#anyways those tags are meant to be read separately I was just having some crack fun

[the-infamous-coat-of-baron-zemo]

Missed Opportunities | Helmut Zemo x Reader | Chapter 3

Welcome to Part 3! You've made it this far? I'm impressed. Thank you for sticking around. This is quite the long chapter so, I hope you enjoy the juicy action all around.

And this one was quite the doozy to write. It's 3AM now? Hah, I've spent the entire day writing two chapters. But definitely don't expect more at quite this frequency. But I appreciate you all none the less.

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Tag Requests: @lostghostgirl94 @neoarchipelago @fillechatoyante @fanfics-ig

Did I miss someone? For future tag requests: Please send me a direct message if possible, it's easy to lose people in the mix and I don't want to miss anyone!

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For previous chapters go here: Part 1 | Part 2

Word Count: 5.358

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

It had been precisely three hours, forty-two minutes since two Avengers and a criminal mastermind had left the safe house you were staying in.

You were currently staring up at the ceiling with mild boredom waiting for the next round of texts to come in. An alert notification rang through the near empty residence, the noise echoed off the walls of the living room intensifying the reverberation of sound.

Rolling over, you flopped onto you stomach from your position on the couch, stretching your arm out to grab the phone off the coffee table.

Carefully, you read the incoming message. 'No recent signs of Karli, but following up on a handprint Bucky found a couple miles from our initial start position. Zemo has a theory it might lead to a section of tunnel that veers off towards the harbor. Will update again in another hour. - S'

Great.

So they'll easily be gone at least another couple hours, leaving you to your own devices. That's dangerous. There's no telling what kind of trouble you could get into without something to do. Your mind was always processing, constantly formulating new plans and calculating risk probabilities. It's why you were so fidgety and animated. You didn't inherently have ADHD, but your brain was so active the symptoms manifested as such. You had a genius level intelligence, you just chose to down-play it most of the time. You craved activities to keep your mind from going into overdrive; it's why you spend most of your mornings running. To drain your body of excess energy and let your brain rest.

You groaned in irritation, tossing the phone back onto the coffee table. Sam could have at least given you a pin point location so you could do some research on the area where the handprint was found.

Maybe you could read for a bit.

You got up and headed to your room at the back of the apartment. Zemo gave you the last room at the end of the hallway, it also happened to be the only room that had a half bath attached to it. Which in retrospect, was quite thoughtful of him.

As you reached your room, a chilly draft fell across your body, causing goosebumps to raise on your fair skin. You noticed you left a window open in the room and moved to close it. Often times, late at night you sat at the window sill and read to pass the time when you couldn't sleep. Sometimes, you'd crack the window open and simply listen to the sounds of the outside; they were just as soothing. There was no denying it was quite lovely where you were staying. Helmut Zemo had impeccable taste.

You grabbed your book and crossed the room, rubbing your arm to help circulate some heat back into your body, but before you got to the door, a patch of blue caught your eye. Zemo's hoodie. It had been left draped haphazardly over the back of one of the chairs in your room. A constant reminder you needed to give it back to the Baron, but you weren't ready to just yet, and funnily enough, he hadn't asked for it.

Shifting from foot to foot, you debated what to do. It was comfortable. Wearing it one last time couldn't hurt, right? There wasn't anyone here to cajole you about it anyways and you could just take it off before the guys got back. Perfectly reasonable. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you snagged the garment off the chair and pulled it on as you walked back out to the main living room, book in hand.

As you rounded the corner and made your way through the kitchen back to the couch, you heard a loud metallic bang against the entry-way door accompanied with the tell tale signs of door knobs turning. Caught off guard by the sudden intrusion, you had leapt off the ground, clutching the book to your chest.

You stared at the door in fear knowing it was way too soon for anyone to have returned yet. And they wouldn't have caused the disruption in the attempts to break in. Pushing down your apprehension, your senses started to return to you, and you realized you need to get to your phone. Now.

Your eyes moved across the apartment and landed on the coffee table a short distance away from you. Bingo. You took a step forward towards the table when the front doors suddenly swung open and a whirl of red, white and blue flew past your face. The projectile, nearly hitting you, caused you to stumble, knocking you backwards onto the floor. You landed clumsily, but thankfully caught yourself before your head smacked against the ground.

You didn't need to look up to know exactly what object flew at your head. The sound alone was unmistakable.

"Apologies for the erratic entrance, I only meant to use it to help open the door - I hadn't planned on Lemar here unlocking the them so easily. When the doors fell open, it kind of just flew right out of my hand."

Annoyance had now replaced your fear.

John Walker.

You had many opinions of the man based off what Sam and Bucky had told you, but you hadn't had the pleasure of actually meeting him. Until now.

This did not help sway your opinion of him in the very least. If anything, it only solidified that the government had made a rash decision. You don't just had over the shield to anyone.

You glared up at the intruders from your position on the floor. This was completely unexpected. How did he even manage to locate this safe house? Something nagged at the back of your mind that Captain Walker might have had help from people with a questionable background. You shoved the thought aside for the time being.

Lemar had gone around to the back of the couch and pulled the shield out of the wall embedded in between the two stained windows. Walker, who stood next to you, was offering his hand to help you up.

You didn't even make an effort to consider his gesture and got up off the floor without his assistance, dusting yourself off in the process.

Walker appeared undeterred by your dismissal of him and instead put on a winning smile and rotated his hand in the attempts of a handshake.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot. John Walker. Captain America," he proudly stated.

"I know who you are Captain Walker, as well as your friend here," you briskly answered, crossing your arms in front of you.

You could see the smile start to drop off his face and his eyes turn a bit darker.

"And I know who you are as well, you're well documented along with the Avengers, but I was trying to be polite," Walker grounded out with forced effort.

You didn't want to start an argument with the newly anointed Captain America, but there was something off about him that just irritated you.

"Polite?" you sarcastically question. "How is barging into someone's residence, polite? Please, do explain," you shifted your weight onto one side, giving him an expectant look.

"I don't have to explain myself to you. In case you've forgotten, I'm Captain America," he took a step towards you, his body language highly suggesting an intimidation tactic.

You held your tongue and took a step back to place more distance between yourself and Walker. You spared a glance at his partner to gauge his reaction, but his expression was guarded, although he was watching with rapt attention.

"What do you want, Walker?" you bit out. You attempted to keep some of the contempt out of your voice, but he had quickly turned your mood sour this afternoon.

"Where's Zemo?" Walker cut straight to the chase this time.

"Not here, obviously," you held your arms out, gesturing around.

"I want to know where Zemo is. He's coming with us," the captain took another step towards you, this time with a more forceful intention.

You furrowed your brow and took another step back. His posturing was starting to make you slightly nervous.

"Even if I did know where he was, I'm not saying either way. Zemo has been surprisingly helpful to us, and we need him to locate Karli along with the rest of the Flag-Smashers, including the missing vials of serum. And he's more likely to continue working with us, than provide you with any information at all. That I can say with absolute certainty," your words sounded confident, but inside you were trembling.

That was apparently the wrong thing to say to Captain America.

His entire demeanor changed. Once where there was some warmth and light-heartedness, there was only a cold emptiness left in his gaze. He reached back to grab the shield from Lemar, and then without any warning shoved you back against the wall to your left.

You heard the distinct sound of your right shoulder pop as is slammed into the wall along with the rest of your body. The rapid movement from Walker and impact from the shield knocked the wind right out of you. The pressure from the amount of force he was exerting pinned you to the wall and caused the shield to be painfully pressed into your side, separating you from Walker. You could feel the rim of the shield digging slightly into your neck, but not enough to cause any real damage.

"John!" you heard Hoskins shout with alarm from behind Walker.

You swallowed thickly; very real fear had settled into your bones. You were capable of defending yourself, but hadn't actually needed to put those skills into any use. Bucky and Sam had taught you some moves and hold to get out of, but it never crossed any of your minds once you'd have to fight Captain America. You tried to shift your head to the side to see how far away your phone was. What possible options you had. Maybe you could appeal to his partner and deescalate the situation before things got too ugly.

"I'm only going to ask this one last time. Where is Zemo?" Walker spit out, putting force against the shield, which in turn, caused you to grimace in pain.

"Hoskins, you really going to allow Captain America to torture an innocent citizen trying to help in a cause we're all aligned in?" you gasped out, trying to swallow as much air as possible through the pain wracking your body.

You refused to let it show. Holding back as much of the discomfort you were in. You didn't want to give Walker the satisfaction.

"John, ease up. She's not a terrorist, and frankly, I agree with her," Hoskins voiced, his footsteps bringing him closer to Walker with the hopes of gaining his attention no doubt.

The pressure from the shield against your form was lifted slightly, though the shield was still closer to your body than you'd like to admit. You closed your eyes to focus on regaining some stability and figure out your next course of action to get yourself out of this mess.

"Stay out of this Lemar," John replied, but his menacing stature had lessened minutely.

You opened your eyes to stare at Walker. He had removed the shield between the two of you and placed it on his back; however he stepped into your personal space instead and placed a hand against your collarbone, essentially rendering you immobile again.

Well, at least now you could breathe.

Walker peered down at you with distain, "You're really not going to give him up are you?"

You clenched your jaw and lifted your chin defiantly at him.

"No," you answered.

The wheels were turning inside Walker's head. You could literally see the fire burning in his eyes, realizing he wasn't going to get an answer out of you. Not willingly.

He dipped his head and released his hold on you, pointing a finger right at your face, "This isn't over. Not by a long shot."

You saw Lemar walk up and pat Walker's shoulder, "Alright, let's get out of here."

Walker straightened up and stiffly walked away, leaving Hoskins trailing behind. His ego had taken a blow today.

Hoskins gave an apologetic shrug, "He's under a lot of stress."

Before Lemar could fully clear your line of sight, you quietly spoke up, "He doesn't deserve that shield."

Hoskins didn't have a response to that.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

In wake of the aftermath, you had tried to clean up as best possible. You assessed your injuries were non life-threatening, though your right shoulder was most definitely dislocated. The arm was kept close against your body hoping to not jostle it too much. You felt spikes of pain as you cleaned the area where Walker had thrown the shield into the wall, but ignored it so you could get the place back in shape before Sam, Bucky and Zemo returned.

Sam had messaged not too long ago, they were roughly 20 minutes out from the apartment.

Your ribs were throbbing from where the shield had been buried into your side, but you didn't think they had been broken, only bruised. You were going to have to ask one of them pop your shoulder back into place.

You were dreading the conversation, but were determined to remain as calm as possible to help alleviate the immediate reaction they were going to have once you revealed what happened.

The events of the day had finally caught up with you and coupled with the cleaning efforts, your body was signaling it's exhaustion. You were in the kitchen, and honestly didn't think you could make the short trip to one of the sofas; so you carefully sat on one of the chairs in the kitchen and waited patiently.

Sure enough, 20 minutes later, the doors to the apartment opened and the guys swiftly came in to greet you.

"Did you even leave the kitchen?" James inquired, coasting around the kitchen to grab a drink.

You smiled tightly and responded in kind, "For a short while, yes. Did you guys find anything worth while?" You quickly wanted to change the subject but knowing you were only delaying the inevitable.

"Yeah, we think we've discovered a possible building Karli is using to hideout in. We had planned on eating something quickly and then leave again to check it out tonight," Sam explained.

As Sam was talking, Bucky had accidently bumped into you, causing you to wince and pull your arm tighter to you. Luckily, he didn't see your face, but Sam did.

"Hey, you okay?" Sam questioned, voice filling with concern.

You blew out a breath bracing yourself for what you were about to say.

"What happened to my wall?" Zemo piped up, giving you a curious glance, he had moved to run his hand along the diagonal cut, inches deep, in the space between the ceiling to floor windows.

Bucky left his glass and walked over to get a better look, as did Sam. Both of them would know precisely what caused a mark like that to become etched into a wall.

Sam and Bucky snapped their heads back to you as soon as they saw the indention, but it was Zemo who spoke first.

"John Walker was here," he stated, shrugging off his coat and hanging it over the back of the couch he was nearby.

"It was an, eventful afternoon here," you tried to put some overly cheerful, comedic tones into your voice, but failed pretty miserably.

"What happened?" Sam immediately asked.

The trio had made their way back to the kitchen to get answers from you.

Zemo came to stand nearby, eyes roaming your body, searching. With his expertise, there was no question that he would quickly figure out you were injured; so you tried to tell your story as concisely as possible.

"Um, so - Walker and Lemar showed up. He asked for Zemo. I told him he wasn't here aaaaand they left. The end," you hurriedly spoke, wanting to get this over with and not draw any more attention to yourself.

But you could see in Helmut's eyes, he knew there was more to your story. His carefully crafted mask was starting to crack as you saw his gaze drift down to you cradling your arm underneath the island away from Bucky and Sam's eyeline.

"You're hurt," Zemo said. His face showed open concern as he walked the remaining distance to you.

With more tenderness than you thought possible coming from him, he slowly and carefully moved your right arm away from your body. He kept his eyes trained on you for any discomfort or signs of pain.

Once your arm had left your lap though, you reached over with your left hand to grip one of his wrists to prevent him from moving your arm any further.

"Don't, please," you pleaded, gritting your teeth and swallowing down the pain threatening to erupt from you. You were panting now, and more clear than ever something had happened to you while they were gone.

Helmut released your arm without hesitation, but did not leave your side. You saw him exchange tense looks between James and Sam. Normally, Bucky would have been focused on keeping Zemo away from you, but with the current circumstances, he was no longer a priority.

"What actually happened?" Bucky softly called out, he and Sam had gotten closer to take a better look at you. Sam brought a chair out to sit next to you and give you a once over, while you explained.

The expressions on their faces were grim as they anxiously awaited your reply.

"It wasn't - it's not quite as bad as it seems," you started, stuttering out the words as Sam brought his hands up to check your head for any injuries first.

"He just barged right in and was insistent on finding Zemo. He was acting so arrogant and pompous, I just refused to give him any information on his whereabouts," you continued on. "He didn't like the fact I wasn't willing to cooperate with "Captain America" and he got a little.....rough with me."

Sam paused his surveying to meet your gaze. You could see the guilt beginning to creep into his eyes. He turned his head to look up at Bucky, who was angrily flexing his vibranium arm in displeasure. Probably only affirming his notion that Sam should have never given up the shield in the first place.

"What did he do?" Bucky's tone brook no argument. He wanted to know the truth.

You scrunched your face in unpleasantness when Sam checked your lower neck and collarbone, he had found the place on your body where the shield and his hand had met you.

"Is this from - ?" Sam couldn't finish his sentence and he looked away in anger. You could tell he just wanted to get up and throw something, and that was commonly uncharacteristic for him.

Zemo had shifted his position to take a peek at what Sam was doing while he checked you out. You saw how his eyes had darkened with quiet rage taking stock of everything. There was an outline of a thin scrap mark against the underside of your neck and jaw, but it was a clear demarcation that would only be caused from the shield itself.

You nodded sadly and focused on answering Bucky's question as you gave Sam the okay to keep going.

"Walker, didn't get what he wanted, so he did the only other thing he knows how to do," you cleared your throat and rubbed your hand against your forehead.

"Use brute force," Zemo darkly said.

"He used the shield to push me up against the wall over there," you pointed over as you continued re-telling what happened. "I was knocked into the wall pretty hard, but Walker lost all focus and nearly suffocated me from the force of the shield against my body. I think he -" you yelped like a wounded animal, not able to finish your story when Sam touched your shoulder.

Bucky's eyes had widen and became deeply concerned over your pained scream.

Your muscled were clenched tight as you tried to ride out the pain, face starting to turn red.

Zemo had placed a light hand on your back, leaning down to comfort you and remind you to breath.

You fumbled with your good arm as you tried taking in deep breaths and motioned to Sam what was wrong with your arm.

Even with your poor mime animation of pretending to have your arm pulled from your socket, James picked up on what you were getting at. He tapped Sam to switch places with him. Your eyes were watering at this point and you blinked back the tears wanting to fall.

"Alright doll, on the count of three, I'm going to raise your arm and put pressure on your shoulder, okay?" Bucky solemnly said.

Sam gave you a smile of assurance while Zemo ended up taking your good hand, letting you know you could use him to brace yourself. He and James shared a silent conversation before nodding at one another. If Sam had a problem with Zemo providing you comfort, he didn't show it. You figured he was letting some of his dormant humanity rise to surface in this moment.

You shook slightly trying to prepare yourself for the next round of pain once your shoulder was fixed, but James didn't give you any time.

"Three," he commanded, snapping your shoulder back into its socket before you had a chance to even reaction.

You let out another cry of pain, holding onto Zemo's hand tightly, but somehow, the fear of the oncoming pain dissipated as you let go of his hand and rubbed your shoulder with minimal soreness.

You cleared your throat and looked at everyone after a few moments of rest. Surprised at how efficiently James had handled your shoulder, but then again, he was the perfect person to do the job.

You scrunched up your nose at James, "What happened to one and two?"

He huffed out a laugh, "It worked didn't it?"

"Thank you. All of you," you gave a lazy smile through the tiredness that filled you up. "I think I'll be okay now - that was the worst of it. Promise. Walker didn't do any further harm to me. I managed to convince Lemar to get Walker to back down," you glossed over the section where Walker threatened you, but you could bring that up later.

None of them were satisfied with your response, but you're guessing they let it slide given the circumstances.

Zemo reached into the freezer to grab an ice pack. He handed it to you to place on your shoulder helping with your recovery. You accepted it from him extremely grateful. You mused your opinion of him was constantly evolving the more time you actually spent with him.

Sam had asked if you were sure there weren't any other areas you wanted to have checked over for injuries.

You assured him, you were alright, just tired and very sore.

Bucky had swiftly gotten up from his chair and made it known he wanted to go after Walker this evening. You knew he wasn't going to let this incident go any time soon. Sam had also been in agreement after fully understanding what transpired, but Zemo was eerily silent.

"You guys should follow your original plan. Don't let Walker distract you. I'm alive and I am going to be okay. Go follow your lead on Karli," you interjected, trying to be the reasonable one. There was no need for them to go off halfcocked while they were still very upset. You were too, if you were being honest with yourself, but your focus was on your friends first and foremost.

"Well, we're not leaving you here alone. I can stay behind and let Zemo and Sam check things out," James said.

"Actually, it makes the most sense if I stay behind," Zemo chimed in.

"Why is that?" Sam countered warily.

"The particular location you are going to, I have....a history there. It would be wise for me to not be seen in that part of town as to not raise any alarm bells," he reasoned with them.

"And why should we trust you with her?" Bucky asked, suspicion creeping into his voice.

"Because I have no motive to do any harm to her nor shall I allow any further injury come to her. On this James, I give you my word," Helmut replied, the seriousness of his tone was not lost on anyone in the room.

"Okay," Sam relented, moving about the kitchen to pack some food for their evening night out.

"Just like that, huh?" James said with disbelief.

"Yeah, just like that," Sam parroted back.

Bucky wasn't happy about the situation, but there was an urgency to find Karli, so he caved.

James leaned over on the counter to make sure you were 100% okay being left along with Zemo, reminding you at any time you can call and they'd rush back instantly for whatever reason.

You stood up slowly, balancing the ice pack on your shoulder and shuffled over a few steps towards him, "Thank you. Now, go."

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

You waved to to your friends a second round of goodbyes for the day. You sagged against the counter, temporarily forgetting about Zemo for the moment. You really needed to lie down.

As if he read your thoughts, you suddenly felt his presence as an arm wrapped around your waist, resting firmly against your hip.

"Here, let me help you get someplace more comfortable than this," Zemo asserted, taking his free hand and dropping the ice pack from your shoulder onto the counter. He then grabbed your left hand, raising your arm and wrapped it around his neck to help support you. So now most of your weight is on your left side, allowing your right to have most of the pressure released from your injuries.

You were so close to him you could smell his expensive cologne and aftershave. It was intoxicating and caused your head to swim a little. You stumbled slightly, but Zemo kept you steady as you both made your way to your room.

In your exhausted state, you managed to sneak in a few glances to Zemo, who was concentrating on the task at hand, not wanting to cause any jarring movements. He deserved more credit than you had been giving him; he truly did seem to care in his own warped way.

Once you had gotten to your room, he guided you to the bed to lie down. Not once had you complained. A true testament of just how tired you were. You couldn't even muster a snarky reply at his disheveled state of being, from practically dragging you down the hallway.

You snuggled into the hoodie you were wearing and tried to lie in a position that wouldn't cause too much discomfort for your shoulder and ribs.

Zemo had stepped into the closet and when he returned he came back with a couple extra pillows. He propped them against your injured side to prevent you from rolling over during the night.

If nothing else, Zemo was incredibly thorough when he focused on something. And right now, that focus was you. It was unnerving, but also thrilling at the same time. Maybe you did have a head injury, because all you could do was smirk at how utterly adorable he was tending to you. It made you curious as to whether this was what Zemo was like before. For the first time, you really wanted to know more about him.

You saw how he was confident in everything he does, and this situation was no different apparently. He had been muttering to himself as he adjusted bedding and made sure there was nothing in the room that you could trip over if you had to get up. He was taking in all the possibilities, like you did.

He had been actively avoiding looking at you though since Bucky and Sam left. You weren't entirely sure why, as he's had zero problems watching you over the past several days. You have a feeling it's because you're one of a few people who have seen beneath the surface of Helmut Zemo, and he's reacting the only way he knows how to at this moment.

Distraction.

You were too sleepy to ponder this any further and turned your head to the side to see what Zemo was fiddling with now.

He had finished up the last of his tasks and looked around the room satisfied with his work. Only then did he turn to look at you.

If it had been anyone else, you would swear that Zemo almost seemed nervous. He was, at many times in your experience, hard to read; so all of these new expressions are a different side for you to see.

Zemo tentatively sat on the edge of the bed next to you.

"Do you need anything?" he genuinely inquired.

You shook your head, indicating you didn't.

All of a sudden he laughed. It ended nearly as quickly as it had began. You raised an eyebrow him in reply, but he simply tugged on the sleeve of his hoodie you were still wearing.

Too tired to be embarrassed about it, you simply mumbled, "Shut up. I still plan on giving it back, although, given it's track record, you should quite possibly get rid of it. After what happened today, I think it might be bad luck."

You saw Zemo dip his head and chuckle at your reply. He look much more carefree when he laughed. You'd have to add him to your daily list. Make Zemo laugh.

His expression sobered rather quickly though and became pensive after that, staring out the window briefly before resting his gaze back on you.

"You keep it. It looks better on you."

Not knowing what to say, caught up in the storm in his eyes, you give a small smile. You can feel your cheeks turning red under the intensity of his stare.

Zemo stood up, getting ready to leave when you stopped him by latching onto his wrist.

"Wait," you murmured.

The swift action caused him to furrow his brow in confusion.

You weren't sure exactly what you wanted from him, only that you didn't want him to go.

"Stay."

You could tell you startled him with your request. Your eyes grew larger realizing the potential double meaning.

"Just until I fall asleep?" you clarified, a yawn escaped as you covered your mouth.

Zemo visibly relaxed and had you relinquish your hold on his arm so he could pull up a chair to your bed. He turned his head around the room in search of something. He went to the nightstand and picked up your book.

Amusement flitted across the features of his face as he read the cover. Zemo sat down on the chair and propped his feet up on the side of the bed.

You shut your eyes and tried to block out the soreness covering your body. Tomorrow would be worse. The next day always is. You had begun to doze off, when ever so quietly, you heard Zemo's voice fill the room.

He was reading to you. Lulling you into a peaceful sleep and letting you know he was still present. Wanting you to know, in his own way, he was upholding his promise to Bucky and Sam. That you were safe with him. That you could trust him just as you had, when you asked him to stay in the first place.

With those final thoughts, you drifted off, listening to the subdued sound of his voice.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

[ickle-ronniekins]

chemical reaction

request from nonnie! “hiiiii! love ur writing sm ! could I request a fic with George maybe like an enemies to lovers kind of thing? or maybe like she’d hated him and he’d actually fancied her the entire time or something? thank you!!”

pairing: george x fem!reader (no specific house)

word count: 5.7k whoops sorry

A/N: i LOVED this request; i don’t think i'd ever really written an enemies to lovers fic before.. maybe once, so i adored this. wish this could be me and him rn tbh. also, had to put a hand through the hair in there ~shoutout to my gals~ anyway, please leave feedback, comments, reblog, share with your friends if you wish, thanks!

tag list: @mintlibri @georgeweasleyx @seppys-return-to-madness @fopdoodledane @fredd-weasley @iprobablyshipit91 @darling-details @laneygthememequeen @lupinsx @keoghans @helloallthethingsilove @waschbiber @dreamer821 @feffffffy @the-hufflepuff-of-221b @62442-am @wtfweasleyy @obsessedwithrandomthings @thoseofgreatambition @harrysweasleys @sleep-i-ness @shadychaoticcollection @haphazardhufflepuff @afriendlyneighborhoodhufflepuff @hood-and-horan @letsfightsomeorcs @theweasleysredhair @purpleskiesstorm @hxfflxpxffs @wand3ringr0s3 @finecole @angelinathebook @highly-acidic @purplefragile @90shermione @zreads @susceptible-but-siriusexual @hollands-weasley @andromedaa-tonks @bbstrawberry0421 @princessof-theuniverse @cappsikle @mytreec @imseeinggred @idont-knowrn @flyingserpxnt @auroraboringalis57 @godricsswords @jejegu | message me to be added, loves!

There was no denying the indisputable chemistry between you both. Everyone could see it. It was pretty difficult to miss, actually, especially when the two of you spent nearly every single lesson at one another’s throats.

“I’m warning you, Weasley -- stay as far away from me as you possibly can. I don’t want you and your misplaced priorities anywhere near me.”

“Wow, it is a pleasure to be insulted by you. Really.”

It all started in your third year. The very misguided and frivolous George Weasley and his brother, Fred, had decided to be prats in your Potions lesson. You’d never really had any interaction with them before that; you were their absolute and complete opposite. You’d preferred to spend most nights borrowing any and all books from the library and reading through them as quickly as you could, or spending your afternoons with the Dueling Club to further your studies with spells, charms, and incantations; whereas the two of them were always setting off fireworks in the Astronomy tower, or whatever the bloody hell two thirteen-year-old pranksters did.

Potions had been normal that day -- Snape had his usual displeased scowl painted on his face, and you were continually checking the clock and counting down the seconds until you could leave and speed off toward your History of Magic lesson. That is, until George had purposefully put the wrong ingredient into his cauldron, causing a spark, resulting in an explosion quite larger than they’d presumed and a ghastly horrible sight: one of your eyebrows burning off completely.

You’d been outraged; while the majority of the class had been too startled and shocked to let a laugh escape their lips, the twins had absolutely no issue erupting into a fit of obnoxious giggles, obviously incredibly pleased at their error. Snape had even cracked somewhat of a grin (if you could consider the edge of his lip slightly curling upward in a sort of mock expression a grin), but he still threw all three of you into detention. You! In detention! For getting your bloody eyebrow burnt off by a juvenile boy!

You and George hadn’t been the fondest of one another since.

In an attempt to separate yourself from him, you’d completely changed course -- McGonagall had been able to help you switch out some of your lessons for others. You didn't really want to take Divination, but if it meant being away from him for an hour and a half of your day, then so be it. You were going to have to be okay with your choices.

Until you heard the sardonic, cool wash of his voice from behind you.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

He sluggishly fell into the seat next to you; (of course, it being the only open spot left as he’d arrived precisely two minutes after the bell signaling the start of the lesson) he propped his feet up on the table in between you both. With your mouth still agape and brows threaded together, you angrily shoved his feet off of the table and slammed your spellbook down in place of them. “What the bloody hell are you doing here?” you huffed, folding your arms across your chest. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be right now? Like setting fire to a third year’s eyebrows? Or detention, perhaps?”

He scoffed airily. “Oh, hilarious, darling -- really; right fantastic joker, you are. No, you see, contrary to popular belief, I don’t spend every waking hour cleaning out cauldrons, or --”

You cut him off, “Oh, and here I was thinking that you’d make a perfectly adequate cauldron cleaner if a full time opportunity were to present itself.”

He didn’t skip a beat. “-- or setting fire to third year’s eyebrows.”

“No?”

“No,” he replied throatily. And then, that all too familiar smirk of his. “Only to those who deserve it.”

You were about to snap back with some snarky retort, but thankfully Trelawney’s very soft-spoken voice floated through the room and managed to calm you down a bit. It didn’t stop you from sneering at George completely though, as he relaxed back into his chair and grinned to himself like an idiot.

You yanked your spellbook off of the table and turned to the desired page; you didn’t really fancy the idea of doing more research on crystal gazing, palmistry, ornithomancy, and tessomancy, but seeing as N.E.W.Ts were coming up, it only made sense that Professor Trelawney would make you revisit these desired areas of study.

“Gaze into the beyond!” she cried, “and tell your partner what you see!”

George very obviously rolled his eyes as you peered closely into the crystal ball. You couldn’t see anything except smoke, and so you furrowed your brows even more, as if to will yourself to concentrate. It was no use. You hated this subject; you’d only taken it to get away from him, anyway! He scoffed at the sight of you concentrating fiercely. “And what is it,” he asked you in an uncanny expression of your professor, “that you see?”

You shot him a glance and backed away from the crystal ball, scribbling something down on your parchment, and then turning your attention back toward him. “I see myself trying to lower my blood pressure and focus on my work,” you said cheerily, “because the idiot sat across from me is being an even bigger git than normal.”

“Wow,” he replied, his voice fierce with mock surprise. He widened his eyes and nodded his head fervently. “You’re really rubbish at this, aren’t you?”

His quips made your blood boil.

It felt as if it were hours before the lesson had ended; when the bell rang mercifully, you packed up your things in a rush and nearly sprinted out of the classroom, without a last glance or a word to George. This was going to be a long bloody year.

-- -

“So what’ve you been learning in Divination, Georgie?”

You groaned and placed your head directly on top of your parchment. Why is it that they always seem to end up where you are? This was the library, they had absolutely no business being here. This was your turf, and it always had been.

“Little of this, little of that,” George replied to his brother, his voice merry. “Been revisiting some old tasks to prep for N.E.W.Ts. Oh, that reminds me -- I was crystal gazing the other day.”

“Yeah?” Fred’s voice heightened. You could hear the smirk and the eyebrow raise. “And what did you see?”

“Well, it was kind of difficult to tell,” George said, “my huffy, stuffy partner kept distracting me with her bloody obnoxious sighs every single time I so much as blinked in her direction.”

You slammed shut the very large book you were reading as the twins and their friends erupted into laughter, swiveled your way through students, and returned the book to its proper place on the shelf. To your delight, Madam Pince was not too keen on noise in the library, and immediately began scolding them. This didn’t stop George from sending you a wink and a shake of the head before you vanished in the corridor. Merlin, he was going to drive you bloody mad.

-- -

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Had your friends gone absolutely bonkers? He fancies you. You couldn’t seem to shake the phrase from your head no matter how hard you tried -- it was that outrageous and that hilarious.

There was no way that George Weasley fancied you -- for one, the two of you could not be more different. Secondly, if he really did, and he was still busy treating you like he loathed you, then that could mean only one thing: that he had the personality of a five-year-old. Yes, like that of a five-year-old boy chasing and pushing and teasing a five-year-old girl on the playground at primary school. And then, you figured, he was just as immature as he seemed.

“Perhaps you could make it a less.. hostile environment,” your mate told you one afternoon over lunch. “Clear the air a bit.”

“There’s nothing to clear,” you told her gruffly, picking at your sandwich. “He’s a git -- always has been, always will be.”

She began to laugh. “But you don’t really know that, do you? I mean, yeah, sure, he was a right prat during third year, but you’ve bloody hated the guy since then for laughing. Laughing. It’s not like he did it on purpose, you know. It was a mistake.”

You turned toward her in surprise. “A mistake that caused my bloody eyebrow to burn off!”

“And look,” she replied cheerily, “it’s grown back!” You groaned; why was she doing this? Make it a less hostile environment. The only way that could happen is if you and George were miles, if not worlds, apart.

“Maybe try.. having a conversation, yeah? You may have something in common,” she continued on, noisily slurping the rest of her pumpkin juice. “I’m just saying; you don’t have to love the bloke, but you don’t have to hate him, either. Make this atrocious Divination lesson less dreadful for you both by just being civil.” She slung her bag across her shoulder and tapped you on the shoulder. “Have got Charms -- just think about it, okay? See you,”

Civil. You supposed, as you took a very deep sigh and finished off the rest of your drink, that you could attempt to do that. Just then, a very loud bit of raucous laughter echoed across the Great Hall, coming from none other than the Gryffindor table, where George and Fred were no doubt showcasing one of their products for their shop they were so confident they’d be able to open and run. The commotion from the table only seemed to increase, and you took yet another very deep, gruff sigh. Civil. You could try. But Merlin, you’d have to try really very bloody hard.

-- -

When George sat down across from you a few days later, you’d been back and forth between the idea of being courteous and being rude more times than you could count on two hands. And luckily for him, you’d just flopped back to the idea of politeness.

You stuck out a hand and he looked at you quizzically. “Merlin -- have the fumes in here gone to your head or something? We’ve known one another for years.”

Civility, you thought. You stood your ground. “Can we just.. I dunno, start over? This lesson is already terrible enough without us nearly killing one another. I, for one, don’t want to dread this any more than I already do. So what do you say?”

You couldn’t tell right away if the arch of his eyebrows meant he was genuinely considering this or if he was fighting back a very haughty laugh so as not to spark an argument. But then, surprisingly, incredibly, he took his hand in yours and shook it firmly. “Alright then, Y/N,” he said professionally, “I suppose I can do that. But no bashing my methods of study,”

“No burning off my eyebrows,” you retorted.

“No worries there,” he replied, sneaking a small smirk at you as he opened his spellbook, “nothing to blow up in here.”

For the first time in nearly four years, the two of you had made it throughout an entire lesson without yelling at one another. It was both surprising and refreshing. And although you both continued to make small digs at one another, and he certainly continued to test your patience, you realized that maybe your mate was right.

It turns out you did have some things in common, actually.

“Why the bloody hell haven’t you tried out for Quidditch then?”

George was still beaming over your story of how you’d miraculously caught a Snitch at the very young age of seven in your backyard with your siblings. You’re not exactly sure when Quidditch had come up in the conversation, but somehow it did, and the two of you were now packing up to head to your next lessons.

“I dunno,” you replied truthfully, “it was never really my thing. I much rather prefer dueling than playing Quidditch.”

“Word of advice,” he said, shoving his Divination spellbook back into his bag, “never tell your housemates that you’re a Quidditch wizard. They will kill you dead you for not going out for the team.”

Just then, Professor Trelawney came scurrying over to you both -- her eyes wide and hair a tousled mess. “Mr. Weasley!” she cried excitedly, pointing down at the crystal ball, “what have you seen today?”

He looked at the professor, the ball, and then at you, a simple smile on his lips, sort of a half-smirk half-genuine sort of look. “Friendship,” he said simply.

Dumbfounded, Professor Trelawney began nodding fervently to herself and mumbling things neither of you could understand -- utter nonsense, really, and moved onto the next pair of students before they could leave. You folded your arms across your chest and raised an eyebrow. “Friendship, hm?”

George shrugged and placed his hands inside his pockets before starting toward the door. “And to think,” he said, “all you had to do was not loathe me so much.”

“It’s harder than it seems, George.”

“That’s mean,” he teased, bringing a hand to his chest in mock hurt. Then, genuinely, “we’re kind of best mates now, aren’t we?”

You choked back a laugh and held up a finger to him. “Erm, easy there -- wouldn’t go that far.”

He shook his head and began tuttering. “Dear, dear Y/N.. rubbish at both Divination and at lying.”

You threw a cushion from one of the chairs straight at his head before you both headed off in your respective directions. Best mates. Merlin. It was one lesson you’d both sort of gotten along in. He certainly was exaggerating a bit, wasn’t he? Even so, you couldn’t help the very small grin that spread itself across your face as you walked merrily toward Defense Against the Dark Arts.

--

You were having a particularly rough day.

You’d started the day off by waking up behind schedule, rushing through breakfast, and running in late to your morning lesson. You’d managed to completely bungle whatever nonsense Snape was having you concoct in Potions, losing a generous amount of points from your house. You’d slipped down the steps and given yourself a nasty bruise on your arm, and you were pretty sure that you were getting a cold -- and right before the winter holidays, at that.

So when you sluggishly made your way into Divination and George immediately began to tease you, you were not having it.

“Uh ohhhh,” he said in a sing-song sort of voice, “someone having a bad day?”

