#and he walks pretty slow and with a bit of a lumbering limp

[sundere1181]

Everytime my mom is mean to my dad about being slow even though he’s physically disabled and she KNOWS THIS I’m like “maybe if I stare at the back of her head long enough I can explode it with laser vision”

[creativeskullcreations]

Outside chapter 23: Final Showdown (part 1)

Just as a warning everyone this chapter, and the next one, both have quite a bit of violence. Bones will break. people(and Puppets) will bleed, and somebody may or may not be dead by the end of this. So don't say I didn't warn y'all.

Also chapter 24 should be up next week, cause I wrote out both parts of this as one whole thing before splitting it. It just needs to be edited now, but that can be done tomorrow after work. Also we’re pretty much at the end now. But more on that later, for now enjoy the Final Showdown.

Stacy stayed limp, even as she was tied up by her wrists. Her eyes remained closed, as Mortimer grabbed her face and turned it this way and that to check for consciousness. As she suspected, he refused to even try anything until he knew she was awake to experience it. Even after she'd been feigning sleep for hours.

'You freaks are all the same...' She thought as she swung gently against the wall, listening as Mortimer stalked around the room, muttering under his breath. 'Oh wow, I think he's practicing his villain speech. Loser.'

Her inner monologue of mocking Mortimer did little to keep her fear down. It was only old habits from her childhood that helped her facade stay up in the face of Mortimer suddenly slamming something. The sounds of pages being flipped, and more muttering, this time about Riley. Or maybe about Owen, it was difficult to tell.

Listening to him walk back and forth, muttering and turning pages in a book, Stacy found herself in a tense boredom. It wasn't the first time, and wouldn't be the last, but it made it difficult to keep up her facade. Briefly, quietly, she wished something would happen to get this show on the road.

Unknown to her, however, the door to the Sound Stage had slowly been pushed open, two humans peering around the edge. "Looks pretty safe." Will muttered as he eased the door open wider. "Remember, just grab and go."

"Right." Scout whispered back as she crept into the room. It seemed empty enough, though there were runes and magic symbols scribbled all over the walls. And, hanging in front of one that seemed to be drawn in blood, was her Puppet body. Biting the back the cry of her Host's name, she made her way over to her.

Trembling hands reached up to try and fight the knots around the fabric wrists, but stopped at the sound of heavy footsteps behind her. Turning, she saw the slow, lumbering approach of a Sock Puppet, one that was quickly speeding up.

"Shit!" She hissed out as she dodged around it, noticing Will coming inside and drawing his gun. He didn't get a chance to use it when the sound of wood hitting wood came, and the Sock Puppet relaxed, stepping to one side to reveal Mortimer.

"I can't say this is much of a surprise to see." He started as he walked his Host forward. "I knew that you would make your way to me. Why don't you join me now for some tea?" He stepped aside and gestured to a small, round table set up for tea. He turned to go take his spot at the "head" of the table, and Will raised his gun to aim at his head. Scout grabbed his arm and forced it down, looking pointedly at the Sock Puppet. He stuck it in his pocket and they went over to the table, followed by the Sock.

They stood next to each other, across the table from Mortimer and very aware of the Sock behind them. Neither of them touched their cups, though Mortimer himself did take a long drink from his.

"So you've made it this far in, and all for little Scout." He started after finishing. "Tell me now, how were you planning on getting back out?"

Will held up his gun in response, and it was almost immediately taken by the Sock Puppet. He glared after it as it stared down the barrel, but didn't try and get it back.

"Ah well, a model attempt at the very least, but guns are not allowed. Far too messy, annoying, and loud." A poor rhyme, in Scout's opinion, but Mortimer did seem pretty distracted. She didn't miss the way his eyes kept darting to Stacy.

"Has she woken up yet?" She asked, blatantly turning her head to look. In the corner of her eye she saw him follow her gaze.

"Sadly, not quite yet. I feel there are conditions still not met. Perhaps you know why she remains still unconscious. I feel like I've missed something quite... obvious." His eyes roamed over her, and she avoided meeting them, suddenly scared he could see right through her.

"Well, I have no fucking clue what you're talking about." Will replied nonchalantly. "But if you give back that Puppet, I promise my friends and I will leave, quickly and quietly and with no more harm done."

"Somehow, I don't believe you." Mortimer took another sip of his tea, staring unblinking at the man. "How do I know that what you say is true? No, better to take care of this problem now, and put all of you down."

"Put us down?" Scout repeated quietly.

"Of course! Can't have defective hosts running around. You'll ruin all of our carefully laid plans, before we can take a final bow." He explained, drawing himself up and gesturing grandly. "No, it's better to deal with you now."

Grabbed from behind, Will almost gagged on the necrotic smell coming from the Sock Puppet Hosts. Scout seemed unaffected, probably used to it even now. He kicked back, catching the groin and yanking out of the one handed hold. Leaping over the table, he grabbed the pot of hot tea and flung it, catching both Mortimer and his Host in the face.

The howls of pain distracted the Socks, allowing Scout to escape and run over to Stacy, who by now was watching with wide eyes. Puling on the knots with trembling, clumsy fingers, she couldn't get them loose before being pulled away and thrown.

"Scout!" It was weird hearing her own voice from the outside, as she scrambled to get up. She pushed that thought from her mind, more worried about how Stacy had just blown their cover.

Luckily, Mortimer seemed too preoccupied with Will, who was throwing the tea set at him one piece at a time. He hadn't gotten him with anymore tea, but it certainly distracted him. Noting the Sock lumbering towards her, she dodged around it, grabbing the dropped axe as she went.

'No time to try those knots again! Aim properly, and don't fucking hit her or I'll never hear the end of it!' She ran straight for Stacy, chopping the rope with it as she went by. It was a little high, but she heard the soft thump of the Puppet hitting the floor as she led the Sock around.

Turning a tight corner, she intended to grab her swapped Host on a second pass, but almost stopped when she couldn't find her.

'Oh no!' Mortimer and Will were still fighting each other, and the Sock certainly hadn't grabbed her, so where was she? 'Fuck I am so dead!'

-----

Sammy sat next to the bag, surrounded by small, evil Puppets. Canon was in his lap while Bit was on his head, and the other two were sat next to him watching as their Hosts paced in the narrow hallway. They had some makeshift clubs, and Mason had rigged up a quick trap, but other than that they were pretty defenseless.

"We're gonna die." Bonzai muttered. "They're gonna come for us and all we have is three Hosts to defend us. Not even any vents to escape into."

"Quiet you!" Bit snapped. "They're so much bigger than Riley and Nick, and they took out Daisy!"

"They're not bigger than Rosco, however. To him, they would surely fail to come out better." Stitch said quietly. It was hard to tell what that one was thinking, in Sammy's opinion, but he thought she seemed rather sad about that.

"Ooh, Stitchy, bad rhyme. Do better next time." The red haired one told her sister mockingly. She got a glare in reply, but the yellow and orange Puppet said nothing more.

"Or just stop. They're gonna kill us all anyways, so why even bother." Bonzai piped up.

