#and wait a month to do another blood test to see if I have Grave’s disease 😑

[scarlettscarab]

Complaining in the tags 😑

[lychniis]

⚘— FOR A RETURN AND DEPARTURE.

i. SYNOPSIS : he returns home after his time in the battlefield, stinking of rust and sweat. you wait for him as you do. as you always do. ( childe x reader ) // evenfall event - prompt ii ( ❛ no grave can hold my body down, i’ll crawl home to her.❜ ) + hyacinth and orchid.

ii. WARNING(S) : mentions of blood and death, childe having no self preservation lol, smut at the end with a bit of angst sprinkled in. this post contains 18+ content. minors do not interact.

# masterlist

Childe’s lips speak of hunger and lust and the monsters he keeps chained and bottled up in your presence. It’s chaos cut apart into a human shape and stuffed in with haphazard abandon; it still leaks through ( It’s those moments when he stares out into the snow and you know he imagines it stained red ). 

Your mother called Childe a monster. You still let him into your home and feed him like a stray fox. And like a stray touched by a kinder hand, he leaves footprints down to the path of your home, in and out and all around. His scent spools into your sheets. His old boots were left in the corner by the door. His fishing rod is tucked out back.

And when there are wounds to be licked, he comes to you. Last month he was cut across his arm. He let you bandage him up and he kissed you with aching gentleness ( it’s one for his family. It’s one for you ). 

This time he’d been stabbed clean through. Most of it was healed on camp, mages tucking viscera back to place and mending blood vessels and ruptured nerves. Lacerations that would have given way in your hands. Burns you can’t heal yourself. It leaves a sourness in your mouth that never quite goes away.

“I was impatient.” he admits with a silly little laugh when you unbutton his shirt. “I had to see you again. How could I possibly function if I don't?”

“You could have spared a few hours.” you mutter. “Look at this. You’re still bleeding.” And you point. His bandages were a sticky scarlet. It rubs off on your hands and you feverishly pray it’s not infected. 

He laughs again, like his life was a game, a gamble. You feel like you’ve been stabbed. It’s selfish, maybe, wanting just a little less recklessness in a soldier. “I can’t stand anyone else touching me like that. Not if it’s you.” he muses, tugging you down on top of him. His touch brushes against your hips, your thighs. Hunger. It soothes the ache in your chest. Just a little. You’ll want more soon enough. 

“Can’t you be a little more careful?”

Your voice is soft, a little defeated. Your hands work. Undo the soiled linen. Sew his wounds. It’s like second nature to you. Muscle memory. Your mind rewiring and purging uncertain clumsiness.

“I can’t test my luck if my opponent is stronger than me…” 

“Ajax.”

Childe does not shut up. “...But I'll always come back to you.”

“In a casket, maybe.”

You finish sewing. The look you focus him with is something rawer than you’d like. Reckless man, you want to scream. Reckless, reckless man. You want to tug at his hair. You want to stuff him away in your home where there is no battle, no wars. 

The bandages are next. They’re tugged tight enough, tied and pinned away. He grabs your wrist. “Alive,” he promises. “I’ll come home alive, zolotse.”

"If you don't"

He's disarming. You despise him for it. "Have a little more faith in me." he croons. 

You’ve had enough. You kiss him, for every day left with a cold side to your bed and a meal for one. Childe lets you as he falls back, and he tugs away at your clothes. It’s viscous. And soft. It’s both.

( And it’s voracious. )

“Off.” he whispers, breath hitching to a whine. You move your legs, let him do as he pleases, testing teeth against your shoulders and tugging your innerwear down for the heat of his palms. And you draw him back to the surface when he sinks too deep, when he forgets he’s wounded in his haze.

His fingers spread you apart, stroking against your cunt, pressing up to your clit. He nips at your lips. He demands another kiss. Rust and sweat hang off of him. It’s familiarity, a chilling comfort, something twisted that Childe turned tender. You embrace him. 

“Ajax. slowly.” you whisper into his shoulder. “Slowly, love. You’re still hurt.”

He slips a finger inside. You buck your hips and whine. 

“But I missed you.” he croaks out. “I missed you zolotse.” He dares to be sweet now, lips pressing up against your shoulders while he works on you, works you apart, as easily as he mans his swords. 

You tug at his hair, let him drive you further, drive you mad. “I missed you too, Ajax.” you finally admit. You know the tragedy that dances beneath the lines here. It’s glaringly obvious, it’s heartbreaking. You hold him tight, so tight like he’s something delicate, something breakable.

( Human. And monster. )

He brushes up against your g-spot. Your hips falter. “Please.” you whisper to him. “Please stay a little longer. Please.”

You don’t understand why you still insist on it. You let ecstasy take you anyway and it loosens your lips and makes you beg and say those whispered secrets stowed and locked away. And Childe listens. He listens to all of them as he enters you with a quiet groan, rocking your body with shallow thrusts. You wonder if his shoulders sunk with guilt then. You wonder if he wished for a little more as well. 

You’re soaked. He’s pressed his face into your chest. His hips canting, his pace quickening. Your body still through numbness and ecstasy, sight gleaned over when the first climax picks you apart and empties out your ramblings to unintelligible cries.

The battlefield calls for him a few days later. He lingers by your bedside. You watch his smile and remember it all.

His side of the bed is cold after. 

❪⠀🎬⠀❫ AINE SPEAKS ;;

kjhgfvghjk this fic was initially suppossed to include kaeya in the roster okijuhygfgbh but my brain and energy was like "just one sweetie." "but-" "just one, sweetie." see my sense of freedom is non existant in the face of burnout kijhgvfghnj and i'm sorry i like childe a little more i went through a whole enemies to lovers arc with him jo you were there when i told you lkjnhbnjmk.

anyway, this evenfall post was requested by @mysnowmanandmebaby!!! i hope you like it!!!

if you’d like to be added to the taglist, fill this form up!

taglist — @dustofthedailylife @meimeimeirin @silentmoths @crystalflygeo @ofoceansandtombsanew @ollieink @chiyoso @hleb-chan-sky @thesparklingwriter @localplaguenurse @khxii-i @laughterofthetombs @zhxngii @euniveve @meritamiau @timeofsilversstuff @dumbitchpdf @thexianzhoujade

AINE | 2024. do no plagiarize, repost or rework this piece.

[perseusjackson-jasongrace]

look i didn’t want to be a sour kid

god, it's brutal out here: and percy jackson knows what that means. scars on his body like pulled threads. calluses on his palms from pens that turn into swords, coins that turn into weapons, hands that curl into fists. walking home after an annoying day at school and having to fight the troll on the bridge. you must give me something in order to pass my territory. he gives it death. it gives him another shirt to wash blood stains out of. gods with too much arrogance giving him quests with too little return policy. body that doesn't want to cooperate after he blows up a mountain. body that wants to move too fast when he needs to follow a plan. heart that gets broken and rebuilt with different materials every day. god it’s brutal out here: and percy jackson knows it’s brutal in here too.

traitor: and percy jackson has never felt a word more like a branding in his entire life. he thinks back to the summer he turned thirteen and he sees scorpion tails flashing behind his eyelids. and he sees blonde hair and sometimes he can't differentiate between her and him and them and him. and he sees a scar and he wonders if the cut was deep enough to lose goodness. and he thinks maybe he wouldn’t have minded so much if someone had just told him what was going on. and that makes him a traitor too. and he sees it now, how easily he would succumb to the scorpion tail. how he would welcome the bliss of losing his goodness. who’s to say it’s true goodness anyway? and he remembers the red curls and the summer of beach walks and glass houses and the look of betrayal when plastic hairbrush meets yankees cap. is he a traitor then? to his own feelings? surely not. must be. neither of them liked it. he liked them. traitor, but to who? and remembers the day he left a girl on an island and promised to help her and couldn’t in the end. he remembers eyes of fire at his incompetence. and he is a betrayer. but only to others. traitor: and percy jackson thinks he’s never really betrayed anyone but himself.

got my driver’s license: and percy jackson is growing up so fast his limbs can't keep up. one leg is slightly longer than the other and it makes him clumsy. his left hand is bigger than his right and he uses it to punch. he flies a pegasus for the first time and he understands why mortals are always so angry. they will never know this unbridled freedom. and he gets kissed by a girl and he thinks his skin understands the heat of the sun. and his hair becomes curls instead of waves and he has to clip it> push it> tie it back because it keeps getting in his eyes. and his mom asks him if he wants “blue cake this year?” and he has to tell her he’ll never be too old for it because she’s scared he’s going to grow out of her love. he is not. and paul teaches him how to read a book without feeling like his eyes are drowning and he can’t believe he’s learning to read in high school. and he is moving through the days like water, finding a way around everything. got my driver’s license: and percy jackson knows it’s only a matter of time before he gets a death sentence too.

it’s always one step forward and three steps back: and percy jackson is waking up with no sense of who he is. he is carrying a goddess on his back and he doesn’t even know who his mother is. he is stepping across a river and erasing the curse of indestructible. he is again a demigod with too much vulnerability and not enough care. and he is being flung to an island where time doesn’t move and he doesn’t want to either. and he is healing like he never has before. and he is leaving and not even the girl who loves him can keep him there because he loves another girl and she doesn’t know she loves him back. and he is taking the sky from a friend and he is giving the sky to a goddess and he is leaving a hunter to see the stars and he is watching a new hunter evade the fate they are cursed with. and he was relieved from this burden for one brief second in time. burden of what? burden of sky? burden of prophecy? burden of death? and they are all handed back to him, presented with no other option. they are not the weights in the balancing scale. they are the scale and he is the weights. one step forward and three steps back: and percy jackson wonders if he can go far back enough to erase his own existence. 

i know you get déjà vu: and percy jackson is hurtled to summers spent in a camp, next to a girl, next to a satyr, next to a friend. and he is living his life in montauk with his mom and he is watching red hair fly in the wind, paint smudges on their  skin. and he is remembering how everything is different every year but he can still see the fire wall from his cabin and the smell of wild strawberries is the only thing his scent receptors know how to identify. and he knows solstice could bring death or happiness and he’s starting to think one doesn’t exist and one exists too much. and he sees people who love him and show it in ways he knows. blue candy has never been a complicated feeling. and doesn’t see people who love him in ways he doesn’t know. seaweed brain, let me come with you into the labyrinth, become praetor with me. and he thinks his childhood disappeared the day his mother was kidnapped and is it possible to have déjà vu if you’ve never lived enough to experience something once. and he thinks maybe the god of the sun gets déjà vu every time he pulls the star across the sky because it’s all about warmth isn’t it? your body’s way of saying we’ve been here before and we survived. i know you get déjà vu: and percy jackson is sure he has lived a thousand lives in this one alone.

good for you: and percy jackson is craving a life that doesn’t involve this madness. he is jealous of the kid in his science class that accidentally knocks over the bunsen burner and only gets a disapproving look from the teacher. his nose bleed starts a war. he is jealous of the neireids that simply become the water and wait for the world to stop burning itself to the ground. you look happy and healthy and he looks like he’s missing five years of his life and no way of moving forward. he is tired and he wants to sleep but the last time he did that it was six months later and he couldn’t remember anything. and he wants to sink to the bottom of the ocean but he is still exhaling mud because he drowned in sludge once. and he is too young to be this exhausted but. good for you: and percy jackson wants to become the villain.

all i ever wanted was to be enough for you: and percy jackson is struggling with the expectations people who don't know him want him to have. he is twelve and the teacher hands back a test face down and he knows he’s going to shove it into the pit of his bag before he can be scathed by a red pen. he is thirteen and his mother has finally given herself the hero ending she deserves but he is still this little kid who doesn’t know how to handle the world and if she doesn’t need him to protect her what is his purpose? he is a teenager watching people have silent conversations about his fate and getting no replies when he asks too. as if it is ridiculous to involve himself in these discussions. he can't be the one, it’s not possible. and wait she is here, from her tree grave. no, she is gone, to her hunter fate. wait they are here from their timeless casino. no she is gone and he is young. far too young. and he can’t do this and he can’t do that and he isn’t there yet, not powerful, too reckless, too loyal. the monsters realise his potential and use it to hurt him. the people don't realise his potential and wish he would use it. all i ever wanted was to be enough for you: and percy jackson is too far gone to be of use.

i hope you're happy, but don't be happier: and percy jackson cannot fall in love unless it’s with her. and he has seen the beauty of people and he wants to keep them all close and he doesn’t know how to do it because she keeps him in her grasp. deathly afraid of spiders she says but she has built a web so big he can't move without getting caught. and he goes to a scorned girl on a secluded beach and he likes the way her eyes sparkle in the sun, how she plants the same way his mother does and he leaves her there because she doesn’t have a storm in her gaze. and he loses his memory and remembers only her and he knows it’s inescapable. and maybe he kind of loves it. nobody has ever really given him a choice anyway. at least this one he can love. i hope you're happy, but don't be happier: and percy jackson has never known happier anyway.

jealousy, jealousy: and percy jackson is surrounded by the best. he is in a camp dedicated to people like him and he is still at the bottom. and he is on a quest that makes him the main perpetrator but he is still being puppeted along. and he cant help but wonder if he will turn out like the boy with the scarred face. and he cant help but wonder if he’ll turn out like the girl who grabbed a figurine. and he can't help but wonder if he’ll become a monster or a hero and what’s the difference really. everyone is fighting for a cause. it’s just the matter of whose side you're on. and he wants to know what will happen if he just lets go. he wants to be like the people who follow their cause. instead he is doing biddings. he is following orders. he is making things right. jealousy, jealousy: and percy jackson wants to know if he can be jealous of his own dreams.

i hope i was your favorite crime: and percy jackson is a little kid with a long record. he is on the news plastered as a criminal endangering others, blowing up a bus. it is not the last destruction he causes. he learns to get clever about it. and he is on the news sobbing about his generous stepdad. generous about the bruises he administers, and the words he spits. generous about his appliances. and he is on the news for jumping off a bridge too high to survive. and he doesn’t really know if he will survive but when is he ever really sure he’s going to survive anyway? at least this was a choice. and he is always a criminal unable to plead his innocence. i hope i was your favorite crime: and percy jackson wonders if anyone cares about the injustices against him. 

you're okay: and percy jackson is staring at his reflection in the rippling water and he knows it’s time to forgive himself. he was just a child. with far too much responsibility and far too much guilt. he had seen death before he’d had his first kiss. he had felt pain before he felt comfort. he had never known safety. and now he is old enough to go wherever he wants and do whatever he wants and he has to forgive himself first. because he was just a kid with a hundred targets on his back and only a fierce need to survive protecting him. you’re okay: and percy jackson knows he will be. 

[dangerouslcve]

Can I please request a Julian Albert imagine where reader is on team flash and they are helping Barry . Reader gets injured very bad and Julian does surgery to help save her. While performing the surgery, he finds out she is pregnant and gets excited he is going to be a dad .

- - -

Pairing: Julian Albert x reader

Warnings: Mentions of guns and blood

- - -

 You never thought you would get shot. Some people don’t, you imagine. However you worked in a job where you put your life on the line every day in order to help others. You liked helping others but when a sharp hot sting went through your side you never dreamed it would have been a bullet.

 You put your hand to your side as you took a glance around you noticing a man dressed in black running out of the coffee shop. Faint screams and shrieking came from people as they hid from the shooter, you couldn’t concentrate on anything once you brought your hand up to your face and saw the dark red blood covering the entirety of your hand. The blood slowly dripped off your hand falling to the floor with a small tap. The tips of your fingers were shining underneath the lights. It didn’t hurt but that was only because of the shock.

‘How was I shot?’

 That was your first and only thought before you fainted.

 You drift in and out of consciousness, every time seeing a figure looming over you before moving away quickly letting the blinding white lights blind you momentarily but no matter how hard you tried you couldn’t seem to stay awake. Every time you began to drift to sleep the irritating sensation of the burn from the bullet disappeared.

“I’m sorry.” you finally were able to mumble. The bullet was burning you from the inside out. You wanted to thrash and scream but you had no strength, the exhaustion you felt was weighing you down.

You weren’t sure why you were apologizing, was it because you knew you were dying? were you dying?

“You have nothing....” the voice began to whisper but it fades quickly as you felt yourself fall back into a deep sleep hoping when you would wake it would all be over.

 How much time had passed? was it hours? days? weeks? even months? You had no idea. Time itself felt nonexistent in the state you were in from the bullet that had hit you god knows when. You were confused and scared. You certainly weren’t dead because the moment you came back to consciousness slowly a machine that made sure your heart was still beating was obnoxiously loud in your ears making you grumble.   The more you became aware of your surroundings when you finally opened your eyes slowly everything began looking familiar. The voices outside the door became louder and when your eyes were open all the way you noticed you were at star labs and everyone was outside the room talking. No doubt about the state you were in.

 You did not want to wait until they came back into the room before you questioned them over what had happened and how long had it been since the shooting because you were going insane not knowing what day it was. They seemed to be in a deep conversation until you pulled the patches off your chest that monitored your heart. You almost laughed when you triggered the rooms alarm since it thought you were flatlining.

 The door to the room flew open as Julian rushed to your side. It took him about a minute to realize you were awake the others seemed to be froze to the spot they stood watching you with pure amazement.

“Julian.” you breathe out and his gaze snaps to yours. His mask falling as his eyes search yours with relief and worry. It had felt like an eternity since you saw him and the way he was looking at you right now made you wish his arms were wrapped tightly around you.  “Take a picture, I’m sure it will last longer.” your voice was raspy and he laughs trying to blink away the tears that had came to his eyes. You tried to muster the strength to smile but nothing was happened. You felt weak and that did not make you happy.

 “Y/n, I am so glad you are awake.” Caitlin says in a soft tone as everyone slowly gathers around your bed welcoming you back. Barry had a grin on his face when he tapped your shoulder.

“You did a number on Julian Y/n. I had never seen him cry so much in my time of knowing him.” Barry teases gently and you chuckle before gasping as a sharp pain shoots through your side. Julian quickly grabs your hand tightly watching you with worried eyes.

“How long has it been?” you ask after the pain began to fade away and Julian pulls a chair close to the bedside so he could sit next to you. Caitlin tilts her head to the side before intertwining her fingers together.

“About a week. The bullet went straight through your appendix which caused a sudden rupture within minutes of you being in our care. We rushed you into surgery as soon as we could and got both your ruptured appendix and the bullet out.” Caitlin says and she glances at Julian who was looking at her confused.

“Julian and I found the guy who shot you, he had apparently mistaken you for a Meta who was an enemy of his.” Barry adds his arms crossed over his chest watching you with a look of sympathy.

 “This was not his first shooting either. In New York the same thing happened but unfortunately they had died.” Caitlin continues and you furrow your brows in confusion.

“I take he doesn’t have the best eye sight? shooting everyone who resembles his enemy?” you question finally and Barry laughs shrugging his shoulders.

“It would appear so.”

“While you were out Y/n I did some tests. Made sure everything was how it needed to be except something came back that I was actually not expecting at all.” Caitlin says with a tilt of her head. Barry glances at you with a smirk before he looks over at Caitlin.

“You never told me this Caitlin, what did you find?” Julian questions with a raised eyebrow. Caitlin sends him a pointed look before turning to you with a soft smile.

“I will be outside if you need anything.” Barry says before exiting the room shutting the door softly behind him. You watch Caitlin reach under a desk pulling out a rolled up paper.

“Where is everyone Caitlin?” you question watching her glance up at you unrolling the paper slowly.

“Joe and Iris joined Harry to watch Wally train. We all needed a breather after this stressful week.”

“And Cisco?”

“He is visiting his brother’s grave. This week brought a lot back for him.” She explained softly before taking another small step to your bedside. “It was a close call that day Y/n, we have all been worried sick about you and about... Well, just see for yourself.” she lays the paper in your hand and you glance at Julian and Caitlin nervously before flipping it over.

“What is this?” you question with a raised eyebrow as your eyes look at the blood work Caitlin had took. A beat of silence passed between you three before Julian spoke up.

“What does this mean?” Julian asked confusion written all over his face tilting the paper in his direction to see it better. You took this chance to glance at Caitlin who was watching you both carefully.

“I did some tests while you were out, it is completely normal when a woman who has been sexually active for a while to go through some blood tests. Especially after getting shot close to the uterus.” Caitlin explains and you felt your heart pick up as you look down at the paper again.

“I’m pregnant?” you ask in disbelief staring at the papers that had your blood work results on them.

“About eight or nine weeks. I can’t be sure until I do an ultrasound to see how far along you are.” Caitlin tells both you and Julian. He was being oddly quiet as he sat and stared at the papers. “You will need to see a doctor regularly after your bed rest.”

“My bed rest?”

“A month of bed rest at the very least. Since you have been shot, you are at high risk for a miscarriage with it being so early along and how much your body had to go through during a weeks time but I wouldn’t worry to much. They are a strong one.” she chuckles and you allow yourself to let a small smile grace your lips before looking over at Julian. “I will leave you two alone.” and with that she left the room and Julian turned to you.

“I want to name her Emma after my sister.”

“Her? That’s a little presumptuous, don’t you think?” he grins pressing the back of your hand to his lips.

 “What should we name them if they are a boy then, my darling?” you take your fingers across his stubble trying to pull his face closer.

“You are getting ahead of yourself Albert. I only just found out I’m pregnant and I don’t even know what the date is yet.” you laugh and he leans closer parting his lips.

“Sunday, May 8th.” he tells you before pressing his lips to yours. You smile into the kiss finally feeling comfort after being in and out of sleep for far to long. His hand travels lower to your stomach where it stops.  “Don’t hurt yourself further.”

“Don’t get soft on me.” you warn teasingly and he chuckles looking down at where his hand laid. When he looked back up at you excitement danced in his eyes. “Are you happy Julian?”

“Happy isn’t even the word for how I’m feeling right now darling.” he responds before rubbing your belly. “I’m fucking elated.” you laugh before you gasp at the pain that shoots through your side. "What did I just say.” he snaps and you smirk weakly.

“Don’t hurt yourself further.” you impersonate him and he rolls his eyes smirking.

“You make me sound very posh Y/n.” and you bite your lip to keep yourself from chuckling. 

Everything felt perfect. Well almost perfect.

FIN

[inkandpen22]

On The Sidelines (Nick Fury)

Request: Hiii, could I request an angst and fluffy Nick Fury x Reader? The S/O knows that Fury loves them back, but he doesn't want a relationship 'cause is overprotective? Hope you can do it ☺️ have a nice day!! 💖💖💖

Pairing: Nick Fury x Gender Neutral!Reader 

Warnings: swearing

Word Count: 1k

Masterlist

All afternoon Tony has tried to make me feel better, but nothing’s working. Ever since that stupid incident with Ultron I’ve been treated like a baby. I’m not even the baby of the group anymore! Peter took that spot when he joined the Avengers. Fury used to send me out all the time on missions, lately he’s just been dodging me. It’s so frustrating! 

"No I don't want a burrito!" I snap at Tony. 

His tongue ticks. "What about-" 

"Not shawarma either!" I groan. 

He leans over the back of the couch, hovering over me. "How can I do to help?" 

I whine, rolling. If I watch another rerun episode of Keeping Up with the Kardashians, my head will explode. "I'm feeling trapped! It's been months since I got hurt! I'm fine now! Why am I being kept here?" 

"You were in a coma for a week," he reminds. 

"That was half a year ago!" 

"You took a hit. It scared everyone." 

"I'm stronger now!" I reason. 

He nods. "We know that." 

"Tell me why I'm stuck here all the time? Even Peter gets to help out and he's a kid! I control the elements for Pete's sake! He has webs!" 

"Peter has his restrictions too. His little Spidey suit is on training wheels," he tries to explain.  

"He got to help you when you and Cap. got a little West Side Story." 

"He also wasn't around for Ultron. You were. Imagine the guilt I feel every day because my machine knocked you out for almost ten days!" 

"Minor details." I dismiss. 

Suddenly, Peter swings into the room from the balcony. Every day after school he comes here for assignments, training, everything I can't do. 

"Hi guys!" He greets all cheery. 

I growl and roll onto my side to hide my face into the couch. 

"What's wrong with her?" I hear Peter whisper to Tony. 

"Not a good time kid." Tony ushers the boy out of the room and returns to me. 

"See!" I huff once we're alone again. "He gets to swing around all over the city and I-" 

"Go talk to Fury!" Tony concludes, making his way toward the door.  

"But!" 

Tony snaps. "Look, I don't always make the calls here! I make most of them, because well, I'm me. But go to talk to Fury, this is his department. Bye! Have fun!" He departs, following Peter down the hall. 

I huff and hide my face in the pillow beneath my head. "I hate it here." 

_______________________________________

I follow Tony's advice and make my way downstairs to meet with Fury. His worker bees say he's in the control room with his command team of agents. I swing open the massive metal doors to the control room and everyone's typing away on the computers. 

"And do we have eyes on Loki?" Fury asks. 

"Yes, and the remaining Infinity Stones are still secure." Agent Hall states from her desk. 

"Afternoon!" I greet, knowing darn well I'm not supposed to interrupt. 

"Uh Y/N," Agent Hall rises from her chair and intercepts me. "This is a classified meeting." 

"Oh my goodness! Fury standing at his panel while you all type away at your computers? You never do that! Seems real serious!" I sass. 

"Please-" 

"Okay, Agent Hall, respect you loads, but you're going to need to back off!" I shout over her shoulder at the man who has yet to acknowledge my presence. "Nick!" 

A silence falls amongst the command team. No one calls Fury by his first name. 

Fury's head falls with a sigh. "Everyone give us a moment please." 

Everyone hurries out the entrance behind me, mutters traveling amongst them. 

He finally turns to face me with a sigh. He's visibly frustrated. "You can't just barge in here like that and you can’t call me ‘Nick.’ People will begin to suspect something and-" 

I get right to the point. "Why am I sitting around here like a stay-at-home mom waiting for her kids to come home from school? Why am I not being used?" 

"Y/N, you're injured,"he reasons calmly. “You’re not ready.” 

"I'm fully healed and you know it! I’ll just go find my own missions!” I huff, determined to prove him wrong. 

"Given that it’s a stupid-ass decision, I’ve elected to ignore it. The blood damage to your brain needs to pass a series of tests before I send you in,” he determines. 

"Then put me under and take your samples! I can't sit around here anymore! I'm going crazy!" 

"You're one of our bests. Don't expect the baddest of the bad missions," he grumbles, turning back to his control panel. 

I laugh, standing beside him. "I'm not one of your bests. I'm just an elemental. Everyone knows Tony or Banner are the favorites." 

"I don't play favorites." He defends. We both know that’s not true. 

I laugh. "Bullshit, but okay," I shrug. 

"Watch your tongue," he warns, never breaking his eyes away from the information on his board. 