You knew he probably meant it as a joke and nothing more, but you were too pissed off to care. Was it the glassiness in your eyes? Your red nose? Your disheveled hair, or the fact that you’d hardly found the energy to straighten your tie? You growled, “I am not in the mood, George.”

“Blimey, alright, I was just --”

“I know what you were doing,” you scowled after a sneeze, “and I’d really just like to get through this lesson in one piece, if you don’t mind.” He put up his hands in surrender and sealed his lips shut. You sighed. “I’m sorry, I’m just not feeling the greatest today -- d’you mind if we just focus on the work?”

Today you were focusing your studies on palmistry. Not your favorite. It was an incredibly long, mundane lesson.

Later on, George asked you, “D’you want me to ask Trelawney if we can finish up early since you’re feeling ill?”

“Please.”

You closed your eyes for the few seconds George was gone; when he returned, he sat back down in his seat with a rather confused look etched on his face. “She, erm, told me no can do. I’ll just have to really.. ‘cleans my aura’ after this.” He used air quotes and actually had to hold back a bit of laughter. “It’s fine, I reckon. I’ll read yours. You don’t have to do mine.”

You reached out across the table as far as you could; your entire body was hurting. You didn’t want to be sneezing and achey during the Christmas holidays! You were busy pouting when George took your hand in his and began examining closely. You found yourself feeling surprised by a few things -- one, the tender touch of his fingers grazing your palm; two, how soft his skin felt against yours; three, the way your breath had hitched in your throat at the mere contact.

The feeling of his pointer finger tracing over your life and head lines on your palm sent shivers down your spine; perhaps it was an oncoming fever? You weren’t sure, and you didn’t know if the fogginess clouding your brain was the head cold or Trelawney’s classroom or the sheer intensity of the moment between you and this redhead. Somehow, though, when George looked up and locked eyes with you, you had this strange feeling that he was feeling the same things you were. Pure shock. Pure surprise.

“So, erm,” you began, clearing your throat and stretching as far away from him as you could, “what’s it say then? What’s going to happen?”

George hummed appreciatively and looked back down at your hand once more before letting go. “Some type of.. chemical reaction. In our Potions lesson. Bubbling cauldrons, and all that.”

What? Were the fumes getting to him too? He never looked so serious in all his life! Maybe he needed a trip to the hospital wing to uncloud his own head --

“Sorry? George, what’re you on about? We don’t take Potions together.”

“Oh, you’re right,” he replied, shaking his head a bit and forcing down a smile. And then, much to your surprise (and delight, perhaps?) he said something you were pretty sure you dreamt up: “--reaction must be between us, then.”

If his knee hadn’t been touching yours under the table, or you hadn’t felt the stuffiness of your head cold take you over, you would’ve been sure that it had all been a dream, or perhaps the haziness of the classroom making you hallucinate. But no. He’d said it. He’d said it quite seriously, with his signature smirk and hand through the hair right afterward.

The bell rang, startling you, and he stood up slowly and slung his bag across his shoulder. You fumbled with your books, both exhausted from your oncoming illness and dumbfounded by his comment. “Mum swears by green tea,”

“Oh, erm, sorry?”

George laughed. “Green tea. My mum says it always helps during the colder months. Pretty sure they’ve got some in the kitchens.” He started toward the door, but waited for you. You both parted ways near the Great Hall. “Rest up, alright? Don’t need my partner missing out on the very exciting, albeit outdated art of palm reading.”

You laughed a bit. “I’ll be sure to, George.”

“And remember,” he pointed at you, “lots of green tea. A Molly Weasley recommendation.”

You couldn’t help the gentle smile that tugged at your lips. “Tell her thanks for me.”

-- -

Two days later and you were feeling as good as new. George had been right -- a few cups of green tea everyday, and it seemed to have cleared your sinuses right up. His mum was a right genius.

There were only two more days of classes before everyone was going to pack up and leave for the holidays. Although you’d be back after the new year, it still felt odd going home; you missed Hogwarts so desperately whilst being home. Something about the castle, illuminated by dazzling decorations and lights and ornaments -- it was rather stunning, actually, and always left you yearning for more.

You were busy scribbling down the very last bit of your Charms essay in the library when you heard your name. Oh no! How long had you been there, working away? You groaned and quickly wrote your name on the top of the parchment and bolted from the back of the library. Then you stopped in your tracks as goosebumps rose on your skin, and you listened:

“Do me a favour, Weasley, and just admit that your brother is mad for her.”

It was your mate. What was she doing, here in the library? Wasn’t she supposed to be in Herbology? You quickly skidded your way into one of the empty aisles, listening intently to the conversation unfolding just a few feet away from you in the aisle next to yours. And then came the unmistakable sound of Fred Weasley’s very dry sarcasm:

“Who? George? My twin? Mad for your friend? No, there’s no way.”

You could almost hear the smile that split his face. Your breath caught in your throat, and you struggled terribly to stifle a cough. What were they on about? There was no way, just absolutely no way that he really did fancy you. You thought your mates had been joking a few weeks back; you’d taken them up on their suggestion to be polite, but that was merely it. Friends? Maybe. A couple? Bloody hell, absolutely not.

“Could you be bloody serious for one moment?”

“I reckon I do not have a serious bone in my body, I’m afraid.”

Ignoring this, your friend continued. “How long?”

“Hmm,” Fred began. You imagined that he was probably looking toward the sky, as if searching for his thoughts so he could pull them directly out of thin air. “Well, let’s see. Pretty sure the day Y/N screamed bloody murder at him in Potions, he’d fallen very quickly in love, even though he never admitted it to anyone. I’ve known it, though, because the poor bloke wears his heart on his sleeve. So about four years, yeah.”

“And he just couldn’t quit the merciless teasing, could he?”

“It’s like you don’t know us at all.”

You couldn’t listen anymore. You quickly shuffled your way out of the library and all the way to your common room until you were safely in your dormitory and could yell into the void. Why on bloody earth would he have been acting so rude if he actually fancied you, even if he had been trying to keep his feelings a secret? But then his comment from the other day flooded your mind, and you soon found, as you mulled them over, that a lot of his comments toward you could be taken in a flirtatious manner if you hadn’t been so obsessed with hating him so much. Perhaps, looking back, he’d been basing his repartee off of your desire to make your distaste of him very well known.

What would have happened if you’d taken that misfortune in Potions in stride? Would you two have been alright? Acquaintances? Friends? Maybe even..

You felt a small jab in your stomach.

It’s as if the conversation you’d overheard had made you do a complete one eighty. Four months ago, the idea of spending any of your time with George Weasley nearly sent you into a tizzy. You absolutely abhorred the idea. The sight of him alone made your blood boil, and any and all interaction with him would have made you miserable to the point of constant sulking. But now?

It was sort of hard to get the guy out of your head.

You found yourself constantly replaying all of your interactions with him over the years back each night before bed. Of course, there hadn’t been too many, seeing as you’d done your absolute very best to avoid him at all costs. But the ones that had happened.. perhaps there was something other than disdain in his voice. Maybe you’d just chosen to hear it as disdain, because you didn’t want to admit to yourself what was actually true.

You didn’t know what happened between that time he’d first read your palm and what you’d overheard in the library, but something had changed.

Lots had changed.

His words echoed in your ears.

Maybe there was some type of chemical reaction going on.

-- -

When you walked into Divination the next morning, you weren’t very surprised to see George already sitting there. He’d started coming to lessons earlier and earlier, to the point where he was getting there before you. It was refreshing, actually. You’d always thought he didn’t really care about work; he’d proved you wrong, though, and you were glad.

You both fell into your routine quite easily, ignoring the very theatrical talks coming from Trelawney as she made her way around the room to observe each of you through her her very large spectacles. You felt a bit of a pull at your heart that this would be your very last lesson together before the holidays -- you relished and also sort of dreaded the idea of being very far away from this foggy mess of a classroom for a few weeks time.

“You’re awfully quiet today. Feeling better?”

George’s voice took you by surprise, because you’d both been working rather diligently on the finishing touches of your essays. You cleared your throat and stunned yourself at how softly your voice sounded in your own ears. “Yes, yeah of course. That tea worked wonders actually -- your mum’s a genius.”

George laughed softly but didn’t look up from his parchment. “Yeah, she’s a wonder, she is.”

“Has to be,” you replied, tracing over the letters of your name, “with seven kids and all. Has to be on top of things.”

“I reckon you’re right.” He finished whatever he was writing and looked up at you with a smile, and when you skittishly glanced back down toward your parchment, he asked, “are you sure you’re alright?”

“Mhmm,” you replied, biting down on your lip. Your feet were thumping rhythmically against the floor. And then the words were said before you could register just exactly what you were doing: “Heard something about you.”

A small smile tugged at his lips. “Whatever it is, I swear I didn’t do it.” Then he paused, thought for a moment, and opened his mouth to speak again. “Alright..maybe I’ve done it.”

A small chuckle settled in the air between you both when he finally looked up from his parchment and locked his gaze with yours. “Sorry. What did you hear?”

You considered making something up, for now you were panicking, and you hated feeling panicked: but then again, you were in pretty deep already, and what did you have to lose? “It was from your brother, actually. Fred.”

“Oh, Merlin.”

“Yeah, said something interesting,” you continued on, focusing your eyesight solely on the parchment in front of you. You resumed tracing the letters of your name over and over, just to give yourself an excuse to not look at him as your cheeks surely flooded pink. “Said you actually haven’t loathed me this entire time?” It came out as more of a question.

“Really?”

“Actually, if my memory serves me correctly..” you dragged out every single word, still unsure if you were going to go for it. And then you did. “I’m pretty sure he actually used the word.. fancy.”

You half expected George to throw up his arms in a fit, exclaiming that Fred didn’t know what the bloody hell he was on about, and of course he’d actually disliked you this entire time. You also half expected him to burst out and cackle himself silly, because the sheer idea of a guy like him fancying a girl like you just tickled him. But instead, he licked his lips and peered at you with a type of compassion in his eyes you’d never seen before. Then he wiggled his eyebrows and offered, “He’s smarter than I thought. And to think.. I’d never even told him how I truly felt.”

Okay, surely you’d dreamt that. But nope; nope, he’d said it, yet again, causing the butterflies to dance animatedly around your stomach. You opened your mouth to speak as he smiled softly at you, but then Trelawney came bouncing over, completely interrupting the moment. “Oh, my dears! Friendship was on your horizon, you say; now, look into the beyond and tell one another what lies ahead!”

She bounced quickly over to the next group, and you took to looking inside the crystal ball; but any type of focus you’d had before had flown out the window now -- there was no way you were going to be able to properly function, because as it turns out, your very worst enemy had actually liked you this entire bloody time.

George leant in closer so that he, too, was hovering over the crystal ball, your foreheads almost touching. You could feel his breath on your neck. His voice was low and cool, “What’s the future say now, love?”

“Friendship,” you somehow spit out, your throat and mouth suddenly as dry as the Sahara desert. “Maybe more, actually.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,”

And then the sound of glass shattering against the hardwood floor across the room startled you both, causing you to pull away from one another and catch your breath.

Moment over.

-- -

The Great Hall was bustling with students chatting animatedly and loads of luggage carts and parcels of presents. You’d just finished your final lesson before the holidays (Charms -- ending on a high note!) and you were very relieved to be on a break from your studies for a few weeks time and to be heading home.

The Great Hall was filled with people, but not the familiar one you were looking for.

Perhaps the conversation you were hoping to have could wait until after the holidays; although you didn’t know if you’d make it through three weeks of wondering what and if without spontaneously combusting.

You tugged your luggage out into the corridor to board one of the carriages to the train when you spotted him standing with his siblings, surrounded by luggage carts and huddled up in his Gryffindor robes and scarf.

Before you could find the courage to walk on over to him to wish him a happy Christmas, it seemed as though he was able to read your mind, for he excused himself from his siblings and made his way over to you, causing you to back up a few inches and press yourself directly into the wall.

You both hadn’t had a chance to chat since your lesson yesterday, since you’d found out the truth, since you’d ran out due to your nerves and George’s cheeky grin.

“So, erm -- sorry I ran out yesterday. Was a bit.. flustered, is all.”

You could’ve said anything else, but these were the words that chose to escape your lips. Bloody hell. You internally scolded yourself, but the expression George’s face didn’t change.

“Flustered?” he asked, confusion crinkling the edges of his eyes. “About what?”

“George, come on.”

“No, please,” he placed his hand on his chest, “You’re going to have to remind me. Yesterday’s events are all a blur, I’m afraid.”

He smirked, and you suddenly felt your blood begin to boil again. He was going to make you say it, of course he was.

“You know,” you started through gritted teeth, “our little conversation in Divination yesterday afternoon. About your... feelings.”

He nodded dramatically and clicked his tongue. “Right. That conversation. You know, it’s funny,” he began, placing his hands inside his pockets and moving closer to you, “I really dislike crystal gazing. I find the more accurate readings come from palmistry.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” he replied flatly, as if it were obvious. He took out his hand and placed in front of you. “Look here. I reckon you’ll be able to read the future quite clearly.”

You took his hand in yours, and immediately felt as thought you were out of your element. Yet, you began to trace the lines gently with your forefinger. You weren’t reading any bloody future; you were merely trying not to let the very steady pounding of your heart be so evident in the rising tension between you both. You found yourself, actually, pulling ever so gently on his hand, as if to bring him closer to you. You could easily reach out and trace the outline of freckles on his nose.

“See anything intriguing?” he breathed.

Something about being around him made you feel simultaneously more nervous than you ever had been and more confident; you were feeling so self-assured that you actually said something before you could overthink it. “Yeah, actually, looks here like you’re about to kiss me,” you said breathlessly.

How odd, you thought, that just mere months ago the man in front of you was none other than your absolute mortal enemy, and now all you wanted to do was spend the holidays locked away with him in a broom cupboard.

A cheeky grin split his face and he moved another inch or so closer; just centimeters to go, and his lips would be fully pressed to yours, the chemical reaction bubbling over perfectly. “Is that so?” he asked quietly, very slowly moving his way forward. He lifted your chin with his hand so your face was angled up toward his, and he stopped just as his lips so very softly brushed yours. It didn’t even seem real, honestly. Just then, one of the Weasleys shouted to George that their older brother was here to fetch them, and he you felt his smile brighten ever so lightly against you. Damnit! And instead of finishing what he’d started, he merely ran a finger across your chin, down your neck and over your collarbone and whispered, “Happy Christmas, love,” before pulling away.

What in the bloody fuc--! Was he kidding? Not only had the reaction bubbled over, but you now felt like exploding at how much of a prat he was being. He’d already made you say such silly things, and now he really had the audacity to almost kiss you and then pull away?

“You’ve got to be joking,” you said under your breath as he squeezed your hand. “You’re going to kill me.”

He wiggled his eyebrows seductively. “Have got to leave you wanting more, don’t I?”

You scoffed loudly and took a very deep, very overdue breath to regain your composure, but not before he leaned in and caught you off guard by pressing his lips to yours and gently melting into you. A slight sigh escaped you, and before you could register just what it felt like to have his lips on yours, you both broke apart -- he winked merrily at your wide eyes and made his way back toward his siblings. “You still going to be a right prat in three weeks time?” you teased, folding your arms across your chest as he tugged a beanie over his head.

“Oh, there’s no doubt in my mind, love,” he said as if it were obvious, “you still going to let me read your palms and drive you mad?”

You grinned a bit more and shook your head, tugging your own scarf around your neck as he was pulled by his siblings out of the castle. You breathed deeply, brought your fingers to your lips where his had just been, and said to nobody in particular, “Oh, there’s no doubt in my mind, Weasley.”

[prettyboymichaels-ao3]

Rewind, Rewire, Reword - Chapter 1: Where Did I Put That Map Again? (Pt. 1)

It’s the week before Wrestlemania 12, he’s preparing to give Shawn Michaels the fight of his life in their 60-minute Iron Man match, and his little brother has decided to drag him out to socialize on an otherwise perfectly ordinary Wednesday night.

Surely, this decision won’t take the course his life was on – and the course his relationship with Shawn was on – and send it into a tailspin.

(Bret Hart/Shawn Michaels ABO AU; NOT Kayfabe Compliant; Words: ~2k; Rating: M; Notes, trigger warning/s, tag list, and chapter under the cut!)

my massive bretshawn abo au is here! as I only have two-ish more scenes to write, and 10 chapters already written to publish on here (separated into smaller “parts” for tumblr, which means I technically have 21 chapters; they’ll be published fully on ao3), I’ve decided to try for an every other day publishing schedule to give myself more time to fully finish this book of the series. so. :) I’ve read and edited and reread and re-edited this more than almost any other fic I’ve written, so HOPEFULLY. I don’t want to edit it MORE after finally PUBLISHING it. sigh. anyway.

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tw for: attempted sexual assault. it doesn’t actually occur, but this IS the jumping off point for the fic, and it will be referenced throughout. the tw “references to attempted sexual assault” will be used in any chapter that references it

tag list: @track12to13​; @piratewithvigor​; @sinderellanightwolf​. tell me if you want to be tagged for any future chapters!

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It was times like these when he wondered why he ever bothered going out at all.

They’d gotten to California two days before, early, the way they usually did, leaving the morning after their last match to get a head start and not arrive completely burnt out. They’d spent those two days getting acquainted with their hotel room, their rental car, and the stadium gym they were going to be using the next two weeks. However, “California” didn’t just mean “new match”, it also meant “new towns”, which meant “new opportunities to make Bret socialize”. He’d told Owen, repeatedly, in a variety of ways, that the last thing he needed was a fucking wingman, let alone his happily mated younger brother as a wingman, but he’d just brushed off everything he’d said and dragged him out anyway. “You have almost two weeks to prepare,” he’d scoffed, forcing him to change basically as soon as they got back to their room. “When’s the last time you really let loose?” he’d offered, trying to hustle him out almost before he’d had his shoes tied. “I promised mom I’d try something the last time we talked so would you stop digging your heels in, please,” was his final explanation, as he was hailing a cab to take them out of the city and to some smaller town a little less than an hour away, where they’d be less likely to get recognized, because getting mobbed in a bar or a club was always… not great, to say the least.

But it just really wasn’t Bret’s scene. It just really, really wasn’t. He wasn’t twenty anymore, he couldn’t power through a hangover the way he used to, and he wasn’t in the mood anyway, the way he hadn’t been for the last two years Owen’d been trying to set him up. He’d gotten used to being single by now, he’d even gotten used to his mother’s passive aggressive comments about it every time he called home, and, yeah, being used to it didn’t mean he liked it, but trying to find a date at this point in his life wasn’t exactly easy, at thirty-eight years old, in his line of work, with his designation. Honestly, he didn’t know why Owen was still trying so earnestly; the odds of Bret finding a decent prospective partner at some random club in Somewhere, California was so low it might as well be in the ground.

As such, instead of socializing, the way Owen wanted him to, he’d nursed a glass or two at the bar, had a fairly interesting conversation with an older woman who happened to be the designated driver for a group of girls giggling on the dance floor, and eventually called it quits after hitting the bathroom two hours in. It wasn’t even ten-thirty yet, you’d think he could last a little longer, and he could, he was just… bored. His bar mate was corralling her wayward group to leave, and Owen was having a grand time failing miserably at darts with what looked to be a group of regulars, so he just told him he was heading back to the hotel, refused to be guilted into a game no matter how many times Owen batted his eyelashes or how disappointed he looked, paid his tab, and slipped out into the night with a sigh and his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket. It was only slightly cooler outside than it was inside, and it was much less crowded – a few smokers, on the other side of the street, and two people eating a pizza and using the box as their plate a little further down from that. Definitely less busy than Anaheim would be this time of night, and equally less well lit.

There was also, though, something he almost didn’t hear over the noise of the bar:

“…an’t change your mind now!”

“I agreed to go home with you, not you and your fucking friend–”

His foot still raised from where he’d been stepping to the curb to hail a cab, he cocked his head to the alleyway the voices had drifted from – and, there it was, he hadn’t been hearing things, because there was an incredulous laugh, a dull thump, and a pained grunt before another man said, amused, speaking over the rising growls, “C’mon, baby, you really think you’re in a position to turn us down? You’re the one about to go into heat, it won’t matter whose knot you’re taking soon enough.”

Bret was moving before the end of that sentence, rounding the corner to find three figures pressed up against the stone wall beside an open dumpster. They were mostly hidden from the orange street lamps outside the mouth of the alley, but he could still see rough impressions, and they weren’t very promising: two holding the third prone while the third tried to fight back, thrashing and almost snarling with how viciously he was growling, but he was getting nowhere fast, with how successfully he was being restrained. One’s nose was buried in this man’s throat, the other’s teeth visible in the low light as he grinned, and Bret felt his expression twist and harden as he stepped forward. “Hey! You’ve got three seconds to walk away before I make this a fair fight.”

That certainly got their attention, and he saw them all turn his way, their eyes flashing a little in the dark. Parts of their faces were highlighted now – the barest crests of their jaws, their cheekbones, their hair – but he could see the moment their nostrils flared and he was written off as nothing but a nuisance, which was only confirmed when one of them scoffed. “Run away, little beta, this doesn’t concern you.”

And then he turned right back around to continue scenting the man, the omega, who headbutted him so hard in the nose Bret could hear it crack from here. The man howled, staggering away and clutching at his gushing face with both hands, and Bret watched as the omega took advantage of the other man’s stunned disbelief to kick his legs out from under him and send him tumbling to the ground.

Bret didn’t waste any time. He stalked forward, hauling the one on the ground up by the collar of his coat and the waistband of his pants so he could toss him bodily into the open dumpster. The open, empty dumpster, if the clang of metal and yelp of pain were anything to go by. There was a choked off squeal from behind him, and he turned just in time to watch the omega’s leg come back down and the second perpetrator crumple into the fetal position, clutching his groin. That one quickly joined his friend in the dumpster, courtesy of Bret, and the groans and squeaks that resulted from that collision were incredibly satisfying.

He wiped his hands on his jeans before turning back to the omega, raising his hands placatingly when he, too, was met with a sharp, threatening growl. “Hey. You okay? They didn’t hurt you, did they?”

There was an extended moment of silence. “…Bret?”

Oh, perfect, he’d been recognized– …Wait. He knew that voice. He squinted, edging closer, and fuck, now that his eyes had adjusted a little–

“…Shawn?!”

When it sounded like the men in the dumpster were starting to try and gather their bearings, Bret put his hand on – on Shawn’s shoulder and pushed him out of the alley and past the bar, letting his hand fall away and trusting Shawn to follow him as he lead them past another two buildings to turn the corner onto another block, and then a little further still, directly under a street light, far enough to see them coming if they tried it. After getting their asses handed to them so thoroughly, not just by their intended victim but by a little beta to boot, the alphas shouldn’t come sniffing around looking for seconds, but you could never be too careful.

“Jesus, Shawn, what the hell was that?” he hissed, shrugging his jacket off and settling it over Shawn’s shoulders in one fluid motion.

Or he would have, if the man didn’t take an immediate step back and bare his teeth at him, rubbing his arms. Bret scowled. “Can you stop being so stubborn for two seconds–”

“I’m two seconds from kicking you in the fucking balls, Bret, don’t test me,” Shawn barked, taking another step back for good measure. His voice was hoarser than it usually was, and Bret was a little worried about what he’d do if it cracked.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, sucked in a breath through his mouth, and blew it out through his nostrils. “Look,” he settled on, staring at Shawn hard, who stared right back. In the orange light illuminating them, he could more clearly see his rumpled clothes, his wrecked hair, his blotchy face, but if he could compare him to anything right now it’d be a cornered animal. “Just – put it under your nose, okay? I know I don’t have much of a scent, but it’s gotta be better than whatever the fuck they were giving off.”

Shawn scoffed, but flexed his fingers from where they were clutching at his biceps, moving his eyes to his jacket. “Gee, when’s the last time you took a high school health class?”

“In high school, asshole, now take it.”

Shawn curled his lip, looking ready to keep arguing, but, shifting his weight on his feet, decided it wasn’t worth the effort, and snatched the jacket from Bret instead. He paused once he had it, glaring at him like he was expecting him to say something, and when Bret just crossed his arms and gave him a look, he finally shoved it under his nose and took a deep breath. Half the tension in his body released in one fell swoop, and with it came a hitch as he buried his face in the leather completely, his hands starting to shake.

Bret, deciding to give him a modicum of privacy, looked behind Shawn to make sure they hadn’t been followed (they hadn’t) and moved to the curb to finally hail a cab. Two of them passed, occupied, before he heard Shawn move up next to him, his jacket still stuffed under his nose. His eyes were a little red, and a little wet, but his cheeks were dry. “I wanna puke,” he rasped, muffled into the leather, and Bret gave a humorless snort.

“If you’re gonna, do it here,” he said, waving at another taxi, and this one actually responded, starting to pull up. “I sure as hell don’t wanna smell it all the way back to Anaheim.”

That earned him a grumble, more lighthearted than anything he’d heard out of Shawn’s mouth tonight, and Bret hid his relief by walking around the idling cab to talk to the driver at his window, digging out his wallet. “You got a divider?”

“Sure do, brother,” the cabbie told him, jerking his thumb to the backseat and the tinted glass that separated him from it. “Got some wet wipes back there, too. Just don’t leave any stains, huh?”

Bret frowned, because that made it all too clear what he thought they were planning on doing in his backseat, but threw a handful of twenties into the driver’s lap anyway, enough to make his eyes widen comically. “That’s to get us to Anaheim. There’s more where that came from if you get us there in forty.”

“Hell, brother, I’ll get you there in thirty,” the cabbie exclaimed, and Bret straightened back up after giving him the hotel’s address, waving at Shawn to get in on his side, which he did one-handed, slamming the door behind him as Bret followed suit. The divider deafened the cabbie’s music to a low rumble, and, as they pulled off, Bret started digging around in the mesh pocket attached to the back of the driver’s seat until he emerged with the aforementioned wet wipes. He tore the pack open, pulling half of them out in one go and passing them over to Shawn, who took them automatically with the hand that wasn’t holding Bret’s jacket to his nose, but gave him a look that said he had no idea what Bret was trying to do here.

He gestured to his own throat. “For your scent glands,” he explained, and he could see the moment the light went off, because Shawn started scrubbing at either side of his neck like a man possessed. Bret used the rest of the wipes to clean his own hands and stuffed them into his pocket after he was done, sinking back against the creaky plastic seats like they might swallow him up, lack of give or no.

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

The Love Yet Known Part 2

Summary: Tommy Shelby needs to make sacrifices to ensure the safety of his family. So he concocts a plan to marry off his sister to the one and only Alfie Solomons.

Thanks for the love for the first part! Heres for you, @97freaknik. Sorry the tagging system isn’t working. 

And thank you to my permanent tag who have yet to block me despite my spamming of works. 

          The drive to London was almost absolutely silent. Neither Alfie nor Eliza really knew what to say to one another. It was as if they were just acting out something for the sake of Tommy. Neither of them exactly knew how they’d ended up in such a predicament.

            Alfie’s mind was racing, wondering how stupid he was to agree to something like marrying a Shelby. He thought about the ramifications, was there even a rabbi who would consider converting her and allowing them to marry? What sort of effect would this have on his life in the long run?

            He glanced to his left where Eliza had been sitting quietly since they’d left Warwickshire. Her eyes were locked on the window, never turning her head. He wondered if she was wishing she was on the outside, not in the car with him. Maybe she figured if she didn’t look at him, she wouldn’t have to think of the arrangement.  

            Alfie cleared his throat, the silence too uncomfortable for his liking. “Erm, you like dogs?” He asked.

            She looked away from the window to show she had heard him. “Pardon?”

            “Dogs? Do you like dogs? I have a dog.” He clarified. “He ain’t mean or anything. I bought him to be a guard dog but he had other plans. Too nice for his own good.”

            A hint of a smile formed on her lips. The sense of humor didn’t exactly fit his image. But it did help her relax a little. “Yes, I like dogs.”

            “Good. That’s good. I sorta have a nasty habit of picking up strays.” He admitted. “I don’t keep all of ‘em. There’s a charity that a dear friend of mine runs. They train dogs to help blind people. So, they take in most of the strays.” He rubbed the back of his neck. It was strange. It was almost as if he was trying to list off his good traits so Eliza wouldn’t look at him like he was a monster. Maybe he could put her mind at ease. “But, Cyril I kept. Cyril’s me dog. I kept him, couldn’t give him away.” The silence on Eliza’s end was killing him. He wanted her to say exactly what she thought about him. Most people who worked for him kept their opinions to themselves. Most of his business partners/enemies were vocal about what they thought. But neither of those opinions mattered. Because none of those people were intending to marry him. If they were to marry, Alfie wanted to know Eliza’s opinion of him. Even if she said she hated him and wished him dead, at least he would know.

            “He sounds lovely.” She said politely.

            “Yeah…he is.” Alfie fiddled with one of his rings. He wasn’t sure how he was going to make this work. It gave him a headache thinking about it.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Much to Alfie’s relief, Eliza took immediately to Cyril. The bullmastiff seemed to enjoy a female presence in the flat. At least she didn’t feel completely alone in Camden Town. Alfie just felt a little guilty that her only companion was a slobbery, goofy dog.

            Still, he capitalized on her affection for the mutt. He allowed her to take Cyril out for walks whenever she pleased and didn’t say anything when Cyril started to sleep in her bedroom.

            Meanwhile, Alfie was trying to figure out the complicated matters of converting Eliza so they could get married. Tommy continued to call to push the matter. It was clear over the phone that he was desperate to make the union complete. The Italians would be closing in at any time and Tommy didn’t need another threat from Camden Town to weigh on him.

            “Y’know, I know you’re godless, Tommy. I understand that, but us godly men have rules and those rules simply cannot be tampered with. Centuries of laws, mate, can’t be overturned ‘cause you find it inconvenient.” Alfie said over the phone.

            “I gave you money to ensure it.”

            “Right, well some rabbis take bribes as an insult, mate.”

            “Alfie, if you’re holding out on me…” Tommy warned.

            “She’s been living with me for nearly a month, Thomas, if I really wanted to back out, I would’ve sent her home to you.” He cut the man off.

            Tommy muttered something over the line but Alfie couldn’t hear what it was.

            “There’s a rabbi that Ollie found that might go through with the conversion and marriage,” Alfie said. “When I hear from him, I’ll let you know.”

            The Blinder seemed to have his worries put to rest at least for the time being. “And how is she doing there?”

            “Well, her best friend is me dog,” Alfie replied honestly. “She hardly speaks to me, not that I blame her much.”

            “She’s always been quiet,” Tommy assured him.

            “Well, circumstances ‘n such.” Alfie sighed and cracked his knuckles. “Anyways, I’ll let you know, Tom. I’ll let you know.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~           

            One night a couple of days later, Alfie and Eliza were sat down together for dinner. “I just wanted you to know that I’ve found rabbis who are willing to convert you.” He brought up the topic.

            “Oh. Okay.” She nodded.

            Alfie had learned over the few weeks together that she was a difficult person to read. She was a lot like Tommy, and less like her other brothers who were prone to showing their emotions on the outside. She always spoke to him in a calm, steady, and polite manner. Almost as if she were afraid of setting him off, or it was simply just her demeanor. Alfie would’ve preferred if she were a bit more like Arthur, as terrible as that would be. At least he would know what she was thinking instead of having to guess.

            “Didya…well…have ya put any thought into it? I mean, ain’t a small decision.”

            Eliza shrugged as she pushed her food around the plate with her fork. “I haven’t put much thought into religion.” She admitted. “Polly was the only one who took Christianity seriously in our family.”

            “Right.” He nodded. “Still, being Jewish is more a way of life, innit?”

            “That’s what I’ve been told.” Alfie had arranged for Ollie’s wife to give some insight to Eliza into what it meant to be a Jewish wife. He assumed they’d bonded, but Eliza didn’t say much about it. Though, she did frequently visit Ruth and her and Ollie’s pack of kids. She never said what they spoke about.

            “Right. Well, just wanted to know what your thoughts about it were.” He posed the question again, hoping to get a little further into her mindset.

            “Ruth said if we were going to have children, they needed to be brought up fully Jewish. Or at least, that’s what she thought your intentions were.”

            Alfie cleared his throat. How could they discuss children? Of course, it was a factor but a child wouldn’t just magically appear once they were married. And they hadn’t even touched each other aside from the mistaken brush of an arm. “Well, right.” He tilted his head to the side, hoping suddenly for an interruption so he could leave the conversation.

            “Alfie?”

            The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. It was the first time she had addressed him by name. The way she spoke his name was so soft. Like nothing, he’d heard before. “Hm?” He couldn’t exactly speak properly.

            “Do you think I’m afraid of you?”

            He raised an eyebrow. “Afraid? Well, I’d hope not. I told your brothers that I ain’t here to hurt you.”

            “Then why do you walk on eggshells around me?”

            Alfie opened his mouth but only let out a small, confused grumble. It must’ve been that Shelby wit that had gotten them there. She was so good at concealing her feelings that Alfie looked like a fool. Dancing around the topic, trying to please her, giving her everything she wanted. God, he must’ve looked like a sap.

            She smiled slightly. “I didn’t expect you to try to impress me so much. The way my brothers spoke of you, I was expecting something else entirely.”

            He drummed his fingers on the table. “There’s a difference, yeah, ‘tween business and me personal life. What your brothers see ain’t what you’ll see.” He tried to explain.

            It was different from her family’s mentality, or Tommy’s to be more specific. In the Shelby family, everyone dealt with family business. There were no exceptions unless you absconded. Even then, it was tricky to escape business. But it appeared Alfie was keener to keep his two lives separate. Eliza considered how this difference might benefit her.

            “All the day’s shit, yeah, it gets left at the fucking door.” He pointed down the hall toward the front door. “This is sorta a sanctuary, innit?”

            Eliza nodded. “That sounds nice.”

            “Nice, yeah it is nice.” He agreed.

            They were quiet for a moment, neither of them really wanted to return to the conversation topic of children. It seemed too fresh.

            “Ruth is trying to teach me how to cook kosher.” She spoke up after a bit. It was the first time she offered any information without Alfie prompting her. Maybe because now she felt the flat was a safe place for her. “Just, I dunno if you were wondering why I’m there for so long.”

            Alfie shrugged. “I’m glad you two have gotten along. Didn’t want you to feel lonely here.” He admitted and went back to eating before his dinner went cold.  

            Eliza watched him for a split second. So, he cared about how she felt? Imagine that.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            It took quite a bit of convincing to get the rabbis to convert Eliza. Wrestling with tradition, Alfie knew he was asking for a lot. But the conversion went through and under Jewish law, he was allowed to marry her. Not that he was looking for some massive wedding. It would be best to call the least amount of attention to himself as possible. The Camden community might not take kindly to his bride-to-be if they found out she was a convert. And if they found out she was a Shelby? Well, granted, Alfie was scary enough to thwart off criticism. But he didn’t want the rumors to get around to Eliza. He didn’t want her to feel unwelcome.

            In reality, Alfie felt as though he was going mad. Since when had he given two shits about someone’s comfort? His job was basically to make people feel uncomfortable so they’d be more willing to listen. But apparently, Eliza had made quite an impact on him.

            She fit in very nicely in his flat. Never made a fuss or anything. That wasn’t to say she was like a little dormouse. She wasn’t very tidy. Alfie chalked this up to her growing up with five siblings. He didn’t particularly mind, though. It was nice to see the flat actually lived in. For so long it had been just a place to sleep. But Alfie realized he had grown fond of coming home late from work and finding traces of Eliza throughout the house.

            A dirty pan in the sink, her book on the sofa, a couple of hairpins on the coffee table, and the stray teacup with cold tea that had been forgotten about.

            For a brief moment, as he cleaned up, he wondered if their children would be just as messy. Alfie could imagine coming home to the floor littered with toys. It brought a smile to his face.

            Of course, children was still a conversation they had to have. Alfie loathed the fact that they had to get over that little mountain of a decision. He wouldn’t dare force anything onto her. Purely by his own standards and morals. Plus, the added benefit of getting a bullet in his head courtesy of the Shelby boys.

            So, he waited and hoped that was something they could get to. Because, despite their relationship still being merely two people who lived together, he did like her. More so, even.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~

            The wedding, although very traditional in the ritual sense, was very small. Only a few people very close to Alfie attended if only to witness the union. There wasn’t a reception or party to follow. No grand affair.

            They simply walked out of the building as man and wife.

            “Alfie, can I ask you something?”

            “’Course.” It was a bit strange. Eliza was standing in the foyer as he went to go feed Cyril. Standing in her wedding dress, she looked a bit out of place.

            “I know what is…expected of us tonight.” She wrung her hands together. “But I don’t think I’m quite ready. I’m sorry I just…”

            Alfie felt oddly relieved. He was hoping she would say something, otherwise, he’d feel like a monster if she went through with consummating the marriage and she wasn’t ready. “No reason to apologize, love.” He walked back out of the kitchen, shrugging off his jacket. “Ain’t any rush.”

