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disorganizedkitten · 6 months

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We'll Take Our World By Storm Chapter 2

Harry Potter | 2021 | 9,191 | Ao3 | Previous | Masterlist | Next

You may remember, reader, that last chapter I said I would often ignore the rules of time-space for the sake of the story. This is another of those situations, so please follow me backwards and sideways, to Kings Cross Station, early in the morning of September First, Nineteen-Eighty-Nine.

This is another beginning, and again, you'll have to guess of what.

There's a family of three, all female, all redheads, who are some of the first through the barrier.

Amelia Bones, whom you met last chapter, and her girls, Susan and Delphi. Right now, Susan is all of nine years old, and Delphi is eleven.

Amelia, since I didn't tell you earlier, has russet curls and a stress-aged face. She’s only fifty-six, which in wizard years is extremely young, but, as I said.

Personally, I think she looks more refined.

Susan is her niece, and Delphi her… cousin-ever-so-many-times-removed? Daughter? I mentioned that maps were wonky here? Try family trees. It wouldn’t be a problem, except everything is adoption.

On topic though! Susan has the orange shade of red hair, but not very bright. She also has an adorable half-up ponytail with bangs, which Delphi helped her put in that morning.

Susan’s eyes are blue, like Amelia’s, but Delphi’s are not.

Have you figured out who is who yet?

No?

Let’s go.

Delphini doesn’t plan to tell anyone her name until she has to, so neither will I. It’s this thought that keeps her from panicking as Amelia takes her to the train station. She knows no one will look at her and think Evil, but she's worried about what they'll do when they hear her name.

She clings to Amelia when they arrive. Since they’re so early, Delphi is one of the first to reach the Hogwarts Express. She takes her trunk with her, and in a deliberate move against her parents, keeps her artificial octopus in the crook of her elbow.

She had lain awake with her younger family, most of them coming to Hogwarts in two years, for many nights, wondering how she would survive going into this alone. None of her cousins, even the adopted magicals, were going to be at Hogwarts when she would be. Well, that’s not true, strictly, but Delphi hasn’t had contact with Alicia in a year and she worries that with age comes hate.

It’s not an unfounded worry. But in this case, it just means Delphi has to use her own plan, the one made with the help of stubborn nine-year-olds and a single creative fourteen year old. The only hole in this plan of hers is that it won’t work after the sorting, so Delphi has to hope the old belief that you’ll meet your best friends (and sometimes your worst enemies) on the Hogwarts Express will turn out to be true.

It has so far; I’m rooting for her.

The family reach the carriage door in time for Amelia’s watch, a portkey with a protean charm and a few other surprises, to begin chiming. Amelia jumps and fumbles to look at the screen, while Delphi and Susan share a look. Delphi feels her heart sink.

See, Delphi remembers Amelia more than her blood parents, and she knows her caretaker, aunt, mother- she knows Amelia, and so she knows that Amelia will ensure the girls’ safety and then return to her duties. It hurts, even though she knows instinctively that Amelia loves her anyway.

Amelia, meanwhile, was scanning the crowds for someone she could entrust with Delphi. Sadly, the number’s really, really small. See, I haven’t said her name yet, and I won’t confirm any guesses until her friends know too, but suffice to say that Delhpi’s name carries weight, just of the kind no child wants to bear.

“Andromeda, thank goodness!”

Delphi’s aunt and cousin hurry over at the call. Dora is going into her sixth year, and is the only other metamorphmagus Delphini knows. “What happened, Amelia?” Andromeda Tonks asks as they converge.

Andromeda is tall, with long, dark brown curls, white skin tanned by days chasing her daughter in the sun, and the hereditary grey eyes.

“They’re trying to call me in, can you make sure Delphi is okay for departure?” Amelia asks.

“Of course.” Andromeda assures. Delphi tries to smile, but it falls flat.

Amelia crouches down to look at her eldest child, blue eyes soft. Delphi’s eyes change from inherited grey to the same navy blue, the only thing belaying her nerves. “It’ll be okay. The teachers shouldn’t allow any attacks, and if they do, write me. I’ll take care of it, I promise.” Amelia leans forwards to kiss Delphi’s forehead. “Listen to the sorting hat, I don’t care what house you’re in, as long as you’re happy.” Delphi nods, eyes stinging and vision blurring. “I love you,” Amelia says seriously.

Delphi surges forward to hug her, before pulling away to wipe her eyes. “I’ll make you proud.”

“Only by doing your best, I hope.” Amelia’s watch buzzes more urgently, and she relinquishes Delphi to Andromeda. “I’ll look for letters tomorrow.”

Delphi nods, curling into her aunt’s side. As soon as Amelia and Susan have left, and Delphi is done mournfully watching their backs, Dora nudges her with a grin. “You know, I’ve always thought it would be great fun to have two metamorphs in the Sett.”

Delphi grins back, a little brittle, but trying to reciprocate her cousin’s optimism. “Not afraid of me stealing your schtick?”

“As if you could,” Dora challenges, hair popping to a brighter pink and streaking yellow and black through it. Dora has always been more free with her metamorph abilities. Today, the sixteen-year-old has blue eyes like her father, fair skin like her mom, and once-pink-blonde-hair gone bright. In contrast, Delphi keeps hers close to her chest unless she’s challenging Dora.

Dora’s grin is wider, so Delphi streaks her own ponytail with all four house colors - a dark green, a bright yellow, a solid blue, and a lighter red. Gryffindor’s is hardest to see against her usual chosen color of cherry.

The girls continue like this for a few minutes, until one of Dora’s friends arrives. When Charlie Weasley pops up, Delphi yanks her features back into herself and leaves her cousin to it.

She finds a compartment quickly. She knows nothing about it, and as she runs her fingers across the leather seats, she breathes deeply because it was her choice . She doesn't know which compartment her parents used, and even if this one is it, it does not and will not feel like it.

Growing up, her cousin Regulus offered to tell her stories of her parents, or even of her cousins, but Delphi refused. She didn't want to hear about the bright children who grew up to be monsters, and she still doesn't. She listens when Uncle Regulus tells stories to the rest of the children, because she knows those are for entertainment and not an attempt to connect her to parents she doesn't want to know.

(Regulus, naturally, stopped trying when she told him that outright, merely saying that if she changed her mind to tell him. He has rarely brought up stories centering on her mother since).

Delphi sits down in the seat by the window instead of the door, with her trunk in the overhang, and feels at peace because she is going to learn the castle mostly on her own. She's not going to look at a window and think 'this is where my parents were caught torturing a cat' or 'this is where my parents' first kiss was recorded'. She'll never think 'So many carriages away from the engine, this is where my mom rode her first year'. No. She'll think 'this is the hallway Uncle Regulus and his friends once saw turned into a swamp', and know that it was funny once but doesn't concern her.

This makes Delphi smile, and she looks out the window with Leonis on her arm and hope in her eyes.

Dora and Charlie are still talking on the platform, and there are a bunch of redheads around them who Delphi assumes are Charlie's family. She is right. The Weasleys, remember them? They, as they are wont to do, are seeing off their children with as much of the family as can come, even little eight year old Ginevra. Their red is more of a shaggy orange, like carrots or cheese chips. Or Arnold, if you remember the original Magic School Bus cartoon. I suppose references like that depend on the reader.

Delphi's is, as mentioned, cherry. She looks rather more like Lily Potter, if you also remember.

I’m beginning to hope you have a decent memory.

The platform fills and empties in turns for the next three hours, and Delphi spends most of that time watching out the window and changing the colors of her nails. Contrary to what Dora would suggest, Metamorphi aren't all the human equivalent to mood rings. Some, like Dora, were morphing as infants and have strong magic tied into their looks, strong enough that they have to change often to use it up. A biological form is debatable, and usually built from what they see in family. Some, who you probably won't meet here, have to always focus on their current look, and can revert back to a biological form when either their focus fails or they spend their magic. And others, like Delphi, don't have a biological form. Any shifts they do will require matching effort to undo, for they are permanent.

Delphi has spent most of her life practicing for precise morphs. She doesn’t have streaks in her hair anymore, because she willed the strands back to red. So as she turns her nails blue and then spirals white through them, it’s not a spell, but focus that she uses.

At two hours to departure, Delphi is joined by twin girls. They’re identical twins, as happens so often in pureblood families. The genes are already strong, and twins rarely have more visible individuality than other siblings would. These two are brunette, with smooth, collarbone-length hair that Delphi finds unfairly cute. She thinks her own ponytail makes her look a little too drawn up for her age, but it’s her favorite hairstyle and she can pull it off much better than she can pull off Hannah’s pigtails. Or put it in quicker, at least.

Delphi stops thinking about how cute their hair is, and instead smiles at the twin closest to her. “Hello.”

“Hello,” the closer twin replies, sounding wary but open. “I’m Hestia Carrow, and this is Flora. May we join you?”

The wariness makes sense, very suddenly. Delphi nearly stumbles over her words as she replies. “Of course! There’s plenty of room, as I’m sure you noticed.” She doesn’t even consider turning them away, because Carrow was a name ruined in the war, much like Delphini’s own. Hestia smiles tightly, and Flora smiles awkwardly, but they do come inside.

They place their trunks in the overhead compartments, and then sit down, Flora across from Delphi, by the window, and Hestia beside her, too close to be in the middle of the bench. It’s quiet for a few minutes, and Delphi nervously changes the color of her nails again. This time, they turn seashell pink. She finishes smoothing the color, and darkens it by her cuticles, and then decides to fill the silence.

She’s pretty sure being allergic to awkward silences is a Bones trait.

“This is Leonis,” she announces, holding up the artificial octopus she’s had since before she lost her parents. His original name had been something like Luslus, but Delphi was able to rename him last summer with Uncle Regulus’ help. “I think he’s the only good thing my parents gave me, other than my name and life.” Delphi sets him back on her lap. He’s a faded orange, looking like a transfigured fox more than anything, but she loves him. She plays with his articulated tentacles as she continues speaking. “I turned him purple once, because my sister spilt grape juice on him and I hated the way the colors mixed. Another time, my cousin turned him blue because she was trying to remember the word for water and all she could remember was the color and that octupi live in it.” She moves to pet his crown, increasingly happy she brought him with. He had been there for a long time, and she hopes he will be for longer still.

There’s another moment of quiet between the trio, as the twins digest Delphi’s word vomit. “How old is your sister?” Flora asks.

Delphi smiles, feeling elated and accomplished because her olive branch is being returned. “She’s nine! Her name is Susan and she says if she’s not a Hufflepuff she’ll transfer to Beauxbatons.

“What about you? Any siblings aside from Hestia?”

“No,” and this time, it’s Hestia who speaks. Delphi feels giddy. “But we have a cousin who’s eight.”

Delphi beams. “We could be their guides to the school!” She loved showing Susan any secrets she found in Bones Keep, and this could be that but on a much larger scale. She winces though, because Flora and Hestia look a little stunned and a little afraid. “That is, assuming we’ll still be friends when they arrive?”

“Well,” Hestia begins, looking at Flora.

Flora nods, and continues. “I’d love to be friends, but we don’t even know your name yet.”

Delphi holds out her hand, wondering with a dropping heart if it’s worth breaking her rule for them. She decides to only do so if pressed. “Delphini, but most people shorten it somehow.” The twins look at each other suspiciously, so Delphi continues. “I’m trying to make friends before anyone can judge me for my last name.”

That, at least, is something Delphi knows the Carrows can relate to, so when they smile and it’s still a little wary, Delphi takes her win.

“Favorite chocolate frog card, go!”

Hestia startles into a laugh, and Delphi thinks that she’d like it very much if the rumors are true.

Let’s slide over for a moment, to another incoming student. Chester Norman doesn’t consider hiding anything about himself, except perhaps that he’s never as happy as he wants people to believe. He pulls his trunk behind him as he boards the train, and wonders if it’s a size issue that causes trunks to be allowed instead of suitcases. He thinks it’s a little sad, because his uncle has a really cool suitcase, but Chester’s has wheels and means he’s going to magic school, so he is okay with it.

I find it a little sad how many muggleborns will give anything to be given their basic magical rights.

Chester knocks on the first compartment that doesn’t look crowded or super rowdy, as he thinks the girls inside seem intent on their conversation, but not overly loud. And they left the door open. All three look up at the sound.

You’ve already met them, of course.

The Carrows’ mouths snap shut quickly, both looking a little hostile but mostly nervous. Delphi though, smiles. “Hello! Can we help you?”

“I was wondering if I could join you?” Chester asks.

The three girls look at each other, each making sure to meet the eyes of both of their fellows, before Delphi nods resolutely. “Absolutely. I’m Delphini.”

The twin closest to the window waves loosely. “Flora.”

“Hestia,” the twin closer to the door says.

“I’m Chester,” he introduces himself, lugging his trunk inside. He gets it into the overhang with the girls’ before sitting down in the corner by the door. He doesn’t consider the lack of last names. He’s eleven, as are the rest of them, and he’s a muggleborn. He doesn’t know the Wizarding emphasis placed on last names, and again. He’s eleven. Chester couldn’t care less. Sometimes I wish more people thought like him.

Other times, he lights the school banners on fire and I’m thankful they don’t.

Anyway. The silence as they settle together is shorter this time than it was the last. Delphi introduces Chester to Leonis, and Hestia opens the conversation again by outright stating that all copies of Grindlewald’s Chocolate Frog Card should be banned. “There are too many people who think breaking the law and harming others is a worthy ticket to fame, and all the lists of the most violent, or gruesome, or downright sadistic people encourage that idea!”

Chester doesn’t know who Hestia is talking about, hasn’t learnt of Grindelwald yet, but one of his cousins was killed by a serial killer (a terrible, sadistic man, who would rip out the hearts of children) and even though the serial killer died two years ago, it’s his name that’s known, not Chester’s cousin’s. “They should have more memorials for the people killed by those types of monsters, instead,” he pipes in. Despite the conversation having been about chocolate frog cards for the past half hour, the girls follow the topic change well, throwing out ideas as to how that could be achieved.

Chester doesn’t know this, but I as the Narrator do, and see fit to tell you here. Hestia has a point. Her point is a wonderful one, one that others will realize in the next half century and work to remedy. But underneath her logic is a child’s wish. A wish to be known for something other than the sins of her bloodkin. To not have people insult her for something she had nothing to do with.

“I bet we could find old newspapers,” Delphi says, trying not to let her voice twist. I’m sure I don’t have to say so, but she has the same wish. “If we go by the killer or attackers’ names, in the archives. We could make a list of the names, if nothing else.” She reaches up to her trunk and digs out eight different quills - four real, and four sugar. She holds most of them out to her carriagemates, her own sugar quill already in her mouth. “I’m going to actually do this. Do you want to help?”

Flora and Hestia take a candy and a quill each, and Chester slowly follows their example. “What’s with the white ones?”

“Sugar quills,” Hestia says. “I think the trolley lady has some in other colors if you’d like to try, later. These ones aren’t flavored.”

Delphi sniffs, some of the seriousness of the previous topic wearing out. “Of course they aren’t. Who wants flavored sugar?”

Sadly, this is exactly when Dora pokes her head into the compartment. “What do you think Cotton Candy is, Elfy?”

Delphi sticks her tongue out. “I stand by what I said.”

Dora rolls her eyes, the roots of her hair turning yellow in amusement. “Good for you, then. I’m glad you made friends, if something explodes, Charlie and I are a few carriages down.”

“Yes, Dora,” Delphi says, a little exasperated, even though she knows it’s just because Dora cares. Dora fake salutes, closes the door, and promptly lands on her face when she turns around. Delphi flinches at the noise. “Are you okay?”

“Always!” comes Dora’s muffled reply.

Flora is looking at Delphi, but it’s Chester who speaks first. “Someone you know?”

“My cousin, Nymphadora,” Delphi admits. She’s still not using last names. “She always threatens to curse people who call her that though, so we all call her Dora.”

Hestia hums. “Might be better for us to call her Tonks though, right?”

Delphi doesn’t flinch. Flora and Hestia understand, she reminds herself. “At least until she gives you permission, probably.”

“What do you mean?” Chester asks. “What’s a Tonks?”

The girls look at each other in momentary panic, before Delphi takes the lead. “Muggleborn?” Chester nods. “Okay, so,” Delphi begins, unsure of how much he knows. The only muggleborns she personally knows live with wizards now, and the adults were always in charge of explaining the important bits. “Has anyone told you about addresses in the Wizarding World?”

“I read the section on Floo addresses.”

Delphi blinks once. Twice. Hestia takes over. “Definitely not what we mean. Unless someone has given you permission, it’s polite to call them by their last name. Sometimes titles, but not while at school. Delphi and Tonks are cousins, so by default they can call each other by their given names.”

“Untrue, actually,” Delphi interrupts, finding her tongue again. “I have to call my other cousin by his last name, because his branch of the family nearly never interacts with ours.”

Hestia stares. “That is so sad!” She bursts out. “We’re not super close, but our parents ensure us kids get together every few months!”

Chester is a little lost, but he is obviously doing his best to follow along anyway as the conversation devolves into a discussion of Delphi’s odd family dynamics. “My mom wasn’t disowned but she is in Azkaban, and most of the rest of the family forsook… well. You know. My aunt and her husband… didn’t.”

Hestia still seems disbelieving in the wrong ways, or perhaps of the wrong thing. “That’s still terrible.” She doesn’t say anything about how her dad and aunt escaped Azkaban and fall into the same category. “Have you even met him?”

“Only once, since...” Delphi makes a face, a sort of half shrug grimace because Hestia and Flora know what she meant. Growing up, Amelia didn’t talk about the war in earshot often, and with plain words even less. Uncle Regulus, Aunt Vivian, and Uncle Adrian were very candid about it, but Aunt Andromeda wasn’t. Delphi wasn’t sure if she was supposed to be or not. She still isn’t. Sometimes she isn’t sure she even knows what happened. “Well. I went to his fifth birthday party with my Uncle, and it was…” She makes another face, this one just distressed. “A disaster.”

Hestia winces. "We're talking about Malfoy, right?"

Delphi doesn't respond. Flora purses her lips instead of wincing, knowing the misstep Hestia just stumbled into.

"Sorry," Hestia cringes.

"It's fine," Delphi says. And it is, because it’s not like Delphi expected them to not figure it out. "But yes, they are my cousins."

"So," Chester cuts in, wanting to understand what’s going on again. "Unless you're close to someone, you call them by their last name? Kind of like Vous vs Tu in french?"

Delphi turns, smiling brightly. "Yes, exactly! It's mostly done by wizarding families who have assimilated or are traditional, and it's because surnames carry the weight of your ancestors. A given name implies you know the person for themselves, and a surname is for someone you know by their family."

"I think…" Hestia pauses, and Delphi waits so she can gather her thoughts. "I think that's part of why so many people look down on muggleborns. Because we don't know the history of their names, so to us it doesn't mean anything. Do… Chester, do muggles care about surnames?"

Chester shrugs. "Some do, some don't. The Americans are so anti-last name it’s almost funny." Hestia hums.

The conversation continues. Chester asks questions, his fellows try to figure out if they know the answers. Once, Delphi asks Dora for the answer, and the four of them get a twenty minute tangent from Charlie Weasley on how magical gifts don’t have actual affiliations, only societal ones.

He’d know.

Delphi licks her sugar quill, waiting for – she’s not sure. Something. Probably the guts to start her list.

Obviously, it’s slow coming. It is not easy, readers, to admit connections to someone so terrible. She closes her eyes, and focuses on thinking of names. Who does she know who were horrible people?

Her parents, obviously, count. A few cousins had been in the same terrorist gang. Who was that one Amelia always complained about? Something Macnair? Warden? Waldo? Walden? Delphi isn’t sure, so she just writes a W. and then the last name.

It’s Walden, but again. Delphi isn’t someone I can pass my omniscence onto. So instead W. Macnair starts off her lists on one side. Then she writes down, only shaking a little, Regulus Black, followed by The Lestranges (B., Ro., and Ra.), Avery Rosier, Helinora Fawley, Antonin Dolohov, Igor Karkaroff, and Amycus Carrow. She thinks it’s probably sad that she can fill in Regulus’ list the fastest, but at the same time… Regulus learned. His list of victims was small, and Delphi knew it because Regulus regretted them and was candid about his sins.

She doesn't know the others. But she knows they exist. She will know, one day.

"Is that your list?" Chester asks, leaning across the compartment to look. Delphi nods. "Huh," he hums. "All wizards?"

"I grew up in a wizarding family," Delphi admits with a shrug. "I'm not versed on Muggle criminals. Or french, for that matter." She adds, because that was how Vivian and Regulus always explained it. Magic and mundane have their own cultures.

"But we can do muggle criminals?"

"Of course!"

Delphi doesn't notice, but the other three are all turning to her for permission. For guidelines. They won’t always, but right now it’s a group project in a group she started, and Chester is recently aware of his newfound opportunities to grievously offend someone.

Chester takes her permission and starts scrawling names across his paper, the script messy and blotted, but readable. If you concentrate. Ian Bradely, Gregory Hallows, John Christie, Thomas Cream/Lambeth Poisoner.

"I swear dad talks about Dolohov when he gets drunk but I can't remember anyone he actually killed," Hestia huffed.

Delphi looks up, moving her quill over. "Um. He went to Azkaban for his involvement with the McKinnons' murders, we can narrow that down later… Smith? There was a Smith. And Prewetts, I think."

"Were there really?" Hestia asks. "I thought the Prewetts were killed by McNair."

"No," Flora says softly. "McNair is an aim and fire. 'Bloodtraitors' usually had actual fighters sent after them, because as much as they'd hate to admit that there are powerful wixen who aren't bigots, he knew they wouldn't be easy to kill." There’s a wry twist to her lips.

Pop back barely a minute, to the hallway between compartments, and I can finally introduce you directly to a Weasley. Two, actually. See, Hestia and Flora Carrow aren’t the only twins coming to Hogwarts this year. George and Fred Weasley are also here, and while they’re not twins, Hana Griffiths and Clementia Doe might as well be. Teddie and Cairo Murray are also actual twins.

Fred leads the way through the train, watching as the few other students not yet sitting down scurry around. He's followed by his twin brother, George. They haven't found anywhere to sit yet, and are coming down for the second time. They worked their way up earlier, but none of the compartments had energy Fred is looking for.

Well, to be fair, Fred isn't sure what energy he's looking for, but he knows he hasn't found it.

The train left a few minutes ago, and Fred and George were almost late because of their mum fussing.

She loves them, and it always makes her nervous to see them leave.

They're in between two carriages when he hears it.

"I swear dad talks about Dolohov when he gets drunk but I can't remember anyone he actually killed."

Fred looks back at George, but George is pushing him forward. They both want to hear the end of this. They've been warned that Death Eater kids would be at Hogwarts, and if they find whoever is bragging about Dolohov they can avoid or hex them. The twins aren't sure which to do yet. Fred takes the next steps quickly. The hallways have nearly cleared out, after the rush of the train pulling away. They reach the door the sounds are coming from and stop, quietly.

"-e can narrow that down later… Smith? There was a Smith. And Prewetts, I think."

"Were there really?" The first voice comes again. It’s Hestia, if you forgot. "I thought the Prewetts were killed by McNair."

The twins almost miss the next response, it's that soft.

"No. McNair is an aim and fire. 'Bloodtraitors' usually had actual fighters sent after them, because as much as they'd hate to admit that there are powerful wixen who aren't bigots, he knew they wouldn't be easy to kill."

"What's a bloodtraitor?" A fourth voice asks.

"A slur," says the second, harshly. "It was the- ugh. Um. Muggle Grindlewald, what was his name?" It’s quiet. Fred moves just enough to peek through the door’s window. "Right, no one knows both. Um, Chester, who was the dude who tried to kill all the jews this century?" The speaker is a redhead. Delphi.

"Hitler?" Says the only boy in the room, Chester. He's the fourth voice.

"Yes, him. Bloodtraitor is what the last dark lord called people he didn't like, trying to justify killing them."

"Like the slavetraders did," says Chester, nodding knowingly. "After all, they're lesser, who cares if they're hurt?" The derision from his voice is strong.

"Exactly. Warped reasoning."

"It's still used as an insult," says one of the twins across from the redhead. (This is also Hestia, if you can't tell). "But now it's frowned upon."

"Okay," Chester says.

"Yeah," agrees the other twin. This is the first she’s spoken yet, at least during eavesdropping hours. She's sitting beside the window, has a quill behind her ear and another in her hand, parchment on her lap, and is, of course, Flora Carrow. "Delphi, do you remember the Prewetts' given names?" Not that either Weasley recognizes her.

Delphi makes a face and pulls a quill out of her mouth. "I should, but I don't. Sorry."

"Well," and window twin's tone is distinctly wry, "by the time we're done, you'll know their names."

George knocks on the door. Fred jumps when he does, which means he misses the four inside jumping too.

"Yes?" Asks Delphi, sugar quill still in her hand.

George slides the door open. "We heard you talking about the Prewett murders."

