#and the times that they fail you are deeply unsettling and almost horrifying

[uncanny-tranny]

I think more people ought to accept the idea that mobility aids do not always look like they're specifically "for disabled people." An aid is, at the core, something that helps to empower disabled people to live more comfortably, more easily, more pain-less/pain-free, maintain quality of life, or anything else.

A disability aid might not be obvious to you. It might even seem silly to call some things "disability aids," but that doesn't change the fact that they are helping that person live more comfortably and freely. Not every disabled person will have aids that are "not standard," but for the disabled people who do have non-standard aids, we ought to treat them well and include them in spaces. We can accommodate a vast array of disabled people, and the effort to include them is worth the time it takes.

[nevertheless-moving]

Suicidal Misunderstanding Part Three: SW Time Travel AU #27

Part One

Part Two

Obi Wan woke with a dry mouth and a moderate headache. A fairly typical morning these days. 

He peered around his bedroom in the temple confused. Wasn’t he just with Cody? Shouldn’t he be on the Negotiator? No wait, the war was over, Cody tried to kill him, and the Negotiator was a part of the Imperial Armada, of course he wouldn’t be there. He closed his eyes, snuggling back under the covers. Before he could drift back to sleep, his sluggish mind processed that last thought. 

He BOLTED upright in bed. The temple had been razed, his personal chambers scorched with particular thoroughness. Just being on Coruscant was an automatic death sentence. Faint tendrils of panic began to curl around his throat before he remembered his decision to give Spice a try. He had reasoned that he should probably find at least one pleasure in his new life, instead of focusing incessantly on what was lost. 

So what if he lost a few brain cells? Good riddance. 

Obi-Wan had been a bit nervous, but this had ended up being his best decision in years. His goodbye to Cody had been painful, but deeply cathartic. Spice Hallucination Anakin didn’t scream like Nightmare Anakin, and the color of his eyes was perfect. Far better final memories to cling to than reality- a reminder of the good times. Comforted, he relaxed backwards in bed, pulling his blankets back around him.

He LURCHED out of bed, covers tossed aside, movement a blur.

He was still hallucinating?!? Spice shouldn’t last in the system this long! He might’ve been uncertain about whether he was supposed to smoke or snort the substance but it was a well known fact that its exhaustive but rapid passage through the body was half what made it so addictive. If nothing else, his well-restedness and thirst indicated it had been at least six hours. He looked frantically around the room, searching for some thread of unreality to pull at.

This...was not good. Hadn’t the subconscious manifestations of his friends mentioned drugs that interacted poorly with force users last night? He had dismissed it at the time but...

He clearly was stuck in some sort of drugged fantasy combined with force-enhanced memory recall. Kriff, he had to wake up in the real world before he died of an aneurysm. Or just dehydration.

He sat on the ‘temple floor’ to meditate. This could be tricky as he couldn’t risk lowering his outer shields to reach out to reality. It would be deeply embarrassing as well as horrifying if the Emperor managed to find him and, by extension, Luke because he got stuck in a bad spice trip.

The door to his room clicked open quietly. 

“Oh! You’re awake. Sorry to come in without knocking, Master. I wanted to let you sleep, but I’ve been checking on you every two hours to make sure you were still, you know, breathing. You were...pretty out of it last night and I would be a pretty bad ‘best friend in the whole galaxy’ if I let you choke on your own vomit, right?” His blue-eyed Padawan explained with a grin.

Obi-Wan just stared. Oh this- this hurt. It was easier last night, when the whole fantasy had a kind of drunken blurriness. Sleeping and waking had brought sober clarity to the dream world. He could see the bags under Anakin’s eyes as well as the sheepish slouch of his shoulders as he instinctively ducked at the door frame. It was just so real.

“Obi-Wan? Are you feeling ok? Do you still feel drunk?” Anakin asked concerned.

Obi-Wan shook his head. He hesitated, before deciding to just go along with the interaction. He didn’t want to risk his subconscious throwing a less idylic scene at him by pretending to ignore this one. And besides, last night had been, all totaled, a huge relief- an unburdening of things left unsaid. This was probably the closest thing to therapy available to him these days, he might as well take advantage.

“I’m just...processing. Not to mention dealing with some mild dehydration.” He finally answered.

“Processing, huh? So does that mean you, uh, remember last night?” Anakin asked nervously.

“I do.” Obi-Wan smiled gently. As heart-wrenching as this was, it was also adorably sweet. Maybe it was worth it to push off waking for a little while. He could get some closure, maybe even work through some of the past to see where the two of them had gone wrong. It might even be helpful for Luke! Force willing, he would probably end up training Anakin’s son someday.

(the boy wouldn’t have many masters to choose from)

If this dream world could help him figure out specifically how he had failed as a Master, then he owed it to the galaxy to see it through. Satisfied, he resolved to let the fantasy play out. At least for a few more more hours. And...he had missed what Anakin had said. Wonderful start.

“I’m very sorry, Anakin would you mind repeating that? I was still a little distracted, but I promise, I’m focused on you now.”

Anakin shuffled nervously. “It’s nothing.”

Obi-Wan tried to project reassurance without actually projecting. “Please Anakin, I’d like to hear what you have to say. I know I wasn’t the most observant or approachable Master, and I’m sorry for that. But I have always cared about your thoughts and feelings.” It was a struggle and the words caught in his throat, but the raw burn of the apology was cleansing in an almost addictive way.

Anakin flushed. “Did you mean everything you said?” he asked nervously.

“I’d...rather not talk about seeing the destruction of the temple, seeing you... Maybe later...but please, I just don’t want to focus on it while I’m sitting here, looking at you,” Obi-Wan said quietly.

“That actually wasn’t what I was talking about,” Anakin responded quickly. “I mean, I do want to help you with that at some point, but I get not wanting to talk about visions, even if you should probably should. Of course if you do want to talk about that stuff, that’s more important, but since you don’t we can talk about the other stuff you mentioned. I was more referring to, you know, us, and what you said about our friendship?” his voice got progressively higher the longer he rambled. 

Obi-Wan thought back. “Well some of it is a little hazy, but overall yes. I...for a very long time I’ve considered you my best friend, and its not so easy for me to let go of my affections. I miss spending time with you; there are times I turn to say something and am still shocked you’re not there. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, with real words, how much I cared. I’m sorry I didn’t hug you as much as I wanted, looking back that was a nonsensical Jedi custom. It’s not in the code; it’s just an affectation of dignity. All things considered, the fact that you often snuck out to see Padme doesn’t really bother me.” He paused. “Was that everything?”

“Oh. Yeah, that pretty much covered everything.” Anakin looked embarrassed, but happy. “I wasn’t sure if you were just saying that stuff because you were drugged, or really drunk or something.”

“No, I meant what I said. I suppose it just took an altered state for me to relax enough to actually say it instead of just thinking at you and assuming you would know. I must admit, its difficult for me to maintain this emotional honesty without feeling drunk, but it’s good. This is good.”

“Ah, that’s... wow. So you weren’t drugged? Cody was concerned you seemed to off for much you actually drank.”

Obi-Wan frowned. Hadn’t that been a trip? Vision blurring from desert hovel to some nameless Catina he once visited with Cody. The continuity since then was almost unsettling. But, then again, Obi-Wan always did have a remarkable talent for self-delusion, didn’t he. He waved away the concerns.

“My substance consumption was entirely deliberate and exactly what I needed. There might have been some unknown additions with some unforeseen after-affects, but like I said- I’m not drunk. I’m clear minded and in full control right now and I knowingly accept the current fallout from whatever I took. I could meditate and force purge to completely recenter, but I think it would be far wiser to just see where this goes. Do you disagree, Anakin?”

Anakin grinned widely. “Whatever you say, Obi-Wan. Just remember this is your idea. Also, I’m taking you to the healers tonight if you’re not completely back to yourself.”

Obi-Wan signed, “If I’m not back to myself in 12 hours, than I fully agree that’s a problem worthy of the halls of healing.”

“Right,” Anakin nodded decisively, “I’ll go get you some water then comm Cody to tell him you’re still alive.

Obi-Wan smiled weakly in response. This wasn’t just a hashed up memory; the responsiveness was more that. He quickly got dressed, hands lingering over soft fabrics and sand-free linens.

Anakin dropped off a cup of water; Obi-Wan sipped at it hesitantly. Dear force, this was dangerously vivid. It actually felt like a relief in his parched mouth. Clearly his subconscious was pulling out all the stops to trap him in this soft delusion. He would have to deal with the thirst and hunger until he woke up- it was probably the firmest link he had to his real body.

He took one last look around before rushing out of his room, eager to take advantage of the time.

Anakin looked nervously up from the comm when Obi-Wan started pulling his boots on. “You’re not going out in the temple like this, are you?”

“Of course! I want to visit the gardens and the Room of a Thousand Fountains. Not to mention spend some time with a few of the other Jedi. You might still be the dearest being in my heart, but there were other Jedi that I care for, and dammit I’m going to tell them that.” He finally finished lacing up his left leg and moved to the right.

Anakin was dumbstruck, presumably as burnt by the ‘dearest being’ comment as Obi-Wan was. Then he rallied, “Wow, wow, No. You are not running around the temple drugged so you can, I don’t know, give Mace Windu a hug. I thought when you said you were going to ‘deal with the fallout' from whatever the kriff you’re still on, you meant you were going to lounge around the quarters all day!”

His former padawan physically blocked the door when Obi-Wan started to leave, sounding vaguely hysterical, “You can’t run around loopy! You’re a High Council Member!”

“Not anymore,” Obi-Wan replied bitterly. 

“What do you mean not anymore,” Anakin said fiercely, grabbing on to his shoulders . “Did they kick you out? Is that why you’re acting crazy? Did you resign?”

Obi-Wan responded by pulling Anakin into a hug, which was immediately returned, “Of course not, don’t be absurd. Fine, I suppose I’m technically still a high council member, it just seems like a bit of a moot point.”

“What the kark does that mean? You used to dream about being on the council! You’re the wisest Master in any of those stupid chairs!”

‘Master of the High Council’ Kenobi just sighed heavily in response. He maneuvered around the confused errant Knight and into the hall. 

"Obi-Wan wait! At least eat something first! Or let me put my shoes on!”

“Very well, you have one minute to make yourself presentable. I only have a few hours before I’m going to need to get back to reality, and the longer I linger the more I fear extreme measures may be necessary.”

“What does that mean?” Anakin shouted from inside. “Extreme measures sounds really ominous, you know.”

“I’d rather not get into it, alright? Let’s just enjoy the here-and-now, eh, ad’ika?

Anakin crashed out the door with less than a second to spare. “What did you just call me?"

“Ad’ika,” Obi-Wan answered, striding down the hallway in the direction of the hanging gardens. “Surely you must have picked up some Mando’a from the troopers?”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t sure if I heard you right, bu- um- ori'vod,” Anakin fumbled out. “Uh, you’re not going to call me that in front of anyone else, right? You do remember that the council already gives us the side eye for over-attachment right?”

Obi-Wan hummed thought fully in responded. “There are far worse things a Jedi could do than admit to affection they already feel. Maybe if I had been honest about my attachments, they wouldn’t have ended the way that...” he trailed off quietly.

“The way that what,” Anakin asked frustrated. “You’re really giving me some emotional whiplash over here, and I’m starting to think that putting off dragging you to the healers is a stupid idea.

“There are far stupider things a Jedi could do,” he responded cheerily. “Oh look, there’s Plo Koon. MASTER KOON!” He shouted, startling the Kel Doran Jedi.

“Yes, Master Kenobi?” He replied slightly concerned as the two human Jedi came jogging over.

“I just wanted to say that I consider my former padawan my family. I raised him, I care for him deeply, and I don’t want to let go of those feelings.”

Plo Koon nodded seriously in response. “I feel just the same about my former padawans, and the Wolffe pack, of course. Denying my attachments isn’t, personally, a practical way to handle them. I’d rather honestly live as an imperfect Jedi than pretend to be a perfect example of the code. If I must have some imbalance, I’d rather it be an excess of compassion than a dearth,” he replied earnestly.

“I always admired that about you,” Obi-Wan replied ruefully. “This might be a little odd, but could I have a hug? I hold you in the highest regard and I’ve realized that there are so many Jedi that I never directly expressed my affection for and...”

