#as they word for word bar for bar repeat the exact sort of sentiments that GOT irl people oppressed and killed en masse

[butwhatifidothis]

Y'know, I feel really bad for the people who are still in that server and have to put up with all the hateful rhetoric that mod is spewing out because they can't speak up about it in fear of getting banned.

Yeah, and just to serve as a general reminder that it is not everyone in that server are like this; it's mostly Shandale, a couple other mods, and a few other members, with the other mods who haven't engaged with this behavior directly mostly being responsible for never doing anything to actually rectify this issue like removing Shandale's mod status or removing them from the server for repeatedly saying shit like this (or doing anything similar to the other mods who have explicitly backed up their rhetoric). There's actually a good few people who will stand against the rhetoric thrown around, which is absolutely something to commend them for knowing that they could easily be banned (since, you know, the person that's saying this shit is someone who has banning privileges and is known to ban people for pretty innocuous shit).

It honestly must suck to be an average Edelgard fan in that server knowing that at pretty much any time there's a pretty damn good chance that one of the members - or mods! - will spout off blatantly racist shit and there's just. Nothing that will be done about it, ever, just cuz that person is friends with a mod or are a mod themselves. And in one of THE biggest spaces for Edelgard fans, at that! I hope they can eventually find a better place to love their fave in, since this one's such an unsalvageable garbage heap

[shinidamachu]

Tale As Old As Time

Summary: InuYasha, Kagome, movie night trope and my Disney obsession walk into a bar... Pre-canon fluff. Word Count: 2.159 Genre: fluff Fandom: InuYasha Pairing: Inukag Format: oneshot AO3 Link: 🌹 Fanfic.Net Link: 🌹

“Time to go to bed, birthday boy.” Mrs. Higurashi planted a kiss to Sota’s forehead and the sleepy child grunted softly.

“I’m not tired.” He protested, immediately yawning and contradicting his already fragile point.

“Yes, you are. Come on, now. It’s late. Grandpa is sleeping and I’d like to rest too.”

InuYasha observed the two of them interacting, as he often did. There was a feeling that always came along with it. He couldn’t quite put a nail on the head of it. Something between the most harmless kind of envy and the saddest type of longing. The sensation of a beautiful dream that escaped him by morning, forever out of reach, no matter how hard he tried to make the pieces of it to rise up again in the horizon of his mind.

He remembered his mother to be just as tender.

But did she ever kiss his forehead that way? Did they ever argue over sleeping time, InuYasha and his boyish stubbornness, she and her heavenly patience? How much of her was truly a memory and how much was his wishful imagination? The longer the years went, the thinner the line separating illusion from reality got. InuYasha feared the day would come, when he couldn’t tell the difference at all.

“Fine.” The boy gave in, fatigue stronger then his will and eyes barely open as he stood up and made his way upstairs. “Good night, everybody!”

“Sleep well!” Kagome replied.

“G’night, kid.” 

“InuYasha,” Called Mrs. Higurashi, “I take you’re spending the night?”

“Y-yeah. If that’s alright, I mean.”

“Of course it’s alright, dear! We don’t have a spare room, but we do have extra pillows. Kagome can get you one or two. Do you mind sleeping on the couch?”

InuYasha turned to Kagome, who promptly took his questioning look for what it was. Smiling, she tapped the comfortable surface of the furniture they were currently sitting on, mouthing ‘couch’ to translate her mother’s intentions.

It still caught him off guard, the extent of caring that lady nurtured for his well being. She had absolutely no obligation to. No motivation, other than the pure compassion of her heart. The same compassion he saw in her daughter.

“Oh! No, I don’t mind at all. Thank you.”

When it came to Kagome’s mom, he couldn’t help to be overly-polite. Even if by other people’s standards, that equaled to merely being polite. For reasons he couldn’t comprehend, but that went beyond returning her gentle favors, it was crucial to be in the woman’s good graces. Maybe a small part of him wanted to be reminded how did it feel, getting used to motherly kindness.

“You’re welcome. Now, don’t you two stay up too late. I won’t let you go off to fight demons in the feudal era without a proper breakfast.”

“We won’t.” Kagome assured her. And that appeared to be enough. 

Following after her son, Mrs. Higurashi wished them sweet dreams and before he knew it, he was alone with Kagome.

It was Sota’s birthday, which, InuYasha learned, meant that a decade ago, on this exact day, the little guy was born. To celebrate the occasion, his family reserved the whole day so they could share delicious meals and bask on each other’s company. And to InuYasha’s surprise, his presence was requested there as well.

It wouldn’t be the first time he stayed over, but it was the first time her mom was aware of it. More than aware, encouraged him to do it. Even if InuYasha was fluent in the language of affection, even if he found the perfect words to explain it, he doubted one day she’d understand how much he valued her trust and acceptance.

Kagome cuddled up to InuYasha under the blanket they shared, tangling their arms and allowing her head to fall on his shoulder. His entire body stiffened in response. Was she really that oblivious to the effect she had on him or did she know just what she was doing? He was never able to figure it out. Regardless, resisting the sense of serenity that came with every aftershock was an impossible thing to do. As usual, InuYasha quickly surrendered. And as long as white flags consisted on leaning towards her touch, he was no opposed to it.

“She stayed.” and mesmerised, InuYasha stared at the magical box in front of them — a television, Kagome had told him. In her world, it seemed, there was something new to learn whenever he thought he had everything figured out. For the past four or so hours, they had been watching story after story unfold inside the strange device and Kagome had taken advantage of her brother’s crescent exhaustion to play some of her favorites.

“She couldn’t leave him there to die! He just saved her life.”

“Isn’t he a demon of sorts?”

“A beast.”

“Then it would have been fine, either way. He’s clearly stronger than humans.”

“Maybe. But she needed to see it for herself.”

“Why?”

Kagome sighed. 

“Because she’s already falling in love with him.”

Frowning, he mentally replayed the scenes, searching his brain for the signals he had so obviously missed.

The beast character was in love. InuYasha had no doubt about it. The girl had his heart the instant she volunteered to take her father’s place as his prisoner. He longed for her presence — despite her refusal to indulge him — and put effort into treating her nicely — despite not extending the same courtesy to anyone else. Everything she said, everything she did, had the power to drag him down or sweep him off his feet. He struggled with expressing the sentiment, his pride and bad temper getting in the way. But it was there. The situation was all too relatable for InuYasha not to recognize it.

The girl, though? The idea of her falling in love with the likes of him was absurd. Why would she? It was to be expected that someone graced with such intelligence and beauty would have known her own value better than to fall for a monster.

And yet, Kagome was right.

The tale went on and the girl took the beast to safety. A life for a life. They were even. She was free to go.

Still, she stayed by his side until he healed and every day after that. Because she could see right through his tough facade and was never being afraid of giving him a piece of her mind. And he saw her in return, welcoming the habits her own village judged her for maintaining. Against all odds, they understood each other like the last two native speakers of a tongue long claimed by oblivion.

Of their own accord, InuYasha’s eyes fell into Kagome.

“The best part is coming up.” She announced, thankfully snapping him out of his treacherous thoughts.

Song started playing, a sweet melody filling the air. All of the sudden, Kagome was moving the furniture around.

“Watcha doin’?”

Rather than responding, the priestess took him by the hand and guided him to the center of the room. Dumbfound, InuYasha watched as she silently raised his arm at shoulders height, placing his free palm firmly on her back right after.

By the time InuYasha picked up her intentions, they were already spinning around, dancing barefoot under the television light.

InuYasha had never learned how to dance. Between a battle for his life and the next, the opportunity didn’t present itself and, to be honest, the notion he was missing out on something hadn’t occurred to him. The whole thing seemed so out of his brutal reality, it was almost futile.

And despite finding himself wishing he had the necessary skills to better follow her movements, InuYasha discovered dancing with Kagome to be a surprisingly easy task. There was something peculiarly natural about the way she rested her head over his chest as they slowly swayed to the rhythm. He wondered if she noticed the inflation of it as he breathed her in, the scent he had grown to love so much overflowed his senses with a hint of corn and butter.

Kagome pulled away from him on cue with the song, using the hand holding hers to whirl away from him without ever breaking contact, only to swirl back to his embrace. The more they repeated the steps, the more his confidence grew and, passed the awkward phase, InuYasha was actually enjoying himself.

Too soon, the tune came to an end.

InuYasha stood there, unsure of what to do. Self awareness manifested itself hot pink on his cheeks. He had just danced with Kagome. And he had liked it. And he wanted to keep going.

She stared at him, a big smile on her face as if he was the one to give her a present and not the other way around.

“I always wanted to do that,” she confessed in a nervous laugh. Her gaze avoided his but her body remained in place, pleasantly close. “Anyway… Thanks for coming today. It meant a lot to Sota.”

“Y-yeah, no problem.”

Belle… Are you… Happy here with me?

Yes!

The distant voices brought the half demon down to Earth. For a second there, he had forgotten all about everything that wasn’t her. Their words sank in and InuYasha felt his curiosity blossom. He had to ask, even if the answer scared the shit out of him.

“Are you?”

“Huh?”

“Happy there with me... Are you?”

“Of course!” Guaranteed Kagome. “Why would you ever doubt that?”

There was an unspoken rule to never talk about it. The subject was too delicate, too painful to discuss. Kagome being Kikyo’s reincarnation and falling down that well was not an unpretentious whim of fate. It carried purpose, and once that purpose was fulfilled… Well, he’d rather fight Naraku over and over than having to face the dreading thought of an after.

Miroku and Sango had their future set. Defeating Naraku meant getting rid of the Wind Tunnel and setting Kohaku free, one way or the other. They could finally get married, start a family. Even Shippo had plans to keep doing those fox demon exams in order to improve his powers. InuYasha seemed to be the only one in the dark. His goal was to become a full demon, but that was then. What he wanted now and who he wanted with, had changed into something way more uncertain.

When they defeat Naraku, Kagome won’t hang out in his era as often. Without any further obligations there, she could dispense as many time she judged appropriate for her school thing and they would only see each other sporadically.

There was also the real possibility the Honekui no Ido would close forever. With their mission done, so was the need to allow their temporal trips, and that meant separation. As far as logic goes, he didn’t belong in her world and she didn’t belong in his. 

Yet, she fitted  into his life so well.

The prospect of Kagome choosing to live in the past with him was his favorite ‘what if’. But he had no right to ask her such thing of her, nor was he selfish to the point of actually doing it. She was his friend and even if they were something more, it was crazy to think she would drop her friends, family and everything she knows just for him. How could he ever compete with that?

“I dunno, you do run off here a lot. I guess I just thought you didn’t like there as much.”

“I’m sorry I made you feel this way, InuYasha. But it’s not the case at all. It’s just… I have a life here too, you know?”

“Keh. ‘Course I do.”

She smiled fondly

“Aren’t I lucky to have two places to call home?”

Something inside him melted into a smile of his own.

Their tomorrow was a cloudy day. Changeable and blurry. All he could do was hoping it would clear up.

Of one thing, though, InuYasha was certain: if she so wanted, he could leave everything behind and stay in her side of the well as it closes. The place was loud, too crowded for his taste and the smells were overwhelming, but they would be together and for him that was home.

“I suppose.”

“Come on, let’s watch the rest of the movie. It has the perfect ending.”

Doing as he was told, InuYasha walked to the couch, where Kagome nestled against him again.

Maybe it was foolish not telling her how he felt, how he have been feeling for a while now. It sounded insane to ignore the fear of losing her, of losing his home, always there lurking in the shadows. Maybe he was a mad man for keeping all of the things he desperately needed reassurance of at bay in exchange of enjoying that moment with her.

But right then, the hope of another dance was enough.

A/N: THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE 1K OR LESS, THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE 1K OR LESS, THIS WAS S-

Thank you all for reading. Maybe you've noticed I'm writing fluff stories a little more. I feel like it's not my best suit so I'm trying to give it practice. Still have a lot to improve and this wasn't edited, so be nice.

