#and then it got more and more comforting to non commitally hover at its edges through witchcraft and loose modern spiritual stuff

[canary-prince]

If you catch me posting Bible memes I'm not turning into a Christian or whatever the fuck I was before my intense spiritual crisis 2 years ago (or was it three)? I went to school for academic theological studies (analysis of religion from an exterior view point) and recent books have me nostalgic and hyperfixating.

[inherstars]

Still No Fucking Idea What to Call This

Previous part here.

Thrown-together or not, it was a fitting choice for a first meal; she was no less comfortable across the table from him than she would be a stranger at a community picnic. The haphazard assembly of sandwiches, the smearing of condiments on bread, the negotiating of pickles from the jar, it felt more companionable than formal.  He ate with satisfying relish, a pleasant change from the listless, dainty picking and nibbling of her peers in the dining room at the home. 

When Maggie took a similarly voracious bite of her own sandwich, he seemed impressed.

“Good to see a woman that can eat,” he remarked.

“Good not to have a bunch of nuns hovering around me, reminding me I’m going to have to get my figure back after the baby’s born.”  She paused, mouth half-full, then scrunched her nose. “...sorry.”

“No, I…”  His breath stuttered with a small laugh as he sat back, wiping his mouth.  “Look, since we’re on the subject, and… not wanting to pry, but… I can’t help but wonder--”

“Why a girl of 21 was wandering down a Wyoming highway with nothing to her name but a suitcase and half-cooked baby?”

Every part of that threw him.

“Is that… that’s how old you are? 21?”

“Freshly. As in, as of this morning.”

“Well, uh. Happy Birthday.”

“Is it?” She went in for another bite, chewing determinedly as Levi dropped his gaze.  She swallowed and continued, “Today was the first day I woke up as an adult in the great state of Wyoming.  Beholden to no one and nothing but the Good Lord. If you believe in that sort of thing.”

He wagged his head from side to side, non-commital. “Time to time.”

“Same here.  Anyway.  I realized they couldn’t keep me there anymore.  Not the nuns, not my parents.  They might put up a stink about it, but I was a free woman, and if I wanted to walk right out that door, baby still in me, I could.  So I did.”

He poked the remainder of his sandwich with a finger, troubled.

“Wish I kept the fixings for a cake on hand.”

Another bite, another few seconds of thoughtful silence.  She jerked her chin up at him.

“And you?”

“Hm?”

“How old are you?”

“Oh.”  He sat up a little straighter.  “41.”

Levi expected her to blanch, or remark that he was the same age as her father, but she just settled back into a thoughtful silence.  Eventually her eyes found his again.

“How’s that treating you?”

He debated.  “Can’t complain.  A few more aches and pains, but that also comes with the lifestyle.  Time sneaks up on you a little at a time.  It’s like… walking on a beach. You don’t realize how far you’ve come until you stop to look back.”

Maggie was unexpectedly charmed by this, whether owing to the visual itself or its soft delivery in his twanging midwestern drawl.  She knew he wasn’t young, but it felt funny to have an actual age to pin on him.  He was a little gray at the temples, the oil-dark curls targeted here and there with silver, and the quick, grooming trim he’d given his beard just now had brought it out even more in the hair that framed his face.  But he felt older of soul than he looked.

“You ever been to the beach,” she asked.

He smiled sheepishly.  “Oh, once.  Long time ago.  Probably before you were born.  Sheep don’t take too kindly to extended vacations, but maybe some day I’ll get back.”  He nodded at her. “I take it you’re not from these parts, originally?”

“I am not.”  She laid down the mostly-devoured second half of her sandwich, delicately brushing crumbs from her palms and fingers.  “Outskirts of Philadelphia, believe it or not.”

“East Coast,” he declared, surprised.  “So you’ve seen the ocean.”

“I have. Although back home we call that going down the shore.”

Levi laughed, arms folding as he leaned back in his chair.

“I like that.  Your folks still back that way?”

“They are.”

Another hesitation.  With his arms still folded he sat forward against the table’s edge.

“Listen… feel free to tell me I’m being a nosy old man, but do you mind if I ask…”

“I’ve got an Aunt that lives down in Phoenix. The plan was for me to have my baby at Divine Mercy, send her or him off to whatever new family was salivating for a new addition, and then I’d collect my little stipend from the nuns and buy a bus ticket to Arizona.   Her husband’s some kind of bigwig at… APS? Arizona Public Service, I think it’s called?”  She mirrored his posture unconsciously, gaze cast sideways, disillusioned.  “Anyway, he was going to get me a job in the typing pool or… as somebody’s secretary.  Golden opportunity, supposedly.”

Levi nodded, but hesitatingly. “Respectable,” he agreed.

Sitting back again, Maggie once more caressed the taut curve of her stomach.

“I suppose I need all the respectability I can get.”

He didn’t like that.  It wasn’t his place to say anything contradictory, and he wouldn’t know what to say even if it was, but she saw from the change in his posture -- shoulders back, one arm unfolding across the tabletop, the other making a fist at his hip -- that it rankled him in a way he couldn’t place.  He tread carefully, but still he tread.

“Your folks know you left?”

“By now?  Probably.  Helps that even I didn’t know where I was going, so… not like they can track me down.”  She looked at him nervously, with the first tremor of real fear.  Not of him, but of the power he held.  As if it just now occurred to her they were not peers. “You won’t tell them, will you?”

“Me?”  He sat back, eyes popped in surprise, then followed her gaze to the black bakelite phone on the cluttered lowboy table by the front door.  It was so buried beneath a landslide of unsorted mail, he’d nearly forgotten it was there.

“Oh, look.  If you’re concerned about me trying to track down and reach out to all of the Olsons in and around Philadelphia, I assure you… even if I had the time, I am… not the type.  Law says you’re a woman grown, and that’s sufficient for me.  Not my place to say what you do with all that brand new independence.”  Softening, he added, “But if you want to reach out to them… let them know you’re OK--”

“Not right now.”

He nodded once, finalizing that thought.

“Well. Anyway, phone works if you ever need to use it.”

Maggie swallowed her relief, both at his reassurance and the quickness with which he’d given her access to a lifeline.  Levi watched her circle and circle her stomach with an anxious hand, until deciding they’d probably both had their fill of dinner.  Quietly, methodically, he began putting all the odds and ends back together.  Lid on the pickles, the mayonnaise, tying up the lunchmeat in its crinkling butcher paper wrap.

“Listen, Miss Olsen--”

“Maggie,” she held up a hand to stop him.  “Just Maggie.”

His head dipped.  “Good, then you don’t got to go on calling me Mr. Miller, either.  I’m not going to pretend like these aren’t unusual circumstances.  You’re in a… well, I don’t think I’m overstepping by calling it a fix.  And I don’t aim to make things harder on you than they need to be.”

He stood, stacking everything together as best he could in both hands and carrying it back to the ice box.

“The fact is, I’m up early most days, and I’m usually only back for supper before I turn in and start the whole thing over again.  Like I said, lambing season’s starting soon, I’m going to be busy.  All that to say, I won’t be in your hair.  The house isn’t much, but you can make it your home however you like until… well.  Until.”

But Maggie didn’t respond.  He closed the ice box door quietly, looking back at her, and shocked to find her barely holding back tears.

“Now--hang on,” he panicked, trembling a hand at the air.  “If I said something--”

“Levi,” she blurted, hands wringing again.  “I have no money.  I have nothing to my name but what came with me in that suitcase, and trust me when I say none of it would be of any interest to you anyway.  I can’t--I’ve got nothing to repay you for even a modicum of the kindness you’ve shown me so far, never mind… never mind more--”

He came around the table quickly, dropping into a crouch beside her chair.

“I-I-I don’t mean to…” He sighed, agitated, embarrassed.  Roughed his hair back and forth with one hand.  “Don’t mistake me.  If there’s one part of this ranching business I’m bad at, it’s the bookkeeping.  I don’t… keep score.  I don’t have the head, heart or stomach for it.  You need a hand, and I’ve got two.  I’m glad to give you a place to stay until you decide you don’t need that anymore.  And that offer extends to your…”  A little nod and a drop of his gaze.  “Passenger.”

Maggie tightened her bottom lip, sitting up straighter.

“I’m not so mobile as I’d like to be, but… I promise you, I will pull my weight.”

“Oh--no, that’s not--”

“No no, listen.  That’s important to me.”  She made a light fist, tapping it determinedly on the tabletop.  “I can keep house--certainly one this size--even in my current condition.  And I can cook.”  She stopped, sighed, then deflated.  “Actually, that’s the biggest lie I’ve ever told, I can’t cook for shit, but I’ll figure it out.  I’ll figure something out.”