I huff. "I just need to know why I was recruited and brought here at sixteen if I'm not even going to be used? I might as well just go home and-" 

Fury slams his hands against his panel and his eyes meet mine. "Because I can't lose you!" He snaps. "We had a close call last time and I'm not going to send out on a death mission! You can do press tours, conferences, the mild fights here and there. But I won't send you to ground zero for complete chaos, not again." He releases a deep breath, collecting himself before turning his attention back to his work. "Tell anyone I said that and I'll deny it until my grave." His eyes flicker to mine. "Okay?" 

I nod, still stunned. "Okay." Quietly, I begin to the exit. Well, I got my answer, it's just not what I expected. Now it's all starting to make sense. 

"Hey!" Fury's voice booms and I'm prepared to be yelled at again. I turn over my shoulder and he speaks over his shoulder. "I love you." 

I smile. "I know. I love you too," I tell him. "And don't worry. I won't tell anyone that either." 

____________________________

Masterlist

[wesimpforxiao]

Say My Name and I’ll Be There: 8.2; Lantern Rite Part 1

You never had the chance to push Childe for answers on his vague statement, even after the two of you arrived in Liyue on the afternoon of the Lantern Rite.  It was as busy as you remembered, though it was nothing compared to how it would be once the sun set.  You weren't new to the festival, as you had gone a few times with Granny when you were a child, but that was a long time ago.  You were around twelve years old the last time you had joined the festival.

Being here again was like a breath of fresh air.  

It was a shame that breath of fresh air turned stale when Childe continued to prod at you.  "So, ojou-chan, what will you be doing after dark?"  He had intentionally turned it into a suggestive question, his smug brow raising slightly even after you glared daggers at him.

"I'm going to walk around, of course," you replied without giving him an inch.  "And I'm going to find Aether and Zhongli, too."

"Oh? Aren't you forgetting someone?"

"What I do in my free time is none of your business," your jaw tightened.  "You, Tartaglia, are literally a child.  Why don't you step aside and let your elders do what they want?  I am older than you, you know."

"I see you've picked up Signora's attitude," he moped and finally dropped the subject.

Perhaps you had, even though you hated her with all your life force after the trick she pulled at Angel's Share.  Even so, you couldn't help but bite the harbinger that fed you after he made strange offhanded comments about his own behavior, or his self-proclaimed 'apology' gift, or the way he held you the first time you felt Xiao's suffering.  You still couldn't figure out what was going on with him, and quite frankly, you could care less.  That's what you told yourself, anyway.

Was he an ally or an enemy?

"Earth to Mezzetin."  He rudely poked at your forehead.  "Is everything alright?  You've been obnoxiously loud all day and now you're quiet."

"You do realize you're equally as obnoxious?"  You met his eyes head-on after pulling away from your thoughts.  "I'm hungry."

"Ah, thought so.  Here," he handed you a heavy sack of mora without warning.  "I'll be at Northland Bank if you need anything."

"Eh? That's it?"  You watched him begin to walk off, expecting much more of a threat to your life if you so much as thought about running.

"You said it yourself ojou-chan, you're an adult," he called out over his shoulder.  "I'd expect you to act like one in these circumstances."

"Wha--!"  You scoffed at his shrinking figure as he climbed the stairs to the Snezhnayan bank.  "Ugh, whatever." Your gaze fell to the mora pouch in your hands.  Maybe I'll stop by the funeral parlor first and find Zhongli.

When you did, the archon paled at the sudden surprise appearance.  "How did you find yourself in Liyue Harbor?"  He scanned your body as if you were to be handled with care.  "I was under the impression you would remain at Zapolyarny Palace until further notice.  How did you happen to gain the Tsaritsa's trust so quickly?"

"Eh, you'll have to ask Childe that."  You didn't notice Zhongli's eyes narrow with contempt.  "He won't tell me why they decided to have me accompany him here," you answered without skipping a beat.  Though the archon was certainly thrown off guard, the two of you appeared to start right where you had left off like none of the events in the past two months had ever occurred in the first place.  It was refreshing to be with a friendly presence again, and you sighed in relief, hiding a wince from the sharp pain in your ribcage.

The movement didn't go unnoticed by Zhongli.  "Ah, yes...Allow me to brew you some tea.  The leaves I've gathered recently have exceptional pain-relieving qualities, though they don't compare to that of Xiao's medications--"

"How is he?"  Your interruption stopped the man in his tracks.  "Is he okay?"  If Zhongli knew you were feeling Xiao's pain, that meant the yaksha had been in contact.

"He's as well as he can be, given the circumstances he's been burdened with.  Do not worry yourself with him.  Please, take a seat."

You watched Zhongli's graceful movements as he prepared a kettle and brought the water to a boil, dropping the leaves in when it was hot enough.  You were oblivious to the thoughts that ran through his mind as he sent a wry smile your way.

That day, I made a grave miscalculation, Zhongli thought back to the group's encounter with Childe in Fontaine.  A guilty sigh escaped his lips as he poured the tea into two ceramic teacups.

.....................

Deception.  Maybe Zhongli was a little too good at playing the part of an innocent bystander, if he had succeeded in fooling Aether not once, but twice.  But this route would be the only way to ensure yours and Xiao's sanity...The archon grit his teeth as he parried Childe's relentless blows in the pouring rain.  The harbinger didn't hold back even though this was all for show.

How long did the fighting go on? Twenty minutes? Thirty?  An hour?  Childe gave the signal to Zhongli as he summoned his fifth and final narwhal using the rain that fell around them.  Most of the group was worn out from constantly changing tactics as the harbinger switched between his vision and delusion.  Childe was so much stronger than the first time he faced off with Aether...but so was Aether.  Zhongli understood the only way to make this plan work would be to sacrifice his two closest allies in one way or another.

"Retreat!"  Zhongli gave the order and an exhausted trio followed it without question.  Well, except for Aether.

"We can't leave Xiao!"

.................

He had hoped he gave Xiao the push he needed to seal the bond, but it apparently was not enough..."Here is your tea," he placed the teacup in front of you before sitting at the opposite end of the table.  "Tell me, have they remained true to their word and put an end to your experiments?"

You blew at your steaming cup before taking a small sip.  "Yeah...They've already begun testing on Fatui agents, but every single one of them dies.  It's funny, actually.  Dottore still can't figure out the correct ratio for my blood.  I've watched hundreds die."

"And how are you?"

That question was loaded, but you swallowed the nervous chuckle that had bubbled in your throat.  "I'm just glad to be so close to home." To him, you meant, even if the two of you never actually met up during your stay here.  Your eyes trailed to the window, and Zhongli noticed the sadness in the depths of your gaze as you watched people decorate the buildings with xiao lanterns.

"Xiao will be especially busy today, fighting off the demons that rise from the festivities," he answered your looming question.  "But I am sure he would find the time to meet you if he knew you were here."

"You know, I hold most of his memories, but I can never seem to know what he's thinking."  Your low voice captured the archon's attention again after a few silent minutes.  You were saying it more to yourself than to spark a conversation, eyes still gazing out the window.  "Maybe I am chasing after a fruitless dream."

"Your love for Xiao is strong."

"Eh?" Your head snapped back to the present moment.  "H-how did you--did he--?"

Your flustered composure drew out a low chuckle from Zhongli, and he set his teacup aside.  "I've lived for six thousand years; I know a thing or two about human concepts and emotions.  The entire group has known for quite some time."

"I was that obvious?" An insane amount of heat rose to your cheeks and you buried your face in your hands.  "So did he know before I...?"

"Xiao may be a few thousand years old, but he understands humans less than I do.  I can confidently say you caught him off guard."

You peeked out from behind your fingers.  "Hm?"

"It is not my place to say anything more on the matter," his lips tugged into a friendly grin as he brought the teacup to his lips once again.  "But I would not call it a 'fruitless' dream."

.................

The lanterns that lit the streets of Liyue illuminated the bustling crowds of people that were focused on getting food, souvenirs, and lanterns that were to be released later that evening.  You had parted ways with Zhongli in an effort to find Aether, with no luck in locating the boy even after nightfall.  Despite this, you navigated the festival alone in hopes of running into him as you eyed the food stalls.

That is, until the voices grew louder.  You swayed on your feet from the unexpected wave of nausea that overcame you, and grabbed onto one of the support beams next to the stairs.  Xiao was fighting something again, wasn't he?  You had felt the damned creep up on you as the day progressed, but nothing prepared you for the jarring pains that were too similar to the first time you had felt this side effect.  You nearly puked from the overwhelming sensation, coughing into your hand only for it to be splattered with blood.

Not again, you stared in horror as you hastily blinked away the splotches in your vision.  A quick glance around confirmed that there were children in the immediate vicinity, and you didn't want to scar them with the sight of you on what was supposed to be a happy night.  Your eyes flit to the distant building that housed the Northland Bank, and you were determined to make it there even if it was a bit too far for you to walk at the moment.

You stumbled through the crowd on unsteady feet and shallow breath until you bumped shoulders with a boy and tripped.  "Ngh!"  The impact worsened your dilemma, and your eyes caught those of the person you ran into.

"Sorry!  Wait, are you okay, ma'am?"  The white-haired boy retracted his outstretched hand and instead knelt at your side to offer his shoulder.  "You..."  This energy....could it be that I can finally...?

"U-um, excuse me."  You struggled to your feet and tried to make your way to the bank again.  This time you were immediately halted by the boy.  

"Ma'am, are you by any chance experiencing paranormal activity?"  His hard gaze made you hold your breath without realizing.  When he saw your eyes flash as if someone had held a lantern to your face, his grip on your shoulder loosened ever so slightly.  "My name's Chongyun.  I'm an exorcist.  Do you mind if we speak in private?"

He brought you to the docs, which were a little less crowded than the main area of the harbor.  Chongyun watched as you sat down and steadied your breathing while attempting to sneakily wipe away the blood that dripped from the corner of your mouth.  

I finally haven't scared them off, the boy thought as he stared at you in wonder.  Why now, though?  "Ma'am, can you tell me what's going on?"

"I-I appreciate your concern," you ground your teeth together while another wave of pain consumed you, "but I d-don't need your help."

"When did you start feeling this way?"  Chongyun sat with his legs crisscrossed in front of you, and summoned a deck of cards from his pocket.  Anger boiled as you watched him shuffle them in his hands and set them in the space between you one at a time.

"I wouldn't do that," you growled while your thoughts grew hazy.

"Don't worry, this won't hurt you."  He started mumbling some sort of incoherent verses before flipping one of the cards.

"I said DON'T!"

Chongyun caught your hand before it could swipe the cards away from the pier's surface, and he locked eyes with you.  He took a deep breath before speaking as if you were the one agitating him.  "Those are the evil spirits talking.  I can tell you're not that far gone.  Sit patiently, and I can help you."

You blinked for a moment and regained some control over yourself, relaxing your shoulders once he let go of your wrist.  "What is it you're trying to do?"

"Purge evil; it's my job.  We exorcists have protected Liyue for generations," he flipped another card over, noting your tension rising again before dying down.  Whatever he was doing with those cards seemed to piss off the voices in your head.

"Like adepti?"  You grimaced when he replaced one of the cards with another.  

"Yes, much like the Guardian Yaksha of Liyue," he replied calmly while testing your reaction with another card.  "I have much respect for him, but--"

"Xiao?  Have you seen him?"  Your hand burned when you grabbed his, but you ignored it once you caught his attention.  "Have you seen him recently?"  

"You know him by name?"  Chongyun was as confused as you were.  "That's odd, I thought we were the only ones who--"

"Hey!"  A high-pitched voice interrupted the conversation, and the two of you turned your heads toward the sound.  Paimon was flying towards you, Aether running right behind her.  "What are you doing here?! Are you okay? Did you escape? Did you kick Childe's butt?"

"I--" Aether stopped himself from hugging you when he saw the dried blood on your hand, his relieved smile fading into a concerned frown as his feet came to a halt.  "...Are you okay?"

"You know each other?"  Chongyun looked between the trio and summoned a new set of cards.  These ones held terrifying symbolism of demonic entities you didn't wish to know the name of, and he placed them over the other ones that sat on the ground.

"Ngh!"  A hand covered your eye in an attempt to put pressure against a sharp pain.  "You can't help me! Enough of this!"

"...W-what's wrong with her?"  Paimon trembled slightly when she heard the uncharacteristic aggressiveness in your voice.  "Is she...possessed?!"  

"Not quite," Chongyun returned his eyes to you in deep thought.  "I've never seen this before..."

"Wait, your positivity didn't scare them off?"  Aether suddenly looked a lot more concerned, and he moved so that he sat beside you.  Chongyun scared every spirit away...if that didn't happen this time, it must've been a bad sign.  "What happened to you in Snezhnaya?"  His voice was a mix of both guilt and anger.

"Zhongli didn't tell you?"  It took all your strength not to attack the three of them as Chongyun put another card down.  

"The group went their separate ways after you..." Aether shook his head and put a hand on your shoulder when he noticed the malice in your stare.  "What did Childe do to you?"

"It's just another side effect," you growled and pushed his hand off.  "I'm not possessed like this guy is saying."

"Is this true?" Paimon's skepticism antagonized you further, but you bit your tongue.

"We should take you to Zhongli," Aether pulled you to your feet without hearing your objections.  If your words were accurate, then there was no way the exorcist could help.  "Sorry, Chongyun!  She'll be fine!"

"W-Wait! Ah-"  Chongyun already lost them in the sea of people that were getting ready to release their lanterns.  It was almost time to fill the sky with the light of human prayers and wishes to the adepti.

..............

Once out of Chongyun's vicinity, the voices dispersed as if nothing had happened.  "What the hell--"  Your confused grumblings caught the attention of Aether as he guided you through the crowd.  "This is so stupid."

"So you're able to feel Xiao's mental distress?"  He glanced back at you for a brief moment once he figured out what he had witnessed.  "At least now, he has someone that can understand a little bit of what he's going through, right?"

"I don't know," interjected Paimon.  "Didn't Zhongli say the yakshas fell one by one from karma?  Wouldn't feeling Xiao's karma kill you?"

"Probably."  Your uninterested answer brought both of them to look at you, only to find that your eyes were surveying the crowd with expectation--or was it hope?  Your companions exchanged knowing, but glum glances.

"He won't be here."

Aether's words went through one ear and out the other.  "Yes he will."

"Um...Paimon doesn't think so.  Xiao doesn't like crowds, remember?"  You were so different than a few months ago...Each sound seemed to startle you or make you wince, and you had a peculiar distant look in your eyes.  Your friends were growing more and more concerned about you.

Xiao, I'm here, you called out in your heart, not fully aware of it.

..........................

Coming up:  A long-awaited reunion.  The fears of a yaksha.  A display of trust.

[resurrectroxymorton]

I see nothing but the candle in the mirror

Chapter 3: There was never such a night before

“The Barclay-Fullerton Comet, discovered in 1923, is making its return, passing over Earth almost a hundred years after its first sighting. To the naked eye, the comet will appear to pause over Earth at its highest point before continuing its orbit.”

Addy reads the article from the NASA website out loud, comparing the specifics of the comet with the archaic ritual Bess had found deep in the archives. Everyone is crowded around her, accepting that they need her scientific prowess for this. Bess had been easing her into the supernatural crime-fighting (with the exception of the disastrous Long Night Ball, which was basically a crash course on witchcraft and a 200-year-old maniac).

(Read on AO3)

Even in the intervening two years, where there have been all manner of ghosts, ghouls, and demons that they’ve gone up against, Addy has been in the loop but hasn’t directly participated in a ritual until now, and Nancy is grateful for her. She’s grateful for all of them.

“The ritual says we need a comet that ‘stops like an arrow piercing the earth' and this one seems to fit the bill. So we'll wait until the Barclay-Fullerton Comet is at its peak and then we’ll perform the cleansing ritual. We can start collecting the ingredients for the spell tomorrow.”

With that, Bess closes her book and places her hand on Addy's shoulder. Ace is the first one of them to speak.

“NASA said 100 years since discovery. When is the comet going to be over Earth?”

She loves how his brain works, so on par with hers. That had been her first question too when Bess had called Addy to see what she knew about comets. So she knows the answer and says it before Addy can.

“One month. We have one month until the comet is in orbit over Horseshoe Bay.”

His eyes flicker between her and Bess.

“Is that enough time? To prepare the ritual? Or will we have to wait another 100 years?”

Bess nods, a look of steely reserve on her face.

“It'll be close, but since we have access to Icarus Hall and the Historical Society, we should be able to make it work.”

She pauses, then after a beat adds, “We will be able to make it work, Ace, I promise you.”

They exchange a look, and Nancy's heart clenches because she’s not the only one affected by this. She’s glad Temperance cut the forecast short and didn’t make Nancy live through telling Bess that Ace was dead. She feels a catch in her throat and swallows, hard, unwilling to cry now, when they’re so close.

Bess continues, outlining some of the ingredients they’ll need, many of which come with time constraints. A mushroom stolen from a grave at the witching hour, saltwater collected under a new moon, but again, no blood, thankfully. It feels right that to remove Temperance’s curse, they won’t be using her horrible blood magic.

With instructions to meet tomorrow at the Historical Society for further assignments, Bess waves them out and retreats to the archives, Addy behind her. Nancy lingers in the office, wanting a moment with him, alone, and she notices he’s doing the same. But so is George. Nancy side-eyes her, and George side-eyes right back, her eyebrows raised. They’re locked in a staring contest until Ace clears his throat and they both snap around to look at him.

“George, doesn’t Nick need you at the youth center?” He asks, the picture of innocent questioning.

George just scoffs. “Yeah right. We’re a month away from fixing this fucking curse. No way I’m letting you or Handsy Drew screw this up.”

Nancy opens her mouth to protest, to remind George of her incredible self-control honed over the last two years, but she flushes instead because damn it, George is right. She had, when she’d decided to stay behind, thought of several ways to test the limits of the curse and the protection spell, including but not limited to potentially accidentally brushing her hand against Ace's. And if he picked up on that and wanted to maybe run his thumb over her knuckles, who was she to stand in his way?

So instead of defending herself, she just sighs deeply, annoyed. George smirks, knowing she’s won.

“Come on Drew. I’ll drive you to the Claw. We’ll get you some water, maybe let you sit in the freezer for old time's sake.”

At that, Nancy sputters but allows George to grab her by the arm and drag her out the door. She can feel Ace watching them go and when she turns back for just a moment, she catches a smile on his face before he turns to follow Bess into the archives.

Their friends, for all of their other virtues, are not subtle. Nancy notices that with almost everything on the table and the comet drawing nearer, she and Ace are never left alone. Her favorite chaperone is Addy, who seems a little confused as to why she has to babysit two grown adults, but never denies that she’s there as a chaperone. George is also forthright about why she’s glaring at them, sometimes while holding her crowbar, but she’s more aggressive about it than Addy (see exhibit 1, the crowbar).

She’s past the point of wishing for accidental touches that turn into more. She'd settle for being able to tell him she likes his scarf without one of their friends pretending that they’re not listening to her every word.

Ace seems to be fine with their ever-present third wheels, which makes her stomach shift uneasily. She almost confides in Nick about how she’s worried that Ace has decided she isn’t worth it, that he doesn’t want her anymore, but that feels too close to acting on her feelings, and she doesn’t want to fuck it up this late in the game. So maybe her friends are right and she does need a chaperone, someone to give pointed looks or cleared throats, or once, memorably, a full-on scream when she gets too close to him physically or emotionally.

The calendar hung up at Icarus Hall has the date of the comet’s arrival circled in red ink, and every morning she crosses another day off, counting down until things can return to normal. There are seven days left, and all the ingredients, minus a few that will be procured at the moment right before the ritual is cast, are collected at the Society. They’ll perform the ritual itself at the Veil, the location of the cursing, and thinking about returning there, where she killed Temperance and cursed Ace makes her nauseous. She’s been to the youth center many times since that night, but not to the concrete slab where everything happened.

A couple more days slip by, and Nancy starts looking into a case for Carson, just so she has something to do besides sit at the Historical Society and pester Bess, asking her to go over every aspect of the ritual over and over again. Instead, she finds herself tailing the person Carson thinks is actually guilty of his client's crime to Main Street, right by the youth center. She watches as he grabs a package from under a mailbox and she snaps several pictures, sending them to Carson, even though you can’t tell what’s inside the package. She stows her camera in its spot in her car and pockets her phone when she notices that she’s parked directly in front of the paved youth center yard. Kids are playing 4-square right next to the spot where the world almost cracked open. She’s filled with a sudden impulse to stand there and feel whatever feelings she has for the spot before she has to stand there under the arc of a comet in three days.

Before she can chicken out and drive away, she leaves her car and heads into the youth center. Inside, she sees all four Fan girls, George looking at her with eyebrows raised. She just waves and them and continues past to the door that opens onto the outdoor space. Nick is there, supervising the kids playing outside, so she walks to him. She needs to do this alone, not dodging out of the way of the rubber ball being tossed around. It takes some time to convince him, but by the time she’s done arguing her case, he just shrugs.

“It’s time to go in anyway. Take all the time you need.”

He pats her shoulder as he starts rounding up kids to get them back inside. Once they’re all gone, she goes over to the concrete slab where she first took a life. It’s been paved over, courtesy of Nick and the money he got selling George’s engagement ring (she doesn’t hold it against him, except when he’s beating her at game night). They all felt the lingering dread that came from the torn ground, and they were all glad to see it paved over again. Even with the two-year-old asphalt covering it, she can still see everything exactly as it was. Where she stood and watched as yet another of her female family members died. She doesn’t regret Temperance's death, but she does regret all the pain that Temperance caused. Had she been less distracted, she may have seen the trap Temperance set for them. Then they could have avoided all of this.

Tears roll down her cheeks, and she wipes them away before crouching down and placing her hand where the Veil between the two realities was. She doesn’t feel anything, no lingering magic, no echo of Temperance. It’s just a spot of asphalt on a playground. That’s when she hears someone approach, a set of footsteps she knows she’d be able to place anywhere. He’s there and he’s hovering a few feet away as she stands and turns to look at him.

This time she’s the one who reaches out and pauses, his name choked out from her dry mouth. She doesn’t trust herself. Not here, where it feels like yesterday that she told him that she was letting Temperance go for them, sacrificing Horseshoe Bay to give them a chance, before realizing that she wouldn’t be able to live with herself if anything happened to the town. So she just stands there, hand slightly outstretched, mouth agape, just looking at him. And he looks back before glancing at her hand. Before she can lower it and apologize, he steps closer and reaches for her.

She’s shocked. It’s been so long since he’s touched her, has felt like forever. And now she understands why their friends thought they needed babysitting. Just his hand on hers and her entire body feels like it’s on fire. She craves more contact, wants more of him pressed to her, but this already feels like tempting fate. She looks up at him and can see in his eyes that he feels the same. His grip tightens on her hand and he says her name, his voice strangled.

And it’s that, her name on his lips that makes her come back to herself, remember where she is, what’s at stake. So she steps back, her fingers gliding across his palm as she lets go. She doesn’t want to run from him, to leave him standing alone like she did in his apartment. So she does something dangerous.

“We can’t do this. Not right now.”

She lets those three words linger. So close to a confession. So full of promise for a future she is still unsure about. His eyes widen slightly and she knows he understands what she means. So she brushes past him, taking the opportunity to touch his shoulder lightly. She doesn’t stop until she’s in the safety of her car, breathing deeply. She drops her forehead to the steering wheel.

Three days, she thinks. Just three more days.

The day of the comet's appearance dawns, unseasonably sunny and while a normal person would see that as a good omen, it worries Nancy. This might be their only chance. Bess might be able to find another ritual, but she isn’t sure how much more she can take. She’s largely useless the entire day, distracted. She spends time with her dads, half-listening as Carson goes over details of the next case he needs her on and while Ryan shows off a new artifact that he’s going to drop off at the Historical Society tomorrow. She can tell they know she’s distracted as they watch her pour another cup of coffee, Ryan subtly moving her still half-full first cup to the sink.

The hours crawl past until finally, finally, it’s time. Nick, George, and Addy are already at the youth center, setting up there, but Nancy heads to the Historical Society where Bess is grabbing a few last-minute components. Her heart stutters when she sees Florence at the curb.

Soon-soon-soon-soon repeats over and over in her mind. She shakes her head, clearing the chant from her mind. She needs to focus now, needs all her attention on the ritual. She enters the Historical Society and hears Bess calling for Ace to bring her…paprika? Nancy stands in the door of the small kitchen, watching Bess frantically stir something. She clears her throat and Bess whips around.

“Nancy!” She exclaims. “Excellent, you’re here. I need some of your hair. And can you stir this?”

A wooden spoon is thrust into her hand and she’s being forced over to the stove and a pot of macaroni, which is…not what she expected. But she dutifully puts the spoon back into the pot and stirs.

“I’ll be right back,” Bess calls, “I just need to find my scissors. Have Ace add the paprika once he finds it.”

Nancy frowns into the pot. She’s still staring at the bubbling macaroni when she hears a soft “oh”. She looks up and he’s watching her, jar of paprika in his hand. His gaze is soft as he looks at her and her resolve snaps. The chant of soon takes up again in her mind. There are only a few hours left until the curse is lifted, and she can’t get ahead of herself like this. She clears her throat.

“Bess told me you should add that.”

He shakes his head a little like he’s clearing it, and she watches how his hair moves along with the movement. They’re both frozen staring at each other when Bess breezes back into the room.

“Nancy! The pot!”

She jolts, seeing the pot almost boil over, and swears, stirring quickly.

“Nevermind that. Give Ace the spoon. I need a lock of your hair. Ace, the paprika?”

Ace shakes his head again and Nancy is nearly transfixed a second time. But instead, she holds out the spoon and lets him take her spot at the stove. Bess guides her to a chair and cocks her head, looking Nancy over. She circles around her, scissors pressed against her lips. Finally, she steps up to Nancy and takes a tendril of hair from the nape of Nancy's neck, snipping it with the scissors.

Nancy's newly liberated hair clasped in her hand, Bess leaves them again and they sit in comfortable silence, Ace still stirring the macaroni. She thinks this could have been their future, could still be if everything goes well. She’s brought out of this dream by Bess returning, a basket over her arm.

“Are we ready?”

Nancy looks at Bess, then at the stove.

“Bess, what about your macaroni?”

“Oh, I’ll get to that later,” she says. “Ace can just put that in the fridge.”

As Ace transfers the food to a storage container, Bess leans in to whisper to Nancy.

“Ace was driving me crazy today, so I had to give him something to do. And this was the best option.”