Anyway... Here is something sweet for @sophtin​ (and my self indulgent ass). Hope you rot your teeth, baby.

[burnyouwithacigarettelighter]

all my fears they have become

“Where do you expect a military base to be?”

“DC? Like the Pentagon?”

The Anderson family make their way to the Military secured base in Nashville, but are denied entry.

(cross-posted on ao3!)

here is this series’s masterlist!

𖥔

When Ron was several years old, he pushed another boy on the playground to the floor.

They had been arguing about the slide, shoulders and hands jutting and grabbing at each other in an attempt to slow the other down.

Ron looked at the boy, smaller than him, and perhaps even younger, and shoved the boy off the bars that lead to the structure and the slide.

He had fallen onto the wooden chips with a harmless thud, but his eyes still widened and watered, limbs that had been pettily swinging now crumpling into himself.

Ron remembers watching that boy drop into himself emptily, mother running over to him and fussing over the boy worriedly. He looked so weak.

(And Ron remembers just as clearly not feeling a drop of sympathy for him.)

His mother had taken him aside, patting the spot beside her in the bench as a gesture to sit down.

“Why’d you do that, Ron?” She said simply, eyes gazing over the small park. Her hands sat in her lap, even though Ron felt like she should have been holding his own.

“Because I wanted to go on the slide first.” He replied, looking at her. There were patches of dusty foundation appearing in blotches on her skin, and the young boy absently wondered where the purple went.

After a moment of silence, she finally turned to him, brows furrowed with something he couldn’t quite make out at the time. “You can’t do that. You can’t push or hurt people just to get what you want.”

Ron blinked, “But why? It works.” Ron really couldn’t comprehend why his mother didn’t want him to do so, especially when it was something she never had a problem with when he did it.

“It’s not —“ Her eyes thinned, “you hurt him, Ron. You shouldn’t hurt other people.”

And Ron watched his mothers expression poke at him, face contorted into something that made him want to look at his shoes. It made him feel small. It made him feel weak.

“Okay, Mom.”

Ron didn’t want to make Sam feel that way. In fact, Ron wanted his brother to feel the exact opposite of that.

But he couldn’t leave it alone — how could you, when you can see clearly where those thoughts are going?

“What the hell do you mean we can’t allow you entry?!” Ron’s father shouted, finger digging sharply into the man’s chest.

The soldier in front of him, dressed in neat camouflage print uniform and flat military cap, looked at Ron’s father with a straight-face, while also addressing the large crowd forming behind the Anderson family, “The base has already reached maximum capacity, and in allowing you entry, we will be effectively sabotaging our efforts, as well as the lives of other citizens.”

“What about our lives? We’re fucking citizens, are we not?!” Someone behind them rasps out angrily.

Ron’s father looked to hold the same sentiment, hands bunched into fists at his sides. The family of four had pulled the car out of the side of the road after Ron’s father had done something underneath the hood of the car, before resuming their route down an extra (and significantly less crowded) road that not many used.

“We have children!” A mother in the crowd says desperately. The highway overhead makes a crashing noise, attention flitting to the sound momentarily. It’s filled with cars that honk angrily, and many split off down the nearest exit route.

(They had the right idea, Ron thinks later on, going down the city main road that leads straight out of Nashville.)

The soldier’s straight face split for a slight moment, one that held pity and a light apology, before slipping back into poker, “We have direct orders to escort remaining citizens to another camp outside of the city.”

The crowd’s rumbling quieted, all looking at each other with a sort of hopeful relief. A few people had actually seen the dead walking — not quite clearly, in Ron’s case, but mob paranoia was a wonderful thing that spread like absolute hellfire.

His father teetered on the edge, while his mother tried desperately to pull her husband back to peaceful sobriety. She looked not nearly as worried as Ron’s father, but perhaps she was just better at pretending.

“Ron? Where — are we going?” Sam stuttered out, hand nervously clutching Ron’s own like a lifeline, wideyedly surveying the grey building, as well as the others — which was starkly blacked out in comparison to the military building that held a small, though noticeable, brightened window.

“We’re, uh,” Ron racked his mind for a simple response. His brother was a stubborn person, and an easily frightened one, too. One wrong answer would send him off the deep end of rapid-fire questions, whilst the other would mute him into wincing obedience. “We’re going, er, somewhere.”

Ron bit his tongue. Wrong answer.

“Where’s somewhere?”

“I don’t know, maybe Tellico.” Ron responded with a shrug, deciding to try and humor (distract, perhaps) his younger brother. Their mother and father ushered the two of them along, worried they might break off.

Sam wrinkles his nose, “No way. Tellico is boring.”

“Where do you expect a military base to be?”

“DC? Like the Pentagon?”

Ron blew air from his lips halfheartedly, slowly boarding up the steps of the cramped bus with his brother and his parents in tow, “Sure.”

The military bus wasn’t discreet, holding camouflage splatters on every inch of the steel armoured frame, with an equally green and serious soldier driving in the front seat.

“D’you think Aunt Stacy is in a military base?” His brother said without much thought, eyes piercing into the side of Ron’s face.

“What?” Ron said, looking back at his brother with a tense expression.

Aunt Stacy was their mothers sister — sick with the illness, not so much as able to communicate with them, and couldn’t see their mother nor them in the urgency to cease all actions with the sick in a shaky attempt to stop the spread.

Sam repeated his question simply, fingers tapping lightly on the side of his seat.

“Why—“ Ron blinked incredulously, eyes doing a once over on his brother, “What do you mean?”

His brother gave a shrug, “She’s sick. She has the sick.”

Ron nodded slowly, “So?” Their aunt was safely (well, that was what the government had said on the news, with doctors and nurses who looked aged far beyond their years, worn and frail, nodding seedily) being taken care of in Nashville’s hospitals, after the Knoxville hospital hadn’t any room left.

“Do they still even bring the sick? Don’t they turn?”

They… did. Turn, that was.

But Ron was sure it could be handled, right? The officials said so, echoing it with a laugh.

The world was past illnesses like the flu that would’ve killed many centuries ago, so they could do this, right?

Right?

“I’m sure they can handle a flu, Sam.” Ron said, brows creased.

(He knows he’s trying to convince himself. He knows. But it keeps the fear on hold, for now.)

“Shouldn’t they just leave them?”

Boys Sam’s age didn’t have a filter, and were sometimes ignorant, but Ron was sure they could still be empathetic, whether or not what he said was the truth.

“I,” Ron’s lips couldn’t quite form the words he’d wanted, “Don’t think about that, Sam.”

His brother opened his mouth to respond, “Don’t.” Ron interrupted, sharper than he intended.

“Okay, Ron.”

𖥔 

Ron couldn’t fall asleep.

His brother was out like a light against Ron’s forearm, breathing light and seamlessly in the seat, as well as many others, who’s breathing mirrored Sam’s in each row.

Ron’s father sat still as a statue, eyes closed tightly, and Ron thought his mother had been fast asleep on her husband’s shoulder, but her own open eyes reflected against street lamp lights in the furthering plains like the crystal marbles he used to collect.

It was completely calm in the bus, littered with families, and was slowly followed by another military bus holding more citizens, and perhaps more soldiers.

Despite the safety that was guaranteed, there was an uneasiness sitting in the pit of his stomach, twisting and turning without fail as to make him nauseous, settling in like it’d never go away.

His brother’s words echoed carelessly in the depths of his mind, while a whispering appeared, planting seeds of doubt where there shouldn’t be.

Aunt Stacy… she’ll be okay, right? They have a cure, don’t they? It’s just a flu… you know, you’re starting to sound like your father.  

Ron felt his mouth go dry.

You saw the hospitals, Ron. How could they possibly fix all of it? The government’s keeping information mum — and you’re on a bus to a military camp outside of Nashville… is this how they fix it?  

Is this how, Ron?  

No. No, Ron thinks, shaking himself.

Sam is right, isn’t he? They just need to leave the sick… seal them away… that’s what you think now, too, right? Just leave Aunt Stacy… and the rest… just leave them.

That’s how they’d fix it, right? That’s how they should fix it, right, Ron?

Ron feels something pull the sleeve of his sweater, making his head turn.

“Are we there yet, Ron?”

The older boy swallows the dry feeling in his mouth, trying to respond, “We’re,” the bus fell to a stop.

The soldier driving in the front slapped the roof of the bus with a step, “We’re here.” Though his attention seemed to be targeted to his fellow soldiers, rather than them.

“Yeah. Sure.” Ron said, giving a weak grin to his younger brother, whose eyes peered outside of the windows carefully.

The Anderson family stepped out of the bus, watching the remaining passengers and soldiers file out of the vehicle. The sky had turned dark, now, and stars speckled it’s black backsplash like paint on canvas, littering its surroundings luminously.

One of the men clad in military print surveyed the back of the bus carefully, a rifle in hand that swung in his grip without much care. He pulled a few soldiers back with him, whispering things Ron couldn’t make out.

The clearing they’d parked in was just that, sitting near an undergrowth of trees, whilst it’s left side was remarkably dry bare, not much in sight. Sam shivered lightly, looking up at the sky like Ron had done so earlier, and the older boy shrugged off his coat and placed it on his brother, more than a little worried he’d catch something.

Sam had always been fragile, even as a baby, and the family would spend countless nights awake, watching him carefully — as well as many nights rushing to the hospital. He was premature, so Ron would learn to accept it as something that just happened.

His mother always liked to point out the differences between the boys, late at night when her eyes drooped with fatigue, and Ron tried to get her to sleep.

“Sam’s delicate. You know that — but, you, Ron,” She’d chuckle, “you’ve always been the opposite. Never needed much care, much attention.”

Ron would nod absently, looking for blankets hidden in the couch cushions, because if his mother didn’t want to sleep in bed beside her husband, well, so be it.

“You’re brother got it from your dad, definitely. A lot like me, you are, Ron.” She’d trail off.

(Ron didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing — and if it was even true at all. His mother was wrong about a lot of things, and later in the blond’s life, she’d echo anger towards him, “You’re exactly like your father. Exactly.” and Ron wouldn’t know what was real.

But Ron did know what he’d gotten from the man — his paranoia. Though the world Ron would grow up in called for exactly that, Ron knows that even if it hadn’t gone to shit, things around the corner of his home would ingrain paranoia into his bones.)

Before Ron could think, the soldiers appeared once more, and ushered the group back into the bus with little indignation for their questions.

The soldier who had driven sat back into his seat, pushing down on the accelerator pedal as soon as they had all boarded, looking behind him and into the side mirror every so often.

No one asks any more questions, simply content with what they’ve been given, and the guarantee of safety just in their reach, but Ron’s mind drifts elsewhere.

He’d heard the soldiers talk about the ‘rendezvous point’ that they’d stop at to account for the citizens and men — and had just as equally heard when the driver of their bus said, “And if one of us doesn’t arrive, we know what that means. We go, and we don’t look for the other.” as the rest of the soldiers nodded solemnly.

Ron closes his eyes, wishing for sleep, and tries to convince himself that the bus is just lagging along, and will soon catch up with them.

(He waves away the thoughts that it could’ve been us, could’ve been us and the worser thoughts, like thank god it isn’t.)

[juliairian]

Kissing in the name of...

Chapter 05 | “…Indulgence.” | A fluffy short johnlock ficlet

Sherlock spent as much time at St. Bart's as he possibly could. It had already been late when they’d returned from the stakeout, so that meant it was the middle of the night. He slid another slide under the microscope, categorising samples from one of Molly’s recent corpses. It was dull busywork; on a normal day he might have enjoyed experimenting on the samples a bit more, but today he barely managed the groundwork without getting distracted.

He had run away. He was Sherlock Holmes, the world’s only consulting detective, one of the most brilliant people in London, for crying out loud. He’d faced down addiction, armed murderers, explosives and the bloody British Government – and he was running from John Watson?

John, the most unassuming man to ever wander into his life. The man who’d stepped into the mess of 221B Baker Street and for some insane reason had decided to stay. Who was still staying there, right now. Probably sitting in his chair, looking forlorn, wondering what he’d done wrong.

