#and the lighter water around him is like a lighthouse’s light shining in the dark

[orallech]

Okay heres the finished one! Had Lost at Sea on repeat while drawin this

[abstracthappiness]

microfiction, May 8 - 14

Crumpled papers lie across the desk, bits of paper caught in Van’s hair. “Eureka! I know how I’m going to ask Jane to the dance!” He thrust a page into Pia’s hand. “This is about how you’re going to take over the world using…dinosaurs?” “Whoops, wrong plan.”

-

“On this, the eve of your sixteenth birthday, your magic has awakened. The coven blesses and welcomes you to be the Maiden to our Mother and Crone.” “That’s super cool and all, Gram, but I’d settle for you or Mom teaching me how to parallel park.”

-

A miniature lighthouse stands on a boulder in the middle of a bone-dry clearing. As the light sweeps around, you see a flash: a reflection on water, an echo of an ocean. When the light passes over you, you can smell salt water, hear the crash of waves.

-

I was alarmed to wake up to birds flying around the bedroom—birds with black feathers, trailing stardust, whistling lullabies. I shook my sister awake, and she cried out, “Not again! They escaped from my dreams—if we don’t catch them, Sandman will come for me!”

-

Agnes finds diamonds scattered in the cellar; small as baby teeth, glimmering like stars against the sooty floor. Gram shrugs at the sight, unimpressed in the way only the old can be. “The devil in the basement, paying rent,” she explains, “It keeps the rats away, too.”

-

She wanders the cluttered shop, her fingers itching to touch everything. She comes to a halt by a large curio cabinet, certain she saw something inside move. “That’s where I put all the naughty children.” The caretaker sounds jovial, but the look in his eye is mean.

-

He forces his dripping, atramentous fingers into her mouth; she bites, tasting ink and metal. He doesn’t even flinch. She feels it, sliding down her throat—the black of it suffocating, twisting through her guts and veins—changing her from the inside out—

-

The séance had gone all wrong; the new assistant missed all her cues, leaving the guests demanding refunds. “Nora, what happened in there?” She turns, her eyes black pools. An ancient, rumbling voice issues from her mouth, “I’m sorry, Nora isn’t here right now…”

-

She runs down a labyrinth of hallways, clutching raven feathers. A thin crescent moon shines through iron-barred windows, lighting her way to a dead-end room—the door locks behind her. A candle flares to life, splitting the dark in two. Her brother waits for her, calm and cruel. He holds the obsidian blade and the crystal orb, the last puzzle pieces she’s been seeking. She needs both to escape, to survive the world outside. And she knows: one of them isn’t leaving this room alive.

-

Naughty little girl, locked in the basement: she talks to the darkness until the darkness talks back. It whispers how she can be truly naughty… * When the fire dies down, two sets of sooty footprints lead away from the house—one child-sized, the other monstrous.

-

The scent absorbed me, sending me back to Pop’s smoke-filled library; his quiet presence promising violence at any disruption. A lighter clicked shut, jolting me to the present—his tobacco stinking up my apartment. He looked very well for a man ten years dead.

-

Some strange happenings on Midsummer night: The dogs went wild at twilight, howling at a starless sky. At midnight, the paintings came alive in the art gallery. The lake was declared a no-swim zone, after mermaids showed up at dawn and drowned a man.

-

The tension in his shoulders eases when the last of the candles goes out. Demons can’t walk after dawn. “Maybe they won’t come after all,” she whispers. The scorn in his eyes is cutting. “You took one of their children, Marya. Of course they’re coming for us.”

-

The gargoyles are restless, confined to the cathedral spires. They disappear at night, return by dawn covered in gore. The priest threatens to bludgeon the lot, but his fondness gets the better of him—a dangerous game to play with creatures who have tasted flesh.

-

Vesta hated harvest season. A dragon hit the barrier with a shriek. She flinched; the monster hunter grinned at her discomfort. “Don’t worry, milady, it won’t break through—it’s only a baby. But all that noise should draw Mama out soon.” Oh yes, she hated harvest season.

-

She returned to her drab hometown with a new name, late for her father’s funeral. She arrived fashionably dressed in every color that wasn’t black, her hat at a jaunty angle. She sat in the front row, unapologetic—she owed no one her reasons for running away.

-

Everyone was exhausted, except for KR-12; the android kept watch for imperial soldiers. Dia asked why it didn’t leave the crew behind. “Humans are imperfect—and annoying. But you are my crew. I have become accustomed to your presence. I would prefer not to lose you.”

-

You can find the weaver women easily: just let yourself get lost. Open the blue door at the center of the city’s concrete labyrinth. They will tell your fortune for a fair price (which most mortals find too steep). Tonight, a desperate, reckless god knocks on their door.

-

When cornered by an angry mob, the frazzled witch summoned up a fiery fiend by mistake. The demon dove into the fray, delighted to be of service. Half the town was burning by nightfall, and the two heathens escaped—just as the witch succumbed to magic fatigue.

-

The path to the cabin is overgrown; you don’t know if your neighbors are still alive. You bar the door at night, alone but not alone, as the forest grows too quiet. In the morning, strange tracks circle the house—something has claimed its territory.

//

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[munku-collar]

It's a new moon. Demeter sits in the dark, alone, quiet, and restless.

She's grateful for the dark. It dampens the senses, blurs the memories that haunt her, the broken dreams and wishes that tug at her heartstrings. She can hardly see herself, and doesn't want to. She feels adrift, drowning in a sea of her own invention. She's been adrift for a while really, even since before coming here, joining this tribe. The waters keep getting choppier, the waves higher and darker with every new revelation and conversation, every direction of emotion tossing her carelessly about, and she doesn't think she'll ever return to the shore. She's forgotten how.

She wishes she could remember how to swim.

But Munkustrap joins her then, cautious and careful as ever, slow in his approach. It shouldn't surprise her that he's awake, or that he has found her. They always seem to find each other. She likes it when he finds her.

'He's a lighthouse,' she thinks suddenly, and has been since she first laid eyes on him. He's something precious and bright and beautiful, and when his light shines on her, all the darkness drifts away. When he's with her, she's not drowning, she's floating. She doesn't know why that scares her so much. (Yes she does.)

She doesn't send him away like he fears, like he always fears. He wants to move closer to her, always closer. He can feel her grief, her pain now, like a heavy cloak over the night air. He wants to pull it away, far away, take the weight off her shoulders, make her happy again like he has before. Munkustrap doesn't think she'll let him, but after a while, after endless silence with nothing but the hum of the night to hear, her paw brushes against his, for maybe the three-dozenth time, and he's filled with quiet delight.

"Will you stay with me?" she asks, voice velvet despite the self-loathing in it, the hesitance.

"Always," he replies without hesitation. He understands the question more than some others would. She isn't asking for him to sit beside her. She knows he won't leave until she asks anyway. She's asking if he'll stay, if he'll be with her forever, love her, cherish her as he already does and then some, if she finally allows herself to fall into his arms.

Surely she must know by now, how his heartstrings are wrapped around her paws, he thinks, and how he could never leave her, never hurt her, at least, without breaking himself to pieces. He already knows her heartstrings are wrapped around his paws in return. He's not blind. He can read her, maybe better than he should, given the short time they've known each other, but there's no doubt of her affection, her love for him, despite her fear, and the resistence she insists upon. He's oh so delicate with her strings, never daring to tug, to pull on them, lest they get tangled, strained. He knows Demeter's have been abused.

He would rather be patient, wait as long as it takes, for her to reach out, to pull him towards her. He would gladly drown in her ocean. The water in his lungs would be as sweet as she is at his side.

"There's nowhere I'd rather be, as long as you'll have me here," Munkustrap assures her, all the tenderness in the world in his tone, his voice soft, words heavy with promise.

Her eyes find his in the dark, behold him with such scrutiny and solemnity, and yet adoration and longing, that he can feel it squeeze his heart in his chest.

After a beat, she closes the distance between them, tucks herself against his shoulder. His arm wraps around her, the weight a thousand times lighter than that of the shadows haunting her on this moonless night. She sinks into his side, lets out the quietest of sighs, filled with relief and wist, and her trembling paw rests on his chest, sinking into his fur like the rest of her, as if she suddenly can't bear to be an inch more apart. He knows the feeling.

He holds her for the tenth time, cherishes it. He breathes in her scent, feels the warmth of her body against his, and a sense of completion washes over him, over both of them, really. He doesn't dare do more though. Not yet. These things take time. He has time to spare, if his reward will be her unending trust, her happiness and love.

"Stay with me," Demeter orders then, but it's soft, a plea or an affirmation more than anything, and one he has no intention of ever denying.

"I'll stay," he says, and he does.

[searchingwardrobes]

Self-Promo Sunday: Brother

I’ll be taking my entire needtobreathe series down from Ao3, starting with this deleted scene from 5x15, The Brothers Jones. It was one of those episodes that I was excited about but fell short of my expectations. There were some great moments, don’t get me wrong, but I wanted better for Emma’s one chance to get to know Liam. This deleted scene was a way for me to fix that.

Summary: Liam Jones overhears Emma’s conversation with Regina at the Underworld diner, then he and Emma have a heart to heart talk about the man they both love. From my series where every fic was a deleted scene based on a needtobreathe song.

Rating: G

Words in this chapter: just a ficlet at a bit less than 1,500 words

On Ao3 until Sunday 12/29/19

Tagging the usuals: @kmomof4 @snowbellewells @xhookswenchx @distant-rose @welllpthisishappening @bethacaciakay @teamhook @let-it-raines @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jennjenn615 @delirious-latenight-laughs @optomisticgirl @spartanguard @profdanglaisstuff @tiganasummertree @resident-of-storybrooke @snidgetsafan  @thislassishooked @stahlop @branlovestowrite @hollyethecurious​ @shireness-says​ @scientificapricot​ @winterbaby89​ @wellhellotragic​

Ramblers in the wilderness we can’t find what we need We get a little restless from the searching Get a little worn down in between Like a bull chasing the matador is the man left to his own schemes Everybody needs someone beside em’ shining like a lighthouse from the sea

Brother let me be your shelter Never leave you all alone I can be the one you call When you’re low Brother let me be your fortress When the night winds are driving on Be the one to light the way Bring you home

 “Does my brother really see me that way?”

Emma turned to see the self-righteous prick himself staring her down with his arms crossed. Regina’s eyes rose in silent sympathy as she hurried away with a mumbled good luck. Emma gave Liam Jones no quarter – matching his glare with one of her own. Yet as she searched the blue eyes that were a lighter shade than she was used to, but still so oddly similar, she saw the tiniest flicker of concern. And fear. His eyes darted as they searched hers.

“Does he? Think I walk on water?”

Emma leaned back against the bar with a shrug. “You heard him back at the house. It never once occurred to him that you might be here due to your own choices.”

Liam shook his head as his arms fell to his sides. “I never meant for him to think I was perfect. I’m far from it, believe me.”

Emma cocked her head to the side as she regarded him, then she dropped her chin as a wry laugh escaped her lips.

“I fail to see what’s so funny.”

That only made Emma chuckle more. Killian had always said Liam lacked a sense of humor. She finally decided to put the poor man out of his misery as she looked back up into his eyes. “It’s just I came down here to rescue Killian. That was it. I never thought I’d face my own ghosts. Yet here I am standing right in front of my second one.”

Liam’s brow furrowed in confusion. It was funny, Emma didn’t see all that much resemblance between him and Killian, but they knit their brows in the exact same way. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to love someone while standing in the shadow of ghosts?” Emma’s breathe shuddered slightly as she inhaled. She had never spoken of this to anyone; not even Killian. “He spent centuries avenging Milah. It’s only natural that I wondered if I measured up to her memory. But then I met her, and I could clearly see . . . she moved on. He moved on. He didn’t seem disappointed that he didn’t get to see her again.”

Emma bit her lip and glanced aside for a moment, gathering her courage before continuing. “Then there’s you. He’s told me so many stories, and in all of them, he paints you as the hero. He speaks of you more than Milah, honestly. He became a pirate because of your death. Did he tell you that?”

Liam’s eyes widened slightly and the he blinked rapidly. “No, he didn’t. I never . . . I didn’t want . . . “ He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “All the choices I made, everything I did, was for him.”

Emma’s mouth quirked up in a half smile. “That’s funny. I said the same thing when I was the Dark One. I justified everything with that same argument. Even murder.”

A flash of something passed across Liam’s face, and his skin became a mottled combination of red blush and pale skin. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Emma’s eyes narrowed as she took it all in. “You know,” she continued, “I once told your brother that he and I understood each other. It seems that’s true for both Jones brothers.”

Liam’s face closed off at her words. “I just want him to be happy.”

“If that’s really true, then maybe you should think of what he could have if he comes home with me. Instead of worrying so much about clinging to that pedestal he’s put you on.”

Emma swallowed the threat of tears as she pushed past him and headed for the door. Right before she reached it, Liam grasped her elbow and turned her back around.

“I’m thinking of the hundreds of years of painful existence Killian has endured. I want him to have peace. Don’t you?”

Emma jerked her arm out of his grip just as the emotions she’s been struggling to keep at bay rose to the surface. “Didn’t you want him to have a home? Friends? A family? Because all of that is waiting for him back in Storybrooke. Do you think my parents, our friends, my son followed me down here just for moral support? No. They came because they want him home, too. We have a house waiting for us to fill up with a future – mine and his. He’s the one who picked out the damn thing, and if you have your way, he’ll never live in it.”

Emma struggled to keep her voice from rising and blinked to keep the tears back. Her vision blurred, but she thought she saw surprise on Liam’s face.

