#gascon is my new son thank you very much

[sebdoeswords]

really wish some of the witcher games' actions and consequences weren't completely arbitrary and unforeseeable

[beardedmrbean]

Two Los Angeles mothers are at odds on opposite sides of California's embattled criminal justice system: one grieving the loss of her two sons and the other trying to get her conviction for killing them overturned.

Rebecca Grossman, a rich and powerful Los Angeles socialite, sped her Mercedes through a crosswalk and killed Mark Iskander, 11, and his 8-year-old brother, Jacob, as they were crossing the street with their mother and younger brother.

Nancy Iskander, a biotech executive, grabbed her son, Zachary, who was 5 at the time, and dove out of the way. But she and her youngest son witnessed the crash.

"We will continue to speak up until we see justice and see her pay for the murder of two little boys, because they could be anyone's kids," she told Fox News Digital. "They're not just my boys. They're just [an] innocent 11-year-old, an innocent 8-year-old in a crosswalk."

Grossman, 60, had prescription drugs and alcohol in her system at the time of the 2020 crash, prosecutors told Fox News Digital. Although she was married to a prominent Los Angeles surgeon, Dr. Peter Grossman, she was racing her boyfriend, former MLB pitcher Scott Erickson, home from a restaurant. Each of them were driving Mercedes-Benz SUVs above 70 mph.

Jurors found her guilty in February, but she has not yet been sentenced. Not only has she never expressed remorse, her "games" in court and from behind bars have antagonized the grieving family for years, Iskander said.

"She had many opportunities to show mercy, and she did not show any mercy on my family," Iskander told Fox News Digital. "In fact, she only showed hate – all sorts of hate in many, many ways – as if we're her No. 1 enemy in the world."

The Iskander family has accused Grossman of toying with the justice system throughout the process, appealing her charges to the state Supreme Court before trial and then in March attempting to tamper with the jury.

Deputy District Attorneys Ryan Gould and Jamie Castro sent jailhouse phone call transcripts to the court in March that allegedly showed Grossman violating a gag order on the case and openly discussing attempts to interfere with witnesses and influence the judge, FOX 11 Los Angeles reported at the time.

"It feels so unfair not only to lose the kids but also to find yourself in the middle of a fight and with a person who wants to hurt you as much as possible in the middle of it," Iskander said.

Adding insult to injury, Grossman hired defense attorney James Spertus to handle her post-conviction matters – another "game" that the Iskanders say is an attempt to sway the scales of justice in Grossman's favor. Spertus is a friend of the judge's, they say, and he is also representing the disgraced former deputy district attorney, Diana Teran, who is under indictment on 11 unrelated felony charges. She happens to be the former supervisor of the unit that prosecuted Grossman.

Rather than seek Spertus' removal from the case, Los Angeles District Attorney George Gascon's office briefly removed the lead prosecutors instead, a move that caused widespread public backlash.

"It was heart-wrenching for us," Iskander told Fox News Digital. "It felt we were punished, or we were the victim of another one of her games."

Gascon's top deputy, Joseph Iniguez, backtracked on the move days later and said Gould and Castro would remain on the case, although the chain of command was transferred out of their division to one that hadn't been overseen by Teran.

Iskander said the family is very thankful for the move and believes the duo will do the best job in court.

"Them being not only familiar with the evidence but also the circumstances, and Mrs. Grossman's strategies into getting more delays or causing a conflict of interest, they are familiar with that," she told Fox News Digital. "And then they got to know Mark and Jacob through the years. It's been four years that we've been together. So, I feel like to hand it to someone who never worked on it before, at this point, it doesn't make any sense."

Grossman is due back in court Friday as part of a bid for a new trial. She faces up to 34 years in prison for her conviction on two counts of second-degree murder, vehicular manslaughter and hit-and-run resulting in death.

While Spertus has alleged prosecutorial misconduct and is seeking a new trial, prosecutors are vying to have him removed from Grossman's defense due to his attorney-client relationship with Teran.

Spertus denied having any conflict of interest involving his representation of either party. He told Fox News Digital he expects the state attorney general's case against Teran to fail.

As for Iskander, she is hoping the case finally comes to a conclusion so she and her family can heal. As part of the process, she and her husband have become devoted to charity by founding an orphanage and a foster care nonprofit while raising money for scholarships for local children through the Mark and Jacob Iskander Foundation.