It was in Levi to protest this offer as much as is it was in her to dig in her heels and insist, so he let it be with a small smile and a sagging nod of his head.  He stood in place.

“Alright, well.  Whatever you feel inclined to do, and nothing you don’t.  But… no pressure from me, either way.”  He looked to Fred as the dog’s long snout inserted itself into her lap from beneath the table, the pink tip of his tongue lapping her fingers.  “...Seems like you’ll be keeping Fred out from underfoot, at the very least.”

Maggie took his head gently in her hands, gazing down into the big brown eyes before upturning a look to his master.

“I sincerely appreciate everything you’re doing for me, Levi.  Truly.”

Again he nodded, uncomfortable with her gratitude but too polite to let it go unacknowledged.

“So long as we have an understanding, then… I think we’ll be alright.”

Maggie pushed carefully back from the table and he was quick to offer her a hand up, minding her nervously until she gave him a little brush-off with one hand.

“Let me get the dishes, at least.  Don’t make that face, I need to get a little familiar with the kitchen, if I’m going to be here awhile.”  She checked him with her eyes.  “Make myself at home, right?”

“Near as you can get,” he agreed, watching her waddle around the table.

This would take some getting used to.

Continued here.

[agerefandom]

Restrained

Fandom: Death Note

Words: 4,150

Characters: Regressor!Light Yagami, Caregiver!L/Ryuzaki. Brief appearances from Soichiro Yagami, Shuichi Aizawa, and Watari.

Summary: Set during Light and Misa’s imprisonment (episode 16-17). Classification/Regressors Are Known AU: Light was classified as a regressor when he was fifteen, but has fought the identity ever since. L is classified as a caregiver, but has never used those skills further than calming people in interrogation situations. Things come to a head in the second month of Light’s imprisonment.

Warnings: Imprisonment, irresponsible use of restraints, mentions of death and murder, nightmares, panic attacks, involuntary regression, hidden regression being revealed non-consensually. Ominous ending. 

Author’s Notes: I usually take issue with Classification AUs, because regression is a coping mechanism and not a fixed part of someone’s identity. Regression can change, and regressors can also be caregivers, and the idea that it could be ‘classified’ as part of someone’s political identity is kind of distressing. All of that said, it’s also a very comforting trope: it’s nice to imagine that you were ‘meant to be’ a regressor, naturally given that role, and that there are natural caregivers who want/need to take care of you. So, there are pros and cons to this kind of universe, as long as you remember that it’s an AU for a reason! Anyways, that’s my soapboxing done. Please note the warnings before reading! 

Light was not a regressor.

It didn’t matter what the letter he received at age fifteen said. Didn’t matter that his age range was listed as ‘2-3’ and a permanent caregiver was recommended. Light Yagami was a neutral, collected, and precocious teenager. He was mature for his age, and always had been.

Admittedly, Light occasionally sucked his thumb to help him sleep. And he convinced his mother to buy him more expensive sheets because he liked to run his hands across the texture. And maybe he cast side-glances at the adult playgrounds all around the city, at the regressors who were happily running and playing on the swings.

But Light Yagami was not a regressor. He got top marks. He wore stiff, professional clothes. He didn’t cry, not even when he stubbed his toe. He turned his nose up at sweet drinks and packaged candy. In short, at seventeen, Light was a model young man.

Which was when the notebook fell outside his classroom window, and everything got a lot more complicated.

--

Could a regressor do this? Collectively bring the world to its knees, the news outlets humming with one story? Could a regressor kill hundreds, save the general population from the evil in its midst?

Light Yagami was Kira, and Kira was not an age regressor.

--

Light Yagami was not Kira.

Light was trapped in a cell, his arms shackled behind his back, and he was absolutely certain that he wasn’t Kira. What kind of idea was that, marching in and saying he thought he was subconsciously Kira? Absurd. He wouldn’t do that kind of thing.

He yelled at the ceiling, pleaded with Ryuzaki, and received cold answers in return.

How had Light sat here for a week, believing that Ryuzaki had been right to lock him away? It was absurd: he couldn’t have committed the murders without knowing at all, it just didn’t make sense.

“You told me to keep you in there, no matter what you said,” Ryuzaki repeated calmly, his voice crackling through the cheap speakers outside of Light’s cell. “I’m only doing what you told me.”

“Well, stop!” Light shouted, tugging uselessly against the leather cuffs that held his arms behind him. His shoulders ached from the position. “Listen to me now, I’m not Kira!”

“We don’t know that,” Ryuzaki said. “Until we can be sure, you will stay in that cell. I’m sorry, Light.”

Light felt tears well up in his eyes, and he jerked his head down to hide it. With his bangs hiding his expression, he tried to wrestle himself under control.

He felt scared and helpless and he just didn’t understand what he was doing here. Let me out! a voice was screaming inside him, younger and just as frightened as he was. Please, I can’t take it anymore!

What was he thinking? He was Light Yagami, part of the taskforce dedicated to catching Kira. He could withstand this. He would have to.

He didn’t bother to hide the tears as he raised his eyes again to the camera.

“Fine. I’ll stay. But you’ll see that I’m not Kira! I don’t know what’s happening, but I believe that my innocence will be proven one way or another.”

“That’s exactly what Kira would say,” Ryuzaki drawled into the microphone, and then there was a short sound of feedback as the conversation cut off.

Light rocked back to lean against the side of the bed, feeling exhausted but satisfied. He’d made his statement, and he had fought off the despair. He was Light Yagami, and he would deal with this imprisonment with all the dignity he could.

--

This was awful.

Light had never been so bored and anxious in his life. The days stretched on, with only Ryuzaki’s occasional check-ins to keep his mind busy. Out of lack for other things to do, Light started sleeping more than usual. His days were hazy, short bathroom trips out of the cell and the clatter of the food tray his only reference points for time. The lights shut off for seven hours every night, the cameras equipped with night vision to watch him toss and turn in his restraints.

There was nothing to do but ruminate, worry, wonder. Light tried to run through lectures in his head, even tried his hand at mentally writing a story. He wondered if he could convince Ryuzaki to play chess with him over the speaker system, but found himself worrying about whether that would make it seem like he wasn’t taking his imprisonment seriously.  

It had been a month, and Light was suffering.

The nights were hardest. In the dark, Light cried, trying to stay quiet. He couldn’t bite his thumb, he couldn’t feel his soft blankets, and sometimes he couldn’t sleep for the tug of the restrains at his wrists and shoulders. He wanted to kick his legs, flail around, scream at the top of his lungs until they let him out. But he was Light Yagami, and he had dignity. Even with cameras fixed on him twenty-four hours a day, even with his wrists and ankles contained, even under the constant scrutiny of Ryuzaki and the other members of the task force.

He almost made it to the end.

--

Things that Light didn’t know:

-it had been a month since Kira had begun killing again -his father was in a matching jail cell, several blocks away -the task force had been pressuring L for weeks to let Light and Misa go, convinced by the new wave of murders that the two were innocent -L had a plan, and was simply waiting to contact Light’s father to play his part

(Light would never know most of these things, because before they became relevant, everything fell apart.)

--

L sat in the same place he’d been sitting for weeks, watching the same scenes play out on the same flickering screens. Misa sagged against her restraints, Light laid curled up on the bed, and Soichiro sat in his chair, staring down at his hands.

Nothing had changed, but everything was different.

Light and Misa were Kira, or at least they had been. L had never been more certain. Now they both seemed utterly convinced of their innocence, and L wasn’t comfortable with the implications of that. Were they truly ignorant of their role? Had their ability to kill been passed onto someone else, or had the two of them been unwitting puppets to some new and yet-unseen player?

Misa took a struggling breath, and went limp again. Light shifted. Soichiro got up and began to pace. His cell would fit eight of his steps before he had to turn around and begin again in the other direction.  

L missed nothing. But the pieces weren’t coming together.

He tapped his fingers against his knees, a syncopated rhythm as his eyes flashed from one prisoner to the next. Watari had brought him a plate of fruit, not yet touched, with icing sugar sprinkled over them. They would make L’s fingers sticky, and he didn’t want to get juice on the controls. He would have to eat with one hand, and operate the microphones with his other. He was just about due his check-in with Misa-Misa.

Just as L began to reach for the berries, a movement on-screen caught his eye. He didn’t currently have the audio on for the cells, but from the visual, he would guess that Light just woke up screaming. L has had a few of those nightmares. They weren’t pleasant.

L switched the audio on, and listened to Light trying to calm himself down. He was talking out loud, a mutter only loud enough for the microphones inside his cell to pick up on. (Light always yelled to the camera when he was talking to L, as if he weren’t aware that the cell was bugged well enough to hear every last breath he took. They could take no risks with Kira, when they still didn’t know how he was committing the crimes.)

