#did it again i am a creature of habit and cannot keep myself from pressing enter when i type a tag it seems

[alteon77]

The Bizarre Breeding Habits of Anthropomorphic Personifications: Chapter 7

It's a tale as old as time.

Two idiots fall in love. Two idiots fall out of love.

Neither one of them is expecting a baby to come along and derail their unhappily ever after.

Chapter One here, AO3 here, Masterlist here

Chapter Summary: Morpheus pretends to be human in the doctor's office. He's... um, surprisingly not great at it.

By the time Morpheus finally locates her, he's nearly incandescent with rage.  

It is fair, he thinks, to be so angry, so wholly upset with her for this act of foolishness and for the panic that she's caused both him and her brother. It had been only forty minutes prior that Viego had summoned him, that the maker had called Morpheus to him and then belligerently accused him of stealing May to hide her away in the Dreaming. And while Morpheus had been furious at Viego for this, he'd been more fearful than anything else. The idea of May going outside of the very wards keeping her safe, the idea of her leaving that protection with no magic or defensive capabilities to speak of, had brought forth an overwhelming swell of terror that rose sickeningly up within him in a matter of mere seconds. 

The relief he'd felt at finding her had given him only a moment of solace, a brief flicker of the sensation before the mess of emotional turmoil roiling in his mind had swiftly transformed into indignation. How. Dare. She. How dare she engage in such a foolish stunt. How dare she endanger herself and their child by way of such astounding recklessness. Makers are hunted regularly and mercilessly by witches and gods and all manner of supernatural creatures, and any who had happened upon her in her current weakened state would have surely made short work of capturing her. 

In the underground area where he'd finally located her, Morpheus stalks to her vehicle as she gets out of it, her face wan and weary in fatigue, all of her as worn out as she herself has been these days past.  

"No… I was driving. I don't answer when I'm driving. You know that….. No…. I just had some stuff to take care of…. I'm keeping a low profile. No…. Stop it. I wasn't followed…. Yes…. " she says into the phone held against her ear. "You did what? Why… Why would you do that?" She pauses, and he notices that there's a bottle of water in her hand that she takes a seemingly reluctant drink of, grimacing in disgust at the taste. "No, Viego. I don't know how to get a hold of him right this moment. He doesn't exactly carry a phone or-" 

"There is no need to seek me out," he cuts in roughly. "I am here." 

His sudden appearance startles her, and she recoils a little at the sight of him, the hand holding her water coming up to rest over her heart as if to soothe the too-rapid beat of that organ. 

"Viego," she relays over the phone, her voice shaking slightly. "I'm going to have to call you back. Morpheus is… Yeah…. Don't worry about summoning him again. No, I'm looking at him right now." 

He glowers her way, his hands clenched tight at his side as he works to calm himself. "You might inform him that I will be personally bringing you home this-" 

"We'll be back in a bit. No…. I've got errands to run. Don't worry about it. Bye." She presses a button on her device and slides it into the small bag hanging from her shoulder, clearly careful in her attempt at ignoring him as he fumes before her. 

"Not in a bit, as you say. We will be leaving immediately for-" 

"Can't. Won't. Not gonna happen." 

He seethes, his anger ratcheting up at her apparent nonchalance over the gravity of her folly. "Are you aware of the danger inherent in being outside of the warding protecting you?" 

"Look, I left Viego a voicemail letting him know about all this. I'm sorry if he roped you into something that you shouldn't have even had to stress about." 

"You cannot be oblivious enough to think that is why I am infuriated," he growls. "Both Viego and myself have been scouring this city for the better part of an hour, terrified you had been taken by some enemy that meant you harm. And your response to worrying us so dramatically is that you had errands you need attend? There is no excuse for removing yourself from the warding, especially in light of the fact that it is the only thing keeping you safe in your condition." 

With great effort, he attempts to settle his raging temper, aware as he is that it would do this world no favors were he to lose control of his powers while in it. 

"Worrying you so dramatically? I mean, dramatically is definitely a word I'd use with how you're acting," May snarks before taking another sip of her water.  

"And what precisely is the meaning of that?" 

"Just that this is ridiculous. I'm a grown woman. I'll go where I want and do what I want, and you are both welcome to take that suffocating overprotectiveness that you're holding over my face like a pillow and shove it up your-" 

"Do not," he snaps. "Now, gather your things. I am returning you to your brother." 

"I am not a package that you can just hand off back and forth. And I am absolutely not going anywhere with you until I'm done. I have something I have to take care of in about-" She checks her watch. "Thirty minutes. There's a diner near here if you want to get coffee while you wait for me to finish, but I am not leaving." 

He clenches his jaw hard enough that he would break teeth were he human. "What aim could be so important that you would foolishly risk being captured to accomplish it?" 

"It's none of your-" 

"If you finish that sentence with the word business, I will grab hold of you this moment and shift you. I've no patience for your recalcitrance this day." 

May scoffs derisively. "You not having patience? Wooow. Color me shocked." 

"Tell me what you deemed so necessary that it justified this… imprudence," he hisses, ignoring her sarcastic remark as to his composure.

Oh, no no no no no. Don't throw up. Do not throw up. You've got to keep your water down for just another hour. You can do it, but not… not if you're going to keep fighting. So fuckin' de-escalate this mess and stop being stubborn. It's for the baby. You can absolutely swallow your pride for the baby's sake, damn it.  

He frowns at her, thoroughly confused at these words of hers flitting across his awareness. She is not speaking them aloud, and yet he hears them clearly in his mind, a rather puzzling occurrence given that he's never really been able to read her thoughts, never been able to peek past her mental shields and figure out what's going on in her head. He wonders if the dwindling disappearance of her magic is the cause of this, the usual walls around her mind possibly fading as her powers are and allowing him the capability to read her as easily as she might peruse a book. 

The color drains from her complexion as what he assumes is nausea overcomes her, and she draws in a few deep breaths, seemingly steadying herself before she gestures vaguely towards a concrete wall of this strange, cavernous area they're both in, the one that smells of fossil fuels and is full of nothing but stationary vehicles. He thinks it's known as a parking garage, but he's never truly been in one before, so he is unsure as to whether or not that is precisely what this darkened, poorly lit monstrosity is. "I'm… going there. Okay? I'm… I'm visiting a doctor." 

His eyes narrow as he glances first where she has indicated and then back at her. "That is naught but a wall." 

She rolls her eyes at him as if what he's said is absurdly exasperating to her. "There's a building on the other side of the street from here with a doctor in it. I'm going there." 

"You have found a suitable healer?" 

She fidgets in front of him, playing with the label on the bottle still in her hand. "No. I'm… I'm going to a regular human doctor." 

He's taken aback by this, wholly surprised as he moves closer to her. "A human doctor?"

Her fidgeting increases, the movements getting more pronounced. "Yeah… because I'm… well, pregnant. And Tammy was right." 

"Tammy? Who is Tammy? And what use will a mortal physician be in your case? Need I remind you that you are no human."

She rolls her eyes again and scoffs as if he's the one who's said something nonsensical. "Whaaaat? Are you sure? Well damn, I guess that totally explains the being alive for thousands of years and not aging thing. I just thought it was my kick ass moisturizer keeping me all young looking." 

"May-" 

Her arms cross over her chest, and it makes her appear… smaller somehow, fragile. "A human doctor is kind of all there is," she admits with a heavy sigh, a thread of defeat woven into her confession.  

His mouth turns down at her words, his brows knitting together as he considers this, grasping for some sort of understanding. "I fail to see-" 

"I'm sure you do, but… please don't argue with me on this. Whatever opinions you might have about me getting checked out by this guy today, the fact remains that he's got a hell of a lot more answers than I do right now, and I… I need answers." 

She looks away when she says this, avoiding his gaze as a barely there blush lights up what he can see of her face in its sideways profile. An unexpected shame curls in his stomach as he considers the situation before him. She's worried, obviously so, and yet she feels compelled to plead with him on this matter, to ask that he leave her be as she attempts to seek help for herself. The fact that part of this is his doing, that her current suffering is a direct result of the child he'd put inside of her, makes him feel… lowly, as if he should hate himself for adding to the burden of what she carries now when he knows he should be doing what he can to lighten it.  

"Very well. If it will… assist you, then I've nothing to say except that I… should like to accompany you."  

Shock takes over her expression as she at last turns back to him. "Wait. What?" 

"I said that I should like to accompany you. If you will permit me, of course." 

Her eyes narrow at him, scrutinizing his face as if searching for any sign that he is lying. "Are you… sure?" 

No, he is assuredly not certain of this course, but telling her so would do neither of them any favors. "I would scarcely have offered were I not." 

"But… why?" She seems perplexed that he should wish to be with her while doing this, uncomprehending of the possibility that he might desire to help her. 

"I dislike the idea of you being unattended while you are so…" Weakened, he wants to say, powerless and fragile and ill. He does not speak those things, however, since he feels that to call her any of them might reignite the ever-present tension inherent in their new dynamic. "Indisposed." 

She blows out a breath that's half laugh, half frustration. "I'm not a Victorian debutante. It's perfectly fine for me to be alone." 

Alone. That word. It coils in his belly like a poisonous snake, sinking its venomous fangs into the vulnerable flesh of his insides. She had offered to raise their child alone. By herself. Without him even having knowledge of its existence. Not for the first time, he wishes he could reach back through the millennia and pluck that infernal grimoire from the very fabric of the universe, undoing all of its horrid history so that May would never have thought to lie to him about it. A child would have been a happy occurrence for them if not for the dark, thunderous cloud of her betrayal hanging over their tattered relationship.

Still, there is no place for his anger, for his sorrow in the reality of his… of May seeking medical attention for herself. "Nonetheless, I would prefer to escort you." 

May studies him warily, clearly unsure of this seeming capitulation from him. "You… can tag along if you want. I mean… she's your kid too, so if you want to be there, I won't stop you." 

"She?" 

Her apprehension melts away in an instant, a loving smile blossoming on her face as one of her hands settles atop where their child grows, and the sight of this makes his heartbeat speed up, makes that manifested organ thud rapidly in his chest. Throughout his many eons of existence, she is the only one who has ever been able to affect it so, the only one who's ever caused such… mortal reactions within the boundaries of this flesh form of his.  

"Yeah," she answers quietly, a joy in her tone that reminds him of the softest parts of the universe. The silken smoothness of her skin beneath his fingertips. The hazy twinkle of a galaxy above him. The muted shine of a sun in the wake of spring storms. The feel of a new babe in his arms, tender and trusting. "She. I've… got a feeling it's a girl." 

A daughter. A little girl with May's lovely eyes and her beautiful smile. The dream of it is enchanting, captivating enough that he has to forcibly pull himself from its hold, but the want it causes within him lingers on the edges of his thoughts. If things weren't so strained between them, then he would tell her how greatly he wishes for such a thing, how now that the vision of it is in his mind, he can scarcely see their infant as anything except a daughter. But… he cannot give voice to these sentiments, not with his feelings so uncharacteristically flayed and raw, and that is assuredly what they are at this moment. "You cannot know the child's… gender at this stage." 

May sighs and brushes past him, walking towards a door on their right marked Stairwell B. It is instinct for him to match his pace to hers, to keep by her side as she wearily begins the arduous trip up and out of the garage. She's been faint for weeks, and he's very aware that her collapses seem to have no set pattern, no real warning before they occur. It puts him on alert for the risk of another, especially given the fearsome nature of these stairs were she to fall unconscious and tumble down them. And so he means to stay close out of caution, ready to catch her should the need arise. 

"Probably not," she tells him somewhat breathlessly, and he fights the urge to pick her up and carry her the rest of the way. He knows better, though. Whatever tentative peace they're trying to create between themselves would be utterly demolished if he were to engage in such an act. "But… it's just a feeling. I can't really explain it." 

As they emerge from the garage, the sun is blindingly bright, and he glances at May where she's wincing from the shine of it. There's a nervousness radiating from her, an anxiety so great that it almost seems like he's experiencing it as his own.  

"Will you be disappointed if it is not a girl?" he questions in an effort to take her mind off her disquiet.  

At the crosswalk where they're waiting for the light to change, she looks towards him, a thoughtful expression on her face. "I just… want her to be healthy. Everything else is kinda… secondary to that." 

He mulls over this while they continue walking. Is she fearful that the child might not be well? Does she think that her sickness is affecting it in some way? He would ask, but he knows that she will not grant him the truth of the matter, not now. In their new relationship, she seems unwilling to show any sort of vulnerability before him, unwilling to do anything that might be indicative of a need where he's concerned. 

It makes him think of those decades before their union had ended, of those years when they'd depended on one another, when she'd never hesitated to show him the most fragile parts of herself, when he'd never hesitated to reveal his own shortcomings. Together, they had each closed the gaps in the other, had strengthened their varying frailties and softened their harsh angles by dint of their love and respect and hope. But now… that is no longer the case. Now, things are shattered between them, the pieces of what they once shared set aflame by her betrayal and allowed to burn until only ashes remain of their once-great love. 

On arriving at the building she had pointed at earlier, he steps forward to pull open the door for her, and she pauses, seemingly stunned by this meager consideration from him. Something vicious inside of him twists, and that sorrow he'd sworn to ignore earlier comes rearing back with a vengeance.  

Calm down, you actual idiot, she thinks, and it's louder in his mind this time than it was the last. He doesn't mean anything by it, doesn't care about you or what you're going through. It's just a habit for him. Stop reminiscing on how he used to do this. Stop thinking about how things used to be. Just smile and walk in before he notices you freaking out, for fuck's sake.  

And then she does. A threadbare smile tugs her lips up before she steps inside the cool air of the medical facility, a chill taking over her that almost has him stripping off his jacket to drape about her shoulders. Given her mental diatribe regarding his merely opening the door for her, however, he doesn't think that covering her with his coat would be well received. 

Across the rather large room they find themselves in, there's a counter set at the opposite corner, its front marked with a sign that reads Check In. The receptionist sitting behind it is an older woman who raises an eyebrow at May and Morpheus when they approach.  

"Can I help you?" she questions in a way that makes him think she'd rather not actually help them at all.  

May gives a gracious smile. "Yes. I'm Doctor Martin's eleven o'clock." 

The woman, whom Morpheus is growing to dislike more and more with every second they stand there, gives May an unimpressed once-over before turning her attention to a computer in front of her. "Michaela Westin?" 

Morpheus glances down at May. It's a new name for her, one of a dozen he's heard her take over the century he's truly known her for, but it surprises him still. That she has assumed another false identity is not strange, a necessary evil she'd once called it, but that she should choose to do so even with those she might trust with her health is jarring. Was it simply Viego's paranoia that drove her to do such a thing? Or something else? Something more to do with their quick escape from their previous home? Matthew had told him that their journey to the new location had been an unpleasant one, that May had been sickly for the entirety of it and that Viego had apologized for being unable to stop and allow her rest. Granted, the older maker has always been meticulous when it came to his sister's safety, even during those many years that she had resided in the Dreaming, but... today had been different. Viego had been off. Not for the first time, Morpheus wonders if there is some specific danger that he is not being told of, if May and her brother are purposely keeping yet another secret from him.  

After all, it is not as if she's never done it before. 

"I found you. You're here for an appointment and an eight week scan. Is that right?" 

"Yeah. I drank all the water I needed to, and I'm… good to go." 

"It says here that you're… self pay. We'll need to verify your payment information."  

"Of course." May rummages around in her purse, bringing her wallet out and sliding a black card emblazoned with the words American Express towards the receptionist, who picks it up and eyes it doubtfully. 

"This is yours? No offense, hun, but I'm going to need your ID." 

May's all politeness, all sweetness despite the woman's obvious rudeness. "No problem," she says as she hands another card over, this one with her picture on the front of it.  

And the woman, whom he can glean is named Karen Talbot, seems just as unimpressed by this as she had by May's appearance. Morpheus feels anger swell up inside of him for this foul creature's disrespect. He very rarely cares for what mortals think of him, but he can see from Karen's thoughts that her opinion of May is a low thing, one full of prejudice and assumption. Unwed and with child, a morally unacceptable state by her small-minded reckoning. Never mind that May is kind and loving and his… Well, his nothing now, he supposes. She does not belong to him any longer, can be called nothing else in regards to him save for being referred to as the mother of his child.  

He'd like to pretend he doesn't understand why that realization drives a spike of pain through his heart, but he cannot. It would be too large of a lie for him to swallow.  

The receptionist casts a discourteous, dubious look at him. "And are you a… party to this?" She gestures towards May. "Maybe an… acquaintance of hers?" 

May seeks to intercede, clearly trying to save him from having to interact with this loathsome female. "Oh, no. He's-" 

"Her husband," Morpheus supplies before he can stop himself. He's not given to lying usually, not one to truly waste his time with falsehoods, and yet in these circumstances he almost feels it necessary.  

"She indicated she was single on the intake forms," Karen argues, and in that instant he begins crafting his most terrifying punishment for her, begins envisioning what horror he will visit on her when he dooms her to an eternity of never ending sleep with his most savage Nightmares.  

"An oversight clearly excused by her condition, I assure you," he practically growls in response. It is a petty thing, perhaps, to allow some of his power into the words, to touch this woman's mind with a hint of the nightmarish hell he's capable of inflicting upon her, but he relishes it all the same. The receptionist pales, and he takes a sort of perverse pleasure in that as well.  

"Sorry for that. I'm his wife. Pregnancy brain is absolutely real and absolutely horrible," May interjects, her voice an octave higher than usual in something that Morpheus would call panic. "Should we just wait over here then? That would… probably be best."  

The receptionist is staring at Morpheus with wide, terrified eyes as she shakily holds out a clipboard with a stack of papers atop it. "I… um… I need him to fill out the… the forms." 

"Right. The forms," May answers, far too quickly as she snatches a pen from the cup of them on the desk. "We'll get those taken care of and back to you in a jiffy." 

And then she's grabbing hold of Morpheus' sleeve and tugging him impatiently to a set of chairs at the farthest end of the room.  

"Don't do that," she hisses when they've sat down. "The poor woman looked like she was going to have a heart attack." 

"Poor woman? She should consider herself fortunate that you intervened, else she would have been thrust into the most abhorrent, cruel fate I was capable of rendering unto a mortal. Do you know what she was thinking of you? Do you have any idea how grievously she was judging you?" he hisses right back. 

"Even without my magic, I was picking up on it. Okay? But you don't need to worry about that. I'm a big girl. I can handle someone not approving of my life choices."  

He doesn't care. He doesn't care. He doesn't care, her thoughts ring out in his mind. He's just got a vested interest in the baby, and you're housing the baby, so get a hold of yourself.  

"I could not stand idly by while she spoke to you so disrespectfully." 

The sound she makes is one of immense irritation. "Well, you defended my honor and now there's a stack of paperwork for me to fill out, so thanks for that." 

He doesn't know what she expects him to say to that, as he's certainly not going to apologize. But… then he remembers that he had been trying to lighten the load of her stress, and a sense of misgiving washes over him. 

"You need not manage this on my behalf." He reaches out decisively to pluck the clipboard from her lap. "I am more than capable of this task."

"Hey!" she whisper-protests. "Don't… Just let me do it. It's-" 

"I will see to this. It is not up for discussion." 

May purses her lips and then puts her hands up, palm out, in a gesture of surrender. "Okay. Fine. Have it your way." 

Christ on a potato, he's really rocking that surly, toddler temper tantrum energy now, she thinks.  

Morpheus gives her a side-eyed glare for that comment, despite that she had not actually spoken it aloud, before he starts on the forms. It only takes him a few minutes to realize that he might… be on unsteady footing regarding this specific undertaking. Of course, he refuses to accept her assistance or admit anything resembling defeat, so he forges ahead with what he'd set out to do.  

She tries several more times to help him in poring over the frankly obscene number of redundant questions he's required to answer, but he only waves her attempts away. And for a time she seems to settle, though he knows that she is merely taking a different approach as he can feel her eyes on him still, watching while he ticks away at the multitude of boxes. She says nothing, staying silent until he comes to the form titled Medical History.  

May chokes out a muted laugh and reaches over to tap the page where he'd just written I am no more tense than usual, certainly not enough to warrant use of the word hyper beside one of the boxes.  

"Yeah. Cross that out," May instructs him blithely. "Hypertension is a condition where mortals have high blood pressure, which… you don't even have blood if you don't want to." 

As he strikes an angry line through the sentence, he cannot help his scowl. "This is irritatingly tedious."

She shrugs as if his ire is of no real concern to her. "I offered to do it for you." 

"This entire outing is an exercise in futility, wholly pointless considering that this mortal doctor will likely be unable to assist you in any meaningful way." 

Her face falls, a sudden melancholy coming over her that brings him up short. "Just… don't start that." 

Her thoughts this time are very loud, and he ponders over the curious phenomenon anew. Typically, he has to actively seek the mental workings of another out. He's not used to having such things projected into his awareness, and hers seem to be growing in intensity and volume with every occurrence. I'm such an idiot. Of fucking course he couldn't just stow his crap and let me get help. Never mind that I think I'm actually dying or something. Even that isn't important enough to get him to cool it.   

Dying? Is she truly fearful that her… her illness is so dire? 

His shoulders drop from where they'd been unconsciously tensed, and he blinks several times as he scrutinizes her more closely. She's a gaunt thing, he realizes then, from the dark smudges under her eyes to the unnatural pallor of her skin. Her lips are dry and cracked in places, one particular spot on the lower one especially red as if she is so dehydrated that the skin there is breaking apart and bleeding. 

In that moment, he feels vile, loathsome, like nothing less than the most revolting sort of pond scum, like his treatment of her in this instance is even more contemptible than the receptionist's had been. Despite their past and his upset over it, May is currently grappling with something he cannot understand, rendered weak and weary from the weight of his seed growing inside of her. She is uncharacteristically afraid, he can see now, drained of her magic and suffering from what he'd unintentionally done to her by getting her with child in the first place.  

And all he has offered her in return for this burden she's carrying is his petulant sullenness, his mean-spirited pessimism. 

"I… apologize," he murmurs before he can even stop to consider what he's saying, "if I've given you cause to feel you must argue with me on this matter. It… was not my intention." 

Her expression gentles, and her eyes well with tears that she hastily wipes at. "It's… I get it. This… isn't what you're used to." 

"Nonetheless, it is… no excuse for my churlishness." 

She nods, and his heart wrenches uncomfortably with how very bereft she seems as she does so. "It's… okay." 

His eyes narrow as he considers this acceptance from her. How very easily she forgives him. How quickly she dismisses his faults in having behaved so abhorrently towards her.  

How different things might have been between them if only he were capable of doing the same.  

He must not think of that, must not imagine what could have been. That part of their relationship is done, the path of it obliterated and lost so that only mere echoes of it remain, but he knows that they can learn to do better by one another going forward. With the both of them preparing to parent a child together, they truly have no other choice in the matter. 

"And how shall I answer this?" he asks as he points randomly at a word on the checklist of mortal maladies before him. It is an olive branch of sorts, a gesture meant to demonstrate to her that he is willing to listen. 

Suspiciously, her eyes flick up at him before she turns them down to where he's indicated. 

"Heart disease? I'm pretty sure you know you don't have that." A barely there smile tugs her lips up, and it is a sad thing to behold, like the drooping petals of a wilting flower trying to bloom. "You could probably just answer no to everything. It's… what I did." 

"Very well." 

"And… whatever you do, don't put down how many actual glasses of wine you can consume in a day when it gets to that part." 

He frowns at her, his mind working to make sense of what she's just told him. "I assume… it would be a tell that I am not… normal then," he guesses. 

Her eyes sparkle faintly with an unexpected mirth, a sort of teasing shine to them that is still dulled somehow. "Big yes. Biggest yes ever." 

"I see." 

When he's finished, May cautiously takes the forms from his hand to look over everything, and he surrenders the papers to her without dissent. A month ago, such an act on her part would have infuriated him, but he's… regretful. The self-hatred he feels in the wake of his actions is churning inside of him violently, forcing him to an apologetic tentativeness. And May has always had a far better sense of the norms in this realm than he, a truth he had recognized very early in their relationship when they made their occasional trips into the Waking. He supposes that she would be the best to ensure his answers are satisfactory.  

After she's scanned it all twice, she goes to stand, and he stays her with a hand on her arm. 

"What is it? I'm just heading over there to hand this to the receptionist."

"Sit," he orders roughly before gentling his tone. "I shall do so in your stead." 

May hesitates. "You're not going to do anything else to… anyone, are you?" 

It takes him a minute before he understands her meaning. The receptionist. She's worried for the receptionist. It is only with great control that he keeps his expression from darkening in remembrance. That woman had been abysmally rude to May, had treated her as if she were less than, as if she were something low and offensive, and all May is concerned with is making sure he doesn't exact retribution on the human. He struggles to reconcile her kindness, her goodness, with the fact that she had assuredly composed spells for that infernal grimoire, had written the very one that ensnared him even.  

"I will… merely deliver these documents and then return to you. No… further defense of your honor, as you call it." 

"Morpheus-" 

"You have my word."

That seems to assuage her fear as she huffs out a resigned sigh before passing him the clipboard, and he rises to his feet, stalking to where Karen is still watching him with wide eyes, her whole demeanor like that of a rat with a hungry hawk swooping overhead. 

Good. 

"The… n-nurse should… should take her back in a… in a minute," Karen informs him as she holds out May's cards for him between her trembling fingers. 

Morpheus glares as he bites his tongue on saying what he wishes to, which is that she is a poor example of humanity given to ignorance and the most foolish of the moral mires inherent in her society. But he… refuses to speak such truths given that by doing so he would only serve to further distress his… to further distress May, and he does not wish to see any more troubled than she already is.  

"Very well," he grants instead, even as he idly wonders if it would be a violation of his oath to May were he to send this woman a particularly foul nightmare when next she slept. Something, perhaps, that might assist her in loosening her hold on her hateful prejudices.  

"Thank you, Karen." May says, startling him as she appears at his side, taking her cards from the woman to slide them back inside her bag. "Did I hear you say the nurse would come get me soon?" 

Karen, however, won't look away from Morpheus, and any other time he might take a sense of pride in her obvious fear. Now, however, he's too busy peering down at May in confusion. Had she not trusted him to do this? Had she believed that he would disregard his vow to her on leaving the mortal woman be?  

Why does the thought of her so thoroughly doubting him… hurt? 

He has no time to question her on any of this, though, as the door closest to him opens and another human steps out of it, a clipboard held in her hand as well. 

"Michaela Westin?"  

"That's me. I'm here. Hi." May smiles brightly, a veneer of polite cheer on her features that Morpheus thinks is but a mask. He's noticed her doing that often in the past few weeks, smiling as if she means it despite the air of hopelessness around her most of the time.  

"Hello there! I'm Annabeth. Let's get you back into a room, sweetheart, and then I'll get some more information from you before we get started." 

As May steps past him, it's instinct for him to rest his hand on the small of her back, to guide her so that she's walking slightly in front of him as they both cross this threshold.  

He follows her into the inner sanctum of the physician's office, trailing after the nurse as she leads them through the labyrinthine mess of hallways and doors before ushering them into a room, a sterile, clinically white space with a large window and a rather tall bed pushed up against the farthest wall. There's a chair off to one corner and May directs him to it, shoving her bag into his stomach as she demurely asks, "Will you hold this for me, love muffin?" 

Love… muffin? Love muffin? What a preposterous way to refer to him. The unmitigated cheek of this foolhardy female. It is only with a herculean effort that he manages to bite back his waspish response as he settles into the seat, glowering at her while he adjusts her bag in his hold. 

But then… the nurse has her step on a scale, writing down May's weight with a worried frown that makes Morpheus instantly forget his annoyance at her insolent epithet for him. 

"Why don't you hop up on the table for me, and I'll get some more vitals."

A strange panic is overwhelming him, but May seems calm, so he tries to placate himself as well, using her reactions a a guidepost for his own. When May's sitting on the bed, the nurse puts an odd device around the uppermost part of her arm, a cuff of some sort with a tube and a humming machine attached to it. 

And May remains relaxed. 

"It'll get tight, sugar," the nurse warns, and Morpheus tries to distract himself as she presses a button on the device. He studies this nurse, this Annabeth. She is… kinder than the receptionist had been, her mind drastically more pleasant, and he can read from it that she thinks May appears… sickly, more sickly than she should perhaps be. It's not quite fear she has, though, but more pity, a genuine compassionate urge to tend to May which Morpheus finds that he wholeheartedly approves.  

May winces, and suddenly Morpheus can take no more. He moves to rise, to go to her, to put an immediate end to this madness where she is being poked and prodded before him, but she stops him with a pointed glare. "I'm fine, dear. They're just checking my blood pressure."

Annabeth looks between May and Morpheus, her eyebrows raising in puzzlement before she seems to comprehend something that makes her laugh. "Oh, I get it. Protective husband is an overprotective daddy."

It's the wrong thing to say. 

The blood visibly drains from May's face, and Morpheus feels himself stiffen in shock. Their eyes meet, his and hers, and he can see the sadness there, the clear pain of what could have been. "He's… um… definitely going to be an overprotective dad," May replies, all of her quiet. Broken.

Annabeth, seemingly oblivious to this exchange, goes on with her task of scribbling things down on her clipboard. "Aw, don't fret about it, sweetie. The good ones get that way sometimes. I've had four myself, and my husband wouldn't even let me have my mornin' coffee because he was afraid the babies would come out with three heads or somethin'. It was frustratin' at the time, but in hindsight it was kinda darlin' of him."

Morpheus tears his eyes away from the woman he had once sought to marry, gathers himself as best as he can, and asks hoarsely, "I have read that women in such a state should not partake of caffeine."

Annabeth grins and wags a finger in his direction. "Now you don't start on her if she wants a cup or two. A little won't hurt anybody, even that tiny one of yours. And she sure looks like she could use a pick me up. Don't make it so she's gotta start keepin' a coffee machine and all the necessary fixins in her car like I had to."

May's unexpected laugh is beautiful, wholly melodic. "Your husband caused you to have to stealth brew coffee in your car?"

"Well, I'm fairly certain I'm eighty-seven percent caffeine, so I needed it like most people gotta have oxygen."

The smile May gives is genuine, her usual expression of enjoyment at having someone to converse with, and it strikes Morpheus that perhaps she is… lonely. "You're kind of making me want some coffee now, Annabeth."

"Good luck gettin' it past Mr. Overprotective over there."

To hear May laugh again loosens something in his chest, something that's had a ruthless hold of him since he'd feared she had been taken earlier. He tries to speak, to say anything, but his words are stuck in his throat as emotion swells within him. He loathes that he loves her, that he cares for her still despite that he should not. 

"All righty. Any other symptoms you want me to put in your chart for the doctor, sweetie?" Annabeth questions, and the sound of the nurse's voice snaps him out of his thoughts. "It says on your form that you've been gettin' sick."

May's easy contentment falters, her face falling. "I… Yes."

"How often, would you say?  

May casts a hesitant glance at Morpheus before turning her attention back to Annabeth. "Almost… every hour."

"You been keepin' anything down at all?" the nurse asks with a frown, her brows furrowed in concern as she scrutinizes May anew. 

May begins fidgeting again, something that she only engages in when she's especially nervous, and he feels his heart sink with dread. "Um… no. I don't think so."

Nothing at all? He had known that she was suffering from morning sickness, but to be retaining no nourishment cannot be safe for her or their child. Alarm floods him as the nurse moves to a cabinet and begins rummaging around in it. 

"Lord Mercy, that sounds horrid," she says as she pulls her hand free with a large rectangle of fabric clutched between her fingers. "I'm gonna need you to get undressed from the waist down and put this over your lap. We'll try to do the ultrasound abdominally at first, but if we can't get a good picture we'll switch to the transvaginal." She points to two buttons on the wall. "Press this green one when you're ready, and Dr. Martin will have a look at you and the baby, see if he can't figure out something to help you with that nausea."

Help. Yes… May needs help. For the first time since he'd began this little excursion with her, Morpheus thinks he finally understands why she'd felt desperate enough to seek any healer out, even one mortal and ill-suited to treat her.

"That sounds great," May breathes out, a relief in her tone that cuts at Morpheus. He'd been ready to stop her today, had been so aggravated at what he perceived to be a ridiculous folly that he'd threatened to forcibly shift her home. 

Annabeth grabs her papers and exits the room, leaving a heavy silence in her wake.

May undoes the top button of her pants before she at last spares him a glance. "Can you… look away? Maybe turn around or…"

He wants to remind her that he's seen her naked body more times than this planet they're on has had stars crash into its surface, but she seems unnerved again, altogether stressed by how he might respond to this request of hers. 

"If you wish, I could wait outside." 

May shakes her head. "No, that's fine. Just turn around. If I send you out of the room, they'll assume we're fighting or something." 

Dutifully, he faces away from her. "Ah, yes. It is important they do not see through the lie." 

"Hey, that's not on me," she tells him over the shuffling sounds she's making. "You told them we were married. I was perfectly fine with them thinking I liked to sleep around or that we'd just gotten blackout drunk one night in Vegas and knocked boots without a condom." 

He hadn't been fine with it, however. No matter her apparent acceptance of such a thing, the thought of her being viewed, being treated as less than had grated on him. "It doesn't… bother you? That they might… judge you so harshly for something they know nothing of?" 

"Nope. Believe it or not, humans are pretty cool about that stuff these days. Well, most of them. The bitchy receptionist was a fluke." 

"May-" 

She huffs out a short laugh. "Sorry. Sorry. I know. You don't like that word." 

His forehead creases."No, that is not… what I was intending to speak to you of. Please feel free to apply whatever colorful language you would like concerning that foul creature who greeted us upon entering." 

"Wow. She really did piss you off, huh?" 

He can hear the noise of paper crinkling behind him, and he wonders what exactly she's doing back there. "She angered me greatly. Her… attitude towards you was… unacceptable." 

The sounds stop as she responds, "There are always going to be people who think badly of you here. You… get used to it after a while." 

He can't help his scoff. "Is that meant to convince me that her behavior wasn't insulting?" 

"Nope. It's just… It is what it is. There's no point in letting it upset you… Also, you can turn around now if you want." 

She's sitting on the table, that mask of false cheer back on her face, the rectangle of fabric spread out over her bare lap, and without the benefit of a thick sweater on her, he can see exactly why the nurse had seemed uneasy when she'd taken May's weight. She's assuredly gotten thinner, likely a side effect of being unable to properly partake of  any nourishment. Panic twists his stomach into a knot. 

"Why… did you not inform me of how ill you were?" His voice is ragged with emotion, with the great well of battling sentiments inside of him. 

The mask slides off of her features, and she glances down guiltily at the floor, twiddling her fingers in a restlessness that speaks to her trepidation. "It just… wasn't something that I really could work into a conversation, you know? Or something I even thought you'd care about. Like, what was I supposed to say? Oh I know you hate me and all but by the way, I'm really sick." 

It's the second time she's mentioned him hating her, and despite the fact that he wishes he did, he's all too aware that he seems incapable of such a feeling where she's concerned. "Regardless of what you might assume, I do not… hate you." 

Her thoughts, when they filter through his mind, are devastating, wrenching his heart with all the vengeful viciousness of their separation. But you do. I can see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice. You might not want to admit it out loud, but you… you hate me. And I… hate me a little too. If only I could…. If only…. Never mind. It doesn't matter.  

He opens his mouth to address this, to deny it, but he falters, his words stuck on the tip of his tongue. After all, what might he say to correct this belief of hers? What could he honestly give her that would change her mind? How can he adequately explain his feelings when he doesn't even understand them himself? 

"You wanna press the button for me? So… I don't have to get up and all." 

Dejectedly, he reaches out to do just that, but... something gives him pause. There's an odd smell in the air, an acrid hint of ozone and burning leaves, all melded with the iron tang of blood. His power flares at the scent, a warning shooting through his awareness like a bolt of lightning striking a tree.  