The reactions are instantaneous. The Carrows stiffen and jolt, Hestia shifting like she's ready to bolt. Chester nods, and Delphi narrows her eyes. "We were," she agrees. "What's it to you?"

"Their names were Gideon and Fabian," George says.

Flora relaxes, realizing this isn’t someone tracking them down to bully them, and Delphi’s eyes blow wide as Flora bends down and starts writing. "How do you spell those?"

Delphi is surprised so many people want to help.

The Weasleys don’t know any of this, but George knows how to spell Gideon and Fabian, which… technically Fred can do, since he and George are named after them, but Fred knows the names as his name, not his Uncles’. Beyond that, Mrs. Weasly talks about her brothers sometimes, but not often, and Fred was never very interested in family history anyway.

"Thank you," Flora says when George finishes.

"What are you writing?" Fred asks. Usually he knows exactly what George is thinking, or close enough to fool people, but right now he can't tell what's going on in his brother's head.

It's Chester who answers. "Victim lists. We know the names of famous killers, but not who they killed, and that's wrong," his voice breaks on wrong, and suddenly Fred feels terrible for assuming this carriage was full of Wannabe-Death-Eaters.

"Can we help?" Fred asks. He hopes George agrees.

"Sure," says the redhead. She stands up and digs through her trunk for a moment before offering four quills to Fred. He takes one bundle of two, and realizes one is candy. "I'm Delphi and this is Leonis." She holds up a plastic octopus.

"Flora," says window twin, but she's almost absent as she writes something down.

"Hestia," says the other twin.

"I'm Chester," says the boy. "Do you think it's possible to make a list of every victim of Hitler?"

"Considering how many he wiped out, probably not," Delphi says. "There are probably people no one remembers." She doesn't say why people would be forgotten. It makes her sick to think about it. "But you can list a lot of them, I'm sure."

"Delphi, do you know who killed Edgar Bones?"

"Helinora Fawley is who confessed, but Amelia thinks that it was actually a Rowle."

Hestia writes something down. "Thank you."

Fred puts his and George's trunks up while George stands and talks to Flora. After a minute, Delphi scoots away from the window. "Here, George, sit down."

"Thanks."

Fred sits on her other side, unsure of what to do with this. "So, what's the idea behind this?"

Delphi looks at him and launches into an explanation of what they were talking about earlier that morning. Fred listens, and feels… grateful? And apprehensive. He doesn't like the dead, but he knows honoring them is important. And he would like people to know how much the Death Eaters' claims to fame hurt.

The train ride is long, readers. So is the story itself; so I’m going to mostly drop my habit of smooth scene changes, and constant commentary. Sometimes you have to jump, and taking the time to explain loses the storyline. Such as today.

I’ll still be here though, don’t worry. Someone has to tell the story.

"What do you mean you don't collect Chocolate Frog cards?"

Chester looks over and gives the purebloods his driest look. He's eleven, so it's iffy. "Why should I?"

"B-because! They're chocolate frog cards!" Says George, as though Chester is speaking in code.

"Susan builds card decks out of them," Delphi says casually. She’s on her third sugar quill, still plain. "For everything," she emphasizes.

"Huh," Chester hums. He’s on his second, but it’s blue because there is a witch with a lunch and snack trolley on the Hogwarts Express, and he bought a flavored pack from her. "I'm not sure how many more I can come up with without help," he says, changing the subject back to their project as he taps his parchment.

Delphi stands up to get into her trunk, as she does almost every half hour, and then drops her history book on Chester's lap.

"Thanks."

"I know we agreed no last names-"

"We what?" Fred asks flatly, looking at Hestia instead of George. He looks at her because she spoke, is in his line of sight, and he doesn’t want to glare at his brother.

Chester shrugs. "I hadn't noticed."

"Some of us are purebloods," Delphi says sharply. "And I, for one, want to stave off the prejudice for as long as possible."

George squints, trying to dissect his new friends. It could matter. It usually mattered. But he is enjoying his day, and Delphi is right. Their dad had told George and Fred to avoid the Rowles, Carrows, Goyles, and a lot of other names, because of the war and how people didn’t like each other because of the divides - some from the war, and some from tradition. “That idea has merit.”

The girls’ smiles are a little too relieved for them to be from Light families. George puts it out of his mind, and Fred puts it in a box to review later.

Hestia takes the conversation back. “Yes. But, Delph. If you are who I think you are, you-” her eyes cut to Fred, who had not quite relaxed like George did. George watches as she changes what she’s going to say, and he can guess the original. “-weren’t raised by your parents. So who raised you?”

“Amelia Bones is who has guardianship, but my cousin and his co-parents helped. Uncle Regulus got to do most of my family education.”

George blinks. Once. Twice. And then he catches sight of Fred’s face, a little less accepting and a little more confused. Which is when he realizes, oh yeah; their mom might have a hard time keeping track of them, and therefore assumed they both liked everything either of them did, but Fred didn’t like family history. Which meant it was probably only George who knew the second name. But Fred knew the first. Their dad and Amelia weren’t friends, but they did have a friendly relationship. Which meant he knew who Delphi was.

So will Fred, actually, once he takes a minute to think.George definitely understands her reluctance now.

“You mean you’re-” Fred starts.

George jumps in, taking over before it could go in a direction that would sour this. “-our cousin too!” He injects more of a smile into his voice than usual.

“I am?” Delphi asks. She looks genuinely surprised.

George nods. “Yeah. Pretty sure our great aunt Lucretia is your grandpa Cygnus’ cousin.”

Delphi tilts her head, going over her own family tree. “Grandfather Cygnus does have a cousin Lucretia. I haven’t visited her in a few years, though.”

George nods. Fred is staring at him, confusion and hurt on his face. When Delphi looks away, George mouths ‘does she act like her parents?’ Fred shakes his head, and that is that.

“Cool,” Hestia says. “I bet that means you know a lot of laws.”

“Yeah,” Delphi agrees cautiously. “A lot.”

“So what hoops will we need to jump through to publish these things?”

Delphi grins, and the atmosphere returns to the slightly mournful but laid back air of before.

"Frederick Gideon-!" George starts, in his best imitation of their mom.

"Remember, no last name!" Chester calls before George can finish.

George snaps his mouth shut, the light atmosphere dampered by the reminder that they're likely to split up once their family names and alignments become obvious. Flora obviously remembers it too, as her gleeful smile drains away.

“Should we use middle names, then?” Delphi asks. Leonis has been relocated to her shoulder, then her neck, and is now affixed to her hair like a crown after a sticking charm was requested from the sixth years.

George shrugs, and looks to Fred. Fred shrugs back. “Sounds good to me. George just told you all my middle name, and his is Fabian.”

Delphi, Hestia, and Flora all seem to make the connection. Flora sneers for a second, but then checks her reaction. “Flora Eden,” she admits.

“Hestia Paige.”

“Delphini Cygnus. Although I’m liable to hex you if you call me that,” she warns.

“We consider ourselves-”

“Forewarned, cousin dearest.”

Delphi laughs. Her friends join in.

“You guys should change into your uniforms.”

Chester jumps, spilling the Bertie’s Bots beans in his hands across the carriage floor.

“Here,” Hestia says as the door closes behind the prefect. “Accio.”

“Summoning spell?” Fred asks, impressed. Hestia looks over and grins.

“It’s not, you know, easy, but I could teach you later?”

“I’d like that.”

“Hey Delphi,” Flora says softly. They’ve deboarded the train and the gameskeeper is calling them forward, but they still huddle together.

“Yeah?”

“Why’s your middle name Cygnus, instead of Bellatrix?”

Delphi is quiet for a few steps, thinking. “I’m not… sure. There are theories, and I do qualify for my family heirship so I’m not the second child, but,” she shrugs, the motion hard to see in the dark. “A lot of people say…” Delphi takes a heavy breath, unsure if she’s willing to gossip about her own parents. She doesn’t like them, but it makes her feel gross inside to trashtalk them. “It’s because despite being heiress… you know; my mother had a child for another family.”

“So they would’ve gotten the name?” Chester asks. “Is it a big tradition?”

“Yeah,” Hestia confirms. “The oldest child’s middle name is meant to follow the parent of their gender. Sometimes the first of the other gender will also get the other parent for a middle name, but the firstborn is really important. It's a way of being named after the last matriarch or patriarch without the confusion of two Lord Charlus Potters happening in congruence, and when families are large it's a way to show which line you're from."

“Yeah,” agrees George. “Our oldest uncle is Dominic Septimus, but our dad is Arthur Edward, so our big brother’s William Arthur. Our little sister is Ginevra Molly."

“Huh.”

“Exactly,” Delphi agrees. “Which is why being named after my grandfather is odd. Uncle Regulus is named after his, but he’s also the second child. His big brother was named after their dad.”

“Have you ever met the probable-at-least-half-sibling?” Chester asks next.

Delphi shakes her head. “I don’t think so.” She kind of wishes yes, but she also worries about what they’d be like, hypothetically.

“The other option, depending on how happy the marriage was, is that Delphi’s big sister died young, or was stillborn,” Flora says, just to offer an alternative.

The conversation ends as the crowd of first years come upon a large, dark lake. “Ooh,” Fred murmurs. The six of them link hands.

Not much later, Hestia is becoming increasingly nervous. That’s not surprising, even she knows, but… well. The first professor they met, a Professor McGonagall, had finished her introductory speech by telling them to all be a credit to their houses. Hestia knows what house she is going to be in, but she’s starting to doubt her will to be there.

She knows exactly what will happen when she sits down under her banner of green. (Sadly, the same thing can happen if she wears blue, or yellow, or even red. Perhaps especially red.)

She sticks with her friends as they move towards the Staff table in the Great Hall (and how pretty it is! She absolutely needs to look around more later) glad that McGonagall hadn’t seen the need to make them get in a line.

She takes a breath at Flora’s nudge, straightens her back, and smiles.

Fred raises an eyebrow beside her. “You look like someone’s being murdered in front of you,” he mutters. Hestia closes her eyes.

“Dangit.”

“Crinkle your eyes a bit more,” Delphi mutters from right behind Hestia. “Wide eyed smiles freak people out for some reason.”

“You can’t even see my face,” Hestia hisses.

“General rule,” Delphi mutters back. “George, how’s Flora’s smile?”

“Shy, but not creepy.” George responds. Their little huddle is in pairs and rows, going Hestia and Fred, Chester and Delphi, and George and Flora.

Hestia smirks as she realizes what she should do next. “Chester, what about Delphi’s smile?”

“She has too many teeth. Literally.”

“I do not!” Delphi hisses, but the panic in her tone belies her protest. She had shifted.

Hestia hides a laugh, both in response to Chester’s deadpan delivery and to Delphi’s response. They reach the front of the Great Hall, and since none of the other students spread out, neither do they. Hestia’s worry hits her full force again. She knows Delphi’s family ties, but despite Delphi being friendly on the train, if given the chance Hestia wouldn’t be surprised (or offended, she fruitlessly tells herself) if Delphi cut ties from them to try and protect herself.

After all, if she isn’t friends with any other Death Eater kids, maybe she could convince people she isn’t her parents easier.

It’s what Hestia and Flora should do, but there was no possible way they’d survive that in Slytherin. She doesn’t want to lose the other four either.

The Sorting Hat (Hat! Hestia wants the history on that Hat and she wants it before Yule) starts to sing, something long and winding about the houses and the founders and how “Alas, by the time lost Slytherin returned, all his friends but one were gone. Beware, young ones, of letting wounds fester for too long.”

Hestia loses her composure for a moment to grab Flora’s hand as the first name is called.

“Adolf, Caroline.”

Flora looks over at her. Hestia knows her smile has vanished. George reaches up and nudges Hestia, before the sorting Hat shouts out “Hufflepuff!”

“It’ll be okay,” he says softly.

Hestia really doesn’t think so, but she was raised a Slytherin and is willing to wait for him to abandon her himself. Flora squeezes her hand, and Chester grins lazily. Hestia glances over at Delphi, who is evidently nervous enough to try and break Fred’s hand, anxiety clear on her face.

The boys are the only ones who didn’t seem super worried. Hestia wouldn’t be surprised if they were just good at smiling through things, though.

Hestia is right, actually, but they get even better at it later.

Ah, I realized you have no idea what the colors or houses are, or mean. Especially considering I skipped the Hat’s song. They will come up many times, but for now I have to give you the basics. The houses are split by values. Loyalty, Daring, Curiosity, and Ambition.

The rest you’ll see later. A lot of it has been twisted by society over the years, and I still have a sorting to walk you through.

“Hey. Let’s meet in the haunted bathroom after classes tomorrow- anyone who wants to stay friends.” Hestia finds the words impulsively as the third name was called, this one beginning with a B. She doesn’t want to lose her friends, and so she’ll make opportunities to keep them.

“Deal,” Delphi nods.

The next name is Flora’s. Hestia’s heart seizes as she lets go of her sister’s hand to the tune of booing. Flora smiles at them, tight and too emotional, but Hestia can’t say anything about it. Hers is just as bad. As far as she is concerned they are in front of way too many enemies to be open like this but she physically can’t do anything else. And she doesn’t know it yet, but that’s okay. Children don’t have to grow up too fast.

“Isn’t Carrow bird meat?” Chester asks quietly, squinting up at the hat as Flora sits down primly under it.

“No?” Delphi says, turning to look at him instead. “You might be thinking of Carrion, but Carrow is a name that means something like hill-dweller.”

The booing quiets down enough for McGonagall to set the hat on Flora’s head. Hestia doesn’t want to look away but right now is a crucial time. She waits until Flora’s eyes are covered.

“How do you remember that?” Chester asks. Hestia watches Fred and George. “Do you just know a million of those?”

“No,” Delphi says, tone going softer as she too watches Flora. “But one of my cousins is a Dunbar, which means fort on top of a hill, so I remember Carrow too.”

The other twins are making faces at each other, but-

“Slytherin!”

-when the verdict comes, they both break into uproarious applause. Hestia relaxes just a little. A few more people boo, and then George starts yelling.

“Go Flora! Attagirl!”

Hestia thinks her chest will explode.

A moment later, George looks over at her and grins, still clapping. It looks as awkward as Hestia had felt a few moments before. Delphi obviously catches sight of the exchange, because she reaches over and nudges Hestia’s shoulder.

“Friends, right?”

“Carrow, Hestia!”

Hestia waves, but before she moves she purposefully meets both Fred and George’s eyes. “Thank you.” And then she’s up, walking as prim and poised as her sister had been, ignoring the jeers.

Hestia is sorted quicker than Flora had been. Relatively. People are still booing, although Fred is happy to see Charlie reach over and shut one of the other older years up. The wait for them to quiet down means the Carrows are up around the same amount of time, but Hestia spends less time with the hat actually on her head.

“Slytherin!”

Again, Fred and George are uproarious. Hestia waves lowly as she passes them on her way to the Slytherin table. George grins at her and Delphi shoots her a thumbs up. Chester mimes smiling wider, and Hestia breaks character long enough to stick out her tongue. Fred just smirks.

As the rest of the sorting commences, Fred starts answering Chester’s questions of why some people booed in a low voice, while George and Delphi stare and make faces at each other, trying to make points without getting another reprimand to be quiet.

When Fred catches sight of them, he’s a little miffed that it only took one day of knowing them for these four to have the same silent conversations he and George often have, but then he thinks of all the pranking opportunities and is elated instead.

He’ll enjoy staying friends with them. As long as the bathroom isn’t a trap, he’ll cause as much chaos as needed to ensure older students and teachers don't get in the way of their friendship; not for house divides, not for last names, and not for grudges that should stay in the generation ahead of them.

“You’ll be at the bathroom too, right?” George asks Delphi, as "Jordan, Lee!" goes into Gryffindor. Fred looks over, ready to open his mouth because she already said so, but snaps it shut when she actually answers.

“Unless I’m in the hospital wing.” She says it with a smile, as though it’s just a given. Or a joke.

Fred decides then and there that he’s going to learn curses this year. Jinxes were all well and good for squabbles and playfights, but as he had apparently befriended dangerous people now, or people in danger, he needs to catch up.

George stops smiling at her comment. “You won’t be. None of you will be.”

“We could be,” she looks away, staring firmly at the hat. “Wouldn’t be surprised if we were cursed before we went to sleep tonight.”

George reaches for her, but Chester gets there first. “Then we can drag beds together in the hospital wing, can’t we?”

Delphi laughs, a little wet and a lot genuine, leaning into him a bit. “You better know some curses you can teach us,” George says, looking over Delphi’s shoulder to Fred. Fred nods. “Freddie and I were planning on being pranksters, but we can do revenge too.”

“Nah, best to get revenge with pranking spells. Annoy them to death.” She smiles, one that was more brittle than the last. If she were anyone else, she’d agree, but Delphi hasn’t been at Hogwarts for a day and is already desperate to be seen as better than her parents. Fred doesn't protest, for now, because he can’t see her face but it sounds like she’s trying not to cry. His little sister, Ginny, does that too.

“Sure,” Fred says, even as he catches George’s eye to tell him absolutely not. Maybe for the first offense, George offers, but Fred can tell he’s hesitant too.

Chester huffs and hip-checks Delphi. “Turn all their hair their least favorite color, and then make all their food taste like boiled eggs.”

She snorts. He grins.

“Lestrange, Delphini!”

The booing starts up immediately. George reaches over to high-five Chester, but Fred only notices that peripherally, instead focused on how he needs to change what’s acceptable in this school. He looks for the angriest faces, but he won’t be able to remember them as more than houses yet.

He gets better at it, later.

The booing doesn’t stop, so only a few people hear the Sorting Hat’s verdict. Fred, Chester, George, Dora, Charlie, Hestia, Flora, and Alicia all find this disgusting.

Four of them had only spent six hours with Delphi, but they know she deserves better. They all do. Charlie especially only realizes the hat said something when Delphi stands up.

In the middle of the Gryffindor table, clad in red, black, and gold, a host of redheads are trying to quiet people down. At the Slytherin table, anyone jeering shuts up quickly from glares. In Ravenclaw, no one is able to do much. At the Hufflepuff table, Dora is throwing low-level hexes that shouldn’t get her detention, but if they do she doesn’t care much. That’s her baby cousin!

A few people among the unsorted jeer too, and a black girl with a determined twist to her lips kicks the legs out from under three and punches a fourth.

Delphi stands up, carefully places the hat back on the stool, and starts walking.

The House Tables are set so that Gryffindor is on the left from the doorway, with Hufflepuff beside them, and Ravenclaw on the other side of the center aisle. Slythern gets the far right.

Instead of going towards the Ravenclaw table and past it to Slytherin, though, Delphi stops on the edge of the Hufflepuff table, and waves to Dora. Dora grins back at her, pretending she isn’t hexing tentacles onto a seventh year.

Up among the unsorted, George cackles. “Go Delphi!” he starts cheering and hollering, and Fred and Chester join in after a minute. So does the girl from earlier.

Delphi turns to look at them, and then turns her hair bright yellow. Fred grins, thinking her spellwork is impressive. He’ll figure it out later.

Chester turns to the girl with blood on her knuckles, and holds out his hand. “Chester.”

“Alicia,” says Alicia Spinnet, a muggleborn who spent six months with the Dunbar-Blacks and loved it. She shakes his hand.

Alicia hadn’t realized Delphi would be here this year, and she hadn’t recognized the girl either. Of course, it makes sense.

See, Bellatrix Lestrange Née Black at her prime, also known as how everyone expects her daughter to look, looked very different from Delphini Lestrange.

The differences, dear reader, that Fred, Alicia, and anyone else with eyes see, are ones I can now openly point out. Bellatrix Lestrange has hair black as her birth name, which crackles with magic like lightning and frizzes like a storm. Her eyes are large and unnerving, the same color as her daughter’s, but that’s not why Delphi kept the resemblance.

No, Delphi’s hair is red and smooth, darker than that of the family that raised her, but a reference all the same. Her eyes are silver, but that’s a family trait that goes beyond her mom. Regulus has silver eyes, and so do Andromeda and Fay. That’s who she keeps them for. Her eyes aren’t as wide of a shape, and her nose is blatantly stolen from Vivian. (Her cheekbones are from Caspian though.)

Fred watches as Norman, Chester, goes to Ravenclaw, and he and George cheer just as loudly for him as they did the girls.

Spinnet, Alicia, their new friend, goes to Gryffindor, but only after George invites her to the bathroom meet up too. When Fred sends him a look, George sends one back that essentially says ‘if she fights like that, I want her on my team’.

Two names after Alicia, George turns to his brother seriously. “If we can’t get into Gryffindor-” he starts, voice low.

“-we’ll be fine.” Fred assures him. Earlier, Fred wouldn’t have been so sure, but George made them friends and Fred knows their brothers will be there for them no matter their house. “We’ve got a friend in every house now, remember?”

George grins at him. “We’ll be fine,” he echoes.

“Weasley, Frederick!”

Fred looks back at his brother. “If we’re in different houses, I’m going to steal your tie.”

George grins even wider and clasps Fred's hand. “Deal.”

#Harry Potter #WBWL #Cathy The Narrator #Not (our parents') children #NOPC #WTOWBS #Jaymeow writes #Crossposting Spam #George Weasley #Delphi #Delphi Lestrange #Delphi Cy #Delphini Lestrange #Fred Weasley #alicia spinnet #Hestia Carrow #Flora Carrow

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winvyre · 17 days

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[Valerie's Story] Chapter 1: Omie (6/6)

Mom is just as confused as I am. “What?”

“Do you remember what I said to you when I took you away from the convent?”

“‘Never hold Omie in any higher regard than you would hold yourself.’ Why?”

“The two of you hold greater power than you know. Power akin to and even greater than the Six Immortals.” Bernadette motions for us to sit and we do. “My darling Oakley, you are the rebirth of a friend I have not seen for centuries; the very one whose godly worship I despise so much.”

“I'm… Omie? Bernadette, I don't understand.”

“After the White War ended, the Six Immortals disappeared. But Omie could not fully abandon the world she fought so hard to save. The world she felt responsible for the state of. She attempted to atone in secret, which was how we met, but as the weight on her conscience grew she became ever more…”

“Depressed?” I finish.

“Pitiful. She would cry often and overcompensate for every mistake. She distanced herself from the world while giving all of herself to its recovery. She wasted away. Eventually she disappeared from me as well. Many years later I find her in the very church she loathed the worship of, reborn as one of its altar servers.”

“I lived with the clergy until I was eleven, how could I not have known?”

“When an immortal reincarnates, their soul finds another body close to home to inhabit. All memories are sealed along with most of their power. If you are never given a reason to use it, it never gets used. Omie never reincarnated so that someone could always awaken them if needed. But even Omie was human.”

Mom puts her head in her hands. I’m completely lost. “So why am I here?”

“The hoary are roaming again which means the seal placed on the realm Bellona was banished to must be breaking. When it does, she’ll no doubt try to destroy the world again. You must gather the other Immortal reincarnations in order to defeat Bellona a second time.” She’s speaking more to me than Mom.

Mom glares at Bernadette, “Even if I’m Our Lady Omie,” her tone is spiteful, “I cannot in good conscience take my ten year old child on such a quest!”

“Valerie must go with you because she can trigger their memories.”

“How do you know?” Mom is shaking.

“She has already done it.”

“When? How do we find them? Am I supposed to just… become Omie now that I know? Who will take care of Francesca and Kell? What will Maurin think when he comes back? What about-”

“Oakley. I will look after Francesca and Kell. I will run the business. I may not be able to heal like you can but I can still sell potions and craft spells. I will explain everything to Maurin when he is found. The only thing I cannot do is take your place. I cannot fill the void you will leave behind but even more so I cannot embark on this journey for you. There are things you must discover for yourselves.”

“So you’re still keeping things from us.” Mom accuses. “Why can’t you just tell us everything right now?”

“Knowledge and wisdom are two sides of the same coin. Those who hold knowledge must be wise enough to know when to reveal it. Careless hands doom the world.”

-=+=-

Bernadette left not long after our conversation. Mom hasn't spoken since. The only other time I've seen her so… broken…. was when Maurin went missing. She's still downstairs.

I can hear Kell playing with his wooden horses on the other side of the wall next to my bed. He neighs loudly and mimics cannon noises. The siege must’ve happened early. At least Fran will get her doll back soon. Francesca sits on her bed across from me. She’s still struggling with the bread braid. Other than Kell, it’s quiet. Usually I don’t mind but right now it’s awful. I clutch my stuffed bear, Ondu, tighter.

“Hey, Fran?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m going to have to go away soon. So is Mom.”

“What are you talking about?” Fran says lazily. “Where would you go?”

“I don’t know. I guess we’d have to go everywhere.” How much can I tell her?

Fran puts Mabeline down. “Come here. Let me practice on you. They won’t call me out of fashion next time.” I don’t really do my hair. I wore pigtails when I was younger but now I just brush it. My hair is white like Bernadette’s but I was born like this and she’s just old. How old is she really? She said she knew Omie personally so that’d have to make her at least… five hundred? Maybe more? I don’t want to think about this anymore.

