#as long as they’re flats I might survive

[shastafirecracker]

23 👋🙂

Favorite piece of clothing - oh that’s an interesting question! Hmm. I have a fraught relationship with clothes bc of body image issues but I like this making me think about only the positives. I have a blue plaid flannel shirt that’s REAL flannel and well made that I love, and I miss it when it gets too hot out to wear it. Also a really nice hoodie from the computer game Myst. And I really like my shoes? I hate buying shoes and wearing different shoes so I tend to have a single pair of shoes that I wear for literally everything until they disintegrate, and these are black slip-ons from LL Bean. Second pair of the same type - I wore the first pair basically every day for 6 years until the soles came off. (Sometimes I think oh surely I’m not autistic, and then I think about my aversion to some changes to routine such as Having To Wear A Different Shoe for like 3 hours at an event, and how brain-wrecking that is… and then I’m like… ok I can have a little tism, as a treat)

[forever-rogue]

I saw you were open to nurse!steve ideas so how about their first date? they’re both nervous bc they’re seeing each other outside the usual hospital room but still suuuper gone for the other already and you both realize yes this is my person 🥹

AN | No, but please. This is so soft and I just know that these two always knew they were meant to be 🥺 This can be read as a companion piece to the below but also as a stand alone!

Warnings | None

Pairing | Nurse!Steve x Fem!Reader

Word Count | 2.3k

Masterlist | Nurse Steve, Steve, Main

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

You had no clue why you were so nervous. It wasn’t like it was some weird blind date, or some total stranger, this was Steve. You were still getting to know each other but he’d already seen you at your absolute lowest point. 

Really it could only go up from there and yet, you were staring at the closet, unsure of what to possibly wear. Your stomach was in absolute knots, as you tried to decide between the more casual option of jeans and a nice shirt or a dress. He hadn’t said exactly what you were doing, but you still wanted to look nice. 

“Ugh,” you sighed as you settled on a simple sundress, white with some eyelet embroidery. It was a warm evening and you figured that, along with a cardigan and some flats would be perfect. You weren’t going to risk heels, you’d only just gotten comfortable with using your left leg again, “this will have to do.”

Steve was sitting in his car outside your house, trying not to have a mental breakdown. His nerves had led him to being almost half an hour early, clutching a bouquet of sunflowers and daisies tightly in his hand; sunshine for his sunshine. He was trying to give himself a pep talk, trying to tell himself that everything would be okay. He already knew you, and that was what was sending him into a tizzy. He already liked you way more than he could put into words and both thrilled and terrified him. 

After letting some more time pass, he decided that five minutes early was enough to be socially appropriate. He took a deep breath, exhaling long and slow before stepping out of the car and bringing the flowers along. He counted each step as he walked to your front door, reminding himself that everything would be fine. But as he rang your doorbell and anxiously awaited your arrival, his heart felt like it was about to burst out of his ribcage. If he wasn’t a medical professional he might have thought it was just about to do that. 

A few long moments passed before you opened the door and gave him the prettiest smile he had ever seen. All coherent thoughts in his mind seemed to leave as he looked you over. Holy fuck. How were you so pretty? It shouldn't have been allowed because he wasn’t sure how he was going to survive you. You would be the sweet, beautiful death of him.

“Hi Steve,” your face flushed with warmth as you tried not to stare at the handsome man on your doorstep. He was dressed smartly in a pair of well-fitting jeans and a dark button down with the sleeves rolled up, a beautiful arrangement of flowers in his hand. Oh no. He was not making this easy on you, “you’re here.”

“Yeah,” he smiled softly as he let out a small laugh, “did you not expect me?”

“I did,” you grinned, “but I don’t know…I thought maybe I’d made all this up in my mind and you weren’t real after all.”

“I assure I’m very real,” he held out the flowers to you with a small flourish, “and these are for you. I wasn’t sure what your favorite flowers were, but I hope you like them…sunflowers and daisies suit you.”

“Thank you,” your heart felt like it was about to burst as you took them gently, “it happens to be your lucky day - these are my favorites. Do you want to come in for a few? I want to put them in water real quick.”

“Of course,” you turned around and motioned for him to follow you, slowly making your way into the kitchen, which thankfully was close by. Steve, the good man that he was, tried his hardest not to stare at you, but it was a herculean challenge. You were like the sweetest and most tempting fruit in the garden, “how’s the ankle?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” you promised as you grabbed a vase from the cabinet and quickly filled it with fresh water along with a bit of sugar and vinegar. Steve leaned against the counter as he watched you work, his toffee eyes practically glittering with affection for you. You made quick work of trimming the stems before setting them in the solution you’d made, “it feels weird to use that foot freely again and it still throws me off, so please excuse the fact that I’m hobbling around. I’ve just started PT so hopefully it’ll be better in a few weeks.”

“You’re perfect,” the words were out of his mouth before he could stop him and the sweet look you gave him made him not regret a thing. He laughed nervously, “it takes time but you’re already using it which is a good sign. And…if you ever need any help, I’d be more than happy to help.”

“I might just have to take you up on that offer,” you set the flowers down in the center of the kitchen counter, grinning when you saw how they brightened up the room. Steve softened when he saw the happy look on your face, “so you didn’t technically tell me what we’re doing so I hope I’m not over or under dressed?”

“You look beautiful,” he promised, catching your eyes with pastel pink cheeks but refusing to look away. You opened and closed your mouth a few times before biting your bottom lip, “really.”

“Steve-”

“First thing is dinner,” he grinned and your eyes lit up, “I hope you like Italian otherwise we’re going to have some awkward reservations.”

“I love Italian,” you nodded, trying to contain your eagerness. You really liked Steve and definitely didn’t want to scare him off just yet, “that’s perfect.”

“Yeah?” he perked up as you beamed at him, “let’s get going then!”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Spending time with Steve was…ridiculously easy. There was no awkwardness between the two of you, no uncomfortable pauses or nervous energy. It felt like you’d known him for ages already, and you were able to tell him anything and everything. And he gave it right back to you. You liked listening to him talk about himself, the kids he basically adopted and still loves, his work, and anything in between. He listened intently to you talking about your work, about your childhood, and how you loved only oddly specific pizza toppings. And it never once felt like he was disingenuous or condescending at all; Steve Harrington genuinely loved spending time with you. 

After dinner was finished, a bundle of sadness settled in your belly as you realized that he was probably going to take you home soon. You weren’t ready to end the evening with him; he could have stayed and never left as far as you were concerned. You wondered if he left the same, if he’d even want to see you again. Little did you know that Steve was already imagining a future filled with you. Steve was a smart man, but he was also an incredible romantic…something he hadn’t really realized until he met you. 

“I hope I’m not, you know, reading the room wrong, but would you like to get dessert?” he sounded timid as the two of you walked out of the restaurant; you turned to him with a big smile and an eager nod.

“I was umm…kind of hoping for that,” you admitted sheepishly, feeling your heart jump as he took your hand in his, threading his fingers through yours as though he’d done it thousands of times before. You gently squeezed his hand and followed his lead, feeling both exuberant and protected, “I’m not really ready for this night to be over.”

“Me neither,” he had a really pretty smile. You suddenly had the desire to make sure he always had a smile on his face, “I…this feels so crazy to say, but I really like spending time with you.”

“Funny,” you nudged your arm slightly into his, “I was just thinking the same thing.”

“Yeah?” oh. You could definitely get used to that.

“Yeah,” before you could stop yourself, you leaned up and pressed a quick little kiss to his cheek. Steve turned bright red and flustered; you thought he was adorable. 

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

“You clearly have no taste,” you pretended to huff heavily as you licked at your ice cream cone, “chocolate chip cookie dough is a classic. Iconic basically, and you, Harrington, are missing out.”

He snorted in amusement as the two of you walked through the park, the setting sun coloring the sky in pretty shades of golds and oranges. One hand was holding yours and the other was holding his own ice cream, a mixture of chocolate and vanilla today. 

“I’m telling you, I spent a whole summer working at Scoops Ahoy and it scarred me for life,” he playfully groaned, “really ruins a lot of ice cream when you have to serve it to screaming children everyday!”

“You did get something good out of it,” you reminded him, “your best friend!”

“That’s true,” his heart fluttered with the knowledge that you already remembered this little detail about his life, “don’t know what I’d do without Robin.”

“Maybe one day I can meet her,” you looked over and gave him a hopeful little smile, aware of the full meaning behind your statement. It held a promise of more - of a future together. You’d never been sure about a lot of things in life, but you were already sure about Steve Harrington, “if she’s anything like you, she must be great.”

“Flatterer,” he smiled nonetheless, busying him with his cone in order to keep from making a total fool out of himself, “lucky for you it works on me.”

“Lucky me,” you stopped in front of a bench overlooking the small lake, and tilted your head towards it in a silent question, both of you throwing away the cone wrappers. He nodded and the two of you sat down, leaving just enough of an acceptable space between your bodies, “you know, I never felt particularly lucky, but I’m starting to think I just might be.”

“That makes two of us,” he hesitated for a moment before putting his arm around your shoulders and scooting just a little closer. You stiffened for a moment, nervous at his affection for a fraction of a second before relaxing into his touch and putting your head on his shoulder. 

It was easy to fall back into conversation with him, and the two of you talked until the sun had set and the sky was a pretty shade of blue and purple, a few stars visible. You were glad it was summer or you would have been freezing, but everything that evening felt perfect. You were half tempted to ask him to stay for the evening, but didn’t want him to get the wrong idea either. Of course you wanted to have sex with him, you were only human after all, but you didn’t want to rush anything either. Steve Harrington was a good one and you didn’t want to ruin this. 

With a small sigh, you peeled yourself away from his side and sat up, angling your body towards his. He looked at you, an air of disappointment around him too. He reached over and gently tucked a few loose strands of hair behind your ear before brushing his knuckles over your cheek, “it’s getting late.”

“I know,” you tried to keep the pout off your face but were sure you were doing a horrible job of it, “I don’t want this evening to end.”

“Me neither,” he seemed bashful as he looked away for a moment before looking at you with expression on his face. He leaned ever so slightly and your breath hitched in your throat as you realized what was happening, “may I kiss you?”

“Yes,” his large, warm hand settled on the side of your face as he closed the remaining gap and gently pressed his lips to yours. As soon as he kissed you, you felt an electric shiver run down your spine and a delicious warmth bloom in your stomach and spread through your body. You’d kissed a fair number of people before, but he made all of them seem like they had no clue what they were doing. He melded perfectly into you, and it felt like the two of you had been doing this forever. 

When he pulled back after he kissed you dizzy and breathless, he looked at you curiously. You kissed many frogs before but you were sure that Steve was your prince. 

“That was-”

“Incredible,” you finished for him and he nodded happily. Both of you seemed to be on the same page as he leaned in and kissed you again, pulling you into his warm body as the kiss slowly became more passionate and intense. You hated to pull back but you knew that you couldn’t keep going or you wouldn’t be able to stop, “Steve.”

“You’re an angel, you know that?” he pressed his forehead against yours, and you could feel him smiling against your lips, “and as much as I wanted to keep going, I want to do this right. I don’t wanna half-ass anything with you.”

“Yeah?” you were looking up at him with the sweetest eyes and he couldn’t help but steal a few more kisses, “I really like you, Steve.”

“I really like you,” he had a breathtaking smile, “I hope this isn’t too forward but…when can I see you again?”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is perfect.”

[ncisfranchise-source]

Be honest. When NCIS premiered in 2003, did you really expect it to be going strong and with a full franchise built around it 22 years later?

JAG was a success, but NCIS outperformed even the wildest of expectations of a spinoff to become a cultural juggernaut that shows no signs of slowing down.

Can you imagine a TV lineup without at least one version of NCIS? When you’re looking at decades of long-running entertainment and on-demand watch possibilities, it’s impossible. 

Gibbs: The Guy Who Said More with a Look than Most People Say in a Speech

Even years after he stepped back from leading the team, Leroy Jethro Gibbs remains the backbone of NCIS. There’s a reason the character is getting the prequel treatment — he’s iconic.

The man barely speaks, but when he does, you know he means business. Mark Harmon‘s use of the less-is-more approach worked like magic. Without his performance, Gibbs, as we know him, wouldn’t exist.

Gibbs may have a permanent poker face, but you never questioned the emotions brewing just under the surface. A quick nod or a stern look would have everyone falling in line.

You might have wondered if NCIS could survive Harmon stepping back, but the show hasn’t lost its edge with his absence.

The story continued steadfastly on. Harmon has remained a fixture behind the scenes, and even if he’s not the face we see when we turn on NCIS, we can still feel Gibbs’s presence in every episode.

The Unlikely Family Dynamics

You don’t have to be ashamed to admit that falling in line with the NCIS team is your guilty pleasure.

Solving mysteries is done all over the place on TV.

Creating dynamic relationships on-screen can be like lightning in a bottle. You can have the most talented actors and the best writers, and the relationships can fall flat.

NCIS banter is magical, and the agents are one of a kind.

They feel like family, albeit a highly dysfunctional one. They work hard and play hard, ribbing each other like kids while chasing down murderers. Sounds just like home, right?

Every time a character left, viewers braced for disappointment, thinking, “There’s no way this can work now.” But every time, NCIS proved us wrong. 

Newer faces like Torres and Knight managed to slip into the team without feeling like knock-offs. Even Gary Cole’s Alden Parker didn’t try taking Gibbs’s place. 

NCIS has the unique ability to let go of the past while still feeling familiar. Maybe it’s because the past is never forgotten, just like with family.

Balancing Intensity and Humor – A Lesson in How to Laugh Right After a Murder

Murder is a rough business. Nobody wants to be murdered, but even solving them takes a little getting used to. Laughter helps.

NCIS has a knack for making us giggle right after exploring a grisly murder scene. Cracking jokes, nerdy habits, or obscure historical facts in the middle of an autopsy sound offputting, but those survival tactics work on screen and off.

NCIS manages a nearly perfect balance between dark crime drama and light-hearted scenes that keep viewers from dwelling on a story’s gloomier details.

Without that perfected blend, the rotating cast, and holding tightly to the past while never losing sight of the future, NCIS might have gotten stale or, even worse, too heavy to bear repeat viewing. 

But NCIS never forgets to have fun. One minute, they’re uncovering a terrorist plot, and the next, Torres is getting roasted for his ridiculous undercover disguises. 

That humor makes the show feel like a comfortable old friend. No matter how serious things get, there’s always a laugh waiting in the wings.

Ridiculousness (Not the Show. The Cases!)

Okay, so some of the crimes are… let’s say, out there. 

I mean, how many terrorists are out there targeting Navy personnel? Wouldn’t we know if this was a thing, let alone one that spans 22 years and an entire franchise?

But NCIS has a way of making even absurd stories feel personal. The stakes are always high, and as ridiculous as it sometimes seems, we’re all in for every case.

Like many other successful mystery shows, the why and how of crime solving is just as important as the who, and using that standard allows NCIS to weave in bigger, season-spanning arcs like ongoing terrorist threats or complicated political conspiracies.

Sure, some of these cases might stretch credibility, but the team keeps us invested. Feeling like family allows us to forget we’re watching a procedural and get caught up in the larger story.

Comfortable might not be the go-to word for a crime show, but for many, NCIS is just that. 

It is so satisfying to settle in with characters you know well as they successfully pluck bad guys off the street (and out of the water) and put them behind bars.

The cast and the stories may change, but in a chaotic world, the reliability of these crime-solving characters to make things right before the hour ends puts NCIS high on the list of comfort TV.

It’s not high-concept TV and won’t win any awards for groundbreaking storytelling. But it’s the show that makes us feel, for an hour a week, like everything will be okay. 

That’s something we all need sometimes.

[avocado-writing]

ANGST ANGST ANGST

Tangerine x GN!Reader (They/Them pronouns)

CW: Mature (Sex References), Self-Depreciation, Near-Death Experience

@honestlywtfisgoingon​ @white-wolf-buckaroo @felhomaly @sinfulrefugy @venusthepirate @lunarpansexual @wanderedaway​​ @georgiee-riviere @mushywutty​​ @piechans @apieceoffabulousshit @4ng3l-0n-34rth @minjaz @starl1g4t @earth-elemental18 @luhvbot​ @underratedboogeyman @july-is-summer @vocalvixen20cp @northerngalxy​ @tangerinesgf​ (thank u coupleofruits for the gif!)

He’s pulling away from you, and you don’t know why.

The not knowing hurts almost as much as the distancing. You’re not sure what happened. Was it something you did, something you said? Terrible ideas race across your mind as you try to pinpoint what you might have done to upset him. 

You don’t know the why, but you know the when. He started drifting after he came back from Japan a month later than he said he would, with a bandage on his neck and a story behind it he wouldn’t tell you.

Maybe he’s met someone else, you think, dully. It wouldn’t surprise you. Someone better looking, more up to his standard. Maybe they know how he likes it when he has a lover’s fingers carding through his hair, their nails down his back.

The thought of someone else in bed with your Tangerine makes you feel sick. You swallow the idea down with a lump in your throat that threatens to erupt into tears.

It’s the small hours of the morning. You woke up to get a glass of water, and you can see him standing on your balcony. He doesn’t sleep well any more so instead he’s having a smoke, leaning on the railing. It looks like the weight of the world is on his shoulders from the way he’s slumping forward. Quietly you slide open the door and join him.

It’s cold and you’re regretting not bringing a jumper. You can see the gooseflesh on his arms, so he must be feeling it too - but the stoic, contemplating look on his face shows he’s barely registered it. You reach out and lay a hand on his bicep; when he notices, he shrugs you off.

Oh. That stings.

“Tan…” you say, softly. He waves you away with his hand before taking a long drag on his cigarette.

“Don’t.”

“Tan, please. Please tell me what’s the matter,” you beg. It’s something you’ve said a dozen times these past few weeks and every time it falls on deaf ears. “I want to be able to help.”

“You don’t,” he practically spits. You recoil like he’s slapped you, even though he’s barely lifted a finger this whole conversation.

“What?”

“You don’t help. You never help, you’re fucking insufferable,” he snaps. He stabs his cigarette out on the wall, violently, flicks it over into the street below.

What? Why? Why would he be talking to you like this?

“I thought… weren’t we…” you can’t get the words to form in your mouth correctly, every attempted sentence fails you. You’re left blabbering like a fool. Tangerine just sighs, rubs his face.

“I’m going back to mine.”

“Tan, wait, please - ”

But he doesn’t wait. He walks through your little flat, grabs his coat from the door hanger, and slams the door as he leaves.

When you’re sure he can’t hear you any longer, you let yourself sob.

Tangerine grips the steering wheel so tight his knuckles turn white. The streets are practically empty at this time in the morning so he can go as fast as he wants. It helps a bit. Channels some of the pent-up energy he has.