“He picked out a house for the two of you?” A look crossed his face, a nostalgic one, and Emma suddenly remembered one of Killian’s stories about his brother. Days at sea where the two of them would dream of a house to live in and a mother to love them. “What does it look like?”

“You’ve seen it,” Emma whispered. “You’ve been in it.”

“The house here? But the baby things – Killian said . . . I assumed it was the house you wanted with your parents.”

The tears spilled down Emma’s cheeks now, but she let them come. “I let Killian believe that. I let my parents believe that. But that house – and everything in it – are my dreams that died right along with Killian.”

Liam glanced down at Emma’s waist. “You’re . . . I mean, is that why you’re so desperate to bring him back?”

Emma shook her head, understanding immediately what he was alluding to. She dashed at her tears with the back of her hand. “No. I almost wish it were. Because I want it. So badly.”

“All I’m hearing is what you want,” Liam countered stubbornly.

Emma sighed in frustration and turned to go. Just as her hand reached for the doorknob, Liam’s voice stopped her.

“He was always small for his age. Did he ever tell you that?”

Emma turned back around. “No, he didn’t.” She gave a small but genuine laugh. “Doesn’t surprise me. He’s kind of cocky about his manhood, you know.”

Liam chuckled too, but then turned quickly serious. “I took lashings that were meant for him. Stepped in when he got himself in over his head.”

“But he’s not the weak one anymore, Liam.”

He ran a hand wearily down his face. “I never meant for him to feel that way. Like he was less than. The navy was far easier for him than me, you know. He was always so bright; a quick learner.”

Emma hugged her arms around her chest and smiled. “You’re telling me. You should have seen him when he discovered the internet. And don’t even get me started on the History Channel. Drives me and Henry crazy.”

Liam smiled back. “When he sets his mind on something, there’s no stopping him.”

Emma nodded. “When he’s in, he’s all in.”

“Loyal -“

“ – to a fault.”

“He loves with all that he is.”

The tears clogged Emma’s throat as she nodded agreement. “Yes. Yes he does.”

They both fell silent, regarding one another in an unspoken battle of wills. Emma saw something in those eyes that was so familiar, but not because of the man’s DNA. She smiled and turned to go, but not before giving Liam Jones a parting word.

“Like I said. You and I? We understand each other.”

Face down in the desert now there’s a cage locked around my heart I found a way to drop the keys where my failures were Now my hands can’t reach that far I ain’t made for a rivalry, I could never take the world alone I know that in my weakness I am stronger It’s your love that brings me home

Brother let me be your shelter I’ll never leave you all alone I can be the one you call When you’re low Brother let me be your fortress When the night winds are driving on Be the one to light the way Bring you home

[cela-astral-projection]

I rage against the trials of love I curse the fading of the light Though she's already flown so far beyond my reach She's never out of sight

It had been a horrific ordeal. Not even magic had blunted the sheer agony of watching his lifelong companion ripping half of his own beating heart out of his chest.

Muriel had begged him not to do this. Celeste's loss had been hard. The grief was so all-encompassing and seemingly unescapable. Words failed him for the depth of pain that her loss had inflicted.

But all pain gives way, with time. Another old scar. They could move on. They could take care of each other, just as they always had. He consoled himself with this, even if he didn't truly believe it.

Celeste was dead. And that was the end of her. That was, after all, the nature of death. The end of her story.

But Asra refused to let his wounds heal and move on with his story. His grief was still as fresh as the day he had learned she was gone.

He became someone else entirely. His entreaties turned from desperation to manipulation. It looked like devotion to some. Fellowship. Friendship. Love. Hell, maybe he had meant some of it, in his whirlwind of mourning. He was untethered. He would do anything if it meant getting her back. Be anyone.

But for all the manipulation he had laid at others' feet, Asra had turned his full fury on Muriel.

This kind, sweet soul, with his broken heart, turned to a darkness that Muriel didn't know he was capable of. He offered deals that weren't his to extend.

"If you want to be free, I'll give you your freedom. Do this one last thing for me, Muriel," he had threatened. "You'll never have to endure the cruelty of being remembered again."

And he had relented. To be free. To be forgotten.

He had escaped the coliseum, only to be drug back into the palace. That heinous feast. Lucio's sabotaged ritual. The fire. Graverobbing.

The Doctor had been taken into custody. The Countess had fallen into a coma. Lucio was dead. He and Asra had only just escaped unscathed.

And now, this. The last thing he had to bear witness to before he would be released from this torment.

The ritual was complete. He had watched Asra divide his heart between himself and the corpse. A body that Lucio had forced Asra to preserve magically for the ritual. Aedan’s body. A guard that had helped Celeste watch out for him when he was imprisoned. The one that had demanded he be freed when the arena was abandoned.

It had been horrendous. But, Muriel watched the entire ordeal in stunned bewilderment. It was magical and hideous. He had imagined it would be all mysticism. It wasn't. It was corporeal. And blood-soaked. And distasteful. Asra had forced him to stay back so that he could not intervene. Even so, he was unsure that he would have been able to.

When it was over, Asra collapsed beside the body. Muriel watched the cavity in his chest seal over. Blood seemingly washed away by unseen hands.

He had been warned this might happen. He was under a strict directive to take the bodies to the forest and bury them together if they did not recover. Asra demanded they not be taken to the Lazaret.

Muriel had countered that if this was a true possibility, then it shouldn't be pursued. But, Asra would not be told.

Muriel sat, despondent. Waiting for any sign of life. Then, he felt a burning at his shoulder blade. Searing hot. He cried out, clutching and clawing at it, barely able to breathe for the pain. In the midst of his distress, his eyes shot open, and he saw Asra seizing, a hand flying to his chest, and Asra wailed. He could see light seeping out from under his palm. Burning, just as Muriel was.

When the pain ebbed away, Asra lay, gasping for air. Muriel fell to the floor and crawled to him, gathering him up against his chest. So grateful he was alive.

Asra wept, looking at the still-cold corpse on beside them, huddling himself into Muriel's chest, sobbing defeated wails into the quiet room.

And Muriel's heart broke, for Asra. For himself. For every moment he had hoped against hope that it might work.

Then, something changed. The way the air felt around them. It crackled in their ears. Like electricity.

The body was radiating light. White, just like the light that had been shining from Asra's chest. It seemed to shimmer, grazing over the light skin. And then, it began to contort and twist. The muscles contracting, the bones splintering and reforming. They were both frozen, horrified. The light changed, and it became brilliant colors. It was beautiful and terrible. The face bent and cracked. Each disturbing distortion giving way to a familiar body. Celeste's body.

The light encompassed her, then tendrils reached into her mouth, and her chest began to rise and fall. As the light faded, she was made whole.

Asra strained against Muriel's arms, and Muriel was frozen in shock. With some effort, Asra extracted himself and fell forward, brushing her hair back, raining kisses over her face, tears falling freely.

But, she didn't wake.

Muriel reached a trembling hand out and took hers. She was warm. He couldn't understand it. His mind didn't comprehend. He could see it. And feel it. He had resigned himself that he would never see her again, and she was here.

When Muriel was able to break his reverie, he pulled Asra away, though he protested.

"Let me move her!" he pleaded, trying to restrain Asra for just a moment. Asra had no command over himself and collapsed again.  He was on his hands and knees, still weeping, gasping for breath.

Muriel carefully lifted Celeste into his arms, away from the ritual site, moving her to the bed, laying her on the pillows.

When he had her settled, he lifted Asra up off the floor.

Asra could barely support himself, weakened by the ritual and by the overriding emotions that were heaving through him.

Muriel held him up, helping him to the bed, sitting him down. He knelt in front of him, placing his hands on his shoulders, looking him over. He was restored. The only thing different was the still-glowing mark over his heart. He imagined it was similar to what had been imprinted on his shoulder, though it was out of his sight.

The deal was done. They had all fulfilled their promises. And they were branded, now. A reminder of what they had been given. And what they had renounced.

---

For days they retreated from the world. Asra, wrapped around Celeste, his head or his hand on her chest, listening to and feeling to her heartbeat. Their heartbeat. His strength coming back to him. Slowly recovering.

Muriel helping both of them. Watching them as they slept. Feeding them. Helping them bathe.

Celeste still hadn't awoken, like she was stuck in a dream. Sometimes she would cry out, or have seizing fits. Like something underneath the surface was still trying to settle into place. They would stroke her hair, trying to comfort her, telling her that she was safe and that she could come out. That they were waiting for her.

They both couldn't fight the sensation that something had gone wrong. It was hard to gauge what normal was. This was uncharted territory.

They gave her what nourishment they could. Plain bone broths and water, helping her swallow. Muriel knew that if she had control of her faculties, she'd be absolutely devastated that they had to see her in such a state. To care for her most intimate needs. She had always been so fiercely independent. To be laid so low...it would have wrecked her.

---

After another restless night, in the warm light of morning, she began to stir. Asra had been dressing with Muriel's help, and as soon as he heard her, they rushed to her side, Asra looking down at her, smoothing her hair. Muriel stood back, afraid to hope.

Then, her eyes fluttered open. They were grey. Not her eyes. The corpse's eyes. The man whose body they had stolen. They fell shut again, and Muriel looked on, horrified.

After a long moment, her eyes opened again. That hazy seafoam green. Staring up at Asra. She and Asra, staring into each other's eyes. Beautiful, and sad. Lost in their own little world.

Muriel joined them, and her eyes moved to him. And she fixed him with that same sweet look. He could hear her voice in his mind. "Oh, yes. There you are. I missed you."

But, it quickly became apparent that she was not restored to them. She could barely move. She did not speak. She was able to take shaky steps when one or the other of them helped her. She was like a lighthouse. Flashes of grief every time her mind came round to that pitch of emotion which was too great to be contained. A huge flare, and then a long period of nothing.

She seemed to like sitting by the window, staring up at the sky. Somewhere far away. Seeing things they could not.

They would take her hands and speak to her, and she would look at them, so sweet. None of their words seemed to be connecting.

Asra would get frantic, tears falling, his voice breaking. She would reach out and stroke her hand through his hair, trying to comfort him. He would not be consoled.

Muriel's heart was shattered anew. She was there, but she was lost. In a world they could not reach. Her eyes would find his, searching him for answers that he could not give.

She would become tired easily, and he would hold her in his arms, carrying her, rocking her like a child. She felt lighter. Less solid. As if she could flicker away at any time. Caught somewhere in-between.

They had never had the chance to know and love each other that she and Asra had. He loved Asra. He knew that. He had known that his whole life. But this was different.

Asra watched him, holding her so tenderly, and he knew. He knew that the time was coming that Muriel would go. Muriel and Celeste would be lost to each other. He knew how much she loved him. How much she had wanted him to be free, so they could be together and build a family. They had dreamed it together.

The guilt of what he had forced Muriel to give away gnawed at him, furious and hot. It was too late. He had condemned him to solitude. It was framed as a blessing.

Celeste slept in his arms. Hot, wet tears fell down his cheeks and into her hair.

"Asra...what can I do?" he whispered, voice breaking.

"We'll figure it out. I promise. We'll break this." Asra tried to reassure Muriel. Assure himself, too.

---

On the last night, they laid together. Celeste looked worried and perplexed. They clung to her, pleading with her to come back to them. She would touch their faces. Wipe away their tears. But, she didn't understand why they were so sad.

The sun rose, and none of them had slept.

"How will it happen?" Muriel asked.

Asra closed his eyes. "As soon as you leave...she won't remember you. That's how it works. When you're out of sight, you're forgotten."

Muriel drew a shaky breath. "And you?"

"No, not me. That was the concession. That I would remember you." Asra said. And Muriel nodded. There was comfort in that.

---

Asra had supplied Muriel with various items to develop charms, pleading with him to start working towards a solution. He knew that he would be completely tethered to Celeste, and would not be able to steal away to the hut to help. Muriel said that he would try. He was good at charms. But, what would heal this? What could unravel this?

He packed everything away, his bag at the top of the stairs. Celeste watched them as they moved around.

When there was nothing left to do, Muriel knelt before her and pressed his hand against her cheek. She leaned into his touch, closing her eyes, breathing a contented sigh.

"I'm going to miss you." He whispered, committing her face to memory. The color of her skin. The way the light shimmered in her hair. The long, dark eyelashes. The smattering of freckles on her cheeks. The terracotta blush at her cheek. The shape of her mouth.

For all the time they had known each other, he had been in darkness. He had resisted her for so long, not willing to let her near him. She had never relented, coaxing him out. So slow, and so tender. Unflinching. For all the horrendous things he had done, she never ever denied him. She loved him. He loved her. And he had never really seen her, until now.

She opened her eyes. Green. Like his eyes. Softer. Mistier.

"I'm going to miss you so much," he repeated, swallowing his misery. The sorrow that hung around him, weighing him down. 

He stroked a tendril of hair behind her ear, then leaned in to kiss her cheek, lingering, breathing her in.

When he moved away, she blinked up at him, worried. She looked at Asra. Asra turned away from her, unable to meet her gaze.

---

Muriel stood at the back door to the shop, holding the handle. He didn't want to leave. But, he knew that there was a price to be paid. For the best is only bought at the cost of great pain. They had taken up a collection, all of them at that dinner table. And they had bought her back from death.

This was the price.

When he finally compelled himself to go, he stepped out into the sunlight. When the door closed behind him, he heard a mournful wail from inside the shop.

And he was left to suffer the pain. Telling himself that she was worth it. He would harden his heart. He would let this wound heal. Just another old scar. He had so many. 

[anistarrose]

Some Sunny Day - Chapter 8: It Won’t Be Long (Gravity Falls - Same Coin Theory)

Summary: Mabel bursts some bubbles, Dipper cracks a code, and Ford makes a wisdom saving throw.

