#hands are already hard to draw but STEEPLED HANDS???? so difficult

[krowbby]

[image ID: a greyscale drawing of Havelock Vetinari and Rufus Drumknott. Vetinari is sitting as his desk in the oblong office and Drumknott is leaning in to whisper to him. There are speech bubbles arranged so that Vetinari says “Well, I can’t force such a reformed person as you—“ then Drumknott whispers something to him, then Vetinari says “well, clearly I can force you, but on this occasion I don’t think I will.” The two men are backlight by light from the window and are mostly in shadow. end ID]

pov: the patrician has run out of titles to give sam vimes so you’re about to run the banks in addition to the post office.

[tarydarrington]

Veth doesn’t know who she’d expected to be waiting on the other side of the knock at the door, but if she’d had to guess, Essek Thelyss wringing his hands like a worried grandmother would have been near the bottom of her list.

“Oh,” she says. “Hi?”

He bobs his head, almost more a quick bow than a nod, tenting his fingers in front of his chest. “Good afternoon,” he says, with the distinct cadence of someone who has repeated the words to himself in the mirror all morning. “I hope you are well?”

“I’m all right,” Veth answers haltingly.

The two of them stand there for a moment, awkward silence hanging between them. Then, finally, Essek gives her a nervous smile.

“I do not wish to impose, but, ah…” He gestures past her. “May I enter?”

“Yeah. Sure.” She steps aside, and Essek gives her a grateful nod before walking - walking? - past her into the living room. “Take a seat, if you like.”

He takes the invitation, perching gingerly onto the very edge of the armchair they keep for their larger-sized guests. Veth follows him in, shutting the door behind her and wondering if this isn’t all a very strange dream. Essek barely meets her gaze as she circles around to stand before him. She leans forward, narrowing her eyes.

"What is this? Why are you being weird? Did something happen? Did Caleb die?"

"No!" Essek reins in his volume, pressing his palms together in apology. "No, certainly not. It is simply…"

Veth raises her eyebrows to prompt him.

"Well, I, ah…" His fingers draw little circles in the air, as though he can pull the words out like a spell. "I have read that it is custom in the Empire to request the blessing of a guardian if one wishes to…" The pained look on his face stretches even further. "Court."

Veth blinks at him. He’s serious. He has to be. That face, all pinched up towards the middle, reminds her of the way the neighbor boy looked when he admitted to breaking her dining room window. It looks absolutely absurd on the former Shadowhand.

"Well, I'm sure he would be flattered, but even with the slower aging, Luc's a little young for you."

She can practically see the joke fly over his head. "No," Essek blurts hurriedly, eyes blown wide with mortification. Veth might have laughed if she didn't feel a bit guilty. "No, I…" He brings one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezing shut, and she suspects he's rooted out the sarcasm.

"If you're talking about Caleb," she says as a peace offering, "I'm certainly not his mother."

"No." Essek presses his palms together again, this time in his lap. "I have considered ways to make a meaningful gesture regarding his parents, but…"

He shakes his head. Veth can fill in the blanks. She wouldn't want the beginning of a new relationship to be tangled up in past trauma, either.

"So," he continues. "I had thought, perhaps, that as his closest friend, you might be a suitable alternative."

Well, that’s… She isn’t sure if it’s flattering, exactly, but she’ll accept the show of respect. She takes a moment to scrutinize him as he watches her apprehensively. Essek and Caleb. Caleb and Essek. It makes a certain kind of sense. Once, years ago, she might have railed against it; despite his growth, it’s still difficult sometimes to look at Essek and see anything other than her husband’s former jailer.

But lately, these last few years, Veth has been at home. She’s been with her family, the most important people in the world to her, and Caleb… well, he’s been off on his own adventures. And without Veth there to look after him, it’s been on Essek’s shoulders to make sure he comes back from said adventures alive and whole. Which he has, so far, without fail.

And that look Essek is giving her, as though if she says no, it might actually dissuade him?

"First of all," she begins with a sigh, "you’re not at court. You’re not courting. You're dating."

At the look of confusion on Essek's face, she takes a deep breath.

"You'll take him to have a meal together, or to see a play, or to watch a lecture. Don't do the lecture thing, that's a bad idea. That would be a terrible date." She pauses. "Although, with you two, maybe."

She can tell from the look on his face that she's losing him, so she waves her hands. "Nevermind that. Disregard all of that. The point is, you'll take him to nice places and do enjoyable things together."

Essek shifts uncomfortably. “I… don’t know if I can do that,” he admits. “I cannot be seen outside of the confines of his home or areas outside of the Empire.”

Veth frowns. “Well, you’re going to have to take him somewhere. You have disguises, right?”

Essek seems to consider it. “I do,” he says. “I suppose it would be worth a small risk, from time to time.”

“You’re darn right,” Veth agrees. “And don’t skimp, either. Caleb deserves the best.”

Essek nods entirely too seriously, as though he’s filing all this away in his mind. Veth makes a mental note to pester him with a progress report in about six months’ time.

Not one too rigorous, though. It’s hard to imagine prodding at him for entertainment’s sake when he looks so pathetic.

“Is there anything else?” he asks tentatively, when the silence persists.

“Well, let’s see.” She runs a finger over her chin, theatrically deep in thought. She already knows her answer. “Do you care for him?”

“Of course.” The sincerity on his face almost makes her feel bad about this. “More deeply than I have ever cared for anyone.”

She shouldn’t ask. It’s probably not something he’s discussed with Caleb himself, yet, if they’re only just now getting together. It would be prying, even for her. “Do you love him?” she asks, anyway.

A little, lost smile turns up one corner of Essek’s lips, and it’s almost a whisper when he replies, “How could I not?”

A pang of something that has never quite left Veth’s heart smarts for the first time in years, and she looks away with a matching smile.

When she and Caleb had been traveling with the others, people tended to hem and haw when she brought up how amazing Caleb was. They thought he was talented, sure, but it sometimes felt like none of the others could see the unquenchable light in him. But looking at Essek’s face, at the way his eyes are shining, Veth can’t help but think that maybe, finally, somebody gets it.

"Alright." She reaches out, and before he can flinch away, pats his hand. "You've convinced me. You have earned my permission to have regular sex with my adult, human son."

“I…” His brow furrows. “Truly?”

“Yeah, go nuts.” She waves a hand dismissively. “Caleb’s a grown adult. He can make his own choices, and if he’s choosing you, then good for both of you.”

Essek blinks at her like she’s just handed him a full pardon from the Bright Queen.

“I mean, obviously, if you hurt him, you will have all of us to answer to,” she says. “But you’re the guilt guy, so I think you’ll probably have yourself to answer to, first.”

"I…" He clasps his hands together. "I expected more… what is the word? Pushback.”

Veth braces her hands on her hips. “You know what? Fjord and Jester didn’t even tell me they were dating until I literally saw them kissing, and Beau and Yasha were barely better.” She jabs a finger towards Essek’s chest, ignoring the way he startles at the movement. “So you have just made it to the top of the Winter’s Crest card list.”

Essek presses his steepled fingers against his mouth, but not before Veth catches the bashful smile spreading there.

“Thank you,” he says. “Truly, I… This means a great deal.”

“Heck yeah, my blessing’s worth a lot,” she replies with a grin. “You know what? Tell Fjord that. He doesn’t have my blessing. I’m gonna make him work for it.”

This time the joke doesn’t pass him by, and she can read in his small smile that he’s grateful for the show of familiarity.

“I should hope he will rise to the occasion,” he says, and Veth gets the feeling he isn’t just talking about Fjord.

[smallerthanzer0]

Nearly two decades ago, the boy who was not yet Caleb Widogast sat down for a lesson.

His professor’s fingers lay steepled on his desk, old bones jagged as a dragon’s maw and holding a similar amount of danger within. “Bren,” he began, a sweet familiarity that, several months into the boy’s tutelage, was already starting to curdle. “What do you know about swimming with sharks?”

The boy’s brow furrowed, betraying a question he knew better than to ask - what was a shark?

--

The boy had learned, and had burned, and was now a man named Caleb Widogast who should still be aware of the securities that one tended to invest in upon venturing into politics. Protection from poison, for one. Allies, whether by choice or persuasion. Methods of ascertaining the whereabouts and plans of other agents without detection.

Trent Ikithon had some skill in such ascertainment - and, more importantly, he received regular reports of comings and goings from the city’s branch of the Cobalt Soul. Within twenty minutes of Caleb Widogast’s arrival in Rexxentrum, he had gathered scrying materials and waited patiently to find what traps his erstwhile pupil intended to trigger. 

Suspicious, considering that said pupil had until recently owned an amulet to prevent such intrusions. Perhaps there was something Bren wanted him to see, and he was happy to oblige. It was easily apparent that the incompetence of his companions far outweighed the delicacy of any ambuscade that Bren cared to lay. 

After watching the absurd pantomime that was the Mighty Nein buying out a joke-seller’s wares, he decided, somewhat less patiently, that eleven years in an asylum was perhaps inconducive to one’s understanding of intrigue.

He let the scrying spell fade long before the transaction completed, the blue tiefling’s squeals of delight echoing tinnily in his ears. 

--

An hour later, the idiot that had taken up residence in the mind of his brightest pupil was waltzing in a beer hall rendered more uninhabitable by the minute as a cloud of wafting stink enveloped the dance floor.

Ikithon recognized this hall. He had, on one particular occasion, swept through its doors to remind his charges that no aspect of their lives was undiscoverable. A good lesson to learn, in games of power. 

He was aware, of course, that Bren was nostalgic. It had been obvious from the single moment he had spent with Eodwulf, a world of foolish emotion compressed into a paltry greeting. Had the boy seen Astrid, surely the sentiment would be even stronger -

He had always taken particular pleasure in letting those he deigned to punish be caught in traps of their own making.

(A scant mile away, outside a dance hall with green smoke drifting out hastily opened windows - the man who is Caleb Widogast lets the boy who was Bren a moment to remember nights spent dancing with old friends, then turns to follow his new family towards a new destiny housed in old halls. He has always possessed a fondness for dancing in circles.)

--

Astrid sat down. Not for a lesson, this time, though with Ikithon everything tended to have one - as if he was the only one who knew how to act for the good of the Empire, sharing the information with only the closest and most trusted of his students. 

Breaking Bren like that, abandoning him to the shell that was Caleb Widogast - Ikithon had made at least one mistake. Was it not every student’s job to improve upon their predecessors?

She drew a small pouch from an inner pocket, holding it out with fingers that remained thin despite years of academy meals.

Ikithon didn’t take it. He stared at her, she at him. She refused to let her hand shake, knew better than to lower it to his desk.

“You are doubtful of some point. Please, ask.”

Dangerous, questions. Bait for sharks. And yet she found her mouth opening, a wound that had yet to stop bleeding making itself known. “Will you be using this on Bren?”

Ikithon’s expression remained unchanged past a shine to suddenly hard eyes. “Is that relevant?”

Astrid was aware of how people described her features - mannish nose, harsh chin. She welcomed the way it was more difficult to spot when she gritted her teeth. “This will be adequate for the… menagerie of company that he keeps. Quick release, fast acting. But it is well known, and we were all trained towards immunity.”

“I see.” Ikithon was not disappointed - he had trained her to know better than to disappoint him, and both of them knew that she would eventually draw out a second, smaller pouch to join the first. “For him?”

“Yes.”

Ikithon took both pouches, slipping them into a drawer. “Thank you, Astrid,” he said, and she hated the way that it made her jaw relax. “Your preparation in such matters is much appreciated, as it always has been.”

She thought of a night two months ago, the look in Bren’s eyes when she had managed to pry him back out. He had wanted to come home. To be good, to serve. 

Her parents had wanted nothing more, and she had killed them to become stronger. They could have served no better purpose - but Bren, her Bren, who had burned so brightly-

“For the good of the Empire, always.”

--

Ikithon’s hands were steepled in front of him as he checked in on Bren one more time. He thought of it as paternal, almost - the prodigal son coming back to the family.

He was not one for open arms and forgiveness, but perhaps there was something left to set alight. He would spark the blaze, and send it where he wished. 

In retrospect, Ikithon knew very little of fatherhood.

Bren was well dressed, his hair brushed back - suitable for an adult, if not the student he had been - and he was leaning to talk to the Expositor -

- was that the ocean?

The background of the scrying spell resolved into the frivolous bent of Nicodranian architecture, and Ikithon’s lip curled despite himself.

He was familiar with teleportation spells, though he rarely traveled far enough to have use of them. Unlike Da’leth or DeRogna, he had better uses of his time than gallivanting to abandoned corners of the earth.

Wasting a high-level spell before their meeting? Bren continued to disappoint. 

He’d been a bright student. The brightest. He should have at least been able to don the facade of a worthy opponent. Surely he could learn again, but Ikithon did not take well to forgetfulness.

Bren had forgotten that, when the silt of political muck was stirred up, there was always something lurking beneath.

Perhaps time for one last lesson, then. 

(Many, many miles away - the Mighty Nein’s pockets are lined with pranks and weapons alike. Most would deem these impractical baggage for a dinner party. 

The Mighty Nein intend to teach them a lesson.)

[isabilightwood]

THE PROBLEM WITH AUTHORITY - CHAPTER 8

Or, Sacrifice Summon! Jiang Yanli is here to make things right, be the ultimate big sister (step 1: bring back her dead brother), and maybe steal the Peacock throne in the process

[AO3][1][2][3][4][5][6][7]

iang Yanli was thrilled to have A-Xian back, and she absolutely hated his plan.

He’d had little difficulty creating the device that would cloak him in a face meant for meaningless cruelty. He had carved a simple wooden mask, and etched characters into it with unusual care. While Jiang Yanli was still getting A-Ling dressed the next morning, A-Xian sketched a young man sweeping leaves across the street, and she walked down to breakfast to find a stranger sitting comfortably among the Nie.

There was nothing in his features to give away that this was a mask, or a face that did not belong to him. But his smile was still his own.

Nie Huaisang had already managed to find clothes in Nie gray that fit A-Xian. Jiang Yanli had to wonder if he’d prepared them beforehand, somehow remembering A-Xian’s measurements without even needing to ask her.

“Shiji— Ah, I mean, Jin-furen. Are you going to introduce your little monster to me?” A-Xian grinned brightly.

She’d thought he would only be able to glimpse his sleeping nephew. But with this disguise, A-Xian could meet him, and A-Ling would never be able to give him away with a child’s innocence.

A-Ling hid behind her back, suddenly shy, though he had not been with the Nie disciples the day before.

She knelt to get on eye level with her son. “It’s alright, A-Ling. He’s a friend.”

Setting his jaw, A-Ling looked stubbornly away.

“Hold on a second.” A-Xian sketched a talisman in the air, and it burst apart into a flock of glittering butterflies. He’d invented it for distraction, but it also doubled as a foolproof way of charming small children.

A-Ling gaped, his hand dropping from her sleeve, and ran forward to jump for the butterflies. As they disappeared under his grasping hands, he laughed in delight.

A-Xian laughed with him.

“Would you show me that one?” Nie Xiaodan asked. “It would be great for convincing our novices to get up and start their exercises. Some of them think that because their Sect Leader is a layabout that means they can be too.”

Nie Huaisang looked up from dipping his youtiao, soy milk dripping from the end of the fried bread. “Our finances are in better shape than they’ve ever been, and I let her manage night hunts as she wishes, and this is the thanks I get.”

“Except for the ghoul infestations you have us move or neglect to keep the other sects and your own peasantry convinced you’re incompetent.” Nie Xiaodan patted her Sect Leader hard enough on the shoulder that he shifted forward in his seat. “So, yes, this is your thanks, A-Sang.”

“The disrespect, not even calling me Zongzhu!” Nie Huaisang complained, even as he preened.

A-Xian laughed as he moved a century egg from his own congee to A-Ling’s. “Sure, I can teach you the talisman. I bet I could modify it so the butterflies last longer, and change directions when someone comes near, so they have to keep chasing them. What do you think, A-Ling? Would that be fun!”

“Mnnmf,” A-Ling agreed, as a blob of his breakfast failed to make it into his mouth. A-Xian beat her to wiping his mouth off, and A-Ling didn’t even flinch, already comfortable with him. Shiny new playthings and a smiling face worked wonders with children, but she hoped A-Ling somehow recognized that he should be important to him.

Jiang Yanli smiled, and brushed a strand of hair back away from her son’s mouth.

After breakfast, Nie Xiaodan and the other disciples parted from them to retrieve Nie Mingjue’s body, and transport him back to Qinghe for burial.

A-Ling had started out the ride babbling excitedly over a series of talismans A-Xian showed him, but eventually, he tired out and dozed off in Jiang Yanli’s arms, trusting her implicitly to keep him upright on the horse.

“It works like this, see?” A-Xian explained while they were on the road, still wearing that stranger’s face so A-Ling couldn’t describe his real one by mistake, only some friendly Nie disciple. He rode hands free, pressing the mask over a drawing of Xue Yang’s face as he etched new shapes into a second mask.

With his poor memory for faces, A-Xian hadn’t remembered the details of Xue Yang’s features. But Jiang Yanli’s glaring had not been enough to stop Nie Huaisang from describing him.

Qin Su was a voice of reason where she didn’t want one. You do have to admit it is a good plan. Jin Guangyao’s very observant — your brother’s plan could make a huge difference in how successful we are in undermining him.

Jiang Yanli had to admit no such thing. I thought you were afraid of him.

I stopped the moment he brought out the butterflies. It’s incredible to me now that anyone who met him could be frightened of him.

He can be intimidating when he wants to, make it seem like he doesn’t care about anything. For her, it was only terrifying to watch her brother do that to himself. His act fooled almost everyone, even A-Cheng.

But not you.

No, A-Xian had never fooled her.

Jiang Yanli would feel much better if there were someone out there, watching his back. If A-Xian would let himself be convinced to go see his zhiji before he committed to any reckless plans. But he had so far ignored her hinting.

Pressing it over the first mask, his features changed in the space of a blink, and Xue Yang stared back at her.

Only the malice was missing.

He went on speaking, and that was even stranger. “I’ll add on a few more faces, I think, so I can look like a respectable grandfather, or a random street kid at the drop of a hat. It doesn’t really let me change my body’s shape, so I won’t be able to shrink into a stooped little granny, unfortunately — that would be even less suspicious. Faces should be enough though, I think.”

“Very impressive, A-Xian. Switch it back, please?” It was, in fact, a monumental achievement, and one he’d achieved in only a single night. But there was only so long Jiang Yanli could stand to look at that face.

He sketched a talisman over the mask without looking, and with a shimmer of golden light, the first face returned. She would have preferred his own, but this was far preferable to the alternative.

The mask did solve the problem of how to smuggle A-Xian into Koi Tower unseen.

Nie Huaisang was all too happy to handle it.

Jiang Yanli entered Koi Tower first, the disciples she’d dismissed at Fengyang appearing at the city entrance as she’d predicted. The others waited outside the city until evening. She brought A-Ling to greet his uncle, as that was expected.

“I trust you had a productive trip?” Jin Guangyao reached out for A-Ling, and plopped him down on his lap. A-Ling giggled, and began to fiddle with a brush with a wet tip, promptly staining his fingers and flicking ink splotches onto his robes.

“I did.” She clasped her hands behind her back to conceal the way her hands clenched into fists at the sight of Jin Guangyao touching her son. Every time it happened, Jiang Yanli had to fight the urge to grab him away and run as far from Koi Tower as she could get. Though Jin Guangyao spoiled A-Ling, she and Qin Su both knew sharing blood would not be enough to protect him, if Jin Guangyao decided he wanted him gone. “I believe Zhai-zongzhu’s planned watchtower locations will be well situated to respond to their most difficult to reach locations. I also provided a few suggestions to Qi-zongzhu. Many of his choices were too close to a temple sect and one was on land that floods regularly.”

“Good, good. Would you mind summarizing those suggestions for me? Qi-zongzhu can be so absentminded, we may need to remind him.” He steepled his fingers, the effect ruined as A-Ling spread ink across the curve of his cheek. Jin Guangyao’s smile twitched. “Excellent, thank you. You also stopped in to see our dear cousin, I believe?”

Our cousin, Qin Su repeated bitterly.

Her breath caught. “I did, yes. I know they had a falling out with my sister, but we’re still quite fond of each other.”

“I feel the same way about Huaisang, though he does test my patience sometimes.” Jin Guangyao did not bring up any of her subsequent extracurriculars. Instead, he plucked the brush from A-Ling’s fist as he came dangerously close to spreading ink on his uncle’s robes. He very seriously asked A-Ling his opinion on tablecloths for an upcoming event.

With that, Jiang Yanli understood the conversation was over. She turned to leave.

Nie Huaisang had a sense for timing, and chose that moment to test Jin Guangyao’s patience. He burst in, wailing, with a rumpled, mud-stained, an out of breath steward on his heels.

Simply a disciple left in his supposed Sect Leader’s dust, A-Xian was able to slip in unnoticed.

Jiang Yanli met him near the kitchens, and after making certain the coast was clear, led him to Wen Qing’s prison using the same techniques as the first time. Thankfully, this time it wasn’t raining.

She knocked sharply on the closed window.

It was flung open with a bang only moments later, revealing Wen Qing, flushed with anger and her hair out of place from running her hands through it.

Jiang Yanli was struck with an odd, simultaneous desire to fix it and make it worse.

“Didn’t I tell you not to come here in person?” Wen Qing snapped.

They’d had no time to warn her, as the papermen had a limited range. “Jin Guangyao will be occupied for hours, and this is important.”

“I thought you were supposed to be…” Wen Qing trailed off, her eyes widening. “Did it work? Did he fall for it?”

A-Xian stepped out of the shadows, removing his mask. “Hi, Qing-jie.”

Wen Qing gasped, and grabbed for his sleeve. “Oh, my — Gods, get in here so I can smack you. How dare you die after we gave ourselves up for you?”’

A-Xian let himself be tugged over the windowsill.

He freed his arm from Wen Qing long enough to bow. “This one apologizes for his grave blunder.”

Wen Qing sniffed, and gave him a quick hug. He beamed, even as tears gathered in his eyes, and squeezed back.

Jiang Yanli climbed inside while they were busy with their reunion and stayed by the window to watch for anyone approaching. From a distance, it would be difficult to tell her and Wen Qing apart, so they’d have enough time to hide under the bed if someone did arrive at an unscheduled time.