They load the last of the ingredients for the ritual into Florence’s trunk. Nancy pauses at the passenger door, not sure she wants to sit in the front. She normally wouldn’t hesitate, but tonight her head is filled again with images of another car ride, him next to her and then him in the ditch. So she chooses the back seat, pushing the front forward to slide in. He looks at her in the rearview mirror, a question in his eyes. She is saved from figuring out what to do by Bess sitting in the front seat, exclaiming “Onwards!”

The drive to the youth center is quiet. The only sound is Bess muttering under her breath, ensuring she has everything exactly right. Once they’re there, setup goes quickly. Bess draws a glyph in sidewalk chalk and sets a candle to the north, an empty jar to the east, a bowl of freshwater to the south, and a lump of clay to the west. While she’s doing that, George is grinding up the graveyard mushroom to mix with the ocean water to form a paste, which she then wipes on Nancy's brow. Addy and Ace are messing with the telescope, tracking the comet on NASA's website. Nick sits next to Nancy, patting her occasionally on the shoulder. She’s grateful for him, keeping her calm. She can’t look at Ace without feeling like her heart is going to burst out of her chest, so she focuses on Bess, who is now holding the bowl of mushroom paste and covering the backs of her hands with it.

A nebulous amount of time passes with Bess flitting around and checking her books. Then Addy's voice calls out “Bess, it’s almost time. We should see the comet in about five minutes.”

Bess nods and pulls the last few items from her basket. The lock of Nancy's hair, now braided, Ace's lighter, a pendent, and another empty jar. Then she calls over Nancy, directing her to stand at the center of the glyph, equidistant from each of the four points. And then they pause, waiting, everyone watching the sky. It’s a beautiful night, the skies clear and dark. And then suddenly, there’s a blaze of light and Bess snaps into action, sparking the lighter and holding the braid of hair to the flame. As the acrid scent of burning hair fills the air, Nancy looks up and sees the comet. It truly appears to be paused right over her head. She’s still gazing at the comet as Bess drops the smoldering hair into the empty jar and blows the smoke rising from it toward Nancy, who looks away from the comet as Bess starts chanting in an archaic language. The last thing she remembers is Ace calling her name as her knees buckle and she falls to the ground, in a halo of light that seems to be coming from the comet.

She comes to a short while later, Bess holding something under her nose. The candle has blown out, and the water in the bowl is evaporated. She looks at Bess, who nods to the jar that once held her burning hair, but now holds amorphous smoke that shifts and moves. Nancy lets out a sigh of relief and suddenly, finally, recognizes the firm hands on her shoulders, the person who is kneeling behind her. She reaches up to grasp his hand and she hears his choked, relieved laugh. She uses her other hand to push herself up, turning to throw her arms around him. He clutches her to his chest, and she feels his lips press to her forehead.

She’s so wrapped up in him, in the feeling of his body against hers that she doesn’t realize that their friends have removed the evidence of their ritual, except for the glyph they’re still kneeling in. Nick will wash it away tomorrow, erasing the last piece of the spell, the last reminder of the curse. Ace pushes her hair behind her ear, running his fingers over the space where Bess cut the strand they used for the ritual. She leans into his touch and when his palm comes to rest on her cheek, his other arm still wrapped around her, she looks at him, eyes blazing, and surges up, kissing him.

Finally, finally, finally, finally

[reidetic]

The Pantheon: The War or The World? - A.H

A/N: This is the second installment in ‘The Pantheon’ series. You can find the first, Golden, here. Big shout out to @zhuzhubii for their dialogue help and @ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff and a discord friend (who’s tumblr I cannot tag fsm) for beta-ing both stages of this fic. This about to get real dark, y’all. Heed the content warnings.

CW/TW: Murder, violence, general angst, did you hear me about murder?

Couple: None, gen fic.

Category: Angst

Word Count: 1.8k

War. Violence. Anger, malevolence, fury. Aaron was familiar enough with them all. Over a decade in the Behavioral Analysis Unit and he had seen nothing but the wrath of mankind, spilled over from held tongues. Everything stems from fear and terror, and he would go to the grave swearing he fathered the abstract. He felt he left destruction behind him in a wake of combat, and failed to keep his fists from their fury. 

He hadn’t held his rage against Foyet, and it terrified him to no end that he held no regrets about it. If you spend your waking hours chasing the entities of psychopathy, do you not worry that one stumble will place you among the pack? Will the darkness that now inhabits him be his fall from grace? What would he teach his son about the world if he collapsed beneath it? 

He’d be lying to himself if he said the pressure only began after she left. Aaron knew a lot of things when he was young, but the lesson he never quite learned was how to slow down, and life stepped in quickly enough. Her name on his lips burned like fire for months after, only ever calling her Mom to Jack, never once braving the knowledge that the only woman he had given a piece of himself to was now gone, and he had absolutely no one to blame but himself. He still remembers the grip of Derek’s hands around his arms as he pulled him away from the fatality beneath him, still remembers the blood staining his fingernails. There is only so much evil soap can erase. 

Sometimes he felt like the Devil studied the blueprints of his life for ideas, and then he remembered that it’s only him that creates the wars waging on the homefront. How long can he sit here in the dark, touching the floor in their home where his wife’s blood stained the wood? He hadn’t been here in years, but he needed to be here, he needed to feel her again. The blonde underneath him wasn’t Haley, no, but she was close enough. She bore just enough resemblance to his wife and son to justify stealing her away, but just was different enough to let his fist close around her throat. Too fragile to fight him off, she never stood a chance, not when he’s creating his own bloodshed. The blood running from her eyebrow where his wedding ring had sliced her skin open simply pushes him over the edge, and when her body stops writhing under his closed hand, he realizes he has no idea what her name is. 

Maybe he was born with this brutality, perhaps he never stood a chance against the test of time. After all, he wasn’t just chasing killers, he was learning from them too. Cold, calculated, planned. Premeditated, wasn’t that what they called it? He watched her for weeks, needed to know that she would fulfill his fantasy, his need. He made sure she was alone, no children or husbands left behind. Not just to eliminate witnesses, but because Aaron had been on the side of that losing fight. He wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy. This is just his conflict, this is just his deserved combat. No one would be surprised if he snapped, would they? It was all he knew, it was ever-consuming and at the end of it, he’d be lucky to have even a fragment of a soul left. Emily had warned him once about keeping everything so far shoved down that you lose the ability to distinguish between yourself and your trauma.

There was so much darkness, so much fear. He was so tired of holding everything on his shoulders. So he found a way to put it down, he found a way to try to heal. He had to make it right. He had to give Haley another chance to die, and maybe this time it would be right. 

--

There hadn’t been a break in this case for months. Women disappearing then reappearing mangled and murdered, always a different MO, their only common thread was victimology. Blonde single women, never anyone to miss them other than their work. 

“Hey, I hate to say this but...these women, they all look like Haley.” JJ says tentatively, glancing at the tacked up photos of the victims.

An unnerving quiet falls over the room as the team looks at JJ, a mixture of resignation and horror painting their faces. 

Rossi nods with a pained look. “They do. And...Aaron fits the profile.”

Spencer looks up and adds quietly, “And he took off work for three weeks when the killings started.”

“No, he wouldn’t. Not Hotch.” Morgan stands and shakes his head. “I still think it’s Evans.” 

Rossi sighs. “Evans has an alibi, Morgan. Aaron doesn’t.” 

Morgan scoffs, looking to anyone for help and settles on Emily. “Prentiss, you really believe this?”

She sighs, looks up at him and says, “I’m sorry Derek, he fits the profile perfectly. We always say profilers make the best unsubs.”

“Damn the profile! They can be wrong. We’ve been wrong before.” Morgan pleads, looking around the room for someone on his side.

“Look, why don’t we just go to his house? If I’m right, then we bring him in. If we’re wrong, then we’re just checking on him. Okay?” JJ reasons.

“You can waste your time all you want, but I’m going to talk to Evans.” Morgan seethes, looking to Spencer. “You coming with me, kid?” Spencer just nods, throws JJ an apologetic glance, and grabs his jacket and vest, following Morgan out of the room.

“I’ll go with you, JJ. Prentiss, stay behind and keep in contact with Garcia, just in case.” Rossi instructs. JJ nods, and they head in the opposite direction of Morgan and Spencer, and JJ prays she’s wrong about this.  

--

Prying open the door to Hotch’s house, JJ shakes her head. This isn’t how she wanted this to end. She tiptoes through the room, Rossi following behind her while they work to clear the area. As they go upstairs, she starts to hear crying.

Toeing open the bedroom door, JJ calls through, “Hotch?” She sees him, hunched over a blonde woman, blood pooling on the carpet between his knees. “Hotch!” He still isn’t responding, sobs wracking through his body. “...Aaron?” She tries, pitching her voice down. 

He turns to look at her then, no sign of recognition on his face. He looks broken and battered. He still doesn’t look like a murderer.

Meeting his eyes, she says, “Aaron, it’s JJ. We can help you but I need you to put the knife down.” The heart beating inside her chest is so much less scared than it is breaking in half to watch this man she called family die. 

He turns to her, blood on his outstretched hands and a sad smile on his face. “You’re here, you’re finally here.” 

Confused, JJ cocks her head to the side, gun still trained on him.“I’m...here?” She asks.

He lurches towards her, knife in hand.“I missed you so much.” He swipes a blood covered hand under his eye to wipe away the tears, and JJ’s stomach curdles at the sight.

Rossi takes a step forward to meet JJ, and says quietly, “Aaron, stay back.” Hotch doesn’t seem to hear him, staring directly at JJ.

Unsure of what’s happening, JJ decides to lean into it, in the hopes that making him feel understood would avoid casualties. “I...missed you too.”

He gestures behind him to the still body, and says, “I did it, see? I finally got it right!” He’s shouting, and his happiness is unnerving.

JJ steps forward a little, staring at him. “Aaron...I’m sorry, but I don't understand. Could you...explain it to me?” Maybe even in this state, he’s still sane enough to be logical. Maybe.

Hotch barks a bitter laugh, “Foyet, he didn’t do it right. He…disgraced you.” You? All of a sudden JJ realizes what’s happening and she chokes back tears. She’s not Haley, but she can be for a minute if it protects him.

She softens her voice, holsters her gun and steps forward with her hands up. “I’m...I’m here now. And I've missed you so much. Why don't you put the knife down, and then-”

He shakes his head violently, sweat and tears flying off his face.“It’s too late.” He’s muttering to himself and JJ can’t understand the words under his breath.

JJ swallows thickly. “What do you mean? I’m here, it’s ok-” 

He cuts her off abruptly, waving the knife at the girl behind him dismissively. “She's already gone. She’s already gone.” He looks up through tears and smiles sadly at JJ, at the figure of his late wife in front of him. “...I got you back, though. You're here. You're here and I...-” He breaks down in sobs, sinking to his knees and clutching the knife to his chest. 

 JJ steps closer, looking down at him in pity. “That's right, I’m here. And everything will be okay, I just need you to put the knife down. Can you do that for me, Aaron? Put the knife down.”

He looks up at her, dropping the knife to the floor with a loud clatter and JJ drops to her knees, wrapping her arms around the broken man before her and they’re both crying. “I’m so sorry, Haley.” She just shushes him, pulling him up to his feet.

“I gotta cuff you now, Hotch. It’s for your own good.” Rossi has tears in his eyes, pulling the silver metal from his belt and clasping it around Hotch’s wrists. It’s then that the illusion shatters, and he sees what he’s done. JJ leans down and presses her fingers to the inside of the girl’s wrist, searching for a pulse, but it’s useless. Like he said, it was too late. She was already gone. 

“JJ?” Hotch asks pitifully. “What did I do?” He looks so tired, so crushed.

“I don’t know, Aaron. But we’ll fix it.” She’s still got slow tears rolling down her cheeks, and she takes him from Rossi, guiding him down the stairs and out the front door where the rest of the team is waiting, the looks on their faces a mixture of fear and disgust and pity.

War was ever-consuming. War within, war in the world he struggled to hold up on his shoulders. He could never decide if he saw himself more as Ares or Atlas, never could deify himself in the way he was expected to. Head of the unit, head of his remaining household, head of his world. And yet, he chose war every time. This time, the blood on his fingertips was no longer metaphorical, but the weight of the world fell off. As he’s pulled away from his home, he sees JJ and Jessica huddled over his son, and he wonders if what he’s done is worth the weightlessness. 

taglist: @ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff @andiebeaword @dreatine​ @muffin-cup​ @httpnxtt​ @sunlight-moonrise​  @samanddeanstolethetardis221b​ @spencer-reid-in-a-pool​ @fanficlibrary82​ @zhuzhubii​ @prettyricky187​ @reidlusts​ 

[heresathreebee]

Brackish and Briny Waters (five)

[Ralph Lamont x Female Reader]

Summary: Ralph apologizes and you've got baby brains, but sometimes life does nothing but kick you down. Previous Masterlist Next

Tag(s): 16+ | 1.7k words | more angst, baby fever, alcoholism, ghostly vibes

AN: GODDAMN Part 5 took me a lifetime to finish. As always no beta readers just poorly side eyeing this by myself and hoping it makes sense

THE NEXT MORNING

You barely stir when you hear the door open. You've all but forgotten last night, and yet you flinch when Ralphie tries to cuddle with you. He sighs somewhere near your ear and hugs you from behind anyways, lips brushing the nape of your neck and breath fanning over your back as he simply lies there, quiet as the grave. 

There's no bruise but you can still feel his hand gripping your arm from last night. "You're being a huge dick…" 

"... I know." 

That is not good enough. You roll over to face him and watch his face twist when he notices the tract marks of dry tears on your face. He swallows and almost unconsciously takes your hand, smoothing his thumb over the back of your palm in a way that was meant to comfort him rather than you. 

"I'm sorry." He opens his mouth again but he flounders for words. After a deep breath he continues. "We can't call Reagan. Because he won't do anything for us…" 

You wait impatiently for him to explain. 

"Sweetheart, if we called Reagan last night, he would have fucking laughed at us. It is step one down that slippery slope to the couple who cried wolf." He put a hand on your shoulder and looked you in the eye, "do you really think he would have done something?" 

You think about it. If Ralph hadn't stopped you from calling him, what would you have said to Reagan? 

I smelled exhaust fumes. Not an emergency, he would say. 

I think he found us. What do you want me to do about it, too late now, he would ask.  

We're in danger. I'll send a squad upstate, they should be there in 4 hours, he would joke. 

"It was real," you insist. "I smelled fumes." 

"I know. I believe you." 

You squint at him threateningly and he doesn't give an inch. He doesn't seem like he's mocking you. 

Ralph could be an asshole, but Reagan was infinitely worse. At least one of them gave a shit about your safety. The realization Ralph was right scared you more than anything. You were alone in this… 

Well, alone together. 

You sigh and bury your face in his neck. Your hair is tangled as shit and probably tickling his face, but your husband simply wraps you up in a tight embrace and holds you against him. It's all the apology you need. 

END OF THE FIRST MONTH

Adjusting to your new life hit you like a sack of bricks early on a Monday morning. You woke up from a dream where you still lived in your tiny little apartment two minutes walk from everything. In a reality which felt more like a fever dream, Ralph was late for work, donning a tie and tweed jacket and kissing you goodbye for the day. 

You never realized how much space there was in the new master bedroom. In the apartment, a queen sized bed nearly touched the walls and barely left room to creep around two night stands and a dresser, but in the new house you had room to lay on the floor and stretch, maybe put another piece of furniture in here like a bookshelf or something. 

And the whole damn house was like that. You had an entire second floor to claim as your own! There is almost too much space… too much space for just the two of you. 

God there's that thought again drifting into your mind unbidden, unfurling like a fern at the first droplet of sunshine. How many people does it take to turn a house into a home? Three should be plenty, your mind offers. 

You busy yourself with measurements, regrouting the loose tiles in the kitchen floor, and scrubbing the blackened hell out of that downstairs bathroom. It seems to come to life beneath your hands and you can feel yourself getting excited to show guests the improvement. 

The thoughts of turning your little twosome family into three persist over and over until you can't stand it any longer. Maybe it's finally time… 

Ralph's late getting home by 5 minutes instead of 5 hours but he still looks tired. No mud tracks on his pants or hard set eyes. He's halfway up the stairs before you realize he's probably going to bed early. 

"Hey!" 

Ralph stops like it pains him. His head sags and his hold on the railing is tight like he'll fall if he lets go. The way he's wobbling he might. He is barely able to meet your eyes as he glances over his shoulder and when he does he simply grunts. 

"I made dinner," you squeeze your hands together behind your back, "angel hair pasta and that sauce you love." 

Ralph's eyes flicker in thought. "Be down in a second." 

You wait nervously to see if he does come down. What if this is a bad idea? What if he doesn't take you seriously? Oh god what if he hates it, what if he calls you an idiot for even considering it? 

Ralph does come back downstairs, hair wild from running his fingers through it. He seems to gain a small amount of energy while eating, not wanting to talk himself but asking how your day has been going. 

You're definitely rambling right now. Ralph listens and listens, chuckling along but at some point he grows concerned and envelopes your hand with a worried expression on his face. "Jesus, I've never heard so many words come out of your mouth at once, it's like you're writing a dissertation over there. Are you OK, baby?" 

You snap your mouth shut. God, you hadn't even come close to talk about kids for all your rambling. And then there was that weird smell… 

Your blood runs cold as you recognize it. You lean a little closer to Ralph and he almost instinctively flinches away. If there's one thing you are sure of, one thing you could swear on god– Ralph Lamont has never flinched away from a kiss before. So he has something to hide. And that something has a sharp scent and explains his slow reactions and tired eyes better than anything else could. 

"Have you… have you been drinking?" 

It's the way he can't meet your eyes when you ask him. You know. It's beyond out of character, so much so that it's confusing and a little frightening for you. 

A little drink here and there is, to you, to be expected especially considering the wealth of your new company. So why hide it? Is there something else he's not telling you?

You suddenly feel sick and too hot, ripping your hand away from his and getting up to leave the table. 

He knows you get in your head sometimes and practically yells your name to stop you. "I'm… I don't know why I…" 

Ralph sighs and buries his face into his hands, ashamed. All this suspense is twisting knots in your stomach. You sit back down gingerly, taking deep breaths to calm yourself down. 

"Ralph," you warn, "you had better start explaining yourself right now before I lose it." 

Ralph stares a hole into the table and worries his lip. The truth is he doesn't know what to say because he doesn't know why he did it. The students are easy, you are easy. Even in the toughest of times, at his lowest, he didn't drink so… what the fuck was coming over him?, he asked himself. 

Something clicked. It rolled like fire in his belly given dry wood, smoking curling to the top of his throat and out of his ears. "They hate me." 

"Who? Who hates you?" 

"Everyone." 

You looked him in the eye for the first time tonight and saw something dark looking in there. It makes you uneasy. "What makes you think they hate you, baby?" 

Ralph's grip on his fork tightens until his knuckles are white before he gingerly sets the dishware down and deflates. He clicks his tongue and shakes his head with a sardonic grin. 

"You wouldn't understand… and how could you? You never leave the house." He looks at you and there's a growing instability rising in his movements. "You… you don't see it. It started out as little nothings that I could ignore because it didn't matter that they didn't like me: I was new.  

"Then it became lots of these little nothings. Staring and whispering and hushed silences. Tip toeing language and poking and prodding and testing me and my limits and it just… it just… it never got better…" 

Rumors. It dawned on you that his frustration seemed intimately familiar to you as you had had to change schools once or twice due to a few terrible rumors that snowballed and got way out of hand. And you can imagine the sort of rumors that accompany a man with little interest in making friends who has a wife nobody knows anything about. 

If you wanted to stay here long, you would need to change a few minds. You set aside your fear for a moment and make him look at you. You can see the unshed tears in his eyes and feel pity for him. 

"I want to do that dinner party," you announce. "With all that's gone on, you probably didn't have the grand introduction you deserve. Let me show them how much you mean to me." 

Ralph's shaking his head but he already knows you'll win this fight. For him it feels like begging for something he doesn't even want. He agrees because he already promised you could when you were ready and you needed to find new friends asap. 

His sleep that night is fitful and the room's shadows seem to reach out like claws seeking his immortal soul. When the haze of whiskey finally dies down in his system he sleeps dreamless and wakes to feel somehow more hollow with despair than before. 

Ralph Lamont has the distinct feeling things are going to get a hell of a lot worse before anything gets better…

@werwulfy @fundamentally-lazy @escape-your-grape @mimiscappinisideblog @go-commander-kim

[fireemblems24]

SS Chapter 18 & 19

Whew, felt like it took a long time to reach this next chapter. Life's been busier than usual lately, but here we are.

Spoilers possibly up until Silver Snow Chapter 18 (and other routes around the same time).

Pre-Battle 18

Should I tag this as Verdant Wind spoilers since they basically follow the same plot? Only slightly kidding.

We storming the capital now! Woot! Is Edelgard really going down in one freaking chapter though?

Are they finally going to acknowledge that Byleth's marching to chop down his former student? Because so far he's felt exactly nothing about Edelgard. Not regret, not longing, not horniness, not anger, not vengeance. It's like she's some faceless evil emperor he's never meant before for all the emotional impact their former relationship's had in part 2 so far.

ARE WE GONNA GET RHEA BACK SOON??? Please. I want to see what role she's going to play. There's still so much I don't know about her.

Ok, seeing the map, I don't see Edelgard, but I do see both Hubert and the Death Knight despite defeating them a million times already.

They really shouldn't let us fight the Death Knight so many times if they wanted him to come across intimidating. Even early on, Lysithea with Dark Spikes and Dimitri with a horse killer weapon just melt him. Maybe it's harder on Maddening.

Battle 18

Ugh, I hate split maps. No, Seteth, I don't want to split up.

Hubert sounds so sinister. OMG I love him. He doesn't care - at all - that there were his former classmates.

So Lysithea nuked the Death Knight into another dimension . . . again. Is he dead for real this time? Because it seemed official this time. Finally.

Oh, unique dialogue with Hubert and Ferdinand. The drama. Too bad his Boltings have a 0% hit chance on Ferdinand.

Now time to waste Hubert's second Bolting.

LAMO that Imperial Soldier lady also has Bolting, but Linhardt just waited her out. She did a total of 1 damage to him lol. She's got 5 though and that's annoying, so Petra just took her out.

Having Byleth finish Hubert off since I bet there's more unique dialogue.

Hubert threatening Byleth. Name a more iconic duo.

OMG Byleth' gaunlets broke lamo. Guess someone else will actually finish Hubert.

Wow, Hubert's generic dialogue "not even death will make you consequential." Told that to poor Bernie. Still took an arrow to the face though.

And seems like he's dead-dead this time.

Does he always give you a Goddess Icon when he dies. Because that's funny if he does.

Oh - MVP Petra! She deserves it. She's really catching up to Ferdie and Sylvain. It's just - she never dodges like Ferdinand does, and can't take the punishment Sylvain does.

Post-Battle 18/Pre-Battle 19

WAIT - WAIT - WAIT - WAIT. DEDUE. DEDUE IS HERE? MY BOY? HE'S HERE. WHY IS HE HERE? 😭😭😭😭😭😭

Yeah, wtf is he doing in Enbarr?

Oh - Dedue here's for Edelgard's blood. Nice.

Does this mean I get to use Dedue????

Holy shit, Dedue. He infiltrated Enbarr and gathered intell?

What a champ.

Dedue is low-key the best spy in this game guys. Gathered intel to help an invading army take a castle literally under Edelgard's and Hubert's noses and let's not forget how he broke Dimitri out of prison.

Dedue 💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

And Rhea's inside! We get to see Rhea AND Dedue again.

Wait, why is Dedue leaving me? No 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

Don't worry Dedue. In another playthrough, I am pampering you and Dimitri and in the next one, you two are getting married pairing up.

I'm guessing we're not going back to Garreg Mach between these battles? Because that would be - eh - make no sense.

Oh, so now we have the "I don't want to kill Edelgard" or "Can we walk the same path as her." Why are those two my only options though? Where's the "fuck yeah" option? It's way more fun to embrace the kill 'em all thing. Except Dimitri and Dedue because my heart

Ok, Caspar, you're forgiven for your CF nonsense calling Edelgard out.

Why is Seteth always lying to me? He keeps saying "I'll leave it in your hands." But then doesn't and yells at me.

Battle 19

Ok. I decided I'm playing these two back-to-back.

Does Verdant Wind do this too? Fight Hubert and the Death Knight, then jump straight to Edelgard, no month in-between?

Because it if it does - it's going to take forever to get to Azure Moon, because, unfortunately, I won't be able to play this game for close to a month after this because of work and other stuff.

Mannnn, I am NOT looking forward to this map with my VW gang. In SS, my Sylvain, Ferdinand, and Petra are all super reliable. And Lysithea can nuke anything. No one in my VW gang is as good as any of those four (though, Claude has gotten more speed lately - thank the stars).

OMG DEDUE IS BACK. HE came, but he's green. WHYYYYY.

So . . . does Dedue have unique battle dialogue with Edelgard? She's all that's left and he's marching towards her. I think I'm going to test this. I'd laugh my butt off if he crit and killed her.

No unique dialogue, but it feels good letting Dedue get a hit on here. I get Dedue could kill her. I could just keep healing him, and she's got no one left. Should I do it guys?

I think I'm going to do it.

I'll let Byleth peck at her with his puny magic damage so I can get that dialogue, and then Dedue's killing Edelgard next round probably.

LAMO Sothis is a false Goddes, but like, she's living in Byleth's head so. We know she's not false.

Oh, well, Edelgard crit Dedue. So I just reset things and my ever reliable Lysithea nuked Edelgard onto another planet, as she does.

Weird she and Lysithea got unique dialogue though.

Ohhh cut scene. Why does Edelgard have a sword though?

Why is Edelgard asking Byleth to kill her? I guess it makes sense. He was her teacher here.

She does know all these people are killing each other because of her, right?

Oh, wow, he just lopped her head off. That's maybe as badass as when Byleth just offed Randolph (or however you say his name). I'm legit impressed the game didn't milk that harder.

Though they did that "I wanted to walk with you line . . ." Which . . . I'll take it. That's not too bad. She did, but what a twisted path she's walking.

I'm a bit conflicted about her death here though. It seemed kind of . . . weird? I expected Edelgard, from the way she talks in CF, to do down fighting. Not pleading to "my teacher" on her knees and panting.

MVP Lysithea. Guess landing that last hit on Edelgard motivated her.

Post-Battle 19

Are we finally gonna see Rhea?

Why did Hubert right us a letter?

Oh, it's about those mage people. And they want revenge. How original. If they're the enemies of all of Fodlan, why did you fight with them? Like why not take them out, then Rhea, who doesn't . . . you know . . . want to destroy the world?

Hubert and Dedue the real MVPs of this route though.

