#gil writings tag

[lesbiantvfish]

I’m not confident enough to put it on ao3 but here’s the A.B.A fic from my brain that takes place directly after that comic I posted. If you can tell this sucks please skip it but don’t be mean

——

A.B.A stepped backwards as the giant key rumbled and hoisted himself upright. “In.. incredible! I’ve had dreams like this.. Oh no, this is real, right?”

The still covered in moss key looked tired and annoyed. He wasn’t sure what she was talking about so he decided not to dignify it.

“How did you get in this place?”

“Ah, um.. I just, jumped down after I ran out of things to eat on the higher floors.” A.B.A pointed at the floor just above them and continued.

“M-my camp is still set back on the surface.. the sustenance here has been better than the foul things I’ve found during my travels alone.”

“..I almost didn’t think I’d find a /living/ key out here, though the other ones are still very dear to me.” She didn’t look like she could pull him up to the surface, even if he controlled her. Shambling, malnourished and she ate those provisions that will likely make her more sick. Flament Nagel reasoned that he would need to find a new vessel with the little help this bizarre woman could offer him.

This bunker had him convinced this place would be his final resting place. Rusting place? if vicious feelings of violence created him, then dull, lonesome years of nothingness felt that it could ebb the life back out of him.

He hadn’t been sleeping the entire 20 or so years, but he’s certainly been hibernating his time away, considering how he cannot lift himself to a higher floor. Nor can bringing the ceiling down by excessive hopping with his massive weight get him free. The ceiling pieces that fell on him were a struggle to break out of.

“Right. Say, do you know someone that can come down and bring me back to the surface?”

“M-me..? Sorry.. I can’t do that.. I don’t really have.. anyone I know, who’s alive or.. around.”

“Can’t you just bring anyone here? Let them know someone is stuck and needs help. I’ll rust away down here.”

“You’re stuck?! Oh no, I should help you! Hold on..” after saying that A.B.A pulled a heap of bandages off her arms and wrapped it around his shank and went off climbing a pillar. Flament Nagel was not sure what these heaps of paper would do to pull him up. At the top, A.B.A pulled her weight with her arms as she flipped herself onto the next floor, bandages still connected to the key.

“Okay.. now it’s your turn.”

“My turn? Do you expect me to do something now?”

“Ah, just, um, hold steady please..”

A.B.A reached into her pocket, while Flament Nagel couldn’t see he knew in an instant what she had by the smell. Now he just wants to see if he can get her to give him some blood, it’s been too long since his last taste of that sanguine delicacy.

To his surprise, A.B.A took a swig of it. and with a burst of might she yanked the key upwards and released the bandages to let him topple a few floors above her. After doing this whole thing again, she clumsily but effectively flung him to the surface.

——

there’s like. several ways from here I’d like to think this goes but A.B.A camping all over with Para… renaming his ass.. marrying the hell out of him. Dates in the city!!!!!!

IM NOT A WRITER BUT THEY MAKE ME RRRRSGSGSGSGR AURHG stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp stomp

[kingchad]

nobody asked but this is my official descendants sexuality chart. i will not accept criticism on this.

[gilbirda]

Controlling myself so I don't start all my work emails and messages with "hey bestie"

[lordgrimwing]

WIP Wednesday

I've been tagged by @curufiin and @thescrapwitch to share part of a WIP and the only thing I have that I've been working on is a stupid abo au smut fic, but, you know, here goes. Have a peek if you like.

Once the decanter was empty, Gil-galad took Elrond’s hands in one of his own and guided him to the edge of the bed. Bemused (or apparently so, for it was frustratingly hard to read Elrond’s expression in this state when he wasn’t in the throws of passion), the half-elf followed where he was led. He stood on shaking legs and looked as uncoordinated as a newborn foal when finally pulled to his feet.  That wasn’t a particularly sexy thought, but then Gil-galad was quite tired of sex by this point, so he didn’t care. He guided his unstable companion to the bath and toiletry room attached to his private suite, mentally thanking the original owner for having the foresight to build the opulent house with what was at the time the newest fad: indoor plumbing. He’d hate to have to drag Elrond all the way outside.

--the amount of work i had to do to find a section that i wasn't too embarrassed to share was ridiculous. --

some zero pressure tags for @hellofeanor, @eclectickefi, @nighttimepatrons, and @camille-lachenille. If you don't have/want to share a writing WIP, how about an art WIP?

[camille-lachenille]

Seven sentences game

I was tagged by @thescrapwitch to share the last 7 sentences I wrote.

He was about to knock at Elrond’s door when a frantic librarian apprentice ran into the hallways, panting and calling. “Highness, Highness! The Head librarian needs you, lord Elrond is pulling all the books out of their shelves and refuses to stop! Please make him stop!”

The poor girl looked so frazzled by the whole situation that Gil-Galad had to bit back his instinct to laugh. Of course Elrond would bury himself in the library during his free time on a beautiful spring day instead of enjoying the blooming gardens and the breeze.

“Thank you, I was looking for my Herald. You can tell to the head librarian I am coming.”

It’s 8 sentences but I didn’t want to cut in the middle of Gil-Galad’s dialogue.

[softquietsteadylove]

Who do you think is Ajaks favorite child?

So, Ajak would say that she loves all her children equally. She would never have favourites!

But yes she does and it's Sersi--hear me out!

It's not just the picking her to take over as Prime, because that's obvious. But I'm talking about how I think Sersi is the most human of all the Eternals.

Ajak loves all her kids. They function all together, as a family, even the cantankerous Druig and stubborn Ikaris and prickly Thena. Ajak wouldn't change anything about them.

But Sersi is different. From the moment they first awaken Ajak knows Sersi has insatiable curiosity, and passion, and love for all she does. Ajak sees how much Sersi loves life in all its forms and admires it, maybe even envies how much more freely Sersi can love without the burden of the truth weighing on her.

Ikaris is her secondhand, and he knows all that she does (mostly). He becomes a confidante to her in a way none of her other children are. And yet this ultimately dooms them both to never actually being able to depend on each other in an emotionally healthy way. Both are a pillar of the irrevocable truth and fear how it will crush their family if they move from that.

But that's why I think Thena's role in this is so fascinating (my bias is showing, I'm well aware). Because Thena also knows the truth, on some level, even from the beginning. It can be argued even before then--maybe she always gets Mahd Wy'ry, maybe she always remembers the horrors that they facilitate in their missions.

Ajak knows this. That's why she suggests erasing Thena, because she really does love her, and she knows firsthand the burden of knowledge. Thena already had wisdom, it's the knowledge that really endangered her.