“I’m okay,” Light was muttering. “Don’t… don’t do this. I don’t need anything. I’m okay.” His breathing caught, paused, and then resumed. “I’m okay. Please, please- don’t.” His voice was trembling, and L leaned closer. He’d seen Light crying, of course, trying to hide it by turning away from the cameras. But this seemed… different. Light was on the edge of something, and if L was lucky, it might be some kind of confession, fuelled by a terrible dream that brought all of his crimes rushing back with the sudden weight of guilt that Kira never felt.

Yes, L had enough self-reflection to know that he was kidding himself. But it had been a long month and a half.

He remained crouching, one hand poised above the plate of strawberries and the other hand hovering above the microphone that would let him speak to Light. And he listened.

“I don’t wan’ do this,” Light whispered to himself, his words slurring together in a way that L had never heard from the other man. The distressed voice hooked its claws into his chest in a way that was both foreign and familiar. Was this… “I don’ wan’ do this,” Light repeated, and then burst into tears.

It wasn’t anything like the quiet, hidden tears of the night-time. Light was sobbing, pulling at his restraints, tossing on the bed. Unable to wipe them away, tears and snot made a mess of his face. L watched as the teenager struggled to his knees and pressed himself against the wall, as if he were trying to get some kind of comfort from the pressure. The tears wouldn’t stop, even as words started making their way through the sobs.

“Lemme out, I wan’ out, I can’t, I can’t. It’s too dark, I can’t. Please, I’m too… I can’t feel my hands!” Light wailed, collapsing in on himself, his shoulders straining against the cuffs.

L was dimly aware that his hands had dropped to his sides. He knew he was staring. He knew that Aizawa had come running to stand behind him, alerted by the cries coming through the speakers. His ears were ringing, and he could feel Light’s sobs in his own chest.

The truth was unavoidable: Light Yagami was a regressor, and L had not known.

How was that possible?

Light was registered as age-natural on his official documents. L had watched him for weeks, and he had shown no signs of regression, not at home when he was unaware of being observed, and not here in the prison cell. Until now.

This was a harsh involuntary regression, from the looks of it, and the part of L that had made them stamp ‘caregiver’ on his own documents was aching.

“Oh my god. Is Light a regressor?” Aizawa said behind him. “That looks like regression, right?”

“It isn’t on his file,” L said, pleased that his voice sounded even. He hadn’t been around a regressor in distress for a few years, and he’d forgotten how much it made his chest hurt. Knowing that he’d been the one to put Light in that situation made it worse. Rationally, he knew that Light being a regressor meant nothing to the investigation. In fact, it made L even more certain that he was Kira. To conceal his headspace that thoroughly, even under investigation, made it clear that Light was no ordinary teenager. That must have taken an immense amount of willpower and planning.

“You have to let him out,” Aizawa said. “You can’t hold a regressor in a place like that, and his innocence has already been proven.” Light was still sobbing, his harsh breaths providing an undercurrent to their conversation. “Ryuzaki, you can’t possibly let that continue.”

“I… think he knew this might happen,” L realized. “This is what he meant when he asked me not to let him out, whatever happened. He knew that he would regress under the pressure.”

“All the more reason to release him! He still doesn’t know that Kira is killing again, it’s not fair. You’ve put him under way too much stress. Let me talk to him.” Aizawa reached for the microphone, and L struck his hand away.

“No. The last thing he needs is more sensory input from the speaker system.” Aizawa recoiled from the physical interception, eyes wide. “And you could jeopardize the investigation,” L added, slightly belated.

“You can’t do this. I’ll call the rest of the team,” Aizawa threatened, reaching into his pocket.

“There’s no need for that,” L sighed. He knew that the rest of the team would agree with Aizawa. The legal system was more lenient for regressors, and keeping them in solitary confinement was widely considered cruel. “I’ll go myself.”

Just because Light couldn’t be held in the cell anymore didn’t mean that L was prepared to let him go without twenty-four-hour supervision. Luckily, he had a set of unusually long handcuffs that he’d already been prepared to use after Light’s release. He could just speed that process along… and tell Watari to order some more regressor-friendly accessories for their room, of course. Maybe pad the cuff that Light would wear, so he didn’t accidentally hurt himself.

L shook his head, pushing his chair back from the table with a sigh. His caregiver mind was getting in the way again. Light was Kira, regressor or no. He wasn’t keeping Light close so that he could take care of him, but so that he was unable to hurt anyone else.

“We’ll discuss Misa’s release when I return,” L added over his shoulder as he headed for the door, reaching into his pocket to call Watari with the car. Light’s prison was a short drive from the base, and the sooner L got there, the better.

--

Sure enough, the drive was agony.

L stared out the window, the seatbelt Watari had forced him to wear digging into his chest and disrupting his thoughts. He was trying to make plans, trying to think back to all of his interactions with Light and wonder if he should have known. Was that why Light had always sharply refused any kind of sweet drink, even something as simple as fruit juice? Was he afraid that he might slip into regression? Was that why he had been crying at night, quietly regressing just enough for his childish fears to come to the surface? How confused was he, how disoriented in the cell? He seemed to know he was trapped, but did he remember what he was accused of?

L barely noticed when the car came to a stop, but when Watari opened his door for him, it took genuine effort not to go running into the building. Instead, L moved even slower than he usually would. Each gesture would be planned. Each word intentional. Just because Light was a regressor, it didn’t mean he wasn’t dangerous. L had to be on his guard, even more because of his natural caregiver instincts.

He made his way down the cold concrete stairwell, Watari a few paces behind him. Hands tucked in his pockets, breathing slow and natural. No worries about what he might have missed in the two minutes he’d been away from the screens. Had Light hurt himself? Was he safe? Was he still crying? L should have brought water, he’s sure to be dehydrated-

They stepped onto the cell block, and L had a brief conversation with one of the guards to obtain the keys. He’d already texted ahead, and they knew to expect him.

Watari stayed behind, just within earshot as L padded down the line of empty cells to the one that held Light.

It was strange to see the cell in person. For the first time, L could see the camera that Light had shouted at so often. He could see the details of the walls more clearly here, the chipped tile of the bathroom corner and the scratches in the concrete that didn’t come through on the long-distance video feed.

And there was Light, curled into a ball on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms still tied behind him, much in the same position that he had been napping in before his nightmare.

L had approached soundlessly, and Light’s eyes were closed. He didn’t open them until L put the key into the lock and turned it.

“N—no, I don’t-” Light stuttered, and then looked up. “Ryuzaki? Ryuzaki!” He tried to get up, but the cuffs on his ankles made him stumble and fall. L heard his knees hit the concrete with a harsh crack, and Light teared up again. “No, no, don’t come in. M’sorry, don’t come in.”

“I’ll let you out of the cuffs,” L told him, his hand on the door but waiting to open it.

“No, I don’t want it,” Light managed. “Just… go.”

“Light, how old are you?” L pressed.

Light made a sound that resembled a squeak, and very slowly raised his eyes to L’s.

“How old are you right now?” L asked again. He watched Light’s expression twist from surprise to embarrassment to conflict, then Light started crying again.

“I don’t wanna be,” Light sobbed. “I don’ wan’ it.”

And there went L’s chest again, twisting and aching with the sound of a regressor in distress. He regulated his voice, unwilling to let it sound too caring. It came out flat instead.

“There’s no shame in regressing, Light. Two percent of the population isn’t an insignificant number. You’ll be more comfortable with your arms free.” Light shook his head, tears flying with the gesture.

“No! Don’t come in!”

“How old are you, Light? You’re young, I can tell that much. Probably in the toddler range, if I had to guess.” From Light’s glare through the tears, L had hit the nail on the head. “I thought so. Stop fighting me. I was going to let you out soon anyways.” Well, L hadn’t been meant to say that. But he could probably use that to his advantage.

“But… but you think I’m Kira,” Light mumbled. Interesting: he did have his full memories, then. Very little disorientation for such a young age range.

“I do,” L admitted. “But the taskforce doesn’t. They want you back on the team.”

“Me?” Light blinked up at him, and his eyes were even wider than usual, framed with perfect dark lashes, and L was in agony being separated by bars. This regressor was going to be the death of him. “But… I thought the bad things stopped ‘cause I was here.”

L was fascinated by the limits of Light’s mental reasoning while he was regressed. He would have to do some experimentation at a later time, but for now…

“I lied. Kira has been active for almost a month. I wasn’t convinced it meant you were innocent, but it makes a good case.” L watched that news hit home, but in a very different way than it would have hit an adult Light.