"A person killed two children. They didn't do anything wrong. She's a murderer," Iskander said. "It should be a straightforward process, right? And I mean, for society, it has to be a straightforward process."

[irene-sadler]

Sir Reynard and the Red Knight

aka “The Tournament”

n: this is by far the longest thing ive ever written, if u read the whole thing and liked it i appreciate u. (also if u read it and didn't like it, tbh.) thats all folks see u next time <3

     By morning, she had the answer; she leaned on the fence next to the empty lists, contemplating precisely how to bring her scheme about and studying the clouds overhead as they blew in on a damp, western breeze.

    “Do you think it’ll rain, later?” Gascon asked her, coming up from behind; she returned her thoughts to the present and said, “Isbel says it ought to. So, are you ready for your fight?”

    “Is anyone, truly, ready to fight Reynard?” he asked dolefully; the man in question glanced their way from across the green, briefly locked eyes with Meve, smiled slightly, and then returned to carefully directing his squire. She smiled back, somewhat dotingly. Gascon glanced at her and rolled his eyes skyward.

    “At least Ethan’s getting on well with him,” he said. “Much alike, those two.”    

    Meve shrugged noncommittally.

    “Anyway,” he said, “Who are you supporting? Sir Reynard or the black knight?”

    “Firstly,” she said, turning a sarcastic glare his way, “I’m not fighting, so there is truly no black knight to support. Secondly, I am a neutral party in this and any contest between my loyal subjects.”

    Gascon considered a moment, then, suspiciously, asked, “So am I expected t’ believe you and Reynard don’t have one of your little wagers on my head, then?”

    “Oh,” she said, realizing in mild surprise that they hadn’t even approached the subject, the night before, when they ran out of important things to talk about; she’d been too busy explaining the play she’d seen in the city’s streets to think of it. “No. No, we don’t.”

    He appeared mildly skeptical.

    “I still owe him on our last one, anyway,” she said; Gascon showed no sign of believing her.  “Not to worry, Gascon; I’m sure you’ll do as well as anyone else, which is -”

    “Badly,” Gascon finished for her. “All things bein’ equal. I don’t know why I agreed t’ this; I wasn’t even drunk at the time, for once.”

    She regarded him, contemplatively, and then asked, “Do you remember when I knocked you off your horse, last month?”

    “How could I forget, since you and Reynard insist on bringing it up every few hours?”

    “Look, Reynard is - I love him very much, but I have to say he doesn’t have a drop of guile in his blood, truly. It would never cross his mind to pull a trick like that in a fight, or, for that matter, at any other time. Nor would he expect someone else to do so.”

    Gascon stared at her.

    “Good luck,” she said to him, turning back to the lists, as Reynard signaled his readiness from the other end of the barricade; Gascon sighed, mumbled, ungratefully, that nobody who said good luck ever actually meant it, and wandered reluctantly toward his horse. Meve leaned against the fence and waited.

    She would never openly admit to not really watching the first, desultory pass the combatants made, but the predictable maneuvers on display bored her, and her thoughts drifted toward the day’s upcoming legislative business. However, as Gascon discarded his lance before the second attempt, she frowned, refocusing on the field. Reynard paused for a moment, evidently perturbed by the Duke’s unexpected behavior; Gascon, meanwhile, quickly booted his horse to a gallop and covered behind his shield. Reynard’s charger had barely achieved a trot when the Duke came barreling down the barricade and met with him. To his credit, the Count was as prepared as decades of experience could make him - lance couched, shield ready - but Gascon turned the point of the weapon aside with his own shield, grabbed the pole near the middle with his free hand, and yanked himself and Reynard off their horses and onto the ground at the same time. The lance struck the barricade in between them with an echoing bang and cracked in half.

    Meve grinned, hopped the fence, and strolled down to where Reynard had fallen; he sat up, raised his visor, and glared at the splinters of his lance. Gascon heaved himself to his feet and popped his helm off. Reynard’s sour gaze traveled up to his face. He shrugged innocently.

    “Tricks,” he said, winking at Meve; she fought down the urge to laugh at Reynard’s expression.

    “It wasn’t cheating, my love,” she said, heaving him to his feet. “It was - creativity.”

    “Oh, no, it was definitely cheating,” Gascon said, to the knight’s cross, remote frown, “You win, Sir Reynard. Congratulations on yet another victory. Carry on with - with whatever it was you had planned for after my defeat.”

