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ombreblossom · 3 years

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i am and i am not (what you choose to see)

This is a birthday fic for @rosy-cheekx, but in many ways I wrote it as much for myself as I did for them.

Featuring: a gender-questioning Martin in the safehouse. What better time to explore one’ gender identity than while one is on the run from dangerous eldritch forces?

Content warnings (please let me know if there anything i’ve missed): kissing, very minor internalized transphobia, and a brief discussion of Martin’s mother.

AO3 Link: here~

“There’s no rush, Martin. Take your time,” Jon raises his voice from the other side of their bedroom door, passing time running his fingers across Daisy’s sparse knick-knacks—just enough of them to present a front of homeyness to any errant visitors but not enough of them to clutter her otherwise spartan living space. Several Archers novels and otherwise miscellaneous reading materials line the single squat bookshelf in the entire cottage, an unbroken coating of dust overlaying everything. Jon picks up a porcelain dog (or a wolf?) and rolls it over in his hands.

“The longer I take, the more likely it is I’m never going to leave this room.” Martin almost-yells back, interrupting the muffled frustrations of someone wrangling an unfamiliar article of clothing.

“And what a shame that’d be. I rather hoped we’d trot down to the village today for a late lunch.”

"Gotta take advantage of the warm weather while we have it," Martin adds.

"Exactly."

"And I'm sure you have no ulterior motives whatsoever."

"Yes, of cour—wait, what?"

“Don’t worry," Martin says with a worrying lilt. "I know what you’re really after.”

Jon pauses and, after a beat, replies, “Oh? And what would that be?”

“Here, I’ll set the scene for you: enter Fiona’s Used Books.” Jon can see (in his mind’s eye, not his eldritch one) Martin preparing his best mock-theatrical pose before continuing. “In the far-right corner, the side of the establishment that faces the setting sun, is a raised platform. Cushions and pillows of all shapes and colors and sizes are strewn about the platform, some left contorted by their previous users before they left the shop to go about their day. Two wide-pane windows allow a full complement of the sun’s rays to gently warm the area. A lone figure lies nestled among several cozy-looking pillows, completely dead to the world but for a purring cat atop the figure’s chest—”

“Yes, yes, all right. You’ve made your point,” Jon grouses. “I hope you know that I consider spending time with you much more important than sunbathing with the bookshop owner’s cat.”

“I know, Jon; don’t worry.” An audible grin carries through the door.

Jon directs his own smile at the door and says, “Yes, well, now that you mention it, I did want to stop at the bookshop if we had time.”

“I think we can make that work. I’d hate to miss seeing you be adorable with Maggie.”

Jon sputters a bit in futile indignation. Martin has made his opinion of Jon's alleged adorableness abundantly clear, and it's not worth challenging him on it. He'd let Martin have this, even though the idea of anyone thinking he's adorable rankles him almost as much as the word spooky does.

(This is less the case coming from Martin, but he’d sooner shuffle off his mortal coil than tell him that.)

The weight of the porcelain wolf—he’s decided—in his hand grabs his attention. In fidgeting with it, he’s managed to rub all the dust off its coat, revealing a delicate blue glaze swirling around the figure. Wiping the excavated dust on his trousers, a concerning realization creeps into Jon's awareness. "Martin?" He calls out.

Martin yells back something questioning, the exact words lost in their reverberations around the inside of their bedroom.

“I know you’re trying to distract me right now,” Jon says matter-of-factly. “If you don’t want to do this anymore, I completely understand.”

All sounds of movement cease on the other side of the door—worryingly quickly.

“Martin?” Jon ventures.

“No. I…want to do this. I want to be more myself.”

Jon nods. “All right. Let’s have a look at you, then.”

It takes several long seconds, but the door creaks open, leaving just enough room for Martin to poke through the gap and reveal dark, furrowed brows set in a face that belies its owner’s vocal confidence just a moment ago. Tension lends Martin’s grip on the door a strength that looks painful from where Jon stands.

“Just gimme a second, gimme a second. Let me…let me get my bearings.” Martin’s visible shoulder, draped in a sheer dark-blue fabric, lifts and sinks with long, deep breaths.

A wave of concern washes over Jon. “What’s wrong, love?”

“I’m-I’m scared, I think. There’s no reason to be scared, but—"

“Who says you need a reason to be scared of something?” Jon interjects, and he immediately regrets the hard edge he hears in them.

Martin exhales sharply and averts his eyes away from Jon, grip tightening on the door, something Jon wouldn’t have thought possible. “Oh, you know, just the fact that we’re on the run from a body-hopping avatar of the Beholding, who can see us through anything even resembling an eye and almost certainly knows exactly where we are.”

“Yes…I know. I’ve been trying not to think about it, if I’m being honest. But even though there’s this uncertainty looming over us, you’re more than justified in feeling afraid of more…mundane things.”

Martin can’t help but scoff at that. “Yeah. Right."

“Do you…do you want to talk about what’s going on?” Jon asks, softness smothering any nascent trace of compulsion. The Beholding doesn’t get to have this, not if Jon has anything to do with it.

“I don’t….” Martin exhales again. “I’ve never tried to be this before,” he says, staring at the neat rows of hardwood planks to Jon’s left. “So much of my life has been just letting other people see me how they wanted to see me because it…I don’t know, helped me be someone specific to them when they needed it. I’ve been someone who won’t stir up a fuss; someone to project their frustrations onto; someone who cares for others for the sake of it; and, definitely most frequently, someone who presents as a man.

“There never seemed a point in saying, no, there’s more here than what I’m letting you see, you know? Sometimes it’s simpler to reduce myself to a single quality, even if it’s never helped me be close to people.

“But if I leave this cottage now, people are going to try to categorize me, try to match me up with some image they have preconceived in their minds, and they won’t be able to. And I’m not sure I should want that anymore, either. I guess the main thing is….” He pauses, collecting his thoughts. “It’s terrifying to try to be something other than what the world sees you to be.”

Jon can’t let that go unanswered. Jon needs Martin’s attention for this, so he brings his hands to rest on each of his cheeks, not so much holding him in place but gently suggesting that’s his intention. Jon wouldn’t begrudge Martin his space if he needed it.

“You’re right. It is terrifying letting people see past the outward veneer we put up.” Jon says, concern still present but receding. “It’s not really my place to tell you how to work through that terror, but I am here for you—all of you, not just the parts of you you’re used to showing the world—and I’ll support you however I can.”

“God, Jon, how can you just say things like that?”

Jon makes a sound that’s something just shy of a laugh. “Because they’re true, Martin.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Come on out, Martin; it’s just us, and I want to see all of you, if you’ll let me.”

Still mostly hidden by the door, Martin stares at Jon, Jon with his myriad marks and scars; his long, unbound gray-streaked hair; and an extra ten years perpetually set in his shoulders. He’s pinned by the intensity of the affection in Martin’s eyes.

“Can I kiss you first?” Martin asks, voice terribly quiet.

The request shakes Jon to his core, but he recovers quickly, nodding his assent. “Please do.”

Martin steps out from behind the door and kisses Jon, Jon’s eyes closing on reflex before he can get a good look at him. The romance novels Jon used to pick up when the ache for a happy ending of his own became too painful to ignore any longer would have him feeling light and airy, almost senseless, as if suspended in space and time as he and Martin exchanged breath. Jon has never felt more grounded. He’s never felt more aware of every sensation within and without his body; the sensations of Martin’s hot breath on his face and his chapped lips pressing against his own keep him firmly tethered to the here and now. Jon’s heart hammers in his chest—so much so he’s sure Martin can feel it, too, their chests pressed together as they are.

When they break apart, Jon opens his eyes and says breathlessly, “Let’s get a good look at you. The mirror’s just over here.” Jon takes his hands back to make the journey easier but feels his heart drop when Martin looks back at the door left ajar in their haste to come together. He looks bereft. Bereft of what, Jon’s can’t be entirely sure, but Jon makes a judgment call and grabs one of Martin’s hands and pulls him along toward the far end of the room, their fingers interlaced.

It had seemed a bit odd for Daisy to have such a vanity piece, but Jon's thankful for it and thankful it wasn't as firmly affixed to the wall in their bedroom as it at first seemed. It would have made for cramped space indeed to have them both crowding around it, and Jon doesn’t want Martin to be alone for this.

They stop just in front of the mirror, Jon off to the side and Martin situated front and center. He gives Jon’s hand a grateful squeeze and looks at his reflection.

“What do you see when you look at yourself, love?” Jon prompts, squeezing Martin’s hand right back.

“I see myself wearing this dress we found rather miraculously in this northern Scottish village of three hundred whole people.”

“And?”

“And it’s…fwooshy.”

“Fwooshy.”

Martin nods with all the sage wisdom of a learned poet. “Yes. It’s light and it moves when I move. It feels like it’s barely touching me at all times, which is so different from how my normal trousers and jumpers feel.”

“Ah, I see what you mean.”

“Mm-hmm. And it’s just pretty, don’t you think?

“Indeed.” Jon debates drawing attention to the question Martin is dancing around, but he trusts Martin to get there in time. “I thought so the moment we found it.”

Martin makes a non-committal sound. “You know, this is a lovely color on me.”

“Come to think of it, I’ve never really seen you wear darker colors before now. You always wore jumpers with a lot of bright colors around the Archives.”

“Yeah. It was, um. My mum, she used to say stuff like, ‘Why do you want to look so dreary all the time? Bright colors look so much better on you,’ and I guess that stuck.” Martin’s voice takes on an affect somewhere between disappointed and exhausted as he imitates his mother, and Jon struggles not to form opinions about that until they’ve had time to talk about her more. “I think she liked looking at the brighter colors I’d wear, especially once she couldn’t really leave our flat very often. I want to think they reminded her of the outside. She never said that, though. I don’t know.

“Wearing a color like this makes me happy, though. Wearing delicate clothes like this that don’t hide me away makes me happy. I want to say I feel….” Martin trails off.

“I feel beautiful, Jon. I really, really do.”

Jon tugs Martin’s hand, still joined with his own, up to his lips and places a kiss on his knuckles, at once affirming you’re beautiful, love and urging Martin to continue.

Visibly reorienting himself, Martin continues: “I see a Martin I’ve never let myself be before. A Martin not at odds with himself. With the rest of the world, maybe, but not with himself. I want to be him, Jon.”

“Then be him.”

“What, just like that?”

“Well, not ‘just like that.’ It’ll take time to feel comfortable presenting your whole self to other people, and that’s okay. The time and effort will be worth it; the world is better for having you, all of you, in it.”

Martin nods shakily, looking for all the world like he’s adrift in the middle of the ocean with sliver of land visible in any direction.

Jon waits for Martin to gather his thoughts. It's the least he can do, lend Martin his patience, patience he's long deserved and nary gotten from Jon for most of their relationship. Plus, it gives Jon some time to look, to really look at this beloved person standing next to him.

Jon's never given much weight to a person's looks as a part of his attraction to them. More often than not, Jon would start to find someone pleasing to look at only after becoming attracted to them in other ways. Otherwise, people were people and what they looked like mattered little in the face of their ideas, their arguments, and their kindnesses (or lack thereof).

Things progressed much the same way with Martin, and now? Well, Jon would like to never stop looking at Martin, thank you very much, and the universe would do well to cooperate with him on that.

Jon looks and looks and looks as Martin twists from side to side, watching as the dress billows out around him. The dress is elegant, made more so by the person wearing it. It's long, the navy chiffon wrap falling down around Martin’s ankles in gentle fluttering waves. A more opaque under-layer provides him some coverage from his chest to his mid-thighs but by no means diminishes his silhouette: soft and sturdy in equal measures. The dress cinches together an inch or so below his pecs, highlighting the generous curve of his hips. Shoulders Jon knows teem with freckles are enveloped in wide navy chiffon sleeves. The wrap-around style of the dress creates a deep V-shaped neckline, revealing more lovely freckles spread across his ample chest.

Martin is gorgeous—full stop. He fills out the dress beautifully, fabric flush with his skin in all the right places. Jon has to keep himself from flying apart with fondness for the man. The dress suits him; there was no way Jon could have anticipated how much it would after observing its shape uninhabited.

Martin cuts through Jon’s musing with a whisper: “Thank you, Jon.”

“For what?”

“For…for being here with me. Throughout all this.”

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be, Martin,” Jon says in a tone that brooks no argument.

“Right. Cool,” he says airily, earning a light chuckle from Jon. He’s not at all surprised when he finds himself at the receiving end of a playful nudge.

“If you’re up to it, I’d still love to go into the village and share a meal with you, show you off to our lovely neighbors.” Jon stops for a moment before continuing, gesturing wildly with his free hand, “That is to say, I’m not trying to imply you’re my possession or that I get to parade you around as I please. I just mean that….” Jon looks deep into earthy brown eyes and presses on. “I just mean that I want everyone to know and see how much of a privilege it is to be with you, to be able to bear witness to you putting more of yourself out into the world—if you’re ready.”

“We’re already the novel English couple from out of town staying in the infamous nigh-abandoned cottage on a mysterious holiday—what’s another oddity for the list, eh?”

“Hey! I won’t have anyone talking about my—oh.” Jon makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat. “It occurs to me that you might prefer different terminology for yourself. Is it still all right for me to refer to you as my boyfriend’? Or would you prefer something without a gender connotation like ‘partner’?”

“Jon, I spent the last two and a half years wanting to be your boyfriend, and that hasn’t changed. Having you call me that doesn’t bother me and is, in fact, one of my dreams come true.” Martin lets go of Jon’s hand and wraps him up in his arms; Jon’s follow suit. “Thanks for asking, though. I’ll let you know if anything doesn’t feel quite right.”

Jon buries his face in the crook of Martin’s neck, savoring the warmth and gentle scent of something vaguely herbal permeating through the chiffon dress. They’ll return to Martin’s comment later, he’s sure. “All right. I like ‘boyfriend,’ too, just for the record.”

“I’m glad,” he says, leaning his head on Jon’s.

“So,” Jon starts, pouring all the comfort he can manage into his embrace, “how about it? A late lunch at the pub, and then we can go see Maggie if there's time?”

Martin pulls away from Jon and smiles. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I’m good. Let’s get going,” he says.

“Yes, let’s.” Jon moves toward their makeshift mudroom, which is nothing more than a sorry shoe rack leaned against the wall next to the front door and a couple of wooden pegs designed to hang heavy coats.

“And, Jon?”

Jon turns part of the way back around, cocking his head to the side in mild confusion. “Yes?”

There’s a subtle tension in Martin’s stance when Jon looks back at him, but he’s standing up noticeably straight and puffing himself up. This is familiar to him; he imagines he looks the same way when he’s about to go into a situation that involves delicate social interactions.

However, this is unfamiliar to him as something Martin does in the face of imminent discomfort. Martin isn’t a lip-worrier. Nor is he a fidgeter. Too much practice maintaining a guise of false cheer. No, what Martin does is shrink. He hunches over imperceptibly and draws his arms into himself, and makes the space he’s in feel that little bit bigger, that little bit lonelier, for his diminished presence in it.

Resolve blooms on Martin’s face. It’s a fragile thing, Jon can tell, but it’s there. Jon hopes this is just one instance of many of Martin deciding to take up his due space and filling the world with his presence. “Would you start also using ‘they’ and ‘them’ for me sometimes?” Martin starts, in a rush. He continues, slower and more hesitant, “I just want to try them out; see how they feel and all that. Might not be a permanent thing.”

“It would be my utmost honor and pleasure to use whatever language my boyfriend feels most comfortable with me using for them.” Jon says primly, bent slightly at the waist and arms swept to one side.

In a second, Martin closes the distance between them, hooking one arm under Jon’s legs and behind his back and twirling him around, both of them giggling all the while. Jon gets the impression Martin’s taking it easy (in consideration of the abundance of fabric flowing free around their ankles, if he had to guess), but it’s perfect anyway.

For his part, Jon is taking this opportunity to admire his boyfriend between giggles: the sepia highlights in their hair, brought out by the (no doubt by now) sinking sun; the double chin Jon likes tucking his head under when he wants to feel at home; the strength in all of Martin’s body but especially their arms, arms that hold him close as they spin around the room, never showing signs of faltering. Mingling with admiration for Martin’s physical form is an enduring respect for Martin’s courage and his life-long compassion. This is a person Jon would trust with his life and his heart.

Eventually, Martin returns Jon to solid ground. Jon would say it was too soon, but they’re both slightly out of breath, and time is moving ever forward. Jon practically falls into Martin, pressing their foreheads together. The smooth chiffon slides against Jon’s skin as they shift into comfortable positions. He closes his eyes and isn’t aware of much else that isn’t Martin.

“Hey there, handsome,” Martin says after more time passes. “What’s someone like me got to do to get someone like you out that front door so we can actually go on our date sometime this century?”

Jon’s eyes crinkle in the corners, deeply amused. “You might have to carry me over the threshold at this point. Just make sure to grab our shoes—wouldn’t want leave without completing your ensemble, after all.”

#tma #the magnus archives #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #jonmartin #jmart #set during the scottish safehouse period #ombre writes #ombre writes fic #internalized transphobia #(minor)#kissing

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slythergirlimagines · 4 years

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Life Changing Adventures with Zuko

Summary: Zuko and the Reader get into some trouble when they meet a witch who switches their bodies. The Gaang tries to help them switch back. Pretty much fluff, not much angst! (GIF is not mine, but I absolutely love it!) Words: 5,659 Request: Yes Masterlist

****Also, would you guys be interested in me making a masterlist of all my fics? Let me know!

Life Changing Adventures with Zuko

You should have never come here. That’s what you’re thinking as you and Zuko climb up the incredibly tall, dangerous mountain to see what’s in the mysterious cave.

“I don’t like this.” You say, crossing your arms in an effort to preserve some sort of body heat. Of course, Zuko didn’t have to worry about the cold and he seemed no more bothered with this excursion than he would be anything else.

Zuko glances back at you, black fringe hanging in his amber eyes.

“Just calm down, we’re nearly there.” He says, and continues his climb up the winding, steep path.

You roll your eyes, but hurry to match his pace. You definitely don’t want to fall behind in this place, but Zuko’s long legs are growing increasingly hard to keep up with.

You can feel it in the air that something’s not quite right. There’s an undercurrent of something undefinable. Like magic. It hums all around you, and gives you goosebumps.

Up ahead, the wind whips through Zuko’s raven hair. It also blows his tunic tight against his body, and you can just make out the contours of his muscles.

Mentally, you slap yourself. Why do you care about Zuko’s muscles? He had chased you and your friends for months, and he had been responsible for a myriad of bad things that had happened to you. You had forgiven him, but you guys fought all the time. Your bickering often drove your friends crazy, and had been nonstop since he arrived.

“Life changing adventures with Zuko.” Toph had once called the personal journeys your friends had taken with him. You and Toph were the only people who hadn’t had one, and you certainly hoped today wasn’t your day.

Zuko stops and cocks his head, listening. You slowly approach him, taking care to keep silent. If Zuko was concerned then you should definitely be concerned as well. Your eyes dart around, but you don’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary.

The sun is starting to set, and it’s making this damn mountain even colder than before. The trees cast long shadows over the path, and it all feels foreboding. Subconsciously, you gravitate closer to Zuko.

“Remind me what we’re doing here, again?” You ask. You’re trying your hardest not to show any fear, but everything in your body is telling you to leave.

Zuko squints and stares in the direction of the cave.

“Aang asked us to check it out.” He says in his low rasp. This however is partially untrue.

Aang had asked you to go check it out, not Zuko. Aang claimed that something felt wrong up here, but he was currently trying to the closest village from being occupied by Fire Nation troops and didn’t have time to check. You weren’t a bender, but you were a capable warrior, and Aang trusted your abilities.

Zuko, on the other hand, had volunteered the moment you agreed to go. He claimed that it was because he couldn’t have Fire Nation soldiers recognize him, but his hastiness made you suspicious. He was always doing that, hovering around you during missions and tasks. It got on your nerves how little he trusted in your ability to defend yourself.

“I don’t think we should be here.” You reiterate. “It just feels....”

“I know. I feel it too.” Zuko says. He turns to you and offers a large hand. Sighing, you take it and allow him to lead you closer to the cave.

Zuko stops behind a tall tree, and peeks his head around to observe. The tree is hardly wide enough to conceal his broad shoulders, but at least you are in the shadows. You notice that you are still holding his hand, and drop it before he can read too much into it.

In an effort to look busy, you squint into the dark, trying to make out any sort of object that could be important. Without Aang here it is virtually impossible to know what you need to find.

Zuko seems to be following the same train of thought as you, and scans the area with his eyes. The light is almost dark enough to conceal his scar. Your fingers twitch with some foreign urge to trace over it. You ball your hands into fists. Maybe you just want to punch him in the face.

“I don’t see anything.” Zuko mumbles, still watchful.

“Me neither. I say we go back to camp and tell Aang that there’s nothing up here.” The wind has picked up since you got here, and you’re teeth are chattering.

Zuko notices your shivering for the first time, and rolls his eyes. He flexes his fingers, and you can tell what he’s about to do from the look on his face. You can’t have him firebend here.

“Don’t.” You say harsher than necessary.

“You can’t give that away, especially if someone’s here.” You hastily add. You don’t know why you’re suddenly so concerned about sparing his feelings.

“Yeah...you’re right.” Zuko says, but there’s a strange look in his eyes that you don’t quite understand.

Suddenly, the cave bursts into life and a bright light pours through it. The hairs on your arms prickle as the hum around you intensifies. You can practically taste whatever it is in the air.

“We need to get closer, see what’s going on.” Zuko says, “Maybe this is what Aang meant.”

You swallow loudly, but nod your consent. Hesitantly, you trail behind him, nearing the cave. The light illuminates the wideness of its mouth, and its seemingly never ending depth. Anything could be in there, but what could be of any importance to you?

However bad you think the idea is, you know you have to go inside. Something is waiting for you in this cave, and you have to face it.

You look to Zuko to see if he’s come to a similar conclusion, and you find the same grim expression on his face. Locking eyes, you nod at each other, and start the trek inside.

Zuko lights his fists on fire, and the flames dance around his knuckles in beautiful patterns. Even though you wish he wouldn’t bend, it’s Zuko’s flames that you focus on to keep yourself from becoming panicked. For the first time, you’re truly glad he’s there with you.

So focused are you on Zuko’s flame, that you don’t notice that someone is sneaking up on you. You hear the sound of their footsteps too late, and then everything goes dark.

————————————————

You wake up to a pounding in your head. Groaning, you move to lift a hand to your injury, but find that they are bound to something. That something just so happens to be a warm, angry firebender.

“Y/n?” He asks, and you can’t help but notice that his usually crabby voice is laced with concern.

“Ugh.” You groan in response. The back of your head is exploding with pain.

“Are you alright?” He questions lowly.

“Head hurts.” You mumble.

You feel Zuko moving behind you, and assume he’s nodding.

“You got hit pretty hard.” He whispers. You’re appreciative of the fact that he has lowered his voice. “Good thing your head is so hard.”

And there it is. You decide to be the bigger person and ignore him.

“Hit with what?” You ask.

“Magic, dear.” Says a wheezing voice. All of a sudden, light fills up the cave again, and you squeeze your eyes shut against it.

Your head pounds viciously in response to the brightness, and you groan again.

“Sorry about that.” The voice says again, and this time you can tell that it belongs to a woman. An old one by the sound of it.

You hear shuffling near you, and then something is pressed to your lips.

“Drink this, it’ll make you feel better.” She says.

You shake your head, but she pressed the vial through your lips anyways, and forces your head back.

“Leave her alone!” Zuko snaps.

“Don’t worry firebender, I haven’t forgotten you.” The old woman says.

The sweet liquid slides down your throat, and instantly your pain fades. You open your eyes to a wizened woman with a shock of bright white hair. Her eyes are crazed, and instantly you have a bad feeling about her. She winks at you and then moves away, one of her legs dragging behind her.

You briefly take stock of you surroundings. The room is made of stone, so clearly you haven’t left the cave. That at least would make it easier if you escaped. The room is cluttered with vials, plants, and random torn pages. On one of the make shift tables you see a large cauldron and a mortar and pestle.

“You’re a witch.” Your voice is flat.

The old woman let’s out a shrieking cackle.

“If that’s what you want to call it! Now I think it’s time you answer a few of my questions.” She says, crossing her arms.

“We don’t owe you anything!” Zuko says through clenched teeth. You can feel his anger heating his body from where your backs touch.

“No?” She says coyly. “You came to my cave to attack me!” She squeals, one eye twitching.

“We didn’t come to attack you.” You say, trying to maintain the peace. Maybe she could be reasoned with. You feel Zuko tense behind you, and you know he’s preparing for a fight.

“Then why were you sneaking into my cave, with this one on fire?” She says nodding in Zuko’s direction.

This is the tricky part, figuring out how much to tell her. She clearly isn’t a fan of the Fire Nation, due to her reaction with Zuko, but maybe that isn’t true. Maybe she knows who Zuko is, and is a Fire Nation sympathizer.

“Well?” She questions.

