#This time when he leaves the hospital wing he goes straight to the baths and puts it on ice cold

[phoenixhalliwell]

Well Helloooo Nurse

Pairings: Will Miller  X Gender Neutral Reader ( Nurse Lark but goes by the name of Birdie) 

Word count: 1887

Author's Note: Good Evening all, welcome to the Will Miller show. Please be gentle as it’s my first time writing for him. I also have no idea how the inside of an ER works, i’m just winging this whole thing lmao  I hope whoever stumbles on this enjoys it :) 

Hope you don’t mind the tags: @lilacyennefer​ @cinewhore​ @dignityneeded

Thanks to his idiotic brother, Will ends up in the ER. Benny in an attempt to make amends, tries to be his wingman. 

Throwing yourself down into your chair, you let out a small cry at the relief at finally being off your feet. To say it's been a long week is an understatement. Your back is in agony, your stomach won't stop growling  and there's a throbbing pain behind your eyes . The ER has finally quietened down after a disastrous morning and you're counting down the minutes until it's home time.  

'Is it just me or is time moving slower?'

You glance at the clock. Another 20 minutes  and you are free for the next two days to do absolutely nothing. Closing your eyes you smile at the thought of the large glass of wine, warm bath and take out that awaits you when you get home. Your happiness is short lived though when you hear your name being called out.

'Urghhh, just leave me alone'

"Birdie, my good friend. How are you? You are looking fiiinnneee today, is that a new pair of scrubs."

Opening your eyes, you glare at your friend Letti who is currently batting her eyes at you. You scoff. You  know for a fact you look like shit. Your hair looks like a bird's nest ( no pun intended) and you're pretty sure that your scrubs have seen better days.

"What do you want?" you narrow your eyes at her.

"You know how you're my absolute best friend and you love me so much? Could you find it in that golden heart of yours to stay on just a little longer and cover the end of my shift. It's only a couple extra hours. I wouldn't normally ask but Scott has managed to ship the kids off to his mum's tonight and it's been so long since we've had adult time, if you catch my drift. Please. Help me out here Birdie I am dying" She begs.

'Pfft least you're getting the option for adult time' you think to yourself.  You watch as she clasps her hands to her chest and starts to give you the sad puppy dog eyes .You can feel your resolve start to crumble. Groaning, you throw your head back in defeat.

"Fine, but you owe me one and you better believe I will collect" you sigh. Letti fist pumps the air before grabbing your face and giving you a quick kiss on the cheek.

"I fucking love you Birdie. I will name my next child in your honour"  she promises.

"Yeah like I haven't heard that before" you snort, wiping your cheek. Letti suddenly thrusts a clipboard into your hand before rushing  you through your next patient, eager to get home to her husband. You're not really listening to her, nodding along  every so often as you try to decipher the chicken scratches on the paper in front of you.  

' Did a child fill in this form?'  

You hear snippets of what she is saying: "Hotter than sin..... If I wasn't married...  wouldn't be able to walk straight"

You are finally able to pick out the important information:  

Exam Room 3 - William Miller, 40, laceration to left arm.

'Ok I can work with that'

Calling out your goodbyes to Letti  and telling her to have a good time, you make your way to exam room 3 to get started. Drawing back the curtain, you step into the room and  call out

'Mr Miller?'

"Yes?" two voices answer at the same time.  

" They are talking about me Dumbass, I'm the one that's currently bleeding no thanks to you. Please excuse my brother, he was dropped on his head a lot as a child"  your patient apologises to you. You let out a snort at the quip.  It's not until you get a proper look at his face that  your laughter is quickly cut off.

'Oh' is all you can think before your mind goes blank. Sitting in front of you is a man you can only describe as an Adonis.  Even though his face is twisted slightly in pain, you would gladly stare at him  for the rest of eternity. Beautiful  blue eyes, soft blond hair, a well groomed beard. Your mind  takes you to some bad places when you think about that beard.

'Hotter than sin indeed...."  

A choked out laugh causes you to tear gaze away from William and over to the other man in the room who waves at you looking far too amused.

'Oh god, he knows I was checking out his brother' You cringe internally.

"Hi I'm Benny in case you were interested" the other man jokes. He is also a fairly attractive man  -you can see some similarities between the two. However, Benny has nothing on his brother. You shyly nod your head in greeting before making your way to Will's bedside.

"Ok Mr Miller, I am Nurse Lark. From what I could make out from your form, it says that you have a laceration on your left arm. Is this correct?"  you ask the older Miller.

"Yes that's right. Sorry about the scrawl, Benny didn't make it past the 3rd grade."  Will  teases.

"Fuck you dickhead" Benny hisses back.

"Boys, settle down, this is an ER  not a playground " you interject. Both men mumble their apologise and you try not to laugh. Gently picking up Will's arm, you turn his arm left to right to get an idea of  the extent of his injury. He's lucky in the fact it's not too deep. Unfortunately it cuts directly through the tattoo on his lower arm. Potentially a future scar but that was out with your control. Raising your head, you notice how close you are to each other's faces. Will stares back at you and you lose yourself for a minute.

"For fuck sake, get a room" You hear Benny mutter behind you. You cough and busy yourself getting the equipment you need to start patching Will up.

"I'm sorry but this might hurt a little"  you warn him in advance.

" Don't worry about me, I'm tough as nails " He smiles reassuring you.

You nod before getting started. So focused on your work, you didn't notice Will admiring you from where he sat. He liked the way  your eyes never wavered from your task despite Benny blabbering on in the background. How your nimble fingers made quick work of his wound. He thought the way you stuck your tongue out slightly in concentration was the cutest thing.

Benny was quick to notice his brother's heart eyes and started snickering.

" You know what Will? Maybe if you're a good boy the nice nurse will kiss it better once they are done"

You glance up in time to see Will's face turn scarlet. 

'Just when I thought he couldn't get any cuter'

"That's it, Benny get out now!" Will  growled.

Benny sighs dramatically and sulks out the room but not without muttering "just trying to help you get laid dickhead". You glance back at Will who is now staring up at the ceiling, looking as though he wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

"It's days like these I really wish my parents had got me a puppy instead of a little brother"

"Well from what I've seen of him so far, the man is basically a gold retriever in human form" you joke back. The laugh he lets out catches you off guard.

'I  could get used to that sound.'

You had to stop yourself from sighing and scolded yourself for acting like a love sick fool instead of the professional you are.

The conversation came easy for you both after that.  You started by telling him your name before the both of you shared little tidbits about each other. Will seemed like an interesting man from what information he gave. He was funny and incredibly smart.

'He's perfect'  is all you could think. However, it didn't take long after Benny got asked to leave to finish patching the rest of Will's arm up.  

"Well Mr Miller, I guess that's you done. Please make sure to keep the area as clean as possible and have someone help you change your bandages"

You feel sad at the idea of him leaving. It is evident that he feels the same by the way he stalls collecting his things. He looks like he's debating with himself before he finally turns to you looking determined.

" Would you maybe like to go to dinner with me sometime? I know we haven't met under the best circumstances but I had a really great time talking with you. I'd end up hating myself if I didn't at least ask"

Your heart races at the question and you don't hesitate to tell him yes. His face lights up and you find yourself falling a little more for Will Miller. Grabbing a pen from your top pocket, you hastily write down your phone number and hand it to Will. You both wish each other goodnight before parting ways. You find yourself grinning and bite your lip to try and contain your glee.

" Guess  I will be naming my first child Letti"

 Outside the hospital

Benny leans against the wall (pouting like a child) and waits for his brother . He still can't believe he got thrown out of the room. It feels like forever and a day before Will finally makes his appearance with a smug grin on his face.

'He looks like the cat that got the cream'

' What's with the grin man? Did they give you the good shit for the pain or something?"

Will shakes his head before showing Benny the piece of paper in his hand. A set of digits.

"William, you sly dog" Benny laughs in delight before he slaps Will's arm. He's quick to realise his mistake when his brother grunts in pain clutching his bad arm. Benny panics and makes to touch him but is stopped in his tracks.

"Don't . Fucking . Touch me.  Just get in the fucking car. " Will hisses. He marches off to the car park, swearing under his breath.

'Well that victory was short lived' Benny thinks, following his brother.

Bonus Scene - Date night

'Is it just me or is time moving slower?'

You glance at the clock for what feels like the millionth time. Another 10 minutes before Will is suppose to arrive. It's been so long since you were last on a date and you can't remember being this nervous. You look down at your outfit and run a hand over it to make sure there wasn't any creases. Will had text earlier to let you know to dress casual for your evening out but wouldn't give you any more information. The sound of the doorbell interrupts your thoughts and you let out a nervous giggle.  Trying not to seem too eager, you give yourself a beat before  opening the door. You feel yourself go weak in the knees. Will is dressed to impress - A black leather jacket over a soft grey t-shirt with a nice pair of black jeans that does wonders for him. He lets out a soft laugh at the way you are blatantly eyeing him up before doing the same to you. He lets out a low whistle.

"Well hellooo nurse"

[dahliawolfe]

Wings

Captain American fanfic. Not cannon. 

The shouting wakes you up with a start, and before your brain can catch up, your body is moving, throwing your only pair of jeans on, grabbing your sneakers and your backpack and racing for the door. Years of running had taught you to always be prepared. But fuck you, if you weren’t thrown off by the sight of…aliens?! invading the shitty pay by the week hotel you were camped out at. Making a quick decision, you head for the fire escape. And dammit, of course the windows are painted shut. Cheap bastards. You grab the closest thing to you, a chair, and hurl it through the window, following after it seconds later, making your descent.

And you’ve made it to the third floor when you saw the little girl. The little girl who was being held in a rapidly burning apartment by a scaly looking alien. And nope. Not your problem. But you freeze. “Fuuuck,” you mutter before throwing your weight into the window, reaching for the knife that you always keep tucked in between your shoulder blades. The alien hisses at you as you charge at it. The knife slashes its scaly skin, and your reward is a green ooze that sprays across your face. Trying not to gag, and knowing that you had done very little actual damage to the beast, you grab the little girl, sling her over your shoulder and head for the door; the alien blocking your path to the window. “Shit. Shit. Shit,” you hiss as you run down the rickety stairs of the hotel. You did not sign up for this. You just wanted a place to sleep, dammit. The lobby was swarming with…superheroes? What the hell? Shaking your head, and hoping to slide by unnoticed, you take to the edges of the room.

“Veronica! Oh my…! Baby!” a babbling woman exclaims, running towards you. She reeks of meth. The acrid cat piss smell stings your nose as she reaches for the kid on your back. You pull away hostilely.

“Hell no, Lady! Who the fuck are you?!”

“I’m her mom! Veronica, honey, come to Mommy,” she slurs, arms outstretched. And gods help her, the kid reaches out to the woman, just in time for you to see a fight coming your way. A large blonde dude in…chainmail? And a red robot guy are leading a huge alien straight down your path.

“Oh, for fucks sake,” you mutter, slinging the kid off of your shoulder and passing her to the woman. “Get your shit together, Woman. And run!” you order, shoving the two out of the way as a wall of muscle slams you into the wall. You hear a sickening crunch as you slide to the floor. But you don’t have long to rest as you see another alien heading towards the first. Struggling to your feet, you reach for a nearby crowd control bar and swing it into the gut of the alien. He hunches over before straightening and looking right at you. Well, shit. You had not thought that through. The alien swipes one hand toward you, cutting your cheek open and making you see red. “You fucker,” you swear, grabbing a sharp shard of glass to your left and charging at the creature, throwing your body weight into it, knocking it to the ground, where you stab and stab and stab, until strong hand lift you under your armpits. It's the blonde knight guy.

“That will be enough, Child. Get to safety,” he commands, putting you on your feet a few yards away.

“Chi-Child?! I am not a child! And I would be in safety if you assholes hadn’t come in here wrecking up the joint!” The man only bellows a laugh and turns away from you. You throw your hands up. “Whatever, I’m out of here.” And that’s when you’re swept off of your feet again, this time very high up. You look to see what has a death grip on your back, and well…it’s not good. A scaly alien sneers down at the crowd.

“Where’s your captain now?!” he gloats.

“Right here, Wise guy,” comes a voice, just as a shield is hurled you. You see the ground coming up to meet you, and you question how, you, of all people, would die by hitting the ground. But someone catches you midair. A large green man smiles evilly at you before gently placing you on the ground. “Nat, get her out of here,” the voice that had challenged the alien orders, and Apollo feels her hand get taken by another one, and she looks up to see two things; one, the most beautiful woman she has ever seen; and two,  a spear coming right toward them. Letting out a yelp, she dives in front of the woman, feeling the hot searing pain radiate down her side as the spear finds its mark.

“Well, shit,” you say, crumpling to the ground.

…

“Experimented on?” a voice questions as Apollo comes around.

“I think so, Cap. She’s littered in scars.” That’s when all of you senses come back to you. The smell of chemicals makes you sick to your stomach. You know that smell. The sanitary stench of a hospital. You jolt, vaulting off of the bed, landing solidly on your feet, facing the voices you heard, back to the nearest wall. And without your bidding, as they always do; some weird protective reflex; your wings unfurl from under your skin, the familiar burn that always accompanies them following closely behind. You crouch, making eye contact with…

“Captain Fucking America?” you exclaim.

“Language,” he chides. He’s one of the good guys. Well, at least you think so. But those types of guys had failed you before. Despite your adrenaline draining, and your wings tugging themselves back under your skin to rest along the back of your ribs, you resist. You don't know you're safe. You never know if you're safe. “What’s your name?” he entreats. You violently shake your head.

“Where’s my stuff? I’m leaving.”

“Hey, wait. Come on. We won’t hurt you here, Kid.” You bark a laugh.

“I’ve heard that before.”

“You’re still pretty roughed up,” he points out, and yeah, you know, the dull thud of pain when you breathe tells you that much.

“I heal quick. Perks of being like this,” you reply, softly rustling the bottom feathers on your grey and black ombre wings.

“You know, this is fascinating,” the other man speaks, stepping forward. A sharp snap of your wings warns him off. You usually have to hide your little secret, but now that the cat’s…bird’s? out of the bag, you feel like you can use them to your advantage. The guy in the glasses holds up his hands. “I’m Bruce. I’m a doctor.” When you recoil more violently at the comment, he frowns.

“Doc, why don’t you give us a minute?” the captain asks gently.

“Cap, she’s…”

“I know,” was the simple reply. You feel the blood leaking freely from your wound. You know that whatever they’d done to patch you up, hadn’t stuck. Might’ve if you had gone guns a blazing, but nonetheless, you know that you’re bleeding. And you know that while you do heal fast, you had been dealt and death blow, and you are damn lucky to be here. You also know that you have very little strength left in you, and that shit right there, that scares you more than anything. The doctor leaves. Without your permission, your wings retract, and you flop to the floor. The captain scoops you up seconds later. “Listen, I don’t know who hurt you. Or why they hurt you. But no one will ever touch you again. You’re safe here. And I know you don’t know me from Adam, but you can trust me. Now, I’m going to stay with you while the doc patches you up, then I’m going to get you cleaned up. And you’re going to get some rest. When you’re healed, if you still want to leave, I won’t stop you. Ok?”

How could you tell Captain America no?

…

The captain has you slung over his arms, bridal style, and he’s carrying you to his suite in the Avenger’s tower. He sits you softly on the edge of the sink as he runs a bath. Your body is sagging with exhaustion. You hadn’t slept more than two hours in months and hadn’t eaten real food in longer than that. And it’s getting to you. So, when the kind captain begins to lift your shirt over your head, you simply hold your arms up. He looks at you hesitantly, and you chuckle tiredly. “They don’t come out unless I need them,” you inform. He nods silently and rids you of the hospital scrubs tied loosely around your waist before lifting you and placing you in the warm water. His hands are gentle as they run over your scarred back.

“Who?” he asks quietly.

“Doctors. Scientists. Nuns. You name it. Being an orphan that’s…special, is a rough life.”

“Why?”

You shrug, sighing as he tilts your head back to wash your long cherry cola hair.

“You were a kid.”

“A kid with wings,” you correct, grabbing his arm for stability as he leans you further back.

“I gotcha,” he promises, holding you steady as he lathers your hair. “How did you get away?”

“I fought. They caught me a few times. But I always managed to escape again. It’s been two…no, three years since they found me. I’m honestly just waiting for the other shoe to drop before the lab coats converge again.”

“We won’t let them take you again. You have my word…”

“Apollo,” you supply.

“Apollo. That’s a pretty neat name,” he smiles down at you.

“It was Mary Catherine St. John. Orphanage named me when I was found. As an orphan, you get to choose what you want to be called when you turn 10. And I chose Apollo. Because they flew.” Your eyes had begun to droop.

“Well, I like Apollo much better. Ok, up we go,” he urged, helping you sit up. He lifts you from the water, swiftly wrapping a towel around you. You look at the bathwater in shame. It’s nearly brown from the filth that came off of your body. The captain slips on of his shirts over your head and scoops you up again. You are nearly asleep when he places you on the bed.

…

“She’s not a superhero,” Tony Stark argues the next morning. “She’s a human kid.”

“Actually,” you interject, forcing your wings to the surface. “I’m neither a kid, or completely human.” You sit, wings still spread, and finish your bacon. Tony stares at you, mouth agape. You roll your eyes.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you can touch them. You too, Doc,” you huff. Cap scowls at your language. “Also, I didn’t ask to be part of the Super Squad,” you add, reaching for more toast.

“That’s true. She didn’t. But, she is part of the team, whether she goes on missions or not,” Steve Rogers says, sipping his coffee.

“You can’t make those decisions!” Tony exclaims, pulling a little too roughly on one of Apollo’s feathers.

“Ow, Dick,” you mutter, flicking him.

“I’m the captain. I decide who’s on the team. And I say Apollo is.” There’s no room for argument, but when Tony opens his mouth to try, Natasha slaps his shoulder and shakes her head.

And that’s how you, freaky little bird/orphan/science experiment that you are, become an Avenger.

…

“Bucky? His name is Bucky?” you clarify. Because who names their kid Bucky.

“Yes. And he’s my best friend,” Cap replies. And you pout, cuz you’re supposed to be his best friend.

“Oh,” you answer softly, deftly stepping around the crack in the sidewalk.

“Hey. Come on, you’re my best girl,” Steve replies, chucking you under the chin. And as always, the words make your tummy do weird little flip flops.

“I don’t know how amenable Tony’s gonna be to you taking in the supersoldier who’s been trying to kill us for the last few days now.”

“That’s why we’re not gonna ask him,” he says simply, shrugging his shoulders.

…

You’re hurt. You know you’re hurt. But dammit, you have to find Cap. Sam was fine. Well, fine-ish, so now, you needed to find your leader. Letting your wings spread, you take to the air, scanning the ground for him. Until you spot him. He’s being dragged out of the river by that guy. The Winter Soldier. Bucky. You swoop down, feet landing lightly on the gravel shore. Bucky roughly drops Cap, gives you a scornful study, and takes off in the other direction, not once speaking to you. And injured though you might be, you limp to Cap, wrap your arms around his torso, and let your wings push hard against the atmosphere, lifting you into the sky. And damn, man. Who knew supersoldiers weighed so damn much. You make it to the tower, depositing Cap with a grunt, as your legs crumple beneath you, and you fall next to him on the roof.

…

Sam is off somewhere laying low, but you and Cap are never apart. Keeping your faces hidden, and staying on the move so Tony doesn’t find you. But Natasha does. And seeing her blatant flirting with Cap sets you on edge for some reason. So, while they’re on their little recon mission, you unfurl your wings and take to the sky, letting the wind catch the bottoms of your wings and lift you higher until you’re soaring, eyes closed. You land around dusk, making a small bed for yourself in the leaves under a maple tree and settle in. You’ll find Cap soon enough, but for now, he has Natasha. Your sleep is fitful to say the least, but the coolness of the night feels good against your skin.

∞

“You don’t understand, Nat. Apollo wouldn’t just leave. She knows that I need her safe.”

“Steve,” Natasha says softly, resting a hand on his shoulder as he huddles in Sam’s kitchen. “I’m sure everything is alright. Apollo is a good kid. Smart. She’ll come back.”

“Or Tony will find her. What then, Natasha? You think he won’t kill her for choosing my side?”

“Tony wouldn’t kill a kid, Steve. You know that.”

“Do I?”

…

Steve waits until Natasha is asleep before leaving the house, determined to find his girl.

∞

It’s nearing sunrise, when the nightmare finally jolts you awake. Instinctively, you reach for Cap. But he’s not there. You haven’t had to deal with nightmares alone in a long time, and you suddenly can’t breathe. You tuck yourself into a ball and sob against your knees, wishing Cap were with you.

∞

You’d once told him that you could only fly roughly 20 miles a day, so Steve was banking on those calculations when he began his search. The radius takes him to a large city on one side, and the mountains on the other. And he knows you wouldn’t choose the city, so he decides that the mountains would be his best bet. “Borrowing” a motorcycle from a townie, he makes his way to the mountains. 200 square miles. But come hell or high water, he will find you. He has to.

∞

The sobs have turned to whimpers by the time the sound of a motorcycle appears. You can only curl tighter, knowing that you are most certainly not in fighting shape at the moment.

“Apollo?” comes the query. And you let out a wail.  Because Cap is here. He found you. “Baby, are you hurt? Did you fall?” his voice is panicked, and his footsteps are racing towards you. He gently scoops you up, cradling you to his chest. You bury your face in his neck, sobbing wetly. “Hey, shh. It’s ok. I’m here, Darlin’. Everything’s ok now.” He leans against the tree, putting you on his lap, chest to chest, as he scans you for any obvious signs of injury. “You scared me to death, Apollo. Why’d you leave me like that?”

“Was-was gonna come back. Needa- needa be alone.”

“But you don’t like being alone, do you, Baby?” you vigorously shake your head, clutching at him. When did you become such a pussy? You’d been alone your whole life. Why did you suddenly need someone now?

Because it’s Cap the unhelpful part of your brain answers.

Cap places a firm hand under your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “Promise me, Apollo. Promise me you won’t do this again.”

“Pr-Promise. Don’t wanna leave Cap,” you swear. He gives you a gentle smile and places a kiss between your eyes.

“That’s my good girl. Now, when we get to Sam’s, you’re gonna tell me what’s got you so upset, then you’re gonna get your punishment and get some sleep. We got a lead today, and I’m not going without you.” You nod, letting him lift you and get on the bike, you still clinging to his neck. The word “punishment” doesn’t hit you until you’re almost to Sam’s.

…

“Thank gawd you found her!” Sam exclaims when you and Cap walk through the front door. Then he scoops you into a hug. After squeezing the breath out of you, Sam pulls away, ruffling your hair and reaching for his cup of coffee. Natasha gives you a smile, which you nod at, taking Cap’s hand back securely in your own. Her smile widens, and she gives you a nod, turning back to her paper.

“Sam, mind if we use your room for a bit? Apollo and I have a conversation that needs to happen,” Cap inquires. Sam waves you on dismissively. Cap leads you to the back of the house, shutting the door behind him. He sits on the bed, positioning you in front of him. “Now, Apollo, I never wanted to have to do this to you. But you’re mine, and I’m responsible for you. You made a mistake last night, didn’t you?” You nod, suddenly finding your shoes very interesting. “Words, Apollo.”

“Yes, sir,” you reply, feeling like the formality is needed.

“And you promised you won’t do it again. And I believe you, but I need to make sure you remember what’ll happen if you do. But first, you’re going to tell me why you left, AND why you were so upset when I found you.” Your lip wobbles. You definitely do not want to do any of that. “I’m waiting, Apollo,” he urges after your continued silence.

“I…I was upset,” you state, hoping it’ll be enough, but also knowing it won’t be.

“About?” You dig your toe into the carpet.

“Natasha.”

“Did Natasha do or say something bad to you?” he prods. You shake your head.

“She…You like her more than me.” You squeeze your eyes shut in humiliation. Because never in your 20 years, have you ever felt like more of a moron.

“Aww, Baby. That isn’t true. You’re my best girl. You know that.” You sniffle, opening your mouth to further your slide into mortification.

“But she’s prettier than me, and she’s older. And she knows more stuff. I can barely read.” Well, that wasn’t entirely true anymore, Cap had taught you how to read. “And she…she kept making you laugh and flirting with you. And you don’t need me anymore now that she’s here. She’s way better…” Cap lunges forward, pulling your chin up so he can look into his eyes. Blue eyes that shine with anger and passion.

“That is absolutely not true. I will always need you. You are the most beautiful girl that I have ever laid my eyes on. You’re smart as a whip, and I’d rather have you covering my six any day of the week. Don’t you ever say those things about yourself again, Apollo. I won’t have anyone speak badly about you, not even you.” He gives your chin one more squeeze before stepping away again. “Why were you crying, out there in the woods?”

“I-I had a nightmare, and you weren’t there to hold-hold me. And I was sc-scared.” He hums, stroking your cheek.

“In this family. Our family, we talk things through, Apollo. We don’t run away. And we certainly don’t put ourselves in danger. What you did was reckless, and it terrified me. And now, I’m going to give you your punishment and put you to bed because you’re drooping with exhaustion, and you need rest.” You nod solemnly.  

“Pants down and over my lap,” he orders. “Ten swats. No arguing.” And it’s said with such finality that you know he won’t budge. So, steeling yourself, you unzip your jeans and step out of them, kicking your shoes off with them. You stretch yourself over Cap’s lap and brace against his right thigh. “Thank you for not making this harder,” he praises, rubbing a soothing hand against the small of your back, where he’s hiked your shirt up.

And by the fifth swat, you’re absolutely sobbing. Snot is coating Cap’s jeans and your face. And you’re a mess. Immediately after the tenth, Cap scoops you into his arms, shushing you and kissing your temple. “Such a good girl,” he praises. “Always my good girl.”

Once you’ve mostly calmed down, Cap carries you to the bathroom, where he sits you on the sink and wipes your overheated face with a cool towel. Then, just as promised, he carries you to bed, tucking you under the covers and rubbing your back until you’re asleep.

…

“There’s no way in hell that 2 supersoldiers, 2 bird people, and a feisty red head are going to fit in this car,” you complain.

“Language, Apollo. Bucky, let Apollo sit on your lap,” Cap commands, sliding behind the wheel.

“Excuse me? That sounds unsafe and uncomfortable. No offense, Bucky.” Cap rolls his eyes.

“Buck, make sure she’s secure. Apollo, enough with the sass. Get in.” Sighing, you comply, sliding onto Bucky’s thick thighs. His arm wraps around your waist.

“Steve, drop me at the airport,” Natasha demands. You frown. She’s been acting sketchy.

“Taking a trip, Nat?”

“I need to keep Tony off of your trail for now. I can’t hold him off long.”

“Convenient,” you mumble, eliciting a chuckle from Bucky and a stern look from Cap.

…

“Dammit, Cap. I told you she was no good!” you rage, flapping your wings and scouting the ground below for escape routes for the rest of the team. Natasha had turned on all of you, going to Tony. So now, here you were, neck deep in shit; Clint hold up in a rooftop; Sam scratched to hell and back from one of his own wings failing; and you, Bucky, and Cap just trying to make it out alive. You know that if they catch Bucky, they will kill him. And the thought makes your gut twist. Cap had told you story after story of Bucky and their friendship, so even before you met him, you felt like you knew him. And now, he feels like an extension of you, much like Cap.

“Apollo, not now!” Cap barks.

