to hear from you, but it’s a bit unusual for you to be calling so late. Is something going on, do you need anything?”

“Ah, I must apologize, it seems I accidentally dialed you in my sleep! I only woke up and noticed a moment before you answered.”

She was quiet for a minute, and he briefly wondered if she’s already fallen back asleep, when she spoke again “Yeah, okay so that’s a lie.”

“Oh? What makes you think that?” He’d assumed that even if she did see past the tone of his voice, she’d be too tired to examine it.

“First off, you’re much too awake to have only woken up a minute ago. Second, I can feel your negative emotions from my apartment; something scared you.”

“Isn’t the empathy aspect of your ability too minor to sense emotions from a distance? Maybe you’re mistaking me for Yosano, perhaps you should go to her room and check on her.”

“Hm, nope. It’s only an impression, but I know it’s you. What happened?”

He sighed into the phone, exaggerating the sound. “Oh, you’ve caught me, I had a frightful dream is all and in my flailing that’s when I accidentally called you. Embarrassing, I know! But, I assure you I’m perfectly fine, the dream was actually rather silly now that I think about it. See, I was being chased by a giant spoon, and it-“ Dazai paused in his tale, picking up the sound of something rusting and moving about from Gillian’s otherwise quiet side of the call. “Wat are you doing?”

“Putting my shoes on.” She answered simply.

“Why?”

“Because I’m heading over to your place.”

His spine straightened at that, eyes widening slightly. “Ah, there’s really no need-“

“Already outside,” She interrupted him “and it’s chilly so you’d better answer your door when I knock! See you in a second~” She hung up the phone.

He lowered the phone from his ear and stared at it, and the fact that they lived in the same building meant her knock on his door came not even a minute later, not even giving him time to prepare for her arrival. He pushed the blanket off of his legs, figuring his best course of action would be to answer the door like she said, otherwise he knew she’d stay out there half the night, if not all night.

“Come on in.” He swept his arm out in a welcoming gesture as soon as he’d opened the door.

She grinned up at him, her arms wrapped around herself to ward off the cold, her pajamas hardly doing anything to help. “Thank you very much~” She nudged her shoes off and bounced past him, and he shut and relocked the door before following her back into the apartment.

All the lights were still off, so he could only use the little moonlight slipping in to see her curious eyes staring at him. “There was really no need for you to come here; I promise it was only a bad dream.”

She nodded “But dreams can still have a real effect on us, and I can tell whatever it was about is really sticking with you.”

“Because of your empathy?”

“Because I know you.” Her eyes searched deep into his “Do you want to tell me what it was about?”

“It-“ He found the words freezing in his throat. He couldn’t understand it, why was it so much harder to keep up his mask around her? Somehow her presence constantly managed to chip at the cracks and wiggle through. Part of him whispered how it wanted to simply relax and lower the mask, part of him hissed that it wanted to force her out of his home so as to not be forced to feel the searing intensity of those gentle eyes. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.” He managed to say.

Her eyes stayed the same, but she made a hum in the back of her throat. “Okay, I understand not wanting to talk about it.” She rocked on her heel for a minute and Dazai could practically see the thoughts working in her head. “Be honest, would you rather I leave now, go back to my own dorm, and leave you alone for the night?”

The response, merely a simple yes, please, was right on his tongue, but once again the words froze. Ah, this was almost frustrating. He swallowed, thick and audible in the quiet; and after a long stretch of silence, he finally spoke a true word. “Stay.” The vulnerability in his voice burned his throat.

She smiled, and the compassion and understanding in her eyes elicited an unfamiliar emotion within himself. “Then, will you let me help you fall back asleep for the night?”

“How do you plan to do that?”

“First, is it okay for me to enter your room?”

He blinked, and again the voice inside him wanted to deny her, but there was curiosity now too, so he nodded, and she beckoned him to follow her.

Perhaps in any other situation, allowing a woman into his room so late at night would hold a different connotation, but with her it was only ever innocence.

He watched Gillian approach his bed, and she then she sat on it, kneeling, and patted her lap with a smile. “Lay down.” She said.

… “Huh?”

“I said, lay down; this is how I’m going to help you sleep.” She titled her head, nothing but pure intentions coming from her. He thought about turning this into some sort of joke, making a sly comment on the suggestive nature of the situation, but he was too tired for that now.

So, he figured to hell with it, and walked over to the bed. Dazai lay down, positioning himself so his head nestled onto Gillian’s legs. As soon as he was settled, her hands found their way into his hair, petting and smoothing the strands in a calm, repetitive motion. “There we go, you can relax now.” She said, her voice soft and soothing. “I know you must’ve been scared, but it’s all right now.”

Dazai knew his ability never failed him, but for once he idly wondered if perhaps it’d chosen now to stop working. After all, if Gillian wasn’t using Silver Tongued Maiden to command his body into relaxing, then how was she doing this? How was she capable of bringing him such calm in such simple ways?

“You… I think I have you all figured out, and then you find new ways to confound me.”

She giggled, and the sound made him close his eyes so he could focus only on it and the warmth seeping into him from her body, the feeling of her hands working across his forehead. “I think I will take that as a compliment. Now shush, and relax. Rest, and I promise not even dreams will hurt you while I’m here.”

As he’d done so many times that night, he obeyed her. He felt almost like a child, finding comfort this way, but he also couldn’t be bothered to mind that. Not when it was Gillian doing the comforting.

So, he let her lull him to sleep that night, and even in his dreams, he felt her warmth.        

[spellnbone]

resolutions

Location: Edgar’s Apartment Time: January 2nd Status: Closed, for @justicebones

It was long past midnight when Edgar came home. With exhaustion he carried himself up the stairs to his flat, with hope that sleep would come soon, sleep and the long awaited third night in Fabian’s arms, he broke through the wards of his entrance door, ready to find the comfort and safety unique to this place. 

But the face that turned towards him then wasn't Fabian's. It was Amelia's.

"Amelia?" He blinked, took off the hood of his cape, and hung it all up by the door as it was wet from the rain outside. Not once did he leave her with his eyes, not once did he dare to think that the static feeling he felt coming from her wasn't already within him before entering. Today had been such a long day. Surely that was why he was feeling this way. Surely that was why Amelia was here. She knew. She knew he wasn’t well and she’d make it all better. A smile of relief and curiosity grew on his lips. "I didn't know you'd be here. Hi."

After Fabian had left, Amelia had just still been a ball of anger and energy. She'd paced for awhile, growling and muttering to herself, kicking at the fallen books and pieces of the dresser that Fabian had... well, she had made him destroy, and just generally trying to get all her frustration out as she waited on her twin to come home. It felt like it took forever, and at some point, she moved, settling down on the couch. She'd curled up with one of the pillows there, hugging it to her chest and taking deep breaths, her fingers absently rubbing over the top of the pillow. It was when the door opened and Edgar came in, smiling at her like nothing was wrong at all, that she lost her cool. Letting out a loud growl, she took the pillow and threw it as hard as she could at her twin, not caring where it hit him, but aiming for his head. "Don't you 'Amelia' me!" She snapped out at him, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Edgar's smile fell. "What is wrong with me?" he asked, carefully, unsure of what he had done. Except failing to save hundreds of Muggle lives, that was.

Amelia scoffed at his answer. “Oh, I’m sorry, did you conveniently forget that you left without saying a word to me and haven’t answered my owls in days?” She snapped.

Edgar wasn't so sure if 'conveniently' was the right term, but yes, it had very much slipped his mind. Or at least: "I didn't think you needed me to tell you I was going back to London." 

He was also about to point out that it was Caradoc's birthday on the 31st, which was with whom most of his New Years Eves were spent, but the truth was, this too had slipped his mind until this very moment. And Amelia was filled with anger. Like electricity it charged the room, made it all the way over into Edgar's blood, slid in cold shivers down his back, making him roll his shoulders without noticing as though wanting to shake it off. So that static feeling did come from her… 

He knew her like that, yes, but that didn't make it a familiar sight, and almost an unseen one when directed against himself. So he didn't want to explain and further an argument. Deflection and appeasing would have to suffice. "Yeah, I'm sorry. It was a busy time." He undid his coat as well and took a step into the room -- and saw the chaos that was his apartment. Speechless, he grew pale.

Amelia rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. She was tense, but still sitting on the couch for the moment, feeling as if she could only be calm if she stayed sitting. She snorted again and shook her head at him. “According to Caradoc, you didn’t show up to see him either,” she pointed out, watching as Edgar took a step further into the room. It was as she saw his reaction that she continued, “its clear to see who was more important in this whole situation, at least.”

Edgar's gaze barely flickered from the mess to Amelia, her words hardly reaching him. "What happened here?" Had someone broken into his place? Why had his wards not gone off? Had someone been injured? Why was Amelia here and not-... This time his gaze did fasten on her, and her words did unfold with meaning in his mind. "Where's Fabian, Amelia?"

The feeling of anger, of being upset, of feeling second best, boiled in Amelia’s chest even worse as Edgar spoke, asking about of all things, Fabian. She stood then, shoulders back and chin up, trying to make herself a little taller, more equal to her twin. “I’m fine, thanks,” she retorted at him, “in case you were wondering. And he’s gone. As he should be.” She crossed her arms again, giving her twin a dark look.

There were reasons why Edgar's apartment was heavily woven into so many wards, reasons caused my images in his head which now all resurfaced, resurfaced suddenly and vividly. Fear settled into his muscles, bones, and even deeper still. He felt sick, the hand that held his coat tightened, a fist pushing against his stomach. Growing paler still, all but Amelia's face faded away. "What happened?"