“We’re traveling with the Avatar, and he sent us up here to check this place out while he went to help the nearby village.” You blurt. It comes out of nowhere, and it was definitely not what you meant to say at all.

Horrified, you gasp. Zuko tenses begins you.

“What did you do to her?” He demands.

“Just a little truth potion.” She hums. “Can’t hurt to know the people around you are honest.”

You clamp your mouth, biting into your lip hard enough to draw blood.

“We’re not your enemy.” Zuko says. “You don’t need to restrain us. Or trick us into telling the truth.”

You watch as the old woman paces back and forth.

“I am Kara.” She says finally. “Years ago, I made a deal with Fire Nation to protect my people. I would provide them with some magical assistance, if they would spare my village.”

“You’re helping them?” You cry out.

“Don’t judge me too harshly girl.” The woman snaps. “I did what I could for my people, just as you try to do.”

“The Avatar will free you’re village.” Zuko says. “You will be able to prosper without Fire Nation soldiers breathing down your neck. Let us go, and we will be able to help him.”

Something in his voice makes your heart stutter. Maybe it’s the sincerity in his voice, or the hard edge of determination. You have got to stop thinking about Zuko that way.

Kara laughs and shakes her head.

“No one will be able to defeat them. Not even the Avatar.” She shakes her head, sadly.

“We have! Many times before.” You say. You don’t like Kara talking badly about Aang. He has almost mastered all of the elements, and you know he has what it takes to defeat Ozai. You all have done so much good for people already.

Kara just shakes her head again, and resumes pacing.

“I’m sorry.” She says finally. “I wish your friend well, but I can’t let you leave without knowing you aren’t a threat to the Fire Nation. If they know that I didn’t do anything I could to help them, they will hurt the people I love.”

Kara begins muttering under her breath, and you tense up. You hate being completely vulnerable and open to an attack. Zuko must be on the same page, for you can feel him struggling against the bonds.

“Heat them up.” You whisper as quietly as you can. “Burn them.”

Kara starts going around and picking out various objects from her jars.

“I can’t. Your hands are too close, I’ll burn you.” He says.

“You’ll have to. It’s the only way we’re getting out of here!” You snap.

“No.” He says, hotly.

“Zuko!”

“I’m not going to hurt you, y/n!” He growls.

To your dismay, your arguing has caught the attention of Kara. She has a bright gleam in her eyes as she’s watching you two.

“I see.” She says. Then she starts laughing hysterically, wiping tears from her eyes.

“I know just what to do! But first, young lady, just how much does this boy mean to you?”

The truth spills from your lips again without your control.

“A lot.” You say, and then you’re whole face turns red. You’re mortified, but at least Zuko can’t see your face.

Kara giggle with glee and then nods to herself

“Oh yes, just the thing.” She comes over to you both, and plucks hairs from your heads.

“Hey!” You and Zuko both protest.

She sets the hairs in a bowl, and then starts talking to herself again, this time loudly enough for you to hear. She’s speaking in a foreign language of some sort, and hastily you begin to tug on your bonds again.

“Zuko, just do it!” You say.

In a surprisingly fast move, Zuko manages to wrench his wrists away from yours and singe the ropes without burning you. He is up and shooting flames at Kara in an instant.

The bowl catches on fire, but it’s a pink fire, something magical and not from Zuko.

“You’re too late!” She cackles gleefully. Then she disappears in a plume of smoke, and you and Zuko are left alone in the cave.

——————————————

You are both on high alert as you make your way back to camp. Every noise makes you jumpy, as you wait for Kara’s spell to start working. You make it out of the woods without so much as a scratch. Though it looks like you’ve avoided her wrath, something feels off.

“You’re too late.” She had said. Chills race up and down your spine.

Zuko keeps lighting and extinguishing his fists. You think maybe he’s trying to make sure he can still bend. Possible scenarios play over and over in your head. There were thousands of things she could do to sabotage you and Zuko. She could take away his bending, paralyze you, or turn you into bugs. The possibilities are endless, and yet nothing has happened.

The Gaang is waiting up for you when you finally arrive back at camp. You tell them about the witch and her curse. Sokka rolls his eyes and seems unconcerned.

“She’s just a crackpot you guys. Obviously nothing will happen.”

Toph seconds his notion, but Aang and Katara look wary. Katara makes you and Zuko repeat the story until you’re blue in the face, but she can’t figure it out any more than you can.

You are too embarrassed from your admission to talk to Zuko, or even bicker with him like you normally would. You quickly excuse yourself to go to sleep, and spend the rest of the evening hiding in your tent.

You fall into a restless sleep that night. You dream of the horrible things you considered happening to you. In one dream you’re a frog, in the other you’re pinned to the ground unable to move.

You’re utterly exhausted when you’re woken up by you’re own screaming.

————————————————-

You sit up in your tent immediately. You knew you heard yourself scream, but it hadn’t come from your mouth. Seconds later, you burst into your tent.

Your clone stops and look at you, with wide eyes.

“Y/n?” Your voice asks you.

“Yes?” You say, but it isn’t your voice that comes out when you speak. Instead, it’s Zuko’s rasp that forms the words.

All of a sudden the pieces of the puzzle start clicking together.

“Oh no.” You say horrified, and look down at your body.

You have muscles now, and you feel stronger, bigger. You reach a hand up and grab a handful of short, ebony locks. Your other hand traces your features, and you feel the rough scar under the pads of your fingers.

“This can’t be real.” You say in Zuko’s voice. “This can’t be happening.”

“It’s happening.” Zuko says.

It’s weird to see yourself objectively like this. You have this horrible out of body feeling, and it’s making your head spin. Anxiety hits you, and you start breathing heavy. You’re going to pass out.

“Calm down!” Zuko says, rushing over to you. He wraps his arms around you, himself? Ugh it’s too confusing.

“If you don’t calm down, you’re going to burn this tent down and hurt yourself!” He says. He awkwardly starts rubbing your back. “Breathe with me.” He instructs.

Slowly, you start to calm down. Zuko lets his, your?, hands linger for a moment longer, before he pulls away and puts some distance between you.

“What are we going to do?” You ask. Zuko makes a face at how weak his voice sounds.

“I don’t know.” He says. His mannerisms look so weird on your body. You can tell that it’s him, just by the way he holds himself. You wonder if he’s experiencing the same thing watching you in his body.

“We need to go back to the cave, demand that Kara gives us our bodies back.” You say.

Zuko rolls your eyes.

“I’m sure that will go over well.” He says.

“Don’t make me sound all crabby.” You snap at him.

“Don’t make me sound all girly and pathetic!” He retorts.

“Pathetic?!”

“Oh Zuko,” he mocks “what are we going to do? Save me Zuko, I care a lot about you!”

“You’re so annoying!” You shout, embarrassed that he remembered your confession.

“Can we not fight this early in the morning!” Sokka says, throwing open your tent.

“Oh.” He says, looking between the two of you.

You realize in embarrassment that you and Zuko are awfully close together, and you are in Zuko’s body in your sleeping bag. It has to look like Zuko slept in your tent.

“Sokka, we can explain.” You say.

Sokka hurriedly shakes his head, raising his hands.

“No, no. Please don’t.” He says.

“Sokka listen, the witch really did curse us.” Zuko says. “She made us switch bodies.”

Sokka looks between the two of you and then bursts into laughter.

“Ok well I have to say that’s the first time I’ve hear that excuse.” He says, wiping tears from the corners of his blue eyes.

“We’re serious!” You snap at him.

Sokka sobers up, looking between you two again.

“You really did perfect your impressions of one another.” Sokka says, suddenly sounding a bit more unsure.

“Ugh!” You snap, and push out of the tent in a huff. You need to find Toph. She could prove you weren’t lying.

It’s cold outside your tent, and to your horror you find that you’re not wearing a shirt.

“Zuko!” You screech. “Why the hell aren’t you wearing a shirt!”

“I’m a firebender, y/n. I get hot!” He defends.

“Get me a shirt!” You snap. Zuko rolls his eyes at your dramatics, but leads you to his tent and throws a tunic at you.

It smells like him when you pull it over your head. You try not to obviously inhale, but it’s the first time you’ve really noticed how Zuko smells. It’s not the first time you’ve noticed his muscles, but now you have a first hand look. His abs are hard and defined, and you blush quickly finishing dressing.

“Are you done starting at me?” Zuko asks.

“I’m sorry, it’s just weird!” You tell him.

Sokka’s jaw is nearly touching the ground as he watches your exchange.

“No way.” He says, finally believing you.

“Yeah, Sokka.” You say.

——————————————————

Toph confirms your story, and everyone sits in dumbfounded silence. Even you and Zuko don’t have much more to say.

“Well you have to go talk to Kara.” Katara says helpfully. “We’ll have to make her change you back.”

“Wow that’s helpful. Thank you Katara, why didn’t we think of that.” Zuko says.

“Y/n!” Katara says, hurt.

“Zuko.” You and Zuko both correct her.

“Whatever.” She mutters, angrily.

“Katara’s right.” Says Aang. “We’ll all go. Maybe if I can convince her that I can help, she’ll change you back.”

There seems to be no better plan than this. Sokka and Toph stay behind at the campsite, while the rest of you start the hike up the mountain.

The breeze isn’t so bad now that you’re in Zuko’s body. He’s right when he says that he doesn’t get cold. He, on the other hand, is openly shivering in your body. You almost feel a little bad, but you remember him telling you it wasn’t that bad last night, and think better of it.

“How do you survive like this?” He moans when you come to a stop. “It’s so cold all the time.”

You smirk at his dramatics.

“That’s what you get.”

“For what!” He questions, and you can feel the fight brewing.

“Oh I don’t know, maybe ‘You’re so dramatic y/n.’” You mock. “’It’s not that cold, y/n. Calm down, y/n’”

“I wasn’t telling you to calm down because you were cold.” He snaps. “I was trying to tell you to stop panicking!” He throws his hands up and stomps ahead.

It’s a little embarrassing, and you think back to every tantrum you’ve thrown. Maybe this is a somewhat positive experience. You’re definitely learning about the annoying things you do.

You and Zuko bicker all the way up the mountain. Though it’s not unusual for you all, but you can tell it’s driving Aang and Katara crazy.

“Can you all please knock it off!” Katara yells, eventually. All three of you jump, and she crosses her arms. “I am sick and tired of hearing you all argue. That’s all you do every day! Can’t you all come to some sort of truce?”

You and Zuko both narrow your eyes at each other.

“No!” You say at the same time.

“Ugh!”

—————————————————-

You make it up the mountain alive, but barely. Everyone’s tempers are running high by the time you break through the trees.

“Alright,” Zuko says. “We need to be careful. She knocked y/n out with one blow. She’ll do it again if we aren’t careful.”

You’re about to protest the way he makes your ambush sound, but Aang mediates before your get riled up.

“Just let it go.” He tells you.

You all enter the cave quietly, heads constantly scanning the area as Zuko leads you down to the belly of the cave. You recognize the room when you get to it. The evidence of Kara is everywhere, still littered around the floor.

“She isn’t here?” Zuko says.

“Great observation.” You retort.

“Guys, guys!” Aang snaps. “Enough. Let’s look through the books around here. There’s got to be something that tells us how to fix this.”

The four of you spend what feels like hours combing through the books and pages around the room.

“There’s nothing here!” Zuko cries, slamming a book onto the table.

“That’s because it’s a spell of my own invention.” Kara’s wheezy voice says.

You all jump into defensive stances, ready to attack. Kara holds up a wrinkled hand, but otherwise looks unbothered.

“Please.” She says passively. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Change back my friends!” Aang demands. “It’s me you have a problem with.”

“Ah the Avatar.” Kara smiles. “You really are here.”

“Yes. And I promise I will free your village. But first you must free my friends.” He says.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” She says, eyes glittering again.

“Why not?” Katara challenges.

“I can’t change them back, because they must do it themselves.” She smiles.

“What do you mean?” You ask, broad furrowing. There’s a light protesting from Zuko’s scar at the movement.

“Save my village and I’ll tell you.” She says. “And you better do it fast, because in three days this will become permanent.”

————————————————-

Freeing the village from Fire Nation troops is going to be a bigger struggle than you anticipated, you realize as you and Zuko stroll down the streets. You currently have a hood pulled way over your head to hide your identity. There seemed to be hundred of them, and there were only six of you.

“We’re never going to be able to pull this off.” You mutter under your breath. “I’m going to be you forever.”

“How do you think I feel?” Zuko laments. “I’m losing my bending, my honor, everything.”

“Well we wouldn’t be in this mess if I had just gone up there alone.” You snap as you approach the center of the village.

“Right, if you had gone alone you would’ve been killed!” He snaps back.

“Why do you assume I’m so incapable of taking care of myself?!” You’re infuriated now. “I took care of myself for years before I ever met you!”

“Don’t see how!” He growls. “All you ever do is get yourself in trouble, and someone always has to be there to help!”

“Excuse me?!” You roar. “How dare you?!”

The Fire Nation soldiers are slowly starting to gather around you, curious about the fight.

“How dare I?” Zuko ramps up the volume. “How dare you?” He points a finger at your chest.

So far, your distraction seems to be working. Aang, Katara, Sokka, and Toph are all getting into position. You just have to keep up the fighting a little longer.

“You’re always babying me, and acting like I need a keeper! I’m not a child, and you don’t have to take it upon yourself to be my caretaker! I’m just fine on my own!” You yell, channeling his body’s natural penchant for rage.

“Somebody has to!” Zuko snaps back, and over exaggerates putting his hand on his hip. “You never do it yourself. You’re always doing reckless things for other people, and your not as equipped to throw yourself in danger like everyone else!”

Suddenly this fight feels a bit too real, and you find yourself getting actually offended. How dare he insinuate that your lack of bending meant you weren’t a good fighter!

“What so I’m not allowed to care about my friends and do things to protect them?” You screech. “I’m sorry I don’t have all your talents, my lord. Next time I’ll make sure I get your permission first before I try and help somebody out!”

“You always take everything I say out of context!” He snaps.

“Hey guys?” Aang says, garnering the attention of the crowd. “I think that’s good enough, thanks.”

Then all chaos breaks loose. Katara, Aang, and Toph start the fight with their bending. The Fire Nation soldiers, though caught unaware, do not take long to start fighting back. You wish that you knew how to utilize Zuko’s firebending, but you settle on using his physical strength instead.

Most of the defense moves you know are geared towards you being smaller than your opponent. Not all of them work now that you’re Zuko’s size, and you find yourself struggling more than usual in your fights.

Zuko seems to be having a similar issue learning how to fight in your body. You notice he has a habit of getting into bending stances out of pure habit. You notice that he’s getting cornered, when you go to help him.

Together, you fight pretty well, instructing each other on moves as you go. Sokka’s boomerang flies about, knocking out opponents left and right. Your benders are doing well too, and soon enough, you’ve defeated the Fire Nation soldiers.

You’re sore, body aching from exertion, but the happy villagers make it feel worth it.

“Thank you, Avatar!” Someone yells after Aang explains who you all are.

Your eyes find Kara’s in the crowd. It was time you got your body back.

“Hey!” You yell as she walks away.

“Y/n?” You hear Zuko call behind you as you take off, pushing through the crowd.

“Hey! Stop!” You yell at Kara. “You owe us an explanation!”

Zuko catches up to you, and you both chase after her. Finally, Kara stops in the woods, away from all the people.

“I thought you’d want some privacy!” She cackles. “I saw your little distraction out there. Seemed pretty real.” You and Zuko shuffle and avoid eye contact, as the rest of the Gaang catches up with you.

“We saved your village!” Aang says, “Now tell us how to fix this.” He waves a hand at you and Zuko.

Kara’s eyes sparkle as she looks at all of you.

“As I said, I can’t change you back. You have to do it yourselves.” She sings.

“How?” Zuko grounds out through his, your, clenched jaw.

“All you have to do is kiss!” She says gleefully clapping her hands together.

Everyone is silent as you all take in this information.

“There has to be another way.” Zuko says. There’s a desperate edge to his voice that hurts your feelings. Is the thought of kissing you so awful that he wouldn’t do it even to get his body back?

Rolling your eyes, you stroll over and kiss Zuko’s, your, cheek. It’s a weird experience for sure, knowing that you’re kissing both Zuko and yourself.

“Not that kind of kiss.” Kara says, smiling like a maniac. “A real one!”

The color drains from Zuko’s face, and the rest of your friends remain silent. You can feel their eyes watching your every move.

Zuko’s disgust is plain, and even though it hurts, you just want your body back and to forget this every happened.

“Zuko, I know you’re absolutely disgusted, but I’d like my body back before I’m you forever.” You say annoyed. “You can wash out your mouth and vomit when you have your own body back.”

You can hear the muted hurt in your own voice, and it’s kind of embarrassing that you know everyone else can hear it too.

“I’m afraid it’s the only way.” Kara adds.

“If it helps just think about the fact that you’re kissing yourself, not me.” You say. More than ever you want this experience to be over, so you can go mourn your hurt feelings somewhere in private.

Zuko sighs, and then approaches you.

“Fine.” He says.

Awkwardly, you both fidget, unsure how to initiate the kiss. It doesn’t help that literally everyone, including Momo and Appa, are looking at you.

“Some privacy?” You ask them.

“Oh yeah sure.” They all mumble, whistling and looking away. The second you turn back to Zuko you can feel their eyes on you. Some friends.

“Let’s just get it over-” you get cut off by Zuko pressing his lips to yours.

Instantly, you feel the switch happening. You feel yourself being pulled and re-anchored into your own body. Your limbs feel normal again, and then you really start to feel the kiss.

Zuko pulls you closer to his warm, muscular body. Everything is exploding around you, and all you want to do is be even closer to him. You bring your arms up and settle them on his broad shoulders. Your hands wind themselves around his neck, and you play with the ends of his hair.

Zuko’s large hands are also doing their fair share of exploring. One rests on your hips while the other tangles itself in your hair, and both pull you closer. His tongue opens your lips and you let him in, a moan escaping from you. It feels right, kissing Zuko like this. Like it is something that was always meant to happen.

Somebody clears their throat and breaks up your moment. Slowly, you and Zuko part. You’re thrilled to realize it’s his swollen lips and amber eyes that you see when you pull away.

“Well that was something!” Kara squeals in delight.

Heat pools into your cheeks, as you asses your friends’ expressions. Aang looks embarrassed, Katara has heart eyes, and Toph and Sokka both look disgusted.

“It worked.” You say breathlessly. Already you have the intense desire to kiss Zuko again, but suddenly you’re insecure. What if he hated it? He had seemed so disgusted before.

“Yeah it did.” Zuko says, and then he smiles at you, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Some privacy?” He asks everyone, tightening his grip on you. Butterflies explode in your stomach as he does, and you’ve never felt so fluttery before.

Your friends make themselves scarce, telling you they’ll be at camp. Kara scrambles off too, cackling all the while, and then you are alone.

Your heart is pounding, and you’re really unsure how to tell Zuko how you feel. What if he doesn’t feel the same?

Suddenly, Zuko presses his lips to yours again, and it feels like he’s devouring you. He’s passionate and fiery, and every press of his tongue against yours makes you feel like you’re on fire. Your body is buzzing when he finally pulls away to catch his breath.

“I didn’t mean what I said during our fight.” He says, leaning his forehead against yours and wrapping his arms around your waist. “I don’t think you’re incapable or less than because you aren’t a bender. I think you’re one of the most talented people I know, and I also know that you can take care of yourself.” He says taking a deep breath.

Zuko takes a step back, and removed an arm to put a finger under your chin. He lift your chin so you’re looking into his eyes.

“I worry about you. All the time.” He says. “I’m so scared that you’ll get hurt and I won’t be there to protect you. My number one instinct is to protect you. That’s why I always ‘hover’ and volunteer to go on missions with you. If something happened to you....”

“I feel the same way about you, you know.” You say smiling. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you getting hurt either. And I don’t necessarily hate it when you’re around.” You tease him. “Or when you kiss me.”

Zuko laughs, a deep happy laugh. It’s one of the first times you’ve ever seen him look so buoyant. You take the opportunity to kiss him this time, and he sighs happily into your mouth.

“What are we going to do now?” You ask him.

“Probably get back to our friends.” He says, grabbing your hand in his as you start making your way to your camp site.

“You know, Zuko, Toph’s right.” You say. “You really do take people on life changing adventures!”

A/n: Thank you so much for reading, I hope you enjoyed this! I’ve been working on my requests so hopefully I’ll have a few more stories out for you guys over the weekend. I’m going to be adding some things to my ‘Fanfic prompts’ post, so be sure to check it out if you want to request something! (also I’m fine with people requesting things that aren’t on that list if you have something specific for me to write!) Have a good weekend, and you can find all my other writing under the tag slythergirlimagines. I think I tagged everyone who asked to be tagged in my atla stuff, but if I missed you please let me know and I’ll correct it!!

Taglist: @galacticamidala @a-random-queer-kid @taeeemin @realimbo @samsmultifandomblogs

@fire1ordzuzu @shortmexicangirl

#slythergirlimagines #atla #zuko x reader #prince zuko x reader #zuko x you #prince zuko x you #zuko x y/n #prince zuko #aang #katara #toph #sokka #appa #momo #atla fanfic #avatar the last airbender #avatar #avatar the last airbender fanfic #fanfic

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princesssarcastia · 3 years

Text

first hp and now MCU *sigh*

sighs. anyway the reason the jane foster au thing is taking literally seven years is that I’m physically incapable of writing for the MCU without fixing everything I thought was dumb about it. can’t just do a canon re-write because I Refuse To Condone XYZ. The things I thought were dumb are many and myriad, but here’s one of them:

In Infinity War, they won’t destroy the mind stone while it’s still attached to Vision because they “don’t trade lives,” even though Steve made the same damn sacrifice, whatever. But the thing is the avengers then immediately travel to Wakanda and start trading Wakandan lives for Vision’s. They trade so many lives for Vision’s, and in the end it doesn’t even matter because they have to kill him themselves anyway. SO all those Wakandans died for nothing. They died for the aesthetic of the avengers having an army. They died because no one thought through “yeah, T’Challa is totally down to sacrifice his people’s lives for one android he isn’t close with.” They died because, let’s be honest, the lives of those random Wakandan soldiers meant less to not only the white main characters, but also the white movie creators. hmm. what could possibly be the impetus there. mostly stupidity, but probably also some racism, lbr.

anyway. all this to say what follows is a snippet where a) the battle to save vision isn’t taking place in Wakanda proper because the avengers don’t trade lives...other than their own. In fact, it’s taking place in the arctic circle, where Wakanda has a shielded research station with no civilians that Shuri can appropriate to fix Vision without having her citizens die needlessly. b) it’s just the avengers there, because they’re willing to put their own lives on the line for their friend and their principles. c) they’re using the mind stone as a lure to keep Thanos’ giant monster army focused on them, in this unpopulated place, rather than a city or a country.

you didn’t really need to know that, actually, because this fic snippet is about bruce banner. explicit tw in the tags you may want to check for if you don’t mind a spoiler. anyway, oh well, long walk for a short drink of water:

The walls shake with something other than the wind, and Bruce grits his teeth against whatever extrasensory response the other guy is having. If he doesn’t want to come out to play, then he doesn’t get to raise the hairs on the back of Bruce’s neck.

The other guy. After two years being trapped while he gets to play, maybe Bruce is the other guy now. Maybe the Hulk—

“Doctor Banner,” Shuri says without looking away from her interface. “If you’re going to help, then help. Otherwise stop distracting me and get out.”

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four...”You’re right. Sorry.” He turns back to his equations and keeps calculating what kind of energy source they can create here to replace the mind stone. Vision may be able to survive without it, but it’s ridiculous to ignore that it serves a purpose in keeping him not just alive, but functional. There’s a difference between surviving and living and the Avengers aren’t risking their lives just so he can—

Boom.

Dammit.

Shuri’s guard, the one T’Challa left with them—Ayo? Was that her name?—steps further away from them and speaks into her bracelet—kimoyo beads. Bruce strains to ignore it because he doesn’t need to know what he’s missing outside, doesn’t need to know how poorly the battle is going for his friends, his—his shield brothers, Brun would call it, without him. There’s no doubt in his mind Shuri could save Vision without him and there’s no doubt in her mind, either; he’s here as a courtesy and because it’ll go faster, at least. Because he’d be useless otherwise, sitting there with his thumb up his ass while his friends fight and die without him, without them, dammit Hulk—

“Princess,” Ayo calls.

“Not yet.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know how long, I’ve never done a neural reprogramming for an android before.” Shuri purses her lips. “Longer than this, certainly, to revolutionize a field that doesn’t even exist yet.” She reprograms another synapse. It looks like maybe thirty percent of them are done. Thirty percent, after four hours.

Bruce glances at Ayo from the corner of his eye because he’s a masochist and he can’t help himself. Her face is troubled, and so is Okoye’s on the projection hovering over her wrist.

“Ayo, tell her she needs to hurry up!” The projection twists like the general has taken her hand from her face. There’s a flash of silver, a war cry, and a brief, incomprehensible glimpse of something black and twisted and horrible. It cuts out in the middle of the creature’s answers screech.