He presses down on the accelerator, watching the speedometer tick up.

He almost died. Back in Japan. He can still see the guy who fired the gun at him, clipped his neck so close he should have bled out on that train floor. It was a stroke of luck that he survived it. How could he look you in the eyes and tell you that? It would break you. You’d never let him go again. He’s not sure he’d want to leave you.

That’s the thing about having another half in his line of business. They’re collateral. They could get hurt, targeted, used as a means to get to someone.

Or it’s the other way. You die on a mission and they’re left brokenhearted back at home. 

It took that brush with death for him to finally realise it. That it’s… easier this way. For both of you. He can’t subject you to a life of constant panic every time he goes on a job. Because one day, if he doesn’t come back, you… you…

Well. He can’t do that to you, is where he leaves that thought.

Like pulling a plaster off. Quick if painful. Yeah; he’s doing the right thing. 

He tries to make himself believe that for the rest of the night as he gets home and lies sleeplessly in bed.

Lemon can read people, and he’s known his brother his whole life - it’s not even reading Tangerine any more, it’s basically looking at a fucking picture book.

So when he gets a text from his brother telling him to pick him up from his own flat when he knows Tangerine was seeing you last night, Lemon gets an inkling something is wrong. The look on Tangerine’s face only cements this as a truth. He looks tired, bitter, foul-tempered.

Alright, well, even more foul-tempered than is usual for Tangerine.

They drive in silence for a little while. Lemon knowing something is wrong, and Tangerine knowing Lemon is going to ask about it; neither wanting the conversation that will come with it.

Lemon can have a good guess at what’s got him like this. When he asks Tangerine how you are, his brother’s jaw tightens. 

“I’m not seeing them again.”

Lemon slams on the brakes so hard Tangerine almost goes through the windscreen. He wasn’t expecting that answer. They come to a stop in the middle of the motorway, a symphony of car horns expressing their displeasure at this in the background.

“What the fuck are you doing?! We’re on the fucking M25!” Tangerine shouts. Lemon rolls his eyes and puts the hazards on. 

“What do you mean you’re not seeing them again?”

Tangerine huffs. 

“I said what I said.”

“Nah, that ain’t gonna slide,” Lemon says. He turns on the handbrake and crosses his arms over his chest, turning to his brother. “You’re gonna tell me exactly what happened.”

Tangerine clenches his fists. People keep honking outside, Lemon throws two fingers up at them.

“I thought…” Tangerine isn’t good at emotions, neither feeling them nor expressing them. But those two words are all Lemon needs.

“Ah, fuck me. You’re doing the noble ‘it’s better this way’ thing, aren’t you?”

Tangerine is furious that he’s so transparent. He spins to face Lemon, acid on his lips.

“Well, it is fucking better, isn’t it? If you don’t remember, I spent a month in a Japanese hospital after I almost fucking died, you bellend!”

“Don’t call me a bellend, I was the one guarding your room the whole time to make sure nobody tried to shoot you again!”

He was. He was also the one who ended up dealing with all of your calls to Tangerine, trying to calm you down by promising they were both okay but wouldn’t be back for a while. He still remembers the sound of panic in your voice.

Yeah. He can see why Tangerine would make this decision. Doesn’t mean he thinks it’s the right one, though.

“What did you tell me? When you first met them?” Lemon asks. It’s a bit more gentle now, but his voice doesn’t leave any room for wiggling out of it. He sounds like a teacher. 

Tangerine groans.

“I don’t remem-”

“Don’t lie to me. You can’t.”

A beat. More car horns.

“That I was the happiest I’d been for a long time.”

“Exactly. And you were. The only thing that’s changed is that you got shot. And even though it didn’t kill you, you’re still letting it take you away from them. So you might as well be dead, for all the good you’re doing.”

Tangerine lets this soak in for a moment. He forgets just how succinct Lemon can be sometimes. That underneath the twat going on about Thomas the Tank Engine, there’s a man who might just know him better than he knows himself.

“Turn around,” he sighs. Lemon grins. No matter how old he is, there’s a part of him which will always celebrate when he wins an argument with his brother.

“See, I told you. It’s just like in Thomas when-”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”

You’re on your way home from the corner shop. They’re pricey, yeah, but you can’t be arsed to go all the way to the big supermarket at the moment. You’ve already had to wear sunglasses to hide your puffy eyes. The last thing you wanted was to have a proper breakdown in the ice cream aisle, so the little shop had to do.

When you see Tangerine standing outside your block of flats you freeze. He’s ringing the buzzer almost viciously with how he’s stabbing at the buttons. You’re not sure if you should approach him or turn and leave. If he’s here to end things for definite you think your heart might just break in your chest.

Not that running will help. It will just delay the inevitable. So you summon what little courage you possess and start to close the gap between the two of you.

Tangerine sees you out of the corner of his eye. He starts making his way towards you, a fast walk that nearly becomes a run the closer he gets. You close your eyes as he approaches, like that will protect you from the hurt.

You don’t expect his arms to envelop you. You don’t expect to be pulled flush to his chest, hard. You don’t expect the kiss he gives you, passionate to the point of bruising. 

The plastic bag you had in your hand falls to the floor. Two tubs of Ben and Jerry’s roll off the curb and into the road. 

“Tan?” you gasp when you break for air. He holds your face in his hands, looking you over.

“I’ve been a twat,” he states. This is as close as Tangerine really gets to apologising and meaning it. And it’s a good sign. 

“Yeah, you have been,” you agree. He chuckles.

“Alright, I deserved that.” He steps back, roots around in his pocket, and holds something up.

A bunch of keys. A West Ham keyring, of course, but they’re not the keys to his flat door. You know what those look like.

“What…?”

“I bought us a house.”

This takes a moment to sink in, and then:

“Tan, you did what?!”

It is at this point Tangerine realises just what a huge gesture this has been and, really, he ought to have maybe discussed this with you first. Lemon had warned him as such but he’d been incensed. Also the brass knuckles he’d been wearing had encouraged the estate agents to expedite the whole process, so he hadn’t had the time to stop and think.

“Err, yeah,” is what he manages. Slowly, a smile creeps over your face, and you throw your arms around his neck.

“I love you, you numpty,” you tell him, speaking quietly into his ear.

“Yeah. I love you too.”

He squeezes you, and knows he’ll never let you go again.

For better or for worse.

[fogsrollingin]

Time for some more Good Omens fic recs! These are the most recent fics I've read and loved. For all of them, nav to https://fogsrollingin.neocities.org/recs/goodomens 😈🪽 Cheers and happy readings! 📚🥂

Ocean of Secrets (illustrated) by magicbubblepipe. Explicit, 16k words, Aziracrow. Summary: When Crowley uncovers a plot to sink a so-called unsinkable ship, he decides to take credit for it and collect a commendation from the safety of his London flat. That is, until he spots a certain flaxen haired angel with a weakness for expensive creature comforts boarding the ship. He's forced to take action, lest his beloved be horribly discorporated. TL;DR Crowley and Aziraphale were on the Titanic. https://archiveofourown.org/works/23713294 The Titanic one - this one really stayed with me. It was such a lovely read, and I loved the epic horrifying proportions and backdrop of the Titanic. The author described the disaster very well.

Slow Show by mia_ugly. Explicit, 95k, Aziracrow. Summary: In which temptations are accomplished, grand romantic gestures are made, and two ineffable co-stars only take four seasons of an award-winning television program to realize they’re on their own side (at last, at last.) https://archiveofourown.org/works/20395261 Okay as someone who generally dislikes celebrity AUs, but I love drug addict redemption stories, I gave this one a shot (with over 12k kudos, it wasn't a hardship). Very well-written (you just know it's gonna be good when the author starts with a Richard Siken quote). Some terrific heart-wrenching angst that I adored. I appreciated the way the author mixed scenes from Good Omens into the fake TV show they were in. It worked really well for extra visualization.

A.Z. Fell Cooking (aka vlogger au) Series by MostWeakHamlets. Rated General Audiences, 35k words, Aziracrow. Summary: Aziraphale has a cooking show on the internet. It started out with three viewers, but now he's known as the happy grandfather that blew up overnight. Crowley occasionally makes cameos, has dedicated his garden to giving Aziraphale fresh herbs and vegetables, and struggles with living after the apocalypse. ___ “Taste this, my dear,” Aziraphale said. He held a spoonful of jam to Crowley’s lips with his free hand cautiously under it, ready to catch any dripping. Crowley leaned forward to wrap his lips around the spoon. Most likely his shyness came from the small tender moments Aziraphale was not afraid of showing the world. It had been the topic of many long conversations after Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand in St. James Park, causing Crowley to freeze and break out in a cold sweat. Being discreet had always been their top priority. For 6,000 years, someone would have surely seen them if they embraced in the middle of London. But now, Aziraphale had assured Crowley, things were different. They no longer needed to hide, but Aziraphale would go as slow as Crowley needed him to. It was almost funny how their roles had switched after the apocalypse. https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610359 Oh man I loved the first chapter of the second fic installment where it's written like we're voyeurs watching the heart-wrenching reality of Aziraphale caring for Crowley, who's super sickly and frail in the winter (is usually back to normal in the spring and summer). The amount of love and trust that goes into the relationship depicted in this fic is sooooooo This is mainly a South Downs curtain fic btw. It sounds like a social media AU thing, but the YouTube vlogging aspect is a side quest / cool awesome vehicle to give us some fantastic hurt/comfort

Honey, You’ll Survive by HotCrossPigeon. Teen+, 12k words, Aziracrow. Summary: Crowley only popped into the bookshop to say goodbye. He might not have been thinking straight, due to that bloody great big hole where his stomach used to be. Aziraphale, quite rightly, refuses to let the demon pop his clogs in his bookshop of all places, thank you very much. https://archiveofourown.org/works/20790638 Aziraphale saving a fatally hurt Crowley and being super straightforward about wanting cuddles was the best thing in the world. Crowley was written really well in this fic - doing his best to be snarky and sarcastic, anything but sincere and vulnerable (but he gets there. Oooo how I love that 🥰🥰🥰)

Untouched by Etaleah. Teen+, 3k words, Aziracrow. Summary: A demon's life is a lonely one. What Crowley wants is so simple, yet he can never have it. https://archiveofourown.org/works/20505689 Touch starvation. When Aziraphale finally hugs h Crowley and basically breaks him 😭 literally the best

Someone Reaching Back For Me by lorenzhellmangloucester. Teen+, 1k words, Aziracrow. Summary: Aziraphale tries to soothe, tries to rock him, completely unsure if he’s helping or not; he’s never seen Crowley lose control in quite this way. Sometimes Crowley lashes out in anger or hurt, and he’s seen him vulnerable before, but nothing like this. Nothing this fragmented, nothing this… shattered. It’s like watching Crowley break, this shivering, terrified creature clinging to him like he might disappear, and oh. Oh, Aziraphale thinks, feeling very small and fragile himself all of a sudden. In the immediate wake of the almost-apocalypse, Aziraphale realizes he's not the only one who was afraid of being left alone. https://archiveofourown.org/works/19241956 I really adored this - I love the concept of Crowley going snakey when he's upset & panicking, and especially that Aziraphale would just wrap him up in hugs and cuddles no matter how monstrous he's looking 🥰🥰🥰 I *love* it so much.

side effects by darcylindbergh. Explicit, 7k words, Aziracrow. You don’t have to do this, you know, Crowley said, somewhere around Aziraphale’s stomach. His hand was rough around the hem of Aziraphale’s jumper, tugging a little, like he was trying to convince himself to let go. I’m fine on my own. I know. Aziraphale touched carefully—he was learning how to touch, like this—searching out the place right above Crowley’s left eyebrow where the migraine lived, pressing on it. You don’t have to be, though. You can just consider me a side effect. https://archiveofourown.org/works/35166532 This was super emotional and so well written. The amount of hurt/comfort and nonsexual intimacy was amazing. There was a bit of sexual intimacy but it was... it was lovely. Definitely going to reread this one.

Recompense by Flywolf33. Mature, 21k words, Aziracrow. Summary: At first, he didn’t realize anything was wrong. They’d had a row, which wasn’t entirely unusual, and Crowley had stormed off with a few harsh words he didn’t mean flung over his shoulder. Aziraphale had flung a few of his own untruths, though he always knew they hurt the demon far more than either of them would admit. To his everlasting shame, Aziraphale didn’t start looking for another two years. By that time, the trail had gone cold and he couldn’t sense Crowley’s aura anywhere. In which Hell gets hold of Crowley and Aziraphale has to try to put Humpty Dumpty back together again - if Crowley will let him. This has nothing to do with my other GO stuff at all. This has been bouncing around in my head and I finally got it on paper. https://archiveofourown.org/works/21471934 Aziraphale barging into hell 50 years later to rescue Crowley. The slow burn of recovery and angst (the scene where Aziraphale says he'll let Crowley go forever if that's what he wants and needs to feel better and recover) and love. The device-pulsifiers family supporting them was so brilliant too. Fantastic fic.

[armandgender]

choose your own adventure pt. 14

“Cas?” Dean mumbles, hope finding its way past that broken part of him. It isn’t Cas, and some part of him knows that, but his concussed, sleep-deprived, sentimental human brain lets him believe it for a moment—that it’s Cas, pressing those fingers to his forehead, filling him with light that heals and warms him, even where his body meets the cool dampness of the earth. 

When the haze of the concussion drifts away and his eyes clear, it still leaves that aching, yawning wound at the center of him—a pain that’s been there as long as he can remember. He��s always wondered why that part of him never healed. The only explanation he could ever come up with was that it wasn’t a wound. It’s something built in. He’s supposed to feel pain. 

And it’s pain he feels when he finally blinks down at his healer and finds not Cas, but Jack, with his innocent blue eyes that almost match the same look of concern that Cas always wore. 

Sam and Jack either don’t hear him, or pretend they don’t (a wise decision). Dean rises, and the three of them assess the damage to the car. She’s wrapped around a tree—it’s a miracle any of the three of them survived. Dean can’t even find the energy to mourn the loss, he’s so empty inside. So when Jack lays a hand on the hood, closes his eyes, and pops the damage out with the sound of crunching metal, Dean doesn’t have the energy to thank him for it either. 

---

They’re making their way over the seemingly endless flatness of Idaho when Jack decides to bring it up. Sam’s asleep in the passenger seat, slumped against the window with his long hair falling in his eyes. “Do I look like him?” Jack asks, and there’s a hesitance in his voice, like he knows Dean might lash out again.

previous parts

[likemosaic]

HEADCANON : benny & kaj's relationship as depicted by me and my interpretation of benny. long post.

"He was terrified of Tearza and her army.” “I thought he was in love with Tearza,” Rin said. “He loved her and feared her,” Nezha said. “They’re not mutually exclusive.” -the p0ppy war.

benny shoots her. feels kinda bad about it but whatever.

said her comes back from the dead. typical main quest events follow and kaj eventually tracks him down to the strip.

as you can do canonly, kaj and benny sleep together. benny'd had a couple drinks and realizes in the morning how stupid that was. by this point, though, he's already fond of her, and knows that she's a fellow tribal/indigenous person, so he's hesitant to flat out kill her. that, and she's a great backup plan. so he ditches her in the morning to head to the legion camp and speed up his plan before she can meddle with it.

kaj lets benny rot in the camp for a few days while she thinks about what she's going to do moving forward, including meeting yes man. decides to move forward with seduction of caesar.

kaj rolls up to the camp in a carpet and looking cute or whatever. and sweaty as fuck. rolls a nat 20 to seduce. as a gesture of good will (because caesar assumes kaj fucking hates benny), caesar directs her to do whatever with a currently imprisoned benny.

kaj, aware that freeing him is probably not feasible, has him crucified. that's good enough for caesar to take his attention off benny, and that same night, kaj has some of her companions show up and cut him down. they then take him to one of the courier safehouses to heal.

benny wakes up a few days later and decides to head back to the strip, because he wants to understand what the fuck all that was for. him and kaj have a good long talk about what all that was. kaj is completely honest with him and lays it all out on the table: her plan for vegas. she explains that she spared him because of their mutual indigenous connection, because she believes it makes them best suited to run vegas, etc. she explains that the crucifixion was his "punishment" for shooting her, but from now on, they're even...unless he betrays her again. benny becomes the only person in the world to know her plan. he's also been sworn to secrecy and tells no one, not that he really has an interest in doing so.

benny becomes kaj's little sidepiece as the events of the game wrap up. he's not really mad about it, because kaj has explained she's going to use his plan for vegas for herself. it's clear that kaj isn't someone to be fucked with, and benny is a self-serving, surviving bastard if nothing else, so he's not going to oppose her. it helps that she sleeps with him to keep him happy and genuinely cares for him, despite his flaws--something benny hasn't really experienced before.

benny is left in charge of the strip during the second battle of hoover dam. when the battle is won, kaj's night of long knives begins. securitrons are directed, through a list kaj gave to yes man, to round up any potential problems and...take care of them. people who betrayed her, people who were loyal to house/ncr/caesar, spies for those factions. while kaj makes her way back to vegas after the battle, the strip suffers a horrific purge of people kaj perceives as potential threats to a "free" vegas. benny? terrifiedbuthorny.jpg

when kaj leaves for the commonwealth in fo4 verse, benny is left in charge...with arcade overseeing him. she expects nothing less than to come back to vegas on fire, but benny is taking it semi-seriously and doing an okay job. when he gets lazy, he has arcade to push him back into shape.

their relationship is open. kaj and benny can and do sleep with others outside of their "partnership" (in the business sense and the romantic sense). they haven't had an indepth discussion about anything romantic and really, they don't plan to. they're both too deceptive and dishonest for it, though it might happen one day.

generally, they see each other as mirrors. benny sees kaj as himself with more ambition and drive; kaj sees benny as what might have happened to her if she'd contented herself with serving house (and serving herself). despite their difficulties, after everything, they really are very fond of each other. even if kaj sometimes scares the shit out of benny.

[dandelionsandderivatives]

Advice on finishing seams without a serger?

I don’t really want to own a serger and I feel like they’re fairly recent machines anyway. There must be a better way to finish seams?

For my skirt I just turned the fabric twice and hemmed so it would be a nice finished edge. The issue is that then when I attached two seams, the poor needles had to go through 6 layers of fabric and sometimes I was at a corner and they had to go through so much it didn’t fit under the foot. There must be something I’m missing because this wasn’t even a thick fabric.

HALP PLS!!! 😭😭

Hello! I'm so sorry for the late response; I've had a few disruptions to my regular schedule in the last few weeks, and I wanted to give this a good, long, thorough answer. You absolutely don't need a serger; I'm pretty sure my grandmother has never owned one, and she's still wearing things she made back in the early 90s. I'm not as good a needlewoman as she is, but most of my stuff has held up at least as well as its storebought equivalent.