Plo Koon didn’t wait for Obi-Wan to finish before wrapping his arms around him. “Of course, dear boy. You’ve had such heavy burdens placed on your shoulders during your life, especially in the last few years; it saddens me to see how deeply they’ve weighed you down. If there’s anything I can do to help, in any way, you simply have to ask.”

Obi-Wan sniffled slightly into Plo’s Shoulder while Plo rubbed soothing circles over his back.

A few passing Jedi gave the embracing Masters uncomfortable looks before hurrying on their way. Anakin stood slack-jawed.

When they finally pulled back, Plo Koon hesitated before finally asking, “I don’t mean to pry, but what brought all this on? I can sense much grief from you, even through your impressive shields.”

“It’s a long story,” Obi-Wan replied, wiping at the corner of his eyes. “I’d rather not get into it.”

“He’s high,” Anakin offered bluntly. “He took something last night and won’t go to medical wing.”

“Ah,” Plo said. “Is that true?”

Obi-Wan looked a little embarrassed. “I have the situation under control. My connection with reality might be...slightly altered right now, but my emotions, and what I chose to do with them are my own. I’m just, taking advantage of a unique opportunity to express myself.”

Plo Koon seemed to scrutinize him intensely, “If you’re sure this is what you need, than I support you. Just don’t do anything too foolish.” he finally offered.

Obi-Wan beamed. “I appreciate you saying so, I thought you would be supportive. Farewell, Master Koon”

Obi-Wan offered a respectful bow and then turned to walk away briskly. Before Anakin could follow, Plo rested a claw on his arm. 

“Feel free to comm me if his behavior reaches a point where you think he truly needs a healer. I’m happy to help you drag him there if need be. A little cathartic release isn’t in of itself such a bad thing, but if he starts acting too out of control...”

Anakin nodded in acknowledgment, then ran off to see who else Obi-Wan had chosen to throw himself at.

Part Four

[snowbellewells]

The Case of the Heart in Armor {Part Six}

Summary: Killian “Holmes” Jones is rarely surprised or shocked anymore, but that all changes when he meets one very stubborn - and very beautiful - pickpocket, and trouble brews in the distance, hidden by the London fog…

Wow, I’ve finally reached the end of this tale (which was really only intended to be a one shot at the beginning).  I’m sorry that it has taken so long, but I absolutely appreciate all who have read and commented on this one, and especially @courtorderedcake who provided the artwork above which inspired it to begin with.  Thanks so much for sticking with me, and I hope you will all enjoy the conclusion!

From the beginning: Here or on AO3

Part Six

Blinking her way back into awareness was a difficult process when Emma Nolan sucked in a harsh, strangled breath as her eyes blearily opened, still clouded and unable to focus properly. A dark shadow leaned over her, someone in vaguely human shape; not one that she could recognize as male or female, but rather some sort of unknown threat. Instinct from years of self-protection kicked in and she tried to flinch away from an arm raised with a weapon. Yet, even as she moved to stretch a hand out in defense against the blow, to her horror, Emma realized in a flash of descending panic that her movements were brought up short by her being bound tightly to the surface on which she lay.

Gulping in a frightened rasp of air, she began to fight and wriggle more violently, to little avail; her breath coming with continued harshness as her heartbeat raced in anxiety. It felt as if the dark chamber she was in was closing around her, dwindling to only herself and the specter above her.

A low, sultry chuckle passed the stranger’s lips, her assailant leaning in close enough that Emma could at last make out a gleaming smile and painted lips, the abductor now obviously female. The voice which followed was silken, slithering over her skin like a menacing serpent. “Well, hello, Miss Nolan. Welcome to my workshop. This will be all the more entertaining with you awake to participate.” The deeply colored corners of that sinister expression turned up with evil satisfaction. One gloved hand stroked along the side of Emma’s trembling face, despite her determined attempt to remain still and stoic, not showing the true extent of her fear.

“So sweet,” the unknown woman cooed with false sympathy. “So needlessly lost. I do apologize, dear, but you were necessary to draw him out.”

It was then that Emma registered the sharp gleam of the blade in the woman’s other hand; the one which had been raised above her head when she first woke, but which had escaped her focus as she blearily tried to understand all that was happening. Her brow furrowed, unable to process what this woman could want, or how taking Emma would lure anyone else, even as her thoughts raced for a way to avert a painful and life-threatening blow.

Unfazed by Emma’s quickly whirling thoughts and inner turmoil, her tormentor shocked her once again. Instead of plunging the weapon into her chest as Emma had expected, the woman instead drew the knife sickeningly alone Emma’s collarbone and down her arm. A thin line of blood welled up in the wake of the cut, and Emma hissed through her teeth at the sting, in spite of her best efforts. She still pulled against her restraints, but it did little good; only seeming to bring her captor more enjoyment of the deadly game. The only comfort Emma could find within her predicament was that this witch seemed in no hurry to finish her off. The cuts the woman was making obviously hurt, but they wouldn’t kill her any time soon.

Her focus was stolen moments later as the blade sliced into the soft skin of her inner elbow, twisting cruelly and forcing a whimper from Emma’s tightly clenched mouth. She jerked her head away, refusing to watch the sadistic glee lighting those dark eyes looming over her, but a sharply manicured hand gripped her chin and turned her back to face her doom. “Ah, ah, ah, now pet, you can’t stop watching. We’ve almost reached the main event.”

As if on some unheard cue, the heavy wooden door across the basement room began to rattle and groan as something rammed against it; once, twice, a third time, with increasingly desperate force. “Hmm,” the shadowy figure mused. “Right on time.”

Suddenly, with an unearthly shattering and rending, the door burst from its hinges, wood splintering as it was caved in by three avenging forms charging through into her prison. With a howl of such raw emotion she wouldn’t have imagined him capable, Killian ‘Holmes’ Jones hurtled across the small, dank space in a flash, clearly intending to tackle to the ground the murderess holding her prisoner.

His charge was brought up short by the dagger suddenly poised directly over her heart and a coolly staying hand. “Not another step, Holmes,” that cultured voice ordered as calmly as if she were suggesting he sit down for tea. “Miss Nolan has served her purpose beautifully, but I can still cut out her heart if need be.”

Killian Jones… Emma’s breath stuttered again without her command at the anguished look on the gentleman detective’s face. He nodded his head grudgingly, wordlessly agreeing to this fiend’s demands and freezing in place. For the life of her, Emma couldn’t fathom why Jones cared so much, but he looked as if it might undo him should this woman drive her blade home. Beyond him, she could see David and Graham, both looking worried for her and at a loss; her brother practically vibrating with thwarted rage at the cuts which had already been made against her skin.

“You’ve made your point, Regine,” Killian spoke, his voice icily controlled, as he held the woman’s gaze. “What is it that you want? You have our attention; there’s no need to punish innocents further.” He gestured to Emma as he said so, not looking her way, struggling to seem as if she were just anyone to him, but his words were still a hissed threat. The implication was clear: Millsen would not get what she wanted if she killed the young woman under her raised knife.

Pursing her garish red lips in a sort of pout, Regine Millsen abandoned her hovering stance over Emma’s prone body. Seeming assured of the fact that Emma could not escape, Regine instead began to stalk toward ‘Holmes’ Jones with a sinister purr. “Really, you could be a bit less predictable,” she chided, as if playfully admonishing a willful lover. “You’re making this too easy with your honor and good form and such nonsense.”

As she spoke, seemingly focussing all her attention on Killian, Graham had stealthily attempted to creep around behind her toward Emma. Suddenly, Regine’s free hand shot out toward Watson, and he was thrown back against the stone wall with a single shout of surprise, a sickening thud of impact, and then silence. Shaking her head ‘no’, she arched a sculpted brow at David after, as if to question whether he wished to be next.

Eyes zeroing back on Killian’s in a flash, she questioned,“Now, Holmes, where were we? Oh yes… Are you ready to make a deal? If you’re so concerned for the innocent, I will allow you to stand in her place. It seems only fair.”  She shrugged lightly as if it weren’t of much consequence, the gesture fooling no one, as he had been her true quarry all along. “You failed to care so much for the death of my sweet, blameless Daniel. Not such good form after all, hmm? Still your unconcern came back to me as the final piece needed to solve my puzzle after all this time.”

Though certain his horrifying theory had been correct, Killian still had nothing with which to fight against her, not while Emma Nolan’s life hung in the balance. Unable to do otherwise, Killian paused any movement, holding fast just where he was with hands raised in patient supplication. With a nod of acquiescence, he gritted begrudgingly, “Aye, you harpy, you know I’ve no other choice. What is it you wish me to do?”

Holding his breath, he waited for this dangerously unbalanced foe to move her blade away from Emma before he did anything else that might unsettle her. Managing to subvert his expectations once again, at his compliance, the sharp, edgy rage and unpredictability that had painted Regine Millsen’s face eased and she straightened regally, moving toward the detective with what would have almost seemed a seductive sway and a simpering expression of satisfaction on her face. “I knew you would see sense, Mr. Jones. You are billed after all as a man of reason.”

Killian did not respond to her attempt at flirtatious distraction; holding himself rigidly still, and only with strict self-control, managing not to shiver away from her questing fingers as they traced uninvited along his jawline, down to his collar and grazed along his upper chest. For the first time ever, he found himself cursing his predilection to leave his top few shirt buttons undone; he wanted no part of this vicious creature’s touch lingering upon his skin. Clenching his teeth, he tried to focus on the fact that under different circumstances he could have heard Emma laughing at him in such a predicament, shaking her head with exasperated mirth and telling him it served him right if he left half his chest on display; some poor woman would have to touch it.

The thought of Miss Nolan in happier times immediately sent his gaze searching for hers over their foe’s shoulder. Even pinned down as she was, he could see that since her attacker’s focus was no longer solely on the younger woman, Emma was already wriggling and working at loosening her bindings and freeing herself from Regine’s knots of rope. The pickpocketing skills she’d honed for a lifetime -  her natural deft touch, slim build, and sleight of hand -  might just save them now if they were lucky and he could buy her a bit more time not under Millsen’s rapt observation.

Without further hesitation, Killian resolved to do just that, gritting his teeth against the snide comeback burning on his tongue and forcing himself not to enrage the woman, he continued to hold himself still rather than pulling back or pushing her away. Despite the disturbing feeling of Regine Millsen’s sharply pointed nails and chilled hand slipping inside his shirt front and mapping the planes of his chest in a possessive way that caused bile to rise in his throat - he would much prefer the intrusion than for her to go back to gouging and slicing at Emma Nolan’s pale and flawless skin.

It almost seemed as though Emma could read what was going on in his mind. Even if  he would once have labeled her as little more than a nuisance and thorn in his side - pretty, but a dishonest thief and an annoying distraction - he was quickly coming to realize that few people had ever as quickly seemed to understand his meaning, his thought process, and incisively glimpse right behind the protective veneer of cool detachment he wore like a mask, as this wisp of a woman had done at first meeting. It was the pocketwatch she had nicked, but those small, graceful hands reached inside him much further than that. If he were as given to the romantic bent as he had once foolishly been, he might have claimed she had pulled his heart out clutched in her sticky fingers as well.

A particularly unfortunate exaggeration to make in their current situation, he chided himself, snapping back to reality as the murderess before him finally removed her unbidden touch from his chest, and stood back to face him squarely, gauging whether or not she had his full attention. He needed to stop dwelling on more pleasant moments and focus on his opponent. Yes, he could physically overpower her in a fair fight, but he didn’t know what this woman’s next move might be, nor what sort of occult power she might throw at them next. He couldn’t risk trying to simply cuff her or disarm her until he was sure of the advantage - the opportune moment. If he failed, any of his compatriots, and most likely Emma, might well pay the price with him. Thankfully, he could see that Emma was making progress - one arm was moving much more freely than it had been, and with a couple more minutes unseen, she would hopefully free herself. He was banking on it, as he might or might not be able to provide much more than distraction if those few minutes went as he was beginning to suspect they would.

“Well, now we come to it at last,” he spoke up, forcing his voice to a low, smooth rumble and purposefully returning Regine Millsen’s blatant stare with his own, making certain he had her undivided attention while he noted a flash of gold over her head. Emma had her hands free and was working on the knot at her stomach. It might hurt, but if he could prolong this just a little longer… If the others were free to run when need be and he could still get Millsen in his grasp…

All he said was, “You have me right where you wanted, don’t you?”