Outside the room they're in, it's gone eerily silent. Deathly so, he would almost say, and when he expands his perception to get a read on who or what is near them, he's met with a disturbing blankness, one he's only ever known during the time he was trapped in that binding circle at Fawney Rig, the time all those decades ago that he was made powerless by Roderick Burgess.  

And in that moment, Morpheus knows two things with utter surety. The first is that he was indeed correct when he'd surmised earlier that May was in danger outside Viego's wards, that she had been reckless to leave them on her own. Obviously, something or someone has been tracking her, lying in wait for the opportunity they might have were she to be free of the ward's protections. The second thing he knows, and perhaps the part that most worries him, is that whatever or whomever has been on her trail is in this building with them. Right now.

NEXT CHAPTER

Tag List for BBHAP: @julesandro

If anyone else wants to be added to this or anything else let me know!!! <3

[phanomeheart]

1, 15, 17, 28, 30? sorry there's so many :)

No need to apologize! These were some of my favs

1. if someone wanted to really understand you, what would they read, watch, and listen to?

My first thought is Written on the Body by Jeanette Winterson, definitely. I love Jeanette Winterson so much, her writing is one of those things that just clicks with my brain and like makes my mind flow in the same rhythm and I’m not good at explaining it, but it makes me wanna think and write and is just such a great experience for me. And little not-quite-realizing-I-was-non-binary-yet me latched on so hard to the idea of a protagonist whose gender you didn’t know throughout the entire book. I spent the whole time trying to guess what gender the author intended the protagonist to really be, and then catching myself and reminding myself that the point is that we don’t know and maybe the point of gender in general can be that you don’t know and there is no ‘real’ answer and I just! I love it! God now I want to read it again.

15. five most influential books over your lifetime. 

Ahh I love this question, but also i hate making decisions about books :(

1. Written on the Body, for the reasons above.

2. The Realm of Possibility by David Levithan. I read an insane amount of queer YA lit when I was coming out in high school, and David Levithan was another one of those authors whose writing just clicks with my brain. He was one of the people who made me feel more comfortable in my queerness, and a big influence on me continuing to write in high school/early college.

3. Never Cry Wolf by Farley Mowat (and also A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson for similar reasons). The two things I loved about these books were that scientists/nonfiction writers could have a sense of humor, and the curiosity and the wonder I found in the natural world in them. I think Never Cry Wolf especially heavily influenced my decision to study biology/environmental science in undergrad. 

4. A Series of Unfortunate Events. Honestly, I think these books did so much in terms of forming me as a child. There are other series I loved (Harry Potter, His Dark Materials, and anything Tamora Pierce especially), but what these books did for my vocabulary, exposing me to different kinds of storytelling, and getting me interested in playing around with writing was pretty substantial I’m just now realizing. Thanks Lemony Snicket! (Also introduced me to Tim Curry through the audio books, which is very important.)

5. Honestly my brain just keeps telling me At Swim, Two Boys by Jamie O’Neill. I don’t know if it was influential so much as I just cannot forget it. I usually hate major character death cuz I just cannot deal and this book has it in a BIG way, which I didn’t know going in. But the love story is just so beautiful and the writing is gorgeous to me and I think in a kind of silly way it helped me understand a bit more the way you have to just handle death. I won’t say the beauty in it, but the inevitability of it (who am I Hank and John?) and the way it doesn’t change the beauty of the story that came before it.

17. would you say your tumblr is a fair representation of the “real you”?

answered here, but like kinda but also no

28. on a scale from 1 to 10, how hard is it for someone to get under your skin?

Hmm! Depends on my mood probably? I can definitely be a little petty sometimes, but I generally try to remember that we’re all complex individuals and people can have different tastes/opinions/ways of interacting (assuming you’re not being actually racist/homophobic/transphobic/etc.). So like maybe a 2 or 3 if 1 is very hard? 

30. pick one of your favorite quotes.

I don’t remember quotes very well, but that one Mary Oliver quote has been sticking in my mind recently. I was gonna just quote the first couple of lines, but actually the whole poem is so good. I’ve been in such a Mary Oliver mood recently, and trying to practice letting go of things and appreciating the simple things as we move into the never ending winter here, with her as my muse.

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.You do not have to walk on your kneesfor a hundred miles through the desert repenting.You only have to let the soft animal of your bodylove what it loves.Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.Meanwhile the world goes on.Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rainare moving across the landscapes,over the prairies and the deep trees,the mountains and the rivers.Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,are heading home again.Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,the world offers itself to your imagination,calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -over and over announcing your placein the family of things.

[melanielocke]

Lost in the Shadows - Chapter 29

AO3

Taglist: @alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer @foxglove-airmid @alastair-esfandiyar-carstairs1 @justanormaldemon @styxdrawings @ipromiseiwillwrite @a-dream-dirty-and-bruised @alastair-appreciation-month

Previous Chapter: Chapter 28

Next Chapter: Chapter 30

The drive to Inverness was long and uncomfortable. Will was driving his car, with Gideon in the passenger seat and Cordelia, Lucie and Tessa pressed in the back. It was a small car, and the three of them in the back only just fit, with Lucie pressed against Cordelia. Not that she minded that exactly, and Lucie didn’t seem to either. Cordelia concluded her hips were too wide for this seat, little to be done about that.

Lucie tried to distract everyone by telling them about one of her stories, but even Lucie couldn’t hide how nervous she was, and got confused halfway through the story several times. Cordelia knew that rarely happened, Lucie could keep track of pretty much everything she wrote. Every once in a while Tessa scolded her husband for going over the speed limit, to which Will replied that they were in a hurry.

When Lucie was done with her stories, they began to discuss strategy instead. Who would approach Tatiana first, how would they fight her, how to make sure she didn’t escape using dark magic?

‘If she escapes into the land in between, I can follow her,’ Lucie said. ‘And the spell needs to be finished in this world, not the land in between. That’s what Jesse said. So if she escapes into the land in between, and we keep her occupied there so she can’t get out in time, then she’ll miss the window of opportunity.’

Time moved differently in the land in between, and almost always returning from there meant more time had passed in this world. If Tatiana fled into the land in between at the last moment, she would not make it back in time and that would win them at least a day.

‘We’ll need to stop her from speaking too,’ Lucie said. ‘Do we have any tape?’

Cordelia at some point fell asleep during the trip, she must have been more tired than she thought. She woke up when the car stopped. They were on a parking lot in what seemed like the middle of a city.

Cordelia got out of the car, and walked around a bit, trying to get the stiffness out of her body. She practiced some of her movements, without the sword for now as she didn’t want to draw unwanted attention. While Lucie’s parents and Gideon were looking around for the best way into the hotel, Lucie joined her, stretching too.

‘My butt hurts,’ Lucie said. ‘I am not taking the middle seat on the way back.’

The middle seat of Will’s car was a bit harder than the rest so Cordelia could imagine why Lucie might prefer not to sit there.

‘I think you’re the only one who fits there,’ Cordelia said.

Lucie was the shortest, both Cordelia and Lucie’s mother were quite tall and had long legs. Lucie was probably also the only with hips narrow enough to fit there.

‘Fair point,’ Lucie said. ‘Before we go in, I’ve been meaning to tell you something.’

Cordelia frowned, she wasn’t sure this sounded good. As if Lucie was about to confess something bad.

‘I know you probably don’t feel the same way, but I guess if something goes wrong today, I would rather you knew. I’m in love with you. I didn’t realize until recently, but I guess I’ve loved your for years.’

It was not what Cordelia had been expecting. Even if Alastair had told her Lucie probably liked her. Even if it was what she’d been longing to hear.

‘I do feel the same way,’ Cordelia said. ‘I only realized about a week ago, but I do like you too. I just never thought you’d feel that way about me. Or well, Alastair did but I think I was scared.’

Lucie’s eyes went wide, he cheeks turned a rosy pink. ‘Alastair knew?’

‘He read some pages from the beautiful Cordelia and he did not know how else to explain it,’ Cordelia admitted. ‘I just didn’t dare believe.’

‘I think for most of the time while writing it, I didn’t realize it myself either. But I always thought you were so beautiful and brave. I just had not yet considered I might love girls. Can I kiss you for good luck before we go in?’

‘Does that work?’ Cordelia asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Lucie said. ‘In stories it happens sometimes. It makes for romantic scenes, but often I’d expect the main characters or at least the main couple to survive. But when it’s real life, it might just all go to hell and this could be our last chance.’

‘It won’t be your last chance,’ Cordelia said. ‘You have too many stories you have to finish.’

Lucie laughed. ‘If I can’t die while I have an unfinished story I’ll probably live forever.’

Cordelia put her arm around Lucie’s waist, pulling her closer, and kissed her on the lips. She’d only kissed one other person before, which had been Lucie’s brother James. While he was not a bad kisser, it was different. Lucie’s lips were softer and tasted off her lipstick, and she was shorter than Cordelia so she had to bend down a little.

‘Oh, you have a little smear,’ Cordelia said when they broke apart. ‘Your lipstick.’

Lucie started laughing. ‘Probably. But I feel like I can face Tatiana with smudged lipstick. I understand now why they do good luck kisses. This worked.’

Cordelia had to agree. She felt better, more confident. At least she’d told Lucie. At least now they both knew how they felt about each other.

‘Let’s try it again,’ Cordelia said.

After several more kisses, Lucie’s parents still weren’t back, and Cordelia decided to call her brother. She wanted to tell him he was right and Lucie was in love with her, and she wanted to tell him she’d arrived in Inverness safely. When he didn’t answer his phone, Cordelia called Jem instead, to let them know they had arrived at least.

‘Is Alastair there?’ Cordelia asked. ‘I’d hoped I could speak to him.’

‘I’m on my way to the cottage right now, but I can give him your phone as soon as I arrive. How are you doing?’

‘I think we’ll be confronting Tatiana as soon as we can,’ Cordelia said. ‘Is everything alright there? How’s Alastair?’

‘Tired and stressed out,’ Jem said. ‘But he’s coping as well as he can. I’m surprised he’s doing so well, to be honest, but I find Alastair can be very hard to read. He always seems to be hiding how he really feels, and contrary to popular belief I cannot read minds.’

Cordelia had to agree, for a long time Alastair had hidden all of his feelings, his relationship, what Father really was like. She’d always sort of suspected he hid things from her, but could never have guessed the extent. Even now, the habit of hiding was difficult to break, and sometimes Cordelia still found herself trying to hammer down his walls.

‘And Thomas?’

‘No improvement, but he’s not getting worse either. Sophie and Alastair helped him go back to bed and he’s sleeping again. I’ve arrived, I can give you Alastair.’

‘Why didn’t you pick up your phone?’ Cordelia asked as soon as she’d confirmed he had the phone.

‘I can’t find it,’ Alastair said. ‘I think I left it in my bedroom, but I don’t want to leave Thomas to look for it. Did you make it to Inverness?’

‘Yes, we’re there now,’ Cordelia said. ‘You were right, by the way, about Lucie.’

‘About what exactly?’ Alastair asked.

‘That she likes me,’ Cordelia clarified. ‘Which was nice to figure out before we potentially die.’

‘You’re not going to die, Layla,’ Alastair said. ‘Have faith in yourself. I know you can do this. Good luck.’

‘To you too, dâdâsh,’ Cordelia said.

Cordelia put away her phone when Will, Tessa and Gideon came back, arguing, Will and Tessa both gesturing wildly. Gideon looked tired most of all, and didn’t participate in the argument as much.

‘Why do I have to be the decoy?’ Will asked. ‘Why can’t I go up there myself?’

Tessa sighed. ‘Because you’re best suited for the job.’

Will smiled. ‘Oh, tell me why then.’

‘Because you’re the best chance we have at charming an old woman receptionist,’ Tessa said. ‘Gideon’s too awkward and I’m not sure she’s interested in women.’

‘Thank you,’ Gideon said drily.

Will grinned. ‘Oh, I will charm her. I will charm her with such force she’ll be lying on the floor trying to remember her own name.’

Lucie looked mortified, Cordelia started laughing, picturing the scenario in her head of Will trying to flirt with the receptionist.

‘I actually did that once,’ Will said. ‘Jem and I needed to break into another hotel where someone had trapped a couple of fairies.’

Fairies, as Cordelia knew it, lived in the woods and tended to be small. They could get up to mischief, but weren’t dangerous. Part of what Will and Jem used to do was also protect creatures like that from humans who intended to harm them, and it was an important part of what Cordelia wanted to be like. She knew some of her ancestors had only focused on protecting humans, and killed indiscriminately, and she was determined to do better.

‘Ah, good old times,’ Will said. ‘The old lady didn’t know what hit her, and Jem had every chance to sneak inside and break out those poor fairies.’

‘So, do that again,’ Tessa said. ‘We can’t all go in at the same time, it’ll draw too much attention. Lucie, you’re with me. We won’t draw too much attention together. Cordelia, you can’t wait for too long after that. You go in alone. If you get caught, pretend you were looking for a bathroom. Otherwise, pretend you belong.’

Cordelia guessed she was bound to attract the most attention either way with how she looked, but there was nothing to be done about that.

She waited outside with Gideon while Will, Tessa and Lucie went inside. Gideon looked weary, and anxious. She understood how difficult it was for him, if it were Alastair who’d gone down such a path she would keep hoping for far longer than she should. She couldn’t imagine what it was like, to watch a sibling lose themselves and become evil and be able to do nothing. Because Tatiana had shut everyone out. So while Cordelia acknowledged her pain, she also believed Tatiana had had a hand in digging her own grave, by allowing revenge and hatred to consume her rather than seeking support from her brothers who would have welcomed her back any time.

‘Go,’ Gideon said, as he looked in through the window, while looking through his phone.

Cordelia suspected he wasn’t actually looking or reading anything as he was holding his phone upside down, it just made him look less out of place. The lobby of the hotel was nice enough. Nothing fancy, it was the kind of hotel most people could afford, but everything looked clean. Of course, the real place the judge the cleanliness of a hotel was the bathroom, but Cordelia had no reason to go there.

Will was chatting up the receptionist, who was a little older than he was, but not an old woman either. From a distance, she overheard him asking questions about the city, exaggerating his Welsh accent to show he was not from around here, but was not an Englishman either.

The receptionist’s attention was on Will, and Cordelia tried her best to act natural as she walked past her and into the corridor. A little farther, Tessa and Lucie were waiting. Both acted casual, as if they were supposed to be there.

‘I’ve texted Will,’ Tessa said. ‘He’s the getaway driver in this plan, and if we’re in trouble, someone should text him or call him or whatever works in the situation and he’ll drive the car front.’

‘He’s probably not too happy about that,’ Cordelia said.

‘But he won’t be able to get himself inside without drawing attention, and he has the car keys,’ Tessa said.

Cordelia suspected Tessa also knew Will was likely to antagonize Tatiana even further, whereas she and Gideon might have a chance to calm her down. She clutched her necklace, ready to take cortana into her hand the moment they stepped into Tatiana’s room. When Gideon joined them, the four went looking for the room number Jesse had given them.

‘Nine hours until midnight,’ Tessa said.

Gideon nodded, shaking on his knees. Had he said goodbye to Thomas, Cordelia wondered? Would he be able to live with himself if Thomas died and he was here and not with him? Thomas would undoubtedly claim it was fine, as he always did. He and Alastair were alike in that manner, although Alastair was a bit more convincing when he pretended to be fine. But perhaps Thomas would want his father to be with him as he died.

‘She should be in here,’ Lucie said, pulling on the door. ‘Locked.’

‘Let me,’ Cordelia said, cortana in hand.

With a single motion she cut her way through the lock, opening the door and revealing Tatiana, who was dressed in old fashioned dark brown clothes, and looked like she hadn’t slept in a couple of days.

She was startled by their presence, but recollected herself quickly, grabbing a dagger and holding it in front of her.

‘How did you find me,’ she hissed.

‘You have to stop, Tatiana,’ Gideon said, putting his hands in front of him. ‘I can’t imagine how hard it was to lose your son, but that does not justify killing others to bring him back.’

‘No, you can’t imagine. I would do anything for my child. You could never understand such a thing, and that’s why Jesse will live and Thomas will die. Turn back, or I’ll kill you too.’

Cordelia took a step forward, cortana in hand and ready to attack if necessary. The sword had one dull edge, a chance for mercy, and an edge so sharp it would cut through anything. She didn’t have to kill Tatiana, but she would stop her.

‘Last chance, surrender,’ Cordelia hissed. ‘You lost your siren, you can’t win.’

Tatiana laughed. ‘Oh, can I? Good luck finding your way home, Carstairs.’

Before Cordelia knew for sure what was happening, she found herself in a forest. Not just in a forest, in the air between the trees and falling fast. Cordelia grabbed onto a branch of a nearby tree before she could fall any faster, pulled herself up and secured her position before scouting where she was. Tessa had gotten lucky, she fell onto a branch a bit lower, but had found a relatively easy route down to the ground.

Gideon wasn’t so lucky, he did crash into the tree before making his way to the ground, yelling in pain. Cordelia couldn’t tell from here if he was alright, but at least the tree had broken his fall somewhat. She was too high up to jump down without hurting herself, and in a difficult position to climb. She didn’t see Lucie anywhere.

She felt the branch creaking under her weight, and she slowly moved closer to the tree’s stem. There was another, thicker branch below her, but making it down would not be an easy exercise. She was trained in climbing, of course, otherwise she would have gotten stuck like a cat in there, or she’d fallen all the way down. But she was also heavy and most trees couldn’t hold her weight. She was a little out of practice, and right now that could be dangerous.

She hung down from the branch she was currently sitting on, hands twisted together above while hanging underneath. She could find the branch underneath her with her feet, and found some stability. From here it would be easier to get down, but she’d have to lower herself onto the branch first. She moved her grip from the branch above to the stem of the tree, carefully balancing herself until she was sitting on the branch. She let out a breath she’d held on to all that time when she was in a secure position. Now to make her way down. The branches were closer together, and she could get a little lower, and then she’d have to jump.

Beneath her, Tessa had fallen as well, but she’d made her way to her feet and seemed unharmed. Gideon, she wasn’t so sure about. Tessa was bent over him. Cordelia returned her focus to the tree, making her way to a lower branch, and putting her foot even lower. From here she could climb down until she was hanging about half a meter above the ground, from which she dropped, bending her knees to absorb the impact.

She ran over to Gideon and Tessa. ‘Are you alright?’ she asked.

‘I am,’ Tessa said. ‘A few scrapes and bruises, that’s all. Gideon has a broken arm. It needs support, but I’m not sure how.’

Cordelia undid the cardigan she’d tied around her waist, thankfully she’d forgotten to take it off. ‘Can you use this?’

Tessa sighed. ‘It’ll do, I guess. Where are we?’

‘The land in between. Where’s Lucie?’

‘I haven’t seen her. Lucie!’ Tessa yelled.

Cordelia also called her name. No response. Where was she? Cordelia suspected the three of them were in the land in between. The only time they’d escaped that place without Lucie’s magic was after killing the werewolf, which would mean walking until they made their way back into the real world. If that were even possible, they might very well be trapped.

‘I don’t think Lucie came here with us,’ Cordelia said.

***

Thomas slept most of the day, and Alastair made sure to be there with him whenever he woke. That became less and less frequent though, and Alastair was growing worried. Just after Thomas had gone back to sleep, a car pulled into the driveway. Who would be coming here?

Sophie opened the door to three young women. Of course, Thomas’ sisters were coming. Two of the girls had the same brown hair Thomas had, one a bit softer and rounder while the other was shorter and had more angular features. The third woman was Indian and Alastair remembered Thomas’ sister Eugenia had returned to India with her friend, and this had to be her.

‘We came as quickly as we could,’ Eugenia said. ‘Babs flew to Edinburgh this morning. Where’s Tommy?’

‘He’s sleeping,’ Sophie said. ‘You can check on him in his bedroom, but I think it’s best to let him rest and wait until he wakes up.’

Thomas’ two sisters left for his bedroom, while the Indian girl sat down on the couch next to Alastair. He’d been trying to read one of the family’s journals, but couldn’t concentrate. Not with the horrible knot in his stomach caused by worry.

‘You are Thomas’ boyfriend, aren’t you?’ the girl asked.

Alastair looked up from his work. He didn’t know who she was. He didn’t even know if she knew anything about what was going on. On the other hand, why would Thomas’ sister have brought her if she did not understand what was going on.

‘My name is Alastair Carstairs,’ he said.

‘Kamala Joshi,’ she said. ‘I’m Eugenia’s girlfriend.’

‘Right. I imagine Eugenia must have been worried,’ Alastair said.

He felt like he eased into the conversation a little. It wasn’t as stiff and forced as conversation usually felt for him.

‘We’d just returned from India when Eugenia received the call. She was very upset no one had told her about her brother being in danger sooner. But as I understand, your communication was cut off, was it not?’

‘What do you know of what’s going on?’ Alastair asked.

‘What Eugenia told me,’ Kamala said. ‘Something about her crazy aunt, a dark realm, and a deal with a creature that could bring back her dead son. I can’t say I understand everything. I’ve mostly tried to stay away from everything supernatural.’

‘But you do know,’ Alastair said.

‘A monster killed my parents,’ Kamala said. ‘I never found out what it was, but ever since, my eyes have been opened. At least somewhat, I can’t see the way Thomas or Barbara can. But when I first came to England, I rescued a fairy in the park from group of older boys who’d somehow seen her. It’s easier for children, I think, even without the sight. The fairy blessed me with a healing power. It’s minor, mostly I can heal injuries. I can’t cure complex diseases or anything like that. But it’s helpful, and Genie hoped I could help with healing Thomas.’

Alastair gazed down. ‘I don’t think so. His life is tied to someone else’s. If his cousin is brought to life, he’ll die, no amount of healing can save him then. On the bright side though, my sister is fighting Thomas’ crazy aunt right now. I am sorry about your parents.’

‘It was a long time ago,’ Kamala said. ‘I was six when it happened, seven when I was given my powers.’

Thomas’ sisters joined the two of them. They both greatly resembled Thomas, Alastair thought, and each other. He wasn’t sure which was which until the shorter, angular girl put her arm around Kamala. That had to be Eugenia.

‘Thomas is still asleep, I take?’ Alastair asked.

‘Yes,’ Barbara said. ‘He has a high fever, and I think he needs lots of rest. Much like when he was a child.’

Barbara soon turned her attention to Jem discussing something Alastair did not have the medical knowledge to follow. Barbara was a nurse, he remembered. She seemed knowledgeable at least.

‘So,’ Eugenia said, turning her attention to Alastair, ‘what do you want with my brother?’

Alastair was taken back, and it took a few moments to be able to formulate an answer, to push the words across his lips. Thomas had told him Eugenia could be fierce and both his sisters were very protective.

‘Genie, don’t be rude!’ Sophie called.

‘Right now, I want to save him,’ Alastair said.

***

Thomas woke up to find both his sisters sitting on chairs next to his bed. No. Oh no, what were they doing here?

‘Go home,’ Thomas said as he tried to sit up. He couldn’t. ‘Please.’

‘No,’ Eugenia said and Thomas cursed the stubbornness that plagued their family. ‘You’re in trouble, and we’re here to help. Kamala is here too, and she could use her magic on you, maybe that’ll heal you.’

‘Probably not,’ Thomas said. ‘It’s Tatiana.’

‘That’s where everyone else went, isn’t it?’ Barbara asked. ‘Dad went with uncle Will and aunt Tessa to confront her.’

‘And Lucie and Cordelia,’ Thomas confirmed. ‘Who are probably the most essential part of the plan. Lucie can command the dead and open gateways and Cordelia has a magic sword. They’re going to save me. Hopefully.’

Thomas hated that he couldn’t be of more help, that he was lying here in bed unable to do so much as get up. He’d slept most of the day, only waking up every once in a while and sometimes he feared he wouldn’t wake up at all.

‘Don’t lose faith, Tommy,’ Barbara said, stroking her thumb over his cheek. ‘You’re going to be alright. How are you feeling?’

‘Tired. Cold. Everything hurts. I shiver a lot. Like, actual, uncontrollable shaking.’

Barbara frowned. ‘Are you sure we don’t need to take you to a hospital? It sounds like you might have sepsis.’

‘It’s not that,’ Thomas said. ‘It’s the thief, Tatiana’s ritual. No amount of antibiotics can save me. Tatiana must be stopped.’

Thomas tried to stay awake for as long as he could, talking to his sisters, and later Alastair who came to join them. He was glad Alastair seemed to be getting along with both his sisters, even if Eugenia had been a little rude to him at first. Of course, he’d expected nothing less from her.

In the end he had no choice but to go back to sleep though. His eyes were falling shut, and Alastair, Barbara and Eugenia all noticed he couldn’t stay awake anymore.

‘Sweet dreams, nooré chesm-am,’ Alastair whispered in his ear before kissing him on the cheek. ‘Please wake up again.’

***

Eight in the evening. Sophie had tried to get Thomas to eat and drink a bit more, but he had not woken again. Alastair finally decided to try and wake him up. Nothing. Calling his name didn’t do a thing, nor did pulling on his shoulders. Perhaps he was in a deep sleep. Alastair could not quite convince himself. They quietly ate some of Sophie’s soup, but Alastair couldn’t take more than a few spoons. He felt tense and sick in his stomach. He needed to know Thomas was going to be alright, if Cordelia was doing well, if she was even alive.

Nine. Still no word from Cordelia, from any of them. Alastair had tried calling all of them. The only one who consistently picked up was Will as he’d been made the getaway driver. He’d been waiting outside for hours. He’d gone in and found everyone gone, confirming Alastair’s suspicions they’d gone into the land in between. He’d asked Will to call him as soon as he heard anything.

‘I’m going to check on him,’ Alastair said.

Thomas was still breathing when Alastair entered his bedroom. He was in a deep sleep, and Alastair couldn’t wake him up. He even threw the glass of water standing on his nightstand over his face. Nothing. Alastair grabbed a towel to dry him off, unable to leave him like this. No response.

Alastair blinked away some tears. ‘Don’t you dare die on me, Tom.’

A pause. Determination. ‘You’re not going to die tonight.’

Alastair returned to the living room. ‘He’s still sleeping. I don’t think he’s going to wake up. I need some air.’

Alastair went outside, but it wasn’t because he needed air. It had been too long. Cordelia was missing, something had gone wrong. If they’d stopped Tatiana, she would have let him now and they’d gone in hours ago. There was no way the fight could have taken this long, even if they’d gone into the land in between. Not to mention Tatiana could easily escape from there and finish the ritual.

Alastair felt as if he wasn’t inside his body anymore, as if he weren’t really alive. A terrible numbness at the thought that his sister was gone, that she’d failed. Perhaps she wasn’t dead, he told himself. Perhaps she was simply trapped in the land in between and time was passing much faster here for him. If that were the case, only Lucie could bring them back and he had no clue how long they had, if Tatiana was stopped, if Thomas was going to live.

He knew what ritual Gideon and his brother had interrupted all these years ago. With the knowledge from the Carstairs’ journals and the memory, Alastair had been able to piece it together and figure out how to summon the thief of souls.

He drew the circle and symbols in the sand. It wasn’t difficult. Just an incantation. He might have messed up the pronunciation of the words here and there, but he repeated the words Benedict Lightwood had said so long ago.

The thief appeared in the middle of the circle like demons often did.

‘Welcome to my circle, thief of souls,’ Alastair said. ‘I want to make a deal.’

[dialovers-translations]

Diabolik Twitter ー Carla Tsukinami [2020 Compilation]

–> This post includes all tweets posted on the official Rejet Twitter account for Carla Tsukinami (@DialoverCarlaT) in 2020.

Shuu l Reiji l Ayato l Kanato l Laito l Subaru l Ruki l Kou l Yuma l Azusa l Shin l Kino

February 14, 2020 (Valentine’s Day)

> What a bothersome lot. I’ll blow all of you away at once.

> When it comes to these things, it’s quality over quantity.

> One precious thing. Obtaining that is more important, don’t you think?

March 14, 2020 (White Day)

> An uncommon guest has come to visit.

> Guess I shall give these ‘marsh mallow’ things Kanato gifted me to Shin.

–> This took me a while to figure out, but Carla wrote he received 魔種麻呂 from Kanato, which isn’t an existing word in Japanese at all. However, when you look at the individual readings of each character, they are pronounced as ‘ma-shu-ma-ro’ or マッシュマロー, the Japanese word for ‘marshmallow’. I guess Carla does not know what a marshmallow is. xD

> I do not know which magic creature has been put into these things. So until I identify them, it seems wise not to eat them.

–> The ‘ma’ character in Carla’s unique spelling of the word ‘marshmallow’ means ‘magic’ on its own, hence why he thinks they’re made from magic beasts living in the Demon World.

> Oi, you. Come closer.

> I heard that today you are supposed to return the favor of last month’s festivity. Following said tradition, I shall thank you as well.

> You are a woman worthy of becoming the bride of a Founder. However, that is not all. You are also a woman I personally do not wish to lose. I am grateful towards the fate that brought us together. Furthermore, I shall fulfill my own duty as well. I vow to protect you, no matter what awaits us in the future.

April 1, 2020 (April Fools)

> Moon March 🌙 E-shop opened

ll Cured dry ham ll

From today onwards, we shall start selling farm fresh and Founder-approached cured dry ham. We can ensure the delivery of high quality products to your doorstep. Only those capable of grasping its value, should press the purchase button.

April 30, 2020

> Come here. We do not get to enjoy such a peaceful time together very often. I shall dote on you plenty to make up for all the lost time. 

> Tell me. Go ahead and explain to me what lovers usually do when together in their room.

May 28, 2020 (Birthday)

> How puzzling. Why do you seem so happy, when it is my birthday being celebrated? However, it is not a bad thing. It appears I can get a sense of fulfillment from seeing you try so hard for my sake. In that case, scoot over. I want to feel you close to me. I want to confirm that you are most definitely by my side by touching you directly.

June 26, 2020

> I cannot believe you are asking me to play the role of a teacher. It seems like you do not quite comprehend your own position.

> Again? Watch your step carefully. How many times must I repeat myself?

June 27, 2020

> You could have simply gone to bed before me.

July 7, 2020 (Tanabata)

> I wish to come across a new art gallery.

July 22, 2020

> I am surprised you are still conscious.

> I forced my fangs inside your flesh. It would have not have been strange for you to faint from the pain.

> Seems like you have become capable of accepting any and all stimuli. When you give me such a commendable reaction, I cannot help but want to ‘dote’ on you even more.

> This time, I will give you something you are always craving for...Exactly, pleasure.

> I shall love you more profoundly.

July 27, 2020

> Dry cured ham represents despair and sadness?

> Why?

August 31, 2020

> The buzzing of cicadas makes for a rather elegant tune.

> Shin. Prepare a watermelon at once.

October 16, 2020

> On my way to the museum, I ran into a certain young man. He was a *

--> In the original Tweet, his sentence cuts off mid-way as well.

> He was a court painter who specializes in portraits. I had him paint my picture, but ultimately, I did not feel very satisfied with the end result.

> My face is not buried that deep inside my scarf. Why did he have to exaggerate it such an extend? For one, a portrait usually takes several days to finish, yet the painter in question finished it in just mere seconds. One should take their time painting a picture of me.

> It truly is a shame, but it seems like his skill level has decreased over time.

October 22, 2020 (DL x Mayla Classic)

> Oi, you. Why are you spacing out in the hallway?

> Aah, Shin said that…? I see.

> In that case, I might have a clue. Follow me.

> Take a look at those stairs.

> Amongst the Wolf Familiars, there’s one which has a bad habit of leaving all shiny objects he stumbles upon on the staircase like that.

> I assume Shin hid the gift in the underground dungeon, hoping you would find it after being ordered to clean the place. However, it was taken away by the Familiar before that, ruining Shin’s plans.

> He should have simply handed it to you. Shin is still quite immature as well, taking such a roundabout approach and then getting upset.

> Oh well, I suppose it is fine. Either way, you should take it.

> This is our gift. From here on out, you should always keep them on you, so they do not get stolen by the Familiar again.

October 31, 2020 (Halloween)

> Trick or Treat...is truly ridiculous. There is no reason to choose one or the other. I shall get my hands on all things I desire. Well then, go ahead and submit your everything to me.

November 11, 2020

> Today calls for a celebration.

> It is ‘cured ham day’. There is not a single day in the whole year worth celebrating more.

> I suppose I should have Shin prepare a few extra legs.*

-> I was really confused by this tweet at first because when I looked up the word 原木, it translates as ‘timber’. However, apparently it is also used to refer to the whole legs of dried ham which come on a wooden stand. 

December 18, 2020

> Why are you making such a face? ...The cold? I see, I suppose humans already show the first signs of hypothermia at this temperature. I cannot simply stand and watch in silence as you continue to freeze. Well then, let me prepare you a cup of hot tea. Let us get warm together.

December 19, 2020

> Woman. This one. Order this one. I desire this drink, its crimson color is vibrant, yet somewhat reminiscent of the dark as well. However, please do not get the wrong idea. I do not feel attracted to it due to its strong resemblance to blood. Any blood other than yours holds no value. Of course, you are special and irreplaceable to me as a person as well.

December 24, 2020 (Christmas)

> Are you enjoying yourself? No, I am not criticizing you for your behavior. When I see you in high spirits, even I get a pleasant feeling inside. I feel like I can sympathize with humans who get excited about Christmas a little better now.

[annhellsing]

Your Shape.

notes: never in my life thought i’d write an original thing again, but i had a lot of fun!!! i was feeling super overwhelmed and decided to put my maladaptive daydream about a meet-cute with a mysterious entity in a forest into words. rating: teen, we stay tame in these woods pairing: mysterious entity boyfriend idk / reader word count: 3,286

The shape in the forest wants to know if you are warm enough. Moonlight falls over the crown of your head, so yellow and full as to be a parody of sunshine. This late in September, with the harvest coming soon, it is easy to confuse the two.

But the shape does not ask, he does not want to scare you. Your shoulders are slouched, cheeks pressed to your palms to hide tears and sobs. He wants to know if you are unhappy, too. He imagines you have already given him a fair answer, despite not having spoken at all.

A dirt-caked hand curls around the trunk of a tree. The shape leans out of the dark, eyes aglow and horns in danger of bumping on a branch overhead. He ducks a bit, takes a careful step forward. If he were anyone else, the twig under his foot might have snapped and made a sound. But there is an understanding between them, an old promise. The only noise in the night is of your crying.

“It’s too much,” you whisper, half-wailing around the air being pushed from your lungs. You press a hand over your mouth and for a moment, all is quiet. 

The shape decides he does not like that at all. You are unhappy, he’s sure of it, so why not express it?

“What is?” he asks, compelled to speak when before he had stayed silent. You were not crying before, he rations. You did not need help then as you do now.

You turn at the sound of his voice, it is as cold and as full as the moon in the sky. It belongs there, that voice, between the trees. You peer into the dark, not afraid of what might be speaking, but why. Creatures are not uncommon, it is their motivations you have been taught to fear.

A breeze picks up, pushing cool air at your hot cheeks. The feeling is almost pleasant, it’s accompanied by the sound of rustling leaves. Or perhaps of footsteps from your newfound companion. 

He does not walk as a human might, though he is shaped like one. With the grass, too, he has an understanding and his gait is as noiseless and natural as the way that he speaks. You stare up, up, up at him, craning your neck until you find his face.

It is a handsome face, which does not immediately set you at ease. You see the outline of his head and shoulders, framed by two horns extending back against the starlit sky. But the rest of him is a mystery. It disappears into the shadows that knit in a circle around the glade.

“Everything,” you answer with honesty, for it is the best policy.

“I can understand, then, why you are upset,” he replies. 