(Probably) the easiest and simplest option is just to zigzag over the edges of your fabric with a sewing machine. A serger essentially rolls sewing the seam, trimming seam allowances, and zigzagging/overcasting into one step. Depending on what you're making, you might want to trim seam allowances after sewing the seam, and then zigzag over the raw edges, or, if you've got a lot of short seams that won't fit nicely under the machine after you've sewn them, you should be able to zigzag over the raw edge of the fabric before you sew the seam. (The issue with the second option is that you'll have the full seam allowance left in there, but if you're doing that sort of precision piecing I expect the seam allowance will be narrow enough that it doesn't matter.) This doesn't necessarily have to be a zigzag stitch proper; my mother's machine does a finishing stitch that looks a bit like a blanket stitch, and I've seen other variations. But practically every machine made after 1970 or so has a zigzag, so you'll probably have the equipment to do it. The key part is that you want to catch the edge of the fabric inside the stitch, so that the stitching thread is binding the last few threads of the fabric together.

The hand-sewing equivalent to this is whipping (whipstitching) the edge of your fabric with needle and thread. I generally don't put my handmade clothes through the dryer, but all of the ones I've finished with this method have been fine in the washing machine. Most of them have survived at least one trip through the dryer unscathed. I suppose you could also do a blanket stitch, but that seems like an unnecessary amount of work.

Other methods:

Seam binding: I haven't personally tried this one. It's usually used for heavier fabrics that won't be lined (a single-layer blazer or skirt, etc). I'm sure it has other applications, but I haven't seen it often.

Pinking: This is the old-school way to finish seams. I haven't really tried it myself.

French seams: These are annoying to do on a curve and can add a good amount of bulk, but they're a very clean finish. Usually used on lingerie and other lightweight fabrics (doing this in coating weight sounds like a nightmare but also a really good high fashion concept).

Flat-felled seams: This is the way the inside of your jeans is finished. Historically it was often used for shirts, shifts, and other high-wear areas where you wanted to avoid chafing. It's somewhat similar to the French seam.

All right, now for Sewing Confessions: I'm pretty lazy when it comes to finishing my seams. I started sewing with historical stuff that wouldn't get washed super often and vintage dresses, all in quilting calico. (This is generally a bad idea but for some very specific eras of fashion it can work.) My most-washed historical piece was probably my chemise, which was sewn from old sheets. I didn't bother to do much finishing on any of these, partly because I didn't know how, and partly because I didn't really want to flat-fell all the seams in my chemise if nobody was going to see it. (Now that I'm thinking about it, I may actually have flat-felled most of my first chemise. I made a second one fairly quickly.) The other fabric I worked in was cotton flannel for nightwear.

With all of these pieces, the fabric began to wear out/get shabby long before the seam allowances frayed enough to make anything structurally unsound. I have popped a few stitches here and there which could have been saved by a more robust seam, but in general I didn't have many problems. Once I was sewing in nicer fabrics (silk and rayon, especially), I started to have issues with seam finishing. So far, simple hand-overcasting has stood up well for most of these. My usual sewing machine is straight-stitch only, so zig-zagging hasn't been an option for most of these. They've held up fine so far.

Maybe if I got some really nice fabrics, it would be a different story; I'm not telling you not to finish your seams! But bargain-bin cotton flannel, in my experience, wears out too quickly to make conscientious finishing worth it. Don't stress too much about it! I'd advise, from what little I've seen of your sewing posts, to stick to a good zigzag, or whatever finishing stitch on your machine looks interesting. If you want to be strictly historical, try pinking or flat-felling, depending on era and context. When you make some really nice sheer blouses, then maybe pull out the French seams. When you're doing a pair of wool trousers, try seam-binding tape. Go forth and sew boldly!

[o-craven-canto]

Ea, Our Second Chance (12)

12. Species study: the Kurukshetran springbear

(Index)

(< 11. The early days) (> 13. Anatomy of Diplostomia)

(I messed up. At the stage of Ea’s history in which this story is set, all people outside should be wearing a carbon dioxide filter, which they clearly aren’t in the picture.)

(original link)

« Kurukshetran springbear (Barosternon carinatus; Diplostomia : Phoneida). Autochthonous of the red mosaic woodland of Kurukshetra land, in southwestern Inanna... It feeds mostly on mid-sized (30 to 300 kg) fauna. It awaits in a suitable place, typically the edges of a grove with a view on more open ground outside, and uses its powerful hindlimb to pounce on the prey, crushing it under its trunk. The chest of the springbear is reinforced by a thick "keel" of calcite plates. The forelimbs, extremely muscular, are used to prevent the prey from dodging the leap at the last moment, or to pummel it down if necessary. »

– fragment of encyclopedia, recovered from ruins in Toumai, circa 290 AL

« If ever find yourself losing your grasp on hope, remember: your very existence means that every single one of your billions of ancestors, from the dawn of life onward, pulled through against all odds. You have already survived hell countless times; what's one more? » – Isabela Silva, Survival Handbook

They say you never get used to it.

They say you might get used to seeing lions every day, or crocodiles, or sharks – even snakes and spiders and wasps – but the things that live on this planet, they look wrong in some horrible way, and once you've seen them out in the field you're going to see them every time you close your eyes. When you think of them, it's like a worm is gnawing in your brain. Every single Earthborn, every last one, says so.

I don't know. Spiders are pretty fucking scary, if you ask me. They really should have left them behind. But the Earthborns are always going on and on about how the blistertrees look so wrong, and the coilworms look so wrong, and the roofmoles look so wrong, and the color of the fucking sky looks so wrong. The hell does that even mean? How are they supposed to look instead? I've seen pictures of gorillas. Are you telling me those things don't "look so wrong"?

Are they being a bunch of babies? I'm sure they miss home, but goddamn it, it's been sixty years now. Or ten thousand, for all we can tell. Man the fuck up. Advisor Khand is one of them, though. And Commander Samirowa, and General Mansouri. And I don't think they need to man up more than I do. I'm just sick of it. I was born on this planet, my father was born on this planet. There is nothing wrong with being born on this planet. Give it a rest.

I'll say this, though: springbears are scary. Them and wormsharks. Giant dicks filled with teeth. They'll rip you apart one bite at a time. Imagine your flesh was made of jelly and someone came over and started tearing handfuls away, that's how wormsharks kill you. But they're not a problem as long as you stay on the dry. Springbears, though... You're walking through the woods minding your own business, with your smilk goats and whatnot, and then a rover-sized monsters falls out of the sky and crushes you. Just crushes you flat, like a boulder. Your bones snap, your guts splatter on the ground. It eats you chunk by chunk, and then licks you off its chest plates with that freaky tongue it has. You can't even see where some poor bastard was crushed before you, because everything is red and black anyway.

I think I'd rather be got by a scissorwolf. At least their jaws are sharp, they cut you in half and that's it. Thing is, predators don't actually care about killing you, just about keeping you still enough to eat you. If you can't fight back because you're dead, that's cool. If you can't fight back because all your limbs are broken, that's cool too.

I've seen two of them fighting, once. Frightful stuff. They rise on the back leg, lock their arms, and each tries to push the other on its back. I guess that's why they have armored backs; would hate to think what else they'd need to defend from. An Earthborn said they looked like bears when they locked arms like that. Wouldn't know – never seen a bear. But it's in their name, so it checks out. Anyway, you'd have to see the way their arms bulge when they're really giving everything they've got. That's the kind of strength a borehole miner should have, not a goddamn animal.

I've heard that the higher-ups, maybe Khand himself, plan to use them for training. You take a springbear that's sleeping over a meal, blindfold it (pretty sure they go by smell anyway), weigh it down, and tie it to a pillar – and I hope to God it's a well-planted pillar – with a smilk cord. Then you push some poor sod, with a weapon or not, in front of it. Juuust out of reach. If you can keep your position in front of a springbear jumping on you, you can keep your position in front of anything.

Turns out there's a trick to kill them. If you see them coming, that is. They've got their brain between their shoulders, so good luck reaching it, but there's a spot in their chest where a big blood vessel pokes out of the bone plates. If you hit it right, they lose their pressure and collapse, like shooting a football. The matter is that to do that you need to keep your cool in front of a motherfucking charging springbear. I'm not saying you can't do it, but I'd feel more comfortable on a treetop during a thunderstorm, waving a steel rod around, and saying terrible things about God's mom.

I don't look forward to my turn. But if I don't drop dead on the spot, a column of gunrovers won't look so scary anymore. Actually, you know what? Bring it on, you three-legged, slit-faced, freaky-tongued asshole. I bet YOU won't look so scary anymore. We got rid of worse stuff than you, back on Earth.

– Lieutenant Jahangir Turani, personal diary, 62 AL, late spring

[tirsynni]

Regarding the Resident Evil fandom and fics, I wish there was more engagement with Metaltango and Nivannedy. As much as I enjoy Chreon, Metaltango and Nivannedy allows for different types of exploration into the characters, canon, and relationship that the more popular, solid ship of Chreon doesn’t actively encourage.

Under a cut because this grew a little long.

Nivannedy, for example... While I don’t agree with the popular fanon of Leon being alcoholic and suicidal (as much fun as it can be to write when you want some angst or h/c), there’s no denying that Leon is definitely getting burnt out and worn down. I can’t blame him. Leon is surrounded by betrayal and intrigue in a way that the others aren’t. He’s incredibly invested in saving lives, and in RE2 and RE6, he has to deal with hundreds of thousands of deaths. In Vendetta, he is openly wondering who the bad guys are and why they’re still fighting. He flat-out asks Chris how much longer could they keep going like this? (And as much as I love Chris, Chris’s flippant answer forever pisses me off.)

Piers is passionate and driven and focused. He’s seen awful things, lost comrades, and had to forcibly and repeatedly pull Chris back from the edge in RE6. His focus is on the future. When shit gets rough, he just digs his heels in. He also doesn’t take shit. I’ve seen so many fics where Piers worships at Chris’s feet, but that doesn’t match his characterization in canon. If anything, his respect for Chris makes him hold Chris to a higher standard, and as such, when Chris loses himself, Piers does his damnedest to kick his ass. Piers has fierce goals and ideals, and I love the combination of all that with Leon.

Leon is also driven by goals and ideals. As the games progress, though, we see him get beaten down and start questioning everything. A character like Piers, one who is so passionate and still idealistic and takes no shit, would be a fantastic match to get Leon on his feet and revitalize him. Help him remember what he’s fighting for and is kickass enough to fight alongside him. Bring in an energy that (again, as much as I love Chreon) you would have to struggle a bit with the Chreon ship. Vendetta showed how Chris viewed Leon being burnt out: he expected him to just get up and keep fighting like Chris does, because Chris has been in the fight as long (slightly longer) than Leon and he’s still going! With Piers, there would arguably be a shift, a different angle to it, that would remind Leon what he has always fought for and why he should keep fighting.

Also, Piers’s reaction after the missile hit and Chris was shouting for Leon to answer still gets to me. He looked incredibly emotionally invested for someone with no strong connection to Leon.

Bonus points! Ignoring Piers’s death, if Piers survives, he would also be someone in an empathetic position: him with the C-virus, Leon with the Plagas. I love things like that.

Now onto Metaltango. Ah, Metaltango. Pretty, pretty ship.Yay, canon knifeplay!

Arguably, out of all the main protagonists in the RE series, Leon is the most gray. In a good way! He has a specific focus that isn’t connected to organizations, rules, etc. His goal is to keep people safe. Save them. He can and will actively break the rules to see this happen. If someone isn’t a Good Guy? That actually doesn’t affect him too much. It’s what they DO which affects him. Krauser faking his death? Joining Wesker? The big portion which bothered Leon was Krauser dragging Ashley, an innocent, into it. Leon worked to save Sasha in Damnation despite them arguably being on different sides. He refused to let Sasha kill himself when other characters might have just pulled the trigger for him. Leon continues to work with Ada despite her being a mercenary. He told the government to go fuck itself in Damnation because the BOWs were a threat to people and he didn’t think they were going to do anything about it. His priorities are clear, and he doesn’t give a damn about if his actions are black or white, just that his goal -- saving people -- is achieved.

It is difficult -- although not impossible -- to show this in Chreon fics. Actually, I wish more people would write this into Chreon fics: the divide between the pair. Chris is someone who went from the military to STARS to a militaristic organization. He has the title of Captain. In Vendetta, when Leon is pointing out that the government is fucking bombing weddings and “Who’s the bad guy here?”, there is no doubt in Chris’s mind: it’s Arias. He has a far more rigid, militaristic, black/white mindset. For him, to save people, the goal is to take out the threat/the enemy. For Leon, the goal is simply to save people. Sometimes it includes targeting the enemy first, sometimes not. It’s the soldier vs the spy trope, and one I wish was explored more. Instead, fics tend to focus more on their similarities, including using those similarities to pull Leon out of his depression in Vendetta. 

Pairing Leon with Krauser allows exploration of that gray side of him. See the guy who is all right teaming up with a mercenary. See the guy capable of holding so many dark secrets. See the guy who says fuck you to the government and who will disobey orders if it means helping people.

That pairing also allows for an exploration of the dark role the US government plays in the RE series. The US government is the silent antagonist always in the background of Leon’s games. I’ve seen people repeatedly say that Krauser is random and unexpected and unnecessary in RE4. I disagree. I think Krauser ties Leon and this game to the other games and movies featuring Leon. Krauser is the symbol of how the government has betrayed and used its people. Krauser joined Wesker for power, yes, but he did it because the US government used him up and tossed him aside. By joining Wesker, he was able to get some of that power back. He was able to get a voice. He was able to stand tall. 

In Darkside Chronicles, Krauser is brought in purely as muscle. He knows about BOWs but it’s clear that he wasn’t briefed about what they would be facing. Leon was. Leon was the one with the knowledge, the truth about their mission. Krauser was expendable, and Krauser realizes this. He realizes that Leon was given the knowledge, the power, and he realizes how his government views him: as an expendable weapon. When his arm is injured, he knows he is done. He knows that he is going to be thrown aside like so much trash. 

That is a repeated theme in Leon’s story. In RE2, the government sacrifices Raccoon City. In ID, the government sacrifices Jason and his team and everyone connected to the incident. In Damnation, Leon is actively used and abused, and the ending with him hurts a bit. Who’s the bad guy in Degeneration? A member of the government. In RE4, the game takes place in another country with an organization that isn’t connected to the US government, and Krauser helps build that bridge.

Leon is pissed at Krauser, but it is largely due to Krauser involving Ashley. When he realizes that the villain in RE4 uses Krauser, too, he’s pissed. Leon responds to Krauser’s elevation of force throughout the game: he is never the one to elevate it himself. It’s easy to see an AU where Krauser survives and Leon is willing to treat him like Ada: more than willing to point weapons at each other, interfering with each other, but also good at saving the other’s life as necessary.

Metaltango would allow exploration of the government as the antagonist and would allow exploration of Leon’s gray side. A guy who would do anything to save innocents but would also enjoy some knifeplay in the bedroom. A guy who looks into the darkness and extends a hand instead of just shooting. “I don’t support you working as a mercenary but I support you. I don’t want to see anyone hurt.” 

For Chris, it would be simple: take out the bad guy. Krauser is a bad guy. The end. Hell, for most of the RE protagonists, that would be the perspective. Leon is the guy who works with Ada despite knowing what she does, and it would be so easy to see that with Krauser, too. Krauser’s rougher edges and his history of being betrayed by his government -- like Leon -- would invite exploration with different parts of Leon’s character, his morals, and his story arc.

For the Metaltango bonus, Krauser choosing the intimacy of the knife in his initial attacks, his choice to reveal himself instead of trying to kill Leon from a distance, his apparent jealousy over Ada, how he strips more with every battle with Leon, and his deliberate showing off with Leon is awesome. If these things aren’t in the remake, I want nothing to do with it. For fuck’s sake, I’m constantly waiting for him to lick the knife after he slices Leon’s cheek. 

Another bonus: note how Leon always engages him, always meets him halfway. Their initial knife fight is the biggest showing of this. <3 <3

Seriously. These are two incredibly overlooked ships which allows so much exploration of Leon and canon. I wish more people would check them out. :(

[mazegays]

could've followed my fears all the way down

Chapter 5

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12

“Thomas, you’re abandoning me for the greenhouse now?” Frypan jokes. “I set aside plates for you two. Harriet was going to grab you, but she said you looked like you were having a serious conversation.”

“Now, Frypan, have you ever known me to be serious?” Sonya jumps onto the counter, dodging Frypan’s playful swat. “Thomas, on the other hand, I think we have to convince him not to be.”

“Get off my counter, Miss Anti-Serious. Some of us still have work to do, you know. Jorge was looking for you, Thomas, but he’ll find you at some point.”

Jorge does have a strange way of doing that. Thomas thinks it’s a hard-earned skill. If he knows anything about Brenda, it’s that she likes to find her own way of doing things.

“Thanks, Frypan.” He manages to say before Sonya is pulling him to the fire pits. There’s not much room there this time of day, but she plops down on Harriet’s lap and he sits next to them.

“What if I had had food in my lap?” Harriet tries to look stern. “What would you have done then?”

“One, you didn’t, two, you would have moved it. That’s what you always did in the Glen.”

“I did not.”

“You did!” Rosa, one of the other Group B members, calls. “Admit it, Harriet, you’ve had it bad for Sonya for a long time.”

“I see you’ve turned against your leader. Perhaps you want to think about that.”

“Last I checked, you and Sonya lead together.” Thomas points out. H/e carefully doesn’t look at Sonya, so he doesn’t start laughing.

“Okay, stick, I see how it is.” She shoves him lightly. “You want to race again, is that it? Where’s Minho, maybe he wants in.”

“I’m here. Someone’s gotta show you all how it’s done.”

“Wait, Thomas, are you good to run?” Harriet seems to remember his sight.

“Yeah.” He blinks a few times. “The blurriness cleared up earlier. That’s a weird side effect, though. What do you think causes it?”

“No, Thomas, we’re not debating that right now.” Minho rolls his eyes. “Shank always wants to know everything about everything, I swear. He was like that in the Glade, too. Always asking questions. Newt and Alby didn’t know what to do with him.”

Thomas flinches a little when he says Newt’s name.

Minho’s not upset that he killed Newt. He said he wasn’t, and Minho wouldn’t lie about something that big. Minho hardly lies, ever.

At least, he hasn’t lied to Thomas. Thomas doesn’t have any reason not to trust him.

finish under the cut or on ao3

“How far should we go?” Rosa asks. “We can’t do it here.”

“Let them finish eating, Ro.” Harriet gestures to Thomas’s and Sonya’s plates, still mostly full. “We can decide after. None of us have anything super important this afternoon.”

“Thomas, Jorge and I wanted to talk to you.” Thomas tilts his head back to look up at Vince.