“You look awful,” A-Xian told Wen Qing, once they were seated at her desk. The stack of A-Xian’s journals was still there, but the rest of the table was now covered with illustrations of meridians covered in notes in Wen Qing’s writing. Most were scratched out.

Likely something to do with strengthening Jin Guangyao’s core then.

Rather than take offense, Wen Qin rolled her eyes. “Six years of confinement will do that to a person. You look like death warmed over.”

A-Xian laughed in delight. “That’s because I am death warmed over. I came back to life two days ago.”

“Your sister doesn’t look like that.” Wen Qing said, with a glance at Jiang Yanli that felt like a compliment.

Qin Su, for some reason, giggled.

“Obviously Shijie is better than me.” A-Xian turned to beam proudly at her. He was wrong, of course, in his belief that she was the best and kindest person in the world. He didn’t know how the plans she’d set in motion would inevitably hurt the brother of the man he loved and treated the sovereignty of minor sects like weiqi stones, or how she’d threatened Nie Huaisang. But she smiled back anyways.

I don’t think he’ll judge, when he finds out. Qin Su said.

For the most part, no, he wouldn’t. But knowing would forever change his perception of his beloved Shijie, leaving the reality of Jiang Yanli in her place. And she couldn’t assume he would be so sanguine over Lan Xichen. A-Xian had always respected him, and hurting Zewu-jun would hurt Lan Wangji.

Qin Su gave the impression of a shrug. Maybe seeing you more clearly will be a good thing.

A-Xian and Wen Qing fell into an easy rhythm. Watching them, Jiang Yanli felt warm to her center.

“As happy as I am to see you, that’s not enough reason for a visit.” Wen Qing said, after a few more rounds of banter in which they pretended not to have missed each other. “What went wrong?”

“He’s having problems with Xue Yang’s core.” Jiang Yanli explained, before A-Xian could reflexively deflect from the reason they were here.

Wen Qing whipped her head towards A-Xian so fast her neck cracked. “You have Xue Yang’s core?”

He nodded, rubbing a hand gingerly over its place of residence. “I wasn’t entirely sure a core would stick around, when I designed that array, but it seems like the array reshaped everything around it.”

Groaning, Wen Qing took a moment to bury her head in her hands. “You never bring me normal problems. Next time, bring me a nice pulled muscle.”

“I would also like a pulled muscle to be the extent of my problems.” A-Xian sighed wistfully.

“We can dream.” Wen Qing said, her tone flat and disbelieving. “What are the symptoms?”

“When I’m agitated — angry or frustrated, but not sad —his core feels like it’s trying to tear itself apart. Like how the beginning stage of a qi deviation is described. On top of that, resentful energy is in his core, like he invited it there. It feels horrible.” A-Xian leaned forward on his knees and gestured as he spoke.

Wen Qing nodded, and turned to her. “Have you had any with Qin Su’s?”

She hadn’t experienced anything along the lines of what A-Xian was describing. Qin Su’s core felt almost like her own at this point. There was only the way her sword resisted her, draining her when she tried to use it as a spiritual tool, rather than merely a weapon. “Only when I try to control her sword. Chunsheng doesn’t like me.”

Qin Su slipped into a paperman and climbed up to her shoulder to elaborate. <It saps her energy, so she can barely move, much less cultivate. We’ve kept trying, but there’s no improvement.>

“Oh, it’s not just Jiangzai then? I bet they can sense we’re not really their cultivators, despite the cores.” A-Xian perked up with excitement at the implications, before he visibly remembered that this affected him. “But, no. Qing-jie, the real problem is that Xue Yang thought mixing resentful energy in with his spiritual energy was a grand old time.”

“Let me take a look.” Wen Qing took his pulse first, then sent a thread of her own spiritual energy into him. “This is a mess. All that resentment is trapped in your core, and it’s not purifying on its own. I’d bet Xue Yang had resentful energy flowing through his meridians, which would reduce how much gathered in his core and hold off qi deviation.”

She went silent, concentrating, as she continued her examination.

“Absolutely no demonic cultivation,” was Wen Qing’s verdict. “The array seems to have cleared out your meridians, but this core is — well, it’s a mess worse than even you’ve managed to get into on your own. We need to clean it out completely before I can start to help you manage the occasional use of a little resentful energy. That will take a while. Lie on your back, first.”

A-Xian obeyed, but not without complaint. “But how am I supposed to imitate Xue Yang if I can’t use demonic cultivation?”

Carefully inserting the needles in several points along his torso, Wen Qing closed her eyes and began working with hr spiritual energy though them. “You’re supposed to be a genius inventor, aren’t you? Invent something.”

A-Xian smushed his features together in childish irritation. “You’re irritated. What did I do this time? I just got here!”

Smoke-like wisps of resentful energy rose from the ends of the needles, and to Jiang Yanli’s eyes, vanished as it drifted away.

Qin Su’s paperman craned its neck towards the ceiling. Its features were, of course, blank, but her voice gave away her interest. <Its coiling into ropes up there.>

“Wen Qing has been transcribing your work for Jin Guangyao.” Jiang Yanli told him when it became clear Wen Qing would keep him in the dark. “Your handwriting is…”

“Atrocious. But that’s not the real issue here.” Wen Qing grabbed a notebook from the desk, and dropped it, open, over A-Xian’s face. “I had to explain to my family’s murderer that your notes sometimes cut off in descriptions of Lan Wangji’s eyes. Or lips. Or other body parts!”

“In my defense, I never meant for anyone to see this.” He reached up to pluck the book from his face, and flipped through it, eyes going distant as he stared at one of his sketches.

“Well, I did.” Wen Qing plucked the needles from his meridians. “I need to work on your back now, flip over.”

Retrieving a new set of needles, she repeated her work on his lower back.

“Peace offering?” A-Xian attempted to turn his neck halfway around without disturbing the needles. “You’ve been talking to each other with papermen, right? What if I could offer a simpler alternative? To talk more easily at a distance. I had this idea shortly before Qiongqi… I was hoping to… I never wrote it down, but I remember how it would have worked.”

“You wanted to be able to talk to Lan Wangji, didn’t you?” Jiang Yanli asked softly.

“And you, Shijie!” He slumped, pouting. As though to express his disappointment that she would consider herself less important to him. Which she hadn’t, but A-Xian had never had a very secure estimation of his own importance, so he didn’t expect others to either. “But yes. It’s pretty simple, actually. Just hand me that paperweight? And a few more stones?”

“Stay still until I’ve removed the needles, you idiot!” Wen Qing pushed him back down by the shoulders.

A-Xian grumbled out his impatience, but to Jiang Yanli’s eyes he seemed more genuinely energetic than he’d been since before the attack on Lotus Pier stole everything from them. She doubted it could last, if he went forward with this mad plan of his, but she was pleased to see it.

When Wen Qing finally removed the last needle, A-Xian immediately hopped up onto his knees and grabbed for the paperweight. He hunted around for something else that would suit, and came up with an empty crystalline box free of decorative carvings. Retrieving the same steel chisel he’d been using to carve the masks, and applied it to stone.

“So the distance should be … and the sound. No, wait, wrong radical.” A-Xian muttered to himself as he worked.

<Forget the demonic cultivation, if Wei Wuxian can just invent things like this on the spot, that’s what the cultivation clans should fear him for.> Qin Su slid down Jiang Yanli’s sleeve to the floor, and took a leap in A-Xian’s direction, slowed by the pressure of the air.

“Yes, all the explosions should be a warning to stay far, far away.” Wen Qing said dryly.

Qin Su paused with one paper leg in the air as she readied to take the next leap. <Is this going to explode on us?>

“I mostly explode things when figuring out to work metal, or with fire.” A-Xian looked up to grin mischievously at Wen Qing. “Qing-jie invents surgical techniques. That’s far more scary.”

Shrugging her little paper arms, Qin Su continued towards A-Xian to watch him work.

Wen Qing grimaced, hiding her amusement.

Jiang Yanli wanted to see her laugh.

“You know,” she said, “A-Xian may be right. A cultivator once told me the medical tent was more terrifying than any battlefield he’d ever been on. Right before I had to help a healer amputate his leg.”

Wen Qing let out a surprised peal of laughter, and caught herself, but her eyes sparkled as she looked at Jiang Yanli. She found herself without any desire to look away.

A-Xian whooped in success, and she saw that the stones in his hands had begun to glow. He jumped to his feet, with Qin Su holding onto his leg to avoid being knocked away into a wall.

“Okay, so! Hold this.” He placed an inscribed paperweight or box in Jiang Yanli and Wen Qing’s hands. “Think about each other, and put in just enough spiritual energy to activate a talisman. No more than someone without a Golden Core could manage, or you’ll overload it.”

Jiang Yanli met Wen Qing’s eyes as she thought about Wen Qing’s voice lulling her to sleep, the way she’d protested their presence but seemed secretly pleased, the way she always seemed so surprised to find herself smiling. The paperweight began to glow in her hands.

When Wen Qing’s did as well, she suddenly looked away.

A-Xian cleared his throat, prompting them, “Ok, now say something. Recite a recipe or something.”

Jiang Yanli started to list off the ingredients for doupi, one of the few recipes A-Xian had the patience for, but cut off when she heard her voice coming from the stone in Wen Qing’s hand.

“This is—” Wen Qing’s voice echoed from Jiang Yanli’s stone.

It worked. “What a fantastically useful invention.” She said, and again her own voice was repeated back. A-Xian beamed.

It would be… nice, to be able to talk to Wen Qing, and know she wasn’t projecting her consciousness across Koi Tower, leaving her body unaware and undefended. Without the small, but constant risk of Jin Guangyao walking in and finding her in that unmistakable, compromised condition.

“We’ll need to run some tests to see if maybe I can talk to you from a distance as well, but this should at least prevent you from needing to replace papermen regularly.”  A-Xian said, as though he hadn’t just made the greatest breakthrough in cultivation since sword flight.

And done it casually. And not for the first time.

Even more importantly, it was accessible. Anyone could use it.

If they’d had these, after A-Xian defected, when he first had the idea… They had both made mistakes in attempting to save people, in their former lives. The Dafan Wen in his case; A-Xian himself, in hers. But their chief handicap had been the impossibility of regular correspondence without giving the appearance of alliance and putting the fragile, still rebuilding Jiang Sect at risk. Without support from any save her husband and Lan Wangji, neither of whom had anything in the way of political influence, she would have been risking A-Cheng for A-Xian — an impossible choice.

This new invention could have made the difference.

Perhaps now, it could make the difference.

“If it doesn’t, I’m certain you’ll figure it out.” She told him.

“I had better hear from you constantly,” Wen Qing said, in a threatening tone that did nothing to disguise how much she cared.

A-Xian seemed to believe her, more than he ever had when A-Cheng expressed similar sentiments. Perhaps it was the time they’d spent merely surviving together, perhaps the secret they’d shared for so long. Perhaps it was that Wen Qing wasn’t all that much like A-Cheng, really, beyond the surface-level gruffness. There was less difference in their positions, and they shared a common curiosity.

“I want to hear from you every day. I — we — want to know you’re safe.” She needed to know. And with this, the ability to check in at anytime and make sure he was still there, Jiang Yanli might be more capable of watching him leave.

She still hated his plan, though.

“I’ll chatter at you until you’re sick of me.” A-Xian promised with a three-fingered salute and a blinding grin.

Jiang Yanli was going to worry over him incessantly, but she wouldn’t have it any other way.

[fey-family-reunion]

Turnabout Toilet Brush

Fandom: Ace Attorney Pairings: Wrightworth, background Klapollo Wordcount: 12196

AO3 FFN

Summary: Phoenix, with no ulterior motives whatsoever, calls a meeting to resolve an office dispute. Apollo and Athena, meanwhile, try to solve a few office mysteries, like why Phoenix is suddenly so insistent on not using their powers in the workplace.

More importantly: who broke the damn toilet brush?

***

"I think we can all agree," Phoenix began, fingers steepled in front of his face, "that things have gotten out of hand."

The three of them had gathered around his desk, which he'd finally cleaned off for the occasion. Apollo and Athena slouched in front of the desk, both looking like sulky students who'd been called to the principal's office, while Phoenix had managed to maneuver the agency's best chair behind the desk for the first time in years. In the center of the desk's polished wooden surface sat one toilet brush, snapped in half at the handle.

Apollo glowered off to the side, arms folded across his chest, probably thinking nostalgically of the time he'd punched Phoenix in the face. Athena, meanwhile, looked perfectly calm, but Widget's worried expression and the way her fingers toyed with her ponytail told a different story. Neither said a word as Phoenix stared them down.

Fine, guess I'll have to move things along myself. Phoenix never liked having to bring out serious boss mode, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

He drew the Magatama out of his pocket, placing it on the desk between them. "We need to talk about the use of powers in the office."

***

(One day earlier...)

"Mr. Wright, whose turn is it to clean the toilets?" Athena asked.

It was a slow morning for the agency. Apollo sat at his desk, concentrating hard on something on his computer that was almost certainly not work-related, while Athena lounged on one of the couches, flipping through a handful of court documents. Phoenix, meanwhile, relaxed on the other couch, enjoying coffee and quiet as he read through the morning's news.

"Apollo," Phoenix said, without looking up from his newspaper. He wasn't sure, but the answer was usually Apollo.

"What?" Apollo said, spinning around in his chair to face them. "No way! It was my turn last week!"

Phoenix sipped his coffee. "Oh, sorry. Must be Athena's."

Athena's cry of outrage was almost as loud as Apollo's chords of steel. "Wait, no! I definitely remember cleaning them last week! I was only asking so Apollo would remember to do his job!"

Phoenix shrugged. "I don't know, then. Does anyone know where the schedule is?"

"Trucy used it in another one of her magic tricks." Apollo groaned.

"Hey!" Trucy sat perched on top of Phoenix's desk, shuffling and reshuffling a pack of cards. She'd told Phoenix she wanted to learn more card tricks, and had been obsessively honing her technique ever since. "It's not my fault you wrote the schedule on the back of one of my props."

"You didn't have to burn it!" Apollo countered.

"I didn't know what it was! Your handwriting is terrible!" Trucy shuffled a little too vigorously, sending all her cards onto the floor. "Anyway, I don't know what you're talking about. I would never do fire tricks when Daddy told me specifically not to." She smiled winningly at Phoenix.

Nice save, Trucy.

Phoenix sent her a stern look intended to mean 'We'll talk about this later', but her smile just widened, and he shook his head. "We need more paper for this office, so we're not writing chore schedules on the back of Trucy's props. Could whoever's not cleaning the toilets go out and get some? I've got to get Trucy to school."

Athena leaped up, grabbing her bag. "Sure thing, boss! I'll head out right now!"

"Hey, wait," Apollo said, shoving himself out of the desk chair. "Since when did we decide it was my turn to clean the toilets?"

"Well, I guess we didn't, but it seems pretty likely," Athena said, flicking her earring.

"What? Why?!"

Phoenix winced. "Apollo, no chords of steel before noon, remember?"

"Well, Mr. Wright said he thought it was your turn first, didn't he?" Athena said. "And he'd probably know best. Anyway, I know I cleaned last week, so it's definitely not my turn."

Apollo pointed at Athena. "There!"

"Apollo," Phoenix repeated. "Please-"

Apollo grabbed the bracelet on his wrist, jerking his arm up toward Athena. "You're lying! You keep fidgeting with your hair when you say you cleaned last week!"

Athena folded her arms, regarding Apollo with a piercing look usually reserved for difficult witnesses. "Are you sure there isn't something causing you lots of anxiety about what you're saying?"

Apollo waved both hands at her. "Of course there is! I have a lot of anxiety about cleaning the toilets when it's not my turn!"

"I don't know," Athena said, rubbing her chin. "Are you sure you're not just feeling a lot of emotional discord because you're the one lying?"

"I'm not- Mr. Wright!"

Phoenix looked up. Both had turned to face him, and he knew what was coming. He sighed, setting down his paper, and wondered what Pearl and Maya would say if they knew the mundane things the Magatama was being used for these days.

Scratch that, they'd probably support it, if it meant this office got cleaned.

"I can't keep using the Magatama to settle office disputes," Phoenix said anyway, leaning forward.

Apollo folded his arms across his chest. "Fine, just this one time. Then we can remake the chore schedule, and stop fighting about this."

Athena mirrored Apollo's pose, jutting out her chin. It was eerie, sometimes, how many little habits they'd picked up from each other. "Yeah, Boss! Just tell us, who's really lying?"

"Alright," Phoenix said, drawing his Magatama out of his pocket. "Repeat after me: I cleaned the toilets last week."

"I cleaned the toilets last week," Athena said confidently.

"I cleaned the toilets last week," Apollo repeated, directing a glare at Athena.

Phoenix watched in amusement as chains appeared in the air along with two locks, one over Athena, and one over Apollo. He shook his head, not bothering to hide his grin. "You're both lying."

Athena's mouth dropped open. "What! But-"

"Fine, I'll go out and get some paper for you, Mr. Wright," Apollo said, darting toward the door.

"Wait!" Athena sprinted after him, blocking his exit with an arm across the doorway. "I already said I was going! It's your turn to clean the toilets!"

"No way, it's been my turn for the past three weeks!" Apollo said. "See you later!" He ducked under her arm, disappearing into the hall.

"Not if I see you first!" Athena called, sprinting after him.

Their shouts echoed down the hall before finally fading into blessed silence. Phoenix let out a contented sigh, taking a deep swig of his coffee and picking the paper back up. Apollo and Athena were both talented lawyers, valued employees, and very good friends, but both were far too loud in the morning.

"Hey, Daddy." Trucy popped up from behind his desk, clutching half of a deck of cards between her fingers. "You think they'll ever figure out that the schedule always vanishes before one of us has to take a turn?"

Phoenix chuckled. "Let them solve that mystery on their own. It's part of their training."

"You're the best, Daddy." Trucy placed the cards on the desk, and disappeared behind it again.

"Now about this fire trick..."

"Sorry, I can't hear you, I've got to pick up all these cards I dropped!" Trucy called, voice muffled by the desk. A hand came up and swiped at the cards on the desk, sending more on the floor. "Whoops, guess we'll have to talk about this later!"

Phoenix glanced up at the clock, and finished his coffee. "Leave those, Trucy, we've got to get you to school." We can talk more about your trick on the way.

***

"Okay, maybe we have gotten a little out of hand..." Athena began, fidgeting with her earring.

"A little out of hand?" Apollo raised his arm, indicated a bandaid on his forearm. "You almost shoved me down the stairs yesterday. I'm lucky to only have a scratch!"

"I'm sorry!" Athena said. "I didn't mean to, really! I didn't think you'd be so easy to push over!"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Phoenix cleared his throat. "Regardless of how easy Apollo is to push over-"

"Come on, Mr. Wright!"

"-I think we need to stop using powers in the office," Phoenix said. "It's causing too many problems. I don't want to scare clients away because we're shouting at each other."

Athena leaned forward, gripping the armrests of her chair. "Well, hang on, Mr. Wright, it's not like my power is something I can just turn off! Plus, none of this would have happened if Apollo just admitted he didn't clean the toilets last week!"

Apollo sank back in his seat, pressing a hand to his forehead. "Can we forget about the toilets, please? I'm so sick of arguing about the damn toilets."

"Fine," Athena said. "Then admit you lied, and go clean them."

"He can't clean them," Phoenix said. When both of them looked at him, he gestured to the snapped toilet brush resting on the desk. "No one can."

Athena and Apollo looked down at the toilet brush, and up at him. Apollo sighed. "You're saying you think one of us broke the toilet brush so we wouldn't have to clean the toilets today?"

Phoenix shrugged, letting their minds do the work for them.

"Why isn't Trucy here?" Apollo said, voice rising. "She probably broke it for one of her magic tricks!"

"She's at school." Phoenix reminded him. "Trucy and I left the office together last night before you two left, and I dropped her off at school this morning and came here after you two arrived. Neither of us had an opportunity."

Apollo shook his head. "Mr. Wright, this is ridiculous. Just buy a new one. Can we get back to-"

"It was probably Apollo," Athena interjected. "He always gets so angry when we talk about cleaning the toilets. I bet he took the brush in a fit of murderous rage, and!" She mimed snapping the brush over her knee.

"You're the one with the freakish strength!" Apollo snapped.

Athena balled her fists. "Hey! That's not something you should say to a lady!"

"When I came in this morning, you were already here!" Apollo said, waving toward the rest of the office. "You could've broken it before I came in!"

"Yeah, well, when I left last night, you said you were working late! It's not like you have a client right now, what were you working late on, huh?"

And for some reason, that question made Apollo color. He sunk down in his seat, muttering something about 'reading up on the latest cases', and Phoenix turned his attention to him. This wasn't the point of the meeting, and he wasn't sure he had time for the detour, but it was intriguing.

"See!" Athena said triumphantly. "He's acting totally suspicious! I can hear it in his voice!"

Apollo sent a look of desperation at Phoenix. "Mr. Wright, weren't you just saying that we shouldn't use our powers on each other?"

"Uh..."

Athena crossed her arms. "Boss, isn't it suspicious that now Apollo's on board with this no powers thing? He's definitely got something to hide!"

Athena wasn't wrong. Phoenix was a little surprised that Apollo had suddenly jumped on board, given his insistence on using the Magatama yesterday to figure out who was on toilet duty. It didn't take a lot of thought, though, to understand what was going on. Apollo had very few secrets that made him turn that color.

Reading up on the latest cases indeed.

***

(Several weeks earlier...)

The first time Phoenix had seen Athena and Prosecutor Gavin interact was also the first time he'd worried about the practicality of cramming four lie detectors into one tiny office. Gavin had come by to discuss a detail on some old case with Apollo, and Phoenix had watched Athena carefully. He'd seen a few defense attorneys be too starstruck to stand against Gavin in court- it was one of the reasons Apollo was so well-matched with him- so it concerned him when the normally talkative Athena didn't say much while Gavin was in the room. Instead, she kept sneaking glances at him and Apollo.

It apparently concerned Gavin, too, because, after the usual three minutes of bickering with Apollo, he smiled at her. "Ah, I believe we've met before," he said, extending a hand to Athena. "Athena Cykes, was it not? Herr Forehead, where have you been hiding this lovely lady?"

Phoenix expected a blush, a slip of the tongue from Widget, a giggle, something, but instead, Athena just smiled brightly, shaking his hand. "It's good to see you again, Prosecutor Gavin!"

"You two already met?" Phoenix asked from across the room, and Apollo muttered something under his breath, glaring at nothing in particular.