Your sweater scratches your cheeks as you wipe away tears. But you are very careful to keep one eye open and fixed on the shape, the visitor. It is not very smart to do more than blink in their company.

Still, you make noise. Soft sounds of life, of breath as you try to stifle sobs. Crying gets you nowhere, you remember, especially not with an audience.

“How long have you been watching me?” you ask, careful not to sound accusatory. You are not accusing him of anything, you are only curious.

“I did not mean to infringe on your privacy,” he returns.

“This forest is your home,” you reason. The shape gives a slow shake of his horned head.

“It is home to everyone,” he says, “especially to those who need somewhere safe to cry.”

“Thank you,” you nod, “but have not answered me.”

“Longer than you would be comfortable with,” he replies, “I am sorry.”

“That’s a little vague,” you say.

“Not to me,” he says, “I have seen you here before. Not often, but I have.”

“Oh,” you pass your sleeve over your left eye once more, “I meant tonight, but I appreciate the truth.”

It’s becoming easier to control the way your chest moves. The compulsive need to breathe quickly slows with your heart rate. You are not calm, but you are managing.

“You looked happy before,” he says, “the last time you were here.”

“The last time I was here, things were---” you sigh, dropping your hand and your head. Though you remember very suddenly the dangers of doing so. But when your eyes return quickly to the shape’s again, you notice no change in his appearance. “They were different.”

“They were better?” he asks. Defeated, you nod.

“I am so tired,” you let out a slow breath.

“If you slept here,” he begins, “no one else would bother you. That is a promise.”

“And you keep your promises,” you state, knowing better than to insult him by phrasing that as a question.

“I do,” he says, “the grass is comfortable, the trees keep out most of the rain. Every night I have known life, I have spent it on the floor of a forest.”

“That sounds nice,” you admit. But you are not so foolish as to blindly trust visitors. “I don’t want to go home.”

“Is it very difficult to be there?” he cocks his head to the side, the moonlight falling on a sharp cheekbone. A shadow pools there, you stare with more curiosity than perhaps you ought. The shape doesn’t seem to mind.

“It is,” you reply, “it’s quite lonely, too. Even when I’m spoken to, I feel alone.”

The visitor hums, the sound like the wind against tree boughs. Could he understand?

“I am here,” he says, “for what it is worth.”

You pause, considering his eyes that have not left yours once. Not even to blink. They are a strange colour, glassy but focused very intently on the curve of your face. They look, you consider, like the yellow moon that hangs so close to the edge of the forest.

Round and wide and curious, he stares at you. Not as one might stare at an insect, but as an interesting person.

“So am I,” you reply. And a hesitant smile of your own joins his.

“You have family,” he says, “friends who love you?” and the question at the end cuts like a knife.

“I have nobody,” you say, “though a few would likely search for me. It would be out of habit.”

“Habit?” he asks.

“Because I would do the same for them,” you explain, “my friends and I look after each other. But we’re not very close.”

“You need not be afraid of me,” he says. And that otherworldly smile returns, but it does little to dissuade the butterflies in your stomach.

The shape moves a bit closer, until only his horns are silhouetted against the inky sky. You can see him a bit better, though his lower body still remains a mystery.

You find yourself looking closely at his hands, searching the dirt and grass stains for signs of blood or cruelty. You find neither.

“I am not afraid,” you say, following a shiver.

“Yes, you are,” he says, “I am sorry. I frighten people, I know. But you need not reassure me that you shall be looked for.”

“Force of habit,” you say, “I’ve been told stories all my life, advised to be careful about what I say to visitors.”

“I understand. It is wise for you to follow that advice, but I will not hurt you,” he says.

“And you keep your promises,” you repeat, the smile once again curling on the corners of your mouth.

He surprises you with a laugh, the sound fills your chest even by proxy. As full and soft as his voice, the shape’s laugh makes you feel whole. It isn’t cold any more, you realize. A familiarity blooms in the way he speaks to you already. Perhaps he truly does understand the need for companionship.

You shift a little on the log, deciding to believe him. Not trust, not yet, but to believe.

“I am afraid, but I’m not scared of you,” you say, “would you sit?”

“Can you be both at the same time?” he asks, though he starts forward towards where you are. You’ve straightened up, your cheeks have dried. That pleases him. 

“I am afraid of what would hurt me, of the stories I’ve been told. But you are not like the stories, are you?” you ask. The shape slowly shakes his head. He sinks down beside you, with not a creak from the wood beneath.

“I try not to be,” he admits.

“The woods are lovely,” you say, “I cannot blame visitors for wishing to protect them. It should be protected.”

“But not from you,” he replies, “remember, this is also your home.”

“I never thought of it like that,” you confess.

“Perhaps not, but you do choose to come here every so often. Why?” he cocks his head to the side again, a strand of dark hair falls over his shoulder, having come loose from where it was gathered into a low plait at the back of his neck.

“No one knows me here,” you say, “except for you. And don’t apologize, I don’t dislike that.”

“You do not?” he straightens his neck again. His eyes widen a fraction, as does your smile.

“I forgive you for watching me. I know you meant no harm,” and the visitor nods. “I come here because I am unknown, I can be myself. I have no obligations here. The sounds and sights are never too much, the moonlight is never too bright.”

“Elsewhere you feel overwhelmed,” the shape summarizes. You nod.

“Precisely. And I sit on that feeling until I have no choice but to cry,” it is harder to admit out loud than you like. But in his bright, yellow eyes you find some form of agreement.

He really is quite handsome, you note the longer you’re allowed to look. And though you are less worried about when to blink around him, you find no evidence to suggest he is changing his shape. You suppose that a visitor with ill intent, looking to ensnare a foolish human would choose a less challenging mask.

The visitor is not quite right, unearthly as his beauty may be. His unbroken stare is a colour no mortal thing could ever have. His hair is braided, yes, but this close you can tell a brush has never touched it. What you can see of his ears is sharply triangular at the ends, rather than rounded. Dirt and dust are caked under his fingernails, you wonder if he might be a gravedigger.

But no blood, nor memory of blood pools at the corners of his thin mouth. His lips are not tinged with pale blue the way corpses are. While he is wan and waxy, he does not carry the chill that wraps around you. He may not be fully separate from the night, but he does not seem to belong to it.

“Who are you?” you ask. You’ve spoken at length about your sadness, but it has never felt so far away as it does now. The shape’s smile falters for just a moment.

“I am not certain,” he replies.

“You and me both,” you try to find his grin again, giving him your own so that he will not worry. “I only ask because---”

“Because there is something sinister about me,” he finishes. And he nods, as if he has heard it before. His head dips a fraction, turning from you. All the better see the horns that sprout from it.

They are long and black as his hair, arching back from his brow. They curve, just once and end in a delicate point. And yet he moves as if they are barely a hindrance, with grace that would accompany experience.

“Quite the opposite,” you reply, “I have never heard of anyone like you.”

“I am not a gravedigger,” he replies, “and I am not a monster.”

“No,” you agree, “you don’t eat people, living or dead?”

He curls his lip in disgust rather than answering, it makes you choke on a small giggle. The shape turns back to you, as confused by the sound as you were when he laughed. There is similar awe in his face.

“Then you could be a forest spirit,” you try, “that would make sense.”

“It is possible,” he concedes, “but I do not know. I have been alone for as long as I can remember.”

“That’s so sad,” you speak without thinking, usually a dangerous game. But the shape is unoffended by the obvious pity in your voice. You’ve given him plenty to pity you for, after all. “Do you speak to other people in the forest very often?”

“I have, but never frequently,” he replies. You still do not trust him, but his slight anxiety appears to match your own. As much as he belongs here, it appears he is not sure if he belongs here with you.

He stays a safe distance from you on the log, you shift a little closer. Though your cheeks still sting and the whites of your eyes are still red, you feel less lost in your misery. Less alone.

“I wish I never had to leave,” you sigh, “I could sit in this glade and watch the sky move forever and ever.”

“I have done so,” he says, “it is a very good way to spend one’s time. I enjoy it.”

You trust that to be right, at least. Still, for all his flawless strangeness and otherworldly beauty, he seems very lonely. He’s unhappy.

“I wish---” you start, but cut yourself off. 

“I could steal you,” he says, so suddenly that you wonder how long he’s been holding it back.

“Steal me?” you ask, turing to the shape with an arched brow. But you do not, in fact, sound repulsed.

“You would not have to return home if I did. You could stay here,” he reasons. Taken aback, you smile for the confusion.

“Have you stolen many people?” you ask.

“No,” he says with a firm shake of his head.

“Is it a great honour?” a teasing tone creeps into your voice, your smile turning impish. The visitor smiles too, as if your joy gives him joy by proxy.

“I think it would be my honour, as you would be my guest,” he explains. 

“But why take me?” you ask, resisting the urge to dismiss this completely as some sort of joke.

“So that you will not cry,” he says. And the faraway solemness in his voice stuns you to silence for a moment. 

“Lots of people cry, lots of people are afraid,” you try. He shakes his head.

“But you are here, I am here. Your home is here,” he says. You make a sound, like a sob but softer and more amused. Bewildered.

“Is it allowed?” you know the rules in part, never to accept food from visitors or stay too long. But he isn’t like the creatures in your grandmother’s stories. And if he is, you might be willing to take the risk. Going home with this exchange behind you feels wrong.

“I do not know, I have never offered before,” he admits. You give a slow sigh.

“Are you afraid? There may be consequences,” you try to rationalize why it could never be, and the way his face falls is heartbreaking.

“I am lonely,” he confirms, “nothing else.”

“I was worried you were,” you say. You look at him, horns and all in the moonlight. You dip your head and try to catch his big, yellow eyes. He looks back with no hesitation, like he was hoping for you.

“So, will you stay with me?” your visitor asks. His face softens, more vulnerable now than you’ve seen before. And you thought you had known it all. If this is a lie, you might like to be lied to.

“Right here?” you say, foolishly. His reedy laugh fills your chest again.

“Perhaps not only here, not all the time,” he replies, still looking happy. “I could take you to the places that I like best.”

“I wouldn’t mind staying in the forest,” you consider, pulling your eyes away. The circle of woods around you feels far bigger than before, more free and ready to explore. There is excitement under your tongue. 

Your visitor hears it, he leans in just a bit with your back turned. He couldn’t help it if he wanted to, his mind is already pushing against the confines of his skull. It’s such an old mind, such an old skull. And it has been too long since another voice occupied it the way that yours does.

When you look back to him, you are not afraid. He watches your face very intently, ready to see fear or watery sadness return. He dreads both,  he cannot stop himself from saying,

“And I would not mind your staying, say that you will,” your visitor does not know if he has breath the way humans do, but you have taken his. It will be so hard to part with if you decline. 

To his immortal joy, you lean in a little closer as well. Your shoulders slouch, you relax.

“Where is your most favourite place?” you ask, distracting him from the clutter of his desperation for a moment. 

“Along the bank of the mirror pond, it is not far due east from here,” he replies. It is hard not to smile when thinking of it. The perfect circle of still water, flanked by willow trees and daisy clusters. You might like it there.

“I haven’t been swimming since I was a little girl,” you admit. It’s almost sheepish, embarrassed that such a mundane joy has evaded you.

“You could again,” he suggests, brightening further. Until your visitor’s enthusiasm is dulled by his own hand, worried at reminding you of whatever dreadful situation you’ve come from. “But I would not make you.”

“Do you promise?” you cock your head to the side this time, tilting your head back a fraction to appreciate the full length of his horns.

“I do,” he insists. He would like to have an understanding with you, to understand you. The grass can keep his promises, but it never speaks back.

Your visitor looks so hopeful, you’re shocked by the realization that it may be mirrored on your own face. You are just as desperate, searching for a reason you could say yes. It’s right there, hiding just at the back of your throat. Another word from him and it will come.

He is made of smoke, you’re sure. Of dirt and red clay. Of pine needles and the daisies that you saw when you tried to get thoroughly lost in the woods. And of a kind thought or ten. He is so very sweet, it seems right.

“If you offer and I accept, is that still stealing?” you state your question, the final one before you answer. You’ve decided on that.

You reach into his lap, over thin knees that appear under heavy fabric. You did not see it before for the shadows, but he wears a cloak of green canvas--- so dark as to be almost mistaken for black. His dirt-caked hand, boney and cold from the night air rests against his thigh until you pick it up.

He fits his palm to yours as best he can, it is good enough. 

He smiles, showing his small fangs. You give his hand a squeeze, hoping to warm him. But, you remember, you will have a while to do so. Slowly, you stand and he follows.

“I have no idea,” your shape says.

[theskyeandsea]

Do You Wanna Be My Roommate? || Rio & Skye

Timing: December 10th

Location: Nic & Skylar’s Home

Tagging: @3starsquinn & @theskyeandsea

Description: In the wake of Winson’s departure from town, Skylar and Rio reclaim weeb night!

Warnings: Drug use mentions, chronic illness symptoms mentions, addiction 

Tugging at the sleeves of her shirt, Skylar looked around the house-- it looked normal, right? The last time someone had been here, she’d been caught off guard and hadn’t had time to try and make the place look presentable. But, she had invited Rio here, wanted to be here to support him. Because that was what a good friend did, and they, they were still friends. She wanted to be there for him because break ups were hard. She might not know much about them, but she remembered how much it had hurt when Shiloh had left town, in much the same way to Winston. Just a quick word and then Skylar was left with the other woman’s absence.

Swallowing, Skylar hooked her hearing aids in and turned them on. Dundee was sitting on the edge of the couch, watching her from his nest of blankets. He used to like spending time in her room, but lately he spent most of his time out in the living room. Maybe he was waiting for Nic to come home? Before she could fall too far down that rabbit hole, the doorbell rang and she hurried to the door. “Rio! Hey--” Her eyes flicked over his appearance and she blinked. “Are… What happened to you?”

Orion and Skylar had made plans, he didn’t want to cancel those just because he had almost been murdered and spent a few days in the hospital. He hadn’t seen her in awhile, his own life being too caught up in the trauma and the drama. As if the Lydia situation hadn’t been horrifying enough, Winston’s departure and the werewolf attack had to add a little extra disaster to Rio’s life. Just in time for the holidays. But despite the solemn mood Rio had been stuck in, he had no plans in continuing that tonight. He was hoping to enjoy his time with Skylar tonight, where the both of them could take their minds off of everything keeping them down.

When Skylar answered the door he could see that she had her hearing aids in, but he signed anyways as he greeted her. It was mostly out of habit, but he enjoyed the practice regardless. “Oh. These” Rio grinned nervously, he supposed he couldn’t ignore the fact that it happened, no matter how much he wished he could pretend he had never seen any of those dead bodies. Or heard their screams. “There was an… incident a few nights ago. A werewolf attacked a cafe that I was at.” Though his hoodie and jeans worked to block the main injuries that he had suffered, bruises and cuts all over his face and hands were still far too visible. Realizing that he was a hunter who just told Skylar about a werewolf attack, Rio thought that he should specify, “I didn’t kill it. Just uh- so we’re clear. I just tried to stop it from hurting others.” He did stab it. But he remembered how scared Skylar had been about hunters. He didn’t want to freak her out, “It’s alive. And hopefully back to human and not hurting anyone.”

Stepping out of the way to let him in, Skylar did her best not to stare at the cuts as he explained. An attack? A werewolf? What had happened to them? Not that Skylar knew many werewolves-- just Ulfric, the man from the coffee shop with all the tattoos, and Ariana, who she’d only known as a student until recently-- but they’d both seemed… in control. The thoughts slid through her mind like water, though, slipping from her mind as she led the way to the living room. Dundee was still curled up in the pile of blankets, little tail wagging as he caught sight of Rio and stared at the young man with his beedy, unblinking eyes. “It? You mean… them, right?” Skylar said, the words coming out before she could stop herself. But, werewolves, they were people. Maybe not human people, just like she wasn’t human people. But they were people, right? “I-- sorry though. That something like that happened to you. I’m glad you didn’t need to hurt anyone badly, though.” She nodded. 

Sliding through the front door, Orion was surprised by how long ago it seemed that he had last been here to hang out with Skylar. Despite that, it came with a surprising familiarity to follow her down the hall and into the living room. As per usual, Dundee stared at Rio as if staring directly into his soul. The dog was cute and incredibly uncomforting at the same time. “Hey buddy!” Rio went over to the pet little guy regardless. At Skylar’s words, Rio froze. His hand hovered to his bottom lip, barely pressing against it almost in shock of what had just come out of his mouth. “I-uh” It. When had Rio ever talked like that? He had spent his entire life trying and failing to convince his family that there was humanity to supernatural creatures. Especially werewolves, who weren’t destined to be murderous monsters their entire lives. How had that same person become the one that casually referred to a living person as it? “Sorry. Yeah. Them.” He pulled his hand away, shoving both of them into his pockets and refusing to make eye contact with Skylar for a moment. The word kept repeating itself in his head over and over again. “It’s okay. The werewolf, I don’t know who they were. But they didn’t have control. I don’t know if they woke up remembering everything or completely ignorant. That’s scary stuff.” A chill shot down Rio’s spine and he readjusted his stance a bit too quickly, catching his breath at the sudden pains. He slowly stretched out before forcing a smile back onto his face. “Sorry, I want this to be a fun night. All this’ll be gone in a few days anyways. Let’s just try to have fun.”

Skylar barely noticed the way that Rio went stock still-- it was the way his hand moved that caught her attention. He hadn’t even realized he’d said it, had he? Tilting her head slightly, she did her best to peer at him. But, the trace amounts of Bliss kept her floating, just floating on by, and it was always a little hard to grab the finer details. But, she could tell that he was upset. And she didn’t want him to be upset, she really didn’t. Rio was a good guy, a good person. “I hope they’re okay. And the other people who were hurt too-- and you too! Obviously. But. I hope they’re okay.” She said, knowing all too well how much it hurt to have gaps in your memory, to have entire parts of yourself locked away. Noticing the way his chest caught, Skylar blinked. “You’re not still hurt are you? You didn’t need to-- we could have cancelled if you’re still hurt. Sit down, sit down.” She said, urging him to take a seat. She could still take care of people, she could still do this. She could be the Skylar everyone wanted her to be. 

Orion nodded his head, maybe a bit too enthusiastically. He didn’t need Skylar too worried about his wounds. She had already helped him before when that evil watermelon thing had bitten him. Just like that time, these would heal. “I’m okay. I’m still sore, but it’s not too bad. I’ll heal quickly anyways.” He still hated his hunter abilities. Not because they weren’t useful, he had been attacked way too many times for him to try to claim that. It just didn’t seem fair that he got this advantage while others around him were put at risk. “Seriously, I wanted to come over here. I’m happy to be here, sore or not.” Rio grinned, slowly easing himself back and onto the couch. “If I had cancelled I would have just ended up lying in my bed at the house all night anyways. I definitely didn’t want to do that. So you’re doing me a favor.”

“If you say so.” Skylar said as Rio took a seat on the couch. Walking to the fridge, she pulled out a bottle of water and a can of Mountain Dew. She’d remembered that he liked them when she had been wandering down the aisles at the store, running her fingers against the shelves. “Want a drink? There might be some beer left over from when Nic was here, if you’d like. I don’t really keep beer here.” She said as she scanned the shelves. “I’ve never really been able to do the whole… post-break up ice cream and cookie dough thing that you see in movies, but I have both if you’d like.” She offered. “But, ah-- sorry. That might be too soon to say.” At Rio’s words, Skylar nodded, a smile spreading on her face. She was helping him. “Of course. I’m glad I can do something to make you feel better. And hey, Yuri on Ice is a great show, it always cheers me up.”

Skylar disappeared in the kitchen for a moment and came back with a mountain dew. Orion sat forward enthusiastically to reach for it, trying to be careful not to stretch too many injured muscles. It was only partially effective. “Oh you’re the best thank you so much.” He had been so tired recently, he needed some caffeine. The mention of Nic was a sudden reminder that he had been her only roommate. He knew about him no longer being in town but he hadn’t exactly connected the dots. “Oh right. You don’t have any other roommates do you? You have this whole place to yourself?” It was a big house, something that could either be a lot of fun or really lonely depending on the person. “It’s been weird at my house too. Ricky’s always so busy at the workshop that it was usually just Winston and I. Now that he’s not there it’s just a whole house to myself with all the things Winston and I used to do.” Rio shrugged. Admittedly, it had bothered him how much time he spent noticing small things that Winston left behind. But there wasn’t much he could do about it for now. “I have no experience with post break up junk food, but am assuming that it tastes similar to regular junk ice cream and cookie dough. Both of which I’m a huge fan of.” But more than sugary distractions, Rio was mostly excited for another reboot of their anime night. Hopefully this time it would be without the snooping or weird tension that was present the previous times. “I cannot wait, I am so pumped for this it’s been on my list forever.”

“Of course.” Skylar beamed as she handed him the soda before settling down on the couch with some space between them. Dundee glanced over at her, as though waiting for her to do something, but when she flipped on the tv, he plopped his head back down on the nest of blankets. “Nope, it’s just me.” This place had been Erin’s home for a bit too, but the memory of their last encounter came back to her mind-- No. Smiling wider, she pushed the thought away. Now wasn’t the time to think about that. Erin wasn’t coming back here. “Mhm, that’s… That sounds hard.” Skylar had never lived with Shiloh, hadn’t even really reached the stage where she spent much time at the other woman’s home. But, she felt for Rio. Being in a place where there was just the constant presence of someone who he’d cared about, who was so very much not here? She dealt with that some since Nic had left, the little knick knacks and knives tucked around the house hammering home the fact that he was gone. “Sounds good. Let me just get Netflix up.” She said, scrolling through the lists with a slightly clumsy hand. She skipped around until the familiar ice-skating anime popped up. “I’m so excited for you to watch this, I think you’ll really enjoy it.”

Orion stretched across the couch as much as he could to scratch on Dundee’s head before returning to his original position. Skylar was navigating the tv to find the show and Rio studied her as she did so. Outwardly, she seemed fine with living alone. Nothing in her initial statement indicated that she hated the idea of living alone. The place did seem pretty sweet, especially considering it had the pool for private sessions when she needed to change. On paper, he probably seemed perfect. But speaking from his own experiences, Rio knew that a place like this would be incredibly lonely. He wondered what Skylar thought of it. Right now, he wasn’t sure if it would be rude to ask. “I’m so excited” Rio clapped his hands together and leaned back on the couch to settle in when Skylar pressed play.

The rest of the night passed without anything weird or out of the ordinary happening-- a rarity that Skylar honestly hadn’t expected. It was nice, to watch anime and pretend like there was nothing wrong. They could pretend like this town wasn’t awful, like this place wasn’t terrible. As Yuri took a victory lap around the ice rink, Skylar let out a sigh, stretching. The motion sent a slight twinge of pain down her back, but she ignored it. She could handle a little pain, just for now. She had wanted to be present for this, to spend time with Rio. And, once he was gone, she would be able to slip back down into the haze of Bliss. “Such a good show. Did you like it?” She asked as Dundee padded across the couch and leaned against her, his head resting against her leg. “I’m glad you were able to come over for this, I missed having anime nights.” Skylar said, a little surprised that it was true. 

They had truly binged out with this one. In what was probably their first fully successful attempt at an anime night the two both watched the show in relative quiet. Every now and again one would speak up or they would both laugh at something. But other than that, the two had seemed perfectly content with simply being in each other’s company. The show was exactly the sort of feel good emotion that Orion so desperately needed. Watching their relationship slowly grow into what it became by the end of the show was enough to bring a tear to Rio’s eyes. By the time the last episode finished, there was a stream of tears running down his face. “No. It was awful.” Rio lied, a single laugh bursting through his tears. Even then, Rio crossed his arms and grumbled grumpily, “The show had no right ending like that. I hated it.” A small smile split across his face though, and he eventually conceded, “Nah. I’m kidding. That was amazing and I’m so glad we started it back up. I miss them too.” Even for the drama they had once been. “We should definitely get back into the habit of doing them.”

Looking over at Rio, Skylar blinked in surprise-- she hadn’t realized he’d cried. She must have missed that, must… not have noticed. She swallowed, pushing the thought side and smiled back at him. “Good! I’m glad that you did, it’s such a great show. The characters are all so good and you really kinda root for all of them by the end of it.” She said with a nod. Running a hand through her choppy hair, Skylar looked over at the television, the screen darkened. She could see the two of them reflected, sitting back on the couch. Two lonely people, just a little less alone for the time being. Biting the inside of her cheek, Skylar thought to the spare key that was tucked away in her room. She trusted Rio. It had taken time, but she knew that he was sorry for what he’d done, he’d promised to never pry into her things after their disastrous first anime night. And… it was lonely. “Hey, Rio.” She said tentatively, not really sure how to broach the subject, “I know that things at… Ricky’s must be weird. Things here are weird too, with all of Nic’s stuff being here, but him being gone. And, like I said, I can’t really imagine what it’s like to have to deal with, everything else on top of it.” She said, skirting around the words “break up” as best as she could manage. “But, if you wanted, you could stay here?” Skylar asked, looking hopefully over at him. Maybe having someone around would help. Someone who understood, at least a little, what it was like to not fit into the role that the world wanted her to be.

The question had taken Orion by surprise. He paused for a long moment as he tried to understand exactly what Skylar had meant by ‘stay here’. At first he had just meant for the night, which Rio was ready to thank her for the offer but also assure that he didn’t live too far away. It wasn’t like he had been drinking or anything. But she had mentioned Nic’s things, just as Rio had talked about Winston’s items that were left behind. But he had never said any of those things in an attempt to guilt Skylar into asking him to move in. Even with the awkwardness, Rio hadn’t considered moving out of the house. “Are you… serious?” Rio finally asked, his voice soft and curious. “I don’t want to like… put you in a weird place. Where you feel like you have to offer.”

Was she serious? Skylar wasn’t entirely sure, but, the idea of not being totally alone, of having someone around-- at least part of the day-- was tempting. And she liked Rio. She trusted Rio. He was good and he knew about that side of her, which meant she wouldn’t need to hide it from him. Not that she’d ever needed to with Nic, but, having one less secret from her roommate would be nice. And just, having a roommate, maybe that would make things better. Maybe it would lessen the ache inside her. Nodding, Skylar gestured to the space around them. “I know I don’t need to offer. But, I never really wanted to live on my own. And, I trust you.” She said with a small smile. “In a town like this, that’s… hard to find. You don’t need to say yes, and you can definitely think about it. But, the offer’s here.” 

The offer was tempting. The more Orion thought about it, the more he realized how lonely his house felt now. With Ricky constantly working and Winston gone it felt like he lived in an abandoned home. Too big for him. He missed Winston, but he had no chance of taking his mind off of them when he walked past their bedroom door every day and was constantly reminded of all the memories they had there. But Rio wasn’t truly convinced until Skylar told him that she trusted him. It had been a rocky road up to this point. Rio had lied and invaded her privacy. He hadn’t deserved her friendship at all, let alone her trust. But somehow, here they were. “Yes.” Rio nodded quickly. “I mean, I don’t need to think about it. If you’re one hundred percent sure then the answer is yes” Rio laughed in relief, a pressure that had been in his chest all week finally beginning to lift. He hadn’t even realized that it had been there in the first place. “I- Thank you so much. I seriously can’t describe what that means to me.”

The way that Rio laughed, the genuine sound of relief-- before tonight, when was the last time Skylar had heard that sound? Since before Nic had left? The memory came back to her, fuzzy around the edges in the way that most of her memories were now. It was one of the nights when they’d both shared a meal, idly talking about their day and then, out of nowhere, Dundee had hopped up onto the table and stolen a steak right off her plate. The two had sat in startled silence for a minute as the little dog scarfed down the piece of meat, T-bone and all, before bursting into laughter. And tonight, she and Rio had been able to laugh and talk and make this house feel a little less lonesome. It felt a little more like the home that she had hoped for. But, Skylar shifted on the couch, the sharp rush of pain pushing just a little bit harder. “One ground rule, though?” She said, a small smile on her face as she stuck out her hand, “No more poking around in my room.” 

[damienthepious]

tuesday is best day

Scattered On My Shore (Chapter 6)

[Ch 1] [Ch 2] [Ch 3] [Ch 4] [Ch 5] [ao3] [Ch 7] [Ch 8] [Ch 9] [Ch 10] [Ch 11] [Ch 12] [Ch 13] [Ch 14] [Ch 15] [Ch 16] [Ch 17] [Ch 18] [Ch 19]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla, Sir Damien/Rilla

Characters: Rilla, Lord Arum, Sir Damien

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Pre-Relationship, (for the three of them. it’s established r/d), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Injury, Injury Recovery,  Hurt/Comfort,  (this will also be), Enemies to Lovers, (for damien and arum eventually lol)

Fic Summary: Strange things wash up out of the lake near Rilla’s hut, on occasion. But this monster… this monster is certainly the strangest.

Chapter Summary: Another long night.

Chapter Notes: Chapter specific warnings for aggressively threatening language, people not taking care of themselves, and some... increasingly overt suicidal ideation. Whoops. Take care of yourselves, please! I love you!

~

The door of the exam room clicks quietly shut behind Damien, and he breathes slow and deep for a long moment, not yet looking into the dimness, not yet turning his gaze upon the creature he has so far failed to slay.

“Ah,” the monster says behind him, and Damien jolts against the wood, then spins and compulsively lifts his bow into a more dangerous stance. “Back again, are you? I was beginning to wonder where you had run off to.”

“B-beast,” Damien growls, and the monster eyes his bow with a flatly unimpressed look for a moment before he sighs and looks aside. “You are lucky that you did not cause my Rilla any harm in my absence. You would not have woken again had that been the case.”

“If I damaged the doctor, you certainly would not have found me here still,” he grumbles, and Damien scowls hard. “I would not be so foolish as to stay in this little human hovel if she were not keeping me.”

Damien can’t decide which part of the monster’s words is the most infuriating, so he simply fumes for a long moment before he takes a deep, steadying sort of breath. He leans back against the door, then, crosses his arms, and glares.

“Hm,” the creature says, raising a ridged eyebrow and watching Damien watch him. “Have you nothing better to do than waste your nights staring at injured enemies?”

“Until you no longer threaten my R- until you no longer threaten Rilla, you are my only priority.”

“You have already called her your Rilla once this evening, honeysuckle, acting unfamiliar at this juncture is absurd. I’m injured, not stupid.” The monster exhales a strange sort of laugh when Damien winces, then he jerks his head towards the stool Rilla moved to the foot of the bed earlier in the evening. “Sit, little knight. You look foolish, shifting from paw to paw over there.”

“Do not presume to tell me-”

“Stand if you like,” he says with a shrug. “It hardly matters to me. I am as comfortable as my injuries will allow, buried in blankets while you knock your elbows on the doorframe over there.”

“Utterly undeserving,” Damien grits out between his teeth, his nose wrinkling in disgust. He frowns hard for a moment, then relents with a sigh, still glaring as he comes close enough to grab the stool and move it to a safe distance from the cot again. “You seem quite a bit more talkative, more alert than you did the other night, don’t you?”

The monster laughs lightly, then tenses as the motion apparently pulls on something unpleasant. “Yes, well, I am no longer sedated, so that certainly stands to reason. I still will not make any claims on whether or not you will manage to keep me awake, however.” He sneers, eyes flashing. “I find knights quite tiring, and songbirds quite soothing, so whichever you choose to be tonight I shall be hard pressed to keep my eyes open.”

“I am only ever a knight, monster.”

“If you say so,” he mumbles, turning his face away again.

There is an extended pause, an awkwardly lingering silence as the monster blinks slowly in the vague direction of the window and Damien stares hard at the monster from his perch, neither speaking, neither making any noticeable attempt at attack. Eventually the monster sighs again, letting his eyes drift back towards Damien, his lip curling wryly as he observes the knight in return.

“Is this really how you intend to waste your evening, honeysuckle?”

“You cannot be left to your own devices,” Damien growls. “A monster such as yourself cannot be trusted.”

“Hm. So you intend to… stare at me. The entire night. In suspicion that I may drag myself from this cot and… escape?”

“Escape would be unfortunate,” Damien sneers, “but it is the least of my worries where you are concerned. I cannot abide leaving you unsupervised so close to Rilla as she sleeps.”

The monster raises an eyebrow, visibly amused. “I understand that I have been here for some time, now, little songbird. She must have slept many nights while I have been under the same roof. You have only been here to stand between us once before, to my memory. Do you believe that she has simply been lucky in slumber, so far? Do you think I have been amusing myself not destroying her? How do you believe this little arrangement has worked?”

“I do not know why you have not attacked Rilla yet, but I do not trust that such a precarious situation will endure. I do not trust you.”

“Obviously.”

“I do not trust you, and I will kill you the moment you threaten her.”

“Of course.”

“Whatever you intend to do to her, I will stop you.”

“Oh, certainly.”

Damien opens his mouth again, but the indulgent smirk on the monster’s face sets his teeth on edge- he knows this creature is going to continue to patiently agree with whatever he says, and- and that should not be infuriating, it is simply agreement, but it is infuriating, in a way Damien does not think he would be able to articulate. He closes his mouth again, and the monster’s smile widens slightly as Damien glares, as another strange pause stretches between them. Eventually the monster’s amusement fades, and his eyes narrow slightly, his head tilting as he looks Damien over.

“Have you-”

The monster pauses, a frown curling his thin lips as his eyes flick across Damien’s face.

“What?” Damien asks warily. “What is it?”

“You look as if- as if you have not slept. Obviously you are not resting while you keep your nonsense vigil over me-”

“It is a necessary guard duty,” Damien mutters.

“But certainly you must rest when you leave.”

“My sleeping habits are none of your concern, beast,” Damien says with a scowl, looking aside.

“I am beginning to suspect that you do not have sleeping habits,” the monster says, still frowning, and then he shakes his head. “That seems irresponsible, don’t you think? If you are so terribly worn down, however will you protect your beloved from all of my dark and devious plots and plans?”

Damien freezes, all his muscles tensing, but when he turns to fix the monster with a look of fury and vindication he sees-

The sly sharpness of those violet eyes, the subtle curve of that smirk.

“You- you are deliberately taunting me,” Damien says, more factual than furious.

“Obviously.”

Damien chokes a laugh. “Just- I- simply saying that your horrible intentions are facetious will not fool me, demon. I will discover your intent and I will- stop that!”

The monster has closed his eyes, settling deeper into his excessive nest of blankets. At Damien’s indignant yelping, he slits them back open, his mouth curling in an even more satisfied smirk. “Why, little songbird? I thought you were serenading me again. I am certain that I have heard this melody before, after all…”

“You… you are intolerable,” Damien grates out between his teeth.

“I know,” the monster drawls, shifting on the cot, apparently arranging himself more comfortably. “I have been told so at length. I am brilliant, of course, but I am not meant to be understood by humans. I am still unsure why, precisely, you tolerate me,” he says through a sigh, eyes closing again. “Respect for Amaryllis or no. Every moment during which you do not slay me you are more and more a traitor.”

Damien’s mouth opens, and then a half second later he actually processes the rest of what this monster just said.

“You-” he cuts off, brow furrowing, lips sinking into a frown. “Oh. Oh Saint Damien… creature, beast, you-”

“Me, what, little honeysuckle? If we are discussing intolerable things, I would like to suggest your incessant mutterings.”

“Are you attempting to provoke me to kill you?” Damien says weakly. “All of this- the taunting, the- the pet names, the irritation, are you- have you been intentionally pressing me closer to your execution?”

The monster’s eyes open again, and then he turns his face decidedly away, the thin webbing of his battered frill half-rising around his face. “I certainly would not have to endure your annoyance anymore, if I were dead. Nor would I be pressed into a position of such utter shame. Coddled and cared for by a human, feh.”

“And pushing for your own death seems an appropriate response to annoyance, beast?”

“It doesn’t matter,” the monster mutters. “I was close enough to death already that it hardly seems a bother.”