“Yeah, sure. Now?” Minho takes his plate while he stands.

“If you’d like.” Thomas shrugs. He’s just eating. It’d be nice to do with others, but he doesn’t have to.

He has a feeling he knows what they’re going to ask, anyway. Vince takes him to the back room of the common house.

“You know we fixed the Flat-Trans recently.” He nods.

“We were wondering if you’d be willing to go back through it.”

“Do we know where it opens back up yet?”

“Somewhere near where it closed.” Jorge answers.

Teresa’s body would be so close. Would it be worth it to find and dig it up, bring her back to bury her? Like so many of his friends never got to be? No, probably not. And who knows what might have gotten at it by now, anyway.

Or if anything actually survived the explosions.

“We want to do a recon mission. You’re familiar with that WCKD base.” Vince’s arms are folded, hands in fists. That’s never a good sign.

“Somewhat, yes. Mostly from half-memories and dreams. I didn’t get my memory removal reversed.” He reminds them. 

This isn’t what he was expecting at all.

“It’ll be a small group, only a few people. You’ll be leading them.” Vince hesitates, looking at Jorge. Jorge just raises an eyebrow.

“It was your rule, Vince. You can explain it.”

“You can’t take any of your friends. Brenda, Minho, Gally, any of them. Jorge and I will pick who goes with you.”

“So I don’t get any say in this?” Thomas watches Vince closely, then Jorge. 

“You do, hermano. You can say no, and one of us will go, or we’ll ask someone else. We just wanted to give you the option first.” Thomas remembers how he met Jorge in the Scorch. All the signs about him being the leader.

He’s stepped back. It’s not as fun as it looks, and he’s sixteen. He doesn’t want to lead. He shouldn’t have to.

So why does he want to say yes so badly?

Even worse, why does it feel like he’s already agreed?

“Let him have time to think on it.” Jorge says, already putting a hand on Thomas’s shoulder to guide him from the room. Vince just grunts.

Once they’re out of earshot, Jorge sighs. “I’d wanted to warn you before Vince got a chance to say anything. Hermano, you really don’t have to do this. Vince wouldn’t be convinced to ask anyone else first. Take the night at least to really consider this. Take the next few days, if you want. Speak with someone about it, please. It’s not something that needs to be done immediately.”

But the sooner it gets done, the sooner they’ll be able to get more resources, maybe bring more Immunes in. Many of the people here are living without electricity and running water for the first time in their lives. Going through the Flat-Trans might mean being able to get some rudimentary systems up and running again. 

Jorge shakes him gently. “Are you listening to me, Thomas? Don’t decide now.” Thomas has never been good at concealing what’s going on his mind, though, and Jorge remembers him from a time Before.

“Go and race with your friends before you think yourself into this. You are not the only one who can do this.”

But Thomas can tell that Jorge knows it’s a losing battle he’s fighting now. 

There’s a reason he was the Final Candidate. It was always him, it’s always going to be him.

He doesn’t race that night, sitting off to the side and cheering instead. Minho glares at him when he cheers Sonya on, but it’s worth it for the lightness it brings to his chest.

It’s much easier to ignore that he’s going to be lying to them soon enough when they’re all laughing and teasing.

[grailfinders]

Grailfinders #24: Georgios

today on Grailfinders, we’re finally getting back to work on the OG servants with Georgios! dear ol’ Dragons Georg is a Champion, because what else is a cleric with a sword supposed to be? that being said, we do make some pit stops into the Cavalier archetype for a cool horse that will not eat you, as well as the Game Hunter archetype to ruin dragons’ days even more, and the Knight Vigilant archetype to become a vigilant knight.

and yes, I’m still using the “confused with a nature god” excuse to give him some extra stuff to do. if nasu can create an entire servant based on one niche reading of a mythological figure so can I. I will be vindicated when saber Georgios comes out in LB 8.

check out his build breakdown below the cut, or his character sheet over here!

next up: Teach me, Blackbeard-san!

Ancestry & Background

While we will be spicing it up later, Georgios starts out as a bog-standard Human. that gets him a +2 in Wisdom and Constitution, but not a whole lot else at level 1. that being said, he is pretty Versatile, giving him a free first-level general feat like Ride. with this, you can automatically command animals to move while riding them, and they act at the same time you do. you also get situational protection from mental effects when you Keep Up Appearances as a reaction. this doesn’t make you immune to emotional effects, but it does prevent enemies from capitalizing on them.

at level 5, you can Sense Allies. a good tank always knows what their party is doing, otherwise the healer might run off and get himself killed pulling yet another mob group we weren’t ready for and- ahem. sorry. we’ve been playing a lot of FFXIV lately. the important thing is you can always detect when allies are nearby, and finding them while hidden is a lot easier.

at level 9 you become a Hardy Traveler, making it easier to ride around in heavy armor. turns out dragons don’t wait that long to attack.

at level 13 you gain a Stubborn Persistence that helps keep you from getting fatigued by making a flat check to avoid the effect. you still have to get away from whatever’s causing it though, or you’ll have to remake the check every once in a while.

finally, at level 17 you can Bounce Back once per day, preventing you from being wounded after hitting 0 HP. that’s one more chance to get up from being knocked down, which is practically a guts on its own.

George’s real background was a soldier, but we can pick up soldiering skills from anywhere- getting photography lessons at a later level would feel weird. that’s why we’re starting as a Printer. that gives you a boost in Charisma and Wisdom, as well as training in the Society and Scribing Lore skills. you’re also Multilingual, giving you two more languages now, and even more if you level up in society. George is simultaneously Greek, Palestinian, and English, depending on who you ask. a real globe-trotter!

Starting Proficiencies

yeah this part takes so long I’m making a whole new section for it.

Trained: Perception; Religion; Survival; Athletics; [Diplomacy; Medicine]; Reflex saves; Class DC; unarmed, simple, and martial attacks; unarmored, light, medium, and heavy armor

Expert: Fortitude saves, Will saves

Class Levels

1. your Key Ability is Strength, giving you another boost to help haul that big sword around. you also get an Ability Boost in four more stats, like Strength, Dexterity, Constitution, and Charisma.

I’ve heard rumors that they’re planning on removing alignment restrictions for Champions in the next Pathfinder update, but to be honest, being a Paladin still works really well for you. with this, you can Lay on Hands using your devotion points, which are usually one per devotion spell per day, and can be recharged by spending ten minutes doing good deeds. touch someone, and they get healed.

you can also make a Retributive Strike against an enemy who attacks another ally. this grants the ally in question some damage resistance, and you get to make an attack if they’re close enough. you also get trained in Nature for some reason.

following the trend of useless features, you can Shield Block. useful if you have one, but Georgios usually doesn’t carry a shield. maybe he should? might help.

one last feature, your Deity’s Domain grains you a second devotion point and spell. I’d rather just get the Might domain’s second spell right away, but we need to get Athletic Rush first. this spell increases your movement speed and your athletics checks, and as part of the action you use to cast the spell you can stride, leap, climb, or swim. it’s really just helping you be a lot more physical in short bursts. given what you’re fighting, every little bit helps.

2. at level two, you can take the oath to become a Dragonslayer! that means you have to fight evil dragons now, and to help with that you get a +4 bonus to damage against evil dragons when using your retributive strike. again, every bit.

you also hold the Eyes of the City, making it easier to track creatures in villages and towns by listening to local’s stories. I’m sure this can also help you find the perfect photo ops too.

we’re also grabbing the Cavalier archetype this level, giving you an animal companion. you can also pledge yourself to a cause now for bonuses in the archetype later, and given how champions are all about pledging themselves you’ve pretty much done that already.

3. at level three you gain a Divine Ally, a steed who is… also an animal companion with the mount ability. huh. you can’t keep both at the same time, so we’re mostly going to focus on the champion companion.

thankfully, other features like Express Rider can work regardless of the companion you’re partnered with, making it easier to increase your travel speed while riding.

you’re also an expert in Religion now. it’s kind of your thing. that and the dragons, obviously.

4. at level four your Divine Health makes it harder for you to get sick- you get a +1 to all saves against diseases, and your successes are always critical.

you’re also an Experienced Professional, so your photography is never bad enough to keep you from making any money off of it. I know as a man of god you’re not into material possessions, but you’re going to need quite a nest egg to afford a dragonslaying sword.

you also pick up a Cavalier’s Banner, giving all allies within 30’ of your mount a +1 bonus to will saves against fear, at the cost of causing them to be frightened when your banner is destroyed. carrying a flag everywhere is a little unwieldy, but hey it’s more mental debuff resistance.

5. at level five you get an Ability Boost in Strength, Dexterity, Constitution, and Charisma again. more health, more dragonslaying, more spell power. you’re also better at Scribing now, since that’s what we’re using as your photography. everybody needs a hobby.

on top of that, your Weapon Expertise makes you an expert with weapons! everything except advanced weapons are your for the using!

6. at level six you get a Loyal Warhorse, making your champion steed a mature companion, and it can no longer attack you, even if magically compelled to. kind of a specific feature, but given your horse’s unique dietary needs, that’s probably for the best.

you’ve spent enough time studying photography that your Unmistakable Lore makes it easier to recall knowledge about the process, preventing critical failures.

you can also Defend Mount as a reaction, taking the hit for your horse while you’re riding it. that’s kind of the opposite of how this is supposed to go, but you’ll have a lot more defensive buffs by the time this is over to eat damage.

7. speaking of, your new Armor Expertise does what you’d expect, plus you get the armor specialization effects of medium and heavy armor. you can also Pick up the Pace while traveling to hustle more, and you’re a master of Religion.

on last thing- your Weapon Specialization adds an extra 2 damage to all your attacks, and grows as your weapon training does.

8. at level eight you get the Advanced Deity’s Domain devotion spell, giving you a third devotion point each day which you can use to cast Enduring Might. as a reaction, you get resistance to all damage from one attack or effect. this is Bayard’s one attack nullification effect, and it also grows as you level up and also based on your strength.

speaking of defense, you can pray for some sacred defense as an action once an hour! if you succeed, you’ll get some temporary hp- you can also try a harder check for more of it!

if all this protection is getting you down, lets go on the offense with the game hunter dedication! with this, you can target creatures with the hunt prey action if you can see it, hear it, or you’re tracking it down. this gives you a +2 bonus to seek and track it, as well as a bonus to stealth checks! you can also get an extra bonus- if you hit your prey while its flat-footed, it needs to make a constitution save. on a failure, it gets slowed down for up to a minute.

9. that last bit from level 8 uses your class dc, so it’s a good thing your champion expertise just came around to give you expertise in your class dc and divine spells. your divine smite makes creatures you make a retributive strike against take persistent damage too.

your saves get better when you become a juggernaut with lightning reflexes. that’s mastery in fortitude saves, plus more crit succs, and expert for reflex saves.

you’re also an expert with nature now for better riding!

10. level 10’s another ability boost in strength, constitution, wisdom, and charisma! all the stuff you need to slap up a dragon real good. well, most of it. we’re working on it, it’s a long-term goal! on thing that’ll help is your battle prayer, helping you blast an enemy with good or law damage once a day. the damage even triples once you’re legendary in religion.

on the nonmagic side, your steed is now an imposing destrier, turning it into a savage animal companion, plus it gets an action each turn even if you don’t spend time commanding it, letting it attack or move for free!

speaking of movement, your quick positioning helps you get into the thick of things at the start of battle against your prey, letting you step up to two times for free. you’re the one with all the defense buffs, so make sure you’re between your friends and your dragons.

11. at level 11 your alertness gives you expert perception, and your divine will makes you a master of will saves, with more crits to boot! you’re also a master of nature!

you can also exalt your retributive strike, getting the rest of your party in on the hitting stuff action! everybody within 15’ of you can make a melee attack with a -5 penalty as a reaction. just really julius caesar his ass.

you also get an incredible investiture, letting you attune to more magic items. the bones of saints are relics, so you already have like, 200+ magic items on you! congrats!

12. at level 12 you become a Blade of Justice. you can spend two actions to make a special attack against something you’ve seen hurt an innocent person, dealing extra damage against evil creatures, and letting you turn all the damage into good! you can also use all your retributive strike effects on this attack.

as a master of nature, you have Morphic Manipulation, helping you grow a plant through ten minutes of meditation. doing this more than once a day is possible, but it makes you fatigued, and you can’t do it more than twice a day. told you we were bringing back the nature god stuff.

one last thing- you can spend three actions on a Trampling Charge, moving your mount up to its speed and through enemies, dealing damage to everything it passes through, based on the targets’ reflex saves.

13. at level 13 your Armor Mastery gives you mastery… in armor! shocking, I know. you’re also a master in scribing now! and your Weapon Mastery does exactly what you’d think. easy level!

14. at level fourteen, you’re actually expected to fight dragons! at least I assume so, since that’s the level you can finally emit a Wyrmbane Aura, protecting yourself and nearby allies from elemental damage, with extra protection if that damage is from a dragon’s breath.

you can also Quick Mount now, mounting a creature and giving it an order in the same action! dragons move fast, but so do you.

you can also use Double Prey now to mark two enemies at the same time. FGO has three slots in each wave, but if you’re fighting dragons usually one of them is really big and takes up two of those, so it all works out!

15. level fifteen’s Ability Boost bumps your Dexterity, Constitution, Intelligence, and Wisdom. at this point brute strength won’t add too much to your fight, it’s all about survivability. you’re also a Caravan Leader, for more hustle in your bustle while traveling.

your Greater Weapon Specialization adds even more damage to every swing, and we’ll also bump your Athletics up to expert so you can stay on your horse easier.

16. at level 16, Bayard becomes an Auspicious Mount, making it a specialized companion that can be an “Auspice” mount. there are other options, but the feat’s named after it, come on. this gives your mount expertise in Religion, the ability to speak celestial, and increased intelligence and wisdom.

you’ve also been a knight long enough at this point to know some Courtly Graces, letting you use your societal training to make impressions on nobles. given that your society is actually worse than your diplomacy, that may not be a good idea. you look the part though.

speaking of knighthood, you’re now a Knight Vigilant. this increases your proficiency in Religion to Legendary status, and you now provide greater cover to your allies as they stand behind you.

17. more skill buffs! your Champion Mastery improves your spells and class DC, while your Legendary Armor makes you legendary with armor. you’re also legendary in Nature now, to be almost superhuman in your ability to ride creatures. because you are. that’s how servants work.

18. you now exude an Aura of Righteousness, giving you and all allies resistance to evil damage. you now resist evil, elemental damage, and specific attacks, so it’s really hard for a dragon to actually fight you and leave a scratch.

you’re so religious, you can receive Divine Guidance by spending 10 minutes reading the bible. you make a religion check of the DM’s choice of DC, and you can get a hint on how to move forward.

you can also Keep up the Good Fight once an hour. if you’d drop to 0 HP without dying, you can react to stay a 1 HP with some temporary HP to boot, and you become wounded. unless you bounce back. now this is a guts. and it’s also like 90% of the reason we grabbed Knight Vigilant anyway.

19. at level 19 we go entirely off script thanks to your Fey Life. we’re about to go through faerie britain, so you’re bound to save at least one fey, right? your nearby surroundings are now super vibrant at all times, which would mostly be flavor if not for your photography hobby. you can also summon fey once a day, but that’s not why we’re here.

the first time you die past this point, you come back to life, becoming part fey. now this is the gutsiest guts we could guts. I mean get. I know Georgios is more know for being used as solo fodder, but all that means is he’s great at dying and coming back!

this is great, but it comes with a cost- the second time you die, and each time after, you become completely fey, and no longer care about the material world, essentially turning you into an NPC. this can be reversed with a three-day ritual, but the third and subsequent times would require something like the wish spell to be fixed.

you also gain the Hero’s Defiance devotion spell, letting you heal yourself as a free action right before you would drop to 0 HP, so hopefully you won’t die that often. plus, you’re better at athletics again.

20. for your final level, you get an Ability Boost for Strength, Constitution, Intelligence, and Wisdom. you also become a Sacred Defender, giving you a further 10 resistance to physical damage caused by evil or dragon creatures, and you’re immune to critical hits.

furthermore, you can now Influence Nature over the course of 10 minutes, trying a nature check to affect the behavior of animals in the area, like setting up natural alarms via songbird, or making hunting for food a lot easier.

finally, you can gain Lead the Way, spending two actions to guide an ally through danger. your movement will still trigger reactions, but theirs won’t. it’s rough, but that’s kind of the job you signed up for.

Pros & Cons

Pros:

you are really, really, really hard to kill. you have resistance to almost anything a dragon can throw at you, which means you have resistances to almost everything. add onto that your solid health pool, high AC, self-healing, and ability to further block up attacks as a reaction, and you won’t go down easily. and then you’ll get right back up with one of your three or four abilities that just lets you ignore being knocked out. and then you’ll get back up with your “say no to death” card.

all that tankitude is great for taking hits for the team. you block up line of sight against enemies, you have some powerful counterattacks to encourage enemies focus on you, and you can help your team move around while only making yourself a valid target.

for a guy in plate mail you’re so goddamn fast it isn’t funny. not in combat, of course, but being able to cut down on travel time is fantastic in games that care about that sort of thing. travel speed can mean the difference between getting ambushed and setting an ambush yourself.

Cons:

you need your reaction ready simultaneously to heal yourself, counterattack, and block damage. obviously, you can’t do all those at once. this means that if anything, you’re thinking more when it’s not your turn than when it is, and that’s a weird playstyle to get used to. guess it’s par for the course for defensive types.

that “no death for me thanks” card from earlier comes with a major drawback in trading one death for a later, very permanent one. while your defenses are fantastic, you also have to take into account how much hate you’re focusing on yourself.

final downside: the horse can’t come with you everywhere. I know I haven’t brought up Bayard too much in terms of combat effectiveness, but Pathfinder is a lot better than D&D when it comes to horse survivability, and both increasing your own movement speed and getting all the horse-exclusive features from Cavalier is a nice bonus. unfortunately, Bayard is both large and an animal, so there’s plenty of spaces you simply can’t take him.

[cecilysass]

How to Eat Pleasant Holiday Meals With Co-Workers (3/5)

Read on AO3 | Rated M | Tagging @today-in-fic

Thanksgiving Day 1999

She’s walking out of her kitchen when her stomach betrays her. They’re heading out the door to make the drive to her mother’s: Mulder with his bowl of cranberries covered in plastic, Scully with a pie cradled between her hands, the first sweet potato pie she’s ever made in her life. She’s absurdly proud of it.

Just two steps and she stops, scowling as she tries to make sense of what she is feeling. Gingerly she sets the pie down on her kitchen table, placing both palms flat on the tabletop to brace herself.

“Scully?” Mulder, ahead of her, stops to peer back. He is wearing his black leather jacket, the bowl of cranberries in his hands. He frowns in consternation. “What’s wrong?”