"Nobody's gonna kill you. Don't be so negative." Sammy told him, only to receive his own glare. "Look, once they get back we're all gonna leave and burn this place down, and we'll bring you guys with us. It'll be fine."

"Also we kinda don't have a choice in the matter anymore." Lisa added, pausing in her step and leaning against the pipe she'd found. "Pretty sure if you guys die, then so do we."

"Which is so, so creepy!" Mason muttered with a full body shudder. "Ugh..."

"Oh quit your whining. Scout's gonna love that we rescued her siblings!" Lisa said, and both Sammy and Mason just gave her blank looks.

"I don't think so. She's never even mentioned them." Mason pointed out. The blonde just shrugged, unending optimism still in her voice.

"Maybe she just didn't want Stacy to worry? You ever think about that?"

Sammy just rubbed his temples as the two devolved into arguing. "I really need a joint." He muttered. The Puppets stared at him in confusion, and Bonzai started counting his actual joints to make sure he had them all.

Anymore arguing or questions were stopped, however, by the sound of heavy, slow footsteps approaching. In the distance was a soft glow, slowly growing larger and brighter. And closer.

Lisa and Mason brought their weapons up, and Sammy stood and forced the Puppets behind him. He had a broken broom, while Mason had another pipe, but none of the weapons felt like they'd be enough as they saw the giant, mutilated dog Puppet.

"Oh." Lisa swallowed thickly, voice small and quiet. "That must be Rosco."

-----

Will had never fought anything like this before. Even the most violent and aggressive of haunted dolls had been just that, dolls. But Mortimer had a full grown, if severely malnourished, adult man attached to him which made it very difficult to get the upper hand on him. And he was all out of things to throw.

'Gotta get that gun back.' He kicked the Host and knocked him away, before turning towards where Scout was trying to deal with the Sock Puppet. She was definitely making use of the prosthetic, however clumsily. But, he could still see the gun held in it's free hand, even as it tried to grab her with it.

"Hey! I need that gun!" He called out, dodging another attempt at being grabbed. Whether Scout even heard him he couldn't tell, but a few seconds later the gun went whizzing by his face, hitting the far wall before he could even register it. Thankfully, it didn't go off, but he and Mortimer did take a second to stare before they went back to fighting.

"Thanks for the fucking warning!" He called out sarcastically, trying to find an opening. At least now he had a chance to get it, if Mortimer would let him.

"Fuck off!" Was Scout's reply as she repeatedly smashed her fist into the side of the Sock's Host. It seemed to be working, as it was starting to go down, or at least act disoriented, and it was giving Will ideas.

There weren't any chairs, and he was out of tea sets, but there had to be something else he could use for a weapon. Some half-rotted cardboard set pieces, the table, but nothing really useful. So he punched Mortimer in the face, hearing a snap as he broke the Puppet's nose.

A howl of pain, as a thick, red sap leaked out. "You horrible, defective Host!" He snarled out, nose snapped and bent.

"Ha! Oh shit..." He turned and ran as Mortimer chased him down. "Shit! I fucked up!"

Scout watched this with the dying Sock Puppet. "Hell yeah you did." She punched it again as it tried to stand back up, and it sank to the floor. She then grabbed the axe and yanked it out of the wall. She went to go help Will, but stopped when she saw more Sock Puppets coming out of the doors.

"Oh fuck me..." She whispered, as half the group went straight for her.

-----

Lisa was screaming. She was aware she was screaming, but could not stop screaming even as she repeatedly whacked Rosco on the head with her pipe. She had no clue what she was screaming, but Mason would tell her later that it was a mash of swears in both English and French.

Mason, on the other hand, was struggling against two out of three Puppets by himself. Yes, three, as Riley had managed to grab the bag and reattach Daisy's head, and also put her eyeballs back. Luckily she was still without a real Host, so it was fairly easy to kick her away when she got too close, but it was annoying and a distraction. And Riley only had one arm, oddly enough, though it didn't seem to stop her from putting her all into her attacks, with him barely able to hold her back at times.

Nick hung back and gave mockingly encouraging words to the other two, but didn't do a lot to help otherwise. He only joined the fight when Sammy managed to sneak up behind him and stab his Host with the broken end of his broom.

"You ass!" Was the artist's response, already feeling his Host begin to bleed out. He stumbled after the stoner, who managed to keep just out of reach while smacking his head, the sound of wood against wood echoing in the small space.

"Diediedie why won't you die?!" He sang out as he drummed against the Puppet's head, disorienting him enough he couldn't fight back, even after Daisy switched her attention to Sammy. Clawing her way up his body, he had to quickly start smacking her until she finally let go and dropped off. He then stomped on her until Nick managed to come to and grab him, pulling him by the back of his shirt and choking him.

Mason saw this and brought his pipe down hard on the arm holding Nick, feeling more than hearing the bones snap under the metal. He howled in pain, letting go of Sammy as he flopped down, other hand flailing trying to catch himself.

Mason grabbed Sammy and started pulling him back towards the door, taking Riley out with a well-timed head-shot as they passed. Which, conveniently, distracted Rosco and gave Lisa an opening to escape.

As she joined them in their attempt at fleeing, pausing only to grab up their Hand Puppets, Sammy and Mason kept their weapons up. The Handeemen were starting to recover, and they had inadvertently trapped themselves.

Backs to the Sound Stage, where Will and Stacy were possibly fighting Mortimer, and in front of them were three royally pissed off Puppets and a dog-monster. Lisa wasn't sure if they should push forward, or try and fall back, but looking at what was ahead of them made her blood rush from fear.

Survival was not looking good.

[sedge-and-sanctuary]

Sanctuary Pack Stories: The Herbalist [Part Three]

[Eight and Dace continue on their journey to track down an expert herbalist in an effort help cure the illness ravaging The Sanctuary Pack]

It’s good to be on the move again; a blue, brilliant winter morning, the air crisp and clear as glacial runoff. A few stubborn birds perch in the barren trees, trying their songs against the silence.

Dace clears her throat.  "Eight. I wanted to say."

"Hm?" Eight looks up, half-startled. She's been deep in thought all morning; 'hunting clouds', as Saturn would say.

And no wonder. There had been a moment, the night before, when Dace had made a mistake. Had made Eight uncomfortable-- had made things uncomfortable, between them.

Eight’s eyes meeting hers; her breath fogging in the winter air, and Dace had thought, I’ve missed this more than I can say. Something must have showed in her face; Eight had stepped away, fast, turning her head. 

She has been quiet, since.

"Just: last night. If I made you uncomfortable, or something." Dace shrugs,  keeps her eyes fixed forward. "You know-- sorry. Won’t happen again."

"Oh!" Eight shakes her head. "Oh no, Dace, that's-- No, I wasn't. Uncomfortable, I mean! It's fine."

Dace does twist, now, to look over Eight. She's not looking back; has her head craned around, staring with great intensity into the trees.

"Alright," Dace says. Resolves to keep a little more distance, anyway, if Eight’s going to be too polite to admit when she’s wrong-footed. 

The walk on, the loudest sound for miles the crunching of their paws through the crusty snow. The sun creeps its slow way across the sky.