“That is- absurd,” Damien says before he can stop himself. “Rilla would be furious with you if she heard you speak so.”

“I am well aware.” His mouth curls even further down, his frown deepening and his head ducking until he tucks his chin to his chest. “It is not as if I voiced such thoughts of my own volition, knight. And it is not as if I believe you are going to snap in an instant and slay me, not if the result would be to so thoroughly antagonize such a fierce creature as my doctor.”

“Your doctor,” Damien mutters automatically, scathingly, and the monster breathes a laugh.

“Our doctor, then?” he tries instead, with a sharp sort of grin.

Damien’s scowl darkens, but then he blinks. “You- you’re doing it again, aren’t you?”

“Ah,” he wrinkles his snout. “Now you’ll allow me no amusement whatsoever, little songbird. If you are going to analyze every time I poke you, this will be no fun at all. I have so little to do here, you know. If you are not going to kill me, you could at least grant me a little taunting, now and again.”

Damien chokes, only almost a laugh. “Are you bored, beast? Bored and taking comfort in prodding towards your own doom?”

“Simply prodding, honeysuckle,” the monster mumbles, eyes closing again. “Of course I am bored. It is… it is far too quiet, here. I cannot do my work. I cannot care for my home. I am too injured to even cross the room unaided. What, precisely, am I meant to do, besides nip at the feathers of the songbird beside my cage?”

“Cage,” Damien scoffs.

“I cannot leave. What else would you call my situation?”

“An undeserved and unappreciated kindness,” Damien growls, and the monster gives a gust of laughter.

“Kindness. Is this your idea of being kind, then? The bow in hand, the threats, the insults? I should certainly not like to see what your ire looks like, if this is the little honeysuckle at his sweetest.”

“I- I am- it is Rilla’s kindness you are failing to appreciate. Her compassion, of which you are entirely undeserving.”

“She seems to disagree with you,” the monster hisses, voice low and warm. “She seems to think that a monster- that I am deserving of life, at the very least. I think, perhaps, that the ridiculous creature may even be growing fond of me-”

Damien stands, the speed of his ascent knocking the stool down. “Rilla has no fondness for a despicable, foul creature such as yourself, demon, and if you dare to insinuate such a thing again, I will- I-” Damien pauses, then his scowl deepens further. “You are… you are doing it again.”

“Perhaps I will cease prodding you when you stop reacting so energetically, honeysuckle,” the monster murmurs, his smirk firmly back in place as he watches Damien awkwardly lean to right the stool back onto its feet.

“My name is Sir Damien the Pious, monster, and you would do well to remember, and to address me as such,” he says stiffly. “All of this songbird and honeysuckle nonsense will not stand.”

“Hm,” the monster says. “No.”

“No?”

“No. I have two names for you already. A third simply seems excessive.”

Damien chokes, something between a scoff and a laugh, and begins pacing since he feels- too energetic to sit upon the stool, just now. “I will not allow you to antagonize me to distress again, beast. By Saint Damien, I will not. Say whatever you like, call me whatever you prefer, but remember this,” Damien continues pacing, slow like a wildcat, glaring down at the monster in repose. “Know that I will kill you, when all is said and done.”

The monster tilts his head, his eyes tracking Damien as he moves. “Is that your plan, then?”

“It is simply what is going to happen. I am meant to kill you.”

“Do you intend to wait until I am healed, then? To wait until I can stand, at least, so you do not feel so monstrous yourself, when you draw upon me?”

“I-” Damien grits his teeth, “I would not feel monstrous about slaying a monster.”

“Hm. So the delay is simply…”

Damien opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “I do not need to answer to you, creature. My reasons are my own.”

“I suspect that your reasons are those of the doctor, in truth.”

“Be silent, will you?”

“Certainly. When you cease haranguing me, I will fall silent as well, but until that point I will attempt to puzzle you out. I imagine you have some… grand designs upon my death. I imagine you have built it up in your mind already; you expect some mighty confrontation, some bright and shining duel, perhaps, to keep your precious Rilla from some imagined harm I would inflict-”

“Be silent,” Damien hisses again, his heart thrumming. He- this creature- is Damien so transparent? Is this creature simply so perceptive? “You do not know me. You do not know what I intend. You do not know my reasons.”

“Of course I know your reasons. You are a knight, and I am a monster. It is uncomplicated, honeysuckle. Humans quite enjoy their black and white categories, their binary boxes of good and evil. If you are good, then clearly I must exist in opposition to that, must I not? I can fulfill that role for you, then, honeysuckle. When your Rilla has mended me, when I am well again,” he says, his voice low and thrumming and painfully indulgent, “we may duel, and then you may slay me at your leisure. If, of course, I do not destroy you first.”

“I will win that fight and you know it,” Damien says, voice low and measured and shaking only slightly.

“You will duel me, then?”

“I will slay you.” Damien snaps. “Now be silent.”

“Very well,” the monster says, and Damien notices at last that the tiredness on his scaled face is growing more pronounced as he resettles the blankets again, his four arms moving slowly and carefully. “Fine then. Perhaps the knight has a point. Perhaps even such amusements grow dull in short time… but if you insist on strolling and staring at me- well, honeysuckle, I hope you do not expect that I should simply wallow under your scrutiny. You are a poet, are you not? If the fierceness of your attention is any indication, I believe you are quite as bored as I am with this arrangement. Why not kill two birds, as they say, and entertain us both?”

“I-” Damien sputters, tensing. “I am not here to entertain you, monster!”

“And yet you insist on being so terribly entertaining,” the monster sighs, his eyes half-closing to dangerous slits. “Fine. It does not matter. Surely I would be disappointed regardless. I imagine that human poetry is despicably dull beside that of my own kind. All your boring, petty restrictions on everything… I cannot imagine the childish simplicity of human poetry…”

“How-” Damien’s cheeks are burning with his fury. “How dare- I cannot believe- you- you- you have not heard a syllable of human poetry and yet you dare to pass such judgment upon-” he goes breathless for a moment, wordless, before he pulls himself back to coherency. “I do not know what passes for poetry among your despicable ilk, but I will prove to you that my poetry- our poetry is nothing to be so easily dismissed, monster. You will see. I will prove it. Listen.”

Damien ceases his pacing, planting his feet and glaring hard at the monster for a long moment as he inhales deeply, then exhales a slow, calming breath, murmuring for tranquility under his breath as he chooses the right words, the right story that may even impress a monster. Arum stares up at him, looking profoundly bored, profoundly unimpressed, and gestures with a clawed, bandaged hand for him to go on then.

Damien begins to speak, and he cannot help the pulse of satisfaction he feels as the monster is drawn into the story, his eyes sharp and attentive, his expression thoughtful and reactive as Damien propels through the poem. In a moment of pause (a carefully curated cliffhanger; Damien is satisfied as well when he can see the monster’s tail flick in irritation, his brow furrowed as he impatiently complains for the poet to continue) Damien retrieves some water from the jug Rilla left at the creature’s bedside, and he stays close beside it when he returns to the story. He leans back against the wall, his exhausted muscles relieved by even the mildest softening, by not needing be held quite so stiffly. Damien realizes, eventually, that he has sunk down, and down, and he is seated on the floor with his back to the wall, gesturing up at the monster as the poem spins in the air between them.

It is an old story, one that Damien knows as well as the lines on his own hands, as well as the curves of his favorite bow, but it is new to the ears of this creature before him. The monster watches him with rapt attention, occasionally scoffing or laughing or tilting his head to ask a question, and Damien tries not to let the smugness show on his face. He was right. Damien was- of course he was. Even a monster cannot deny the way a poem such as this can catch the mind, can effect the soul.

The depth of the creature’s attention upon him makes Damien feel- he feels pleased, perhaps a little dizzy, but of course he can easily blame such feelings on the strain of sleeplessness his mind has been under for days, now. It holds no more meaning than that.

The story dances, rhymes and rhythm playing off of Damien’s tongue with such ease that he barely needs to think of them, his memory so sturdy and moving that he may drift upon it like a boat upon the river.

Like a river. Damien ceases to carry the story, and the story carries him instead. His memory is a river, and Damien drifts upon it.

~

Judging by the poet’s heartbeat, he is asleep for more than a minute before his words finally fade entirely away. Arum stares at him for a long, long time, then, at the darkness staining beneath his eyes, at the untroubled slackness of his expression in slumber, and then he scoffs, finally settling himself in to rest as he should have done long ago, now, had this irritating creature not interrupted.

Humans. Baffling, troublesome creatures, every one.

Arum flicks his eyes to the poet for another long moment. He measures Damien’s slow sleeping breath to make sure he is truly unconscious for longer than is strictly necessary before he lifts one hand and swats one of the blankets from his overgenerous pile aside, knocking it off the bed to clumsily cover the poet’s lower half, at least. Arum will not attempt to fix the blanket around his shoulders like some sort of nursemaid (he certainly does not trust his legs enough to attempt leaving the bed to do so), but-

Arum remembers Sir Damien’s hesitant hand, remembers his own muzzy sedated half-wakefulness as the knight pulled the blankets back up, the return of warmth and descent back into the dark of sleep.

Arum frowns deeply, turning away from this foolish little prattler and closing his eyes.

That score is even, now. Arum does not owe this knight for any kindness, now.

If only the score with his doctor were so easily settled.

~

Arum wakes when Rilla bursts through the door in the morning, her eyes a little panicked and her heart hammering. She swings her eyes around the room, and when she sees Damien slumped over on the floor with his back to the wall, snoring lightly with his bow still clutched in one hand despite the blanket clumsily tossed over him, she flicks her eyes to Arum.

“He- I-” she pauses. “He didn’t hurt you?”

“Annoyed, incessantly,” Arum grumbles, picking awkwardly at the sheets. “But… no. He did not hurt me.”

Rilla inhales, then exhales a sigh, looking to the knight curled on the floor again, worry furrowing her brow. “Can’t… can’t believe he… again…” she pushes her wild morning curls out of her face, frowning as she seems to gather her words. “I… I kinda can’t believe he actually fell asleep in the same room as you. No offense.”

“I managed to bore him to sleep eventually. I should be insulted, I think, that he was so unthreatened that he managed slumber. It does not speak highly of my current state.”

“How did you-” she pauses, blinks. “You bored him?”

“He started reciting,” Arum says with a shrug, wincing through the motion, and then he looks quickly away. “Seemed to lilt himself to sleep, after a while. Foolish little songbird.”

“Hm.” Rilla breathes a laugh, then smiles as warm as the sunlight streaming in around the curtains, and Arum looks away. “Yeah, he does that sometimes.” She sighs, glancing at Damien again with puzzled, concerned eyes. “Okay. I’ll go get breakfast ready. Should give him a few more minutes of real sleep before he starts freaking out again, at least. D’you want tea or coffee?”

Arum frowns, unsettled by Amaryllis’ easy adjustment to finding her pet knight asleep on the floor. “… Tea, I suppose,” he grumbles, eventually. “And don’t you dare put anything in it.”

“I know, I know. No sweeteners for the monster,” she says with a hand-wave, and then she gives Damien one more worried glance before she goes to start the day properly.

Arum does not blame her for the worry. The knight has the same energy as a firework, and the same degree of self-preservation. Arum would be worried as well, if such a foolish, fast-burning creature belonged to him.

[->]

[hubertcollins]

The Eighty-Third by Katharine Fullerton Gerould

Having at last reached a provincial city of a neutral country (not my own, though mine, too, still calls itself neutral), and being provided, for the first time in many months, with the ordinary comforts of life, I feel it my duty to set down certain facts that have recently come to my notice. 

They cannot possibly be printed until the war is over, and I question very much whether they can he printed then. There will be, if I mistake not, a very strict censorship exercised by the conquerors. Indeed, the mere fact that a neutral press has not yet got hold of the details I have to relate—or dared to print them if it has a hint—shows what the fear of the invaders already is. 

Besides, this is not a gossipy time. We do not glory in our neutrality; we cling to it as a drowning man to a tiny splinter of his wrecked ship; we are terribly afraid of saying the least thing, publicly or privately, that may draw attention to us. Nothing but a happy series of accidents can keep us out of the conflict, and, indeed, when it is all settled, we shall have scarce more shrift than the conquered belligerents. 

I do not even dare name the army to which the 83rd regiment belongs. By the time this document comes to light—if it ever does—it will be easy enough to guess.

When what, in my youth, was known as the “Great War” or the “World War” was going on—the war that began in August 1914-—I had a mighty desire to see something of its terrors. I was completing my education, and I had no great taste for learning. I thought I should do much better flying above a battlefield than acquiring knowledge—since all knowledge, I thought, was destined to be presently superseded. 

My family would not hear of it, however—they had always frowned on my aviator’s ambitions. So I never got in on the “Great War” at all; and, like most other people, I thought it meant my last chance. Obviously, there was never going to be another big armed conflict. This was a madness; the world for ever after would be sane. 

We were very innocent in those days. Certainly, when I sulked at being kept at home, it was honest sulking with real provocation. I never dreamed that, when I had reached the prime of life, I should see a struggle that would throw the whole world into terror—not merely half of it. 

We were all proud of the Congress of 1917, you know—I speak as a man old before my time, to generations yet unborn. There won’t, I think, be even a fiction of a Congress after this war. It will be more like a gigantic peace palaver in a reeking jungle. But I am not concerned to prophesy, for, to deal with that future, we shall need vast and exotic vocabularies. Small use the Oxford Dictionary will be, alas! to our children— or Esperanto, either.

I have double-locked my doors; I have shuttered the lower half of my windows; and I have looked quizzically at my fountain pen, as if it were an object that might sometime be dug up to bear witness to a lost civilization. All the little things of every day have a trick now of seeming vitally important— they may pass so soon, with us to whom they belonged.

Outside, in the street, it is very quiet. Even in this remote little neutral town, there is no pretense of “business as usual.” Business will never be “as usual” again; it will be different. But this is as near as I can get, at present, to the atmosphere in which I was bred, and I will try to write as a plain man writes.

I have been for some months previous to this in a corner of the war zone. That is, as I intended it should be, a vague statement. Most of the planet is, if not part of the war zone, at least belligerent territory. 

I am a good linguist, owing to experiences of my childhood and early youth; I speak, fairly well, a lot of languages that in my day were not considered part of one’s education. My parents were wanderers, and I had the oddest collection of nurses and attendants that any child ever had. Luckily, their talk stuck by me—I never forgot any idiom I had learned. So I got on better than most would have done when I was caught by the war in a foreign country. I had luck, too, in my country; I could actually, thanks to a nurse I had once had for a year, talk with the peasants.

I cannot say that I had any plan when the war broke out. Everyone knew that, once started, it would work as it did—spreading like a forest fire with a gale to aid it. Nation by nation, tribe by tribe, race by race came into it; and all a neutral could do was to edge along, little stage by little stage, to some extraordinary spot that by accident was not technically involved. Practically and commercially, of course, everything and every one is involved.

I have had, naturally, a good many hairbreadth escapes. Neutrals are so few that no one considers them of the slightest importance; and I have found that if you have a passport, you are likely to be arrested as a spy. I destroyed my passport early in the game, for fear it should get me into trouble. I lived like an animal, where I could— suspecting everything and everyone, and never dreaming of depending on any habitation for more than a night. 

After three months of the war, as I was “inching” along to a neutral frontier, I began to hear on the timid lips of non-combatants constant reference to a terrible regiment belonging to one of the allied groups. I will not be more definite than that. I never asked questions, but I stored away what I heard. Eventually, I learned the facts.

You must understand that I traveled as light as a hobo. I had a certain amount of money secreted about my person, but wherever it was possible, I paid in physical labor for my plate of food or my bit of cottage floor. My familiarity with the language stood me in good stead. Without it, every man’s hand would have been against me, for I was obviously not a native, and might have been, to the peasants’ inexperienced imaginations, anything. 

I always put my cards on the table—not merely my own hand, you might say, but the whole pack. I made no indiscreet inquiries; I helped the people when and as I could; and I told them of myself frankly that I was trying to work my way to a neutral country. My poverty of aspect robbed me, to begin with, of any too unwelcome importance. I told them directly that I had no political sympathies, but that I loathed all slaughter and cruelty, and wanted, as my own country was not at war, to get out of the way of any army whatsoever—being (this I tried to show) meanwhile, en route, a decent person. 

Often, I took the man of the house—when there was one—aside, gave my pistol to him for the night, and half stripped myself to show him I was concealing no other weapons. The knowledge of my money belt I kept to myself; though, in the morning, I gave the people a coin or two if it seemed that currency would be of any use to them.

This, roughly, was the mode of my existence for three months following the outbreak of the conflagration. If my progress towards safety and comfort (both of which can be only comparative—and temporary, even more than comparative) seems incredibly slow, I can only point out the fact that every step I took was precarious and that a snail’s pace was inevitable. I had to dodge both the invading and defending armies; all means of transportation, down to the most aged donkey, were commandeered; the fighting radius of any given corps was immensely extended by scouts; the non-combatants were suspicious of every human creature not personally known to them. 

Remember that everyone except the young people had been eyewitnesses of an earlier war which was supposed to surpass in horror everything hitherto known to history. This is a grave generation, all over the world; and the particular nation in whose territory I found myself has been played with after a fashion that no one—least of all itself—can understand.

I had to make wide detours, and sometimes judged it best to skulk out of a village almost before I had taken stock of it. But a number of the peasants were unbelievably humane; and a hurried clasp of the hand in the dawn was sometimes an almost intolerable parting. At such a time, a human relation becomes historic in twenty-four hours.

It was in the village of V—— that I first heard anything definite about the mysterious regiment. The one-armed son of the blacksmith had returned from the nearest town, full of tales. I listened, not too credulous, for the tales were wild. The opposing armies, as everyone knows, are a medley of races; and one hint of the exotic will breed hideous anecdote. I was welcome that night at the little public house—I know not what else to call it. for it was scarcely an inn. The villagers gathered and drank, men and women together, a villainous local wine—moderately, in no spirit of orgy, though here and there the fantastic costume of some refugee goatherd from the hills seemed to make the scene dance before my eyes.

The gist of the report brought by the blacksmith’s son was that the 83rd regiment was in the field, and that they might look for heavier trouble than was yet upon them. Every week men were hurried off to camp from this or that village. Officials would descend to prod and poke peasants supposed exempt. Unless you had lost an arm or a leg, no chronic ailment, no guarantee of over- or under-age availed you. 

Presently, there would be only women, cripples, and imbeciles left. I could vouch, myself, for the truth of that; with my own eyes I had seen the little population of non-combatants dwindle terrifically in the province. Then would come the turn of the 83rd regiment. It skulked behind the others and did its trick, apparently, after the fighting was done and towns lay waste and helpless. They were on no army list, mind you. Officially, there was no 83rd regiment; but its name was in everyone’s mouth—at least, in such mouths as dared to speak in a whisper among tried companions.

“But what do they do?” I asked— my  first  leading question  in many weeks. “Do they massacre and plunder— jackals following their fighting brothers?”

“Some folk say they are not human at all.” This was the sulky reply of the blacksmith’s son.

The women crossed themselves, and I began to disbelieve the tale, root and branch—though I had heard of the 83rd before. Still: demons—we had not come to that.

“They pass in the night—in the night; and they speak no tongue that mortal has ever heard.” An old woman crooned this in her corner, then covered her face with her dirty, gaudy shawl.

“Demons!” The word ran like a flame round the room, and presently they were all crossing themselves and swaying back and forth in a gloomy ecstasy of terror.

“Who has seen them?” The question was asked directly of the crippled messenger by a woman with a harsh voice. I judged from the attitude of the rest that only the common danger permitted her to be of their company. But the mutter of “ Demons! demons!” drowned the sneer with which she followed up her question. Children, waking, stuck their heads out of their mothers’ shawls, and their whimpering had to be quieted before the blacksmith’s son could reply.

“The bellows-mender’s wife in W—— . She saw them and ran all night through swamps and woods to reach her own place. She had taken the journey in hope of news of her husband and son. Aie! but she came running back when she had a glimpse by moonlight of the 83rd. She is half crazed, and the other womenfolk told me. She wrings her hands and tears her coif. W—— buzzes with the tale.”

“Half crazed, indeed! Who needs demons when men can be so like them?” This from the harsh-voiced woman outcast.

The rising murmur of anger was checked by the village priest, and the woman on her three-legged stool finally fell silent.

“I don’t say they are demons,” returned the blacksmith’s son. “All that is foolishness.” He assumed a jauntier air. “But they are not like other men. They do not march like other men. Some are carried in litters.”

“Oh—oh!” There was a common protest. “Regiments do not carry their wounded on the march. And if they are demons, they cannot be wounded. You have drunk the moonlight, brother.”

“I do not know the truth. Some say they are demons, I tell you. That is foolishness. Some say they are cannibals that feast as they go. And some say they are great gray apes from Africa. But all say that it is better to be shot than to meet the 83rd after a battle. They are not as other men. Now I have no more to say.”

I have recorded this as accurately as I can, because it was the longest conversation I ever heard on the subject. After that night, I met the tale everywhere, but never with such wealth of hypothesis. The rumor of the regiment ran like wildfire about the country. It was a terror too great for telling: “the 83rd”—and then talk stopped, save perhaps for a phrase of vague and desperate fear. Speech dried on their starved lips. At first, I wondered at it; but came to the conclusion after many a chilled night in a rickety grange that they positively feared lest explicit discussion should, like an incantation, raise the object of their terrors bodily before them. There was trouble enough and to spare, without the 83rd.

Death by wounds and exposure can scarcely be so bad as this more lingering dissolution to which non-combatants are presently destined. For there is no hope in this war—none. The melting-pot we used to talk of so glibly in times of peace is seething over a planet-wide fire; all races are thrust in, and are steeping in the poisons of Africa and Asia. No man knows what will come of it—but the 83rd is trying to tell.

There is good reason why a document that must be for a long time in an inside pocket should not be too bulky, so I will not describe further the months of my flight. I was trying all the time for a certain point on the frontier of the little nation which at present is offering me such scant protection as “neutrality” affords; but I had to take a zigzag course, often actually doubling back on my tracks.

Almost everyone knows something about this war at first hand, so I will not describe the prolonged despair of existence in a stricken country. I never really got hardened to it, because there has never been a single relieved moment when one could look forward with hope. You face every horror; and there are vaster horrors behind, like a rear-guard stretching from pole to pole. 

The devil has been in their counsels; and he has proved himself, once again, a medievalist. Bloodshed is healthy compared with his subtleties. Ah, why talk of the devil, when we may all, before we die, have fetish officially thrust upon us? To what future am I addressing myself? And what difference can a detail like this I have knowledge of make to a posterity that comes out of such a melting-pot? Still, I was born in the nineteenth century, and some archaic notions stick—the respect for curious documents, for example—the respect for data and for historians!

I had come to the village of Z—— on the last lap of my flight. My money was running low—going faster, in point of fact, near the frontier, since there was some hope of getting across and making purchases. I always gave money, as I said, when I thought it could help. I was determined to save some, and not be absolutely penniless when I, myself, reached a neutral state. So, for some weeks previous to actual escape, I went at a cripple’s pace. I took no doubtful short cuts and put up at no inns; I no longer sought out the biggest farm in the village, or asked for meat or beer. I crawled very close to the earth; I lived like a slug.

When I reached Z—— , I walked round the little settlement—skirted it in search of the feeblest building that could call itself a shelter. I begged some porridge, towards twilight, from a farm wench, and some rods beyond I found a building just to my purpose—a tumble-down grange, all chinks and falling rubble, which was evidently wholly disused. It was essential that I should be alone, that my presence should be unsuspected. 

The tide of actual conflict was rolling towards the confines of the little state, and suspicion rode on the spray of the bloody waves. Only in the dusk should I have dared to beg my porridge, trusting to the mere whisper of familiar words; for though I was browned and dirty and limping, my features were not of the country and would have belied my accent. All day I had heard cannonading, as I crept from covert to covert and rock to rock. Perhaps, I thought, as I huddled under the densest bit of thatch I could find, I should not reach neutrality, after all—should roll over in an ignominious heap on the bristling verge of safety.

I cannot say how long I slept—for sleep I did: a dogged sleep of the body which the mind was powerless to prevent. When I woke, the moon-rays were falling crazily through the jagged holes in the roof, making little idiotic pools of light on the floor. The atmosphere was thick with sound. 

At first, I could distinguish nothing, though I knew physically, from head to foot, that the noise was sinister. Then something woke me out of my doze—a shadowy stirring in the opposite corner of my den. That was near, was concrete, was imminent; and I got my pistol into position. It was not a soldier, I felt sure; one soldier would scarcely be hiding in such a place. I whispered a sharp query in the native tongue; and, very slowly, the dark huddle shaped itself into a woman’s form. Well—I was not yet afraid of a woman; and I put the pistol into my pocket, though I kept my hand on it.

As she came out into one of the rays of light, I saw that she was a mere peasant girl, barefoot, in ragged clothes, her terrified mind as ragged as her garb. We looked each other over in silence; and presently, to judge from the evidence of her features, her wits began to reassemble themselves. I ventured to question her. How could we two miserable creatures be foes?

“What is it?” There was no need of being more definite than that. The thick, disturbed volume of sound outside called for explanation; if you could have heard it from Mars, you would have known it stood for danger. Yet it was a mere faint thrumming on the strings of peril—no explosions, no sharp reports, no shouting. The elements of noise were soft and stealthy—gentle thuddings on the worn earth, faint creakings, hoarse whispers, as it were, a death-rattle filling the whole atmosphere. 

I cannot describe it, but it made shrapnel seem healthy—something to which a man would bare his breast gladly. This sounded rather like the nether slime of danger. The very fear it caused was unhealthy—a crooked trail of paralysis through the nerve paths. My hand was steady, but my legs shook beneath me; my blood was warm, but things mopped and mowed in my brain. As yet, I had not stirred to look; but, as if my ears had not told me enough, my nostrils began to detect a faint, sickening smell. It was as if the dead had risen out of their trenches, with a little clatter of corrupted bones and weak motions of decomposing flesh. A terror that you could hear and smell, but as yet nameless and invisible.

“What is it?” I repeated my raucous whisper.

“The Eighty-Third!” The girl gasped it out, then keeled over on the floor.

A sane little current of curiosity began to wind through my veins. If this was the 83rd, I would behold it. I stepped over the girl’s body, touching her slightly in the movement. She had fainted, apparently, and it was safer so. 

I went to the slit of a window. Luckily, the overhanging thatch kept my face in the shadow; I was safe from the 83rd until they began to search. I looked in silence, guarding my very breath. It was not a time to bear witness to one’s own existence.

I do not know how long I crouched there, watching. For crouch I did; mere leaning against the wall would not have sufficed. I needed support from every direction; my hands as well as my feet demanded the close proximity of something solid. I could not count on any inward strength to hold myself upright, could not count on muscles to do their duty at any distance from a firm basis.

Can I ever describe, for cold information to those who may read this document, what I became aware of during the next quarter of an hour? I say “ became aware of” advisedly; for though now, in the half-obscurity, I saw, the facts seemed at first to beat even more heavily on other senses than that of vision. 

Sight, at all events, did not utterly replace sound and smell, even though I was all a-stare in my shadowed recess. And it cannot have been for more than a quarter of an hour that I looked. As soon as I understood, I dropped back into my ruinous shelter and let the 83rd go on without my witness. Yes, it must have taken me just about that time to get through my head the quis and qualis of the 83rd.

And, after all, all I have to do is to set down those unassailable facts. I have only to announce, in one careful sentence, the particular business of the 83rd. Yet the necessary few firm words seem to rot and drop away under my pen, Moreover, since mine is evidence that must tip the scales against a monumental incredibility, perhaps I had best be chronological—so far as I can. I will be brief—I must be.

Shreds of the talk already recorded came back to me in the first moments. “They pass in the night—in the night; they speak no tongue that mortal has ever heard; they do not march like other men; some are carried in litters; some say they are great gray apes from Africa. . . .” I remembered, and I bore witness. They did not march like other men; the litters were there. . . .

The few males of the depopulated village must have been shot or otherwise disposed of when the regiment first entered. From beginning to end, I saw, of the village inhabitants, only women; yet, from beginning to end, I did not hear one scream. The horror that denied to me the comforting heat of anger and left me shivering must have stifled their voices in their throats. 

Sheer loss of sense and wits, I hope, came to the victims; but if madness blessed them, it was a dumb madness. At least, near though I was in my low-pitched upper chamber, I heard no voice rise above the hoarse mutter of the soldiers. Soldiers! Well, any human creature that goes out to destroy an enemy may be called a soldier. And, worst of all, there were men there who looked like other men—a few Europeans in uniform to command that monstrous company.

Though the purpose of the invaders soon became tragically clear to me— women only were the picked and chosen prey, and, even with shut eyes, I should have known—I still marveled a little.

This was no orgy of inflamed soldiery. The 83rd shuffled and shambled about its business, under orders from its few commanders. They burned no cottages; I saw no attempt to loot even food or drink. 

The very stillness of the scene made it more devilish; here was no spontaneous glutting of appetite—bestial, but natural, like all bestial things. In some human brain all this had been coldly conceived, and by human beings it was being coldly carried out. I saw a misshapen man drag a girl across the road; they disappeared among the tall rows of the standing wheat. Even then, I had not the key of the enigma. 

Only when I saw a man in uniform light a match and look at his watch, then make a signal, did understanding begin to come. At his gesture, the litters were flung down, and things rose out of them. I thought I was going mad; that I was not really seeing what I thought I saw—the ghosts of misbegotten creatures in a macabre group, proceeding with motions unspeakably grotesque and vile to a sinister Sabbath. I could not believe it; the one illuminating word did not come to focus my bewilderment. I saw women disappearing by handfuls in the midst of loathsome groups—parodies of the human body that had been garbed in a nightmare. And, still, the word did not come.

Then, from a little close beneath my shadowed window, a figure—legless, armless—became evident to me. The moon, by a special act of grace, showed me the face clear—white as ice, with a fixed, mutilated grin; apishly conceived and wrought in some stuff not like flesh. Yet, in that all but decomposing medium, something stood for envy. . . . The word had come. I knew; and I fell back, crouched on guard over the fainting woman beside me. That I could, at need, kill her where she lay, was the one hint of God in the universe.

Half stupefied, I stayed there beside her for I do not know how long. I nursed my pistol with loving slyness, and watched her face, on which one ray of moonlight fell through the gaping thatch. This heavy-featured farm wench seemed to me the purest thing in the world. Why? Because, I suppose, I had a cartridge there for her; because it was absolutely in my power to preserve her as she was. 

She might have been maid, wife or widow; she was absolutely saved from the 83rd. They might suspect the ruin in which we were lying hid, might search it, but I could reach her first. I was so close to her that I touched her; my hand would have to move only a few inches to reach a vital spot. Whatever happened, it would have time to make that journey. She seemed to me sacred, as I bent over her; she was like a miraculous image of Diana saved from the sack of a town. If she had been steeped in all unclean-ness before she took shelter in that disrupted pile of thatch and rubble, she would still, now, by contrast to what she might have been, appear the purest of the pure. For one forgot latitude and longitude; this village seemed the world—no less; and she, of all living women, was spared the horror of that night. Would not her coarse comeliness become a legend, and she the saint of a hew cult?

I set down these wanderings of my thought to show that it was in the power of the 83rd to divorce a man from reason. I knew, of course, that at any moment they might think it worthwhile to enter, to climb up the worm-eaten ladder and make a few bayonet passes in the dark. But I had no sense of danger; death was no peril to face, and from the things that really looked like peril, I had the means to deliver us both. 

They could not take from me the freedom of my right hand—they would not have time. I was glad of that swoon, prolonging itself beside me. If she had come out of it to babble, I should have had to shoot at once. I felt a childish eagerness in having her preserved. I was all given over to my myth. If I had been a woman, I should have gone mad there in the checkered obscurity; mere consciousness of my sex saved me to this temporary light-headedness. And the possession of a pistol in working order seemed a miracle; I recognized in it the interposing finger of Jehovah. I remember once wondering dizzily why I was chosen, as minor prophets must have wondered why they were rapt from their herds and tribes-fellows.

Gradually, as the moon set and the night wore on, the 83rd girded up its smitten loins for departure. It was true, they passed “in the night—in the night”; and no man knew what or whence they were. No man save me; and still, after these harrowed weeks, I bear about me the sense of a peculiar destiny, in that I have it in my power to give this testimony. 

My giddiness began and passed with that hour, and though I left my shelter before dawn and made my way westward, what I saw and heard, even as I fled from it—writhing shapes of women and guttural moans and stricken whispers from cottage windows—confirmed what my steady gaze from under the deep eaves had earlier told me. Hatred, with other normal powers, came back to me then; I developed at least a feeble, white man’s hatred of my own with which to meet inadequately the hatred that had taken shape and action before my eyes that night.

For, in the idea that created the 83rd, there was nothing so decent, because nothing so spontaneous, as lust of blood or lust of the flesh. Probably, the plan was never committed to writing or to formal speech; but the black hint must have sped southward, eastward, through a hundred minds, before the 83rd could be recruited—creatures that were polluted to the marrow in rare and horrible ways; gathered from sun-infested lands and brought overseas to furnish the last argument of hate. 

This was the plan: that those who did not go the clean, cruel way of death should be defiled past hope. The fountain of life should be fouled. No surviving enemy should rear fighting men and clean women. The 83rd would take away all hope—even the winded, rickety hopes that look timidly forward to a future some ages off. The conquerors would not even mate with their victims. The rebellious seed should die utterly, and it should not have even a mongrel’s claim to a pedigree. Atavism should not have a chance with sports and mutations. . . . 

The victors would then people the world from the yellow, the black, and the brown; from tradition-less creatures of whom they could be sure because they were stuff of their own souls. Did those who slew so gallantly in our youth, with shibboleths upon their lips, think of this—a war without shibboleths, where no man calls even blasphemously upon the name of God, though, here and there, a turban may be knotted in orthodox folds, or a juju be tucked away in a loin-cloth? 

No man fights now for “democracy” or any other windy word; white or black, he fights only for his personal right to live. Peace and poverty, twin-born of our last war, have brought us to this one almost unarmed; and what can the little ammunition we have garnered do against the spawn of a whole hemisphere? 

Moreover, the flower of the Western world went then, and there has scarce been time for a second blooming. It seems hard to believe that there were ever mild creatures like Crusaders or Jacobites on our planet. For the end is not yet; and though a few countries are allowed still to play at neutrality like children, their toy will be taken from them whenever the strong men think it time. 

The East has grimaced in front of the Western mirror until it has learned the little it wants of us. But now it is all too clear that, with whichever of the polyglot alliances the white man fights, his preservation is not really desired. Small chance of this ever getting to the light! So why waste words?

I left the girl on the floor of the grange that had sheltered us both. She had recovered from unconsciousness only to pant thickly and, when I bade her be quiet, to fall asleep. Comparative stillness shrouded the village during those few moments when she breathed so hard and muttered her questions. She could well believe that I told her—as I did—the truth in saying that the 83rd had gone. Some deep, bewildered exhaustion claimed her, for she asked no questions about what had happened while she lay there. 

I left her, as I say. It was the only thing I could do. She was safe from the pestilence that had walked in the darkness. Her life had at least been touched by a miracle; she would have to face the horror of waking as best she could. My exalted mood had passed with the passing of the stench and sound—all that faint and filthy clamor—and I no longer idealized her. I was simply very pityingly glad that to one human being something had been spared. 

I preserved, in my flight, no illusions about her. I was bent doggedly on my own salvation, for the situation was such that I could not hope to save others. Perhaps I was deceived as to the value of my own life; but I struggled for it because it seemed to me that my knowledge gave me some worth. Otherwise, I grant you, it would have been more decent not to save a single cartridge.

