#I'm not posting this on ffn or ao3 til it's turn.

[fountainpenguin]

"If you wanna stay young, get both feet in it! 18 'til I die!" (x)

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6 years ago I posted this art on my blog, and now it's finally time to share the story that goes with it! New Origin of the Pixies chapter today!

Chapter 42 - “The Unicorn Years”

Read on FFN || Read on AO3

Start from Chapter 1

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Today's the day that Sanderson celebrates his adult wings… By which I mean it's the day that H.P. celebrates Sanderson's adult wings. I'm not getting ANY flashbacks to how Ambrosine treated H.P. when HE was young. Come say hello to the newest adult in the cloudlands (and party on)!

(First 1,000 words under the cut)

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The Unicorn Years

Autumn of the Murky Roots

I have to confess, it amused me how mortified Sanderson was to have his first real birthday party. He'd always been a difficult nut to crack. I knew of little that could fluster him. Of all the things to do it, it would be a birthday celebration. To my own surprise, I actually didn't mind the event… or the shifting of attention from me to him. Let him have his day. Things would be back to routine again soon enough.

"Are you still sore?" I asked when I fetched him from his apartment that morning. Hawkins and I had already started cooking breakfast in the other building. It wasn't like Sanderson to be late when it was his turn to help. Granted, at 159k myself, I'd been a loudmouthed rebel- but Sanderson? Nah. He was too dependable to bail on me without a two weeks' notice.

… Huh. I'd been 174,000 when I fled the Academy, jumping from Fairy World to Earth. I was over 491,500 when I came crawling back. And over 650,000 now, though Venus Eros had worked the best magic on my body that she could in an attempt to keep me youthful. How strange. A full 650k years of life experience under my belt, and sometimes I still felt only as mature as that sharp-tongued little "fairy" juvenile who dropped out of school. This body that I wore had been twisted up, dunked in the wash, scrubbed with bleach, and hung to dry again. I lived now on extremely borrowed time and Venus held my leash in the palm of her hand. That's not a favor I can ever repay. I am in her debt for the rest of my existence, and I suspect the rest of the pixie race is too. Which is just peachy. Love that for me.

"Incredibly sore, sir," Sanderson mumbled. He gripped my forearm with both hands, every step slow and wobbly as we made our way through the apartment hall. He'd put on fluffy snowflake socks that I didn't remember ever seeing him in before. No shoes. Still had his casual clothes on. His heels scraped along the thin carpet, scritching and scratching.

"It will pass."

Sanderson glanced over his shoulder at his new long, sweeping wings. I drank him in too. He's grown several inches taller than he'd been as a mere juvenile. Not quite as tall as I was, but getting closer. His wings now matched mine in length, though mine glittered transparent blue. His were tender, still smudged and milky-colored from the moulting. They reminded me in their haunting way of that afternoon nearly 160,000 years ago when Kalysta held him to her breast, nursing him until the flight casings cracked off his wings. He said, "The return to normalcy can't come soon enough, H.P.… I don't think I've ever ached this harsh in my life."

I trailed my eyes to his again. Sanderson, weak and winded, hadn't put on his shades. Those little lavender flecks looked just like mine. How strange. As a gyne, I was bulkier and more freckled than he was, but we shared every single one of our genes. We even shared the Ivorie brand cowlicks in our hair.

"That's only to be expected," I told him (in response to his complaint about the soreness). "You've just shed every pore on your body and put on several inches. The elasticity in your new skin isn't fully developed yet. Things will hurt more than you're used to. That goes for both inside and out. Be careful."

I didn't pressure him to help with breakfast, and especially not when he kept scratching off flakes of skin. His scalp had gotten the worst of it, so he kept pulling off little flakes from around his hair follicles. The younger pixies badgered him constantly about his new shape when he arrived at the pavilion. I had 320 of them now. 320 pixies who left me dripping with exhaustion and insanity every other day. Pregnancy had dealt a heavy blow to my once-youthful body, even though I didn't carry them the way that Fairy drakes did, but so far, Venus's medical intervention was winning. Hadn't died yet. And when we were in the pavilion and I sat across from Sanderson with my plate… it almost seemed a guarantee.

159,426 years.

Sanderson had his adult wings now. I'd known it was coming. Not the date, but I was just over 154,000 when I moulted into mine. He'd used less magic growing up than I did, aging more slowly because of it, but apart from that minor delay, our shedding patterns seemed nearly identical.

159,426. His inner organs, up until now the size of raisins in his tiny juvenile body, finally had room to grow. Exactly 500 years from now, he'd be fully fledged. Capable of reproducing… Well, if he were a Fairy, at least. I wasn't sure how things worked for pixies… I hadn't had Sanderson until I was almost 490k. Would his body draw the time out equally long? Or would there be third-generation pixies just a few centuries from now?

Three generations. My employees with offspring of their own. Yikes. Was I getting that old?

Bayard, holding little Featherstone (who scrambled over him), let out a whistle as Sanderson clumsily tried to push his new, longer legs between the picnic table and its bench. "Well, moulting sure acts fast. Your hips have already gotten wider, studmuffin."

"Have they?" Sanderson lifted his shirt and started to check himself over. I yanked it down down.

"Not here. Wait until you're alone."

"Yes, sir."

I contacted the Eroses during breakfast. Drk. Cupid answered my call, but he and his brothers had their hands full of work. That was fine by me. I was just glad a responsible adult - Drk. Ludell - poofed out in their place with his clipboard and wooden examination tools. Sanderson protested his probing, still wanting to eat his breakfast, but I held firm.

"Stay here and let him run his tests. You're the first adult pixie besides myself the Eros family has ever been able to observe. I need to get in contact with your Refract anyway. While I'm gone, show due respect to the Triplet of the Evening. He's overworked and underhyped."

Sanderson rolled his eyes, but that was the most youthful rebellion I saw from him.

[Cnt'd on FFN / AO3 - Links at top]

[streakyglasses]

i'm only up when you're not down

Chris is on her third 5-mile shift of the Dusk 'til Dawn relay when it becomes undeniably clear that something is wrong. She seizes the opportunity to get Street to talk to Hondo.

for @jules817

post 2x5, platonic Stris, concerned team, aftermath of the fight on the boat.

read on ao3, ffn, or below the cut

Chris is on her third 5-mile shift when it becomes undeniably clear that something is wrong. 

-x-

The adrenaline from the cruise kept her going, and Annie’s energy balls and painkillers made the come down less painful than she thought it would be. Even if she felt twinges in her ribs or a caught breath here and there throughout the first two turns, there was more than enough time once she was back in the van to get some water and relax. 

With how wired all of her body was, the water getting harder to swallow went unnoticed. She chalked up her waning focus on Luca’s voice to her own concentration process. When Tan jumped back in the van and Deacon swapped with him, he slung an arm around her shoulders, but it was dark enough that everyone missed the way she winced. 

“Alright, Chris,” Luca said, right before she hopped out. His hands were rubbing her shoulders like he’s a champion coach, but the vibration from that paired with the uneven ground made her feel like she’s going to puke. He said something about maintaining an even pace, and it was all she could do to nod and give him a thumbs up. Deacon had caught up to the open side-door anyway, so there’s not much else she had a chance to say before her feet were again on the desert ground. 

-x-

At first, her body slips back into the rhythm like it’s trained to do. Her arms pump and she exhales every left stride, and it feels okay, if exhausting. But then, somewhere between an LAFD squad passing her and mile 4, she can’t breathe. 

Her first thought is that it’s a cramp, and if she just pushes through she’ll be fine. Instead, the pain only continues to grow. The lights from the vans start to streak. She’s knocked off her rhythm into stumbling, uneven strides that go more from left-to-right than straight forward. Blinking doesn’t help her see the path more clearly and, really, only serves to add more fuzz to the edges of her vision. 

Chris stops. Fingers claw at her turtleneck, and somewhere deep in her subconscious she wonders who convinced her the extra protection from the elements was worth this trouble as she hacks through another short breath because it’s all she can produce. Wind rushes over her ears as other people race past her. Someone in the distance is calling her name. Her watch is beeping. But she can’t clearly make out any of it because she can’t fucking breathe. 