“Fine.” I can risk a few knots if it’s going to be the last time I see Fran for a while. “And I’m sorry about revealing your crush earlier.”

“I forgive you. Now hold still.”

----------

And that's it for chapter one! It amounts to exactly 6,800 words and twenty pages in Google docs, quite the start if I do say so myself. If you actually read all that, thank you! If you didn't, I understand completely! If you have questions, PLEASE ask them! Whether you want clarification on something I wrote, want me to expand upon a detail, or are curious about the reasons behind my decisions, I welcome you to my inbox and comment sections. Goodbye for now!

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

#writeblr #writer #writing #writers on tumblr #writer stuff #writerscommunity #writers #creative writing #writers and poets #original story #original character #oc #ocs #my ocs #oc lore #oc questions #chapter 1 #worldbuilding

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resident-gay-bitch · 1 year

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Too Late - Ten

summary: You’ve always secretly pined over Eddie Munson, your best friend, but when you find out he’s dating Chrissy Cunningham, you reach your breaking point. you seek comfort from Gareth, your second best friend. you figure out he’s got a crush, but you don’t know who, you were determined to figure it out though. but he was determined to keep his feelings for you locked away forever. but plans change, right?

too late masterlist - find next chapter there :)

Gareth still sat on the window, knees pulled up to his chest, head resting against the cool glass contrasting the afternoon sun. His cheeks were warm and red and sticky with remnants of salty tears, more sat in his eyes, waiting to fall. He looked out over the little town he had grown up in, he looked out at the quiet streets, at the park just a few roads over, at the church near the centre of the town, at the giant willow beside it. All places he spent his childhood with Eddie. All those places held such strong, important memories that he wanted nothing more than to forget. He watched the soft blow of the trees in the wind, kids, much like his younger self, on bikes riding around, playing, laughing. It all reminded him all too much of those days that would end too soon with Eddie. If he turned his head a little more to the left, he would be able to see the corner where he crashed his bike at eleven years old. Him and Eddie were racing, a competition to see who would get to you the fastest, but he crashed at that corner and skimmed his knee. And if he looked, he would remember how Eddie hopped off his bike, and helped Gareth to his feet, and they walked their bikes the rest of the way and Eddie joked around, trying his best to put a smile back on his friend's face. Because they were kids then, and nothing mattered, only each other. And that was before Eddie started treating Gareth as less. And it would hurt too much to remember a time so peaceful, so content, it would ache his heart.

You, on the other hand, were sat on the small couch on the other side of the hospital room. Your legs were crossed and your eyes were fixed on the bright, white, glossy floors. You haven't cried in hours. You haven't let yourself. You pulled the hood of Gareth's jumper over your head, shielding you away from the rest of the world, your sleeves pulled down over your hands and tucked neatly into your lap. You fiddled with the cuffs of your jeans and the laces of your converse, your mind as empty as you could force it to be. You and Gareth couldn’t bear to be near one another. You couldn’t even look at eachother. You felt too guilty. The weight of the situation; that if you had just chosen Eddie instead of Gareth; dragged your shoulders down to the ground. You both felt it. You both knew it. You didn’t need to say it.

Jeff and Grant were sat on the end of his bed, the room was eerily quiet, save the rhythmic beat of his heart monitor. The only indication you had that he was alive; that you hadn’t killed him. Yet. Lizzie and Wayne quietly made their way back into the room, they had gone to collect some lunch and have a smoke break, they wanted to give you four some time alone with him and one another. But you didn’t want to speak, neither did Gareth. Only Jeff and Grant shared a few passing words between one another. Everything was just… too much. They handed around sandwidges and cans of soda and juice boxes, but all of you were a little too reluctant to eat. Especially you. You felt sick. Wayne sat down on the arm of the couch beside you, and Lizzie sat on the windowsill with her son, her hand reached out to hold his, and he began to cry so softly again. No one noticed, only she did. Wayne rested his hand on your shoulder, but you didn’t realise. You didn’t feel it, too in your head to process anything much from the outside world.

“Kid,” Wayne repeated, however, you didn’t hear him speak the first time, he shook your shoulder slightly and you snapped out of your trance to look at him, “you know how I can reach his girl? I don’t have her number.”

Everyone's guilty eyes fell on Wayne, a silence suspended in the room, he looked around, eyebrows furrowed.

“They broke up.” you whispered, and you could barely hear it yourself, and then the lump rose in your throat and made your words sting, “Last night. They broke up.”

“Oh,” Wayne sat back a little, his eyes drifting over to Eddie, “oh.”

You let a few tears slip past your eyes as you looked at him too, “I don’t think she wants to see him.”

“What happened?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer, you hang your head down and let your tears fall into your lap. Gareth couldn’t speak either, and he just looked to his mother. She sighed, her eyes red rimmed as they fixed on Wayne, “You know how we always thought Ed’s and Jovi were in love with each other?”

Wayne took a sharp inhale and nodded slowly, “Oh.”

Lizzie sighed again, and looked to her son for some assurance, “He told her he loved her at that party, right in front of Gareth and Chrissy. Tried to kiss her.”

“Did kiss her.” Gareth mumbled, his head turning back to look at Eddie.

“Right,” Lizzie nodded, “he did kiss her and told her he loved her and wanted her. Fucked everything up.”

Wayne looked over at his nephew with a disapproving frown, shaking his head, “And I’m guessing you don’t love him back?”

You looked up at Wayne, and he still wasn’t looking at you, “No. I-” you looked over to Gareth, your eyes fixed on his and suddenly the guilt multiplied, “I love Gareth.”

Wayne nodded slowly and looked over to Gareth with a half hearted smile, “I always wondered which one of you she would choose.”

You both looked up at the man with desperate eyes, Gareth’s flicked over to you a couple of times. He couldn’t help himself.

“You two were hers right from the start. I always hoped Eddie would have gotten the love I thought he deserved with you, kid, but I’ve come to understand that he doesn't deserve it as much as Gareth.” Wayne sighed and looked back at Eddie, “Just thought he’d be smarter than to fuck up the one good thing he had with you lot.”

“Me too.” You whispered, pulling your knees to your chest and hiding behind them.

“Just make sure she finds out, okay?” He looked back to you, “She was his girlfriend.”

You nodded and the room fell silent again.

—————————————————————————

You still sat in that chair, in that same position five hours later. Eddie was still asleep, the room was dark and quiet and cold. Wayne and Lizzie had decided that it would be best to get out of the hospital for a couple of hours, to go have some late night dinner at the diner or something. Jeff and Grant grew hungry, but you and Gareth couldn’t process eating another thing. No, the guilt was eating you inside out and you couldn’t leave his side. Neither of their sides. And so the two of you stayed. And you waited. Not a word was shared between you. Not once. It hurt. Gareth stood up suddenly, catching your attention. He looked at Eddie, taking a few steps closer to his bed, and your shoulders sunk. He then looked over to you, and he swallowed, a sorrow filled frown etched on his face. He furrowed his eyebrows and looked as if he was about to speak, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know what to say or how to say anything. And then he just walked out of the room. And you didn’t know why, your eyes followed him until they couldn’t anymore, and then he was gone and you were left to solitude. You weren't sure how much more time passed, but your eyes never left the space Gareth last occupied. You desperately awaited his return. Even if no words were shared, you needed him. You needed someone, at least, you couldn't bear to be alone here with Eddie dying in front of you. But you needed Gareth the most. You always needed Gareth the most. You thought about following him out, about chasing after him and walking by his side in silence. Maybe you’d even cling to him, and maybe he would let you. But you also couldn’t bear to leave Eddie alone. What if in those mere moments he was left alone here, his heart gave out and he died with no one at his side? You weren’t sure he was deserving of your attention, or comfort, but no one deserved to die alone. The steady beep of his heart monitor was constant in your ears, your eyes fixed on the slither of light though the gap in the curtain Gareth had left through, it was peaceful, almost. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was steady. But then it wasn’t. The beat that once went to the count of four, began to fasten to the beat of three. Your eyes darted over to him. This couldn’t be the end. It fastened again, the beeping louder in your ears, more constant, and you didn’t even have time to process before you were running to his bedside. You grabbed his hand in yours, eyes flicking between the monitor and his face. His face didn’t change. And then it quickened again, to the beat of one, and your heart raced just as fast. His eyebrows contorted and you didn’t even realise you were crying until you couldn’t see his face though the tears anymore. You were chanting his name, begging him to wake, telling him that you were there. And then he opened his eyes. Your heart stopped. Your tears stopped. The calling of his name stopped. He took a moment eyes scanning around the room until he turned his head slightly to look at you, you were sat on the edge of his bed, knee pressing softly into his side so you could face him, the other hanging off the edge of the bed, your cold hands clasped around his warm one. He groaned with his movement, there was bruising all over his neck and shoulders, but his eyes did fix on you. He just looked at you, and you just looked at him for a moment.

“You're awake.” you whispered, not being able to talk much louder.

He nodded slightly, “You’re…” he looked around the room, taking his surroundings in, “in the hospital.”

“You almost died.” These words were a little sharper than the last, a little more bitter.

“You're the only one here.”

“They left to get food… we’ve been here all day.”

“You’ve been here all day?” his voice was soft, horse, and it hurt to speak.

You nodded slightly, “You almost died.” you repeated, and your words were harsh.

“I’m- I’m sorry.”

“No,” you shook your head, tears starting again and you shoved his hand away, standing now as you gritted your teeth, “You don’t get to be sorry. You ruined everything! You ruined everything, Eddie.”

Tears began to prick at his eyes now, partially from your words, partially from the pain in his body, “I didn’t-”

“You know, you got your fucking wish.” you spat, “Chrissy and I aren’t fucking friends anymore.”

He lifted his hand to scratch his head, and widened his eyes when he realised it was in a cast, “Fuck.”

You shook your head, his attention back on you, “You broke her heart. You shattered it! How could you? How could you, Eddie! She loved you and you just used her! For no reason! You could have had me if you had just asked, but you just wanted to torment me instead… torment Gareth!”

He looked away from you, unable to face the truth that he forced himself to ignore for years, and years.

“You broke his heart too, Eddie. And mine.” your voice was calmer now, but it still cut him deep, “Years and years of friendships built up to nothing. All dissolved in one stupid night because… because I don’t even know why. Because you could?”

His cries were quiet, and he still couldn’t face you, “Please, I- I love you… so much. I need you, princess.”

You shook your head, “I don’t. You took too long and broke my heart too many times. And I have never needed you.”

Silence hung in the air for a moment, his eyes were fixed on his blank cast, “Is Chrissy okay?”

“I have got no fucking clue, Eddie.” You whispered, “She doesn’t want to look at me because of what you did. You cost me too much last night… Last night, not only did I lose my longest friend and most favourite person, I lost the first ever girlfriend I've had. And you know what, that shit sucks ass Eddie. I finally thought I was getting my happy ending. My best friend back, a girl in my life, someone to give me the love I constantly gave. But no. No of course not, because that doesn’t suit you. That doesn’t please you. You can’t keep me trapped under your arm like that, you can’t control me. I don’t belong to you.”

“Y/N, please-”

“Eddie?” A voice spoke beyond the curtain, one you recognised easily, and you turned to find Gareth standing there with a balloon and a bunch of flowers in his hand.

Eddie swallowed and looked up at him, “Hi.”

Gareth couldn’t say anything. He just gritted his teeth and walked around the bed and tied the blue little ‘get well soon’ balloon to the bedrail. He looked at Eddie with a deep sigh and nodded. Eddie looked at him for a moment, his eyes dropping to the bouquet before looking up at Gareth,

“Those for me?” he said with a bright smile.

“No.” Gareth shook his head and reached for his belongings off the window seal.

“Oh.” Eddie nodded, his heart sank a little, he looked back to you, “I’m sorry-”

“I said you don’t get to be sorry, Eddie. You’ve said it hundreds of times before, and not once have you ever, really meant it. How am I supposed to believe you now?”

He nodded slowly, and Gareth leant back against the window, Eddie cleared his throat, “How… How long have you two been together?”

You sighed and looked over to Gareth who was focused on the daisies in his hand, since my birthday.”

Eddie tensed, his eyes fixed on you, “But-” he looked over to Gareth and then to you again, “I heard you… that night, I heard you talking to Gareth about me.”

You nodded, “Look, I don’t know what you heard. But I was telling him how I was getting over you. And I was getting over you because I was getting feelings for him. And he actually acknowledged that, and appreciated that. Something very forign to me.”

Eddie scolded himself, eyes dipping to his sheets, “Right.” he nodded, “So… you finally got her-”

“Don’t give me that bullshit, man.” Gareth scoffed, shaking his head and slamming the flowers down on the window seal, “Don’t even try to play fucking nice. Do you even remember what you said to me last night? Right before you rushed off to grope my girlfriend in front of yours?”

He closed his eyes, his mind racing and his body packed full of regret.

Gareth rolled his eyes, “You won’t even admit it.” He walked back over to the bed, “You don’t even know how much you’ve hurt me. How much you've hurt her.” he pointed to you, eyes fixed on Eddie’s puppy dog ones, “You will never get my forgiveness. And we will certainly never just… go back to how it was.”

“I’m so-”

“You’re not.” He said quietly, right as the rest of the group was heard entering the room, “You’re not sorry to me, you're not sorry to Jovi, and you're not sorry to Chrissy. You never are. All you do is take, take, take and you never fucking think about the consiquences and I’m done. I’m fucking done, Eddie.”

He started to cry again, cut by Gareth and your words, and utterly embarrassed to be sitting here in a hospital bed, with his uncle and friends and chosen mother listening to him be belittled like this.

“I hope you get better, I really do. I really didn’t want you to die, you were my best friend. And I wish you all the best, and I hope you get a happy future and all that crap… but I want nothing to do with it.” He turned around and collected his things, “Goodbye, Eddie. Get well soon.”

And with that, he was walking out of the room, Lizzie running off after him. You stepped up to the bed, Wayne and the boys giving you plenty of room. You sat down on the edge and took Eddie’s hand in yours. He looked up at you with wet cheeks and hope in his eyes as he squeezed your hand. You swept his grimey bangs back from his face and thumbed the tears from his cheeks with a soft smile. You lent in to press a kiss right between his brows, and his breath hitched. You pulled back, and looked at him, each of your cold hands soothing on his burning skin. You whispered, “I hope someone makes you suffer, just as you have done to everyone else who’s ever loved you.”

His face dropped, a new shade of white washing over him. You smiled at him again and petted his hand before standing up, and leaving the room. You found Lizzie making her way back towards the room, and she pulled you into a tight hug, kissing your face as a mother would, and told you Gareth was going to the car. You nodded and parted ways, walking through the pristine corridors of the hospital to find him. You saw him walking slowly through the car park, bouquet hanging upside down from his hand as he approached the car. You rushed up to him, taking a step in front of him but keeping your space.

“Got room in the car for one more?” You smiled sheepishly, both of your hearts aching.

He nodded, lip pouted and tears spilling over. You pulled him into your arms, and he wrapped his tight around you, crying into your shoulder harder than you had seen him cry, ever. You stroked his hair, letting yourself cry too now, but not as hard as him. Your tears for Eddie were long gone, he didn’t deserve them anymore. You only cried for Gareth now, and your heart hurt for him so much. You stayed there for a while, in the quiet dark of the almost empty car park, holding him up in your arms as he cried all he could. Your - well, his - jumper was stained in tears and smelt of grief. You were both prepared to lose Eddie today, one way or another. However, you had processed the loss already, you had cried for it already. All you needed to do was tell him you were letting go, and now you had done that. But Gareth, well, his grief had only just begun. And now it was your turn to do for him, what he had done for you more times than you had ever realised. You kissed his cheek tenderly as his cries began to die out, sweeping some hair back from his face and pulling away just enough to look him in his foggy eyes, “I love you, and I’ve got you. Okay?”

He nodded softly, holding your wrist in his hand, keeping it on his cheeks, “I got you flowers.”

Your heart fluttered and you pouted your lip a little, his voice was so sweet yet so hurt and it made you just want to cradle him in your arms and sing him to sleep, “You did?” you smiled, a little laugh slipping through the tears.

He nodded and held the bouquet of daisies, baby’s breath, and Japanese crysanthonyms wrapped in brown paper and clear cellophane with yellow polka dots decorating it, tied off with a green and brown string bow, out for you to take. And you did, graciously. You held them to your face and took in the sweet scent. You looked up at him with glassy eyes and a big smile, “Why did you get me flowers?”

“Because you're grieving.” he shrugged, his voice so small, “And you deserve them… and because I saw them and thought of you so I just wanted too.”

You sniffled a little, your heart felt so full, “No one’s ever wanted to buy me flowers before.”

He smiled to himself, eyes and lips puffy from crying, “Well, I’m glad I could be your first.”

You smiled and hugged him again, and he left his sweet little kiss on the tip of your nose. A kiss that was always filled with so much love and adoration. It was one of your favourite things in the world. You grabbed the keys from his hand carefully and shook them in the air, “You're in no condition to drive, sugar. Where do you want to go?”

He smiled a little, “Sugar?” you shrugged, and he laughed, “Anywhere, as long as it’s with you.”

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singtheskyandfightlikehell · 4 years

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BatFamily Headcanons: Stuffed Animals

In an attempt to productively combat my recent writer’s block, I’m practicing writing the batfam characters through short character study fics (which I will post once I make enough) and comparative headcanons. I might end up making short fics out of these, as well, since some of them got a bit long anyways

Today I decided to explore how many stuffed animals each member of the batfam (plus an adjacent character or two) has, what they think of them, how they got them, etc. I’ve got eleven characters on this list (and I’m still missing some, sorry)

Bruce:

Bruce put aside stuffed animals when he was eleven, deciding it was time to become serious. However, since acquiring children, he has been gifted a number of stuffed animals, ranging from a small and realistic brown bat to a child-sized bear wearing his cape and cowl. None of the children know this, but he keeps them all in a prominent position in his walk-in closet. Sometimes, when he has a particularly nasty fight with one of his kids, or he discovers something (like an injury) that they were hiding from him, he’ll tell the stuffed animals all the things he struggles to tell his children in the hopes that, one day, he’ll figure out how to express himself when it actually counts.

Alfred:

Alfred has no stuffed animals of his own, but he keeps the old, worn teddy bear that was once Thomas’ and later Bruce’s, alongside the somewhat lopsided bunny that Martha attempted to sew for Bruce when he was two. They sit side by side in a spotless glass cabinet filled with other memories that various members of the family have at one point or another attempted to cast aside.

Dick:

Dick has a pair of stuffed elephants, Eleonore and Zitka, and a teddy bear of his own, all from the circus. Most of the time they sit on the shelf under one of his nightstands, but when he has a particularly bad day, he’ll hold them all tightly until he falls asleep. If he’s crying, he finds it slows the tears to press kisses to the tops of their heads, or just smoosh his whole face into them. Sometimes, if he’s having a particularly good day – especially if no one else is sharing in his good mood – he’ll tell them about whatever made him happy. The rarest occasions are a bittersweet combination of both, the moments when he dwells on his happiest memories of his parents. When this happens, he is more likely to address them than his family, talking to them like old friends who were “there” for the things he’s recalling. It reminds him of the parties he would host as a small child, attended by his stuffed animals and his parents and sometimes other people from the giant family that was Haly’s, and for just that moment he’ll feel suspended somewhere between grief and content.

Barbara:

Barbara had lots of stuffed animals growing up, but as she got older, she gave most of them away. The only one she kept was a little otter that her father gave her for her first birthday. She doesn’t remember this, of course, but they have an old home video of that day which she’s seen a few times, and she know it’s one of her dad’s favorites to watch when he’s feeling nostalgic. She does remember the way she used to drag the otter with her everywhere she went when she was about four, and it’s so worn now that all of its original fluffiness has disappeared. She sets it up near her main computer and uses it in place of a rubber duck.

Jim:

When Babs decided she was too old for her stuffed animals, Jim was instructed to give them away at one of the Gotham children’s toy drives he helps run as commissioner. Only about half of them ever make it out of the house, because he keeps looking at them and remembering little moments that involve each of them. He has two boxes full of them that he swears he’s going to bring to the next drive, but he’s been swearing that for over ten years now.

Jason:

When Jason first arrived at the manor, he swore up and down that stuffed animals were dumb kids toys that he was way too old for. The first time Dick showed up at the manor after Jason was there, he brought a plush dog he’d picked up on the way there, unsure what to get his surprise new brother but not putting an excess of thought into it either. After all, he wasn’t about to ask Bruce what Jason might like. Jason made a show of scorn and tossing the toy in the trash, but when Dick was gone he dug it back out. When he was sleeping, he clutched the dog protectively against his chest like it might be snatched away at any time. When he wasn’t sleeping, he kept it hidden in a box wedged under a floorboard beneath the bed, alongside his other contraband. It was there when he died and it’s still there now. Every time he’s in the manor, he thinks about sneaking into his old room to retrieve it, alongside some of his other old belongings, but he never does. His reasoning alternates between not caring, being too old for toys, not wanting to set foot in his old room, and not wanting to get caught caring after all these years.

He does however have an obnoxiously long bright red snake that Roy won at some sort of archery carnival game while they were supposed to be tracking a suspect. He’d griped at Roy for wasting time with frivolous games, a complaint that was very on brand for their relationship. He’s pretty sure Roy saw through him, though, and understood the real reason he was so antsy to leave the carnival, given his soft apology later that night. He also recently acquired a floppy stingray, a gift from Lian for his latest birthday. She told him that she’d gotten to pet a stingray at the aquarium where she’d bought it, and it reminded her of him. Specifically, she’d said he was, “Kinda dangerous and maybe a little scary, but actually really soft to anyone who’s nice enough”. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that description, but the gift had a place of pride, resting atop an old model of his helmet that Roy had “defaced” with a sweet message that always made Jason smile.

Cass:

Cass grew up without stuffed animals, and was honestly a little confused at first about why she might want one. The first one she ever got was a tiny key-chain cat that was given to her by a little girl she saved. She was unsure what to make of the object itself, but she treasured it as a symbol, proof that she was doing good in the world. It was Steph who convinced her to look for more, to look for stuffed animals in her “style”. Eventually, she got two of the most different ones she could find: an iridescent octopus packed tightly with beans and made of a coarse fabric, and a large fluffy goose that squished like a cloud and was made of the softest fabric imaginable. She likes tossing the octopus lightly in the air to feel the weight of it, and faceplanting into the giant goose. She also has a big bear holding a plush heart that Steph got her for their first Valentine’s.

Tim:

Tim’s relationship with stuffed animals is a bit more complicated. He had five growing up: a dog, a bear, a lion, a rabbit, and a lamb. They had names, stories, personalities, and they were his friends (his only friends, at the time). When he was seven, he woke up one day to find them gone. His mother scolded him for his tears, explaining that he was too old for baby toys, and that his attachment to them would only hinder his path forward. For years, he felt ashamed whenever he thought of his grief towards them, because he knew they were just toys, he knew he was being a baby about it, and yet…

It wasn’t until he was fifteen years old and stumbled across an article about autistic people and the projection of feelings onto objects that he understood why he had been willing to sneak out at night to search through pawn store after pawn store and – once – the landfill in the hopes of seeing his beloved toys again. As a teen in the Wayne household, he knew he could get as many stuffed animals as he liked, but he couldn’t bring himself to do so after what had happened before. He got one giant, floppy moose, barely half a foot shorter than himself, that he clings to like an octopus when he manages to lay down, whether he succeeds in falling asleep or not. Additionally, on a night after Jason made amends with the family, Tim returned to his room to find a fifteen inch plush latte with a cute little face on the mug portion and a sticky note on top that simply read: Sorry for trying to kill you a bunch. My bad :) He keeps it on top of his dresser, and while he doesn’t really hug it, he did discover it was the perfect object for chucking at his siblings’ heads whenever the situation calls for it.

Steph:

Steph loves stuffed animals. While she never got any of the fancy brand name ones, or the luxuriously soft ones, or the hyper-realistic ones, her mom had a tradition of buying her one for every birthday, Christmas, and Easter. She soon had quite a collection, and – like Tim – she gave them all names and personalities. She played out complex scenarios with them and the few dolls she had, designing an intricate world of wild concepts and plots. She also used her stuffed animals to conquer her fears, like thunderstorms and darkness, by pretending they were all more scared than she was, so she had to be brave for all of them. Steph still has her whole collection, as well as quite a few “nicer” (though equally loved) ones that she has acquired from various Waynes. At this point, pretty much everyone in the Wayne family has given her a stuffed animal at some time or other. For a couple of years now, she has taken to posing with her massive collection and making fake family Christmas cards to send out to everyone she knows, where she will update them on the well-being of any plushie they’ve given her.