Athena nodded. "Yep! During the Themis Academy trial!" With that, she and Gavin fell into such easy conversation together that Phoenix wondered if he'd imagined her previous shyness. By the end of the conversation, they'd discovered they'd both spent time in Germany, and were talking rapidly in German. Phoenix sent a bewildered glance at Apollo, but Apollo had returned to his desk, back to the room.

Finally, Gavin laughed. "You are too funny, Fräulein, but I'm afraid I've got a meeting to get to, and I can't keep Herr Edgeworth waiting. We must speak more of this later." He nodded at Phoenix. "Herr Wright. Herr Forehead."

"Yeah, bye," Apollo said shortly, digging a pen out of a desk drawer.

For a moment, Phoenix thought he saw a crease between Gavin's well-groomed eyebrows, but, with another easy grin, the man waved and left. Phoenix eyed Athena. She was smiling as she returned to her seat, but there was no longing sigh, no lovesick swoon, no pink cheeks. She did, however, catch Phoenix staring at her.

"What is it, boss?"

"Uh." Phoenix ran a hand through his hair. "I wanted to see how you reacted to him. You might have to face him in court someday. I wanted to make sure you wouldn't have any trouble because he's, you know..."

Athena shrugged, still smiling. "People are just people, Mr. Wright, even celebrities. I'm sure whenever I have to face him in court, I can take him on!" She punched one hand into her palm, striking a confident pose.

"Great," Phoenix said. "Apollo's faced him lots of times, he can give you some advice. Right, Apollo?" He was a bit concerned by how tightly Apollo was gripping his pen.

"Yeah," Apollo grumbled without turning around. "He's not actually German. He just pretends he is to impress girls."

Athena's smile didn't fade, but Widget turned an anxious blue. "Oh, he told me he wasn't German! He studied there for a while, right?"

If possible, Apollo's shoulders tensed even more, and Phoenix thought, if he squinted, he could make out a cloud of gloom over Apollo's head. Am I about to have to mediate my first-ever office dispute over Klavier Gavin, of all people?

He cleared his throat, trying to think of something halfway professional to say. Phoenix desperately wished Trucy or Edgeworth were here. Trucy was better at alleviating tension than he was, and much better at calming down Apollo when he got in one of his moods. Edgeworth, on the other hand, had no issues keeping a firm hand on the prosecutor's office, and his employees were more difficult than Apollo or Athena. Then again, Phoenix thought he'd rather die than ask Edgeworth's advice on something like this.

"Maybe we should talk about something else?" Phoenix suggested.

"You're right, boss. Besides, I got the feeling that I'm definitely not Prosecutor Gavin's type." Athena said, as if he hadn't spoken. "And he's definitely not my type. All that blonde hair, uck! I can't stand guys who are musicians!"

Phoenix blinked at her incredulously. Granted, Wright Anything Agency was never a professional environment at the best of times, but he got the feeling this was unprofessional, even for them. "Athena," he said slowly. "Let's not discuss the dateability of prosecutors at work."

Apollo spun around in his chair, arms folded. "Yeah, why'd you have to bring that up, huh? I don't care what you think about Prosecutor Gavin! What are you so defensive about?"

It didn't take special hearing to tell that Athena wasn't the defensive one here. Oh, no, Apollo.

"I'm sorry, I just thought that you two were-" Athena's eyes darted around the office, and she sank back into her seat. "I guess I was wrong. I'm sorry."

Oh, no, Athena. "It's alright," Phoenix said, not wanting her to think she was in any real trouble. "Let's get back to work. Apollo, can you show Athena how to shelve evidence?"

"Hang on, what'd you think?"

Phoenix closed his eyes. Forget Trucy or Edgeworth, he needed to call Maya and have her channel Mia for this. She'd handled him when he was head-over-heels for Dahlia, she could handle whatever was going on here. "Apollo, please."

Apollo held up a hand. "No, this isn't about how dateable Prosecutor Gavin is, I promise. I don't care. I'm just curious. It's just casual conversation, Mr. Wright."

Doesn't sound like it. But he also didn't want Apollo to corner Athena about it later, when he couldn't intervene.

"Nothing," Athena said, clutching Widget. "I thought- nothing." Apollo narrowed his eyes, and she offered him a nervous smile. "I thought since you're his friend, you might try and set me up with him, and I wanted to let you know that I don't want that to happen."

"Really," Apollo said flatly, eyes flicking down to her hand on Widget.

"Nope!" Widget chirped. Athena winced, sinking further into her seat.

"Apollo, drop it," Phoenix said, passing a hand over his face.

Apollo turned his glare onto Phoenix. "Why do you want to end this conversation so badly, huh? Do you know what she's going to say?"

"No." Apollo gestured toward his bracelet, and Phoenix sighed. "Fine. I have a feeling it's going to be about Prosecutor Gavin's love life, and it's going to turn into an even longer conversation about Prosecutor Gavin's love life."

"It's okay, Boss, I'm trained for this," Athena said. "Maybe if I just get it all out in the open, we can move on."

Phoenix very much doubted that, but he also very much doubted that Apollo was ever going to let this go otherwise. He waved for Athena to speak.

"Well." Athena smiled at Apollo, her hand still clutching Widget. "You acted so grumpy around Prosecutor Gavin just now, but I could tell, under that emotion, you were really happy to see him. So I guess I just thought maybe you...like him more than you let on?"

Phoenix buried his face in his hands, waiting for the explosion. It apparently took a second for Athena's words to sink in.

"You think I like Prosecutor Gavin?!"

"Apollo!" Phoenix said. "Chords of steel!"

"I didn't say that!" Athena insisted. She waved her hands from side to side frantically, as if trying to clean an invisible slate. "All I said was that maybe you guys are better friends than how you act! I didn't mean it like, um, something romantic!"

"It's totally romantic!" Widget chirped.

Phoenix did his best to turn his laughter into a cough, but, judging by the furious look on Apollo's face, he didn't succeed. "Sorry, Apollo. I tried to warn you."

Apollo scoffed. "Oh, like you're one to talk, Mr. Wright!"

Phoenix drew himself back up to his full height. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"About being closer to prosecutors than you act?" Apollo said. Phoenix stared at him blankly. "About pretending you're just coworkers when there's something else going on?"

Phoenix shook his head, reaching for his coffee mug. He had an inkling of what Apollo was trying to say, but he and Edgeworth had always been open about their friendship with each other. They toned it down if they were interacting in a professional capacity, sure, but there was no acting or pretending going on. "I don't know what you're talking about, Apollo."

"Come on, Mr. Wright, everyone knows you and Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth are dating." Apollo said, and Phoenix gagged on his coffee."You two aren't even subtle about it. I don't know why you feel like you have to keep it a secret, nobody cares."

"What- but we're not- everyone?" Phoenix said, dabbing at his chin with a napkin. They really weren't. Phoenix wouldn't deny that there'd been times over the years when he'd thought- but they really, really weren't. "Apollo, the chief prosecutor and I are very good friends who've known each other for a long time. We're not, and never have been, dating."

Apollo's face reddened, his eyes widening in horror. He glanced down at his bracelet, and back up at Phoenix. "You're really not?"

"No," Phoenix said shortly. This could be a funny story to tell Edgeworth later- or, more likely, another memory to throw deep into the box of 'things to forget about forever and never, ever bring up again'. "Who's, uh, everyone?"

"The entire prosecutor's office. Most of the police department." Apollo said, still looking like he'd seen a ghost. "And a few others- we thought you two just wanted to keep it private, so no one said anything. But-"

Phoenix set down his coffee cup, hard enough for hot liquid to splash onto his desk. "Apollo, could you show Athena how to shelve evidence? Please?"

"S-sure, Mr. Wright." Apollo nearly knocked over his chair as he stood. "Come on, Athena."

Athena got up much more slowly, lingering by Phoenix's desk as Apollo made his way to the door. "Um, Mr. Wright..." she began.

Phoenix looked up at her. "Yes?"

She directed an uncertain glance at Apollo, and Apollo shook his head. "Never mind. I'll shelve evidence really well, and no more talk about prosecutors, I promise." She saluted with a smile and followed Apollo out.

It's a good thing neither of them have a Magatama. Talk about locks on the heart.

"Shut up, Phoenix," Phoenix muttered to himself, wiping up the spilled coffee.

***

Phoenix considered his options, looking between Athena's furious glare and Apollo's desperate pleading. After a moment, he clasped his hands together in front of him. "I think Apollo is telling the truth about working late. I'm sure he has some side projects to work on."

It was an easy decision. Besides the fact that he had no desire to needle Apollo about something the kid was clearly sensitive about, calling him on that lie would set a dangerous precedent for the types of questions they could ask each other. The entire point of this whole conversation was respecting each other's privacy, after all.

Apollo grinned, sending a victorious finger toward Athena. "See? Mr. Wright believes me! Which means it was you who broke the toilet brush!"

Athena's mouth dropped open. "But-"

"But," Phoenix said, "no matter what Apollo was doing here, he still had an opportunity to commit the crime." Apollo's shoulders slumped, and Athena stuck out her tongue at him. "Both of you did. Unless either of you have any evidence to prove you didn't?"

Neither of his employees said a word. Apollo stared at the floor, and Athena crossed her arms, frowning.

Phoenix nodded, relieved to finally return to the point he was trying to make. "It doesn't matter who broke the toilet brush," he said. "We can buy a new one. What matters is that an argument got out of hand thanks to everyone using their powers, and-"

Apollo looked up. "What if I had a witness?"

Phoenix checked his watch. "Apollo, I don't care who broke the toilet brush. What matters is-"

"No, we're defense attorneys, right?" Apollo said, straightening. "Give me a chance to prove myself innocent."

Athena nodded. "Yeah, I wanna hear this. Because I sure didn't break the brush, so it must have been Apollo."

"We'll see about that." Apollo pulled out his phone. "I'll call him right now."

"Him?" Phoenix asked as Apollo dialed, and then he noticed the flush had returned to Apollo's cheeks. Oh, no, kid, I was trying to save you from having to do this.

"Here, I'll put it on speaker." Apollo pressed a button, and the sound of the call connecting blared into the office. He set the phone down next to the Magatama, and waited, arms folded, staring at it. Athena sent an uncertain glance at Phoenix before watching the phone, too. Phoenix, meanwhile, checked his watch again, wondering how things had gotten so off track.

As soon as the other line clicked, a smooth German voice filled the room. "Liebling, this is a nice surprise!" Klavier Gavin said. "I was just about to call you, I wanted to ask-"

Apollo leaned forward, arms still folded. "Prosecutor Gavin, you're on speakerphone."

"Ah." When Gavin spoke again, he sounded still sounded friendly, but it was an entirely different kind of warmth. "Who am I speaking to?"

"Hi, Prosecutor Gavin!" Athena called.

"Hi, Prosecutor Gavin," Phoenix echoed obediently. He had a very bad feeling about where this was headed.

"The entire agency!" Gavin said. "Only missing Fräulein Wright, of course. To what do I owe the honor?"

"I want you to clear something up for me," Apollo said. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking in a deep breath. "When you dropped me off at home last night, we stopped by the office on the way back, yes?"

Athena immediately gasped, and slapped her hands over her mouth to silence herself. Phoenix sat back in his seat with a creak, watching Apollo. Even Gavin took a bewildered pause before replying.

"Uh, ja."

Apollo nodded, opening his eyes. "And when we stopped by the office, I gave you the key so you could let yourself in and use the restroom. Yes?"

"Ja," Gavin said. "I don't see where this is-"

"And when you were in the office, there was a toilet brush in there." Apollo continued, as insistent as if he were pressing a murder suspect. "Yes?"

Phoenix's bad feeling rapidly evolved into outright dread. There was no way Klavier Gavin of all people- and what had Apollo been doing with him in the first place-

"Ah, I don't know," Gavin said. "I wasn't looking for one. I'm not sure what we're talking about right now, Herr Forehead. Did something happen?"

"Did you or didn't you?" Athena snapped, leaning towards the phone.

"Excuse me?"

Athena fired off a rapid sentence in German, and Gavin responded in kind, sounding even more bewildered than before.

Phoenix shook his head. "It doesn't count as witness testimony if we have to take Athena's word for what you're saying."

"Sorry, Herr Wright," Gavin said. "I was just telling Fräulein Cykes that I believe I remember seeing a toilet brush when I stopped by the office. Is that...all you called about?"

"One more thing."

Gavin's voice brightened. "Yes, Herr Forehead?"

"When you saw the toilet brush," Apollo said, leaning forward, "was the handle broken?"

Apollo and Athena stared at the phone, both looking like they'd forgotten how to breathe. Phoenix, meanwhile, began mentally calculating the timing of last night's events. There was no way- was there?

"Nein," Gavin said. "It was a toilet brush."

The effect on the room was instantaneous. Apollo grinned, relaxing back into his chair, and Athena tensed, balling her hands into fists. "I didn't do it!" she snapped. "Apollo still could have done it! What about when he let Prosecutor Gavin in, huh?"

"Would one of you please tell me what is going on?"

"Someone broke our toilet brush to get out of cleaning duty," Apollo said. "We're trying to figure out who it was. Whoever did it has to clean this week."

Phoenix, in the middle of trying to figure out when, exactly, Apollo and Gavin had dropped by the office, flinched. "Hey, punishment was never on the table!"

"Sure it is!" Athena said, slamming her fist into her palm. "Apollo broke the brush and I'm gonna make him pay for it!"

"A noble cause," Gavin said. "I'm happy to help, then. I asked Herr Forehead to assist me with an investigation last night, as he is not related to the case, and much better at reading people than I. We left your office around six-thirty pm, and returned around ten, on the way to his apartment. I, ah, needed to use your facilities, so Herr Forehead lent me the key and I let myself in. He stayed with the bike the whole time."

"Ooh, where'd you guys go?" Athena asked, apparently unable to resist herself.

"A restaurant, and then a bar," Gavin said. "...It was a long investigation."

"That's irrelevant!" Apollo said forcefully, jabbing a finger at the phone. "What matters here is that I have a witness who can vouch that the toilet brush wasn't broken after I left the office at six-thirty. And as Prosecutor Gavin said, I was with his motorcycle the entire time he was in the office at ten. He was carrying my key at the time, so there was no way I could have gotten in without him knowing. Therefore I'm not the culprit, so it has to be Athena!"

Athena was gaping at him. "You two rode on his motorcycle?"

"Don't worry, Fräulein, Klavier Gavin does not drive drunk."

Apollo nodded vigorously. "Especially because it was an investigation. We would never drink on an investigation. Right, Prosecutor Gavin?"

"Boss, come on, they're totally lying!" Athena said, turning to him. "Prosecutor Gavin's got to be a biased witness, listen to them! This has to be a conflict of interest- boss?"

Phoenix blinked, shaking himself out of his stupor, to find both Apollo and Athena staring at him. He offered a smile. "Um, yeah, that's probably right."

"Boss, are you even listening?"

It wasn't possible. There was no way. Years ago, Klavier Gavin had, admittedly without knowing the full story, ruined Phoenix's life, and now here he was, about to do it all over again.

Not all over again. Isn't that a little melodramatic, Wright?

Apollo's eyes narrowed, and he leaned back toward the phone. "Kla- uh- Gavin, did you notice anything else strange when you were in the office? Anything that wasn't there when you picked me up?"

"Now that you mention it, I did," Gavin said. "The lights were on, and I'm sure we turned them off when we left. I remember seeing a wine bottle and two wine glasses on the coffee table, too. I'm sure they weren't there before, or I would have suggested we take the wine on our investigation." He hummed thoughtfully. "The bottle was empty, though. Schade."

Nope, not melodramatic, he's ruined my life. Again.

"Thank you, Prosecutor Gavin, that's all I need," Apollo said, picking the phone off of the table. "I'll call you later about the, uh, investigation."

"Happy to help, liebling."

Athena was apparently too engrossed in this revelation to react to what Phoenix was sure was a pet name. "But there wasn't a wine bottle here when I came in this morning!"

"I figured," Apollo said, tucking his phone in his pocket. He aimed his stare towards Phoenix. "Which means someone else must have been in here last night."

It took all of Phoenix's training from years of poker to hold Apollo's gaze. "Isn't this irrelevant?" he asked. "Prosecutor Gavin said the toilet brush wasn't broken when he left. Maybe someone else came in beforehand for unrelated reasons."

"But if the wine bottle and glasses were gone when I came in, someone must have cleaned them up after Prosecutor Gavin left!" Athena said. "They could've broken the brush then!"

"And that someone had to have a key." Apollo stared Phoenix down. "I don't remember any signs of a break-in."

Athena nodded, tapping her chin. "Plus, that'd be a really weird break-in. I feel like some of Trucy's props would be worth more than a wine bottle and some glasses. And why would they snap a toilet brush?"

"Why indeed," Apollo said, elbowing Athena. Athena followed his gaze to Phoenix, and narrowed her eyes.

Struck by the glares of both of his subordinates, Phoenix felt sweat dripping down the back of his neck. He quickly considered his lines of defense.

Accuse Gavin of breaking the brush? Nope, he has no motive, and no real reason to lie about it.

Blame the wine and broken brush on Athena? Too obvious a lie, it wouldn't take much to discredit it. Athena's not old enough to buy alcohol.

Give up and admit the truth? Can't do that.

Redirect their attention?

Phoenix cleared his throat. "The broken brush wasn't actually what I wanted to talk to you about-"

"Boo!" Athena said, grabbing a handful of Trucy's scattered cards and throwing them at him. They sailed a few inches through the air before fluttering onto the desk.

"Yeah, that's not fair!" Apollo said. "You let us think one of us did it!"

Phoenix chose his words carefully, trying to keep his expression and movements still, his errant emotions under control."I never said I was the one who broke it."

"I can tell you're trying to talk like a robot, Mr. Wright!" Athena said.

Redirect, redirect. Keep them from asking the important questions.

"Fine," Phoenix said, with a tiny sigh. "I'm responsible for the broken toilet brush. I was hoping to avoid the punishment of, what was it, one week of toilet duty?"

"One month." Athena corrected.

Apollo shook his head. "Two months."

Phoenix, despite knowing there were more important things to discuss, rubbing the back of his head, smiling. "Hey, we never agreed there had to be a punishment at all, did we? I never agreed to that."

Apollo returned his smile. "Let's take an office vote, then. Majority rules?"

"We're getting off track," Phoenix said. When Apollo and Athena protested, he raised a hand. "Fine, I'll buy a new brush and clean the toilets for the next two months. Like I said, that wasn't the important part of this meeting." He took a moment to gage their reactions- both still looked furious, but they were listening to what he had to say. "We need to stop using powers in the office. I'm sure neither of you-" he sent a significant glance at Apollo- "want us prying into your personal lives, and we can't keep using them for office disputes. It escalates things until we end up pushing each other down the stairs."

Apollo's gaze had drifted to the floor as soon as Phoenix said 'personal lives'. Athena, however, was frowning, looking as though she were already preparing an objection.

"I know you two and Trucy can't turn them off like I can," Phoenix said, gesturing toward the Magatama. "But maybe we can try not to focus or, uh, listen too hard when we're having everyday conversations with each other, and not bring up anything weird you see or hear unless it has to do with a case. Does that sound reasonable?"

"Yes, boss," Athena said.

"Yes, Mr. Wright." Apollo echoed, not looking up.

"Great!" Phoenix checked his watch again. Somehow, he'd managed to get his point across in just enough time. He stood, hastily maneuvering his way around the desk and toward his bag on the coffee table. "Good work today, everyone! I'll see you both tomorrow!"

"Hold it!"

Phoenix turned back around. Apollo stood, holding the Magatama out toward him, determination in his eyes.

Phoenix forced a smile, reaching for it. "Thanks, Polly. Maya would've killed me if I lost it."

"Just one more thing, Mr. Wright," Apollo said, jerking it out of Phoenix's grasp. "If we're going to sentence you to two months of toilet duty, we need to make sure you're actually guilty."

Phoenix reached for the Magatama again, and Apollo dodged backward. Fine, kid. You want to play hardball? I learned hardball years ago, from the Nickel Samurai, no less. "I wasn't lying earlier," he said. "I'm responsible for the brush being broken. Apollo, don't you have your bracelet for this? Give me the Magatama, please."

Athena's eyes narrowed, and she swiped the Magatama out of Apollo's hand before Phoenix could take it. "Wait, boss. Did you really break the brush?"

Phoenix sighed. "Didn't I already answer that? Listen, you two, I have someplace I need to be, so-"

Athena traded an uncertain glance with Apollo, but she didn't let go of the Magatama. "Did you actually break it, though?"

"I don't know why you keep asking me that," Phoenix said, shaking his head. "Only the three of us have keys to the office. Was it you, Athena?"

"No!"

"Apollo?"

"No, but..."

Phoenix shrugged, not saying aloud the obvious conclusion.

"But he's acting so weird!" Athena whispered to Apollo. "His emotions are all over the place!"

Apollo took the Magatama from Athena, eyeing Phoenix thoughtfully. "Mr. Wright, how did you break it?"

"I had too much to drink." Definitely true. "It was an accident." Also true, at least as far as I know. He checked his watch again, making a show of it this time. "Apollo, can I have the Magatama back, please? I really need to go."

He could tell Athena's resolve was wavering, her don't-upset-the-boss instincts kicking in. Apollo had known Phoenix since long before he deserved to be called anyone's boss, but there was clear hesitation in his eyes. Phoenix held out his hand, waiting.

I could just run, he thought, but then they'd just ambush me tomorrow morning, and I'd look even more suspicious. Better deal with this now.

"Apollo," Phoenix repeated, using his best serious boss voice. "Arguments like these are why I wanted to ban the use of powers in the office. We-"

He could tell the exact moment the locks appeared. Apollo's mouth dropped open, his eyes tracing invisible chains through the air around Phoenix. Phoenix's stomach sank as Apollo clenched the Magatama more tightly in his hand, and Apollo met Phoenix's eyes, resolve strengthening.

Apparently that one was a stretch even for the Magatama. Goddammit, I was so close-

"Mr. Wright," Apollo began, "why do you really want to ban the use of powers in the office?"

Phoenix groaned. "Apollo, please."

Apollo shook his head, although his serious expression had melted into something amused. "This is a major change in office policy, Mr. Wright. I think all of your employees deserve transparency for why it's being established."

"Yeah!" Athena said, balling her fists. "Plus, you just spent the last thirty minutes trying to frame us for breaking that brush, and I wanna know why!"