Ayo slowly lowers her hand back to her side, and Bruce tries to focus back in on his work. Tries to focus on the math, on the energy readings, on Vision’s life in here instead of all the death out there, because if he doesn’t—

“I really am going as fast as I can,” Shuri says in a small voice. Twenty. She’s just twenty years old, what was Bruce doing at twenty?

Don’t go there. Don’t go there, Bruce. Shouldn’t have come back to the Arctic, that was just asking for trouble.

Focus.

What would happen if he lost it, and the Hulk refused to come out?

Focus. Focus on Vision, on saving his life. Save lives. Save his life.

“So you're saying that the Hulk... the other guy... saved my life?”

Another explosion rocks the room, rocks the station, rocks the damn arctic ice pack they’re standing on. It’s the biggest one yet. “Evacuate the southeast quadrant. All personnel in the southeast quadrant, evacuate to the next defense point.” The intercom doesn’t even crackle as it activates over their heads and Bruce is struck by how odd that is; it’s almost more unnerving that the idea of the situation escalating to the point of evacuation. Ayo pulls up a map of the station on her kimoyo beads and manipulates it, pulling up what he assumes is the southeast quadrant.

“That's nice. It's a nice sentiment. Saved it for what?”

“How bad is it?” Bruce asks.

Ayo’s eyes dart to Shuri, who is nothing but relentless; he hasn’t seen her stop once this whole time. “Bad. They have breached the facility’s outer defenses. Princess, perhaps we should—”

“No!” Shuri all but shouts. “I will not evacuate, I will not abandon this mission, we’re not finished yet. Tell someone to come fill the gap.”

“Princess, if they have not already done so, then they may not have the manpower to do it.”

“Then call reinforcements!”

There are no reinforcements because this is a hail-Mary, vigilante mission and all the Avengers on-world are already here. T’Challa isn’t bringing any more of his people into this, and Steve and Natasha and Tony would never ask him to. When they fail, that’s it, it’s done. And so is Vision, and this will all have been for nothing.

“I guess we'll find out.”

Bruce pushes his glasses off his nose and pinches his brow. He can’t even think about this; he’s thinking about it without thinking it, a glaring absence that lets you see the shape of it regardless.

“This wasn’t just a Wakandan station, right? I mean, you guys opened it up to other countries for the science and information exchange?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“Any military?”

A longer pause. “...Yes. Dr. Banner, what are you...”

She trails off as Bruce looks up. There must be something in his face.

“Did they leave anything behind when they airlifted out earlier? Weapons?” He adds, because there’s no use beating around the bush. No time.

“Probably, but you will find nothing there of any use. Wakandan technology—”

“Is much more advanced, I know. But you don’t really have any projectile weapons.

Ayo’s nose crinkles up in disgust, but is already turning back to her charge. “Of course not. So primitive. Princess, we will need time to evacuate to the ship, please.”

Shuri cuts a glance at him, seemingly ignoring Ayo. “What do you need a projectile weapon for, Dr. Banner?”

“Something desperate.” He pulls his glasses off and sets them on the table. “Stay here, Shuri, finish your work. Save him.”

Bruce has never asked anyone else to risk their life when his own would do. He’s not fucking starting now, when the whole universe is at stake.

Between him and Shuri, Ayo reluctantly lets the issue go, but he can tell if Thanos’ army gets a single step closer to her Princess, Ayo will throw her over her shoulder and sprint for the quinjet, mission be damned. He marches out of the room and follows Ayo’s directions to the nearest storage area; the American one, as luck would have it. Because of course the American team brought guns to the Arctic Circle on a science and information exchange program. Of course. A few M11s just lying around, lost in the hasty shuffle to abandon this place. Bruce picks it up and just holds it. Feels the weight in his hand. Ayo was right, they are primitive; primitive and ugly and violent and only good for one thing. Another impact. The station shakes again, and the lights flicker above his head. Now. It has to be now. He doesn’t have a radio, but he knows where the southeast corner of the building is, so he keeps the gun in a tight grip and heads that way. Three corridors away and he starts to hear noises. Yelling. Screaming. Gunfire. Energy bursts. The ring of Steve’s shield, the whine of Tony’s repulsors. And above it all that same horrible screeching noise from those creatures invading their planet at the behest of a genocidal maniac trying to kill Bruce’s friends. Kill the Hulk’s friends. Louder, and louder, and louder, until he can’t even hear himself think which is good because he doesn’t want to think about this he never wanted to think about this again even though he did, a lot, like after Lagos and Sokovia and Sakaar. The team has driven them back from the breach in the facility, that’s good. Wind and snow come howling in through the massive hole and Bruce shivers and tells himself its from the cold. Outside is...pandemonium. His friends are like brief sparks of light in a sea of writhing, angry, violent darkness trying to tear them apart. There are so many of them he can barely see the horizon and they show no sign of stopping. In the distance, he makes out Steve, locked in fierce battle with something that looks less like a bargain bin eldritch horror and more like one of those Black Order people. He’s losing. Even Bruce can tell that. “Now would be a really good time for you to get angry” He’s always angry. But the anger isn’t enough anymore. “Bruce, what are you doing out here?” Tony screams at him, flying towards him with his hands still targeting energy blasts at the enemy. “I thought you said the Hulk can’t come out, you can’t be here! Go help Shuri!” Ten, nine, eight, seven—oh, fuck it. “Won’t, not can’t, Tony.” One breath. Two breaths. He squeezes the grip so hard it starts denting his palm. “Those are functionally the same, big guy, so get the hell out of here. We got this!” “No you don’t, we’re losing!” Bruce takes a short inhale through his nose. “They’re not functionally the same when I can force his—our hand.” That finally makes Tony look at him, and Bruce doesn’t know if he catches it on his own or FRIDAY points it out to him, but he finally sees the gun. He dissolves his faceplate and looks at Bruce with wide, exhausted eyes. “No, no, Bruce, don’t you dare, Bruce!” He lunges, but he doesn’t make it before the gun goes off, the bullet tears through Bruce’s mouth and then—and then nothing. The Hulk roars. Anger isn’t enough anymore. Self-preservation will have to do.

#tw self-harm #not quite suicide but he shoots himself in the head #this was another thing that bugged me #the whole 'the hulk won't come out' c-plot/running joke #if they had actually done something meaningful with it #like on screen character growth for bruce + the hulk #or resolution of his issues #that would have been great!#but instead it was just a way to nerf the hulk so he couldn help beat thanos' army #this is like a kinda dark answer to that but *shrugs*#bruce banner #shuri #infinity war #mcu #mcu fic #god what am i doing with my life that it's come to this #ugh #the plot bunnies #they're trying to kill me.

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bixisarusher · 3 years

Text

Bix Reviews: Call Me Kat (Season 1, FOX 2021)

I thought a lot about how I feel about this show, and there are lots of words, so it’s gonna go under the cut.

In summary: I didn’t enjoy it quite as much as I hoped to, and i discuss why I think that was. BUT there are great things in this remake, and I want to name them as well!

There are two ways to look at Call Me Kat: As it’s own thing, and as a Miranda remake. As a Miranda Hart stan, I’ll have a lot more to say about the latter, so let’s start with the show itself.

On It’s Own

That felt appropriate, nvm me

It’s a cute show. It’s not a groundbreaking concept, and it’s not re-inventing the genre, but it has some really good things going for it:

Kat is happy and confident in her quirks, but doesn’t have it all together - so she has room to grow and is very sympathetic, all the while encouraging the viewer to celebrate their own quirks. Lovely! Also Mayim is a treasure and it’s great to watch her perform.

The show openly discusses “taboo” topics, like using anti-depressants and their side-effects, freezing your eggs, comparing yourself to a hallucinated version of your crush’s ex... The show isn’t a trailblazer, (partly because there have been many great shows in the last couple years) but I thinks it’s awesome to see them further treading out the ground and normalizing these topics.

It has a nice set of characters that go through their indepent stories, I found myself excited for any new episode and enjoying the varying storylines. (Most of them Randi.)

And, although the last episode dragged it right back into the romantic territory, Kat has a genuine friendship with Max and I value that a lot. Neither of them harbours secret feelings, instead they are open and honest about it. The only thing they overdid here was to have an exchange of “Do you remember, when we were in college together and [blank] happened?” in at least every other episode.

Another thing on the down side: Neither the writers nor Mayim seem to fully know what to do with the fourth wall breaks. I don’t mind the thing, it just doesn’t feel fully rounded out - like how much they want to use it, what purpose it really has, ...

I think it’s due to the circumstances of the filming (pandemic restrictions and all), but more on that later. So much for the show itself.

As a remake

First of all: Do I love Jim Parsons for looking at this absurd british gem of a TV show and deciding “the world needs more stuff like this”? Absolutely! Because I agree! There were two or three moments that leaned on Miranda a little too much for their own good, but overall: it is content inspired by Miranda, but neither correcting, it nor copying it. More power to this concept.

More power to celebrating the silly joys in this live, to celebrate not being normal, more power to amazing friendships and women who find their own path. Call Me Kat does all of these things.

However, it doesn’t quite live up to it’s Mothership. Let me elaborate.

There is a myriad of reasons why Miranda works and I will not attempt to list them. However there’s one thing that does stand out to me in the original, and that I really miss in the adaptation: Miranda didn’t just write “a plot” and salt it with “a few jokes”. She carefully built tensions and different storylines to culminate together. Sometimes it’s a funny word that the character hears in the first act, and later nervously blurts out in the wrong moment. Sometimes it’s a parade of characters she met through the episode that all meet in one spot at the end. Or there is a throw away comment in the beginning of an episode that sets up a revelation toward the end.

I could swarm you with examples, a good one is in 1x03 Job: trying to impress Tilly, trying to deny waitressing, and then: the multiple “You weed in a ball pool?” and Gary in uniform walking in right on time to sell the lie about being an undercover commander. Another one of my personal favorites is in 2x04 A New Low, when Miranda in the end tells Gary that he lost her trust, and he’ll “never get to see her naked sweep” - and then he find’s the portrait Tamara did of Miranda’s “naked sweep”. Just hit’s right.

That is a testament to how well crafted the episodes are. In Call Me Kat? All Nighter and Gym had moments like that, and Double Date very early on set up Kat’s dream to use the sound system, but it just never reached that same level of mastermind.

But, in defense of CMK: Miranda was crafted over ten years with a full of 20 episodes airing (21 if you count the radio series) and the cast worked together a good year before they filmed the first series of 6 episodes. Compared to that, work on Call me Kat started around 2018, the cast was assembled in the first half of 2020 and started shooting in late October. They then shot 13 episodes in their first season. (which is more than half of the total episodes of Miranda, just saying) Sources: english wikipedia articles for Miranda and Call Me Kat, as well as Mayim’s Youtube. (Jep I did research for this.)

Also the CMK episodes were written and directed by a variety of people, while the Miranda episodes have all been at least co-written by Miranda Hart and all except for the last two were directed by Juliet May.

These are - as much as I as a humble consumer with a bit of wikipedia knowledge know - basic differences about how shows are made in the UK vs. in the US, and neither formula is any way of guarantee for the quality of the final product. However I think somewhere in those facts is the reason why the Miranda ship feels a lot more in shape and ... coherent. The pilot that we know and love is the fourth time they recorded the script, and I don’t even want to know how many times the script had been edited in between. The cast knew each other well, the material had been tested in front of multiple audiences. Call Me Kat had neither of these luxuries. On the contrary, CMK has been put together under restrictions due to the pandemic.

So on the one hand, I am majorly grateful that this show even got to see the light of day! That means that a full cast and crew had jobs in these trying times, and it means that we were provided with good entertainement.

On the other hand, the circumstances are showing in the final product. The cast had an awkward chemistry with each other, and the comedic timing, though not horrible, could have been a lot better.

This may be an unpopular opinion, but I think studio audiences can be a blessing. There is something about the actors having a genuine connection to real time observers that helps me as a screen audience connect to it. And for this staged multicam show that includes glances at the camera? I think a real audience would have grounded the concept. And it would have given the team a direct feedback as to which moments were working comedically and which weren’t.

What I’m trying to say is: they had big shoes to fill, and the odds were not really in their favor, and so it doesn’t really hold up in comparison.

That’s sad. But that doesn’t mean that it’s a horrible show. As I said in the beginning, I love that this show is done in the spirit of Miranda, even if it’s not just as good.

I have no idea how the show’s chances are to get a second season. If they do get renewed - I’ll keep watching.

-----

Now, let me finish with a few gifs that I feel like they can be applied to the whole “they remade Miranda and it went both ok and less then ok but at least the word is being spread, right?”-situation.

because Kat/Max is good but could anything ever be Miranda/Gary?

Not really...

ok that one’s a bit rude. but you thought it, too.

Jim turning in bed at night overthinking if Mayim was the right choice. But she was. Much like Stevie was for Miranda.

Honestly a very good part of the remake is Mayim and Cheyenne performing together! I personally think this moment above is responsible.

Trying to match the CMK characters to the Miranda characters like: I thought Phil is supposed to be the Customer but turns out Phil originally was supposed to a Phillys? So Phil is Stevie, but then who is Randi? Tilly? So many questions.

And with that, dear Caller, back to you.

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stacispratt · 3 years

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big god

okay so i posted this a while ago and then immediately deleted it because i hated it so much and NOW it’s about 4x longer but still just as incoherent i think BUT ANYWAYS!! big thanks to @consumedkings for letting me play with our ocs like action figures in her delightful universe!! this is essentially just. a character study of wes in the ancient names universe

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

It's always when Ell's not around.

"You need someone who will love you as much as you love them," John says. "Someone like me."

Always then, that John tries to dig his fingers under the chinks in Wes's armor and pry him open. Like he's just desperate to get covered in the brilliant red of Wes's blood, smeared with gore— like all he wants is to reach inside and get a hold on Wes's heart. To get such a firm hold on it that Wes will never, never be able to forget him.

He's seen him the same, with Elliot. Wes has seen the spark in his eyes when he sees her get vulnerable, the twitch in his fingers. Desperate to pry her open, too. But he doesn't get to do that right now— Joseph is busy doing it, taking Elliot's confession. And John is jealous, something inside him roiling with it, so he's taking it out on Wes. Trying to prove to himself that at least one of them is all his.

When Ell said "Not to you. Joseph." Wes had seen it, watched the careful progression flit through John's body language— fear, jealousy, fury. Panic, when John returned to their little house and Wes had taunted him with a "Don't tell me you're jealous—"

John had snapped his hand out to grip Wes's wrist, Wes had grabbed John's shirt, and. And.

Wes only stares up at John. His hands are planted into the mattress on either side of his head, caging him in. If Wes relinquishes even an inch, shows even the tiniest reaction, the smallest twitch in his expression, John will take it and run. He'll grab the thread and pull and pull and pull until Wes is nothing more than a pile of string, free for John to take and reform as he wishes. To make him into something new. Something that better suits John. Better suits Eden's Gate.

So Wes keeps his face blank. He doesn't grab for John and beg Oh, God, give me something warm and safe to stuff inside my chest. God, stuff me full of love until I can't take it anymore.

But John sees something, because he lurches forward, presses all of himself to Wes, and pushes their lips together. “You need me, Wes,” John breathes into his mouth. “You and Ell. You know why?" he asks, and doesn't wait for an answer. "Because you need someone who understands you." Their lips brush. "Someone who's never felt– never felt as loved in return for the love they've given."

It's the most honest John has ever been with him, Wes thinks. His stomach twists.

"I can give you that," John whispers. "Eden's Gate can give you that."

“Shut up,” Wes groans. “I don’t want your cult.”

“No, you’re right." John brings his hand up to cradle Wes's face in his palm, thumb just under his eye, pinky finger curled under his jaw. Wes always likes that, John holding his jaw. Firm or with feather-light touch. Either way, it makes Wes's eyelashes flutter. “You just want me.”

Wes squeezes his closed eyes shut even tighter and rolls on top of John. He pins him down, bites his lip, and repeats, "Shut up."

“He’s got his claws in me, Ell,” Wes whispers, the next morning, fearful even in the crook of her neck. No one else will hear them, alone in their cabin at Joseph's Compound (John's at one of those little Seed family meetings, where he and Ell are definitely the main topic of discussion), but it feels wrong to say at all, even when it's so hushed no one but she could hear it. “I’m afraid– I’m afraid even when we get out of here, I’ll never really leave. I’ll never be able to leave.”

She holds him, rubs his shoulderblades, and says resolutely, "We're going to get out. No matter what bullshit the Seeds feed us." She pauses, and insists, hard enough to convince both of them, "We're going to get out."

Oh, and that. John's and Joseph's insistence that they're not going to get out of this scot free— that the Feds will see everything they've done. See the violence coiled in Ell's muscles, the blood caked under Wes's fingernails. Whenever Wes tries to tell himself they're not right, tries to say It's self-defense, tries to say They'll understand, he feels anxiety crawling under his skin.

Paired with the sensation of John's hold on him, so powerful it's like physical touch, he's… he's got this terrible, sinking feeling that his mind—his identity— is never going to leave Hope County. That he'll be firmly rooted in his fear and terror and violence for the rest of his life.

Maybe he'll never even leave physically. Maybe he'll die here. Maybe he'll get stuffed full of flowers.

God, he hopes not. For Ell's sake.

They've already lost Joey.

WRATH, DO YOU STILL WANT TO BLOOM IN ME?

He imagines it, written into his chest. They wouldn't even have to write the WRATH. John already did it for them.

Wes remembers to breathe and takes a shuddering inhale, his face still pressed under Ell's jaw. "Right," he says, fighting to keep his voice even. He shakes off the ghostly sensation of John's nails in his flesh, the imagined burn of a knife in his chest, and forces himself to really feel her arms around him. To appreciate how steady she is. "We're going to get out."

Ell turns her head and kisses his temple.

Faith takes Ell on a walk. He offers to come with, a little anxious at the idea of being apart from her, but Faith dismisses the idea with a giggle. "Deputy Honeysett can take care of us, I'm sure," she chirps. "We're even taking Boomer, too. We'll be perfectly safe, Wes."

He holds Ell's gaze for a moment, until she nods, just a little. He relents, "Okay," despite his prickling neck.

"Besides," Faith chimes, "I think Joseph wanted to have a word with you."

That gives Elliot pause, makes her open her mouth to protest. "Wes, you shouldn't—" she starts, because Elliot might have a soft spot for Faith, but Joseph is just about her least favorite. She confessed to him because she felt like she had to. She doesn't want Wes to have to do the same.

It's okay. He can deal with Joseph. He can choke out the confession he wants to hear.

"I know," Wes interrupts gently. "It can't hurt. It's okay."

Ell lingers, then steps forward and grabs the back of his neck, hauls him down for a chaste kiss. "Don't forget who you're dealing with," she murmurs against his mouth. He nods, takes a deep breath, and she pulls away.

He watches her, Faith, and Boomer walk for a few moments, then turns on his heel.

He finds Joseph at the alter. "Wesley," he says, without even turning to face him.

"Wes," Wes corrects, and seats himself in one of the pews in the first row. Joseph merely hums. "Faith said you wanted to, uh… talk."

Joseph stays silent for a second, just staring at the window of the church, casting light on the dust floating in the air around them. Wes blinks at the window, in the shape of the cross of Eden's Gate, and briefly recalls his first night here.

Then cloud crosses the sky, the ray of sunlight disappears, and Joseph turns to face him.

"Yes," he says, as he looks Wes over. "I've been thinking. About the myriad of ways this situation could turn out."

Wes snorts and looks down at his hands, resting comfortably on his thighs. "How many different ways are there for the world to end in holy fire?" he asks, a smirk pulling the corner of his mouth up. "Or do you doubt your own visions?"

"No, I don't," Joseph says, almost immediately. It's not frazzled, though— he's just as unruffled as ever. Wes looks up. Joseph stands right in front of him, hands held casually behind his back. "John does."

Wes closes his mouth.

Joseph smiles, just slightly, without his eyes, and sits beside Wes on the pew. "But," he says, "he did get me thinking. About… creating safety nets. In case God's plans are not exactly as I imagine."

Just as Wes starts to think what a safety net for Eden's Gate could possibly be—finally, actually eliminating him and Ell?—Joseph says, gentle as Wes has heard him be yet, "If the world does not end as soon as I imagine, you will have to be protected from the law," and Wes feels himself lock up.

"I'm not the one who needs to worry about the law," he says, voice tight, and resolutely does not look toward Joseph, even though he can feel Joseph's eyes on him. "I haven't done anything wrong."

"You must know that's not true."

Wes keeps staring, silent and frozen, gone stone-still with fright. Joseph's face stays placid. After a moment, Wes swallows and croaks, "It's self defense."

"Deputy Honeysett has already killed one man with nothing more than a blunt object, and the two of you went on a mass Cleansing of my followers before the Family even appeared. She's a hazard to herself." Wes opens his mouth to defend her, but Joseph barrels on, "And you're no better, Deputy Beltran. Operating as judge, jury, and executioner within Hope County. There is no excuse for the things you've done here."

"You're the one who started a fucking war in the—"

"Wes," Joseph interrupts. "My group of devoted followers have been targeted, attacked, and gutted by a foreign cult. We look… sympathetic." Wes's skin starts to itch, as he anticipates the punch coming on. "If you were to align yourself with us, we could protect you from suspicion. If the very group you slaughtered accepted you, it would look… better, for your case. You would not seem so dangerous. Not such a loose canon."

"I'm not a loose canon," Wes protests, and the effect is weakened by the uncertainty in his voice.

Joseph answers him calmly once more, like he's barely even listening to what Wes has to say. "You are. You and Ell operated by your own rules and executed your enemies as you saw fit." Joseph shifts, tips his head. "My people. The… redemption it would show, to align yourselves with us, would place you in the right. You and Ell. Both of you would seem sympathetic. Two people lost in the fray."

Wes's head feels fucking cloudy. "Align myself?"

Then he makes the mistake of actually looking at Joseph. The moment he does, he sees Joseph's warm eyes (somehow, despite it fucking all, despite the cruel calculation Wes knows he's capable of), sees the concern in the lines of his face. Sees Joseph reach for him, feels cool fingers on the back of his neck, as the Father draws him in, and gently, very gently, rests their foreheads together. "Yes," he murmurs, as his thumb runs up into Wes's hairline. "You understand what I'm saying, don't you? That this is the best way to protect yourself." He pauses, then elaborates, "To protect Elliot."

Wes's eyes close against his will, and his fingers twitch in his lap.

Joseph's words creep into him and start to take root. Less of a loose canon if I'm sided with Eden's Gate. More of a victim, less of a killer, if the people on my side are the corpses stuffed with flowers.

By extension, Ell would look less guilty, too.

"We can protect you," Joseph murmurs. "I can save you. If only you'd let me."

They're breathing the same air. Maybe if Wes could just catch a breath of the crisp air outside, something brisk and fresh, he'd be thinking clearer, but right now, he's thinking As a backup. Just in case things don't go to plan, and even louder, To protect Elliot, to protect Elliot, to protect Elliot, so he says, "How would I…"

Joseph inhales and curls his other hand around Wes's bicep. Anchors himself tighter into Wes. "Your last name," he says. Warming Wes up to the idea, giving him a moment to soak in each word. "If you were to change it."

Wes scrunches his eyebrows. "Change it?"

Very faintly, Joseph breathes, "If you were to become a Seed." He only gives Wes a second to absorb that, lest panic sets in, and he continues, "You would align yourselves clearly with us. Place yourself under our protection. Under John's protection, my protection." Joseph pauses, then reminds, "And in turn, you would help Deputy Honeysett."

Wes hesitates. Joseph lands the killing blow.

"Deputy Pratt, too, would be protected with this. As he is aligned with you." Wes flinches, opens his mouth to blurt out demands about where Staci is, and how Wes needs to get him, needs to keep him safe, and Joseph continues, "He is safe, in the Whitetails. You can keep him safe."

Wes doesn't give himself too much time to think about it, to talk himself out of it. He told himself he'd do whatever he needed to get out of Hope, with Ell and Joey and Staci, and he's already fucking lost one of them. He already lost Joey, he lost her, and if he lost Ell too, lost Staci— he wouldn't know what to do, and if– if they made it out of Hope, only for their actions here to be what does Ell and Staci in, he would never– never—

"Okay," Wes blurts, and flutters his eyes open to look down at Joseph's bare chest, at the EDEN written over his ribs. "I– okay."

For a moment, Joseph squeezes his neck so tight it's painful.

Then he releases Wes entirely and leans back to look at him once more. "Good, Wes," he says. "Good."

Wes signs the document Joseph has. Under Your new name: he writes Wesley Abraham Seed with shaky, wobbly lettering, and feels his stomach turn uncomfortably. He tries to tell himself, for Ell and Staci, for Ell and Staci, for Ell and Staci, on repeat, again and again, until Joseph guides the paper from him and praises, "There. You've done well."

For Joey.

Wes flexes his hand around the pen in his hand. Seed, he thinks.

Then he thinks, Fuck, and barely remembers to say anything to Joseph before he stumbles out of the church like a drunken man. He doesn't even know where he's going until he collapses onto his and Ell's bed in their cabin.

