#and my head is getting caught up in the what ifs and comparing my work to others

[scarlet-traveler]

How to get rid of imposter syndrome with my writing, asking for a friend

[naughtyneganjdm]

Good Luck Charm - Chapter 31

Summary: After being defeated in the war by Rick, Negan is forced to deal with the repercussions of his decisions in life.

Characters: Negan, Y/N/reader (OC), Rick, Michonne, Siddiq, etc.

Warnings: Swearing, Severe Angst, Thoughts of Suicide, etc.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39423063/chapters/144090733

Notes: I'm really doing my best to just finish this story. There are a handful of chapters left. By the views I can tell people still give this story a gander so thank you for that! Pre-Warning in this chapter and the next, Negan has a lot of suicidal thoughts like he does in season 9 of TWD. I want to give that as a pre-warning just in case it might trigger some people. (Gif Credit: @jdmorganz)

It was hard to comprehend at first. Pain filled Negan’s body. A burning heat that increasingly grew more painful centered at Negan’s throat. When he first woke up, he didn’t understand what was going on. It took a while before things started to come to for him. Everything hurt. Everything. And that wasn’t an understatement. But nothing compared to the pain in his throat and the faintness that he felt. It was keeping himself awake long enough to understand what had happened.

Once he became more aware of things, more than anything he wanted to touch his throat. Quickly he caught on that he was handcuffed to the bed which only made things even more infuriating for him. His hand hurt like hell, his throat had him in incredible pain. It took a while for the scenes that happened at the hill with Rick and the others to flood his memory. Having time to think about what happened, Negan was genuinely surprised to be waking up at all.

One of the last things he remembered was all the blood. He was covered in it. His expectations while bleeding out after Rick cut his throat was that he would be gone. Dead. After escaping death this whole time, Negan expected to finally meet his end. Yet, here he was. Handcuffed to a small bed in what looked like a storage room.

It was hard to hear the muffled voices outside of the room. It sounded like a lot was happening, but he couldn’t understand what anyone was saying and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to. Right now. Negan considered this to be a huge mistake. How was he still alive? Part of him wished that he died. There was a pressure in his head that was almost unbearable matching the pain that he felt with his throat and his hand. It was unbelievable that after getting his jugular slashed that he would still be coherent and alive.

Sleep would have been the thing that would have been best for him, but he couldn’t sleep. No, all he could think about was where he went wrong. Not just now, but at multiple stages of his life. He was doing the one thing he told Y/N not to do in the past and that was think of the what ifs.

Now that he was Rick’s prisoner in Alexandria, it left him thinking about his children and where they were. Would he ever see them again? Would he be able to apologize?

By the time that Rick and Michonne came to explain things to him, he couldn’t hide the burning that he felt in his eyes. He wanted to hold it together in front of them, but the tears were there and it wouldn’t be hard for them to see.  Hearing Rick talk about Carl had Negan thinking about his children. He had lost the war. Fucked up the one chance he had to make things right and do the one thing that Y/N begged of him before she died. With the focus being on what his place would be in Alexandria, Negan couldn’t help but think about the last time that he saw Evie.

Instead of being the father that he should have been, Negan broke his daughter’s heart. He said things that his angry mind conjured up. Things the old version of himself would have kicked his ass for. Evie had always been the thing that was the most important to him, but somewhere he got lost along the way. And Nathan needed him so bad right now with his developmental skills. Without him, Negan knew that his children would be lost. And that was all his fault.

Negan heard everything Rick and Michonne were saying to him. It made him feel guiltier hearing that he would never have a chance to be near his children again. As they were about to leave, Negan lifted his head. Michonne had quieted him during their lecture by pressing her hand to his hurt throat and the pain still ached from the pressure she put on it. His raspy tone called out to them, “Wait.”

“We have nothing else to say to you,” Michonne scoffed with Negan tugging at his wrists that were still handcuffed to the bed.

“You…” Negan began having a hard time speaking with the way it tugged and pulled at the flesh on his throat. It felt like it was tearing at the wound that was stitched and he shook his head. “You need to do something.”

“Wait,” Rick urged Michonne to stop before she walked out of the room, his head tipping to the side in curiosity. “We don’t have to do anything. Especially for you.”

“You talk about wanting change. Wanting to be better than me,” Negan whispered, hoping that would help in talking, but it didn’t. It took him longer to speak, his voice breaking and uneven when he tried to appeal to Rick and Michonne. “Back at The Sanctuary I have two children. They’re young. They’re mine. They can’t stay there. Please bring them here.”

“Oh, come on,” Rick snickered, rolling his eyes when Negan tried to pull himself up, but he couldn’t. A wince fell from his throat when he tried to plead with his enemy. “I’m supposed to believe you of all people have children? What kind of move is this Negan? What’s the plan?”

“There is no plan. I have a son and a daughter. My daughter is ten, almost eleven,” Negan grunted wondering how much he had left in him since his voice was going even worse. “My son just turned three. If you go there, you will know they are mine. Evie and Nathan.”

“Why are we even listening to him?” Michonne pressed her hand in over the center of Rick’s chest, but he was standing still in the room, his blue eyes fixated on Negan. “Rick?”

“There is no trick, Rick. Please just bring them here. They’re innocent in all of this,” Negan pleaded with the man who had almost killed him. “You talk about Carl wanting something more. You want to make an example out of me, okay. But don’t let my children suffer. They have no one. Their mom is dead. They are all alone.”

“And whose fault is that?” Rick snarled back drawing Negan to let out a whimper with the fear that Rick would do nothing.

“Please tell me you’re not falling for this,” Michonne grabbed a tighter hold of Rick’s wrist trying to pull him from Negan, but Rick wasn’t budging. “Rick.”

“Michonne, please. What do I gain from saying this?” Negan begged, the sensation of a single tear sliding down the side of his face. “As parents, you have to understand where I’m coming from. Please. Just go there. They were left with their nanny. They have dark hair, my eyes, my dimples…”

“And then what?” Michonne wondered, stepping forward to stare down at Negan when he let out a shuddering exhale. There were tears over his face now and it seemed like Michonne didn’t know how to respond with Rick stepping in beside her. “What do you expect Negan?”

“Just bring them here. They will be safer here with you than they will be with those at The Sanctuary. They’re just kids,” Negan tried to appeal to their goodness that they were just preaching about to him. “Do whatever you want to me, but please…”

“We’ll think about it,” Michonne answered, her fingers hooking with Rick’s leading him toward the door.

“Please,” Negan called out, his voice broken more than ever with his head lifting up from the bed. “I’m begging you. Please.”

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Siddiq hushed Negan, placing his hand over the center of Negan’s chest after moving forward from where he was at the corner of the room watching.

“I don’t care,” Negan huffed, his eyebrows furrowing seeing that something in Michonne’s eyes changed with her staring out at him. “Their mother was good. They take after her. Not me. Please don’t let them suffer.”

“Come on,” Rick spoke up after a long moment of silence getting Michonne to finally look away from Negan. It surprised Negan when they up and left the room without an answer.

“Rick!” Negan’s screamed out, his head dropping back angrily when he didn’t get a confirmation from either one of them that they would help his children. Screaming was not smart. It hurt like hell.

Fear flooded his veins with the idea of the unknown with what would happen to them. The last time he spoke to Evie they fought. And he in no way convinced her that he loved her. It was quite the opposite. Right now, he could only imagine how scared they were. And he didn’t know how people at The Sanctuary would be responding right now. It was no secret that most everyone knew that they were his kids. He hoped that no one hurt them.

He just wished that maybe, maybe he would get the chance to see them again. Regardless of how much Rick hated him. Deep down, he was certain when he appealed to Rick that he would help, but now he didn’t know. Now he was scared and that was a feeling that was growing more and more within him every day.

----

The sound of water dripping near the corner of the room they had Negan’s cell in was heard. It had him dropping his head back further in frustration since it was driving him crazy hearing it. After they made sure he was going to live, they brought him down to this cell to keep him here. This was where he would remain for the rest of his life. It was dark. The windows were boarded up with only a small amount of light entering the room. They put him in a uniform of sorts to make an example out of him. This wasn’t a life of luxury. This was a weak cot, a bedpan and four empty walls. A room where Negan was left to nothing but his own thoughts and visions.

Hearing the sound of movement, Negan pulled his arm from over his eyes to see the outline of what he assumed to be his vision of Y/N moving in front of the bars. His vision was blurred and he let out an irritated breath. Closing his eyes shut tightly, he threw his arm back over his eyes and scoffed.

“You really won out here, didn’t you Negan? You did things your way and look where it got you,” Y/N’s voice began almost in a whisper. Exhaling loudly, Negan felt tension in his body and he didn’t know how to respond. So he didn’t. “I asked one thing of you before I died and you couldn’t even give me that. If you would have done what I asked of you, you wouldn’t be here right now. You and the children would be on the farm. But no. You had to prove that your dick was bigger than Rick’s.”

Bickering back with this part of his brain didn’t make sense to Negan, so he just stayed quiet and heard her let out a disappointed breath, “And now we’re both stuck here.”

Turning his head slightly hurt when he saw her moving over toward the other end of the cell to take a seat and drop down herself, “Now we’re gonna be stuck together here for the rest of your life. And I thought The Sanctuary was bad.”

Dropping his arms down at his sides, Negan felt like the room was spinning around him. At The Sanctuary he could pretend that this wasn’t real. That this was something that was nagging at him, but here all he had was himself. Nothing to distract his mind. No one to focus on. The only thing he had was this cot and his vision of the woman that he loved that died.

A wince fell from his throat when he heard the sound of the squeaking of the door to the room that led to his cell open. The light filtered into his cell and he blocked his eyes. It immediately gave him a headache. It was the first sign of bright lights that he had actually seen since they put him down here. It flooded into the room when the sound of feet walking on the hard floor drew him to lift his head.

It took a minute for his sight to finally come to enough for him to see that it was Rick standing before him. Trying to pull himself up, Negan lacked the energy that it took. His strength was gone. The adrenaline must have kept him going at first, but it hurt more now than it did when he actually got hurt.

Forcing himself to get up into a seated position, Negan could barely lift his head when Rick hooked his fingers around the bars that locked Negan in his cell. Silence surrounded them. Negan didn’t have a smart remark. He couldn’t goad the man on or mock him. Rick bested him and he knew it. And by the expression on Rick’s face, he knew that Rick knew it too and he was cherishing this moment.

“You getting used to your new home?” Rick’s southern drawl had Negan rolling his eyes and dropping his head down. Great. He was coming just to gloat. “Have you come to terms with the set up yet.”

“Sure,” Negan’s voice was rasp, his forehead aching when he reached up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. “It’s the four seasons. I should have switched to something like this before because I’m just loving being here.”

“Again with the sarcastic attitude,” Rick shook his head and Negan could see the judging look that was there just through the small amount of light that was filtering into the cell through the cracks from his window. “You’ll never change, will you?”

“Why don’t you tell me Rick,” Negan threw his hands up, his head slouching forward when he looked to his bare fee that were settled against the cool, cement ground.

“How’s your throat?” Rick questioned and it had Negan tipping his head back. The bandaging was still there. Siddiq still made sure to make it to his cell every day to check on his wounds.

“Do you care?” Negan grumbled back, the lines in his forehead growing. That question had Rick snickering before he shook his head. “Then don’t pretend to care.”

“I just need to make sure that you are healing so you can be around for a very long time,” Rick explained, his fingers curling around the bars again to squeeze them tightly. “I can’t have you getting sick and passing away on us. That would go against everything that we are trying to prove here.”

“Right. You’re real humanitarian Rick,” Negan snorted, his right eyebrow arching as he looked around at his cell. “Throwing me in a place that resembles a dungeon. How very renaissance of you.”

“You deserve worse,” Rick sneered and it had Negan rolling his eyes. Was this what his life was going to be like from here on out? Rick coming down here to throw it in his face that he lost and his life was now going to be miserable.

Pushing his body back against the cot, Negan braced his back against the hard wall and shook his head, “Are you just here to gloat Rick? Because if that’s all you’re doing, I have things to do. I’m a very busy man.”

“That’s so funny Negan, but no. I want you to do something for me Negan,” Rick released the bars, backstepping in the dark room as he nodded over toward the window that was in Negan’s cell. “Go to the window. I want you to look outside for me.”

“How? The windows are boarded up,” Negan pointed out, throwing his hand up toward the area that Rick was gesturing to.

“I know there are cracks in there Negan. People have seen you looking through them,” Rick responded with a grunt. It had Negan wincing when he worked to get himself into a standing position. Once he got to his feet, Negan dragged them against the ground and had to brace himself to step up on the cot. “Come on Negan, we ain’t got all day.”

“Sorry. I’d move faster, but someone drained a fuck load of my blood not long ago and I haven’t quite got the energy back,” Negan snarled back, bracing his hands against the wall when he pushed up onto his tip toes to look through the cracks that were there. “I can’t see shit.”

“Give it time,” Rick muttered and it had Negan tensing up. It took a while before his eyes finally adjusted and he was able to see through the cracks that Michonne was standing with Gabriel. A loud exhale fell from Negan’s parted lips when he saw that the two of them were talking with Evie and Nathan. Both his children were there in Alexandria and he could feel a rush flood throughout his veins. Evie had the dog stuffed animal that Y/N had gotten for her the day she got hurt under one arm along with her Flounder. Her other hand was holding onto Nathan who looked utterly confused.

Misery ate away at him when he thought about the outcome with his children. By the lack of response from Michonne and Rick, Negan thought the future of his children would be nothing but a fear and nightmare that he would have to live with forever. “Good. You see them.”

“Evie,” Negan called out, his voice barely loud enough for even him to hear. What the hell was he thinking? She was never going to hear him. Tugging at the bars that were on Negan’s window, Negan grunted out before hitting the boards that were there.

“I didn’t believe you at first. I let the idea linger before Michonne and I let it bother us enough. Maybe you were being honest,” Rick folded his arms out in front of his chest while Negan continued to watch his children through the small cracks. “You weren’t kidding when you said that they looked like you. One look into their eyes and I instantly knew. And I felt sorry for them.”

Dropping his head, Negan felt a lump growing in his throat the longer that Rick talked, “Having you as their father? It doesn’t get much worse than that, does it? And to look so much like you? They will have to carry that with them for the rest of their lives. Always having that reminder of their father. Then again, the little one has a chance.”

“What are you going to do with them?” Negan’s eyes closed knowing that they should have been with him. He should have just left when they couldn’t find Y/N originally. He should have started a new life for them at the farm.

“We’ll have someone take care of them. They’ll be fed, be provided a home, given an education,” Rick went off talking about the things that Negan’s children would have while living at Alexandria. “We won’t tell the others that they are yours, but I’m sure it will be easy to see. Like you said, you can tell they are yours. But we won’t let anyone hurt them. It’s more than you deserve, but at the end of the day? You’re right. They are innocent in all of this and they don’t deserve to be left for dead because of their father’s monstrous behavior.”

“What did you tell them?” Negan wondered, his head looking to the side seeing Rick now leaning back against the wall. There was a smug expression over Rick’s features when he smirked.

“The truth. I don’t want them growing up with a lie,” Rick informed Negan with a tip of his head. “I told them what you did. Why you’re here. Why they are here. How they are never going to see you again. Surprisingly, they didn’t fight it. They just listened, did what they were told.”

Biting down on his bottom lip, Negan turned his attention back to his children and he felt tears burning at his eyes seeing the way they looked. Nathan was clinging to Evie and he looked scared. Lost. Evie was pale, her eyes red. She looked sad. Miserable. Heart broken. And he knew that was his fault.

“A few people told us about them. Their story,” Rick continued, his sigh loud when he shook his head. “Tragic really.”

“You know nothing,” Negan suggested, not wanting to take his eyes off of them so he could keep the image of them in his head.

“Quite the contrary. I reckon you’d be surprised with how quickly people talk when they are given the chance. Now I know a lot of it is probably rumors and what not, but I got the general idea,” Rick dropped his arms, waving his hands about when he tried to gather what he wanted to say. “Losing both of their parents in such a short amount of time is gonna be hard for them and I understand that. We’ll do our best to make them feel comfortable.”

Frowning, Negan felt the heat of his tears sliding down his face and slammed his eyes shut. He wished more than anything he could change what happened. Do what he should have done instead of letting his ego get the best of him.

“We grabbed some of their things from The Sanctuary,” Rick started with the sound of paper unfolding and it had Negan looking over his shoulder. Once the light shined on the paper enough, Negan could see that it was the drawing that Evie had done of him and Nathan together. “The girl is talented, isn’t she?”

Rick moved forward and held out the paper toward Negan. Stumbling down from the cot, Negan reached out to grab it, but Rick pulled it away from him before he could. Trying to move forward, Negan outstretched his hand past the bars doing his best to grab the drawing that Evie had done.

“Please, can I have that?” Negan begged of Rick, giving up when he realized that Rick was just teasing him with the idea of it. It was incredibly cruel, but Negan figured this is what Rick thought he deserved.

“No,” Rick shook his head, turning the paper to get a look at it. “I had no idea that you were living this second life all along.”

“There are a lot of things you don’t know,” Negan countered, wincing when he tried to snatch the drawing from Rick again, but Rick pulled it back just holding it out of reach. “Please. I’m begging you.”

“I don’t care,” Rick retorted with his eyes narrowing and his jaw clenching. “You can beg all you want, but this isn’t your cubicle at work Negan. This is your jail cell. I’m not here to help make things more comfortable for you. What you have right now is what you are going to have from here on out. Nothing more.”

“Please let me talk to them,” Negan pled with Rick hearing the laugh that followed. It broke him knowing that this was being used as a tactic to break him down more. “Just let me see them one last time. I need to talk to them.”

“No, you don’t,” Rick responded, emphasis being added to each word. “The only thing you get is the satisfaction of knowing that they are okay and they are going to be taken care of. You don’t need anything else,” Rick folded the drawing back up and shoved it into his back pocket. “Hell, Michonne didn’t even think I should tell you that I brought them here, but as a father I did the one thing that I knew was right.”

“I understand what you are doing, but please…” Negan whimpered, his throat tensing up when he curled his fingers around the bars that were before him. “The last conversation that I had with Evie was a fight. I said some awful things. I just want to let her know that I love her.”

“And you didn’t do that the last time you talked to her?” Rick wondered leaving Negan’s bottom lip trembling when he requested of Rick to see his children. “That’s a shame.”

“Just let me talk to her. You can stand right here. I won’t do anything. If anything I will stress the importance of listening to you,” Negan’s voice was going with how much he was talking. Rick’s eyes narrowed, his face twitching with Negan going off. “I should be able to explain things to her. Just talk to her before…”

“No,” Rick shook his head once more, not even allowing Negan to continue. “I told you, you are going to sit here and suffer for the things that you have done.”

“Rick,” Negan spoke up again in the hopes that he would have the heart to listen, but Rick started walking toward the door to leave. “If you won’t let me talk to her, please just tell her that I didn’t mean what I said. That I’m sorry. That I love her and she’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

It took a lot to get all of that out leaving Negan lifting his hand to caress at his throat. Rick stopped in the doorway, his head shifting from side to side before he backed up and moved toward the cell again. Rick’s eyes gazed over Negan before he shook his head.

“No,” Rick declared, his voice stern with Negan slouching against the bars.

“Please don’t let the last conversation with my daughter be the thing that eats away at her for the rest of her life,” Negan almost whined while pleading with Rick. He was crying, but Rick’s expression wasn’t breaking. “I was stressed and upset…”

“Whose fault is that?” Rick stressed again stepping closer so that the only thing that was separating the two of them was the bars. “You should be dead right now. If you died, it would have been the last discussion you had with your daughter. Everything you said to her. You meant. So no. I won’t bring your children in here. No, I won’t feed some bullshit story to your daughter that you don’t mean.”

A sob fell from Negan’s throat. His body stumbling back when he dropped down onto the cot. It shook beneath him like it would break, but it somehow stayed together while Negan broke down where he was seated.

“Your daughter deserves to know the real you. The monster that you are. And she shouldn’t grow up with any other thoughts than that,” Rick continued, shattering Negan to the core that this was how his daughter was going to remember him. “She deserves to know the truth. Her father is a horrible person. And you’re the only reason it’s gonna be left that way. I hope you live with that.”

Burying his head in his hands, Negan couldn’t help but cry with Rick grunting to himself before leaving. Tugging at his hair, Negan felt miserable. Maybe he should have been dead in that moment. It would have only made sense after everything he did. He was alone and he had fucked up, so entirely bad.

-----

God only knows how long Negan sat there. The only thing he could truly do for himself in that cell was decide if he wanted his cot at the left corner of the wall, against the middle or at the right side. Otherwise, every other decision was made for him. He just sat in that dark cell to himself without anything to make his time go by. Everything ached. They never let him out to exercise. Someone would come down with a bucket of water every so often for him to get a bath when they thought he would start to stink too much. His hair and his beard grew super long and he’d grown much thinner. Lucky for him though, someone had come down recently and cut his hair for him. The person liked him so much that they ended up cutting chunks out of his hair and cutting into his head. They blamed him of course for acting up instead of it being what it really was which was two people holding him down while the person giving him his haircut did whatever the hell they wanted. But Rick would never believe in the darkness in his people so of course he believed that it was Negan throwing a fit that got him this way.

Adjusting his positioning on the cot, Negan pushed himself further into the corner of the room and dropped his head down. His thumbs spun in slow circles in his lap when he heard the sounds of footsteps.

Lifting his head, behind his long eyelashes fluttering Negan saw Y/N sitting down at the bottom of his cot, “You’ve been quiet lately. I thought you finally left me.”

She said nothing, just tipped her head back and closed her eyes, “Are you gonna stop talking to me too? That prick Rick is the only person who even bothers to talk to me anymore.”

There was a time where he couldn’t get whatever this vision of Y/N for him was to shut up. Now, she barely talked to him. When they first got here she tore into him about their children. After what he thought was almost two years, he could barely get her to talk. And he missed it. He missed people talking to him.

“Hey, you know what I was thinking about?” Negan spoke up, his raspy voice weak when he gave her a faint smile. “Do you remember when we first got together? How the two of us would go outside together late at night. Cuddle up next to the bonfire I put out and just watch the stars together?”

Silence followed drawing Negan’s smile to fade and he cleared his throat, “Those are some of my favorite memories. Just having you in my arms. Everything in the world felt like it would be okay then. No stress. No fucking issues. Just the two of us, together. Happy.”

Still she didn’t respond and it had Negan letting out a long exhale, “It reminds me of when we went to Disney together. On the last night we were there I just remember sitting out on the deck watching the fireworks with Evie in my arms.”

Lifting his hands up in the air, Negan made a gesture to show how small she was and it made him smile, “Just having her falling asleep in my arms…” Negan reached up to place his fingers over the area of his chest where his locket used to rest. A hurt sound escaped his lips when it wasn’t there. “They took my bracelet and my locket when they put me in here…”

A shuddering breath escaped his parted lips when he thought about Evie, “I wish I had it so I could still see our daughter. I try to get glances through the window, but I don’t know what I’m seeing sometimes.”

Sitting up on the bed, Negan slid forward, reaching out in attempts to try to touch Y/N but his fingers went through his vision of her and he huffed, “I wish you would say something. Even if it was you telling me off. Please.”

There was nothing in return. Cussing out, Negan lowered his head and felt his heart aching, “Please. Just say something.”

There was a sense of sadness rushing through his veins and he didn’t know what else to do other than to beg. So that’s what he did. More than anything he wished that he could go back to the days where his vision of her would lecture him about what he did. Yet his image of her in his head just looked sad and remained quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Negan whimpered feeling the warmth of his tears burning at his eyes. “I should have listened to you. I should have gone to the farm. I promised you that I would go and I didn’t. I made so many promises to you, Lucille and the children…I ruined it. I hurt all of you and it’s completely my fault.”

An annoying squeaking sound filled the air followed by the blinding light that would often come when someone opened the door to the room that held his cell. Shakily lifting his hand up to block the light, Negan winced and heard footsteps entering his room. Looking beside him on the bed, his vision of Y/N was gone and he frowned. Trying to wipe at his face to hide that he was upset, Negan pulled back into his position at the corner of the room to hide himself.

“Who were you talking to?” Rick’s voice stammered as he got closer to the bars. Remaining silent, Negan wasn’t going to give Rick the justification in speaking to him. “I’m talking to you.”

Keeping quiet, Negan swallowed down hard and Rick grabbed the chair that was at the corner of the room to bring it to the bars to sit in front of it, “I heard you talking when I walked by. Were you talking to yourself?”

Keeping his head turned toward the wall, Negan didn’t want to let Rick see that he had gotten emotional so he tried to count to himself. Most of the time Rick would come down here just to ramble about all the good that he was doing. That’s when Negan would have to go back to putting on a show. Pretending that he was perfectly fine, when realistically? He wasn’t. Rick didn’t talk to him about his children. Other than the first day, Nathan and Evie weren’t a topic of discussion. So honestly? He didn’t give a fuck. The only nice thing about Rick was that he spoke to him. No one else did. But he didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing.

“I see you didn’t eat your breakfast again,” Rick scoffed, nudging the tray that was before Negan’s cell with his foot. “You’re gonna have to eat at some point Negan. If we need to have people hold you down in order to shove food down your throat, then we will do it.”

Scoffing, Negan dropped his head down and realized that his body was still shaking. Well, Rick wasn’t wrong about that. The people here would have no problems if it came to doing with him what they wanted.

“What’s gonna make you eat?” Rick wondered with a huff, but Negan still remained quiet. “Come on Negan, the man with the biggest mouth I’ve ever known suddenly goes mute? I don’t buy it. Why don’t you tell me what it’s gonna take to make you eat.”

“You won’t,” Negan finally spoke, his Adam’s apple bouncing in his throat when he pulled his knees in closer to his body. Meeting Rick’s stare had Negan’s dry lips parting, his heart skipping in his chest when he felt an ounce of hope. “My kids.”

A crack of a smile tugged at Rick’s lips, his head dropping down when he chuckled at Negan’s response, “Please.”

“No,” Rick refused reaching up to drag his fingers across the side of his face. “Your children are doing perfectly fine without you. The last thing they need is you worming yourself back into their lives.”

“Please. I don’t even know if they are okay. It’s been two years since I’ve seen them,” Negan stressed hating to beg Rick for something like this, but he knew how he was feeling. And that was hopeless. All he could think about over the last two years was all the mistakes he made with Lucille, Y/N and the children. So there was nothing keeping him going. “Ten minutes.”

“No,” Rick firmly answered, the lines in his forehead growing when he got more relaxed in the chair that he was sitting in. “They are living with someone and they are doing just fine.”

“Tell me about them?” Negan shakily pushed up from the cot he was on, dragging his bare feet across the concrete of his cell. Curling his long fingers around the cell bars, he shrugged his shoulders and let out a long sigh. “Please.”

“You don’t care,” Rick grunted and it had Negan dropping his head down. Rick was contemplating what he should do before he dramatically bobbed his head about. “Your daughter is book smart. She’s miles ahead of other children her age. And she’s still drawing. She’s very talented. Always drawing you and who I assume to be her mother.”

“She still draws me?” Negan was surprised to hear that especially since their last discussion together was so awful. Rick nodded his head and Negan’s long eyelashes fluttered. That was the first thing that showed any source of happiness from Negan since Rick started coming down here. “Does she seem okay?”

“She’s quiet if that’s what you’re asking,” Rick alerted Negan with a simple shrug of his shoulders. “She sticks to herself, but she’s very polite. And your little one is a very sweet boy. Tries to get everyone to play catch with him. He’s not very good at it, but he tries. I saw your daughter playing alone with a soccer ball one day. Really talented kid, but she doesn’t really play with the others.”

“Is Nathan talking more?” Negan inquired noticing that Rick was uncomfortable talking about his children, but he was trying to get as much information as he could. “He had trouble talking when we were together. I was trying to work with him to get him talking more, I just…”

“He talks,” Rick held his hands up in the air to get Negan to stop before he could keep going. “He talks a lot. Stutters a bit through his words, but he talks. I think Evie works with him. She takes really good care of him. She’s very protective of him.”

“She always was,” Negan commented, dropping his hands down at his sides with Rick pointing down at the tray that was there. “What?”

“I answered your questions. Now eat something,” Rick ordered with Negan’s jaw clenching in frustration. There was anger between the both of them. It wasn’t something that they agreed on. This was next to nothing in terms of what Rick was doing for him. “I did something for you. Now do something for me.”