Amelia took a step closer to Edgar, pursing her lips and watching him for a moment. “That arse,” she snarled out, “thought it was funny that you hadn’t spoke to me. That it was my fault. And thought it’d be funny to not tell me where you’d gone, when I asked.” She paused, then let out a bitter laugh as she continued, “he also decided that I’m a bitch.”

That was a lot. That was brusque. That was ... almost too much. Edgar raised his free hand, as though Amelia's words were something palpable they could stop. Stop, or at least halt for a moment. Everything was still growing darker and darker, and his fist pushing against his stomach made him feel dizzy, out of breath. "Wait," he said, "wait, what-..." He forced his gaze back to the mess of broken chaos on the ground, then back to Amelia, pointing at it, shakily. "You fought?"

Looking exasperated when Edgar raised his hand, Amelia moved her hands to her hips. “Yes,” she snapped at him, “he called me a bitch. He acted like I don’t matter to you. So, I knocked him on his arse, like he deserved.”

It was, admittedly, horrifying to hear such a thing. To imagine that Fabian could say something like that to the one person who meant more to Edgar than anyone else. But compared to the images that had taken over his thoughts, it was almost a relief. A snap of air filled Edgar’s chest. Clasping it, he sank down on the chair that stood between kitchen and living room, feeling as though his knees would give in if he didn't. Vision came back, like light pounding against his temples. "You came home, Fabian was here, and you fought?" he asked after a moment when he could grasp clear thoughts again, trying to make sure he was piecing it together properly. "He-, He insulted you? And you-..." His brows knitted together tightly as he searched in Amelia's face for something, anything, that told him she was exaggerating. Joking. Lying. "And you..?"

Amelia raised an eyebrow, watching as her twin held his chest and sank down on the chair. She stood, still, and took another step towards him, hands still on her hips. She narrowed her eyes, not understanding what Edgar wasn’t getting about this, and almost feeling the urge to shove him. “Yes. I came here looking for you, worried because you weren’t answering me,” she huffed out, “he said you must have gotten bored with me. Make it all out to be my fault. He called me a bitch, said that people were probably calling me that behind my back too. So,” and with that she made a motion to the broken pieces across the room, “I used a knockback jinx to knock him on his ass like he deserved. He crashed into that. Then I told him what he needed to hear and he left, like he should have.”

Elbows piercing into his legs, Edgar sat leaned forward on his chair, looking up at his sister as she appeared as though wanting to tower over him. The hand he had over his heart moved to his mouth, the other hung loose as he listened. Listened attentively. Listened with horror. Part of him didn't want to believe it, wanted to say that this didn't sound like his beautiful Fabian at all. But the other part of him, the one that had always and would always belong to Amelia, made it impossible for him to think her a liar. He could imagine it well; Amelia snapping at someone trying to interfere with the twins' connection. It was anything but a rare occurrence. What he couldn't imagine was why Fabian would do such a thing. Or ... well. He clenched his jaws. "Was he drunk?"

Amelia waited, watching to see Edgars reaction, and wondering what was going on in his head. Did he get what she was saying? Did he feel how outraged she was right now? It was his question that got her attention though, and she raised an eyebrow at that. “I didn’t smell any alcohol,” she stated simply, “Not that I got too close to him. If I’d have stepped any closer, he would have gotten a fist in the face instead of just the jinx.”

"But did he look drunk? Did he speak or-, or act-..." This was Edgar begging for a 'yes', despite dreading it all too much at the same time.

Amelia snorted, shaking her head at Edgars words; both for the fact that it sounded like her twin was begging for a yes, and to tell him that wasn’t the answer. “No,” she said, “he was grouchy and very much seemed reluctantly sober. Unless you’re telling me he’s a mean drunk. He wasn’t slurring or anything though.”

"Fuck." He knew what this meant. A truth so much uglier than the chaos of books it had caused in his apartment. Having previously held his head up to keep eye contact with Amelia, he now let it fall. The hand that had been over his mouth was in his hair now, but what was at first just fidgeting fingers quickly turned into the recent memory of a hand running through his hair just like this, and it was too happy of a memory for him to be able to allow it.

Happy memories. A safe apartment. Tequila. Books scattered on the ground. Something clicked within him.

He rose to his feet almost suddenly, swiftly, caught Amelia by the shoulders. "Are you okay? You said you were fine but are you-, are you okay?"

Amelia blinked as her twin swore, watching with annoyance as he let his head fall like that. She was about to move her hands from her hips to cross over her chest again, but then was surprised as Edgar stood and caught her by the shoulders. There was still a faint urge to shove at him, but it went away as Edgar asked if she was okay. “You left and ignored me. He said I was boring and it was my fault you ignored me. He called me a bitch. How do you think I am, Edgar?”

"And why would you believe him?" he asked back, just as swiftly as he had crossed the room to her. You know the truth, why does it matter what anyone else thinks? Don't you trust me? Are we no longer the Bones Twins? Is it so easy for someone to push himself between us even though we promised it would never happen again? Is it so easy for someone to make you doubt us? He said none of it. Just looked at her, his grip not tight but firm, as though wanting to contain her boiling annoyance, as though wanting to keep her close until she understood, as though wanting to make her feel that he was really there. "I didn't leave you, Amelia. And I didn't ignore you either. I left, for a while. I left and I forgot." A pause. "Forgot everything." Everything but...

Amelia stared back at her twin, narrowing her eyes at his question. She could feel all the words unsaid, through his firm grip on her shoulders, and she was trying to convey the hurt she felt in return. “Who said I believed the arse?” She snipped at him, “but him being such a jerk doesn’t mean that my feelings don’t exist, Edgar. Especially not when he was trying to make it work that way.” She couldn’t help but shove at him a little, annoyed and upset, but not enough to fully pull away from him. Just enough to try and get her point across. “Why?” She demanded then, “why did you leave and forget everything? Why not return my owls and worry me? And why was he here? Why him?”

Edgar let her shove him, but neither let go nor hardened the grasp on her shoulders. Just listened -- his ever-patient expression for once broken with pain, confusion and urgency. "He is. He is a jerk for saying that." Not 'if'. Edgar didn't doubt it. Couldn't doubt her. Perhaps there would've been a 'but'. But why are you mad at me, then? But he understood already that he had hurt Amelia first, and Fabian had just managed to push his finger into the wound. Knew there was no point arguing about the technicalities of pain. "I'm sorry I worried you," he therefore said, softly. "I didn't mean to. I-, Honestly I didn't think I would. I'm sorry." Only at the 'why', one of his hands let go of her shoulder, moved to her cheek and cupped it gently. "Because there's a war going on."

Amelia felt better when Edgar agreed that Fabian was a jerk, though only a tiny bit. However, she still couldn't help the huff that she let out when he said he was sorry, because although he clearly was sorry, it still hurt. She just needed him to understand that. "You took off without saying goodbye," She muttered, "You didn't even show up to Caradoc's. You didn't return my owls. How could that not be worrying?" It was his hand on her cheek that made her shoulders relax, leaning into the touch a little, though wrinkling her nose at his words. "That still doesn't explain why he got to be here and not me," She muttered, even though it sounded almost childish.

It felt like it was years ago. That moment Amelia spoke of. That moment when Edgar had looked into Rigby's eyes and decided he couldn't stay at the House of Bones any longer. And yet it still burnt, that sudden nausea that had taken over him then. A nausea almost as vivid as the one he had felt when he had seen the books on the ground just now. A nausea caused by the ever-same feeling of having lost control.

"Yeah, I-..." He gave it a shrug. Not to dismiss it. Just because he was at a loss of words. "I got inside my head. You know how I am when that happens." An explanation, not an excuse, but Amelia knew the difference. "The explanation is that you're a strong, capable, smart Witch, and he's ... ill." He brushed his thumb over her cheeks, a gesture as careful as his words. "This is not me breaking my promise. I didn't forget about you again. This is-... This is war, seeping into the cracks of our hearts, and all of us dealing with it differently. Caradoc locks it all away. Artem boxes his mind out. I've got you." A smile. It fell again so quickly. "And Fabian has become ill."

Amelia was quiet, watching her twin and understanding what he meant; she knew he got inside his head and what happened then, and there must be something going on. She let out a faint chuckle as he said she was a strong, capable, smart witch, because she felt the urge to say that she wasn’t without him. “I’m holding you to that,” she spoke then, “you promised me, Edgar Bones, and you are not going to break that promise. If you’ve got me, then let me be here for you. You know better.” She paused, and then it was like something clicked in her brain. “You asked if he was drunk,” it was more of a statement of figuring it out than a question, “he’s turned to alcohol.”

Edgar had never even considered that Amelia could one day not be there for him. What had led to their promise, though, this pact they had made to never ever let anyone get between them again, was equal parts his fault as hers. Yes, he'd been the one to disappear entirely in his obsession over keeping himself warm with his lovers' fires, but would he have ever opened his eyes to anyone else if Amelia herself had not led her own independent life? Back when such a thing was still possible... "You can't be there for everything, though," he therefore said, not in reprimand, not in irritation, but rather with a note of apology. "There's things I cannot let you get involved with." He had dragged her far too deep into this war already. And Amelia piecing the information together was proof of that. Caradoc had lost all emotions. Edgar couldn't sleep through a single night alone. And Fabian had turned to alcohol. All of these were illnesses in their own way, coping mechanisms describing a greater misery that hovered above all of them. Slowly sank into them with every new day that passed. What would happen to Amelia if she got more and more involved in this war? How would she cope? Would she? "A strong, capable Witch," he repeated, now more to himself, more as though wanting to reassure himself. It barely worked and so he let his forehead meet hers, slid the hand that had lingered on her shoulder around her waist, and pulled her in. In this gesture, in this tight embrace full of love and longing, he spoke again: "You have to leave now." There was hesitation, conflict between continuing and keeping her close. But the imagined scenarios from earlier on were still there, lingering, and so was the very real mess in the corner of his room. A breath. "Go back to Hastings until at least after Epiphany, and don't ever come back to this apartment."