“That depends,” Regine purred back with a  sinister quirk of her brow. “You know why you are here, and what I desire? And you mean to cooperate?”

Holmes gave her a condescending smile. “Possibly,” he shrugged, “if you answer a question for me first. If you admit what all of this has been about. Why hearts? What can you possibly hope to accomplish with a person’s heart cut from the body?”

“Why resurrection, of course,” she replied, as if it were as sensible and normal as any sane rationale. “You must have heard the theory… the possibility of reanimation… a man as well-read and learned as you. I have come so close to success so many times, and now the missing piece is right within my grasp; the single reason why each time before has failed. I needed the exact heart strong enough to withstand the procedure with enough armour to shield it until it can bring my Daniel back to me.”

Killian tilted his head, knowing he needed to keep her talking just a few moments longer. He could see Emma frantically working at the knots holding her ankles now; heard Graham stirring back into wakefulness over against the wall where he had landed and knew David could help him. Only a few more seconds, just a couple steps closer and he could reach her, hopefully grab Millsen and stop her, before she could retaliate. He attempted a look of curiosity as he asked, “And it’s mine? What made my heart so special? How did you even know?”

Shaking her head and clicking her tongue with a sort of feigned disappointment, Regine gave him a questioning eye. “Really now, Holmes. I’d think you might have that answer worked out for yourself. After I had made attempts with, shall we call them less-than-suitable donors, it became clear that only the most resilient of hearts, organs which could withstand pain, undergo trauma, and carry on beating, could possibly handle what the feat of reanimation requires. Once that was clear, I remembered our previous meetings long ago - the passion and depth in your eyes, though clearly guarded and walled for strength against easy temptations - even against a match as fine as I was then. At the time, true, I was offended. But now, I can only be grateful. I did not forget such reserve and discipline, and it was easy to learn it had only carried on and grown in your daily life and distinctions over the intervening years.”

Killian nodded sagely, as if truly taking her reasoning under consideration. Then he queried, “And I suppose I should simply submit to being the catalyst for such a remarkable event, regardless of the personal cost?” He couldn’t help a small amount of his contempt for her plan at last leaking through his voice. It was preposterous! The sheer arrogance of her presumption! How could she possibly imagine it would go? Would anyone offer oneself up gladly? But then he thought of the scene he had burst into moments before. If it stayed her hand from shedding Emma’s lifesblood - or that of anyone he cared for - then he admitted that he would submit to the woman’s most insane demand.

Luckily, he could see that Emma was even at that moment finally free of her restraints and climbing down from the worktop upon which she had been laid.. The pretty blonde - whom he might as well admit had captured his attention as no other in years - leaned against the table’s edge, looking a bit woozy and off-balance for a moment, either from loss of blood or whatever Millsen had used to knock her out, but then she straightened, eyes meeting his quickly and hardening with determination.

Now was the moment. Emma was on her feet and free to run; he simply had to hope, trusting the capabilities of the two men behind him to have each other’s backs. He only needed a moment to arrest the strike he was certain Regine Millsen would make with the blade still in her hand, to catch her while she was focused on removing his heart, rather than her seemingly magical abilities to fend off capture. Meeting the occultist’s hungry gaze, he finally blew out a short breath through his nose, hoping he looked sufficiently resigned, as if bowing to his choice and the sacrifice he faced. “Very well,” he acknowledged. “You obviously know I cannot save my own skin and allow you to stalk others if it is within my power to stop it. If I have your word that Miss Nolan goes free, that this is the end of your murderous reign, then do what you will.”

She smiled, dipping her chin slightly to affirm her agreement. “Of course, Holmes. You have my word. Once I gain this heart of yours, my work will finally be complete. I’ll have no need of any more.”

Muscles tensed, every fiber of his being at the ready to lunge forward and grab her as she prepared to strike the final blow to his chest, Killian’s focus narrowed. There was no margin for distraction or error. Regine Millsen’s arm raised in triumph; her deluded assumption that he was giving himself over to simply stand as his heart was carved from his body lending a crazed fervor to her actions, disregarding caution in her avarice and the nearness of her goal. 

The villainess swept forward, knife’s edge bared, and Killian crouched as she was in motion, raising his hands to capture her wrists once it was too late for her to pull back. Then, suddenly, a scream of rage and fear rang throughout the chamber and bounced off the stone walls. Regine’s form collided with his own, but with far more weight and force than her slight body should have carried. Both of them were borne to the ground; Killian’s head striking against the cement floor hard enough for his vision to swim and the solid mass of more than just the witch he had expected pressing down upon him.

He groaned involuntarily, trying to keep his vision clear to subdue their murderess while she was also stunned. Unfortunately, the blow to his skull was sharply compounded by a ragged, burning fire that flared along his side. Agony shot through him, realizing that the knife must have been caught between himself and Millsen in their fall, and though not dissecting his heart, it was still carving a painful line across his torso.

Regine had not moved, but suddenly Emma peeked over her abductor’s motionless shoulder. A heavy metal object he couldn’t identify was clutched in her trembling hand, and Killian was just aware enough to understand that she must have used it to render Millsen insensate as she had plowed into the other woman - saving herself and him too. Well, maybe, if only he weren’t so disoriented… “Emma?” he questioned, tongue seeming thick and too unwieldy to speak properly.

“Jones?” she replied, eyes shining widely with fear and concern. “Are you…?” Those intriguing eyes widened as she took him in, her chin wobbling only a second before she turned to cry out her brother’s name urgently.

Holmes suddenly felt highly unconcerned with everything but her face so near his own. “You - you saved me,” he managed to state awkwardly as he attempted to touch her face. His fingers couldn’t reach their goal, and his hand fell back to the floor, stained with blood.

“Just take it easy, Jones,” she murmured, threading her small delicate fingers with his own, despite the sticky residue. He grinned at her with a giddiness that was almost loopy, prompting a watery smile in response that wheeled alarmingly in his vision. “What can I say?” she added. “It seemed like the honorable thing to do.”