“Fine, but women know these things. Veer left!” you yell, suddenly spotting a way out. Without question, they follow the order. “To your right! See it?! See the tunnel?!” Then suddenly a burning pain ricochets through your side. Immediately clamping a hand to it, you glance down. Your fingers are coated in blood. Those bastards shot you! “Fuck, ok, guys, I’m hit. I’m not going to be able to fly much longer. Keep going. The tunnel…” Your vision is blurring as another pain shoots through your hip. Then your arm. Then your thigh. Finally, something rips through your wing. And you know that’s it. You’re going down. You can hear Cap and Bucky yelling for you as you spiral down towards the ground. “Keep going,” you hiss one last time, landing roughly on a hill, rolling to the bottom.

∞

“Apollo!” he yells through the comm. “Dammit, answer me!” They haven’t stopped running.

“Steve, we gotta go find her!” Bucky shouts, making to turn around.

“NO! Keep going! Find us transport! I’ll find Apollo!” Bucky looks uncertain but nods, heading towards the tunnel. Steve turns on his heel. “Apollo, Baby, can you hear me?” Silence follows. “I’m coming, Doll. I’ll be right there.” He runs, making calculations in his head of where you had been heading. He’s nearly losing his mind when he finally spots you at the bottom of a steep hill. “Apollo!” He slides down the hill, landing next to you at the bottom. And what he sees makes him want to vomit. One of your beautiful wings is nearly severed, you’re covered in blood, and your breaths are shallow. He leans over you, brushing a hair behind your ear. “Oh, Baby,” he breathes. He begins to scoop you up. And your wings begin to retract, almost as if they can sense that you’re safe now. But the injured one snaps and falls limply to the ground. You jolt in his arms. And he steels himself against the tears that are determined to fall.

“Steve, I’ve got a Jeep! Meet me outside the tunnel when you find her!” Bucky’s voice exclaims in his ear.

“On my way, Buck,” the captain replies solemnly. He carries you, cradled to his chest until he reaches the Jeep.

“Shit,” Bucky hisses. Steve slides in the vehicle, holding Apollo close as Bucky peels out of the place. “What are we gonna do, Steve? She looks bad.” Steve’s always believed in God, and even now, ever since he lost your voice over the comm, he’s been praying. But a thought hits him.

“THOR!” he exclaims loudly, making Bucky jump.

“What the hell, Steve?!”

“Thor! If you can hear me, man, we really need you!” Steve continues shouting into the sky.

“Who the hell…” A sudden burst of lightning causes Bucky to swerve, barely missing Thor, who has landed in the middle of the road. He throws the door open and rushes from the vehicle, Apollo still caged in his arms.

“Thor, you have to help her!” Thor who had been smiling, frowns at the sight of Apollo. The demi-god nods.

“We shall take her to Asgard. The healers will help her.”

“Buck, let’s go!” the captain shouts. Bucky, to his credit, follows his friend’s order, despite being confused as hell.  Thor holds the troupe close as he takes them back to his home.

…

“I believe her other wing will heal, Captain,” a healer informs him hours later.

“Heal? It fell off,” Steve reminds.

“Yes, but I believe with time, it will regrow.”

“And the other injuries?”

“Yes. We are working on the young bird-girl. She will live.” Steve curls his lips in distaste at her description of you, but doesn’t say anything.

∞

You feel a dull throbbing throughout your body as you open your eyes. Cap’s blonde head is resting gently on your arm.

“Cap,” you rasp. His head immediately jerks up.

“Apollo,” he sighs in relief. “Babygirl, I was so scared. How do you feel?”

“Buzzy,” you answer truthfully. Steve laughs.

“The healers fixed the most of the damage, so it’s probably the magic.”

“Healers?”

“Buck and I brought you to Asgard. Thor had his best healers work on you.”

“I’m in Asgard?!” you exclaim, struggling to sit up.

“Hey, hey. Stay still. You’re not completely out of the woods yet,” he demands, gently easing you back on to the bed.

“But, Dude, we’re in Asgard! I can’t stay in this bed all day while I’m on another planet!” You hear a husky chuckle from the other side of the room and look up to see Bucky smiling at you.

“Glad to see you awake,” he states, coming forward.

“Hey, Buck. I see you guys made it out ok. The winged wonder strikes again,” you joke, but both men duck their heads. “What?” you demand.

“Apollo, when you were shot…You…” Cap began.

“I what?!” your stomach is beginning to sink.

“You lost one of your wings.” And no! Because they were part of you. Fuck knows many scientists had tried to rip them out of you before, but they were still there.

“No,” you deny on a whisper.

“The healers think it’ll grow back,” Cap says, gently stroking your cheek.

“My wing?” you still can’t wrap your head around it. It couldn’t just be gone.

“Yes, Baby,” Steve says, kissing your forehead. Bucky clears his throat.

“I’m gonna leave you two alone for a bit,” he adds, leaning to kiss your cheek and leaving the room. Cap simply draws you into his arms, whispering sweet words in your ear until you fall into a teary sleep.

…

You convalesce on Asgard for nearly two weeks, before Thor takes you back to Earth. In that time, despite their best efforts, Cap and Bucky can’t get you out of your grief. You had lost something that at once you had hated, but now knew was the only reliable thing you had ever had. And sure, the healers thought it would grow back, but it wouldn’t be the same. It would never be the same.

…

Cap had helped you shower and was now taking off his boots at the end of the bed. The safe house you guys are in Berlin is nice. It’s clean, and has an amazing view. But you haven’t spent much time outside of the bed, so you haven’t even explored the place yet.

“Ok. That’s it,” Cap sighs. You look up at him as he approaches. “I haven’t seen that smile in two weeks. And it’s killing me.” He slides into the bed, facing you, framing you with his legs. “Talk to me, Darlin’. Tell me what’s going through that pretty little head of yours. Let Daddy make it better.” You two had never really discussed it before, but the title suited him. He took care of you. Held you when you were sad. Rocked you to sleep when you had had a nightmare. Bathed you. Spoiled you. Loved you. Still, you can’t help the tear that rolls down your face.

“My w-wing,” you whimper pathetically.

“Oh, Sweetheart,” he coos, drawing you into his chest. “I know it’s so hard for you, Angel. But it’s all gonna be ok. I’m here. Bucky’s here. And you’re wing will come back.”

“But-But it won’t be the same!” you wail. You hadn’t cried a tear since the first night in Asgard, but you need to let it out.

“Shh. Shh. It’s ok. It’s ok.” And he rocks you. He rocks you until your sobs silence and your breathing evens. And then, he tips your chin up, meeting your eyes as his lifts land softly onto yours. And you have your first kiss, courtesy of Captain America, himself.

“Let me help you feel better, Baby.”

[taebadam]

act 2 pt. 2

oh boy. oh wow oh boy. now we get to my absolute favorite: you oughta know. get ready folks cause i have so so much to say. alright. so we cut to frankie and jo in new york where frankie is thanking jo for coming to pick her up since she lost her debit card and she didn’t want to “break down and call home.” jo is mostly silent, nowhere near her usual sarcastic self. she responds to everything frankie says in this flat, controlled tone just simmering with anger below the surface. i’m just gonna transcribe this whole scene because it shows so many things: how much jo really cares about frankie even though she’s pissed, how much frankie clearly hurt her and how frankie really didn’t realize what she was doing. frankie goes “that was pretty crazy back at my house. in fact i’m surprised you even showed up.” jo responds with little to no emotion in her voice other than underlying anger, just tight and quiet and closed off like she’s trying so hard not to lose it: “i’m your best friend. i’m not going to leave you stranded in a neighborhood you can’t even name.” “but you’re mad.” “can you guess why? or are you so far up your own ass these days you don’t even know?” “i’m really sorry. i was gonna tell you.” “and yet you didn’t. because you knew what you were doing was wrong.” “i didn’t think i was gonna fall in love with him.” “love? well congratulations frankie. i’m glad you found something healthy and rational. i’m clearly not as legit as your fuckboi phoenix.” “that’s not what i’m saying jo i just didn’t think you and i were in an exclusive relationship.” “right. why would you take this… (gestures to herself) seriously.” “you know i didn’t mean it like that.”

and in comes the music. ok so a few things. as jo starts singing frankie is standing behind her and jo’s deathly still, her voice still quiet as she just stares straight ahead. they’re the only two on stage. you can practically feel the tension in the air. everyone in the audience is on the edge of their seat. frankie starts to turn around and walk away until the first mini drop when you can feel something building and you know shit’s about to go down: when the guitar comes in and jo starts “a perfect version of me.” as soon as that guitar hits frankie freezes in her tracks and the soft light on jo starts to turn red. and wow is it about to get good. jo stays completely still as frankie circles back around while we get to the first pre-chorus, the “the love that you gave that we made wasn’t able…” part. as she does the pre-chorus the red light begins to expand around her but she still isn’t moving. her voice, however, even though it is still thin and controlled is starting to grow as the anger just continues to bubble up. she sings the first chorus just staring out into the audience, unmoving, and the tension just KEEPS BUILDING. frankie begins to back away just a little, like she’s beginning to realize just how angry and hurt jo really is. but we haven’t seen anything yet. we get to the second verse and the red lights continue to grow more intense as jo finally, FINALLY starts moving. she turns to look at frankie, staring her down, but she’s still controlled, still holding herself back. her voice gets a little more raspy, a little more intense but still not enough and everyone is holding their breath. once we get to “did you forget about me” she starts to stumble away a little bit, those mannerisms starting to shine through and we just barely start to see her truly devastated, exposed, vulnerable self. when she sings “are you thinking of me when he fucks you” she grabs frankie forcefully before pulling away. she’s starting to show more of her anger both physically and vocally. the pre-chorus comes back and that raspiness to her voice only increases, anger now finally starting to show on her face and she moves back, away from frankie and turns to finally start powerfully singing (though not yet screaming as she eventually gets to) “and i’m here!” it’s at this point that the band really starts to get loud. they come in from the wings and the volume jumps up. powerful red light fixtures drop down from the ceiling, flashing violently and one by one the ensemble runs up over the course of the second chorus to flank jo on either side. frankie doesn’t know what to do. and we’re still not even at the climax. then everything drops out as the ensemble starts singing “ooh” for the third verse. jo moves to the front, clearly starting to lose it as the ensemble walks around behind her, circling and enclosing frankie. jo isn’t even looking at frankie anymore, she’s holding her head in her hands and walking, pulling at her hair, eventually starting to join in with the ensemble. then she begins her high harmony and the anger on her face becomes more and more clear and as she sings higher and higher the ensemble moves from frankie to come stand beside jo. they all stomp their feet on the last “ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah, ah-ah-ah… AHH!!” and jo’s high note. holy shit. and now everything’s been released.

she begins to go full screamo, dancing with the ensemble, pointing and yelling at frankie as her anger and fear and devastation just all boil over. the band is now rocking out and the stage is bathed in angry red light. jo screams “well can you feel it” and her and the ensemble run to stand near the back of the stage in front of the band and just completely lose it. jo is screaming, singing her heart out, throwing her body around in desperation. you can see just how horribly sad and angry she is, how she feels abandoned and alone. you can see it in her face, her body, hear it in her voice. and then the chorus happens AGAIN for that final time and they all run to the very front of the stage, jo just completely losing it. she whips her head up and down, screeching with all her might, reaching out to the audience and just practically pulsing with anger and energy. it’s truly stunning. on the last line (you, you, you) she and the whole ensemble are jumping and the lights are flashing red and white and then everyone cuts out and it’s just her, screaming out into the audience with a voice of just pure raw emotion: “oughta know!!” and they all freeze. the crowd goes. WILD. both times i saw this she got a standing ovation. A MID SHOW STANDING OVATION LIKE WTF. and she absolutely deserved it both times. the amount of emotion she puts out on that stage. and her VOICE HOLY SHIT. honestly, that scene and song is a whole musical in and of itself. her range of emotion through those like 5 minutes, the way she builds in every possible way— stunning. words cannot describe how much i love lauren patten. also it just means so much to me to see women who are allowed to get angry on stage. i love it.

also important to note is that jo doesn’t have her beanie on in this scene? and i have a lot of thoughts on this. in most other scenes, jo is hiding behind a front. she’s sarcastic and tries to avoid showing any form of vulnerability. she wears her beanie like a suit of armor, really. we only see her without her beanie three times: when she’s coming back from the church social with her mom (which she was forced to do and clearly hated. and as soon as her mom is gone she puts the beanie back on immediately, like it’s something to hold on to), you oughta know (which is the only time, at least at this point in the show, where i think we really, truly see jo— when she lets herself go) and then the end (we’ll talk about this later).

after everyone has finished cheering (for a solid like 2 minutes holy shit), frankie runs up to jo looking at her phone in a panic. “jo!” she yells. jo turns around, clearly annoyed, “what? god do you even give a shit?” and frankie goes “no jo it’s my mom” and immediately jo’s there to help because that’s the kind of person she is and they run off stage in a hurry.

cue uninvited. wow. i know i’ve said this about so many things but honestly i don’t think i’ve ever seen such genius staging and choreography in theater ever. it’s absolutely mindblowing. so this is the scene where mj overdoses and the way they depict this is genius. we see a dark stage with a single spotlight on the couch in the center where mj sits and begins to sing. seconds later, heather comes up from behind her and begins to dance around her. this kicks off a stunning choreography that has you on the edge of your seat the whole time. dressed the same as mj, heather shows the agony and pain mj is experiencing, both mentally and physically, through dance. she throws herself around the couch, falling to the floor in agony and pulling herself back up again. mj and heather reach out to each other but never quite reach each other. elizabeth’s stunning voice as mj combined with heather’s astounding choreography as her body double just makes you really, truly feel the absolute pain she’s experiencing in every possible way. incredible. also, at the very beginning of the song, i kid you not when i first looked toward the back of the stage i thought there was a reflection or a pole or something? you can ~just barely~ see something behind mj but i truly thought it was a trick of the light for the longest time. but slowly, ever so slowly, the light grows and you realize it was bella, looking on and watching the whole thing as a ghost in the distance. and her harmonies are stunning. at the end of the song heather and bella leave and mj collapses on the floor, completely passed out. this is when steve enters. he sees her and we see him for a moment start to run towards her and the stage goes pitch black with a loud note from the band. a second later the lights come back on and this time we see steve on the ground w mj and nick on the phone talking frantically. the lights shut off again w another note and when they come back on we see an emt taking mj’s vitals. then they shut off one last time and when they come back on we’re in the hospital w mj and steve.

steve and nick have a conversation with the doctor before going into mj’s room featuring one of the best exchanges i’ve ever seen on stage. the doctor tells steve mj overdosed and she had multiple drugs in her system, different ones than she was originally prescribed, leading him to conclude she got them off the streets. steve is in disbelief. he replies “look at her. does she looks like a drug addict to you?” and the doctor replies “what do you think a drug addict looks like?” no response. incredible.

then mary jane. wow sean allen krill’s voice is just so so good and his performance is stunning. i cried. he climbs in bed with mary jane as he sings to her and it’s adorable. we also have a great exchange between the two of them when she wakes up. one of the lines from the couples therapy scene earlier was steve talking about how mj has to be the best at everything: “we get it mj. you’re winning… at candyland.” now as she wakes up steve is breaking down (also so great to see a grown man get emotional and cry onstage! yes!! fuck toxic masculinity!!) and he apologizes for not noticing something was wrong earlier, talking about how he messed up. mj, still weak and tired responds “im detoxing from opiates… i win.” such a good line. they discuss how they need to start communicating more, mj starting to come clean that she has some things she needs to work through and they discuss how she’ll be going to rehab. nick then walks in (frankie visited earlier during mary jane) and mj immediately goes “nick i was wrong. you need to go to the police.” and steve responds “mj. he already did.” they then discuss how frankie is currently downtown at the rally she organized: the rally for bella.

and now we’re at the rally, the setting for no. this is absolutely incredible. the whole ensemble is on stage, the band behind them, jo and phoenix on either side and frankie in the middle holding a sign that says “stand with survivors,” all surrounding bella who stands in the center with her head held high. after the song starts bella and nick have a brief interaction and honestly i was so so happy with how they did this. nick explains that he came forward and apologizes for not doing so earlier. and bella, rightfully so, STAYS ANGRY. i love to see women on stage being allowed to show emotion. she recognizes he did the right thing but she doesn’t immediately forgive him nor should she. she’s still hurt, and what nick did, or didn’t do, will affect her for the rest of her life: “why didn’t you stop him?” she asks. “i don’t know” he responds, “but everyone knows the truth now.” she then calls him out on his privilege, saying “because you said it. why wasn’t it enough for me to say it? you get to be the hero, like always. because of who you are, because of what you look like. they believe you.” “i’m sorry. if i could change anything about my life bella i would go back—” “yeah. so would i.” she walks away and the song continues. most of the ensemble members have solo lines where they stand center stage, their expressions solemn while the rest of the ensemble surrounds them, touching them, enclosing them. then we get to the second chorus and bella’s big part. she stands center again, belting her heart out as the ensemble, frankie and jo all grab their signs and stand by her side. these signs are stunning. some highlights include: “rape affects all genders,” “believe black women,” “tell your story,” “you’re not alone,” “teach consent,” “a call to men,” “don’t tell me what to wear, tell them not to rape,” and, my personal favorite, “don’t get raped” with the “get” and “d” crossed out so it says “don’t rape.” they slowly move toward the front of the stage as they reach the climax of the song, and stand in solidarity in a line across the very front. at the end of the chorus nick picks up the sign frankie was holding earlier, “stand with survivors” and moves to join them and stand next to bella, literally standing with survivors. chills.

now we get to the closing. as thank u plays in the background we once again see mj sitting on the family couch, writing the annual healy christmas letter. she talks about how inspired she is by frankie’s strength, how her daughter’s doing so much for bella who is a rape survivor “like myself.” she then discusses how bella’s case is going to trial and, even though andrew still got into a good college, bella gets to tell her story, “most of us never do.” frankie then sits down next to her and says “i didn’t know what you were going through mom. i guess i never saw you as a… person?” mj laughs. “you’re my kid that’s normal.” she then starts talking about how all she ever wanted was for frankie to fit in there and when frankie tells her she never wanted that mj goes. “i got it wrong. i’m going to start listening.” she tells us nick is taking a year off to be a witness in bella’s case: “he can’t change the past. but he’s looking inside himself to figure out why he didn’t do anything when he had the chance.” she talks about how her and steve are in therapy both couple and individual. and finally, she talks about her time in rehab and the incredible people she met and all that she learned, but how “recovery will last the rest of [my] life.” she cracks some jokes at the expense of the white, privileged, suburban lifestyle she once loved, commenting “i had spent so much time around all of you i forgot what it was like to talk to people who were kind and genuinely had empathy.” the whole family is sitting next to her on the couch now as she finishes up the christmas letter with “xoxo, mj.” as she finishes she goes “i think this will be my last letter” and when asked why she says, “because christmas letters are for assholes.” steve then asks “are you really going to send that” and mj replies “what have i got to lose?” before steve reminds her “you’re not at rock bottom anymore.” frankie then dares her to send it and nick agrees. she hits send in one impulsive click and yells “merry fucking christmas.” you learn begins to play in the background as steve laughs and asks who that went to and mj responds in this hilarious exaggerated whisper: “everyoneeeeee.”

now we have you learn. so beautiful. one thing that isn’t on the soundtrack is that before jo comes in she and frankie talk for a moment. they say they miss each other but we see that jo’s doing well, she has a new girlfriend and she’s finally starting to gain some confidence. she doesn’t have her beanie on!! jo then asks about phoenix and frankie responds “we’re good. we’re just friends.” and then the music starts back up again. as we get to the chorus the whole ensemble joins them and they’re all just rocking out, laughing, smiling, dancing and generally having the time of their lives. so so wholesome i love it so much. watch the video of their performance on good morning america it’s so so cute. the very end everyone slowly leaves and it’s just mj and frankie center stage, holding hands as the final note dies out. so so good.

the bows. omg. at the end they go back and jam w the band and it’s SO CUTE. also frankie and jo always dance off together as they’re leaving the stage. wholesome content.

let me know if there’s anything else at all you’d like to know!! or if anything wasn’t clear. or if you just wanna talk about it. i have many thoughts, some of which aren’t even in this ridiculously long post.

[elegant-etienne]

3. [I] trusted [you]

Send me a number to receive a micro story!

Thank you for the ask, @maybeimawhale​!

(This song is what always comes to mind when I see the word ‘Trusted.’ And I think a lot about how I used to relate to this song, in the wake of a really bad break-up, but now that I’m older, I have to wonder if the narrator of the song is being at all reasonable. I also find it helpful, when revisiting subjects I’ve written before, to twist around the perspective a bit, and give myself permission, without naming the character in this piece, to treat Etienne’s ex-husband as a NPC, and admit to myself a lot of my own character’s faults from the outside.)

BEHIND THE CUT: Descriptions of a toxic marriage, substance abuse and addiction, suicidal ideation and an attempt, allusions to past abuse and PTSD, and very inaccurate TBH but this is more or less how I remember it going down descriptors of someone having a “split personality,” and some light misgendering of Etienne (they ID’ed as male when they met their ex-husband, and at the time of their wedding).

Also I am sorry for any errors, I can’t go back and fix them after the initial post or it’ll break the formatting on the post.

insp. Ben Folds - Trusted

It's funny I know But I'm disappointed in you I thought you could read my mind

Your husband - your spouse Etienne is doing better after the time away. Actually, the time when they was sleeping in the recovery wing - three sennights - is among the best you two have had. A few hours of visitation, and they're affectionate and loving and missing you. Even a rare smile, and they show you where the stitches came out. A bell or two isn't enough time to get worked into a fervor about things and restart the same fights you've been having for moons.

When they return, Etienne has warmth in their cheeks again. They're gaining weight again. They don't smile, but they've always been quiet about that sort of thing. They've missed you. They've missed you so much. They look more like they did on your wedding day, that reserved, understated glow. They look like the Etienne you married.

(In those moments when you thought you could still be one person successfully. In those moments when they thought they'd killed the other you. In those moments when they stood at you at the altar, teary-eyed but happy, so happy.)

"Welcome home, Etie," you say with your brightest grin.

"I'll be better this time. I promise. I'll never do that again."

You laugh and embrace. You're both so relieved.

But I came home early And saw that a drawer'd been opened Looks like you've been reading my diary instead

After a long shift in Medica, all you want to do is come home and take a bath. Etienne seems to have other ideas, however. They're seated at the desk. They're glaring at you. They hold up your notebook - the one with all the reports.

"So this is what you've been doing at night while I'm gone? Forbidden research and magic? I thought we talked about this! It's too dangerous, after the last time. What if it goes too far?"

"There was no one else who could do it. It had to be me." You've never raised your voice to Etienne. Not once. Sometimes, you've cried while you're fighting. Etienne has shouted before. Twice. It frightened you.

(They wanted to kill the other half of you.)

"What if something had happened to you while I was in care? I wouldn't have known where you were. And what if there had been an emergency at the FC? Folk need you. I need you. And you promised..." Etienne bows their head, sucking in sharp breaths to try and stop the crying.

"You have no business going through my notes. There could have been patient information in there!"

"...You were acting strangely. You were hurt. You weren't telling me things. You broke your promise." The tears have been withdrawn, all that's left is dead, blank sullenness from Etienne.

"I had no other choice."

"Did you even try to stop and think of one?"

"There wasn't time. Percy and--"

"Percy?!" There it is, the raised voice, a burst of life, a flame in their eyes. "I knew it. I knew he and you--"

"It was work--"

"--Have something going on, you told me it was nothing, you told me you weren't seeing him when I wasn't around-- While I was in the bloody hospital from trying to kill myself because I can't stand this, and you wouldn't leave me alone, you wouldn't just give me the space, and now the moment you have you're running around--" Etienne always gets like this. A million words a moment. Each a pointed attack, an accusation. When Etienne gets this way, you can't do anything right.

"--It's only work--!"

"Maybe I shouldn't have come back. Maybe Rosa was right, it's too soon, we're not ready." Etienne straights their posture, scrubbing at their eyes with the heels of their hands. "I drew you a bath. I'm going to bed."

How does it feel to realize You're all alone behind your eyes?

The bath is strewn with rose petals, the candles burned down hours ago. It's dark and cool in the bedroom off the heat of the bath. Your spouse is bunched up in one corner of the bed. "I love you, you know," you speak to the dark. To Etienne's back.

"I love you too," Etienne says, but doesn't turn around. “...Be honest. Did you fuck him?”

“No, it’s not like that. He found this... it was like a cursed circus, full of twisted creatures, he needed cleansing spells, he was able to show me ways to amplify my power...”

(He knows about the other you.)

"It's alright if you did," Etienne says, malms away in the same bed. Did they even hear your explanation? "If you want to, just tell me. We can figure out an arrangement, a lot of married couples do, just don't lie to me. Don't lie."

"It's not like that."

It seems to me if you can't trust You can't be trusted

You wait to hear the soft wheeze of Etienne's snores, but you drift off before they do. Somehow. In the middle of the night, it's a repeat of others. This hasn't changed with the time in care ward, apparently. Etienne sits up and starts screaming, won't be held, won't be comforted. 3AM in the morning and your spouse is in the corner, knees to chest, rocking. They start rooting around, too, when you pretend to sleep. They won't find anything. You poured all the liquor out sennights ago -- even the things in the back of the icebox and at the top of the bookshelf.

Caught in a dream Picking up astral signals Some of them psychic, you better watch what you think

You come home to Etienne sitting in front of their vanity. You see the shimmer of a deactivated glamour prism. There are tears in their eyes, but you don't know why. They slip the plate into a drawer somewhere, and you do not ask more about it.

"I got more of the sedative. To help you with sleeping. So you don't have to drink." It's never difficult to cadge a little bit of medicine on the side for loved ones when it's needed - such are the benefits of being one of the heads of Medica. No one has to ask any questions. Etienne doesn't have to get upset or embarrassed at exposing their problems to anyone they don't trust. Rosa doesn't have to put her foot down and force Etienne to stay in the care ward, away from you. It's win-win.

Something flits across Etienne's face - suspicion, mayhap, and they say-- "I'm going to try and handle it. I'm. I don't know if it's a good idea for you to keep giving me that stuff."

"The sedative's non-habit-forming. It's better than alcohol, at least."

"I still shouldn't turn to something every time I'm distressed. It scares me. Depending on that."

"Then at least talk to me about what's bothering you."

Etienne looks at you through the mirror, not turning around. "It's not anything distinct. It's. Hands. Being pulled down into darkness. Being pinned down. Being unable to escape. Sometimes it's so real I feel it, getting slammed into a wall or onto the icy ground... and no matter how I struggle, I can't get free. So I start screaming."

"Etie..."

"Well, whatever. Everyone's got their shite." You hate this. How they mutter and retreat into themselves. They fold up into themselves and they don't come back.

(Your nightmares are of fire, of the Calamity. Lost in the woods, mother and father are gone, you can't find your brother's hand--)

Etienne shuffles resentfully into the silence. "Are you willing to tell me what you did on that mission?"

"Are you promising not to get angry when I tell you the  details?"

Etienne lifts their chin. "I'll decide that when you tell me."

(You tell them. You don't tell them all of it. You don't tell them he's back.)

Happens to be that everybody else's dreams are Freudian clues You better watch what you dream

A few suns later, Etienne makes breakfast for you. That pink ruffly apron, but there's no singing this morning: just the sizzling pan. "Do you remember anything at all about last night?" they ask, plating up the little fish with fresh, fluffy rice. They loved that Doman cooking book you got them.

"Um..."

Etienne pours you scalding hot green tea. "I went looking for you. I gave that friend of yours quite a scare. I think maybe he thought I'd burn him alive." Etienne snorts. "I just made his tea boil a bit. When he told me the truth of what you two have been up to."

"Why would you--"

"Then I found you in the Quicksand. Chatting up someone else. Are you cheating on us both, darling?"