Phoenix opened his mouth, shut it, and opened it again, mind blank of anything to say besides the truth. Clearly, the Magatama wasn't going to let him get away with much here, and even half-truth-half-lies about the subject would be damning.

I could really use a miracle about now, he thought. Anything to distract them so I can run, and call in sick until they forget we had this conversation. A flock of birds could fly in the window! A hurricane could level the building! Trucy could leap out of the desk as part of an elaborate magic trick! She'd...never let this go, but still, anything!

Someone knocked on the door, and all three of them jumped. "I'll get it!" Athena called brightly, moving past Phoenix toward the door, and Phoenix's shoulders sagged in relief. Then, he checked his watch again. His worst suspicions were confirmed when he heard the familiar voice greeting Athena.

...Anything but that.

"Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth!" Athena said, backing up to let Miles into the room. Her pleasant smile was undercut by Widget's anxious frown- Phoenix had always suspected she and Apollo were intimidated by Edgeworth. "What brings you here?"

Miles's gaze swept the room before landing on Phoenix. "I trust you are ready to go, Wright? I was expecting you outside." He turned to Athena. "Your boss and I have a business meeting to attend tonight, but it seems he's forgotten-"

Apollo let out a high-pitched yelp, and the Magatama clattered to the floor. He clapped his hands over his mouth as Athena and Miles stared at him.

Phoenix smiled tiredly, bending down to pick up the Magatama. "Punctual as always, Edgeworth."

***

(Last night...)

"You cannot be serious, Wright," Miles said from the couch.

Phoenix grinned down at him. He struck a pose, one foot up on the coffee table, with the toilet brush jutted out in front of him like a sword. "I thought I did a good job reenacting it."

Miles pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose, his other hand struggling to keep his glass of wine upright. "You cannot expect me to believe that your subordinates began fencing over whose turn it was to perform a chore. Clearly, your daughter's penchant for showmanship has rubbed off on you." He was chuckling, though, a rare sound even these days, and it, more than the wine, warmed Phoenix from head to toe.

Phoenix hopped down, setting the brush down on the table. "Just because your subordinates never do it...besides Blackquill, I guess." He grabbed his glass of wine and fell back onto the other couch.

Miles replaced his glasses, fixing Phoenix with an unimpressed stare. "If this is how the Wright Anything Agency functions, it is no wonder your trials are always so haphazard and-"

"What are we celebrating tonight, again?" Phoenix asked, raising his wine glass toward Miles.

Miles sighed. "You're absurd."

"That's what I thought."

It'd been too long since Phoenix had a night like this. He and Miles had gone out for their usual weekly dinner, and had their usual pleasant time discussing the antics of their respective subordinates. The evening had taken a different turn, however, when Miles presented him with a bottle of wine in celebration of closing a particularly ugly case, and Phoenix had suggested they open it for their usual one-drink nightcap at the Wright Anything Agency office. At some point, one drink had turned into 'just one more', and from there into 'we might as well finish off the bottle', and now, after a steady two hours of drinking, the only wine not yet consumed was in Phoenix and Miles's half-full wine glasses.

Phoenix hadn't felt this relaxed in a long time, and, judging by the way Miles slouched back into the couch cushions, he wasn't the only one.

"Whose turn was it last week, then?" Miles asked, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"What?"

"To clean the..." He gestured vaguely towards the office restrooms.

Phoenix blinked. "Does it matter?"

Miles rolled his eyes. "It's an interesting puzzle, Wright, that's all. They were both lying, and you and your daughter apparently are never on the schedule."

"I'm surprised you can't figure it out."

"Of course I can. You know, then?"

Phoenix nodded, smiling patiently. "You want the solution?"

"Truthfully, I don't care enough to work it out," Miles said with a beleaguered sigh.

Phoenix took that to mean, Give me a hint. "One of them wasn't lying. At least, not completely. It was their turn, but they didn't do their job."

"Forgetfulness?" Miles said, pushing his glasses back up his nose. They seemed determined to slide off his face. "Or spite? Ms. Cykes seems more likely to have forgotten, but Mr. Justice has been quite bitter in the past about the chores you assign him, if I recall."

Phoenix shrugged. "What do you think?"

"From as much as I can trust your melodramatic recollection, Ms. Cykes seemed shocked to discover both of them were lying, while Mr. Justice did not. My assumption then is either Ms. Cykes didn't realize she forgot until that very moment, or that she was aware it was Mr. Justice's turn and was surprised to hear he didn't perform his duties. Mr. Justice must have known either way-"

"You can call them Apollo and Athena, you know," Phoenix said. "You're tipsy, and you've definitely spoken with them enough."

"As I was saying, Wright," Miles continued. "If Mr. Justice truly was not surprised, then I can only assume he knew neither he nor Ms. Cykes performed their duties. Therefore it was his turn, not Ms. Cykes', last week, and he didn't do as he was told." He sipped his glass slowly, eyes unfocused. "I can't comprehend why either would get your Magatama involved, however."

Phoenix shrugged. "Because asking me not to use it would be the same thing as admitting they were lying, wouldn't it? Apollo was the one who insisted on it. Maybe he was hoping Athena would crack under the pressure and admit she was lying first, or maybe he just wanted to drag her down with him."

"Your office sounds like a nightmare, Wright."

"We don't have any hawks," Phoenix said. He shuddered. "Or Paynes."

"I would take Taka any day over the amount of interpersonal meddling and gossip that appears to go on at the Wright Anything Agency."

Phoenix snorted. "Like the prosecutor's office never has any gossip."

"Of course not. We're professionals." Miles drained his wine glass and set it on the table beside the bottle. "We know how to stay out of each other's personal lives."

"Oh, really," Phoenix said, smirking. "Come on, Edgeworth, I know for a fact that-"

Wait, I don't want to talk about this, what am I doing?

It was too late. Miles was already watching him curiously over the rims of his glasses. "You've heard gossip from the prosecutor's office?"

"Uh..."

It'd been weeks, and he still hadn't forgotten the rumor Apollo had told him about him and Edgeworth. Maya had always teased him for being too easy to read, but, up until that conversation, Phoenix had thought he'd managed to keep that particular secret more or less under wraps. If everyone in the legal system believed this rumor, then Miles had to know, right? And if Miles knew, then he clearly didn't want to talk about it, or he would have brought it up already. And if he didn't know-

"Is something the matter, Wright?"

Phoenix tilted his head back, finishing off the rest of the wine, and set his wine glass on the table. "Nope."

"If you've heard rumors about me, I can assure you that does not affect me in the slightest," Miles said, gaze drifting to Phoenix's empty wine glass. "As I'm sure you're aware, I've dealt with rumors for most of my career."

Phoenix closed his eyes, remembering a time where rumors had greatly affected Edgeworth. "They weren't about you." he began, before realizing that the obvious lie would confirm Miles's worst suspicions. "Well, they were, but it wasn't anything...bad."

"And?"

Phoenix opened his eyes. Miles was watching him, face impassive. Phoenix fidgeted in his seat, scratching the back of his head. "It's not anything mean, either. It's, uh..." He couldn't bring himself to say it. "Hey, Edgeworth, you won't fire anybody over this, will you?"

"Of course not," Miles said dismissively. "I told you, I don't care about rumors. What is it that has you so rattled?"

"Rattled? Me?"

"Wright." Miles shook his head, smiling. "You look like you just realized your accused has run off with all of your evidence."

Phoenix, about to run a hand through his hair, clenched his hand into a fist in his lap. "It's a silly rumor. The entire prosecutor's office apparently thinks we're, uh, secretly lovers."

Lovers? Where'd that word come from?

Miles's face didn't change, but he picked up his empty wine glass. "The entire prosecutor's office."

Phoenix nodded. "And most of the police department. And a few others. Apollo said we're, uh, not subtle about it." He forced a laugh. "Isn't that funny?"

Miles's expression still hadn't changed. "You have an odd sense of humor, Wright." He brought his wine glass to his lips, and blinked down at it, confused.

"It's empty," Phoenix offered.

"I am aware." Miles cleared his throat, pushing himself to his feet. "Would you like to go for a walk? I think we could both use a clear head."

"Yeah, sure." Anything to end this conversation.

They locked up and wobbled their way down the stairs, only a little unsteady on their feet after the past couple hours of slow drinking. The cool air of the street outside was a relief, although Phoenix no longer had the excuse of the too-warm office for the flush on his face. As soon as they left, Miles strode ahead of him, headed in no particular direction, and Phoenix had to jog to catch up.

"Whoa, hang on!" he called, and Miles slowed slightly. "What, did you miss your cardio this morning?"

Miles gave him a withering look that Phoenix wasn't entirely sure he deserved. "Wright, you are out of shape."

"I've also been drinking." Phoenix pointed out. "Not all of us have your inhuman tolerance." Miles didn't respond, and Phoenix shoved his hands in his pockets. "So, where are we going?"

"I thought it might be nice to walk around your neighborhood." Miles adjusted his glasses, not looking at Phoenix. "I admit I haven't seen much of it in all the times I've visited. Is there anything of interest around here?"

"Uh..." Phoenix checked his watch. "Not at...ten at night, there isn't."

An uncomfortable silence followed as they passed underneath a streetlight. Phoenix glanced at Miles and, for a second, thought he made out panic in his expression. He cleared his throat. "Trucy's old elementary school is near here. It's not really a landmark, but-"

The creases in Miles's forehead smoothed out immediately, his shoulders relaxing. "Lead the way."

As they followed a route Phoenix and Trucy had walked hundreds of times, Phoenix didn't ask why they were visiting his daughter's elementary school in the middle of the night. He didn't ask why they were going for a walk in the first place. He was so busy not asking that he didn't hear the roar of the incoming vehicle right as they were about to cross the street.

He did, however, feel Miles' arm, thrust across his chest before he could step forward. "Careful, Phoenix!" Miles snapped, and the use of his first name snapped Phoenix out of his thoughts just in time to see a motorcycle speed by, a few yards ahead of him.

Phoenix looked down at the arm across his chest, and up at Miles, who was glaring down the street after the bike. Miles muttered something irritated under his breath.

"Hey, it's okay, Miles, people are always flying down this street," Phoenix said. "Thanks, though."

Miles studied him for a second, a mix of several emotions present on his face, and Phoenix raised his eyebrows. After a second, Miles's eyes widened in realization. "It was the best way to get your attention, Wright," he said. "You were lost in thought. You should have been watching the road."

"Sure, Miles," Phoenix said, with a rush of courage he attributed to the wine. He made an exaggerated show of looking both ways before crossing the street. "Trucy's school is just up here, come on."

Trucy's school was much more rundown than he remembered. The playground appeared to have been redone, though, with a few new death traps dotted around a mulched field that he was sure wasn't there before. Then again, he was getting old, as Trucy often reminded him. He walked up to the chainlink fence, intertwining his fingers around the metal, and heard Miles's footsteps as the other man came to a stop beside him.

Miles cleared his throat. "This is it?"

Phoenix nodded. "They've added a few things, but this is it." He pointed. "There's the swingset where she broke her wrist trying to prove she could fly. Those are the monkey bars she spent two weeks trying to master. She nearly broke her wrist again." He shook his head, not even bothering to keep the fondness out of his voice. "She's a stubborn kid."

"I can't imagine where she gets it from," Miles said, apparently not trying too hard to keep the fondness out of his voice, either. "As I recall, the monkey bars took you four weeks." He smiled at Phoenix, his first smile since Phoenix mentioned the rumors, and something fluttered in Phoenix's chest.

Phoenix laughed, looking away. The question of why they were visiting Trucy's old school at ten at night was growing into a larger question, one he'd kept at the back of his mind for years, only braving when he was tired or tipsy. Like now. "Uh, Edgeworth." Phoenix tightened his grip on the chainlink fence. "Sorry if I made you uncomfortable, with the..."

"I told you, Wright, I do not concern myself with the rumors of my subordinates." Miles's smile vanished, though, and the crease had reappeared in his forehead.

"Right." Phoenix, later, didn't know what made him decide to keep going, although it was probably that smile. "It's weird, isn't it, though?"

"What is?"

"What Apollo said." Phoenix kept his eyes trained forward, on some kind of spiral-shaped contraption that looked like an injury waiting to happen. "That we aren't subtle about it."

The ensuing silence was so long that Phoenix began idly daydreaming about going back to school, getting a physics degree, burying himself in research, and inventing time travel to prevent this conversation from ever happening. He didn't look over at Miles. He didn't want to see the expression on the other man's face. If he'd just upset a decades-long friendship, he wanted a few more moments of blissful ignorance before having to face that fact.

"Wright," Miles said, slowly. "Are you suggesting something?"

Phoenix wished Miles had gotten easier to read over the years. "I don't know," he said. "What would you say if I were?"

Miles eyed him, not responding.

Dr. Wright has a nice ring to it. They make people with PhDs in physics doctors, right? And Trucy would probably love time travel, I bet she could use it for magic tricks-

"Wright, look at me."

Reluctantly, Phoenix met his eyes. "Listen, Edgeworth, you don't have to let me down easy. We can pretend this conversation didn't happen. I don't-"

"Wright-"

"-want to make you uncomfortable. I can stay away from the prosecutor's office until the rumors-"

"Phoenix, for once in your life, would you listen to me?" Miles snapped.

Phoenix shut his mouth, but Miles didn't speak, scowling down the street at nothing in particular. "Okay," Phoenix said, carefully. "What do you want to say?"

"I..."

It happened in an instant. One moment, Miles was staring down the street, hand gripping his elbow in a familiar gesture, and in the next, Miles had stepped closer, his hands on Phoenix's shoulders, his face close to Phoenix's own, and-

What the-

Phoenix, shocked, took a step back, and Miles pulled away. For a beat, Phoenix tried to figure out what exactly had just happened, while Miles curled up into himself.

"Wright," Miles said. "Please tell me I didn't misinterpret-"

Phoenix quickly closed the distance between them and kissed him, letting go of the chain link fence to card his fingers through Miles's hair. It took Miles a moment to respond, but he did, with enthusiasm. The kiss was clumsy, fumbling, and tasted strongly of wine, but when Phoenix pulled away, he couldn't keep a smile off his face.

"You didn't misinterpret anything, Miles," Phoenix said, a bit breathlessly.

Miles looked vaguely gobsmacked, as though he'd just been told Franziska had quit criminal law to become a daycare teacher. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "I see."

They kissed seven more times on the walk back to the building, three more times on the stairs up to the office, and once more by the door, not that Phoenix was counting. As soon as they were inside with the door closed behind them, the kissing became something much more distracting, and either both were drunker than they thought, or the phrase 'drunk on love' really held water, because neither noticed the coffee table behind them until Miles stumbled and fell back onto it with a loud crack.

"Ow," he said, sprawled on top of the table.

Phoenix stifled a laugh as he offered a hand to help Miles up. "Are you okay?"

Miles took Phoenix's hand, standing, and rubbed his back. "I"m fine." He looked down at the table. "I don't know about your table, though."

His fall had knocked the- thankfully empty- wine bottle and glasses onto the floor, and Phoenix gathered them up. The drinkware was unbroken, and the table appeared fine, too. "It's alright. No harm done," Phoenix said, carrying the wine bottle over to the office's recycling bin.

Miles bent over, picking up half of the toilet brush off of the ground. "What about this?"

Phoenix groaned as he discarded the bottle and took the wine glasses to the sink. "Apollo and Athena are going to have your head for that. There's been enough fighting about that toilet brush as is."

Miles's eyes widened. "You're planning on informing them?"

"You want to keep this a secret?" Phoenix asked. He turned on the faucet and ran water over the wine glasses, watching as the last traces of wine swirled down the drain in thin red trails.

"Whenever we do tell people," Miles began, picking up the other half of the toilet brush, "I have a feeling we're going to have to fill out a lot of paperwork. Of course, we will do nothing unethical beforehand, but I feel it would be best to get our footing before telling others. Don't you?"

Phoenix placed the wine glasses back in the cabinet and wiped his hands on the dishrag. He could already imagine the reactions from his own employees if word got out that he and Miles were, actually, dating. "Yeah, I get it. I'll make up some story for the toilet brush, I won't tell them you came by tonight."

Miles raised an eyebrow. "I know your employees have certain gifts..."

"I'll come up with something," Phoenix said, taking the broken toilet brush from Miles. "I've been meaning to get them to tone down using powers in the office, anyway." He examined the two halves. "Actually, this might be the perfect excuse."

"I don't follow."

"Don't worry about it, just help me clean up." Phoenix grinned, placing the broken brush on the table. "I'll take care of everything. They'll never even know we were here."

***

Looking back, Phoenix should've known the motorcycle that almost ran him down belonged to Klavier Gavin, on his way to the Wright Anything Agency. It was exactly the sort of coincidence that always happened to him. Franziska Von Karma had once said that she didn't know if Phoenix was lucky or unlucky. Phoenix didn't know either, but, going by the events of the past twenty-four hours, his suspicions leaned heavily toward the 'unlucky' category.

(Although he supposed he'd gotten lucky where it counted- having such ridiculous people in his life in the first place.)

***

Apollo's wide eyes darted between Phoenix and Miles, hands still clapped over his mouth. Miles sent him a quizzical look and nodded at Phoenix. "Shall we go?"

"Uh, yeah," Phoenix said. As he stepped forward to join Miles at the door, he tilted his hand so Miles could clearly see him putting the Magatama in his pocket. Come on, Miles, catch on, we can't lie to them, they suspect too much already.

"Wait!" Athena said. "What's going on? Apollo, why are you making that face?"

Apollo lowered his hands. "I'm not making any faces! This is just my face!" His voice was audibly shaking, though, and Athena's eyes narrowed.

"What's happening right now? What did you see with the Magatama?"

At the mention of the Magatama, Phoenix felt Miles tense beside him. "Wright, what exactly have you and your subordinates been discussing?" he muttered.

Phoenix closed his eyes. "It's a long story. Everything got kind of out of hand-"

"And you two!" Athena whirled, pointing at them. "I can hear you whispering! Mr. Wright, I know you're hiding something! You still haven't told us why you want to ban powers in the office!"

Apollo rubbed his forehead. "Trust me, Athena, you don't want to know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Phoenix cleared his throat. "Look, the chief prosecutor and I really need to be going." He grabbed Miles' arm, spinning him around toward the door. "Come on."

Miles allowed himself to be led out into the hallway. "What happened in there?" he said under his breath. "It didn't go well?"

"What do you think?"

"Hold it!"

Phoenix turned around, just before they reached the stairs. Athena stood in the doorway, one hand on her hip, the other pointed toward them. Behind her, Apollo had buried his face in his hands again.

Phoenix smiled. "I'm sorry, Athena, we've don't have time for this."

"But..." Athena glanced back helplessly at Apollo behind her. He still looked as though he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him. "But you're lying! I know you are!"

"Daddy's lying?"

Phoenix stifled a groan as Trucy appeared at the bottom of the stairs, backpack slung over her shoulders. She took the stairs two at a time. "What are you lying about, Daddy?"

"Hey, Trucy," Phoenix said, letting go of Miles to hug her. "How was school?"

Trucy pulled back with a smile on her face. "It was great! What are you lying about, Daddy?"

"The toilet brush!" Athena strode forward into the hallway, a look of determination on her face. "Somebody broke it last night, and your dad knows something about it, and he won't tell us!"

"I told you, Athena, I broke the-"

"Last night?" Trucy repeated, and then comprehension dawned on her face. "Oh. Oh." Her eyes became impossibly wide as she looked at Miles and Phoenix standing next to each other, Miles staring pointedly toward the wall. "Oh!"

"What?" Athena asked.

"Nothing!" Trucy said, although the giant grin on her face said otherwise. She hugged Phoenix again, and then turned and threw her arms around Miles for good measure. He stiffened, but returned the hug. "I just- had a really good day at school, that's all!" She gave Phoenix another hug. "A really, really good day!"

Wait, how did Trucy figure us out? Has she been expecting this?

Athena was watching the whole exchange open-mouthed, one hand over Widget. She glanced down at her necklace, as if trying to confirm what she was hearing, and back up at the trio on the top of the stairs. "What's...what's going on?"

"Mr. Wright, please, can we just tell her?" Apollo said, emerging from his hands. "She's going to interrogate me and Trucy the moment you leave."

Phoenix glanced over at Miles. Miles nodded, and Phoenix took his hand. "Athena," he said. "We were hoping to keep it quiet, but Edgeworth and I are headed out on a, uh, date."

He expected Athena's gasp, Trucy's noise of delight, and Apollo's groan. He did not, however, expect a smooth German voice to say "Really?" behind him.

"Oh, for God's sake," Miles muttered, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose as they turned to greet the new intruder. Klavier Gavin stood at the bottom of the stairs, open-mouthed, carrying what looked suspiciously like a new toilet brush under one arm- a toilet brush with a rather ostentatious bow on its handle.

"Prosecutor Gavin," Miles said coolly.

"Herr Edgeworth," Gavin said, look of shock melting into a smile. "I didn't mean to intrude, I was simply making a social call."

Miles's gaze flicked down to the brush, and back up to Gavin's face. "Indeed."

"Did you buy us a new toilet brush?" Trucy said, bouncing down the stairs.

Gavin's eyes were still on Miles. "Uh...ja."

Apollo appeared at Phoenix's elbow, making him flinch. "You did what?"

"Herr Forehead!" Gavin raised the toilet brush in some kind of toast. "To assist you with all of your future toilet-cleaning duties!" His eyes darted around the group, who were all staring at him. "It was, ah, intended to be a joke. I was not expecting..." He gestured vaguely towards Phoenix and Miles. "...everyone to be here."

"Apollo won't be doing toilet duty for a while, though!" Athena said, stepping up beside Apollo. "Mr. Wright confessed to breaking the brush, so he's got two months of toilet duty, although he's still acting weird about it."

She shot him a glare, and he groaned. "Athena..."

"Two months?" Miles mouthed.

"What?" Athena said. "It's great that you and, um, the chief prosecutor are, um, dating, but I still don't get where all the emotional discord in your voice came from! Did you actually break the brush?"

Gavin raised his eyebrows. "That mystery still isn't solved?"

"The mystery isn't solved because it doesn't need to be solved," Apollo said, folding his arms. "Mr. Wright had too much wine, and he broke the brush. That's all there is to it."

Athena gasped. "Wait, but the wine! The two glasses! There was someone else there! Maybe-" Her gaze turned to Miles, and Widget's expression rapidly cycled through shock and fear. "Oh, um, never mind. You're right, Apollo. Mr. Wright broke it. He has to clean the toilets for two months."