The story of my progress to the place where I now am does not much matter. The 83rd—or that detachment of it which I had seen—was very near the border; and I had not far to go. Yet, it was a hard and haunted path that I took, for I knew this enemy would take cover in the daytime, and the deep reaches of woods which I had hitherto counted most friendly were likely to hold a poisonous encampment. 

I steered in the open by the distant sound of cannonading, veering hither and yon like an irresponsible breeze. In two days, I was clear of any possible route of theirs. They are not fighters, the 83rd; they are not (what is the old phrase we used to utter with perfect seriousness?) medically fit. That is it—they are not medically fit. Led by a few competents, they skulk in the safe desolation created for them by the fighting men. Even if one were given to irony, one could scarcely recommend the Red Cross to follow in the wake of the 83rd. Besides, the Red Cross is said to have died an early death in this war. The bulk of the combatants do not understand conventions, and the notion of immunity has never got inside their skulls.

Here, this afternoon, as I write, I am glad of only one thing—that I can still feel a good, old-fashioned anger with a spice of chivalry in it. We have all been unutterably foolish, I think—though I speak only as a survivor—in the generations immediately past. We praised peace; then we leaped to the sword. War depleted and enfeebled us, then turned us callous to its own horrors. We had not the strength either to be ruthless or effectually to loathe ruthlessness. With our love of little states and our distrust of big ones, we drew, ourselves, the few remaining teeth we had.

The half of the world that had not mulcted itself of its youth saw its chance. They have no need of justifying formulas; the loose and convenient solidarity of hate serves their turn. For the white men who are fighting, on this side and on that, mark my words, are negligible. They are to be used and flung aside. The strong and secret bond is among all those who are not white. 

I think perhaps, in the beginning, the missionaries were to blame—or, rather, the nations back of them, who would not live up to the professions of their emissaries. In giving the lower races license, by our example, to fight, we did not inevitably impose upon them our rules of warfare. As might be expected, they took the fact and let the method go. And the cure for war is not more war. Animals all! And tooth and claw will have their way at the last. 

Britons—and others—never would be slaves, I remember. Well, you cannot tame a zebra, I believe. His individuality resists all hints. But you can kill him. Kill! Kill! . . .  We let ourselves in for it, and, so far as I can see, we are to be thrust back to the spawning chaos of pre-Promethian myth. How far away they sound—those tinkling, sweet philosophies!

I have finished. I should never have permitted myself these musings, for I have never been what in my time was called a thinking man. I lack the learning a publicist needs. But so definitely do I feel myself on the dizzy verge—and alone on that verge—of all that we used glibly to call “life,” that there is a kind of solemnity even in seeing my pen trace the familiar characters on the page. 

Any cry out of the old time is justified, though the ghosts of our ancestors writhe in disapprobation. Had I had more hope of this document’s surviving, it should have held it (if possible) to a colder tone; to the unmalleable idiom of the perfect testimony. As it is, it is—almost—only for Heaven that I write.

But I swear before that invisible witness that, so far as lay in my verbal power, I have spoken sheer truth. And it is not fitting that a man who has seen the 83rd should perish in silence. My pessimism may be unjustified, and then my facts will serve a purpose; whereas, if I am right in my saddest conjectures, it will not matter—nothing on this planet will matter again, for an age or two.

(from Harper’s Monthly Magazine, February 1916)

[jellybeanforest-a-go-go]

Chapter 3: The Devil You Know

Chapter Summary: Steve meets a man with a familiar face – too familiar, really. Though it has been ten years since last he saw him, Tony hasn’t aged a single day. He must be the devil come to tempt Steve, to sway him from the light. Steve knows all this, but he can’t stay away, and when the English attack, he trusts the one person more fearsome than the invading forces.

Better the devil you know than the one you don’t.

Fic Summary: In 14th century Scotland, Steve is a child with an imaginary friend that lives in a nearby river, the site of many drownings and horrific discoveries. His Nan claims it to be the work of a kelpie. Steve doesn’t believe her of course. Kelpies are a myth, old wives tales to keep children from playing near swiftly-moving streams and young women from entertaining the company of handsome strangers. However, as he grows, Steve realizes that the young man in the water may not be quite as imaginary nor as innocuous as he once believed.

For the Cap-IronMan Bingo 2019 Round 2 – AU: Fairy Tale Creatures.

Fic Snip:

“You got a lot on your mind?” Bucky asks him after a spell. “You barely said more’n five sentences over supper.”

“It be nothing, Buck,” Steve replies, unconvincingly.

“Truthfully?”

“Nothing to concern yourself with.” Nothing that a dip in a cold loch won’t fix.

But the thought of the nearby loch and its former resident inspires the opposite effect in Steve. He’s glad for the dark so Bucky can’t see the telltale blush that is surely lighting up his features.

But Bucky seems to guess the nature of his silence anyway, though some of the details are off. “If it be a woman–”

“It’s not a woman,” Steve assures him.

“I’m not saying it be a woman, but you seem out of sorts when one would think it be a time for celebration. Your family plot fixed up right nice, if I do say so myself, and the missus be hinting of single friends, all gentle-like. I’m sure you barely noticed–”

“Oh, you mean the lass she invited tonight and sat across from me? Ainsley?” Steve replies brightly. “And when Sheena said our wee babes would be so handsome, we’d have to give them foul names so as to fool the sith into thinking them not worth the trouble of stealing? Those hints, yeah?” Sheena was really taking his bachelorhood as the personal challenge it isn’t, and over time, she had become as subtle as a boulder dropped through a thatched roof. “No, I cannot say I noticed that,” he finishes blandly.

“…Ainsley be a sweet lass, and pretty beside,” Bucky points out.

“Aye.”

“And she did not hold your interest in the slightest.”

Steve can’t argue with that observation. It wasn’t her fault he had been built wrong, had gotten his wires crossed somewhere along the way.

Unaware of his friend’s inner turmoil, Bucky continues, “Which tells me that there be another on your mind, one so fair as to occupy your thoughts when a bonny lass be sitting in front of your very eyes.”

Steve thinks of dark eyes, plush lips, and the scratch of a neatly-trimmed beard against his face.

“There might be… someone, but she’s not what she seems,” Steve admits, hesitating to add: “She be a dangerous sort, and any courtship would be scandalous if word got out.” Especially if anyone ever realized she is a he.

Bucky sighs, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “…She be a leprous prostitute then?” he asks. “Stevie, are you needing a doctor?”

“What? No! I’m not diseased!”

“Then there be time yet–”

“She’s not either!” At least Steve is fairly certain the sith don’t suffer mortal ailments. “It’s not like that; there be nothing wrong with our bodies–” except that they sport matching equipment. Probably.

Did Tony possess a pecker? Steve won’t ever be in the position to find out, or so he tells himself.

“So it be a question of the soul?”

Yes.

“…Let us forget this whole conversation, yeah?” Steve says instead.

“You’d be happier with her than any other?” his friend presses anyway.

“I do not know.” It might be nice to have more than an anonymous tumble in the dark, and Tony had been kind to him thus far, whatever his true nature. It also didn’t hurt that Steve found his form pleasing and that the attraction had clearly been mutual.

Bucky is silent for a moment, organizing his thoughts before speaking again. “All of us only get one try at living, and even Christ hisself associated with prostitutes and criminals. Who are we to judge and shun the like when he found them worthy of knowing?” he reasons. “So… if she’s not leprous and you truly fancy her to the point of distraction, then what be the harm of it? She be from a different county or the burghs, yeah? No one need be the wiser of her past. I will not be breathing a word of it, you can be sure of that.”

“I do not fancy a prostitute,” Steve states, his tone firm, final.

“Right, right… you do not. But I am saying – just saying, mind you – that with a lady of ill-repute, there be… options,” Bucky says, his voice low and carefully judgment-free. “And supposing you had made the acquaintance of such a lass… well, I know celibacy be an unhealthy habit and more than one man has died of the affliction, so I can see the need every once and a while, unmarried as you are and ill-able to afford the periodic bloodlettings provided to monasteries. Perhaps a wife will do you some good, and if she have a… checkered past, that be no one’s business but you and her.”

Perhaps Steve can trust Bucky with the truth. “She be a demon, Bucky.”

Or half-truth as it was. Bucky may accept Steve’s love of a whore, but a man, particularly a supernatural one of unknown providence, is a different thing altogether.

But Bucky waves off his concern with a chuckle. “Aye, no need to brag, man. I’m sure the lass be a right beastie in the sack, all things considered. But worry not, this be the last I speak of it.”

And so Bucky and Steve continue to sit together in the dying light, lost in companionable silence until Steve bids them farewell and heads out, homeward bound.

[daathren]

Looking through My Old Documents

I actually found a Sherlock/Original Female Character story I had started but never finished. I think I might actually pick it up again since just reading through it, I was highly impressed with where I was going with it. Definitely a BBC Sherlock AU at this point. Let me know what you guys think about it.

~*~*~

Trigger Warning:  Mentions of Rape, Attempted Rape, Extreme Violence

Power of Three:  Adventures of a Mad Genius, his Protector, and his Keeper

Book One:

by

D. A. Athren

 Summary:

Sherlock was never one to make alliances. Even when he went underground to burn Moriarty’s Web, he was a lone wolf. Well, at least that’s what John thought until he came home from the surgery one afternoon to find a young woman crawling along the floor of the sitting room, leaving a trail of blood in her path while she cried out for William.

   Prologue:

 Mycroft watched the camera. That’s all he really could do. He couldn’t send a team out to stop it. He couldn’t tip off Lestrade so he could get a patrol and an ambulance out there as soon as possible. No, all he could do was watch and wait and pray to a higher power that he knew wasn’t there while the gruesome scene unfolded. He couldn’t even message Sherlock to tell him what was happening or that he had a private jet already on its way to him to get him home as soon as possible.

 It was rare to get Mycroft worked up about anything or let his mask of complete emotional control crumble but when Anthea rushed into his meeting with the Prime Minister and told him that a Code Mauve was happening, the panic rose from him instantaneously. He grabbed the tablet from her, activated the feed, and yelled at her when he found out she hadn’t already started Code Mauve procedures. He hadn’t even bothered to properly inform the Prime Minister of what was happening when the live feed finally patched through and he saw the woman being pummeled into the ground by 5 men.

 He just rushed out of the meeting room to make his way to his office, hoping that he wouldn’t have a funeral to plan instead of getting the proper paperwork ready.

 ~*~*~*~*~

 “Come with me.”

 He had blurted it out, which was so unlike him. She was shocked. Shocked that he asked, shocked at where he had asked, and shocked that the three words lacked the baritone confidence his voice usually carried. She looked up from the safe’s dial briefly, finding that his gaze was still secure and unwavering on the door. “I would love nothing more than to explore your home.”

 You’re only doing this because you’re a creature of habit…

 “I hear a ‘but’…”

 “But you know I have burned bridges there.”

 “I could protect you.”

 She sighed, starting her calculated motions on the dial again until she felt the pins slide into place. The safe was unlocked. “Of course you could protect me, William, but your protection would place me in another guiled cage.”

 I’ll get bored. I know I’ll get bored and I’ll do something stupid and I’ll fuck up your life…born a criminal, always a bloody criminal!

 He turned his piercing, turquoise gaze on her. “You waste your gifts.”

 She sighed; running a hand through her kinky curls before popping the safe open and taking the security box from within it, placing it in her hobo bag. “And you let your genius idiocy get the best of you…again,” she muttered.

 He pondered her words for a moment before a look of realization formed in his eyes. “Nic, what have you done?”

 “I got you the files that you need to kill Moran,” she mumbled.

 “This is a Mạngkr base, isn’t it?”

 “Yes.”

 “You lied.”

 “Oh yes.”

 His eyes sparkled with amusement. “I am getting rusty.”

 She closed the safe door hard, triggering the alarm system as planned. “No, you aren’t and don’t ever say that around me again,’ she grumbled with a wicked smile on her face. He couldn’t help but give her a small smile in return before turning his features serious.

 Just let it go, Sherlock…let me have this!

 “You have destroyed your security in order to give me the piece to the puzzle I need in order to find Moran and then return home,” he stated as he grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet.

 She adjusted the bodice of her cocktail dress before they both made their way back into the hidden service entrance that they used to enter the office; just moments before the security team entered it. They had made their way out into the garden, towards the party, before she spoke. “Moran is keeping you from your home, from the people that you need. You are brilliant and that brilliance should be shining in the open not hidden and dirtied in the shadows. The true security I had died 4 years ago when those two bastards took them from me. I also can’t miss what I never really had,” she whispered as they blended into the crowd on the dance floor.

 You promised never to compromise me. You promised!

 “You could use your talents for more than being a thief among bloated clan leaders who think everyone is too afraid to rob them so they leave their wealth behind simple locks I could pick in my sleep,” he whispered back, pulling her into a swaying dance as his eyes scanned the area.

 She giggled a bit at his words, wrapping her arms around his neck. She was uncomfortably tempted to run her fingers through his dark curls. “That was a Doettling’s Fortress I just cracked in less than 10 minutes. Mr. Miyamoto is very serious about his business with the international branches.”

 His eyes drifted down to her. “London could give you so much more than what some overly expensive safe can. You crave a challenge as much as I do and I can give you that. You are not meant to live a life in the dark,” he stated matter-of-factly. She just shook her head softly at him, giving him a sad yet knowing smile.

 All this time and you never deduced that I’m…content…

 They danced in silence until the song was over; a signal that everything had gone according to plan and it was time for them to go their separate ways.

 “It was a pleasure, Mr. Holmes,” she said with forced politeness, letting her arms fall to her sides.

 Don’t know if I’m going to miss the danger or miss you…

 “I cannot leave you so exposed,” he nearly growled out, defiance in his eyes. His grip tightened on her, his eyes narrowed on something behind her; a guard.

 “I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. William, if I return to London the Fateralis would have me beaten to within an inch of my life and would leave me for dead in the heart of London. I killed the Boss’s son, my boyfriend, when he tried to rape me. The only reason I was given a chance to leave the UK is because my father was the Boss’s right hand man. It would be up to me to get somewhere safe. I couldn’t go to A&E. I couldn’t have someone in waiting to pick me up wherever they drop me off and I definitely couldn’t have your protection swooping in to save me. I would have to survive all on my own in order to earn the right to walk the streets again. You do not want that blood on your hands. You might not be an angel but you are nowhere near the demon you claim to be.”

 That sacrifice would be in vain!

 He stared at her for a moment; giving her that look that she knew meant he was analyzing every detail about her. “Neither are you. Your heart is racing right now. Not because of the adrenaline from getting away with it. It’s not even because you are pressed against me in an intimate fashion. It is because you are afraid you might never get to shine like this again. You think this was all me but it was not. You did this, Niccola. I am usually self-centered and would never admit that out loud. I call John an idiot all the time even when he is 100% correct about something. I am admitting to you, right now, that without you this plan would have never come together and I would have gotten myself killed. Take that for what it is worth!”

 And with that, he let go of her and backed up into the crowd; his eyes moving to each direction a guard was stationed. She nodded to him, heading into the crowd in the opposite direction and away from the guards.

 You’ll erase this when you get home. You’ll erase it and just go on your way!

There was a boat waiting for her on the docks. He had a car awaiting him down the road that he would use to get to the airport. She was to open the security box once she got to her hut, keeping anything that wasn’t the manifest and ship that off to the British government.

 It was a good bounty. A few rare gems, some photos she could use to get what she needed to get out of Japan, and 2,195,500 yen. She should have gotten the manifest in the mail the very next day but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Gods, she hated it when she let anything besides the thrill of the catch sidetrack her but there she was; lounging around her Taiji hut for almost 3 days before she finally decided on what to do.

 You’re an addict. It’s why you do what you do…

 She headed out the very next day and dropped the manifest off in the mail with a handwritten letter to Mister W. Holmes tucked inside of it. She was starting her life over. She might as well start it off right, which meant taking a chance. And by taking a chance, she was going to need to prepare herself…

 ~*~*~*~*~

 Sherlock knew he wasn’t dead. If he was dead, his head wouldn’t feel like it was threatening to explode behind his lids. He tried to open his eyes but they refused to obey his command and when he tried to reach a hand up to force them open, a sharp pain traveled up the length of it and caused him to hiss. It was then that he heard the sounds of someone else being in the room, triggering his memory. He had been captured and the captors were in the process of beating information out of him, well, at least trying to. He refused to talk, which caused his captors to beat him even harder. In fact, he wasn’t supposed to wake up from the last beating, which involved an industrial-size wrench.

 “Don’t move, ok? The Uzumaki twins did quite a number on you. I don’t know what you did to help Tamiko but you should thank your lucky stars that she called in the favor I owe her,” a feminine American voice whispered to him. He wanted to ask her how Tamiko found out he had been captured but he soon realized that his teeth were sewn shut; his jaw must have been broken for such an action to be taken.

 He heard the sounds of water cascading before he felt a cool cloth pressed to his face gingerly. “Don’t try to speak either. It will be just as painful as moving at this point. You had a lot of injuries I had to set in place. A broken jaw, fractured skull, broken left wrist, several deep cuts across your back, 5 broken ribs each side, and a dislocated right ankle not to mention you had pneumonia deeply set in your chest and infection in all of your open wounds. You will be out of commission for quite a while but this is the first time you’ve actually been fully conscious in almost a month.” She spoke as if she was trying to sooth a startled animal as she continued to clean his face and his chest with the cloth.

 “I lost you a few times in the beginning. You would stop breathing or your fever reached a point that I had to drive into the village in order to get ice blocks to help cool you down. By the time I got back, you would be seizing up. The village medicine woman has come by every Monday to give me some reprieve so I could bath and take care of the house. The only room I kept clean was yours. I wasn’t going to have you dying because of an infection that I introduced,” she said with a snort. He heard her ring out the cloth a few times before bringing it back to his skin.

 “You’ve been doing very well the last 2 weeks. The swelling in your face has been slowly retreating, which means that your jaw is finally healing properly and I should have the stitching out in a week or so. I also checked your wrist a few days ago and it is healing quite well. I should be able to put it in a fiberglass cast around the same time I work on your jaw as long as the swelling stays down. The most I can give you for pain management is low grade codeine. Tamiko told me a bit about your past and I don’t think your system could handle any form of withdraw. I definitely won’t deny you a cig though once the rattling leaves your lungs. I think by the time you get there, you will quite deserve it. Either way, the best thing for you right now is to finally enter a true sleep instead of unconsciousness. Don’t worry…I won’t leave your side.” With that, she laid the cool cloth across his forehead and he felt her move away from his side.

 He was already missing her voice when he heard the most beautiful cello work he had ever experienced. The melody was soothing yet haunted and it kept his mind off of the pain. Sherlock slipped into the first dream he had dreamt in over a year…and oddly enough, all it involved was him bantering with John at the kitchen table.

   The next time he woken, he was greeted to the sounds and warmth of a crackling fire and the smell of roasted chicken. He groaned in a mixture of want and pain. It had been a very long time since he had a decent meal. “Ah, I see that you’re awake. You’ve been sleeping for roughly 24 hours give or take. I figured with you in your first true sleep that I would actually cook for once instead of living off of canned clam chowder from the fishery.”

 He heard the sound of a metal clanging against metal before he heard her shuffle over to him. The cooking fire must not be too far from here. Soon he heard the telltale sound of water cascading again before he felt her gentle touch with the cloth against his chest. “Tamiko has been sending me weekly posts asking about your progress. She told me to make sure you knew the only reason she wasn’t here right now is due to it would bring too much trouble to you and I for her to suddenly have business in Taiji. Her husband doesn’t even know that she let me go. Either way, she is very worried about you and has been praying to her Gods that you would make it through. As long as you keep resting peacefully for the next few days and your fever doesn’t return, I’ll be happy to let her know that her Kenjin is recovering quite nicely.”

 He wanted nothing more than to open his eyes and visually deduce his caretaker but his eyes were still too swollen to allow him a peek. Now that he had rested though, his mind seemed much sharper than earlier and he settled on deducing what he could from the way she talked.

 Her accent was interesting. What he thought earlier was clearly American didn’t quite describe her dialect. She was born in America but moved to the UK when she was young, maybe 7 or 8 years of age. Young enough for her mind to still be influenced by the dialect that surrounded her but too far along in development for her to completely forget the dialect she was born in. The way she pronounced her vowels and Rs screamed Swindon but the way the Japanese words rolled off her tongue showed that she had been in Japan long enough to perfect the language.

 Average intelligence with complete immersion in the culture would have her pronunciation perfected in 10-12 years but she wasn’t average. She had advanced medical knowledge, enough that she knew how to revive him slowly from near death. Enough knowledge that she’s confident in delivering news on his various injuries and how they will heal so…she could pick up the Japanese language in 6-8 years.

 She speaks of Tamiko with a casual air meaning she knew Tamiko before she married her husband, who is a clan leader in Northern Japan. Tamiko had been married to Hideo Maki for almost 6 years so Tamiko would have met her as soon as she arrived in the land. Tamiko is also the daughter of the local Yakuza boss so they most likely met through the family business.

 She recused him from a secure gang location meaning she was skilled in stealth and quite experienced with high stress situations. She also must have underground connections as she would have needed help sneaking him out of the location. Even with them starving him for the last week of his ‘stay’, his weight would have been roughly 9 stones when she rescued him and even a female with above average strength would have trouble sneakily dragging 9 stones out of a secure gang location.

 As he pulled himself out of his thoughts, he realized his caretaker had been quiet as if she knew exactly what he was doing. Sherlock had so many questions but they would go unanswered until the stitching in his mouth was removed and as if reading his mind, she answered him intuitively.

 “You probably have so many questions for me; wondering who I am, if you’re safe, or if you have gone from one bad situation to another. Just trust me Kenjin, you are in good hands and I’m not putting you back together just to tear you apart again. We have the same enemy and I have promised myself to you until he has been brought to his end. Now, I’m going to finish cleaning your front and then I’m going to lay you down on your stomach so I can check the stitching on your back. Since you are conscious, it should be safe for you to lie on your stomach for a while and allow them to air out for a bit. It’s going to be painful rolling you over but I’ll give you your first dose of codeine afterwards. I also made you some chicken broth while you were sleeping. It should be cool enough for you to sip on through a straw once I finish cleaning your back. Nod if you understand.”

 Even though he’s in no position to refuse any of her demands, she still asks and awaits his acknowledgement before she’s goes about her task. She’s loyal and considerate. She could possibly be military trained medical like John. It would explain her skillset in stealth and high stress situations.

 The detective nodded in understanding, giving a grunt at how stiff his neck was. He shouldn’t be surprised that the movement was strained; he had been out of commission for a month or more meaning his muscles were more or less useless. He had a long road of healing and pain before the movement would come easy to him again. “Alright, Kenjin, Tamiko says that you have a sharp mind and can easily fall into Zen like trance when presented a puzzle to solve so I will try to work your mind so the move to place you on your stomach will be as painless as possible,” she stated in a professional tone. She rubbed his chest down a few more times before he heard her toss the cloth into its water source. “I’m going to give you a riddle. After I finish giving you the riddle, I’m going to count down from 5 and by 0 I want you to be in your trance. Alright, here we go…while exploring the Wilds of Ireland, Robert was captured by goblins. Grumpy, the Chief of the Goblins told him he was allowed one final statement on which would determine how he would die. If the statement he made was false, he would be boiled in water. If the statement were true, he would be fried in oil. Since Robert didn’t like either option, he wanted to make a statement that forced Grumpy to release him. What is the one statement he could make to save himself? Five…” Oh this was child’s play!

 “Four…”

 Tamiko must not have told her how brilliant his mind was…

 “Three…”

 It’s really just a simple matter of hidden logic. Don’t they teach that in literature class in elementary school?

 “Two…”

 Robert would have to throw the Chief through a loop. Make him question whether the statement is true or false.

 “One…”

 And the only way to he could do that is to give a statement that was completely dependent of the actions that the Chief was going to take.

 “Zero!”

 Meaning the only statement Robert could make is ‘You will boil me in water!’…wait…how am I already facedown?

 “Don’t tense up. In this position you could cause the stitching to rip,” she mumbled. She was already peeling back what he assumed was tapped down gauze. She had distracted him enough with her simple riddle that she was able to flip him over even before she spoke the word zero. He was impressed…and in major pain. Luckily, she had already removed the last of his bandages and he could hear the pull of a needle sucking up fluid.

 Sherlock was really starting to wonder if his caretaker could read his mind.

 ~*~*~*~*~

 “You have some nerve showing up here, whore!” a tall, stereotypical Italian man yelled at Niccola.

 The short, caramel complexion woman rolled her eyes at him. “I’m not a whore. I’m a slut. I don’t get paid to sleep with people. Do your research, Tom…”

 The man got right in her face, grinning twistedly. “I can’t wait until I get punch you in those pretty little lips while I put my cock in you.”

 She couldn’t help but wince at the thought of him getting his hands on her. “You’re too much of a Daddy’s boy to do that. Sorry but you’re only going to get the chance to knock me around.”

 Somehow his grin got wider. “Pops would never have to know!”

 “You do anything more than beat me and the conditions are breached. With the conditions breached, that means I get to retaliate. And trust me; I could kick you and those pathetic excuses for men arses from here to Sussex and back again without breaking a sweat.”

 “Yea fucking right!”

 Her features went creepily blank. “Didn’t you guys have to have a closed casket funeral for Tony? The news said he was beaten with a crowbar but I have it on good authority that the sick bastard did it with their fist. What kind of sick fuck does that to such a young, upstanding man?”

 He lunged at her at her words but she already knew what he was planning. With a quick sidestep, she used his momentum to slam his head into the elevator wall behind her with a sickening crunch; his body folding in on its self. “That should put you out of the equation for when my punishment comes. Men, so easily fooled. It must be my height that makes them underestimate me,” she mumbled to herself with a shrug of her shoulders.

 Several moments later, the elevator door opened to reveal a Victorian style office decorated in dark tones. An older Italian sat behind the ornate oak desk positioned in the middle of the round room. “I see ya dispatched my son,” he stated in a gravelly voice.

 “Sorry, Mr. Travis. You know how it gets when I’m around and you know I was never one to take any shit,” she said as she made her way into the room and sat down in one of the matching chairs in front of the desk. “You know why I’m here.”

 He nodded. “Ta, Nicky. I know why you’re here. It’s been, what, nearly 9 years since I last saw ya. How was Japan?”

 “It was nine years two days ago. I wouldn’t think you would forget the death of your youngest son though…”

 “Well, I have come to terms with the fact that my sons were right bastards. Apparently Tony was a women beater but I didn’t find that out until my wife died 6 years ago…”

 She flinched at his words. No one had told her Mrs. Travis had passed away. “I found myself missing Grandma’s ravioli while I was in Japan. As you can imagine, it’s hard to find good Italian over there. The fresh, cheap sushi made up for it though.”

 I’m so sorry Jake…

 He smiled weakly at her. “You were, are, like the daughter Lily could never have to me. If Michi were still alive, I would tell him that he did a bloody fine job raising you…so here’s what I’m going to do. Even though my son was a slimeball to ya, ya did kill him and ya did break your exile so I’m, unfortunately, going to have my guys beat the shit out ya. I’m also going to turn over Tony’s trust fund to ya. Don’t worry! The money that goes into it was gained through legitimate means and you’ll have full legal control over it so even if I die no one can take possession of it. The least I can do is have ya made since you’re back; to make up for the time I have lost.”

 “What makes you think I’m going to survive long enough to be set?”

 He got up from the desk and headed over to the elevator. He didn’t even bother to turn around when he answered her. “You got Michi Thomas and Morgana Lei blood running through ya and ya put a Faterali 6 feet under AND you had the bollocks to come back to London knowing what was going to happen. You’re scared out of ya wits not because you’re afraid of getting the piss kicked out of ya but ‘cause you’re scared of the lack of control you’ll have while you’re out. I don’t know who ya got in these parts but if they were enough to bring ya back here then I think you shouldn’t be so worried ‘bout it!”

 And with that, he disappeared into the elevator, leaving Niccola feeling a little better about her decision until she saw the five guys Jake sent after her. Then she thought he was full of shit!

[writer-or-whatever]

09.02-09.08: Fics I Read This Week

this is coming two days late. i had it typed up on my computer and i just... forgot to post it? oops. anyway, last week i decided to systemically make my way through the cisco/barry relationship tag on ao3 (though i’m not done) so not only has that significantly lengthened this list but also it’s the first time i’ve read fics from The Flash fandom, even though i’ve religiously followed the tv series since it started in 2014. 

Also i am super into Cisco/Barry/Caitlin fics but there are a whole two of them that i could find so if you have any please send them to me, i’m desperate and am going to have to write some of my own to fill the void. 

anyway, fics recced below the cut by fandom then by pairing, as always, with fics from the flash fandom at the bottom because there are very very many fics. 

Harry Potter Fics:

Draco/Harry:

A Good Boy by bafflinghaze

Due to unforeseen circumstances, Draco’s work goes a little overtime. When Draco returns home, he finds that Harry’s gotten started without him—but only a little, since Harry is such a good boy.

Word Count: 1k

Gilmore Girls Fics:

Paris/Rory:

The Best Of It by dollsome

Paris outs herself and Rory during a televised argument with Michele Bachmann. Peskiest of all is the fact that Paris and Rory aren't actually dating. A documentary crew wants to make Paris And Rory's Modern Stars Hollow Family anyway. Meanwhile, Rory goes slowly and quietly nuts. (And doesn't like Paris like that -- why would you even suggest such a thing?? Not that ... anyone did.)

Word Count: 73k

Notes: One of my all time favorite fics. It’s so good and so well-written and so fantastic and I’m screaming. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry--because you’re laughing so hard.

The Flash Fics:

Cisco/Barry/Caitlin: 

((if someone has any more fics than the ones listed below, pls send them to me. i am desperate))

Equipoise by trufflemores

Barry gets sick.

Word Count: 3k

Notes: I love this fic and this ship. 

Guardian Doctor by LightningLemonade

Caitlin Snow is more defensive of her boys than even she knew.

Word Count: 366

cw: homophobic language

Barry/Cisco:

escapes, true love, miracles by spocklee

princess bride AU. written (late) for flashvibe week.

Word Count: 22k

Notes: Top ten favs out of any fandom, easily. I mean, my favorite movie as an AU and it does it justice and non-binary!Barry and just yes.

Heartbreak Hotel by RonnieandtheProfessor

Cisco and Barry go undercover to investigate a meta-human that's been only attacking couples that stay in a certain hotel. Barry struggles with the 'pretending' aspect of their mission, as his feelings begin to grow a little too real.

Word Count: 4k

Notes: THIS IS SO GODDAMN GOOD, OKAY!

once i have you, i will never let you, never let you go by coopbastian

Barry and Cisco respond to a meta-alert but one of them gets kidnapped in the process.

Word Count: 3k

Thunderstorms by fezwearingjellybananas

In which Barry does not like thunderstorms, but Cisco is there to support him

Word Count: 300

finding you by craptaincold

“Oh, don’t play dumb, Barold,” Lisa said. “Barry,” Barry said. “Barold,” Lisa said, “A little birdy tells me that you’ve got a crush on him.” Barry was about to take a sip of his coffee, but was pretty glad he didn’t make it yet, because he would’ve choked on it. “Excuse me? I- I don’t, what makes you think that? Did you talk to Iris?” “I didn’t, but I’m sure going to now.” Lisa smirked. “I’m sure she’d have so many embarrassing stories to tell about you.” She paused and rested her chin on her hand. “Plus, she’s pretty cute. Is she single?” “She’s engaged. Don’t even think about it.” Lisa sighed, dropping her grin to a pout. “I have a proposition for you, Barry. Cisco is a sweet boy, and there aren’t too many of those in this world, you know? I’d love to have him for myself, but I hate stepping on any toes,” she said, as if she didn’t rob people for a living, “So, if you don’t step up and tell him how you feel by the end of the month, I’ll be forced to nab him up.” “We’re already dating,” Barry blurted out, mind now a dumpster fire. Oh god, why did he say that? You’d think having superspeed would make him be able to stop himself from saying impulsive things. Word Count: 2k

The Person That You Were (You Cannot Find) by Ecliptic_Fiction

When it's four in the morning When it comes without warning And the Silence drags you down under the tide.

Word Count: 2k

Notes: God, I love this. They’ve got such a beautiful relationship. 

cw: self-esteem issues

To Lean On by Ecliptic_Fiction

Tears prick at Barry's eyes at the sight of the man before him, and he can't help but smile at the thought of spending forever with him. "I do," he whispers, squeezing Cisco's hand gently. Word Count: 5k

Where Do You Go (When You Think Of Me?) by Ecliptic_Fiction

Thank God for Francisco Ramon- the saviour of the Flash. Word Count: 3k

...so could we by coopbastian

Cisco is having a hard time on the fact that Leo implied that he and Barry are a couple. Word Count: 1k

What really matters by Saluzozette

It was late at night when Cisco's voice broke the silence in the room. Barry was on the verge of sleep, curled around his boyfriend, his nose buried deep into his hair. Cisco's back was warm against his chest, their fingers glued together and really, the speedster had rarely felt as tired, comfy and happy as he was right now. His mind was already drifting away, but he acknowledged the other man's plea nonetheless. “Barry?” Cisco's voice was alert and very much awake. Far from the comfortable stillness that had filled the bedroom for the last hour. Why wasn't he asleep already? “Hum...” The speedster mumbled, trying to sound a little bit less out of it than he actually was. “I'm gonna do it.” Word Count: 4k cw: graphic descriptions of violence, homophobia, mentions of neglect and abuse

sweet creature, sweet creature by buckybunnyteeth

Cisco wakes up to the quick warm feeling of lips pressing against his own. or Cisco needs Barry to know that he loves him ... without saying that he loves him. Word Count: 3k

It's Not About Winning by st4rlabsforever (omaken)

Cisco wriggles his wrists in his restraints. In the grand scheme of things – or at least as far as kidnappings go – this one isn’t so bad. Sure, the ropes might be chafing his wrists and the blindfold might be messing with his balance, but his discomfort is at a solid three out of ten right now. Just a day in the life of Central City's premier superhero couple. Word Count: 5k

Vows and Promises by daydreamingstoryteller

Barry has made the decision to sacrifice himself to stop the Dominators' attack. But Cisco has some scores to settle with him before he can leave. Or. Another Invasion AU but with Secretly married Flashvibe Word Count: 1k

'Fake' Dates & Not-So-Shitty Acting by twelvexclara

When Caitlin and Julian need someone to go undercover for an event, they ask Barry and Cisco. The thing is, the situation is more complicated than you think. Word Count: 2k

Stars in Hiding by Neuqe

"It is getting rather confusing for all parties involved, and Cisco would prefer if his life did not resemble this much a 90’s situational comedy" Barry and Cisco decide to keep their relationship as a secret. It is not necessarily the best idea. Word Count: 5k

We will find each other by Neuqe

Cisco accidently vibes Earth-2 and learns something new about Reverb. Word Count: 1k

swimming in the sunlight by VolunteerFieryDantooinian

Cisco can feel it, he can fucking feel what almost happened, he almost lost him- But Barry came back. It took a month, but he came back. It scared the hell out of him. Then again, he had a habit of doing that. Title from BøRNS's American Money, which is a total Barrisco song tbh Word Count: 1k

You Love the Limelight Too by PoliticalBloodTea

People won't stop flirting with Cisco. Barry is not jealous. He's not. Word Count: 3k

Decelerate by trufflemores

3.12. Barry and Cisco cuddle after Barry phases the train. Word Count: 1k

That Would Be Enough by UpsideAround

Soulmarks weren't supposed to change. Soulmarks didn't change. Fate must have hated him, because Barry's soulmark had been erased once when he was eleven, and brutally slashed out when he was in his twenties. Word Count: 2k Notes: I love this so much, tbh

Duration by st4rlabsforever (omaken)

“Hey! So,” Cisco says, pulling out the dark blue package from his shopping bag, “I was thinking we could try this tonight.” He tosses it to Barry and tries his best not to blush. The slogan ‘Last Longer. Stay In The Moment’ stares back at him in big, white letters. Or: in which Cisco buys Barry an endurance enhancer, and Barry is not amused at all. Word Count: 1k

Trademarked Kisses by aldergroves

(The first) five times that Barry and Cisco kiss. Word Count: 1k Notes: NON-BINARY CISCO!!!!!!!!!