Duke:

Duke also has a great love of stuffed animals, although he doesn’t match Steph for quantity. He only had a few beloved animals growing up, all of which he’s held onto (a panda, a penguin, a turtle, a frog, a leopard, and a pikachu). Since being fostered by Bruce, Duke has taken to searching out and buying only the rarest stuffed animals he can find: an anteater, a platypus, a manatee, a sloth, and an axolotl have made the cut so far. Bruce knows about this and has taken to keeping an eye out for anything interesting whenever he’s out. After accidentally mentioning it at a gala one time, it has since become his favorite topic, as getting drawn into an intense discussion with Bruce Wayne about where to acquire strange plushies for his son elicits one of two reactions from his guests: delighted awws or hilariously awkward attempts to steer the conversation back to high society definitions of business and pleasure. At Duke’s request, a large shelf was built around the top of his room, so that all of his stuffed animals can sit comfortably and be clearly seen.

Damian:

Damian was much like Jason when he arrived at the manor in more ways than one, but his determination to prove himself above stuffed animals was certainly on that list. He sneered at his siblings’ attempts to treat him like the child he swore he wasn’t. And honestly, even after he began to lower his walls just a little, he still wasn’t particularly fond of stuffed animals. Sure, he privately thought they were cute, and sure he might (might) find himself holding one at night if it happened to have been left in his bed by an annoying sibling, but in general he preferred live animals to fake ones. Real animals had personalities and feelings, fake ones did not, it was as simple as that, no matter what Stephanie claimed. But as time went on, Damian found himself acquiring a small army of stuffed animals against his will. Some of his siblings (Jason, Tim, sometimes Duke) gave them to him because they found it funny to watch him growl about how he was not an infant in need of deceitful comforts. Some of his siblings (Dick, Cass, sometimes Duke… sometimes his father as well) would give them to him because they knew he liked animals so they assumed he’d like imitations of animals as well. Steph would just give them to everybody, every now and then. But regardless of motive, Damian soon found his room overflowing with stuffed animals that were moderately cute but ultimately pointless.

It wasn’t until a patrol a few years after he’d taken on the mantle of Robin that he discovered a solution. Tim had hidden a tiny stuffed bear in the medical supply compartment of his utility belt, a felt bandage wrapped around its little head. He hadn’t been wounded, but the young girl he’d rescued had been bleeding from a wound that looked worryingly dirty. The bear had fallen out of the pouch, right into her lap, and she’d stared at it with wide eyes, surprise halting the flow of her tears. She’d held onto it the whole time he disinfected her arm and bandaged it, and afterwards he had insisted she keep it. For the first time that night, she’d smiled. After that, Damian began taking a few of his many stuffed animals out on patrol with him, ready to hand out to any and all injured, lost, or otherwise traumatized children once he’d rescued them from their troubles. Eventually he began running out of toys he’d been gifted, even though he kept getting new ones, so at some point he begins to regularly sneak out for the sole purpose of acquiring stuffed animals to hand out. He never tells his siblings, but he suspects they’ve found out anyway, when the presents they give him drastically decrease in size.

#batfamily #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #damian wayne #duke thomas #cassandra cain #stephanie brown #barbara gordon #jim gordon #bruce wayne #alfred pennyworth #jayroy #stephcass #my headcanons #i stole elements of the hc for dick tim steph and duke from my own personality lmao #also the only portion of this that draws on canon (to my knowledge) is the stuff about dick #i've seen stuff about him having a stuffed elephant with both of those names so i decided to just give him two #can't go wrong with extra elephants #but yeah i hope there's nothing that like blatantly contradicts any of this stuff #i'm trying to speed read a bunch of comics rn but i keep reading like 50s-80s era primarily #so there's a number of characters i haven't really gotten to yet #also i've discovered i find green arrow comics more entertaining so lowkey i keep reading those instead oops #i have a very convoluted list of what i need to read to hit the major plot points of batfam and arrowfam #but i also lowkey feel like major plot point comics are gonna tell me less about characterization #filler episodes are where its at #but there's no reading order lists that give me 'best filler issues' sorted by character

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thepointoftheneedle · 4 years

Photo

Happy New Year!

I wrote a little New Year’s Eve one shot. It’s below the cut or you can read it on AO3 here. (I’ve started a collection of short pieces just to keep things tidy.) I hope you are all able to celebrate safely and I wish you a healthy and happy 2021.

It was obvious that the party was going off the rails as soon as Archie started lining up shots along the whole length of the marble counter top. He called Reggie out and Reggie never backed down from a challenge to his machismo so they both worked their way along the little bullets of stupid until, breathless and belly laughing, they slid to the floor, their eyes swivelling in their dumb skulls like cartoon coyotes that had just been smashed over the head with an Acme anvil. It was nine fifteen. Betty had wondered if Veronica would be mad about it but she seemed in the mood for some chaos as she set up two more lines of glasses opposite each other on the counter and challenged Cheryl who had never met an unnecessary drama she didn’t like.

Betty had drunk a very pleasant glass of good champagne and had been contemplating having a couple more before midnight. She’d never been a big drinker so for her that was cutting loose. It had been, to put it crudely, a shit-show of a year and she was glad to see the back of it. At the last New Year’s party she had been showing off a dazzling engagement ring, about to start the job that she had been expensively and laboriously trained for and she and her intended had signed the lease on a cute and well appointed apartment in Sunset Park which everyone said was the up and coming neighbourhood. The world had been unfolding for her like a flower. Then the frost had come and scorched the petals with its chill. This year she was single, her job sometimes felt like it was eating her up and that cute apartment burned through every cent of her pay check now she had to make the rent alone. It was possible that she was the saddest girl in a cocktail dress on the whole island of Manhattan, she was certainly the soberest person at the party.

An hour later the shots were completely out of hand and Betty had only just prevented Ethel from throwing up into the piano. Moose made some half hearted effort to restore order, offering glasses of water, trying to start a game of Charades, but Kevin was in too mischievous a mood for his efforts to bear any fruit and instead they were embarking on Drunk Jenga, the rules of which seemed to be that you took a shot whenever you removed a block and then another when you placed it on top of the stack. She imagined you took a shot if the tower fell but she didn’t stick around to find out. She sidled over to where the Pol Roger was stacked, neglected, in its very own champagne refrigerator and helped herself while everyone else was supporting the economy of Mexico by the prodigious consumption of Patron Silver.

She took her recharged glass to the window and looked out at the snowy expanse of Central Park far below. It looked like the idealised interior of a snow globe, the air glassy and still and a huge yellow moon surveying its domain. Betty remembered walking through the park with Trev last Christmas, bundled in a thick coat and scarf. They’d held hands inside one of his mittens. They’d made snow angels. They’d skated at the Wollman Rink and drunk hot chocolate afterwards. Her life had been a cover image from a romance novel. This year she had spent Christmas being patronised by Polly’s constant offers of introductions to a succession of Jason’s frat brothers and golfing buddies. Eventually she’d pointed out that if she’d wanted some obstructionist, bigoted blowhard she could have found one herself, without Polly’s oh so sympathetic intervention. Polly cried and Betty apologised but she still wasn’t going to go on a date with a junior vice president of acquisitions even if he did have a weekend place in Connecticut. She wouldn’t tolerate being paraded in front of prospective suitors like a prize dairy cow at the county show, not by Veronica and certainly not by her sister.

As she reminisced she became aware of Archie and Veronica deep in conversation in the corner of the room. “We have a teeny emergenshy,” Veronica said, her hand on Archie’s forearm. Veronica was never less than perfectly composed but that slur at the end of her word and the ramped up sincerity gave her away to her best friend. She was sozzled. “Only two bottles of Patron left and then the cupboard is bare. I may have over-ordered on the fizz and neglected the tequila.”

Archie nodded, taking the situation as seriously as his wife. Then some kind of light dawned on his handsome face. “We’ll get the magic doorman to get us some. He’ll be on duty now. I’ll go slip him a fifty and he’ll take care of it.” He turned to reach for his wallet and promptly fell on his face. It was ten to eleven and all was decidedly not well.

Betty went over to help Archie off the rug. He grinned even though his nose was bloody. “Ronnie, Betty’s all sober and sensible. She can go talk to the wizard. Here Betty, here’s fifty for a tip and Ronnie’ll give you her credit card for the booze. Okay? Shit I’m bleeding… still it’s not a party til something gets broke.”

V was looking at her imploringly now. Somewhere there was the sound of glass smashing and Monroe’s attempt to do chin ups on the kitchen doorframe seemed to be bringing plaster down on the floor. Betty would rather be almost anywhere than right here so she nodded at her friend. "What do you need V?”

V explained that the building’s night doorman was a kind of fixer. When Tom in 204 had forgotten his wife’s birthday Jones had got him a gluten free chiffon cake iced with her name at two thirty on a Thursday morning along with a bouquet of out of season narcissuses....narcissi? When the little boy in 116 had told his mama at midnight that he needed a George Washington costume for school the next day the night doorman had sourced it, complete with powdered wig, before the little tyke had finished his cheerios. When V had realised an hour before her 5.15 a.m. flight to Miami that she had completely forgotten her niece’s confirmation gift he had sourced a personalised Catholic Bible bound in white leather which he handed to her as she got into her cab. “He’s a miracle worker B. Just tell him we need a case…no two cases of Patron Silver before midnight. Give him the fifty but tell him I’ll make it a hundred if he can fix it by eleven thirty. OK?”

“Sure. On my way.”

She travelled down in the elevator imagining the doorman. He’d be some old guy in a uniform with gold braid on the chest. He probably knew all the residents and their dogs by name and had one of those old timey extended families so that he could reach out to Cousin Ike for last minute birthday cakes or get his nephew’s wife to sew a costume at no notice. She needed a fixer herself since her life seemed so broken. She wondered what he could do for a lonely woman who was trying to work out if getting a cat was too much of an admission that she had given up.

As she stepped out into the lobby she was slightly taken aback by the mismatch between her expectations and reality. He was behind the reception desk, dark head bowed over a laptop, no braid in evidence, no grey whiskers or paunch, just this dark, poetic looking guy in a black sweater. She approached the desk and he looked up at her, fingers still flying over the keys without him needing to glance down. He seemed to reach a natural pause, closed the lid of the laptop and smiled politely. “Yes ma’am, how can I help?” His eyes were blue. They seemed to look through her probably thinking she was just another rich girl bringing him problems. He must get that a lot.

“Yeah, hi, I’m a guest of Mr and Mrs Lodge Andrews up in the penthouse. They’re having a little New Year's Eve party and they’re running low on liquor. They wondered if you could source them a couple of cases of…”

“Patron Silver? Yes ma’am, of course. Who should I charge it to?” She had no idea how he could have known what she was going to ask for. It made her want to say that they wanted Stolichnaya or absinthe or something, just to surprise him but she’d been sent for Patron and Patron she would get.

“Oh, yes, I have a credit card.” She handed it over, “and Mr Andrews said to give you this for the trouble.” She passed him the fifty, embarrassed.

“No incentive to get it here before the coaches turn into pumpkins?” he asked, eyebrow raised. She thought he was making fun of her but she couldn’t be sure.

“Oh yes, that’s right. Veronica said another $50 if it’s here by eleven thirty.”

“Okay ma’am. I’ll buzz up when it’s here. If that’s all.”

“Oh please don’t call me ma’am. I’m Betty.”

“I’m Jones... Jughead. Nickname. Long dull story.” He raised an eyebrow, clearly wondering why she was still standing in front of his desk.

“Look, it’s a little crazy up there. Would it be okay if I just stay down here for a minute? Just say if it’s inconvenient. I don’t want to disturb you if you’re busy.” She didn’t think she could bear to be the responsible adult at Veronica’s party for a moment longer. Here it was quiet and no one needed her to hold back their hair while they were getting sick.

“Busy getting hold of twelve bottles of good tequila on New Year's Eve but that’s all. I just need to make a call. Excuse me.” He stood and walked away from the desk, his back turned to her. It was a good back. He was wearing the black sweater over grey slacks with a key chain hanging from one of his belt loops. He had broad shoulders but his neck was fine, not thick and meaty like the guys who needed to lift weights to manufacture some self esteem. He was slim at the waist and the hips, long legs, tall. The hair was the USP though, dark waves of it tumbling freely as he dragged long fingers through it, waiting for someone to pick up his call. Finally he yelled “Hey Toni. Yeah, two cases of Patron Silver asap. Yeah, I’d noticed that but mark it up. Can Sweetpea drop it over? Yeah right now. Hey, ask him to get me a burger on the way too.” He turned and looked at Betty with a questioning look and she shrugged and nodded, “Two, make it two. Ok, thanks Toni. Yeah you too. See you Sunday.”

He ended the call and made his way back to the desk. “My pal Toni runs a bar,” he explained with a grin.

“Veronica says you’re magic, a wizard,” she told him.

“Nothing occult about it. I’m just observant, that’s all.”

“Seems magical to produce a George Washington costume overnight,” she countered.

“Oh well, that was a lucky break. My sister’s a textile artist. A struggling one. I gave her the brief and she knocked up the costume in a few hours. Now all the upper east side mommies have her business card and she can afford to buy materials and pay her rent. She had to pull an all nighter but it paid off pretty big in the end.”

“Birthday cake? Out of season flowers?”

“The husband’s kind of a dick. He forgot last year too. They had a fight about it in this very lobby so I wrote down the date and got ready to save his bacon. If he’d remembered the date I’d have had cake for my breakfast and sent my sister a bunch of flowers. As it was I made a couple hundred bucks.”

Betty was laughing now at the smug look on his face. “So you could have reminded him beforehand?”

“Could have, but maybe the expense’ll help him remember next time. Anyway if the doorman knows more about your wife than you do it might be time to review your priorities.”

“Ok but what about the Bible? That seems pretty miraculous.”

“Actually it’s kind of the opposite. The kid’s confirmation name is Maria. Hardly original. My buddy Joaquin’s little sister was confirmed a few months ago. Her confirmation name’s Maria. She hadn’t made a whole lot of use of the Bible. Your pal paid me three hundred, Joaquin’s kid sister got two hundred in her college fund.”

“Seems like the side hustles are more remunerative than the pay check,” Betty observed.

“It’s all a side hustle. I’m a writer. This job’s kept me supplied with characters and plot lines and given me eight hours of mostly uninterrupted writing time.”

Betty flushed pink and jumped up from the corner of the desk where she had been leaning. “Oh I’m so sorry. Here I am wasting your time. I’ll be on my way.”

“No, wait,” he reached out and put his hand on her arm. It tingled. “I didn’t mean it like that. This is research. Maybe I’ll put you in my next book. The sad girl in a party frock who’d rather be in the lobby than with her friends at a party being kissed for New Year.”

“There’s no-one to kiss up there,” she confessed with a sad smile and then, without having any idea why, she said “I broke up with my fiancé last February.”

“Aha,” he said. “There’s the plot. Tell me.”

“He’s great. A really good guy. Kind, loyal, handsome. Everything I should have wanted. Any girl would be lucky to have him. I think I broke his heart.”

“Why?”

“We started to plan the wedding and I wanted to run away. I couldn’t bear to think about it. Then one day I found myself imagining what I’d do if something bad happened that prevented it, like if he got sick or if I was in a car accident or something. It was pretty clear that I couldn’t go through with it if I preferred the idea of one of us being in a coma to the idea of my wedding day.”

“Cold feet?”

“Oh freezing but it wasn’t just nerves. When I imagined being married to him I couldn’t see myself, I was just a blank. It was… I don’t know how to say it…like I was finished. I’d never be anything more than I was, never change or grow or struggle. It was all too easy. No grit in the oyster. I know it’s crazy.”

“You didn’t say it was you not him did you? You didn’t do that to him?” He was smiling at her, sympathising not mocking.

She blushed. “I did. All the clichés. How could I explain? I don’t even understand it myself.”

“I understand it. You want to find out who you can be and he couldn’t give you that. He was happy with who you were, didn’t want you to change. He was probably scared of losing you. Anyone would be.” He looked at her with an intensity that made her nervous so she tried to change the subject.

“A writer then? What do you write?”

“Mostly mystery stories. Magazines and online so far but I’ve just got a publisher for the novel. I’m going to quit this next year. What do you do?”

“I’m a psychologist. I work with kids who are in trouble. Try to get them back on track. I love it but it’s hard sometimes. I hear things that it’s tough to leave at the office.”

“You need to take care of you first. You can’t save someone if you aren’t safe yourself. ”

“Writer or life coach?” she smiled.

He chuckled. “Sorry. I’m not good at small talk. I get too intense too fast and freak people out. Oh hey, cometh the man, cometh the tequila.”

A tall guy in a leather jacket was pulling boxes out of the back of a truck that he’d illegally bumped up the curb outside.. He looked a little scary. Once he was in the lobby she saw that he had a snake tattooed on his neck. He fist bumped Jughead and then pulled him into a side hug. “Hey man. Happy new year and all that. Hey,” he said, noticing Betty for the first time.

“Hey. Thanks so much for bringing it over. There’s a whole apartment full of drunk idiots upstairs just waiting to make themselves sick on it. Oh!” He turned back to Betty, aghast at what he’d said. “Sorry Betty.”

“You’ll not get an argument from me. That’s why I’m down here talking to you.”

Neck tattoo laughed and held out his hand “Sweetpea. Pleasure doing business with you.” He turned back to Jughead, “So I have to get back, I’m supposed to be on the door at the Wyrm. See you Sunday?”

“Burgers?” Jug reminded him and his friend nodded, trotting back to the truck to grab a take out bag and toss it back to Jughead who snatched it from the air like a dolphin snatching a fish at Seaworld.

Betty buzzed up to the penthouse to get one of the assembled jocks to come and collect two cases of tequila and bring down a bottle of Pol Roger and the promised fifty dollars. It was eleven twenty four. Ten minutes later she was sitting on the reception desk eating a burger, washing it down with $200 champagne. “This is the best New Year's Eve I’ve ever had,” she grinned, a little disinhibited by the bubbles.

“Weren’t you engaged last year?”

“This is much better. I was pretending last year. Now I’m just being me.”

“I always find that works better. The not pretending bit. Especially not with someone you can love.”

She certainly wasn’t pretending at eleven fifty nine when she reached out to him and he took her in his arms and kissed her softly as cheers and yells rang out from the parties all over the city and fireworks exploded high above the park, casting confetti of coloured lights across the marble lobby.

As the kiss ended she looked up into his blue eyes, wondering if it was the champagne that was making her blurry and relaxed or if it was him. She thought she’d have to keep on kissing him to know for sure. He really was a fixer though. Her heart felt lighter, hopeful.

He grinned. “Spectacular as that was, this is probably the most surveilled lobby in the city. Can we schedule the repeat for when I’m not actually on the clock?” He gestured at the security cameras covering every inch of the space and she blushed to think that somewhere there was taped evidence of her trying to seduce the sexy doorman.

“Can I stay here and talk to you some more if I promise not to touch?”

“I wish you would. I get off at six and I know a great diner for breakfast. We can tell people our first date was breakfast. They’ll be scandalised.” She couldn’t hold back at the mention of the first date, of them telling people about it, so she kissed him on the cheek before retreating back to the edge of the desk with her hands up.

They talked about her work, his writing, they compiled an ultimate New Year's Eve playlist and top tens of movies and books. She found herself distracted by the fullness of his lips, the expressiveness of his face, the heaviness of the locks of hair that fell forward over his eyes only to be pushed back impatiently. They agreed on almost nothing and that was exactly how she liked it. When she crept up to the penthouse at five thirty to collect her coat and change her party shoes for snow boots, she was met with a scene of devastation. Prostrate bodies sprawled on every flat surface. The two cases of tequila sat unopened in the kitchen, clearly surplus to requirements by the time they had been manifested. She picked her way through the carnage and found the coat closet where Archie had put her things when she’d arrived the night before. Opening the door she noticed the cases of liquor stacked inside, three unopened boxes of Patron among them. She realised that Jug wasn’t the only fixer in the building. She made sure to lean over her sleeping friend to place a kiss on her forehead before she let herself out, locking the door behind her.

#bughead fanfiction #bughead fan fic #New Years

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adenei · 4 years

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Day 19: January Word Challenge

a/n: there’s more under the cut, so don’t be fooled into thinking this is a short one!

New

Year 1:

Hermione walked through the maze of corridors of her new school. She was a witch, and she was learning magic! It was a fresh start for her, and one she hoped would have a better outcome than her experiences in primary school. Sure, she missed the subjects she studied at her old school, and her eleven year old aspirations of becoming a lawyer were probably all for naught now, but she wouldn’t trade any of that for this amazing new world.

She understood why she was different now, and why odd things tended to happen when she grew up. Hogwarts was meant to teach her how to control and refine her magic, and she’d read all of the textbooks twice in preparation of fitting in. Hermione was worried she was already behind because she didn’t come from a magical family, so she focused on the one thing she was good at to help her get ahead.

Thankfully, her teachers were already impressed with her work ethic, and she was proving that she did actually belong here. Sure, she missed her parents and wrote them several times a week, and she reminded herself that it would have been like this if she’d been sent off to boarding school, too. She held up the newest letter that had been delivered at breakfast. Her mum had asked if she’d made any friends yet. Hermione’s face fell as she reread her mother’s words. Not yet, she thought, but she was still hopeful. New beginnings meant a fresh start, and that went for her attempts at making friends as well.

Year 2

It wasn’t a fluke. She really did make new friends last year, and they still wanted her in their lives upon returning to Hogwarts in the fall! Sure, it was probably a little out of the ordinary for her two friends to be boys, but she wasn’t complaining. Originally she thought that being friends with Harry Potter would help her befriend the others in her year, or at least her fellow Gryffindors, but that didn’t seem to be the case.

Their recognition and brief popularity for winning the House Cup last year was soon forgotten once the Chamber of Secrets had been opened. Honestly, she’d been holding her breath, thinking that Harry and Ron would drop her because the monster was targeting muggleborns. She was quite relieved when they turned out to do the exact opposite.

Ron had come to her defense and had thrown up slugs because of it. It was the nicest, and most disgusting thing anyone had ever done for her, and she wasn’t sure how to repay him. The word really didn’t mean much to her, but Ron’s reaction was notable.

She wasn’t sure why her heart felt funny when he stood up to Malfoy for her. Maybe that’s just what true friendship felt like. Yes, surely that was it. She would have felt the same if Harry had been the one to defend her, right?

Year 3

Hermione couldn’t believe it! A pet of her very own! He may not be a kitten, but he was new to her, and she was certain he would be the best cat! She was sold on Crookshanks the moment she laid eyes on him when they’d entered the Menagerie, and much to Ron’s discontent, she’d chosen the ginger animal.

The store owner seemed both relieved and excited at the prospect of Crookshanks finding a new home, having been looked over for years now. Hermione snuggled him closer as they sat in their compartment on the Hogwarts Express at the recollection. She felt a connection with Crookshanks, knowing what it felt like to be looked over and dismissed for friendship and camaraderie.

Hermione smiled, knowing that her new pet would keep her company at night when Lavender and Parvati excluded her in their whispered secrets. Now, she’d have someone to whisper her own secrets to; ones she couldn’t tell the boys. Like how she still didn’t understand the way her heart thumped faster when Ron would smile at her, and she felt nothing when Harry did the same. Of course, Crookshanks couldn’t speak, but it still comforted her to know she’d have someone to talk to who she could trust with her innermost thoughts.

Year 4

Hermione couldn’t believe she actually had a date to the Yule Ball. Sure, it wasn’t her first choice, but it beat going alone. Maybe it’d even make a certain someone wake up and notice her.

It was a strange new feeling, being wanted and desired. She’d spent the majority of her fifteen years being looked over and not given a second thought when it came to personal relationships and friendships. Now, an international quidditch player had shown interest in her, of all people!

Shouldn’t she be feeling more excited at this prospect? Wasn’t this what she’d always wanted? Not only was she being included, but desired. Someone wanted her on their arm, for the whole of Hogwarts and the visitors from the other two schools to see! And yet, she wasn’t satisfied.

If anything, her heart hurt more because she still wasn’t noticed by the one person that mattered the most. She glanced up from across the Gryffindor table and watched a certain redhead working on some assignment. Maybe she should forget about the stupid crush she could no longer deny. Yes, that was it.

Hermione resolved to put her feelings for him aside, and embrace the new companionship, or maybe more, that Viktor was offering. It was the perfect plan to get over her childhood crush.

Year 5

Well, this is new, Hermione thought to herself. Since when did Ron give her meaningful gifts? She was staring at the bottle of perfume Ron gifted her Christmas. On the inside, she was absolutely giddy, but the outside didn’t match those feelings. Ron couldn’t know her secret, so Hermione vowed to hide it at all costs.

She’d done a poor job of trying to hide her excitement. Well, no, she actually did too well of a job. Her reaction was less than stellar, and not what she’d intended. She told him it was interesting. How barmy could you be! Interesting? Why couldn’t you have said, ‘it’s lovely, Ron, thank you!’ No, you had to go and say it’s ‘interesting,’ Hermione berated herself in her own thoughts.

This very well could have been the moment she’d been waiting for, and she’d gone and buggered it up. Yet instead of trying to fix it, she let it go. She figured that if she wore the perfume on a regular basis, then he’d know she liked it.