Amelia could hear the note of apology in Edgars tone, but it didn’t mean that it hurt any less. They were twins! How could they not be there for everything for each other, especially at a time like this? They had spent far too long apart before! She sighed deeply then, because well, wasn’t she already helping? It wasn’t like she’d go fully involved with the order, but she was still there. He was repeating the words of her being strong and capable, and the urge to shove was back, as Amelia just let out a tiny huff. Still, his forehead against hers, his hand on her waist, pulling her in closer... it was calming. At least, calming until he spoke. She bristled at his words, feeling anger rising in her chest as he told her to leave, to go home and to not return to his apartment. He was banning her from his place? It made her tense and she took a deep breath, pulling away from him then. “Fine,” she stated evenly, “but if I owl you again, I expect an answer. Understood?”

Edgar had his eyes closed, and they remained closed when Amelia pulled away. His hands remained hovering in the hair for a moment, just where they had been, perhaps as though wanting to make sure to remember the way the touch had felt, then they curled into fist and fell to his side. He nodded, his head still bowed. "Of course," he said. "Of course I'll write you."

And then he heard her leave. Heard her open the door. Heard what he hoped wasn't hesitation on her part. Heard, because he couldn't bare looking. This wasn't a goodbye forever, of course, but it was a goodbye to an era. 1982 had begun, and things were changing. The war was growing more gruesome, less forgiving. Danger no longer just hung in the air, it had long sunk into everyone's veins. From here on in, the nights were just going to get darker and darker, no firework bright enough to bring relief. Or at least never long enough.

And it would be lonelier. This was what had him bristle. He opened his eyes and jerked his head to the door, hoping to still see her there but -- she was long gone. Feeling his hands tighten into a fist once more, he walked to the door. Locked it. Warded it. Waited. Locked it. Warded it. Locked it and warded it again, repeating this until his mind was satisfied -- or perhaps too exhausted to keep going -- and let him turn to the chaos on the ground. 

He stared at it until the imagined scenarios began to overlap with past memories and future prophecies; the kind you knew you couldn’t escape. And then he just crumbled. Sank to the ground and sat there as hot tears fell into the open palms of his hands.

[tobiasfarnal]

Left Behind

Dymphna ran towards the cliffs pursued by the hulking orc and lumbering drunk human, she hurled her bleeding body down into the ocean, the only thought that escaped her was the hope that everyone else made it out alive.  She only knew those she’d seen step through (or were tossed into) Toby’s portal.

As the wind flew past her face, her now red hair billowed behind her as the water grew ever closer.

“I’m sorry Toby, I’m going to be missing our date” she thought, having no way of knowing that Toby laid unconscious and broken as she hit the surface; cold and shocking despite the warm air, her own world growing black as the waves enveloped her.

***

“What ya fishin’ up there Tigule?”

“Dunno, Foror...looks like a body.”

“Lots of bodies round here, why you pullin’ that one up?”

“Looks fresh, might still have stuff in its pockets, gonna check, then chuck it back” the goblin chuckled as he pulled Dyn up onto the skiff, looking down into her face, putting his ear over her mouth.  “Ey…EY! This one’s still breathin’” he panicked as he turned her over, smacking her on the back to get her to start coughing up the water she’d ingested.   “Get a bird out to the Speedbarge, this one needs a medic stat!”

Tigule raised an eyebrow at that, scratching inside of his big green ear, “Why you care, just a human...an a female.”

“Don’ let yer old lady know you said jus a female, she’ll smack youse upside one ways and down anotha. Sides, could be one of the fella’s up from the cliffs, they might pay well to get their people back”

“Ain’ onna the PMC people, she don’ look so dirty, could be new, they broke ‘er threw ‘er away. Look at those wounds.  Eitha way, lets get her to the medics, Fizzle should be able to speak Common to her to find out who she is, if she makes it” he grumbled sending a seagull off to fly to the Speedbarge before turning their skiff along behind it.

***

Toby didn't come to until the morning sun breaks and begins to cook him in his cage.  He blinks a couple of times, then moans with the pain of his shattered ribs, the orc's great maul having smashed into him once, twice.

He replayed the last nights' events over in his head, and looked around at the other cages.  No Iorune.  No Digglesdeep.  No Dyn. Did they escape?  Were they dead?  He'd no way to know.  

He sat back in the cage, unable to stand or lie down in the cramped confines, and tried to summon his magic to teleport out--but it didn’t come.  No magic surged through him, none of his arcane power.  He looked down at the manacles clapped across his wrists and sighs at their warding pattern.  No magic. No mage.  Just…Toby, here to get beaten by the bullies one, last time.

"Oy.  The pink one's awake," comes a call from the tower above him, and soon an orc and a troll in Bull's Horn colors approach the cage.

 "Hello, mage," said the orc in a nasty snarl, unlocking the cage.  "Time for us to talk."

Toby's eyes glazed, and he remembered the state of the Bull's Horn prisoners he'd helped save. He tried to swallow, but his throat was already dry and parched...not a good sign.  He closed his eyes, remembering an old technique.

Getting beaten was Toby's forte.  He'd spent his life growing up in the slums of Old Town, and the Alteraci-faced boy had been a common target for sport.  He'd learned, then, how not to be present in himself.  A part of him took the boot to the stomach, screaming and crying out, but the rest of him...simply watched the horror, looked on as though it were someone else's body, and not his.  In this way, he examined the pain clinically, disinterestedly, and even though he screamed and cried out it never affected that core part of his thoughts.

He hadn't known, then, how handy that skill would be, but he used it now.  The part of him that thought, that remembered, talked, laughed, and was human--that part of him simply looked on as the big orc pulled a hot iron from the fire.  That part of him watched the animal pieces of him in his body scream as his flesh burned, and that part of him spoke not a word about the Forty-Seventh and those few people who had risked themselves to bring these animals to justice.  He clinically noted the way his flesh reeked as is burned to a char, passively felt his voice crack when the screams ripped through his parched throat.

But he knew that, whatever the orc did to the flesh-lump that contained him, he'd already won.  So he sat, and he watched himself be tortured. Then he watched himself be thrown back in the cage, untreated, without food or water, into a pile of his filth and others.  He was dead, of course.  This was the end of Tobias Farnal.  But he'd always accepted that--always known that's where military service led.  And he'd end in pain and filth, unsung--but he'd end in victory, nonetheless.

Which explained the small smile that creeped across his face as the pain dragged him back down into unconsciousness.

***

“Hey kid, wake up” a gnome’s voice suddenly in her ears, cool hands gently shaking her awake.

Dymphna gasped, trying to jolt herself out of the cot but she seemed to be restrained.  Blinking in the dim light she tried to focus on the source of the voice. “W…where am I?” she asked quietly as she relaxed herself, knowing fighting would probably not be a good option at this point until she assessed her situation.

“Speedbarge, you’re safe for the moment” he smiled as he looked her over.  “You were in a pretty rough state there missy, little bit longer and you’d have been lost, oh dear yes.  Good thing I keep more than a few healers on the payroll, cause, you know, pirates” Fizzle sat back on his stool, giving her a warm smile.

“Why am I tied down then?” she asked quietly “May I have some water?”

The gnome motioned to one of his employees nearby who promptly brought her some water, but also checked her bonds.  “Safe side, really.  Cause, Pirates”

 Dyn chuckled at that and nodded her thanks to both of them.  “Makes sense, I’m no pirate, I assure you,” she said.  Her fingertips gently touched the edge of the bonds, but she still did not try them.

“Maybe you are, maybe you aren’t.  What’s your name kid?” he grinned at her.

“Regina,” she smiled back, relaxing once more, using the moniker she had assumed a few nights earlier. “Regina Cantswell”

“Well, Regina, how’d you end up in the deep?  You looked like you came out of the wrong end of a cat fight.”

Dyn knew whatever story she came up with, would be crucial to whether she would be released from the bonds.  “I was traveling from the Barrens, trying to visit a friend in Feralas, Quillboar shot down my griffon when I flew too low to avoid the thorns, it knocked me off and they started attacking me, I escaped, but, it was dark, I fell over the cliff into the canyon, I don’t remember much after that”  she sighed, faking a sad face  “I’m going to miss that griffon, raised her from a hatchling, I hope she made it out”

The gnome looked her over, seeming satisfied with that response, “Yeah, you’re lucky, don’t see many people fight with the Quillboar and win, you should be more careful” he smiled, releasing her bonds and patting her arm.  “My healers say you should be recovered in a day or so if they keep on you. Then we can get you a griffon back home. I wouldn’t linger too long though, there are some unsavory types around the Needles lately.  I’ll send you some food up in the meantime”

“Thank you, sir,” she smiled sweetly as the gnome shuffled out, his assistant following behind him. When the two were out of sight she rose, the pain of fighting a familiar memory after her many times during the campaign.   “Waking up in the infirmary again, Hempstead. Tinkertorch is right, as always,” she muttered to herself. “And yet, I still keep going” she grinned as she went to the porthole, assessing her situation. She could see the cliffs where the PMC Camp still stood. “At least I’m not too far away” she whispered under her breath looking towards the camp, plotting her next move.  