But her voice and all the other noise and movement in that strange, cavernous cellar was already fading away, growing softer and smaller, as if gaining distance from him - until there was nothing there at all.

~~~~~~~~~***

Two Weeks Later…

Upon leaving his London flat, Killian ‘Holmes’ Jones drew in a grateful breath of the crisp morning air, more than past his fill of Graham Watson and his physician’s orders to stay abed until the knife wound in his side was fully healed and his blood loss recouped - to say nothing of the fussing and smothering he had endured from Liam in the past fortnight. He would not have expected it from the man, but his elder brother was as overprotective as a crochety nursemaid since his injury, barely leaving Killian alone long enough to feed and dress himself, and rushing headlong back into his chambers if Killian so much as let a hiss of discomfort escape.

He could admit to himself, since he had finally been allowed to leave the house for a short walk in the fresh air, alone and under his own steam, as he had been promising he was capable for some days, that the wound where Regine Millsen’s blade had sunk into his flesh was indeed still tender. He held himself gingerly as he reached the bottom step and moved out onto the busy sidewalk. All the same, he was not about to let on to another soul. In fact, he would not in the least be surprised if he were to turn round and look up to find his sibling and Watson peeking out through the window curtains and keeping an eye on him. He would not even put it past them, after the well-intentioned but ridiculous mollycoddling he had endured, to find Nolan waiting for him at the corner, a police escort to see him home safely at the end of his stroll.

Still, as he found his natural gait and started down the familiar street, Killian knew despite his irritation, that they were only so anxious because they cared. He had looked to be in dire straits there for a moment on the floor of that vault. His head had struck the floor with enough force to bring on concussion, and once he had passed out, he had been utterly unresponsive to all their pleas. Added to the fact that the blood spilling from his side had been hard to stem at first, and he knew he had given them all quite a turn. And Emma, well…

Miss Nolan had been the only one who had not visited him in the hospital, or at his home afterward as he convalesced. She had sent a handsome bottle of rum with a note expressing her sincerest thanks for his chivalrous rescue, along with the cheeky reassurance that she had indeed paid for the fine liquor. He could just see the sparkle in those bright green eyes, and her challenging smirk as he imagined her teasing him with the words aloud. All the same, he wished to see her alive and well, and no worse for wear, with his own two eyes, regardless of his belief in her brother’s assurances. 

Upon pressing David Nolan further, the inspector had admitted reluctantly, with eyes downcast, that Emma blamed herself. Apparently she thought that he wouldn’t have been so badly hurt if she hadn’t tried to help take Millsen down. The very idea made a fissure split through the ancient and already weakening protection around his heart. It had been nothing of the sort. His own plan had been last ditch and slipshod at best, and that she would have thrown herself back into harm’s way to come to his aid, after what she had already been through, meant more to him than he could adequately express or comprehend. He would never begin to blame her for the effort.

If he could just tell her that!

Therefore, as he turned the corner and walked on toward the nearby park, Killian felt a smile break across his weary face at the sight up ahead. The brightly colored pushcart full of carnations, asters, lilies, and all variety of cheerful blooms was wonderfully familiar, and as he tried to pick up his pace, he could only hope that its lovely proprietress would be there as well.

When Emma Nolan’s bright golden hair caught the sunlight as he drew near, Killian knew his pleased grin must have stretched wide enough to make him look quite the fool - and he could not find it within himself to care. Her back was still turned to him while she counted out change for a customer, wishing them enjoyment of the daisy bouquet they had purchased. Her trim figure stood straight-backed and proud, as strong and confident, alert and ready for action, as she had proven herself to be time and again. The swelling in his chest as he neared her side and reached out to gain her attention told Killian he had missed her more than he would have ever thought possible.

Once her customer had moved on, Killian tapped Emma’s shoulder lightly, holding his breath in nervous anticipation as she turned his way. Her beguiling gaze met his the moment she did so, green pupils widening in surprise before quickly falling to her hands as they fluttered nervously over the blossoms before her, anything to avoid his concerned and all-too-knowing stare.

“Emma,” he breathed, his voice hushed and raspy, overcome at seeing her there before him again. Her obvious anxiety and the pained guilt in her bearing tore at him. Even if she did not return the deeper feelings he could no longer deny, Holmes was glad he had come looking for her. He could not bear for Emma to go on blaming herself.

“Please, Lass, look at me,” he begged softly, reaching shaky fingers out to touch her chin and tilt her face back up to meet his own.

Shaking her head abruptly, the jade of her irises welled with unshed tears and she tried to pull away, but Killian persisted, needing her to see his sincerity. “You’re so bloody brilliant, Emma Nolan,” he hastened on before she could stop him. “Truly. Do you not even realize how rare the person who could have kept their wits about them in that dungeon? You were drugged, injured, and still you managed to free yourself and think of another as well. Yet, you haven’t given me a chance to thank you.”

He tried to take her hand, to press it in gratitude, but Emma resisted, spluttering in disbelief. “Thank me?! Are you mad, Jones? It’s because of me that - ” 

“No, not another word of blame, Darling,” he interjected firmly, intent on seeing her let that burden go. “The way I see it, you stopped our foe and saved my life. I’ll not hear any talk against your actions.”

Deflating, Emma shook her head in fond exasperation, knowing it wasn’t worth arguing further. His mind was set, and she honestly felt nothing but relief. No longer than she had known him, and as mad as he had made her when they met, the image of him splayed across that cold stone, his blood pooling beneath him, had refused to leave her mind, haunting her night and day, and repeating cruelly that if they had lost him, it would have been her fault. Biting her lower lip sharply to keep uncharacteristically emotional tears from pouring out, she pulled Jones to her finally, embracing him tightly with all the emotion she had tried to hide. 

When she stood back to right herself, Emma offered the infuriatingly handsome detective a hopeful smile. “Thank you, Jones… Killian,” she whispered. “I can’t say how glad I am that you’re alright.”

He flushed a telling pink under the scruff on his cheeks and up to the tips of his ears at her words. Dipping his head at her show of affection, Killian prepared to leave her to her work. With a wink, he spoke once more before departing, a hint of his previous charm in the words. “Until we meet again, Miss Nolan,” he bowed and turned to go.

“Soon, I hope,” she answered knowingly. A grin was already crossing her face as he stopped abruptly, hand freezing while he felt curiously in his waistcoat pocket. Pulling an object from it, Jones turned to her with his pilfered watch in hand.

“How did you - ?” he began to ask.

Emma only gave him a mischievous wink of her own, a woman needed a few secrets after all. Shrugging playfully, she offered in a tease, “I think you more than earned it.”

Tagging: @csrolereversal @courtorderedcake @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @tiganasummertree @laschatzi @resident-of-storybrooke @thisonesatellite @spartanguard @therooksshiningknight @ilovemesomekillianjones @lfh1226-linda @stahlop  @drowned-dreamer @teamhook @revanmeetra87  @snidgetsafan @shireness-says @artistic-writer​ @hollyethecurious​ @darkcolinodonorgasm​ @winterbaby89​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​ @searchingwardrobes​ @cocohook38​ @ultraluckycatnd​ @gingerchangeling​

[schmergo]

Informal (and sorry, very long) review of ASSASSINS at Signature Theatre

ASSASSINS is famous for its provocative concept—telling the story of nine people who assassinated or attempted to assassinate US Presidents in a series of songs and vignettes—and it feels even more daring when staged only 15 minutes from the White House. But this musical isn’t a tasteless exercise in shock value for the sake of shock, nor is it a misguided attempt to portray assassins as ‘just misunderstood.’ These nine central figures are alternately pathetic, disturbing, funny, repulsive, charming, and eerie. Some are clearly delusional, others simply disillusioned. But together, they represent the dark side of the American Dream.

Americans are raised with a sense of exceptionalism, a belief that we deserve everything we want simply because we’re Americans. At some point, we realize that only a few people have the luck, money, skills, and connections to achieve their dreams. Most of us accept that it’s not really true that “anyone can become the President.” But some troubled people throughout the country’s history cling to a distorted corruption of this dream: anyone can kill a President.

That doesn’t mean we should agree with their horrifying choices. But it does let us examine what aspects of life in America make some people so desperate to be seen and remembered, by any means necessary. “Where’s my prize?” is the childish refrain these assassins sing over and over again as they wander through the grey purgatory they’ve been consigned to.

Historically, productions of ASSASSINS are set in a ghastly carnival where contestants are encouraged to ‘step right up’ and shoot a president! A wonderful community production at Dominion Stage created a masterpiece of vivid Americana in which an electric chair or hangman’s noose were reimagined as theme park rides. This production took the opposite route by setting the action in a grimy, industrialized, empty stage in which pieces of furniture like a bench, the steps to a gallows, or a sofa float on and off like ghosts. Through this strange empty world, assassins interact unbounded by time or space, cursed to constantly repeat their most famous actions and relive their frustrations. Garfield assassin Charles J. Guiteau instructs would-be Ford assassin Sara Jane Moore in the finer points of shooting. McKinley assassin Leon Czolgosz reprimands attempted Reagan assassin John Hinckley for carelessly breaking a bottle.

The only set piece that remains throughout the show is a weathered and ghostly replica of the Presidential box at Ford’s Theatre, plunked onto the stage as though fallen from the sky. Here, the brooding spectre of John Wilkes Booth sits and watches the show unfold—and yes, he recreates his famous jump from the box. He serves as a kind of ringleader to the assassins, weaving through crowds, advising that everyone try their hand at assassination as a cure for all of their ills—even chronic stomach pain. After all, he was the first to pull off the historic act. We even see him convincing Lee Harvey Oswald to change the course of history by bringing assassination into the age of television.

As Booth, there’s a whiff of the rock star about Vincent Kempski—fitting, because Booth was a celebrity and even heartthrob in his day even before shooting Abraham Lincoln. Most of the time, he seems at ease, in control, erudite—we might even be seduced by his words until he explodes in fits of rage and reminds us how twisted and monstrous his views really are. Kempski only occasionally unleashes the full power of his singing voice, and when he does, it feels like a punch in the gut.

One minor gripe with his performance, though not limited to Kempski’s portrayal alone: his Booth, like most I’ve seen, delivers his lines with a thick Southern drawl. Not only did that occasionally make it difficult to understand his words, I doubt the real John Wilkes Booth would have spoken with such a heavy accent. For one, although he supported the Confederacy, he was from Maryland. For another, his father was British. And most importantly, he was a professional stage actor before the era of microphones and would have been well-trained in diction. Still, his charisma was palpable throughout the show. The moment he set foot on stage, a chill ran down my spine: it really was like seeing a ghost.

Lawrence Redmond plays the disgruntled worker Leon Czolgozs with gravitas and stoic desperation. He is perhaps the most sympathetic—or pathetic—of the assassins, and he gives us a sense of the loss of human potential. As the crass Sam Byck, attempted assassin of Richard Nixon, Christopher Bloch is horribly funny, spouting commercial catchphrases and leaving professional advice to Leonard Bernstein on an audiotape recording.

Some of the most enjoyable scenes of the evening were those between the two attempted assassins of Gerald Ford, Lynette “Squeaky” Fromme (Rachel Zampelli) and Sara Jane Moore (Tracy Lynn Olivera). These are two deeply kooky women—a ditzy Manson groupie and a frumpy mom who’s been married five times and is endlessly losing items in her oversized bag. Together, they shoot at a bucket of fried chicken and bond over an unexpected shared acquaintance in Manson himself.

Zampelli may not be the childlike pixie we’d expect as Squeaky Fromme, but she totally inhabits the character of a lost soul, a flower child whose brains, if she ever had them, are long-since fried and warped. Her voice isn’t a high-pitched girlish squeak but has a distinctive creaky vocal fry to it that makes her sound utterly deranged. She’s so intense in her devotion to Manson that she ranks among the most unsettling characters on the stage. She also shares a strangely beautiful duet, “Unworthy of Your Love,” with sad sack John Hinckley (Evan Casey), a failed songwriter who’s obsessed with Jodie Foster.

As Sara Jane Moore, Olivera is absolutely hysterical in both senses of the word. A chatty, scatterbrained housewife, she seems to represent the mundane and trivial compared to Squeaky’s revolutionary furor— but she can also burst into tears or pull a gun on you at any second. Her utter lack of self-awareness and deadpan one-liners like “I couldn’t hit William Howard Taft if he was sitting on my lap” made her an audience favorite. Ms. Olivera has a special talent for making dialogue sound totally natural, as if everything she says is an ad-lib. I’ll jump at the chance to see any show she’s in because she makes every character completely her own.

But the performer who truly stole the show, and my other favorite local actor, is Bobby Smith, as the lifelong loser, Charles Guiteau. Guiteau is a comically tragic figure, a man who failed at everything he did and still retained the grandiose belief that his actions were divinely inspired. He was so consumed with his delusional belief that President Garfield would make him the Ambassador to France that he shot him. As Guiteau, Smith does a jaunty dance up and down the steps of the gallows before he is to be hanged, singing a refrain of “Look on the bright side!”

Guiteau is a man of extremes, euphoric and despondent at the drop of a hat. Smith, whose appeal as a performer often lies in his unassuming, everyman demeanor, gives amazing nuance to those abrupt transitions. We see real tears shining in his eyes beyond his too-wide smile, a tremble of the lip or shaking of the hands that betray his instability. He’s incredibly entertaining to watch every moment he’s onstage, yet you’re always simultaneously concerned for and creeped out by him. There’s something so obviously ‘not right’ with Guiteau. The last character to make me feel that way was Gollum.