Your head's spinning as you try to braid the threads of last night back together. "That wasn't me--"

"No, it wasn't. I brought him back here. He was as awful to me as ever." Etienne accuses with swordlike jabs. "If he's back," they say, "Why did we do any of it? The ritual? I almost lost you then! Why did you make me do any of that if he was just going to come back?"

(Your head hurts.)

"You shouldn't have gone through my things," you hiss out. "There are things that you are better off not knowing!"

"Oh, like the fact you and that boy have a magical connection? Unlike anything either of you has ever experienced? And how you - the other you - is the most brilliant mind he's ever known? It's just like I said. Remember that? You said nothing was happening, but he's totally in love with you."

"It isn't like that."

"Tell that to him, then."

(Etienne never listens.)

"Even if there's something going on - it - it isn't with me and him, it's--"

"The other one. I know. The other one who threatened to kill me."

"He was just testing you."

"And that makes it better?"

"He's lashing out because you tried to destroy him."

"He started it. You said the ritual would fix you," Etienne rasps out a whisper. "I can't believe this. I can't believe we did all that and... I'm dragging someone wearing the body of my husband out of a seedy tavern. I looked like such a fool. I thought we fixed this."

"Maybe," you feel your voice dropping to a growl, "I never needed to be fixed."

You want to see the other side What's going on behind the eyes

(Last winter, you came out of a fog to Etienne staring at you, withdrawn into a calmly blank expression, their posture stiff.

"Why," they ask you, "Did you just threaten to murder me?"

You said, groggily, "What?"

And you explained it all. The splitting.

"How am I supposed to feel safe around you when there's - there's something inside you that wants to kill me?" Etienne asks, too steadily. "He knows everything about me that I've told you. He knows what I'm afraid of. This is a problem." They say, and they speak your name urgently.

"I'm sorry if I scared you, if - if he did."

"Oh, I wasn't scared," Etienne says, quietly and intensely. "I'm used to being around men who'd just as soon slit my throat as fuck me. Or one and then the other, with no particular preference of the order. I just didn't realize you were one of them.")

Still it seems if you can't trust You can't be trusted

Here is one of the fights you've had more than once: your friend thought of a way to get rid of the other personality. Put him into another body.

"So we'd just take the body of someone who - what? Even if you found a willing subject, that would be killing someone." Etienne pulls their knees up to their chest, the water rippling. You're sitting at the edge of the bath. They seem to want to melt into the steam wafting off the surface. It makes them dewy. You're not sure if they're crying or not.

"No," you tell them, "We could put him into another body where the spirit had already returned to the Lifestream."

"That's necromancy. I won't do necromancy."

"We may have no other option."

"If you mess with corpses, you really won't have control over what ends up in there. You could be inviting something very, very bad in. You know that, don't you? What you're talking about is defiling the dead. It's a sin. It's a defiance of Nald'Thal's balance. It's a perversion of everything I believe. You know that. You shouldn't do it. Don't ask me to do it!"

"What if we have no other choice?"

Etienne stands up in the water, then, thinking to get out. They shout, "I can't do it! Don't ask me!" Their voice echoes and buzzes in the small space of the bath. The water ripples as they sink back down into it. They let the water bury them like a comfort blanket. "I'm - I'm sorry. Please just go away," they say in a tiny voice. "Let me think."

"I'll be outside."

Didn't you know we're as close as we can be?

In the end, what else could you do? Etienne didn't trust you to handle the situation. Etienne wouldn't participate in the most obviously effective ritual. Etienne was angry at you when the first attempt didn't work as planned. Etienne was an unstable, suicidal, dangerously alcoholic. It hadn't taken much time at all after the hospitalization for them to fall back on old ways.

They couldn't be trusted.

On the day you left to do it, you kissed their forehead, tucked the blankets all around them, and put strong wards on the doors after emptying another round of hidden bottles.

The sun's coming up She's pulled all the blankets over Curled in a ball Like she's hiding from me and That's when I know

Their voice comes over the linkpearl. There's a danger to it. "Why are there wards on the door, what are these?"

"It's the only way to keep you from drinking when I can't be there," you explain calmly.

Etienne sucks in a breath, and you brace for yelling. "You can't just lock me in here," they whisper. "I'm a person. I'm an adult. You have to let me out."

"I have somewhere to be for a few suns. You've food in there. You'll be alright. Sober up."

"Can't you call someone to come check on me? Rosa, or someone? Please, I can't - don't leave me here alone."

"I'm sorry, it was my only option. This can't wait."

She's gonna be pissed when she wakes up For terrible things I did to her in her dreams

The apartment is in poor shape when you return. It seems at several points Etienne attempted to magic the doorway and scorched the rug - or the levin sparked and started a fire - and they also attempted sheer brute force. One of the charming little kitchen chairs is splintered. But the Etienne you find is more like the Etienne you married. Ducking their head shyly, saying, "I'm really sorry... I'm sorry I relapsed, I'm weak."

"I'm sorry I had to do that," you say. The two of you hug desperately.

(You're sorry you had to do all of it.)

You want to see the other side What's going on behind the eyes

(You're sorry the first ritual failed. The softness and patience Etienne showed you then, when you were recovering, when you didn't remember them - they were just as sweet as they'd been when you first got married. When you first started dating. Before everything got so bad.)

Still it seems if you can't trust You can't be trusted

The night Etienne tried to kill themselves, you had a fight. It was about all those nights you went out, not telling them where you were going. "I can't keep doing this," Etienne said to you, staring up at the statue of Nald'thal in the Ossuary. "I can't." They speak your name with such quiet urgency. "I need time to think."

"Please," you beg, your eyes stinging. "Don't leave me." You grab their arm. They try to jerk away from the touch.

Their voice echoes loud in the Ossuary. "Don't bloody touch me when I’m upset! Please!"

You hold onto their arm harder. Their arm is so thin. They're slipping away from you. "Please don't leave, please don't be angry. Please...!"

"I'm not -- I'm not -- I just..."

You're sobbing.

"I'm sorry, darling," Etienne says, gently touching your face, your hair, "Let's go home."

You have a long conversation-argument at the apartment. You explain why the work is essential. They beg you to promise not to do things that put you in danger. You tell them you'll do your best. You don't like doing things that upset them, after all.

"I don't know what's wrong with me,” Etienne murmurs. “I feel hounded, I can't sleep. You're always so busy. Since the ritual and... since that... incident with Henri..."

"Are you guilty? Because of what happened?"

"I honestly just want to be alone," Etienne says. They are sitting at the desk about a yalm from you, but they're malms away. "So much has happened the last few moons. I need to figure it out."

"Do you mean traveling? I can't right now, with work -- and I don't know if it's a good idea for you to be on your own. I don't think you're alright on your own right now."

"True," Etienne says, lowering their head. They shuffle around in the desk, and your feel your face heat. Another bottle? Etienne whispers something, "You won't let me go," mayhap, and then. The letter opener.

Thank the Twelve you're a healer. Thank the Twelve you had the sedative. They beg you for it that night, after you stop the bleeding. They can’t sleep and they’re half mad, crying and ranting. And you take them to your co-worker Rosa in the morning. She takes Etienne away from you. Says they need to rest and recover under direct supervision. Etienne doesn't even want to see you at first, or perhaps it's that Rosa won't let you near them. She's the one who stipulated only short visits while Etienne recovers. She only lets you back after Etienne sleeps for two suns straight.

Didn't you know we're as close as we can be?

You remember the day you fell in love with Etienne. You both were sitting at the Quicksand. You had tea, they had orange juice, and another man sat down between you two at the table and made himself welcome. He asked you why you stuttered.

"While on the subject of questions, why are you so bloody rude?" Etienne asked. They said to you, "You don't have to answer that." And you smiled, feeling sunshine radiating out of every pore.

"I'm not the sort of man for relationships," Etienne said, later, as you walked down the streets of Ul'dah, over to the steps of the Ossuary. You offered to escort them to work, as though they needed it. "I've been through a lot. I don't even know if I can love anyone - it all seems like kind of a fool's errand, honestly. Men are... I've just met so many, many awful men."

You took their hand, and they look at you, surprised. "I can be patient," you promised them, "I can wait. I think you're worth it. I think you're worth trying for. I've never met anyone like you."

"Well, thank you, I suppose," Etienne says, their lips twisting as they hold back skeptical laughter. "Let’s promise one another, though - let’s be honest with one another about how this going. If someone else catches your fancy, or I do something you don't like, please just tell me. You wouldn't believe how many times I got hauled out of a nobleman's bed by a surprised wife. As if it's my fault their marriage is falling apart! I don't want anything like that, alright? No silly secrets!”

"Promise."

“Not that I imagine we'll get married. I'm really not the type." Etienne laughs at the sky. “What am I doing?!”

Hello.

[kay-is-krazy]

Literally No Title

Please help

Idk what I’m doing

This is a fanfic

Deanxreader kinda

It needs work sorry

I will hashtag

.

.

.

.

.

Damp. Everything that surrounds you is damp. As you start to come to, you smell the stench. Sulfar. Confused, you try to open your eyes, brows furred as the light tries to chase away your sight. Your adrenaline pushes you to figure out where you are. Looking around weerily, you notice the familiar iron door. Your parents old farmhouse storm cellar. Opening and closing your eyes making sure this is what you're actually seeing. It's been years. Decades even since you've seen these walls. Theyre different now. Moldy, but with cobwebs. You start to realize you're strapped down on the old iron table you used to eat spaghettios on when the tornados hit. No use in trying to squirm your way to topple over. Your father bolted it down in the cement. How did you get here. As you push and strain yourself to remember, the door opens. A tall red flannel emerges, and you go cold...

Life wasn't always fighting monsters, and saving people. You had a family of your own, until the vampire mafia ripped in to town destroying everything in their path, including your home and everyone in it. You still remember their screams as you fled into the woods. Revenge is a choice you have to make, and it sure was a hell of a ride. In this life, you run into auhtorities, but very little hunters like yourself. After bumping into the Winchesters working a werewolf case, they sort of took you under their wing. Noticing you needed guidance, before you ever could. You were in constant rage, before meeting the boys. Searching for answers, and never being satisfied with the kill. It all blurred into a blood bath of vengence. A lot of trust, losses, and whiskey, but you found a new family. You need them as much as they need you. And just recently, it was Dean needing saving.

The mark had completely consumed him. Being the hero, the guinea pig, has led him to be desperate in saving the world. You knew he was always staying strong, putting on a good face for Sam, but deep down, he is slightly broken like the rest of you. His hope depleted as the mark's strength took over his judgement. He was like you were before they saved you, scared and fuming with anger. You're just trying to return the favor before he hurts anyone else, especially his brother Sam.

After months of research, you found something. Slight chance of hope in fixing Dean. Confiding in Sam, he decides to look for it himself. The word of God. Once touched by a demon, it is said to purify them. No one has seen it in over 100 years, but you got a lead. The only thing that's near impossible is finding Dean. So time to draw him out... He wants a fight, you'll bring him a fight.

Scrounging up as many demons as possible, making sure they're alive but bleeding, you make a devils trap and wait. You heard through demon grapevine, that Dean can sniff them out. He's the big bad now. Being a demon himself, he hates them even more, if that makes sense.

But your plan didn't work. There have been plenty of close calls while working on the job, but this wasn't just a regular monster case. It was so much more, and there's a lot at stake. You realize why you're scared. You're in a situation even you can't get out of alive. Fear sets in as Dean walks closer. Each step like a predator closing in on it's prey. That red shirt, being even more red than usual.

He smirks, “Welcome back sunshine. Thought I killed you too soon”.

Your head is pounding as you try to look at your body. Realizing its broken, bruised, and bloodied, you must have put up a fight.

“Oh that, sorry, I couldn't help myself. After I knocked you out, I had some fun.” Your heart is beating so fast as if it is going to jump out of your body. The last thing you want is for him to see you afraid. You try to muffle out his name, but your voice is hoarse. “Please don't speak, I don't want my ears to bleed as you plead with me.... or on the other hand, I'd love to hear you beg for your life”, he whispers the last part in your face.

Wincing at his words, you turn your head, and say “You're not you right now. We'll fix this, Dean.”

He puts his hands on your chin, for a second you think it's him. His oversized, warm strong hands that wouldn't hurt a fly unless it was unnatural.The ones who taught you martial arts, and the ever so famous air guitar. But looking into his eyes, noticing they are lacking the softness, they flicker, and those green eyes are no longer. Black eyes, and his hands smell of sulfar. “There's nothing to fix sweetheart, I'm better than ever.” he jerks his hand away making your head turn to face him. As he walks to the door to open it, you yell out, “Just get it over with and kill me already!” He stops, turns his head just so you can see his profile, and scoffs. Walking out, and leaving you alone once again.

Wondering where Sam is, you try to squirm free from being tied up.Your fastens on your wrist have some wiggle room. Using the pointiness of your sister's ruby class ring on your left hand, you try to cut the leather bands. It's going to take hours, but you're not giving up yet. You know there are only two ways out of this, and you'll be damed if you don't fight.

'Pour some sugar on me' plays from your cell phone. Sam's calling you, the signature ringtone for drunk, fun Sam. Reminding you of the nights at the roadhouse, playing the same G43 on the old jukebox driving Dean insane. While Sammy and you sang until your voices were unrecognizable.

The door opens, and you straighten up, not making a move to let Dean know you've been trying to break free. There's a cart that he's pushing inside, full of old kitchen utensils, some tools from a shed, and a few of Dean's things from the trunk of his Impala that have been missing since the mark took him over.

“I know you and Sam have been looking for me, trying to save me. I'm going to show you how much I don't want or need you two around. Lets send Sammy a message, hm?” He walks over to your jacket with your cellphone in it. Dean throws it in the air and catches it. Holding it like a gun, making fake noises pretending to shoot you. “Glad to see you havent lost your adolescent behavior”, you say, “I know you're still in there Dean”.

He puts your phone down on the cart, picking up a rusty knife used for cutting fish. “But I'm not, and I'm going to prove to you just how wrong you are about me.” He cuts your cheek, and you feel the skin break open, stinging.

“You can hurt me all you want, you'll just be hurting yourself.” You say and spit in his face. The dark smirk scurries from his face, and you know what's coming next is worst.

The torture that he tortured you with only stems from Hell. Picture after picture taken and sent to Sam. The laughing, the darkness, and the insults coming from him, you start to lose hope that Dean is even in there. You keep reminding yourself that demons lie. Not believing anything DemonDean says, even though you desperately want it to be true. The remarks about how he used to think about you like a little sister until a couple years ago when you got stood up on a date with some guy named Brett. Thinking back from a different perspective now, you realize Dean was the one there who saved you from getting kicked out of the restaurant for using up a table. Waiting for some loser you met online, but seeing Dean sitting down across from you, feeling a sense of clarity and sureness. But now ever since he's turned into something evil, he doesn't feel a thing at all for you or Sam.

In and out of consiousness, you decide you wouldn't give up on him. Even though your body is mangled, you keep pushing.

“Dean, this isn't the path your mother would have wanted. You have to know that. You don't want to let her down or she'd died for nothing.” You plead and try, but he slaps you hard in the face. The hit seemed personal, as if you were getting somewhere with him. You reason, “Isn't family what brings people together, it's what brought us together. Aren't we family, you could let me go, and Sam and I can help you see the light again. Just like your mom used to say right? The light will guide you home. Come home Dean!” Another blow to your head. He knocks you out again.

As you come to, Dean is reaching for the blade. He's actually going to use it on you, kill you. Coming to terms with your fate, you start to hum and mumble 'simple man by lynryd skynrd'. It was always your favorite. It was everyones favorite. You figured it was a good enough song to go out to. You peek open your eyes as much as you can. Throbbing and seeping blood, you're finally able to see Dean stop and stare at you. He drops the blade, looking down at the mark and then back at you. His face twisted, unsure of what is reality. You don't stop singing. Second verse, he's closer now. A single tear rolling down your face; knowing if he ever came back, got the mark off, he wouldn't forgive himself. Even when he's unable to save someone on a job, he's hard on himself. You can't imagine what he'll feel like, so you pity him.

He's closer now, hands around your throat. He's trying to fight you and himself. The pain and anger in his eyes turns black, then normal again. You look him straight in those familiar faint green eyes, and say your final words, “I forgive you.” The world goes dark.

Heaven was always described as 'your own personal paradise'. You're wondering why yours is in a hospital. White walls and curtains. The coldness in your nose suprises you. Who knew paradise would be so cold, gray, and foggy. Nothing was easy to make out, but you could definitely tell it was a hospital. You hate hospitals, confused as to why you're heaven isn't what you expected, you look around to see if there is a recognizable face. Hoping for maybe your Dad, Mom, or sister.

No one. There's a loud beeping noise and you look up to see a monitor. Looks like the vitals of a dead man. You start to wonder maybe God put you in the wrong paradise. So you pray. But words don't come out, and you drift back into the dark.

Blinking once, then twice, then several times. The light is bright. You can tell it's daytime. Still the same Heaven as before, but this time you feel everything. The pain, the tenderness. You remember, and know that you're not dead. Relieved, but still uncertain, you try to move. Expecting straps to hold you back, your right arm goes flying in the air. Not used to being free. You look down at your body. It's bandaged and braced. A mountain of a man peeks through the curtains. You have instant relief when you recognize Sam. He has the 'poor puppy eyes' look, and you put your hand on his. He grips it tight, but gentle enough. The gentle giant. Trying to let out a smile, a shadow lurks behind Sam. Instant fear as you realize it's Dean. Panic sets in, and your body cannot handle it. The monitors go off, you see Sam try to calm you down, and Dean sneaking away, head down, disgraced with himself. Nurses rush in with the Doctor to make sure you're okay. Tears well up in your eyes. You somehow cannot forget what Dean has done to you.

Weeks in the hospital, the only visitor you had was Sam. Trying to keep your spirits up, he shows you all of his research following up on possible cases. Between playing cards, reading books, and making fun of the new Taylor Swift song, you ask Sam, “How is he?”, and each answer is the same. “No better, no worse,” Sam replies. After the panic attack, Dean thought it best if he didn't show his face anymore to you. Once healed, you were allowed to go home as long as you didn't saw off the leg brace, and practice using the crutches. Knowing how stubborn you are, Sam rolled his eyes, and promised to watch over you.

Happy to finally break out, you laugh as you fumble with the crutches. Sam lets out a worrisome smile. “I'm fine Sam. Really.” You look up to him and give him a carefree toothy grin. Throwing all of your things into the impala, because Sam refused to drive “that stupid pink truck”, you beg Sam to let you pick the music.

Pulling up to the bunker, your stomach sinks a little. You know you'll have to face Dean eventually. Fogiving is easy for you, but forgetting is a whole other learning curve. Never being the one to admit you're wrong first, or facing real problems, you know it's somehting that needs to be worked on. Staring off into the distance a bit, Sam pulls you out of it as he opens the door. “We're stocked up on all your favorite foods, drinks, and even have Netflix!” He says, nudging you arm and attempting a playful laugh.

Weeks of healing, you finally are able to get up into your truck. You need some air, and desperately needed to get away. The outside world was calling your name, so were the pink wheels on that old ford. First hours, days, then weeks went by, and not a single glance from Dean. No words, no contact. Ignored you completely. Anytime you tried to reach him, asking to grab a drink at the dirty bird bar, to researching a simple ghost job, he pushed you away. You spent so much time in your room with your thoughts. Trying not to think about the event that almost ended you, and most importantly the relationship with Dean. Even Sammy has started treating you differently like you're broken. After Sam telling you to stay home again, while they hunt monsters, you'd had enough. Weekend getaway to a cabin in the woods. You leave your phone on your nighstand and decide you need some peace to clear your mind.

“Fill her up,” you say shutting off your truck to get gas. Getting out to grab snacks from inside, a long lost friend appears. Not able to look away from the light, he shields your eyes for you. You forgot how enchanthing the bright white was. “Cas what are you doing here?” You ask as you looks at you stearnly.

“I was told to keep a tab on you, and you left the bunker. So I'm here to bring you back.” He says reaching for your arm.

“Under who's orders?!” You demand. Not letting him answer you back away and say, “The boys? Really can't even get some fresh air!” Clearly angry, you hit your tailgate. Cas immediatley lays his hands on you to heal you. Being an angel has it's perks. But you wanted to feel something, Cas didn't exactly understand what being human was really like.

Brushing his hand away, you try to reason with him. “Go back to the bunker, grab my phone, and bring it to me. That way I have it on me in case I need anything. I'm still going on my very needed trip. What I don't need is a babysitter” Before you could blink twice, Cas had your phone in hand. “Do not turn this off and always keep this on you.” Rolling your eyes you respond sarcastically, “Thanks Dad. Can I leave now?” Clearly unsure of his decision, Cas side eyes you, but finally nods, and leaves you to your road trip snacking.

The cabin is the same as you left it two summers ago. A couple empty beers scattered, but the rest of the place in neat tidy order. Your mom always liked everything in a specific spot, and you try your best to remember that while staying there. Picking up the bottles to recycle them, you smile and remember the good times spent here with your family, both families. Thinking about the boys, you let out a sigh of relief. Thanking the angels that Sam showed up when he did in the storm cellar that day. The word of God being forcefully put in Dean's hands, purifying him instantly. A bright gold light shining through the brick like object, blasting Dean into Sam. His brother holding onto Dean as he comes to and realizes, he's saved. Sam's words will stay with you forever, that story will stay with you forever. You smile as you remember, you were the one who stalled Dean as Sam had come to the rescue.

“Oh shit!” You say as your line tugs and gets stronger. You were too busy admiring the cotton candy sunset to see your fishing line got a bite. It was a warm afternoon, but turning brisk fast. Fall was settling in, you could tell as the wing picked up every now and then. The trees leaves turning the auburn colors. Setting your beer down, you reel it in, but your bait is completely gone.

“You never were good at fishing.” You quickly stand from a lousy folded plastic chair, and turn around to find Dean, smiling at your loss. Clearly shocked, you ask “What are you doing here? Cas told you didn't he. Lousy friend.”

You put your pole down, and open the cooler to offer Dean a beer. He takes it and slowly sits down on the edge of the dock, feet dangling. You sit down next to him, opening your own beer. “Where's Sam?” you ask.

“Working the case still.” He notices your cocked eyebrow from a side glance. As if he would ever leave Sammy alone, he continues, “It's easy, just some pyscho vengeful ghost.” He sips his beer, straring at the now setting sun.

Getting straight to it, you ask, “Why are you here Dean?” Staring at him, you notice the weariness.

He lowers his head, gripping his beer tight. You see his shoulders move up and down slowly. Sighing heavily, he looks at you, completely looks at you for the first time. It catches your breath, because you have never seen a man so broken, Dean so vulnerable. You can tell he's been fighting with himself, beating himself up over the events that took place. Defeated, face full of hatred for himself, he doesn't say a word. You see his jaw tighten, his temples twitching. Reaching for his shoulder to show trust, but he pulls away shaking his head. “I don't trust myself with you” He musters, as he stands up to walk toward the cabin. Thinking about chasing after him, forcing him to talk, but you can't move. Like cement, you stay planted in your spot. The sun finally sets, but you still sit there, listening to the sound of the frogs.

Grabbing your things from the dock, you head inside. What could you say to make him believe you. Would you believe yourself if you said, “Everything is okay.”? Is it? Inside, you notice Dean is cleaning up what seems to be like the bathroom mirror. Understanding what just happened, you bend down to help and he stops you. Gripping your hands tight, he says “No. You don't need to clean up my mess. Any of my messes.” With a dustpan, he walks to the trash to dump the shards of glass.

“What's that suppose to mean? Am I not allowed to care? To try to save you from yourself?” He winces at the last part.

Turning around to face you, but leaning against the kitchen counter, he looks at you cold and promises, “You will never have to save me again. I will never hurt you or anyone else again.” He looks down and then back up into your eyes, moving towards the door, “You wanna know why I'm here? I came here to say goodbye.”

Stopping him dead in his tracks, you look up at him wondering how you and Sam could even survive without Dean. You start to cry. It's not like you to let anything out, but you stand there, tears pouring out of your face. “No.” was all you could muster up. Very stearn, you said it again, “No.” He grabs you and pulls you in close. Hanging on to eachother, as if it's the last time.

You both stay like this awhile, not realizing it's way over due. “You're not leaving us. We won't let you.” you say confidently, and at this he lets go. He tenses again, trying to be strong, and insists “You and Sammy have to let me go. I've been nothing but trouble. I'm bad. I'm not worth your lives.” Clearly needing reassurance, but not knowing how, you yell, “I went through all of that for nothing?!” Talking with your hands like usual, brows furious now, you continue, “After everything, you still think you're not worth it? Sam and I have done everything for you, for us, for this family.”

He turns his back on you holding back tears, but instead letting out his frustration, “You don't what it's like to need constant saving. I need control of myself, I don't have control.” He yells as he punches the wall. It startles you.

“Oh, I don't know what it's like?” you start, “You don't think that I was ever at a low in my life. What losing my family did to me, the things I did in return. It wasn't until you and your brother, that I finally found solace!” you scoff, “Please you're not the only broken one around here.” Realizing that anger isn't the route to go down, you quietly move toward him. Pushing back the fear that has been dormant, you hold his hand. “We are family.” you say softly. “Family doesnt end in blood.” You wipe away the blood trickling from his knuckle with your shirt.

His hands are shaking now, as he holds them up inching closer to your neck. You flinch, and he tries to pull away. You immediatley grab his hands, and put them to your cheeks, making his squish them together a little. Tears welling up in your eyes, you let out a low, “i'm a little guppy...” It was something you two always did to cheer eachother up. Getting the other to laugh when you're both at a low point has been almost like a game. So far, he's beeing in the lead. Before you can finish, his lips are on yours. Waves of heat roll from your head to your toes, your wet cheeks brushing his scruff, and you give in, even being scared and uncertain. Dean pulls away, looks at you stearn, and says “I'm going to miss you.”

You're still standing not sure of what just happened, and you hear the door slam shut. It seemed as though your feet wouldn't move, but then you finally took a deep breath, turned around and bolted out the door. He was getting in the impala, but before he could jet off, you opened that door and ripped him out. Standing toe to toe, you slap him. That bottled rage unleashes. Then you connect your fist to his face. Unprepared, Dean fell against the car. Shocked at how hard you hit, he starts to realize you're not going to stop, so he holds your hands down. Red in the face from anger, and him red because well there's now blood pouring from his nose, you finally relax so he loosens his rains on you.

“What was that?!” You ask. “Who do you think you are? That is not okay. I am not okay.” Turning around, hands on your hips, shaking your head. Instantly defensive, you gasp, turn to face him, and make sure he knows, “I am not like every other girl. I don't deserve to be treated like any other girl.” He opens his mouth to say something, but you immediatley talk over him, “You're going to have to kill me.” Dean looks at you clearly confused. “Why do I have to kill you?”

Walking back and forth now, you respond, “Over my dead body...You're not walking out on us. Not Sammy, not me. Not our future. People need us, they need you.” Stopping, and turning to face Dean, you say, “I need you. And if you get in that impala, you better have shot me first because I won't stop looking for you.” Walking toward him now, pointing your finger in his chest, you end with “I refuse to give up on you.” At that, he looks down at you, smirks, and responds, “You're stubborn, you know that?” You break a smile, and say “I learned from the best.” Throwing you over his shoulder, he walks into the cabin.