***

Toby's cracked lips managed a little smile as he watched the hurried movements of the PMC around him, unpacking and leaving.  He'd no clue where they were going, what was in their boxes, or how they were getting anywhere...but it was clear that the Bull's Horn was de-assing their base camp with the quickness, and that was all he could ask for.

They'd stopped torturing him, though Toby suspected that had more to do with their partial evacuation than any real change of heart.  He also suspected they had no need--the info had done its job, the regimental mission was complete, and these bastards already knew they'd been had.

 He had no illusions that he'd live.  That he'd be some prisoner in a camp for Alliance troops to rescue, like those poor bastards he'd helped pull out of the jungle.  He looked up as the sun beat down on him and squinted, then looked back at the scurry.  His legs cramped and bucked with dehydration and inability to stretch, and he barely paid attention to it.

It was strange, really. The torture had almost been preferable to this casual neglect he experienced now.  The torture, at the very least, was nteresting—if in a terrible way.  Now, he could but sit in this caged box, rotting in his own filth, and slowly bake to death--and be bored while doing it.  

He closed his eyes and began to run through mental drills, student exercises designed to prep the mind for wielding immense arcane magics.  Each breath came hot and dry through his parched throat, but he focused that mind of his.

He was going to die, slowly and painfully.  His energy drained, and the beginnings of a fever from infected wounds beginning. But he was bound and determined to die a mage, and not a gibbering Lunatic.  

Please, he thought. Light, please give me that much. I'm not going to die well...let me at least die me.

***

As the day faded into evening, Dyn played nice with the various healers that would come and visit, be they goblin or gnome. They brought her food, water, or offering healing when she needed. She smiled, played innocent, made herself out to only being a simple girl who ran afoul of the quillboars, nothing more.  As the night wore on, the barge grew rowdy with the various patrons of the bar either fighting, yelling, or just singing bawdy songs together.

The little gnome woman who had been watching after her allowed her to go downstairs for but a few moments to stretch her legs. She was just a human after all, one of many visitors to the barge stopping on their way to somewhere else. Using this opportunity, Dymphna was able to slip around, finding herself a few daggers, a couple skins of water, and, being a ship with both gnomish and goblin inhabitants, plenty of incendiary items for her to stash in a rucksack in her quarters, waiting for the right moment.

As the watch called midnight, the ship seemed to settle.  She pretended to be soundly sleeping as the nurse made her rounds, checking her vitals, giving her another dose of healing to her deeper wounds before calling it a night.  When the woman padded away, and the ship grew silent to all but the sound of the waves lapping at the sides of the barge, Dyn made her way out of her room, slipping past dozing guards to find a small rowboat.  Jumping inside, she waited for the sound of anyone coming behind her, yet nobody came.  "Good" she muttered before making her way back towards the cliffs.

***

The days had blurred together--had it been a week?  Two? Toby couldn't tell, and didn't care. Each day, each night, the same, sitting in his iron cage.  He could tell that his burns were festering, infected by the neglect of leaving him in his own waste, but there was naught to do about it.  The Bull's Hord paid little attention to him, now, leaving him in the cage without consideration as their skeletal crew finished packing whatever it was that needed packing.  Where they were headed, and in what form they'd next be seen, Toby didn't know and, idly, didn't care.

 He regretted not talking to his parents, the last couple of times there'd been leave.  Oh, he'd had letters, but he hadn't summoned the courage to actually go see them.  His mother would be heartbroken as he simply...disappeared from the earth. Rosa--he'd made a promise there, to the strange young worgen, and he wasn't going to keep it--one more person in her tally-book on that score.  And Dyn.

“You still have that date,” he heard her say.  Prior to the mission, their running promise throughout Friendly Neighbour.  He owed her a date, something nice.  Something private.  He remembered the weight of her head, leaning on his shoulder as the regiment sat around the table.  Yet another promise he wouldn't be able to keep.

For the hundredth time, he tried to find that well of magic within him, only to find the wards on his manacles blocking him from using it.  Not that he'd much strength left to use it with, anyways, but if he could only summon some water.  Just...just a drop or two of water for his paper-dry throat.  But he'd no chance of it, and no chance of life, and he leaned back in his crate and continued his long, slow wait for death.

***

When Dyn finally made it to shore after what felt like agonizing hours she began the ascent towards the cliffs, thankful she had chose a landing spot where she could stow the boat, as well as having a convenient path that ran towards the mountains. “Thank the Light for that” she smiled as she hefted the backpack over her shoulders.  Glancing up towards the sky she checked the position of the moon. “Few hours until daylight, gives me time to get in” she spoke to herself in the darkness as she made her way towards the base.

Remembering the layout of the camp she found her way around the wooden walls, beams not unlike what they had erected in and around Kingsland, yet, she could see the hustle of activity, people rushing from building to building, “What’s going on, I imagine” she smirked as she found a safe place to stash her pack in the dark. She quickly pulled her hair up into a fierce bun, pulled up her hood and found some dirt to rub on her face and neck, giving her somewhat of a more weathered look before she quickly moved to try to blend in with the various people moving about.

She grabbed boxes and bags from people, loading them into carts to be hauled down to the ships, noting somewhat what was inside, tools, ammunition, paperwork.  Most people barely speaking to each other, merely keeping to the task at hand, evacuation.  She looked around for signs of her companions, but thankfully, did not see any bodies, at least not out in the open.

“You there!”  a gruff Orc voice snarled towards her.  “Come here!”

She turned, biting her lip as she obeyed and moved towards the man she recognized as one of the ones she fled from mere nights prior.

“What are you doing? I don’t recognize you!”

“I’m new, Sir…. signed on a couple weeks ago…helping move stuff” she kept her face down, lifting her box up to show him as she motioned again to the path that lead to the dock.

 “Why haven’t I seen you before now?”

She shrugged, “New blood, I got latrine and cookhouse scullery duty, do you recognize every shit hauler?” she smirked, giving him a look.

The Orc laughed, then slapped her, “No insolence, grunt” he grinned as she reeled slightly, dropping her box.  “Now get that down to the shore and get on the boat with the rest of them, we’re almost done here, and stay where we can see you, no wandering, we’re almost free of this rock” he retorted, casting what was probably an unintentional sidelong glance towards the prison cells, where she had callously dispatched one if its inhabitants only nights prior.

“Yes Sir, of course Sir” she nodded and headed back down to the ship before slipping her way back up, this time moving towards the watch towers, carefully avoiding the pile of shit underneath as she moved towards the cages.

“GRUNTS, PEONS, ON THE BOATS!”  a harsh Kal’dorei voice yelled.  “UNESSENTIAL PERSONELL TO THE BOATS”.

As she moved towards her hiding spot behind some boulders, she watched the flood of bodies rushing down to the docks finally, leaving everything else behind, only a handful remaining as the boats pulled away, lingering around a campfire.

“Five….” She counted the remaining men, pondering why they just didn’t all evacuate at the same time. She pulled her spyglass out of her bag, surveying around the camp  then towards the cells before seeing a blonde lump, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach she let out a soft exclamation  "Toby!"

She pulled herself back into hiding, into cover, while her mind raced.  He lived…and was a captive.  What had been a suicide mission to burn this place to the ground changed, suddenly, into a new set of objectives.  She looked at her bag of timed incendiaries and two daggers.  Would this be enough?  Could she pull it off?  She rolled back into position, deploying her spyglass and waiting for the chance to strike. A long while passed before it came, but came it did.  Narrowing her eyes, she watched the human soldier stumble behind the now-empty building, hands fumbling at the front of his trousers.

She slipped forward through the night and drew one of the knives she’d stolen from the barge from her boot. The man, inebriated and singing some slurred drinking song, lumbered against the building drunkenly, coating it with his urine, and never saw her coming before he slumped down onto the sands, his throat cut from end to end.

“Three, that’s good enough I suppose” she chuckled before opening the door of the building, placing a small bundle just inside the doorway, setting a timed charge.  “Gives me enough time to get away”

“Talon, Talon, what’s taking you so long?”

She froze as the Night Elf’s voice suddenly was heard coming closer.  Shit shit shit! she thought as she dove under the building.  

“Ey Talon! You fell down drunk again while pissing, damn human.” The man laughed slightly as he bent down to try to bring his friend up, only to come away with warm bloody hands.

 “What the…Talon…GU….” His cry out to his compatriots cut short as Dyn brought a rock down to the back of his head, the Kal’dorei falling like a lump over his friend.

“Well, that’s two” she sighed, backing away from the scene and rushing back to pick up her backpack, placing another timed explosive near one of the guard towers before moving off to the cages, the way now cleared to… No Toby.  Instead of the young, sandy-blonde mage, all she saw was an open cage and a set of drag marks.  

***

Toby barely registered the sound of the lock being opened.  "Alright, pinky," said the gruff, orcish voice he'd heard during his sessions with torture.  "You're with me."

The orc reached in and dragged him by the manacles out of the cage.  In his fugue of fever and dissociation, he felt the motion, registered the pain of it.  The orc tried to make him stand, but he'd no strength in his legs to hold his weight. Disease, starvation, dehydration, and trauma prevented him from the basic act of carrying his own weight.

"Damned weakling," his orcish captor muttered to himself, then simply began dragging the young mage over the sand.  "Higher-ups want you to die elsewhere, so we're going to take a little trip.  I voted for leaving you to rot, but you're lucky...I've been ordered to make sure."  He gave a low chuckle.  "Wasn't ordered to make it too quick, though," he says as he dragged Toby out of the compound and away from the final evacuation of the Bull's Horn PMC. Toby had no energy to fight, no ability to move himself--the end had finally come, and he could but wait patiently as his orcish executioner dragged him into the high desert in the moutains between Tanaris and the Thousand Needles...and to his final, unmarked resting place, wherever that would be.