She spins. Runs full throttle for the bathroom, the sour taste already coming up in the back of her throat. She collapses over her toilet and promptly pukes her guts out.

She’s still there, on her hands and knees on the bathroom floor, trying to catch her breath, when she becomes aware that Mulder is standing in the door.

“Scully…?” His voice is uncertain. She knows what he is thinking. Of course that’s what he is thinking.

He stands there, framed by the door, unmoving, staring, his lips pressed tightly together. Still clinging to his bowl of cranberries like it’s the damn life preserver he should have had in the Sargasso Sea.

Scully tries to read the meaning in the expression on his face. There’s very little in the curl of his lips, cast of his eyes, that might signify hope or excitement. She feels herself shrinking. It seems like a slap, even though she knows that is unfair.

“No. It’s not that,” she says in a small voice. She meets his eyes. “Not what you’re thinking. It doesn’t mean anything, Mulder.”

“Are you … sure?”

“It hasn’t been long enough.”

“Okay.” Now his eyes are softening.

“Two days just isn’t long enough … to have an indication like morning sickness. Even if it had been successful, the hCG levels wouldn’t be high enough yet.”

“I get it.”

They look at one another. All at once Mulder seems to remember himself.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry, Scully, let me put this down and help you out.” He walks out of sight to put the bowl down.

“It’s probably the stomach bug going around at work,” she says, as much to herself as him. “The one half the bullpen had last week.”

“Seems likely,” Mulder calls from the other room.

She closes her eyes regretfully. “I guess I probably should call Mom and tell her I’m not coming.”

Mulder reappears, sans bowl and leather jacket. “Let’s get you lying down, and then we’ll call. You probably need a washcloth, huh? Where are they?”

“Over there, on the rack near the bathtub.” Scully stands up and feels a little wobbly. She leans against the sink. “Oh Mulder, you were really looking forward to eating Thanksgiving at Mom’s.”

“I’ll survive, Scully.”

“You could still go. She’d be happy to have you.”

He gives her a look. “I’m not going to your mom’s for Thanksgiving without you.”

“Really. You absolutely could.”

“Come here,” he says, grabbing her by the shoulders and aiming her towards the sink as he wets a washcloth. He gingerly wipes off her face, which makes her feel ridiculous, as she is perfectly capable of doing it herself. But she lets him anyway. She scrunches up her eyes as the washcloth runs over her chin, and she feels like a child. His touch is so careful. Gentle. He wipes more of her face than he really needs to.

“Besides,” he says, as he sponges across her mouth, “if I left you, who would be here to watch over the Worst Patient in the World, a.k.a. Dr. Scully?”

“You’re going to get sick,” she warns.

“Come on, if you’ve got this bug, the odds are good I’ve got it gestating somewhere already.”

That phrasing makes her raise her eyebrows, and Mulder stops wiping. Their eyes meet. “Poor choice of words,” he says with a small apologetic smile, dabbing her nose.

She smiles back, lets herself again indulge in the luxury of his deliberate touch for a moment longer—probably a span too long.

“You won’t get to eat Thanksgiving dinner,” she whispers, realizing. He’s so close that she barely has to speak up at all. “You shouldn’t skip Thanksgiving.”

“Listen, we have a big bowl of the good kind of cranberry sauce,” he says, rinsing and wringing out the washcloth. “And an entire homemade sweet potato pie. That’s not such a bad dinner.”

“That’s not a dinner at all. It’s only carbohydrates.”

“Carbohydrates are objectively delicious, Scully. And if you aren’t feeling well, it’s all the more carbohydrates for me.”

He steers her out of the bathroom by the shoulders. “Go put on some pajamas, g-woman. I’m going to start moving your TV to the bedroom like we did last year when you were recovering from your short-lived partnership with Ritter.”

“You don’t have to do that, Mulder.”

“Oh, but I want to do it. I love carrying TVs around.”

“I could watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade,” Scully says in a voice of childish hope as she walks into the bedroom.

“That’s the holiday spirit,” he calls after her.

She goes through the motions slowly, as though moving with heavy weights strapped to her body, slipping into her gray silk pajamas. Mercifully, for the time being, her stomach is settled.

As she drags her pajama pants up over her hips, she wonders if Mulder is planning on sitting in the bedroom with her to watch TV. He probably would if she asked.

She climbs into bed and has another childish idea, more along the lines of a fantasy: what if he were to lie down with her, slide under the covers next to her? He would do that, too, more than likely. He did it when she had cancer. He did it after she was attacked during the Padgett case last year.

“Almost ready with your TV, ma’am,” he calls from the other room. “Are you decent?”

“I’m decent,” she calls back, although she feels a little adolescent twinge of self consciousness, lying there in her pajamas in bed. It’s absurd because he’s seen her in much more vulnerable and exposed positions before —many, many times before. Everything just feels so intimate now between her and Mulder. Sometimes she becomes abruptly aware of how intimate it has become.

Intimate in every way but one, that is.

Mulder painstakingly makes his way through the door with her TV set in his arms, hunching down a little to clear the door frame. He carries it directly over to her dresser, hoisting it into the same spot they used last year.

He huffs dramatically as he drops it down, although she doesn’t think it is really that heavy for him. “Gotta earn that sweet potato pie,” he says, pretending to wipe his brow. She rewards him with a small smile. “You look settled and cozy, Scully. Feeling better?”

“Right now,” she says. “Thank you.”

“Do you need anything? Extra pillow?”

“I don’t think so,” she says.

“I’ll get you some water. And I’ll call your mom.”

“Were you … also going to stay in here and watch with me?” She’s trying to sound offhand, but it just sounds so needy, so naked. Her cheeks flush.

His expression changes so subtly that another person, someone besides her, might miss the reaction altogether. He’s touched, she realizes. The question gives him some kind of satisfaction. “If you want me to,” he says, his voice in that same deliberately casual tone, “yeah, sure.”

He looks like he might want to say something else, but he stops. His gaze shifts to the TV. “There’s quite a bit of connecting of wires to do before that though. Let me see if I remember what we did last time.” Soon he’s distracted by fiddling with cords.

There’s almost no limit, she thinks, to what he would do if she asks him. After all, she asked for his semen in a cup, and he gave her that, too, with practically no hesitation.

She wonders whether she could theoretically get anything she ever dreamed of from him, just as a kind of favor. He could very well take any step just to make her happy, maybe out of a little guilt, a feeling of loyalty, his steadfast partnerly love.

Especially if a pregnancy did take, she realizes. He could feel obligated to step up and play any role she asked him to.

It almost frightens her, how easily that could happen. How far it could go without her ever knowing how he really feels or what he really wants.

“Aha. There it is,” Mulder says, turning her TV on. He walks over and hands her the remote. “Success. Are you impressed by my technical prowess, Scully?”

Scully, now sinking back into her pillow, just smiles weakly. She starts flipping through the channels, looking for her parade. She turns it on just in time to see a giant Snoopy balloon in a festive hat floating beatifically over the west side of Manhattan. Katie Couric and Matt Lauer are enthusiastically describing the technical details of his creation.

“Look, Mulder.” Her voice is soft.

“It’s Millennium Snoopy,” Mulder says, mimicking Katie Couric’s chipper voice, “specially crafted by balloon scientists to float into the new millennium.”

He walks over and sits on the other side of the bed next to her. He kicks off his shoes, and then he stretches his long legs out over the covers, propping a pillow up behind him. Scully glances over at him, resisting the urge to lean her head against his shoulder.

“I’ve never actually sat down to watch this parade before,” Mulder admits conversationally, linking his hands and placing them casually behind his head.

“Really?” Scully murmurs. “The Macy’s parade? Not even growing up? It was kind of a Thanksgiving tradition for the kids in my family, first thing Thanksgiving morning.”

“We had other traditions,” Mulder says. “Some more wholesome than others.”

“I always wanted to go to New York to see it in person,” she says wistfully. “A California child’s dream.”

“Looks unpleasantly cold to me. A Massachusetts child’s wisdom.”

She blinks at the screen. At the rosy-cheeked children in jewel-colored coats and scarves clapping for dancers in reindeer costumes. One little girl sits on her father’s shoulders, one arm wrapped tightly around his neck and the other waving frantically at a dancing reindeer.

Scully’s hand slowly creeps over the rumpled silk covering her abdomen. She can’t help but let her mind go down forbidden roads. At this very moment, if Tuesday’s procedure was successful, there could be a child taking root in this bed with them. A child closely related to both her and Mulder. A child who would one day have opinions about how holidays ought to be celebrated, who would probably want to celebrate them with parents.

They haven’t discussed it at all, in their typical rash and unwise way. What might Thanksgiving ten years from now look like? Would they be smiling chastely across a Thanksgiving table making conversation and passing potatoes, all for the sake of this unknown child? Or would Mulder be playing some more traditional role, maybe only because he sensed she wanted him to, out of his never-flagging allegiance to her? Would she and Mulder be playing house with some child they platonically conceived with very little forethought? Or would Mulder be at Thanksgiving at all?

The last idea makes her stomach clench ominously, bringing to mind fears she’s been holding back. What if a baby does come between them, just as he worried? What if he feels trapped by the prospect of being the actual parent of a child? Kept from the work he’s always made clear is his top priority? What if she will eventually have to set him free to raise this child on her own?

She subtly tilts her head to look at her partner, watching goofy dancing reindeer on TV. His eyes are bright and amused by the spectacle. He looks like a boy himself.

She knows she could do it — raise a child alone. She’s mentally prepared for the possibility. But in less rational places inside Scully— the dark, secret corners where she first quietly admitted to herself that her feelings for her partner were something more than partnerly, despite many denials– she frets. How could she stand losing him? What would she do without him? There is really nothing reasonable about her feelings for Mulder.

Shifting uneasily under the covers a little, she feels something caught in the back of her throat that has nothing to do with being sick.

“Mulder,” she says tentatively, her voice hoarse. He glances over to look at her. She’s cognizant that her heart is actually racing. “You don’t have to stay here really. In my room or in my apartment.”

“I thought you wanted me to,” he says, his brow furrowing.

“I do, I just…” She bites her lip, swallowing back her panic. “I’m going to go to sleep, and then I’ll just be bad company.”

He regards her quizzically, eyes darting over her face. Then he reaches his hand out from behind his head and ruffles her hair playfully. “Like you could ever be bad company a day in your life.”

“I’m serious, Mulder,” she says, turning to look at him. “I just want to sleep. And I’m sure you have other things you could be doing today. Work … or something.”

His face registers a flash of hurt, and she wonders how this got so complicated. For a second it looks like he might agree to leave. But then his jaw sets, resolute. “Where would I go, Scully? It’s Thanksgiving. You’re my family.”

The knots in her stomach loosen. “I know,” she whispers. “I know, Mulder.”

Now his face is unreadable. His arm stretches around her, and she is being pulled towards him, almost, but not quite, lying against him. She lets her eyes fall shut, and then is suddenly aware of the sensation of his thumb moving soothingly in circles on the silk of her shoulder.

“Thank you,” she says, uncertainly.

“Shhhh,” he says softly, his fingers still stroking her shoulder. “Just relax and stop worrying, Scully. You’re sick.”

Over the swells of a high school marching band playing a peppy rendition of “Can You Feel A Brand New Day,” Scully feels her muscles let go, her mind drift free. She falls into sleep. Her head slumps towards Mulder; her body edges closer and closer to his.

***

Mulder lets her sleep for two hours. Her head has fallen against him and he doesn’t want to move, but eventually he slips out from under her to go into the living room and call her mother. He breaks the bad news about dinner and promises to bring her next week for leftovers. He puts up the pie and cranberries in the fridge, and then he comes back and changes into a pair of his sweatpants he knows Scully keeps for emergencies in the bottom drawer of her dresser.

He crawls next to her in bed and scoots as close to her as he dares. Close enough to run his hand carefully over her brow, ostensibly to feel for a fever. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her silk-clothed limbs, but only from proximity, not from touch. God, he aches to touch her. He aches to drape his body over hers and nuzzle into the warm places and maybe take a nap himself.

Only he doesn’t know if that’s exactly what she wants.

She asked him to stay with her today, a very rare moment of need from Scully. Maybe it’s fucked up —she’s sick, after all— but he’d been delighted. It was one way, of many, he wanted her to need him.

And then she practically kicked him out. Why? Because she changed her mind and got tired of him? Because she couldn’t stand his company after all? Because she is trying, in some misguided way, to be considerate of him? He really couldn’t say.

It’s like reading tea leaves with Scully now. A touch of his hand in the car, something heartfelt and open, followed by thirty minutes of reserved distance. An evening spent together eating pizza and drinking beer, and then a weekend of all-business work calls. Or a request to provide genetic material for a baby, which seems enormous. But no follow-up details about whether she might be hiring for the job of child’s father.

Of course, he’s not being entirely fair. He doesn’t ask, either.

He bites the inside of his cheek nervously, again letting his fingers trail over her smooth forehead. Her breathing is soft, just audible, and even. He’ll take whatever crumbs she throws. He has for years.

But is it time, he wonders, to ask the questions?

He turns and watches the rest of the Macy’s parade by himself. He doesn’t plan to tell Scully, but the whole thing feels a bit like a relentless series of holiday advertisements to him. Still, he watches it intently, trying to remember details to tell her when she wakes up. There are some fairly traditional clowns. Sentimental singers on garish floats. Broadway numbers on city streets. He’s amazed this is something she likes. Sometimes it’s like she’s a stranger, even after all these years. He’s really a terrible profiler of Scully.

She makes a mumbling sound in her sleep, and his head shoots towards her. It’s impossible to make out the sleep-addled words. If she was whispering the secret to her heart, he’ll never know it.

Before, when he stood in the bathroom door realizing she was throwing up, it hit him like a ton of bricks: she could really and truly be pregnant. This IVF idea had been seeming sort of theoretical, something he could do for her. Which was dumb — he knew perfectly well she’d gone into the clinic this week and had the procedure. It just hadn’t really clicked for him yet. The actual implications.

Right now, today, he could be having a child with Scully. Without ever having kissed her. Or asked her any of the real questions.

He lets his fingers play through the stray tendrils of her hair absently, pretending he is tucking it behind her ear. Is now the time, he wonders, to ask the real questions, take all the accompanying risks? Sometimes he feels like that’s the only real choice.

Maybe it’s better to go with the big lesson of the holiday. Be grateful for what you have, idiot. After all, what they have isn’t bad at all. A friendship so close that neither would hesitate to risk their life for the other. A true partnership. Family, maybe, from some point of view. If she’s really knocked up? Family for real. By anyone’s definition.

He presses his cheek deep into the pillow. It smells intoxicatingly like Scully, something clean with that slightly-spicy hint of floral. He inhales deeply, and he wonders.

***

When she finally wakes up, the TV is off, the parade over. Mulder, reading next to her in the bed, becomes aware of her stirring and turns to look.

“Mulder?” she murmurs, cracking her eyes open. “How long did I sleep?”

“Two hours,” he says. “Admirable. How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” she says cautiously. She blinks fast, trying to focus her eyes. “You stayed.”

“I told you I was going to,” he says, closing the journal. “You can’t tell me you’re surprised.”

She smiles faintly and pushes herself up into a sitting position, looking disheveled and disoriented. Her hair is sticking up wildly on one side.

“What are you reading?” She squints at what he’s holding.

“The New England Journal of Medicine. I found it on your bedside table,” he says, rapping his fingers on the cover. “Some article about cases of people developing heart rhythm disorders after they’ve nearly drowned. I only kind of understand it, but it’s interesting.”

“I haven’t read it yet,” she says, rubbing her eyes.

“A little classier than my usual bedside reading.”

“Hmm,” she yawns. “I thought those magazines had excellent articles.”

“Are you hungry, g-woman?”

“No,” she says, her nose wrinkling. “Not yet. Still a little …”

“Off,” he says, nodding. “I’d imagine.”

She leans back against the pillow on the headboard. Mulder slides up to sit right next to her.

“Need water or anything?” He speaks gently, so close to her. He hopes he isn’t hovering in a way she finds smothering.

“No,” she says, her eyes fluttering shut a moment again. He scoots a little closer, until her shoulder touches his arm.

“Hey Scully,” he asks, “I have a question.”

“Oh no,” she says weakly. “Please don’t make me go Thanksgiving ghost hunting. Not while I’m sick.”

“No,” he says, hesitating. “I was wondering … could a stomach flu have any impact on the success…” He gestures, somewhat inelegantly, to her abdomen, her womb, the place where their genetic offspring could currently be gestating.

“Ah,” she says, looking down towards her belly button. “No. Very unlikely.”

“Okay.” He nods, exhaling.

“An embryo is well-protected by design,” she says. “And digestive and reproductive systems are distinct.”

“That’s… great. I’m glad.”

He feels her eyes on him. There is a beat, and he feels self-conscious.

“You were worried,” she says slowly, as if realizing.

“I was,” he says sheepishly. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to be thinking about me.”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment, but he feels the precision of her stare aimed at him.

“I’m just …surprised, I suppose.”

“Surprised?”

“I wasn’t sure you…” She hesitates. “I suppose I wasn’t sure how you felt about it, actually.”

He is startled into silence for a few beats. “How I felt about it?”

“How invested you felt in it.”

Mulder is appalled. “I think it would be hard not to be thinking about it at least a little.”

Her eyes glint. “Thank you, Mulder,” she says. “I’m really … grateful you’re worried about this for me.”

He turns his gaze from hers to the TV’s blank screen, because he’s afraid he’ll give away the truth of what he’s thinking. Which is that of course he is worried about this, and of course it isn’t just for her. It’s considerably more selfish than that.

It's a pretty basic instinct to be worried about the potential existence of your own child, whatever the arrangements around its conception or parenting. And it’s a pretty basic instinct to worry about the well-being of someone you deeply, intensely, unreasonably love. Someone who is the indisputable love of your life. So he doesn’t feel especially heroic for being concerned.

“I mean … I’m worried about it for us,” he attempts clumsily.

“For us?”

He internally cringes, because obviously there’s no them. They’re not a couple trying to have a child together. From her point of view, it could be as though he’s not trying to have a child at all, just serving as a friendly accessory to the process.

“Yeah,” he admits miserably. He wishes for more courage. “I suppose I was thinking of it as something we were doing together. Is that okay?”

She looks ahead at the blank screen, too. “Yes,” she says faintly. “Yes. Of course it’s okay.”

This would be an excellent moment to ask his questions, he thinks. But it’s a holiday, and he’s lying here next to her, and he couldn’t bear it if the answers took her from him.

“I think I’m going to get some cranberries,” Mulder says brusquely, kicking his legs off the bed. “Are you sure you don’t want any?”

She shakes her head. “Quite sure.”