Glaring at Rick, Negan lowered down to grab the piece of toast that was on his plate. Bringing it up to his lips, Negan took a bite of the stale tasting bread as he dropped back down on the cot. There was a silence between them with Rick rolling his eyes when Negan just held the remainder of the bread in his hand.

“Eat the whole thing Negan,” Rick demanded of Negan, wiping his hands off on his pants before going to leave. Once he got to the door, Negan called out to him and Rick turned on his heel. “What Negan? I’ve got things to do.”

“I’ll eat the whole thing if you do something else for me,” Negan suggested, nodding toward the tray of food that was before him on the ground.

“God, what is it now with you?” Rick back stepped, resting his hands on his hips when he gave Negan his attention again.

“When I came here, you took off a locket I was wearing and a bracelet…” Negan declared, lifting his hand shakily to place it over the center of his chest. “The locket was something that Evie gave me when she was little. I promised her I would never take it off. I have a few wedding rings on that necklace too. You get me that locket and that bracelet? I’ll eat everything you give me.”

Looking at the tray of food and back to Negan, Rick shook his head and snickered, “No.”

“Why?” Negan snapped, his voice growing angry as he pulled himself to the edge of the cot. “It’s just a fucking locket, a couple of rings and a bracelet. Why can’t I have that?”

“You’re resourceful Negan. Who knows what you would do with those. Maybe wear it down by rubbing it on the wall until you get it sharp and try to escape,” Rick tossed his hands up in the air hearing Negan let out a defeated breath. “I refuse to give you something that can be used as a weapon.”

“Please,” Negan’s voice was broken, his body tremoring with Rick denying him the one thing he actually wanted if he couldn’t physically see his children. “I promise, I just want to put it back where it belongs. The locket is from Evie and it’s designed like a compass. You can go look yourself. Inside is a photo of the two of us when she was born. The other side is a photo of us together for a Christmas photo. On the back is her initials and…and the words daddy’s little dream come true. That’s what I always called her. And the bracelet? If you look at Evie she has a matching one. I bought her, her mother and I matching bracelets. They are just beads with two charms. It has her mother’s initials on it and hers on mine. On hers, it’s her mother’s and mine.”

“A promise from you doesn’t mean shit to me Negan,” Rick replied back, pushing his hands into his pockets, shrugging his shoulders when he spoke. It had Negan’s face going pale and he realized where this whole thing was headed. “You can say whatever you want, but you aren’t going to convince me that you are going to be a good boy if I get you those two things.”

“Please,” Negan put emphasis on his words hoping that he could somehow change Rick’s mind. Still, Rick shook his head and Negan let out an enraged sound. With a growl, Negan threw the piece of toast that he still had in his hand across the room. It just missed Rick before hitting the wall. Heading over to the cot, Negan laid back on it and covered his eyes with his arm.

The sound of the door closing was heard and he assumed that meant that Rick left. His heart was hammering inside of his chest when he heard the sound of the chair being pulled closer to the cell again.

“Why don’t you tell me about their mother Negan,” Rick’s voice spoke up drawing Negan to tense up from where he was laid out on the cot. “Where is their mother? Is she the woman that you talked about with Gabriel? Your wife?”

Staying silent, Negan’s lips parted, but he didn’t say anything. He just felt chills flood his body with Rick trying to get him to talk about Y/N.

“Was she their mother?” Rick tried to get the information out of Negan, his voice growing louder when Negan refused to respond. “See, I was doing the math with how old your son is and something isn’t adding up. With what you told Gabriel, you wouldn’t have been able to have Nathan. Women don’t have babies when they are going through chemotherapy.”

“That’s incorrect,” Negan snarled, his arm lifting from his face with his eyes glaring out at Rick. When Lucille was diagnosed with cancer he researched to see if it would be possible for them to have children since he knew how much Lucille actually wanted a child. “Your ignorance is fucking showing. Pick up a fucking book Rick. There are certain restrictions, but instead of educating you maybe you should fucking find someone to teach you.”

“So their mother was your wife that passed away from cancer?” Rick pushed, surprise flooding his features with how angry Negan got at him. Narrowing his eyes, Negan dropped his head back down and scoffed. “No, I don’t think she is.”

“Congratulations Rick,” Negan threw his hand up in the air and huffed. “Their mother is of no business to yours.”

“Where is she Negan?” Rick asked again, but this time Negan wasn’t even going to give him anything. He stayed quiet and Rick threw his hands up in the air. “Let’s see if I got this right. Their nanny at The Sanctuary gave us a little rundown when we picked them up. I wonder how much of it is actually right,” Rick sat forward on the chair with Negan turning his head to stare out at Rick. “Their mother was someone from your past. Someone who was apparently head over heels in love with you, but you were married to your wife you told Gabriel about. You told him that you cheated. So this is the woman that you cheated with?”

Biting down on his bottom lip, Negan felt his fists clenching at his sides knowing that Rick was pulling together a story from bits and pieces of what people at The Sanctuary must have told him, “There is a big age gap between the two of them. Evie and Nathan. Eight years? What did you do for eight years to keep this woman wrapped around your finger?”

Licking at his lips, Negan didn’t know where Rick was headed with this discussion so he stayed silent, “According to the nanny, your family just showed up one day. No one thought you had a family. Hell, most people didn’t know that you had a wife before all this. Just those woman that you kept in that room. Apparently you became someone they didn’t know when your family showed up at The Sanctuary. They said you were very dedicated to your daughter. It was like you were a family man. It pissed off a lot of your Saviors. You were barely around because you were with them. You even got married to their mother, but one day the two of you went away. But she didn’t come back. Only you did. Evidently some people said you went crazy. That you started seeing things and talking to yourself. What did you do to her Negan? Did you kill her?”

“Fuck you,” Negan spat, sitting up on the cot with his eyes narrowing out at Rick. His fists clenched at his sides with Rick expecting some kind of answer out of him.

“Did she step out of line? They told me that their mother was very strong willed. Put you in your place instead of bending the knee to you,” Rick explained, his jaw clenching when he dropped his hands in his lap. “Did she say the wrong thing and you killed her? What you did screwed with your head so much that you made up this story about leaving her in a town after she was bit? I guess you had your Saviors looking for her for weeks and nothing? So what did you do with her Negan? How’d you kill her?”

“You have a lot of fucking nerve,” Negan snarled, a fire burning deep within him with Rick’s blue eyes staring out at him. “You have no idea what you are talking about.”

“I don’t? Then why don’t you tell me what happened Negan,” Rick offered up, throwing his hands up waiting for some kind of answer. “Because if what you said was true, how come they never found her body? What’d you do to your children’s mother?”

“Is that what you’re selling? That I killed their mother?” Negan huffed out, his whole body tensing up with the fury that was building inside of him. Standing up from the cot that he was on, Negan approached the bars and Rick stood up. “You’re an asshole. If you aren’t going to get me those things, then get the fuck out of here Rick.”

“Let’s talk about those rings you are so desperate for Negan,” Rick waved his hand about in the air, almost mocking him with his tone. “I’m assuming it’s from your wife that died from cancer and it belonged to your children’s mother? Which one will you mourn over? Or is one of them a trophy that you kept so that way you…”

“One more fucking word,” Negan warned Rick who was clearly trying to bait Negan and was pleased when he did so. “The rings belonged to both women and it has my wedding rings on them too. You know what it’s like to love two women in your life, don’t you Rick? So how dare you judge me like I’m some piece of shit. I just want my daughter’s fucking locket, my rings and the bracelet. Don’t turn it into something that it’s not.”

“What’s with you suddenly caring about your children?” Rick sounded curious, but Negan was attempting to hold it together since Rick had already baited him enough as it was. “I’m not falling for it Negan. If you cared about your children, you wouldn’t be stuck in this position. You would have been thinking about them instead of being here. You would have put them first.”

“Like you did with Carl?” Negan spat back, the anger from the discussion causing him to say the first thing that came to him. A moment later Negan felt his body being yanked forward, his head hitting the bars with how firmly Rick pulled him. Hissing out, Negan felt Rick draw him back and pull him forward again making him slam into the bars. With the lack of strength, Negan’s body gave out only being held up by the grasp that Rick had on the blue button down they had put on Negan.  A line of blood was sliding down the side of Negan’s face from a wound that was over his eyebrow. Shakily lifting his hands, Negan grasped onto Rick’s wrist and feigned a smile. “You can dish it, but can’t take it back?”

Grunting, Negan’s body hit the ground hard after Rick released him. After pacing, Rick headed for the door and stopped when Negan tried to pull himself up, but failed, “You’re a miserable piece of shit Negan. And that’s never gonna change.”

The sound of the door slamming was heard, Negan lifted his head and in the shadows saw something different than he was used to. Even though his vision was blurred, Negan tried to pull himself up, but the strength was gone.

“Lucille?” Negan called out, his hands reaching for the bars letting out a hiss with how hard he was trying to get up and how hard he was failing. When he finally got to his knees, the vision of her that he saw was gone and he let out a whimper. “No, no. Please don’t leave me. Lucille.”

With a cry, Negan looked over his shoulder and saw the sheet that was on his cot. Tugging it from his bed, he pulled it off and hooked it around his hands testing the strength of it. After everything? There was no point in living anymore. And if this was how things were going to go, there was only one way out. Seeing Lucille after all these years only confirmed that for him.

----

Tags: @slutlanna976 @fuckthis-and-fuckthat @jennydehavilland @felicity291 @ibelongtonegan

@smallsadjellyfish @labyrinthofheartagrams @msjamesmarch @thebeautysurrounds @hotfornegan

@redmercysugar @caprithebunny @tuttifuckinfruitty @emoryhemsworth @a-girl-interupted

@akumune @stoneyggirl2 @xsarcasticwriterx @haleygreen23 @xhannahbananax03

@sanctuaryforthelost @burningredaffair @killaweiser @dead-of-niight @ayumi-wolf

@neganswoman @ravenrose18

[donaweasley]

Their Little Secret

Pairing: Loki x Fem!Reader

Plot: This can be read as a sequel to What If or even as a solo.

The reader and Loki have been best friends for long, but eventually realised that it was more than just friendship. As they secretly step into a new world, the entire team, unbeknownst to it all, makes it their mission to make the love birds realise and confess what they feel for each other.

Warnings: Fluff, slight angst in relationship, a happy ending! Oh! And late-night hazards and a long read. Sorry!

Read time: ~26 mins

“(Y/N), could you please take a look at this once?”

Loki waltzed in through (Y/N)’s door with a file in his hand. She was reading a book, when he knocked.

“It’s pretty late. I thought you said you’d go straight to bed. What are you doing with this poor old piece of rat-food now?”

“I did. But then I couldn’t sleep. So...I thought of doing something boring enough to lull me to sleep. But this old file actually turned out to be quite interesting,” he explained animatedly. “I just couldn’t understand one part. So, here I am!”

She eyed him suspiciously as he spread his arms to accentuate his royal presence.

“That, or you wanted to see me, and this file is a flimsy excuse,” she drawled.

“Come on, darling! I’m fond of you but not to the extent that I’ll have to make lame excuses to see you. Besides, why would I need to lie to you?”

After taking a moment to consider his words, she stepped beside him and asked him to show the file.

“It is here - this part,” he pointed at a chunk of printed information.

“This one is…” She pondered aloud. “That doesn’t make sense! Loki, w-where did you get this from? That doesn’t look like any mission report or anything. It looks like...an excerpt...from...a book?”

Before she could register, a kiss landed on her cheek. It was immediately followed by Loki excitedly wishing her, “Goodnight, darling,” and vanishing into a green glow.

She stood stunned for a while. Gradually, the tingling sensation where Loki’s lips had caressed her skin began to spread like wildfire through her face, and soon she was blushing and smiling like an idiot.

“Idiot!” She cursed him as she flopped back on the bed.

After a few seconds of fiddling with the bookmark, and staring at blurred lines on the page, she closed the book, and decided to call it a night. After what Loki just did, nothing else could compare to a happier ending to the day.

As she closed her eyes, sunny memories started flooding her mind.

It had all started hardly two months ago, when they were having their usual midnight snacks, casually talking the day’s stress away, talking nonsense - just the usual best buddy night.

But then something happened: a childish game of “what-ifs”.

It was fun, for the most part, until Loki had asked her about her intentions if she met the love of her life the next day. Already stained with painful memories of past relationships and with the hopelessness about her love life, she tried her best to evade the question. But Loki, being Loki, kept proding her until she gave him a genuine reason for her frustration.

And everything changed after that. Because in trying to save the other from falling down the emotional cliff, they had saved each other. They had found each other.

She laughed softly as she remembered the hesitancy in both their hearts as they had crossed the threshold of friendship.

That was the first time that she had kissed him. On the cheek. And that was even before she had fully realised that her feelings for him were no longer platonic.

That was the first time Loki had put an arm around her and pulled her close to him.

Another giggle escaped her as she remembered the moment when the soft morning light, and a stiff back had awakened her from her sleep.

Both were still sitting in almost the same position as they had been when they were chatting.

She had found herself cocooned in the arms of Loki, her legs tangled with his, both of them safe under the thin blanket that Loki had picked while preparing for their night. Her head rested on his chest, while his rested on the top of her head.

The last thing that she remembered from the previous night was them promising each other that no matter how things turned out, they’d always be beside one another. And then Loki had pulled her closer, and gently laid her head on his throbbing chest.

It was now peacefully moving up and down with his sleepy breaths. Before opening her eyes to reality, she stole a few moments to let this feeling sink in.

When she had closed her eyes the night before, there was an excitement so high in the air that Thor’s thunder would have been ashamed. It was the hammering of Loki’s heart that had eventually put her to sleep.

The morning brought a peaceful rhythm beneath her ears. It was beautiful, it was calm, it was...reassuring. She loved it more than the thrill of the past few hours.

But no matter how long she tried to soak herself in the feeling, the incidents of the night before still seemed somewhat unbelievable. How could something months long change overnight? Was it all a mirage then, cast by the treacherous night?

The darkness of the night sets the mind free to imagine anything, take any decision. But the clarity of the day brings logic to the forefront, which sometimes turns out to be good but sometimes not so good.

But...it had felt right. She took a deep breath to clear her mind. It still felt right. That was all the assurance that she needed for the moment.

As she turned in her bed, she remembered the raspy voice in which Loki had wished her a good morning.

The close proximity, the husky, sleep-laden voice, the sudden change in the air - everything made blood rush to her cheeks and ears. Loki had sleepily chuckled at her flushed state, though he was only slightly better than her in hiding his own flustered state.

Ever since, not a single day had passed when the two of them hadn’t thanked the stars.

She used to think that she loved Loki’s friendship more than anything. She was happy to be proven wrong when she experienced Loki’s courtship.

A different flower everyday, sometimes inside her room, laid carefully near her door, sometimes on her bedside table, and on some mornings, beside her pillow.

She was used to going out with her best friend Loki, but going out with her boyfriend Loki was an experience on a whole new level. Light brushes of the fingers, sometimes an arm around her shoulder, intertwining of fingers, occasional brushes of his lips on her temple, and not-very-occasional blushes that tinted both their skins.

Every day, before parting for the day, she was blessed with bear hugs from him - something that she had never expected him to be fond of.

It was the best time of her life! Almost every doubt that she had about this relationship not working out had evaporated long ago. It was - she dared to say - perfect!

Except for one small hiccup: they had to keep everything off the radar.

For one, they were still testing the waters. No matter how happy and confident they were with one another, their newfound relationship was still at its infancy, and they didn’t want to declare anything to the rest of the team right away.

Second, everybody in the compound had been teasing both (Y/N) and Loki about “getting a room” for a long time. They didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of knowing that they were finally correct. Well, figuratively.

Unfortunately, the team did not know that they had already confessed their feelings to each other. And so, they were desperate to make the love birds see the truth of their emotions. The Avengers, tough and stubborn as they were, never gave up. And Loki and (Y/N) simply decided to play along.

For instance, around a month and a half ago, Tony had thrown one of his usual parties at the compound, and had brought a line of apparent suitors for (Y/N) and a host of gorgeous ladies and lads to introduce to Loki.

Though the new couple was initially confused at the unbridled attention, they eventually understood what was going on: Tony Stark had decided to use the age-old recipe of jealousy to crack either one or both of them.

It was fun, they both admitted later, to dance to the tune, and give the host a frowning face when he realised that neither were biting the bait. Instead, both seemed to be enjoying themselves flirting or dancing with their respective “baits”.

What escaped the eagle eyes of the team were the furtive looks that both (Y/N) and Loki threw at each other from time to time. It wasn’t easy to masquerade those longing glances with playful teases that two friends might share. But they had to.

Late into the night, after the party was over, Loki teleported into (Y/N)’s room. The security cameras were still a threat to their little secret.

“Hello beautiful!” Loki purred when she didn’t turn all her attention towards him as she usually did, but kept herself apparently busy in making the bed.

“Is this my consolation prize for all your flirting this evening?” She tried to keep it casual but her displeasure seeped into her tone.

“Ooh, someone sounds jealous,” he drawled.

“Speak for yourself, God!”

Loki stepped towards her, and gently caught her hand, putting a pause to her actions.

“Look at me. Please?”

She smiled as she faced him, but he could easily catch the facade.

“I know what you're trying to do. You can’t fool me, (Y/N).”

“And what is it that I’m doing?” She tried to question with the same casualness but her voice kept betraying her.

“You are trying to make it look like it didn’t affect you - me being with all those lovely people. But in reality, you are hurt, even if it is a tiny bit.”

Her smile faltered. Of course, she couldn’t fool the God of Lies!

Closing her eyes, she shook her head, “I don’t know why you’re saying this Loki. I’m perfectly fine! Why would I-”

“You and I understand each other perfectly,” Loki gently cut her off. “Or did you forget that?”

He reminded her of the one line - of the one realisation - that had triggered the tiniest thoughts of them being possibly together, if at all.

Realizing that all doors were closed for her, she tried to turn away from him, only to be stopped by the trickster.

“If it makes you feel any good,” he resumed, “it did burn me a bit, too, to watch you dance and laugh with those clowns.”

At this, she burst into laughter. Loki was glad at the change of mood, and allowed a few happy creases around his eyes as well.

“Is that true,” she asked, “or are you simply trying to make me feel better?”

He shrugged, “What do you think?”

“I’d like to believe that it’s true,” she confessed shyly.

“It is.”

“Well then,” she said after suppressing a wild grin that tried to crack its way through, “I guess that makes us even.”

“Guess so.”

“I’m sorry, Loki,” she sighed, “I lied earlier because I didn’t want to put any kind of pressure on you or anything. I mean...jealousy? That’s the first stage of obsession. And...I don’t want you to think that...”

“Hey,” Loki held both her hands in his, “your feelings for me will never suffocate me. On the contrary, they help me breathe. You have given my life a new purpose. I thought I was happy being your best friend. But this...this is even better. Never think that you’re putting any kind of pressure on me. None of those men or women out there, or anywhere for that matter, can bring me what I feel with you, for you.”

Words seemed insufficient for what she wanted to say. So, she simply nodded, and wrapped her arms around his torso.

“Thank you,” she murmured into his chest.

He chuckled as he ran his hand on her head, “Being jealous actually makes you look cute.”

She unwrapped herself from him just enough to look at his face, “Says the man who just confessed being jealous himself!”

“I never said I don’t look cute,” he shrugged again.

Shaking her head and laughing, she pulled his face down, and placed a warm kiss on his cheek.

“Go now, before I punch that cute face of yours.”

“When you say ‘punch’,” Loki drawled, “do you mean…’kiss every inch of’...?”

Blushing furiously, she pushed him towards the door.

“Shut up, and just go!”

Loki laughed as he wished her a lovely night, and disappeared into his usual green glow.

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

But the Avengers were not the ones to give up.

Not many weeks later, Natasha planned an evening at one of her favourite nightclubs. While Steve, Vision and Bucky backed out of the plan, given their previous not-so-delightful interactions with the loudness and the crowd, Thor and Tony were adamant on dragging Loki with them.

“We thought you liked a little fun! Since when did you start wearing grandpa’s knickers?” Tony snorted.

“C’mon, brother, don’t embarrass me,” Thor’s voice boomed in Loki’s room. “(Y/N) has embarrassed me enough. She didn’t want to go either. Said she’d rather sleep than be tormented by the blasted noise.”

She said what? That means she’s going to stay back-

“Wait, what?” Tony turned towards Thor with a perplexed look, “She said that?”

He turned around to face Loki again, “Are you two planning something or have you both become boring?”

No, no, no! They’ll add up…

“I am not boring!” Loki declared. He decided to stay quiet on the other option that Stark had mentioned.

“Well, then join us,” Tony shrugged.

With a dramatic roll of his eyes, Loki agreed.

Needless to say, his eyes went wide when he saw (Y/N) dressed up and ready for the outing when he was expecting her in her pajamas. When she silently questioned him, he immediately realised that he had been tricked.

I have to be more careful.

The team’s plan soon became obvious when, after a few rounds of shots, everyone made a beeline to the dance floor, leaving behind a string of excuses, and Loki and (Y/N) at the bar. Even through the crowd, the duo’s trained eyes could catch glimpses of their teammates shadowing them.

“Do they really think getting drunk will make us confess?” She shouted over the sound of the music.

“I’m a God,” he shouted back. “Midgardian liquor doesn’t affect me anyway.”

“Well, it affects me,” she shrugged and drained another shot down her throat, “and I love it!”

Last one.

She had started feeling dizzy. Getting wasted could be saved for another moment when she wasn’t being spied on.

A few minutes passed in silence as neither was fond of shouting to communicate. (Y/N) bobbed her head to the music while Loki eyed the mass of bodies swaying and moving with the beats.

“Would you-” Loki began but stopped midway.

While her eyes questioned him, he silently slipped from the stool, and came to stand almost behind her.

His hot breath, dipped in a faint whiff of alcohol, hit the shell of her ear as he purred, “Would you like to dance with me?”

She was rendered immobile for a while. A small corner of her mind wondered if Loki knew what he was doing to her.

I bet he knows what he’s doing.

“I’d have loved to!” She drawled. “It’s a shame there isn’t room for a waltz here, and I wouldn’t want a God like you to hop like teeangers in the crowd.”

She felt his chest brush against her back.

“I was actually hoping that you’d be up for that dance,” he pointed at a section of the crowd where bodies were gliding against each other in the most provocative ways.

Her breath hitched again. She didn’t need to turn her head to know that Loki was smirking at his achievement.

But this time, she wouldn’t squeal, she wouldn’t push him away with a timid smile. Diffidence and boldness both tugged at polar ends of her heart until boldness won the war.

Not this time. Two can play the game, darling.

“So, what’s stopping you?” Her lips almost brushed his earlobe as she tilted her head to whisper in his ear.

Where did that come from?!

Loki wasn’t prepared for this.

It was usually him who threw mildly suggestive comments which she pushed away with a shy gesture. He never expected the tables to turn so quickly.

She did not even have enough shots to get drunk yet, he noticed.

“What happened, did the cat get your silver tongue?” She smirked.

“I-I...uh...”

While Loki continued to gape at her, an inkling of panic nudged her chest.

Did I take it too far? He obviously wasn’t ready for this, but…

It all must have been another prank for him, and I…

No!

With a cackle, she sliced the apparent tension in the air. “So, finally got you, ha? Mischief!” She winked.

Turning towards the bartender, she ordered another shot.

Loki’s brain was still trying to decipher her behaviour.

Did she really mean it…? It didn’t look like a joke though…

As she focused on her drink, he thought he saw a flicker of disappointment cross her face, but the incessant dance of light and shadows made her features almost unreadable.

“You should get back to your seat, y’know?” She told him with downcast eyes.

“What?”

“The team might notice and...they might know.”

Did her voice just...tremble?

Loki hated the place: the noise, the dim lights, the secrecy - he hated the way everything seemed to veil her from him.

“I think I’ll go find them.”

Downing another drink, she hopped off her seat, and disappeared in the crowd, leaving Loki to his thoughts.

Once they were back in the compound, Loki went straight to (Y/N)’s room. This time he did not sneak into her room using magic; he knocked on her door. This wasn’t the moment to play a game of cat and mouse. If the entire compound was prying on him, he would gladly allow them to. Well, maybe not gladly.

“Hey! Hi, Loki!”

Her smile was as bright as ever.

Was it all in my mind then?

“Are you alright?” He tried to sound calm but his anxiety turned out to be more stubborn than him.

“Yes, I am. What- Come inside first.”

She stepped aside, allowing him to stride into her room, and flump down on the bed.

“I’m sorry,” he began honestly, “I thought...I thought you were upset. At the club… I thought I saw you...sad? I’m not sure. I just had this feeling that you’re probably not okay, and-”

“Loki,” she held his shoulders and gently hushed him, “I’m fine.”

Her assurance enabled him to breathe normally again.

Caressing his face, she placed a light kiss on his forehead.

“Thank you, Loki! For everything. For caring so much about me.”

“(Y/N),” he held her hand, “are you hiding something? From me?”

He didn’t miss the way she gulped before replying.

“Why would you say that?”

“Look, I’m sorry if I cross the lines sometimes. I know I tease you but those are… I’m sorry if I’ve ever made you uncomfortable or have hurt you.”

“You are an idiot! Do you know that? You’ve never hurt me or made me uncomfortable. Now, get these stupid thoughts out of your little brain, and give me that devilishly charming smile of yours.”

Despite all her compliments, his eyes did not light up as they usually did.

“Are you sure?” He asked her.

“Absolutely!”

“You’ll tell me if you’re upset, won’t you? Promise me.”

He took note of how she licked her lips before nodding.

Something is not right.

“Come here,” he pulled her in his arms, and buried his face in the crook of her neck. “And I’m not an idiot. I am smart.”

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

The next few weeks turned out to be more and more challenging as the team was now hell-bent on getting them exposed. What made them so sure of their relationship was still a mystery to the couple.

“Are we that obvious?” (Y/N) asked Loki one day.

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “It is said that it shows on the faces of those in love. So, I guess...”

The words, coming from him, filled her with warmth. If that be true, and if everyone could see that they were in love only by looking at them, then she’d happily trade their secrecy for more obviousness.

But every time they came close to taking the relationship to the next level, she would find Loki backing away. Every time they had the opportunity to reveal their beautiful secret to the team, he would quickly shield both of them.

Why, Loki? Do you not want us?

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

It was a rainy evening when Tony had gathered everyone in the living room. At first (Y/N) thought that it was an urgent meeting for a new mission. But when she knew the actual reason behind it, she couldn’t prevent the snort that escaped her.

“Excuse me?” Tony pointed at her. “You got some problem, princess?”

“Truth or dare? Like, how old are we? Twelve?”

Tony spread his arms as if to silently make a point. “Since when did you start categorizing fun into ages? Ever since you started dating Rock of Ages?”

“Hey!” Loki made a tiny protest at his nickname.

“We are not dating,” (Y/N) deadpanned.

“And there goes my question,” Wanda sighed from across the room.

In response, (Y/N) simply rolled her eyes, and grumbled, “Kids!”

Once the game started, the team wasted no time in getting to the point: (Y/N) and Loki.

The first one to get attacked was Loki.

“No, no truth for you,” Sam chimed in just as Loki sucked in a breath to choose “truth”.

“He’s the God of Lies!” Sam announced, “He can easily slip away with any lie!”

“The bird’s got a point!” Tony agreed, followed by everyone else. “‘Dare’ for you!”

“This is not how it works,” Loki protested.

“Did you play this on Asgard? Thor?”

“No, we had never even heard of it until we came here,” the big brother responded.

“But-”

“Nah-ah!” Tony didn’t let him finish. “This is exactly how it is played. Who wants to give the God of Mischief a mischievous dare?”

(Y/N) wanted to protest; she wanted to tell Tony that he was bending the rules to get to them. But any word of support would further corner them both. All she could do was play along.

“Kiss (Y/N). And you know where I mean.”

Nat’s voice yanked her out of her thoughts. She watched in horror as Loki’s expressions changed from shock to anger while the entire team cheered.

“Nat!” (Y/N) jumped up from her seat, “do you even hear yourself? He’s my best friend! We can’t just...”

“Why not?” Sam questioned with a smirk. “You seemed to be enjoying it when I was asked to kiss Buck. He’s my best buddy.”

“Speak for yourself,” Bucky mumbled.

“C’mon, it’s just a game! Don’t be a spoilsport.”

Steve?? Et tu?