A last attempt to start running again sends her crashing to the ground. Everything goes black. 

-x-

As much as Street wishes he were racing with 20-Squad, getting to support them and hang out with Devlin and Stevens in the extra van isn’t anything he can complain about. They run to replenish coolers whenever any of the other SWAT vans stop, and it’s clear there’s as much of a race between the two of them as between 20 and 50 Squads. 

He can’t help it if he always makes the break towards 20 Squad’s van first. There’s so much adrenaline pumping that even Luca can’t refrain from smiling and joking like they did before. Chris is quieter than normal, but she throws him easy smiles when she hears his voice and it warms him through. 

The only time he doesn’t get out of the van first is when she’s the one running. He’s too busy keeping his eyes on her slender form to notice anything else. It’s easy to lose her in the mess of people and headlights, but somehow his eyes always find her again, and he can’t help but be grateful for their relationship, for her. Knowing how hard she’s fought for his second chance is what keeps him motivated. 

Knowing her is how he knows that something is wrong. 

It’s impossible to tell at first but quickly becomes clear she’s having trouble, and he locks his focus on her so everything else blurs in the background. One arm wraps around her stomach like she needs to protect it and the other comes up to her neck. He sees her form start to falter, uneasy steps coming to a swaying stop. Somehow, he just manages to tell Devlin to call for a medic before Chris takes one more step and collapses.

Street’s blood rushes in his ears. All the excitement that was coursing through him turns to fear on a dime. People are yelling, seemingly a million other first responders trying to assess the situation, but he ignores them to get to her side. The rest of 20-Squad is behind him, he knows, because those are the only voices his brain takes the time to recognize. Limbs are flying. He catches an elbow to his side and is sure he gives more than a few back. Whatever it takes to break through the mass of people and see her face. 

When he finally makes it, her complete stillness sends him right back to the outside of the hotel as they waited for the atropine to kick in. 

She was fine then. His brain tells him, some modicum of comfort. But then, at least, he knew what the fuck happened. He’s never seen Chris so much as hiccup from trying to catch her breath after training. 

“Everybody, back up!” Luca’s booming voice commands. The crowd parts like the sea in response, allowing the rest of the team to kneel around her. 

“Her pulse is racing.” Deacon says. It drags Street’s focus from her face to the rest of her for the first time, and his mind runs back through everything he observed. 

“It looked like she was struggling to breathe. Did anything happen?” 

He glares sharply at the team, waiting. 

“She and the suspect got into it on the boat. I asked after, she said she was good. Other than that, nothing.” 

Squeezing his eyes shut, he thinks again. His stomach sinks as, with the gentlest touch he has, he pulls at the neckline of her top to reveal deepening bruises around her neck. 

Tan gasps as Street clenches his fists. 

“She said he had her for a few seconds, but that it wasn’t anything to worry about.” 

“Well, it clearly is!” Street shouts, any sense of calm leaving his body. A groan from Chris pulls all of their attention to her before anyone can respond. 

“Less than 20 seconds,” Deacon murmurs, then turns and yells it to Devlin. 

The desert ground is cool under her fingers as they dig in and try to bring her back to the living. All Chris is aware of is how much everything hurts. How much noise is around her. She wants to sit up but doesn’t get very far when her lungs and throat protest again, squeezing the air through her until she chokes. 

“No, no, hey.” Street says, voice comforting to her muddled brain even as his words shake. His hand takes hers and he relaxes when her fingers curl around his. It takes all her effort to open her eyes and look up at the team. A sea of other people stand around them. When she realizes, her instincts kick in, not wanting to be looked at by strangers. 

Panic flickers in her eyes, and Street is unwavering in his demand for everyone to give her some space. Tan and Hondo urge the crowd to go back to their own rest stops, and Mumford and Rocker join the cause. Her head lolls to the side and her neck twinges but seeing people walking away makes it that much easier for her heart to slow down. 

“Medic should be here any second, Chris,” Luca promises. She nods even though her ears are ringing so loud his words are almost indistinguishable. The ground is uncomfortable and she tries again to sit up. 

“No, Chris,” Street begs, terrified she’s going to hurt herself worse. “Please just stay where you are. Do you remember what happened?”

Luca and Deacon share a sideways glance, while Street keeps his focus solely on her face. The bandage on the cut on her cheek is dirty and sweaty and he carefully peels it off once searching his pockets produces a band-aid. Like she’s wading through quicksand, Chris tries to think back and piece together the past however-long it’s been, but all that does is bring renewed awareness to the pain that radiates over every inch of her. The hand not in Street’s snakes to the bottom of her shirt. 

“Couldn’t breathe,” she murmurs, less concern in her voice than there should be over that fact. She squints, hoping the words come to her to describe the feeling. They don’t, and she gets out a small, slurred, “hurts.” 

“What hurts, Chris?” Deacon asks. Her shoulders shrug and she winces at the movement of her neck. They see how her hand keeps ghosting over her stomach, and Deacon takes it in his while Street keeps hold of the other. The crowd has dissipated and the sound of an engine in the distance starts to make itself known so Tan and Hondo return to her side just as Luca pushes up the fabric to expose a few inches of her skin. 

What’s normally tan is varying shades of angry red and mottled blues and purples. The bruises wrap around her sides and disappear up under her shirt where they can’t see. She hisses in pain at Luca’s touch and he drops his hands immediately, turning around to share a look with Hondo. Tension hovers over them thick enough to cut with a knife. Anger burns hot in Street’s chest that would be uncontrollable if Chris’s features weren’t marred with ropes of pain that he tries to soothe away with a constant stream of easy words. 

Pulling to a stop, paramedics jump from the back of the ambulance with a stretcher and bags of supplies thrown over their backs. Most of the team steps back, but Street refuses to leave her side as questions start flying. 

“Hey, I’m Lucy. That’s Evan. Do you know your name?”

“Chris.” She answers, voice small and scratchy. Lucy’s fingers are cold where they take her pulse, and Evan’s are cold where they’re carefully maneuvering her into a brace. Street’s are warm, and she squeezes him tighter.

“Good. Do you know what happened?” 

The stars in the sky seem to get brighter as Chris recounts through broken sentences that there was a fight, and then repeats for what feels like the hundredth time that she couldn’t breathe.

“Dusk till Dawn,” Tan supplies. “She was on mile 13 or 14 and she collapsed.” 

Lucy stops checking Chris’s pupil reaction to gaze up at the men. 

“She got into it with a suspect a few hours ago and didn’t get medical clearance before running?” 

Her tone is accusatory, and Street’s grateful that someone’s saying what he can’t. For what it’s worth, Hondo steps up, clearing his throat although there’s worry in his eyes. 

“She was checked out by medics on sight and told them she felt fine. Protocol cleared her of a concussion or needing to be seen in a medical facility.” 

“Did you tell those medics you were all planning to run a 12-hour marathon?” Lucy cuts through the night air. 

“Lu—” Evan interrupts. Chris’s vision swims and her grip starts to loosen in Street’s as another wave of exhaustion overcomes her. 

“I’m fine. Water and I can run.” She croaks, the absence of anyone else around telling her the race has resumed. Lucy meets her gaze and softens her features into a smile. She reaches behind her to align the stretcher next to Chris’s body. 

“You’re out of the race for tonight so we can get you checked out at the hospital. You can help move her?” Lucy asks Street, gaze sharp. Once he realizes who she’s talking to, he nods and gingerly sets Chris’s hand by her side. 

“Yeah,” he confirms. His hands find their way underneath her side to lift when Lucy says, and the three get her onto the bright orange board. The movement jostles her, but she’s too fuzzy to recognize what’s going on and only realizes how empty her hand feels without the weight of Street’s. 

“You coming with?” Lucy looks at Street again. It’s a relief as much as it makes his heart skip at it being assumed. Evan’s talking to the rest of the team but he misses it over the blood rushing in his ears. Finished, the two lift the stretcher to get Chris settled in the ambulance. Despite the fire churning in his stomach, he turns back to look at the team, not caring about their distraught gazes.

“She’d be pissed if you forfeited. At least finish the fucking relay.”