    The Count sighed, yanked his own helmet off, and mastered his obvious annoyance.

    “I was going to say that it’s time the black knight retired.”

    “Oh. Yes, well, you may be right,” Gascon said, easily. “I believe he’s served his purpose, anyhow. In any case, I think I’ve had all the jousting I can stand for quite some time; all these falls can’t be good for my back.”

    “Both black knights,” Reynard said, looking toward Meve pointedly; she stared back with casual arrogance and asked, “Oh? Are you sure that’s what you wish?”

    “I’m quite sure, thank you.”

    “It’s just that, really, you’ve yet to defeat the true black knight; an unfinished rivalry is something of a shadow over your record, I’d think.”

    He shook his head at her. She let him wait in suspense for a few seconds, then smiled at his strained frown and said, “Oh, fine; I’ll let it go if you will.”

    “Good,” Reynard said, stiffly, relaxing slightly at last.

    “I don’t really like jousting, anyway,” she added, unable to resist a last teasing dig; his resolute sternness finally broke down and he rolled his eyes at her. She grinned brightly at him.

    “Thank the gods for that,” Gascon said, “Else we’d have no peace at all. Anyhow, now this is over and done, I suppose I ought to go home. Although, first, there’s still the matter of Holt and Gaheris, which some of my men are tied up in; I’d like them back, if you don’t mind.”

    “Oh, right,” Meve said, as if she’d forgotten. “Yes. Send Gaheris to the throne room this afternoon; I’ve various matters to bring before the court, and he may as well be one of them. Sir Holt’s of no consequence; you may let him do as he will. Feel free to leave whenever you like.”

    “Well - maybe I’ll go tomorrow,” Gascon said. “It does look like it’ll rain, this afternoon.”

      Gaheris presented himself as commanded, appearing absolutely unsure whether or not he was attending his own execution. The Queen took no notice of his existence, until the end of an unusually short session with her court, she finally turned her distant stare to him, giving no obvious sign as to why she’d summoned him.

    “One last thing,” she said, cooly. “This fellow is Gaheris, the son of Gors, a stonemason; he is a dependable and competent man.”

    The court studied him, briefly, some dubiously, others with approval - one Baroness in particular nodded, pleased - as the Queen continued, in the same tone, “Because of this, it pleases the crown to attach him to our service, should he pledge his fealty to us.”

    Gaheris blinked, stupidly; Count Odo, standing slightly behind and to the right of the Queen, nodded once, sharply, at him. The man started a little and regained something of his usual confidence.

    “I - yes, my Queen,” he said. “I swear it.”

    “Kneel, then,” she said; the Count handed her a sword, and she tapped on one, then the other of his shoulders, and declared him Sir Gaheris of the Fen.

      “If I’m any great judge,” Reynard said later that day, referring to the new knight, “You won’t find a more loyal soldier than him.”

    “Except for you,” Meve said, blithely.

    “And, I do believe that settles all th’ affairs remaining from Gascon’s tournament,” he added quickly, turning slightly embarrassed. “At long last. I hope he never has another.”

    They were sitting together on the floor of one of her private rooms in front of the sole window. He watched rain drip down the outsides of the thick panes of glass; Meve, not particularly interested in the view outside, lounged across his lap.

    “Well, almost all,” she said, significantly. He looked down at her, warily.

    “Oh?”

    “There’s just one more thing,” she remarked, idly brushing her fingers along his jawline. “I believe I promised a prize, should you win my jousts, and I don’t easily forget my debts, as you know.”

    “Ah. So you did,” he said, and returned to staring out the window as he considered. She sat up and waited, almost patiently.

    “I can’t think of anything,” he finally said, looking back at her; her heart lurched as a gentle smile crossed his face, but she maintained a sardonic tone.

    “Really? There’s nothing at all that you’d want from the Queen of Lyria and Rivia?”

    “No, I don’t think so,” he replied, seriously. “You see, I already have all I could ever ask you for.”

     She nodded, satisfied, and kissed him; he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close; there really was nothing left to say, even if either of them had any interest in talking. Gascon strolled in through the door behind them, stopped short, and noiselessly backed out again, unnoticed. Afterward, they had, for once, no interruptions.

[oldshrewsburyian]

I love your Garcy/Timeless fics! Should you feel so inclined I have a prompt: Garcy + polyglot (one of my favorite things about Flynn, ahem).