I also think that's why Druig's relationship to Thena is so much deeper than what we got in the movie. He speaks up for her--he speaks up for her against Ajak, and Ikaris, and Arishem himself. He believes that Thena has a right not to want to forget their lives, and he obviously doesn't trust the answers he gets from Ikaris or their Prime.

Ajak is a very complicated character. She's not entirely right, she's not wrong either, and I do believe that she does the best with what she has. And that she loves her children. That, above all else, is what drives this person: love for her children and for people.

And that's Sersi's favourite thing: people. Sersi loves life and the people in it, and everything in between. Sersi is who Ajak could be if she didn't have the burden of their mission on her. And yes, she does impress that onto Sersi and burden her with that. It's hard to reconcile, and confusing, and it creates hardship for Sersi. But Ajak did so knowing Sersi was the right one to take this on.

Because this mother has high hopes for her daughter, and she knows what she can handle because she forged this child's soul from her own.

[theworldisquietheretooquiet]

For the five lines ask, 'Finduilas' mother had been the one to teach her how to wield the spear', please?

Finduilas' mother had been the one to teach her how to wield the spear.

Finduilas had learnt with her old weapon, from when she had been a march-warden of Doriath – “Though I got little use out of it, in the close forests; hopefully you will find better pursuits for it, my dear.”

And she had, even when everything changed, her home, her people, the ground beneath her feet, her very name; the spear and her skill with it had remained the same.

Some well-intentioned weapon smiths from Eregion had tried to replace it once, early Second Age, when Elven-kind had had nothing better to do and clear enough memories still, that they spent their days creating beautiful arms.

“It is a fine piece of craft, for the Sindar, my king, but I believe it has no historical significance; the name carved into it is someone I have never heard of.”

Finduilas had traced the cirth of her mother’s name, and had looked up at the smith and said, “I will keep this spear, it is older than the Sun, and it belonged to someone I loved.”

[the-flaming-nightmare]

Tibit Tuesday

Tagged by the wonderful @anewkindofme! 💛

Here's another snippet from the next installment of A Bright Life:

"That's the fever talking, kiddo. The air outside is below 30 degrees right now, and the last thing we need is you coming down with something on top of your current situation."

After getting his son into his coat, Gil secured an arm around his waist and guided him out of the bathroom. The kid's legs were trembling something fierce, and the last thing Gil wanted for him was to take a fall and also end up needing stitches as well. Thankfully, they made it through the bullpen and through the parking lot without incident.

Gil helped Malcolm into the passenger seat and buckled his seatbelt for him before the young man could object.

"Could'a did it myself," Malcolm mumbled, looking up at Gil with a pout on his face.

"I know, kid, but you know I don't mind."

After closing Malcolm's door, Gil rounded the car and climbed into the diver's seat.

Tagging (if you wanna): @angelique-of-the-volturi-guard, @cielconsumer and anyone else who wants to join!

[lesbiantvfish]

for the oc word prompts I'm thinking gold, glass, and straw.

Glit, she/her. Hihi (carnivorous monkey) Currently working for a company that provides services to parties and celebrations. Often is the one mixing and delivering drinks to the guests, can chat with guests or mind her business as requested.

[gil-galadhwen]

Writing Patterns

Thanks for the tag @myfavouritelunatic ❤️

Rules: list the first line of your last 10 (posted) fics and see if there's a pattern!

Okay, so this is a real mix of fandoms and ships! 😅 We've got Merthur and Morgana from BBC Merlin. Some Tav and the babes from BG3. Sauron, Elrond, Gil-galad and Halbrand from various LOTR. And finally, our beloved Zevran from DAO.

The wind whipped around Merlin and Arthur as they pushed their horses to a gallop. (Be Merry Sweet Lord On This Yules Day)

There’s a strange sense of clarity this close to death. (The Poisoned Chalice)

They were alone now, feverish touches in the dark and long awaited kisses traded like priceless heirlooms against skin, warm and familiar. (The Shadows of Your Heart)

Ivy plunges bare hands into the snow, her numb fingers trying to hold onto something, anything, while the blizzard rages around her. (Our Paths Will Never Cross Again)

Sauron might’ve preferred to inhabit an elf; they were strong, wise and immortal, and while he didn’t think he was particular about these things, the human man who lay dying with an orc’s spear piercing his chest, was probably his last choice. (Forever Entwined)

“Well, that wasn’t so bad.” Zevran yanked a fistful of arrows out of the remains of a hurlock darkspawn. “I was expecting more of a challenge if I’m honest.” (The Key To A Kiss)

Elrond has been worrying about the meeting with foreign nobles for the last few days, and any amount of reassurance from you has failed to soothe his troubled mind. (I Will Never Get Enough Of You - NSFW)

You keep your eyes closed and teeth clenched as you fight the urge to balk. (Touch Yourself - NSFW)

Elrond was in your library, not your library exactly but it felt as though it was exclusively for your use as nobody else in Celondim used it much anymore. (The Lore Master - Carrier of Messages)

Lindon was a mystery to Halbrand. (Golden Age)

Tagging: Anyone who wants to join in 😘

[gilbirda]

Desired

I was talking again about my Eldritch Ghost King Danny AU and was encouraged (I didn't need a lot of encouragement to be honest) to post some never-released to the public chunks of the main fic. One day I'll finish writing it and post it neat and structured on AO3, but today is not the day.

Context for this fic: Masterpost

--- Wordcount: 2712-----

Storming the Observants headquarters was easy. The majority of them were scholars of some kind, archivist, recording history and the future, studying it.

The real threat was behind the huge doors Clockwork guided him to. He threw them open, relishing the screams and gasps once the meeting inside came to a halt at his interruption.

“You are not scheduled to come here until a few more days,” a ghost eyeball with some kind of suit on approached them, a clipboard in their hands. They looked nervous, and their eye went back to the head of the Observants glaring at the halfa at the door.

“Then make time,” Danny pushed through. The poor ghost jumped and froze, clearly not used to people coming guns blazing into a meeting. “Heeeyyy,” the teenager floated down the stairs, ignoring the ghosts sitting around the circle of chairs in the middle. “Did you miss me?”

“Daniel Phantom.” The leader of the Observants, who he came to learn was called Larry (well, more like La’arriem, but he decided to call him Larry), stood from his chair furthest from the door. “You are not welcomed here.”

“Oh, yeah?” His smile was feral, and his eyes shone with a mad glint. “I thought I was, you know, since I’m apparently the Ghost King.”

He slammed his hands on the long circular table, ignoring the gasps of the ghosts around him.