            “I appreciate that.” She said softly. “Thank you.”

            “So…I’ll see you tomorrow then? I’ve got to work early.”

            “I’ll make breakfast.” She offered.

            “Nah, that’s alright. You don’t need to get up so early.”

            “I don’t mind…”

            “S’alright, love.” He gave her a warm smile and held out an arm, allowing her to go upstairs first.

            Eliza smiled back, feeling her cheeks warm a bit. She went upstairs, allowing Cyril to trot by her.

            “I had a few things shipped in from Paris. Sorta wedding gift, if you will. I hope you don’t mind, I asked Ruth if she could help me.” Alfie said as he climbed the stairs behind her. “I left it on your bed.”

            “Oh, Alfie, you didn’t need to-”

            “S’alright.” He assured her, meeting her at the top of the stairs. “You Shelbys like nice things, aye?”

            She shrugged. “I’m a Solomons now.” She pointed out.

            He let out a brief chuckle. “Yeah, that’s true. F’ya want, we can get a nice box for your dress. Maybe to store it? I dunno, me mum did the same thing. I still have her dress, fuck if I know what I’m gonna do with it. But she-well it were the only thing she brought from Russia.”

            “I understand, it’s important to you.” Eliza agreed.

            Alfie rubbed a hand over his beard. “Yeah. Yeah, it is. Well, I won’t keep you up.”

            “Goodnight, Alfie.” She smiled at him before going down the hall to her room. Like he said, there was a large box on her bed. After shutting the door, Eliza opened the top and found an array of beautiful pieces of clothing that must’ve cost a fortune. Beaded gowns, satin gloves, a fur-lined coat, and much more. Eliza carefully unpacked everything, folding the items or hanging them up in the closet. Then she landed on a pair of silk pajamas that looked like what picture stars wore. A gorgeous burgundy color with embroidered designs on the cuffs of the shirt and pants.

            She smiled and felt her heart skip a beat. It had been a little unnerving knowing that she would become a Jewish wife. There were a lot of changes she had to make, moving to Camden, marrying Alfie, and trying to keep her end of the bargain by converting. But in the end, she was still married to a gangster. One who, although he looked simply, did like luxury items. And maybe it was how he was trying to show his affection for her.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~

            Married life wasn’t all that different for Alfie. He continued to work the same tireless hours and continued to keep up his agenda of legal and illegal operations. Mostly illegal.

            What changed was coming home to a gentle person who had a good skill of keeping the flat calm. Alfie assumed that like the other Shelbys, Eliza would manage to only raise his blood pressure. But she had the opposite effect.

            She had become more of an open book with him, which led Alfie to believe they were moving in the right direction. She told him more about what she did during the day. Mainly, she spent her time with Ruth and some of the other women in the neighborhood.

            It was nice to hear things that weren’t related to business. Alfie’s entire life was business. Now he had someone else to occupy his thoughts.

            As the weeks wore on, both Eliza and Alfie began talking on a more intimate level. Soon she found she was telling him things not even her siblings knew. Things that were very personal to her.       

            She also began to notice Alfie stealing a few looks her way. Meanwhile, she found herself looking forward to seeing him every day and often was disappointed if he worked late and she fell asleep before he came home. Her heart skipped a beat when he smiled at her or called her pet names. She figured it was just instinct, something he did to everyone. But it felt special to her.

            Eliza realized, when winter came, that there was no reason for her sheepishness. They were married, after all. If she wanted to further their relationship, all she had to do was ask.

            So, she did. One night, Alfie came home late from work. He picked at some leftovers waiting for him, before heading upstairs. His hip was bothering him as the days got colder, so he wasn’t in a grand mood. When he reached the second floor, the door to Eliza’s room opened.           

            “Sorry, love, didn’t mean to wake you.”

            “You didn’t, I was waiting for you to get home.” She lingered in the doorway for a moment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in, I would’ve kept you company while you ate.”

            “S’alright, didn’t eat much.” He shrugged. “There something you needed?”

            “Well, yes.” She walked into the hallway. It felt a little silly asking her husband what she was going to ask. So, Eliza gained some of that Shelby confidence and looked him in the eye. “Will you kiss me?”

            It certainly wasn’t what Alfie expected. He thought maybe she wanted to use the car or needed some spending cash. So, he felt a little bad that he was silent for so long, but he didn’t know what to say. “Erm, I didn’t-well-”

            Eliza began to clam up, fearing she had overstepped a line. Maybe it was all in her head and Alfie didn’t really like her all that much. “Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve asked…”

            Alfie caught her hand before she could scurry back to her room. He drew her closer and his other hand cupped her cheek. His eyes searched her face before he kissed her, trying to get a mental image of her locked in his head. The tiny bit of freckles on her face, the wintery blue eyes looking up, yearning, and the way her lips parted slightly. He would catalog the little bits of information away because he couldn’t imagine how this would last long. Nothing good in life ever lasted long and Eliza was one of the best damn things that ever happened to him.

            That night, Eliza slept in Alfie’s room for the first time. It was how she came to the realization that her husband was just a big bear. Grumpy, stubborn, yet he cared for his own. Eliza liked that. She had grown up around bristly love. Polly marched them to mass every Sunday no matter how much they complained because she wanted to ‘save their souls’. Arthur would gladly murder any boy who gave her even the slightest of looks. Tommy was stern but she found out later it was because they had no father figure so he had to take on the role. And John? Well, John pretended to hate his twin sister. He wanted to appear tough in front of his friends and teased her at school. But every night, when there was no available light to read, he conjured up a story for her.

            Other people may not have understood, but Eliza knew that real relationships couldn’t be found in the pages of her books. She liked Alfie because he was real. The most real thing she’d ever known.

            After that night, their relationship bloomed much faster. They found married life soothing when others found it stressful. They enjoyed each other’s company so much that Alfie started to cut back on late nights at the bakery. It meant more to Eliza than he might have realized.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

            As the situation with the Italians got more intense, Alfie started to realize how much their relationship had grown. He found himself contacting Tommy more often, demanding information about what Luca Changretta was doing. He wanted to ensure there would be no threat to his London empire and there would be no threat to his wife.

            His anxiety about everything reached a boiling point when Eliza disappeared one morning. Had he looked in his study, he would’ve seen the note she left for him saying that she was taking the car to visit her family in Small Heath.

            But he didn’t. So, he naturally assumed something bad happened and rallied a search team. He was at his wit's end, practically tearing his hair out.

            When Eliza arrived home, unharmed and acting normally, he lost his cool.

            “Where the fuck have you been?” He demanded when she walked through the door as if nothing had happened.

            Eliza looked taken aback. He’d never taken such a harsh tone with her. “Pardon?”

            “I’ve half me men out looking for you, you think it’s alright to just disappear like that?”

            “Alfie, I left you a fucking note on your desk.” She snapped, not happy he was talking to her in such a way. He usually was very respectful.

            He looked a bit hesitant, maybe he had neglected to see the note. But he was still too upset to admit he was in the wrong. “You could’ve told me, aye? Where were you?”

            “What does it matter?” She asked defensively, trying to pass by him in the hallway.

            “Because there’s a man out there who wants to wipe out your entire family, Liz!” He snapped, standing in her way so she couldn’t shrug off his concern.

            “You don’t think I know that?”

            “You have no idea where he could be or what he could’ve done to you!”

            “I was in Small Heath, I was perfectly okay.” She retorted. “I have the right to go where I please.”

            “Small Heath?” Alfie looked at her in disbelief. To think she could go that far and think she would be fine on her own. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

            “Do not take that tone with me!” She held strong against him. “If I want to see my family, I can. You can’t keep me locked up in Camden.”

            “That ain’t…” He let out a frustrated noise. The last thing he wanted to do was make her feel trapped. “I don’t understand why you just up and left. What did you need to do there?”

            “That’s my business.”

            “Liz-”

            “You don’t control me, Alfie.”

            “I know!” He shouted. “You don’t think I know that? But I care too much about you to let you be killed because of what your fucking brother has gotten your family into!”

            Eliza’s lower lip wobbled and she crossed her arms over her chest. “I went because I was late. My aunt confirmed it, I’m pregnant.”

            Alfie was knocked right in the gut by the news. What he thought would never happen was now a reality. “Liz…”

            “Just fuck off.” She spat and turned to head upstairs. But she paused halfway. “I was so excited to tell you and this is how I’m treated? You can sleep on the couch.” She stomped upstairs and slammed the door shut before locking it.

            Alfie felt like an absolute imbecile. He was notorious for letting his temper get the better of him. But he was proud of himself for never letting Eliza see that side of him. Now he had mucked up what they’d been building for months.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~          

            Eliza didn’t come down for dinner or breakfast the next day. Alfie decided to try and speak with her before he went to the bakery for the day.

            His first knock was met with silence.

            “Eliza, please, just let me apologize.” He said as he knocked again.

            “Go to hell, Alfie.” She finally replied.

            He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Love, I’m tryna apologize, here!” He exclaimed. “What else do you want me to do?”

            There was another bout of silence before the door swung open. “You think an apology is some grandiose gesture?” She demanded. “Alfie, I’ve walked across hot coals for you and you don’t even realize.”

            “M’tryna…I don’t know what you want me to say.” He grimaced, realizing how shit he was at relationships sometimes.

            “I went to Small Heath and you know what Ada said to me? She asked me about my headscarf. She said it was oppressive and I never should’ve converted for you. She said you would never be able to do anything that comes close to what I’ve done for you. Do you want to know what I said?”

            Alfie nodded.

            “I said she was wrong. I told her that you treated me right. You respected me. You were there for me and appreciated the person I was. I converted for you, I married you, and now I’m going to give you a child. So, don’t act like you have this authority over me when I’ve done so much for you.”

            He sighed. “You’re right, love. It were wrong for me to treat you like that.” He acknowledged in a rare event of humility. “But me worst fear is losing you. ‘Cause you’re the only thing on this Earth that means a damn to me. If I lost you if that fucker killed you? I’d never forgive myself. I would spend the rest of me days mourning.”

            Eliza’s tense stance relaxed a bit when she heard the genuine concern in his voice. His anger was out of fear. She knew men like Alfie had a hard time addressing their fears because they weren’t meant to be scared of anything. Her voice softened. “I’m not going anywhere.” She promised. “You have me until the end of time.”

            “And you have me.”

            She smiled and stepped into his arms so he could hold her close. “That’s good to know.”

              Permanent Tag: @papa-geralt-of-cirilla @giftofdreams @biba3434 @kimmietea @karmezii @enrapturedbythemoon @vampgirl1997 @tarafaithe

@fuseburner​

PB Masterlist

[daydream-believin]

Recipe For Disaster 2: Electric Boogaloo

Summary: Jim is NOT happy about his sister’s boyfie. (not a part two despite the confusing name)

Warnings: swearing, a gilmore girls reference, divorce kids got daddy issues

Word Count: 5560, my longest yet woohoo

A/N: here it is im finally done with this. i- im tired. i love jim he was my favorite until doux came along but he can be a little bitch boy sometimes. and the word of the day is giggle im so sorry

tags: @alovesongshewrote​ hope i can deliver now that you have expectations lmao

It was a good Saturday. The trollhunters trio had gotten an early start on training, and thus Blinky had released them for an early lunch. It was a particularly successful day, with Claire really getting the hang of the shadow staff, so they decided to not make poor Jim cook for once and go out for a treat. And Toby really wanted a sandwich from Benoit’s.

They opted to walk to downtown instead of biking, as a way to cool down. Plus, it would give them time to digest their food on the walk back, before they returned to training once again. Although that was more of a problem for Jim and Toby, since Blinky wanted Claire to start reading a certain book this afternoon. She’d be in the library, quietly sitting while the boys go back to running around and fighting. The spring flowers had just started returning to Arcadia Oaks. The flowerbeds that decorated town added a cheery air to the day. Happily, Jim ran up in front to kick a pebble as they came up towards the bistro around the corner. He stopped in his tracks.

“Is Y/n’s boss flirting with her?”

The other two teens came around Jim to see. Y/n laughed at Douxie’s dumb joke and put her hand on his shoulder.

“And is she flirting back?” Jim asked incredulously.

Claire didn’t take this the same way Jim did. “Aww, that’s so cute.”

“No it’s not. It’s weird. And wrong.” Jim asserted.

“What are you talking about,” Claire lowered her brows with an annoyed tone.

“No, no. he’s right. Y/n doesn’t flirt. Or date. I’m not even sure she crushes.”

Claire shook her head, “That can’t be true, TP. She’s like, old. You two just didn’t notice it.”

“Oh, no, we noticed it. She went to every school dance alone, even senior prom.” Toby added. “It was kind of sad to be honest.”

“Remember that time that big movie star came into town? He was the prettiest guy I’d ever seen, and Y/n was just like ‘eh he’s okay, I guess’. We literally had a fight over that one.” Jim chuckled.

“I literally can’t imagine Y/n in a relationship. She’s just too all over the place.”

Claire rolled her eyes and gestured her hands towards the scene in front of them. “Well, she seems to be doing just fine now.”

Jim didn’t know why, but this made him a little huffy. “Whatever. It’s just a crush, anyways. She’ll get over it soon enough.”

Douxie leaned over to give Y/n a quick peck goodbye before he headed into Mr. Benoit’s to start his shift. He had swapped shifts with one of his coworkers for the day, so he could have the evening off. Y/n headed back to the bookstore. She tucked her hair behind her ear as she left, smiling to herself. The three trollhunters still stood right where they were, staring.

“I don’t think it’s just a crush, Jimbo.”

Jim was outraged. How. How was this happening. He could understand her not telling her family, their mother could be a bit nosy sometimes when it came to her daughter’s personal affairs. But his sister had often said she didn’t have enough time to pursue a love life whenever their mother probed her. There was no way she just started having said time. Right? It was curious, too, that out of all the people she could have chosen in Arcadia, she chose Douchey. That guy had girls fawning over him wherever he went. There was no way Y/n was into that.

Come to think of it, Y/n had been acting really strange ever since she had gotten that job at the bookstore. It was so easy to make her laugh now. She was actually wearing her hair in different styles instead of her signature. She actually enjoyed Barbara’s cooking. Or at least complimented it a lot now. Still a baffling action nonetheless. It was if she was experiencing the side effects of something. And that bookstore reeked of magic. Magic had the power to drive people out of their minds. He’d had plenty of first-hand experience with that. This whole situation was fishy.

“Well, I think it’s so cute they’re together now.” Claire said cheerily. He loved her but she wasn’t exactly the best when it came to making judgement calls. Hell, the fact that she was dating him after all he’s put her through was enough proof of that.

“Well, I think its magic.” Jim deadpanned.

“What.” Claire snapped.

“He’s got a spell on her! Some sort of enchantment. A charm!”

Toby was too tired from training today to deal with this. “I’ll agree, he does have charm, have you had him as a waiter? But not the kind of charm you’re implying here, Jim.”

“Douxie is my magic teacher, Jim. I promise, he’s a really nice guy.”

“Nope. There’s no way my sister would be into a guy, let alone a guy like,” He tried to find the right words but just sputtered, “Like that!” he motioned to poor Doux, who was changing the specials sign out front. Douxie was one of those bistro employees who always got asked to draw up the sign because his calligraphy was so good. Doux had to admit, his handwriting was messy compared to Merlin’s standards, but to Mr. Benoit’s he was a calligraphy god.

Toby looked Doux up and down. “I don’t know man, Y/n is kind of alternative.”

“Yeah, who do you think helps me dye my hair all the time? And sneaks me into concerts?” Claire added.

“Okay. I get that. But he’s just not good enough for her.” Jim said through gritted teeth.

Toby sighed. “Then who is?” he asked wearily.

Jim got defensive. “I don’t know! A prince, maybe. One that’s in line to be king. Not one of those waiting-for-a-brother-to-die ones, but a real one.” He nodded his head like any of that was realistic. “Definitely not just some wizard who works in a bookstore.”

“She’s just some wizard who works in a bookstore, though.”

There was no getting through to Jim. “Think about it guys, my sister, suddenly getting cozy with a magic man? Bushigal. She’s under a spell. I’m going to fight him.”

“No, no you’re not,” Claire asserted, “You’re going to have lunch like we planned AND you’re going to be civil.” Claire and Toby both grabbed one of his arms and dragged him towards the bistro.

***

The hostess guided them to the table. Claire sat across from Jim and Toby. They were handed the menus. Claire showed interest in the lunch specials while Toby flipped to the sandwiches. Jim just brooded while he stared unblinking into the first page. And by chance, and by the fact that this scene would be boring and or pointless if not, Douxie was the waiter for said table. After handing off the check to one of his other tables, he waltzed over to the trio, happy to see his protégé.

“Ello lads, how’s it going? How’d that test go today, Claire?” Douxie ruffled her hair. Jim narrowed his eyes at the sight.

“Horrible! I bombed it for sure!”

Toby rolled his eyes, “You say that about every test, Claire, and then it turns out you aced them.”

“No I mean it this time, TP. I didn’t even finish the last three questions. It was so bad!”

“Yeah, okay, I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Douxie chuckled. Oh to have the problems of these youngsters. Claire and Toby got into some sort of glare match where they both just made more and more aggressive funny faces at each other. Both finally conceded and they fell into giggles. Douxie was glad to see Claire having so much fun, but he noticed someone else at the table who was not having said fun. His apprentice Claire’s boyfriend, his master’s champion, and his darling Y/n’s brother, looking like his dog ate his homework, or whatever teenagers got angry about these days.

“Cheer up, lad.” Doux grinned at Jim, “Hangry? I get that. You look like you could use a good meal.”

“Well strangely I am in a cafe”

Claire kicked Jim under the table. He tried his best to stifle the grunt of pain. “Don’t mind Jim, he’s a tad grumpy from a bad training session. And we’ll take waters all around.” She smiled. Doux hurried off to go get their glasses.

In the end, Toby couldn’t pick a sandwich. He had three favorites and couldn’t decide between them yet. Jim and Claire had his back. They both got one of them and he got the third. Then they would all share the halves. A good plan. And it was a delicious one. Toby was thankful for his partners.

***

After finishing up training and walking Claire home, Jim and Toby went their separate ways. Toby had promised his Nana he’d go with her and her boyfriend to see a play in the next town over. Jim had promised his mother he’d be home for a family dinner. He wasn’t able to be home in time to cook, so this was going to be a roulette wheel when it came to food. He was betting on Y/n. As he came to the front door, he cracked it first and smelled the air before going inside as to make sure his candid reaction wouldn’t be bad. The aroma coming from the house was heavenly. Alright, Y/n. Jackpot.

Jim swung the door open wide as he strutted in. Everyone was in the kitchen, it looked like. He put his bag up and called to his family that he was home. Which was met with the two voices he had expected, but one he hadn’t. And it was a voice he didn’t want to hear right now. Douxie. Hisirdoux fucking Casperan. In his house. In his kitchen. In his territory.

Jim immediately felt his muscles tense up. He took a deep breath and put on his best fake smile before heading into the kitchen. Y/n was sautéing something over the stove. Barbara was stirring something which meant that she had insisted on helping and Y/n had done the equivalent of giving your younger sibling a game controller that wasn’t plugged in. The offending wizard was leaning over the bar counter from the other side, chatting away as if he had any reason to be here.

Once Y/n caught sight of Jim, she bubbled. “Jim! How was hiking? You three have fun?” she knew where he actually spent his Saturdays but they had to keep up the rouse for their mom. While Y/n particularly didn’t care for the lying, she also agreed with Jim that some things are best kept from worrisome mothers. Barbara gave her enough shit already for her frequent homecomings from bars and shows in the wee hours of the morning with scrapes and bruises. If their mother knew about Jim’s marginally more dangerous late-night escapades, she might actually have a nervous breakdown.

“Oh yeah, it was great. We saw a deer. It had a baby with it.”

“Majestic.” She turned and gestured to the man at the counter, “You remember Douxie, right?”

“Of course,” Jim said through gritted teeth forced into a smile. “In fact we just saw each other at the bistro earlier today.”

A timer went off. Y/n expressed her delight that something in the oven was done. Barb got some plates out of the cabinet, while Y/n pulled the main course out of the oven. She handed Jim the plates and silverware and sent him to go set the table. Jim supposed this was better than having to talk to Douxie. Until Douxie insisted on helping him. Great.

“So, Jim, I’ve heard a lot about you-”

“I’m sure you have.” Jim cut him off. Douxie was a bit confused, but figured he was still grumpy like he was earlier at the bistro. He’d leave the moody teen alone then. Perhaps he be in a better mood after getting some food in him and spending time with his family. Doux would try for conversation again then.

Jim did not get any less grumpy, to Douxie’s dismay. And Y/n’s. Y/n really needed both her family members to like her boyfriend. They were all each other had, and any strife would put a strain on their tiny closely-knit family unit. Y/n loved Douxie, and she wanted Jim and Barbara to love him to. To accept him. It would help put a validity to her feelings. If they liked him then she had made the right choice. She could never be with someone her loved ones hated. And as a bonus, it would be nice if she could give Douxie the family he never had. He deserved as much.

Luckily, Barbara had taken quite a liking to Arcadia’s most charming waiter. Jim however, was subtly hostile. Or at least he thought he was being subtle. It was very apparent to the other three at the table. As Douxie was animatedly telling Barb some story that she was laughing very hard at, Y/n turned to glare at her brother. Jim tried to feign innocence. Y/n rolled her eyes and put some more salad on her plate. Jim noticed the bracelet on her wrist. Funny, she had never been one for jewelry before. But she started wearing this one everyday right around the time she started working at the bookstore. Interesting.

Douxie finished up his story and turned his attention to Jim. He’d try once again to engage the trollhunter. He knew how important this was to Y/n. Douxie was going to make this little man like him if it was the last thing he did.

“I saw the school play you were in a couple weeks ago, Jim. You were quite the actor, and I know Shakespeare’s tough. Have you ever thought of going into it professionally? Claire’s told me she wants to. You two could be one of those celebrity power couples.”

Jim just offered a short thanks that was less hostile but not exactly enthusiastic either. Well, at least Doux was getting somewhere. It’s a start. Y/n was content with this. Jim would warm up to Douxie eventually. It didn’t have to be right away, even if she would have liked that.

After the dinner conversation had died down and the food long gone, Y/n set out to clear the table and clean the kitchen. Barbara also went to help her, but Douxie assured her he’d take care of it. He was a world class waiter after all. He stacked up the plates as Y/n grabbed the dinner dishes. And so the two set off to the world behind the wall, to clean or canoodle or whatever. Jim wasn’t too keen on thinking about it. His mother pulled him into the living room to sit on the couch and preceded to ask him twenty questions about Claire. He was almost happy when the lovebirds came back.

And then his mother made them all play some card game for three hours straight. All while the lovebirds flirted away right in front of them. It was like they had no shame. This guy just had to have Y/n under a spell or something, Jim was sure of it. There was no other explanation. As she giggled at another one of Douxie’s stupid jokes that weren’t even funny, Jim felt sick.

Finally it came time for that douchebag to leave. Jim rolled his eyes at his mother and sister fawning over Doux as he made his way to the door. He slinked over behind them to watch the guy leave and make sure that he left. As Douxie went through the door he gave Y/n a quick peck and said the stupidest line Jim had ever heard. Who does this guy think he is. Once the door was shut and Doux had indeed walked away, Jim scoffed.

“Bet that guy has a bank of pickup lines he’s memorized. There’s no way he came up with that on the fly.”

***

Jim was furious. He fought like a madman during training. Draal was just making it worse by encouraging it; he really liked the kid’s fire today. Draal had no idea what was up with him right now, but Jim was giving it his all. The trollhunter was rarely this aggressive. Blinky looked on as Jim growled and shouted with every strike. He hadn’t seen his son frothing at the mouth like this before. It was glorious. Keep this up and Angor Rot won’t know what hit him.

Claire and Toby were also training, with Arrggh, albeit with not even half as much gusto as Jimbo. They were also a wee bit distracted, trying to wind Jim down from said gusto. He came over to where they were to get some water. Taking this opportunity, Toby tried appealing to him once again.

“Dude, give it a rest, this is just like how you got all pissy about your mom dating Strickler.” Toby was exasperated.

“Y/n can’t date guys, my mother can’t date guys, no men should be frequently invited into our household! No boys allowed! Me and Toby are the only boys allowed!” Jim growled. He stormed off across the keep to go land another hit on Draal.

Blinky blinked. He was taken aback at the hostility from his charge. “So, do either of you have any idea as to what that was about.”

“Right now the winning theory is that this is like, about how heartbroken his mother was when his dad left, so now he doesn’t want that to happen again or something,” Claire sighed. Her teacher really was a good guy. Lonely too. Just like Y/n. They were going to be good for each other. Her boyfriend should be happy for them. Jim took a particularly dirty swipe at Draal. Toby grunted in sympathy. “Or maybe Douxie just poked Arcadia’s most possessive bear.”

***

Jim and Toby were walking downtown, enjoying their free time after a trollhunting mission on this fine Sunday afternoon. That is, until they came in sight of the bookstore. Jim felt that bitter feeling in his stomach again. He knew Y/n wasn’t working today. Douchey would be all alone. Now was his chance to confront this and end it before it got any worse. Toby noticed the malice in his eyes as he stomped towards the bookstore.

“Woah dude, what’re you doing?”

“I’m just going to have a little chat with Mr. Casperan that’s all.”

Toby threw his head back in exasperation. “There no talking you out of this is there?”

“Nope”

The bell jingled as they walked in. The bookshop smelled like Christmas. And Jim was about to try and talk politics with his racist uncle at the dinner table. Douxie came over and greeted them cheerily.

“Good afternoon, lads. Looking for any book in particular?”

“I’m not a part of this. I just happen to be with him physically.” Toby quickly asserted. Douxie quirked a brow at the odd statement. Jim pushed forward aggressively. Doux had the sense to back away from the boy.

“I’m onto you, wizard. Just what did you do to my sister? Did you slip her a love potion? Is that bracelet she’s been wearing charmed?” Jim growled. Toby cringed on the sidelines.

Douxie blinked. “Excuse me?”

“There’s no other explanation for your ‘relationship’. You’ve got to be magicking her. And I won’t just sit here and let it happen. That’s my sister and it’s my job to protect her from creeps like you.”

Douxie took in the boys words, and a deep breath. He tried his best not to sound too defensive and provoke the kid further, “Okay, wow. That’s quite an accusation there, friend.” He moved away from where the boy had backed him into a bookshelf. “You know, out of all that you just implied, the part I think I’m most offended by is the fact that you’d think I’d mess with Y/n’s free will like that.”

Douxie straightened some books on a nearby display. “You know Jim, when it comes to love-” Jim stormed out of the bookstore before Doux could take his lecture any further, grabbing Toby by the arm so he’d follow. Toby mouthed a big ‘I’m sorry’ to Doux as he was pulled out of the store.

***

Jim’s pencil felt abused. He was furiously scribbling the answers to his homework with a heavy hand. He still had a lot of pent up rage, even after accosting poor Doux. After snapping his lead for the seventh time in the hour, Jim decided that switching subjects to Spanish instead of math for a bit might help him calm down. He moved to his bed to start the assigned reading. He laid on his stomach, propping up his head in his hands to see his textbook. His blue eyes perused the paragraphs punctuated by cheesy cartoons. He was halfway through the third page when a knock came at his door. Taking a deep breath, he called for whoever it was to let themselves in. His sister stepped into view.

Jim ran a hand through his dark hair. Here comes the scolding. He didn’t even have to ask if Y/n had heard about what he’d done today. If Douxie himself hadn’t told her then Tobes certainly did. Jim wasn’t proud of it, now that it was all said and done. He knew he deserved whatever Y/n was about to dish out. He sat up and crisscrossed his legs. She pulled his desk chair over and sat backwards in it so that she was facing him on the bed.

That’s it. No scolding came. She just sat and looked at him, neutral faced. He squirmed at the nothing. She lifted up the coffee mug in her hands and took a slow sip, not breaking eye contact with him. Jim began to sweat. He tried to avoid her gaze by looking down at the floor, but he could still feel her eyes upon him. Sighing, he had to admit defeat.

“Okay, so I do feel bad about what I said to Douxie today.” He looked back up to meet Y/n’s eyes. She raised a brow. “It was wrong of me to jump to conclusions like that, I’m sorry.”

Y/n appeared to be satisfied by that. A smile spread across her face and she nodded to him. She stood up, and ruffled his hair on her way out. Still refusing to break her silence, she motioned for him to follow her downstairs.

***

Y/n set her coffee cup down on the table. She pulled another mug out of the cabinet for Jim. Grabbing the coffee pot from its nest under the coffeemaker, she filled Jim’s mug and topped off her own. Sliding the mug across the table to Jim, she sat down. Jim could smell the aromas of the several colorful dishes baking that he could see through the screen of the oven door. Strange, it was already half past nine. There was cinnamon in the air, so at least one of those dishes contained dessert. Jim’s stomach growled at the thought.

“You know I’m not the one you should have to apologize to, Jimbo.”

“I know, I know,” He looked at the ground, “I’ll go talk to him tomorrow after school.”

Silence filled the kitchen again. Y/n took a sip of coffee. This conversation was going to be hard. She wasn’t particularly looking forward to it. She opened her mouth to speak, but stopped. She took yet another long sip of coffee to figure out a good enough way to word this. She took a breath.

“So, uh- listen Jimbo. I- I know it’s tough, ya know, with it just being us. And our family’s tight because of it. But you can’t get so protective that new people can’t join it. Or even try.”

Jim took a breath, “I know it’s just, I-, what happens when we, when you, get so attached to him, and he decides that he doesn’t care for you anymore. When he turns out to be bad. When he just disappears. Like- like they do.”

“Oh, Jim,” She reached across the table for his hand. “That’s my risk to take, Jim. I fully recognize that what I’m doing is hazardous and I could get hurt really bad. But I still chose to do it. I choose it every day. We all do, when we fall in love.”

Jim took a sip and lingered, staring into his cup. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” He chuckled, “I know I’d be devastated if Claire ever wizened up and left me.”

“Look, you gotta trust me okay? Douxie isn’t dad or Strickler. I promise. He’s kind. I trust him. After you apologize, I think you really should start to make an effort to get to know him. If not for me, for Claire dude. And I think you’ll really like him. Promise you’ll give him a chance?”

Jim sighed in defeat. “Alright. I promise.”

She stood up and stretched out her back, making those stretching noises that people do. She checked the food in the oven. The buns were ready, but the quiche still needed a few minutes. She took out the pans and put them on the cooling rack. After fanning them for a few seconds, she turned to Jim, “So you want a spinach bun or a cinnamon bun?”

“How is that a question?” Jim laughed.

“Spinach bun it is then,” She teased as she tossed him the cinnamon one.

“What’s all this for anyway?” He gestured to the oven and the buns.

“Oh, uh, its actually for a date tonight?” She looked warry of how he’d react.

“Okay,” He guessed now would be as good a time as ever to start letting this go, “You crazy kids have fun.” Y/n laughed, relived.

Douxie had just finished up the sweeping and was ready to close up. As he headed to towards the front doors, he took one last look around the place to make sure he didn’t miss anything. All clean and tidy. Whoever opened tomorrow would appreciate it. He flipped the neon sign from open to nope and started locking up. Which is when his girlfriend pounced on him and almost gave him a heart attack. She just appeared out of thin air to tackle him into a hug. Scared the living daylights out of him. Y/n apologized profusely when she noticed him freak out but was still snickering between sorries so she probably didn’t mean it. He asked her just what the hell she was doing here and she picked up a picnic basket that was on the ground to show him.

“I just knew a certain wizard hadn’t eaten yet tonight.”

***

Y/n felt the ground beneath her back through the picnic blanket. The new spring growth had made them a cushion of sorts. Her head rested in the crook of Douxie’s shoulder as his arm was wrapped around her. It was nice here. Comfy. She could smell his hair and feel his chest move as he breathed. Their heartbeats made a nice rhythm to accompany the cricket song and the noise of the trees swaying. The stars were so lovely tonight. Stellar.

Douxie broke the quiet. “So I brushed up on my astrology.”

“Oh yeah?” Y/n quirked her brow. Astrology was one of her biggest interests. She’d loved it since her grandmother had given her a book about it when she was small. It was a well-worn, well-loved book. Her grandmother had handwritten things in the margins too. She’d been talking Douxie’s ears off about it during work earlier that week. Something was just so fascinating about how there were gorgeous balls of light in the sky that could tell you the future. There really was magic embedded in the fabric of the universe. It was sweet that he would care enough to learn about her interests. Very sweet indeed. The fact that he went out of his way just so he could talk to her about something she loved? Tooth-rotting. She wasn’t sure if her heart sped up because she was excited to talk about astrology or because of the sugar rush he just gave her.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve needed to look at constellations, we do have GPS now, but I think I remember enough,” He pointed to the sky, “That’s Pisces, right?”

“Yes!” Y/n couldn’t stop herself from smiling so wide her cheeks hurt.

“And that’s Aries, which marks the beginning of spring,” He looked back at Y/n who nodded to him, “oh, and look! We can see Venus tonight.”

“Hey Douxie, I love you. And You’re really making me want to kiss you right now.”

He chuckled and wiggled his eyes brows teasingly, “Ah, yes, I am aware of the effect I have.” She rolled her eyes and put her hand on his face to push him away. If he saw the blush creeping up on her, he’d just get flirtier. She wasn’t sure she could handle that. Something caught her eye and instantly stole her attention.

“Look! A shooting star! Make a wish Doux.” She pointed to the streak of light that flashed.

“I don’t need wishes when I’m here with you, Love.” If her face was pink before it was bright red now.

Y/n hid her face in her hands, “No! You were supposed to say something silly,” She came back up to look him in the eyes, “not something that makes me want to kiss you even more.”

He leaned his head in closer, “Well, what’s stopping you, Y/n”

Well, that was obviously a dare. She couldn’t not kiss him now. So she did. They melted into it instantly. At first it was sweet and slow, but they got a bit hungrier, and the kiss got a bit sloppier. Douxie smelled like the bookstore, Y/n loved the smell of the bookstore. It was everything safe in her life. He was everything safe in her life. Her best friend. He brought his hand up to cup her cheek. He loved how her lips just fit together with his perfectly. Y/n Lake was everything he’d been waiting for all these years. Soft and kind, with such a beautiful heart. Not to mention, a badass. Yet, even with all his ancient baggage, she still cared for him. Made him feel like new again. Out of all the wizards of Arcadia Oaks, she chose him. He still couldn’t believe it. They pulled apart way sooner than either of them wanted, but they did have to breathe, so it had to be done. Locked in Douxie’s gaze, Y/n broke the intensity to giggle.

“But really, I was setting you up for a joke. You know what you could have done with that, Doux?” She teased.

“I’ll remember that for next time, Love.”

“Ah, they’re super rare. This is the first time I’ve ever seen one in all my stargazing years.”

“Well, we’ve got plenty of time to see the next one. And the next one. All the shooting stars you want. Only seeing them every few decades could make them a special little thing for us.” He said so nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t just implied that he expected their love to last for countless decades. As if it were a given. Suddenly it hit her. She could live thousands of years by his side. She would live thousands of years by his side. This was it. She wasn’t even sure humans could turn this vivid a shade of red. Y/n’s heart was gonna pop if it beat any harder.

“Stars, are you just hellbent on making me combust tonight? It too hot out here for this.” Douxie just laughed, a twinkle in his eye. She focused on her beloved stars to calm her down. She sighed, “The stars really are beautiful tonight.”

“You know what else is beautiful?”

“Me?”

“You- aww, you’ve heard that one.”

Y/n’s snort rung in the air. So, he does just have a bank of pick-up lines he’s pulling from. Interesting. Guess it must be tough having to be Arcadia’s most charming waiter. They stilled again. The comfortable silence embraced them. And they could have basked in it all night, if Douxie had not a burning question he had been waiting to ask his beloved.

“So- uh,” She looked to him expectedly, “Do you think there’s life out there?”

Y/n tried not to laugh too hard with Douxie’s very serious tone, “Yeah, yeah I do.”

Now it was Douxie’s turn to smile so wide his cheeks hurt. “Really?”

“Yeah,” She said, “I think it’d be kinda arrogant to assume that with all that vastness up there that we’re the only ones who exist.”

“That’s a really good point.” Douxie said excitedly. He pulled her tighter into his embrace and snuggled. “I think I’m going to use that on Zoe next time she tries to tell me that I’m crazy and aliens aren’t real.”

“Yeah Babe! Win that argument!” Y/n encouraged.