Warnings: manipulation, flashbacks to torture (see note below for more detail)

Previous / Next

The Beginning (see here for AO3 link)

(The Same Coin Theory is by @dubsdeedubs and @renmorris, and this chapter was beta’d by @porkpop!)

Given the subject matter, I guess it’s fitting that this fic would appear to die and then unexpectedly rise from the ashes months later, isn’t it? In all seriousness, I’m sorry it took so long (life has been… not exactly conducive to writing multichapter fics lately) and hope this update ends up being worth the wait! Good news, though — I wrote my first draft of Chapter 9 a while back, so the next update should come in a much more timely manner!

Important warning: This chapter contains flashbacks to torture by electrocution. The torture itself isn’t described in particularly graphic detail, but a decent amount of time is spent describing the consequences (there are references to temporary character death as well as to PTSD) so if you don’t want to read those parts but want to continue following the fic, feel free to ask me for a summary of the chapter with potentially upsetting parts omitted.

(On a lighter note, there’s a reference to one of my favorite GF fics in this chapter, so see if you can spot it!)

In another world of shimmering bubbles and wispy pink clouds, deep within a mountaintop temple, an Oracle addressed her patron.

“If he is to remember,” she asked, “it will be soon, won’t it?”

From within one of the bubbles, a frill-wreathed head bounced up and down in a nod. Its voice was musical and ethereal, like the sound of distant wind chimes.

“If you wish to help them, then now is the time.”

Jheselbraum bowed, and departed to an adjacent room of the temple where she kneeled down on a simple, woven mat. Concentrating on a single image — the face shared by two brothers whose destinies were so tightly intertwined with that of a demon, forming tangled loops that crisscrossed all across time and space, spanning eons and dimensions — her eyes blinked closed. When they opened again, they were glowing a faint lilac purple, and watching the events of a dream as it played out within the mindscape of Stanley Pines.

Interacting with the flow of time in such a way that it already knew the results, yet still observing intently, the Axolotl smiled.

It wouldn’t be long now.

***

Mere moments into her quest to break out of her dream bubble and save Stan, Mabel had an unpleasant realization: this time, she could see no literal bubble to burst — and therefore, no clear way to escape the dream world. No way back to her family.

Oh god, what if she fell back under the bubble’s spell before she could find a way to escape? And what if she didn’t snap out of it the next time —

“Think, Mabel, think,” she murmured to herself. “Don’t panic, there’s gotta be a way out somewhere…”

She heard movement in a nearby room of the Shack, and tiptoed away in the other direction, slipping into the gift shop and hunkering down behind the counter. The scenery around her was a good approximation of how the Shack really looked, but now that she knew she was in an illusion, the only thing that felt real was her pounding heart.

What would Ford want me to do? Stay calm, stay safe, and think through things logically, right?

She took a deep breath. Okay, Mabel, take it from the top. What’s the situation? What do you know?

She was in a dream, created by Stan because he was afraid of Bill. (Well, afraid of something, but what could it possibly be if not Bill?) It didn’t seem like Stan had realized she was aware of being in an illusion, so that was something she had going for her. He probably wouldn’t be actively trying to stop her, at least not yet.

And if she’d gotten here after being doused in the dark water, then Dipper and Soos were probably in dream bubbles of their own — maybe even Ford too, by this point. She had to get back to the regular mindscape, and see if he was alright. Or better yet, find Dipper and Soos’s bubbles and bring them back with her —

Right, she was still technically in the mindscape, wasn’t she? Which meant that if she focused on something hard enough, imagined it vividly enough…

She climbed out from behind the counter and rested her hand on the gift shop’s doorknob, bracing herself to open it and leave the Shack.

Okay, door, listen up, she thought. When I open you, you’re going to take me back to Dipper. In three, two, one…

She swung it open and a freezing black flood rushed in, knocking her backwards. With great effort, she opened her eyes to see the colors of the dream dissolving around her, and reforming new bubbles that floated in the ink-black sea, beckoning her with their colorful fantasies.

There was Ford, safe and holding hands with Stan and eight other familiar faces in a nearly complete circle. Eyes lit up with an optimism she hadn’t seen in him all day, Ford gave her an encouraging smile and reached towards her —

“Just take my hand, and we can complete the Zodiac!” he exclaimed. “We can banish Bill once and for all, together!”

She could feel her hands drifting over, fingers outstretched and ready to wrap around Ford’s own — but she yanked away at the last second, wrapping her arms tight around her shivering chest. A faint glow emanated from the star on her sweater, melting away the icicles on the tips of her numb finger and shining through her foggy, jumbled thoughts like the guiding beam of a lighthouse, exposing the true nature of the treacherous sea surrounding her.

It was never going to be as easy as holding hands, not this time. She knew better than to let any dreams within dreams convince her otherwise.

She took a strenuous step forward against the flow of the current, and the rejected bubbles burst as new illusions appeared in front of her, each singing a different siren song of temptation.

Here, Ford never fell into the portal.

Here, Ford and Stan never argued in the first place.

Here, you never broke your promise to help Dipper with the laptop, and he never got possessed by Bill…

Some of the visions hurt more than others, and she forced herself to look away. “Dipper?” she called out. “Soos? Grunkle Ford?”

There was no reply, except for a new stream of bubbles rising from the depths to float in front of her. In the closest one, she could see Bill Cipher warp and distort, limbs glitching and flickering as his pupil dilated in fear, and Mabel just knew that one good punch was all it would take to shatter that triangle beyond hope of repair —

And it would have been so satisfying, so cathartic, to deliver that punch, but she was painfully aware of it just being fantasy. It was exactly what she had hoped to find, exactly what she had envisioned as a best case scenario — Bill not just weakened, but completely distinct from Stan, easily separated and destroyed — and she couldn’t help but wonder if the illusion had been summoned entirely from Stan’s mind, or from her own.

Something about a larger bubble on her left side caught her attention. It just felt tangibly distinct from the others — still pulling her towards it, but in a different way. She was drawn to this one because it was… well, not entirely real, but more real than anything else around her. It was more familiar, more comforting — and not like the guilt-laced comfort of denial, but like the warm, genuine solace of companionship.

She approached it one step at a time, careful not to let the current around her lift her feet off the ground and wash her out of reach. She was scarcely five feet away when the voice of the bubble suddenly grew clear, and she realized — it wasn’t calling out to her like the other bubbles had, but rather having a conversation with itself.

No, not with itself. With someone already trapped within its illusion.

“All right, we’re rolling in three… two… one…”

“Welcome back to Guide to Haunted Mansions with Dipper and the Pines Family! Today, we’re coming to you from my uncle’s lab, where we’re running some tests on the ghost we captured last episode! Be sure to check that one out if you missed it, because —”

She could see Dipper now — appearance distorted by the bubble’s convex barrier, but unmistakably (and so relievingly) him. He was in a sophisticated but messy-looking laboratory, Ford smiling proudly at his side and Soos standing behind the camera…

But even a ways outside, and with the current working against her, Mabel could make out a spark of light in Dipper’s eyes that the other two lacked. Relief washed over her as she realized she’d found her real brother — accompanied by no small amount of worry for the real Ford and Soos, still nowhere to be seen.

“Dipper!” she called out. “This isn’t real! You have to get out of there!”

The water garbled her voice, distorting it so much that it sounded unintelligible even to her, but Dipper frowned as she spoke. Glancing between Ford and Soos, he asked:

“Did you guys hear that? Was that an audio glitch or something?”

Both the illusions shook their heads as Mabel spat out water, fighting against the tide to get closer to the bubble.

“Dipper, you’re in Stan’s mindscape, remember? It’s a dream bubble, like — like the one Bill trapped me in last summer!”

This time her words came out clearer, and Dipper turned around, somehow both looking right at her and staring right past her at once.

“No, that… that doesn’t make sense,” he murmured. “Bill’s gone…”

Ford put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Of course he is. We’re safe from him now — and Stan and Mabel are, too.”

The current around Mabel grew fiercer, threatening to drag her backwards, but she managed to wrap her arms around the bubble, hugging it as tightly as she could.

“We came to Stan’s mind to stop Bill!” she yelled. “You remember that, right?”

Dipper shook his head. “I — I don’t know…”

“You can remember! You can snap out of it — I know you can, because you snapped me out of it last summer! You’re stronger than this cheap trap, I know you are!”

Dipper grabbed his head, shuddering and gritting his teeth as the bubble began to distort. Hand still on Dipper’s shoulder, not-Ford’s eyes turned a dull red.

Please, Dipper, Mabel thought, I don’t know how much longer I can hold on…

The facsimile Ford’s form began to darken — at first fading to a monochrome shadow of his former self, and then melting like tar, liquifying into a shuddering column of darkness that spewed out rivers of black ink all around the lab just as quickly as it spewed out lies.

Do you really want to go back there, Dipper? Back to everyone you love being in grave danger? Back to not understanding what’s happening to them or how to help them? Do you want to go back to that uncertainty, to that fear?

Tendrils of darkness crept towards Dipper from every angle, surrounding him as if preparing for an embrace.

Here, Bill is dead for good. Stan is safe from him, and his mindscape is perfectly normal and healthy. Here we’re all safe, and happy, and living the lives we’ve always wanted. It’s not so hard to pretend —

Dipper finally met Mabel’s eyes, just staring at her for a moment. As the tendrils snaked closer and closer to him, he looked down again and took a deep breath.

“Dipper! Let’s beat Bill and save Stan together!”

He turned back towards Mabel and smiled, extending both arms in her direction.

“Awkward sibling hug?” he whispered.

The tendrils recoiled in shock as Mabel plunged her hands into the bubble, grabbed ahold of her brother, and pulled.

***

Ice-cold waves submerged Dipper like he’d plunged into an Antarctic sea, and a numbness quickly overtook him, paralyzing his chest and racing up his arms to —

It didn’t reach his fingertips. Mabel’s hand was warm even as she released him from her embrace, and Dipper realized that he could see her clearly now — a bright spot in the darkness, radiating determination like a falling star lighting up the endless void of the night.

Instantly, the last wisps of fog clouding his brain evaporated away, and everything fell into place — how it wasn’t Bill trapping them in the bubbles, but Stan himself. How finding and destroying Bill would have to mean finding a way to pierce through Stan’s own denial.

“I’m so glad I found you,” Mabel blurted out, and pulled him back into a hug. “I — I wasn’t sure I could save everyone alone.”

“Well,” he told her as he returned the embrace, “you sure saved me.”

The current raged around them, sending them spinning — but for all its strength, it couldn’t even come close to tearing them apart.

***

Ford stepped out of the portal to a not just familiar, but nostalgic sight — a temple carved of pink-tinted marble stone, craggy mountain peaks peering out from the blanket of clouds beneath them.

“Jheselbraum?” he called out, and the curtains at the entrance to the shine parted, revealing a humanoid figure clad in flowing red and purple robes.

All seven of her eyes blinked, and then a smile spread across her face. “Stanford! It’s good to see you again — and you’ve brought friends this time!”

“Sure did!” Stan said. “The guy would be lost without us. I’m Stan, nice to —”

She laughed. “Don’t worry, Stanley, I know who you are. And you must be Mr. McGucket?”

Distracted for the moment, Fiddleford tapped one of several pink bubbles that had floated out of the shrine. Its shape distorted, but it didn’t burst. “Would you look at that…ah, yes, sorry! McGucket, that’s me alright — though ya can just call me Fiddleford or Fidds. It’s a pleasure to meet ya!”

“Likewise! Would you three like to come inside? I know the view out here is spectacular the first hundred or so times you see it, but it’s honestly even more interesting in there.”

“Of course!”

Ford led the way in, marveling at the richly colored tapestries lining the halls. “Jhes, do you weave these yourself? I don’t think I saw this many the last time I visited.”

“I do! You’ll find some seers and oracles that weave their predictions directly into their tapestries, but I honestly just need to be doing something with my hands while I concentrate on seeing the future.”

“I can relate,” Fiddleford chimed in. “Er, not that I’m a prophet or anythin’, but I can never figure out what’s wrong with my code unless I’m fidgeting with somethin’ in a free hand.”

Something in a room to the side caught Ford’s eye, and he stopped so suddenly that Stan nearly slammed into him from behind. “I never got a chance to ask you before, but — why do you have so many tapestries of axolotls?” He felt like he had a second question on the tip of his tongue, but it stayed stubbornly just out of reach no matter how hard he tried to remember it.

Jheselbraum smiled knowingly, not so much with her mouth as with her eyes. “The Axolotl has always been something of a kindred spirit towards those who seek to see beyond the linear flow of time,” she pronounced, “and I like to show my gratitude this way.”

“The Axolotl, with a capital A…” Ford mused. “I’m sorry, Jhes — just a few weeks ago, I’m sure there was something I was thinking I’d like to ask you, but… it’s escaping me now.”

Jheselbraum put a hand on Ford’s shoulder, and a dull purple glow rippled across her eyes, so briefly that Ford would have missed it if he’d blinked. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and echoing, as if originating from the other end of a long hallway — but also more lively, more lifelike, the subtle accent a bit more pronounced and the inflection of her words more rhythmic, more poem-like.

“Did you want to ask why the Axolotl watched over your brother’s house, for all those years? Why it manifested before Stanley, of all people?”

“That’s — I think that’s it, I…” The ground ceased to feel solid beneath Ford’s feet, and a wave of nausea washed over him as he was suddenly uncomfortably aware of how sluggish and muddled his thoughts felt, as if stifled by fog. “There’s something — something wrong about this place, isn’t there? What am I… how did I get here? Is —”

“Hey, Sixer! Check out what I found!”