"I think I'm a fucking idiot," he says into the pillow, as his stomach turns and turns and turns.

It'll be a fucking miracle if he ever gets to go home.

#I STILL HATE THIS BUT I HATE IT LESS NOW I HOPE IT'S OKAY ASH ILYSM #my fic #oc: wesley beltran #oc: elliot honeysett #john seed #fc5

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lena-in-a-red-dress · 4 years

Text

I would like to revisit my alternate S5 ending...

...to address the villainous aspect of Lena’s character instead of ignoring it, in which case the big reveal leading to the final stretch of episodes being the superfriends finding a hidden server at the DEO that seems devoted to tracking and monitoring a secret convoy.

When they track it down, they crack open a freight truck to find it modified into a prison inside. A prison with a single prisoner.

Locked in a straightjacket and blinded by a dark hood, they can’t fathom who it might be. But when Supergirl wrenches the cell door off its hinges the bare feet that recoil in fear are delicate and pale.

A woman?

Kara reaches out with wary care, and gently removes the hood.

It takes her an eternal moment before she pieces the dark hair and pale skin and green eyes into the complete picture of Lena Luthor.

Except this Lena isn’t the one who glared at her from across her desk in the LuthorCorp headquarters not so long ago. This Lena has sallow skin and dark bruises under her eyes and limp hair and flinches away from Kara without looking at her... but it is Lena.

Kara reaches for Lena’s cheek, but flinches away when Lena kicks out, still without lifting her eyes. “Don’t touch me.”

The clink of a chain follows as Lena scoots away-- a repurposed leash that tethers her to the wall of the truck, barely a foot of give. This Lena is small and skittish of the bodies milling in the truck around them, pressing closer with dangerous intent, but it’s still...

“Lena?”

Bruised green eyes snap to Kara, locking on her face for a long shuddering moment before they drift to the symbol on her chest.

“K-Kara...”

Bruised green eyes fill with tears, and even though it doesn’t make sense, none of it makes sense, because this isn’t the woman who cried in anguish in the Fortress of Solitude, this isn’t the person who turned her back on Kara’s hologram, but it is the Lena who leans towards Kara for comfort as reality kicks in, and the tears spill over.

It is the Lena who Kara wraps her arms around, and holds her close.

---

In a Tower interrogation room, they learn Lena knows less than they do.

“I don’t know,” Lena tells them from across the table. “I woke up, in the-- in a lab, and my brother was there. He told me--”

Her eyes flicker to Kara, then away.

“He told me some awful things.”

She’d spent most of the time since exactly where they’d found her. Lex didn’t seem to want anything, except to keep her contained. Contained, and alone. But when they move the conversation to the medbay, where Alex examines her, she locks up, and can barely seem to breathe for all the equipment around her.

When Alex comes in with a syringe, Lena recoils. “No. No, no, no...”

“Whoa, hey,” Kara soothes, “it’s okay. It’s okay.”

“It’s just a booster,” Alex says. “Cocktail shot of some vitamins and electrolytes.”

“See?” Kara holds Lena’s hand. “Nothing to be afraid of.”

Lena’s eyes lock on Kara’s, but she doesn’t pull away when Alex moves back in for a second attempt. Kara brushes the hair from Lena’s forehead, hoping the touch will keep Lena focused on her rather than the needle. It works.

But when Lena starts to relax when the needle withdraws, it’s not in relief. Lena’s eyes grow wild with panic, even as they start to drift shut. “You said...”

Kara looks to Alex, and finds her sister’s features solemn and unyielding. Sudden anger flares at Alex’s lie, that Alex lied to her, but focuses instead comforting Lena.

“It’s okay,” she promises. “You’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

---

“We don’t know who she is,” Alex defends herself later.

“She’s Lena, Alex.”

“So is the person who kidnapped J’onn’s brother and stole Myriad,” comes the counter. “Maybe she really doesn’t know anything, or maybe she does. Until we know exactly what is going on, she cannot be trusted.”

And so when Kara next visits Lena, it’s from the far side of the isolation cell glass. Lena sits curled in a ball, head on her knees, shoulders slumped in defeat.

“They don’t believe me.”

It’s not a question. There’s no doubt in Lena now. No more fear. She’s back in a situation she’s familiar with-- being contained, being controlled. There’s a bitter sense of comfort in it.

“Lex told me they wouldn’t,” Lena continues. “He was right. About them. About you.”

Just as with the Lena who sits at her desk in Luthorcorp headquarters, Kara can barely face the hurt in this Lena’s gaze. She almost looks away, but stops herself. This time, she holds Lena’s gaze, and faces the anguish she’d been unable to face the last time.

But this time, Lena isn’t looking for comfort.

“Go away.”

It’s not the second chance Kara hoped for. That second chance remains out of her reach as Lena turns away and doesn’t speak for days after. The only further information they get out of her is that her last memory before waking up in Lex’s lab is of her pulling the trigger on her brother. Of killing him.

“She doesn’t deserve to be here,” Kara argues to Alex. “I know you don’t trust her, but I do. I’m not saying we should just let her out on her own--” they have no idea why or how there are two Lena’s, but risking the two meeting would be a bad, bad idea. “What I’m saying is that she come stay with me. I’ll keep an eye on her, and maybe she’ll be able to trust us enough to give us more information.”

And so Lena soon finds herself standing awkwardly in the middle of Kara’s apartment. She looks around like she’s never been there before. Maybe she hasn’t. Or maybe she has, and she’s absorbing the minutiae of differences since her last visit.

Kara suspects the latter, when she sees Lena’s gaze linger on a photo of the most recent game night that scrolls across her sleeping laptop. It’s one she loves because it includes Winn. That it’s one without James and Lena both leaves her feeling empty.

But when another photo from that night scrolls across, a close up of Will, Kara, and Nia, Lena’s jaw tightens. When Lena averts her gaze, Kara catches a glimpse of anger, and an old guilt rears its ugly head in Kara’s chest. She should have been quicker to invite Lena into her life. Into their game nights, into her secret, into everything. Will’s quick acceptance of and by the group proves that the only thing that kept Lena at arm’s length was Kara’s own inhibitions.

Her own fear.

“Lena, I--”

“I assume I’m taking the couch,” Lena grumbles, forestalling any overture. “Or is this where the chains and dog cage come out?”

Kara swallows thickly, unable to completely deny Lena’s concerns as outlandish, as she’d had to talk Alex out of physical restraints for her guest.

“No,” Kara replies. “No chains. No cages.” She shrugs. “I trust you.”

A scoff is all the response she gets to that.

---

Lena picks at her dinner, and barely eats a morsel before ultimately putting her plate aside. When Kara clears up, she listens to Lena’s breath and heart rate, finding some semblance of relief when Lena finds a comfortable position on the couch and finally, finally relaxes.

She takes her time, allowing Lena extra minutes to herself. When Kara finally returns, she does so with a mug of tea in each hand. Lena simply stares at hers when Kara sets it down in front of her. Kara tries not to notice the way Lena’s eyes follow her as she curls up in the chair opposite the couch. She stirs her tea with a pensiveness that’s not entirely genuine.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

The question comes as quiet as a sigh.

“All I ever wanted was to be trusted, and you let me believe that I was--”

Lena’s voice cracks, making tears spring to Kara’s eyes.

“Lex really was right. Nothing I did was ever going to be enough for you.”

“That is not true.” Kara sits forward. “It was never about that. Never.”

A shrug lifts Lena’s sweatered shoulder. She still has yet to meet Kara’s eye. “No, it wasn’t.”

Because if it had been, Lena would have been told a thousand times over. Like she should have been.

“I was afraid, Lena.” Kara curls her hands around her mug. “I know that must seem so foolish to you, and it does to me too, now. But before I told you? The thought of losing you--”

“What have I ever done to make you think I would hate you?”

“Because… you do?”

“I hate that you weren’t the one who told me. I hate that the words came from my brother, as he lay dying in front of me after I shot him in the chest. That’s what I hate. Not you.”

Kara’s throat locks around a sob, her eyes filling with tears. “Lena…”

“I hate that of all the things my brother is, everything he’s done… I hate that he’s more honest than you are.”

In a single blink, the floodgates open. Tears spill down Kara’s cheeks and don’t stop. On silent feet, Kara moves to kneel at Lena’s side. Reaching for Lena’s hand is a risk, but one that rewards Kara with warm fingers in hers.

“I’m sorry, Lena.” Her voice scrapes and scratches-- there’s no defense in her, no way to hide the raw emotion spilling from her. “I am so sorry. I should have told you. I should have trusted you. Not just with my secret. I should have trusted that you-- that our friendship-- was stronger than that.”

Lena takes a shuddering breath, one that seizes in a sob. When Lena leans towards her, Kara wraps both arms around her. Thin arms hug her back, and bony shoulders wrack with silent sobs.

“I’m so sorry, Lena.”

And just like that-- they start to heal.

---

Their peace doesn’t last long. J’onn can only pretend to be Supergirl for so long before the real thing is needed. Lena’s trust in being trusted is put to the test: she spends Kara’s time away curled on the sofa, eyes on the door, just waiting for Alex’s team to burst in and take her back to the isolation cell. When the only person to enter is Kara six hours later with four pizzas, garlic breadsticks, and a two liter of MelloYello in hand, Lena almost starts crying all over again.

When their paths end up crossing, Kara finds interacting with the other Lena difficult-- she spends the limited exchange searching Lena’s face for any hint that she knows a version of her exists besides herself; that a version of her is sitting in Kara’s apartment, wearing an oversized hoodie and baggy blue jeans.

Kara can’t find any.

Kara knows that doesn’t mean anything.

She goes home that night and asks her version of Lena for a hug. Her version of Lena gives it-- slowly, but without hesitation.

One night, Kara returns home to a ransacked apartment devoid of any Lena. There’s no question who is behind it the blood Kara finds on her hardwood floors. Only one man knows this Lena exists. Only one man knows where Supergirl might keep a traumatized best friend.

And there’s only one person who can go up against Lex Luthor and have a hope of coming out on top.

So Kara goes to the Lena Luthor whose eyebrow lifts in derision at the sight of her, and tells her everything. She explains the second version of Lena they’d found and lost again, tells her how Lex is behind it all, shares how they still haven’t any idea why.

And that Lena stares at her as though she wants to accuse her of more lies, more subterfuge, but when her lips part, what falls out is “then let’s find out.”

They track Lex to one of his many bunkers that still exist in this reality, and there they find him with the second Lena (or maybe the first, Kara’s still not sure). The Lena’s stare at each other, one with more surprise than the other. Kara supposes it’s hard to be surprised when one is cuffed hand and foot, with a collar around your neck.

Lex, for his part, only smiles. “Hey, sis.”

The chain connecting to the collar around Lena’s neck retracts into the ceiling, pulling her to the very tips of her toes and leaving her choking for breath. Kara shoots forward, but the area around the dangling Lena glows green with Kryptonite, effectively grinding her to a halt before she staggers back to be caught by the other Lena.

“Why?” that Lena asks her brother. “What good could having two of me possibly be to you when you don’t let one out of your sight?”

“Oh, you sweet summer child,” Lex returns. “I didn’t double you, god no. Why would I double my work trying to control you? No, I reduced you. By half.”

Shock ripples through them both. The sight of it makes Lex chuckle.

“You always had such potential, ace. But your judgement was always clouded by empathy-- you were always soft. But brilliant. Brilliant enough to figure me out. Splitting all of that between two of you, well… it made you far more pliable.”

“But…” Kara gasps. “How?”

Lex lifts a brow in an expression eerily like Lena’s. “You of all people should have figured it out by now, Supergirl.”

Just like that, the pieces click into place.

“The harun’el.”

The same mineral that once split Kara herself. The same mineral Lena spent months working with. Rao.

Lea leans towards her. “He means…?”

“Red Daughter,” Kara confirms.

She can still see her. Sometimes Kara dreams of her, still feels the weight of her body evaporating from her arms as she holds her dying counterpart.

Kara looks at Lena, sees her eyes dark with thought as they travel from Kara to her dangling twin, then to Lex. Lex receives her silent gaze with an almost proud grin.

“But I gotta say, sis, even I never imagined you’d go as far as Non Nocere.”

Kara staggers to take her own weight, freeing Lena to approach her brother. Whatever Kara expected Lena to say or do in confronting Lex, it wasn’t the sight of long fingers snatching a scalpel from a table as she passed, or for the movement to be so blatant that Lex would see it coming.

“Oh, come now, Lena,” Lex chides. “At least you were smart enough to bring a gun last time.”

Lena lifts the blade towards him, but her features twist into a smirk. “What makes you think this is for you?”

Before anyone has time to react, Lena lifts the blade and plunges it deep into her own throat.

“NO!” Lex and Kara cry in unison.

Kara moves faster, catching Lena as she falls. She cradles her friend in her arms, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Lena… why?”

“I refuse…” Lena gasps, “to be less...”

“What if--?”

“I’m not the copy?” Lena gurgles slightly through the blood filling her throat. It bubbles to her lips, staining them an unnatural red. “I’m the one he kept around. Just like…”

She coughs, unable to finish. Kara does it for her.

“Just like Red Daughter.”

Lena features droop, gray with increasing blood loss. “Don’t… let him… win…”

With her last crackling breath, Lena’s form melts away just like Red Daughter’s, misting into a purple ether that lifts from Kara’s arms and chases towards where Lena still hangs on the tips of her toes. The violet energy sinks into her, illuminating her entire frame for a split second before it pulses out of her in a violent burst that disintegrates her bonds and drops her to her knees, choking for breath.

Kara intercepts Lex when he makes a run for it-- she grabs him by the collar and tosses him back towards his sister, who still glows with unearthly light. He struggles to his knees as Lena climbs to her feet, eyes glowing with power.

“Okay, Lena, listen to me-- I just wanted the best for you. For us to be working together, just like we used to--!”

Lena roars. She roars so loud that Kara covers her ears under the onslaught, and peers through slitted eyes as the power of the harun’el funnels into Lena’s hands, mouth and hands, firing a single combined blast towards her cowering brother. It consumes him entirely.

When the light under Lena’s skin finally wanes, there is nothing left of Lex-- not even a scorch mark. In the silence that follows, Lena sags to her knees once more, exhausted.

Green eyes meet Kara’s, heavy and full of emotion Kara can’t quite decipher.

“I’m sorry,” Lena murmurs. “For everything.”

Kara staggers towards her, and collapses to her knees beside Lena. She wraps Lena in a fierce hug, tears still damp on her cheeks.

Lena’s alive. This time, Lena is whole.

Kara would have asked for nothing else in the world.

---

It doesn’t take long for normalcy to return after that. Lena steps up as the CEO she’s meant to be, and it’s less than a month before she announces her intent to rebrand LuthorCorp as L-Corp. Supergirl resumes her full duties, and this time does so with a true ally in Lena.

Still, there’s a hesitation in her chest when she arrives at Lena’s office one afternoon as Kara Danvers. She has Big Belly Burger in one hand, and kombucha in the other, the only peace offerings she can think to bring besides her heart, ready to be given if asked.

She steps into the room with said heart in her throat, and almost swallows her tongue when Lena’s gaze snaps up to her and freezes for a split second before softening in recognition. The smile that follows is as gentle as the first rays of sunlight on an early sunday morning, and warms Kara just as completely.

“Hey you,” Lena greets quietly. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

It takes a long moment for Kara to realize she means Kara Danvers-- it’s been too long since Kara has been anything but Supergirl in front of Lena, even when she wasn’t wearing the cape.

“Yeah,” Kara agrees. “Sorry about that.”

They stare at each other for a long moment, until Kara lifts the heavy bag in her right hand. “Big Belly?”

Lena’s features warm.

“I knew there was a reason you’re my favorite.”

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chatonne-rousse · 3 years

Text

Through a Different Lens

This incredible work of art by @lilianmorganart crossed my dash last week and has lived rent-free in my head since then. I made it my phone's wallpaper and found myself getting emotional every time I picked up the phone to use it (If that doesn't confirm my stratospheric level of unrepentant Adrienette trash, I don't know what does).

I told @tsuki-chibi about it and we discussed how Adrien would totally swoon over it, too, if it was the lock screen on his phone. And that's how this fic was born.

I hope you enjoy this little relationship study through Alya's eyes as she and Nino share life and love alongside their best friends.

Read it on Ao3 here.

*****

"Last set of the night, dudes and dudettes. We're about to be upstaged big time." Nino points out the bank of windows toward the already-glittering Eiffel Tower before needle meets vinyl and the music starts, soft and undeniably romantic. "Let's wind it down by slowing it down."

A blue balloon flutters to the floor beside Nino's feet as he hops from the DJ platform and winds through a sea of his classmates to his waiting girlfriend. Alya wastes no time wrapping him in her arms and pressing a kiss to his lips, turning the greeting into dancing with the sway of her hips that he matches after a few beats.

"How many songs did you line up?" she murmurs when they finally part.

He smiles and winks at her. "Four. It's about fifteen minutes till fireworks."

"Mmm. Nice."

The back of his shirt is sweaty under Alya's hands, but she doesn't care. The lovely chignon Marinette had pulled her hair into before the party has come a bit undone and she can feel the damp curls at the back of her neck. That's July in Paris for you; even the air conditioning in Le Grand Paris doesn't make much of a difference. Thank goodness for the ceiling fans that make the white and blue and red streamers rustle above their heads.

She hears Nino snort softly near her ear. "Are they magical or something? How do they still look perfect?"

Alya doesn't need to turn to know he's talking about their best friends, but she twists anyway, pressing the opposite cheek to Nino's shoulder instead.

And of course he's right.

She's spent the evening drinking punch and giggling with Marinette, shimmying and whooping with her in a happy little clump with Nino and Adrien, making the rounds of friends and food and fun over the past few hours. Marinette and Adrien have, too, but somehow the only sign that it's the end of the evening is that Adrien has loosened his tie.

Marinette's hair falls across her shoulders in the same soft cascade Alya styled it into hours ago. Her gauzy white dress drapes better on her figure than it did on the mannequin in her bedroom. Even the corsage Adrien had presented to her when the girls descended the stairs into Marinette's living room, a stunning red rose in full bloom, sits perfectly on her slim wrist, not a petal out of place. Her best friend really does look like she's limned in magic.

But perhaps that's because of the strong hand splayed at Marinette's waist, pressing her ever closer to her dance partner, or Adrien's cheek at her temple, his blond halo a perfect contrast to her deep raven hair. Maybe it's whatever he's just whispered in her ear that makes her smile up at him, a wide grin of exasperated fondness lighting her face before gentling after a moment into an expression of softest serenity.

Alya's first thought is that it's like the bright and beautiful partnership of the full moon reflecting the sun. But that isn't quite right, because her best friend glows from within, providing her own light to meet Adrien's, radiant and returned in equal measure.

Just how they got to this point remains as baffling to Alya now as it was a year ago when her friends finally put themselves and everyone around them out of their misery and started dating. The blushes continued and the occasional shy stammers never quite disappeared, but she'd watched them blossom together like a spring garden before her eyes, though what she'd been sure would be daffodils had bloomed into beautiful irises instead.

Suddenly Mr. Sunshine had gleamed brighter than ever, his giddy joy nearly uncontainable. So many puns. So much laughter. The former would be unbearable were it not for the latter, which always seemed to brighten Nino's eyes as well, a welcome side effect.

And oh, her best friend had come alive. It was more than having someone to love and love her in return. Alya knew from the day they met that love was second nature to Marinette. It practically shone from her pores.

But this was different - a touch more boldness, a blaze of fierce protectiveness in her eyes, an ability to read and respond to Adrien's emotions in just the way he needed, just when he needed it. How did she know to do that? How had this easy familiarity grown between them so quickly, not a tender new sapling but already an unshakeable oak?

She knows the truth is deeper than what she's been able to wrangle from Marinette, but Alya learned long ago that her best friend held those cards too close to ever let her get a peek. But she sure had tried at the beginning.

"You can tell me, girl! I'm so happy for you, but I don't get it! What happened?"

Alya wheedled, needled, begged.

Marinette just smiled and finished watering her roses before leaning against the railing of her terrace.

"I did tell you! Adrien and I talked. We were honest with each other. That's it." She shrugged one shoulder before her smile turned sly and she bumped her hip into her best friend's. "You know, we can't all find love by getting trapped in a panther cage by a superhero. Not every relationship has an epic origin story."

"Damn right! Seriously, though, I can tell there's more to this. There are deets you're not sharing, and your bestie needs those deets!"

"I don't know what to tell you, Als. I just...saw him. All of him."

Alya just barely resisted the urge to make the obvious joke.

"Mari. My love. My best friend in the world. What could you possibly see now that you haven't seen in the past two years of crushing, staring, memorizing, obsessing, and finally just getting over your fears and becoming real, actual friends with him?" She ticked off each point on her fingers, ending with a grip on her pinky and an imploring look she hoped would coax a detail or two from her all-too-cagey best friend. "If you can't throw a bone to your BFF, think of me as the coordinator of Operation Secret Garden and its many, many, many side missions. At least tell me one thing about Sunshine that I don't know, something you didn't know before, either."

Silence fell over them like a blanket. Just when it started to feel stifling and itchy, Marinette spoke.

"He's the bravest person I know," she said quietly, gaze straying across the rooftop horizon.

Alya thought of the myriad times she'd watched Adrien run away in the direction of his house as she herself had run toward danger in the name of journalism and morbid curiosity. He was sweet and exceedingly kind, but she'd never considered him a bastion of courage. Though of course there had to be lots of things she didn't know, details of life at home beyond the isolated loneliness they were all aware of, things that hadn't occurred to her that her best friend now saw through a lens of love and not just friendly compassion. If the reason they were already so close was because Adrien was able to share the difficult parts of his life that he didn't even share with Nino? Well, Alya could understand and respect that.

She reached out and covered Marinette's hand in hers. "His dad is kind of the worst, isn't he?"

"Oh my gosh, you have no idea. The absolute worst. The other day..."

Listening to Marinette that day, Alya had decided that if her friends were happy, she'd be happy right along with them. The details would come in time.

They'd taken silly selfies in Marinette's mirror as they got ready earlier this evening. They'd posed for portraits in the Dupain-Chengs' doorway as though this was a gala event and not a Quatorze Juillet party that Chloé insisted was fancy dress, and snapped shots of their BFF squad together all evening. So without thinking, Alya reaches for her phone - her dress is a Marinette original, of course it has pockets - to document exactly how besotted their preternaturally beautiful best friends are. She grabs three photos in quick succession, thankful for her state-of-the-art camera as she smiles at how it captures the play of light and shadow across their matching white.

"Paparazzi," Nino fake coughs in her hair.

Alya grabs his butt with her free hand in retaliation, and they both laugh.

Marinette and Adrien sway together in a loose approximation of a dance, eyes closed, just barely turning in place, lost in each other. When Adrien reaches for Marinette's hand on his shoulder, Alya has to let go of her boyfriend completely to set her camera to burst mode, but laid-back, ever-patient Nino just huffs a laugh and holds her waist tighter. It's all worth it when she's able to capture the moment Adrien brings Marinette's hand to his lips and presses a series of slow, reverent kisses to her knuckles. She snaps one more photo after he's tucked their clasped hands beneath his chin and settled her against his shoulder.

Alya turns in the circle of Nino's arms and gleefully scrolls through the vast number of pictures she's just taken, pausing near the center of the burst shots and cooing with delight at the treasure she finds. "Oh my god, Nino, look." She shoves the phone under his nose and his eyes cross trying to focus on it.

"Damn. They're too pretty to be real."

She snorts. "Truth. Seriously, though. Have you ever seen two people more in love? I'd say it's gross, but I could also cry just looking at them."

Still smiling, Nino pulls their hips together again and sets them in a slow spin, punctuating the beat with his fingers at the small of her back. Alya pockets her phone and cuddles up to him, grinning into his chest when he speaks quietly for her ears only.

"You know I love you just as much, right? I'm not a model, and um, I'm not as...gooey. But—"

He's cut off when Alya presses her lips to his to stop him.

"You're just the right amount of gooey, mister, and I don't need a model when I've already snagged the hottest guy I've ever met." She delights in his blushing cheeks as she kisses him again. "And yes, I know you do...I love you, too. Thank god it's not a competition, or we'd be losing."

"Naaah," Nino drawls softly, hugging her close. "I've already won."

Alya just closes her eyes and hides her grin in his shoulder, letting him spin them again as the music swells.

*****

Packed on the balcony and ready for the fireworks to start, she and Marinette are giggling over the photos on her camera roll from the course of the evening.

"I don't want to think about how much you pay for cloud storage, Als. You know you have a problem, right?"

Nino can't help his surprised laugh, but has the good sense to bite his lip and look away. Alya nudges him in the side and rolls her eyes good-naturedly. Scrolling through toward the latest photos, she stops on one in particular and flips the screen toward her best friend.

"Bet you're glad I got this one, eh, Mademoiselle Judgy Pants?"