“You lied? Why? I thought… I thought I was bad, maybe, but you were lying!” Light tried to wipe his tears on his shoulder, only partially succeeding. “I don’ wanna know why. Probably a good reason, ‘cause you’re L and you do all the good things.”

Hmm. It seemed that Light’s certainty that he wasn’t Kira didn’t extend to his regressed self. Perhaps he was speaking more candidly in this headspace.

“I’m not fond of unnecessary cruelty,” L sighed, hooking one hand through the bars. “If I had known, Light-”

“You never woulda had me on the task force,” Light said, quite viciously. “Never ever.”

“That’s not true.” L traced one thumb against his lips. “I’ve known regressors who are exceedingly intelligent. Everything would have proceeded the same.”

“Even though I’m three?” Light asked, and L fought the urge to smile. Information, at last. Three. He stored that away.

“Even though you’re three,” L confirmed. “Your input is valuable to me. In fact, I would like to invite you back to the taskforce after you’ve recovered from this imprisonment.”

“Yes!” Light shuffled forwards on his knees, wincing at the movement. He probably bruised them earlier when he fell. “Yes, please! I wanna help catch Kira! And all the bad guys!” His eyes were shining with excitement and the tears from earlier. Looking down at him, L’s mind caught in a loop.

Light Yagami was Kira, but this… this was not Kira. What that meant about Light, or Kira, or the nature of Light’s regression, L couldn’t say, but he was certain of one thing.

“Can I come in now?” L asked.

Light visibly hesitated, then sank back onto his heels and nodded.

“Thank you.” L left the keys in the lock as he swung open the door and entered, making his way to Light briskly. It was easy enough to get the cuffs off his wrists, and Light whined when his hands were free, struggling to move his shoulders back into a natural position. “Give it time,” L advised, pressing at his spine with experienced fingers. Massages were one of his lesser-used skills, but easy to pick up with his wide knowledge of the human body. “They’ll hurt less in a few minutes.”

He wasn’t expecting Light to shift forward and wrap his arms around him, but that was exactly what happened.

L froze, his hands raised in the air as if in surrender. He’d comforted regressors before, at crime scenes and over interrogation tables. A few of the children at the orphanage were regressors, and he interacted with them when he visited. But none of them had dove into a hug like this. L was a detective, a mentor, a little too strange and intense to be approachable. Now there were arms wrapped around him, holding him tightly, and L didn’t know what to do.

Falteringly, L returned the embrace, the tips of his fingers resting lightly on his own forearms. Light had lost weight over the last month, and his body felt almost frail against L.

“Had a nightmare,” Light whispered.

L wondered if Aizawa was listening, back at the base. He wondered if Watari had wandered closer, after hearing the cell door open. He wondered what kind of things Kira dreamed about.

“Do you want to talk about it?” L asked, and didn’t lean back from the embrace.

“It was bad,” Light said. “I was running, and there were hands, and a fence, an’ there were… bodies. On the fence. And they were… they were…” L could feel Light shaking, and he held the regressor just a little bit closer.

“Just a dream,” L said. He wondered how much blood was on Light’s hands, how much of it he remembered. “You’re safe now. It was just a dream.” L held Light in his arms, the ache in his chest finally fading as he looked down at him. There, the regressor was safe, and L could finally relax. Light’s breathing slowly evening out, his grasp on L’s shirt finally loosening. “You’re safe.”

Light blinked up at L sleepily, and then his eyes slid closed. A natural reaction to stress, and having a caregiver close by. Even if L hadn’t disclosed his classification, his actions combined with Light’s instincts had likely made it clear. L cradled Light in his arms, like a puzzle piece fitting into place, and watched him fall asleep. He would have no more nightmares with a caregiver so close by, and even if he did, L would be there to calm him down.

L knew that this was trouble. Light was Kira, and Kira was death. L’s instincts as a caregiver could only blind him further as he continued in the investigation. If he were being rational, he would attach Light to someone else for the rest of his surveillance period. Prevent the caregiver/regressor bond that had been formed between them from strengthening into something difficult to break.

But L didn’t like being rational. He followed his instincts, and they were always right.

Right now, his instincts told him two things.

I will not let go of Light Yagami.

This will be the death of me.

[pinktintedmonocle]

Revenge Is A Dish Best Served At An Undetermined Temperature - A Red Dwarf Fanfic

On the hunt for new sleeping quarters, Rimmer is finally forced to confront his past when a detour sees him and Lister end up in the very Officer’s Club where the infamous gazpacho soup incident occurred.

In this fic I’ve gone with the idea that there is more than one Officer’s Club on board Red Dwarf. That is something that for some reason I always just assumed to be the case, but after doing some research I’m pretty sure there is actually only supposed to be one.  But I like the idea that there are a few dotted around the ship and that Rimmer has always avoided stepping foot in the one where he was served the gazpacho soup, so I decided to stick with it.

“Do you think the reason they’re called shag pile carpets is because people shag on them a lot?” asked Lister, hands behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling.

Rimmer frowned. “Can’t say I’ve ever given it much thought, Listy.  Possibly. Although why then are they called ‘shag pile’ and not just ‘shag’?  Where does the pile come in?”

Lister turned his head and looked at Rimmer with a grin.  “Maybe it’s ‘cause after you’ve shagged on one and you lie on it for too long after you get piles!”

“And on that note, I’m leaving”, said Rimmer.  He started to clamber to his feet but Lister grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him back down.

“Rimmer, you can’t just love me and leave me!” Lister protested.  “Come on, let’s have a cuddle.”

Rimmer puffed out his cheeks in annoyance.  “We’ve got things to do Listy!  We can’t just lie down and canoodle all day.  We need to finish looking at the rooms on this floor and the next before we take an extended break.”

“It’ll just be a quick one!” said Lister.  “Five minutes, tops.  I swear.  Then we can get on.”

“Fine”, Rimmer replied, making himself comfortable on the plush carpet.  “But only five minutes!”

Lister turned and pulled the end of a nearby table cloth.  It rose into the air with a shower of dust (clearly Kryten hadn’t cleaned this room in a while, Rimmer noted) before it fell to the floor and Lister wrapped it around them.  He rested his head on Rimmer’s chest and was soon snoring softly.

Rimmer sighed, resigned to the fact that they were likely to be there for much longer than five minutes. He shifted slightly and grimaced. Was it possible for a hologram to get piles?  He wasn’t particularly keen to find out.  He let his head fall to one side and stared at the soft carpet.  It was deep plum, a rich and luxurious colour.  It was also, Rimmer realised with a frown, oddly familiar. He had a memory of walking on a carpet just like this, of glancing down at well-polished dress shoes as they sunk into dark purple softness.  When was the last time he had worn those shoes?  It was definitely before he died; in the memory he could see a crease in the leather along the toe line, a feature missing from hologrammatic footwear. But when had he worn such smart shoes when he was still alive?  There had been the occasional wedding or funeral when he was younger and still living at home, but his feet were fully grown in the memory.  There was only one time when he would have worn shoes like that as an adult; that night, that terrible, terrible night…

Rimmer swivelled his head around as far as he could with a still slumbering Lister on his chest, taking in as much of the rest of the room as possible.  There was a big table, now devoid of its cloth, with a dozen or so ornate chairs surrounding it.  On a sideboard were napkins tied with delicate purple ribbons that matched the carpet next to an assortment of spoons and crockery, as if in preparation for a dinner party.  Rimmer knew this, because he’d been to one of those very dinner parties on the worst night of his life.

Because this wasn’t just any room, it was the room, the room that Rimmer had avoided stepping into for the last thirty years.  It was the Officer’s Club where he had been served the Gazpacho Soup.

**********************************************************************************

Rimmer had been rudely woken in the early hours of the morning by a thud, a yell and a boot colliding with the side of his head, all in quick succession.  He had sat up wildly in the dark, yelling for Holly to turn the lights on, only to be confronted by the glare of a very disgruntled Lister who was sprawled out on the floor.  

Rimmer had blinked groggily, staring down at his irritated lover as he rubbed his temple.  “Listy, what are you doing down there at this ungodly hour?  Why are you throwing things are me?”

Lister scowled up him. “You rolled me out of bed again, smeghead!  I was havin’ a great dream about eating lamb vindaloo with Jim Bexley Speed in a campervan made of cheese.  He was just carvin’ a block of cheddar out of the wall so we could grate it on top of our curries when you flopped over and threw me to the ground!

“It wasn’t intentional!” Rimmer said defensively.  “You know what I’m like when I’m sleeping, I move around more than Jane Fonda during an aerobics session, I can’t help it!”