Nothing, Sherlock wanted to say. Everything.

The idiotic man had somehow solidly planted himself by Sherlock’s side, and in his heart (the existence of which had been largely unconfirmed up to that point). Why would he choose Sherlock, of all people? Idiot, idiot, idiot, Sherlock’s mind spun on repeat, wondering why his heart ached and his lips tightened in longing at the thought.

It was just an experiment, nothing more. Fixed parameters, predictable results. Only John, in all his unpredictability, had to go and mess it up completely. He’d somehow brought sentiment into the equation, turning Sherlock’s thoughts upside down, making him daydream of soft kisses tinged with heat and the taste of desire. Once again, the feeling of John pressed against him, crowding him to the wall of the warehouse, arose unbidden and clouded his vision. God, the sight of him. The taste of him. Sherlock could still feel the urge as he’d crouched before John to tear his jeans apart further and simply do what he was pretending to do. If the drug dealer had come by a few minutes later, who knows what might have happened?

Stupid, how incredibly careless of him. He’d known after that first, surprising kiss and after the surge of jealousy at the bar, that being that close to John would only tempt him to go further. To take, take, take, without thinking of the consequences. And now he had to face them: John, against all expectations, actually wanted him, wanted to give and take as much as Sherlock had, and suddenly the experiment had slipped away from him completely, and Sherlock was caught in a downward slide, no longer in control.

As long as neither of them had been aware of this… whatever it was between them, things had been in a careful equilibrium. Now it had become too obvious to ignore. In the taxi, Sherlock had suddenly realised that John knew beyond a shadow of a doubt how Sherlock really felt. And as soon as they reached Baker Street, John would do something about it.

Well, he’d gotten (run) away, to cold-turkey himself into abstinence. His own fault, really. He had thought that he was completely uninterested in anything of a sexual nature in general, but his own silly experiment had shown him the truth. Perhaps, subconsciously, that was why he latched on to the idea so quickly? Well, the damage was done. He now knew what John Watson tasted like and he couldn’t – most definitely wouldn’t – delete that.

But there was no going forward with it. Sherlock knew himself. He’d take and indulge and then he’d... crash. He would say something and John would be hurt and snap at him and it would be terrible and tedious and sooner or later, he’d leave, disappointed. A cold feeling settled in Sherlock’s chest. God, self-pity was almost as bad as the pining; but he’d gotten through worse.

John would sulk, feeling spurned, but he’d find himself another inane woman to date and he’d get over it, too.

Sherlock tried to ignore the dejected blankness that spread through his chest at the thought. Bitterness is a paralytic.

Sherlock knew that John had left to work at the clinic the following day, so after staying at Bart’s and sneaking home at four o’clock in the morning, he stayed resolutely in his room until John had left. He’d heard him dither outside his door for a few minutes, but thankfully he hadn’t barged in and demanded answers. No, John was far more likely to stew in silence (much like Sherlock himself).

He went out again that night, checking on the homeless network, annoying Molly for a while and visiting his old haunts, seeing if anything interesting (crime, preferably) was going on that might benefit from his attention. However, he drew only blanks (and some very irritated muttering from Molly) and he missed being at home. He liked sitting in his armchair, the fire crackling in the grate, working through some of Lestrade’s cold cases or playing the violin to still his thoughts.

The next day, he deemed it safe enough to face John again. He was not due in the clinic, so Sherlock found him in the sitting room with his laptop when he finally emerged from his room. He sent John wary looks from the corners of his eyes as he puttered around in the kitchen, but for what felt like hours, John steadfastly ignored him. Sherlock braced himself for some kind of tirade of accusations about using people, but it never came.

Instead, John finally got up, calm as it gets, and sauntered into the kitchen to make tea. He muttered a casual “…morning” to Sherlock, who didn’t dare look up until the kettle had boiled, the tea been made, and John was leaving the kitchen again. Just when he turned into the sitting room, Sherlock raised his chin a fraction and looked up from under his lashes. John was looking over his shoulder at him, and Sherlock shrank back from what he saw. His eyes were shouting John’s thoughts across the room loud and clear: message received, backing off.

Sherlock swallowed down the lump in his throat as icy tendrils curled in his chest.

The day after that, John had seemingly calmed down a bit. In fact, he seemed to hum with a kind of restless energy that Sherlock couldn’t explain, but was wary of. Something was up with John.

Finally, in the evening, he stepped up to Sherlock as he sat by his desk, working on his laptop.

“Sherlock, I need your assistance.”

This was the most words John had spoken to him since… that night. Sherlock met the iron gaze and blinked slowly. John’s body was tense, but not from anxiety. His eyes were focussed and unhurried. He had a plan of sorts, something he’d made up his mind about.

“With what?”

“An experiment.”

Sherlock pushed back from his desk and stood. He took a deep breath as he realised John was echoing his exact words back to him. Very well, he might still be wary, but he was curious enough to play. “What’s the hypothesis?”

John shifted his weight, but didn’t budge. “I can’t tell you. It would skew the results. I’m sure you understand.” That last bit sounded like it should be a sneer, but John’s face was guileless as only his could and his voice contained no trace of mockery.

“How can I assist you if I don’t know what I’m doing?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to see what John was getting at. Was it medical? Psychological? Was he just going to kiss him and see what happened? It was exactly the kind of romantic nonsense he expected from John. Yet he felt strangely thrilled and his resolve slackened a little as he took in John’s confident, no-nonsense stance. Stubborn to a fault.

“You don’t need to do anything. I just need permission to experiment.” John clasped his hands behind his back, raising his eyebrows in challenge.

Sherlock leaned forward a little, squaring his jaw. “…on me?” He felt a smirk curl on his lip, but quickly subdued it.

John did not flinch back. “Seems only fair, you experiment on me all the time,” he shrugged, and this time, the faint vitriol was definitely there. His eyes flashed with hurt and anger for a second, reminding Sherlock that John Hamish Watson of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers was not a man to be trifled with. Not someone you used and then put aside. A shiver went down his spine.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you trust me?” John’s tone was back to carefully neutral, but there was still the challenge, the turnabout’s-fair-play kind of attitude.

Sherlock forced himself to sigh as if bored, even though he was anything but. “How long is this going to take?”

“Three days.” Looks at the watch. “Starting on your word.”

Now, Sherlock was definitely bewildered. But also intrigued. Wary. A little terrified. His head jerked in a nod, trying for a disinterested hum. “Well. Have at it then.”

“Good enough for me.” John abruptly turned on the spot and walked away.

Sherlock felt as if he’d been slapped. He’d prepared for a kiss, a punch or something in between, but…. “What about the experiment?” He hoped his voice didn’t sound as uncertain as he felt.

“In progress,” John merely said, leaving Sherlock in complete bewilderment.

The next three days were to become the most trying Sherlock had ever experienced living with John.

It didn’t take him long to chart a pattern in John’s changed behaviour, though the first few times it happened, it startled the hell out of Sherlock.

First, John simply let their fingers brush when he handed him the paper. Sherlock felt like he’d touched an open wire. A little bit later, he absently let his hand rest on Sherlock’s shoulder when he looked at the laptop. Then, he had his shoulder pressed briefly against Sherlock’s when he sat on the couch. It went on.

John was touching him. Deliberately. As much as he could without it being too obvious, even knowing that it was of course spectacularly blatant to Sherlock. Small, affectionate gestures like the brush of a hand over his hair, the hand at the small of his back when he led him through a door, the generally gentle presence of standing a little too close.

His manner also changed. No longer was he ignoring Sherlock or snubbing him; he was friendly in a casual way, smiling faintly and holding a few conversations. It was more pleasant than the icy silence from before, but it was still… fake. John didn’t really look happy, and Sherlock hated that he could tell. Was he only torturing him with the touches to punish him? Or where they as secretly welcome and comforting as they were to Sherlock?

Because he had to admit, whatever this experiment was doing, it was kind of working. Sherlock found himself charting the touches, cataloguing them, counting them, sorting them by degree of intimacy in his head (from 0.1 for the lingering fingertips over a cup of tea up to the current maximum of 5.2 when John ran his fingers lightly through Sherlock’s hair, giving him goose bumps down to his toes.)

Sherlock resisted. He didn’t reciprocate, mostly because there was no time to do it – the touches were as fleeting as they were infrequent. Sherlock had to concentrate, but he had managed to get himself somewhat under control when John suddenly upped the ante.

On day two, John stepped out of the shower in nothing but a towel. The large, blue fluffy fabric was wrapped around his waist, leaving nothing above and everything below to Sherlock’s vivid imagination. John traipsed around the kitchen, making breakfast and showing no inclination to get dressed anytime soon. When he was done eating (only John could make that look so suggestive) he took his sweet time about washing the bloody dishes and making more tea.

Sherlock suddenly stood in the kitchen door, unsure how he’d gotten there. But now he couldn’t help himself as John offered a cup to him; he was ogling him, there was no other word for it. He felt his cheeks grow warm as he remembered touching that strong chest and those firm arms through only a thin layer of shirt. He remembered the erection trapped in John’s jeans. His gaze dropped momentarily downwards before he rallied himself with a shiver.

He thought he saw a faint trace of amusement in John’s eyes and he abruptly drew himself back. “John,” he groused, unable to stop himself. “This is childish. Whatever you’re trying to…” He suddenly stopped and swallowed.

John gave him an innocent look. “Trying to what? I’ve just made tea,” he said, and swanned past him to sit in his armchair.

God, the man was infuriating! So calm! Unconcerned! And if Sherlock admitted that these blatant (obvious! crude!) attempts to seduce him were actually doing something to him then he lost. The… game? Experiment? Was that something one could lose? What was the damn hypothesis?! How long Sherlock could stand this foolishness before he snapped? He tried to ignore the pangs in his stomach as he wrestled down his baser instincts as well as the hurt he felt over John’s strange behaviour. And a small voice in the back of his mind whispered, taste of your own medicine.

He blinked rapidly, still staring at the spot John had vacated, tea forgotten in his hand.

On day three, Sherlock was convinced he couldn’t take it any longer. He was geared up like a caged tiger, high on the adrenaline of John’s increasing touches. He knew the exact time the experiment had begun, and for the last few hours, Sherlock had pretended to work on a case but actually watched the clock on the mantle tick away the time until this all made sense.

He paced the flat. Finally, John came home after work and shopping. It was nearly time for the grand finale. Sherlock followed John around the flat as he took his jacket and shoes off and put the shopping away. John ignored it.

At one minute to zero, Sherlock nearly jumped out of his skin when John finally, deliberately laid his hand on his shoulder.

He spun around. “Well?”

John regarded him calmly. “Well, what?”

“The experiment. Your bloody secret experiment.” Sherlock gestured at the clock. “It’s over now.”

John looked at the clock even though Sherlock knew he knew exactly what time it was.

He huffed a small, humourless laugh, pretending to sound surprised. “Ah. So it is.”

“And?” Sherlock loomed in his personal space now, staring John down, yet the man would not flinch.

“And… nothing. That’s all it took.” John squared his shoulders under the onslaught of the Sherlockian glower.

“All it took – to find out what exactly?!”

“That’s still under wraps, I’m afraid. I’m still working on the results.”

Sherlock began pacing again, gesturing wildly at John. “Working, what work, you’re not working, you were shopping, how is that work?!”

John allowed a somewhat sad smile to curl on his lips. He cocked his head. “Sherlock... you’ve deduced the entire thing on day one, so why are you so furious that I won’t spell it out for you? It’s hardly a secret, is it?” He gave Sherlock a long look. “Nothing much is, living with you.”

And there it was. Sherlock had no answer to that. Because of course he was right.

The next day, John was away, doing… something. Sherlock hadn’t been entirely listening when he’d left, too lost in his thoughts. However, he had noticed the absence of John much quicker than normally. The flat had gone quiet and somewhat cold. By the time the afternoon rolled around, Sherlock had gone without John touching him for 24 hours.