She peppered his face with kisses. That big smile stayed on his face as he closed his eyes in delight. He repaid her with a nose kiss. And she repaid that by starting another snogging session.

***

Little did they know that shoot star was really aliens akiriddion spaceship crash 3below wait shit the akiriddions landed in like season two and ive set this in one ugh just pretend like this makes sense hfhadhiufs

[heartofsnark]

Can You Feel The Sun? (Chapter Nine): Lazarus Rises

Notes: I’m on a roll with writing this. I’m honestly, a little nervous with sharing this chapter since i go more into Johnny’s backstory and like...my headcanon of it since CDPR gave us nothing. But hopefully it works. I also haven't written Johnny's voice in a while, so ahhhh. 

Word Count: 12098

Chapter Warnings:  Death, brief mentions of child abuse, drug use, alcohol, war, ableism, pov switches but not in the usual way.

If you haven’t yet, you can read the previous chapter here!~

 Oblivion wraps around her like a blanket. 

There is no existence. 

No pain. 

No world. 

No V. 

No Aidan. 

Every anxious little thought, every guilt soaked burden; swept away with the reaper’s scythe. Years of running and death has finally caught her. 

Then all at once it seems to let her go. 

It's a flicker at first, neurons firing up again, rewriting and rebuilding themselves. No true sensation or senses; just existence. World still dark and lost to her, but not she is not lost to it, or some version of her isn’t. 

Pain hits her before anything else, a crack in her skull, or where her skull should be. She has no sense of her body, only the vague notion she exists and is in pain. And when every sense returns, the world coming back…. 

It’s not her own. 

There’s a fog around her, a fuzzy filter muting it all. Like trying to recall a memory from too long ago. And she sees and she hears, in a body that isn’t hers. She’s smaller, the world seeming to tower around her. A blazing sun burning overhead in the bright blue of the sky. Playing outside on a sweltering day with bruised knees and grass stains on cheap children’s jeans. A mothers voice calling for Robbie to come home for lunch. She catches a reflection in a puddle, there’s a blur to it, but the dirt smeared face of a dark haired boy looks back at her...at himself… for a moment. 

The world shifts and with it comes a pain she can’t truly feel, a belt whipping through the air and welting a back that isn’t her own. Vision blocked by skinny arms marked with cigarette burns, hiding a face from the next lash. A boot gnashing into his side, the thick fog protecting V from the pain he feels. When he clambers to his feet, spitting blood she can’t taste, despite seeing vignettes through his eyes. He walks through a musty home, where the floorboards creak and threaten to break under his feet. A mirror showing a dark eyed boy with a split lip. 

Then she’s watching the hands of this boy she doesn’t know, playing guitar. He plucks and strums at strings until they bite into his fingers, until he leaves them speckled with blood. And then he plays more. Gifted an acoustic, stole his first electric but forgot to klep the amp alongside it. 

Playing in a musty crowded garage with a young boy with olive skin. Each playing away on instruments, the sounds and words all muffled to V. The pair play badly until they play great, she doesn’t hear, but she knows… 

Tequila and cigarettes before he’s old enough to buy them. V can faintly feel the burn of the booze and the warmth of the smoke. 

Stealing anything that can be tucked away in his pockets. Spray painting every wall he sees. Cherry bombs in mailboxes, picking a fight with anyone who sets him off and most people do. The faint burning of anger in his chest, she can feel it as if it’s her own. In and out of detention centers, a system that can put him away for petty theft, but never lift a hand to stop his father... 

Military reps scouting out young, poor troubled boys, seeing nothing but canon fodder when they look at him. 

Knocking on the door and that same olive-skinned, dark haired friend answering. She can hear the words but knows what’s being said without them. Both fog and clarity. ‘Robbie’ is enlisting, off to say his final goodbye to Kerry, a name she doesn’t know how she knows. He comes running down the street after him, before ‘Robbie’ can get too far away. Neither old enough, children. One made of lank and the other with baby fat still clinging to his cheeks. But the military knows boys can take bullets just as well as men. They need bodies, age irrelevant. Forged documents with Robert John Linder scratched across it. That name...

Blurs of training, a mop of dark hair shaved from his head. Separated from Kerry, stationed in different platoons, finding another friend who sticks by his side; both hardened by the military. Lank becoming muscle. Give optics, interface plugs, tech he doesn’t want, but they pry open his skin and put it in anyway. Anything to make him a better soldier. 

Then they’re in combat, muffled gunfire. People brutalized; shot, blown apart and chrome shoved into whatever remains; treated cruelly both by the enemy and the corps that shipped them out there. The heat of Mexico and the smell of gunpowder. Enemy ambush, the faint ting of a grenade hitting the ground. Then Robert is on the ground, shoved there and the body of a friend draped over his own. A heavy boom, shrapnel tearing through his left arm and size, burns across the skin. But nothing compared to his friend…  A grenade meant for him is taken by another, the pair rushed away to medical attention when the air clears. 

He wakes up without a left arm and scars across his torso, pulling tight at his skin. His friend gone, remains thrown out and tags offered to Johnny, the man who died for him nothing but a number, canon fodder in the corp’s war. Not even a day passes before they’re shoving chrome onto what’s left of Robert’s shoulder, eager to give him another chance to die for them. 

So, he runs, deserting and heading to a Night City that V has never seen. He climbs into a dirty motel bed and refuses to crawl back out, watching a ceiling fan turn until Kerry pulls him out. Older, more weathered, still young but neither of them quite the children they were before they saw the war. 

And music becomes his life. Kerry and him scream their words into any microphone they can find. Blaring concerts, they sound as if they’re coming from three rooms over to the merc, but she can feel the energy through the memory. Long nights writing lyrics and melodies. A band forming around them, three more members coming into the fold. Grimy smoke filled clubs and a cramped pathetic excuse of a tour bus. Shows that turn into riots. 

Cigarettes and tequila aren’t enough anymore. He pops pills like candy, snorts anything that will go up his nose, drinks everything but vodka, and fucks any pretty thing that looks his way. 

A woman with freckles and blue mohawk kicks his ass when she catches him balls deep inside a groupie. 

A blonde thrown into the back of a van. 

An anger and rage burning like wildfire in his chest. 

It all blurs and rushes; V never fully feeling what’s going on. All senses are fogged, seeing the snapshots of someone’s life through his own eyes. But she doesn’t feel linked, still distanced from it all. Barely able to think or decipher what she sees through the haze of it all. Just watching blips of a life not her own flickering by, with knowledge she shouldn’t have. 

Its the feeling of graffiti covered steel pressing against hands that first pushes through the fog. Hands that feel like they’re hers, but aren’t. One inked flesh and the other chrome. V can feel the body move as if it’s her own, but she has no command of it, muscles flexing to open double doors. Surrounded by the halls of a grimy little club. She can smell smoke and sweat, she’d gag but she can’t seem too. 

There’s music somewhere, muffled by distance but nothing else now. 

Fog lifted, she's both connected enough to it to feel everything, but separate enough to question what the hell is going on? There’s a tangled mess of emotions in her...his…. Their head. Her own fear, anxiety, mingled with a burning rage pitting in his core. 

There’s a girl leaning against the dirty wall of the club, watching V...or whoever she’s stuck inside of as they walk down the hell. A little smile playing on her lips. Thoughts flitter around V, in a voice that’s not her own. Chick’s cute enough, might of been worth a quick fuck, if he wasn’t rushin’ for time. 

“Hey…” 

V wants to ask her what’s going on, if the girl has any idea, what the girl sees when she looks at her. But her hands don’t move to sign and when she feels her mouth move, a different voice, different words, come out. The same rough voice that thought of fucking the girl in a dressing room. 

“Hey.” 

“You all right?” 

No, none of this is alright. V screams inside a head not her own, but she can feel the pride rolling in his chest, a smirk on his face. There’s an anger mixed with it, he’s going to settle a score, leave a mark. Those thoughts and feelings rattling around. 

“Never been better.” 

“Sure don't look it…’

There’s a scoff in his throat, she’s got no idea what he’s got planned. He continues around the corner, a man at the end of the hall standing before a set of double doors. The letters above say its backstage. Green hued fluorescent lights only draw attention to the grime as his boots click over the floor. That smell of cigarettes and sweat still hangs heavy around her, she thinks it may be coming from him, the man she’s playing passenger in. Oh god, that smell is him, isn’t it… 

What the hell is even happening? Dex killed her, didn’t he? 

“I can't let you on!” The man yells out at him. 

The fuck he can’t. His anger flares, a sliver left arm brought up, slammed into the guy's throat as he’s shoved into a wall,  a gun held in chrome fingers. There’s a mirror against it and V can see the man she’s living life through now. And those foggy vignettes press at her, he’s much older now. Face angry and with a scruffy beard, dark hair grown to his shoulders. 

His name was Robbie..? Robert.. ? Something, like that.

“Hey hey, we're chill,” the man begs ‘Robert’. He certainly looks too old to be a Robbie.

‘Robert’ lets the guy go with sneer, furious the guy would ever try to get in his way as he marches towards the doors. Abandoned music equipment and the music shoots in volume, a man blocking ‘Robert’ from getting up to a stage. Where four people play what sounds like older dad punk rock.

‘That smack, drag drunken roll

Chips are bashin' in my top

Ridin' high, my slots are shot

Metal burnin' beneath my skin

I'm chippin' in, chippin' in’

V would wince if she had control of her face, his face, does she even have a face anymore? The music is good, but painfully loud, something she could enjoy if only she could lower the volume. Phantom limbs she no longer has urge to turn the volume down on hearing aids that don’t exist. 

“Heh… 'course you're high.”  The bouncer in front of the stairs rolls his eyes at ‘Robert’ then steps aside.

‘Robert’ climbs up the short staircase, music painfully loud to V but exactly where he feels at him, bright lights down on him. A familiar face, Kerry from ‘Robert’s’ memories, is the one who sings. 

Until he’s pushed out of the way, gun still in ‘Robert’s’ hand as he grabs the microphone. Looking out into a crowd of people who stare up at him, an entire club room of people cheering and yelling for him. Shirts with tha bright red demon symbol, Samurai across it. Adoring fans, hearing his words, people who know his message, heard it loud and clear. Common men and women beaten down by the corps that rule their lives, that tear them all down for the chance to make an eddie.  And tonight he’ll show them all there’s a bite to his bark; he’ll make his mark, topple Arasaka and do what he should have done years ago.  

“Tonight I'm…” he pauses, leaving that mark may be the death of him, he’s damn near sure it will be, “I'm here to say goodbye to all of you.

And he begins to play to the cheering crowd, a final show before he changes the world.  V would cry out if she had the mouth to do it. Music shakes the venue, ‘Robert’ playing guitar and screaming lyrics into a mic, completely taking the show from Kerry. He channels his anger, his fury, into his music. Screams his rage into the mic. And it's a cacophony for the merc tucked in the back of his skull. She can feel her own stress and pain, but she also feels his energy, his love of this. Even through the anger, he knows that this is the place he belongs. 

This is hell, she thinks as he sings. The idea that every hell is tailored to an individual, everyone has their own personal idea of torment. This is her’s. She died and now she’s doomed to live in the head of some foul smelling rocker who plays nothing but music her sort of ex liked. Surrounded by loud sounds, foul smells, and no control. This is hell, her own special little hell. And she’ll be stuck here forever, for being an atheist or bi or a whore or a murderer… one of those did it. 

After an agonizing hour, the show closes down. More sweat is now clinging to her current vessel’s body and V mentally screams at him to take a shower, but no panicked thoughts seem to reach him. He’s completely unaware of her...presence… in his head. Sweat slick, ‘Robert’ puts away his axe and lights up a cigarette; smoke settles in his lungs, the cloying taste of tar sticking to his mouth. But there’s a relief in him, a tension leaving him, nicotine soothing him if only for a moment. 

Two women are settled down on the steps of the stage, in clinging tacky clothes. Groupies there to claw their way into the pants of anyone who’ll have them, entire fucking lives dedicated to riding the dick of someone more important than them.  Because playing fleshlight to a rockerboy is the closest they’ll ever get to making a difference in this world. 

“You're wastin' your lives, followin' us around like dogs.”

If she had hands she’d hit him. The women scowl at him, obviously taken back at the rockerboy talking down to them, like he hadn’t been thinking of fucking a girl just before the show. Like his eyes didn’t look over the curve of their asses and cleavage. If one of them asked he’d be inside of them in a moment, just has to make them feel like shit first. 

“What crawled up your ass?’

‘Robert’ sneers and rolls his eyes, walking past the stage. His fingers wrapping around the door handle, he was thinking about something he was going to do, toppling Arasaka. There’s a determination in his walk, a goal he’s marching off too, still hints of a soldier in his steadfast gait. The hell is he planning? How could some rockerboy take down a mega corp? There’s a faint but steady sound past the door, a whirring sound. 

“Johnny, wait up!”

He turns, answering to the name she hasn’t heard until now and it’s Kerry running towards him; chasing after him like he did all those years ago, when he followed ‘Robbie’ right to war. She’s not sure if it’s her or ‘Johnny’ remembering it. 

Kerry is older now than he was in the memories, though he looks younger than Johnny. A tall fluffy mullet of dark hair, a scraggly mustache, and a half finished sleeve of ink on his left arm. His hand wraps around Johnny’s wrist, pulling him the rocker closer. 

“Don't do this,” Kerry warns, “You can still change your mind.”

“Get over here man,” Johnny pulls Kerry in closer, a hand cupped to his friend’s face,“Fuck this band. Not your crowd, not your noise, do your own thing.’

They’re close enough to see the scar above Kerry’s lip and the freckles that dot his neck. Johnny taps his finger against Kerry’s chest as he brings his hand from the shorter man’s face. Kerry’s always cared more for the music than the message, more about fame than impact, Samurai more Johnny’s baby then his. But fears kept Kerry from chasing that solo dream as much as he wants, dipping his toes but never taking the chance to fully dive in. Kerry always needed a good kick in the ass to get where he needs to be, might be the last one Johnny can ever give him. 

“Bastard. Tsh… Gonna miss you something awful.”

There’s a softness in Kerry’s voice and smile, a fondness that only comes from lifelong friends. A soft warmth nestles in Johnny’s chest as well, for the first time she feels his lips pull into something she can almost call a smile. 

“See ya in the next life, friend.”

With that Johnny puffs on his cigarette and turns, leaving out the door, the whirring growing louder. The source of it shown; a helicopter landed outside the club, blades spinning and whipping up dust. A woman stands nearby, a wild teal mohawk, someone Johnny knows, fuzzy memories of a tumultuous past. 

“You're late,” she yells out over the sound of the chopper. Hands on her hips, eyes glaring at him. Always tries to play like she’s pissed, but never could resist him. 

“Love it when you're mad. Gets my southern blood pumpin',” he teases with a grin and V can feel the reality of his words, a throb in his dick behind his leather pants. And she doesn’t like that, her discomfort at feeling what it’s like to have a dick oddly mingling with his lust. 

“Get in. 'Fore I change my mind.”

Johnny makes his way to the helicopter, climbing inside, blades achingly loud. Two people already sit in the chopper. A man with chromed skin and fatigues, a woman fiddling with a computer. Her face is obscured by a helmet and visor, only black painted lips showing. 

“Silverhand,” the man greets him. 

Johnny...Silverhand… 

“Hey, Shaitan,” he greets as gears start to turn in V’s head, a head she no longer has. 

Johnny’s ex, Rogue, comes walking towards the helicopter as he turns back to the open doorway. Her name only known through Johnny’s thoughts skittering around her, but it sounds strangely familiar to V as well. Johnny extends a hand to help Rogue into the chopper, but she ignores him. Prideful bitch, he rolls his eyes. 

“Get us in the air,” Rogue yells to the unseen pilot, shoving a headset into Johnny’s hands, “here, put this on, and it stays on, got it?”

Johnny pulls it on and the helicopter starts to take off, the world falling further and further below them. The sign at the top of the club comes into view; The Hammer, Johnny taking another drag on his cigarette as Kerry steps out the back door. Silverhand flicks the out onto the cement as his friend watches the chopper fly off. 

As the helicopter flies through skyscrapers and towers, V struggles to take in where they are. Night City, but not. Towering buildings and screens blasting ads, par for the course in the city of broken dreams. But the ads are for products she hasn’t heard of or ones discontinued and no longer sold. The buildings look rougher, not quite the same slick clean look of the city she’s come to know. 

A city consumed by corps, a vile cesspit with ads as far as the eye can see, each desperate to wring out one last eddie from the masses. The entire system designed to crush people too apathetic to do a damn thing about it. Exploited, violated, used for a profit, and thrown out the second the corps get what they wanted. And the people just take it. No longer questioning why there’s no more farms, only land stripped for profits and nomads forced to abandon their homes. No longer questioning why real food is a rarity, why the priciest drink on the market is filth free water. No longer questioning why someone like saburo is pushing a hundred and the average Night City citizen won’t see forty. Corruption and apathy, best friends united to create the city of broken dreams. He’d burn it all down if he could, but truthfully can’t imagine himself anywhere else…

So… he’ll burn it all down, die for it if he must, and something better can be built in it’s ashes. 

A building in City Center holds a large holo-display showing the time and date; August 20, 2023… Fifty years in the past, the day Arasaka Tower was destroyed. And given his thoughts, she knows where Johnny is headed. That name, Johnny Silverhead, rattles through her. She’s heard it before, a few times. Half listened to conversations with Ava about music, where V would just nod and hope it earned her pity kiss. A name brought up by Jackie when discussing the tower being blown up, shots thrown back in… Rogue’s bar. The older woman with gray hair and the young adult with a wild teal mullet are one in the same. 

V is in the foul smelling, cigarette smoking body of a rockerboy turned wannabe terrorist on his way to set off a nuke that will kill over a quarter million people. 

“Piers're on fire. Pacifica's cut off, shut down. APCs on the streets of Watson,” Shaitan explains, stationed at the machine gun turret beside Johnny. 

“Sons of bitches.” 

“Skull-crackin' out there… that us?” A voice, the pilot maybe, asks over the headset. 

“Johnny's idea. Weyland's drawing Arasaka's attention away from the tower.”

“Collateral damage part of the plan, too?”

“This isn't the cub scouts, Thompson, Chew it up, spit it out,” Rogue tells him, no hint of fear or remorse in her voice as the chopper starts to come around a tower. 

A pillar of black metal with the Arasaka logo emblazoned at the top of it in silver. Levels of the tower get smaller towards the roof, from the distance there’s the bright red flash of holo warning signs forbidding entry. As they ascend higher and higher, the barrage of Arasaka soldiers and turrets atop the tower come into view. 

“Target range acquired.” 

“Make it rain,” Rogue commands and Shaitan begins shooting off the machine gun turret. 

Gunfire rings through the air, Arasaka soldiers yelling out as they fire back, automated turrets beginning to fire at Shaitan. The chopper stays rotating, hovering but never still, to avoid being shot out of the air as the chromed sniper works to clear the roof. Blood painting across the metal as Shaitan blasts through them. 

“Fuck!” 

Enemy fire, Arasaka fire, blasts through, Pinging against chrome and metal, practically sparking. A lucky shot, or three, ripping through Shaitan’s shoulder and he screams in pain, falling onto his back. Rogue yelling out as she kneels down to check on him, Shaitan convulsing in pain. 

“Taking over!”

Johnny takes over the machine gun, optics connecting with the turret sights. Arasaka soldiers flood the roof, nearly impossible to keep track of them; not even a moment passes before Johnny is firing off the gun. It's rapid and brutal, an onslaught as the reverberation of it shakes his body. But there is a hint of strategy beneath, taking out the automatic turrets first, blasting each one until they explode into shrapnel. Only when the final one is in sparks does he turn to the soldiers, Their sidearms can’t compare to the heavy fire. Blasted full of hole at rapid fire, blood and brains spraying. 

A body of corpses and shrapnel left across the roof. He pulls away from the gun, unzipping a duffle bag. A white constructed mechanism, wire, switches, and a giant nuclear energy warning across it. He’s about to plant a nuke in Arasaka. Fucking stop it, you idiot, all you do is cause more harm than good. She tries to scream inside his head, but nothing comes of it. The helicopter lowers down closer to the tower roof. 

“Murphy?” Rogue calls out. 

“Found our access point. Get moving.” 

“Johnny, remember the plan?” Rogue asks as Johnny zips the duffle bag and slings it over his shoulder. 

“Get the payload on the elevator,” he jumps from the helicopter, “arm it, let gravity do its thing. Explosion rocks the foundation, tower crumbles - chaos, screaming, roll credits.”

He pulls out a gun, a heavy duty pistol, Malorian Arms 3516, Last True Friend etched in it.He spins it between his silver fingers, flourishing and completely unneeded. It’s smartlink tech, synching with his cybernetic arm. And she can feel a sort of dampening of his feelings and emotions, that rage burning in his chest starting to simmer down, a colder more calculated anger taking over. 

Rogue and Murphy run ahead of him, across the roof, through the piles of bodies. Johnny follows behind them down a flight of stairs on the side of the building. 

“Exit window's gonna be tight,” Rogue tells him, brandishing her own side arm as she comes to wait by a door. 

“Jacking in,” Murphy connects a small computer into an interface, “Is grass green, do birds fly, do cats eat bats, do rats shit gnats?”

“Mainframe's not your playground, Murphy, c'mon. Evac announcement - broadcast it across all frequencies and let's get movin’.”

“Sheesh, who wrote this manifesto?”

“Really need me to answer that question?”

“Jesus, Johnny, you've gone of the deep end. And that's comin' from chairjock,” Murphy tells him, interface with a spider avatar drifting across the door, before it slides open. 

Johnny rushes through and down a flight of stairs as Arasaka guards running to meet him. He shoots the first in the head, point blank, brains splattering. The gun is powerful, devastating, sending a reverberation through Johnny’s silver arm. Enough that bone would have broken in the recoil. The guard no longer recognizable. 

The second guard stays further back, at the bottom of the second step. Johnny slams a trigger on the back of his gun, shooting flames out towards the guard. The man screams and staggers back, flesh burning as Johnny follows up with a shot through his chest. 

A third one follow, stumbling over burning remains, when three shots go through his skull, Rogue taking him down. The two continue down the spiraling stairs, stepping through blood and ash. The meet another guard at the end, who fires off his hand gun rapid fire. 

“Shred the whole fuckin' lot!”

The pair take cover behind the corner banister, Johnny reloading his gun with another twirl, before jumping back up. He shoots twice through the guards chest, watching the man fall in a bloody heap as they reach the end of the staircase. 

They go through a doorway and two more guards greet them, gun’s trained on the two edgerunners. 

“End him already! That’s an or-” 

The guard's yell is cut off by a bullet ripping through his shoulder, a second through his chest. His underling going down a mere moment later, with a headshot from Rogue; room cleared. Blood soaking into silver and marble floors. Johnny’s eyes focusing on the elevator across the room. 

“Murph?” Rogue calls out the netrunner’s name, her avatar showing on Johnny’s optics as she starts to hack the elevator. 

“She sought it with thimbles, she sought it with care, pursued it with forks and hope…” Poem finished, the elevator doors open.

“Johnny payload.” Rogue yells out, but Johnny’s already across the room, making his way to the elevator. He brings the bag down off his shoulder, placing it down, crouching,  and unzipping it. 

“Bushido II - bomb's name was what?” He asks, in a slow sly voice, entertaining at least himself if no one else. 

“Wrap it up, we gotta delta!”

“The ‘Demolitron’,” he sets the charges with a light hand, “we're good to blow.” 

He stands up and leaves the elevator, no hurry, only determination in him as he walks back towards Rogue. Like this is just a regular Thursday night. 

“'Saka elites incoming! Run for it!”

“Get the fuck out of there, Johnny,” Rogue yells as he steps away, “shoot the cables!” 

He does just that, blasting through the elevator cables, the carriage with the bomb dropping down through the lower levels. 

“Get the rotors spinning! We're on our way!” Rogue yells out to their pilot, but there’s something rattling around in Johnny’s chest. He’s got to save her.  It’s his only chance. 

“Not done yet still need to feed this to their subnet,” he waves a small handheld computer in the air. Rogue’s face twists and grimaces, infuriated. 

“I fucking knew it!” she swings her hand through the air, fingers clenched like she could strangle him, “This was never about "corporate colonialism" - this was about your groupie output wasn't it?!”

“Nah, you wouldn’t understand, Rogue.” 

“Givin' you four fuckin' minutes. Chopper's not gonna wait one sec longer.”

“Door lock breached. Arasaka sons-a-bitches incoming,” 

“Love you, Spider,” he jokes as he pushes through double doors, the woodwork of a lobby greeting him a moment before an armed guard can. 

“Whole world loves me.’

“Fuuuck!” He yells out, something between a frustration and excitement as he blasts a hole through a guard's chest. 

Johnny reloads before stepping out further, quickly having to pull back into the doorway for cover through the marble passageway. Two guards coming from a corridor on the left, a third from the right. The tower is made of rectangular balconies wrapping around, corners and curves to hide around. He fires around the corner at the guard on the left, taking a leg before a second shot takes their hide. 

A bullet whips past his head and he pulls back, guard coming to him, in front of the passageway. He slams his hand on the trigger, a plume of flames engulfing his enemy, before finishing them off with another shot. He rounds the corner and slams forwards into the third guard, knocking them off balance for a moment. Johnny swings his fist out, rings colliding against their jaw, they hit the ground. He fires a shot point blank into their head, continuing on his way. 

A staircase in the left of the room, across from the stone garden in the midst of the balonied section. He rushes up two sets of stairs, reloading along the way. It brings him to the upper level of the stacked balconies, a guard directly across the gap on the other side. The first shot Johnny fires splits the banister in front of the guard, the second shot rips through them. 

Three guards rush out from another room and Johnny pulls back, stepping down some steps, reloading. The movement forces the guards to come through the doorway, one at a time, letting him line up a shot that blasts through two at once, the third gagging as his friends' brains splatter and cling to his face. But he barely gets a moment to process before he’s dead too. 

Johnny runs up the stairs, stomping over corpses, as he goes around the corner. There’s a doorway that leads down to what looks to be a board room. One more guard down with a quick clean headshot, brains now sprayed across a vase of flowers on the table. He walks over them around the corner and towards a paneled wall. 

“Closing in on the access point,” he tells Murphy and the panel opens up, revealing a main frame. 

“Slot in.”

Johnny pulls out a little computer, stickers across the top of it. He flips it open and plugs it into the terminal. A little interface coming across his optics, Uploading Virus: Liberator.

“Sweet ICE-breaker,” the runner speaks up again, “Foreign, right? Just, wonder if we know anyone who can switch the subnet protocol…”

“Hilarious. You gonna help or not?”

“Do spiders spin webs? It's time we caught some flies.”

“Thanks, Murph.”

“Now, just for good measure…”Murphy trails off for just a moment, “Holy cybercow, we’re on TV! Take a look.”

A large TV mounted on the wall pings on, tuned to a news cast. Johnny shifts to the side to watch it. Brief clips of chaos flashing by in snapshots as the anchor talks over them. 

“And we turn now to Arasaka Tower, its evacuation ongoing after an unidentified terrorist organization released a manifesto threatening violence. The terrorists stating their desire to, quote-unquote, "topple a monument to corporate colonialism." Night City's mayor, Mbole Ebunike, has issued a statement declaring that he will bring the full force of the law to bear in response to any act of terrorism. Going now to our reporter on the scene at Arasaka Tower. Hopefully, he can shed some light on this situation as events unfold.”

People might finally wake up. There’s a swell of pride in Johnny’s chest, that this will finally send his message, finally change the world for the better. And V thinks of the rebuilt tower, now with remembrance monuments, but rebuilt and still standing proud fifty years later. The virus finishes uploading, Johnny unplugging his computer and tucking it back in his pocket. 

Took too long, but better than never. Stay safe, Alt. 

“All set. Now get outta there. They're movin' up! Hit the roof, quick!”

Johnny rushes through the board room and around the bends of the squared balcony, heading straight to the double doors on the other side. Just as he reaches it there’s a heavy blast, wood and metal shredding as Johnny is forced backwards. 

Pain shoots through his back as it collides with the floor, looking up where the door was blown through. A man stands in the destroyed remains of it. A tall man in heavily armored Arasaka garb, wielding a heavy duty shotgun. Cybernetic arms, a black cyberware jawed, and adornments of metal across his forehead. 

“Shit! That's Adam Smasher!”

Adam Smasher, the same borged out man protecting Yorinobu? He jumps down from the ledge, hitting the floor in front of Johnny with a heavy thud. He’s different than in 2077, more human, a healthy more flesh colored face behind the cyberware. Fuck, Johnny curses mentally and starts firing shots at Adam.  The devastation of his Malorian doing nothing as they fire into Adam’s cybernetic arms, the top of the line chrome holding up under each fire. 

“Johnny, run!”

He wants to fight, wants to teach Smasher a lesson the borged fucker won’t ever forget. Every fiber of his being screaming at him to stand and fight. But there’s a nuke on a timer, falling down to the depths of  the tower. There’s a helicopter getting ready to fly off. And while he doesn’t mind dying today, expects he just might, Rogue and Spider are waiting on him. He doesn’t need the last thing he hears to be their nagging… or for Rogue to make the chopper wait on him.  So, he swallows his pride, as foul as it tastes, and makes a run for it. 

Johnny pistol whips and shoots an Arasaka soldier on his way out the door, reaching the stairs back out to the roof. The door shuts behind him before any more soldiers can come after him. 

“Murphy!?” 

“Door's sealed, but it won't hold for long. Run, Johnny. Like the wind.”

He can see Rogue ahead of him running up the stairs. She should have been back in the chopper by now, she waited on Johnny. Rogue will bitch him out and nag until she’s blue in the face, but she’d never leave him behind.  Wrapped around his finger, no matter what he’s done. Johnny runs quickly up the stairs, to the roof, three steps behind Rogue as she jumps into the chopper, as it starts to lift off without him. 

“Johnny! Move!”

He jumps, grabbing Rogue’s outstretched arm, fingers wrapping tight around her forearm. Rogue tries to pull him inside to safety, when his fingers begin to slip. Something fires in the background a whistling noise, as his hand catches in Rouge’s, fingers twisting tightly together as she pulls. A boom rings out, hitting against the chopper with a spark and a shake, he slips right from Rogue’s grip, world going out from under him as she plummets back down to the tower roof. His back hits the metal with a crash, head bouncing against the cement, pain shooting through his body. Pain blurs his vision as the helicopter spins overhead, watching as the pilot regains control and they’re forced to fly off without the ill-fated rockerboy. 

Boots thunder against the floor around him, Smasher coming into view. Johnny’s silver arm shakes as he tries to reach for his gun, nerves on fire after the fall. Smasher throws down his heavy shot gun, kicking the gun away from Johnny’s fingers. 

“Smasher.” 

“Told ya, Johnny boy. Told you I'd end you someday,” Smasher all but snarls, a compartment in his cybernetic arm opening, Johnny’s staring down the barrel of the hidden weapon. 

Johnny holds his arm out, only for it to be shot, chrome sparking as it’s blasted. Vision going out as he passes out. It only feels like a moment, a blink and the world returns. 

The rattling of wheels against cement, strapped to a gurney. Bright and silver, a moon hangs high above the skyscrapers. Dirt and dust fly through the air, dancing around him like confetti. Faintly he hears sirens, hears screaming, hears cries. And when he shifts his head, to look further back, he can see the plumes of fire and smoke. 

“Yes, he’s still alive,” the Arasaka doctor wheeling him says, spoken in Japanese, but understood by Johnny...and by extension the merc tucked in the corner of his mind. Everything hurts, no other memory so sharp, so clear. Able to feel every bruise and cut, like she’s truly him. 

“Understood. We're en route,” the worker says above his head. 

And Johnny falls back into darkness again, unable to keep conscious, the sound of explosions and chaos erupting around him as he passes out. It’s impossible to know how long, black void blanketing it all, time losing its meaning and grip on them. 

It's a sharp slap across his face that wakes him back up, blood clinging to his lips. Blinking as he tries to take in his surroundings. He’s tied down to a chair, two guards standing before him. In a slick little room, a stretch of windows across the back wall, a bright mushroom cloud of destruction going off in the distance. Charge should have finished going off by now…

“Your associates - who are they? How did you acquire fissile material?” The guard questions him. 

“Gonna give good cop over there a chance to say something?  C'mooon…” Johnny sasses his interrogator, looking at the second quiet guard. 

Then the guard sucker punches him, knuckles slamming into Johnny’s gut with a sharp crushing pain. 

“Which terrorist organization do you belong to? How did you acquire fissile material?”

Another slap, backhanded and harsh against his face. His head forced to the side where he sees a man walking into the room; an older Japanese man, Saburo Arasaka. The corporate leader walks with his hands behind his back, a younger woman in all black following closely behind. 

“Old man don’t look too impressed with your efforts,” Johnny taunts. 

Saburo and the guards bow to each other, the old man speaking in Japanese, “leave us. I wish to look him in the eye.” 

“Hot damn,” Johnny rolls his eyes,  “done and gone.”

Saburo keeps his back turned to Johnny as the guards leave. The woman sets up a tech station by his chair. Her flingers click against a keyboard, looking at a screen before she finally speaks in a soft voice. 

“My husband died in that tower.” 

And Johnny’s stomach drops, pits with something akin to guilt. He can still see the burning clouds, the explosions in the distance through the window. Something went wrong, charges weren’t meant to be that strong. An evac announcement, charges just meant for the tower, a message. Not this. Casualties sure, everyone knew that was inevitable, but… 

“But there are fates worse than death,” the woman tells him, fixing a metal wreath over his head. Wires connecting it back to her computer system. 

“I… didn’t want him to die.” 

“Why did you do this?” Saburo asks in his native tongue. 

“To bring an end to the madness you wreak.”

“I have found that people lie, most often deceiving themselves. Not So the dead…”  

Saburo finally turns to face Silverhand walking closer, stalking closer. And Johnny spits at him, blood and saliva now sticking to Saburo’s face, red staining the wrinkled skin. There’s barely a twitch to the old man’s face as he wipes the spittle and blood from his face. Disgusted but not stopped. 

“Fuck you!” Johnny yells out for good measure, voice rough in his throat. 

“The dead are so very, very loud,” Saburo scowls, “And yet, lying is not in their nature. It is so… humbling - to listen to the dead speak… Begin.” 

The techie turns a switch and Johnny’s optics start to glitch, distort. Cyan fuzz piercing through the world as a UI screen appears. Soulkiller Primed: Commencing Engram Transfer. An crackle of electricity starts to course through him, a scream leaving him as his body convulses, Neurons cracking and frying as the world around his shakes, trembles, then finally cracks apart.

And V dies, not for the first time. 

Darkness overtakes him, near oblivion. Only the vaguest notion of existence, suspended in time and reality. In a cold black choking void. Enough awareness, just enough, to know fear. Overwhelming fear, terror, trapped under the thumb of Arasaka. Never knowing when, if, there’s an escape. Never knowing what can, will, or has happened. 

Time loses all meaning in digital purgatory. 

And then sunlight starts to breach through. A haze over his vision, like watching sunlight through fogged glass. He can see the sunlight but he can’t feel it, maybe it’s an Arasaka trick. Trying to convince him he’s free, that he’ll ever see the sun again, just to rip it away before he can ever feel it’s warmth on his skin. 

Then the view shifts, like someone turning their head, seeing the world through someone’s eyes. The sun beating down on a campsite, nomads, but their cuts and colors unlike any he’s seen. Not the Aldecaldos for sure, that much he knows. Might be some sort of experiment? Corps have never been above testing shit on people, nomads seen as less than human by most folks in the city, means they get away with it. 

Someone calls the name Aidan, a mother calling for her child, the girl...he’s seeing the world through That feeling that knowledge seeping into him. A tent with an older woman and a young girl, a mirror in the tent catches a reflection, showing him Aidan. A young sunburnt nomad child with dark hair and gray eyes Nearly identical to the other child he’d just seen. 

And in a blink, like a slide changing, the world changes again. Training sessions for the nomad kids. Taught to be strong. The kids made to fight each other, to spar, and losing meant going without food for the rest of the day if they were lucky. A beating if they were considered particularly pathetic. Some nights she won. Other nights watching other kids eat. The worst nights spent in a tent, mother rubbing salve on her injuries. 

She’s taught how to load a gun, repair an engine, and kill without shaking before she’s seen her seventh birthday. 

Members of the ‘family’ culled before everyone. Because they were sick. Because they were weak. Because they were a burden. They could drag the rest of the family down, The Herd must be culled so that they can stay strong. For the best of the family.

Gareth, an older man of the nomad family, gets sick. cancer running rampant in his body, treatment available but timely… expensive.  He’d sneak toasted marshmallows to Aidan on nights she’d be made to go without anything…. 