Tying the whole story together is Sam Ludwig as the Balladeer, who serves as a cheery narrator for the show, delivering songs that span the gamut of American music styles. These are some of the most toe-tapping tunes in Sondheim’s catalog, contrasted sharply with the discordant numbers that run between them. Ludwig also inhabits a second role, which may come as a surprise (and isn’t listed in the program). He embodies the saccharine spirit of an American narrative that sees assassination attempts as isolated incidents rather than a symptom of a deeper illness. I occasionally found his piercing tenor voice a little grating to my ears, but it suited his character well—and I was sitting very close to the stage. An increasingly mangled rendition of ‘Hail To The Chief’ ties the musical numbers together.

This show runs almost two hours with no intermission. It’s so immersive that it gives you the curious sense of waking up from a vivid dream as you leave the theatre. You almost feel that the assassins linger behind you, reliving their crimes and failures in the abandoned theatre once you’ve gone home to bed.

Assassins plays through September 29. Don’t miss this show. You’ll find yourself laughing at the most unexpected lines and thinking about the most minor moments long after the curtain call.

[kingsofchaos]

In the ridiculous version of Los Santos where the FAHC are somehow simultaneously so utterly infamous that they are pretty much household names and inexplicably still able to get about their day-to-day business without being recognised and arrested on sight, i like to think about the other resident's of their building. The ones who don't live in the swanky penthouse apartment, who have no idea that for all intents and purposes they are neighbours with the most notorious criminals around.

Because there must be neighbours, right? I mean, even if Geoff was throwing money about and bought the whole damn building, so long as they're trying to fly under the radar and avoid police detection they've got to fill all that space with something. The lower levels would be rented out as offices, no drama, and he'd probably keep the top few levels below the penthouse as a combination of expansion space and insulation preventing any noise drifting into the wrong ears, but somewhere in-between there are apartments. Apartments filled with civilians.

And, sure, they wouldn't have all that much to do with those civilians at all - building managers take care of all the necessary interactions and the penthouse has its own private elevators and garage, gym and pool, but they'd have to cross paths sometimes. There's still foyers, still coming and going from the same door at ground level, still some idiot burning his dinner and setting off all the fire alarms, automatically locking down the elevators and forcing a very disgruntled Fake AH Crew into the firestairs with everyone else if they want to get anywhere that day.

Without fail, the residents of every apartment building i have ever lived in can put aside any individual differences for the common goal of mercilessly mocking the the penthouse owners behind their back. It’s pretty much a bylaw, no matter your drama with anyone else, regardless of loud children, barking dogs or relentless smokers, never mind the never ending feud between renters and owners, the one constant truth everyone can accept is that if there’s a fancy penthouse the residents of that level must be obnoxious assholes, no matter how normal they may present. And the Fake's? Yeah nobody is going to be calling them normal.

The rumours start slow - you'd be lucky to see one of the penthouse inhabitants in a month after all, but once talk starts it only grows and grows, odd incident after odd incident coming together with more than a sprinkle of exaggeration to make for the best kind of gossip. It’s inevitable really, lord knows the FAHC’s living arrangement is deeply bizarre from an outsiders perspective – too many grown adults to be living together, too many people coming and going at odd hours to be even an unconventional office space, and then there’s the strange attitudes and oddities of the actual individuals in question.

Because once the gossiping gets going you better believe every little interaction with the weirdos from the penthouse makes the rounds between residents like wildfire, everything from clothing choices to stilted small talk picked apart and talked to death. And who can really blame them, considering the characters they might run into.

Just think about coming across Ryan in a shared space. At best, people say he’s the big, silent type, clearly thinks he’s above everyone else since he barely says two words to them, and only ever in response to direct questions. At worst he’d the rich asshole who likes to wander around in a replica of a mask worn by the city’s most notorious criminal, an active murderer with countless deaths to his name. What a sicko.

Or Jeremy. Just, Jeremy. Those clothes. Those colours. Once is a bad day, a costume party, the last of his clean clothing, but eventually it must dawn that this man really just thinks he can pull off neon orange and purple as a fashion choice. As a hair colour. The horrified whispers only spread when someone catches sight of his vehicles, one after another, all painted in the same blistering shades of regret.

There’s Geoff, who is almost exactly what one would expect from a penthouse owner; filthy rich and deeply disinterested in small talk with the locals. Except, well, it’s a terrible assumption but most can't shake the idea that a man with that many tattoos just shouldn't be in a suit that nice. That a man with that many tattoos probably didn’t make his money investing or running some franchise. That a man whose friends laugh unrepentantly when his voice snarls in anger but go still and serious when it drops into something cold and quiet isn’t the kind of man you want to run into alone on a dark night.

Gavin, the only one who stinks of wealth to the same degree as Geoff, every inch the trust fund baby stereotype with his clothes, his indoor sunglasses and raised eyebrows, the polished kind of smirk that is anything but kind. Of all the people from the penthouse Gavin is the most likely to know names and details about the other residents – more information than anyone actually recalls sharing with him in fact – yet is one of the least likely to engage in any kind of normal conversation if caught, calculating disinterest only really giving way in the face of the few relentless old biddies living in the building.

To the surprise of nobody the residents very quickly learn not to press for conversations with Michael. Michael with his leather jackets, his split lips and bruised knuckles, his unflinching willingness to tell absolutely anybody to mind their own fucking business, viciously scathing whenever he catches anyone paying too much attention to anything the penthouse group are getting up to. It doesn’t stop them from talking when he’s not around, if anything only encourages hearty debate about what role such a man must play to be involved in such rich company, but the moment Michael makes an appearance the tenants tend to scatter like mice.

There’s less to specifically say about the rest of the crew, spotted less frequently or without any defining quirk for the locals to leap on. There’s Lindsay, who’s largely sweet as pie, maybe smiles a little too sharply sometimes, but honestly what young woman doesn’t. She’s an artist, maybe, what with the little flecks and splats of red staining her nice clothes. Then there’s the twins. Or not twins. At first considered to be one man until multiple accounts swore up and down they had seen a pair of them together. Clones, that one stoner living on floor 32 likes to swear, the friendly one and the unsettling one, nobody knowing quite who they’re talking to until it’s too late to turn back.

And then there’s Jack. Jack who’s pretty unremarkable as far as gossip goes; casually dressed, willing to exchange meaningless pleasantries, so normal it took the longest time for anyone to realise she came from the penthouse group at all. Took right up until they tried to involve her in the gossip in fact – some poor unfortunate soul really took one for the team that day, got the word out that friendly as she seemed Jack could make an elevator ride feel like a one way trip to hell if she felt like it. And if Tom suddenly moved out of the building a few weeks later, well. He always played his music too loud anyway.

[chocobostrinket]

Chirp chpt 5: First Night

Link to AO3

Rating: General

Word Count: 3444

Chapter Summary: Prompto and Crowe have a late night chat about their pasts, and something isn't quite right at Prompto's house. 

Notes: So! Here we are, finally getting into a little of the plot I had planned out a while back, with a touch of mild angst. And I finally get into the Galahdian trio's ages! I changed it from canon to help with the story as we go, I hope no one minds. Thank you for reading! 

~

Prompto sighs deeply, and turns over again, trying to find a way to get comfortable in his new bed. Well, really comfort wasn’t the problem. In truth, he just wasn’t as settled in as he’d like. Materialistically he was, everything had been unpacked. His clothes put away and everything else put on shelves or dressers. But he missed home. His own bed. And it oddly made him deeply annoyed rather than sad. It’s not like there was any reason to miss home after all. He grew up there, yes, but his parents weren’t there. And everything he cared about had come with him.

He finally gave up trying to sleep in a huff and sat up. For a moment he just sat there, glaring across the room at the wall. Frustrated with his feelings, he tossed off his blankets and got out of bed, marching out of his bedroom and over to the window of this area’s living room. Once there he stared out in the direction of his home, and put his finger on the glass right where his house would be. As if trying to show himself that it was silly to miss a place that was close enough to see, even if it was distant.

But it did nothing to quell his late night thoughts, and with a defeated sigh, he sat in the window seat. He stared out first at his home, however his eyes soon wandered to other streets, and then other, larger, buildings. The city of course was brightly lit, and true to its name never slept. When he was sleepless at home he’d wander those same brightly lit streets and just explore. If anyone had tried to stop him, question him over his age, or give him any trouble, it was a simple matter to run off and duck into small places. With his wings as they were then, no one could follow him.

If he told any of his friends about that, of course, they’d probably have a heart attack.

He was so intent in watching out the window, he didn’t hear when Crowe had stepping into the room. She had been up late with her friends, playing a card game before bed. It was only chance she had looked over toward the window on the way to her room. Otherwise she would have missed Prompto. She debated on just letting him sit alone for a minute before deciding to talk to him. She remembered her own first night here.

“Prompto?” She called, trying not to startle him.

However, that didn’t work at all, and he nearly screamed in surprise. But he managed to wrangle it down to just a very loud squeak. His head spun around and he looked over at Crowe with wide eyes. But when he saw it was only her, he relaxed with a visible sigh.

“Crowe! Hi. What- I mean…” He tried to figure out what to say without sounding like a nervous wreck, but of course, failed.

She laughed and cut him off before he could feel anymore awkward and said, “It’s a bit late for you isn’t it?”

A small frown found its way on his face, “You’re awake too.”

She shrugged and wandered over to him, sitting on the other end of the window seat. “True enough.”

They sat in relative silence for a few moments, with Prompto returning to staring at the window, and Crowe looking back into the room. She the began to speak, this time with a bit more serious tone.

“You know… I couldn’t sleep when I first got here either.”

At that Prompto turned his head and looked at her, “Really?”

“Yeah, really.” She brought her legs up onto the seat with her, and pulled her wings around herself, as if she was cocooning herself. “It’s so cut off here isn’t it? Different from everything I knew.”

He nodded at that, “Same here. I’m just... I don’t know. It feels so…”

“Empty?” She asked with a smile.

He nodded again, and realized that’s what it was. The reason he felt so unsettled. Even when he was home alone, there had always been the feeling of someone with him. Perhaps it was just the memories of his parents, or the knowledge that Rhea was right next door, but he never felt alone in his house. But here it was different. It felt like there was a void here. Just empty space around him.

“It was the same for me. It took me a long time to get used to living here.” She added.

He could understand why, and felt comforted that this feeling would pass. But then his thoughts turned to Crowe and her friends, and he realized he’d didn’t know much about them, if anything at all. And curiosity got the better of him.

“So… Where are you from, if you don’t mind?” He asked, his head slightly tilted.

She looked out the window, and small smile on her face, “Originally, I’m from Galahd. I don’t remember which town really.”

At that Prompto’s eyes widened. “But… Galahd…”

“Fell? Yeah. And I was lucky enough to be born while we were under the empire’s police state.” She said, sarcasm in her voice. “But it wasn’t so bad. I remember we were a small enough town that the empire didn’t pay us any mind. Not for a long time.”

The ending of her sentence made him sad for her, because it implied that the town eventually caught the eye of the empire, and he couldn’t stop himself from asking, “What happened?”

It was a few moments before Crowe answered, her eyes firmly glued to the window when she spoke next, “I did.”

He opened his mouth to speak, to say something, but closed it again when he realized he didn’t know what to say. Part of him wanted to ask, but the other part wanted to spare her feelings. But she spared him the need to say anything when she continued speaking.

“When my pattern came in, my parents hid me. Niflheim… They know about Kestrels. And whatever magic we have.” She looked down at her feet then, and her eyes became a little dull as she continued, “But someone had seen me just by chance, someone passing through town. And eventually rumors of a kestrel reached the empire.”

He could imagine what happened, and Crowe didn’t go into details. “A lot of people lost their lives, and the town was gone. Those left went searching for a new place to live. But… this time without what caused the destruction in the first place.”

“They… left you?” He asked quietly, horrified for her.

“I don’t blame them.” She quickly said, before he could become angry with their actions, “They’d lost so much at that point. I don’t blame them.”

“Then…how?”

“Did I get here? Well, it just so happened that Nyx and Libertus found me when they were playing in the woods.” She smiled at that, and the memory was bittersweet for her. “They had been part of a passing caravan, apprenticed to the hunters that guarded it. I think they were…13 at the time?”

Prompto did the math in his head, and realized that Crowe had only been 8 at the time. Nyx and Libertus he knew, thanks to Noctis, were 23 right now, and that Crowe was 18. He inched a little closer to her, to brush one of his wings against hers, not knowing what else to do. The gesture made her smile, and she continued.