Rubbing her eyes, (Y/N) tried to find a way out of it. She knew well that if Loki kissed her, she’d melt into it. Everything would become obvious.

No, no, no!! This can’t be. They can’t just expose us like this. Loki would be so....

Wait, why isn’t he saying anything?

She opened her eyes to see Loki standing. His expression was unfathomable.

Oh no! Is he going to…

“This is outrageous!” Loki snapped and turned on his heels to walk out of the room.

Oh!

For reasons she did not want to explore then, (Y/N)’s heart dropped several feet. She was expecting a similar reaction from him but wasn’t hoping for it.

Quickly gravitating back to the situation in hand, she stammered an excuse or two for his behaviour, and followed his tracks to check on him.

Once both of them were out of earshot, Tony leaned towards the group, “Did we save it or kill it.”

“Looks like we killed it,” Sam sighed.

“Trust me,” Wanda smiled, “we saved it.”

“Vision? What do you think?”

“I still do not understand why you have to torment them like this. Let them come out when they want to. It’s-”

“Okay!” Tony interrupted him. “Sorry I asked! My bad!”

The door to Loki’s room was half open when (Y/N) arrived. Gingerly, she admitted herself inside.

Loki was standing at the window, with his back towards her. His head was bowed but his hands were curled into fists on both sides of his body.

“Loki?”

The name came out so softly that she couldn’t be sure if he had heard it, given that he did not move at all.

But before she could call him again, he spoke.

“I did not want this to happen,” his voice bore that particular kind of seriousness that usually preceded an unwanted or unhappy revelation.

What?

“I am sorry, (Y/N).” He turned towards her, and she realised in an instant that he wasn’t fooling around.

“What are you talking about, Loki? What did you not want to happen?”

Her chest felt tighter with every passing second.

Please, not what I’m fearing.

“This,” his hand vaguely gestured towards the hallway. “Whatever happened just now. I knew they would come down to this one day. I never wanted-”

“It’s okay,” she interjected. “I did not like that either. Although they meant no harm. It was just for fun… And I understand if you're having second thoughts. This entire thing between us was just something… y’know, a spur of the moment kind of thing. I totally understand if-"

"(Y/N)! Where is this coming from? What are you even talking about?"

She couldn’t make herself look at him, for if she did, he could clearly see the moisture pooling in her eyes. She needed to appear strong.

“Loki, you’ve always been my best friend. And I’ve loved that. You know it. And it’s okay if this new turn in our relationship does not turn out to be something that you had hoped for. It happens. It’s okay-”

“It’s not okay for me,” Loki grasped her hands. “What are you saying? Why? A-are you not happy with me? Have I done something wrong? Did I offend you in any way?”

What is he saying? I thought…

As she looked up at him, a couple of drops ran down her cheeks and on her shirt.

“(Y/N), please tell me. You had promised to tell me anything and everything that upsets you. So, tell me what happened. Why do you speak of our relationship as if it was a mistake?”

“It never was a mistake for me,” she breathed, “I thought you felt...I thought you...”

“What?”

The shaky way in which the question came out of him stung her more than any thought of Loki not wanting this relationship. It was then that she realised how badly she had hurt him.

He never wanted to leave! He always wanted me? Us?

She didn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry,” she finally managed. “I thought that you...didn’t want...this. Us. I-”

“Why would you even think so? Why would you bear such thoughts when I love you with every fiber of my being?”

Her head snapped up.

“You love me?” Her own voice became shaky.

“Of course, I do,” he gently placed a hand on her cheek, “always have. At first I thought it was a love for friends until that night, when I realised that I wanted to be more than just friends with you.”

More tears fell down her cheek as she rejoiced in the moment. Loki wiped them all, and placed soft kisses on each cheek.

“And all this time, I was afraid that you’re having second thoughts,” she confessed.

“And why is that?”

“Because...”

How do I say that it’s because you haven’t kissed me yet? And ran away from the one moment we had today, albeit in a not-so-comfortable situation?

“Because I haven’t kissed you yet?” Loki asked her.

Her heart beat so violently, she could have sworn that Loki could hear it. Her tongue felt too heavy to speak.

“I didn’t think you were ready,” he admitted. “That is the reason why I did not dance with you in the club either. I was teasing you, yes, but when you responded I was definitely taken aback. I wasn’t sure if it was you or the ambience talking. So…

You have always shied away from any comments that I make, and...I did not want to push anything on you.”

“Oh, Loki!”

She hugged him so hard that even the Asgardian had to take two steps back to balance himself.

“I’m so, so sorry,” she wept into his shirt. “I misunderstood your actions for… I pushed you away. I thought you weren’t ready for this relationship. I’m sorry!”

Tears of both apology and relief flooded her. He tried to sush her as he rocked her slowly from side to side.

After taking a moment to compose herself, she stood straight. Loki looked at her red-eyed, tear-stained face and tutted.

“Doesn’t suit you, darling. Show me your crazy, grinning face.”

With a chuckle, she gave him a funny face-splitting smile, making both of them laugh.

“(Y/N), I didn’t want to kiss you because of a game or under the watchful eyes of that insufferable bunch of imbeciles. But if you will allow me now, I-”

“Just stop being so polite for a change, and kiss me,” she tugged at the collars of his shirt.

Loki didn’t need to be asked twice.

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

In the hall, the Avengers were busy speculating the outcome of their little plan, when the couple in discussion walked in. Hand in hand.

“Yes, we had changed our relationship status around six months ago,” (Y/N) announced to a stunned audience.

“And yes, we kissed. Just now. And I hope you know where I mean,” Loki added before dragging his love away towards the elevator.

“What was that?” She whispered as she was being whisked away.

“What?” Loki asked innocently, although his eyes stated otherwise.

“You didn’t need to declare that we just kissed!” She laughed as the doors of the elevator closed.

He shrugged while jabbing at a button. “They wanted us to kiss anyway. So, I gave them the satisfaction of knowledge. Besides, they need to know who you belong to now.”

“Aha! Possessive?”

“No! I also made it clear who I belong to now.”

He smiled as the doors opened to the hallway that led to his room. And once again, his words had rendered her speechless.

Silver tongue!

***

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

You can read the backstory here.

And here's a song to sing along and keep the mood floating...

[revengeisourlullaby]

If I Never Knew You Pt.2

Pt. 1   Pt. 2    Pt.3   Pt.4   Pt.5   Pt.6

Warnings: 18+, eventual smut, arranged marriage plot, kinda royal au, some fighting, secret relationship, angst.

a/n: Here is part 2! I might upload part three tonight. I’m so excited to see where this goes. It seems that the first part is doing pretty good so I might upload them faster. As always requests/asks are open! Just give me little time to get to them. Enjoy! 

Word count: 1.8K

Walking through the town, you felt an inordinate wave of liberation flow through not only you but also through Loki. It felt as if the weight of the world released itself from your shoulders. Confidence and strength soaring through the air. Loki lost his stiffness, his typical carefree nature restored once you became more grounded. 

“See, not so bad, right?”

Shaking your head, a cynical chuckle escaped your throat

“For you maybe. All these eyes on us is kinda gross.”

“It’s only because the most attractive prince has finally decided to show his face.”

You looked at Loki, amusement absent from your face. He laughed, a belly laugh almost. It was a free sound you had yet to hear from him and when you did your face painted your emotions before you had the chance to process them yourself. 

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Yes, but you, my dear, tolerate it. So who's really at a loss in this situation?”  

“Well, it’s not me.”

“It couldn’t be me Y/N.”

“Looks like we’re both losers then Loki.”

You were approaching the main entrance of the palace and began to wonder if Loki was considering bringing you inside.

“We lost when we fell in love with each other Y/N. Listening to the heart is the most foolish thing one can do and yet here we are. Charging full speed with our eyes closed hoping we don’t trip over anything.”

Guiding you up the steps of the massive golden structure Loki called ‘home’ your nerves struck up again. 

“Seems to make sense that if we’re going full speed, might as well exploit our courtship in the place where you will eventually be spending all your time in. And with all things considered, sneaking you in is...counterproductive, to say the least.”

Exhaling, you brought yourself together and walked in front of Loki. His hand rested on your lower back escorting you inside. Grabbing fabric in your fists, you hiked your dress up a bit making sure you didn’t step on it. Walking through the main threshold, you realized you were worrying for nothing. The halls were massive, the ceiling stretching higher than you ever imagined.

 It would be a miracle if you were to run across someone you knew in a place so vast.

 You looked around in shock at everything you were being hidden from. The thought of it hopefully being yours to share with Loki in freedom and not in constraint was illuminating. One day to not only be openly in love with him but to call him your husband. Your partner for life was the solace you needed. Everything looked new to you because you had only ever seen the hallways in the dead of night to share evening visits with Loki, being as slick as one could, and it always working in your favor.

“Wow, it looks so different here with the sun shining through. Always felt like a runaway sneaking through the backways and balconies to get to your quarters.”

“And now you get to walk there like every other person in this place. Quite fancy isn’t it.”

“Okay, I didn’t ask for the smart mouth, you ass.” 

“Comfortable, are we?” 

“With you? Always.”

Finally, you two had walked up to Loki’s quarters. Opening the doors he welcomed you in and you welcomed yourself to his bed. Flopping down on the edge of it, the edge of your dress flying up and you went down. Hearing the door shut, you lifted your head up to face Loki at the door, only thing was he wasn’t there. Furrowing your brow you sat up on your elbows and by the time you looked behind you, it was too late. 

“Boo.”

Your body reacted before you could control your response. Your stomach fell to your ass, eyes widening and a sharp inhale all followed one another before you finally shook off the anxiety and realized that Loki had popped up behind you. 

“You asshole! What if I screamed, huh?”

Loki laughed falling over on the bed, your reaction to him obviously something of hilarity to him. You rolled your eyes and pushed his shoulder in and began to pout. He caught his breath and calmed down enough so he could respond back to you. 

“You’re only screaming for one thing and unfortunately, darling, the sun’s still out. So, someone will have to wait, considering they’re so concerned about being caught.”

Loki raised his eyebrow and your mouth was agape. You squinted your eyes and an idea popped in your head. Rolling over on your knee you placed yourself on top of Loki's lap, resting your hands on his chest stealing his smirk for this moment in time.

“I can control myself...you on the other hand, once you start you can't stop.”

To emphasize your point, you rolled your hips into his and brought your body down to level his. Reaching his ear you whispered

“If you can find containment within yourself, a prize will await you this evening.”

You moved from his ear and hovered in front of his face, your lips ghosting one another. You pulled back a little bit to stare into his eyes. They were hypnotic no matter how many times you saw them. Loki’s hand trailed up your backside squeezing the mound of your ass before continuing up your back. His hand finding refuge at the nape of your neck. He pulled you back to his face, a gentleness about the entire interaction, and kissed you. 

There was a different kind of spark in this kiss, it felt electric, coursing through your veins and settling in your brain as a memory you’d never forget. Losing yourself in the thrill of it all, your hips began moving against his. Your building arousal creating a fog between you. The more you ground into the god below you, the more apparent his bulge was. Flipping you on your back Loki now held the reins of the situation. 

“Now, don’t tempt me Y/N. You have a habit of teasing and where does it always leave you?”

“At your mercy.”

“Clever girl. So if you like to save this accolade you mentioned for later, mind your manners, my love.”

He leaned down to kiss you as to punctuate his words, ending the discussion with the pull of your lips between his teeth. Hissing through the pleasure you couldn’t help but roll your hips up towards him, now being the one desperately craving friction. Testing the waters, you wanted to see how far you could push Loki to his limits. Your hand found the scruff of his neck and scrunched his hair. Sucking a breath in between his teeth, he pulled back a light laugh following. 

“I’m aware of what you’re attempting to do Y/N, and I think it would be fair for you to know that it’s a feeble attempt. Reason being, now you’re the one left in ardor.”

Loki pulled off of you but made sure to drive his point home by sliding down your body and resting between your thighs before fully standing up. You lied on the bed in slight agony of your current predicament. You sighed and brought yourself up on your elbows. Looking ahead of you, you saw Loki sitting in the massive throne chair that was in his room. It was gothic in nature yet still regal with the back of the chair rising well up behind him and the arms of it embellished with Asgardian design. 

His position in the chair was more than purposeful. His legs were spread wide, his arm resting on the arm of the throne and his hand propping up his head to look not only at you but out on the balcony. The late evening sun illuminating his eyes, bringing a whole new meaning to golden hour. He looked breathtaking and it was as if you were falling in love with him all over again.

The lust you were previously feeling was now amplified but also accompanied with adoration for your lover. You raised yourself from up off the bed and waltzed over to him. A fire behind your eyes and in your presence but you had yet to act on it. Coming in front of him, you kneeled in front of him and looked up. Two could play at this game. Your hands slid up his legs, paying special attention to his thighs and feather lightly rubbed on this. His eyes were boring through yours and you felt small under his gaze. 

The silence between you was telling, that if you were to continue with your actions there would be no waiting until later. You wanted to enjoy the silence between the two of you, so you turned your back to him now sitting on your behind, and crossed your legs. You leaned your head back so it fell in between his legs, but before fully getting settled you reached for the two books resting on the side table in front of the chair and placed them in your lap. You wiggled your hips and settled into a comfortable position. 

Resting your head back, you craned it further attempting to look at Loki. He rolled his eyes knowing exactly what you were asking for. 

“You know, if I knew how often you’d beg for these I would have never indulged in your initial request.”

“You and I both know this is enjoyable for both parties.”

Loki huffed, a silent agreement without saying explicitly that you were right. Loki began to rub your temples. You closed your eyes enjoying the sensation and the loving intent of his actions. You finally felt calm and safe compared to the rest of the day which was riddled with anxiety and panic and the nagging fear of all the ‘what ifs’ you came up with. You had exhausted yourself and this simple action put you at ease. You opened your eyes for a moment and glanced down at the books in your lap trying to decipher which one was Loki’s. 

Catching a glimpse on the side you realized the one on the bottom was Loki’s current project at hand. Grabbing it, you twisted your arm behind you and slid the book into Loki’s lap knowing that sooner or later you would end up dozing off and you figured that getting this out the way would make it easier for both of you. 

“You are truly something else.”

“And you love me for it Loki.” 

“Can’t argue that one.”

A small smile painted your face before it fell back into its relaxed state and you began to drift off. Every little thing that had happened today made you feel that you were a few steps closer to getting what you so desired with Loki.

[exhausted-dog-mom]

Underwater (2020) Fix It Fanfic

Last year, I was commissioned to write a fix it fic for the horror movie Underwater. I had no idea it was a horror movie until after I agreed to write it, lol. I'm a coward at the best of times and writing this gave me nightmares for months. It's 24k words and almost 55 pages long. I rewrote the whole dang movie, lol. The entire fic is on my Patreon, but here are the first 2k words. 

           Norah followed behind Rodrigo as they picked their way carefully through the debris. Her body shivered uncontrollably, her meager clothing long soaked through by water of questionable quality. The tinny, prerecorded voice of the infographics which once lined the walls echoed in the too tight hallways, skipping as sparks crackled along the broken screens. Great slabs of concrete and torn sheets of metal made their progress slow, their flashlights illuminating little more than water. The hallway they were following to CR-7 was far from a direct route, but it was the only one they were both able to traverse, and Norah knew she wasn’t alone in wanting to stick together—not after closing the bulkheads.

           She dismissed that thought. She didn’t have time to think about that. Not when the path before them suddenly stopped, the way forward cut off by a serious cave in.

           “Can we dig through there?” She asked, watching as Rodrigo crouched down and began moving loose bits of rubble.

           He called back, uncertain but willing to try, and Norah began scanning the area for alternate routes. They didn’t have time to double back and find another way. The Kepler wouldn’t last long and every second they wasted not getting to the pods was another second the entire station deteriorated around them.

           She took a chance and put her weight on a ledge above where Rodrigo was digging, shining her light down a narrow passage that might allow them both through. Maybe.

           “Hey,” she called down to her colleague. “I can fit through there if you can.”

           He came up and looked at her discovery, considering the rough looking tunnel.

           Distantly, Norah heard something. A voice. She had to turn her head to catch it, the hearing in her left ear completely gone, but it was there.

           “Hello?” She called out, hope rising in her throat. “Hello? Can you hear that?” She didn’t wait for Rodrigo’s response, leaving him behind as she clambered over derelict ductwork and dodged sharp edges, shining her flashlight on everything as she searched desperately for any sign of life. “Keep talking, I can hear you!”

           She turned her right ear to the ground, tracing the source of the muffled voice to a pile of concrete slabs, the edges sharp against her hands as she began to pull on them with a strength she didn’t know she had. Rodrigo came up beside her, helping to free whoever was trapped underneath. The first thing she saw as they pulled back a layer of rubble was a stuffed rabbit, the furlike fabric covered in grease and who knew what else. She stared at it, confused, for all of two seconds before joy and recognition filled her with renewed vigor.

           “Paul?” Sure enough, as she took the rabbit from upstretched hands, her friend’s face came into view, his eyes clenched shut against the brightness of Rodrigo’s flashlight. She handed the rabbit to Rodrigo, reaching down into the crevice to get better leverage for lifting Paul’s not insignificant weight. With Rodrigo’s help, she pushed back the final slab, revealing the drill worker in all his bare chested glory, his skin coated in dust and grime. His hand held on to hers tightly and she watched as recognition bloomed in his eyes.

           “Norah?”

           “Hi.” She was as breathless as he was, a shaky laugh passing through chattering teeth.

           Paul smiled up at her, squeezing her hand as he laughed right back. “Oh, you sweet, flat chested elven creature.”

           She couldn’t even be mad at him. She was sure she made quite the sight, in her sports bra and sweats, but it was no better than his.

           She watched her friend breathe harshly for a second, lungs taking full advantage of their renewed capacity now that the weight of the debris was no longer crushing his chest. She knew the instant his brain had reoxygenated, because he turned to Rodrigo, a man he’d probably never interacted with before, like Norah, and asked after his rabbit.

           His concern for his little buddy was endearing, though she knew the stuffed toy couldn’t hold a candle to the real Little Paul, alive and waiting seven miles above them on dry land.

           Getting Paul out of the hole was a process, but they did it, the large man standing before them in nothing but a robe, boxers, and one lucky sock. He cradled the rabbit against his chest like a living animal, his attachment to the thing so much stronger after so long down in the deep.

           Norah lead the way back down the hall, flickering blue lights casting eerie shadows on the walls. “There are pods in CR-7,” she explained over her shoulder, the joy she felt at finding her friend alive tempered by a renewed desperation to get out. “The upper decks are collapsing, so we’ve gotta move fast.”

           She pulled herself up onto the ledge, Rodrigo helping her from below. She caught the tail end of Paul’s whining complaint and she rolled her eyes. Leave it to him to find something to complain about during a life or death situation.

           Paul was much larger than either her or Rodrigo, but, as Norah crawled through the cramped tunnel, she was pretty sure he’d be able to fit. She had little trouble scooting through the dark, her movements sending the light from her flashlight in all sorts of disorienting directions. Everything was grey, with the exception of the odd wire or two, exposed copper stinging her wet skin as she brushed up against it. She turned back to look at her two companions, the men clearly having a harder time than she was.

           “You guys ok?”

           “Yeah,” Rodrigo nodded to her, dust clinging to his dark skin. Behind him, Paul grumbled out an affirming expletive.

           Turning back, she immediately recoiled, flashlight dropping from her grasp and teeth clacking loudly in her skull.

           Closing her eyes against the terrifying sight, she called back to the boys. “There’s-there’s someone up here.” She swallowed thickly. “It’s McClellen.”

           Just like that, the high from unburying Paul was gone, replaced by the grim certainty that his survival was nothing short of a miracle and the odds of finding anyone else alive were incredibly slim.

           How many were left alive? How many more would there be if she had waited just a little longer? How many were dead because of her?

           McClellen had no answers for her, blue eyes locked unseeing on something far in the distance. Norah took a shaky breath, bolstering herself as she began to move past the other woman. Their hands touched as she did, the fading warmth she felt deepening the ever growing pit in her stomach.

           If she’d waited, would McClellen still be alive?

           Would Paul be dead?

           Those questions, like all the others, were tossed aside as she resumed the slow journey forward, eyes locked on the darkness ahead of her. There was no telling what waited out there, just beyond the range of her flashlight, but she didn’t have time to lose herself to what ifs and should haves. There were two men behind her, two living, breathing men, and that was enough. It had to be enough.

           The cramped tunnel let out to an open space—another hallway, by the looks of it—and Norah carefully climbed out and set her feet on the ground. The light here was red, a sign that the emergency systems were working, at least, and she could only hope that the way to the escape pods was open. She led the way, following a mental map of the rig as automated voices rang out overhead. Their flashlights reflected off the tall windows which surrounded the evacuation room, the reinforced glass surprisingly intact compared to the wreckage all around it. Norah stumbled over a rogue pipe, her mind going blank as it struggled to put together what she was seeing.

           “Captain?”

           Sparks flew, the display illuminating Captain Lucien’s back where he sat hunched over inside the closed off rotunda. He made no indication that he’d heard her, his head in his hands as he sat alone in the dark. Norah hit the control panel, but he didn’t react to the obnoxious sound it made in protest. Squinting through the glass, her heart sank as she took in the damage surrounding him, the escape pods they’d all put so much hope in clearly no longer an option.

           “Shit.”

           “Shit?” Paul winced as he came over to stand beside her, looking over her shoulder into the dark. “What’s shit?”

           “The evac pods are gone.” Norah tuned out her friend’s frenzied cursing as she pounded on the glass, calling for her Captain. Could he even hear her through the reinforced windows? They were designed to withstand sudden changes in pressure—likely why they were still intact—but did that mean they also blocked out sound?

           The answer was no, they couldn’t, and Norah deflated with relief when Lucien turned around, face lighting up as he recognized first her then the men behind her.

           “Norah,” he called, his voice muffled but still intelligible through the glass as he rushed over. “You’re alive.” He didn’t sound like he believed it, but she could understand the sentiment. “The door’s jammed.”

           Right. Of course, it was. He probably would have left if it wasn’t. Norah quickly moved over to the control panel, mentally apologizing to the machine for hitting it as she tried to find some way to override the lock. Absently, she recognized the Captain giving orders to Paul and Rodrigo, both men rushing to obey, though Paul complained loudly between hissing breaths.

           “On a scale of one to ten, how bad’s my rig?”

           His attempt at humor fell a little flat and Norah looked up at him incredulously as the doors opened. “Uh,” she looked him up and down in the harsh white lights which conveniently decided to turn back on. His left arm was in a sling, miscellaneous bruises and cuts littered across his face. Shit. “Ten. We’re, um, seventy percent compromised—breathe too hard and we’re in trouble.”

           He didn’t appreciate her candor, turning away from her with a grim expression before turning back around and reaching for her face with his good hand, looking at her damaged ear with a grimace.

           “What happened,” she asked through chattering teeth, the two seconds she’d spent standing still reminding her body of how cold it was. “Was it an earthquake?”

           “I don’t know.” That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “I’m trying to figure it out.”

           She watched, still somewhat dazed, as he pulled a large red med kit out from seemingly nowhere, using his one hand to its full effectiveness as he rummaged through it.

           “I don’t understand.” Her voice forced its way through her tight throat, swallowing only thickening the knot living there. “Why are you still here? There were pods here, you could have left.”

           He gave her a look she was sure he’d leveled on his child a thousand times before. It certainly made her feel like one. “That’s what Captains do.”

           “Who cares?” She couldn’t stop the words or the incredulity which laced them. “You have a kid. You should have gone up.”

           He froze, expression blank as his mouth opened and closed, eyes shut as he tried to find the words to respond to that. Instead, he urged her to sit down, returning to the med kit as though she hadn’t said anything.

           “You know any one of us would have shoved your ass into a pod—.”

           “Listen to me!”

           Norah shut her mouth, staring wide eyed at her Captain as he kneeled in front of her, mouth tense as he glared up at her. His French accent was thicker in his anger, coloring his words as he gestured wildly with his good arm.

           “Everyone is getting out of here alive.” He said it with such conviction, Norah was almost able to believe him. “You here me? I already sent twenty two up, Smith reported seven dead.”

           Warmth spread in her chest at the news that Smith, at least, was still alive. She hadn’t let herself consider any other possibilities but having her old friend’s survival confirmed relieved a tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying. She gave a stuttering report of the dead she and Rodrigo had found before coming across Paul, and she struggled past telling him about McClellen, nonsensical words spilling from her lips—she lived three floors up, I was brushing my teeth, her hands were still warm, I shut the bulkheads on the entire East Wing so there’s definitely more.

           Captain Lucien, to his credit, remained staunchly focused on cleaning her ear, damp gauze coming away from it bloody. Whatever was wrong with it, it stung when he touched it, the pain a welcome reminder that she was alive, only living people could bleed, and a grim one that so many people weren’t.

[lexpressobean]

The thing about writing fanfiction for me is that once I start a multi-chapter fic (tho I've only ever posted a grand total of 2 ever lol both still unfinished rip OTL) I apparently never brainstorm enough. Or too much! 'Cause by nature I live for "what ifs" and it's wrecking me lol, I can't move on...! But this is a Modern AU setting and now I can't stop developing Shibi and Shino in a general sense (and Shibi's involvement is very minor compared to other characters too like I need to chill??) But I guess this goes for my Modern AU in general, so here's are some thoughts no one asked for!

One big HC I have is that Shibi is a well renowned musician, and Shino also has a lot of talent in music as well. This is because in my head, though Aburame and their hive can communicate to some degree, they're also known to be affected by their respective Aburame's emotions. And they audibly buzz and get excited by it all and I seemed to unfailingly liken all that to vibrations, like of musical sounds, and then it kinda leads up to that fidgeting a person might do when they get very emotional or passionate but can't voice it because they need to stay quiet or simply don't know how to talk about something. In general I think both Shibi and Shino are decent enough communicators when it matters, but they ARE pretty quiet people. And I feel like one of the best ways to release and express otherwise pent up emotional tension and energy is by straight up blasting music to drown out everything else. And it feels even MORE satisfying by the end of it when you're the one who was actually putting out the notes!! Anyone can make noise, but truly inspired music is such a trip! Every single note accounted for (even the "rest" notes!!) symbolizes 1 kikaichu and so just the idea of being able to read and produce music and bringing it all to life just makes complete sense to me and fills me with serotonin when I think about Father/Son jamming sessions between them...!!!

more specific nonsense under the cut because idk how to shut up lol

And! And despite this being a Modern AU HC thing, it looks like Shino's actually been shown to semi(?)canonly play an electric guitar, and I've become fond of the idea of Shibi's first instrument being a bass guitar too~

Of course if that's the case, OBVIOUSLY Shibi would be a multi-instrumentalist. Obviously. And what I've been thinking is that by the time Shino is an adult. Shibi'd be a seasoned Film Score Composer. I feel like unless you're quite the music or movie fan, or work in the business, you probably aren't gonna be super into the composers in comparison to the actors and directors that work on the same movie lol So to the general public, Shibi Aburame isn't a name that brings out stars in anyone's eyes. But if you know, you know, and boy does Shibi have his work cut out for him. He's in demand for lots of those box office hits.

Also YES Shibi can sing, and he knows it, the man isn't the least bit shy to acknowledge it! But he never committed singing as a major part of his career as much as playing because that's just the kind of guy he is. These days he won't sing unless it serves a purpose in brainstorming for his next project or if he's in the privacy of his car/home, but even then it's more just soft but super accurate harmonizing on his part to a radio or stereo or whatever. But if Shino ever needed comforting, especially as a small child, he'd never hesitate to lull Shino back into calm with songs that he either liked or maybe made up together if the situation was appropriate. And ocassionally he'll start to sings at Shino as a means to annoy his son because why talk when you can sing to get your point across?? He's not always a serious guy, sometimes he can get soft too...!