Lister hauled himself up, wincing.  “Yeah, I know, but it’s the third time this week, Rimmer!  I can’t go on like this, man.  The other day I was so knackered I dozed off in me cornflakes and got grated onion up me nose!”  He sat on the edge of Rimmer’s bunk and sighed deeply.  “This just isn’t workin’.”

Rimmer had felt his whole body stiffen and a feeling of cold dread trickled down his spine as he prepared for Lister to break up with him.  It’s fine, he told himself (it wasn’t), I don’t need him (he did), I can still function perfectly well without being able to kiss him whenever I please (he couldn’t).  

So it came as an immense relief when Lister simply said, “We need to find a bigger bed.  Like, now.  I swear, if don’t get me head down and have a proper kip soon I’ll be barmier than Holly after… well, I’ll just be barmier than Holly full stop.”

“Oi!” protested Holly, appearing on the vid screen with a frown.  Lister ignored him.

And so the pair of them had spent all morning traipsing around the ship, attempting to find a room where both of them were happy to lay their hat (“I don’t have a hat”, Rimmer had said, confused.  Lister had rolled his eyes.  “It’s just an expression, man.”)

This was easier said than done.  Every mattress that was squishy enough for Lister was far too soft for Rimmer, while every mattress that was firm enough for Rimmer had Lister claiming that it’d be more comfortable to sleep on concrete.  Lister’s favourite rooms were too bright and garish for Rimmer, while Rimmer’s preferred dwellings were so gloomy and spartan that Lister had sarcastically suggested that they might as well just go and live in the Tank.

After several hours of this, both of them growing more irritable with every rejected abode, they had ended up yelling at each in a random corridor for a good ten minutes before Lister had thrown himself at Rimmer and glued their lips together in a highly charged kiss.  Still stuck together they had stumbled into the nearest room and proceeded to have it off on the surprisingly soft carpet.  And after that came the conversation about shag-pile, shagging and piles before Lister fell asleep and Rimmer realised with a sickening lurch exactly what room it was they had just made love in.

**********************************************************************************

Rimmer closed his eyes tightly, screwed up his face and waited for the inevitable wave of nerve shattering panic to hit him.  Perhaps, if he stayed very, very still during this episode of mental anguish Lister wouldn’t wake up until it was mostly over and he had regained coherent speech and the full use of his limbs.  Was it even possible to have a completely silent and motionless anxiety attack? All of his previous ones had been quite obvious and all had ended up with him being committed to the ship’s psychiatric ward on a stretcher with his arms pinned to his sides.  What would Lister do if he woke to find Rimmer in such a state?  He imagined himself strapped on a bed in the Medi-Bay, Kryten trying to coax him to open his mouth just enough to put a holo-thermometer in it while Lister hovered anxiously by his bedside and the Cat just pointed at him and laughed.

In fact, Rimmer was so busy trying to make his panic attack as non-verbal and unnoticeable as possible that it was several minutes before he realised that he wasn’t actually having a panic attack.  But why wasn’t he?  This was the room in which all his hopes and dreams had been shattered into a million pieces, the room in which his aspirations to become an officer were taken away from him by a poxy bowl of icy vegetable broth. He remembered how excited he’d been when he finally got an invitation to attend a dinner in one of the Officer’s Clubs, one of those little pockets of exclusivity that seemed to be present on almost every floor, before he’d actually arrived and it had all turned to smeg. He had vowed to himself that night as he left the club in shame that he would never set foot in that room again and he had stuck to that vow for over thirty years.  Every time the others suggested a party in an Officer’s Club he had made sure they chose one of the other ones, any other one, just not this one.  He should be beside himself, wracked with unbearable anguish, but instead he just felt…indifferent.

There must be an issue with the hologram simulation suite, Rimmer thought, desperately trying to think of a reasonable explanation and immediately imagining the worst case scenario. Maybe Kryten is cleaning in there and unplugged my emotion banks so he could hoover, or the Cat has turned off the neutral processors so he could plug in his hot wax machine.  Or maybe my light bee is on its way out and isn’t connected to the mainframe anymore. In a few minutes I’ll probably just be a gibbering wreck in a hard-light husk and Lister will hate me for leaving him. Again.  Rimmer’s breath caught in his chest and he started to hyperventilate. He tried to reason with himself that, being dead, he didn’t actually need to breathe and could stop at any time, but that just made him think about being properly dead, being gone dead, the kind of dead that meant he couldn’t snuggle with Lister in the evenings, and that just made his breathing even more erratic.

Lister stirred, his nap distributed by Rimmer’s heaving chest. He lifted his head and blinked blearily at the hologram, his eyebrows knitted together in concern.  

“Rimmer!  What’s the matter, man?”

Rimmer tried to speak but couldn’t fit words in-between his shuddering breaths.  He pushed Lister off him, clambered to his feet and stumbled across the room before bracing himself against the table.

Lister quickly followed him and laid a hand on Rimmer’s back, rubbing soft circles into the hologrammatic flesh.  “Just try and breathe slow, Rimmer.  In through your nose, out through your mouth, yeah?  Try and relax, man.”

Although still caught in the throes of anxiety, the soothing motion of Lister’s hand calmed Rimmer down just enough to allow him to begin to even out his breathing and regain the power of speech.

“Panic attack”, he rasped. “I’m not, I’m not-“, he broke off as his breathing sped up again.  

Lister placed his other hand on Rimmer’s back as well and continued to rub gently.  ““Right, panic attack.  Do you know what caused it?”

Rimmer took a deep, shuddering breath.  “Because I didn’t have one!”

“Have one what?”, Lister asked, confused.

“A panic attack!”

“Hang on”, said Lister. “Are you telling me that you’re havin’ a panic attack because you didn’t have a panic attack?”

“Precisely!”, Rimmer snapped, before leaning further over the table and continuing to pant.  Lister’s ministrations on his back ceased and instead the shorter man grabbed Rimmer firmly by the shoulders and turned him around so they were facing each other.

“Rimmer, just talk to me, man!  What’s going on?”

“It’s this room!”, Rimmer wailed.  “It’s the Gazpacho Soup room!  It’s the room that haunts my nightmares and in which my dreams were cruelly snatched away from me and yet I can’t seem to care!  Which must mean that there is something horribly wrong with me and that soon I’ll shut down permanently and I’ll either just disappear completely or freeze in place and the Cat will use me as a hat stand!”

Lister blinked slowly as if trying to absorb a lot of information at once.

“What’s your middle name, Rimmer?”

“What”?, asked Rimmer, so perplexed by this non sequitur that he suddenly stopped hyperventilating.

“Well”, Lister explained, “If you’re really shutting down and losin’ parts of your mind there’ll be more missin’ than just the memory of how you felt that night.  So, what’s your middle name?”

“Judas”, Rimmer replied, not missing a beat.

“And the names of your brothers?”

“Howard, Frank and John.”

“The school you went to?”

“Io House.”

“The name of the company that runs the ship?”

“The Jupiter Mining Corporation.”

Lister’s hands moved down from Rimmer’s shoulders to his arms and he squeezed his biceps softly.

“And what do you think about Kryten?”

Rimmer huffed.  “He’s a square headed git.”

“And Cat?”

“Feline imbecile with the concentration span of a brain damaged goldfish.”

“And what about Captain Hollister or Toddhunter or Petersen?  How did you feel about them?”

“The undisputed champion of Mr All American Lard-Ass, insufferable posh goit, vile Danish gimboid with all the charisma of a particularly rude and putrid skunk.”

Lister took a step closer. “And how do you feel about me?”

Rimmer gazed down into Lister’s dark brown eyes and felt a blush rising in his cheeks.  “You know how I feel about you”, he said softly.

Lister stood on his tiptoes, leant in and pressed a gentle kiss to Rimmer’s lips before stepping back with a smile.  “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, Rimmer.”

Rimmer blinked in confusion. “But there must be!  Why aren’t I panicking?  It makes less sense than the plot of a Sylvester Stallone film!”

“It makes perfect sense, Rimmer!”, said Lister.  “You’re not panicking because of some electrical fault or because Cat has decided it’s time to remove his leg hair, you’re not panicking because I think you’ve just got over it.”

Rimmer’s mouth fell open in shock.  “Over it?  Listy, the Gazpacho Soup incident was the single most humiliating experience of my life, how on Io would I have just gotten over it?”

“Because you’re not that person anymore, Rimmer!”, Lister exclaimed.  “You were still really young when that happened!”

“I was thirty!”