I can't with the name "those who slither in the dark" though. How lame.

Seteth said "kill every last one of them" though.

RHEA. REAH's BACK. 😭😭

And her hair is down! She looks pretty. She looks sickely though.

Oh, we going to learn some stuff now?

I don't remember who Nemesis is. So he's a grave robber. And a genocider. Wonderful. So is that when Seteth's wife died? Or?

I'm guessing we don't get playable Rhea, though I bet someone would've told me already if we did, because she's in such poor shape.

Now we get to kick the people's ass who killed Jeralt?

RHEA IS COMING WITH US

OMG Caspar wants to carry Rhea on his back 😂and then Dorothea has to point out how that might not work for our short king.

No one really mentioned Edelgard and Hubert dying though. Maybe in the monastery?

Guess I'll find out later. Now to go play these exact same maps, but with the Golden Deer!

[queen-scribbles]

Acceptable Risk

Art trade fic for the extremely patient @theheroofoakvale, exploring if Shepard’s recruiting Thane had gone a little.... differently.

-----

The door opened with a quiet hiss, and Shepard’s entry was greeted with the raised barrels of several assault rifles. The mercenaries, however, paused before opening fire, despite being confronted by three heavily armed individuals pointing guns back at them.

The asari in the middle of the cluster--clad for business rather than combat--spun to face them, her eyes widening. “Shepard?!”

Shepard smirked, centered his pistol on her. “Nassana.”

There was a muffled clatter in the ceiling that had the mercenaries’ attention swiveling upward. Her posture shifted defensive. “You’re dead.”

“I got better,” he retorted, and shot her in the throat.

Her bodyguards zeroed back in on him and his team, torn between them and the threat above, and that was their undoing. A dark figure dropped from one of the ceiling vents, and Shepard used that moment of distraction to take out two of them. When the remaining mercs focused in on him, the dark figure punched one in the throat and shot the other center mass. The few that were left went down quickly.

Massani and Vakarian kept their guns up, leveled at the late arrival, a drell, as he stood in the middle of the carnage, eyes fixed in an unblinking, regretful stare at Nassana Dantius’ body.

“Sorry if I stole your kill,” Shepard said after letting the silence go as long as he could tolerate. His pistol hung at his side in a loose grip, ready if he needed it. He didn’t think he would.

“I was not here for her, though the galaxy is no less for her removal,” the drell said softly, finally looking up from the dead woman and blinking just before he met Shepard’s gaze. “I am here for you.”

Behind him, Massani muttered a quiet curse and Vakarian tightened his grip on his gun, but Shepard didn’t even flinch. “I did wonder. Dantius hardly seems worth the time for someone of your... reputation.”

“And yet you still came,” the drell said, clasping his hands behind him and looking in no rush to kill anyone.

“She used me.” He let the barest edge of a snarl color the words. “I can go along with a likely trap if it gives me an excuse for payback. Also,” he took half a step forward, “seemed the best way to meet you, Krios. We need to talk.”

Thane Krios did not look at all perturbed that his target knew who he was. His expression remained impassive as he studied Shepard’s face. “Do we? What about?”

“I need your help on a mission. You can feel free to continue trying to kill me after we’re done.”

“Why?” Krios asked, still studying Shepard’s face.

“Why, what?”

“Why do you need me? Why should I help instead of killing you now?”

Shepard laughed darkly. “The fucking galaxy is at stake, I need the best of the best, even if they are out for my blood.” Another half step forward, Vakarian and Massani following this time until he waved them back. “As for the second question.... I know some things about you, Krios. I know you’re dying, and I know you have a son.” His pistol folded in on its clip as he crossed his arms and stared hard at the assassin. “And where he is. I imagine you’d hate for something to happen to him before you had a chance to mend fences.”

Three rapid blinks, a sharp breath, posture unchanged, but it was the most reaction Krios had shown in this conversation. “And would you make this...   something happen if I say no, Shepard?”

His calm was impressive. Shepard wondered if it was an easier illusion to maintain with eyes that had neither pupils nor iris to betray strong emotion. “If I have to. I need the best, Krios, which is you. Don’t really care how I get your cooperation.”

Krios was silent for a long moment. “This threat must be grave indeed for you to employ such measures.”

He was nigh impossible to read, but the slight shift of his clasped hands was hint enough. “I’m hunting an enemy who’s abducting human colonies and has ties to the Reapers, I’d call that pretty damn grave. Like I said, you can resume trying to kill me if we survive. What’s it gonna be?”

Another heavy pause, though shorter. “You have left me only one viable option if I care about my son.”

Shepard arched a brow.

“I will assist. Consider this a pause in the contract on your life.”

“Good enough for me.” Shepard cast a smug glance at Dantius’ corpse, then turned to exit the room. “We’re done here, so you can either come with us or meet us at the ship.”

“I will meet you shortly. I have a few personal effects to gather,” Krios said.

“Alright. We’re on a clock, so don’t dilly dally,” Shepard replied, and motioned their departure to Vakarian and Massani.

“What’s to stop him from shooting you on our way down?” Vakarian muttered as they headed for the elevator. “He’s already planning to kill you and you threatened his kid.”

Massani beat Shepard to the answer. “Doesn’t know if there’s a dead man’s switch on that something happenin’ to his boy if Shepard bites it.” He chuckled darkly and smirked at Shepard. “What the hell’d you do to earn a death mark, anyway?” 

Shepard shrugged, watching the blur of downward travel out the elevator’s glass-paned wall. “Hell if I know, Massani. Certainly pissed off enough people for there to be some options.”

The mercenary gave a rough laugh and slapped him on the shoulder. “Wear like a badge of fucking honor, kid. Means you got someone real riled up.”

---

Krios was, as promised, aboard the Normandy well within an hour. His personal effects he’d gone to collect were few enough to fit in a small shoulder satchel that he politely refused to let anyone inspect. (Lawson was not happy when Shepard told her to drop it, clearly suspicious of allowing an assassin on board without first vetting his gear.) He settled in life support at EDI’s suggestion, and ruffled no feathers with the rest of the crew, unless you counted Taylor’s mistrust of his career in general.

“What will be expected of me, Commander?” Krios asked, in that same modulated tone he’d used on Illium.

“No shipboard duties, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Shepard said. He leaned against the wall by the door and studied Krios. “You can do as you like here. When we have missions, I may want you to come watch my six, if your skillset seems a good fit.”

“I see.” He folded his hands, elbows braced against the small worktable at which he sat. There was a hesitation under the words that almost rang in the air.

“If there’s something else you wanna say, now’s the time,” Shepard prodded. He didn’t have time to be gentle prying out secrets or whatever.

“My son,” Krios said, words measured and careful. “You say you know where he is. Would you be willing to share that knowledge?”

Shepard mulled it over, weighing the value of his options. “In time,” he finally said. “We have a couple pressing assignments that are more important than family reunions. But if we hit a point with some free time I’ll let you know.”

Krios nodded, his expression unreadable as ever. “Very well, Shepard.”

“One thing I need to know from you,” Shepard began, pushing away from the wall, “is if whatever’s killing you will affect your abilities in a fight.”

“It shouldn’t, not yet.” He paused for the space of a few blinks. “I should have several months at least before the symptoms become noticeable even to myself. More than enough time to complete your mission, if it is as urgent as you make you sound.”

“Is that something you doubt, Krios?” 

“Not at all.” Krios pushed to his feet and crossed the room to examine a rack of spare rifle parts. “Even someone of your reputation would have to be on a mission of urgency to blackmail an assassin sent to kill you into helping your cause. I simply mean this threat seems the type where a decisive outcome will be reached swiftly; whether in victory or destruction. Well within the time I have before functionality is... affected.”

“Good.” Shepard nodded. “Not sure when I’ll need you, but I want to be sure you’ll be worth it when the times comes.” He left the room, noting Krios’ undertone murmur as he did, and from the cadence wondered what the assassin was praying for.

---

Shepard first tested him on something that seemed of no consequence; a mercenary base on a backwater planet trafficking stolen eezo. Thane did his job, no more no less, all the while making note of how the man fought. The risks he thought worth taking, the sacrifices that were acceptable cost, the balance of recklessness and cunning. It was not a complete picture, not off one mission, and Thane wouldn’t act on what he’d gleaned even if it were.

Not with the blade the commander had hung over Kolyat. Not with the hope of learning where his son might be. Patience was the hallmark of an assassin, after all; knowing when to strike as well as how. And Thane had been an assassin a very long time. He could wait.

Especially as conversations with others aboard the ship painted a clearer and clearer picture of the mission’s scope. A trip through the Omega 4 relay was very likely to be suicidal just on its own. Destroying whatever these Collectors used as a base doubly so. When Shepard made ‘if we survive’ comments, he wasn’t joking. Thane could wait. He could help with the mission--it was a worthy goal after all, one he would have assisted in accomplishing without the threats--and then resume his contract.

After the mercenary base was eliminated, and easily, Shepard made use of Thane’s skills a few more times. Usually on missions with plentiful shadow coverage and good sight lines.

“How’re you holding up?” Garrus asked on one such mission, the two of them picking off targets from a bit of a distance while Shepard made viciously short work of the battlefield.

“I’ve had worse assignments.” Thane’s rifle kicked against his shoulder and the krogan he’d been targeting dropped. He fired another shot, just to be safe, and watched the body jerk then lay still, before searching out another target. “What of you?”

Garrus snorted, took down his own target. “I’m  here because he’s my... friend” --there was a brief hesitation, as if the turian wasn’t completely sure that was the right word--”and I trust that whatever he’s doing is worth whatever it costs to accomplish.”

“You’ve fought alongside him before.”

“Against Sovereign, yeah.” Garrus’ mandible twitched as he focused on sighting in another shot. “This feels different.”

He didn’t elaborate, and it was only a few moments more for them the claim victory and press further on with their mission.

Thane watched Shepard, and wondered what had changed in the eyes of his friend.

---

It was after the derelict Reaper, after adding a geth to their mix, that Thane’s patience paid off. At least in part.

“Your kid’s on the Citadel,” Shepard informed him out of the blue. “Lucky for you, Vakarian has some unfinished business there as well, and the techs need some time to integrate the IFF to the Normandy’s systems. I can spare a side trip for personal issues while they get that squared away. Be ready to go in an hour.”

Thane didn’t protest. Didn’t question. He could ask for details on approach to the Citadel.

They set a cold knot in his gut when he learned them. “He’s here to kill someone,” Shepard said bluntly, and all Thane could think was Like father, like son. That was not a path he’d ever wanted for Kolyat. Shepard didn’t have a lot of details, just that Kolyat was there. Apparently even Cerberus’ resources had limits.

They spoke to a C-Sec officer, then to Mouse at his suggestion--Thane was surprised but pleased he was still alive--both conversations Shepard kept as short as possible. Clearly he was not in the mood to waste time. Thane wished that hadn’t involved the commander breaking Mouse’s nose, but couldn’t muster much sympathy when the same proved true of Kelham once they got his name and interrogated him.

“We have some time, not a lot of it,” Shepard growled. “And we still need to find Sidonis when we’re done with your shit, Krios.” He turned to Captain Bailey.  “What can you tell me about this Talid Kelham wants dead?”

The picture Bailey painted--up and coming turian politician, vocally anti-human and gaining support--made it obvious why Kelham would want Talid gone. He had to be very bad for business. He was also in a very vulnerable position currently; pressing flesh on a walk through the Wards with only one or two bodyguards along for protection.

Thane had to admit surprise when Shepard was alright with them splitting up to track Talid and (hopefully) find Kolyat.

“You can’t find him alone any more than I can,” Shepard commented with a sharp smile s he and Garrus headed for the catwalks. “Stay sharp, Krios.”

As if he would do otherwise. Still, he bowed his head and asked Amonkira for strength and guidance before he vanished into the shadows, hoping they weren’t too late to save his son from a very familiar dark path.

Are you really surprised? a voice inside him mocked as Thane picked his route along catwalks and ducts, through shadows and crowds. Even if he hates you, that’s the example you left.

He shook it off. He didn’t have the luxury of internal debate right now. He had to pick out his route on the fly, keep in touch with Shepard and Garrus, plot out several ways to handle the situation that all depended on Kolyat’s behavior. And he didn’t know his own son well enough to predict that, so his solutions were all loosely structured ideas at best. Some plan was better than none.

It was a close thing, despite their best efforts. Kolyat spooked, shot the bodyguards and dragged Talid into his apartment with a gun to his head.

Shepard was only a step behind once Kolyat broke cover and very quickly had a gun pointed at him.

Thane went very still, watching this standoff. He didn’t know Shepard well enough to know what the man would do, but he knew what C-Sec protocols would be, and he could hear their approach. Shepard had been very clear about the limited time they had for this side trip, the fastest resolution--which would also fulfill C-Sec’s mandate to keep Talid alive--would end with his son dead, and Shepard was not a patient man.

Kolyat’s anger blazed, even from across the room, and he was far from willing to cooperate, his pistol pressed to the back of Talid’s head.

The loud crack of a pistol shot nearly made Thane flinch, his chest squeezing in protest at the thought of his failure. Just this one thing, I wanted to fix just this.

But Shepard’s shot snapped Talid’s head back, not Kolyat’s. The turian collapsed in a spray of dark blood and Kolyat recoiled. In that moment of distraction, Thane surged forward and twisted the pistol out of Kolyat’s hands, unsure if the tremor was adrenaline or rage.

Shepard was talking to an incensed Bailey; “No one will miss a racist asshole, I did you a favor”, but Thane’s focus was all on his son. 

“This was not the best way,” he said softly.

“What do you know?” Kolyat hissed back, struggling against Thane’s unrelenting grip.

“More than you might think.”

Kolyat yanked away as if the contact had burned him. Fury simmered in his eyes, and resentment, but he was alive. C-Sec would still have to take him in for what he’d been ready to do(attempted murder? That would likely be the charge), there would be consequences for what he tried to do, and Thane didn’t know if they even could “mend fences” as Shepard had put it. But he was alive. And hopefully could be deterred from a path Thane wouldn’t wish anyone to tread.

“Krios,” Shepard barked and Thane pulled himself out of his reverie watching C-Sec lead Kolyat away. But rather than Time to go, the commander nodded after the arresting officers. “Massani can help with tracking down Fade. You have until we’re done. I wouldn’t count on more than an hour or two.”

Thane blinked, thrown off kilter by the gesture, but recovered quickly.  “Understood.” He’d taken three steps after the C-Sec officers before he stopped and turned. “...Thank you, Shepard.”

The man waved him off, already walking away with Garrus in his wake.

---

An hour and a half didn’t go very far working through a decade of distance, but it was a start.

“Why do you stay with him?” Kolyat asked when Thane’s comms crackled with a heads-up Shepard and the others were on their way back and he stood. “If... this” --a quick gesture, more a flick of the wrist than anything, between the two of them-- “is so important?”

For you. In more ways than one. “Shepard’s mission is... critical. And there is, unfortunately, a time limit on saving the galaxy.”

Kolyat snorted at his father’s dry humor. “Right.”

“I will keep in touch,” Thane promised. “Perhaps we can meet again once this is finished. If you would like.” If I survive.

“...We’ll see.” Kolyat was staring at the table rather than him, but Thane would take it.

He nodded and headed for the door. “Very well.”

“Does he have something on you?” Kolyat asked abruptly. “With the reputation Shepard’s made, he doesn’t seem the type honorable people would be following.”

“I have made no claims of honor,” Thane said quietly, hand on the door frame.  “And with  the stakes of mission, some sacrifices may prove necessary.”

“Sounds familiar,” Kolyat muttered.

Thane made no reply, and didn’t look back as he left the room with a cold weight in his chest.

---

It ha been the right call letting Krios reconnect with his son. He seemed more centered, more focused, for having dealt with his baggage. Probably that whole ‘something to live for’ schtick. Shepard only cared that Krios did his job and the mending bond made the kid an even more effective pressure point.

Not that Krios had ever protested. Ever balked. But everyone had their limit, and if he happened to find the assassin’s, it never hurt to have a brute force solution in your arsenal. Especially as they were very close to actually pursuing the Collectors through the Omega 4 relay.

“Just a few more tests,” Lawson assured him. They wanted it to work right, after all. It’d be a real short trip otherwise.

“So,” he asked Krios, “out of morbid curiosity, who wants me dead?” There were plenty of options, he wanted to know who wanted it badly enough to hire an assassin. And it wasn’t like he currently had anything better to do with his time. 

Krios cocked his head, a flicker of what might have been amusement crossing his face. “I cannot tell you, Shepard.”

Shepard snorted and arched a brow. “Client confidentiality?”

“Client anonymity,” the drell corrected.

“You let some faceless coward point you at a target with my body count?”

“As you know, I am dying,” Krios said in that implacable tone of his. “Odds of survival were... far from troubling, as a factor.”

“And odds of success?” Shepard retorted.

This time there was definitely a small smile before Krios schooled his expression neutral. Not mocking or cocky, just... amused. “There is a first time for everything.” The faint amusement was gone when he locked eyes with Shepard. “How will we handle this, commander? When we are finished our mission, assuming we both survive, and I resume my contract to kill you?”

“Feel like giving me a day’s lead?” Shepard grinned sardonically.

“I could be persuaded,” Krios said. He shifted in his chair. “Let us see how things progress, shall we?”

You’d never know to look at the man he’d been... convinced to help with this by threat of harm to his son. He seemed perfectly at home, posture easy. He didn’t talk to the crew much, Shepard knew from EDI, but it was hardly surprising an assassin was accustom to solitude.

As if summoned by his brief thought of her, a glowing sphere materialized on the AI kiosk. “Shepard, Miss Lawson wished you informed that the IFF installation is in its final stage. For the shakedown we will need complete access to the Normandy’s systems, so it is recommended you use the shuttle for whatever you plan to undertake next.”

“Got it,: Shepard tossed in vaguely the direction of the AI. “That’ll make things tight,” he muttered to himself. He had something in mind that would likely need the whole team. They’d fit in the shuttle, but it would be tight. Last thing he needed was Lawson and Jack killing each other before they even hit the Collector base.

Krios was eyeing him with curiosity. “Commander?”

“Gear up,” Shepard said, heading for the door. “Got a search and recover that might take all hands.”

The assassin nodded and pushed to his feet, heading for his locker. “Very well.”

---

Their mission went well. Things on the Normandy in their absence, not so much. Shepard left a fully-staffed state of the art warship an returned to a picked-clean husk manned only by his pilot and the now-unshackled AI.

The Collectors had bloodied his nose, cost him his crew. Again. He’d had it.  “Ship’s not getting any more ready than it is. Joker, head for the Omega 4 relay.”

“Aye, aye,” came the determined, hungry reply.The pilot was probably even more eager than Shepard to punch back at the bug-eyed bastards.

Unlike Joker--and probably the others--Shepard viewed getting the crew back as a secondary objective to taking out the Collectors. The threat they posed to humanity ended now.

Get us there was his order, and that didn’t change when they came out of the relay having to dodge starship wreckage, or when they were harried by drones, or even when a fucking occulus busted into the hold.

“Krios, Massani, with me!” he barked, rifle in hand, listening to the scrape and thud of wreckage and lasers ricocheting off the upgraded hull on the way to the bowels of the ship. By the time they had trashed the occulus, Joker had them past the debris field and the drones, and a new problem had arisen.

New, but familiar--the same Collector vessel that he had encountered numerous times before. But this time, the Normandy had sharper teeth. “Let ‘em have it!” he ordered, a command Joker follow with alacrity Darting, looping, dodging, the pilot had them dancing around the larger ship, deftly avoiding the beam that had been their destruction before.

The surge of satisfaction at destroying the vessel was short lived, as it erupted in a fireball more than large enough to knock the Normandy into a crazy, barely controlled descent that could more bluntly be called a crash.

“Everyone alive?” Shepard checked over comms. When that was affirmative, he followed with, “Assemble in the CIC.”

This was it. A quick rundown of schematics pulled from the vessel and what he expected to find inside, a victory whatever it takes reminder, and it was time to go.

---

Than prayed silently to Amonkira as they disembarked from the Normandy. Let our hands strike true, and victory be worth the cost. There would be a cost, of this he was sure. He was familiar enough with Shepard’s methods by now there was little room for doubt. If I am among that cost, please guide my son, that his steps may trace a better path.

He wondered, if he should fall, whether his client would hire someone else to complete the task of killing Shepard or if they would let it go. He hoped it wouldn’t come  to that. He wanted to survive, to speak more with Kolyat before the end, but it would be what it was.

They split into groups, Shepard leading Thane and Zaeed, Garrus the rest of them, to serve as distractions while Tali crawled through the vents to let them pass. It was a good call; the Collectors swarmed thick enough any other plan would likely have been overwhelmed by the sheer number of them. They were not given the luxury of time for sighting in targets, so Thane stuck with his pistol--and occasionally biotics--firing, reloading, firing, with the odd interruption to scrounge more thermal clips because he’d run out.

Shepard’s back and forth with Garrus and Tali was just background noise, like the beating wings of their foes, as Thane gave his focus to the task at hand.

Tali stumbled out of the vent just as they finally reached the heavy doors barring the end of the hall. She beelined for the access panel, teetered as a couple shots ricocheted off her shields.

“Get it open!” Shepard barked as the three of them wheeled to give her cover fire. “Vakarian, where the hell are you?!”

“Almost there, a group of the bastards ambushed us!”

A Collector dove toward Tali and Thane shot it--rushed, imperfect, but the grazing shot knocked it off course long enough for him to try again. This time, it fell and did not rise again.

---

The sense of urgency, pounding Hurry, hurry, hurry through Shepard’s veins thrummed louder as the door beeped and started to hiss open. A muffled burst of gunfire reached his ears a handful of seconds before Vakarian and the others came into view, hauling ass down the passageway toward them.

“Massani, Krios! Through the door!” He rattled off a stream of cover fire, driving the Collectors to hang back for a second. Just a second. But it was enough time for the second fire team to reach the end of the passage and dart through the door.

Krios and Massani maintained some cover fire from the far side of the door, buying breathing room for the others as one by one they darted through the door. Lawson brought up the rear, her barrier shimmering out as the doors groaned on closing.

“They’re stuck!” Tali bit out, shoving one door with scraping, grinding protest along its track. Shepard and Lawson ducked through the narrowing gap just as a final shot slammed into Lawson’s shoulder and sent her stumbling.

“I’m fine,” she ground out, slapping medigel on the injury as the group of them shook off the adrenaline to register what the room held.

The walls were lined with dozens, hundreds, thousands, of the Collectors’ pods. The dingy yellow glow throughout the room spoke to them all being occupied.

Movement caught Shepard’s eye and he swung his rifle toward the potential threat. it was just one of the nearby pods; the dark-skinned, dark-haired woman inside stirred, pounding against the transparent canopy in a futile attempt to escape. Even as Tali and Krios rushed forward to try and free her, the pod hummed and the woman only had time for a single terrified scream before she simply... liquefied into a sludgy brown paste which drained away almost before his crew had time to recoil in horror.

“Commander! Over here!” Taylor fumbled with a nearby pod until a very disoriented figure tumbled out. “It’s the crew!”

That broke the horror that had frozen them, and the group surged forward to free their comrades before the same fate could befall them.

Chambers. Daniels. Donnelly. Gardner. All of them were here, as Shepard ran a mental roster, but Chakwas was the one to explain. Near as she could tell, the humans in the pods were being reduced to genetic material and ...piped elsewhere in the base through tubes, though she wasn’t sure where or why. That sounded like where they needed to go.

“We need to get them out of here,” Taylor said, hovering near a few of the engineers as they stumbled to their feet.

We don’t have time for this. “You wanna take them back, be my guest,” Shepard returned brusquely. “We need to destroy this base, but we can mange without you if it’s that important to you.”

“It is.” Taylor’s voice was firm as he tugged Chambers’ arm around his shoulders and herded the crew back toward the Normandy. “See you on the other side, Commander.”

---

Thane almost offered to accompany them; it was a lot of people for one man to safeguard. But Shepard was already snapping orders for the next stage of their infiltration. He’d be taking Garrus and Zaeed, sheltered from the overabundance of Seeker swarms by Jack, down the shortest route that followed the tubes. “The rest of you follow Lawson on the other route EDI indicated, draw some of the flying bastards off.”

Forward, then. Thane checked his reserve of thermal clips, made sure his pistol was undamaged, and fell in with the others as the door hissed open and they pressed on.

They hadn’t advanced far when the first Collectors appeared, drones and a small number of husks that were easy enough tot pick off. Their numbers only increased as time wore on, but that was the point wasn’t it? Draw them here, so Shepard could get through. Thane stood shoulder to shoulder with Tali as their squad advanced, shared his thermal clips when hers ran out first, lent what strength he could to the biotic barrier Samara had summoned to protect their backs.

“There’s a lot of them, Shepard!” Miranda hollered into comms when they were forced to take cover from a particularly large group, dotted with abominations and led by a scion.

“Good!” his reply crackled back underscored by gunfire. “Keep them the hell off us! We’re almost there!”

She hissed a quiet curse, then, “Yes, Commander!” Her fist flared blue and a pair of husks flew off the edge of the path. “Samara, push them back on three!”

The justicar nodded and the rest of them by unspoken agreement turned their focus to give the women cover fire.

“One!”

Strafing fire raked Grunt’s armor and he bellowed a laugh as he shot back. Thane admired his defiance.

“Two!”

The barrier Samar had been maintaining shrank inward in preparation. Amonkira, guide their strength.

“Three!”

The combined power of two gifted biotics exploded outward in a wash over overwhelming ozone-scented blue. Just as it slammed into the descending Collector horde, a heavy, white hot pain tore into Thane’s arm and side. 

He was dimly aware of Miranda yelling for them to move, of a hand closing around his bicep to drag him with them, of his legs moving to keep up until the gave out and he was hauled over someone’s shoulder instead. There was  rushing sound in his ears and it wasn’t until it was it was punctuated by gunfire and Miranda hollering at Shepard they were under heavy attack Thane realized it was Collector wings and not the lure of unconsciousness.

“Give us a minute, Lawson!”

“We don’t have a minute!”

Shepard’s curse was broken by static. “Vakarian, get that door open! Now!”

Time was fuzzy with the pain that swirled fresh at each jolted step of whoever (probably Grunt) was carrying him, but it still seemed an eternity before, muffled, he could hear someone calling an encouragement.

He slammed against something and the pain flared so white, for a moment he saw Irikah’s face. There was a dull murmur of voices, then a spike of numb shot through the pain and spread, blanketing, pushing back until he was aware again.

Tali knelt beside him, her omnitool just closing down as he became conscious of her presence. “Good, you’re still with us.”