During the previous days, allowing for regular sleep times, on average, John had touched him approximately once every 63 minutes.

24 hours was absolute torture.

No… Sherlock recognized it. It wasn’t torture, exactly, it was withdrawal.

Oh. Sherlock felt confused for a moment when the thought hit him. He was annoyed, yes, pissed off, actually, that John would do that sort of thing to a former addict, and yet… he was also quite impressed.

John had known exactly what the result of his experiment would be, because he knew Sherlock so well. He used the fact that he could predict his behaviour and made it work for him to prove his point. Sherlock was more than mesmerized by this clever and devious move. If anything, it only made the warm appreciation that was humming inside his chest grow louder still. Coupled with a desperate itch for payback.

“Yoo hoo!” Sherlock blinked. He hadn’t heard Mrs Hudson’s steps until she was inside the room. She carried a tin.

“You made biscuits,” Sherlock deduced from the smell.

“Yes, so come and have some while they’re fresh, dear.” She put the kettle on, humming a tune.

Sherlock struggled from his chair and dragged himself to the kitchen. He hadn’t bothered getting dressed – boring – and hadn’t found the will to eat anything; yet the smell of the biscuits bypassed his conscious reasoning and went straight to his stomach, which growled in anticipation. Tedious. He morosely grabbed a biscuit and began munching on it in silence.

Mrs Hudson raised an eyebrow, watching him. “What’s happened?”

“Hm?”

“You’re sulking.”

“John is bullying me,” Sherlock glowered at his biscuit as if it alone was at fault.

Mrs Hudson merely scoffed at his words. “Oh Sherlock!” she exclaimed and waved a hand, as if that could not possibly be true.

Sherlock popped the rest of the crumbly treat in his mouth and then grabbed two cups from the cupboard. “He is! He is tormenting me,” he threw two teabags into the cups, “entirely unduly; he’s being unreasonable and stubborn,” he tossed some sugar into his and some sweetener in the other cup for Mrs Hudson, “—and the whole thing is completely idiotic.” Well, it certainly felt good to say it out loud.

Mrs Hudson chuckled. “Sounds like somebody else I know.”

Sherlock huffed and frowned at the kettle until it boiled. He poured the water over the teabags and then leaned against the counter, sighing heavily.

Mrs Hudson came over and gently put a hand on his arm. “Sherlock, what did you do?”

He bristled. “What did I do? What makes you think I did anything?!”

Mrs Hudson merely raised both eyebrows and gave him that look. That we-both-know-I’m-right kind of look. But Sherlock wouldn’t relent. “What?”

“Sherlock,” she said patiently. “This is John we’re talking about.”

Sherlock sighed, frowning. She had a point there. John had a strong moral compass and was a loyal friend (more than a friend). Of course he’d only….

“I—I may have been a bit—I may have—I—,“ he suddenly started and then stopped again. He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling them in frustration. He turned and got the teabags out of the tea and stirred in the milk, feeling good about distracting himself with his hands.

“Oh Sherlock, why don’t you just talk to him? I’m sure it can’t have been that bad. Just apologize. See what he has to say and hash it out.”

“Dull. Tedious.”

“So is this,” she gestured in his general area. Then she took the offered teacup, tutting to herself. “Honestly. Men.”

Hm. Talking. About his feelings. A last resort, certainly, but perhaps desperate times called for desperate measures.

John had returned after work, taken a shower and was stepping carefully into the sitting room when Sherlock pounced on him.

He hadn’t meant to, actually.

He’d had this whole speech planned in his mind, about how he was attracted to John and how he was sorry he used the experiment and the case as an excuse. He’d thought – really! – that the talking might be a good idea.

But then John had walked in, hair wet, still in the act of buttoning up his shirt, and something in Sherlock simply short-circuited.

He’d bounded off the sofa and into John, and was now somehow backing him into the kitchen table. John looked up at him, his lips slightly parted, perhaps in surprise, but he didn’t dither or act confused. Instead, there was a low-burning fire in his eyes, a contained intensity that drew Sherlock ever closer.

“John,” he said, his voice low and quiet. Some deeper part of himself seemed to have taken over, something very base and primal guiding his body, and his brain could only lean back and watch. He leaned in and lowered his head to John’s neck, not touching him, just taking in the warmth radiating from his skin, the fresh smell of the shower, the slight flush of John’s skin. “You’re back,” he murmured, completely unnecessarily. A slight tremor went through John’s frame at his words, and Sherlock felt a surge of satisfaction.

He pulled back and his eyes searched John’s. A small smirk played around his lips, and he saw John answer with one of his own secret smiles, the one where his eyes lit up from inside and no one but Sherlock would notice. It was as if they were having a conversation entirely without words, finally being on the same page.

I figured it out, like you said. Clever.

Took you long enough.

What John actually said was, “dinner?” His voice had dropped another octave and the sound went straight to Sherlock’s knees. John looked at him as if he was contemplating having him for dinner instead. It was thrilling.

Something finally gave, and Sherlock felt what remained of his meagre resolve melt away. Screw not indulging. If John wanted this, on his head be it. Let the consequences be something they worried about tomorrow.

He slowly, deliberately took John’s hand.

“Starving.” He smiled and briefly pressed his lips to it before he quickly withdrew to his bedroom to change.

Finally! I wanted to make the ending one chapter, but now it’s going to be two ;-)

Also on Ao3!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

[falleyes]

Somewhere Else pt.9 - Epilogue

[Summary: All of the what ifs of Drake & Riley meeting somewhere else, in any other way.]

Part 9 to Somewhere Else

Part 1, Part 2 , Part 3, Part 4,  Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8

“If we’d met somewhere else…anywhere else. At a club in New York or in an airport, or at a party…If you hadn’t been our waitress that night, and I hadn’t been sitting next to Liam…Do you think all of this…do you think it could’ve been different…between us?

“Just another glamorous New York Saturday night of hauling trash to the dumpster…” Riley huffed, blowing a strand of hair out of her face as she heaved the black trash bag into the dumpster and dusted her hands off.

“It could be worse,” Daniel said, wrinkling his nose at the stench. “There could be – Rats! Riley, help!”

Riley looked down at the mice her old co-worker/friend/new co-worker (once again) was shrieking over with a raised eyebrow and amused smile. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of this adorable little mouse family,” she said, squatting down to get a closer look. “They’re trying to get by, just like us.”

“Hey! Riley, Daniel, quit slacking off over there!”

The two turned just in time to see their manager poke his head through the back door of the restaurant they started working at a little over a month ago. The bar Riley had closed down but her old boss had been able to put in a good word for Riley at her new workplace, and Riley - being the smooth-talker she was – managed to put a good word in for her friend Daniel, who had just lost his job working at the Broadway Theater.

Riley scowled. “You told us to take out the garbage.”

“And now I’m telling you to wait on the bachelor party that just rolled in. Chop chop!” the manager snapped, clapping his hands to further his point. Before Riley could retort, he slipped back inside the building and the heavy metal door fell shut behind him.

“No, not a bachelor party!” Daniel groaned, falling back against wall. “Riley, you know I have that date tonight!”

“Oh, no,” Riley shook her head. “Nuh-uh. You are not going to make me take on a bachelor party all by myself.”

“Please,” Daniel pleaded, putting his palms together. “I’ve got a date tonight, and I’ll never make it out of here in time! Besides, you owe me! Remember the night I snuck you and your friend into the theater? What was his name again?”

Riley glanced down, digging the toe of her shoe into the ground. “Drake.”

“Right, Drake,” he nodded. “What ever happened with him?”

Riley shrugged, and looked away, her eyes roamed down the alleyway, up the red brick building beyond, and to the starless sky above. She knew they didn’t have time to linger outside, but her mind had already wandered far away at the very mention of that familiar name…

“Riley?” Drake turned, blinking at her in disbelief. Over the top of her head, he could see the last car of the train they’d been on – the train she was supposed to still be on - disappear from the subway station.

“Don’t go,” she told him, shaking her head and clutching tightly to his hand with both of hers.

“Riley …” he repeated, but this time her name felt heavy on his lips. The skin around his eyes tightened and a crease formed between his brows as he opened his mouth to say more, already beginning to shake his head.

“I know. I know you can’t, but I’m just…” Riley shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut, forcing down her pride. She felt ridiculous, begging him to stay when she knew from the start what she was getting herself into. “I’m know you can’t but I’m asking you to anyway because the truth is, I’m not ready to say goodbye.”

He let out a mirthless laugh, his eyes showing an emotion on the exact opposite end of the spectrum as joy. He cupped her cheek with his other hand, thumb brushing over her skin with tenderness he himself didn’t know he could even possess for another person. “I thought we weren’t going to say goodbyes, Cole.”

“But that’s what it is, isn’t it?” Riley questioned, bitterness tainting her voice. She gritted her teeth and jutted her chin in the direction he had to go. “You’ll leave and get on that airplane and I’ll never see you again. If that’s not a situation that means goodbye, then I don’t know that is.”

He had nothing to say to that. Drake had never been one to lie just to save someone else’s feelings. Once he left, whatever this was between them…it would cease to exist. Distance made certain of that. He’d made that very point multiple times throughout the night, but for once, he had no satisfaction from being right.

“This is why you didn’t want to do this,” Riley muttered, her eyes falling to the floor. Drake felt her grip on his hand loosen in defeat, but her words rang out with the opposite effect for him.

Before she could let go, Drake pulled her closer and tilted her head up so her eyes met his again. When he spoke, his voice had a new sense of urgency that demanded her attention. “Do you regret it?”

Surprise briefly flickered across her face at his sudden shift in demeanor. In the back of his head, he felt a little gratification for being able to surprise her for a change. Drake watched as the shock transformed into a sort of stubborn determination only Riley could ever have. He recognized it in the steely look in her eyes and the firm set of her jaw.

“No,” she said, a-matter-of-factly. “Of course not.”

“Good,” Drake nodded, slipping his hand from hers to tangle his fingers in her hair as it fell over her shoulder. “Neither do I.”

Riley studied his the solemnness of his face and the careful but fierce way he looked at her. When he looked at her like that, when he allowed himself a genuine smile despite himself, or when he held her close like this… it made her feel wanted. It made her own heart fill with longing. As she looked at Drake, her chest tightened with the realization that no one had ever given her a feeling like that before. Despite herself, she worried that no one else might ever do that in the same way again.

“You still have to go, don’t you?” she whispered, her hands balling themselves into the front of his shirt to bring him even closer. Drake rested his forehead against hers and nodded.

“Riley…” he began. The beginning of a goodbye.

“I know,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat as she released her hands from the wrinkled fabric of his shirt, only to throw her arms around his neck. Riley clung to him tightly, hiding her face in the crook of his neck. Drake’s arms constricted around her, holding Riley with the same desperation she held onto him.

All of his life, Drake put up walls and precautions that would protect him from such intense emotions—emotions that could make him weak. Weakness and vulnerability was dangerous in the court and back home. He wouldn’t dare show anything of the sort. But now, in a crowded subway station all the way in New York, he left himself open. Open to this spitfire of an American woman and the heartbreak he knew she’d bring him. She’d stripped him of his armor and now he was vulnerable.

But somehow, he was okay with that.

Even in their tight embrace, they managed to separate just enough for their eyes to meet and their noses to brush before they collided again.

In that moment, Drake fully understood the meaning of bittersweet. He hated their circumstances, and the cards they’d been dealt. He hated that he’d come so close to finding happiness for himself, he might even admit that he really did find it, only to have to give it up for his unyielding devotion and loyalty to another who needed his support.

But this moment… he wouldn’t trade it for the world. Even if it was a goodbye, he had the most incredible woman in his arms and he’d found heaven in her kiss. As her lips tenderly moved with his and his heart hammered away in his chest, he decided that he had never found anything sweeter.

Shakespeare had it right, he thought. Parting is such sweet sorrow.        

When their inevitable disunion came, a sudden thought bloomed in Riley’s mind that she’d forgotten all about once Drake found her on the subway.