Shino? Can also sing and play well without much effort at all. Though Shino didn't take it up as a career like Shibi did, and not as many instruments, Shino is definitely his father's son and is just as musically inclined. He could've if he wanted to but found he a had a strong preference to percussion and string specifically, and even then prefered plucking and strumming versus bowing strings, but his favorite bowed string is a cello! And being part of the newer generation, he might mess around with a laptop software/button pad/launchpad if he's feeling particularly inspired or wants to challenge himself a little more. But his bestest baby is the first electric guitar he bought on his own ;o;

Shino is more likely to sing at any given time in comparison to Shibi, but he's still usually alone, whether wiping off the board after class, doing chores, or maybe grading papers. Kiba and Hinata have both caught him doing so since they first met him, and Hinata compliments his talent when she does, but Kiba starts to dis his choice of music when he realizes Shino sings a lot older or obscure music "like a fucking hipster!" Shino doesn't dis Kiba's personal taste in music as much as disses Kiba for his lack of open mindedness and it makes Kiba rethink everything when Shino is able to play the melody of every song Kiba throws at him the first time he comes over to his house. Shino is very eclectic in his taste of music, but some of Shino's favorite genres for singing are indie pop, blues (especially older ones), and the occasional toned down but no less accurate musical number or power ballad just imagine him whisper singing fcking "Jukebox Hero" while he's scribbling notes vvvvrrmm.

Unlike Shibi or Shino, Torune isn't so big on making music as he is listening and writing poetry/lyrics DON'T TELL ANYONE SHHHH FCKIN SH. It's not that he doesn't have talent, he can also sing rather well and owns karaoke night, he is karaoke king! It not quite a discipline problem as it is a drive thing as he never seriously touched more than two instruments. He can manage about 4 chords on guitar, just enough to impress, but oddly enough he was drawn to and became terribly enamored with Shibi's vibraphone. He studied that thing profusely and whenever he comes back to visit from college and after, he always comes back to it and plays it as if he never skipped a day of practice. Will probably own his own vibraphone at some point for sure! So scratch that, it's simply a Family Jam Session I guess!

Idk, I'm ranting again lol

[bbhyeoliskooks]

Can you do a Beomgyu Imagine where you try to break up with him cause he keeps ditching plans with you to hang out with his friends and he begs you for a second chance and doesn't leave until you agree?

ᓍृ∗੭ᐝ 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞, 𝐃𝐨 𝐓𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐌𝐞 ᓍृ∗੭ᐝ

You find that it’s best if the two of you break up.

You find that it’s best if the two of you break up.

*·✧ ऀืົཽ *✧.**·✧ ऀืົཽ *✧.**·✧ ऀืົཽ *✧.*

Pairing: Beomgyu x Reader (female)

Genre: 3 cups of angst, but the 4 cups of fluff overwhelms it in the end !!

Warnings: a cheesy and cute ending, cursing 

Song: Best Part

(Yo, even if this seems like a lot of angst... you need to read to the end !! It’ll be all worth it, I promise. Also, I’m so sorry to the anon who requested this that it took long... I didn’t expect it to, so I hope it’ll all be good in the end! Also, unedited due to school !!)

*·✧ ऀืົཽ *✧.**·✧ ऀืົཽ *✧.**·✧ ऀืົཽ *✧.*

For heck’s sake, where did you go wrong?

Where or what did you go wrong in your relationship?

You don’t remember doing anything destructive that would damage your relationship with Beomgyu, so why did he keep ditching you for those friends with his?

Every day he would arrive home late, his newly dyed blonde hair tangled in a mess as if had been doing something extensive for the whole day. He would place his jacket you gifted him last year on the tall chair beside your bed while you asked him how is day went. Only doing that would snap something in him, believing that you were being a pest. 

You got used to it, more or less.

On nights where you would actually beg him for cuddles or a little bit of attention, he would push you off to talk to his friends on the phone. Being nosy, you would try to listen to what they were saying, but Beomgyu would whisper quietly before going to the bathroom. You wanted to go there with him, perhaps pretend to use the toilet, but he would only shoo you away to go to the one downstairs. If you remembered correctly, the longest one was until three in the morning though you weren’t counting. 

You checked the electric bills the next morning, and the one for his phone was off the charts compared to normal. Maybe he had to do a favor for them, but it was a constant cycle where he would ignore you almost every day just to "help” his friends.

Not being able to anything but watch your heart slowly but surely break, you picked up a few clues that could possibly help you in this mess.  

First was the ever growing curiosity that worried you, but he would only push you off since it really wasn’t your business. Each time he would glare at you as if you had done something wrong, and the part that frustrated you the most was that he was adamant on not telling you! Then was the fleeting glances he would send you when he checked his phone for messages. They would usually come during the time where you two had a date inside, so that just extremely brought down the romantic atmosphere you put up.

Third, but not the last was that he’d get angry at you when you snooped a little bit on his phone as he took a lengthy shower. This happened on the other day, specifically just a week ago. You could understand him since it was his privacy, but he was receiving a few texts from someone named Mira. There were no emoticons or emojis at the end of her contact but when you called for him to pick it up he rushed towards you, his lips tightly painted in a line. There was this mean snarl on his face when he aggressively grasped it from you, telling you to screw off.

That night you cried alone, nose dripping with snot and pathetically lingering as you waited for your boyfriend to come back and say sorry.

It must’ve been worry or something of the sort if you were acting like this. You weren’t jealous since you knew you could trust him, but why was he being suspicious? He never kept any secret from you, telling you right away because he wanted at least one person to know. 

This kept going for a few weeks already so, quickly you got frustrated. Wasn’t he your boyfriend? Definitely not his friend’s, and you were his girlfriend. Trust was vital but with the time he kept losing to talk to his other friends, you couldn’t bring up the issue. There was nothing else you could do but feel your strong relationship crumble little by little each time he avoided you. 

So... for the last time, where did you go wrong?

*·✧ ऀืົཽ *✧.**·✧ ऀืົཽ *✧.**·✧ ऀืົཽ *✧.*

“Hey, Gyu? Do you want to get ice cream today?” You tugged a little on his soft, winter seasoned sweater as he sent you a small grin. You noticed right away that it was not genuine, but you ignored it in hopes that he wouldn’t say something rude about it.

Well, at least he smiled at you now! Maybe he was going to say yes for today! You specifically checked his schedule for an answer yesterday, so you hoped that he could spend time with you and only you. You even pulled out your puppy dog eyes today, so it was going to work!

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I want to hang out with my friends today. I hope you can understand.”

He put on his heavy jacket, not caring to say goodbye to you. He seemed too anxious to leave, running to the front door. Little did he know that he took your broken heart with him, purposefully forgetting to kiss you on the cheek as a goodbye. You hid your frustrated tears well this time. 

You opened the door shortly after he left to see him excitedly get into his friends’ car, but you noticed that there was a woman in the front seat. You had never seen her before, who could she be?

You internally slapped yourself on the forehead, becoming frustrated at yourself for thinking too deep about this. But the fact that he had forgot about an important date weighed on your mind, and you concealed your feelings hoping that he would do something sweet for you later. 

Even in melancholy situations like this, he never failed to call you his princess... not to mention, that it was your third anniversary too.

*·✧ ऀืົཽ *✧.**·✧ ऀืົཽ *✧.**·✧ ऀืົཽ *✧.*

Weeks had gone by, and he still kept this up. The long phone calls, the glares, especially the sudden disappearing whenever both of you had a date- it was safe to say that you were drained from it. 

You came to the conclusion that he didn’t love you the same way anymore. He couldn’t when he kept pushing you away from his life, but what was the cause? When did he stop seeing you like that? Were you too boring for someone like him?

There were too many what ifs and questions that kept repeating over and over in your head which caused a pounding headache in your head. You felt a little faint, although forcing yourself to do the laundry which had been laying there for a while now. 

You strolled tiredly to the room where Beomgyu was scrolling and texting on his phone. Of course, he was... you rolled your eyes, putting in some effort to have a sing-song voice in front of him. 

“Hey, could you give me your shirt? It’ll go with the laundry I’ll do tonight.” 

“Um, sure. I could do it, if you’d like!” 

Well, that was disgustingly sweet for him to offer! So now he was going to pretend that he loves you, huh? You snarled at him, grimacing at how innocent and pure his eyes were when he glanced up at you from his device. “No, Gyu. I’ll do it myself; just leave me alone.”

Beomgyu gulped nervously at your cold, snappy tone. Something must’ve been bothering you, but he didn’t want to say anything in fear that it would annoy you even more. Instead, he threw the shirt he was currently wearing towards you, to which you caught with ease. You muttered a thank you under your breath while he went back to texting his friend.

Almost fifteen minutes passed by when you separated all the clothes since you were too preoccupied with your thoughts. Your eyes landed on his shirt beside you. It was a bit dirty with a few speckles of brown on the side, but you figured it must’ve been his friends pranking him like they did every once in a while.

You grabbed the shirt on its side, inspecting it closely in the black of the room. There was a prominent spot on the sleeve, and you squinted your eyes to see it. Once you realized what it was, you dropped the shirt smack dab on the floor in repugnance. 

It was a lipstick stain, hell it was a fucking rouge lipstick stain!

Hiding your face in your hands then threading your fingers through your hair was enough to show that you were frustrated. He was being unfaithful to you, and it was right under your nose! You rubbed the tear that had already fallen out of you right eye. This was it. This was the evidence that you had been searching for, for a long time.

Jumping to conclusions wasn’t the best but... certainly you could because he had been avoiding you this whole time. With the way he was acting lately, it was no doubt that he had probably lost interest in you. Of course you felt guilty that you suspected him of cheating with you, but this- this just took the cake. It was the icing on the top, telling you that hell, he didn’t love you anymore.

He was cheating on you with another woman. For how long now? You didn’t want to know, trying to save a bit of blissful ignorance from the happy scenarios you made up in your head every night before you went to sleep although he was right next to you. So close, but still so far away was a good way to put it.

The fancy perfume that wasn’t your own proved it all, as well as the lipstick stain on the side of his shirt’s sleeve. 

Straightaway, you sprinted into the room, bumping into the closet door from how fast you were running. Your cold hands quivered while you gathered a few clothes from the hangers. Beomgyu sleepily walked in, rubbing his eyes at the sudden brightness from the light of the room.

“Princess...? Is there something wrong?” Hearing his voice was enough for you to dash out of that condensed room. 

Crap! You totally forgot to be quiet when he was sound asleep. There was no time to worry about that though, as you snatched your phone on the drawer beside. Your boyfriend furrowed his eyebrows at your hastiness, perplexed at what you were doing when it was the middle of the night. He grabbed your quivering arms while you struggled to get the suitcase under the bed that you two shared.

A suitcase? What would you need that for? Unless you were leaving... all of the fatigue that dragged him down simply disappeared when he noticed that you were putting more and more of your possessions in. 

“Y/N? Y/N, what are you doing?!” 

“Leaving, Beomgyu!”

“Stop it! Why are you leaving?”

“Because... because- you already know! Stop pretending that you don’t want me to leave!”

A mocking scoff was permitted from his mouth, and he tapped on your shoulder several times to get your attention. You weren’t being serious, right? 

“Y/N! You need to listen! I don’t fucking want you to leave!”

You continued to ignore him, shoving whatever things you could fit in that suitcase. “That’s your fault, not mine! Don’t expect me to stay with you when you ruined us!”

He ruined the two of you? You were pulling on his leg, he was sure of it. There was nothing that he did to hurt your feelings, if he remembered accurately! He searched his memory, but nothing turned up. “What are you saying?”

He waited for you to answer him, but you only threw your phone into the back of your pockets ignoring him like he did to you for weeks. Rolling his eyes at how strange you were being, he snatched involuntarily at your hands that was weak against his will. 

“Stop putting more clothes into that damn thing and talk to me!”

“And what for?! Talk about our breakup? Because we’re over- if you haven’t got the memo.”

If you had said that when he was wide awake, he would be on his feet flinging you on the bed so that you would talk it out like adults... not in that way though!

“O-our breakup?! We aren’t breaking up! You can’t do that!” Those were the only things he could say in his hazy mind, willing to put up even a weak fight so he wouldn’t have the love of his life leave him for good. 

“Watch me, then! You know that I can, and I will! You can’t stop me from-” he instantly wrapped his arms around you when he comprehended what you had said. You can’t leave him! He was just about to do something for you, you couldn’t leave now when things were going his way for the first time!

He inhaled the familiar scent of your shampoo that you applied just earlier today when your relationship seemed perfect. To Beomgyu, of course, not knowing of the pain he unintentionally put you through. Still he went on, tears of agony trickling against the both of his cheeks. He was having a difficult time breathing through his nose and mouth, clearly in disbelief that you were actually going to leave the door of his heart. 

“Princess... please. Please, don’t leave me. You promised you wouldn’t, so please just don’t leave me.”

“Beomgyu, stop it. I-I said,” you harshly scratched against his arms, desperate to leave the embrace that used to have you in euphoria. Used to.

“I’m leaving! I was so stupid for always staying with you when you called me a pest every single fucking day! I don’t want to be with someone I love if they can’t even give me what I deserve!” Finally you pushed yourself out of his grasp, backing up into the wall so he wouldn’t pull a manipulative move like that again. He can’t just say that when he knew he was breaking your heart for the other slut he was seeing!

The fact flew past his head, and he just held on even tighter to you in fear that he was going to lose you. “I don’t understand. Why do you need to leave? Did you suddenly stop loving me? Tell me! You know that we’re absolutely perfect for each other, and that’s the way it should be.”

“We were, Beomgyu. We were perfect until you cheated on me.”

“Cheated on you?! You think I would cheat on you?! Wow, that says a lot about your trust with me.”

“Can you really blame me though? These past few months gives the whole package away, not even a damn hint. And then the repulsive perfume that was leaking off your shirt for sure isn’t mine, there’s nothing to say. It’s so obvious you’re spending time with another woman you love... while I’m here waiting in the wee hours of the night for you to come back.”

“Y/N, I-” “you what? You’re sorry? Sorry isn’t enough to make me stay.”

With one harsh push away, you grabbed your suitcase ready to leave. The front door was just right there, so you rushed to open the doorknob. He couldn’t see you like this when you were about to break down! You promised long ago to yourself that he wouldn’t see you cry, and you planned to keep it unlike him and his promise to love you forever.

When you were just a footstep away from unlocking the door, you heard a crescendoing yell from your ex. 

“No, listen!”

He ripped the bag from your hands, all of the clothes that you had managed to pack falling out. Mistaken and shocked that he had arrived home early, you easily forgot to zip it up. You went to grab them smack dab against the floor, but he had grabbed your hand tightly so that you weren’t able to go away from him for the last time. 

You hissed at his seemingly icy touch. He really had the audacity to do things like this when he hurt you in the first place! “Why the fuck are you ordering me to do when you’re cheating?”

Beomgyu shook his head back and forth, searching for the answer on the wall as if it were there to tell you what he had been doing. “Y/N... please understand; that’s not it.”

“Then what is it? Explain the shit that you’ve done to me this past month! It’s crystal clear that you’ve stopped loving me a long time ago, and I can’t do anything about it! So, what did I do wrong?! Please, do tell me! I don’t want my last memory of you to be in vain-” before you could end what you were going to say, he smashed his face against yours in desperation, kissing you so you could be quiet. He was planning for it to be one that caught you off guard for a little while, but that didn’t happen since he was too caught up in what was happening to realize that he still had things to say. 

You responded back to his kiss eagerly, submitting to the warm lips that pressed passionately against your own. It had been so long since he had done something like this, you couldn’t get enough when he only brought you deeper. A couple of seconds had passed when the two of you had to gasp for air. He reluctantly pulled away, smirking a little bit just to tease you when you turned red at the embarrassment of him knowing you loved his kisses. 

“That was the only way to make you shut up, princess. Consider listening to me, and I’ll tell you the truth.”

He took a deep breath of air, the pace of his breathing becoming quicker when he tried to speak. You looked away- anywhere from his twinkling eyes, feeling extremely disappointed in yourself for getting affectionate with him once again. The train of thoughts that reminded you over and over again that he was a cheater was shattered when he gently tucked a hair strand behind your eyes, afterwards brushing his thumb against your cheek. 

“I’ve been ditching you to go to my friends because I wanted to surprise you. I thought that it would be a short and sweet month of preparation since they kept helping me, but some things got in the way. I guess the stress got to me, and I yelled at you. I’m sorry...”

Oh no... your heart dropped to your stomach, horror only an understatement at how rude you were being. Immediately, you had to apologize for being such a dumb idiot for not trusting in him. He was being so kind to you while you accused him for being with another woman. You felt terrible, now knowing that he only wanted to make you happy. That was until he placed a blissful kiss on your hand, the edges of your lips becoming a small curve from how truthful he was being. 

“I’ve been meaning to do this for a while, so I asked one of their girlfriends to help me with one of these things.” You tilted your head, a bit puzzled at his statement. “Like what?”

“Just close your eyes for a second.” He booped the tip of your nose lovingly, and you glared at him to hurry up and stop teasing you. “I don’t see your point-” he quietly chuckled at your endearing stubbornness. “Just do it, please?”

You heard the shuffling of his clothes, growing confused each second. Once he told you to open your arms, you found him kneeling in front of you, his eyes shiny and pure from the tears that had fallen down. Even in the dim light of the room, you could see that he was smiling softly. 

When your eyes roamed farther down even more, landing on the luminous diamond perched in his hand, you raised in eyebrow in confusion.

Wait, was that a ring...? 

Its band was golden and shimmering overwhelming the darkness surrounded the two of you. It was the middle of the night when you decided to leave him, but you couldn’t when he suddenly pulled that beautiful thing out! There was a diamond in the middle, reflecting many bright colors off the moon when he pointed it towards you.

You gasped in shock. Where could’ve he had the time to buy something as gorgeous as this? Surely, he wasn’t going to say those sweet words...

“You’ve always dreamed for this moment to arrive, right? Well, I guess I should say them now just so that you know that I truly, dearly love you the most.”

“We can’t end like this because of my foolish ignorance. If we did that, I know my world will fall apart without you. You really are the coffee that I need in the morning, I can’t do this without you.” 

“We’re soulmates, and you can’t ever say that we aren’t. You’re going to be bind to me forever, so I guess I just have to ask this one time.” His voice trembled when he looked back at you, the courage that he had built up for a while crumbling when you raised a surprise eyebrow at him. He wasn’t going to be surprised if you rejected him from the way he had been treating you, but he just needed to ask. 

“Will you marry me, princess?”

Waves of realization rushed over you again and again while you watched one of the tears in his eyes fall out from how happy he was to finally ask you the question that you’ve been pining for all your life. He was going to marry you after three years of your relationship! For the first time in forever, you didn’t need to wonder what life could be without him because you knew that he was going to be by your side until the two of you went to heaven together as breathtaking angels.

This journey of prosper was going to be difficult, but yet it was so beautiful. He was yours, and you were his. Even if it takes a long time for the two of you to really fall in love with each other, you’re glad that it’s him and only him. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

You threw your arms around him in pure joy, relishing in the way that he had hugged you back with the same, reciprocated love. Giggling, you hoped never to let go of the warm embrace he enclosed you in, tightly gripping the back of his head as if he would disappear any second. You shut your eyes, sniffling silently at the precious feeling he had gifted you after a stressful argument. Only he could make you feel this special, if not being your fiance wasn’t enough. 

What other answer could be, if it wasn’t already a yes?

“O-of course, my prince!” 

With one strong, effortless pull, he took you into his arms and swung you around while you both laughed from the euphoria that was rushing through your veins. His smile was so big this time, and you took the opportunity to reciprocate the same delight. It seemed as if everything had stopped in time, reminding you that everything was going to be fine.

He slowly set you down on the floor again, holding you in his arms as you gathered your effort to stand up straight. There were tears in his eyes, but he didn’t want to show you, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. 

“Thank gosh, you said yes. I’ve been dreaming you to say that for a long time...” He somehow brought himself much more closer to you, his nose pressing against your cheek. There was a faint smell of his cologne from the sweater that he owned, and he inaudibly groaned in your ear. Your saccharine perfume was always the best for him, whether you realized it or not, but he found it absolutely precious whenever you wore his home clothes looking so innocent like that. You just grinned at his little wish, pecking him on the cheek. “How could I not? You said it yourself, we’re soulmates.”

Like the many times in rough patches of this relationship, you realized that you couldn’t go wrong in this relationship as long as you remembered to trust Beomgyu. 

*·✧ ऀืົཽ *✧.**·✧ ऀืົཽ *✧.**·✧ ऀืົཽ *✧.*

Posted: 9/29/20- 8:18pm

Tags:

[hannibard]

Waiting for You

My @thewitchersecretsanta gift for @ofxwordsxandxletters. I tried my best to incorporate the things you said you liked and I sincerely hope you enjoy. Happy Holidays!!!

Crossposted to AO3

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier

It was early afternoon when Geralt made it back to the village covered in monster guts. It wasn’t a particularly difficult hunt, but it did take him quite a bit of time to actually find the cockatrice before killing it, so he returned later than he had originally planned.

The villagers quickly stopped chatting with each other when they saw him and made sure to avoid him as he and Roach passed through a dense road on their way to the alderman’s house. He had been on the path for many years and by now he was used to their hateful gazes along with the rotten stench of fear they always seemed to eminate.

He dropped the pouch containing the cockatrice’s head on the alderman’s threshold and accepted his meagre payment from the man, without having to exchange a single word with him, before going straight for the inn he and Jaskier were staying at.

He left Roach at the stable next to the building and made his way inside, expecting to find the bard singing to a bunch of drunkards, having started his set already, but when he entered the common room, he found it empty and with only a hint of Jaskier’s smell, meaning it had been at least a couple of hours since he’d last been there.

The witcher ignored the small pang of worry in his chest and hurried upstairs to their shared room. He threw the door open with a little too much force and looked around. The bard wasn’t inside as he had hoped, despite all his stuff was still being in the same place he had carelessly thrown them when they first arrived the day before. Even his lute, aka his most prized possession and love of his life, was here and he rarely ever went somewhere without it.

Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose and took a few deep breaths, suddenly feeling stupid for caring this much. Jaskier was a grown man after all. He could do whatever he wanted and Geralt had no right to keep him by his side, despite how much he secretly wanted to, but it wasn’t the right time for such thoughts.

Anyhow, Jaskier was probably off with some barmaid or stablehand that had caught his fancy and had decided to skip his usual performance seeing as they had more than enough coin saved up as of late.

Assuming his friend would be back after he’d had his fun, Geralt started on his typical post-hunt routine: placing his swords and pack on a corner, taking off his armor (though this time without the help of a certain someone’s skilled fingers), calling for a bath and a meal to be brought up and after he was both clean and fed, kneeling on the bed and meditating.

By the time he was done with everything, the sun had long set and with his enhanced senses Geralt could hear the rest of the inn’s guests getting ready for bed, but his bard had yet to return.

Feeling as though enough time had passed for his feelings of worry to be reasonable, the witcher went downstairs to the bar. He placed his empty plate and tankard on the counter and as a man got reluctantly closer to take them away, he asked:

“Have you seen the bard that was with me when I arrived anywhere?”

The man was startled to be addressed but he looked back at Geralt.

“I think he went to play gwent at ‘The Rusty Rapier’ with some guys around midday.”

Jaskier’s skills in gwent were notorious to involve quite a bit of cheating, and since it had been so many hours since he went off, Geralt had a bad feeling about this.

“How do I find this tavern?”

He was given directions by the other man and after going back up to the room to take his swords, he went straight to that place hoping nothing bad had happened to his bard, though he doubted that was the case since neither of them was ever that lucky.

.......

Locked inside an abandoned shed, Jaskier was sitting on the ground, hugging his knees and trying to calm himself down while rocking back and forth in a rhythmic motion.

When he was first thrown in here by the men he had tried to scam, after they’d given him a small beating and taken all the coin he had on him (thank Melitele he had left his pouch at the inn) it was still day outside and he could see clearly around him because of some holes on the shed’s wooden ceiling. And Jaskier was mostly fine at that point, just cheerfully singing to pass the time and waiting for his dearest friend Geralt to come rescue him.

Sure, the few wounds and bruises he had (admittedly deservingly) acquired from his gwent-playing buddies stung a bit but it was nothing compared to what some cuckolded husbands had done to him in the past. Plus, ultimately both in this case and all the previous ones where he’d been roughened up by someone he had brought it upon himself, so he couldn’t really complain.

And yeah, singing was always more fun when he had his lute with him but that wasn’t enough to faze him, he could easily make do even without any instrumental accompaniment. He was a professional musician after all.

But as the hours went by, one after the other, the light from outside started dimming, the temperature dropping and his optimism dying, Jaskier grew more and more anxious. He has always hated the dark ever since his childhood and the whole situation was making him recall old memories that he had tried his best to forget.

By this point he had run out of his own songs to sing and had moved on to the ones he had been taught at Oxenfurt, his voice much weaker than before.

He went to rub a hand over his face and noticed that it was slightly trembling, together with the rest of his body and even though it was very cold, he suspected it was only half the reason. He clenched his eyes shut and rested his forehead against his knees, hugging them closer to his torso. He really fucking hated the dark.

Deep breaths Julian, he though as he dug his nails to his upper arms in order to distract himself and sighed. You have no reason to fear. Geralt will probably be here soon and then both of us can leave this godforsaken place behind in the morning.

Except… what if Geralt didn’t come? What if he used this chance to finally get rid of him? After all it was a well-known fact that the older man only barely tolerated his presence.

Sure, Jaskier’s songs had helped lesser the prejudice that existed against Witchers and made it easier for him to find work, but that didn’t mean he needed Jaskier in his life, he’d made that perfectly clear from the start of their acquaintance. Hell, he still refused to even call Jaskier his friend for fucks sake. The bard had thought they’d grown closer over time but maybe that was only wishful thinking.

Jaskier was only a burden and a nuisance to Geralt, and he couldn’t deny that no matter how much it hurt to admit. Still, the bard loved and cared for him anyways. He always had since that fateful day in Posada.

He might have attached himself to the witcher’s side for mostly selfish reasons at first, but he quickly realized how kind and caring he was behind his tough exterior and how low his self-esteem had become from decades of dealing with humans’ contempt and so he had vowed to do everything in his power to create a better world for him.

And although he knew this love wasn’t mutual and that he should have been content by being able to stay with him, even if only as a travel companion, a small traitorous part of him would always crave for more...

Nevertheless, if the witcher was aware of Jaskier’s feelings towards him he probably would have ditched him in some backwater town a long time ago, and so the bard was careful to lock them up inside his chest and never let them show.

But what if he had been careless? What if he let his touch linger while washing Geralt’s hair a little too long? What if he had written a few too many love songs recently with references to ‘luscious silver hair’ and ‘perfectly sculpted biceps’?

Perhaps the reason Geralt hadn’t come yet was because he had left the village without him as his way of letting Jaskier down gently.

Or even worse, what if he’d gotten hurt? Cockatrices (as the witcher suspected the monster he was sent to kill this time was) were fairly easy for Geralt to handle if they were by themselves but accidents could always happen.

What if he was bleeding to death from a fatal wound right this moment when Jaskier had no way to find and help him? If he wasn’t such an idiot and gotten himself in this situation, he might have been able to save him.

All those what ifs were making Jaskier more and more distraught and he could feel tears fill his eyes. He buried his face in his hands and started sobbing quietly, no longer able to continue his singing when suddenly the door was kicked open. The musician looked up abruptly, but he couldn’t make out who was in front of him because of the darkness.

“Jaskier?!” yelled a very familiar gruff voice.

The bard’s eyes widened, and he wiped his tears with the back of his hand. “G-Geralt? Is that you?”

The witcher dropped to his knees beside him. “Yes, it’s me.” He said and started running his hands all over Jaskier’s body, checking for injuries. “You don’t seem badly hurt. Can you stand?”

The bard nodded and got up with his friend’s assistance. It was a bit hard since he felt as if his legs had turned to putty after staying in one position for so long but after leaning on the wall for a moment, he was able to take a few trembling steps. Geralt helped him get outside and onto Roach’s back before climbing to sit behind him. “How do you always manage to get in trouble?” The witcher asked as Roach started galloping towards the village.

Jaskier gave a weak laugh in response. “Must be a talent. How did the hunt go? Are you hurt anywhere?”

Geralt sighed and shook his head. “How you had time to worry about others when you were in that situation evades me.”

“Don’t avoid the question!”

“…The hunt went well and I didn’t get hurt.”

“Promise?” the bard asked, knowing the older man had a habit of hiding his injuries from him.

“Promise.”

Jaskier smiled softly and leaned on his chest, all of a sudden feeling very tired. “Good. How’d you find me?”

“I paid a visit to ‘The Rusty Rapier’ and asked about you. After a bit of threatening, the men you cheated at gwent told me where you were.”

“Heh…Took you long enough.” Jaskier grumbled.

“I thought you were just fucking someone’s wife or something, didn’t expect you to be locked in a shed.” Geralt answered but he sounded somewhat apologetic.