He begs to die on his feet rather than his knees like most cullings. 

His wish is denied. 

Aidan’s father forces a dying man to his knees, pressing a captive bolt pistol to the back of his skull and killing him in front of the family. For their own good. 

And one day, Aidan gets sick too. Johnny can’t feel it through her, through the snapshots, too disconnected. But he gets a rumbling of it through her. Body aching, head in agony, world constantly spinning enough to make her puke. 

She tells no one. Refuses to be the next one culled, no doubt her father’s rules apply to her. Her sister, the same age and near a picture perfect copy, frets over her as they go to pick through a landfill. Instructed to spend evenings in search of anything useful to the family, to earn their keep. A ringing in her ears, world spinning as the noise builds and builds until silence strikes and she drops to the ground. 

The world has gone silent. She wakes up in a med tent, but can hear nothing. A world of noises and chaos now silent. 

And a stone faced father comes barging in, he’s saying something, but she doesn’t know what.  Flinching in threadbare sheets, knowing the signs of his cold anger, but not what’s driving it, not how to fix it. Nails dig into her shoulder, dragged from the medical tent and out into the midst of the camp sigh. Vision blurred by tears. She yells out what’s happening, but can’t hear the words. 

But she knows the press of the barrel against her head, the touch of the captive bolt pistol, how they cull the herd. She was weak, defective, broken. Nomad family gathered around, watching her cry and scream, unable to hear herself.  Weak and pathetic before them all. 

Then a pair of hands grab her, save her, pull her away and into a hug. Her mother holds her tight, crying, screaming, then kissing the top of her daughter’s head. Whispering words she knows won’t reach her. Aidan is saved, she doesn’t know what’s said. What spared her life. But she’s allowed to live on. 

Her mother and sister learn ASL with her; the only two who never shun her, protecting her too much if anything. The implication clear whether in kindness or anger, she’s weak now. Defected. But her father expects her to work harder, to prove his mercy wasn’t a mistake. That this child earned her right to live. 

She earns hearing aids years later[ and cries when she first puts them in; the world is too loud, too painful. Aidan keeps them low and continues using ASL. 

A homeless teenage girl in a town they ransack; long dark hair and heavy makeup. Calls herself Avarice, they call her Ava. She tries to sign to Aidan and the young nomad girl is in love that easy, desperate for someone who cares enough to meet her even halfway. Despite it all, she begs Ava to join The Herd. Because maybe hell is more bearable when you’re in love. 

She’s dragged to the med tent one night, told she needs a checkup, no rhyme or reason. Knowing better than to fight her father when he’s barking orders. They sedate her, clan doctor holding her down and forcing her into unconsciousness. She awakes with a scar across her lower stomach. Sterilized. So, she’ll never pass along defective genes. 

The next snapshot doesn’t feel much longer after, older but not by much, a year maybe. When The Herd is swarmed by an rival nomad clan, one they’ve fucked over one time too many. Aidan trying to drive one of the cars to get her sister and mother away from the ambush. When a rival vehicle slams into them, a screech of tires, the gnash of metal. Eira and Aidan safe, but their mother is pinned between a caved-in door and the center console, bleeding where shrapnel pierces deep into her legs. 

Trapped until Aidan’s father and a group from the family find them, The three women pulled from a crushed vehicle, the mother the only one gravely injured. Aidan follows as she’s dragged to an emergency medical set up. 

Legs too damaged, it'd require a double amputation, prosthetics or cyberware. Easily doable. Nowhere near beyond saving if they’d act in time, take the time. But they never do, never truly will. Aidan begs for her mother’s life, like her mother did for her. For her father to have mercy just one more time. 

And the bolt pistol is put in her hands. She’s told to do it. To cull her mother, to be strong, to put the family above the individual. A test of her strength. 

She refuses, screams, and points the gun at him. And he mocks her tears, mocks the way her hands shake. He rips the pistol from her hands, she fights and pulls with him. But he’s over a foot taller, stronger, leaves her black and blue; crying on the ground with his boot on her back as he takes the gun and kills her mother. 

And once her mother’s body is burned to ash, she runs.

Years of traveling, towns across NUSA, some faces are kinder than others. Eira and Ava sent to track her down, to kill the traitor. 

Eventually she finds herself in Night City, but not the one Johnny knows. Newer, slicker, brighter. But the corruption and apathy remain, chrome even more common place than it was before. Folks more metal than flesh, every ripper doc with back alley tech. 

She meets a friend, Jackie, Johnny knows his name despite never hearing it. A big ‘tino fucker covered in gaudy gold chains who helps her settle in. Taken into his home. Merc work, scummy nothing jobs, merc janitors at best. Jackie pulls her into a tight hug, the nomad unsure of what to do as his arms wrap around her, face pressed into his chest. 

Then there’s a sharp pain, nerves and neurons firing off as everything is suddenly real. No haze or glass between him and her memories. Face tucked in against fabric, a chest, but there’s no warmth. No heartbeat. Arms wrapped tight around a body that’s cold and limp, one hurting like it’s been ripped open. They feel like his own, it feels like it’s his body. 

He can feel the movement of muscles, the beat of the body’s heart. How the face is twisted up with tears running wet and hot down the cheeks. It feels like him, but it's not. Smaller, thinner. 

No more ‘chicas’, ‘jainas’, or the odd ‘mija’. No more smiles that outshine the sun. No more nagging her to look on the bright side. No more bear hugs or hands the size of her head ruffling through her hair. No more Jackie….

Thoughts not his own swim around his head, the voice feminine. What the hell is Arasaka playing at? Playing someone else’s memories, trying to make him sit in the backseat of someone else's life? An experiment, they going to try to twist him, fuck with his head?

“Mr. Welles has passed. Where shall I take his remains?” An AI voice asks, in some tech cab with a bleached digital butler staring at her. 

He’s got to find a way out, there’s got to be a way? But how do you leave someone’s head? 

The body, her body, moves without his permission. Able to feel it like it’s his own and he can see just who’s corpse she was clinging to. Jackie… The same guy who took her in, now dead in the back of a cab. There’s a pit in her stomach, a tightness in her chest; he can feel her pain… 

He’s both separate and intrinsically connected, his thoughts and feelings distinct enough, but her own still overwhelming. 

”W-what?” She says...what was her name Aidan, Brayden, Hayden, some shit... Frat boy name on a nomad brat. 

She stumbles over her words, sounds like she barely knows how to talk, might be the blubbering. Fuck if he knows or cares. Her grief, while he can feel it around him, surrounding him from where he sits in her head, is her own. He’s got bigger worries, bigger fish to fry. Former nomad, now a merc, but that doesn’t meant she can’t be with Arasaka. Corps hire mercs, use nomads as scapegoats, all sorts of shit. She could be in on whatever the fuck this is. 

He’s just got to figure out what exactly the fuck this is, what Arasaka’s plan is. A way to get intel from him? Prodding at memories by seeing if someone else’s sparks something?

“The Excelsior package provides for the disposal of passenger remains free of charge. I merely require a destination.”

“I…he-he’d want to be with his family.”

“Mr. Welles' closest blood relative is Guadalupe Alejandra Welles, proprietress of the El Coyote Cojo bar. I will make sure to deliver him safely. Mr. DeShawn awaits you in room number two-oh-four. ” 

Her hands are stained with blood, her forearm has a gash down it. He can see the traces of Mantis Blades, one ripped out. Something happened, flashes of dangling off an Arasaka branded hotel, holding her friend up. Red everywhere, fighting Arasaka guards. Doesn’t mean she didn’t work with them, how else would they somehow plant him in her head, in her memories. 

She squeezes her friend’s shoulders and presses her forehead to his, feeling the cold of his corpse. 

“See ya in the major leagues, Jack…”

She gets out of the back of the cab, she’s dressed like a corpo, he realizes when her eyesight catches her body. White blouse, stained red with blood, black slacks. Rain is pouring down on her, as she walks through a dirty alley. She doesn’t seem to notice Johnny’s existence, his presence in her head. Everything he thinks, tries to scream without a mouth, doesn’t earn him a response. 

Then again, if she is with Arasaka, might be told to ignore him. He’d be pulling his hair out if he had a body, if he existed beyond some former tarmac rat’s mind. She walks through a door into a filthy excuse for a motel, the No-Tell. There's chatter around them and he catches the rambling of a tv, something about Saburo Arasaka. But she doesn’t stay to linger, doesn’t let him fully hear it. Something about the old fucker’s life. 

But she’s at the door of a hotel room before he can hear much, bloodied knuckles knocking against the door. 

“It's V,” She says, knocking again when there’s no answer. V? Since when is she V? Where the fuck did she get V from? 

The door opens and a guy comes out, giant fucker around a foot or so taller than her, so was her newly departed friend. Which begs the question, how tall is she?

God, he’s stuck in the skull of some munchkin merc, isn’t he? 

Everyone, everything is… bigger. A hand on her shoulder, nearly the size of her head stops her from stepping forward. And he hates it, someone putting hands on him, controlling him so easily, he tries to force her hands to punch the ugly fucker. But it doesn’t happen, hands clenched at her side. How the hell does she fight anyone like this anyway, she’s half the height of everyone she meets. 

“He waiting.” 

V, Aidan; whatever dumb fuck name she has is allowed into the motel room. A man inside, puffing away on a cigar, watching the news. He can feel her worry swelling inside of her as she clears her throat, the man doesn’t look Arasaka. But the little runt of a merc has to be attached to them somehow. He’s not one to give Arasaka too much credit, be none if he had his way, but they’re not dumb enough to put his engram in any klepto punk’s head. 

Arasaka uploaded his engram, scorching him with Soukiller, he remembers that. Mikoshi is where they store them, digital souls tucked away, where they got the tech to play with the human mind. If she made it there, they had to have trusted her. 

“WNS… N54… Even the pirate networks… You blowin' up everywhere! And the Jackster? He out in the car?” 

“He’s...dead.” Having to say it, having to hear it from her own lips. Stuck in the whiny mind of an Arasaka asslicker, wonderful. 

“Condolences friend and the relic?”

The relic? Arasaka’s ultimate project, what they needed Soulkiller before. There’s always been a constant murmur about it, Arasaka looking to commodify the human soul. Must have finally rolled it out after they fried him. 

“Here,” she explains by tapping her chipslot, is that how he’s here? 

“Hmm, I was afraid of that…” 

“What?!”

But the relic, they advertised it like imaginary friends, or some shit. If he was on that, she’d be able to see and hear him right? Unless Arasaka fucked up… 

“Saburo Arasaka,” the man, Dex, paces, “Dead…?! You got any notion of the shit you pulled me into?! You offed the fuckin' emperor! His majesty! Anyone with so much as a pinky toe dipped in this mess is as good as dead!”

Saburo’s dead, old sack of shit finally kicked it… and Johnny’s in the killer’s head. Memories, her’s, creep up. Ones he didn’t get in the brief glitches of memories before. Saburo’s body, dead limp and collapsed on a hotel floor. Ripping the dogtags from his bruised neck. Means Johnny won’t get the satisfaction of offing the bastard himself.  

“I didn’t kill Saburo! I- I-”

She stumbles and trips over every word; can she act like she didn’t fuck up any of this? Like she has no role in Jackie and Bug’s deaths… He’d gag on her feelings if he could, a blubbering child, those memories may be a mystery to him right now. But he buys it, if he couldn’t manage to kill Saburo, he doubts some miserable little half pint could, chick can barely get a sentence out. Which means he very well may still be tripping around in the neurons of some shitty nomad turned bootlicker. 

"No shit?l Tell that to the ‘Saka ninjas they send after you!”

“We...we got to leave Night City.”

“You don’t say.” 

“Call Parker, we close the deal, collect our eddies, and go off the radar.” 

“A’ight, settle down, Gotta be tactical about this. Parker, eddies, then we leave the city limits behind. But first… Your face… got blood all over it. Bathroom's there. Go get yourself cleaned up.”

She nods and makes her, their, way to the bathroom. Dex is going to trick her, pull some shit, Johnny can see it a mile away. Chick’s outnumbered, outstrength, if they think she’s a risk and Dex made it clear he does, he’ll drop her. But she doesn’t see it, walking into the bathroom and settling at the sink. The mirror lights up, showing her face, giving him the first good look at her since those foggy memories of childhood. 

He sees traces of that kid; gray eyes and her face is soft. Young, delicate, but with a heavy layer of blood coating iit. 

Her blood and Jackie’s.

He can taste the bile in her throat, as if his own, can feel the burn of it and the churn of her gut as she pukes into the sink. It's not the first time he’s ended up with the taste of someone elses puke in his mouth, though it’s her mouth, he supposes. She pushes her bleached blonde hair off her face as she retches, streaking blood through it. 

If she would have refused the job. 

If she had gotten them up the ladder. 

If she had been stronger. 

If she had been stealthier.

If she had gotten them through the lobby quicker. 

If she could have convinced Delamain to get him to a doc.

If she knew better first aid. 

He tries to shut it out, the knots in her guts, the ache in her chest. Her thoughts spinning around her head and what feels like his. Surrounded by the feelings of another, he can’t fucking live like this, there’s got to be a way out. 

She washes the blood from her hands and face; Jackie wanted this for her, one of the only people who ever wanted anything good for her. If only for him, she owes it to him to finish this job.

Can she fucking hear him? He tries to mentally scream at her, he’s going to find a way out of this, if he has to claw his way out of her damn head! Slamming him in the head of some grieving merc, that Saburo’s idea of a sick final joke? Making him feel someone else’s pain meant to make him talk? Meant to give everything away? If hell exists, Saburo better be burning or Johnny will set the son of a bitch on fire himself. 

Nothing works, nothing seems to draw her attention. Johnny thinking to a void as she leaves the bathroom. 

She’s punched clean in the head as soon as she steps out the door, to the surprise of no one but her, the rattling of her skull and shock of pain hitting Johnny like it’s his own head. The merc is knocked to the floor and a boot kicks into her gut for good measure. Her head stomped on, beaten to the ground like all five feet of her is a truly dangerous threat. 

“Can’t risk it, V,” Dex levels a pistol with her temple as she writhes on the ground, “‘Member our first convo?”

“I’ll fucking kill you!”

“Seems I've chosen the quiet life, after all. No blaze o' glory for me.”

And Dex pulls the trigger, a bang in the dirty motel room as he fires a shot into the merc’s head. Agony and terror, gagging on blood, darkness, cold, and fear… then nothing. 

And Johnny dies, not for the first time. 

Death relived, but through the eyes of another. The bullet hits. Soulkiller scorches. And the world around the two rewrites at the moment of their second deaths. Reconstructs and digitizes. A liminal space within the net. Structures like the squared mazes of balconies and stairs within Arasaka Tower of 2023. 

But everything made up of digital matter, pixels of color collected loosely to form the shapes against a black backdrop. Nearly everything a shade of blue, but hints of red bleeding through. 

Nothing moves or feels like reality, floatier, less certain. And it all moves, pixels twitching, it all shifts, all seems… alive. 

That where V finds herself, dying again but through Johnny, an echo of the pain from his torture still seeming to stick to her. But when she looks down, it’s her, but not. Like the world around her she knows seems to be constructed of these pixels, data, a bright red hue to her But it all forms to be her. Her arms, her painted nails, her freckles, her scars. They move with her permission, no one else’s. 

But what is happening? 

The biochip, maybe? But it’s meant to show someone like an imaginary friend, not put you in their lives, then send you to the net. At least she thinks this is the net, remembering descriptions Bug had given her. And by all intents and purposes, she should be dead. 

Data around her shakes, reverberates, brightens and stretches across the hall around her. There’s a thrum to it all, that she can hear, no physical limitation in the net… Then it stops only to reveal something new. A flash of bright red, standing out in a sea of blue data. It forms the shape of a person, composed of red data and negative space, their back to her as they lean forward on the banister. 

V signs from instinct, but finds no translator, forcing her to speak, “Hey!” 

She rushes towards the figure, they don’t answer her call, maybe they know what’s happening? But as she gets close, they push off the banister and turn. Their figure blurs as they move away from her, but she sees a closer glimpse. 

It’s a man, not as tall as Jackie, but still over a foot taller than her. Shoulder length dark hair and what looks to be the outline of sunglasses on his digital form. Even in the strange form, she recognizes him. The man’s who’s death she just lived, moment after her own. Johnny Silverhand. He blips away as he turns. 

The flash of red, his form, now further away, on the stairs of the lobby. 

“Hey, sir!” she calls out again, trying to sound vaguely polite as she rushes towards the stairs, he has to know what’s going on. He stands from the stairs and blips away just as she reaches them. 

She runs up that first set of steps seeing his form sitting on the second, “Johnny!” 

And he’s gone as soon as she reaches him, like they’re playing some sort of game, does he not hear her? She knows damn well he’s not deaf, if she can hear in this place, he should be able to. She reaches the top of the stairs, reaching another balcony railing, him around the corner on the adjacent side of the square floor. His back is to the banister, hands on it. Paying her no mind. 

“Robert!” She yells his full first name, remembering seeing it scrawled in chicken scratch across an enlistment form. But she turns the corner and he’s gone. 

But when she turns her head she sees his back again, down a narrow passageway made of more negative space than blue data. She walks across the negative space, hands skimming the data that forms it’s walls, each step taking her closer to him. She heard three different names, unsure of which may earn her an answer. 

“Robbie! Robert!”

Neither name spurs a reaction, he doesn’t turn, doesn’t speak. Only stands at the end of hall, shifting in pace,  as she continues her way to him. And she stops when she’s within arm’s reach, he hasn’t blipped away, hasn’t ran off.  Able to see fully now, the red data particles that form a bullet proof vest, the cyberware left arm. V reaches out and taps a finger against his shoulder. 

“Johnny?” 

He turns to face her and she doesn’t know if she should feel relieved, or terrified. 

“And you? Who are you?” 

Her answer catches in her throat, mouth half open when it hits. White hot blinding pain ripping through every nerve, head and world shattering as she screams. Like she’s been torn open, every part of her stripped raw and set on fire. Everything vanishes from her sight as she cries out. 

V’s contact UI blips, blurry as data fills it, system reboot. Her senses return to her, slowly and steadily as systems reload. The arm her blade was ripped from burns, open nerves exposed to the air. Her head feels shattered, aching as if it’s been broken apart. There’s a stench of trash and filth around her. There’s a weight on top of her, heavy, firm, crushing down onto her lungs. The warmth and stick mess of blood clings to everything. Caked across her skull, down her neck, her arm. 

The diagnostics flicker away, but her vision still struggles. A cyan fuzz clings around and distorts it all. Her depth of field is cut off, half her vision seemingly gone. Not aided by the fact that it’s dark, looking around she can see trash thrown atop her. a cold sheet of metal lays on top of her. Metal and plastic of discarded goods lay beneath and around her, jabbing uncomfortably into her flesh. 

A landfill, if she were to wager a guess, Dex tossed her out like trash. How is she not dead? How hasn’t she bled out?

She doesn’t know the answer, but she knows if she doesn’t do something, she’ll die anyway. Favoring her left arm, the right still damaged, she pushes up on the sheet of metal. Muscles scream in protest, pain shooting through them as she forces herself to put her weight into it. And she rolls it off of her and she can breathe a little easier, move a little better. A bit more light allowed on her. But she still can’t see very well, like her right eye is closed. 

Tempting fate, she presses her hand to it, sees nothing, when she closes her left. The world goes black. She touches the lid, feeling the blood that mats her eyelashes, she pries her eyelid open with her fingers. Nothing. Down a blade and an eye, she needs to move. Vik can fix those, he can fix this. 

She shoves a TV off of her legs, twists up s to see the sky. Silver and orange light color the world, moonlight and fire, plumes of dark smoke coming from somewhere she’s in some sort of pit or ravine within the landfill, a wall of dirt and trash around her. An upward climb to save herself. 

V forces her body to move even as it aches and screams in pain, forces her shredded arm to grip even as she can see the tendons twitching through the mangled remains of it. She forces blood soaked fingernails to dig into dirt and grip abandoned pizza boxes for traction, slips her aching feet in between wires and appliances for foot holds.

“Fuck!” she screams out loud, but can’t hear it, as she loses her traction and starts to slip. She extends her left blade, sinking it into the wall of muck and trash. Her right arm stings, throbs, begs to release a tool it no longer has. 

She uses her blade to help pulls herself, dragging herself up and up with every sink of it into the muck. V’s thankful she’s lost her hearing aids in the process, hell maybe Dex stole them back to recoup some losses, but it means she can’t hear her own curses, her own groans of pain, her own rattling breaths with bruised lungs

And she reaches the surface. Rusted remains of god knows what surrounds her and a trashcan fire burns not far away, but she’s out of the pit. She pulls her feet under her and she tries to stand, body shaking, swaying, trembling with blood loss and pain. 

But for a moment, she rises.

She stands, looking out across the landfill of trash, cyan fuzz still glitching around her,  and for a moment...maybe she’s okay. Maybe she can walk out of this, find Vik, maybe she can be okay. 

V collapses with the next step, body all at once going out from under her, mocking her hope. Mocking her moment of stupid fucking hope as her back meets the mud. It mingles with blood, collides with her gore, and sticks to her open wounds. She lays there in muck, just breathing, her lungs ache with the strength needed just to do that. Each one feels fainter than the last. Her eyes start to close, feel too heavy, her right one might very well already be shut… she wouldn’t know. A mangled mess of who she once was, now laying in filth, surrounded by trash. 

Maybe she’ll not move again… maybe this is a fitting end. A childhood of scavenging landfills, thrown in a dumpster her first night in the city, and dying in a landfill; maybe the world has been trying to tell her something all along. She’d never have to face Mama Welles, Misty, or Vik; never have to tell them she failed Jackie. Maybe she’ll just let all go, never even have time to grieve, maybe it’s best to just let it all go… 

“Wake the fuck up, Samurai. We got a city to burn.” 

A rasp of a voice rings out and she gasps, opening her eyes. A man kneeled over her, one she knows well, but he’s no longer digitized and she’s not looking through his eyes. Silver fingers pull his aviators off of his face, dark brown eyes scrutinizing her. His form isn’t solid, glitches like old vhs footage. 

But...

She heard him. 

[smilebouquet]

somewhere to go, someone to love

my secret santa gift (@ducktalessecretsanta2020) for @kvanderquack!! i’m sorry for tagging again after i already sent my gift via dm-

also on ao3!!

––––––––––

For as long as Lena lived (all fifteen years), she’d always been alone. She was born alone on the heights of Mount Vesuvius, from the remnants of her Aunt Magica’s shadow. She travelled to Duckburg alone, with no one to keep her company other than the voices in her head and the harsh whispering of her shadow. She bore the brunt of Magica’s lashings and whining alone, hurt and angry and bitter.

A happy family felt like such a foreign concept to her. Magica was always her one and only kin, the only person who had a connection to her. And she hated every second of it. If having just one aunt was so exhausting, imagine having two aunts. Imagine three. Criticizing your every move. Yelling at you for screwing up. Demanding nothing but obedience and respect and returning none of it. 

Lena didn’t think she would be able to take it. Family just didn’t sound like something she’d like.

That’s what she thought, anyway, until the Sabrewings took her in.

––––––––––

1.

Lena can’t sleep.

Or to be exact, she can’t sleep peacefully. Ever since she came back to the land of the living, she’s been having dreams. Dreams where she found herself running from her. Into the woods, where the screeching of bats rang in the air, and the ground was muddy and made each consecutive step heavy. Or within a mansion suspiciously similar to Scrooge’s, her voice bouncing off the walls and getting closer and closer until they were literally screaming into her ears. She could do nothing but run.

She never dared to look back, but Lena always managed to glimpse her in the corner of her eye. The swish of a velvety black cape. A gloved hand, reaching out to snatch her. A flash of purple magic. 

Lena always manages to wake up before Magica could grab her and do god-knows-what. She would always be grateful for the fact that she awoke easily. But every dream ended in To Be Continued — never The End — and Lena didn’t want to know what The End would look like, because she has the sinking feeling that it won’t be a Happily Ever After.

Tonight is no different. She’s staring up at the ceiling of Violet’s room, letting the muffled snores of her roommate fill the still air. It’s getting increasingly hard to stay awake, and she isn’t sure how much longer she can take it.

Sighing, she rolls out of bed and leaves the room, making sure the door creaked as quietly as possible and that it clicked shut. She heads down the stairs and into the living room. A bookshelf stands in the corner, filled with all sorts of books from encyclopedias to photography books.

Lena instinctively grabs a cookbook (and accidentally knocks off a few more, but she’ll deal with them later) from the second topmost shelf. Yellow sticky notes jut out of the pages, all written on with dark purple ink. Walking into the kitchen adjacent, she flicks on the light, then flips the book open. Vanilla Cake, reads the title in big bold letters, followed by the exact quantity of ingredients needed and the instructions on how to bake one.

This should keep her up until tomorrow.

"...Lena? Shouldn't you be in bed?"

She freezes. Ty is standing at the door, a wooden baseball bat loosely held in his grip. He chucks it aside and steps into the kitchen.

"Hey." She waves half-heartedly with a sheepish smile. "I, uh, couldn't sleep."

"And you're in the kitchen with a cookbook, why?"

Because Aunt Magica haunts my dreams every night and I don’t wanna deal with it anymore?

“...I wanted to do something nice for my friends for once, so I thought baking a cake for our sleepover would be neat?”

Ty’s gaze flickers between Lena and the clock currently showing 12:59. He pinches the area between his eyes. “Lena, it’s late. I think you should go to bed—”

“No!” He flinches. Lena’s eyes widen. “I mean— no, I can’t go to bed until I finish this cake!” she backtracks, her voice cracking. Her heart is pounding. She can't go to sleep, she can't...! “If you help me, I’ll go to bed sooner! Maybe!”

Ty scratches the back of his head. “Well, Indy’s the dad who bakes, not me... but I suppose I can try.”

Relief washes over her. She flashes him a tired smile, handing him a bowl and some measuring cups. “Thanks.”

––––––––––

2.

“We’re back!” 

Indy looks up from the couch. “Welcome back. How was your sleepover?”

“Pleasant,” Violet replies, already halfway up the stairs. “Ate some cake. Played a video game. Saved Lena from getting dragged into a mirror and possibly losing her within a lucid dream to the witch responsible for the shadow war several months ago. The usual.”

“Sounds nice,” Indy remarks. Then did a double take. “Wait, what?”

Ty laughs, following after Violet. “It’s a long story. Took the whole car ride for them to finish telling it.” Indy glares after him, but shrugs and returns to his book.

Lena drops her own bag on the floor and flops onto the couch with a heavy sigh. She could shower or whatever later. Right now she just wanted to rest.

“Long day?” Indy asks, barely moving from his position on the right side of the couch.

“Kinda. I’ve been through worse, though.”

There's a beat of silence.

The unspoken Like what? hangs over her head uncomfortably. Is this the part where she spills her entire life story? Should she play it off as a joke? Would it be wise to pretend she hadn’t said anything? She can feel Indy’s stare on her shoulder, burning like a pair of red-hot lasers—

He either noticed her discomfort, or is really good at reading minds, because he hums quietly and says, “You don’t have to elaborate.”

“...Ah. Right. Okay.” She sits upright, then lets out a short laugh. Her eyes wander over to Indy, who’s still reading his book with a content look on his face. “What is that?”

Indy shows her the book. There’s a bunch of pictures of Violet, Ty and Indy together. “It’s one of the family photo albums,” he explains. “Photography is one of my hobbies.”

Lena grunts in response, then peers at the photos more closely. “Is that Violet in the library?”

“Oh, that’s from the first time we visited the public library together. We had just moved into Duckburg, and wanted to do a little sightseeing. Violet insisted that we check out the library. That girl always did love reading. She gets it from Ty…”

They spend the rest of the hour looking through the photo album together. There’s a surprising amount of photos in this one tiny album, each preserving a special memory that Indy knows by heart and tells Lena about with nothing but fondness. She now knows that Violet used to take ballet classes (and hated it), has won at least two national spelling bees by the age of six, and is part of the Junior Woodchucks.

Photos from before Violet was born are also in it, located near the end of the album. Indy tells Lena that he first met Ty at a college entrance exam. They had entered the building at the same time, and Ty thought it would be neat to strike a conversation with him. They hit it off pretty much immediately, but forgot to ask for each other’s phone numbers before they went their separate ways.

“But you’re married now?!” Lena blurts out, jumping from the cough to point a shaky finger at him. “How?!”

He chuckles. “We met again at a supermarket several months later, I believe, reaching for the same can of beans. Ty’s first words to me ever since were ‘Holy shit, you like beans, too?!’ This time we remembered to exchange contact information, and here we are ten years later.”

“I— Wow.” Lena sits back down. “Some luck you have.”

“I wouldn’t call it luck,” he admits. His fingers gently caressing the old photo of them. “I like to think of it as fate. If we’re meant to be together, life will find a way to get us together.”

(Lena thinks about Webby.

She thinks about their “chance” meeting at the amphitheater.

She thinks about how she almost lost Webby by sacrificing herself to protect her.

She thinks about how lucky she had been that Violet was there in the library that day, reading a nerdy old book.

She inwardly decides that Indy is probably right.)

Once they reach the end of the album, Indy moves to close it. The corners of several photographs stick out from the side. Lena blinks.

“And those are?”

He looks down. “Oh.” Tucking them back in, he replies, “Those are some of the newer photographs. Haven’t gotten a new album for them yet, so I keep them here for the time being.” His fingers drum on the hard cover. “Come to think of it, I don't have any pictures with you yet. We’ll need to remedy that.”

“Hm, why?”

“You’re family, after all. I think you deserve a spot in the photo album.”

Family. She’s family. The thought of it makes her heart flutter.

It takes her a minute to realize Indy stopped talking, and is looking at her with the slightest hint of hesitation in his expression.

She beams at him. “That would be nice. You should get a new album first, though.” As if on cue, a photograph falls out. She picks up. “Hey, what about this one?” Indy lights up, and starts going into a tangent about the one time they lost Violet at Duckburg’s largest department store. As he does, she zones out for a bit, testing the name.

‘Lena Sabrewing’, huh…  She can feel her smile widening.  Sounds way cooler than Lena de Spell.

––––––––––

3.

This is terrible, Lena concludes.

They’re on the way to the Junior Woodchuck Campgrounds for Violet’s upcoming graduation. She’s a little hazy on the details, but she does know that each year only one senior junior woodchuck can become a senior woodchuck (“That’s dumb! Why can’t you all just become senior woodchucks?!” “Don’t question it, Lena.”), they decide who graduates with some sort of obstacle course, and Violet’s opponent this year is likely going to be Huey.

Lena also knows that the campgrounds are located waaaay out on some island in the middle of nowhere, and if she sees another “NOW LEAVING DUCKBURG” sign she’s going to lose it. She lets out a groan as she slides farther down her seat, watching the pine trees blur into a strip of green on the landscape. “Hey, Vi, how much longer ‘til we’re there?”

No answer.

“Vi?”

Again, no answer. Lena knows that Violet has a tendency to be quiet during car rides, preferring to admire the scenery as they drive, but Violet should’ve at least spared her a grunt at this point.

She decides to turn and look at her. Violet is staring at her lap, perfectly still. Her fists are clenched so tightly she can see the white knuckles beneath her purple feathers, and they’re trembling.

“Vi, what’s wrong...?” Lena begins to ask, and then immediately Indy’s voice from before echoes in her head.

“Third time’s the charm, right Vi?”

The gears click into place. Oh.

She inches closer to Violet’s side — as much as she can with her seatbelt on, anyway — and reaches out to place a comforting hand over Violet’s. The hummingbird looks up.

“Hey,” Lena says, “you’ll be okay. You’re the best nerd I’ve ever know. What’s Huey got, his stupid guidebook? You’ve got this.”

“Actually, the Junior Woodchuck Wilderness Challenge prohibits use of the guidebook,” Violet corrects, then sighs. “Sorry. I know you’re trying to comfort me, but I…” She trails off. “I know failing is natural, but it still terrifies me every single time.”

Silence.

Indy, from the passenger seat, pipes up, “Violet, you know that just being willing to go back and try again is… really brave, right? Yeah, failure is inevitable, and very terrifying, but not a lot of people are able to bounce back from it like you do.”

“What Indy said.” Ty peers at them from the rearview mirror and gives them a thumbs up. “We love you no matter what, and I bet you’re gonna crush the competition this year.”

“Yeah! What they said! You’re Violet Sabrewing. You brought me back from the Shadow Realm. If you can do that, you can do anything!”

Violet stares at her for a moment, then Indy, then Ty. Her eyes are glassy. She opens her fist to hold Lena’s hand and squeezes it weakly.

“Thanks,” she whispers, with a smile that doesn’t exactly reach her eyes.

...At least she’s smiling a little. Lena frowns, but gets an idea. She leans forward to ask Ty, “By the way, how long until we get there?”

“Five hours, I think,” Indy answers.

“FIVE HOURS?!” She can feel a vein pop in her head. Five hours. Five. Hours. It feels like she’s been in this stinkin’ car for decades already. Well, no matter.

She turns to Violet. “Alright, since we’re basically stuck here, why don’t I teach you how to smacktalk?”

Violet raises an eyebrow, clearly unamused. “Is that really necessary? Also, I doubt Hubert would appreciate—”

“Of course it is! And of course he won’t. You can’t have a healthy rivalry without a little back and forth! Where’s the fun in that?! Now, the key to good smacktalk is...”

She spends the rest of the ride lecturing Violet on the essentials of smacktalk (read: making most of it up as she went). As they drove, Violet’s shoulders began to relax and she allowed herself to laugh more, and Lena felt more at ease than she had in a while.

––––––––––

4.

Lena wakes up with a gasp. Frantically, she feels around. Her arms are intact. Her legs are still here. Nothing hurts. Phantom Blot isn’t here. Okay. It was just a dream. Just a dream. Just a dream.

“Lena?”

“Vi?” Lena calls, but it sounds more like a choked sob. She’s suddenly acutely aware of the tears messing up her feathers and her pounding heart.

Violet sits up. “Another nightmare?” she asks, her voice quiet. Lena nods. She gets up from bed and leaves the room. Lena sits in the darkness, her hands gripping her knees tightly. Breathe in, breathe out.

Violet returns with a tall glass of water and hands it to her. Lena takes it and brings the glass to her beak. The water is cool and soothing.

“They’ve become increasingly frequent. Shouldn’t we talk to our fathers about this?”

“No,” Lena says immediately, finishing her glass and setting it on the night table with shaky hands. “I don’t want them to get worried.” 

Violet gives her a glare that pierces even in the dark, then sighs.

“Very well.”

✿ — ✿ — ✿

On Christmas Day, Lena wakes up to Violet dumping a bucket of cold water over her.

“Merry Christmas.”

“Ack—! Violet, what the hell?!”

“Apologies,” Violet says, her tone betraying her words. She’s already dressed in a plain cream turtleneck. “You wouldn’t wake up no matter what I did.” She tugs at her sleeve. “Now, come. Fathers are already in the living room. You were literally the last to awaken.” Without waiting for a response, she drags her out of the room and down the stairs.

The living room feels… warmer than usual. There are string lights, giving out a gentle multicoloured glow, both around the Christmas Tree and hung up along the walls. Someone took the time to hang a wreath on every door in the house, each covered in mini ornaments and topped with a red bow. The bright orange fire in the fireplace is crackling.

Ty and Indy are already waiting, wearing matching Christmas sweaters. “Merry Christmas!” they greet, pulling the two girls into a hug. 

“Merry Christmas,” Lena says back before pulling away. The cheeriness of the season was beginning to catch up to her. “So! What do we do first?”

“Well, the presents are under the tree but maybe eat breakfast first—”

Lena was gone the moment Ty said ‘presents’. She rushes to the tree and begins checking the tags for her name. Not that there are that many presents to check. Violet follows soon after with a much calmer demeanor.

She ends up with a limited edition of The FeatherWeights’ newest album from Ty and Indy (“How did you know they’re my favourite band?!” “Your shirt is all we needed to clue us in.”) and an exact replica of the Caw-nverse shoes she loves wearing. Violet receives two books — an encyclopedia the thickness of one and a half dictionaries about magic and a thinner book called Tales of the Peculiar.

She’s ready to head off to the dining table to eat when Violet stops her. 

“Wait.” She pulls out a neatly wrapped present from her pocket and holds it out to Lena. “Here.”

“Wh— But I didn’t get you anything!”

“It’s okay.” Violet shoves the present into her hands. “Just take it.” Lena peers at her suspiciously before tearing the wrapping paper clean off and opening the box.