Alya knows she's scored a direct hit when Marinette's eyes widen and her cheeks pinken visibly even in the ambient light of the city. In the same moment, Adrien breathes an "ooooh" in reverent awe from over her shoulder as he stares at the glowing phone screen. Impossibly, the look on his face as he takes in the image is even more tender than it is in the photo itself.

Marinette turns to press her burning cheeks to his chest and he wraps her in his arms, props his chin on her head and mouths, "Send me that, please," to Alya, gesturing vaguely from her phone to his pocket.

Request received loud and clear, she grins and gives him a quick salute.

When fireworks finally fill the Parisian sky, Alya attempts a few action shots, though she's well aware that fireworks photos rarely turn out. Next, she grabs a great picture of Nino with the lights reflected in his glasses that immediately gets posted on Instagram.

And when Marinette stands on her tiptoes, wraps her arms around Adrien's shoulders, and kisses him breathless, well, Alya can't resist snapping one last photo of her friends. Adrien's hair positively gleams in the ephemeral glow of the bright red firework that bathes flushed cheeks and white fabric in a dreamy, perfect pink. This one is sent straight to her best friend; she looks forward to the keysmash text of embarrassed delight she'll receive from Marinette later.

Nino's hand slides around her waist to pull her close and she snuggles into his side, stowing her phone in her pocket and simply enjoying the moment.

*****

"Babe," Nino whispers under his breath, accompanied by a nudge of his knee against Alya's under the cafe table, "he's doing it again."

Sure enough, Adrien is gazing down at his phone. It's not even unlocked yet - he's just looking at his lock screen, waking it up each time it fades back to sleep.

"I know. That's why I'm looking up the movie time. We'd miss it completely if we left it to Sunshine."

"This is technically your fault. You do know that, right?"

Alya shrugs. "No regrets."

Marinette returns to the table, picking her purse off the back of her chair and lifting the strap over her head to settle in its perennial position across her torso. Instead of sitting down, she wraps her arms around Adrien's chest from behind and leans down to kiss his cheek. "Did you figure out if we can make it to the movie?"

The question is clearly directed at Adrien, who was supposed to be looking up the cinema schedule, but he's already pocketed his phone and turned his head to nuzzle into her hair.

Okay, Alya may have some regrets.

It's been months since she took the now-famous photo and sent it to him. To no one's surprise, it became his lock screen wallpaper immediately. It also became a distraction.

Because Adrien melts every time he looks at his phone.

No one can truly decide if it's exasperating or endearing, but there are classmates and friends in both camps.

Nino begged him to change it back to the picture of the two of them together, if only to shorten the time between sending his best friend a text and receiving one in return. Alya is nearly at her limit for heart eyes, but she's still the captain of Team Endearing. She did take the picture, after all.

Max programmed Markov to recognize each time Adrien reached for his phone and the time it took for him to unlock it and use it. Markov has perfected the algorithm over time and now has a saved log of each occurrence down to the millisecond. There's no real reason to track this data besides curiosity, but it does help Markov refine his processes, so Max has kept it up. It is vaguely fascinating, though he does feel that it's a terrible use of Adrien's limited free time.

Nathaniel illustrated a cartoon rendition of Adrien, phone in his hand and literal hearts in his eyes. Alya offered him €10 for it, but Adrien himself came in at €20 and now it sits on his desk at home.

Once, Adrien spent so much time gazing at the lock screen that he never did answer his ringing phone. Of course it was Nathalie calling, and of course his father grounded him when he got home.

(Neither Marinette nor Adrien seemed as bothered by those two weeks as everyone had anticipated. That mystery remains unsolved.)

When she thinks about it, Alya decides there are worse things than Adrien loving Marinette so much that he has an emotional reaction to seeing the evidence through a different lens.

Alya just slips her phone in her purse and corrals her boyfriend and their best friends. They have a movie to get to and they only have twenty-five minutes.

*****

In time, the picture has found a place on the wall in Marinette and Adrien's apartment - printed on premium photo paper, lovingly matted and framed. No one would have expected any less.

And it has always made Adrien smile, sometimes when nearly nothing else could.

*****

Several years, several revelations, and enough trauma to last a lifetime have led them all to this moment, on this day that shines with as much joy and light and love as they can muster. It's what a day like this deserves, after all.

With too much behind them to call it a beginning and too much hope for the future ahead to call it an ending, Alya decides she's just watched her best friends walk through a door they'd unlocked years ago and finally found the right time to step through together. The path hasn't changed, paved in hurt and heartache and the kind of helpless hope a person chooses when an abyss yawns below and there are no other ropes to grab. But it has always been lit by the glow of an almost unfathomable love, and that's where healing begins, grows, and flourishes.

So here they sit, surrounded by friends and family, in the same room where the four of them had danced all those years ago on a hot July evening. A towering croquembouche waits in the corner and a table full of photos and memories is on display along one wall; that heart-melting photo of the happy couple as lovestruck teenagers has pride of place in the center.

Clad again in radiant white, Marinette is the perfect picture of a blushing bride, and her groom has been unsurprisingly entranced all day. Alya isn't sure Adrien has stopped smiling since they first saw him this morning, and she and Nino are enjoying every moment of it.

Part of the brilliance shining in his grin is natural, springing from a heart so innately kind that it has countered evil and wielded destruction, yet still beats with compassion. But she and Nino know, better than anyone else, that the Adrien in front of them is a previously-shattered vase mended in gold, stronger and more beautiful in the broken places, and some of his gleam is reflected from those gilded seams.

When it's Alya's turn to toast, Nino helps her to her feet with a smile and hands her the mic before sitting back down beside her. She starts with a story only a best friend could get away with telling, bolstered by the laughter of the guests around her and the grins of the bride and groom. She has a toast carefully planned and memorized, but for all her preparedness, Alya also knows how to improvise. When her gaze sweeps across the picture gallery on the table and the faces of two of the people she loves most, she veers off course but finds her words with confidence.

"I've taken a lot of photos in my life - silly, scary, funny, serious, everything in between. Many of those photos have featured many of you here today. I know I caused my saint of a best friend here a lot of undeserved stress by taking a vast majority of my life's photos in places where I shouldn't have been."

She pauses when a laugh ripples through the room and Marinette shakes her head even as her watery eyes beam back at her. "But I was in just the right place when I took that one." She gestures toward the framed picture on the table, sparkling cider sloshing gently in her champagne flute. "Because the right place for both of us—" she reaches a hand back toward Nino blindly, finding and squeezing his shoulder, "has always been next to you, the most ludicrously attractive, kindest, bravest, best people we know."

Alya takes a deep breath that only shakes a little bit on the exhale. "I'm so—" she blinks and swallows around the lump in her throat. Damn hormones! "I'm so lucky to know you, to love you, and to have been part of your lives and your love story all these years. That's why I wish you nothing less than a lifetime of that kind of love," she inclines her head toward the photo on the table again, "that kind of tenderness and devotion. No one deserves it more than you two, and no one will be happier than Nino and I will to be right there beside you on the journey. So...cheers to the prettiest lovebirds I know, Marinette and Adrien!"

Champagne flutes clink amidst applause and hugs and sniffles.

Her best friends grin at her before turning the same soft gaze toward each other again, just like the picture she took all those years ago that turned Adrien to goo each time he looked at it.

Alya knows now, of course, what she didn't understand back then - that in the same way their wedding today was more than just a beginning, so were those early days of soft looks and fierce devotion that seemed to transcend the blush of new romance. Unbeknownst to their friends, they'd had an ironclad partnership and years of trust in place already. Open eyes and honesty allowed the confluence of several different kinds of love, and it only made sense that the resulting alloy stood stalwart and shone dazzling-bright.

Well, it didn't make sense then, but it certainly does now, even if the luster sparkles through a patina of nicks and dents. After all, even the strongest steel and the brightest gold are refined by fire.

Nino hands her a tissue and presses his palm to her back as she settles in her seat again.

When ever-romantic Adrien reaches for his bride's hand to press gentle kisses across the back of her fingers, Alya can't resist grabbing her phone from the table beside her bread plate. They're a little older but just as beautiful and even more in love, and the photo she snaps captures that perfectly. She smiles down at her phone, pleased, before locking the screen and twisting a little in her seat to place it back on the table, face down.

Alya gets comfortable, rests her head on her husband's shoulder, and simply enjoys the moment.

#adrienette through alya's eyes #alya loves her bff #dj wifi #adrienette #snapshot #miraculous ladybug #ml fanfiction #my writing #relationship study #this is so self indulgent #alya cesaire #nino lahiffe #marinette dupain cheng #adrien agreste

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kat0v01 · 4 years

Text

The Main six and their first date with you

Thank you @kyravecele for the request!

Asra:

You were sitting on the couch reading a book when a familiar little snaky body slithered around your leg. She had a small ribbon tied around her head and a tiny scroll tied into the bow. You smiled at her twinkling voice saying, “for you!” as you gently freed the small paper. Written in elegant cursive and deep purplish ink was a formal invite asking you on a date and whether you’d be free this afternoon. You chuckled knowing Asra was fully aware of your schedule since you lived together. Looking closer, you noticed a little arrow at the bottom of the page guiding you to flip it over and in small print, it said to look behind the counter. There, waiting for you, was a small box wrapped in blush pink paper. When you picked it up, another note laid beneath it and told you to look somewhere else. For the next few minutes, you wandered around the shop collecting small gift boxes Asra had left for you around your home. The last note led you back to your bedroom where it contained instructions to dress light and wear a swimsuit. When you finished dressing, Asra was waiting by the door, your favorite flowers in one hand and a basket in another. Asra took you to a realm you’d never seen before; everything was tinted in a myriad of purple, blue and pink hues. Asra set the basket down by the water and suggested you both go for a swim. As you revealed your bathing suit, they looked away with an embarrassed flush. You teased them about it before a mischievous grin broke across their face and they picked you up and jumped into the water where you both splashed around for a while. Drying off, you chatted and enjoyed your lunch. At the end of the date, you gave Asra a kiss as thank you and they nuzzled their face into the crook of your neck, a goofy grin on their face.

Julian:

Julian originally thought about taking you to the Rowdy Raven but, knowing how he gets, realized that that’d make for a terrible date. On a day he knew you wouldn’t be busy, he made up an excuse about having to go to the clinic, but instead went to the marketplace to pick up flowers and food for later. Towards the evening, you were startled by a shrill squawking and saw Malak scratching at the window. Letting him in, you saw a note tied to his leg. When you read it, you couldn’t help smiling. Getting dressed, you made your way to the harbor where Julian waited on the dock by a boat he rented out for the night. He helped you in and rowed you both away from shore and towards the middle of the water. He handed you a bouquet of your favorite flowers and pulled out a small unfamiliar string instrument. You guessed it was something he came across during one of his many adventures. With only a few incorrect string plucks, he serenaded you and you clapped when the performance was over. He took a few exaggerated bows and you placed one of the flowers in his mouth with a laugh. When you asked him if you’d both be going back home to eat, he waggled his eyebrows with a chuckle and produced a large wooden board. Opening another bag, he placed an assortment of foods he bought earlier at the marketplace to enjoy together under the moonlight. When you were both done, he rowed you both back to shore where you shared a kiss before leaving. Back home, you curled up together on the couch by a warm fire to chat about the day and Julian’s skillful date planning.

Muriel:

Muriel wracked his brain for a long time trying to figure out what special thing he could do for you. When he continued to come up empty, he decided to ask Asra for assistance. He explained his intention to organize a first date and Asra’s advice was to do whatever he thought would be special and intimate for both of you. With that, he came up with an idea. You came by Muriel’s hut one afternoon, expecting to see the man busy working, but no one was around. All his usual chores were finished, including feeding the chickens. You were a bit confused but brightened immediately when Inanna bounded up to you. Tail wagging excitedly, she turned her head and barked towards the forest. You pieced together that she wanted you to follow so you chased her until you came upon a clearing with a small brook and Muriel sitting aside it, waiting. He blushed and thanked you for coming and then quickly stuttered that this was a date. You smiled in reply, touched by how much he was trying. He gestured to a log and you both sat down. He produced a basket with food he’d made and two wood blocks and knives. He said he knew how much you wanted to learn how to whittle so he thought today might be a good time to try. Lunch was first and then followed the whittling lesson. After practicing for a long while, you both laid down on the grass and fell asleep in each other’s arms with Inanna wedged in the middle.

Nadia:

Nadia liked expressions of love but she’s usually not as flashy of a person as Lucio. Since palace duties took up so much of her time, you both rarely managed to see each other during the day. Sometimes, you both found time to chat at night, but it didn’t last long since she’s already tired. When there was finally a lull in work, Nadia took an uncharacteristic move. Over lunch, she told you that she wanted to take you on a date, however, this wouldn’t be any old date. You and Nadia were going to have a week-long date trip back to Prakra. You were shocked and stammered that she had too many important duties to take so much time off for you. Dismissing the comment with a wave of her hand, she said she couldn’t wait to go on the excursion. As big and exciting as this was, Nadia admitted that this trip had dual purpose. Yes, of course it was to spend quality time with you, but she wouldn’t be completely honest if it wasn’t due to some homesickness as well. She felt guilty for being a little selfish, but you assured her that you understood and were still excited to go. After a few days of preparation, both of you made the trip back home to meet her family and experience Prakran culture. You had a pleasant time seeing the sights and hearing about Nadia and her siblings’ childhood.

Portia:

While at her house one afternoon, Portia randomly decided that she wanted to take you on a date but was stumped as to what to do. She made it clear that she didn’t want to do anything work-related since she spends so much time at the palace already. You laughed and agreed, sitting down to think about it with her. You both usually chatted together in-between Portia’s work hours and then occasionally spent time with her at her house. Now that she was free, it was difficult figuring out something to do. Suddenly, she gasped in delight and asked if you’d like to go dancing. You asked her where and she replied, ‘the place with the best live music in town: the Rowdy Raven.’ You weren’t sure about the idea at first, a little embarrassed at the thought of dancing in the crowded tavern, but now that the idea was in her head, it was too late, and she was already dragging you there. A little shy at first, you slowly lightened up, dancing and singing with Portia well into the night. When it had gotten late, you both left the Rowdy Raven, giggly and light, deciding to spend the rest of the evening on your shop roof overlooking the city and the palace’s glittering lights in the night sky.

Lucio:

You had recently returned from a mission and were happy to spend time sleeping and relaxing at the palace. This morning, a servant knocked on the door to wake you. Groggily, you gave them permission to enter and they announced that you’d be going on a date with Lucio today. You vaguely remembered him asking if you’d like to go on a date sometime and you said yes but didn’t think he meant the next day. The servant presented a luxurious basket of sweet-smelling bath and hair products and before they left, they said Lucio was expecting you as early as possible. In the basket was a card that said, ‘only the best for the love of my life.’ Rolling your eyes with a smile, you washed up. When you were done with the shower, a servant came in and left some excessively elegant clothing on the bed, so you picked the one that suited your tastes. When you stepped outside, there was a row of servants leading down the hall each holding your favorite flower. Melchior and Mercedes padded up to you each with one in their mouths as well. You collected all the flowers until you arrived at a plush carriage outside the palace doors and Lucio standing in front, nervously holding a large bouquet in his hands. He offered them to you, and you kissed him on the cheek as thank you. Blushing, he opened the carriage door and helped you inside. The date consisted of a carriage ride through Vesuvia with an assortment of hors d’oeuvres and sweet treats. Lucio insisted on feeding you, relishing in the ability to tend to you and please you. The carriage ride stopped overlooking a cliffside where a table for two had been set up. You both spent the evening eating and chatting until night. On the carriage ride back, you leaned against Lucio sleepily and he buried his face in your hair with a contented smile.

#the arcana headcanons #the arcana #the arcana game #arcana asra #arcana julian #arcana muriel #arcana nadia #arcana portia #arcana lucio #arcana scenarios

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sunflowerryvol6 · 3 years

Text

Pigments

Warnings : angst, mentions of blood

WC : 2k

Hey! so I've got all these angsty prompts anywho, hope you like this. This the first time I've had an OC, so let me know if you like that? This came together, quite quickly, so the edit might be a little choppy. Feedback and ideas are always welcome!

Masterlist

happy reading!

"Lovie! You can't be knocking things in your wake, gotta be a little more careful y'know?" He said.

Nylah froze. "I'm sorry, H. I guessed I misjudged the distance?" she nervously giggled.

"S'okay, you good? You don't sound all too convinced about that?"

"Nope. All good, I guess it was a little foggy, nothing too serious."

"Okay, if you say so." That response didn't convince him, though. Ever since the patio incident, he'd been keeping a close eye on you. He had a feeling she'd been hiding something. But he wasn't sure enough to call her out on it. He was waiting to see if she'd come to him first. Even if she was the stubborn one between the two, he would let it go for today, and no one wants to argue on the weekend, right?

He wishes he'd had that argument and taken one for the team because maybe then he could have avoided this phone call altogether. Or that's what he tells himself.

Nylah had taken a significant fall at work, slipped down the stairs and hurt her head, and they said she was bleeding. That's all he heard before he made a mad dash to his car to get to his fiance. His heart was racing; he couldn't piece any information together. He remembered to make a quick call to his mother; asked her to call Nylah's mum and meet him at the hospital. As far as any information went, Nylah was still unconscious, so that they wouldn't allow him in with her.

"Well, I'm her husband. You've got to let me stay with her. What if she wakes up and there's no one beside her? Please, let me go see her."

"I'm so sorry sir; She's getting her stitches now. You can wait outside the procedure room, and they'll let you in as soon as it's completed." the nurse says.

Amid this argument, Anne comes rushing through. "What's going on? have you been in to see her yet? have they given you any update?"

"No. we're waiting on them to finish stitching her up. After that the doctor will come and speak with us, I suppose. I don't know why I didn't pay more attention, maybe she was sick and didn't tell me? I mean, I should have noticed, right?" Harry was finding it hard to not tear up with anxiety.

"Harry, what's happened has happened. You just need to make sure she's okay now", and on that cue, the doctor walked in to greet them.

"Are you with Ms Jones?" The doctor asks

"Yeah, I'm her husband. Is she okay? How bad was the fall?"

"It's not too bad, but my concern is more to how she fell. Do you know if your wife has a history of fainting spells? or balance issues? could be one of the reasons she could have taken the tumble."

"None that I'm aware of. Nylah does have low blood sugar, but she is good at keeping that in check and, as far as I recall, she hasn't fainted from a low sugar spell in a few months. But why is that a concern? I mean, it could have just been that she tripped, right?"

"We're just trying cover our bases, Mr.-" He looks at Harry as if to ask your name

"Styles." He responds.

"Okay, well, Mr Styles, you may go keep your wife company now. The nurses will let us know when's she awake, and we can have a chat then."

"Thank you." and He turns to what he assumes Nylah's room is and walks in to see her still unconscious.

"Hey kid, I'm so happy to see you; gave us a proper scare. I'm going to be right here beside you when you wake up." He coos. Harry sits down beside her bed and reaches for her hand. He's too fidgety from anxiety to stop his knees from bobbing up and down. Still thinking about what the doctor said. Could it not have been a trip up? Could she have fainted, and no one was there to help her break the fall?

She was doing so well with keeping her sugar levels in check, and maybe she slipped up? All these questions were running amuck in his mind, and he couldn't make sense of it.

In his anxiety spiral, he had utterly missed that Nylah was coming to it. She was slowly peeking through her lids as if the lights were too much for her. Harry quickly stands up. "Baby! Are you okay? Does your head hurt? I'm going to call the nurse for you, okay?"

"Woah, slow down, H, I'm okay. Can you please ask them to dim the lights? It's too much for my head right now." She winces.

"Yes, let me call the nurse for you."

"hey! Did you press the call button? Good to see you're awake, Ms Jones."

"Yeah, she just about woke up. Could we please dim down the lights in here a bit? She's finding it a little difficult to open her eyes because of it."

"Okay, sure, let me inform the doctor, and I'll see about the lights."

"Thank you."

"So, what happened? Did you feel lightheaded? missed lunch or something?"

"Okay, so I mean, my vision has been getting kinda blurry of late? I don't know what that's about like I can't see things that might be in my surrounding that well." Harry looked like he wanted to cut her off but let her continue.

"Before you say anything, I didn't want to worry you, and I wasn't worried either until today. I thought I would take the stairs today, and they were white? And I couldn't place my feet. Because I couldn't tell them apart" She was tearing up.

"Hey, it's okay, we'll figure it out, okay? It's probably nothing. Don't worry about it. You're fine, and that's more than enough for now." Harry soothed her. But he really didn't know if it was going to be okay.

When the doctor came, they relayed the same information to him. he suggested getting some tests done to check her diabetes and vision. She's only 25, so it's highly unlikely it's anything major, or at least that's what they thought.

---

Everything will be okay, is what Nyah kept telling herself, but who was she kidding? She had been hiding the blurriness in her vision for quite some time now. Why didn't she want to get it checked and find out what's wrong with her? She can't tell you for the life of her.

On the other hand, Harry had always known, but he thought she would address it sooner or later. He'd noticed she'd totally missed the butter sitting right in front of them at breakfast, and he had to get it for her. She would often take a second to adjust to light early in the morning.

You can't really do anything if you're missing big and obvious things sitting right in front of you, right? But he was wrong, Nylah was stubborn as hell, and she wasn't going to admit herself that she needed help, so it was up to him to figure it out and advocate for her. Had he done this sooner, they wouldn't be in a position like this, right?

---

The white walls of this hospital felt like it was caving in on Nylah. She didn't want to be here, neither did she want to get tested, and she didn't know anything point. This nagging feeling in the pit of her stomach just wouldn't go away. Harry was trying to be as supportive but to be honest, he was scared shitless too, neither of them of any help to each other. So they sat, quietly taking the eerie atmosphere of the hospital, holding each other's hands, hoping that warmth would enough to get through this cold tunnel of uncertainty.

After a whole week of a myriad of tests, they were sitting in front of their eye surgeon, who just gave them the news. They call it retinitis pigmentosa, and there isn't a concrete treatment that's shown to work yet.

That's all she heard before Nylah stormed out of the office.

She couldn't sit and hear another word. When the doctor told her about how her children, children who weren't even born yet, would be carriers or sufferers of the same illness. How could she succumb to this fate?

Harry and she were to still get married. They were going to travel the world. They'd been saving up for it, right? And babies? Oh, her babies with Harry, would that even be possible right now? Would he even want to continue this engagement?

She was sitting on the stairs outside the hospital. Crying into her hands, she didn't know what the hell to do anymore. So she would do what she thought was the best for her and Harry.

Harry came running after her. "My! what's wrong? Please come back? The doctor wasn't even finished giving us options on what we could do about this. Petal, you've got to hear him out. Please. " He looks like he's about to cry too, wouldn't you? If you found out the love of your life wasn't going to be able to see anymore? That she would miss arguably the best years of your lives together? He couldn't break down in front of her, though. So he would be the calm, reassuring voice of reason for her right now. Breaking down is for later when she is resting.

Nylah wouldn't budge, so eventually, they drove back home. She jumped out of the car before he could even be done parking. She hadn't said a word throughout the ride, and he didn't know what was on her mind. So he parked the car and walked in.

He slowly approached their room, only to find her packing all her belongings. He was a little puzzled, "Ny, darling? What are you doing? why are you packing?"

She turns around to look at him. That's when he notices her red-rimmed eyes, pooling with tears. She walks over to the dresser, takes off her ring and places it on the table. It was as if she was saying; This is it, you know?

He finally placed what was going on. "Oh no. No. You're not doing that, this is stupid, you're ending our engagement over this? Absolutely not. Please, baby, you've calm down. There's a long way to go still, and we don't even know all our options yet."

"I am going blind, Harry. I won't be able to see your face when I kiss you anymore. I won't give you children that might not be addled with the same disease as me. Hear yourself when you make this commitment, Harry." and go. I'm to packing her stuff. She was furiously wiping tears away. How were you supposed to keep a straight face when the love of your life is not going to be a part of your life anymore.

"I do, I'm in it for the long haul, aren't I? We'll break our savings and go to all the places you want to go to. We'll make audio vlogs, we'll document everything that we encounter, for you to remember. I'll do anything!"

Harry was panicking now. He's desperately trying to get her attention, to get her to see that he'll bring her the moon if that's what she desires. But this silence was too much for him. He could'n;t keep up with her. She was just throwing things into her bag. Finally, it felt like he snapped back into his reality, and he rushed behind her to keep those items back into her part of the closet. Because he wasn't going to let her go that easily. She'd have to fight him for it.

As he was putting things back, she was putting more stuff into her suitcase, and it was this weird limbo of aggressively shoving things here and there.

"Stop putting things back! I have to leave. I'm not going to put you through this, I'm not waiting around for you to decide when you're done with me, when it gets too tiring, No. I'm not sticking around to witness us and our love going sour. " She's screaming now.

He doesn't bother replying to her. He knows she'll ride out this tantrum.

He's crying too, heaving heavy breaths. He doesn't know if this is enough. If just letting her be angry is enough. He's just quietly putting her clothes back. That's when he hears something shatter against the wall. He frantically looks up to see their dresser lamp broken into million pieces on the floor. She goes for the jug of water next and throws it at the wall with as much strength as possible. The cup goes next.