Mach 1 by RedelliaValentinos

"Can I ask you something? It's just out of curiosity," the boy spun the chair around. Harry gave a hum of approval to go ahead and scooped up his coffee mug. Nothing this kid could possibly say was going to interrupt his consumption of caffeine. "What would happen if Barry went Mach 1 during sex?" Word Count: 838 Notes: Harry isn’t the only one who choked on their coffee because of this.

Another One Gone by superallens

6. “You can’t die. Please don’t die.” Word Count: 873 cw: major character death Notes: only read it if you want to cry

Locked in the closet by graveltotempo

Hartley and Snart get locked in closet and accidentally get a first row view of Barry and Cisco going at it Word Count: 2k

Insomnia by VenezuelanWriter

Barry can’t keep losing so many hours of needed sleep because he’s too busy feeling like this: hollow inside, weak and anxious. Word Count: 2k

All That Glitters by dancesontrains

The glitter had settled all over his cowl, so he was still breathing it in, and he began to remove it. Might as well remove the already unzipped jacket too...and the trousers, what if they had the particles on them? Clearly whatever was in them wasn't good for him, he could tell that much. Why else would he blurt out something like that to his friend? Word Count: 2k cw: rape/non-con elements

Work by coopbastian

prompt: “I’m singing along to this song and you can’t stop me, so either deal with it or join me.” Word Count: 623

The Hysteria Games by st4rlabsforever (omaken)

Barry and Cisco discover Pokemon GO. Naturally, everyone loses their minds. Word Count: 2k

Gold and Metallic Red by Mikkal

No one can know he likes painting his nails. And, so far, it’s working. No slip ups. Of course, up until recently, he didn’t have a superhero for a best friend. A superhero best friend who can vibrate through walls and forgets sometimes that it’s rude to not knock, damn it, Barry! Word Count: 815 Notes: You can read it as gen if you want, tbh.

So No Memory Remover Machine? by Magicaltally

Team Arrow ships Barrisco, and even if they're not in Central City that won't stop them from playing match makers. Word Count: 1k

Forbidden by unsernameinuse

Dr. Wells has rules about romance in the workplace. No one agrees with him, but especially not Barry and Cisco. Word Count: 808

Ransom by pennflinn

Inspired by the tumblr post, "Imagine Cisco getting nabbed by a villain and they want him to call the flash and he has to explain why he’s saved in his phone as 'Bae.'" Cisco is kidnapped and held as ransom for the Flash, who he has yet to confess his feelings for. Things get awkward fast. Word Count: 1k

It was just a dream by demflashvibefeels

Barry dreams about something terrible Zoom could've done. Good thing Cisco was around Word Count: 194

Side Effects by trufflemores

There are complications when Barry and Cisco share a bed. Word Count: 965

Whenever you need me, I'll be there by PunkyRaticate

Cisco and Barry have been dating for a few months now and when they finally get a day to themselves they're pretty stoked. What happens when Mrs. Ramon decides to call and invite her son over to his folk's house in the middle of their Mythbusters binge-watching session. He agrees to it and now he wishes he hadn't. Word Count: 2k

Ride or Die or Fake Dating by Ihateallergies

Barry needs a favor from Cisco. Word Count: 3k Notes: ICONIC

Barry and Cisco's Love Story by VenezuelanWriter

Cisco recovers from his past relationship with Barry's help and they finally get to a place where they can be together. (I recommend you reading the first two stories for the series before reading this one so you enjoy it even more) Word Count: 7k cw: past relationship abuse

Protection by Neuqe

Barry and Cisco get kidnapped before their date night. Cisco is pissed off for multiple reasons. Word Count: 2k

Vibe-y Patronus by LadyOrpheus

prompt: hey how about flashvibe with barry helping cisco get more comfortable with his powers? Or Barry helps give Cisco the proper motivation. Word Count: 1k

Whoever The Flash’s Stupid Little Heart Desires by TwirlsWrites

At this point, they're just glad that they know there's a way to wake him up. Unfortunately, finding out who exactly Barry's heart considers to be his one true love is a lot more difficult than one would have thought. Word Count: 2k Notes: I fucking LOVE this fic

Cisco Keeps Getting Flowers From A Secret Admirer - You Won't BELIEVE What Happens Next! by TwirlsWrites

“Cisco, look,” Caitlin said, pointing at the Cortex computer. Cisco stepped closer; there was a single yellow flower with a ribbon tied around the stem. “Huh,” Cisco muttered, picking it up, “It has my name on it.” the soft red ribbon had ‘Cisco’ scrawled on it. “Well don’t grab it, what if it’s a trap?” Caitlin said, rushing over.

Word Count: 2k

Notes: The title is a little eh, but the work is AMAZING!!!!!! TwirlsWrites is an iconic writer. 

You and I Were Meant to Be (Ain't No Doubt About It) by spoopy_dragons

Francisco Ramon was born with the name "Flash" scrawled across his wrist. The story of Cisco Ramon falling for someone besides his soulmate, but maybe, just maybe, it'll all work out in the end. Word Count: 4k

"Are we soulmates?" by supercala_docious

Cisco started to get memory-flashes of him and Barry as a couple. Word Count: 927 Notes: I love, love, love this

we can work from home, oh, oh, oh-oh by buckybunnyteeth

“You’re not gonna electrocute me are you, dude?” A different, much more pleasant shock goes through Barry’s body when a warm weight settles on his lap. Barry’s head snaps back up and he feels his jaw drop at the sight that greets him. Cisco has plopped down into Barry’s lap, miles of beautiful brown skin on display as he is wearing only a pair of very short yellow shorts and a smile. A smile that is curved around a grape Sucker. Word Count: 1k

Sledgehammer by Neuqe

Barry gets hurt and the heart monitor is betraying him or the one where Caitlin is the smartest of them all. Word Count: 3k Notes: I love this and Caitlin and Barry being brotp is canon.

Laundry Day by RedBowBuddha

After Cisco and Barry move in together, Cisco is worried that it was a bad choice for their developing relationship. Barry sets out to prove that it was a perfect choice. Word Count: 4k

((find my other weekly fic recs here.))

[mangled-dreams]

Needs

A random one-shot Dark x Reader story I did while I was attempting to write @missbrittykins‘s story. I liked the direction it went, but I didn’t think it was worthy of one of my winners. SO! It was discarded with the intention of posting it after I got everyone’s stories done. 

As a warning it does deal with depression and self harm without intent to end life. So please read with that in mind. It’s nothing too in depth/depressing but I would just like to have this forewarning just in case. 

***If you share similar thoughts, similar struggles just know that you’re not alone. I know it doesn’t feel like it, and family/friends don’t always understand, but there are people like me out there who truly have an understanding. If you are in need, reach out and you’ll find a safety net of others willing to help you, willing to let you talk if you need to talk, or give words of encouragement if you need it. No one is worthless or easily forgotten. 

Every life is amazing. I really didn’t mean to make this quite so serious, but it’s something that’s effected me for years, and my friends and loving family have helped me through a lot of low times. Everyone needs at least one person in their corner. I’ll gladly be that person. I’m a really great listener. Always been the “mom” of my friends.***

“I broke my rules for you.” Those six words seem to follow you around. His voice haunts your dreams whether you're awake or sleep. But, even as he haunts you, you love it.

Darkiplier. The man you lost your heart too. The man that isn't really a man but more of a creature born of hate and revenge that found sanity in madness and destruction. He's everything you hadn't been looking for, and yet...he's everything you need.

“You're not sleeping.” His voice growls from the darkness. Something happened, you can feel it in the way he's talking. Your eyes open to darkness, not that this should be a surprise, but you hold on to the hope that someday you'll open your eyes and truly know what he actually looks like.

“What happened, Dark?” you respond pushing your blankets off your body and sit up, your legs hanging off the edge. There is a hard edge to the aura Dark is emitting. “Dark, please, did something happen?” you ask again when he doesn't offer any insight.

Before you can take a step off your bed, Dark is there before you, kneeling on the ground, his head resting in your lap. It's not often that Dark needs you in such away, but it does tell you he's hurting more than normal. Without words you rest an hand on his back as the other runs through his hair.

“Moonlight glows beyond our reach,

Stars will shine for eternity.

Oh, my love, you are so bright

Brighter still than their light.

Moonlight shine upon our souls,

Feel the magic slowly grow

Oh, my love, feel safe tonight,

Here with me, here by my side.” You sing softly as you brush his hair. It has no distinct rhythm or tune, just a short lullaby you'd created after meeting Dark. It always seems to settle him on his bad days, like now. You feel his grip loosen around your legs, his breathing no longer quick and short. “Moonlight glows beyond our reach,

But you'll always have me.”

“How do you calm me?” Dark asks, it's first for him. He's never asked this question before and it alarms you.

“Should there be a reason? I simply want you to feel comforted. No strings attached, is that so bad?” you ask softly, keeping up your soft touches. You already know Dark rarely knew soft caresses or friends/lovers that simply want him comforted.

“In my world there is always a reason.” Dark tells you seriously, pulling away from your touch as he speaks. Your hands follow him until he's completely from your reach.

Your unseeing eyes gazing blankly in the direction Dark retreated to. “Not in my world. I'm defenseless, Dark. I can read the vibrations on the ground, changes in air pressure, even hear things most cannot, but if someone really wants to hurt me, I am powerless. I would hope that if I needed them, I could have someone I trusted to care for me.” You say softly. Over the past three months Dark has been acting differently, ever since he uttered those six words.

“Do you trust me?” Dark asks, his gaze unwavering as he watches you. Even without sight he can read you. You're honesty mixed with such vulnerability and trust drew him to you. He'd been chasing after Anti. Trying to keep the destruction down to a minimum when you'd appeared out of nowhere. One second he's running full sprint after Anti, the next you're flat on your back with an expression of pure shock in your nearly colorless grey eyes. He'd been transfixed in that moment.

No human should have stood as an obstetrical in his path. He wasn't making his presence known to the human realm, and yet you...you stopped him right in his tracks. He at first thought it was a trick of the light and the snow playing on the color of your eyes. They held him in place above you. 

“C-can you get off me now? My back and butt are getting cold.” Your words caught him off guard. Your scarf slipped and showed a long scar across your neck and it make him think of Anti. “I...I know you're there still, I can feel your breathing. Will you please get off  me?”

“Why do you trust me?” Dark asks. He already knows you once had your vision, however a poor choice in partner landed you with a slit throat and no vision.

“Give me a reason not to.”  you respond quickly.

Dark doesn't respond right away. He looks you over, admiring the woman that captured his mind and heart. “I'm a demon.” he tells you.

“Do something evil.” you challenge. You already knew he wasn't completely human. He'd been upfront with you and honest, something that took a little while to accept but it's apart of Dark; and you love Dark.

Without sound Dark is looming above you. You can't see him or the menacing look on his face, but you feel the heat rolling off his body and you felt the slight shift in the air. You tilt your head up in the direction of his face. You've perfected a look of neutrality.

“Don't tempt me.” he warns you, his voice dropping an octave, rumbling through your whole body. You can't help the small shiver from running up your spine.

“Tempting fate is my specialty. I do it everyday I get out of bed.” you says teasing Dark a little. He'd let it slip how much anxiety he gets thinking about you crossing the street, or going up and down stairs in the winter. It'd been during a night he was just worn out from another spat with Anti.

Dark's gaze waivers as he looks to your throat then to your arms. He notes the fresh scarring on your arms. He'd already known of the darkness inside of you. Not that same as his but just as relentless. Depression brought on by the loss of your sight and nearly dying many times before recovering.

“Show me your scars.” Dark demands, his voice rumbling through you again. This is a command and you know it as such.

“But... why?” you had pulling your arms closer to your chest. You aren't proud of your marking. Of the number of times your own demonic thought drove you to seek control over things out of your control. You turn your head down, shame washing over you. You'd fought long and hard against your darker impulses until you couldn't ignore the thoughts clawing at your bed skirt.

Dark sighs and knees in front of you again, his hands gentle on your knees. “I want to see how many times you needed me and I wasn't there.”

You know you're an ugly crier, that's why you try not to cry in front of anyone, especially Dark. Closing your eyes you let him slowly drag your arms from your chest to view your scares. “Please...” you whisper keeping your head bent. “Don't...”

Dark doesn't listen to your plead as his fingertips trace each new jagged line. Your heart speeds up when he moves on to another line. “How long was I gone?” Dark asks looking at your pained face. You'd always said you had an ugly crying face, but all he sees is a beautiful woman in pain.

You hesitate, your eyes opening out of habit. “Six months.” you say lifting your head a little, allowing Dark to see just how hard your own darkness had been riding you.

Dark curses himself. He had sworn to be there for you, to keep your demons at bay. He'd seen what happens to some humans that are tormented by their own thoughts. He never wanted that to happen to you. “Six months? That long?” he asks looking out your window to see snow falling in the night. It'd been summer when he left you. Closing his eyes, Dark cursed himself again. “I'm sorry.” he whispers cupping your face with his larger hands.

Your eyes widen. “What? No, Dark, don't. It's not your fault!” you say in earnest. You never want Dark to believe that he is responsible for you actions. You're just losing your will to fight. Life keeps getting harder, your family is even pulling away from you, and never mind the friends you once held so dear are basically nonexistent.

“No, you're right, it's not my fault, but I... I made a promise to be here. I made a promise to myself to protect you.” Dark tells you keeping your face firmly between his hands. “Of all the humans I've met I want to keep you safe. I swear I will keep you safe and happy, if you'll let me.” Dark says honestly and openly. You're speechless at his outburst. Tears falling in large droplets.

“I...I want you with me forever, Dark. I love you.” you tell him not seeing the smile that brightens his pale features. What you do feel rocks you and lifts the darkness from your heart. Dark's lips pressed gently against you own. Your hands are quick to cover his, anchoring him to you as you savor the feeling. Your darkness seems to lift ever so slightly, replaced by joy.

[bl-giftexchange]

A Haunted Holiday

To: @nerdsfordayz From: @nessiefromspace

Hi! I hope you like my fic! It was fun writing it! ^__^

Timothy had bought the house on the cheap. Not like a really good price that was a big steal impressing others. It was the kind of cheap where the seller was beyond desperate with a foreclosure. In fact, Tim had offered a lower price, his maximum he could spend and they'd taken it without hesitation. It was their quick response that had Tim curious. The large, colonial style house was the only available place in the small town where Tim had been able to find residence. Which had Tim thinking it would have been more costly, but the six bedroom, three and a half bath was his property faster than a pin dropping.

It hadn’t taken Tim a week to figure it out. The place was haunted, and not just with one ghost. No, so far, Tim had counted nine ghosts and a goo, sludge monster that always clogged the pipes. That was why he’d gotten such a desperate deal. His home had been haunted for over a hundred years and had reached a stagnation when the previous owner had mysteriously died. It had been startling at first and Tim would admit a bit concerning, now he knew what to look for.

He developed habits in the first months that kept him alive from the untrusting creatures. He knew to start a bath in two bathrooms, then see which got clogged with black goo and use the other bath. He’d made the habit of jiggling the stair railing to gauge how loose it was. Then, depending, he would use the other set of stairs to avoid mysteriously falling or continue if it was safe. He also found the only unhaunted room and had camped there, even if it was the most rundown. As he set his bags in his room, he informed the house that he valued their privacy and hoped they valued his. They had responded by opening and closing the bedroom door when he was sleeping or changing. Tim would take a deep breath and then smile and ask if they were doing these things because they were lonely or scared and wanted company. They would stop immediately and leave him alone for the rest of the time. Those moments of talking to them had inspired Tim to begin talking with them regularly. They were after all, real beings in his home and ignoring them would be rude.

As Tim learned their habits more and more, they got that much more irritated with him, forcing him to drop his things, or send food flying. His only response would be disappointment, telling them they should have better manners, they weren’t cavemen. It was tough, but Tim pressed on, refusing to give up. He hardly jumped at all when they tried to scare him, a feat he was proud of. And he’d grown resistant to the small sparks of electricity they were always giving him. A lot of days, he worked in the small coffee shop in town and he would keep his work in his car and park the car outside to keep his most important things safe. He’d discovered quickly, that they could not leave the house, which was a bit of solace to Tim.

It wasn’t until he was moving boxes to the attic three months into living here that he saw an entity for the first time. It was a female ghost who had popped out, trying to scare him. She wore a flapper dress and kitten heels. Her short, blonde hair razored to her neck with a gorgeous band of gems dangling around her head and down her forehead, matching the bracelet she wore over her gloves. Tim had jumped a little, startled, but he smiled at her and introduced himself.

She’d frowned. “You’re not scared? That’s new.”

Tim had shrugged. “Why should I be scared of my roommates?”

“Because we’re monsters,” she said plainly.

Stopping from his work, Tim looked her up and down and then shrugged. “Don’t look like a monster to me.” He smiled. “Are you always up here? It’s freezing! Do ghosts get cold? I’ve been wondering if I should get the heat to come up here, or if it gets warm enough with the residual heat from the house?”

The woman looked startled. “You… You’ve… been thinking about me? I’m a ghost. Ya know, haunt you and make you fall down the stairs to your death?”

Tim looked at the doorway to the stairs. “It that what happened to the last owner?”

“He was a pig.”

“Huh,” Tim said. He looked at her again. “Anyway? Are you warm enough up here?” Tim felt the prickling on the back of his neck of a second ghost sneaking up behind him, but he smiled at her anyway.

“Don’t,” she said, her eyes looking next to him. The goosebumps resided. She looked at Tim fully then. “I can get cold, but the residual heat is enough.”

Tim thought for a moment and then smiled at her. “I think I’ll get some heat pipes put in. Good enough may be good enough, but not for me. My name’s Tim, by the way, or Timothy, but I usually go by Tim.”

The woman eyed him wearily. “Nice to meet you.”

He did not learn her name that day, but when he announced when the construction was going to begin, he asked them to be polite and not chase them out, or else the attic wouldn’t be warm in the fast approaching winter. To his great delight, and the surprise of the only company brave enough to work on his house, the heating system was easily and quickly installed. It would also double as the cooling system in the summertime. Tim frowned as the men quickly left without walking him through their work. He went up to the attic and inspected it.

“What?” the woman asked.

“I don’t know… It just… Their work was really fast, like really, really fast…” he looked at her hopefully. “Do you think you or another one of our roommates could take a look at it? I want to make sure the job was done correctly.”

The woman looked at Tim for a long time. “I cannot leave this attic, but I can ask someone to help… I… I must admit I didn’t believe you at first, and for that, I apologize.”

Timothy smiled. “I get it, I’m a stranger.”

“Yes…” She smiled then. “I’m Jane, or Janey. Thank you.”

“Hello, Janey! And you’re welcome! I just hope that they did their jobs correctly.”

They hadn’t. Timothy had words with that company, calling them lazy and cowards, demanding to get different workers who were competent and not about to put his life in danger. “What if a fire started because of their faulty work?” He listened to more apologetic words. “Look, just come and fix it, but don’t expect to get paid more than half of your normal price. Your workers were undisturbed the whole time they worked, so I don’t understand what their problem was, except that they must have been trying to do me harm.” That had really lit a fire under the owner and it had been fixed and set up properly by himself.

That had somehow earned the trust of the whole house and they allowed Tim to them fully and all the time now. They stopped messing with him and Tim could eat properly in his home now, or touch a light switch without getting shocked. He learned their names and now they walked around freely and talked with him.

So, when Hubert was crying one day, Tim immediately went to him. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t mind me, I’m just whining and pitying myself,” he sighed glumily.

Tim smiled and put his laundry down. “I do really want to know, Hubert.”

“It’s just… I’ve always dreamed of being one of those mischievous ghosts, but you’ve never noticed me.”

“I- what?” Tim asked, his eyes large, he had no idea what Hubert was talking about.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, stalking through the wall in the hallway.

Another ghost, Olivia stood next to Tim, an amused smirk on her face. “He rearranges your eggs.”

Tim started. “What? But how am I supposed to notice that?”

She shrugged. “He also ruffles your pillows, makes your towels crooked, moves your clothes around in your drawer, and moves the furniture an inch to the side.”

“Huh, I thought that was just because I hadn’t gotten the pads for wood floors… Hmm…”

After that, Tim took precautions, numbering his eggs and paying close attention to how his things were placed, so as he went through his day, he noticed what Hubert shifted and could feign annoyance and make a show of putting couches back. Hubert smiled a lot more, though Tim caught the slight blush in his cheeks when he inconvenienced Tim.

The last ghost wasn’t discovered until he explored the guest house and the door shot immediately behind him. Tim stopped and smiled. “Oh! Hello! My name is Timothy, or Tim to my friends and roommates. I’m the new owner of the house, but just because I own the place doesn’t mean this isn’t your home either! In fact, if I had known, I would have introduced myself sooner, but the main house ghost never said anything. So, there’s eleven of you in total…” He giggled. “Oh! Here I am just rambling! Anyway, if there’s anything I could do for you, just let me know. I can clean up in here and install heating for the winter, I installed the heat in the attic for-”

A harsh chill ran through him, shoving him against the door. The ghost appeared before him, pinning him with her arm against his neck. Her dark hair was slicked back, her features masculine and deadly.

She leaned in close to him. “You have met Janey?” she demanded.

Tim nodded. His throat was icey and he could feel the pressure that restricted his airflow, but there was nothing touching him. This was the first time Tim had ever experienced something like this.

“And she introduced herself, which means she trusts you.” With that, the woman stepped back. Tim got a full look at her now, in a pinstripe suit and polished men’s shoes. “I don’t know how you gained her trust, but you need to know something. The rules of this place.”

“Oh… Okay-”

“Stop talking. The first thing to know is that a sorcerer once owned this house in eighteen sixteen. He collected every soul in this house for his evil deeds. The second thing to know is he got an apprentice in the nineteen-twenties named Jane and he fell in lust with her, but when she refused his advances, he grew insanely mad and jealous. He tricked her and her lover to come here where he killed them and set a curse over them. If anyone says her lover’s name in the main house, it will unleash a horrible monster the sorcerer created himself. It will devour all the ghosts and humans who enter the house and then consume everything in this world. Never ever say the name, Athena, in that main house. Ever.”

Tim thought for a long moment, processing everything. “I take it you’re Athena, then? Why can we say the name here?”

Athena grunted. “You’re smart. I was told, when the bastard trapped me in here, that Janey thought I was gone, my spirit moved on, so precautions weren’t necessary. And he just really wanted me to suffer.”

“That’s horrible! That’s… That’s…” Timothy could not think of the words. “Wait, what stops Janey from saying your name?”

Athena clenched her teeth. “I’m… I’m also told that…” Athena looked out the window facing the house, her eyes training to the attic. “She doesn’t remember me. She would remember if someone said my name, but…”

A sniffle escaped Timothy. Athena whizzed around to look at him, Tim wiped his eyes. “I’m sorry, that’s just… So, incredibly sad! What a horribly cruel man!”

Eyeing him wearily, she glanced back at the house. “Yes, he was.”

“Did he die here?”

Athena shrugged. “All I know is I felt the day he died and while it gave me tremendous joy, it did not break our curse. If I could leave this place, seek out this demon and kill it, I would, but ghosts cannot go outside. We are trapped in the homes we died in.”

Tim had vowed that night to find a way to help them. He didn’t know how, but he would. He returned to the house, miming to the others that he knew. They were relieved, but worried. He promised never to say the name until he knew how to rid the evil. That seemed to agitate them, but as the months passed and nothing happened, they calmed.

Tim had also made it a priority to always keep the shades pulled open in the attic. That way Athena could catch glimpses. He didn’t know how helpful it was, but visits let him know it had made her more open and helpful to him.

.::::.

He sighed as he pushed his cart through the department store, searching for wrapping paper. Christmas was two days away and he was running out of time to get all his roommate’s presents ready. Once he’d found the perfect wrapping paper, he found each of them a card.

As he read one for Athena, hands wrapped around his eyes and a large, warm man leaned into him. “Guess who?” he whispered.

Smirking, Tim gasped. “Shh! We can’t let anyone know I’m having an affair!”

Deep laughter rolled over him. Tim turned as the hands left his eyes and he smiled at Wilhelm, a man he’d started dating within the last month. They weren’t officially a couple yet, and that was okay with Tim. He wasn’t sure how to explain Tim’s situation with his home, not to mention why Rhys would never want to have sex in his home. The idea of a stray ghost or two that might interrupt them during sex, was too much for Tim.

He smirked and pulled Tim into a kiss. “I see you’re buying cards for your family to go with their presents you sent to my house instead of yours, where they won’t be staying.”

Tim smiled sheepishly. “I’m just a little paranoid.”

“Mmm… Wanna get something to eat?”

“I should really wrap those presents…”

“Good, we’ll eat at my place. I’ll get the ingredients while you…” he waved his hand at the cards.

Timothy smiled wide as Wilhelm left. Sure the man was twice his age, Tim was not ashamed. Tim was lucky to have someone as cool and badass and buff as well as caring and adventurous in his life. Timothy felt himself heat at those adventurous memories. Wil was good at pulling Timothy out of his comfort zone and it was exciting. Often though, Tim reminded himself they hadn’t actually become a couple yet. He could not get his hopes up or start planning a future. He had promised himself to enjoy the moment with Wilhelm and let it take him where it may. Except to Tim’s house.

He’d gotten the last card when Wil came back with food and beer, all complimenting each other. Wil loved to cook and always made something wonderful. Tim smiled and walked with him to the cashier. Tim loaded his car up with both their things. Wil only had his motorcycle, which would not hold his groceries. Tim was not sure how he had planned on getting his things home if Tim hadn’t been there, but Wil was always resourceful. They met at his place, a rented, single-wide, manufactured home. They parked and unloaded their things.

“Hey, Tim, wanna take a ride again?” Wil’s wolfish smile had Tim blushing. They had taken a ride into the woods up to a lookout point where Wil had bent Tim over his bike and the memory heated Tim. Wil pulled Tim close, holding him and kissing him. “Hmm? Under the stars, all alone with just the bike?” His hand slipped under Tim’s jeans to squeezed his bare ass.

Tim flushed, biting his lip as Wil’s hand reached further and further down, pressing into Tim and making him gasp. He leaned into Wil, hands fisting in his shirt, and muffling any sound he made. Wil teased him, pressing, but never further. He could feel Wil’s smirk as the man kissed Tim’s neck and rubbed a finger over him.

“W-Wil…” Tim breathed, they were in public, afterall.

“Yeah.” Wil lead Tim inside, not removing his hand from Tim’s ass.

As Wilhelm made dinner, Tim wrapped his presents happily. He’d turned on Christmas music and while, Wilhelm hadn’t reacted to it, Tim had caught him dancing. He swayed his hips, quietly singing. It filled Tim’s heart and he watched for a while, smiling wide. When the presents were all wrapped, he moved on to the cards, to write an individual message into each. He worked hard to get them perfect and they were going to stay perfect until they were opened.

Wilhelm visited him while he waited for the next step in the meal. He kissed Tim’s neck, looking over his things. “So, are you going to send these to your family?”

Tim thought for a moment. “Maybe.”

That gained a growl from Wil. “Still so mysterious.” He pulled Tim’s chin, tilting his head back. “How can you be so adorable and sexy and mysterious and cute at the same time?” He kissed Tim.

He giggled. “I doubt I’m really all that mysterious or sexy. I’m just me.”

The man stared at Tim for a long time. “I like just you,” he finally said.

A warm smile crept over Tim’s face. “Yeah? Awkward dork and all?”

“Mhmm, and all these wonderful freckles.” Wil pulled Tim’s shirt up as he said this. He smoothed over Tim’s fire red hair and biting Tim’s neck. He winced when Wil bit just a little too hard. A timer went off and Wil sighed, leaving Tim to tend to their food.

Tim, rosey all over now, tried to focus back on his letter to Athena. Through an aroused fog, he managed to write something sincere and stuck it in an envelope. He was all finished. He cleaned up and set the table and the two ate.

“So, how far along’s the house renovations?”

Tim smiled. “It’s good! The contractor's stopped being wusses and they’re almost done! Just a couple more touch ups and it’s a normal house.”

“Good. At least you let them into your house.”

Timothy flushed at his pointed look. “Look… It’s just… I’m embarrassed, it’s a mess…”

“So, it’s not that it’s haunted anymore?” Wil looked at him knowingly. It made Tim even more sheepish. Wil smirked and leaned forward. “I know how you can make it up to me,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

Tim rolled his eyes and crawled under the table.

Wilhelm leaned back in his chair, chuckling. “I meant do the dishes, but this is good too.”

Tim swore, flustered. He wanted to stay under the table for the rest of time. Wil stuck his hand under and motioned for Tim to go to him. Face hot as the sun, Tim complied, snaking up between Wil’s legs and avoiding his gaze. He sat on his knees, his hands resting on Wil’s muscular thighs.

Wil tipped his chin up and kissed his lips. “You’re too damn cute.”

Sighing heavily, Tim let his head fall against Wil’s stomach. His head bounced when Wil began to laugh. “Why do I have to be so embarrassing?” he groaned.

“Not embarrassing, cute. Hmmm, this is a great view.” Wil pulled Tim’s jeans up, peaking in.

Timothy giggled.

.::::.

When Tim had finished the dishes, his cheeks freshly flushed in an afterglow, he dried his hands and set about packing his things into his car. He found to his surprise that Wilhelm had already done it.

Timothy wrapped his arms around Wil and kissed him. “You’re so good to me.”

“Eh, I could do better.”

He kissed Wil. “You are better already.”

The man smiled and then went to Tim’s passenger side and climbed in. Tim froze. He went over to the driver’s door and opened it, leaning down to look at him. “Uh… What are you doing?” He tightly spread his lips into what he hoped was a casual smile.

When Wil’s eyes landed on them, he guessed not. “I’m going with you, you’re gonna need help bringing in all these presents and stuff.”

“Uh…”

Wil smiled at him and patted the driver’s seat. “C’mon, it’s cold out here.”

Tim mechanically slid in and started the car. He knew the moment he parked in his garage, Wilhelm would want to go inside. He was nervous, he didn’t want Wil to get hurt and he couldn’t have Wil trying something and being watched.

But there they were, parked in Tim’s garage, the door closing and the car turned off. “We’re… Here…” Tim said nervously.

“Yep!” Wil got out and Tim sighed heavily, opening the trunk door. As he got out, Wil scooped up the large presents and other groceries, including a large duffel bag.

Tim blinked as he loaded the last bit in his arms. “You brought an overnight bag?”

Wil shrugged. “Thought I should be prepared.” He winked.

Tim flushed and glared at Wil’s back as he lead the way into Tim’s house. “You sure you haven’t been here before?” Tim asked bitterly.

As they entered the house in the entryway, the door slammed hard. Tim jumped, bumping into Wilhelm and making him drop all the items in his arms. Tim had kept a firm hold on his, but Wil had packed everything in, making it easy to spill over.

Out of nowhere, Norman, the self appointed head of the house appeared and dashed at them. “GET. OUT!” He knocked the boxes out of Tim’s arms.

“HEY!” Tim yelled. “STOP KNOCKING OVER MY PRESENTS!”

Norman’s ghostly voice echoed around them, thick and cold and deadly. “Get. Him. Out.”

Tim put his hand on his hips, glaring at the hovering ghost. “Well, yeah, I was trying, but you’re slamming doors that are preventing him from leaving! Not only is that confusing, but also now he knows about you and us!”

Norman, quite corporeal now, turned pale.

“Yeah!” Tim scolded. “And not to mention you tipped over my presents for you and the others!” Tim’s face was red and he didn’t care if Wil overheard anymore. “I carefully looked, and bought them! And then I had to find for the perfect wrapping paper, and wrap them and decorate them and find each of you the perfect cards, and then you just knock them over!” He wiped the angry tears from his eyes. “I had them shipped to a different house so they’d be a surprise for you! This took me since October, Norman! And you just…” Tim sighed and wiped his eyes again. He bent down and picked up the presents, all anger or passion sucked out of him.

Norman looked ashamed, but he stared at Wilhelm wearily. Wilhelm stared at Tim, dumbfounded. He picked everything up and followed Tim into the dining room. “You can see them?”

Tim shrugged. He set the bent and busted presents on the table and sniffled. Wilhelm set the others next to them. Tim looked them over, distraught.

“Tim, we need to talk…”

“Mmm,” he said, surveying the damage. He frowned and looked at Wil. “What do you mean, ‘can I see them?’” He pointed at Norman. “You can see Norm?”

“Norm? The ghost?” Wil looked from the ghost back to Tim, his face stoic. “Yeah, I can see all matter of supernatural things.”

“Ah.” But Tim was once again looking over the presents. Boxes had been smashed, wrapping torn and ribbon tangled and wrinkled. Thankfully, nothing looked broken, but now he’d have to start all over and he couldn’t trust them to take care not to look or knock them over.

Suddenly, Wilhelm was guiding him away from the presents. “Timothy,” he said gently, anchoring each hand on Tim’s shoulders. “I’m sorry about your presents. I’ll help you rewrap them.”

Tim nodded.

“I can see ghosts. They didn’t show themselves to me.”

Tim frowned. “You can?”

“Yes,” Wilhelm sighed. He straightened and looked awkward for the first time since Tim had known him. “Look… I’ve been here before… In this house. When it was foreclosed and I’ve met all these ghosts before. I was actually trying to-”

“Get rid of us!” Norman burst out.

Timothy glared at him. He ducked his head and backed up a little.

“Yeah… It’s… It’s my job,” Wilhelm said.

“What?” Tim looked at Wilhelm, taking a step back. “You’re job… But what about-”

“I do own the shop, but that just pays the bills. My real job is to hunt supernatural beings and destroy them or send them off to the other side where they belong. That’s what I was trying to do here, not destroy them, but help them move on, but no matter which ghost I picked, none of them could go. So, I left to research it…”

Timothy frowned. “I know why you can’t.”

“What? How?” Wilhelm looked impressed.

Grunting, Tim crossed his arms. “I asked them. Jeez, it’s not like it was hard.”

Wilhelm looked at Tim like he was insane. “You… Wait, you asked them? But they’ve killed a man! They haunt and attack everyone in this house. Are you saying they never attacked you?”

“We tried,” Norman said. He wandered over to the presents.

“Don’t touch them,” Tim warned.

His fingers curled away. “We haunted him and kept him from sleep and rotted his food and flooded the place… We even loosened the railing, but all that did was tell him there were multiple ghosts and he just started talking to all of us…” He wandered over to them. “He wasn’t afraid of us and he was careful to learn our tricks and he… He learned about us and tried to accommodate us, like this was our home… Like we were deserving…” Norman straightened, pulling his hands behind his back. “Tim, I apologize for my ghastly behavior and I will make sure no one sees their gifts. I will make it up to you.”

Timothy smiled softly. “Thank you, Norman.”

“You weren’t afraid of them?” Wilhelm asked.

“They’re just ghosts, and one goo… sludge… thing,” Tim said, frowning. “They’re not monsters.”

Wilhelm stared at Tim for a long time. He was avoiding Wil’s gaze.

“Now, since you’re an expert at these things, we could use your help. Do you know what the beast is that’s keeping everyone here?” Tim’s voice was all business, cold and removed.

“Tim…” Wilhelm reached for him.