He’d no clue how long it took before he felt his body flop onto the sand, the impact of it registering through his ravaged body.  He expected the orc's axe to follow shortly, but it didn't.  Instead, the Orc took a long draught off his canteen, polishing it off then chucking the empty container over his shoulder.

"None of this is personal, Pinky," the orc said.  "You folks worked us over, and good.  Whole PMC is disbanding, organization's filing for bankruptcy.  Us grunts are going to have to find a new place to sign on...though chances are we'll just re-form under a different name, transfer our contracts, and go on with our lives.  Heard you're the one that got your people free."

The big orc pulled his axe free, and began sharpening it with his whetstone.  "But word has to get around.  You screwed us, and there's got to be a price to that.  I'm not gonna tell you I'm sorry for this, because I'm not sorry at all.  But I want you to know...still respect you, warrior that you are."

With that, the orc raised his axe above his head, aiming first at Toby's legs.  "Doesn't mean this isn't going to be painful."

***

Dymphna followed the pair through the desert, her leather booted feet silent. The Orc seeming to not know or even fathom that anyone could be following him. As she watched him unceremoniously plop Toby down and draw his axe, she felt a cold rush over her, a focus she had rarely felt before.  This was her friend, someone she cared deeply for, to see him bloody and broken, she knew what had to be done.

But how?  She’d faced Orcs all her life, from the Blackrock who would perpetually raid the family farm, to most recently against the PMC. Their hubris was their weakness, she knew this; the thought that they could not be bested. She had to resort to thought and motion together to be able to at least get him to focus on her and move away from Toby, especially with the sound of the whetstone grinding against the axe.

Drawing up everything inside of her she took a step towards the Orc, “Now or never” she thought, knowing that things needed to happen quickly to change his focus before he brought that axe down.  “Hey!” she yelled.

“OH my god, another person, Oh...you’re an Orc…do you even speak common? I’m so lost” she sighed, once again giving him the appearance of a damsel in distress. “WHERE……IS……HERE?......”  she gesticulated wildly, pretending not to notice the lump before him in the lightning darkness of the dunes.

The orc looked up briefly, then his axe flashed down, neatly cleaving through Toby’s tibia and fibia and severing the young mage's foot and ankle cleanly from his body.  His back arched with the sudden, new pain, and his parched throat opened in a scream he could not voice--and then slumped, fainting from the pain, his blood leaking onto the sand of the desert below him.

Dyn gasped at the sight of Toby’s foot, then swallowed—she’d a wall that needed to be taken down first, and she told herself she’d die trying.

The unnamed orcish grunt raises his Axe from his bloody work and looks back to Dyn.  "Brave of you, coming back for him like this," he said, gesturing at the mage now bleeding out into the sand.  "We've got descriptions of all of you that fled, lass--you're the one that jumped the cliff.  I had two gold riding with Duffy that you hadn't made it--looks like I owe him. And looks like I'm killing two little mice out here, instead of one."

Dyn cocked her head to the side and smirked, letting the wild feeling of combat wash fear from her. “Good,” she said in a clear, cool voice. “I was never good at the pretext anyways. Maybe I can save you the gold by killing you”

Drawing her daggers once more she dug her ankles into the sand before leaping towards the Orc, aiming to get to get blades into him before he could swing that massive axe into her once more.

Her foe eased back into his stance, waiting, and as Dyn rushed him he timed it perfectly, pivoting away from her charge.  He was too close to get a swing with his axe, but her momentum carries her past him, and as it does he brings his knee up into her gut, knocking the wind from her. The woman coughed, trying to recover, as the big axe swung it in a screaming arc downwards toward her head.

Dym tried to step to the side, and managed to avoid taking a lethal blow to her head. But she didn’t avoid the axe entirely, and her shoulder and back erupted in pain as the axe sank in deep.  Fighting through the pain, she reached down and grabbed the sand, red with sprays of her own blood as she threw it into his face.  

Her orcish opponent stepped back, blinking, trying to clear his eyes as Dym drove hard at his side with a dagger.  At the last moment, he twisted a bit, stepping back; Dyn's dagger bit into flesh, then pulled out quickly.  Blood flew from the orc's side, but he stayed on his feet and chuckled as he looked at Dyn, panting and bleeding.

"Was telling Pinky, here," he said, gesturing to Toby.  "Nothing personal in any of this--got a lot of respect for the both of you. Warriors. Killin' you's an honor."  He nodded to her in a little salute, then took a step toward her, his axe in motion, ready to deliver the killing blow at last.

Dym grimaced, the pain in her shoulder beginning to sap her strength.  The Orc before her became the embodiment of everything that had happened in these past months, the snipers, the bombings, the camp full of the dead and the dying, Nyla, Novo, everything.  Her own wounds cried out for vengeance as she fixated upon her foe, but she knew he had the advantage.  Less wounded. Well fed.  Longer-ranged weapon.  Better armor.  More training.  She raised her dagger, ready to fight to the death…but she grasped no illusions as to her chance of success.

And that's when the explosions began.

It started with a single blast, but two more follow in quick succession, and the pre-dawn light flares with orange fire as Dyn's incendiaries detonate within the camp. The orc reacted in a basic, completely instinctive manner by stopping his step and turning his head.  His voice came out low and curious as he watches the flames licking at the dry wood of the PMC's building.

"What the--"

Dym launched herself in a white hot rage at him once more, blood pouring out of her shoulder as she plunged her dagger deep into the Orc’s throat, sawing at it to be sure the artery was cut, never for him to hurt another person again.

The Orc tried to fight, but it didn’t last long as he fell, nearly toppling over onto her as she drew away, unsteady as she turned to look at the base, slowly becoming engulfed. "I'm no mouse you piece of shit, I'm a Lion" She turned and bolted towards Toby, her hands cradling his as she sobbed, holding him close.

“Toby…can you hear me?” she looked towards his severed foot, rushing to grab something, anything, to stop the bleeding. Rummaging through her pack she found some cloth where she could tie a tourniquet.  “We need to get out of here” she whispered, ignoring her own wounds for now, sights focused only on him.

"B-Brooks?" he murmered in a cracked voice barely above a whisper, then leans his head back struggling to swallow. "How...where..."

She almost laughed at the absurdity, remembering her dyed-dark hair as she tied off the tourniquet.  She saw his chapped lips and mouth, rushing back to her pack to get the waterskin, lightly wetting his lips, not wanting to give him too much too soon. "Shh...no, its me, Dyn.....I'm here....we need to get out of here."

"Dyn?" he asked, his voice a bit restored from the gulp of water. "You're...you're alive," he says, and a small smile crept up his face.  "But leave…no.  Can't. No leg," he says.  "No magic," he adds, then wiggles the manacles at her, indicating them.  He leans his head back on the pillowing sand for a moment.

"For now" she replied as she looked back towards the camp, not seeing any figures heading their direction. She gave him a bit more water to drink before searching over the corpse of her fallen foe, finding a small ring of keys.

"We're going to get out of here, and Brooks, Brightmaul..someone is going to put your foot back,"  she said, her voice far more confident than she felt.  But the key turned smoothly, and a moment later the lock popped off.

Toby closed his eyes as the manacles fell from his wrist.  The pain of his fever-ridden body, slipping into shock from the trauma of losing his leg, racked with burn scars and disease, faded as he reached for his power.

He felt that arcane torrent, and coughed as he mustered what little reserves he has left. "Can't...hold this...long..." he says, and a portal began to form.  It flickered and flashed as he struggled to hold it, and

Dym couldn’t help but remember his warnings about the risks of using a portal in an altered mental state. She also remembered that he'd managed to pull it off once.  Toby's eyes began to flicker, and she knew the effort this cost him, this one, last-ditch attempt to go home.  She knew she had but a moment’s chance. She grabbed his foot, wrapping it loosely and putting it into her backpack, slipping it in front of her.  

"Ok Corporal" she grunted, her own energy fading just as quickly, "We're going through this together, right?"  She bends down, lifting his body, the dehydration and malnutrition making him somewhat easy to lift for the girl who was used to lifting livestock and pulling drunk farmhands around. She didn't know where the portal led, only that it wasn't here as she jumped through, both of them together, like they did on that first fateful night where they met.

[devilrising]

Fallen Draco Pt. 1

This follows a prompt written by @mymindsmadness

Summary: AU where Draco is a fallen angel, and the way he gets his wings back is by guiding Harry in defeating Voldemort, but it all goes wrong when Draco starts falling in love with Harry.

Word Count: 3018

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Mentions of abuse/torture (non-graphic)

***

2nd March, 1998

It’s hard. It’s really, really hard, to know what I know and do nothing. Every day I wake up screaming, nightmares plaguing me in my sleep. Each morning I look in the mirror, and watch as my wings start to fade. Going from purest white, to a darker shade of grey. I’m losing feathers too. There’s a jar by my bed, and a couple others in a drawer, filled with them.

The day they started drooping, I became terrified. I knew what had caused it, but I didn’t want to think about. Angels are rarely men. And when they are, they don’t usually survive for very long. My life up until now was, rather dangerous. I always thought that if the war hadn’t killed me, I would’ve eventually died from being an angel. I guess it’s both.