When he pads back into the bedroom a few minutes later with one of her cereal bowls full of cranberry sauce and a spoon, Scully looks horrified.

“An entire bowl of cranberry sauce?” Scully gasps. “It’s supposed to be a side, Mulder.”

“It’s all we have,” Mulder says cheerfully. “Except for your pie, which is obviously a dessert.”

“So much sugar,” she sighs. “Like eating a bowl of marmalade.”

“Are you saying you want some, too? Just say the word.”

She puts a protective hand on her stomach. “No.”

“It’s not the canned stuff,” he says with a shrug, shoveling a spoonful into his mouth as he sits back down on her bed. “It’s Mulder-made. How bad for you can it be?”

She throws him an incredulous look.

“Hey, you remember when I first educated you about correct cranberry sauce?” His tone changes. He sets his spoon down in the bowl for a moment. “When I came over here for Thanksgiving the first year we were partners? And that guy called to try to win you back?”

“Ethan,” Scully says with a groan. “God, yes, I do.”

“That made for kind of an exciting holiday, didn’t it? Do you think you have any ex-boyfriends who will call this Thanksgiving? I’d like to get on the phone and talk to them this time.”

Scully smiles and rolls her eyes in a self-deprecating expression. “Sadly, I haven’t had much time to accumulate new ex-boyfriends since then.”

“That’s okay. I bet Ethan would still want you back,” Mulder says with a knowing eyebrow waggle, between bites of cranberries. “Let’s call him up and find out, Scully.”

“I heard he’s married, actually,” she says. “A new baby.”

Mulder lowers his spoon and turns to her, scanning her for serious signs of distress.

“It’s okay, Mulder,” she says, feeling his attention. “I’m hardly upset about that. I wouldn’t want Ethan’s baby anyway.”

“No?” He sets down the bowl on the bedside table. Maybe not Ethan’s. But surely she’d want someone’s baby she was in a relationship with, someone she was married to. Surely she would want her baby to have a father in some traditional sense.

“No,” she says. “I’m more selective than that.”

He feels his skin warm all over, little sparks of heat. “Well, I’m glad my genetic material passes muster, Scully.”

She slips her hot hand into his, resting on top of his thigh. “Clearly it was more than just your genetic material, Mulder,” she says.

He can only lightly grasp her hand back, unable to formulate any coherent response. The only words that fill his mind are questions.

Was it more than that, Scully? What was it, exactly? Why would you ask me to do something so important and not anything else? He wonders what she would do if he leaned over and just kissed her.

“Going through all this right now, at the beginning of the holidays, I can’t help but think about next year,” she says, her voice a little tight. “Thanksgiving 2000, for example.”

“Millennium Thanksgiving, I think Katie Couric would call it.”

“With this process, the IVF, nothing is certain,” Scully says. “It’s just so hard to think about anything in your future when there’s so much you don’t know.”

He runs his thumb in little curly-cues over her knuckles. “Some things you know. Unless the world ends at the new year.”

“I guess,” she says. She looks at him doubtfully. “What exactly do I know?”

“Well, you don’t know if you’re going to have a baby. But I hope you know you have some people you can count on,” he points out. He pulls her hand up to his mouth and kisses her knuckles as softly as he can. “You know I’m always willing to cancel any plans to spend Thanksgiving with you, right?”

“Oh, so that’s a definite, then?” she asks, a small coy smile. “We’re on for Thanksgiving 2000?”

And every Thanksgiving after that, Mulder thinks. Just say the word.

“Of course,” he says. “If you make another sweet potato pie, obviously.”

She chuckles a little, a low, relaxed sound. Then she tightens her hold on his hand, picking it up and placing both of their hands over her abdomen. The silk of her pajamas offers little barrier, and he can feel the heat of her skin underneath, the taut give of her belly, the rise and fall of her breath.

He makes a small decision. He suddenly turns towards her, lays his head tentatively against her chest, right in the spot below her collarbone, curving his body around hers. In his ear, crushed to her breastbone, he can hear her heartbeat, now speeding slightly. He knows he is feeling the swell of her breast under his cheek – that maybe the heat of his breaths could even be felt on her nipples under the silk.

His fingers stroke the fabric covering her abdomen lightly, back and forth.

For a moment she doesn’t react at all. Then he feels her hand land hesitantly on his back, then beginning to rub gently in circles, and he wants to weep. He reaches out, to draw her closer.

“Scully–” he begins, speaking into her neck, overwhelmed.

She stiffens, pushes him abruptly away.

“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean—”

“No, no,” she says in a clipped voice. “Bathroom.”

She scrambles out of the bed, bolting for the door.

He’s left there in her wake, thinking about the space on the bed she leaves behind.

[thearchmanofgreenfield]

As night fell upon Hatlynshire, silence fell upon the countryside that occupied the vast expanse around the city. The moon rose in place of the sun and shone its light upon a lone manor, which sat miles away from the beaten path. The house, known as the Hall of Saint George, was a remarkable sight. It stood three stories tall with a massive tower in the center. Every inch of its walls were etched with sculptures and various patterns. Its boundaries stretched on for what looked like hundreds of meters and shape cast an imposing shadow upon the flat grassy ground.

It was inside this lavish palace that Victor found himself. He sat reclined on a scarlet sofa. He wore a black suits and red waistcoat. But beneath those was his bandage covered chest. He had been summoned to the Hall of Saint George quite urgently. And he couldn’t reject the summons because he knew who had summoned him. The last few days had not been kind on Victor. He had been lucky enough to survive his own assassination. But the gunshots had still dealt some damage. His chest now constantly ached and he had partially lost control of one of his legs. He now carried his walking stick not as a sign of respect but as a necessary tool. Yet amidst all the pain, he was still thankful to have lived. His only regret was that the man he should have thanked for saving his life was no longer among the living.

As he reclined gently on the sofa situated in the middle of room lit by a golden three pronged candelabras, he looked at the man standing in front of him. For in front of him stood possibly the most powerful man in Hatlynshire. He was young man, thirty at most. His face was clean-shaven and had no scars. He had unusually long jet-black hair that stretched down to his shoulders. He was a thin man, his posture more composed than the stillest of statues. He wore a completely black coat that covered his entire body and he wore black gloves to cover his hands. He stood there silently, staring out an eight foot, arch shaped window looking over a green hill. He was watching something. Something bloody. Victor had rarely felt fear when he looked at someone. But he knew that who he stared at now was nothing short of a god amongst a men. A spirit of darkness standing eerily still in the night.

And his name was Timothy Montgomery.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Del Mir? Feeling…healthier?” he said silently. Behind him a blazing fire roared in the fireplace that illuminated the room. The fireplace was made of white marble, and above it was a portrait framed in gold. Victor knew it to be a painting of Saint George Montgomery.

“I feel better than I did yesterday. But my desire for revenge is more than enough to dull the aches” said Victor.

“Well your desires might never be met. As our enemies say your death was justified” he said softly which exhaled slowly.

“THEN THEY’RE LIARS! ALL OF THEM! HOW CAN THOSE CIRCULION FIENDS JUSTIFY WHAT THEY DID TO ME?” Victor screamed in anger. But his sudden shout didn’t even make Timothy flinch. Instead, he simply stared out the window towards the hill. Victor was beginning to understand why he was here. It was no mere invitation made from good intention. It was a questioning.

“I am inclined to believe they’re liars as well, dear Mayor. However, I know the Barons. They do not strike for no reason. They are far too wise for that,” he said. He then turned to Victor yet his posture never changed. He gave Victor is stare so cold that it extinguished his burning anger immediately before replacing it with fear.

“Tell me, Mr. Del Mir. Why do you think they would attack you?” he said. His voice made chills run down Victor’s spine. He stuttered opening and closing his mouth a few times before he could say anything.

“I…I don’t know. I gave them no reason to attack me,” he said. Timothy gave Victor a small grin, as though he found his fear amusing.

“So Mr. Del Mir, you mean to say you were not responsible for the death of the late Baron Ulysses Everton as our enemy claims?”

“What? NO! With all due respect, your grace. Do you think of me as incompetent enough to kill a baron in cold blood?”

Timothy paused for a moment, yet his grim gaze did not falter. He seemed to be pondering something. Timothy then took his sight away from Victor and turned back to the window.

“You know what it means to lie to me, don’t you Mr. Del Mir?”

Victor froze. Sweat began to trickle down his chin. “Why would I lie to you, your grace?” he answered in a subdued tone.

“You know your Hunters obey my every whim. I am their lord and master, the same way I am your lord and master. You understand this concept, do you not?”

“Yes, yes I do!” said Victor nodding his head in a desperate attempt to make sure Timothy understood that he respected him. But Timothy didn’t seem to notice his pleas.

“Then tell me, Mr. Del Mir. Why would our mutual enemy target you mere days after the late baron’s unfortunate death? As I understand it the late Baron Everton came to see you in your office on the day of his death, am I correct?”

Victor tried to compose himself in order to seem less suspicious. He straightened his coat with his hands, sat straight on the sofa, and answered clearly and respectfully. Yet he also tried to add a hint of confidence to his voice.

“Yes, the baron did come to see me. He offered to bribe me! He offered me a million Sorasy so we’d stop our raids! I, of course, declined his foolish offer I had no other business with him afterwards! I…” Victor went on but Timothy simply waved his hand and Victor almost instinctively stopped talking.

“You plead innocence, Mr. Del Mir. You say that this tragedy was devoid of your influence. Yet you still somehow saw retribution coming your way. You knew our enemies would try to take your life. That’s why you went on to that stage wearing metal armor under your clothes. That’s why you’re still alive,” he went on. Victor was beginning to sweat profusely as his confident demeanor began to crumble. It was not often that he felt true fear. That is what be felt at that moment.

Victor watched as Timothy made his way to the desk between the sofa and the fireplace. Victor watched as Timothy opened one of the drawers. From that drawer Timothy pulled out a polished ebony box with shining bronze lock. Timothy then reached into his cloak and pulled out a bronze key. He then used the key to open the lock. Victor felt his legs become weak. It wasn’t the action that frightened him, it was Timothy’s casual demeanor. He watched Timothy gently open the box and take out an object. The object was pure black and shined in the candle light. It took Victor a few moments to realize what it was.

Victor felt a sense of dread wash over him when Timothy laid the object on the table and turned it to face Victor. What faced him was a skull, its surface coated in a black substance and its eyes hollowed and dry. It stared at Victor with an emptiness similar to that of an abyss. Its teeth were clean and perfect and from Victors perspective it looked like it was staring him with fury. Timothy took the skull into his hand and walked towards Victor. Yet he never let the skull’s gaze leave him.

“So tell me Mr. Del Mir, how did survive?”

Timothy held the skull up to Victors face. It was then Victor sensed the smell. The skull… it smelled like rotten blood. Victor suddenly realized why the skull was black. He looked at the skull with wide eyes, his neck running with sweat.

“It was Harny!” he said. “Harny told me that there would be an attempt on my life. He said I should get ahead of it. He told me to step onto the stage! He said if I did, they would certainly try to kill me there! Therefore, I went prepared. And thanks to him, I am alive”

Timothy raised his eyebrow curiously. He then took the skull away from Victor’s face and towards his chest. “Really now? And do you know how Maxwell Harny found out about this?”

“He…he said he got a tip, a message from someone in the Circle. Someone connected to our Treasury. They apparently told him that the Circle would come for my head. That they blamed me for the bombing! He never showed me the message outright. I would have questioned him more after the fair. But that wretched gunman shot him down. He was a fool to stay up on that stage”

Victor saw Timothy put his hand to his chin. “Hmmm…” he heard as Timothy say as he pondered while looking out the window.

“If that is so. If Mr. Harny was indeed right and truthful, then perhaps the Circle isn’t as invincible as we thought. If there truly is a man who is willing to betray them, perhaps we can use that”

Timothy then turned his body towards Victor, yet he still looked at the hill. “If the Circle attacked you for nothing. If they framed you for a crime, a crime you never committed. Then the right of retribution rests in our hands. In that case, we have a just reason to cause a little suffering for our enemy”

“YES!” said Victor quiet ecstatically raising his voice. His need for vengeance came rushing back along with a sense of ease once he thought that Timothy believed him. “WE WILL BURN THEN DOWN! WE’LL DRAG THOSE WEALTHY SCUM AND HANG THEM IN FRONT OF CITY HALL LIKE THE DAYS OF TERRANCE! WE WILL…”

Before Victor could finish his loud and ambitious statements, he felt a sudden, all-consuming pain envelope his face as something smooth and large hit him directly in the nose. Before this, he saw Timothy stare at him for a split moment before seeing nothing was flash of black cloth. The force of the strike was so much that it propelled his large body off the sofa and onto the red carpet that laid on the floor. Victor felt dazed as the pain persisted. His eyes became blurry for a few moments. But once he gained his sight again all he saw was Timothy standing over him with the skull in his hand. The skull itself was now stained with blood. Timothy’s eyes were darker than midnight, and to stare into them was to star into an abyss of eternal torment. Victor found himself shivering as the younger man took his gloved hands and started spreading the blood on the skull as though it were ointment.

“Do not…” he began but then paused momentarily. “Test. My. Patience. I have already allowed you shout like a child in front of me once, Mr. Del Mir. Next time, it will perhaps be the last time you every shout”

He then once again returned to staring at the window. Victor slowly made his way back onto the sofa. He face still rattling with pain. But Timothy didn’t care.

“I shall call upon the Saint-Legaciers and we shall have a discussion about our next course of action. I suggest you reside here for the time being, away from the city”

“But…my grace…” Victor said weakly. “I must be…in the city… for my mayoral duties”

“Oh do not worry about those. I shall put a figurehead in your place temporarily. For now you stay here. The days you spent in the city after the shooting were risky enough. We cannot have the public or the Circle knowing you’re well. As far as the public knows, your condition is being withheld for security purposes. As far as our enemies know, you are dead”

He then saw something happen on the hill. Victor saw him smile. He then went back to table and placed the skull on it. He then went and opened another drawer from which he pulled out a golden mask. The mask was shaped like a bearded man with intricately etched hair. It’s eye slots were hollow and it was made of pure, glistening gold.

“I suppose you brought your mask,” he asked as put the golden mask on his head. Victor nodded weakly. He reached into his coat and too pulled out a mask similar to Timothy’s one. But the difference was that his was mask made of silver and depicted a younger face with no beard. Timothy then made his way to the door, but he momentarily paused when he passed Victor, who was still struggling to get out of the sofa.

“And before we go, Mr. Del Mir” he said while staring down at Victor, his voice now muffled due to the mask. “If this whole ordeal turns out to be an elaborate trick. Then I swear you will regret it. It will benefit you to keep in mind that hold more reverence for the barons than I do to you,”

“There…is…no trickery. I…only wish to serve…you loyally” Victor said with great pain as the aches in his face had still not faded.

Timothy then made his way out of the room and he headed straight towards the front door. Victor put on his mask and slowly limped behind Timothy. As Victor emerged from the massive palace and onto the front yard, he saw Timothy walking casually to the side and through a gap in a hedge wall. Victor did his best to follow him. The gap in the wall led to a path beaten into the grassy ground, a path that led directly up the hill. It was dark outside but there were torches strewn about the outside of the palace and all along the pathway. Victor himself could see a small light shining from the very top of the hill. He could see the faint movement of two men alongside it.

Victor followed Timothy all the way up the hill. While Timothy climbed the pathway with relative ease, Victor found it much harder due to his many pains. Nevertheless, Victor managed to keep a steady pace and make it to the top not long after Timothy. And it was only when he reached the top did he realize why Timothy was so fixated on the hill. At the top, he found two men wearing all black coats with silver buttons and wearing masks that resembled the faces of angels. One of them was holding a torch and next to them was a pile of firewood stacked around a large wooden pole, which was fixed to the ground.

And tied to that pole was man covered in blood.

Victor’s eyes widened when saw the heavily mutilated and blood covered man strapped to a pole like a common animal. He realized that it was young man, a man with his nose broken, his teeth shattered and his skin torn and covered it blood. He looked barely alive, but Victor saw him breath with immense difficulty. The man’s clothes were torn and most of the intact bits were covered in blood. Victor could from the pieces of cloth that were still untainted that the man had worn a yellow suit. And it only when he noticed this did he realize who he was looking at.

“No…” he said in shock, he wasn’t sure whether to feel pity or excitement. But he did feel a sense of joy when he saw that the man who had caused him all his pain was now tied before him in chains.

“We managed to catch him shortly after your incident. He didn’t even put up a fight. We have been ‘questioning’ him for the past few days. And so far he has given us nothing” said Timothy staring at the man with a sense of almost admiration for his sheer resilience.

“What do we know about him, your grace?” asked Victor, curious to more about the man that had almost killed him.

“We know he is of the most elite order in the Circle,” said Timothy.

“The Gratousy, sir” Victor heard the Hunters say in subdued tones. “He is trained to be of unbreakable mind. We cannot get anything out of him; he will die before betraying his liege barons”

“Well then, I suppose it’s best we make a show of him while he is here. Might as well enjoy his death for all the effort we put into trying to break him” said Timothy with a casual tone so far removed from the gruesomeness of the situation that it made Victor shiver. Timothy then gestured the Hunter holding the torch to give it to him. He then turned to Victor with the torch in hand. Victor almost instinctively took a step back as Timothy looked at him, his eyes completely shrouded in black due to his mask.

“Do you wish to do the honors, Mr. Del Mir?” he asked with a niceness that Victor felt was almost alien.

“Why yes, our grace. Thank you” he said politely taking the torch into his hand. He then turned to the bloody man. He saw him twitch and move slightly, almost as if he wished to lunge at Victor. Victor saw that he eyes were bloodshot, but they still displayed fury. At the last minute, the man tried to pit at Victor, but his lips did not move so instead the spit merely dripped from his lip to the firewood. Victor took a deep breath and held the torch over the firewood, he then unclenched his am and watched as the torch fell on the wood and lit it ablaze.

Victor, Timothy and the two Hunters watched as the tied man was engulfed in fire. Victor saw the man make one last desperate attempt to escape by trying to fight the chains, but it didn’t work. He heard the man scream for a few minutes before going completely silent. Victor watched with horror, yet he also felt a sense of satisfaction. He had wanted this, yet he had not wanted to see it. The Hunters too had shock and fear hidden behind their trained straight demeanor. Meanwhile Timothy looked at the flame with awe and fascination as the light reflected his mask. He felt no fear or remorse.

“What better way to mark the coming of new age” he said with confidence and happiness. “I feel as though his is an omen of triumphs to come, don’t you?”

Victor nodded weakly. There was only one answer he could give to Timothy, “Yes, your grace. Yes I do.”

