#day of the dead has always been this sort of periphery thing for me

[edwardshundredyearoldspunk]

went to mexico yesterday to visit my grandpa's tomb for day of the dead. only the second time I've visited him since he died in may. not really used to having a dead™ to visit but now I'm home and I got mexican hot chocolate and I'm cuddled up with a mug and life is good. for now life is good 🥹

[gukyi]

midas | jjk

summary: jeon jungkook was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and the power to turn whatever he wants into pure gold. you were born with healing and invisibility powers but without a cent to your name. so when you’re plucked off of the streets for pickpocketing and assigned to be his minder as punishment, you realize you’re going to have to overcome a lot more than class differences if either of you are going to get what you want.

{enemies to lovers!au, ceo!au, magical realism!au}

pairing: jeon jungkook x female reader genre: fluff, comedy, angst word count: 32k (my hand slipped) warnings: alcohol consumption (brief), mentions of bruising and injuries, characters being emotionally constipated and afraid of commitment, your usual guyi e2l lineup a/n: finally!! oh god this fic took forever to write and just kept getting longer and longer. remember when i overestimated the wc by saying 25k-30k? yikes. anyway, i hope you all enjoy this monster! nothing says gukyi like a jk e2l fic, am i right?

The best time to be on the streets is just past noon on weekdays and eleven o’clock on Sunday mornings. When every working professional is out on their lunch break or weekend brunch, basking in the nice weather by choosing to fill up every outdoor dining area available to them. When they plop their bags, their purses and totes, on the chairs opposite them or onto the pavement beside them, thinking that the plastic fence that guards them will be enough to deter pickpockets and thieves. 

Unluckily for them, they usually fail to consider the prospect of someone invisible swooping in to steal the bills from their wallets, a nondescript force reaching into their purse as they stare down at their phones while they eat, forkfuls of to-go salads and pasta dishes stuffed into their mouths. 

Pickpocketing is a skill that the most desperate learn and the shameless master. Normally, people work in teams, one person to distract and the other to fish for the wallet, grabbing the cash and credit cards before tossing it onto the sidewalk and disappearing without a trace. If you wanted to be especially good at it, you would have to be able to complete the entire thing in less than thirty seconds, in the time it takes for people to switch trains in the subway stations. 

But when you work alone, you don’t get that luxury.

But you suppose that the higher powers above, whatever they may be, are relatively benevolent, because in exchange for your prickly personality, you were blessed with the gift of being invisible. 

Unfortunately, that’s something that you don’t need magic to feel. 

The truth is that it’s always been easy to ignore a girl who has no family, no friends, and no money. Living isn’t the hard part, living with purpose is. Nobody wants to pay any attention to someone who has nothing, literally nothing, to offer in return. At least, nobody interesting. 

The only times when you ever feel truly at peace are when you’re sleeping, and when you’re walking down the streets of the city, letting the rest of the world pass you by without sparing you a second glance. You’ve never been one desperate to stick out, to make an impression. Never been someone that people stop to do a double take at when they walk past you. Strange as it sounds, you love the feeling of being insignificant. It is, in a way, liberating. 

So far today you’ve hauled eighty dollars and a subway card from the wallet of some poor tourist standing outside of a bakery looking at a map the size of Jupiter. Some people you feel particularly bad about robbing, but a bald man with dad sunglasses and a fanny pack isn’t one of them. Besides, being pickpocketed is a classic tourist experience. You’re actually doing him a favor. Something to check off of his bucket list. 

You stow away the money and the card into your pocket, bills folded neatly into your raggedy jeans, rips and holes lining the fabric not for fashion, but from wear alone. You’ll make a mental note to buy yourself a croissant or something later. A treat to reward yourself for all of the hard work you’re putting in today. You’ll be able to pay off your phone bill for the next month with this money.

When the lunch breaks are over, you’ll probably retire to your bed and wallow in self-pity for a little before returning for the dinner rush. Having no life is a constant job, and you don’t even get any legally-mandated breaks to keep you going. Every moment you aren’t on the streets is another moment you aren’t making any money. It’s sort of like being a salesman, which, if you think about it, is just a legal way to rob people. When have salespeople ever sold something of real value?

With the eighty dollars on your mind, you start to scope out nice bakeries on your route, coffee shop signs and pastries on display in the window, looking for a nice place to settle down and buy yourself something sweet. Seeing as you live off of Campbell’s soups and bread from dollar stores, anything is an upgrade. 

You walk a couple more blocks before stumbling upon one of those picture-perfect bakeries, with pristinely decorated cupcakes and cakes lining the window display. You can tell that this place is good because there’s a line out the door and a little seating area that is packed to the brim. However, you are currently invisible, which doesn’t accommodate purchasing goods particularly well, but you make a mental note to return to the bakery a little later when people can actually see you. As if you’d ever turn right here, in front of all of these people. 

While you’re here, you decide to snoop around the line and the outdoor seating area to see if anybody strikes your fancy. Everyone standing either has their bag on their shoulder or their wallets gripped tightly between their fingers, so that’s off the table. But, there is one woman wearing a massive wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses as she chows down on a pink strawberry cupcake, her Louis Vuitton tote bag sitting a good two inches away from her, possibly even out of her periphery. 

Bullseye. 

There’s never a need to be stealthy when you’re already invisible, so you trot over, eyeing the woman to make sure that she can’t see anything in front of her. She doesn’t seem to be paying any attention, so you quickly reach down into her bag, a close watch on her gaze, hand fishing around amongst the receipts and the lipsticks and hand sanitizer until you feel her leather wallet. Nimble fingers fumble with the zipper until the tips come into contact with the crisp dollar bills, which you quickly nick and stuff into your pocket, bounding off without a trace. 

Halfway down the block, you surreptitiously glance at your haul—two hundred dollars!

That’ll be enough to last you and your phone bill for the next three months, at least. 

You’re so busy mentally applauding yourself for your pickpocketing skills that you don’t notice someone standing right in front of you. At least, you don’t notice until you crash into them, the surprise forcing you to turn. 

You sputter out an apology, hoping that whoever it is you’ve nearly run over isn’t observant enough to notice that the currently-visible thing they bumped into was previously invisible, and that’s when you notice exactly who it is that you’ve collided with. 

It’s the woman from the bakery, Louis Vuitton bag and everything. And she’s staring you down like there’s no tomorrow, arms crossed over her middle-aged chest as she sends daggers at you. Oh, you’re so fucked. 

“Sorry?” You say unhelpfully, already knowing the direction of this conversation. This woman wouldn’t be sending you a death glare if she didn’t already know who you are. They definitely did this just to trap you, set you up like a mouse and a cheese trap. 

“Don’t play stupid, Y/N,” she orders. “You must already know why I’m here.”

“I was hoping you’d let me off the hook?” You say guiltily, her hand already wrapping tightly around your wrists as she handcuffs you, sharp metal pressing against your wrists. One wriggle and you know that there’s no magicking yourself out of these. They think of everything, they do.

“Tell that to the courts,” she snaps, effectively shutting you up as she drags you away, money digging a hole in your pocket as you begin to envision yourself six feet under. You’re as good as dead, caught red-handed.

Well, life was good while it lasted. At least you might never have to have Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup anymore. 

There’s no such thing as an attorney in the Realm. No such thing as a fair trial (even if they say there is), no such thing as defense and prosecution. No grand juries, no crowds, no sketch artist. Just a judge with a stick up his ass and a punishment to be delivered. You’re either guilty or a liar. 

And you’re rather good at being both. 

“The charge is as follows,” says the burly man at the head of the makeshift courtroom, reading off of a piece of parchment like it’s 1433 and the printing press hasn’t been invented yet. “Burglary, possession of illegally-gained goods, and petty theft.” Because charging you for burglary alone wasn’t enough, apparently. You have a sneaking suspicion that they invented the other two charges just so they could have more to punish you for. “Does the defendant have anything they wish to say?”

“Don’t you guys have anything better to do with your lives?” You ask with a dramatic sigh, having already resigned yourself to your fate. “Like, you could be playing golf round after golf round instead of sitting here, charging an orphan girl with no money.”

“This is my job,” says the burly man. Clearly he has never done anything fun in his entire life. 

“Also, stealing is my only crime, right? So do you really need to punish me like I’ve murdered someone?”

“You burglarized a Realm Leader,” he deadpans. As if Realm Leaders really wear wide-brimmed hats, sunglasses, and carry around a three-thousand dollar Louis Vuitton bag on their days off. 

“You set me up,” you accuse. Might as well go out swinging. “What if I charge you for lying, huh? How will you be punished?”

“Anything else?”

“Fuck you,” you spit. 

The burly man sighs, thinks about the potential verdict for approximately two seconds, and says, “The court finds the defendant guilty of all three charges. Sentencing will now be arranged.”

Big whoop. You could sniff out your ’guilty’ verdict from three miles away, knowing that the Realm takes plenty of pride in charging its constituents for whatever crime that they can invent. You slouch back in your chair as the judge and his heartless buddies discuss your punishment. You suppose that being jailed might not be too bad—you’d always have meals and a place to sleep, even if you would have to give up magic in return. And community service would also be alright. You’d be fine with cleaning up the expressway that runs through the city, though knowing the Realm, they’d probably put you up to some stupidly dangerous magical task. And at this point, death seems rather inviting, and would solve everybody’s problems because they wouldn’t have to deal with you and you wouldn’t have to deal with them anymore. 

The judge coughs, summoning the bare minimum of your attention. “The court has reached a sentencing decision for the convicted. We are offering you two options, of which you may choose one.”

Right, like you’d willingly volunteer for both punishments. 

“You may either be sentenced to serve time in the Realm Penitentiary for six months with the possibility of parole after four, or conduct supervised community service until the task at hand has been completed. Please select which option you would like.”

It’s like asking you to choose between being given one hundred dollars or having to pay one hundred dollars. What does the Realm think people will pick? Do they really think anyone in their right mind would choose to be jailed, forbidden to use their magic, and then let the Realm trick them into thinking parole is really an option, over some measly community service?

“Community service,” you say gruffly. 

“Excellent,” the judge says, writing something with a quill and ink because apparently, ballpoint pens are too complicated. “Your community service will be supervised by a Realm Leader with visionary powers, so you will not need to meet with them in order to discuss your progress, nor will they watch you in person.” And they said that crystal balls aren’t real. 

“What do I have to do?” You ask. Knowing them, it’ll probably be something like scrubbing all of the toilets in the Penitentiary, or going deep into the Amazonian forest to collect some magical sap or fighting off a magical beast. Something that could serve as a death sentence, or at least be extremely unpleasant, in the hopes that it’ll get you off of their backs. 

“The court will be assigning you as a minder to correct the ways of another mage,” the judge states. 

A minder? 

So, your community service is that you have to be a glorified magickal babysitter?

Well. It could be worse. 

“Alright, fine,” you say, though it’s not like you have a choice one way or another. Where was your minder? Why weren’t you assigned one, instead of just being hauled off by an undercover Realm leader to be sentenced for the same crime three times over? “Who will I be assigned to?”

The judge looks down at the parchment in front of him through his tiny old man glasses, and says, “Jeon Jungkook.”

Huh?

Jeon Jungkook lives on the top floor of an apartment complex the size of the Empire State Building and worth more than your entire life. There are ceiling-to-floor windows that span the entire perimeter of the penthouse, a whole security team in the lobby vetting every single person that walks through the automatic glass doors, and an elevator with a touch-screen instead of buttons. It sickens you, the fact that some people can live like this. The fact that some people have known only this world as their entire life, and have not once glanced the other way. 

Getting to Jeon Jungkook’s front door isn��t the hard part. The Realm gave you succinct instructions and permission to use your powers whenever necessary throughout the whole thing, two things more than you thought they would. It’s easy to slide by the big buff security guards when they can’t see you. Easy to turn in the comfort and privacy of the elevator, easy to figure out which door is his when he’s the only person who lives on the top floor. 

The hard part is getting there without feeling like you’re way in over your head. Getting Jeon Jungkook to stop abusing his powers will be no easy feat. He’s rich, powerful, and spits on people like you, people who are not either of those things. Not to mention the fact that if he really wanted to, he could just turn you to gold and set you up in his penthouse like a statue, frozen in time. 

For once, the only thing that makes you feel a little bit better is the Realm. They’ve handed you a strict order that neither you nor he can magic your way out of, lined with stipulations and regulations and requirements that both of you will follow or so help you God. If Jeon Jungkook doesn’t comply, he, his company, and his reputation are done for. 

So at least there’s that. 

Jeon Jungkook’s front door is made of a deep mahogany brown and about thirteen feet tall, towering over you just to serve as a reminder that he can pretty much afford to buy out the entire city if necessary. You feel like an ant in comparison, an insignificant little thing, no money, no power, no nothing. 

A fluorescent doorbell light flashes beside the door frame. 

The sound echoes throughout the hallway you’re standing in, a classic ding-dong noise that reverberates across the walls. 

“Coming!” A voice from inside calls. Is Jungkook expecting someone?

You quickly make any last minute efforts to look as presentable as possible—well, as presentable as someone who lives in a dilapidated, abandoned house at the edge of the city can be—before the door opens. 

For someone who’s got money to burn, Jeon Jungkook sure as hell doesn’t look like it. He’s wearing an oversized button down that hangs loose by his thighs, ripped jeans, and a pair of charcoal grey socks, like he got home from work five hours ago and decided to change into whatever feels most comfortable. 

“Oh, good, I called and they said that you would be another twenty minutes,” Jungkook says, breathing out a sigh of relief. “Let me go grab my wallet, you can just set the pizza down on the counter.”

“Uh, I’m not—”

Jungkook rushes off down one of the fifteen different hallways that branch off of the main living room, leaving you stranded as you wander into his massive abode. Windows line the walls, giving you a perfect view of the city below you, twinkling lights of skyscrapers as people slowly leave their offices and return home. His kitchen alone is double the size of where you live. How can one person possibly take up all of this space? Doesn’t it ever get lonely?

You wait awkwardly besides the counter, which is pizza-less, until Jungkook returns, a shiny black wallet between his fingers as he fumbles for some cash. And normally, you have zero qualms stealing from the rich and giving to the poor (aka, yourself), but seeing as he thinks you’re providing a service, you have the compassion to feel at least a little bit bad. 

Jungkook stops when he notices the bare countertop. “Uh,” he begins with a frown, “where’s the pizza?”

“I’m not the pizza delivery guy,” you explain hesitantly. You don’t suppose Jungkook would have opened the door otherwise. 

“Then where is the pizza delivery guy?” He asks, like you somehow know. 

“I don’t know,” you tell him. Was an interrogation supposed to be a part of this?

“Who are you?”

“I’m Y/N,” you say, hesitant to touch anything except the floor for fear that you will either dirty or break something and then spend the rest of your life trying to pay back the damages. “I’m your minder.”

“What?” Jungkook scrunches up his nose in disgust. “I never asked for a minder.”

“Well, you’ve been assigned one anyway,” you say with a frown. To be fair, it’s not like you expected this to be easy.

“That’s ridiculous,” Jungkook dismisses, already making his way to the door to shoo you off into the night, like he probably does with all of his problems. “I don’t need a minder. I’m fine.”

You look over his shoulder, noticing the flecks of golden accents that line his house, the golden teapots on shelves, picture frames hung up on the wall. Even the rods that hold up the massive satin curtains are gold. There isn’t so much gold to be garish and kitschy, like a teenager who can’t control what he touches, but enough to assert that he’s either wealthy or gifted, or in his case: both. 

“That really sucks, because I’m still your minder,” you tell him, refusing to budge. Jungkook can’t possibly imagine he’ll somehow be able to get out of this. Not when the law is working against him.

“Says who?” Jungkook spits back. 

“The Realm,” you tell him rudely, manifesting the agreement the Realm had given you to force Jungkook into accepting. The parchment is laid out on the countertop, curling up at the edges, black ink written neatly on top of it. He glares at it suspiciously, as if he’s suspected that you forged it. When you make no efforts to explain yourself further, he takes a hesitant step forward, eyes narrowing in on the parchment sitting in front of the both of you. In pitch black ink, loopy calligraphy, it says this:

As recommended and required by the Realm, its leaders, and its government, the recipient, Jeon Jungkook is to be assigned a minder, whose duty is to watch over him, regulate his use of magic, and work towards decreasing his magical activity. 

This minder is being assigned as a result of misuse of magic by the recipient, either by abuse or from the intent to inflict harm upon mages or non-magic users. The Realm decrees that all mages who disobey the laws that govern society either be reformed or punished. 

This minder must ensure that the recipient makes progress towards decreasing his magical activity by indefinitely accompanying and supervising him for every hour of the day. This minder’s term will expire once they have achieved their goal of decreasing the recipient’s use of magic and ensuring that abuse of it does not reoccur. 

Should the recipient disobey this proclamation in any form, including vandalism, ignorance, or rejection, he will be brought to court and sentenced to jail accordingly. 

Jungkook seems to read the parchment for about five seconds before crumpling it up in his hands and tossing it into the trash bin by the edge of the counter. 

“Absolutely not,” he scoffs. “I do not need a minder. I don’t know what The Realm told you but I have no problem with my powers and your services are not required. There was probably some sort of mistake.”

As if. The paper says his name. Jungkook’s almost as bad at violating the rules of the Realm as you are. 

“Uh—” you begin again, but Jungkook is already shooing you out of his penthouse, flicking you away like an animal that’s gotten too close. You find yourself backing up furiously in a desperate attempt to not be trampled by him and his oversized button-down and intimidating death glare, until you’re a foot out of his apartment. 

“Maybe you can go bother someone else instead,” he suggests unhelpfully, before slamming the door in your face. 

You stand there for a few more seconds, face to face with the dark mahogany wood. The bright side is that, even if Jungkook only read the first paragraph of the decree and then tossed it into his recycling bin, there’s no escaping the Realm. You have half a mind to just bugger off and let him face the consequences of his own actions. You can picture it in your head: Realm officers barging into his place of work and arresting him on the spot for consciously disregarding an order of the Realm. That might satiate you for a while. 

Resigning yourself to the fact that if you knock on Jungkook’s door and politely suggest that he pull the parchment out from the trash and read the whole thing will probably not go down particularly well, you turn, letting your body vanish before you, before making your way back to the elevator. The pizza delivery guy arrives just as you reach it, letting you easily slide past him as he goes to make Jungkook’s day a little better by being an expected guest rather than an unwarranted visitor. 

Jungkook may not have agreed to this today (not that he has a choice in the matter), but there’s always tomorrow. 

Passing by the security, who spare no second glance at the fact that the automatic glass doors have just opened seemingly by themselves, you turn left when you reach the sidewalk and head home. 

Home is a janky abandoned house at the very edge of the city, where the buildings meet train tracks and old highways, graffiti decorating every open surface within a five-mile radius. It’s not so much a house as it is a shack, old and rickety and forgotten. You think that the locals and the nons believe the place is haunted, since no one ever comes within one hundred feet of the entrance, the broken glass in the windows and big red spray-painted X on the door deterring most folks. 

People who invite you into their houses and say, “it’s not much, but it’s home,” are such liars. For as long as you have lived here, this place has never felt like home. You never come back from a long day and think, ah, home sweet home. You will never dream of wasting away within these walls. That’s a death sentence. 

You enter through the back door, ducking your head low to avoid hitting it on the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling by a wire or two. You’re not electrically-proficient enough to know how to fix it yourself so it’s less of a fire hazard, and you don’t have nearly enough money to call anyone to come repair it, so there it stays. It still works, though, and you use it in a pinch when you can’t see where you’re stepping. 

There’s a small pile of folded clothing on the floor by the mattress, the remnants of a past life that feels more like an alternate universe than it does part of your history. The fridge doesn’t work, nor do most of the utilities, but the little stack of Campbell’s soup cans on the countertop is reliable and unchanging. As is the fact that you will probably never get out of this dump, so long as you shall live.

When you were little, you used to dream of living in a big castle, and wanting for nothing. You would have people to cook for you, clean for you, dress you, bathe you, entertain you. All of these stories about being a little princess, doted on and loved by all, innocent and pure and beautiful. All of these stories about finding Prince Charming, meeting the love of your life as waltzes into your life on a gorgeous white horse, getting married, having kids, and growing old together. You dreamed of a perfect life, a perfect love, where you never have to worry about anything, where no one is ever mean or rude, no government to dictate what you do. 

It’s no wonder all of those stories were simply fairy tales. 

It makes you even angrier when you think about Jeon Jungkook. He’s lived a life as close to perfection as possible, born with a silver spoon in his mouth and a silver platter placed in front of him. He’s grown up with people adoring him, telling him he can do no wrong, rewarding him with a brand new toy when he gets in trouble, teaching him that his powers are for himself first and for other people next to you. Not much is fair in the world, but especially not the fact that he was bestowed with the gift of being able to turn whatever he wishes into gold. 

He is everybody’s Prince Charming: wealthy, handsome, powerful. Too bad you aren’t a princess anymore.

Strangely enough, even after a long day, you aren’t feeling at all hungry. The scent of the pizza Jungkook had ordered to his door was enough to satisfy you, a warm feeling settling in the pit of your stomach. Normally, this late at night, you might even be daring (or sleep-deprived) enough to break into one of your precious ramen packs, but instead you collapse onto the mattress, heavy heart willing you fast asleep, the light flickering above your head. 

The next day you are faced with a choice: leave Jungkook alone and let him deal with the repercussions of his actions on his own (much to your delight), or go back and continue pestering him until he agrees to having a minder (much to your chagrin). 

A new parchment has manifested itself on the counter, words copied from the one Jungkook threw out before your eyes. It shimmers, almost as if there’s a golden halo that surrounds it, another trick that the Realm has up its sleeve. You have a feeling that this one won’t be as easily ripped, crumpled up to be tossed into the nearest trash bin. It terrifies you—how closely they watch. You suppose that it was only a matter of time before they caught you. 

Quite frankly, you’re shocked it took them this long to realize you were a serial pickpocketer in the first place. 

As much as you’d love to see Jungkook get arrested and tried for defying the rules of the Realm, see his face plastered all over the newspapers and tabloids with stupid headlines like JEON JUNGKOOK: CRIMINAL? and ARRESTED FOR HAVING TOO MUCH MONEY?, and count it as a personal win, letting that happen would mean that you would have failed to do your court-ordered community service, which is a one-way ticket to prison. 

So even if Jeon Jungkook was the grouchiest, greediest, cockiest person in the entire world (which, judging by what you know about him, he probably is), and even though you would happily let his career and reputation plummet, you don’t have a choice. The two of you will either go down together or not at all. 

Resigning yourself to the fact that you will have to be within close proximity to Jeon Jungkook for the foreseeable future, you rally yourself out of bed, tugging on what you deem to be your nicest clothes and splashing your face clean. The rags you have on are probably worth a cent of what Jungkook wears on a daily basis, crisp suits and silver watches and golden earrings. He could spit on you and that would increase your net worth. But surprisingly enough, there is something empowering about the fact that Jeon Jungkook will no longer be able to ignore the plight of those in a lower class than him. Not when he, a person who has everything, will be forced to reckon with you, someone who has nothing. 

It’s easy to find your way to Jungkook’s place of employment. It’s this enormous skyscraper with his name in a golden serif font above the entryway, marking the entire building as his own. It isn’t garish and ugly, per se, but it definitely makes a statement. This, combined with the cool, chic design of his penthouse apartment, redeems him a little. At least he has taste for someone with money to burn like fireworks. 

There are two massive security guards and a whole squad of receptionists standing guard inside the building’s lobby, dressed pristinely and narrowing their eyes at anybody who dares enter. You wait across the street for a few minutes, loitering outside of a coffee shop and trying to avoid having people bump into you, watching. The only people that seem to be worthy of entering are wearing suits and dresses that cost more than what your abandoned house could sell for on the market after being restored, nodding their hellos to the security guards and receptionists as they press the elevator buttons and disappear into the building. You and your thrifted blouse would be laughed out in an instant. 

Lucky for you, you happen to have a rather foolproof method of getting yourself through those doors, and it mostly involves the fact that nobody can even see you. 

You rush across the road at the next green light and wait until you see someone heading in, the grand glass doors automatically opening when they register someone’s presence. It’s easy to slip in undetected, and you hang around in the lobby, secretly judging every single person that walks in after you. You could, quite honestly, spend all day in here, watching the receptionists tap away at their keyboards with robotic efficiency, answering calls left and right and fielding all sorts of questions from folks entering. It’s a world you have never dared step into, a world filled with wealth and power and class hierarchy, with Jeon Jungkook sitting on a pile of money at the very top of the pyramid. 

Some of the people that work in this building will never in their entire lifetime get the chance to speak with him. They will come in, day after day, working for someone who they have no personal relationship to, someone that they will never be afforded the chance to meet. 

Those people are, in your opinion, dodging a bullet. 

If only your life was as kind to you. 

A nervous young man walks in, clearly more out-of-place than anyone else. He seems to have barely bypassed security, flashing some sort of pass that lets him through the doors, but if a breeze came blowing through the lobby, he’d topple right over. He stumbles towards the receptionist desk, all of whom have phones to their ears as they furiously type on their keyboards. One woman holds up a hand, making him freeze in place. If he grinds his teeth any more they’ll all fall out before he even gets a chance to speak. 

It’s another two minutes before the lady puts the phone down and says, “How can I help you?”

“I’m—I’m, uh—I’m here for a meeting,” the man fumbles out. You’re embarrassed for him. 

“With who?” The woman asks, peering over the glasses resting on her pointy nose. She begins to look over the list of people who have meetings. It must be a rather extensive list. 

“Mr—Mr. Jeon, ma’am,” the man sputters. 

She looks doubtful. “Your name?”

“K-Kim…” he begins, staring down at his feet, “Kim Taehyung.”

“And your business with Mr. Jeon is?”

“I’m—uh, well, I’m a photographer for… for an article being written about him by F-Forbes,” he explains rather helplessly. He must have superb photography skills to make up for his extreme nervousness. You’ll be surprised if he makes it all the way to Jeon Jungkook’s office without wetting his pants out of fear. 

The lady hums to herself, looking suspicious until she finds the man’s name on her list. “Mr. Jeon’s office is on the top floor. Make two lefts and then a right. You will have to wait to be called.”

“Thank you v-very much.” He scurries towards the elevator, and you strike while the iron is hot. 

Rushing over, you manage to squeeze into the elevator right before the doors close, waiting patiently in the corner as the man tries to calm himself down, doing some sort of breathing exercise. Well, he’s got plenty of time to put his nerves aside, seeing as this building has seventy floors and Jeon Jungkook is apparently at the very top of them all. You feel bad for him, in a way. Jeon Jungkook was rude and unapologetically uncouth when you spoke to him, even if an aura of professionalism and extremely good social skills surrounds him at all times, and you don’t cower in fear at the sight of him. 

There’s no telling what he’ll be like when Taehyung walks into his office. 

One tense elevator ride later, the both of you arrive at the seventy-fifth floor, the silver doors opening to reveal a busy office space filled with people near the very top of the building’s pyramid. People like his secretary and accountants and managers, people who come into direct contact with Jeon Jungkook every day from nine to five. In a way, you pity these people for having to deal with him, but it’s not like you’ll be any different. 

Taehyung rushes out and you make sure to follow before the elevator doors crush you, following the receptionist’s instructions. Two lefts and a right. 

Jungkook’s office, much like his apartment, is not hard to miss. His name is written on a plaque on the door, and a guard stands outside with a clipboard, regulating everybody who passes in and out of the room. The walls that surround him are glass but he keeps the blinds drawn permanently, so that no one has the pleasure of seeing his face while they work tirelessly to impress him. Taehyung gives his name to the man, who checks him off on the paper on his clipboard before entering the room. 

“Sir, your 12:30 is here,” the guard says. 

Taehyung looks about ready to pass out. 

“Let them in,” Jungkook’s voice bellows in response. The man nods to Taehyung, who trembles where he stands, twiddling his thumbs like there’s no tomorrow. He shuffles in awkwardly and the door shuts behind him. Luckily, the walls are sound-proof. 

The thirty minutes of waiting is agony. You have nothing to do but rehearse in your head how this next conversation is going to go down, the scroll burning a hole in your back pocket. If Jungkook was displeased at best to see you in his apartment, you can only imagine the horror on his face when he sees you’ve infiltrated his workplace as well. Especially since you don’t have even a fraction of the money and power needed to enter the building on more professional terms. 

The good news is that, no matter what Jungkook says, no matter how many times he kicks you out of his penthouse and his skyscraper, he has no choice but to accept the deal, regardless of how long it will take for him to realize this. You never thought you’d ever be relying on the Realm to carry you through a predicament, and nor did you ever think you’d be doing their bidding, and yet, here you are. 

The door opens at one o’clock on the dot. 

“Th-thank you so much for your time again, Mr. Jeon,” Taehyung says, bowing profusely as he heads out. “I really appreciate it, you—you won’t regret it, I promise, thank you again!” You quickly rush towards the door, even making to hold it slightly open for Taehyung as he heaps his thanks on top of Jungkook. In the split second it takes for Taehyung to let the door go and for it to shut, you slip inside. 

“Finally,” Jungkook huffs out to himself, hand rubbing against his forehead. He’s not wearing a suit like you had expected, rather, a silken button-down shirt and tailored slacks. He doesn’t even have a tie. 

Well, you suppose that being your own boss has its perks. 

Jungkook’s stomach growls. “Fuck, I’m hungry.” He presses a button on the phone in his office. “I’m taking my hour lunch break now,” Jungkook informs the person on the other end. “Put all of my meetings on hold until two o’clock and not a moment earlier.”

He hangs up the phone and runs his hands through his hair, neatly straightened and styled. You hate to admit it, but there’s no wonder the man has captured the hearts of people all over the city. He’s rather good looking, the flecks of gold scattered around his office complementing his swirling brown eyes, making them look like caramel instead of cocoa. You have a hunch that, in the eyes of the general public, unattractive people instantly become good-looking the moment that they acquire wealth, power, fame, or all three, but Jeon Jungkook doesn’t need any of those things for people to think he’s beautiful. To him, they’re just bonuses. 

He turns around for a moment to look for something, probably to fish his phone out of the pocket of his jacket, and you turn. Nothing says hello like magically manifesting yourself in his office. 

“Jesus fu—!” Jungkook practically jumps out of his skin when he sees you. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m your minder,” you explain again. 

“I told you I don’t need a goddamn minder,” Jungkook spits out, turning around again just so he doesn’t have to see your face. “Get out.”

“Sorry, no can do,” you say, rocking back and forth on your feet. “Realm’s orders.”

“Fuck the Realm,” Jungkook says. “I don’t need a minder. Your services are unnecessary. Now get out, before I call security.”

You purse your lips. “You may want to think twice about that.” With a flourish, you whip out the scroll, a golden yellow glow still surrounding the parchment, handing it to Jungkook like a Christmas cracker. He snatches it out of your hand and unfurls it. “You should probably read the whole thing this time. It won’t rip like the last one.”

Jungkook glares at the paper like it’s ruined his life—which, judging by his attitude, it probably has—as he scans over the words, scowl worsening with every second that passes. 

“You shouldn’t frown like that, it’s not a good look on you,” you chide. At least Jungkook knows that there’s no bribing his way out of this one. 

“I told you I don’t need a minder,” he says again like it hasn’t already been made abundantly clear. 

“Well, I didn’t want to be assigned to you, but unfortunately, it looks like neither of us are going to get what we want,” you retort. “It’s this or prison, Jeon. You pick.”

“Why the fuck were you assigned to me, then?” Jungkook asks, rounding on you. “What are your powers?”

“Healing and invisibility,” you spit out. Not nearly as glamorous or lucrative as his own, but they come with their own benefits. For example, the ability to infiltrate high-level, upper class places of employment. “Maybe they thought I’d make a good babysitter since those are two skills often used with children,” you tell him pointedly. 

“I don’t need a minder,” Jungkook repeats for the umpteenth time. “I don’t misuse my magic or abuse my powers.”

“Uh,” you point out, an eyebrow raised skeptically, “I think I’d like to beg to differ.” There’s more gold in this room than miners probably found in San Francisco in the nineteenth century. The fact that nons haven’t noticed the abundance of it in his office is outrageous to you. How else do they think he and his family built up this empire?

“Please,” Jungkook says with a frown. “As if we don’t all use our powers for our own benefit. Huh? What did you do that was so terrible that you had to be assigned as my minder?”

“I pickpocket,” you explain economically. No point in sugar-coating it. Jungkook has probably already figured out you don’t come from nearly as much money as he does. “And I got caught.”

“Sucks,” Jungkook comments callously. 

“Sucks for you, too,” you fire back. “You got caught as well. Agree to the terms or go to jail, Jeon Jungkook. I don’t care. But don’t say I didn’t try to help.”

You stand there in silence for a few more seconds, letting your words dissipate into the air, sinking into the ground. Jeon Jungkook seems to have this furious battle within himself, brows furrowing as he rubs at his chin, pacing back and forth behind his desk. He knows he doesn’t have a choice. He goes to jail and his reputation is soiled. The Realm repossesses all that he has made of himself and he must start from scratch under their ruthlessly watchful eye. There will be no recovery. Only survival. 

Or, he deals with you for a couple of months until the Realm is satisfied with the both of you, and you both go on your merry way, never having to see each other again. 

You know what you’d pick if you were in his shoes. 

“Fine,” Jungkook spits out, pointing an accusing finger your way. “But you are to be invisible whenever we are in public, and that includes here.”

“Done. But you have to decrease your turning otherwise we’ll be stuck with each other forever,” you negotiate. “I’ll also have to come and live with you. Can you handle that, or are you too ashamed to have someone else inside your home?”

Jungkook scoffs. “I live in a penthouse the size of a museum. Pick whatever bedroom you fucking want. I doubt we’ll even see each other.” At least there’s one upside to having to stay with him in his massive residence.

“Fine,” you spit out, just for good measure. 

“Fine,” he counters back. Like anything about this conversation, this agreement, this goddamn life you have to live, is fine. 

Yeah, right. 

Jungkook’s penthouse is much more magnificent when you are more than two steps in the door. From where you had stood before, barely just past the door frame as he crumpled the parchment in his hand and tossed it into the trash bin, you hadn’t been able to see it in half its glory, let alone in full. When you can stand in the center of it all, eyes darting from the hallways and archways and spiral staircases leading to a rooftop pool or gym or both, it is overwhelming. Suffocating. 

His living room alone is larger than anything you have ever lived in, anything you have ever had the pleasure of calling your own. The ceiling is sky high and completely glass, streaks of sun shooting down and casting its rays on his chic furniture, deep hardwood floors. You’re so busy looking up that you nearly trip on a white rug laid out on the floor. 

“There are four bedrooms down that hallway and two down that one,” Jungkook says gruffly, flinging his keys into a bowl resting on a shelf and shrugging off his jacket, letting it hang over his forearm. How could one person possibly take up all of this space?

“Where do you sleep?” You ask. 

“That’s none of your business,” Jungkook says with a frown. 

“There’s no point in not telling me,” you remind him helpfully, “there’s only so many places you can be.”

Jungkook sighs. “It’s upstairs. But you can just sleep in any of the empty ones down here.”

“Thanks,” you deadpan. 

“Is that all you brought?” Jungkook asks with a raised eyebrow, looking at the backpack hanging loose off your shoulder. The zipper’s broken, so the outer flap is in a constant state of being folded over, but it works. 

“What, did you expect a moving truck?” You retort. 

“Ugh, forget I asked,” Jungkook says, shrugging his shoulders as he turns away from you. He begins to point around the room. “There should be some ready meals in the fridge if you’re hungry. TV’s always set to the news, but feel free to change it. Volume shouldn’t ever be over forty. Books are alphabetized by the author’s last name. No parties, though I don’t imagine you frequent those.” 

You can’t tell if that’s a jab or just him being observant, but either way, it’s true. You don’t even have any friends. 

“Fine, anything else?”

“Every bedroom has an ensuite bathroom,” Jungkook informs you. “So use that one. Don’t come into my bedroom. There’s more than enough space here for the both of us to go without seeing each other, so let’s keep it that way.”

“Aw, you mean I’m not allowed to wake up to your handsome face and infectious attitude every day?” You pout sarcastically, making Jungkook scrunch up his nose and frown. “Don’t forget that the only way you’re gonna get me out of here is if you listen to the Realm and follow my rules.”

“Yeah, which are?”

“You’re not allowed to turn at all when I’m around, whether or not you can physically see me. Every time you do is a strike. Three strikes—because I’m generous and forgiving—and I’ll report you to the Realm. The whole point of me being here is to make you stop using your powers all of the time.”

“It’s not like I’m doing any harm to people,” Jungkook defends. “You steal, what’s your excuse?”

“You use your power to add onto your already-enormous bank account,” you point out crudely. “I use mine to survive. It’s different.” Jungkook isn’t convinced. “But it doesn’t matter anyway, because I got caught and so did you and now we both have to deal with the consequences.”

He huffs to himself. 

“So do we have a deal?” You ask, glaring up at him, unrelenting. Jungkook’s chocolate brown eyes flicker as the gold around his house reflects off of his irises, like he’s trying desperately to find a way to get himself out of this before it’s too late. 

What he doesn’t realize is that the very first moment he ever turned something to gold, the very first time the object began to shimmer and spark, he was already too far gone. 

You suppose that in a way, so were you. 

“Fine,” Jungkook gruffs out, a veiny hand held out towards you. It’s stiff and cold, much in the same way that his penthouse is, that he is. This is not an agreement birthed from choice. It came from necessity, out of self-preservation. He is doing this to protect his reputation. You are doing it to protect your freedom. If all goes well, after a couple of months the two of you will never have to cross paths again. Oh, doesn’t that sound lovely? “Deal?”

You grab his hand in your own, squeezing tightly. There is no going back from this. 

“Deal.”

On the bright side, being a minder has finally given you something to do instead of stalking the streets and wasting away on your mattress on the floor. Granted, office life isn’t that much more entertaining, but at least you don’t have to be out in the summer heat anymore. 

As per your side of the deal, you remain invisible whenever Jungkook is out in public, which, quite frankly, is less frequently than you had originally anticipated. His entire life seems to go back and forth from home to work then work to home, an endless cycle, a Newton’s cradle on repeat. Maybe that’s why he’s such a prickly asshole—he doesn’t ever make time for things he enjoys. 

You thought he would at least have business dinners or fundraising events or company galas to attend. Isn’t that what most CEOs do? Flaunt their wealth to other wealthy people? Jungkook has so much money that he could easily entertain himself by one-upping all of his fellow CEO friends at every event he goes to, flashing the Rolex watch on his wrist or the fancy Italian shoes he always wears. 

But no. He wakes up, gets dressed, eats a meal from the ready-made ones wrapped in foil in his fridge, and goes to work. When he comes home, he takes off his suit jacket and shoes, eats dinner, and lounges around his penthouse. Works out sometimes, maybe watches a movie. 

Being rich always seemed to be a lot more fun than what Jungkook makes it out to be. Maybe it’s because everything in modern media is completely fake and wholly unrealistic. Or maybe he’s just purposefully making his life boring because you’re here now. 

But even if the only two places Jungkook ever goes are work and home, his personality doesn’t seem to change no matter what location he’s at. All of his employees are simultaneously frightened of him and desperate to please him, lowering their heads when he passes by their cubicle but placing finished report files and completed tasks at the edges of their desks for him to glance over as he does. You follow him like a wearied assistant (of which he actually has three, and you are just the annoying invisible one) and he acts like you aren’t even there. When Jungkook returns home with you carelessly traipsing in after him, turning visible the moment he closes the door, he shrugs off his outerwear and goes back to doing his very favorite thing in the whole world: pretending you don’t exist. 

At least that hasn’t changed since you moved in. 

The bright side is that Jungkook hasn’t turned at all since you’ve shown up. Not in his penthouse and not at work, though he is usually far too busy dealing with real-world issues to dwell on whether or not he’s got enough gold to his name. The answer is that he does, but he doesn’t give a shit about that. Too much is apparently never enough. 

Even if you are invisible, being in an office setting is somewhat unsettling to you. From a people-watching perspective, you love it, because you get an entire building of people to observe and judge, but from a personal perspective, it’s just another reminder of a life that you are not meant to live. 

All of these people in their ties and pencil skirts and uncomfortable leather shoes, fighting to beat each other out for the next promotion and desperate to please their absolutely unpleasable boss. A nine-to-five job, day in and day out. A fat check in their bank account every month. These are things that are both undesirable and unattainable to you. A glimpse into their lives doesn’t spur you to pursue a career path like theirs, it tells you that no matter what, you won’t ever be able to do what they do. 

“Sir, here are the finished analysis reports on the Lee Corporation joint stockholdings,” a proud young man says, plopping it down on Jungkook’s desk as you watch on in silence. The not-speaking part has been rather difficult, but you do get to whisper annoying things into Jungkook’s ear whenever nobody’s around. 

“They are completed?” Jungkook asks without even looking up at the man, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Did I not ask for them to be completed by Friday?”

The man goes white in the face. 

“Uh—” he begins, immediately losing all confidence he had when he entered Jungkook’s office. “Well, I—”

“I don’t appreciate belated work,” Jungkook spits out. “Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

The man nods and scurries out of the office before Jungkook can say anything else. He doesn’t even seem to care.

“Wow, couldn’t even say a ’thank you’?” You chide. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you manners?”

“Late work is unacceptable,” Jungkook says. You’re lucky that his blinds are always drawn, or everyone would see him talking to apparently nobody. “There are no exceptions.”

“He was a day late,” you point out. 

“Three, if you include weekends.”

“That doesn’t make a difference; he wouldn’t have been able to turn them in over the weekend,” you tell him. 

“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” Jungkook orders sternly. He looks angry, but also foolish, because even though he can judge where you’re standing from the sound of your voice, he still can’t meet your eyes. He’s staring holes into the succulent plant on the shelf to your right. 

“I’m not,” you defend, annoyed. “I’m telling you how to be a nice person.”

“I don’t need lessons on that, either.” Jungkook frowns. “He turned in work late and was reprimanded. It’s not any different than what happens in school.”

“But you didn’t even thank him for his time or for showing up to your office, or for the fact that he did the work!” You cry out. 

“What should I be thanking him for? For making the thirty-feet trip from his desk to my office? For turning in work that he was obligated to do late?” Jungkook challenges. “He had to do those. He wasn’t doing me any favors.”

“Except he was, because if he didn’t do that work, then you would’ve had to do it,” you remind him. “Everybody here is doing work because you aren’t able to do all of it yourself. And that’s not your fault—there are only twenty-four hours in a day and you are only one person. But you should be thanking them for their contributions. Even when they turn in something a little late. It’ll do wonders for other people.”

“Are you implying that people don’t like working here?” It’s like he wants to keep this fight going. 

You sigh, loud enough for him to hear despite being a good few steps away from him. “I’m saying that everybody out there—” you say, opening the blinds that cover the walls ever so slightly, just enough for him to see out into the sea of people that sit outside, “—everybody wants so desperately for you to like them. Or at least outwardly display that you don’t hate them. And if you just said please and thank you every now and then, people wouldn’t be so afraid of you.”

Jungkook opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out. Instead, he shuts it like a trap and sits back down. He probably doesn’t really appreciate the fact that you’re directing him on how he controls his office on top of how he uses his magic. But it’s the truth, and he had to hear it one way or another.

“I didn’t ask for suggestions on how to run this office,” he spits out. “Next time I think advice like this is warranted, I’ll ask.” Which will be never.

“I’m here whether you like it or not,” you stand your ground. Jungkook gets to put up with you no matter what! “So I’ll tell you whatever I feel is necessary.”

Jungkook scowls. 

“Don’t frown, it ruins your pretty face,” you tease. You walk a couple of steps and lean over to stretch his lips into a smile. He stiffens up, clearly having lost a sense of humor alongside his patience. “That’s better, don’t you think?”

“I can’t wait to get rid of you,” he bites. 

“You’ll have to get rid of that attitude, first,” you counter. “Or neither of us are going anywhere.”  Entitlement and greed go hand in hand. There’s no way you’ll be able to get Jungkook to stop turning everything around him into gold without giving his personality a makeover as well. Somewhere in there is a decent human being.

You just aren’t sure if you’ll ever be able to find him.

The time spent at home is less eventful. Besides you, Jungkook has no one to shout at and be rude to, and in any case, he, for the most part, avoids you entirely. Which is understandable but totally counterproductive, because if you never interact, neither of you will ever get what you want. 

Still, there is plenty to keep yourself busy inside of his penthouse. He’s subscribed to every streaming service under the sun and has a movie theater-esque surround sound system lining the walls. He has more books than some small town libraries. His internet is stupidly fast. Even if this setup is temporary, you sure as hell aren’t going to waste a second of it. 

It is sort of weird to eat food with golden forks and knives, though. You always think you’re going to crack your teeth on your utensils. 

You and Jungkook aren’t on speaking terms right now because an hour ago you caught him turning a vase in his office gold, the metal slowly wrapping around the base of the pot like pixie dust, sparkling and shimmering as the clay was overlaid with a deep, lustrous yellow. It increased the value of the vase tenfold and sent the both of you flying back to square one. 

“Jungkook, what the hell?” You had shouted, storming into the room as Jungkook’s face turned beet red. “Just because I’m not sitting in the room with you doesn’t give you a free pass to do whatever you want.”

“It was just one pot!” Jungkook had defended himself. “I’m not even going to sell it or anything, it just looks nice. The room needed something extra.”

“I’ve upheld my side of the agreement, what’s so difficult about upholding yours?” 

“Oh yeah, like telling me how to do my job even though you have no experience in business whatsoever?” He had challenged. “I don’t think I agreed to that part of the deal.”

“Strike one, Jeon Jungkook,” you had spat out at him. “Otherwise there’s no way in hell you’re ever going to get rid of me.”

Granted, the vase did look much better in gold than it did when it was made of clay, a glazed design of ferns and vines wrapping around the base. But even if Jungkook does have a particularly good eye for interior design, it doesn’t give him a free pass to turn things just to match his chic aesthetic. How many other things has he turned when you weren’t around to shout at him? You’ll have to go through his entire house every day, taking stock of every single item inside of it, making sure that nothing has inexplicably turned to gold.

Defeated, you had returned back to the main living room, flopping around like a beached whale on the leather. Jungkook always has the television set to the news, so you put it on in the background as you count the minutes until you’re finally free. Judging from what’s happened so far, you think you’ll be here forever. 

There’s a knock on the door. You don’t recall Jungkook answering any buzzes to his home, but maybe he’s just ordered a pizza or something and it’s here. It’s nearly dinnertime, anyway. 

You wait a few seconds to see if Jungkook’s going to make any attempts at answering the door himself. When the knock repeats itself and Jungkook still doesn’t appear, you hop off of the couch to get it yourself. You’re hungry, and pizza sounds delicious right now. A massive upgrade from Campbell’s soups. 

When you open the door however, there is no pizza delivery guy behind the door. Instead, there is an extremely well-dressed couple who are smiling happily at you, albeit a little surprised to see you on the other side of the door. 