“Thirty is still young!”, Lister protested, tugging on his dreads in exasperation.  “I mean, most people are still figurin’ out who they are at that age; nobody’s properly grown up by then apart from antiques experts and chartered accountants and I’m pretty sure they’re just born old anyway.  But you’ve been through so much smeg since then, man; you’ve been to an alternative universe where time runs backwards, you were a prisoner on a planet created by your own mind, you’ve battled GELF’s and simulants, you’ve learned that cloning yourself is a really, really bad idea and you even became Ace and went off to save the universe for a bit!  Your world is so much bigger now than a bowl of smegging soup!”

“But it was the worst thing that even happened to me”, Rimmer said weakly, doubt creeping in his voice.  “It haunts my dreams…”

“Yeah?  When was the last time you dreamt about it?  Last week, last year?  Have you even dreamt about it in last decade?”

Rimmer’s mind raced. When was the last time he had actually thought or dreamt about it?  It had seemed just like yesterday when the memory had rushed back to him while lying on the carpet, but now that he had calmed down it was starting to feel like something that had happened a long time ago to someone who wasn’t quite him.  When he had returned from being Ace it had been easy to slip back into his old ways, to wear his old persona like a cosy if slightly worn blanket.  But was that really him anymore?  He had seen and done so much since he’d died, both on board Red Dwarf and during his time as Ace, so many wonderful and horrific things, but he’d never really thought about how they might have changed him.  But he had changed, hadn’t he?  The person he used to be would never have been brave enough to amid his feelings for Lister, let alone start a romantic relationship with him.  He stared at Lister, eyes wide.

“Do you really think I’ve just gotten over it?”

Lister nodded and stepped forward again.  “Yeah, Rimmer, I really do.”

Rimmer’s shoulders slumped. “I never thought I’d get over it, not ever, and now apparently I have without even realising it.  I mean, they were my final words, Listy!  Gazpacho Soup.  I thought nothing as terrible as that night would ever happen to me, that it was the worst thing to ever happen to anyone in the whole universe.  But you’re right; after everything we’ve been through, after everything we’ve seen, the way I felt about that soup just seems…pathetic.”

“Hey now!”, said Lister. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No!  Well, not exactly.”  Lister frowned.  “Look, when you’re young there’s always things that seem like they’re the whole world, you know?  Like they’re the be all and end all, the thing that defines you, and then when you get a bit older and look back it’s like, a bit embarrassin’ to think that you ever felt so strongly about something that doesn’t seem very important anymore.  But that doesn’t mean that you should be ashamed for ever feelin’ that way, because at the time it was that important and at the end of the day it’s those things that make us us, you know?  The way you felt about that soup then helped to make you who you are today, along with a billion other things that might seem a bit silly now but without which you wouldn’t the person standing in front of me. Because of all those things you became the person that I fell in love with, rather than someone I just wanted to punch in the throat.  Don’t get me wrong, you’re still a complete smeghead, but you’re so much more than that now.  You’re so much more than you were, Rimmer.”

Tears pricked Rimmer’s eyes and he blinked rapidly to clear them.  “When did you become so wise, Listy?  Or have you just been taking learning drugs and making your way through the philosophy section of the library?”

Lister hit him lightly on the arm.  “Oi! I’ve always been wise!”

They stood in silence for a moment, just looking at each other, before Rimmer spoke again.

“Did you really mean all those things, about me being more than I was?”, he asked tentatively.

Lister raised a hand to cup Rimmer’s jaw.  “Yeah, I did.”  He closed his eyes as he rested his forehead against Rimmer’s.  “’Cause it true.  After years of wadin’ through smeg and your own neuroses you’ve actually become an alright person, and I love you for that.”

Rimmer felt breathless again, although this time it was from pleasure rather than panic.  He leant into Lister’s touch.   “I love you too, Listy”, he said, his voice filled with tenderness.  “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anything, more than my pet lemming or a well pressed uniform or a particularly thrilling game of Risk.”

They kissed, gentle and sweet.  Lister placed his other hand on Rimmer’s hip and one of Rimmer’s arms snaked around Lister’s back, pulling him even closer.  Just as the kiss began to intensify there was a loud rumble and Lister pulled away with a grimace, one hand falling to rest on his stomach.

“Think I need to get some grub.  Come on, we’ll pick this up later.”  He winked at Rimmer before walking over to his pile of discarded clothes.

Rimmer watched him go, eyes on Lister’s bare arse, before he tore his gaze away and looked down at his own body instead.  He realised with a jolt that he was also still completely naked.  “Uniform!” he barked and a fresh blue suit shimmered onto his body.

As Lister dressed, Rimmer turned his attention to the table.  When he had first set eyes upon it on that night it had seemed so grand and intimidating, an Officer’s table in an Officer’s Club, but now he saw there was nothing special about it at all; it was just a table, and a rather drab one at that.  Similarly, he could now see that the bowl of Gazpacho Soup had always just been a bowl of soup, despite the importance that he had attached to it at the time.  A bowl of cold soup couldn’t love you or hold you or comfort you on the long and lonely nights; it was just a stupid smegging status symbol, a strange and frankly quite disgusting dish adopted by the kind of posh goits who went to public school and became politicians and laughed at the poor behind their backs.  

Rimmer walked over to the very chair that he himself had sat in three million years ago and ran a hand over its dusty velvet back.  It was an odd feeling, to discover that you’d gotten over something that had once seemed so important without even realising that you had.  The Rimmers had not been the sort family to forgive and forget; they had been the kind of people who held on to every grudge and petty jealously until the day they died.  Great Aunt Susan had received a lifetime ban from family Sunday lunches at the age of eighty-seven for falling asleep during the main course and knocking a brimming gravy boat over a pristine hand-embroidered tablecloth belonging to Rimmer’s mother (although Rimmer had always suspected his Great Aunt was quite relieved to not have to attend the meal anymore; she was far too old for all the hopping, which is probably why she fell asleep in the first place).  His brother Frank had cajoled his rival for Janine’s affections into being the best man at their wedding just so the poor sod was forced to watch another man marry the woman he loved; Rimmer still remembered the way he had broken down in tears during his speech and had to be carried out by Howard and John while Frank sneered evilly, clutching the hand of his new bride.  The man who he had thought was his father had been the worst of them all, stretching his sons to ensure they could join the Space Corps just because he was rejected for being one inch below regulation height. There was, Rimmer realised, a distinct possibility that he was the first ever Rimmer to actually let something go. He allowed himself to feel a little smug about that.

“Hey”, said Lister as he wiggled back into his trousers, “Can you imagine the look on Captain Hollister’s face if he could see what we’ve done in here?  Having sex in one of his precious Officer’s Clubs before declaring our love for each other stark smegging naked!  He’d probably have a heart attack!  It’d be a good revenge for the way he treated us, wouldn’t it?”

Rimmer snorted in amusement. “Yes, it certainly would Listy! Just a shame it’s three million years too late.”

Lister grinned. “Well, you know what they say, Rimmer; revenge is a dish-“

“I may have gotten over it, but if you finish that sentence with the phrase ‘best served cold’ I will garrotte you with a napkin ribbon.”

“I was going to say ‘revenge is a dish best served at whatever smegging temperature you want to serve it at’!” Lister replied defensively.

Rimmer rolled his eyes. “People don’t say that, Listy.”

“Yeah they do!  ‘Cause I’m the only person left alive so whatever I say is what people say.  Besides, only proper disgusting things are served cold, like salad and that raw fish you get in fancy restaurants.”

“Sushi”, said Rimmer.

“Bless you”, said Lister. “Anyway, all the best things are served either hot or warm; curry, naan bread, lager.  Talking of which, think I’ll get Kryten to knock me up a chicken balti for lunch.  You comin’?"

“What, to watch you wolf down over spiced poultry with all the grace of a BEGG devouring a fresh pile of garbage?  I may love you, Listy, but there are some things I draw a line at.  Think I’ll finish looking at the rooms on this floor while you stuff your face.”

“No, you won’t!”, protested Lister, waggling a finger as he finished tying the laces on his boots and shrugged his jacket on.  “You’ll ignore all the decent ones and choose one that looks like a crypt.  Come on, quick lunch then we’ll finish lookin’ together.”

“Alright, fine”, Rimmer huffed.  He walked to the door and held it open for Lister.

Lister sauntered over and stopped in the doorway, pressing Rimmer against the frame and brushing his lips against the hologram’s ear.

“And you know, the faster we eat and choose a room, the less time it’ll be before you can bend me over backwards and shag me into a mattress.”  Lister stepped back with a wicked grin and started to walk down the corridor.  Rimmer gulped and took a moment to compose himself before following swiftly behind.

As they walked Lister reached out and gave Rimmer’s hand a reassuring squeeze.  “You OK now, Rimmer?”

“Yes”, said Rimmer, a rare but genuine smile lighting up his face.  “In fact, I’d say I’m more than just OK.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes”, said Rimmer. “I’m super.”