Thank you! I loved your prompt! It took me a while because it got long. There is hurt/comfort and gratuitous historical atmosphere and these two are very solicitous of each other.

To the Time Team’s genuine surprise, and Rufus’ feigned indignation, Flynn’s languages turn out to be his most consistently valuable asset. (The missions requiring a singleminded and virtuosic violence have become more rare since Emma’s takeover of Rittenhouse.) To Lucy, who swotted dutifully for her Ph.D. reading exams, the most remarkable thing is the ease with which he seems to navigate them. She had, of course, realized at some level that he spoke the kind of Spanish that could get him an audience with Santa Ana, the kind of German that allowed him to navigate Nazi Germany with the language as the least of his worries. But she still finds it impressive to watch him work; she still finds it almost mesmerizing to listen.

***

Italian (New York City, 1928)

“This looks like the set of ‘The Godfather,’” says Rufus, eyeing the game of bocce in the public park across the street.

“I think this was the set of ‘The Godfather,’” returns Wyatt, squinting up at the awning of the DiLuca funeral parlor.

“This is not the time,” hisses Lucy. “Fiorello La Guardia is anti-racist and anti-corruption, and if Rittenhouse arranges a fatal accident, all his mayoral policies are finished before they’ve begun. The ma — er, the families — are the least of our worries. They keep order in these streets because no one else will. And we need to find La Guardia now.”

“Right,” says Wyatt. “The out-of-work-laborers bit. I’ll ask at the bakeries, Rufus’ll take the vegetable-sellers. We’ll keep our ears open. It’ll be all right, Luce.”

She is far from sure, but she manages a smile. These are her people, and she trusts them, and that has to be enough. As Rufus and Wyatt turn aside on 188th St., she and Flynn stay together. Since Chinatown, Agent Christopher’s official policy has been to treat Lucy as a potential target. So Lucy has grown used to Flynn’s hand at her elbow, his presence like a bulwark. (In a frigid eighteenth-century winter somewhere near the Canadian border, she had tried to suggest to the team that what Agent Christopher didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Wyatt had simply said “No,” just as Rufus threatened to tell on her. Flynn had said nothing at all; Lucy cannot forget the look on his face.)

What takes her by surprise in history, over and over again, is how much she loves it. The thrill and the terror of being on hand at pivotal moments in time… even those she has become halfway accustomed to. But places like this neighborhood — the warm sunlight on the bricks of the Catholic church to their left, the Sicilian pizza-seller with a face like a walnut, the seamstress on her stoop, the graceful scrollwork on the fire escapes of ordinary apartment buildings — these leave her with a lump in her throat and an ache under her ribs.

A lean man in a smock is setting out dried codfish at the corner grocer’s, where a Star of David is set into the tiled threshold. He watches them with curious eyes; Flynn greets him with a tilt of the head and a courteous Buongiorno, establishing their bonafides. They walk as far as the market. Lucy admires the artichokes, assesses the access routes, and reproaches herself for not expecting a language barrier in the Bronx. Two brothers argue amiably over their vegetable stand, a young couple flirts by the butcher’s, and nowhere does Lucy see anything suspicious.

Flynn presses a bunch of flowers into her hand, and she blinks up at him. The florist thanks Flynn — that much she can make out — and she does not think it is only for his purchase. The man’s son, a boy of about eight, follows them with dark eyes as they walk away.

“I told him,” murmurs Flynn, when they are out of earshot, “to send his son home. Let’s find the others.”

Lucy has to stop herself from glancing over her shoulder. “But I didn’t see anything!” She may not have the language, but she is a historian, and all the evidence is here. “No one — no one avoided anyone else, no one lingered too long at the delicatessen…”

“And with the woman selling dried goods no one lingered at all.”

“That could be because she’s a Protestant or because she’s taken the wrong lover or…”

“She was greeted respectfully and perfunctorily,” cuts in Flynn quietly, “and there was a gun in her mending bag.”

Lucy takes a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her yellow roses. She can’t help the familiar, twisting guilt that settles in her gut; she can’t help feeling that she ought to apologize for lashing out in anger against her own powerlessness. But with him, she thinks, she doesn’t need to. He knows that anger well enough.