With that, Street climbs into the ambulance and resumes his position on Chris’s side. Lucy and Evan close the doors and start working quickly to measure her vitals again and ask more questions about the date and the President that she can answer.

 Left in the desert, Mumford and Rocker look on at the scene. Street’s always been fiery, but he’s never sworn at senior officers before. Shaking it off, Luca looks back at the stopped van and waves over the other officers inside. 

“Devlin, lace up. We’re behind, but we’re bringing this home for Chris.”

-x-

By the time they get to the hospital, Chris is whisked away by another team of doctors and nurses, but Lucy’s assuring Street she seems to be okay. 

“They’ll need to get some images to look for internal damage, but her pupils were responsive and she didn’t lose consciousness again. She definitely should not have been running with those injuries, though, and she’s dehydrated. She’s tough, most people wouldn’t have lasted nearly as long as she did, as stupid as it was. My best guess, they’ll keep her tonight and maybe tomorrow, and she’ll need the rest of the week off.” 

He thanks her profusely, leaning into when she squeezes his bicep before jumping back into the ambulance and muttering something about SWAT officers and heroism. With no one to talk to and Chris in the hands of the hospital, his own exhaustion hits him. Fury at the team starts to eat away at his chest once more for not making sure she was okay. 

They know her too well to not notice.

But the anger turns to guilt when he realizes he didn’t notice anything right away either. She seemed like her perfectly normal self once they got back to HQ. Even her lack of quips during the race he thought were more likely her needing some time to zone in as opposed to a symptom of a larger issue. 

He’s knocked out of his thoughts by his phone ringing. It’s high and loud against the otherwise unbroken air of the hospital waiting room, and he jumps to answer it. 

“Street.”

“Hey, it’s Deacon. How is she?” 

“I don’t know,” he spits, voice like knives when his fury flares up again before he can get it under control. Squeezing his thumb and exhaling to the count of four, he tries again. 

“I don’t know. They took her for imaging. Paramedic said she’d probably be here until tomorrow night if not the following morning.”

“Alright,” Deacon says, and it’s clear there’s something he isn’t saying. “Keep us updated. As soon as it hits six, we’re leaving here and heading there. We’ll bring your go-bag.” 

“Got it. Thanks.” 

He has to wait another hour and a half before anyone comes to get him, fingers drumming his thighs the whole time. His constant scanning of the waiting room pays off when he sees the nurse at the desk pointing a doctor in his direction. A rush hits him as he stands, but he refuses to let anything get in the way of seeing her as soon as he can. 

“Doctor Hall. You’re here with Officer Alonso?” The doctor reaches out for a handshake that Street returns, hoping she can’t feel his hand trembling. 

“Yeah. Officer Street. How is she?” 

Closing the chart, Doctor Hall starts walking down the hallway to talk and Street is quick to follow. 

“Overall, she’s okay. There’s soft tissue swelling and obviously the bruising on her neck and torso, but no significant internal injuries that are cause for concern. We’re monitoring the swelling through tomorrow night to make sure it doesn’t get worse, and we’ve given her some pain meds and fluids for the dehydration.”

“Her breathing?” He asks, worried. Doctor Hall nods. 

“The stress of running on top of her injuries caused her inability to breathe. As long as she takes it easy these next few days, it should be a one-time incident. She should be back to a hundred percent in about a week or so.” 

They come to a stop outside a closed door. The handle is cool in Street’s sweaty grip, his heart starting to race. Before he opens it, he looks back at Doctor Hall. 

“Can she talk?” 

“Yes, just no hours-long conversations, okay? She’s going to be alright.” 

His heart twinges at the idea that she isn’t alright, but the words are also like a reassuring salve that help him take a deep breath. With a final smile, Doctor Hall walks away, and he gently presses the door open. 

She’s sitting in the hospital bed, workout clothes traded for a light blue gown that contrasts against the bruises on her neck. The rest of her is covered with a blanket, and the constant beep of a heart monitor fills the room. Her eyes open at the sound of the door, smiling small when she sees him. 

“Hey,” she says, voice hoarse. It makes him wince but he carries on to take the chair next to her bed, eyes flicking between her hand and her face.

“Hey. It’s good to see you.” He tries for levity but they can both tell how upset he is. Breaking the barrier, she sets her hand on his and squeezes. “How do you feel?” 

“Better now,” she nods small. “No pain.” 

“Good,” Street exhales. “God, you scared us. Why didn’t you tell someone you couldn’t run?” 

Pursuing her lips, Chris says she was fine. 

“Really. Normal takedown, comedown. I thought the run would be fine.” 

He can’t help the huff of a laugh that escapes as he shakes his head, flipping his hand around so they’re palm to palm. Her skin is warm against his, but callused and slightly dry from the desert air. Even with the pulse monitor reading in bright green, his fingers search over her delicate veins to take it himself. Steady. 

“We need to discuss your definition of fine at some point.” 

Chris rolls her eyes but feels warmth crawl up her stomach. She doesn’t let go. 

“Nothing fluids and Advil won’t fix.” 

Shaking his head, he murmurs that she’s unbelievable, but there’s no edge to his tone. The relief of seeing that she’s okay overpowers everything else. 

“It’s generally better to take those steps before you land in a hospital bed.” 

“I know,” she agrees with downcast eyes. “It really wasn’t intentional.” 

Unable to stay mad at her, he squeezes her hand softly and says he knows. 

“We’re just worried.” 

“We?” The meds have taken the edge off, but she’s pretty sure they haven’t made her that loopy she’d be unaware of other people in the room with them. She stretches to look behind him, wincing. 

“Hey, easy.” Street settles her. “The team, and 50-Squad. They’ll be here at dawn. Figured you’d at least want them to finish the race.” 

“Ah, got it. You’re right.” 

He lights up like a Christmas tree and she rolls her eyes. Another swell of exhaustion hits her, and she sinks back into the pillows when she yawns. He doesn’t want to let her go but he does to pull the blanket up higher on her torso and adjust the pillows behind her head. After, he’s buzzing with energy, looking for anything else she might need, and she takes his hand again to stop him.

“You know what would make me feel better?” 

“Hmm?” His gaze finds hers right away, anxious. 

“If you talked to Hondo.” 

“Chris—”

“Not right now,” she relents, though she raises her eyebrows. “But soon.” 

Street sighs, neither willing to break their gaze first. 

“Maybe,” he says. It’s not what she hoped but it’s better than his stonewalling. She gives him a tired smile. 

“That’s low, you know.” He continues, smiling at her shrug of feigned innocence. 

“I want you having my six on real ops again.” 

She lets her thought trail off even though she has more to say, the rest of her energy leaving her. He doesn’t try to keep her engaged in conversation but the care she has for him runs like a fire through his inside as hid mind fills in all the blank space. Wishing there was more he could do, he settles on giving her hand another squeeze. 

“Okay,” he says. It’s not a promise, but it feels enough like one and neither of them miss that. There’s a small knock on the door that interrupts them and a nurse enters. 

“Officers. How are you, Chris?” 

“Fine,” Chris says, catching the way Street side eyes her. The nurse smiles and makes a few notes in her chart before checking her IV bags and turning down the volume on the beeping. 

“Everything looks good for now. Someone will be back in about an hour. If you need something sooner, hit the call button.” 

She dims the lights, a clear indication that Chris is supposed to be resting, and leaves them with a smile. Street shuts off the small lamp by her bed, too, swathing them in a low yellow. 

“You should get some rest. It’s been an exciting day. I’m glad you’re okay.”

The air is thick with sincerity, and Chris nods small. 

“Me, too. Thanks for being here. You’ll stay?”  

“Course,” Street promises. His free hand reaches for his back pocket. “Let me just call the team real quick. I’ll be right back.” 

She nods again and lets him go. Her mind is too tired to piece through her thoughts, but the one undeniable thing is that she’s content, and she files that away for later. Without him next to her, she burrows back into the blanket for extra warmth, and she’s asleep before he gets back. 