“Hello?” You ask, polite but confused. 

“Hello!” The man says happily, chortling to himself. “Who might you be?” One good look at the two of them tells you that they’re Jungkook’s parents. His dad has the same nose, and his mom has the same big, bright eyes. They would kick you to the curb if they knew who you were. 

“I’m Y/N,” you explain unhelpfully. 

“Well, Y/N, do you mind letting us inside? The air conditioning out in this hallway has always been too strong,” his dad asks. You nod awkwardly and step to the side, letting the two of them in. “Ah, looks the same as always. You must give Jungkookie that interior designer’s number, alright? He could do something much nicer with the place,” he tells his wife, who nods in agreement. She passes by the bowl that Jungkook always throws his keys into when he returns home and presses a finger to it, letting gold wrap around the edges until it’s transformed into the metal. 

“Jungkook!” You shout down the hallway, desperately hoping that he isn’t going to leave you alone with his parents. 

“What?” He shouts back. 

“We have visitors!” You call. 

Jungkook’s parents are already picking out all of the things about Jungkook’s living room layout that they would change, turning picture frames here and decorative sculptures there gold, careless and without reason. You’re standing awkwardly in the middle of the room, trying your best to look as unsurprised and as normal as possible. Luckily, you haven’t been interrogated yet, but there’s no telling what will happen if Jungkook doesn’t show up yet. 

Two minutes later, Jungkook comes strolling down the hallway, clearly uninterested, but his eyes practically bulge out of his head when he sees who’s come to say hello.

“M-Mom! Dad!” He sputters out, terrified. “What—what are you doing here?” He asks, looking at you nervously. You shrug unhelpfully. All you did was answer the door. 

“Came to pay our wonderful son a visit, of course!” His father says, guffawing loudly. He reaches an arm out and pulls Jungkook into a crushing hug. “How are you doing?”

“Fine, I mean—” Jungkook begins, speechless. “I wasn’t expecting you at all, you know.”

“I know!” His mother cries happily. “But you know that families must always stick together.”

“Yeah…” he trails off. “Listen, it’s really nice to see the both of you, but I’m kind of busy at the moment—”

“We should stay for dinner!” His mother suggests, a lightbulb going off above her head. “We haven’t seen you in so long—we have so much to catch up on! What do you say, honey?”

Jungkook’s father looks peachy keen. “Sounds like a great idea! And you can introduce us to Y/N too, hmm?”

“Okay…” Jungkook says. He turns to you and you’ve never seen him so caught off guard. With his big, wide eyes, he’s a deer in headlights. “Just, uh, give us a second, would you? Thanks.”

That’s the only warning you’re given before Jungkook is pulling you down the hallway and into the nearest bedroom, slamming the door shut behind the both of you. The sound of the wood hitting the frame makes you jump as Jungkook furrows his brows and turns to face you directly. 

“Alright, here’s the deal,” he says, looking you dead in the eyes as you stare up at him, unimpressed. “My parents can’t know that I’ve been assigned a minder. They just can’t. They’ve trusted me to run this business and to be in control of my life and I don’t even want to think about what they’ll do if they find out why you’re really here.”

“Okay, so?” You say with a frown. “I’ll turn invisible. You don’t have to worry about it.”

“But they’ve already seen you, you opened the goddamn door,” Jungkook says with a sigh, clearly exasperated. He rubs his forehead before his hand makes its way through his hair, brushing through the long, dark strands. 

“Well, sorry for not wanting to leave whoever was outside hanging,” you retort. 

“No, it’s fine, whatever,” Jungkook says. He paces around the room slightly, eyes glossing over the still life painting hung up on the wall and the door to the walk-in closet. He pauses in front of it for a moment, thinking, before he rounds on you. “Can I trust you to pretend to be my girlfriend for just one night while they’re here?”

“I’m sorry, what?” 

“Please? They seem to already be under the impression that we’re dating anyway, and I don’t want to have to think of a different explanation for you,” Jungkook pleads. He’s desperate. 

“Let me get this straight: you want me, your minder, to fake being your girlfriend for your parents?” You ask, punctuating every word. This is worse than actually being his minder. 

Jungkook nods. “Just while they’re here. And then we can go back to avoiding each other. Please?” 

And for once, when you see Jeon Jungkook’s stupidly beautiful face, you don’t feel angry, or resentful, or envious. You feel… sympathy. It’s easy being rich and powerful, even easier when you don’t even need to work for your money, but parents are parents, no matter how much gold is in your pocket. 

Besides, it’s not like you rejecting him will have much of an effect on the grand scheme of things, anyway. You do, and then Jungkook has to spend an awkward night with his parents and you won’t accomplish anything. 

“Fine,” you say, begrudgingly so. “But only for tonight.”

“Oh God, thank you,” Jungkook says, and he actually means it. He dashes into the walk-in closet and pulls out a summery day dress, all flowy and floral, coming down to right above your knees. “Here, put this on. You know I don’t give a shit about what you wear but my parents will.”

“Why do you have this?” You ask, holding the hanger in your hand. One touch of the fabric and you can already feel the craftsmanship, the material sturdy and soft.

“An old hookup or something, probably.” Jungkook shrugs, nonchalant. 

You decide not to question whether or not you are about to wear something that Jungkook has had sex with someone in and head into the closet to change. From inside, you can hear Jungkook pacing back and forth in the bedroom, no doubt trying to come up with a believable story as to why you’ve suddenly appeared in his life and where you had come from. 

When you emerge, Jungkook stops dead in his tracks. This dress is easily the most expensive (and clean) thing you’ve ever put on your body, draping seamlessly along your hips and smoothing over all of the parts of your body you’ve never been too fond of. The sensation is pleasant but uncomfortable, as you have always vastly preferred your own clothes to other people’s, but wearing this at least doesn’t make you feel like you live in an abandoned house on the edge of town. 

“Wow,” Jungkook says dumbly, looking at you with his lips parted like a fish, mouth agape. He scratches at the nape of his neck and coughs. “You look kinda good.”

“How thoughtful of you to say,” you chide, basking in the feeling of finally catching Jungkook off guard. 

“Hopefully my parents won’t be here too long,” Jungkook says as he opens the door, letting you exit first. “Normally, they stick around just long enough to tell me about all of the things in my life that I’m currently doing wrong or should improve upon, and then they leave.”

“Fun.” It doesn’t sound very fun at all. 

“At least this time they won’t be grilling me about a girlfriend,” Jungkook says, offering you a grateful smile as you return to the main living space, where Jungkook’s parents are in the middle of turning some of the decorative trinkets on his shelves gold. “Sorry,” he begins, catching his parents’ attention. “We were just talking. Y/N had to change.”

“She looks lovely in that dress, did you buy it for her?” His mother asks. You send a small smile of thanks. 

“Yes, of course,” Jungkook lies. You think not knowing the origins of this dress is best for both you and him. He shuffles the both of you into the kitchen, an awkward hand on the small of your back. If you were a third party watching the two of you, you could sniff out the fake gestures and affection from a mile away. No two people in love are this stiff around each other. 

His parents wait in the living space, blissfully ignorant, as the two of you fumble around in the kitchen in a last-minute attempt to scrounge up something resembling an acceptable meal. You, admittedly, do not use a kitchen fairly often, and stick to pouring the four of you some wine as Jungkook fishes through his fridge and cabinets. He eventually decides on heating up a pre-made pasta dish, filled with all sorts of vegetables you couldn’t name even if you tried. It smells good, at least. 

For someone who seems to rely entirely on a personal chef to do most of his cooking, Jungkook knows his way around the kitchen fairly well, bouncing from one end to the other as if he’s running on a mental timer. Granted, he isn’t actually cooking anything, but compared to you, he may as well be a top chef at a five-star restaurant. Ten minutes later and he’s got a mouth-watering spaghetti dish, topped with vegetables and what looks to be an herb garnish, a side salad, and four glasses of wine that you so expertly poured. 

Unfortunately, with his parents around, you and Jungkook don’t get to go through your usual meal ritual of sitting as far away from each other as physically possible and not talking whatsoever, sitting down next to each other in his fancy suede dining chairs as his parents take the two seats opposite you. Jungkook’s dining table only seats six, despite the sheer size of his actual dining room, and quite frankly, you have never seen him actually use it for what it’s meant for: dining. 

“Delicious, did you make this?” His father asks, already reaching over to serve himself some. 

“Y/N helped.” No you didn’t.

The serving utensils then move to Jungkook’s mother, who does not turn them into gold, instead opting for a baby tomato, which she places in her drink to serve as some sort of extremely niche ice cube. You can’t imagine how good that will taste. Jungkook’s father laughs at his mother, who is obviously proud of herself. Jungkook forces himself to chuckle ever so slightly, and you crack a very helpless smile. It doesn’t really take a genius to figure out where Jungkook got his turning habits from. 

“So, Y/N,” Jungkook’s father begins, catching you right as you shove an entire forkful of pasta into your mouth, cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk getting ready for the winter, “how long have you known our son?”

“Uh, a couple of—”

“A couple of months,” Jungkook interrupts, speaking louder than usual. “We met at the Park Gala that they hosted, do you remember?”

You kick Jungkook’s shin under the table, making him wince. 

“Ah, yes.” His mother nods in recollection. “Unfortunately we were on that cruise through France, so we couldn’t make it. A shame, we would have loved to meet you then. Are you a friend of the Parks?”

“An associate,” Jungkook explains as vaguely as possible. “Y/N works in law.”

“Ah, law,” Jungkook’s father says romantically, twirling his fork around in the air. “The conscience of business.”

“Yeah,” you say, forcing out a small laugh. The less you say, the better. Though it is ironic that you now apparently work in law, considering your favorite activity is breaking it. You suppose that nobody knows the law better than its criminals. 

“Where are you from, Y/N? Do we know your parents?” This is starting to sound less like a dinner conversation and more like an interrogation. 

“Y/N actually built herself up,” Jungkook covers for you. Lord knows revealing your true background would send both of his parents storming out of the building. “She doesn’t like to talk about her parents very much.”

That’s one way of putting it. 

“Ah, what a shame,” his mother tuts, shaking her head. “We’d love to meet them.”

“Yeah…” you agree distantly, making a mental note to give Jungkook a good shove when this is all over. Well, two can play at this game. “Jungkook is teaching me a lot about how you guys run your business.” You add pointedly, earning a leg kick in return. “It’s very interesting to see from a law perspective.” More like from a human perspective. 

“Oh, you must be very impressed,” his father says proudly, adjusting the collar of his shirt. “We’ve all worked extremely hard to get where we are.” Because turning things to gold at the press of a finger is truly such a taxing job.

“I’m certainly surprised,” you say back, sending a patient but stiff smile their way. They return the favor easily. Maybe you’re more like these people than you thought. “It’s a big change from what I’m used to.” Jungkook smacks his leg against yours, and you retaliate not a moment afterwards.

“I’m sure,” his mother says, voice sickly sweet. “But you’ll be able to adjust in no time. It’s definitely a level up, is it not?”

Jungkook looks like a lost child in a grocery store aisle, eyes wide as they flit back and forth between you and his parents, hurling thinly-veiled insults at each other like it’s nobody’s business. 

“It’s different,” you respond. 

“Well, I’m sure that Jungkook is doing all that he can to accommodate you,” his father says. “Sometimes the people he chooses to date are… not ideal for this sort of lifestyle. We hope that you are able to adjust quickly. We understand that this is a lot.”

“I certainly hope that I’m a good match, then,” you finish, because something inside of you can’t bear to let Jungkook’s stuffy, elitist parents get the last word. 

The rest of the meal is rather silent, save for a few mindless comments about how poorly Jungkook’s decorated his dining room. You and Jungkook have been warring underneath the dinner table all evening, your shins undoubtedly sporting bruises, because apparently everything the two of you are saying to his parents is wrong. Jungkook’s parents either don’t know or don’t care, because they don’t say anything about the tension that settled over the table like a cloud of fog, thick and potent. 

When everyone’s finished eating, Jungkook’s parents head straight to the door, determining that their contributions to his evening and his penthouse are enough—for now. Who knows if or when they’ll return. You and Jungkook have no choice but to see them off, rounding out the night just as you started: fake, empty smiles. 

“It was lovely to meet you, Y/N,” his mother tells you, hand clutching her purse. “I hope that we may see each other again sometime soon.”

“Yes, I am looking forward to it,” you say with glee, knowing that the chances of you never having to speak to her again are well in your favor. 

“Nice work, son,” his father says, a heavy hand on Jungkook’s shoulder. “Just let us know if you ever need anything.”

“Will do,” Jungkook promises distantly. You can tell that Jungkook doesn’t ask his father for advice too often. 

You bid your goodbyes and Jungkook shuts the door behind them, and it’s almost as the atmosphere immediately begins to clear, the air conditioning cycling out the tension, like a breath of fresh air. 

“Ugh, thank God that’s over,” you huff out, already itching to get out of this dress and back into your own clothes. It was gorgeous at first, but now it’s just an ugly reminder. 

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad,” Jungkook says. 

“’Wasn’t that bad’?” You repeat. It’s as if the words went in through Jungkook’s one ear and right out the other. “Are you serious? It was unbearable. Your parents were judging me from the moment I opened the door. No wonder you’ve never had a lasting girlfriend. I couldn’t think of anyone who would want to deal with that.”

“Excuse me?” Jungkook says, rounding on you as fire burns in his eyes. “What do you mean, ’that’?”

“I mean that I don’t know how on Earth people just accept the fact that in other people’s eyes, they’ll never be good enough?” You tell him like it’s obvious, because it is. This sort of life has been so ingrained into Jungkook’s head that he doesn’t even recognize it as unwelcoming and stifling. “I couldn’t stand being your girlfriend. Your parents are judgy and rude, and you all act like people who don’t come from as much money and power as you have no business sitting where you sit.”

“So your best approach was to shade and insult my parents in return?” He combats. “I would hate to be your boyfriend. My parents get more aggressive when people fight them, but you shove me under the table when I try to get you to back down? Just so you can have the final word to two people you’ll probably never see again?”

“The fact that anyone has dated you astounds me,” you tell him. 

“The fact that nobody’s dated you doesn’t astound me,” Jungkook spits back. 

You frown, embers flaring in your boiling blood. What, did Jungkook think you were going to enjoy yourself tonight? By pretending to be some sort of ditzy, desperate-to-please girlfriend? “You’re welcome for doing you a favor and not just straight up telling your parents you’ve been assigned a minder because you can’t handle your own powers. Don’t expect me to do it again.”

“I’m not planning on it,” Jungkook mumbles to himself, just loud enough for you to hear. 

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

You and Jungkook march down opposite hallways, desperate for this night to be over. You tear off the dress and let it sit at the foot of the bed, taunting you. 

There is no way in hell you are ever leaving this place. 

The time spent at work is allocated half towards following Jungkook around like an invisible puppy with a personal vendetta against him, making sure that he doesn’t turn, and half towards wishing that something actually interesting will happen. Jungkook runs so tight a ship that nobody ever seems to want to do anything fun or exciting, no doughnuts, no inside jokes, no pranks. Just an endless cycle of trying desperately to please the unpleasable.

Admittedly, nowadays, you don’t really mind being here as much as you used to, when you would mentally criticize every person that walked through the glass doors to Jungkook’s office, hands filled with stacks of paper and manila folders, plopped onto Jungkook’s desk one by one. Jungkook’s started to keep extra food up in his office, the mini-fridge by his bookshelves constantly filled with takeaway salads and fruit. Apples are a definite no-go because they’re too loud, and you can only ever risk eating salads when nobody’s around to hear you pop the plastic top off of the container, but other than that, it’s nice.

Jungkook has pretty good taste in food, too, which is an added bonus. Though anything is a leg up from what you normally eat.

And even though you’ve begun to start roaming around, exploring the nooks and crannies that line the clean-cut layout, your favorite place to be is Jungkook’s office. He’s got these magnificent floor-to-ceiling glass windows, with a view directly over the biggest park in the city, thousands of feet up in the air. From up here, it almost feels as though you’re looking down at a different world, a different universe. It’s difficult to imagine that everyone down there, every ant-sized person walking along the sidewalk or resting on a park bench or ordering from a food stand, has lives of their own.

Especially when they are but specks of dust in yours.

Jungkook looks at this view forty hours a week. You wonder if he ever gets sick of it.

The door to Jungkook’s office creaks open as you’re staring out of the windows, watching as the clouds pass overhead. They look like little white dogs, like cotton candy, like angel wings.

“Mr. Jeon?”

The owner of the voice is the same man you berated Jungkook for shouting at a few weeks ago, the one who had turned in an analysis report a day late. He seems just as frightened of Jungkook now as he did back then, and it makes you wonder if any of Jungkook’s employees aren’t afraid of him.

“Here’s the completed budget report for the Lee Corporation for last fiscal year,” the man says, reaching a trembling hand out to lay a manila folder on Jungkook’s desk. Jungkook only looks up once he sees it out of his periphery, hand pausing mid-write, pen still hovering over the papers on his desk.

He meets the man’s eyes, and when he does, he cracks a small smile, this sort of barely-there grin, lips curling upwards ever so slightly. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

It’s as if the man has won the lottery. He thanks Jungkook quickly before bouncing out of the room, steps much lighter, like a weight has been lifted off of his shoulders. You watch as he leaves the room, a smile etching itself onto your face. It’s rather incredible what a simple ‘thank you’ can do to people.

You don’t say anything to Jungkook, instead just turning back around to gaze out of the window. There’s an entire city below your feet, one that bustles around like bees in a hive, everyone with a place to be and things to do. There is this strange but comforting feeling of insignificance, one where you feel as though you could disappear and nobody would notice a thing. The rest of the world can and will move on without you. But that doesn’t mean that your life means nothing. It means that your life can be whatever you want to make of it, because in the grand scheme of things, nobody else will know what you have done.

History is like that, too. You must be remarkable to be remembered. But that doesn’t mean the unremarkable people were forgotten. They touched lives, too.

Staring out the window as the clouds swim over the sun, a light grey shadow casting itself over the park, you feel at peace.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?”

You jump at the voice, Jungkook’s presence next to you having gone totally unnoticed. You didn’t even hear him get up from his chair.

“How did you know I was here?” You ask.

“I could sense it," Jungkook says with a grin, making you raise an eyebrow. You’re invisible. “I’m kidding, I saw you come over here a bunch last week when you first got into my office and I figured you’d probably still be here.”

“You figured correctly,” you tell him.

“You know, I don’t spend enough time looking out these windows,” Jungkook admits, and you aren’t sure if it’s to you or himself. “I’m always staring at my computer or writing something at my desk with my head down. I’ve got the best view in the whole city and sometimes, I don’t even remember what it looks like.”

“You work hard,” you tell him, because that’s something that is undeniable about who he is and what he does. “But you deserve to give yourself a break, every now and then.”

“For lunch breaks, the first thing I do is get out of my office. I spend all day in there and when it’s finally time for me to put work on pause, I rush out of the room like it’s on fire,” Jungkook comments. “Maybe I should stay up here every once in a while instead.”

“It’s not like I’ll be going anywhere,” you joke.

“You can, you know,” Jungkook tells you. “You don’t have to stay up here all day.”

“I know,” you say. “But I don’t really mind it. I like being here. It’s calming, in a way.” In a way that you can’t explain. Like you’re stuck in freeze frame while everyone else moves around you. Like you’re watching a movie about everybody’s lives but your own. Like you’re a spectator in your own body. “Plus, the view is gorgeous.”

“It is,” Jungkook agrees.

You stand there in silence for a few more moments, the only sounds filling the room your inhales and exhales, soft and slow, your hearts beating in time. Jungkook is more than a foot away from you but here, in his office, looking out over the world, he has never felt closer.

“Thank you,” you whisper, letting the words hang in the air in front of you.

“For what?” Jungkook asks.

“For listening to me.”

You feel Jungkook turn to you, and when you dare to look up at him, you meet his hazy brown eyes, warm and sparkly. He looks like a goddamn celebrity, like a magazine cover come to life, crisp shirt collars and fancy Italian shoes, glossy brown hair and perfect skin. He smiles at you, this homey sort of thing that makes you feel like summer is running through your veins, like the rays of the sun are pressing against your skin.

“Of course,” he tells you.

Jungkook is a lot of things. He’s unabashedly gorgeous and outrageously wealthy. He walks around like he owns everything that he touches. His house is clean and chic and minimalist, almost like nobody lives there at all. He’s determined and a workaholic, and hates admitting when he’s wrong.

But maybe, just maybe, in the white afternoon light of his office, the rest of the world underneath his feet, standing next to you as the two of you stare out in a city you call your own, he’s not that bad.

Being alone in Jungkook’s penthouse is, to put it lightly, absolutely terrifying.

It’s hard to believe that Jungkook--and maybe a girlfriend for a brief period--has occupied this entire space on his own, no one else to talk to, no one else to spend time with, no one to occupy his massive couches or fill up the chairs in his dining room.

You’ve always wondered why rich people buy the biggest houses. Sure, it’s because they’re rich, and because they can afford it, but it’s impossible for one person, or even two, to make the entire place feel like their own. You leave countless rooms untouched, meant for guests that you never have and parties that you never host. It’s like you’ve moved into half of a house, a quarter of a mansion. What’s the point of having so much space if you don’t ever have anyone to fill it up?

Normally you wouldn’t leave Jungkook’s side, following him around the city whenever he has errands to run or needs to dash back to work to pick up something he had forgotten. But Jungkook hasn’t been turning anything lately, even when you sleep in four hours later than he does, even when he stays up into the early hours of the morning while you pass out before it’s midnight. It’s like he’s somehow lost the will for his magic entirely, like it’s vanished from his body.

Well, you’re not complaining. That just means you’re one step closer to finishing your sentence.

Jungkook’s penthouse feels bigger when he’s not around. Even though you hardly ever see each other while you’re at home, the mere knowledge of his presence makes you feel like you’re not alone. Makes you feel like there is someone else in this little corner of the world.

Everything in here has always looked untouched. Like it doesn’t belong to anybody, like a house listing come to life. His marble counters are always empty, his cabinets always closed and organized. His books are always alphabetized and the stack of art books on his coffee table has never been touched. All of the bedrooms look like they belong in a hotel. The bathrooms look like they belong in a museum.

Jungkook’s house has never felt like a home but then again, neither has yours.

Still, if you had to choose between living in your abandoned shack at the edge of town or living in an enormous penthouse in the center of the city, you would never look back at that old, dilapidated building. The difference between you and Jungkook is that Jungkook chooses to live in this tragically empty place.

You don’t think you’ll ever be able to understand Jungkook’s life. Not just the technicalities of the company he runs, the economics and business that he has spent his whole life mastering, but also the way he sees the world in terms of money and power, how everything has some sort of value, even people. Even you. His biggest concern has always been himself. How much money he has matters, how many investments his company owns matters, how the public views him matters. He has spent so long crafting this perfect image of himself that he’s willing to spend as much money as necessary to maintain it. 

Jungkook doesn’t even look at the total on the card reader when he purchases things. He simply tugs his silver card out of a sleek black wallet and swipes, crumpling the receipt up in his hand before shoving it into the pocket of his jeans. He comes back home to a gigantic penthouse with a gym and his pool and more bedrooms than he can count on both hands, to a personal chef in his kitchen making him five-star meals to last him the rest of the week. 

Money is never on his mind, but it is always on yours. 

When will you get enough to pay off your phone bill, will you ever be able to afford a repairman to fix the broken, exposed lightbulb above the back door, how many Campbell’s soups can you buy and still have enough funds to last you until the next day? What if, God forbid, the city comes knocking on your door and either evicts you or orders you to pay up for the three years you’ve been living in that house, rent-free? What will you do then?

Life is by no means easy for either of you, but Jeon Jungkook has never had to want for anything. If it isn’t handed to him, he works for it himself. If he can’t buy it, he’ll just make more money. If he doesn’t already own it, what’s stopping him?

People dream of having Jungkook’s life. People fear having yours. 

Alone in Jungkook’s apartment, the differences between the two of you have never been clearer. 

Your greatest fear is the fact that, in the past few weeks you have spent here, you are already becoming used to it. You are dreading going back to where you were before, stealing money from people off of the streets and living in a house in such disrepair that local nons think that it’s haunted. You fear that you will never want to leave. 

It’s such a terrifying feeling, isn’t it? Becoming attached to something. Feeling as though your life will be worse without it. Knowing that your life will be worse without it. 

There are parts of you that make you wish that life wasn’t so unfair. 

The living room is three times the size of the dining room but you hate eating there, sitting at an empty table with no one to talk to but suede chairs, reminding you that you don’t even have any friends to invite anyway. At least in the living room you can sit on the couch and watch television and pretend that you have at least some semblance of a life. 

You pick at a pre-made salad that has too much lettuce and not enough everything else—Jungkook needs a new chef, you decide, plucking out all of the croutons and slices of cheddar cheese, when the front door swings open, slamming against the wall adjacent to it as Jungkook storms inside. 

“Oh my God, what happened to you?” You exclaim, eyes practically bulging out of your head as you jump off of the couch. Even from here, you can see the dark bruising around Jungkook’s eye, purple and blue, the busted up knuckles clenched around the bag he’s carrying. There’s even a small streak of blood on his upper left cheek, already beginning to scab. 

“Nothing, I’m fine,” he says, wiping away the blood on his lip with the back of his hand. 

“No, you’re not,” you tell him, rushing up to meet him in the middle of the foyer, standing in front of him as you look up at his face with wide eyes. He waits there patiently, avoiding your gaze, steely eyes looking elsewhere, as you reach up to hold his head in your hands, tilting it from side to side. “What happened to you?”

“Some dudes jumped me in the parking lot on the way back,” Jungkook says casually. You’d almost believe he didn’t feel anything if he doesn’t wince when you press a gentle fingertip along the bruise on his jawline. He meets your frightened expression and smirks wickedly, something glinting in his eyes. “Don’t worry, I got ‘em good.”

“Are you alright?” You ask him, even though it’s obvious he’s not. “You aren’t seriously injured or anything, are you?”

“Don’t worry about it, Y/N,” Jungkook says with a sigh, even as he obeys your movements and moves his body pliantly to the feeling of your hands pressing against his skin. Most of the visible damage seems to be to his face and hands, and quite frankly, you’re not exactly sure if you want to see what’s underneath his dress shirt. “I’m strong. I work out and eat healthy and everything. I’ll be better in no time.”

“No, are you kidding?” You say, reaching out to grab his hand without a second thought, pulling him towards the nearest bathroom. “You can’t just leave it like this. Here, let me heal you.”

“I don’t need you to patch me up or anything,” Jungkook resists, frowning as you sit him down on the edge of the bathtub and begin to fish through his bathroom cabinets. “First aid isn’t in that one.”

“No, you idiot,” you chide him. “I’m not gonna patch you up. Aren’t you forgetting that I’m a healer?” 

“So what are you gonna do, then?” 

You finally find the first aid kit and pull it out, revealing rolls of gauze and bottles of rubbing alcohol and disinfectant. There’s even a couple of rows of Ibuprofen. “Well, you should be patched up anyway,” you decide, turning back to look at Jungkook’s face as he waits obediently on the edge of the tub. “But I can heal you faster than what time and medicine can do on their own.”

“You don’t have to,” Jungkook says softly. 

“Please, of course I do,” you reply instantly. You’re not gonna let Jungkook walk around like that. “We can’t have your pretty face all messed up, now can we?”

Jungkook cracks a small smile but it’s obvious that the simple gesture alone pains him, making him wince slightly as his lips turn upwards. You wet a face cloth with cold water and press it against Jungkook’s bruises, looking intently at his features as you move the cloth around, letting the cold water draw out the heat that sizzles beneath his skin. Jungkook watches you the whole time, his eyes never leaving yours, even as your brows furrow in concentration, determined to fix Jungkook back up so he’s brand new. Slowly, the bruises begin to fade, going from an angry violet to a light lavender, and then to a pink that could almost be mistaken for a heavy blush.

It feels weird, knowing that he’s right there. Knowing that he’s watching you, eyes following yours as they scan his face. His clean-cut jawline is a little swollen, perfect skin angry and marked, but his eyes are still the same. Still wide and bright, like a young child, like a baby deer learning to walk for the first time. They look almost caramel in the yellow light of the bathroom, flecks of gold to mirror the accents in the room. 

There’s something about them that makes you not want to turn away. 

When the bruises have faded, leaving only petal pink remnants along his skin, you move onto the small cut along his cheek. It’s rough and jagged, like the skin had been torn right through, a nick from a fingernail or a knuckle. It’s not long, but it is somewhat deep. You imagine it might scar permanently. 

Kneeling down in front of him, you pull out some rubbing alcohol and a cotton pad, dabbing a gentle amount onto the round before moving closer, holding his head in your hand as you reach out. 

“This might sting,” you say, like he doesn’t already know. 

“That’s alright,” Jungkook tells you. “Fix me up, doctor.”

At his cue, you softly press the cotton pad against the scab, rubbing away at it until it comes off cleanly, leaving only fresh, exposed skin behind. For wounds like these, a cloth won’t do. Your mother used to tell you that healing didn’t come from your hands, it came from your heart. That even if your fingertips had the magic, it was your heart that had the power to wield it. 

Slowly, you rest your palm against his cheek, rubbing your thumb along the cut. Jungkook blinks, big eyes shimmering, as you do so, and you feel trapped in his gaze. Like you couldn’t turn away even if you tried. Like you almost wouldn’t want to. His skin is baby soft, perfect, a far cry from the calloused pads of your fingertips, worn from so many days and nights out on the streets. 

There is magic in your fingertips, surely, but there is something different in your heart. Something that you don’t think you have the words to explain.

The cut seals up instantly, the skin patching over itself until nothing is left but a mark, a little scar that will stay there forever. And yet, you stay there, locked in his magnetic pull, like tearing away will hurt you rather than him. The cut is healed, and his bruises are fading, and there is no reason to stay like this. 

And yet. 

“There,” you whisper, watching the words appear between the two of you, lingering like ghosts. “All better.”

Jungkook grins. It doesn’t hurt him, but something in you feels a sharp jolt, an ache. Like a spark in the pit of your belly. Like magic in your veins. 

Jungkook has been tearing his hair out over this one manila folder in front of him for the past twenty minutes. Every ten seconds he writes something down before scribbling it out, the ink bleeding through the paper to the next one. He flips through the files relentlessly, carelessly, until they’re all out of order and splayed all over his desk. He’s instructed the guard outside not to let anyone in, even if it’s some sort of emergency. 

You’ve seen Jungkook at work a lot, but you’ve never seen him like this. Even his anguished sighs are difficult to listen to. 

Creeping over to the wall that overlooks the rest of the office, Venetian blinds shielding the both of you from view, you crack open a slat, peeking out at everyone else. None of them pay any attention to Jungkook’s office, too busy worrying about the next report they have to complete and all of the office meetings they have to attend, so you take it as a good opportunity to turn visible. Just for a little bit. 

“You alright?” You ask, nearly making Jungkook fall out of his seat at the sound of your voice. 

“What?” He asks, surprised. “Oh, yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

“What’s the matter?” You ask, because you’ve never seen Jungkook as stressed out as he is now. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to organize this new collective to monitor our investing habits so we can assess where investments need to be divvied up into in order for clients to find us worth of their own investments as opposed to other companies,” Jungkook explains, though he sounds positively exhausted while doing so, like the very mention of what he’s slaving over is enough to send him over the edge. “But no one can agree on how we can use this information to promote this company to our clients and the public. People invest in both of us either way.”

“You want people to invest more money in your company, don’t you?” You ask with a raised eyebrow. 

“Well, yeah.” 

“How much money does this company give to small businesses? To nonprofits and charity?”

Jungkook frowns, scrunching up his nose as he thinks. He clicks around on his computer for a few seconds before saying, “About five percent.”

“And your investments are public, correct?”

“Yes.” Jungkook nods. 

“You should be giving way more than five percent of this company’s investments to small, local businesses and charity,” you tell Jungkook, already worming your way behind his desk to look at what he’s looking at. You point to the numbers on his screen, single-digit percentages, some even less than one, being sent to local businesses, nonprofits, and charities. “Look at this. Ninety-five of your investments go right into stocks. If you invested more money into nonprofits and local businesses, people would see you taking the time to help boost the local economy and the organizations that serve it for free. Then, those businesses would invest in you in return, and clients would see that you’re investing in noble causes and give you more money as a thanks, which can then be funnelled back to small businesses and nonprofits.”

It’s a rather roundabout sort of proposal and you’re almost positive that it has no real footing anywhere in real economics and finance, but it makes sense to you. If you had money to invest in major companies, you would choose the ones that invest in the things that will benefit you, like local businesses and nonprofits. If you saw that the companies you were giving money to were simply giving it away to the stock market, you’d pull your money out. 

You know that the stock market is nothing but the world’s biggest economic gamble, but that doesn’t mean that you have to gamble with it. Companies that stand for what you stand for are much more appealing than companies with a bigger investment bank behind them. 

You turn to Jungkook, who is squinting at his computer screen as he fumbles around with the numbers, flicking from Excel sheet to Excel sheet, bouncing back and forth between the information online and the files on top of his desk. 

“Is that stupid?” You ask, breaking the silence. It’s not as if people know you for your groundbreaking economic policies. 

Jungkook spares one more glance over all of his files, and turns up to look at you. “No,” he tells you with a shake of his head. “It’s not.”

“Really?” You’re actually impressed with yourself. 

“Yeah,” Jungkook agrees happily. “You’re right—I’d want to know that my investments were going to a company with good morals that lifts up local businesses. It would encourage me to invest more, too.”

“It’s not a very sound economic theory…” You admit. Jungkook’s probably seasoned in how investments and the stock markets work, charts upon charts of client behavior that shapes the way he organizes his company. And you? You don’t have enough money to even buy food some days. 

“It doesn’t have to be,” Jungkook assures you. “Theory is total bullshit anyway, because nobody can predict what will happen with the economy. But human nature has always been reliably good. People like to know that their money is going to a good cause.”

“So, it helps?” You ask with a smile. 

Jungkook nods. “It does. It’s actually a great idea, Y/N. You might have a future in business.”

You scoff. “Me? I don’t know the first thing about this stuff.”

Jungkook shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. You don’t need to. You’re a good person who thinks about everyone, Y/N. That’s why you’d be good at business. Because your clients can trust you, and you’ll actually put your money where your mouth is.” 

“I guess,” you say unhelpfully. Just because you think about others doesn’t make you especially remarkable. It makes you human. Isn’t that how everyone’s supposed to be? “I just don’t think about clients and money like you do. Money’s always been really valuable to me, since I’ve never had much of it, but you guys see it as expendable. I need to know where my money goes, I don’t want to see it just vanish into the hands of someone else.” Jungkook’s nodding along, eyes looking intently at your own, like he’s committing the words you say to his memory. “I just think that people and companies with tons of money have a duty to give back to those who are less fortunate. That’s all.”

“That’s noble of you,” Jungkook says. 

“It’s just common sense,” you explain. “Why wouldn’t you want to do something like that?”

Jungkook heaves a sigh, a long, winded sort of one, like there’s a whole conversation behind it that he wishes he could have with you. But instead, he just shakes his head, a fond smile lacing its way across his features. He chuckles to himself. “Maybe you aren’t cut out for business after all, Y/N,” he tells you softly. “You have too big a heart.”

And maybe that’s true. Maybe you’re too kind, too generous, to ever make it in business. To succeed without losing every penny to your name. 

But if that’s the case, then where does Jungkook stand?

When Jungkook stays at work late, the two of you eat dinner together. 

There’s just something so demoralizing about coming back to an empty house, letting the hollow sound of the door slamming shut echo throughout the room, and then marching off in different directions to spend the rest of the night alone. When it’s dark, and late, and you’re starving, it’s all you can do not to beg Jungkook to eat with you. Even if in silence. 

By the time you get home, your stomach is just about ready to consume the art books sitting in a neat stack at the top right corner of the coffee table. You begin to clear off some space for the both of you to eat as Jungkook heads towards the refrigerator, when not three seconds after, you hear him swear, “Oh, shit.”

“What’s the matter?” You call out. 

“We’re out of premade meals!” Jungkook shouts back. What? You could have sworn there were at least two full tupperwares still available. Actually, maybe you had eaten them for lunch… 

“Really?” You get up from the coffee table and make your way into the kitchen, where Jungkook is standing in front of a refrigerator with the entire middle section wiped clean, empty shelves mocking the both of you as you glare at them. “Oh, wow. Really.”

“I didn’t know we ate that much,” Jungkook comments, shocked at the sight before him. 

“What are we gonna do?” You ask. You’re hungry. 

“What do you mean?” Jungkook says with a laugh. He kneels down and begins to pull vegetables from the drawers, plucking different bottles from inside the fridge door and plastic cartons from the top shelves, the ones that you never dare touch. “We’ll cook something, obviously.”

“Can’t we just order takeout?”

“You don’t wanna cook something with me?” Jungkook asks, eyes wide and pouty. You shake your head guiltily. Is ordering a pizza really so much to ask? Jungkook narrows his eyes at you suspiciously, a grin pulling at his lips, before he nods knowingly. “Oh, I get it.”

“Get what?” You challenge. 

“You don’t know how to cook.”

“What? I know how to cook!” You cry out, aghast. True, your past meals have mostly involved warming food up in the microwave, but that counts, in your book. Jungkook frowns in disbelief. “I know how to use a microwave.”

Jungkook tosses his head back and laughs, this warm, hearty sound filling up the kitchen, before he starts placing all of the containers and bottles and vegetables he pulled out from the fridge onto the counter. “Okay, we’re going to make something together.”

“Seriously?” You say, borderline whining. “Can’t you just do it?”

“No,” Jungkook rolls his eyes, “because you have to help me. Kitchen’s orders.”

“You’re the kitchen!”

“Exactly,” Jungkook says, smiling to himself. He pulls out some more ingredients from the cabinets, hands deftly reaching for the exact ones he wants, until you have a collection of food, seasonings, and sauces on the countertop, and an apparent recipe to be made. 

“What are we making?” You ask, looking down at everything on the counter. All of these things can’t go into one dish… can they?

“An old family recipe,” Jungkook says. “Kimchi jjigae. It’s kimchi stew.”

“Is it easy?” 

Jungkook grins something wicked, something devilish. “It’s fun.”

He sets out to put a pot on the stove, turning the gas on, bouncing back and forth between the stovetop and the counter as you stand there like a floundering fish, waiting for him to either give you an instruction or do everything himself.

“Can you cut the green onions?” Jungkook asks as he adds water and what looks to be tiny little fish to the pot, reaching behind his back to gesture wildly at the ingredients sitting on the marble. 

“Which are those?” You scan the countertop. Your familiarity with food and recipes extends about as far as anything non-perishable that comes in a tin can. Never in your life have you seen so much laid out in front of you, all meant to go into the same meal. 

The metal lid clinks as Jungkook covers the pot to boil, turning around to join you at the counter, where you wait awkwardly in front of an unused chopping board, no knife in sight. 

“These,” he says, reaching over you to pull up several stalks of something that looks similar to the wild onions that grow in your backyard. He fishes through the drawers before he pulls out a kitchen knife, gently placing it in your hand as he moves around to grab all of the other ingredients he needs for the boiling water on the stovetop. 

Hesitantly, you line up the onions and begin to chop, carefully sawing through each one until it comes cleanly off of the stalk. It’s awfully time-consuming, especially since Jungkook seems to have already made the stock base in the time it’s taken you to cut one. Nevertheless, you persist, because Jungkook wants these to go in the pot, and you refuse to be seen as incompetent in the kitchen, especially when Jungkook seems to be rather proficient when it comes to cooking despite the fact that a chef makes the majority of his meals for him. 

Old family recipes die hard, you suppose. 

Jungkook turns around to check on you and grab a small red container of what looks to be some sort of spicy pepper paste. When he sees you carefully slicing through each onion stalk, he laughs. 

“Hey, what are you laughing at?” You say, pouting. You don’t think you’re doing a terrible job, even if you are a bit slow. 

“You,” Jungkook says with a grin, not even bothering to think of something else to say instead. “Here, let me show you.”

He comes to stand behind you, his torso pressing against your back, as he reaches his arms around you, hands gently resting atop your own. There is something in the way his breath hits your skin, tickles the part right behind your ear that’s always been sensitive, how he leans down to look over your shoulder. The rise and fall of his chest against you. Something strange and foreign and calming, like when you tense up right before you fall asleep.

Frozen, you watch with nervous eyes as he holds your hand in his own, grasping onto the knife. He stacks a few onion stalks next to each other on top of the cutting board and slowly begins to cut—thin, quick slices until he develops a rhythm, an imaginary beat to the drumming of his heart, to the pounding of your own. 

The seconds seem to drag on for eternity, as if every cut through the vegetable is done in slow-motion, like time has slowed down just for the two of you. His breath tickles your skin, hot and tingly and filled with fire, lighting sparks everywhere it touches. You think that, if you concentrate hard enough, you can hear the way his heart thumps like a bass drum, ringing in your ears. Or maybe that’s just you. 

When four green onion stalks have been cut down to their very tips, suddenly the world speeds up, like the breaths that have slowly been leaving your lips come out all at once, like your heart picks up time to a universal metronome, desperate to realign itself once more. 

“There,” Jungkook murmurs from behind you. The words are soft and distant, almost like someone else had uttered them. “All done.”

You blame the tears welling in your eyes on the onions. 

Thirty minutes and an overwhelming amount of slicing different ingredients later, there is a boiling pot of kimchi stew on the stove, steaming up the inside of the glass lid that Jungkook has placed on top to keep it warm. He’s big on optimizing the time spent in the kitchen, cleaning up everything before you eat, stuffing all of the used plates and bowls and knives into the sink as they come, wrapping up the vegetables in the thin plastic bags that they came in and putting them back into the fridge. Jungkook says it’s because he doesn’t like having to clean the kitchen up after he’s eaten. You think it’s because he thinks you’ll run off and leave him to do all the work. 

You, admittedly, don’t make your own meals very often (or at all), but you can see the appeal. There’s something different about food that you make yourself, food that you turned from ingredients to a meal. Something rewarding. 

Or maybe it’s just because Jungkook did most of the cooking, and he’s got this inexplicable magic touch. 

“Good, right?” He asks when you’re finished, the both of you heading back to the kitchen to wash up the last of your dishes.

“It was okay,” you tease, even though your empty bowl says otherwise. There’s not a drop of soup, a scrap of food left inside of it, just an orange ring around the inside from the kimchi color. 

“Okay, Miss ‘Okay’,” Jungkook says, placing his bowl gently into the sink. “Hand me your thing, I’ll finish washing up.”

“You sure?” You ask. You feel like you’ve contributed absolutely nothing to the making of this dish. Not cooking it, not putting away the ingredients or washing the pot, nothing. The least you could do is clean up a couple of your bowls. Or put them in the dishwasher. 

“Yeah, don’t worry about it,” Jungkook says, hand already latching onto it. “Takes two minutes.”

“Okay,” you tell him, watching the bowls fill with soap as his big hands scrub away the remnants of a very delicious meal. 

You linger in the kitchen. Despite not really having anything else to do, you don’t want to go back to your room, or curl away in some corner of the apartment where Jungkook can’t find you. You’re finally spending time together. Isn’t that what you wanted?

“It was pretty good,” you add on belatedly, when Jungkook is just drying his hands on the dish towel. There’s a precarious stack of dishes, utensils, and pots on the drying rack, like adding one more chopstick will send the whole thing tumbling down, but Jungkook isn’t worried about it at all. Even though he likes cleaning stuff up, he doesn’t like putting it away. 

“Aha!” Jungkook shouts, pointing at you accusingly. “I knew you would like it.”

“You’re a good chef,” you tell him. Maybe kimchi jjigae is the only thing he’s good at making, but rather be a master of one than a jack of all trades but master of none. Though, you have to admit that Jungkook is a master of several trades, none of which you think you could ever do. “You should cook more.”

“I wish,” Jungkook says with a sigh. The two of you have retired to the leather couch, the conversation drifting away from the kitchen and towards the sofas. When he collapses on the cushions, he relaxes, like the feeling is sucking out all of the tension in his body. “Every time I get back from work, I’m so drained and exhausted. I just want to go to sleep.”

“You weren’t tired tonight,” you point out. 

“No,” Jungkook says. The words are distant and faintly register in his mind, almost like the realization has just dawned on him for the first time, “I wasn’t.”

“Is there something else you wanna do?” You ask, not feeling particularly lethargic either. Normally, you’d spend the rest of the night raiding the rest of Jungkook’s amenities, watching old shows on his television or taking a bath until your body looks like a raisin. Something you can do by yourself, something that you’d want to do by yourself to make up for the fact that Jungkook doesn’t ever want to do anything with you. Watching him at work is getting less boring, because you’re actually starting to interact, but at home, you go right back to square one. Or, you did. “Watch a movie, or anything?”

“Nah, I’m alright,” Jungkook shakes his head, scrunching up his nose. You watch him as he chews the inside of his cheek, finger tracing over the scar that’s been left from that night, the night you patched him up. You’re a healer, but some things are meant to leave marks. You almost think that Jungkook is going to up and leave, heave himself off of the floor and spend the rest of the night alone in his bedroom, but then, he turns to you and he asks, “How often do you heal people?”

“I haven’t in a while,” you admit. Not because the opportunity has never presented itself, but you never had anyone to heal. “I used to when I was a kid, a lot. You know, scraped knees and paper cuts.”

“What about you?” Jungkook asks. “Do you have to heal yourself as well?”

“No,” you explain, “healers’ bodies heal by themselves.” It’s why, whenever you get back to your shack after crashing into a tree on the sidewalk that you hadn’t spotted, or stubbed your toe on the leg of a table, or pulled a muscle from stretching too far, you let yourself rest, and your body does the work for you. “But healing isn’t… it isn’t something I do very often. I turn invisible much more.”

“I can tell,” Jungkook muses. “But you’ve been invisible around me so much that it feels like I can still see you.”

“That’s because I’m always in your office when I’m invisible,” you point out. Jungkook knows you’re there because you wouldn’t be anywhere else. Where would you even go, when the whole point is to watch him? “In a place like this, there is no way you would be able to find me.”

“You wanna bet?”

“You know what, yes, I do,” you say, because Jungkook can’t possibly think his human-snuffing skills are as good as yours. Especially when the only person he’s trying to find is invisible. “You think you’re such a hotshot, hmm? Try and find me, then.”

“First floor only,” Jungkook rules. “And, when I do, I get to turn something.”

“Fine,” you agree, only because you know that that’s not going to happen. “One thing. That’s strike two, though.”

“You won’t tell,” Jungkook chides, eyes narrowed. 

“Will I?”

“Twenty seconds!” Jungkook says, already beginning to count down. “Nineteen, eighteen—!”