 Eight clears her throat, venture: “Um, so--  how is it?”

Dace looks up.

“Being a-- scout. Or a loner? I mean--” she shrugs, looks briefly at Dace and then away again. “I don’t know. Is it-- fun? I guess? Do you like it?”

Dace nods. “It’s alright. It’s good, actually.” She looks out at the frozen wood: at the towering trees, bark black against the snow, the sharp pine-needle smell. At the sky, a piercing, thorn-sharp blue above. “I do like it. In fact…”

In fact, they're right by that old pond, aren't they? The frogs will be dug into the mud hibernating-- they could dig some out, like that crow had shown Dace last spring, and--

She looks sideways at Eight. Remembers her odd stiffness the night before. Clears her throat. “In fact, though, it can get a little boring.”

“Oh?” Eight cocks her head. 

“Sometimes.” Dace shrugs. “And you? Healing? That seems-- interesting.”

A stiff pause. Eight huffs. “Well, I guess-- a little too interesting, lately. Um.”

Dace winces. “Of course. Scat, Eight, I’m sorry-”

“No--” Eight shakes herself. “No, it’s okay. It is- not just now, I mean- interesting.” She laughs, a little awkwardly.

They walk along for a while. Dace watches her paws; studies the prints she makes, tries not to think about much else. 

After a while, Eight laughs again. “I’m sorry, Dace-- I don’t really know-- there aren't. Sorta, fun anecdotes, I guess? It isn’t--”

“No, you’re fine!” Dace huffs. “Just uh, not used to travelling with someone else. Probably getting too chatty.”

“No.” Eight sighs. “If it was spring- or summer or even fall, really- I could show you plants and stuff? Like herbs? But.” She looks out over the forest; undergrowth buried under months of snow, the trees dormant, roots all locked away beneath the frost.

“Sure,” Dace says, easily. “Bad season for it. Maybe--” I can come by in spring, and you can show me then. She almost says it. Clears her throat. “Maybe this would have been a little more fun in spring,” she settles on instead, trying to keep her voice light.

“Less cold,” Eight says, by way of agreement. 

They walk on-- endlessly, they walk on. 

It’s five more days of travel to reach the bear, and even Dace is starting to get a little footsore. The hard, icy surface of the snow is wearing away at her pawpads, sure as rough stone would.

Eight isn’t any better, facing all the same strain of long travel with none of the practice Dace has. She limps up to where Dace has paused on the edge of the forest, and comes to a stop, breath fogging as she catches her breath.

They’ve come to the edge of the forest.

Beyond, the prairie goes on forever. White, flat land, rolling endlessly on until the blue curve of the horizon. It seems very exposed. Dace imagines living there, without shelter of tree or rock, without shadow or undergrowth, and shivers, despite her thick winter coat.

Eight makes a low, uncertain sound in the back of her throat. She’s hunched up into herself; ears flat, tail tucking under, and Dace’s chest squeezes. 

“Pretty weird,” she says, to break the silence. 

And she hasn’t been saying as much, lately. Been trying to give Eight her space. But it’s worth it, now, to see Eight relax, a little. To see her stand up straighter.

“Pretty weird,” she agrees.

And still the prairie stretches on. Beyond the shelter of the trees, a wind kicks up, and a tumbleweed of snow goes skating out across the plain, silver against the brilliant, endless blue of the sky.

“Hoot,” Dace says, and finds her voice comes out a bit hushed. She clears her throat. Tries again. “Hoot used to talk about-- where she came from.”

“Mhm.” Eight can’t seem to find the words to respond; that’s okay.

Dace goes on. “On hunting trips- back when I was hunting- She's say about the ocean. You know?”

“Yes,” Eight says, low.

“About how there was somewhere the land stops. And it’s just water forever, after that. Until the-- the edge. Do you think...”

She doesn’t know how to put it. But Eight nods, eyes still fixed rigidly forward. “Yes,” she says, again. “This is-- it seems like--”

The both look out over the prairie again. Flat land, stretching on. It must end, somewhere. But--

Dace shakes herself. “Well,” she says, sounding just short of upbeat. “Well. Our bear lives out there, somewhere.”

Eight nods. “Yes,” she says. “Right.”

And if she sticks a little closer to Dace’s side, as they step out onto the plains-- Well. Dace can’t blame her, for it. 

It makes her feel better, too.

They reach the bear that evening. A low hill, a copse of cottonwoods, the ceaseless, piercing howling of the wind, unbroken across the whole of the prairie.

“Strange place for a bear to den,” Eight says, her voice very low. “Isn’t it? I mean--”

“Yes,” Dace says. Finds herself speaking very softly, involuntarily. She tries again, clearing her throat. “But from what I’ve heard, he’s a strange bear. He couldn’t help us if he wasn’t.”

Her voice comes out a little more strongly, and Eight straightens up. Nods. 

The cottonwoods grow close together, trunks dark and strangely straight, an unnatural quality to them. The wind breaks as they come through the trees, and leaves an eerie silence- not much better- in its absence. 

Dace’s own breath is loud in her ears. Something brushes her shoulder-- Eight, drawing close. They look at one another for just an instant. Dace lets out a breath, slowly. Is suddenly very glad to have Eight here with her, in this strange place.

The ground is rucked up by the roots of one enormous tree, in the very center of the grove; its bark is nearly black against the snow, the sharp white-blue of the sky. A dark space peeks out between the gnarled roots. 

They have come to the bear’s den, at last. 

Dace thinks, for a wild, stupid moment, of the stories Rover tells to pups; a great Rowan tree, a pack of monstrous wolves. 

She stares up at the giant cottonwood. Shakes herself. “Hello?” Her voice, thankfully, does not waver. “We’ve come from far away, seeking medicine.” She pauses. Looks sideways at Eight. 

Eight looks back at her, ears pulled down in uncertainty. “I’m a healer myself,” she tries, and Dace touches her shoulder, briefly, encouraging. “But I can’t heal this sickness-- we need your help.”

Another pause. The den is all shadow, before them; a deep pit, an open mouth, plunging down into the frozen earth. Dace can’t quite make herself step towards it; shivers at the idea of it, squeezing herself blind and helpless between the roots, towards who knows what.

She tries again, instead. I will go, she tells herself, sternly, if he does not answer this time, I will go in. “Great-- bear healer. May we speak with you?”

Nothing, for a long moment. Dace takes a breath-- wrenches herself away from Eight’s warm side and pads forward to the mouth of the den. Here goes, she thinks, and then--

“Dace!” Eight says, tight with alarm, and at the same time another, deeper voice sounds out.

“Well,” it says. “There’s no need to shout.”

Dace turns, slowly, and there is the bear.

A massive shape, almost unreal. His huge, blunt head dips down beside Eight, nearly the size of her entire torso. His shoulders, humped with muscle, could put pause to a bison. He crouches, peering at Dace, and when he curls his lip up to sniff, his teeth flash long and white.

Eight is stiff as if she’s frozen solid, only a paw’s length away from the creature. The whites of her eyes show, plainly frightened, and Dace wrenches herself into action. 