A dreamcatcher. The hoop used is a nice beige, and a flower-like design had been woven within it with colourful threads. White feathers suspended from twine, with beads adorning the strands at intervals, are attached to the hoop. Lena dangles the dreamcatcher above the box and looks at Violet questioningly.

“It may not be as beneficial as actual therapy since I couldn’t infuse it with any magic, but it should help keep the bad dreams at bay,” Violet explains. “Probably. I made it myself so it might not work.”

Lena stares at the dreamcatcher again. Upon closer inspection, the feathers and beads appear to be glued to the twine, and the twine was wound imperfectly around the base of the hoop. The flower design is also uneven, having slightly larger ‘petals’ on one side. She feels herself tear up. “Violet. This is the sweetest thing you’ve ever done for me.”

“I can’t believe saving you from roaming in the shadow realm for all of eternity isn’t the sweetest thing I've ever done for you,” Violet replies, completely deadpan. But the corners of her beak are twitching upwards.

“You wanted to summon evil spirits! I was a byproduct. It doesn’t count,” Lena jokes, putting the dreamcatcher away. She envelopes her in a crushing hug. “Thank you.” Her voice is wobbling. “This is just— It must’ve taken ages. Now I feel even worse for not getting you anything.”

Violet hugs her back just as tightly. “You’re welcome. Just make sure you get me my own personal library next year.”

As if your room isn’t filled with enough books as is, Lena thinks, but she can’t help but laugh.

Ty clears his throat. “This is great, but it’s already nine and you girls haven’t even had breakfast yet, so chop chop! We’ve got a whole day ahead of us.”

(They end up at the ice rink, where Lena learns that she’s actually terrible at ice skating. Violet offers to teach her like the Samaritan she is, but doesn’t hesitate to throw jabs at her incompetence. Fortunately, she’s not the only one who’s suffering, if Indy’s screaming and Ty’s guffawing are any indications.)

––––––––––

In the first fifteen years of her life, Lena had been alone with no one to turn to. Being part of a happy family felt like something out of a movie or fairy tale. Happiness seemed like an unreachable dream.

But within two years, she found a best friend in Webby, a sister in Violet, and two dads in Ty and Indy. She found a family to call her own, one that loved her and made her feel good about herself. She was finally content.

The dreamcatcher and family photo hanging above her bed would need to be pried from her cold, dead hands.

[kyidyl]

Kyidyl Explains Bones Part 5

(These are under the KyidylBones tag.)

How to dig up dead people.

So, in my Kyidyl Does Archaeology series I talked a bunch about how digging up places was different than digging up people.  And you don’t have to read that to understand this, but it might be a little easier for you because I’m not going to re-address the same basics I covered there.  

Ethical Stuff: So is digging up dead people ethical? I mean, I think so if strict rules are followed, but honestly the POVs here are as different as people themselves are.  Some cultures routinely dig up their own dead and do all kinds of things with the remains.  I wish they wouldn’t but, hey, that’s just me.  I respect that their culture and choices aren’t the ones I’d make.  It’s part of being an anthropologist of any flavor.  And, like that one post implies, there really isn’t much of a different between grave robbing and archaeology.  The biggest difference is the care we take, the respect we try our best to show, and the purposes to which we put the remains.  However, there is a difference between exhumation and archaeology.  General rule of thumb: if there’s someone living still that would have first-hand experience of them or if they still exist strongly in cultural memory, it’s exhumation. There’s no hard and fast number of years where it moves from exhumation to archaeology.  Sometimes it’s the context that makes the difference.  For example, Richard the 3rd’s bones were excavated from that carpark.  If they were removed from where they were reinterred, then they’d be exhumed.  But the TL;DR of it is that digging up people is incredibly ethically complex and you have to do your best to be respectful.  If you aren’t the type of person who can really put yourself in someone else’s shoes and be ok with respecting the desires of a specific culture regarding their own dead...then archaeology is not the right area for you, and that goes double for bioarch.  These people had lives and were loved and valued by those around them, and you need to be sensitive.  

The legality of digging up human remains also varies wildly from country to country.  In the US, we adhere to NAGPRA.  If you want a primer on what NAGPRA is and how it works, you can check out this post that I made.  

Also a quick reminder that we don’t name the individuals.  They had names and you don’t get to give them a new one.  

Beyond this cut there be pictures of human remains.  

How do you know where to dig? Sometimes, honestly....we don’t.  We’re just making educated guesses based on migration patterns and known settlements and research into local history.  Generally, if there’s a group of people who lived somewhere, they also did something with their dead.  So if you have a settlement, you’ll probably find bodies in it or near it at some point.  Sometimes people find remains and are like “uuuuuhhhhh....” and we come and dig ‘em up.  This is especially true on private property.  Farmers are notorious for this.  Construction, too, obviously.  Sometimes we look in caves, because very old caves have lots of dirt on the floors and a lot of times if it’s a good cave there’ll be bones in it.  Sometimes people threw their dead in bogs and now we have stuff that isn’t skeletons but is really old.  

(Source)

That is a whole ass human dude.  He’s around 2000 years old.  You can still see his facial hair.  

So there’s a lot of science behind how and why different environments preserve bodies differently, and I couldn’t possibly get into the detail of that here, but it’s definitely a factor we consider.  A swamp in Florida isn’t a good place to expect to find remains, you know? General rule of thumb is: more water = less body, unless there water isn’t standard water (it’s very alkaline, very acidic, or very frozen.).  Dry, cold landscapes like the Andes are great for preserving bodies.  

So what you find when you go looking is going to vary wildly depending on the environment.  My personal experience, though, is in graveyards.  Graveyards are an easy thing to dig because it’s not uncommon to just like...know where one was.  But graveyards aren’t the orderly things you’d expect them to be, not even modern graveyards.  People bury their loved ones on top of other people, graves intersect, and sometimes people would sneak bodies into the consecrated part of the graveyard when the priests/monks/etc. said they couldn’t be buried there.  So you can have bodies mixed with other bodies or under other bodies or just like random parts of people that were dug up, someone said “oops”, and then they were re-buried in a different spot.  So when we dig a graveyard, we keep complex records of where all of the remains were found, including in-depth drawings.  This is one way in which it’s similar to digging up a settlement.  It’s...pretty much the only way in which it’s similar.  Because part of the reason we do this is so we don’t mix up peoples’ body parts.  Graveyards aren’t what you expect - when I was digging in one we thought we’d gotten most of the bodies out so we were using a mattock to make sure and the site director missed cracking the skull of an intact child by about a centimeter.  Luckily the swing tore up a little bit of dirt and exposed it, but if it hadn’t? The next swing would have gone right through and inflicted heavy damage.  So you have to be careful even in a graveyard.  

Another thing about graves is that it doesn’t take long for the wood of a coffin to decay, so when you dig them up you will often just find the body and sometimes some nails.  The nails are good, because they show you the outline of where you can expect to find parts of the same individual.  This is one of the ways we show respect - we do everything in our power to NOT mix up the remains of different individuals and to separate them when we can.  

Let me sidebar here for a minute to explain.  See, your bones fit together.  I don’t meant “ah yes, everyone’s shin bone connects to their thigh bone”.  No, I mean that those bones have grown together in the same space for YEARS and they fit exactly.  They have the same texture and thickness, they go together like puzzle pieces....at the spots where the bones touch.  Or, as we say, articulate with each other.  See, if I were to take, say, my cuboid and try to trade it with someone else’s, it wouldn’t articulate right.  But something big like a tibia and femur will not be as easy to piece back together.  That, and we don’t always have complete bodies.  So we have something called “MNI” meaning “Minimum Number of Individuals”, and the maximum.  So...three left femurs mean at least three people.  Four right humeruses mean at least four people, so the minimum is 4.  However! We don’t know if any of those left femurs or right humeruses belonged to the same person because they don’t articulate with each other.  So the maximum is seven people.  We have between 4 and 7 people in that set of remains.  This becomes really important when you’re dealing with intersecting graves, mass graves, etc.  Any time the remains are what we call comingled (mixed).  This is what we’re really meticulous when recording where we found a given bone or set of bones.  

Ok, back to the main thing.  So...how DO we dig up dead people, anyway? It’s generally done in three stages: 

Exposing - This is where we dig down just enough to cleanly expose what we believe to be the margins of the grave.  We dig to the edges of the grave, not to a set square size like you would with a settlement. This is where we dig really cleanly, expose any grave goods, take pictures, etc.  And it looks like this: 

(Source.  Was super frustrating searching for this bc I have several of these pics on my phone of the graves we dug and can’t use them for privacy/ethical reasons.) 

Pedestaling/Cleaning - This is when we dig down around the skeleton and the grave goods, and then we start digging under the bones in preparation for the last stage.  This is time consuming, detailed work.  When I was doing this with the child we found, I used a mini trowel the size of my thumbnail and a dental pick.  It’s *especially* important with juveniles because their bones aren’t fused and those unfused pieces are *tiny*.  They literally look like clods of dirt.  Most archs - rightfully - can’t stomach the idea of throwing pieces of a human body into the spoil heap, so we’re as careful as we can be.  This part, when done right, takes days.  It’s a difficult thing to get a picture of, but this one is close: 

(Source)

The tags aren’t something I was taught needed to be done, but I can see why someone would.  They’re basically just grave goods and features of the grave.  They’ll be used to make a map of what’s what later on when the writeup is being done.  

Lifting - We never just pull a bone out of the ground because it damages them.  So we dig around them until they’re ready to come out on their own (and in the case of a large set of broken bones like you see above in that person’s skull, we’d just take the whole pile - dirt and all - for processing in the lab later.  And no, it’s not normal to have the skull glued back together.  We don’t glue remains together.).  If one piece comes out before the others, it is bagged and tagged.  We try not to have them come out separately, but it’s better to do that then to lose one.  When we’ve cleared all the dirt out, we “lift” the skeleton, IE, remove it from the grave.  If I included a pic of this it would just be an empty grave. :P 

We make sure to take all of the grave goods and any soil samples with us, all carefully labeled.  Fun fact about soil samples BTW.  The soil around the bones and especially in the abdominal cavity can retain molecular traces and bacterial from the flesh that tell us about their gut flora and diet or about any parasites they had (parasites were super common back in the day.).  It’s....really cool.  So a sometimes, if we suspect that there might be money for that kind of analysis, we’ll take soil samples of the gut region.  

We are...well, we’re very ritualistic about all of this.  It is, of course, for scientific rigour.  But part of it is that we’re systematically dismantling these peoples’ final resting places.  They had lives and loves and spiritual beliefs that we are disturbing.  This is sacred ground for so many cultures.  So it always feels a bit like we’re doing these things in a specific way to show respect to the resting dead.  That’s why in my 4 types of anthropologists post awhile back I said that archs are chaotic outside the pit but anal inside it. We want to learn from the dead, and it all feels a bit ritualistic if I’m being honest.  And there’s this juxtaposition of digging in the dirt, in the chaos of earth and time, in a very structured, clean, orderly way.  

Aaaannnyway I think that’s it for this installment.  Ask box is open, I check comments and tags and whatnot.  Tomorrow I think I’m gonna do age determination.  How old were they when they died? Hmmmmm... 

[noocturnalchild]

Of Thieves and Poets

Warning : Mention of abuse, light depiction of wounds, hurt

Well, that was a hard chapter to write, mainly cause I’m still strugling with my English, and sometimes, ideas are here but I find no words to describe them as I want to !

Many thanks to a great friend who’s always been there to beta read my fics and correct the MANY language mistakes I’m still making,it’s a shame that I can’t tag her here !

Sara maybe you’ll never read this but I LOVE YOU ( this is me talking to myself lol)

Also many thanks to all who are sharing and liking my fics, I love you guys, you are the best !

All the poetry in this chapter is William Carlos Williams’ ! 

Chapter one here ! 

Chapter 2 

* 

Give me something to eat! Let me take you to the hospital, I said and after you are well you can do as you please. She smiled, Yes you do what you please first then I can do what I please

“Who’s she?”

The day Laura died, he wrote his most accomplished poem. It rested between her cold fingers, folded in a small sheet of damp paper and he briefly wondered if the dead could read. Heavy rain washed the sleepy city that day, and everyone said that they’d never seen so many white peonies in the same place before. He buried all his other poem books with her, tucked between her curls and the black and white satin.

He never made a copy.

Paterson didn’t write love poems anymore. But never were his fingers as ink stained, bruised and abused by so many hours spent writing as they were now, and never was his desk inundated by so many notebooks. They piled up in complete disorder, competing with books and tools, making the old wood squeak uncomfortably.

“Who’s she”

Only now he saw her fiddling with the framed photo he kept on his living room table, so that it was always the first thing he saw as he woke up.

“Wife?”

Paterson didn’t answer.

Mina had her back turned to him. She couldn’t see the man’s eyes watering, or the frown of his brows, nor could she feel his struggle with his breath, repressing the tides of anguish that menaced to crash on him again.

“Gorgeous, dude! bet she gives great head” She turned to look at him over her shoulder, winked suggestively.

Beaming and smug at the same time, Mina looked like one who’s sure just dropped something so smart and funny, completely oblivious of the hands clutching on the cold marble of the kitchen counter. White knuckles, white pain…

“No complaints.“

Paterson’s reply of choice. Life was going on for everybody, for him too. Doc got a TV in his bar after all. Marie went to New York and Everett to LA. And he was still a bus driver, eating cereals every morning, writing in his yellow pages and sitting on the wet benches of Paterson’s waterfalls, so why would he complain?

“Go and freshen up, bathroom first door to the left”

“You’re no fun” She stuck out her tongue and left. Paterson couldn’t be mad.

Laura was laughing, straddling the arm of the sofa and eyeing him with mischief in her eyes. He couldn’t help but smile.

“Won’t ya help me with my clothes?”

“I can’t do much with a broken wrist”

“It hurts”

(…)

“Dude, come on, so prudish!”

Laura had a hand on her mouth now, in mock shock, her eyes were still laughing, and Paterson was confused, a pretty blush rising to his cheeks. He remembered now that the only clothes he had that might fit Mina were Laura’s, and even those were big for the bony creature waiting for his help in his bathroom.

“Hold… hold on a second”

Paterson drew in a shaky breath, fetched one of his sleep shirts from his bed drawers, strode to open the bathroom door and… oh God.

A trembling dry leaf stood before him. Only in her white crop top and equally white panties; Paterson imagined her cracking under the passers-by’s soles, giving in under their rough stumpings, each one leaving a stain on her weak frame. Paterson’s eyes descended to her bare thighs, and she kept her eyes on the floor.

“Jesus… Who… who did this to you?”

Her thighs were a hideous map, little red and yellowish scabbed dots and circles on tarnished, discolored skin.

She shrugged, eyes avoiding his. Why would he care, why was he so insistent, why couldn’t he just be like the others, why won’t he try something with her, on her, like she deserves… she would let him, this one, she would.

“Just help me with my top” a wobbly voice replied, but Paterson was already looking for something in his medicine cabinet.

“Sit on the stool there” His hands were shaking as he put the ointment and the bandages on the side and proceeded to wet a washcloth.

“Can… I?” He kneeled, and their eyes met. She kept silent and nodded and he thought the sparkle in her eyes was gratitude.

With infinite gentle touches, Paterson washed her thighs and legs, dried them carefully, applied the ointment and wrapped them in clean bandages.

Laura was watching in reverence. The scene exuded something religious; the saint washing the sinner’s faults. And none spoke a word.

Afterwards, Mina laid in white clean sheets, but for all the comfort she had, she couldn’t sleep the few hours separating the night from dawn. She counted the hours, watching the bus driver as he slept peaceful and soft; not so far from her spot on the sofa.

The domestic rituals, the warm clothes, the vanilla soap smell lingering, the nice buzzing of the fridge in a quiet space, and the dim light he kept on just for her… His… his kindness coiled her like sticky ropes. Mina was suffocating.

She got up, slid in her dirty jeans, but kept his shirt on, and with a final brush of his hair, she took his watch and slipped out of the quiet house, and the monsters took her in their arms again.

***

Recycled air and synthetic notes, shopping carts rolling and low, lustful giggles.

With his favorite brand of cereal in hand, Paterson’s food shopping was almost done for the day. He was just strolling, verses starting to form in the fog of his mind as he saw two forms melting in each other, just against one of the snack vending machines. A smile began to tug on his lips. Life was simple, young lovers making out in malls and supermarkets, in the streets and gardens; the boy handsy, in baggy jeans and a loose jumper, fake golden chains around black collar, the girl…the girl.

Paterson’s mind went blank, and verses fled away like frightened pigeons.

“Oi man, whatcha lookin’ at!”

The guy addressed a dazed Paterson, and the girl turned her head from off her lover’s chest.

In all the scenarios she imagined at night, curled up in the corners of the streets and between the brushwood of the parks , meeting him again while in the arms of another man was never on the list. It shouldn’t be like that, it wasn’t supposed to be like that. He shouldn’t think that she… but what was she anyway? She was everything he might think of her now.

He was so beautiful she wanted to bury her pain in his chest, between the threads of his regal hair. Curl all the hurt in a bundle and he would take it, in his large warm palm. He would know how to make it disappear, like by magic, vanish in thin air. With a touch of his finger pads, he could wash away scars; wipe away the purples and the blues and the burns. He was so clean she feared to touch him. He was so wholesome and she felt so queasy, so sickening she wanted to puke. Her hand skimmed the hidden pocket in her rat nibbled jean vest; the watch was still there, burning a hole in its worn fabric. She didn’t pass it on to Ian. It earned her new cigarette burns and a slap that made her nose bleed a little, but she had survived worse treatments.

“Who’s that, you know that guy? You do boring now?”

Carlos giggled, showcasing many missed teeth. He pinched her sides playfully, slapped her cheek playfully, squeezed her tits playfully, and she wished to die.

“Yo dude, wanna suck my dick? Ow no? Maybe a threesome? My chick here gives amazing head”

Oh, that again.

“See, not interested”

Carlos giggles sounded like gallows bells.

“I’m not your chick, for fuck’s sake!”

Mina screamed in frustration, pushed a stunned Carlos away, wriggled free from his sloppy hold, hand reaching out for salvation.

“I’m… I’m sorry!”

What she meant to be loud and clear, came out as a choked whisper.

But Paterson was already turning his back to her. This time he didn’t wait for her, not even a hum or a discarding hand, his long silhouette drawing away, swallowed by the light.

Life was going on, no complaints.

***

Mina was out, really out.

Even when she told him she wouldn’t play “pretend” with him anymore, Carlos still hung around for some time, and the money she could get from him she saved with scrutiny, starving herself to death. She never came back to the “pack”; her steps always took her to the quiet small house at the end of the stairs. She lurked there, watching when the lights went on, and stayed hunched behind shrubs and bushes, clutching the watch to her heart, listening to their combined tic tic tic… the mechanics soothed her, and she slept there every night.

Whatever happens, never sell the watch.

She started doing windshield scrubbing too, helped some nice grocery shop owners with their crates for some dollars, and by the end of the month she could buy a dozen cigarette packs and tissue boxes to sell in the streets. She was always hungry, but at least she could picture him in the back of her mind smiling, not disappointed in her anymore. He might not know, for now, but the thought was comforting. The thought was like a pier, supporting the bridge she was building towards him and she was sure she would reach him again, one day.

***

Sun benches at the curb bespeak another season, truncated poplars that having served for shade served also later for the fire.

It was Saturday morning. The rainy clouds of the day before blew over for a shiny crystal sun to come out. Excitement and expectations wired the air with buzzing electricity around Hinchliff Stadium. Kids and teens, middle aged and old people formed noisy groups, stomping on empty chips bags and placing bets.

Mina thought herself lucky when she laid hands on second hand baseball game tickets. Her wrist completely healed now, she roamed the area around the stadium, surfed the crowd, hands full, voice rusty from a cold she was nursing, over exploited vocal chords, yelling, trying to convince hurried passers-by to buy, by means of jokes and charms.

That’s when she saw him.

“Fuckin’ Carlos” a livid Mina stumbled a few steps backward, eyes seeking a gap between the crowds, quickly calculating her way out.

Fuck!

She could recognize Ian’s red sneakers anywhere. She thanked the heavens for his poor cover-up skills, giving her the high ground for a moment. She knew he could see her, but she took her chance. One group blocked his vision for a moment, and Mina took off her oversized leather jacket, let her hair down and started to walk slowly in the opposite direction.

She mentally counted to ten, chewing furiously on an overused gum, her hands started sweating. She knew that if caught this time, it wouldn’t just be cigarette burns on her thighs.

So Mina ran.

She ran aimlessly, not looking back, eyes closed and breath shagged. She could feel the adrenaline rush shot through her bones, just like every time she plunged her skillful hands inside the pockets of an oblivious passer-by, but this time there would be no euphoria of the gain waiting at the end of the road, just a sliced head.

Five minutes of sprinting and she couldn’t take it anymore, were her lungs that damaged? Fuck you Carlos, couldn’t keep his trap shut! Fuck! She was losing speed, she could hear Ian’s red sneakers batting the asphalt, tap tap tap, just behind. It was common belief that, at moments like these, the film of your whole life would flash back before your eyes, that the spool of all your wrongs would unfurl the threads that would wind around your legs and throat, choke you to death, drag you to hell. But Mina only saw two amber gems, Mina saw warmth and large, strong arms wrapping her in endless depths of comfort, and she felt peace descend upon her, Mina saw the future so she ran faster, and this time, with one destination in mind.

[marmolady]

Growing Pains: Part Two

PART ONE    PART THREE

Main Pairings: Estela x MC/Taylor (f)

Summary: Post-ending. For Liv and her mothers, Taylor and Estela, a turbulent period of transition is afoot. Set primarily in the distant future of 2033.

This was only going to be a two-parter, but this installment got so long-winded I split it. So, you can look forward to Part Three soon-- and art for the second and third parts as well. 

Word Count: 5636

WARNINGS: Mentions of transphobia.

More Liv fics here: Livita, Teething Problems,  Milestones and Memories, Mutual Comfort,  All That Matters

Reviews and reblogs are hugely appreciated!

Tagging: @brightpinkpeppercorn, @mrsmontoya, @saivilo, @edgydepressedchoicesthot, @sceptilemasterr, @quinnkellys-wife, @greengroove​

San Trobida, 2006

The scratch of her pen on the notebook was not enough to keep the voices in the room next from reaching Estela’s ears, even muffled as they were. She’d pause to concentrate; math wasn’t her strong point, it tended to require a lot of hard thinking, and she’d catch a few more snippets of conversations she knew very well she had no business hearing. Whether she was supposed to or not, she always kept an ear out for her tio’s voice, or his name being mentioned. How could anyone expect her not to? Of course she’d want a heads up if something was planned that would take him away for days at a time. Sometimes the people who left on these missions didn’t come back. Tio Nicolas had a very important job to do, and it made Estela proud, but she was forever holding her breath, waiting to hear whether her uncle would be on the front lines or safe at home. All strategy talk soared straight over her head, but she knew what it meant when Nicolas was called to action.

Then came the voice that Estela had been waiting to hear. Immediately, she scrambled to put her things together, ready, so ready to go home.

The door creaked open, and her mother was standing there.

“Estelita, I’m so sorry I’m late,” she said, a little breathless, as though she’d been rushing to get to the secret house. There was no doubt in Estela’s mind that she had been. “I had some important things to sort out with my manager. No doubt it will be worth it, but I hate leaving you here.”

Estela jumped up, already set to go, and gave Olivia a one-armed hug. “That’s okay. I managed to get most of it finished without help.”

With a sigh, Olivia kissed her daughter’s head. “We’ll finish it off together tomorrow, I promise. But for now, I think we could both do with just putting our feet up. Come on. Let’s get you out of here.”

Having slipped through the hallway quietly enough to not disturb anything important, the pair drove off into the night. It had to be getting on for nine by now. Dinner had been a slapped-together rush, as it always was when Nicolas had to go out in the evenings. Estela knew her mother would’ve taken a break for something to eat at work, but probably when they got home, they’d share some cocadas and hot chocolate. As per tradition. Estela noted the clear agitation in her mother’s demeanour; it seemed that Olivia could really use cocadas and hot chocolate tonight.

“Are you okay, Mami?”

Olivia grimaced. “I really don’t like you being at those meetings. I know you’re in a separate room, but a kid your age shouldn’t be exposed to-- it’s just not right. The fact that I let it happen at all, I-- I’m sorry, mija.”

“You don’t have to be sorry. I’m fine.”

“Fine isn’t good enough. You deserve better than that.” Olivia looked to her daughter with the fondest of smiles, though guilt shadowed her features. “It took a bit of negotiation, but I’m changing around my shifts at work. I’ll be going in for five--”

“In the morning?”

“It won’t be for a few weeks yet, unfortunately. But this will work better for all of us. I’ll be finishing when I’d usually be having lunch, leaving my afternoon free to do your lessons. Early mornings mean nothing to me if I get to be with you.”

Then Estela was smiling back. “It’s gonna be like every day is half a Mom day off. I’ve missed hanging out with you; it gets kinda lonely.” It wasn’t Tio Nicolas’ fault. The work he had to do was important; it would change San Trobida forever. Spending quality time with the tag-along ten-year-old couldn’t be a priority.

“I know. And I’ve really missed you too. I feel as though you’re growing so much, and it’s passing me by. Now, we’re going to be a team. Together, you and me are gonna kick elementary school in its ass.”

Estela burst out giggling. Unlike Nicolas, her mother only brought out the unsavoury language on special occasions. So… she was stressed but… feeling optimistic? That things were going to get better?

“I think Tio taught me some moves for that.”

Olivia rolled her eyes with an affectionate scoff. “I’ll bet he has.”

______________________

USA, 2033

Estela lay in bed with her eyes closed, though expectation of getting back to sleep had long since passed. There was little point anyway, Liv would be up at the crack of dawn, as she always was before the reunion trip. For the time being, there was nothing to distract Estela from her thoughts, just the gentle sound of Taylor breathing beside her.

Drowning in thought seemed to just be Estela’s state of existence these days. Liv needed her to come through, to magic up way to ease her through the turbulent period of preadolescence. It had been a heavy burden on Taylor as well, and it was all Estela could do to try and relieve it-- it certainly seemed to her as though Taylor could well be suffering from post-partum depression, and what she didn’t need was any guilt. In the end, Liv had handled the baby Michael situation like a champ; she’d given him a cuddle on his first day in the world, but then was happy to return to something close to normal. In her own loneliness, she’d been the snuggly little rock that Taylor had so needed. Estela had done her best, of course, but it was hard to shake the feeling that she just couldn’t do enough for either of them.

That was going to change. That year, when they went to their reunion on La Huerta, they wouldn’t be coming back. Between herself and Taylor, there had been so much back and forth about how best to get Liv through the next couple of years to high school, but in the end, they’d kept coming back to home-schooling. Liv needed a break from the social stresses of being shut up with dozens of pre-teen kids all day. Taylor needed to reconnect with herself as a mother. And she, Estela, wanted to hang onto her little girl, to hold her tight and make the most of what should be the best years of their lives; after all, you could never know just how precious those years would become.

Taylor rolled over with a muffled groan, her face registering surprise as Estela’s eyes flickered open.

“Hey,” she said. “Given up on getting back to sleep?”

From the sound of Taylor’s voice, she too had been wide awake and lying there in silent thought for some time herself.

“Mmm… the same as you, I’m guessing.” Estela reached and stroked a stray hair from Taylor’s face. “How are you feeling?”

“I… well, tired.” Taylor chuckled darkly. “You know, the usual. But, on top of that… my stomach’s so full of butterflies I could throw up.” She leaned her face into Estela’s touch, seeking comfort, reassurance. It was a subtle movement, tiny, but there was no doubt that it had been read and understood, for in seconds, Taylor had been swept into a close and warm embrace. She squeezed back, hanging on as if for dear life.

“It’s weird…,” she choked out. “I never thought I’d feel like this before a reunion. I’m almost dreading it. Part of me just wants to see everyone-- but I’m terrified of what I’ll feel when I see Michael again.”

Estela pulled away just enough that she could press a kiss to Taylor’s forehead. “I’ve got you,” she whispered. What more did she even have to offer? She couldn’t make this easier. In the weeks since the birth, they’d kept their distance. Taylor hadn’t been up to anything more than the briefest of visits prior to Jake and Sean returning home with the baby. The step about to be taken was huge. This was a full week of close proximity, with emotions running wild all over the place. She kissed Taylor again, and again. “I’ve got you.”

“It’s just been so hard. I feel like I’ve just about clawed myself out of the slump, but what if I take one look at him and I crash all over again? I can’t run away from this-- I know that will only make it worse in my head.”

“The option is always there, okay? If we get to the airport and you can’t do it, taking care of yourself first isn’t running away.” At the look of protest she received, Estela added, “I know, I know that right now, we’re going with ‘plan A’. You’re going to get through this, mi amor. From the moment you step onto that plane, you’re gonna have the world’s best support network right there. So, whatever this brings up for you, whatever it is you need to feel, you can feel it and know we’re on your side.”

Taylor heaved a sigh. “This will be good for me. Of all the things I��ve had to face… this shouldn’t be so scary.”

“Well, we’re out of practice. Tell me the last time you had to face down a heavily armoured pack of mercenaries? Or a sea monster with control over the weather?”

The sigh became a snort of laughter. “True. It’s no damn wonder we’re going soft. I’m pretty sure the scariest thing I’ve had to deal with in the past ten years was that time I thought Liv had come home from school with headlice.”

Estela gave an exaggerated shudder. “Joder. Even the thought….”

Taylor giggled into her wife’s shoulder, and relaxed there, letting the tension flow from her body. “I love you,” she breathed.

“I love you too.”

For a little while, they held one another, then all too soon came the tell-tale thumping of kid footsteps.

“I swear she gets earlier every year,” Estela chuckled against Taylor’s temple. “When is she gonna turn into a teenager that we have to drag out of bed with a mechanical crane?”

“Ugh, I know.” Taylor couldn’t help but smile. Recently, she wasn’t sure how she’d have dragged herself out of bed each day if it hadn’t been for Liv. She sat up. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

____________________

Liv bounced her way down through to the departure lounge at Northbridge airport, leading her three cousins in a merry dance.

“Can you see them?” Immy cried out. Four-and-a-half, she was the slightly younger of Aleister and Grace’s twin girls.

“Immy, inside voice, please,” Grace urged, following behind the excitable children with a trolley.

Attempts at calming the horde were all for naught when they turned the corner to find Zahra and Craig waiting for them, their flight having come in some hours before.

“Eh, look who it is… all the l’il brats.”

“Chyeah, it is!”

Craig hoisted Liv into the air as she squealed.

“We were trying to keep them all calm, what with this being a public airport and all, so thanks for that.”

“Sorry, Mom,” Liv laughed. “I’ll save most of my jumping up and down and yelling for when we get there.”

“For the pool party!” Craig hissed under his breath.

Zahra was scowling. A friendly scowl, her friends knew by now, but a scowl nonetheless. “Have I ever told you people how stupid it is that we all drag our asses back to Northbridge each year rather than just fly to Costa Rica from wherever the hell we are? No?”

Taylor pulled Zahra into a crushing embrace. “It’s tradition! Just like my great, big Reunion Zahra Hug! One of only, what?-- three-- scheduled Zahra Hugs I get each year!”

When she managed to extricate herself from Taylor’s embrace, an then another one from Liv, Zahra’s attention was caught by young Immy, who appeared to be twisting herself up like a pretzel next to the walkway out to the Jake’s plane.

“Uh, you all right there, pipsqueak?” Zahra asked, just about managing not to smirk at the exaggerated runner’s stance the small girl had taken up.

“I’m getting on the plane first,” Immy proclaimed. “That baby’s gonna be up the front, so I won’t be. And Reggie says you’re more likely to survive a crash up the back. I’m not dumb!”

“Ha. No, you are not. Saving seats up the back for your parents, or can we join you? Between you and me, the pilot’s a walking disaster.”

“Hmm.” Immy stood up straight and looked Zahra and Craig over. “If you’re smart enough to come to the no-baby, no-dying seats, you can sit with me. Mommy and Daddy know about natural selection; they’ll understand.”

Craig’s mouth fell open. “Ice cold.”

Zahra sniggered appreciatively. “Craig,” she said, as Immy returned to doing stretches beside the walkway. “If anything happens to Aleister and Grace, we’re keeping this one. Kid’s going places.”

A short distance away, Taylor was oblivious to any jostling for positions on Jake’s supposed ‘death-trap’. Sean had come around the corner, grinning broadly and pushing a small pram. The world seemed to slow. Taylor knew Jake was calling out a greeting, but she couldn’t make out a word.

Sean approached, and greeted Taylor with warmth enough that it roused her from her anxious stupor. “Taylor, hi. It’s so good to see you again-- come here!”

She’d needed that hug. She buried her face in Sean’s chest and exhaled. It’s okay. It’s okay. “It’s so good to see you too.”

“Aaand, here’s L’il Captain Cranky.” Jake the pram closer. “Looks like you caught him in a good mood. Must be a special occasion.”

Taylor felt her heart skip a beat. Her mouth was suddenly dry. There he was. Tucked up in the pram, swaddled into a cozy bundle… fuzzy hair surrounding his calm face. She felt Estela’s hand on her shoulder, a quiet gesture of support. But maybe… maybe she was okay?

“Hey there, little man!” she purred, reaching to stroke a chubby cheek. “I can’t believe how much he’s grown already. Nice work, Top Gun.”

“Aw, shucks. I do my best. Haven’t got him flying a plane yet, but we’ve got time. You wanna hold, Princess?”

“If I won’t disturb him?”

“Nah, course not. If anything, it’ll get him more settled before the plane. Believe me, y’all are gonna want to pray this good mood lasts.”

“Hello….” Taylor’s voice shook with emotion. For so long, she’d feared this moment. Having that little baby in her arms for the first time since leaving the hospital. The distance had been for everyone’s benefit; certainly she wasn’t emotionally ready for a good while after the birth. This was okay, though. This was just her being cuddly Auntie Taylor. She was looking at that baby and was just damn proud that she’d been able to give her friends such a precious gift. When she looked at at Michael’s fathers, she was grinning from ear to ear. They were so happy. “Guys, he’s just… amazing. And I can’t wait to see his two daddies in action.”

“What, you’re flying all the way to La Huerta just to watch the competitive diaper changing?”

“Can I give him a pat?” Liv piped up, peering over her mother’s arms at Michael.

“He’s not a dog, weirdo,” Reggie teased.

Liv brushed off her cousin’s remark, and gently stroked the baby’s leg. Since he’d gone off to live with Jake and Sean, her insecurities had faded dramatically. Looking at Michael gave her warm, fuzzy feelings, but she was sure this wasn’t what having a sibling felt like. This was just another cousin, albeit an extra special one, having been a visitor for so long.

Sean watched quietly, his eyes full of affection. This would be one reunion trip that he’d never forget.

“Liv, if you like, you can have a cuddle with him on your lap when we’re on the plane.”

“Ooh! Yes, please!”

Then, Michelle and Quinn made an appearance, with six-year-old Isla and two-year-old Conor in tow. And of course, they made a beeline straight for the growing crowd around baby Michael.

“Hey, Meech! Meech!” Craig called out.

“You’ll be lucky,” Zahra scoffed. “We all know these people are suckers for babies….”

________________________

La Huerta, 2023

Her arm wrapped around the little bundle on her chest, and Estela’s arm wrapped around her shoulder, Taylor walked proudly out to the central rotunda in Catalyst Village, where the group had gathered for brunch-- not breakfast, for some of the number had desperately needed a sleep-in after the night before.

It was not a new thing for Taylor and Estela to join their fellow Catalysts-- their family-- for reunion festivities, but this was something different. What they were sharing now was themselves at a most monumental turning point, vulnerable as they tumbled into some wonderful unknown. Holding onto her baby daughter and stepping out into the sun, Taylor couldn’t feel any trepidation for what lay ahead, she was simply ecstatic.

There was a cacophony of gasps and coos, oohs and aahs as they approached, all eyes going straight for the tiny person Taylor was holding.

“Hey,” she said, unable to repress the grin that was fast spreading across her face. “Do you think we might have room for a new member of the gang?”

Estela was beaming, alight with elation and love. “Everyone who hasn’t met her yet, this is Liv. Olivia Andromeda Montoya. Our little girl.”

Quinn clapped her hands to her mouth. “Oh, you guys! She’s divine! Oh my god….”

Taylor walked over to Grace, who had little Reginald perched upon her hip.

“Would Reggie like to say hi?”

“I think Reggie would love to,” Grace said softly, smiling at her young son’s wide-eyed expression. He certainly didn’t meet many babies living on La Huerta. “Look, honey! Who’s Auntie Taylor got? Who’s this?”

“Buh-buh-buh?” Reggie reached out a chubby hand and patted the blanket.