Year 6

Hermione felt like her insides had been gutted and her heart ripped out of her chest. She’d give anything to go back to the dull ache and pining over Ron as she wished that they could be something more. Maybe she’d wake up and realize it was just a nightmare, that this new heartache wasn’t warranted after all. Yet the days continued to pass, and that stab of pain remained fresh every time she witnessed the boy she fancied attached by the face to her dorm mate.

Slow and steady wins the race. That’s what the fable always taught her. But it wasn’t true; at least not this time. There was no way she could ever compare to the likes of Lavender, who possessed such a natural beauty that she could have any bloke she desired.

There was no way Ron would ever look twice at her, especially not now. His new relationship only exacerbated the estrangement she now faced with him. The loneliness was almost too much to bear since he wasn’t speaking to her.

It was typical Ron and Hermione. He was mad at her for some unknown reason, and now she couldn’t allow herself to forgive him for his betrayal. Their friendship now obliterated in its wake. She was stupid to think she’d even had a chance. Her offer to attend Slughorn’s party was tossed aside far too quickly when a better offer arose.

A new wave of tears flooded her eyes. When it was all said and done, she couldn’t blame him. Who in their right mind would pick plain Hermione Granger over the illustrious Lavender Brown? Book smarts didn’t matter when it came to fancying someone. Now that Ron had Lavender, she wasn’t needed anymore.

Year 7

Hermione felt Ron’s lips kiss her gently as he leaned down. Hermione hoped she’d never get used to this feeling. They were finally together now. Somehow, they’d survived more near death situations than she could count. The war was over, and they could finally be honest with each other. It felt like a weight was lifted off of her shoulders. She no longer had to hide how she felt. Her hand found his, and for the first time in years, she felt peace.

There was no doubt they’d stumble along the way as they transitioned from friends to something more, but they were willing to do whatever it took to make this work. Every kiss between them felt like a promise, and for the first time she no longer questioned where she stood with her best friend. Hermione smiled as she finally allowed herself to fully embrace their new relationship.

#romione #ron x hermione #Hermione Granger #31 days of January Word Challenge

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once-upon-a-pirate-ship · 3 years

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How Restlessly the Stars Do Gleam 2/?

Story summary: Princess Emma isn't the princess of much anymore. It's been months since her parents and brother were taken, and she's been on the run with her godmother Red. When Emma and Red board a merchant vessel to sail to Arendelle, Emma quickly finds that the captain is not to be trusted. After helping two slave brothers, Emma takes over the ship and begins her journey to save and rebuild her kingdom.

Read it on AO3 | or start at the beginning

Chapter 1 on Tumblr

Chapter 2: Trick of the Knife

word count: ~6k

Panic was a curious thing.

Emma liked to think that she was a rational person, that the years of guidance from her parents had taught her to keep her emotions in check. Sure, they’d told her to trust herself and her instincts, but being an effective ruler meant not getting carried away by intense feelings that had no bearing in reality.

Needless to say, it was frustrating for her to wake in the morning with a jolt of panic, for her mind to race the second consciousness gripped her, for her eyes to search frantically around the captain’s quarters for whatever it was she was missing. Because the clawing of fear in her stomach couldn’t have been her imagination.

Except it was.

Her sword was propped against her bunk just inches from her hand, her boots knocked over haphazardly where she’d kicked them off the night before. Everything else was exactly as it had been when she’d entered the cabin hours ago.

Emma fell back onto the bed, dropping her elbows from where they’d held her up in her attempt to locate some imaginary danger. She huffed, blinking up at the ceiling and trying to breathe deeply. It was a familiar process for her, convincing her mind and her body that she was safe for the moment; her anxiety was nothing more than the product of her current circumstances, of months on the run and the weight of the world crushing her bones.

She swung her legs over the edge of the bunk, closing her eyes to feel the gentle sway of the ship. She’d been pleasantly surprised to find that the sea calmed her—relieved that something could—because she hadn’t been sailing in years and another obstacle, no matter how trivial, might’ve been too much for her.

Emma had just managed to get her breathing under control when a knock came to the cabin door. She grabbed the sword on instinct before she went to open it.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” Liam Jones said, a large tray balancing in his hands, “but I thought you might wish to break your fast.”

“As much as I appreciate the thought, I don’t expect you to bring me meals on a silver platter—or any platter, actually,” she replied, frowning as she examined the offering. “You’re not a servant or a cabin boy, Liam.”

He ducked his head, a habit he shared with his brother. “Aye, however, I simply wished to see to it myself that you were well fed,” he paused, waiting for her to let him in. When she simply narrowed her eyes at him, he added, “I know you reject gratitude, Emma, but I think getting my brother to sleep this long and break his stubborn streak warrants a proper thank you. It’s a feat, honestly.”

She sighed, stepping back to allow him entrance. “Okay, just don’t make a habit of it.” She watched him set it on the table, her lips pushing into a tight line. “You’ve brought me too much,” she admonished. “Would you care to join me?”

Liam shifted his feet, moving half a step back and away from her. “I—I couldn’t, besides, I’ve had my ration already this morning.”

“And I suppose you never give any of yours to your brother to ensure that he’s well taken care of,” she shot back, raising a knowing eyebrow. It’s what she’d do, if Leo were there. “Sit, eat, tell me how we’re faring today,” she encouraged as she took the closest chair and leaned her sword against it, and there was only a slight edge of a command in her tone.

Liam didn’t move right away, looking at her as if he were gauging whether or not he could win this one. After a moment, he relented, dropping into the place opposite her. “Eating with a princess,” he muttered, forcing his hand to take a piece of bread only after she’d taken some of the fruit for herself.

“Would it make you feel any better if I told you that my mother was a bandit and my father was a shepherd?”

His head shot up, and he nearly dropped the chunk of bread he’d been holding. “Pardon?”

Emma smiled, and for a moment she could almost hear her parents as they told her the story. One of their favorites, actually, and no matter how old she was, she never tired of it. It was something she repeated in her head over and over again lately, a grasping attempt at comfort when things got particularly difficult.

“When my mother was on the run from the Evil Queen, she became a bandit to survive. She taught me everything she knows about tracking, archery, all of it.” Emma couldn’t help the smile that pulled up the corners of her lips at this, the fighter her mother was beneath it all.

Liam took a moment to process that bit of information, making himself eat a little more of the bread under her firm gaze. “Are you trying to convince me that you’re not a typical princess?”

Emma chuckled, “I think I’ve already proven that.” She leaned forward, taking a roll for herself. “I’m trying to say that my parents have never liked to stand on ceremony, either. No, a meal with a sailor would hardly scandalize them.”

His mouth opened automatically but he forced it closed, and Emma could tell that he’d meant to correct her on her use of the word ‘sailor,’ but it was accurate now. She expected it to take a bit more time for them to break their habits.

“Did your father teach you to fence, or was that your mother, too?”

“My father,” she replied. “Put the first wooden sword in my tiny hands on my eighth birthday. I was tormenting the castle guards by the time I was eleven.” It’d been a long time since she’d thought about that, and the memories flashed in her mind before she could stop them.

Her laughter, bubbly and free like the child she was. Leo had been so small, his hands grasping the air as if to ask to hold her new gift. And then later, a heavier gift, one that was responsibility when she held it in her hand, promises to clean it and practice every day. The guard’s playful annoyance that steadily grew as she got more skilled, her parents’ mildly exasperated expressions that were too fond to be anything bad. Teaching her brother once he was old enough, his wide and curious eyes as he watched her and tried to mimic everything she did. All those days ended with wonderful soreness buried in her muscles that made her bed feel softer and her sleep come easier.

But those days were long gone.

Liam laughed, bringing her back to the present. “I suppose that isn’t surprising,” he said as he reached for an orange. “I’m no great swordsman myself, but Killian was quite impressed.”

The rock that had lodged itself in her gut disappeared with the mention of the younger Jones brother. “Oh?” She kept her eyes on her food, hoping that she sounded only mildly interested and not like her heart had done a flip in her chest.

“He was nearly raving about it yesterday evening,” Liam told her, fondness across every inch of his face and in every tone of his voice. “The particulars eluded me, but I’m to understand that some of your disarming techniques are incredibly impressive and difficult to master.”

Emma hummed, her expression nearly nonchalant despite the pride that took root in her stomach. Pride and something else, something she couldn’t quite name. It only took a moment for her to pick up on the odd shift in the silence.

“Is something wrong?” she asked Liam, glancing up at him across the table where he seemed to be thinking too hard.

“No, no,” he insisted, shaking his head to dissipate the haze of contemplation. “Your father was a shepherd? I thought he was a prince,” Liam said.

“That’s what you’re supposed to think,” she replied, “because King George adopted his twin brother James as his heir.”

“Isn’t your father King James?”

“His name is David, actually,” she told him. “George didn’t want people to know that James was dead. It’s not exactly something they’d announce to the realm after all that, though. It’s all a bit complicated.”

Liam nodded, and Emma was good enough at reading people to recognize the connections he was making in his mind that shone through his blue eyes. They were perhaps a bit grayer than his brother’s, and their expressions were different enough that it often seemed to her that they were different shades entirely.

“I hadn’t heard about your family,” he said quietly, his gaze flicking up to her from the orange peel he worked off. “I’m sorry.”

It was more than just their capture that he referred to, this much was obvious. Red was the only one who was privy to anything more specific, so Emma didn’t have to wonder at the source of this knowledge.

“It’s likely just a sleeping curse variation with my parents, but we’re unsure what was used on Leo. His curse is…different.” Cruel was the word she wanted to use, but that wouldn’t help anything. And it wasn’t as if the Evil Queen had laid out the exact parameters of the curse when she’d found her. But that wasn’t something Emma wanted to think about.

“How old is he?”

“Sixteen,” she replied, her lips pulling up on one side without her consent. “Seventeen in a few months, though.” She didn’t have to add that she hoped to see him before then.

Perhaps it was because Liam was an older sibling himself that the melancholy filled the air so intensely; a lost brother was hardly something they wished to discuss thoroughly. Emma’s appetite vanished as she played with the roll in her hands, unable to bring herself to eat it.

“You will save them, Emma. You will succeed,” he insisted, “and Killian and I will do whatever we can to help you along the way. You have my word.”

“Thank you, Liam,” she said. “I find myself desperately in need of allies these days, and it’s a relief to know I’ve got good men on my side.”

Liam flushed, but he carried on admirably. “And when we reach port tomorrow, we’ll replace the, um, less desirable men with trustworthy ones. A handful, at least, if I’ve got anything to say about it.”

“I appreciate that,” she replied. “Red is quite the charmer, you should bring her along.”

“Already asked her myself this morning,” he told her. “Terry’s arranged a group to oversee supplies while I accompany Lady Red in the search.”

Nearly everything had already been taken care of for her, though Emma did not feel like an inadequate captain. The title was more symbolic than anything, and her parents would have been proud at her efficient delegation of duties.

“I’ll remain behind to watch the ship.”

“Killian’s volunteered to stay, too, which should provide ample protection should anyone attempt anything foolish.”

If every mention of the younger Jones was going to torment her stomach with that flock of butterflies, Emma was going to have a difficult journey. “Alright,” she said, squashing down the fluttering feeling.

When Liam realized she’d finished, he stood quickly, as if it went against his honor to tarry when there was work to be done. “Thank you for breakfast, Captain,” he said as he reached for the tray, but her sharp gaze made him stop. “I’ll, um, just return to relieve Lady Red at the helm,” he told her.

“Perfect,” Emma replied, “I’ll be on deck shortly.”

He did not bow when he left her cabin, but there was a distinct nod of his head that felt like the equivalent of one. Emma let it slide, closing the door behind him to secure the lock so she could dress for the day without interruption.

The new trunk sat at the end of her bed, Red’s bag of belongings noticeably absent from it. She sighed as she considered how it had gotten there, knowing the answer would certainly irritate her. Emma pulled her leather satchel from the trunk, deciding that it just wasn’t practical enough to use. She considered offering it to Killian and Liam, but they’d never accept it.

Emma pulled on the dark leather pants and that blue vest that she loved too much, preparing for the day she was expecting and the one she wasn’t. This meant sliding the blades into their hiding places and tucking several things in her pockets that one may not have deemed entirely necessary, but she’d learned that having to leave abruptly was not uncommon, and she hated replacing things she’d had to leave behind. Much of her downtime was spent sewing hidden pockets into her clothes, but she never minded the monotony.

She replaced her boots, ensuring that her dagger was in its place before securing the sword against her hip. The weight was so familiar now, she felt lopsided when it wasn’t there unless she was using it. Once her hair was tied up and out of the way, she left her cabin to return the tray to the galley.

It didn’t take long for her to reach her destination, but the voices that carried from the galley made her pause around the corner, leaning against the wall as her breath held to prevent an early reveal of her location.

“She is our princess and our captain, in case you need reminding, and you will do well not to forget it again.” This was Killian; she’d recognize his lilting accent anywhere. But his tone was harsher than she’d ever heard it, hinting to his listener that there was no argument.

His words were met with dark, throaty chuckles from more than one person. “Oh, aye, that slip of a girl would make us regret it, would she? No amount of sword tricks will save her if I decide to cross blades with her,” a man replied.

“She ain’t that skilled, boy, really,” another said, sharp and teasing.

Killian simply laughed. “You must not have been watching yesterday, then. None of us have ever seen a swordsman like that and you know it,” he told them. To him, this was obvious. His praise wasn’t fluff and flattery, it was fact, and Emma was torn between considering what this meant to her and focusing on the problem at hand.

“Awe, does the little slave boy have a crush?”

“Wishing for a peek under her skirts, laddie?”

“This won’t end well for you,” a third voice said.

All pleasant thoughts vanished from Emma’s mind at their taunts and threats and use of the word slave, and her plan was formed before she even had time to think about it. Disrespecting a captain was about a step away from a mutiny attempt, and she couldn’t ignore that, nor could she ignore her desire to prove these men wrong.

When their laughter died out, Emma stepped into the galley and greeted them with a smile so sweet it was poisonous. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, her eyes scanning the scene.

Killian stood tall with crossed arms nearest to her, while the three men grumbled from where they were grouped by the end of the table. They shifted their feet and seemed somewhat annoyed at her appearance, but Killian was too perceptive, staring at her as he waited for whatever she had planned.

Emma took her time setting the tray on the table, pretending to adjust her vest for a moment before bringing her right boot on the bench. Her hand lingered by her laces as if to fix them, and though she was aware of the eyes on her, she did not look up until she slid the blade from her boot.

The dagger glinted even in the low light, her thumb brushing fondly along the design on the hilt. She smiled at the three men as she returned her foot to the ground.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked them, holding it out for them to see, warning dripping from her sweet tone. “It was a gift from my father, a present for my sixteenth birthday. Had the swan made special for me,” she added, smiling at the silver bird. Vicious and beautiful.

“Until a few months ago, this blade had never touched blood,” she said, her voice even, calm, unremarkable as her thumb moved to edge to metal. But in a second her grip shifted and the dagger sliced through the air in a show of speed and agility, though it might have been to test the balance or the weight. “Since then, I’ve had to do a lot of cleaning, and you know princesses—we hate to clean up after ourselves.” It didn’t matter that this wasn’t particularly true in her experience, she wished to make the point all the same.

Her lips curled up higher as she glanced between the traitorous men. “So either you can keep your heads down and work until you’re put off this ship tomorrow, or I’ll have to clean this dagger again.”

“Or there’s always the brig,” Killian added helpfully. His mouth was twisted in a smile that was half threatening and half proud of the woman before him.

“There is, isn’t there?” Emma asked, pretending to think on it. “Getting a bit crowded, though. Might be better off not facing Silver after all that has happened,” she mused, appraising the three crewmen again.

Two didn’t move, attempting to keep their expressions firm and unyielding as their chests puffed and their shoulders broadened, but the smallest—and smartest, if anyone were to ask Emma—looked between them before stepping forward.

“We’ll stay out of trouble,” he decided.

Killian and Emma turned expectantly to the others, but they did not even react at their friend’s announcement. They kept their fierce gazes on Emma, but this wasn’t anything she hadn’t planned for.

“It must be my parents’ reputation of benevolence that hasn’t convinced you,” she sighed, “but I can assure you, I do what I have to do to survive. And if you decide to get between me and a chance to save my kingdom and my family…” She didn’t need to finish, and her words thickened the air with her thinly-veiled threat.

“Come on, Evans, Blake,” the smart one told them, “don’t be fools. We can leave tomorrow.”

It was in this moment when Emma’s free hand moved behind her, edging the leather as she waited for the two men to make their move. Her movement was too gentle, too slow to draw anyone’s attention, and her body appeared relaxed and devoid of tension though she was prepared for what was to come.

It only took about thirty seconds before the fools moved, pushing past their friend and lunging towards her. But the distance was enough that time was on her side, and Killian charged the one closer to him—Blake—as the small throwing blade left her hand before Evans could even register what she was doing.

The slim knife whipped through the air with the perfect spin, and her lips almost twisted into a smile as she watched it connect with his palm, slamming dead in the center and dragging him back so it could pin him to the wooden wall he’d barely had time to step away from.

Evans cried out in shock and pain, predictable curses falling from his mouth as he stared wide-eyed at his hand, his uninjured one reaching to grab the handle, but he cursed again when it moved.

Killian had done exactly as Emma anticipated, and his opponent was knocked onto his back, the sword at his throat. But both Killian’s and Blake’s eyes were on the knife that stuck into flesh and wood.

“Bloody hell,” Killian muttered, raising an eyebrow as he glanced at Emma. “I didn’t know you could do that,” he said.

“I’m full of surprises,” she replied, sliding another blade from one of the hidden panels in the front of her vest to show him before pushing it back into place.

“And weapons, apparently,” he chuckled.

Emma grinned, returning her dagger to her boot. She preferred not to use it, honestly, but more because she didn’t want to damage it rather than a dislike of cleaning it. But with her throwing knives, this particular kind of fight was easily taken care of without even having to move from a strategic spot. She could get the higher ground—or the place with the best escape plan, in her case—and hold onto it.

Evans was still moaning in pain, though he’d begun to spout insults at her between curses. It was easy enough for her to ignore him as she approached and drew her sword, yanking the knife from his hand without hesitating or even attempting to be gentle. He groaned, crouching as he brought his wounded hand into his body to cradle it, but the hilt of her sword temporarily put him out of his misery when he toppled to the ground.

Killian took this as permission to do the same with Blake, and he was looking to her for direction as she turned to him.

“I suppose the brig will have to do,” she said.

The other crewman moved right away, hauling the man in front of her over his shoulder without waiting for her to ask. He’d already wanted to avoid conflict, and after seeing her other skills, he wasn’t eager to incur her wrath.

She stopped Killian from lifting Blake with a raise of her hand. “Don’t. I’ll get someone else to do it,” she told him. “I have to get Red anyway, she’s got the keys to the brig. Just wait here with him,” she added, hoping her tone and the intensity of her gaze would prevent him from arguing.

Their eyes locked, tension snapping between them that had nothing to do with anger or his wanting to protest. But she had no time to decipher the look, and she sheathed her sword, tucking the bloodied blade into its spot at the back of her vest.

“Good,” she said, “don’t move.”

She only had to wait a moment for his nod before she turned, heading towards the deck without stopping to analyze every word and expression she’d seen from Killian during the last few minutes.

The atmosphere on deck was lively, the fair weather and the absence of the more miserable sailors making for a pleasanter mood than she’d felt on the ship thus far. There was laughter in the air, camaraderie amongst the crew as they worked on their various duties. They were down in numbers, but even that wasn’t enough to dissolve the jovial spirit following Silver’s loss of power.

Red stood at the helm, Liam at her side likely trying to convince her to give up her post and let him work instead. But there was no animosity in their manners, only evidence of their rapidly developing friendship as Red rolled her eyes at whatever Liam said.

Emma reached them quickly, ignoring their pleasantries and turning to Red. “Killian and I ran into some trouble in the galley,” Emma said, “if you’ll kindly bring the keys, the two men can join their friends in the brig.”

“Of course,” Red replied, glancing at Liam with a raised eyebrow as something unspoken passed between them, then he replaced her when she moved to head below.

“Oh, and don’t let Killian carry the man himself, please,” Emma called. “He’ll reopen his wound.”

Red’s lips curved into a smile. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

When she was gone, Emma turned back to Liam with the intention of uncovering the root of that look they’d shared, but the elder Jones was cool and kind as he offered her a smile.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said. “You seem to be making a habit of helping my brother and myself.”

Emma waved a hand dismissively, swallowing the discomfort that followed his gratitude. In recent weeks, she’d found it difficult to acknowledge praise or recognition no matter the subject. If she had to think about it, she’d probably trace it to her inadequacy and failure in saving her kingdom, her people, or her family, so she found it much better to not think about it at all.

“It’s nothing,” she replied, glancing around the deck to study the differences in the crew, watching for the way they worked together. It was easier to think like this, to plan and strategize rather than focus on dangerous things like emotions and honor and everything else.

“It’s not,” Liam insisted.

“I’d like your help tomorrow after you and Red find new crew members,” Emma said suddenly, the change in topic not subtle at all but the request of his assistance was a carrot that dangled before him.

“Whatever you need, Captain.”

Emma, she mentally corrected. But he was probably better off using her rank on deck where the others could hear, at least until they could bring in some of their own sailors.

“I’d like for you and Killian to assist me in bringing Silver to the local authorities,” she told him, and his eyes darkened. “As far as I’m aware, these waters don’t take too kindly to slavers, either.”

Liam’s grip tightened on the helm, but he otherwise kept his expression neutral. “Killian and I would be happy to join you.”

“As I suspected you would be,” she replied. With a nod, she left him to his post, finding Terry across the deck so she could discuss their replenishment of supplies the following day. Though her captaincy was flimsy at best, she still wished to lend her aid in whatever way she could.

For the second night in a row, Emma found herself at the helm. It wasn’t nearly as late, however, the golden sky just beginning to turn to a deep blue that didn’t yet hold any stars. She watched, waiting patiently for the pinpricks of light to appear overhead.

The day had been long, filled with people needing things and asking questions and there wasn’t a moment in which she could ponder things like tense gazes or proud smiles. But perhaps gazes and smiles shouldn’t have been high on her list of priorities.

She pulled out the flask from inside her vest, unscrewing it to take a sip. Before a few months ago, Emma hadn’t cared much for rum. But now she relished in the familiar burn as it dragged down her throat and eased some of the tension in her body. She froze with the flask poised for her second sip when the ship creaked.

“I don’t suppose you’d share,” a voice called.

Emma watched as Killian approached, her eyes scanning his face for anything or everything. “As long as you’re not here to convince me to give up my shift,” she said dryly.

He chuckled, “No, love. I know that the Lady Red is set to relieve you in a few hours. I simply wanted to speak with you regarding our earlier confrontation in the galley, since we’ve had not a moment to ourselves since the whole ordeal.”

She willed her stomach to unknot itself as she passed him the flask, unable to stop herself from following his movements. His fingers nearly grazed hers when he took it, close enough that she could feel the heat from his skin. Killian’s head angled up and to the side, revealing the column of his neck as he drank.

“Good rum,” he commented, returning the flask.

She accepted it, taking another small sip before replacing the cap and returning it to her inner pocket. “Does that surprise you?” she wondered, but she couldn’t determine why she cared.

“That a princess has good rum?” he asked, his eyes meeting hers. She couldn’t see the color in the growing darkness, but she’d already spent enough time studying them to imagine the exact shade now. “I don’t know about other princesses, but it doesn’t surprise me that you have good rum, Captain.”

If she’d heard only the words, she would’ve been incapable of determining whether or not this particular statement was a compliment, but in his tone, there was no question. But he’d come on deck for a reason, and it wasn’t likely to be to issue compliments and nothing else.

“I hope you’re not here to insist that you could’ve handled things on your own in the galley today,” she said. She doubted it, especially after his expression before she’d left, but he was known to be stubborn, so it was plausible. Maybe.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied. “While perhaps I could’ve handled them myself, I’m incredibly relieved that I didn’t have to. I would’ve torn some stitches, I’m sure, and I’d hate to get on my captain’s bad side.”

Emma hummed, glancing up at the sky to check for the appearance of stars rather than looking at the ones in his gaze. “I’m glad.”

“And I was also going to tell you that you—Your Highness, Captain, Princess Emma—can be bloody terrifying when you want to be,” he told her. He was grinning when she finally looked over at him, his eyes glimmering far too much for the fading light.

“As I said, I do what I have to do to survive. And if my parents can’t get past that once I’ve saved them, I can always abdicate the throne. Leo would make a good king.” It was true, she knew, but it didn’t hurt her any less to say it. Too much blood had been spilled since that terrible day, but she couldn’t very well save the damn kingdom if she was dead, could she?

“But you would make a fantastic queen,” he said firmly. “And if I recall correctly, your parents took their throne back from the Evil Queen once before. That couldn’t have been done without some difficult choices.”