Simply hearing Stan’s voice was an instant relief, a rope he could grab onto and use to pull himself out of the stormy, disorienting sea of uncertainty he’d found himself cast adrift in. “Huh? What is it?”

Stan frowned. “You okay? I’ve never seen you not recognize a D38 at first glance.” Sure enough, he held a thirty-eight sided die in each hand, one purple and the other blue.

“I… it’s just the thin mountain air getting to me, I think. Where did you find those?”

Stan snickered, pulling aside a tapestry that hung over the doorway to a room Ford had passed by. “Oh, you ain’t seen anything yet. Feast your eyes, nerd!”

The room had two sides that were completely open aside from ornate marble guard railings, providing a stellar view as the first of the world’s three purple moons began to rise above the horizon, but Ford’s attention was instead captivated by the table at the center. Crisscrossing gridlines glowed a dull blue-green, dividing the surface into hundreds of tiny squares, and holographic projections cycled through a variety of miniaturized, perfectly adventure-suited environments — a lush oasis within a dust storm-battered desert, a sprawling and bustling space station floating just above the rings of a pink gaseous planet, an impenetrable-seeming castle of gray brick overlooking a murky moat and surrounded by expansive and bountiful farmlands.

“Jheselbraum, have you always had this?” Ford asked. “You’ve been holding out on me!”

“The last time you were here, you spent every waking moment either recovering from head injuries or drunk on Cosmic Sand. It hardly would have made for a quality campaign.”

Detachedly, Ford realized that the echo was gone from her voice, but he couldn’t help but pay more attention to Stan, who hoisted himself into the throne-like seat at the head of the table and diabolically rubbed his hands together.

“Well, it’s not like we’ve got anywhere else to be, and I’ve got some big ideas up my sleeve… so, who’s up for a game?”

“Stanley, I can think of literally no better way to spend the next six hours to six weeks of my life,” Ford declared. “I’m in.”

***

“You hear the slappin’ tunes, Mr. Pines? That’s how you know it’s a boss battle!”

“Slappin’? Is that seriously how you people describe music these days? And what’s a boss battle?”

“Well, it’s pretty much what happens when you defeat all the minions of the biggest, baddest dude in the level, so then they finally have to throw down with you themself! Doesn’t look like you’re having any trouble with it, though — you must be some kinda natural, ha ha!”

“You bet I am!” Stan laughed as he dealt the final blow, and tossed the controller down triumphantly. “I’m gonna break the young’s monopoly on gaming skills, just you watch —”

The congratulatory chiptune jingle cut off abruptly, and a pattern of static rippled across the TV set. When it subsided, two new character sprites had appeared — two sprites that Soos knew he’d recognize anywhere no matter how stylized, thanks to that lumberjack hat and shooting star sweater.

“Hey, dudes! I was just teaching Stan how to play some of my favorite games — but how’d you two get in there? You’re looking kinda pixely — what happened?”

“Pixely?” Dipper looked down at his hands for a moment, confused, but then shook his head. “Never mind! Soos, this is all just an illusion! You’ve got to snap out of it!”

“All this is just inside Stan’s mindscape, remember?” Mabel added. “You’ve gotta out of there so you can help us stop Bill and save Stan!”

The ripple of static crossed the TV screen again, but this time it spread out all throughout the room, making the furniture and walls flicker and glitch like they were in a corrupted game. A high-pitched electronic whine prompted Soos to clap his hands over his ears, and the light from Mabel’s sweater pulsed in sync with the sound, like the noise and the static were emanating from her and Dipper somehow. Soos felt like he was missing something — why did the two of them look so distraught, with those pixelated frowny faces?

“Are — are you sure, dudes?” he asked. “Stan said Bill was gone, and we were having a lot of fun here — weren’t we, Mr. Pines?”

“‘Course we were!” Stan gently punched him in the arm — too gently, almost intangibly, like it was just a simulation of the actual sensation — “And do I look like I need saving? I’m doin’ great over here, just having a —”

“You don’t look like it, but you do, Stan!” Mabel cried out. “I know you do, and we can help you, I promise we can — but first you have to admit it!”

“No! I’m fine! We’re all fine!” Stan yelled, but dark red and purple pixels began to flicker at the edges of his form. He looked almost two-dimensional as the glitchy appearance slowly crept up his arms, consuming them and disintegrating them into a sea of dark, flashing rectangles that cascaded towards the ground —

“Mr. Pines?” Soos gasped. “Are — are you okay? How —”

Stan extended what was left of an arm in his direction — and then froze in horror, as he saw what the loss of the pixels had exposed.

Four slender, cartoonishly simple fingers trembled in place just inches from Soos’s shoulder — all of them a smooth and solid black, and wreathed in electric blue sparks.

No! Stan’s voice came out desperate and distorted, crackling and cutting out like a broken speaker. PLEASE, no —

Two pairs of human hands grabbed ahold of Soos from behind and pulled him away from Stan, back towards the television. From all directions at once, his ears were filled with a resounding POP —

And then the three of them tumbled down onto the grayscale yet familiar wooden floor of the Mystery Shack’s gift shop, dark clouds above them receding towards the hallway. Just feet away, the vending machine stood shining brighter and bluer than ever, a now all-too-familiar song playing softly from within like the melody from a music box.

Keep smiling through,

Just like you always do,

‘Til the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away!

***

An elven wizard resembling Ford, a human bard resembling Fiddleford, and a silver dragonborn paladin with two additional rows of eyes like Jheselbraum forged a path up a mountain, undeterred by the storm clouds gathering overhead. Their route wasn’t particularly steep, but shrubs and small trees grew all over what had once been a trail, making their climb more tedious than Ford had hoped for.

“So Ford, this dungeon — you say no one’s ever returned from it alive?” Fiddleford asked, absentmindedly plucking his banjo to the tune of Country Roads.

“No one has ever returned from it period, dead or alive,” he answered, shoving a branch out of his face. “Necromancy will likely be of little help to us there. But all the divination magic in the world agrees that the depths of Mt. Somnifell hold, and I quote, ‘all the treasure an adventurer could ever dream of.’ You’re not getting cold feet, are you?”

“More like muddy feet,” Fiddleford groaned, narrowing his eyes and gritting his teeth with clear visceral disgust as looked down at the ground beneath his shoes. “Are we close yet?”

“Should be.” Three of Jheselbraum’s eyes were directed down at a map, while the other four scanned the surrounding area for landmarks and hazards. “Do you see a crooked tree anywhere?”

“Doesn’t look like it,” Ford replied. He craned his neck up towards the sky, past the transparent storm clouds and into the pink marble room surrounding them. “Stan, are there any landmarks that you forgot to imagine into the game and would like to tell us about?”

Stan snorted and leaned over the table, resting his elbows on a neighboring mountain. “Have a little faith, Poindexter! I may be a first time DM over here, but I think you’ll find that I’m the master of the imagination!”

“Fine, I’ll look somewhere else for your dumb tree,” Ford shot back. “Alright, gang, let’s check some other spots at the same altitude — ugh! What’s going on here?”

A long, brown tendril had wrapped around his left ankle and was binding it in place — the root of a nearby oak, he realized.

“It’s got us too!” Jheselbraum called out, drawing her sword. Without hesitation, Fiddleford whacked the root ensnaring him with his banjo, and it seemed to flinch — as much as a semi-mobile plant could flich, at least — but stayed tightly bound.

“I cast Scorching Ray!” Ford declared, and three yellow-orange bolts flew out from the tip of his wand, one striking each of the three tendrils with impressive precision. Several inches of each root instantly crumbled into ash, and the oak tree that they led back to shuddered, green lights flashing in its leaves as a dark-skinned figure with pointed ears and vivid emerald eyes flickered into view. Immediately, they held up their hands in submission.

“Alright, I’m sorry! You’re stronger than I bargained for. I’ll leave you alone now, I promise.” Their voice held a hint of Stan’s hoarseness, but also a distinct inflection pattern of its own.

“You’re a dryad, I presume?” Ford asked, cautiously lowering his wand. “We’re sorry for trespassing on your territory.”

“I suppose dryad is the closest word to it. Most dryads are only tied to one tree, though — I watch over this whole grove, even though I can only control one tree at a time. You can call me Balsa.”

“You must know this region like the back of your hand, then,” Jheselbraum commented, and Balsa beamed, nodding. “Do you think you could help point us towards a certain landmark?”

Their face immediately fell, and they let out a sigh. “It’s the crooked tree, isn’t it? You’re looking for the entrance to the depths?”

“That’s correct. Is something… wrong with that?”

They shook their head. “No, it’s just that… you seem like half-decent people, you know? Same as a lot of other treasure hunters that I’ve seen vanish into that cavern, and never come out. I try to make the plants overrun the trail, make the crooked tree grow straight again so no one can find this place and go boldly marching to their deaths, but…”

They waved their hand halfheartedly, and a mere five meters away, the undergrowth parted to reveal a crack in the earth — a nearly circular dark chasm that rested in the mountain’s light grey stone just as a black hole might sit in the center of a shining galaxy.

“Why are ya showin’ us this?” Fiddleford asked. “You just said ya wanted us to stay out.”

“It’ll call to you anyway.” Balsa sighed dejectedly. “It always does. Everyone who goes looking finds it eventually.”

“How long have you been trying to keep people out?” Jheselbraum hesitantly stepped towards the edge of the chasm, lower row of eyes blinking as she tried to make out what lay within.

“About a century and a half now,” Balsa told her. “The legend draws people in from all four corners of the world, and everywhere in between — seemingly pleasant people like you three, a lot of the time. People whom I wouldn’t expect to be so driven by greed and the promise of treasure. Are you in debt? What is it that draws you to this… this suicide mission?”

“Well, they say money can’t buy happiness, but it doesn’t exactly hurt to have it, either,” Ford replied, and above the table Stan stifled a laugh. “But for us three, I think the main thing drawing us in is the thrill of the discovery. We’re not so much treasure hunters as simply adventurers.”

“Well said,” Jheselbraum told him. “Balsa, we appreciate your concern, but we know the risks of this mission and we’ve made according preparations. If we’re ever in grave danger, we’ve prepared spells to teleport out with. ”

Ford nodded. “The depths of Mt. Somnifell are a mystery that we plan to solve, no matter how many expeditions it takes.”

Balsa shook their head. “Well, I can’t stop you. But I’m not sure you’ll like the solution to that mystery as much as you expect. Will you really remain so dedicated to the truth, if it starts to look like you’re headed towards answers that you don’t want to hear?”

With that, they turned their back and vanished in a burst of green light.

“That was ominous, wasn’t it?” Fiddleford muttered, and then after a pause added: “Well, who’s jumpin’ down that hole first?”

“I think I’ll try to climb, rather than jump, but I’ll be happy to lead the way.” Ford intertwined his fingers and stretched his arms out in front of him, preparing himself for the descent.

“Be careful,” Jheselbraum warned him. “It doesn’t get any brighter down there, and the air flowing out felt humid. It may be slippery.”

“To quote our infinitely wise DM — have a little faith! For one thing, I have dark vision, and for another, I never said I was climbing the rocks themselves.”

One use of Rope Trick later and Ford’s feet safely struck the damp stone floor, having reached the bottom of a twenty-foot long, near-vertical shaft. Fiddleford was about halfway down and had all four limbs wrapped around the rope for dear life, as Jheselbraum brought up the rear and offered words of reassurance.

“Don’t you even think of explorin’ any further without us, Stanford Pines!” Fiddleford shouted, shrill voice echoing loudly. “You’ll just get yourself killed an’ you know it!”

“Relax!” Ford yelled back. “I’m taking a look around, but I’m not moving any deeper in!”

Once he felt certain Fiddleford was more focused on the climb than on him, he took just a tiny step forwards — and then another, and one more after that, because he really had expected to be able see a bit further down here with his dark vision —

The world around him went white, and two firm hands came out of nowhere to grasp both of his shoulders. Jheselbraum stood facing him in the featureless bright space, once again in a robed human form… and with glowing purple eyes.

“I think something’s wrong with your table, Jhes. This doesn’t look like something that should be happening in a campaign —”

“Ford, please listen to me — you’re falling more deeply entranced by the second. I don’t know if I’ll be able to get through to you again at this rate — you must snap out of it! I know it’s an upsetting truth to face, but you are strong enough, and so is your family, as long as you all face this together. I believe in —”

Ford blinked, and he was back in the cave. Fiddleford kneeled a few feet behind him, looking relieved enough to kiss the ground if only he could see it in the darkness, and Jheselbraum gracefully leapt down from the rope to land at his side. She didn’t look especially worried, or speak like there was any matter of particular urgency at hand.

“Ford, you’re giving me an… odd look. Is your touted night vision malfunctioning?”

“No, I’m… just thinking.” He’d witnessed something, he knew that, but the memory felt the same way an object might look if viewed through unfocused eyes in the dead of night — blurry and undefined, only straining his brain more and more the harder he tried to focus on making it out.

Oh well, then. No need to hurt myself — it’s just a game. And speaking of which…

“Stan?” he called out, and the roof of the cave grew holographic and transparent, revealing Stan’s face as he watched the party attentively.

“Yeah, Sixer?”

“I have to admit, I had my doubts about you as Dungeon Master, but… I was wrong. This is such a well-crafted, captivating story you’ve created here — you know that, right? I’m really, genuinely enjoying it — keep it up, and I won’t ever want to leave!”

“Yeah.” Stan smiled, but broke eye contact with Ford — was he surprised? embarrassed? guilty? “Yeah, that’s just what I’m shootin’ for. Thanks, Ford.”