"Oh, crap!" Widget added.

Miles began to laugh.

It was such an unexpected sound that even Phoenix stared at him. For a long moment, no one spoke, and Miles kept laughing, hand over his mouth. Eventually, he removed his glasses to wipe his eyes, and cleared his throat. When he spoke, his tone was businesslike again, although he hadn't stopped smirking. "Phoenix, while I was not aware there was a punishment at the time of the crime-"

"Neither was I," Phoenix muttered, shooting a glare at Athena and Apollo.

"-nevertheless, it would be a shame for you to serve the sentence for a crime you didn't commit. Justice must be done. If you like, I can take the punishment instead."

The hallway went dead silent again as, Phoenix assumed, they all tried to picture the dignified chief prosecutor on his knees scrubbing a toilet. Phoenix grinned. "We can negotiate, Miles. It was partially my fault, anyway."

"Gross!" Apollo burst out.

"I didn't mean..." Phoenix shook his head, resigning himself to whatever assumptions the other members of the Wright Anything Agency were going to make about him for the rest of his life. He took Miles's hand. "Come on. If that's everything, the chief prosecutor and I have a date to get to."

"Have a good time!" Trucy said, darting back up the stairs to give him a kiss on the cheek. "Don't stay out too late!"

"Thanks, Trucy." Shouldn't I be the one saying that?

Miles swept his gaze over the group, instantly assuming the power of his job title again. "And we would appreciate if you would be discreet with this...new knowledge you have gained today. We are planning on informing everyone, of course, just not in the first twenty-four hours."

"Of course," Apollo said, still beet red. Athena saluted, and Widget cringed. Trucy and Gavin nodded, too, and Phoenix grabbed Miles's hand, tugging him down the stairs.

As they passed by Gavin, he shifted the toilet brush to his other arm, laying a hand on Miles's shoulder. "Chief Prosecutor," he said. "Gratulation."

Miles nodded. "Danke."

"What was that about?" Phoenix whispered as they continued down the hall.

Miles glanced back. "Mr. Justice is not the only one who thought we weren't being subtle, it seems."

Phoenix followed his gaze. Gavin had climbed the stairs, and he and Apollo were talking intently, Apollo gesturing to the toilet brush. Athena, meanwhile, was giggling at something Trucy said, her hand still covering Widget. "I think my subordinates are terrified of you," Phoenix said.

Miles smirked. "They are." It wasn't a question.

"I wish I could say the same about me."

"It's not a bad thing to be friendly with them," Miles said. "You three- four make a fearsome team, both in and out of court. Your bond is one of your strengths."

"Tell me that again when I manage to keep a secret from them for more than a day," Phoenix said, smiling. He squeezed Miles' hand. "Who would've thought your idea of romance would be offering to clean toilets for me for two months?"

Miles scowled. "I recall mention of negotiations-"

"It's just like Gavin buying Apollo a new brush," Phoenix said cheerfully. He glanced back. Trucy and Athena had disappeared into the office, but Gavin and Apollo were still in the hall, standing almost too close to each other. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but Apollo's smile spoke volumes. "For...whatever's going on between them."

He fingered the Magatama in his pocket. It seemed monumentally unfair for him to be interrogated until his secret relationship was revealed, and yet no one questioned Gavin bringing Apollo a new toilet brush, wrapped up in a bow, less than an hour after finding out the old brush was broken, as part of a 'joke'.

"Don't," Miles said, eyes following the movement of his hand.

Phoenix sighed. "I won't. I'm the boss, right? I have to follow my own rules. No more powers in the office."

Miles nodded. "That, and I'd rather not spend our first date trying to figure out if our subordinates are dating."

"Don't worry," Phoenix said, grinning. "I've got much more pleasant things to think about."

If Phoenix had looked back, in the last second before they turned a corner and were out of sight of the stairs, he might have witnessed decisive evidence of what, exactly, was going on between Klavier and Apollo. But Phoenix didn't turn, and Miles smiled to himself, and the mystery remained a mystery.

***

(Coda)

"You know what's weird?" Athena said, fiddling with her earring.

"That Prosecutor Gavin bought us a new toilet brush?" Trucy said. She crossed to Phoenix's desk, gathering up the cards scattered all over its surface.

"No," Athena said. "I mean, everyone knows why he did that. No, the thing with the toilet brush had me thinking- when was the last time you were on toilet duty?"

Trucy straightened, happy her back was to Athena so she couldn't see the look of horror on Trucy's face. She pasted on her best magician's smile and turned around. "What do you mean?"

"Well, we worked out a schedule, and it's supposed to be all four of us, but you and Mr. Wright never do it," Athena said. "I mean, it should have been your turn at some point in the past month, but we kept restarting the order because the schedule was-" She paused, eyes narrowing in accusation. "...destroyed in a magic trick. Twice."

What's a magician's best trick? Redirect their attention! Luckily for her, a distraction appeared in the form of Apollo in the doorway. He had a tiny smile on his face, both more pleased and more private than his usual grin, and the bow-clad toilet brush was tucked underneath his arm.

"Polly, did your boyfriend already leave?" Trucy asked. "I wanted to thank him for the new brush!"

"Yeah, he had to-" Apollo began, and then his smile vanished. "Wait, boyfriend?"

Trucy assumed an expression of innocence. "Isn't he?"

"What?" Apollo looked between her and Athena, backing up. "Trucy, we just had an office meeting about this! We're not going to pry into each other's personal lives anymore!"

"Technically, it was just about using powers to pry into each other's personal lives," Athena pointed out.

Trucy nodded. "Plus, I wasn't here for it, so I can still pry!"

"No, we're not dating!" Apollo said, flushing. "You guys are so weird! This is why we had to pretend last night was an investigation! Can't two men go out for dinner and drinks together without it being a date?"

"But sharing a motorcycle-" Athena began.

Apollo gesticulated wildly, waving the toilet brush. "It was the fastest way there!"

"And he keeps calling you all of those German pet names when he thinks we're not listening," Trucy added.

"How did you- no, that's- that's just how he is!" Apollo said. "He treats everyone like that!"

It took one look at Athena's expression for Trucy to confirm that, no, she was not crazy, and yes, Prosecutor Gavin did not treat everyone like that. "Okay, Polly," Trucy said cheerfully. "If you say so."

Apollo threw up his hands in defeat. "Ugh, all of you are impossible. I'm going to put the new brush away in the bathroom." He stormed off, slamming the door behind him.

Athena was first to break the ensuing silence. "Do you think he knows he walked into the evidence room?"

"He'll figure it out," Trucy said, and Apollo stormed out of the evidence room, sent them another glare, and stormed into the bathroom. Somehow, him slamming the door a second time didn't have quite the same weight behind it.

When Trucy looked back at Athena, Athena was already eyeing her. "I haven't forgotten about you destroying the chore schedules, you know," she said pleasantly.

Darn.

[tsuki-chibi]

Passionfruit (November) Day 29: Ash

Catch up on AO3: Passionfruit

————

While Fu made tea, Adrien and Marinette settled themselves at a low table. The only sound in the room was that of Tikki, Plagg and Wayzz whispering; both of them remained quiet as Fu brought a teapot and three cups over, setting the tray gentle on the table before kneeling down himself. He poured the tea, placing a cup in front of first Marinette and then Adrien.

“Now,” he said heavily. “When did you two find out you were soulmates?”

“Back in May,” Marinette said. She didn’t touch her cup of tea and neither did Adrien. He was too focused on watching Fu closely as the bit of information sank in. As Plagg had predicted, Fu didn’t look too happy.

“Why didn’t you tell Tikki and Plagg?” he asked.

“Because they were very insistent that we needed to keep our identities secret and that no one could know,” Marinette said. “Especially our partner.” She glanced at Adrien. “But... it’s pretty hard to keep things a secret from your soulmate.”

And even if they had kept it a secret, Adrien wanted to add even though he refrained, he would’ve known who Ladybug was the instant that he saw her. The way Ladybug moved, the way she smiled, the sound of her laugh, her innate kindness and courage - it was all so thoroughly Marinette that there would’ve been no mistaking it.

‘Flatterer,’ Marinette thought, blushing slightly.

Fu’s lips pursed in disapproval. He was quiet for a moment. Then he steepled his fingers together and said, “Ladybug and Chat Noir are not supposed to know each other’s identities at first. The masks give them the opportunity to bond and learn to work as a team without any preconcieved notions.”

“We have bonded,” Adrien pointed out. “We’re soulmates.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Fu sighed. “Having you two too focused on each other could ruin the balance of the team.”

“What team? We are the team,” Adrien said. He noticed Tikki and Plagg exchanging looks. Clearly there was something he and Marinette were missing. But Fu glossed over that, continuing as though Adrien hadn’t spoken.

“At any rate, you two knowing each other’s identities is dangerous when you have an enemy like Hawkmoth. If he akumatized one of you, the akuma would know right where to go to target the other.”

“That wouldn’t happen,” Marinette said weakly.

“You don’t know that,” Fu said. “Besides, have you considered what would happen if one of you died?”

Marinette flinched and Adrien reached out to wordlessly take her hand.

“That already happened during Timebreaker,” Tikki spoke up, flying over to pat Marinette’s free hand comfortingly.

“And what happened?” Fu asked grimly.

Tikki hesitated. Marinette cleared her throat. “I defeated the akuma and brought my partner back,” she said with forced calm.

Fu looked at her skeptically. “And?”

‘You don’t have to tell him,’ Adrien thought.

‘Yes I do. I think it’ll be worse if we don’t,’ Marinette thought back.

Adrien had no response to that, because she was right, but he didn’t like it.

“A couple of my friends found out who I was and Tikki discovered Adrien and I are soulmates. But it doesn’t matter. I fixed everything with the cure. None of my friends remember that I’m Ladybug,” Marinette said.

“But what if Timebreaker hadn’t been a time traveling akuma?” Fu said, shaking his head. He sat back on his heels. “You could have exposed yourself to people who would never forget.”

“It was a mistake. I know what to expect from now on. We’ll be prepared for it next time if it ever happens again,” Marinette argued.

“How are your shields?” Fu inquired suddenly. “Are they in good shape? Didn’t they help?”

“We don’t have any,” Adrien said reluctantly, and the look on Fu’s face would’ve been comical under any other circumstances. As it was, Marinette bit her lip and Adrien squirmed.

“You don’t have any shields?” Fu said incredulously. “At all?”

“No,” Marinette said. Then, pre-empting the inevitable question, she added, “We don’t want any.”

Fu’s frown deepened. He went again, eyes flicking back and forth between the two of them. Adrien wanted to say something in their defence, but he wasn’t sure what that something should be. He didn’t think that the fact that they were soulmates was as big of a deal as Fu was making it out to be. They’d gotten along fine until now, hadn’t they?

‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s right,’ Marinette thought. ‘Maybe it is dangerous... like he said, if Hawkmoth akumatized one of us...’

‘No, Mari. He’s not right. He’s wrong. I don’t care how dangerous it is. We’re damn good at what we do,’ Adrien thought, squeezing her hand. ‘Us knowing each other’s identities means we can give each other support. I would feel so lonely and confused if I couldn’t lean on you.’

Her expression softened. ‘You’re right. It would be awful. I can’t imagine what that kind of pressure would be like. It would probably make us more susceptible to being akumatized, not less.’

“Is there anything else I need to know?” Fu said at last.

‘Should I mention Chloé?’ Adrien thought, and Marinette sighed.

“One of our friends still knows who we are,” she said wearily. “She knew before Timebreaker.”

“Someone already knows?” Fu sounded completely scandalized at that. “You said Tikki and Plagg impressed upon you the importance of keeping your secret!”

“It was an accident,” Adrien said hotly, ashamed. He knew that one was completely his fault no matter how much Marinette told him that it wasn’t.

“They did!” Marinette cried at the same time. “That’s why we didn’t tell them, because they said our miraculous might get taken away!”

“I see,” Fu said.

“Master Fu, Marinette is a fantastic Ladybug,” Tikki said, seemingly recognizing that this conversation was not going well. “And Adrien is a great Chat Noir, right Plagg?”

“I want to keep him,” Plagg said simply.

“There are ways to mitigate the fact that they’re soulmates,” Tikki continued. “I know they don’t want shields, but -”

“I’ve heard enough,” Fu interrupted. “Marinette, Adrien. I chose you two suspecting that you were soulmates, but had I known that you’d already discovered your connection I wouldn’t have given you the miraculous for exactly these reasons.”

Marinette tensed and went ashen.

Adrien’s heart started racing.

“Based on everything you’ve told me, I have no choice but to ask for your miraculous back,” Fu concluded.

“Master!” Tikki exclaimed.

“You can’t -” Plagg started furiously.

“My decision is final,” Fu said, shooting the two kwami a firm look.

“That’s not fair,” Adrien said shakily. Their worst nightmare was coming true. “You heard Plagg and Tikki. We’re good at what we do. Chloé hasn’t said anything. She won’t. I know she won’t. And Mari and I, being soulmates makes us better at being Ladybug and Chat Noir, not worse.”

“Please, Master.” Marinette’s voice cracked. “Please give us a chance. We can do this.”

Fu shook his head. “I’m sorry.” He wordlessly held out a hand.

Marinette’s face crumbled. The surge of raw grief and disappointing rolling off of her curdled in Adrien’s chest, making him feel nauseous. He couldn’t find the words to speak, to explain. He and Marinette could do this. They were born to do this.

But sitting there, looking at Fu’s face, he realized that nothing they said would make a difference. Fu had already made up his mind. For whatever reason, he didn’t want a Ladybug and Chat Noir who were unshielded soulmates - and maybe not even shields would be enough.

Plagg flew up to hover in front of Adrien’s face. “Kid...”

“Goodbye, Plagg,” Adrien whispered, choked. He quickly drew off the ring, unwilling or unable to draw the conversation out. Plagg vanished in a flash of green light.

Beside him, Marinette sobbed as Tikki nuzzled her cheek. There were tears in Tikki’s eyes as Marinette removed the earrings. Tikki turned into a swirl of red light. Marinette’s hand trembled as she reached out and dropped the earrings into Fu’s hand. Adrien clenched his jaw, willing back his own tears as he gently set his ring into Fu’s palm too.

Then he turned to Marinette, gathering her up into a hug as she fell apart. It was a struggle to hold himself together, but he wasn’t willing to cry in front of Fu. Instead, he just watched as Fu slid the Ladybug and Black Cat miraculous into his pocket. Wayzz flew over to him, hovering over Fu’s shoulder with a somber expression.

“I really am sorry,” Fu said, very quietly. “I recognize how difficult this is. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t feel that this was for the best. I have to think of the safety of the miraculous and of Paris.” He looked up at them. “I ask that you never tell anyone else that you were Ladybug and Chat Noir, or it could paint a target on your backs.”

Were. That word cut deeply. Adrien’s chin trembled. “We won’t.”

“And you must never tell anyone about me or what you have seen here today,” Fu continued. “During the next akuma attack, you have to keep your distance. No matter how much you want to help, don’t.”

“Fine,” Adrien whispered. Marinette was crying too hard to speak.

“Then you may go,” Fu said, inclining his head.

That was it, then. Adrien wanted to scream and rage, but instead he stood up and took Marinette with him. They made their way back out through the shop and emerged into the bright sunlight. Though it was warm, Adrien felt numb down to his core. Plagg had always been light, a barely noticeable weight, but right then Adrien felt as unbalanced as though he were missing a limb.

‘I can’t believe this,’ Marinette thought, fresh tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘I can’t believe he took them away.’

‘He shouldn’t have. We were good,’ Adrien thought. ‘We were good.’

“Oh, Adrien,” Marinette whispered, lifting her head to look at him.

His eyes grew hot and blurry with tears. “What are we going to do?”

Marinette reached up to wrap her arms around his neck. “I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out.”

She was trying to be confident, but Adrien could feel her uncertainty. She was as lost as he was now. They had only been Ladybug and Chat Noir for a few months, but it had become such a huge part of them. He didn’t know if he could handle standing by and watching someone else take up that mantle, but then it wasn’t like they had a choice. They were civilians now. Useless civilians.

He put his head down on Marinette’s shoulder and wept.

[ilikecowsnstuff]

CHAPTER 18!!!

SUMMARY:  UA Hero Course - Third Year. Shigaraki Tomura and Dabi have been classmates and rivals since their very first day at UA. But with new feelings developing how will they cope given their history of fragile and often violent encounters? Their dance begins after a partnered training exam goes wrong, leaving Shigaraki wounded and Dabi feeling guilty. AU.

====================

For AO3 – Click Here

For FanFiction – Click Here

====================

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - YOU NEED A BREAK

 It was 12:35 AM. Shigaraki yawned as he stretched and then went back to staring at the computer. On it was the file of the villain from the agency's latest case, one that Fourth Kind had recently detained and who Shigaraki was supposed to be filling out the report for. But he wasn’t really focused. Instead, he played with the pen that was in his hand, tapping it in a rhymical beat against his bent knee, until somehow it escaped his fingers. He looked up and saw that the pen had landed on Fourth Kind’s desk. 

 The Pro-Hero slammed his hand down over the pen and levelled a stern gaze at Shigaraki.

 “Sorry.”

 Fourth Kind grunted and then sat back, steepling his fingers in front of him.

 “Is this work not stimulating enough for you, Shigaraki?”

 “Oh, no sir. This is great. Really.” Shigaraki replied sarcastically, shrinking further down into the couch and bringing the laptop closer to his chest.

 The Pro-Hero chuckled deeply.

 “You know, Hero work is not always playing outside and catching the bad guys.” He pulled open the top drawer of his desk and extracted a small cigar box as he spoke. Cubans. “Sometimes, you have to fill out paperwork.” He picked up a gold-plated cigar cutter and snipped off the cap of one of the cigars before placing it between his teeth. “Fortunately for me, I have you to do that.” He grinned and then lit up the end with a flick of a match.

 Shigaraki looked at him deadpan as a cloud of white smoke rolled upwards before disappearing at the ceiling. 

 “You asked for the hours, Shigaraki. This is what I need from you.”

 “To do all your paperwork and fetch you an espresso on command?”

 “Watch your mouth, boy.” He narrowed his eyes and took another puff from his cigar. On the outside he looked perturbed by Shigaraki’s attitude, however, the small curl of his lip suggested Shigaraki amused him, to a small degree anyway. “You are young, you’ll have plenty of opportunities to put your life in danger after you graduate.”

 Shigaraki breathed a quiet sigh and returned his attention to the task at hand, plugging in details of the arrest as Fourth Kind had described earlier. 

He knew he shouldn’t be complaining, he was grateful for the work and really it was easy money, but after a week of coffee runs, organizing files, and writing up reports he was eager for something more. Something a little more interesting. A patrol even. But Fourth Kind refused to send him out onto the streets. It was Summer break, he wasn’t even supposed to be working. That was the same argument that came back at Shigaraki every time he asked for just that bit more responsibility.

 Shigaraki worked silently for the next half hour, diligent, completing the report and helping Fourth Kind in planning the next day without so much as a fuss.

 It was getting late and they were both preparing to wrap up a long day, when an alarm and motion sensor detected someone coming into the office through the front entrance. It wasn’t unusual for people to stop by the agency - concerned civilians, police, heroes - but considering the hour it was somewhat out of the ordinary.

 “I think there’s someone here to see you.”

 “Hm?” Shigaraki lifted one brow and closed the lid of the laptop before powering it down. He dropped it carefully onto Fourth Kind’s desk. “Why would you think that?”

 “Just go.” He waved Shigaraki off.

 Shigaraki offered him a speculative glance before leaving the office. Down a hall, he entered into the foyer, and turned a corner to where the reception desk was located. Standing at that desk was the last person he ever thought he would see in the Fourth Kind agency.

 “Dabi?”

 “Hey, Mop Head.” It took just a few long strides for Dabi to reach Shigaraki and when he did, instinctually reached out for some affection.

 Shigaraki took a step back avoiding the impending hug and glanced up towards the concealed security cameras he knew were watching them. Dabi stopped and the initial enthusiasm left his face, replaced by something more akin to disappointment.

 “What are you doing here?”

 “You’re not happy to see me?” Dabi asked, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

 “No… I am. I just…” Another quick glance around and Shigaraki tentatively stepped closer to his boyfriend, wanting to appease him while also simultaneously keeping up an appropriate professional front. He smiled in reassurance, though it was somewhat tense, and took up a lax position beside Dabi, leaning casually back against the reception desk. “I thought you were away with your family. I didn’t expect to see you.”

 The corner of Dabi’s mouth curled up into an amused grin and then he leaned forward and kissed Shigaraki’s cheek. His lips lingered, and Shigaraki heard him inhale a deep breath before Dabi was nuzzling his jawline. Unbelievably, he managed to keep his hands to himself.

 “I told you I wanted to see you.”

 “Yeah, you did but…”

 Dabi snickered, “But you didn’t think i’d be able to get away from dear old dad?”

 “Obviously.”

 Dabi pulled away and straightened up. “Well, luckily for me, Endeavour prefers to spend his precious free time with his favoured child. Getting out of there really wasn’t that difficult. He probably won’t even notice that I left.”

 Shigaraki snorted a laugh and watched as Dabi strolled around the reception area, looking at the various photos, and framed articles and accolades hanging on the walls.

 “Don’t hate me, but I kind of called ahead.”

 “Huh?” Shigaraki said, his nose scrunching a little.

 “Here.”

 Shigaraki’s mouth formed an understanding, “Oh.” Fourth Kind knew their late-night visitor was Dabi, that’s why it hadn’t disturbed him to hear someone calling on the agency so late.

 “You need a real Summer vacation.”

 “No, I need money.”

 “Well, tough shit. I’m taking you away for a few days.”

 “I have to work.”

 “No, you don’t. It’s all sorted out. You’re good.” Dabi grinned, quite proud of himself. Shigaraki didn’t look half as impressed. “Actually, funny story. Fourth Kind seemed pretty keen on the whole idea of kicking you out of here for a bit.”

 “Tch.”

 “Shigaraki needs to relax and have some fun.” Dabi said, mimicking Fourth Kind’s deep voice. “Those were his words, not mine. Though, I completely agree.”

 “Yeah, yeah. That’s great and all but don’t I get any say in this?”

 “Nope. We’re leaving now.”

 “No, we’re not.”

 “I’m not asking. You need a break. Come on.”