“Maybe,” she allowed. But he didn’t know her parents—very few did—and their constant insistence that violence was always a last resort and there was always a choice when it came to taking another’s life…she wasn’t sure that they would welcome her back into their family as openly as she wished.

Emma cleared her throat. “But maybe not. Either way, they trained me to be lethal. Fair, yes, but as you’ve seen, I can take a life just as easily as I could pardon one.” She could hear them now, the sword is not equal to the gavel, Emma, and when given the choice, put down your sword before ending a life.

Killian shifted, his eyes meeting hers. “I’m not sure your parents would agree with me, but I believe that there are certain people for whom pardoning isn’t possible. Saving someone who could take hundreds, possibly thousands of lives if they escape—” he paused, his lips turning down into a sharp frown. “Well, perhaps I’ve seen too much to judge fairly.”

Or perhaps her parents hadn’t seen enough to judge rationally, though Emma wasn’t about to raise the issue to them upon their rescue.

“I would’ve killed her,” Emma said, her voice strangled. Killian’s eyebrows pinched together, and she sighed. “The Evil Queen. If I had been there all those years ago, I wouldn’t have just stopped her and exiled her. I would’ve killed her. If my mother or my father had, they wouldn’t be cursed now. Leo wouldn’t be cursed now. And more than that, my kingdom wouldn’t be ransacked, and my people wouldn’t have been murdered or chased from their homes.”

Though her voice had been bitter when she spoke, the words were not rash or thoughtless. Every night that she’d been forced to remain awake for survival, she’d considered this. Wondered at her parents’ choices, weighed them against her own. She was never able to determine who was in the right, however.

“You worry that when you save them, they won’t understand,” Killian said, and it should’ve been a question, but it wasn’t. “That they’ll disagree.”

“I don’t care,” she said, and she wished it were true. If only she didn’t care, didn’t honestly believe that the look her parents would give her upon their rescue would break her beyond repair, didn’t think that their disappointment in her would be a curse in its own right.

Emma sighed, not even trying to relax her grip on the wheel. “The Evil Queen would kill my brother if she could, and that’s enough for me. If my parents hold it against me, I’ll abdicate, as I said before.” The words were rational, emotionless, but the storm of doubt and hopelessness swirled in her chest.

“You shouldn’t abdicate,” he repeated, his gaze unfaltering. “Emma the Swan Queen,” he murmured, and the way he said it was almost like a reflex, a thought that passed his lips automatically.

It made her eyebrow quirk. “Swan Queen?”

Killian ducked his head, his hand running through his dark hair. “Aye, like the dagger. Elegant and beautiful, but deadly when provoked. Fitting, don’t you think?” When his eyes locked with hers again, his lips curled into the smallest half-smile.

“I don’t hate it,” she allowed, and his smile widened. “Now I just have to save and rebuild the kingdom, and then perhaps they can call me that. Well, it’d have to be the Swan Princess first, at least.”

“You’ll do it,” he said, though his tone was more befitting of a vow. Emma wished she could bottle his belief in her, keep it and uncork it when she couldn’t believe in herself.

Her breath had snagged in her throat, but she spoke anyway. “I certainly have a better shot with you and your brother to help.”

Killian waved a hand dismissively. “You could do it without us.”

“Sure, but as you said earlier,” she replied, “although I could do it alone, I’m relieved I don’t have to.”

That tension returned from before, electricity snapping against her skin beneath Killian’s gaze. If she’d had less on her mind, she could’ve understood what it all meant, but all she knew was that it was somehow both pleasant and unnerving and she never wanted to look away.

“If we thought for a moment that you’d let us, Liam and I would pledge you our fealty in the manner befitting your title.”

This, Emma knew, was no small declaration. She’d seen soldiers lay their swords at her mother’s feet, their heads bowed as they sealed their promises to fight and die for the queen and her kingdom. It was something she’d never gotten used to, and she never would, should she one day take her mother’s place.

The depth in Killian’s eyes told her he knew exactly what he was saying, and after a moment he spoke again. “We may be mere sailors, hardly making up for your lost navy, but we’ll fight with everything we have.”

She heard the words he did not say and quickly offered her own opinion on the matter. “Mere sailors who also happen to be talented swordsmen and navigators,” she pointed out.

“Ah, a bit of luck,” Killian said. “Our captain before Silver was the best we’d had, and we sailed with him for about five years. He offered to teach us valuable skills, and we were eager to learn. Liam dedicated himself to navigation, insisting on bettering our future prospects so we could perhaps one day join the navy.”

“But you wanted to learn to fight,” she guessed. “Fight and survive.”

“Aye,” he confirmed. “But Nemo made sure we each learned some of both endeavors to manage on our own.”

There was enough in his voice and in his face for Emma to determine that the tale ended with grief. “Sounds like he was a good man,” she said.

“One of the greatest I’ve ever known.”

The silence that followed Killian’s story was not uncomfortable, and the two sat together as the stars glowed more brilliantly above them. Despite the pleasant tension that continued to buzz in the surrounding air and the sensation that curled in the pit of Emma’s stomach, she was painfully aware that some things would have to wait.

“We’ve a busy day tomorrow,” she began reluctantly, “you should rest while you can.”

“Aye,” he breathed, but he made no move to leave. His eyes did not falter from hers, either, as if he wished to prolong their moment for as long as he could. Eventually, he realized what he was doing, and Emma imagined the color that touched his cheeks and the tips of his ears in the darkness.

A smile ghosted his lips as he began to leave. “Good night, Captain Swan,” he said.

“Captain Swan?” she repeated, her brows furrowing.

He paused, meeting her gaze once more. “If you insist you’re not yet the Swan Princess, then I believe that makes you our Captain Swan.”

She considered that, studying his eyes like they held the answers she sought. “Good night, Killian,” she said after a moment.

He nodded, turning to leave her at last. She watched him until he disappeared below.

In his absence, Emma was left to ponder the man who had begun to work his way beneath her skin. If she wasn’t careful, the butterflies would become something much bigger, more than just a stuttering heartbeat and a fluttering in her stomach. But as she stood beneath the infinite stars at the helm of this ship she now led in place of a kingdom, Emma wasn’t certain that she wanted to be careful.

#How Restlessly the Stars Do Gleam #ouat fanfic #captain swan #captain swan fanfic #once upon a time #chapter two #cs fanfic #ao3

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everettlance · 3 years

Text

A LIVING DEATH // SELF-PARA

The flashbacks don’t take long to start. For a person who’s been transplanted into a new body, it becomes increasingly difficult to tell what’s real and what isn’t. He isn’t real because he can’t be real. The laws of possibility state strictly that the dead remain dead, and yet, here he is. The dead, walking through an empty home.

His new house is for him and him only. His parents and several siblings meet him at the train station when he gets home but he refuses to speak to any of them.

He can’t listen to what they have to say. He doesn’t want to hear it, whatever empty words they might have for him, or worse, if they have love.

No one is allowed in. Maverick is not allowed in, not even allowed to talk to him. He walks past Agatha’s empty house, the lights darkened. He often finds himself in Orpheus’s bed, discovering his new body, discovering that the only thing approaching pleasure is in the carnal. Nights slip by. His old weed dealer is happy to see him.

The first flashback is in his cavernous bedroom, which he learns is cold in the winters. It feels like the bitter mountaintop, and suddenly the covers are not simply cotton, but rather, a blanket of snow, and before him is Seraphina: Take care of yourself Everett, and I’ll catch you in the next lifetime, okay?

How? His voice is an echo and is begging. It is raw, he is raw. He’s not sure if he’s speaking aloud or not, but no one is here to confirm. How do I take care of myself, Sera, how?

She is trapped and so is he. She beneath the boulder, he beneath the memory of it. He knows he isn’t here but he doesn’t know how to get out; his heart pounds his ribcage as if begging to escape it.

Sera doesn’t tell him how to take care of himself. She doesn’t tell him how to run away. She doesn’t say anything but tells him, over and over: Even Crash Justice can’t muscle his way through this one.

And what if he can’t?

Hours spent paralyzed beneath the memories. It’s Seraphina, then it’s Marino, falling from the ferris wheel. It’s Margot, torn to shreds by the wolves. It’s Burly, slicing at his face — the scar recreates itself every time he looks at himself in the mirror, not a memory but a present happening. It’s Memphis’s silent begging. It’s Agatha:

You better fucking win.

I did it, he says, on his knees like he’s praying in his room, the bathroom, the living room, the kitchen, I did it. Now what?

No one will tell him. None of the ghosts know the answer because none of them lived.

Sloane and Tommy visit him together and he kills them both again. And again. And again. It becomes more difficult to discern reality from unreality. He tries to write things down: I am here, I am real, I am Everett Lance and I won the Hunger Games.

But it isn’t true.

He is Everett Lance and he lost the Hunger Games.

Both things cannot be true.

They are.

On the outside of the house is latticework up which vines crawl. It’s easy to grip, easier to fall from, and the first time he tries it, escaping the memory of Memphis, who lays dying on the beach in his bedroom, he nearly falls. He catches himself on a pipe, but in the moment where freefall felt certain, Memphis disappears. The sand is gone. Only he is here. Moments later, he’s on the roof.

He knows that he is losing it. The roof doesn’t care. He lays flat and looks at the stars. He looks at the tattoo on his arm and traces the waves with his fingers. This is how he knows he is a person, even if he doesn’t know who that person is.

Maverick leaves for Seven. It’s better this way.

There’s a thunderstorm one afternoon. The lightning sends him in two directions at once: he is in the forest, holding Delta’s body as she dies, and he is in the middle of a town, watching the sky spin.

Whose memories entrap him?

He climbs onto the roof, away from the bodies that pile in his room. The lattice is slippery and he nearly falls twice, three times. The roof is slippery. No one comes to stop him. He doesn’t die. He’s lucky.

The stylist comes and asks if he’s more loyal to the red or blue team, and which he’d like to wear on his Victory Tour.

He tells her to put him in black.

He goes for long runs. He drinks himself to sleep. He lets himself cry. Nothing helps. Only the roof, slippery, steep, his weight and himself clinging to the shingles, can quiet the other tributes and drown out the Arenas.

He goes hiking, blazing his own trail. He finds steep cliffs and sits on the edges. He wonders about falling. He doesn’t. He goes to the shooting range, hits the first target and drops the gun.

Never again.

Life moves both forwards and backwards at a dizzying pace. He ignores texts, calls. The Peacekeeping Academy wants to make a hero of him but he’s read what they said when he died. They dismissed him, said he was a traitor for volunteering.

He is a traitor but he’s not sure to whom.

Spring begins, though he will never again trust the seasons.

The day he leaves for the Victory Tour, District Two is shrouded in cold weather, common for this time of year, but when he arrives in District Twelve, warmth is beginning in the upper reaches of Panem.

It’s an honor to be here today…

In Twelve, no one stands on the podium before Margot’s photo. He doesn’t know who or what to look at and the ringing in his ears is his own panic. He speaks quickly. He doesn’t succumb to the memory of Margot’s death, though he can feel the dirt in his hands as he digs.

I’m so privileged to have been chosen out of so many tributes to come back for the Quell…

In Eleven, the weather is even warmer. Trees blossom but there are no green leaves or pink flowers in the square where the stage is set up. Apple’s face looks at him from the projection, but as in Twelve, no one stands before it. It was only her, the only tribute from her District chosen to return. He had told her he hadn’t wanted to kill. It feels like a lie now.

My love for Panem kept me going through the Arena…

In Eight, there are more faces: Marino, Nikita, Franklin, Jeannie. The four of them stare at him and he tries to avoid eye contact. For a moment he can’t tell if they’re real or not. Or if they were ever real. The cards: he reads from the speech he’s been given. Nikita and Franklin have no family present, but Hunter Twill stands in front of Jeannie’s picture in sunglasses, shooting him a thumbs up. In the recap, he saw Jeannie explode, but couldn’t see her face. He wishes he could have seen it. Could have buried her like he’d buried Delta and Margot. It was a dignity that she deserved but would never get. And Nikita, stronger than him, smarter than him — should she be here right now instead of him? Should they all? 39 Victors rather than him, it feels like more than a fair trade. And Marino’s family, he knows they’re looking at him. He knows that Margot is not the only guilty one. He’s the only one remaining to bear the burden. It’s too heavy. In Eight, he stumbles, stutters, the world tilts and he sees stars — the speech is cut short, he is brought off the stage, excuses are made for him that he doesn’t deserve. His new body is checked over, questioned: are you alright? Do you feel alright? They think it’s because he’s a clone, and he doesn’t know how to say it’s because of everything else they’ve done to him.

Even though it was difficult, the trials that the Gamemakers set us were always fair…

In Seven, Alder and Maverick are there. Maverick tries to talk to him but he doesn’t want to speak. He has been given no cards to tell him how to face his old best friend. Alder leaves him be which feels like more mercy than he deserves. Burly’s family stands tall and proud; they glare at him. He can’t look, he can’t look. He leaves Seven as quickly as he can.

Panem has always been strong through trying times, whether or not the trials we face are fair...

In Six, he walks onto the stage and is immediately in the woods of the Arena. Sloane is on the ground to his left, Tommy to his right. There is blood all over his hands, all over his notecards. Amphora’s family, her smiling face, she looks so happy. How could she be happy here in the Arena? Tommy’s family stands in front of his picture; a wolf, decaying like him, prowls in front of them. Hadn’t he mentioned a mother? He feels sick. He forces himself to look because he doesn’t want to be a coward. He adds one thing into his speech:

I’m sorry.

On the way to Four, he makes a request. As the train rumbles towards the ocean, preparations are made. One wish can be granted, surely, for the Victor of the Quarter Quell, the boy on whom the Capitol is leaning to bring peace. When he gets onstage, Delta’s face is one of four. The Dunes are there, he recognizes them by the family resemblance, and thinks of Mako in the Capitol, happy. The Blues pull his attention, though, and he sees immediately that she gets her red hair from her family. They do not look at him unkindly, and after the speech, for the first time, he lingers. He tells them he thought it would be nice; to remember her. That he wishes she would have been brought back. That she deserved the Victory. She deserves to be remembered. Above him, lightning flashes but he digs fingernails into palms and forces himself to remain here, in the present; it’s what they deserve.

The Blues invite him into their house. It is small and comfortable. They offer to show him her room but he doesn’t want to see, not yet. He says this: Not yet. Maybe I’ll come back. They thank him for protecting her and sticking by her side. In their home for the first time in months he feels like he’s real. He apologizes for not being able to save her and cries.

We are better as a united nation than we are as individual parts, and I was better in the Arena with my allies than I was alone.

In Three, he finds Seraphina’s parents. She’d asked him to tell them she loved him and he won’t break a promise, even if his hands are shaking. Even if his lunch threatens to make a reappearance as he faces, directly, the parents of the girl he killed. The McCabes are kind, though, understanding; they just want to know what he and their daughter spoke about and did. They haven’t seen her in ten years, never expected to get her back. He tells them about swimming in the pool, eating the last cookie and facing her wrath. It feels nice to have a good story to tell.

The relationship between the Districts and the Capitol is one of peace, mutual protection, and balance.

In One, many faces, many families, look back at him from the crowd. He is tired, his body is exhausted and the travel has worn him out. Throughout the trip he has been tested, they’ve taken blood draws and measured his heart rate, had him undergo various physical examinations to be sure that all is well. They want to make sure, they say, that the stress doesn’t wear him out in this new body. He thinks it’s funny and laughs, but they don’t seem to get what’s so humorous about it. Diana’s face; she had offered him mercy, hadn’t hurt him though she could have. In front of Mandi’s face is a crowded podium; she was right about having a big family. There are so many people who love her; his knees threaten to buckle under the weight of all that grief, but he holds it together on the stage. He’s getting good at pretending.

It’s one I am proud to be a part of as your new reigning Victor of the Quarter Quell.

He returns home last, and even though many of the Districts saw warmer temperatures, it’s snowing when he walks onto the stage to give his speech one last time, this time to his home. Before him are the faces of Lionel, Agatha, and Isabela. Only Isa has people standing before hers, her family. The snow falling — he wonders if the Arena is broken, because it’s supposed to be springtime now — doesn’t deter the crowds. The District is proud of their Victor, proud to have brought it home for the Quell and the second time in a year. Cain is there, Orpheus is there, Trixie’s there, he’s the only one who feels like he’s missing. Where is he? Where is this person they’re celebrating?

The speech is not his. It’s bad, cliche, and it feels sour in his mouth. In the other Districts, they hated it; a few people even booed, though they were swiftly punished for it. In Two, though, he sees people nodding. He sees hands over hearts. He feels sick. Sick in this place that made him. Sick with the altitude of the heights they’ve lifted him to.

Afterwards he is only allowed one night at home before he has to go to the Capitol for the ball. In the empty house, they are all speaking. Carlos, Travela, Memphis, Marino, Burly, Sloane, Seraphina, and Tommy. Their fingers press against the wallpaper, they want to get out, but they can’t any more than he can. Agatha is stuck telling him, over and over, to win. He’d better fucking win.

Why? he asks, but she never has a good answer for him.

He climbs up onto the roof. He looks at the stars and tries to place himself in the universe.

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anthropwashere · 4 years

Text

deadfic: everything you love will break

Further deadfic for the @goodintentionswipfest! I am at all times to this day 2% obsessed with ParaNorman, and I’m still very fond of the psychopomp! and witch! AUs that were floating around way back when. Alas, this little deadfic didn’t even really scratch the surface of either, but I still like the 1.2k I did finish.

Title comes from Tom McRae’s “For the Restless.”

Norman Babcock sits on his unmade bed, carefully drawing lines across three names written in a ragged little journal. His hands have new scabs, raw and red, and a black bruise has blossomed on his face. He looks a bit like he’s been hit by a truck, which isn’t too far off the mark. Still, he’s worn-out in that satisfying, all-over soreness kind of way that means a job that needed doing has been done well.

Clicking his pen he tells the empty room, “I’ll be eighteen tomorrow.”

The empty room replies, “Are you sure you want to do this, Norman?”

“Yeah. I’m helping people.” He breathes out a little sigh of laughter. “Besides, I’m no good at regular stuff. College would just be a waste of money.”

“Your father seems to think this will be an even bigger waste.”

“I know. But he still said I could go.”

“One of the few times he’s ever been sensible. Come here, Norman.”

He scoots to the edge of his bed, drops his skinny legs off the side, and holds out his arms to hug the empty air. “I love you, Grandma,” he says.

“I love you too.”

Agatha Prenderghast was the first poltergeist Norman ever met, and the first ghost he ever helped cross over. Well, the second if you counted his mad uncle, but that man had been so eager to drop his problems into somebody else’s lap with nary an explanation, Norman can’t count him. Not really. There was still a notation in his little book of Ghosts I’ve Met for him though. A ghost was a ghost was a friend, after all.

Writing down the names, and later the lives, of each ghost Norman got to know had been Courtney’s idea. Drawing them had been Neil’s.

“I never know what you’re talking about, Norman,” she’d said, fed up with asking who and where and how. “Can’t you, I dunno, make a list of all these people I can reference?”

“You should draw them,” Neil had said after he’d gotten fed up trying to describe every ghost in exacting detail. When he protested, saying he couldn’t draw to save his life, Neil had replied with that quiet spark of depth that still surprised him now and then, “You can learn though. And I bet they’d appreciate it. I bet a lot of them would appreciate having a way for other people to remember them after they’ve gone.”

Norman had never thought of them like that before, of the idea that the ghosts he’d grown up with might want to leave. Move on. Cross over. Go wherever ghosts go when they stop being ghosts. They’d always been here, as solid to him as trees and streets and buildings. That they could leave had never occurred to his eleven year old mind.

“Grandma, did you want to stay here?” He asked her one snowy winter day, not long after Aggie’s storm.

She had smiled, warm yet curiously bittersweet, like remembering something wonderful she’d done once a long time ago, and only once. “I stayed to keep an eye on you,” she’d replied, and that had been answer enough.

Next semester Norman signed up for an art class, and to his father’s ire, convinced his mother to pay for bonus classes three times a week at a little gallery downtown. He finds all the ghosts who ever dabbled at sketching when they had been alive and spends hours under their tutelage too. Barely twelve, and an idea—an absurd, crazy, one hundred percent Prenderghast idea—had begun to form.

Norman found every ghost in Blithe Hollow. He asked their names. He wrote down their stories. He drew their faces, the way they looked as ghosts and the way they said they’d looked when they’d been alive. And then he asked then why they were still here.

For some, like his Grandma, they stayed for their loved ones. Others, like Mickey O’Grady with the cement shoes and entourage of fish, died violently. There weren’t many of those in a little town like this, thankfully. Well, if you didn’t count the roadkill. Norman didn’t, as even Neil’s dog had faded away, and he had loved Neil as unconditionally and completely as only dogs could. Other ghosts were pragmatic. Unfinished business, one last act of humanity they couldn’t bear to miss out on, even if they had to wait a hundred years.

Some ghosts were simply afraid of what might come next. Those were the hardest.

Norman learned quickly, when he wasn’t afraid. He was meticulous, observant, careful. Most importantly, he was earnest. Once he began to grasp the enormity of what each ghost had resigned themselves to, even if he had no way of really knowing what might come after, he wanted to help them more than anything. He remembered the weary relief on his uncle’s and Aggie’s faces when they had faded. Like they were finally letting go of something terrible. Like they were going home. He thought of all the ghosts stuck on street corners and empty rooms just in Blithe Hollow and felt dizzy, overwhelmed. Just one little town had so many ghosts. What about the county, the state, the country, the world? The weight of the task he’d set for himself was too much to bear, and he’d only just started. It might have been beyond him, if not for what Aggie had done to him.

The scar on his chest (and the smaller one on the heel of his foot) was ugly and tender for weeks after the storm. It only seemed to begin healing after the rest of his bruises and scratches had faded. The doctor said he’d most likely have the burns for the rest of his life. He hadn’t minded, was just happy when they healed up enough he didn’t have to smear smelly white cream and bandages anymore.

It was only when he tried his first—intentional—exorcism that he realized the extent of the mark Aggie had left on him.

Mr. Lee had been a kind ghost, settled in a closed-down theater in the oldest part of town. Close for renovations, it had seemed the ideal location for a test-run. Isolated, but not remote, and Mr. Lee was like everybody’s favorite uncle—discounting crazy hobo uncles, at least.

Mr. Lee had worked in the theater long before Norman was born, fell from the rafters and broke his neck on the hard plastic audience chairs. His throat was a mottled dark green, swollen and arched at a stomach-swooping angle. He was a nice ghost, a nice person, but for all his smiling and for all the hours Norman had chatted with him, he never stopped looking afraid.

Norman sat up on the stage lip, legs dangling, and pulled out his supplies. Sketchbook, colored pencils, pastels, journal, pen. Mr. Lee floated gently down to the stage, bleached transparent by the stage lights. “Ah, Norman,” Mr. Lee beamed, “Good to see you again. Are you doing homework?”

“No, Mister Lee. I’m sorry to bother you, but I wanted to ask some personal questions.” He holds up his sketchbook. “But, yeah, I’ve got homework too. I need to draw a bust from three angles. Would it be okay if I drew you?”

“Of course, of course! I haven’t had a good conversation since your uncle was still alive!”

It had gone well, carefully recreating his green smoke face as Mr. Lee recounted his life.

#paranorman #my writing #deadfic

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ohscorbus · 4 years

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Scorbus Anastasia au where Albus got amnesia after escaping death eaters and one day while working at the bookshop he was raised in he meets a boy called Scorpius who says he’s a Potter and can bring him back to where there’s still one Potter left in the family meanwhile Delphi’s looking to end the Potter bloodline for good starting with Albus

I know literally nothing about Anastasia but based on just that AU you’ve outlined? I’m so here for it. Does he get amnesia as a child so he grows up not knowing who he is or does it happen to him as an adult? Either way, it’s super interesting to think about who Albus would be without the Potter legacy and Scorpius. On one hand, a weight has been unknowingly lifted off his shoulders. He’s free to be just Albus without everything that comes with being a Potter. He’s safe to walk the streets without whispers and befriend strangers without fearing ulterior motives. But on the other, is he aware that he’s missing whole pieces of himself? Not just his identity, but the love of his family and the power of the friendship he’s left behind? I guess that’s why I love the idea of him finding a life in a bookshop so much. It’s a place full of stories which would suit someone who doesn’t know their own. I can just imagine him reading book after book and wondering if his old life was like the life in these pages. Did he have friends and adventures and his own library of books? Or maybe there were dragons and banquets and castles! That one always makes him laugh, but it doesn’t stop him from daydreaming. Which is exactly what he was doing when the beautiful blond walked into his shop and dislodged more than just the books on the counter. Suddenly he’s got his story and it’s overwhelming and full of complications and implications no amount of fiction could have ever prepared him for. I bet there are days in the following weeks where he longs for the quiet safety of his bookshop again. But at least here he has Scorpius now. He doesn’t know quite what that means but he knows what he’d like it to mean, and so he decides to write his own story from now on. Like I said, I have no idea what actually happens in Anastasia but I’m guessing they live happily ever after? Because Albus and Scorpius certainly do.