You turn invisible at once, not wasting a second, scurrying off down one of the hallways. There are plenty of places to hide in Jungkook’s house, from the walk-in closets in every bedroom to the one-foot-tall gap underneath every bed. But you won’t go for one of those, because Jungkook expects you to. He’s going to hunt around his entire house, looking in all of the nooks and crannies, the armoires and cabinets and cubbyholes, because he thinks that that’s where you’ll be hiding. But the truth is that there is no way that Jungkook will be able to find you when he can’t see you, because he doesn’t know what he’ll be looking for. 

So, you pick the second-to-last bedroom down the hall, and you wait. You’d sit down on the mattress, but Jungkook easily be able to spot a dip in the comforter, so you stand, right next to the door, holding your breath. If Jungkook really does think he can sense your presence, or whatever psychic nonsense he’s on about, then he should have no problem finding you. 

You hear Jungkook’s voice echoing down the hallway, a sickly sweet singsong as he walks into every room. 

“Y/N…” He calls out, like a ghost in a horror movie. “Where are you?”

From your angle, you can peer down the corridor, watch as he trickles in and out of each room after five minutes, no doubt searching through every one with both of his arms out, desperate to crash into you. Good thing you’re standing, otherwise Jungkook might accidentally elbow you. Slowly, he makes his way out of the room right before yours, casually walking towards you. You suck in a quick breath, holding yourself perfectly still.

“Are you here?” Jungkook flips his head around the doorframe, a foot away from where you’re standing. He isn’t looking right at you, thank God, otherwise you think you might just burst into laughter. “Hmm, I think you are.”

He begins to walk around the room, one hand tracing over the quilted pattern on the comforter, the other reaching out, grabbing fistfuls of air. He looks like someone’s blocked his vision, wandering around aimlessly as he tries to find something to cling onto. You bite your lip, refusing to laugh and give yourself away as he makes his way into the bathroom, singing your name like a chant, a curse to be laid upon you. When he obviously has no luck, he returns to the bedroom, eyes narrowed, as if that will better help his vision. 

You don’t think you’ve ever held your breath for this long, lungs about to burst, but you can’t let Jungkook find you. There’s more than just your powers on the line, and his reward. There’s your pride, and his massive ego that you refuse to stroke. The fact that he looks absolutely ridiculous is also doing nothing to aid you, but giving yourself up would be a metaphorical death sentence. 

Jungkook has one foot out of the door, already heading towards the last bedroom in the hallway, when you crack. You sputter out a half-breath, this miniscule exhale, and he stops in his tracks, turning around. You freeze up, hoping that maybe Jungkook will just think it was a trick of his own ears. 

“Y/N?” He taunts. He looks around the room again, trying to see if the wind is blowing a different way, if there is something different. He almost doesn’t notice you. 

Almost. 

You turn in shock when Jungkook reaches a hand out, his fingers pinching at your lower torso, shrieking as you practically topple over, Jungkook’s arms the only things that prevent you from diving head first onto the floor. He encases you in his hold as you sink to the floor in defeat, laughing as he follows you, one arm holding your waist as the other wraps around your back. He chuckles to himself while you curl up in shame, desperate not to meet your eyes. Your skin sizzles where his fingers had touched it, like oil in a pan after it’s been taken off of the stove, like the remnants of a flame, embers left to burn into ashes. It feels like your body is on fire. 

“Found you,” Jungkook teases, but it’s soft and sweet and fond. “I told you, I just know.”

“You just heard me breathe,” you defend yourself, because the former is impossible to accept. 

“Whatever you want to say to make yourself feel better.” He grins, cheeky and prideful, making you shove his head away with the palm of your hand. 

“Fine, whatever,” you say, resigning yourself to the fact that you lost this round. “What do you want to turn? The bed frame? The door knob? That really ugly pot in the living room?”

“Hey, that pot isn’t ugly,” Jungkook exclaims. You frown at him. “Okay, it’s only a little bit ugly.”

“For someone with so much money, you sure don’t have the best taste,” you tell him, even though everything else in his house reads expensive like nothing else. That pot is just weirdly out-of-place. “Maybe the gold will make it look better.”

“What’s this?” Jungkook asks, reaching a hand out from behind you to toy at the bracelet on your wrist, this silver chain with a couple of charms dangling from it. It’s rusted beyond belief, from rain, from humidity, from wear, but you refuse to take it off, even when it loses what’s left of its shimmer, even when the silver fades to a scratchy red iron. 

“An old bracelet,” you say, fingers instinctively making to play with it, rubbing away at the metal. “From my mom.”

“You wear it every day,” Jungkook notices. 

“I never take it off,” you say. 

“It’s pretty,” Jungkook tells you, and you know that he isn’t just saying that. That he means it, despite its abysmal condition. The years have not been kind to it, but then again, they haven’t been very kind to you either. “It must be really special.”

“It is.” You shuffle the bracelet around so that all five of the charms are in view. “She would buy a new charm every year for my birthday.”

“I like this one,” Jungkook says, pointing to the milk carton charm. “It’s cute.”

“Yeah…” you trail off. The bracelet isn’t much, but it’s all you have left of a childhood that you had been robbed of. You had to grow up too fast, that you know, but at least this bracelet reminds you that you are never too old for your memories. 

“Can I turn it?” Jungkook asks. It’s as if you can see the words leave his lips, resting in front of you, waiting for your response. 

You turn around to face him, eyes wide. Your hand goes to rest atop the bracelet protectively, the idea of letting someone else touch it almost unfathomable. 

“You can say no,” Jungkook quickly stammers out, face beet red. “It was just—you wear it so much, and it looks like the silver is fading, so I was thinking maybe the gold would… fix it up a bit, or something. Make it look new again. Ignore me, you don’t have to say yes, it was just a suggestion.”

Your fingers drop into your lap as you look at him, expression softening. Here, in this unused guest bedroom, Jungkook looks nervous, lost, stumbling over his own words like he isn’t sure of himself anymore. He looks away from you, eyes already beginning to scan the room for something else to turn instead, doubtful you would even agree to such a wild request. It is your bracelet, after all. Why would he do something like that for you?

“You want to?” You ask him, hopeful and wishing. 

Jungkook nods, a smile tugging at his lips. “I do.”

“Then you can,” you say, holding out your wrist to him, the charms dangling over your laps. “Please.”

Jungkook’s shocked that you even said yes, but he scrambles to twist you around, moving your bodies so you aren’t pressed against each other like two peas squished inside of a pod. In this new position, you’re facing each other, staring right at each other as Jungkook reaches out a tentative hand, delicate fingers padding against your wrist. He breathes, and so do you, because you’ve gotten so used to the way this bracelet has looked, so familiar with every rust and crack and dent, knowing that it has remained unchanged for years. 

But this isn’t a change. It’s a rebirth. It’s something different, something fresh, something to remind you that not all is lost. That old memories can become new once more. 

Slowly, as Jungkook presses soft fingertips against the metal, sparks fly. A golden sheen wraps around the bracelet, inch by inch, leaving behind this unmistakeable shimmer, glinting in the sunlight. You can’t tear your eyes away, watching the magic unfold in real time, the silver vanishing before you. The gold consumes it, erasing all of the rust, the wear and tear, until it looks brand new.

Your mother would have loved it. 

“Is that strike two?” Jungkook asks, a cherry red blush decorating his cheeks. 

“Thank you,” you breathe out, not caring if it’s strike two or strike two hundred. Your fingers press against the metal, smooth and shiny, the bumpy texture gone. It must be worth thousands, now. But to you, it is priceless. “It’s beautiful.”

Jungkook nods, and you can distantly feel the weight of his gaze on you. 

“I know,” he says. 

You can’t sleep. 

You’ve slept better here than you have for the past three years of your life. At this point, sleeping on cement would be more comfortable than your bed back at your own house, but here, the soft, plush mattress takes away all of the exhaustion that manifests itself in you throughout the day. Not to mention the fact that for the first time in over a decade, you finally have a normal routine, an internal clock to direct your body, rather than the other way around. There is something soothing in knowing exactly what the next day will bring. Something that doesn’t keep you up with worry.

But tonight, you are wide awake. 

The golden bracelet on your wrist clinks against itself as you sit up, rubbing at the gunk that’s collected in your eyes. You’ve been keenly aware of its existence on your wrist much more in the past several days, ever since Jungkook turned it from its previous faded silver, fingers instinctively toying with it whenever there’s nothing on your mind—and even when there is. 

What you fear most is the fact that you feel as though you are relying on Jungkook to be there more and more, counting on the fact that you know he will be by your side no matter where you are, no matter what you do. You are relying on him to be there, on his house to be there, shaping the way that you run your life based on the belief that at the end of the day, he will be asleep under the same roof as you. 

You pull yourself out of bed. Maybe a night spent alone will remind you of the days where you would watch the moon move across the sky, sitting underneath trees and counting the stars that you can see. Remind you that no matter what, the moon will always be there for you, too. Remind you that this, all of it, is temporary. 

You know that you aren’t allowed to go up to the second floor of Jungkook’s apartment, and that you’ve never been solely because Jungkook requested that you stay downstairs, a promise you have kept throughout the weeks. But there must be some appeal to the rooftop, you think, because Jungkook never comes downstairs whenever he’s having a restless night. Besides, it’s not as if you have any plans to go into his bedroom. 

Softly, you creep upstairs, hand dragging along the golden rail, feet leaving creases in the carpet. The top of the stairs opens up into a general hallway, a dark wooden door undoubtedly leading towards his bedroom, while the walls on the other side turn to glass, leading towards the pool. You tiptoe down the hallway, making sure to avoid making too much noise by Jungkook’s bedroom door, passing by the gym that Jungkook must use all of the time, whenever he’s not around to bother you. The glass door at the end of the hallway must exit out to the pool, so you twist the doorknob and push it open, the cool summer atmosphere hitting you like a breath of fresh air. 

All of the lights are on outside, this soft white that reflects off of the metal railing and the pool water, crashing in waves against the tiled edges. You think it’s just for show, like how people leave their Christmas lights on twenty-four hours a day, visible through their windows, but then you round the corner and see him.

Jungkook sits along the edge of the water, legs swishing around in the pool, as he looks up at the sky. The summer breeze blows through his hair, messy and loose, the way it looks right when he gets out of the shower, before he puts any product into it. Whatever he’s playing with in his hand glints in the lights, that distinctive yellow glow. It must be a coin or something, something small, something to keep his fingers occupied. 

“Are we considering that strike three?”

He whips around when he hears your voice, hears the way the pool water carries it across to him. 

“I thought you promised never to come up here,” he muses back. 

“Then I guess maybe both of us can be forgiven,” you suggest.

You amble over to him, crouching down to dip your feet in as well. You seat yourself along the edge of the pool beside him as the water sloshes around, the sensation sending shivers down your spine despite the humidity in the air. 

“Can’t sleep?”

Jungkook shakes his head. “My body’s tired but my mind isn’t.”

“What’s that?” You ask, pointing at the coin in his hand. It isn’t a form of currency that you recognize, certainly nothing used here. 

“A family heirloom,” Jungkook tells you, holding it out for you to see. It’s covered in a thin layer of cold but you think that you can make out some sort of crest, an emblem or insignia above the coat of arms. “Apparently it had been stolen from someone of royalty or high status back in the day. My family turned it into gold and made it ten times more valuable.”

“Oh, but I pickpocket a few people and suddenly I get sentenced by the Realm to be a minder, I see how it is,” you joke, rolling your eyes. Your eyes glaze over the crest, tracing the lines of a lion, a spear, a shield. It must mean something to someone, but to you and Jungkook, it could be anything. 

“Hey, but being my minder hasn’t been terrible, has it?” Jungkook asks, mockingly offended. His lips curl down into a pout as he looks at you, a hand on his heart like it’s been punctured by your words.

“It’s…” You begin. You suppose that it hasn’t been terrible. In the beginning, it was positively nightmarish, left you feeling like there was no way you would ever complete your sentence. Now, there’s this weird, hidden part of you that doesn’t want to leave. The part of you that has become attached to this world, this lifestyle. The part of you that relies on there being another person in your life to be with. “It’s not that bad.”

“You know what, I’ll take it.” Jungkook grins. “Even though I know you secretly love me.”

You give Jungkook a shove, pushing him on his side. “You wish.”

He laughs, pulling himself back up off of the cement, knocking his shoulder into yours. “I know that we both kind of didn’t have a choice in any of this,” he tells you, looking up at the stars, watching their faint light, twinkling from millions of light years away. “But I think I really needed you here.”

“Oh, now he admits he needs a minder,” you say sarcastically, flinging your arms out in front of you. 

Jungkook chuckles. “I didn’t realize I turned so much until you forced me to stop cold turkey.”

You nod. The truth is, you can’t blame Jungkook for his turning habits. You can’t blame him for living the way that he lives, when it’s the only thing he’s ever known. When the two most important adults in his life turn like wildfire, when they taught him everything he knows. But Jungkook is his own person, now, not a product of his parents, anymore. He has his own choices to make. He can become whoever he wants to be. 

He has become someone he wants to be. 

Jungkook’s magic habits aren’t any fault of his own as much as yours aren’t, either. They were born out of ignorance, out of necessity. Out of the fact that neither of you have ever known a world where you didn’t have powers, where you didn’t feel as though you needed to use them. You couldn’t imagine not having your magic. You know that Jungkook feels the same. 

“Why did you?” It’s as if the words don’t even belong to you. Like someone else has spoken them—the moon, the sky, the stars. 

Jungkook purses his lips, and sighs. “It was all I had ever known.”

Jungkook grew up drunk on his powers. You wonder if he’s sobered up now. 

(You wonder if you had anything to do with it.)

“When I was little, my parents gave me that whole ‘you’re different, and that makes you special’ talk. They told me that my powers were valuable. A gift. And that people with gifts like mine must never waste them. That if we had been given this magic, we ought to use it, right? So that’s what I did. God, every day I would turn a new toy gold, and then I would get another one to replace it, and I would turn that one gold, too. My parents probably sold that to our banks, another hundred thousand dollars into their pockets,” Jungkook says, forcing out a laugh at the memory. The thought is rather endearing, when you think about it. Little Jungkook turning a stuffed bear gold, crying when it isn’t soft and fuzzy anymore. 

“And my parents encouraged me. They told me that I was doing the right thing, that I wasn’t letting my gift go to waste. You saw them that evening that they came over. They were turning things gold left and right. Things that I had wanted to stay their natural material. Like that bowl for my keys. Do you know how easily gold is scratched?” He exclaims, gesturing frantically in front of him. “I purposefully kept that as the clay it was made out of. And now it’s gold.”

“A modern day crisis,” you joke. 

“I guess…” Jungkook begins, but the words trail off and he pauses, almost like nothing he says will be correct. “I guess I just never knew the difference between not wanting my magic to be in vain, and not wanting to ever stop using it. Like you. You only heal when you need to. And even then, you don’t treat it like this precious gift. You treat it like something you owe to others.”

“That’s because without other people to heal, my power is useless,” you explain. Being able to heal others has no direct benefit for you. It doesn’t make you stronger, or faster, or better. It is a gift that is meant to be shared. “It’s different.”

“Every time I turn something, I feel like shit afterwards,” Jungkook admits to you. “Like I’ve turned so many things, that I don’t have the right to do it anymore. Like I’ve exhausted my magic.”

“You feel guilty,” you explain to him, resting a hand on top of his own, his fingers losing their grip on the coin he’s been tossing between them. “And that’s okay,” you tell him, meeting his eyes with your own. “Your parents are right—what you have, this power that you possess, it is a gift. It has made your life better in a way that nothing else could. But your fear of letting it go to waste, of not truly appreciating it for what it is, is a two-way street.”

Jungkook blinks at you, petal pink lips parted ever so slightly. 

“Wasting a gift by never using it is the same as wasting it by overusing it, because it loses its specialness. When you turn things now, it doesn’t feel amazing or blessed or exciting, because it’s lost the ability to feel like that for you. It’s almost second-nature, at this point,” you say.

“Then what do I do?” He asks, feeling helpless. “How do I make it feel special again?”

You squeeze his hand in your own, making him look up at you, the pool water reflected in his big brown eyes, like a warm chocolate ocean. “You only use it on things that make you feel like a better person.” Things that make Jungkook feel special, as opposed to things that make his magic feel special. “Not just things that will put more money in your bank account, or things that will make your house decor nicer. Things that you really, truly care about.”

Jungkook’s eyes glance downward at something, but he nods. He breathes out this exhale, this heavy sort of breath, like he’s trying to reteach himself the things that make him tick. Things like alphabetized books, and homemade kimchi stew. 

“Gifts like that only come once in a lifetime,” you say. “Remarkable things don’t happen to us all the time.” You know this, because it’s true. Because you’ve lived it.

Because in another life, in another universe, there is a you who can’t turn invisible, can’t heal people, and there is a Jungkook, too, one who can’t turn whatever he pleases into gold. And they would live their whole lives not knowing what it would be like to have these powers, to ease their way of life. And they would never meet each other, either. Too busy trapped on opposite sides of the world, too busy to worry about anybody but themselves. 

“So we have to learn to treasure them.” It feels as though you’re drowning in him. Like you’re floundering, barely staying afloat. “We have to make sure that they always feel special to us.”

You curl your hand around his own, lacing your fingers together as your palms rest against each other’s. You watch as his gaze drifts down to where your hands are interlocked, a bridge between the two of you, a lifeline that connects the two lives you had lived without each other in them. 

“Do you understand?” You ask. You can see the words as they appear, watch as they linger in between the two of you, hot summer breaths on a cool summer night. 

He squeezes your hands together, and he smiles, warm and round and real. He looks at you, and he is there, he is sitting by your side. And he is beautiful and extraordinary and remarkable. And he says, “I’m starting to.”

You wake up the next morning to find a shimmering piece of parchment sitting on the dresser in your bedroom. 

As declared by the Realm, its leaders, and its government, it reads, 

The recipient, Y/N, has successfully completed her sentence of community service as mandated by the courts. She no longer needs to serve as the minder to Jeon Jungkook, and may return to her former residence. 

Though the sentence has been carried out, The Realm, its leaders, and its government, reserves the right to re-charge the recipient for the crimes for which she had been originally tried should she commit them again. Should this instance occur, the option for community service will not be available. 

We thank you for your service.

Oh. 

Already? 

It feels like you just started. Like it was only yesterday that you stormed up to the front door of Jungkook’s penthouse, watched as he crumpled up the parchment and tossed it into the bin. Like it was only yesterday you reappeared at his office, this time with a declaration that won’t be so easily destroyed. 

You wonder why this one is all sparkly as well. 

You don’t know exactly what prompted the end of your sentence, what duties you had somehow fulfilled to earn you your freedom. What is the Realm searching for? What data are they using to determine whether or not you have met your goal? It certainly couldn’t have just been the fact that Jungkook hasn’t turned in a while. Not turning is not the same as not wanting to turn. 

So what changed?

You stare down at the parchment, each word leaving you more confused than the word before it. 

It isn’t over already, is it?

Knowing that you are now free to return back to your own house means that your worst fear has been realized. You don’t want to. 

You want to stay here, in Jungkook’s massive penthouse, relishing in the glory and wealth that comes alongside it. You want his chef to make pre-made meals for you and the extra kimchi stew he keeps in the fridge. You want Jungkook’s five thousand different streaming services and enough books to last you several lifetimes. You want the sense of normalcy that staying here has given you, the regular routine that you have so effortlessly fallen into. You want the late-night pool chats and rounds of hide-and-seek. 

Why would you want to give up all that you have?

“You want fried or poached eggs?” Jungkook knocks on your closed bedroom door, tapping softly with his knuckles, already awake and ready to make breakfast. 

“Either,” you tell him, glaring down at the parchment with furrowed brows. You’re too afraid to touch it, too afraid to even look at it any closer. Because that will make it real. 

“Alright,” Jungkook calls. “It’ll be ready in ten! Got freshly-squeezed orange juice too!” You can hear his footsteps as he heads back down the corridor, the thump, thump, thump of his fuzzy slippers against the hardwood floor. 

“Coming,” you say weakly, too focused on the glowing paper on the dresser. 

 Just because you can go back to your house doesn’t mean you have to. Just because you can go back to your old life, doesn’t mean you have to. 

You grab the paper and stuff it in an old tote bag, covering it with old clothes, memories of the former world you lived in. Not anymore. 

After all, isn’t this the life you’ve always dreamed of?

Kimchi stew is, as it stands, delicious, but it can’t be the only thing that the two of you ever cook together. 

Jungkook does all of the grocery shopping, mostly because the both of you know that if you went out to the store with a list of ingredients, you would be lost for days searching for them. So when he returns home with three tote bags filled with ingredients, your mouth already starts to water. 

“What are we making today, chef?” You ask, bounding into the kitchen as Jungkook begins to unpack. 

“Another Korean recipe,” Jungkook says happily, pulling out a bright yellow pack of thin grey noodles. “Japchae!”

“Sounds delicious,” you say, though at this point he could make you microwave mac-and-cheese and you’d snarf it down like nothing else.

“You bet it is.” Jungkook grins, slowly dumping out the rest of the contents of the bags. They are filled to the brim with vegetables and seasonings, peppers and zucchini and everything in between, the makings of a colorful little homemade dish. 

Jungkook seems to be making more time to actually cook things these days, fishing through the cabinets regularly to see what meals he can make with all of the ingredients in his kitchen. The chef only comes once every two weeks now, and usually brings with him any groceries that Jungkook has personally requested. He’ll ask you what you think of a new recipe that he wants to try, showing you the guide on his laptop screen, writing down whatever he needs to buy from the store. 

And you thought that the chef’s meals were appetizing. 

“Have you ever thought of meal-prepping?” You ask as Jungkook sets the noodles in a pot of boiling water, turning the heat on high. 

“Why?” Jungkook says. 

“I don’t know,” you tell him, washing the red pepper underneath the faucet, cutting board and knife ready and waiting on the counter. “So you don’t have to go through the process of cutting everything up and sauteing it, or whatever.”

Jungkook turns around, shakes his head. “No. Half the fun of cooking is making it.”

“But you could save yourself a lot of time when you come back from work,” you point out. Jungkook’s always so exhausted by the time he walks through the front door, keys scratching the golden bowl on the table on the way in. 

“But then we wouldn’t get to cook together,” he says like it’s obvious, like it’s the thing that he thinks about the most when he comes back home. The two of you, filling up his kitchen, leaving oil stains on the countertops and burnt vegetables at the bottom of the pans. The scent of spices, of onions, of sizzling vegetables wafting through the air. 

Another person to fill up this barren house. 

You never eat in the dining room, because two people still isn’t enough to make that room feel like it’s full, like there are people that regularly use it. But now, there are grease stains on the leather of Jungkook’s couch, and a little bit of ketchup on the rug that he doesn’t know about, reminders that just because Jungkook’s house is big doesn’t mean it has to be empty as well. 

“I’m a horrible chef,” you say, because you’re not quite sure what else to tell him. Up until a few weeks ago, you had never cut up an onion in your life. Things in the kitchen that take Jungkook five minutes to do take you twenty. You certainly aren’t any help, not when Jungkook has to pause whatever he’s doing to teach you something that you should already know. So what’s the appeal?

“You’re not that bad,” Jungkook assures you gently. “You just need to do it more.”

“Oh, so is that your mission? You don’t meal-prep because you want me to learn how to make my own food?” You ask, rounding on him. 

“You got me.” He grins guiltily, pinching the part of your waist where he knows you’re the most ticklish, making you laugh as you turn invisible for a moment, a sort of gut reaction whenever you’re sensitive. “And because I like cooking with you.”

“Can’t imagine why,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “It must be my infectious personality, right?”

“That, and teaching you how to cook stuff is fun.” Jungkook smiles, reaching out as he begins to chop vegetables beside you. Standing here, in the middle of his kitchen, you wonder if this is how life is supposed to be. Someone you can cook with, someone you can eat with. Someone who will teach you the things that you don’t know, who will help you master the things that you do. Someone who doesn’t care where you came from, only that you’re here now, that you are right beside him. 

Homemade meals make your insides warm and fuzzy, but having someone to spend the night with makes your heart feel comforted. Makes it feel like it’s been wrapped in a blanket, cradled in someone’s hands. 

“What happens when I learn everything?” You ask. “What will you do then?”

Eventually, this routine must come to an end. Eventually, there will be nothing left for him to teach you, nothing left for you to learn. You know that your days are numbered, that there is only so much time that the two of you can spend together. What will happen when you reach the last day? When there will be no tomorrow for you to rely on?

Jungkook must know that you can’t stay here forever, even if the two of you try to keep it that way. But he doesn’t miss a beat when he says, “Then, I’ll find something new to teach you.”

This arrangement has always been temporary. 

But for a moment, just a moment, an echo in time, he makes you believe otherwise. 

There’s a golden glint on your chest of drawers when you walk into the room, the glare flashing in your eyes as the sun hits it. 

You, admittedly, don’t go into your room very often, usually only to do the thing that bedrooms, at their most basic level, were meant to do: sleep. But Jungkook retired early to his room tonight, citing some ridiculous reason like he hadn’t worked out enough this week, and everything in the house suddenly becomes less inviting whenever he’s not around. 

When you step closer, you can see it. See the thin chain that rests on the dresser, the key that hangs from it, a similar size to the charms on your bracelet. The gold is faded, shine erased, leaving behind this gentle matte texture, smooth but worn. It’s much more vintage than the sorts of things you would find in jewelry stores today—bright, sparkly necklaces and shiny, lustrous rings. It was made to look old, to look worn. It probably is.  

There’s a little note next to the necklace, a torn piece of paper from a notepad, the edges rough and uneven. 

To Y/N,

Found this in my mother’s old jewelry that she always leaves here when she decides it’s not her style anymore. Didn’t really think of anybody else that would make good use of it like you. I think it’ll match your bracelet well! I hope you like it.

Jungkook

You smile as you read the words, take in this meaningful little gesture that Jungkook has done for you. The bracelet from your mother has always been your most prized possession, but with its new golden makeover, it reminds you that you don’t always have to look to your past to be happy. That what you have, right here, right now, is enough. Now, your mother’s charm bracelet has a matching partner. 

Standing in front of the mirror, you put the necklace on, fingers craning to attach the clasp to the chain, metal slipping from your grip. After a bit of a battle, you finally manage to connect the two ends, letting the key hang low past your collarbones, the gold resting gently against your skin. It doesn’t match your bracelet perfectly, but the two aren’t so much a matching set as they are a pair, two pieces that are meant to complement each other rather than complete. 

You seriously doubt that Jungkook’s already asleep. 

Sneaking up the stairs to the second story, you see that the door to Jungkook’s bedroom is wide open, revealing a little glimpse into the room he spends so much time in. It’s dark, empty, a signal that Jungkook is elsewhere on this floor. You don’t spend too much effort peering into Jungkook’s bedroom, not when it feels like you’re invading his space, his privacy. He’s already given up so much of his home for you. He deserves to keep his bedroom his own.

He’s not in the gym, you determine as you pass by, which means that there really is only one other place he could be found. 

You push open the door to the rooftop, rounding the corner to the deck to find Jungkook doing laps in the pool, wearing nothing but his swimming trunks. The water sloshes around his body as he swims back and forth, kicking up splashes as he goes. You watch for a few moments as he works out, not wanting to interrupt him he burns away the calories in his body. This is the closest you’ve ever come to seeing Jungkook undressed, but you don’t really mind. At least he’s got shorts on. 

When he stops, he stands up in the pool, sopping wet hands running through sopping wet hair, strands that frame the sides of his face, make his hair look longer than it actually is. He wipes away the water on his face, blinking the chlorine from his eyes, when he spots you. 

“What are you doing up here?” He asks, not even caring to fight away the grin that has laced itself on his features. 

“Came to say thank you,” you tell him, fingers toying with the key around your neck. “You didn’t have to do that for me.”

“I wanted to,” Jungkook says honestly. “Besides, my mother was never going to come back to get it, so I figured that it should go to someone who will actually wear it.”

“It’s beautiful,” you say, slowly sitting down along the edge of the pool, letting your legs dip into the water. Jungkook makes his way over to you, water splashing at his torso as he walks through the pool to stand before you. “Was it always gold?”

“It was, yes,” Jungkook says with a nod. “My mom liked to turn a lot of things, but she preferred her jewelry to be naturally gold. That’s why it’s pretty faded.”

“It looks nicer this way,” you say. “Shiny gold looks cheap.”

“Spend a couple of months in a mansion and suddenly you think gold looks cheap?” Jungkook jokes. “I think I’m rubbing off on you.”

“Can’t help that I’ve got an eye for nice things,” you tease, looking Jungkook up and down just to be dramatic. You have to admit that he’s got a rather attractive figure, fit, built, toned. You would be lying to yourself if you said that you weren’t eyeing him at least a little bit. 

Jungkook pretends that he isn’t paying attention to the fact that you are blatantly ogling his body and laughs. “You swim?”

“I learned when I was little,” you tell him. “But I haven’t done it in a long time.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Jungkook says with a disapproving shake of his head. 

“What? I like being dry,” you say, hands on your hips as you defend yourself. Besides, when you were little, swimming always meant showering afterwards, which sucked because then you had to waste water just to clean yourself of other water. Your mother always said that being able to swim would carry you far in life, would be an invaluable skill. You haven’t swum since she died. 

“But, you wouldn’t mind if I… oh, never mind,” Jungkook dismisses, being purposefully vague just to capture your attention. 

“What?” You demand. 

“If I…” Jungkook begins, leaning back down in the pool until all but his head is submerged. He floats towards you, paddling until he’s right beneath your feet. “Did this—?”

Without a second of warning, Jungkook’s wet hands are grabbing onto your ankle, pulling you and your fully-clothed-self into the water with a splash, making you shriek as you feel your skin freeze up at the cold temperature. Luckily, it’s shallow enough here that you can stand rather easily, but now you’re soaked from head to toe, sopping fabric sticking to your figure.

You come up from beneath the water, positively accosted, hands wiping across your face as you clear your eyes so that they can narrow in on your target. “Okay, that was uncalled for,” you say, splashing Jungkook furiously, even as the two of you fight off the laughter that is bubbling up from your throats. 

“Oh, but it’s such a nice night for swimming,” Jungkook grins devilishly, that cheeky sort of look reserved for when he knows he’s being a nuisance. 

“Maybe for you!” You say, punctuating every word with a splash. Jungkook takes them all in good fun, accepting his punishment for pulling you into the pool. “I’ve been betrayed.”

“Admit it,” Jungkook coaxes, “you love me.”

You refuse.

When the rage has died down and the water begins to feel less like an icy death trap and more like a pleasant dip, you and Jungkook paddle around each other, swimming in circles like two fish in a school. Looking up, it is a nice night, clear skies as a crescent moon hangs above your heads. There are seldom any stars in the middle of the city, but the especially bright ones still shine, flickers of white in an otherwise deep blue ocean. You wonder how many times Jungkook has come out here, spent the night underneath the sky when he cannot sleep away the hours in bed. 

You wonder how many times you missed the opportunity to spend the night with him. 

“I sort of wish that we could stay like this forever, don’t you?” Jungkook asks, the two of you floating on top of the water like light against the sea. 

There’s a lot of things in your life that you wish would never change. This is just another bullet point added to the list. 

“Yeah,” you breathe out, because out there somewhere is a timer, counting down the moments until you have to say goodbye. “I do.”

“You didn’t have to do this, you know,” you say, looking at Jungkook. 

He sits across from you in the booth, face lit up in a warm yellow from the rustic exposed light bulb above your heads, this soft, homey glow to his features, sharp jawline but rounded cheeks. He’s cleaned up well, in a different way than how he gets ready for work, when he has to make sure his collars are crisp and his hair is sleek and straight. Here, his dark brown hair is bouncy, loose, like he had blown it out after jumping out of the shower and then immediately ran his hand through it a couple of times to mess it up. He wears a plain button down, nothing fancy or chic, no tie, no suit jacket. The beauty of how he looks is that it’s so simple, so timeless, like he doesn’t need to put any effort into how he looks because he is just naturally perfect. Like the cover of a magazine. Like a sculpture come to life. 

“I wanted to,” Jungkook says happily, fork twirling around the pasta in the dish in front of him. “We can’t just eat premade meals and leftover Korean food forever.”

“I mean, I wouldn’t complain if we did…” You reason, because you’ve been better fed in the few months you’ve lived with Jungkook than in the years you have spent on your own. Not to mention the fact that everything Jungkook makes tastes eons better than the meals the professional chef whips up, for some odd reason. “But you’re right, a night out is fun.”

“Sometimes food tastes better when you don’t make it yourself,” Jungkook points out, motioning to the dishes before you, these high-class servings of fish and pasta and vegetables that look like they belong on a cooking show rather than on the table in front of you. You and Jungkook may have mastered (or at least… gotten better at) cooking, but presentation is a whole other battlefield. Besides, it’s all going to the same place, so why bother?

“Mmm,” you murmur in agreement, savoring the flavor of the meal in front of you. A year ago you wouldn’t have dared step foot in a restaurant like this one, would have probably gotten kicked out after you walked through the door, so being here feels like a real treat. One that you think you could definitely get used to. 

“Thanks, by the way,” Jungkook pipes up, as if suddenly remembering something. 

“For what?”

“For your idea about the investment management,” Jungkook says, sending the both of you back to that day in his office, where Jungkook was on the verge of flipping his desk over because he couldn’t figure out a solution. 

“Oh, is it working out?” You ask, curious to know if your suggestion is truly paying off or if you just had too much faith in the goodness of humanity. 

“It is.” Jungkook nods happily. He seems very proud of himself. “It was slow going at first, because a lot of clients were starting to wonder why we weren’t investing in other stocks that would guarantee us a higher payout, but then they saw where the money was going. We aren’t bigger than our rival companies, but this levelled the playing field.”

“I’m glad,” you say, because it’s one thing for Jungkook to tell you you had a good idea, and it’s another for him to actually implement it. “That makes me happy to hear.”

“You’re not as bad at business or economics as you think you are, Y/N,” Jungkook informs you, waving around a nonchalant hand. “All they are is an in-depth study of human nature. Some economists assume that everyone in the world is selfish and cares only about themselves, but you’re different. You see the good in everyone, you believe that people can be honest, and selfless, and giving.”

Like Jungkook. 

Like Jungkook, who has given up his home, his work, his life just to deal with another person hovering around him. Who gifts you gorgeous pieces of jewelry and takes you out to fancy meals, who lets you screw up a recipe in the kitchen and obligingly eats peppers that have been charred beyond recognition. Who is so much more honest, so much more selfless, so much more giving, than you could ever be, sticking around because to not do so would cost you your freedom, because you would rather stay here than be anywhere else. 

“I don’t know what I’ll do when you’re gone,” Jungkook says, cracking this weak, terrible smile. He shakes his head as if to banish the thought from his mind, to exist only in this very moment, choosing to ignore both the past and the future. “I think I’m starting to rely on you being there.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, distantly. Something weighs heavy on your chest, pressing your heart down, slowing its temperate rhythm. The truth is that your heart stopped a long time ago, it stopped when you realized that there’s more to Jungkook that you want to know, when you realized that you can’t bear to imagine a life different than the one that the two of you share, no matter how temporary it is. But this weight, this burden on you, it serves as nothing but a reminder that without Jungkook, your heart cannot count in time. “Me too.”

You return home with plastic tupperwares in your hands, leftovers from the enormous meal that the two of you couldn’t have finished even if you tried. Jungkook takes the container from your hands as you excuse yourself to the bathroom, desperate to wash away the thoughts that rest heavy in your heart, cleanse yourself of the lies you can’t seem to stop telling. There’s this naive part of you that thinks, when you wash off the makeup, change back into your raggedy old clothes, all of the secrets you carry with you will vanish as well. 

You know you’ll have to come clean eventually. Eventually, Jungkook will get suspicious as to why you’ve hung around so long even though he is no longer turning. He’ll begin to wonder why you haven’t dashed out of the penthouse you once used to disparage, desperate to return to your old life, where you didn’t have to know him the way that you do now. When you didn’t feel like there was something else trapping you here. 

When all is said and done, though, it feels like here is where you were always meant to end up. 

You head back out into the living room, ready to settle down and wrap up the night by watching a movie or something, when you see Jungkook standing by the couch, your old tote bag sitting on the cushions from a laundry trip earlier today, a shimmering piece of parchment in his hands. 

“Jungkook—”

“How long?” He asks, voice cracking. He’s clenching the paper so hard that his knuckles are turning white, like he can’t believe the words that he’s reading. “How long have you been free to go?”

“Listen, I can explain—”

“A week? A month? When were you going to tell me?” He pleads. When you can’t even muster up the dignity to look at him, he shouts. “When?”

“A month,” you tell him weakly, desperately. 

“A month? You’ve been staying here for a month when you didn’t even need to?” He asks, and he isn’t angry, or furious, or full of rage. He looks helpless, like there is no longer light behind his eyes, twinkles in his irises. Like he’s in pain, like he’s hurt. Exposed, his walls broken down and nothing left to repair them. “When were you going to tell me? Were you ever going to say anything?”

“Yes, Jungkook, but I—”

“All this time,” he says, more to himself than to you, like he can’t believe how foolish he’s been. “All this time you’ve been using me? Using my money?”

“No, Jungkook, it’s not like that.” You are desperate, desperate to salvage what you can from this broken arrangement, desperate to start anew. 

“Then what is it like?” He demands. “If you weren’t using me for my house, or my money, or my personal chef, then what is it? What did you want from me that you couldn’t get on your own?”

You stop. Why did you stay? Normalcy? Opportunity? Company? All things that you never dreamed of having in a million years. And while being with Jungkook did provide you with all three, none of them feel quite right.

“I don’t know, I just—” You begin, scrambling for the right words and feeling like nothing you say will be correct. “I didn’t want to go back just yet.” It’s a pitiful excuse. 

“So you just decided to stay? To play along with me, with all of the things that I was doing with you, for you?” Jungkook shakes where he stands in front of you, blindsided. “Let me teach you how to cook and give you expensive jewelry and take you out to fancy dinners? Just for fun?”

“I never asked for you to do those things for me,” you remind him firmly. It’s not like you were scrounging for money from his pockets, selling insignificant gold sculptures on the black market to buff up your empty bank account. “You wanted to.”

“Because I thought we had something special, Y/N,” Jungkook admits helplessly, collapsing back on the couch. “I did those things because I felt it, Y/N. What you were talking about, that night at the pool, where you saw me sitting at the edge of the water. I felt it. With you,” he begs, hopeless and anguished. “I didn’t understand what it meant to make the magic feel special again until I did it for you. I turned your bracelet and it made me feel like I had something to give to others.”

“You know that that’s not what I meant,” you say, shaking your head. “I was talking about your gift, not us.”

“Aren’t they all the same, though? Magic? Powers? Love? Don’t they all make us feel like we have something special beneath our fingertips?” He asks, to you, to himself, to the moon and the stars, searching for an answer that none of you can give him. 

“Love? You don’t mean that,” you say, refusing to admit it. You have no explanation as to why Jungkook did the things he did, just as much as you don’t have an explanation as to why you did the things you did. They just happened. 

“I thought we had something,” Jungkook admits sadly, unable to even bring his head up to look at you, at the tears that are welling in your eyes, the ones you refuse to let fall. “And I thought the reason that you wanted to do all of those things with me was because you felt it, too.”

“Jungkook, you know that—”

“What?” He erupts. “What do I know? I know that you’ve been using me all of this time, that you did those things with me because you were getting freebies out of it. I know that I was foolish and—and stupid to think that maybe it was because you were falling in love with me just like I was falling in love with you.”

“Jungkook…” You reach out a trembling hand, wanting to feel the warmth of his body once more, the weight of his head in your palm. 

“Don’t,” he says, swatting it away and standing up. “I get it, Y/N. I was stupid and I thought that we had something, when we don’t.” He turns back to look at you, and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to get the image out of your head, the sight of him, broken and beaten and empty, a shell of the beautiful, vibrant man you had become so attached to. “There’s nothing left for you here. Your services are no longer required.”

He disappears down the hallway, leaving you with nothing but a tote bag, a necklace, and a bracelet left for you to remember him. 

When you step into your house for the first time in months, it feels even less inviting than it normally does. Which is, as far as you’re concerned, rather impressive, considering you’ve always dreaded coming back regardless of what happened throughout the day. 

But now, you can name no place you would rather not be than in this graffiti-laden house, a dangling light bulb above the back entrance and dirt and dust all along the walls. You’ve never had time to fix up this place and make it look even the slightest bit presentable, never had the money to paint over the walls and get rid of the big red X on the front door. Day in and day out, this would just be a place where you could sleep, a mattress on the floor and Campbell’s soups on the cracked kitchen counters. The first thing you’d do every morning is get out. The last thing you’d want to do every night is come back. 

No place has felt like home in a long time. Not since your mother died, when you lost how her smile would light up a room, how she would spin you in circles and kiss your forehead when you got scared that you were going too fast. You had almost forgotten what it meant to have a home, to have a place that felt sacred, like coming home to a warm hug and a steaming cup of tea. To have a place that you didn’t dread returning to, a place that you could gladly waste away in. 

The bracelet that dangles from your wrist is the closest thing that you have left to the feeling of home, of comfort and warmth and solace, of something that makes you feel truly happy. But now, the bracelet has been tinted with the memories of another, of the only other person you can think of that has brought you that same feeling of joy, of these rose-stained memories that rest deep within your heart’s attic. They have always been there, hidden, buried beneath the bad, but when there is nothing left they surface. To remind you of what good life can bring you. 

To remind you of the magic inside you. 

You hate living here. And for a time, you hated living with Jungkook, too. Hated how extravagant his house was, hated how he refused to even speak to you. How there were so many unused rooms, so many empty spaces. But what changed, there, and what hasn’t changed, here, is how people, and not things, are what fill up rooms. 

Living with Jungkook made you feel like coming back after a long day was worth it. Planted the knowledge inside you that you would always have him there, could always rely on another’s presence within the apartment. He’s only one person, but he fills up the room like nothing else, lights it up like New Year’s Eve. He’s funny, and witty, and gorgeous. He’s caring and honest and cheeky, just cocky enough for it to be charming as opposed to egotistical. He cooks like nothing else and spends his sleepless nights beneath the stars, looking at the same moon and sky as everyone else. 

You don’t hate living here because it’s shit. You hate living here because it’s lonely. 

There was a space in your heart that you didn’t even realize was empty. It had been overtaken by the part of you determined to make it to the next day, determined to stick it to the Realm, to its leaders, to all of the people that look down on you because you aren’t made of money. 

But when you left Jungkook’s house, you realized that that space had slowly been filled up with him. That over time, bit by bit, moment by moment, Jungkook returned what you had lost, revived what you thought had long been dead. 

The truth is that you wanted to stay with Jungkook because you couldn’t stomach the thought of being alone again. Of being forced to fend for yourself, forced to come home to an empty house with no one to waste away the night with. Of being forced to live like every day is a threat rather than a gift. 

Jungkook has magic in his fingertips and his heart. It was only a matter of time before it spread to you as well. 

Being hurt by someone you love feels like an arrow to the chest. Like a puncture wound, deep and piercing, but too painful to even want to pull it out, patch up the hole. You had already experienced it once. You didn’t have any plans on experiencing it again. 

But losing the opportunity to love someone feels like an ache throughout your whole body, this crippling sort of pain that spreads through your bloodstream, setting every organ it passes on fire. It feels like there is something tearing you apart from the inside out, like every piece of you is slowly crumbling. 

Jungkook’s biggest mistake wasn't falling in love with you. It was thinking that you were still falling in love with him, when the truth is, you had already fallen. It was letting you leave when both of you wanted nothing more than for you to stay. 

Loving someone is a gamble. It’s a risk, a toe in the water, a spark from your fingers. 

But not loving someone? That is magic, wasted. 

Who knew twenty dollars could get you one large pizza and extra garlic rolls? Certainly not you. 

The smell wafts through the hallway to Jungkook’s apartment, filling it with the scent of warm, fresh bread, of a hot meal waiting to be devoured. If you don’t knock soon, the pizza will go cold and you’ll probably eat all of it before you can even say hello to him. You have more food in your hands now than you have the past week you’ve been back at your old place. 

You ring the doorbell. 

 “Coming!” Jungkook shouts. Oh, is he expecting someone?

Ten seconds later the door opens to reveal someone you hardly even recognize. Gone are the soft loose strands of hair and oversized button down shirts. Jungkook opens the door still wearing his suit jacket, tie tight around his neck, like he hasn’t bothered to change since he got home from work over two hours ago. His hair is sleek and straight, a little shorter than you last remember it. He looks the way he did when you first met him, this rigid, workaholic guy that doesn’t care about anybody except himself. He looks like he’s done nothing but work for a week. Not even sleep. 

“Hi,” you begin, a short, quick intake of breath. “Did you order a pizza?”

“No.” Jungkook shakes his head, already starting to close the door. “I think you have the wrong apartment.”

“Wait, Jungkook, please? I need to talk to you,” you plead, a hand going out to stop him from shutting you out completely. All that you can see through the crack of space between the door and its frame are his piercing brown eyes, absolutely unreadable. He doesn’t budge. “Also, did you just get back from work? You must be starving. And as it so happens, I have an entire large pizza that I won’t be able to finish all by myself.”

Jungkook budges a little bit. 

“Please?”

“Fine,” he says reluctantly, opening the door. “I hope you aren’t planning on staying here too long, this time.”

The words are biting cold, send angry shivers down your spine. 

“Just enough for you to hear me out,” you say, placing the pizza box on the coffee table as Jungkook rummages through his kitchen for plates. He eventually manifests two paper ones—you didn’t even know he had those!—and returns, taking a seat on the carpet as he inhales the cheesy, greasy scent. 

Your stomach grumbles, but you can’t eat just yet. First, you have to explain yourself. 

“What did you want to talk about?” Jungkook asks, cold and distant, the same way he spoke to all of his employees before you encouraged him to do otherwise. “If it’s about my company, we can compensate you as necessary for your contribution. It won’t be much, though.”

“No, no, it’s not about that,” you say with a shake of your head. “It’s about us.”

“What ‘us’ is there to talk about?” He asks economically. 

“The ‘us’ that I left behind that day,” you say softly, a gentle reminder. “The ‘us’ I should have realized existed before I let the door shut behind me.”

“If you’re just here to tell me that you’re sorry for not loving me back, don’t,” Jungkook says bitterly. “I don’t expect you to love me back or anything. You can’t change how you feel about people.”

“You still love me?” You ask, a spark, a flash, a ray of light. 

Jungkook grumbles. “Yes. It doesn’t go away that easily.” 

“You aren’t stupid, or foolish, or idiotic for thinking that I was falling in love with you at the same time that you were falling in love with me,” you tell him, the words light and airy, like weights plucked off of your chest, like butterflies released from a jar. “You were stupid for thinking that I wasn’t already in love with you.”

Jungkook’s head jerks up, eyes blinking wildly. You can see the way that they glisten, with hope, with tears, with desperation. With the possibility that not all is lost. 