Thanks to @janamelie, @daveylisters and @ohhhyestottytottytotty for their help in figuring out how old Rimmer was during the Gazpacho Soup incident.

I was considering waiting until the 25th November to post this fic, but I’m been working on it for three smegging months and now it’s finally done I just really needed to post it and get it out into the world! (Or out into the Internet, at any rate). Hope you enjoyed it, dear reader, and hey – if you liked it you could always read it again on Gazpacho Soup day!

[tarithenurse]

On my mind, in my soul - 12

Prompt: Anon was kind with “Highway to Hell” by AC/DC (shown in blockquotes as usual), Asgard, the throne. Pairing: Loki x Burglar!reader. Content: Swearing as usual, references to lemon and sugared lemon (nothing detailed this time), a truckload of feels, and a pinch of...recklesness? A/N:  I know my writing is very slow at the moment and you may all blame my BA for that. I hope this chapter ended up as good as I claim and if you do like it PLS reblog <3

Is it madness?

A golden glow manages to worm its way past your heavy eyelids, reminding you of a world outside of the cocoon you’ve snuggled into. A nest of soft sheets and cool limbs, a gentle breath fanning your shoulder in a slow but steady rhythm.

Blinking against the morning sun, you take in the serenity that are the ruins from the night: parts of the pretty dress are scattered in a path to the bed and the golden horns are dangling from the canopy above, gleaming playfully at you until you see the warped reflection of you and Loki who’s practically wrapped around you.

Craning the neck only brings a sliver of the god’s face and pale upper body into view. Time to be sneaky. There’s no way you want to wake him up already. He needs the rest…and honestly, you want this moment to last. All too soon this dream of a morning will be shattered in some nasty way that probably involves guards and a prison cell…if lucky. So you twist slowly, careful not to jostle Loki too much with the series of wriggles it takes before you finally lie chest to chest with him.

If someone would have told you this is where you’d end before you’d stolen the tiger’s eye pendant…the would have sounded like liars. Or at least you’d have made sure to let them know how crazy there were. Crazy indeed. Of course stealing from a god could have consequences! It just wasn’t supposed to have included falling for the freaking guy.

How could you not have? Chiseled features hides one of his best assets: the highly intelligent mind that enjoyes challenging you and holds immense knowledge on any subject you could possibly fathom even a fraction of. Combining that with a personality which you don’t even have the vocabulary to fully describe and a body tha–

“You’re staring, my queen.” Loki’s voice is raw and sweet, still heavy with sleep.

“Still got your eyes closed so how’d y’know?”

When they open, there’s only a tiny hint of crimson at the edges to contrast the turquoise. Perfect and cold like ice to some, it’s hard to understand how warm his gaze is. Loki isn’t one person with neatly defined traits. No. He’s a living, breathing, goddamn paradox.

“My eyes are open now,” he smiles, “and you’re still staring.”

“A cat may look at a king.”

Living easy, living free Season ticket on a one-way ride

Dark brows wrinkle as he ponders the meaning of the idiom, and you can see the moment he realises what it means. “There are some laws here that we will have to abide by.” The smile’s gone, the joy too.

“What’s gonna happen to you?” If you’d wanted to sound brave, well, that’s not what you managed to pull off as the question’s reduced to a meek whisper.

Soft lips seek out your forehead and mouth. It’s not a real answer. Less so the answer you actually want because you can taste the desperation on his tongue as both of you try to commit the other to memory in the hopes of stretching this glorious morning into infinity.

It’s to the sound of the birds and rustle of silk sheets that Loki makes love to you. Sweet and tender. Toe-curling bliss rolling through your body like waves onto a dry beach until the second orgasm pulls the god along in the surf, your name spilling from his lips in a broken whisper.

We belong…

…   Loki’s PoV   …

He had never intended for things to go the way they did. [Y/N]’s feistiness had drawn him in, her wit and skills had dazzled him…and none of it was enough to explain why Loki had found himself falling for this woman. The many excuses he’d thought up during the long days as he tried to distract himself from her memory were, in the end, bullshit. And the curses he’d been prepared to spit in the woman’s face after yet another lonely night haunted by her scent with nothing but his mind and hands to quench the burning desire? No…Loki’s intellect and foresight had not saved him from this fate.

I love her.

The knowledge isn’t new. He’s known for quite some time although the god has done anything to avoid both thinking and saying it. Nearly losing her was just the latest push in the same direction, down a path that inevitably will break [Y/N]’s heart because that’s all this cruel semi-Asgardian can offer. It’s selfish of him to covet her heart.

A broken heart is better than a dead heart, he’d thought as he chose to repay his debt the only way he could. But it hadn’t worked as intended, and while [Y/N] could ask him anything of him, Odin would be the one to deem it possible or not. One night. The request had been Loki’s even though he knew the price would be high. At least Thor had pleaded his case or the All-Father surely would have denied it without a second’s hesitation.

One night…and then what? What seemed like a great idea once has turned into a sweet nightmare which Loki has to distract himself from by doting on the Midgardian woman in the hopes that she might understand how much she has come to mean to him.

I could just tell her? They bathe together, barely speaking a word because no words will be enough anyways. He dresses [Y/N] in dark blue and silver, hoping to spare the pain it would be to see her in Loki’s own colours because there’s no way anymore that she will ever be his in this world or another…not even now as she willingly gives herself to him. Not give. No, this time the god is the one who has prayed for and received nothing short of a miracle. But the sweet satisfaction has come too late, on the very cusp of judgement.

Breakfast is brought to them, brimming with the best delicacies Asgard can offer. It’s with a feigned smile and unnatural cheerfulness that Loki speaks of his childhood when he was causing mischief in the great halls of Valhalla and more often than not pinning the suspicions on Thor. Time and time again, an honest laugh is coaxed from [Y/N] only to be snuffed prematurely as reality catches up with the game of pretence.

Their time together is brought to an end by the arrival of a dozen guards preceding Odin and Thor. Heavy manacles and chains are wrapped around Loki despite the oath he’s given. Upon [Y/N]’s life, the prison would neither struggle nor attempt to escape. His distaste of the safety measures are not for himself (he wouldn’t trust himself either), but for the pain in her eyes that never waver from him once. Thor’s by her side, a heavy hand upon the comparatively narrow shoulder as though to comfort her or keep the woman in place.

“Wait!” They’ve already marched Loki to the door when he hears her cry.

Someone must have accepted the plea, because next moment the taste of [Y/N] is on his lips once more, mingling with traces of salt.

Don't need reason, don't need rhyme Ain't nothing I would rather do

…   Reader’s PoV   …

Just like that.

You can only surmise Loki’s being brought back to the prison, but it has been more than obvious that this time there’ll be no visits. Even though the guards and Odin left now without as much as a word to explain, you can’t risk sneaking after them because Thor’s hovering around in the room that suddenly seems cold and barren. Maybe you should be comforted by his presence. At least it’s keeping you from doing some pretty stupid things that could make Loki’s situation worse. Glancing over at the blond meat-wall of a guy, you don’t feel any better.

“Lady [Y/N],” he offers lamely, an apologetic smile on his lips that does nothing to hide the pity, “do not fret…my father has not decided on the verdict yet.”

“What are the odds?” You can hear it yourself, how hollow your voice is.

Falling onto a chair, which groans under the sudden strain, even Thor seems to be at a loss for anything optimistic. “There’s a strain in the relationship between my brother and father.” No shitting. “Over the years, my word has come to way less and less. In fact…” He pins you to the ground where you stand with electric-blue eyes. “In fact you may be the best hope there is for him.”

Then we’re fucked. The odd wording of the thought makes you hesitate. It’s his freedom or worse on the line. Not yours. A year ago, there’d have been no “we” and you’d never have ended up this close to anyone, instead stayed detached enough to simply walk away without a second thought. It had been a simpler life. A lonely life. Well this is gonna be fucking lonely anyways unless I do something.

“Tell me how the justice system works here.”

Nobody's gonna mess me around Hey Satan, paid my dues

…

For three days, you and Loki are kept separate and the news on his wellbeing are close to non-existent. It’s fairly clear, how badly Thor wants to speak with you, tell you something to bring comfort. Maybe the king has made him swear to keep quiet in that respect but at least the prince compensates by giving you a crash course on Asgardian courtroom etiquette which turns out to be surprisingly simple (and prone to flaws).

Odin’s the judge. There’s no jury, save for anyone the old ruler might call upon as a sort of council. And the executioner? Anyone he points to.

At first, you make the mistake of thinking it’ll make things simpler because the way of addressing Odin as judge will be no different from the manners required when addressing him as a king, but the next second you realize that you’ll be talking to a man who’s used to complete obedience and that for all his rumoured wisdom…he will most likely be biased. This is his son. Adopted, sure, but a son nonetheless and Odin’s not forgiving towards the mistakes of his children.