Jaskier chuckled. “I was kidding big buy. Thanks for coming.”

Geralt just hummed in response and the bard could feel the vibrations of it on his back as he dozed off.

.......

When he woke up, he found himself back at the inn’s room. He was laying on the bed in his nightclothes and as he sat up, he noticed that his wounds had been bandaged. The sight brought a small smile to his face. He was about to get up when the door opened and Geralt walked in, carrying a bowl of what seemed to be stew and a tankard of ale. He looked surprised to see Jaskier awake. “You’re up.”

“So it seems.”

The witcher placed the food on the table. “How do you feel?”

Jaskier thought about it. “A bit sore.”

Geralt huffed a laugh. “That’s to be expected. Come.”

Jaskier obeyed and got up, making his way to the table. He sat down and started eating eagerly, only now noticing how hungry he was. When he was done, he pushed the empty bowl away and looked up at the older man. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, thank the innkeeper that had to get up and prepare this in the middle of the night.”

“No, not just that. For everything.” He said nodding towards his bandaged arm. “And… I’m sorry for always causing you trouble.”

The witcher looked a bit taken aback by that but he quickly schooled his expression. “It’s fine.”

Jaskier gave him a lopsided smile and looked down on his hands that were resting on his lap.       Geralt waited a bit to see if the bard would say anything and when it was apparent that that wasn’t going to happen, he took hold of the bowl and tankard and went downstairs to leave them somewhere for the innkeeper to find in the morning. He also dropped by the stables to check on Roach.

When he returned, the bard barely noticed his presence. He was still sitting in the same position, not having moved at all, looking dazed and forlorn. Geralt’s brows furrowed in worry and he sat down on the bed.

“Jaskier.”

The musician didn’t turn to look at him, still distracted by his own thoughts. “Hm?”

“What’s wrong?”

Jaskier blinked rapidly a few times and looked up at him. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Geralt sighed and rubbed his face. “You’ve been a bit… out of it. Since I found you.” The witcher had never been good with words, that was Jaskier’s job. But he desperately wanted to help his friend, so he pushed on. “I’ve just never seen you so uh. Quiet. You’ve always been unfazed by any situation, cracking jokes even when that griffin dislocated your shoulder.”

The bard glared at him “Well I though you fucking preferred the quiet.” he snapped and then immediately regretted it, his gaze softening. “Sorry… it’s just-” He cut off himself and sighed. He got up and came to sit next to the witcher. “You might laugh at me when you hear this but… I’m afraid of the dark.”

That definitely wasn’t what Geralt expected. “What? How’s that even possible? We’ve made camp in the woods countless times and you always seemed perfectly fine.”

Jaskier let out a nervous laugh. “That’s because you were there with me. I don’t have an issue when I’m with others but when I’m alone I just kind of lose it. Oh, and there’s also a bit of claustrophobia sprinkled in there.”

“Hm. I never would have guessed.”

The younger man snorted. “Well it’s not like I advertise it.” He scratched his cheek and bit his lower lip. “So that’s why being in that shed affected me this much. Anyhow, I’ll be over it by morning probably.” He bumped the witcher with his shoulder. “Don’t worry, my silly little phobias won’t delay our schedule.”

Geralt immediately felt guilty for making his friend think he would care more about being back on the Path than his mental wellbeing. He frowned and took one of the bard’s hands in his own, giving it a little squeeze. “Jask, if you need more time I wouldn’t mind staying here for a few days longer. I-I just want you to be ok.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened and he looked as if he was about to cry. “Oh Geralt… This means a lot to me. Thank you.”

The witcher smiled at him and gave him a look that seemed full of affection, though Jaskier didn’t dare hope. “Anytime.” He coughed to clear his throat. “So… Do you want to talk about it? Your fear of the dark?”

“Well… There’s not much to say really… It started when I was very young, and my parents decided that to keep me from becoming even more of a disappointment they’d have to find new, stricter ways to punish me for my wrongdoings.” He ran his free hand through his hair. “And one of them was locking me inside a dark storage room for days, without giving me any food until they’d deemed that I had learned my lesson.”

Jaskier was retelling all that casually, as if he was talking about the weather but Geralt was horrified by his words. He always had a hunch that the bard likely didn’t have the best childhood- being a disowned noble and all- but he never guessed that it was actually that bad.

Because how could someone that didn’t receive any love as a child be so full of it as an adult? How could someone that grew up in such a joyless environment be able to spread happiness and laughter wherever he went? How could he wear his heart on his sleeve, letting anyone he met just take it from him and trample it down if he knew better?

“Jaskier that’s fucking horrible, how could you call the fear all that trauma has instilled in you just ‘silly little phobias’?!” His voice raised with each word he spoke, and he was yelling by the end of the sentence.

The bard flinched away from him and avoided his gaze. “Because it’s all in the past Geralt. It’s stupid, to be this affected by it still.”

The witcher was at a loss for words. Jaskier was a pretty talkative guy, always chatting about one thing or the other, but he rarely ever mentioned his family and now the older man could see why, even if he couldn’t completely relate.

Part of him would always resent his mother, Visenna, for abandoning him and thus leading him to the life of a witcher but even still, he had retained many nice memories from their short time together. Instances where she hugged and comforted him or sung him a lullaby to sleep, he treasured all of them dearly.

Because at the end of the day, even though it might not have been as strong in comparison to other mothers, Geralt knew in his heart that Visenna loved him.

And knowing that Jaskier probably couldn’t even be sure about that (because how could a parent that starved their child willingly for days and locked them up have any capacity for love and affection? With that being only one of the punishments) was paining him more than the bard could ever imagine. He wanted nothing more than to envelop him in his arms and protect him from the cruel world they were forced to live in.

He was perfectly aware of what all this meant of course. He might have been bad at dealing with emotions but after the first few years of travelling together, even he couldn’t continue to deny the feelings held towards Jaskier.

It was almost inevitable really. After spending so much time with someone like the bard, with his gorgeous smile and cornflower blue eyes, his easy-going attitude, his beautiful singing voice, someone that had not once been afraid because of him and that had stood up for him when others treated him unfairly, he was bound to fall in love.

“It’s not stupid Jask.” He said after a long exhale. “You’re so strong to have gone through something like that. Most people would have broken under such circumstances.”

Jaskier didn’t look convinced and he smiled wryly while shaking his head. “It’s music that saved me y’know. Whenever I was locked up, I would start singing the melody to whatever few songs I knew, and during those times I could almost forget the hunger and the cold and all the expectations I had failed to meet.” He sniffled and rubbed his eyes. “That’s why I decided to become a bard later on. So that I’d be able to create music too, and maybe help other people when they’re feeling down and give them hope through it.”

When the bard finished speaking, Geralt brought his free hand up and wiped a stray tear that had slid down his cheek. “You’ve done a wonderful job so far. I know I don’t say it much, but I really like all your songs. Yes, even the ones about me.”

Jaskier snickered inelegantly, surprised by his words. “You might regret admitting that darling cause I’m never gonna let you live it down.”

Geralt chuckled. “Hm. True that.” He said and gave the musician a small sad smile. Jaskier rolled his eyes elbowed him in the stomach.

“Oh come on, don’t make that face now! Honestly, if I knew you’d be this affected I wouldn’t have told you.” He said teasingly, trying to make this conversation a bit more lighthearted but the witcher wasn’t having it. He grimaced and maneuvered his body to better face the bard.

“Of course I’m affected Jaskier, how could I possibly not be?! To me you are...” He stopped himself before he could finish that sentence. Nothing good would come if he revealed his feelings to Jaskier. Such a bright person that had their whole life ahead of them would never be interested in a witcher. The bard had helped him see himself in a better light in recent years but that didn’t change the fact that he was a monster, a mutant killing machine that was undeserving of the kind and sweet musician.

Jaskier, unaware of Geralt’s internal monologue, tilted his head the side, looking simultaneously curious and adorable. “…To you I’m what?”

Geralt avoided his gaze. Even in the best-case scenario, the witcher could only hope that the bard would take into consideration their friendship and long history together and not show his disgust too much. Maybe even begin a relationship with him out of pity, but it wouldn’t last long.

Geralt had seen the way Jaskier’s previous flings had gone. He always fell head over heels for some random person that he met during their travels and spent a few weeks, or months at most lavishing them with attention but after that time period passed, he’d fall out of love just as quickly and leave his ex-paramour behind as he rejoined the witcher’s side.

It always secretly pleased Geralt, making him feel superior. Because even if he could never really have Jaskier, not like those other people did, at least he had the knowledge that the younger man would always come back to him. It helped lessen the sting of his jealousy.

And if he ever were to be the recipient of Jaskier’s attentions, no matter how nice it could be at first, he wouldn’t be able to bear it when he became the next person Jaskier left behind, especially after getting a taste of everything he ever wanted. That would only serve to haunt him in his dreams.

But the bard deserved to know. He had just laid down his heart and let Geralt see him at his most vulnerable state. That meant he trusted him enough to do that and the witcher wanted to show him how much he appreciated it by in turn showering him with all the love and affection he held for him. So he took one large breath to brace himself and let the truth out.

“To me you’re everything.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened but he didn’t pull away. “Huh?”

Geralt started tracing circular patterns with his thumb on the other man’s hand. “It’s exactly as I said. When I first met you, I thought you were just a stupid kid looking for adventure and easy coin, and that once you had a taste you’d go back where you came from. But you never did. You stuck next to me through thick and thin, no matter how much I tried to push you away or treated you like shit. You were like an angel, entering my life out of the blue and improving it in every aspect.”

“I hadn’t even realized how lonely I was until you came along. Back then I only focused on my job as a witcher, not really caring if I’d make it out alive whenever I fought a monster. But nowadays I’m extra careful and I try harder just so that I can see you again. You’ve made life worth living again Jask and I… I love you.”

Jaskier just stared at him with his mouth hanging open.

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was it possible that he was still locked in that shed and had begun to hallucinate from the lack of food? Because this whole situation definitely seemed too good to be true.

He pinched himself hard on the arm for good measure.

“Ouch!” Yeah no, it was real. “Are-are you serious?”

Geralt pursed his lips and nodded, looking almost comically grim. He could hear the other’s heartbeat start to pick up.

“And I understand if you feel uncomfortable and want me to be gone by morning, I’m not expecting anything so-hmph!” He was interrupted as Jaskier’s lips crashed onto his. The witcher froze, not able to comprehend what was happening right away but when he did, he wrapped both arms around the other man’s waist and kissed him back with vigor.

When they eventually had to break apart, they were both breathing heavily and Jaskier rested his forehead on Geralt’s, chest heaving, and felt an involuntary shiver run up his spine. “Gods, I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”

The older man brought his hand up and started petting his hair gently, feeling giddy and a little nervous. “Me too.”

This had gone much better than expected and no matter how things turned out in the future, he would never regret this moment.

Jaskier pulled away to look him with the brightest smile on his lips, his eyes crinkling in the corners with the force of it. “I love you too dear heart, I have since the day we met.”

Geralt blinked in shock. “You have? But you never said anything and you’ve been in a thousand relationships since then.”

“That’s because I never expected you to feel the same way! No one else could ever compare to you witcher and now that I have you, I’ll never look at other people ever again.”

Jaskier laced their hands back together and brought them up to his mouth, giving a kiss on the back of the witcher’s palm, letting his lips linger for a few seconds. “I promise.”

With all his worries gone, Geralt grinned at his bard and pulled him to his chest for a tight embrace.

They sat there like that for a long time, just basking in each other’s presence and their close proximity.

“…We’re both pretty stupid aren’t we?”

“Pffft, we sure are.” Jaskier said as he nuzzled his lover’s chest when a thought entered his mind. “By the way, how long has it been since you last slept?”

“Two days give or take.”

The bard looked up at him horrified. “What the hell Geralt! We have to fix that immediately.” He said and blew out the few candles that were still lighting the room, before pushing the witcher to lie down on the bed and joining him. They curled around each other on their sides, torsos facing, and Jaskier buried his face on Geralt’s neck as the older man pulled the blankets over them. When they were settled, he wrapped his arms around the bard and tangled their feet together.

The younger man was about to fall asleep when he heard the witcher’s deep voice calling his name.

“Jaskier?”

“Yeah?”

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you since before this whole thing happened.”

“M’listening.”

“…Do you want to come to Kaer Morhen with me for the winter?”

Geralt held his breath as he waited for a response. It came in the form of Jaskier pulling back slightly, only to give him a long, gentle kiss.

“Of course I’ll come darling.”

The witcher was relieved and felt excited for the months to come. He smiled softly even though he knew the other man couldn’t see it. “Then we’ll have to buy you one of those thick woolen coats you hate sometime soon.”

Jaskier groaned. “Fuck. I guess it’s worth it.” He gave him one last kiss before closing his eyes once more. “Goodnight love.”

“…Goodnight.” Geralt replied and then dozed off to the best sleep he’d had in decades.

[unmaskedagain]

Ladybug in Smallville

           You can’t fix a broken heart, her grandmother told when Marinette was young and had ask why the older woman why she never remarried.

“You can forgive here,” Gina Dupain had pointed to her head. “And you can tell yourself every day that you forgive him, that all is well. And maybe you do. Maybe not right away, like you tell people but eventually… you do. You move on. You find some kind of peace. But that doesn’t mean your heart’s forgotten. Especially during the worst of it, when it’ll remind you every day just how much you’re still hurting.”

           The silver haired woman had look so dejected, so cynical compared to her usual chipper, charming self that it left the little girl stunned.

“Until one day, it doesn’t,” Gina continued. “And yet, your heart’s not the same. You’re not the same. No matter what you tell yourself. Sometimes, you’d swear it’s just a giant scar on your heart. Because at least that means it’s healed; beaten up, bruised, and permanently disfigured but healed.  Other days when you think too hard about it, and you are walking through memory lane; you can just barely admit the truth. That you can still feel every jagged edge, sharp angle still there from a shattered heart. And once on a very blue moon, you admit to yourself the truth; you can’t fix a broken heart. It’ll always be broken. Love has consequences.”

           She looked Marinette deep in the eyes, “The trick is learning to live with it. Learning that a broken heart doesn’t mean it doesn’t work.”

“Broken… but still good,” Marinette quoted Lilo and Stitch.

           Her grandmother beamed, “One of the hardest things is the world, sweetie, is to not let that broken heart stop you. You can cry. You can be angry. You can vengeance on the entire world. As long as you never let it stop you from living.”

“And loving?” Marinette asked. “You learned to love again.”

           There was a pause. A thoughtful look. And then a sigh, as Gina finally answered, “No, I never fell in love again. I could never trust the same as I did before. Never managed to figure out how to love with all of my heart like I used to when I was young. And it always felt wrong not you; but that’s just me. I learned to love myself, though. And that is the greatest thing you can ever learn. Love yourself.”

           Marinette had been nine-years-old at the time and hadn’t quite understood what her grandmother had been talking about. But she never forgot, the cold look on her grandmother’s face and the sorrow in her eyes.

           It was only years later, when the biggest liar to ever walk the planet proved that not all villains are easily defeated, when her friends had all turned their backs on her, when the boy who she swore she was going to marry someday was more of a cowardly frog than a prince, when even her parents bought the fabrication of Marinette being a bully, a thief, a jealous liar that Marinette finally understood. Because not only had her heart been broken, but it had been shattered.

           Marinette couldn’t even go to Fu as the man had used the last of his power in a fight against Hawkmoth because Chat Noir never showed up and Fu refused to give out Miraculous to people Marinette didn’t trust so the turtle had to fight. They had won but Marinette swore she’d never forgive Chat Noir for not showing up and costing a good man his life, and Marinette her mentor.

           Master Fu’s last act had to strip Chat Noir of his ring and name Marinette the new guardian. Before he faded, he warned Marinette that some people weren’t worth fighting for. Sometimes, a hero’s first priority has to be to save themselves.

           However, even then, Marinette had refused to give up. She kept trying to get her friends to listen, even when they made it clear they weren’t her friends anymore. Most didn’t reply to the texts anymore. And the ones that did, Alya mostly, ridiculed her; scorned Marinette’s very existence.

She tried to get Adrien to stand up and help her like he’d promised, only for him to ignore her calls, texts, and have Nathalie tell her that he didn’t want to be involved.

Despite the furious silent treatment from her mother and her father’s disappointed looks, Marinette still tried to convince them of her innocence. She had begged for them to listen to her, to trust that they raised her right, to believe her.  It was only after two weeks into her expulsion, when Marinette found luggage waiting by the door that Marinette understood. Nothing would change their minds.

They explained quickly that Marinette was going to be sent to live with her father’s godmother, one of his mother’s best friends. A good woman who promised to set Marinette straight. Or at least keep her out of trouble.

Marinette was on a plane an two hours later to a little old Kansas and then to a small town rightly called Smallville.

A kindly older blond man name Jonathan Kent had met her at the airport. Marinette had given him a polite, quiet, greeting and when mute for the rest of the ride to their farm. She hadn’t known what to expect. Feared the worst. Feared that they thought she was the bully her.

As soon as they arrived at the farm, a rather pretty greying redheaded woman walked out of her house with a mixing bowl in one hand and a sturdy wooden spoon in the other. Marinette steeled herself as she got out of the car. She raised her head up, “Bonjour, Madam.”

“Well, aren’t you the sweetest little thing,” The woman had greeted. “And I swear, you look just like your grandmother. It’s that spark in your eyes. Every time I saw it, I knew there was going to be trouble. Particularly, for the fools that messed with her. That’s how my cheating ex boyfriend’s dorm accidently caught on fire.”

           Marinette blinked once. Then twice. What?

“Accidently, Martha?” Jonathan chuckled as he got Marinette’s bags out of the car.

           Martha shot him a smile, “They could never prove otherwise.” She looked Marinette over, “Gina said your parents have their heads in a place sun just can’t seem to reach. Wanted to me to look after you. Get you away from all that drama. Get you with family. And the lord knows, that woman doesn’t know how to sit her butt anywhere long enough to leave an imprint. So come on inside, let’s get you unpacked and some food inside you.”

           Aunt Martha, as Marinette had been instructed to call her, had led her to an empty room that was just a bit bigger than the one she used to have and had a desk by a large window, a twin bed covered in a plaid blanket, and a few other standard amenities. Plus an old sewing machine on the desk. Marinette’s eyes lit up at the sight of it.

“Your grandma told me you like to design,” Aunt Martha smiled kindly. “I don’t use old Bertha myself anymore but I’d thought you’d like her. You can decorate your room anyway you’d like. Let me know if you need any help.”

           Marinette nodded and couldn’t stop herself from hugging the woman. She hadn’t been able to take much with her (Clothes, phone, laptop, a stuffed animal or two, the guardian box) but she made sure to bring all her sketch books and had just barely enough time and money to drop off a few boxes of her designing equipment and supplies at the local mail service carrier to be shipped to the farm in the upcoming weeks. The fear had been weighing on her of what ifs. What if it all got lost in the mail? What if Marinette couldn’t design anymore?

           Martha simply hugged her back, no probing questions. When Marinette let go, Martha said, “Now Kara and Conner’s rooms are either side of you. Conner’s mostly here on the weekends. Kara visits enough to still have room. They can be a… little nosy. But ignore it. My son, Clark, is visiting next week. They just can’t wait to meet you. I wouldn’t be surprised be any of them suddenly drops in.” She laughed, and it sounded a little like jingle bells.

           Then suddenly, Martha straightened up and gave Marinette a soft look, “You let me know if you need to talk or… Anything really.”

           Marinette felt her throat close up a bit and nodded stiffly.

“Dinner will be on the table soon.”

“May I help, Madam?” Marinette asked.

           Martha looked her over, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. You can go ahead and get settled in.”

           Marinette blinked again. No one ever turned down her offer to help before. “I want to.” And so she did.

           Cooking with Aunting Martha was different that with her parents. While, she knew her parents loved to bake. It always felt like a job with them. One more responsibility Marinette had. Cooking with Aunt Martha was relaxing. They shared stories with each other and Marinette got more insight of her grandmother’s past than she ever had before. And even when it got silent, Marinette didn’t feel the need to fill it for once. And neither did Martha. It was nice.

           Eating dinner had been the same. Enjoyable and lovely with promises of teaching Marinette all about the farm. Uncle John laughing at wide-eyed Marinette reaction to idea of her milking a cow. It was a relief not to deal with her mother’s stony silence and her father’s blatant disapproval.

           Marinette knew from just one night that the Kents were good people and if she let herself, she could enjoy her time there. That didn’t stop Marinette from crying herself to sleep for a few nights.

           During her first week, Marinette didn’t hear a word from her parents. Or the second. Marinette knew they were more than likely waiting for her to make the first move like she always did.

           But unfortunately for them, Marinette was done. She was done with fake friends and disappointing crushes. She was done with being made out to be the bad guy. She was done always being the one to fix everything. Save everyone. Because she knew, without a doubt, that this time. Her first priority had to be save herself. Marinette had to fix herself. (Of course, Marinette still had to use the horse miraculous to go save Paris nearly every day but innocents needed her help.)

           So Marinette let herself be immersed in the smallville way of life. She helped out of the farm. She competed with Aunt Martha over who had the best pie recipe. Blinked in confusion when Martha wrapped a plate of Marinette’s special double chocolate salt caramel cookies to be delivered and muttered something about “Alfred finally getting his” and the Kent family reigning victorious. Marinette had just been happy to be considered family.

           Speaking of family, Marinette had become rather fond of her new “Cousins”. Jon was the youngest and reminded Marinette of a very hyperactive puppy. He constantly dragged Marinette away to play games and pretend. Connor was a bit sullen but had turned out to be a giant teddy bear once he opened up. He loved to talk about his friends; particularly someone named Tim. The beautiful blond Kara loved girl talk and arm wrestling Connor. She raved about Marinette’s designs and over her pictures with Jagged Stone. Clark, the oldest of her cousin, was a sweetheart; a geeky reporter who was married to a man named Bruce, worked mainly out of Metropolis, and had somewhere between five to seven kids. There was a lot of names and nicknames that left Marinette’s head spinning.

           None of them had taken kindly to Marinette’s story of how she ended up on the Kent farm. Wondering who could bully such a sweet angel?

           Though Marinette decided he wasn’t ever going to be her favorite after the blueberry scone incident.

           Over the next few months, Marinette learned what her grandmother had meant about letting herself be angry and getting some vengeance. Because was allowed to be angry. And she was allowed to get payback.

           After a rather nasty Akuma, Ladybug had taken the time to do an interview with Nadja. She had confirmed that Chat Noir was never returning, that the Ladyblog and its journalist had lost her trust forever after Ladybug had learned about the lies the blog was posting.

“What lies,” Nadja had asked, glad to finally stick it to the girl, Alya, who had been so mean to her honorary niece.

“Well for example, who the hell is Lila Rossi?” Ladybug asked when Nadja pulled up the website on the blue screen behind them. They scrolled through the website pointing out lies and inaccuracies. “That girl is not my best friend. I saved her from her own akuma save five times now. That’s it. I don’t know the girl. I don’t like the girl. What was written would only serve to put Lila in danger. And what’s this about Lila saving Jagged Stone’s cat? From a plane? Which airline was this? Who could be so careless?”

           Nadja nodded and looked quite stunned herself at what was on the blog. “I highly doubt Clara Nightingale stole Lila’s dance moves. Or strictly guarded Prince Ali invites random girls, even Ambassador’s daughter, to discuss his country go green intuitive. Or that she came up with the entire plan herself. This is just ridiculous! And what this about you curing Tinnitus?”

           Ladybug quickly shook her head, “That’s not possible. And it gives people false hope.”

“So Lila’s lying,” Nadja had to fight to keep the smugness out of her voice. She had told Sabine she was wrong. Had been absolutely furious that Marinette had been sent away. Some journalist should really learn Check Her Sources.” She said the last part with a smirk. “And what’s this about Gordon Ramsey?”

           It went on from there, with brief intervals so Marinette could recharge. Ladybug had blasted her former school, its’ principle, and her old teacher Bustier to shreds. For allowing bullying of students, victim blaming, and sheer negligence. Reciting how many times Ladybug had to deal with akuma from that school, particularly from Bustier’s class.

“I heard one poor girl even got expelled,” Ladybug shook her head. “From what I’ve heard, there was no investigation, just word of mouth, easily planted evidence, and then expulsion. I’m surprised I didn’t have to deal with her Akuma.” Ladybug’s sad tone was clear to hear. “I looked into the incident a bit. A rather brilliant Robot name Markov had been recording the room at the time.” Marinette nodded to the screen. “I had them blur the students faces for security reasons. The girl with the short hair is the victim in question.”

           The video played. And it was clear that a long haired girl had stolen the answer and planted them.

“I’m just sorry I couldn’t fix the issue,” Ladybug sighed. “By the time, I heard of it girl was been sent away by her parents. Not even they believed her.”

“I know the girl you’re speaking about,” Nadja frowned. “She’s stronger than she looks. Still, she deserved better. I swear to you that I’ll be leading the charge in investigating the wrongful expulsion.”

           Ladybug smiled.

           It took less than an hour after the interview to air for Marinette’s phone to start blowing up. Her ex-friends, her old classmates texted up a storm of apologies.

           The call from her parents had come in no longer after. Her father had full of apologies and swore to make it up to her. Her mother had been in tears.

           They were met with silence from Marinette. A forgive didn’t come. Marinette made it clear she still loved them but she was staying with the Kents. She would not be returning to Paris. It was her father’s turn to cry.

           Marinette would forgive them in time. But that wasn’t her priority was herself at the moment.

           While the Kents, Marinette was free to just be Marinette. Not anyone’s “Everyday Ladybug”. And was finding that she liked who she was.

           She liked designing clothes for Kara and dresses for Aunt Martha. Doing everything possible to get Clark out of plain. (She would be victorious!) She liked hanging out around town with Connor and being someone’s little sister, as he called her. Though she wouldn’t mind if he lost the overprotective streak. She wasn’t some damsel in destress. There was no more panic attacks. No more dealing with pushing best friends. No more waste time on crush on a blond loser.

           The only near heart attack she had was the blueberry scone incident. Marinette had gotten an akuma alert. She had yelled to Aunt Martha that she was going on a walk, hid behind the farm, transformed and portal’d away.

           Unfortunately, Uncle Clark had heard that Marinette had made her famous scones and had been FLYING overhead to the house at the time and had saw her.

           Uncle Clark had been waiting for her when she got back, with crossed arms and a stern look on his face. Before Marinette could open up her mouth to give a multitude of excuses, Clark held up one hand to silence her. Then he spun around faster than she’d ever seen anyone do before. And then Superman was standing in front of her.

           Marinette’s heart had stopped, she’d swear.

           After that they both de-transformed. Uncle Clark had led her inside where the entire Kent family was waiting.

           Turns out Uncle Clark was a tattletale. And he was never going to be her favorite.

“Snitch,” She told him simply before anyone could say anything.

           Clark blushed a little but shrugged.

           After that everyone introduced themselves. Or rather their superhero identities. Each taking turns to tell their story. Marinette had shed a few tears about the loss of Krypton. Marinette had introduce the Kwamis’ to the Kents. Jon had let out a squeal of joy at the sight flying creatures.

           Aunt Martha had only laughed when Plagg flew up to her face and said, “Cheese.”

           Marinette told her story from when she first got Tikki to then. There was no happy faces in the room.”

“You’re a superhero?” Kara was the first to burst out. “Ladybug the Parisian hero.”

“You work an entire city?” Connor asked. “I’m now even allowed to do that yet.” He shot quick glare at Clark. “Even the Teen Titans has league supervision.”

Clark raised an eyebrow, “The Justice League doesn’t usually tread on other heroes’ territory. Ladybug had always managed well.” He then gave her a look. “However, we were unaware that Ladybug was a teenager. I think its time we took a closer look at Paris.

[bubonickitten]

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

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

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

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

Chapter 26: Remains To Be Seen

The journey to Tromsø is… uneventful, comparatively speaking.

Almost worryingly so, Jon observes at one point.

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

Aren’t you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And what did you tell her?”

“Haven’t replied just yet.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Still getting odd stares, then?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Look at me, it seethes. See me.

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

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

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

So why can’t you say it?

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe that disharmony is precisely why it’s grounding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Want some tea?”

Martin jumps at the sound of Daisy’s voice.

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

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

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

“Wh-what?” Martin sputters.

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

“Wh– I – you – I’m – why would–”

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

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

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

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

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“B-because, he…”

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

Do you know if he and Jon ever…

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

Like, at all?