Completely surprised as to what took place last night, you turn around and look at Dean's green eyes. Understanding now, the feelings that were dormant for so long. Realizing now that DemonDean only told the truth to hurt you.You put your hand to his face, brushing his cheek with the back of your finger, and he closes his eyes to just feel your touch. “You're not allowed to leave.” He nods, reaches for your hand with his, and lightly kisses your fingers. “I will never forgive myself...” He says, and you respond instantly, with your pointer finger shooshing his lips, “I forgive you, and will continue to remind you that you're the good guy.” Closing your eyes, thinking about the first time meeting these boys, not knowing how they would change your life for the better, you smile. He rolls you over with ease, and tucks you in close to his warm naked chest. Deep, and grunting, he says your name into your hair. You lift your head a little to let him know you're listening, “hm?” “I don't deserve this” he says, “I don't deserve you.” You respond while picking his hand up moving it closer to your chest, “Neither do I.”

[louthegreatfurrry]

let the light guide your way Pt.4

“Ah,” the hat says the instant Harry slips it on, “what do we have here?”

“Uh,” says Harry. “Hi?”

The hat chuckles. “Now, we don’t have time for pleasantries. You’d do well in all houses…” It trails off. “Oh… oh well, now, what’s this? Ah, you’re not quite as you seem, then, young boar. Very well. I’d best put you in GRYFFINDOR!”

The last part is shouted aloud, and the Hall explodes in cheers and whistles. Harry notes drily that they seem to be coming mainly from the Gryffindor table. Tugging off the hat and handing it back to Professor McGonagall – who now smiles at him – he moves to his new table. He’s joined by Ron, later, and they’re both grinning widely at each other when Harry scoots over to give him place. Hermione sits on his other side and listens intently as the older students fill them in on teacher names and classes and schedules and hallways.

Later, when they’ve all found their way into their respective dormitories, Harry lies in a bed larger than his cupboard has ever felt. He doesn’t stay awake very long – long enough to hear the other boys’ breaths turn even as they fade into sleep, but not a minute longer – and when he sleeps, he sleeps calmly and well.

*

The first week at Hogwarts is… strange. The classes are interesting – Harry finally gets an answer to what Transfiguration is – and at least some of the teachers are alright. Professor Flitwick and Professor McGonagall soon become Harry’s favorite teachers. Professor Flitwick because of his never-ending cheeriness – and, alright, Harry’s not gonna lie and say that his threatening Aunt Petunia doesn’t play into it – and Professor McGonagall because she’s one of the few teachers who don’t treat Harry different from other students.

Harry flits from class to class with Hermione and Ron by his side – sometimes they have to stop and ask portraits and ghosts for direction, which they do with enthusiasm (they’re moving! Moving portraits!). Magic flows through the air wherever they move, crackling against Harry’s skin in the most delicious way, and Harry bathes in the sensation. He talks to Hermione and Ron about it, but Ron explains that since he grew up among magic, he’s become somewhat numb to it. Hermione, however, nods eagerly to Harry’s words.

He sees Draco around, but Draco apparently decided that Harry wasn’t worth his time when they were sorted into different Houses. Harry doesn’t mind – he’d reminded him of Dudley, in the way he spoke. Ron tells him, one evening while attempting to teach Harry chess, that the Weasley and Malfoy family have been fighting for a long time. “Good thing we didn’t become friends, then,” Harry says, moving his Queen.

Ron laughs. “That, plus he’s a gigantic git.” He moves a horse. “Check mate!”

All in all, Harry has a good time. There’s food when he wants, friends who spend time with him, and teachers who don’t ask too many questions. It’s a bit uncomfortable, of course, what with all the people staring and whispering his name behind their hands – but Harry’s been at the end of unwanted attention before and does what’s always worked best – ignores it.

After a Flying class where Harry saves a boy’s – Neville’s – Remembrall, Neville tends to stick around their group. Harry doesn’t click with him quite as he clicked with Hermione and Ron, but he’s still a kind, quiet boy, and they share a few warm conversations.

*

Glancing at the clock Harry bites back a low curse. His jog morphs into a sprint as he bolts down the hallway. He’s going to be late to Potions – Snape is never going to forgive him – will probably dock fifty points from Gryffindor, as well –

Harry had been having a pleasant conversation with a painting of a young girl regarding the topic of wand lore (which he’d read several books on since he came here – he hadn’t found out why he knew tidbits of information from before, but the topic was fascinating nonetheless) and they’d gotten a bit carried away. By the time Harry remembered what time it was and where he was supposed to be, they’d strolled through half the castle and up a few staircases. He’d apologized profusely to Zahira and ran back down the hallway.

It doesn’t seem like that’s going to be enough – class has already started, and Harry hasn’t got further than halfway. Hoping he’ll reach the damp dungeons before the feared five-minute-mark (after which points will be docked by any teacher, and many points will be docked by Snape), Harry speeds up, feet slamming against the floor as he plummets forward.

There – that’s the staircase that goes to the second floor –

Gritting his teeth Harry bursts down it, jumping two steps at a time and nearly paying for it with his bag. He’s half-way down the stairs when his foot slams against nothing, then seemingly gets stuck – he loses balance, topples forward –

he barely has time to put up his arms to brace for the fall. There’s a moment of painpainpain bursting through his arm, fire bursting up in his head – he bangs against one step, two steps, a third step – and with a final sickening crunch that reverberates down his spine he slams into the floor.

Now I’ll never get to Potions on time, Harry thinks, before his vision goes blurry and fades to black.

*

Harry cracks his eyes open and squints against the stone ceiling. Where is he?

Oh, right! He’d been running for potion – and had stumbled down the stairs –

he sits straight upright, only to yelp out in shock as an intense flare of pain bursts up his left arm and side. Gasping after air he leans over and vomits onto the floor. When he regains his composure, he realizes that the vomit is stained red.

He blinks for a moment. Then he looks down on himself, reeling at the bloodstains on his shirt and arm. When he lifts his hand to his face, he has coagulated blood caking his left temple and even more drying in his hair.

All thoughts of Potions evaporate as Harry stares at his slick fingers in shock. Then he heaves after air. Hospital Wing, a frantic part of him screeches, you need the Hospital Wing!

Harry staggers to his feet. Pain shoots up through his left side once again – but his legs, while in pain, do at least work. Biting the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out at each new step Harry slowly, painstakingly, makes his way towards the first floor and the Hospital Wing.

The first portrait he passes gasps out. “Wait – stop! Child!” they cry out, coming closer to the frame to give Harry a wide-eyed, worried look. Harry stops to glance warily at them. It took so much to start walking – he’s not sure if he’ll be able to start again, if he sits down. “Stay here!” the portrait commands, and then they run off.

Harry watches as they rush through frame after frame down the hall, until they disappear completely.

He begins to walk anew.

Before he gets very far, however, hurried steps make their way towards him. “Mr. Potter!” Professor McGonagall exclaims, sounding both shocked and terribly worried. “What in Merlin’s name happened to you? Oh, nevermind that, follow me. Are you hurt?” While she says this she flicks her wand at him. Harry instantly feels a little lighter.

Where should he even begin? “I tripped down the stairs,” Harry explains quietly. Guilt squeezes around his already bruised insides. “I was late for Potions, so I was running.” He limps forward, struggling to keep up with Professor McGonagall’s long strides despite whatever she’d cast on him.

“I repeat, Mr. Potter,” says Professor McGonagall, but her voice is softer than normal, and she slows her pace. “Are you hurt?”

“When I woke up, I vomited blood,” Harry admits. “And – my left side hurts.” He’s been cradling his arm against his chest this whole trip, his good hand pressing against his bad wrist to keep it from jostling around too much. There’s something familiar about the pain. “I think my arm is broken.”

“Very well,” she says brusquely. “Nothing Madam Pomfrey cannot fix, I’m sure.”

When Harry stumbles into the Hospital Wing Madam Pomfrey rushes to his side, tutting at him and ordering him into a hospital bed.

“I see you are in good hands,” Professor McGonagall says, offering Harry a small nod. She goes to leave, but before she strides out through the doors, she casts a glance over her shoulder. “And Mr. Potter, do watch out for the vanishing stairs, please.”

Madam Pomfrey sighs, waving her wand in intricate patterns over him. “Vanishing stairs, hm? I’ve told the Headmaster he needs to get rid of them – I get first years in here often who have stumbled in them and bruised up.” A scroll of parchment appears in her hands and she squints down at it. “But you seem to have gotten more than just ‘bruised up’,” she says drily. “Fractured ribs, internal bleeding, broken arm, and…” She squints down at the parchment. “A… a cracked skull?”

“Ah,” says Harry quietly. “That’s where the blood came from.”

Madam Pomfrey quickly gestures with her wand again. “But – your skull isn’t cracked now?” she says, sounding terribly confused. “Did Minerva – Professor McGonagall, that is – heal you before you came here?” Harry shakes his head. “Let me see,” Madam Pomfrey demands, and without waiting for a response she marches over. She runs her hands along Harry’s scalp, plucking a bit at the dried blood in his hair. “No bumps,” she mutters. “And no wounds, either.”

Harry watches curiously as her face contorts in confusion. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing, I suppose,” says Madam Pomfrey, though she still seems confused. “Most likely it was accidental magic keeping you alive – you could have died from that damage.”

Paling at the notion of dying now, after only one and a half month at school, Harry swallows. “But – I’m fine now, right?”

“Of course.” Madam Pomfrey begins to move methodically around him. “I’ll patch you up in no time – though you’ll have to stay here for a day or two, to let your bones and muscles heal and rest.”

Harry sinks into the pillows and nods wearily. It does sound like reasonable logic. “Fine,” he says. “As long as I can clean this blood off first.”

Madam Pomfrey smiles. “Certainly, Mr. Potter.”

Ron and Hermione burst into the Hospital Wing an hour or so later, when Harry’s gotten changed into more comfortable clothes, Madam Pomfrey has healed his arm and gotten it into a simple cast (“You young boys, always moving about and never keeping still – I hear you saying you won’t cause trouble, but they all say that!”), and they’ve both gotten most of the blood off his face and hair. “Harry!” they call, crossing the room quickly.

“What happened to you?” Hermione asks, a worried gleam in her eyes.

“I’m never walking down a staircase ever again,” Harry replies.

Ron cracks a grin. “Tough luck, mate. When are you being released again?”

“Tomorrow.”

Ron pulls a face. Hermione nods, apparently finding that completely reasonable. “I’ve read that healing magic sometimes takes time to settle,” she says.

Rolling his eyes, Ron leans against Harry as though he’s departing with some huge secret. “There she goes again,” he whispers loudly.

Hermione scoffs, but before she can reply to that the doors swing open again, and Neville pokes his head through.

“Harry?” he calls. “Are you okay?”

“I’m alive!” Harry calls back, his chest warming at so many people coming to see him. “Will nurse a healthy fear of staircases, I’m afraid, but definitely alive.”

All three of them give him an odd look.

Harry stares back. “What?” he says.

“Did you hit your head?” Hermione asks, eyebrows knitted together in something like concern. “You don’t usually… speak like that.”

Harry shrugs. “Well, I did now,” he says, and all three of them seem to accept that.

*

News of Harry’s little trip down the stairs soon spreads around the whole castle. Zahir finds Harry the day after the accident, apologizing and worrying the hem of her blouse and muttering all sorts of things. A few of the other Gryffindor first years asks Harry how he is, but not a lot of people really seem to care all that much. The only reason it spread at all, Harry reckons, is probably because of his bloody title.

*

Halloween comes. Harry lies for a long time and stares at the roof of the dormitory.

Today’s the tenth anniversary of his parents’ death.

By the time he gets down to breakfast, the hollow feeling has almost left. Sticking by Ron and Hermione’s sides throughout the day helps immensely – Hermione, at the very least, seems to understand that Harry feels down, even if it flows right over Ron’s head.

None of them are partnered up together in Charms. Harry ends up with Neville, Ron with Dean and Hermione with Seamus. Class passes somewhat awkwardly, neither Harry nor Neville being quite able to make their feather float.

When Harry finds Ron after Charms they’re both somewhat worried at Hermione’s disappearance. It’s not the first time she’s disappeared, however, and they reason that she’s probably just gone off to the library to squeeze in a minute or two of browsing.

She doesn’t show up to the next class, however, and that is really troublesome. By the time the Halloween Feast rolls around they’re both good and well worried.

“I dunno,” says Seamus around a mouthful of potatoes, when Harry asks if he’s seen her, “she seemed pretty upset at the end of class.”

“Why?” Harry asks.

Seamus shrugs. “I told her she was a stuck-up know-it-all,” he says, with absolutely no shame.

Not a full week ago Hermione had told Harry, tearfully in front of the fireplace, that he was her first friend ever, and that the reason she shoves her knowledge around all the time is because she’s desperately looking for appreciation. “It doesn’t matter from who,” she’d whispered, a tear quivering on her lips, “and – and adults are so much easier to impress with knowledge, I don’t understand people our age – ”

“What?” present Harry sneers, feeling himself tilt forward, fingertips itching. Something yellow reflects in his glasses for a brief moment, and with a snarl he turns away from Seamus’ perplexed expression.

Ron storms towards Harry a moment later, a small frown on his face. “Parvati says she’s been crying in the restrooms,” he says, “and that she doesn’t want to be bothered…”

Harry sighs, raking a hand through his hair. “Well – well, we’ll be here when she comes back out, yeah?” he says. “If she doesn’t want to be bothered…”

Ron nods. “Do you know what’s wrong?”

Shooting a fierce glare in Seamus’ direction, Harry grumbles, “Seamus insulted her pretty badly.”

Ron isn’t as fond of Hermione as Harry is, but she’s still his friend – even if Harry is the thing that ties them together more than anything else – and he rounds on Seamus with a scowl to rival Snape’s.

Seamus’ gaze flickers to Harry and he defensively holds up his hands. “Won’t happen again,” he squeaks, which seems to be enough for Ron.

Their peace is not long lasting, however. They’ve barely gotten to sit down by the table when Professor Quirrell bursts through the doors, his turban askew. “Troll!” he shouts. “TROLL IN THE DUNGEONS!” He takes a deep breath. “Just – just thought you ought to know…” And with that he collapses on the floor.

Harry looks at Ron.

“What?” says Ron, as the hall erupts into chaos.

“Hermione,” Harry whispers intently. “She doesn’t know!”

Ron pales, then stuffs a chicken leg into his mouth before jumping off the bench. “We have to find her!” he exclaims, around the chicken leg.

“What about the troll?” Harry calls after him as he sets off towards the doors.

“Hermione won’t be crying in the dungeon bathrooms,” Ron calls back, throwing the now clean chicken leg over his shoulder. “And the troll is in the dungeons!”

Nodding at that reasoning, Harry slips out of the Hall after Ron. They blend in with the Hufflepuffs, following them for a few turns before breaking off and sprinting down the hallway. They don’t get very far, however, before the patter of hurried steps echoes from behind them.

“Percy!” Ron gasps, paling further as he and Harry slip into a shadowed alcove. Backs pressed flush against the stone they desperately try to still their breath.

But it isn’t Percy who rushes past them.

It’s Snape.

“Snape?” Harry whispers. “Where is he…” He gasps. “He’s heading towards the third-floor corridor! You know, the forbidden one? Didn’t your brothers say there was something dangerous there?”

Ron nods absently. “Three-headed dog guarding a trapdoor,” he says, “but I wouldn’t trust their word for a hundred Galleons.”

“Fair enough,” Harry admits. “Well, either way, he’s gone now – ”

“Do you smell something?” Ron interrupts.

Harry sniffs – and sure enough, a horrible stench of old socks, rotten eggs, and public toilet fairly attacks his nose. “Is that – ” he says, but Ron has gone terribly pale. Harry turns.

A huge, towering gray boulder is moving down the hallway. Its great club drags along the floor behind it – its arms are too long for its body, head far too small and feet too big –

“Mountain troll,” Harry blurts, and the knowledge rushing to his mind pools like molten lava at the bottom of his stomach. “Hugest of its kind, feral and vicious – twelve feet tall and weighs a tonne!”

“That’s all good and well,” Ron mumbles, and the white is showing all the way around his eyes, “but shouldn’t we be a bit more worried?”

The troll grunts its way into an open room. “Look,” Harry whispers, pointing to the door to the room, “there’s a key – we can lock it in.”

Nodding, Ron creeps towards the door. Harry follows, and with teamwork like no other they manage to slam the door shut and twist the key around. “Thank Merlin,” Ron breathes.

They both turn around and begin to walk back towards the Great Hall. They’ll have to tell a teacher they found the troll – perhaps Professor McGonagall, or Professor Flitwick if he’s available –

his thoughts are interrupted by a terrified shriek.

Harry’s blood turns to ice.

“Oh, no!” Ron blurts.

“Hermione!” Harry cries, and as one they spin on their heel and rush back towards the room. There’s no time for anything else. Ron fumbles with the key, his hands trembling – “Come on!” Harry yells. “Open it!”

“I’m – trying,” Ron grunts, and finally the key slides around. Harry bursts through the opening, twisting his wrist the way Professor Flitwick taught him, and his wand shoots into his hand.

Hermione is curled up against one of the walls, eyes wide and face as pale as the faucet next to her – she’s clutching a book against her chest in a vice-like grip, the only shield she has against the gigantic troll stumbling towards her.

The utter, complete terror on Hermione’s face causes something in Harry to snap in half.

He growls, raspingly, low in his throat, dark – and with a mighty push he’s upon the troll’s back, his hands darker and clawed and his glasses are gone –

his balance is off, but the troll’s back is knotty enough for his feet – his hooves – to find support, and as he springs further up to the troll’s shoulders he twists his head and shoves a tusk into the thick hide of the troll’s neck.

Muffled, as though heard through a window, he hears Ron screech that “It’s a mountain troll! What do you know about mountain trolls!?” – he doesn’t hear Hermione’s response, and doesn’t really care for it either, for now the troll has noticed his presence and is trying to club him down.

Harry whines as he’s forced to pull back, and he’s slipping, falling from the troll’s shoulders – he grapples for something to hold onto and finds the troll’s arm, where his sharp hooves leave deep grooves. The troll roars and raises its club. Harry stumbles to the floor, growling up at the creature who dared think about hurting Hermione –

the troll lets the club fall.

Except the club doesn’t follow. Harry glances up. The troll also glances up.

And its heavy club falls right into its face.

Harry stands stock-still as the troll falls over.

There’s blood in his mouth, and blood on the floor, and blood on his hooves –

he makes an unearthly noise when he realizes that he has hooves.

Ron has rushed over to Hermione and helped her to her feet – and now they’re both staring at him.

“H – Harry?” Hermione whispers.

Harry tries to speak, but not a single sound comes out, so instead he just manages a little nod. He feels dirty – the knowledge of what he’s done and the wild rage that had controlled him settling like grime across his body. He’s probably lost both his friends, now, as well –

Hermione flings herself around his shoulders, her arms encircling his neck. Harry realizes numbly that her arms don’t reach all the way around. “Thank you,” she whispers, “thank you thank you thank you thank you – ” She chokes off and begins to sob, her whole body trembling.

And as he sits there, as his heart calms, as Hermione’s gratitude bleeds into him – when Ron steps across the troll and places an uncertain hand on Harry’s head…

Harry closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he hugs Hermione back with very human arms. He breathes in once, twice –

and then he bursts into hysterical sobs. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, pulling Hermione closer, “I’m sorry I’m so sorry I don’t know what – I don’t know why – ”

A second pair of arms encircle them both, and that’s Ron’s warmth, Ron’s cheek against Harry’s shoulder. “It’s okay,” he mutters. “It’s okay.”

By the time the teachers arrive, Harry’s washed the blood off his hands and cheeks. Some of the color has returned to Hermione’s face, and Ron has stopped shaking. Professor McGonagall docks points for their recklessness but awards them some for the feat they’d done. Hermione takes the blame for it all – including the troll blood and gashes – and the teachers seem to accept that story.

The three of them stumble up to Gryffindor Tower, sinking into the couch in front of the fire in a great heap. Harry is still shaking. It feels like blood coats his teeth even now, his fingers strange and too light –

“I don’t know what happened,” he whispers, quietly enough that only Ron and Hermione hear. “And I…” He swallows. “I’m scared…”

Hermione shifts, looping an arm behind Harry’s neck and pressing her forehead against his shoulder. Harry, to his own great surprise, doesn’t even wince at the casual show of affection – Hermione’s open hug earlier must have shifted some unconscious part of him.

“I don’t know, either,” Hermione says. “But…”

“We’ll figure it out,” Ron continues for her, leaning heavily against Harry’s other side, his hand reaching across Harry’s lap to rest on Hermione’s elbow. “Together.”

Harry closes his eyes and breathes.

*

One unfortunate afternoon in November, Harry stumbles upon Snape talking to Filch and sporting a bleeding wound on his leg. “Blasted thing,” Snape says darkly, accepting bandages from Filch, “how are you supposed to watch all three heads at once?”

Harry backtracks so quickly that he almost falls over. He runs to the Common Room and relies this new information to Ron and Hermione in hushed tones.

“Would he be after whatever is in the corridor?” Harry asks quietly.

Hermione frowns. “We don’t even know if there really is anything in the corridor. Maybe Fred and George were lying – no offense, Ron.”

“None taken,” Ron says. “But what should we do? Go check the corridor for ourselves?”

Hermione and Harry look at each other.

Ron instantly pales. “No. Guys, no. You aren’t seriously thinking about doing this, are you?”

Later that night, when they’re standing before the door to the third-floor corridor, Ron doesn’t look any less pale. “I can’t believe you seriously thought about doing this,” he says.

Hermione points her wand to the lock. “Alohomora,” she whispers.

Not even a full minute later they’re all as pale as Ron, breathing hard as they stand pressed up against the door. “I can’t believe we seriously thought about doing this,” Hermione says shrilly.

“Did you see if it was standing on anything?” Harry asks.

Hermione and Ron groan loudly.

The three of them have a quick round of stone-paper-scissors to determine who’s got to check again. Hermione loses. When she returns, her skin has paled several shades.

She looks at them both and nods.

The dog is guarding something – and Snape is after it.

They can’t really investigate much more after that, as Christmas time rolls around and Hermione leaves to celebrate with her parents. Harry and Ron are both ecstatic at the invisibility cloak Harry gets at Boxing Day, and they owl Hermione about it right after breakfast. She seems about as excited as the two of them when Hedwig returns with her answer a few days later.

The holiday ends eventually, and Hermione comes back to school positively bursting with energy. “I have so many ideas!” she exclaims. “We need to find out what you are, Harry – and what to do about that dog!”

Harry doesn’t particularly like being called a ‘what’ but he supposes Hermione is right. And they do need to find out more about the dog – and, potentially, what Snape might be after. They’d discussed before the holidays if they should tell Dumbledore, or perhaps Professor McGonagall, but they’d eventually decided against it. They wouldn’t be believed, Ron had said, and Harry had joined in with “They might be more willing to listen if we come to them once, when it really counts.”

And that’s how they find themselves in the library. They search through books upon books upon books on magical creatures, trying to find both an entry on three headed dogs and… whatever it is Harry turned into.

“You had black fur,” Ron tries to explain, “and it spiked on your back – there were yellow stripes on your sides, and you had tusks.”

Hermione leans forward. “It was a bit like a wild boar, except larger, and even wilder.”

Harry, who’s never seen a wild boar in his life, nods solemnly and returns to the book. Black fur with yellow stripes, tusks, hooves and spikes on its back should be enough to find on its own.

But whatever Harry had transformed into never shows up in any of the books they look through. Eventually Hermione moves on to study for their upcoming tests – the only thing that keeps her from making them study as well, Harry fears, is probably that they’re still looking for him and the dog.

It’s Ron who ends up finding something of interest. “Look!” he exclaims, pointing eagerly down at the page. “Three Headed Dog,” Ron reads aloud. His eyes bounce down the page. “Where’s… weakness – ah! There! ‘Will fall asleep if it hears the sound of any type of music’!”

Hermione puts down her book. “We have to investigate,” she says.

Harry and Ron look at each other.

“Oh, come on – if we’re going to the teachers with this they need proof we really know what’s going on, or they won’t believe us – you said so yourself, Harry!”

“Alright,” says Ron, “but if we die it’s your fault.”

*

They take the invisibility cloak over their shoulders and creep through the hallways in forced silence. Once they get to the door both Ron and Harry look at Hermione. She rolls her eyes but complies, whispering an impossibly soft ‘alohomora’ before tugging it open.

Harry blanches at the instant and disgusting smell of rotten meat. “It’s asleep,” he says.

Ron creeps forward, brandishing his wand like a sword. Hermione keeps casting nervous glances between him and the three dog heads; Harry is gripping his wand so tightly he almost worries it might break.

“The trapdoor’s blocked,” Ron relies, taking two hasty steps back. “The paw covers it.”

Harry steps forward, now, emboldened by the dog’s state of sleep. “Let’s move it, then,” he whispers. “Hermione, be ready to sing.”

“Me?” Hermione breathes. “That can hardly be considered music – ”

But Harry and Ron aren’t listening. They’re pushing at the dog’s gigantic paw – and with a mighty heave and shove they manage to move it away. Its nails scrape against wood, then stone, and Harry shudders.

Harry and Ron look at each other. “Well, come on, then,” Ron says, gesturing towards the trapdoor.

Swallowing, Harry leans forward and tugs the trapdoor open. “…nothing,” he says, peering into the empty darkness below them. “I see nothing.”

“G – guys,” Hermione stutters. Then she breaks into quivering, chunky song.

The dog lets out a growl that twists into a roar as Hermione shrieks and stumbles away. Harry and Ron scramble to lean up and away from the trapdoor, grabbing Hermione by the elbow and bolting out the door.

At once Harry wishes they’d stayed inside the room.

“First years out of bed, hmm?” purrs Filch, his lantern gleaming in his bared teeth. “Come with me.”

They’d forgotten the invisibility cloak in the corner of the room.

They lose Gryffindor 150 points and are promised hefty detention. “That didn’t go so well,” Hermione mutters, when they’re back in the couch in the common room. “I told you I couldn’t sing.”

Ron still looks shocked. “I can’t believe you can’t sing,” he says. “Aren’t girls supposed to be good at that?”

Hermione gives him a dry look. Then it melts away and she regards them both with sharp eyes. “Can either of you sing?”

Harry shrugs. “I’ve never really tried,” he admits. Hermione gestures for him to go on. Harry clears his throat and tries to recall a song he’d learned in school. “Uh – Mary had a little lamb – ”

Ron instantly slaps a hand over his mouth. “No,” he says, sounding amused. “You can’t sing.”

“Can you?” Harry mumbles curiously around his hand.

Ron reddens. “Uh, well,” he says, “I don’t really… know any songs…” He frowns before lighting up. “Wait, yes, I know one!” He clears his throat, and out of his mouth comes tunes softer than Harry could ever have imagined. “On a field in moonlight pale, stands a boy so young and brave… he was once a toy, a fool and a joy – ” Ron cuts off, rubbing his neck self-consciously. “I know it’s not that good… you don’t need to tell me.”

Hermione swats his shoulder. “Not so good?” she nearly shrieks. Harry desperately gestures for her to hush, and she covers her mouth with her hands. “Not so good?” she repeats, quieter this time. “Ronald Weasley, you are a marvel. Next time we see that dog, we’re counting on you.”

*

The next day, Harry’s invisibility cloak returns with the anonymous note ‘just in case’.

*

The detention is to be served in the forest with Hagrid, the Keeper of Keys. He tells them that someone’s been killing off the unicorns, and that they’re going to try and find the newest victim and see if they can save it.

Draco has been assigned detention with them, for “sneaking around at night,” as he mumbles to Harry when he asks.

They’re separated into two groups – Hermione and Ron, and Harry and Draco. Draco is foolish enough to call dibs on Fang, Hagrid’s dog, who Hagrid assures them is a coward –

and then they’re off.

Harry and Draco walk in silence – Harry intent on watching the splatters of moonlit blood on the path, Draco even paler than usual in apparent fright. “Think it’s something dangerous?” Draco whispers quietly, when they’ve gone for a while without much happening.