“See, Reggie?” Grace cooed. “This is the baby from Tia Estela’s tummy. This is baby Liv.”

“Ih.”

“That’s it, sweetheart. Nice and gentle.”

“Good boy, Reggie,” Taylor said. “Looks like this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

One of many. Taylor knew it as she did the rounds. Their family welcomed Liv with the joy of close relatives, as if she were theirs, born into the fold and taken with open arms.

The baby stirred, and Craig made a sound of a higher pitch than anyone present had previously thought possible, which promptly earned a glare from Estela and made baby Reggie, now sitting on Aleister’s lap, burst into tears.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, you idiot!” Aleister hissed, as he tried to placate his son.

“Um, Craiggers, I think Estela would prefer it if you didn’t make the baby want to crawl back up the hole she came from.”

“Yes, that would be preferable,” Estela growled.

Liv grumbled, her face screwed up in protest.

“Sorry, mija. You’ll learn to love these people, trust me.”

“You really think so?” Craig asked jovially. “Thanks, Estela! I’ll babysit for you anytime.”

Quinn chuckled. “I hope you realise that there’s going to be some heavy competition for babysitting privileges. Bubba’s gonna be spoilt rotten!”

Taylor could feel it. From every one of her friends. Liv was their family, and they loved her.

Baby girl, you are so, so lucky.

___________________________

La Huerta, 2033

Finally, home.

Taylor didn’t know if she’d ever been more ready to step foot back on La Huerta, but from the moment she stepped off the plane, she felt lighter in herself than she’d done in weeks.

It became clear very quickly that she wasn’t alone in that sense of relief. As if by magic, her effervescent Liv was back; the cloud that had been hanging over her head unable to follow into what was the family’s sanctuary. Liv had been seated next to Quinn and Michelle’s daughter, Isla, through the flight; the younger girl all but talking Liv’s ear off. Then, once they’d hit the beach, Reggie and the twins had joined them, and play had come effortlessly. Now the intrepid adventurer she was meant to be, Liv was accepted and wanted; in her element with people she could trust. And Taylor felt herself letting go. For this shining time, she didn’t have to worry about her daughter at all.

Feeling that her loved ones were contented, far more so than she'd seen them in months, Estela wandered over to join Aleister on the beach. She settled down in the sand beside him, looking over the children as they splashed about in a sparkling sea.

“This is nice,” she said, stretching out her body and feeling the sun’s rays. All this fresh air and sunshine, she knew, would do them all good, especially her wife. “I’ve missed this. I think we all have.”

“How is Olivia? Since the, er, unfortunate incident?”

“Well, school’s been harder. Actually, it’s been absolutely horrible. But it’s done and finished. She’s not going back there. I’m just so damn relieved neither of them got hurt. I never thought it would be Reggie getting in a fight.”

For several long moments, Aleister silently watched his son playing in the waves, swinging his little sisters around in his arms and flinging them into the water. Reginald wasn’t a fighter; that he’d been pushed to violence spoke volumes of just how much that school had failed him-- and Liv, who’d valiantly had his corner, oblivious even to what had triggered the outburst.

“For the longest time, Reggie wouldn’t say what the fight was about. We could both tell that whatever it was had hurt him terribly. What we learned after several long talks…. The other boy had been saying things about Erin. I don’t know the details, nor do we want to, but they were cruel.”

Estela’s eyes had grown wide, then hardened with outrage. “Oh, shit. God, poor Reggie.” She shook her head, anger bubbling up inside her. How the hell was this still happening? How dare they? “Did the staff know exactly what happened?”

“At the time, no. Reginald refused to repeat what had been said. By the time Grace and I found out it was so long after the fact that when we brought the information to the school, they let it slide. To say I was fuming….”

“And these people are expecting you to happily enrol the girls at this school when that’s the care given?”

“Our thoughts precisely.” Aleister’s expression softened as he looked out to the beach. In the shallows, his daughters were jumping over small waves as they rolled in, and squealing with laughter. “I won’t have her be made to feel alone. This is all… new. For her, for us… she needs to feel safe to develop into a self she’s comfortable with. When you told me that you were taking Olivia out of school, my immediate gut reaction was fear. For Reginald.” He scoffed. “How utterly ridiculous that I should feel as if my son would need a bodyguard in his own school? And the more we’ve talked, it has gotten all the clearer that what we have in place isn’t working. We set up our main bases of operation on La Huerta and in San Trobida. The only reason we came back to the States was for the children’s education. Grace would have happily stayed in our La Huerta home; for so many years it was our sanctuary, the place that allowed us the freedom to truly grow. I think….” He hesitated. “If you don’t return to the States, it is likely that we will join you. As you say, it’s only matter of two years, or even one, before Reggie and Olivia will be changing schools as it is. We want to have that time with him. And for Erin… it’s time she needs to grow into herself.”

“Wow. That’s big… that’s huge. So, you’re just going to stay on La Huerta?”

“Perhaps. Certainly, in the short-term it is the ideal solution. But when we do enrol the children in a mainstream school, well… we’re considering moving the family to San Trobida in the future.”

Estela felt certain her eyes must have near popped right out of her head. “You would move to San Trobida?” With your transgender daughter? The initial wave of something close to panic subsided. The southern parts of the country were, these days, refreshingly egalitarian. Reforms had been sweeping under the democratically elected government, and the free San Trobida had embraced a fast-moving shift towards social equality. They weren’t talking about the same country that she attended school in some twenty years ago. “You’re… you’re serious?”

“I’m sorry, have you mistaken me for the type of person who uses humour to diffuse serious conversations? Yes, I am serious. I’ve seen first-hand what has been happening there, in no small part thanks to the mountains of our father’s fortune that you’ve quietly invested, and I would proudly see that growth continue.”

It was true; Estela’s home had come so far. The pull never lessened; nowhere else save for La Huerta could give her that same feeling. But growing up with ‘we’ve got to get out of here’ hammered in had lasting effects, as did the horrifying violence witnessed. How much would it take for her to believe in a new, better San Trobida? If it was just herself and Taylor, it’d be different, but they had Liv. It was why testing the waters with home-schooling between San Trobida and La Huerta had looked so promising.

“My mother wouldn’t recognise it,” she admitted, shaking her head. “She would have gone back to the university in San Trobida City, I’m sure of it. She’d help it get back to its former glory. We probably would have stayed in Las Rocas-- I can imagine her face if I could tell her it’s now part of what they’re calling ‘the Costa Libertad’! Maybe… maybe she’d have said I should stay.”

“If you don’t mind my saying, I’ve always thought you’d do what you saw fit, and to hell with what anyone else advised. Certainly, that’s been my experience.”

That made Estela chuckle. “I think I’m used to being more sure. Don’t worry; I haven’t lost my pig-headedness. I can still dig my heels in like nobody’s business.”

“That, I have seen for myself. But it is wise to have an open mind and get some balanced perspective before that stubborn streak of yours rears its ugly head.”

Estela bit her lip. If Liv flourished during time spent in San Trobida in the next year of home-schooling, it really would be hard to leave, especially if Aleister and Grace’s family were considering immigrating.

What more could you wish for?

“I’ve been resistant… for a long time,” she said, thoughtfully. “But every time I go back, San Trobida is looking more and more like somewhere we can be happy and safe. You know, Livi is my tio’s sun and his stars. I want her to have him there for her the way I did, the way he wants to be there for her. It is… hard to shake the fear, though. If I misjudge it; if I put too much hope in my home and she gets hurt or…. I don’t know if I’m too broken and traumatised to be rational about this.”

“And what does Taylor think?”

“Taylor would live in San Trobida. It’s simple to hop to and from La Huerta. That’s good for her; to be that close to Diego now he’s there almost permanently. She wants to be a bigger part of the forward momentum for young queer people. But, she worries. I know I’ve influenced that.”

“I feel that’s fairly inevitable,” Aleister conceded. “If there’s one thing I’d give Taylor, it’s that she’d very emotionally perceptive.”

“Yes, that’s her. I’d rather she didn’t take on board all of my baggage, because, let’s face it, that’s a whole lot of shit to carry. But if she wasn’t so empathetic, she wouldn’t be Taylor.”

“If we were to take Taylor and Olivia out of the equation, where would you want to be?”

Estela grumbled, damn well aware that Aleister knew the answer to that.

“I’d want to be home,” she said simply.

“You never were one for straight answers. Do you know how many headaches you’ve given me over the years?”

“Isn’t that what little sisters are for, hermano?” Estela laughed. Aleister had been forced to develop some amount of patience with her; by her reckoning, it had been good for him. Certainly it had put him in good stead for handling his more obtuse children, namely Immy.

“Like I said, we’re going into this with some flexibility. We don’t know what will be best for Liv, for all of us. We can start here, spend some time with Diego, then live back with my Tio for a few months. Then, I dunno, maybe travel around the world a little bit, expand Livi’s horizons. But down the road…. If settling in San Trobida is the direction you want to head in, that will be one hell of a pull for us.”

It’s just about decided it. That’s gonna be us. Our family. Our home.

[let-it-show]

All The Love I Found In You 11/11

Okay so...here’s the last part. Heh. Part 10 can be found here. I wanted to say thank you to everyone who has read and encouraged me to keep writing this long fic. I learned a lot about I want to and like to write Elsa and Anna and can’t wait to keep doing so and I also want to keep going with this storyline even if this part is done. Also if there’s something you feel was left hanging, don’t be afraid to tell me but also...don’t worry. Hehe. Some things I wanted to explore in a separate side story or two. Anyway this is mostly fluffy. Okay, nerves. Heh. Here we go. Usual tag for @hellodemoiselle !

Elsa's eyes opened and they hurt. They stung and her head felt stuffed with cotton. She felt tired too. But, she didn't feel cold, and she felt like she was-was fit together. Something was right.

She looked down and there she saw Anna's face against her stomach, arms around her and taking deep, shuddering breaths. She saw Anna's hair, she touched Anna's hair very carefully. It felt like Anna's hair.

Then she touched her own. It was indeed, her own hair, and realization combined with joy settled over her. She was back! She was in her body! It may have happened a couple of times before but the feeling she had was more permanent as opposed to a deep and at the same time faint feeling. Her soul settled right where it was supposed to and that meant Anna's did too.

It meant they had found an understanding, that Anna had finally put forth the biggest fears that weighed her down. They still may be there for a while, possibly even forever...but she'd expressed herself. Elsa understood the pain she carried. She felt terrible for it but she finally understood the weight of Anna's anxiety and suffering. Elsa could finally start to make her feel  treasured, like she deserved. "Anna..."

Anna sniffed and tried to bury her face against her even more. She squeezed her, arms crossing on her butt. "I don't want to let go," she told her and though her voice was muffled, it could be understood.

"Oh Anna." She pet her head fondly. "I'm not going to go now that I'm in my body, you precious girl. I'm even more excited now to be with you and kiss you and touch you." She touched her arms lightly. "You can stand up."

Anna looked up at her. "Oh, it's not that...I know if I let go you won't vanish..."

"Then what is it?" Elsa asked her, concerned something new had come along in such a short time.

Anna shivered. "I'm cold. I'm really, really cold! I haven't been cold in days! This is awful! Why are my lips so chapped? Why are my hands so dry and sore!? Did you ever use lotion? Did you think about gloves? Owowow..."

At that Elsa immediately laughed. Her Anna! She went down to her knees as well and though the hard surface of the ice hurt a little on her knees, she didn't care. She reached for the cloak to wrap it around Anna's body and then hugged her. "I'll warm you up. I'll take care of you," she told her as she kissed her forehead. "I'll always take  care of you." She caught her lips for a proper kiss, smiling into it.

As the feeling in her head subsided, she began to feel lightheaded. She was dizzy. All she felt was Anna's presence. She kept her surrounded with her love, her mind tingling as she felt the telltale pokes of the spirits communicating and her powers settling back to normal. It felt a little strange, as she had been without those for a while. Whether Anna had been able to sense them she wasn't sure. The way her powers began to build inside of her she wouldn't have been surprised if Anna couldn't tell that from the spirits.

She didn't want to deal with any of it at the moment, though. Her focus was only on Anna. When she said she would always take care of her she meant it. "We need to get you back home," she told her. "It's very cold up here."

"But you kind of just got here," Anna said as she started to shiver in her arms.

"I know, but-Anna...you told me why you came here, but how come you never wanted to come here in your own body?" Curiosity got the better of her. She tried to hug her tighter.

"Oh...well...it was d-different," Anna told her. "It wasn't the palace where I came to find you years ago, when you changed and were able to see what you could do. It wasn't the palace we came to when summer was too hot and you wanted a break. And no one lived here anymore it's...it's just, um, here. It's beautiful! But the meaning..."

Elsa clung to her every word as she rubbed Anna's back. Anna's reasoning was unsurprising. Still, it was helpful to hear it out loud. "I understand. What if we add a little-a little something to it that says Anna-"

Anna shook in her arms a little more, in soft laughter. "No. No, that's okay. You could cover it in sunflowers - it will never hold the same meaning, but now I think, I may like to come here with you every now and then."

"Oh." Elsa hadn't expected Anna to turn it down. "I was thinking, it could be a place just to be together and-"

"Elsa..." Anna pulled back from her even though she was shivering still. There was a smile on her face. "Elsa, we have our place. It's small and it's not impressive and it's not nearly as hard to get to, but we have something that we made together...we have a place... where you gave me this," she said, clutching the bind rune around her neck.

"The igloo." Elsa watched Anna's hand, cracked and red from being in the cold wind. She was going to have to rub lotion into it later, maybe all over Anna... "Yes, you're right! That is our place now, isn't it?"

"Mmmhmm." Anna leaned against her, red hair under Elsa's chin. "Can we go there now?"

Elsa laughed a little. "Maybe later. You have quite a chill." It was beginning to concern her, the way Anna quivered. She had been largely responsible for it too. "I want to warm you up." They'd get to the castle and Elsa would have her shed those clothes that weren't warm enough, she'd get the fire going. She'd take Anna to the bed in a fresh nightgown - or maybe no clothes at all - and crawl under the layers with her for as long as they both pleased.

Anna interrupted her thoughts. "Oh...yea, that should probably happen..."

Elsa laughed and kept hugging her as she communicated to Gale. It was something that was easily done when she wanted. Gale couldn't read her mind and Elsa had to purposely direct her thought to her to summon her, but it was easy - it was natural. She closed her eyes for a few seconds.

When she opened them she felt Gale tickle her shoulders. "There you are," she said softly and she began to let go of Anna. She kissed her forehead and started to turn to recognize Gale as she swirled around them, gently tugging at the edges of the cape wrapped around Anna. "Anna? You'll need to move a little to get on the carpet," she told her.

"Huh? Oh..." Anna watched as Gale lowered the carpet next to them, and still clung to Elsa as much as she could. She stepped onto it and Elsa was pulled with her. As soon as they were both on the carpet Elsa rearranged them, sitting behind Anna with her legs on either side of her.

She held Anna to her and buried her face in her neck, leaving cool kisses on her skin as the carpet began to lift from the icy balcony. It felt so good to hold Anna as Anna, so good to inhale the scent of her skin and feel her hair and hold her body- perfect. Anna was so perfect. Elsa formed a little ice barrier around them on the carpet to prevent the wind from nipping at any more of Anna's warm skin, and it allowed Gale to move them faster. It was not long before the castle was in view.

Yet, she didn't want the ride to end. She didn't want to stop flying closer to the clouds with Anna in her arms and their world currently below them. Her lips had barely left the redhead's skin as she had made a well traveled trail along her neck and all the way to her forehead. She was lightheaded. How could she be expected to function with Anna in her own body with her skin like that and her scent so sweet and-

And they were landing on the library balcony before her reptitive thoughts could keep up their echo. The carpet carefully settled down to let them off and Elsa had to let the ice wall dissolve into sparkles. She sighed as she did so. Being in their regular bodies was good but meant a return to normalcy, which meant realizing just how real their joining was and how the kingdom would react...

The past couple of days were like a fairytale.

Gale wiggled the carpet a little to encourage them to climb off, and Anna slowly pulled away while looking over her shoulder. She clearly didn't want to. The longing in her eyes was blatant and Elsa smiled at her. Anna slid off the carpet and stood up, shivering a little before holding a hand out to Elsa.

Elsa took her hand and squeeze it. At Anna's gentle tug she dismounted the carpet as well and Gale draped it over the balcony before dancing over them. "Thank you, Gale," Anna told her and with a few chimes, the wind spirit hurried off to leave them alone. Anna fixed her gaze on Elsa, who met it right back.

As usual, Elsa fell right into the enticing beauty that was Anna's eyes. She felt swallowed up by her soul and she had no complaints. "Anna..."

"Yes, Elsa?" Her sister sounded breathless.

"I love you, Anna."

------

By the time they had arrived at the castle, Menander had departed.

Elsa couldn't help but feel disappointed. She'd wanted badly to pick his mind and find out how he seemed to know what he did. She had questions that demanded answers, everything from how he knew he was in the company of twin flames to what performance he had claimed Kristoff was helping him prepare for the night of the party. She had no doubt it was something aimed at her and Anna but...

They had run off to hide and kiss each other before that happened, like a couple of teenagers in love. Elsa would have felt guilty if it hadn't ended up being so much fun.

The man continued to be a mystery to both of them and Elsa could only hope they could see him again sometime soon to talk to him. In addition, she wanted to thank him. He played some part in the sisters finding their way to each other even if she had no idea to what extent.

As the both of them began to settle back down into their own bodies and realize where things were, Elsa knew things wouldn't be easy.

Pulling herself away from the forest, that wouldn't be very difficult. Ahtohallan would be where she might have problems but as she had told herself, and Anna, visiting it now and then should be easy. It would be like when they used to visit the ice palace, she wagered. Like the palace  and the igloo, it was another hideaway for them.

Thinking of it that way made her heart soar.

Unfortunately many of the problems would be on Anna's shoulders. There would no longer be an engagement to a man and Anna would deal with the possible embarrassment of being a princess forced to be a queen forced to share the rule with her sister. It wasn't that Anna would mind sharing the throne- something Elsa knew for sure -but the words that may leave the lips of their subjects might inflict new wounds while tearing at new ones.

The biggest issue was if and when to tell everyone that the sister queens were lovers.

"We'll deal with that...later," Anna told her a couple of days later as she sank into the hot water of the huge bath. "No one needs to know right this second."

The days had passed like any others for everyone else in the kingdom. Picking back up where she had left off was easy for Anna, Elsa had continued her work flawlessly - things were scattered but made sense and with Elsa's constant distraction due to the situation, it was even at the same pace as Anna...

Co-ruling was going to make things so much more efficient.

"Mmmhmm, but maybe we should tell Kai and Gerda...it can only help with us being able to keep things discreet until we're ready. Elsa had already sunk into the bath and leaned against the edge. The water was just over her shoulders.

"That's a good idea," Anna agreed as she lowered her face half into the water and made bubbles with a "blblblblblblblb" sound.

"If you drink bath water you are definitely going to regret it," Elsa told her with a laugh. Anna continued to be so adorable she could hardly stand it. The steam rose up around Anna's face and gently framed it. Elsa couldn't look away.

Anna lifted her face briefly to respond. "I haven't regretted it yet," she replied before returning her lips to the water.

"Yet? How much bath water have you drank? Not just today, but-what?"

Anna had risen from the water with her lips curved into a weird closed-mouth smile. Elsa could see most of her wet, naked body and couldn't fight back a blush on her cheeks. It wasn't like she hadn't seen it when she was her, even if she tried not to look too much. But it was different when she was actively looking at another person.

When they had returned from the palace and dismounted the rug, Anna had ended up taking off clothes, opting just to crawl under several layer of blankets with the fire going. She took off everything and Elsa had plenty of time to drink in the sight of her whole perfect body. Anna had noticed immediately and giggled while Elsa looked away and told her to hurry up and get warm in the bed.

As soon as the fire had crackled to life, Elsa had decided to be brave and vanished her clothes away before crawling into bed with Anna. She didn't have to be shy about anything, did she? A hum of approval had sounded from Anna when her hands found Elsa's skin and they had stayed wrapped up in each other for a very long time.

The loss of the powers had left Anna exhausted, her very bones tired. Elsa had worried intensely at first - but she found that all Anna needed was loving arms around her and romantic whispered words. She was more than happy to provide that. She may only be able to do so much about the way Anna did miss herown  glittering snowmen, but she could care for Anna.

They hadn't done much more than sleep and cuddle naked, but the way Anna approached her in the water still made Elsa feel...hungry.

It ended up being a fleeting feeling once Anna stopped in front of her and spit bath water through her teeth and into Elsa's face.

"What-hey-ANNA WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU!?" Elsa shrieked and turned her face away, flailing her hands up to shield herself. In the process she splashed at Anna a little, and she changed tactics. As quickly as she had raised them, Elsa's hands flew back down to meet the water and send an icy, flower petal filled wave right at Anna's chest.

It was Anna's turn to yelp. "Elsa no!" Anna immediately dropped her  cold body right back down into the water and threw a splash at Elsa. Then her eyes went wide as she realized she only put herself in more danger and the water around her was frosty. "Hey powers aren't fair!" she shouted even as she was laughing. Elsa knew she was enjoying herself.

She lunged forward and found Anna's arms. Her hands grasped them firmly as she pulled Anna close and hugged her with a smile. Her lips found Anna's wet forehead while Anna chose to rest her fingers on Elsa's waist.

The world could definitely wait for their news. If it were up to her, and also possible to begin with, they would never leave that bath. Elsa had pulled Anna back with her against the wall, Anna's body pressed comfortably along her own. Anna played with Elsa's hair as the strands floated on the water, bobbing close to some rose petals. Her face seemed to shine as Elsa held her and watched.

She could only watch so long before her lips found Anna's and she pulled a soft, deep kiss from them.

On the other side of the door awaited the future they would face and figure out together, Ahtohallan and Arendelle both extending their calls however they would take them. It was exciting, it was scary, but it also was for another day. That was a door that could stay closed for a bit, stable as the hook attached to it and holding a cord attached to a pendant with a certain bind rune.                                

[krisseycrystal]

rated: t

fandom: Gravity Falls

prompt: “Locked in a Freezer” + Stan & Dipper (& Ford)

requested by: @trashgoblinonyourporch

SO MY AMAZING FRIEND PAX SENT ME AN EXCELLENT CHALLENGE because i have never written a Gravity Falls fic before, w/ my choice of Stan, Dipper, or Ford locked in a freezer and I like to challenge hurt myself even further so i picked Stan & Dipper and had Ford cameo at the end

it’s a Time

hope you enjoy! if you want more angst, feel free to request something! i still have four prompts available on this bad boi alsdkjflkjsf

- o - o - o -

Gelid [Read on AO3]

- o - o - o -

“HEY!”

Maybe the first thing Stan should have felt when the thick door swung shut at their backs was panic. Maybe stupidity--he knew that ugly bastard with the toothpick between his teeth was lyin’ when he denied that there were ghosts in his quote-unquote “historic” bar; he knew it--but instead, all Stan can feel is a ravaging, crater-deep guilt. 

“Grunkle Stan?”

It was his idea to invite the twins along on this summer trip to the East Coast. It was him who first said, hey, whaddya know, we’re passin’ through their part’a town, Ford. Whaddya say? Let’s pick up the kiddos, have ‘em stuff their duffels in the back and let ‘em tag along on our haunted haunts tour ‘long the New England coast. They’re probably all goofs, anyway. What’s the harm?

This bar.

With its fucking deep-ass freezer.

That’s the harm.

After frantically pulling on the long handlebar once, twice, then heaving as hard as he could and throwing his shoulder into the door, Stan finally steps back and wraps his arms around himself. His faux-gold rings with their cubic zirconia catches on the cloth of his sleeves as he vigorously rubs his forearms. “Kid, do you wear anything else other than those dumb shorts and tee-shirt?”

Dipper’s already mimicking him, smart kid, but his teeth are chattering. Not a good sign. “It’s not like I have access to my bag right now to change! If I’d known some ghost was gonna lock us in a freezer, then I’d have worn something a little warmer!”

Stan rolls his eyes. “Got that fancy new cell of yours, don’tcha? Just call your sister!”

Dipper’s eyes light up. Had he forgotten he had it? Go figure. Shermi’s daughter had been so hesitant to give the twins cells, but after they turned thirteen, well…he’s sure Dipper and Mabel worked their own case pretty hard. It certainly paid off. It’s going to pay off.

It has to.

It only takes a few seconds tapping on the screen with shaking fingers to make Dipper’s face fall. “No service.”

“What? Let me see that.”

Dipper doesn’t fight when Stan swipes the dinky device out of his hand. But he does watch, unimpressed, tiny hands rubbing his arms, as Stan pretends to recognize what the hell it is he’s looking at on the screen. Fuckin’ tiny-ass white blobs. What do those things mean? Is that a percentage? Is 35 good or bad?

He tosses it back, grumbling. They need to get out. Fast. What’s the first thing to get frostbitten? How long does that take?

“Look, kid,” Stan huffs, his breath a white cloud glittering in the dark. “I’m putting you on cell duty. Your job is to think of a way to tell the others we’re down here so they can come rescue our asses.”

Are Dipper’s cheeks pinkening because of the cold, or because Stan cursed in front of him? Hard to tell. “Right.” 

Dipper bows his head over his phone, the bill of his blue pine-tree hat obscuring his face. His thumbs tap madly away; how the hell does he do that so fast? Then he turns, tremblingly striding the length of the walk-in freezer back and forth. At each corner, Dipper stops, raising his cell high above his head with a tight grimace. He stretches onto his tip-toes, waves the device right and left, and with a look of consternation, begins the process over again in a different corner. 

Stan watches his hands for a second more before it clicks.

“Dipper, take off your socks.”

“My what?” 

“Your socks.” Stan hurriedly bends over to do the same, peeling off his holey socks from his shoes before shoving his feet back inside. “Put them on your hands. Your dumb fingers are gonna get frostbit before anythin’ else and that ain’t gonna take more than two minutes.”

“B-but, Grunkle Stan, you just told me to I gotta use--”

“--do you want to lose your digits or not, kid?”

Is it a mercy or a worry that Dipper doesn’t fight him on this?

With his mouth set in a thin line, Dipper hands off his phone to Stan and squats to untie his shoes. Every passing second, the kid’s teeth chatter harder and harder; his fingers shake so much, he fumbles with the strings, pinching them and dropping them over and over again. He tugs and tugs to undo the shoelace, but it doesn’t budge. “G-Grunkle Stan, I can’t--I--”

There’s a terrible, terrible break in the kid’s already squeaky-ass voice.

Like an echo, a ricochet, something else breaks and cracks in the center of Stan’s chest.

He shoots forward, falling to his knee before he thinks better of it. His weary bones scream in protest, but not as badly as his skin does. It only takes seconds for the wet chill of the freezer floor to seep through his pants. He shoves Dipper’s phone in his pocket and doesn’t see the way the screen lights up as he does.

“It’s okay. I’ve got ya, kid,” he mutters and yanks the Converse laces loose himself. 

When Dipper’s hands are covered with twin stinky, middle-school white ankle-socks, Stan breathes a sigh of relief. Standing, he finds, is much worse on his creaky body immediately after kneeling.

“Remind me not to Cinderella you again, kid,” Stan groans, placing a sock-mittened hand in the center of his back.

Dipper chuckles, but it’s weak. The kid’s eyes shine a little too brightly in the dark, unshed tears making his eyelashes sparkle with frost. “Y-yeah. That was…awkward.” He clears his throat and holds out his socked hand expectantly, still shivering uncontrollably.

“Hm? What? Oh.” Stan fishes the kid’s phone back out.

Dipper’s face lights up at the same time as his screen does. “Grunkle Stan! Grunkle Stan we did it! We got a message through!”

“What?”

Dipper hurries over, pressing close to his side, and shoving his phone in his face as if he’s supposed to be able to read the tiny black font printed inside those grey boxes. 24%. There’s a funny, probably candid, photo of Mabel beside each one. Her cheek is pressed up against a wooden table with her tongue hanging out of her mouth, her face the utter look of someone who has eaten far too much cake and has icing all around her mouth to prove it. Does she even know Dipper took that picture? Who cares; it’s priceless.

“What am I supposed to be lookin’ at?”

“What Mabel said! She and Ford are on their way! They’ll be here in fifteen minutes!”

Fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes.

“Kid, you tell her to tell my brother to step on it. We could be popsicles in fifteen minutes!”

“Y-yeah, but--”

“--and then as soon as you're done, come over here.” Stan didn’t want to have to do this, but it looks like he has little choice. He turns around, hunting for loose, broken-down cardboard boxes or crates and finds a stash of them pinned between a steel shelf and the wall. Hell yeah. “If we’re gonna last ‘till then, then we gotta hunker. No if’s, and’s, or but’s about it.”

“H-hunker?”

Stan throws several sheets of unfolded cardboard on the floor and covers the floor as much as he can.

“Hunker,” he confirms. 

- o - o - o -

The first five minutes aren’t horrible. Dipper is reluctant to huddle close and wants to stand and move around instead of sit down on a makeshift mat of cardboard. The kid admirably performs a few back-and-forth laps of high-knees and jumping-jacks before exhaustion kicks in and his body shivers too hard to do a single rep more.

Stan doesn’t even need to say anything. He holds out an arm and Dipper comes stumbling over back to him, shaking so hard, skin wane and pale, he might be as blue as his hat.

The second five minutes are spent clutching at each other, shivering tightly in a teeth-chattering huddle. In the end, Stan burrito-wraps his jacket around Dipper and pulls him over to curl against the pudge of his front. His socked hands run up and down, up and down the kid’s back as quickly as they can.

At the end of the third five minutes, Dipper begins to cry and Stan knows it’s because some part of him--his nose, probably--has frostbite setting in because it’s settling in on his nose and ears at the same time.

“Shit.”

“I-it--” It’s damn near pathetic the way the kid can barely talk. “--i-it h-h-hurts, G-Grunkle S--”

“--y-yeah. I know; I know…” 

Dipper’s breath is thin and quick under the tightness of his tears. He gasps for air, breath puffing up over and over again against his face. It’s pathetic. The way his thin shoulders are pulled up to his frozen ears; the way he can feel the tremors wrecking the kid in the middle of his hold. This entire damn thing is pathetic.

…and so is he, he thinks.

“I-I’m sorry,” Dipper stutters, voice so small. “I-I shouldn’t have--w-we s-shouldn’t have c-come here--I w-was stupid to th-think that--”

“Nope. None of that,” Stan clutches the kid tighter. “Shut up. Now.”

Dipper’s socked hands dig into the thin fabric of his button-up. Whether or not Stan actually meant to bring him to silence, that faltering apology is the last thing Dipper tries to say.

Twenty minutes pass.

- o - o - o -

Ford’s voice, when Stan finally hears it or thinks he hears it, is distant, like a dream. It washes over Stan with all the cotton-balled effect of damaged stereo speakers. Or maybe that’s just his hearing aids going out.

There are mittened hands on his shoulders, separate from the ones trying to pry away the huddle locked against his chest. As soon as the loss of a kid finally registers in his dumb, befuddled head, he writhes and fights. He rears up a socked fist to throw it--but it’s easily caught in a broad, six-fingered hand.

“Stanley. Stanley. It’s me. It’s okay.”

It takes monumental effort to crack open his eyelids and peer up. Something chilled and grainy falls down his cheeks. “Poindexter?”

“Stanley,” and the relief is so great and thick that any bitter anger Stan had in his chest at their belated rescue fizzles. “Oh, I’m so sorry. The ghost was…trying, to say the least. Mabel and I had to exorcise it before we could even get down to the basement. It…the entire process took much longer than it should have. And that never should have…I’m…” 

Dipper is pulled away from him and this time, he doesn’t resist. He can see the cool blue-black of police uniforms and the yellow jacket of paramedics.

“We tried to call you, but I suppose Dipper’s phone must have died. It went straight to voicemail.”

“Can it with the s-stupid apologies, will ya?” Stan sighs and his body shakes hard before stilling. “T-tired of it. Shit h-happened. W-we got locked in a f-f-f-fucking freezer. Just…get us the fuck out of here before I th-think about h-how I might sink s-some cruise ships.” 

Ford’s smile is rueful and exasperated. He looks over his shoulder at the paramedics that approach with a thick blanket in hand.

“I’ll make sure to keep you away from oceans, for a while, then.”

“W-water and ic-c-c-e in general. Th-thanks.”

“Noted.” Then the humor slips away and something else, something soft, gentles Ford’s face. It’s disgusting. Just like the blanket the paramedics wrap around Stan’s shoulders. “You’re going to be all right, Stan.”

“Yeah…” Stan’s eyes slip left, looking at the freezer’s now-open doorway.

“Dipper, too.”

Stan sniffs. When the paramedics pull Ford back to reach out and take his arms, he nods at his brother in wordless thanks. 

[komahinasecretexchange]

Title: Surprisingly, We Made It!

Author: @thatsrightdollface

For: @namsuuuuuuu

Rating/Warnings: This is probably somewhere between G and T, tbh.  I guess I might tag this for the idea that Chiaki is mentioned as dead?   She’s… A ghost.  This is a fantasy AU!

Prompt: komaeda and hinata both trying to break into the same place on the same night by accident, only to be chased by the police upon meeting and having to hide in a closet/cupboard/safe together until they leave

Author’s Notes: Hi!!!  I hope you enjoy this~ :D  It’s the first gift out of three that I have for you this time, so please be on the lookout for the others!!!  Rounded up, this is about 3,000 words.  

The museum became a different place at night — Nagito Komaeda had known it would, but it was something else to see those bustling halls transformed into a grey-tile tomb like this.  The display cases seemed to watch him pass, waiting and polished, decorated with dead things: mummified hands, chipped pottery, swords people had assured him were definitely haunted when he took the museum’s official tour earlier that day.  Komaeda was good at drifting through places most of the time.  He was sure no one from his tour group would remember him when the museum started looking into suspects the next morning.

Komaeda smiled at somebody’s death mask, sitting propped up on a green velvet display in one of those glass cases.  He wouldn’t be here long.  He’d just take what he needed and be on his way.  The security systems fizzled out as Komaeda wandered by, after all.  Bits of dust formed over the cameras, crawling like mold.  This wouldn’t be the first piece of the puzzle to Komaeda’s life he’d stolen out of a museum. If he unraveled the whole mystery of his good luck/horrible luck curse, the roller coaster balance of his existence, maybe Komaeda would even get to rest someday.  Maybe he’d finally know what any of the ridiculous things that happened to him meant.

Komaeda hummed to himself as he strode through the museum.  He patted a display of a saber tooth tiger on the head and murmured, “Hi, kitty,” in a sing-song voice — he was wearing torn clothes, and the edges of his hair were singed from a fire that’d started out of thin air in his hotel room yesterday morning.  Even the air was subject to Komaeda’s madcap luck, see?  His curse.  Even the air would have to explain itself when Komaeda found the crumbly ancient book he’d come here for.  And, you know, figured out how to read it.  He had an anthropologist contact lined up.  It would be alright.

Things always swung back around, for Komaeda.  The dice rolled into a winning order even if they were weighted to go the other way.  At a cost, of course.  Always at a cost.

Komaeda wouldn’t have to pick the display case lock to get the book he needed, he didn’t think.  The thing would just fall right into his open hands, somehow, and then he’d turn on his heal and head out.  The museum smelled like freshly mopped floors and old, rotting paper.  When Komaeda’d passed a security guard earlier, he had waved cheerfully and pretended to flash a badge.  It worked.  It so often worked, and then Komaeda got arrested for a murder he didn’t commit or something just going out to buy bread.  He was used to it.  As used to it as a person could be, he thought.

When the cop bellowed, “Get back here, you!” somewhere off in the distance, well…  Komaeda murmured, “Oh no,” to himself almost playfully, as if he were keeping up the game.  But then he heard some frantic pounding footsteps right behind him…  The skidding of sneakers  over freshly washed tile, the shattering of a display glass window, all that.  He started to walk a little faster, glancing over his shoulder.

A guy with spiky hair blew by Komaeda, breathing heavily, sneakers squeaking all over the floor in possibly the least-stealthy way possible.  “Get out of here!” the spiky haired guy called.  “Officer Nidai’s not messing around!”

Officer Nidai?  Wonderful.  Komaeda knew Officer Nekomaru Nidai all too well.  Just his luck that guy would be here, wasn’t it?  He’d been suspicious of Komaeda ever since he turned up in town.  Whenever somebody caught Nagito Komaeda in the act, of course he just slipped away again like water between cracks in the concrete.  Like clouds dissolving into the sky.  His luck, eventually, turned.  Always, always.  But that didn’t mean people couldn’t try their own luck at catching him, every now and again.  It was annoying, but Komaeda shrugged off fatal things as “annoying” so often nowadays he was beginning to forget the meaning of the word.