Yeah.

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

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

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

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

“W-well, no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, seeing as Jon’s my friend–”

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

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

“Why what?”

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

“Yeah,” Daisy whispers.

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

“I–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daisy doesn’t deny it.

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“Have you asked him?”

“No.”

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

Daisy hunches even further, her shoulders drawing in tighter.

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

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that.

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

“You sound like Jon.”

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

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

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

“Yeah,” Martin scoffs. “Maybe.”

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

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

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

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

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

Daisy winces as she rises to her feet.

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

“I’ve got it.”

“Then at least let me come along and–”

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

“What?”

“Says you’re a micromanager.”

“He what?” Martin demands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

“See or See?”

“Either. Both.”

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

“Positive,” Jon says. “The Dark has–”

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

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

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

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

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

“Stop.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Gertrude is dead,” Basira says.

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

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

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

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

“Then why are you here?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m her replacement.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ll just compel me, you mean.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“An eye for an eye,” Basira adds.

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

“The Dark Sun,” Basira says.

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

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

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

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

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

Manuela just scowls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How?”

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

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

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

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

“I don’t see why not.”

“I don’t believe you,” Manuela says.

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

“And the Dark Sun?” Manuela presses.

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

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

“And if I say no?”

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

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

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

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

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

“So you need me.”

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

“How would that work?”

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

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

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

“We don’t know,” Jon says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which would be…?” Basira asks.

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

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

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

“Looking ahead, are you?” Basira asks.

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

“To refine your Ritual, you mean.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jon?” Basira prompts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We – we did,” Jon says. “We–”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hunters.”

End Notes:

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

____

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

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

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

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

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

[frozenartscapes]

Promises - SS/Modern AU

Following up after Byleth brings a time-traveling Emperor back to her apartment. I was thinking some more about a name for this AU, and I believe it was @lysissisyl who one time suggested “A World Without Gods”... And I kind of like it. It’s not like the Dragon Family has disappeared, but the world has since moved past them. Magic still exists, but has grown with technology to become accessible. Possessing things like Crests or other godly gifts aren’t really valued anymore, because anyone can now do what a person with a Crest might have been once able to do. Hell, we’ve even established that getting a Crest or having one removed is about as simple as donating blood.

But being thrown into such a different world in the blink of an eye is daunting, even for someone as strong as Edelgard. But, this is Silver Snow!Edelgard. By the time she and Byleth had their final confrontation, she had effectively lost everybody that she cared about: either they had joined the enemy side and hated her, or they had died trying to protect her. And the heart can only take so much loss.

Byleth has been living with the guilt of her actions for 850 years. She finally has a chance to make things right, but the path will be a long and challenging one.

---

Byleth held a cup under the spout in the sink and filled it up. She couldn’t really sleep, and thought perhaps a glass of water might help. She chugged it back and added the cup to the small pile of dirty dishes. She really ought to do those, she thought, as she stared blankly at the mess.

She should go back to bed. But she couldn’t relax enough to sleep.

“No! Please!”

She was out of the kitchen like a shot, quickly finding the spare bedroom door in her dark apartment. She could hear the struggle inside: that bed was a cheap one, often prone to squeaking and groaning; the ruffle of blankets being fought with; pleas from someone locked deep in a nightmare.

“Please! Come back! Come back!”

Byleth knocked, hoping she wasn’t about to make things worse. “Edelgard?” she called. She could just let herself in, but given the former Emperor’s apparent state, and recent events, she decided to wait. “Edelgard? It’s me. You ok?”

There was another yelp, and frantic gasps of breath. Then: “P...Professor?” Calmer. She must be awake now.

“Can I come in?”

...

“...Yes.”

Slowly, Byleth pushed the door open. She caught Edelgard in the act of furiously wiping tears from her cheeks, the slight blush nothing compared to the dark bags under her eyes. Blankets and sheets were strewn about, indicating quite a bit of tossing and turning.

“I...I suppose I was talking in my sleep again,” she said sheepishly, refusing to make eye contact.

“I wasn’t listening for it,” Byleth told her earnestly, “I...I couldn’t sleep, myself, and I just...” She caught a quick flash of lilac, desperate and lonely. Byleth cleared her throat. “Do you...want to talk about it?”

Edelgard sat up, pulling her legs up close to her chest. “I doubt it would help,” she muttered bitterly. The way Byleth’s varsity hoodie encompassed her small frame made her seem extra vulnerable now.

Byleth carefully approached the bed. “It might, though,” she prompted carefully, “Talking helps release pent up energy and emotions.”

She scoffed. “Another medical discovery of this time, I presume?” she asked in annoyance.

“A lot of work has been done with mental health,” Byleth told her, “More still is needed, but...it is infinitely better than what you are used to, I’m sure.”

Edelgard remained silent, eyes focused on the digital clock on the bedside table.

Eventually, after a few minutes passed, Byleth grew bold. “Who were you calling to?” she asked gently, sitting down on the foot of the bed.

“I...” She looked up again, very briefly. All Byleth had time to see was unimaginable pain. “Everyone...anyone...I... I don’t know,” she whispered, “There were so many shadows. People without faces. Voices with no bodies. They all felt familiar but... They were all leaving.”

Byleth had no doubt she had been one of those faceless shadows. The thought made her heart ache with a guilt she’s lived with for eight hundred years.

“I...” she began. Hesitant. Scared. This apology was coming far too late, and perhaps at a bad time, but if she were to move forward, it had to be said. “I’m sorry,” she said, head bowed, “I’m so sorry, Edelgard. I...I didn’t know what I wanted. I didn’t know what to do. I...I should have been more sure. Confident, like you always are. I should have been there for you when you needed me the most and I wasn’t and... I’m sorry.”

Edelgard stayed quiet. She sniffled softly, and wiped away some fresh tears with the sleeve of the sweater. “You hesitated because you could see what I truly was,” she eventually murmured, pulling her sleeve down a little to trace the shackle scars along her wrist, “You all were smart to stay away from me. You said the world is the way it is because of me... But would it have been the same had I gotten my way? Or is it like this because of you?”

Byleth opened her mouth to protest, but words wouldn’t form.

“I knew my path would be a lonely one when I chose it,” Edelgard confessed, “A path of isolation and blood, one where I rid the world of monsters by becoming one myself. Someone as kind and wonderful as you should never have to dirty your feet as I did... None of you should have.”

“You aren’t a monster,” Byleth said, perhaps a little too quickly, “And I would have. I should have. I... When Rhea made me choose I just... I didn’t know...”

“I shouldn’t have made you choose, either,” Edelgard replied, “I made the decision for you in my head the moment you hesitated, and every moment since. I just... It was easier to let my heart break and stay broken than to try to keep fixing it, only for my efforts to have been for naught. Even when we met again in the Goddess Tower, I... I had become so jaded that I believed there was no way you actually cared. After all: no one else did.”

“That’s...that’s not true,” Byleth admitted, “They all came, Edelgard. All of the Eagles. They though you were the one who didn’t care. I...I should have said something. Told them that you did, but...”

She smiled sadly. “It’s in the distant past, now,” she breathed, “It doesn’t matter.”

Byleth frowned. An unpleasant lump of emotion was forming in her throat that she couldn’t swallow down. “But it does matter,” she said quietly, “It did back then, and it still does now. Maybe things would have been different if...” She stopped, shaking her head in frustration. It would do neither of them good to dwell in ‘what-ifs’. “When we first came back here, you...mentioned something,” she pressed gently, wincing as she spoke, “You said you...expected... to die by my blade.” She met Edelgard’s gaze, lilac eyes brimming with tears. “You...begged me to do it,” she whispered.

“I knew I had lost,” Edelgard uttered, “I lost, Byleth. My war. My empire. My crown... My friends... My family... I have always looked to the future, refusing to look back on the past. And every time, I was able to envision the future I strived for. But... When I lost that fight... I tried to look into the future and I saw nothing. Just darkness. I knew then that I had one of two choices: surrender, and succumb to the crushing weight of despair and guilt and failure; or die.” She paused, wiping the moisture from her eyes with a grimace. “Just...give up, fall into the void. Lay down my axe and finally, finally stop fighting. I tried. I tried so hard to fight it back, to make something of my miserable existence before death caught up with me, but... I lost.”

Byleth felt the dagger of guilt sink deeper into her un-beating heart. She wished more than anything to be able to go back to that moment, that fateful decision point where she chose wrong. But that was impossible. She could only move forward. That’s all anyone could do. She hoped. “And...what about now?” she asked hesitantly, waiting with baited breath and praying, “What do you see if you look to the future, now?”

Edelgard rested her chin on her knees, staring off into a darkened corner of the room. She sat for a few minutes, eyes vacant, before answering. “I...I don’t know,” she admitted sadly, “It’s...it’s still so dark. I...I don’t know where I can go from here.” Her eyes moved to the window, where the never-ending light of the city flowed in through cracks in the blinds. “I’m not sure how I will fit into this world, or if I even can,” she said, sounding so uncharacteristically small, “Everything’s so different from what I’m used to. At least then, when I lost everyone I cared about, I still had my belongings. My home. Or...what used to be my home. I have even less now than I did then.”

Her gaze moved again, finding Byleth’s in the dark room. She saw the deep, earnest concern on her former teacher’s face, and the faintest bit of light appeared in the void of darkness that was her envisioned future. “But...” she said slowly, carefully, “Perhaps... Perhaps I am not as alone as I think.”

“You’re not,” Byleth replied quickly, a cautious smile beginning to spread on her face, “I’m here, Edelgard. This time I promise I won’t leave you.”

Edelgard tried to mirror the careful grin, but her smile did not reach her eyes. “I...” She looked away abruptly, eyes closing tight as if wincing in pain... or bracing for the backlash. “I... Forgive me, my Teacher,” she breathed, shame practically dripping from her words, “But... I wish I could believe you.”

Byleth felt her heart drop in her chest. Those words were the slap in the face she wished Edelgard would just get on with. Byleth deserved it, after all. After everything she had done to the poor woman sitting before her. The lump in her throat was most definitely a sob, and it took everything in her to keep it down. But she couldn’t hold back the tears in her eyes.

“I’m going to help you find that belief,” Byleth said solemnly, scooting a little closer on the bed, “I know my words probably mean very little right now. You have every right to never want to listen to me or trust me ever again. You don’t even have to forgive me. Just...just know that I’m here for you now. You can stay here for as long as you need. I can teach you everything about this world and fitting into it. You don’t have to believe me, but just...know...that you’re safe here.”

It came slow, at first. Like the rain before a storm. Tears neither of them could hold back any longer began to flow. It was Edelgard who moved first, throwing herself forward and clinging with a desperation that consumed her. Byleth felt those strong hands of an Emperor now shakily grasp her shoulders, fingers digging in as if Edelgard was expecting the universe to wrench them apart.

Byleth was no longer able to hold back that sob, and it tore through the damn holding back her emotions like a wrecking ball. She hadn’t cried this much in centuries. And she forgot how much it hurt.

“I’m sorry, Edelgard,” she choked out, holding on just as fiercely, “Goddess, I’m so sorry.” She swallowed roughly. Her words felt like bile in her mouth. Like they could never fully express what she felt. Weakly, no more than a whisper, she confessed, “I thought I lost you forever. I thought I would never get to tell you... Goddess I wish things had been different.”

Edelgard sniffled, her own sobs slowly fading as Byleth’s words hit her. “I thought...five years was long,” she said softly, pulling away so their eyes could meet, “I know we fought, but... Seeing you after all that time...” She wiped the tears from her cheeks, offering a weepy smile. “I was still so happy to see you alive.”

Byleth met her with a grin of her own, her sobs breaking into gentle chuckles. “I would have waited a thousand years for you,” she breathed, “Two thousand. A million. I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am to see you here, despite...despite everything.”

“Then... Perhaps that should be what we focus on,” Edelgard said, “The past is gone. And though we both will bear the scars it left us for the rest of our lives, scars will fade. I...I should know.”

Byleth gently reached out and cupped her friend’s cheek. “You can be anything you want to be in this life, Edelgard,” she stated, “This time, the path is yours to choose. And I promise I’ll help you along the way, for as long as you want my help.”

“My Teach- ...Byleth,” Edelgard whispered, mimicking the affectionate action, “I have always wanted to walk with you. So in this life, I shall.”

“I won’t leave your side for anything, this time,” Byleth vowed.

“E...even...now?” Edelgard asked, sheepishly looking away as she nervously wrung the sheets in her hands. “I...I haven’t been able to get a good night’s rest in... I’m not sure how long. But, perhaps if you’re here, the nightmares might-”

Before she could finish, Byleth flopped comically down on the empty side of the bed, answering the request without any words spoken.

Relief washed over the former Emperor in an instant, and with a small smile, she sunk down under the covers, facing her host on the bed. Byleth reached out and carefully took her hand in hers, giving it a small, affirming squeeze.

“I’m here,” she whispered, “I promise. And if I’m not when you wake up, you can find me in the kitchen.”

Edelgard nodded in reply. “Thank you, Byleth,” she whispered back, closing her eyes as sleep slowly came back to her.

Byleth shut her eyes as well, and as she drifted off, she heard a very earnest, very grateful: “Thank you.”

---

The next morning, Edelgard awoke and Byleth’s spot was empty on the bed. A brief moment of panic seized her heart, until she remembered the rest of her promise. Carefully, she pulled the covers back and left the bed, first heading to the window. The strange, new Enbarr greeted her as she opened the blinds, with its impossibly tall buildings and endless noise. But at least the colours of dawn remained the same.

She cautiously headed through the apartment, taking in the details she had been overwhelmed by the night before. Everything seemed so strange. The furniture was oddly shaped, and far too much of something: too soft, too hard, too simple, too complex. Everything felt so bright as light from the morning sun flooded through the large windows and doors to the balcony. The colour scheme in Byleth’s apartment was mostly neutral: white walls, light grey rug, light wooden floors... Actually, was it wood? It looked like it but didn’t feel like it... She had the odd pop of colour in a cushion or a plant but otherwise it all felt so...empty and bleak compared to the deep, rich colours of the tapestries and upholstery the Imperial family kept in the palace.

She drew a deep breath as she tried to calm down her fears, and as she did, a familiar scent hit her nose: bergamot. And her worries faded as a smile formed on her face.

True to her word, she found Byleth in the kitchen. A well-used teapot sat on the small table, scented steam wafting out and filling the room with the smell of her favourite tea. Two teacups were placed on either side of the table, beside two mismatched plates. Beside the pot was a rectangular, brightly coloured box.

Byleth was rooting through a tall, silver storage unit next to the counter with the...what was it called again...microwave? She stood up, a blue carton in her hand, and smiled when she noticed her guest. “Perfect timing,” she said warmly, setting the carton down on the table, “You liked milk, yes?”

“That’s milk?” Edelgard asked, eyeing the carton with curiosity.

“Yep,” Byleth said simply, reaching into a cupboard and taking out a small jar, “And sugar, too, right?”

Edelgard merely nodded. She hadn’t missed the amount of boxes and jars of food in just that one cupboard alone, and couldn’t imagine how much more could possibly be stored in this kitchen. She reached for the carton of milk, gasping slightly to discover it was cold, and she was fairly certain that silver box was too small to hold ice blocks.

Byleth chuckled, watching as Edelgard glared at the milk carton as if she had just demanded it tell her all its secrets. “Come sit, Edelgard,” she said as she took a seat across the table, “I’ll explain more after breakfast. I got us a little treat.”

She gestured to the box. Edelgard cocked her head as she regarded the strange package. Big, ridiculous letters spelled out...something... Although she had no idea what the word was or what it meant. “Do...nuts?” she wondered, looking up at Byleth with a lost expression.

Byleth merely grinned and opened the box, revealing six decadent-looking pastries. Each one was different, and strange...but the smell alone was incredibly tempting. Five of them were shaped like rings, with a hole in the centre of the cake. The sixth one was a solid circle, covered in a copious amount of white powder.

“That one’s a jelly-filled,” Byleth said as she noticed Edelgard eyeing it, “Strawberry. Then there’s chocolate dipped, old-fashioned, honey cruller...” She pointed to a different one as she listed them, going from the one with a dark brown topping, a simple plain one, and one that was fancifully twisted and covered in white glaze. Next, she pointed to one with pink frosting, and bright, rainbow sprinkles. “Strawberry dipped,” she said, “It’s seasonal, and really good, by the way.”

“And the last one?”

“The best one,” Byleth told her confidently, “Double chocolate.”

The fact that anything was single chocolate, let alone double absolutely floored her. Chocolate had been one of the most valued delicacies that she was aware of. Much like coffee, the beans needed to produce it could only be grown in consistently warm, humid climates that only the southern-most parts of Adrestia could support. Instead, it largely came from other nations that sat further south, and as a result was often incredibly hard and expensive to procure. Being Emperor, she had had the fortune of tasting chocolate before, and had loved it. But even she could only get her hands on a small box only a few times a year.

And now here was this...donut...that was both made with chocolate, but also dipped in it.

“What...exactly is the occasion?” she asked hesitantly, “Surely this cost you greatly.”

“Nah,” Byleth said with a nonchalant shrug, “The whole box was about six bucks.”

“...Six...Bucks?”

“Never mind. That’s just slang for ‘dollars’.”

“...D...dollars?”

Byleth blinked. “Oh...right, sorry. I forgot currency changed quite a bit over time,” she said sheepishly, “It...it doesn’t matter. All the stuff that made pastries expensive back in the past is widely available now.” She then smiled shyly, and continued cautiously, “Last night was...a little rough. I know you’re going through a lot and it’s not going to change over night. It...it likely will only get harder, for a while.”

Edelgard found herself nodding at that, prompting Byleth to wince. “But I just... I thought these might help,” she said with a lopsided grin, “No matter how confusing and scary the world might seem, there are good things in it.” She gestured to the box, prompting Edelgard to take her pick. “Like donuts.”

Edelgard reached out tentatively, but rather than selecting a donut, her hand found Byleth’s resting on the other side of the table. “And...you,” she said quietly, a generous dusting of pink spreading across her cheeks.

Byleth’s heart had never moved a day in her immortal life, but in that moment, it fluttered, leapt like a bird taking to the sky. She didn’t know why or how, but in that moment, it felt right.

She chuckled softly, impressed by how smooth her former student was. She brought her other hand down over Edelgard’s, giving it a small squeeze. “I’ll always be right here,” she promised.

They held each other’s gaze far longer than either of them realized, and once they did, they broke apart, both of them blushing furiously. “Well, go one then!” Byleth coughed out awkwardly, gesturing to the box, “I’m excited to know what you think.”

Edelgard eyed the double chocolate one. “It... You said that one was your favourite...” she began slowly, “I don’t want to take it for myself...”

“It’s alright. We can split them,” Byleth offered, getting up to retrieve a knife. Upon her return, she selected the donut from the box and set it down on her plate, before cutting it in half. She then offered a half to Edelgard.

Edelgard picked it up carefully, looking over the pastry thoroughly. Byleth merely chuckled and simply took a bite out of her half, an action Edelgard hesitantly followed.

The moment the chocolaty goodness hit her tongue, her eyes widened and lit up like the sun. “Oh Goddess,” she breathed, before eagerly taking another bite.

Byleth’s chuckle turned into a mirthful laugh.

[tsarisfanfiction]

Long Way From Home: Chapter 12

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Family/Friendship Characters: Scott, Tracy Family

Watch me forget to update again last week, whoops.  This is also the final chapter of this ‘arc’, so we’ll be taking another break for a while because uni means I don’t have time to keep writing at the moment (and a certain character is being awkward in the next chapter).  Still, I hope you’ve enjoyed this pile of Scott&Other-Gordon, and I’ll get back to work on this when I’ve got the time.

For now, enjoy!

<<<Chapter 11

The subject wasn’t broached until they were back in the car, Scott feeling comfortably full as the food settled in his stomach.

“I guess there’s nothing I can say to persuade you to finish the trip now?” Other-Gordon sighed.

“I’m not quitting,” Scott said firmly.  “It’s just some sneakers.  I’ll try them on, find the ones that fit best, and we’ll be done.”

He half expected Other-Gordon to contradict him and tell him something was different about buying shoes in this universe, but he didn’t.

“That’s the spirit,” he said instead.  “I’ll keep them talking, like the last shop.”

“Thanks.”  Scott appreciated the thought; if they were distracted with Other-Gordon, then they’d be focusing less on him.

He was looking forwards to being able to wear comfortable shoes. Other-Scott’s fit well enough, but after several hours in them he was starting to feel the rub of an unfamiliar style.

“Mr Tracy!” he was greeted as they stepped through the door upon arrival. “Is there a problem with your last purchases?”

“Oh no, not at all,” Other-Gordon cut in, inserting himself slightly ahead of Scott and into the flustered-looking man’s line of sight. “You’ll have to forgive Scott, he’s gone and lost his voice, but he really liked them, so we’re here to get a couple more pairs,” he assured them.

The fluster turned to relief and then delight as the man no doubt realised he was going to be making another expensive sale to round off his day.

“Of course!” he beamed.  “If you’d like to follow me.”  They were chivvied along to a section of the shop lined with various designs of sneakers all along the wall, which Scott immediately started to eye up.  The designs were varied, and none of them looked exactly like he was used to, but he could definitely see a few that looked hopeful.

Ignoring both Other-Gordon and the salesman, he walked over to the wall to get a closer look.  You’re Scott Tracy.  He just had to take the initiative instead of hovering awkwardly and waiting for a cue, and then it would be fine.

No-one would suspect he was the wrong Scott Tracy.

Behind him, Other-Gordon was talking a mile a minute, playing the distraction he’d promised, and after the day they’d had it was almost effortless to trust him.  The other man had proven time and time again that despite the bizarre nature of the situation, he cared and wanted Scott to be as comfortable as possible.

It wasn’t even a case of just trying to preserve his brother’s reputation. Just as he was Scott Tracy, Other-Gordon was Gordon Tracy.  They might not be each other’s brother, but they didn’t need to be related to care. The man that had guided him out of two panic attacks and subtly grounded him at the first sign of other ones had done it because he cared about him.

Scott was used to being the rescuer.  He was used to being the one picking up strangers, helping them find their feet and offering whatever aid was needed until they were safe.  He’d never been so thoroughly on the other side before.  It was terrifying, he realised as he picked up a hopeful looking sneaker for a closer inspection.  Putting all your trust in someone you knew of but didn’t know was much, much harder than he’d ever realised.

What Other-Gordon was doing for him wasn’t quite the same – his life wasn’t in danger; he didn’t need snatching from the jaws of death – but the parallels were there.  Scott was lost, and there was no denying that he was scared of what had happened, why it happened, what it would be doing to his brothers right then, and Other-Gordon was offering a life line.  Something he could cling to while he found his feet, and caught him when he stumbled.

“Scott?” the man in question asked, appearing beside him.  “How are you doing?”

Scott looked at him, the heart-achingly familiarity of his face even though it wasn’t the same, and the searching amber eyes that were exactly the same, right down to the concern shining through, and nodded. He’d only known him for a few hours, but Scott trusted him, and that was enough to keep what-ifs and concerns about recognition at bay.

He could do this.

The sneaker in his hand looked like a good start, so he held it up, drawing attention to the selection.

“Would you like to try that pair on, sir?” the salesman asked.  Scott nodded confidently, and handed it over so he could bustle over to the store room to retrieve its partner.

Other-Gordon didn’t say anything, even after they were left alone, so Scott continued looking around, searching for another design that looked hopeful. He could feel the other man’s eyes watching him, but he wasn’t asking if he was doing okay, or attempting to provide other reassurances, and Scott wondered if he could tell that he was, as much as he could be, relaxed.

He probably could.

By the time the salesman returned – this one called John, it transpired, but with black hair and brown eyes it was just another man with a common name, and not a painful reminder of his younger brother – he’d found another three to try on.

Four times pacing and then jogging around the room, jumping up and down and feeling a rush from being active, even if it was just rather aggressively putting through sneakers through their paces, and he ended up walking out the shop with all of them.  It was easier than picking two when they all felt right.

There was also the nagging feeling that Other-Scott didn’t test shoes quite the same way he did, judging by the look on salesman-John’s face, and the panic had started to bubble up when he abruptly remembered that Other-Scott had only been there recently.  Grabbing all four pairs and nudging Other-Gordon into paying for them so that they could leave – a nudge that, yes, might have comprised of four smaller ones that instantly sharpened amber eyes – had been the easiest way to avoid questions and quell the panic.

Other-Gordon didn’t outwardly hurry them out of the shop, but Scott felt the underlying determination as he quipped about getting late and the flight home as an excuse for their departure.  The amount of money the quartet of sneakers cost definitely went a long way towards distracting the salesman from anything else.

“Are you okay?” the ginger asked once they were settled back in the car. He didn’t mention that Scott had been fine for most of the time, but the unspoken observation hung between them.

Scott took a deep breath and pressed his head back against the headrest, feeling the hat digging in.  He was looking forwards to taking it off.  “Yeah,” he said.  “I’m okay.”

“Too much cooped up energy?” Other-Gordon asked, clearly determining that he wasn’t about to panic and turning the engine on.  “You were mighty energetic in there.”

“They’re nice sneakers,” Scott defended, not responding to the secondary observation.

“So it seemed,” Other-Gordon shrugged.  “Well, unless there’s anything else you need, I’d say it’s time to head back to the airport.”

Scott glanced at the backseat of the car, where a small pile of bags nestled.

“That should be enough,” he agreed.  “I don’t suppose I can persuade you to let me pilot back?”

Other-Gordon did a double-take.

“What happened to ‘different technology’?” he asked.  “You’ve not understood anything here.  I saw you looking at the car earlier.”

Scott shrugged.  “Apparently the only thing that is the same are plane controls,” he admitted.

Other-Gordon groaned.  “You mean you actually were judging my piloting?” he whined.

“I didn’t say anything about your piloting,” Scott defended.  Other-Gordon huffed.

“You didn’t need to, but I figured you were just comparing it to what you were used to,” he said.  “It didn’t occur to me that you knew exactly what I should have been doing when.”

“So you’ll let me pilot back?” Scott tried hopefully.

“Sorry, fella.”  He couldn’t stop his shoulders slumping in disappointment at Other-Gordon’s firm answer. “Look, I would rather you piloted, because I’m not daft enough to think you’re not better at it than me, but you don’t have a pilot’s license here, and it’s not my call whether you sneak by on Scott’s.”

The argument made a frustrating amount of sense, and Scott sighed. “Can’t we ask him?”

“He’ll say no,” Other-Gordon said confidently.  “Unless you’re telling me you’d let someone pilot on your license with only his word he’s as good as he says.”

The ginger, annoyingly, wasn’t wrong.  Scott wouldn’t.

“We can add it to the things to talk to him about when we get back,” Other-Gordon pointed out.  “Still, if planes aren’t so different, maybe that’ll make the training easier.”

He had a point.  Scott hadn’t considered that the Thunderbirds might have the same controls, when the jargon seemed so different.  “I saw a few external differences,” he said.  “Didn’t get a good look at the cockpit, and her engine makes a different sound.”

“Why aren’t I surprised you took all that in?” the ginger asked rhetorically. “Then again, I suppose in a way she’s ‘yours’,” he mused.  “Good luck fighting Scott for her.”

Scott groaned, well aware that no matter how good a pilot he proved to be, he was never going to wrangle primary pilot of this universe’s Thunderbird One.

“I don’t think I’ll bother,” he muttered.  “He won’t give her over unless he has no other choice.”

“Voice of experience?” Other-Gordon asked, amused.  Scott raised an eyebrow at him.

“The last time I let Gordon near her he tried to turn her into a submarine. Virgil hates piloting her, Kayo is banned from going near the pilot seat, John prefers being a passenger in Two if he’s down from orbit and Alan’s too inexperienced,” he listed. “No-one pilots my girl except me. No exceptions.”

Other-Gordon laughed.  “That doesn’t surprise me; Scott’s the same,” he confirmed.  “But who’s Kayo?”

Scott had forgotten he hadn’t mentioned Kayo to anyone except Tin-Tin yet.

“My Tin-Tin,” he said.  “She’s a hell of a pilot, but her ‘bird gets damaged even more than Three.  Too many stunts.”

“Hold up.”  Other-Gordon even raised a hand to emphasise his words.  “Her ‘bird?  Do you have six or- but Three?  No, you said more than Three.  Who pilots Three?”

That was entirely too many questions, and Scott dodged most of them.