Harry nods. “It’s killing off unicorns,” he says, frowning at the biggest spot of blood so far. “It’s dangerous, alright.”

“P – Potter,” Draco stutters, having gone stock still next to him. Harry follows his gaze, and his heart nearly stops.

There, in the clearing before them, lies a brilliantly white horse. Except, Harry can’t quite call it a horse – it’s too elegant, too balanced, too astonishing – it’s beautiful, so beautiful every inch of him aches.

And there’s a gaping wound on its flank, silver blood pooling around the body.

He should be angered, he should be terrified, but all Harry feels is a bone-deep, gnawing sorrow. Such a beautiful, innocent creature…

A hooded, cloaked creature comes crawling across the ground like some form of shadow shrouded beast. As Harry and Draco watch, the creature bends its head over the unicorn and begins to drink its blood.

Draco lets out a bloodcurdling scream and disappears back to where he came from.

Harry can’t breathe, his throat tightens closed around his windpipes, he can’t breathe –

the creature turns towards him and blood drips down its front. Bile rises in Harry’s throat, sharp and acidic on his tongue, and he stumbles backwards –

a centaur chooses that moment to burst into the clearing, scaring the creature away. Harry is too numb and shocked to care as the centaur – Firenze – lets him clamber onto his back before then getting into an argument with two other centaurs. All their talk of planets and stars go way over his head, but he catches onto the fact that something bad is coming.

Eventually Firenze storms away from the other centaurs. Harry clings onto his back and squeezes his eyes shut.

When Firenze slows, he asks the question which burns the fiercest in his mind. “What was that?”

"Harry Potter, do you know what unicorn blood is used for?"

"No," says Harry, startled by the odd question. "We've only used the horn and tail hair in Potions."

"That is because it is a monstrous thing, to slay a unicorn," says Firenze, his voice dark with sorrow. "Only one who has nothing to lose, and everything to gain, would commit such a crime. The blood of a unicorn will keep you alive, even if you are an inch from death, but at a terrible price. You have slain something pure and defenseless to save yourself, and you will have but a half-life, a cursed life, from the moment the blood touches your lips. "

"But who'd be that desperate?" Harry wonders with a frown. "If you're going to be cursed forever, death's better, isn't it?"

"It is," Firenze agrees, "unless all you need is to stay alive long enough to drink something else -- something that will bring you back to full strength and power -- something that will mean you can never die. Mr. Potter, do you know what is hidden in the school at this very moment?"

Harry blinks. “No,” he admits, a bit embarrassed they haven’t been able to figure it out. “But it’s important.”

Firenze dips his head. “The Philosopher’s Stone,” he says, very quietly, so quiet that Harry almost doesn’t hear.

He remembers the Philosopher’s Stone – a muggle children’s tale, if he’s not mistaken – though he isn’t all that surprised it exists for real. Suddenly the heavy guarding makes far more sense. “The Elixir of life,” he breathes. “But – but who would – ”

Firenze is solemn when he replies.  "Can you think of nobody who has waited many years to return to power, who has clung to life, awaiting their chance?"

It’s as though Harry is hit by lightning. An iron hook fastens in his heart, pulling, tugging –

Voldemort. He’s read about him, every now and then –

and it makes so much sense.

Harry doesn’t have time to reply, for Hermione’s running down the path towards them, sobbing his name as Hagrid follows. “Malfoy said – he warned us – he was so scared – ”

Sliding off Firenze’s back Harry utters a grateful thank you before stumbling against Hermione in a tight embrace. He’s so tired – that creature – whatever it was – it had sapped all the energy out of him –

He leans against Hermione as they stagger up towards the castle again, Ron on his other side with an arm around his waist. “It was Voldemort,” Harry whispers, once he’s sure Hagrid won’t hear, “the thing in the forest…”

“What?” whispers Ron in disbelief, paling rapidly. “Harry, what are you saying?”

“Firenze told me,” Harry says. “The centaur? He – ” Harry closes his eyes. “He said the dog is guarding the Philosopher’s Stone.”

Hermione gasps. “And V – You-Know-Who is after it?”

“Wait – but Snape is after the stone,” Ron exclaims.

Harry almost doesn’t feel tired anymore. “Snape works for Voldemort!” he says, straightening with new fierce determination.

Ron blanches. “We have to tell Dumbledore – he has to know he’s after the Stone!”

Hermione nods, and then they’re off, running up to the castle. It’s not that late yet – some teacher must be around somewhere, and they can show them to Dumbledore or at least tell him –

They crash into Professor McGonagall almost immediately after bursting the doors. She starts. “What are you three doing in here?”

“Coming from detention,” Harry rushes, exhaustion all but forgotten, “but – Professor, we need to talk to Professor Dumbledore – ”

Professor McGonagall blinks. “Professor Dumbledore?” she repeats. Then she frowns. “Why?”

The three of them look at each other.

“Well, see,” says Ron, “it’s sorta a secret.”

If Professor McGonagall had wanted to help them before she definitely won’t do it now. “Professor Dumbledore left the castle at noon,” she says, looking at them all as though she expects them to get into trouble right here and now, while she watches. “He received an owl from the Ministry, requiring his presence.”

“He’s gone?” Hermione cries. Harry, for his part, only feels as though the bottom of the world just fell out beneath his feet. “Now?”

“Professor Dumbledore is a very important man,” Professor McGonagall says stiffly. “He has other businesses elsewhere.”

Ron opens his mouth as if to argue further, but Harry grabs his shoulder to still him. “Alright, Professor,” he says quietly. “Will you tell him we’d like to talk to him, please, when he comes back?”

Professor McGonagall stares at him for a moment before nodding. “Yes, Mr. Potter, that I can do. Now, scurry off – to bed you go!”

They slink away from her, down the corridor, around a corner –

and Harry breaks off at a run, Ron and Hermione following. “He’s in,” he whispers, “Snape must’ve sent that owl and now he’s in there and he’s taking the stone – ”

Hermione stares at him, then she shakes her head and runs off in another direction.

“Hermione!” Harry whisper-yells after her. “Don’t you get it – this is important – if we don’t try and stop him – ”

Hermione stops, her hands on her hips and an exasperated expression. “The cloak, you morons!” she whisper-yells back. “Do you want to be caught?”

Five minutes later they’re back down in the third floor, invisibility cloak thrown over their shoulders.

The door to the dog stands open.

“Ron,” Harry breathes, “get ready to sing.”

Ron nods grimly. The dog can’t see them, but it sniffs frantically in their direction – the harp by its feet stands still and quiet.

Ron takes a deep breath. “On a field in moonlight pale stands a boy so young and brave,” he begins, and the dog instantly backs off, its eyes slipping close. “He was once a toy, a fool and a joy, but now he stands defying it all.”

“Keep singing,” Hermione whispers, as Harry makes his way over to the trapdoor.

“He’s clad in darkness great…” – and Harry tunes Ron out, despite wanting to listen to the haunting tune. He heaves the trapdoor open and peers into the darkness.

When he looks up again, both Hermione and Ron are staring at him in worry – Ron still singing. “I’m going first,” Harry says.

He plummets through the darkness, falling down, down, down – and he lands on something soft. He blinks against the gloomy lightning of the room, but he can’t quite see what he landed on – only that it’s a plant –

“Devil’s Snare?” he asks nobody in particular. It does – it does seem like that – but where has he learned about it? “Devil’s Snare,” he repeats, “ – Devil’s Snare!”

He jumps to his feet and stabs a few vines with his wand before scrambling over to the nearest clean block of stone. “Lumos!” he casts, and his wand lights up. “You guys!” he calls up. “It’s a safe landing, but hurry over to the wall – there’s a Devil’s Snare down here!”

Hermione falls the next moment, landing in a heap on top of a soft vine. Hurriedly she stumbles to her feet, rushing over to stand next to Harry. She adds her own Lumos charm. The nearest Snare vines make a low-pitched hissing sound and cringes away from them.

A second later Ron joins them. “Come on,” he mutters, pointing down a stone archway.

The next room is filled with flying keys and broomsticks. They look at each other grimly before grabbing a broomstick each, mounting them and zipping through the room. Eventually they manage to corner a key with a broken wing, Hermione catching it and looking terribly surprised as she does so.

“Chess?” Hermione breathes, when they enter the next room.

The door behind them slams shut, and Ron, startled, tries to open it. “Locked,” he mutters.

They look at each other. “Did no one think to bring the key?” Harry asks.

Ron curses. “Chess it is,” he says, turning back to the gigantic chessboard. “I think we have to play our way across.”

Hermione and Harry share a look. “Take the lead, Ron,” Harry says, gesturing for the board. “You’re the master of this sea.”

Nodding grimly, Ron steps towards the board. He directs them to the places they’ll go, and they stand tensely, waiting for the white pieces to move.

A pawn moves two steps forward.

It begins.

“Is it wizarding chess?” Hermione whispers to Harry, the first time they stand shoulder by shoulder.

Ron directs a knight forward. “Yes,” Harry says numbly, when the knight is reduced to nothing but rubble.

They don’t complain when Ron orders them about, going to the places they must, watching in terrified silence as the other pieces – both black and white – are crushed and dragged off the board.

The three of them are spread evenly across the board when Ron makes a thoughtful sound. Harry looks over at him. His hair looks almost like it’s on fire, framed as he is by the torches hanging on the walls. In his face is nothing but determination. “I’ve got to be taken,” he says.

“NO!” Hermione shouts. Harry only stares in cold terror.

“It’s chess!” Ron shouts back, his knuckles tightening around the horse’s reins. “You’ve got to make sacrifices! If the Queen takes me, you’re free to check mate the King, Harry!”

Harry stares at Ron, doing his best to search his gaze from this distance. “There is no other way?” he asks quietly.

The flame flickers across Ron’s face. Slowly he shakes his head. “There’s not.”

Hermione whimpers.

“Are you ready?” Ron asks. He doesn’t wait before he sends the knight forward.

The white Queen pounces and slams her stone arm into Ron’s head.

Ron collapses to the floor.

Harry determinedly does not look at him, instead watching the King.

He takes three steps to the left.

The King throws his crown at Harry’s feet.

They have won.

“Ron!” Hermione yells, bolting across the floor. Harry follows, watching nervously as she searches for a pulse. “He’s alive,” she breathes, sinking onto the floor. She only stays there for a moment before she staggers to her feet. “Okay – okay, come on.”

A mountain troll is the next protection they face. It lies facedown on the floor, a small pool of blood around its head. Harry grimaces, steps over it, and pushes through the next door.

Instantly flames roar up behind them – and before them.

Between them and the next doorway stands a table.

“Potions,” says Hermione.

“Snape,” Harry breathes.

They pick up the paper by the bottles. “Oh,” says Hermione, sounding relieved. “It’s a riddle!”

“Can you solve it?” Harry asks, peering over her shoulders.

“Give me a minute.”

Hermione marches up along the row of bottles for some time, pointing at different ones and squinting at the paper, murmuring softly to herself. Finally, she takes a step back and smiles. “Got it – it’s this one!”

Harry stares at the tiny bottle. “There’s not enough for two,” he says quietly.

Hermione’s relieved expression fades. “But – we can make it work?”

“What if there’s not enough? What if you need the whole bottle?”

Hermione looks down at the paper in desperation. “Well – maybe – ” But she stills, then hangs her head. “You’re right.”

“Take the one that gets you back,” Harry says. “Get help – and Ron to the Hospital Wing.”

Hermione picks up the bottle. And then she throws herself at Harry, wrapping him into a hug just as tight as the one she’d given earlier this day. It feels like years ago. “Oh, please, Harry,” she whispers, “be careful!”

“I will.”

Letting her go, he picks up the smallest bottle, pulling out the cork and pouring it down his throat in one smooth move. He says nothing, only inclines his head – and then he walks through the flames.

There’s someone in the last chamber. But it isn’t Snape. It isn’t Voldemort, either.

“You!” Harry gasps.

Professor Quirrell turns around with a sick smile. “Me,” he says.

Attack, some part of Harry whispers, attack – attack! You don’t have time to waste!

Harry raises his wand, stumbles for a spell he can use –

Scoffing, Professor Quirrell conjures ropes and tightens them around Harry’s legs. “Be quiet, now, Potter. I need to examine this mirror – carefully.”

There’s nothing terribly special about the mirror in the middle of the room, but if Professor Quirrell is trying to figure something out about it, it can’t possibly be good.

“The stone is in it, somewhere,” Professor Quirrell mutters, prodding the edge of it curiously. “But where?”

He can’t get the stone, Harry thinks desperately, looking about the room for something that could help. He tries to edge towards the left to get a better view, but the ropes are too tight, and he falls over. Oh, damnit – he can’t get the stone! Voldemort can’t come back!

But what can he do? How can he break through the rope? He doesn’t have anything sharp – he can’t make his legs thinner – he can’t make them big enough to break through the rope –

in a flash he remembers Halloween eve and husks and hooves.

He’d been angry, then – raging at the fact that something would dare hurt his friends –

he can do angry – if only he can twist the fear and worry around –

squeezing his eyes shut he forcefully tries to remember that night. Hermione’s terror, the troll’s roaring, the first time he’d been properly hugged. Hermione’s terror. Hermione’s terror. If he doesn’t do anything she’ll – they’ll all die –

“Where are your pathetic friends, anyway?” says Professor Quirrell absently.

Pathetic pathetic pathetic.

(pathetic freak from Aunt Petunia and useless boy and Dudley pounding into him again and again and again and again and)

The ropes snap in half and Harry jumps to his feet.

Professor Quirrell spins around, his eyes widening. “What in Merlin’s name – ”

A second voice, raspy and choked, cries, “KILL HIM!”

Harry lunges towards him, tilting his head just so to sink a husk into Professor Quirrell’s shoulder.

“D – diffindo!” Professor Quirrell shrieks.

Blinding hot pain flies down Harry’s flank. Anger flashes through him and with a grunt and heave he tugs the husk out of Professor Quirrell’s shoulder, rearing up on his hind legs to shove him over –

Professor Quirrell backs off, trying to regain his balance, but he stumbles in his robes –

with a choked-off yelp Professor Quirrell thuds onto the floor, head slamming onto the stone staircase leading down to the mirror. His turban unfolds and slips off, revealing a screeching face of rotting flesh and drawn skin.

Harry exhales, legs buckling, hooves fading – he falls to his hands and knees, wheezing heavily. What had been nothing more than a scratch on whatever he just was is now a deep gash running down the entire length of his torso, by the feel of it. Blood gushes out of the wound and pools on the floor, and Harry barely has time to give it a helpless, terrified glance before he faints.

*

Harry wakes abruptly and sharply, sitting up in an instant. He remembers what had happened – the chessboard, Professor Quirrell – fire and rage and that screaming face.

“Ron,” he blurts, attempting to sit again. “Hermione!”

Almost instantly a blurry shape stands by his side. “Mr. Potter!” it says, sounding fairly scandalized. A moment later his glasses appear in front of his nose. He puts them on and squints up at Madam Pomfrey.

“…hello,” he greets. “Are Ron and Hermione fine?”

Madam Pomfrey nods brusquely, waving her wand across his torso in a complex pattern. “They’re in perfect health, Mr. Potter,” she says. “You, however…” She plucks a scroll of parchment from the air and shakes her head at it. “According to my diagnosis, you should have died yesterday. Care to explain why you didn’t?”

Anger and hooves and blood on his face –

Harry shakes his head. “I’m as clueless as you. Dead, you say?”

She gives him a scrutinizing look. “Do you remember, Mr. Potter, when you came here sporting a broken arm – and more importantly, covered in blood without any wounds?” Harry nods. “I’m given the same results here.”

“Accidental magic?” Harry asks, recalling the conversation they’d had back then.

“Perhaps.”

It is then, before Harry can ask any further questions, that Headmaster Dumbledore decides to show up. “Harry, my boy,” he greets, as Madam Pomfrey fades into the shadows.

Harry inclines his head. “Headmaster – it was Professor Quirrell – he attempted to steal the stone – did he succeed?”

Professor Dumbledore blinks, but doesn’t miss a beat before chuckling humorously. “No, Harry, indeed he did not – mainly thanks to you. Do you know what you were going up against?”

“Well,” says Harry, “he was on Voldemort’s side, was he not?”

“Indeed. He bore a remnant of Voldemort’s” – Harry notes the use of Voldemort’s name – “soul within him, serving as a vessel to keep his Master alive.”

Harry blinks. “The face,” he says, “he had a face on the back of his head.”

Professor Dumbledore nods. “Quirinius was not dead when I found him, but he redeemed himself in his final moments – struggling against great pain cast upon him by Voldemort, no doubt.”

Harry looks down at his lap. He can’t quite forgive Professor Quirrell after what had happened to his friends – and himself. “And Voldemort?”

“Roams as a spirit, unable to harm anyone. The stone has been destroyed as well. You needn’t worry, my boy.”

“Alright,” Harry says. It’s a lie, of course – the rage that had coursed through him when he flung himself at Professor Quirrell hadn’t been pure hatred for what had been done to him, nor the fate that could befall his friends. It was hatred for all that would cause pain. Voldemort, still on the loose, still out and about…

Professor Dumbledore leaves, afterwards, and Harry soon finds himself in company of Hermione and Ron. He retells his adventure to them, whispering in hushed tones whenever Madam Pomfrey walks by. “It happened again,” he says, “the thing with the husks, remember?”

They both nod grimly.

“I think it’s triggered by anger,” Harry continues. “Maybe I can learn to control it.”

Hermione worries her lip. “I don’t know, Harry… it sounds dangerous.”

Harry nods. “It probably is,” he allows. “But if Voldemort is out there – nothing’s more dangerous than him, right now.”

And neither Hermione nor Ron can come up with a good argument to that.

*

At the end-of-the-year feast, Professor Dumbledore awards 50 points to Hermione, Ron, and Harry each – and then an additional 10 points to Neville, who apparently had been the first to run for a teacher when Hermione dragged an unconscious Ron into the Common Room.

Gryffindor House wins the House cup, to loud cheers and yelling from the whole Hall.

Harry can’t care less, as he sits there, tucked in between his first two friends in bubble of safety. He eats his carrots in silence, pondering about all he’s learned this year. Not magic in particular – but things he’s learned about himself and who he is – about who he can be –

and – he shoots a grim thought in Voldemort’s direction – what his destiny has become.

[pheenick]

TITLE: paper trail SUMMARY:

The older ones have more paper still clinging to the spine. Scrawled all over with initial concepts and outlines from before the time he stopped writing drafts altogether and simply wrote what was on his mind.

It had taken him a while to finally give into the truth that no one was ever going to read them. After that, it had been liberating. He wrote more. Filled too many books to count and emptied his heart over and over until he could breathe again.

Or, a look into the boy who was left behind.

Written for Narumitsu Week 2019, Day 1: Beginnings.

AO3 mirror

It’s simply a whim at first. Another attempt in a long line of many that persist long after the dial tone that finally cracks Phoenix’s patience and sends his phone careening straight into the floor.

It's dark outside. Cold and vast. Phoenix stares. Shaking ever so slightly, looking blankly on with a downward lip and shiny eyes.

Thankfully, the phone is unharmed. Not a trace of carnage on its slick outer shell.

He turns to other avenues as quickly as possible. Scrubs away the scuff mark on the floor and puts the phone back where it belongs.

It’s as if it had never happened. Which, if he doesn’t talk about it, becomes the new truth of the world.

 · · ·

 It starts off small. Dear Miles, every letter would begin before ending with Your friend, Nick. He inquires about where Miles is now and how he’s doing. If he’s alright and if his dog is too—safe things like that. Things he’s expected to ask when a friend has gone away so suddenly. 

I want to see you again, he writes out before scratching it out violently. After he’s calmed down, he tries Why did you leave?, but even that gets torn to pieces and tossed into the trash. This isn’t about him, after all. He knows what happened to Miles and his father. He can’t be insistent about something that doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things.

And if Miles wants him to stop, he will. He’ll settle for anything—even a curt notice telling him to Cease and desist written out in Times New Roman.

(He’ll preserve that reply. Keep it safe, keep it secret. Hope it’s enough to settle that coarse ache that’s taken up residence in the spaces between his ribs. It's something Phoenix can feel growing stronger with every dawning day. Just below his collarbone and slightly to the left, pulsing alongside his heart.)

In the meantime, he keeps writing.

The thing about writing letters is that it takes time. He has to save up for stamps. Write out the addresses with a steady, clear hand. By the time he finishes one, there’s another waiting on the wings of his ink-smudged fingertips. Just one more, he promises. One more already half-written out in the lines of salt curving down his cheeks and the scrunched up pages from where he made fists.

He ends up staying awake long after the sun has dripped below the horizon, pouring everything he can’t say out loud into the paper below.

(Catharsis. It's a smart word. One Miles would have known. He writes out the definition in his next letter and hopes Miles can understand.)

Of course, it takes even more time waiting for a response.

“Larry, what happens when they keep sending your letters back to you?” he asks later. There’s this frantic energy in his stomach. Hot and roiling with an uncomfortable pain so he bounces it from one foot to the other in hopes of quieting the noise.

Larry stares at him. “Why don’t you just call?”

“I don’t know his phone number.” Phoenix pauses and clarifies, fiddling with the string of his hoodie, “His new number.”

“Do you know his address?”

“His old one.”

A snort. “Then how do you plan on sending him letters? No wonder they don’t go anywhere.”

Oh.

Well, he supposes Larry has a point there. He can’t exactly send letters without somewhere to send it to and Miles is all but gone from the face of their small world.

Miles would have caught that, he thinks. Miles would know what to do next.

“He’s not coming back,” Larry scoffs, crossing his arms. He turns away, fingernails digging into his skin. “I’m sure he’s forgotten all about us already.”

Phoenix bites his lips and goes quiet after that. Something claws at his mouth, but he swallows back the bird and follows after Larry. They resume their play, enjoying the last few minutes of recess before they have to head back inside. Playing Samurai Swordsman is different from what they used to play. It’s still fun, he supposes.

They’re fine like this. Just like they always were, Larry tells him. Phoenix isn’t sure, but he tries to be. Maybe Miles is happy wherever he is. Maybe he’s moved on to better things and greener pastures. Maybe they don’t have to worry about him at all. They shouldn't, really. It's Miles.

He crumples the clean-cut envelopes and tosses them into his bag. They sit buried by all his school supplies until he stops taking them to school altogether when the teacher confiscates the third letter.

You need to focus on your studies, they sigh at him. He’s not trying hard enough, everyone keeps saying. Head too high in the clouds and gaze always tilted towards the windows. Not enough focus, not enough drive, not enough.

"Nick?" Larry asks, looking at him with wide eyes. As if he's just seen him for the first time.

"I'm fine," his voice wavers, but he scrubs at his eyes and tries to smile. "It's nothing."

(That night, Larry taps on his window grinning like a firecracker exploding against the sun. He slides Phoenix a shoebox full of paper balls and jumps off from the highest branch before Phoenix can say another word.

Wait for me, he whispers to himself in the hospital’s waiting room, dwarfed by the rows of plastic chairs. I don’t know how long it will take, but I’ll get there, I promise. I'll meet you again no matter what it takes.)

 · · ·

 Summers pass. Larry ends up pursuing art. He finds his stride with sculptures and illustrations. Even tries his hand at dating, fluttering to every girl he sees and leaning against the lockers as smoothly as he can like they do in the movies.

Phoenix finds himself on stage.

He doesn’t know how that happens either.

One moment Phoenix is packing up his bag to go home and the the next he's high tailing it down the hallway with Larry close behind.

They throw the doors open leading into the auditorium. The lights are on. The stage is set. All Phoenix can think to do is blend into the crowd—to disappear in the confusion as everything grinds to a halt at the intruders. He grabs Larry’s jacket and spins him into position. He takes in the scenery and grabs the first Shakespearean play he can think of with a forest in it, hoping he gets it right. Hoping against all odds that it's the right play.

It's not.

It’s so painfully not the right play, but people are leaping in anyway. It becomes an entire production as everyone glide to their places and plays off of what Phoenix has already started. They block Larry from sight and Phoenix takes centre stage.

The doors slam open again. The director makes a call and they shuffle, replaying the only scene Phoenix know once more, but with feeling.

The jealous boyfriend du jour stomps around, looking at each and every one of them with a critical eye. There is sweat melting off of their brows, breaths caught in their throat. Larry wobbles. Phoenix keeps true, solidifying into another person on the wooden boards and refusing to allow his eyes to wander.

Eventually, the boyfriend stomps off, angry that his quarry has gotten away from him yet again.

They all fall still. Phoenix’s eyes keep focused on his partner, bathed in the stage light’s heat until finally, Larry collapses onto the ground with a giant Whoop! No one else relaxes until the light shuts off with a definite sound.

“Nick!” Larry beams, grinning fiercely. “Nick that was amazing!”

The stage director is staring. Everyone is. Every eye is on them, on him. Phoenix pulls at the collar of his shirt and tries to scamper off before he’s being stopped by a few people and a form to join is shoved into his hands.

Amazing, he thinks, a little dizzy. His heart is beating triple fast, skin hot and stones rolling in his stomach. He lays the form flat on top of his notebook, staring blankly at the empty boxes. That was amazing. 

 · · ·

 Quickly, his life begins to expand. He makes friends again. They make friends with him. He's invited to occasions outside of school and being a little desperate, he accepts them and tucks himself under their arms. He talks to his fellow actors and stagehands about whatever happens to be popular with them. Learns what they like and plays to it every chance he gets.

Every night he’s staggering back home, barely remembering to turn the lights off before he’s sleeping the hours away. He wakes up bright and early the next morning with a vibrant energy that carries him all the way through secondary school and well into Ivy University. 

There’s no time for anything else.

He feels like he could continue living like this. Make something out of it that he could be proud of and have the crowd adore him instead of pointing their fingers—

The make-up comes on and he slips into his costume. As soon as he’s out there, he’s a different person. A better person. Someone warm and real, flourishing underneath the spotlight until the curtain comes down and everyone is rushing together for a hug to the sound of applause.

He gets squished into the middle. Surrounded on all sides by arms and warm bodies shining with pride. Their voices swell and the crest of their joy chases the shadows and aches away. Phoenix finds himself getting dragged to the after parties, unable to refuse. Laughing underneath the multi-coloured beams, smiling cheek-to-cheek.

"Dance with us," they say, and he does. "Stay with us," they say, and he does that too.

He practices his signature on a napkin and flushes when they have to take a moment to squint at his writing.

“This definitely says Phoenix Wrong.”

“Wright.”

“Exactly,” A friend smiles, pointing at him. “You should have been a writer, Nick. Then you could have been a playwright.”

“That's a nice thought,” he smiles, feeling how solidly it sits on its face. Never moving even with the snapshots of light and dark playing over him in blue, green and red. “But I don't exactly write. Never been much of a writer.”

“I guess not," they agree. "No one would be able to read anything you wrote anyway." Then they're perking up, leaning forwards. "Wait a minute. Then explain why you're studying law because as far as I know, you're not much of a lawyer either."

“I have my reasons,” he says. Something strange grapples him and forces him to take another drink to swallow something stronger. He hasn’t thought about it in a while. He thought he buried it long ago, but apparently it still lingers. Lurking underneath the water when he drags his ankles through the tide and wrapping around him with slimy twine.

“But it’s so—” They make a few non-committal hand motions, “I mean, isn't it boring?”

“I’m not doing it because it’s fun,” Phoenix defends, shrinking back.

They look at him. Quietly and intensely, leaning in the same, cold eyes. “Then why are you doing it?” they ask, heavy and certain that he has nothing to rebuke them with.

He doesn’t.