***

“Can you hear us, Grunkle Ford?” Mabel called out. “Where are you?”

No one replied, but the dark clouds in the hallways crept a few inches closer and the piano notes grew slightly fainter.

“Do you think he’s behind the machine?” Soos asked. He took a few steps away from the nearest hallway and towards the kids, nervously scanning the room for any sort of surprise attack.

“I don’t know, but I have a feeling we might not get another chance to check,” Dipper replied. Dark droplets rained down from a crack in the roof, narrowly missing him and splattering across the vending machine’s glass door.

“You’re right, we should hurry — wait, what?” Mabel gasped as she rushed over to the machine. “Dipper, the buttons are different — it’s some kind of weird code! How are we gonna get in?”

“Let me see. There’s got to be a way… wait, hold on. I… I’ve seen this code before.”

“That’s great! I should’ve known you’d know how to… Dipper? Is something wrong?”

Dipper’s stomach was churning with nausea and he hated it, because he knew it wasn’t a real sensation, a physical sensation, but couldn’t still couldn’t will the feeling to stop. “No, it’s just… this cipher was in the Journal, but I wasn’t able to crack this one until after Weirdmageddon, when all the pages got restored. I don’t think even Ford knows I solved it.”

“So what’s it doing in Stan’s mind?” Soos asked. “Did he crack it, or —”

“Bill was the one who wrote in this code,” Dipper added more quietly. “He used it while he was possessing Ford.”

“Oh… right.”

Dipper took another, more careful look at the keypad, where four buttons were already glowing — corresponding to the letters S, T, A, and N.

Now, if we press B, I, and then L twice…

His hand had barely left the keypad when the machine shuddered, swinging open with a groan to reveal a sight that was both unnervingly alien and chillingly familiar.

Descending beneath them was a staircase, mirroring the design of the stairs beneath the Shack — only these were carved from a shimmering light wood, like the bark of a birch tree. Elliptical knots and whorls covered the walls, slowly swirling and moving and growing as they turned to stare up the steps at Dipper and the others, flickering yellow so faintly you could almost convince yourself you’d imagined it, if only you didn’t know better.

“Oh, fuck this,” Dipper whispered, and neither Mabel nor Soos — the two most profanity-averse people he knew — gave any sign of disagreement.

He did, however, hear a sickening crunch behind him, and turned to see the floorboards on the other end of the room collapsing, dragged down into a slowly widening sinkhole in which dark currents frothed and churned. One at a time, grey planks were ripped away from their neighbors and dragged below as the rupture grew, its edges creeping steadily closer —

“I don’t like the look of that place either, dudes,” Soos told them, “but we might not have a choice…”

“You’re right,” Mabel agreed. “Let’s go.”

She grabbed Dipper and Soos’s hands, and before any of them could lose their will, they barreled down the stairs together.

***

The cavern was sloped downwards with countless twists and turns, and Ford got the impression that the tunnel was slowly snaking its way through just about all the interior volume Mt. Somnifell had to offer. Lurking in the shadows, monsters sprang out to ambush them at surprisingly regular intervals — humanoids with bat-like wings, wolves lacking eyes but with long-reaching claws that more than made up for their blindness, slimes that could precipitate stalactites out of their bodies and hurl them at whoever looked most defenseless — but the party dispatched them all with relative ease, burning through healing potions at only about half the rate Ford had expected, given the dungeon’s reputation.

But the cavern also had some less pleasant surprises in store, as was quickly proven when Ford spotted the first body.

“They’re still breathing,” Jheselbraum reported after he pointed out the dwarf’s unmoving form. “It doesn’t even look like they’ve been knocked unconscious — they’ve simply fallen asleep. And they’re smiling like they’re having a pleasant dream, at that.”

“Huh,” Ford murmured. “Can you tell if the cause is magical, or some kind of ingested or inhaled substance?”

“This might end up provin’ itself to be a stupid question,” Fiddleford chimed in, “but can you, ya know… wake them up?”

Jheselbraum shook the dwarf gently, but they remained limp. “I’m trying to, but it doesn’t seem to be working. But this is a magically induced sleep, Ford, I can tell you that much for certain. We should stay alert — there could be any number of magical traps lying ahead, and we don’t want to get stuck in a slumber like this ourselves.”

“That’s some high-quality armor they’re wearing,” Ford commented. “They must be a serious treasure hunter.”

“We’re not lootin’ an unconscious dwarf, Stanford!”

“I never said we were! I was just wondering if it would be feasible to carry them with us, or if they would be too heavy!”

“Normally, I would hate to leave behind a person defenseless like this, but the monsters seem to be leaving them alone for now,” Jheselbraum cut in. “If we carry them with us, and into more of those ambushes, they might actually be less safe.”

Ford and Fiddleford nodded their agreement, and the trio set off down the tunnel once again. They’d scarcely been walking for five minutes when Ford held up a hand, signaling for the others to stop.

“Shh. Do you hear that?”

Fiddleford cupped a hand around his ear. “Water dripping, and… it sounds like breathing?” he whispered.

Ford nodded. “Heavy breathing, just up ahead — maybe even more than one person.” Readying his wand, he took a few cautious steps forward —

It was a heap of sleeping bodies this time, almost comically mismatched in size but leaning up against each other as they snored. The largest figure wrapped its arms around two smaller ones, one of which had their arm around a fourth figure who was smaller still. They were an orc, a human, an elf, and a halfling, Ford realized — almost certainly a team who’d ventured into the dungeon together.

Jheselbraum closed her eyes for a moment, teeth gritted in concentration, and then opened them again with a gasp. “It’s a very powerful spell affecting them. I tried to dispel it, but the magic… it fought back in a way I’ve never felt before. Almost as if…”

Her voice dropped to a low, uncertain whisper. “...as if the victims didn’t want their curse dispelled?”

“Odd,” Fidds remarked, and gingerly poked the orc’s arm. Their eyes twitched ever so slightly, but stayed closed.

Ford carefully stepped over the human adventurer’s legs, and conjured four small orbs of light, each tinted a slightly different color. They floated down the darkest hallway yet, illuminating a set of straight, carved stone stairs that didn’t at all match the natural, winding paths of the rest of the cavern.

“I’ve found something over here,” he announced. “Not sure if it’s the final stretch before the treasure we’ve been looking for, or simply the start of a more daunting and deadly area, but it definitely seems to suggest the influence of something sentient. This cavern, whatever it is, is more than just a naturally occurring phenomenon.”

The stairs weren’t especially steep, but walking down them was as exhilarating as sprinting down a hill, like there was nothing in the world that could stop your legs from moving once you began to descend. The smooth, flat walls were damp with condensation, but the droplets of water reflected even less of Ford’s light than the stone did — he only noticed they were there in the first place after he ran his fingers along the wall for a moment, then pulled away to find them cold and wet.

But the condensation seemed to stay off the steps themselves, and when Ford glimpsed a light at the end of the staircase — bright orange, and unlike any of the ones he’d created himself — he broke into a run, startling Jheselbraum and Fiddleford for a moment before they too saw what he’d seen, and rushed to catch up with him. They careened to a stop in front of an ornately carved wooden door, candles on each side of it lighting the hall, and Ford pushed it open to reveal —

An expansive, well-lit library, bookshelves stretching up from a plush-carpeted floor all the way up to the high and majestic painted ceiling, each and every available ledge crammed full of ancient-looking but well-preserved scrolls and tomes. Ford walked in slowly, not out of a lack of interest but out of an indecisiveness regarding where to investigate first — so many of the nearby books looked so enticing, but he was also drawn to the luxurious mahogany desks that seemed to come pre-equipped with inkwells and long, fluffy quill pens, and it was equally hard to tear his eyes off the statues of ancient wizard scholars, lit from behind by elegant, resplendent chandeliers…

As he marveled, Jheselbraum picked a book from the shelf seemingly at random, flipping through it at first but then skimming the pages with a bit more care, eventually sitting down with it and turning back to the beginning to pour over every word.

“This is the work of scholars that have long since been relegated to legend!” she reported. “Knowledge that for centuries, people have accepted as being lost forever! This is the discovery of a lifetime!”

Fiddleford chose another tome and opened it up on one of the desks, pulling a blank scroll out of a drawer and placing them side-by-side in preparation for taking notes. “That is, if you could even catalog all this in a lifetime! I can’t even see the end to some of these shelves!”

It was all so perfect that Ford couldn’t help but laugh — a deep, genuine laugh that the library’s acoustics amplified, bringing smiles to the faces of his companions. Skimming the titles and authors featured on the nearest shelf, he mused: “I wonder if we could find an explanation for why those explorers were asleep. This place surely would have —”

His gaze came to rest on a moderately thick book bound in black-dyed leather, and held closed by a clasp seemingly carved from bone: A History of Earliest Necromancy, Volume 2 — The Rise of Liches and Innovation of Archliches.

“Though really, I don’t think that’s the highest priority in the grand scheme of things.” He immediately curled up in a cozy chair with the volume and opened it to the first chapter, the world outside of the pages becoming effectively nonexistent as far as he cared.

Stan watched the whole scene play out from above, with only the faintest, most easily stifled hint of guilt hidden behind his smile as he saw his brother happily and peacefully settle down to read.

***

The staircase was longer than the one beneath the Shack, and each footstep felt heavier than the last. At some point the stairs began to alternate light and dark colors, as if the white color of the bark had been peeled off every other step, and a faint chime sounded beneath each footfall, harmonizing with the intensifying piano music. Neither the clouds nor the waves appeared to follow them down, as if the brightness of the stairs and the eyes were driving the darkness away.

The end came up on them quickly — Dipper had been expecting another door, some other puzzle, but it seemed that the vending machine had been Bill’s last line of defense. Hallways branched out all around them, winding and turning every which way and lined with doors just like the ones upstairs. Closest to the three of them was the hall labeled Memories, in the same cipher from the vending machine; it was also the hallway from which the music seemed to emanate, growing so clear that Dipper could almost make out a voice singing the accompanying lyrics.

“Do we follow the song?” he asked, and Mabel nodded.

“Yeah, I guess it’s been working so far.”

The patterns in the walls shifted, eyes staying fixed on the trio as they forged ahead.

***

Ford flew through the first book and found the other volumes soon after, all on different shelves yet well within his line of sight, like the library had read his mind and rearranged itself. Every once in a while, he heard a murmur or exclamation from Jheselbraum or Fiddleford, and though a part of him wondered what they were reading, it felt almost like a waste of effort to tear his eyes up from the page. The books were so detailed, so well-researched, that he could almost forget he was playing a game…

“Stanley, do you mind if we stay here just a bit longer?” he asked. “I know you probably have plans for the rest of the campaign, and I don’t want to ruin those by taking too long to move on…”

The roof of the library turned into a magnificent glass window, through which Stan looked back at Ford. “Well, are you having fun down there?”

“Oh, absolutely!”

Stan smiled. “Then you can stay there as long as you feel like! Hell, you can stay forever if you want.”

“That’s considerate of you, thanks! But I think forever is a bit too long, even for me…” Ford turned back to his book and flipped to a new page —

But found that he couldn’t quite pour all of his attention into the words anymore. As interesting as phylacteries and demiliches were, there was something that just didn’t sit right with him — something about Stan’s smile. It had seemed… off. Exaggerated.

A tiny voice in the back of his head (a familiar voice, he realized, somehow reminiscent of both Jheselbraum and Mabel) whispered five simple words to him — five words that every D&D&MD player knew well, but Ford hadn’t yet heard on this adventure:

Make a wisdom saving throw.

Without getting out of his chair, he glanced around the library, and for the first time really thought about how every title he spotted sounded like something he’d happily dedicate hours of his life to reading. He thought about how hard it was to tear his gaze away from those books once you started, how easily they captivated his curiosity — and how effortlessly Stan had woven this entire story, how instantly Ford had found himself enthralled, how frequently he would forget that he was actually in Dimension 52…

And how did we get to Dimension 52, again? Stan helped somehow — right? Before Jhes, there was…

There was…

Does it really matter if this is real, Ford?

Ten minutes. That’s all.

A die fell from his hand and struck not the plush maroon carpet of the library, but rather the color-drained wooden floor of the Mystery Shack, bouncing half a dozen times before it came to a rest wedged between two floorboards. On the uppermost face, glowing blue, was the number 38.

Stan stood alone on the other side of the room, dark fog spilling from the arms of his suit where hands should emerge instead. The clouds sunk low to the ground, creeping forwards like a smoky, immaterial tide, but they stopped at the edge of the circular blue glow that the die cast onto the floor, seeping all around the circumference of the light but unable to move further inwards.

“Why, Ford,” Stan choked out, “did you have to ruin it?”

“I don’t know if the being I’m facing is my real brother,” Ford began softly, and Stan flinched, raising a cloudy tendril to cover his face. “But Stanley, regardless of where you really are — I want to help you. I want to find Bill and stop him, once and for all this time; I want you to be safe —”

“I just want you to be happy!” Stan yelled, and tight cuffs snapped shut around Ford’s wrists. Wisps of fog snaked upwards from his hands, and chains materialized out of them, lifting him off the ground as they grew towards the ceiling —

“But i-if you go looking for Bill…”

In the mind, where anything conceivable is just a few seconds of concentration away from manifesting into existence, a vivid imagination can be your best friend or your worst enemy — and Ford couldn’t help but remember, imagine, almost feel the faint sensation of tingling electric shocks at his wrists, of static charges creeping up his arms as his hair stood on end and his muscles tensed involuntarily, bracing himself for the current to intensify…

“If you keep looking, then you won’t be happy,” Stan went on, oblivious to Ford’s panic as he stared down towards the floor with practically glazed-over eyes. “None of us will.”