She folds into a bow, back hunching, tail tucking automatically. They don’t hold with submission much, at Sanctuary, but it is nearly instinctive to do it now. 

“Great bear,” she says, eyes fixed firmly on the ground- on the bear’s immense paws, heavy and clawtipped, digging furrows into the snow. “I have heard of your healing from other creatures--”

“Yes, yes,” the bear says, his deep voice strangely cheerful. “The geese, was it? They do love to gossip.”

Dace looks up at him, startled, for a moment, and then drops her eyes again, hastily. “It-- was the geese, sir.”

If the bear notices her surprise, he says nothing of it. “Hm. Just as well. Follow me, then!” And he shoulders past Dace- a brush of immense strength, something like one of the human’s cars blowing past on their roads- a near miss, an impression of power- and then he is by, lumbering awkwardly down into his den, and there is nothing left to do except to follow. 

[themagicalmysticalboy]

Paul’s Broken A Glass

a/n: this one goes out to @princessleiaqueen ! A spooky mclennon story for her soon approaching birthday. And a two parter as well! I must really care about her or something 🤭

Summary: In the latter part of October, Paul and John steal some wine for a belated birthday celebration. Home alone, the boys are faced with a masked threat that ruins any planned fun.

Part One: Spooky Specter Sir

Orange and red leaves floated from the trees like lost embers from a flame. They danced among the sunburnt clouds in the dusk sunlight and demanded Paul’s attention. It was pulling a melody from his mind and twirling into the cool breeze to be lost in the quickly approaching night. He could barely keep up with it when he was snapped back to reality by a nasally voice.

“Right then daddy long legs,” John called out. He broke into a trot to catch up with Paul on the desolate sidewalk. They had found themselves in a suburban neighborhood sprinkled with tasteful Autumnal decorations. John was too blind without his glasses to make out the pumpkins and such but he did know they were nearing Mimi’s house by muscle memory. “Slow it down. I’m the one with the goods, here.” John patted his oversized jumper that concealed a bottle of brandy and some expensive wine.

“Aye, and so have I. Get your cardio up, why don't ya’.”

To speak of cardio, Paul had got his heart racing just 30 minutes earlier as he watched John expertly nick the bottles from the corner store. He was left to, subsequently, follow John’s lead. He managed to grab a much cheaper wine that was far from the store keeps view but nonetheless, it had him shaking with excitement.

They booked it out of the store and down the street with a shout and something clattering to the ground behind them. If Paul had taken a moment to look back he would have seen the store clerk had chucked a cricket racket at them. But his heart had been pounding so loudly in his ears that nothing could make him look back other than the need to grab John by the arm to lead him down an alley. But by then they were long out of the clerk’s pursuit.

Now, sweaty but breathing right, Paul agreed to slow his pace to match John’s, though he could feel the song in his head slipping away into the night as he pulled his attention to his friend. 

“You never said where your aunt was gone to.”

“Not important, really. Think she’s out to visit a cousin’s cousin’s uncle’s sick sister or something.”

“Bad time to be a cousin’s cousin’s aunt,” Paul shrugged.

“Aye but it’s great for us and a good time for a second round of celebration for me birthday, at any rate.”

“I’ll cheers to that.”

The two kept at walking and talking, making banter out of whatever came into their minds. They were nearing John’s street when Paul gripped John’s bicep with a painful force. John let out a stifled curse and pulled his arm away. Paul had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, eyes staring ahead. 

“Who the bloody hell is that?”

John squinted into the distance but couldn’t make out any human figures.

“Oh, put on your fucking glasses, Lennon!” Paul gave him a shake, finally looking to him before going back to the apparent person.

“Fine, McCartney! Fine!” John fished his glasses from his pocket and the world jolted back into clarity, the fuzzy haze clearing and allowing for dizzying definition. After adjusting to his renewed sight, he could clearly see the man at the end of the street. He was in dirty overalls and a mask that resembled a scarecrow's head, obviously in fancy dress for some creepy character. “Bit old for trick-or-treat, mate! And a week early to boot,” John yelled down the street.

Another assault came to his shoulder this time, and he looked to Paul with a bemused smirk. “The man looks like a loon! You’ll have him after us like that.”

“No worse than your staring,” John laughed, pushing forward. “We don’t even have to pass your Spooky Specter Sir, there. My streets just before him.” John pointed to the street sign with a limp arm.

Paul rolled his eyes, his initial fright somewhat subsided by John’s confident vibrato. “Don’t egg him on further, alright?”

John only rolled his eyes, pushing his glasses up his nose as he began to walk backward. “You have my word,” He bowed dramatically, almost tripping over his still moving feet. “Now hurry along,” His voice picked back up to a shout, “so we might get pissed before the stroke of midnight turns the ugly duckling, there, into a pretty princess.”

Paul marched forward, grabbing Lennon by the arm and turning him around as he grumbled, “That's not even how it goes.”

“Isn’t it,” John laughed as they went down his street. He threw his head back to see if he’d gotten a rise out of the creep but said creep was gone. John adjusted his glasses again. “Buggers fast, I’ll hand him that.” He twisted to walk backward again, eyeing the bushes for a sign of the man.

Paul looked back at the same, now empty, spot and felt a chill travel down his spine. He didn’t like a single thing about that man and he certainly didn’t want to interest himself in where he might have gone. He made to shake the fear from his mind and turn his attention back to John's ever-approaching house. Before he could get halfway through his head-shake, he walked, full force, into a barrier.

He felt John’s arm slip from his grip as he stuttered backward and fell to the ground. He quickly grabbed the bottle of wine under his shirt, not saving his own arse from the impact. Pain shot from the end of his spine and throughout his back as he winced. Above him now stood the man. Fleeting light from the reproaching sun gave the man's outline a blood orange glow while hiding some of the mask's features in darkness. Paul could have shit himself at the sight if not for John being there to haul him to his feet in an instant.

“Watch where your fucking going!” John was glaring at the masked man. They both stood in front of him, John still holding Paul’s upper arm. “Is your mind blown out or something?”

The man stood his ground. “You shouldn’t have that,” he pointed to the boy's stomachs, where the bottles obviously poked out. His voice was grated and higher than expected, though severely muffled by the mask. “You’re too small, little bitty babes. Give it to me, then. You shouldn’t-”

“And you shouldn’t have been dropped as a baby but here we stand.” He really did sound to be high on something or simply crazed, John thought.

“What sense have you walking around scaring people,” Paul added as they moved around the lumbering figure. He kept glancing back, even as John guided him forwards. The crazy man had turned to stare at them but wasn’t seeming to budge.

“You sound like Mimi,” John chuckled.

“Well he shouldn’t,” Paul’s voice raised indignantly but he broke into a smile as John continued to chuckle away.

“Alright, Auntie.” John grabbed either of his friend's shoulders and held him as if he couldn’t stand on his own. “Let's get you in before you slip in the dark and break a hip.”

Paul shrugged him off with mock laughter but he wasn’t wrong about one thing. Night was sweeping over the suburb, leaving only a trace of light to guide them to the front door. The cloudy sky left no room for the light of the moon to help at all. 