He's screaming at her to stop, but she can't hear anything over her wailing and things breaking. She grabbed a vase from their windowsill and broke that too, it's mad fury, and she's so angry she can't breathe.

She's snapped out of her reverie when she hears him shout in pain. She looks at him and sees that he's stepped on some broken glass, but that's not what he's shouting about; he's screaming to get her attention to make her see that she's, in fact, hurt herself.

The carpet has got blood all over it, and there's broken glass everywhere. He strides across the room to reach her, only for her knees to buckle and take both of them down, she sinks on the floor with loud sobs, and he can't bring himself to stop crying either.

He rocks her gently, and whispers "We'll be alright", over and over again.

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akillysheel · 3 years

Text

TENUOUS. ❜ ( 2 )

Summary: Kuro asks the important questions before he and Cthugha decide on a starting point for their investigation. Warnings: N/A. Notes: N/A

'I need to think about it.'

Kuro slouched in his armchair, the events of the morning playing on loop in his head. After Cthugha's untimely arrival, the Sheriff had taken it upon himself to take the rest of the afternoon off in an attempt to compartmentalise his thoughts. He seldom ever took breaks, but when he'd emerged from his office as white as a sheet, his colleagues had ultimately pulled the plug on his hopes of remaining at work, advising insistently that he should go home.

'Fine. But you just remember, every minute you sit around ruminating about your stupid little life, that's another minute that this girl is missing, and that means it's another minute closer to doomsday too.'

Could it be true? Doomsday? The end of the world? It sounded to him like the paranoid ravings of a conspiracy nut... yet he'd spoken with such calm authority, countered every one of the problems he'd had with a rebuttal of his own. Every one of his questions had an answer; everything he'd said about Raku ( at least as far as his limited understanding of Gods was concerned ) was true.

Mia Vanton's case sat on his lap. It was a thin file, one that spared details for there hadn't been many to uncover, but in that moment it felt heavy. Cumbersome. As if he'd been shackled to the floorboards.

This thing's been shut since 2001.

One calloused thumb traced over its front, teasing the corner away from the papers inside. He really didn't know whether he wanted to look at it or not. It felt oddly like picking at a scab wound, baring himself to old pain that needn't be revisited. Did he have it in him to feel as hopeless as he did twenty years ago?

He grunted as a headache set in. It had steadily been growing for the past two hours, fostered in his brain like a bad habit.

Is there any point in opening this up again? Surely if she was to be found, she'd have been found by now. This year marks the twentieth anniversary of her disappearance. In two weeks, in fact.

Was that relevant? He couldn't help but consider it. As much as he wanted to push Cthugha's prophecy aside as garbage, the fact was that he was impressed - and a little worried. He knew things that nobody could have known, and deep down he knew that his colleagues wouldn't sell some random kid information. Huron's task force was known for being small, humble and honest, and it's good service had been a near constant hallmark for the district's deep sense of peace. There had never been a recorded incidence of internal corruption-- not even with other, less composed Sheriffs in the front seat.

How else could he have known about Olivia? About Raku, even.

The Sheriff let out a deep sigh as he closed his eyes, knowing already what he had to do.

“I’ve decided t’help y’.”

“Thank. God.” The statement trembled with sarcastic frustration, Cthugha’s cobalt eyes all but grey on account of the storm that had entered them. He sat in Kuro’s chair, his feet propped up on his desk. The rubix cube-- the one that had previously been half-completed-- sat in his hands, its coloured faces now perfectly arranged. “While you were busy jerking off to the end of all life in this realm, I was busy compiling resources that might help us stop it.” He paused to reach inside of his jacket, retrieving a file of his own, before he dropped it unceremoniously on the desk. “You’re welcome.”

“Where were y’keepin’ that…?”

“Just look at it.”

Kuro hesitated briefly before dragging the file closer, opening it up to find himself staring at a myriad of newspaper clippings, interview transcripts and photographs. It was makeshift work, by no means tidy, but the sheer wealth of information was staggering to him. Even so, as he skimmed over them briefly, he realised that there was nothing there that he didn’t already know.

Of course there isn’t. Why would there be?

I don’t know. Maybe I assumed he was an agent of God or something.

“Aside from all that,” Cthugha started, rising from his commandeered seat. In what felt like a flash, he’d moved from the desk to the far corner of the room, grabbing a hold of a whiteboard on wheels before reappearing where he had been. Kuro blinked hard. “We can rule out all the places you already searched in your previous hunt for her.” Feverishly, the rifter began to fill the board with haphazard notes. “That means you don’t have to trawl through Whit’s a second time, nor do you need to bother checking their home or questioning her papa. He came up clean, remember?”

“Yeah… he was so dedicated t’findin’ his daughter that he all but singlehandedly led the search party campaign despite us tellin’ him that it was dangerous. Had t’bust him outta a few compromisin’ positions fer his efforts...”

“Exactly. Also means that the tunnels are a bust too, so you don’t have to waste time trawling through the underground like a family of sewer rats. Wherever she is, she’s somewhere ya didn’t think to comb through.” He paused when he found his whiteboard pen beginning to run dry. “Damn it--” Much like before, he flickered away, a brief rummaging sound filling the quiet office before he reappeared before the board. “Okay, so-- here’re all the places you don’t gotta worry about that I can think of off the top of my head. There’s… what? Why’re ya staring at me like that?”

“How’re y’doin’ that?”

“You can write too, Kuro.”

“I mean the… disappearin’-’n’-reappearin’ thing. Obviously.”

“Oh, that. Yeah, I guess that makes more sense…” It was the closest to sheepish that he’d seen Cthugha thus far; a break from his smug attitude was certainly refreshing. “It’s just a teleportation shtick. Think of it like… instead of macro-leaps, I’m performing micro-hops in time.”

"Huh," said Kuro, deciding not to question it.

In truth, the more they talked about the Vanton case, the more he began to recall. Kuro seldom ever forgot a victim - even though he'd been the Sheriff of Huron for over three centuries, and a police officer for even longer than that - but he wouldn't say that the details were as long-lasting. There were simply too many nuances in too many cases-- too much information for him to store everything tightly away. His brief read over the case file before he'd come back to the office that following morning hadn't helped much either, if only because there hadn't been much for him to garner in the first place.

"I do have a question though," Kuro spoke up as he handed Cthugha a cup of coffee. He wasn't sure whether he was trying to placate or subdue him. "... or a couple."

"Are they constructive?"

"Maybe. I mean-- y'mentioned parallel timelines 'n' shit. Couldn't y'just… hop into one where I found her 'n' tell me where she is?"

"Parallel timelines are born out of choices, dummy. Unless you're admitting that you purposefully didn't find her, that isn't gonna help at all." A swig of his drink was taken, the rich flavour seeming to soothe his annoyance somewhat. "Nah. You're thinking of alternate timelines."

"Then what about that?"

"We're not really supposed to dip into those if we can help it. Definitely a last resort sort of deal. It creates the possibility for people to run into themselves; fractures the separation between realities. Doppelganger action is a one-way ticket to hell for the Universe. Also the fact that, like parallel timelines, there are MULTITUDES of alternate timelines where everything's the same except one little thing, meaning it'd take a shit-ton of time to comb through 'em all-- most likely more time than we’ve got. There're several versions of you out there, Kuro, but you're this one. You should focus on that."

"This's all real confusin’…" the Sheriff mumbled, deflating a little. He was so sure he'd had a good idea under his belt, but hell, what did he really know about the way that reality worked?

"Mm. Anything else?" Cthugha asked tersely, eager to move on.

"Just one more thing," Kuro affirmed, shifting in his place for a moment before deciding that brevity was more favourable than kindness. "... how does this girl stayin' missin' end the world? People go missin' all the time. Some come home, some're found dead. Some’re never found, yet the world keeps on spinnin’. 's just a cruel fact’a life."

For the first time since their meeting, Cthugha fell silent. A harrowing emptiness entered his eyes as he thought about the bleak future that awaited them if they did nothing. A hazy field of fire, the once clean air ashen and thick. The destruction spread like cancer, first exploding in Huron before it gradually spread outward. What was perhaps even more frightening was that the one responsible for it seemed impervious to the herculean effort required to topple a district; by the time he was done with Huron, he was already looking for a bigger, more developed fish to fry.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen the Universe in ruins by far, and he doubted it’d be the last.

That didn’t mean he was accustomed to seeing it though.

“Well,” he said softly, whiteboard pen twirled absentmindedly in between his fingers. “... let’s just say, grief does things to people. Do you have any clue who Mia’s father is?”

Slowly, Kuro squinted. “Aside from knowin’ his name ‘n’ his daughter’s case? No. Should I?”

“No. That’s exactly why ya should be worried: he’s got nothing left to lose. Do you think he’s going to care about hurting anyone when he’s hurting this much himself? He’s got no children to provide for; no public image to protect. When he loses his mind, he does it for real, and damned’re the consequences, get it?”

“Got it…” Kuro muttered. He knew all too well about people like Mr.Vanton. While an anonymous existence was ultimately a peaceful one, when crime was brought into the mix, it became a dangerous shield. Who suspected the nobody? Nobody, that’s who. “Then we gotta get movin’.”

“I have to ask,” Cthugha started as he stepped towards the chair he’d been sprawled in, reaching for his jacket and shrugging it on. Now that he had a little time to look over him properly, Kuro noted its strange cyan decals and the symbol that he’d never seen before adorning the right side; two parallel lines with a small triangle beneath the centre point of the bottom one. It looked vaguely like a seesaw with two slats on top instead of one. "What made you change your mind?"

“Well, I guess I never got over the fact that I couldn’t solve it. D’y’have any idea how hard it is t’look a parent in the eye ‘n’ tell ‘em that the search fer their child is over? There was nothin’ else I could do, but I still felt guilty. I figure, even if yer full’a shit ‘n’ this really is some heartless stunt all fer yer own amusement, I can at least make sure that there really was nothin’ else I could’a done fer the Vantons.”

The rifter hummed softly as he adjusted his tie. “Heh. Ya really are a good person.”

“Y’had doubt?”

“Who doesn’t? Much easier to expose a bad person who’s pretending to be good than to find an actual good person these days. I guess it’s just an unfortunate byproduct of evolution.”

“Yer wrong,” Kuro said firmly, pulling his black coat closed. The gun at his hip was touched briefly before he pocketed his hand, satisfied that he had everything he needed. “There’re a lot more good people in the world than bad. ’s just that the bad leave behind their messes t’clean up.”

“Well, whatever the truth is, it’s clear we’re dealing with a bad person here, huh? So, got any bright ideas?”

Already were the gears in his head turning. With the compiled notes to aid him, he knew of the place that he wanted to start with. It may have been a dead end-- wishful thinking more than anything-- but he wouldn’t be able to progress until he knew he’d upturned every stone on this property. “We should head t’the Valerie Vineyard first.”

#writeblr #original story #fandomless oc story #writing #novel drafts #tenuous ;

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pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

Text

when your love reaches me (iii)

summary: 1978 is decidedly not 2020. nor is your life ever the same when you meet a guitarist, curly haired, soft spoken, and true.

word count: 7.5k

warnings: angst, language, yearning for a man in his 70s (c’est la vie, i guess), over-describing a moment i’m very passionate about (sorry, not sorry! ten points to the person who can tell me what moment it is LOL)

a/n: wow—this gif? yeah, match made in heaven. thank you all so much for indulging me in this mini-series. i really am very proud of this silly little thing & i’m sad that it’s over because i enjoyed writing it so much. thank you to @im-an-adult-ish & @deacyblues for helping me work out the rough spots in this one. would love to hear everyone’s thoughts because i’m very ~emotional~ about this mini-series!! xoxo.

part i, part ii

in this final chapter: you must adjust because it’s not in your cards to be with him, is it?

you run your hands down your face, feel the ring on your finger catch along the end of your nose, and sigh. two months—two months without him. two months to adjust to world you once knew but happily left behind. two months to gather the pieces of the life which cruelly slipped through your fingers like water.

each day is the same. you rise early and take your coffee on the postage stamp terrace outside your flat. you watch the sun climb higher in the sky with each passing moment and let the warmth of your drink soothe the ache in your soul. you wash your breakfast dishes, mumble a good morning to rachel when she exits her bedroom to make her way to the shower, and dress for the day. you walk to campus if you have a class or take the underground to the museum if you have a shift. you come home, eat dinner, go to bed. repeat.

if rachel notices a change in you, she doesn’t say anything. in her mind, no time has passed between the morning where she asked you to come to the pub and the same evening you tumbled into the flat, drenched and sobbing.

but you—you’ve lost a year of your life. there’s no getting it back, and the only thing that proves it really truly happened is the ring on your middle finger, the necklace hanging by your heart, and the undeveloped rolls of film in your bedside table.

there are few words to describe the unbearable pain in your chest. anything and everything reminds you of brian: the whisper of the breeze in the autumn-heavy trees; the feeling of your warmest cardigan around your shoulders; the sound of someone laughing in the museum.

but there’s more:

the scent of cigarette smoke reminds you of roger. the sight of two friends ribbing one another in a grocery store reminds you of crystal. a colorful jacket makes you think of freddie, a whispered snide remark takes you back to john, and two girls giggling reminds you of giddy moments with anna.

around every corner you turn there’s a memory you cannot avoid, and it hurts—desperately, keenly, deeply.

so you push it all away and soldier on, quiet and downtrodden. it’s easier that way. maybe, if you forget, you can move on and make it through life without him.

six months after you’ve left brian behind, you’re approached by your boss at the museum with an opportunity you’d only ever dreamed of: the chance to create and prepare your own exhibit.

monica is firm when she offers you the south wing to reshape as your own. “blow this out of the water, [y/n], and there will be a job as assistant curator waiting for you after graduation. i want something fresh and exciting. think you can manage?”

you agree without hesitation.

for the first time in a long time, you can’t help but smile to yourself. this is your chance to put everything you’ve learned to good use, to put something tangible in your portfolio, to make a name for yourself.

you’re buzzing with excitement and have to practically hold rachel hostage as you spout your myriad of thoughts and ideas. she’s your sounding board, even if she doesn’t want to be, but she’s honest where it counts most, and you’re grateful for that.

she glances over the kitchen table, laden with open magazines, cutout photos, and history books. her brow puckers. “this is... really boring, [y/n],” she says with a cringe, looking up with her blue eyes and freckled face.

your shoulder droop. “that’s it? that’s all you have to say?”

she shrugs and reaches for a photo, inspecting it with a critical gaze. “i mean, ancient textiles might be interesting to you and maybe five other people, but it isn’t exactly blowing me out of the water.”

dropping to the seat across the table, you huff. “well, we’re a photography museum, rachel. it’s not like i can whip up a few outfits and put them on mannequins.”

“excuse me, but fashion design is just as artistic as curating a museum—if not more so.” she sighs and puts the photo of a thirteenth century chinese table linen on the table. “there must be something else you’re interested in? something that other people will like just as much?”

you don’t mean to, but you let your eyes trail to the camera sitting on on the tv stand. you’d left it there after your return, uncertain where to put it. sometimes you catch a glimpse of it out of the corner of your eye and then you remember the tubes of film in your bedroom, undeveloped and unseen.

rachel follows your gaze. “you know, you never told me where you got that.”

“it was a gift.”

“oh really? from who?”

you’re slow to answer. the truth sits on the tip of your tongue—the man i love, the man i was going to marry—but you bite it back. “my great-aunt. she left it to me... in her will.”

you aren’t sure what compels you to retrieve the six rolls of film from your bedroom, but you do. the tubes feel heavy in your palm and clang against the table as you put them down. rachel looks at them then back at you, waiting.

“she gave me these, too.”

“i didn’t know you had a great-aunt.”

“we weren’t close.”

“obviously you were close enough to get these things.” rachel lifts one of the tubes, turning it over in her palm. “wonder what the pictures are.”

“i’m not sure,” you lie. “maybe they could make an exhibit.”

“i think you’d have to develop them first then make that decision.” she rises from the table and shrugs on her coat. “i’ve got a date, so don’t wait up. and try not to let this consume you too much? you’ve been down and out lately. i think the work will do you good, but don’t let it take over, yeah?”

you nod and wish her well on her date. she leaves the flat in a flourish, leaves you to the tubes of film and the growing curiosity in your stomach.

you really should get them developed. if not for an exhibit, then for yourself. an entire year of your life is in those tubes, and you deserve to see the photos you’d taken to preserve that time.

it’s been six months. you’ve purposefully distanced yourself from anything and everything related to queen, be it a simple news story, a song on the radio, or any of roger or brian’s social media posts. it hurts to see them, to know that they’re so close yet so far away, that they have no idea what became of you all those years ago in japan.

still, it’s been six months. developing the film might be your first step toward a sense of closure. you don’t want to stay in your rut forever. though you’re comfortable with the idea that brian might be your great love and you’ll never find another, you know you can’t stay as you are, sullen and despondent. it’s like a break-up, really. you’re sad, heartbroken over the loss, but you know it’s time to step out of the hurt and into something different.

before you can stop yourself, you grab the rolls of film, your purse, and your jacket, and you head for the nearest photo shop.

a few hours later, you return with a heavy packet of freshly-printed photographs and a usb drive full of digital scans. there’s over two hundred photos to sort through, and you’ve yet to see one.

flipping on the light to your living room, you sit down beside the coffee table, a glass of wine at your side, the table cleared of any lingering books or empty teacups. before you open the packet of photos, you open your laptop and type your search into the search bar. if you’re going to quell your curiosity tonight, you might as well quell all of it, and you’re dying to know what happened after you left.

a simple internet search confirms what you already know: your presence within the group on the jazz tour did not alter any significant events. freddie still passed away, john still retired. a further search yields at least one previously nonexistent queen song written by brian may: “into thin air.” it was released in the album following jazz. you can’t bring yourself to listen to it, not yet. a deeper search unearths an interview brian gave a year or so after you left. the interview was published in a magazine editorial covering of each of queen’s band members and their lives when not on tour or recording. after freddie’s bit, there’s a photograph of brian at the top of a new page. he’s smiling, but he looks weary and he mentions you only once: “i was engaged for awhile, but that ended in an unfortunate circumstance, so to answer your question: no, i’m not looking for love. not right now, anyway.”

you close the laptop and lean back against the sofa. the ring on your finger feels heavy. your eyes fill with unshed tears, and you decide the photos can wait to be seen until tomorrow.

the packet of photos ends up sitting on the coffee table for two weeks before you invite your co-worker, shamik, over for wine and cheese and museum gossip. shamik is kind, a first-generation immigrant from india with personality to spare and an exuberance for all things american. he claims it’s his greatest curse that his parents brought him to britain as a baby instead of america, and it’s something he can never forgive them for. you’ve only interacted with shamik at work, but when you mention your exhibit project, he’s eager to offer his help. with no new ideas outside ancient textiles, you’re willing to take whatever advice or ideas he has.

sitting beside him on the couch, you spread your collection of papers and pictures on the table to explain your vision. he listens dutifully, nodding along, his eyes scanning the 3-d projection you’ve made of what the exhibit might look like once completed. when you’ve finished your spiel, he sets his wine glass down and nods to the packet of unopened photographs on the edge of the table.

“what’s that?”

you frown, shaking your head at the sudden turn in conversation. “sorry?”

he reaches for the manilla envelope. “oh, it’s hefty! what’s in here?”

you sigh and take the packet from his hands. it feels solid in your lap, like a brick. “photos from my great-aunt.”

he points to the sealed flap. “it’s unopened.”

“i haven’t gotten the chance to look through it yet.” setting the packet to the side, you raise your eyebrows. “well, what do you think? about the exhibit?”

“honestly? it’s dull. monica won’t be impressed.”

you throw yourself back against the couch with a groan. “what the hell,” you whisper. “i’ve got no ideas then.”

you know ancient textile photography would not be the most enticing exhibit, but it’s been an interest of yours for some time and would be easy enough to complete. shamik and rachel’s reactions do not bode well, you have to admit. having a job as an assistant curator right out of the gate would be beyond marvelous, and you desperately don’t want to screw it up with a boring first exhibit.

“let’s have a look at these pictures from your aunt!” before you can stop him, shamik reaches across your lap for the photo packet and rips open the top. “maybe that will spark some ideas?”

you lean forward, blush already rising to your cheeks as he pulls out the first picture. “oh no, shamik, i don’t know if—”

“holy shit!”

you shut your eyes, wincing.

“that’s fucking freddie mercury!” shamik grabs your shoulder, his fingers digging into your flesh. “did you know about this, [y/n]? that’s your aunt with freddie mercury!”

forcing your eyes open, you look at the photo trembling between his fingers. it’s a picture of you sitting beside freddie on the tour bus. (you think john took the photo in an effort to get you to stop taking photos of him when he was asleep while roger and crystal placed as many items on his head as they could before he fully awoke.) your head is against freddie’s shoulder, your eyes droopy with sleep. a lump rises in your throat, and all you can do is shake your head in feigned disbelief as shamik continues to shuffle through the photos.

“oh my god, your aunt was a groupie,” he cries, passing you another photo.

“i guess—” you clear your throat. “i guess she was.”

“you know”—shamik sets the pile of photos down and spreads them across the table, obscuring your vision of an ancient textiles display—“this would make a great exhibit.”

“shamik—” your voice is a warning, a sudden surge of anger rising in your chest, but he continues.

“no, really, [y/n]! there are so many photos here that tell such a cutesy little story. i mean, come on? freddie and this cat?” he lifts the photo in question. “it’s stuff people have never seen before from a totally different side of queen. it’s a fucking goldmine!”

“absolutely not,” you say. “i will not put my aunt’s personal affairs on display.”

“think of monica, [y/n]! think of the job!”

“no, shamik!” you stand from the table and drop your plates in the kitchen sink with a resolute clatter. “i barely knew my aunt, but i know enough to gather that her time with queen was private. she didn’t say anything about it until she died. that’s got to mean something, and i don’t want to air it all out for everyone to see and speculate and gossip about just for my own personal gain.”

you’re shouting, fists clenched at your sides, by the time you finish. shamik just stares at you, his face blank and unreadable. he glances down at a photo.

“she looks a lot like you,” he says, his voice even.

you huff and take the wine glasses from the table. “we’ve got strong family genes. now, please, i’d appreciate it if you just drop the whole queen thing. we can find some other idea.”

you gather the photos, shove them back in the folder, and toss the envelope in the nearest drawer you can find. the drawer slams shut, and you leave the photos there to gather dust.

you mull over shamik’s idea of an exhibit based on your photos for a month before you finally relent. monica’s riding your ass daily with questions about your progress. you need to get something down on paper for her to give to the contractors, so you begrudgingly type out a response to her most recent email:

monica,

i’ve landed on an exhibit topic at last. took me long enough, right?

i’ve recently come into possession of a series of photographs taken by my late great-aunt. turns out she was a groupie with the band queen in the ‘70s. my exhibit will be centered around those photos. i’m thinking the exhibit will be titled “queen: unfiltered.” do with that what you will. :)

monica, much to your dismay, loves the idea and sends you right to work on gathering and laying out your vision while she begins the necessary promotion.

it hurts at first—looking at all the photos you took, remembering the way you felt so unearthly happy during that year. you cry each time you sit down to sort out the best of the pictures. the ones which capture a moment of levity amongst the band or are particularly well-shot go in a pile on the left. the ones which didn’t develop well or are too intimate for you to ever consider putting on display go in a pile on the right. your bedroom floor is a mess of drafted captions written on slips of printer paper, photographs with notes scrawled along the back, and used tissues. more than anything, you wish you could step into the world behind those photographs. you want to be back there—with him, with them—until you grow old and gray. knowing you can’t, that you won’t ever see him again, tears you apart inside.

but it helps. the exhibit forces you to acknowledge the time you spent with brian, with queen. instead of leaving the photos in a drawer, they confront you everyday as you sit down to work, and everyday it gets a little bit easier to face your past. as the tears subside, you find yourself laughing whenever you find a new photo of roger’s antics. your heart doesn’t clench as much when you run across another photo of you and brian. you can smile now when you look at his face. he really was so handsome...

you go so far as to frame your favorite photograph of your time together and place it on your dresser. he’s got his arms wrapped around you from behind, his chin settled on the top of your head. you’re laughing, your hands folded on his arms, legs crossed as you tilt to the side. he’s making a face, his tongue stuck out at the camera, and every time you pass by the picture, you can’t help but chuckle.

you love him still. you’ll love him always.

with three weeks before the opening of the exhibit, the stress is starting to get the better of you. you’ve bitten your nails down to the quick, there’s heavy bags under your eyes from lack of sleep, and you can’t remember the last time you consumed something other than coffee. despite the stress, you feel lighter. working through the photos, laying them out in order, writing the captions, pouring over the faces of the ones you love so dearly—it’s all helped ease the burden in your heart. for the first time in a long time, you slip out of bed in the mornings with a newfound sense of energy and purpose.

life will go on. just as you did when you fell into the past, you will find a new future.

arms laden with exhibit proposals and mock-ups, you brush into your local coffee shop—pretty bird—intent on getting some real work done on choosing the final photographs before you send them off to be printed. you order your usual and take a seat by the front. the air which wafts through the open window at your side is warm with spring and rebirth, and you breathe deep, cracking open the lid of your laptop. you manage to pick a total of twelve of the seventy-six needed photographs before you’re interrupted.