***

French (Marengo, 1800)

Lucy’s French is passable. She knows this, and she also knows it to be just passable, passable with the right backstory or the right degree of incuriousness on the part of whoever is speaking to her at the time. Fortunately, with Napoleon’s forces sweeping down over the Alps and through the Piedmont, odd regional accents are ten-a-penny. The diction of the friendly locals offering information about the Roman forces is likely to be the least of the sentries’ concerns. So Lucy does the persuading, alight with the conviction that Melas must be defeated, earnest in explaining why it is vital that she and her husband speak to the Consul himself. (She had never thought she’d be grateful for the necessity to pander to the military history nuts in her survey courses; but oh, she is now.) Though the guard cocks an eyebrow at her halting attempts to describe topography, he calls over his superior officer — and they’re in.

“Essaie de ne pas paraître trop soulagée,” murmurs Flynn, and she straightens her shoulders, walks taller at his side.

The most astonishing thing about the camp of the French army is its size: the reality of cooking fires and canvas tents, latrines and laundresses, on the scale necessary to accommodate this many soldiers. There is more mud than Lucy had expected. There are more knots of men just sitting around, polishing bayonets or playing cards. There is far more singing, and Lucy itches to get her hands on pencil and paper, to transcribe the bawdy invented verses and the wistful folksongs, ephemeral and vibrant and achingly human.

“Let’s drink to Fanchon! I marched out to seek for glory, and I found it in her arms! Drink to Fanchon…”

“How sad the girls of Paris must be, pining for their soldiers…”

“Will a Gascon ever forget what he owes you?”

“The saints of France are a noble lot, but they ain’t got what our Bonaparte’s got…”

Together they wait. The June night is warm, and the army is at ease with itself, but Lucy can feel her heart racing. The Austrian army is waiting for the First Consul of France. The European Coalition is waiting to see what happens. And she is waiting for an audience with Napoleon. An aide approaches them.

“Je vous saurais gré de me suivre.”

It turns out that Napoleon Bonaparte — republican hero and future emperor, upstart Corsican and French hero, social reformer and ruthless conqueror — is not, in fact, shorter than Lucy. In a purely technical sense, she discovers, she can look him in the eye. But this is an academic point; he is an overwhelming personality. Lucy’s mouth goes dry. She can still smell the tomatoes and garlic from the first consul’s dinner (not yet poulet Marengo, but soon.)

Watching Flynn cover the ground with febrile steps, watching him supply information to one of the modern world’s most gifted commanders, it comes to Lucy suddenly that she loves this man. She loves this haggard, earnest, patient man, who has been so much more than a soldier, and who has had so little chance to be anything else.

Napoleon — Napoleon! — rearranges the maps on his desk. He demands that Flynn show him something; this much French Lucy understands without difficulty. And with steady hands, fluent gestures, Flynn does.

It won’t be the victory they know, whatever happens. They will return to the present not with Napoleon snatching victory from the astonished Melas after being taken by surprise himself, but with an outcome hopefully similar. Lucy’s head aches when she tries to think about the possible ramifications of Rittenhouse throwing their weight into the European balance of power at the dawn of the nineteenth century. But somewhere between instinct and professional opinion lies her deep conviction that she and Flynn cannot do other than they are doing. In the oily light of cheap candles, Lucy watches Napoleon Bonaparte’s face, grave in attention like that of any scholar listening to a fellow-specialist. She cannot help but feel that the strange, pyrotechnic attempts of this man to craft a new kind of empire must be preferable to an Austrian stranglehold on power, or to bloody in-fighting among the powers of Europe.

“…comment?” says the consul, and Lucy shakes herself slightly. The tension in the air warns her that it was a question unlike those that came before.

“Il y a quelques ans,” replies Flynn, “j’ai fait la connaissance d’un de leurs capitaines. Nous avons lutté farouchement contre les mêmes ennemis, selon ce que je croyais. Il m’a trahi. Il a tué l’un de mes amis. Je connais à présent ce qu'il est capable de faire. Contre un tel adversaire, nous mettons notre confiance en Votre Excellence.”

Lucy could swear that Napoleon’s mouth twitches briefly — in faint amusement at such formality from a man who had been communicating in professional jargon moments before, or in human sympathy, she cannot be sure. He nods briefly. “Je vous suis bien reconnaissant.”

It is their dismissal. Lucy suppresses the desire to pull Flynn out of the tent, away from the possibility of interrogation, towards the anonymous June darkness where she can kiss unfamiliar syllables from his lips.