They were both pleased to enter the house and be greeted by the light and warmth. In the kitchen, they laid out their spoils and John went for the cupboard. While he was occupied, Paul slipped back into the entry and latched the lock securely in place. Music leaked from the kitchen as he peaked out an adjacent window, relieved to not be greeted with the haunting mask.

“Boo!” A pair of hands grabbed his sides and he practically jumped from his skin, spinning to face the culprit. His hands met John’s chest as John pushed him against the door.

“Bastard!”

John smiled and leaned into Paul. “You love me.”

“Then I love a bastard.” Both boys were all smiles, eyes searching each other.

John buried his face into the crook of Paul’s neck. Paul hummed at the warm breath on his neck, letting John melt into him. Every stress from the outside world had now been whisked away and only they existed. Paul’s arms wrapped around John’s back, his face buried in John’s hair. “You mean it?”

“That you’re a bastard? Of course.” John pulled away, trying to school his pouty features. Paul simply rolled his eyes and kissed the helpless boy. “I love you.” It came out as a whisper floating against John’s cheek.

“Good,” he pecked Paul’s lips and it was obvious that any sort of doubt was pushed away, for now. “Wouldn’t be sharing my drink with just any man like a harlot. What would the church think!” 

He parted from Paul, the warm feeling vanishing so fast that Paul almost pulled him back. But, instead, he followed his mate to the kitchen where two glasses filled with deep red liquid sat on the table. The record player was shoved, unceremoniously into the corner, something John must have managed before they met up earlier. A record was spinning around, music playing at a pleasant volume.

“So, not going to your room?”

John nodded, “Might as well take advantage of being home alone,” and grabbed something from the seat nearest him.

“John! Please, no. I-”

He had a monopoly box in hand and a grin on his lips. “ ‘John, yes’ you mean?”

“It’s not fun with two people,” Paul complained, pushing the box into John’s chest from over the table.

John played at seriousness, looking to truly consider Paul’s words as he took a sip of wine. “You’re right,” He placed the wine glass down. “We should call George over.”

“You’d have George come round with that nutter out?”

“He scare you that bad? He was just a drunk playing dress-up.”

Paul only glared over the brim of his wine glass.

“Oh! Or is it that you want me all to yourself?”

Paul’s lips curled into a smile around the glass.

“Naughty, naughty, Macca,” John sang as he set the box down and took a seat at the table. “At least get me tipsy first,” John exacerbated before throwing his head back and finishing off his glass. He looked to Paul with expecting eyes.

“Alright, we’ll play cards then, yeah?” He swirled his glass and went for the counter. Opening a drawer, he found a beat-up deck of cards and pocketed them so he could grab the bottle of wine while he was up. Before the drawer was half shut, intense banging echoed through the house. Paul jolted, his drink escaping his grip, the glass of wine shattering to the ground beside him. Three more loud bangs shook the pictures on the wall as Paul instinctively ducked down to clean up his mess.

“Come off it. I’ll clean it,” John grabbed Paul’s shoulder to pull him up but Paul fell forward, on to his hands, in the puddle of glass and wine. John jumped back as the younger boy cried out and cursed. “Oh-! You’re-”

“Fuck!” Paul was cradling one of his hands close to his chest, still leaning over his mess of glass. He curled in on himself, looking so small. “I’m fine. Just get the bleeding door.”

John held his hands up in surrender, almost afraid to touch him again. He looked between Paul and the door, suddenly anxious with which to attend to. His brain stalled until more knocks came. “Shit, sorry. Fuck- I’ll- I’ll just get the door. Fucking hell.”

[omg-imatotalmess]

Piggyback Rides

Hey guys! I’m alive... probably... anyway, I’m trying to get my writing mojo back so I’m rereading Harry Potter. This isn’t the greatest, but it’s here. Hope you like it anyway!

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Reader

Requested: No

Warnings: Swearing 

                                                             --- 

Draco Malfoy and Ron Weasley in a fight at a Quidditch match; what a picture. The Slytherin Prince pitted against someone he considered a surf was almost too much for you. Especially because he was losing. Oh man, you wished you could laugh. God, you would have given about anything to be able to laugh without Draco biting your head off for it later. It really wasn’t every day that you got to witness something like that. 

In all honesty, you probably wouldn’t have been trying so hard not to laugh if Draco wasn’t so pitiful. He really wasn’t the type for physical fighting. Snide remarks and a few curses, that was more his game. As the two rolled under yours and Hermione’s seats, you could hear high pitched howling. The corner of your mouth twitched and you snorted. That had to be Draco. For a moment, you thought about letting it go on a while longer. You figured it wouldn’t kill Draco to get kicked around a little bit (he was a terrible daddy’s boy after all). Maybe getting the snot kicked out of him once or twice would keep him from being such a brat. Sighing, you reached under the seat and grabbed one of them by their hair. As you dragged him up, you caught an elbow to the face. You yelped.

“Bloody hell, woman!” Ron snarled as you dragged him off of Draco. You offered him an apologetic look, rubbing your cheek bone.

“Sorry,” You said, “I think you have better things to worry about though. Namely that bloody nose.” He swiped his sleeve under his nose, making an awful sort of face, before glancing over your shoulder.

“Might want to call them off,” He said. Following his gaze, you watched as Crabbe and Goyle absolutely clobbered poor Neville Longbottom.

“Enough!” You snarled in your best Draco voice. Almost immediately, they scurried away from the unconscious boy. Neville really had rotten luck, but, then again, he’d put himself into that situation. At least, he had that time. 

“Harry caught the snitch! We won! We won!” Hermione cheered. 

“Atta boy, Harry! Wooo-hooo!” Ron whooped. As everyone began to pour out of the stands, you hung back. 

“(Y/N)?” Draco moaned. Rolling your eyes, you peered under the seats. 

“Regret that, do you?” You asked, amused.  

“Shut it!” he snapped. 

“I could just leave you here, ya know,” You said beginning to move away from where he was laid out pathetically. In all reality, you were just turning away so he couldn’t see the smile forming on your face. 

“You wouldn’t,” He said. 

“I don’t know, Draco,” You teased, walking a little farther away, “Besides, you aren’t the only one that got smacked. You were just the only one that deserved it. You have Crabbe and Goyle anyway. ” 

A loud shuffling caught your attention and you knew he was struggling his way from under the seats. Quickly, you doused your smile. For as high and mighty as Draco acted, he really was kinda a baby. You looked back with a smile as you watched him limp towards you. He already had the beginnings of a black eye as well as a pretty nasty looking split lip. Poor kid didn’t stand a chance against someone with as many brothers as Ron. You didn’t take the Weasley’s for violent people by any means, but you did know a thing or two about what big brothers did to their younger siblings. 

“Don’t you walk away from me!” He called. “(Y/N)! Wait for me you heathen!” 

“I’m right here,” You said. 

“Wipe that smile off your face,” He growled, glaring evilly at you. You found it was far less intimidating after seeing him get his ass handed to him on a silver platter. With his minions trailing behind you, you began the long, slow walk to the hospital wing. 