“Cease this behaviour.” Larry narrowed his eye.

“So you don’t deny it?” Danny looked up towards the ghosts adjourned, recognizing some familiar faces, not all of them friendly. “And what’s with the meeting? Making rules behind my royal back?”

Larry made a gesture and stopped the guard who was approaching them. “No, this is not of matters that concern you, since you aren’t yet the King.”

“Aren’t I?” He tried not to show confusion.

Larry caught on his hesitation. “Until the coronation you are not, officially, the King.”

“Then let’s get on with it!” All this suspense was killing him. If he was going to throw his life out the window anyway, he may as well do it now.

But the Observants were shaking their heads (eyes?) at him. Larry sounded mocking when he answered. “You are not ready. The king must be prepared before the ceremony. That’s what we summoned you for.”

Danny felt a shiver down his spine. This sounded more and more like a cult. What would they force him to do? Meditate under a waterfall? Fast? No thank you.

“Skip it.”

Larry looked around the hall before sighing, accepting that there was no way they could solve this quietly.

“No.”

Danny punched the table and the papers and artifacts strewn over it flew away. “If this is some kind of power play…”

“It is not, I assure you.” Larry floated up one artifact that fell from the table. It was some kind of rock with a weird aura, now that Danny noticed. It called him, feeling familiar. “We were actually discussing the plan for your… training.”

When Larry and the Observants looked at the audience Danny looked as well, catching Dora and Frostbite sitting together, waving enthusiastically at him. A ghost in greek armor nodded at him, but Danny didn’t recognize him — must have been someone from New Greece, Pandora’s realm. He also saw Desiree talking with a group of female ghosts he didn’t recognize at the back of the hall, and if she saw him she didn’t make it known.

“Do you recognize this?” Another Observant’s voice made him look back at the center of the hall, and at the ghosts in front of him. Danny didn’t know this ghost, but he knew they followed Larry everywhere. 

Danny looked at their hands. The artifact. “No.”

Some Observants shared a look, and Larry snickered. “You should.”

“Why?”

“It’s the Ghost Zone’s Core. Or at least part of it.”

Phantom looked down again. It was just a rock. It glowed, but that’s it — it was like everything else in the Ghost Zone. “It’s a rock.”

Some murmurs filled the hall. The lapdog Observant looked up at Larry for support.

“It’s part of the Zone itself. This artifact was handed to us by the revered Ancients a long time ago, to watch over the Realms’ desires in their stead as they looked for a new King.”

Danny blinked. He tried to imagine it as something fantastical and amazing. “It’s just a rock.”

Larry started trembling in rage, hitting the floor with a staff that had been resting against the table. “Silence!” He screamed at the audience before turning back towards the halfa. “Child, your disrespect shouldn’t be left unpunished, but for learning purposes I will let a demonstration prove you wrong.” Larry made a gesture and the other Observant put the rock in his waiting hand. “Oh revered Core, please, show us your power.”

The rock started shining on command.

“Huh.”

Larry glared at Phantom. “Revered Core, please, do you recognize this ghost?” He asked clearly, approaching Danny with the rock. The shine, which had been soft, morphed into a full glow as if it was some kind of star. Being so close, the Observants, Danny and Clockwork had to cover their eyes with a hand.

“So it does respond to questions, huh.” He leaned down and smiled when the rock’s glow lowered to a soft shimmer, pulsing like a heartbeat. “Yo, are you happy with the eyeballs?”

The glow dimmed. The Core wasn’t happy.

“Interesting,” he took the rock from the other ghost’s hand and floated backwards, away from the eyeball trying to retrieve the chunk of rock. “Was everything that the eyeballs say true?”

The Core started pulsing rapidly, as if it were nodding to his question. Okay, so the Observants didn’t steal the artifact and were appointed by the Ancients after Pariah’s defeat.

Danny floated a bit further, dodging Larry. “Core, do you know why the eyeballs stalled my coronation?”

The rock’s glow dimmed to a barely noticeable shine, unsure of how to answer his question. Right, yes or no questions were better.

“Do you think I can be King?” Danny did a flip, his ghostly tail gracing an Observant’s hand trying to grab him. 

The rock’s shine went overdrive, vibrating in his hands.

“Do you think I will be happy being King?” He landed, not sure why he asked that question. Before the Core could answer like some kind of magic 8 ball, it was ripped from his hands.

“Enough!” Larry fumed, withdrawing the rock to his chest, as far as he could from Danny. “Stop this nonsense.”

“Why? I need to get to know the Core of the place I am meant to rule, right?” He laughed, but his heart wasn’t in it.

“You will not ‘get to know’ anything! Not, at least, until we deem you prepared to—”

“Then why wait? Why not now?” he crossed his arms over his chest. “You could have told me and started ‘preparations’ when I defeated Dark.”

“Because—”

“Or, even better,” he walked up to Larry, ignoring the low glow of the Core in the ghost’s arms. “If you wanted to wait you could wait until I graduated high school, no? Just a few years and I would even be happy to oblige.”

“Because you are an insolent brat!” Larry declared to the silent hall. Someone coughed uncomfortably. “Child, you are the last ghost we would choose for this! Oh, believe me, if it were up to me, you would have been executed like you deserve!”

“But you won’t.”

Larry growled, giving a look at Clockwork, who found the whole situation amusing. “For some reason that escapes us, the Zone has chosen you over the other candidate.”

Danny knew this but had to ask. “Who was the other candidate?”

“You know who he is,” Larry straightened his back, the artifact safely in his hands. “Vlad Plasmius.”

The reaction was immediate. The Core turned pitch black, vibrating with an emotion that one could even call fury. Not fear, not dislike — the Core despised Vlad.

Huh. At least they had that in common, Danny appreciated.

He looked up at Larry. “How can you say he is a better alternative? Vlad only wants more power to conquer the whole Zone!” He turned towards the audience and the other Observants. “If it were up to him, all of you would be stripped of your freedom if he decides you’re in the way of his conquest.”

“But he is more experienced than you. He knows the Realms, more than you. Our customs, our ways,” Larry narrowed his eye, ignoring the angry rock in his hands. “You, on the other hand, are just a child. You would only lead us into chaos!”

“Is your fear of the unknown so deep that you would choose a tyrant over me?”

“Plasmius is not a tyrant. At least he can be reasoned with. Not like a brat like you.”

Danny couldn’t believe his ears. “Excuse me? Do we know different Vlad Plasmius?” He waited for Larry to admit he was just kidding, but it never happened. “Vladdie would decimate you the first thing if he becomes king.”