 “Dabi.” Shigaraki sighed and scrubbed a hand roughly over his face. “Can we please just be serious for a moment. It's almost two in the morning.”

 “I am being serious.” Dabi said, his brow pinching together. “I want to spend some time with you. What’s so bad about that?”

 Shigaraki searched Dabi’s vibrant blue gaze for a moment, looking for a hint of dishonesty or humor but couldn’t find any. He really was being serious about this. “Okay.” He started, resigned to the fact that he was probably going on a little vacation with Dabi somewhere. “Where are we going?”

 “Don’t worry, you’ll like it.”

 “So, you’re not going to tell me?”

 “No.” Dabi grinned, “You’ll just have to trust me.”

 “How will I know what to pack then?”

 “Well the thing is… I kind of already did that for you.” Dabi said quickly, ending it with a cleverly timed cough.

 “You went into my room? By yourself?”

 “Yes.”

 “And went through all my things so you could pack a bag for me?”

 “Yes. And I only checked, like, all of your drawers so...” He chuckled when Shigaraki pulled a face. “Honestly, you’re really not that hard to pack for. And where we are going you won’t need too many clothes.” Another devilish grin and a wink, he ambled back over to Shigaraki and stepped right into his personal space.

 “That’s not funny.” Shigaraki grumbled.

 Dabi lifted his hand to frame the side of Shigaraki’s face and his fingers slowly swept his jaw. “It’s not what you think. I wouldn’t purposely put you in a situation you would be uncomfortable with.”

 “I know.”

 Dabi leaned in, and this time Shigaraki didn’t move away. Dabi brushed his warm lips over Shigaraki and their breaths mingled as they exhaled soft matching sounds of pleasure from a long-awaited kiss. Dabi licked Shigaraki’s lower lip and the lighter haired boy groaned, parting his mouth to allow Dabi to touch the tip of his tongue down against his. Dabi withdrew a fraction, teasing, encouraging Shigaraki to lean forward in search of a deeper kiss and when he did, Dabi delved deeper, exploding with a sudden urgency. His mouth was restless, lips moving over Shigaraki and drawing him closer with ambitious hands that slipped around his boyfriend's waist. But it wasn't enough, he wanted more. They had only been separated for a week but for Dabi, who was in an almost constant state of yearning for Shigaraki, it felt like a lifetime.

 They broke away seconds later, in desperate need of some oxygen, and Shigaraki pressed the palm of his hand to Dabi’s chest to prevent them from getting carried away by another ardent kiss.

 “So, should we go?” Dabi whispered, his voice low and laced with lust.

 Shigaraki cleared his throat and nodded his head. “Let me get my... things.”

 Dabi reluctantly stepped away and Shigaraki quickly moved aside, though he motioned for Dabi to walk with him.

 Back inside the agency, Shigaraki found Fourth Kind still in his office, though it looked like he was getting ready to call it a night too.

 “Ah. There you are.” He placed a gentle hand down on Shigaraki’s shoulder and handed him his cellphone, which he had left behind on the desk. “So, I won’t see you for a few days. Correct?” He grinned, a smile full of large perfect white teeth, and then nodded his head in greeting to Dabi. “Toya Todoroki. All grown up. Wow.” 

 “Sir.”

 “Thanks for taking this one off my hands for a few days. Not that I don’t appreciate having him around, but he needs a break. You’re a good friend.”

 “I am.” Dabi grinned. “A great friend.” He said with a huge emphasis on the word friend.

 Shigaraki huffed, his face flooding with heat. “You’re not that great. Don’t flatter yourself.”

 Dabi snickered.

 Thankfully, Fourth Kind didn’t pick up on anything beyond their being a friendship. Though, all he had to do was check the security camera footage and he would quickly find out just how friendly they were. Shigaraki internally scolded himself for the impromptu make out session in the reception area. 

 “And for the record, I didn’t need either of you to decide that I needed a break.” Shigaraki interjected, grumbling.

 Fourth Kind laughed, loudly, completely amused. “Get out of here.”

 Shigaraki huffed again but nodded.

 “Oh, and Toya, if you ever feel like a change in… scenery, the Fourth Kind Agency is always open.”

 “It’s Dabi, actually.” He amended, “And yeah, i’ll keep that in mind.”

 “Dabi. Give my regards to Endeavour would you.”

 Dabi narrowed his eyes and then turned away. He was the first out of the office, with Shigaraki following closely behind. They walked silently and when they cleared the entrance and were out on the sidewalk, Dabi immediately took Shigaraki’s hand, carefully linking their fingers together. Shigaraki did not fight it.

 “I’m parked just down here.” Dabi motioned with a jerk of his head.

 “We’re driving?”

 “Yeah. Car courtesy of Endeavour.” Dabi grinned, and then lifted a key fob. He pushed a button and the sound of a car unlocking with a double beep could be heard just a few yards ahead.

 “When you must tell him the story about why his car has a few extra miles on the gauge and an empty gas tank, leave me out of it.”

 Dabi laughed and propped open the passenger side door of a blacked-out luxury sedan, inviting Shigaraki to get inside. “I don’t know what you are talking about Old Man. Forgetting things. Must be your age. It’ll go something like that.”

 Shigaraki shook his head. All joking aside, he was concerned about what would happen to Dabi if Endeavour found out. First, leaving their family summer vacation, and then hijacking his car to go on a vacation of his own, and with his boyfriend who Shigaraki was sure Endeavour did not know about him or their relationship. That was three strikes.

 Dabi closed Shigaraki up inside the car before joining him on the driver’s side. “Look, don’t worry. Really. It’ll be fine. Fuck him.” He pressed the auto start and the engine hummed to life. He then fiddled with the GPS until a map showing the route they would be taking popped up on the display screen.

 The back of Shigaraki’s head hit the headrest and he slowly rolled his cheek to the side to face Dabi. He hadn’t noticed it until then, but on Dabi’s face, right by his ear where there was already extensive scarring, was a new wound - a small cut, surrounded by some purple bruising.

 Shigaraki’s brow furrowed and Dabi jerked his head over to him.  Shigaraki wanted to ask about the injury but thought it best to maybe wait until later - after they had finished their roadtrip.

 “What?”

 “Nothing. Just… wondering what you actually packed for me.”

 Dabi grinned and then returned his gaze forward so he could pull the car out from the curb and get them or their way. “You know, all the essentials. Socks, shampoo… lube.” He joked.

 “Right. The essentials.” Shigaraki scowled and looked over his shoulder to the backseat where two packed bags were sitting. They seemed full enough. “Sounds like your plan is to jerk off into a sock later. Fun vacation.” 

 Dabi snickered. “I did forget your toothbrush though. Unimportant. You can use mine.”

 “What?” Shigaraki drawled, unamused. “So, you remembered to pack lube but no toothbrush?”

 Dabi laughed again, “We’ll stop somewhere on the way. You know, we might need more lube.”

 “I hope you packed enough socks.”

====================

Chapter One – Accidental Attraction

Chapter Two – After Care

Chapter Three – Dazed and Confused

Chapter Four – I Like You

Chapter Five - Friends and Enemies

Chapter Six - Confrontation!

Chapter Seven - Transfer Student

Chapter Eight - A Period of Learning

Chapter Nine - Work and Play

Chapter Ten - Friday

Chapter Eleven - Extraordinary Day

Chapter Twelve - The Problem with Relationships.

Chapter Thirteen - Will You Go Out With Me?

Chapter Fourteen - A Not So Innocent Birthday Request

Chapter Fifteen - The Morning After

Chapter Sixteen - His First

Chapter Seventeen - Summer is Coming

[thereluctantinquisitor]

An Unlikely Ally

It was that thick, heavy feeling inside his skull that drove him mad. He could handle burning eyes and heavy steps, open wounds and broken bones. But to feel like a stranger in his own head, wading through endless fog, was almost too much to bear. 

He needed to sleep.

The nights seemed longer, somehow. Longer than when he used to watch over the clan grounds until dawn. Skyhold possessed an eerie stillness that made it difficult to distract himself. There was no investigating a rustle in a bush or a suspicious snapping of a branch. No need to follow a set of tracks to discern their direction, their numbers, their size and shape. Skyhold was just... there. Walled in and safe. He should be glad for it. It should be better that way.

Exhaling, Hanin raked his fingers through his hair, unbound and tousled from his earlier attempt at rest. He called it rest, now, because actual sleep seemed so impossible to achieve. How long had it been since he made it through the night? Days? Weeks?

How much longer could he keep this up?

Already, he was losing his edge. The bruises on his side from where he’d missed parries during training were a testament to that. Without thinking, he reached down, brushing his fingers over the welts left by the practice blades. In a battle, he’d be dead. Cut down by a recruit. 

He didn’t hear Anacrea approach.

“It is late, Lavellan. Even for you.”

Hanin jolted, hand and mind pulling sharply away from his idle reverie. The mage was in a thick overcoat, the dark cloth falling to just below her knees. Beneath, he could make out nothing more than a simple affair, soft and warm. A thing for sleeping, he assumed. It was far from her typical attire. 

“I could say the same to you,” he replied, returning to his empty contemplation of the courtyard. “If you have come to lecture me, know I do not take advice well.” He was about to add from a hypocrite, but stopped himself. After all, even he could see the irony in voicing such a statement. He wasn’t blind. Just tired.

The sound of her footsteps on the cobblestones was louder than he expected, given he hadn’t heard her approach. When she settled beside him on the bench, the thick cloth of her coat brushing his leg, he almost convinced himself to look over at her. Discern what she wanted. But in the end, even the thought of it seemed too difficult, so he just breathed, quietly and slowly, and hoped she would leave.

She didn’t.

“You cannot continue like this.”

Hanin snorted faintly, as amused as he could be at hearing his thoughts voiced so soon by another. “What choice do I have. The world won’t stop for me.”

“No,” she agreed. “It won’t.” 

Funny, he could say it to himself over and over again - repeat it like a mantra - but coming from someone else it felt like a knife to the chest. An inescapable truth. His temple suddenly pulsed and he realised he had been clenching his jaw so tight that it ached. He forced himself to work it loose, but the conscious effort it took to keep it that way seemed almost more distracting than the pain. Not that it mattered where his focus lay. He had nothing to say to her. Whatever she was doing, it was wasting both of their time.

After about five minutes, Hanin broke.

“Did you just come out here to sit in silence?” He was leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, forehead resting heavily against his steepled fingers. They were cold against his skin. “If you have business with me, get to it.”

On a better day, he would measure his words carefully around the mage. He was smart enough for that. But at that point, he just couldn’t understand why she was tormenting him, sitting there, silent as the stone battlements that walled him in. Creators, berate him! Attempt to console him. Coddle him, even. Damn it, he needed her to do something so he could chase her away for it. 

But she was just sitting there.

“I know you wished you were there. When your clan was butchered.” The simplicity of the words - the coldness of them - caught Hanin by surprise. So much so that he flinched and felt a growl curl at the back of his throat - a warning. A threat. 

“Careful, Trevelyan.”

“No.” He felt her shift beside him, crossing one leg over the other. An act of ease. “I will not be careful.” 

Was she mocking him?

“Then what do you want from me, shem.” Each word was like spitting blood. Especially the last. But Anacrea, true to form, seemed unfazed by his anger. His frustration. His brittle edges. Leaning back against the stone wall, the collar of her coat bunched at her neck, the air curling as she breathed it in and out. It was only after each detail registered that Hanin realised he was looking at her - glaring at her. With a grunt, he shifted his gaze back to the courtyard, but made no effort to soften it. Like his aching jaw, it was too hard of a fight. Another lost battle to add to his collection.

“Do your people know of Circles?”

Hanin barely kept the venom out of his voice. “Of course we do. We have mages. We know the dangers of losing them to humans.”

He was half expecting - hoping - she would take either the bait or her leave. She did neither. “My Circle was at Ostwick,” she continued. Her voice was low, but not quiet. It was the level of polite, midnight conversation. “When the mages began rebelling in Kirkwall, the Templars grew paranoid. Erratic. Saw threat where there was none. Cursed at writing on the wall that only they could see.”

She trailed off for a moment, prompting Hanin to sigh tightly. “Just make your point, Anacrea.” 

If you have one.

“Very well. One evening, we were all summoned to the dining hall for the evening meal. It was nothing unusual, but we all felt the tension between us and the Templars. I raised my concerns, but they were... not taken seriously by my companions. While people sensed things were not well, they remained reassured. After all, we were not apostates. They had no reason to harm us.” There was a steel to her tone, now. An age-old bitterness Hanin almost felt he could understand. Maybe even relate to. “I chose to remain in my room that evening, cloistered by my own paranoia.”

The conversation was heading in a direction Hanin recognised all too well. He knew better than to try to stop it. “What happened?”

Her response was as abrupt as could be expected. “Like you clan, they were butchered. Right there in the dining hall. Defenceless in a place they thought they were safe.” She closed her eyes. “When I heard the screaming, I took my staff and ran towards it.”

Hanin, careful not to interrupt the story, gave a single nod of appreciation. “Brave.”

Judging by the winkling of her nose, Anacrea did not share his sentiment. “It was foolish. Had I not stumbled across other mages who had avoided the call to supper, I would have died along with the others. It was only the combination of us, and the distraction of the main slaughter, that saw us to safety.” Her brow twitched, as though seeking to frown but meeting resistance halfway. “There were less than twenty of us who made it out alive. I remember... passing the hall. The door was ajar. I saw them dragging bodies into a pile at the center of the room. It was... like collecting the dead after a war.”

Slowly, Hanin turned to regard the woman, his anger and frustration still lurking at the back of his mind, but no longer so overwhelming. Her face was blurry to him - most things were at that moment - but he could see the set of her shoulders beneath the cloak. The stiffness of her spine. “Not much of a war,” he murmured eventually, not exactly sure of what to say. Not understanding why she was telling him any of it.

“No,” she agreed. “It wasn’t.” She shifted then, and he felt the weight of her gaze upon him. “My point, Hanin, is this: I was there. I stood in that hallway. I passed that door. I saw the bodies of people I knew - people I cared about - stacked like rotten sacks of grain. I killed some people. Watched others fall.” She let the words hang for a moment, and Hanin had the feeling she was choosing the next ones carefully. “There is only one thing I have been able to come to terms with, after that night, and that is that none of it was in my control.”

Hanin frowned. “I... don’t understand.” She fought, after all. She was there. She made a difference.

“There is no one who made it out of there alive who did so because of my actions. I saved no one but myself. I am an excellent mage, Hanin - I am comfortable with my own ability. But I know my limits. My presence did not change what happened that night. It couldn’t. It is nothing but a fool’s wish - a desperate grab at grief and guilt - to believe otherwise.” Slowly, she reached up, adjusting her collar, drawing it closer to her neck. “All I am left with is a pile of bodies and blood on the walls. It is something I will never stop seeing.”

Some stubborn, irrational part of Hanin wanted to argue. To tell her that she had saved lives. That each Templar she killed was one less to harm those around her. If he had been there with his clan, he might have been able to buy someone else time. He might have...

I know my limits.

For the first time, Hanin forced himself to stop and think. Really think. He was not the only warrior among the clan. He was not the only one trained to fight, and fight well. Perhaps it was as Anacrea said - a strange mixture of guilt and grief - that left him with his hubristic notion that he would have been the one to save them. As though a gust of wind could change the course of a hurricane.

He really was nothing. 

“How...” The word stuck in Hanin’s throat, but Anacrea did not attempt to hurry it. She just waited until he found his voice. “How do you stop... feeling like this?” His hands curled into fists, and he stared down at them as though they were not his own. Ineffectual. Useless. “Every time I... it’s like losing them over and over again. Every night. I can’t...”

“I am not sure it ever truly goes away,” she said. There was no measure of comfort in her voice; no movement to console him. In truth, he was glad for it. “But how you manage the emotions will change with time. You will learn what works, and what does not. You will find ways to cast some demons out, and handle others.”

It was like torture, to drag the words out. “What did you do?”

To his surprise, the corner of her mouth lifted in a trace of a smile. “For a long time, not enough. I kept myself closed off from anything that could cause me pain. I returned home and left just as quickly. I was... afraid. That I would add my parents’ bodies to the pile. When I came here I sealed myself away with plants and sketches. Things I could control. Create. Keep alive.” Glancing across, her eyes seemed to reflect torchlight that was not there, somehow golden in the dark. “But I began with sleep, Hanin. There are natural remedies to assist the process - things you can ease away from once you regain control of yourself. Then I... began to share. With myself, at first, in writing. But then with others...” She trailed off, breathing a quiet sigh. “There are many here who have gone through terrible trials, be it war or demons or plain tragedy. Speaking... listening to them... it has helped remind me that I am not alone.”

Hanin let out a soft huff, but it lacked the bitterness of before. “So... this is all part of your personal remedy, then?”

“To be truthful, yes.” 

Well, at least she wasn’t shy about it.

“But I also spent too long wandering alone in... dark places,” she continued, “and if I can help shorten someone else’s journey, I consider it worth doing. So...” The fabric of her coat rustled gently as she stood, her hands coaxing the creases out of the front before she turned to face him. “If you will allow it, there are options.” She raised a halting finger. “Not cures. But options. Some will help. Some will not. The only question that remains is: are you willing to try?”

Somehow, the fog in Hanin’s mind seemed to clear for a moment. As he gazed up at Anacrea, her brow slightly arched, her expression patient without pity, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was it. This was the moment that would define his path. Despite his better self, some dark part of him scratched and clawed, desperate to keep him in place. Hold him back. Where he was now... it was a strange kind of comfortable. He had grown so used to feeling empty that the idea of possibly filling that space seemed almost too daunting for words. He could manage one step. But another? Then another after that, over and over? How could he possibly drag himself out of it? Maybe he’d manage it for a day. Maybe even a week. But could he really risk the inevitable failure? That moment when he misses a step and goes crashing right back down again?

Anacrea waited silently, her form a dark silhouette against the greystone walls. Silent. Standing. Broken, but mending, solid on her feet before him. Just as she was the day before. Just as she would be the next day. And the next...

Slowly, Hanin felt himself rise to his feet. In a single step, he was at her side. Exhaling, he glanced to the barracks on the far side of the courtyard, then turned his face to the tower in the distance, gaze eventually resting on the balcony at the highest point. 

“I will try.”

[oh-mother-of-darkness]

“Fine!” yelled Damian. “I quit!”

Bruce watched as the boy— his son— ripped the ‘R’ off his uniform, threw it to the ground, and slammed through the bunker door, out into the hallway. It was dramatic, in Bruce’s opinion, but Damian always was. The little time Bruce had spent with the boy had shown him that. 

Of course, all that time had been last year, before Darkseid’s Omega Beam sent Bruce back in time. His family thought he was dead. In his absence, Dick became Batman, but Bruce had expected that. He was proud of Dick: of his efforts as Batman and of the man he had become. 

He had not, however, expected Dick’s choice of Robin. 

Damian’s angry footsteps retreated down the hallway. Damian? Really? He was Bruce’s son, yes, but who was his mother? Who was his grandfather? He was a weapon created by the League of Assassins. 

A threat. Dick didn’t seem to think so. He swore the boy had changed, but after one mission together, Bruce wasn’t sure. Damian did not follow orders. He and Bruce did not work well together. He did not respect Bruce, and he made that very obvious.

And when presented with those facts, he stormed off. 

Bruce turned with a sigh to Dick, expecting sympathy; surely Dick was used to Damian’s tantrums by now. Instead, he found Dick sitting at the bunker table, hands over his eyes. Dick took a deep breath and dragged his fingers down his face. He finished by staring towards the heavens with his hands steepled under his chin, like he was praying for patience. 

“I need you,” he said, slowly, deliberately, “to fix that.”

“What?”

“Fix it,” Dick repeated, making eye contact. He was furious, Bruce realized— barely keeping his temper. There was fire in his eyes. “Find him. Apologize.” 

“For what? He ignored my instructions, and I—”

“Apologize,” Dick ground out, “for treating him like an enemy.”

“I don’t—”

“You do! And you’re wrong! You don’t know him, and you aren’t trying to! He’s Robin, and you’re going to get used to that, not take it away from him.”

“I don’t plan on taking anything—” Bruce began, but Dick cut him off again. 

“I don’t want to hear it.” He stood up from the table, walked across the bunker, and pulled a pair of files from a drawer. He slapped them onto the table, then marched out the door, yelling for Damian as he went.

“What are—?” Bruce tried to ask, but Dick was already gone. “Fine.” He pulled the first file from the stack and examined it for himself. 

It was an old file, the type Bruce used back when Batman was new, before everything went online. It was labeled “Dick Grayson.” Bruce opened it and read:

I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s difficult for me to admit that Dick and I aren’t connecting, but that is the reality of this situation. We have so much in common that I assumed I could help him. I assumed I knew how to handle this responsibility. I was wrong. Despite my best efforts, his condition has worsened since he came to the manor. Instead of the slow recovery I imagined, he seems to be moving in the opposite direction. 

I have to conclude that his regression is my fault. I do know what he’s going through; I can see the same emotions in his behavior that I remember feeling— that I still feel— after my own parents’ deaths. 

I should have predicted we would grieve differently. I found peace and motivation in solitude, and because I assumed he would do the same, I left him alone. I see now that it was a mistake. He doesn’t need solitude. He needs companionship and warmth. 

Unfortunately, he has me. Alfred assures me that I can learn to be a guardian, and I suppose Alfred would know. I am, however, aware of my own weaknesses. If this is possible, it won’t be easy.

I promised I would help him. I intend to keep that promise.

Bruce remembered this file. He took Dick’s discarded chair at the table and stared down at it, thinking that Dick was never supposed to see it. Then again, Bruce had been gone from the Batcave for a year. He shouldn’t be surprised.

The file was almost twenty years old— Bruce’s first thoughts on Dick Grayson, recently orphaned. He wrote the first entry two weeks after Dick arrived at Wayne Manor. 

If he dislikes the manor, read the second entry, he dislikes school even more: he looks relieved every time he comes home, and he changes out of his school clothes immediately. Obviously, he has negative associations with the place. It can’t be the work that bothers him. He doesn’t seem to mind homework, and he’s always interested in my investigations, even if they involve lab work or extensive research. He likes to learn.

Why then, does he dislike school? Several hypotheses: first, he does not enjoy being around other children. This seems unlikely. Dick enjoys people. He follows Alfred and me around the manor in a way that makes it clear that he prefers company. Second, the particular children at his school are unpleasant. Perhaps he is being bullied. This option also seems unlikely; Dick is more than capable of defending himself. I will, however, investigate to be certain. If he is being bullied, I will remedy that problem. 