“They took me in, despite their mentors saying no. So they left, taking me with them. Originally, the plan was to take me back to their hometown. Libertus’s mother had been willing to take me in as her own.” She said, and clearly that’s not what happened, Prompto realized. “But the empire followed. Another town lost. But they didn’t leave me. I don’t know why, but they didn’t.”

“But… what about…?”

“Oh! Their families are okay, thank the gods.” She reassured him, and then said, “But we ended up on the move. Never staying in one place too long. And we’d gotten into more than one situation where we almost didn’t make it out.”

She seemed to reflect on those memories with mixed feelings, broadcast on her face with a frown.

“So… how’d you get here?” He asked, and immediately wished he could stuff a sock in his mouth to silence his curiosity.

But she took it in stride, and smiled at him before answering, “Well, it was by chance that after four years on the road, we heard a rumor from Lucis. The first since we’d been annexed by Niflheim. None of us knew about the laws in Lucis that protected Kestrels until then, even with how long they’d been around. So, we made a goal to get here. We had to wait until they were 18, and Libertus actually did have to have his mom adopt me so he could take me out of Galahd, but it all worked out.”

“But the first few nights here…” She huffed in a mixture of fondness and annoyance, “We couldn’t stand the silence. We were used to hearing sounds everywhere in the woods, hiding from people passing by, being prepared to wake at a moment’s notice. And here? There’s none of that. It was a long time before any of us got a good’s night sleep.”

Hearing her say that made him feel silly for his own feelings. He felt like she actually had a reason for not being comfortable with being in the citadel. His own issues felt like childishness, and nothing more.

But then she nudged him back with one of her wings and asked, “So what about you?”

“M-me?” He looked visibly startled, but then shook his head to rid himself of the feeling and said, “My house is just right over there.”

He put his finger on the window again, and pointed to the distant street. Crowe looked over with a smiled, and gave him a small hum of interest. “From Insomnia then?”

“Y-yeah. Kind of… Uh…” He floundered for a bit before telling the truth, “But… I guess that I was adopted from… From Niflheim.”

He pulled into himself subtly, bringing his knees to his chest and his wings wrapping around himself tightly, pulling him into a ball. She didn’t seem surprised, which, given his hair color wasn’t odd. But he was very caught off guard by what she said next.

“You must have been very lucky then. I can’t imagine what would have happened to you if you’d stayed in Niflheim.”

He peeked out from his wings at her, a small frown pulling at the corner of his mouth. But not out of disappointment. He was just surprised at how kind of a statement that was, considering her history with his birthplace. The expression made her laugh, and he allowed his face to become unobscured.

“Now, if I may, can I ask you something Prompto?”

He nodded almost exaggeratedly, and said, “Of course! It’s only fair.”

“Your home,” she began, “Why was no one else there? Where are your parents?”

She looked at him as he looked away, a small, sad, frown now settling on his face. “I live alone most of the time. They travel around a lot, but they’re in Duscae right now.”

At the look she gave him at that, he waved both his hands in protest, “They wanted to take me with them! They really did. But… It’s not safe outside the walls without wings. Everyone knows that. But their work… They’re studying the demon’s effect on the weather and how that effects the crops on the farms there.”

“That’s… Couldn’t they have waited until you were older?” She asked. She wanted to understand them, but his parents had a choice of taking him with them. And didn’t. It was almost like he’d been abandoned as well, and that didn’t sit right with her.

“They wanted to honestly,” he said, giving her a smile, “But… I’m the one who convinced them to go.”

“How old were you?” Crowe asked, surprise coloring her voice.

“I was only 12 at the time, but with some special permissions, I could live on my own. Kind of like some of the students who live in their own apartments to go to school.” He shrugged then and added, “And it wasn’t so bad. I mean, sure I was lonely sometimes, but… They cared for me. More than anything. But they’re also really good people. They couldn’t just turn their backs on their research when it effects all of the world.”

“I… guess I can see the logic in that. But… Couldn’t they have given you over to the citadel to be kept if they were going to leave?”

He shook his head, “I… I didn’t want to go.”

She frowned at him and opened her mouth, but he cut her off. “It’s nothing against the king, or anything to do with anything! I… I just didn’t want them to come home to an empty house all the time. They’re so busy that I know they won’t be able to visit very often. …If at all.”

She shut her mouth then and sighed. “I see.”

They were both silent then, as if mulling over each other’s stories. But then Crowe spoke again.

“Well, at least there’s something good out of everything.”

“Hm?” He looked at her with his head slightly tilted again.

“I got to meet a member of my pattern.” She smiled at him and he smiled back at her.

“Yeah… Same here. I’d always heard that… I don’t know, we’re so rare that some of us go our whole lives without seeing another member.” He shrugged then, and looked back out the window.

She did as well, and said, “I can’t even imagine what it was like for the kestrels who were here before us. Alone here.”

Prompto nodded, and they left it at that.

Behind him, he could imagine generations of other kestrels around the room. He wondered what comforted them when they couldn’t sleep when they first arrived under their monarchs care. It never occurred to him that Crowe had been here alone for almost five years. Sure, her friends were in the next area over, but those were the guard’s quarters. Here in this area, she was alone. The thought made him sad, and made him speak before he could think better of it.

“Hey Crowe?”

She glanced at him, “Yeah?”

“I’m really glad you’re here.”

When he realized what he said, he went pale, and made himself look out the window to avoid her eyes. But she only gave him a small chuckle, and turned away.

“I’m glad you’re here too.”

They allowed themselves to slip back into silence then, and stayed that way for a few minutes. It wasn’t strained, or uncomfortable. But it was a welcome one. It helped, he realized. Crowe just being there. The place didn’t feel so empty after talking with her. He’d been about to say as much, but right when he opened his mouth, a thud was heard from the balcony. It was right nest to the window, and they both turned toward the sound.

“What was that?”

Crowe looked over at him with a confused frown, and gestured for him to stay where he was. “I don’t know… But stay there.”

Then she silently rose to her feet, and walked over to the doors, opening one of them only slightly to peek out. Prompto held his breath, wondering what it could be. But when Crowe let out a huff of amusement, and pushed open the door all the way with a smile, he knew it was nothing to worry about.

“Evening, your highness. Interesting way to visit don’t you think.”

Or not.

Prompto scrambled to his feet and hurried over to look out onto the balcony. Once there, he saw Noctis on the ground, looking like a bird that had just fallen out of the nest. He shook his head when he saw Prompto and got to his feet. Behind him his wings had fluffed up, and he had to take a moment to smooth them down. And while he did he started walking over.

“Evening Crowe! Hey Prom.” He flashed a smile at them, and went back to sorting out his wings. “How the heck did you get around without wings? I ended up falling from above.”

“What are you doing here?” Prompto asked with a laugh.

“I wanted to see if you were up for a late night adventure!” Noctis grinned at him, and Prompto knew immediately what he meant.

Noctis, despite his public appearance of being aloof and reserved, was truly very mischievous. So mischievous, that he had a reputation with the glaive for his pranks. They were as devious as they were creative. Such as the time he managed to make it so the glaive’s boot had dyed all their feet blue for a week. Sometimes he was caught, other times he wasn’t. And there was enough screwy things going on at a time that they wee unsure if it was a prank occasionally, or a genuine mishap. It was sort of a running joke to blame ‘that darn magpie’ as code for it was the prince.

Prompto instantly wanted to say yes, but looked over at Crowe first. She shrugged and laughed, “If you go, I didn’t see anything. On one condition.”

Noctis looked pleased and Prompto turned back to him with a smile.

“What’s the condition?” Noctis asked.

“Get Nyx and Libertus with the rest of the glaive.”

That made Prompto snort and Noctis nodded, “Done! Lets go Prom!”

Before he could say anything else, Noctis grabbed his arm and pulled him through the room and out the door. When they were gone Crowe chuckled to herself and shut the balcony doors, then went to her room to go to sleep.

~

Later that night, Rhea was sitting on her couch, curled up with a book. Blue had been perched on her lap when he suddenly started yowling at the window, and jumped off her lap to go to the front door.

“Blue?” Rhea said, looking over at her cat with concern. She got up from her spot as Blue pawed at the door. She opened it for him, expecting him just to take a peek. She wasn’t prepared for when he darted out the door and into the night.

“Wait! Blue!” She called, and stepped out after him. Her porch light only went so far, and it seemed oddly dark. But those little details seemed to escape her as she walked to the end of her yard.

“Here kitty! Blue! Here kitty kitty!” she said quietly, trying to lure her cat back to her.

It was strange. Blue would never go far from her, always in her sight, and never leave the yard. She was troubled, and turned to walk down the sidewalk a little ways. It was just by chance she had gone in the direction of Prompto’s home. But then a sound startled her, and she saw that his front door was open. Her head tilted slightly and she frowned. Was Prompto home?

She knew the boy had the oddest habit of wandering late at night, and an even odder habit of not turning on the lights when he returned home. Perhaps a habit from the rare occasions when his parents were home. So not to bother them with his wanderings. So she wasn’t troubled by it in the least. Just more so worried about the fact that he’d left the door open.

She went up to the front door then, and knocked on the door frame to get his attention.

“Prompto? Is that you?”

The second she finished speaking though, a sinister blast of wind hit her, coming from inside the house. A gasp of pain left her as the wind turned to what felt like razors, and cut her face and arms in seconds, and before she could even scream, an unseen forced knocked into her, sending her flying back into Prompto and hers shared fence hard enough that the part she hit caved backwards.

It hurt. She couldn’t move and could barely keep her eyes open. Blood was stinging her eyes even when she could force them open. She tried to make out what it was that had happened, but could only see shadows before she slipped away.

She wasn’t found until the morning, and only because Blue had hissed at a passing jogger until he stopped.

[mysmesomespacechips]

Merry Choi-mas! - Day 3

Summary: 12 days of Choi-mas: A collection of fluffy holiday-themed one-shots with the Choi twins. (AO3)

Playing in the Snow: Saeyoung x MC 

by @spacechip707

She looked like an angel, he thought. The snow cascaded from the grey skies, dusting her coat and hat with a delicate layer of white powder. Her dark lashes fluttered against her cheek, the brightness behind them accentuated by the snowflakes sticking to them. Saeyoung could practically see a halo forming around her knit hat as her fingers continued tracing lines into her snowman, completely oblivious to his presence.

Her beauty almost made him regret the pile of snow in his arms. Almost.

Those pretty lips let out the most horrified shriek when Saeyoung dropped the bundle of white onto her head. MC whirled around, her celestial eyes now donning a hellish glare as they narrowed on him. He was fast becoming the object of her wrath, but he still had enough gall to laugh at the small mountain that had amassed on her head. Her mittened hands swiped it off before balling into tight fists.

“Saeyoung, you’re going to get it!” she shouted.

Her pouty lips and tiny voice were hardly intimidating, but Saeyoung knew firsthand that her saintly looks could be deceiving. He bolted in the opposite direction, his scarf barely missing her grappling hands.

Her commitment was commendable, considering she was falling into the snow every ten seconds with her boot clad legs weighing her down. Still, her fury and the occasional snowball lobbed at his head was enough to get his own nimble feet dashing from one hiding spot to the next.

His lungs ached by the time he found refuge behind a large tree. He rested his back against the bark, leaned forward on his knees, and panted for breath. He peered around the trunk , spotting the disgruntled girl clambering over a particularly large boulder only to tumble sideways and disappear into the white fluff.

“So cute,” he muttered before sliding to the ground for a brief respite.

It was MC's idea to come out in the snow. Saeyoung had been hesitant at first, the cold always dredging up old memories of the brutal winter missions at his agency. But the world was bright today, even if the sky was dull. The white snow exuded a sense of purity, dousing him with a misplaced, albeit mischievous, innocence he barely had the chance to experience. No doubt, it was her plan all along.

As if being summoned by his thoughts, MC appeared from seemingly nowhere beside him and scattered any further contemplation. Saeyoung barely had time to to scramble to his feet before she pounced. His yelp was half muffled into his scarf, and his body collapsed sideways into the snow. The flying ice momentarily blinded his vision. A weight dropped onto his middle, and he squinted past his layers of scarves to find her straddling him.

A few flirtatious comments flitted near his tongue until he saw the ball of snow tightly packed in her glove. He tried wriggling away, but between her and the snow underneath him, he was firmly pinned in place. “MC, what are you doing with that?” he asked, a nervous titter escaping his throat.

“Depends,” she shrugged, an unsettling smirk resting on her mouth. “How good is your apology?”

He propped himself on his elbows and protruded his lower lip. “I’m sorry,” he said, heightening his voice to an almost babyish tone.

Her head tilted to the side. “Aww,”she cooed. “Cute, but still not good enough.”

Saeyoung shut his eyes, anticipating the glistening missile to collide with his face at some point. But instead, his entire body was jolted upwards. He cracked one eye open when he still didn’t experience any uncomfortably sensations. It was only then did he realize she was folding his collar open and slowly approaching his skin with the snowball.

Horror swallowed up any pleasure he received from initially creating a tiny avalanche on his wife’s head.

“No,” he breathed. His arms shot forward in attempts to keep hers at bay. “No, no! MC, not down the shirt--I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Despite the insistent revenge etched into her features, laughter spilled from her lips with every word. To his chagrin, it was contagious, and his begging sounded less serious than he hoped with his voice wavering in amusement.