“Wait,” she told him, one arm still around his neck as she rifled through her purse for what she needed. Once she found it, she took his hand and pressed it into his palm. “It’s ridiculous, but…”

Drake looked up at her, as she slowly slipped her hand from his and left only the item behind. She was giving him something? He had nothing to offer in return and the realization filled him with shame, but before he could express this to her, she shook her head – as if she knew what he was thinking – and stepped back.

“It’s hardly anything,” Riley shrugged and he opened his hand.

It was the napkin. Wrinkled, coffee stained, and still smudged with ink it read: Kismet. 8 PM.

Drake laughed, caught off guard by the sentiment of such a simple thing. “You shouldn’t have.”

“Yeah, well,” Riley grinned, tucking her hair behind her ear. “What can I say? I’m a generous soul.”

Drake couldn’t help but smile down at the napkin and began to turn it over, but Riley’s smaller hands stopped him. He looked up at her questioningly.

“I…” she began, eyes falling to the napkin. “I wrote something on it. Before you found me on the subway. Just…wait until you get on the plane to read it, okay?”

Drake looked down at the napkin with a newfound importance and he desperately yearned to know what words Riley had left behind for him. But he’d wait if she wanted him to. He wished he could do more for her.

“Alright,” he nodded, carefully folding it up and tucking it safely in his pocket.

“Alright,” Riley repeated softly.

A loaded silence filled the space between them. Time had long since been up and they couldn’t ignore the ever-looming Goodbye.

“Riley …” Drake began, running his hand through his hair. “These last fifteen hours or whatever…They’ve been some of the happiest in my life. Everything you’ve done… I can’t believe you did all of that and I can’t believe that I was lucky enough to have found you.”

“Maybe it wasn’t luck,” she mused, somewhat teasing but also half believing. From the very start, Riley had a feeling that she’d known Drake from somewhere, maybe even from another life. And if that were true - that they’d known each other in a different life- why shouldn’t they be brought together again in this one? “Maybe it’s fate.”

Drake chuckled and for a second, Riley thought he might brush her off because fairy tales are for kids. But instead, he only nodded and looked at her in such a way that it made her heart pound so strongly, she thought it might beat out of her chest. He was looking at her as if he’d been searching for something all his life and now, he’d finally found it in her. It simultaneously filled her with unmatched joy and unfathomable sorrow.

“Maybe,” he agreed.

“Drake…” Riley said softly, unspoken words on her lips.

“I know.”

It was time.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to look at a glass of whiskey the same after all this,” she teased, but her joke fell flat as her voice grew hoarse.

“Yeah, well, now I won’t be able to eat any of that fancy finger food without craving cronuts or Sloppy Joes,” Drake give her a small smile. “I’m a changed man, Cole.”

She returned his smile with one of her own. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“I know you will.”

Another silence fell between them, a clear sign of their reluctance to separate.

Drake closed the gap between them, pressing his lips to Riley’s forehead. A small sign of affection that somehow meant the world. He murmured against her skin. “If things were different…”

Squeezing her eyes shut and willing the tears that had begun to burn behind her eyes back, Riley wrapped her arms around his waist and rest her head against his chest. As his arms gently enveloped her, she nodded. “If things were different.”

They stayed like this for a few moments longer – a few moments they could not afford – until Drake pulled away.

“Goodbye, Riley,” he told her, voice soft as he began to back away.

Riley took a deep breath and forced herself to stay rooted to where she stood. “Goodbye, Drake.”

“Uhh, Riley? Earth to Riley?”

“Huh, what?” Riley shook her head, blinking to snap out of her reverie. Daniel was staring at her, concern etched onto his features as his other hand rest on the door handle.

“I asked whatever happened to that guy one guy. Drake,” he said, opening the door to let her through first. “You kind of zoned out on me there.”

“Oh… right,” Riley cleared her throat as she re-entered the bar. “Yeah, um, well he went back home. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Shame. You looked happy that night.” Daniel shrugged, patting Riley’s shoulder. Riley almost scoffed. If only he knew. “Anyways, I have to head out soon. Will you please take the bachelor party?

“Ugh, fine. Fine,” Riley relented, putting her palm against her forehead. A bachelor party. Just great. She had a feeling it was going to be a long night. “The tip better be good.”

“Oh, thank you!” he cheered. “You’re the best!”

“Are you two still talking?” the manager snapped, glaring daggers. “I’ve seated them already. Now get over there before I dock your pay!”

“Right, sorry,” Riley muttered, wheeling about to head in the opposite direction. She glanced at Daniel over her shoulder and mouthed, Go, I’ve got this.

“Waitress, there you are!”

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, Riley made her way towards a booth seating three men, all finely dressed. The one in the tailored suit, who called her over was fussing over a loose string on one of the buttons of his coat while the brunette next to him grinned ear to ear and waved to her. Riley chuckled and returned the gesture as her eyes fell on the third, undeniably handsome man with a kind smile and an almost regal air about him. They didn’t look like too much trouble.

“Hello, gentlemen,” Riley greeted them, pulling a notepad and pencil from her apron pocket. “I’ll be taking care of you this evening.”

The beaming brunette called for steaks for the table and the man in the suit ordered a medium-rare fillet mignon with béarnaise sauce. Riley had to bite her lip to stifle her laughter. Steaks and fillet mignon at a bar like this? Clearly, these men weren’t from around here. Their accents – wait, their accents…

A sudden tingling feeling formed in her hands as hope bubbled up inside her chest. Could it be? Were these men Cordonian?

“Um,” Riley cleared her throat, forcing herself to abandon such ridiculous thoughts. There was no way… “The closest thing we have to filet mignon is the deluxe burger.”

“Four deluxe burgers it is,” the quieter, princely man declared with a cordial smile.

Riley raised an eyebrow. “Four…?”

The suit’s face fell. “Dare I ask for your wine list?”

“Tariq, you don’t drink wine at a bachelor party,” a voice behind Riley suddenly spoke up and she felt her heart stop. That voice… “We’ll be fine with a bottle of whiskey.”

She’d know that voice anywhere. And the whiskey…

The fourth man stepped around Riley and slid into the booth, a familiar image with dark hair, a white T-shirt, and a denim button up. Without glancing up, he pulled his phone from his pocket and set it face down on the table, as if he needed it within reach to distract himself from the other men of his party.

Riley could hardly breathe. “Whiskey, huh?”

At the sound of her voice, Drake looked up.

Explaining how they met to the others – sparing quite a few details – Drake and Riley realized just how unrealistic the whole thing really seemed. A fairytale, a twist of fate – however it was that Riley put it… well, it seemed pretty fitting. But despite how improbable their story was, the other men of the bachelor party found it absolutely delightful and praised Riley for rousing more smiles out of Drake in one night than he usually allowed in an entire month. In fact, the others loved the story – and Riley – so much, they insisted that she come along with them to a club called Kismet.

“It was Drake’s idea,” Maxwell Beaumont, the same one Drake had told her about months ago, revealed. “He was the only one of us who knew anything about the city. Now we know why.”

Riley snorted, sneaking a bashful glance at Drake. “Kismet? You suggested Kismet?”

They had yet to talk privately and Riley had so many things to say, but she still didn’t know if she could bring herself to say them. It had been months since they’d parted, after all.

“Heh.” He shrugged, the corner of his mouth quirking up as he swirled his whiskey around. “Sentimental value.”

Riley felt her cheeks heat.

“Well,” she said, turning away from him. “Forget Kismet. There’s this gorgeous little cove by a beach just outside the city that we could go to instead. It’s my special spot, but I suppose I could make an exception.”

Drake stilled. The cove. The beach, the subway – everything after the bar, they’d left out. It was an unspoken agreement between them.

“Cole…”

“A beach?” Liam – Prince Liam, as Riley already knew him to be even though he had yet to tell her – questioned. Based on what Drake had told her of him months ago and what she’d gotten to know about him since they’d officially met, Riley had taken a liking to Liam. She understood why Drake was so devoted to him. “That actually sounds perfect. Lead the way!”

“Sure! Let me finish up here and I’ll meet you out front,” Riley told them as she adjusted her apron and then turned to check on the other tables.

She felt the weight of Drake’s stare as she went.

“So those are your nobles,” Riley smiled slightly as she came up behind Drake and joined him where he sat on the cliff side, overlooking the dark ocean. The other men were busy frolicking in the waves – even Tariq with his expensive suit – and although he joined them for a short while, Drake eventually slipped away to get some peace of mind. Riley followed.

“They can be a bit of a handful,” Drake said, glancing over at her with an apologetic smile. “Thanks for taking us all out.”

“Oh, they’re not so bad,” she shrugged, letting her feet dangle over the edge as she gazed out at the horizon. The stars weren’t as visible as the night they visited together months ago, but it was still breathtaking. “So the bachelor party…it’s for Liam, isn’t it? How’s he taking it all?”

“Well, Liam is Liam. So naturally, he’s taking it very well. Still a horrible situation, but…” he sighed, running his hands through his hair. “I want him to get some happiness out of it.”

“From what you’ve told me, he definitely deserves it,” Riley agreed, her fingers playing with the ends of her hair as she spoke. “Shame he’s getting married though. He’s so handsome.”

Without looking, Riley could see the incredulous look on Drake’s face.

She looked over at him, a sly smile on her face. “Kidding. Can you really imagine me with a prince?”

“Ha ha.” Drake rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Imagine that. You as a suitor. Cordonian nobles wouldn’t know what hit ‘em.”

“Maybe you should pull some string and get me in the running,” she teased, nudging his shoulder.

“Like hell, Cole,” he scoffed. “My goal is to keep you as far from that crowd as possible.”

“Ah, and bringing me out to party with them is just the way to do it,” Riley grinned nodded towards the cove where the others could still be heard whooping and hollering.

“Maybe I’m not doing the best job,” Drake admitted, looking over at Riley with a faint smile. A few moments passed before he cleared his throat, eyes clouded, and looked at the horizon again.“Look, Cole…”

“Yeah?” Riley felt her lungs restrict at the shift in his tone. This was it, after all these months, they could finally talk.

Drake took a deep breath and opened his mouth to speak before hesitating. He swallowed a lump in his throat and glanced down at his hands clasped in his lap. For a second, Riley thought about taking on of them in her own.

“Remember when we came here?” he asked finally.

“Of course,” Riley nodded, somewhat disappointed by his flat question.

“And the bonfire?”

“Uh-huh.”

“The stars?”

“All of it, Drake,” Riley said firmly, stopping him from asking any more detail-based questions.

“And everything I said.” Drake finished. It wasn’t a question. He was looking at her again, face solemn and eyes unreadable.

“If things were different…” Riley whispered, trailing off as if going any further would be overstepping the boundary between what they were and what they are now – whatever that was.

“You said…“ Drake’s brows drew together and his eyes grew conflicted. “You said if things were different, then maybe things between us – “

“I meant it,” Riley cut him off. “If we had more time…”

He looked away, fingers tangling the long, thin blades of grass that tapered off at the edge. Months ago, Drake had once told her he didn’t believe fairytales. But after everything…maybe he’d been beginning to hope. “Cole…?”

She looked at him questioningly, leaning in to see his face better. “What if this is our different?”

Riley’s eyes widened and she sucked in a breath. “Drake… you mean…?”

“Hell, I don’t know, Cole,” he muttered, shaking his head as if that would help clear it. “How is it possible that we met like this again? When we walked into that bar, I never would have guessed you’d be there.” He sighed, mumbling under his breath, “You have no idea how glad I am that you were…”

“What are you trying to say?” Riley asked after a weighted silence had stretched on between them, moving closer and taking his hand.

“It’s been months, Cole. I haven’t stopped thinking about you and that night since. I’m pretty sure Liam’s sick of hearing me talk about it, too,” he admitted in a rush, as if speaking any slower would make him lose his courage. Sharing feelings was never easy for Drake to do, but the moment he saw Riley tonight, he resolved that if he only had tonight with her, he wouldn’t waste it to be careful. “I just have to know if you still feel the same.”