“Impossible. He appreciates the order we keep in this institution.” Larry puffed his chest.

“And he told you this himself, right,” Larry didn’t nod, but it was implied. “Ok, then you are more stupid than I thought you were.”

He grabbed the rock again when Larry stuttered at the insult. “Tell me, Core,” he stage-whispered at the still black stone. Apparently it didn’t like all the Plasmius talk. “Are the Observants stupid for believing Plasmius?”

The rock changed colors to a soft yellow and vibrated, amused. “Thought so.” He nodded and looked back at the audience. “Please, never trust Plasmius. He will stab you in the back at the first notice. I know many of you don’t know me, but I assure you that he would not be a good alternative as King.”

“It doesn’t matter,” a bored ghost interceded from the crowd. Danny didn’t know who it was. “The Core has chosen you no matter if we like it or not.”

On cue, the rock changed colors to green, pulsing and vibrating with desire in Danny’s hands. The halfa almost could hear a whisper in the back of his mind, pure desire, a visceral want of him, his body and his mind. The Core wanted him. Pretty words, but faced with what he could sense from the piece of rock in his hands, he wanted to throw it away and never look back.

He had never been desired or felt desire at this level. It rubbed him the wrong way. It was borderline sexual, how the Core seemed to want him as theirs, as the King — a desire so primal and animalistic that scared him.

Danny licked his lips, turning towards the Observants. “What if I say no?” He knew the answer as well, but he needed to hear it again. He really didn’t want to be King.

Larry looked worried, but relieved. Maybe he sensed that Danny was scared of what he felt from the piece of Core. 

“Destruction. Chaos. The end of the Realms,” he walked towards a book resting on the floor, one of the documents that fell when he hit the table. “It has been recorded by previous kings that they received… visions from the Realms, messages, possibilities of what could have been or could be. One recorded such a vision of what could happen if the Zone is left without a King for too long.” Larry searched for the passage he was referring to and started reading. 

[...] and I saw a black void, hunger, eating everything and everyone away. Such pain and destruction [...]. Unhappiness, the weight of absence of light and a center, a pivot from where the Core would anchor in, only the ultimate unmaking of the Realms was what was left of us.

“Some parts have been lost in the translations, but the message is clear, child. The Realms cannot exist without a king for too long and we are already at the limit.” He closed the book with a thud, the sound too loud in the suddenly quiet room. “This cannot wait until it is convenient for you.” Larry said the word in mockery.

Danny looked down at the chunk of Core, pondering. He knew he didn’t actually have a choice — he couldn’t just leave the Realms to die so he could have a normal life for a few decades and die in a fight.

Centuries.

He would instead reign for millennia, become something else, leave behind his life as he knew it. No big deal. In his mind’s eye he saw his friends and family, Jazz smiling at his show of responsibility. He could almost hear her go on in a spiel about growth and maturity. He chuckled quietly.

There was really no other way, huh? His future that once had been so uncertain now was taking shape in a way he never imagined, set in stone before he even knew what was happening. Decided for him before he knew the implications.

He didn’t want to be king, but he could try. He had the power of friendship and love on his side, right? What could go wrong?

Oh… maybe he shouldn’t have thought that. Jinxing this so early on was a bad idea.

Whatever.

Danny sighed. He knew there was no way in hell he was going to let the Infinite Realms crumble and perish just because he was sixteen and wasn’t sure about his future.

“Okay,” the word was heavy in his mouth, his hands playing with the shiny piece of Core. “Then I accept.”

One blink and you miss it — he found himself in another place, maybe even another time, maybe another realm. He saw a man, tall, muscular, with an imposing figure. The man wore dark and spiky armor, with shoulder guards that resemble animal skulls, a giant white cape clasped over his chest with a black chain waving in an invisible breeze, and in his hand he could clearly see the Ring. He looked up, knowing what he would find.

His own face. Older, more defined, once the baby fat is gone and years have eaten away his innocence. He looks a bit like Dan.

But his eyes. His eyes were different. They weren't red, or angry, or even vicious. His bright green eyes looked gentle and gracious, even with the unnerving absence of pupils or irises. They were all green, toxic green, with flowing green smoke pouring out of the sockets, the wispy ends curling up. The kindness he found in them was familiar.

The not-Dan tilted his head forward and smiled. On his head, among impossibly long flowing locks of snow white hair, the Crown flared with a silent command.

Danny wanted to say something, ask how things would turn out for them, if he was making a mistake, but when he opened his mouth he was back at the Observant’s meeting hall, back to being watched and scrutinized. He blinked the spots in his eyes at the sudden change of lightning, noticing the unusual silence in the room.

Everyone was looking at something behind him.

He turned barely in time to glance at a giant hologram (astral projection?) of the not-Dan crossing his arms around his broad armored chest before it vanished. A deep laugh rang in his own voice, and yet so different from his, reverberating in the big round room. 

Clockwork smirked, as if he had planned for this to happen, and knelt.

“May the King reign forever.” It was just a murmur, but it startled half the room.

Soon, everyone else followed. Detractors, enemies, frenemies, the Observants… Everyone knelt and echoed the claim. His supporters spoke louder, but there was little they could do to add on the fantastic reality he was living.

Danny barely has the conscience to acknowledge what was happening. Because since the… apparition vanished, he felt like he was not the same. His body, a mere flesh suit, the mold of a person he could become. His mind was not just Danny Phantom or Fenton. He has become something else. Someone else.

Or, at least, the ball has started rolling in that direction.

[lordgrimwing]

I was tagged by @thescrapwitch to share part of a WIP. Since I worked on it last night (re: wrote 1 sentence), I'm going to call the sequel to Foresight an active WIP and finally share it! @nighttimepatrons demanded to see all of it so here goes.

"Ah, hello Elrond," Gil-galad said, looking up from the letter he'd been reading.

The boy stood just inside the command tent, one arm wrapped around a bundle of blank scrolls and the other one clutching a quill and stoppered inkwell. He summoned Elrond nearly an hour ago, advising the messenger to go first to the peredhil’s tent, guessing he would still be hiding there. 

Two weeks ago, Gil-galad stopped there himself for a late conversation with the camp’s new arrivals. He’d gone intending to discuss some of his expectations and the ways his camp might work differently than the Fëanorian’s; namely that the twins should not impersonate each other and certainly not in front of their king. Instead, he discovered Elrond’s affliction which his brother tried so hard to keep secret, going so far as pretending to be his brother in public. He’d explained to Elros (Elrond was not in a state to follow a conversation at the time) that there was no need to hide among his people, and that Elrond should not be hidden away from everyone. He also promised to talk to Eönwë, for he felt certain the boy's struggles with foresight were a result of Melian's legacy. He suspected the boys' Fëanorian captors taught them to distrust anything from the Valar, including the Maiar, though, so that promise meant little to them.