So! Funny story. I wrote that previous paragraph the day I got this message but I decided it wasn’t good enough so I bought a copy of Anastasia so I could watch it and properly engage with this AU. But honestly? I didn’t really enjoy the film. Sorry! I think as lost heirs go, I’m definitely more of a Tangled fan. So I’ll give you a mash-up of Anastasia and Tangled, swapping out the royalty aspect for magic and I’ll turn it into a ‘choose your own adventure’ because I couldn’t decide which route to take. Enjoy : )

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I don’t like the idea of Scorpius as a con man. Instead he’d be a dreamer with a connection who’s still looking for Albus after everyone else has given up. He loves stories and myths but to him, Albus is a real boy. He remembers him. Grew up and lived with him inside those castle walls. He’s not a legend, he’s a friend. So when he accidentally stumbles upon him in the muggle bookshop he just knows it’s him. Except Albus takes a lot of convincing but as he learns about the Potters and the existence of the wizarding world, he finally starts to remember odd things. The book he used to read to his sister. The jumper that used to belong to his brother. His mother’s perfume. His father’s eyes. An actual castle. The boy who would sneak him sweets during class...

Scorpius never hides who he is from Albus. The best friend. The suspect. The shunned. But as they keep meeting to discuss his past (which of course neither of them secretly think of as dates), Albus doesn’t just remember his kindness. His sugar supplies. His knowledge of the secret passageways in their school. He also learns how he takes too much sugar in his coffee now. How he still sings some of his words and doesn’t care who hears. How his book recommendations make him question if he has a bookshop too. (He doesn’t. He’s just an uber nerd.)

But Albus is still a cursed child. Delphi is still out there with her augury sidekick, following them across the country as they finally make their way back to….

[If the Potters are still alive then read ONE. If the Potters are all dead and the only family left is Molly Weasley, read TWO.]

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ONE

...Godric’s Hollow. Harry and Ginny never moved out of the cottage, even once James and Lily grew up and moved out, just in case Albus ever returned home. They never stopped looking for him. The stolen spare, the Daily Prophet calls him. But to them, he’s still their fourteen year old boy who went missing in the night. Although their clock says he’s lost, not dead, years of false leads have left them exhausted in every sense.

Albus still isn’t sure about magic and even more so when Scorpius explains it can be tracked, so the two of them travel like muggles across the UK. They survive runaway trains and dementor attacks but eventually make it. Yet Harry refuses Scorpius entry on sight. They can’t bear any more false hope and especially not from a Malfoy. The last person to see him alive before Albus disappeared from his dorm. He’d heard rumours about him trying to clear his name but showing up here with someone full of false memories? He’ll see him in Azkaban for this. It’s crueler than anything his father had ever done. But then suddenly Albus is right there. And as Harry steps back, his son steps forward. Over the property line and through the wards like only a blood relative could do. They take their reunion to the kitchen and process with tears and tea, but it’s the clock with his name on saying he’s home that finally makes it all sink in. He’s Albus Potter. He has a family. (He even finds out dragons are real and that one really blows his mind.)

The wizarding world is overjoyed with his return, but the fact it was Scorpius who found him only darkens his name with suspicion further. So Scorpius leaves so Albus can enjoy his family. Except everything doesn’t just fall into place for Albus. This life is as overwhelming as he feared it would be. He already loves his family but it doesn’t stop him from missing his bookshop and his cat, but most of all, Scorpius. Ginny finds him watching the crowd at his welcome home party and knows exactly what he needs. She tells him to go. That they are always going to be here but Scorpius won’t be. He hugs her in thanks and promises, then runs after the man who changed everything. He catches up with him just as Delphi finds them both. There’s a final showdown in which Albus helplessly watches as Scorpius sacrifices himself to save him. That’s when it happens. The anger over what had been done to him and what his family and friends had been through collides with the prospect of a future without Scorpius, and Albus explodes. He doesn’t understand it but he feels the power all the way down to his fingertips as it finds its purpose. She never stood a chance against the raw energy and emotion of a Potter fighting with his heart for justice.

Once she’s been stopped once and for all, Albus and Scorpius return to his bookshop and make a life for themselves. Albus never really uses magic again. What he’d felt with Delphi had scared him. He’d lived his life without magic and was happy to carry on doing so. Although he did immediately have a fireplace installed at his parent’s insistence. He grows used to his brother dropping in unannounced and disturbing the peace. He learns to expect his mother will always check in to see if he’s okay even though he’s an adult. He looks forward to visits from his nephews and nieces and even turns a corner of the shop into a child friendly reading area for them which is equally as loved by his customers. His dad kept his location out of the press but made sure everyone knew Delphi was to blame. Scorpius is free. But he never leaves Albus and the old cat and their bookshop. They live out their days surrounded by stories but loving their own the most.

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TWO

...The Burrow. Molly Weasley never gave up hope on her grandson. Her clock never lies. His hand still says he’s missing, not gone. The rumours say she’s driven herself mad staring at it. But they don’t know Molly. They mistake her insistence as delusions which only appear to increase in desperation with each new false lead. Another green eyed boy who’s read a few books about Harry and wants the glory. But they never know what song her daughter sang to her children at night. They never know what her son in law cooked for them every Sunday morning. They never know his favourite place to read or how he hates pumpkin juice or when he got that scar on his elbow. The last encounter broke her heart for the final time. She decides to pack the clock away and refuses to see any more young men claiming to be her grandson. She’ll live out her days knowing he's alive and that’ll have to be enough for her. But then suddenly Scorpius Malfoy finds her while she’s out shopping. He says he’s found him but she stops him before he can explain. She can’t go through this again. Unlike the rest of the wizarding world, she doesn’t believe Scorpius had anything to do with the attack, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t unfairly blame him for surviving. He was sleeping over at the Potter house the night it happened. He had managed to escape in the chaos but somehow Albus had slipped through his fingers as they ran and was never seen again. She can’t look at him now without painfully reliving the what ifs. So she turns and walks away. That’s when she sees him. Albus is stood outside the creature emporium, gently stroking a small tawny owl. Just like the one he got when he was eleven. He’s twenty seven now but he’s still got his dad’s hair and small stature. He’s even got his own pair of glasses over those green eyes she hasn’t seen in over a decade, and when they turn to look straight at her she knows for sure. She takes them both back to the Burrow and watches as Albus walks around the kitchen. He looks at the pans which are cleaning themselves and the overflowing shelves of trinkets and moving photos and stops in front of his own portrait surrounded by what he presumes is his family. Scorpius quietly explains he’s lived as a muggle all these years. He didn’t come back because he couldn’t remember. Any of it. Molly’s heart breaks all over again as she walks over to Albus and tells him about them. How Ginny was fierce and Harry a hero, how James was brash and Lily bold. But the one thing they all had in common was how much they loved him.

The wizarding world is shocked by his return but the fact it was Scorpius who brought him back only seemed to give the rumours of his involvement some credibility. So Scorpius leaves so Albus can enjoy life with his grandmother. Except everything doesn’t just fall into place for Albus. This life is as overwhelming as he feared it would be. He loves his grandmother dearly but he misses his bookshop and his cat, but most of all, he misses Scorpius. Molly finds him on the sidelines watching the crowd at his welcome home party and knows exactly what he needs. She tells him to go. That she’s always going to be here but Scorpius won’t be. She’s lived her life and she won’t stop him from living his. Not after he’s already lost so much. That’s all he needs to hear and after a hug, he’s running after Scorpius. He manages to catch up with him just as Delphi does. There’s one final showdown. Albus helplessly watches as Scorpius sacrifices himself to save him and that’s when it happens. The anger over what had been done to him and the loss of his family collides with the prospect of a future without Scorpius, and Albus explodes. He doesn’t understand it but he feels the power all the way down to his fingertips as it finally finds its purpose. She never stood a chance against the raw energy and emotion of a Potter.

Once she’s been destroyed once and for all, Albus and Scorpius return to his bookshop and make a life for themselves. Albus never uses magic again. What he’d felt finishing Delphi had scared him. He’d lived his life without magic before and was happy to carry on doing so. Although he did immediately have a fireplace installed at his grandmother’s insistence. She checks in with him every day and their chats over tea quickly become one of his favourite parts of the day. Some of the others? Waking up beside Scorpius every morning in their little apartment above their bookshop. Listening to Scorpius read to the younger customers in their newly painted kids corner. Watching his usually shy cat snuggle up beside Scorpius like he’s known him all his life. It wasn’t what he expected, but he’s definitely found his family and his home.

#albus potter #albus severus potter #scorpius malfoy #scorbus #text post #long post #mypost #Anonymous

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lizabethstucker · 3 years

Text

The Misadventures of Nero Wolfe edited by Josh Pachter

Subtitled: Parodies and Pastiches Featuring the Great Detective of West 35th Street

I loved this collection of stories, with only a few exceptions. Overall, I would give it 4.5 out of 5.

Introductions: Trouble in Triplicate

“At Wolfe’s Door” by Otto Penzler ~ about the characters.

“A Family Affair” by Rebecca Stout Bradbury ~ Rex Stout’s daughter provides a peek at the author.

“Plot It Yourself” by Josh Pachter ~ how the collection came to be.

Pastiches (Respectful imitations of the original works)

“The Red Orchid” by Thomas Narcejac

Translated from French, the story was written in 1947. The first English publication wasn’t until 1961. A young woman comes to hire Wolfe to discover who is trying to kill her uncle, a man who claims to have developed a red orchid. More creepy than respectful, especially how Archie hits on the female client. Too offensive for me. DNF

“Chapter 8 from ‘Murder in Pastiche’” by Marion Mainwaining

Published in 1955, this novel can also be found under the title of “Nine Detectives All at Sea”. A notorious gossip columnist is murdered during a sea cruise across the Atlantic. There are nine famous detectives on the ship as passengers. Trajan Beare, aka Nero Wolfe, is the focus of this particular chapter. It is hard to judge the whole book based on just one chapter. However, the characterization should be noted as being extremely close to the original source material. A nice read. No rating as it is just an excerpt.

“The Archie Hunters” by Jon L. Breen

Written in 1968, but never published until now. A cross of Nero Wolfe and Mike Hammer. Mock Himmler beats the crap out of anyone he encounters, particularly if they disagree with him or do something he doesn’t like. After beating up a news seller for carrying a “commie” magazine, Mock discovers an ad in the back requesting a private investigator for a missing person case. The ad, placed by Nero Wolfe, leads Mock to presume the missing person is Archie Goodwin. I’ve never been a fan of Mike Hammer nor his creator, Mickey Spillane, finding both of them to be disgusting in their love of violence, misogyny, and attitudes in general. I did enjoy this story nonetheless. 4 out of 5

“The Frightened Man” by O. X. Rusett

Gave up early on this anagram-stuffed story, even to the author’s name. More annoying than clever or cute. DNF

“Chapter 1 from ‘Murder in E Minor’” by Robert Goldsborough

I read the whole book when it was first published and, frankly, wasn’t too impressed. I do know that Goldsborough was selected by the Stout Estate to be the official author of the novels and I have read a few of his more recent books. I may try and reread it sometime down the road to see if my opinion has changed. No rating as it is only one chapter.

“The Purloined Platypus” by Marvin Kaye

While Goldsborough has the exclusive novel rights, Kaye asked to write short stories and was given the Estate’s permission as long as no novels were ever written. Benjamin Moultrie, president and board chairman of the Museum of the Strange, Odd and Peculiar, wants to hire Wolfe to investigate a robbery at the museum. As I wasn’t reading the magazines such as Ellery Queen and Alfred Hitchcock, I missed reading any of these stories. Which is quite a tragedy. Excellent portrayals of not only the characters, but the case itself. 4 out of 5.

Parodies (Exaggerated imitations intended to poke fun at the source material)

“The House on 35th Street” by Frank Littler

Originally appeared in The Saturday Review in 1966. Little is known about the author, despite Pachter’s research attempts. A crowd is assembled in the Brownstone in a murder case, wanting to see some of the detective’s famous actions and quirks. There is an undercurrent of a very personal nature, especially at the end. 3.5 out of 5

“The Sidekick Case” by Patrick Butler

Another entry from The Saturday Review, this time in 1968, and another case of little information on the author. Wolfe objects to Archie being called a “sidekick” in a listing of the latest book. Cute. 3.5 out of 5

“The Case of the Disposable Jalopy” by Mack Reynolds

America has turned into an illiterate welfare state, Wolfe and Archie are old and sometimes forgetful, and things are beyond tight financially. Reynolds uses the last names of some of the biggest authors in Science Fiction in the story. These men want to hire Wolfe for a case of sabotage and the disappearance of a key developer. What a weird world Reynolds has built. As to the updates on the normal cast of characters in the series? Well, I never liked Orrie anyway. 4 out of 5

“As Dark as Christmas Gets” by Lawrence Block

An unpublished manuscript written by Cornell Woolrich is stolen during a Christmas party. The owner hires Wolfe wannabe Leo Haig and his Goodwin substitute, Chip Harrison, to recover it. I’ve come across stories in this series before and loved them, both for the obvious affection for the source material as well as the excellent characterization. 4.5 out of 5

“Who’s Afraid of Nero Wolfe?” by Loren D. Estleman

Arnie Woodbine, currently on parole, was fired from his last job for gambling on company time. He needs a job and finds an ad looking for an assistant sharp of wit. He finds himself hired by Claudius Lyon, a corpulent man with delusions of being Nero Wolfe. Arnie is hired as his Archie. Now all they need is a case. Since Lyon doesn’t have a private detective license and Arnie’s felony record prevents him from ever getting one, they would not be able to charge for their services. No problem as Lyon is actually quite wealthy. Their first case is regarding a poetry award that carries with it a $10,000 prize. One winner doesn’t appear to actually exist. Seriously one of the best sendups that I’ve ever read! This was a delight to read and deserved more stories. 4.5 out of 5.

“Julius Katz and the Case of Exploding Wine” by Dave Zeltserman

A friend of Julius’ that has a champion bulldog and heads a dog food company comes to see Julius with the dog in tow, asking for help to find someone to prevent Brutus from being kidnapped. He also asks that Julius find his murderer if he’s killed. Sure enough, the man is killed. Julius had agreed to investigate, but only after he gave the police a week to solve it themselves. Just as the week is up, an adversary calls to warn Julius that there is a bomb in his house, contained in a box of wine. Julius allows almost everyone to believe he is dead after the townhouse is completely destroyed from top to bottom. I absolutely loved this sorta tribute to Rex Stout. I’m particularly intrigued by Archie, an AI who is installed in Julius’ tie pin. That alone has me eyeing the book collections, but to be honest, this is a damn fine mystery. Julius is definitely not Nero Wolfe, at least in size, athleticism (martial arts), and loving women (a former womanizer who now has a regular girlfriend). He definitely is in the aspects of intelligence, laziness, and cutting Archie out of the loop. His collecting focus is wine rather than orchids, but both can be very expensive hobbies. 4.5 out of 5.

“The Possibly Last Case of Tiberius Dingo” by Michael Bracken

Age and diet are catching up to Tiberius Dingo’s body, but his mind and deductive reasoning is still as sharp as ever. His long-time assistant, Jughead Badloss, brings a client he dances with at the Senior Center, a woman who is certain she is being stalked. Family ties and age-old secrets are ripped out into the open before the case is done, for their client and for Jughead himself. The names are a little lame, but the story made up for it. 3.5 out of 5.

Potpourri

“The Woman Who Read Rex Stout” by William Brittain

Gertrude Jellison was the fat lady at a carnival sideshow, an intelligent woman whose extreme weight, over 500 pounds, kept her from her dream job of teaching psychology. Her partner, Robert Kirby, is the thin man, barely weighing seventy-five pounds. As a stunt, the carnival boss gave her Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe books to read during the shows. Surprisingly enough, Gert loved them and continued reading. She never expected to use what she learned to solve a murder, but sadly a newer member of the troup, a beautiful woman named Lili who was like a daughter to Gert, is murdered and the older woman knows she can solve the crime. This is a character that I could seriously have loved to read more about. A good little mystery as well, even if I quickly realized who the murderer would turn out to be. 3.5 out of 5.

“Sam Buried Caesar” by Josh Pachter

Police inspector Griffen had eleven children, each of whom was named after a famous fictional detective. Nero, just eleven years old, had set up his own detective agency, aided by his best friend and neighbor Artie Goodman. Their latest client, Sam, came to them after his dog, Caesar, was hit and killed by an out-of-state driver. Not wanting the poor animal to be left coldly abandoned on the street, he buried the dog in an empty lot. Coming back a short time later to get Caesar’s collar, the body is missing. He hires Nero and Artie to find the killer and recover the body. Sad and cute and inventive, but how Artie puts up with Nero will always be a mystery. 3.5 out of 5.

“Chapter 24 from Rasputin’s Revenge” by John Lescroart

The basic premise is that Nero Wolfe is the son of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler. I’ve not read this particular book, but it appears to be the last chapter in which Archie and Wolfe, going under his original name, are in Russia, appeared to have come up against Gregori Rasputin (although the author has it as Gregory), and was helped by Holmes and Dr. Watson after they were wanted for murder. I’m not going to rate it as I don’t consider it fair to rate a novel based on just one chapter.

“A scene from Might as Well Be Dead” by Joseph Goodrich

Adaptation of the story into a play. Once again, not rated.

“The Damned Doorbell Rang” by Robert Lopresti

When their fourteen granddaughter came to visit in a snit because her parents won’t allow her to go with friends to a concert in New York City, Eve and Jack decide to tell her about why they left the City. When they were younger, they had a brownstone in the City. Their neighbors were definitely different, all men living there. Jack didn’t much like any of them and keeps disparaging Eve’s stories about what they saw while living there. But Eve tells a tale of how she saved the men’s lives. Too many close calls are the reason that they moved to New Jersey. How could I not love this outsider’s look at Nero Wolfe? 3.5 out of 5.

#book review #Nero Wolfe #collection #The Misadventures of Nero Wolfe #Josh Pachter #mystery #short stories

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fluffykitty1999-blog · 3 years

Text

Burned Chapter 15

Roy had been expecting a call in the wee hours of the morning. Even if there wasn't any news on the case, just an update, something- from Hughes.

They'd gotten home around midnight. Ed had grabbed a brief shower- it'd taken awhile to scrub the dirt and blood off himself, Roy had assumed- but the boy had made an appearance in the kitchen, looking cleaner, but exhausted.

He'd managed to coax the boy into drinking half a cup of tea- with a splash of milk disguised by copious amounts of honey- before convincing him to head upstairs, because it was investigation's department, and there was nothing he'd be able to do anyways.

Roy had fallen asleep downstairs on the couch, waiting for the phone call from Hughes that never came. He woke up at 3:13am with a sore back from falling asleep slumped over. He slogged upstairs, still just as exhausted and frustrated as when he'd fallen asleep.

He noticed a light creeping under the door of the other bedroom- Al's room- and he frowned, lightly knocking on the door.

"Come in." Al's muffled voice replied.

Roy did. Al was seated in the center of the room cross-legged, various research reports and open books spread out on the floor around him.

"Is everything okay, Colonel?"

"Yeah. I was just heading to bed and noticed the light was on. Wanted to make sure you were alright." only now, it was dawning on him that Alphonse didn't sleep. When he'd first begun staying at Roy's home, he'd turn his lights out at night, but as he'd grown more comfortable, he'd taken to quietly reading and doing small tasks at night.

"Oh yes, I'm fine. Colonel... is brother okay? I saw him when he came in- he was covered in blood. And I know he's not hurt, but he wouldn't talk to me about it. He just went right to bed. He only keeps things from me that are bad. Horrible, even. Because he doesn't want to upset me. But I notice. This has something to do with the ladies that keep getting killed, doesn't it?"

Roy sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. How was it he always underestimated Alphonse Elric at every turn? When he'd first met the boy- an eleven year old with a soul trapped in a suit of armor who passed the written state alchemist's exam- to now- the perceptive child sitting on his floor, reading during the day and night because it was physically impossible for him to sleep.

He was too tired to come up with a decent lie. And besides, the way those quiet soulfire eyes bore into his own, he knew Alphonse wouldn't believe it, anyways.

"Yes, Alphonse, it is. Hughes and I have been trying to keep your brother out of it- but tonight he found a body. Hughes is handling it. In fact- I'm expecting a call from him anytime now. If the phone rings and I don't get it- will you get it for me?"

"Of course." Alphonse sounded much cheerier at this- he just liked to be kept in the loop, Roy realized. Knowing Ed, he tried to shield Al from anything not related to them getting their bodies back- he felt the military issues were his cross to bear, and his alone. It wasn't true- Alphonse was more than willing to help his brother- but Ed felt it was his responsibility, his duty, as the older brother to keep Al away from such things.

Still, that wasn't a problem he could solve tonight anyways. And with Alphonse awake and ready to answer the phone, he was free to go to bed. The day had been exhausting.

"Thanks. Goodnight, Alphonse."

"Goodnight, Colonel."

Roy quietly shut the door behind him and started towards his room. He was about halfway down the hall but stopped past the door of Ed's room when he heard a muffled whimper. He paused, sighing, before he palmed the door open and stepped into the darkness quietly. Ed was curled beneath the blankets, but after a day as hard as this, it wasn't hard to see the kid was probably going to have nightmares.

Ed was wrapped in the sheets, his blond hair strewn about behind him on the pillow. His hands grasped at the sheets and he squirmed slightly in his sleep, a half-sob half whimper breaking the quiet of the night as his legs twitched restlessly.

"Easy, Ed. It's alright, buddy." Roy picked his way over beside the bed, his earlier exhaustion forgotten.

In the early days, when Ed had first been healing here, he'd learned that during nightmares, speaking to Ed could calm him down adequately. He understood the fear of being in the dark and alone- hearing someone talking to you made the darkness less lonely, and not nearly as terrifying.

"I know. You had a real rough day today. We all did. But you the most, probably." Roy was beside the bed, now, and he reached over, gently brushing the boy's bangs away from his face. Ed's breathing had slowed slightly, and his face was no longer screwed up in distress, though he was still breathing fast and his fingers still worried the sheets slightly.

"You did good though. You were scared- I know you were scared- but you stayed calm. Calmer than me, in fact. When I saw you come in covered in blood- I thought I was going to faint. I was scared I'd lost you all over again."

Roy paused mid-way to brushing Ed's hair from his face, realizing his hand was shaking. He took a deep breath to steady himself before he continued, reaching down to gently brush Ed's golden locks aside, more as a gesture of affection now than to be able to see Ed's face.

"I'm proud of you, Ed. Of how far you've come- you've always been a brave, stubborn little brat- but seeing you grow up into the alchemist I knew you could be- I never knew how rewarding that'd be."

Ed let out a long breath- he was no longer panting anxiously. Roy cracked a slight smile. Ed was relaxing- yet again it was proof that just talking to the boy was enough to calm him down. With Ed's face relaxed, he wiggled his toes beneath the blankets and shifted slightly, snuffling into the pillow. it was cute, almost. Roy couldn't help but smile. Ed looked so much younger while he slept.

He pulled out the chair he kept in the corner of the small bedroom, sitting down heavily and blinking.

"You don't have to be so strong you know. You're only a kid. You don't have to hold the weight of the world on your shoulders. I mean, I understand trying to protect Al, but you're human- you're just a kid. You aren't alone. You have me. And the team. Just... try not to be such a hero, kid. It never got me anywhere."

He sighed, leaning back in the chair. The weariness that'd been slowly stalking him overtook him once again, settling deep into his bones. He'd just rest his eyes for a moment, and then head off to his own room for the night...

"Hey. Hey Roy, wake up! Hey!"

"Brother, you really should be nicer..."

"This IS nice Al! I made him toast! I don't just do this for anyone!"

Roy peeled his eyes open to see Edward, clad in black jeans and a loose-fitting T-shirt, with his hair in pony tail and a plate full of toast in hand, with Al behind him in the doorway.

"Besides, he's the one who fell asleep in my room!"

"...in my house." Roy groused, reaching up to scrub an eye with one hand. The crick in his back felt much worse, now.

"You're awake!" Al chorused, sounding pleased.

"Eat this toast. I made it myself cuz you pretty much died in the chair."

Roy opened his mouth to yawn, only to have a piece of toast shoved in his mouth. He started coughing.

"Brother!" Al scolded.

"What? I'm feeding him breakfast. That's what you're supposed to do!"

Roy coughed, spitting out the toast slice in one hand and swallowing the bite in his mouth.

"Yeah, it's good. Chewy, though..."

"That's cuz I put peanut butter on it." Ed beamed. "We're out of bread, by the way." he looked a little sheepish.

Roy frowned, becoming more awake by the second. "Why do I smell smoke?"

"We put out the fire!" Alphonse chimed in, trying to be helpful.

"Don't tell him that!" Ed protested.

Roy frowned. How was it 2 alchemist protegees couldn't make toast without nearly burning his house down?