Anything I say can and will – fuck! Poking at the smoldering wood in the fireplace, it seems to you like there’s no way out unless you and everyone else are willing to sweet-talk the King until his ears are dripping with honey. Loki chose to return despite the banishment, and it had been clear from the beginning that the consequences would be harsh if that were ever to happen. Idiotic god. The poker releases an eruption of sparks. Fucking, grudge-holding, semi-sadistic stepdad. At least Odin’s kind to you, treating you tenderly on the rare occasions you are together to the surprise of even Thor.

The shadows from the poker dance and dive blackly against the surrounding stones while you ponder the obvious. Why? You’re a freaking human, Midgardian, an outsider in whom the king isn’t supposed to show any particular favours or interest…except he does.

Ignoring the clatter and angry flares from the hastily discarded poker, you push to your feet and grab the nearest cloak to throw around your shoulders. Soft and dark green, it allows you to blend into the shadows as you leave the room in search of answers and limits.

I'm on the highway to hell Highway to hell

…

Considering that Asgard and the royal castle are supposed to be more or less impenetrable there sure are a lot of guards. But guards are people and people are, well, simple. Thankfully, the Asgardians don’t prove to be anymore complicated than those at home, in fact, none of the motionless figures clad in golden armour even bother to ask what you’re doing out of bed as you hurry quietly down the halls in search of set of double doors taller than a house.

When you find the entrance to the throne room, you walk by as if perfectly disinterested and only come to a halt once you’re past the corner and into a stretch of the hallway with no one in sight. Could work.

Only a few minutes have passed before the guards rush past where you’re crouched in the shadows, the catalyst a strange wail which they automatically attribute to the unusual shape in the darkness further on which they don’t know what belongs to yet, just that it’s not supposed to be there. Attention solely on the possible threat, neither guard notices the green flurry of movement that dashes away.

Why in the freaking universe do they not event big doors that don’t weigh a shit ton?! At least you only need a narrow gap to slip inside the room, back against the door to make sure it closes without a sound. A few embers in the braziers in the wall sconces cast an unnatural glow like puddles of faded heat which hardly is enough to navigate by, so you send an unspoken excuse to the designer of the castle who thought far enough to allow the natural light from outside shimmer in through impossible arches at the very top of the walls, each showing a sliver of star-spangled night sky. The room is warped in shadows and splotches of cold light to create a scene from an old photograph with the imposing throne at the far heart of it all. No longer golden but silvery it looks even bigger now and should hold your interest better than it does, but your eyes are glued to the object stretching from armrest to armrest.

It does seem too good to be true even as you finally stand before the seat. Tentatively, you reach out to brush the fingertips along the metal shaft. It’s real. Gripping the spear firmly, there’s no immediate reaction other than a shiver from the nerves you suddenly find ablaze with worry and exhilaration. Lighter than it appears, the weapon slides soundlessly through the night air as you wield Gungnir for the first time.

Probably last time too, you accept as you finally take a seat with the spear in hand. Before you are two sets of eyes belonging to predators and your only consolation is that rather than attack you, both wolves lift their heads to the ceiling and howl.

And I'm going down All the way

[briannamarguerite]

Annual Writing Self Evaluation

*All answers should be about works published in 2017. 

I was tagged by @londonfoginacup. thank you my dear <3

1. List of works published this year:

Singing To Tiny Dancer  Push And Pull Like Magnets Do  Save your loving arms for a rainy day  I'll smile to hide the truth Be with me so happily For Your Eyes Only  In All Its Imperfections Talk Dirty To Me  We're What's Right In This World  just a dream  and marshmallows 

2. Work you are most proud of (and why): I think We’re What’s Right In This World. I put the most work into it out of all the fics, and emotionally stretched myself the most with that one. The prompt shifted me into a strange plot structure (like a plateau that had a few peaks thrown in, instead of climbing to one climax toward the end), but I think it helped push me out of my comfort zone.

3. Work you are least proud of (and why): I’m going to cheat and say one that I never actually published (called Better Sink Before You Swim) which was a Hollywood noir murder mystery set in the 1930s. I wrote it as a pinch-hint for an exchange, but it ended up not being needed, thank god. It’s a hot mess I can’t even look at it.

4. A favorite excerpt of your writing: “Won’t you join me?” The voice was soft, more melody than anything else. It wrapped around Louis, silken bands that tugged at his arms, at his chest.

He didn’t step out of the shadows. “No.”

The man in the pond smiled, sad and sweet and knowing, and then sunk beneath the water in the next heartbeat. The butterflies that had adorned his chest like jewelry, that had tangled in his dark curls, fluttered away.

“He’ll be back,” Louis promised the creatures, where they hovered, distressed, their purple and blue wings beating an angry staccato against the air.

The water was clear as the finest glass, but it distorted the sunlight that trickled in. The rays became blurred chains coiling around Harry’s wrists, thighs, ankles. They dipped into the man’s hair threading it with gold.

Everything was still, as if the world was holding its breath, just waiting for Harry to rejoin them all.

It shouldn’t have been this quiet. Louis was at the very edge of the trees, propped against the trunk of an ancient willow whose knots pressed against his shoulder. There should be bird song, the chatter of squirrels, the crackle of wind through dead leaves. Silence reigned instead.

And then Harry broke through the surface, damp and gasping for air, his hair slicked back. The water ran in rivulets along his shoulders down his chest over pink, puffy nipples hard from the cold sensation.

-- just a dream (this was a joy to write and is probably closest to my non-fic style)

5. Share or describe a favorite comment you received: I love so, so many and have been a little behind on replying (i’m sorry!! i see them and I love them thankk youuu) but a couple memorable ones were when people commented on my WW2 fic about it making them think about their grandfathers after the war. And saying I handled the ptsd aspects well. 

6. A time when writing was really, really hard: There was a rough patch where there was a stupid amount of discourse about appropriate behavior toward content creators around the same time my closest friends in the fandom went through something really hard. If I hadn’t committed to a few exchanges I probably would have stopped writing larry altogether. 

7. A scene or character you wrote that surprised you: I think I was surprised by how attached I got to Lottie In We’re What’s Right. I cried reading back the moment in the apartment toward the end. 

8. How did you grow as a writer this year: I’m going to answer 8&9 here: Sometimes I get too focused on the actual writing technique (which is the part I find fun) and less on like oh right this character has to have an emotional motive for his actions and they have to react to this other character’s emotional motives and they have to conflict and then resolve and grow together. And I’ve gotten better at it, but 1. my instinct and what I like to do is write fluff, and 2. getting practice on it is the main reason I write larry so I should probably actually push myself to do it. 

9. How do you hope to grow next year: see above!

10. Who was your greatest positive influence this year as a writer (could be another writer or beta or cheerleader or muse etc etc):  My group chats!! @a-writerwrites, @twopoppies, @metal-eye, @lululawrence, @dinosaursmate, @haloeverlasting, @dimpled-halo, @londonfoginacup, @suddenclarityharry, @freetheankles, @indiaalphawhiskey, @becomeawendybird

But two special shout-outs to @lululawrence, who was the first fic writer to come talk with me, who holds my hand when I have weird ao3 questions, who is like ‘yes you do want to write marcel bri even though you think you can’t do it’, and is just a general ray of sunshine in the fic community. And @a-writerwrites who is endlessly encouraging and invited me into my first writing group chat, completely changing my writing experience here. i love you both, and also all the writers in this fandom who are just amazingly encouraging toward each other. It’s one of the best, most supportive communities I’ve been a part of. 

11. Anything from your real life show up in your writing this year: In All Its Imperfections was based on a real-life event! But like the total G-rated version. My co-worker found a (not rated R) to-do list in the parking garage and emailed those of us who parked on that floor. The Making The Moose Out Of Life is real stationary!! 

12. Any new wisdom you can share with other writers: Write every single day. Every. Single. Day. Even if it’s only for ten minutes. Also find someone you really, really trust to edit you without mercy. Those are by far the two best ways to improve your writing. 

13. Any projects you’re looking forward to starting (or finishing) in the new year: Hahah I vacillate between never writing fic again and having 342 aus I want to write right this second. My last commitment is to the Marcel exchange. But I have 10K of a search dog au I might keep working on, and a cirque du soleil fic I’ve been thinking about. I also have promised to write a sequel to Imperfections, so I would like to do that eventually *sorry. hides!!*

14. Tag three writers/artists whose answers you’d like to read. @metal-eye; @bixgirl1; @phd-mama (no pressure, though! just if you want to do it!)