Voldemort is in the living room of Malfoy Manor, discussing what the next move will be. Father is listening intently, and I’ve been banished to my room, so it must be vital. Maybe there’s new information. Maybe they are planning another battle. I hope I’m not asked to participate. I never asked to be a part of this. I wish I wasn’t. Mother has grown increasingly concerned recently. She is the only confidant I have. The only person I can talk to. Her once beautiful hair has rapidly been turning grey and warn. The wrinkles riddling her skin are more pronounced than last year, and she is

growing frail. I’m terrified of losing her, because that’s where I feel we’re heading.

A knock draws me across the room and towards my door. The wood is dark and thick, keeping up the illusion of no light in the Manor. When I twist the handle and pull the door towards me, I jump. It’s Voldemort. What’s he doing here? He takes in the surprise on my face, and a beam shows itself. On anyone else, I would say that it ‘lit up their face’. With the Dark Lord, however, it’s much more of a wicked, cruel, and insane look. Like he wants to saw my head off in a public courtyard. I cringe at the thought.

“I’ve been wondering, Draco.” I shudder and pray that it isn’t visible. “How would you feel about being a crucial part of the next battle?” Like I have any choice. Like he wouldn’t kill me on the spot if he questioned my loyalty.

“Of course, my lord,” I say as I drop into a bow.

“Wonderful! Would you like to join the meeting in the drawing room, then?”

“That would be much gracious of you, my lord.”

I receive no reply, just a hand on my shoulder as I walk down the corridor and into the room my father is in.

“You’re here, Draco. Glad. Take a seat over there.” Father gestures to a black leather armchair, and I sit on the very edge of the cushion. Voldemort strides in after me, and takes a seat opposite my father. He begins informing me about the recent decision to crash the Ministry. But not just any part of the Ministry. No, no, we need to be more ambitious than that. That’s predictable even. No. We are crashing the Unspeakables’ department.

Horror drips down my spine, but I smile and nod at the half-man in front of me. I tell him that I think it’s a marvellous idea, and will really persuade people to join the correct side of this war. In my head, I’m screaming. It’s the worst idea imaginable. Who knows what’s in that department? If someone was to so much as knock something, we could all be dead. What if someone was to wear a certain metal that reacted with an object? I can’t see this going at all well, but I sit in silence, a fake smile on my face.

***

9th March, 1998

I’m in over my head. I’ve known the next ploy for a week exactly, and have come up with every possible way this mission could fail. We could burn alive. Explode. Drown. Rapidly age. Turn into objects. Have the air sucked out of our bodies. The list is so long I forget the first few I wrote down. I have no idea why Voldemort decided the Unspeakable department was a good plan. But then again, when has he ever had a good plan?

The wind roars around my ears, and I can’t hear anything other than my pulse and hammering heart. Mountains are beautiful to look at, but to hike them? That’s another story entirely. But I needed to get away. I couldn’t bear to be in the same house as my father and Voldemort. The two men are positively insane. They both need a mental asylum.

I sweep my eyes over the ground below, and marvel at the scene stretched before me. The view from Skiddaw mountain is astonishing. I feel tiny in comparison to everything else I can see. I feel like I’m insignificant. A welcome emotion for me recently. The sky above me is dull and cloudy, but there is no rain falling today. It’s Monday, and I should be at Hogwarts, but I’ve been pulled out for the remainder of Seventh Year. Potter isn’t there anyway, so I wouldn’t be doing much. Studies became quite boring Sixth Year, if I’m being honest.

Potter. Apparently he is off in the world somewhere, trying to locate and destroy Horcruxes. I applaud him for trying, but there is no way he’ll survive that. Voldemort told me himself how difficult they are to find, and that to actually get a hold of them is practically impossible. I’ve tried to imagine where they would be, what they would be, but have always come up dry. I don’t know of a single place so dangerous. Potter must be out of his mind. Potter, Granger, Weasley, and his precious Order.

Suddenly no longer interested in the scenery below me, I turn around and walk over to the tree where I’ve laid all my things out. I sit on the emerald picnic rug, and bite into one of the apples I brought. The pink skin matches what colour I know my cheeks must be, and I hum with the sweet taste filling my mouth. The branches above me sway in the gentle breeze, and I’m reminded of autumn days in Third Year. Before everything started going south rapidly.

That was the year with Black escaping from Azkaban. The year with the stupid hypogriff breaking my arm. The year Granger punched me, and Potter laughed at me. Thankfully, that didn’t happen very often. My thoughts start straying back to life at Hogwarts, before the world turned a head. Before my family started to repeatedly fulfill “tasks” and “assignments”. Before I had to seclude myself from my friends, the rest of Slytherin, and before I had to push myself to the extremes of my magical capabilities.

The Vanishing Cupboard, the Unbreakable Vow, Dumbleodre’s death, and the Sectumsempra incident. Last year was a bitch. I can’t see this year being any improvement however. The plans that I’ve overheard (due to unfold in May) haunt me in my sleep. I don’t know what to do about it. I have no one to talk to. To tell how scared I am.

The wind starts picking up, and the emerald rug beneath me lifts up in the breeze. Although it’s no longer a breeze. It’s more like a blustery wind than anything else. Regardless, I decide that it’s probably for the better to leave Skiddaw mountain and return to the Manor. I use my wand and a complex charm my father taught me in order to pack up all my things. I watch as everything floats above the rug, which starts folding itself into a square. The food I didn’t eat flies into the basket I brought, neatly organised and sorted. Then the rug shrinks, and enters into the basket. The basket then shrinks itself, so now I can fit it in the pocket of my black skinny jeans. Happy with the charm, I nod to myself and pick up my Nimbus 2001 from where it was resting against the tree.

Even though the wind is brutal, I would rather fly the 475-ish kilometres back to Wiltshire, than accidentally apparate into a meeting again. That didn’t work out so well for me last time.

***

11th March, 1998

Life is getting worse. It’s harder and harder each day to tell myself that it will be okay. Two days ago, I was beaten into unconsciousness for arriving after my curfew. The wind had made it nearly impossible to fly, and I struggled the whole way to the Manor. Being the stubborn prat that I am, I was confident that I would make it back before 11pm. I shouldn’t have taken the risk.

As an added punishment, I am grounded to my room. But my father and Voldemort don’t do things by half. No. They have come up with specially designed wards to let them in, but to keep everyone else out. Not to mention, I physically can’t leave. If I try, I’m electrocuted until I pass out. If that happens four times, I’m instantly killed. I am forced to stay in my tiny, dark, uncomforting room for a week. The only thing I’m allowed to do is write letters. But I have no way of sending them out to anyone or anywhere. With no owl to carry them, I’m doomed. They deliberately let me write for help, knowing that I’m not stupid enough to actually do it.

Instead, I write stories, I draw woodland animals (and other more, uh, explicit ones, but those are burned immediately after completion). It’s relaxing. With nothing but ink and parchment, I waste away the hours in front of the fire. The warmth very welcome in the cold month March is shaping up to be. Eventually tired with ink, I grab down a book on puzzles from my shelves. The cover is faded, deep purple, the title written in silver thread. I’ve read this so many times, solved each riddle, word puzzle, and math problem, but I open it anyway.

The first one is easy. “.--. ..- --.. --.. .-.. . ... - .... .-. --- ..- --. .... --. . -. . .-. .- - .. --- -. ...” The problem is written in Morse code, and it takes less than a minute to have it decoded. “Puzzles Through Generations” is the title of the book, and I find it rather humorous that it’s also the first problem. I smile to myself, before diving headfirst into the book.

***

Later that same evening, I start to grow restless. With nothing else in my room, I’ve resorted to lying on my bed, face buried in a pillow. I don’t know what I’m doing with myself. Why I allowed myself to get into this mess. Why I even bothered coming back to the Manor. I wonder, not for the first time, why I’m given so much freedom. Well, except for right now, of course. I’m generally permitted all through the Manor and it’s grounds. I’m given unlimited access to anywhere on the continent, so long as I can be traced.

I always come to the same conclusion though. The two terrible excuses for men know I won’t leave. They know that I know that if I was to desert them, they would track me. Voldemort would employ thousands of Death Eaters to find me, and to bring me back to him to die at his hands. Hours of torture would occur, worsened because of my father. I would be considered a ‘traitor’. I have nothing wrong with that last bit, of course. But I wouldn’t want to leave my mother. She would surely be punished for my actions, and I couldn’t let that happen. I wouldn’t ever forgive myself.

I stand up from the bed, pace over to the small bathroom joined to my bedroom, and stare at my reflection. I look ill. My hair is in shambles, strewn all over my face. It almost looks like Potter’s, except for the colours, which are starkly opposite. My eyes have sunken into my skin, dark rings under them. My complexion has become sickly pale, and I wonder when this happened. I’ve probably looked terrible for months, but been too busy with everything else (like surviving) to notice.

Trying desperately to salvage my appearance I cast a few simple charms. I straighten out my hair, making it fall neatly to my scalp. After struggling with my complexion for a while, I give up and move to my eyes. The bags are covered with a glamour that takes all of my energy. I’m so tired from the spells that I pad back to my bed and gladly fall asleep. In my dreams, I question why I was worn out so quickly, but pass it off as being trapped in a room with no sun, limited food and water, and lack of new oxygen.

***

15th March, 1998

I’m becoming desperate. I was let out of my room for an hour earlier this morning, and dragged outside into the sun and air. The sun was hidden behind the clouds, but it was better than nothing but artificial lights. Food was handed to me, and I greedily ate it, the first proper meal I’d had in six days. I didn’t think the occasional plate of unappetising gloop counted. After fifteen minutes, I was dragged back inside once again, and led into the drawing room where I first accepted the Dark Mark. I was then tortured for the remainder of the hour.