The four of you had barely gotten out of the stands and you were already contemplating knocking Draco out yourself. You never considered yourself a particularly violent person, but you were getting there. It was amazing how loudly Draco could gripe. It wasn’t that you didn’t think he was in pain, but you were pretty sure he was just being a huge drama queen at this point. He moaned every step he took. Your face hurt too, but that was ridiculous. Eventually, you stopped and turned to him stiffly. 

“Would you quit moaning and groaning if I gave you a piggyback ride?” You asked. For a moment, he actually seemed to consider it. 

“Don’t insult me,” He said, looking very much like he wished you would carry him. 

“I’m not. I’m just offering an injured friend some help,” You said. This was a fairly typical dance. He’d resist something until you did one of two things: 1) bother him to the point where he’d give up and go along or 2) stroke his ego until he was convinced he was more of a man for it. Honestly, you weren’t really in the mood for either. 

“I don’t need you of all people to carry me, (Y/N),” He snapped. 

“Draco, it’ll be easier if I do.” His cool, grey eyes narrowed and he snorted indignantly at you. 

“I refuse to let myself be carried around,” He said stubbornly. 

“Oh my god! Just take the piggyback ride before I finish what Ron started and knock you out,” You yelled, your hands planting themselves on your hips. At the mere suggestion of being hit again, he changed his mind quickly and clammored onto your back. 

At first it was a bit of an awkward position. Between his long legs and your short stature, it was a real treat to try to figure out. You fell twice within the first few steps. The learning curve wasn’t too bad after that. Once you guys figured out that he had to keep his legs tucked up beside you instead of letting them dangle, things got a lot easier. Then, for a blessed few minutes, he shut his trap. The place were Ron’s elbow had caught you throbbed a little, but it wasn’t too bad. You’d live. 

“(Y/N),” Draco said quietly. 

“Hmm?” You hummed, hiking him up a little bit as you did. 

“You wouldn’t have actually hit me, right?” He asked. You laughed. Realistically, probably not. You sure thought pretty hard about it, but you doubted you could have actually done that to your friend. 

“Maybe,” You said playfully. Feeling him tense against your back, you sighed. “No, I wouldn’t have hit you.” It was quiet for a little while again. 

“I hope your cheek doesn’t hurt to badly. I thought even Weasley would have the good sense not to hit a woman,” He said. Rolling your eyes, you found yourself having to fight off a smile. Draco did care in his own way. 

“It’s not that bad. So I have a bit of a bruise, no biggie,” You said. 

“Mm-hmm,” He responded. He buried his nose into your hair, squirming a little. You shifted him.

“Speaking of, how’re you doing back there,” You asked. He hadn’t actually whined in a while. 

“I was savagely beaten by Weasley, how do you think I’m doing?” He grumbled. Stupid question. Before he could get too carried away, you began speaking again. 

“You’re such a drama queen,” You said, your smile playing to your voice. 

“I think you underestimate the agony I’m in, (Y/N),” He moaned. You rolled your eyes. 

“Quit milking it, Draco. I’m already carrying you,” You said. 

“I am certainly not milking it,” He said indignantly. Giggling, you lumbered up the castle steps. 

“Yes, you are, you very much are.” Now that the complaining wasn’t a constant stream, you could actually find the humor in it. 

By the time you reached the hospital wing, your legs were about ready to snap. Who knew such a slim kid could be so damn heavy? You dropped him onto the nearest bed before flopping down yourself. Hopefully Madam Pomfrey would be along pretty soon. 

Draco laid himself out like he had been the one to carry you all the way to the hospital wing instead of the other way around. You had to hand it to him; he could make himself a pretty sad sight if he wanted to. The guy looked about as pathetic lying in bed as he had under the seats. The way he was acting, you’d have thought he’d been attacked by a dragon. Definitely not some redhead with a temper, that’s for sure. 

“You’re one sorry sight, you know that?” You said, poking him. He glared at you. 

“I’m in miserable condition,” He countered. 

“Drama queen,” You singsonged. 

“(Y/N)--”

“I know, I know, you’re in agony and you are 100% not a drama queen,” You said, smiling. 

“That wasn’t what I was going to say, but I’m glad you finally figured that out,” He said, looking very pleased with himself. He reminded you of an incredibly bitchy cat you had once. 

“Okay, then what?” You asked. 

“What?” Sighing, your head dropped back. 

“What were you going to say?” The catlike smugness disintegrated. 

“Right,” He started, “Before you so rudely interrupted me, I was going to thank you.” You gave a jerk of surprise. That was a first. Draco rarely ever thanked you. Or any one for that matter. 

“Oh, well, sure. No problem,” You said slowly. 

“You’re a better friend than I am,” He sighed. In a way, that was probably true. You were a better friend, traditionally speaking. 

“Usually.” He scowled at you. 

“You weren’t meant to agree with me, (Y/N),” He grumbled. You laughed, nudging his shoulder. 

“Aw c’mon, I didn’t say you were a bad friend.” And he wasn’t. Not really. You knew he cared in his own way. He’d probably kill someone for you if he thought you wanted him to. So, though his manner of caring was harsh, it’s the thought that counts. He continued to scowl. 

“Oh dear! What happened!” Madam Pomfrey gasped. You hadn’t even heard her come in. 

“Weasl--” 

“He got what was coming to him,” You said, cutting him off. 

“I see,” She said, raising an eyebrow. Smiling, you slid off the bed and patted Draco on the shoulder. 

“Well, looks like Madam Pomfrey can take over. See you later, Draco,” You said. 

“Goodbye,” He said. Before you left, you leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cheek with a smile. 

“Feel better,” You whispered. Just as you left, you glanced back over your shoulder to catch Draco’s flushed face watching you practically skip away. At eleven years old, neither of you was entirely sure what the feeling in your chest was, but you knew you liked it. 

[literallyjustanerd]

In His Eyes (Chapter 4)

This one’s pretty new, actually. And it’s Angsty.

Genre: Slow build/eventual romance Word count: 3333 Pairing: Nightcrawler/Angel Rating: T+

Read it here xxx

“Remember, your aim here is not offence. It is defence.” The professor’s voice rings out through the cavernous metal hall, echoing off the walls as his class stands before him. It is Thursday night, seven thirty-seven in the evening, and with dinner just barely digested, the class of hopefuls are lined up in uniform, some jittery with excitement and others just ready to go to bed. Peter is neither: though he is not exactly excited at the prospect of another boring defence simulation, this at least gives him something to do to fill the time.

“Collect the dummies, deposit them in the safety zone, keep them away from the sentinels’ attacks.” Jean’s mind is focused, her face drawn and eyes scanning the room that will in just a few moments’ time become a war zone. She is quietly serious, as she is about all her classes. Where the others are vocal in their excitement or criticism, she appears stoically serious. “You have forty-five minutes. Good luck.”