That old memories can become new once more. 

“You were right,” you muse, more to yourself than to anyone else. Even Jungkook. “Magic, powers, love, they’re all the same thing. They are meant to be treasured. Cherished. Protected. They are meant to make us feel special.” You breathe, reaching out next to you, an open hand for Jungkook to take. “But most importantly, they are meant to be shared.”

A small smile. A lip half-turned up, this gentle little grin. 

“I stayed because I wanted to keep sharing my life with you, Jeon Jungkook,” you tell him honestly, because it’s real and it’s true. Because, at this point, you can imagine nothing else. “And I’m here again because I can’t stand living without you anymore. I never want to stop sharing my life with you.”

“You make me feel like my heart is made of magic,” Jungkook admits, finally, finally, finally. “You make me want to use it just for you.”

“You don’t need to,” you say, pressing yourself into him, letting your lips hover above his own. He reaches a hand out, lets it rest on your waist, waiting desperately for you to close the last inch between the two of you. “You’re already made of it.”

With that, you close the gap, pressing your lips against his, the soft sweet cherry taste of his lip balm filling up your senses, leaving you gasping for air. It’s just a kiss, just a press of lips, this simple gesture, but it takes your breath away nevertheless. It makes you feel like magic swirls inside of you, like your heart is sparking, catching fire, sending it sizzling through your veins. Jungkook has taught you what it means for a house to become a home. You have taught him that magic is only special if he has someone to share it with. 

It’s hard to think about the lessons you would have never learned without the other. 

It’s hard to think about how different life would be, had you never even met. 

Jungkook kisses you and it feels like you’re finally whole. It feels like what has been missing in your life has returned. What you have kept locked up, in the dusty, cobwebbed corners of your heart, in the spaces between your bones, has finally been remembered. 

Jungkook takes your old memories and turns them new. He is the only thing you ever want to remember.

“I love you,” he whispers, watching as the words sink into your skin, leaving embers in their wake. “You are my most precious gift.”

“You are my home, Jeon Jungkook,” you murmur. “I love you, too.”

Pizza is good and all, but nothing beats homemade kimchi stew. 

You made it all by yourself for the first time last night to celebrate Jungkook donating over a million dollars to various different animal rescues and human rights organizations, taking the kindness that he has been given and paying it forward. Besides, he can make money at the touch of a finger whenever he wants, so he might as well, right?

You also don’t accompany Jungkook at his work anymore, because you’ve gotten enough of a taste of office life and have declared it not your ideal profession, but the nice thing about that is getting the whole house to yourself while he’s gone. Not that you want to do very much without him, but napping in different bedrooms is always exciting. 

You never realized how good love makes you feel. How it lifts you up from the inside out, brightens up every day no matter how dull it is to begin with. You had forgotten. What love can do to a person. 

Jungkook always comes home and tells you about how happy his employees make him whenever they’re happy. Good feelings like joy, like laughter, like love, they are contagious. It’s a wonder that neither you nor Jungkook figured that out before you met each other. 

Well, you suppose that there’s a first for everything. 

Jungkook comes home and you can hear the door slam, even from where you’re hiding. You listen as he stops at the door, picks up the note that you left for him. 

Loser washes the dishes! ♡

You hear his keys clink in the bowl, metal on metal. He pauses for a moment, for dramatic effect. 

And then he shouts, 

“You’re on!”

↳ links are broken, but don’t forget to message me with any thoughts or feedback!

[shimmershae]

My thoughts on Episode 5--Out of the Ashes.

Okay, though.  I’m already excited about this one because Carol and Lydia are on the little guide picture thingy, lol.  My girls.  

As usual, I’m going to put the rest underneath a cut to save you lovelies potentially being spoiled should you not want to be.  

Wow.  Look at that full moon.  And the colors in the woods.  

I’m telling you.  These cold opening scenes have been generally pretty awesome this season.  

Aaron with Gracie always gives us such sweetness but this time maybe not.  

Omigosh.  Now *that* is a nightmare--the Walkers, the Wolves, the Saviors, the Whisperers, Mays.  Did I miss anybody?  And then Gracie gone just like that?  Poor Aaron.  All he wants is to keep his little girl safe and happy.  

So.  Is Gracie sleeping right next to her daddy because she had a nightmare or because her daddy’s been having them?  Because either way, oh my freaking heart.  Especially at her still sleeping with her stuffed bunny.  I’m really, really hoping that bunny isn’t a bad omen of sorts for our Gracie, because little girls with bunnies haven’t fared all that well--going all the way back to the first episode and as recently as the subway episode where Daryl found that picture of the two siblings after they’d already found the bunny from the picture amongst the bodies.  Please not Gracie.  Aaron has already been through so much.  

Are they all just communing together now?  Because I can see how that would harken back to Season 4.  

Jerry!  Not even 3 minutes in and already two of my faves are present.  I can tell this is going to be a good episode.  

That really sucks.  Not even being able to take a peaceful piss because you can see Walkers shambling past your window, lol.  

There goes my queen running straight at danger as real queens are apt to do.  ;)  

Were there always lights coming on in the windmill during the opening credits or is that a new thing for this episode?  

That orientation video was so surreal.  Had to laugh at the political touch of having “this message is approved by Pamela Milton” at the end.  

Okay.  So they’re getting their work assignments, huh?  Orientations are the worst, lol.  All that damn paperwork.  

Retail clerk--Princess being excited at the prospect of working in a mall, even having a mall again, has me LMAO even as I’m like girl.  No.  You’ll love it ‘til you hate it.  

I didn’t catch Eugene’s job.  But Ezekiel doing animal control kind of cracks me up.  For reasons.  

So.  Essentially Eugene and Princess and Ezekiel got blue collar jobs while Yumiko’s got an invitation to join the upper crust.  

I love Lydia being accepted as part of the community.  About damn time.  

For a second I thought Rosita said what’s left of the horses plural and I was fixin’ to go OH NO.  

This is where I’m at on the Maggie/Negan issue, for better or worse:  Maggie absolutely, IMHO, has earned the right to stay mad at Negan for the rest of her days.  Because Glenn.  Because her little boy was robbed of his daddy.  That said?  I don’t think I have it in me to watch 5 more episodes of this beaten horse antagonistic conversation much less a whole season.  It would be one thing if it hadn’t already stolen valuable and earned screen time from other characters that seem to have been pushed to the periphery to spotlight it like it was the marquee event or something.  I don’t want want 2/3′s of the final season so heavily focused on the conflict between these two when there are so many characters that are already woefully underutilized.  It’s only compelling if it doesn’t become commonplace.  

It’s a sad business having to put down people you know, I’d expect.  Funny, though.  We never knew them so the impact is kind of artificial.  I appreciate the intent of the scene, though.  

Where the hell are all the Walkers coming from?  Like, I thought most of them went skydiving off that cliff without parachutes.  

Judith training the other babies.  If only her parents--every damn one of them--could see her now.  

Gus!  How cool and awesome for him!

ASZ is just full of asshole teens isn’t it?  How dare that little dipshit push our Asskicker down like that and say such hateful things?  To be fair, though, the kid is probably just repeating what he’s heard from others and I’m glad they’re being realistic here even if I don’t like seeing Judith cry.  

Cailey Fleming’s expressive face and eyes!  This kid has my heart, ya’ll.  

That perfectly pretty cake wasted!  LMAO.  Seriously though.  How does a cardiothoracic surgeon end up assigned to work in the bakery?  Yumiko’s reunion with her brother Tomi honestly was on par with what I’d expect from someone seeing the sister they’d long given up as dead.  

Freaky still how the Whisperers choose to herd the dead even without Beta and Alpha.  

Was that the real Stephanie in the scene with the ice cream?  Right under Eugene’s nose while he’s with Fake Stephanie?  They have a connection, ya’ll.  Eugene felt it.  

Okay, though.  I wanted the kids having their first ice cream cones.  If I were Eugene, though, I probably would have inhaled that thing after being deprived for so long.  

The Milton Hotel?  Alrighty then.  Somebody feels self-important.  

Aww.  Eugene’s thinking of Rosita and Coco.  They really have evolved into such a sweet, good friendship and I miss them together.  

Literally, I love Princess more each time I see her and hear her open her hilarious mouth.  LOL at her with the ice cream cone.  

Is everybody in ASZ staying in the same damn house?  Whoever broke the board with Carl’s and Judith’s handprints on it needs an ass kicking.  

“Me, too.”  Welp.  Guess RJ’s already met his line quota per appearance 24 minutes in, LOL.  

Aww.  My heart.  A Rosita/Judith scene.  I’m already loving it but not gonna lie.  Who do we have topay to get a Carol/Judith scene because she’s been there since Judith was an embryo?  

“Now it’s broken.  He’s gone.  Everybody is.”  The way this scene is unexpectedly gutting me right now.  Because Rosita’s right.  It never really gets easier.  It’s just something you figure out how to carry.  How many people devastated by Covid or other illness or tragedy are carrying these same feelings of loss and hurt everyday?  

Give us more of those heartfelt moments, dammit.  This girl at least craves them.  Not the endless Maggie/Negan conflict.  

Ouch.  “I think I haven’t met a Whisperer who wasn’t a liar.”  Damn Aaron.  Lydia’s right there beside you. 

Angry Jerry hurts my heart in ways I cannot explain.  

On a completely shallow note, Miko’s brother is attractive too.  I quite like his accent, lol.  I wonder why he’s so hesitant to put his skills as a surgeon to use.  

“Want some cake?”/”Hell, yes.”  Yumiko=me 99% of the time.  LOL.  Just kidding.  In reality, I have to say no.  

“They clearly got a gym in this joint.  Your chiseling is perfecto.”  LMAO.  I’m all for Princess/Mercer.  She flusters him a little and I’m loving it.  When she told him he had beautiful eyelashes, I howled.  

Oh my sweet Aaron.  I’m in the same kind of pain and disbelief as Lydia watching you interrogate that Whisperer.  

Thank you, Carol.  Melissa McBride?  I effing LOVE you.  My heart hurts.  

I’m sure she’s gonna get hate from the usual crowd while they cheer Aaron further along his dark and desperate path.  Yes.  Ya’ll are *that* predictable.  

But Maggie, though?  How long you gonna wait?  Because you gonna be waiting on Daryl’s ass a long time.  

“Cheesy video guy.” LOL.  Leave it to Princess.  Somehow that Lance dude looks even cheesier in RL.  

By the screaming cave?  What the hell is the screaming cave?  

Ohh.  Next episode actually looks interesting.  Thank goodness it’s not a bottle episode strictly focusing on Virgil/Connie though because no matter how much I like Connie/Lauren?  I don’t think whatever story she’s stuck in with Virgil is enough to keep me riveted to the tv.  

Overall impression of this episode--again, I enjoyed it.  Aaron’s dream was dark AF.  Hell.  Aaron was dark AF in this episode.  Ross Marquand did some really strong work and I’m glad he finally got a moment to shine even though I hate seeing him leaning into the darkness instead of his inherent goodness.  Judith and Rosita’s scenes were touching.  Carol/Melissa made me bawl in the span of two minutes.  That’s why she’s the MVP of this show, lovelies.  She does so very much with so little.  I’m just glad we didn’t have to see Leah and her band of bitchass brothers this episode.  

I’m going to miss this show when it’s gone.  At least I’ll have the Carol and Daryl spinoff off to ease my heartache.  

[drowningbydegrees]

For once this month, I actually wrote what I meant to.  Written for @whumptober2020 prompt 26. If you thought the head trauma was bad (Migraine, concussion, blindness). Pretty please mind the tags. <3

Read on AO3

In retrospect, they had had better days. They’d been all but run out of town, which, they were killing a monster for these ungrateful jerks, so rude. Said ungrateful jerks had also greatly understated the monster problem so that Geralt would agree to save the town they wouldn’t even let him sleep in for less money, so extra rude. And now, the monsters are dead, but the building that had served as a nest has pretty much come down around Geralt’s and Jaskier’s ears, which probably isn’t the villagers fault, but they’re summarily awful so the bard opts to blame them anyway.

Jaskier coughs as the dust and debris settle, but it still feels like he tried to breathe in a sandstorm. Blindly, he shakes the rubble from his hair with his hand, staring out into the darkness. There’s only the weakest light shining in from off to his right promising that a world continues to exist beyond their unexpected prison.

A prison that Jaskier hopes Geralt is investigating to find them a way out of. Geralt is quiet, but he’s always quiet, so that really doesn’t mean much. When he can’t hear the witcher, Jaskier squints at the dark room, wishing his friend didn’t absolutely insist on wearing black all the time. “I don’t suppose you can do that magicky thing you do and break us out of here?”

No answer comes.

“Geralt? You’re not on the other side of all these rocks are you? I really don’t fancy being stuck here alone,” Jaskier calls a little louder. He feels his way to where the crumbled stone blocked off the exit and finds it every bit as impassable as he feared. Jaskier thinks to try and free himself, but the first rock he grabs comes loose and the whole pile rumbles, sending the bard scrambling backward, tripping over something and landing in a heap on the floor. Alright, bad idea then.

He had initially assumed the something he tripped over was more rocks, except that it makes a wretched little whimpering sound that rocks are very definitely not capable of. Fuck.

Hampered by the fact that he can’t see, Jaskier feels his way across the floor until he finds the hard leather protecting Geralt’s torso. Geralt isn’t moving and he can’t see, so Jaskier curses under his breath as he maps his way up to the witcher’s face. “C’mon Geralt. Wake up. This is really not the time.”

A hand held in front of Geralt’s face confirms that at least he’s still breathing, but that’s no real comfort when he’s still so still and quiet. It’s as much reassurance as Jaskier thinks he’s going to get though, so he continues. Maybe if he could get Geralt to sit up…

Jaskier never gets that far. Blindly, he slides a hand behind Geralt’s head and his heart nearly stops in his chest. Geralt’s hair is matted with something warm and sort of viscous, and when Jaskier rubs his fingers together, they’re wet. The touch that just got what Jaskier assumes is blood on his hands is also the thing that finally pulls a sound from Geralt. That makes it even worse because it’s an agonized moan that Jaskier is pretty sure is going to haunt him every day for the rest of his life.

“Okay, don’t panic Jask. You can fix this,” he mumbles under his breath. If he just had some light. Jaskier glares at the little hole where the sun is still shining in like the wall did this just to harm him personally. If the window is mostly blocked, there have to be a lot of stones in the way, and no telling if he could lift them.

Except maybe he doesn’t have to. Frantically, Jaskier feels around for Geralt’s sword, breathing out a sigh of relief when he finally wraps his fingers around the hilt. If luck is on his side, maybe he can get enough leverage to knock something free.

“How do you use this thing?” Jaskier grumbles once he’s got it, supporting the weight of the sword against his shoulder. It’s not that it’s all that heavy to stand there and hold, but even the idea of swinging it around is exhausting. On the upside, it seems sturdy enough to pry a few rocks loose, and if it isn’t… well, a sword is replaceable. Geralt is decidedly less so.

Every second feels too long, like he’s moving in slow motion. Jaskier shuffles across the open space as briskly as he dares, shoves the sword into the first thing that feels like a gap in the rocks and shifts his weight downward against the hilt. There’s nothing. The rock is too heavy or he is too weak, or the sword isn’t stiff enough, or…

Jaskier shakes his head, refusing to give up like that. He yanks the sword free and tries again, a little off to one side. This time, the sword slips further in with the grating sound of stone on steel. Once again, he throws all his weight into pushing the sword down like a lever. There’s a creak, an echoing sort of groan as It moves a little and then all at once. Jaskier barely has time to jump out of the way as a sizable rock skids from its resting place along with a shower of pebbles.

It’s not really a big enough gap to get out, but it does let the light in quite a bit more. The room is dim and dusty, but it brings the periphery into focus, not that Jaskier cares a whit about that. He nearly stumbles over the rocks scattered across the floor in his hurry to get back to Geralt.

“Oh, no no no.” Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat when his gaze settles on the witcher. He has seen Geralt muddle through all manner of injury, has patched up a fair few of them himself. He’s stitched up angry, uneven gashes and set fractured bones, but none of those things prepares him for the way Geralt looks now. Blood spreads around the witcher’s head like some sort of macabre halo staining Geralt’s hair a disturbing shade of crimson and soaking into the dust and rock around him.

It’s not really a relief to find Geralt’s potions weren’t lost when the building came down around them. It’s more like a handful of sandbags in the face of a hurricane. He’s not a complete stranger to them though, and a rather distraught effort at rifling through the witcher’s bag turns up one Jaskier recognizes. It’s an orangey red, almost sparkling, and he’s seen it work before on things that should have killed Geralt. He’s got it in hand when he realizes he needs to back up a step. It can’t mend the witcher if he bleeds out first.

There are no bandages, because of course there aren’t. Jaskier shrugs out of his doublet. It’s not soft at all, so the chemise goes too, and that he can work with. Carefully as he can, Jaskier winds the cloth around Geralt’s head, tying it in place and hoping to whatever deity might be listening that it’s enough.

The potion comes next, and that’s somehow much worse. Geralt doesn’t stir when Jaskier brings the bottle to his lips. The only thing Jaskier can think to do is drip it in a little at a time, so agonizingly slowly that he worries it’ll be too late before he’s even finished. Afterwards, he stares at Geralt’s unnaturally still form, waiting to make sure he doesn’t choke on the stuff somehow.

Are you supposed to leave people where they are or something else entirely? Jaskier doesn’t have the foggiest idea, but he can’t bear the idea of leaving Geralt on the hard ground. Shivering in the chilly air, Jaskier ignores the blood seeping into his trousers and sits so that he can rest Geralt’s head in his lap. He won’t panic over the stain spreading too quickly across his chemise. He won’t. “You're not dying here. You don't get to leave me behind. Not like this.”

All that’s left to do is wait.

***

Geralt can’t remember ever opening his eyes to this before, the world having slid so violently out of focus. There’s a weight, or maybe it’s him that’s heavy. Even curling his fingers a monumental effort.

“Wh-” It’s all he manages before words fail him, and suddenly there is a hand squeezing his shoulder.

“Oh thank fuck,” someone says. Jaskier? Geralt thinks it’s probably Jaskier. It usually is. “How are you feeling?” Did something happen that suddenly granted him sleeping in Jaskier’s lap privileges? He doesn’t think so. That feels important in a way he can’t imagine being ambushed by, tied to a conversation he keeps not having, but here they are, his head very definitely in Jaskier’s lap. Only Jaskier looks horribly unhappy, so… so…

Jaskier had been asking him something. “What?”

“How’s your head? There was a lot of blood and I didn’t know if the potion would be enough, and…” Jaskier’s still talking. Geralt is distantly aware of this, but the words won’t stick.

“What happened?” he says, or hopes he does. His mouth feels as disjointed as the rest of him and it’s disconcertingly difficult to tell.

“The building came down on us. Don’t you remember?”

“Obviously not,” Geralt bites out. Wait. The building came down and as that sinks in, there’s a sharp pang of fear, but not for himself. He’ll be fine. He’s always fine. But Jaskier is human and sometimes overwhelmingly fragile. Geralt's head is swimming and he's almost afraid to ask. “Are you alright?”

“Me? I’m fine.” There’s more, but the rest won’t stay put. That’s the important bit anyway. Jaskier is okay. The swell of fear dissipates like a puff of smoke as quickly as it had sprung up. The building is a problem, but he can figure that out. Somehow. It’ll come to him eventually. To Jaskier’s credit, he does seem fine, if oddly clothed. Rather not clothed, actually. “Where is your shirt?” “Ah yeah, that.” Jaskier’s knuckles brush gently across Geralt’s temple. Dizzily, Geralt leans into it before it occurs to him maybe he shouldn't. “You were bleeding a lot. It was all I had to work with.”

“Hmm.” There’s an itchy sort of feeling at the back of his mind suggesting he’s supposed to be alarmed by that, but the response itself never comes. Not the way it did for Jaskier. Which, there was a reason he was worried about Jaskier, he’s pretty sure. There might be a reason he’s lying here too, what whatever it is, it’s lost to him now. They’re somewhere dark and dusty, and they can’t stay here forever, so without much thought, Geralt rolls over, trying to get up. It’s a mistake.

That the room is spinning is the least terrible thing out of all the things that come of his attempt to get up. The shift in equilibrium feels like having nails driven into his skull from every angle, sharp and impossible to tune out. There’s a high, keening sound Geralt only belatedly realizes is him.

“Geralt. Fuck. Hang on.” There’s nothing to hang onto though, and Geralt all but collapses down to his forearms. For a second he’s very, very certain he’s going to retch, but the immediacy of the sensation passes, leaving him deeply nauseous instead.

Jaskier’s hand smooths up and down his arm in the places where hard leather doesn’t block out sensation. In another place he might call the touch affectionate, but what daydream could he be in where that’s true? “Where are we?”

“We just talked about this. We're in a building that collapsed.” Something has crept into the edges of Jaskier’s voice, fretful and shadowed. Geralt decides he doesn’t like it. He’d like to soothe it away, but does not know how.

“‘M fine,” he tries because Jaskier seems worried about him, but even in his own ears the words blur together. Geralt tries to lift his head enough to look at Jaskier and prove his point, but the awful needlepoint pressure only presses more deeply. The witcher drops his head, forehead resting against what he thinks might be Jaskier’s knee.

“You’re not fine, you dolt. I don't want to mess it up, but I don't know how to fix this one. Are you supposed to sleep it off? Should I make sure you don’t sleep?” Jaskier is saying things still, Geralt is distantly aware, but the words all drift like dandelion seeds. There’s only this thread of terror that Geralt cannot stomach hearing.

“It’s okay. We’re okay,” he mumbles, blindly reaching to lay his hand over Jaskier’s. He’s not dead and Jaskier is well enough to talk, so it can’t be that bad, can it? “Tell me what happened.”

“...Geralt?” Jaskier’s thumb is brushing against the back of Geralt’s neck. It’s sort of lovely in that it's one pleasant thing when everything else is awful. “What do you remember?”

That’s a trick question if Geralt ever heard one. His memory is fine. He can’t think of any reason it wouldn’t be. Refusing to fall for it, Geralt aims to distract instead. “That feels nice.” 

 “Well, now I know you’re unwell. The Geralt I know barely tolerates my being around for more than a few weeks at a time, and would never own up to liking something I was doing.

Does Jaskier really think that? Maybe. Geralt can’t seem to hang onto where that line of reasoning was going, but Jaskier was talking and wrong. He needs to know he's wrong. “That’s not true. I miss you when you’re gone.”

“Ooooookay. That’s very sweet, but I think you’ll remember that’s not true when you’re better." It sounds sad, but Jaskier still has a hand on him, warm and welcome.

He’s staring very closely at a floor that was probably pretty once, but it’s cracked now. It’s a weird place to be, even for him, so Geralt tries to get up. Sort of. More precisely, he lifts his head an inch or two. It’s as far as he gets before his head feels like it’s splitting and he thinks he might be sick.

”Okay, that’s enough of that. You are, in fact, the worst patient. I would like to not be stuck here, and I imagine you would like to not be stuck here, so just let me help.” Stuck? Geralt doesn’t know where they’re stuck, but he knows there’s some reason he shouldn’t ask. Nodding is probably a terrible idea, so the witcher hums an agreement and listens to Jaskier sweep the worst of the debris from the floor next to them.

There are hands on him next, guiding him somewhere else with painstaking care. Geralt lets himself be moved. He ends up on his side before it feels very abruptly like Roach is stepping on his skull. It’s all he can do to bite off a low whimper.

“Alright, hey. Just get some rest. That swallow has to work eventually, right?” Jaskier doesn’t sound certain, but there's something soft under Geralt’s cheek and there’s a gentle hand cradling the side of his neck, a thumb carefully sweeping across his temple. If they weren’t lost, Geralt would call the gesture affectionate, but nothing makes any sense here. Are they lost?

Geralt thinks about the worried quiver in Jaskier’s voice. He'd fix it if he just knew how. It's quiet here, and Jaskier doesn't belong by himself in the quiet. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“You’re not.” There’s a change in pressure around his skull, something falling away, but it doesn’t hurt, and it comes with Jaskier’s fingers sliding through his hair. “Your head is looking better.”

That’s good, he thinks. Maybe it means the awful needling feeling will go away. Maybe it means this other ache, the one sprawling out behind his ribcage, will go away too. It means something, Geralt knows, but he can’t quite piece it together and his mouth runs away without the rest of him. “I don’t think I want to be alone.” 

 “You’re not. I’m right here.” Jaskier’s short nails scritch tenderly at the base of Geralt’s skull, a welcome counterpoint to everything else. “You’re not alone.”

***

I don’t think I want to be alone. It’s a revelation if it means anything. Jaskier knows, of course, that the rambling of a witcher who couldn’t even remember how they got there for more than thirty seconds at a time might not mean anything at all. But if there’s nothing to it, at least Jaskier can know that there for a moment in time, he could be exactly what Geralt needed. For now, Geralt’s face is pressed into Jaskier’s thigh, his breathing the only sound in this dim place.

An hour in, Jaskier starts to wonder if it wasn’t the other way around. Maybe he was supposed to keep Geralt from sleeping. Two hours in, he worries that Geralt might wake up in just as bad of shape as before, that he’ll have failed them both. Three hours in, sitting so still has gotten to be agonizing as much as he’d like to stay.

He’s just about to try and see how carefully he can move out from under Geralt when the witcher stirs. There’s a low groan and one eerie golden eye slowly blinking open.

“Careful.” Jaskier carefully brushes his thumb along Geralt’s temple, trying to coax the witcher into staying put, even if it means his own continued discomfort.

“Fuck. That hurts,” Geralt grumbles, holding his hand over the upper half of his face, and some of Jaskier’s unease settles. The words are perfectly clear this time.

“Shockingly, Falling rocks will do that.” He should let go, Jaskier thinks, but he carefully threads his fingers through Geralt’s hair and the witcher stays like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. It's probably just that Geralt needs a little time to reorient himself, but for a moment, Jaskier lets himself believe it’s true.

Bit by bit, Geralt seems to recover. When he finally pushes himself to sit up, there’s a pained wince, but the witcher’s eyes remain focused. That’s… good. That’s probably good. Except if it’s not. “Should you be doing that?” 

 “I’m fine,” Geralt replies gruffly instead of bothering to answer the question. It’s considerably more normal than their last conversation, so that’s something.

 “Actually fine or ‘I can’t wrap my head around the fact that someone might care what happens to me’ fine?” Geralt ignores the question entirely, his gaze flicking over their surroundings before settling on Jaskier. “You were afraid.”

It's not a question, and Geralt is looking at him like a puzzle to solve. It would just figure, the one time the man is actually listening to him. It seems weird that Geralt couldn't keep ahold of where they even were, but that Jaskier being afraid for him would stick even now. Then again, Jaskier doesn't know anything about head injuries. Maybe that's just how it goes.

“Damn right I was. I thought you were dying and I was going to be trapped down here with your… your corpse or something. Then you woke up making no sense, and I don’t know what to do with a head injury, which it turns out is an awfully stressful thing to guess about. I wasn't even sure I'd done enough to fix it until, what, five minutes ago?” It's a lot, even for him, the words tripping over each other in their need to escape. Jaskier leans on theatrics because it’s all the armor he has. Anything else might give away how his heart broke with every attempt Geralt made to speak the last time around.

“Hmm.” Geralt pinches the bridge of his nose and says nothing more. Typical.

Jaskier wants to be angry, but the feeling floats away as soon as he really looks at Geralt. There are dark, angry smudges under his eyes, and Geralt is so pale, more than usual even. He appears every bit the part of someone who was recently on death’s door and Jaskier just can’t hang onto any real bitterness. “How’re you feeling?”

Geralt gives him a sour look, the kind he gets when he thinks Jaskier is asking a dumb question. Much to Jaskier’s surprise, he does answer eventually. “Terrible… but not dying.”

“Sooooo, any thoughts on how we get out of here?” It’s abrupt, but Jaskier really can’t stomach thinking the state Geralt was in, and escape is the next most pressing thing. The sooner they steer away from what happened, the less likely he is to say something foolish.

There’s that look a second time, and this time Geralt doesn’t deign to answer. Which is okay really. They’ve been stuck here this long. A little longer probably won’t hurt anything.

“I was. Dying, I mean,” Geralt says quietly, startling Jaskier from his thoughts. The bard follows Geralt’s gaze to where there is still quite a lot of blood splattered across the floor. It's dry, but it stains the alabaster flooring and pale, crumbled stone.

“Oh, that. Well, see I-” Jaskier stumbles because he doesn't know what Geralt wants, and having nearly lost the witcher in this remnant of a room has left him raw and tender in places. It's almost a relief when Geralt’s hand slaps unceremoniously over Jaskier’s mouth, stifling any further reply, but not hard enough to hurt. When Jaskier looks at him in surprise, he’d swear there was something like affection in Geralt’s exasperated expression. It's probably just a trick of the light.

“Stop. Talking. You did well. I'm still here, aren't I?” With a grimace, Geralt pulls his hand from Jaskier’s mouth and wobbles to his feet. It’s an unsteady motion, and Jaskier isn’t sure it’s really wise this soon after nearly having his brains bashed in. Geralt seems to manage though, and holds out a hand to Jaskier like he’s the one who needs support.

“In this life, some days not dead is the best you can hope for." Jaskier can’t help but take Geralt’s hand, letting the witcher yank him to his feet. Jaskier thinks he catches a smile, but Geralt turns away too quickly to be sure. What he is sure of is that he's on his feet and Geralt's hand is still holding onto his. "Not dead... and not alone.”

You can find the rest of my Witcher fanworks here. <3

[tooomuchtofu]

It’s denial at first, Tubbo thinks in retrospect, that kept him upright where he sat. Denial, along with a healthy dose of the same sort of emotional vacancy that’s gotten him through the past few years in this fucked up world. 

He sees the message on his communicator—of course he does, so does everyone—but his eyes skim over it. It’s just another accident. A bit too long of a fall. A friendly spar. An argument gone sideways. It didn’t stick, surely; whoever’s name he just read in chat felt the death slither down around them like a shed layer of snakeskin, stepped into another life just as easily as taking another breath. Whoever that was is probably sitting up in bed right now. 

It’s fine. It’s alright. Never mind the buzzing that’s started at the base of his skull. Ranboo cracks a joke and he laughs. Jack pokes his head out the doors of the Big Innit Hotel, shooting Tubbo a wary look. Tubbo nocks another arrow and the door slams shut. He puts the bow away. 

His hand drifts back to his communicator, because of course it does. He picks it off his belt, flicks it on and glances at the messages. Did he see that right?

Tubbo has to blink before the screen focuses, his eyes blurring. He’s never been a great reader, really. Even after he’s picked his way past every letter, though, the message above Jack’s most recent death blurs still. The words have flipped themselves on their heads, twisted into monstrous glyphs. Maybe Ranboo sent something in enderspeak. Maybe he’s asleep. 

“Guys, I think Tommy just died,” is what he hears himself say.

Maybe he did read that wrong. Maybe he did. Ranboo’s hand on his shoulder—out of nowhere, wasn’t Ranboo just on the other side of the path?—is the only thing aside from the letters. He still can’t make them out. He blinks again. That might help. 

“Oh my gosh,” Ranboo says, and for a breath, the death message might be real. He can feel his fingers shaking, can feel the cold edge of the communicator where he holds it. 

“Wasn’t he like, your best friend or something?” It’s Jack Manifold. Tubbo doesn’t know when he came outside. 

Tubbo stands, then, from where he’d, at some point, sat on a stray piece of scaffolding. Everything is all bright colors. All of it. There’s sun in his eyes. He thinks it might hurt. He’s looking at it. The white is better than the red or the blue or the green or the tawny, rough oak beneath his feet, because all of that is real. And this isn’t real. 

Ranboo is in front of him. He’s taller. Tubbo can’t see the sun anymore. A shame. It was nice and bright. 

Ranboo is real, too. Black and white like a panda or a cookie or something. Red and green, black and white, rumpled suit and prickly ears. Tubbo giggles. Maybe Ranboo isn’t real; his whole face is speckles with black, swimming and swirling. That doesn’t usually happen. 

“Tubbo, are you okay? Tubbo, why are you laughing?” Ranboo’s brows are all drawn and furrowed. He looks so worried. But that’s okay. That’s okay. 

“Ranboo, you silly… silly man…” Tubbo reaches up, lets his hands find his husband’s, his friend’s, ears, feels the weird fuzzy spots at their bases. 

Ranboo flinches back, grabbing Tubbo’s wrists and pushing them down. “No—Tubbo, why—” He makes a weird hissy sound. Silly funny enderman. “Do you need to sit down?”

“No, it’s fine! I’m alright, big man.” He rubs his hands down his face, pulling at the scar tissue across his nose and jaw. He remembers when he got those scars. Tommy was there. He sat in Tubbo’s room in Pogtopia every night after for weeks. He always woke Tubbo up whenever Tubbo started screaming. That was a permanent death, the festival was. Tubbo is one slip away from dying. So is Tommy. But they’ll be okay, because Dream is in prison. It’s all okay now. Tubbo’s palms are sweaty and sticky, so he takes them off his face. 

“What the hell happened?” Ranboo mutters, fiddling with his communicator. Tubbo isn’t sure he’s ever heard Ranboo say “hell” before. That’s kind of funny. They’ve pretty much spent the entirety of the past few weeks together. Ranboo doesn’t seem to swear much. Tubbo hasn’t done anything but hang out with Ranboo since Tommy finished his hotel. They’ve barely left each other’s sides. Ranboo and Tubbo, Tubbo and Ranboo. 

“Tubbo. Hey, Tubbo.” Ranboo’s hands are on his shoulders again. “Tubbo, where are we?” 

Tubbo hums under his breath. “We are on the Prime Path, big man.” Outside the Bee and Boo. It’s very bright today. Everything looks a little blurry, though. 

“Sam says he’s at the prison,” Ranboo says. “Do you want to go talk to Sam?” 

“Sounds good.” Tubbo looks over at the prison. It’s just past Skeppy’s mansion. The prison, where Dream is. Something… something is wrong. He thinks. 

As he follows Ranboo down the path, he frowns, trying to remember what it is. Something… wrong. At the prison. 

“Wait, but Sam hasn’t died,” he says. “Sam is still there. Dream is still in Pandora’s Vault.” As long as Dream is in prison, they are all safe. Everything is fine. Everything is perfect. They won. They have the discs. It is okay now. 

“Yes,” Ranboo says. 

The approach is long, with the path he walks stretching into infinity. It seems forever that they spend walking towards the prison’s hulking shape. Sam is waiting for them when they get there. 

“I made a mistake,” he says in a shaking voice. “I’m so sorry. Tommy is… Tommy’s dead.” 

And Tubbo is seventeen years old. He is standing in the world he calls home near the path his best friend built out of oak, standing next to his friend-husband-business partner, and he is not crying, because Tommy cannot be dead. Because Tommy does not die. Because Tommy survives. It is what he does. 

And Tubbo did not spend the last week his friend spent in prison falling in platonic love, building a hotel, playing chess, singing and cracking jokes and making pancakes and playing his ukulele. Because Tommy is not in prison, because there is no reason for him to be, and if he is, there’s nothing Tubbo can do anyway, is there? What is there, really, for Tubbo to do, aside from forget what has him curled up in his bed some nights, hugging himself as tight as he can so his stomach will stop eating itself out of helpless guilt? And now everything is fine, because the time is up, and Tommy is fine, because Tommy is always fine, even when there’s lava and holes and fireworks and Dream. 

Tubbo is not crying. That is not a lie, but maybe it is wrong nonetheless. 

xxx

To Tubbo, Dream has not taken all of Tommy’s lives until Tommy is standing outside the hotel the next morning. 

He does not remember falling asleep, but it must have happened somehow, because he has just woken up. He has a splitting headache and an aching heart and dry, blurry eyes, and he thinks he’s seeing things at first. 

Tommy is staring up at his own hotel, but he turns around when Tubbo opens the door, grinning when he sees him. 

“Big man!” he shouts. “You seen this thing yet? Pretty proud of it, I am.” Tommy’s grin is glinting white, his face greyish, his hair silvery pale. He is soft and fuzzy and not-all-there. Tubbo blinks once. Twice. And then he is crying. 

Sitting on the path, crying. His face is in his hands and Tommy’s touch on his back is cold and staticky. Tubbo remembers when Tommy’s touch was warm, like fire, glowy and bright and wonderful for a cold winter’s night.

“Tubbo? What’s wrong? Are you okay?” 

Tubbo gasps in a breath, chest spasming for air. His face is drenched and raw. There is a gaping hole in his chest, his ribs shattered into jagged knives. It is Technoblade with withers and fireworks and TNT laying waste to his heart. Tubbo does not move when someone cold and full and real picks him up, cradles him in too-long arms, and lays him on a bed. Tubbo does not move. Tommy is not fine.

xxx

“I didn’t come,” Tubbo forces out one day when everything is numb again. He’s sitting in the Big Innit Hotel’s lobby, slumped in a chair beside the front desk. He’s still wearing his Snowchester jacket, fiddling with the strings of one of the buttons. He’s vaguely aware of red concrete stone bricks and Tommy’s faint form somewhere in his periphery, but it’s mostly just the button and the string. “I’m sorry. 

“What do you mean?” Tommy asks. He’s sitting behind the desk, ready for customers. He’s usually ready for customers these days, when he isn’t committing arson or wandering up and down the Prime Path or sitting on a bench on a hill, hands fidgety and unsure, like he’s missing something. That is, if he’s to believe Ranboo: Tubbo hasn’t left the Bee and Boo much. Ranboo says that’s what Tommy’s been doing, though. 

A few people have even stayed in the hotel. People will stop by to visit, to see if it’s true, to say hi to Tommy or to talk to Tubbo or just to gawk, even, and usually end up staying in a room at Tommy’s insistence. 

Tommy always acts like he’s going to charge them for it, but he never actually does. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t need money. Maybe he just forgets. He forgets a lot of things. 

“In prison,” Tubbo mutters. “Sam might’ve let me in. I didn’t even try.” There are tears at the corners of his eyes, suddenly, but he rubs them away. He’s sick and tired of having a wet face. It’s sticky and awful and he always ends up with a headache and a stuffy nose. 

“...What are you on about?” Tubbo glances up. Tommy is giving him an odd look. “Prison? Dream is the only one in prison. We put him in there, remember? I kicked his ass with the—with—” He frowns, making a swinging motion with his hands. “With—with that axe. You know?” 

Tubbo sighs. “Yeah, I know.” He goes back to his button. 

xxx

Ranboo comes for him later that evening, when the sunset has just begun to filter through the windows. Tubbo hasn’t moved from his chair, even though Tommy went somewhere below the desk a while earlier. 

The vest’s button came off. It’s still on the floor where it fell, and Tubbo’s started on a new one. 

“Tubbo,” he says when he walks through the double doors. Tubbo glances up at him. “Tubbo, can we go home now? You’ve been here all day.”

Tubbo doesn’t say anything. Maybe he doesn’t have to. Maybe they can just leave. 

Ranboo walks over. Sinks down in front of Tubbo. He looks away.

“Tubbo.” He takes Tubbo’s hands in his own. “Hey, Tubbo. Can you look at me?” 

Tubbo does not look at Ranboo. Tubbo squints his eyes shut and ignores the prickly wetness. It is not there. It has already been there too many times in the past however-long-it’s-been.

Ranboo sighs. “Tubbo, you can’t do this forever.” He squeezes his hands. A tear trickles down Tubbo’s face. “I know it hurts. I know it hurts. It’s going to hurt. It always will. But you’re not alone, I promise. He might not be here anymore, but you’re not alone.” 

Tubbo breaks the breath he’s been holding to gasp in a new one. It shudders against his lungs, painful and loud.

“Can you talk to me?” Ranboo asks. “Please, Tubbo. It’s been weeks. Please.”

And that’s where he breaks, where all the air comes out in a fragmented sob, where the tears are back again, and he throws himself at Ranboo, collapsing into his chest and tucking his face into Ranboo’s shoulder. He must be startled, Tubbo notes absently, because his hands take a moment to find Tubbo’s back.

“I’m sorry.” Tubbo gasps. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry? It’s okay to be sad.” Ranboo is rubbing circles. It’s an awkward, stilted motion, but there’s heart.

“I can’t—” He blinks hard, swallowing a knotted lump. “I can’t. I can’t. He wasn’t supposed to leave me. He wasn’t supposed to be the one who left.” 

Tommy was the queen, and Tubbo the pawn. This directionless pain that festers at his core isn’t supposed to be here. Maybe if Dream had just killed him none of this would have happened. Tubbo would be dead and Dream would be free and Tommy would be in prison but he’d be alive, and maybe Tubbo could visit him as a ghost and keep him company. And neither of them would be this confused because Tommy always knew what to do. He’d get out of the Vault and he’d tell Tubbo what they needed to do next to take down Dream, and it’d be them against the world, the two of them, together always, Tubbo and Tommy, Tommy and Tubbo. 

Ranboo has always ran a little cold, which Tubbo found unnerving at first, but right now, his cool skin is soothing and better than anything else could have been against Tubbo’s face. His head is aching and it feels like it’s burning from the inside. 

“It’s okay,” he’s murmuring. “I’m here. I’m here.”

What am I without you? Tommy asked one day, in a vault swamped in glimmering darkness. And Tubbo said, yourself. It’s an easy solution to the question that leaves Tubbo paralyzed now, but one that hurts and aches and doesn’t help at all. 

He’s been here before, back when he was still president. Back when there was still a nation to be president of. Back when nothing was okay and Tubbo was a monster, the next Schlatt, a tyrant who had only doomed a nation that was doomed from the start. Back then, nothing was okay. 

Everything was supposed to be fine now. And it isn’t. So Tubbo cries.

xxx

A few days later, Tubbo goes out. 

Ranboo is with him, at his side, holding his hand. Tubbo is wearing a green button-down shirt that’s only a little bit green at this point, holey and worn. Tubbo is hazy-headed with tears. Nothing is okay. But today, he has decided to try. 

The sight of the prison made him break down once before, a week or so ago, so when they walk out of the hotel, he fixes his gaze firmly to the right. Stares at the planks of the Prime Path, puts one foot in front of the other. They’ll maybe go to the Community House. Stop by Captain Puffy’s place, or visit Eret, or something. Both of them have a sort of calming presence Tubbo can’t deny wanting to feel again, and Ranboo mentioned something about Puffy wanting to talk to him. He isn’t really sure. For now, it’s easiest just to walk. 

Step by step by step. Tubbo watches the edges of all the builds on the path scroll by. A pattern of blood vines webs its way across the grass. He’s glad there’s none on the path; he’d probably trip. 

The Targay is somewhere on the edge of his vision when he hears it. Plattering, bouncy notes, dancing through the air. He hasn’t heard this song in a while. He isn’t even sure he’s hearing it now. But each step up the staircase has weight, suddenly, as he makes his way towards the embassy. 

He sees it when he crests the hill, of course; it’s hard to miss. Someone cut down the trees that used to stand in the way a while ago, and now it’s just grass and flowers and the bench. That and Tommy, sitting there, staring out at the view, with one arm over the back of his seat just like always. Cat is in the jukebox, spinning just the same as it always has. Tommy must hear him or something, because he turns around, face lighting up when he sees Tubbo.

“Tubbo!” he cries. “Ranboo! You’re here! Come sit with me!” 

Tommy. On the bench. Waiting for him.

Breath caught somewhere in his head, Tubbo stumbles over, feet only kind of there. The grass is soft and the sun is bright and the view is beautiful and he sits down and Tommy is there and there’s music and oh, he thinks he might be crying again. Ranboo sits in the grass to their right. 

Tommy slings an arm around Tubbo’s neck.

“Hey Big T,” he says. “It’s good to see you again.” It’s almost easy to pretend like everything is the same. “You doing okay?” 

Tubbo looks over at him, blinking hard and mustering a smile. “I’m fine,” he says. “How have you been?”

“Good, good!” Tommy says, flashing a grin. “It kinda sucks being dead, though.”

“Oh, yeah?” Tubbo swallows. “Why’s that?”

“You never hang out with me anymore!” Tommy complains, kicking his shin. “And when you do, you’re always so mopey. I know you didn’t want me to die, but like… you could at least spend time with me, eh? There’s no point in just forgetting.” 

Tubbo remembers a muttered rant a few months back, something about Jack Manifold and a trident accident and a joke that turned real (count from ten backwards, don’t let this ruin your life), and he exhales. Leaning into Tommy’s touch, he tries again at a smile. “You’ve gotten a lot wiser, haven’t you?” 

“Nah, I’m just dead,” he says. “Seriously, though, Tubbo. It sucks, really, it does. But you can do this. I believe in you. You are—quite possibly—the coolest person I know. And you will be okay.”

Tubbo can’t see past his tears. “I—I just—” He stops. Takes a deep breath. “I feel so lost without you. It was always for you, all of it, I don’t—”

“No, no, Tubbo—” Tommy catches his hands where they’ve flown up to rub away the tears— “Thank you. Please. Thank you. For everything. I would have never made it half as far without you. So please. Keep going for me.”

Cat ends, the final note ringing out into the midmorning air. Tommy stands, grabbing the disk from the jukebox and giving it a spin on his finger. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, alright, Tubbo?” he says. “I’m gonna go put this away. And then I’ve got to go make sure I haven’t missed any cli-enteys.”

“Okay,” Tubbo whispers. “Okay, Tommy.” 

Tommy starts off down the Prime Path, whistling a senseless tune to himself. Ranboo wraps his hand in his cool grip. Tubbo takes a deep breath.

“And Tommy?” he calls.

Tommy looks over his shoulder. “Huh?”

“I love you.”

“Ew.” Tommy squints at him, but he’s grinning. “That’s gross. You’re gross. You’re really—you disgust me sometimes, Tubbo, you know that?” 

Tubbo laughs, then, for real, for the first time in weeks. And he thinks, then, that maybe, maybe, it’s going to be okay. 

[morgana-ren]

Imagine being at a Halloween party thrown by Dabi and someone in a Leatherface costume keeps following you. It turns out to be Shigaraki. You comment on how his human skin mask is cool and how it looks so real, and oddly looks like Bakugo's face. He laughs, tosses it away and leads you to a field of pumpkins, where he non cons you, while Spooky Scary Skeletons plays in the background.

Okay listen, I know this was probably sent in 200 percent as a joke, but that doesn’t mean I’m not going to sit down for an hour and make it work. It’s been a weird week. I can make weird work. 

Like imagine kinda knowing Dabi before the league goes super big. You don’t know too much about him, but he’s a friend of a friend and so on and he’s got the dangerous bad boy appeal alongside those haunting blue eyes, so all ya friends hover around him. So lets say you get invited to his spooky-dooky Halloween party he’s throwin’ in an old warehouse. It’s sort of his last hurrah cause it’s a lot harder to try and bone civvie girls when you’re a wanted villain with your face on the news attached to a criminal group, so he’s gunna throw it back tonight and take what he can get, you feel?