“Thanks to you,” Thane rasped. He passed one hand gingerly over his injured side. The healing wound was large, like from a plasma- or other energy-based weapon rather than bullets. He could cope much better with bullets.

“You are welcome,” Tali said, pushing to her feet and offering him a hand up.

Thane accepted, but leaned against a wall once he’d gained his feet. It would take a few minutes for the medigel to truly do its work. He cast a surveying glance about as he waited. Mordin was limping heavily, Grunt, Garrus, and Zaeed all had significant battle damage to their armor....

And Miranda lay still, half-slumped against a wall, pistol resting in her limp grasp. Shepard knelt next to her, blood streaked in his stark white hair, but stood even as Thane’s gaze landed on them. “She’s gone,” he confirmed, as if there was any doubt. He half-turned, hand rising to his ear, expression flint-hard. “Got it, Joker.”

Garrus’ mandibles clicked. “The crew?”

“They made it back.” Shepard shoved a new clip into his rifle. “Taylor died getting them there.”

Thane grimaced. He should have gone along. 

“It happens,” Shepard said, as if he’d caught the self-reproof without even looking. “According to EDI, this next room’s the core. Vakarian, Massani, you stick with me, the rest of you cover our asses.”

He didn’t wait for agreement or confirmation, just strode to the console for the necessary door and and punched in the command to open it. Garrus and Zaeed followed silently, the former briefly locking eyes with Tali before the three of them disappeared down the hallway.

---

The rest of them hastily arranged themselves in a defensive perimeter, gazes and weapons trained on the two doors that separated them from the Collector forces.

Thane said a rushed but heartfelt prayer to Kalahira for their fallen, working the fingers of his injured arm to test the medigel’s progress. It would do.

The sheer number of Collectors made the task a difficult one--more than once Thane feared running out of clips for his pistol until a brief pause between waves allowed them to scavenge and share from the fallen. This sort of sustained firefight was far from his normal milieu, but this close to the end he was still determined to do his best.

They held as battle chatter from Shepard’s squad broke through the static. They held even though Mordin fell and Legion fell and Jack nearly followed, snarling and spitting curses as she struggled back to her feet. They held until Shepard’s order came over comms, “Move if you don’t want to go up with this place!”

Then they ran, Samara and Jack shielding them from as much as they could, the rest picking off the bolder Collectors even as they ran. They reached the Normandy, adrenaline surging as they gave Shepard’s squad cover fire until they were aboard as well. Joker had them rocketing toward the relay before the doors had fully closed, and the whole ship seemed to hold its breath until they were safely through.

---

As the adrenaline wore off, all Shepard wanted to do was sleep. But he couldn’t. Not yet. There were things that needed to be settled first.

Krios was in the medbay, sitting serenely still as Dr. Chakwas more thoroughly treated the nasty, half-healed burns on his side and forearm. (In sharp contrast to Jack, who was glowering and cursing about both having to sit still to let her injuries heal and being around so many people.)

“Looks like we both survived,” Shepard said without preamble. Chakwas took the unspoken cue and moved off to see to Jack.

“Indeed.” Krios didn’t move, hands folded in his lap as he sat on the edge of a bed.

“You make up your mind about that head start?”

Krios chuckled. “I believe my recuperation will be a bit more than a day, Shepard. A good time for me to visit my son, I think, and a good head start for you as the contract resumes.” His lips twitched to a small smile. “Perhaps my client will reconsider in light of your actions.”

“Doubt it,” Shepard snorted. “I get the sense their beef with me is personal. Doesn’t lend itself to rational decision making. We’ll see, I guess.” Stranger things had happened, but he wouldn’t be holding his breath.”I’m not going anywhere near the Citadel, in case the Council gets any bright ideas about me or my ship, but we can drop you on Omega before we head off.”

Krios nodded solemnly. “A fair arrangement.”

A less intelligent person might have wondered--hoped--leaving him on Omega injured was as good as a death warrant, but Shepard had seen him fight. It would take more than a set of already-healing electrical burns to put Krios at a disadvantage against the thugs on Omega. (And if they did happen to prove too much for him, one thing less for Shepard to worry about.)

“We can have you there in an hour or so,” he said. “once the doc’s done with you go get your things together.”

Krios inclined his head. “I shall.”

---

It had been a while since he was last on Omega and Thane hadn’t missed it in the slightest. Fortunately he wouldn’t be here long. Passage elsewhere was easy enough to  procure, and from there he could work his way to the Citadel. He could take some time to mend more fences with Kolyat before he resumed his hunt.

That was one thing about Shepard; he was never a hard man to find.

[omiramotakiart]

They say she walks on shores.

She, the lady of copper hair and eyes black as coal.

They say she guides lost sailors, castaways who the sea spat out.

She never talks, small gestures, puzzling looks, nods and pointing fingers, she wears a black dress, the skirt tattered and sleeves rolled up, an old shawl which she clutches with one hand and an empty basket on the other, she walks barefoot, her feet covered in sand and mud.

Nobody knows her name, she's never around villages, some say she's a ghost, others say she's a spirit, a fey, a witch, some even call her divine and others claim she's human, nobody knows for sure.

The island is known for shipwrecks, some locals claim it's a curse, others shove it to bad luck, but it thrives on fishing, however there's a small village where nothing grew, plagued by storms and it's waters gave no fish but corpses and unfortunate sailors, many left, those who remained withered away with time, nothing stood the test of time, where even the oldest houses turned to dust, ruins of past times.

The town folks knew the place was a lost cause, so they never tried coming back, whoever did that would be considered a bad omen, some have gone mad, others disappeared, brought misfortune to their loved ones, it was believed that it would be for the best to send them away.

The place had become a lighthouse for disaster, and when survivors arrived, she was there, waiting.  

Many would ask for help, some tried their luck at a proper conversation. She always shook her head, they would ask for directions, for safety, she would point at the ruins and then at her basket, on the mists of despair the woman would hand one of the sailors a piece of paper.

Found me something of value and I shall tell you the way.

Written in neat calligraphy in whatever was the mother tongue of the sailor, but she didn't take money, she wouldn't take gems or gold, so many were forced to scatter around until they found something, anything, even the things they would consider meaningless.

They say she stood still, silent, watching.

Remains of the shipwreck, collars, carvings, twigs, seaweed, bones, one object per sailor, once all paid tribute she would point at the direction of the town and a map, as soon as everyone looked away the woman would be gone, no trace, no sound, not even footprints.

None got lost in the way, as soon as they reached the village the sailors were greeted with gasps and whispers, hushing each other as they eyes stared coldly at them, some would throw insults, other looks of pity, a few would hide and lock the doors, the most fearless offered shelter and food with minimal hospitality, no words, no questions, no names were spoken near them.

The village was known for building ships, strong, sturdy ships that could endure all catastrophe, the village did amulets too, sea themed goodluck charms and carvings on the wood, symbols and letters on languages unknown, blessings on cryptid tongues that were given by elders on blue robes and seashell crowns, bottles of crystalline water with the smell of salt poured from the crow's nest to the deck, no hiding or covering. As soon as the process was done all would be put into the ship and left to their own devices.

All claim those to be legends.

Nothing but tales, stories, fantasy, senseless, unbased rumors about the friendly people who rescued the sailors. Some know better, or believe to do so, as dreams plagued by the memories of said days flood their minds, asking their crewmates for confirmation. Some believe them, others call it a case of collective madness, one thing never changes, the island is in no map, no name, no coordinates, but it must exist, or else where did the new ship come from? Some waste their lives investigating the location of the island, some lose their lives trying to find it, it is for the better to forget, as everyone says.

However not many will.

Some claim to have returned, all of them deranged and rambling, only coming back home to throw themselves at the sea in less than a week, whenever anyone asks they would start rambling and avoid all questions, their last words a shout.

I serve Mother Ocean and join the Sea Witch's crew, let the waters cleanse my pain.

There is a legend, a person sane enough to speak, as soon as he came home and his wounds healed he got a small ship for himself and all provisions needed for months worth of travel, with tons of maps he obtained on strange shores and parchments containing weird symbols, pages torn apart from books of esoteric themes, a piece of the old ship crudely nailed into the new one, claiming that was a blessing.

Word has gotten out and many claim to see the spectre of said sailor, lost at sea, died trying to find a dream, a soul deserving of pity and working as a cautionary tale for those whose heads are on the clouds, another story to tell around fireplaces and on taverns.

Some claim it to be true and even try to prove it, try to find and rescue the sailor, at no avail, as nobody has been able to do so, rumor has it, it's been years and the sailor only stops to restock on provisions and leaves with no trace, a stranger who has traveled all around the world for an endless quest with no reward, an impossible goal and a watery grave.

But I'm not dead, I'm no ghost nor mad, and I know what I saw on my dreams, I heard the voices, the sweet siren song calling me, my veins are not filled with blood but seafoam and the ocean demands my presence, Mother Ocean wants me on her crew among other souls, she is not evil nor has ill intentions, but wants to reunite me with my crew, to sail with her on The Sea Witch will be an honor and will calm my grief stricken heart, for I am ready to see my fallen crewmates who died because of my incompetence, for I know my failure as a captain has been forgiven.

I saw her, Mother Ocean, in my dreams, dark hair full of seaweed and a long flowy white gown, her only blue eye gleaming and barnacles growing on her fish-belly white skin, creatures swimming around her as her tentacles held the skulls of my crew.

The same copper haired woman came back to meet me on shore, she signaled at the ocean and walked me to a cliff and I finally heard her soft and fragile voice.

You are like us.

She showed me the photo of me and my crew that I gave her.

Separated from your crew, your family, left behind, I am like you, I once lost my everything and now I am here to help those who are as lost as I was.

As I looked at the ocean I heard the voices of my friends, laughter and singing, I felt her cold and clammy hands on my back and her breath against my skin, after all, some of us need a little push.

[batarella]

I Don’t Hate You - Part 17 (Jason Todd x Reader)

JAY IS BACK MOTHERFUCKERS

WORDS: 6706 WARNINGS: A BIT OF VIOLENCE. JASON BEING AN ASSHOLE.

Masterlist

I DON’T HATE YOU - MASTERLIST

-----

“Just coffee. For two.”

The waitress nodded. “Anything else?”

“No.”

She left. Five minutes later she brought in two mugs and poured in your drinks.

You warmed your chilled palms onto the ceramic. You somehow felt cold. Even when it was ninety degrees out. Especially your hands. You blew into your mug and took a sip. Just to warm up the itch in your throat.

Three weeks ago, Dick gave you that first call. You asked what it was about. He said he needed to talk to you in person. When he showed up to your house, he had a sling in his arm from a gunshot wound.

You thought he didn’t need to explain where he got it from. You knew who he was, as well as Bruce. But then he told you that it wasn’t from Penguin or Riddler or even a common thug. That it came from a new enemy going after Batman.

Still a bit confused why he came all the way to your place just to tell you that, he started bringing in a few documents.

First, he showed you pictures of Jason’s grave with a massive hole where his body was supposed to be. You remembered sweating your hair out at the horrible sight, the chills that ran down your back. It wasn’t from grave diggers. No. It was from someone climbing out from 6 feet under the soil.

Then, he showed you DNA test results.

Jason’s DNA, taken from when he was still alive, and a DNA sample from the Red Hood’s blood they had taken from one of their encounters. It was a match.

You demanded to know what was going on. Because whatever Dick was trying to tell you, none of it made even the slightest bit of sense. Dick wished he could explain more, but even he didn’t know the full story.

You couldn’t sleep that night, and barely the next night.

But then the week after that, Bruce invited you over to the mansion to talk. Dick picked you up, and at the dinner table, you, including Alfred, had a long, difficult talk about how he’d confirmed that Jason Todd, officially pronounced dead three years ago April 27, had been brought back to life by some unknown force, took the mantle of the Red Hood.

With you in the brink of tears, Bruce told you they were still trying trace where he came from, studied his techniques that Bruce was sure Jason didn’t know until now. So far, they found out that the Red Hood had been going around the state before he came to Gotham, formed his own crime ring and has taken over the empires of almost ten different drug lords. He was wanted in over six sectors, has left bodies left and right.

And now, he’s challenging Batman with his new style of vigilantism, which included cold-blooded murder. Every time Bruce, Dick, and the new Robin, Tim Drake, come across the Red Hood, they barely come out of it alive. He really wanted them dead.

And he was good at his job, as well. He’s done more good for the people than anything else. But he was also taking the lives of so many, Bruce wanted to put a stop to it.

You asked to be left alone for a while. For days, you didn’t talk to anyone. You stared at the rooftops. You looked at Jason’s old photos, compared them with the Red Hood’s new photos. You tried with everything you could to understand that the man you still loved even after three years of his death was now back, alive, risen from the dead as if that wasn’t actually insane. You mourned for him for so long. You still did. And what was that going to amount to now? You knew he was involved so many things you never could understand. But this? This defiance of the laws of nature?

You barely slept a wink.

Two days ago, Dick told you they needed your help.

You didn’t want to be involved, and you told him that. You weren’t even sure you wanted to see him like this. If this was even the same Jason before his death.

Dick told you that somehow, you could be of help. You could talk to him. Level him back down and give him the peace he needed to stop all the killings. You weren’t sure if that would work, and if anything, it was risking your life. You had no idea what Jason was capable of now. He could kill you. He could be heartless like that. And he was, from the way he was acting now. It wouldn’t be of any surprise.

But Dick and Bruce, they were running out of options. And even without Bruce outrightly admitting it, they wanted Jason back in the family. They missed him, too. It wasn’t just you.

As if the three years of grief weren’t enough. If any part of him was the same Jason you fell in love with, and still love now, this was the thing of your most impossible dreams, that your dead boyfriend had miraculously come back. It was insane. But you knew, with all your heart, you desperately wanted him back.

But you needed the help. Bruce offered to pay for therapy if that was what you needed, to get your head straight, figure things out before you ultimately decide what to do. Eventually, you agreed.

And now, here you were.

You took another sip from your cup, then Dick came up from behind you.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” You stood up to give him a little hug. His hand patting your back, he sat across from you.

“For you.”

“Thank you.” He took the coffee mug. “You’re looking a lot better.”

You held your drink with both hands. “Thanks.”

“If you’re not comfortable in any way, I completely understand.”

You tried to hold back your shaking arms. You didn’t want him to see just how much this all scared you.

“What brought him back?”

“Ra’s al Ghul. The Lazarus pit. At least, that was after he was already resurrected. The pit just fixed his body and made him stronger.”

“Lazarus pit?”

“It’s uh,” he stuttered. “Ra’s has this League of Assassins with his daughter, Talia. And they own all these Lazarus Pits. It’s a sort of a Fountain of Youth. He bathes in it, and it makes him live for six hundred years. It also heals your body from just about any injury.

“They must have found Jason, bathed him in the pit, then nursed him back to health in an attempt to create this someone to go against Bruce.”

This was far, far beyond what you could have possibly imagined. Some sort of the supernatural had always been real. Magic. Aliens. The Justice League. But now that you were involved? This was too much.

But with Jason… your sweet, loving Jason… You’ll do anything.

“You think he’s heartless enough to try to kill me?” you asked.

Dick drank from his coffee mug, set it down, then swallowed.

“I never got to tell you, didn’t I?”

“What?”

Dick bit his lips. “Jason’s not gonna hurt you. I’m sure of it. I wouldn’t have called if it had put you in any kind of danger at all.”

“How are you so sure?”

He looked out the window, at a rooftop from an apartment building nearby. You breathed into your mug.

“About a week ago, I put a tracker on him without him knowing. Then one day I followed him, just to see what he was up to…”

He held his cup.

“He was waiting for you outside your university. And when you got out, he followed you all the way to your house. He’s been at it almost every single day.”

You caught your breath in your throat and watched Dick with your lips starting to shake.

“And it isn’t just that. He does everything to make sure you don’t get hurt. When you go out at night, he’s still watching you. As the Red Hood. One time before you were about to cross an alleyway where thugs were waiting to rob you, he beat the living shit out of them before you even noticed.”

You gulped down, then you drank even more of your coffee just to ease your nerves. You shifted in your seat, then cleared your scratchy throat.

“How long has he been at this?”

“I’m guessing since he first came to Gotham. A month ago.”

The coffee suddenly didn’t taste so calming anymore. “God… I… This is still so much to process…”

“I know.”

“He isn’t going to show himself to me willingly, is he?”

“I don’t think he will. He makes sure you never see him.”

You closed your eyes.

“That’s why I called you. If you got to talk to him, maybe you can get him to listen.”

He loves you. He still does. And he was a broken soul, protecting you when no one was there to protect him. He needed you.

It was that one, single push you needed.

“I want to do it.”

Dick held your wrist and squeezed it tightly. “Don’t worry. If anything goes wrong, Bruce, Tim, and I will be there.”

“It’s not that I’m afraid of,” you said. “I don’t know what’s going to happen after this.”

Not a clue. Not a single premonition.

“Honestly, me neither.” He finished his coffee. “But it’s worth a try.”

-----

One. Two. Three.

Those fools had it coming.

Barely a word out of his mouth gushing with blood. The Red Hood held his neck, stuck him up against the truck’s container, then pushed his revolver right under his chin.

“When’s Black Mask’s next shipment?!”

“I don’t fucking know!”

He clicked his gun. “I think you do.”

His filtered voice made everything a lot worse. The driver of a weapons cache truck he caught was trembling off his ass. His two other co-workers were lying dead on the ground. And when Red Hood squeezed his neck further, he gasped for air.

“Tomorrow! At the docks!”

He slammed the butt of his gun right to his face. He fell to the ground, unconscious. And just because he had one bullet left to waste, the Red Hood shot his shoulder.

He jumped out the vehicle and stretched out his neck, closing the truck door while the driver continued to scream in pain. The police should be here soon. He’ll have to get out of there.

“Hey there, bud.”

“Fucking shit-“

The Red Hood, in just one swift move, reloaded his gun and aimed right at the top of the truck, at the black and blue figure crouched over staring at him.

“Get out of here.”

“I just want to talk, Jay.”

He wanted to shoot Nightwing’s smug little smirk right off his face. “I mean it.”

“I won't-“

Red Hood fired at the truck’s metal just an inch away from Nightwing’s leg.

“I won't miss next time.”

“Just listen to me-“

“Fine. You wanna play that game, Grayson?”

He took his other gun strapped from his hip. Nightwing jumped off the truck before he started firing at his face.

Dodging the bullets, he started leaping circles around him, getting closer to where he was standing. Red Hood stopped firing, threw his guns to the ground, then charged for Nightwing’s leg just as he got close enough.

His larger figure stopped himself from tumbling to the ground when Nightwing landed a kick to his helmet. He growled, waited for him to pounce again, then Red Hood ducked under his leg, shot up quickly enough to land his powerful fist right against his chest.

Nightwing was down. He rolled to the floor, but resisted pulling out his escrima sticks. He wasn’t here to beat him down. But obviously, Red Hood wasn’t here to talk, either.

He ducked and blocked Red Hood’s succeeding hits, almost rolling around the empty road. He kicked him in the stomach, then Red Hood headbutted him with his much stronger helmet.

“Jason!” Nightwing blocked him with his arm. “This is about Y/N!”

He stopped.

Then his helmet was about to melt at the immense heat his head was boiling to. “WHAT DID YOU SAY!?”

Nightwing leapt up to a pole. Red Hood grabbed his guns, reloaded them, then started firing.

“Stop it!”

“Fuck you!”

He kept firing at Nightwing’s body, backing off when he got too close. He was going to kill him. He wasn’t getting out of this alive. Not tonight. Mentioning your name like that, it’s going to cost him his life.

“She knows! About you!”

“You fucking ASSHOLE.”

More. More bullets. Nightwing went into one of the alleys and jumped up the fire exits. Red Hood kept firing, the bullets bouncing through the walls. He climbed up the escape and chased after him.

“HOW THE FUCK DID SHE KNOW?”

“I told her!”

“oh, you’re dead, Grayson.”

They reached the rooftop, and Nightwing ran all the way to the other side of the ledge. Red Hood sprinted after him, opening fire. He didn’t care where they landed. He wanted his body to put into the shock in the middle of jumping to another rooftop and fall to his death.

“She wants to talk to you!”

“NOT A FUCKING CHANCE.”

“Don’t you think she deserves to know what happened-“

“LEAVE HER OUT OF THIS, DICK.”

He made sure you never saw him alive. You thought he was dead. He was going to keep it that way.

Then he ran out of bullets, cursing beneath his breath, Red Hood threw his guns to the floor and chased him down.

When he caught him, he pinned him to the ground, grabbing him by his neck. “Jay-“

“I’m going to kill you. Right now. You think I’ll hesitate?”

“Do you really want to break her heart again, asshole?”

“You fucking-“ Red Hood punched him in the face. Then Nightwing folded his legs up, pushed him with the heels of his feet, landing him on the ground. He placed his arm right against his neck.

“You of all people can't lecture me on breaking hearts, you jackass.”

Red Hood punched him again, then got off the floor. Nightwing finally pulled out his escrima sticks, and Jason pulled out the last of his guns from his holsters and aimed it at Nightwing’s head.

They paused, stared each other down with their weapons in hand a yard’s distance away.

“Just… talk to her.”

“I can't believe you pulled her into this-“

“This isn’t about our little game. This is about you, Jay. And you need our help-“

He laughed. “Since when did I ask for your fucking help?”

“Since you killed almost a hundred people in Gotham in the last month-“

“Those aren’t just people, you idiot. They’re Joker’s men. Penguin’s. Two Face’s. They all deserve to die.”

Nightwing tightened his grip on his sticks. “Then just talk to her. She deserves that. You of all people should know just how hurt she is.”

He clicked his gun. “Mention her again, and I’ll blow your brains out.”

“She’s waiting for you at the plaza. Behind the cathedral. It’ll just be you and her. Just let her talk to you-“

Just one pull of a trigger. And this son of a bitch dies for ever even speaking to you. He’ll fucking keep his word.

“You think I don’t know this is a trap? What, you, Bruce, and that fucking replacement will be waiting to ambush me in the dark?”

“Not this time. You have to believe me.”

He scoffed. “What are you trying to do? Change all this?”

“Trust me, I get it. You have no intention in mending anything with Bruce. But if you don’t show up, it’ll devastate her.”

“She’ll be fine. Trust me. She dealt with worse.”

“And you really want to subject her into that again?”

Deep, slow breaths. He lightly pulled the trigger, but Nightwing just skidded to the side and dodged him.

They heard something. Coming from below. Police sirens cleaning up the weapons truck.

Staring each other down, Nightwing and Red Hood slowly backed off. He hated him. All of them. His fucking family that never once cared for his ass, or felt any type of remorse for not being able to save him. The family that never thought to avenge him, set their morals aside to do what’s actually right. They look down on what he does, and yet, he’s done more to control Gotham’s crime than Bruce ever had in his lifetime.

Red Hood set his gun down, then they both sprinted to opposite ends of the rooftops.

He was going to clean up their mess. Again.

-----

It ends tonight.

Everything. Your story. Your mourning. Your commitment to your dead, beloved high school boyfriend. Your unhealthy attachment to what could have been. Your reluctance to move on.

You realized, it all ends tonight.

No matter what happens, no matter how this all ends, everything was going to change.

If he doesn’t show up, it’ll pave the way for you to move forward, knowing that Jason, given the chance that seemed entirely impossible just a few weeks ago, had no intention of even speaking to you, let alone change for his own betterment. It should tell you to let him go, despite you not wanting to. It’ll tear your heart into shreds, more than it already was, but if he was alive, and he still wanted nothing to do with you…

You just hoped that won't be the case. You still loved him. Endlessly.

And if he does show up, it could only end as well as you being able to convince him to stop with the killings, be his better self, be the Jason you knew he still was, and it’ll go on from there. The miraculous dream you never thought to be true. Your loyalty to him, rewarded. And no longer will this life go on as if you were merely running in a slow, painful treadmill with no actual direction, other than to keep the promises Jason asked of you. You’ll have him back. As crazy as it still is, you’ll actually have him back.

But that was the most wishful thinking you could do. It’ll almost never end that way.

But, no matter the outcome, if he changes or not, you’ll finally come to the end of you dreaming about the past. You’ll know he was here. Alive.

That alone fixed some parts of your broken self.

So you got out of your car, walked out into the plaza where you told Dick you’ll be waiting. Behind the Cathedral. Where there was no one around but trees and bushes. The next walkway was yards away, and there were almost no lampposts nearby. If what Dick said was true, and Jason would never try to hurt you, you’ll still be safe.

You leaned against the wall, looked around at the vines eating up an old, wooden bench.

And you breathed. Long deep breaths.

You were going to see him. Finally.

Maybe your attachment to him was made for this. Because somehow, deep within you, you knew it wasn’t over. You knew he wasn’t completely gone. As hopeful as it was, it somehow came true.

Deep. Slow. Breaths.

An hour. Maybe an hour and a half. You waited.

You were going to have to be as patient as you could be.

What were you gonna say to him?

A lot of things. Punch him in the face. Scream at him for ever leaving you like that. Yell at him for idiotically going after the Joker by himself. Hug him. Kiss him.

Your mind was boggling. This was never what you signed up for.

But it was everything you could have hoped for.

You’re seeing him again. Jason. Your love. Your first, and still love. Oh, how your heart warmed. You wanted his arms back. You wanted his lips back. You wanted-

Thud.

A noise.

Coming from the roof.

You stepped out from leaning against the wall. Nothing. Nothing above you.

Another thud. On the grass.

You looked around.

Your heart was thrashing hysterically in your ribcage.

“Jason?”

You walked to the other side of the cathedral’s backside. But there wasn’t so much as a squirrel around you.

Then.

Then.

You turned around.

There was a figure.

A large, dark figure, hiding in the shadows. By the trees. A few yards away from the building.

You narrowed your eyes, squinted to get a better look.

It was getting closer.

You wanted to back away, but you didn’t. You were too frozen too move.

When it passed by a single ray of light from a faraway post, you saw it was a man in a dark, hooded jacket. With what looked like armor on his chest.

He got closer. Closer. Close enough for you to see the red bat symbol on his chest.

You took a step back.

He was huge. So fucking huge. This couldn’t be him. Not by a mile.

You took another step back.

And when he got close enough so you could see the red helmet where his head was supposed to be, with white, glaring eyes looking back at you menacingly, you fumbled backing away until you ultimately hit the wall.

The Red Hood.

He walked to you until he was standing so close to your shivering body. You pressed yourself against the wall as much as you could. Your whole body thudding, your head swarming in panic. Your stomach was churching, much like it did when you were terrified beyond belief. You wanted to run away, but his helmet, his chilling red helmet, it stared you down so you couldn’t even move. An inch away from your body, the Red Hood growled.

“Stay… Away…”

You swallowed.