Team updated, Street quietly opens the door and smiles at her sleeping frame. He takes the same chair and holds her hand in his, fingers resting over her pulse point. Phone in his other hand, he goes between staring at her face and the screen, trying to drum up the faith in himself that she, somehow, still has. Hondo’s name sits at the top of a new message thread. A clean slate. Terrifying, but exciting. 

Can we talk?

He locks his phone but it buzzes not two minutes later. He’s surprised how quick Hondo replies, but any sense of whose turn it would be to run left him when they got to the hospital hours ago. With a deep breath, he looks at Chris’s face one more time and tells himself it’s going to fine. Better than fine. He’s going to fix this. He unlocks his phone, and smiles.  

Sure thing, Kid. You just let me know where and when. 

[jehilew]

In today’s edition of Jessi Spoils Her ‘She’s…’ Readers

This is a thing I wrote around Christmas, and it has been killing me not to show it to everyone. Because it is seriously adorable. And I have less than zero ability to just sit on finished work. I was still pretty iffy about sharing, because it’s pretty far into the series and a good sized spoiler, but @roguesboobfreckles a.k.a. the world’s worst enabler, had the goddamn nerve to point out that I hadn’t started this thing in a linear fashion to begin with, anyway, and that everyone already knows this is a Romy-gets-their-sunset fic, so what’s one more teeny tiny lil’ peek at the relationship endgame, eh??? It’s not like I’m anywhere even close to giving up any big plot points running the series, so??? Anyway, go thank her if you like being so spoiled, because she’s actually the very best.

Also, the song Remy is singing? It’s ‘Catch A Falling Star’ by Perry Como. My grandpapa used to sing it to me and my cousins when we were little, so it’s always got it’s spot with me.

‘Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…

Except this old rat, anyway. And the young'in on my shoulder, fightin’ sleep with all five pounds, thirteen ounces of her being. So really, Anna’s the only one sawin’ any logs around here tonight. It’s alright, though, me and the little one here, we gonna hang tight for a bit. Anna’s already been up with her, and now that the little bit’s tanked up and boob drunk, I’ve got her so Anna can get some sleep.

Nora turns her tiny, scrunched up face into my chest and squirms herself clear down to my belly, making all those little hissy noises that always herald a good squallin’ fit. “Non, non, chere-baby, none of that cryin’ eh?” I scoop her up just as she lets out a little shriek. “My pretty little Cotton-ears, come back up here and listen to your papa sing y’ favorite song, yeah?”

Adjusting the blanket back over her, I start hummin’ this song that’d stuck with me, something I’d heard coming off of Anna’s playlist the night our girl was born. Nora can’t hear me, found out a bit over a week ago that she’s deaf as they come, but it don’t matter none. I’ve put this little lady to sleep many times over the past three weeks just like this. It ain’t the sound of my voice she’s lookin’ for, it’s the vibrations in my chest, the thump of my heart, the rush of my breath, the empathic connection, things she can feel is usually what settles her down with me.

“Shh, shh, bebe,” I shush right over her ear, flinging myself wide open to her, projecting all the love and warmth I can throw at her, but she ain’t havin’ it, and starts sputtering and rootin’ around on me.

So much for being tanked up, yeah?

Nora pulls in a shaky little breath and tries to lift her head, lookin’ for the world like it’s about to roll clean off her shoulders, and sniffles a couple of times. I reach up to steady her (goddamn, she’s so little, her head don’t even fill up the palm of my hand!), leaning forward a bit to kiss her bright, orangey-red hair. She squawks again, kickin’ out her legs and throwing her head into my cheek.

“Ah, now, lookin’ to eat again so soon?” I swear it, Nora’s like a tick on Anna’s tit, much as she nurses. “C'mon, little milk monster,” I hike her up on my shoulder and get up out of the chair, “let’s you and me go look in the fridge, see if maybe your mama left y’ something to eat, neh?”

Nora screws up her face and lets it rip, turning red as a Coke can before she pulls her next breath, and fusses all the way to the kitchen, and through every second of me getting her milk out of the fridge and into a bottle.

“Catch a fallin’ star and put it in y’ pocket, never let it fade away,” I go back to that song, giving the bottle a low charge to heat up the milk, “catch a fallin’ star and put it in y’ pocket, save it for a rainy day.” I pause to kiss the side of her head. “Snowy days work for you, ma petite etoile filante? ‘Cause that’s all it’s doin’ out there tonight, yeah?”

Nora don’t let up a beat, screamin’ her little heart out at me. Chuckling, I give her another smooch over ear and check the milk’s temperature with a drop on the inside of my wrist. “Alright, Nora-chere, let’s get you this bottle, yeah? Maybe that make you happy?”

I talk to her all the way back into the living room, her squallin’ with every step I take. After I get us situated in the chair again, and Nora’s happily chowin’ down, I lean my head back and close my eyes, humming that song, feeling both of us relaxing and settling in.

Shit, I’m tired. Ain’t nobody ever lied when they said a newborn don’t sleep. Nora’s up about every couple of hours, ‘round the clock, needing a diaper change and lookin’ to eat. And by eat, I mean stay on Anna sometimes a handful of hours on end, nursing and napping in spurts til that woman’s about to lose it for some sleep.

That’s where I been comin’ in. Anna’s been bringin’ the baby to bed so she could maybe get some sleep that way, but Nora, soon as she pops off the boob, she’ll decide about two seconds later that she ain’t done at the all-night-buffet after all. Every now and again, like tonight, she really is still a bit hungry, but most of the time, she’s just lookin’ for someone to snuggle up into, so I been gettin’ up with her. It ain’t the most ideal situation, I don’t guess, but seein’ as how Nora doesn’t like to be put down, this is what’s gettin’ us all the most sleep around here.

I really ain’t complainin’ too loudly, though. Never thought I’d get any of this, and look at me now, eh? I can’t help smiling a little at that, 'cause guaranteed, there’s a fuckload of folks who’d shit themselves out if they saw me now, happily up all night at the beck and call of an itty-bitty dictator.

Heh, they ain’t even seen the best of it yet- Raven’s been hidin’ all along a mother-hen streak as wide as her life is long, and in her eyes, Nora can do absolutely no wrong. And she looks “just like my Anna-Marie”. (Except she don’t- 'tite-chere’s got the shape of my eyes and my chin. And don’t even get me goin’ on the whole, 'my Anna-Marie’ bit. Raven’s forever on my shitlist for her treatment of Anna.)

It don’t take long for Nora’s guzzling to turn to faint sucking noises, and I lift my head to find her eyes closed and her lips lax, dribbling milk everywhere. “Alright, little bit,” I murmur low, taking the bottle away and easing her up on her belly, “c'mon up here wit’ your papa, and lets you and me go night-night, yeah?”

A couple of thumps on her back later, and Nora burps, stretches, and curls up right in the middle of my chest, her ear over my heart, her little humped-up back curved into my hand, completely tapped out for the next little while. Reachin’ up to cup the back of her head, I lean over to kiss her.

“Catch a fallin’ star and put it in y’ pocket, save it for a rainy day,” I sing low into that bright head, “for when your troubles start multiplyin’, and they just might, it’s easy to forget them without tryin’, with just a pocketful of starlight…”

I finish out the song, just…just starin’ at her. Nora Poppy. All orange fluff, big, blue eyes, and her ears full of cotton. She’s beautiful, perfect, and she’s mine. How the hell I’d managed to spawn such a sweet, cute little thing…

She didn’t get any of that from me, that’s all her mama. I’ll make damn sure she don’t get none of the hell I did, either. Or any of what Anna’d caught, for that matter. Nothing but the very best for this little one, neh?

That still trips me up, that I’ve got a kid, I’m someone’s papa. Hell, I’d given up on this kind of thing ever happening for me, what with all the shit muckin’ up my past. Then, along comes Anna, and she don’t care about any of that, but was lookin’ like she didn’t ever want any kids, so it was still a no-go… Til she goes and decides she wants a baby, after all, gets knocked up on the first try, and just a handful of weeks later, gets a lung-full of terrigen mist. Seven months after that, here comes Nora, who for all counts, shouldn’t have even survived the mist, or at least not without severe complications. Or the meds Anna’d needed just to stay alive, herself…

I’m a real lucky bastard right now, to have gotten it all in the end, anyway- the incredible woman snoring in the back room, grouchy, desperate for sleep, and alive, and this tiny little thing keepin’ me up all hours of the night, and her only complication is she’s deaf.