Suffice all that to say he'd expected to see Elrond around the camp now that he knew he would not be punished for some perceived weakness. At the very least, he'd thought he'd see the boy accompanying his brother in his duties: carrying messages, fletching arrows and sharpening swords, and any other task he could convince someone to let him do. Yet, Elrond proved as elusive as ever.

Gil-galad finally decided to handle the situation in the most practical way. He summoned the boy to the command tent. That hadn’t worked so well last time, with Elros arriving in his brother’s place and adamantly insisting he was Elrond, but the king believed that if nothing else came of that late conversation with the peredhel, he had at least conveyed that he did not appreciate such behavior. He was gratified to see that Elrond answered the summons, even if tardily. 

“My king,” He said, clutching his load tighter and bowing.

Gil-galad waited patiently for him to rise. When he did not, he offered a belated, “Rise, and enter.” He put little stock in court formality, perhaps because he hardly set foot in one before his coronation and until recently spent his reign leading the last remnants of a people in a hopeless and doomed war. Even now with aid from Valinor, most of them might yet die before Morgoth falls. He would not guess it from Elros’s behavior, but the twins did spent most of their lives living with two past High Kings of the Noldor, and thus may be more familiar with courtly customs (though he imagined the dwindling Fëanorians were too few to make up an actual court).

Elrond stood up and walked into the tent, heading for the low scribe table off to the side of Gil-galad’s own, unobtrusively placed to permit an assistant to work without disturbing the king. He set the scrolls down, carefully placing the inkwell where it couldn’t be knocked to the floor if any of the scrolls began to roll. Tugging at the end of the dark braid sitting over his shoulder, he quickly took a seat on the stool behind the desk before looking up.

“I am ready, your grace,” He said, uncorking the well and taking up the quill. 

“Ah,” Gil-galad said, slightly wrong-footed by how quickly the other settled down to put himself to work. He hadn’t told the messenger the reason he wanted to speak with the peredhel, merely directing him on whom to fetch. The boy, it appeared, filled in the details for himself. Collecting what he needed, paper and quill, likely caused his tardiness. 

“I wished only to speak with you. You needn’t write this down,” He added quickly when the quill started scratching across the page.

Elrond looked up, eyes wide as his hand stalled halfway through the flowing tengwar.

I'll toss the game to @bizzybee429, @tar-thelien, and @sophiegreenleaf (a quick look at your blogs suggests y'all possibly write stuff, but if not perhaps you have some other WIP to share?)

[camille-lachenille]

Tagged by @runawaymun and @echo-bleu for the last line game. I haven’t written in a while and the last thing was a gift for a mutual that would spoil you a Major Plot Twist of their fic so… I’ll see what I have in stock.

Here, a sentence from ‘Elrond and Gil-Galad vs questionnable elven erotica’

Gil-Galad was feeling peculiarly responsible for his friend’s disappearance since he had been the one to force Elrond to take a day off, to do something else than bury himself in papers.

I tag @deadqueernoldor @colinnoahmayhare @thescrapwitch @swanhild

[stuck-in-the-ghost-zone]

most unfortunate thing ive learned about getting into jr.wi is the overlap with genlo.ssers

[prodbionic]

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: Secret Revealed

Mark My Sins

Alternate title: Getting Shot 101

Fandom: Prodigal Son

Word count: 3640

Summary:

Closing cases is Malcolm’s specialty. Getting injured in the process is par for the course. Ditching a hospital run afterwards is his modus operandi. But not this time, not on Gil’s watch.

After putting the perp in handcuffs, Gil catches up with the injured, run-away Malcolm at the latter’s loft. The Lieutenant is in for a shift in perspective.

Warnings: implied and referenced self harm, off screen self harm.

Read on ao3

"Malcolm!" 

Gil’s bellow rang in tandem with the loud bang of the loft’s door meeting its frame. He pocketed the keys and stomped inside, following the trail of blood. It was more visible on the floor of the semi lit apartment than it had been on the staircase, and the sidewalk outside of the building. Drops and smears, smudged in places by shoe imprints, patterned the floor in a path towards the closed bathroom; and not a straight path at that. Gil’s experienced eye picked up how the trail swerved away at least twice, distinctively, and straightened back, before disappearing through the gap beneath the bathroom door.

Goddamnit, the kid was fucking swaying!  

"Malcolm, open the door or so help me god, you’re off the team!" Gil's threat was equal portions of concern and fury. Both feelings clashed, he could not tell one from the other with the intensity of his adrenaline-fueled frustration.

Gil pounded the bathroom door. His patience had long since ended, two blocks into his drive over here, when he’d realized, helplessly, that Malcolm was not going to answer his phone. He'd thrown the phone on the dashboard and floored the gas pedal.

“Are you decent? If you don’t reply, I’m gonna barge in, even if you aren’t, fair warning.”

The older man gave it another two seconds, the absolute extent of his restraint, and that’s only because the sound of Malcolm's breathing through the door placated his panic to a certain degree.

Twisting the door knob, Gil entered.

A medical supplies box sat open, looking like it had a small hurricane ravage its contents. Bottles of alcohol and iodine, packages of gauze rolls and cotton balls, different looking syringes and many other aids he couldn't identify at a glance— all scattered on the bloody floor. Malcolm sat in his boxers in the middle of the room, back resting on the wall, a suture needle in his right, blood-slicked hand. His left held a patch of cotton dressing—soaked red and completely useless by this point—pressed against his thigh where the bullet had hit him. The suit jacket and pants were tossed and forgotten beside the sink, the light gray shirt, now wet and red, bunched under the knee, supporting his injured leg.

While Gil made his assessing once-over of the stifling room, Malcolm was looking up bleary eyed, head tipped back against the wall. He sat there, not moving, not speaking, the needle in his hand forgotten, probably never seen any action in the first place, for all the blood still seeping.

With the faint, but constant, tremor running in Malcolm’s hand, Gil doubted he'd achieved much suturing.

“Hey there, kid,” Gil murmured, all his recent fury melting like butter; there, but no longer solid. He crouched beside Malcolm’s injured side.

Malcolm blinked. “Hey,” he rasped. Gil doubted he would’ve heard it if they weren’t so close.

“I'm gonna take that now,” Gil said as he reached to take the needle out of Malcolm's weak grasp.

Surprisingly, the kid tightened his two fingers around it —insofar as a corpse would tighten two fingers around something— and dragged his hand away from Gil, breathing, “I need it.”