“Jason?”

“Don’t… Don’t even try.”

“You're…” you breathed out, your chest heaving. “You’re really alive…”

He just stared at you, not giving you any chance to move. You were stuck, pressed against the wall, as you stared at him in disbelief.

“How much do you know?”

You were stuttering. Your shaking mouth forced you to. You’ve never been so scared in your life. “A lot…”

The Red Hood slightly turned his head to the side.

You wanted to see him. Really see him. His face… without thinking, you reached up to his helmet.

He pushed your hands away, and you gulped, backing off.

“Whatever it is you're trying to do, stop it. It’s not going to work.”

“I just want to talk-“

“About what? What are you possibly hoping for?”

“Why didn’t you come to me?” you whispered. “Why didn’t you see me first? You have no idea-“

“You think you want to see this?”

He pointed at his chest. “This isn’t what you think it is. I’m not who you fucking think I am.”

Of course he isn’t. You didn’t expect him to.

“You have no idea how much I wanted this…”

“This isn’t what you want. Trust me. Far from it.”

Eyes stuck to his helmet, where his own eyes were supposed to be, you didn’t know what you wanted to say.

“I want to talk to you. I know about what you do… and I still do-“

“Forget about all this okay? As far as you know, I’m still dead.”

This time, as scared as you were, you wanted to punch him.

“Do- do you have any idea how much you hurt me?”

He didn’t answer.

“You fucking don’t.”

“I wouldn’t talk that way to someone with three guns on him.”

“Go ahead. Shoot me. Kill me. If you insist that’s what you are.”

You saw his shoulders rise, his breath deepened. You bit your lips, and you stepped closer to him. You craned your head up his much taller figure.

“What do you expect out of this?”

“I just want to talk…”

“About what?”

His filtered voice. There was barely anything of the Jason you knew. You couldn’t see his face. His whole body grew more than four sizes larger. You couldn’t hear his voice. It was so hard trying to be gentle to someone who just looked terrifying to look at.

“Stay away from me.”

“No,” you said. “Take that mask off and look at me.”

“Listen,” he walked towards you and pushed you against the wall. “I don’t know what you want. You want us to talk? And what do you want out of that? Something more?” he scoffed.

Your mouth turned dry. You wanted to kick him in the groin until he’ll barely be able to walk.

“You left me,” you whispered. “When you said you never would.”

“We broke up-“

“You. Left me.” you hissed. “You have no idea…”

He stopped, looking to the side at the wall behind you.

“You should’ve moved on-“

“Fuck you.”

Tears. Angry tears. They wanted to seep out. He stepped back. “If you know what’s good for you, forget about all this-“

“I can't believe this is how you are after you fucking died and left me to grieve you for three years-“

“Deal with it. I’m not who you fucking think I am.”

And, as it seems, you started to believe him.

This was a cold, heartless villain. The Red Hood. His helmet, his voice, his body. None of it was Jason anymore.

“I just want to talk… Please…”

He shook his head, not even giving you another glance. The Red Hood turned away from you and walked out into the trees until you couldn’t see him anymore.

You cried too much for him. Far too much.

So you didn’t this time. You let yourself slowly realize this was how things ended.

Your phone rang.

“Y/N?”

You breathed. “He won't talk to me…”

“It’s alright. We did what we could. I can come up there and-”

“Can I be alone? Please? I’m going home.”

“Of course. I’m really sorry…”

You hang up.

----

It felt like it was about to rain, even when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

You went up to your bed, folded your knees up your chest and stared blankly at the cold, empty floor. It was back. All over again. The same loss when they told you he died. That wasn’t Jason you talked to. Far from it.

There was no trace of his sweet, comforting voice, of his handsome face that lit up any room he was in. His arms, now twice as large as they used to be, they didn’t give off that soothing rush that calmed down all your nerves when he’d pull you into his chest. His voice, it was far from some fucking robotic filter that hurt your ears. You hated every part of it. You hated that helmet. You hated what he became.

Jason was still dead. He wasn’t coming back.

You hoped far too much of what was impossible to ask for. Because whatever that was, the Red Hood… You didn’t know what you were even expecting. That wasn’t your boyfriend. He couldn’t be.

You wanted to see the Jason who smiled bashfully when he saw you walk down the steps of your apartment, the one who stuffed his hands in his pockets, eyes glistening as he stared lovingly at you. You wanted the guy who wanted to see you every day of the week, miss you on the days when he wasn’t and push everything to the side just to spend every minute he had with you. The one so obsessed with you that he couldn’t possibly ask you to stay away, or ever make you feel like he didn’t want to see you at all. You didn’t like feeling so unwanted.

You hoped, with that tiny part of you that still had it, that he would have met you, looking exactly the same way he did before he died, and pull you into his arms. The dramatic part of you wanted to run to him, and he’d run to you, and you’d crash into an embrace for hours and hours until he’ll ultimately pull away to kiss you.

And instead, you got a red helmeted asshole who told you to stay the fuck away from him.

You clenched your fists, shutting your eyes.

That part of him should still be alive. A part of him should still be loving you as you knew he did. He followed you around, didn’t he? He protected you.

How could he… after all you went through just to hold on to him… this is how he treats you…

Thud.

You reached for your scissors you had stashed beside your bed. There was someone in your fire escape, standing like a brick wall.

A tall man, face hidden by the shadows of his red hoodie. He stared at you, but he wasn’t moving.

Your hands left your scissors.

You knew exactly who it was. You stepped off the bed.

Your heart was pounding so hard within your chest, you thought of running out of your room. But he didn’t look like how he did a while ago. His head was down, almost like he was looking at the ground.

You walked to your window and slid the glass open.

You still couldn’t see his face. The shadows were too dark.

All the emptiness, the darkness, all that consumed you, it was all finally starting to fade out. When you saw how he didn’t have any weapons on him, no armor, no helmet, this was what you thought to see.

You let out a broken, trembling breath as you climbed out into the fire escape, facing the man closer and closer. He slightly backed away, but his back hit the railing. You stood in front of him, frightened, but not enough to run away.

He flinched when he started for his hoodie, but you didn’t back off. Your nerves were on fire but you wanted to rid the shadows, finally see him as you never thought you ever could again after all those years.

Gulping, he leaned in.

You took off the hoodie.

The same black hair that fell down to his forehead, slight curls that tickled his skin. His jaw, angular and strong. His lips, chapped and scarred. His eyes, that deep, bright blue so beautiful that it tore through you and looked right into your soul. They looked through you so woefully, hurt, broken.

And scars. One that tore through his eyebrow, one on the corner of his lip, and one on his cheek.

You breathed, and a single tear fell down your face.

It was him.

Undeniably.

It was him.

It was Jason.

He’s here.

You clutched to his neck, both your arms pulling him so tightly to you that you swore you’ll never let go again. Oh, his warmth. His body. He was here. He was actually here. You stuck your face into his shoulder, holding onto him so hard that you’ll kill him if he even tried to move away.

Jason.

Jason.

Jason.

“Oh god…” you cried. “It’s you…”

And you could feel just how much he wanted to pull away. He was meaning to. But fuck him. You weren’t about to. His muscles tensed. His breath hitched. You could feel his chest stiffen-

Then,

You felt his incredibly strong arms around you.

And you sobbed. Silently. Not so much with tears but with your broken breaths, your shaking arms. He stuck his face into your hair and breathed in. Yes. This was Jason. This was definitely him.

You could hardly believe anyone could be risen from the dead. You saw him in his coffin. His lifeless body, white and cold. And he was here, back with the same exact warmth and life. He looked different, there was no denying that.

But the moment you looked into his eyes, you knew it was him.

“Jay…”

He tightened his hold on you.

“Y/N…”

And you cried even more. That voice. The same that said your name in the most beautiful way he possibly could in that voice message you listened to over and over again. He’s here. He’s really here.

Your hands on his face, you pulled away so you could look at him more.

And he looked like he was about to cry as well. The light from your room, it shone perfectly on his face. Every detail, you could revel in. His hands squeezed your shoulders and you pressed your forehead tightly against his.

You wanted to kiss him so badly…

He closed his eyes, but you didn’t. You kept looking at him, watching how his face moved.

Jason took your hands, gripped them tightly by the wrist,

Then pulled you away.

“Uhm,” he cleared his throat, taking his hands off from you and stuffing them back to his pockets. “I came to talk. Like you wanted…”

He looked to the ground. And reluctantly, you backed away.

You leaned against the railing beside him and crossed your arms.

“I don’t know where to start…”

Jason turned to you. “How are you?”

You had so many things to say. You could blurt out all your thoughts and you wouldn’t be able to stop. But you settled yourself, calmed your mind.

“I’m not so sure myself.”

“School?”

“Ending my third year. I went to arts college…”

“Yeah… I know. You like it?”

You nodded. “I do…”

You desperately wanted to hold him again, but you just kept to your shoulders lightly brushing.

“How ‘bout you?”

“Horrible. Thanks for asking.”

You shook your head. You wanted to chuckle, but you weren’t sure that’d be the best thing to do.

“Jay, what happened-“

“You really don’t want to know…”

“I deserve to know, don’t you think?”

Jason turned around, placed his hands on the railing and looked down onto the alley. You did the same, but your eyes were locked on him.

“Something happened. Some reality altering shindig in the cosmos. Ripples, as you might say. I’m not so sure myself. It caused a lot of weird shit to happen. Including me. I woke up in that coffin and climbed my way out.”

You swallowed.

“Somehow, the al Ghul’s found me and nursed me back to health. They put me in the Lazarus pit-you know what that is, don’t you?”

“I have an idea.”

“Anyway,” he continued. “They let me spend time in the League. Some sort of brainwash, but I got over it after a while. I went around different cities in Jersey, then I got to Gotham. You know the rest.”

You looked down at the empty alleyway with him. And you didn’t have much to say. You could tell he didn’t want to be consoled.

“Well, you certainly changed.”

He looked out into the rooftops. There wasn’t any wind, so nothing was blowing into his hair. You watched his face so raw, a matured version of what he once was. But it was still him.

“Aren’t you gonna ask what happened to me?”

His lips went through his teeth, gritting as his muscles tensed.

“I listen to your message. All the time.”

You didn’t think he’d be so shocked, but he was.

“It sent?”

“What do you think?”

Jason pursed his lips, shutting his eyes so he couldn’t look at you.

“I kept your promises…”

You held your hands together, and you stared at them. “I went to college for you. I changed. A lot. I’ve been singing for events around the city a lot.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I watched you a few times.”

You breathed out. Slowly.

“Not all of them, though.”

Jason looked at you, and you looked back at him.

“I couldn’t move on…”

“Fuck…” he cursed. “Y/N-“

“I can't.”

“It’s been three fucking years…”

Your heart just shattered at the way he as looking at you now.

“I haven’t even talked to another guy. Not one date. I wouldn’t let them. I told them…” You shouldn’t tell him, but you really wanted to. “I told them I was still with you-“

“Fucking hell.” He stuffed his face into his hands. “I can't believe you…”

You choked. “I lost you!”

“You should have let me go…”

“I can't!”

You held his shoulder, but he flinched away.

“Why…” you cried. “Why this? I’ve done nothing but mourn for you-“

“I wanted you to live your fucking life!”

You turned away, and Jason looked at the streets by the building, at the empty cars and leaves stuck on the road.

“I wanted you to move on…”

You never once thought you’d have this conversation. Not in your life. “I couldn’t think of it.”

Jason closed his eyes, and you hugged yourself despite the heat. Your throat wanted to climb out of your neck. And your uneasy breaths, it choked you.

Jason let out a strong breath and looked at you.

“You know what I didn’t tell you in that message?”

“No…”

He leaned over the railings, elbows on the metal. He closed his eyes.

“I wanted to tell you that if I ever got out of that place alive, I’ll do everything-everything­-I possibly could to get you back…”

You looked up at the sky. Something stung in your heart.

“But I didn’t. I didn’t want to put you in a terrible place. Whether I got out of it or I didn’t, I just wanted you to find what you were really looking for…”

“I want you...“

“Y/N…”

“I still do…”

“You don’t,” he choked. “We were kids-“

“Fuck you, is that what you really think?”

He breathed through his mouth, looking at almost everything around but you.

“This was a bad idea…”

He started for the stairs. And you watched him, feeling him tear your heart out all over again. Just like the first time.

“Jay… Please…”

Just as he took the first step, he stopped when you held his face.

He didn’t pull away. In fact, he leaned into them.

“Don’t leave me again…”

“Y/N,” he bit his lip, leaning closer to you but not close enough to kiss you. “You don’t want this…”

“I do…”

“No-“

“Why not?”

“I’m not bringing you into this. You don’t know who I am anymore.”

“You're worth it…”

“Y/N…”

You brushed his cheek with your thumb. He was about to cry, and you, with your tears already falling, you whispered.

“You are the love of my life…”

He closed his eyes, let you hold his face a bit tighter.

“Do you really want me to forget about you?”

Your breath shaking, it hurt like the world stepped on you when he slowly nodded. “I can't let you hold on to me any longer…”

Everything. It hurt ten times more than you ever thought it could. You never could have thought this would happen.

“Just give me a few days with you… Please…”

“Y/N, no-“

“Please,” you gulped. “I’ve been wanting To just...hold you... for so long. I never thought I’d get to anymore. And now, you're actually here. The cosmos. Whatever brought you back, they sent you here. and if you really… If I can't spend the rest of my life with you anymore, just give me a few days… Please just give me that…”

Jason finally looked up at your eyes, shaking. His eyebrows were up to his forehead, and he looked so terribly beautiful.

“Please… and I swear, I’ll forget about us. I’ll finally move on. You never have to see me again…”

Jason… Your beautiful, perfect Jason…

He took your hands off of his face.

And you turned around before you hurt yourself even more watching him leave you for the second time.

You faced out the building, at the empty sky, then you shut your eyes close before it sank in that this was the reality you had to face. Another nightmare. Just when you thought you could handle it.

You heard Jason’s voice, light and subtle.

“Three days…”

You turned around.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He almost jumped down the fire exit, disappearing before he could possibly change his mind.

-----

I DON’T HATE YOU - MASTERLIST

-----

everyartistwas-firstanamateur  @sarcasmismyfirstlove @damned-queen-of-gotham @idkmanicantenglish @wunderstell @birdy-bat-riya @get-loki@everyday-imfangirling @comic-nerd-dc @multifandoms916 @icequeen208@offendedfishnoises @egdolan @xemiefx @arkhamtoddler @elsenthal@mythicbitchx @supremehaunter @ burning-alive  @lucy-roo  roseangel013bf @ loxbbg  reclusive-chicken-nuggethttp-cherries shadowsndaisiesriver9noble zphilophobiazannoylinglyaries @knightfall05x @l-horizon11

[earthlyemily]

I’m struggling so much financially and honestly just wanted to vent somewhere. I’ve always lived in poverty and I think in my whole life I’ve had maybe 2 years where I didn’t have to stress about money and not be able to buy groceries or pay rent or be put into collections for not being able to make payments etc and that was when I was in college. For at least the past 5 years I’ve been struggling but I never talk about it. I don’t even know where to start haha I don’t even know what it’s like to not stress financially and be in debt. I’ll just start with the first things that come to mind with what I’m owing maybe. So it’s Dec. 23 and rent was due yesterday because we moved into this small suite attached to someone’s house on Nov. 22. It’s $1200 which is so expensive, but also the average price for BC if not even cheaper for a one-bedroom with a yard, utilities included. and no first and last, no pet deposits, etc because this is just short them for 4 months until the end of March because i reached out and asked and they said yes.

After 1 month I already remember why we went into the trailer almost 2 years ago and it’s literally because we can’t afford any other lifestyle. I think that’s the difference between us and some people that live in trailers, vans, etc. like we lived in a mouse & mouse shit infested trailer for 6 months breathing in their feces and urine and having it all over all our belongings. i literally had to take my whole life to the dump and we officially have no food storage because they ruined it all. there were at least 50-60 mice because a few birth cycles happened in the ceiling. I could write a whole post about my experience of living with field mice, but now isn’t the time so for rent, i only had $600 yesterday so that’s what I gave them. thank goodness they were okay with me asking for a few more days to make the other half. but I don’t even know when that’s going to be :(

my etsy shop veganveins has been doing so bad lately for more than one reason, most of my orders are just postcards and stickers, and while I’m grateful for them, that $1-3 profit isn’t going to keep my business going. and it’s so hard for me to work lately. the wifi doesn’t work sometimes for hours and I always get distracted by shawn and the dogs working from home in a small space. I need to get better at my time management. I got up at 8:30 today which is actually early for me so I’m proud of myself. I’m chronically ill and I really need to go get a blood test and see what’s happening because I haven’t gotten one since being diagnosed with graves disease again 1.5 years ago. anyways. i switched to a print on demand method this year for veganveins for some shirts and sweaters because i couldn’t afford to keep ordering shirts in bulk, and it’s honestly been so, so expensive and i barely make any profit. I’m currently owing my t-shirt printer $999 on one invoice (it was originally $2196 so I’ve at least paid half of it) but that was 2 weeks ago and I still need to pay it. Mario, my t-shirt printer has been with me since I started veganveins and I’m so grateful he gives me extensions on paying the invoices. every other t-shirt printer I’ve ever asked has said no. in addition to the $999 there’s going to be another $2200 invoice I’ll be receiving this week for my last order. I think because of the holidays he’s going to give me some time to pay off that too, but the problem is when I have outstanding invoices he doesn’t print new orders for me. He’s closed now until Jan. 4 so I just need to somehow make that much before then.

btw I don’t have a credit card ($8500 all used on veganveins and it got put into collections last march) and I had a fully used $5000 line of credit but I got a debt consolidation loan for $16,000 1 month ago and my payment for that is $167 a month. it fully paid off and closed my credit card and line of credit + $3000 overdraft which is nice. but now I don’t have any extra money except for what comes in. my credit is only 640 which is really bad in canada so I won’t get approved for a new credit card or loan until I build that up, which is going to be a few months of regular payments. so for regular payments, the $167 for the loan is due on Dec. 27. Yesterday the trailer loan which is literally unliveable from what the mice did until we renovate it came out for $260, that’s how much I pay once a month for it on the 22nd. I didn’t have $260 in my account so it got rejected and I got charged a $48 NSF fee. omg if anyone is reading this long i’m shook. i’m genuinely just writing this for myself to process my feelings and in case anyone was curious about my financial situation here you go haha. maybe some of you can relate, maybe some can’t. anyways. so now I somehow have to get $260 in my account for that for when they try to take it out again in the next few days.

another payment that was supposed to come out yesterday but hasn’t, but I’m sure will come out today is our truck loan. they deferred it for 8 months because of covid which was so nice, but we started paying it again 2 months ago. for both those months I called and made my payment a later date and that helped, but there’s barely any service here so when I called 4 times yesterday to try and change the date the payment comes out, I was on hold for 20-30 mins then my phone would disconnect and hang up. so that’s $586 and it will come out today, I have $0.46 in my account right now so it will get rejected and I’ll get charged another $48 NSF fee. this is why being poor always costs more and the banks are always harsher on those who don’t have money. today I’ll try calling again to see if I can ask for it to come out on a different day like january 10 instead, so I can first have time to pay rent and the trailer and also our $190 truck insurance which got rejected from my account 3 days ago, which was another $48 NSF fee. oh and something else i’m so stressed about is CIBC is going to put me into collections on December 28 if I don’t pay $1000, $700 of which is purely their fees. I have a $300 overdraft which they said i have to cover by then and the $700 is literally their $48 fees added up over the past 3 months. I got a text from them today saying my account is over and it’s because an amnesty international $11 monthly donation came out and obvi there’s no money in there, so that’s another $48 they charged. they’ve already given me a month to pay it and don’t want to wait any longer :(

I owe everyone in my family money, my sister $1650, my mom $700 and my brother also lent me $700. none of my siblings have money either and my mom definitely doesn’t so I hate that i had to borrow that much, and it’s literally been months. thankfully they’re so patient but i can’t wait to not owe them that

omg and i can’t even think about the amount of money shawn’s grandma has lent us. she’s genuinely the only reason we haven’t been completely homeless. but it’s a lot. like i don’t even want to say the number on here. she let us use it from her line of credit over the years and we’ve been slowly paying her back, but she lets us go months at a time without making a payment which i honestly hate doing, but have no choice. i’ve felt a lot of shame and guilt about this, but I also know that she genuinely would rather help us than see us suffer.

so i’m gonna talk about a big reason I’m broke this month especially - saving a pig named buster. his rescue cost me $1850 out of pocket that I didn’t have. but otherwise he was going to be killed in 2 days, he was my baby and I loved him so I had to do it. I somehow made $1350 that went towards it but I’m still owing $500, which I just asked for an extension for today until the new year. i’m not really supposed to talk about it but everything I’ve ever posted here has stayed here, so that cost was literally just from me buying the pig off the farmer. myself along with everyone else ive talked to is disgusted that he charged that much, but he wasnt budging and if that’s what it was going to take, of course I’m going to do it. I wouldn’t think twice about doing it for my dogs and Buster was smarter and more affectionate than them. i love him and I’m so happy he was saved. a non-profit organization transported him to a sanctuary and it was my biggest wish come true and the happiest moment I’ve had all year. my eyes are literally tearing up haha i love him so much. i could write a whole post about his neglect but basically he hasn’t had fresh water in weeks, he was only being fed handfuls of mixed nuts, he was constantly dirty in a muddy enclosure with an electric fence that he was always getting shocked on. he never got true love or affection except for when I gave him it. i posted an instagram story about him and asked people to message me and that i needed help, 2 people donated $111 and $120 each, and 2 other people donated $15 and $12. Someone also e-transferred me $20. These 4 donations equaled almost $300 ($277) and I was so grateful for those people wanting to help me help buster. if anyone else wants to help me with the cost of his rescue i still do need help and would appreciate it so much. this feels really weird and vulnerable for me to do and i’m sorry if anyone is annoyed by this post, I just genuinely am struggling and figured if someone does have extra and wants to help, there isn’t harm in that. but i do feel guilty for asking because i know there are so many other people struggling out there that need even more help than i do :(

i haven’t talked about it publically but i guess I will now, this farmer that I bought buster off of is the owner of the organic vegetable farm i was living and working at this past spring and summer. we worked really hard all summer to be able to stay there and park for free in the winter, but this past fall he told us no one was allowed to stay at the farm anymore, including us, so we had to find a new place to bring our 14ft trailer in to live. so that was an unexpected bummer and if we had known we wouldn’t be allowed staying there anymore (despite doing the labour of $1200 a month for free harvesting organic kale, for an off-grid spot he told us was worth $350 a month to park) we wouldn’t have driven 8 hours with the trailer and we would have stayed in the snow in northern BC and sucked it up and lived on the land we got the opportunity to rent this fall. Donna, the woman who is renting the land to us has been the biggest blessing in my life this year. I love her so much. Basically, she’s letting us live on 170 acres for $600 a month. letting us do whatever we want on the land (building a cabin, setting up rainwater catchment systems, having a solar passive greenhouse and a huge garden) LIKE WHAT. we could even open a farm sanctuary if we had money, i wanted to so bad but obviously that dream didn’t even come close to being reality. opportunities like this literally don’t exist in canada, especially not in BC. i cant even process my gratitude, i cry everytime i think about it. when we go back in the spring it’s going to be the beginning of the rest of our life :) i want to rescue so many senior dogs. everything we’ve always wanted to do we’ll be able to do, assuming we have money haha. but i want to have an organic farm and grow veggies to donate to families in need, especially since we live on stolen indiginious land and I see how the goverment actively restricts their access to fresh healthy produce. but anyways by then it was too dangerous to drive 8 hours back hauling a trailer in the snow and it was just easier to stay in the okanagan until the spring. i know the farmer probably doesn’t realize this and he’s also probably struggling financially but not being able to stay at the farm for the winter months we worked for, and buying buster for that price is a big reason I’m in the financial stress I am now so I figured i’d talk about it.

anyways. i think this is long enough and i think anyone reading this gets the point, i’m drowning in debt, my small business is almost costing me more to run and i’m not making nearly enough profit to live, the past few months ive been living off grid (not by choice) and just focused literally on surviving and not freezing and getting water etc and not having service or internet has affected me negatively. there’s internet now in the suite I’m in, it works really good in the morning and not as well at night, like for example tumblr doesn’t work past 5 pm for me to post photos. but ive been in a bad sleep schedule since i got here that i need to change. im sick and i need to heal myself. tomorrow i’ll set my alarm for 7:30. hopefully i make some money today. i got a social media managing job and it will end up being $1000 a month once i do the 3+ hours a day of work which im already feeling like i barely have time for my own basic life tasks. but i can do this.

if anyone reading this wants to help me out a bit, my paypal email is emilymiddin@hotmail.com or http://www.paypal.com/paypalme/veganveins

and my e-transfer email is emilymiddin@icloud.com i have auto deposit so you won’t have to ask a question :)

this is my first time in 7 years i’ve made a post like this or asked for help. i won’t do it again but figured i have nothing to lose. if you read up to here i love you a lot and thank you so much for being here <3

[mimik-u]

Flower Child, Chapter 17: Fall

AO3 Link

i.

In defiance of every atom, of every primordial instinct that told her to run, Priyanka Maheswaran found herself in the slaughterhouse as the steel analog clock on the wall dragged her into the next minute.

5:55 PM.

But the hands of time were relentless. They kept moving, kept circling across the swath of smooth white. Seconds and seconds and seconds. Unthinking. Disinterested. Inexorable. 

Seconds and seconds and seconds.

They piled upon the altar like dry kindling. One spark, and they would smoke; they would simply burn, and the reek of charnel would suffocate her where she languished and sat in the slaughterhouse, where all dreams crumbled—embers becoming charcoaled dust.

5:56.

In approximately two hundred and forty seconds, in four minutes more, Steven Universe’s guardians would file in through the door directly across from the nephrologist. She would implore them to sit with a terse nod of her head. She would not tell them that the medical staff who worked on the Truman Ward colloquially called the conference room directly across the nurse’s station—this very room—the slaughterhouse, where doctors brought the family members of patients in and didn’t leave them unchanged when they finally came out.

I’m sorry, they would say to someone’s mother, father, sibling, lover, friend, daughter, son. 

We did all that we could, but the damage was too extensive.

We’ve tried everything, but your loved one is dead.

Your loved one is going to die.

I’m sorry, she would say.

She would adopt her best patient voice, which had only ever managed to be adequate. It wouldn’t be enough; her throat would strain against the sound, the crease between her eyes betraying that she was afraid.

They would see right through her.

I’m sorry, she would say anyway. She would plead. It would be the last defense against complete dissolution that she had.