“Tin-Tin doesn’t have her own?” he asked in return.  “I know she’s an engineer, but so’s Virgil.”

“Tin-Tin co-pilots Three sometimes, but otherwise she stays on the island,” Other-Gordon told him.  “Your- Kayo goes out?”

They think we’re delicate flowers, Tin-Tin had more-or-less said. Scott hadn’t made the connection with participating on rescues.

“I get the feeling Kayo would give you all a heart attack if you ever met her,” he said.  “There’s no stopping that girl when she gets an idea in her head.”

He should know.  He’d tried. It normally ended in shouting matches and her doing whatever she wanted anyway.  Sometimes he wondered if building Thunderbird Shadow for her had been a mistake, but then he remembered how miserable she’d been without her own reliable transport.

Other-Gordon eyed him.  “There’re more differences than technology and fashion, aren’t there?”

“Yeah,” Scott confirmed.  “I haven’t decided if more is the same or different yet.  Most of it seems to be small things.  Just enough to be off from what I’m used to.”

“Like us,” Other-Gordon sighed.  “Sounds like we were too hasty with this trip,” he added.  “Even if you needed new underpants.”

Scott shrugged.  “We were never going to know all the differences.”  He wouldn’t have thought to ask about the minor details, and none of them had even considered that the family business – the actual one – would have a different name.

“I guess that’s true,” Other-Gordon conceded.  “But we should still have given you a little longer than a few hours before taking you off the island.  Sorry about that.”

He wasn’t wrong, but, “what’s done is done,” he said.  “I survived.”

“Get yourself straight in the Ladybird when we get to the hangar,” Other-Gordon said.  “If anyone tries to get in your way, ignore them.  I’ll get Scott to soothe any ruffled feathers later.”

“I can handle it,” Scott protested.  “Jones, right?”

“You don’t have to handle it,” Other-Gordon told him firmly.  “It’s been mighty awful day for you, and the last thing you need is Scott’s airfield buddies bothering you.  Those fellas know Scott better than anyone else we’ve seen today.”

Scott had almost forgotten that.  Other-Gordon was right; returning to the Ladybird was when someone was most likely to notice something wasn’t right.  The sandwiches from earlier felt uncomfortably weighty in his stomach all of a sudden.

He couldn’t afford a panic attack in the hangar; Other-Gordon wouldn’t be able to take off, so they wouldn’t be able to get away from Other-Scott’s so-called ‘airfield buddies’.

It would be an absolute disaster.

“Okay,” he agreed.  “But I’m not leaving you to load her alone.”

Other-Gordon rolled his eyes.  “Maybe it’s different where you’re from, but here we have valets for that sort of thing.  Appearances and all that – although Dad’s got them trained to be extra vigilant if it’s me. They won’t let me pick up a single bag, just you watch.”

Other-Gordon’s back hadn’t even occurred to him, but if even his family were treating him like glass, Scott supposed it was no surprise there was hired help to stop him straining himself.

“I don’t know how you stand it,” he admitted.

“Aw, it’s not always so bad,” Other-Gordon admitted.  “Helps with the cover.  No-one would expect poor, crippled former Olympian me of still being an active aquanaut, let alone be capable of pulling the stunts those fine young men in International Rescue manage.”

That was true, Scott supposed.

“Look,” the ginger said.  “If it makes you feel better, you can run through her pre-flights while I’m dealing with the chaps on the ground.”

Scott startled.  “You trust me to do that without supervision?”

“I know you were watching me when we left the island,” Other-Gordon shrugged. “I figure if you do come across something unfamiliar, you’re not daft enough to let me take off without getting it double-checked it first.”

Scott could accept that.

“Besides, no-one’ll find that strange around here.  It’ll look more strange if Scott Tracy isn’t doing all the checks himself.”

“You could have just said that in the first place,” Scott pointed out. Other-Gordon scoffed, but said nothing.

Jones wasn’t amongst the men that seemed to be waiting for them when Other-Gordon rolled the car up behind the hangar.  Scott supposed his shift was over for the day, and in a way that made it easier to reluctantly leave the car and head straight for the hangar.  The T.A. was a beacon, and once the door opened, the red of the Ladybird stood out amongst the many planes housed inside.

“Hey, Scott!” an unfamiliar voice called.  He ignored them, remembering what Other-Gordon had said about them all knowing Other-Scott and knowing he couldn’t handle trying to interact with any of them without the ginger to act as a buffer without making them suspicious.

Pre-flight checks.  Those, he could do.

He slipped into the cockpit, taking the pilot’s seat for the moment although Other-Gordon was doubtless going to shove him over when he arrived, and immersed himself in the blessed familiarity of flicking switches and running all the checks that had long since become second nature to him.  While the Ladybird was a far cry from Thunderbird One, she wasn’t so far from more conventional aircraft that he couldn’t work her out.

Engrossed in the task, he barely noticed the ground crew flitting around as their shopping was loaded into the cargo hold under Other-Gordon’s supervision, or the questions about him being fired the ginger’s way, only to be expertly deflected.

He did notice the jab in his shoulder when Other-Gordon clambered up to join him.

“Finished?” the ginger asked.  Scott ran his hands over the controls one last time, before reluctantly pronouncing himself satisfied.

“She’s good to fly,” he said.

“Then budge over,” Other-Gordon retorted.  Scott reluctantly shimmied over into the passenger seat. “Everything’s fine?”

“Just like our training jet at home,” Scott promised.  “I taught Alan to fly with controls like this.”  He glanced over at the ginger settling himself into the pilot’s seat.  “Gordon, too.”

“You’re calling the Ladybird a training jet?” Other-Gordon asked.  “I’d like to see you tell Tin-Tin that.”

Scott chuckled.  “Anything’s a training jet compared to my usual ride,” he pointed out.

Other-Gordon rolled his eyes.  “I’d like to see you tell Virgil that.”

“His girl’s not a jet,” Scott retorted.  “Not unless that’s got a very different definition here.”

“I suppose you have a point,” Other-Gordon conceded, before reaching for the radio.  “Tango Alpha Ladybird to Auckland Air Traffic Control.  We’re ready for take-off, over.”

Static crackled for a moment.

“Auckland Air Traffic Control to Tango Alpha Ladybird,” the radio responded. “Clear to proceed to runway three-bravo, over.”

“Tango Alpha Ladybird to Auckland Air Traffic Control.  Understood.  Proceeding now, over.”  The hangar door opened and Other-Gordon taxied them out onto the tarmac.  Scott occupied himself with looking out at the other planes as they travelled past.  Some designs were instantly familiar, while others looked very different to anything he’d seen in his own universe.

Other-Gordon made a few more calls over the radio as they finished taxiing into position, and Scott settled back in the seat comfortably as they waited for permission to take off.

He had to admit he didn’t miss all the bureaucracy with Thunderbird One, and John acting as his ATC wherever he was in the world.  VTOL launches helped.

After another half a minute or so, the all-clear was given, and the Ladybird rumbled to life, surging forwards and up under Other-Gordon’s hands.

“Auckland Air Traffic Control to Tango Alpha Ladybird, your route is clear,” the radio crackled again.  “Have a safe flight.  Over.”

“Tango Alpha Ladybird to Auckland Air Traffic Control,” Other-Gordon replied. “Thank you.  Over and out.”  He fiddled with the radio for a moment.  “Ladybird to Tracy Island, come in.”

“Tracy Island receiving you, Ladybird,” Not-Dad’s voice filtered through. “How’s it going, Gordon?”

“We’ve just left Auckland, Father,” the ginger said.  “Estimated ETA in two hours.”

“I’ll let your grandmother know,” Not-Dad replied.  “You boys didn’t have any problems?”

“No, sir,” Other-Gordon said, to Scott’s relief.  “No problems.”

“Well, I expect to hear about your trip when you get back,” the man told them.  “I’ll see you then.  Tracy Island out.”

“Thanks,” Scott said after the connection ended.

“I’m still telling Scott,” Other-Gordon reminded him.  “But you can thank me by not judging my piloting the whole way back.  Stare at the clouds or something.”

Scott chuckled.  “I’ll do my best,” he said.  Other-Gordon just groaned.

“I am never piloting you anywhere ever again,” he swore.  “Cloud watch.  Don’t you dare look at what I’m doing.”

Scott rolled his eyes but obliged.

Like the outward journey, their return one passed in mostly silence, Other-Gordon focusing on piloting and Scott doing his best not to make idle comments whenever he didn’t react to changes in the air currents the same way he would.

He liked to think he was successful at it.  The aquanaut would no doubt disagree.

“I can still feel you judging me,” Other-Gordon grumbled eventually. Scott wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but it seemed like they should be nearly there.

Up ahead was a small, rocky island.  It looked utterly unfamiliar, but Other-Gordon was straight on course for it.

“Home sweet home,” the aquanaut commented when he caught him looking at it. “The same?”

“The only similarity is that it’s volcanic,” Scott answered.  “Ours has twin peaks, to start with.”  This Tracy Island seemed to have some sort of plateau mountain, rather than the jagged peaks he was used to.  It also seemed less like it was making up part of the lip of a caldera.

“That’s interesting,” Other-Gordon hummed.  “Your house is nothing like ours either, is it?”

Considering he’d needed a map to find Other-Scott’s room earlier, Scott thought that was rather obvious.

“Not at all,” he said.  “Even the pool’s a different shape.  Ours is a regular Olympic-size pool.”

“Really?” Other-Gordon asked.  “I suppose that makes it easier to retract, though.  Easier to pilot through, too?”

“If I ever get the chance to compare, I’ll let you know,” Scott replied. Other-Gordon laughed.

“I should let them know we’re on approach,” he said, reaching for the radio again.  “Ladybird to Tracy Island.”

“Tracy Island receiving you, Ladybird.”  It was Other-Scott on the line this time.  “You’re clear to land.”

“F.A.B., Scott,” Other-Gordon acknowledged.

“How much damage control have you left me with?” Other-Scott continued. “Dad says you said there were no issues?”

“I’ll give you the run-down once we’re down,” the aquanaut told him. “There was paparazzi.”

“If I don’t like what they publish, you’d better watch your back, Gordon,” Other-Scott warned.  “I’ll meet you two in the hangar.  Tracy Island out.”

“Well, no sense in putting it off,” Other-Gordon commented as the line went dead.  “You want to hang around for the debrief?”

Scott shook his head, having no wish to stand around and listen to an account of what he’d already lived through.  “Just him,” he reminded.  “I’ll get changed while you do.”

“You finally get to change underwear,” the ginger commented, and Scott rolled his eyes.  “Coming up on the landing now.”

Sure enough, there was the runway, protruding out onto a pier and lined with palm trees.  Definitely Thunderbird Two’s runway, and now that they were approaching it, Scott could see the cragged rockface that no doubt moved somehow to reveal the giant cargo plane.  A little way up was a white building, built into the cliff.

He filed that away to ask about later, not wanting to interrupt the aquanaut as he brought them down onto the tarmac with a slight bump, decelerating until they were taxiing towards an open hangar door.  It wasn’t quite central to the runway, further cementing Scott’s conclusion that Thunderbird Two was just behind the cliff face.

To his relief, Other-Scott seemed to be alone, standing next to the blue beauty he’d spotted earlier, as Other-Gordon brought the Ladybird to a stop and started the post-flight checks.  Wherever the rest of the family were, it didn’t seem like they’d planned a welcoming committee, at least.

“So?” the older man asked once they left the cockpit, already at the cargo hold and looking at the bags.  “Dad seems convinced everything went fine, but you didn’t tell him about the paparazzi, did you?”  He was clearly talking to Other-Gordon, but his eyes flicked to Scott.

Scott shrugged and reached past him for the bags.  “Gordon’ll give you the run-down,” he said.  “I’m getting changed.”

“Don’t forget the underpants!” Other-Gordon chirped at him.  He rolled his eyes and walked away, but not fast enough to avoid overhearing the start of the conversation.  “I’m sworn to silence to everyone except you, and you’re only the exception because he’s your clone, so don’t even think about telling anyone,” the ginger said, quietly but not so quietly Scott couldn’t hear while he waited for the elevator to swallow him up.  “Which definitely includes Dad, by the way, but-”

The elevator doors clanged shut, cutting off the conversation.  Scott jabbed the button labelled second, which was also the highest option, so he assumed that was the bedroom level.

It was, and to Scott’s private delight there was no-one in the landing, so he managed to slip past the door to the lounge – out of which piano music seemed to be coming – and into the guest room designated as his without being intercepted.

Once there, he upended the bags over the bed, letting the neatly-wrapped parcels of clothes fall out haphazardly, before picking up clothes to get changed into.

It was a relief to finally get out of the waistcoat, shirt and slacks belonging to his counterpart, and even more of a relief to find himself wearing something that much more closely resembled his idea of casual.

Setting the discarded clothes to one side, he rummaged through the rest of the new clothes and set about hanging them up in the closet.  His uniform was where he’d left it, he was pleased to see. No doubt Other-Brains would request it at some point, but Scott intended on supervising his investigations.  It was good that it hadn’t just been taken while he was out.

A knock on the door startled him just as he was hanging the last pair of jeans.

Who would that be?  It could have been anyone on the island – although he suspected Other-Alan might be less inclined to seek him out, and Other-Gordon would probably announce himself, if he didn’t walk straight in.

It was honestly weird having anyone knock rather than just walk in. His brothers had long since stopped waiting to be invited in, although Virgil and John did at least announce themselves with a knock most of the time.

“It’s me.  Can I come in?”

Other-Scott.

Scott supposed he should have expected that one.  Did he want to talk to his doppelgänger?  Most of the island’s residents he could probably predict how the conversation was going to go, but ironically, Other-Scott seemed to be the hardest to read.

He guessed it was because he had no idea how he’d react if things were the other way around, and Other-Scott had ended up in his universe.

His gut told him he probably wouldn’t give up trying to have a conversation if he was going out of his way to initiate it.

“Yeah,” he called back, closing the closet door.  The door opened and Other-Scott walked in, closing it behind him.

“Is that what you wear at home?” he asked, blue eyes scanning the clothes Scott had changed into.

“As close as I could get,” Scott shrugged, sitting on the bed next to Other-Scott’s discarded clothes and folding them up, mostly for something to do with his hands.

“Dad’s not going to approve,” Other-Scott warned him.  “But if it makes you more comfortable, I don’t see the problem.” He picked up the hat and discarded sunglasses.  “You’ll have to stay out of sight whenever we have visitors anyway, so no-one’s going to see you.”

There was an awkwardness about the other man that Scott thought was uncharacteristic of himself, until he realised it was the same awkwardness he was feeling, because there were no guidelines in any training he’d undergone about how to interact with an alternate universe version of yourself.

“Are you checking up on me?” he asked abruptly.  It made sense if he was, after getting Other-Gordon’s account of the day, and Scott thought they’d do a lot better if they stopped trying to test the waters.

From the quirk of Other-Scott’s lips, it was a shared opinion.

“I heard what happened,” he confirmed.  “Gordon was adamant you don’t want anyone else to know, and I can understand that.”  He sighed. “This is weird,” he said, and Scott gave a wry smile in agreement.  “And maybe, considering you’re literally another me, I’m not the best person to talk to, but.  I’m here. If you have questions, or want sane conversation.”

“After a day with Gordon, sane conversation is sorely lacking,” Scott quipped, and Other-Scott laughed.

“I owe him a billiards match or ten now,” he said.  “Remind him he can’t actually beat me.”

“Little brothers,” Scott shrugged.  “Give them an inch, they’ll take a mile.”

“Some things don’t change wherever you are,” Other-Scott agreed. “Gordon said you recognised the Ladybird’s controls?”

“Yeah,” Scott confirmed.  “We’ve got a plane like that at home.”

“I’ll talk with Dad about taking you for a flight,” Other-Scott said. “Once we’ve established how much is familiar, we can figure out anything else.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Scott agreed.  Other-Scott grinned.

“I wonder which one of us is the better pilot,” he said.  “I’m looking forward to seeing you fly.”

That thought hadn’t occurred to Scott.  “Best pilot gets primary dibs for Thunderbird One?” he dared.

Other-Scott laughed.  “If it’s my ‘bird on the line, I’m not going to go easy on you,” he warned.

“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Scott replied, and they both laughed.

“Well, I’m going to go teach Gordon a lesson or ten now,” Other-Scott said. “You’re welcome to join us if you’re not sick of his company by now.”

Scott chuckled.  “I’d like to see that,” he said.  “He might be better at chess, but if he’s anything like mine, billiards is not so much his territory.”  He stood up, gathering the dirty clothes.  “Where’s the laundry room?  Might as well drop these off.”

“I’ll show you,” Other-Scott said, opening the door again and stepping into the hallway.  “It’s next to the games room.”  Scott followed him, letting the door close behind him.

Chapter 13>>>

[allycryz]

WOL Challenge #3: You

[Prompt List Here]

[Filled Prompt List Here]

Haurchefant x Nerys, set immediately after Ardent [Ao3 Link]

Heavensward, right after Inquisition trial and before “Keeping the Flame Alive”

Rating: T for off-screen sex, sex talk

~*This is 2K words, most of it is fluff and I revel in it*~

The Fortemps library is a grand one. Haurchefant is not certain how it compares–he has only been in Haillenarte's with Francel–but imagines it is the finest in Ishgard. His father is a man of letters, a true believer in the power of words. And one who expected his sons to follow suit.

His education differed greatly from his brothers’ the day he became a knight’s page. Even still, his lord father sent him monthly parcels of books. He was expected to read them all and send detailed reports on the contents. Had he ever kept up his thaumaturgy studies, he would have been hard-pressed to find the time.

As it was, he’d stayed up often to fit in the poetry and novels not on the list. Count Edmont was a modern man and his syllabus reflected this–vetted popular authors and poets made it into the parcels. Never in the quantity Haurchefant would have liked. And never some of the one-gil books he bought in The Pillars.

When he was a boy, there were songs for sale about body functions and noises; exaggerated tales of heroes fighting all manner of beasts and foes. As a youth, these became long, violent epics of battles and bravery. As a young man: lurid poems and explicit romance novels. Some as grand and sweeping as the classical romances his Father promoted. Some were not.

He has managed to introduce some contemporary poets into the collection. Not all. Edmont’s tastes in poetry run more traditional. Some of the rising stars of the field are roundly rejected.

Haurchefant is working on that.

Today, he feels romantic in both classic and literal senses. And as his Father has ordered him to stay for a day and night, indulging in a novel sounds just the thing.  It seems that getting trapped in a blizzard–even if things had gone fine, more than fine–means your noble father turns to such decrees.

At least, that is what it means now they are growing close, as they never had been. Another miracle Nerys has wrought with her coming. And as Haurchefant has full faith in Corentiaux and the rest...he allows himself to be thus ordered. 

Someone else is in the library. He can sense it soon as he enters. A soldier learns to tell when others are near, even in safe environs such as this. Haurchefant softens his footfalls, peering about the shelves. There, in the alcove reserved for study, he finds the source of today’s romantic mood.

Nerys looks up, eyes turning soft. His heart swells in his chest, his mouth cannot help but smile. It’s unstoppable and he does not ever want it to cease. Was it really only yesterday? That she told me my love was returned?

It seems a dream now, albeit the sweetest one he has ever had.

Her hands sweep at the papers she has laid out, pulling them into a stack. Flips over the one on top. “Hello.”

“Hello, my dear.” How nice to call her that. “I thought you were on a shopping expedition with Emmanellain?”

“I was.” She touches her neckline. So caught up in her eyes, he hadn’t noticed the gown she wore.

Scarlet as the unicorn on his shield, set off with dangling garnets in her ears. The heart-shaped neckline shows off her elegant neck and collar bones. The sleeves are slashed to reveal white fabric beneath and the cuffs have delicate pearls. “I found this. For when I’m here at the manor and not about to fight Inquisitors or dragons.”

“You are breathtaking in it.” He circles the table to take her hand. Bows over it before pressing his mouth to her knuckles. Etiquette demands he should kiss the air above it but surely exceptions are made for lovers. 

She is my lover now, he thinks in wonder. Her cheeks stain with a fetching indigo shade. “My lord is kind.”

Haurchefant drops to one knee before his lady and turns her hand. Her palm is just as lovely to kiss. “Your lord means everything he says. But if you require further proof of my ardor…”

Nerys darts a glance about before tilting up his chin. Her kiss is sweet and soft and not a little heated. Would that he might lay her upon the table in this temple of learning and know her better.

Alas, Nerys has asked for discretion. Time to better acquaint themselves as lovers before declaring themselves. They are still friends–always will be, if he has anything to do with it–but this dynamic is new and strange. Haurchefant can understand why the most public figure in Eorzea might want some measure of privacy. 

Though, he reflects as he parts from her. Half the fun would be keeping quiet and avoiding discovery.

“I know that look,” she says. “You’re thinking of something lascivious.”

“When I had this look before I confessed, what did you think it meant?”

“The same,” she admits. “But that your love of innuendo was good-natured teasing.”

He heaves a sigh. Either he is not as obvious as Estinien always accuses him or she’d been in deep, deep denial. “Dearest love, how-”

The library doors bang open and the culprit whistles as he walks inside. Haurchefant rises, knowing exactly who it is before he comes into view.

“Old Girl! Old Man!” Emmanellain grins. “You didn’t tell me we were having a party in the library.”

“Impetuous Youth,” Haurchefant shoots back. “What if one of us was deep in study?”

“Oh I don’t deal in ‘what-ifs’. You two are having a conversation, not studying; ergo all is well.” 

“He has a point. I think,” says Nerys. “By the by, if Haurchefant is ‘Old Man’, what do you call your eldest brother?”

The two men exchange looks. Smile. Say in unison, “Artoirel.”

Nerys groans and flaps both hands at them in dismissal. “Go fetch whatever you two were looking for. I am actually working on something.”

“Am I to be banished for my baby brother’s crimes?” Haurchefant presses a hand to his heart. “Mistress Eluned, you wound me.”

“If I must be quiet and meek like a mouse, so must you. After all, I am the true leader of our brotherly trio.”

“You are right of course. I could never compare to you.” Haurchefant shakes his head. “Very well, Impetuous Youth. As mice scurry to cheese, let us go to the books we seek.”

“Ordered to seek,” Emmanellian mutters. “I’m to review Ymbelet’s Theorem of Command and deliver a report. As if we hadn’t put our schooling well behind us.”

Haurchefant does his best to soothe his brother. They quiet down at last: the younger man taking his volume off to his chambers, the elder settling into an armchair within eyesight of Nerys. (Far enough away that she may stop hiding her work.)

His novel is a work of popular fiction he’d garnered approval to stock here. No erotic scenes, but romantic enough. Should he ever get his eyes to stay on the page.

Alas, the white-haired sorcerer-king and his beloved princess and his soul-eating sword are no match for the Warrior of Light. The curve of her cheek. The braided coronet of purple and white hair, crowning her while the rest of her curls are a lovely raiment over her shoulders. The quirk to her dark, sweet lips.

She lifts those golden eyes, meeting him. If he were not already lovestruck and bedazzled, that gaze would ensnare him. He smiles and lifts his shoulders in a helpless shrug. Haurchefant isn’t sorry for lingering before a sunset; and that natural wonder is naught in comparison.

“My lord,” says Nerys, her voice carrying. “May I help you?”

“Nay, Mistress.” He shakes his head. “Simply exist as you are and I am satisfied.”

That is when Alphinaud bursts in, looking drawn and pale. If Haurchefant is annoyed at another interruption, that vanishes at the sight. He jumps to his feet. “My lad! Are you alright?”

The youth shakes his head. “Nerys. Tataru has grave news about General Aldynn. We must be off at once.”

She rises, hurrying over in a rush of white and red silk. In an instant she has changed from playfulness to resolute determination. Always ready to become The Warrior, his Nerys. 

“Do you require anything?” He asks them. “You know my sword is yours, as is any resource at our disposal.”

Alphnaud shakes his head. “No one must see us enter Thanalan or leave. As soon as we cross back into Coerthas, we’ll send word.”

“I thank you. If you needs must bring the General somewhere safe, Camp Dragonhead’s doors are open to you.” If he must return to his command rather than fight at her side, at least he might be of some use to her. He loves–truly loves–his role but lately, his dearest wish is to be a shield at her back and a sword in her arsenal.

Ah, well, even Sorcerer-Kings do not get all they want. Why should he?

He dips into a sweeping bow to them both. Alphinaud returns it before rushing out, every emotion writ upon his usually perfect diplomat’s mask. Should the General die, the youth will carry it as he does everything else that occurred with the Braves. Haurchefant sends a prayer to Halone, asking for mercy on him.

Nerys takes his hand. Squeezes it. He squeezes it back. She smiles before picking up her skirts and rushing afterward.

It proves impossible to focus after that, even more than before. For a moment he entertains armoring up and following. This isn’t Dragonhead and so none of the knights with orders to keep him safe are here. (That time with Iceheart, Corentiaux had actually sat upon him.)

But they have asked he stay behind. So he will.

Haurchefant can take care of Nerys’ papers for her. He means to pointedly not look at the contents. He truly does. But he sees a piece of paper with his name on top, another with his last name, and his resolve crumbles.

The first piece of paper is titled “Minako” in large, neat letters. Beneath are names like Mamoru, Umino, Motoki. Her Yellow Chocobo is named Minako. Therefore, this is for…

The next sheet of paper confirms his suspicions. Under the heading “Black Chocobo” are the names Endymion, Starlight, Twilight, Onyx. Below that, a subheading “Elegance” with virtue monikers: Noble, Dignity, Charming.

And so, when he arrives to the last three papers (titled “Haurchefant”, “Greystone”, and “Fortemps”), he cannot contain his joy. The little note scribbled atop “Haurchefant” tickles him further. He gave you the Chocobo and you adore him. Will he be offended? He might be offended. 

Haurchefant is certainly not offended. 

He delights in the candidates, even some of the ones she crossed out. Sadly, there is no option for “Haurchefant” or “Haurchefant II.” I suppose that might get confusing.

Grinning, he picks up her leather folio and tucks her work inside. Hopefully, she will forgive his snooping because he has some ideas about this.

--

The Lord Commander’s bed at Camp Dragonhead may be the most comfortable place in Eorzea.

Nerys should get up to clean, brush her teeth, all the little nighttime rituals. But she is so pleasantly exhausted and the blankets are so soft and warm. She stretches, luxuriating in the feel of them against her skin. It has been a harrowing few days since her abrupt departure from Ishgard. But all is well and now, she feels nothing but comfort.

The bed could be warmer with her companion. But then she wouldn’t get to see his bare bottom as he slips into the bathroom. Halone must adore him to bless him with such a lovely rear.

“My love,” he calls after a while. “I have a confession to make.”

“Oh? Should I be worried?”

“I hope not.” He returns with a washcloth, his black silk robe barely closed against the cold. The fireplace sends flickers of light across his sculpted chest.  “I may be overstepping but...I must say that I truly adore the name Grey. Though Tempsy is charming. Also, may I suggest Haurchon?”

What does he...oh. Oh! Nerys groans and buries her face in a pillow. She had been in such haste to rescue Raubahn–rightfully so!–that she had left all her papers there. All face up, all in the open.

The mattress dips as Haurchefant sits beside her. One hand strokes her hair, gentle and sweet. “I should not have pried but Nerys–my dearest one–I am utterly and truly touched by the idea. Though of course, if you pick a different name I will not be offended.”

“I only...well, I wouldn’t have him if not for you,” she mutters into the pillow, heat filling her face. “And if not for him, we wouldn’t have been in Coerthas that day.”

“So we owe him a great honor, for bringing us together at last.” His lips press against her bare shoulder. “Of course, the truest honor would be to name him after yourself-”

She turns then, mortification at last leaving her. Cups his face in her hands. “I am not playing this game where we go on for hours about who is better.  Let’s agree it’s you and end it there.”

“Oh my love,” he sighs, bending down to her. “Though you are wrong, I must obey if it proves to you the depth of my regard.”

“I know another way you could prove it,” she says, pulling him atop her.

--

Grey likes his name.

[kirkwallgremlin]

An Impulse Decision

Carver Hawke x Alistair Theirin, 1565 words

Carver walks into a trap. Luckily his fellow Warden Alistair has quick reflexes. Aka what if we kissed in the Deep Roads (and we were both Wardens)? 

Read on AO3

It was odd, being back in the Deep Roads. 

He and Garrett had spent so long working to get there, determined to raise the money for Bartrand’s expedition, to make their fortune in dwarven treasure. From what he had heard, it seemed Garrett had made a relative fortune and Carver was glad his remaining family had somewhere comfortable and safe to live. 