She stared at him, heart hammering in her chest as she tried to process everything he just said. He thought about her? All this time? Which meant he still felt the same?

Not trusting herself to form a coherent sentence, Riley just shook her head and surged forward and fit her lips against his. She felt him seize up for a split second before coming to life, just as he did the first time they kissed. He cradled her against him, moving them first away from the cliff’s edge and then pulling her into his lap.

Neither of them knew how long they stayed like that, sitting and – after a while – laying in each other’s embrace, but eventually, Riley broke away. Breathless and beaming, she pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “Does that answer your question?”

“I think so,” Drake grinned, cupping Riley’s cheek. His hair was mussed up – all thanks to Riley’s doing – his cheeks were rosy with blush, and his eyes were alight with joy, Riley wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him so happy. “But I wouldn’t mind if you’d say it out loud.”

Riley giggled, reaching up to smooth some hair off of his forehead. “I still feel the same.”

“You still feel the same,” Drake repeated, as making sure it was still true.

“Yes, I still feel the same,” she nodded, kissing the corner of his mouth – right where the hint of a smile would form first whenever she could coax it out of him.

“I didn’t think this would ever be more than a fantasy,” he murmured, resting his forehead against hers.

“Are you saying that you’ve thought about this before?” Riley teased.

“More than I’d like to admit,” Drake breathed out before capturing her lips again in a long, deep kiss. “But what are we going to do about this?”

Riley shrugged, not quite ready to face the heavy reality of their situation. Now, she was ridiculously happy, in a state of euphoria, and she didn’t want this moment to end. “We can figure that out tomorrow morning.”

Drake’s heart sputtered to a stop in his chest, cheeks flushing. “Cole…”

Riley responded with a sweet kiss on his cheek, smiling against his skin. “I’m happy you’re back, Drake.”

He tightened his arms around her waist, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “Things will be different this time, Riley.”

I promise.            

One Year Later

The sheer curtains billow lazily in the early morning breeze, the first hints of daylight just beginning to filter into the room. Drake watches with sleepy eyes and a yawn on his lips as the sunlight creeps its way across the room and onto the bed before falling gently on the sleeping woman next to him. He reaches out, tenderly trailing his fingertips over her skin as it softly glows golden before pressing his lips to the small freckles on her bare shoulder.

Riley’s eyelids flutter slightly, but she still doesn’t wake. Drake doesn’t mind it at all. He enjoys moments like these, when he wakes before her and gets to see what the rest of the world doesn’t. There had once been a period in which Drake often wondered what it’d be like to wake up with Riley next to him, to hold her hand when he wanted to, to have more than a handful of hours with her. And now, all of that is his reality.

He wouldn’t trade it for the world.

After reuniting in New York during Liam’s bachelor party, Drake had made an effort to visit Riley more (Liam was more than willing to help with travel expenses) and she’d even visited Cordonia once. But once was all it took for her to fall in love with the small country. Drake had taken her around to all of his favorite places, showed her around the palace, and together, they mocked and observed the nobles at dinner when no one else was watching. Her single visit to Cordonia – and a little bit of convincing from Drake – had been enough to make up Riley’s mind about moving not even a month later.

Now it had been about three months since Riley had moved in with Drake, and the last three months were easily some of the happiest of his entire life. Sure, the nobles talked, but Riley quickly proved herself more than capable of holding her own and Drake, Liam, and even Maxwell were there to have her back.

After Savannah had left, Cordonia felt as if it were simply a place in which he had to live in. He had no attachment to country, save for a few exceptional people. But now that Riley was here with him, Cordonia was actually starting to feel like home again.

Three small words fall from his lips as he leans down to sweep her hair off her shoulder and place another kiss in the crook of his neck before slipping out of the covers, dressing somewhat decently, and leaving the room. He returns from the palace kitchen a few minutes later, coffee for him in one hand and tea in the other, hot and with a spoonful of honey, just the way Riley likes it.

He’s learned a lot about her in the few months they’ve lived together.

She’s a side sleeper and always seems to take to the left side of the bed when she passes out as he showers, but shares the middle with him when he takes her into his arms.

She doesn’t flail around in her sleep, but tosses her legs over his thigh and curls into his side with her head on his chest, one hand tucked beneath her chin while the other rests over his. He usually likes to hold her in the night, but when the nightmares are bad and Savannah’s name slips from his lips, he always finds solace in her arms.

She prefers pancakes over waffles and likes a mountain of whipped cream and strawberries to accompany them.

She holds his hand under the table to ground him at dinner when someone brings up his family and when she whispers that she loves him in private corners of the palace, he feels warm again.

It is now a second nature for him, to hold her.

Drake sets their mugs down on their night stand, right next to an old and coffee stained napkin, smudged with ink. On the front, a location and time was hastily scrawled location and time, but on the inside was a note.

He’s read the note hundreds of times and remembers it word for word, but he picks it up and unfolds it anyway to read…

Drake,

You’re gruff and stubborn and sometimes you’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever met.

But on the beach, you asked me if we met somewhere else, if we’d had enough time…would things be different?

And my answer was yes, maybe everything could have been different. I hate that I believe that things still can be while you don’t. I hate that you’re afraid to care for me when I, for some reason, care a hell of a lot about you. There’s something about you that I can’t shake. When I first saw you, I could have sworn I knew you or that maybe we’ve met before. I don’t know what I believe in, but you make me wonder. Maybe we have—in another lifetime, and maybe everything is different there. Or maybe we didn’t work then either and we were still left wishing for something more. If that’s the case I imagine I would have wished for you to find me, for us to meet again under different circumstances.

So maybe this isn’t a life where things work out for us. But I ask you to come find me again. Because my answer is still yes.

Smiling softly to himself, he folds the napkin carefully and sets it back on the nightstand before climbing back into bed, slipping his arms around Riley.

The End.

[overdrivels]

Could I request the soulmate AU! where all your scars appear on your soulmates body and vice versa with soldier 76? He has some big ass scars

….oh my god, I thought my fucking heart stopped when I read this. That hurts. This reminds me of another fic that I read at some point on AO3 and I can’t seem to remember the name of it. 

This is going onto the angst train because while I love soulmate!AUs, they’re always going to be a point of angst for me. Sorry, I’m driving this train without a license, and you’re going for a ride.

Scarred for Life (Drabble)

Many people found their scars to be a blessing–a sign that their soulmate existed and that they’re not alone in this world, that there’s someone special out there who is destined to be there for them forever and share their pain. So, it’s easy to understand why people are so desperate to find their fated other. Some never do; it’s a fact of life.

To increase those chances, sites where people posted their scars are common–rampant, almost, everyone hoping to find their match. There’s even an international database that tries to connect you to people by using their interactive application–you select the body parts your scars are on and describe them, and then you’ll be matched with your most likely candidates. It is fairly successful (barring the fact that not all people used this database).

Scarification, in particular, is a common (but morally dubious) trend, people paying upward of thousands of dollars to create something unique on themselves and  soulmate (once a point idle daydreams, but now you regard with disgust)–you didn’t indulge in the practice, didn’t have to, not with the way your soulmate so recklessly decorated their body with various injuries.

In the past, you, too, had once been fascinated by this ever since that first scar on your knee that you knew was not your’s. But when the scars became more and more frequent and in more conspicuous locations, your idealization turned into sour irritation. 

‘You’re so lucky!’

‘At least you know your soulmate’s out there!’

‘Your soulmate must be so hardcore!’

You hated those sorts of words. They wouldn’t be saying it if they saw how systematically these scars took over your body: across your arms, your back, your chest, your face–you took to concealing them with make-up. No one could tell they existed. 

Worst of all were the ones that circled the entirety of your legs, an uneven and jagged ring around the top of your knees–you have asked doctors about them and they, in their all their professional wisdom, could only give you and your soulmate their sincerest condolences. 

You didn’t really have an appetite for the longest time after that, almost certain your soulmate was dead in some terrible accident. It wasn’t until you finally met him that you realized that he was, indeed, very much alive. 

Although, you’ve been long acquainted with the man, you just didn’t know it. 

Soldier: 76 wakes with a pounding headache and a sour taste in his mouth. Not unusual, but unexpected given that he doesn’t remember having been drunk in the past how many hours. (He doesn’t very much like drinking any more anyway. He metabolizes the alcohol too quickly for it to do anything other than dehydrate him.) 

How many hours indeed?

“Oh,” you breathe from across the tiny space, wide-eyed and looking like you’ve seen a ghost. The yellow of the fading biotic canister dances off your face, highlighting the shadows beneath your eyes, and makes you seem sicklier than you probably are.

Snapping back to the reality at hand, you repeat, “Oh!”

And then you’re in his space, skittish, appraising hands running restlessly over his face, his chest, arms. He hates your fussing, but the pain debilitates him. He hisses whenever you press against something painful, and then you’re babbling apologies and inquiries that sound like just plain gibberish to him.

“Stop that.” 

Your hands stop their roaming, but you smooth one over his forehead, thumb stroking the skin. It’s significantly cooler, clammy, even, but he leans up into it nonetheless. It keeps the throbbing at bay, if only a little bit.

“What happened?”

There’s a pregnant pause that makes his ears ring–he wonders if it’s Lucio’s favorite ailment–before you answer with a question of your own.

“What do you remember?”

He doesn’t want to think. “Not much.” A half-lie. He remembers the ambush, he remembers going off alone contrary to the orders from the lumbering scientist in his ear, he remembers the cave-in.

But he doesn’t know why you’re here. You should’ve been in the ship, securing the payload. So how is he with you right now in a space that is nothing resembling a carrier?

“When you went in after Talon, I followed because I had the most maneuverability and was available at the time,” you explain. “Winston didn’t want to leave you alone.” 

Soldier quietly curses the primate. It figures he’d be sentimental enough not to let him do anything alone. Especially not when he suspects his identity. 

His face screws up in pain–it is too much work to pretend that this doesn’t bother him. But your soothing motions help. He just wishes you’d stop looking at him like that. Pitying, like the way someone would look at an injured animal.

He closes his eyes hard.

But the image wouldn’t leave him mind, and he has to bite back a frustrated groan. He’s not supposed to be coddled by you. Or anyone for that matter. He’s too old, but not old enough to be considered senile or helpless. Far from it.

He coughs, and the pounding in his head gains vigor that the rest of his body is so devoid of. 

It takes a little long for him to register–he must’ve suffered a concussion or something–but you touched his face. His bare face. 

His mask, where is it? He shoots straight up with a harsh gasp, and snatches your wrist tight, partially because he’s not in the mood to indulge your roaming touches and because the pain forces him to use you to steady himself. 

“My mask.” 

“Ow.”

You wince and grit your teeth when his grip tightens. Soldier doesn’t care, not when you’ve seen something that he’ll have a hell of a time explaining to everyone. Yes, he’s entirely aware that the scars make his face a mess, but not any less recognizable to anyone born in the past thirty or so years. You don’t meet his gaze, shaking your head slowly, nodding at the heap of gnarled metal that barely resembles his protective cover at his feet.

“The mask was broken, 76. Had to get it off, it was crushing you–you couldn’t breathe.” 

That explains the pain in his face. 

“Agent.” His tone is harsh, low, the urgency clear--threatening. “You cannot tell anyone what you saw. You cannot tell anyone who I am.”

“No, 76, I–” 

The fact that you don’t call him ‘Jack’ isn’t lost on him. But he knows you recognize him.

“What?” It’s sharper than he intends, but he can’t take it back, not when you look frustrated enough to tear him a new one. You snatch your hands back, and he lets you, a small tinge of guilt thrumming through him. Undeniably, he overreacted as evident by the way you wring your hands. 

You’re looking left and right, occasionally flitting to his face before going back to looking around, searching for answers in the rubble surrounding you both. He knows you find none when you give a throaty cry of irritation, rubbing furiously at your face.