Naw, I ain’t complainin’ a bit. I’ll take it all, and just fuckin’ live in it. Especially since we’re one and done. Whatever chances of more babies the mist might’ve left us, Anna’s medication took care of. Nora’s it us.

“You’re my very own fallin’ star, yeah?” I ask her, lightly runnin’ my thumb over the top of her head. Nora don’t even stir, just keeps on drooling a wet spot on my shirt while cuttin’ the tiniest snores I ever heard. “Ah, ma chere-baby,” I smile real big down at her, “you sleep just like your mama, she does the same thing, snoring and droolin’ all over your papa.” I pause, feelin’ that smile go a bit quiet, while at the same time, feelin’ like I’m about to either choke on my heart or my breath, 'cause my chest ain’t big enough for both right now. “Your mama, she’s my other fallin’ star, you know that? It’s just you two for this old boy.”

Nora’s lips twitch and her tongue clucks as she makes a few sucking movements with her mouth, like she’s nursing, finishing it off with a snore. Goddamn, she’s adorable! And it’s moments like this right here, where she’s passed out a squishy little heap on my chest, that I don’t give a fuck if I don’t ever sleep again if it means I can stretch this time out with her just a little longer, 'cause it’s all only for a short little while, anyway…

“You two’s more than enough, though,” I tell her, layin’ my head back, eyes closed and smiling. “Give me my two fallin’ stars to love on, and I’m a happy man, no?”

Catch a couple of fallin’ stars, my ass; more like they both dropped in on me, smashed me flat, and lit up my whole fuckin’ world.

Never say I don’t love you people, okay?? 💕

[captainmeowvelwrites]

You Times Two (Ch.9)

Pairing: Marinette/Ladybug | Adrien/Chat Noir Words: 4345 Summary: Ladybug knew this was necessary. She was the Guardian. He had the Cat Miraculous. But when his suit evaporated in a glow of pale green, she sure hadn’t expected him to have something far more precious: her heart. Cross-posted: AO3 and FFN

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | ...

Recap: Previously, on You Times Two… Maribug was a bit of a depresso espresso, what with the impending Adrigami date and fifth wheeling her friends. That is, until our favourite dude cheered her up with pizza, turtle talk and some good ol’ Mario Kart. Of course, her kitty-cat’s banana puns might’ve helped a smidge. But will dustings of Adrigami continue to throw her off? And when Chilluka rocks up, will Jealadrien be far behind?

---

Chapter Nine

An hour after Adrien's slippery ascent to victory, they turned to Ultimate Mecha Strike III for some more hearty butt-whooping.

With one final zap of an energy beam, the words "KAGAMI WINS" flashed across the screen, and her crimson mecha-tank launched a clawed fist in the air.

"Aw maaan!" Nino dumped his controller on the coffee table. "How could I lose to a total noob?" He froze. "Uh – No offence! You did good, dudette – I mean Kagami!"

Alya clutched her stomach, her cheeks red from laughing. "Nice one, Kagami! You – You really got him good with that – ah – that triple kick hyperstorm combo!"

"Yeah, Kagami!" Adrien nudged her shoulder with his own. "Only your third game and already you're winning!"

Marinette gave a thumbs up. "You're a natural."

Kagami threaded a strand of hair behind her ear, the slightest of blushes grazing her cheeks. "Thank you, everyone. I couldn't have won without Marinette's expert teaching." She bowed her head, her mouth curving into a smile that simply looked like it belonged there.

That small fact made Marinette's own smile double in size.

"But, dudes, I'm sick of UMS."

Alya tapped down the brim of Nino's precious cap. "You're just sick of losing, babe."

Pouting, he straightened his hat. "That's not the point, Al." He bounced to his feet, eyes on Adrien. "Why don't we fire up Just Dance instead? Let's show 'em our swagger!"

Adrien's face practically glowed as he leapt from the sofa, Kagami's hands falling from his arm to her lap. "You're on, Nino!"

"Ha!" Nino flashed his signature finger guns. "On like Donkey Kong!"

With an overly dramatic scoff, Adrien placed a hand to his chest in a decidedly Chat Noir fashion. "Excuse me? Only I have the rights to that line… especially after my ape overthrew our princess." He sent Marinette an over the shoulder wink and naturally, a flush flamed across her face.

While Nino set up Just Dance, Adrien shrugged out of his blazer in one fluid movement and flicked it over the sofa with a ridiculous amount of flair. He rolled his neck, laced his fingers and stretched his arms out before him. Pair that with the fact his polished shoes, snug jeans, and long-sleeved dress shirt were all black and wow, he was but a tail away from his alter ego. The only thing missing was a poorly timed pun. The flush across her face deepened.

Adrien strutted up to the TV. Umber drapes framed the wide balcony doors to his left, swaying with the wind that weaved through the living room to fan his golden hair. With his eyes on the screen, he raised a thoughtful hand to his chin. His fingers were soaked in sunlight, its rays catching his ring at just the right angle to inspire a shine of silver. Buzzfeed had once dubbed this particular pose The Pondering Prince. It was easy to see why on a rainy day. And even easier when sunbeams spilled across his hair like a literal crown of sunshine.

Marinette wasn't staring.

Nope, not at all.

The choruses of classic pop songs cut through the air as Nino cycled through choreographies. She knew the moment a song stood out to Adrien, by the way The Pondering Prince transformed into The Keen Cutie.

An annoyingly catchy melody sprung through the speakers:

'Take me by the tongue and I'll know you. Uh! Kiss me 'til you're drunk and I'll show you—'

The boys exchanged an eager high five, while Marinette bit back a snort. Chat Noir choosing Moves Like Jagger?

"Only you would, Adrien. Silly ca—" Her mouth snapped shut, but his merry eyes were already on her. She went ramrod straight in her seat. "Ca – Can't be used to describe you row—I mean now – no, right now." She shook her head madly. "Or – uh – any time, really. Because you're so great. At moving. With your feet!"

Adrien stared at her. She could almost see the cogwheels turning in his eyes. Hopefully those cogwheels had nothing to do with her slip up and everything to do with interpreting her word vomit. Finally, he graced her with one of his classic, heart-warming smiles. "Thank you, Marinette!"

She threw two thumbs up. "Well done! I mean, welcome!"

To her right, she could just feel concerned eyes on her.

And to her left, Alya facepalmed.

Adrien's soft smile lingered on Marinette for a moment longer, before a "Ready, bro?" brought his attention back to the TV. She sucked in a breath.

That smile. That classic Adrien smile. It was a gentle, shy sort of smile. One that made you feel special. Chat Noir's smile, on the other hand, was silly, cheeky, at times flirty—and had prompted her to groan on several occasions. Totally different, right?

But they were the same person! As classmates, she could probably count the amount of coherent conversations she'd had with him on her hands. But as partners, they were closer than ever. She'd thought of him as one of her dearest friends long before learning his civilian identity. Now, an unpleasant question reared its awful head. Were his smiles wildly different? Or just her reactions to them?

Alya's voice pulled her from her thoughts. "Daaang!" she called, flaunting a smirk. "You boys are pulling out all the stops today. Where've you been hiding those dance moves, Adrien?"

Marinette looked up at the boy in question and saw her friend, Adrien, dancing with the unbridled joy of her partner, Chat Noir.

And Alya's words must've emboldened him, for he broke away from the choreography with a suave spin on the spot. "Come on, Al. You don't actually think I spent home-school doing schoolwork, do you?" As Maroon 5 whistled on, he executed each move with a flawless flourish. To think, this was the same guy who high-fived street signs with his face.

Alya snickered. "Not bad, Blondie. Not bad at all!"

With an achingly familiar bow, he enacted the tipping of a fake top hat. A silent thank you. One with the pizzazz befitting of her partner.