More awareness seemed to flutter into him as he self consciously pulled the bunched shirt from under his thigh and spread it on his lap, wincing in pain all the while.

Gil clenched his jaw, and prayed for even more patience. “What you need is an ER.” 

Looking intently at his wound, Malcolm attempted to work the needle into it. “I won’t go to one. I got this”

“Then why are you sitting there donating blood to the bathroom floor?” Gil challenged, exasperation elevating his tone. In his periphery, the trembling intensified in Malcolm’s hand. 

“I was just resting for a second. You can go, I can do this.” The dismissal was weak enough that Gil didn't bother elaborating all the ways that the kid, in fact, could not do this. Maybe if he was in a better shape, physically, or mentally. Stubborness wasn’t a new territory for Gil to knock doors on, every now and then—But there was stubborn, and there was down right stupid.

“... Malcolm–”

“Please just go, Gil. Just go.” Malcolm’s request-order surged in urgency and distress.

Gil must have missed something. Something vital.

The case they’ve been handling had dragged on for over a couple of weeks, and although they managed to capture the perp, it wasn’t until three more bodies dropped. Malcolm's mood seemed to drop significantly with each new victim, understandably, just like the rest of them. But he also was the one to figure out the pattern, the profile, and they wouldn’t have been able to put an end to these crimes without the profiler's imperative input. So why would he hit rock bottom when they’d finally put the son of a bitch in cuffs?

Under the constant barrage of ‘go-just go’ , Gil stood up and took a step back to appease the younger man and put the brakes on the Spiral Express. Malcolm removed the soaked dressing, uncovering the oozing gash, and Gil gritted his teeth, feeling in a front seat to the insides of that leg. Blood isn’t an unusual sight to him, but on people he cares about, on Malcolm? It was taking a lot of effort to hold himself back from calling dispatch, out of respect to the kid's desperation. But now Malcolm was making pathetic attempts at pressing the needle to his flesh, only to wince, stop, and try again.

“Would you at least let me help you, for God’s sake?” Gil finally exclaimed when he had enough of this second-hand torture.

Malcolm looked up and Gil tamped down the roil of emotion in his chest at the kid’s look of uncertainty and fear, giving a kicked puppy a run for its money. Gil ripped the plastic packaging of a sterile dressing and handed it to malcolm.

“Here, press this on the wound, and throw that one away. It fits better in the trash.”

Malcolm did as told. The saturated cotton piece made a squelch as it met with the floor, missing the waste basket by a couple of feet. Figuring they’re going to use it a lot tonight, Gil pulled the plastic lined bin, and plucked the dripping dressing to drop it inside. He stood to wash his hands.

“Did you take something for the pain?” 

The kid shook his head no , to which Gil shook his head in surrender. Of course. Leave it to Bright to go about this process ass-backwards. Grabbing the discarded suit jacket from the floor, Gil maneuvered Malcolm to hang the jacket around his shoulders, then gave one a gentle squeeze. Hopefully it would warm him up enough to stop his morphing into a popsicle.

“I’ll be right back.”

 

At the kitchen, the lieutenant took off his own coat in a haste so it could survive the night intact, and placed it on the counter housing the meds. After rolling his shirt sleeves to his elbows, he rifled through the med containers until he found his target. He then took a plastic water bottle from the fridge, and after a second of deliberation he also took a lone juice bottle tucked away at the back of the fridge. Like the kid that gets chosen last for team games or projects at school, though it was cranberry, so Gil understood the aversion.

Back at the bathroom, Malcolm was staring at the shower wall, head miles away it seemed. Gil leaned across him to put the juice on the nonbloody part of the floor, and gently nudged that free hand—the other still pressed weakly on the wound—with the water bottle. “Hey, Bright.”

Malcolm shifted his gaze to the chilly condensation touching his skin, and robotically clutched the opened bottle. He opened his mouth dutifully when prompted, for Gil to place the couple of pills, then chased them down with the water. Now Gil shifted his attention to the —actually pretty impressive— medical kit, and its contents. He secured a new suture kit, an iodine bottle, a couple of latex gloves and set to work.

It was only when he grabbed the rumpled bloody shirt to remove it from Malcolm's lap, that more awareness shot through the kid again. He held on to the shirt, firmly covering his thighs to the knees. Gil, though perplexed, decided to choose his battles and merely pushed it an inch upwards, to clear an area around the laceration on the lateral side of the left thigh.

“Permission to be blunt?” Gil asked, and made sure his tone brooked no argument. He was going to be blunt whether Malcolm liked it or not, who was side-eying him while resting his head backwards and sipping lazily at his bottle. "This is fucking stupid," Gil said, even as he threw away the newly soaked gauze pad, put the gloves on, dumped half the iodine on Bright’s leg and prepared the thread.

Malcolm shook his head ruefully. "Gil–"

"It is. Look me in the eye and tell me this isn't stupid. I wave for the paramedics and you bolt like it’s Death coming to get you? Since when was ‘running home to patch yourself up’ the one-oh-one of Getting Shot?"

"That’s the new update. And I wouldn’t bolt if it was Death, I don’t think…" Malcolm trailed off under the intensity of Gil's withering glare, the raised corner of his mouth gained sudden weight and fell off, erasing his smirk. Despondence took place instead as he continued, somber, "I couldn't let them–… Gil, I– 

Gil waited for him to continue, busying himself in the stitches. And waited. And waited. Nothing came. The only sounds made were the slight hitch in his drawn breaths with every press of the needle at his flesh. Gil finished off another stitch and raised his head to finally look at Malcolm, but he averted his gaze.

Gently, so gently, like treading on water, "What aren't you telling me, Bright?" 

A shuddering breath, a thick swallow, a still averted gaze later and Gil gave up on a response. He looked back down at the almost closed gash, but before he started another stitch he couldn't help but notice how Malcolm had both his hands in fists protectively over the bunched shirt covering his thighs. Gil frowned. He swiftly finished the last two stitches, took off his gloves and pitched them into the trash. Then got comfortable beside Malcolm, but opposite so he can easily look at him.

"You know you can trust me."

No response.

Gil actually felt unsure, and like he was wading into a stranger territory. "When did that stop being the case?"

One translucent drop trailed down the kid's cheek, sailed down from his chin to land in a soft splat on his stomach. 

“I… trust you,” Malcolm mumbled. He sounded unsure, himself. Like he was iterating a fact he had, a fact burrowed inside for so long that it was rusty upon retrieval.