“Nope,” she sung. "Still not good enough.”

She yanked on his jacket, creating a hole between his body and the fleece. Already, the brutal air raked down his bare chest and sent his frame shivering. His legs squirmed with the apprehension of ice splattering across skin. He clutched onto her wrist, digging his gloved fingers trying and failing to peel it away from its tight hold. “MC, baby, sweetheart, love of my life, please don’t do this to me. I love you. I’m sorry.”

“Tell that to my freezing back,” she grunted, struggling against his taut arms.

He stretched his neck past her shoulder and looked down her fluffy coat. “I’m sorry, MC’s back. There! Now please don’t--“

His pleas fell on deaf ears. Her hand slammed down against his chest, and the snow ball exploded. Pieces flew against his face and stuck to his hair while the rest went crumbling into his shirt. His throat squeezed out an odd, strangled cry. His shoulders scrunched all the way up to his ears as the pellets melted into ice water and dampened his shirt. The only thing he was aware of besides the dull stinging was MC's peals of laughter.

He curled on his side, effectively sending her tumbling to snow. He violently shuddered from his spot on the ground. MC regained her bearings and rolled her eyes. “Come on, it wasn’t that much snow.”

He glanced at her before rubbing his arms furiously. “I’m not shivering because of the snow,” he said, pushing himself up on all fours. “I’m shivering because of your cold heart.”

Indignation swept over her features followed by a short cry from her mouth. She scooped a handful of snow into her palm and hurled it at his head. It pitifully missed its target, landing on his shoulder instead, but Saeyoung still dramatically sprawled backwards into the snow. “The cruel ice queen has vanquished me again. Who will resurrect me?”

MC bit her lip, obviously trying to appear more affronted than she was. Offended people didn’t giggle like that. She cleared her throat and jerked the end of his scarf. “You started it! I was just calmly making my snowman, and you went ahead and dumped snow on my head.”

Saeyoung sighed. She was right. He clasped his own scarf and used it to reel her towards him. “We could come to a truce, but I need to be resurrected first.”

“Oh?”she asked, tucking her knees underneath her. Her hair tickled his cheek as she hovered over him. Her gaze traveled across his features, each one privy to her reserved wonderment. His face heated under such scrutiny, her searching glances making him feel so vulnerable…so cherished. So warm. He was suddenly very grateful for the mini blizzard inside his coat.

She must’ve noticed how much she had undone him with her attentions. Her lips unfolded into a wide grin, her cheeks growing rosier than they already were.

Saeyoung clutched his heart and groaned. “A beautiful smile! It’s very effective, but my heart is still frozen. Hurry, princess, before I am left an ice statue forever.”

Another melodic string of giggles drifted from her throat. “I thought I was a queen,” she argued.

Saeyoung rolled his eyes and gestured for her to keep playing along. MC obliged, as she always did, and tucked her hair behind her ear. The kiss she pressed against his cheek almost stung with its heat contrasting the coolness of his skin.

“Did that work?”she said, brow arching upwards.

A little too well, he thought. Saeyoung sat upright and inhaled deeply. He patted his chest and turned to her with a grim smile. “I’m alive for now. But would the lovely princess offer her magical powers again? Just to make sure.”

“Happily,”she said. She leaned towards him, her eyes closing, no doubt for a proper kiss. For the second time that day, Saeyoung regretted the snow he was packing into his hands, but it was necessary. For his dignity.

He jumped to his feet, relishing in her surprised face for a split second before tossing the snowball towards her. Unlike her, his aim was deadly accurate and the ball pelted her middle. She shrieked, half in delight and half in exasperation, and swept as much snow as she could against his legs.

He retaliated with more of his ammunition, collected off the snow-covered bushes behind him. After that, it became a full out war. Ribbons of white streamed through the air, and their laughter mingled together in the most ridiculous harmony. Ice pounded against Saeyoung's skin, sometimes slipping in his coat and burning his skin. But he didn’t mind it. His heart was lighter than any other winter before.

Their fight eventually slowed. MC’s projectiles came less often and with less force, and Saeyoung’s aim faltered with the state of his snow encrusted glasses. He brushed off the extra ice from his lenses, noticing her glowing red nose. She waved her arms when he lifted another snowball. “Break! Please,” she panted.

Saeyoung lifted his chin and scoffed. “I only accept surrender in the form of fresh hot chocolate.”

She chuckled lightly before shaking her head at his expense. “Okay, Defender of Justice, you will get your spoils. But we really should get inside before we catch cold.”

Saeyoung let out cry of triumph and waddled around in a little dance. Patient as ever, she hooked her arm in his and endured his prancing and bragging as they trekked back towards the bunker.

He stopped her, however, when they arrived at her abandoned little snowman. Really, it was only three lumps of snow piled together with two stick arms, and a stick nose in lieu of a carrot.

“Oh, you didn’t finish it,” he commented, noting the lack of clothing. She did add a pair of kitty ears though, of which Saeyoung heartily approved.

“Whose fault is that?” She returned, not unkindly.

He crouched down with a soft chuckle. He removed one of his scarves and placed it around the neck as a sign of amends. “There! Now all you need is glasses, and it could be me.”

MC ducked her head, her face reddening to match her nose. “Actually…”

Saeyoung dragged his gaze back to the snowman in question.

There was indeed a lopsided face, barely noticeable but still present. He could make out a smile, a few teeth, and what appeared to be his striped glasses scratched into the snow. A coo bubbled past his lips as the pieces clicked. “Aww, MC…you made me?”

She hummed softly, though most of it was slurred into her chattering teeth. “I was going to make both of us before we got—er—distracted.”

Saeyoung clicked his tongue and turned back to the crude likeness. His heart warmed a little at a second viewing, and he couldn’t help the smile tugging at his mouth. “Well, we can’t have a me without a you.”

“It’s really fine, Saeyoung! Please, I’m really cold and—“ MC’s protests died when the redhead flopped back into the snow, his arms spread wide. He moved them up and down, ignoring her questioning look.

Once he was satisfied with the grooves he created, he carefully stood to his feet and maneuvered around his creation to stand behind her. He wrapped his arms around her middle and rested his chin against her shoulder. He didn’t need to see her face to register her stunned silence. “Because you’re my snow angel,” he whispered in her ear. He pressed a short kiss to her cheek and tugged her along.

MC opened and closed her mouth several times, spouting nothing but broke syllables until they arrived at the front gate. She sighed, her breath crystallizing in the chill.

“You know, it’s so unfair,” she finally managed. Her eyes darted to his in a shy glance. “You won the snowball fight... and my heart. All in one day.”

His heart clenched at the shy and mildly proud grin on her face. He promptly pinched her cheek in response. “Then I somehow have the best luck in the world. I don’t deserve it,” he said, cupping her face tenderly.

“Saeyoung…” she began, his name being used with affection and admonition all at once.

“But,” he went on. “I do deserve some hot cocoa, if I remember correctly. And I’d really like it soon. You know, since a certain ice queen put snow down my shirt.”

“Saeyoung!” she said again with more fury. She crossed her arms, her features once again puffing into a pout that made his insides melt. “You really have to make up your mind. Am I an ice queen, a princess, or a snow angel?”

He really didn’t deserve her.

He tugged on her coat until she stumbled into his arms. He squeezed her as hard as he could with the layers of cloth and fluff between them. “You are all the above,” he announced. “Two parts royalty and one part divine.”

He reveled in the blush tainting her cheeks from the bestowed compliments. Unlike him, she deserved every one of them and more.

He momentarily spared her from further timidity and spouted out the Arabic needed to open the gate. She waddled into the bunker, fully flustered and eager to escape his shower of praises, while he chased after her, ever eager to continue.

Saeyoung may not have had good luck all his life. He may have had horrible memories of winter and Christmas, but now he had her. Her affections, her love, her care. All of it was enough for him. All of it was be enough to stave off his past--and also the cold that he would inevitably catch in the next few days.

[brigdh]

Yuletide recs, for fandoms A-M! I have just barely gotten this in before author reveals, and clearly still have half the alphabet to get through. Ah, well. First off, my own gift!! Water Lens Benjamin January, gen, 2.4k, Teen. “The good widow couldn't dump you in the fast section of the river, apparently,” January said. “It had to be the mud.” “If she'd only panicked five minutes earlier,” Rose agreed with a sigh. “We were on the bridge then – although given the state of that particular river I wouldn't necessarily put money on it being that much cleaner.” All my all favorite story tropes are here: bathing together and playing with hair and the OT3 and Rose doing science and there’s even a mystery to solve in here too! It is wonderful and I love it and everyone should give the mystery author more kudos. And here are my other favorites: so come home 12 Dancing Princesses fairy tale, gen, 21.5k, G. A detective is called to a space station to solve the mystery of whether--and how--twelve astronauts are accessing the surface of a forbidden planet. A very well-written sci-fi murder mystery, with great worldbuilding and characters. Recruits American Gods, Mr Wednesday and Mad Sweeney, 4.2k, G. The Norse god of battle and a mad Irish king walk into a bar. This is not a joke, my son: except in a sense, it is. They are Old Gods, it’s the New World, and the game must be kept going. Really great backstory on the gods in WWI. The Locust And I Awoke and Found Me Here on the Cold Hill's Side - James Tiptree Jr., 2.2k, Mature. Letter of Fr. Francisco Nadal to Fr. Bartolomeo Strozzi, 1588. The original short story is about the horrifying effects on humanity of alien sexuality; this fic translates it into Imperial Spain and makes the different cultural setting really work. Because everyone needs some terror on Christmas! And on the seventh... Aubrey-Maturin Series - Patrick O'Brian, Jack/Stephen, 11k, G. This decision might be considered the luckiest, as standing near Jack meant that Stephen was not alone in his fall overboard. Or it might be considered the unluckiest, as standing near Jack meant that Stephen was foremost in the splinters' path, when the ranging shot abruptly found its range. Desert island fic with H/C, angst, kissing in the ocean, and new species of birds. AKA, everything good in fic. And for that riches where is my deserving? Benjamin January mysteries, Ben/Rose/Hannibal, 1.8k, Teen. If Ben was honest with himself, he suspected that one day Hannibal might simply vanish from their lives. He desperately hoped that this was not the day. Delicious Hannibal whump plus the OT3! What more could anyone want out of the tiny fandom of my heart? Family Gathering Books of the Raksura, Moon-focused, 2.8k, G. After some of Jade and Moon's first clutch are confirmed to be Royal Aeriat, Pearl wants the fledgelings brought to her bower. Ember thinks Moon should be there too. Really adorable baby-fic, with some lovely Pearl characterization. Home Books of the Raksura, Consolation gen, 4.1k, G. It turned out that living like people instead of monsters required all sorts of skills and tools. Cleaning required soap, and some inkling of how to apply it. Consolation’s flight, having been raised by monsters, not people, had none of the requisite skills. This is the post-canon fic about how Consolation learns to be a person that was my greatest wish for Christmas, and it's everything I could have hoped for. Mordre, She Wroot Canterbury Tales, Wife of Bath-focused, 8k, G. At least one pilgrim will not make it to Canterbury. Yes, you ABSOLUTELY DO need the Wife of Bath solving murders in your life. Just trust me on this. 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[setaripendragon]

Familiar Strangers - Nine: Shikamaru

One - Two - Three - Four - Five - Six - Seven - Eight - Nine - Ten Bonus scenes: Five-Point-Five - Seven-Point-Five This part is dedicated to @wanderingthyme, whose lovely tag-comments have motivated me when I started forgetting why I love this story. Thank you. (I read and appreciate every single tag, and your comments in particular are an absolute delight to read~)

Shikamaru opened his eyes and sat up out of his lazy sprawl when the door to the Hokage’s office finally opened again. He could have gone home, or to the flower shop to check in with Ino and Chouji, but he had a feeling that if he was ever going to get answers, it would be by staying here. So he waited. The soundproofing on the Hokage’s office was enough that he had no hints as to what was going on inside, other than the fact that it hadn’t devolved into a fight yet. The meeting had dragged on, until he’d decided to try for a nap.

Looking up, he saw the Hokage walking out with a deeply unsettled expression on her face. He immediately straightened properly, wary of whatever might have put that look on Senju Tsunade’s face. She caught the movement, and raised an eyebrow at him, but she didn’t comment on his continued presence. “Shikamaru. I have to go and make an announcement, so I’m going to put you in charge of babysitting Uchiha in the meantime. Don’t let anyone kill him.” She instructed, and then stalked off, Shizune hot on her heels, looking frazzled.

Shikamaru stared after her, his brain suddenly feeling remarkably sluggish. He was pretty sure she’d just said Uchiha, which… He turned his attention back to the door into her office just in time to see Sakura walk out, shoulder to shoulder with Uchiha Sasuke. They were perfectly comfortable walking side by side, and Sasuke was actually wearing a Konoha hitai-ate. And yet, the Hokage wasn’t concerned about leaving them alone, or them hurting anyone. She had, in fact, specifically ordered him to protect the Uchiha. Shikamaru knew when he was missing something, and he didn’t like it.

Shiranui Genma – tokubetsu jounin, assassination expert – stepped out of the office behind them, and Shikamaru wondered how he’d gotten caught up in this weirdness. And why Sakura was looking to him expectantly, with open and easy trust. “Try to play nice, Sasuke, alright?” Genma suggested, which earned him a disparaging glare from the Uchiha. Genma just smiled back until Sasuke rolled his eyes and jerked his head in what could, possibly, have been a nod. “So, Sakura, you must have some ideas of who you want for this diplomatic envoy of yours.” He went on.

“Ino. I’m pretty sure she’s not an interrogator here, but she’s always been good at reading people, even when we were six.” Sakura answered at once, as the pair of them started off down the hall. Shikamaru stared after them, eyes narrowed. Ino hadn’t ever been an interrogator, as far as he knew. She was in Intelligence, not T&I. They were sister organisations, but nowhere near the same. And what did Sakura mean when she said ‘not an interrogator here?’ It was almost as if she was implying that Ino had been an interrogator somewhere else…