He watches you with heavy eyes. The frustration you must feel is understandable. A once-legendary hero suddenly appearing before you, living in squalor and the darkened life of a worthless vigilante. It’s a lot of information to take in, after all. He drops his gaze for a moment, sighing. Exhaustion and pain drags at him, willing to pull him under. 

“76...look at me.” 

He blinks, clearing his vision of the blurriness that occupied it. The sleeves of your clothes that you hold you in front of you are smeared in the color of your skin. He travels up those arms, confused, before he sees your face. 

Your head is raised sharply, resolute in your actions when you meet his eyes. 

The world stills.

He can’t breathe.

The pain and dizziness tosses his insides around, determined to stem his brain function and distract him from the truth before his eyes. 

The scars on your face look back at him, puckered and in stark contrast to the rest of your skin, rubbed raw. 

They’re the exact ones he sees when he passes a mirror with his mask off. The ones who lamented because he knows that if his soulmate existed, they’d be scarred for life, living in anxiety and fear. The ones he hides because he never wanted to meet you.

“…you’re…”

“Yes.” Your voice trembles, wet and borderline emotional. “Yes. I thought you were dead this whole time.” 

He’s at a loss for words. The hard ground beneath him wobbles like it’s going to give out underneath him. It must be the concussion. Your hands immediately on his shoulders keep him steady. He wants to throw up, and slaps your hands away. 

No, he can’t deal with this. Doesn’t deserve this. He has nothing to offer. He knows it’s the lifelong wish of every person--himself, included at one point--to meet their fated other half. A sign that they are not alone in the world, that their struggles do not have to be shouldered alone. 

But some things are better left alone. Like himself. You should not involve yourself with his all-consuming quest for answers. It’s not right. 

Undeterred, you turn his face toward you, forcing him to look at the scars that he indirectly inflicted upon you. You look exhausted, hopeful even, and Soldier’s chest constricts painfully. 

“I can’t--”

“76.” You cut him off firmly, but softly, as though already aware of what he wants to say. “Just go to sleep, we can talk about this later.” 

When he doesn’t want to sleep, but the exhaustion catches up quickly, yanking his eyelids close. He grumbles as you help him lay down again, displeased with the turn of events, especially with the ginger way you handle him. It might not be because he’s old or injured, but maybe there’s another reason now. 

When he wakes up, he knows he’ll have a soulmate to talk to, and potentially a lot of explaining to do. But knowing you, you probably wouldn’t let him do it alone.

[beatricethecat2]

if/then (2.0) - 5

Snow day (again) here in NYC!! I'm letting this go because my mind is already puzzing out ch.6, therefore it must be time. I'll admit, Ch.5 isn't super eventful, but it sets up some important future things, plus marks time passing between Myka's trips to London. Edited 4/13

Previously: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4

Read first if you are new! gutted/sorted and wax/wane…if/then is a continuation of those two.

//////////////////////

With her weight shifted back on one foot, a finger tapping her lip, Myka stares at her paintings, wrestling with which ones are done and which ones need work. Her progress thus far is passable, but time is of the essence; she has miles to go before her next trip to London.

A buzzy tone breaks her concentration, and she shoots its maker a wary glance; with Claudia and Christina at the movies, and Helena at work; she's not answering if it's anyone else. Around ring number four, the phone spills off the desk, and she lunges to catch it, making a split-second decision to answer when she sees who's calling.

“Abigail.”

“Myka! You picked up!"

“I know. I've emailed...”

“Barely.”

“Sorry.” At a loss for a snappy comeback, Myka pulls a chair forward and sits at her desk.

“Where are you?"

“Brooklyn. Attempting to paint.”

“For that thing?”

“Yeah, the thing.”

An incredible opportunity dropped into her lap at a dinner Amanda dragged her to; a collector put her in touch with a gallery seeking an artist to fill an abruptly vacated spot. It's location, Warsaw, seemed off the beaten path at first, but Amanda had stars in her eyes over the deal; so she said yes without pushing for particulars. As it stands, she's committed to sending all the work she has on hand and, perhaps foolishly, promised even more.

“How’s that going?”

“Slow.” Myka slides an unopened piece of mail from an oversized pile and plucks a pen from a cup.

“Things better with Christina?”

“Getting there.” Myka presses the pen to the envelope and draws a straight line, then traces the pen over it, slowly thickening its form.

“But…”

It has gotten better since the airport, but something changed that day; leaving Helena behind pushed their already tenuous sense of composure over the edge. As they approached the security line, Christina grabbed Helena’s shirt and buried her face in it, crying “I wanna stay with you” on repeat, like a mantra. Helena picked Christina up and held her tight, murmuring comforting phrases in her ear, her eyes watery and wild as they met Myka’s nearby. Myka teared up the longer she held Helena’s gaze, her insides quivering at the desperation in Christina's tone and for a brief moment, she was tempted to stay. Helena must have sensed the sentiment; when she whispered something in Christina's ear and kissed her forehead, Christina went slack, then slid limply down Helena's body as she lowered her to the floor.

“Myka?”

Myka scribbles over her line but doesn’t answer, just stares at messy marks she made.

“We don’t have to talk about this right now, but eventually—“

“Yeah..”

The plane ride amplified Christina's discontent, and when they arrived back at the apartment, she dumped her bags in the living room, grabbed Dewy and stormed off to her room without as much of a hello to Claudia. She refused to talk to anyone but Helena, and later, when Myka dared peek in, she lay sprawled across the bed, the phone next to her head, hugging her stuffed horse. Myka entered gingerly and sat next to Christina on the bed, sharing a harrowed glance with Helena on the phone. Helena eventually convinced Christina to talk to Myka again, and Christina nodded off soon after. When Myka reached across to end the call, Helena looked down and shook her head.

“I’m having trouble keeping track of everything.”

“Color me surprised.”

Myka makes a slow, steady circle around her scribble. “Claudia’s annoyed with me.”

“I know. I’ve heard.”

“You've talked to her?”

“Friends talk in regular intervals. It’s thing people do.”

Myka draws circles within her circle around its edges. “No matter how much I plan, something always comes up.” She fills a circle in as densely as she can, black ink shining with a hint of red. “I am good at getting Christina to school on time."

“You have too much on your plate.”

“That’s what Helena said.” Myka stills her pen, her mind filling with their conversation from a few weeks ago. Overtaxed was Helena's exact word, but the sentiment is the same.

“Do you two talk much?”

“Yeah,” Myka answers, without thought, then taps the tip of the pen on her doodle, staring, but not focusing on the marks she made. “Ok, no. Not about the things we should. She talks with Christina daily, but our schedules are off. It’s hard to find times when we’re both on the same wavelength.”

“Hm,” Abigail responds.

“Hm, what?” Myka mumbles, absently flipping over the envelope, her chest tightening as she reads the return address, belonging to the attorneys handling the lawsuit against her previous landlord.

“I’m calculating the exact moment this all blows up in your face.”

“When what blows up in my face?” Myka slips the mail back into the pile instead of opening it; she's vaguely aware of the suit's progress but hasn’t followed up.

“Everything, Myka. Seriously, and I say this with love, you’re in over your head.”

Myka's jaw clenches as she fidgets with the pen. “I have a new intern at work. And Leena’s back next month. Plus Sally's helping with the Italians in London.”

“What about Christina and your show and—”

“I can handle it."

“What if you can't?”

Myka flicks her pen across the table. “Why are you riding my ass?”

“Myka!”

“Sorry. I’m just...” Myka slumps aggressively back in her chair.

“You keep piling new things on top of old ones, and nothing gets resolved."

“You don’t know that.“

“Exactly. Keeping things from the people closest to you is a recipe for disaster.”

"I’m not keeping anything from anyone. It’s work.”

“Maybe you’re taking this 'on the QT' thing a little too seriously."

“The circumstances are…delicate. The stakes are high. I’m not doing anything illegal.”

“Not like Helena was?”

“No,” Myka grunts, a sudden coldness hitting her core at the comparison; her belly then knotting at the thought of viewing Helena in a negative light. She drops her head into a hand, elbow now leaning on the desk, and pushes her hair back, away from her face. “She turned a blind eye when she shouldn’t have, that’s all.”

“And why would she do that?”

Myka's face pinches; she knows the answer, but it doesn’t sit well. “The money?”

“Sound familiar?”

“This is more than that. This is my career.”

“Which career? You move through them like water lately. I heard you drop everything the minute your 'anonymous source’ emails. If Claudia can’t trace them—”

“She reads my emails?” Myka jerks upright, heart racing, fingers digging into the arm of her chair.

“She sees the back end, the data. You do share a network."

“I can’t believe she’d do that.”

“She’s worried. We all are.”

“She shouldn’t do that,” Myka grumbles, shaking her head.

“Does Vanessa know about this deal with Mrs. Frederic?”

“I…can’t tell her.”

“Myka...”

“It’s Mrs. Frederic!”

“Who you know oh-so-well.”

“Why don’t you trust my judgment?”

“Because this isn’t like you, plowing ahead without any thought of consequences. Your decisions have always been measured, thoroughly thought through.”

“I am measured. I have a goal.” Abigail knows Myka would like to be settled in London by Christmas; more than once, she's ignored Abigail's plea that that’s not reasonable.

“Think about where you were last year at this time. Then think about now."

Last year, she was hemming and hawing over moving in with a stranger named Kelly, just to be close to her new job, which was also a point of contention; she wasn’t sure if it was it the right environment for her. She wouldn’t have made a singular move without weighing the pros and cons meticulously, the time for which seems like a luxury right now. That part of her life feels alien, like a different Myka altogether, as does her time spent with Sam.

“Point taken,” Myka says, but offers no further exposition.

“Remember, I’m here for you. Claudia’s here for you. Talk to us if you can’t talk to Helena.”

“Thanks,” Myka says, wishing she’d never picked up the phone. “Could we talk about something else now?”

There's a pause; Myka pictures Abigail grimacing over the change in topic.

“Fine. Tell me about these paintings.”

-----------------------

"Myka, I’m stuck.”

Christina sits slumped over her homework, surrounded by couch cushions and textbooks.

“One minute, honey."

Myka's stationed at the bar, typing on her keyboard; her anonymous source sent a motherlode of information, and she needs them to decipher a few details as soon as possible.

“You said that fifteen minutes ago."

“I did?”

Myka glances at the time; not only has it been fifteen minutes but it's now past Christina’s bedtime. She skims her email and, deciding it's in no shape to send, saves her work then folds her laptop closed.

“So, what do we have here,” Myka says, joining Christina on the couch.

“Are you mad at me?” Christina says, not looking up from her homework.

“Why would I be mad?” Myka scoots closer and circles a hand around Christina's back.

“We never spend time together since we visited Mom."

“I went your kempo thingy last week.”

“You came at the end."

“I had a late meeting."

“You’re always working. We never do anything fun anymore."

“I know,” Myka says, the guilt evident in her tone. "But the reason I’m working so hard is so we can see your Mom more."

“Really?” Christina looks up, her eyes filled with interest.

“Yeah."

“Is she ever coming to visit us?"

“Not anytime soon."

Christina's head lowers and her shoulders slump.

“We've talked about this. She wants to but she can’t.” Myka brushes Christina's curls out of her eyes and combs her fingers through her hair, then rests her hand on Christina’s shoulders.

“I miss her."

“I miss her, too.” Myka slides her hand around Christina’s upper arm and pulls her close. “You'll see her in two weeks."

“I know,” Christina says, with little enthusiasm. She wraps her arms around Myka's torso and burrows into her side. “I want her to come here."

“I thought you liked London?"

“It's ok,” Christina says, snuggling even closer. “I want Mom to take me to get pancakes at the restaurant. Or come to my concert.” She sniffles a little, clearly tearing up. "You'll come, won't you?"

Myka tenses, unable to recall the exact date of Christina’s drum recital, but immediately slackens, smoothing down Christina’s hair to hide her unease. She looks towards the calendar on the fridge and squints to make out its contents; she sincerely hopes she's cleared her schedule for that evening.