"This isn't something you should just throw away, Nick," they say, softly. Concern painted on.

They're all going places—some of them aiming high and looking back to see if he'll rise with them. On stage, he's larger than life and burns like a cobalt star. There's a future for him across the pond. Pamphlets and brochures stacked on top of a dusty notebook.

It seems like an obvious choice. He should just go. Just run off now onto a plane headed for London. Far, far away from the wisps still clinging to his clothes and sliding into his dreams. Colouring them a rotted gold, sunset neverending and classroom crushing in with the jeers of children and co-stars alike.

That something squirms inside him again, awful and alive. He downs the rest of his drink and stands up. Wind kicks up underneath his feet and he bids a rushed farewell before he's taking off into the night, running under the streetlights that bleed yellow and white everywhere he goes.

On a whim, he ends up grabbing a newspaper while he waits for the train. Something to keep his mind busy. Something to do. Exert his excess energy and the violent prickles flashing hot across his palms. His hands start trembling even more and they crush the cheap paper with every word he reads.

 · · ·

 Later, his phone rings. Shrill and piercing.

Phoenix jumps. He doesn't move for a long time before he forces himself to start forwards and answer the call

"Nick?"

"Larry!?"

He hasn't talked to Larry in—months. Hasn't actually seen him around in a few years. Not since he left for university, at least.

“No need to act so surprised, Nick,” Larry says, crisp and sharp over the line. Too crisp, really. “I just wanted to call and talk. You know, like old times.” 

“Are you okay?” Phoenix asks, tossing the newspaper onto the floor.

“Me?” Larry squawks, incredulous. “What about you?”

Phoenix walks backwards, hitting a wall and sliding down. "What about me?" he says in what he hopes is an even tone. "I'm not the one who gets caught in some trouble every other day. What did you do this time?"

Silence. And then a sigh. Something that sounds vaguely like You never make it easy, huh, Nick? before Larry’s conceding, “Fine, fine. You got me."

"So what's all this about?"

"I just don’t think I’m cut out for the artist life, Nick,” Larry tells him, slowly. Like he has to consider what he’s saying. “It’s not going how I expected.”

“I thought you liked art,” Phoenix says, stomach twisting. This isn’t a conversation he wants to have right now, but he promised. He promised. “Wasn’t that the only class you got an A in?”

“I do, but…” Larry frowns over the line. There's a shuffling, static sound. Like someone's rubbing the back of their neck. “None of them really appreciate my sculptures and I don't think I can handle the pressure, you know?”

“What are you going to do, then?”

“Dunno.” Larry shrugs loud enough to be heard. “Follow my heart?”

Phoenix pauses. “So you don’t have a plan.”

“Well, I’ve got one pretty cool dude on speed dial who will always help me out when I need him,” Larry voice twinkles, holding it aloft for a moment, hoping it’ll stick until he drops the shine and sighs. “Jeez, Nick. Since when did you turn into such a worrywart?”

Since January in fourth grade. But he can’t say that. He doesn't say anything.

A small thump sounds over the phone and Phoenix imagines Larry for a second. Sitting down, knees lazily spread and head against the wall. Shameless and entirely Larry in everything he does. Phoenix tugs his legs closer to his chest.

“Alright, Mr. Responsible, what are you up to?” Larry asks, drumming his fingers.

“University,” Phoenix says simply. It’s the easiest answer. The one that shuts down most avenues of inquiry depending on how curt he is. He hesitates again. Something burns on his tongue, tasting of fog and mildew. It refuses to be washed down by the conversation on hand so he continues, voice small, “Actually…there is one thing.”

“Yeah?”

Phoenix takes in a deep breath. “I’ve been offered an opportunity, to, ah.” He runs his hand through his hair, examining the carpet underneath him. He's never said it out loud. Read it plenty of times and even replied to a few of their emails, but never like this. Never so out in the open and never with the full intention of making it real. 

"They want me to go to England," he manages to claw out out, tongue thick and heavy. "For acting."

“That’s my Nick!” Larry laughs. “I knew you’d be going places! Haven’t I always told you that?” 

“You’ve never told me that in your life.” Phoenix smiles briefly, but it falls just as quickly. “But thanks for your faith in me, I guess.”

“So?”

“…So?”

“When’s the big date? When do I have to bid adieu to my best friend?”

“Bid…” Phoenix’s brow furrows. “Oh, no. No. I-I haven’t accepted it yet.”

“What!?” Larry shrieks, loud enough for someone in the background to tell him off. “Why not!?”

“I-I don’t know!” he stammers. A knot tightens in his gut, chest filled with the cold night air. “It’s just—a big change and all. I don’t know if I want to go through with it.”

Larry sounds stricken. “But Nick…you love acting.”

“I know,” he says, nearly in a whisper. ”I—I know. It’s complicated, alright?”

For a moment, he thinks that’s it. That maybe Larry might have finally developed a sense for reading the room and decided to let the issue drop.

Then: “How’s Edgey doing?”

Phoenix goes still.

“I’m sorry?”

Larry repeats himself. “Edgey. You know—Miles Edgeworth. Signal Red. How is he?”

“Why…” Phoenix trails off, swallowing thickly. He takes in a deep breath and starts again. “How would I know?”

“You’re still writing to him, right?” There’s an oddity in his voice. A strange quality like it’s coming from far away through an old radio. Static fills Larry’s tongue, pulsing alongside the beats of his heart that are loud and familiar inside his skull. "So you know what’s going on with him and stuff?”

Phoenix’s jaw creaks when he finally moves it. His voice is a harsh rasp, sticking to the walls of his throat. "What?”

“Didn't you see the news?” Larry doesn’t let him run. “You’d never leave a friend behind if you knew they needed help. That’s why you’re hesitating, right? Because of him.”

There’s a lot of things he can say to that. What do you mean? It’s not because of him—but none of them make it out of his mouth. 

“I didn’t see anything,” he says shakily, trying not to betray the rocks starting to crash and fall inside him. Sparks begin to buzz just beneath the first layer of his skin. “Besides, how would I know anything about what Edgeworth’s doing?”

“What? But I thought you’d be—your letters—”

“I didn’t even have an address!”

It’s almost a scream. Very close to screeching out of him like the tires below or the babbling chatter of late-night partiers drunkenly singing to themselves in a shrill falsetto. Phoenix startles, hand flying up to his mouth in surprise.

“He’s—” he chokes out. “It’s been twelve years, Larry.”

“You…you never sent them?” 

“Of course I sent them,” Phoenix repeats, quieter. Angrier. Pyres of smoke, black as soot, scorching the insides of his throat. “I sent all of them.” 

He wrote down everything. Every little dream and fancy he had, feverously writing them down on lined paper without restriction. He crafted a world so close to their own that it didn't matter if he changed a few things and added his own asides. A triumphant return and the reunion of three keychain charms. It fills his lungs with shame and guilt to think of it now.

“And nothing?” Larry asks, voice trembling. “Not even a postcard?”

“Nothing,” Phoenix breathes. Finality. “Just…nothing. I stopped after a while.”

“How long is a while?”

Silence.

Larry lets out a long breath. They don’t bring him up again though Larry tries. The vacuum inside of him throbbing painfully.

It’s bigger than before. Acting slowly like a poison that takes years to settle and crawl through the capillaries. Phoenix doesn’t know quite what to do about it so he stumbles back to his bed, setting his phone on silent and collapses into an uneasy sleep.

 · · ·

 Later. Much, much later, Phoenix digs through his closet and memories. He has to use a flashlight to see, careful to not disturb his roommate.

It’s not the reason why his heart is beating fast against his ribs. 

He places the odd knickknack aside and excavates every journal and notebook he’s never quite managed to finish or fill out completely. Somehow, he's managed to keep most of them. They all close awkwardly, most of their contents having been ripped out or cut clean from the binding.

He rubs his thumb against the empty spaces left behind and flips through the few pages that remained.

It’s an uncomfortable history. He doesn’t remember most of what he wrote though perhaps it’s better that way. Less evidence. Less reason to confront the mounting pressure inside his chest.

“Christ, Phoenix,” he mutters to himself, pulling more books out. “Just how much did you write?”

The older ones have more paper still clinging to the spine. Scrawled all over with initial concepts and outlines from before the time he stopped writing drafts altogether and simply wrote what was on his mind.

It had taken him a while to finally give into the truth that no one was ever going to read them. After that, it had been liberating. He wrote more. Filled too many books to count and emptied his heart over and over until he could breathe again.

Dear Miles,

I miss you.

Your friend, Nick

He lingers on that one. Traces through his old cursive back before everything decayed into simpler letterforms crammed into illegibility.

It’s been twelve years since Phoenix last saw Edgeworth. Twelve years for all of them to change and grow. For even Phoenix to move on and let those old memories of their halcyon youth lie six feet below. 

After being rejected by the postal service, the letters made their way to the only mailbox he knew of that Edgeworth knew about too. Once a week, he would take them over, slide them in the box and raise the flag. Mysteriously, they would disappear the next day.

Phoenix never saw another soul wandering the premises the entire time he wrote.

(Well, perhaps there was one man. A man with a hat and a sad expression Phoenix felt uncomfortable enough seeing on another person’s face. He strikes him from the records and doesn't think about him again.)

He would wait for days by the community mailboxes for any sign of the postman. For anything addressed to him from a place very far away.

Nothing ever came. Nothing ever will.

It has been exhausting waiting for a ghost who will never answer. Even he can’t do it forever. Even he has promises that he cannot deliver. Weaknesses that he needs to break in order to set the bone.

He should burn them, really. Put an end to this.

Almost as if in a trance, Phoenix starts gathering everything into a few boxes and starts to carry one towards the door. Towards the bins outside where he can finally be done with it all.

Phoenix hesitates. Time crawls forwards. His roommate shifts from one side of the bed to the other. The sun creeps across the sky, poking above the clouds and fills the room with light.

He can’t do it. Fingers tighten on the box in his hands and he grits his teeth, forcing another steep from his feet, but—

He can’t. He can’t. He shakes, falling to the ground, flashlight long since winked out.

“Shit,” he croaks, burying his head in his hands and clawing at his hair. “Shit. Why the hell did you have to come back now? Why now of all the times to— argh!”

Perhaps it’s his own ghosts surrounding him. The younger versions of himself that still boasted innocence and sweet naivety that hadn’t yet been blinded by industry-grade spotlights. Perhaps it’s the single newspaper that he had gotten on a whim. The vision rendered in black print, austere eyes carved straight from cheerless stone and the words Demon Prosecutor following after every instance of that man's name.

Perhaps it’s his heart. His stupid, pitiful heart that refuses to let go even though he wants to. Continuing to beat long after he wants it to stop.

 · · ·

 Phoenix makes his way over to the courthouse library. His heart shrivels with something erratic when he ascends the steps. He has never once pictured himself to ever walk these halls. Even when he first decided his majors, he never thought he’d fit in here. Not like him…

Phoenix shakes his head. He takes the elevator down to the basement. As he’s browsing through the aisle, eyes glazing over the titles on the spine, someone bumps into him.

“Oh!” she squeaks, skittering back. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“No, it’s alright,” he says, shaking his head and getting his bearings. “It’s—fine.”

She looks away when he looks at her. A girl, maybe around his age. Bright hair, as red as the twine of destiny itself and a necklace in the shape of a heart. He blinks.

“Um,” he says, rather dumbly. Something is trying to slot together his brain, but it refuses to fit. Clicking awkwardly and leaving him rather stricken as he stares, trying to place her face.

It makes her laugh. She giggles, hiding it with her fingers and her cheeks seem to flush on command. Or it could be the slight reddish tinge of the basement lights that flicker ever so often above them.

“You’re…” she starts, trailing off. To his wonder, she tilts her head, hair draping down her shoulders like a waterfall. “Do I have something on my face?”

“…uh.” For a moment, Phoenix is embarrassed. Then he’s mortified. “Oh! I was staring! I’m sorry! I’msosorry!”

She laughs again, fainter this time. The same sound played again, but from a distance. She looks at him though, which distracts him. Wide, crystalline eyes reflecting his own flustered face like the gem resting above her heart. Swaying slightly, back and forth on her heels.

“It’s okay,” she forgives softly and Phoenix isn’t sure why that makes his heart start racing. “I…I didn’t mind.”

What on earth could that possibly mean?

“Oh, um.” He laughs, the awkward sound bubbling up before he can control it. “M-My name’s Phoenix. Phoenix Wright.”

“Phoenix—like the flying brothers?” she asks. His name on her lips—like a cuckoo’s song. “I’m Dahlia Hawthrone.”

She extends her hand and he extends his own. Their fingers brush and she jolts. He jolts too, a second after. 

Suddenly, it’s quiet. Focused and sharp; the world falls away until it’s just them and Phoenix feels himself being pulled into her eyes. She’s looking at him, straight through him. Through his walls, through the water—through everything and slipping inside the ribs to the dense little star he carries inside.

He knows her. She knows him. Glass reflections made from different grains of sand.

“I…did you feel that?” she says in a whisper, loud enough to hear, but soft enough to count. She looks around as if what she’s about to say will shake apart the world. “That spark?” 

“I felt it,” he breathes. Dares to, even with something so delicate as this. “It felt like—”

“—fate?”

“Yes.”

She takes off the necklace. Talks about love at first sight into his ears with sonnets, slipping her play over his head and letting it settle on his chest. A literature student. A poet.

It’s like fate, she says. It has to be salvation. The answer he's been looking for to finally quell the monster in his chest. She smiles and Phoenix smiles with her. The hum of the fluorescent bulbs overhead spurs him on to metamorphosize and perform.

Is this love? he thinks, madly. It must be. There’s nothing else it can be.

“Art and law?” she croons. “Now isn’t that ambitious!”

“W-well, I’m studying law on the side, see.” He flushes. “I’m mainly an art student.”

Dahlia cants her head, curious. “Oh, you have to tell me all about it,” she says, leaning in to slide her arm through his and Phoenix’s heart does a flip. Dahlia tugs him towards the door, away from all the tomes. “Maybe over a cup of coffee?”

“Yeah! That sounds great.” He laughs, feeling his lungs swelter with molten red joy. Fluttering, always fluttering. Stoppered with enchanted songs. “That sounds really great, actually. It’s just what I need.”

The curtains open on a butterfly's beat. Eight months later, there is a storm and Phoenix very nearly chokes on the shards of blue sea and glass.

 · · ·

 In the hospital, Phoenix stays alive on a miracle. On a promise made very long ago when he was a child. He thinks back, wondering who he was speaking to at the time. Whether it was to Miles, to Larry, or really to himself as he sat in that chair entirely too small for the burden he tried to take on. Wonders if he can make it again. Rewrite the cage he spun himself into desperately trying to cling onto something he thought was stable ground. But there's nothing around him this time. No one. Not even a phone to throw against the wall.

Here is something he never tells anyone: it hurts.

What hurts and where it came from, what caused it and who—none of it really matters. Not when all he has to show for it is an ache where his heart should be and a bottle crushed between his teeth. He has not allowed himself to cry real tears since the parting, but now that there is nothing. Phoenix has lost the reason holding him back. 

It just hurts. Mercilessly, simply and absolutely. And now that he's completely alone with no one at his side, Phoenix allows it to. The black hole opens up and Phoenix sinks underneath the void and letting himself be subsumed by flames.

And then—there is water. The beast from underneath the well bubbling up and washing over the scorched lands until Phoenix can breathe again. See again. The glimmer of a grey-haired spectre watching him stitched together with mail and ink that disappears as soon as Phoenix lays his eyes on him.

Dear Phoenix, an echo writes to him in a fever. Sprawling forth with hopes written by desperation, fashioned after the heart he's kept all these years. Your friend, Miles.

Phoenix wakes up with a gasp, a second life clutched firmly in his hands.

 · · ·

 After everything, Mia takes him out for drinks. Larry comes along at first, but after a few rounds, they send him home in a cab to sleep off what happened to Cindy.

“So why did you want to become a defence attorney?” Mia asks with chin on her hand, eyes seeming to glow green in the dim light. It’s a comfortable atmosphere, though. Quiet and low. Private, but not blocked by any walls or locked doors.

Just a night out between friends.

“I made a promise,” Phoenix says simply, slightly nauseous over the word, but he’s stronger than before. 

“To Harry?” she guesses. “Was he that friend you desperately wanted to help?”

“Partly,” he repeats from before. Her lips purse, but she lets it be. They’re not in court and the room is dark. It wouldn’t be fair—she’s the only one who manages to understand that.

(Though, it makes sense. She’s the only one who’s seen him between acts. She had to, considering she was the one who broke the entire façade.)

“It must be important,” she says. “Becoming a defence attorney isn’t something people choose lightly. Especially here.”

“He saved me." Twice over now, he thinks.

"Oh, that's all?" Mia repeats, a hint of amusement. "And now you want to save him back."

"That's the gist of it," Phoenix says. He laughs a little, cheeks flushing. “I made that promise when I was nine. It's a bit ridiculous, thinking about it now”

“I think these courts need a little bit of ridiculous.” Mia muses. She looks at him, expression unfathomable, but still so very kind. More than what he deserves after everything he’s put her through and everything she’s already done for him. 

“I’m sure the judge was really happy to get a taste of that today.”

“It’s not the weirdest trial I’ve been to.” And that’s probably true. “And it was your first one. There’s plenty more to go.”

“You make it sound like they’re levels I have to beat in a game.”

“It can feel like that.” A deceptively jovial tone. It’s been three years since her own disaster of a first trial, though Phoenix has no idea how long it’s actually been. It never begins with just a badge. “Sometimes all we can do is keep going.”

After a moment, Mia finally gets up and stretches. She puts some bills on the bar and smiles at him, hand on his shoulder. “Whatever you promised, I’m sure you’ll be able to make good on it.”

“You really think that, Chief?”

“Of course,” and because it’s Mia, he believes her. “You proved that today, didn’t you? You saved Larry.” 

“Didn’t you save Larry? You’re the one who really won the case. If you hadn’t jumped in about the clock being three hours slow, we would’ve been toast and Larry…” The rest of it gets caught in his throat. Phoenix tips his glass and washes it down with beer. 

Mia squeezes his shoulder. “Didn’t it turn out that it was nine hours fast?”

“Well…yes.”

“And who proved that?”

He falls silent. She smiles at him again, gentler than before. “Things change depending on how you look at them, Phoenix. Maybe instead of dwelling on what you couldn’t and haven’t done—think about what you can and have accomplished. You did good work today. I’m proud of you.” 

“Even though I forgot the victim’s name in the beginning?”

At that, she does wince. “Well…”

He laughs. And it feels good.

“But I do mean it. You’re going to be amazing, Phoenix.” Amazing. There that word is again. Mia takes a step forward, as if to leave, before pausing. She twists, looking at him once more. “And for what it’s worth, I don’t think there’s a statute of limitations on promises.”

Phoenix smiles and now it feels right on his face. Proper. Settled. Entirely his. Hard-won and scavenged together from disparate parts that are only just starting to realize they had been methodically cut away from the whole. “Thank-you,” he says quietly and something very old and very sad inside his chest finally lays its head down to sleep. "Thank-you."

When Phoenix leaves the bar, he does so with his head tipped towards the sky, walking under the warm grey light of the stars.

[ammacdiaries-blog]

When In Williston....Just Don’t

First entry.  First attempt at writing a short story.  The following is a true story.  Obviously, names aren’t included.  I do welcome all feedback.  Please also share.

Here goes….

Fresh out of training, yet still in my probationary period dubbed first 120.  I began my embarquement from Seattle, Washington to Chicago, Illinois on my normal run called The Empire Builder.  The total journey would be 6-days; 3 there and 3 back.  Assigned to the Sleeper Car, I was in charge of first class services.  This entails providing services to 16 to 24 rooms with 1 to 5 passengers per room; making beds, to-go meals, luggage assist, etc.  I especially like working in the sleepers because of the direct customer contact.

This summer was proving to be an especially difficult one.  Continual track work bestowed us with countless delays.  This resulted in irritated passengers.  Still nothing I couldn’t handle.  Even as we entered Wolf Point, MT and I learned a tornado caused a freight liner to derail just ahead of us, I could still direct the mood of irritated passengers into a more positive one and keep people entertained.  

I guess I was too focused on the people and paid no attention to my arachnid homies, causing one to get especially bitter.  I asleep in my room, while Charlotte spun her web somewhere in the vicinity.  After a long day of whipping out some web, she must of developed a bad taste in her mouth.   

Through her several eyes, I can only guess she saw me as one of two things: An asshole who was keeping her trapped there, or a nice humid incubator where she could sink her teeth into a nice tender thigh.  Since Wilbur never gave her any bacon, after writing all those messages in the web, I assume she saw this as her one opportunity to get some good squealing in.  

I awoke with a burning sensation in between my legs.  Not that of a result of a great time with a complete stranger in a cheap hotel room.  But still one that would require countless antibiotics.  Where’s the fun in that?  I’m not sure whatever happened to Charlotte.  But I’m guessing after her journey to the nether regions of my southern hemisphere, she turned eight feet up and six feet under.  

Now me being me, I of course fell right back to sleep.  If the intruder alarm in my house won’t wake me up for long, chances are some heat near my hot pocket won’t wake me up either.  When I awoke though, I discovered Charlotte’s little parting gift for me.

Throughout the next several hours, I worked as normal.  Trying to ignore the pain of what started out as a pea-sized nob, and then had grown into a half-dollar sized coin.  By the night, I had started mastering the penguin waddle.  You skinny people might not get this reference.  But the penguin waddle is what us larger people do when chafing occurs in between the thighs.  As to not piss our ham hocks off any further, we keep our thighs close together and swish our hips, while keeping our legs straight in order to keep pain at a minimal.   I haven’t had to use this maneuver since my teenage years.  Luckily, it was like hopping on a bike after not being on one for a decade.  Oh the things I take pride in.

Going late into my 3-day, and still no where near Chicago, the abscess between my thighs had now grown to about 6-inches.  Still too scared to seek medical attention, I did find it in my better interest to let a crew member know just in case, you know, something worse could happen.  Despite his years of experience and vast knowledge of how Amtrak handles things, I still chose not to make management aware.  During the first 120, it was ingrained in our heads you will be fired for any mishap.  I must emphasize, this is not the case as I later learned.  

Our layover in Chicago, when on time is approximately 18-hours.  The delay from the derailment lowered that layover to approximately 4-hours.  I had planned on going to urgent care, getting an I&D, then leaving out on my return trip.  Unfortunately, I had just literally pulled a 24-hour shift, and was allotted 4-hours to do laundry, take a hot bath, nap for 1-hour and then return to work the train going back.  I was riding myself hard and putting me away wet.  

The wound had now spread from my groin to knee and was the most beautiful color of dark purple, had it not been my flesh.  Full car coming back, there would be no rest for this wicked man.  

In the distance, I heard the sound of a call light go off.  As it was lunch time, this could only mean they wanted to order their food to-go as opposed to being normal people and eating in the dining car.  Normally I wouldn’t be so irritated by such an easy request.  But my time back on this bicycle was making my ass more tender than veil.  

After collecting their order and returning with their food, I knocked on their door.  The vibrations of the knocking must of set off the richter scale because a splitting of the plates happened.  I ruptured.  The man answered the door with the biggest smile.  Those fresh burgers for him and his girlfriend had finally arrived.  And how he couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into them.

Yes he was greeted with that, but no.  There would be no smell of fresh angus beef and bacon in the air.  There would be that of the foul stench of the walking dead.  I dare not say what just happened.  We both looked at each other as if to say “What hell did you eat?”.  He knew it wasn’t him.  I knew it was me.  But he didn’t know that.  I gave him the look like it was him.  Which I hope made him believe it was his girlfriend.  Both our faces wrinkled to the point of needing an immediate injection of botox.  We still managed to exchange product for gratuity.  If they are still together, I won’t ever know.  

I was at a loss.  There was no more penguin waddle left in me.  I could only now slither like a slug to the nearest shower room and play doctor with my first aid kit.  I texted my partner in crime to let him know that an act of God had just occurred.  And thank goodness because we were approaching our next stop and I had to let passengers on and off.  There was no way I was going to help people with sappy, soupy pants on with the fragrance of that one wouldn’t even smell in a soup kitchen.  

Now seriousness was going to have to take place.  There was no further thing I could do but seek medical attention.

“Good afternoon passengers” came across over the PA system.  “Our next station stop will be Williston, North Dakota.”  

This was to be my stop.  The conductor had called for an ambulance to take me to the hospital.  I had only had about 15-minutes to pack my room, dress my wounds, dress myself and be available at the door.  Oh, and please don’t forget that I’m still only one 1-hour of sleep.  

As I stood there waiting for that next station stop, my passengers had began to cluster around the vestibule area, eager to step off the train, have that much desired cigarette, and of course witness my grand exit.  

I open the door upon arrival and before me are approximately 14 paramedics.  Not quite the paparazzi, but still very intimidating.  Then the press conference begins.

“Why is it you think you need an ambulance?” the one reporter boasted.

“I beg your pardon?”  What the hell kind of question is that?

“Why do you think you need to go to the hospital?”

Am I interviewing for a patient position, I thought.  I turned and look behind me to see my passengers just a chomping at the popcorn, anticipating what I was going to say next.  Well I’m sorry to disappoint.  But your not going to hear me say “Oh I have a compromised immune system and a wound the size of my fucking thigh just blew up in my thigh and I thought this would just be the next fun thing to do in my day.”

“I’ll be more than happy to answer that questions on our way to the hospital without an audience.”  I assertively replied.  

While dancing in the back of the ambulance to every pothole on the road, someone must have heard me say “I have ebola”, because when I got to the hospital, every person was wearing thick gowns, spit guards, and filtered masks.  I’m now so emotionally distraught, and tired, I have no idea what to do.  

I then was blessed to meet probably the only person with a brain, the PA who walked in asking why she felt she was on a movie set instead of a hospital.  As the lambs started “baaaaaaaaaahing” out their reasons, she quickly schooled them and said contact precautions as normal.  None of this additional crap is necessary.  She then looks at my wound and says “Cellulitis and possible MRSA.”  Oh Christ, I thought.  My next emotion was to cry.  Apparently this was something they didn’t know how to handle.  Well not handle so much as acknowledge.  

Because at this moment, I had learned Nurse Ratched had continued her education, becoming a doctor, my doctor and was standing before me.  “If we don’t keep you here, what is it you think you’re going to do?”

I didn't understand the question.  Yes, it was to the point.  I just didn’t see how it related to me.  “What do you mean, what am I going to do?”

“Well do you think Amtrak is going to just give you another ticket?  What are you doing to do?”

Despite Nurse Ratched’s continued education, I noticed she still somehow must have missed any courses involving bedside manner.  It feared me though that once I explained I was an employee and fully insured, how quickly her tune changed.  But that wasn’t a hill I was ready to climb.

While being admitted as an inpatient, I had understandingly fallen asleep to only be awoken by the Hospitalist, a harpy I dubbed Olga the Oger.  “Michael, we need to talk.”

I fumbled to awaken myself.  SInce my bladder felt as if to explode, this initial task was a bit easier.  “I need to use the restroom first.”

I’m not sure what kind of fetishes this harpy had, but she grabs a urinal,sits it in front of me, then sits down herself, giving me the strongest execution of poker face I had ever seen.

“Without an audience.” I commanded.  

While waiting for her to come back in the room, flapping her wings to perch in her nest, I fell back asleep.  Then again with that same shrill I heard “Michael, I said we needed to talk.”

Hold up.  What’s that?  No ma’am.  You obviously don’t know who I am.  It was at that moment my hummingbird ass was put to rest by my alligator mouth.  I couldn’t believe I had it in me.  The harpy looked down, looked at me in the eyes, then said “I am getting security.  I don’t feel safe with you in the room.”