“whatcha workin’ on?” matthew, barista extraordinaire and casual acquaintance, sits down on the bench across from you. he has his own cup of cold brew poised between his lips, and the piercing in his eyebrow wiggles as he moves his brow up and down.

“an exhibit for the museum,” you say, pausing to roll your tight shoulders. “it’s my first.”

“do tell!”

you explain, briefly, how to came to acquire your dead aunt’s photographs and the general theme of the showcase. he nods in approval then snaps as if he’s remembered something.

“hold on. stay right there. i’ll be right back.” he puts his coffee down, scoots off of the bench, and darts to the back of the coffee shop. you wait and listen to the sound of the birds twittering outside before he returns with a framed picture in hand. “i just learned about this,” he says, taking his seat again. “this building used to be a disco back in the 70s.” he hands you the frame and points to a collection of people in the middle of a disco bar. “that’s queen. they came here once and somebody had the smarts to take a picture.”

your hands shake around the photograph, eyes darting from one corner of the picture to another.

matthew keeps talking. “the place was called climax. can you believe that? the 70s were fuckin’ wild, mate.”

you nod, lips parted, and skim your fingers over the incredibly tall and recognizable form of brian in the center of the photo. you can see your shoulder, jammed between freddie and crystal, but the rest of your body is obscured. you lift your eyes from the frame and glance around the coffee shop, at the exposed metal beams and vaulted ceilings, at the disco ball still hanging in the center of the room.

makes sense now. why the building had felt so eerily familiar back then.

handing matthew the picture frame, you sit back in your chair. “wonder if my aunt ever came,” you say.

“maybe? sounds like she was in pretty tight. you know who you could ask?” you shake your head, uncertain of matthew’s question. “chris taylor. he was a roadie back then. he’s a regular here. comes in at least twice at week.”

you can’t stop the hand that flies to your mouth in surprise. you try to smother your gasp with a cough, but matthew still stares at you like you’ve sprouted another head.

“you okay?” he asks warily.

nodding, you take a sip of your drink. “yeah, yeah, sorry! wrong pipe.”

“so, do you want to meet him and ask about your aunt?”

everything in you screams to say no. it’s too dangerous. you will surely break the moment you see him. crystal became your lifeline apart from brian during that year. he was your brother, your partner in crime, the one who kept you grounded when things got too wild. just knowing that he’s frequented the same coffee shop as you for the last six months brings tears to your eyes. you could have run into him. hell, you might’ve already. still, you aren’t sure if you’d be able to make it through a proper meeting without spilling your guts and apologizing for the way you left.

“[y/n]?” matthew pulls you from your thoughts. “what do you think?”

you hesitate before shrugging. you speak before you can stop yourself, before the rational and reasonable part of you can take over. god, you need this. if it’s your only opportunity for true closure, you’ll take it. “if he’s up to it then... sure.”

matthew grins. “come in tomorrow. i’ll introduce you!”

that night you toss and turn. you’re plagued with anxiety. will crystal recognize you? if he does, what will he say? will he be angry? what if he tells brian and then—

your bedside alarm goes off just as you fall asleep. it’s a struggle to drag yourself out of bed, but you must. there’s closure somewhere around the corner, and if you just move your ass, you’ll find it. you have one class this morning then your meeting with crystal. you’re jittery by the time you leave class, but you chalk that up to drinking two cups of coffee before leaving your flat and one in class.

it’s drizzling as you make your way to the coffee shop. you hasten your steps, head bent against the rain and fingers curled around the strap of your bag. when you enter the shop, it’s nearly empty aside from a few lonesome students studying in far off corners. you can hear the faint thrill of music over the loudspeakers, but the blood that’s rushing to your ears blocks out most of the melody.

crystal’s already here, leaning against the counter, in conversation with matthew.

you stop in your tracks. he’s bald now, slightly pudgier with age, but he looks every bit as devilish as you remember.

you swallow past the fear in your throat and the anxiety in your veins and step forward. you voice wobbles when you speak. “matthew?” you direct your entrance to your friend because if you come right out and say crystal’s name, you will surely fall over in a puddle of emotion.

“there you are!” matthew jumps over the counter in one easy leap and lands to the floor beside you. he drapes his arm around your shoulders and motions to crystal. “[y/n], i’d like you to meet chris taylor. chris, this is [y/n], the girl i was telling you about.”

crystal’s staring at you through his blue-tinted glasses like he’s seen a ghost. his jaw has gone slack, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to formulate a sentence.

you shove your hand into the space between you. “nice to meet you, mr. taylor.”

looking between matthew and yourself, he gathers himself, clearing his throat, and shakes your hand. “you too.”

“should we sit?” you motion to the same table you occupied the day before. “i can buy you a coffee for your troubles.”

he shakes his head and lifts his cup. “already got mine.”

“all right, well...” you glance at matthew.

“do you want your regular?” he asks.

“yes, please.”

“comin’ right up.”

crystal follows you to the table and sits down, his movements slow. for a moment, you sit in silence and allow his eyes to roam your face. you can’t tell if he knows it’s you or if he thinks it’s just a coincidence. you want to reach out and take the hand he rubs across the bridge of his nose, but you fold your fingers in your lap.

“thank you for agreeing to talk with me,” you finally say.

“you aunt,” he starts.

“yes, my aunt.” you pull a photograph out of your bag. it’s one of the few you took with crystal all those years ago. he’s got you in a headlock, his opposite fist grinding into the top of your skull. you slide the picture across the table. “you knew her?”

crystal lifts the photo, inspects it, before putting it down. he sighs, shaking his head. “i loved that woman. broke my heart when she left.” his gaze lifts from the table. “you look like her, have her name too.”

you look away, out the window at the side. there’s bird fluttering in a puddle on the sidewalk, and you watch it for a moment before turning back to him. “i think my mother loved her a great deal. i didn’t get the chance to know her, though. we only just found these pictures recently.”

his eyes narrow. “i mean, you really look like her.”

you force a smile. “thank you. that’s kind of you.” shifting, you tap your finger on the table. “i know her leaving wasn’t exactly...” you struggle to find the proper word, but he jumps to assist.

“natural?”

“well, i was going to say easy, but—”

“she fuckin’ disappeared! excuse my language.” huffing, he drops back against his chair. “one minute she was there, the next minute she was gone. i swear, i’ve never seen anyone skip town that fast.”

“she didn’t say anything about leaving?”

“why would she? she was engaged! she had no reason to leave that i know of.”

“was she happy?”

“hell yes. her and brian—i’ve never seen two people more fit for one another. brian just about lost his mind trying to find her, but it was like she never existed. strangest thing.” he pauses to take a sip of his coffee, looking askance, before his eyes whiz back to yours. “oh my fucking god.”

you look up, fear sparking in your belly. “what?”

“[y/n]?”

you blink. your head feels dizzy with the way he’s looking at you, like he’s about to jump across the table and throttle you or hug you so tight your insides might squeeze out of your body.

“fuck,” he breathes. “it is you.”

“i don’t know know what you’re—”

“don’t play dumb with me!” he leans across the table and lowers his voice. “i was the one who got you that phony passport, remember? i always wondered why i couldn’t find your credentials. had to lie my way through it until i got the damn thing. you’re lucky everything was so lax in the 70s.” he shakes his head. “how’d you do it?”

there’s part of you that wants to deny, deny, deny.

but it’s crystal. you can’t lie to him any more than you already have.

“i had no choice in the matter,” you say plainly. “one minute i was here, the next minute i was there, and the next minute i was here again.”

his jaw works back and forth as he processes the information. “does brian know?”

“no—and i’d like to keep it that way.”

“i thought we might lose him after you left.”

you twist the ring on your finger. “if i’d had the choice, i would have stayed. i hope you know that.”

crystal nods. “yeah, i do.” he holds your gaze then motions to your bag. “so, this exhibit matthew told me about. you’re publishing all those photos you took?”

“yes. there are some pictures i’ve saved for myself, but my boss, monica, she got permission from the record label to go ahead with the others. it opens in three weeks.”

“i’ll be there if i can. i’d like to see those pictures.”

you smile, your first earnest smile of the day. “you feature many times.”

he ducks his head like an embarrassed schoolboy. “we were thick as thieves, weren’t we?”

“you and roger were thicker, but i’d like to think i had a part to play some of the time.”

he lifts his head and heaves a heavy sigh. “you know, when i said i loved you, i meant it. not in the way brian did. you were like a kid sister to me. i cared for you a great deal.”

before you can stop yourself, you slip your hand across the table to grasp his worn fingers. his shoulders shake on another sigh, and he lifts his opposite hand to wipe at his eyes beneath his glasses.

“oh, crystal. i’m so sorry,” you whisper. it hurts to see him cry, to know that you’re the cause behind his pain.

he waves your apology away, sniffing hard. “i’m just glad to know you’re okay. we thought you might’ve gotten picked up or—” he shakes his head and pats your hand over his, meeting your eyes. “you’re okay, though. that’s what matters.”

“will you really come to my exhibit?”

“anything for you, kid.” he thumbs the underside of your chin with a lopsided grin. “even after all this time, i’m putty in your hands.”

you grin and hand him a business card, which he tucks in the folds of his wallet. rising from his seat, he opens his arms and you practically trip into his hug. he holds you tight for the briefest of moments before pulling back. he pats your cheek.

“i’ll see you in three weeks, yeah? if i stay any longer i’ll end up a sobbin’ mess on the floor.”

you nod. “yeah. and, crystal?” he turns at the door. “don’t tell brian. please.”

he leaves without another word.

the day of the exhibit opening you are equal parts thrilled and a nervous wreck. everyone’s here—your family, rachel, shamik, even matthew. you haven’t seen crystal amidst the crowd mingling in the lobby, but you trust him to show. he’s always been reliable, and you doubt he’ll fail you now.

monica squeezes your shoulder as she passes you by in the staff hallway. “it looks wonderful, [y/n]. consider yourself hired,” she says and hands you a keycard. “i’m going to give you a piece of advice i got when i completed my first exhibit: go have a moment by yourself. look at your work, be proud of it. you deserve it.”

with trembling fingers and a racing heart, you make your way down the corridor to the south exhibit hall. due to a celebratory lunch with rachel the day before, you hadn’t gotten the chance to see the room in its final state. in retrospect, you’re thankful for the chance to see it for the first time alone. at least this way, if you cry, no one will have to know.

the door beeps as it unlocks, and you slip inside the room. you descend the handful of stairs which lead into the showroom floor and suck in a deep breath.

before entering the exhibit, there’s a wall to the side with a simple explanation written in a white font:

queen: unfiltered — this exhibit preserves and presents never-before-seen images of the popular band, queen, through the eyes of an unnamed woman who spent a year traveling the world on queen’s jazz album tour. her images are intimate yet distinctive and offer a personal glimpse into the lives of one of britain’s most well-known bands.

at the far end of the room hang four banners spanning floor to ceiling. the banners wave gently in the air blowing throughout the room, illuminated from lights on the ceiling and floor. each banner hosts an oversized photo of one of the band’s members in an image that best captures their personality. it took you hours to find the right photo for each man, but you stand by your choice for each one.

there’s john on the far left, head bent as he strums the bass across his knee. his lips are pursed in thought, a line of concentration on his brow.

there’s freddie next to him. he stands in a spanish alley way, cradling a stray cat in his arms. he looks serenely on at the camera, a rare moment of simplicity.

there’s brian sat in an overstuffed armchair, his gangly legs crossed, a book open on his lap. he has the corner of his thumb in his mouth, and if you squint you can see the edge of his tongue.

there’s roger on the far right. he’s smiling at the camera, his eyes bright with mischief and joy. there’s a party hat snug on the crown of his head, pulling the skin of his forehead taut.

on opposite sides of the room, two parallel rows of twelve photos hang in neat order. you decided to have every photograph in the exhibit printed in black-and-white and, in all, you painstakingly picked the forty-eight photos featured in their simple white frames. you walk along the wall, hands clasped at your waist, eyes running over the memories you hold so dear.

the afternoon crystal taught you ride a bike in barcelona: you’re sat on the handlebars after a hard fall, mouth open in a squeal of delight as crystal whips toward the camera.

roger and john tossing an apple back and forth in an ottawa grocery store: john’s smile is broad, the apple caught on film midair.

brian sitting on the floor of your hotel suite: there’s a tray of sushi at his feet, and he’s smiling at you, his hair wet from a shower.

freddie playing the piano in the airport in yugoslavia: he’d been so excited to see one, his shoes had slipped on the slick floor as he ran to it. he’d played dramatically, conducting those around him in a horrible rendition of “god save the queen.”

your eyes sting with tears as you glance about the room. you’re proud of your work. it looks good, professional and elegant, but more than that, you’re proud of yourself for the work you’ve done in mending your broken heart. though you will never live the life you’d once dreamed of, you will always have the memories—and that’s got to count for something.

when the double-doors open and monica ushers the first of the patrons in, you slip into the closest bathroom to wipe at the makeup smudged under your eyes. you’re happy, truly so, and you want to celebrate—celebrate both of your lives as they finally come together.

the room is crowded when you reenter, conversation and gentle laughter mingling in the air. you accept a tight hug from rachel when you see her and the congratulations of your parents. you can’t stop smiling, and you’re sure your face will hurt come morning, but it doesn’t really matter, does it?

your parents float away, hand in hand, and you find yourself alone in the center of the room, watching in awe as people you’ve never met look at your photos, at your memories, and nod in appreciation. your chest swells with an emotion you can’t place.

“i think this calls for a congratulations. you’ve outdone yourself, dove.”

you whirl on your heel, lip caught between your teeth in a poorly-concealed smile. “you came.”

crystal grins. the tie of his suit is rumbled and askew, and you reach out to straighten it. old habits die hard. “i said i would.”

“what do you think?”

“i think it’s fantastic. the lads would be proud.”

“maybe.” you shrug. “guess we’ll never know.”

“are you really so intent on staying hidden forever?”

you nod. “yes. it took everything in me to even talk to you. i don’t want to ruin their lives again by popping back up, especially because i’m not exactly old, am i?”

crystal laughs, shaking his head. “you must think you’re hot stuff if a simple hello could ruin a life.” his laughter fades into a simple smile. “now, i know you’re going to hate me and i’m willing to take that, but i did tell a certain someone about the exhibit.”

you can feel the blood drain from your face. “crystal, you didn’t.”

he winces. “i might’ve.”

you slap his arm and curl your fingers into his bicep. “you bastard!”

he holds up his hands in defense, decent enough to plaster a look of contrition on his face. “look, i didn’t tell him the context or what tipped me off. i just told him there was a new exhibit about queen and he was eager to come see. that’s all!”

you swallow hard, uncertain how to respond. “i—” your head twists back and forth in utter confusion. “i don’t know what to do.”

crystal’s face softens, and he nudges your shoulder. “go talk to him. he deserves that much, doesn’t he?”

you can’t argue with that.

giving crystal’s arm a grateful squeeze, your legs shake beneath you as you turn and see him—brian—across the room.

you don’t know how you didn’t see him before. even now, forty years later, he’s still unmistakeable: still tall, still gangly, but his hair has gone white and his strides are slower. the overwhelming urge to tear across the room and curl yourself around his back nearly overpowers you, but you shove it down and manage to cross the floor in slow, even steps. you keep your eyes glued to his back, your hands twitching at your sides. when you reach him and catch a faint whiff of his cologne, the same he wore all those years ago, you have to push back the tears that rise unbidden to your eyes.

you tap his shoulder. “dr. may?”

he circles around, as does his wife anita, her arm snug in his elbow.

brian blinks hard, his brow furrowed in confusion. for a moment, you let him stare at you as you stare right back. his eyes are the same. you’d thought they’d be different, but they aren’t. the realization stuns you silent.

anita glances between you both before smiling sweetly. “good evening, sweetheart,” she says, and her voice is so kind you can’t even summon the slightest bit of jealousy. “i’m afraid i didn’t catch your name.”

“oh, i’m sorry!” you laugh and find that smiling at anita isn’t hard. “my name’s [y/n] [y/l/n]. i created the exhibit. i thought i might come and introduce myself.”

“oh, how lovely!” anita claps her hands together. “what you’ve done is so beautiful, [y/n]. it’s nearly brought a tear to my eye.”

“that’s very kind of you, ma’am.”

“brian likes it too. don’t you, brian?”

he still can’t seem to formulate any sort of response. he’s frozen in place, and your heart lurches for him. to see the woman he’d once asked to marry him, the one so cruelly ripped away, while standing next to his wife... precisely why you never wanted to meddle in his current affairs.

finally, he seems to collect himself. he sucks in a deep breath and nods in agreement. “yes, i do. very much.”

“that means a lot,” you say, easing your smile back into place. “thank you.”

“i’ll leave you two to talk to for a moment. i see crystal hovering in the corner over there, and i’m sure you both have many questions for one another.” anita presses her hand on your arm as she passes. “lovely job, dear.”

she leaves, and you’re left alone with the greatest love of your life.

you wait for him to speak.

“you’re... alive?” it’s a question, not a statement.

“yes.”

“you’re the same age?”

“yes.”

“how did—” he shakes his head. “i don’t understand.”

“neither do i.”

his chin quivers slightly, and he looks away. “i thought you’d been taken or decided to—”

you dare to touch his arm. a spark jolts through your fingers at the slightest touch, but you hold firm. “nothing happened,” you explain. “other than nature righting her mistake.”

“i think—i think i need to sit down.”

“yes, of course. my office is down the hall. it’s quiet there.”

he nods and leans against your arm as you lead him down the hall. in the silence of your dimly lit office, he collapses to the loveseat beneath the window and drops his face to his hands. you hesitate in the doorway until he looks up. tears shimmer in his eyes, and you swallow hard, your smile wavering around the edges.

he stands then, crosses the floor, and cradles your face in his hands. “my god,” he breathes. “it really is you.”

with a laugh, you hold his wrists. “in the flesh.”

“how long’s it been?” his thumb works over your cheekbone and, though you know he should stop, you can’t bring yourself to step away from his touch.

“about seven months.”

he snorts. “try forty years.”

“you seem like you did well for yourself, though.”

he shrugs. “i suppose.”

“you’re happy?”

there’s a heavy pause before he says, “yes.”

“that’s all i want to hear.”

slipping out of his grasp, you put a modicum of space between you both. the air is thick with emotion, and your heart beats wildly against your chest. the love you thought you’d put to bed flares at the mere sight of him, even after all this time.

you drift your finger through the sand of your tabletop zen garden. “i told crystal not to tell you about me,” you admit.

“he didn’t—not in so many words.”

“i know. i’m glad he said something, though.” you pause, meet his gaze. “it’s so good to see you, bri.”

quiet falls over the room as he stares at you. you don’t squirm. you’re comfortable under his gaze, always have been.

“i hope you know i never stop looking,” he says. “even after anita, i kept trying to find you. just to know.”

“and i hope you know that i would do it all again in a heartbeat if it meant i got to be with you even for a time.”

your phone vibrates on the desk, skidding across your oversized calendar. you reach for the phone and flip it over before slipping it in the purse hung over your desk chair.

“i’ve got to go,” you admit, crossing to his side. “i’ve actually got a date.”

to your surprise, his eyes crinkle with amusement. “i’m happy to hear it.” he lifts a hand and smooths back the hair from the side of your face. he looks at you with all the love he did forty years ago, and you wish you could take a picture to remember forever.

but then you remember: you have dozens of photos at home, and it doesn’t seem too hard to let him go now. not after the work you’ve put into mending your heart. you can face this, face saying goodbye for good. you have to, for his sake and your own.

rising to your tiptoes, you place a hand on his shoulder and kiss the corner of his mouth—one last touch, for you both. you wind your arm around his neck and whisper in his ear, “i love you, brian may. i always will.”

he squeezes you hard against his body, sucking in a ragged breath. “i love you too, [y/n].”

dropping back to your heels, you huff a breath and smile wide. “well, i’d better go.”

“yes, you’d better. don’t keep the lad waiting.”

you bite the inside of your cheek, your hand lingering on his. “okay, well... goodbye, brian.”

he smiles, and it’s the loveliest sight you’ve ever seen. he brushes you cheek with the back of his hand, whispering, “see you later, love.”

dipping out the back of the museum, you walk down the street, purse slung over your shoulders. you think you’ll be able to sleep well for the first time in a long time tonight.

you hope he can, too.

~*~*~*

taglist: @bhmay @grigorlee @teenagepeterpan @just-my-sickly-pride @perriwiinkle @ubernoxa @anunknownnebula @coincidence-ithinknots-blog @captvinswaan @ineloqueent

#brian may #brian may x reader #brian may fic #brian may x you #queen #queen fic #queen x reader #j writes

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monchikyun · 3 years

Text

XVIII. bury a friend

It has been awfully quiet for about an hour now. As Connor ended his story with horrible dejection written all over his face, he turned around and initiated his stasis, refusing any and all comfort Gavin has been more than willing to provide. He did expect it to be something twisted and tragic like that, even imagined the worst possible scenario before being told how it really went down, just to be safe. If he’s honest with himself, the reality isn't very far from the most fucked up course of events his mind has been able to cook up. Still, it has been able to freeze the blood in his veins, which has paralysed his brain for the amount of time it took Connor to withdraw to his simulated sleep.

Gavin has already cursed himself for being so goddamn incompetent when it comes to emotional issues, blamed himself for the cold shoulder he didn't even have the chance to receive. He still does, as he lies glued to the bed, counting the cracks in the ceiling. His nicotine addiction is begging him to go into the cold and give it what it needs to survive, but the warmth of his current company is impossible to leave. His hand aches for the smallest touch, for some confirmation that Connor is still here with him. So he directs his sight to the body next to him, letting himself be mesmerised by the constellations of freckles decorating the android's bare arm. It's a painful view, knowing that he still doesn't have the right to connect those dots with his own defects, to interpose himself with this amazing, flawed being who has carved a hole in his chest and invaded his heart.

He remembers how the android was back when he found him on the roof, finally realising the enormous difference created by the months they’ve spent together. Last spring he dreaded going to work, feared that Connor just wouldn’t show up one day and he wouldn’t be able to see him ever again. Or worse, all that would remain of him would be the empty vessel that used to house his colourful soul, something that would kill his last hopes. He was tempted to become a well-meaning stalker then, to always be near for when a potential threat arrives, but that idea was too exhausting for him in the end, and so he left his worries to a silent prayer which guided him all through to summer.

With the warmth came the first smile and a myriad of gratitudes for his uncharacteristic kindness. That’s when they started having casual conversations, a big leap from the uncomfortable silences that filled their shared hours in the previous season. It was somewhere in July when he first regarded Connor as his friend, without his vigilant denial disagreeing that fact. Gavin has always found the android very attractive, like an eye candy specifically developed for his torment, but knowing there was a whole, unpolished person behind that plastic perfection has made his partner so much more appealing. He simply couldn’t stop himself getting drawn to him, despite all the countless attempts to emotionally distance himself from the one who lived inside his dreams. It was either letting himself be eaten by the monsters living in his past, or inviting in the one person who has the power to push them away from his corrupted mind.

For the longest time, he did neither. Though his inability to act on his feelings was due to more than just the inherent fragility of their source, he was simply afraid like he has always been when it comes to things that have the potential to hurt him. He'd rather be thrown in a paper shredder than to have his soul bruised again. Physical pain is easy to understand, straightforward in its healing. Time usually takes care of what needs to be done, but when it comes to the mind, sometimes even passing years will have little to no effect on the waste that has accumulated in someone’s innermost core. And Gavin didn't want to add onto the rotting pile of mess that has already been too much to bear as it is. But that was months ago, and as the earth was becoming colder, the warmth that had started budding inside of him turned into sweltering heat.

When autumn was nearing its end, he understood that he would soon burn up if he didn’t begin dealing with his problem. Maybe that’s how they got here, to a place where he doesn’t have to call his feelings inconvenience anymore, having breached the border that has kept them apart all these months. He wants to stop fighting it for good. This truth is sent to him from above as he puts his fingers on Connor's bare temple, tracing the ghost of the LED that used to signify his nature.

He'd like to say that the fact that one of them isn't human is what prevented them from giving into their hearts' desires, but that is far from the truth. Life is much more complicated than that, not as black and white as he wants it to be.

Gavin wishes their relationship was defined, so he could casually take the android in his arms and hold him away from the evil of the world, just for a short while, just so he can expand his collection of irreplaceable moments that he doesn't ever want to forget.

He considers getting just a bit closer, weighing all the pros and cons that ultimately mean nothing because deep down he recognises that their sentiments are shared. So he lowers his steadying hand down from Connor’s temple, ready to enfold everything his partner represents. But fortune isn’t on his side tonight, because as soon as he begins his movement, Connor wakes up with a jerk that betrays confusion lined up with its best friend, unease.