Obviously things hadn’t turned out how they planned. Bartrand’s betrayal, fighting their way back to the surface, his own brush with death.

Sometimes Carver wondered what he’d have done if he’d been given the choice. What would he have done if he hadn’t joined the Wardens on the verge of death, the Blight poisoning his body from the inside out? Would he have joined them if the choice had been his own, and not yet another choice circumstances and his older brother had made for him? 

It wasn’t something he lingered on often. Life as a Warden was better than no life at all, and dwelling on what-ifs never helped anyone. He was happy as a Warden - he had friends, a chance to make a life for himself. And Alistair was one of the first friends he made independent of his brother, the first friend who wouldn’t always be comparing him in some small way to Garrett. 

It was Alistair he found himself with now, trekking through passages as they tried to locate a new darkspawn escape point. A group of hurlocks had made it to the surface without being observed by the Wardens, and the Warden-Commander suspected they may have found a new one. 

“You look like you’ve got a whole lot of… thoughts going on in your head,” Alistair called back to him, and Carver jumped, having not even realised he had stopped. With one final glance at the arched doorway that had caught his attention, thrown him right back to that one fateful trip with Garrett and the others, he hurried after his fellow Warden. 

“Trying to drown out the darkspawn by overthinking?” Alistair continued as Carver caught up. “Doesn’t work, unfortunately. I’ve tried it.” 

The darkspawn noise was another change to the Deep Road experience. With Garrett and the others, they had seemed almost eerily quiet, the only noises the echo of their feet and the occasional shuffling, grumbling noises of the darkspawn. Their voices, when they spoke, had echoed along the long, empty hallways, bouncing off the pillars and the piles of rubble that no longer stood. 

The Wardens could sense the darkspawn, though, and the Deep Roads had no shortage of darkspawn. Carver didn’t know if it counted as noise if it was inside your own head but it was incessant. 

“Does it ever stop?” he wondered out loud. Alistair shrugged at him, looking back over his shoulder. 

“Nope. You get better at tuning it out though. Or… maybe I’m just used to ignoring whatever’s going on in my head. It does tend to be pretty full. Always full of thoughts and… well, now I guess darkspawn too.”

Carver sighed. Alistair smiled at him, a comforting smile that made Carver’s heart skip a beat. 

“You should have felt it during the Blight,” Alistair said. “Darkspawn everywhere and the archdemon flying around Maker knows where.” He shuddered, turning back to the path. “I do not miss that. Ostagar wasn’t fun either, whole darkspawn army waiting just around the corner.”

He fell silent at that. Carver didn’t respond either. Ostagar hadn’t been fun for either of them, for a variety of reasons. While it sometimes was nice to talk to Alistair about it, something they had done a few times already, the Deep Roads didn’t feel like the appropriate venue. 

He lived in awe that Alistair had actually fought the Blight with the hero of Ferelden himself. Despite having more than enough reason to let it go to his head - son of the former king, potential heir to the throne, saviour of Ferelden - Alistair was one of the most down to earth, honest people he knew, and the Wardens were lucky to have him. Carver felt lucky to have him in his life in any capacity, let alone as a friend.

The Warden-Commander often assigned them to work together. Carver suspected it was because Alistair was one of the most experienced wardens among them, and he the least, but he definitely wasn’t complaining. He liked working with Alistair. He made everything more enjoyable, even the things that weren’t at all pleasurable.

Lost in his own thoughts, he followed his companion through the maze of tunnels, wondering if Alistair would be interested in joining him for another game of cards later on. 

Alistair turned back to look at him, his mouth beginning to open as though he wanted to say something as dimly, Carver heard a faint click. Before he had time to process what it could be, to even consider it, something hit him squarely in the chest, the air forced from his lungs as he hit the wall. Alistair’s body followed him, pressing him against the ancient stone as Carver gasped for breath. 

“Trap,” Alistair said as the stones crumbled behind them, leaving nothing but an abyss in the path where Carver had been standing. 

“Thank you,” Caver wheezed, winded. Alistair wasn’t small, and he’d hit him pretty hard, but he couldn’t bring himself to mind. 

The weight of him pressed against Carver didn’t make it any easier to catch his breath and his mouth went dry as he realised how close Alistair was, the closest he could remember ever being to him. The closest he could remember being to somebody in a long time, in fact. And the fact that it was Alistair left him even more breathless, an odd fluttering feeling forming in his stomach. 

And Alistair was still so close, his chest against Carver’s, one hand on the wall beside Carver’s ear, making no move to step back. 

They stood like that for a moment, unmoving, breathless, adrenaline coursing through every inch of Carver’s body. Then something inside him gave way and his face was moving down, lips pressing against  Alistair’s. One hand slipped behind Alistair’s head, wanting to pull him closer, as close as he possibly could as he kissed him.

He sensed more than saw Alistair’s arm tense in response and he froze, pulling back, almost hitting his head against the wall behind him as he did. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, fear spiking in his belly that one impulse decision, something he didn’t even realise he wanted until it happened, had just ruined whatever friendship he had formed with his fellow warden. But now all he could think was that he had just kissed Alistair. Alistair, son of the former king of Ferelden, hero of the fifth blight, Grey Warden. Alistair, his closest friend in the wardens, the closest friend he could ever remember having. 

Alistair, who may never want to talk to him again now.

Alistair, who still hadn’t stepped back, still stood so close that Carver could see the rise and fall of his breath. 

And then their lips were together again and Alistair was kissing him, his arms around Alistair’s back. The other man’s armour was cold under his hands, no sun in the underground to warm it, his hair soft under Carver’s fingers. Alistair’s lips moved against his as Carver tried to lose himself in the moment. He had kissed people before, only a handful but enough, but this felt different, like he never wanted it to end. It didn’t matter that they were in the Deep Roads, that every sense was screaming an awareness of darkspawn, that he now had no idea what the future would bring. All that mattered was Alistair and the way he felt under Carver’s hands, under his lips. 

Something scuttled to the right, the soft sound of shifting rocks loud in the quiet. They sprung apart, hands jumping to their respective weapons with practiced ease, and Carver let out a nervous laugh at the sight of the startled nug disappearing into the tunnels. 

Alistair cleared his throat and Carver rubbed his face nervously. 

“So,” he said, otherwise lost for words. “Uh… I should probably thank you for, y’know, saving my life and everything.”

“I’m glad it’s appreciated,” Alistair grinned at him. “I thought I’d help you avoid an untimely death and all that. It’d be a terrible waste to let you fall to your doom.” The grin dropped from his face though. “Maker, I think my heart nearly stopped though. Please don’t do that again.” 

“I’ll do my best,” Carver muttered, suddenly hyper aware of every single part of his body and completely unsure what to do with it. Why was it so hard to know what to do with your hands? With your feet? “I’m... I don’t know why I kissed you. I’m sorry.” 

“Oh.” Alistair’s ears turned red. “Well, I can’t say I minded that part. You’re welcome to try that part again. If you wanted to. No pressure of course.”

“I think I’d like that,” Carver admitted, trying to ignore the fluttering continuing to grow in his chest. “We should probably keep looking for darkspawn now though. Finally get out of these damned tunnels.”

Much to Carver’s delight, however, Alistair showed him exactly how much he wouldn’t mind a repeat of that kiss before the pair of them moved on. 

[queenrisa14]

What are your Sailor Moon ships other than Usagi and Mamoru

HI ANON!! Sorry it took so long!

So obviously as you pointed out Usagi and Mamoru (usamamo has my heart) are my main ship. Oh and any variants of Usagi and Mamoru like Princess Serenity, King Endymion, Sailor Moon, Sailor Cosmos, Tuxedo Mask, etc. Love all the combos lol

Some other ships that have caught my heart are:

Ami/Ryo: Honestly reading some fanfic for this ( @idesofnovember “Catching Up” is an amazing Ami/Ryo example!!!) got me to love this ship since Ryo only appeared in two episodes and now I wished he showed up in moreeeee!! They are such a cute couple and particularly like when Senshi do have lives outside of being Senshi lol And I like Ryo he had such a good backstory and connection to the series!

Heilos/Chibiusa or “Black Lady”: I give this one to fanart honestly XD XD Like literally today I saw @floraone reblogged a fanart piece of a gender bend Black Lady and Heilos by @haloblabla and it’s literally GORGEOUS and it gives me those OTP/ship butterflies and I love it! I don’t like the canon of them just because chibs is a kid (yea yea she’s 900 I don’t believe in that canon personally XD) and I think more aged up with some canon tweaking it could have reached more of my usamamo ship love level lol I also think that in general Chibs should have been more aged up in the Infinity arc/season 3 because it would have been cool to have her around Usagi’s age when Usagi became Sailor Moon first (14) and see the parallels of how Chibs deals with being a senshi compared to how Usagi first did-sorry getting off track like always lol but you get what I mean. I feel like there’s so much potential especially with Black Lady being thrown in there and I love it. Heilos and Chibiusa can work with the magic of fanart and fanfic. 

Reinako (Rei/Minako): I don’t necessarily look for Reinako fics but I do love when it comes up in a fic or fanart! I think they have such a fun dynamic and bounce off each so well as lovers and friends. I honestly would love to play with the idea of writing them into one of my future fics but I don’t know if I would do them justice. We will see though!!!

I think that’s pretty much it from the top of my head. I also like Haruka/Michiru but again I don’t connect with them the same as I do the other ships so it’s different but I still very much support and love their relationship in the fandom. I’m also always open to new ships to any of the characters except usamamo obviously but I LOVE what ifs so it’s all on how they are portrayed!

Thank you so much for the ask Anon!!!

[kbstories]

impression//expression

"It’s not like Kirishima had come all this way to U.A. to immediately break the promise he made to himself upon arrival.

It’s just that Bakugou is as feral as they come, and the moment Kirishima recognizes it’s fear he felt crawling up his spine that day, he makes it his personal mission to face it head-on until it’s gone."

(Or: Being friends with Bakugou Katsuki is anything but a linear experience. Kirishima Eijirou would have it no other way.)

Tags: Kirishima POV, Developing Friendships, Post-Kamino Arc, Hurt/Comfort, Domestic Fluff, Kiri Has A Dog Because I Said So

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Content warning for anxiety attacks and discussions thereof. Chapter 6. Chapter 7. Chapter 8. Chapter 9.

***

Kirishima comes to sunlight shining on his face and an armful of Bakugou.

It’s not a sudden jolt of consciousness that alerts him of this. His brain comes online one synapse at a time with how all-around cozy he is, bundled up in comfortably warm covers with Bakugou’s head nestled in the crook of his neck, his arm wrapped loosely around Kirishima’s waist. In actuality, Kirishima slept so well it’s legitimately hard to get himself to wake up beyond lazily squinting an eye against that bright glare.

Which is why his first move is to pull the blanket up higher and snuggle closer to his Bakugou-shaped pillow. Bakugou, for his part, breathes something between a mumble and a sigh and slumbers on.

Out like a light. He’s onto something there, Kirishima muses. For a while, he lets himself drift to the calm two-step beat of Bakugou’s heart keeping time against his chest, the gentle tickle of Bakugou’s hair under his chin. Blissful oblivion nips at the edges of his mind; his body can’t quite get there, though, that pesky bit of awareness clinging to existence despite his best efforts.

Urgh, fine.

Kirishima blinks with a little more purpose behind it. His vision is blurred from overall drowsiness and the murky half-dark the blanket provides. Bakugou is easy to make out regardless, face slack and close enough Kirishima can see the minute shift of blonde lashes as he snoozes. It’s the residue redness around his eyes that nudges Kirishima’s brain to wonder and think and remember–

Blue fire. Unread texts. The hospital, Kamino Ward, All Might. Bakugou.

All at once, the sight of Bakugou passed out in his arms is anything but a peaceful one. It’s intimate in a way Kirishima suddenly feels uncomfortable with, not because he doesn’t like it – in his educated opinion, any day starting with cuddling is good by default – but because Bakugou is the least touch-y person he knows and this is crossing so many lines. All the lines.

Lines drawn by unspoken rules and implicit understandings Kirishima learned by sheer trial and error. All those other times Bakugou let his guard down around him seem like peanuts compared to this.

But… Bakugou is resting. Catching up on untold amounts of missed sleep, looking far more relaxed than Kirishima could’ve hoped for. Perhaps it would’ve been better to ensure he makes it to his own bed instead of sharing the pull-out couch; perhaps Kirishima shouldn’t have pushed when things are so fresh. Kirishima’s hands ache to move from between Bakugou’s shoulders yet letting him go feels wrong, too.

It was far too easy, last time. To sit there and bicker in class while Bakugou faded from view, mere miles away.

The dread roiling within him is familiar, as are the maybes and what-ifs that accompany it. It returns like an old friend, the thought of losing him to people who mistake his violence for villainy, who disregard the good shining at Bakugou’s very core in favor of the hurt his hands can cause. The brightest star in the sky, burning, desperate to be seen, to be acknowledged.

It makes Kirishima restless, this feeling – like the air is growing thin and the ground is about to collapse beneath their feet, and it’s up to Kirishima to get them out of there. His blood thrums with the need to fight tooth and nail to keep whatever is causing it away, to shield Bakugou until the shaking stops and the debris settles.

Kirishima has failed Bakugou once already. Not again, never again–

“Think any harder an’ your brain’s gonna melt.”

Kirishima’s heart nearly stops, then jumps into overdrive. A hesitant glance proves that, yup, that’s Bakugou stirring, right there. Bleary-eyed and still far too soft around the edges but awake. Kirishima isn’t ready for this.

He’s also dead. Super dead. Buried-so-deep-nobody-will-ever-find-his-body dead.

He swallows, any sort of greeting escaping his mind except a quiet, “Oh.”

Bakugou yawns and rubs at his eye, a gesture made clumsy with sleepiness. “Mm?” He props himself up, a hand laid flat on Kirishima’s chest. “Calm down, will ya? Your heart’s goin’ like crazy.”

There are no words to describe how impossible that is right now. “Um”, Kirishima says intelligently, and: “Sorry.” A little sheepish, since he can’t exactly help what his heart does (or his brain, for that matter).

He is on the verge of panicking, Kirishima notes dimly. That realization alone does little to chase away the half-formulated doubts threatening to choke him, that inkling of fear that’s on the brink of spiraling out of control. A moment later, he has to consciously unclench his hardened hands from the back of Bakugou’s shirt, which–

Ah. That’s what woke him up.

“Shit. S-sorry, I–”

There’s a frown on Bakugou’s face as he sits up. “Nothing’s goin’ on”, he tells him, calm where Kirishima can’t be. “’s just my room.” Just as deliberate, the covers are pushed aside to allow cool air to flow into their private niche of the world. Everything’s so bright, so–

“Kiri? Hey. Give me your hands.”

It takes considerable effort to focus on Bakugou’s voice. “Whuh?”

“Your hands. Like this.”

Bakugou holds out his own, palm-up. Kirishima does the same, staring blankly at his trembling, rock-hewn fingers. When Bakugou holds his palm, it’s with a touch Kirishima can barely feel. “Focus on this”, a low murmur followed by pressure to the meat of Kirishima’s thumb, faint despite the bones in Bakugou’s wrist showing from the effort. Bakugou slides it upwards and to the webbing connecting to his index, marginally more giving.

“You’re okay. Just breathe. Focus, right here.”

The touch shifts again, down to his wrist. Kirishima lets him do whatever, watching with a detached sort of fascination as his quirk relents. Bakugou’s thumb brushes over the spot where Kirishima’s veins are becoming visible again, the skin there thin and delicate. He digs in, an inch or two from his hand.

It’s a little rougher than before. Not unpleasant, just unexpected, and Kirishima’s fingers twitch. Bakugou’s lips press together. He does it again, notably gentler. “You with me?”

Kirishima hums. The question registers a moment later and he nods for good measure. “Yeah, I– It helps. This.”

“Mh.” Bakugou gestures for his other arm; he starts from his wrist and goes up to his hand this time, eyes on what he’s doing. “Pressure points are useful shit. You got one here”, a pinch to that spot between thumb and index, “and here”, a tap to his wrist. “Works best if it’s someone else doing it but you can, too.”

That sounds vaguely familiar. Perhaps something that came up the last time he googled it? Panic attacks used to be much more of an thing for Kirishima – before he hair-dyed and bench-pressed Red Riot into something more real, more than a distant daydream. More than a scared kid with shitty self-esteem.

(Life’s been manageable, since. Chaotic and distressing in a host of other ways as it swings back and forth between joy and disaster like fate’s cruelest pendulum and actually, it might be a bit of a miracle it took this long for his anxiety to make a comeback.)

Memorizing any new info is beyond Kirishima right now; he strong-arms his braincells to hold onto the term ‘pressure point’, at least. And if Bakugou is sharing, Kirishima figures it’s only fair to share back.

“The one I know is like, deep breathing? And, um. Talking through it. Counting things you can sense. What you see, hear, smell, and so on. It’s just…”

“Hard to do that by yourself, yeah.”

By this point, Bakugou is just brushing his thumb along the lines on Kirishima’s palm and that feels really nice, too. The image of his hands clawing up worn fabric is hard to shake off, though, making Kirishima’s stomach churn with guilt.

“Sorry, man. For waking you up, I mean. And freaking out on you. I didn’t hurt you, right? You’d tell me if I hurt you.”

It’s meant to come out with confidence, because Kirishima trusts Bakugou. It’s trusting himself that's the problem, sometimes.

A groan, long-suffering. “How many times…” Bakugou gives him a look caught between annoyance and fondness. “Kiri. First off, after yesterday, I have no fucking room to complain when it comes to– That. It happens, it sucks, it’s fine. It’s not your fault or whatever. Secondly–”

Kirishima almost chuckles at how pointed that one word is. He shelves the comment on his tongue for after the Bakugou Lecture he’s being treated to.

“I fell asleep on you. Which, my bad but also fuck you, I was tired and some fucking sap wanted to talk feelings at screw-this-AM. There’re no… scratches or anything, and you make an okay pillow for being a literal rock. So, we’re even.”

Kirishima does laugh at that. “I’m not a rock! Get your facts straight, bro.”

“And thirdly”, Bakugou continues with a smirk, “I just turned your hands into bombs, you dumb fucking rock. Either you let me spark it off you or I’m kicking you out to wash it off before that shit goes boom.”

“Spark off?” Head tilting, Kirishima looks at his hands. He doesn’t see anything but if Bakugou says there’s nitro, there’s definitely nitro. “Wait, is that what you do when you…?”

The gesture Bakugou does to let rapid-fire explosions flicker in his palms is easily copied, Kirishima has seen him do it countless times. The other rolls his eyes.

“Yeah. I got tired of getting it all over the place and wearing gloves twenty-four-seven is uncomfortable as fuck, I tried. Plus, burning shit is fun.”

Huh. Kirishima holds out his hands once more, a swift grin on his lips. “Sounds cool. One sparking off, please!”

Bakugou slaps them away immediately. “Use your quirk, dipshit. Or d’you actually wanna get ‘em blown to pieces?”

“Oh. Right.”

Everything under Kirishima’s elbow hardens in an instant. This time, Bakugou huffs under his breath and takes them between his palms. “Here goes.”

A flash, the familiar crackle of firecracker explosions – Kirishima braced himself for it to hurt a little despite Bakugou’s insane control over his quirk, and he does feel it. It tickles, mostly, the sensation of tiny bursts of heat rolling from his fingertips to his wrist a strangely soothing one.

Bakugou looks over his hands when he’s done, the tightness between his brows easing. Then he glances up to Kirishima’s face and sees the smile that’s broad enough to make his cheeks ache. The frown comes back tenfold.

“No.”

“Dude, yes. Do that again.”

“Nope. Fuck you, Shitty Hair, no.”

“You said it’s fun two seconds ago! Checkmate, I win.”

“Kirishima.”

Kirishima snickers until Bakugou’s palm presses against his cheek. It’s basically second nature to harden in time for the explosion to go by harmlessly and oh, this is so going to become a thing.

“It’s a thing now”, he informs Bakugou. “Can it be like our handshake? We totally need a handshake. What kind of besties are we withou–” A gasp. “Oh, oh, we can do the thing after training, too! I won’t even need to wash my hands. It’s fun and useful.”

Bakugou’s face twists. “What the hell? That’s fucking disgusting.” In one fluid movement, he’s out of their blanket nest and stomping off the couch. It would be intimidating… if not for his wrinkled shirt and sleep-mussed hair making it kind of adorable, instead.

“I’m done talking to you.”

“Aww, bro!”

Kirishima crawls half-way over the armrest only to catch a throw pillow – hah! – to the face. Another thud follows, turning out to be Kirishima’s phone tossed from across the room.

“Even mooched off my charger, ugh. You got a million missed messages. Take care of ‘em before your moms call the cops, bro.”

Bakugou's tone is practically drenched in sarcasm but Kirishima doesn’t care, he beams. Bakugou called him his bro and there’re simply no take-backs allowed on a declaration like that.

*

💪🏻 Kirishima Power 💪🏻

Mama K: Honey, are you awake yet? (received 10:10)

Mama K: Your mom and I are ready to come pick you up whenever. (received 11:20)

Mom: also let us know when we can start hunting your teachers for sport (received 11:22)

Mama K: No murder until our son is back, dear. (received 11:22)

Mom: mhmm sure (received 11:23)

aaaa morning!! (sent 11:38)

oh shit it’s almost noon hhhh (sent 11:38)

Mom: language kiddo (received 11:38)

oh crap** sry (sent 11:38)

Mama K: Welcome back! ❤️ (received 11:39)

hey mama ❤️ (sent 11:39)

ok so picking up is good!! we’re eating breakfast rn (sent 11:42)

well more like lunch 🙈 (sent 11:42)

Mama K: Okay! Now or later? (received 11:43)

ah, mitsuki is saying you two should swing by for tea so maybe in an hour? (sent 11:47)

and that the teachers are actually coming here?? later?? idk why tho (sent 11:48)

aside from, y’know (sent 11:48)

Mama K: Yeah 🙁 (received 11:50)

Mom: how’s katsuki holding up? (received 11:50)

umm ok. kinda. he looks tired as heck tbh and i’m not sure how happy he is about the teacher thing (sent 11:55)

it’s all a bit oof (sent 11:56)

Mom: hmm. anything we can do to help? (received 12:01)

def give him his space (sent 12:03)

and maybe don’t kill aizawa @Mom looking at u haha (sent 12:03)

Mom: bummer (received 12:06)

actually… one more thing? 👀 (sent 12:10)

Mama K: You want us to bring the big guns, huh? (received 12:12)

*

After the hellos and introductions and obligatory fussing over Kirishima – Mama gives him her usual forehead kiss, expertly avoiding his freshly-spiked hair, while Mom wraps him in her patented rib-pulverizing hug – the parents go inside, leaving Bakugou and Kirishima in the yard with…

“Riot.”

Kirishima grins and nods. He heaves the hundred pounds of tail-wagging excitement into a more comfortable position against his chest, big paws coming to rest on his shoulders. “Yeah! Isn’t he the cutest?”

“Your dog is called Riot.”

“Yup!”

Bakugou openly stares at Riot’s drooling smile. After a painfully long pause, he goes: “Okay.”

If all it took to make Bakugou speechless was an Akita with an unexpected (?) name, Kirishima would’ve introduced him to Riot ages ago. As it is, it’s taking all his willpower not to crack up at Bakugou’s expression. It’s like watching one of those ancient Windows computers suffer a system crash so severe even the task manager stops functioning.

Arms full of dog, Kirishima nudges him with his elbow. Reboot initialized. “But?”

Bakugou shakes himself a little. He gestures to Riot, or perhaps to Kirishima, or both? It’s hard to tell. “But… just, like… Why?”

Priceless. Kirishima silently vows to cherish this rarest of blessings in his memories for eternity. It won’t do to rescue Bakugou only to give him an aneurism the very next day. Setting Riot down, Kirishima pats orange-white hair off his borrowed clothes. The Akita immediately trots over to Bakugou to say hi. 

“I got Riot when I was really small, like six-ish? Seven? Something like that.”

Bakugou crouches and holds out his hand for a curious black nose to sniff. Kirishima sits down next to them, watching Riot take a deep whiff and promptly sneeze. Bakugou mutters something about explosives and dumb dog, be careful. Despite the forced casualness on Bakugou’s part, it’s clear he’s not used to being around dogs.

Still, he’s trying. Kirishima’s grin tempers to a soft, close-lipped smile at the sight.

“Back then, I only had a vague idea of who I’d wanna be. As a hero, y’know?” He reaches over to scratch Riot’s favorite spot at the base of his curled tail. It starts wagging immediately. “I was tossing around a few names and somehow Riot stuck. So, I tried it out on him and by the time I realized ‘Yup, that’s the one!’, he didn’t wanna listen to anything else.”

Riot pants at him, mouth wide. Kirishima boops his wet nose. “Yeah, I’m talkin’ about you. Stubborn dog.”

“You’re telling me your hero name got stolen”, Bakugou summarizes drily. “By a dog. When you were six.”

Figures that’s what Bakugou would get out of this. Kirishima snorts and shrugs.

“I guess? Riot – the hero, not the dog – existed way before the whole ‘Red’ stuff came along, ‘cause like… Crimson was out there, I knew he existed, but his philosophy was a bit beyond me. He wasn’t my hero yet, you feel me?”

Bakugou hums. “You weren’t a hero nerd yet. Just a space nerd.”

That startles a laugh out of Kirishima. He knocks his shoulder against Bakugou’s. “Exactly! See, you get me.”

“Shut up, nerd”, comes the predictable reply with a rougher knock back.

Eventually, Bakugou joins him in the grass, his knees propped up and elbows resting on them. Riot makes himself comfortable as well, sprawling on his side with his head resting on Bakugou’s thigh. The full might of pleading canine eyes look upwards. Bakugou squints. “The fuck.”

“He wants scritches”, Kirishima translates readily.

A beat, then Bakugou carefully rubs the knuckles of his index and middle finger in-between the white spots on Riot’s face. Riot huffs a content sigh and melts into the gentle touch.

“Hm. He’s soft.”

“Right? As a puppy, he was the softest and tiniest thing you can imagine. Wait, I might have pics on my phone. Gimme a sec.”

A bit of searching, and Kirishima taps on an old photo of him as a kid, pointy teeth flashed in an impossibly big smile as he hugs a chubby ball of brown fluff close to his face. Mama had dug it up from some dusty family album in a bout of nostalgia after Kirishima broke the news he’d been accepted to U.A.

“Behold: Baby Riot.”

Kirishima shows it to Bakugou. Only after Bakugou’s brows rise does he remember he’s probably never seen him with his natural hair color. Whoops.

Studying the photo for a moment, Bakugou continues to pet the adult version of Riot absent-mindedly. “He looks like a potato.”

“Wha–” Kirishima checks the photo to make sure it’s the same one. “Bakugou. It’s a puppy. It’s like, scientifically proven puppies are the one and only road to world peace. Hello? Nobody hates on a puppy, especially this one.”

Whatever face he’s making has Bakugou smirking, eyes sharp under a brow raised in challenge. “It’s got a weird shape and is brown. Potato.”

Kirishima whines. “Why are you like this? Riot, don’t listen to him, man. You’re the best.”

Riot has fallen asleep, oblivious to the outrageous claims being made in his presence. It’s better that way – the good, old boy deserves better than this slander.

Bakugou is looking down to the snoring dog, too, and something about it must soften even a prickly hedgehog heart like his because he sighs and grumbles: “He’s kinda cool. Maybe.”

Gotcha.

Kirishima pumps his fist in sweet, sweet victory. Nobody, not even the eternally grumpy, can resist the Kirishimas’ secret weapon.

*

On the way back home, Kirishima messes around with his camera until he’s managed a half-decent selfie of himself and Riot sharing the backseat of his parents’ car. A brief moment is spent hovering over his chat with Bakugou.

It’s the first time he’s opened it since– Since.

Baku 💣💥

[riot(s).jpg] (sent 16:58)

thanks for hosting me man 🐶 (sent 16:58)

dorm life, here we come!! (sent 16:59)

The tension in Kirishima’s chest is knocked loose as the ticks turn blue without delay, closing the gap to the ones from the lodge like it never existed. It unwinds entirely when, a handful of minutes later, Bakugou replies.

Baku 💣💥

idiot (received 17:05)

see you soon (received 17:05)

>>Chapter 6