I find my third hypothesis most persuasive. Because he has lived his entire life at Haly’s Circus, this is Dick’s first experience with school, and it reminds him of the changes in his life and the reason for that change. By association, school becomes emotionally difficult. That problem will be harder to remedy. 

The only solution is to associate school with something Dick enjoys. Maybe the theater? He did enjoy last week’s performance of Les Miserables. A school play would give him the chance to perform again, something his life now lacks. 

As far as I know, the school does not have a theater program for students Dick’s age. An anonymous donation should fix that gap. I can have Alfred suggest that Dick become involved— the idea will seem better coming from Alfred, a former performer himself. Maybe I can convince Alfred to direct the play, to give Dick the opportunity to work with someone he knows. The situation could also provide an outlet for Dick’s natural leadership skills. 

It’s as good a plan as any. I will initiate it first thing tomorrow morning. 

Bruce smiled at the memory of Dick at eight years old, center stage at the very first Gotham Elementary School play. Alfred still directed that play every year, and Bruce always went to watch. He had missed this year’s… 

Bruce scanned through accounts of Dick’s adventures as Robin, a table of notes on his closest friends, and a record of the Ainsworth incident— there had been a bully, but Theodore Ainsworth quickly learned his lesson. There was a list of things Dick liked paper clipped into the file, followed by a list of things Dick hated. Bruce flipped to the back to verify that the list of Dick’s triggers was still there. It was. 

His guitar string snapped today. The sound set him off. He hid in his bedroom closet for hours, inconsolable…

I thought he might enjoy Professor Miller’s lecture on corporate formation, but he did not. Alfred says young children do not find lectures interesting. He also says I was not an ordinary child, and therefore do not count. We went out for ice cream after the program, which Dick did seem to enjoy. Perhaps I should let him pick activities from now on… 

His friends are obsessed with the Batman. They  constantly argue over whether he exists. Dick is having another sleepover at the tower tonight, and he wants me to swing past the windows to prove that Batman is real. If I can find the time, I will. It will make him happy…

He came to Wayne Enterprises today and charmed the entire building. Maybe one day it can be his business…

He says he misses the circus. Haly’s in on international tour in Prague this week. We can fly out this evening…

He likes to travel. We can extend the trip to the rest of Europe if he wants to. Gotham City can last a few more days without us…

One page from a year in was spattered with tear marks:

…I love Dick more than I ever imagined possible…

Those were not Bruce’s tears on the page. Dick was never supposed to find that file, but he had— while he believed that Bruce was gone forever. Bruce felt like he had been punched in the chest imagining it. He did love Dick more than he ever imagined he could. The beginning had been hard. Bruce didn’t know how to raise a child. He didn’t know how to engage Dick, how to heal him, or how to have a family. He did now. 

He suspected that was Dick’s point. The second file was labeled “Damian Wayne,” and Bruce knew what his notes must look like in comparison: DNA results, a photograph, battle records, and a half page of personal observation. “Assassin. Attempted murderer. Al Ghul.” 

So why was the file so thick? Bruce opened it and found his own notes exactly as he expected them, followed by pages and pages in Dick’s handwriting. 

I don’t know what I’m doing either. All I know is that Bruce gave me a family after I lost everything. He gave me a chance to rebuild and to move on and to become something special. I’m going to do the same for Damian if it kills me.

I don’t know what he likes, but I guess I know what he hates: pretty much everything, including me. I know he wants Robin more than anything. He says it’s his birthright, and in a way, he’s right— not because he has Bruce’s DNA, but because his father is dead, and this is all he has left. Haven’t we all been there? All he wanted was a place by Bruce’s side. That isn’t possible anymore, but Robin is the closest thing I can give him. He needs it. If I’m going to be Batman…

He hates the city. I think he spent a lot of time outside while he was growing up? I’ll ask him…

He draws amazing maps and schematics, and while he draws, it almost looks like he’s happy. Should I get him art supplies? That sounds like something Bruce would do. I could leave them in his room without saying anything. That way he wouldn’t have to accept a gift…

It worked. He spent all day in his room drawing. He told us not to bother him, but he left a portrait of Alfred out in the kitchen. I think it was a thank you…

He hasn’t killed anyone since he started, but God it’s been a struggle. I don’t know whether to be horrified or proud of him for trying. I talked to Cass about it last night. She says she understands. I guess she would. I, on the other hand, can’t even imagine the hellhole they grew up in. What turns a child that cold? He won’t let his guard down. I’m guessing every time he did growing up, he got hit… in the metaphorical sense. I’m sure the literal was much worse. 

I don’t know how to show him that he’s safe with me… 

He got shot today rescuing Sasha. He can’t move from the waist down. Talia says she can take care of it. I don’t think I want to know how…

He’s back at the Tower, in a brace but moving fine. Thank God. I didn’t realize how scared I was of losing him until it almost happened…

Talia tried to force him to kill me. He wouldn’t do it. He broke her mind control to stop himself. He says she offered him a choice: come back to the League or be disowned forever. He says he made his choice, and it’s Robin. He wants to be better. He is so much better. I hope he knows how proud I am…

He loves the houseplants we bought him…

He held the baby for hours while we looked for her mother. I think I heard him singing to her…

He would have enjoyed those stupid lecture series Bruce used to drag me to. He reminds me of Bruce so much. I should tell him. He’ll want to know. It’s all he wants to be…

He saved the kids…

He helped her find her cat…

He cried when we found the body…

He has to know I love him, right? He has to know. In one year, I watched him learn how to love and how to be part of this family. Does he have work left? Sure. But the progress he made is incredible…

Now that we know Bruce is coming back, he’s terrified that he’ll have to leave. He says Bruce never accepted him before, so why would he now? I told him he has nothing to worry about. He earned his place. I’ll do whatever it takes to help him keep it…

Bruce winced at that one. Despite Dick’s uncertainty in the first entry, the file was full of lists: likes, dislikes, triggers, birthday presents, friends… There were drawings that must have come from Damian: Dick and Alfred laughing in the kitchen, birds on the Tower rooftop, Tim by the light of his laptop screen, bats in the Cave with tiny, labelled names, Cassandra and Stephanie grinning as they sparred. The drawings were beautiful. Damian was very talented. 

And, if Dick was to be believed, completely changed. That’s what his file said— both in Dick’s words and the actions he reported. Damian was a different person now. 

Bruce found Dick in the Tower penthouse, washing dishes. He switched off the water as Bruce approached. 

“Where is he?” Bruce asked.

“On the roof.”

“Will he… want to talk?" “I don’t know. Last I checked he was pretty upset.”

“I see.” 

Dick dropped a pile of dishes into the sink. “He’s a child.”

“I know.”

“He’s your child.”

“I… know.”

“He’s different now.”

“I see.”

“But even if he wasn’t, he would still deserve to be here. He will be here, Bruce. I’m not asking.”

“Understood. Batman.” 

Dick half-laughed at that one. “I meant to say,” he said, gesturing to the files in Bruce’s hand, “thank you.” 

Bruce nodded. 

“I mean it. I didn’t… realize how much effort you put into making me feel at home.”

“You needed me.”

“So does he. Put in the effort.”

Bruce nodded, then headed for the roof. 

*some portions of Damian’s file describe the events of Batman and Robin (v1)

*this fic is loosely based on a scene from Batman: the Return-- just the way I would have written it

Merry Christmas!

[asocier]

( private verse ) handler and hound -- one. 

          "i hope this is about a promotion.”

          “oh, that’s funny.”

          “i wasn’t trying to be funny.”

          judging by her supervisor’s smile, it was clear to alison that he took no offense to her tone. one of soma’s top field agents, she was a respected figure at headquarters, and this respect wasn’t limited to just those beneath her, either. of course, she knew her place. but a little teasing kept the workplace amusing for her.

          “i think i have something better for you than a promotion.” 

          “really? the last time you said that, you gave me a congratulatory cake.”

          “no, no. no cake this time. even better. have a seat, ms. clair.”

          and he motions to a chair before reaching down to unlock one of the drawers behind his desk. as she takes a seat, she watches him, and she sits up a little taller to see if she could peek over the top of the desk to catch a glimpse of what her supervisor was fetching. that slight smile on his face -- it suggested a hint of excitement, or perhaps it was amusement. whatever the emotion, it was positive, like it was something he wanted to do. 

          crossing her legs, she waits patiently for the next turn in their conversation, which seemed to have come when a manilla file was slid over the tabletop towards her. a brow arches, and she casts a glance to the man across from her. “read it.” he invites, leaning back in his seat and folding his hands on the wooden desk, that smile of his still lingering. it’s clear she’s hesitant -- files in the past typically meant something serious, and while most of the time they were high stake cases, the circumstance surrounding this file was different. if it was really a mission, there would have been her mission partners here with her. why was she alone?

          “go on, don’t be scared.” gentle coaxing from her supervisor, yet she still didn’t reach out to take the file just yet. though, she did catch the name on the tab on the side of the folder: liu, e. 

          “liu..? is this another attempt at diversifying soma?”

          “don’t talk so bitterly. you haven’t even read what’s inside yet. besides, he’s been with us for a bit, already.” 

          “oh? in what department?”

          “well if you’d just open the file, you’d find out.”

          “okay, okay. we’ll do it your way.” regardless of whether or not it was a purposeful attempt to pique her interest, her supervisor’s words finally pushed her to pull the file towards her, alison opening it slowly so as to not disturb the neat pages that were tucked away behind the cover. a photograph attached with a paperclip to the inside of the folder stuck out, and as brows furrowed, she immediately shifted her attention to what information was printed alongside the picture.

          eden liu, april 2nd, 6′3″, hound. 

          and she continued to study the photograph carefully, alison searching through her memory for instances in which she had seen this face. amber eyes, dark hair -- a hound she had crossed paths with in the training room a few times. a hound associated with handlers she had personally known. why was she holding his file? “what’s the meaning of this?” 

          “isn’t it obvious? surely you’ve seen him around. he’s infamous.” 

          “absolutely not.” her tone was decisive, as if a decision had already been made. 

          “alison, you haven’t even heard me out yet.”

          “no need. you already know where i stand on the matter.” 

          “tsk, tsk. and here i thought you’d give me a chance to explain.”

          “i’m a floater -- i work with other agents who need me. i don’t need a hound.” 

          “well, i’m sorry to say this, but -- you might not work with any other agents if you don’t accept him as your hound.” 

          the ticking of the clock on the wall seemed to have grown louder suddenly. the chattering in the hallway of interns going on their lunch break was distinct as the room fell silent at this news, alison’s heart seeming to beat a little faster now, a little harder. 

          “are -- are you threatening me?”

          “threatening? no. pressuring you? yes. ms. clair -- i’m sure you’re aware of the reputation this hound has among our handlers. as a top agent, i’ve respected your continuous refusal to be assigned a hound despite multiple attempts at persuading you, but i’m afraid your time to refuse has run out.” smiling -- still smiling. as if he was so certain she’d just give in with little fight.

          how out of character it’d be for her to step down when she felt so passionately about the issue at hand. “so what? you’re going to assign him to me so he can tag along my missions? so you can finally get rid of him? i refuse to take on hounds because i think it’s disgusting how disposable this agency views them.”

          “and i respect that. but you truly are soma’s last resort at this point. quite frankly ms. clair, if it wasn’t for your stubborn refusal, i would have assigned him to you initially. imagine how many headaches i could have avoided! imagine how much time we all could have saved as an agency. i’ve taken note of what your conditions were, ms. clair, and he falls within them all.” and a finger jabs at the file that was now in the middle of them, his words emphasized with each motion. 

          “think of how many handlers he’s gone through. and he’s still kicking just the same. think of how many field missions he’s already been on. he’s no rookie, ms. clair. he was no rookie when he first joined soma, either. sure, his technique could use some work, but he has potential. and it’d be a wasted effort if soma didn’t assign him to someone.”

          “then assign him to someone else.”

          “who? tell me who, alison. if i had anyone left to assign him to, you wouldn’t be here. and so i repeat -- if you don’t take him on, you won’t be going on any other missions. you won’t be going back out into the field. you used to be an intern here, correct? i’m sure you still remember how to fulfill some of your intern duties.”

          “tch.” and she purses her lips in response to his remark. how insulting. how unappreciative. after all the work she had done as a field agent, after all the injuries she had sustained while on the job, after all the sexism she had to endure as one of the few female agents employed and trained by soma -- all of that, and the agency still had the audacity to demote her.

          her silence that followed his ultimatum seemed satisfactory to her supervisor. relaxing his frame, he sits back into his chair once more, a hand pushing the manilla folder towards her again. “i suggest you take this and familiarize yourself with the basics. you’ll be meeting him soon, and it’d be in your interest to know what to expect.” a pause then, hands steepling in front of him as he muses. “though -- it might be difficult to really know what to expect. he’s quite the character.” 

          in one ear, and out the other. indignant, she chose to ignore what was being said to her in favor of reading over what was detailed in the file before her. one, two, three, four -- four different handlers. strong combat skills ( no technique -- a rouge fighting style ). previous handlers note traits of impulsiveness, impertinence, and cockiness. a history of minor ( and not so minor ) altercations with other hounds and handlers. multilingual, with the ability to easily code switch. 

          “you hate the fact that hounds are disposable. they’re disposable because of their own incompetence.” she hears the sound of something being placed on the desk, and it draws her attention away from the file. looking up, she’s faced with a box, one that looked vaguely familiar to her. 

          “you recognize this from the collaring ceremonies, yes? you’ll need this after he has been officially assigned to you. shouldn’t take long, just a few documents to process.” and he opens the box, revealing a collar that matched those she had seen on hounds in the training room. beside it was a remote that she frequently saw clipped to the belts of handlers. seeing those two things in front of her so closely made her swallow hard, and strange feelings began to well up inside of her. 

          “you can keep the file. protect it -- we don’t want information to leak. you should expect a meeting with him within the next few days. remember to be nice to him. he should be up to your standards and expectations, but he might challenge them as well. just keep an open mind -- like i said, i would have assigned him to you from the very start. he’s right at your level when it comes to ability. you two will be a great pair.”

          there’s a sudden ring of the telephone then, which causes her to jolt in her seat. an important call, she was told, and she was easily dismissed to go on about the rest of her day. somehow, this whole meeting was a blur to her. going in blind, she wasn’t sure what to expect, but now that she was walking out with the file and collar of her apparently new hound, she was having difficulty processing it all still. a rouge. a rouge hound. a delinquent. she would be his fifth handler, which was plenty more than many hounds at soma could say they had been assigned to. quite frankly, not many lasted to have more than one handler. 

          reckless, she thought, unlocking her office and letting herself in. absolutely reckless how this agency treats them...

          with a sigh, she places everything in her hands on her desk, a slight frown visible as she eyes the box. her attention then returns to the file once more, and with much less hesitation this time, she opens it again, her gaze immediately meeting that of eden’s gaze in the photo. an unforgettable face, for more reasons than one. oh, how the other handlers will talk once they learn who alison’s new assignment will be...

[deathfxrhire]

I Warned You

Characters: Foggy Nelson ( @nelsons ) and Slade Wilson.  Matt Murdock ( @wcrldonfire ) referenced.

Word count: 2,419

Summary:  After the confrontation with Daredevil on the roof, Slade decides to follow through on paying Foggy a visit.

Triggers: Violence, blood, guns.  Hella angst (thanks Foggy).  

FOGGY: “Whatever you say, Murdock! You sure you don’t want me to come with?” Foggy yelled after the man, laughing when his friend flicked him off, saying something about the Chinese take out place a few blocks away. It had become a ritual, for Matt to come to Foggy’s temporary office a day or two a week, eat lunch with him, repair the relationship that had been so fragile over the last few years. It made the lawyer’s chest warm with this ache he couldn’t name, having a part of Matt back. Being a part of his life again. For once, things were going in a good direction - a positive one - since the whole...well, everything. Since things with Karen started. Since he and Matt fell apart the first time.

The door chimed again, and Foggy spun around in his computer chair, grin half-frozen on his face. Where he expected Matt Murdock, stood a tall man. Bold, wide in stature, full of muscle, one eye. Foggy tilted his head, genuine smile turning polite. “Oh uh, hi there.” Foggy pointed to the door, “Thought that was locked. Sorry about that — I’m actually out for lunch right now, but uh, you wanna come back in an hour and I can help you? Mr...?” He asked, trailing off at the serious expression the older man wore.

Foggy had to admit, he wasn’t getting a great vibe. Kind of like that time his aunt hired a clown for Foggy’s college going-away party, right before he’d gone to meet Matt. The eerie feeling of something inhuman looking back at you.

SLADE: Slade Wilson was not one for idle threats. He'd told Murdock during their showdown on the roof that he knew of Foggy, an implicit promise to make the vigilante pay if he tried to get in the way.

Murdock had decided to fight, forced him to come back another day for the kill, and the way Slade saw it, he owed the man fulfillment of his end of the bargain.

Nelson wasn't hard to find, nor was it difficult to time things for after Murdock left--he seemed, like many lawyers, to be something of a creature of habit. Picking the lock is child's play, but Nelson doesn't seem to realize that's what happened. Judging by the faintly wary look on his face, Foggy does realize that maybe his guest doesn't mean well.

Not a complete moron, then. Slade doesn't even bother trying to make the smile he returns look genuine. "Wilson." Without looking, he reaches behind him and flips the deadbolt, expression unfaltering. "There ya go. All locked up now. Wouldn't want anyone else walking in while you're on break, would we?"

Slade crosses to take a seat opposite Foggy, spinning the chair around so he can fold his arms across the back. Foggy Nelson doesn't look like he's got an ounce of defensive capabilities in his entire body, but even so, guns are easy to use at close range. He likes the barrier.

"Go on and eat, Mr. Nelson. Keep your hands visible, if it's not too much trouble." There's a click from behind the back of the chair. One that sounds distinctly like a gun's hammer going back. The smile doesn't falter.

FOGGY: Foggy forces himself to relax, smile more like a grimace now, as this Mr. Wilson makes himself at home in the somewhat empty office. All of the furniture is clumsy and secondhand - amazingly just like Nelson & Murdock had been - so Foggy prays for a second that maybe the shit computer chair will break right out from under the overly buff man, sending him to the floor and giving Foggy just enough time to begin to run away before Mr. Wilson shoots out his knee caps. “You know, funnily enough, I’m not feeling so hungry anymore.” Foggy lays both of his hands on his lap, steeple style like he’s seen Matt do at church, and makes sure he wiggles his fingers for Wilson, just in case the man decides one of them are in his pocket or something.

“What can I help you with today?” he asks, somehow hoping that Matt’s super Daredevil senses are tingling and he will come running back to Foggy and kick this guy’s ass for trying to hurt him. Even big, scary-strong, handsome men like Mr. Wilson get their butt handed to them by Daredevil from time to time. Besides, Foggy’s been shot before — he definitely doesn’t want a repeat performance if he doesn’t have to have one.

SLADE: Admirably steady, this one, despite appearances. Murdock sure knows how to pick 'em.

"You're very calm, Mr. Nelson. Not your first time?" Slade asks, though it's more rhetorical than anything. No one's that calm with a gunman less than ten feet in front of them unless it's not all that irregular an occurrence. "Probably not, I'm guessing, given the company you keep. He's not coming back, by the way--heard him catching a phone call from a 'Karen' on his way down the street. Otherwise he'd have noticed me, I've no doubt. Shame, that."

The sharp grin says otherwise.

The gun comes out to rest on the top of the chair, where his arm is folded, and his other hand reaches into his coat pocket for the suppressor as he continues to chat at the man. "I ran into him a few weeks ago. Told him his friend would be in some trouble if he got in my way. Stubborn man made me miss my shot, that night, so now I've gotta come pay you a visit. A man's word is all he has, you know. You appreciate that, I'm sure: the importance of contracts. I've got a reputation to uphold."

FOGGY: Foggy’s eyes follow the weapon, the first bite of a shiver rolling through his gut. Nausea and discomfort pull at him but Mr. Wilson thinks he’s steady. Thinks he’s cool and collected and is definitely talking like he knows about Matt and his evening activities. Foggy wishes that Matt was a blind stripper or something instead — something Foggy could understand — not a vigilante who hurts people and has their loved ones kidnapped. “So you’re mad at a blind man for making you miss your shot? Sounds a little like maybe you’re not a great shot,” he continues to talk, eyes flickering from the gun to around the room, wishing he had anything but pepper spray with him. His bag is hooked around the chair, but even with the pepper spray somehow in hand, Wilson’s only got one eye. Foggy’s already at a deficit.

“I’m a lawyer. I’ve had many weapons pointed at me — people are angry with me all of the time, especially if they don’t like the outcome of a trial.” Foggy swallows, hand beginning to shake where it’s tightly steepled with his other one. He wants to dart out, knock the gun from Wilson’s grip like he’s seen on NCIS a million times, but he can’t move a muscle, and Wilson looks like that would probably make him pretty fucking angry, so he continues to sit still. “What has Murdock gotten himself into?” Foggy asks quietly, like a friend who didn’t know anything about his best friend being a vigilante would do. He licks his lips and darts his eyes back and forth worriedly, all of those days in theatre club finally coming to good use. Wilson doesn’t know that Foggy knows. Can’t know. Even Foggy still wakes up after a long nights sleep and has to remember that it’s real — that not everything is normal and they’re not just best friends and lawyers anymore. That there’s so much water under the bridge that it laps at their ankles every day.

“We don’t have to resort to violence, Mr. Wilson,” he says somewhat shakily, “You seem like a very smart man. Whatever it is, we can talk about it. You’ve got confidentiality in this room.” He urges, shoulders more tense than he’s ever felt them in his life. The flashback of Matt, bleeding in his arms, laying his bloodied body into Foggy’s lap and readying himself to die there, hits him harder than any of Wilson’s bullets ever could. He would protect Matt with his life, he thinks.

SLADE: A bark of laughter, at that. Despite the situation, Nelson's got a hell of a sense of humor. It ain't gonna stop Slade from doing what he needs to do, but it's a point in the man's favor anyway. "Maybe not," he replies easily, screwing the suppressor onto the end of the gun with all the ease of a trained killer. He doesn't even need to look, gaze instead focused on Foggy. On the way the man's eyes cut toward his bag, the way his hands are beginning to tremble, the way his shoulders have gone stiff and his Adam's apple bobs as he eyes the gun.