“I'm sorry if I ever gave you a reason to doubt it, kid,” Gil said, wholly meaning it. “I'm not set out to guilt trip you.”

Malcolm shook his head, more tears leaking from under closed lids. “It's not what this is. I…”

When he got stuck on words again, Gil was resolute to bypass this hiccup.

“Look, it doesn't matter right this second. You look more white than your normal white boy white. Wanna avoid a hospital tour? I expect those two bottles to be empty before I stand to wash my hands.”

A huff of expelled air with a corner of mouth slanted upward in a soundless, wet laugh, Malcolm looked beside him then made a face. “It's cranberry, Gil.”

Gil silently cheered at the aggrieved whine, while Malcolm swiped at his wet cheek. 

“Not my problem. It's in your fridge, it's not past expiration date, you're not allergic. Drink.”

He drained the last of his water first then grabbed the offensive juice to twist the cap. “It’s mother, always sending piles of groceries.”

“Good. Left to your own devices, I doubt you’d see the inside of a grocery store.”

“Debatable.”

They share a silent minute; Malcolm sipping juice with an occasionally scrunched up face, and Gil cleaning around the stitches before covering them up in adhesive gauze. 

“You got people in your life who look out for you, kid. Don’t shut us out when you need help.”

Malcolm stared at him, clearly weighing something on his mind that Gil would pay to know, but wisely chose to stare back and wait.

“Help me up?”

Not exactly what he had in mind but Gil would gladly take it. With a hand clasped with the younger man’s and another under his armpit, Gil hauled —an entirely too heavy for Gil’s old bones— Malcolm on his swaying feet, two steps backwards, where the latter plopped on the toilet lid.

They both panted after that little exercise before Malcolm was first to break the silence in a tired mumble, "That was too exhausting. I don't know if I can manage a shower."

Gil eyed the bloody shirt on the floor. Malcolm had held it over his legs like a lifeline, but he didn't seem to notice it falling during the shift in their position.

"I can help clean you off where you're sitting."

Studiously avoiding looking at what the shirt had been hiding, Gil ran warm water with soap in the sink. He collected some face towels from a cabin and soaked them.

Malcolm looked like he wanted nothing more than to doze off, which was understandable; the kid lost what could amount to two bags of blood. His eyelids drooping, his arms and shoulders slack, the back of the toilet the only thing propping him up.

"I uh– I'm tired, Gil," he whispered, and Gil had the suspicion that what he meant was beyond the physical sense of right then. He was at a loss on how to comfort him. Being here, cleaning his kid’s skin enough that he could sleep the night as comfortably as possible, and staying with him, showing him how he cared and understood; other than that, Gil didn’t have any options. ‘You can lead a horse to water’, and all.

And so Gil did exactly that. “I’m right here, Bright,” he said. Then, methodically, wordlessly cleaned him of all the blood. The creases and divots in his palm and between his fingers, his arms, neck, and torso. He reached the part with the larger mess; his legs. Gil did not stop, or stare at all the slash marks patterning the inside and the front of his thighs. Gil did not flinch in sympathy as he wiped over them with another fresh soapy wet towel. He definitely did not look up at Malcolm as he finished with that part, and moved on to his calves and shins. He held himself together because it was what Malcolm needed of him.

The marks were different degrees of healed, some as fresh as just this morning, some as old as a week. That was how long Malcolm had needed him, needed someone, and no one had had a clue.

All done, Gil stood up. “I’ll get you some clean underwear. Stay put.”

Outside of the bathroom, Gil drew a deep breath of fresher air; no blood or antiseptics smells, no suffocation under the pressure of words unsaid. But all too soon, he was back with the clean clothes. Malcolm was exactly how Gil left him, but his hooded eyes bore into Gil with a knowing look. An apprehensive look. He knew Gil now knew what he'd kept tight under guard. What broke Gil's heart was that the kid seemed to be waiting for the other shoe to drop, like Gil would somehow berate him.

He handed him the clothes and yet another clean wet towel to clean anything that was missed. “I’m here if you need a hand, buddy.”

He faced the other way and crouched to gather the mess on the floor, frequently eying the shelf harboring all the shaving paraphernalia, including an open and half empty box of razors. Keeping himself busy cleaning, he also kept an ear attuned behind him for any possible slips, resisting offering assistance again when he heard the grunts of exertion. Gil was right here, and Malcolm asking for help had to start somewhere.

He would never have berated the kid. Not for something like this. His initial fury was so damningly misplaced and all he felt now was floodgates of guilt that threatened to sweep him off. What would've happened had his tirade went on a little bit longer? Or if it had more bite, more intensity than Malcolm could handle in such a delicate state? Kid could've shut off completely or worse—

His morose line of thought got interrupted out of imagining exaggerated worst case scenarios, by his name being called in a pleading tone. He twisted to find the kid somehow tangled in his own t-shirt amid the process of wearing it. Gil chuckled and swiftly washed his hands before going to the rescue.

“Can I sleep ‘ere?” Malcolm mumbled, sleepy and limp as Gil helped him put his arm and head through their right slots.

“No can do, champ. Up you go.”

They made their way slowly—Gil bearing most of Malcolm’s weight who participated by shuffling his feet in the right directions, thankfully— out of the bathroom, through the living room, and over to the bed where Gil sat him, back propped on the headboard. 

“Don’t sleep yet. You gotta get something else in you.”

He didn’t expect or wait for an answer, before hurrying to the kitchen again. Retrieving a miraculously still standing lemon from the fridge, a generous heaping dollop of honey for the sweet toothed kid, and warm water from the tea kettle, Gil thought to order some groceries first thing in the morning. The state of this kitchen could not stand. While preparing the drink he kept an eye on Malcolm, who only moved to drag a blanket from the foot of the bed and furled it around himself. Gil went back to hand him the glass—the largest one and full to the brim—under the kid’s unwavering eye-contact. It seemed like he was expecting the scolding to start any second now. Tough, for none was coming.

“Drink.”

A tentative sip, eye-contact unbroken, before, ”Why didn’t you panic?”

“I remember it differently. I very well remember panicking. You got shot and fled the scene.”

“It’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant. You’re a responsible adult, despite the fact that I like to call you ‘kid’ half the time. A few shallow cuts that you have all the control over are significantly less panic-inducing than a bullet that was meant to kill you but still managed to hit you.

Malcolm rolled the glass between his hands for a minute. “Mom used to panic.”

“I bet she did,” Gil said with a rueful chuckle. Jessica had had the unenviable position of raising a very struggling teen. It had taken her years to get accustomed to rolling with the blows. He shook himself out of the memories. “I was more concerned about the fact that you were struggling that much. And that you didn’t have a healthier outlet.”