The professor wheels himself out of the room, taking his place on the bridge above to watch the exercise. Warren eyes him as he does, still unable to make a call just yet on what he thinks of the man. While he really has no intentions of ever joining the X-Men, he wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to show off his newly recovered skill, and so, when the lights go dark, there is a soft whoosh as his wings sweep outwards and stretch to their full breadth and the others take their stances. When the room lights up once again, they are surrounded by chaos, numerous towering sentinels advancing towards their area, which now appears as a derelict old lot littered with hunks of crumbled buildings and helpless mutants needing their assistance. Instantly, the most eager students are on the move: Jubilee has made a break for the nearest civilian to her within moments, and Peter really has no choice but to be the quickest to take action. The others take another moment or so to assess the situation, filtering through the tactics they’d been taught, the formations and strategies for “maximising efficiency,” as the professor so eloquently put it. “Cyclops!” Ororo shouts over the rumbling of the sentinels. “The one on your left, attack its legs, throw it off balance. Jean and I can push it over from the top.” She is already in the air by the time her sentence is finished, wind whirling and whipping around her in a vortex that takes her twenty feet upwards in two seconds flat. Jean is slower to follow: she has still not quite gotten the hang of self-levitation under pressure. “What? We’re supposed to be on defence,” Scott calls back. “Focus on getting the dummies to safety, not on taking the sentinels down!” “This is defence!” Ororo retorts. “If we take out the sentinel, that’s one less threat to worry about!” Kurt listens to the bickering continue, even as Scott relents –though not without great verbal resistance– and goes along with Ororo’s orders. Kurt knows what his purpose here, and he focuses on doing it well, ferrying dummies to the safety zone with Peter working alongside him as the others held off the Sentinels. Many a time this sort of exercise has ended in the two attempting an impromptu race – the speed of thought versus the speed of, well, Peter.

There is a thundering crash, the whole hall shaking as a sentinel falls, and for one very jarring moment, all of the students forget that this is a simulation. Though stuck very solidly in their minds is the fact that this simulation can still cause very real pain. As Kurt appears beside his next target, he is just in time to witness Warren swoop down beside him and scoop up a dummy from between two cement blocks, his movements reminiscent of a great bird of prey. For a moment, Kurt cannot help watching Warren arc back upwards, then shakes himself out of it to continue his work. “Jubilee, fry it! It’s getting too close to that group there!” “I have too many here, guys! Someone lend a hand!” “Quicksilver, if you run into me one more time, you’re spending the next week with a permanent storm cloud over your head!” Gradually, the action begins to slow. The dummies have been “saved,” and without anything else to do for the remaining few minutes, the others take down the remaining sentinels, having a bit of fun as they do, showing off and cheering or jeering at each other. Scott carves out his initials in the side of a felled robot, gaining a decent round of applause from the room and a quiet sigh from the professor. Ororo and Jean find themselves in a game of volleyball with a severed sentinel head. Even Kurt decides to get in on it, swinging himself up the branches of a tree, adding a few flips and flairs for good measure. When he reaches the top, he wants to continue, and takes himself in a blink to the shoulder of the last standing sentinel, which Jubilee had previously insisted on taking down herself. The group whoops and laughs as he teases it, dodges it, hangs by his tail from its arm. However, Kurt soon takes his routine a step too far. Midway between leaping off the sentinel’s head and landing safely and gracefully on the ground (complete with closing flourish and bow as he used to do when he ended his circus routines), the great lumbering robot almost manages to catch up to him, his sweeping hand just barely clipping Kurt’s heel. However, it is still enough to throw Kurt off, and though he teleports himself to the ground, he hits the ground awkwardly, his ankle giving way and sending him into a haphazard roll. Jubilee is there to help him up, fussing over him the whole way to the edge of the hall as Jean and Scott take care of the offending sentinel. Kurt insists he is fine, but he can’t mask the limp in his walk, or the wince on his face: his ankle burns with pain and already feels like it is swelling.

In the end, the team leaves the Danger Room with equal parts praise and criticism. Judging by his tone, it seems even Professor X knows that the lack of seriousness is not a problem he will soon have solved: kids will be kids, he supposes, sighing as he dismisses them to clean up and go to bed. He cannot expect to make full-fledged X-Men out of teenagers in just a handful of sessions. One by one, the kids disappear into the showers, the ruckus dying down but not quite finished. Losing himself for a moment in the buzzing atmosphere, Warren grins and laughs as Peter and Jubilee mock Scott and Ororo’s bickering, unable to catch himself before the others do. “Enjoyed yourself after all, eh, Angel?” Jubilee gloats, digging Warren in the ribs. In an instant, the smile retreats, replaced by his default flat expression and an eye-roll for good measure. “Yeah, yeah,” he dismisses. “Don’t go reading into it. It was just funny to watch you all running around like idiots.” Peter chortles. “Way to cover it up, feathers.” “Shut up.” Kurt’s mouth twitches up as he hears the defensive remarks from inside his shower cubicle, setting his neatly folded clean clothes down on the bench before running the water. He feels a certain swell of pride in his chest, spurred on by the thought that he has seen underneath the sharp and unyielding exterior Warren keeps otherwise unbroken. Part of him can’t help but to feel special that he is the only one to have an experience like theirs on the rafters that night. After Scott’s words to him a couple of weeks ago, something had changed in Kurt’s mind. The part of his brain that held his feelings for Warren was no longer fenced off and topped with barbed wire. Instead, he lets his thoughts wander, even going so far as to consider the possibility of Warren returning his, well… fondness.

When he steps under the water, his ankle throbs, reminding him to keep the majority of his weight on the other leg. It isn’t anything serious: a minor sprain at worst, he thinks, recalling a history of jarred joints and painful landings from trapezes and highwires. He showers quickly, dresses quickly, and takes himself to his bedroom, thankful as he often is that he does not have to go the long way as his friends do. He flicks the lock on the door –Peter had a habit of rushing in without remembering to knock– and pulls out a pair of flannelette pants and a white singlet. Adjusting to American clothing had taken a while: he was used to having just a few outfits to switch between, and the endless racks of identical garments in differing sizes confused him to no end. But Jubilee had insisted on taking him out and giving him a “proper wardrobe,” and with her expertise, and a little funding from the professor, he had ended up with a selection of outfits he was quite happy with. Though of course, despite his clothes now coming from a store, he still had to retain his knack for sewing – Levi jeans didn’t come with holes for a tail. Once he is dressed, he unlocks the door, leaving it open as grabs the novel Jean had recommended to him a week or so earlier. He sits on the window seat, ankle propped up on a pillow to keep the swelling down. He reads in the yellow light of his bedside lamp for a few minutes, once in a while eyeing the empty bed opposite his and wondering what Peter could be doing that was taking so long. Nonetheless, he is happy to have a little peace and quiet in which to get lost in the pages of his book. In Germany, he would read whatever he could get his hands on, mostly from second hand markets and from his fellow performers. Upon arriving at Xavier’s, the rate at which he burned through books had doubled, then tripled, until he was scarcely without something to read. He liked almost everything, from thrillers to period dramas, though his current novel, an addictive crime novel laced with romance, had particularly captured his attention.