She’d bring the cleaver down upon the smiles she’d wrought on their careworn faces only just that morning. 

It would be quick and brutal.

Barbaric even.

I’m sorry.

She had not intended to come here—not for any patient if she could help it.

Not for Steven Universe most of all.

But life was perverse, and it was so damn unkind; it knew nothing of intentions and hopes, dreams and childish wishes. It cared little for found families and fourteen-year old boys who needed kidneys.

5:57.

Priyanka sat at the head of the long table, her hands clasped in a rigid temple upon its smooth, gray surface, knuckles white from the simple exertion of clenching them. And then, as the seconds ticked by, as they smoked, as they gathered, as they burned, the room dissolved beneath her, stolen into nothingness by the snatch of a memory, an echo from a ghost who died nearly fifteen years ago…

She had possessed a beatific smile.

Her hair fell across her gowned shoulders in flowing, pink ringlets.

Rose Quartz went into labor two weeks before her due date.

It was a starless August night.

Balmy.

The world outside slept, lulled by the susurrant hush of the wind.

Though her contractions were coming steadily, Dr. Howard’s parenthetically lined mouth grew thinner each time his hawklike eyes slid towards the monitor which registered the twenty-six year old’s increasing blood pressure. She’d been admitted the week prior for severe headaches, a symptom consistent with her kidney disease, sure, but her blood tests indicated that she was hypertensive, too.

They started her on corticosteroids to help the baby’s still-developing lungs.

Dr. Howard took Priyanka off of all her other cases.

Made it her priority to stick to Room 11078 and to page him immediately if Rose’s blood pressure spiked to 140/90 mm/Hg.

“Because we’ll have to deliver the baby right then and there,” he stressed gravely,“if we want any chance of saving them both.”

He was talking obliquely about preeclampsia, a birth condition which began with high blood pressure and often ended with damage to the livers or kidneys.

And Rose Quartz’s kidneys were already shit, so there was that, and here was yet another sordid item to add to the ever growing list of what was wrong with the poor woman’s body.

Garnet, Amethyst, and Pearl had all gone back to the hotel room for the night—against their wills, protesting—but Rose had made them, had told them to go on ahead, to get some sleep. She would see them in the morning. She loved them.

Goodnight.

And Greg was in the hallway, making a call to an insurance provider, which left Priyanka alone with Rose, who was propped up against two pillows on her hospital bed, palming her stomach protectively as she idly watched whatever was playing on TV—some offbeat sitcom or another. Frankly, Priyanka neither knew nor care. Scrunched up in one of the hardback chairs off to the left of Rose’s bed, she scratched harsh notes on her chart for the want of something to do.

To combat the growing feeling clambering up the rungs of her constricted throat.

To drown out the laugh track.

Those nameless people, that detached crowd, they laughed and laughed and laughed.

She couldn’t see what was so fucking funny, and she intimated as much without ever realizing it, scoffing just as her pen decided to run out of ink.

(It wasn’t really about the pen.)

“You seem exhausted, Priyanka,” Rose Quartz said softly, and it was with a jolt that the resident realized that she had been caught out.

Discovered.

Seen.

She flushed as she felt rather than saw that familiar, dark eyed gaze settle upon her gently—like a blanket, warm and encompassing. She stared obstinately at her clipboard, trying to will her own scribbles to make sense in a world that had currently lost its ever loving mind.

“I’ve been working overtime all week,” she said shortly, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. The wooden armrest pressed stiffly against her back, an unwelcome hand upon her spine. “Of course I’m exhausted.”

“Then you should go home. Get some rest.”

“Dr. Howard assigned me to your case again.

“Excuses, excuses,” Rose clucked, teasing, fond, amused. “He can’t make you work overtime.”

Priyanka was simply furious with herself. 

With a final click of her useless pen, she replaced it in the lapel of her scrubs and finally met her patient’s gaze with a steeliness that she hoped would wound, cut, eviscerate.

But nothing, not even the possibility of her imminent death, seemed to faze the woman, who stared at her evenly, with all the air of someone waiting patiently to explain the turn of the seasons to a child who wondered where the leaves had all gone.

Change was inevitable.

Winter became spring became summer became fall.

I want to leave them with roots, Priyanka, she’d explained in that tiny examination room, so many months ago. She’d taken the resident’s hand and intertwined it with her own. A faint floral scent wreathed her hair. Strawberries, maybe. Wild and sweet. I want them to have the chance to grow…

“It isn’t looking too good, is it?” Rose asked, her voice so casual that they could have merely been discussing a chapter from a really sad book. 

And the princess didn’t get to live happily ever after. And the evil forces prevailed in the end. And Rose Quartz’s body was rapidly shutting down. And there was nothing they could do about it, or more accurately still, they were doing everything.

And nothing was entirely working.

Priyanka’s dark eyes flitted to the number she had just recently scrawled on her chart in stuttering ink.

132/90 mm/Hg.

“No,” she said flatly. She felt no need to sugarcoat a bush that was already burning. Her fingers were cold where they gripped the flat of her clipboard. Her entire chest ached. “Your blood pressure is too high. The antihypertensives aren’t working.”

“Oh, well… I figured,” Rose sighed softly, still rubbing her swollen belly. Her forehead was beaded with sweat, curly tendrils of pink hair clinging softly, like gossamer, to her pale temples. “That explains the headaches, doesn’t it?”

Priyanka stared at Rose Quartz incredulously.

Gaped at her wildly.

Like she’d never properly seen before.

(She’d seen her so many times in the past couple of months, flitting in and out of the hospital, Dr. Howard’s office, and then the hospital all over again; she’d done what she swore she would never do with a patient; she became attached; she cared; it would be her own undoing.)

“Of course it does,” she snapped. She didn’t care that she was breaking a hell of a lot of rules, all the studied lines of decorum. She slammed her clipboard onto her lap and couldn't bring herself to bring a shit that it produced such a violent sound. She wanted to shake this woman, wanted to break the calm in her face, wanted her to register the simple fact that she could very well die. “If you’re still suffering from headaches, then, of course , it means the medicines aren’t working. It’s common sense, Rose. Mere logic.”

Her shoulders heaved as though she had only just ran a marathon.

And Rose’s smile—that beatific, perfect, clandestine smile—slid, like melting ice, from her mouth.

Finally, Priyanka thought savagely, and she hated herself for it.

Guilt assaulted her, a new lump in her constricted throat.

“I’m sorry,” she said abruptly, dull color bruising her sharply drawn cheeks. “I shouldn’t have said that. I’m just… I’m—”

“No, Priyanka.” Rose brought one of her hands from the top of her belly, raising it firmly against the resident’s stammered apologies. If she was injured—if she was hurting—she didn’t very well show it, her expression as impenetrably smooth as the silver face of the moon. “Please don’t say sorry… not if you don’t mean it. You only said what you’ve been thinking, what all my loved ones have been thinking, really… what an entire fool I am.”

Her soft, brown eyes briefly flicked to the multiple IVs stemming from her lifted hand. The tubes swirled all around her arm, spiraling towards a multitude of brightly flickering machines.

“Crazy,” she laughed humorlessly, the sound without familiar melody. “Throwing my life away…”

A little less than nine months had elapsed since she had first announced her pregnancy, and now there was a grayness to her once milk white skin.

A lethargy behind that calm face.

The passion, the vivaciousness, the youth all gone. 

Priyanka was scarcely two years older than her.

“Priyanka,” she whispered, the name somber in the movement of that once perpetually smiling mouth, “would you believe me if I said that this ”—she gestured feebly at the hospital bed, at the medical apparatus all around her—“isn’t living? Would you understand if I told you that this isn’t who I am on the inside—all these needles and lines and medicines and awful machines?”

Without waiting for an answer, not seemingly needing one, Rose gently replaced her hand on her stomach, her palm tenderly cupping its curve.

“I know what living is, sweet Priyanka,” she continued, closing her dark eyes against some invisible memory, “and this isn’t it…  this isn’t all those days I’ve stood in endless protest for a cause that I so desperately believe in. This isn’t being able to play volleyball on the beach with my loved ones, watching Amethyst and Garnet and Pearl and Greg laugh in the sand. This isn’t the fish fries we’ve hosted, nor the long nights spent planning demonstrations on the deck. This isn’t the thrill of falling in love with so many people. Meeting Pearl. Coming to understand the strange cosmos of Greg Universe. Choosing to have this child with him. Choosing this path which may very well end in my own destruction… because this , Priyanka Maheswaran, from the moment I was first diagnosed at sixteen years old, was already my destruction. And I simply have been borrowing moments of living in the full acknowledgment of that terrible truth.”

Rose did not falter.

So strong, even to the last, she did not break.

But maybe, just maybe, she cracked… just a little, just enough so that Priyanka could see.

A single tear escaped the confines of her closed eyes, slowly slipping down her cheek and into the slightly rumpled collar of her paisley-studded gown.

“So would you believe me, Priyanka?” She asked again. 

She begged.

She pleaded.

“Please?”

She was asking a lot of the twenty-eight year old, to whom belief had never come easily. Priyanka was constantly interrogating her own values, checking and double checking them against rationality to ensure that they fit the meticulous schema she had constructed of the empirically observable world.

But just as there was no rationality in a twenty-six year old dying, there was no logicality in belief.

There was only a leap of faith, fingers crossed that she wouldn’t fall into the abyss.

Landing was not a guarantee.

And that was what so unfathomable to her, so cruel and so disgusting.

But what more could Priyanka say? What facts and statistics could she throw in this dying woman’s face to make her see reason that wasn’t exactly there.

The answer was nothing.

Perhaps it had always been nothing.

This student of science had no more protestations.

And in the absence of protestation, all that was left was a single choice: to jump or not to jump.

It was simple, really.

It was so damn hard.

Rose Quartz finally opened her eyes then. They were bright with her tears, and yet, simultaneously, the sheer darkness of them gripped Priyanka like the hands of a drowning sailor. The screen on the wall which measured her blood pressure had incrementally risen since they had started talking.

134/90 mm/Hg.

There was no time to waste anymore.

To pretend like they had ever possessed.

“What…” Priyanka began, her own voice hoarse, tight, strained, on the very verge of the precipice it hesitated to leap.“… what do you need me to do? Name it, and I’ll… I can’t promise anything… but I’ll try. ”

The word felt paltry, insufficient.

Trying was not an assurance, just as landing was not a guarantee.

“I’ll do what I can.”

Rose’s face simply collapsed, tears falling down both sides of her cheeks in gentle lines.

“Thank you, Priyanka,” she whispered, relief in every word, redolent in all the syllables of her spoken name.

But Priyanka did not want gratitude; she wanted an answer, something solid to latch onto, a promise she could keep.

“What you need, Rose?” She asked again, shifting her gaze her away. Her voice was abrupt—it was always abrupt—but somehow, it was not entirely unkind. “Tell me.”

The woman’s answer was immediate, unflinching; she had been obviously been thinking about it for a very long time.

It was the answer she probably would have proffered to anyone who asked.

Who took the time to wonder what exactly it was that Rose Quartz wanted.

What she needed.

What she had kept so carefully concealed behind that calm veneer of a facade.

“Take care of my baby for me, please,” she whispered. “Be their advocate when Dr. Howard and Greg will be mine… I’ll have so many people in the delivery room. I’ll have so many people rooting for me outside of it, too… but, my baby, Priyanka… I need someone in their corner, too… to root for them… to be their voice… please..."

All things considered, it was a pretty damn unreasonable request.

If Rose had to have a c-section, then Dr. Howard would need Priyanka’s steady hands to hold a clamp or provide suction; in the battlefield of surgery, her only allegiance was to the brusque orders that the old man barked to her behind his mask. The obstetrician would handle the delivery. Their own resident would whisk the baby away to the NICU.

And she and Dr. Howard would try to save Rose’s life.

That was Priyanka’s calling.

Her solemn oath.

Her duty.

But...

.... Unreasonable though it was—and it most certainly was so—Priyanka reasoned that it was likely not unkeepable. 

She could help keep an eye on the baby’s heart monitor.

She could even lend a hand in the delivery procedure if Dr. Howard didn’t need her.

She could try, dammit.

She could at least promise that.

“You have my word,” she returned tersely, dark eyes still averted. She played a little with her hands on top of her clipboard, twining and untwining them, as Rose seemingly sank back against her pillows, sighing softly.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Don’t thank me until it’s over—I haven’t done anything yet.”

“You heard me out,” Rose replied evenly. “That’s something.”

“No,” the resident heard herself say aloud. “It isn’t.”

The hands on the clock veered into 6:00 with all the bluntness of a collision and none of its explosiveness.

The door opened.

That was mundane enough.

And Amethyst and Pearl came in first, laughing about something that Garnet had apparently said.

And Greg followed, chuckling, lightly scratching his stomach.

And Garnet made up the rear, grinning, pleased with herself.

Oblivious.

They were all so happy, this extraordinary group of ordinary people—they had no idea where they were or what it all meant or what was about to happen to the smiles on their tired faces.

And Priyanka did not have time to recover her own face, to arrange it into some manner of professional acceptability, her mouth half-open, hands rigid upon the table.

And Amethyst caught her out first.

Because she was smart like that, perceptive.

And the mirth drained from her brown eyes as she perceived the nephrologist’s expression in the semidarkness of the room.

And the two women stared each other across its length.

They called this place the slaughterhouse.

“No,” she simply said. She croaked it. Panic violated the smooth youthfulness of her face, tearing it all asunder. “No, Doc.”

“I’m sorry,” Priyanka Maheswaran whispered. 

It wasn’t enough.

It had never been enough.

Garnet only stared at her, disbelieving. 

Her mouth hadn’t quite untwisted itself out of the ghost of its last smile.

“I am so, so sorry.”

She said it again anyway, though, like it counted for something, like it meant anything, as tears began to flow down Pearl’s cheeks.

Greg Universe made a sound that was half-horror, half-agony, bracing his hands against the back of a metal chair to steady himself against the blow.

ii.

A doctor, a washed up rockstar, and three Crystal Gems walked out of a conference room.

And the joke, the cruel punchline, was that the boy they all loved wasn’t going to get the kidneys he so desperately needed; he was going to go back on the list, which had always been more of a desperate gamble than a guarantee; he was going to degrade in that hospital bed for however many days, weeks, and months he had more.

Dr. Maheswaran didn’t think he had a year.

She was blunt about it. 

Professional.

But her eyes gave her away, the lines beneath them, the consumptive shadows.

(Mere hours ago, her face had been transformed by the simple action of a smile.)

There were no comforting words, nor bracing gestures between the coterie of broken people who limped their way back to Room 11037—injured, defeated, the wounds glistening across their bruised eyes, their shivering mouths. Greg took the lead, the rubber of his sandals snapping harshly against the tiled floor with each step, every guttural, convulsive movement. 

They silently decided that he should be the one to actually commit the words aloud, knew that it was for the best. He could be soft where Dr. Maheswaran was brutal. Comprehensive when Garnet couldn’t muster words. Sage when Amethyst’s youthful clumsiness sometimes made it difficult to find the right words. 

And he could hold it together long enough to actually say it.

Trailing behind him, pale fingers gripping the fabric of her sweater, Pearl’s horror took the form of sniffling that couldn’t quite be concealed. She was holding herself together—the news had cleaved her apart—and he wondered again, not for the first time since Steven’s diagnosis, whether or not she had been right all those years ago, when she had told him quite plainly, in that incisively logical way of hers, that she was better for Rose.

They’d come a long way since then.

They grudgingly tolerated each other now.

They coparented the best that they could.

Sometimes, he thought that they were even friends, sharing beers together on dusk lit balconies and spending so many sleepless nights side by side at the kitchen table, poring over bills and medicines and more bills because the bills, above all, were endless. 

And perhaps in the end, he and Pearl were even family in the way that they loudly and silently and entirely loved the same dying boy.

(That was how they had loved the same woman, too.)

But still, maybe she had had a point.

Pearl always tended to have a point...

The hallway was painfully short; Room 11037 arrived far quicker than any of them had ever anticipated.

His breath coming in hitched gasps, chest seized with a sudden tightening, Greg palmed the wood of the door, splaying his shaking fingers against its smooth grains as though to steady himself against an impossible reckoning. He was minutes away, possibly seconds, from breaking his own son’s heart, and that was on him.

Hell, all failures when it came to his son’s happiness were on him.

He was the kid’s dad.

He was supposed to protect Steven, shelter him, keep him safe from every quantifiable danger that he could.

And here he was, about to deliver another slap to his face and call it kindness.

The contradiction was not lost upon him.

The unfairness of it all stung.

It stung his eyes, and it stung his heart, and it stung all over, simply undid the man. He was a pincushion falling apart in all the places where he had been needled over and over again.

But he felt a hand on the small of his back then—gentle, kind.

He expected it to be Garnet or maybe even Amethyst; that had always been their sort of thing.

But when he looked back behind him, his mouth half-formed in an empty, perfunctory thanks, he saw that it was Pearl, her big, blue eyes still edged with the remnants of her tears.

Her sweater, neatly pressed, seemed to swallow her entirely.

She stood perfectly within the lines of one of the tiles on the floor, feet poised like a ballerina’s. Rose had once told him that she’d been trained to dance—once so disciplined in the art that she could stand upon the tips of her toes for as many minutes as her tutors required. 

Even when she was devastated.

Even when she was hurt.

“How… how do I do this?” Greg asked before he could stop himself. The words tumbled out of his mouth in an ungainly rush. “How do I… how can I… I mean… he’s just a boy… a kid, and I—“

And I don’t want to do this, Pearl.

I don’t want to see him go through this.

Pearl swiped delicately at her nose, and she swiped at her leaking eyes, but the carnage still remained. It was unlikely to disappear for a very long time. She wrung her slender fingers together and twisted them apart. She congregated them in a prim temple just above her stomach. She eventually let them fall to her sides. She glanced down. She failed to look back up.

Shoulders shivering.

Feet still in first position.

“I… I don’t think there’s any right way to do this,” she finally said. “Not really… but I—we’re behind you, Greg.”

“Yeah,” Amethyst agreed.

Garnet nodded her silent assent.

“We’re… always behind you.”

The weight of these words, the implicit meaning behind them, was not lost on Greg. He immediately understood how much it must have cost her to say such a thing to him, and yet, he simultaneously knew that she must have meant it—for Pearl rarely ever said things that she didn't mean.

She gave silent treatments, and she evaded tough emotional conversations with all the agility of a dancer; she shot people glares that she thought to be discrete from the corners of her eyes; she kept secrets to herself, kept them tucked away in the same places where she had invisible shrines to the woman they both loved.

But she rarely lied.

Or maybe, more accurately, she wouldn't lie now.

And so, choked, overwhelmed, grateful, he could only muster something like a vague sound of gratitude in the back of his throat that he thought she equally understood because she nodded at him primly.

And then, he turned to face the door again, palming the brass handle.

On the other side, he heard a snatch of laughter.

Steven.

Assuredly.

Perhaps he was watching one of his favorite shows, laughing at something a character had said.

Greg twisted his hand downwards and pushed lightly upon the door.

iii.

The door opened upon a scene that Yellow Diamond had always intended to flee before she could be caught out, but one anecdote led to another, and before she knew it, Steven Universe had started telling her about how he’d met Blue at the cemetery where their dead daughter lay. And the conjured image of her bathrobed wife, holding a hibiscus aloft in her gently curving palm, plucked an dusty chord in her chest. 

So this was the flower that had been on the nightstand for a couple of nights now.

This was the story of a boy and a woman and a cemetery and a handful—a lifetime, really—of aching, miserable griefs.

“She told me that she married you so her name would be a pun,” Steven had said, grinning mischievously.

“Something to that effect,” Yellow dryly returned.

And he pressed for more stories, more memories, more chords inside her chest. How did she meet Blue? When did they fall in love? Who proposed?

He asked so many questions, his brown eyes alight with curiosity, that she was reminded so much of Pink that it almost hurt to even look at him. But, just as she had done with her daughter, she sighingly indulged him, groaning and moaning and making it out as thought she was doing him a massive favor by relenting. And he only smiled at her teasingly—like he was in on the secret.

It was the other way around.

She was the one at his mercy.

And so she told him the story of the princess and the knight in less than fantastical terms, laying out the bare bones of her and Blue’s first meeting with a halting voice as the memories slowly came flooding back: Blue Montgomery’s sweeping ball gown, the spidery chandeliers, the waiters swerving in and out of the crowd bearing silver trays loaded with champagne, her ridiculously dramatic mother waltzing through the ballroom with all the radiance of a sun. 

God, how many decades ago was that now?

Years and years and years.

“Our daughter used to love this damn story,” Yellow murmured at the end, briefly flicking her eyes downwards. “We told it so many different times to her that she could repeat it word for word.”

“It’s a very good story,” Steven returned, laughing. “Did you really think about punching that guy?”

“Fleetingly, yes,” she almost smiled, “but—”

But then the door opened so abruptly, bringing reality back in with what appeared to be a collection of harried looking people. The businesswoman’s head sharply cocked towards the far side of the room to greet an assemblage of expressions that she was surprised to find in total strangers: anger and disgust.

Complete and total loathing.

Damn, at least buy me a drink first.

“You!” A slight woman in a sweater hissed furiously.

“Uh-oh,” Steven Universe said, shrinking slightly beneath his covers. “Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh...”

But Yellow Diamond wasn’t listening to him anymore, instinctive indignation rising to her aid and defense as she stood up from her chair and mustered as haughty of an expression she could for a woman wearing silk pajamas.

“Excuse me?” She asked venomously, crossing her arms over her chest. “And you are?”

“Pearl…” The balding man standing next to the sweater-wearing accoster tried to plea, placing a big hand on her much smaller shoulder. “Maybe we shouldn’t… uh—?”

“No,” The woman named Pearl snarled, jerking her arm away from him. Yellow could see that her pale eyes were bright with tears, which seemed like an overreaction if she had ever witnessed one. She didn’t know these people from Jack, Jill, or Harry on the sidewalk! “I want to know what she’s doing here! She has no business—“

“Pearl, wait!” Steven tried to interject, jerking upwards from his pillows. “It’s okay! She just wanted to vis—“

But his voice got lost in the shuffle as the taller woman behind Pearl suddenly stepped forward, her powerfully muscled arms clenched into fists by her sides. There was an indefinable air of authority about her that Yellow only recognized because she, too, possessed it. Her bicolored glare was a weapon in and of itself; the harsh florescence of the overheads glinted off the sunglasses folded neatly across the collar of her sweatshirt.

“Leave,” the woman said. “You’re not welcome here.”

“Garnet! No! She wasn’t doing anything wro—“

“Well, frankly,” Yellow shot back before Steven could complete his thought, “I’d perfectly well surmised that without your help. But forgive me if I’m having trouble piecing together the context behind this unwarranted rudeness.”

“You know what you’ve done,” Garnet growled.

“No!” The blood inside her head churned, simply boiled. She had never known when to leave well enough alone. “I damn well don’t!”

“1999—Diamond Electric vs. Hutchings,” Pearl began to tick off names on her fingertips. “2005—Diamond Electric vs. Davis. 2011—Diamond Electric vs. Bach. Are these names ringing a bell? Unsafe factory conditions! Unconstitutional wage gaps! Leaking waste reservoirs!”

“All settled in court!” Yellow returned with a cruel laugh that she did not remotely feel, raking her cold eyes over each and very one of her newfound opponents in turn. It had always been her against the world for as long as she could remember—she the trapped lioness cornered by the angry mob. (But the mob always tended to forget one crucial fact about exchanges between lions and men. Lions had claws and sharp, gleaming teeth; she would devour them and gnaw on their bones for sport.) “What are you all? Lawyers? Reporters? Protestors? Please, spare no sordid detail as to why I’m being read case names for events that happened long ago.”

“Yellow Diamond, please—” Steven’s voice was tiny by her side; she could not hear him; or perhaps, she didn’t want to hear him.

She wanted to fight.

“We’re, like, the Crystal Gems,” the smallest woman to Garnet’s left said emphatically. Her lavender bangs fell over one of her eyes, but she blew them back with a small puff of air.

“Never heard of you,” Yellow replied flippantly and untruthfully.

Because she had heard of them—several times, in fact. 

They were some small activist group that had always been a vaguely minor nuisance at her side—especially a few years ago—but they’d never done anything more than force her lawyers to spend some time haggling in appeals courts. 

A waste of time and money for everyone, really.

“Never heard of us?” Pearl spluttered wildly, her complexion whitening. “Never heard of—“

“Enough, you all!” The doctor who had been at the back of the group finally seemed to have found her tongue, and a pretty harsh tongue it was because her exasperated voice clearly cut through the melee. “We’re in a hospital for goodness’s—”

But the doctor was drowned out, too, lost in the onslaught of noise suddenly coming from one of the monitors above Steven’s bed—a shrill beeping noise that put an effective end to all the squabbling. The neon green line measuring his heart rate was spiking in short peaks, the numbers climbing, climbing, climbing… and beneath it all, clutching his chest, Steven was struggling to breathe, gulping in shallow bursts of air, his skin paling. Sweat beaded at his pale templed, hid eyes wide with fear.

“STEVEN! Steven!” So many voices yelled his name; it was all a jumble, a blur, a dissonant symphony.

The white coated doctor shoved past Yellow unceremoniously, nearly knocking her to the ground in her haste to get to her patient’s side. She pulled an oxygen mask down from one of the receptacles behind the bed, placing it over Steven’s mouth and nose.

“Breathe, Steven!” She commanded, her voice tight with obvious strain. The man and the woman named Pearl scrabbled over to the child’s bedside. Tears streaming down his ruddy face and into his beard, the man placed an arm around Steven’s back, steadying him. Pearl clasped one of his hands, her shoulders shaking violently.

“In and out,” the doctor continued. “Breathe. One… two… three.  That’s it, honey. There you go…”

As Steven’s breathing evened out, the monitor’s beeping died down, nearly becoming regulated once more. Exhausted, overwhelmed, so quickly undone, the boy slumped against the man who was holding him, closing his eyes heavily as the doctor took the opportunity to more securely fasten the oxygenated mask around his face.

But what happened next, if anything happened at all, Yellow Diamond did not stay to find out.

Violently tearing her gaze away, the woman turned around and did what she should have done the moment she made the poor decision to come into this room in the first place.

Shoving past the remaining Crystal Gems, uncaring that she knocked Garnet in the shoulder, Yellow limped away as fast as her sore leg would allow her to go, nausea rushing up the column of her throat, her cheeks burning with shame.

What a pathetic creature she was.

A monster.

A lioness among men.

(The lioness always tended to forget one crucial fact about exchanges between lions and men. Lions had claws and sharp, gleaming teeth; she would end up destroying the people she cared about, too.)

iv.