“Mm. Anyone else?” Genma was asking as they rounded the corner.

Shikamaru thought he just caught the words “Anko-senpai…” before Sakura’s voice became indistinct, which was scary enough that it fit with the frankly terrifying theory that was building itself in the back of his mind. Slowly, he turned to consider the Uchiha. He stared back with a deeply unimpressed expression on his face, and silence fell thick and heavy between them.

“Parallel world?” Shikamaru asked, pained.

Sasuke smirked wryly at him. “Something like that.” He agreed.

“You never defected.” Shikamaru concluded.

Sasuke’s expression twitched, somewhere between disgusted and pained. “I had no reason to.” He stated. Shikamaru was, thankfully, not stupid, and he could hear the worlds of implications in that one sentence. He winced. “You know what happened?” Sasuke asked abruptly, surprising Shikamaru. At his raised eyebrow, Sasuke pressed his lips into a thin line. “I only managed to figure out that Itachi- and that I ran off to join Orochimaru-dono.”

Shikamaru wasn’t sure if the honorific or the open bewilderment was more interesting. For Sasuke to refer to Orochimaru as a lord not his own was… telling. It was the traditional form of address from clan members to the head of another clan, and if this Sasuke had grown up with his clan alive and well, it would make sense for him to follow tradition. Which meant that this other Orochimaru wasn’t a traitor, but Sasuke still seemed to treat the idea of studying under him as something to recoil from.

Neutral expression firmly in place, Shikamaru leaned back against the wall and shoved his hands in his pockets, slouching with boredom that was only half affected. “Seems like you’ve got most of it. What are you asking about, exactly?”

Sasuke sighed, and didn’t answer for a long moment. Shikamaru was content to watch him, trying to puzzle him out. People were much more Ino’s area of expertise, though, and while Shikamaru could tell that this Sasuke had focused his training on stealth and speed, that he was more than familiar with the katana and wakizashi he was carrying, and that he had been taught at least some of the ANBU taijutsu forms, he couldn’t say what the expression on his face meant. “Why did Itachi-niisan… do that?” He asked finally.

“I don’t know.” Shikamaru admitted easily, since it was the truth. “Testing his power, was what I heard he said.”

Sasuke scowled. “He’s a pacifist.” He protested, sounding annoyed. Shikamaru just sort of stared, trying to fit ‘pacifist’ into all he knew of the legend that was Uchiha Itachi. It just… didn’t. Fit. Anywhere. He shook his head, and wished he could be cloud-gazing, instead of trying to untangle this mess. “Why Orochimaru-dono?” Sasuke asked abruptly, apparently deciding he was done talking about Itachi.

“He promised you power.” Shikamaru explained, then shrugged again. “Personally, I think it was a dumb decision. Orochimaru-dono?” He questioned, since if he was going to be answering Sasuke’s questions, he deserved to ask a few of his own.

Sasuke glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. “He’s the last of the Yashagoro Clan. You should know that, even if he did defect. Naruto’s family might be weird about manners, but I’m not about to go showing someone as powerful and well connected as Konoha’s Snake Sannin disrespect.”

“So Orochimaru didn’t defect in… your world?” Shikamaru asked, even as his brain caught the reference to ‘Naruto’s family’ and hoarded it, adding it to the bizarre picture he was building in his mind. Sasuke just shook his head in confirmation. “How far back do the changes reach?” He asked aloud, although he didn’t expect an answer.

“At least two decades.” Sasuke offered. “Earliest known change…” He paused to think, eyes narrowing faintly as he gazed into the middle distance, then nodded once. “Sakumo-dono never committed suicide in my world. We haven’t discussed anything earlier than that.”

Shikamaru considered that. He wasn’t well versed in Konoha’s history, but he knew enough. Knowledge was important, even if it was troublesome actually acquiring it. Two decades was about the beginning of the Third Shinobi War, so he poked his knowledge of the Second. “Tsunade-sama still left during the Second Shinobi War?” He asked.

Sasuke thought, then cautiously shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of. She’s been the Head Medic and running the hospital as long as I can remember. She left?”

“Didn’t come back until Naruto dragged her home to take the hat after Sandaime-sama was killed.” Shikamaru explained, and noticed Sasuke do the smallest of double-takes. “By Orochimaru.” He added, just to see how Sasuke might react.

He really, honestly, wasn’t expecting open shock. “Orochimaru-dono killed Sarutobi-dono here?” Sasuke asked in disbelief. Shikamaru nodded slowly, one eyebrow raised in curiosity, but Sasuke just continued to stare at him, looking stunned. After a long pause to digest, Sasuke glanced down the hall with a dark expression on his face. “Someone should probably warn Sakura.” He decided.

Shikamaru put two and two together, and came up with a very disturbing four. “Sakura and Siranui-san are putting together a diplomatic envoy to meet with Orochimaru?” He asked, and he was pretty sure he failed at keeping the quiet horror from his voice. Sasuke looked at him sharply, then nodded with a one-shouldered shrug, which was the most unhelpful gesture Shikamaru had ever seen.

Reluctantly, Shikamaru acknowledged that he could see the wisdom of it. With this Sasuke here, Orochimaru had lost his intended vessel to some parallel world. He would be just as eager to get the right Sasuke back as Konoha was to get the right Naruto and Sakura back. And he was, by all accounts, a genius, although Shikamaru personally thought that term got bandied around so much it hardly meant anything any more. Still, Orochimaru was smart, and he’d probably be helpful in figuring out how to smash through the walls of their dimension without destroying everything.

“Troublesome.” Shikamaru muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face.

Sasuke snorted. It was very nearly a laugh. Shikamaru did his best not to stare in a sort of horrified wonder, because it was pretty obvious that this Sasuke hadn’t had all the humour stomped out of him by life and an insane older brother at age seven. It would be crass to draw attention to it. Still, it was downright unnerving to hear the Uchiha laugh like that.

“What’s funny?” Shikamaru had to ask.

Sasuke smirked at him, dryly amused. “Everything here is different, except for the things that are exactly the same.”

“I’m not any different in your world, then?” Shikamaru asked, a little amused by the thought, too.

Sasuke shrugged. “Sakura knows you better, so she’d probably be able to pick out some things, but not really.”

“We’re friends? The other me and Sakura?” Shikamaru asked sceptically.

“Through Ino, at least. Ino and Sakura are partners at T&I.” Sasuke told him, and his expression abruptly soured. Shikamaru tried not to cringe at the idea of an Ino who’d been trained for torture and interrogation. That woman was scary enough as it was; he really didn’t like the thought of her trained in psychological warfare or torture techniques. “Hey, you’re not going to try and make me stay here, are you?” Sasuke asked suddenly, derailing Shikamaru’s train of thought.

He considered that. “No. Hokage-sama only told me not to let anyone kill you.”

“Good.” Sasuke bit out, and darted out the window.

Rolling his head back in exasperation, Shikamaru wondered if there was some higher power actively trying to make him suffer. It wouldn’t surprise him. Then, because he didn’t actually want to fail a mission assigned by the Hokage herself, he followed the Uchiha out the window.

This alternate version of Sasuke, it turned out, was a goddamned ghost. And a fast one at that. Shikamaru almost lost him three times as they darted across the village, and it was only his clan techniques that saved him from humiliating failure the third time. He wondered if Sasuke wasn’t trying to lose him, but no, he wouldn’t have warned Shikamaru before he leapt out the window if that was his plan. It seemed he was just so practised at sneaking that he did it automatically.

When he finally stopped, out on the road in plain sight, Shikamaru was startled to find that they were standing in front of the gate to the Hyuuga Clan compound. “What are we doing here?” Shikamaru asked warily.

“I want to know what the hell is wrong with Hinata.” Sasuke told him, and knocked.

Shikamaru wasn’t sure whether to goggle at the insane idiot, or cover his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch the encroaching disaster. “Have you always been this impulsive?” He asked, because that was the only question he could dredge up that wasn’t too insulting. He didn’t think Sasuke’s pride would be that much different, even if this one was less high-strung and broody.

Sasuke shrugged, and didn’t answer. Though, that might have been less because of reticence, and more because the gate had opened at that moment, to reveal a politely bland-faced Hyuuga, who immediately went wide-eyed at the sight of Uchiha Sasuke on their clan’s doorstep. “No need to raise the alarm.” Shikamaru assured him quickly, hoping to avert some of the disaster. “Godaime-sama knows he’s here. There’s going to be an announcement about it this afternoon, I think.”

The Hyuuga hesitated, eyes narrowed. “I’m going to have to check that.” He said coolly. Shikamaru nodded acceptingly, and the Hyuuga transferred their attention back to Sasuke. “What do you want here?” He asked, voice going from chilled to arctic.

Sasuke’s expression hardened in a heartbeat. “I respectfully request that you inform Hyuuga Hinata-hime that Uchiha Sasuke would like to thank her for her advice, which helped me find my way home.” The faintest hint of a challenging smirk flirted at the corners of Sasuke’s lips. “If she has a moment to spare.”

The Hyuuga seemed just as startled as Shikamaru by the formal language Sasuke was using. Of course, Shikamaru realised, it was putting the Hyuuga in a very awkward position. If he refused, and it turned out Sasuke wasn’t lying about his return to the village, he would have insulted another prominent clan of Konoha. If he agreed, he was potentially putting his clan’s heir in harms way. “I will pass on your message.” The Hyuuga said eventually, stiffly.

“Thank you.” Sasuke replied, sounding utterly insincere.

The gate slammed shut, and Sasuke settled in to wait. Shikamaru sighed heavily, and chose to lean back against the wall that surrounded the compound, to make it easier to tip his head back and stare up at the sky. It wasn’t a great day for cloud-watching, too few clouds dotting the sky, but it was still enough to help him relax. “You’re good at that.” Shikamaru remarked.

“What?” Sasuke asked.

“Politics speak.”

Sasuke grunted, sounding unimpressed and unamused. “I’m the Uchiha heir, of course I know how to talk to members of other clans.” He said, with familiar haughtiness.

“Even though Itachi isn’t a missing nin?” Shikamaru asked, surprised.

“He abdicated.” Sasuke explained, then pulled a face, and went on, sounding disgruntled. “Or Otousan disowned him. I’ve never been able to get a straight answer out of either of them.”

Shikamaru hummed thoughtfully, eyes tracking the lazily path of a cloud over his head. After several long minutes, the gate was opened again, wider this time, to reveal Hinata, standing in the shadow of an ominously stone-faced Hyuuga Hiashi. Sasuke didn’t look particularly pleased to see the Hyuuga Clan Head, but he bowed his head respectfully all the same. “Hyuuga-dono.” He greeted.

“Uchiha.” Hiashi replied.

Sasuke’s jaw visibly clenched, and he pointedly turned all his attention to Hinata. She looked pale, Shikamaru noticed, and worried. “Hinata. Are you alright?” He asked, shocking just about everyone.

“U-um… yes?” Hinata stammered out, glancing at her father, then back to Sasuke.

“You fainted.” Sasuke pointed out.

Hinata cringed in embarrassment, folding in on herself, and Sasuke frowned at her, looking almost offended by her reaction. “I-… It w-was… N-Naruto-kun.” She explained helplessly. Sasuke made something of a show of rolling his eyes. Then Hinata looked up, and there was that hint of steel in her eyes she always got when there was something going on with Naruto. “A-are you going to t-tell me why y-you and Naruto-kun and Sakura-san have been a-acting so strangely?” She asked, and she almost managed to sound challenging. Shikamaru was impressed. Going by the minute flicker of his gaze from Sasuke to his daughter, so was Hiashi.

“We’re from an alternate dimension.” Sasuke told her. “We got swapped. It’s a mess.”

Hinata blinked. Blinked again. Frowned thoughtfully. “W-will our Naruto be s-safe, in your d-dimension?” She asked, predictably.

Sasuke didn’t answer right away, thinking it over. That wasn’t reassuring. “There’s a lot of potential for him to get himself into trouble.” He admitted finally. “But his family should look out for him, since he is a version of Naruto. Unless he attacks them.” Shikamaru had a moment to wonder why that would be a concern, until he remembered that Sasuke had referred to Orochimaru as Naruto’s family. He winced at the thought.

Hinata looked deeply, if understandably, confused. She opened and closed her mouth several times, apparently struggling with words. Sasuke’s face slowly pulled into an expression of pained expectation. “We were never friends here, were we?” He asked suddenly, derailing whatever Hinata was trying to find the right words for.

Shikamaru’s eyebrows flew up. “You and Hinata?” He checked, just to be sure. When Sasuke nodded, he shook his head in answer, since Hinata just looked flabbergasted. “Not really.”

“F-friends?” Hinata asked.

“Yes. Since we were seven.” Sasuke stated. He paused, visibly considering his words for a moment, and Shikamaru thought he saw him flick a wary, calculating glance at Hiashi. “We had similar situations and motivations, so we trained together.” He explained, meeting Hinata’s gaze.

Shikamaru could tell that some sort of understanding passed between them, but he couldn’t begin to guess what it might be. Hinata nodded slowly, and smiled faintly. It looked vaguely pained. “I a-apologise for what I s-said b-before.” She offered out of the blue. “I meant n-no harm, b-but I- I think I must h-have hurt you.”

Sasuke shrugged. “Better to know.” He dismissed quickly. “You obviously have questions. I’d suggest going to the river, but I have an escort,” he jerked a thumb rather rudely at Shikamaru, “and the tea shop we usually meet at doesn’t exist here, so do you know somewhere comfortable we can talk?” The less than subtle look he shot at Hiashi clearly expressed his annoyance at the man’s hovering.

Hinata looked to her father, too. “Chichiue?” She asked quietly.

For a long moment, Hiashi didn’t answer. “Go. If you’re feeling well enough.” He said eventually, resting a hand briefly on Hinata’s shoulder. She smiled, at him, then slipped past him and out of the gate to stand with Sasuke and Shikamaru. The gate snapped shut behind her.

“Ichiraku’s?” Hinata suggested.

Sasuke rolled his eyes, and his muttered “Fine. Come on,” sounded very long suffering. He turned and headed down the street, and Hinata hurried to catch up. “So? What were you going to ask?” Sasuke demanded as she fell into step with him. Shikamaru found he was quite content to amble along behind them, shamelessly eavesdropping on their conversation without being required to do anything so troublesome as participate.