Komaeda sighed and ran a hand through his pale, flyaway hair.  It would’ve been no good to lose this chance — he was so desperately close to another piece of his puzzle.  He stared running, too, and by the time he found an open door to duck inside it sounded like Officer Nidai had been joined by a whole crew of cop-friends in the museum hallways.  They were calling encouragement to each other, or something.  Listening to them might’ve been pretty goofy, under different circumstances.  So tragically earnest. It was like they were living in a separate world than the one Komaeda knew.

“What rotten luck,” Komaeda told the cramped, empty room he’d found himself in.  Or, the room he thought was empty, anyway.

The spiky haired boy who’d been charging through the halls flicked on a desk lamp, peering up at Komaeda with a baffled, frustrated expression on.  He’d been hiding under a table, it looked like, and up close Komaeda could see a whole stash of video game stuff secured in a cutesy canvas shopping bag over his shoulder. ��Was that what he snuck in here to steal?  That?  There were so many priceless jeweled glass eyes in this particular museum, so many spells written in actual molten gold ink.  Did this guy seriously just rob the Lost and Found?

“Rotten luck?  That’s, uh, one way of putting it.  I swear I locked that door,” the spiky-haired guy hissed.  Komaeda nodded.  Yes, he probably had.  Locked doors didn’t really have anything on a luck-curse, though, did they?

Komaeda locked the door behind him, again, nodding to the boy under the table with a careful smile.  Testing the door so he could see it didn’t just swing open this time, revealing them both to the hall.  The office they’d ended up in was one of those glorified broom closet spaces, books stacked haphazardly everywhere.  There were pinned butterflies hanging on the walls, and dusty photograph frames buried under paperwork on the desk.  There weren’t any windows or obvious trapdoors leading to secret museum catacombs around — yes, Komaeda had found himself stuck in museum-catacombs before, and he’d nearly starved to death before making his way back to the gift shop.  Not a good chance of that here, though, it didn’t look like.  For better or for worse.

Komaeda sized the spiky haired guy up for a second — he was cute, in a flustered, running-headlong-through-a-museum-at-two-AM kind of way.   His hands were broad and warm-looking; his eyes were challenging and proud, as if he were half-convinced Komaeda was a double agent for the museum or something.

“Looks like we’re stuck,” Komaeda said.  “Don’t worry.  I’m sure they’ll go away soon.”

They didn’t, of course.  Just his luck.

…

Hajime Hinata had only been messing around with supernatural nonsense for a handful of weeks, now, and even he could tell the guy he met on his poorly-planned-out museum heist was soaked in weird old curses.   They clung to this dizzy-eyed stranger same as his own skin, same as his shadow.  Hinata would’ve guessed the guy’d been born with those curses already latched on, honestly, and they were at least part of the reason he could slip locked doors open without even trying.  Part of why his smile looked wrong, too, somehow, like Hinata would always be looking at him through a funhouse mirror.

From the stolen-back bag of video game stuff slung over his shoulder, Hinata’s friend Chiaki Nanami said, “We should keep an eye on this guy, maybe, Hajime.  Everyone he loved died…  Messy.  They’re whispering about it right now.”

Chiaki had died so recently, it still didn’t feel real.  She had hung on to pieces of her life without really meaning to, so…  Of course Hinata was doing his best to gather her back up.  Chiaki had been his best friend since they were learning to count, after all.  They had played a few of the games in her old canvas bag together, but not all of them by a long shot.  It was better Chiaki speak through these clunky things — through her old hair ribbons and photographs and commemorative game art books — than disappear completely, if you asked Hinata.  The museum people hadn’t been willing to give him the bag during the day, so this was what had to happen next, right?

He’d tried this the easy way.  At least he had to give himself that. Hinata shifted Chiaki’s bag a little way out of the cursed guy’s view. If anything, the stranger looked softly amused by his efforts. He shook his head.

“I’m not interested in your prizes,” he told Hinata, voice swaying and almost, almost prim.  A former rich-kid’s voice.  “I’m sure you have your reasons for everything, just like I do.  Right?”  After a few moments of awkward, waiting silence, the guy drifted over to the far wall of that tiny office — maybe it was Hinata’s imagination, but it looked like he was feeling through the stacked book piles there with his eyes gently closed.  Trustingly closed.  Eventually, the stranger pulled back, holding a notebook full of dark green pen scribbles that seemed to squirm over the pages.  His rattling laugh was low and muffled in his chest — still a little too loud for Hinata’s comfort though.   Obviously.

“The beginnings of a translation…!” the dizzy-eyed boy murmured. He had to know Hinata had no idea what he was talking about, didn’t he?   “What are the odds, what are the —”

“Could you shut the hell up?  Seriously?” Hinata said.  “Don’t you hear Officer Nidai’s buddies down the hall?”

“Oh, yes,” said the stranger, turning to Hinata with wide eyes and a shaky smile.  “But they won’t hear me unless they’re supposed to.  I’m sorry — you don’t know that…”

“No, I don’t,” Hinata confirmed.

The stranger considered this.  He said, “It was good of you to tell me to run back there.  You’re probably a kind person, aren’t you, Mr. Pointy-Hair?”

“Hinata,” said Hinata, before immediately kicking himself. You’re really, really not supposed to tell people your actual name if you’re trying to rob a place!  …  Even if they’re trying to rob the same damn place, apparently?  Or at least they’re getting weirdly excited about the chance to snoop through somebody’s spooky notebook?

“His name is Komaeda,” Chiaki offered from the bag at Hinata’s side. “Nagito Komaeda. If he gives you a different name…”

But Nagito Komaeda didn’t throw around any fake names at all.  He grinned, amazed and warm and slightly mocking, like he couldn’t believe Hinata had actually handed him his name so earnestly.  He stepped over to sit in front of Hinata, moving gingerly, sitting cross-legged on the ground.  He said, “You’re new at this, aren’t you?”

“I’m not exactly making a career out of sneaking into museums, no,” Hinata said, glaring.  “I’m not some comic book supervillain, or anything like that.”

The dizzy-eyed stranger chewed on his lip, thoughtful.  Hinata wasn’t entirely sure he got the joke.  He said, “In that case…  Please, call me Komaeda.  It’s the least I can do.”  His voice was so wandering, hazy and formal both at once.  The notebook disappeared into a pocket inside his long, tattered coat; up close, Hinata realized this stranger — Komaeda — smelled like burning.  His skin was a crisscross of faded scars.

The office/closet doorknob rattled furiously, about then.  Somebody grunted, “Keys’s not working…!” and then, louder, “Wait — damn key snapped off in my hand!”  They stalked away, and Komaeda nodded, again. Serene as anything, as if stuff like this happened to him every day.

“They‘ll come back,” he said.  “Officer Nidai is a persistent one.”   He might’ve looked self-conscious for a second — realizing he sounded like a hardened crook, or something — because he added, “Or so I’ve heard.  But we have a little while yet, I think.  Are those games in your bag any good?”

“These are my friend’s —” Hinata protested…  But Chiaki shushed him.  Gently.

She said, “They’re your games, now, really,” and “This isn’t my body, Hajime.  Only a window…  You know that.  I can look away, sometimes.  I’ll look away for a little while now, if you want.”

Everyone Nagito Komaeda loved died messily, Chiaki had said.  She didn’t say it again now, but Hinata thought maybe she was reconsidering this dizzy-eyed stranger.  At the very least, he might know how to hurry out of a museum in the middle of the night without getting caught.  He might know what it was like to lose a friend, too, and to want to believe that couldn’t be true with all his heart.  Hinata might get something out of talking to a person like him.

“Be careful,” said Chiaki.  “And be nice, okay?  Unless he turns out to be a jerk.  A cursed jerk.”  Hinata could’ve sworn she was snickering.  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Komaeda’s already giving you ‘I-like-you’ eyes.”

“He is not,” grumbled Hinata.

Komaeda tactfully ignored that last bit.  He said, “Ooh, your friend has ‘Void Escape 2.’ I like that one.”  Komaeda glanced at the door, and then back to Hinata.  “I’ve…  Never played two-player mode, actually.   We could kill a little time?”

This was absurd. This was a million-to-one chance meeting.  This was…

This was Hinata hiding in some musty middle-of-the-night museum office, offering a cursed, supervillain-y stranger snacks from his bag. Trying out a video game together.  What the hell?!

Hinata should’ve known better. On so many levels, he should have known.  But, apparently…  No.

When Officer Nidai finally got that particular office door open, Hinata and Komaeda huddled together under the tiny desk, close enough that the smell of burning felt everywhere for a little while.  Close enough that Komaeda’s wavy singed hair brushed Hinata’s cheek. They’d draped Komaeda’s coat over the both of them in some sort of effort to look like just another lumpy pile.  Maybe books, or crinkled papers, or whatever it was museum researchers wore out in the field.

The notebook Komaeda had been trying to smuggle away felt cold against Hinata’s skin, twitching like a living thing.

Officer Nidai didn’t find them.  Somehow.  Honestly, they made such a terrible pile of paper/field clothes/random crap that Hinata was fairly surprised.  Komaeda, though…  Komaeda shrugged it off and said, “Alright, then.  That’s our cue: time to go!”

They snuck out the museum’s dusky hallways together, then, with Komaeda holding Hinata’s sleeve and guiding him down what he claimed was “the luckiest” path to the parking lot.  The sky was huge and hollow-looking up above them, when they finally made it. Hinata had parked his car at the grocery store down the road — he gave Komaeda a ride back into the city, even though Komaeda’d assured him he would have found his way no matter what.

Just before dropping Komaeda off down some lonely backstreet — one of those tipped-over-garbage-can-alleys, without a proper street name anywhere — Hinata asked something he knew would haunt him whether he managed to choke it out or not.  He asked for Komaeda’s phone number, whatever his curses.  Whatever a weird night this had been.  He tried to ask casually, the way Chiaki might have.  Like he only wanted to be friends. Like he was just a little worried about him, even though…  Huh.

Something had felt right and warm, so familiar, about Komaeda’s hand on Hinata’s sleeve.  About Komaeda’s spinning, smothered laughter.  Whoever he was, whatever he’d done.  Whatever exactly had been translated in that notebook waiting tucked against his heart, just then.

Komaeda shook his head no, and Hinata muttered something embarrassed.  Said to forget he asked; glowered at the road.  Komaeda watched him, apparently baffled.  He folded his arms around himself, leaning the back of his head against Hinata’s car door window.  He would leave dark ash smeared on the glass, when he left.

“I…  Have no idea why you’d want to call someone like me,” Komaeda offered, after a moment of tension, the dark city passing by all around them.  After he’d apparently hunted around his mind for the right words and come back feeling empty-handed.  “I don’t even have a phone.  Never keep any number for long…”  He cleared his throat.  “If you want, though, you can give me your number. I’ll check in with you, until it gets…”  An awkward laugh, here.  “Until you tell me to stop, I guess.”

Maybe that should’ve been enough to scare Hinata off, but he scribbled his number down on a scrap of paper torn out of that cryptic, slithering-ink notebook Komaeda’d stolen anyway.  He couldn’t believe he was doing it, even as his pen slipped and Komaeda clarified, “Is that an eight or a four, Hinata?” in a soft, wondering voice.

Hinata told him, and Komaeda murmured the full number back, very solemn.  Like a promise.

Hinata took a long, roundabout way home, that night, and Komaeda waved after him until he’d disappeared off to kinder streets.  He turned around on the worn-slick heel of his shoe and started humming again, the way he had back in the museum.  It was a hopeful song, maybe.  It was almost morning.

[sandersidess]

Rehearsal Pt. 2

Ey its a part 2 before i knock tf out

EDIT: 1:31am I have been writing for an hour and this longer than I expected holy shit sorry for any typos

tw: Well this is Heathers, so I would say death implied for Dead Gay Son, Yo Girl, suicide attempt for Shine A Light (Reprise), Kindergarten Boyfriend and possibly I Am Damaged. Ask to tag please

-

“All right everybody! Time for Act two!” Thomas whistles and rounds everybody up, everybody getting in their position and nods for the music to start.

There were a few snickers, Remy and Nate having to hold in their laughter at what their “fathers” sung in My Dead Gay Son. It was hilarious when one thinks about it, seeing as they were gay in real life. The whole musical was pretty gay anyway. They had to pause as Patton burst out laughing, apologizing profusely but most followed. They finished up, having fun with it when it was time for the ensemble. Even Remy and Nate joined in just for the fun, dancing in the background.

As that wrapped up, they went on with the dialogue scenes and soon it was time for Seventeen. Logan took a deep breath, starting to sing and didn’t look at the script much as he knew the song by heart. It was his favorite, and Patton wasn’t scanning his script either. His parts were small compared to his, and this part was important to see if they harmonized well. Everybody was leaning forward, Roman almost tumbling down between Virgil and Dolos. Even Thomas almost fell off his seat as they started to sing together. Patton cupped Logan’s cheek, both staring into each other’s eyes as they sang. Their vocals mixed well, emotions pouring out and expressions fitting the song. Virgil sneakily recorded the scene, grinning as they held the note together. As it ended, they separated quickly and blush once more.

“Wow. This worked out better than I thought,” Thomas grins and claps slowly, “Great job, JD and Veronica! Next song! Get ready, Ms. Fleming! This is your time to shine!”

The person playing Ms. Fleming was blushing, taking a deep breath and started Shine a Light. The ensemble and a few characters got together, and the character seemed to gain some confidence. There were those who sang a small solo, and it soon all came together. There were a few giggles as they sung the life story, the story always causing a few giggles and awes. The one that got everybody was the affair, and soon came the best part. That long note that held to be held. There were those who stared in awe as they held it, even Roman was cheering from the side and clapping. Once it ended, they all came together and congratulated them.

“Amazing! More practice so your voice won’t break and you’ll nail it!” Thomas complimented them, thumbs up and the person blushes as they did, “All right everybody, this is another hard part. McNamara, Duke, you got this. Veronica, get ready to run in when said,” He says seriously and Virgil goes up the center.

Virgil knew the song personally, knowing how McNamara felt. He let out a deep breath, the song soon starting. Lights dimmed, and Virgil started Lifeboat. He kept his voice low, poured out a tone that some had to hold themselves back from hugging. When it came to singing “Everyone's pushing/Everyone's fighting/Storms are approaching/There's nowhere to hide/If I say the wrong thing/Or I wear the wrong outfit/They'll throw me right over the side” Patton may have shed a tear, wiping it away quick. Virgil gripped his script a little tighter, keeping his voice from snarling “captain” and took in a shaky breath and it sounded way too real. Even Thomas was taken back, and he wondered if it would be too much for Virgil.

“Do you want to take a break from the next song?” Dolos whispers to Virgil, “We can.”

“No, let’s do it,” Virgil says and looks at him, “I know it won’t be you saying those words to me. It’s the character.”

“If you say so,” Dolos nods and they all get in position.

Dolos says his words, sounding cruel as he said them and laughed. As Virgil said his part of the pills, Deceit started his small solo of Shine a Light (Reprise). He even had to shove Virgil lightly, pretend to pour pills in his hand. Dolos scared a few at how cruel he sounded, Logan almost jumping in to punch him. Especially when the last part of “die alone” was repeated and Virgil was a good actor too, looking defeated and terrified. As Logan ran over to stop the tried suicide, there was a small laugh at the words that Virgil had to say with a mouth full.

“Well, you guys sure are scaring me,” Thomas leans his cheek on his fist, “I forget this is a play as you all make it sound realistic. I’m debating whether that’s good or if we should tone it down.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to keep it as is? We want the audience to feel what these characters are supposed to feel,” One member calls out.

“But we don’t want to scare them either,” Another member says, “We want to entertain them. Heathers isn’t only a dark teen musical, but also has some comedy.”

“But we should keep that aura of a supposed dark teen movie! The original movie didn’t even have much comedy, it had more well, darkness,” Patton points out, “So maybe if we tone it down a smidge, it could help so we don’t freak out the audience, but we have to keep the true essence of Heathers!”

“How are you JD again? You’re a literal sun child,” A member asks, confused how Patton got the role.

“We’re all asking that question,” Virgil chuckles and grins, “But trust us, he’s doing better than all of us. Had it been any of us playing the Heathers, it’ll be good, but expected. Patton is the element of shock here.”

“Thank you, Virge!” Patton smiles brightly at him, Remy passing around cheap sunglasses as Patton smiles towards the ensemble.

“So bright” They all thought.

“Good words there, Adam and Rei. Yes, we want to keep that dark aura, but also not scare our audience. There is humor where it is not supposed to be, but it helps balance it out,” Thomas nods as he looks at his cast, “So we will tone it down a little as Patton suggested. Not much, just a smidge. We will practice that later, for now, we are just doing a first rehearsal. Alright! Martha! Time for Kindergarten Boyfriend!”

“Coming!”

Logan smiles at Emile, who was blushing and nervous. He walks over and gives him a small hug.

“You got this, cousin,” He whispers, making Emile smile and nod.

“I do! Thank you!” Emile says with confidence, returning the hug and then goes towards the center.

As the piano started playing, Emile gives a small Him and starts Kindergarten Boyfriend. Remy places close attention, sitting and watching from the side at how soft and melodic his voice was to him. He chuckles at the story that was put for Martha, and the small notes he had to hold. He wanted to hear more of his voice off stage, wanting to hear what other soft songs he could sing. Remy tells himself to ask Logan for help, seeing as they seemed close. Emile gave off the best performance, how hopeful he sounded for the character and his voice had a small crack as if he wanted to cry. As the tempo lowered, his voice seemed to get smaller. When it ended, he was looking at his feet and slightly shy.

“Wow,” Remy claps for him, others following and Emile gives him a small smile. For a freshman, Emile was playing a big role and doing amazingly already.

“We’ll work on making sure your voice stays steady, and we need to bring you out of your shell,” Thomas says and hums, “But you killed it with sounding like a love struck teen. You also made sure when to sound down and then back up with hope, you flowed with the song. Man! You’re all doing so fucking amazing!”

“He cursed!” All shout, even those in charge of light.

“I’m an adult,” Thomas rolls his eyes, “Now, let’s move on!”

The people shuffled around, Dolos and Logan now in front of each other and talking, Virgil walking up when needed. Yo Girl started, Logan realizing he needed to work on sounding concerned. Roman, Nate, and Remy started singing near Logan. Logan shivered at the ghostly tone, and soon it was time for the note JD left. His dialogue came up, soon his parents and everything was a lot. He wondered if this was how he was to feel? Roman, Remy, and Nate sounded as if taunting, as if wanting to scare him. Nate especially did a good job with that, Roman and Remy a close second.

“Now comes the best!” Dolos cheers, Emile and Virgil agreeing.

Logan went where they set up the door prop, Patton walking out and takes a deep breath.

“Knock knock,” Patton gets in character and grins maniacally, “Sorry to come in through the window. Dreadful etiquette, I know.”

“Get out of my house!” Logan calls from behind the prop, feeling as if the temperature dropped. He wasn’t the only one if the expression from others were to go by.

Patton started Meant to be Yours, and people took a step back and some even recorded. They were all surprised how quickly Patton got into character, and were imagining how it would be with makeup and costume. Just the image made a few flinch at the sweet guy having to dress so dark. Patton had fun making the small gun noise effects, a tiny giggle escaping but it didn’t sound like him. Logan reminded himself that this was just Patton acting, and he didn’t even know how Patton looked like. When Patton sounded sweet, it just sounded sick and not fitting. When the plans were read, Patton sounded almost evil, and Thomas was paying very close attention. As the ensemble started to follow, Logan took a deep breath and jumped when Patton slammed his hand against the door.

“Veronica!” Patton shouts, his voice lowering, “Open the—open the door, please. Veronica, open the door,” His voice sounding desperate and Logan too his position, “Veronica, can we not fight anymore. Please, can we not fight anymore. Veronica, sure, you're scared, I've been there. I can set you free!” Another small desperate chuckle escaping, “Veronica, don't make me come in there! I'm gonna count to three!” Now sounding furious, Thomas smirking at the performance.

“One! Two! Fuck it!” Small gasps were heard, Logan just standing there as Patton had to fall on his knees and finish the song. As it ended, everybody stood frozen and Patton stood up and smiles.

“How was it?” He asks curiously, raising an eyebrow as no one answered, “Was it that bad?”

“Bad?” A member breathes out, “You think it was bad?”

“Well, no one answers me,” Patton shrugs and chuckles, “I was a little off key.”

“Patton, that was terrifying,” Virgil whispers, “And you actually cursed.”

“Well, the script says to curse,” Patton points at his highlighted word, “Though it was weird.”

“Because you never curse!” Emile almost yells.

“You’re right, Patton. You were off key, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed,” Thomas says and was smiling, “But next time you come in for rehearsals, wearing a black shirt and keep your hair messy if possible. That way, you can be more in character.”

“Got it, director!” Patton smiles and walks off to the side for now, everybody unfreezing and Logan now walking to his new spot.

Dead Girl Walking (Reprise) started, Logan getting himself back to reality. Virgil got into position with the other cheerleaders, blushing as he was handed Pom poms (Roman gave him a thumbs up). Logan was in character now, singing his lines and walks up to Ms. Fleming after Virgil’s small performance. As they talked, Patton got in his position also, Virgil and the cheerleaders singing their part. Logan likes the dark chuckle that escaped from Patton, seeing how serious he was about the role now. Even with the angry monologue, Patton sure did work it. Logan places his hand on his cheek as he does his lines, grabbing his wrist and Patton snatched it away. They did a small fight scene, Virgil and the cheerleaders singing their part with the ensemble.

When the gunshot rang out, everybody froze and moved away and soon it was just Logan and Patton now. I Am Damaged started, Patton making sure to sound sad, terrified, and relieved all at the same time. He made sure to also cry, and Logan needed to have Patton teach him how to do that. Logan did his best to sound terrified and desperate, both characters sounding like teenagers still in love but damaged.

Virgil and Dolos run over after the explosion, talking to each other. Logan started Seventeen (Reprise), sounding done and furious, but then to hopeful and remorseful when he talked to Emile (or Martha). When they sang together, it was also out of heart as they both knew how it felt to be separated by friend groups. Soon Virgil joined in, Dolos joining it after and then ensemble joining. The males did their part, the females also, soon all coming together. Thomas was smiling the whole time, nodding along to them and claps loudly as it ended.

“And that’s a wrap!”

[todisturbtheuniverse]

FIC: Last Year’s Language

Rating: T Fandom: Stardew Valley Pairing: Shane/Female Farmer Tags: Pre-Relationship, Friendship, Pining, Fluff Word Count: 3000 Summary: Shane and Lydia spend a quiet New Year's Eve at the farmhouse, which leaves Shane a lot of room to ruminate. Post-eight heart event, pre-relationship. Also on AO3. 

Sometimes, Shane thought, it seemed as if Lydia had decided to skip straight past friendship and right on to old married couple, disgustingly comfortable with one another.

Not that they were...not that she would...there was no point in even ruminating on the subject, even though ruminating was probably the only thing he did well. Turning thoughts and ideas over and over and over in his mind until they'd turned into something monstrous and horrifying: his specialty.

This was different. This, he wished he could turn into something shiny and good. But he was incapable of that, so it was better that he left it alone entirely.

He tried to, anyway. Despite that silent vow, he still found it—her—in his thoughts more often than not. It wasn’t the first, or the last, or the only way his brain had betrayed him, so he tolerated this behavior and hoped that it would pass, just like everything else.

But. He was supposed to be trying to be kinder to himself. (His therapist said that this was really being “fair” to himself. He disagreed. They compromised on “kind.”) And if he was being kinder to himself, then he had to admit that the situations he kept putting himself in did not really make it easy to forget how he felt about her. Or how the chemicals in his brain thought they felt about her, at least.

Now that—that wasn't fair. Not to him, but to Lydia. Of course he liked her. He could hardly believe that there were people in Pelican Town who didn't—but they existed, supposedly. He steered clear of them.

If only he could stop there, with liking her, and be satisfied.

Lydia picked up a card from the draw pile, tucking it into the middle of her hand, the way she did with every card she picked up. She studied it a long time, her brow furrowed in concentration, and then lifted the whole fan of cards to conceal her mouth. It was no use; he heard her jaw crack all the way across the table from the strength of the yawn. Farmers were not meant to stay up so late—not even on New Year’s Eve. Didn’t matter that winter was still desperately hanging on, that nothing was growing on Northern Lights Farm; she always found a way to occupy herself. Judging by the bruise on the hand holding the cards, she’d probably been back to the mines today.

“We can pretend we made it to midnight,” he offered.

She glared over her cards at him, her eyes bloodshot. “You just want to get out with your dignity intact.” She tapped the pad of paper where she was keeping score.

“I’m behind by more than a hundred points, last I checked,” he said dryly. “As usual, there's no escaping with my dignity.”

The cards lowered a little, enough for him to see her brief smile—quickly overcome by another yawn. “You could still come back,” she said, jumping from mild trash talk to encouragement instantly. “We’ve got twenty-seven minutes. A lot can change in twenty-seven minutes.”

He rolled his eyes; she discarded another card. His turn. He picked up the card she’d dropped, inspecting it against his hand. Two of hearts. Enough to complete his Ace-Two-Three-Four run, and with a couple of other three of a kinds…

He laid down his cards, surprised at his good luck. “Gin.”

“Fuck,” she sighed, laying down her cards, too, and began to count up what she owed him, pencil in hand. He'd caught her with a couple of face cards unaccounted for. “See? I told you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

She penciled in the new scores, elbow on the table, chin in hand, while he gathered up the cards and began to shuffle, watching her out of the corner of his eye. There was a big get-together at the Stardrop tonight, but Lydia had opted out, despite half a dozen separate invitations. She could have been toasting with the rest of the town right now; most of them liked her pretty well, after all, a few idiots notwithstanding.

But instead, she was here. She'd invited him and Jas over, promised hot drinks and a towering stack of brownies and entertainment. And he'd been too selfish to turn her down, even though she'd have been better off mingling, drinking with all the people who could still drink without nearly killing themselves. She probably wished she was there.

No. No, that was last year's language. Lydia didn't do anything she didn't want to do. He knew that.

Even though he was sure that this was boring. That he was boring. She had to be bored.

She yawned again, proving his point.

"Sorry," she said, her eyes drooping a little. "I shouldn't have gone to the mines today."

He glanced at the bruise on her hand again. It wasn't about him, as usual; he was blowing things out of proportion, as usual.

"That's nothing to worry about, right?" he asked, nodding at the hand.

She held it out in front of her while he dealt the cards, frowning, turning it this way and that. "Nah. I've had worse."

His stomach twisted. The memory of that night—it hadn't been so long ago, just earlier this winter—made his blood run cold. His mind, which had always been more his enemy than anything else, sometimes reminded him of it at moments when he was otherwise just fine: the strange huddled shape she'd made on her porch, the snow caught in her eyelashes, the blood dried on her face—

"I'm okay," her voice said, quiet, and he snapped back to the present to find himself holding the deck, both their hands dealt. Hastily, he put the stack of cards down between them.

"Yeah, I know," he said, picking up his hand.

When he glanced up again, checking to see if she'd picked up a card, she was watching him; her hazel eyes were murky in the firelight, her teeth worried at her lower lip, and his stomach twisted in an entirely different—almost entirely pleasant—way.

"I'm careful," she said. "I promise. Way more careful than I was that night."

"I know," he said again, and then, "I'll just feel better when you're back to swearing at the sprinklers, is all."

She laughed; her eyes twinkled. "It's nice of you to worry about me," she said, teasing, and finally gathered up her cards to take a look at them.

"I do," he said. It was important for her to know that, he thought. That she wasn't the one doing all the worrying. "Worry about you. But I know you can take care of yourself."

She wasn't laughing anymore; her features had fallen into more serious lines. He should have let it go, should have let her make her joke and brush it off.

"To be honest with you, I...I'll feel better when I'm back to swearing at the sprinklers, too. It's an adventure down there, but…" She trailed off, eyes wandering her cards, frowning.

“But?” he prompted.

She shook her head, gave a quick shrug. “I don’t know. It gets lonely.”

Strange. Somehow, he had a hard time imagining that Lydia ever got lonely. He could arrive at the farm any time of the day or night, and she would be in the middle of some task—swearing at the sprinklers, her hands full of a piece of lumpy knitting, four pots and pans on the stove with something delicious simmering inside. Sometimes just lying sprawled out on the grass with her dog half on top of her, talking to him like he was a person.

She always seemed so occupied, like her life alone was so rich and full. His life alone had never felt like that.

But she hadn't said, “It gets scary,” or “it gets cold,” or “it gets bloody.” Lonely. In a dangerous mine full of dangerous creatures, she got lonely.

It seemed like an invitation, somehow. Or maybe a question she couldn't bring herself to ask. He knew all about those.

“If you want company,” he said, before he could second-guess himself, “just ask, okay?”

She looked up; her mouth opened, just slightly, then closed again. For a long moment, she considered him instead of her cards, as if weighing his hardiness against rock crabs and enraged bats and all the varieties of slimes.

“Really?” she asked, and though his instinct was to interpret this as judgmental, as dubious, he heard something else entirely in her voice, something even he couldn't miss. Hope. Relief.

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, as long as I’m not working, or busy with Jas…" That was a lot of caveats, but he had to pay attention to his responsibilities; she understood. "I can come with you whenever. Really.”

She smiled, a slow, liquid thing entirely unlike her usual quick grins, and his heart made an astonishing effort to break through his ribcage and throw itself at her feet.

He was doing a great job stifling that crush. Really, really great. It would evaporate any day now.

“I would like that,” she said. “Next Saturday, maybe?”

He nodded, afraid of what might come out of his mouth next if he didn’t keep it firmly shut, and they returned to their card game. She stayed quiet this time, but whenever she lowered her cards and exposed her face he saw that smile, firmly entrenched, and thought, I did that, somehow. His brain was already feverishly working on how to achieve a repeat performance.

She won, of course, but the margin was narrower than he’d thought it would end up being. He could read that in all kinds of nasty ways. An omen that he would always fall a little short no matter how hard he tried, maybe. But he tried to think of a kinder way to interpret it, instead. Like he was catching up, slowly but surely.

Instead of turning on the TV, they watched the clock on her mantle, the tarnished golden second hand creeping steadily closer to midnight—and then, in an instant, it passed through the peeling XII.

"Well, that's that," Lydia said matter-of-factly.

He drained the last of his cider. “I should probably get going.”

She yawned, so wide that he feared for her jaw. “Need help with Jas?” she asked, even though it was clear how hard she was fighting to stay awake; she wouldn’t make the minute walk to the truck, let alone the twenty-minute walk back from the ranch.

“I'm pretty sure I can get her to the car.”

Lydia pushed back from the table and stretched, arms reaching out above her head, and he made himself look away, pushed back from the table himself and went to collect Jas from beneath the pile of blankets in Lydia's room. In the semi-darkness, he didn't even give himself permission to look around; it felt too much like spying on her, like an intrusion.

Jas, he'd learned early on in their life together, was a light sleeper. He focused entirely on peeling back the blankets without waking her up. No sooner had he set aside the second one, though, than her eyes opened, glinting in the low light.

"What time is it?" she asked, her voice still slurred from sleep.

"Little after midnight. Time to go home."

Her face scrunched up in a devastated scowl. "I missed it," she lamented, wide-awake in an instant, throwing back the rest of the blankets and nearly burying Shane beneath them. "You should've woken me up!"

He was too old and tired to feel anything in particular at the passing of the hand of the clock over midnight, but with a suddenness that winded him, he remembered being a kid, imagining some magic in it all, that this year would be the year, and he was seeing it right from the beginning.

It had all been bullshit, obviously, but it didn’t have to be for Jas.

He managed to evict himself from all the quilts. “Sorry, kiddo,” he said, and meant it. “Next year I’ll wake you up, okay?”

With a huff, she threw herself out of the bed and flounced into the main room. Shane made it to the doorway just in time to see Jas slam the front door behind her, not even acknowledging Lydia.

“Ouch,” Lydia said, laying a hand over her heart.

“Yeah, we’ve really offended her,” he said, frustrated. "Sorry. She's not usually like that. Even when I screw up."

"Hey. Don't say that. You didn't know."

He shrugged, helplessly, and saw Lydia's eyes narrow in calculation despite her exhaustion.

"I think she’ll forgive us," she declared. "Especially if you take some of these home with you.” She pointed out the stack of brownies. “I’ll pack them up.”

He would have protested, except that he understood very well by now, after nearly a year of knowing her, that little else in the world gave her more pleasure than foisting food off on people. He therefore endured the brownie acquisition process in silence.

“Thanks for having us,” he said, the tupperware container of brownies in hand, standing in the open door.

“Thanks for coming,” she said, and then, her face more serious, “hey. I know you hate talking about this stuff, but I just wanted to say—it’s been a good year for you, you know? You’ve done some incredible things.”

He had his own opinions on what things qualified as incredible, but he didn’t like making Lydia look like she’d just watched him kick a puppy, so he kept his mouth shut.

“And my year’s been pretty great, too,” she said, in a smaller voice. Her eyes fell from his face to study his shoes. “In no small part thanks to you, so...thanks.”

Quickly—so quickly he wasn’t entirely sure what her intention was, and so he stood there, frozen in place—she stepped closer and hugged him, arms looping up around his shoulders. Maybe this was an instinctive human thing that he hadn’t missed out on, because it only took a heartbeat for him to react, one arm wrapping around her, the other hand holding the brownies aloft.

For a moment, all attempts to stifle whatever this was failed. He held her, and she didn't pull away; she pressed closer. There was a nice, clean scent to her hair—he'd caught brief hints of it before, but now he realized there was a sweet, flowery aroma beneath, simple, like the wildflowers that grew rampant on the land she hadn't had time to cultivate yet in warmer weather.

For a moment, he let himself want exactly what he wanted. To imagine not going home, after all.

But only for a moment.

He convinced himself to loosen the arm that was around her, to begin to pull away. They were still safely in the territory of normal friend stuff. Hugs on special occasions. Awkward, but nice, sentiments. In limited capacity this was all completely, totally normal.

But as he pulled back, she turned her head. Her lips brushed his cheek, a touch so soft and light that he would later half-convince himself he'd imagined it. Only then did she let him go.

In his opinion, that stretched the boundaries of normal a bit.

“Happy New Year,” she said, her voice soft, and automatically he stepped back, clearing the doorway, his mind too jumbled to produce any coherent words. She began to shut the door.

“Hey,” he said, the word struggling through his throat, which seemed to have attempted to close entirely.

He’d said nothing, absolutely nothing, and some reciprocation was probably warranted, right? Normal? She paused, door still half-open, waiting, and he cast around frantically for words that would actually match, that would actually mean anything. Not his strong suit.

“It was thanks to you,” he said, finally. “You know that, right? You stuck your neck out for me when...I mean. I was an asshole to you.”

She raised one eyebrow. That smile was still there, somehow. What were the parameters for it? He had no idea.

“It was worth it,” she said, and shut the door.

He stood there, still stunned, for a good ten seconds; and then, remembering Jas, he trotted over to the truck.

He couldn't ruminate on any of that. The last sixty seconds were strictly off-limits for rumination. Not for fear that he'd tarnish them—or maybe, yes, actually, he could very well tarnish them. By believing that any of it had meant more than it did.

He expected to find Jas sulking in the passenger seat, but instead she was upright and alert as he climbed up to the driver’s side, brownies in hand. He set them down before he could drop them and searched his pockets for the keys, a little unnerved by how closely she was watching him.

“Can I ask you something?” Jas said.

“Yeah, of course,” he said, expecting her to bargain for a brownie somehow.

“Do you like her?”

He paused in the act of shoving the keys in the ignition. “Who, Lydia?”

Jas sighed impatiently and crossed her arms over her chest. “No, Buttons,” she said sarcastically, naming Lydia’s first cow. “Of course, Lydia.”

“Well, yeah. We’re friends.”

She gave him a look, a look that seemed way too sharp for a seven-year-old. “That’s it?” she pressed.

“Yeah,” he said, even though his stomach tied itself in another knot around the lie. “That’s it. Why?”

“I just really like Lydia, too,” she said, wiggling deeper into her seat. “That’s all.”

She was definitely hinting at something, but he wasn’t about to take that bait. “Yeah? That why you didn’t even say goodbye to her?”

Guilt flashed over her face. “Is she mad?” she asked worriedly.

“No, but it probably wouldn’t hurt to say you’re sorry next time you see her.”

She nodded, clearly relieved, and lapsed into silence. He knew better than to think the topic was forgotten, but for now, she seemed willing to drop it. Someday, though...maybe she wouldn’t be.

He wasn’t sure what he was going to do then.