Legilimency was first. Voldemort did it himself. Digging through my memories to find any weakness he could find. He had eventually decided on one of Potter lunging at me, fury in his eyes. I was taunted with it for ages, before being placed under the Cruciatus Curse. It had been extreme pain, and I’m thankful it’s over now. Still, the sensation is fresh in my mind, and I’m being plagued by paranoia.

Desperation fills me just from the memory, and I silently panic at my desk. I need to get out of here. My wings are losing colour every day. Feathers have filled the jar next to my bed, and I’ve started a fourth. I need to get help immediately. I’m seriously starting to wonder how long I have left. As a male angel, I never should’ve lived this long. I should’ve died years ago. I stretch my fading wings out, and try to gently flutter them. No use. Instead, I watch as a single feather floats to the carpet beneath my feet.

Uncontrollable tears stream down my face, and it’s desperation that finally drives me to pick up a quill. It’s intense, urgent need that makes me pull a sheet of parchment from my stack. It’s in despair that I actually touch the inked quill to the parchment. I quickly pen a letter to the first person I can think of to save me. Shuddering, I use my wand to summon a muggle postage stamp from the hallway outside, slip it under the door, and stick it to the envelope I pulled from a drawer.

A shiver goes through me as I seal the letter in the envelope. I don’t know how to send it to him, until I remember about the bathroom. I cross the bedroom and turn the water on in the shower in order to cover any noise I might make. Then I drag a chair in from the bedroom, and place it directly beneath the air vent. Standing in the chair precariously, I unattach the grille from the ceiling and place it gently onto the white tiles. The gap is too small for anything but my hand to get through, and grin. There’s no way anyone will think I’ve used this air vent for anything. What’s the point after all?

Carefully, I place the letter into the vent opening and pull my wand from my pocket. Knowing I’ll be drained after this no matter what I do, I decide to use everything left in me to lurch the letter up. A shock of green particles shoot from my wand tip, and they push the letter up the vent. I watch as it disappears from view and into the kitchen vent. I start to track the letter with my mind. Following it as it flies through the deserted kitchen, and out of the window in the dining room. I know it’s made it out of the wards when the green barges into my wand again, knocking me of the chair I’m still standing on.

Now I can only hope that Potter replies. Or rather, that he doesn’t.

***

22nd March, 1998

It’s been a week now, and I’ve heard nothing from him. I have been let out of my room though. My wings have lost all of the pure white, and are now as dark as a raven. It’s quite striking, the dark colour of the few feathers I have left, against my sickly pale skin and platinum hair. I always thought that if I lost my wings, there would be a skeleton left to haunt me of the sins I had committed. Instead, there is nothing. The feathers aren’t attached to anything but air. Maybe it’s because of the extremity of the darkness encompassing me.

I no longer feel much at all, just longing to be saved. Even if it’s by my previous enemy.

***

24th March, 1998

My wings are totally gone. Vanished from existence. I feel awful. The steady stream of food, sun, water, and air being spoon-fed to me isn’t enough. My mother is blaming herself, and I can’t stand seeing her beyond herself. I start praying to a god I don’t believe in for Potter to arrive.

***

26th March, 1998

I threw up today. It’s been 24 days since this whole thing started. Scars have made themselves a home between my shoulder blades, permanently tormenting me. I wish not for the first time that I’d done something sooner. Before I was in over my head. Potter had better get here soon.

***

A/N: Next part will be out same time next week! If you want to be tagged in the next uploads, please tell me so you don’t miss out! 🥰

Masterlist — Next Part

[leatherlaceandblades]

First Meetings

( Taken from a transcript of an RP with @onidephor. Forgive me missing any of our writing booboos! XD )

The beginnings of the project were underway. The next round of conscripts had shuffled into their lines and eventually into their operating rooms. The Colossus project, only an infant idea, marched on. Overseen by the current Tribune, Lillium sas Sylvanius, she had separated out the children from the adults and lead them into other areas. Several had gone into the wings ahead of the current group from a previous raid. A ship from Gridania and other distant lands bore decent fruit. Beyond the Castrum‘ s operating wards rested the newest of the rebirths. These were all people who had freshly implanted augmentations red and raw, swollen in their skin where limb and flesh had been excised. They had no separation, and of the hundred or so, they crowded together in containment cells awaiting the next procedures. Along with the current crowd, a small Elezen youth no older than ten had tucked himself into a distant corner clutching the sore section of his face. Prongs and pliers had stretched and bruised the skin around his eye socket and left his eyelid swollen. When tears welled up naturally from the ache, they came free of the eye in a mix of yellow-red humours from the fresh wound within the socket. He had come here from Gridania. Born with only a single working eye, he had been selected to receive an eye augmentation. The tumor-ridden left eye no longer resided in his skull. The scientists cut it out and implanted the new device with the hope that in a few days the nerves might connect. For now, he was just as blind as he always was, and in far greater pain.

For Viina, it was like a blurring nightmare. One place to the next, not wanting to think ahead, but not wanting to dwell in the past either. Shuffling along always; do what you were told. Eat and sleep on schedule. She kept apart from the others, half by choice, half because she was the only one of her kind - so far at least. No part of her was selfless enough to be truly grateful of that fact; she was terrified and wanting a familiar face somewhere, any where, for some kind of comfort. Her body hurt beneath the thin clothing she had been given; pokes and prods and blood drawing leaving more than a few tender places that even the softest brush of the finest silk would've aggravated. A sniffle was snuffed through her nose, forcing back tears...barely twelve herself, she didn't know how to cope with it. Mutely desperate, she looked around again for something...anything...any-one-...that didn't look scary or beyond approach that would ignore her or shove her aside. That was when she saw him; apart from the others too, little hand cupped to his face and stretch of shadows obscuring most else. It was hard to tell his age, but he couldn't have been far off from her either. Hesitation wiggled in her gut like restless worms before she forced herself to turn and move that way, keeping clear to not run in to someone she aught not. Her shadow would be the first to reach him, for what that was worth. As far back in to his own darkness as he was, it probably did little to add to it. 

And what should she say? 

So she sat down next to him without invitation, bony legs that looked almost too long for her to draw up to her chest.

From the Elezen boy’s point of view, having legs coming and going, dragging by and sitting at random became quickly commonplace in the bunched up spaces they would be moved between. The static sound of constant moaning or crying among other children gave the air no silent moment. The youth had pulled into his own world, shocked, confused, wishing to just go home. Someone had promised him something better than the caves below the dirt, and before he could nod in agreement, his world was black and red. When he realized that the legs were not going to move away from him, he passed a glance, and instantly winced, because the muscles that now tied the device to his skull still had a white-hot ache to them. He tried to keep his eye forward as much as possible, which in itself, was torture.

Viina was passing quick glances at him - flitting little things that made her look incredible nervous and VERY obvious, even though her young child brain was telling her otherwise. At the tautness of his features pulling with the wince though, she felt a huge rush of guilt swell up from her middle, lodging uncomfortably in her chest. She rolled to her side, reaching out a hand with long, delicate fingers that didn’t quite reach him yet - it was just a silent plea for a chance. Her voice was hoarse...maybe from crying or making any a number of other sounds for so long. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. Please don't go."

The young one couldn’t go and couldn’t stay. What was he going to do if he left? What was she going to do? He couldn’t even look back at her because his eye shocked him when he tried. With a cupped hand over his face he could only speak at her. “We can’t go. No one can go. I just wanted to help people. They told me that and then hurt my eye.”

The Viera girl exhaled. She had only meant she didn’t want him to move somewhere else; she hadn’t expected such a hopeless response. No...maybe part of her - a smarter part - had. But on the heels of that came the want to step up...finally speaking out loud to someone. To sound confident -for- them even if she didn’t know them. "Those people, huh." It wasn't a question; they all knew who did the hurting around there. Her hand slowly lowered to balance herself, scooting an ilm or two nearer his side. "What did they..." Trailing off, biting in to her bottom lip. Viina couldn’t be so bold as to ask him what they had done to him. Not when he was still in so much pain from it. "You wanted to help people?" Thinking it was safer. 

His face twisted for a moment when tears welled up again, and instantly burned his whole one side. He couldn't even argue that there was nothing wrong with that eye. "I do. They said I could help people if I went with them. Did they tell you the same thing?"

Brows constricted - another tug of guilt. It might have been so much a safe topic afterall if it only made him cry more. "N-no. It wasn't...like that. I sort of..." A breath in, a breath out. She was a warrior! Warriors could admit they were wrong! That was...that was the right way. So she lifted her chin held high and forced the stammer aside. "I went somewhere I wasn't supposed to. They found me there, but they didn’t ask me anything." Unpuffing herself, head tilting in and down so that she could try and peer at his. She didn't bother to hide this time - nor did she seem to hold on to that common sense that was telling her to mind her words and curiosities "Can I...May I see?"

In a show of trust in this unsure time, he lowered his hand and revealed his face, but his hands shook and he raise his gaze to meet her own. He was devoting all mental energy to not moving his eyes. An ashy complexion and the bruises made it seem like someone had blotted him with black ink here and there. Since the device that had been placed in his hollowed socked could not yet see in its fresh state, his eyelid remained open, yet swollen, around an orb of glassy black.

With her head down, there wasn’t much a need to demand that he look at her. Shock trickled down her spine like icy fingers, thinking at first ‘How cruel!’ before reminding herself of the other horrors they had done. To that, the feeling of wanting to protect surfaced a second time, letting her hold on to focusing on just this one boy rather than the masses; with that focus, she let herself study it...remember it...the dark on only slightly lighter skin tone, the way the skin rose up, angry and inflamed. She wasn't around boys much at all so far in her life. But right then, treating him any way differently than a sister of her own kind would have been wrong. A second time her hand came up setting down touched to the top of his head. "I'm sorry they lied to you." She couldn't say it didn't look bad - it did. She couldn't say it would get better - she didn't know. But she did offer him a tiny little smile. "But...maybe...", a shyness touching her face. "You can help me, if you still want to help somebody?"