***

Only at night do his languages become confused. Lucy’s body remembers the timeline when her mother was an invalid, and she wakes easily. So it is not a hard thing, to get a hand on his chest — his heartbeat racing under her palm — and call him to her out of dreams. Sometimes he rouses with a start; sometimes he wakes still muttering, until he sees her, and his vision clears. He covers her hand with his, and silence is all they need.

After Cologne in 1941, he speaks less during the day, and at night not at all. Lucy used her choir-and-exam German to charm an administrator, and Wyatt used his military German to converse with the guards, and between them, they had been able to get the plans that Rittenhouse had tried to place in the hands of the Nazis. And Flynn used his German to get himself apprehended, and then to say nothing at all. The team had reasoned that dealing with one threat would make the Gestapo less suspicious of another; the event had vindicated them, and Wyatt had gotten them out. But Lucy lies awake at night, listening to the breathing of a man who no longer talks in his sleep.

She does not always wake him. And she knows they cannot fight each other’s battles (she tells herself that the knowledge should not feel like a defeat.) But she does sometimes: if he breathes as though he had been running; or if he makes a noise choked off before it can become a keening. When he wakes, he never says anything but her name.

“Lucy?” Sometimes he says it as though it is a reality he cannot quite believe in.

“Lucy.” Sometimes he breathes it as though it is the only word he can remember, his shibboleth and his claim to sanctuary.

“Yes.” Sometimes she thinks that her heart will break with loving him. “Ich bin’s, it’s me, I’m here, je suis là, ja sam tu.” She whispers reassurance in all the languages she knows, and with the silence of her mouth against his.

[adhdzagreus]

Baisemain, beautiful forgotten things :3

Baisemain - A kiss on the hand.

I’m dedicating every day to youDomestic life was never quite my styleWhen you smile, you knock me out, I fall apartAnd I thought I was so smart((Dear Theodosia – Hamilton: an American Musical) 

Moments like these were his favorites, and they only came very rarely so they had to be savored. The life of a reigning emperor was a busy one, and there was almost always something that required his attention, but right now, he had a moment of peace, where nothing required his attention, and he could focus solely on his wife who, thankfully, also had a moment to herself. 

She was seated in her library with books spread out around her and a small boy on her knee. She was smiling at the boy, who was not quite a year old, and talking to him in a gentle voice. Her long dark hair was pulled away from her face, and she looked tired but happy as she played with her son. Roark felt at ease for the first time all day as he watched her from the doorway of the library, admiring how beautiful she was despite her tiredness and how good she was with their son. 

“Do you know who I am?” she cooed, pointing at herself. “Who am I?” 

The baby boy in her lap giggled like this was all a marvelous game. “Mama!” 

Kyoko beamed and ruffled her son’s hair. “That’s right! Aren’t you clever?” 

“He takes after his mother in that regard,” Roark said from the doorway. 

Kyoko turned to look at her husband, smiling. “Roark! I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I was quiet,” he said. He strode over to her and took her hand, bending to press an affectionate kiss to the back of it. “How are you?” Today had been so whirlwind he felt as though he’d barely spoken to her at all. 

“I’m well,” she said, squeezing his hand and letting it go to continue playing with her son. “Gascon is too, aren’t you, love?” She booped him on the nose, and he giggled happily.

“That’s good,” Roark said. He sat down in the chair beside her and looked at the pair of them. His family was so beautiful. He heaved a sigh. 

“You’ve been working so much lately,” she said. “We both have. I think we’re due for some time off.” 

He nodded slightly. She was right of course, though he wasn’t too optimistic about their chances of that. He was needed here. These were dark times. The Empire needed a strong hand to survive them. “I’ll see what I can do,” he told her. 

She smiled at him, and he started thinking about what he would need to do to secure some free time and how best to do it. “Thank you, my love.” 

“For you, anything,” he said. 

She started to say something, but the boy on her lap tugged at her hair and she laughed. “No, no, don’t do that.” She pulled her hair out of his grasp and swept it over her shoulder. 

He pouted. “No!” He made a grab for her hair but missed. “No!” he said again. 

“You’re very stubborn,” Kyoko told him. “I’m not going to give you my hair. You’ll have to find something else to play with.”