***

Old, flickering incandescent lightbulbs cast a blue-tinted pallor over everything in the hall, illuminating particles of dust that drifted through the air as if no one had come this way in a very, very long time. Separate hallways branched off every few feet, some behind doors and others not — and many with no visible end in sight.

Dipper and Mabel sneezed with almost perfect synchronicity as they passed by a dimly lit offshoot, ending at a chained-up door with the image of a scalene triangle etched into it. The symbols on the doors grew more familiar the further they explored — glasses, a llama, a bag of ice. The same code labeled every door with a transcription of the symbol, and Dipper flinched, trying to repress a morbid curiosity as they passed Pine Tree, and Question Mark, and Shooting Star…

Then finally, they stumbled upon Sixer.

“Sounds like this is where the music is coming from,” Soos murmured. No one stepped forwards to open the door.

“What do you think we’ll find there?” Mabel asked.

“Hopefully Bill,” Dipper replied. The word hopefully felt tainted and wrong in his mouth.

Mabel closed her eyes for a moment, brow furrowing in concentration. When she opened them again, a water gun-like apparatus had appeared in her hands, just transparent enough for Dipper to tell that it was filled not with liquid, but rather with sparkling bright glitter.

“Okay,” she said. “I’m ready now.”

Soos curled his fingers around an invisible hilt, and a pixelated sword popped into existence, surrounded by equally retro-looking orange flames. “Me too.”

Dipper curled his fingers around the handle, and cringed as a jolt of electricity stung his palm — not strong enough to really hurt, but plenty strong enough to startle him and send his already pounding heart racing even faster. The door swung open with a creak as he recoiled, revealing another hallway lined with more doorways, this time unmarked. The lightbulbs overhead hummed and crackled quietly, blue-white sparks leaping off the sizzling filaments and striking the glass to create a noise that sounded almost intelligible —

(tzxmeaiz jfjlpc ZI afb-wavdiik xlmevmuxvj)

(aesldlk'x ysdb ximaqiu em)

(f'q jg alviq aqeexwoh)

(z'e al wfjzv)

“There’s too much background noise. I can’t tell where the music’s coming from anymore, can you?” Dipper asked.

Mabel rubbed her ears. “It’s like it’s coming from nowhere, but also everywhere. I guess we should just… check the doors one by one?”

“I guess.” Dipper’s hand hovered just above a doorknob as he took a deep breath, Soos and Mabel readying their weapons behind him. There was a sickly-sweet smell permeating the air, like sulfur mixed with the scent of a dusty, seldom-used home heater.

(The smell of burning hair, he would realize a few seconds too late.)

“Okay, Bill. Let’s see what you remember about Ford —”

His fingers had hardly brushed the knob when the door exploded. Dust filled his lungs and splinters impaled themselves in his hands, stinging like a million tiny lightning bolts —

But still stinging less than the memory that now played out before him, stripped away of any enciphering, or euphemism, and at last exposed for all to see.

Ford’s limp body was suspended from a dark red brick ceiling, chains fastened around his neck and wrists. He seemed to fade away into the folds of his scorched and tattered trench coat, and his unblinking eyes stayed worryingly blank as wisps of smoke drifted up from his smoldering, ashen hair.

“Oh, WHOOPSIE-DAISY! This was all my bad this time, it really was — I just keep forgetting how sensitive your puny little organs are!”

Bill jabbed a single finger into Ford’s stomach, and Ford swung back and forth like a pendulum, remaining completely limp. “I wonder what circuit blew this time? Bet it was your sentimental, oversized old man heart again, wasn’t it? I’m tellin’ ya, you’d be better off without it — maybe now you’ll consider throwing your lot in with world domination!”

He cackled, loudly and bitterly. “What are you saying, Cipher? Save the spiel for when he’s awake again to hear you, dumbass!”

He snapped his fingers, and a pale yellow glow began to manifest around Ford’s body, starting at the hands and slowly making its way towards his chest. His voice dropped a few full octaves as he went on:

“Now, let’s get you fixed up for ANOTHER ROUND —”

“NO!”

Dipper didn’t have any memory of stepping through the doorway, but he was well-inside the Fearamid now, racing towards Bill as fast as his legs could carry him and fists clenched so tightly that his fingernails dug into his palms. “Don’t you dare hurt him anymore!”

What?

Bill’s voice came out different — still an echoing, high-pitched whine like usual, but smaller somehow. It held less brash self-assurance, less of that absurd, larger-than-life personality that the world had come to know and fear — and was more full of uncertainty, of panic.

Less horrifying, and more horrified.

P-P-Pine Tree? No, no, NO —

Why are you — what am I —

What am I DOING?

His eye darted all around the room as his body turned to a screen of static, familiar images flashing inside — a pine tree, a six-fingered hand. A sock puppet, a glowing blue chain.

He grabbed Dipper’s hand, but no cold flames ignited this time. His grip was tight and trembling as his wide, desperate eye met Dipper’s —

Pine Tree, why are we here? What IS this? What’s HAPPENING?

I don’t want to be here, Pine Tree, please —

“Let go of my brother!” A blast of a thousand tiny, glittering yellow and pink stars struck Bill in the eye, knocking him backwards as he howled in pain. “Yeah, that’s what you get for what you did to Grunkle Ford!”

Mabel ran towards where Ford hung, smoking less but still limp. “Are you okay?! We’ll get you out of there, just hold on —”

It’s… it’s not the real Ford, is it?

Bill sat up, blinking slowly as if coming to his senses. His voice still echoed, but it was lower-pitched now, and had an unmistakably familiar hoarseness to it as he turned towards Mabel —

We’re in the past, pumpkin. You can’t undo it —

and

neither

can

I

***

“Stan,” Ford whispered. don’t think of electricity, don’t think of electricity, don’t think of electricity —

“I. Need you. To let me go.” He tried to enunciate carefully but overcompensated, the words coming out stiff and robotic. “Please,” he added.

Stan crossed his arms, pulling them tight around his chest as he shook his head, motions jerking and marionette-like. “No, I — I can’t.”

“Calm down,” Ford told him, even though his voice sounded anything but calm. He could smell the all-too-familiar scent of burning hair and clothes now — was his hair already beginning to smolder, or — no. Ignore your senses if you have to, they’re lying right now. Just talk.

“Stan, look into — look into my eyes. I’m your brother, Stan, you can trust me —”

“But you can’t trust me,” Stan interrupted, still staring straight down. “All this time, I was — you were wrong about me. I’m a horrible brother, and I just tricked you into thinking I wasn’t.”

Something reached its breaking point in Ford’s mind, and tears began to fall from his eyes — an ionic solution, exactly what makes your body such a good conductor of —

“Fuck it, Stan, put me back in your tabletop game if you want, but please, you’ve got to let me out of here or my own mind is going to —”

Stan’s neck flew backwards with a sickening crack, craning towards the ceiling as his eyes flew open, but he still wasn’t looking at Ford — no, he was staring far past him, spheres of blue plasma sizzling where dark brown irises should have been.

WHAT?

Why are you DOWN THERE?

Dipper, NO!

The fire in his eyes moved in cascades, in waves, like static across a television screen.

What am I DOING?

NO, NO NO

Kids, I — oh, pumpkin, it’s not —

I can’t —

I can’t undo it

I CAN’T UNDO IT

He blinked and his eyes were brown again, human again, staring into Ford’s own —

“Stanford, w-what am I DOING?!”

Ford’s chains vanished in a puff of fog, and he tumbled to the ground, landing more softly than the wooden planks beneath him should have allowed for. Stan staggered away from him, raising his hands to cover his mouth as black tears spilled down the left side of his face, leaving dark trails on his cheek and staining his fingers —

While from the corner of his right eye, shimmering crystal blue droplets welled up and dripped down — liquid fire, blazing so bright that it lit the whole room.

“Stanley —!”

In a quick one-two punch, the roof of the Shack buckled and then exploded, as a torrent of water crashed down upon Stan and submerged him instantly. A violent cyclone surrounded him, biting winds slicing through Ford’s coat and stinging his arms as they grew stronger, more desperate —

But Ford could still make out something inside the waterspout, a glow that jumped in jagged paths like lightning one moment, then floated and flickered like tongues of flame the next — a bright blue light, refusing to be drowned out. Refusing to be forgotten.

***

A couple of end notes this time:

-If I did my job as a writer well, this should hopefully be apparent, but because this detail is very important to me and my interpretation of the characters in this context, I just want to clarify: All the electric shocks that (non-memory) Ford felt were due to his own mind/imagination working against him, not due to Stan. Stan, as he now exists, would absolutely never hurt Ford like that — but he was desperate to keep Ford from searching for Bill, and because of that desperation (plus possibly a bit of influence from the Bill memories the kids were rooting around in) he made an unfortunate choice in terms of how to restrain Ford, prompting Ford to flash back to Bill’s torture. Once Stan realizes what’s happening, he’s horrified and immediately wracked with guilt, which we’ll see a bit more of in the next chapter. (finally going back to Stan POV! It’s been so long!)

-If you want a hint for the long code encountered in Bill’s part of the mindscape, hit me up and I’ll be happy to give one!

-For the record, most of my Dungeons and Dragons knowledge comes from listening to podcasts rather than actual playing experience, so if anything doesn’t make sense, let’s just chalk it up to being a difference between D&D and D&D&MD.

-I also threw in a reference to Flat Dreams by Pengychan, which is a Bill-backstory fic that I absolutely love! Of course, you can understand SSD without reading Flat Dreams, but you should totally read Flat Dreams anyway because it’s just that good.

-Last but not least, look out for the next chapter — also known as my favorite chapter — within the next couple of weeks ;) As usual, comments/predictions/etc are welcomed!

[hellolighthousefilm]

Treatment

A big burst of updates: first, an expanded treatment! It kind of has “dialogue” in it too, since so much of the visuals are timed around the messages that our lighthouse friend sends out.

----

A tall lighthouse sits atop a towering, imposing cliffside at dawn, with a stark drop down into the waters below. Its light cuts through the last remnants of night as the sky grows lighter at the horizon. The lighthouse switches off, its swiveling beam slowing and coming to a stop upon its perch. Within the lighthouse, a man slowly moves towards a small desk sitting next to an open window. The desk is sparsely populated, with only a lamp, a mug of pens and pencils holding down a pad of paper, and a telegraph connected to a radio. The man sits down and places a set of headphones over his ears. He begins tapping out a message in Morse, as the sun peeks over the horizon, casting a warm glow over the figure of the lighthouse.

LIGHTHOUSE … GOOD MORN …

The hand of the lightkeeper falls still, hovering over the telegraph. He rests one hand on the side of his headset, pushing it closer to his ear. Silence permeates the air. The lightkeeper reaches for a dial by the radio, turning it upwards, and types another message.

… DO YOU RECEIVE …

He listens, leaning forward in the seat. A few seconds pass before he removes the headset and stands up from the desk, sparing a glance out the open window. The sound of the sea can be heard, muffled slightly by the cliffs below.

The lightkeeper wipes off the windows surrounding the beacon, as seagulls call in the distance. He briefly stops and looks out at the horizon. There is nothing but clouds to be seen. He blinks then returns to his work.

The sun shines high in the sky above the lighthouse. A weathervane attached to the rail surrounding the beacon spins loosely in the wind. The lightkeeper, leaning out of a window below, ducks back inside and returns to the telegraph, sending out a message.

… TEMP 23 WIND 10 KN S VIS HIGH …

The lightkeeper stands on the railing surrounding the lighthouse beacon, looking out at the sunset. He takes a sip from a cup of coffee.

The lightkeeper removes the large bulb from the lighthouse beacon, setting it aside and replacing it with another. The bulb flickers to life.

The hand of the lightkeeper taps out a message.

… DO YOU RECEIVE …  

The lightkeeper sits in front of a fireplace, warming his hands, as snow falls outside.

A siren blares into a dense fog, the lighthouse hardly visible and its beam fuzzy. The lightkeeper, at the desk, taps out a message.

… DENSE FOG …

The lightkeeper walks past the table carrying some tools.

The telegraph taps away.

… DO YOU RECEIVE …

The lightkeeper sits by the open window, one elbow leaning on the ledge, reading a book. A red sunrise can be seen coming through the opposite window.

The telegraph taps away.

… DO YOU RECEIVE …

A heavy storm buffets the lighthouse. Dark clouds surround it, but the beacon cuts through the darkness like a knife. Within the beacon’s housing, the lightkeeper stands beside it, shadows falling on his face as the light revolves around on its base. The lighthouse shines, blinding.

Dawn. A cup of coffee made. The lightkeeper, lethargic and half-asleep, walks over to the desk. Setting down his coffee, he slowly taps out a message.

… LIGHTHOUSE … GOOD MORN …

The lightkeeper once again listens, fiddling with the controls of the radio. Only silence greets him. His hands reach up to his headset, beginning to remove it, when a faint beeping stops him in his tracks.

… HELLO …

The lightkeeper freezes. He turns up the volume dial on the radio, listening with the headset pressed tightly to his ear. The beeping repeats.

… HELLO LIGHTHOUSE …

The lightkeeper immediately taps out a response. The sun peaks over the horizon, casting its rays on the lighthouse.

… HELLO …

[nxrcissamxlfoy]

uptown girl

pairing : charlie x daphne word count : ~2.7k prompt : "uptown girl” billy joel | modern muggle au for : @petuniaevans and the @slytherdornet & @hprarepairnet love song challenge [an: there will be a part two if anyone’s interested]

The the cyan blue pool skimmer is entrancing.