Warren had almost passed straight by Kurt’s door as he made his way to his own room. He had never taken notice of it before, certainly. But this time when he walks past, the glimpse he catches of the boy sitting on the windowsill makes him stop. After two or three seconds, he opens his mouth to explain his presence. But Kurt has still not looked up, so he says nothing. It seems he is far too absorbed in his book to take in anything that is happening around him, his shoulders hunched forward as though to bring himself closer to what is unfolding on the page. Curiosity overtakes Warren as he watches Kurt, bathed in warm, incandescent light, one hand raised to his lips and brow knitted in deep focus. His tail moves as though with a mind of its own, swaying listlessly back and forth over the faded carpet. Without thinking much about what he is doing, and in fact with part of him resisting the whole way, Warren’s eyes slide over the details of Kurt’s face that he has never bothered to take in before. The sharp curves of his chin and his nose. The way his eyes catch the light and throw it back out. The markings on his face, intricate swirls and angled lines, all of which are clearly visible in the shadows thrown out by the lamplight. He wonders if Kurt was born with those markings. He wonders if he really wants to know. These thoughts, ones that still feel alien to him, are quickly caught by those closer to the surface and banished back to whatever strange corner of his mind they came from. They don’t belong in his head – they are strange and uncomfortable, and not part of the Warren he knows how to handle. Though thankfully, the swell of frustration that follows is familiar. There is still something in him that he understands.

“Warren! You scared me.” The exclamation itself makes Warren jump as he realises that Kurt has looked up from his book long enough to notice him. “Can I help you?” asks Kurt, closing his book but keeping one finger wedged in between to mark his page. Warren scrambles for a response slightly less uncomfortable than “I was just thinking about your eyes.” “How’s your ankle?” he blurts, and the two of them look down to Kurt’s raised ankle.

“It’s fine,” he shrugs in response. “Just a little sore. It’ll probably be better in a couple of days.” Warren nods, only having taken in half of Kurt’s words. “Thanks for asking,” he adds, and Warren notices a bright smile: Kurt once again feels that small tide of specialness rising. “No problem,” Warren replies. “It looked like you enjoyed the Danger Room. Even though you denied it to the others.” “Well. Yeah. I guess so. I just like flying.” Kurt notices the disjointedness in Warren’s words and smiles softly. “It’s okay,” he assures the boy standing in his doorway. “You don’t have to do that around me anymore.” “What? Do What?” “You know. The whole distant, angry thing. I think we’re past that now, aren’t we?” Those particular words hit Warren the wrong way, striking a chord in him feels off-key. The familiarity with which Kurt speaks, the assumption that he and Warren are on the same page brings a frown to his face. “Who says?” he snarks. This confuses Kurt: it feels like he is once again speaking to the Warren he knew months ago. He takes his finger out of his book and sets it on his nightstand, sitting up straight on the windowsill and pressing his lips together tightly. Warren kicks himself mentally for letting himself notice the action. The fire inside him grows, fed by confusion and discomfort and fanned by fear and frustration. “I just thought–” “What, you thought we were best buddies or something? Just coz we had a little midnight talk?” Kurt feels like the carpet has just been pulled out from under him, and now he is falling, flailing, his stomach thrown into his throat. “Well, no, but I– I figured we were a little closer than you were with the others. I mean, aren’t we?” He sputters, standing now and ignoring the protest his ankle puts up. The more he thinks, the more he stews under the heat of Warren’s glare, the more his specialness shrinks, turning poisonous and churning up his insides. You’re an idiot, he curses. He’s right. You had one little talk and suddenly you think you’re the apple of his eye, just because you have a little crush? His hands clench, fingernails digging into his palms hard enough to break the skin. Warren can’t believe what he is hearing. He isn’t ready for this, isn’t prepared for any of this to be verbalised, and hearing Kurt trying to do so anyway angers him. Part of him knows Kurt can’t be blamed, but it is easier, so much easier to let that part be drowned out. “Why the hell would you think that?” Warren spits. “We’re not closer than anyone.” “I’m sorry.” There are tears in Kurt’s eyes now: he had not invited them, but he stood no chance of fighting them back. Warren huffs in reply. “Same thing you said when you tore up my wing.” Immediately, Warren’s eyes go wide. He hadn’t meant to say that. Even in his state, he knew that that topic should have been out of bounds. But there is no way he will take it back. Instead, he keeps the scowl on his face and turns on his heel, trying not to look like he is fleeing as he hurries to the sanctuary of his room.

When he closes the door behind him, an unexpected tidal wave of anger hits him, surges through his veins so quick and burning hot that he feels it might tear him apart. He whips around and slams a fist into the wall, letting out a cry like a wounded animal. The talons that tip his wings dig into the wall, tearing up plaster and leaving small holes, scars, like many he has left on this room. How could he have done that? How could he let himself treat Kurt that way, when Kurt had done nothing but apologise and put up with his shit for months? One more pound on the wall, weaker this time, and he forces himself to stop: the last thing he needs right now is someone coming to ask if he is alright. Muttering curses to himself, he reaches between his bed and his nightstand, finding only a half-empty bottle of gin. It would have to do. Pulling the cap off, he drinks deeply, welcoming the intense burn in his throat. He deserves it, for what he has done. Should’ve known I’d find a way to fuck this up, he thinks. A perfect chance to open up, to let himself heal, and he throws it away because he’s too scared of a few thoughts he doesn’t understand. Maybe it’s for the best, he laments. Kurt deserves better, anyway.

Kurt’s fingers are numb. His mouth feels heavy, and his head is spinning with the number of conflicting thoughts vying for his attention. The bed catches him when he falls, and for a long while he just sits with his head in his hands, catching his tears and trying to make sense of what has just happened. This is what happens when your fantasies get the better of you, he chastises, driving his palms into his closed eyes and rubbing away his tears. Suddenly conscious of what will happen if Peter comes hurtling in to find him all teary-eyed, he switches off the bedside lamp, welcoming the dimness in the few seconds it takes his eyes to adjust to the dark. He peels back the covers and retreats underneath, covering himself completely and trying to pretend that it had all just been a bad dream. Warren didn’t hate him, he hadn’t just made a fool of himself, he hadn’t just shattered the tentative dreams he’d been putting together over the previous weeks. When Peter finally comes upstairs ten minutes later, finished with his talking and joking with the oblivious others, he finds his roommate seemingly asleep in their dark room. He does his best to be quiet as he slides into bed, wondering why Kurt isn’t still up reading as he has been every night for the past two weeks. Kurt keeps his mouth pressed to the duvet, muffling the sounds of his still shaky breaths. He listens as Peter’s breathing grows slow and even. It never takes him long to fall asleep. When Kurt is sure he is alone, he shifts, staring up at the ceiling and wondering where if now he will have to act like he and Warren had never been anything more than former enemies. The thought pains him, twists the knife already lodged in his gut. He hopes beyond hope that Warren will come around. There is always the possibility that this was just another defensive moment, and that he will feel differently in the morning. Or maybe he even feels differently now. Still, Kurt cannot see Warren giving up the pride needed to apologise, or even to respond well to having the subject raised over breakfast or during class. Maybe it’s just better this way, Kurt relents, turning over and cocooning himself in his duvet. It’s not like there’s any chance for us in the long run. In friendship or otherwise.