"Did you have a nightmare?" Gavin is more than familiar with the concept of being tortured by his own psyche as he lays it to rest, so he's aware of just how disorienting such illusions can be, how unrelentingly cruel and merciless they often are.

"No, no... I-... androids can't normally dream. I wasn't really sleeping, just… thinking. More than I should."

Gavin scoots over so their shoulders are just about touching, a decision his conscious mind has had no say in.

"Do you wanna talk 'bout it?" A quiet, tentative question just barely escapes his lips for fear he gets denied entrance into Connor's trove of dark secrets.

There is a short, excruciating period of silence before he gets his answer.

"You know how I can preconstruct any future scenario based on the information available to me?"

"Yeah? I mean… sorta. Can't really wrap my mind around your technical stuff most of the time." That's only partially a lie. He ought to tell him that he doesn't want to picture his inner workings because they kind of scare him, but maybe that would be too inappropriate given the frailty of this moment.

"Well… I saw you get buried…,” the android breathes out for reasons Gavin can only guess, “after you died, naturally."

"Naturally."

Why doesn't this even surprise him anymore. Of course Connor would paint himself the grimmest image possible, these are just his default settings. Give him the brightest colours and he'd draw you the darkest sky without a single star in sight.

"That's not… I'm sorry I,... I didn't mean to… I just couldn't stop it since it went that way and…"

"Hey, it's okay.” It hurts seeing Connor get like that, losing most of his coherency and feeling like he should apologise for it.

“How…," Gavin takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing thoughts down. Connor was the one who saw his funeral, not him, yet he feels like he’s been there already, among the dirt, not far from other decaying corpses. It’s an uncanny sensation. Not one he’ll be chasing any time soon.

"How did it make you feel?" A stupid question, really, and yet the best his brain has to offer.

"How do you think?" Gavin never knew that tears could fit an incredulous look, but the welling in Connor's eyes combined with the exasperation written all over his face is proof enough. Laughable, frankly, but he wouldn't dare. Not now, anyway.

"Guess it sucked then."

"That's putting it mildly." The android shakes his head and rubs his eyes before they have the chance to leak his sorrow.

"I… I don't ever want to go through that again,” he says, desperation piercing his voice through and through. It would be easy to dismiss these ungrounded worries if it wasn’t for the two flaming brown lights probing his own mossy pools like they intend to hypnotise them and seize control over his soul.

"You know that no one can force you to… be there... when it happens."

"You don’t get it! That's not the point. I don't want to live in a world where two of my best friends are nothing but a memory. I realise that’s selfish, but… "

Gavin does, by all means, get it, he just tried to help, somehow.

Connor’s eyes are turning into glass, threatening to melt again, so he closes his because God knows he does not possess the strength to witness it, not tonight at least.

"Maybe you should just relax Con, the future will come no matter what, but we still have the might to shape it as we like. To some extent. Anyway,... I promise…," he cuts the sentence midway to inhale a big gulp of oxygen, an action which results in a minor coughing fit.

"I promise to try my best to stay by your side as long as physically possible. " A statement which makes him want to cry instead.

"Does it mean you’ll stop smoking then?"

Oh, that devious android, of course this conversation would lead here, why wouldn't it. He glances at his nightstand, checking if the half-full box of cigarettes is still there, waiting for him to take its lethal fruit. Come to think about it, ever since their little trip his taste for cigarettes has somewhat diminished. Could be the fresher air just outside these thin walls, or the fact that Connor’s presence stimulates him enough already, so the need for nicotine is not as great as it is when he has to spend his time alone or surrounded by people who hold little to no significance to him, pretending like he doesn't crave something beyond the drug his body could very well function without.

"Yeah..., yeah, okay." Gavin buries his face in his hands, disbelieving his consent.

As he puts them away and folds them in his lap, he scroungers up a lazy smile meant to lighten up the heavy mood, to maybe clear Connor’s stormy sky a little.

"But only if you promise to try to be more optimistic… just a smidge.., " he makes a gesture with his two fingers to show how small of an effort would suffice.

Then he gives Connor a friendly pat on his thigh, after which he realises that he doesn't have to limit his displays of affection anymore, not after all the intimacy they have been willing to submit themselves to already.

So he lets his palm linger, allowing himself to rub gentle circles into the clothed skin. He doesn't have to be cautious with Connor, for the android isn't burdened with any biological organs that would make this situation uncomfortable for both parties.

"Life isn't all bad, I’m sure you came across that particular information at least once during your time on this Earth. Experienced it, even. No?"

"You're right."

A trace of a hesitant smile on Connor’s lips is all that it takes for Gavin to heave a sigh of relief. He’s too tired to think beyond that feeling. Everything inside of him, all the emotions and memories blend into a blurry mixture as he starts losing the ground under his feet.

But he must fight it, his friend still needs him awake...

"Let's go to sleep," Connor whispers, tugging him into a tender embrace. It’s warm and safe and he can't concentrate on anything but the wave of love pulling him under to the sweet slumber he’s always yearned for.

Indeed, life can be ever so wonderful sometimes.

@a-convin-new-year

#aconvinnewyear #convin #low-temperature burn #this one is long... comparably #also sorry it took forever to post #im trying my good

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echo-bleu · 4 years

Text

Movie Night

For @insidious-intent. Happy birthday!! 🎉 I’m really glad that you’re, like, six hours behind me, because this took me way too long to finish. I hope you like it!

“Michael?” Liz says when she picks up the phone.

Michael can hear the frown in her voice. They're friends, but Michael has never called her for anything that wasn't science or an emergency. He would have called Max, but he's been fighting the after-effect of exhausting his weak heart healing Alex for weeks, and he's usually too tired to pick up the phone.

“Movie and pizza night,” he says. “Tonight, at Alex's. You think Max can handle that?”

“Probably not,” Liz says. “He tried to work, again. He's passed out on his couch.”

“Damn,” Michael mutters.

“I think Rosa could use a breather, though. She invited?”

“Yeah, sure. You should come too, give yourself a night off caring for my idiot brother. Bring beers,” Michael orders.

“What's the occasion?”

“Alex is having a bad day, and Valenti turned out to be completely uneducated in the classics. We can't let that continue.”

There's a blank, then Liz clears her throat.

“I agree,” she says. “What are we watching?”

“Star Wars,” Michael answers. “We'll start with A New Hope and go on until we fall asleep.”

“Kyle has never watched Star Wars? Isn't that a crime?”

“Alex says it's not, but we could double check,” Michael joins in on the banter with a smile.

“What's wrong with Alex?” Liz asks more quietly.

“He...fell, and then he tried to walk with his prosthesis when he shouldn't have. It's nothing life-threatening, but he's in pain and he's been stuck at home for two days, so he could use a pick-me-up.”

“Of course. Rosa and I will be here. Have you asked Maria yet?”

Michael sighs, leaning on the hood of his car. “Rosa's coming. Maria still won't speak to me, and things aren't comfortable between her and Alex.”

“I get that, but they're friends, they should make things up−wait, Alex doesn't know you're inviting us?”

“I have...” Michael looks at his watch, “about two hours to tell him. I'm still at work, Sanders needed me today. I'm about to head to his place. I don't think Maria's a good idea today.”

“Fine,” Liz sighs. “I'll text Rosa, see if she needs me to pick her up. See you tonight.”

“Thanks,” Michael manages to get out before she hangs up.

“Alex!” Michael calls when he opens the door of the house with his key. Alex was on the couch when he left this morning, but he's not there anymore.

“Bathroom!” Alex calls back.

Michael finds him standing by his medicine cabinet in the bathroom, both crutches in one hand, the other rummaging through pill bottles.

“What are you looking for?” he asks, coming up behind him.

“Back up painkillers,” Alex says, just turning his head enough to give him a strained smile. “Can't seem to find them.”

Michael frowns. He was careful to leave Alex with everything he might need on hand, this morning, including his regular bottle of painkillers. If he needs the back up one, it means he's maxed out and he's still in pain, which is not good news.

“Let me,” Michael says.

Alex hops back to let him come closer. “Thanks,” he says, sounding relieved.

Given Alex's usual fierce independence, Michael frowns at that too. “Here,” he says, picking out a pill bottle out of the half-dozen in the cabinet.

“Thank you,” Alex repeats. “Sorry, the pain's making me fuzzy.”

“Come on,” Michael prompts him to start his way back to the living room. “I'll get you some water.”

Alex nods and gets situated on his crutches. His gait is only slightly less graceful than usual−Michael is always impressed at how comfortable Alex is with crutches. It makes sense, of course, given how long he had to use them before his stump was healed enough for the prosthetic, and then while he trained himself to walk with it, but Michael wasn't there to see it. Michael missed a lot of Alex's life.

There's already a glass and a pitcher on the coffee table that Michael left there this morning, so he pours Alex some water before he goes to sit. Alex lowers himself carefully onto his favorite armchair.

“How are you feeling?” Michael asks.

“Been better,” Alex admits. “Today was pretty bad. But I'll be okay.”

“I know, you've been telling me that non-stop for two days. You know you're not the one supposed to be comforting me, right?”

“You worry too much.”

Michael just raises an eyebrow at the pill in Alex's hand, which he puts in his mouth and swallows. “So I was wrong to worry that you were running around the day after your−”

“No, you weren't, okay?” Alex rolls his eyes. “I know I shouldn't have. Can you please let it go?”

Michael backs off and sighs. Alex is definitely more irritable than usual, probably because of the pain and fatigue. The events of the last few days−last few months−have taken their toll. If he's honest, Michael is tired too.

It's been nearly four weeks since Alex rescued himself from the hands of Deep Sky, after eight days of frantic searching on Michael's part−and promptly passed out on them, with a bullet still lodged in his liver. Max just managed to stop the internal bleeding and start to close the wound before overloading his pacemaker, and he's been paying the price since.

Alex himself has been...fine. Too fine, if you ask Michael. He recovered quickly from the hole in his stomach, and the myriad other wounds sustained at the hands of the captors he still refuses to talk about. Michael, after breaking up with Maria loudly and messily on day two of Alex's captivity, came over multiple times a day to bring him food and make sure he was okay, and they settled into a comfortable routine. Up until three days ago, when Alex was supposed to go back to work and tried to take his new prosthesis−which, by some miracle, he managed to hold onto−outside the house without the support of a crutch, and he fell on his face on the pavement.

Michael only gets glimpses of what's under the surface, what Alex looks like when he's not trying to put up a facade.

They're all at the end of their rope, and that's why Michael decided that a movie night would do them good, now that things finally look like they're settling a bit. Which reminds him, he still needs to tell Alex. He texted Isobel on his way to the house, and Valenti was the first he told earlier, so Alex is the only one who doesn't know yet.

“I invited everyone over,” Michael says, when the lines of pain on Alex's face have softened a bit under the effect of the strong painkiller.

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Um, you know it's my house, right?”

“Yup,” Michael responds without missing a beat. “But you have a projector. Movie night at the Airstream wouldn't be much fun.”

“Right,” Alex rolls his eyes. “Who's everyone?”

There's a guardedness in his eyes that tells Michael he was right. “Valenti, Iz, Liz and Rosa,” he answers. “Max is too tired.”

“Still?”

“He keeps pushing himself to far,” Michael shrugs. “Just can't take a break. Reminds me of someone.”

“I take breaks,” Alex grumbles.

“I know,” Michael admits with a smile. “You're actually pretty good at taking care of yourself. This was just shitty luck.”

“Seems like a streak.”

“We've all had a rough time of it lately, haven't we?”

Alex gives him a long look. “Yeah,” he says after a moment.

“Anyway, we're watching Star Wars,” Michael deliberately changes the subject.

Alex raises an eyebrow. “Kyle?”

“I can't condone that level of ignorance anymore.”

“I thought I was the nerd and you were the genius.”

“Well yeah, but there's a limit to what even I can stand!” Michael throws up his hand.

“I find it rather endearing most of the time,” Alex smirks.

“Kyle, Alex? Really? You find him endearing?”

Michael meant it as a joke, but Alex closes off immediately, looking away. Since Forrest Long turned out to be part of Deep Sky, anything related to Alex's love life or sexuality has been a touchy subject. Especially with Michael. Or, at least, Michael thinks so, because he hasn't heard Alex talk about it with anyone else.

“Sorry,” Michael murmurs. They'll need to really talk, at some point. He's been telling himself that every day since they got Alex back, but there never seems to be a good time. Alex neatly side-steps every hook Michael tries to give him.

Not that he tries very hard. Alex has been letting him help, and he's terrified that if they talk, Alex will shut him out again. It's been a pattern with them, Michael pushing him away every time they have a deep conversation, Alex running.

Why can't it ever be simple?

“Have you at least bought food?” Alex asks after he's been silent for a while. “You won't feed six people off what's in my fridge.”

“Iz and Valenti are bringing some, and I grabbed a couple frozen pizzas,” Michael answers. “I'll get the projector up.”

Alex nods and sits back, letting the painkiller haze overtake him.

Isobel carefully balances the quiche and the salad she made in her arms, with just a touch of telekinesis−not enough that the neighbors could notice, but that salad bowl is heavy−and deliberately slams the door of her car. Anything to avoid catching her brother and his whatever-Alex-is-these-days in a compromising position. She doesn't need the scars in her mind.

The only car already there is Michael's truck, so she's the first to show up. Alex's car was found at the bottom of a ravine in the desert, shortly after he went missing, and he's had other priorities than getting a replacement.

“Iz!” Michael greets her at the door. “And food! That's good.”

He takes the salad bowl from her and waves her in. Isobel has been here a few times, since Alex got back. She helped Michael with food runs when Alex was completely laid up the first week, and then she came back to visit. Her and Alex's friendship is building itself out of snarky comebacks and tips on how to control panic attacks, whenever they get a chance to talk outside of Michael's influence.

“Isobel,” Alex nods at her from his armchair, with a small smile. He doesn't stand up to greet her, and he looks a little spaced out, which Isobel has come to learn is due to his strong painkillers.

“Alex,” she answers in the same tone. Michael takes the quiche from her hands to put it in the fridge. “I'd say thank you for inviting me, but I have the feeling that you didn't have a say in the matter.”

Alex snorts. “Your feeling is accurate. It's still nice to see you, though.” He gestures for her to sit down on the couch.

“You look like shit,” she says. Michael glares daggers at her, coming into the living room, but Alex just laughs. Good. He wouldn't appreciate her putting on gloves.

“Your jacket is absolutely fascinating,” Alex sends back after a beat long enough to show that his brain functions are slowed by the medication. The pill bottle is still on the coffee table, beside his laptop. “It looks exactly like my grandmother's carpet.” His eyes are clear and full of mirth, though. “I puked all over it when I was about six months old.”

Isobel theatrically shivers and pulls the jacket tighter around her. “I'll thank you not to do the same to this very nice pricey jacket.”

She doesn't push more to know how Alex is doing. Michael gave her the relevant facts earlier, and she has no doubt Kyle will certain Alex is okay. It's not her job. Her job is to be a friend, and today what Alex needs is a distraction.

Kyle, Liz and Rosa trickle in within a few minutes of each other. Michael makes a show of opening beer bottles with his minds, several at a time and while levitating them. Isobel resists stealing one of the bottles from him and emptying it on his head, and she's rewarded by one of his beautiful, proud smiles. Michael has been much happier since he broke up with Maria and spends time with Alex.

“Have you two at least talked?” Isobel asks him in the kitchen, where he's helping her get plates for everyone and slicing the quiche.

“No,” Michael shrugs. “Didn't get a chance.”

“That excuse stopped flying three weeks ago, Michael,” Isobel gently scolds him. “Don't let it get out of hands.”

“It's just… We've never had a quiet moment before. Just a time where we could be ourselves and hang out without it being complicated. I don't want to break the spell.”

“This can't last forever. He still hasn't said anything about his kidnapping?”

“No more than he said the first day,” Michael sighs. “I'm sure he gave us all the relevant information, but he won't talk about what they did to him.”

“And he still won't go to therapy?”

Michael bites his lip. “I haven't asked him again.”

Isobel closes her eyes. “Okay. I won't tell you what to do, Michael. I don't know any better than you. Just...try.”

“The pizzas are ready,” Michael gestures to the oven. He grabs mittens to take them out, ignoring Isobel entirely.

They walk back into the living room to Kyle trying to examine Alex, and Alex resisting him. He has a guarded look on his face that wasn't there around just Isobel earlier. Liz and Rosa are watching warily, which is probably irritating Alex even more. He hates his vulnerabilities being made into a spectacle.

“Did you at least see a doctor?” Kyle presses.

“I know how to handle myself, Kyle,” Alex snaps.

“Will you let me have a look?”

“I'm fine.”

Kyle raises an eyebrow. “Clearly.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Okay, maybe not fine, but I know what's wrong. I don't need you poking at me.”

“I'm just trying to help,” Kyle huffs.

“Then stop fussing,” Alex says, firm and definitive. “Please,” he adds to mitigate the harshness of his tone.

Kyle throws up his hands. “Okay, okay. I'll stop.” He doesn't look happy about it, but he takes a step back.

“Shall we start that movie?” Isobel asks, louder than really necessary. “The food is ready, and we have popcorn for later.”

“Yeah, let's do this,” Rosa says. “I can't believe I'm still more up to date with pop culture than you, bro.”

Kyle grumbles something indistinguishable, and Rosa punches him in the arm.

Alex reaches down for one of his crutches and slowly stands up. “Isobel?” he asks, when he sees that Michael has his hands full with plates and salad. Isobel is lost for a second, and he gestures the the armchair. Right. She concentrates and moves it around, turning it until it's facing the large white sheet Michael installed in front of the TV. Alex follows the move and drops back into it, not bothering to pretend that he has the energy for more than that.

Michael takes the piano bench, and Liz, Rosa and Kyle squeeze together on the couch, leaving Isobel to drag a chair over from the table for herself. They keep teasing Kyle for his lack of culture, and Isobel suddenly remembers that the last time she watched this movie, it was with Noah. She shudders.

As the familiar Star Wars credits roll out, Isobel looks around her, wondering if these people ever feel as old as she does. They don't, she realizes. Somehow, for most of them, it's like time froze the day Rosa died.

She looks at Rosa, nineteen and rebellious, so young and yet sometimes so mature she leaves them all speechless. Michael and Max don't reach her level of understanding of the world, half the time. They're still in a bubble, believing in true love you don't have to work at and black and white justice and freedom. Three aliens against the world. Only Isobel doesn't feel like that anymore. She hasn't for a long time.

Isobel grew with Noah. Despite his monstrosity, they grew together, as husband and wife. Isobel became an adult, while her brothers stayed stuck at seventeen. And now, discovering all the lies, she feels like she aged ten years in a few months. Maybe she did. Maybe the six weeks she missed while in the pod were actually years. Would they even tell her?

Out of the humans who actually left, Kyle has been out of med school for all of two years, and Liz is barely out of her PhD. They're still kids. Not as stuck in time as Michael and Max, maybe, but so damn young.

But not Alex. In Alex's eyes, Isobel can see the same weariness that she feels. There's more, even. A sadness of someone who was forced to grow too fast, and to see too much. Alex has spent the last ten years at war, and none of the others seem to truly realize that. They remember the boy who wore eyeliner just to spite his father, and they still expect him to act the same.

She stands up brutally. “I'll−I'll be back in a minute,” she mumble when all the heads turn toward her. Michael gives her a concerned glance, but she shakes her head. Biting her tongue, she heads for the kitchen.

It takes her a while to breathe through the knot in her throat. She pours herself a glass of water, and sits at the table, trying to block out the voices from the next room. It will be six months soon, since Noah's death. She still doesn't feel like she has a grip on things.

“Isobel?”

Isobel looks up, startled. She doesn't know how she didn't hear Alex coming, on his crutches and looking barely stable enough to stand. She telekinetically pulls out a chair for him, and he takes it gratefully.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, keeping her head down. She has no hope of hiding her breathlessness and her red eyes, but it doesn't mean she won't try.

“Same as you, I assume,” Alex shrugs, leaning his crutches against the table. “Needed a breather.”

“Noah...we watched a lot of movies together. It was our thing. Date night. He always...he always found movies that didn't portray aliens as the enemy.”

“Rings differently now?” Alex offers.

“Yeah.”

“I used to watch movies with Karl,” Alex says, looking down at his hands. “He was, uh, a guy I dated on and off for a couple of years. He was this huge nerd, a history buff. That's why I liked Forrest so much, I think, he reminded me of Karl.” He tenses at the mention of Forrest. It's still a sore spot, that this man was a plant−a mostly innocent one, barely aware of what he was involved into, but still a plant.

“Where is he now?” Isobel asks. She's never heard him mention Karl before.

Alex closes his eyes and shakes his head. “He died. Saved my life,” he nods toward his leg. “But he didn't make it.”

Fuck. “I'm sorry,” Isobel murmurs.

“I'm sorry too,” Alex says, looking up at her. “About Noah. All you went through.”

Isobel nods. “Let's not list all the things we're sorry about, okay?” she says, her voice brittle.

“Yeah. We might need more than one night for that,” Alex replies.

“You guys okay?” Michael's voice filters through the half-opened door. He pokes his head through, and frowns in concern.

“We're fine,” Isobel says forcefully. “Just talking. We both know the movie by heart anyway.”

“Okay,” Michael backs off. He knows what to do when faced with this tone of voice, she's trained him well. “Just call if you need anything, okay?”

Isobel nods and makes a shoo motion. Alex hasn't even turned toward the door, frozen in place.

“You need to talk to him,” she says softly.

“I know,” Alex sighs. “It's just...just before I was taken, we had an argument. I mean, it's nothing unusual for us, but...I said things.”

“You think he's still angry with you?”

“Maybe. It was about my father, and I was wrong about him anyway. I still can't...I can't wrap my head around the fact that Michael went to him. That he put you all in danger for−” he trails off.

“For you?” Isobel asks. “Alex, don't you know yet that Michael would do anything to save you?”

“I wish he wouldn't. If you guys get captured, if you're discovered… I'm not worth that.”

Isobel shifts. “Of course you are. You're worth the risk, at least. You all are. Would you say the same thing about Liz, or Rosa?”

Alex shrugs.

“Or is it just you? You think you're not worth the trouble?” Isobel doesn't wait for him to answer, his face is enough. “You're worth that and so much more, Alex. To Michael, to me, even to Max. I think we've been making you feel like we only care because you bring us information and resources, but it's not true.”

Alex crosses his arms against his chest, hugging himself. “My family did so much harm to yours,” he says.

“Humans tortured and killed our kind. Humans took in my mother and took care of her. Noah was an alien, and he killed humans and abused me. Your father is a human and he abused you. It doesn't make a difference, Alex. You may be a Manes, but these men aren't you. You matter to us. You matter so much to Michael.”

“I'll talk to him,” Alex sighs. “It's...I don't want the status quo to end. I don't want us to go back to before.”

“You mean you don't want him to go back to Maria. I don't think he will,” Isobel says.

“I don't want him to go back to blaming me,” Alex admits.

“He was so scared while you were gone. I've never seen him this frantic.”

Alex shakes his head. “But that's the problem, isn't it? All I do is cause him pain.”

Isobel rolls her eyes. “Is that what you take away from it? He loves you, Alex.”

“He didn't think it was worth the pain. I don't think it's worth his pain.”

“Of course it fucking is! You love each other. You trust each other. Neither of you is a lying body-snatching serial-killer. Just take it, Alex. You have a real shot at happiness together. That's worth everything.”

Isobel only realizes that she's raised her voice when she looks up to see Alex staring at her, mouth hanging open, and Michael at the door looking alarmed.

“Um,” she bites her tongue. “Sorry, got carried away. But you two have got to talk.”

Michael drops heavily onto a chair. “Wow. I didn't know you felt that way,” he tells Isobel.

“I didn't mean for you to hear that,” Isobel start. “No, actually, I'm glad you did. You're going to talk, right now, while I go watch the end of the movie.”

“Isobel−” Alex starts, raising his hand, but she's already at the door.

“Talk,” she orders, closing the door behind her. “Or do I have to lock you in?”

“I can pick locks with my brain!” Michael calls after her.

“Well, pick this one!” Isobel shouts back, blocking the door with her powers. She's fairly sure that Michael could overpower her if he wanted to, but he doesn't try.

She steals Alex's armchair, since he won't need it for now, and very deliberately starts eating under Kyle, Liz and Rosa's dumbfounded looks. “Did you just lock them in?” Rosa asks.

Isobel shrugs. “They need to talk.”

“No argument here,” Kyle sits back. “I'm actually enjoying this movie.”

When Alex and Michael come out of the kitchen, halfway through the second Star Wars movie, they looks exhausted and their eyes are red-rimmed, but there's no mistaking the relieved look on their face. Or how swollen their lips are. Isobel shoos Kyle and Rosa away to make space for them on the couch, and takes a celebratory sip of her beer.

Fucking finally.

#roswell new mexico #alex manes #michael guerin #isobel evans #malex #malex fic #kyle valenti #rosa ortecho #mine #echo's fanfiction #insidious-intent #if this seems to swing randomly between angst and fluff #it's because i'm tired #this was meant to be mostly fluff

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