When the hand set itself onto his crown, with hair grown long and haphazard, only tossed around more by recent events. Likely, in a few days, it would all be shaved off like the rest of the boys who had come in with longer styles. His hair was white, as all duskwights tended to be. It had an ivory cotton tone. “I-I want to help. What is wrong?”, he asked with a failed attempted to look at her thwarted immediately by a pinch in his skull. Peachy-hued tears welled up in that eye again.

"I'm just - " Viina realized she should have thought it out better, been ready with an answer. It had just popped in to her mind and sounded good at the time! But right then, hearing his voice sad but still willing, the knot got tighter - she couldn’t blunder here! Her smile stretched thin, until a trembling lip was bit between her teeth a second time; harder than the first, turning the skin white. No - she did have an answer afterall and the whole reason she had approached him in the first place. Eyes shut themselves as she did her best to wrestle the expression to look as happy as she could even though she was just a scared lost child too. "I don't know anyone here. Can we be friends?" It was something a naive baby would say...and she wasn’t a baby! But that's what she wanted, honestly. Just one face in the crowd.

A look of surprise wrote itself plainly on his face. He hadn’t seen that response coming - he also wasn’t going to question it. At his age, making friendships was easy and without the bias of adulthood. Without the bias that kept him underground instead of wandering the forest open of Gridania proper watching the healers perform their miraculous spells. “O-okay. Yeah. I don’t know anyone here either. So that’s okay, right?”

"R-right. Yeah, of course!" Her smile turned genuine again even as a prickling started in the corners of her eyes. Relief. That’s what it was...and everything that had before it now just made it almost exhausting. She took her hand from his head, moving it at a slant across her chest to fist at the opposite shoulder in a very sloppy soldier solute. "My name is Viina. Whats yours?"

Somehow, he found a way to make himself tuck in even more so on himself. He seemed hesitant but it would eventually come out. “C-... Clario. S-Sarmantoix. You don’t have to use the last name part. No one else in my family does.” Knobby knees came up to his chest, slender arms wrapping tight around them and hugging them firmly in to place.

"Clario Sar-man-t-..." She wasn’t sure her tongue could wrap around the surname...she had a few unusual ones, but his accent made it all the more a challenge. She wet her lips, a little flushed for the inability to get it out. "Sorry, I may have to skip it after all." In contrast to his drawing in, she opened up; physically and otherwise as words tumbled out. "You're an Elezen, aren’t you? I've seen some before at a distance...I mean, before here. There's quite a few here too. And Hyur and the Roe..Roga-people." Apparently that word was a challenge too. The next moment, she had scooted herself directly at his side, sharing that tiny tucked away place.

“Y-Yeah. We live under the ground, though. You have really long ears for a Miqo’te”, he commented having never known of a Viera in his life. He couldn’t think of any other race that could even come close to having anything similar to the long tuffed ears that poked out from her own mop of messy hair.

"Underground? Why? I bet it smells good - all earthy and fresh! - but so dark! I think the treetops are the best!" There was no missing the longing, if only fleeting as the memory. Looking back at him with twin brown eyes. "Miqo'te? The ones that look like wild cats and hunt too much food?" It came out with a snort. With a shaking of her head to deny his comment, she brushed her ears back as best she could. She’d always been a touch self-conscious about them; even amongst her own kind they were considered far larger than normal for her age, covered in thick dark fur that stuck out every which way as much as her hair did. "I'm a Viera, not a Miqo'te. We live away from your cities, but above ground, in the trees. Every thing we have is a part of them. And it’s a secret." Her eyes got bigger still, dropping her voice to an urgent whisper. "So you cant tell anybody, okay? That's a secret just for us."

Clario’s face scrunched slightly as he tried to take all of that in. “O-okay. I won’t tell anyone. I don’t want to mess anything up”, he said hurriedly not really expecting some demands of this friendship but he would accept anything at this point. He felt comfortable enough knowing he wasn’t alone in this room full of people right now. Talking was distracting him from the ache in his face. “I promise not to tell anyone.”

Her shoulders relaxed...but her ears drooped, this time of their own accord. Though he had readily given his word, he seemed a little confused by it, not to mention that they were -officially- friends now. "I'm sorry. We're not really supposed to talk about it. All the Elders say its really important, because that’s how we stay safe." Following right on that thought, her smile came back. "But I told you and you made it a promise, so I bet once we're out of here, I can take you there too."

Clario looked at her despite the pain it would cause. His young face, wide eye, only one with a gray hue and dark circle pupil stared at her. The glassy eye on the other side showed her reflection, but no life. “You... you think we are going to get out of here?”

Seeing the eye the first time was enough that, now, she didn’t feel so afraid of it. He certainly couldn’t help it, and really, it was almost just like a polished stone from the bottom of a pond. He was just Clario, and one oddity certainly wasn’t going to hurt them or her. Viina’s smile widened even as a hard glint came to her eye. "Of course. Help will come - we wont be abandoned. You can come with me, of you want to, until we can get you home too."

“I’m okay going with you”, he admitted. He curled up again and looked at the ground or any feet that happened to be passing by at the time. “Home is just dirt. And it really doesn’t smell all that great, like you think. I don’t really want to go back. That’s why I told the man that I would help him. It was better than sitting around and doing nothing.”

Ears lifted slightly - an odd half arch. "You mentioned that before...that Those People actually asked you - spoke to you. Wasn’t that scary?" Looking ahead - mostly just grown up legs in various repair of pant types milling around. "What about your dad?" Her own assumptions being that his people would be like her’s...The daughters with their mothers, sons with their fathers.

Clario’s answer came with barely any emotion at all. “I don’t have one” with a shrug of his shoulders. “A lot of us don’t. Or we don’t know who they are.”

"Oh." So very wrong. "What about your mom? Who took care of you?"

Her answer was a long stretch of silence. He only kept his gaze down and didn’t answer directly “She’s not dead”, he said instead.

That drew her attention back, eyebrows up and asking in that childlike blunt way: "What does that mean?"

The defensiveness was immediate when he shrugged again and said with a rushed tone, “I don’t know, okay?” He buried his head in his knees. “Mom said I was an accident and she didn’t want to be my mom. So, she lives near all of us but she doesn’t act like a mom.” He lifted his head up to wipe away a dribbling of tears from his good eye. “Sometimes, the matrons in the forest will give me a cookie if I find them and ask nicely. They are good moms.”

Viina opened her mouth, then closed it. She couldn't..imagine. There were children without parents...but never unwanted. Never treated like an outsider. She ilmed closer, then cautiously put her shoulder against his in a very faint bumping weight. "She missed out. It wasn’t much of an offer, but it was still there. Lots of older people made mistakes, but this one seemed to top them all.

“What do you know”, he muttered. His head dipped down into his knees again, a bony little chin wedged between the thin fabric covering them. “I can’t do anything cool or good. I can’t hunt, I can’t color, I can’t sing. I can’t do anything.”

She thought about it. "I can’t shoot a bow. I can’t run fast as my sisters cause I'm so short. I tried to weave a basket once and it was so bad that it broke as soon as they put an apple inside of it. Everybody laughed. But...I'm good at being me. And some time I'll find something else I'm good at. I bet we could find something you're good at too.", peeking at him from the corner of her eye. "You helped me, after all. I don't feel lonely any more now. That’s something.”

“At least I helped someone”, Clario said quietly. “I want to help more people. When the men said I could help, I said I wanted to help heal people. They said I could so... when I can heal lots of people, and you can shoot arrows and run fast, I can help you, too. Okay?”

Broke the grin, twisting at her middle to rest on her hip, facing torso towards him. "Deal." She held her arm up in front of her, bent at the elbow, hand opened as if waiting for him to clasp it. "We'll be the best team ever and then nobody can say we cant do anything again!"

He smiled for the first time. Small, but there. He reached out carefully to grip her hand in agreement. "D-deal”, he affirmed.

Nodded once, firmly, giving his hand a little squeeze before releasing it. "We'll just have to hang tough until they get us. Or maybe we can do one better...bust ourselves out! Maybe everyone and then we can all be free again to do what we want."

He smiled fully now. With a hardy nod, he agreed to this. “Okay, I promise I’ll help as much as I can.”

"I trust you." As much as any child could with a friend...which was pretty much immediate and heartfelt. She returned to her settled in place next to him, though he could note that her shoulder still remained touched to his. "How...how long ago did that man come see you?"

He shrugged quietly. Time became a blur in here where the sun never reached them. “I don’t know...”, he began to try to answer but an announcement rang overhead. A woman spoke, gruff and stern, “Attention. All are to report to the lower hall. You will be showered and cleaned up for mealtime. That is all.”

Looked up at the voice rang out...then promptly stuck her tongue out and blew a raspberry. "Oh boy...stinky water and bleh food. I wonder where they get the meat in there cause it tastes days spoiled." Her hand appeared next to him again - she had gotten to her feet but remained slightly hunched to offer him assistance up too.

“It is weird that they eat bad meat here. I usually just pick around it if the big men aren’t watching”, he said while getting up and staggering a bit from being weak-kneed from sitting. They would have to go to the mess hall now, as the disembodied voice had announced, but at least they did so as new friends.

For the moment, their biggest fear was the mystery of whatever the meat on their plates would be and how empty their bellies would be for skipping it.