His theatrics brought out a giggle. She'd seen her silly kitty cut a rug, as he liked to call it, more times than she cared to count. On quiet patrols. In the heat of battle. A few months ago, an amateur video of his dancing had even trended online (he'd reminded her for over a week). His timing was never impeccable, but as they'd grown closer, stifling a smile at his zest for interpretive movement had become increasingly tricky.

"Yes!" Nino wheezed, flinging his arm in time with the dancing avatar on the screen. "I'm catching up!" He was so out of breath. "Keep distracting him!"

"Oh Adrien," her bestie proclaimed, as he moonwalked like a professional zombie from Thriller. "Our dazzling King of Swag!" He held a hand to his ear, spurring her on. "Your flow knows no bounds. I must bow before such unrivalled finesse." True to her word, she bowed in her seat.

And boy, did he lap up the praise! He performed a ridiculously smooth body roll, and concluded it with a click of his fingers. His smile was nearly blinding.

That was all the motivation Marinette needed to pop in her own compliment. "In the not so distant future, bards shall sing of our swagtabulous leader's epic freestyling, and their song shall aptly be named Moves Like Swagdrien!"

Just when she'd thought he couldn't shine any brighter, a laugh burst from his lips. It was one she seldom heard without his mask and the fact she'd brought it out only swelled her sprinting heartbeat.

His next move involved a little hip swaying and a lot of arm swinging. Marinette had only played Fortnite a handful of times, but she had a sneaking suspicion she'd once witnessed it there.

"Keep going, ladies!" Nino implored. "I'm finally winning!"

"Yaaas!" Alya called. "Swagdrien The Suave!"

"Woo!" Marinette launched her fists in the air. "Swagdrien The Debonair!"

"Adrien," Kagami cut in, her puzzled tone stark against the laughter of her friends. "You aren't following the choreography?"

"Rules," he panted, "are made to be broken." As if to emphasise his point, he pulled a double arm wave.

Her brows scrunched. "But you're losing?"

Adrien, now mid-robot, incorporated a shrug into his dance. "This way's more fun"—he threw her a smile—"don't you think?"

His dancing didn't die down in the slightest, nor did the laughter that ensued in its wake.

---

Marinette, like most people, enjoyed bobbing along to Despacito at the best of times.

But this wasn't the best of times.

No, it was the worst. The absolute worst.

More good-natured trash-talking had led to Nino challenging Adrien to a dance-off. But not just any dance-off. No, a double couple dance off (read: everyone but her).

Furthermore, the universe was really testing her limits today—because Despacito's choreography was jam-packed with touching between partners. Sure, Kagami was rather stiff. She'd never played Just Dance before, but Adrien's skills more than made up for that. His hands nestled on her hips, their smiles broad and their bodies close as they moved to the beat.

She tried to smile. She tried to be happy for them. This was what they both wanted. Inserting herself between them – like matter between two magnets – would only be selfish. Even so, she couldn't deny the way her gut writhed at the sight of the happy almost-couple. And she couldn't help but notice Kagami's growing blush.

A distraction.

She needed a distraction.

As if some higher being had honed in on her thoughts, three knocks echoed throughout the apartment. Knuckles on wood had never sounded so wonderful!

Marinette jumped from the sofa. "I'll get it!"

Finally, she'd no longer be the fifth wheel to a quad bike. No, with Luka here, she'd instead be a part of some strange, six-wheeled hybrid. Much more appealing. She raced to the front door and swung it open.

Teal eyes smiled down at her, and their owner gave a little wave, black nail polish shining in the light of the stairwell.

"Luka!" She sprung a hug upon him and without hesitation, he returned it. The exchange only lasted two seconds – three tops – but by gosh, the rich scent of sandalwood delighted her senses long after. "So, how was your shift?"

"Oh, it couldn't end fast enough."

Truer words had never been spoken.

Marinette took his free hand in hers and guided him to the living room. The two couples were still dancing up a storm, guitar chords and Spanish lyrics echoing through the room. "Hey, I see you brought your guitar." She beamed up at him. "You'll have to play us something later. I'd really love to hear my song again!"

From the corner of her eye, Adrien stumbled mid-step.

"I saw that, Blondie!" cackled Alya, her hand in Nino's as they grooved from side to side. "You burning out?"

"Never!" He broke away from the choreography and Kagami quirked a brow as he puffed his chest out into a body roll, even more fluid than his first.

Luka slipped a guitar case off of his shoulders and against the sofa. "Hey, everyone!" He was answered by an array of breathless greetings. "Oh, right." He chuckled. "They're just dancing."

Marinetted laughed—

Until she realised the wordplay wasn't intentional.

"Wow!" Luka chimed, settling on the sofa. "Nice moves, Adrien."

Green eyes remained on the screen. "Thanks."

Marinette swiped the pizza box from the table, four pieces saved within it. "As promised, Luka!" Handing over the box, she sat beside him. "If you're not a cold pizza kinda guy, I can always heat it up for you?"

With a slice of pizza in hand, his free arm reached behind her, resting across the back of the sofa. "It's okay, Marinette. I'm perfectly fine with cold pizza." His eyes were as gentle as his smile. "The thought's appreciated though. Thank you."

A flush crept up her face as he looked at her, but she didn't mind. Not at all.

---

'We are one tonight, and we're breathing in the same air—'

With an easy smile, Marinette tapped her toes in time to the lively tempo of Turn Up The Love. To no one's surprise, Alya and Nino were nailing every move thrown their way—and fast approaching new high scores.

"Wow," Luka spoke up beside her, and her eyes flitted toward him. "They're so in tune, don't you think?"

Marinette gave a merry nod, recalling a time she'd said similar words to a certain blond.

She leant against the coffee table, smiling at the sight of her dancing friends. "They're so in sync with each other."

"You're right," Adrien said, from the other end of a FaceTime call. "Someday I hope I'll find someone I can share everything with… like they do."

In the present, she pursed her lips. Had Adrien been thinking of Ladybug then? Her eyes drifted toward the boy in question, only to catch his eyes zipping away that very second.

"Too right, Luka!" Adrien leaped into their conversation—and winced when his voice shot up an octave. Clearing his throat, he directed a smile at the dancing duo. "When's the wedding, guys?"

Alya skipped around Nino, her arms swinging to the beat. "We don't know the date just yet."

"But don't worry," Nino puffed. "You'll definitely be my best dude!"

"They're only fourteen, Adrien." Kagami tilted her head, her dark hair shifting. "How young do you plan to get married?"

Beside her, Marinette felt him tense. "Oh – I – Ye-ah." His voice cracked. "Fourteen's way too young! The legal age is – uh – eighteen, right?"

"You plan to be married at eighteen?"

"Err – Well, I don't – I don't know?" He squeezed out a laugh. "I mean, maybe. For the right girl?"

"Does that mean you'd marry the wrong girl if you were older?"

"No, I just—"

"Your indecision is troubling, Adrien."

Those words seemed to resonate with him. He shrunk into the sofa like a silent apology.

Marinette's nails dug dents into her palms—but Kagami didn't deserve her ire. She wasn't exactly well-acquainted with social cues. Heck, she probably didn't even realise what she was doing.

Flexing her paling fingers, Marinette turned to Luka, a wordless plea to fix this. She didn't trust herself to.

And he didn't disappoint.

"Hey, Marinette?" Both fencers looked his way. "Has anyone else tried your macarons yet?"

Adrien clung to those words. "I saw the carton on the bench, but I didn't want to be the first one to crack into them!" With a sheepish chuckle, he dipped a hand behind his neck. "I figured we were saving them for later in the day?"

If he didn't get his passionfruit macaron today, Marinette would scream to high heaven. "No no, Adrien!" She waved her hands for emphasis. "Feel free to help yourself. No, actually—"

She launched to her feet.

He did the same.

"—I'll bring them over," they said in unison. Blinking at each other, they laughed at once. "Sorry," they said. "I – Uh. You go first! No, you—"

Marinette held up a hand. "I'll bring the napkins. You bring the macarons. Deal?"

"Deal!"

---

A minute later, Alya and Nino collapsed onto the sofa, their chests heaving after their dance. To his delight, Nino had come out on top, destroying his former high score along with Alya's. (Not at all suspiciously, Alya had matched him point-for-point until the last thirty seconds, when her dancing had deteriorated just enough to let him win.)