So you and ya friends get all cute and dolled up in your costumes and head out to this bash that’s taking place on the wrong side of the tracks in some godforsaken warehouse. It’s in the industrial zone, which is comprised of nothing but abandoned buildings, squat houses, and old warehouses. You’re pretty sure he just found one and broke the chain on the door and called it a night. That should be your first clue, but fuck it, what’s life without a little risk?

Anyway, a few hours pass and admittedly, you’re a lil’ drunk. That being said, you could swear this dude in a leatherface costume is stalking you. Maybe not stalking you, per say, but he’s definitely trying hard to be where you are. It’s not like he’s easy to confuse with anyone else; his costume is super unique, and if you’re being honest, a little disturbing. It legit looks like that kid Bakugo from the Sports Festival but forcefully mutated in with the classic Leatherface look. Whoever it is, they’ve definitely got an edgy sense of humor. It should spook you, but it’s Halloween for fucks sake! At least they’re putting some effort in! It’s no coincidence that you see him literally everywhere you go, so maybe he likes you?

Maybe he’s cute under that creepy mask.

It’s worth a shot (get it, shot?), so you let him follow you to the bar and sit down next to an equally empty seat, hoping to give off the vibe of ‘quit being creepy and come talk to me.’ 

A few seconds later and surprise surprise, he sits down right beside you. No sense in pretending this is anything other than what it is, so you turn right to him and offer to buy him a drink. 

He stares at you for a minute, beady pupils surveying you beneath that godawful mask he’s donning before he nods. He doesn’t tell you what he wants, so you just order him whatever mixture of gasoline and fruit you get. He just stares at you while you sip at your own drink, and you can’t help but laugh. His eyes are fuckin’ intense, and while you’re already a little tipsy, it’s pretty clear he’s dead sober. Luckily, alcohol gives you a charming ice breaker. 

“It’s probably a little difficult to drink with that terrifying thing on your face, but I really appreciate your dedication to the look.” 

Behind the holes of the mask, his eyes crinkle near the edges. You can’t tell if he’s smiling or snarling, but he’s definitely reacting to what you’re saying. He must’ve decided that he likes you, because he finally reaches behind his head and loosens whatever makeshift strap that’s tangled in his silver, ‘fake’ blood matted hair. 

As he lets it fall away from his face, you study what’s underneath. He’s a little rough around the edges, a little chapped with dry skin and more than a few blisters on his pale lips, but he’s cute and the costume has you intrigued. For all you know, it could be liquid latex. The guy seems pretty dedicated after all. It makes you wonder what is Halloween paint and what’s his actual skin. You kinda wanna lick him and find out.

Shut up, alcohol. 

“It’s homemade.” He rasps out, voice cracking and strained like he hasn’t spoken in days. After a sip of his own drink, he slips a subtle smile as he sees you eying the grotesque costume piece. “I’m glad you like it.”

It’s gross to say the least. Whatever it’s made out of, it’s certainly not plastic or rubber like most masks. It smells atrocious, especially coupled with the must and cheap booze of the warehouse, and it makes you a little queasy as it flops around in his lap a little too lifelike for your liking. It even has pores, for Christ’s sake. Tearing your gaze away from it isn’t easy, but if you look much longer, you’re not really sure what your stomach is gunna do, so you turn your attentions to the owner instead. 

“Are you making a statement or just not a fan of the would-be hero types?”

He giggles a little even though you’re not entirely sure what you said was funny. “I guess you could say it’s both.” 

You sit in an awkward silence, sipping at your drink for a few minutes before another wave of alcohol induced courage lights a fire under your ass. If he won’t talk, you sure as fuck will.

“So, are you a friend of Dabi’s or-” He scoffs, loud and hard, lip curling in distaste. “No. I’m unfortunate enough to know him. We work together.” 

“Really? I always wondered what he did for a living.” 

It takes him a second to realize that’s you’re prodding, and a minute longer to come up with an answer. “I guess you could say we’re sort of... activists or something.” 

“Is that so? He never really struck me as the generous type.”

“He’s not.” He grins like a fox in a henhouse, mischievous and sly like he knows something you don’t. “And I’m not either.” 

“Then why be an activist?” 

His smirk fades, and he nurses his drink, flicking his eyes away from you. “I dunno.”

“What kind of activist are you? Like social or environmental or-” 

“Uh-” He clearly wasn’t expecting this line of questioning. “Political.” 

“Oh, that’s cool! What kind of politics are you guys into? You seem like the anarchy sort to me, but I don’t wanna judge-”

“Are you always this nosy?”

His sudden hostility takes you back a little. Sure, you’re drunk and annoying, but that seems a bit excessive. Maybe this isn’t the tree you want to be barking up tonight. 

“Sorry. I was just trying to get to know you.” 

You turn your body away from him slightly, returning your gaze to the rusted metal behind the makeshift bar. You can see him glaring you down out of your periphery but opt to ignore it. Regardless, he stares for a few more moments before downing the rest of the drink you apparently wasted your money on.  “Well, don’t.” 

Whatever, man. It’s a fucking Halloween party. You can find a different jerk-ass to hook up with, one who at least pretends to be nice until the night is over. Dicks are a dime a dozen in a place like this, and the ‘super mysterious, if I told you, I’d have to kill you’ bullshit charade he’s playing is grating on your nerves. Part of you wants to tell him off for being so rude, but the other part is telling you to just shut up, project your disinterest, and wait for him to leave.

You huff a small sigh, blowing the air out of your puckered lips as you roll your eyes behind closed lids. Your side of the conversation comes to an abrupt halt, and suddenly everything in the room is more interesting than he is. Yet even with the uncomfortable awkward air around you both, he doesn’t leave. He just continues scanning you over as you do your best to give him the cold shoulder. So he really thinks there’s any sort of comeback from that, huh?

Apparently he does. He’s not very good with social hints either. You’ve almost tuned him out when you feel a bony hand clutching your upper arm. 

“Hey, come with me. This place is boring and I’ve got something I want to show you.” 

You turn, shooting him a disbelieving glare, but he’s already slid off his bar stool and is pulling you along with him. He doesn’t bother to wait for your answer, weaving through the crowds and dragging you behind him even as you try to wiggle your arm out of his grasp. Had you been in your right mind, you might have screamed or shoved him and told him to get lost, but your liquor marinated mind makes it difficult. He’s kinda right, after all. This place has gotten boring. All your friends left you behind an hour ago to go find their own conquests and dancing by yourself gets pretty lame after a minute. It’s not like you had anything better to do. 

Alright, fine. Follow the rude guy. He seems pretty adamant about it anyway. 

You try to justify it by telling yourself maybe he’s just super socially awkward or doesn’t have much experience with girls. He could also be one of those super brash, brutally honest people that just says whatever comes to mind. Maybe he didn’t mean it in a mean way. A trailing history of terrible taste in men leaves his unbridled rudeness with a bad taste in your mouth, but it wasn’t like you were planning on seeing him again after tonight. Ride the dick and then ride off into the sunset. 

You both dodge through the groups of people together as he yanks you towards the very back of the warehouse. The couple of doors he leads you through have a fairly prominent ‘Do Not Enter’ sign cautioning at eye level, but he doesn’t seem dissuaded, pulling you through the heavy doors despite the clear warning. A few hallways and dim, empty corridors later and he’s ushering you into something resembling a claustrophobic courtyard outside that joins the warehouse with a few of the surrounding buildings.

It’s very dark outside, and aside from the slight shine of ugly yellow tinted streetlights peeking through the alleyway, you can’t see much of anything. You can’t imagine what on Earth it is out here that he wants to show you, but you doubt you’ll even be able to see it. Anxiety starts to bloom in your chest as your drunk mind starts to realize that you’ve followed a stranger out into a very dark, very isolated area.

“H-hey, I never got your name.”

He laughs softly, coming up behind you and gripping your shoulders in a way that feels all too tight. Steering you forward, he leans in, feet falling in line with your steps.

“You’re right. My bad, that’s awfully rude of me.”

He pushes you forward in a way that seems a bit intense for having just met before latching his hands lazily around the base of your neck and pulling you into his chest.

“I guess it’s a good thing you didn’t know what Dabi does for a living, or else you never would have been stupid enough to follow me out here.”

Okay, it’s Halloween and all, but his brand of prank is starting to feel a little too real. The macabre costume and total boorishness should have been the insight you needed to come to the conclusion that this guy just isn’t quite right in the head, but between the alcohol and your desire to give him the benefit of the doubt, it just never quite clicked for you.

“It’s Shigaraki, by the way. My name. I’m sure you’ve heard it before.”

His wet breath on your neck isn’t the only reason you get shivers. You have heard that name before, only never spoken so casually. His fingers tighten around the tensing muscles in your throat as you swallow down a bombardment of emotion. Panic. Fear. Realization.

There’s a million and ten things going through your mind right now, the foremost of which is why. You aren’t a hero, nor are you a particularly fervent hero supporter. You’re not related to any heroes, and frankly, there’s no one further from the social/cultural hub that is hero society. Isn’t that what this guy gets his rocks off to? At least from the news snippets, that’s the impression you gathered.

You want to ask him why you. Maybe its a selfish question but it’s a question none the less, and one people tend to ask when their place on the mortal coil is being threatened. Yet, no matter how you try to spit out the words, your tongue stills in your dry mouth and refuses to cooperate. The pounding in your chest is giving way to a headache and a serious case of sick, and you swear between the loud pulsing of blood in your veins, you can hear him giggling behind you.

You think maybe that’s a strong enough cue to leave. You can ask him why when you’re separated by a thick layer of glass at Tartarus.

You know, it’s easy to sit back in the comfort of your own home and laugh at the clumsy heroine in any given horror movie who fumbles away from the killer like a newborn fawn just discovering its own lanky legs, but you’re quick to understand just why that troupe is so popular. It takes you a moment to gather the courage to turn on your heel and shove him hard on the chest, and even when you manage, it’s so weak and pathetic that it barely knocks him off balance. It only just gives you enough space that you can dart in the opposite direction. Where you’re going, you have no clue, but it’s not on the forefront of your mind as you pound pavement beneath your shitty costume shoes and shout “Stay away from me!” like some cliche damsel in distress.

Your adrenaline fueled getaway is short lived. A few seconds after beginning your feverish sprint away from what you know to be a very dangerous young fellow, the front of your foot catches on something and sends you toppling to the ground only a few feet from where you began your initial rush. Your fall is less than graceful, and the shriek that emits from your throat before your body thuds to the dirt like a sack of potatoes is far less sexy than anything in any horror movie. The bag you’ve been clutching, filled with nothing but the bare essentials and a half empty flask, is flung from your fingers. Your assailant doesn’t slow-walk towards you in a menacing manner while wielding a knife, but practically jogs over, wheezing with nasally laughter as he grabs you by the hair.

“I bet that went a lot better in your head, huh?”

A lot of things went a lot better in your head, to be fair. That scene. This night. Your life in general. But the little pity party you’re throwing yourself does little to garner his sympathies. No amount of hiccuping and crying fat gobs of tears that leak from your lashes and down into the Halloween makeup it took you hours to do elicits any response from him but what he had already planned on.

His laughter finally dies down and the fingers threaded through your hair manhandle you to your knees before roughly casting you down onto something. Something hollow yet sturdy greets your sensitive, liquor addled stomach as he forces you down and bends you over it. It feels slightly waxy, yet organic to the touch, and seems to wobble around slightly the more he kicks and prods you into a position you’ve seen one too many times in those shitty free pornos.

Pumpkin. It’s a fucking pumpkin.

You can smell the leaves and grass and sodden soil as he positions your hips up in the air, shucking off the costume apron he’d been wearing. Dirt embeds under your finger nails as you struggle to drag the rest of your body over the pumpkin to make your escape, but the hand that isn’t currently fumbling with his zipper is still tightly anchored in your hair, holding you in place. He hisses out a few words warning you against struggling too hard, his quirk is uncontrollable after all.

He makes quick work of the cheap costume bottom, inhaling a ragged breath and digging his jagged nails in a little too tightly to your skin when your ass becomes bared to the cool night air. The sight of you must’ve made him impatient, as he settles for simply yanking up your top along your back to expose your tits instead of going through the effort to try and get it off you. If what you’ve heard is true, he could simply dust it and be rid of it, but he doesn’t seem like he’s in the most centered form of mind right now, and it doesn’t appear like it’s your death he’s after.

No, it seems like he’s after something much more intimate than death.

Your mind is acutely aware of what’s about to happen, but it’s trapped in your paralyzed body, unable to force your heavy limbs to move with the weight of the panic. He’s freed himself from his pants, knuckles bumping against the cleft of your ass with every jerk of the cock that you thank God is hidden from your vision. After a few rigorous pumps, he withdraws for a moment before spitting and dribbling his slick saliva into the palm of his hand, coating his cock and using it as a makeshift lubricant.

When he’s finished making spitting sounds that make your stomach church, he lines his hips against your reluctantly spread legs and you feel the hot, thick tip prodding against the tautly pulled walls of your entrance. It’s enough to renew your childlike kicking and whining, babbling and pleading for him to stop. Regardless, he pays you no mind, opting only to yank his hand from the roots of your hair. It stings and he takes several strands of hair with it, but you don’t have time to focus on the pain as his fingertips dig into the fat of your cheeks, flexing and forcing you to look up at him as he hunches his wiry frame over yours.

It’s hard to see through the haze of tears that blear your vision and thick black makeup caking around your eyes, but you can make out that he’s smiling. If you can call it that, that is. Cracked lips wet and parted, breathing hot, moist breath down onto your forehead. Lips curled upward in a nasty, smarmy grin. A slimy tongue trails along his teeth as he practically drools down onto your shoulder like you’re a thick cut of venison and he’s a rabid wolf ready to sink in his canines.

“You know, I never cared much for Halloween,” His hips cant forward ever so slightly and begins to push the tip inside your unwilling hole. Slowly, slowly at first, but soon with more force. It hurts, morphing from a dull ache into an intense sting the more his girthy length is stuffed snug inside between your thighs. “But Dabi was right- it’s a lot more fun when you dress up.”

To punctuate the end of his sentence, he pulses his hips forward, sinking himself all the way inside and watching with a sick sense of glee as your face contorts in pain. He rolls his hips experimentally against your backside a few times, hissing in slight discomfort at the bittersweet tightness that strangles his flesh inside of yours. It stills him only for a brief moment, long enough for you to truly grasp the horrendous sensation of your body molding to accommodate something too large for it to have been ready to take.

However uncomfortable he may be, it’s nothing compared to what you’re feeling. It seems like a cruel joke that the wanted villain who set his sights on you that night would also have a monster cock, but Halloween was always the devil’s little prank show. He’s crammed it inside you with no regard for the damage it might do, pain radiating in the deep of your stomach as his cockhead is scrunched firmly against the wall of your cervix. Your fingers dig deeper into the dirt, but not to escape. You’re aware you’re too firmly impaled on him for that to be an option, so you settle for trying to give yourself any sensation at all that will lessen the unholy tear of your already sensitive pussy.

Eventually he decides he’s had enough of memorizing your pretty, anguished face, and his movements begin anew. Hips pistoning in a building rhythm, flesh of his thighs slapping obscenely against your bare ass. The protruding stem of the pumpkin grates into your abdomen, forcing pained, breathy ‘ah’s from you with every powerful hump. The anguishing drag of his cock assaulting your insides begins to blend together one after the next, and you do your best to block out the animalistic grunts and a sickening moans he emits with every thrust.

Eventually he lets your face go in favor of sinking his fingers just below your waist to anchor you in place as he pounds away, and you take the opportunity to drop your head in defeat and clench your eyes shut. He’ll get bored of you or he’ll cum. It’s what comes after that you should really be worried about. By the sounds he’s making, he’s far from losing interest. He seems to be getting a bit carried away, muttering something along the lines of “take it, slut” and needing to celebrate holidays more often.

That’s when you hear it.

Spooky, scary, skeletons send shivers down your spine

At first, you think it’s a joke. Like you’re having some sort of twisted nightmare and reality has finally decided to throw you a bone to lead your consciousness back home. But his manic fucking never stops and neither does the pain.

Shrieking souls with shock your soul, seal your doom tonight

A few blinks to clear the fresh wave of agony and one hand digging into the side of the pumpkin to stable yourself enough against his rutting to search for the source of the noise. There’s a glowing light a few feet from you, flashing and vibrating but just out of reach.

Your phone. It’s your phone. Your bag had landed not far from where he had you pinned, and your phone had been thrown from the bag.

Your new October ringtone plays through the damaged speakers, flashing your best friends face on the screen. She’s looking for you, probably wondering where you went. She’d never find you here. No one would.

We’re so sorry skeletons, you’re so misunderstood

Help is so close, yet so far away. Your sobs begin anew, feeling his cock pulse as he whines something about breeding his pretty little bitch into your ear. He’s cumming inside you, papping his hips against you in a shallow, offbeat rhythm. You can feel it, hear it squelching and leaking down your thighs. He came. Inside you. And judging from what few words you can make out between your agonized cries, he has every intention of doing it again.

You just want to socialize but I don’t think we should

[aerynwrites]

The Devil You Know - Part 4

Figuring Things Out

(Gif by: @pedroispunk)

Author’s Note: Finally! Here is Chapter 4. I really really hope you guys enjoy this chapter because I had so much fun writing this you have no idea. I would really love to hear what you guys think about this chapter, and the series in general, hearing your feedback really helps keep me motivated to keep writing!

Word Count: 5.8k (oopsie)

Warnings: blood, canon typical violence, slight NSFW themes, fluff.

As always spanish to english translations are located at the bottom. (I do not speak spanish, so I am sorry for any formalities or things i got wrong)

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////

In the past week, it feels like nothing was going your way. You and Steve had made a considerable amount of headway in the investigation against the Los Carnales cartel, having gained some valuable info on the inner workings of the cartel and how they operated. However, just as good things started to happen, another problem seemed to crop up. It all pretty much started a few days after your date with Javier. An unknown group was on a violent streak in the area – market shootings, assassinations of important figures, and even bombings had started to crop up out of nowhere. The only conclusion that either you or Steve could come to was that they were part of the cartel – perhaps out to cause trouble in order to distract you and the Embassy from the bigger picture. But you weren’t having it, they were not about to stop you from taking the cartel down, not now. Which is why you ended up with Carrillo’s men at the town hall several blocks away.

Colonel Carrillo had received intel that the town hall was the next target of a bombing – and you all intended to stop it. And it seemed like you would, as you pulled up to the town hall just in time to see a small group of men crouched by the side of the building. The caravan screeched to  a halt in front of the building starling the men, just as You, Steve, and the Search Bloc exited your vehicles. At the sight of you all, the men scattered, running in all different directions.

You weren’t going to lose them.

“Steve with me!” you call to your partner, taking off to the right and following one of the men who bolted.

The man didn’t argue, just followed in your footsteps as you pursued the runner down various alleyways. It feels like a maze as you continue to chase after him, until you and Steve round the corner to a dead end, seeing the man flounder for an escape but unable to find one. You can feel your frustration from the past week bubble up inside you, along with your aggravation from the chase, and it fuels your actions as you stalk towards the man, gun aimed towards him as you approach.

“¡Manos donde pueda verlos pendejo!” you call, watching in slight surprise as he actually complies with your order.

He raises his hands above his head as you continue to approach, Steve comes with you and he cuffs him as you keep your gun aimed at the stranger until he’s securely apprehended. You drop your weapon slightly, guard still up, and walk until you’re only a few paces away.

“¿Por qué estabas en el Ayuntamiento?” you snap, voice harsh, “¿Para quién trabajas, eh?”

The man, who you quickly realize is quite young, probably only in his late twenties, rolls his eyes before spitting at your feet, “No te estoy diciendo nada, cerdo.”

It’s like his words cause the very thin string in you to finally snap, because before you can stop yourself, you are reaching forward and grasping the front of his shirt in your fist. You yank him from Steve’s grip and turn around, shoving him forward roughly. He stumbles, falling to the ground hard before rolling over onto his back, sending you a glare.

You take a few threatening steps forward, gun still lowered until you are standing at his feet, “si quieres salir de aquí, me vas a dar algo imbécil,” you say, your tone leaving nothing up for negotiation, as your patience starts to run thin.

However, he doesn’t seem to get the message, because instead of giving you an answer, he kicks his feet out in an attempt to knock you down. But you saw this coming and stepped out of the way before raising your gun.

“Wrong answer.”

Before either Steve or the perp on the ground could say anything, you pull the trigger on your pistol sending a round into the ground just inches from the man’s head, making concrete fly into the air. The man shrieks, and before you know it Steve is by your side hand on your weapon pushing it to the side forcefully.

“What the fuck was that?” he grinds out, eyes searching your face, a tinge of worry on his features.

You huff, “I’m trying to get answers, Steve! And if this asshole won’t give them to us, then I’ll make him,” you hiss, pushing your partner out of the way and stalking towards your target.

You don’t get very far before the man is holding his cuffed hands up, fear in his eyes, “No, no, por favor –“ he begs, “Por favor, no me mates, te diré lo que quieras, por favor.”

You don’t holster your weapon, ”¿Trabajas para el cartel, Los carnales?”

The man shakes his head violently, “No, señora. Estábamos con el cártel, pero nos fuimos. Queríamos hacer las cosas a su manera – el camino fuerte.”

Your eyes widen at the information, and you finally – slowly – holster your pistol, just as Carrillo enters the alleyway, a few of his men with him.

“What the hell happened?” he asked, “We heard a gunshot.”

You shook your head, “it was nothing,” you lie, seeing Steve roll his eyes in your periphery before turning your attention back to Carrillo, “Take him in,” you point to the man still on the ground, “He can give us more information. This group isn’t cartel like we thought, they used to be with the cartel, but they left. And they left for a reason,” you say.

Steve steps forward at this point, “So he could tell us why, and probably where the rest of the rogues are holed up,” he states, piecing together the situation.

Carrillo nods, turning back to his men and barking a few orders. They pick the man up and lead him away as Carrillo turns towards you, for once a hopeful look in his eye, “Good work. Maybe we can stop them before they do more damage,” he says, shaking your and Steve’s hand before returning the way they came.

You moved to follow after him, but a hand on your wrist stopped you. you turn to see Steve, brows furrowed together as he stares at you.

“What Steve?” you sigh, fully aware of what he was going to say.

“What the fuck was that?” he snaps, “You don’t even like being in the same building when Carrillo’s is questioning people, yet here you were ready to shoot someone – an unarmed someone – in the middle of the street.”

You yank your hand out of his grasp immediately defensive, “I did what I had to do Steve, we got answers didn’t we?” you sneer, turning to head back to the caravan, “come on. Before we get left behind.”

You hear Steve let out a frustrated sigh, before his footsteps followed you. you wouldn’t admit it, but your actions scared you. You never intended to almost blow the guy’s head off. You’ve never gotten that violent with an assailant before, so what has changed? This investigation, this cartel, Carlos’s death, it was all starting to have an effect on you.

What is happening to you?

***

It was nearing the end of the day as You and Steve started planning a raid of the rogue’s hide out. Carrillo had easily managed to get the information out of the man you had caught, finding out that the group was using a small house on the outskirts of the city as their base of operations. That left you and Steve the responsibility of planning the logistics of the raid, Carrillo would come in to help tomorrow.

“Hello?” Steve’s voice called, snapping you from your distracted state.

“Hmm?” you hummed, looking up from the papers on your desk to your partner who was giving you a somewhat concerned look.

“Are you okay?” he asks, “You’ve been out of it lately…you seem off,” he finally states, words laced with concern.

He wasn’t wrong. You had been out of sorts the past few weeks, unable to sleep properly ever since the shooting in the market. Ever since Carlos. When you did manage to find sleep, it was plagued with nightmares, images of Carlos lying on the ground or even Steve being the one on the floor instead. The lack of sleep was all starting to catch up with you, and evidently it was showing. Both in your actions today and in your life in general.

You let out a small sigh, “I’m fine Steve,” you begin, “I’ve just been distracted lately, this case has been…getting to me. That’s all,” you reply flippantly, deciding not to worry our partner with your personal problems. You’re sure he has plenty of his own to worry about, no need to add your issues on top.

Steve doesn’t seem entirely convinced, still obviously upset by your earlier display and so attuned to you by now after being partners for so long – but he sighs and lets it go.

“Well no better way to get your mind off of things than a few drinks, right?” he asks dropping his pen and looking at his watch, “Connie and I were going to go and grab some drinks after work. You should come,” he looks at you expectantly.

You mull over his proposition for a moment. You had intended on going back to your place – possibly seeing if Javier wanted to get together again, but maybe you could go for a drink instead. It sounded a lot more fun than moping around your apartment.

So, you nod, “Sure. Is it okay if I invite a friend though?” you ask, not wanting to intrude on Steve’s plans.

A mischievous look crosses your partners face as he wiggles his eyebrows, “hmm, a friend huh? How come I’ve never heard of this friend before now?” he teases, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head.

You feel your face flush at his jests, you open your mouth to speak, your initial reaction to say that Javier was more than just a friend, but you stopped yourself. You stopped because you weren’t even sure if that was true. Obviously, what you and Javier had was more than just friendship, but neither of you had put a label on it yet – so what were you really? Fuck buddies, friends with benefits? You shook your head – you would have to figure this out later.

“I didn’t think it was important,” you shrug, “We’ve only known each other for a couple of weeks. Our jobs keep us busy.”

Steve just hums, before standing from his seat, “Okay well, I have to go pick up Connie and then I’ll see you and your friend at the bar,” he says, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair and heading towards the door.

You rolled your eyes at your partner before leaning forward and picking the phone up off the receiver to call Javier. You felt the all too familiar feeling of butterflies in your stomach as you dialed his number and waited for his answer. You all had talked a few times since your date, but you haven’t met up since – you both had been busy with work. You were chasing the rogue cartel members while Javier was dealing with his family’s plantation. At least that’s what he told you.

Little did you know, he was also trying to deal with the rogues that left his cartel and stole his goods. He had caught a few of them – making sure they understood the repercussions of their actions. Maybe if he was a little…louder in his methods of dealing with the traitors, no one would try to undermine him again. He was actually in the middle of discussing the rogue members movements with his men when his phone started ringing. He sighed, pulling the cigarette from his lips and snuffing it out in the ash tray before answering the phone.

“Buenos,” He mumbled into the receiver, hoping to make this conversation quick.

“Javi?” your sweet voice asked through the receiver, and he immediately sat up straighter, snapping at his men and pointing them out of the room. The obeyed without question.

“Bonita?” he asked, when his men were out of earshot, “Is something wrong?”

His heart sped up a little when your bubbling laughter reached his ears, “No, nothing’s wrong,” you reassure, “I was calling to see if you were free, actually.”

Javier didn’t answer right away, he was too busy trying to get his racing heart to slow and quell the feeling in his belly. He hadn’t asked for more dates or meet ups since the one a few weeks ago for a reason. He was still trying to gather himself, still trying to figure out what the hell he had gotten himself into. He was trying to figure out if it was even a good idea to still be around you anymore – it was all too confusing, too complicated for him to logically continue this way. yet, no matter how hard he tried, he felt drawn to you. He found himself eagerly awaiting phone calls from you, waiting to hear your voice and your laugh, to see your smile – and this worried him.

“Are you still there?” you voice spoke timidly.

Javier shook his head, as if that would somehow expel the thoughts from his mind and sat forward in his chair letting out a loud sigh, “Yeah I’m here.”

It’s like you could hear his inner turmoil, because before he could continue, you were speaking again, “if you’re not that’s fine –“ your words were spoken quickly, the words jumbling over themselves as you continued to ramble, “I just – my partner and his wife were going to get some drinks in a little bit and asked if I wanted to come and – and well I just thought that maybe you would want to come?” he could hear the hopefulness in your words despite the winded explanation, and he opened his mouth to respond but you beat him to it again.

“But I know you’re probably busy, and this is so last minute, I should have known-“

“Hey, hey slow down,” he cut off your rambling, voice amused yet firm, “I would love to come,” he said, and he meant it.

He just couldn’t stay away from you, and plus, one more night out wouldn’t hurt anything.

“Great! That’s –“ he heard you take in a deep breath, “That’s great, I’ll see you there – It’s the bar we usually go to,” you say, voice light and filled with relief.

“Okay,” he said, “I’m out at the plantation right now so it will take me a bit to get into town, but I’ll start heading that way.”

“okay, drive safe,” you tell him.

Javier smiles at your words, amused at your small show of concern for him, “I will. see you soon princesa.”

He then pulls the phone away from his ear and set it back down into its cradle, a large smile lingering on his lips.

God, what has he done to himself?

***

“So,” Connie begins, taking a sip from her drink, “What is this friend of your like?” she asks, curiosity lacing her words.

Steve took this opportunity to jump in as well, “Yes, please enlighten us on the details of this friend you never told us about.”

You roll your eyes. You, Steve, and Connie had arrived at the bar about half an hour ago and you had managed to avoid the topic of Javier until now. But it seems their curiosity got the better of them, so you decided to give in.

“Well I met him here actually,” you inform, reaching out and taking a few peanuts from the bowl on the table and popping them in your mouth, “it was the day we got the Cartel case. I came to celebrate, and he struck up a conversation with me.”

Connie’s leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand, “Is he handsome?”

You saw Steve roll his eyes as he took a swig of his beer, before you answered her question, “Yes Connie,” you giggle, “He’s quite easy on the eyes,” you then feel a flush creep up your cheeks and you start to pick at a thread on the dress you had changed into, “Not too bad in the more…physical realm either,” you mumble.

You hear Connie let out a high pitch giggle at your comment just as Steve lets out a low groan and stands from his seat, “And that’s my cue to go get more drinks – you guys are terrible,” he chastises playfully walking over to the bar to get more drinks for the table.

Connie immediately leans into the table, voice lowered slightly as her eyes sparkled with mischief, “So…Spill!”

If your face wasn’t flushed already, you knew it had to be red as a tomato now, “I’m not just going to talk about my sexual exploits Connie!”

She whines, “Why not? I need details! I’ve been with Steve forever – and while he is far from disappointing –“

You wave your hands in the air and make an exaggerated gagging noise, “Connie stop. Oh my god I do not need to know about my partners sex life, please.”

She just lets out a loud laugh and takes another sip of her drink, “Come on – Please?” she practically begs, “Is he like totally vanilla? Or is he into to other things?”

You cover your face with your hands, “Connie, please!”

She shakes her head, “I’m not gonna stop until you give me something. so is he-“

You finally plant your hands firmly on the table, “Oh my god okay!” you whisper shout, “no he’s not totally vanilla, yes he’s into other stuff, and before you ask because I know you will – Yes he is above average. Are you happy now?” you huff, the heat of embarrassment creeping up your neck.

You expect the woman to throw even more questions at you but instead you see her hand over her mouth, stifling laughter as she looks behind you.

“So,” a familiar baritone fills your ears, “I’m above average, huh?”

You slowly turned to the side, seeing Javier standing just to the side and behind you, a smug grin on his face and a sparkle in his eye. If the earth were to open up beneath you right now, you would have gladly dived in headfirst. Your skin was hot with embarrassment as Javier leaned over and pressed a kiss to your lips before sliding into the booth next to you.

“How much of that did you hear exactly?” you mumbled.

Javier just chuckled and slid his arm around your waist and pressed another kiss to your temple, his lips ghosting over your ear, “Oh, I heard enough,” he whispered, breath warm as it fanned over your already heated skin.

You wanted to shrink down into your seat, but Javier didn’t give you time to dwell in your embarrassment as he extended his hand to Connie, “Javier. It’s nice to meet you – although it sounds like you already know who I am,” he introduces, voice teasing.

Connie takes his hand in her own politely, “Well actually she hadn’t even told me your name yet,” she says, sending a playful wink your way and letting Javier take his hand back.

Javier just gave you an amused look, “you didn’t even tell her my name before you told her all about my –“

You cut him off, pointing an accusing finger at Connie, “She was the one who asked!” you cried, “I didn’t even want to have this discussion.”

“What discussion?” Steve’s voice asked, returning to the table with drinks in hand.

“Oh, Steve thank god-“ you whine, “Please save me from your wife and the trouble she has caused me.”

Steve just laughs, and sets the drinks down before sliding into the booth, his eyes landing on Javier as he passes the drinks around, “Hey man, I hope you like whiskey, because that’s what I’ve got,” he said, offering a glass of amber liquid to Javier.

He just nods, taking the glass from Steve’s hand and pulling his arm from around your waist to offer it to Steve, “My favorite, actually,” he says, shaking hands with Steve firmly, “Javier. And you must be Steve.”

Your partner smiles and nods, casting a glance your way, “That’s me,” he takes a sip of his drink, “Hope missy over there hasn’t told you all bad things.”

You chuckle at his words and felt the butterflies return as Javi gives one of his own laughs and returns his arm to your waist, “Not all bad things,” he jests, “but she’s told me some pretty good stories.”

The night goes on like this, just the four of you talking and catching up as if you were all old friends. It was a comforting feeling, knowing that Javier seemed to fit right in with you and the people you cared about. It was all so…domestic – and it brought your thoughts from earlier back. what was this between you and Javier? Despite not having an answer, you found yourself wanting more. More of this…whatever this was. And the fact that Javier had gotten more handsy as the night drew on wasn’t helping this feeling.

“So, what is it you do for work Javier?” Steve asked, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offering one to the man next to you.

He graciously accepts and pulls his arm from around you to grab his lighter. He puts the stick between his lips and opens his lighter, igniting the cigarette and storing his lighter away.

“My family owns a coffee bean plantation on the outskirts of town. I’m in charge of the managerial side of things – exports, profits, shipping, stuff like that,” he explains.

You expected him to wrap his arm around you again but are caught off guard when instead his hand falls to your thigh, his fingers creeping under the hem of your dress slightly. suddenly you were very happy you decided to go home and change before meeting the group at the bar.

You tried to pay attention to the conversation, dropping in when you had something to add, but you found it harder and harder to focus with his hand on you. He would switch from rubbing soothing circles in your skin to gliding his hand up and down, stopping a little higher each time. Eventually after several torturous moments of this, his hand rested a little too high for your comfort and you shot up from your seat slightly.

“I-uh,” you stumbled over your words, “I’m gonna go get more drinks. Do you guys want anymore?” you ask, sending a playful glare to Javier asking him to move so you could get out.

They all nodded their confirmation as Javier slid from the booth to let you out. He helped you stand before returning to his seat, sending you a playful wink as you walked to the bar.

That coy bastard. He knew what he was doing to you, and he was proud of it. You stuck your tongue out at him playfully and watch as his shoulders shook with laughter as he returned to his conversation.

You finally made it up to the bar and waved the bartender down, ordering your drinks. You waited patiently for him to make some other customers drinks before he got to yours. You leaned your elbows on the bar, leaning forward just slightly as you waited, when suddenly you felt a presence at your side – a little too close for comfort. You turned and you saw an unfamiliar man standing next to you, eyes unabashedly roaming your figure.

“Te ves bien esta noche Chica,” He called, eyes never leaving your body.

You scoff and turn away from him, silently begging the bartender to hurry up. That is until you felt a harsh grip on your upper arm.

“Oye, te estoy hablando bruja,” his voice snaps, turning you harshly to face him.

“¡Suéltame cabrón!” you snarl, trying to pry his hand from you.

But before you can shove him off, he’s pulling you closer to him his free hand coming down to grab your ass, “¿Por qué?” His breath is warm and reeks of alcohol as it fans over your face, “Apuesto a que podría follarte mejor que ese pendejo de ahí” he breathes, making your stomach churn as he shoves his nose into your neck.

You push at him even harder now, “Get your fucking hands off of me!” you shout, the last word coming out high pitched as he groped you harder.

Before you even realized what was happening, the man was being ripped off of you and thrown to the ground and Connie and Steve were by your side, questions spilling from their lips – asking if you were okay and what had happened. But you couldn’t focus, your eyes were glued to the scene in front of you as Javier stood over the man who assaulted you, his shirt gripped fiercely in one hand while the other laid blow after sickening blow to the man’s face. You heard shouts from the other patrons in the bar and it finally broke you from your stupor. You pulled out of your friends grasp and moved towards Javier, who was still beating the absolute shit out of the guy while cursing at him.

“No la tocas, ¿me oyes?” he yelled, every other word enunciated by another blow.

You finally reach them and lunge for Javier, hands wrapping forcefully around his arm before he can hit the man again, “Javier stop!” you shouted.

But he didn’t stop, he just pulled his arm from your grip and continued beating the guy, and at this point a small seed of fear planted itself in your chest. The feral look on Javi’s face and the utter ruthlessness in his actions worried you. He was going to kill this man.

You looked back at Steve quickly, eyes begging for help, and he seemed to get the message. He rushed forward, and with your combined strength, you were able to pull Javier away from the man. You heard the bartender yell at you all to get out and you didn’t argue, glancing back and seeing the man unconscious on the floor as a few people crowded around him. once you were to the door of the bar, Javier roughly shrugged from your and Steve’s grip and shoved the doors open. You winced at the sound of them slamming against the wall before following him out.

You turned behind you, seeing that Connie had thoughtfully managed to grab all of your things from the table before you were kicked out, and you took your purse from her.

“I’m so sorry,” you say looking from them back to Javier who was lighting another cigarette and taking a long drag, “You guys should go home, I’ll talk to him.”

Steve looked at you warily, “Are you sure you want to be alone with him? After what he just did?”

You put a reassuring hand on his arm, giving it a small squeeze, “He won’t hurt me Steve, I promise.”

He glanced from you to the man a few feet away before sighing and pulling you into a hug, “okay,” he said, and you moved to give Connie a hug as well before stepping back slightly, “I’ll see you at work tomorrow,” Steve said, tugging Connie closer to him and turning to walk back to their car.

You let out a small sigh before turning around to go to Javier – this was not how this night was supposed to go. As you approach him you see that he has calmed down slightly, the only thing off about him is the hand holding his cigarette is shaking, blood and bruising covering his knuckles. He speaks before you can, stepping towards you as one hand cradles your face.

“Are you okay, Querida?” he asks gently, his eyes dancing across your face for any indication that you were harmed.

You shake your head and take his hand in yours, removing it from your cheek, “What was that Javier?” you question.

His lips fell into a firm line and he clenched his jaw for a moment before pulling the cigarette to his mouth and taking a deep breath. you wait patiently, as he exhales the smoke slowly, eyes looking off into the distance.

“I just-“ he sighed, scratching his brow with his thumb, the smoldering stick held between his fingers, “when I saw what has happening – when I saw his hands all over you – touching you like that,” his voice is filled with disgust as he takes another drag, breathing out the smoke again, “It’s like I couldn’t stop myself, I just – He shouldn’t have touched you like that.”

As you watched him take one final drag before tossing the filter to the ground and squashing it, you couldn’t help the conflicted feelings that bubbled inside you. You were grateful to him, obviously, that man had assaulted you and who knows what would have happened if Javier hadn’t stepped in. He protected you, something that should make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside. Yet, as you looked at his bloodied hand and remembered the primal scene in the bar…you also felt scared. Javier absolutely lost it, and he was powerful, you saw that on full display. So why did you still feel drawn to him? you should tell him to get lost, that you never want to see him again, but words spill out of your mouth faster than you can stop them, as you take his injured hand in your gently.

“Come on,” you whisper, tugging him in the direction of your car, “Let’s at least get your hand taken care of.”

***

The car ride to your apartment was silent, neither of you saying a word until you entered your apartment and locked the door behind you. You wordlessly walked into the kitchen and Javier followed, watching as you dug around under the sink for the first aid kit. Once you had it in hand you walked over and pulled a stool out from under the island, pointing to it.

“Sit,” you command quietly, grabbing the disinfectant and gauze from the kit while he got situated.

Javier was silent for a while, a million thoughts running through his head as he watched you work. But the one that kept coming to the fore front of his mind was the one that bothered him most. He was worried he had ruined everything.

But why should he be? This is what he wanted after all – an excuse to get away from you and the feeling you stirred within him. however, the only thing he felt at the thought was an intense ache. He didn’t want to entertain the idea of never seeing you again, especially if it was because you were scared of him. He was surrounded by people that were scared of him every day, the citizens of this country were scared of him and they didn’t even know who he was. El Diablo is what they called him, the devil. He scoffed at the thought, and that seemed to catch your attention.

You glanced up from your work, catching his gaze before looking back down again, “Penny for you thoughts?”

He doesn’t answer right away, only speaking when you finish with his hand, tying the gauze into place and taking a step closer to him.

He finally looks up at you, your eyes level with his with him sitting down and you standing in front of him, “are you afraid? Of me?” his words are quiet and they rumble in his chest as he speaks.

Your eyes soften at his words, and you fold your arms in front of you loosely, shrugging your shoulders, “What you did was insane, Javi. It was – “ you chew on the inside of your cheek momentarily before continuing, “yeah, I was scared,” you breath.

You watch as he seems to deflate at your words so you step forward quickly, hands coming to rest on the back of his neck, “But I’m not afraid of you,” you assure, “I know you would never hurt me. At least I would hope not.”

His head snaps up at your words and he stands from his seat, taking your face in his hands firmly, “No, no, never,” he stressed, “I would never hurt you.”

He doesn’t let you respond, he just surges forward, connecting his lips to yours in a fierce kiss. It’s desperate and needy, as his lips clash with yours, and his tongue swipes along your lower lip. You don’t hesitate in allowing him entrance. Your mouths move against each other hungrily – like you both had been starved before this moment, every emotion either of you had held back was thrown into this kiss, this…declaration. His hands move from your face down your body until they land on your hips, squeezing harshly and earning a gasp from you. Your hands had moved up, fingers carding through his hair and tugging slightly just as his hands gave you another harsh grasp, and the groan he emits is sinful as he pulls away from you.

You can see what he wants, the desire plain as day in his eyes, and you want to say something, anything, but he attaches his lips to your neck and your brain seems to short circuit, failing to get the one question you have been holding onto all night past your lips. but the feeling of his fingers creeping under the hem of your sundress kick starts your brain again and you push at his shoulders lightly.

He pulls away immediately, worried eyes searching yours, “What’s wrong? Did I – “

“What is this?” you blurt out, the words spilling over your lips before you can stop them, causing a silence to hang in the air.

It was out. The question you had been thinking about all day - that had been plaguing your mind since your first date. And Javier didn’t know how to respond. His mind, previously foggy with lust and too many emotions he couldn’t identify, was now blank. He didn’t know how to answer, because he didn’t have one. What were you? were you friends?

No estúpido, you’re more than that.

Friends with benefits?

He shook his head at this thought. No, that wasn’t it either.

You pulled away from him slightly, “Javi?”

He looked up to you now, unable to miss the innocent hope in your eyes as you waited for his answer, so he shook his head again, closing his eyes momentarily before looking back up to you.

“What do you want us to be?”

///

Translations:

¡Manos donde pueda verlos pendejos! – hands where I can see them asshole!

¿Por qué estabas en el Ayuntamiento? – why were you at town hall?

¿Para quién trabajas, eh? – who do you work for, huh?

No te estoy diciendo nada, cerdo. – I’m not telling you anything, pig.

si quieres salir de aquí, me vas a dar algo imbécil – If you want to walk out of here, you’re going to give me something asshole.

Por favor, no me mates, te diré lo que quieras, por favor – Please don’t kill me, I’ll tell you whatever you want, please.

¿Trabajas para el cartel – Do you work for the cartel?

No, señora. Estábamos con el cártel, pero nos fuimos. Queríamos hacer las cosas a su manera – el camino fuerte. – No ma’am. We were with the cartel, but we left. We wanted to do things out own way – the loud way.

Te ves bien esta noche Chica – you look good tonight girl.

Oye, te estoy hablando bruja – hey, I’m talking to you bitch!

¡Suéltame cabrón! – Let go of me bastard!

Por Que – Why?

Apuesto a que podría follarte mejor que ese pendejo de ahí – I bet I could fuck you better than that asshole over there,

No la tocas, ¿me oyes? – you don’t fucking touch her. Do you hear me?

////

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[hellowkatey]

angstpril day 12: dying words

Summary: Qui-Gon lives after the duel at Naboo, but the Force isn’t happy about it. Fate had already predetermined this was to be his final hours, and now he lives on borrowed time. The Force beckons, and Qui-Gon is rushing to tie up his loose ends before he fulfills his fate.

part 1 | part 2 | read on AO3

warnings: major character death (surprise surprise)

Unfinished Business (part 3)

It should be easier to come to terms with death when you know the very moment you will die. It's a cruel thing to know the moment you will cease to live.

It should be comforting to know it will be painless. Timely. As quick as the time it takes to breathe, but after the exhale there will be no inhale that follows.

Dying should be the easy part of all of this because there is no death, only the Force. It's a phrase Qui-Gon has muttered to himself many times in his years of being a Jedi, and yet... he sits on his funeral pyre and realizes he isn't ready and certainly isn't comforted.

Qui-Gon knows he was meant to die in that duel. He knows he was meant to take his last breath in the arms of his padawan, and the galaxy was meant to move onward. But the galaxy was also doomed to darkness, and if the Force let him see the suffering, he rationalized that it was asking him to stop it.

The Force denies that as its motive. Apparently, he misread the situation. Qui-Gon always thought the past was meant to flash before your eyes in the final moments before death, but apparently, it is the future you leave behind. Maybe for some who worry about missing who their loved ones will turn out to be, it's a positive. A last happy note before becoming one with the Force.

For Qui-Gon, it felt like a slap to the face. Everything he had worked for, everything the Force had led him to, was just going to end in darkness? It couldn't be right. Not with Anakin being the Chosen One. Not with the Jedi at the height of their strength, and the Force the embodiment of light. No. Qui-Gon was always taught that the future is not set in stone. Fates change as frequently as stars die across the galaxy; the future is as unknown as where the next star will be born. This is a future he cannot allow to prosper.

Looking around, he can feel things are already different.

Anakin stands at the foot of his pyre outfitted in youngling robes and a freshly buzzed haircut. His eyes are big and brimmed with tears, but there's a soft smile on his face as Qui-Gon locks eyes with him. The Chosen One has a long way to go, but his progress has already been impressive. Qui-Gon managed to convince the council to send out representatives to Outer Rim to finally investigate the issue of slavery. They've operated under the safe thumb of the Republic for far too long. Jedi are meant to step out of their zones of comfort. When he has completed his youngling training he will likely become Obi-Wan's padawan. Though they haven't yet made their partnership formal, Qui-Gon is pleased to see a faint thread of a bond already forming between the two of them.

They are two beacons of light in the Force, seemingly meant to be intertwined. While the thought of such a pairing is daunting to Qui-Gon with what he saw, he sees the divergence from his vision. Anakin's undertones of anger and insecurity have diminished greatly. Obi-Wan's signature is not laced with pain and tragedy. Whatever he has done here, whether it is a permanent or temporary detour from the future, he has at least done his duty. As a Jedi, it is all he can ask for.

It's time.