“Gil…”

“I’m not blaming you. I just wish that you’d reached out.”

“This case. It was dragging you, all of you, down enough. You didn’t need to worry about me on top of everything else. I’d stopped doing this for almost a decade but I guess my stress has been building up for some time. Don’t really remember making the decision to grab the… uhm… I just, maybe… sort of lost myself for a minute, dissociated probably. I remember coming out of it relieved. Horrified that I failed my clean streak, but relieved. So I did it again and again.”

“Why run?” And this was the pinnacle of the situation.

“Because the medics would’ve seen. And at the hospital. I didn’t want it added to some report in my file or worse,” his hands waved, his demeanor became so animated, even some of the liquid sloshed out of the glass, “that I would get a psych eval or whatever. And I don’t have a great track record with medical personnel respecting my demands, and I could've panicked and they could’ve sedated me and I hate hospitals for a reason, Gil! Multiple reasons. And, to be completely honest with you, some of these reasonings are pure paranoia. I can recognize it but I can't help it, I just… ran to take care of myself, myself.” He didn’t stop to take a breath it seemed, his tirade a steam train, blowing out at full speed. Gil absorbed all of it. He let it percolate in his mind as the kid caught his breath and gulped down the last of the glass’ contents. He stared out the window for a minute, composed himself, before continuing, “but I’m glad you came.”

 “...I’ll always come, Bright.”

Gil took the empty glass from Malcolm’s too-cold hands. The kid still looked too pale for comfort. Exhaustion was finally winning out so Gil prompted him to slide down the bed.

“Next time you’re stressed, we can hit the gym. I need an excuse and a motivation to put in more exercise.”

“You getting old, Lieutenant Arroyo?” Malcolm teased with a sly half-smile.

Gil chuckled and lightly slapped him on the top of his head, before ruffling his hair.

“Never too old to knock you on your ass on the gym’s mat, kid.”

Gil knew it wasn’t true but the laugh he drew from Malcolm was his win for the night.

[softquietsteadylove]

So I just finished watching Mr. And Mrs. Smith but I tried picturing Mr. Smith as Don. Maybe you could turn it to "Mr. And Mrs. Lee" pls.

"What are you thinking?"

Thena raises a brow. He's asking this now? She's in the middle of tying up some minor wounds for him. Wounds she inflicted on him--she thought he was an intruder!

They both thought the other was an intruder. Normal people might have called out for their spouse in curiosity, but neither are trained to be normal people.

"You have to ask?"

"I didn't think I would," Gilgamesh sighs, still letting her softer hands smooth over the cuts he acquired from her apparent knife specialty. "But...I don't know anymore."

Thena sighs. That's only fair. There is a lot they're...overdue to share. Clarify, maybe. "Ask away, then."

Gil stays sitting facing away from her, letting her work in the remains of their living room. He rests his arms on his bent knees. "How did it happen--for you?"

She knows what he's asking. No matter what lies or half-truths they've built their marriage around, he is still her husband. And even with all she's kept from him, he still knows her better than any other person alive. "Imagine...imagine your father is the head of this...agency. And he's raised you to be one of those agents. Your whole life is this job--before it's even yours."

"One day, you get this mission. It's a big one, too, in service to some mysterious higher power. You get sent after an agent from somewhere within that higher power because he's suspected of not being so loyal to Mister Arishem."

"Then you get there, and you meet him," Thena sighs. Her hands are starting to shake as she winds the bandage around his torso. "And he's rather nice--sweet, actually. And he's funny, and...maybe you think he's kind of cute."

Gil smiles, attempting to get a look at her but getting his chin moved back around.

"Forward."

"Sorry," he chuckles, knowing what he needs to. He knows she's telling the truth because she hates being looked at when she does. She only ever makes her confessions in the dark of night, while turned around, maybe in the occasional voice memo in which he could hear that vulnerability under her taut surface.

"And then," Thena continues, determined to get out the words she has never wanted to even think aloud. "I--you don't know what happened. Suddenly you're hoping to run into him again. You start looking at apartment listings even though you've only ever stayed in quarters afforded by the agency."

"And your target - the mark - isn't...he isn't just a file." It comes out soft, almost brittle. "His name is Gilgamesh, but he likes to be called Gil. And he has a nice smile, and he holds doors open for you, and you leave your father's wing just so you can get an apartment where he can come over and eat takeout and watch stupid television and-"

Gil wants to turn and look at her. And she doesn't stop him this time.

Thena blinks, hoping to dispel some of the tears in her eyes, "and you're in love with him. So in love it's more terrifying than any mission. And you don't know how it happened, but there you are, saying yes when he asks you to marry him."

Gil gulps. He's never seen her cry real tears. He's seen them maybe in the corners of her eyes, but even at their wedding, she was all smiles. Although, now that he's thinking about it, maybe that's a much better alternative. "Do you mean it?--when you say yes?"

"Of course," Thena whispers, all but crumbling to the floor, among the scrapes in the wood and the shattered glass. But her husband pulls her into his lap, and she buries her face in his chest. "It's the truest thing you've ever said in your life."

Gil sighs, resting his chin on her hair. They've done this a few times, and he can vividly remember every time. Times when they're done making love and he gets to see that Thena is actually a soft, breakable human being instead of a walking switchblade. Times when she's trying to get something off her tongue and he tells her he doesn't need her to say it--so long as she loves him. Times when he thinks he could retire just so he never has to let go of her.

Thena shifts, wrapping her arms around him. He responds naturally, picking her up and carrying her out of the wreckage. They end up back in their bedroom. She stares up at the ceiling light, with the light bulb she'd meant to change for five weeks because Gil kept asking her to and she kept forgetting.

Gil lets out a groan as he lies down beside her. He sustained more injuries than she did--and he's glad. As soon as he discovered the assailant he thought was there to do in both him and Thena was, in fact, his wife, he stopped. He reared up and away from her like a spooked horse.

His wife has a hell of a left hook, though, even as a right-y.

"I always wondered what they were thinking with that stupid stucco ceiling texture."

Gil lets out a laugh. Thena does too. He always wondered how she became so fascinated with interior design (even when he thought she was technically a high profile lawyer). Now he realises it's because she never had a home of her own before that first apartment of hers he went to seven years ago, Chinese takeout and a bouquet of lilies in hand. "I knew you hated it."

Thena shrugs, "it takes a lot of time to redo a ceiling. Neither of us would be home enough to make sure the work was done properly."

"Make sure the house was secure enough while we were both away?"

"Exactly."