A cardboard carton, with a golden emblem adorning its lid, rattled in Marinette's palms. While Adrien shared napkins around, she plonked down beside Luka. "I hope all this dancing's worked up everyone's appetite!"

Alya accepted a napkin. "By the grin on Adrien's face, I'd say his answer is a resounding yes."

"Can't blame him, babe. Those moves were unreal."

"It must be the fencing."

"From what I saw, he was a one-man sonata."

"Or a unicorn."

"Girl, did you just call Adrien a unicorn?"

Marinette nodded, unabashed. She was trying to get over him, yes. That didn't mean he wasn't still one of a kind.

With all leftover napkins now on the coffee table, Adrien resumed his seat between Marinette and Kagami. "Full disclosure: I'd make a magnificent unicorn."

Laughter erupted.

And only as it died down did Marinette speak again. "In that case, I sure hope unicorns like macarons!" She flipped back the carton in her lap, revealing an assortment of brown and yellow treats. "We've got two flavours: Belgian chocolate and passionfruit. I would've made more, but I was a little short on time."

"I'll believe it," Alya teased.

She stuck out her tongue. "Just a heads up, everyone—"

From the corner of her eye, Kagami reached for Adrien's hand and threaded it with her own. His smile wavered. He went to pull back, but Kagami tightened her grip—without realising? Adrien's struggling stopped.

"Yike—"

Marinette glimpsed a stern look from Alya.

"I mean LIKE! Yeah. I was, like, extra clumsy this morning and – err – dropped the macarons on this side." She jabbed a finger toward the left of the carton. "So – Um. Sorry about that."

Hands reached from all sides, lightening the carton in her hands, and delighted hums soon floated through the living room.

"Girl, you've really outdone yourself this time!"

"Ditto, babe!"

"I agree." Kagami admired the yellow, half-eaten macaron between her fingers. Her other hand still gripped Adrien's. "This is really delicious."

Adrien's face inched near as he marvelled at the macarons. "You made these, Marinette?" She thought she felt herself nod. "They look delicious!" He took one from the tainted side. Passionfruit, of course. His first bite— "Wow." He gazed at the treat like it was the answer to world peace. "Marinette, this macaron. It's… It's perfect!"

She felt herself beam as he savoured a second bite. This beautiful moment was most definitely worth the many Sundays she'd spent baking a single macaron.

In or out of the suit. Chat Noir or Adrien. He was her friend. Maybe she'd never see those three kids or that hamster. Maybe she'd never have that dog or that beautiful house. At least, not with Adrien.

Because they were superheroes.

Because of apocalyptic cataclysms.

Because he said he loved Ladybug, but in the end, he chose Kagami.

But she could still make him happy.

Luka reached for a treat last. His side pressed into hers as he leaned closer and picked a chocolate macaron. Like this morning, he went for the street-sullied side. With his free arm splayed behind her, he settled back into the couch cushions and savoured the snack with his eyes shut. "This flavour's even better! You're so extraordinary, Marinette."

Cheeks aflame, Marinette brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

Extraordinary.

Luka said she was extraordinary.

And it wasn't the first time. No, the first time he'd been under Hawk Moth's cruel influence. And she tried not to take a supervillain's words to heart.

But then he'd said it again, his hand warm on her arm and his eyes warmer still.

"You're the most extraordinary girl, Marinette. As clear as a musical note and as sincere as a melody. You're the music that's been playing inside my head since the first day we met."

Was it time to tune along to his song?

Marinette swallowed, searching for a reply to the wonderful words of her friends. Instead, she caught the green gaze of another boy watching her fondly.

A lump lodged in her throat.

From the day she'd met him, her heart had been his.

But he didn't want his classmate.

From the day she'd met Luka, she'd been the song inside his head.

He made sure she knew where they stood.

He supported her every decision.

He made things simple.

The logical choice was clear.

Yet her heart throbbed at the thought.

No matter what, someone was bound to get hurt. Her friend. Her partner. Herself.

For over a year, she'd saved Paris with quick-thinking and convoluted strategies. She was the girl with a plan, the one people came to when times were tough. Yet here she was, unable to think up a single way to save her and her loved ones from heartbreak.

Why was she so useless?

Why couldn't she just keep everyone happy?

How could she possibly choose between them?

"Earth to Marinette?" Alya interrupted her thoughts. "Guys! I think we broke her with compliments!"

"No! Sorry, I just—" Marinette placed a hand to her chest and drew in a breath. "Thank you, everyone." She meant that wholeheartedly, and turned to Alya with a smile. "Wanna get back to dancing?"

"You know it!"

---

'Starships were meant to fly! Hands up and touch the sky!'

Of course, Alya had picked an old favourite of theirs: Starships by Nicki Minaj. A bop that never failed to bump up her mood. She knew the choreography well, but was still surprised by her soaring score. Her every move displayed a grace she'd never thought possible without a little latex magic, and over and over, the word "PERFECT" flashed gold on the screen. It was like the game was a one-word dictionary, but she sure wasn't complaining.

"Oh my gosh, M!" Alya puffed. "You are killing it!"

"Call me Swagrinette!"

Adrien laughed from his place on the sofa. "I don't think Swagrinette has quite the same ring to it." She threw a smile over her shoulder—just as Kagami eased her head onto his.

Marinette misstepped, but caught herself before the floor could. "Oops!" She wheezed out a laugh. "Spoke too soon, Al." Her arms circled through the air in sync with the dancing avatar.

Alya snorted. "You're still owning it!"

"She's right," Kagami added. "Your dancing's impressive, Marinette."

She glanced back at Kagami, another smile at the ready. It died on her lips at the sight she beheld. Adrien's eyes were on his hand, laced with Kagami's, and the look he wore was a resigned one. Knitted brows. A slight weight to his lips. He was unhappy—

Pain sliced through her ankle.

In a tangle of limbs, she tumbled to the floor.

Voices cried out her name.

Steps pounded.

She didn't know when, but her hand had clung to her ankle, and her face twisted as it throbbed beneath her fingertips.

"Are you okay?!"

Her eyes flew up—and what they beheld was excruciatingly familiar.

Two hands were extended before her: black nail polish painted the one on her right and an unmistakable ring adorned the one on her left. Her right hand remained around her ankle. Her other lifted off the floor. It drifted left, right, then paused dead centre.

With a composing breath, Marinette chose neither. Instead, she reached for a nearby ottoman, small and round and pastel pink, and chose to help herself off the floor. "I'm fine, guys," she said, reaching her feet.

Everyone stared, eyes rife with worry, while Starships thumped on in the background. Such upbeat music now seemed woefully out of place.

Alya propped a hand on her hip. "You sure, Marinette?"

Nino stepped to Adrien's side. "Yeah, that was one heck of a fall."

"I agree." Kagami's eyes were on Marinette's ankle. "It looked pretty serious."

Marinette fixed up a smile. "Really, I'm A-OK. See?" She shifted her weight to her right—

Another zap of pain.

Two sets of hands sprang to her shoulders, steadying her.

Marinette waved both boys away. "No no. I've got this." She hobbled over to the sofa, stifling a wince, while steps tapped behind her. "It's not as bad as it looks"—she wasn't sure if that was a lie—"but just in case, I think I'd better be a spectator for the rest of the day."

Luka seated himself to her immediate right. "First, we should really take care of your ankle." He looked to a concerned Alya, who'd seated herself on the arm of the sofa. "Do you have any ice packs?"

Adrien claimed the free spot to Marinette's left. "Plus something to act as a barrier between the ice pack and her skin." An instruction, not a suggestion. "Painkillers too. And some anti-inflammatory cream."

"On it!" Nino rushed to the freezer.

"We gotcha!" Alya's red hair whipped behind her as she dashed to the bathroom.

Marinette clung to the cushion beneath her. This was a disaster. A complete and utter disaster. But she could at least avoid dragging her friends down with her. "No need to fuss, guys." She kept her tone light. "It's really not that bad. And I don't wanna ruin the afternoon by—"

A comforting weight on her hand gave her pause. "Never." Adrien's eyes creased as he smiled, giving her hand a light squeeze. "We're just looking out for you. You'd do the same for any of us."