Tim stepped back, dodging Wil’s reached. “Don’t!” He took a deep, calming breath, his cheeks redding and eyes misting. “You lied to me, just… Don’t.” Tim wiped his tears and took a deep breath, looking Wil in the eyes. “Just help me with my family.”

Norman looked startled.

Wilhelm sighed. “Okay.”

“Good. Do you know about the beast here?”

Nodding, Wilhelm went to his bag, which was full of instruments Tim could only assume was for his true job and not an overnight bag. More lies. Wil pulled out a large roll of blueprints and a notebook. “From what I’ve read about situations like this, it’s a curse. And the only way to break it is to bring the two cursed objects together. They have to touch.”

“That’s impossible! There’s no way to get it into the main house.”

Wilhelm smirked. “So, there’s an extra ghost in-”

“Stop!” Tim hissed. “There’s only one rule in this house. We don’t talk about that, otherwise the beast will be released.”

“That’s a good rule.”

Tim nodded. “And what we need is in the guest house, across the yard. There’s no way.”

That gained a smirk from Wil. “There is a way. This house was built with an underground tunnel to there.”

Tim’s eyes widened and he stood next to Wil, looking over the blueprints. He followed the tunnel. “In theory… This could work,” he smiled at Wil.

Wil looked at him longingly, his eyes drifting to those lips.

Immediately, Tim pulled away and looked in Wil’s bag. “You think you have everything to do this with?”

“You want to do it now?”

Tim eyed him.

The older man growled. “I’m not trying to be antagonistic, Tim. I’m just making sure I understand that you plan to run in, unprepared, guns blazing.”

“If we can’t do it now, we might as well just give up. I promised to break this curse and I’m going to.”

Wilhelm sighed and then after a moment, smirked. “Well, then, what are we waiting for?”

Tim nodded and they looked through his bag for anything Timothy might need on hand and then Wil hefted the bag over his shoulder. They began to leave the kitchen when Tim noticed Norman standing by the table, unmoving.

“Wow, you really meant you’d guard them.”

“I will not be moved!” He saluted Tim.

Timothy smiled warmly. “Thank you, Norman.”

Leaving the main floor, Tim lead the way to the basement. The basement had items from the inhabitants over the years that had never been thrown away. Tim had glanced through everything, noting the oldest things were some furniture he had plans to bring back to life and an old, haunted looking trunk. The large, ornate lock was enough of a warning for him to never, ever touch the worn trunk. He went to where the map showed it, but all they found was a brick wall. Tim sighed. “Great.”

Wilhelm left and returned with a large sledge hammer. He struck the brick hard. Tim took a step back and found something to sit on. He waited, trying hard not to watch. He tried to ignore those muscles moving elegantly under those clothes, expanding and contacting. Tim had always loved Wil’s strength, but now, when he looked at Wil, all he felt was betrayed.

Though, Tim supposed, with the time to think about it, that Wil had been protecting himself. He hadn’t known Tim at all or that Tim could see the ghosts or that they were Tim’s friends. And they hadn’t been dating long. Weren’t even officially a couple, but how much of what Wil had ever said was truth or not?

An hour later, Wil, skin glistening from sweat had made a large enough hole to move through. Tim picked up the heavy bag and went through.

Wil followed, clicking on a flashlight. “I can take that, Tim.”

“You need to rest.” Tim continued ahead.

“I’m okay.”

“I over reacted,” Tim said. He didn’t look at Wil as they walked. “I felt betrayed, but it wasn’t like we were serious or we’d known each other that long. You’re job requires secrecy and you didn’t know me that well… Don’t know me that well. You probably didn’t know I had any connection to the ghosts.”

“I didn’t,” Wil stepped in front of Tim, making him stop. “I didn’t know you, and yeah, when we first started talking, I was just trying to feel out who you were, but then you were cute and sweet and I…” he ran his hands through his hair. “I started to really like you and then I started to worry if they were going to hurt you.”

He frowned, a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. “That’s why you bullied your way in tonight?”

Wilhelm nodded. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you-”

“You did though.” And this time, Tim looked at Wil. “The moment you realized I was safe to tell, you told me.” Tim stretched upward and kissed Wilhelm. “I over reacted, I’m sorry.”

Pulling Tim close, Wil kissed him fully. “You are too sweet.”

Nails slightly digging into Wil’s shoulders, Tim bit his lip. “I’m really only apologizing because watching you bust down that wall was stupidly hot.”

The large man chuckled. “I will remember that.” Wil let go of Tim and they continued on their way.

“So,” Tim said, sidling up to Wil’s side. “You hunt these creatures? How’d you get into that business?”

Lazily, Wil pulled on Tim’s hip, bringing him close. “I can see them without any spells or them showing themselves to me. Some order found me and trained me and then tried to use me for their own shit and I killed them.”

Tim would have stopped walking if Wil hadn’t been pulling on him. “W-woah… I’m… I’m sorry… That’s horrible.”

Wilhelm shrugged. “It was over thirty years ago.”

“That’s still a horrible thing to do.”

Again, Wil shrugged. When they reached the end of the tunnel, they found a floor hatch. Wil handed the light to Tim and pushed up on it. It was a solid door with a solid padlock dangling in front of them.

“So, now that we’re not in the main house,” Wil said, grabbing his bag and looking through it. “What exactly has happened in this place?”

“A sorcerer got butt hurt that a woman didn’t find him attractive and cursed her and her lover, Athena. If he can’t have Janey, no one can.”

“Ah.” He took hold of a crowbar and shoved it into the padlock. It broke easily, the years having worn it down. Wilhelm lifted it, forcing through the large rug that restrained them. Wilhelm worked on pulling the rug to the side while Tim called out.

“It’s just me, Athena, well, and a friend, but he’s here to help!” As Wil threw the rug off, Tim poked his head out and smiled. He couldn’t see her, but he continued to talk. “He’s a…” he looked at Wil.

“Hunter.”

“Hunter… But he’s not here to harm you. We’re gonna break the curse!”

Now Athena appeared looking skeptical and weary of Wilhelm. Her arms were crossed. “That’s impossible, I can’t-”

“Leave the house, yeah, but!” Tim pointed at the tunnel. “This tunnel is part of the house! It was here before you died, so you can use it!”

“And what will you do once I enter the house?”

Tim looked at Wil for a moment, seeing if he had any ideas. When he offered none, Tim shrugged. “Run?”

Athena’s brow crooked upward. “Run?”

“Yeah, Wil and I will distract the beast and you high-tail it to the attic. There’s a heating system you can use to get up there if you can’t go through the door.”

She frowned. “Tim, that’s… crazy. You don’t have a plan.”

“Do you wanna see her or not?”

“Of course I do!” Athena snapped. “I’ve been stuck here for eighty-eight years, longing for her, but what if we fail?”

“Not an option!” Timothy said, enthusiasm bursting like a fountain.

“That’s no answer.”

“Okay,” Tim sighed. “So, we just made this half-cocked plan, but even if we’ve prepared for years and years, it’s still risky. We could have a fool-proof plan and then it all go to shit for some reason or another. We’re as ready as we’re ever going to be. He’s counting on your fear, Athena.”

That seemed to light a fire under her, her eyes dark and deadly. “I am not afraid of him. We will defeat him.” She jumped down the tunnel and stood there waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, she smiled wide. “Let us go!”

Tim mirrored her smile and he and Wil followed. They made their way back, their conversation slacking the closer they got. Tension welled up as they got within feet of the exit and saw multiple ghosts crowding around, staring at them. All talking at once.

“Norman told us what you were doing when we tried to look at the presents.”

“You got one for all of us, why?”

“Who cares about that now? What about his plan?”

“This is crazy!”

“Absolutely insane!”

“How can we help?”

Tim smiled. “She needs to get to the target no matter what.”

“Go with her,” Wilhelm said. “If it gets passed me, you’ll need to stop it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Tim nodded. “Alright, you ready?” he asked Athena stepping through the hole. The other ghosts disappeared into the house, leaving the three of them alone.

Rolling her shoulders back, Athena stepped through the wall and instantly convulsed onto the ground, writhing in pain. She screamed, the sound piercing through Tim’s ears. From the back, the large chest began to shake.

“I knew it!” he whispered, kneeling next to Athena to try and help her. “Athena… Can you become corporeal? I can drag you out of here.”

“It- It hurts!” she gasped.

Tim looked at Wil, not knowing what to do. Wilhelm immediately went into action, grabbing a large container of salt. He spread it around Tim and Athena, circling them. He began to draw lines, making a safe pathway to the stairs.

The chest shook violently, before its lid burst open and a large shadow spread all through the basement, blocking the lights. A dark, bloody night sky shone in that darkness. Tim stood, preparing for a fight, whatever it was.

“You really think you can reach her?” the harsh voice asked.

“It’s him,” Athena gasped. “He’s the monster!” She let out a strangled laugh. “Of course, he’s the monster!”

Tim understood. This was the sorcerer that had caused so much damage and pain. He’d locked himself away in the chest, waiting to be the one to finally get rid of Athena. Tim glared.

The dark laughter brought goosebumps to Tim’s skin. “You think you’re so brave, human? You think you understand my power?”

“You coward!” Athena yelled. “You’ve been hiding here the whole time!”

The shadow laughed. “You have not tried to win your love back for eighty-eight years! Who is the true coward? Hmm?”

Gritting her teeth, she tried to sit up, but struggled. Timothy, anger rising, could not stop the words bubbling out of him. “You! You’re the coward! Instead of moving on like a man when you were rejected! You cried and whined and forced them into your sick and twisted curse! Athena’s lived with this curse, waiting for the right time to act and she did the moment she found one!”

“You,” it said, turning into the form of a man, smoky tendrils whisping together to form the body. He walked over to Tim. “You, who long so much for acceptance, have sunk to ghosts and a sewer monster for company! You are too pathetic for humans-”

Tim snickered, cutting the sorcerer off.

The monster stared. “What?”

“You’re just wrong, that’s all.” Tim laughed, shaking his head. “I have plenty of friends, including those in this house. They were not given the choice to be what they are. You forced them and then you made yourself into the monster! You were so afraid that Janey might be happy, you guarded Athena. Instead of moving on you trapped yourself here like everyone else.” He rested his hand on his hips, cocking them to the side. “I bet that’s why you became a sorcerer, huh?”

Growing large, the monster loomed over Tim, screaming. “You know nothing of me!”

“Except that I’m right!” Tim smirked, pointing at the sorcerer. “Ha, I get it now! You were running away! You became a sorcerer to what? Prove yourself to a love who then rejected you again once you showed them your powers?” The shadow loomed, but not as exaggerated. Tim poked further. “No, not a love? Then, a parent?”

“Shut up!” it screamed, pushing against the barrier the salt created.

“Ah!” Tim tapped his finger to his chin. “Given all the evidence of your hatred to women, I’d have to say it was-”

Again, the monster rammed the barrier. It budged some, but not nearly enough. He screamed at Tim. “I did not become all powerful to be talked down to by some human!”

“Your mother?” The sorcerer raged. Tim ducked as he was pushed, the force of the monster’s anger finally breaching the barrier and knocking him through the air. Tim hit the brick wall, falling over the pile Wil had created from earlier.

“Tim!” Wilhelm yelled, running over. He stood in front of him, between him and the sorcerer. “You did good, now go!”

Nodding, Tim pulled himself from the pile, his body refusing to work with him. He ignored the furious screams from the beast and kept walking, hugging himself. He ran to the stairs, not daring to look back. If he looked back, he’d want to stop and help Wilhelm. So, he limped up the stairs, wondering if there’d always been so many. His body panged harshly, but he fought through it.

When he reached the top, he toppled onto the floor, pulling himself up the rest of the way. Athena, who was waiting, crouched down. “Tim, you’re hurt!”

Tim took a quick moment to wave her comment away before forcing himself to stand. “I’m fine, let’s… Get going…”

“You’re hurt.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, staring at her. She began to turn solid, her form grabbing and helping Timothy up. He pointed in the direction of the stairs. They hobbled together, hurrying as fast as Tim could.

As they reached the stairs, a large, taloned hand shot through the floor. “No, you don’t!” it yelled.

“C’mon! The other stairs!” Timothy ordered loudly, pulling Athena away. He lead her through the hall, clipping a table that stuck out just enough in the thigh. “DAMMIT HUBERT!” Tim snarled, pulling Athena further down the hall. When they were halfway, he pulled Athena to a stop and backtracked silently, motioning for her to not speak. They reached the main stairs again. Tim, now limping with both legs, hurried up, hearing the beast scream in frustration.

Tumbling past the landing and into the hall, they met no resistance. Not until they got to the attic, where they skidded to a halt. A man lay on the floor in front of the door to the attic. His body was crumpled, bloody and tattered. They could just make out the carpet through him. Slowly, he lifted himself up to his, glaring at the two of them. His face was ripped apart, light shining through gruesome holes. “H-how… How have you gotten so far so… quickly!? I’m a class A sorcerer! I will not be beat by you!” he snarled.

“You were great once.” Athena said. “But all those years have withered you away, making you weak and even more arrogant!”

“I am the best!” He yelled, rushed at them.

They braced for impact, but the sorcerer was thrown back. Voices rang around them. All the other ghosts were charging him, tackling and kicking and punching. Olivia screamed to Tim. “Go! We got him!”

Tim pulled Athena towards the door.

“NO!” the sorcerer threw himself at them. Tim pulled out a handful of salt from his pocket and threw it at the beast. He sizzled and screamed, reeling backwards, hands covering his face in pain. The two ran up the stairs, throwing themselves against the door and into the attic. Quickly Tim slammed it shut.

Janey turned from the window to look at them. “Tim, what on Earth!?”

Athena, chest heaving, stared, taking in Janey’s form. From the side vent, Tim saw a brown sludge with a deep green glow pool across the floor. He stepped out of its way as it nestled in front of the door.

The two women stared at each other, unmoving.

Timothy could hear the fight through the door and cleared his throat. “Uhm… We kinda need to hurry…”

“For what? What’s going on?” Janey asked.

That made Athena frown. “Janey, you don’t know what’s going on? Don’t you know who I am?”

“Uhm,” she looked between her and Tim. “A… friend of Tim’s?”

Athena stumbled backward. “N-no… That’s not…” She looked at Tim.

The door was thrown open, the sorcerer lunging forward and grasping Athena’s Ankle. His face was barely recognizable and oozed a dark liquid. Tim took hold of her and pulled her away, but the beast had a head start and Athena was dragged back, closer to the monster.

The sludge pooled around the sorcerer and the monster grimaced in pain and disgust. Tim tugged, pulling Athena away from his reach. He yelled. “I will not lose!”

“Yes you will!” Janey said, stepping forward and glaring at him. “After all these years, you are going to lose! You made me forget Athena, now, you’re going to die remembering us!”

The sorcerer struggled, pulling on the doorframe to escape the goo, but it held him down. He blasted it, disintegrating half of it, but more just oozed around him.

Janey went to Athena, smiling wide. “Heya, love!”

Athena shook her head. “But… But you said you didn’t know who I was?” The sorcerer shot more flame at the goo, only to get caught in it again. The goo was a large, but it was losing mass quickly.

Giggling, Janey blushed. “I was lying… I was… getting you back for wearing that stupid suit.”

“What?” Tim demanded. “Janey! Now isn’t the time! You two have to touch in order-”

“I know, but I needed to make a point. We don’t need to hide anymore and you’re not my Athena when you’re pretending to be someone else.”

Athena gaped. “You’re still on about that?” Janey eyed her, cocking a hip and crossing her arms. Rolling her eyes, Athena sighed. Her outfit began to change into a casual pair of men’s pants. She wore a woman’s blouse that fit her loosely, while her shoes remained the same. Her hair was no longer slicked back and fell loose around her face. “There.”

“There she is!” Janey smiled wide, her eyes twinkling.

The sorcerer burned more goo up, freeing himself some. He began to pull himself out, snarling at them.

Janey closed the space between her and Athena, wrapping her arms around her neck and kissing her. Athena’s hands rested on Janey’s waist, pulling her close.

The sorcerer screamed, convulsing and clawing at his face. Light began to crack through him, pulling him apart until he burst, shattering into small flakes that ignited the goo, dissolving it in the heat.

“No!” Tim yelled, lurching forward.

“Let it melt. We can’t let him reside in the sludge.”

Tim glared at Athena and hugged himself, letting the creature burn. He looked away as the last bits evaporated. He wiped a tear from his blurred eyes and saw a bit of sludge stuck to the vent. He scooped it up with his finger, smiling. “There’s still some here, do you think?”

Janey nodded. “That should be fine.”

Smiling, Tim found a small, empty container and plopped it in. It would be okay for the moment until Tim got it some water. He excused himself to check on the others. He was worried about Wilhelm. The two didn’t hear him, so entwined with their reunion.

Coming out of the stairway, Tim gasped. All seven ghosts were sprawled all over the hallway. Tim ran to the railing, gasping as some had been thrown over, one was even caught in the chandelier. They were limp and broken and even more see-through than normal. He covered his mouth. “You guys are hurt!”

“We’re ghosts, we just need to rest, we’ll be back to normal,” Olivia.

Biting his lip, Tim nodded, bouncing on his feet.

She smirked. “Go see your boy.”

Tim ran as fast as he could down the stairs, his body ached and yelled at him to take it easy, but he just couldn’t. He remembered to stop by the kitchen to pour a tablespoon amount of water in the container with the goo. He left it on the counter and made hs way to the basement, his body once more screeching at him.

“Wil?” he called, his voice cracking. He couldn’t see him immediately and his heart hit his throat. His vision blurred and he had to wipe them several times in order to see. “Wil!?”

There was a groan and Tim went for it. In the back of the basement, Wilhelm sat against a wall, covered in dust, bleeding and tangled in furniture pieces. Tim ran for him, stumbling when his leg buckled. He hit the ground hard.

“Tim!” Wilhelm scooted over to him, pulling him onto his lap. “Tim?” Wilhelm asked, looking him over.

Tim leaned on Wil’s shoulder, his head tucked under the man’s chin. “If I say I’m too hurt to move, can we just stay here?”

Wilhelm held him tight. “How hurt are you?”

“Probably not as hurt as you are.”

Chuckling, Wil moved to look at Tim, pulling his cheek down to look into his eye. “I ain’t that hurt, I’m used to getting thrown. You’re the one who hit the brick wall.”

Tim laughed, coughing. He winced.

“Yeah, okay, we’re getting up, you need a hospital.”

He refused to move. Now that his body had run out of adrenaline, it hurt like hell and it was too hard to think. But Wilhelm lifted him easily, cradling him in his arms. Tim was limp, but as they ascended the stairs, he couldn’t help the smile on his lips.

“What?”

“You’re just really strong.”

“Well, you don’t have a concussion.”

Tim laughed.

.:::::.

The doctors were horrified at Tim’s condition, not to mention Wil’s. He was definitely not as worse as Tim. The sorcerer hadn’t rammed him with fury like he had Tim. And the story about Tim only falling on the brick pile was barely received. They took Tim away and Wil paced the waiting room until they forced him to get looked at too. Then they left him alone for too long.

Finally, they came over to him. “Are you family?” they asked.

“Yes.” He didn’t know why he said it. Sure, he meant to lie, but for some reason, he didn’t feel like it was a lie, not with Timothy.

She eyed him and then shrugged. “You can see him now, he’s sleeping, but you can stay there as long as you like.”

Wil nodded and followed her. Tim lay in a bed, his eyes closed, sleeping. Wil pulled a chair up next to him and sat down, taking a his hand in his. He kissed it. “I’m so sorry, Tim. I didn’t want you to get hurt. I didn’t know I didn’t want you to get hurt until you were.”

Tim laughed, his lips widening. “You’re silly.”

Wil looked up.

Those wonderful lips smiled at him, Tim’s heavy lids fluttering open to look at Wil.

Wilhelm leaned in, smiling wide. “How are you feeling?”

“Great! They gave me…” Tim indicated the medication button. He giggled. “We did it, Wil! We saved the world!” Timothy giggled quietly. “I know I’m over exaggerating, but it’s fun!”

Wilhelm laughed. “I think I love you.”

Eyes widening, Tim’s smile was a little manic. “Wow! That’s just! I was thinking the same thing! I was thinking that, wow, you’re really strong and I need those muscles in my life, but of course, you’re great too, but man! Have you seen them? I just…” Timothy looked up at the ceiling. “I just love everything about you!” He giggled. “And you of course! I love everything about you and you! And I’m just sitting here, wondering how I can get you to stay in my life and my house, like, ya know, wake up with you everyday?”

Wilhelm laughed. “We can figure it out when you’re out and not drugged up.”

“Oh, hey! How’s everyone else?”

“I’ll stop by the house when you’re napping.”

“Okay, I left Goobriel on the counter next to the sink. Don’t feed him more than a tablepoon of water until we figure out what to really do with him, he loves water and I don’t need him in my pipes anymore.”

“Goobriel?” Wil asked, laughing.

“Yeah! I finally thought of a name for him! I was thinking Sludgington is way too obvious, and we can call Goobriel, Goob for short!”

Laughing heartily, Wilhelm nodded. “I like it. I’ll make sure to check up on him.”

.:::::.

Tim was brought home on Christmas day late in the morning. He sighed heavily as Wilhelm drove him home.

“What is it?” he asked, taking a hold of Tim’s hand.

“I never got to finish wrapping those presents…” Tim sighed heavily. “Oh well, I mean, the curse is broken, they’ve probably moved on…”

Wilhelm was silent. He didn’t say anything as they parked and he went around to Tim’s side and gently picked him up, holding him in his arms again.

“W-Wil,” Tim flushed. “I can walk myself.”

“Yeah,” Wil smirked. “But then you couldn’t adore my muscles. I know how much you love them.” He smiled wickedly.

Timothy blushed horribly, his hand resting on the man’s chest.

Wil kissed Tim’s head. “Let’s go.” He went into the house, dropping Tim’s bag in the hallway and going through the kitchen so Tim could see Goobriel. In his terrarium, Goobriel wiggled, happy and healthy. Wilhelm continued, walking him into the living room where Timothy gasped.

The Christmas tree sparkled with decorations and lights. Pristine and perfectly wrapped presents sat under the tree. All around the living room, ghosts stood, smiling at Tim.

“What!?” Tim’s eyes misted. “I thought… I thought you would all… move on… once the curse was broken!”

Janey smiled. “We can, but we all have unfinished business.”

“Yeah,” Norman  said. “We can’t just go to the afterlife without our Christmas presents!”

“Well, then you can never open them!” Tim laughed, eyes overflowing with tears.

Wilhelm sat him in a cushioned chair.

They smiled at him. Athena stepped forward. “We wanted to thank you, Timothy. You have always saw us as more than monsters and you kept your word and you set us free.” She pulled Janey to her. “You brought me back to my Janey and I can never thank you enough.”

Timothy smiled. “I’m just happy everyone’s safe now!”

“Thanks to you!”

Wilhelm stood behind Tim. He moved and collected all the presents and handed the first one to Tim. “Janey wrapped them.”

“Except for mine, of course, Norman wrapped that one.”

“It might be a little crooked.”

Timothy smiled. “I’m sure it’s going to be perfect!”

The ghost the present belonged to stepped forward and Tim handed it to them. It was an ornament. He’d gotten all of them an ornament, each corresponding with the year they’d died. The ghost looked at him, shocked.

“I wanted to replace the bad day with something good… With a nice memory…” Timothy sniffled. “They all remind me of you in some way…”

The ghost smiled and thanked Timothy. They turned and went to the tree, hanging it up. They turned around and smiled before fading into nothing. Timothy’s lips quivered. Hubert stepped forward then, blushing. “I…”

Tim smirked. “You finally got me, I have quite the bruise, you mischievous thing, you.” He handed an embarrassed, yet pleased Hubert his gift. It was a cat. “You’re sweet, but mischievous, just like a cat.”

Hubert flushed, his smile widening. “Thank you, Tim, for everything.” Hubert placed the cat on the side of the tre, smiling at if as he faded away.

One by one, Wil handed Tim a wrapped box and one by one, a ghost opened them, until only Janey, Athena’s, and Goobriel’s were left. Timothy, cheeks stained with tears, gave Athena’s to her.

She unwrapped it and held the police badge in her pale hand. She quirked a brow.

“You were a part of the police department before you died. You’re always protecting and fighting for those you love.”

She smiled. “This isn’t an ornament. This is an actual badge that you poked a hole in.”

Tim smiled. “It knew when to change in its environment.”

Athena smirked. “Yeah, okay.” She hung her ornament up and waited for Janey.

Janey unwrapped hers and gasped. It was an ornate glass star. She smiled, tears falling down her cheeks. She bent down and hugged Timothy. “I love it.”

“You always made my day brighter. I think you made everyone’s brighter.” Tim hugged her close. “Thank you for giving me a chance to be your friend.”

“Thank you for being my friend!” She kissed his cheek, leaving a cold impression. She hung her ornament and stood next to Athena, taking her hand in hers. “Thank you Timothy!” She blew him a kiss as the two disappeared.

The living room was silent. Tim stared all around before his hand covered his mouth and he began to cry. Wilhelm picked him up and set him in his lap and held Tim until they both fell asleep.

When Tim woke up, his eyes were dry and tired. He moaned and curled deeper into Wilhelm. Wil hugged him close. “How are you feeling?”

Tim was silent for a long while. “Empty…” he sniffled. “But I’ll be okay, we still have Goobriel.”

“Yeah, he hasn’t seen his present yet.”

Tim sat up, smiling a little. “He hasn’t, has he!”

“I’ll go collect him.”

Still sore, Tim bent over to pick up the present from the floor. When he sat back down, Wil was back with Goobriel in the small terrarium. It wiggled, vibrating excitedly at Tim. Tim showed him the present. “I got you this for Christmas!” He began to unwrap it and showed the round glass ornament with liquid and sparkles in it. Tim smiled wide. “See? It wiggles like you!” He moved it around, showing the moving liquid. Goobriel wiggled along with it.

Tim smiled wider, his heart warming. He stood and put the ornament on the tree with the other ten. He took a step back and looked at the glowing tree, brighter with the lowering sun. He felt his heart swell, remembering all the time he’d spent with his friends. They would always be there in his heart and in the wood and soul of this house. He would never forget them and he would always cherish them.

He went to Goobriel and stuck a finger in the tank and pet its head. “Merry Christmas, Goob!” It wrapped around Tim’s finger lovingly. Tim smiled at Wil. “Merry Christmas, Wil.”

“Merry Christmas, Tim.” Wilhelm leaved over to kiss him.

Tim looked at the tree and all the ornaments. “Merry Christmas everyone.”

[obviouslyelementary]

Captain’s log

@jetsnacks this is entirely your fault. It was supposed to be quick and sweet and it became a monster.

Warnings: almost death, angst, plot original series style

------

Captain’s log, supplemental.

After a long journey towards known planet 889 alpha from the Flidious region, I find myself in a difficult situation.

At the arrival on the planet, I sent a landing party to the planet while the ship orbited it, formed by two guards, one science officer, the engineering officer, the medical officer and my first officer.

The mission was supposed to last two hours maximum, considering that the planet was known and its habitants may be hostile. However, five hours have gone through and we have no sign of any of the landing party.

 “Any chance of receiving any signals, lieutenant?” Captain Roman asked for the fifth time that hour, receiving another no from the communicator. “Wonderful. I am beaming down with two guards. I am tired of waiting for them to pick up”

“Sir, it is too risky” the woman at the wheel said, turning to face her captain. Roman raised an eyebrow. “If they haven’t returned…”

“They are fine, I am sure of it” he said, firmly, before he pressed the communication button. “I want two guards in the beaming room. Now”

------

“If you think you will get away with this, you are wrong!” Morgan yelled from where he was tied up, looking around the empty room, trying to find the owner of the voice that currently spoke with them.

Yes. Them. He, Logan and Alex were trapped in the same room, side by side, surrounded by stones in something that looked like the inside of a mountain.

“Official Morgan, this is not even slightly helpful in our current situation” Logan said, slowly, tilting his head at the exalted man. Morgan frowned, and looked at Alex, who was on Logan’s other side.

“He’s kinda right. Nothing we can do but accept our painful deaths” he said, shrugging, and Morgan whimpered, biting his lip as Logan rolled his eyes.

“How dramatic” he said, before the voice in the darkness cut their speech.

“My guest… arrives” the voice said, with a light tone of happiness that made shivers go through Morgan’s back. Logan raised his eyebrow, looking at their surroundings, before a soft light came from the further darkness of the cave.

“Oh… Oh my… The captain sent someone to check on us! We are safe!” Morgan said, all his fear ending as soon as he saw that little light. After a few seconds of watching the light come closer, he frowned. “Wait…”

“That is our captain” Alex mumbled, before he groaned. “Unbelievable! Now we are completely done for! Why is he such an idiot? A troop, that was all we needed. A troop!”

“Our captain is well known for making stupid decisions, doctor” Logan said, and Alex frowned, staring at the first officer bitterly.

“Sometimes I wonder why we don’t make you our captain”

Logan just smirked lightly before he looked back at the dot of light that got closer and brighter. Then, the voice returned.

“Captain… What a great pleasure… To receive you… In my home” the voice said, and suddenly what was once a big cave became a bright, illuminated laboratory, and only then the three officers saw that they were, in fact, inside weird tubes of some sort, connected with large wires to a machine behind them.

Roman got closer to them slowly, eyes getting used to the bright lights, before his eyes widened and he rushed forward, leaving his light behind and stopping in front of them. The three officer were being held up around ten meters off the ground.

“My… What did you do to my officers?!” Roman asked, angrily, looking around as the voice laughed. “Who are you?! Show yourself!”

“That… is not a part of my plan… captain” the voice said, almost laughing, and Roman frowned, looking up at his three senior officers, clearly irritated, to say the least.

“How are you? Are you hurt?” he asked to no one in particular, but Alex was quick to shake his head.

“No. We didn’t have time to fight. They put us to sleep with some analgesic” he said, before he furrowed his eyebrows. “Now what are you doing here? You were supposed to bring a team, not yourself!”

“I sent four teams after you and none returned!” Roman said, angrily. “And the two guards I brought with me are also dead. I had to come to at least assure myself that you three weren’t in the same state”

“Thank you for worrying about us Cap, but really, you should go before you get like us” Alex said, firmly, and both Logan and Morgan nodded.

“Agreed”

“He’s right, Roman”

“I am not leaving any of you three behind, if that’s what you are implying” Roman said, firmly, before they heard the voice again.

“You will, captain… That is the choice you must make” the voice said, firmly, and suddenly the machine behind the three senior officer started to work. Suddenly, there was a very thick liquid going through the pipes into the tubes where they were, making Morgan whimper in fear and move in his confinement. Roman’s eyes widened and he moved closer.

“What? N-no! Stop!” he said, grabbing his phaser and targeting the wires.

He fired, but nothing came out.

“You cannot use your weapons here, captain…” the voice said, while the thick liquid slowly reached his officers’ feet. “Choose. One of them must die”

“Why?! What have they done? What have we done?” Roman asked, looking around, trying to find something, anything in that lab that could aid him. There was nothing. Morgan was starting to freak out as he felt the liquid touching the skin under his pants, while Logan simply stared at the liquid and Alex clearly tried not to puke. They were way too calm for the whole situation.

“Choose”

“Just let me die. I’m dead inside anyway” Alex shrugged, even though as the liquid reached his knees, he had to swallow thickly, fear starting to consume him. “Do your decision for once Roman!”

“Choose me! I’m not half as important as they are for the ship!” Morgan said, receiving glares from the medical officer.

“Without you, that ship doesn’t work!”

“None of you will die! I will find a way!” Roman said, rushing behind the tubes and looking around at the machine. There was no power button, no nothing. He growled, shaking his head. “Let them go! They did nothing!”

“Make your choice, captain… Your time is almost over… If you don’t choose, the three will die…”

“What for?!” Roman asked, frustrated. There was no way he could get to the wires. They were fourteen meters up high in a wall that was completely smooth.

“God damn it Roman, take them out of here!” Alex yelled, even though he was trying to escape, moving inside the tube, his breathing fast and shaken as the liquid went up his waist.

“Roman, I am older than you and your official engineer! If you don’t take these two man out of this tubes I will never, ever fix your ship again!” Morgan was the next, even though his voice shook with the fear. The liquid was advancing.

“Ugh!” Roman growled, rushing back and staring at the tubes over his head. He grabbed his phaser, trying to shoot again, recalibrating, doing all he could.

“Captain. Your choice” the voice said, clearly impatient, and Roman looked up at the three officers, the liquid almost reaching their chests.

“I…”

“Roman!” both Morgan and Alex said together, and he swallowed thickly.

Logan was peaceful, quiet, staring at Roman with determined eyes, seeming completely numb at the feeling of a strange liquid rising over his stomach, close to his chest. His stare was almost a prayer, and Roman found himself lost.

“I can’t… choose” he said, shakily, looking around the laboratory. “I can’t choose! I can’t! Take me instead!”

“What – Roman are you crazy?!” Alex asked, hands curled into fists as he tried to pull himself up, the liquid almost reaching his neck.

“Roman, you’re the captain! You can’t-” Morgan tried, but Roman shook his head.

“Kill me instead! I can’t choose between them!”

“Make. Your. Choice”

The world stopped. Roman looked at Alex’s eyes, then at Morgan’s, both pairs filled with fear and acceptance. And then, he looked at Logan’s. So calm. So determined. So peaceful. So serious. Like a true offering to a higher propose.

He didn’t even know how he was able to open his mouth.

He wasn’t sure if the name even sounded right.

He fell on the ground as two tubes opened, his eyes never leaving Logan’s as he smiled and let himself be consumed by the dark liquid.

Suddenly, out of thin air, a humanoid appeared. Roman looked at the person, eyes wide, breathing shaken. The person smiled, nodding to him.

“Hello. I am the leader of the planet Ghiril, and I welcome you” they said, and they had the same voice as the prior voice.

Roman was completely frozen in place, assimilating the fact that he had just killed his first officer, while Alex was jumping off the liquid puddle and running to the person.

“What did you do?!” he yelled, but before he could reach them, Morgan stood up and held his arms, keeping Alex still. “No, let me go! Who do you think you are?! What was all of this for?! Your sick, twisted games?! Why did you kill him?!” he yelled, tears forming in his arms as he was held by an also shaken Morgan, who did his best to keep his friend from attacking the alien creature.

“Your friend is unharmed” the alien said, smiling, and Alex stopped, frowning, together with  Roman, who was still kneeling. “He will be back in a few instants. I am terribly sorry, but this is a procedure for any strangers that might arrive in our world. We want no hostility here, so we must be sure that whoever is the leader of the expedition is sensitive enough to enter and make deals with us”

“You…” Roman mumbled, slowly standing up, while Alex and Morgan watched him, in disbelief. “You killed my crew members… and locked up my senior officers… to know if I was… kind hearted?” he asked, eye filling with rage. “They were about to die! I said I would give my life for theirs! Wasn’t it enough?!”

“No. We had to have an answer” the alien said, calmly.”Your solution was not one of the variables to our problem”

“So that’s what this was about? An equation?” Alex asked, angrily. “Just a little two plus two problem?”

“Precisely” they heard Logan speaking, and suddenly he was walking through a door that had just appeared in the laboratory. Alex, Morgan and Roman stared at him, eyes wide. “I truly hostile people would not have given us any choice”

“You know what? Kill him. I allow you” Alex said, bitterly, while Morgan smiled at seeing his friend back.

Roman sighed. It could have been worst.

------

Captain’s log, supplemental.

After a successful rescue mission, I decided to leave the con and take a small break. We are now heading to Delta-5 with no other problems and we established a mining agreement between Star Fleet and the new discovered planet.

Roman took a deep breath as he turned the computer off and laid on his bed. That had been a very busy day.