Qui-Gon raises his eyes, taking in the room of what feels like half the Jedi Temple. His gaze falls upon Obi-Wan. The new knight stands with his cloak pulled tight around him and shields pulled tighter. Behind him stands the imposing presence of his own master. It's been a few years since he's seen him. His hair has gone completely gray now, and his face has begun to show his age. Dooku still has that unreadable neutrality that used to drive Qui-Gon mad, but he can at least feel their dormant bond buzz slightly with feelings of serenity.

"Padawan," Qui-Gon says, and Obi-Wan approaches with his usual obedience. Now closer, the Jedi Master can see the anxiety behind his eyes and feel the racing of his mind. "The time has come."

"Are you... sure, Master?" The break in his voice is enough for Qui-Gon to question it himself. But the feeling is undeniable. For the first time in his life, the Living Force has fallen silent. He can feel the faint signatures of his fellow Jedi around him, but he has lost the connection to the energy that flows through them all. Instead, he feels the Cosmic Force creeping out of his periphery. It builds-- the same intensity, if not greater, than the Force he has come to know through his life. The last chapter of his life has already closed, and now he must submit to the next one.

"Obi-Wan, I want you to know..." he starts aloud, but shifts to the bond that flows between them-- the last piece of the Living Force he has a grasp of. 'I am so very proud of you. Your strength, your talent in the Force, and your unbreakable will have continued to impress me these last twelve years.'

Obi-Wan stares at him. Silent tears run down his cheek. 'It has been because of your teachings, Master.'

'Some perhaps,' he replies. Obi-Wan smiles. 'but there is so much more that I couldn't have taught you. Qualities that are inherent and cannot be taught. You serve a very important purpose in this galaxy, my padawan. Let the Force guide you to it.'

The exertion makes him lightheaded, and he pulls out of their bond as carefully as he can. Obi-Wan's face falls as Qui-Gon takes care to lock up his side. Bleeding bonds are a painful experience, and though there is no way this will be comfortable with his former padawan, he can try and make it a little easier. He looks back to Anakin now and reaches out his hand.

"Come, Anakin."

The boy walks to him with half the confidence he displayed when he ran into them on Tatooine. He stands on the other side of the pyre, staring at him with uncertainty.

"Do you have to go?"

"Yes, Ani, I do."

"But you're fine now. Your injury--"

"My injury has healed, yes, but my spirit hasn't." Anakin chews on his lip. Qui-Gon does wish he had more time to explain but he will trust Obi-Wan to do that for now. "One day you will understand, young one. But for now, just know the Force has decided it is my time, and I am a servant of the Force. I am leaving because it is my fate."

"Fate," Anakin mutters, wiping away a tear with his sleeve.

"I will always be with you, Ani. In the Force."

The boy jumps forward suddenly, wrapping his small arms around his neck. He hugs the boy back, all the words he just said suddenly feeling as though he lied through his teeth. The realization is striking, and he looks to Obi-Wan who is staring at him with solemnity.

I don't want to go.

But the moment he realizes this is the moment the Force decides his time has officially run out. Qui-Gon gasps slightly, and time feels as though it is slowing.

Anakin is pulled away from him, carried off with tears dripping off his chin by one of the council members. At some point, he was laid down, softly and carefully, and peering over him is Obi-Wan who takes care to brush all the loose hairs out of his face and smooth it down. Mace Windu stands on the other side, his eyes shut and hand resting supportively on Qui-Gon's wrist. Even Dooku has taken a place beside his grand-padawan, an arm on his shoulder, which is a comfort he doesn't often extend.

Though he isn't ready, and the room feels like the air has been sucked out of it, Qui-Gon does appreciate that this will be his final moment. Surrounded by everyone he loves and cherishes. Soon, he will join all the others he loves who can't be here in life, but are waiting for him in death.

He can feel his Life Force waning into nothing. In his final moments, he looks at his padawan who is desperately holding back his mourning.

"Here and now," he says, a mantra he so often repeated. And upon the last bit of his Life Force leaving, he is overtaken by the Cosmic, and the room full of people around him fades into a bright white.

The strange part about dying is that somehow everything he learned about it was right and completely wrong.

The transition from life to the afterlife was quick, yes, but painless would not be the word he would use to describe it. With the Living Force vacuumed out, his bonds are suffocated and torn from his consciousness. If he had a body and the ability to cry out he would-- yet the face he can feel such agony without a body is a mystery on its own. One by one, he feels his connection to that room of people sever. One by one, he is reminded that he is dead. Truly dead. Not in some sort of twilight, not a dream.

Yes, maybe they were right that death is not the end, it is the return to the Force, but right now he feels like an unwelcome guest. He is simultaneously drifting through nowhere and somehow everywhere in the galaxy. He has no sight, but he can feel and therefore he can see in the strange way that the Force allows him a different kind of insight.

When the last connection is torn, he truly feels as though he has been untethered and dropped into the middle of an ocean. He is trying to float, trying to keep his head up, but the forces that surround him are pushing him down. Qui-Gon grabs aimlessly until he feels a familiarity. A rope he's pulled before. So he does.

The future flashes before him again. If his previous pain wasn't enough, this is an entirely different one. The same agony. The same pit of despair. Light battles against light, except one side is horrifically tainted by an insidious dark hold. He feels the cold of darkness, the loneliness of involuntary solitude, and when he drops that link to the future as though it's burning him, he yells out into the void in despair.

"No! I was meant to prevent all of this! I lived so I could stop the darkness."

Qui-Gon has little experience with the Cosmic Force, so it surprises him when it replies.

The nature of fate is not yours to change.

"But the future... the future is not linear. It is not set in stone. Every choice... every action can change--"

You have changed the destinies of your loved ones, but their fates are solidified.

He's stupefied, his horror causing crazed desperation within him, and he flails away as though his spirit has any authority here. "I must go back! I must tell them what I know, prevent darkness from--"

You cannot return to that world. You cannot stop the darkness. This is the fate of the galaxy.

"Why?" He yells bitterly. "I-I- made sure Obi-Wan was prepared. I set Anakin on a better path, with more support."

There was a time when the Force would surround him and feel like a warm hug. It was his constant companion, his best friend. But now it wraps around him and he just feels like he is trapped. This is his end? His thanks for years of service to the Force? None of it ever mattered?

You cannot stop the darkness, the Force repeats. This is the fate of the galaxy.

[fenweak]

As requested! This rec list features Kazer Kid Fics -- Jonny and Patrick both with kids and babies AND as kids and babies, with a small dash of de-aging and a spoonful of mpreg. 

⭐ for my personal faves

My Other Rec Lists 🍭 Rec me a fic? 🍭

The Ones Where They Have Kids

No Capes by sorrylatenew ⭐ - j/p as parents; implied mpreg

Husbands. Dads. Retired superheroes.

The Reeducation of Misters Kane and Toews + timestamp by jezziejay - single dad Patrick, teacher Jonny  ⭐

In which Kaner sort of has a kid, and Mr. Toews doesn't know which of them is the bigger brat.

AU featuring teacher!Jon and hockey-player!Kaner. With bonus 'Hawks characters, love notes, pasta jewelry, Be Better Pizzas, pirouettes, a sprinke of angst and guest appearance by Derek Jeter.

trust your intuition (it's just like goin' fishin') by poeelektra - 1988 as parents

They’re on the periphery of the Home Wares section of Target, heading with purposeful stride toward Sporting Goods, when Gabe declares that he wants a doll for his “Been Good” toy.

Every Little Thing He Does (is magic) by jezziejay - single dad Patrick

Jonny Toews is a bewitching man who moves into a mysterious mansion in a small town. Soon, he opens Bell, Book & Candle, a curiosity shop full of candles, lotions, etc., and is enthralling the children of local police chief (Patrick Kane), who believe he is a witch (but not a bad one.) But not everyone in town is appreciative of their quirky new neighbor, and it may take a little bit of magic for him to truly become part of the community.

Under Cover by heartstrings - 1988 as parents

"Just get in the fucking blanket fort, Kaner."

Feels Like Family To Me + prequels by exmanhater - 1988 as parents

Jonathan Toews and Patrick Kane plan, create, and obtain their family.

living next door to alice series by cinderlily - 1988 as parents

"It started with a phone call."Patrick and Jonny are suddenly given the opportunity to be parents. This is how they stumble through it.

some say love is a burning thing podfic by exmanhater - 1988 as parents

If anyone had told Johnny upon entering the NHL that thirteen years later he'd not only have a kid with Patrick Kane, but would be getting ready to go on a 'date night,’ he'd have said they must be smoking some pretty good shit.And then he'd have to wait a decade to eat his words.

In the Middle of the Night - 1988 as parents

Gone are the days when it took a cold, wet washcloth on his face to wake him up. Or: Five times Pat and Jonny's daughter wakes them up, plus one time they wake her up.

so show me family - single dad Patrick

Call it a clan, call it a network, call it a tribe, call it a family. Whatever you call it, whoever you are, you need one. ~Jane Howard

Fill It Up With Love by Frosting50 - single dad Pat; implied mpreg

So Pat’s senior year doesn’t turn out exactly like he’d planned. He still gets his degree in accounting, but he also gets a little girl named Emma. She’s all fat pink cheeks, curly brown hair, and blue eyes. She might have Ryan’s chin, but she’s all Pat’s. And the first time she falls asleep on his chest, chubby hand curled around his thumb, skin so soft and sweet he damn-near feels bowled over with how much he loves her. He didn’t know he could love anyone so much; it makes his heart feel too big for his chest, and he knows that he’ll spend the rest of his life trying to give her the world.

peas & carrots by altri_uccelli - 1988 as parents

Unapologetic Halloween fluff, or: Jonny forgets what day it is, but Kaner's on it.

Can You Lyft Me Up? by Mullsandmutts - single dad Patrick

Even high profile athletes like Chicago Blackhawks Captain Jonathan Toews are forced to utilize paid transportation from time to time. An accidental "share my ride" selection on an app results in a life-altering ride with an mouthy Russian driver (Artemi), an unfairly attractive single father (Patrick Kane) and his adorable sassy (and color-matching-challenged) preschool daughter (introducing Molly Donna Patricia Amelia Kane aka Mo). Jonathan refuses to feel too sketch when he negotiates a plan with the driver to "accidentally" have more shared rides with his new friends. When Mo has a traumatic incident at day camp, Patrick's heart is broken and Jonny enlists the help of Temi and the ever-meddling Patrick Sharp to get smiles back on both Kane faces. Jonathan finds himself more and more drawn to Patrick but Patrick's fears of being a good enough parent for Mo and meeting all of her needs could keep them apart. Will Temi, the Sharp family and a trio of nosy aunts in Buffalo be enough to help Jonathan and Patrick realize what they could have together or will Patrick's stubbornness and Jonathan's fear of ruining their friendship keep them apart? Stay tuned to find out ....

Three by Linsky - i won’t spoil it 

Patrick doesn’t think he’s a pervert. But how would he know? Maybe a pervert is just a thing you are, and it doesn’t feel any different from being a normal person, until you do something perverted. Maybe that’s him.After all, he does have two names on his wrist.

All Your Memories by toewsandconfused - 1988 as parents; amnesiafic

Pat went to sleep a bachelor in the Trump Towers and woke up next to Jonny in the suburbs with three kids calling him Daddy. Struggling to figure out his new reality Patrick had ruled out dream, was banking on delusion because even though it meant he was losing his mind, it seemed safer than some kind of late-onset amnesia. He didn’t want to face that idea that this really was his life; that Jonny was his, that those beautiful kids were his, and he couldn’t remember any of it. The idea that the memories of their life together could be lost forever was too terrifying to deal with. Losing his mind was preferable to losing his memories.

Chelsea, Chelsea I Believe by empathapathique - single dad Pat ⭐

Patrick meets a girl his rookie year.

Don't Let Go by aohatsu - 1988 as adoptive parents

“So you were already with the boy you saved when the fire started?”Patrick pauses, but shakes his head. “No, there was an explosion—I don’t really know what it was, but then it was just me and Tigre, and it’s like, in a situation like that, you don’t really think? You just do. So I grabbed the kid and went through the fire escape. It’s not like I decided I wanted to save anybody, it was just the only option.”

Always Be My Baby by juliusschmidt - single dad Patrick

The thing is, you don’t just grow up once.

as careless as you are certain - single dad Patrick 

March through August, 2015.

the one with the baby yentas series by forochel

Tazer has a son and Kaner is his son's kindergarten teacher.

It's the Magic of Risking Everything by conformityissuicide - single dad Jonny

When Jonny is thirteen he meets a small kid from Buffalo at a hockey tournament.

Then he has a gay crisis, a baby girl, and gets drafted 3rd overall by an Original Six franchise.

When he meets Patrick Kane again at prospect camp he doesn’t feel anything but excitement.

And then it all goes to hell.

"of gifts and fireflies" by huntersandangels - single dad Jon

Patrick Kane hasn’t lived a charmed life despite money flowing through his veins. The journey he is currently on, though paved with good intentions, proves to be a harder challenge than he could ever be ready for. The people he meets along the way give him a much more valued gift than his grandfather could ever dream of giving him. 

I'm gonna love you til my lungs give out by arenadomatthews - 1988 as parents

“Papa, Dad, you guys are retiring today?” Bryan asks, looking up at his parents.“Yeah buddy, we are. Are you gonna behave while Dad and I are doing our press conference?” Patrick asks.

“Duh, Dad. I'm not a baby anymore,” he scoffs.

“He's right, Pat. He's our big boy now,” Jonny adds.

“Yeah, I'm going into 4th grade,” Bryan boasts pridefully.Patrick and Jonathan are finally announcing their retirement after 20 NHL seasons. However, their retirement ceremony will come with a twist: they'll be publicly coming out and revealing their family

Your Daddy's Aim Is True by thefourthvine; podfic by isweedan - cup wish baby! ⭐

patch it up by gasmsinc - 1988 as parents

Jonny stares at his daughter for a long moment. She stares back, eyes unwavering. She has Kaner’s baby blues, but at five she’s already mastered Jonny’s dead on the inside stare. Her kindergarten teacher claims she uses the unwavering look to bully other students into doing what she wants, and it’s something they should work on at home, but Jonny’s baby is a natural born leader, and he’s not going to get in her way of becoming the president, or, better yet, the supreme ruler of the universe.

Your patch,” says Jonny.

Baby, It's Hot Outside by toewsyourheart - single dad Pat 

 Jonny goes for a popsicle and gets a little bit more than he bargained for.

Take All That's Left - divorced single dad Pat

It’s been 6 years now, and he’s grown to enjoy the city since signing with the Rangers to follow Anna, who’d found a job in Brooklyn.

But Chicago; Chicago was Patrick’s first love, all his important firsts – it’s all been hers, and having to leave had been heartbreaking. Too many memories from Chicago were heartbreaking, and yet he always yearned for the city, always felt more comfortable walking her streets than any other place in the world. No other place quite felt like home the way Chicago did.

Isn’t She Lovely by windsthatwhisper + podfic by kanetcews (lavenderharry) - wish baby!

It's nine in the morning when Pat and Jonny stumble down the stairs, sluggish with sleep.

There’s a baby carrier on the kitchen island.

Jonny blinks, blinks again, then turns to get a cup of coffee.

Recreation, Entertainment, Art, or Sport by trademarkgiggle

of course jonathan toews can juggle

so show me family series by peeks, tazer - teacher Pat

“Just admit you like him.”

“Shut up, Sharpy,” Patrick says, before he rolls his eyes and tries to ignore the smirk widening on Sharpy’s lips. “Don’t you have your kids’ parents to bother?”

“No, my last kid left a couple minutes ago, so I’m totally here to watch you and Jonathan Toews make heart eyes at each other,” Sharpy laughs, waltzing into Patrick’s classroom. He immediately makes his way to see Sadie, who greets her dad with a hug.

(In which Patrick Kane is terrible at feelings but luckily, Patrick Sharp is a total bro.)

The Ones Where They’re With Kids

In My Blood and In My Bones + Nothing Sweet or Gentle by fourfreedoms ⭐

Patrick’s not really into dudes—he’s done that whole thing a couple of times—that’s rock-n-roll after all, but god, when Jonathan smiles, he looks really good.Johnny is a nanny. Patrick's a musician. They fall in love. Inspired by the movie What Maisie Knew.

the kids are alright

Patrick works at the sporting goods store Jonny takes his peewee team to for equipment.

given to us as free-flying souls by Mayhem10

Jonathan had never really considered himself particularly good with kids. He didn’t avoid them or anything and it’s not like they burst into tears when they saw his face, but he never was exactly sure what to do with them, these little people running around at waist height. It just wasn’t his area.So, of course, Patrick was basically the child whisperer.

(or five times Jonathan saw Patrick with kids and one time Patrick saw him)

Hide Your Face So The World Will Never Find You (Paper Faces On Parade) by huntersandangels

Jonathan Toews, farm owner and guardian of his nephew, is in desperate need of capable farm hands. Patrick Kane certainly does not fit the description but when a mutual friend confides in him that Patrick has lost everything he owned and is in serious need himself and offers Jonathan money to hire him, how can he say no?

Patrick Kane loves statistics and spending his money on thoroughly planned ‘adventures’ for his friends when he’s not partying away the rest of his fortune. If he wins the bet he can continue to plot freely but if he loses his extra curriculum activities have to stop. He agrees to go on an ‘adventure’ himself and settles in the Toews Farm posing as a farm hand. But as the time goes by, the less pretend it feels-and the more he enjoys Jonathan and Etienne’s company and the quite life in the farm; to the point where he’s not sure whether he wants to win the bet or lose...

Baby, You're the One by jezziejay ⭐

6k words of Jonathan Toews having feelings about babies. And feelings about Kaner. And feelings about putting a baby in Kaner.

The Ones Where They Are Kids

The Cat and the Fiddle series by james - childhood soulmates!

When Donna's son is four, he creates an imaginary friend.

i want to know what you know by sointimate - childhood sweethearts

Patrick is six years old and he's about to do the scariest thing he's ever done in his whole life.

Colorblind by july_v ⭐

Jon is five when he meets Patrick. It's also the time he begins to understand colors as more than an abstract concept.

How to become a man  series+ coda by liketheroad, mockturtletale

In which Kaner gets spontaneously de-aged into a six-year-old, and he and Tazer both have a lot of growing up to do.

Romper Room by james - de-aged 1988

Sharpie doesn't really think this should be part of his duty as alternate captain. Luckily, none of this is his fault. A.K.A., the one where Kaner and Johnny are five.

you ruined everything in the best way by thisissirius + podfic by exmanhater .⭐ - de-aged Saader

Kaner's looking down at the kid, though, frowning. He crouches down. "Hey, kid, where are your parents?

"The kid's bottom lip juts out and starts wobbling. Fuck, that means he's going to start crying, right?

"Oh shi—oot, kid, don't cry," Kaner says. "I mean, if you don't know where they are, we can find 'em?"

"Kaner," Sharpy presses. "That's Saad."

don't worry about your body - de-aged Jonny

No one said anything. Everyone stared at each other then down at the tiny human being that was standing where Jonny had been. Kaner felt his mouth go entirely dry, and his stomach drop out from underneath him.

What the fuck, man.

Can You Picture It? by RemyJane

In which Kaner turns into a baby and everyone besides Jonny seems to understand. Includes excessive cuddling, ridiculously adorable baby-Kaner, and feelings. Jonny eventually figures everything out.

Never Getting That Shirt Back by ice_hot_13 - de-aged Pat

Patrick is de-aged into a toddler, and when he's with Jonny, he isn't a holy terror.

Je T'aime by banks99 (Nodiggity15) - de-aged Jonny

“He won’t take a bath. He’s arguing with me. It’s like he didn’t even change at all.” Kaner’s not pouting, fuck you very much.

MPREG

I Got a Love (That Keeps Me Waiting) by svmadelyn ⭐ -mpreg!pat

There's a lot of different ways this summary could go, like:Patrick Kane gets more than a gold medal in Sochi.

Or, the classic: It's too late to pull out now.Or: Patrick Kane continues to thrive in high pressure situations.Or: Patrick Kane gets knocked up, goes to White Castle, and finds love, not necessarily in that order.

But, ultimately, all that really matters is this: Patrick Kane is keeping his baby.

private passions and secret storms (all the secrets series) by CoffeeKristin, Frosting50  - mpreg!pat

Jonny’s life is good - great even. He loves Patrick and their kids, and even if they don’t always have time for each other, he wouldn’t trade it for anything. But when Jeff Carter comes into his life, Jonny’s world gets turned upside down. It’s going to take everything he’s got to convince Patrick to give him a second - maybe even a third - chance.

Patrick’s blindsided by Jonny’s betrayal and putting his family back together is a lot harder than he expected when their past comes back to haunt them.Can love conquer all?

Forever & Always, My Baby You'll Be by windsthatwhisper - mpreg!jonny

Jonny and Pat's life is a cycle of curse words, late night feedings, and five minute handjobs in the hallway closet.

Aka, I wanted some 1988 w/ a baby feels so I wrote this blurb of a thing in about seven minutes.

efficacy by thirteentorafters - mpreg!patrick

“You,” Patrick says, jabbing a finger angrily at Jonny. “Are gonna fucking help me, dickface.”

Opening his mouth to ask what the hell is going on; Jonny’s eyes drop to Patrick’s stomach. Jonny is acquainted with Patrick’s naked body and the last time they met, Patrick wasn’t fat. Or paunchy. Except that doesn’t look like usual fat. “Oh fuck.”

“Yeah, ‘oh fuck’,” Patrick says, imitating Jonny’s tone. “You knocked me up, asshole. What are you gonna do about it?”

Forever & Always, My Baby You'll Be by windsthatwhisper - mpreg!jonny

Jonny and Pat's life is a cycle of curse words, late night feedings, and five minute handjobs in the hallway closet.

Looked So Fine (I Just Had To Speak) by svmadelyn - !!!! ⭐

Patrick Kane’s talking penis maintains a ‘to do’ list. It is as follows:1. Jonathan Toews

Phone Tag by hawkeytime (jayyloo) - mpreg!Jonny

"Hi mom. Sorry I couldn’t catch you, so I guess I’ll just, uh.. leave a message. See, the thing is… my super-potent sperm may or may not have managed to knock Jonny up. Okay bye."

"Yes, hello, is this Hockey Canada? I just want it written on the record, today, June 31, 2015, that my incredibly improbable unborn child with Jonathan Toews will be playing for America. Yes, I’ll hold.

"Or: Pat accidentally knocks Jonny up. A saga told in a series of voicemails

A Royal Baby - mpreg!Pat

A cough from the doorway cuts Seabs off mid sentence. Duncs is standing watching them, a particularly somber expression on his face. "Jonny, I'm sorry to interrupt but you have a visitor that you'll want to go see right away.""Now really isn't a good time," Jonny tells him, not even putting down his fork."Trust me Your Highness," Duncs says, "This will be worth it."

[Patrick and Jonathan think their time brief time together at the Olympics is all they can ever have. Patrick's ensuing pregnancy proves otherwise.]

sun sweet berries of the earth series by gasmsinc - mpreg!Pat; a/b/o

There is a spirit living in Patrick State Park.“Listen,” says Jonny. “I didn’t mean to step on your crown.”The spirit’s bottom lip wobbles.

Tame the Roads That Can't Be Tamed by Linsky - mpreg!Pat; a/b/o

Patrick’s flown a million times. He’s never gotten airsick before. Even on last year’s epic flight to Denver, when they hit massive turbulence and half the team was groaning over barf bags, Patrick’s stomach was fine. And maybe he’s sick, sure—but why doesn’t he feel sick the rest of the time? Why is it only mornings and—

Oh.

Oh, no.

Oh fucking no.

(Or: In which it is difficult to be a wolf in the NHL, especially when you're not that good at condoms.)

Carve His Name With Pride ⭐  - mpreg!Jonny

Jonny leaves behind a home, a house, and a hockey career the month after he learns that he’s pregnant.

Eyass - mpreg!Jonny

"I dunno," Kaner tells him. "Whatever you need, man. You’re having a baby! That’s a lot of work. I want to be here for you."

Somehow, in the dozens of conversations he’s had with teammates and friends and family in the past few days, no one has said those exact words to Jonny: “you’re having a baby”. He has to comb his fingers through his hair and take a deep, steadying breath to compose himself.

Kaner notices and smiles at him; a crooked, beautiful thing. “It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?”

Heartburn and Survival by dedougal  - mpreg!Jonny

They were in Canada when Jonny found out he was pregnant. Afterwards, Jonny used that as a point in his bulleted list of arguments about why Jack should represent Canada but, to be entirely truthful, finding out in Canada - finding out anywhere - was pretty disastrous.

Three Cups and a Pup by Miss_Psychotic, nommedeplume  - mpreg!Patrick

The Story of Alpha Jonny and Omega Kaner getting their shit together and learning how to be Adulting Adults (Finally)

Chips and Cribs by whatislife - mpreg!Jonny

“What do you mean there are no chips,” Jonny asks from where he is standing by the island, hand resting on his stomach. “Weren’t they on the list? Did you not buy them?”(Patrick just wants to sleep.)

[worryinglyinnocent]

Fic: Forged Through Fire (2/13)

Summary: Amestris. Once democratic, now a military dictatorship. Prohibition is strict; personal freedoms curtailed. All alchemists must be state-licensed or face imprisonment. Foreigners are met with suspicion. It’s a grim place and a grim time, but there are some people able to bring a little light to the world. Behind an innocent-looking bookshop, speakeasy proprietor Chris Mustang has formed an unlikely alliance with unlicensed alchemist Van Hohenheim to provide alcohol to those who want it and medical care to those who need it. When Riza’s newly complete tattoo becomes infected, Roy brings her into this underworld, little knowing the way it will change their lives in the future – uncovering the secrets of the mythical Philosopher’s Stone and the schemes of a Fuhrer hell-bent on achieving immortality, all whilst navigating what they mean to each other.

===

Rated: T

[One] [AO3]

===

Content warning for this chapter: Discussion of domestic abuse – parent on child; implied self-harm and discussion of self-harm.

===

Forged Through Fire

Two

The phone ringing startled Roy out of the doze he hadn’t realised he’d fallen into, and he jumped up out of his chair, massaging the crick in his neck as he went over to the phone on the wall.

“Mustang.”

“Hello Roy. It’s Riza. Riza Hawkeye.”

“Riza.”

For a good long while, Roy had absolutely no idea what to say to her. He hadn’t seen her since the day that he’d finished his training under Berthold and passed his state licence exam, although they’d kept in touch with the occasional letter. It was the first time she’d ever called him since he’d moved out of barracks and got his own apartment with his own phone line, and the novelty of hearing her voice again after all the time that had passed was enough to render him speechless. Finally he regained his tongue.

“It’s good to hear your voice again,” he said.

“Yeah. It’s good to hear yours, too.” She sounded quiet, her voice low and measured as if she’d been crying.

“What’s wrong?”

“My father died.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.” There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “The funeral’s on Friday if you want to come. Please don’t feel obligated. There won’t be all that many people there. He wasn’t exactly a social man.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Thank you.” The relief in her voice was almost palpable, even over the phone. “So… How have you been?”

“All right. Not doing much, we haven’t been shipped out anywhere yet so it’s mainly just paperwork and patrols.” God, this was the inanest conversation ever. He hadn’t spoken to Riza for a year and a half, and this was what he was finding to talk about? “How are you holding up?”

“I don’t know how to feel right now if I’m honest. Everything’s so… weird. It’s not like when Mom died. Everything was easy then. I was sad because she wasn’t there anymore. This time…”

Roy knew exactly why she trailed off. Receiving letters from Riza in the time since he finished with Berthold had always been bittersweet. He knew the situation she was in, and he had no idea how to help her out of it. Now, she was out of it more by luck – if death could be considered luck – than judgement, and he still felt a stab of guilt that he had not been able to do anything for her.

“Yeah. I understand.” Did he really? “Do you need anything?” He didn’t want to think of her in that ramshackle old house all by herself. “Groceries, company, anything?”

“I’m ok. I’ve got everything sorted. I think I just need to know there’ll be a friendly face at the funeral. Thanks.”

“Any time.” He was reminded of the time he took her to the bar after her tattoo got infected. “How’s your back?”

“Sorry?”

“It was a long train of thought. How’s your back doing?”

“It’s fine.” For the first time, he thought that she might be smiling on the other end of the phone. “I’ve not had any problems at all since Trisha and Hohenheim fixed me up.” There was a pause. “Are they still there at Madam Christmas’s?”

“Yep. I don’t think they’ll ever leave.”

Riza laughed. “Well, send my regards next time you see them.”

“I will. I guess I’ll see you on Friday.”

“Till Friday. Thank you, Roy.”

They said their goodbyes, and Roy stayed staring at the phone for a long time after he hung up. It was only now that he realised just how much he had missed Riza in the intervening time. Perhaps it was because they had never completely lost touch with each other that the separation had not seemed as absolute as it did now; she had always still been on the periphery of his world, even if she wasn’t regularly in it like Aunt Chris and his new friends and colleagues within the military. Now he realised just how long it had been.

She hadn’t changed at all, and when he saw her standing in the cemetery on the grey and miserable morning of the funeral, he was almost relieved to see that she was still just the same Riza. Although, that said, not exactly the same. There was something behind her eyes, a little bit haunted. Maybe it was just grief, maybe it was something far more complicated. She gave a wan smile when she saw him, making her excuses to the scant other mourners and coming over to him.

“Hey. It’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise. Are you ok?”

She nodded. “I’m getting there. It’s still all so surreal.” She glanced over towards the grave and the drab preacher getting ready to intone the service. “Shall we go? It shouldn’t take too long, I don’t think. I mean, what is there to say about him?”

Roy would have given her the usual platitudes about Berthold being a good man and a great alchemist, but whilst the latter may have been technically true, neither really rang true to Roy’s ears in regard to Riza. Berthold might have been the one to teach him flame alchemy, but he had also been the one to permanently ink that flame alchemy on Riza’s back and shape the course of her life forever. The words she had spoken to him on that fateful day when she’d shown him the array had always echoed in his mind. What’s done is done. Nothing could change the fact that the tattoo existed, and that Berthold had been the one to put it there. Nothing would ever erase that. Nothing Roy or anyone else could do would ever be able to make that better. Did that mean he didn’t ought to try?

The service was short, just the usual empty words over a plain casket, and Roy hung back as Riza received the well wishes of the few other attendees until she was alone with the headstone again.

Riza sighed. “Is it bad that when everyone says ‘I’m so sorry’, there’s a part of me – a large part – that thinks ‘I’m not’?”

Roy shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. I think given everything, that’s natural.”

“When I looked in on him that morning and found him… I thought I’d feel sad, or that I’d panic, or maybe that I’d just feel numb. But honestly the thing I felt the most was anger. Not because he was dead, that he’d been taken from me in that respect. I wasn’t angry at the world. I wasn’t even really angry at him. I was angry with myself, because I hadn’t done anything, and now he’s dead and I don’t have the chance to call him out for everything he did.”

“It’s not your fault. What could you have done?” He paused. “It’s everyone else who should have been doing something.”

“Hey, don’t blame yourself either. He had just as much of a position of power over you as he did me. In a different way, but I’ve heard cynics say that apprenticing under an alchemist is equivalent to selling your soul to them until you pass your licence.”

“Yeah. But after I passed my licence. Anyway, enough about me. Do you want to come somewhere and talk about it somewhere that’s not a very windy cemetery with rain threatening any moment?”

Riza nodded. “Yeah. I could really use a drink right now.”

Roy smiled. “All right. Come with me.”

It was a quiet and contemplative walk through the city towards the bar, and Roy couldn’t help giving the odd glance sideways over at Riza as they made their way through the damp streets. It had rained earlier, and the clouds were still hanging dark and heavy in the sky. In a way, the weather reflected the entire city – dark, oppressive, unrelenting; constantly hanging over their heads like the Sword of Damocles.

Amestris hadn’t always been like this, according to those who’d seen it in its heyday. Roy was still too young to remember a time before the Fuhrer had come to power and democracy had given way overnight to the grim dictatorship they’d now found themselves living in, but Aunt Chris and Hohenheim remembered it. They’d made the best of things in the best way they knew how – defying the law and doing what was needed anyway.

A part of him wished that they didn’t have to do it, that he could somehow come into a grand inheritance and set them up comfortably for the rest of their days, but he knew them both and he knew they’d still keep doing what they were doing even if money was no object. There were some things that were more important than staying on the right side of the law.

Still, just because they had carved out their own little niche in the new world they lived in didn’t mean that they couldn’t be nostalgic for better times. Aunt Chris wasn’t one for reminiscing, but he’d found her and Hohenheim sharing the good Drachman vodka more than once after last orders had been called.

His thoughts ended up coming full circle round to Berthold and the many arguments they’d got into over Roy’s decision to join the military. Berthold could remember the time before and held no love for the military regime he was now living under. Roy had never known different but knew enough to be well aware that he was becoming part of the problem. With a problem like this, though, with something so well-established and deeply ingrained, it was impossible to effect any sort of change except from within, and when he had first joined the academy, Roy had been naïve enough to think he could be the one to make that change.

Four years later, he was not quite as convinced, but his determination still held fast.

Vanessa was on duty in the bookshop today, and if she seemed surprised to see them coming in at four o’clock in the afternoon then she didn’t show it, simply waving him through without a word. She gave Riza a little more scrutiny, but since she was coming in with him, there wasn’t a lot of point in giving her the third degree. Of everyone who was involved with Madam Christmas’s bar, Roy was the one who was most aware of the need for secrecy. One of the advantages of joining the military and becoming part of the regular city patrols was getting inside knowledge on which premises were about to be raided as suspected liquor hideaways and being able to subtly clear the bookshop from the records. If it was an abuse of power, well, at least it wasn’t hurting anyone like most of the rest of the abuses of power that the military undertook on a regular basis.

Aunt Chris was behind the bar as usual when they got down into it, and she nodded over to a corner table, where Armstrong and Hughes were already sitting with Gracia. Roy turned back to Riza as Hughes waved him over.

“They’re friends and colleagues. We don’t have to join them if you don’t want to.”

“No, it’s fine.” Riza smiled. “I think some happy company sounds like a good idea right now.”

“Roy!” Hughes grabbed the coats that had been holding the other chairs at the table. “Is this the girl you were telling us about?”

“This is Riza Hawkeye, yes. She’s Berthold’s daughter. Riza, this is Alex Armstrong and Maes Hughes, and Hughes’ girlfriend Gracia.”

“Actually, Gracia is no longer my girlfriend.”

Roy raised an eyebrow. Considering how giddy Hughes sounded, he highly doubted that there had just been a break-up.

“She’s my fiancée!”

Gracia gave a long-suffering sigh, but the smile in her eyes showed that she still found Hughes’ antics endearing after being with him for a year.

“Congratulations.” Riza took a seat beside Gracia and the two were soon deep in conversation as Roy went over to the bar to get the next round in.

Chris gave him a look.

“I’m glad you’ve turned up. He’s starting to be insufferable. Why did I let you persuade me to allow your friends in?”

“Because you love me.”

“Unfortunately, that’s true.” Chris peered over his shoulder at Riza. “How did it go at the funeral?”

“Much of a muchness, really. What can you say about a man who was a complete recluse dedicated to his research above all else, including his daughter?”

“Roy, you can’t keep beating yourself up about that. And for God’s sake, not now. She’s got enough on her plate; she doesn’t need to prop up your guilt as well. Don’t make her carry more than she has to. If she wants to be mad at you for not rescuing her then that’s her decision and she can do it in her own time.”

She continued to pour the drinks, and Roy leaned back against the bar, watching his friends.

“You’re not subtle,” Chris said behind him. “Who knows? Maybe now that you’re back in touch, you’ll finally ask her out.”

“Madam!”

“I call them how I see them, Roy-Boy. Remember you’ve always got the perfect date location right here.”

“Yeah, with Vanessa and Fiona teasing me every time I go in and out and you watching like a hawk.”

“Freudian slip there?”

“Shut up.”

He grabbed the drinks and brought them back over to the table, where Hughes was now expounding the current barracks rumour mill theory that Tim Marcoh had faked his own death and was now serving as personal physician to the Emperor of Xing. At least Riza was smiling, and although that tired and haunted look behind her eyes had not gone away, he could tell that the smile was genuine.

It was only later, once Armstrong, Hughes and Gracia had left them, that he could recognise the sheer exhaustion and the willpower it was taking her to hold everything together.

“Do you want me to take you home?”

Riza shook her head. “No. Not yet. I don’t think I can face that big empty house knowing that there’s no one else in it and there never will be again. And knowing that I’m going to have to sell it. It’s not the selling it that’s the problem really, I’m not so attached to it. It’s just all the paperwork involved.”

“Well, you don’t have to think about it right now. And I can always stay over if you want.” Riza gave him a sharp look. “I mean on the sofa!” He tried to backtrack. “So that it’s not so big and empty and lonely.”

She laughed. “No, I’ll be ok. I’m just not ready to face it quite yet.” There was a long pause. “Your friends are nice.”

“They can be a bit much, but they mean well.”

“I wasn’t being sarcastic; they really are nice. Although I think Alex’s goodbye hug might have broken all my ribs.”

“Yeah, he’s not good with ‘subtle’.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Riza sat back in her chair, looking up at the ceiling. “The weirdest thing is not knowing what comes next. I’ve never really had any plans. Well, I had plans but they’re not going to work out. I always just thought I’d end up keeping house for my father until… well, until he died. I just hadn’t reckoned on it being so soon. I’ve got my entire life ahead of me and I have no idea what I’m going to do with it. It’s scary, in a way.”

“What were your plans originally?”

Riza shook her head. “It’s stupid.”

“It can’t be that stupid.”

“Fine. I was going to follow in your footsteps. I wanted to join the military and help you do what you’re doing, trying to change the system from within. But then my back happened so that’s out now.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“I’m not really much good for anything else. What other careers require crack shot aiming skills?” Riza snorted. “Looking back I’m honestly surprised he let me near a gun. Maybe he was cocky enough to know I’d never turn it on him.”

Roy wanted to say something, the urge to apologise again bubbling up in the back of his mind, but he squashed it down. Like Chris had said, Riza was dealing with enough conflicted feelings of her own, she didn’t need his guilt as well.

They continued to drink in silence for a while, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Back when he’d first started learning under Berthold, they’d spent quite a lot of time together like this in the kitchen of the Hawkeye home, and it was surprising how easy it was to slip back into that familiarity despite the intervening years.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the drapes along the back wall twitching and Trisha coming out of the clinic. There was a flash of red lightning as Hohenheim transmuted the door into the wall, and then he came out too.

“We’re off,” Trisha said to Chris. “We’re not expecting anyone else tonight, but you know how to get hold of us if there’s an emergency.”

They left the bar hand in hand and Roy watched them go. When he looked back at Riza, her eyes were following them too, with a kind of longing. She had never given voice to anything, at least not in Roy’s earshot, but he’d often had the thought and he knew she must have had it too. Her back meant that she could never be intimate with anyone. Well, at least not without literally trusting them with her life.

“Roy… Would you do me a favour?”

“Of course.”

“Don’t agree yet, you don’t know what it is.”

“Ok. What is it?”

“Will you burn my back?”

“What?”

“I want to get rid of this thing.” Riza wasn’t looking him in the eye, just staring at the dregs in the bottom of her wine glass. “I want it gone so that I can have a normal life and do all the normal things I should be able to do. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of him having control over me even though I just buried him. It doesn’t matter that he’s dead, he’s always going to have this piece of me, and I don’t want it anymore. I just want it to be over.”

“Riza, maybe it would be better if you think on this without three glasses of wine in you.”

The thought of doing it made him feel sick. He was a state alchemist, and he was career military; he knew that he’d be called on to use flame alchemy on people in the future. He knew he would have to use it to kill people. He’d almost made his peace with that pre-emptively, knowing he would hopefully be able to atone for it once he’d worked to make everything better.

Burning Riza though, even at her own request… Hadn’t she already suffered enough at the hands of flame alchemists?

“It’s not a new idea, Roy. I’ve been thinking about it all week.”

“I still think this isn’t the best time to be discussing it. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll come over and we’ll talk about it then. Honestly, Riza, it’s a large area of skin and the damage I’d have to do to destroy it completely, I think it would kill you.”

Riza nodded. “I understand.”

There was a long silence after that, and in the wake of Riza’s request it was an unusually tense one; the uneasiness remaining long after Riza had changed the subject and they were talking freely again. By the time he was walking her back to the Hawkeye house, though, things seemed to have lightened, and Riza seemed to be feeling a little better.

X

Roy had managed to put the conversation to the back of his mind for most of the following day. He’d taken a few days’ leave for the funeral to be there for Riza if she needed him; she had no other relatives to help her out and she’d lived an isolated enough life not to have any real friends either.

It was only when the phone in the bar rang and Chris passed it over to him that he remembered with a jolt what Riza had asked of him, and his heart was in his mouth as he heard her quiet and hitching voice on the other end of the line.

“Roy, I need your help. I’ve made a massive mistake.”

[ellipsesarefun]

DAMIRAE DAY 5: Soulbond

A/N: SO THIS CAME OUT OF NOWHERE I SWEAR HAHHAHAAH. It’s probs the coffee talking but damn. Finished this baby todaaayyy after reviewing for a subject (and damn is this a weird day because writing and studying feels like two different worlds) so this will be queued to post on the 14th or 15th? Maybe I’m too excited but it’s been awhile since I’ve been excited to write something.. Been awhile since I’ve used 1st POV. This is probs a bit messy :( But I’ll edit some stuff out someday..

May not be participating anymore but I hope to come back to DamiRae <3 It’s been a comfort to me during my study breaks.

------

There are some things about my magic that I cannot fully comprehend nor explain. 

Ever since I’ve healed the young Robin, I’ve been receiving vivid dreams. I can’t fully grasp the images but the emotions that wake me to reality are always filled with heartaches, pining, and desperation. I never bothered to clue anyone in on what they are. Kory knows I have dreams but I can never tell her what happens in them because I don’t know how to describe them.. Damian has his ways of knowing. The little bird never lets me forget that. But he never asked, just implied. And I never said anything, merely let him draw his own conclusions.

I’ve been harboring feelings for him for a long time but I never acted on them for a number of reasons... Sometimes, we were romantically and sexually involved with other people. Other times, there never seemed to be a time and place to voice it out on the open. The moments we spent alone meditating, reading together, flying during my nightly rituals are the moments I cherish too much to let him feel my burden.

But out of all the reasons I've expounded, My father is the center. Even when I have created an enchanted fortress created out of his and my own demonic magic (with the help of Constantine and Zatanna), I still fear that he may one day break through those chains and destroy Earth... and kill Damian. Trigon senses the bond between us and it disgusts him.

His insults hit right through my own insecurities. I mean technically, he is trapped in crystal that’s stored in a small box that I carry around but damnit there are times when his thoughts crowd over to mine and... it terrifies me.

The mechanics of the bond isn’t the “if he dies, then I die too” but more of “I feel his presence more than I let on”. I still have no idea if it also might be the former, but the latter is one that I experience often. I don't always know what he is feeling (I may be an Empath but I have my mental barriers to maintain). It's only when he's in danger do my senses burn right through my barriers. It probably comes with this strong sense of protectiveness within me, a desperate need to keep him safe... and it’s becoming a little too obvious.

Throughout the six years as Titans, training with Damian has gradually become a torture... Every urge to shot turns into every urge to shield him from the pain... Every scar he receives fuels my anger against those who dare to hurt him, especially the enemies we’ve faced during missions and/or patrol. 

The last one was worse. I arrived at the scene with him on the floor, body tainted with bruises and then..

I saw him on the floor.. suddenly burnt into ashes.. face barely recognizable... I heard my screams of agony, despair, and heartbreak as I watched my other self enveloping him in what seems a spell..

I love you...

And it wasn’t a dream but a memory... It all felt so real, like I was in Apokolips (what the hell is Apokolips?) once more and the Earth has crumbled to its fucked up state and he was gone and I needed to save him (from what?)...

I didn’t even stop to comprehend what it was and I lost my control. 

AZARATH. METRION. ZINTHOS!

...

I blacked out, I think, and now I find myself back in the infirmary of the Titans Tower. Not a single glimpse of a sunlight reached the room and nothing stands out from the dark except a figure sitting beaide me.

"Hi." Is the only greeting I offered. Damian stands and turns the lights back on. He sits back down, burning holes into my skull. I squint at the brightness and immediately force myself to focus at some place that isn't him.. I couldn't bare to look at him.

I hear a sigh but I let my gaze linger at the clock far longer than I liked, matching my breaths with the ticks and tocks of the arrows of the clock. His agitation prickles at my senses like a thorn to my side. The damned urge to come and wrap him in my arms gradually resurfaces once more. 

He clears his throat just in time, like he already knew what I was thinking and I look down, hoping he doesn’t notice the heat pooling my cheeks. 

“Look,” he says and I pause my train of thought, “You and I both know there’s more to this that letting your demon lose and almost killing Dr. Light, so let’s not beat around the bush.” I couldn’t look at him, I just can’t bear to.. But I nodded, just so he knows that I’m taking his words seriously (and I always do)..

I might as well tell him..

“I’ve been having nightmares ever since the first time I healed you.” There’s movement from my periphery but I ignore it, “Of you.. dying...” Silence is his only answer so I continued.

“It wasn’t that bad at first but through years it’s been difficult to fight this desire to protect you all the time.” I haven’t reached the most important part yet and I’m already feeling the rising tension in the air. He holds up a hand, and I wait for him to speak as I try to calm my heartbeat. 

“Raven, I was trained by the League of the Assassins. I know how to handle myself-” 

“I know you do, Damian.” I cut him off, hearing my voice rise a bit,

(And I realize later that he didn't need to say this because damnit the smart ass saw right through me. He only did so to bait me into confessing.)

“But these aren’t nightmares.. not really. They’re from another timeline.” I let out a sigh. This conversation is beginning to exhaust me but he needs to know. I turn to him this time and he’s not holding back his own concern etched on his face. He gets up from his chair and sits at the edge of my bed. My gaze drifts to his hand. I remember a lingering feeling, probably from another memory of that timeline, that he’d reach out and hold my hand in his. 

“There was a war.. We were around at this age..” I continue, “We were trying to stop someone and... you died in the process. I revived you.. brought you back from the dead.” I watch him watch me. Not a single gasp was uttered nor any ounce of surprised was showed on his face. I didn’t sense any of that. There was so much I can pick from that unreadable frown. 

Longing, concern, understanding.. and it’s only occurred to me that he knows. He’s known this whole time. I was too engrossed to what he felt and what Trigon may do that I didn’t stop to read through his actions. But does he...

No.. I shouldn't ask... not when I haven't laid all the cards out..

"We have a bond.. sort of." I say, and he nods, confirming of his own assumptions, "But I'm not sure if this will get us killed. So far the pain inflicted on you does not mean I receive the same kind of pain. It just fuels my drive to protect you."

"And you think that this was a result from our previous affections to one another in that timeline." He concludes.