Still, he had bigger things to worry about. "What time is it?"

"Noon. You pretty much died in the chair, like I said. And Alphonse found a cat, and I don't like it, but he put it in the living room anyways."

"It was raining! I couldn't leave it!" Al protested.

"Wait, noon!?" Roy was stumbling to his feet.

"Yeah."

"What about that phone call? Did the phone ring last night? Did Hughes call?"

"Nobody called except Hawkeye. She said we could stay home from work today cuz she heard about what happened." Ed took a bite on his own piece of toast, frowning.

"Of course she did." Roy made a mental note to thank her later, stumbling into the hallway and into his study and going for the phone. It was nearly noon, and Hughes hadn't called? Something was up.

He dialed the familiar number and waited.

"Detective Hughes here." Hughes sounded half dead.

"Hey." Roy tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. "I was expecting a call from you. Maybe not news, but just an update of some kind since last night."

"Sorry. I haven't been home. I've been chasing leads."

"All night?" the silence on the line and the lack of cheer in his friend's voice confirmed his guess to be true.

"I have to solve this, Roy. This guy- whoever he is- made a mistake. The killing last night- was done by the theater where a political rally was being held. All those spectators watching- someone had to have seen something. There was a sign in sheet passed around, I've been interviewing. We're on interview... 87? Of approximately 150. I can't talk long- one of the candidates who was giving a speech, Susans- she's coming in soon."

"You need help. You've been up for nearly 24 hours straight, you have too many leads to handle and you're not thinking clearly. I can be over there in half an hour..."

"No. You need to stay and keep an eye on Ed. I don't want him involved in this. We're close to a break, I can feel it..."

"Hughes..."

"I can feel it Roy!" Hughes snapped, and Roy paused. Hughes wasn't one to shout normally.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because... the killer's been too rash. He made a mistake. Ed said the victim's pink purse was left behind at the scene. When my team got down there, there was no purse."

"Whose to say robbers didn't just take it?"

"They would've taken the money. Our victim was a school teacher, and she'd just been to the bank. The clerk remembered her cashing her paycheck. And we found it. All 174 cens of bills in that alley. Crumpled up and bloodstained, but all there. They just. took. The purse."

Roy frowned, turning the fact over in his mind. "But if Ed saw it..."

"Then the killer came back and took a souvenir. Between the time Ed found the body and before investigations arrived, the killer came back for a memento."

The phone receiver clattered to the desk as it slipped from Roy's fingers and his blood ran cold.

Whoever the hell this sick bastard was... he'd come back for a souvenir.

Ed hadn't seen the killer, but perhaps he'd still been there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for a moment to strike while Ed had been close by.

Roy picked up the phone again, trying to calm his racing thoughts. Once again, Edward was lucky to escape alive.

"So someone has to have seen it. 143 spectators. 3 Politicians. 14 staff. Someone saw something. Our killer is boxing himself in. I can find this, I just need Ed safe with you and out of the picture..."

"At least let me send Hawkeye. She can help you. Don't tell me you couldn't use a 2 hour nap and some more manpower, because that's a lie and we both know it."

Hughes sighed. "Yeah. Sure, send her over, but keep Ed safe. He was there last night- the killer might've been there, Roy. Watching him."

"I know."

"This killer has been getting more aggressive. I don't want his luck to run out."

"Understood. I'll have Hawkeye and some staff drop by. When you get a break- call me. Okay?"

"Okay. Thanks, Roy." Hughes sounded exhausted but grateful.

"Take care of yourself, Hughes."

Roy hung up the phone and sighed. He was anxious for a break in the case too- the case had become too personal. Part of him resented not being able to go and help himself, but when he thought of Ed being anywhere close to this lunatic again, he knew why it was important to keep away.

"Mow?"

A ball of orange fluff jumped up on the desk next to him and started to rub his arms and purr.

"What the hell!?"

"That's Iggy." Ed frowned, crossing his arms and looking up at Mustang with distaste. "That weird ass cat Al found. I don't like him, he's shifty."

Roy looked down. The cat was rather bedraggled looking, and it's eyes were lopsided, looking in two different directions. It was kind of unnerving.

The cat started to purr like a motor, pawing at his hand and begging for pets. The cat was also drooling.

"Oh yeah. It might have rabies. Hughes have any news on the case?"

"No. Nothing yet. And you're not involved in the case anyways."

Roy frowned, picking up Iggy the cat and setting him on the ground. The cat promptly fell over like a drunk, sprawled out on the rug, and fell asleep.

"Right. When you find him, I want to help hunt him down."

"Ed. No."

"It's personal now!" Ed stomped his foot. "Like it or not, I AM involved, and I'm not gonna sit around like some useless child!"

"I never said you were a useless child. But we could use you elsewear."

"Yeah? Like where?" Ed raised an incendiary eyebrow.

"Here. Helping me figure out how to vote in this damned election this afternoon. And helping Gracia and Elicia. Hughes hasn't been home from the office in awhile, I'm sure Elicia could use a hand with the shopping and you and Al can help with Elicia."

There was a small poof as Iggy the cat farted himself awake before promptly dozing back off again.

"And also- we gotta find somebody to adopt this cat."

There it is, folks! An OC kitty!

And as usual... the ko-fi link, if you like the trash I, a human dumpster fire, produce https://ko-fi.com/fluffykitty12

#fma fanfiction #FMA #burned #burns #injury #accident #Edwhumph #edward elric whumph #parentalroy #parental roy #roy mustang #ed whump #whumph #whump #angst #hurt ed #comfort #hurt #hurt/comfort

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readinglikechickensoup · 4 years

Note

Hiya, I was wondering if you'd be able to do a spies in disguise fanfic. I can't seem to find any Walter X lance fics with angst. My prompt would probably be something like Walter taking a shot for lance in the field. Or something along those lines where Walter gets hurt trying to save someone. Thank you!!

I’m sorry this took so long. I had to wait until I could get my hands on the movie. I hope you like it. Feel free to shoot me another request if it’s not quite what you wanted.

Words: 1,627 Warnings: Blood, violence, hospital, age difference (both are established adults)

The storm clouds were thick and grey like old fleece. Despite the climate control in the cockpit, Walter shivered and burrowed into his sweater and jacket.

“Cold?” Lance asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Only a little.” Walter’s teeth chattered together; he closed his mouth tightly.

Lance checked the autopilot, then got up and rummaged in his bag, pulling out a heavy wool coat. He held it out expectantly.

“But won’t you get cold?”

“Nah. This is a spare.” Lance shrugged. “Figured you’d get cold. Now put it on.”

Walter stood and let Lance help him into each sleeve. It fit like a glove. Buttoning it up, he looked into Lance’s smirking face. “How’d you know?”

“You’re the size of my bicep, Walter. You’re always cold.” Lance patted Walter’s shoulder and went back to his seat. “You’re the genius, you know. You should’ve thought Scandinavia through.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Walter flopped back in his seat. They were on a covert mission to neutralize enemy technology in the Norwegian mountains.

Lance crossed his long legs and fiddled with his phone. If it weren’t for the drag of nerves that always preceded missions, Walter could almost believe they were home.

Granted, if they were home they would be on the couch, Walter’s shoulder tucked into Lance’s armpit. Walter would struggle to read through the Journal of Materials Science, burning up everywhere their bodies touched. Whenever their eyes met, Lance’s would drop to Walter’s mouth, then quickly look away.

Walter was admittedly very bad at social cues, but he couldn’t help the question that was burning a hole in his mind.

It had been five years since they defeated Killian. Aside from solo missions and dangerous lab testing, they were rarely apart. Lance had even invited Walter to live with him.

They ate together and defeated baddies together. Whenever Walter fell asleep over a project, he woke up in bed, shoes off, under a thick quilt.

Whenever Lance couldn’t sleep, he let Walter sit by his bed, rub his back, and talk about science. Those mornings, he woke up tucked into Lance’s side, so warm and safe he couldn’t bear to get up.

A few days ago, Walter wondered out loud if he should find his own place. Lance stalked out of the room and set the house on panic mode.

Whoops, he said as thick steel covered the windows and outside doors. Guess you can’t leave.

Walter had rolled his eyes then (like Lance could stop him from leaving if he wanted to), but it begged a question: what did it all mean?

"Hey Lance.”

Lance looked up from his phone. "Yeah?"

"What…” He swallowed. “What are we?"

"Uh. World-renowned spies on their way to gently kick some baddie ass?"

Walter flushed.

Lance peered at him. "How hard did you hit your head?"

"Not hard." Walter twisted his hands together. Lovey landed on his shoulder and snuggled into his neck. "What I meant was...I'm not sure if we're friends."

Lance's brow furrowed. "What are you talking about? Of course we're friends."

"Yes. I know." Walter took a deep breath and looked into Lance's face. The warm brown of his skin and eyes. The cut of his cheekbone. "But are we...just friends?"

"Oh." Lance rubbed the back of his neck. "I’m eleven years older than you.”

“So?”

“So, eleven years is a pretty big difference. You were still in diapers when I started high school.”

“I was not still in diapers when I was three, thanks.” Lovey pecked at Walter’s cheek. He patted her absently. “I’m twenty-seven. My mom died when I was eight. I’ve been on my own since I was fifteen. I’m an adult.”

“A young adult.” Lance sighed. “Walter, we’re friends. Why do you want to ruin our friendship for something that might not even work?”

“Why would it ruin our friendship?” Walter demanded. “Isn’t romance just…friendship with benefits?”

Lance choked, recovered. Stared at his hands. “I don’t know about that. But I’ll level with you. I’ve never had a friendship like ours. And I’ve never had a…a romance that didn’t end badly.”

“I’ve never had a friend, before,” Walter admitted. “Other than my mom, I mean. But I think this could be good. Love is always good. Why can’t you trust me?”

"Because I...just...no."

The GPS beeped, indicating they were almost above the drop zone.

"Oh." Walter lowered his eyes, the old acid leaking into his veins. He read the situation wrong, again. Lance was trying to let him down gently. "It's me, isn't it? I'm too…too weird for you." He stood and shrugged on his parachute.

Lance stared, mouth slack. “That’s not—”

"It's fine.” Walter tried to smile. Failed. “Time to do this thing."

"Wait—”

"C'mon Lance. No time to waste." He leapt into the air, the wool coat taking the edge off the freeze.

---

Lance was in his element. He loved everything about missions—the cadence of fights, the rush of taking down a bad guy—even if he was throwing serious string instead of grenades these days. It felt better, after, anyway.

Lance fired string at the woman manning the control desk. She splattered against the wall. A computer beeped to his right, the steady count down of a bomb or a launch. He took a split second to look at the screen: a bomb launch.

He moved to the computer. Didn't see the woman yank her hand out of the glove that was stuck in the string and pull the gun from her pocket.

Lance heard the bang crack through the air, and then he was on the floor.

Only, he wasn't shot.

Only, her bare hand was plastered back against the wall.

Only, someone was on top of him. Someone with brown hair that smelled like pigeon feathers and chemicals.

Someone who wasn't moving.

"You okay, buddy?"

Walter wheezed a breath, a hollow noise. A wrong noise.

Forcing calm, Lance gently patted down Walter’s birdbone body. There was a damp hole in his coat, by his ribs.

No.

Lance pressed the button on his watch to call the field medic, then the one for reinforcements.

Cradling Walter’s body in his arms, Lance rolled in a slow, smooth motion, depositing Walter on the ground. As his back tapped against the ground, Walter whimpered.

“I’m sorry.” Lance unbuttoned Walter’s coat, unzipped his jacket. He pulled a knife from his pocket and cut Walter’s sweater open until he could see the gaping red mouth of the bullet wound in his side, going into a lung. Lance pulled off his jacket and pressed it to the wound as hard as he could.

"You're going to be okay, Walter, do you hear me?"

Walter smiled weakly, long canines poking into his bottom lip. "It's okay," he said, then muttered something Lance couldn't hear.

Lance's heart beat hard against his ribcage. "What was that, Walter? Stay with me."

A wheezing exhale. A too shallow inhale. Walter looked up at Lance with his bay-blue, gem-on-the-water eyes, color leaching from his skin.

"Stay with me. Please," Lance begged as Walter’s eyes closed and his breath shallowed.

---

It was the deep pain that finally pulled Walter back into consciousness. He blinked against the brightness of the overhead lights, throat scraped raw.

What happened?

"You were shot in your side." A nurse—Marlene Macon—came into focus. "The bullet fractured a rib, which pierced and collapsed your lung. You are going to be okay.”

Oh. Oh. The mission. The gun. Lance.

“What's your pain level?"

"Lance?" He coughed weakly. "Is Lance okay?"

"Right here, man." Lance stepped into the light. His normally immaculate suit was wrinkled, the white shirt brown with blood.

"Walter," Marlene said, "your pain level?"

"Two."

Marlene crossed her arms, fixed him with a look not unlike his grandmother’s “I know you took apart the TV” glare.

"Seven," he admitted.

"I'll let the doctor know."

Later, after more poking and prodding than he cared to remember, Walter was finally instructed to rest. Lance still sat in the corner, oddly silent.

"You can go home," Walter said. "I'm gonna be fine.”

"I'm not leaving until I can take you with me."

"That's not very healthy."

Lance stood, quickly. "You almost died in my arms. That's less healthy."

"This isn't a competition—"

"Why did you ask me if we were more than friends?"

Walter played with the threads in his thin hospital blanket. “I'm bad at reading social cues and wanted to be sure I knew what we were," he muttered.

The bed dipped under Lance's weight. "Is that the only reason?"

A deep lava-like shame burned in Walter's heart. "It's okay, Lance. We don't need to talk about this. I know you don't want me like that."

"Did I say that?"

"I mean, not in so many words, but--"

"Walter Beckett, did I say I didn't want you?" Lance demanded.

"No."

"No. Because I..." Lance took a deep breath. "So I got scared, okay? 'Cause this—this is like nothing I've ever felt before."

Walter chanced a glance up and met Lance's eyes, warm and shimmering in the fluorescent lights. "What about our friendship?"

Lance smiled, slow and curling. "I think we both know we're already more than friends. Question is, do you want to take this further?"

Hope fluttered in Walter’s chest. "Are you asking if I want to date you?”

"Well, do you?"

"Yes."

Lance leaned down and kissed him, soft and undemanding. Hand shaking, heart racing, Walter reached up and traced the hard line of his jaw.

When Lance pulled back, he wore a smirk.

"I love you," Walter said, wide open.

Lance’s smirk softened into a smile. “I love you, too,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to Walter’s forehead.

#spies in disguise #wallance #walter x lance #readinglikechickensoup #requests #fanfiction

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mytwilightimagines13 · 3 years

Text

Amnesia (Book Three)(Part Three)

Revenge

It had been very empty. Maeryn had no idea what to do with herself. When Felix told her Alec was dead, she was empty. But she had noticed something else as well. She no longer felt loyal towards Aro as she used to feel. She guessed because he was dead and now the Volturi had no longer a leader. As a matter of fact, it no longer existed . Her whole coven was gone in just mere hours. She was one of the remaining ones alive, but she knew she was hunted on. She had to be alert, but at the same time she wanted to end it all. Perhaps it was alright if the Romanians came back for her, to kill her off. At least then she would be with Alec, even real hell would be better than staying here without him. Empty. “Maeryn, come on. You have to hunt.” Felix said. Maeryn just laid on her side like she had been for the past three weeks. She never moved. The thought of hunting made her throat dry and burning with the desire, but she couldn’t feel the mental energy to get up. “If you hunt I will have a surprise for you. Come on. It will be fun.” Felix said. Maeryn sighed, her first sigh in three weeks, and finally sat up. “Fine. Let’s go then.” Drenthe had many forests, and many ways for people to get lost and not be found. So they started the hunt. They soon found two hikers with their dog. A woman and a man. The thing was, Maeryn didn’t feel that comfortable killing anymore. She took a closer look and realised these two humans looked a lot like her birthparents. The woman had thick, black, curling hair that fell beautifully around her pale, oval face. Her eyes where as green as the forest around her and she was thin and short. The man on the other hand was tall, he had a slightly tanned skin and had deep blue eyes. His hair was graying but streaks of his dirty blond hair was still visible. He was well build, maybe slightly overweight but due to his tall figure, his extra weight was well spread over his body. And then there was their little dog. A beautiful, blond Labrador. His coat was shiny and had different shades of yellow. His beautiful brown eyes showed he loved life, and he was curious for the different smells he smelt on the trees and the sounds he heard. Of course his hearing was much better than a human’s hearing, so he had heard the deer a couple trees away, but he didn’t even think twice about leaving his humans. “Ready?” Felix whispered. But Maeryn couldn’t do it. She shook her head no and ran off. Why she couldn’t do it was simple. It would feel like killing her parents all over again. Of course she knew this wasn’t her parents, but they looked so much alike that she couldn’t even bear the thought. She came into a meadow and collapsed onto the ground, her arms hugging her body, sobbing dry tears. Dry tears for Alec, and for her parents she had totally forgotten about the past eleven years. She had learned that humans are worthless. They had no greater purpose than to feed on. And for a very long time she believed it. But now, she was doubting herself. She made the decision to at least no longer kill innocent humans. Only the trash. No one would miss them. No one. Felix ran to her and gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “Are you alright?” he asked. The same phrase he had been repeating lately, trying to help her at least continue her life the best way she could without her mate. Felix never had a mate so he wasn’t very familiar with the feeling himself. Of course he had seen the impact it had on Marcus but he never could imagine the feeling of losing your other half. “They looked so much like my parents, Felix. So much. Even the dog resembled my old dog. I just couldn’t. I simply couldn’t.” she said. Felix sighed. “Come on then. Let’s go to Amsterdam and grab some pimps and junkies. How about that?” he said. Maeryn nodded her head and followed Felix to the Dutch city of sin. Maeryn groaned in satisfaction as she dropped the pimp on the ground, completely drained from his blood. “Feeling better?” Felix asked. Maeryn nodded her head. “Much better. So tell me, what is the surprise? You have my full attention.” Maeryn

said as Felix and her made their way back to the cabin. “Well, how about a little revenge?” he asked, a huge smirk plastered on his face. Maeryn looked at him confused. “What do you mean by that, Felix?” “I mean that I happen to know that Vladimir and Stephan are here, in the Netherlands. They are in Rotterdam trying to gain more vampires for their new forming reign.” Felix explained. Maeryn stopped dead in her track and smirked. “Let’s go then.” Maeryn followed Felix and soon a huge mansion came in view. It was white, with a black roof. Ivy was growing on the sides of it, leaving the windows open. There was a huge fountain before the entrance and a fence that protected the property. Maeryn and Felix climbed over the fence and quietly made their way into the mansion. Maeryn felt her energy flowing back through her body. The thought of killing her mate’s killers was exciting and the thought of their dead was very satisfying indeed. Felix killed the guards before they could alarm the owners and Maeryn quietly climbed into the attic. The attic was empty, apart from a few very old paintings in paper wrap to protect them from the damage of time. Maeryn walked around the mansion and found that the owners where not home yet. So Maeryn decided to be dramatic and grabbed a bag of blood from the fridge and poured it in two of the remaining wine glasses. “Better have a drink while we wait.” She said as she gave Felix a glass. Felix chuckled and took the glass, quickly taking a sip. “Hmm, AB. And quite a good one that is. No traces of alcohol, nicotine or drugs.” Felix said. Maeryn took a small sip and the cooled liquid quenched her thirst slightly. She indeed could taste that the blood was really clean. It was delicious. She quickly took another sip and sat down on the sofa chair. She crossed her legs and waited patiently while playing with her glass, occasionally taking a sip. Then the moment came where the two vampires had been waiting for. Stephan and Vladimir walked in, ready to attack. Without a doubt had they smelled the two hostile vampires on their property and they were very cautious. None of them possessed any special talents and Maeryn was sure to kill them quickly with her gift. “Welcome home gentleman. Drink?” she asked as she poured another bag of blood into the last two remaining wine glasses. The two vampires where frozen in their place. “Oh come now. I first like to have a small chat over a drink. We have much to discuss.” Maeryn said as she stood up, grabbed the two glasses and held them out for Vladimir and Stephan to take. They hissed slightly and Felix cracked his knuckles. “If you’d like to live, you will take that drink and sit down.” He said threatening. Vladimir and Stephan shared a quick look before they took the glasses and sat down on the couch, opposite of the sofa. In between the sofa chair and the couch was a coffee table made of glass. “So, now that we can have a polite conversation, I would like to ask you a few questions. First off, where are Tanya and Kate?” Maeryn asked, taking a small sip of blood from her glass. “They are dead. We disposed of them. Weird ones with their weird diet. They are quite a shame to the vampire world.” Vladimir said. “Hmm. Too bad.” Maeryn said and she let a short silence fall between them. The tension was clearly feel able in the room but no one dared to break it yet. “Who where your allies besides them and who survived?” Maeryn asked after a few seconds. “Basically everyone who also was there the 31st of December back in 2006. Except for the Cullens. They refused to play a part in this war. I guess they never did any of us any harm, so we let them be.” Stephan said. “For a coven of that magnitude, they are sure very peaceful. They just wished to live in peace.” Vladimir said, admiration gleaming slightly through his words. So Cullens had no part in her mate’s death. “How many survived?” Maeryn asked very calmly. “Almost no one. The amazon clan went back to their home afterwards, along with the Irish coven and French coven. Gerratt is still out there.

We have no idea what happened to him. He fled after Kate died, after first putting his head back on his body, of course.” Stephan said quickly, feeling the threat growing. Maeryn nodded her head and took another sip of her blood. The two vampires on the couch hadn’t even drank a single drop of blood. They knew that the chances of survival was slim. “Hmm. It is sad actually.” She said calmly. Stephan and Vladimir shared a look of fear before Vladimir softly asked. “What is?” “That your answers where not really satisfying. Meaning I will make your death as slow as I possibly can.” Maeryn stood up and dropped the glass, spilling blood on the white, fluffy carpet that laid beneath the coffee table. Vladimir and Stephan hissed and jumped up, but Felix grabbed both of them and made them kneel down, just like Kate made Alec kneel down when they killed him. Maeryn smirked and watched the two vampire’s struggle under Felix’s strong grip. “So, who will have the honour to live the longest? After all, you will go down in history as the last, remaining member of the Romanian coven. Exciting, isn’t it? Knowing that a coven who survived for centuries is about to end, for good. Oh, how I am going to savour this moment for the rest of my existence.” A small, girlish giggle escaped Maeryn’s lips. But it did not sound pleasant at all. No. It sounded evil. This was the giggle of a woman who was about to avenge her mate. “Well, let’s see. Stephan you held me down while Vladimir here ripped Alec’s head off. So I guess it only seems fair that he will get the honour, don’t you think?” she asked in a sugar sweet voice. Stephan growled and tried to break free of Felix’s grip but to no avail. Maeryn smirked. “Now them. Let’s really get down to business, shall we Stephan?” Maeryn said as she held her hand out in front of her, her hand open. She felt her rage fill her body, making it feel warm as her gift slipped through it to the palm of her hand and fingertips. She locked her gift on Stephan’s body and kept him there. Very slowly, she closed her hand, feeling his life flow out of his body and into her hand. Stephan was barely alive, cracks forming all over his body and face. Maeryn felt his life in her palm, and she slowly closed her hand completely, crushing his life and his body. All that there was left was a pile of ash. Maeryn smirked, feeling very satisfied as she turned to Vladimir. The one who had done the deed and had ripped her mate’s head off. He looked at the pile of dust that had been his most loyal companion for centuries just mere seconds ago. And he knew that it would not take long before he too would lay in a small pile of ashes. Vladimir realised in that moment that he had killed the wrong mate. Maeryn was still fairly young, but the love she had for Alec was amazingly large. Vladimir knew that there was nothing he could do about it and closed his eyes. He imagined that he would soon lay back in his beautiful mate’s arms. The one that had been taken away from him many centuries ago. In the last battle with the Volturi before only Stephan and he where left. Vladimir slowly felt the cracks forming, he felt them breaking every limb in little pieces. It hurt really bad. Not even vampire venom was this painful. He could feel every little crack from, and then the most painful moment of his life happened, but shorty is was all black around him as his body was no longer more than a pile of ashes. Maeryn felt really satisfied and Felix smiled. “Come on. Let’s go. Oh, and remind me to never get on your bad side.” Maeryn laughed. “I will.” “So are you sure? We could travel together if you’d like?” Felix asked. Maeryn had decided she wanted to see the world for her own. She wished to be alone for a while. Maybe a few decades. “I am sure Felix. I need this. Besides, I will make sure to contact you as much as I can.” She promised. Then, Felix did something he had never done before. He carefully hugged her small frame. Maeryn was shocked but slowly responded the hug by wrapping her own arms around his waist. “Be careful out there. I

will miss you little one.” He said as he brotherly placed a kiss on top of her head. “I will miss you too.” She said before letting go. She gave him one last smile and then she ran off. Off to see the world for her own.

#twilight imagine #volturi imagine #alec volturi #volturi #twilight

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