“Your Mom will be there in spirit. She'll listen in on the phone.”

“What if she’s at work?”

Myka looks towards the fridge again; Helena’s schedule from last week is blocked out, but not this week coming up. She'd best not make promises she can't keep.

“Let’s call her and ask."

“This isn’t a night she tucks me in. She has school in the morning, like me."

One more glance at the calendar, one more point of failure; Christina has Helena’s schedule memorized, but she does not. "I think she’d take a call from us."

Myka clicks a button on the remote, turning the TV on, then grabs her phone and syncs it with the screen. She taps call and crosses her fingers; if she’s lucky, Helena's not covering for someone at the bar.

Relief washes over her when Helena’s face immediately pops up on the screen.

“Hello, loves!”

“Mom!” Christina blurts. She lets go of Myka and sits up.

“You’re up,” Myka adds, a slight question in her tone.

“Studying, I’m afraid. And to what do I owe this wondrous interruption."

"Someone was missing you.” Myka looks over at Christina

"It's past someone's bedtime," Helena says looking at Myka.

"I'll tell you what, why don't you get ready for bed and your Mom can tuck you in. We'll finish your homework in the morning."

“Yay!” Christina chirps then scurries off.

"She's not finished her homework?"

"She asked for help, but I flubbed it. I needed to finish this email before bed time."

"You work too hard."

"I'm trying to—"

Helena holds up a hand. “I’m aware. And I hate to sound like a worried mother but—"

"She needs me there to help."

"She already has one absentee parent."

Myka’s guilt gives her pause; she leaves the subject there.

"Why are you still up?"

“I couldn't sleep. I am studying. You may recall, I added an art history module to stay current with the interests of my love.” Helena grins, pleased with her admission, but her eyes seek Myka’s approval.

“That’s really sweet,” Myka says, smiling crookedly, her chest warming at how smitten she is with this woman in on the screen.

"I do fear I'm becoming a night owl from bar work."

“Do you make it to class ok?"

“Model student, I assure you."

"I didn't mean to sound that way.”

Helena’s sober tone signals she’s ruined the intimate moment; as their eyes lock, Myka's brows draw together, and her lips rise in apology. Much to Myka’s relief, Helena’s face shows more concern than offense.

“You're exhausted. You should rest."

“I just need to finish this—"

“Done!" Christina announces, bounding in front of the TV.

“Let's get you into bed,” Myka says.

“I'll transfer the call to my mobile, and you do the same.”

The TV blacks out and when Helena pops back up, she’s already crossed the room and is searching for a book. Her computer glows bright orange in the distance and Myka tilts her head, squinting at its screen, intrigued by the image, which looks oddly similar to one she was told to view earlier by her anonymous source.

“What were you studying?”

“Marvels of the eighteenth century."

“I think I recognize your—“

The screen abruptly blanks, and Myka looks for Christina, who she finds already walking towards her room, smiling, phone in hand.

Myka shakes off her suspicions; the thought is absurd; the image too blurry to make out, it could easily be anything. She rises and follows Christina into her room, then sits on the bed nad lovingly pulls the covers up and around her shoulders.

“Goodnight, honey,” she says and brushes Christina’s hair out of her eyes, placing a light kiss on her forehead.

“You rest, love,” Helena's voice suggests from Christina’s pillow. “I’ll handle things from here.”

Myka glances at the phone and smiles a tired, warm smile, then stands and turns to leave. As she crosses the room, her mind fills with her interrupted email, but before she exits, Dewy bolts past, nearly tripping her in the process. She watches him bound on top of the bed, turn around once, then hunker down, claiming his portion at the end.

Christina barely notices, already engrossed in Helena’s story. Myka stands and listens in.

“...one of the enormous burnished tentacles came down, gently and precisely, and it’s tip curled about Jack’s waist, and it lifted him up, up, to where a hole opened like a mouth in the hemisphere, and swallowed him."

Myka’s neck hairs bristle at the visual and Christina clutches at her stuffed horse, clearly affected by the scene. Myka doesn't recognize the story, but she's intrigued; Helena's mentioned seeking out new bedtime stories and even asked her for suggestions; she’s not yet managed to pitch in.

Her gaze drifts to Dewy, who is lifting up on his paws, back stretching into a graceful arc, turning circle upon circle before settling into a neat, cozy ball. Christina shimmies closer to the phone, captivated by the rise and fall of Helena's voice shifting effortlessly between characters and the narrator. Though she’s thousands of miles away, Helena’s presence thoroughly fills the room; the scene in front of her tugs at Myka’s heart.

And at that moment, she's hit with a revelation; out of all the hurdles she's jumping, parenting is one at which she genuinely wants to excel. While the work is unfamiliar and often unrelenting, the intense moments of happiness it brings, even in most mundane moments, are like nothing she's ever felt before.

Since story time comes but once a day, work emails can wait; she moves back to the bed and maneuvers herself into the big spoon position behind Christina. Christina sinks into her embrace, and she hugs her close, then closes her eyes, letting the rich, soothing tones of Helena’s voice lull her into a peaceful slumber.

-TBC-

[minnievirizarry]

Getting Granular With Message Data Using Sprout’s Inbox Export  

Sometimes crunching numbers and performing deep quantitative analysis doesn’t give you all the insights you need. That’s why it’s important to also understand the context of your brand’s social conversations.

With Sprout’s Smart Inbox, it’s simple to monitor conversations happening in real-time, on all social profiles, across each social channel. It’s quick access to rich message-level data that helps you leverage the analytics in your Reporting Suite. For instance, utilizing the tagging workflow in the inbox in tandem with your Tag Report gives you quantifiable insight into the impact of messages and helps you discover volume, new themes and performance patterns.

For an understanding of social conversations that goes beyond numbers, Sprout users in the Enterprise plan can now utilize Sprout’s Inbox Export to perform deeper, contextual analysis of message content by exporting incoming and sent messages directly from the Smart Inbox.

Configure Your Smart Inbox

Before exporting any content, it’s important to note that messages can be easily configured in the Smart Inbox. Depending on the particular message data you’re interested in viewing, there are a couple of different approaches you can take to organizing your inbox.

Message filters allow you to isolate and sort messages to focus on exactly what you’re looking for. Select the exact profiles, message types and keywords that matter most to you.

Alternatively, you can choose to export all messages from a specific time frame. Check Select All in the message filters and then select a date range from the inbox chart to drill into message activity between particular dates.

Analyze Message Quality With CSV Sort & Filter

With Inbox Export, social media pros can effectively hone in on social messages from their Smart Inbox. This makes it easy to compare and evaluate the context of engagement around tags, events, campaigns and other social initiatives. By digging into a message’s content, you can start to unpack the quality of messages.

Below are a variety of ways you can sort and filter your CSV file to get the most out of Inbox Export.

Sort or filter by:

Brand Keywords: Compare activity happening across brand keywords for a specified time frame. Sort the Message Types column by Brand Keyword to gauge sentiment and tone about specific keywords used frequently with your brand name on social, as well as uncover any patterns in keyword usage. You can also sum rows with specific brand keywords to determine the share of volume over a specific time period. #SproutTip: Sprout’s Twitter Listening Report—available in Corporate and Enterprise plans—is a great tool for analyzing share of voice and growth trends across a group of keywords.

Tags: Tags are a great way to stay organized and focused when responding to the daily flood of incoming messages. Using the Tag Report, you can filter a feed of tagged messages to view the conversations labeled under that specific tag. When you export messages from the Smart Inbox, you can perform advanced sorting and filtering in the CSV.  Sort by Tags and attribute tags to specific networks to compare usage across channels.

Ad Comments: Evaluate the ROI of paid campaigns and measure how consumers are responding to your ads. Sort by Message Types and filter Ad Comments to compare the quality of engagement across different Facebook and Instagram ads and date ranges. Add an additional column to label responses as Active vs. Passive, or Positive vs. Negative, to better inform your brand engagement strategy on paid social ads.

Private and Direct Messages: There’s a stark contrast in how consumers engage your brand publicly vs. privately. Sort by Message Types and isolate Private and Direct Messages to shed light on the main differences between public and private message content. Identify trends in private messages and then use those insights to build out automated conversational workflows with Sprout’s Bot Builder.

Sent From Messages: Who exactly is talking to or about your brand on social? How often are they engaging and what are they saying? Using the People & Brands Frequently Talking About section in the Twitter Trends Report, you’re able to see users that frequently mention you on Twitter on a month-by-month basis. Inbox Export allows you to see advocates and influencers on networks other than Twitter and offers the flexibility to slice and dice dates to analyze at a more granular level. Sort by From Name to identify your most active consumers on social.

Gain Deeper Context With CSV Search

When viewing exported messages, users can easily search the CSV file to pinpoint specific keywords and glean further insights on message activity. Speedily reference keywords, phrases or dates to note important trends and gain deeper context around specific campaigns or activity in a particular time frame.

Messages containing a specific word: Retrace mentions of a specific word–perhaps you remember seeing it in a previous conversation or maybe you’re looking to identify negative or positive reactions. Search by a specific word and then quickly skim the CSV file to highlight pertinent messages.

Product names: Whether it’s to compile specific product questions or gather feedback about a new feature launch, searching a product name can help you more efficiently deliver information to customer support and product teams.

Specific users: Connect the dots throughout your customer journey when you search specific users or influencers. Trace high-value conversions (or even unsuccessful ones) back to the conversation’s origin. Take note at how it unfolds. If they’re negative, use that data to develop proactive measures in your customer care strategy. If they’re positive, identify patterns and leverage this information (as well as these individuals) for social marketing opportunities.

Specific dates: With the Smart Inbox, users can easily adjust dates based on several preset time periods and drill the feed down as far as a 24-hour bucket. Then take advantage of Inbox Export to customize your search, drilling into specific dates and narrowing in on the precise moment a trend was born, or even get an overview of activity and message content around a significant event.

Excel Best Practices

Information from your CSV file will prove to be especially valuable, particularly when equipped with a few simple Excel tricks. Below are some tips on how to use Excel to make sure you’re getting the most out of Inbox Export.

Apply Filters: You can apply filters to columns to eliminate specific information.

Select a column. In the Data tab, select Filters.

Click on drop-down arrow shown at the top corner of the first cell in the column.

Filter by keyword, date or month. Or check off specific keywords or phrases from individual cells.

Sum: After filtering you can quickly add up items under a particular column to gauge volume for a message type, keyword or tag.

Select a cell, then hold down shift to select all the items you’d like to sum.

Find the total, in the bottom bar labeled Count.

If Contains: You can also count the number of times a keyword or tag is mentioned in a specific column with an “If Contains” formula.

Enter =COUNTIF(COLUMN:COLUMN,”*tag_name*”) in a cell just below a particular column.

For example, if you’d like to know how many messages were tagged under “billing” enter =COUNTIF(J:J,”*billing*”).

Note: You can also use “If Contains”  to search for a specific word in messages.

Comma Delimited: If you have multiple tags assigned to a message, they will all appear in the same column. In order to separate each tag into its own column, you can separate each value using Comma Delimited.

Select Tags column.

Click the Data tab. Select Text to Columns.

Select Delimited. Then, click Next.

Check Comma. Click Next.

Click Finish.

Compare Tags: If you’d like to compare tags across all messages, you can manually separate them out using a combination of filters and marking columns.

Add a filter to the Tags column, “J”.

Filter by a specific tag.

Add a column to the right. Label it with the tag name.

Enter an X or another symbol to each row in the tag_name column.

Select Clear Filter.

Repeat for other Tags.

Sprout’s Inbox Export tool drives insights beyond performance and raw data. It gives brands a deeper understanding of context and the quality of their social communication. Inbox Export helps make it possible to surface meaningful insights about audience, team and social presence, ultimately informing overall business objectives.

If you have any other best practices for sorting content, feel free to comment below and share!

This post Getting Granular With Message Data Using Sprout’s Inbox Export   originally appeared on Sprout Social.

from SM Tips By Minnie https://sproutsocial.com/insights/inbox-export/