"We never really spent time together as... together." I say. It feels out of the blue but something about what I said needed to be heard, "You left for the League of Assassins. You offered me a place there because you had feelings for me. I would have went with you if Trigon hadn't threatened me to kill you if I stayed..."

I face him, feeling this odd confidence swelling within me. "I do still have feelings for you. And Trigon still wants to kill you so.. that hasn't changed.." 

There is a slight elation and giddiness within me as I catch a mixture of bewilderment and amusement on his features. But my heart begins to soar as I watch a tiny, tender smile drawn by his lips.

I've seen that smile before.. a couple of times. There were only glimpses of that smile during our many glances throughout the years, hidden beneath the layers of his mask.

And now the last of his mask has finally come off.

"Raven," he says and I feel the tingle in my ears at the sound of my name, "You should know by now that my perseverance exceeds the fear of being devoured by demonic conquerer of worlds."

I frown at him. "You sound so sure of yourself..."

"You've defeated him twice, Raven." He reasons, "In this timeline and probably in other timelines. You were lucky, you say, but now.. you're--no, we're, more than four times as lucky."

"Damian.. where is this all coming from?" I ask, because he makes it sound so simple. Like he's up against merely a strict father who wouldn't let his daughter marry the person she loves in those cheesy romcoms. But this isn't a romcom. This is Trigon, for Azar's sake..

"He isn't called a Conquerer of Worlds for no reason!"

"And that doesn't stop you for creating a tiny fortress that entraps and gradually diminishes his demonic magic instead of trapping him in a crystal and sticking it to your forehead from your other timeline. Look Raven,” he continues, “You and I both know that there’s something between us? Why wait for the inevitable?” Why wait till I leave for the League of Assassins? Why wait till the possibility of Apokolips comes around again? He leans in and his bright green eyes search my own.

I keep my frown on my face, not wanting to give in to his charms. He throws back a smirk because he's fucking...

"Insufferable. That’s what you are." I spit the words at him, only halfheartedly at best. He laughs. The cheeky fucker is laughing me.

"But I'm a kind and generous soul." He teases with a grin on his face. And shit, I can't fight my own my smile any longer. He reaches out and I meet him halfway, entwining our fingers together. I haven't affirmed anything but the gesture already is the answer. Our answer. We’ve been dancing around this for a long time. Might as well take the chance before it’s too late.

Something magical, his aura perhaps, loops with my own. I close my eyes let the magic guide me.. and him. A meadow materializes itself and I find him in the distance, his smile warm and inviting. I extend my hand to him and he mirrors my actions. A raven flies out of my hand and another one out of his. At the same time we open our eyes and-

The magic suddenly bursts forth into a kaleidoscope of colors, a plethora of shapes of any kind. They all coalesce into a giant raven. A white raven. It soars above us, circling around the room with a happy tune. It eventually disappears into a sparkle of fireworks. We laugh and turn our gazes to one another. 

With foreheads pressed against each other, we guide our silent conversation with twinkles in our eyes and smiles forming on our lips. It's like those typical chessy lovebird montage things people see in romantic subplots. It might be the calmness of the air or the sleep edging its way through my train of thought but I can sense our heartbeats in sync. A lullaby to my woes, perhaps, but someone like me can hope that this bond is knitting our souls into a comfortable blanket, however mysterious and unpredictable it may be.

Trigon's box rattles on the table. I almost forgot that it was there in the first place. I feel his presence, cursing disgusting words at the edge of my aura but I pay no heed. 

After all, I'm a billion times luckier now.

[stereogeekspodcast]

[Transcript] Season 2, Episode 5. The Falcon and the Winter Soldier Review

The second Marvel Cinematic Universe spin-off streamed on Disney+, and we at Stereo Geeks had a lot of thoughts. In the Special, we give an episode-by-episode breakdown of The Falcon and the Winter Soldier. What did we love about the story of the show, how were the characters developed, where did the show soar and when did it fall flat? Tune in to find out. Warning: spoilers ahead!

For a more detailed look at the show, check out Ron’s extensive recaps at Show Snob. You can also learn more about the show’s successes and failures with Mon’s features at Collider: Falcon and the Winter Soldier: How the Flag-Smashers Highlight Marvel's Problem with Sympathetic Villains The Falcon and the Winter Soldier: The Show's 13 Greatest Moments How The Falcon and the Winter Soldier's Bucky Barnes Is a Positive Representation of Expats Listen to the episode on Anchor.

[Continuum by Audionautix plays]

Ron: Welcome to a new Stereo Geeks Special! This week, we’re talking about The Falcon and the Winter Soldier! I'm Ron.

Mon: And I’m Mon. Please be warned, we will be covering all six episodes of the show, and yes, there will be spoilers. If you haven't watched the show yet, check it out and then come back.

Ron: So, The Falcon and the Winter Soldier. Thoughts?

Mon: Well, remember how we felt after Disney Investor Day, when the trailer came out? People were hyped. You and I were worried. We thought that some of the bro-y relationship stuff was a little bit manufactured. We were worried that Disney was, as always, trying to sell us something which they wouldn't deliver. I gotta say, they proved us wrong.

Ron: I was very tentative about the series, especially because we did really enjoy WandaVision. That show was quite different. It wasn't trying to be just an extension of the MCU. The Falcon and the Winter Soldier definitely feels grounded in the mythos of the MCU. The visuals are very similar. The musical motifs are exactly from the movies that we've already seen. I think the trailer made it look a particular way, which kind of put us on the backfoot. I'm glad that the show actually didn't follow through with that tone.

Mon: Yeah, me too. I think with the trailer, we were worried that there was going to be this 80s, macho vibe, and considering that neither of these characters so far, Sam Wilson/ the Falcon, and Bucky Barnes/ the Winter Soldier, they've been really great characters all this while in the MCU. Yes, they’ve been side-characters, they really haven't been developed that much, so I was a little bit worried that the moment they’d get the spotlight, we're going to see them out of character. Thankfully, we did not.

Ron: In fact, I was actually quite surprised that throughout the six episodes they refer to so many aspects of the films, and give us more insight into events that would have happened probably in the background, and I didn't expect that, in all honesty. So, shall we break it down episode by episode and review it that way?

So, we start off with ‘New World Order’. This opening episode takes place six months after the events of Avengers: Endgame. Steve is gone. The mantle of Captain America is kind of up in the air. Sam is actually trying to take care of family stuff and Bucky is in therapy. I think for a lot of fans, and for us, as well, it was like, at the end of Endgame when Steve handed the shield to Sam, even though Sam was a little bit tentative, he was going to become Captain America. For ‘New World Order’ to actually have him not do that, that quite a departure from expectation.

Mon: But I guess the name of the show itself kind of signposted that. We kept wondering why it's called The Falcon and the Winter Soldier and not Captain America and the Winter Soldier, and it explains that. Because Sam is just not comfortable adopting this moniker. I guess in a way you could say he's not comfortable with that because of his own identity. I think it was kind of just thrusted on him, and he's trying to get used to the fact that he doesn't even have Steve in his life, and now he has to step into Steve’s shoes; it's a lot for one person to take in. Also, he literally just came back to life. It's too much!

Ron: And also, I think the reason why it's a little bit more burdensome for Sam is because Steve Rogers/ Captain America would have been an icon when he was in the military, and it just so happens that he becomes his friend, but for Sam, Steve Rogers was Captain America. It didn't make sense for there to be a Captain America without Steve Rogers. But for us as fans, we were like, what? No! Sam, you have to be the new Captain America. It made sense to us but for him it didn't make sense. And I thought that was interesting. It was not what we're expecting, especially for Sam's growth throughout the MCU. He has become an Avenger!

But then, that ending. Apparently, a lot of people knew that John Walker was going to be in the show and Wyatt Russell was going to be playing him, and I was just like, what? Because I never remember any of these things, so everything is a surprise to me. So, you have this whole thing with Sam giving up the shield, and it being put in this beautiful glass case, and there's this whole Smithsonian exhibit for Steve. And you can feel, you know, there's a lot of emotion and stuff. And we get a scene with Rhodey, which is great. I mean, Don Cheadle, is awesome as Rhodey and it's always great to see him. He’s only in that one scene, though, and I was just like, why? And then we have this moment, when it's being announced that the government has chosen a new Captain America, and this white dude who looks like the guy from Up, turn’s up and he's holding Steve’s shield! That really was like a dagger to the heart. And I thought it was very well done.

Mon: I thought so too. Even though we knew US Agent was going to join the show, and that US agent is actually John Walker, and in the comics, he has taken on the moniker of Captain America. I feel like despite knowing all that, the way the scene plays out, it's still so heartbreaking because we're looking at it through Sam's eyes, and he has, out of the goodness of his own heart, relinquished the title of Captain America. He's relinquished this shield which belonged to his friend, and the government just took that as, oh, we can do whatever we want with it. It was just a really well played out scene, even though it was pretty wordless.

Ron: Yeah, and I think the reason why it works is because throughout the first episode, we are seeing the problems that Sam and his sister are having because they are a Black family in America. And that's not something that has been touched on in the MCU. It's kind of like just happening in the background, it doesn't seem to affect the actual heroes. And here we see that, a hero or not, they still have problems. They can't get a bank loan! And the guy, on the one hand is like, I want a selfie with the Falcon, on the other hand, he's like, oh, you don't have any records for the last five years. Yeah, but he's been dead for five years! How's he gonna show you anything? And with this really infuriating scene, obviously the ending just made everything worse because you're like, oh okay so this is how Black hero gets treated. And this white guy from nowhere just gets handed one of the most symbolic icons in the country. So, it's quite an interesting start.

Mon: Yeah, I have to say. And we haven't even talked about the amazing opening action sequence with the Falcon. It is breathtaking. It really captured that original feeling that we had when the Falcon first took flight in Captain America: The Winter Soldier. And the production values were fantastic. We knew this was gonna happen, but still.

Ron: I think what surprised me about that opening action scene was that this was not TV quality. I think it's pretty good that Marvel is actually pouring in that kind of money into its limited series, and TV shows. It's kind of sad that they're doing it now, when Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. was on for seven seasons, we had all the Defenders shows, and they never got a look-see; they were always in the periphery, they were always on the outside. These are very intrinsically tied into the MCU and they've got a much bigger budget.

Mon: They’ve also got more eyeballs on them. I'm just saying.

Ron: Yeah, well, let's see what happens.

Mon: Yeah, totally. So, I think let's go into the second episode and we can talk a little bit more about Bucky, because his introduction into the show was a bit underwhelming and it sort of picks up from the second episode. So, ‘Star-Spangled Man’. This song, this title is synonymous with Steve Rogers. Not anymore! Because John Walker literally has this gigantic parade where they're singing an updated version of this song. And it's so dissociative, the entire experience of seeing somebody who is very obviously not Steve Rogers in the Captain America outfit, enjoying the crowd, greeting the crowd, and this song’s going on. I have to say, the showrunners do a really good job of tugging on that nostalgia that we have for the first Captain America film, while also hitting us in the gut with this realization that, yes, this is a new world order.

Ron: And it's so manipulative, right? The government obviously knows that the ‘Star-Spangled Man’ song was associated with Steve, and they've just taking that, and they're like, oh, it doesn't matter if there's a new person who's Captain America, the song still belongs to him. But Captain America was synonymous with Steve and has been all this while. And they’re going around just thrusting this person in our faces. And then you have that first interview with John Walker and he's trying to come across as really nice, and he's talking about how Steve feels like a spiritual brother to him. And Bucky’s face when he's watching that is so funny. [laughs] Because he's just sitting there on the floor, open-mouthed like, what is this guy talking about?

I feel kind of bad because John never stood a chance. From that first shot of him at the very end of the first episode, we hated him. Mainly because the shield belonged to Sam. The name ‘Captain America; belongs to Sam. But in the second episode, even when the show was trying to humanize him, we see his wife, we see his best friend Lemar, it doesn't matter. We’re still like, give us our shield back! And it just goes downhill from there.

Mon: Yeah, absolutely. The one good thing about John Walker taking on the mantle of Captain America is that Bucky and Sam are finally reunited. As we learn in the first episode, apparently Bucky has not been replying to Sam's texts. I think it's amazing that Sam is taking his role as Bucky’s friend and protector really, really seriously. Because, let's be honest, Sam hates Bucky.

Ron: And Sam rightfully has every reason to hate Bucky. The amount of trouble he caused Steve and Sam. And Steve could at least stay alive because he had the serum in him. Sam was just a normal guy! As he said, when people are shooting at Steve, Sam is usually in the way. And Bucky was the reason why people were shooting at them! These are the little things that I really loved because Steve mattered to both of them. Of course, Sam is going to be the bigger man and try and keep in touch with Bucky, despite what Bucky put him through. For Bucky to be the one who's like, no, I'm not gonna talk to this guy, I'm just like, saying what?

Those are the little things about Bucky’s characterization in the first episode that didn't quite work for me. I like the fact that he's in therapy. That's good. I like the fact that he's been given a pardon; he helped save the planet. But him ignoring the last vestige of Steve's connection to him just doesn't make sense.

Mon: I also think that the idea that Bucky would go back to square one just because Steve has left, it didn't sit right with me. He's living in Brooklyn, which is his hometown, but his apartment has no furniture. He only has a TV. I think he has a cell phone.

Ron: Yeah, he has a really old-fashioned cell phone, right?

Mon: Yeah. He goes to therapy, and he tries to make ‘amends’. As we find out later, he's not making amends. He's avenging his wrongs. It felt disingenuous to sort of write Bucky like he’s stuck in one place, not reaching out to the people who care about him. And they sort of tried to do this thing where the only way Bucky gets out of this funk is through some romantic entanglement. So, he goes out on a date with a waitress and then he abandons her halfway through. In contrast with Sam, who had so much depth in the first episode, I couldn't wait for episode 2 Bucky, because episode 1 Bucky was kind of badly written.

Ron: Yeah, he didn't work for me either. The moment he’s with Sam again in the second episode, things are much better. And I felt like it was a bit like Bucky doesn't work unless you have that direct MCU connection. Throughout the first episode, that's not really there. Like yes, we get a few flashbacks to the Winter Soldier and that sort of thing, but until he's with Sam, those other parts of Bucky’s life just don’t work.

Mon: Yeah, I was really happy when he confronted Sam in the second episode, and then that's it, they’re stuck together. After that, it really worked. They banter with each other, they do not get along, but they’re very good at working together. They're not a well-oiled machine, because as soon as the bad guys, the Flagsmashers get in their way, Bucky is totally stuck.

Ron: And they don't listen to each other. They go in different directions; they get into trouble. They have the added tension of John Walker and Lemar Hoskins turning up and actually doing a better job at fighting the Flagsmashers. Which is annoying, but also you kinda understand it because John and Lemar are good at fighting together. They've been fighting together for years. They're best friends. The reason why Steve and Bucky fought well together, Steve and Sam fought well together, is because he was best friends with both of them. Sam and Bucky? Disaster. And they end up losing that fight.

Mon: Yeah. With the second episode, again we’re sort of treading on eggshells with these two characters. But them being together and that chemistry between the two of them, it really works to get us interested in this show.

Ron: And the fact that the two of them have a common enemy, they both dislike John Walker, so that kind of ends up giving them a reason to bond. Because otherwise, I don't think they would have had a reason to actually speak to each other. And from then on, it becomes a lot smoother. And of course, by the end of ‘Star-Spangled Man’, we get another MCU character, Zemo. As far as I'm concerned, from all the MCU villains, Zemo was the only one who succeeded. It was definitely exciting to have Zemo back and we got to see a lot more of him in the third episode, ‘Power Broker’.

The prison breakout was unexpectedly funny, especially because Bucky is kind of standing there telling Sam, hypothetically, if Zemo were to break out, this is how it would happen, and then he's actually made sure that Zemo did break out. And you’re like, why would you do that? We understand, Zemo hates super soldiers. He also knows a lot about super soldiers. The Flagsmashers are super soldiers. Ergo, we need Zemo’s help. But also, Zemo was the reason why the Avengers broke up. That man should stay in jail. But that dynamic between Zemo, Sam, and Bucky, I did not see that coming!

Mon: Same. I was definitely surprised but it really worked. Recasting Zemo as this rich Baron kind of made sense. Because he's not just rich, he is very cultured, he's very smart, he's very intelligent, in every scene that you see him, he's always the smartest guy in the room. Which is kind of annoying because he's the villain. He's also the kind of person who did really bad things because he was in a very bad place, and he had the facility to do it. I don't think at any point the writing makes us think that we can forgive this man. However, he is a means to an end, which is something that Bucky reiterates later on as well, but he's also really a fun character to hang out with, and he's really charming. They were really smart in bringing Zemo back and using him kinda as a plot device but also to bring some much needed levity to the show.

Ron: What I also liked about him being Baron Zemo in the show was that it retroactively explained how he managed to do everything that he did in Civil War. Because Zemo spends two years tracking Bucky, keeping an eye on the Avengers, and there's no way he could have done that if he didn't have money. I remember when we were watching it, we were like, how has he been able to do all this? Like he's traveling around the world, he's learning these languages. How's it possible for somebody who's just an ordinary person to have saved up that much money? So, now it makes sense. But it doesn't take away the fact that when the battle in Sokovia happened, he did lose his family, so his need for vengeance kind of made sense. It's just that at the end of it the Avengers did break up. And Thanos would not have won had Zemo not won.

Mon: Right. This is so true. We're definitely always going to fight Zemo’s corner, because way too many people ignore the fact that he was a very successful, very smart, villain.

Ron: I think among the fans who love villains like Loki. I mean, Loki is great. We love that character, of course. But you don't need to be as grandiose or as flamboyant as Loki to make a difference. Zemo was very quiet about it. He was just an ordinary guy. That's why he was successful. You don't think that a regular guy is going to be able to break up the Avengers. But he was meticulous about it. He was very determined. And he got what he wanted. So, it’s interesting after all that to see him back here and Bucky springs him from jail. And you can never trust him, but he also doesn't do anything terrible.

Mon: Yeah, I mean, he shoots one scientist because he's the only person who knows how to make super-soldier serum, which I completely understand, because Zemo really hates super soldiers, so of course, he wants to make sure that there is no possibility of anybody making the serum after the scientist. In general, it seemed like throughout the course of this episode, every time Zemo had a chance to escape, he didn't. He always came back. Of course, it's a good thing he did because otherwise we would never have been introduced to MCU Madripoor, which has got to be everybody's favorite MCU destination now.

Ron: Madripoor has a long history in the Marvel Comics. It’s usually associated with the X-Men. So, a lot of people were excited thinking that this means that the X-Men will be coming. Now, both WandaVision and The Falcon and the Winter Soldier have kinda hinted at the X-Men somewhere. But they still don't have definitive proof. On the one hand, people are like, we've had so many X-Men movies, and so many of them sucked. Maybe, just let it go. On the other hand, we don't want the MCU to be like, we’ll dip into the X-Men pot, just take some of those stories, those locations, those characters. But let's not actually do anything with the X-Men. I hope that they don't do that. Maybe they are paving the path for the X-Men’s final arrival into the MCU.

Mon: I think the Marvel executives are going to be really smart about how they use the X-Men, and how they introduce the X-Men. Because they have this 20-year knowledge of where the X-Men went right, where they went wrong. They are sussing out the fan reaction. They already have the phase four slate for the MCU. They already have Fantastic Four lined up. They're not gonna thrust the X-Men on us. Not so fast. They're gonna wait for an opening. So, I know, we’re all excited, but what they’re doing right now is that they're giving us a feel of the Marvel Comic universe through these screen properties, but they're eking it out. I think they're being really smart.

Ron: Yeah, I guess so. I think the Madripoor setting was really exciting. However, I was really disappointed that Marvel went the same route as so many properties before it and had this extremely Southeast-Asian aesthetic, and there was not a single Southeast-Asian person in sight in Madripoor. Now, this has been a problem for a really long time, from Blade Runner to Firefly—euggh—in 2021, to have a Marvel property do that, that was really frustrating. I know a lot of people are upset. Whenever we do return to Madripoor, hopefully they will have more people who are actually from Southeast-Asia.

Otherwise, the setting was really exciting. It was quite different from what we've seen in the MCU. It was quite rugged and a bit scary, a bit quirky. That drink that Sam had to drink. Very brave of him. But Zemo was completely in his element over there, and that was an interesting sight to see, because he wasn't really in charge on all this while. But yeah, the outfits? Hilarious.

Mon: What I liked about it is that Zemo’s in charge, but he sort of knows when to defer to both Sam and Bucky. But also, the way Sam and Bucky fall in line with what Zemo is doing because this is his area of expertise. Sam is dressed in this flamboyant outfit because he's pretending to be some other guy, the Smiling Tiger. [laughs] As Sam says, even his name sucks. He's apparently wearing heels, which is really hilarious. I really wish we'd been able to see how high his heels were because he can't run in them. And Bucky he has to pretend to be the Winter Soldier again and a Winter Soldier who is working for Zemo. I just really like the entire feel of it because it's really quite uncomfortable knowing that Zemo’s they guy in charge, and Sam and Bucky are quite helpless. But you also know that Zemo can't really push his boundaries too much because he's at their mercy, too. So, this amazing little dynamic between these three characters really brought this entire episode to life. There was so much hype after this episode because people were kind of in love with the whole aesthetic, and the whole feel of it, which we haven't really had in the MCU that much. There's an intensity but also a levity. They really played it well.

And then of course, we finally meet Sharon Carter, who's been on the run, and is now living in Madripoor. She's kind of exiled there, her family don't know where she is. But she still helps Sam and Bucky, which is great. We see her living in Hightown. She's living it up. She's got all these art pieces which she's selling to her ‘buyers’. Of course, we find out so much more about Sharon later on.

She gets this awesome action sequence. And I have to say, it is such a surprise. When Sharon leads the three guys to meet the scientist who has the super-soldier serum, she's the only one on the outside, and there are goons after goons coming at her. And she is just knocking them dead. She's pretty brutal, which is kind of scary, because we have not seen that level of brutality in the MCU proper. We're not talking about the Netflix stuff which has its moment. She's very obviously shooting people and really harming them. But it was impressive to see a female character hold her own. She wasn't suddenly rescued by anyone. She wasn't asking for any help. She's just a one-person army; it was really impressive.

Ron: I think the reason why the fight scene also stood out was because Sharon really hasn't had that much to do in the MCU. She's been kind of pigeonholed into the love interest, who helps out, and it also shows us how much she's changed. The Sharon Carter that we see in The Falcon and the Winter Soldier is a different person from who she was in Winter Soldier, in Civil War. And she's hurting. She didn't get the pardons, the life that Sam and Bucky got. Winter Soldier, who changed the course of history, he gets a pardon. Sharon Carter, who was helped Steve Rogers help Bucky, no pardon.

Mon: Forgotten! Even worse! So, it really does make us wonder what these guys were all doing. Can we say the Avengers were just so depressed, so grief-stricken themselves that they forgot about the other people? Whoever wasn't in their vicinity in Wakanda was just forgotten? That’s the only thing I can think of. Like, why would Steve forget Peggy Carter's niece, his friend, maybe love-interest, who knows, why would you forget her? I mean the only thing I can think of is that Steve saw Bucky die, he didn't even see Sam die, he could, of course, assume that, and then that's it. He was just like okay, we lost, and he was just broken after that. That’s my only thought.

Ron: I can't really think of anything else as a reason. From what we saw in Endgame, it seemed like the Avengers kind of closed ranks and focused on the big problems, the major issues. Even with Ronin, Clint Barton was just going around the world decimating these cartels and Yakuza or whatever, and that was going on for a while. And it was only when they needed Clint to come in that they actually went to look for him. Until then, it was just like, oh, this is a problem. Should you be doing something about it? He's an Avenger who's killing people who had nothing to do with what's going on in the world. So, I feel like a lot of people did get left behind, and Sharon Carter, unfortunately, was one of them.

Mon: Yeah, it’s really disappointing.

Ron: So, I guess it's not surprising though that her trajectory ends up the way it does in this show.

Mon: Yeah, I agree with you.

Ron: We don't actually get to see much of that. And in ‘Power Broker’ it's not even mentioned. You don't even realize that there's something off about Sharon, you just feel bad. And Sam and Bucky also feel bad. Sam immediately says, I can do something, I can fix this. And that's great, because that's his immediate reaction. Most of this episode is just a little bit of fun, really.

Mon: Yeah, I will say that this episode is probably a favorite among a lot of people because it is just so much fun. I would say that it's probably the one with the most glaring writing issues. Because Bucky explaining to Sam how he broke Zemo out is very clever, but where did Bucky have the time to plant all the keys and the clues for Zemo to get out? Where was the time? There's also a lot of other small things. Things like Sam saying, oh, it happens in every action movie. Sam wouldn't need to say that because he was literally a soldier. So was Bucky. So was Sharon. While that's a really fun scene, and an extremely fun dialogue, it just doesn't make sense in the context of these characters. So yeah, there's just a few little things here and there but honestly, it's such a fun episode that you won't even notice it.

Ron: Yeah, I'm actually surprised that Zemo of all people bring so much levity to the show, because he was downright scary in Civil War. So, this is really, really unexpected but also extremely enjoyable.

Mon: And I like that Daniel Brühl doesn't play him all hamfisted. He's not trying to be a caricature or he's not trying to be a comedic character, he's just playing Zemo as Zemo. It's just that the reactions of Zemo, and the reactions to Zemo, are what bring the levity, so that way, the combination of the writing, directing, and the performances really works.

Ron: So then we move on to Episode 4.

Mon: Quite a sea change, right, from Episode 3?

Ron: For the most part, ‘The Whole World is Watching’ kind of follows the similar levity, the tone, of the previous episode. We got to the Dora Milaje, which is really exciting because we weren't expecting any of the Wakandan references in The Falcon and Winter Soldier. And it was great that from the second episode, Bucky was talking about being in Wakanda. He tells Sam that his name is actually White Wolf, and Sam is actually surprised because he's like, ‘wait what, they named you something?’ And then we get to see Ayo. And she's not happy.

I like the fact that there's an immediate connection with the events of Civil War. King T’Chaka was extremely important, he was king of Wakanda for so long. And the way he was taken from them was so arbitrary. And, of course, Zemo was at fault. But it's kind of part of the reason why you see in Black Panther that T’Challa doesn't really want to be going out there, because look what happened when they outside, right? But of course, everything with Killmonger makes him realize that outside Wakanda’s walls is a world that needs their resources. And we see a little bit of that here, with Ayo coming to meet Bucky and actually speaking to him about handing Zemo over.

What I really like is that Bucky and Ayo have the kind of relationship where Bucky can say, ‘I need this guy, he's a means to an end. Give me a little bit more time, then you can have him’. And Ayo is like, ‘Okay, I understand where you're coming from. You’re the White Wolf. You've been in Wakanda, we've seen what you went through, I can give you this time. But then after that, you have to stick to that deadline’. I love that Bucky’s connection with Wakanda is kind of explored in the show, because he was there for a long time, and they made such a difference to his life. They deconditioned him.

Mon: I felt like the level of trust between Ayo and Bucky was quite obvious between the two characters. And also the fact that they've obviously had a kind of professional connection for a long time in Wakanda. Ayo is a very strong warrior. After Okoye, there's probably nobody better. So, it seems like the Wakandans had placed a lot of emphasis on Ayo keeping an eye on Bucky when he was deconditioning. So, as you see in the beginning of this episode, she's the one who is there for the last test to make sure that, yes, the programming is gone. Because if the programming wasn't, then Ayo would at least be able to fight off the Winter Soldier. So, I really like that beginning, and the fact that that's not the only time we see the Dora Milaje. They come back later, so that's good.

This episode is a lot slower in pace. It feels kind of like a filler episode, because a lot of it could have been part of the previous and the next episodes, but it wasn't.

Again, Zemo he feels like the smartest guy in the room, but you get the feeling that with Sam and Bucky they're getting a bit tetchy now. They feel a bit close to the prize, they have a deadline looming and Zemo is just antagonizing them. One of my biggest issues with this episode was that Bucky and Sam don't obviously use their brains too much. They just go headfirst into stuff, whereas Zemo, he very calmly and coolly gets information because he's using his brains.

Ron: Clearly Steve Rogers was 90% of their impulse control.

Mon: Sure seems like it, because when they go into the refugee camp, looking for Karli Morgenthau, who is the primary antagonist of the series, they just go in there asking. Everybody knows who Sam Wilson is, everybody knows who Bucky Barnes is. Nobody is going to answer your questions. It's Zemo who gets the answers they're looking for. I think it’s really frustrating when you watch them doing silly things like that, because you're like, ‘they're smarter than that, surely’.

Ron: I could still maybe excuse Bucky, because he hasn't been Bucky in a long time. He's really just has been pulled into fights. But Sam has had to be tactical, so for him to kind of just go in there and try and ask questions, it doesn't make sense, because Sam is very sympathetic person, and he wants to understand why Karli is doing the things that she's doing. It just doesn't make sense the way they went about it in this episode.

Mon: That's true. I like the fact that Sam kind of tries his level best to see the best in Karli. When he finally talks to her, he tries to engage with her, but then again, there's this moment in there when John Walker and Lemar Hoskins, sort of barge in and interrupt Karli and Sam. And you're like, ‘but Bucky was standing in the doorway, stopping them. What happened? Like how did these two normal humans with one shield between them, push through a metal-armed supersoldier. It doesn't make sense sometimes.

Ron: It felt like there was a moment that wasn't shown to us. And I don't know why they would have done that because it does leave you with a lot of questions.

Mon: Yeah, it's like, did they convince Bucky that Sam was in danger? Did they convince Bucky that Sam was stupid? [Laughs] Like what like what did they do? Or did they do the whole Marty McFly thing?

Ron [Laughs]: And why would Bucky fall for that?

Mon: So, it really makes me wonder about some of the writing moments in this entire series.

I feel like this episode was going one way, and then suddenly Lemar Hoskins is killed, and the entire tone changes. Because not only is Lemar killed, and you really feel for John because Lemar is basically John's Bucky. Right? I mean if John was Steve Rogers that's exactly how we would have viewed the whole thing. And we know the kind of lengths that Steve has gone to, to save Bucky—in all three films. So, you see this, but then John just takes it a whole new level. And them sort of showing you how he kills this innocent Flag-Smasher—the same Flag-Smasher who earlier had said that he had looked up to Captain America—and now he's being killed by Captain America, the poetic irony of that is so horrible. And the fact that John is ruthless.

A lot of this episode is also about the parallels between John and Sam. So, where Sam is immediately not interested in the supersoldier serum, John, on the other hand, has a conversation with Lemar and then decides to take it.

Ron: But you can see from the very beginning that he's tempted by it. And then when he has that dust up with the Dora Milaje, who are just trained soldiers, they don't have any serum running through their blood, but they make chutney out of him. And he's shocked that these people just easily took him and Lemar down. That's when he really started thinking that there is no way that he can continue being Captain America if he doesn't have something extra.

Mon: Yeah, and I think that they didn't build up the fact that there is insecurity in John Walker. There are a few scenes where he's talking about he's not sure about this. He seems to be suggesting that some of that medals that he earned, he’s not proud of them, because of the actions that he took. We never are privy to what those were, and we don't need to be. We understand that these are burdens that weigh heavily on this man. But I feel like his relationship with the supersoldier serum, his relationship with the icon that is Captain America could have been built out more.

Ron: Yeah.

Mon: Just so that we understood this character as more than the guy who stole Steve’s shield.

Ron: In the first two episodes, it seemed like he was just an ordinary soldier who's very happy to be defending the world as Captain America. You get these moments where he's trying to push his boundaries with people, especially with Bucky and Sam. He wants to be Captain America, and he wants, other people to fall in line with him. When Bucky and Sam don't do that then he's just like, ‘then don't get in my way’. It's very Black and white with him. Those moments happen fairly often, but in ‘The Whole World is Watching’ it felt like there was a lot more to him than just that. The way he's vacillating between whether he should continue letting Sam speak to Karli, or whether he should actually go in there and arrest her—he's so restless. He can't stand still, he's getting more and more agitated. These are not the reactions of somebody who should be getting the shield. But we don't really know why that is. And then once he gets the serum, and you see him kill the Flag-Smasher, you get the inkling that, okay, this man maybe should not have been given the all clear in his psych eval.

Mon: That's completely correct because when we start off the fifth Episode, ‘Truth’, we begin to realize that this is true. The truth is that he probably did not pass his psyche eval. By the way that John is trying to convince himself that, yes, he was in the right for killing this innocent Flag-Smasher, it's just frightening because that man, while he was dying was literally saying, ‘I'm innocent. I didn't do it’, and here's John standing there on his own, saying, ‘no, no, I was completely right, you know, he had to die’.

Ron: It's like he's convinced himself. And later on, in ‘Truth’, when he actually goes to speak to Lemar’s parents, they're obviously very very upset. They know John. These boys have most likely grown up together, because the parents, they are so loving towards John. And then they're like ‘the person you killed, he's the one who did this to our son?’ And John says ‘yes’. And I was just like, ‘did you just lie to these parents?’ I mean, on the one hand, you're like, what's he gonna say, he can't possibly tell them, ‘No I killed some other random dude and the actual person who killed your son, she's still out there.’ That's not what you want to tell grieving parents. But on the other hand, bare-facedly lying to people in grief, people who love you. I was just like, ‘wow this guy's off the deep end’.

Mon: Yeah, the fight scene that ensues right after the killing of the Flag-Smasher, is another reminder that this guy is not to be trifled with. Because he doesn't seem to have a moral code. His aim in life is to prove that he is Captain America. And I think that's the biggest problem with John. It parallels Sam's own reservations, right? He was stepping into somebody else's shoes. He was carrying somebody else’s shield. Hence, he was the better man who decided against picking up that mantle, because it didn't feel like it was his. John's been given this, and he was big-headed enough to believe that he deserved it. And we seem to see that there is a reason why these two characters are at opposing ends, and why one seems to deserve the shield over the other.

Ron: I would have liked to get some inkling of who John Walker was before Captain America came anyway near him. Because, especially in ‘Truth’, the way he keeps insisting, ‘I am Captain America’, it's almost like he's convincing himself, because maybe somewhere in the recesses of his mind he's realized what he just did, that's not the Captain America thing to do.

And of course, in the middle of it all, grief is in the mix. Lemar, obviously, was a huge part of his existence, and for him to die like that, it’s affected him. But him having taken the supersoldier serum, it's messed up a lot of what is already wrong with him.

What we know is that he did what he had to do as a soldier. He didn't like it, those acts have weighed very heavily on his mind, which is again making me wonder, how did he get chosen to be Captain America? Because this is not a man who sleeps soundly at night.

Watching the events of ‘The Whole World is Watching’ and the aftermath in ‘Truth’, you can see why Steve decided not to give Bucky the shield. He chose Sam, because from what we see in The Falcon and The Winter Soldier, John is as messed up as Bucky. But the government decided to give him the shield, and this is what's happened.

Mon: Bucky literally says in ‘The Whole World is Watching’ that John is crazy, and he knows that because he is crazy.

Ron: Exactly. And there are now dead people.

Mon: Exactly. And one of the things that Sebastian Stan mentioned about Bucky, in the first film Captain America: The First Avenger, is that in his reading of Bucky, in some of the comic runs, he felt like Steve was the good guy, the morally high ground kind of guy. So, some of the dirty deeds were actually done by Bucky. So, as we see in Captain America: The First Avenger, Steve's going around knocking people with his shield, but Bucky’s the one with the sniper rifle. Bucky’s doing the dirty deeds, saving Captain America from that. The reason is that Captain America has clean hands. With John, he's already come in with dirty hands, and the adage that to be Captain America, you have to be a good man, everything you know about Sam Wilson tells us that he is one.

What we know of Sam, when he was part of the Project Falcon, is that he wasn't going around shooting people. For John and Bucky, will have the parallel that they were already killers. Bucky was a killer before he became the Winter Soldier.

Ron; Which is probably why he was such a good Winter Soldier.

Mon: That’s probably true. With ‘Truth’, all these truths come out and it's just so disturbing. Especially in the first fight scene when Sam and Bucky, who have been fighting for the shield, are literally at the receiving end of it. That fight scene was very reminiscent of the fight between Bucky, Steve and Tony in Captain America: Civil War. But, wow, this one is so brutal, like you can feel those punches.

Ron: I liked what they were doing here because you immediately know that in Civil War, those three were holding back because Steve and Tony were friends, Bucky knew that they were friends, so nobody was actually trying to murder each other. Here, it's not like that. Bucky and Sam are trying to protect each other, but John is trying to save his own bacon. He does not want his shield to be taken away, he does not want to lose being Captain America. And the way he fights for it, as you said, It's brutal.

Mon: Yeah.

Ron: He's not afraid to hurt these two.

Mon: Bucky can at least take it because he's a supersoldier. But poor Sam!

Ron: My gosh that poor land, he does get a beating, doesn't he?

Mon: Yeah. And he keeps getting back up, and he’s so deft with his wings, he uses them to perfection.

Ron: We haven't actually seen that kind of wing fighting in the MCU. He usually used his wings just to fly about. But the wings over here, they work so brilliantly. And the fact that he can get hit and still keep coming back. I thought that was really commendable, because he's just an ordinary guy. And even after that, he still doesn't want the serum.

One of the other aspects of the shield that, well, you probably didn't have to talk about it that much, but it was implied, is that the shield is the last remaining part of Steve Roger. So for Sam and Bucky, the shield is kind of sentimental in a way. And after John kills the Flag-Smasher with the shield, it’s the first time we see blood on the shield, and that's quite a striking and kind of a gory image.

What I liked in ‘Truth’ was that once Sam and Bucky, after having been beat down so many times and finally Sam's got the shield back; you see him kind of wiping the blood off the shield. That was such a touching moment. I like those bits.

Mon: That fight scene was really good because not only was it beautifully choreographed, but it really worked hard to develop character. And I think it's so hard because we do watch the shows and these films for the action, but sometimes the action just feels overlong and gratuitous. But this one, this particular fight scene, it did a lot to tell us so much about these characters. And I really appreciated the fact that even though we’re on the penultimate episode of the series, they were working hard to tell us something new about these people.

Ron: Yeah. So you have all these things happening and they kind of just have to give up. And there’s this really nice long sequence when they're in Louisiana. Then the tone completely changes with Sam going back to Louisiana to sister, and the two of them trying to fix the boat and then Bucky turns up, and you're like, ‘why are you here?’ I don't want to hang out together, but they do hang out together. And they're fixing the boat and you need those kinds of interludes. With the Marvel films, you don't have the time for that. You only really have two hours for the story and action. With a TV series you’ve got that time. It's basically a six-hour long movie so you've got a lot of time for that character building. And it's kind of sweet to see Sam and Bucky just trying to get closer to each other, but also accepting the fact that the reason why they’re connected is gone. So, it works.

You also get this very long montage of Sam learning how to use the shield. And you see him training and stuff, not all of it worked for me.

Mon: Oh really?

Ron: Yeah because, why do we need to see Sam training? He’s a soldier. He's already well-built, it makes sense to see him train with the shield because it's Vibranium, it's not made to be caught by a normal person. So it does take him a bit of practice, but him doing, you know, the whole Rockymontage sequence, it didn't quite make sense. Because he’s already there. It's just that this one specific skill he needs to work on. But by the end of it you know what's going to happen. We just don't know how it's going to happen.

So then we go into the finale, ‘One Word One People’. And that's the motto of the Flag-Smashers. I guess they're a Marvel villain. I'm actually surprised that in the six episodes they weren’t as well constructed as they should have been.

Karli Morgenthau is a villain ™. There's no reason why she should be. The Flag-Smashers’ goal is to bring the world together without boundaries, as it was during the days the Blip. And for that reason they're bad people? And the show kind of makes it so that we feel like that because Karli randomly blows up people. And yes, these are strategic targets, but the victims are just ordinary people just doing their jobs. And there's no reason why she has to do it. I think that with the Flag-Smashers the show really struggled. And I would say, it kind of failed.

Mon: Especially in the final episode, it seemed like the showrunners just want to double down on the fact that the Flag-Smashers are bad, you shouldn't be rooting for them. I think we were really let down by those characters, and their entire arc. They sort of all died and then that was it.

Ron: Yeah, especially because, think of the optics. You have Karli Morgenthau, who’s played by Erin Kellyman, who’s a biracial Black woman, and she's the bad guy? And she's the bad guy for wanting to bring the world together. It just doesn't look right. And had we had a bit more time to understand them, maybe we could have felt something, but you're just like, ‘why are you telling me how to feel about these people?’ And it really did feel like that.

Mon: Because Sam believes in her and believes that she's got good in her, but nothing she does seems that way. Aside from the first episode where they were seemingly ferrying vaccines to refugee camps. After that she really went downhill.

Ron: It was 0-100.

Mon: Yeah. Again, with Marvel villains, it's always like that.

Ron: And it doesn't make sense for this particular group to be like that, which was frustrating.

Mon: I felt like, with Karli, maybe if she'd had more screen time or some better writing, if we had understood her anger along with her goal and her mission. It’s just that she kept telling us that these people are terrible, these things that they're doing are terrible, we just didn't have enough background or context for why she's feeling this way, and why she's feeling such animosity that she's going around killing innocent people.

Ron: Yeah.

Mon: In that sense I would say the finale fell flat.

Ron: Yeah, I mean the rest of the action was fantastic, absolutely brilliant. Sam, having the Falcon wings, and the shield and fighting with both of them, it looked so good. We haven't seen action like that. I don't know how they shot it, but it looked really great.

Mon: And his costume is so close to the comic book, and it works.

Ron: Yeah.

Mon: It really works. I kind of wish we'd seen Sam and Bucky fighting together. That was the only thing I really really missed because Bucky goes off on his own, and after some time he is working with US Agent, well John Walker, before he’s US Agent. But Sam's off on his own for the most part. And while he's really smart, and he's really good as Captain America, I just wanted to see them fight side by side.

Ron: Yeah, that would have been nice. And Sharon Carter kind of comes in, but she doesn't really do much. And you're like, ‘why is she holding back?’ Then we find out that she's actually the Power Broker. There were rumors from like two, three episodes ago that she might be. I don't know how to feel about this. On the one hand, I get it. She's upset. She has been abandoned, she's lost everything she knew. Of course, she's going to do whatever she can to get some power. On the other hand, really?

Mon: It doesn't sit right with me.

Ron: It seems really unfair to Sharon Carter.

Mon: Yeah. There are so few women characters in the MCU, as it is, and you've got one good person, Sharon, she's a bad guy?

And also, we don't know the depths that the Power Broker has gone to, we don't know how powerful the Power Broker is. So, it's hard to gauge, just how scared we should be of Sharon's transformation.

Ron: With Sharon and whatever trajectory she's on and Karli, having been killed. I wonder why there's this dichotomy between who gets redemption and who doesn't. The Winter Soldier really did mess up a lot of things. But somehow, Bucky is getting to live a life. And by the end of the series, he's pretty much with the Wilsons now, he's part of the family. But Karli has to have died.

Mon: Well, the only difference between Karli and the Winter Soldier is that Bucky didn't have much of a choice in what he did as the Winter Soldier. So, in that case, he can be forgiven. He was literally brainwashed, he did not have any control over it, so I can understand that dichotomy, that's fine. But I just don't understand the evolution of Sharon. Because Karli I felt like they really wanted us to care about this character but they never wrote her as someone we should care about. But Sharon, she's a comic book character who we all are familiar with. She's always been Captain America's girlfriend. And she's been on the right side of Marvel comic books. So, for her to evolve into somebody who could potentially be a huge threat, that's the only worrying part. And we will be seeing her again?

Ron: Well, apparently, there's going to be a second season for the show. Captain America 4 is also happening with Anthony Mackie as Captain America. I don't know whether we will see the character from this show turn up in the movie, but the second season, we could see more of Sharon Carter, maybe even more of Zemo, and the Countess, played by Julia Louis-Dreyfuss, which was a surprise I guess?

I don't know, people were making like a big deal about it, and I was just like, ‘why wouldn't you be in a Marvel role?’ Her kids are probably really excited about it?

Mon: I feel like that part of it is going to be interesting, but it's never going to be the compelling pull for me, because for me, I just want to see Sam and Bucky being Sam and Bucky. I want to see them evolving and growing and just hanging out together. Action, fight scenes that's what we got this season. We saw Sam grow; we saw Bucky grow. We saw them come together; come closer. I just really like that.

And in the end when the title card changes from The Falcon and The Winter Soldier to Captain America and The Winter Soldier, I was squealing with glee.

Ron: Yeah, and that's what we were wondering from the beginning of the show right? Why isn't it Captain America and The Winter Soldier, well, now we know why.

I still don't know why he still the Winter Soldier, though? Is he gonna reclaim that name? Maybe, who knows?

But yeah, this show was interesting because it gives us more of two characters who we do care about who haven't had the opportunity to grow in the films. So yes, they needed this platform. But the other characters like John, now he’s US Agent, how come he's not in prison, I still don't know. But for some reason he's out there. Sharon, really, I just don't understand why they've had to go in to make her a bad guy mode.

The character I am excited for is Joaquin Torres, played by Danny Ramirez. Joaquin is from the comics. He's Falcon in the comics. His design in the comics that I've read are kinda creepy.

Mon: Oh!

Ron: Yeah, because he's an actual like part Falcon.

Mon: Ugh, I really hope he doesn't turn into a part Falcon.

Ron: I hope they don't go with that design either. But we did see him kind of get the suit from Sam, so maybe he will become Falcon. I do love him geeking out over Sam from the very first episode. It's very sweet, and it's a really nice way to introduce a character.

We haven't been able to talk about Isaiah Bradley, played by Carl Lumbly. Isaiah Bradley is a character from the comics.

Mon: So, Isaiah was introduced in a limited comic run, where he was part of a regiment of Black soldiers who were experimented on. And when the government decided to abandon them, he stole the Captain America suit and tried to save them. And for his efforts, he was unfortunately imprisoned and experimented on even more. His story in the TV show is a little bit different. In fact, the way they've written his character and his actions, parallel Steve's. It’s exactly the way he tried to save Bucky and his regiment. It's really heartbreaking, especially because we know about the Tuskegee Airmen who were also kind of forgotten by history, and a lot of Isaiah’s story is based on those forgotten heroes.

I am so glad that after that little snippet that we saw in the second episode, he did come back and his story was expanded on and Sam’s connection with Isaiah was also expanded. And that was really good because I was a little bit confused initially as Bucky he knew him, and he dragged Sam there and Isaiah was really upset. He seemed to be agitated at the sight of Bucky. I was thinking like, ‘what is Bucky doing?’ But the last two episodes where Sam meets Isaiah, I feel like he was able to form a sort of bond with him. And in the final episode he really seemed to thaw that cold heart of his.

Ron: Yeah, I felt like Sam meeting Isaiah gave him the impetus to become Captain America, even though Isaiah didn't want him to take on the mantle. So, Sam had a lot to think about. And it was good to get that other perspective, because for Sam, getting the Captain America shield from John Walker was really important. But why Isaiah and people like Isaiah would not want Sam to take on a mantle that was imbedded in oppression did make sense, but in the end, it was Sam's choice. It will be interesting to see how the fourth film explores what it means for Sam to actually be Captain America.