Security must have been busy fighting the meth monsters from the emergency room.  Because she came back with no soldiers.  Which I was fine with.  I grabbed my big boy britches, apologized and proceeded our discussions.

Three more times she ran out of my room in fear.  No my friends, not from my hot temper.  But to change every order she had already written for me because she failed to find out my allergies beforehand.  I was starting to feel that Charlotte and I were going to be seeing each other again in the after life by the way things were going.

Well I survived the that 5-day stay in the hospital.  But no.  Mount Fiji had yet to be conquered.  My final night in Williston was to be at a hotel.  Work had generously called me cab to take me to the Ritz, no Discount something or other inn.

As I stand there waiting for my chariot to arrive, a strong sense of anxiety consumed me as I saw this black SUV come racing towards me.  Oh God.  This can’t be my cab.  I found placing my luggage in the back to be especially easy as the the whole back window had been busted out.  Upon entering the cab, I took notice to the several inches of dirt and dead insects upon my bench.  I especially loved that my “driver” rhythmically licked and chewed his lips as if they were two cheeseburgers from the best burger joint in town.

“Now they told me you would need a receipt.  I told them we give receipts on cards.”

Fair enough I thought.  Wait….What’s this.  Lip Licker hands me the card of a female real estate broker who specializes in short sales at Remax.  On the back of my card it says Cab Fare $17.00 and a signature.  Oh yeah.  Accounting will look at this like seeing a turd floating in a punch bowl.  

Thank Christ, I’m at the hotel!  I walk in to see the accommodations were doable.  Not the Ritz as I dreamed.  But after my week, a cardboard box set up in the middle lane of a highway in a rainstorm wouldn’t seem so disappointing.  “Sir.  We have your complimentary dinner available for you in the hallway over there.”

Dinner in the hallway?  Oh hell yeah!   Jackpot.  I couldn’t wait.  As I stand in line behind every roughneck in the state acting like vultures before 3 metal canisters, I couldn’t hardly wait to see what lottery winnings I could be consuming.  Door number one had something that I think might have been tuna.  Whatever it was, it was shredded, white, and crusty on top.  Behind door number two, chicken so oily, had I dropped it, Foghorn Leghorn would have slid straight to the Canadian Border.  Then behind door number three, corn dogs so hard, I could speer someone’s eyes out from across the room.  I figured between the preservatives, and the 600 different antibiotics running through my system, the speers would be the best way to go.

Oh let the C-Diff begin!!!!

It’s safe to assume, if I’m ever bit again, by anything, I’ll probably not wait so long to address it.  Maybe I’ll start asking for directions too.  

[howsit-going-toend]

Bang Bang (My Baby Shot Me Down) Pt. 6

A Kwon Jiyong x Reader AU series featuring Kim Jiwon and Choi Seunghyun

Genre: Crime/Mafia/ANGST

Word count: 3,000+ 

Summary: You joined the police force years ago to help clean up the streets of Seoul and rid the city of organized crime. You’ve seen some shit. You’re surely prepared for anything…but how are you supposed to feel when the big bad crime boss you’ve been after turns out to be a familiar (to say the least) face?

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Y/N (10:46): I’m fine, I promise. Thank you for checking in

CSH (10:47): Of course

Y/N (10:50): Are you at the station? I’m planning to be there in a couple of hours. Have some important paperwork to pull from my computer

CSH (10:52): What! Yes, I’m here. Did you clear it with Chief?

Y/N (10:52): Lol

Y/N (10:58): …Oh was that a serious question?

Seunghyun breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. Your strong will to defy Chief Kim’s orders for you to take leave was a breath of fresh air.

Every day since the night of the failed bust had weighed heavier and heavier on him. He hated himself for not being by your side the entire time, allowing you to wind up in one of the absolute worst case scenarios. It was his first official assignment with your station and he’d swiftly fucked it up. The blame from his peers and superiors, along with his own, prevented any visits to you at the hospital and all forms of communication outside of one or two work-related texts.

All along he just wanted to ask how you were holding up and profusely, but sincerely apologize for everything. But all he could focus on was keeping his nose clean.

It wasn’t until he’d heard of your return home that he finally struck up the courage to reach out. Knowing now that you were healing well and even had the strength to return to work so soon brought a wave of relief. He returned his phone to his pocket triumphantly before heading back to the main room of the station.

It must have been lunch hour, judging by the impossible to ignore smell of instant ramen comingling with the pungent hints of other takeout food. He paced to his desk, along the way nodding to his fellow detectives, each with their mouths full. As he sat down and cleared a space, thinking about his own lunch, one of the men got his attention.

“Hey. Did you see that guy in the hall while you were out there?” He mumbled.

It was nearly impossible to not gawk at the wide ring of red-orange sauce that was smeared across the man’s face. He stared back at Seunghyun expectantly, while continuing to slurp from a bowl of noodles held just below his chin. Seunghyun shook his head and narrowed his eyes, returning to the question. “Uh. No. What guy?”

The man gestured lazily in the direction of Chief Kim’s office. “That guy that walked into Chief’s office. Real important looking. He was wearing a full suit and everything.”

Seunghyun gave a halfhearted shrug. “Could just be a superintendent or a Chief from another precinct or something. Suits come through here all the time, don’t they?” He returned to rummaging through his bag to locate his lunch.

The man waved a sauce covered hand and shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. This guy has tattoos.”

Seunghyun stilled his movements. He made brief eye contact with the coworker before glancing at the closed door. “What kind of tattoos?”

“I noticed a couple on his hands, but the one that caught my eye was this set of wings. These big wings were on the back of his neck almost like a…hey, what’re you doing? Where’re you going?”

Seunghyun didn’t want to hear any more. He rose abruptly from his chair and arrived outside of Chief Kim’s office in a matter of seconds. He paced back and forth a few times before taking a half assed deep breath and leaning an ear towards the door, abandoning any desire to remain inconspicuous.

He could barely hear anything besides his own pulse that was racing like a freight train; one he wished he could drive straight through that door.

He didn’t know how long the intruder had been in there or what his business was. All he knew was he had to get Chief Kim out as soon as possible. He began to pace again in a panic. Ok, ok, maybe just call him and pretend to have an issue going on out here in the office…or knock on the door and say they need him up front or….Feign a medical emergency or…..

Just as Seunghyun was about to knock on the door out of desperation, his work phone rang. FUCK. He nearly dropped it on the ground as he struggled to steady himself enough to answer and silence the piercing ring. His heart fell to his stomach as he read the caller ID.

He slammed his finger on the green button and held the phone to his ear. “Chief.”

“My office. Now.”

Seunghyun stared forward, as his superior’s voice was replaced with silence. After a moment of nothing, he had to physically smack himself to remember basic motor skills. He took a calmer, deeper breath than before, and reached a shaking hand for the doorknob.

Seunghyun stepped in to the office, making immediate eye contact with Chief Kim and the set of tattooed wings he’d hoped to never see again. “Chief.” He spoke hesitantly.

Jiyong didn’t even turn his head to look the room’s newest company in the eye. “You see, Chief, I’m not the real enemy you’re after……isn’t that right, Officer Choi?”

Meanwhile

Amongst everything that was now good in your life that you felt you didn’t deserve, Jiwon’s unwavering kindness was at the top of that list.

In the nearly five years the two of you have been together, and the two and a half years you’d been married, he’s always treated you like gold. It was no surprise that he was able to step up to the plate and become your twenty four hour caregiver after you were sent home from the hospital.

For the past two weeks he’d barely left your side. He’d carried you anywhere you needed from the bed, to the couch, to a seat in the dining room; until you had stubbornly insisted you were perfectly fine using crutches and getting around on your own. Whenever your bandaging needed to be changed or whenever you gave the faintest hint that you might be in pain, he was there with a first aid kit. He even helped bathe you when the pain killers prevented even the slight movement of leaning over to clean your legs and feet. “Thank you” really wasn’t enough. You battled feeling both like a helpless child that needed to get up and handle things themselves, and one that pretended to be sick so that they could stay home from school for just one more day.

After two full weeks, today had been Jiwon’s first day back at work. You’d spent the morning laying on the couch, bored and alone until he returned around noon; and here he was spending his lunch break helping you in the bathtub.

“How’s your pain been today so far?” He asked while gently lifting your right leg from its place on the edge of the tub.

You smiled. “Good actually. Aside from bumping it on the couch a couple times, it was like it wasn’t even there.”

“Yeah?” Jiwon raised an eyebrow. “So I should stop helping you in the bath then?” He jested.

You did your best at a cute pout. “….I guess so. If that’s what you want.”

He laughed and shook his head before flicking some water at your face. “You know I don’t mind. Plus it gives me an excuse to see this gorgeous sight.” He gestured to the rest of your fully submerged body.

“I don’t want to hear that.” You giggled, shaking your head and narrowing your eyes up at him. “The fact that you’re spending your lunch break in here helping me is enough. You don’t have to throw all these compliments around.” You reached out to press a damp hand to his knee. “You really should eat something before you go back though.”

You watched Jiwon’s eyebrows quirk up as his eyes fell to the area of water just below your belly button. He grinned devilishly as suds from the loofa in his hand trickled down your raised right leg. His gaze lingered on the part of your body it inevitably fell to. It was your turn to splash some water in his face. “Kim Jiwon I meant actual food!”

You reeled your leg closer to your body, taking away his view in fake annoyance. He chuckled and held both hands out towards you as if pleading for mercy. “Oh come on, I’m just playing around! I ate, I ate. I promise…Now gimme that back.” You slowly returned your leg to him while simultaneously offering a look of disapproval. He laughed at your silliness before gently cleaning around your wound once again.

“So you’ve been starting to wean off the pain meds, right? Are you going to start working on some stuff from home?”

“Ha…Funny you mention that.” He eyeballed you skeptically, to which you offered a cheesy grin. “I was actually wanting to ask you for a favor.”

“Dooo you want me to pick up something from the station and bring it to you?”

“Mmm…Not exactly. So, I’ve been getting pretty good with the crutches. And, like I said, the pain has been pretty minimal the past few days. And I need some stuff from my computer and I still have to speak with Seunghyun about everything, so…”

He returned with a look of disapproval of his own before cutting you off. “Didn’t the station require a medical leave of at least a month?”

“…Yes.”

He sighed. “I should have known that wouldn’t stop you.”

You fought a grin but remained silent, waiting for him to fully get on your train of thought. He knew the second you eventually decided you wanted to go back to work, that there was no getting in your way; even if you had to hobble on crutches the whole six miles to the station.

He shook his head and gave a half-hearted smile. “You’re so stubborn. I’ll give you a ride if you promise me that you’ll call the second that anything goes wrong. And that you at last wear the brace the hospital gave you.”

“I promise.” You did your best to sound serious, despite the fact that you were instantly ten times more excited to get out of the house.

By the time that you’d eagerly gotten yourself ready and Jiwon had reluctantly dropped you off, you breathed a sigh of relief. You were more than determined to finally feel productive again. It was like you’d just gotten back to school from winter vacation.

It was hard to place a finger on exactly what it was, but something about the vibe of the station felt strangely off. Everything seemed a little too calm and collected for it being after one o’ clock on a Monday. Your crutches clicked against the linoleum flooring, echoing through the long hall that led to the main room. After briefly struggling to get through the entrance, you looked around with concern; the body language of your peers didn’t help.

They were whispering quietly amongst themselves. Some were standing with their arms folded while others were just sitting there. Each were in groups of two to three, with matching looks of concern; And a similar gaze that continued to shift from one another, to the door that lead to the station’s interrogation rooms. Something had to be going on.

“Y/N! You’re back!” A few of them broke from the tense moment to acknowledge your return, now that the sounds of your crutches were loud and clear. “How are you feeling?” “We didn’t think you were coming back for a couple more weeks!”

“Can’t stay away from work I guess.” You forced a chuckle. “Let’s talk about that later. I’m fine. What’s going on though…? Something’s off.”

The man who was debatably the laziest of your coworkers immediately got your attention. “Oh, it’s Seunghyun.”

“Uh. What about him?” You felt your anxiety levels begin to ripple.

“No one knows. That’s what we’re all trying to guess. He was sitting here about to eat lunch like an hour ago and then he ran to Chief’s office and paced around outside before going in all flustered. He was in there forever before they all walked out to go to the interrogation rooms. It was really weird.”

“Huh.” Was all you could manage.

Perplexed, you cautiously began to head to the back. The other detectives continued their light gossip, lowering to a mumble as you got further away and your own anxious thoughts grew louder and louder. Before they all, he’d said. They all? Who else was in there? What the hell were they talking about? And what would have made them continue it back here?

As you approached the corridor, doing your best to not allow your paranoia to get the best of you but to instead focus on maneuvering your crutches, the door swung open. Chief Kim seemed less than excited to see you.

“Chief, what’s going on?”

“Y/N, what are you doing here? You’re not supposed to be back for ano-.”

“I know, I know.” You interrupted, telling yourself you’d deal with whatever consequences that entailed later. “What the hell is going on? Who’s back here with you and Seunghyun and why is it going on record? Does this concern our case?”

He was taken back by your attitude for only a second before changing his entire expression. “Yes. It involves your case.” He spoke slowly and took a deep breath, clearly not prepared to relay this news to you. “Y/N. You need to listen to what I’m about to say. I don’t need to tell you how to approach certain situations with the necessary amount of caution. But what I’m about to tell you is going to change just about everything.”

You hated when he beat around the bush like this. All it did was spike your anxiety levels tenfold and make you want to scream. You were frozen, on the edge of a nonexistent theater seat. What could possibly have happened?

“G Dragon is here.”

Your blood boiled on the spot. Your hands tensed themselves, casting a vice like grip on the handles of your crutches. “WHAT!!?”

Chief closed his eyes for a brief moment, not surprised by your reaction. “Y/N.”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE’S HERE!? WHEN DID WE PICK HIM UP!? WHERE?! WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME!? ARE YOU FUCKING WITH ME?!”

“He came in on his own.”

“WHAT?! Who let him in?! What the fuck does he want?!”

“He wants to make a deal.”

“EXCUSE ME?! A WHAT?! WHAT KIND OF DEAL?! WHY ARE YOU SO FUCKING CALM ABOUT THIS?!”

“Because, Detective Kim, I have a fucking JOB to do at this station and I insist that you proceed to doing your own.” The order was venom, temporarily silencing every thought in your head.

“If you want to continue your position on this case and be informed of the situation that has spontaneously occurred on this day; one in which you were ordered to be on leave from, and that I had every intention of briefing you on when you returned, then follow me and leave your emotions and pride right where you are standing.” He spat. “Is that clear?”

You stared back at him, flabbergasted, as silence filled the space between the two of you for an entire three seconds. “Yes. That is clear.” You clenched your jaw. It took everything in you to physically muster the energy to even breathe after that kind of news; let alone follow him. The two of you slowly made your way to Interview 1.

“A lot has been revealed today. It is a lot of information that we will have to thoroughly review before coming to any sort of decision. We have been speaking with him for nearly two hours now.” He spoke over his shoulder as you neared the viewing room.

You wanted to break something. You forced yourself to fight off and internalize every thought and emotion that you had promised your superior you were capable of pushing through. You took a deep breath, ignoring every ounce of pain that began to pulse beneath your arms as you struggled further.  Your vision blurred slightly before entering the room and gazing through the one way mirror.

There they were.

Seunghyun was upright, leaning against the far right wall with his arms crossed as he stared at the ground. His sleeves were messily rolled up to his elbows and his face was filled with a look of indistinguishable self-loathing and agitation. Though you were curious to know what he must have been thinking, your gaze quickly fell on the man that was responsible for everything.  

Compared to Seunghyun, Jiyong looked fine. Despite being in handcuffs, he looked better than fine. Hell, he looked like someone who’d just perfectly nailed an interview for a prospective job. His hands were folded while his face was painted with the smuggest grin that gave you goosebumps.

He wore a full suit that looked more expensive than any outfit you’ve ever owned. He slouched slightly in his chair with his leg propped up on his knee, allowing the pristine tailoring to be shown off. His hair was slicked back, while the sides of his head appeared freshly shaved. You could just barely make out a few new tattoos that you couldn’t have taken the time to notice in the darkness of the warehouse… You wanted to stop and smack yourself.

You were admiring him. And you hated yourself for it.

It was just too surreal to be looking at him in person. Despite the obviously complicated circumstances at hand, seeing him after all seven of the years you’d been apart hurt with a kind of pain that was far more excruciating than the very bullets that had pierced your skin. It was as indescribable as it was suffocating.

“I’m removing Seunghyun from this case. And that is not up for negotiation.”

Chief Kim spoke up, bringing you back to the present reality. You shook your head and cleared your throat. “What? Why?”

“Your partner used to be his partner.”

[wincestmelange]

John teaches Dean how to drive the Impala in slow steps: first, he sits the boy on his lap and lets him steer around the parking lot; then, he steers while Dean shifts them cautiously between ‘drive’, ‘neutral’, and ‘reverse’; and, finally, once Dean’s tall enough to see over the dash, he lets him press his tiptoes down on the accelerator and trundle them slowly down a residential street. (Dean gets the hang of it on the first try, same as he did with aiming a gun. And it’s a good thing, since it’s only two weeks after that that a ghoul nearly takes John’s leg off at the hip, and John has to hold his leg together while Dean drives them in fits and starts back to the motel.)

He tries to teach Sammy the same way—Dean was four, when John put him on his lap, bounced his knee and let a giggling little boy wave at his mother and wrap chubby fingers around the steering wheel, and John winds up being grateful that Sammy was three weeks old at the time and too young to grab a fistful of Dean’s shirt and screech, “Me, too!” He tries to teach Sammy with the wheel first, and then the gearshift, and then the pedals, but Sammy is having none of it, climbs over Dean and nearly rips the gearshift out of the steering column when he’s barely three. Sammy’s favorite word is “Why?” and the word he never wants to hear is “No!” but “When you’re older” follows close behind.

(Dean yells at Sammy for ruining the lesson. John’s surprise lasts long enough for Sammy to start caterwauling—nothing shatters his youngest son’s composure faster than his big brother’s anger, not even the hated sight of broccoli on his dinner plate—but Dean’s normally a pretty even tempered kid. John would love to say he got that from his mother, or even from the Winchester side, but the truth is that Sammy’s explosive tantrums remind John of the pots Mary slammed onto the counter and occasionally hurled at his head. Dean’s calm isn’t something he picked up from his parents’ marriage, that’s for sure, though when Sammy digs his elbows in Dean can shout as loud as any Winchester or Campbell in a brawl.)

So Sammy learns in whatever order he chooses, latching onto whatever John is teaching Dean and asking a million questions about how the steering column works and why it’s a wheel and how come they don’t have to spin it to make the tires turn. Then two seconds later he’s bored and he wants to get out of the car and no he doesn’t want to climb underneath with Deano and see how it works. (Though John can’t really blame him for that one. The last time they’d been changing the oil, and Dean had loosened the screw and let the old oil drip all over Sammy’s head. It took three baths and an entire bottle of Joy soap to get Sam clean.) He learns about the gas and brake pedals before he learns to steer, because Dean convinces him to curl up in the footwell with one hand on each pedal and Dean’s dirty sneakers on his shoulders and push down with whichever arm Dean kicks.

(John never had any siblings, not counting the step-siblings living in their own world. Neither did Mary—they’d both agreed to have at least two kids, maybe three, and John isn’t sure exactly how it’s supposed to go, raising brothers, but he watches Dean get mud all over the back of Sammy’s shirt, hears Sammy’s outraged shriek followed by the giggle when Dean stops driving and leans over to tickle under Sammy’s ribs… John’s not sure how it’s supposed to go, but he thinks they did what they’d hoped to do, he and Mary, making sure their kids didn’t know how it felt to be alone.)

John lets Dean take the car out on his own once he turns sixteen—a reward for killing his first werewolf, John says, because he’s not above turning a necessary grocery run into a reward, and Sammy’s so desperate to do everything Dean does that he tags along and they both leave John to nap in peace. He makes sure to teach Dean about the blind spot, because the Impala’s a beautiful car but she’s definitely blinkered on the left side.

Dean doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t say so, of course, Dean’s kept his head on straight since those few months at the boys’ home, but he sits in the driver’s seat in the motel parking lot and makes Sammy walk from the trunk to the sideview mirror and back again over thirty times. (Sammy’s too skinny, Dean decides, doesn’t look anything like the rare car coming by to pass, and so he makes Sam grab some cardboard pallets from the dumpster at the diner next door and hold them out like wings and do it again. Sam balks; John could have told Dean that he would. Though he only balks after the third time, sweating from holding up the giant pieces of heavy cardboard and nose wrinkled from the stench.)

It’s Dean, of course, who finally teaches Sammy how to put all his out-of-order steps together and actually drive. Sam’s fifteen and finally growing, and John’s left them the car and left them in peace for the last month of Sammy’s freshman year and taken one of Bobby’s deathtraps out after reports of glowing eyes that might be just what he’s been hunting for. Neither boy ever tells John how it goes, but Sammy refuses to drive again for two damn years, only takes the wheel because his brother’s bleeding from the gut and Sam shoves John hard across the street, insists he can get them to the nearest hospital twice as fast.

(He does; mapped the whole city in his head, apparently, while he was researching the family’s crypt. John means to say “good job,” he does, but his oldest son’s in surgery and he has Dean’s blood soaking his cuffs and he needs a goddamned drink, and what he actually says is: “What the fuck were you thinking, Sammy, taking so long to fire a fucking gun?” And Dean’s not there between them—Dean’s unconscious in a goddamn OR, the baby he and Mary made cut open with his torn intestines on display—and so there’s no one to stop Sammy from spitting, “Fuck you!” in his father’s face, shaking hands clenched as though he’d like to do more than spit in John’s eye. “You knew there was a second spirit! You knew!” Sam gets his temper from his mother, from his father, and John needs a fucking drink.)

They never tell John that Sam’s a nervous driver—not that John would ever know, since the only times he sees Sam drive it’s because Dean can’t, and who has time to be nervous when they’re terrified, bone deep?—that, the first time Dean told him to pull out onto the state highway, Sam was so worried about edging over the double yellow line that he kept veering Baby to the right and nearly taking her off the road.

They don’t tell their father that nothing wears through Dean’s patience quicker than Sam, but twenty minutes of his ass vibrating as they ride the rumble strip also does the trick. Dean likes massage chairs and vibrators and magic fingers, he does, but he’s fucking sick of bumping over the right side of the road. So he leans across the seat and shoves the wheel to the left.

It’s just a nudge.

Only, Dean had expected Sammy to be white-knuckling the wheel. He’d expected that he’d need to throw the wheel hard to the left to make it move at all. Instead, he sends them weaving across the double yellow line Sam had worked so hard to avoid, and there’s a semi coming at them with lights all across its grill and Sam sees it barreling down, slams both feet too hard onto the brake and tries to steer right but the brakes lock and the Impala spins and shrieks and Dean’s hand is still on the wheel and it smells like burning rubber and the hot metal of the semi’s grill and the sound of car horns –

And then the road is gone and the tires are sliding over yellow, ripening grain, spinning into a wheat field and bumping to a stop.

Sammy heaves great hiccupping sobs that Dean remembers from Sammy’s childhood tantrums, when he’d scream until he couldn’t breathe and then panic because he’d used up all his air. (Dean had hoped that after Sammy turned five, he’d never hear his little brother gasp for air ever again.) He kicks at Dean when Dean stumbles around the car to drag Sam into the grass, trying to unfold Sam before his brother hyperventilates in the front seat. He catches Dean right in the chest, kicks hard enough to leave a shoe print over Dean’s ribs, and Dean takes it, bullies Sammy flat into the grass and revels in Sam’s teary, furious struggles because Sam’s alive. Sam’s alive.

(They never tell John; and so he doesn’t understand, years later, what it means for his youngest son to be sitting behind the wheel when the semi bears down on them at full speed, never knows what it takes out of Sam to hear the shriek of the crash, to open his eyes in a field, expecting his big brother and finding a demon instead. He never understands that Sam will kick Dean until Dean wakes up, if he has to, that he needs his big brother there to make him catch his breath.)

They never tell, and John isn’t there when Dean strips the wheel down to its metal two years later—two weeks after Sam leaves, takes half of the pile of shirts they’d shared and a handful of polaroids from the shoebox that he maybe thought Dean wouldn’t miss, the way Sam wouldn’t miss every damn thing he’d left behind. (Sam leaves and John goes through three bottles of cheap whiskey before calling Caleb and finding himself a hunt in Maine, sending Dean down to Georgia, as far away from each other and from California as they can get. Winchesters never lick their wounds, never break down sobbing into a flat motel pillow and a fifth of Jim Beam, not unless there’s no one else there to see.)

Dean takes the steering wheel down to the metal, careful to salt and burn the old leather saturated with years of Winchester and monster blood before he wraps and sews on the new. Below the leather—not that anyone knows, not that they ever will—there’s a shaky, blurry polaroid wrapped and taped, a picture of a lanky teenage boy with red eyes and tear tracks down his cheeks, mouth gaping as he pants for air, Baby’s sleek black metal filling the right corner of the shot. The boy is tan from the summer, surrounded by golden wheat, his fingers tangled in his big brother’s shirt and out of the frame; the picture is a reminder of all the reasons Dean has to drive safe. (John would call it sentimental, but he’d be wrong. Dean’s a hunter. Dean’s been a hunter for just as long as his dad, and he knows the power a talisman can have. The Impala’s cradled him and Sam, baptized them in oil and spun them out of harm’s way. Sam’s gone, maybe, but he’s there under Dean’s hands, safe between the leather and the metal and road.)

[ks-caster]

Gallows Humor

Fandom: Supernatural

Characters: Sam Winchester, Marin (from that one episode where Sam’s dying of Lucifer being an asshole)

Notes: “So, I heard you’re here because the voices won’t let you sleep. What is it, like the Devil?” A locked ward, a stolen candy bar, the devil, a brother’s ghost bound in blood, and the man who never stopped saving people, even when he was dying in agony. A different take on Season 7, featuring Marin from episode 17 and a theory about the damage done to Sam’s soul. Mentions attempted suicide.

Outline is available under the cut.

Prologue: Start with a “where were Sam and Dean” flashback to draw in readers, then cut to a strange man, with blood on his shirt/other signs of being ruffled, carrying a baby wrapped in black velvet. A big dog rubs up against the man and looks over at a pair of men sitting on a park bench. The dog wags her tail. The man sets the baby down on another park bench, and then hides. He hides, and the dog sits by the baby, licking her little scrunched up face. She wakes up and starts crying thinly. The two men hear her and investigate. The only identifying mark on her is the word “Marilyn” written in red ink on a black card. And a little velvet bag of 6-carat rubies and diamonds. (Show the strange man taking the bag out of his pocket and adding it to her wrappings.)

Sam is in the hospital, and Marin notices him, and how generally exhausted he looks—and resigned. She has a funny feeling that he’s the most damaged person she’s ever met, but she doesn’t know why she thinks that. Her brother appears and tells her he’s lonely, and he wants her to come join him. She says she tried, she did try, she wants to, but they’re always watching her since the car accident (she doused herself in paint thinner and lit a match). She slips away, steals a knife, but decides she wants some chocolate first. A last meal sort of thing. But she creeps past Sam’s room and he looks so bone-weary and hurting that she wants to do something nice for him, so she comes in and gives him her candy bar. That evening, she slits her wrists and watches herself bleed out.