The muscles in Charlie’s arms fall into a fluid rhythm as he drags it back and forth, leaving a serpentine pattern of ripples in the sparkling water. He’s so mesmerized and calm that he doesn’t hear the gate behind him open, but he does hear it slam shut. He winces, remembering the

“Where’s Richard?” comes a snooty voice. “And who are you?”

Well, he had to at least give them credit for remembering Richard’s name. Most of the families who require the company’s services don’t bother to even look at the help, let alone know their names.

“I’m Charlie,” he says, removing the skimmer from the water and resting the tip on the cement at his feet. “And Richard moved.” He finally turns but is a little surprise at the sight of her; disheveled blonde hair, giant sunglasses, smeared lipstick, and shoes in her hand. She had all the signs of a late night rager.

She frowns and her eyebrows dip behind her glasses as she pulls a bit of her bottom lip into her mouth. He feels as though he’s being harshly scrutinized and his spine instinctively straightens.

“Well, if anyone asks, you haven’t seen me. Any time anyone ever asks, I’m in the pool house as far as you’re concerned.” She walks by him, nose in the air and feet slapping on the wet concrete as she heads for the pool house, a smaller but still no doubt extravagant version of the main house.

“You want me to lie for you, then?”

She stops and turns her head over her shoulder but doesn’t actually look at him. “You will if you know what’s good for you.”

For the next few weeks it’s more of the same. No matter when he starts his shift, she seems to stumble home not long after. But charlie is observant, and finds information in even the most predictable of routines.

He learns that her name is daphne, but that she often gives the boys who drop her off a fake name; hayley, anna, marie. He learns that she actually lives in the pool house in an attempt to pub distance between her and her family. He learns not to say anything when she walks by, because he will only either be snapped at or completely ignored. He learns that her father is rarely home and that her mother is an overbearing, insufferable perfectionist, a hawk of a woman for whom nothing is ever good enough. He learns that she loves pissing her mother off. He learns that she is smarter than she appears, and that she knows how to play people to get exactly what she wants. He learns that her party girl persona is a facade. He learns that she’s bored, even if she doesn’t realize it.

Worst of all, though, he learns that he is more intrigued than he should be and that he may just even like her.

She comes in through the back gate, closing the tall privacy fence in the face of a still drunk boy. “I’ll call you, June. I swear I will,” he slurs. She leans against the fence, he head falling back with a thud, and lets out a scoff and an eye roll.

Charlie stays silent, keeps fiddling with the pool pump as if she’s not there. He glances up just as she walks by him, but returns his gaze to his work when she stops at the door.

“What is this?” she asks, completely disgusted at the glass of brown sludge sitting on the table by the door.

“Cure for your hangover,” he says, snapping the piece he was cleaning back into place.

“It’s abhorrent,” she sneers.

He shrugs. “But it works.” He looks up when the door slams and smiles when he sees the glass is gone too.

“All right, what’s in it?” she asks a few days later, when he’s made her another one.

He smiles as he winds the garden hose around his arm. “Old family secret, sorry.”

“What am I supposed to do when you’re not here then?”

He shifts the spool of hose up to his shoulder and walks by her to put it up. “Not drink so much?”

“Ass,” she spits, and disappears inside.

But things start thawing after that. He continues to leave her his miracle hangover cure and she starts warning him when her mother is in an extra foul mood, so he can make sure his work is flawless and get out of there before the beratement starts. They still never exchange more than a few short words, but a thin veil of friendship starts to settle between them.

Then one day he’s cleaning off the patio furniture when her mother shows up before she does. Mrs. Greengrass has a list of things for him to do and as she’s verbally assault if him for doing everything wrong before he’s even started on it, he sees Daphne sneaking into the gate behind her.

Mrs. Greengrass is just about to turn and spot her when he does the first thing that comes to mind and leans too hard on the edge of the glass table next to him. Tt tips, falls, shatters.

There’s a screech and a string of insults but in the commotion Daphne gets safely into the pool house. “You will pick up every single shard by hand, replace the table, and find somewhere else to work!” Mrs. Greengrass demands as she storms off with a haughty and indignant flurry.

“Bitch,” he mumbles with a sigh. He rights the frame of the table but knows there’s no way in hell he’s picking up the glass.

“Thank you,” comes a quiet voice behind him. “You don’t have to pay for that table,” she adds quickly.

“How generous,” he quips, but there’s no bitterness to his tone. If he were being honest with himself, he was glad to be rid of Mrs. Greengrass’ shrill demands.

She bites her lip. “I’m sorry you lost the job,” she mumbles, and it’s almost as if it hurts her to be so nice. “If there’s anything I can do...”

He waves her off but then spots his bag by the gate and eyes her for a moment. “You probably have, what, like hundreds of insta followers?”

She raises an offended eyebrow. “Thousands,” she corrects.

A smile slowly spreads across his face. “I have an exhibition Friday night,” he starts, heading for his bag to dig out a flyer. “Come, snap a few pics and rave over everything. Maybe I’ll get a sale or two out of it.”

“Exhibition?” she asks, looking over the slip he hands her. “You’re a sculptor?”

“Metalsmith, in between jobs anyway. And now I have one less of those so...” He looks at her for an answer and sees her frown at the address in a less than shining part of town. But she sighs and nods.

“Yeah, sure, whatever.”

It’s not so much an art gallery as it is an abandoned old factory, full of dust and debris and probably rats. But there are lights on and music blaring and Daphne reassures her driver that yes, this is the right spot, and no, she doesn’t him to escort her in. As the car pulls away she takes a deep breath and pulls out her phone to snap a picture, wondering if there was a creepy murder factory emoji.

Inside it’s louder, and she sees the DJ set up in the loft in the back. There are people everywhere, some dressed as though they found their clothes in the dumpster out back and other dressed in loud and creative nearly avant garde outfits.

She takes a deep breath, and in one corner spots Charlie, his red hair shining like a lighthouse in a storm. She snaps another quick picture of the DJ and heads his way. He’s chatting with a few people but upon seeing her he excuses himself and meets her with a smile. He has on dark, well fitted jeans, and a deep red button up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, different than the baggy shorts and loose t-shirt he wore while cleaning her pool. He holds out his arms, gesturing to the warehouse and all the art and she could see his muscles shifting under his tight sleeves.

It was much different than the baggy clothes he’d worn to work.

“What do you think?” he asks, looking at her expectantly.

She looks around and nods. “Yeah, it’s definitely... something all right.” She watches his face fall just a little, into something less friendly and more business like, as though he’s realized what kind of night it was going to be. “Which one’s yours?” she adds quickly.

He eyes her for a moment, his eyes squinting like he’s trying to figure her out and she notes just how expressive his face is even if he doesn’t realize it. He nods behind her and she turns.

She doesn’t know what to say, because to her it just looks like a bunch of metal strips, twisted and spiraling and standing up right. “It’s...” she starts, but falters.

“Not meant to be viewed from one angle,” he picks up, his low voice right in her ear. A chill runs up her spine and she feels his body heat on her back and curses herself for choosing a nearly backless blouse. Hiis hand touches her shoulder, it’s rough and calloused but the touch is gentle and it nudges her in the right direction.

As she walks around the sculpture it morphs and changes, the metal weaving around itself, darker in some areas, lighter in other, creating more depth and optical illusions. Some parts even look like they’re moving thanks to the ribbing hand etched into the sides. She reaches a hand out to touch it but stops, thinking that maybe she’s not allowed so she looks back up to Charlie, who gives a half nod and a shrug as permission.

“You made this?” she asks, running her fingers along the groove, trying to ignore how he’s staring at her. she stops when she reaches her starting point and looks up at him and realizes just how blue his eyes are. “You have to show me more.”

His shop is small and dirty and hot, even though the forge in the center isn’t currently lit.

"You really didn’t have to leave your exhibition,” she says as he rolls up the large metal door in the back, letting in a stream of moonlight.

“S’all right, I’ve already got four emails thanks to your post.” He flips a switch and a few lights come on, most of them hanging above the multiple heavy worktables along one wall.

Well aware of his gaze on her back, she walked over towards the tables, upon which all manner of smaller projects along with scraps and tools lay scattered. her eyes fall on a small collection in one corner. faces, formed with flat metal strips made to look like they were pressed onto a face by the wind, leaving the ends flying behind them. There are eight of them, two women and six men.

“My family,” Charlie explains, leaning on the other end of the table.

She sets down the one she’d picked up, in all likelihood his mother, and turned to face him. “Do me,” she says.

Charlie's hand slips and he almost smacks his elbow on the table. “What?” he coughs and Daphne realizes what she's just said and laughs.

“My face, I want a sculpture of my face.”

“Oh,” he breathes but he looks unsure. “Well, the thing is… they really take a lot of time and work and-”

“I'll pay you.” Daphne crosses her arms like she's won but he scratches his jaw and still looks contemplative. “I'll pay you very well.”

“I mean, that sounds great but…” He sighs. “I'd have to sketch you, a lot. And you'd have to visit the shop at least once a week so I can make sure I'm getting your features right.”

She frowns and looks around, notices the face he makes, like he knows he's right, like he knows she won't want to spend time in a dirty old place like this. So she shrugs, a practiced nonchalant motion. “Okay. We can do twice a week if it helps.”

“Um, yeah.” He smiles and her heart shifts gears. “Okay then,” he nods, “I guess you can come by Monday?”

“Monday it is,” she says, wondering why it’s suddenly so hard to breathe.

Monday morning Charlie finds himself pacing the floor of his workshop. He’s already pulled out his sketch book and even neatly organized all of his pencils and erasers, he’s straightened up his shop and tried to finagle the lights just so. But she still hasn’t shown. Finally, he fires up the forge, planning to work on a few smaller projects until she arrives, hoping it’ll take his mind off it.

This is what he was worried about, that she’d lose interest and stop coming, wasting his time and energy. He just didn’t think it would be so soon, though he supposes he should be grateful that she has blown him off so early and saved him the trouble.

The forge is nearly ready and he’s pulled up the bottom of his shirt to wipe his face when he hears her.

“It is literally hotter than hell in here.”

He lowers his shirt just in time to see her swallow and avert her eyes. She drops her bag on to the floor by the door and fans herself with her hand. “I can not sit in here.”

He sighs, reaches over to turn the vent fan up higher, then grabs his rake. “There’s a breeze out back,” he says, starting to pull at the coals with the rake, spreading them out so they can die out. “Grab a stool.”

It’s not much cooler outside, but there’s shade, and an occasional breeze to make it bearable. “Better?” he asks, flipping to an empty spot in his book.

Daphne sighs. “Marginally.”

He lets out a small huff of a laugh and shakes his head, wondering if anything is ever more than marginally acceptable for her, but then he catches a brief glimpse of the corners of her lips and sees them twitch up ever so slightly.

“You don’t need to pose,” he says as she straightens her spine and pulls her shoulders back, sticking her chin in the air. She blushes a little and nods, relaxing and brushing her hair behind her ear. “I’m just going to focus on your eyes today,” he explains.

He holds the pencil above the sketchbook and peeks over the top of it to get started but pauses at the sight of her. She looks nearly like an angel, with the sunlight is trickling in from the trees, kissing her cheeks and reflecting in her eyes.

“What?” she asks as he smiles.

“Nothing. You’re just… not wearing any make up.”

She shrugs. “I thought it would be better, if I wanted it to look like me, anyway.” 

“Makes sense,” he nods, and looks back to his book. He starts sketching and even though he’s trying to focus on just her eyes, he can’t help but notice the subtle differences in her face. Her cheeks have a natural slight pink tint to them, and they’re rounder than they’ve always appeared. There are even a few light freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose.

They sit in silence for a little while, and Charlie is on his third rendition of her eyes when she finally breaks through it. “So, do you do anything else?”

“What’s that?” he asks, not looking up.

“Besides sketching, and sculpting. Do you paint? Or work with anything other than metal?”

“No, not really. I really only even sketch to help with my sculpting.”

“Oh.”

He finally glances up at her and she’s looking around, up at the trees and he decides to start a new sketch, a set of her eyes looking upwards. “What about you?” he asks, starting with the pupil.

She laughs. It’s only a small burst but it’s the most he’s ever heard from her and he finds himself instantly eager to elicit another one from her. “I’m not artistic at all.”

“Well, any hobbies then?”

She shifts on her stool. “I read a lot. So, I guess that’s a hobby?”

“Yeah, definitely. What are you reading now?”

“Taber’s War of the Flea,” she says, not missing a beat.

His hand stops, he glances up to see a small smile on her face and it brings about one to his. “Remind me to never start a dictatorship in your country.”

[roselirry]

she doesn’t believe me

just some random thing i felt like writing based on these pics 

Los Angeles had brought Brighton a lot of things; a part time job in an upscale cocktail lounge, friends who encouraged her to buy shoes that were far too expensive for her bank account, and him. 

He was a shock to her system, someone she bumped into when she was going through the pile of discount shoes at the shop around the corner from her apartment, someone who smiled at her and said she could find better shoes for better prices at the place two blocks from her apartment. His smile was everything, wide and showing off dimples that gave off a boyish charm that she had yet to see in the city. 

She had taken a chance, asking him to show her, if he wasn’t too busy. “Busy? Me? It’s a Saturday, I’ve got all the time in the world.” He wasn’t in any type of rush, she picked up on that when he insisted on trying on shoes of his own, strutting down the aisles of the shop like he had to convince her that he could pull off the sparkling gold boots. She left that store with three years added onto her life from laughing at his cheeky jokes that left her cheeks red, and a new number in her phone; Harry Styles. A student, like her, with a job at YSL that he loved, and a passion for fruit smoothies and the old books at the top shelf of the library on campus. 