Luka's hand found her shoulder. "You can tell us if you're not okay, Marinette."

"Yeah, I can call you a doctor," Adrien chipped in. "Or get my driver to take you. Just say the word, Marinette."

Kagami knelt on the floor ahead of her, a cushion in hand. "I believe elevating the injury above the heart reduces swelling. Here." She placed the cushion on the coffee table and with a substantial amount of care, eased Marinette's foot upon it.

A smile flooded her face. Her friends were truly the best.

---

With a metallic whir, daylight broke upon the silhouette of a lean man, and flocks of butterflies stirred, their pale wings catching the sun.

"Ahh… An aspiring artist with a penchant for Picasso. One whose dreams have been crushed by a hard-hearted critic." Each word floated from his tongue with a delighted lilt. "What perfect prey for my akuma."

He beckoned a nearby butterfly to his awaiting palm, carefully caging it between two gloved hands. Darkness materialized, clinging to the insect and soiling its snowy wings.

"Fly away, my pretty akuma, and evilize this wounded soul!"

[vivithefolle]

I have this distinct feeling that you once wrote a drabble of Ron pushing Fred out of the way and dying instead of him, but I can't see it on your ffn account? I'm pretty sure it was you anyways, did you post it here on tumblr, and I just have trouble finding it? Thank you:)

Oh! I did write something like that, but I posted it on Quora and never bothered to put it elsewhere, I’m sorry! Here you go anon, for all your “TOO MANY FEELS” needs :D

“You actually are joking, Perce… . I don’t think I’ve heard you joke since you were –“

The air exploded. They had been grouped together, Harry, Ron, Hermione, Fred, and Percy, the two Death Eaters at their feet, one Stunned, the other Transfigured; and in that fragment of a moment, when danger seemed temporarily at bay, the world was rent apart, Harry felt himself flying through the air, and all he could do was hold as tightly as possible to that thin stick of wood that was his one and only weapon, and shield his head in his arms: He heard the screams and yells of his companions without a hope of knowing what had happened to them –

And then the world resolved itself into pain and semidarkness: He was half buried in the wreckage of a corridor that had been subjected to a terrible attack. Cold air told him that the side of the castle had been blown away, and hot stickiness on his cheek told him that he was bleeding copiously. Then he heard a terrible cry that pulled at his insides, that expressed agony of a kind neither flame nor curse could cause, and he stood up, swaying, more frightened than he had been that day, more frightened, perhaps, than he had been in his life…

And Hermione was struggling to her feet in the wreckage, and three redheaded men were grouped on the ground where the wall had blasted apart. Harry grabbed Hermione’s hand as they staggered and stumbled over stone and wood.

“RON!” came the terrible, deafening cry, and Harry’s heart stilled.

Percy’s trembling hands were gripping, shaking his brother, Fred stared, eyes lost and smile gone, at Ron’s prone form, and it couldn’t be, it shouldn’t be…

He knew, rather than felt, that Hermione had fallen to her knees beside him, that this piercing wail of despaired agony came from her.

And as Percy sobbed and called his little brother’s name, as Fred’s breath hitched with the understanding that Ron had given his life for him, as Hermione screamed and cried, Harry felt like he’d just died.

[…]

He walked, dazedly, out of the Great Hall, across the grounds, unable to see or hear or feel. His heart was heavier than iron inside his chest, and the only thing that kept him walking was the promise held by Snape’s memories.

The world around him was nothing but a blur, and it was pure luck that he didn’t stumble nor falter as he made his way into the darkness of the Forbidden Forest.

Yet, Harry stilled, the numbness inside him unable to choke one final, sad spark, and his hand dropped into his pocket, fishing out the Golden Snitch he now knew the secret of. I open at the close.

Putting his lips to the inscription, kissing the world goodbye, he murmured “I am about to die.”

The winged gold nugget seemed to split into two, revealing a dark, onyx-like shingle with this now familiar symbol engraved onto it, a straight vertical line and a circle encompassed in a triangle. It had cracked down the Elder Wand’s line, where Dumbledore had killed the Horcrux resting inside.

There was one single thought in Harry’s mind, and he just wanted the reassurance, he needed to be certain of it, and he turned the Resurrection Stone three times in his hand.

There was a soft shimmer ahead of him, like someone lifting a Disillusionment Charm from themselves, and the one he wanted to see the most left the cover of the trees.

He wasn’t flesh and bone, but he wasn’t a ghost, either; his eyes were as blue as ever and his red hair just as fiery, every freckle clearly distinct despite the obscurity, and he wore - Harry almost smiled - a maroon Weasley jumper.

“Lo, Harry”, Ron said, a kind grin etched on his face.

“I’m sorry”, he immediately blurted. “I… god, Ron, I…”

Ron walked up to him, wrapped him in a feather-light embrace that felt more like a memory than reality.

“Cut it, will you? I made my choice and I don’t regret it. Well…” he drew away, licking his lips, and letting out a small puff of laughter. “I have regrets, of course, but I’d sound like a right prat if I said I’d have liked for Hermione to kiss me again.”

Harry smiled.

“You’ll take care of her, right, Harry? She… She’ll be okay, of course, but she’ll need someone, she can’t do everything alone, you know?”

And maybe Ron’s soul would be angry with him, and maybe no one would forgive him, but Harry walked on still, the Stone firmly in his palm.

“… Wait. Wait, Harry, where are you going?”

He couldn’t help it. He… He wanted to know, there was this lingering fear, he had to know -

“Does it hurt? Dying?”

He needn’t see it to feel it, how Ron bristled, drew himself up, full of disbelief and indignation, with all the fight he still had in death and all the fight that Harry had lost the very instant he’d heard that terrible scream.

“Oh no you don’t. No, I swear, Harry, if you do that…”

“Ron… does it hurt?”

“It hurts everyone! Hermione, Ginny, Mum, everyone will be hurt, Harry, you can’t do that to them! You can’t do that to me! You’re the bloody Boy-Who-Lived, you’ll find a way, you’ll survive and have loads of babies and a happily ever after - Harry!”

He let the Stone fall to the ground, Ron’s furious, fearful eyes fading in the night, and resumed his walk toward death and Voldemort.

As far as Harry was concerned, his happily ever after had died with his best friend.

[…]

Dumbledore guided Harry back to the train tracks and sunk into a seat. They stayed silent for a few moments, Harry contemplating all that had been revealed…

He had a choice, then. He could go back.

Go back, and live, and keep going, and feel his heart heavy with ache and loss and pain; go back, and what would he say to Hermione, what would he say to the Weasleys?

Going back, when Ron hadn’t been allowed that chance? All because of a damn Prophecy, because Harry’s life mattered more than his, because Harry was supposed to be more from the beginning?

Harry turned to Dumbledore, and saw understanding in the man’s eyes. So he sat down.

“How long til the next train comes in, Professor?”

Hermione never marries anyone. She’s realized it in sixth year, but there truly wasn’t anyone who could be as imperfect, insecure, grouchy, angry, self-loathing, funny, witty, kind, gentle, compassionate, selfless and as perfect as Ron Weasley.

Yes, there could be a happier ending, Ron’s shadow appearing to tell Harry to keep living for his sake. But I really wanted to convey that Ron is what helps Harry live - Ron is Harry’s human crutch. Hermione may keep Harry safe, but Ron keeps Harry sane. Even though Harry is in love with Ginny, how would he cope with knowing that it was at the cost of her big brother’s life?I just wanted Harry - and the readers - to realize that, with how much he took Ron for granted time and again, he’d really come to need him. Ron still underestimates himself, even in death, he’s still convinced that Harry is going to be perfectly okay - but Harry knows that he won’t be, not without his Wheezy.

I’ll have to return to that bit of writing and brush up on it - I’ve left a bit too much unsaid and rushed it, especially the ending at King’s Cross. Once I make it better I’ll probably post it as a one-shot on AO3 and FFN. :)

Oh and also… *gives handkerchiefs to her fellow Ron-lovers* I know, I know, I’m a horrible person.