Marin wakes up on the floor, perfectly fine. There are ever so faint scars on her arms, otherwise she’d think it was a dream, but otherwise she’s perfectly fine. Not even dizzy. She is so confused. Her brother turns up and once again says he’s lonely and wants her to come join him. She ignores him, sure she’s seriously crazy, but he tosses her breakfast tray on the floor. Attempting to take her mind off everything, she steals another candy bar for Sam, and this time he asks her to share. They talk briefly and she admits to her brother telling her to kill herself, but then runs because she feels so disloyal talking about it instead of doing something about it. She steals sleeping pills and downs a whole bottle. Then she takes a bath and drifts off to sleep. Meanwhile Lucifer torments Sam, and he realizes that both times when Marin was in the room, Lucifer shut up and went away. He wonders what’s up with that, or if maybe he imagined it, but he can’t think straight with Lucifer messing with him. He begins to wonder about Marin’s brother, and if it’s a ghost.

Marin wakes up under water, and sits up, gasping for air and coughing out seemingly endless water. She dries off and gets dressed, looking at herself in the mirror and wondering why the hell no one has burst in trying to save her, considering the number of suicide attempts she’s made in the last three days alone. They used to watch her so closely, but now as long as she stays in her room, no one seems to particularly care what she does. Several staff members seem to be behaving differently as well, and she’s been seeing some pretty messed up hallucinations instead of their faces—they’re grotesque caricatures of humans. Then again, she keeps thinking she’s killed herself and then waking up perfectly healthy, so she can’t exactly trust her own senses, can she? She’s so sure that it’s all in her head, that she’s just completely bonkers, that watching her family die just made her snap… But then Sam accosts her on her way past his room, and says he thinks he can help with her brother’s ghost, and he makes the whole thing frighteningly real again. They exorcise the ghost, and when the lights shatter, she has this moment of realization, that he’s in so much agony and is so far gone, and yet for some reason he’s still trying to help her. He tells her to get out quickly, and she whispers “thank you,” wishing there was some way to say it that didn’t sound hopelessly inadequate. Orderlies with grotesque faces rush past her and into Sam’s room, and she hears him grunt in pain like someone just hit him in the stomach. She realizes that something must be very, very wrong—she doubts he’s getting violent, so why on earth would someone have any reason to hit him, even accidentally? It's not like he’s up to making any sudden movements… She hides in an alcove, and watches them wheel him out, strapped to a gurney. She decides to follow. He did everything in his power to help her, and now it’s her turn to help him. 

Marin sees the grotesque orderlies literally torturing Sam with electroshocks, and she isn’t even scared to step in—after all, what can they do to her? Kill her? She’s suicidal, idiots! She hesitates for a moment, wondering if she’s even seeing what she thinks she’s seeing, since she is crazy and all, but Sam is so broken and so kind and so beautiful and in so much pain that she can’t just stand by and do nothing. Whether they’re crazy or the world’s crazy doesn’t matter—she can’t stand aside and let him suffer if it’s in her power to stop it. She sneaks in and smashes something heavy against the one orderly’s head, turns off the machine, and raises a hand to defend against the other orderly, who pins her immediately and holds a knife to her throat. Sam can’t even speak around the mouth guard, but she can hear him crying out in protest. She fights the orderly, stomping on his foot and ramming her knee into his groin. She gets away for a second and undoes the strap on one of Sam’s arms before he’s on top of her again, flattening her on the floor, knife digging into her back, over her heart. She hears movement and a moan of pain from above her, and then Sam’s brokenly whispering, “no, don’t, I’m the one you want, I’m your enemy, leave her alone—you have me, don’t hurt her, she has nothing to do with this…” he’s babbling, and the demon’s laughing, and he goes to stab Marin but Cas turns up and smites him. She sees Castiel, and he’s beautiful and shining but so afraid and hurting as well, all ragged edges and ash inside… she must be going completely bonkers. Cas tries to rebuild Sam’s wall while Dean runs in, and Marin gets to her feet, noticing that her injuries are healing in moments. Everyone’s too concerned about Sam to notice her, and by the time anyone pays attention, she’s not bleeding at all. [Somehow Sam gets across that when she’s there, Lucifer isn’t, there is very little discussion, and Marin kicks everyone out so Sam can sleep. When Dean protests, Sam asks what more she can do to him. Sam does sleep—amazingly quickly.]

Since Marin has no home to which to return, she moves back to the Bunker with them as Sam’s Lucifer-repellant. They learn that as long as she’s in the same room, or where he can see or hear her outdoors, Lucifer is nowhere to be found. The first night, everyone’s exhausted and Sam offers to move another bed into the room for her, but she orders him to sleep, saying that they can deal with it tomorrow. She sleeps in his arms, and they never get around to adding furniture.

Marin secretly tests out her healing powers and learns that she can recover from any injury. She accompanies the boys on hunts to stay near Sam. 

At the end of Season 7, when Dean and Cas go to purgatory, Marin and Sam have each other, and they search for their missing friends. Consequently, no Amelia (blech!) and less drama between Sam and Dean.

However, early in season 8, Marin theorizes that she might be part angel (as she can sometimes tune into angel radio). In seeking her birth family, she is captured by Naomi and interned in heaven; Naomi’s attempt to hide away the abomination she’s unable to kill.

While Marin is in heaven, she is cellmates with Gadreel and Abner. They become close, and they teach her how too fight.. Due to time distortion, she has a lot longer with them than the few months she’s gone on earth. She also learns that her physical body is just a construct, like clothing she wraps around herself for interacting with her environment. That’s why her healing factor works even though she doesn’t seem to have any other powers over the physical.

Sam undertakes the trials, and at the end is comatose. When the angels fall, Marin is thrown to earth as well. However, since she’s not full angel, her wings are spared. 

Dean prays for help, and she shows up. Instead of “Zeke” possessing him, Marin does it herself, so that she can lend him the world’s most powerful healing factor.

Sam wakes up in confusion, not in control of his body, and has a conversation with Marin in the mirror. She then catches Sam and Dean up to speed on what she’s learned—Naomi is her mother, but all she knows about her father is that Naomi called the affair unforgivably shameful, and said he was a monster. She gives the shortest possible version of the story, then moves herself to the back of Sam’s mind so he can have control of his body back.

Later, Sam and Marin have an odd, internal discussion, where Sam can’t wrap his head around her being his living, breathing life support for a second time in as many years. This chapter explores Sam’s insecurities, since he can feel Marin’s feelings with regards to him as they cover different things.

At some point, Sam ends up swimming for whatever reason, and Marin is terrified. When he’s able to coax her out of a little fortress in the back of his mind, he learns that she’s terrified of being underwater, because the damage from drowning isn’t enough to heal itself right away, and coughing all the water out of her lungs takes a long time and is very painful; can kill her again, sometimes two or three times before she can breathe again. At the tail end of her imprisonment, Naomi locked her in a barrel of liquid for months on end, thinking she could at least keep her dead for a majority of the time with no effort. Marin is understandably traumatized. Until now, she didn’t share any details, keeping them bottled up and only sharing the bits about Gadreel and Abner. Sam absolutely insists that she let him help her the way she helps him.

[networkingdefinition]

Lavender Quotes

Official Website: Lavender Quotes

  • A rhododendron bud lavender-tipped. Soon a glory of blooms to clash with the cardinals and gladden the hummingbirds! – Dave Beard • Add a drop of lavender to milk, leave town with an orange, and pretend you’re laughing at it. – Bill Bailey • As a kid I’d play with homemade recipes, like putting pineapple on my face to exfoliate my skin and doing facial steams with lavender or peppermint oils. I just loved doing stuff like that. It’s what motivated me to launch my skin care line. – Demi Lovato • As far as what I do love, I love birds; I love lavender. – Michael Moore • Avoid men who call you Baby, and women who have no friends, and dogs that scratch at their bellies and refuse to lie down at your feet. Wear dark glasses; bathe with lavender oil and cool fresh water. Seek shelter from the sun at noon. – Alice Hoffman

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Lavender', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_lavender').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_lavender img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Before bed, I read a book or flip on the radio – I’m not picky, I’ll just turn it on and see what comes up. I burn a yummy lavender- scented candle. – Carrie Underwood • Blue is the insides of something mysterious and lonely. I’d look at fish and birds, thinking the sky and water colored them. The first abyss is blue. An artist must go beyond the mercy of satin or water-from a gutty hue to that which is close to royal purple. All seasons and blossoms inbetween. Lavender. Theatrical and outrageous electric. Almost gray. True and false blue. Water and oil. The gas jet breathing in oblivion. The unstruck match. The blue of absence. The blue of deep presence. The insides of something perfect. – Yusef Komunyakaa • Both Matilda and Lavender were enthralled. It was quite clear to them that they were at this moment standing in the presence of a master. Here was somebody who had brought the art of skulduggery to the highest point of perfection, somebody, moreover, who was willing to risk life and limb in pursuit of her calling. They gazed in wonder at this goddess, and suddenly even the boil on her nose was no longer a blemish but a badge of courage. – Roald Dahl • Bursts of gold on lavender melting into saffron. It’s the time of day when the sky looks like it has been spray-painted by a graffiti artist. – Mia Kirshner • But you, you foolish girl, you have gone home to a leaky castle across the sea to lie awake in linen smelling of lavender, and hear the nightingale, and long for me. – Edna St. Vincent Millay

[clickbank-storefront-bestselling] • Can I have a look at Uranus too, Lavender? – J. K. Rowling • Day after day we looked for rain, and day after day we saw nothing but the sun. Lavender that we had planted in the spring died. The patch of grass in front of the house abandoned its ambitions to become a lawn and turned into the dirty yellow of poor straw. The earth shrank, revealing its knuckles and bones, rocks and roots that had been invisible before. – Peter Mayle • Even talking, I’m super-loud. I could never have that kind of meek, little wispy whimsical lavender and lace voice. It comes from my body. There’s no way I can fight it. – Beth Ditto • Gay people do not fight for freedom to live in a lavender bubble, but in a more just society. – Urvashi Vaid • He domesticated and developed the native wild flowers. He had one hill-side solidly clad with that low-growing purple verbena which mats over the hills of New Mexico. It was like a great violet velvet mantle thrown down in the sun; all the shades that the dyers and weavers of Italy and France strove for through centuries, the violet that is full of rose colour and is yet not lavender; the blue that becomes almost pink and then retreats again into sea-dark purple—the true Episcopal colour and countless variations of it. – Willa Cather • Here’s flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age. – William Shakespeare • Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ the sun, and with him rise weeping. – William Shakespeare • I love Thieves, it is therapeutic, if you’re not feeling well. It has a very strong scent but is quite wonderful. I also use lavender. Peppermint, when my stomach is upset. – Donna Karan • I love you, Hermione,” said Ron, sinking back, rubbing his eyes wearily. Hermione turned faintly pink, but merely said, “Don’t let Lavender hear you saying that.” “I won’t,” said Ron into his hands. “Or maybe I will . . . then she’ll ditch me . . . – J. K. Rowling • I put a drop of lavender essential oil on my pillow before I go to sleep. – Melissa Joan Hart • I saw Chungking for the first time more than 40 years ago – a city of hills and mists, of grays and lavenders, two rivers shaping it to a point and the cliff rising above me like a challenge. – Theodore White • I turned over, and those big hands got to work on my back. I stifled a whimper in the pillow, because Marco’s idea of a massage bore no resemblance whatsoever to the relaxing spa variety. There was no lavender oil, no soothing music, no hot towels. Just an all-out assault on cramped muscles, until they cowered in surrender and turned to Jell-O. – Karen Chance • If feeling anxious about anything Dr Bachs night time rescue remedy is great. Sometimes a bath before bed helps. Burning Lavender or Clary Sage in the room before retiring. Try not to work on my computer very late and then bed straight after. Getting enough exercise definitely helps sleep. – Rachel Ryan • If you had to choose an oil…it would have to be lavender essential oil, because it is antibacterial and antiviral. So, it’s great to have when people around you are sick; it can also be used to relax. – Karen Rose • it always seems to me as if the lavender was a little woman in a green dress, with a lavender bonnet and a white kerchief. She’s one of those strong, sweet, wholesome people, who always rest you, and her sweetness lingers long after she goes away. – Myrtle Reed • It is easy to forget now, how effervescent and free we all felt that summer. Everything fades: the shimmer of gold over White Cove; the laughter in the night air; the lavender early morning light on the faces of skyscrapers, which had suddenly become so heroically tall. Every dawn seemed to promise fresh miracles, among other joys that are in short supply these days. And so I will try to tell you, while I still remember, how it was then, before everything changed-that final season of the era that roared. – Anna Godbersen • It was our favorite part of the day, this in-between time, and it always seemed to last longer than it should–a magic and lavender space unpinned from the hours around it, between worlds. – Paula McLain • Lavender is the new pink. I’ll never stop wearing pink but I wanted to venture out. – Nicki Minaj • London life was very full and exciting […] But in London there would be no greenhouse with a glossy tank, and no apple-room, and no potting-shed, earthy and warm, with bunches of poppy heads hanging from the ceiling, and sunflower seeds in a wooden box, and bulbs in thick paper bags, and hanks of tarred string, and lavender drying on a tea-tray. – Sylvia Townsend Warner • Look, why don’t you go talk to Ron about all this?” Harry asked. “Well, I would, but he’s always asleep when I go and see him!” said Lavender fretfully. “Is he?” said Harry, surprised, for he had found Ron perfectly alert every time he had been up to the hospital wing. – J. K. Rowling • My favorite name for a color is “puce.” It’s kind of a dried blood color. It’s a hideous color. But I love the word. It’s so euphonic. But my favorite colors are lavender, purple, periwinkle blue, and white. – Elizabeth Taylor • Oils of cinnamon and eucalyptus are as powerful against some microorganisms as conventional antibiotics, and are especially effective against flus. Sandalwood oil from Mysore, India, is not only a classic perfume oil but is also a traditional remedy for sore throats and laryngitis. Lavender oil, so often used in toilet waters and scented sachets, has a dramatic healing action on burns. – Robert Tisserand • One trick I swear by: I pour a little neroli or lavender oil onto a hot towel and use it to wipe off my makeup. It opens up my pores, and then my face cream sinks in better. – Courteney Cox • The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows. – William C. Bryant • The raindrops played across the coast all through the night, until the soft new day shrugged itself awake, tried on amethyst and lavender for a while, and finally decided on pale yellow. – Gary D. Schmidt • The scent organ was playing a delightfully refreshing Herbal Capriccio – rippling arpeggios of thyme and lavender, of rosemary, basil, myrtle, tarragon; a series of daring modulations through the spice keys into ambergris; and a slow return through sandalwood, camphor, cedar and newmown hay (with occasional subtle touches of discord – a whiff of kidney pudding, the faintest suspicion of pig’s dung) back to the simple aromatics with which the piece began. The final blast of thyme died away; there was a round of applause; the lights went up. – Aldous Huxley • There are some things, after all, that Sally Owens knows for certain: Always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder. Keep rosemary by your garden gate. Add pepper to your mashed potatoes. Plant roses and lavender, for luck. Fall in love whenever you can. – Alice Hoffman • To make a perfume, take some rose water and wash your hands in it, then take a lavender flower and rub it with your palms, and you will achieve the desired effect. – Leonardo da Vinci • Valentine’s Day money-saving tips: Break up on February 13th, get back together on the 15th. In place of bubble bath, use lavender-scented dish-washing liquid. Forget rose petals. Sprinkle the bed with sliced beets! – David Letterman • We lavender folk spray up, spontaneously flowering in the color we had learned as an identifying mark of our culture when it was subterranean and secret. – Judy Grahn • What a turnaround in sentiment ‘Glee’ exemplifies. It was only a few years ago that pursuing the dream of a Broadway career or cabaret stardom relegated some poor yearning dope to a lavender ghetto of losers, self-deluders, and social rejects. – James Wolcott • What woman, however old, has not the bridal-favours and raiment stowed away, and packed in lavender, in the inmost cupboards of her heart? – William Makepeace Thackeray • When hope is fleeting, stop for a moment and visualize, in a sky of silver, the crescent of a lavender moon. Imagine it — delicate, slim, precise, like a paper-thin slice from a cabochon jewel. It may not be very useful, but it is beautiful. And sometimes it is enough. – Vera Nazarian • When the light turns green, you go. When the light turns red, you stop. But what do you do when the light turns blue with orange and lavender spots? – Shel Silverstein • With this recitation of paraphernalia and detritus, O’Brien manages to encapsulate the experience of an army and of a particular war, of a mined and booby-trapped landscape, of cold nights and hot days, of soaking monsoons and rice paddies, and of the possibility of being shot, like Ted Lavender, suddenly and out of nowhere: not only in the middle of a sentence but in the midst of a subordinate clause. – Francine Prose • Womanist is to feminist as purple is to lavender. – Alice Walker • Yours is… il sent comme lavande.” Is that French for ‘You stink’?” It means ‘lavender’.” Huh.” She sniffed at her wrist. “I thought I smelled more like a grape Popsicle. – Lynn Viehl

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'a', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_a').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_a img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'e', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_e').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_e img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'i', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_i').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_i img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'o', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_o').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_o img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'u', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_u').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_u img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

[equitiesstocks]

Lavender Quotes

Official Website: Lavender Quotes

  • A rhododendron bud lavender-tipped. Soon a glory of blooms to clash with the cardinals and gladden the hummingbirds! – Dave Beard • Add a drop of lavender to milk, leave town with an orange, and pretend you’re laughing at it. – Bill Bailey • As a kid I’d play with homemade recipes, like putting pineapple on my face to exfoliate my skin and doing facial steams with lavender or peppermint oils. I just loved doing stuff like that. It’s what motivated me to launch my skin care line. – Demi Lovato • As far as what I do love, I love birds; I love lavender. – Michael Moore • Avoid men who call you Baby, and women who have no friends, and dogs that scratch at their bellies and refuse to lie down at your feet. Wear dark glasses; bathe with lavender oil and cool fresh water. Seek shelter from the sun at noon. – Alice Hoffman

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'Lavender', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '68', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_lavender').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_lavender img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); ); • Before bed, I read a book or flip on the radio – I’m not picky, I’ll just turn it on and see what comes up. I burn a yummy lavender- scented candle. – Carrie Underwood • Blue is the insides of something mysterious and lonely. I’d look at fish and birds, thinking the sky and water colored them. The first abyss is blue. An artist must go beyond the mercy of satin or water-from a gutty hue to that which is close to royal purple. All seasons and blossoms inbetween. Lavender. Theatrical and outrageous electric. Almost gray. True and false blue. Water and oil. The gas jet breathing in oblivion. The unstruck match. The blue of absence. The blue of deep presence. The insides of something perfect. – Yusef Komunyakaa • Both Matilda and Lavender were enthralled. It was quite clear to them that they were at this moment standing in the presence of a master. Here was somebody who had brought the art of skulduggery to the highest point of perfection, somebody, moreover, who was willing to risk life and limb in pursuit of her calling. They gazed in wonder at this goddess, and suddenly even the boil on her nose was no longer a blemish but a badge of courage. – Roald Dahl • Bursts of gold on lavender melting into saffron. It’s the time of day when the sky looks like it has been spray-painted by a graffiti artist. – Mia Kirshner • But you, you foolish girl, you have gone home to a leaky castle across the sea to lie awake in linen smelling of lavender, and hear the nightingale, and long for me. – Edna St. Vincent Millay

[clickbank-storefront-bestselling] • Can I have a look at Uranus too, Lavender? – J. K. Rowling • Day after day we looked for rain, and day after day we saw nothing but the sun. Lavender that we had planted in the spring died. The patch of grass in front of the house abandoned its ambitions to become a lawn and turned into the dirty yellow of poor straw. The earth shrank, revealing its knuckles and bones, rocks and roots that had been invisible before. – Peter Mayle • Even talking, I’m super-loud. I could never have that kind of meek, little wispy whimsical lavender and lace voice. It comes from my body. There’s no way I can fight it. – Beth Ditto • Gay people do not fight for freedom to live in a lavender bubble, but in a more just society. – Urvashi Vaid • He domesticated and developed the native wild flowers. He had one hill-side solidly clad with that low-growing purple verbena which mats over the hills of New Mexico. It was like a great violet velvet mantle thrown down in the sun; all the shades that the dyers and weavers of Italy and France strove for through centuries, the violet that is full of rose colour and is yet not lavender; the blue that becomes almost pink and then retreats again into sea-dark purple—the true Episcopal colour and countless variations of it. – Willa Cather • Here’s flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age. – William Shakespeare • Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi’ the sun, and with him rise weeping. – William Shakespeare • I love Thieves, it is therapeutic, if you’re not feeling well. It has a very strong scent but is quite wonderful. I also use lavender. Peppermint, when my stomach is upset. – Donna Karan • I love you, Hermione,” said Ron, sinking back, rubbing his eyes wearily. Hermione turned faintly pink, but merely said, “Don’t let Lavender hear you saying that.” “I won’t,” said Ron into his hands. “Or maybe I will . . . then she’ll ditch me . . . – J. K. Rowling • I put a drop of lavender essential oil on my pillow before I go to sleep. – Melissa Joan Hart • I saw Chungking for the first time more than 40 years ago – a city of hills and mists, of grays and lavenders, two rivers shaping it to a point and the cliff rising above me like a challenge. – Theodore White • I turned over, and those big hands got to work on my back. I stifled a whimper in the pillow, because Marco’s idea of a massage bore no resemblance whatsoever to the relaxing spa variety. There was no lavender oil, no soothing music, no hot towels. Just an all-out assault on cramped muscles, until they cowered in surrender and turned to Jell-O. – Karen Chance • If feeling anxious about anything Dr Bachs night time rescue remedy is great. Sometimes a bath before bed helps. Burning Lavender or Clary Sage in the room before retiring. Try not to work on my computer very late and then bed straight after. Getting enough exercise definitely helps sleep. – Rachel Ryan • If you had to choose an oil…it would have to be lavender essential oil, because it is antibacterial and antiviral. So, it’s great to have when people around you are sick; it can also be used to relax. – Karen Rose • it always seems to me as if the lavender was a little woman in a green dress, with a lavender bonnet and a white kerchief. She’s one of those strong, sweet, wholesome people, who always rest you, and her sweetness lingers long after she goes away. – Myrtle Reed • It is easy to forget now, how effervescent and free we all felt that summer. Everything fades: the shimmer of gold over White Cove; the laughter in the night air; the lavender early morning light on the faces of skyscrapers, which had suddenly become so heroically tall. Every dawn seemed to promise fresh miracles, among other joys that are in short supply these days. And so I will try to tell you, while I still remember, how it was then, before everything changed-that final season of the era that roared. – Anna Godbersen • It was our favorite part of the day, this in-between time, and it always seemed to last longer than it should–a magic and lavender space unpinned from the hours around it, between worlds. – Paula McLain • Lavender is the new pink. I’ll never stop wearing pink but I wanted to venture out. – Nicki Minaj • London life was very full and exciting […] But in London there would be no greenhouse with a glossy tank, and no apple-room, and no potting-shed, earthy and warm, with bunches of poppy heads hanging from the ceiling, and sunflower seeds in a wooden box, and bulbs in thick paper bags, and hanks of tarred string, and lavender drying on a tea-tray. – Sylvia Townsend Warner • Look, why don’t you go talk to Ron about all this?” Harry asked. “Well, I would, but he’s always asleep when I go and see him!” said Lavender fretfully. “Is he?” said Harry, surprised, for he had found Ron perfectly alert every time he had been up to the hospital wing. – J. K. Rowling • My favorite name for a color is “puce.” It’s kind of a dried blood color. It’s a hideous color. But I love the word. It’s so euphonic. But my favorite colors are lavender, purple, periwinkle blue, and white. – Elizabeth Taylor • Oils of cinnamon and eucalyptus are as powerful against some microorganisms as conventional antibiotics, and are especially effective against flus. Sandalwood oil from Mysore, India, is not only a classic perfume oil but is also a traditional remedy for sore throats and laryngitis. Lavender oil, so often used in toilet waters and scented sachets, has a dramatic healing action on burns. – Robert Tisserand • One trick I swear by: I pour a little neroli or lavender oil onto a hot towel and use it to wipe off my makeup. It opens up my pores, and then my face cream sinks in better. – Courteney Cox • The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows. – William C. Bryant • The raindrops played across the coast all through the night, until the soft new day shrugged itself awake, tried on amethyst and lavender for a while, and finally decided on pale yellow. – Gary D. Schmidt • The scent organ was playing a delightfully refreshing Herbal Capriccio – rippling arpeggios of thyme and lavender, of rosemary, basil, myrtle, tarragon; a series of daring modulations through the spice keys into ambergris; and a slow return through sandalwood, camphor, cedar and newmown hay (with occasional subtle touches of discord – a whiff of kidney pudding, the faintest suspicion of pig’s dung) back to the simple aromatics with which the piece began. The final blast of thyme died away; there was a round of applause; the lights went up. – Aldous Huxley • There are some things, after all, that Sally Owens knows for certain: Always throw spilled salt over your left shoulder. Keep rosemary by your garden gate. Add pepper to your mashed potatoes. Plant roses and lavender, for luck. Fall in love whenever you can. – Alice Hoffman • To make a perfume, take some rose water and wash your hands in it, then take a lavender flower and rub it with your palms, and you will achieve the desired effect. – Leonardo da Vinci • Valentine’s Day money-saving tips: Break up on February 13th, get back together on the 15th. In place of bubble bath, use lavender-scented dish-washing liquid. Forget rose petals. Sprinkle the bed with sliced beets! – David Letterman • We lavender folk spray up, spontaneously flowering in the color we had learned as an identifying mark of our culture when it was subterranean and secret. – Judy Grahn • What a turnaround in sentiment ‘Glee’ exemplifies. It was only a few years ago that pursuing the dream of a Broadway career or cabaret stardom relegated some poor yearning dope to a lavender ghetto of losers, self-deluders, and social rejects. – James Wolcott • What woman, however old, has not the bridal-favours and raiment stowed away, and packed in lavender, in the inmost cupboards of her heart? – William Makepeace Thackeray • When hope is fleeting, stop for a moment and visualize, in a sky of silver, the crescent of a lavender moon. Imagine it — delicate, slim, precise, like a paper-thin slice from a cabochon jewel. It may not be very useful, but it is beautiful. And sometimes it is enough. – Vera Nazarian • When the light turns green, you go. When the light turns red, you stop. But what do you do when the light turns blue with orange and lavender spots? – Shel Silverstein • With this recitation of paraphernalia and detritus, O’Brien manages to encapsulate the experience of an army and of a particular war, of a mined and booby-trapped landscape, of cold nights and hot days, of soaking monsoons and rice paddies, and of the possibility of being shot, like Ted Lavender, suddenly and out of nowhere: not only in the middle of a sentence but in the midst of a subordinate clause. – Francine Prose • Womanist is to feminist as purple is to lavender. – Alice Walker • Yours is… il sent comme lavande.” Is that French for ‘You stink’?” It means ‘lavender’.” Huh.” She sniffed at her wrist. “I thought I smelled more like a grape Popsicle. – Lynn Viehl

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'a', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_a').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_a img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'e', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_e').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_e img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'i', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_i').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_i img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'o', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_o').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_o img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );

jQuery(document).ready(function($) var data = action: 'polyxgo_products_search', type: 'Product', keywords: 'u', orderby: 'rand', order: 'DESC', template: '1', limit: '4', columns: '4', viewall:'Shop All', ; jQuery.post(spyr_params.ajaxurl,data, function(response) var obj = jQuery.parseJSON(response); jQuery('#thelovesof_u').html(obj); jQuery('#thelovesof_u img.swiper-lazy:not(.swiper-lazy-loaded)' ).each(function () var img = jQuery(this); img.attr("src",img.data('src')); img.addClass( 'swiper-lazy-loaded' ); img.removeAttr('data-src'); ); ); );