Back to Contents - HERE

[bunnyscar]

The Siliven's Request: Part 17

Three more days passed after Pim woke, and the travelers stopped at a town to restock on supplies. Though Alaine stayed outside the town with Manas, the news that their traveling companions brought back from the town worried her. The Siliven army, being more prepared for war, had been pushing the human forces back, ravaging the towns they passed through and massacring the humans. It would not be long before they reached the road Alaine and the others were on. Even worse, both sides were using a new type of weapon, something called a bomb.

“I’ve heard of that weapon,” Alf commented. “Apparently it’s a projectile that turns into fire the moment it hits the ground and destroys everything around where it hits. During the previous war, I had connections with a few army generals, who told me the army magicians were experimenting on it. Though they never were able to use it in the war,” he explained.

“The Siliven were working on bombs, finished them, and even started using them in the war before the humans did,” Manas, who was walking next to the wagon, said in a flat voice. “If the Overseer had not stepped in, the bombs might have won the war. It’s no surprise they’re using them now. Still, even if the humans have developed bombs too, the Silivens will have an advantage. Using their metal ability, Silivens can withstand being hit by at least a few bombs,” he said.

Pim glared at Manas from the wagon. “I suppose you’ve used a bomb before?” he said in disgust.

Manas chuckled, which made Pim scowl deeper. “No, actually. I probably would have blasted my face off if I had,” Manas mused.

“Didn’t you just say that Silivens could withstand its blast?” Pim objected.

“Well, most Silivens can survive by hardening their skin and hair to withstand the explosion, and though I might be able to survive a few bombs now, I doubt I would’ve been able to back then,” Manas replied.

“Interesting, interesting,” Alf murmured, pulling out his notepad and jotting down notes. “Do Silivens slowly develop their metal hardening abilities over their lifespan?”

Manas answered, “Most Silivens have mastered hardening themselves and turning their body into weaponry by the age of ten, but I’m afraid I’ve never been good at those abilities. I can harden and turn my limbs and extremities into weapons for periods of about ten minutes now, but longer than that and I’ll start to feel sick. It took less time than that to feel sick when I was younger.”

Alaine glanced at Manas curiously. She had not expected him to be willing to tell Alf and Pim about that. But ever since that night that Alaine had pleaded to keep going together, he had seemed more relaxed, even around people other than Alaine. Almost more relaxed than she was right now, with her worry about how the other humans might treat Manas. She smiled to herself. There was no use in worrying so much. Besides Pim, most of their traveling companions had accepted Manas surprisingly well, having seen him save one of their own and having the word of Alaine that he was trustworthy. She was not sure why they were so ready to take her word for it, since they did not know her either. But she was grateful for their trust.

“That must have been difficult to fight, then, if you couldn’t use your abilities very long,” Alf remarked, looking up from his notes.

“Well, I never left Vawaren to fight on the battlefield,” Manas commented.

 Pim raised an eyebrow. “You never left the Siliven lands? During a war? I thought most Silivens prided themselves in being warriors,” he said.

Manas said stiffly, “There are other ways to be involved in war.”

Pim narrowed his eyes. “What, like torturing prisoners? Many people say the Silivens don’t take prisoners, but I’ve heard that your kind captured several human officials during the war and tortured them,” he retorted.

Manas shot a glance at Pim. It was a fleeting look, but one of such pain and grief, that Pim started in surprise. Turning away, Manas half-shut his eyes, in the way he always had before. Seeing him return to that habit cut Alaine to the heart.

“It doesn’t really matter right now, does it?” she interjected, trying to keep her voice steady. “We’re trying to get away from the war for now.”

Alf nodded. “Indeed. It does no good to dwell on the past,” he said briskly. “We’re all in the same boat right now, so let’s work together, all right?”

Pim muttered something, but said no more to Manas, who began to walk ahead of the wagon, lost in his own dark thoughts.

Link to part 16:

[lunar-years]

It's a Long Night When You Do it On Your Own

Pairing(s): Jonathan Byers/Nancy Wheeler; in my mind this is background Will/Mike also, but it's so background I've left it very open ended for you to interpret as you'd like!

Rating: T (Mainly for Lonnie reasons- domestic violence, child abuse, homophobia. Lonnie does not physically appear in the story but he haunts the narrative.)

Summary: After Jonathan gets a concerning phone call, he and Nancy take an unexpected trip back to Hawkins to help pick up the pieces.

Written for @jancyweek2022 Day 5: stay with me until i fall asleep/family

A/N: Title is from Maisie Peters' "Take Care of Yourself" which is a beautiful song that so perfectly suits Jonathan and Nancy & this prompt. I highly recommend listening to the acoustic version on youtube! 

This was inspired by a post I saw a while ago questioning how much Nancy actually knows about Lonnie in canon. In my opinion...not much. I imagine she learns the full extent very slowly, over a long period of time, and this is sort of an exploration of what that might look like.

It's a bit of a longer one so I recommend reading on Ao3 but you can also read below!

The phone starts ringing again at 8:05, and Nancy audibly groans, her lips still pressed against Jonathan’s even as he starts to pull away from her. “No, don’t answer it babe—” she tries to protest, one hand stretching out after him as he untangles their legs and begins to stand. It’s no use. Jonathan’s never not going to answer that damn phone.

He shrugs at her apologetically but doesn’t allow himself to be pulled back towards the couch, too busy walking away from her to the phone in their kitchen. “Sorry, sorry. It might be my family,” he says as he goes. His usual explanation.

Nancy groans again, purposefully exaggerated, calling after his retreating back, “Tell your brother and sister they really can survive one night without calling you!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grins, “I’ll be sure to remind them.”

“Also tell them that your girlfriend has a very special evening night planned and if you’re not back over here kissing her senseless with your hand up her shirt again in five minutes flat she’s keeping you here all Christmas so you can make up for it!”

Jonathan pauses in the doorway to laugh, shaking his head back at her fondly. “Okay, well I’m definitely not telling them all of that.” But when the phone shrieks out another ring, she’s pleased to see he turns back to it with a new expression of mild regret.

Once he disappears, Nancy slumps back against the sofa to wait, trying very hard not to feel at least a little bitter. This is their first evening alone together all week, and they’ve still barely had a minute to themselves. First it was Max, calling her to ask for advice about starting birth control—which had obviously turned into a long conversation. Then it was her mom, calling to make sure they were still driving home for Thanksgiving next weekend as planned, yes of course Mom, nothing’s changed. After that, Cathy and Elliott, Jonathan’s friends from a photography workshop he took last semester, inviting them over for another game night. No I think we’re just going to stay in tonight, but thank you for the invite!

They’d only just had enough time in between the incessant calls to take the short trip down the street for their favorite Chinese take-out, come back to the apartment to eat it, and finally, finally get around to the fun part of the evening—and now this. God knows who’s calling, but Jonathan’s prediction probably isn’t too far off. It’s been a whole two days since the Byers’ last phone call, so they’re long overdue.

The apartment they share together is extremely small, the rent exorbitantly high, and the walls paper thin. Nancy listens half-heartedly as Jonathan answers the phone. “Hello? Oh, hey bud. Look, I’m a little busy right now—” Will. Nancy applauds Jonathan’s effort, but she also recognizes a lost cause when she hears one. Her five-minute warning is all but meaningless; Jonathan will talk to his brother all night if Will needs him to. She half considers picking up the remote and fighting with their horrible, secondhand television to try and flip to a decent channel,  but then Jonathan’s voice grows suddenly sharper. “Whoa—what?! Slow down.”

He sounds panicked.

Nancy sits up straighter on the sofa, pulling her bra strap back up onto her shoulder, running her hand down her skull n a poor attempt to tame her mangled hair, now that Jonathan’s been running his fingers all through it. Thoughts of the television, and her regrets at this call interrupting an evening of sex, are already forgotten. She listens carefully to her boyfriend’s half of the conversation, his words coming out firm, alert. The way they sound when he’s talking Will through a panic attack, or a bad nightmare that turned into a panic attack. But usually those calls come in the middle of the night, not at eight o’clock. Shit. 

“Okay…Okay…Where’s Mom?...All right, well can you call her?...Listen to me, just breathe, bud. Breathe. It’ll be all right, yeah? You’ve just got to calm down a bit with me, okay?”

This must be really bad, if Jonathan’s willingly trying to involve Joyce. Nancy shuts her eyes, resting her forehead against her palm. Shit. “Good. That’s good…Look, can you hang up with me and call Mrs. Wheeler and ask her to come over?...Well, you don’t have to tell her any of the details, Will. Just the general overview…Just until Mom gets home, yeah?” Nancy’s head shoots up. Jesus, it must be fucking catastrophic if he’s involving her mother.

Her mind immediately jumps to the worst possible things known to happen in Hawkins, and she has to wonder if someone has died. Has another gate, somehow, impossibly, opened up again? It’s been years. She’d finally thought it was over, once and for all. A still familiar fear grips her chest. Maybe she should be collecting up her guns right now, dusting them off. The thought is so overwhelming it almost makes her feel physically ill, cutting off the air to her lungs so she can’t breathe, like she’s about to have a panic attack of her own. But no, she can’t do that. Jonathan, despite his sometimes insistence otherwise, can only keep one person from falling to pieces at a time.

The rest of the conversation in the kitchen floats over her, short but firm. “Yes, I know, but I’m hours away, bud…You’ve got to call Karen, okay?” Jonathan’s next words are muffled, but they sound a lot like might need a hospital, and Nancy’s fingers nervously start playing with the hem of her sweater just to have something to worry between them. Then he says, “Okay, good. I love you too.”

She hears the click of the receiver and stands up. Then, a beat of silence before Jonathan’s back in the room, his features drawn tight and that strange, distant look in his eyes that Nancy hasn’t seen in a long time. It’s never long enough to forget it, though. The first time she saw that look on Jonathan’s face, they were sixteen, and he was choosing between child-sized coffins at a funeral home.  Something is horribly, terribly wrong. “What is it?” 

Jonathan just blinks at her, like he’s forgotten she’s even here, in the apartment she lives in. The apartment they share. Nancy’s stomach drops as he says, “I have to go home.”

“What is it?” she repeats, mind still swimming with a number of horrible possibilities, wondering if she’s still got a pack of bullets or if she used them all up last time. “Is it the Upside Down? Is there another gate?”

He just stands there with that faraway look in his eyes, like he didn’t hear her question at all. Nancy walks towards him and reaches out to take his hand, but Jonathan flinches away from her. It’s the first time that’s happened in years, too. She recoils even as he starts immediately apologizing. “Sorry—sorry,” he croaks, “Nothing like that. It’s…um.”

Nancy reaches out again, more slowly, and laces their fingers together. This time, Jonathan lets her. She waits. Then he says, “It’s my dad.”

Well, that explains the flinching, anyway. Nancy tightens her hold on him. If whatever’s going on involves that asshole, it’s practically the same as having to fight another Demogorgon, if not worse. She hasn’t out ruled collecting the guns.

“He found out about Will,” Jonathan says in a rush. Nancy doesn’t need to ask what exactly Lonnie found out about his youngest son. The answer is abundantly clear from the look on Jonathan’s face. Fuck.

“Oh my god, is Will hurt?”

Jonathan shakes his head. “He’s shaken up pretty bad, but—not him. It’s Hopper.”

That’s hardly any better. Personally, she was hoping for no injuries. Or, in a best case, one very catastrophic, even lethal injury, naming Lonnie its sole victim. “What?” 

The slicing tone of her voice must cut through to him, because Jonathan seems to come to life then, blinking the strangeness out of his eyes and setting into motion all in a great rush. Nancy has to do a trot to keep up with him as he strides toward their bedroom, already pulling open his drawers and throwing clothes on his bed to pack. “He’s passed out in the driveway.”

“He—? Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

Nancy shakes herself, trying not to think about what Lonnie could have done to take down Jim Hopper. She never exactly envisioned Lonnie to be all that great of a fighter, since his usual opponents of choice always seemed to be his two young sons. But Hopper? That man survived a Russian gulag. So what the fuck happened?

She doesn’t allow herself much time to think about the possibilities, already crossing over to her closet and pulling down a few skirts. She tosses them on the bed beside Jonathan’s clothes.

“What are you doing?”

Nancy pauses in choosing between her jean jacket with the sherpa lining and the jean jacket with little embroidered stars on the elbows to look pointedly at her boyfriend. When have they ever let one another go monster hunting alone?  “What do you think I’m doing? I’m coming with you, stupid.”

Jonathan blinks at her again, like she’s a deer in the headlights who came out of nowhere out onto the road. Nancy rolls her eyes and returns to her closet. She decides on the jacket with sherpa. Extra warmth and that.

“You don’t have to do that,” his voice says gruffly to her back. “You’ve got two exams next week, and…”

“Your family’s in trouble, we’re going.”

“I appreciate it, Nance, but—”

It’s only when Nancy spins around to glare at him again that he finally shuts up.

***

They’re 18 miles down the highway before they really talk again. Jonathan’s been practically mute since they packed their suitcase and shoved it ungracefully into the trunk of his car. He is definitely driving over the speed limit, but it’s not too fast to be properly dangerous, so Nancy doesn’t mention it.

His knuckles are bone-white against the steering wheel.

Nancy can’t remember ever being in a car with Jonathan with no music playing, but now they drive for forty-six minutes in complete silence before Nancy simply can’t take it anymore. She leans forward to rifle through the small cassette collection they keep stored in the console. “Can we put a tape on?”

He nods, eyes locked on the road ahead like he’s trying to convince it, through sheer willpower, to speed past them faster. “Sure, whatever you want,” he says dismissively.

Nancy drops the tape in her hand, a Joy Division, and spins to face him. To hell with it.

“I want you to stop blaming yourself for whatever happened happening,” she says determinedly, hoping this will finally be the time her words stick. She’s tried many times before.

Jonathan just blinks. “I’m not—”

“You are.” Softer, she continues, “But this wasn’t your fault.” Most of what you blame yourself for isn’t your fault. “It’s all right that you weren’t there.”

Jonathan takes one hand off the wheel to swipe at his eyes. “Will didn’t sound well on the phone,” is all he says.

Nancy sighs. She puts on the Joy Division.

***

Even after years of dating Jonathan, she knows very little about Lonnie Byers, beyond him generally being a complete and total piece of shit. Most of what she does know are things Jonathan hasn’t even told her, the bits of town gossip once passed around her family’s dinner table like salt. Her mom sighing out what a shame it was that Lonnie Byers would up and leave behind two young children: Isn’t it just awful? Her dad replying, Well what do you expect Karen? The man’s a drunk. Hasn’t made a moral decision in his life. Course, if I was married to Joyce Byers, maybe I’d be a drunk too. Mom shooting daggers at him. Joyce had a black eye at Melvald’s last week, you know. She tried to cover it with makeup, but I could tell. Nancy can’t remember what her father said to that. Probably, Michael, finish your peas.

She watches Jonathan watching the road and wishes she could drum up all the right words to say to him. Somehow, when she’s the one freaking out, about her family, or her future, or the memories that come back to haunt her in middle of the night, he always knows what to say.

The most Jonathan’s ever talked about Lonnie was that very first week, when he confessed to her that he’d been the one to teach him to shoot, and had made him kill that rabbit. That same day, he’d told her Lonnie had once loved Joyce, or he thought so, anyway. Nancy wonders how anyone could go from love to black eyes, to a son who follows up any mention of your name with, he’s an asshole; who refuses, by and large, to refer to you at all.

Once, about a year ago, after she and Jonathan stumbled home from a party neither one of them had really wanted to attend that ended in both of them having way more fun and getting far  drunker than intended, Jonathan brought him up. They were eating leftover pizza from the fridge and drinking waters, which they had at least had the wherewithal to determine they needed to switch to before dropping off to bed. It wasn’t the first time Nancy had been that drunk, but it was for Jonathan.

He was at a giggly, silly, perfectly content level of drunkenness, which was Nancy’s favorite stage. After coming up from a bout of seemingly endless giggles, though, things had gotten more contemplative. Jonathan turned to her, the ghost of the laugh of seconds before still written across his face, and admitted, this isn’t how I thought it’d feel, being drunk. 

No? What did you think it’d feel like? 

I was afraid I’d finally understand him. 

Him?

Dad. You know, he would yell all the time, shove us around, maybe, but he wouldn’t start throwing the real punches unless he was sickeningly drunk. I thought maybe I’d have it, too. He’d gestured nonsensically at the air. The anger. There was a short pause in which Jonathan finished the last slice of pizza, shook himself a little. Then he said, Do you want to listen to the Clash?

Even drunk, Nancy had wanted to scream at him that he couldn’t just say something like that and then move on like it was nothing. All she managed to choke out was, Did he do it a lot? Throw the real punches, I mean?

Jonathan waved her off, already shuffling through his records, somehow, impossibly, not tired at all. Don’t worry, Nancy. The important thing, Nance, is that he never got Will. 

Four hours into the drive, Nancy makes him pull into a rest stop so they can switch places. At the very least, she’s not going to let him drive to the point of exhaustion.

***

They make it to Hawkins in record time, and are in front of the Byers-Hopper residence by 9:45 the next morning. Jonathan lets them in the side door. No sooner have they entered the living room before El’s in front of them.

“Jonathan!” she cries, flinging her arms around her brother. He drops his bag immediately to pull her into a tight hug. El draws away long enough to repeat the gesture with Nancy.

Nancy loves coming home to the Byers-Hopper clan. The reception she gets here is more enthusiastic than if she were Queen of England. It’s the exact opposite of what she gets coming home to her own parents’ house, where she’s lucky if Mike comes upstairs from the basement long enough to mutter ‘hello’ at her, and her father reluctantly rises from his recliner only to make a judgmental comment about her clothes, or the size of her weekend bags, or the way she’s done her hair. Here, she never feels like she has to pass muster.

When El’s arms leave her, they’re replaced almost immediately by Joyce’s. She’s swatting both her and Jonathan’s shoulders and saying, “You guys should not have driven home for this! Hop is fine, we’re all fine. You have exams!”

“It’s okay, Mom,” Jonathan reassures her, waving a hand dismissively at her fretting gestures, “we wanted to come.” He’s already looking over her shoulder at the couch, where Nancy can see the slouched form of Jim Hopper. She can’t deny that she’s relieved to find him in one piece, looking mostly unscathed but for a jagged cut splitting his right eyebrow, deep enough to warrant a row of neatly spaced, purple-threaded stitches. El’s returned to her spot beside her father, hand woven immediately back into his. Will, Nancy notes, isn’t in the room at all.

“What the hell happened?” Jonathan asks, stepping towards Hop. Nancy notices that both of his hands are shaking, now that they no longer have the steering wheel to cling to. She reaches forward to cup one of his palms between both of her own.

Normally, Hopper would probably make some sarcastic remark here. Nancy can practically hear it. But he must see the same franticness Nancy does in Jonathan’s eyes, because he’s quick to reassure. “Just a scratch, kid, just a scratch. Nothing to drive across state lines for, Jesus. I’m not worth all that.”