Not even three minutes after he was settled, there was someone at his door. He sighed, getting up and opening the doors, only to see Alex, Morgan and Logan standing in front of his room, the engineer holding a tray with four mugs of warm cocoa.

“Can we come in?” he asked, and Roman smiled lightly before giving them space. The three walked inside, settling by the table, and Roman closed the door, joining them and taking the mug that hadn’t been retrieved from the tray.

“So, how did everything go after we headed out?” Alex asked, sipping on his mug, and Roman shrugged weakly.

“The usual stuff. Several calls were made, but we were able to form a mining partnership between them and star fleet. That is enough, I suppose” he said, sipping on his warm chocolate and sighing. “I didn’t know I was allowed to drink something so caloric”

“Well, you deserve a break after such a busy day” Alex shrugged, and Morgan hummed over his mug, the four becoming silent as they drank. The mood was slowly becoming lighter when Alex opened his mouth again. “Tell me again why choosing one of us was a hard decision?”

“Alex” Morgan said, firmly, but the medical officer just shrugged, looking at the captain.

“I was also curious about the subject, captain” Logan agreed, speaking for the first time since they had arrived, and Morgan gave him an angry look before Roman sighed.

“Well, you three know I can’t easily give up on my senior officers. You three are equally important to the continuing function of this vessel” he said, softly, but Alex didn’t seem convinced.

“But you chose Logan way easier than I thought you would”

Roman winced.

“I am sorry” he said, quickly, looking up at the science officer, who did not seem even slightly shaken.

“Not to worry captain. It was the logical decision” he said, firmly, and Alex rolled his eyes.

“There is no such thing as a logical decision when you’re talking about feelings, Logan” he said, looking back at Roman. “Why him?”

“Alex, I think this is enough” Morgan said, firmer this time, but the doctor ignored him.

“Why Logan? He is your first officer. Your science officer. The second in command. Why him?” he asked, pressuring Roman while the captain could only keep his eyes on the chocolate.

“Alex enough!” Morgan said again, but Alex just stared at him.

“I want him to answer! I want to understand!”

“You were scared!” Roman said, closing his eyes for a second and breathing shakily. The room was quiet again. “No matter how much you said I should kill you, you were scared. You were fighting against it. You were… he was strong. He was calm. He was in peace” he mumbled, opening his eyes again, staring at the bottom of his mug, dirty with the rest of the chocolate. “I don’t know why. I didn’t want to choose. But imagining you suffocating while desperately trying to escape was… too much”

“For the same reasons, I am glad I was chosen” Logan said, and the three looked at him. “I did not wish to watch any of you suffering your deaths.”

“Why is that? You care for us now?” Alex asked, raising his eyebrow, and Logan looked at him, clearly confused.

“I always did, Alex. Did I, at any time during our years of service, demonstrate differently?” he asked, to Alex and to the other two. The doctor seemed speechless for a second, while both Morgan and Roman just smiled at the first officer.

The rest of the day was quiet and sweet, with words exchanged and drinks of the wildest ranges.

And Roman was relaxed, once again, because he had lost nothing.

[eirianerisdar]

*squeals* someone else who writes quitahl! Are you still doing prompts? Can I ask for quitahl partners in crime AU?

Okay, I couldn’t hold myself back. This is rather longer than three sentences. Also includes smol Obi :)

Thick as Thieves

If the thieves of the galaxy had lords and ladies, Qui-Gon Jinn and Tahl Uvain would be royalty.

The Silent Ysalamiri, they are called; two individuals so skilled in the art of deception and thievery that they sometimes seem to slip from one end of the galaxy to another without a whisper of their passage ever reaching the ears of the authorities.

This is no ordinary heist, however; this is the Jedi Temple, and though their target is an unspecified object somewhere in the residential levels - hardly a place of high security - this is no doubt the riskiest venture they have attempted since embarking on their shared career (Only the riskiest, of course, until forty years later, when they break into a certain Chiss’s office to steal back a very important kalikori, and subsequently decide to plunder the entire place).

But for the present, there is the Temple, a dark corridor, and two figures that should not be there.

Qui-Gon slinks across the smooth floors, feeling rather than hearing Tahl’s quiet breathing behind him. They have always been able to sense each other somehow, even whole systems apart; there was a moment, when she was six and he was seven, that the two street urchins had run smack into each other in the underlevels of Coruscant - and Tahl had been about to get up and give him a good punch under the jaw when she realised he was holding out a hand to help her up. They had ended up shaking hands quite cordially, and in that handshake felt the duracrete levels overhead open, and the galaxy spin into a wondrous web of light with them at its centre - a binary star.

Now Tahl’s hand rests easily Qui-Gon’s shoulder, and he feels her wedding ring press into his collarbone as she pulls him to a stop. They crouch in the shadows of an alcove, projecting an instinctive aura of nothing-to-look-at-we-don’t-exist. It is the same aura they projected as children, clawing their way up together from the underbelly of the Jewel of the Republic, up to Coruscant’s surface.

A cleaning droid passes in the dim light of an intersection ahead, the overnight lights recessed into the corridor edges casting eerie shadows across its wheels.

Qui-Gon raises a hand to his shoulder and pats Tahl’s fingers once, and they continue forward without needing to speak to one another, oiled leather jackets and soft-soled boots moving in perfect synchrony.

Two more turnings, and straight ahead is a doorway, sealed shut for the night with a faintly glowing access pad in a recess next to it. Above the recess, a durasteel plate reads The Dragon Clan, Master Ali-Alann.

Tahl makes a noise of pleased excitement and moves forward, pressing a hand not to the activation plate, but underneath it. Her green-gold eyes glow at the challenge.

Qui-Gon crouches down next to her and waits, a faint grin on his face.

The fabric of the world warps ever-so-slightly, and for a moment it is as if the dim lighting of the corridor grows stronger; and then there is a soft beep, and the door slides open.

It would be foolhardy indeed to praise her work aloud now the door is open, but fortunately there is another way for Qui-Gon to express his pride; he presses a quick kiss to Tahl’s temple before slipping inside. 

They edge through a large, open room filled with mats and small tables and soft cushions, and Qui-Gon cannot help frowning down at them; they seem awfully like-

Tahl’s hand tightens vice-like around his arm.

He looks up from his examination of a bolo-ball by his foot to see an arched doorway into the next room, and through that-

It takes him a moment to see that that double-row of racks aren’t racks at all, but bunk-beds, and the lumps on them not fabric but children, sleeping soundly in thick-swaddled blankets.

Children.

Qui-Gon glances back to meet Tahl’s equally uncomprehending gaze. Their client had been very specific: Sixth level, Northern corner, corridor B-23, apartment 4. First room on the right after the archway.

Which would be-

He palms the controls on the next doorway. The door slides open silently, and there, within, is a single, child-sized bed, with - rather predictably - a child in it, though not quite asleep.

The child stares up at them with faintly luminous blue eyes, auburn hair smushed to one side.

Retrieve the object within, and follow details for drop-off.

Qui-Gon feels his stomach rebel. Judging by the roiling mess that is Tahl’s presence behind him, she has decided to move from shock to anger.

Tahl closes the door with swipe of a hand, and then it is just the three of them, staring at each other in a darkened room.

The child slides out of bed and pads across the floor with quiet feet. Qui-Gon has to step back smartly as the child reaches the wall, jumps, and snags a light switch.

A soft orange glow lights up the space.

The child - a boy, Qui-Gon can see now, no older than six standard - climbs back into bed, smoothes the covers smartly, and asks succinctly, “Who are you?”

Qui-Gon runs through several responses, but decides that there are none available that would not be an outright lie or sarcasm. He decides to stay silent.

Tahl has no such problems. “Who are you?” she counters.

A slim red-gold eyebrow rises. “Obi-Wan Kenobi, Initiate.”

Qui-Gon notes the pride in that statement and decides to get on with the task at hand.  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Obi-Wan. But we’re rather on a tight schedule at the moment, and we would much appreciate your help. Is there anything of value in this room?”

Obi-Wan blinks at him. “I don’t think so. I did get new boots yesterday because my feet are ‘growing like a bantha’s hooves’ or so Master Alann said, and I got moved in here for a while because my nightmares were disturbing the others. Do you want my boots? I’m sure I could go to the quartermaster for a new pair without much trouble.”

Tahl hisses sharply, and shares a single burning look with her husband. It is very clear what or who, the “object” described in their instructions are, now.

“We’re not doing this,” Tahl says, with finality.

“Not doing what?” Obi-Wan interrupts, before Qui-Gon can reply. “By the way,” the little Jedi continues, “I don’t think you can say you’re pleased to make my acquaintance. You haven’t introduced yourselves.”

“For a very good reason,” Qui-Gon says sharply. “Speaking of which, why haven’t you started making noise to alert an adult to our presence here?”

“What do you mean?” Obi-Wan frowns. “You are both dressed strangely, but you’re Jedi, like I am.”

“We’re not-”

“Shut up, Qui,” Tahl says suddenly. “Say that again, Obi-Wan.”

And there is that blasted eyebrow again - Obi-Wan looks skeptically at her, but his next words are without doubt. “I could sense you the moment you walked into this room,” he says quietly. “You’re Jedi. You feel like Jedi.”

Qui-Gon gapes.

“Feel like Jedi they do, because Jedi they should have been,” a gravelly voice sounds from behind him.

Qui-Gon and Tahl pivot instantly, hands going to the blasters at their sides, only to have the weapons ripped out of their hands by an invisible pull.

The little green wrinkly creature standing in the doorway cackles as it sets the blasters by its feet.

“Hasty, you are,” it says. “Talk first, before shooting, hmm?”

“Master Yoda!” Obi-Wan scrambles off the bed and bows deeply. “You should greet him too,” he tells the two adults admonishingly.

“Peace, Obi-Wan,” Yoda harrumphs, moving into the room with a clack of gimer stick against the floor. “Here to fight, I am not.” The door closes behind him.

“What do you want?” Qui-Gon asks bluntly, moving over to Tahl. She clasps his hand with more longsuffering placating habit than anything else.

“Talk, I said. Jedi, you were supposed to be. Missed you in our search, we must have.”

“Then you must not search very far. We come from the underlevels.”

Yoda’s ears droop at the words. “Sorry, I am. Blind we are to those closest to us, in searching the galaxy, we were.”

“But they feel like masters,” Obi-Wan says, quietly.

“Masters they may well be, in time,” Yoda replies with a fond smile. “But a different kind.”

“We’re sorry for intruding,” Tahl says suddenly, though her presence blazes with curiosity at Yoda’s words. “There appears to be a mistake with our client’s information. We should be on our way.”

Qui-Gon reflects that there is a tinge of ridiculousness to the statement. This entire situation is ridiculous.

“Tell you to take this child, did they?” Yoda says, suddenly sharp.

“No, master,” Qui-Gon says, the title slipping from his lips without him meaning it to. “We did not know.”

“Good, that is,” Yoda growls. “If known you had, handed you over to the Coruscanti police, I would have.”

“You’re going to let us go?” Tahl murmurs, surprised.

“Yes,” Yoda grumbles, “Let you go, I will. But if return at times, you wish, to learn - ask at the gate, you may. Part of the Order you cannot be - but the light, you may see.” His eyes glow mischievously. “Now say goodbye, you must.”

Qui-Gon and Tahl look over to Obi-Wan, who still stands by his bed, supremely unruffled.

“Did you come here to kidnap me?” Obi-Wan asks, conversationally.

“Yes,” Qui-Gon answers, deadpan. “Not intentionally,” he amends.

“Oh. I see.”

“You’re not…afraid?” Qui-Gon ventures.

“No. I’d like to see you both again.”

“I think that highly unlikely.”

“Why not?”

“Because I-” Qui-Gon bites his tongue to keep himself from continuing this childish speech.

Yoda’s eyes hold a definite gleam of amusement, and a glimmer of something similar to insight. In another time, perhaps…

The silence is broken unexpectedly by a peal of laughter. Tahl clasps her hand over her mouth to halt her chuckles, but they slip through nonetheless. She steps forward and runs a careful hand over Obi-Wan’s red-gold locks.

“We shall see each other again, then,” she says, smiling. “Our names are Tahl, and Qui-Gon.”

Obi-Wan beams in return, showcasing two slightly lopsided dimples.

Qui-Gon feels a stirring in his heart. He isn’t sure if he likes it.

“Walk you out, I shall,” Yoda harrumphs. “Much to talk about, we have. This client of yours, particularly.”

“Goodnight!” Obi-Wan chirps.

After a moment, Qui-Gon replies. “Goodnight, Obi-Wan.”

Qui-Gon and Tahl move hand-in-hand back through the silent playroom, nodding warily to the tall human Jedi standing there, and into the corridor beyond. There, the Jedi master sets a sedate pace, gimer stick cracking merrily against the floor.

“Now, speak of your client, we will,” he begins.

“The transmission came out of Naboo, we are sure of it…” as Qui-Gon continues to speak, he thinks back to that little room in the dormitory, and the auburn-haired child. The universe warps, and for a moment, he imagines himself in brown robes, and Obi-Wan beside him, with a braid behind his ear.

But Tahl’s hand is in his, and so he does not dwell on a future of another world.

END

@okaynextcrisis you got a lot more than three sentences there, but I loved writing every part of it. Thank you for the prompt - look what it inspired!

And yes - good old Sheev is the one who sent in this mission. Looking for an apprentice quite early, in this universe.

Fanfic masterlist

Fanfiction.net profile and stories

[highgaarden]

fic: i come alive in the fall time

Caroline sighs. It rattles through her chest, the heaviness of it. “What do you want, Stefan?”

“My fiancé,” he says simply.

Stefan; Stefan/Caroline, Explicit, wc. 4489 (ao3) (ff.net)

written, as ever, for @ishenwulf​ because she’s relentless. 

hello, pervs. i wrote this for ishi, because i am weak and she is scary. nah jokes, i love her loads, and she wanted fic where stefan ropes caroline into his soul-ferrying shenanigans, and it became an exploration of a bunch of things i wish the show would've given me with humanity-less stefan. i mean dude, you can't even give me one scene of them angst-barbing while DANCING? low blow.

so here, have some porn to tide you over til the next episode, where they've got some serious explaining to do.

UNBETA'd, i stuck the whole thing here without proofreading because i am horrified/impressed at myself for actually writing something in one sitting for once. will go back and rectify any/all mistakes later.

I come alive in the fall time,

 It’s not so much that Caroline is bothering him, it’s the fact that he is bothered at all. He realizes this on the way home, and even as he’s divulging two drunk teenagers of their souls. He feels the thrill of their blood trickling down his wrists, but it is a lukewarm thrill, just a faint tugging on his gums. He presses his thumbs down – the boy’s eyeballs bulge, red drool spills down over his chin. Stefan listens for his own heart: no, it doesn’t pound.

He’s not enjoying this as he usually would.

He’s bothered. He shouldn’t be bothered.

So he makes a decision.

 —

—

 Being stripped off his humanity, he is blissfully unaware of many emotional qualms that might drag him down usually – looking at her standing there, damp hair curling down her shoulders, might have once stirred something within him. He recognizes, on some distant, removed plane, how remarkably beautiful she is.

“You weren’t at the boarding house,” he says.

Caroline shoots him a look. His tone had come off as schooling. She might have let it slide, but he’d spent the last few days trying to push as many buttons of hers as he possibly could. If he can’t love her, he could have at least had some fun—

But she’s not looking for fun, is she?

Happiness, she said. Not fun.

Strange creature.

She looks at him through the mirror. Her lips are set in a straight line. She’s freshly changed into a night shirt – the fold lines are still visible around the shoulders. He is reminded of an afternoon they spent on the floor of the laundry room, her chastising him for the way he folded his sleeves.

He arranges himself straighter against her door frame, hoping the urge to clear his throat was temporary. She hasn’t answered, but he is skilled in the art of waiting.

“Didn’t feel like being there,” is what she offers finally, and she goes back to brushing her damp hair.

“Moving out already?”

Stefan watches her face closely. Caroline, on her part, reveals nothing. Her hand remains steady as she drags the comb through her hair in slow, methodical strokes. He hears the bristles move through her hair, but he can’t hear her thinking as he is usually able to.

“You aren’t over me already, are you?” he asks, his lip quirking.

Again, she doesn’t answer him. He could weigh in on this, or… he could take away her distraction.

He’s behind her in an instant; her hair’s blown away from her shoulders with the speed of it. He takes the brush from her hand and starts working through the tangles at her crown. Caroline’s stiffened up visibly to have him so close, and he smiles – he cannot feel, but he can smile, and he tries not to hum so triumphantly as he combs her hair.

“You in your childhood bedroom. It was one pageant, Caroline. You can’t be regressing that badly.”

Caroline sighs. It rattles through her chest, the heaviness of it. “What do you want, Stefan?”

“My fiancé,” he says simply.

She isn’t yet angry, it doesn’t show on her face, but her shoulders stiffen once more. He can practically feel the room grow colder. Of course it’s only a figure of speech, seeing as vampires don’t exactly feel the cold. And flipped-switch vampires don’t feel – but he’s rambling, he gets this way after a kill, even unsatisfying ones.

Damon needs to get out of his rut. Gloating isn’t half as fun without an audience.

Caroline digests this. She regards him through the reflection of her vanity, pictures of a younger Matt, Elena, Bonnie, Tyler still scattered in corners. He wishes her eyes weren’t so blue. She’d chosen pink today, it made her look soft, otherworldly, not so difficult to look at. It muted all other colours of her, made her look like a rose. Definitely easy to touch, to enjoy having in his arms as he spun her through the throng of warm bodies.

Here, in the dim lighting of her bedroom, her eyelashes absent from mascara, her eyes seem to glow. It is strange, unnecessary poetry.

“Something bothering you? You’re frowning.” Caroline is smiling at him through the mirror. Too saccharine. He narrows his eyes, drags the brush down. It tickles against her neck, whisper light.

“I was remembering,” he says softly, letting his thumbnail graze the side of her neck even as his other hand continues combing, “how pretty your neck is.”

The smile is gone now. “Don’t you have souls to feed Cade or something?”

“Thought I’d take the night off, come home to my beautiful fiancé,” he replies, “but when I got to our bedroom – she sleeps early these days, bless her – imagine my surprise when she wasn’t there.”

“You with any sort of emotion would be hard to imagine, actually,” Caroline snips. “I told you to stay away from me.”

“You didn’t tell me hard enough.” He brushes hair off her neck and trails his forefinger down the smooth skin there. “Even now.”

Keeping his eyes on hers, he bends down until his mouth is level with her ear, his thumb tracing patterns on the back of her neck. Caroline fights, but her eyes close all the same. He huffs a laugh at that over her neck and hears her sharp intake of breath. “Love,” he murmurs. “What a conundrum.”

“So you do still love me then,” she says, quietly. And it sounds so sad he has to resist the urge to roll his eyes, because he’s emotionless, not desensitized. She should know this. She’s been there before.

God, he misses those days.

And then he snickers, because – God. Old habits. With Cade around he doesn’t need to be talking to that guy, does he?

He twirls a curl around his finger, puts his nose to her neck, breathes her in. When she was living at the boarding house, she walked around smelling of him, skin hot from the shower. Here in her old bedroom she smells of something flowery, and if it doesn’t irk that possessive streak of his he doesn’t know what would—which probably explains the lingering kiss he leaves on her neck, and that kick he gets out of her gasp.

Until he’s flat on his ass on her floor, her elbow slammed into his throat. “What the fuck, Stefan. You do not just waltz into my bedroom—“

He shifts his weight, pins her to the floor, “I did not waltz—“

She bares her teeth and in an instant he’s against the wall, the vanity shaking. “Yeah, like your dancing today? Way to be a terrible partner, Stefan.”

“I never said I was a good dancer,” he says, and he places a firm hand on the small of her back and wraps his fingers around her beating wrist. “You should stop trying to convince yourself.”

She sidesteps him, they end up in a jerky loop where she is pressed close to his chest, her cheeks flushed. His breathing is labored as well – the spot between his ribs where she’d hurled that broken chair leg at him thuds in reminder, you’re good at this killing thing—

“Are you seriously dancing with me right now?”

—he should stop losing his train of thought. It was starting to get very close to irritating now.

He gives a noncommittal hum, twirls her around a little. She has her eyes narrowed in suspicion, her heart is beating slower despite her heavy breathing. She’s being careful. That’s his Caroline, always so in control. He has a vision of her in red and smiles.

“I actually came because I had a proposal.”

“Let’s hope it’s better than your last one.”

“Oh, Caroline,” he says, leaning close. Her eyes dart to his, “The night I asked you to marry me, you damn near broke the bed. Are you really going to start with the—?”

He shouldn’t be so pleased when she buries her fingers into his chest and growls at him. “Lonely without your humanity, Stefan?”

“I wouldn’t call it lonely with all the souls I’ve been mongering,” he muses, “but I do miss your thighs wrapped around my neck…”

He takes a step forward, she moves swiftly to his pace. She knows how to lead – she always just lets him dance. “As much fun as this passive aggressive dancing is—”

“And we all know how much you value your fun.”

“—back to my proposal.” He dips her low, hums against her throat. “How do you feel about coming on a road trip with me?”

 —

—

 The decision he’d made was this:

“Damon’s out. You’re in.”

She doesn’t actually have much say in the matter, seeing as how she’s got her ankles on the dashboard, sucking down on a Capri Sun. She sends him a look of pure loathing and it sends a thrill down his spine.

That’s more like it.

“He’s more trouble than he’s worth when he’s in this state.” He signals before changing lanes: Caroline looks like she’s about to comment on this but changes her mind.

Instead, she snorts. “And I’m not?”

“You’re efficient,” he says. “We can get this done much faster with you helping me – and isn’t that what you wanted? Me snuggled at your side?”

Caroline stares at him. “I’m not going to help you send innocent souls to Cade.”

Stefan pulls a face. “What about dirty, corrupt souls then?” The rest will come later. He’ll find a way. He’s sure.

“But you said three, ten years. What if this is you trying to trick me—“

“It is me trying to trick you, Caroline,” he sighs exasperatedly, “so if you’re going to blink, blink now.”

She flicks her straw at him. “Did Sybril screw around in your head too? You expect me to bend the knee because of how charming you’re being right now?”

“Hey, worked when you agreed to marry me.” He grins, then slips his sunglasses on. “So what do you say? You and I, partners in crime, ‘til death do us part?”

“You’re awfully confident a fiancé,” she says witheringly, “for someone whose fiancé is sans ring.”

“Want it back? I kept it safe for you.”

“No.” She tells him. And then she looks out the window.

He grits his teeth and blasts the radio.

 —

—

 Some fifteen miles out of Mystic Falls Stefan pulls into a diner and picks off a face from the crowd. He’s good at that, laying the trap and emptying them out. Caroline, despite herself – or maybe because of it, asks: “How can you tell?”

He lets the body crumple at his feet and looks at her, eyebrow quirked.

“The ones who can, you know… Go rogue. Follow the path of evil, whatever you call ‘em.” She shrugs. The body goes still. Woman, mid-20s. Pretty purple dress, floral print, cut out in the back. He wouldn’t mind seeing Caroline in it.

“You get good at listening after a while,” he says, but then pauses. How does he do it? With Damon it had been a case of choosing the worst case scenarios for the older Salvatore, but lately he’d been approaching it with more… finesse, he could say. Something almost akin to a system. No wonder Caroline wanted to know. There must be a formula to everything.

He can’t help but give a rueful smile at that, but then it’s gone the next instant. “You look for the tells. A pure heart, if there even is one, supposedly abhors sins. They don’t just forsake it.”

“Yeah, but how do you know,” Caroline clicks her tongue. “Unless you spend a lot of time talking to these people before you drain them of blood…” She watches her face, and then claps a hand to her mouth to hide her smirk. “Oh my God, you do. What, do you stalk their Facebooks and have meaningful heart-to-hearts to try gauge the dark side of their hearts? Operation Therapy Road Kill? This is what Cade has you doing?”

Stefan doesn’t answer.

Caroline doesn’t stop smirking.

“Yeah, so not efficient.”

 —

—

 “Stop being so smug,” he finally says after the twelfth kill of the day. Caroline has been ever the petulant passenger, ankles on the dashboard, snickering up a storm over his methods when she isn’t looking appalled at his choices. He’d veered towards the truly criminal and corrupt just to get her to stop nagging at some point.

“I could’ve gotten him to admit his sins twice as fast,” she says, examining her nails.

“So why don’t you?” he challenges, stepping down on the accelerator. “That’s why I roped you in in the first place.”

“Exactly. You revealed your cards too early, Stefan. I’ve got leverage now.” She yawns, then leans her seat back. She looks like she’s settling in for an afternoon nap. “By the way, no motels. If you want me to teach you my system, I’m going to need to put my neck on a proper goose down pillow.”

Stefan’s lips twist downward. The only un­-efficient part about Caroline is her need for comfort-slash-luxury at all times—but then, if it meant she’d be cooperative…

He switches lanes at the last minute and heads for the city.

 —

—

 Somehow, amidst all her rushed packing, Caroline had it in her to pack herself a little black dress that she is now pressing up to the bar, beaming her thanks when the bartender slides her a drink “from the fella in the back”.

The absence of his ring on her finger has never been more prominent as it is now, and he makes his way towards her, the posture of a man with an endgame to meet.

“Nice of you to join me, Mr. Salvatore,” she giggles around her olive. “What is that, your eighteenth victim now? Do you have a daily quota to meet or do you stop when you feel the cramps settling in?”

“Ha,” he says shortly. “Bourbon,” is what he directs to the bartender.

“So serious,” she scolds, before surveying the crowd. She sees faces, he sees flesh encasing blood, temporary heartbeats. “So which one of these lucky souls are you going to be chatting up tonight?”

He sidles up to her, relishing the way she eyes his shoulder, how close it is to bumping hers. “I was sort of hoping you’d do the honors.”

“You can’t be serious.”

He meets her eyes evenly. “I upheld my part of the bargain. Swanky hotel, swanky bar. I’ll even stick to your bad guys only rule, as annoying as that is.”

Caroline pretends to consider this as she runs a finger along the rim of her glass. “So what’s my motivation?”

“You are being incredibly overbearing right now,” Stefan tells her, but doesn’t tell her that he’s kind of enjoying it. Let’s just say talks of Damon’s burgeoning morality had been an utter snooze fest the past few days. This – this is refreshing.

“Like this.”

And suddenly he’s stepping closer, voice lowered, hands on her shoulders. He guides her away from the bar, inexplicitly bumping right into the small of her, her soft lines, her curled hair with the ruby pins nestled in their furls. “You pick a face that you like. It can be any face at all – any one that pleases you.”

“And then?” Caroline’s breathing is carefully even now. His jaw is just off the side of her cheek, he imagines her eyes to be intent on the crowd, focused on anything but the slow slide of his hands down her arms as he finds her elbows.

“You ask them for the simple pleasure of their company,” he says into her ear, “and you listen to that jump in their heartbeat as they look at you. Beautiful woman, standing so close… You’ll be able to hear all the impure thoughts they’ll be having.”

Caroline scoffs softly. He keeps his hands where they are, feels something akin to nostalgia as he asks, “You don’t believe in your own beauty?”

“Maybe I believe in people more,” she fires back. She downs the rest of her drink in one go and steps subtly out of his grip, pressing her empty glass into his hands. “Be right back.”

Stefan watches her golden head bob through the crowd, watches her settle by a middle-aged man with a too-wide mouth and a gleaming Rolex. He watches her laugh and tilt her head, traces the slender line of her neck as she accepts the man’s hand.

Blood roars all around him, and all he can see is Caroline.

“Selmy,” he hears the man introduce himself. “And you must be mine for the evening?”

“Nope, you’re mine,” Caroline says in response, and Stefan’s never felt himself smile so wide.

 —

—

 It goes without saying that he kisses her in their hotel room later.

You know, after he convinces her to break the maid’s neck with her teeth.

She’s surprised, but she melts into it easily, fingers finding the nape of his neck and yanking at the hair there. She always kisses him like that, hungry – it reminds him of all the ruthless people he’s ever met in his life, and everything they’ve ever had to lose.

“You were fantastic,” he tells her feverishly between kisses, forgoing the hidden zipper of her dress completely and ripping right through the fabric. Caroline lets out a whine and shoves him slightly—“This was bespoke!”—doesn’t matter, he’s got her pressed down onto the bed.

“Very efficient,” he hums against the wild drum of her heart, and despite the scowl she has on her face he knows she’s pleased, he knows how she likes to be complimented. “I was very impressed.”

“And evidently, shocked about it,” she says and rolls her hips upwards into his. He groans, his forehead falling against her sternum. Caroline takes advantage of the moment to flip them over, her thighs settling very nicely around his hips. And when she starts moving, his fingers sink into her hips, and – fuck, there is entirely too much fabric on her right now.

“Should I apologize?” he grins, but it wavers when she shakes her head.

“I’ve missed you,” she says slowly. Watching him.

He looks at her, takes in her ruined hair, the flush in her cheeks that only a fresh, hot feed can put there, that single trail of blood down the side of her mouth she hadn’t managed to clean before he whisked her away. He catalogues this look on her, is suddenly bombarded by a version of her on that damned laundry room floor, hair pulled away from her face, and he’d told her so earnestly then that he loved her, and she only laughed, the smell of fabric softener was everywhere—

“I’ve missed you too,” he tells her decidedly. That one, he will allow. Cade won’t have to know.

“Good,” she breathes, and all at once it is too much, his fingers twitch and she’s divested of her dress, and there’s all that skin to marvel at, to run his hands over. He can fit his entire palm on the flat of her stomach, and he takes her in like this, smelling of blood and gin and the unfamiliar trace of rich, peppery cologne that he’ll lick off her soon enough.

He zeroes in on the pulse in her neck, presses two fingers just above the vein, feels the capillaries around his eyes appear. Caroline notes this with pupil-blowned fascination, squeals when he seizes her in his arms and has her under him before she can finish that breath. Her wrists in his hands feel breakable, brittle like twigs, but against his palms he feels the rush of her heart. His breath dampens the heave of her chest, and he licks a wet stripe up her sternum, between her collarbones, up the collumn of her neck. It is easy to lose himself in the taste of her skin – if he sucks hard enough he can taste her already, all ready to fall apart.

“Your shirt—take – off,” she gasps brokenly. He happily acqueisces, and there must have been something truly animal in the smile he gives her because he sees her pause, a hesitance even in the haze of lust clouding her gaze.

Well, this won’t do.

He doesn’t promise sweet nothings like he knows that Stefan would – and he doubts his Caroline would be stupid enough to believe him. He wonders if Caroline with her humanity off would have an undead heart beating this hard at the sight of him right now, if she would be scared.

She wouldn’t, he decides – but he doesn’t remember much of the time both of them had Bonnie and Clyded their way through campus green. He remembers flashes of red, he remembers the blood, and by God he remembers the sex, but he doesn’t remember much the pound and thrash of her heart, no, not like the way it rattles between her ribs now, and it drives him mad.

Her fingers are on his face, tracing the black veins flashing under his eyes. Her finger pricks against the point of his fang and her blood stains his tongue – he blinks away stars, watches her face with intent. She’s looking back at him with the same fervor, and – fuck, she’s sliding her finger into his mouth. His eyes close as his tongue works against the little nick he’d made, tastes the slide of her blood down his throat.

Caroline pulls her finger out and presents him his wrist, this maddening woman with wide blue eyes, heart pounding in her chest, giving him, the Ripper, an open invitation to dive right into her and settle into her skin. He has the strange urge to bite clean through flesh and bone, to drain her dry, to let her drink from him, to have her choke on his blood, he blinks away red—

Her bra tears away easily under his hands and he doesn’t realise he’s bitten her breast until the taste of her completely engulfs him – she lets out a cry but holds him closer, hips bucking beneath his, and when he resurfaces and sees how black her eyes have gone he knows her blood must be smeared all over his mouth.

“Come here,” she rasps, and his wrist is between her teeth and she takes a long, indulgent pull. He feels something in himself tugged forward to meet her, he feels the world dim around them as she drinks from him, feels his breath come up hard and fast – he falls forward, their foreheads bang together, but still she keeps her eyes on his and never looks away.

When she tells her she loves him, it’s with a mouthful of his blood.

He doesn’t answer. Maybe she hadn’t expected him to, because she wrestles him onto his back and divests him of his pants, until the only thing seperating them truly being skin to skin are her panties and his boxers. She settles on the hard ridge of his cock and he’s never felt so close to going crazy as he is now, thrusting up into her.

“Not yet,” she says, one hand braced on the headboard and the other pulling the hair away from his forehead. She looks – truly – beautiful. Kissed red, ends of her hair heavy with blood. They’ll probably have to burn the sheets later with the amount that’s streaming down her chest.

“What are you waiting for?” he asks through his teeth, and he’s so hard it’s all he can do to hold in a long wrought-out groan. She rocks her hips and his head falls back against the pillow, pleasure jolting up his spine. “You know how good I’d feel inside you.”

“I know. But I’m about to fuck my humanity-less fiancé in a bed covered in our blood. Excuse me if I need a chance to evaluate my life.”

“Seriously? Compartmentalizing even now?” His fingers find the lacy band of her panties – why is he smiling? “Let go.”

She grinds down against him and he hisses. He swears the red he’s seeing isn’t the blood. “I am going to rip right through these, don’t think I won’t.”

Caroline smiles sweetly at him. “Go right ahead.”

It’s oddly satisfying, the sound of her underwear tearing, but what’s even more satisfying is the sound she makes when rolls her onto her back and presses his chest down onto her breasts, puts his whole weight on her, watches her struggle to breathe. Her fingers tear at his back and her thighs wrap around his hips with crushing force, but he knows her moan is more pleasure than pain when he finally, finally slips into her.

Caroline turns her head, presses her cheek into the pillow, but he grips her chin and forces her to face him. “Don’t you dare muffle that dirty mouth of yours.”

He’s pleased when all she manages in reply is a stream of breathless expletives. He thrusts deeper into her, lets out a shuddering breath against her ear when he feels her tighten around his cock. The pressure that’s rolling low in his stomach builds when she arches into him, and this, he’s missed this, their hips snapping together, her sweat slick against his skin, the overwhelming feeling of her clenched around him, the room reduced to nothing but the insistent pound of her heart, the heady perfume of her hair. His fingers fumble between them, down to her clit, and she curses against his lips as he presses his thumb down in rough circles.

“Stefan,” she gasps, and her lips graze his lashes, her breath wets his forehead—

“Yes,” is all he can say.

She cries his name out another time, and another, and another, and he follows with a whisper of her name in between other nonsense he has no control of, and the sight of her with her fingers grasping the sheets, hair a wildness draped over the pillow, eyes closed to the relentless surge of his hips, is what does him in, but—

“You need to come right now,” he rasps, and miraculously her eyes snap open, her chest heaves, and with a slick press of his thumb she indeed does come, a cut-off cry interspersed with half-sighs of his name.

You, is what he has time to think before he’s not thinking anything at all.

 —

—

 Caroline talks him out of burning down the entire hotel later.

“Think of how inconvenient that would be,” she stresses, slipping on her cat-eye sunglasses. “Isn’t it enough that we torched the room?”

“Pity,” he says agreeably, “We made some nice memories there.”

Caroline doesn’t blush, to her credit. “Back on the road. We’re still sticking to bad guys, right?”

“Sure we are.”

They step out onto the busy street, arms linked. The sun is high in the sky. It doesn’t burn him, but it’s a near damn thing.

—

—

fin

let me know what you think! i was a bit apprehensive about writing this entirely from stefan's pov - hell, i shy away from this elusive fucker on his humanity days, this is him in ripper mode. i mean tq paul wesley for being weird levels of hot, but why must stefan be so complex, man? hope i did good.