Pearl only had eyes for one person in the entire world, and his name was Steven Universe. Both in the absence of Rose and in the lingering presence of her, he was the center of her universe, the sun which she orbited day after day after varied, sundry day. Weak, pale, cold, he shivered in his father’s arms, barely able to keep his eyes open as his heartbeat continued to regulate itself after that latest episode.

“Acute stress arrhythmia,” she heard Priyanka explain behind her. The nephrologist had her back turned to them as she read numbers on a nearby computer monitor. 

She didn’t elaborate.

She didn’t need to.

Everybody in the room knew exactly who was to blame for his acute stress.

Shame colored them all; shame welled up in the corners of Pearl’s eyes as she continued to hold on to Steven’s hand.

Garnet collapsed into the chair that Yellow Diamond had just vacated, placing both of her hands over her eyes.

What children they had been.

What fools.

Pearl closed her own eyes in a useless attempt to stem the tears that were flowing freely now, unable to hold them back any longer. Shame wrapped a hand around her insides and squeezed. 

Steven was… he was—oh, God, the word was too unbearable to even think, much less say aloud—and here they all were—fighting with someone who would never see reason.

How stupid.

How pathetic.

“Steven, wait, honey. You need to put that mask back—” But Priyanka’s soft admonition was apparently ignored; Pearl looked up just in time to see Steven feebly lifting the oxygen mask from his face, dropping it just below his mouth. Each movement looked like it took something from him; he couldn’t even lift his head from Greg’s chest.

So he stared straight at her.

Directly into her eyes.

He had his mother’s eyes.

Her dark and lovely eyes.

“S-she…” She had to lean forward to hear him, for his voice was barely a whisper, an echo, a ghost. “…she really wasn’t being mean.”

“Shh, Shtu-ball. We know,” Greg tried hoarsely, pressing a kiss into his son’s mass of curly hair. “Save up your strength…”

“Steven,” Pearl pleaded, barely able to discern him through her tears. She refused to let go of his hand; it wasn't as much for his sake as she would have liked to kid herself to believe.  “I’m so, so sorry. We shouldn’t have squabbled with her like that. We just weren’t… I mean… I wasn’t… I was stressed—I-I wasn’t thinking.”

“Stressed?” Again, his voice was so small that it struggled to be heard over the hissing of the various machines he was hooked up to, and the fact of it nearly undid her right then and there. Salt coated her lips. It lacquered her tongue. “Why… why were you stressed?”

No.

No.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this... the news wasn’t supposed to come from her. It was supposed to be Greg’s job to do this; he was the one who was good at emotions; he was the one who knew how to have these sorts of conversations without completely dissolving into nothingness and rubble.

(He was the better person.)

(The one who Rose chose.)

Pearl could yell at a tyrannical businesswoman for longer than she could hold herself together in front of Steven; she could protest wars; she could hold demonstrations; she could plan fish fries; she could keep herself together on a day to day basis, bound by Scotch tape and glue.

But for him?

For Steven Universe?

Her eyes refilled with fresh tears, and she finally withdrew her hand from his, placing it over her mouth in the quietest sign of her incapacity.

Useless.

Pathetic.

Childish.

Fool.

“Oh,” Steven only rasped, understanding immediately. He was so smart like that; he never missed a beat. “The… the kidneys fell through, didn’t they?”

“I’m so sorry, kiddo,” Greg said, wrapping his arms more tightly around Steven as gently as he could manage as Priyanka took the opportunity to replace the mask over his nose and mouth.

“The kidneys were damaged during the donor’s accident,” she explained dully, “and we couldn’t detect it until we were already in surgery… I’m sorry, Steven. I am.”

But Steven never took his eyes off Pearl, those dark and lovely eyes. 

They were wounded eyes.

Bruised eyes.

Goddamn exhausted eyes.

"I'm sorry, Steven," she whispered. "I am so, so sorry."

The mask prevented him from speaking.

In place of his reply, there was only the steady hiss of oxygen and the dark-cloaked presence of grief, the seventh person in an already crowded room. They sat on the edge of Steven’s bed, simply taking up precious air.

Pearl couldn’t breathe.

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

v.

Night descended upon the sky like a heavy curtain, unfurling its black velvet across the horizon with dark finality, the punctuation unmistakable. Sitting atop of the bulky air conditioning unit that stretched the length of the hotel room’s window, Amethyst gazed emptily at the spectacle, knees pulled up to her chest, her still-damp hair pulled over one of her shoulders. If she was back at home, there would be a roof to clamber onto and a vast canvas of stars to behold… but here, there were only skyscrapers that stretched their supplicatory hands upwards to an unhearing god. Here, there were stars made out of lit windows. Here, there was that familiar feeling of suffocation, of being cloistered in...

Cornered.

And unlike in a good alley fight, putting up her fists wouldn’t solve a damn thing.

Three hours had passed since they’d nearly given Steven a heart attack and then told him that he wasn’t going to get those stupid fucking kidneys. And still, the scene haunted her mind’s eye in the absence of anything else to think about, to obsess over, to grieve. When they had all left for the evening—Greg the only one staying behind for the night—he couldn’t even muster enough energy to tell them goodnight, simply blinking at them from over the top of his oxygenated mask before closing his eyes.

Merely twelve hours ago, they’d all been sickeningly happy because they had thought that the nightmare was over… but that sensation had long passed, a relic of time immemorial now.

Now, there was only darkness.

A feeling of falling.

The ground giving way beneath their feet.

Now, there was only Dr. M’s only consolation that wasn’t really a consolation at all.

He’s at the top of the list now.

The door opened and gently closed behind her. Amethyst swung her head around just in time to see Garnet come in, a towel slung around her corded neck, her white tank top damp with sweat. She’d gone to the hotel’s gym to obviously treadmill away from her feelings, which was a way more productive solution than Amethyst’s choice coping mechanism. She raised her half-empty bottle of wine in greeting—reckless, loose—accidentally sloshing a little over the top of the rim.

“Hey.”

“Where’s Pearl?” Garnet studiously avoided her gaze as she lowered herself to the carpeted ground, leaning against the wall. Her shoulders hunched forward, elbows braced on top of her knees, she almost looked like some kinda statue—still, beautiful, tragic.

“Tryin’ to drown herself in the shower, I think,” Amethyst shrugged before taking another hearty swig of Moscato. The tangy notes stung her tongue. “She’s been in there for an hour now, so you might not have hot water later.”

The gym trainer shrugged noncommittally as though this was all the same to her. 

And the two of them simply listened to the hissing of the water beyond the thin door to Garnet’s left for a handful of seconds; the serpentine sounds lashed the ground. Lashed their skin. Their ears. Their chests.

Amethyst sniffed and took yet another drag of wine.

There was nothing else better to do...

... but the silence was unbearable now that it was optional.

She turned her bottle upside down again.

Liquid courage.

“I met the old lady, y’know,” she said softly, her consonants a little rushed around their edges, a little tipsy, a little unsure. “Blue Diamond. It was… yesterday, I think? Hell, I think it was yesterday. God, I don’t even know at this point. But she was in the lobby, waitin’ for her valet to pick her up…”

Garnet didn’t say anything, didn’t even look up at her, but Amethyst knew she was listening from the way that every line in her body was rigid with attention.

“She’s kinda snooty, I think. Kinda looks like she’s got a stick up her ass… but she’s got a good heart, I guess. She cares about Steven…” Amethyst remembered the way her accented voice broke when she spoke of him, all of the syllables collapsing upon themselves in the throes of her gentle tongue. And she remembered the woman’s eyes, how startlingly blue they were, haunted underneath by the ravages of grief and time. 

“A lot,” she added. “That surprised me.”

“I… I shouldn’t have let Yellow Diamond get to me like that,” Garnet said, reaching up and gingerly holding her head. “I know. I know.”

“No, that’s not what I’m sayin’, G,” Amethyst immediately and fiercely returned, shaking her own head. “I mean, it’s kinda what I’m sayin’, but we all got caught up in her. She got under all of our skins. I’m just, I dunno, I’m trying to—“

But she broke off then, ripping her gaze away from her roommate and back towards the window.

To the darkness.

The absence of stars.

She raised the bottle to her lips once more but stopped short of taking another swill; the sickly sweet perfume nearly gagged her.

“It’s just… it’s difficult,” she continued, setting the drink down between her knees. “That’s all I’m sayin’. God knows why, but he likes the Diamonds, and the Diamonds like him… and we shouldn’t… I mean, we should try our best not to shit on him for that because—“

But Amethyst stopped short again as the natural end to that sentence reared its head off the floor of her stomach, striking just where it hurt.

Sick, ashamed, inconsolable, she covered her eyes with both of her hands.

“Because we love him,” Garnet proffered, her voice quiet, almost inaudible over the noises coming from the shower, “and we want him to be happy.”

That wasn't the end of the sentence.

That wasn't what they had both been thinking anyway.

“Yeah,” she croaked gratefully, wiping roughly at her eyes. “Yeah.”

They resumed their silent vigil together then, mostly because it kept them from commenting upon the fact that it wasn’t just the water they were hearing behind that thin bathroom door.

Garnet reached upwards and grabbed the remote from the edge of the nearest bed, turning the volume up on some stupid sitcom to drown it out.

The water.

The weeping.

And the weeping and the weeping and the weeping.

vi.

Blue Diamond had been on the balcony for hours now, long enough for the sky to bruise from peach to blue to purple, long enough to see the first stars ascend to their storied mounts, glimmering down upon the world in silvery, distant specks. 

Long enough that the tear tracks riveting down her cheeks had dried upon her long face in stiff lines.

Long enough that she wondered passively to herself if she had been here forever, a statue carved out of flesh and bone and misery and blood.

Long enough to reflect upon the fact that she wasn't referring to the balcony... but to something more abstract.

Metaphorical.

A state.

A cycle.

A condition of perpetual mourning.

Her phone laid facedown on the tiny table between her chair and Yellow’s empty one.

The last text she had received had been from Steven Universe.

It wasn’t even a sentence. 

Just a fragment.

No exclamation points, no abundant elaboration, no joy.

Tuesday, 7:09 PM:

Steven: kidneys fell through

Blue had seen the boy just this morning—dropping by after she had left Yellow’s room—and she could remember, quite distinctly, how radiant his face had been, utterly metamorphosed by its own happiness. 

She’d been drawn in by it, magnetized. 

Oh, how the two of them laughed and smiled and played. 

How many years had it been since she had last played?

It was before Pink died assuredly.

But even then, the details were murky to her; she’d been so wrapped up in her school, that she had forgot what it was to be twenty-one, and that twenty-one year olds were still children in a way, that they loved to have fun.

She’d been so strict with her sometimes.

Forbidding.

Cold.

(Her own mother would have been proud.)

But she and Steven Universe? They played, and they played, imagining all the things that Steven was going to do once he had recovered from the transplant surgery. Some of these plans were simply extraordinary in nature. He was going to run all day just because he would finally feel like it. He was going to make a massive sandcastle on the beach with all of his friends. It would be palatial, obviously, so they could live in it together, making seashell necklaces and seaweed crowns. He was going to eat all the donuts that he wanted—his diet had been so restricted since he’d taken ill—and then some.

“And if I get sick,” he had said proudly, “it’ll just be a normal sick, and that’ll be perfectly okay.”

But it wasn’t the extraordinary inventions which had touched Blue, which had moved her to the quick.

Rather, it was the simple things.

The mundane ones.

He would get to go to school with all the rest of the kids his age. He could go to a theater without worrying that his symptoms might flare up during the movie's climax. He could ride a bike through his charming, little beachside town. 

He could simply be a child.

And that would be enough.

That would be perfectly okay.

“And I could come over for tea and cakes on Fridays,” he teased as she had prepared to leave, running one last hand through his curly hair as she stood up from her chair. He smiled at her gently, his mouth tilting crookedly.

“Aye,” she returned warmly, returning the gesture with an almost easiness that still surprised her. “I would love that..."

But just as quickly as these fantasies had risen—entertained, explored, viscerally imagined—they had been wrenched from his hands just as immediately, and so Blue Diamond sat on her balcony for hours on end grieving for the poor boy.

But because she was selfish, because she was predictable, because she was broken, she gripped the arms on both sides of her chair, and grieved, too, for Pink Diamond.

(She was always grieving for Pink Diamond.)

Fingernails digging into the weathered wood, she thought herself a desolate fool for ever kidding herself into believing that she could go a day without being painfully aware of her daughter’s ghost.

She thought herself a masochist for inviting the same pain again in the form of Steven Universe.

She thought herself a coward for not daring to say three words to Yellow Diamond, three words that wouldn’t make everything between them right, but three words that needed to be said nevertheless.

And she couldn’t bring herself to utter them.

Not even when Yellow was in a hospital bed, covered in lacerations and bruises.

Because how could she say such a thing when she hadn’t said it in so many years upon years?

I and love and you.

And she kept thinking these things until they chased each other around her head in circles—dizzying, unceasing, senseless circles that gradually chipped away at the tentative hope she had held aloft in her chest ever since she had met Steven Universe.

Spirals and spirals and spirals.

Fool.

Masochist.

Coward.

Circles and circles and circles.

And somehow, every time, Blue Diamond concluded where she had first begun: alone in her own misery, drowning.

Fool, masochist, coward.

vii.

The walk to the parking deck that night was slow and laborious, one foot dragged after another, the styrofoam cup of shitty coffee in her hand doing little to perk her up for the long drive home. Priyanka couldn’t remember the last time she’d stayed past her shift so long, but she’d wanted to make sure that Steven remained stable… that he didn’t suddenly crash on them after such a long, hard day on his body… that she continued to try (and miserably fail) to keep Rose’s last request.

Take care of my baby for me, please…

Ever since his episode, Steven’s breath sounds had been decreased on the right side of his chest; she instructed the intern on duty for the night to keep him on a steady supply of oxygen and to page her immediately if his stats even shifted by a margin.

“Like, even a number or two?” Dr. Stephens asked, her brow furrowing.

“Yes,” she had snapped rather harshly. “Even a fraction.”

But somehow, even as Priyanka had said it, even as the poor intern had flinched, she had known to herself from the very beginning that she could quantify every little integer and it still all be for nothing.

Chronic kidney disease didn’t care about numbers.

It didn’t care about people.

“Hey! Priyanka! Wait up!"

Oh, hell and shit—she recognized that voice. 

Wincing, she tried to arrange her features into an expression that didn’t completely betray her entire disinterest with humanity before she turned to face her colleague Dr. Reed. Maisie Reed, an ER doctor, had been at Empire Regional for about a decade longer than Priyanka. 

She was a good woman and good friend, but frankly, she just didn’t know when to shut up, going off on long, rambling tales that were hard for Priyanka to weasel away from once she got rolling. 

This was vaguely annoying on most days, but tonight, the nephrologist simply wouldn't be able to bear it.

“Hello, Maisie,” she returned brusquely as the older woman caught up to her. Her curly, flyaway hair was tucked back in a messy bun, her wire-rimmed glasses perched a little crookedly on the bridge of her nose. “How are you?”

“Exhausted,” Maisie rolled her eyes. “Did you hear about my star patient?”

“I think I actually met her,” Priyanka said, resuming her brisk walk. Maybe if she made it to her sedan before Maisie started a story, she could make a narrow escape.  “She somehow made it to my patient’s room. Goodness knows for what reason. She and the patient’s family nearly got into a fistfight.”

“Ha! You're kidding! I didn’t think that part was true, but some of the nurses were saying—”

“It’s true,” she affirmed curtly, cutting across the woman. “All of it.”

They lapsed into silence then as they walked side by side on the harshly lit concrete. The nephrologist could see her tiny car near the end of the row. She pulled the key out of one of the pockets of her lab coat, clicked the unlock button, and hoped that Maisie would finally take the hint.

“I think we’re only parked a little ways from each other,” she said cheerfully, dashing all of Priyanka’s dreams.

Joy.

They continued to walk together, the heels of their shoes clicking reliably against the floor.

“I also heard… that you’ve got a bad outcome,” Maisie murmured, her voice soft, empathetic.

Pitying.

It was the pity that Priyanka hated most of all.

Her companion’s hazel eyes raked her over piercingly, like an X-Ray, and there was tenderness in her expression.

Understanding.

“I’m so sorry, honey.”

“It’s not a bad outcome yet,” she snarled, rounding upon the woman fiercely, not bothering with polite pretense anymore. Screw her. Screw everything. Screw this fucking day. “He’s still alive. He’s still got a chance. I’ve just got to find…”

“… kidneys, yes. I’ve heard,” Maisie finished gently.

Priyanka violently turned away again, increasing her pace so that she pulled ahead of the other doctor. Her entire body strained against the sudden burst of energy.

She was tired.

So fucking exhausted.

“Then don’t resign him to the grave yet, Maisie. I’m still fighting for him, dammit.”

“Yes, I know that, too… I’ve always admired that about you, dear. You never give up.”

“Yeah, well”—she didn’t exactly know what to say to that—“that’s what we do.”

“Mm, yes,” Maisie replied. “That’s what we do…”

She finally reached her sedan with no small feeling of relief, proceeding to the driver's side with the expectation that Dr. Reed would continue onwards to her little red Nissan at the end of the row, finally putting an end to this unpleasant conversation.

Infuriatingly, though, Maisie stopped, too, her eyes bright with kindness and warmth and all the other things besides that Priyanka simply couldn’t stomach at the moment.

“Yes, well, goodnight,” she said pointedly, making a motion to open the door of her car. She threw her briefcase in rather unceremoniously. It slammed against the passenger side door and fell feebly to the ground.

“What’s his blood type, Priyanka? I’ll keep an eye out for any patients that fit the description… you know what the ER is like. We get potential donors all the time.”

Yes, this was assuredly true, but Steven’s blood type being what it was, finding a donor so quickly would be a damn near miracle.

Priyanka exhaled harshly through her nose but relented anyway—anything to end this absurd conversation.

What the hell—it wouldn’t hurt.

“It’s a long shot… but O neg, so I need an O neg donor. Had any of those on your docket lately?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

And here was the part where Maisie’s kindly face would undoubtedly fall into dismay because of course she hadn’t seen an O neg patient in a while—only seven percent of the entire population had O negative blood, which was a startlingly rare number. So, of course, she would shake her head profusely and apologize and swear to keep her feelers out…

… but Maisie Reed didn’t exactly follow the quick script that Priyanka had constructed in her head.

In fact, her pink lips wobbled into a radiant smile.

“Honey,” she laughed, “sit down and take a sip of that damn black coffee of yours because you’re not going to believe this.”

[blushing-starker]

Cold mates and black coffees

For @starkerfestivals prompt of mates

There is, he supposes, something beautiful about a world such as this, primitive yet advanced and sophisticated. Children no taller than his knee carry around super computers that fit in the palm of one's hands, talk to friends thousands of miles away whenever they want. It used to take him months to receive his preferred concoction for the early night wake up call, now stores inhabit every corner of every city. They patiently wait to receive their dependents, all sorts of people relying on some version of the simple black coffee to jolt their system. Convenient, sure, no doubt about that. A quick stop at a Starbucks and violá, five hours of productivity guaranteed. But nothing builds character like swimming laps through a freezing lake infested with piranhas to keep away the urge to rest for just another five minutes. Unfortunately, sleepless days were the norm for him and Rhodey whenever they endeavored to race each other underwater.

There are clothes, too. Clothes for each season available year round. Fox fur adorns a lanky mannequin next to a twin showcasing how breezy summer fabrics can be. Riding boots that he would have spent a small fortune on decades ago shine below man made light for the cost of a nice meal over at Pepper's. Jewels fine enough for the family vault enchant any who take so much as two steps in either direction. Everything is for sale; it just means swiping a plastic card, presenting a number off a super computer or giving the cashier the remains of ancient trees. He could buy an ice cream cone (with sprinkles, of course, he's not an idiot) and immediately wander over to a restaurant selling sizzling curry. It's what his father dreamed about, a thousand years ago. How odd then, that his only heir couldn't be more nonchalant to all this.

It's his what, first month back from sleeping for half a century? He got accustomed to this whirlwind of a consumerist world by the first week. The soft purr of self-driving engines, flashing neon street signs, a melting pot of twenty, thirty languages, glittering clothes clashing with garish makeup, an overwhelming scent of smoke, perfume and money is as familiar as the palm of Rhodey's left hand or Pepper's right. Is it fantastic, being alive for the wild ride that is the twenty-first century? Yes, of course it is. But it's his father's dream; not his. His dream is the same as what drove Maria Stark into the world: finding his mate. Which, logically speaking, won’t happen until time has colored his hair with quite a bit more starlight and streaked thin lines around not too shabby cheekbones. (Rhodey’s teasing words.)

Going along with logic, there is a chance his mate will never show up. It was mere luck his father met the only woman besides Peggy that could stand his whole. Well, that could just stand him, period. A mate is found by scent, identified by touch and only bound with words. If his father had gone for one more drink, he’d probably be as real as the tooth fairy. In the back of his head, there lives a voice. And this voice he named Miss Lucky. She told him how lucky he would need to be in order to find a mate not too close to cradle or grave, a person that saw eye to eye in the majority of the basics and was open to his predilection. Someone that wouldn’t fear or expose him, wouldn’t want to strike the killing blow themselves. And Christ, with or without Miss Lucky, it’s a fool’s idea, thinking that in the middle of New York amidst one of the coldest winters to ever grace the city, his mate, his soul’s match, his other heart will chance upon him and actually accept the fact that he barely exudes a scent. Let alone something useful enough to help others recognize his class.

That’s the one downfall to living in this time; so much tension regarding one’s class. It is infinitely better than before when there were only three possibilities and the social restrictions could very rarely be shattered. But now it’s about pulling rank, percentages listed on a piece of paper could be used against you or signify one’s survival. A double-edged sword. To be a nurse, any applicants must be less than thirty percent alpha. Soldiers were forbidden from entering foreign countries if they had more beta characteristics than not. Lovers, in some parts of the world, could marry exclusively when their percentages were compatible. In the old times, if you smelled like an omega, you were treated as such. That could entail being thrown into a whorehouse or perceived as royalty destined to bring life into the world. Once puberty came, a simple prick and a vial of blood determined one’s next decision regarding the future.

He took the test. Just out of curiosity and it’d be rude not to provide a mate with information so readily accessible merely because of an unjustified fear over his identity. He is an alpha. And if the test had said otherwise, it would have been no problem. Of course not, he would have been proud to identify as a beta or omega. His mother was a beta and his nanny, basically his second mother, was an omega. No shame would’ve clouded his mind at receiving such news. The matter was this, though, he had believed to be an alpha the entirety of his life. If the paperwork said that was his lowest percentage, different rules and procedures, updated to today’s society, would need to be learned.

And he’s so tired of it all when only a handful can smell the fact he’s an alpha. What was he supposed to do, carry the results in his pocket in case a bigot searched for a fight? No, that would be, as Pepper had made very clear before, extremely silly.

He carries the test in case his mate considers such matters important. Or their family. Yes, it’s not because he worries that society will somehow doubt his identity. In the end, being an alpha is an integral part of who he is. It shouldn’t be that way and he barely knows what that means, but it’s true. Miss Lucky comes back around swiftly now, what if his mate isn’t interested in him because of his percentage? What then? Learn what the other classes represent to that person and behave in ways they believe suit said classes? Could his match be with a pureblood, intent on “staying true” to their highest percentage? Would he be able to, cinnamon. Wait, cinnamon and honey? Is that rain and sunlight? Since when does Starbucks incorporate those smells? And how the hell does he know what sunlight smells like? He’s insane. There’s no other explanation, oh that must have hurt.

A young man has just barreled into him. Slammed into his arm like a linebacker. A linebacker that weighs a feather and a half. How is he this light, a breeze had more force. What should he, what’s the proper ritual here, oh my god

“Your nose is bleeding- “

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking. I’m just late for class and- “

“Calm down and let me buy you some coffee; you’re half dead- “

“Shit, your coat. I will pay you back, I swear.”

He hums, looks down and apparently he was too involved in his quest to find a mate that he completely bypassed the thought that this man had accidently crashed into him while holding a coffee…

A mate. He doesn’t know what sunlight smells like. How could he? Unless that’s what his mate smelled like. The young man inhales sharply, lets out a little “oh, I think, I know it’s you.” and, on further reflection, he notices this kid has the voice of an angel. Soft and kind while not being so lilting he’d think it weak and demure. Ah, he looks like an ethereal entity too. Of course he does.

It’s the eyes that do it for him, enchant him enough he wants to kneel and propose right there in the hopes of waking up each night to those amber pools as familiar and mysterious as the universe itself. The rosy lips, pink cheeks and sweeping lashes are also quite nice. He has the body of a being from the old tales, a nymph or a muse destined to bring light and joy to the world. And black coffee to coats older than his father and grandfather combined.

���Could I touch you properly? I think spilling sugar over that coat didn’t really give me the chance to feel my mate, Mister?” Rhodey’s gonna annihilate him. This is a child, twenty-one at most. They could exchange numbers; communicate when his best friend wouldn’t be tempted to take one look and accuse him of going for jailbait. He could make a plan, organize a way to gently explain how he’s an undead creature of the night whose low circulation means that somehow his hormone production slowed and therefore he barely smells like wood let alone an actual human being. They could make it work. If he’s lucky, Angel here won’t fall for another. If he’s lucky, lots of things won’t happen. Or they will anyway.

“Stark. Tony Stark. It’s a pleasure to meet you, all things considered. When I learned one’s mate smells like something unknown, I didn’t quite expect literal sunshine to be what I noticed. And don’t worry about the coat; it’s nothing.”

Marie Antoinette gave him this coat as a gift on his sixteenth birthday a few years before her death. It’s fine.

“Oh. I, I wouldn’t have thought I smelled like that. It’s really nice, actually. You smell, and please don’t take this the wrong way, like alpha. And home. I know it’s weird, but I can’t explain it any other way. I’m sorry if it’s too- “

At least he already knows he dislikes that worried furrow on such a happy face. He surges forward, clasps a soft hand and lets slip a shocked gasp, sees the mirrored reaction because Jesus, it’s as if he licked his finger and then stuck it inside a power outlet. Every hair on his body stands on end and when was the last time his heart beat that fast? Surely it was the night his old flame left or when they, no. No memories of a past lover when his mate is right here, clutching his hand like a lifeline.

“I don’t believe I know your name. Seems a little unfair, don’t you think? Wanna even the odds?” It’s meant to make the young man smile and he does.

It’s only when he grins that Tony notices the sharpened incisors and the slight cold coming from the small figure. The same fog that follows him around even on the hottest of days. The exact shape of teeth Tony cleans in front of his bathroom mirror each night.

“Peter. My name’s Peter. Nice to meet you, Tony.”