Roark watched all this with interest. His experience with very small children had been limited up until now as he’d never had any siblings or younger cousins. They were quite a mystery to him. At least Kyoko seemed to know what she was doing. 

This nice moment was interrupted by someone appearing in the doorway. Judging from his clothing, he worked in engineering. “Your Majesties,” he said. 

Kyoko turned her head to look at him. “Oh, Victor,” she said. “Is something wrong?” 

“We could use your help in engineering, Empress,” he said. “We’re having difficulty integrating the magical elements with the machinery.” 

She frowned. “What seems to be the problem?” 

“Well, Your Majesty, it, um, keeps exploding.” 

Kyoko looked alarmed. “That isn’t good. I’ll be right there.” 

“Thank you, Empress.” 

Kyoko picked up the boy on her lap and stood. “Here. Watch him for me please.” She handed Gascon to Roark who looked at her in confusion. “What?” 

“I’ll be right back,” she said and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, love.” 

“…alright,” he said. She followed the engineer off to see what the damage was, and Roark looked down at the small child in his lap, not sure what he was supposed to do with this. 

“Mama,” the boy said, pouting. 

Roark shook his head. “No, she went to check on engineering. They’re always on the verge of catastrophe.”  

“Mama!” he said again, more insistently. 

“She’s not here. I know. I wish she was too.” Roark stared down at his son contemplatively. Gascon didn’t look very much like Kyoko. He had curly dark brown hair and matching brown eyes. Roark supposed he also had those things so perhaps his son looked like him. 

The boy tugged on his clothes and said, “Down!” 

Roark got the picture. “You can’t walk, can you?” He thought he would’ve known about it if so, but Gascon continued to squirm so Roark set him on the ground. He stood on his own for a minute which Roark was quite impressed by and then got down on the floor and started crawling around. He was surprisingly fast as he went over to a bookshelf and started pawing at the books. They were too dense for him to easily pull down with his small baby hands, but he was determined to try. 

After a moment, he succeeded in pulling a tome off the bottom shelf. It thudded against the stone floor, and he made a happy noise, haphazardly turning through the pages. 

Hm. That was probably not a good idea. Roark stood up and went over to the bookshelf. “That isn’t for you,” he said, bending down to pry the book from his son’s hands. “That’s your mother’s book. She’ll be upset if you tear it.”

“No…” Gascon whined. 

“Yes,” Roark countered, putting the book back in its place. 

The boy whimpered sadly, his small face falling. Roark did not care for it. It made him feel bad. Gascon started to cry, and Roark really did not care for that. The sound grated on his ears. He looked around for something to give his son to appease him. There wasn’t much. Most of the baby things were kept in the nursery not the library. 

Roark sighed and sat down on the floor beside him. “Stop that.” This did nothing to help matters, and he didn’t know why he’d expected it to. The little boy continued to cry. Roark was pretty sure he was doing it just to make him feel bad. 

“Fine, fine, you can have the book, but don’t tear it,” Roark conceded. He got the book back out and laid it open flat on the floor in front of his son. 

After a moment, Gascon stopped crying and Roark sighed in relief even when he started haphazardly turning through pages again. Roark watched him carefully to make sure he didn’t damage the book. 

He didn’t possess the dexterity to turn through the pages individually, but Gascon seemed to be enjoying himself as he flipped through dozens of pages at a time. 

“What book is this anyway?” Roark leaned over to look at it. It was full of cramped writing and diagrams of machinery. He had no idea why that would be interesting to a one-year old. It was barely interesting to him. 

Nevertheless, Gascon continued to flip through the pages and babble to himself. After a moment, Roark realized he was pretending to read it outloud. He was willing to bet he was imitating Kyoko. 

This wasn’t so bad. It was actually rather peaceful. After a few more moments, he heard footsteps, and he turned to see Kyoko entering, a smile on her beautiful face. “You seem to be getting along rather well,” she said. 

“I suppose,” Roark said, looking up at her from the floor. 

“Mama!” The little boy abandoned his book and pulled himself to a standing position using the bookcase. He tottered over to his mother and latched onto her leg. 

Roark frowned. “Is that new?” 

“Oh, it is!” Kyoko said in delight, bending down to pick up her boy. “You did so well, love,” she praised. “I’m very proud of you.” 

Roark stood up and went over to them, nodding. “Yes, very good,” he said. “Is everything all right in engineering?” 

“I took care of it,” she said, smiling. “Everything is well.”