Brighton would text him for the first time on a Saturday night, moments away from leaving for her shift. She sent him a picture, a picture of her in her full length mirror; the black dress that hugged her soft curves, lips stained with a dark red color, and hair that was pulled away from her face. But she added to the picture something simple, something about the boots he picked out for her, the black velvet with intricate white patterns adding a pop to her tight covered legs. 

He sent back heart eyes. 

And a photo of the gold boots he was wearing. 

That’s how it all began, their shoes.

The next time they saw each other, she was wearing a simple pair of brown booties, nothing extravagant, but it was perfect for the setting of the cafe a few stores down from YSL. Harry made fun of Brighton’s wide brimmed hat, and she commented on a bump that had formed while he put his bun up. He pouted until she reached into her bag and grabbed a bobby pin, pulling it apart with her teeth and sliding it into his hair. 

He smiled at her and stole a few chips from her bag. 

They talked about things that made each other feel lighter; Harry’s home in England with the leaky faucet and cat scratches on the kitchen cabinets, and Brighton’s brother’s cologne and the detergent her mother used on her sheets. 

He wanted to go into fashion, “because it’s about time we say fuck it to the sterotypical fashion out there,” he told her. Though she could’ve figured that out from the silk shirt he was wearing, tattoos painted on his arm and chest. 

She didn’t know what she wanted to do, she told him, staring at him over her fruit smoothie that he insist she try because it was his entire world. “Maybe marketing,” she told him, “maybe food service, maybe an actress, I have no idea.” She came out to LA on a whim, with no direction or thought of what she wanted to do. She hoped it would hit her before she shook the hand of the dean. 

They left the cafe separately, leaving one another with a hug. 

Harry stole her hat. 

The third time they saw each other was on accident, she was behind a bar with her hot pink boots from TopShop, and lipstick to match. When she set the house drink in front of someone, she wasn’t expecting to see Harry as the receiver and he wasn’t expecting to see her as the giver. But, he smiled, “a work outing,” he told her, taking a sip of the drink she had just expertly mixed. 

She kept finding his eyes throughout the night, and he would always smile, lift his drink and her heart would flutter. 

Brighton had a crush. 

Harry stayed until she was slipping on the bomber coat that was stained with red wine, the fault of one of her tipsy friends who was far too confident in their ability to dance with a wine glass filled to the brim with ruby liquid. 

They were both sober when Harry asked if he could hold her hand, and she said yes, her entire body warm except for the joints where Harry’s ring-clad fingers had rested. He told her about the new shipment of shoes, how they were more expensive than his rent but he was seriously considering dipping into his savings solely for a pair because “they’re more beautiful than I could ever imagine designing one day.” 

She told him about the tutoring session she had attended, about how she was struggling in her class, more than she thought she would. It was a bit frustrating, and she vented until Harry pulled her closer and wrapped his arm around her, keeping their fingers together. 

“I’d like to walk with you again, if you’ll let me,” Harry spoke through the chilly night and harsh light of the street lamp outside of her building. 

From there, things were unexpected. The first kiss under the pouring rain that was more cliche than what Brighton had ever thought it would be, her rushing off to class because Harry had surprised her with breakfast outside her building and both of them forgot an umbrella. She remembers tasting the rain on his lips, clean and wonderful, and how she swore his hands had built buildings. He pulled away with a kind smile, muttering about how he was glad he didn’t mess up her lipstick, but that a little bit of her mascara fell down her cheek, and he wiped it up with a gentle touch. 

The first fight was three weeks later, when he suggested a weekend away from the city, at a tiny little cottage that his friend owned. She couldn’t take off work, and he didn’t see that until she sobbed and revealed to him that she was attempting to put herself through college and was barely scraping by as it was. “I need to stop buying those damn shoes,” she tried to lighten the mood and Harry held her close and said there were a lot of other weekends they could go away together. 

She had sex with him for the first time in his bed, swimming in dark gray sheets and with matching striped pillows. It was early morning, the sun had barely made an appearance, and he was the caffeine she would never give up. His lips jolted her awake like an espresso from the cheap place across from her apartment, the sounds he made woke her up like the cold water she splashed herself with in the morning. 

He made her feel like she could get through the day without anything but his kiss, without anything but the way his hands felt on her thighs. 

They went to lunch a few days later, marks on his skin fading and she made a mental note that they would need some reapplication soon. 

The sun was shining and she couldn’t help herself, reaching for him from her side of the table and tracing the lines on the palm of his hand, the knuckles in his fingers, the shape of his wrist and he chuckled. 

She would find his eyes and see that his eyes were on her, and he looked at her the way she felt about him; like the rays of the sun that were hitting him wasn’t the thing that made him so bright. Without hesitation she sat up over the table, leveraging herself with her hands and kissing him in the middle of the restaurant. 

“You’re beautiful,” she revealed to him, reaching for his mango smoothie and taking a sip. 

“Am I?” He wiggled his eyebrows, stealing the smoothie back and sipping it for himself. 

She nodded and pulled out her phone, seeing the continuation of messages that she shared with her mom from the previous night. It was nearly midnight when she told her mom that she had met someone, finally ready to believe that Harry was solidified part of her life for the foreseeable future, and she had described him as unexpected but everything she wanted. 

Her mom didn’t believe her when she said she had found someone British, someone who made her laugh, who picked her up when she cried, who brought her flowers unexpectedly on a Tuesday followed by take out food, someone with good hair and a smile that would brighten even the darkest days. He sounds too good to be true. Her mom had responded to her earlier in the morning, but she hadn’t seen it due to the lips that woke her up with mint and a want to spend the morning watching home design shows and go out for lunch after a shared shower. 

“Harry,” she questioned, “Can I take a few photos?” 

“Of me?” 

Brighton nodded, “My mom doesn’t believe you exist, she thinks you sound too good to be true.” 

Harry grinned, a small laugh leaving his lips, and she snapped a photo, multiple photos until he had a soft smile on his face and was looking at her like she was the lighthouse and not him. 

She sent the photos with this is him as the caption and put her phone down, locking eyes with Harry and reaching for his fingers again, “I love you, you know?” She let him know gently, not sure how he would take the information. 

He tugged on her fingers, slipping their hands together properly, “I love you too.” 

Later that day, her mother texted her back, letting her know that she could see it, he looked like someone with a full heart and a soul that complimented Brighton’s. That she couldn’t wait to meet him, but neither of them heard her text notification; they were too busy trying to find discount shoes a couple blocks from her apartment.      

[searchingwardrobes]

Brother

Deleted Scenes Week Six: Underworld

In honor of Once coming to its conclusion, I will be posting my deleted scene fics here on tumblr leading up to the finale. There are 14 total, and they will be posted in chronological order. Each week leading up to the finale, I will post the scenes in a particular arc.

Summary: Liam overhears Emma’s conversation with Regina in 5x15. Emma and Liam then have a heart to heart about the man they both love. Title and lyrics from the needtobreathe song of the same name.

Words: 1,000+

Rating: G

Episode: The Brothers Jones

Ramblers in the wilderness we can’t find what we need We get a little restless from the searching Get a little worn down in between Like a bull chasing the matador is the man left to his own schemes Everybody needs someone beside em’ shining like a lighthouse from the sea

Brother let me be your shelter Never leave you all alone I can be the one you call When you’re low Brother let me be your fortress When the night winds are driving on Be the one to light the way Bring you home

  “Does my brother really see me that way?”

Emma turned to see the self-righteous prick himself staring her down with his arms crossed. Regina’s eyes rose in silent sympathy as she hurried away with a mumbled good luck. Emma gave Liam Jones no quarter – matching his glare with one of her own. Yet as she searched the blue eyes that were a lighter shade than she was used to, but still so oddly similar, she saw the tiniest flicker of concern. And fear. His eyes darted as they searched hers.

“Does he? Think I walk on water?”

Emma leaned back against the bar with a shrug. “You heard him back at the house. It never once occurred to him that you might be here due to your own choices.”

Liam shook his head as his arms fell to his sides. “I never meant for him to think I was perfect. I’m far from it, believe me.”

Emma cocked her head to the side as she regarded him, then she dropped her chin as a wry laugh escaped her lips.

“I fail to see what’s so funny.”

That only made Emma chuckle more. Killian had always said Liam lacked a sense of humor. She finally decided to put the poor man out of his misery as she looked back up into his eyes. “It’s just I came down here to rescue Killian. That was it. I never thought I’d face my own ghosts. Yet here I am standing right in front of my second one.”

Liam’s brow furrowed in confusion. It was funny, Emma didn’t see all that much resemblance between him and Killian, but they knit their brows in the exact same way. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to love someone while standing in the shadow of ghosts?” Emma’s breathe shuddered slightly as she inhaled. She had never spoken of this to anyone; not even Killian. “He spent centuries avenging Milah. It’s only natural that I wondered if I measured up to her memory. But then I met her, and I could clearly see . . . she moved on. He moved on. He didn’t seem disappointed that he didn’t get to see her again.”

Emma bit her lip and glanced aside for a moment, gathering her courage before continuing. “Then there’s you. He’s told me so many stories, and in all of them, he paints you as the hero. He speaks of you more than Milah, honestly. He became a pirate because of your death. Did he tell you that?”

Liam’s eyes widened slightly and the he blinked rapidly. “No, he didn’t. I never . . . I didn’t want . . . “ He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “All the choices I made, everything I did, was for him.”

Emma’s mouth quirked up in a half smile. “That’s funny. I said the same thing when I was the Dark One. I justified everything with that same argument. Even murder.”

A flash of something passed across Liam’s face, and his skin became a mottled combination of red blush and pale skin. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. Emma’s eyes narrowed as she took it all in. “You know,” she continued, “I once told your brother that he and I understood each other. It seems that’s true for both Jones brothers.”

Liam’s face closed off at her words. “I just want him to be happy.”

“If that’s really true, then maybe you should think of what he could have if he comes home with me. Instead of worrying so much about clinging to that pedestal he’s put you on.”

Emma swallowed the threat of tears as she pushed past him and headed for the door. Right before she reached it, Liam grasped her elbow and turned her back around.

“I’m thinking of the hundreds of years of painful existence Killian has endured. I want him to have peace. Don’t you?”

Emma jerked her arm out of his grip just as the emotions she’s been struggling to keep at bay rose to the surface. “Didn’t you want him to have a home? Friends? A family? Because all of that is waiting for him back in Storybrooke. Do you think my parents, our friends, my son followed me down here just for moral support? No. They came because they want him home, too. We have a house waiting for us to fill up with a future – mine and his. He’s the one who picked out the damn thing, and if you have your way, he’ll never live in it.”

Emma struggled to keep her voice from rising and blinked to keep the tears back. Her vision blurred, but she thought she saw surprise on Liam’s face.

“He picked out a house for the two of you?” A look crossed his face, a nostalgic one, and Emma suddenly remembered one of Killian’s stories about his brother. Days at sea where the two of them would dream of a house to live in and a mother to love them. “What does it look like?”

“You’ve seen it,” Emma whispered. “You’ve been in it.”

“The house here? But the baby things – Killian said . . . I assumed it was the house you wanted with your parents.”

The tears spilled down Emma’s cheeks now, but she let them come. “I let Killian believe that. I let my parents believe that. But that house – and everything in it – are my dreams that died right along with Killian.”

Liam glanced down at Emma’s waist. “You’re . . . I mean, is that why you’re so desperate to bring him back?”

Emma shook her head, understanding immediately what he was alluding to. She dashed at her tears with the back of her hand. “No. I almost wish it were. Because I want it. So badly.”

“All I’m hearing is what you want,” Liam countered stubbornly.

Emma sighed in frustration and turned to go. Just as her hand reached for the doorknob, Liam’s voice stopped her.

“He was always small for his age. Did he ever tell you that?”

Emma turned back around. “No, he didn’t.” She gave a small but genuine laugh. “Doesn’t surprise me. He’s kind of cocky about his manhood, you know.”

Liam chuckled too, but then turned quickly serious. “I took lashings that were meant for him. Stepped in when he got himself in over his head.”

“But he’s not the weak one anymore, Liam.”

He ran a hand wearily down his face. “I never meant for him to feel that way. Like he was less than. The navy was far easier for him than me, you know. He was always so bright; a quick learner.”

Emma hugged her arms around her chest and smiled. “You’re telling me. You should have seen him when he discovered the internet. And don’t even get me started on the History Channel. Drives me and Henry crazy.”

Liam smiled back. “When he sets his mind on something, there’s no stopping him.”

Emma nodded. “When he’s in, he’s all in.”

“Loyal -“

“ – to a fault.”

“He loves with all that he is.”

The tears clogged Emma’s throat as she nodded agreement. “Yes. Yes he does.”

They both fell silent, regarding one another in an unspoken battle of wills. Emma saw something in those eyes that was so familiar, but not because of the man’s DNA. She smiled and turned to go, but not before giving Liam Jones a parting word.

“Like I said. You and I? We understand each other.”

Face down in the desert now there’s a cage locked around my heart I found a way to drop the keys where my failures were Now my hands can’t reach that far I ain’t made for a rivalry, I could never take the world alone I know that in my weakness I am stronger It’s your love that brings me home

Brother let me be your shelter I’ll never leave you all alone I can be the one you call When you’re low Brother let me be your fortress When the night winds are driving on Be the one to light the way Bring you home

@kmomof4.

@hollyethecurious.

@bethacaciakay.

@ultimiflos.

@kylalovesbabeme.

@couldnthandleit.

@tiganasummertree.