Jonathan crosses his arms, bending over to more closely examine Jim’s cut. “That’s a dozen stitches at least,” he observes dryly. “Near your eye.”

Hopper shrugs, “Better near than on. Could’ve been worse. Your old man’s got a decent throw.”

“Will said you passed out.”

“My own fault. I broke the golden rule of policing: never turn away from an armed assailant. Thought I’d finally convinced that fucker to go away; beer bottle caught me when my back was turned. Went down from the shock more than anything. And Will exaggerated. I was only passed out for a minute.” He shrugs, like the whole event was no big deal. Like he’s willing them to believe this is not a big deal.

Nancy can tell Jonathan clocks it immediately from the way that his shoulders dip. Her boyfriend is well adept himself at trying to minimize the concern of others. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.  

Only then does Hopper’s voice rise. He tries to stand too, but Joyce pushes him back down. “Now listen. I neverwant you to apologize for that man, you hear me?”

Jonathan’s breathing is heavy. He doesn’t answer, but instead turns to his mother to ask, “How’s Will?”

Now that she’s got over the initial shock of seeing them, Joyce’s face is drawn. Nancy wonders if they’ve been up all night, sitting in this living room looking at each other. Maybe wondering if Lonnie would dare come back for another round. She sounds utterly exhausted when she says, “In his room. Resting.”

They do nothing but stare at each other for a long beat, having some silent conversation mother to son. Then Joyce continues, “I’m sure you both are exhausted. You didn’t drive through the night, did you?” It’s obvious that that’s what they’ve done, to get here this early. “Bed, both of you. El sweetheart, maybe you should go up too, none of us slept much last night, did we? Then, tonight we’ll all—well, we’ll all catch up!” It’s too forcibly cheerful for the situation. Nancy doesn’t miss how Joyce’s smile is pinched at the corners.

Jonathan opens his mouth like he wants to say something more to her, but then he just shuts it again, moving to collect their bags and lead Nancy up the stairwell.

Joyce and Hopper have a new house, now. Still on the outskirts of the town, by the woods, but bigger than the Byer’s old home and Hopper and El’s cabin, put together. They have a room set up for Jonathan, even though he hasn’t stayed in it for more than a few nights since their first summer of college. Jonathan drops their bags in the room, then turns to her. “I’m going to go check on Will,” he tells her softly. Nancy nods, and watches his retreating back as he disappears down the hall. She know he won’t sleep until he’s seen Will for himself, verified he’s still alive and breathing.

She waits up for him, laying on her usual side of the bed between unfamiliar sheets and staring at the window, a bright square of light that can’t quite be dimmed by the thin curtains. She can see through them right into the backyard, which is settling in beneath the morning sun. The light drapes the grey room with a yellowness that seems almost eerie, considering how much it feels like midnight, in every sense but the time on the clock.  

He’s gone for at least an hour before finally he crawls in beside her. Nancy feels warmer immediately, even before she’s pressed herself against him, before Jonathan’s arms lace around her, pulling her in flush to his chest. She breathes in the scent of his shampoo—some 2-in-1 coconut thing that’s the cheapest option at their corner drugstore. It smells like home. For some reason she feels a little bit like crying. “How is he?” she whispers to the half-darkness.

Jonathan nestles into her neck, speaking mostly into her hair as he says, “He thinks it’s his fault.”

Hmm, who does that remind you of? she thinks. But Nancy doesn’t say it. She pulls his hand to her chest and laces their fingers together. Squeezes once, twice, as many times as it takes until Jonathan squeezes back.

“He’ll be okay,” she says softly, “He’s got a good support system.”

He says nothing back for so long she thinks he might have fallen asleep, but then Nancy feels him start to shake. It’s a jerky, rigid movement, like he’s trying hard to suppress it. She feels a dampness at the nape of her neck, and it’s so foreign coming from him that it takes her a moment to realize what’s happening. Jonathan’s crying.

“Oh babe.” She lets him go long enough to turn herself around so she’s back against her pillow before pulling his head down to her chest. He wraps his arms around her waist like she’s a lifeline, and then she strokes his hair and lets him cry harder.

Now that he’s started, he doesn’t seem to be able to stop. It’s no matter, Nancy has the time. She holds him closer, whispering nonsensical words she hopes are at least a little soothing. Jonathan has done this countless times for her before, wrapped her tight and let her cry out her sorrows, and Nancy has returned the favor in a million small ways. But she’s never borne witness to Jonathan weeping, in all the years she’s known and loved him. He’s never let her.

They lie there just like that until Jonathan has run out of tears. Then he whispers, voice hoarse, “We’re never going to escape him,” in such a lost, devastated tone that it snaps Nancy’s heart straight in two.

She runs a gentle finger along the curve of his ear. It doesn’t take a genius to work out who he means, but Nancy asks anyway. “Lonnie?”

He nods against her. “Someone saw them kissing behind the school. Then all of a sudden, our dad knows. Lonnie’s still got friends here. After everything he did…”

His voice breaks, so Nancy finishes for him. “It’s disgusting. They’re all disgusting, all the people that defend him even after what he did to you—”

“To my mom and Will,” Jonathan corrects. He doesn’t even sound angry, just…defeated.

But it’s okay, because Nancy can have enough anger for the both of them. “To you,” she repeats, leaving no room for argument, “and to them. Both. You don’t have to give me the details—ever, if you don’t want to—but I know he hurt you, too.” She strokes his hair again until Jonathan shudders, then finally relaxes. He doesn’t try and argue with her this time.

After a while, he drifts off to sleep against her, probably out of pure exhaustion. Nancy knows she needs to sleep too. They’ve been awake an unbearably long amount of time; surely, her body will give out soon. But at the moment, her mind refuses to stop reeling from how much she would like to kill Lonnie Byers with her bare hands for what he did to this boy, her favorite person in the world, and his family (which happens to be her favorite too).

She lays awake for some time afterward, thinking of Joyce patting her cheek in greeting, of the cheerful, happy beam that’s been a near-permanent feature on Will’s face in the past year or so, ever since allowing himself to live as his truest self. She hates that his own dad could take that away, that anyone could want to hurt any of the people under this roof. The devastation of it burns inside of her until at long last, sleep pulls her under.

***

When she wakes, it’s to empty sheets and the sound of quiet humming coming from downstairs. Nancy gets herself up and pulls open their bags, quickly changing into clean sweatpants and one of Jonathan’s sweaters from the top of their clothes pile. Then she pads her way through the hallways and down the stairs, to see how she can help.

It’s only El in the kitchen, stirring something on the stovetop and bopping her head to rhythm of the song she’s humming, Nancy vaguely recognizes it as something Madonna. “Hey,” she says in greeting, and El jumps about a foot into the air, nearly dropping the spoon.

“Oh! Hi, Nancy.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you.”

El shoots her a conspiratorial smile, “I’ve been scared by much worse.” She’s grown a lot in the last year, even more since the last time Nancy’s seen her. El’s as tall as Nancy now, and healthier than she’s ever been, now that she only gets to use her powers for such mundane things as picking up the spoons she drops and turning on fans without the switch. She’s happier, too.

“Where are the others?” Nancy asks, leaning against the counter and watching as El once again begins to stir.

El frowns. “Well, Jonathan and I started the garlic bread, but then I remembered we didn’t actually have bread, so Joyce went out to get some! Will went to pick up Mike.”

Nancy sighs. She was kind of hoping none of her family would learn she’s in town, so she wouldn’t have to cram in time to see them all. But it’s Mike, so of course she should have expected it. It will probably be easy to convince him to keep the info from their parents, at leats but it’ll be harder sell to get him to not tell Holly.

“Oh,” El continues, “And Dad and Jonathan went outside to talk. I do not think they wanted me there.” She dips her head in gesture towards the small window above the kitchen sink, and Nancy shuffles close enough to look out.

Sure enough, Hopper and Jonathan are sitting on the steps of the back porch. Hopper’s got an arm reached out, a hand tousling Jonathan’s shoulder, so it must be going well enough. That’s good. Nancy doesn’t want to admit it, but she’d been a little worried how that would shape out. Jonathan’s relationship with Hopper, even though it’s been years since he and Joyce got together, is still somewhat tentative.

It's nothing Hopper’s done, it’s just…who her boyfriend is. He doesn’t let anyone in easily, but once you’re in, you’re in. She watches as Jonathan laughs at something and shakes his head at Hop. On the drive here, he had been worried about Will, yes, But Nancy knows he’d been worried about Hopper, too. She turns back to El. “What can I do to help?”

“Set the table?” El says, “Oh, and can you pass me the parsley?”

They work alongside each other preparing the dinner in companionable silence. Then out of nowhere, El says “I’m sorry you had to drive here.” She worries her bottom lip between her teeth in the anxious way she does sometimes. “Joyce and I were at the movies. If I had been here, I would have handled it. Then Dad wouldn’t have gotten hurt, and Will wouldn’t have panicked, and Jonathan wouldn’t have had to worry.”

God, was it every member of this family who blamed themselves, even in situations where every indicator pointed very clearly towards a single man at blame? She sets down the last napkin and moves back into the kitchen so she can look at El directly. “Jonathan worries no matter what, I assure you.” She offers a small smile and waits for the younger girl to return it.

“Too much, Dad says,” El eventually sighs. “Joyce, too.”

Nancy frowns. “They’re right. But there’s no changing him. And anyway, I love him for it.” She did. It was one of the things that had endeared her to Jonathan even before they’d officially become friends. His love for his family was the axis on which his entire world spun.

“I think it’s good that I wasn’t here, probably,” El adds, turning back to the pasta now boiling on the stove. Nancy raises an eyebrow at her. “Dad says I’m not allowed to kill people anymore.”

She says this so plainly that Nancy immediately bursts into laughter, which sets El to laughing, too. “It’s true! He told me this morning we’re just supposed to press charges against him for battery and assault, and maybe get a restraining order, like we’re normal people.”  

This makes Nancy laugh even harder. “I thought about killing him last night,” she admits, “with one my guns.”

The grin she receives back is one entirely of approval.

They’re interrupted by Joyce returning with a loaf of bread and soon after by Will and Mike, the latter of whom greets her with a wave and no smile.

Nancy looks her little brother up and down. He looks very stressed out, bouncing on the balls of feet like he’s wasting time by just standing still, and he keeps shooting Will extremely unsubtle looks of concern, like he’s afraid the other boy will fall over at any minute.

The Byers and the Wheelers. What would they do without one another?

She moves forward to wrap him in a tight hug, and for once, Mike doesn’t even groan out a complaint.

***

Dinner is wonderful. Nobody talks about the gaping elephant in the room, which is the reason they are all here together in the first place. Instead, Hopper jokes with Mike and El tells her and Jonathan about an art project she’s working on in school. By the end, even Will, who was unusually quiet for most of the meal, even by his standards, has somewhat relaxed.

It feels like all meals with the Byers-Hopper family feel: warm. Nancy asks Will and Mike for updates on their college applications and Joyce if she’ll give her the incredible garlic bread recipe. She goes back for seconds of pasta, because even though she and Jonathan do a decent job of keeping themselves well-fed, their own meals never quite taste this good.

At some point, beneath the table, Jonathan’s foot loops around one of her own so their ankles are touching. It’s lovely.

When Joyce and Hopper retire early for the night, she and Jonathan stay up with the others and put on a film. It’s some horror thing Will and Mike are into, and Nancy ends up falling asleep on Jonathan’s shoulder thirty minutes in. She’s promptly shaken awake and ushered up to bed as soon as the credits start to roll.

The kids stay behind, still high on the adrenaline of everything that’s happened in the last forty-eight hours, but Will promises he’ll drive Mike home when the time comes and neither she nor Jonathan bother to try and figure out if that’s true or not. She can’t wait to be under the blankets and snuggled up against him again. 

“Hey,” Jonathan whispers to her, lying, face to face this time, against their pillows.

“Hey.” After the chaos of the day, she soaks in this moment of just him. It’s the quiet, stolen seconds between them that keep her sane. It’s been like that for more than five years. God, is she lucky.

“Thank you for coming with me,” he says.

She would follow him anywhere, she thinks. To the moon, if he asked it of her. This is a much quicker turnaround. They’ll have to make the drive back on Monday in order to give Nancy at least a day to prepare properly for Wednesday’s exam. Thankfully, Nancy Wheeler prepares ahead; She’d started studying a week ago, so it will probably be okay. If not, well, this was more important anyway. “Family comes first,” she tells him. The ‘our,’ she hopes, is implied. Somewhere along the way, she’s stop distinguishing between his family and hers. He reaches a hand out to trace a finger along her eyebrow.

“Will seemed a bit better after we ate,” she says, thinking about the grin on his face when he’d held up his movie choice. He’d been solemn during dinner, but then he’d started to come back to himself talking with El and Mike.  

Nancy’s come to know Will well, and she knows the similarities between the Byers brothers run deep. They both just get so…stuck in their own heads. It takes time, and persistence, and people around them they trust, to bring them back again.

“I’m not sure we can claim much of the credit for that.”

She thinks about the scene they’d left downstairs—all three of them laughing as Mike reenacted some ridiculous, gory death scene from the movie, and has to agree. “Maybe. But he only let them help after you helped him first, when you talked to him this morning.”

“You have too much confidence in me,” Jonathan says, but he does quirk a smile. “You don’t even know what I said.”

“Ah, but I’ve had my share of Jonathan Byers’ pep talks, so I know it was good.”

He cups the back of her head and pulls her in close enough to kiss her forehead.

***

The rest of the visit goes about as well as can be expected. El arranges a board game tournament and Joyce makes them all hot cocoas, which they sip gratefully as they play. Mike comes over again for this event, too, which is nice. Nancy doesn’t get the chance to come home very often, and no matter how much she loves the city and the small, happy life she’s building there with Jonathan, it’s the afternoons like these she misses most.

Hopper spends the second morning and afternoon at the police station, and that’s when Jonathan is most on edge. After she loses an infuriating round of scrabble to Mike, Nancy finds him sitting on thee pebbled steps leading up to the front door, eyes on the quiet street. She plops down next to him, takes his hand, and rests her head on his shoulder, just to cover all her bases.

He quirks a brow at her in feigned shock, “Wait, you lost?”

“Only because Mike’s memorized all the ‘q’ words,” Nancy tells him bitterly. Qaid is going to haunt her a few days, at least. “What are you doing out here?”

“Thinking.”

Nancy frowns, waiting for him to elaborate. He always tells her, eventually.

Sure enough it come minutes later. “I almost took the car this morning,” he confesses. “Before everyone woke up. I was going to drive to Indianapolis.”

Nancy stills. She doesn’t know exactly how that would have ended, but she can’t imagine it would have been anything good. “Jonathan….”

“I know, I know. I didn’t do it, did I?”

“Good. One, I care about bringing you home in one piece, you know. Two, if you do anything that reckless, you bring me along. That’s the deal.”

Jonathan shakes his head. “He usually runs out of steam after the first few hits.”

Her skin crawls with the implications of that statement. She squeezes his hand tighter. A breeze carries the leaves further across the path of the lawn.

She’s surprised when he continues, quiet and steady: “There was this one time, when Will was maybe…six? Mom was at work, and Dad was at the bar. One of his buddies had a kid in Will’s grade, a girl. So he was bragging to my dad all about her, the sports she was trying out for, the hikes they’d gone on, that sort of thing. You know Will…he was never like that.

Well, this guy must’ve said something to Dad, something like, ‘see that, Lonnie, I think they’ve switched it. I got the son and you got the daughter,'  because Dad came home in a rage.”

“Jesus.”

“Yeah. Completely wasted, you know…yelling for Will, calling him names. So I told Will to go hide and then I tried to go calm him down….”

Jonathan trails off, but it doesn’t take much to piece together what must’ve happened next. If Will was six, that puts Jonathan at all of nine or ten. Nancy can picture it: skinny, quiet, little Jonathan, standing between his father’s rage and his brother’s hideout.

“That’s the night I decided I hated him.” He gives a hollow, dull sort of laugh. “And look, all these years and he’s never given me a reason to stop.”          

Nancy follows his line of sight down the street. Not a car has passed through since she came out here. “You don’t think he’d come back?” She asks tentatively.

Jonathan shakes his head.

She thinks of the person who saw the boys kissing in the schoolyard, who must’ve reported it to their own father, who then reported it to Lonnie. “And he wouldn’t…you know, tell?”

Nancy reads the newspapers, and she’s seen the headlines. Missing men, murdered men. She remembers, all too well, what everyone was saying when Will disappeared; all the rumors that swirled about what had most likely happened to him, and the jeering, unsurprised way the people in this town discussed it, like it was good riddance. Like a twelve year old boy could ever deserve something like that, just because of who he was. Even the memory of it is enough to bring a rush of bile to her mouth. The possibilities are always there, and the fear. She knows that it haunts Jonathan, too.

Another shake. “Nah. He thinks it’s his own personal shame, having a gay son. That’s probably why he showed up here in the first place, to make one last try at beating it out of him.” He sighs. “If Hopper hadn’t been here….”

“But he was,” Nancy reminds him. She will remind him of that no matter how many times it takes to sink in, do everything in her power to stop this impending spiral before it begins. “It’s not all on you anymore, Jonathan. Or even you and your mom. It’s all of us in it together, now.” She pats his knee and makes to stand. “Now come on, Will said we’re doing Pictionary next and I’ve still got time to convince him he should be on my team.”

"Wait...no way! Will's always with me."

***

The next morning, they sit in the driveway with their bags in the back for a good long moment before Jonathan starts up the car. Nancy starts to reassure him they’ll be back in a week, but then Will and El both come jogging out, racing to the car. Jonathan puts the car back in park as Will taps on the window.

When they roll it down, he says in rush, “Mom said to remind you you’re in charge of pies for Thanksgiving. One apple and one pumpkin—”

“No,” El huffs, “One apple and one pecan.”

“El, you’re the only one who likes pecan, it’s gross. We’re not having pecan.”

They argue back and forth for a minute until Jonathan interrupts. “Guys. Guys!” Two heads snap to attention. “If I’m making them, I’m choosing.”

“So apple and pumpkin,” says Will victoriously.

“Maybe I like pecan now.” His tone is elusive enough for Will’s face to fall. El smirks. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” they both say. Jonathan waits.

“Mom also says call when you get there. What else?”

“Don’t worry too much.”

“Oh yeah. Don’t worry too much.” Will shoots them a final grin, then they’re both running back up the drive.

Jonathan rolls the window back up and lets out a breath. Relief, Nancy thinks. They'll be okay. Then he turns to her and smile. “Home?”

“Yes. Let’s go home.”  

This time, they play music the entire way there.