Through Isaiah we also get Eli, his grandson, and in the comics, Eli is Patriot, who is also part of Sam's group. So, maybe, Elijah Richardson who was playing, Eli has hinted that maybe there’s a future for his character. Who knows.

A lot of people are really excited because it seems like the makings of the Young Avengers has been in the works. A lot of the characters have been introduced by now, but who knows, we haven't got any confirmation yet. Let's not get excited. But it'll be great to see something like that.

On the whole, this show was surprisingly enjoyable. It was a bit darker than I expected. I really did think that it would be more bantery and fun. I didn't mind the dark bits. I think they worked well. Certain characters worked better for me—Isaiah was definitely a highlight. I love Sam and his sister Sarah. The glimpses we got of the Dora Milaje were lots of fun. Bucky, initially, I really wasn't sure about him, but it got a lot better. Sharon, she's doing a good job with what she's got. But I don't know what the future holds. I really wish it wasn't in the darker direction that it's apparently going.

John Walker, it looks like that guy's gonna be hanging around. He's probably going to be a thorn in Captain America’s side, that’s for sure. A second season would definitely be welcome. And I think it will be needed. Whereas with WandaVision, it works as a whole. The Falcon and The Winter Soldier, now Captain America and The Winter Soldier, it probably needs a bit more time for some of these characters. But otherwise, surprisingly enjoyable.

Mon: Yeah, I really like the show. I would go as far as to say, I actually really loved it. Yeah, there were some writing issues. And I will admit that yes the villains were under done—they were very formulaic which, honestly, the first episode seemed to suggest that they weren't going to be, so that was really disappointing. But if you came here for Sam and Bucky, you are going to get Sam and Bucky, and they are great; they are fantastic. It seems like Anthony Mackie and Sebastian Stan seem to be really enjoying playing these characters and fleshing them out, which is great. I mean at the end of it, it seems like the two of them, as characters, have really formed a bond. They seem to have accepted that Bucky is just part of the Wilson family, and it's great because he's been kind of on his own all this while. And for whatever reasons, Steve wasn't able to give him that family feeling, because Steve himself was a man out of time, Sam isn't, so it was really nice to see these characters get a platform, and then really grow into it. I would honestly love to see a second season, I would love to see a second season, and Captain America 4.

Ron: Yeah.

Mon: Because I can't get enough of these characters. So please Marvel, keep at it.

Ron: What did you think of The Falcon and The Winter Soldier? We'd love to hear from you.

You can find us on Twitter @Stereo_Geeks. Or send us an email stereogeekspodcast@gmail.com. We hope you enjoyed this Episode. And see you next week!

Mon: The Stereo Geeks logo was created using Canva. The music for our podcast comes courtesy Audionautix.

[Continuum by Audionautix plays]

Transcription by Otter.ai, Ron, and Mon.

[violetsystems]

#personal

I deposited my first check for my business yesterday at the bank.  I had to go to the teller because it’s an entirely different account.  They repeated the name back to me off the check and asked me if I wanted a balance.  If you look at my life from the right perspective everything seems amazing.  Truthfully, they say the American dream is owning your own business.  They say a lot of dumb shit about America.  Now more than ever.  Which is why it’s nice sometimes to stick around in a neighborhood and let people battle it out in terms of what they think of you.  It’s been about ten months of insane isolation.  I spend most of my time at home alone with my cat.  I talk to my parents every so often but nobody really else intimately.  Other than here.  I live in a city so it��s impossible to be alone once you leave the house.  I sometimes think that’s a hard balance to maintain.  It gets easier over time the less I worry about the outside world.  I know it’s hard to when you live on a planet in the middle of a dense, dark universe.  But these days I pay more attention to space in the news more than anything.  I just bought a few things for my business to experiment with.  A mini drone to learn Python with.  I flew it out on the porch for a few seconds until my neighbor poked their head out.  Everybody out here is always in everybody else’s business.  It’s almost a reflex.  Oddly enough when I fly it indoors my cat just rolls her eyes at it.  I’ve been continuing to apply for jobs and maintain a presence on the job sites.  But everything whiffs in such a weird way.  It’s like I’m invisible until I’m out on the street.  Then it’s everyone wasting my time and energy trying to project some secret messages or agenda.  It’s laughable at this point.  You’d think after years of fucking with somebody on a guerilla level you’d bother to at least acknowledge them with more than a glare.  And yet people can’t be bothered to be kind or understanding.  There’s not enough of it in the world.  So when you walk that path, everyone has their hand out.  Everybody expects it’s a given that we’re all in this together.  When it comes to my physical address behind closed doors most assuredly this is not true.  But considering my business address and my residence are one and the same right now, it’s not too hard to know I’m painted in a corner.  I don’t have friends that even check on me to see how I’m doing other than here.  Everybody in this city is too caught up in a lie or afraid of being exposed.  I can confirm this by simple math.  The people I still keep up with are business transactions at best.  There’s an icy veil between that where you get this feeling you aren’t welcome into any real social circle anymore.  This feels even worse applying for jobs in this city.  I just got out of a twenty year employment opportunity where you get to work with your friends.  Only to find ten months after being let go, none of those people were my friends.  I personally at this point care more about making money than friends.  The teller is friendly enough when they stare at my account from behind the screen.  It’s a nightmare to think over two years ago my life was quite the opposite despite having it all.  Dream jobs are in the past now.  Everybody’s godson is their own personal cybersecurity officer.  The nerds got rid of their IT managers and are locked in their bedrooms on zoom with their cameras off.  I’m more excited about drones on Mars and autonomous delivery.  And I still see no future for me here, there or everywhere.

The biggest lesson for me has been about validation.  There is a point when what you want to do isn’t the clearest road.  I’ve had my share of friends doubt who I wanted to be or become.  I’ve cautiously shared things about my life I couldn’t put into words only to have my concerns gaslighted or dwarfed for the main narrative.  People who lie are really good at one thing.  Continuing to lie.  When I catch people in lies, it makes me angry.  Mostly because the one thing I’ve always tried to do was be transparent, accountable and real.  The way I see America when I walk out my door is severely broken.  A thousand fractured narratives clashing together in selfishness.  I try to keep the peace and bridge things together as best I can.  But I’m no politician.  I’m not even an activist.  I’ve been duct taping my life together for almost a year only to realize everybody else’s is far worse off.  Social distancing through the plague has brought me to extremes.  It helped me distance myself from years of my life I’d been caught up in.  And yet now I find myself caught up in a city rather than a suburban area I crawled out from years ago.  College is so far away.  I actually took masters level courses in Psychology.  I wanted to go into artificial intelligence.  I settled for data analytics and human resources.  Never really did much with that degree other than learn how to spot crazy.  I don’t have any student loans to trade for leverage with an employer.  Everybody follows me around and talks behind my back to the point where I wonder if employers have a red flag tabbed on my LinkedIn profile.  The shit I have seen done with my life is so fucking amateur that people would rather erase me than confront the problem.  And therein lies the lesson.  You have to validate yourself.  Believing in yourself and walking away from the table is a tough thing when everyone negs you to think less.  But there’s a point when my Viking roots throw caution to the wind and I tell the world I’m done.  I’m sure my Gyspy roots concur.  Not sure about the Bohemian side.  I think here is the hidden key to Nationalism.  Everybody falls back on their shallow gene pool for comfort to ease the cognitive dissonance of society being a chaotic fuck show.  Primitive thinking that can’t evolve beyond pattern recognition.  The things I’m supposed to be proud of are very finite to me.  They don’t span generations or even decades.  The last ten months has been the most bleak and soul churning I have ever experienced.  And I experienced it quietly with my family and my real friends in a weird sort of intimacy.  And even my parents don’t really know what goes on with me too deeply.  There’s a point when you have to be your own person.  And some people can’t break free and stand on their own too without fear or pain.  So they’d rather fall back into a crowd.  Where they can stop being judged, negated or feel unsure about where they stand.  That is a crutch.  Sometimes the world is so hurt you need something to stand on.  And sometimes the bones heal you back all gnarled and distorted.  You look inward and all you feel is hate.  And that hate isn’t you.  It’s not a good thing to be angry all the time.  And yet I feel it too.  More so these days when I let myself get angry over things and people outside my control.  The people outside my door don’t ever validate me in a way that’s dignified or respectful.  And that says a lot about the world in general versus how I choose to live.  The real lesson I’ve learned is that this is the way it is.  If you want to change it, you must start with yourself.  And there’s some things you can’t change.  The hell of other people trying to intrude and muscle in on your place on this planet.  

It’s hard to love yourself when everyone else is judging your every move.  It makes you think there is something wrong with you.  And the world is always looking for something to point it’s finger on.  We’re all being judged.  We’re all under duress.  We are all paranoid looking over our shoulder.  I should know because I catch someone with a knowing look out my periphery every ten or fifteen seconds.  That’s a lot to subconsciously prepare for every day I want to live my life.  And yet I know there are people who are simply continuing to live through a lie.  To be further manipulated away from controlling themselves.  The reactionary bullshit in America serves a dual purpose.  Thinning out the herd.  We are so caught up in headlines we never read the fine print.  We are enraged, huddled together through protest and then led further down the rabbit hole with no end in sight.  We complain about government but can’t name a single piece of legislation other than guns that have saved our freedom.  I’ll name one for you.  The CARES act.  We know everything about everyone every second of the day but have never even asked anyone’s name.  And you can seek out that whirl wind circle jerk of group hugs and prayer circles all you want.  People are still just going through the motions.  Saying the right things to avoid confrontation even if it means blatantly warping the truth.  Ask anybody I used to work with.  I would ask them for you but they pretend I’m fucking dead.  And this was how it was supposed to feel I gather.  I was to be taught a lesson.  Freedom isn’t free.  It did teach me a lot about life.  Mostly that I’m not really sensitive to anything other than my own ethics.  There’s things I don’t do.  And these things are observed and never clarified.  I live in a silent void of rumor, legacy and shadow.  I’m living that life you people brag about in public.  Whatever that life is I’m not even quite sure.  I’m terribly alone in all of this and not at the same time.  And it requires me to have confidence enough to simply and effortless believe I’m worth it.  Like some vicious game of poker.  I’m all in at my own kitchen table.  I have no dreams left other than to be free.  And maybe to learn Premiere editing 4k drone videos in my spare time.  I don’t really fucking know anymore what to do other than to continue to not humor anyone’s dumb ass bullshit.  And to be real, this entire experience has taught me firsthand how worthless and fucked up my past is here in America.  Everybody wants some shame to hold over you so you stay a bargain.  Everybody wants to roast you and take your shine so they can look mediocre next to you at best.  Everybody wants to bring everyone down to their level regardless if it’s legal, civil or ethical.  And yet when you do the same, you understand what the problem is.  I’ve walked the walk for years and everybody can’t stop talking their shit.  Now people have run out of bad things to say.  So they either pretend I’m a ghost or speak like I’m some urban legend.  And thinking too much into that can drive an intelligent person insane.  Which is why knowing what I know I stay out of everything completely.  Even when I don’t you can see how much it drags me down to humor it all like a good sport.  These people out here do not play fair.  They never have.  And the only winning move is not to play.  I learned that from Wargames years ago.  Everybody wants to be a hacker now.  If you learn one thing from Hackers the movie.  The M1 is here to stay.  And never try to hack a gibson.  That’s the only ICE you have to fear when it comes to crossing my path.  Flatline your shit and leave you staring at the ground awkwardly with your well meaning intrusive bullshit.  End of line.  <3 Tim

[capricornus-rex]

Inseparable Dyad (1)

Cal Kestis x Reader

Summary: When Cal follows his instincts to revisit Zeffo, you sense a great disturbance and urgency in the Force. A trap was set by bounty hunters who wanted either—or both—of your heads, but no one knows who has put the price.

Notes: This is all part of an elaborate story I have been working on. Thanks again for liking my stuff! I hope you guys still like my stories~ :3

Masterlist | Part 2

1 of ?

The sun is still asleep. The stars retain their glittering presence in the sky. The clouds were painted a dim indigo and orange—dawn was just about to break. And the morning fog is beginning to lift.

Before the great Binog could even crane its neck up to greet the sun, or before the colonies of Boglings could pop out of their burrow holes to do the same, you and Cal have already started your sparring session. The humming of lightsabers and the gasps of breaths echoed in the horizon until the abyss drowned out the sound. The wind was invigorating, in addition to the beads of sweat trickling down your necks that gave both of you chills.

But the hostile creatures did not take kindly to your early morning activity. Bog rats have sprouted out of their burrows and Sploxes crawl hastily towards the both of you to bring their message across. You and Cal are against each other’s backs, lightsabers at the ready, while the animals have you surrounded and they’re waiting for their chance of attack.

A bog rat jumps and you immediately sliced it in half. The moment its pieces fell to the ground, another has made its move on Cal. The attacks were in succession and in no particular pattern—any animal who took initiative immediately met their demise.

“Huh, that was easy,” you casually commented.

Suddenly, the earth under your boots shook, the quake was so strong that the puddles have spilled out water.

“I wouldn’t be too sure this time!”

Three Oggdos have emerged from the sinkholes that led to their den. Nine eyes blinked mindlessly and alternately as they caught sight of the cause of their disrupted slumber.

“Morning fellas!” you greet with your trademark sarcasm.

The Oggdos grunted as they heard your voice. They have made it their goal to show you a thing or two about disturbing their sleep right before daybreak. One of them was too eager to make that point already. These three large, triple-eyed frogs have you surrounded. Both of you worked together to take each and one of them down.

As the first Oggdo jumped, you and Cal dodge-rolled away from its landing spot and immediately went for the attack. It was surprisingly quick on its feet and had no problem targeting either of you—its only goal was to get rid of the two of you. Cal focused for a quick moment and was able to execute his stronger Force-push that could stagger large beasts. With very little window time of reaction, he did not spare any moment in weakening the creature before it could come up with another attack. His dual-lightsaber did a number on the large beast, releasing a string of pattern attacks until the split-lightsaber attack delivered the finishing blow.

In your periphery, you saw the second one preparing to use its tongue. You rolled over Cal’s back and then—in the most perfect of timings—Cal slowed down the second Oggdo, then your lightsaber severed the tongue before it could even stretch out to its full length.

The third Oggdo focuses on Cal and prepares for a jump attack. Cal saw the opportunity. He runs up to it while it was still in mid-air, he slides underneath the creature and slices it on the underside when it was about to land. The creature thumps hard on the ground and gave out its last breath.

The second one was very aggressive, which was completely understandable since its tongue has been brought out of commission—all thanks to you. Out of anger, it repeatedly snaps its jaws until it could chomp off a leg. Cal gave you a jump boost, you made a stepping stone out of the Oggdo’s boulder of a snout, and pithed your lightsaber on its spine. It wildly whipped left and right, not caring that you’re still aboard its back, hoping to fling away the saber that has been driven deep into its flesh.

“[y/n], look out!”

It eventually flung you away—along with your lightsaber—and you hurled towards Cal to the ground. It was still standing, though it didn’t have much fight in it left but it was still very angry. You lobbed your lightsaber towards it and the Oggdo falls dead on the grass.

Seeing that your targets are not moving anymore, you two propped yourselves up and took a good look of the hot mess you’ve made. You catch you breath and fall flat on the morning-chilled grass.

“Well, that’s one hell of a workout, if I should say so myself,” Cal huffed. “Round two?”

You turn your head to him and saw that smirk on his face, you playfully raised your brow at him, and he received a chuckle as an answer. You gently headbutted him and he stole a quick kiss.

“Race you to breakfast?” you whispered teasingly.

“Aww, it’s on!”

In that split second, you two were already racing your way back to the abode. Little did you know that you were already racing the sun in its rise. You felt compelled to stop and you were just meters away from the entrance of the hut too. Cal stood by your side and followed where your gaze was pointed.

The sky has begun to change color. The indigo was now turning into a powder blue gradient, the vibrant orange went into a soft yet bright yellow. The silhouette of the silver clouds were now lined with sunshine gold.

You headed for one of the huts on the plateau that led back to the workshop, Cal was hot on your trail but you beat him to the pulley. No matter, he thought, and he just immediately jumped down. You were just ten paces away from the kitchen but Cal snatched you by the waist and hoisted you up.

“Aww no you don’t!” he playfully exclaimed.

“Put me down, Cal!” You laughed, making little effort to make your escape.

He twirled you around in the air while he had you hoisted up in his arms. Your shared laughter rang and echoed loudly across the walls. When he finally puts you down, he still did not release you from his grasp, he kept you close to his hip before you convinced him to let you go because still needed to make breakfast.

A serving of Phillak chops helped you get your fill for the morning. The rigorous exercise from earlier this morning did a number on your stamina. You stand by the open entryway of the abode, watching the sun shine brightly on the planet, casting light in every nook and cranny. Cal knew you loved the morning, the sun, and watching the dawn break.

He remembered your first few days together in the abode, he found you up and early to watch the sunrise—you were sitting by the edge of the abode with your legs suspended in the air, swinging them as if you weren’t on the verge of nothingness. You did this often for a few weeks, until he had the chance to ask you why you were always doing this.

“I feel like I need to memorize the light more, because I’ve been sitting in darkness for way too long.”

That was your answer. It was a riddle of sorts, but an easy one to crack. Cal did not need much explanation, he knew the feeling all too well—for he, too, once lived in a dark place. He’s just glad that the darkness is gone and wakes up by your side every morning.

[chrysalispen]

lycoris (minor divergence AU, 5.0 spoilers)

in response to the prompt “what if Hythlodaeus had accepted the title of emet-selch, and the WoL instead met Hades?”

I wrote this in three days (mostly while heavily drugged LMAO) so it’s not.... my best work ever but I like it for what it is. Fic is beneath the cut.

=======================

Nestled within a seemingly fathomless expanse amidst the fringes of the western seas, the Tempest is not exactly what one would call a comforting locale. Its depths are rife with sailor's tales: stories of sirens and storms and ships called to their deaths, even in the days before the Flood brought deadlier creatures to Kholusia's shores.

For a creature like Emet-Selch, a man relegated to furthering his god's work within the myriad hidden places of the Source and its reflections for long years, it will do.

Of course, his choice of abode upon the First is not wholly based upon sentimentality. Sometimes he fancies he has all but forgotten what it is like for the touch of light not to sting his skin; he can bear it when he must but sees little point in deliberately exposing himself to discomfort.

Amber eyes track the rippling ribbons of refracted light that shimmer several fulms overhead, fingers of stark white softened into a glow by the water like knives dulled from use. It is just enough that the seafloor wherein he has rebuilt his most abiding memory does not lie completely shrouded in the darkness of the trench. By its dim illumination does Emet-Selch study the skyline he has built with the critical lens of a master sculptor, seeking any perceived flaws and carefully setting any misgivings aside. For better or worse, the die is cast and his choices made. This final act of creation: completed.

It wants now only for a single soul to darken its doorsteps.

~*~

She is glad to have parted ways with the others briefly, even for investigation's sake.

Although not inclined to lie by nature, she is nonetheless quite aware that her condition has deteriorated farther than any of the other Scions are like to have realized. The corona of light that had flickered at the periphery of her vision has all but overtaken her sight. Blinding white and gold accompanies the pain in her stiffening limbs which has been a constant companion since awakening in the Crystarium.

She pushes herself to a sitting position, then with a supreme act of will regains her feet. Her stance wobbles- perilously close to overcorrecting- but with time and care she is able to keep her balance, and in short order, the Warrior of Darkness finds herself once more stumbling down the vast and near-empty paved streets of an alien city: a city populated only with a single man’s memories of the dead. It is a lonely, lonely path. But that loneliness carries, in itself, a sort of bleak comfort.

Wandering up and down the paved streets of Amaurot’s neat, gridlike layout- or at least the bits that fit into the ocean trench with such suspicious seamlessness- she does not realize her feet have carried her off the beaten path until a bone-deep fatigue gives her cause to grip the cool metal of a fancifully wrought archway for support.

There is, to her surprise, still beauty to be found in this place upon further inspection. The public park she has stumbled upon is a welcome sight and a well-appointed affair at that. Mazes of green painstakingly curated and compelled into obeisance, framing the abstraction of metal sculpture. Flowers of every conceivable color, tall and comfortable-looking trees planted for shade as well as aesthetic.

For the first time since they had rounded the continental shelf and glimpsed the tall spires rising like bony fingers from the darkest depths of the ocean trench, the Warrior feels calm. Something about this place imparts a certain measure of serenity. There is a particular sort of love that has gone into its recreation, a love that is very nearly tangible.

And, somehow, also very familiar.

Fingers trailing through hawthorn and salvia- and a good dozen varieties of flowers her eyes have never seen, on the Source or elsewhere- she meanders in an aimless amble, plagued not only by the Light leaking into her vision but also the feeling that she is searching for something indefinable.

The massive tree in the center of the park brings her to a halt.

There is no other of its kind to be seen anywhere nearby. It stands aloof from the other greenery, silent and ancient and proud--its boughs bent, upon closer inspection, with the weight of many years--much like a certain Ascian of her acquaintance. The Warrior of Darkness finds herself drawn to it in a way that defies understanding.

Gently she reaches for the tree and places one palm upon its enormous trunk. Caresses the roughness of its bark with her fingertips--

-----Mortal agony warps its way through her bones and the sound of fracturing glass rings in her ears as the Light surges.

Biting back a cry of agony she convulses around it, crumpling to the ground, head in her twitching hands as the pain becomes her world. Amaurot fades, distant and unimportant, into her periphery, and upon her tongue, she tastes copper and ozone.

No no no no, not here, not now, not like this--

*I beg your pardon? That’s my tree.*

The resonant chime of the ancients’ tongue, edged with just the slightest hint of annoyance, pierces the cacophony of ravenous hunger and the spasms of her limbs so thoroughly that she… is distracted.

The pain fades and her vision, nearly white, is almost clear.

The figure is as indistinct as all the others -- tall, translucent, almost intimidating -- but something about this one is different. The other shades she has encountered acknowledged her only in the broadest of senses, treating her more as an interruption to the tasks they were set, rather like watching worker mammets forced to move aside an obstacle.

No, this shade seems more present than the others somehow. She can feel something more substantial behind the black holes of the mask peering down at her- something, that is, beyond initial surprise and a sort of mild, rather tolerant annoyance.

“It’s a very large tree,” she manages a weak smile and pats a bottom-sized dip in the root system at her side. “I think there should be plenty of room for both of us.”

The shade tilts its chin to one side, almost like a bird. She fancies she can feel the weight of a stare upon her, silently judging her appearance alongside her words-- but at length, it sits, albeit with abrupt movements that lack the artless grace she had observed among the other figures.

For a long time, they do not speak but simply accept each other’s company with varying degrees of amiability. The Warrior looks out upon the streets beyond the hedges and watches the blurred outlines of the city's shades going about what she can only assume would have once been their daily business, although a keen eye would note that there is not much change in their behavior over time. They are in a perpetual loop of the same discussions, the same paths, the same tasks, over and over.

At length, she hears the soft chiming once more, the words unfolding within her mind in the same instant. Terribly polite of Emet-Selch, she thinks with a hysterical sort of good humor, to at least provide a means of translating his people’s speech.

*So, you've come from out of time - apropos, all things considered. I don’t believe I’ve seen you before,* the shade muses. *...Not in this form, at least.*

The statement is as confusing as it is disarming.

“This… form?” she echoes, but her only answer is another question.

*You’ve come to see Emet-Selch, I take it?*

She tenses. That is all the answer that seems to be necessary.

*Ah.* With a noise that seems to translate as a laboring sigh, the shade’s cowled head comes to rest against the tree trunk. *Your timing is unfortunate. The city is deep in preparations to face the Doom. You’ll be lucky to see him before all is said and done.*

“So I’ve heard.” There is no change in what she can see of the giant’s expression, but she can sense that it was the expected response. “...If I may ask, how did you know I was here to see Emet-Selch?”

*Oh, come now, you needn’t worry about me,* the shade shrugs. *I’m not really here, you know. Well, I’m here but I’m not -present,- as it were. Nor are any of these others.*

“Are you... I mean, you’re not a spirit, are you?”

*Am I to assume you mean a wandering soul? Certainly not. We’re all just memories; naught of real substance, I’m afraid.* An amused titter as the shade stretches, catlike, before rolling its head towards her. *This is an Amaurot upon which the Doom has yet to descend- if it ever does.*

She leans forward and wraps her arms about her knees, hugging them to her chest. The only person - so to speak - in the entire city that actually seems capable of a real conversation and she has no real idea what to ask.

Might as well start with the pleasantries. “What’s your name?”

The black sockets of the mask seem to bore through her flesh and straight into her soul, and although it should make no difference she feels strangely exposed. *...Asking the important questions at last, are we? You can call me Hades. Don’t bother asking any of these others; they’d not be able to give an answer at all.*

“None of the others can really talk about anything beyond superficial matters,” she agreed. “Though I’m curious as to what makes you different. You certainly look the same as they do.”

*Knowing Emet-Selch, he likely had me on the mind while he was creating this overwrought simulacrum of his.* One large hand lifts in a lazy, flippant, and startlingly familiar wave before tucking itself behind Hades’ head. *He always was tediously sentimental. Although I suppose I should be flattered.*

“I’m not sure I follow.”

*Doubtless he thought I would see through the illusion--my sight pales in comparison to his, mind you. But he would know that. We were good friends once, he and I.* A familiar, rueful half-smile tilts the shade's lips. *Although I am no less ephemeral than anything else he’s summoned from his memory. I assume he told you what happened?*

“After a fashion, yes.” She plucks at a blade of grass. “He spoke of a calamity, and how the brightest of his number - yours, that is - came together to summon Zodiark.”

*Not the most accurate summary, in truth, but I suppose it will suffice,* Hades sniffs.

The Warrior listens, with all of the patience for which she is so famous upon the Source, as he speaks. The burning pain of the Light is almost nonexistent in this odd man's presence, and that alone is sweet comfort.

Emet-Selch must have thought highly of this Hades. He is wholly unlike the kind and gentle giants seeming content to drift through empty streets, unaware of the fate that awaits them; he recounts the Ascian’s lecture with an air that could be generously termed sardonic: brusque and laden with quipped observations about how ‘tiresome’ the other man could be, yet in a way that makes obvious their long years of acquaintance. Affection lies just beneath his exasperation, and she finds herself warming to Hades quickly, sour as he seems.

He is blunt-tongued and eccentric, but still kind in his way. She cannot help but like him.

*Needless to say, there were those who didn’t take kindly to the suggestion that we ought to continue sacrificing souls to Zodiark’s appetites, and felt that we ought to make our peace with the new lives we’d created. They summoned Hydaelyn to counter Him. So for the first time in anyone’s memory, we were divided on our course of action---*

“And you fought,” she says, sadly. Sorrow burns in her breast for this man and his fellows, a gentle people who had never known strife if Emet-Selch were to be believed. “He told me.”

*Then you know how it ends.* Hades’ smile fades, and though she half-expects another testy remark, there is none forthcoming. The shade's head shakes slowly, side to side. *So he continues to labor in Zodiark’s name, then.*

“Not for any lack of attempts to thwart him, I assure you.”

*Don't apologize. I should hardly expect otherwise. He’s an obstinate ass,* Hades says flatly, *and that’s only one of his many flaws. Though I imagine it serves him well in this regard-- if none other.*

Despite herself, she laughs.

“I would say it doesn’t even begin to describe him. You can’t imagine-- well, no, I guess you can if you knew him well. Although…”

*Although...?*

She stares at her hands, only able to see a blinding white outline, and does not answer. She does not trust herself to answer.

Sometimes I see a glimpse of a kinder, gentler man, beneath it all. And now- now I find myself mourning the loss of a person I never knew.

If he senses her hesitation, he gives no outward indication of it.

*I’m sure he still intends to carry out his plan.* His eyes might be hidden in the depths of that mask, but she doesn’t need to see them. There is a certain degree of sorrow in his words, blunt as they are. *Mind you, he can commit all manner of cruelties when it suits him to do so now, but he was very different once. Friendly. Compassionate. Very willing to admit his mistakes and seek counsel where warranted. He would take the burdens of other souls upon his own shoulders without a second thought if he felt his aid necessary. Occasionally I found him infuriating, but always he had the purest of intentions.* Each word falls upon her ears with a heavier weight. Hades sighs. *This is a terrible burden he has chosen for himself, make no mistake- and it is all the worse for knowing his temperament is so ill-suited to carry it.*

The quality of the filtered light through the water has changed - the color, the angle, albeit only slightly. It is one of the few ways anyone has in Norvrandt of tracking the time. Evening has fallen.

As if realizing it himself, Hades seems to stir from a sort of reverie, as though their chat is a dream and she is the shade.

*It’s starting to get very late, you know,* he says, rather briskly. *Shouldn’t you be off to get your permit? I’m certain he’s waiting on you.*

“I… yes. Yes, of course.”

Slowly and carefully the Warrior stands, bracing her weight against the tree. It is a nigh-herculean effort to regain her footing; she is desperate to lie down somewhere and try to sleep, but sleep despite her exhausted state has brought neither rest nor peace. The Light lurks just beneath her mortal shell, a predator waiting for its prey to falter.

Time is shorter than she had hoped it would be.

Still, she smiles.

“Thank you for speaking with me, Hades.”

That impatient flip of a wave again, and now she is quite certain she has seen Emet-Selch make that precise gesture a time or two. *If answering your questions assures me a peaceful nap, count me happy to oblige.*

She has almost made it on her slow, staggering feet to the hedgerow when Hades’ voice chimes once more at her back.

*Before you go---there is one more thing. One… minor thing.*

The sadness underscoring his words gives her pause. She turns around.

Hades is not lazing beneath the tree with his back propped against its trunk as she had left him. He too is standing. The giant's gait lists to one side beneath the heavy boughs, and he seems to be looking at something beyond her.

*Who... is that standing next to you?*

She blinks. A glance backwards and to her left shows Ardbert, watching but still keeping a discreet and carefully polite distance, waiting for her to finish her rest and catch up with him. “I... that’s...”

*...Never mind. I suppose it hardly matters, does it? ‘Tis a soul, if a faint impression of one--and the same shade as your own.* That birdlike tilt of the chin. *The color of it… I would know it anywhere. And so, I imagine, would he.*

Her gaze sharpens. The note of longing in the shade’s voice is unmistakable.

*Well, don’t let me keep you.*

His arms fold into the sleeves of his robe, and there is something soft there in the slackened bow of his lips, something that makes her breath catch. They curve upwards, in the faintest and most self-deprecating of smiles. It is the expression of a man that has any number of things to say, and no time to say them.

In the end, he says nothing, and the moment passes. She turns away.

She is met with Ardbert’s stare of open confusion upon reaching the elaborate masonry of the park walkway. “Who were you talking to?”

“Oh, I--”

There is nothing and no one under the tree. It stands a lone sentinel in the center of its clearing just as before, quiet and undisturbed.

The Warrior of Darkness exhales.

“Just an old friend,” she says.

[carmenlire]

Show and Tell

read on ao3

Alec hums a little to himself as he opens the front door. Wincing a little as he bends over to untie his shoes-- ruefully, he reflects that he’s not as young as he once was-- he shrugs out of his coat and makes his way into the loft.

It’s quiet, which shouldn’t be surprising, but Alec pauses in the living room as a dreadful little chill curls around his spine like smoke, seems to give a little tug in warning.

Magnus had told Alec that he’d be gone until late. By all accounts, that’s still the case.

Still, Alec cautiously walks through their home. Most of him is rolling its eyes at his dramatics but Alec had learned early and well never to dismiss what his husband calls his sixth sense. It’s a matter of fact that it’s saved his hide more times than he’s comfortable admitting-- trouble seems to cling to Alec, and by association Magnus.

It’s been ages since it’s fired up like this, though, and Alec swallows hard as he pauses at the hallway that branches into Magnus’s study and their bedroom. Magnus’s study door is open and as Alec peers inside, his shoulders lose a bit of their tension at the way absolutely nothing looks remiss. To Alec eternal bemusement, he’d fallen in love with a bit of a mad scientist, but all of Magnus’s potions-- as Alec likes to think of them-- look put away with nothing in danger of exploding or setting their loft ablaze.

Which, yes, has happened at least a dozen times since they moved in together all those years ago.

The dread tempers into something stronger that sinks its teeth into him as he focuses on their bedroom door that’s firmly shut in a stark contrast to the way the always leave it open when it’s unoccupied.

He can’t hear anything from the room but that doesn’t stop Alec from hesitating, hand hovering in the air as he braces himself.

With a deep breath, Alec wraps a hand around the door knob and swings it open to reveal a sight that has him almost sagging in relief before everything comes crashing to a halt and distantly, Alec wonders if this is what a heart attack feels like.

“What the fuck is this,” Alec chokes out and he watches through seeming tunnel vision as one of the people in his bed freezes.

Catarina whips her head over her shoulder and her eyes widen with fear. It would almost be comical if not for the way a vise seems to be tightening around Alec’s neck. He tries to breathe in and, in the utter stillness, it sounds like a gasp.

A wretched, desperate bid for oxygen. A plea for everything to go back just a few seconds, before Alec’s world came crashing down around his ears.

Because while Catarina sits at the edge of the bed, her hand still holding Magnus’s, Magnus is deathly still and--

And as Alec’s gaze sears into his husband, the man he’d know anywhere, it feels like he’s looking at a photograph of a time long passed.

Because there his husband lays but he looks thirty years younger. He looks like he did the first time they met on a college campus forty seven years ago. He looks like he did during their first date when they’d went to a shitty diner because it was all Alec could afford his freshman year. He looks the same as he did on their wedding day as he’d promised Alec all sorts of things like till death do us part.

Yeah, Alec thinks. He loves that face. He’d know that face anywhere because he still sees it in his dreams, as an aching overlay to the Magnus he’s spent a lifetime with, the one who this morning had more than a little silver in his hair, whose dashing good looks have become emphasized with wrinkles around expressive eyes and a body that had grown softer in old age.

Catarina stands up and raises her hands in a beseeching gesture. Alec tears his eyes from his husband to Magnus’s best friend.

“Now, Alec, it’s not what you think. Why don’t we--”

“It’s not what I think? What the fuck, Cat? It’s not what I think,” he spits out and suddenly the confusion and clawing panic gives way to undiluted anger. “What the hell is it then? What possible explanation could there be for the way my husband, who just turned sixty eight fucking years old last month looks like, like he hasn’t aged since the day he turned thirty? Is this a prank? Is this just you two wanting to give me heart failure for a laugh?”

Alec fairly chokes out the questions, can’t quite squash out the hope the lingers in the undertone of his demand. The very small part of his mind that’s retained its rationality wonders if he’s really contemplating the fact that his husband just-- what? Can change his appearance in such a way? Nothing makes sense but Alec can’t think of anything at all to explain the way Magnus looks right now.

It’s then that Magnus lets out a pained groan and Alec watches as Catarina immediately turns back around and soothes him for a moment before taking a vial and tipping it up to Magnus’s mouth.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Catarina doesn’t look at him as she replies, “He was supposed to have a meeting with a potential partner this afternoon. He’d been looking for a war-- colleague who shared his interests in the properties of a certain herb and its ability to act as a sort of cell regenerator. That colleague betrayed him and when Magnus showed up at the designated location, they ambushed him. Took all of his notes and his supply of the herb and left him for dead. Luckily, he was able to call me and I was able to stabilize him and bring him home.”

Glaring into nothing as he takes in the summary of events, Alec pushes everything to the background as he nears the bed and asks, “Shouldn’t we take him to a hospital?”

He looks up just in time to see Catarina spare him a single, pitying look. “Oh, Alec, that’s never an option.”

Sitting down on the edge of the bed next to Cat, Alec focuses on his husband. He raises a hand and gently runs his fingers through Magnus’s hair and loses himself for long moments just looking at the love of his life, the one person he prides himself on knowing better than anyone.

“What is this, Catarina?”

From his periphery, he sees Cat still for a split second as her mouth settles into a firm line. Her voice is just as soft as his and more than apologetic when she only offers, “It’s not my place to tell you, Alec. I can’t begin to understand what’s going through your head right now but I can’t tell you what this is.”

She looks up to meet his eyes and Alec stops breathing at the sorrow in her eyes and the blinding sympathy. “All I can tell you is that Magnus was injured so deeply that his energy stores were utterly depleted and he is unable to control his appearance right now. This is his true body, Alec.” She pauses a moment to let that sink in before continuing. “I just want you to keep an open mind and remember that whatever Magnus did, he’s always done it with you and your relationship in mind.”

Her gaze pierces his and Alec nods once before turning back to his husband. “What can I do?”

Catarina sighs before standing and stretching her hands over her head. “There’s nothing else to be done. His body has to recover now. He’ll probably sleep the rest of the day and most of the next few. But don’t worry, he’ll be back to his old self before you know it.”

Alec’s lips turn up at his old self and he wonders what-- who-- that even is anymore.

Nothing makes sense, nothing but Alec’s hand in Magnus’s and Alec clings onto that feeling as he watches his husband rest as his mind races at possibility and awe, all of it overshadowed with a pervasive sense of betrayal.

----

A few days later and, true to Catarina’s words, everything is back to normal.

Alec scoffs to himself. What the fuck does that even mean anymore.

He leans against the doorjamb of their ensuite as he watches Magnus shave. Magnus doesn’t remember Alec seeing him at his worst. Last night, Alec had watched, stunned, as a glamour seemed to ripple over his husband’s body. As far as he knew, Magnus had still been sleeping but his body had changed, becoming the body Alec had grown with over the years. The hair had faded into a deep silver and his jawline had softened, the backs of his hands developing the faintest spots of age.

And now it’s the next morning and as Alec watches the man before him act as though everything’s fine-- he’d woken up telling Alec that he’d been sleeping off a flu of all things-- something ugly rears itself in Alec’s chest and he finds himself unable to hold back.

“I’ve been at your bedside for three days, Magnus.”

Humming in acknowledgement, Magnus looks up and meets his eyes in the mirror. His smile is warm and guileless. Alec wonders how his husband can look at him and lie so goddamn easily, through his fucking teeth, without batting an eye.

“I’m sure it wasn’t a pretty sight, Alexander. Thank you for taking care of me.”

Alec doesn’t reply and Magnus seems content to let the silence settle.

Waiting until his husband finishes shaving and is patting his face dry, Alec finally clears his throat. Without waiting for a response, he asks, in a voice that’s soft as silk, “Isn’t it a lot of work?”

“Whatever are you talking about, darling?”

Alec smiles at the question, at the way Magnus’s tone make it so obvious that he’s humoring him. His smile shifts into something sharper. “Sorry, babe. Isn’t it a lot of work lying to me every goddamn minute of every goddamn day?”

Magnus freezes for a moment so small he almost misses it, before he turns around to face Alec properly. He sees the stirrings of annoyance and confusion in brown eyes he knows as well as his own and can’t help but cast his mind back over the past three days-- to every time Magnus would wake up for a few minutes at a time as Alec forced one of the healing potions Cat left behind into him.

To every time Magnus would open hazy gold eyes with slit pupils.

“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Alec,” Magnus says slowly. “What are you talking about?”

Alec leans his head against the door jamb and allows his eyes to close for a brief moment. He knows the moment the words leave his mouth that everything will change between them but he has to know. Most of him supposes that things changed the minute he entered the loft that afternoon.

Taking a shuddering breath, Alec straightens but keeps his arms crossed over his chest as he meets Magnus’s concerned stare.

“I’ve always thought you had the prettiest eyes,” Alec starts softly and he watches the banked pleasure Magnus tries to tamp down before he finishes, “But I think I might just like when they’re gold more.”

It’s startling, how quickly Magnus pales. Alec watches, unmoving, as his husband sways, as he swallows hard. “What do you mean, Alexander,” he asks hoarsely, desperation casting a bitter edge on the words.

And Alec, well he can’t stop the mocking laugh that escapes him. He shakes his head and it’s at both of them. “Jesus Christ, babe, you just don’t stop, do you? What do I mean,” he repeats on a breath. “You didn’t have the flu, Magnus.”

Alec doesn’t phrase it as a question and thankfully, thank God, Magnus doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t do anything. He just stares at Alec like he doesn’t know who he is.

Alec can relate.

“I came home from work to find you and Cat in our bedroom. You were passed out and she was holding your hand. Magnus you were--” and here, Alec’s voice breaks and he chokes on his next words because it still doesn’t seem real no matter how often he replays it. “Magnus, you looked young enough to be my son. Christ, you looked so young, the same as the day we met. Like-- like you should be in college and not married to a man planning his retirement at the end of the year--”

Magnus finally seems to unfreeze and he all but throws himself at Alec, resting his hands on just beneath his jaw and trying to capture his gaze. “Alec, Alexander, darling, I know what you think you saw but--”

“No,” Alec snaps and he watches as Magnus flinches back at his harsh tone. “Don’t, Magnus. Don’t you dare fucking lie to my face again. I swear to God that if you lie to me one more time, I’ll walk out of this apartment and never look back.”

Magnus chokes on a desperate inhale and Alec thinks, if he listened for it, that he could feel his heart breaking in the way his husband seems to be collapsing in on himself.

A part of him wants to comfort Magnus. A bigger part wants answers.

Magnus’s lips part and it takes him a moment to get the words out. “What did Catarina tell you?”

“She said it wasn’t her place to tell me anything.”

Nodding as he processes that, Magnus looks up and Alec bites his tongue hard enough to taste copper at the way different eyes stare back at him.

“I love you, Alexander. I need you to know that before I say anything else. I have built this life with you because I can’t imagine it without you.”

“I love you, too,” Alec echoes gently and he sees the way Magnus’s shoulders droop, just a little in relief.

Tilting his head down, Magnus takes Alec’s hands and focuses on the gleaming gold of his wedding ring.

“I’m older than you, darling.” Before Alec can agree, can easily reply that Magnus is three years older, his husband is continuing, “I told you I was born in Jakarta, Indonesia and immigrated to The States for college.”

Magnus takes a harsh breath and lifts his head to look at Alec dead in the eye. “I was actually born in Batavia, of the Dutch East Indies, several centuries ago. I moved to America before the first World War.”

The entire loft seems to still at the bombshell. Alec takes several moments to fit this new information into everything he knows about the man before him. While it’s fantastical and downright insane to believe Magnus without so much as a single follow-up question, Alec can’t help but think that it fits. It’s like a missing puzzle piece has all of a sudden appeared and slotted itself into place.

“Change back,” Alec mutters through numb lips. At Magnus’s confused look, he says, “I want to see what you really look like.”

Magnus swallows hard but he steps back, looking away as with a wave of his hand, he changes and looks at once so different yet still so familiar that it has tears stinging Alec’s eyes.

“As you have no doubt become aware, I do not age. I am-- I am immortal, Alec.”

Narrowing his eyes, Alec studies Magnus. A thought strikes him and has nausea building in his throat. “You’re immortal. That means you will never die.”

All Magnus offers is a single, painstaking nod in confirmation.

Bile rises to Alec’s throat and a stray tear spills over, his brain working faster than he can process, already reaching the inevitable conclusion before he’s quite ready to bear it.

“You will never die. But I will.”

It looks like it takes everything Magnus has to simply nod, once more, without looking at Alec.

“What the fuck, Magnus?”

Magnus recoils at the pure venom in Alec’s tone, but Alec doesn’t give him a chance to respond before he’s taking a step back, away from his husband who he’s staring at like he just grew another goddamn head.

“You’ve spent the past fifty years with me and to me, that’s my life. I’ve spent my life with you. But to you, it’s just-- what? A pit stop? After I’d die, you what? Just leave on your merry way and forget about me? Was I nothing but a passing diversion?”

“Alexander, how could you think that? I have spent the past decades madly in love with you. I’ve built a life with you-- we’ve built our life together. I have never, not for one moment, taken the fact that you want to spend your forever with me lightly. I can’t imagine my life without you, darling.”

“Well, you’ll have to, won’t you?” Alec knows he’s being harsh but there’s a voice in his head positively sneering at him for being played the fool. He can’t understand why Magnus has played house with him all these years-- would go to the pains of hiding his true self from Alec all this time-- unless he was bored and had decided Alec was a nice enough distraction in his seemingly endless life. “I’m in my sixties, Magnus. Let’s be realistic here. We don’t have that much time left. Optimistically, I’m hoping for another twenty years but shit happens. Your little masquerade has an expiration date.”

“Don’t you think I know that,” Magnus fairly snarls. “You don’t think I am aware of every single second passing through my hands like grains of sand?” He laughs caustically. “I know the tragedy of our situation more than you will ever comprehend, Alec. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t think about how this will end.”

“Why would you lie to me, Magnus? Why not just tell me?” There’s an acrid edge to his words and Alec is inundated with doubt. All of his thoughts circle round and round in his head and they all inevitably perch on one particular branch.

Magnus has never been completely honest with him when Alec has shown him every conceivable side of himself. Magnus has never trusted Alec like Alec trusts him and that is, without a doubt, the most bitter pill Alec has ever swallowed.

He practically strangles himself forcing it down.

Magnus laughs and it sounds like grief. “You don’t think I know how much this is to handle? I never wanted you to know that I’m-- that I’m not like you. I never wanted to put the pain of my existence on your shoulders. You made the decision to spend your life with me and there isn’t a world where I don’t honor that.”

“But that’s the thing, isn’t it, babe? I have given you all of myself and you-- well. A part of me is starting to think you’ve only ever given me what was convenient.”

Magnus’s face leeches of all color and his mouth is already open on a protest when Alec raises a single hand up to stop whatever torrent of words was about to fall between them like so much lead.

Alec takes a single step back. And then he takes another. “You didn’t trust me enough to tell me the truth. I feel like I don’t even know you.”

“Alexander, please--”

“No, Magnus.” Alec swallows hard and forces steel into his voice so that it doesn’t crack, doesn’t shatter like the heart he can barely feel beating in his chest. “I need time to think.”

He turns around to leave but Magnus’s words stop him. They’re weak, a plea that Alec’s never heard from his husband. “I don’t want you to leave, Alec.”

Alec looks over his shoulder and meets gold eyes wavering with tears. It feels like he carves his own goddamn heart from beneath his ribs as he says, “And I don’t want to stay.”

He turns back around and leaves Magnus in their loft, surrounded by all their things that mark a life together. Alec’s given Magnus everything and in return, he can’t help but think he’s gotten a mountain of deception and a life that feels uncomfortably close to a charade.

Alec wonders if any of it was ever real, if it’s possible that anything can be salvaged from the biggest heartbreak of his life.

He wanders through the city, stacking up a lifetime together against a betrayal that deadens his gut and wonders what will tip the scales back in their favor.

No matter how hard he thinks, Alec can't find the answer.

He supposes only time will tell and hopes, desperately, that they don't run out before they can find a way back to each other.