There's the fear.

"That's a question for you to ask him. Suffice to say he isn't associating with safe people. You don't get a man like me going on personal jobs by accident. But I ain't here to talk. I am a smart man, but I'm a man of action. Always have been." He draws back the hammer of his gun, and there's a click as the firing pin draws back.

He turns the gun to level it squarely at the space between Foggy's eyes, perfectly aimed despite what should be a handicap without the benefit of two eyes. "No matter how good or bad a shot I may be, Mr. Nelson, there's no missing this close. But you've been entertaining, so I'll tell you what: I'll get you involved, give you a bit of fair choice. Right or left?"

FOGGY: Foggy feels too focused. Almost unfocused at how unbelievable this entire situation is. He’s stayed out of it. He’s followed all of the rules and still bad things happen to him. (Maybe this is why Matt just breaks them.) Licking his lips once more, Foggy’s mind begins to race at what right or left could mean. Is Wilson going to shoot him on the right side of the chest? The left? Shoot a leg? An arm? His right or Wilson’s right?

“Right.” He prays, silently, though he’s never been a religious man. The Nelsons went to church of course, but once grandma died, Foggy stopped going without the expectation. But he prays. Like he’s fifteen again and he feels like the weight of the world is on his shoulders, not knowing what he knows now as a thirty-something year old man. Now that he’s got the weight of a gun pointed at his head. “You have to have some sort of bargaining chip,” Foggy pleads, sweat beading at his brow. Wilson could shoot his eye out. Could shoot him in the heart.

SLADE: That's a pleasant surprise. He'd expected the man to beg, expected to have to ask twice to get a real answer. But Nelson's smarter than that, can clearly tell that Slade isn't the type to change his mind once it's been made up. So the answer comes first, then the plea.

"Bargaining chip? 'fraid not--this isn't a bargain. This is a statement." Slade lowers the gun, leveling it at Foggy's upper arm, and squeezes the trigger home in one fluid movement.

Glass on the desk behind Foggy shatters as the bullet goes clean through, and the shout of pain doesn't even earn a batted eye as Slade pushes himself up out of the chair, gun still in hand. His free hand curls around the back of the man's neck, gun pressed to the man's knee.

"Shh. Breathe through it. Pressure on the wound. I'd stay seated, if I were you--laying down will make you bleed out faster. Now that that unpleasantness is out of the way, I need you to pay close attention. Are you listening?"

FOGGY: The burning in his arm outweighed the queasiness he felt in his stomach. The rolling anxiety that filtered up through his chest and prickled where Wilson’s hands held him up. He remembers this pain. Remembers how he felt sluggish and exhausted, nearly bleeding out on the ground the first time. Remembered how good it felt to have Matt worry about him for once. Now, there is no Matt. No Karen. No Jessica. Just the man who shot him. The man who was cradling him as the blood rushes passed his ears, whispering things to Foggy that he can’t hear passed the chattering of his teeth. His large fingers press into his wound and he lets out a loud keen, followed by a whimper.

He’s going to die here. On the floor of this shit office where he’s just temporarily staying. Foggy’s never gonna get his deposit back —

Matt’s not coming back for him. The panic stays with him, and he feels the tremors of shock run through him as he practically vibrates in Wilson’s arms, “What—“ he croaks, and his voice sounds strained, even to his own ears, and he’s twitching. Matt’s not coming. He’s not here. “What—“ he repeats, and he’s trying to listen. Trying so hard. “Matt,” he says softly, the wetness on his cheeks dripping down his neck and pooping on the collar of his newly stained dress shirt.

SLADE: Yeah, no. Nelson seems to be glassing over already, barely able to keep a handle on what little Slade's already said, let alone whatever he's going to say next.

Damn.

"Oh, isn't that sweet," Slade sighs, and reaches around Foggy instead to grab a pen off the desk, a scrap of paper that's probably important. Not as important as it's about to be.

He scrawls down the note, sets it on Foggy's lap. "There ya go. You just hang on to that for me, there's a good man." He reaches his hand down to Foggy's briefcase, rifles through until his hand closes on the man's cell phone. He pops the battery out and tucks it into his jacket so the man can't call, and for good measure, shoots the desk phone, too.

"Let's see how lucky you are today, Mr. Nelson. Don't worry, I'll even leave the door unbolted--something tells me you won't mind your lunch break being further interrupted, hm? Good luck, kid."

And with that, he's gone, leaving a bleeding-out Foggy Nelson hunched in his chair and three simple words on the paper on his lap.

I warned you.

[queenofcats17]

The Ink Demonth 19

Today is Sick and since I’ve done a lot of angst, I’m gonna do something cute

-----------------------------------------------

A bad case of the flu had been sweeping through the studio, which meant a lot of the studio members were out of commission. Sammy, Grant, Shawn, and Allison were all out sick, and Susie was gone to take care of Sammy. And to keep him from coming to work. Apparently, he didn’t trust the band members. This also meant that a few of the more hardcore workaholics were trying to come back to the studio while sick. Those few hardcore workaholics were solely Henry and Bertram. Especially Henry. The healthy studio members were conferring about how to best get them to go home. 

“It’s not good for them to be here,” Joey said, his fingers steepled in front of him. “They’re just making their sickness worse. Not to mention they could make other people sick.”

“But how’re we gonna get them out?” Wally asked. “They’re gonna put up a fight, right?”

“Piedmont’ll be hard to get out.” Tom drummed his fingers on the table. “Getting him out physically is out of the question. He’s a big guy.”

“I’m just gonna pick him up and carry him out,” Lacie said. Everyone gathered around the break room table turned to look at her. She was leaning nonchalantly against the wall. 

“Well, if anyone could do it, it’d be you.” Norman stifled a snicker behind his hand. Lacie just rolled her eyes. Norman or Tom could probably have done it too, but Lacie was the only one Bertram would tolerate literally picking him up.

“That just leaves Henry.” Joey frowned. “He might be a bit difficult. Normally I’d call Linda, but she’s out of town at a teacher’s conference.”

“There are cots in the infirmary. We could make him sleep there until we can get him home.” Jack suggested. Joey turned slowly to look at Jack. For a moment, Jack was worried he’d said the wrong thing. Then he noticed the way Joey’s eyes were sparkling. 

“Jack, you are a genius.” He whispered, grabbing Jack by the shoulders. “We just need to lure him down there!”

This task fell to Wally because no one else wanted to do it. And Wally was already immune to the flu.

“Uh? Mr. Stein? You okay?” Wally asked, tentatively approaching Henry. The animator was slumped over his desk, going through the motions of drawing Bendy on a blank piece of paper. The cap was still on his pen.

“Mr. Stein?” Wally gently tapped his shoulder. 

“‘M fine,” Henry mumbled, then sniffled loudly. 

“The cap’s still on your pen.”

“Issit?” Henry sat up, gazing blearily at his pen. “Aw, man. Shoulda seen that.” Wally stifled a snicker. 

“So, uh, Mr. Drew wanted to see you in the infirmary.” He said. He kept breaking off to snicker as he watched his boss turn clumsily around. He shouldn’t laugh. Henry was very sick. It was just so funny, though. Henry was pretty hilarious when he was extremely tired, drunk, or sick. 

“In the infirmary?” Henry squinted at him, swaying side to side. “Why there?”

“He rolled his ankle.” 

By all accounts, Henry should not have believed Wally. The janitor kept pausing to snicker, wouldn’t make eye contact. It was obvious that he was up to something. But Henry got up, starting toward the infirmary. Wally was momentarily stunned that his ruse had worked before quickly shaking it off and following his loopy boss.

“Joey!” Henry yelled as he stumbled down the stairs. “Whaddaya want?” Almost as soon as he entered the infirmary, he was ambushed by a team of interns in hospital masks. 

“What the-? Wus goin’ on?!” He protested. 

“This is for your own good, Henry,” Joey said solemnly as the interns wrapped his friend in a large comforter and rolled him onto the cot. 

“I gotta work!” Henry whined, kicking his legs ineffectually.

“You need rest, Henry. You’re sick.” Joey insisted. “I’ll drive you home at the end of the day. But for the time being, you’re going to stay here and rest.” 

Henry spent the rest of the day alternating between sleeping and groaning about how he needed to work. When Joey came to pick him up, he was asleep. Bertram had been removed from the premises that morning by Lacie, who had slung him over her shoulder and carried him out, just as she’d said she would. 

“You ready to go home?” Joey asked, gently prodding Henry with his cane. 

“Mm?” Henry opened his eyes, then glared weakly at Joey. 

“You betrayed me.” He mumbled. 

“You’re sick. You needed rest. Linda would have done the same.” Joey smiled and folded his arms. Linda would be home tomorrow, thankfully, and she would no doubt be much better at wrangling a sick Henry than Joey was. 

“You’re the worst.” Henry pouted. 

“I know, I know. Come on.” Joey managed to get him up, helping him out to his car and driving him home. Henry fell asleep again on the drive over, still partially wrapped in the comforter. Once at Henry’s house, Joey got his friend into bed. 

“There we go.” He said as he tucked Henry in. He couldn't help but chuckle as he watched Henry wriggle around, trying to get comfortable. Henry was certainly in for a talking-to from Linda when she got home. Once he was satisfied Henry would sleep well, he took the guest bed. It had been a long day.

[velvetchen]

con ardore | pt. i

[ back to masterlist ]

Scenario: piano instructor!au Pairing: Lay x (gender neutral) reader Word Count: 3.9k Warnings: strict!yixing 

Summary: You’re on the verge of achieving your dream of becoming a concert pianist, but your new instructor and you don’t exactly see eye to eye...

next part >>

You tapped your foot impatiently as your train slowed, taking far too long, as it pulled into the subway station. Checking the time on your phone, you felt the first bursts of panic. Shit. You could have sworn you were two minutes early, not late, but there it was, the numbers already spelling 5:00 PM.

It felt like hours before the train finally halted and the doors hissed open, and you immediately pushed in with the crowd to exit onto the platform, making sure your bag was tucked tight against your body to keep it from getting lost in the rush. That had happened before, and only a week away from your debut concert, you couldn’t afford for it to happen again.

Neither could you afford to be late. You had a limited number of hours left with your instructor, and you needed every second you could get.

With that in mind, you picked up your pace, facing the wind that was pushing against you. Moving through both the crowd and the pre-storm gale was difficult. The wind peeled your hat from its already precarious position on your head and you stopped, muttering a few choice words, whirling around to chase after it. A flush built across your face as you weaved through the crowded footpath, excusing yourself to every other person.

Your fingers closed around its brim a few feet further away, and you let out a frustrated breath, standing up again. 

Except in doing so, you slammed into someone’s chest. And felt something burning hot go spilling across both of you.

“I’m so sorry-” You cut yourself off mid-sentence when you looked up and saw the person you had bumped into staring at you with the most incredulous glare. His face was familiar, but you couldn’t put your finger on it and currently, other matters were more important. Like his perfectly starched white shirt and unbuttoned gray coat splattered with unmistakable coffee stains. 

“Shit,” you said again, involuntarily. He didn’t say anything in return, still staring at you with that face that was half-horrified, half-angry, eyes wide behind his round-framed glasses. Mouth set into a hard line. You were frozen, unable to do anything, feeling like he might do something drastic at any moment.

But he straightened up without a word, slowly putting the cap back on his remaining coffee. “Excuse me,” he said in the most frigid tone possible, and pushed past you. You were left standing, still frozen, the droplets of coffee cooling on your neck and the clean fabric of your new shirt.

Shaking off the strange encounter, you stepped to the side of the footpath to rummage in your bag for the single paper napkin crushed among the receipts from the past few weeks, dabbing off as much of the coffee as possible. It was too late, though - the liquid had already permeated the thin fabric, leaving ugly blotches across your shoulders and collar.

Even more frustrated now, you shoved your hat back on your head and crushed your bag to your chest to hide the stains. You were late by almost ten minutes now, ten precious minutes of your lesson that you wouldn’t be able to get back. Cursing the wind and your clumsiness, you hurried back in the direction you had been going in earlier. It thankfully wasn’t long before you saw the three-storied glass front of your music school.

You pushed through the front doors into the hush of the lobby. There weren’t many people here, but even if there were, there was an unspoken rule that everyone maintained silence. Sounds of instruments seeped through the walls and ceiling, all of them playing different tunes but mingling in a sort of pleasant harmony that, when combined with the familiar dusty warmth of the old building, instantly comforted you.

Your piano room was towards the far end of the building. As a senior student, you were lucky enough to be assigned one of the school’s vintage grand pianos, a warm cherry-wood Blüthner whose keys you knew better than anything else. The room smelled like the lavender candles you’d brought in a few months ago and the remnants of a musty scent still lingering in the stiff leather of the seat from when the room had sat unused for years. You sat, lifting the lid off the keys and lightly tracing the notes on them as you waited for your instructor to arrive.

Five minutes passed. Okay, maybe she ran to get a coffee, you told yourself. It wasn’t like her to be late. Madame Choi was the most punctual, timely person you knew. You switched from lightly glossing your fingers across the keys to actually pressing down on them, playing one of your opening pieces at half speed and focusing on the notes that resonated around the room.

A knock at the door stilled your hands. “Y/N?” A voice that was not your instructor’s.

“Come in,” you called, surprised, pulling your hands off the keys and tucking them in your lap, wondering what had happened, hoping nothing had messed up your schedule. Your heart rate picked up, and you swallowed the sudden apprehension down. Everything’s going to be fine.

The door opened to reveal the receptionist, a skittish, short man in glasses who’d recently been hired. “I’m very sorry to inform you that Madame Choi has had to leave the country urgently on emergency family business. She won’t be available until Saturday morning.”

Saturday - the night of your concert. Today was Monday. Your heart sank, and he must have seen it in your face because his eyes widened immediately. “Oh, but don’t worry. She’s arranged for an alternate instructor to work with you until then.”

This was almost worse, but you didn’t voice it. An alternate instructor so close to the actual concert? How would you handle it? You needed everything to go perfectly, and it was already starting to look wrong.

The receptionist gave you what was meant to be a comforting smile. “He’s one of the best in the country. He flew in just at Madame Choi’s request, since your concert is so soon.”

“Um, alright,” you said, tilting your head a little in an attempt to look past into the hallway and catch a glimpse of your new instructor. You were automatically visualizing a wizened old man, gray-haired, perhaps ill-tempered, stiffly traditional.

The receptionist slipped into the hallway, and you heard muttered words exchanged before a shadow lengthened along the hallway and you heard footsteps coming closer.

You were not expecting the person who stood in the doorway. And clearly, he wasn’t expecting you either. Your eyes dropped to the blatantly obvious coffee stains on his shirt, still there even though he’d tried to blot them away like you had.

“This is Mr. Zhang Yixing,” said the receptionist, shadowed behind your new instructor’s tall figure. “Mr. Zhang, this is Madame Choi’s student, Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said. And now, his voice was no warmer than it had been after you’d bumped into him earlier.

Your face burned, and you stood up to greet him, taking the hand he offered. His handshake was firm; impersonal, and he pulled away too quickly. “The pleasure’s mine,” you all but coughed out. And, obligated, you added, “Thank you for agreeing to replace Madame Choi this week. I wouldn’t know what to do otherwise.” You cracked a smile in the hope it would ease some of the tension, but it wasn’t returned. 

You recognized the name, realized why he had seemed so familiar earlier. How many times had you seen him on TV? You swallowed thickly.

Zhang Yixing was your replacement instructor?

Needing something to distract yourself with, you walked over to the other end of the room, dragging the other armchair over next to the piano for him to use. In that time he had agreed on something with the receptionist, who quietly slipped away, the door closing behind him. Leaving you alone in the room with the man who looked like you were the last person in the world he wanted to deal with.

“Y/N, was it?” He settled himself in the armchair you had brought over, steepling his hands across his lap.

You coughed. “Yes, that’s correct.”

He gave you a curt nod. “How long have you been preparing for your debut, Y/N?” If you thought his gaze had been intense out on the street, it was nothing compared to now. With just the both of you in the room and only the silence for company, it felt like he was scrutinizing every inch of you. Like he could see right through you, and right through every inch of you. A feeling of inadequacy began to rise up - from the pile of feelings you’d been pushing away ever since your debut had been confirmed.

You didn’t like that feeling at all. You were here now, weren’t you? On your way to having your debut at a prestigious concert hall, a position you had worked hard for. It was as if he could see past all that; and what lay beneath was nothing.

“Almost a year,” you paused before adding, “Mr. Zhang.” You hated that your voice was suddenly so timid - all because of his stare.

He waved a hand. “No need for formalities, I’d expect you’re at most only a few years younger than me. Please call me Yixing.”

“Okay. Yixing.”

He nodded, satisfied. “I’d like you to play the last piece in your arrangement.” He segued into the request without preamble, leaning back in his chair and watching you. “You may begin.”

He left no room for a reply, and, taken aback by his curt tone, you simply nodded, drawing in a deep breath and resting your fingers on the keys. It was one of the harder pieces in your repertoire, more taxing than the others, so if you were to make a mistake in any piece it would be this one. You hoped, of all times and places to mess up, you wouldn’t do so in front of him. Suddenly, you had something to prove. You wanted to show him he couldn’t dismiss you with a single glance.

Your finger landed on the first note. The counts ran through your head, an imaginary metronome ticking away in time with your hands sliding across the keys as the pace picked up. You didn’t take your focus off the piece, not sparing an ounce of your attention to Yixing watching you like a hawk. This was what you loved to do. This was what you had worked towards all your life. This was all you knew -

“Stop,” he said.

Your fingers froze, the notes dropping off midway, dissolving incongruously.  

He leaned forward. “I have to be frank with you here, Y/N. As much as I respect and admire Madame Choi, I will have to disagree with her on one point.”  He paused to meet your eyes, to make sure you understood. “That point being whether or not you are ready for a solo debut. At the Philharmonic Hall, too, if I remember correctly.”

Your blood turned to ice. “I’m sorry?” You fumbled over the words, not sure if you’d heard him correctly. Because there was no way he could have said that.

But his face was stoic. Unflinching. He really does think that. “You don’t lack in skill or talent, I assure you. You lack in something that is integral to every good performer and every good performance. And that is what makes the difference between you being ready for a debut or not.”

You held your breath, your body taut as you waited. What was he saying?

“And that is passion, Y/N. Feeling. One listens to a pianist not to hear the song, but to hear their interpretation of it. I can replicate your performance simply by reading the sheets and imagining the notes. I don’t need you to play for me.” He gave you a tight smile. “So tell me what we should do to fix the problem here, Y/N.”

“The…problem?”

His lips dropped into the slightest of frowns. “Yes, indeed, the problem. I’m glad you understood we have a problem here. You have a week - less than a week, might I add - and you are still nowhere near ready enough to go up on that stage and play on Saturday evening. I believe that warrants to some amount of concern, am I correct?”

“Yes,” you all but whispered, still disbelieving.

He was quiet for a minute, as if deep in thought. His voice startled you out of your reverie. “Play it again.”

He was wrong. Mistaken.

The thing was, you knew about Zhang Yixing. Knew who he was. Knew the piano prodigy child who had learnt to play Alkan’s Concerto for Solo Piano at the age of seventeen and made his own debut in Carnegie Hall at age eleven. You knew that he was looked upon by pianists, composers and conductors across the world as the best classical musician of the twenty-first century.

So despite your confidence and hard work, if he said you weren’t ready, you probably weren’t ready.

Still, you swallowed down his criticism - a rather gentle word for what he had said - and you dove back into the piece from the start, trying to focus less on keeping the perfect timing, the meticulously practiced modulation. You tried to loosen it up, tried to forget the rigid structure of the song you remembered from your sheet music and play it with more feeling - as he’d said.

He interrupted you again. “Now you’re too sloppy. Don’t sacrifice the structure of the piece in the name of interpretation.”

Your lips twisted down, but you looked away from him to hide it. “How can I improve, then?”

“As with all things,” he said, “practice makes perfect.”

At that, you looked down at your hands, at the tips of your fingers worn ragged and red from all the practice you had been doing. You almost wanted to laugh.

“However, repeated practice is not the key to true perfection,” Yixing continued, making you look up in surprise. “It’s how you practice it that matters.”

You knew this already, but didn’t interrupt. How many times had Madame Choi told you this?

He went on. “You have to practice a performance. Even in an empty room, when you play a song, it is a performance.” He paused. “You’ve never performed before, have you.” His tone was dry, a little more scathingly critical than before.

It was a statement, not a question, but you still felt the need to disagree. “I have. A couple of recitals, and last month I-”

“You might as well have never performed.” It was a simple line, but he said it so derisively that you were stopped in your tracks immediately.

You froze, your jaw clenching at the interruption.  “Okay.”

“To give you my honest opinion,” he continued, “I don’t see potential in your playing. I’ll admit, you’ve perfected the technique. But a good pianist is always in touch with the emotions of the piece, and with their own emotions, and the skill of combining the two is what really matters.”

Your cheeks burned, and despite everything you felt an unexpected smear of anger flare in you. “Then I might as well cancel my debut altogether, if Zhang Yixing himself says I don’t deserve one.” The minute the unnecessarily hostile words were out of your mouth, you wanted to take them back.

He didn’t look offended. One eyebrow quirked up, and he leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs and watching you. “Yes, I say so. If you’re not going to play well, why play at all?”

That was harsh. If only his words didn’t affect you so much. This was your life - your passion. You had thrown everything you had into this. For him to discredit you so easily made you want to get up and leave. To give it all up. How pathetic was that - that you were ready to throw away everything you had done just because one person said it wasn’t good enough?

Granted, that one person was Zhang Yixing, but…

You swallowed down the angry retort that was threatening to spill out. If you don’t have nice things to say, don’t say anything at all. He was all you had to work with, and if you chased him off with your temper, you wouldn’t have an instructor this week - the most crucial week of your life so far. But you couldn’t help but ask. “Are you…is this all because I bumped into you earlier?”

“What happens outside my class and what happens inside are completely unrelated, Y/N. I am simply offering you criticism - something you will have to learn to accept if you want to become a concert pianist.” His eyebrow shot up again. “I think we’ve wasted enough time for one day. What is your opening piece?”

You would have expected Madame Choi to tell him all this before he started, but apparently that was not the case. Or he was testing you. As if reading your mind, he said, “Apologies. This was all very last minute. I took the first flight after Madame Choi called me.”

You nodded, suddenly awkward.

“I was on my way here from the airport when you bumped into me.���

Suddenly, you felt guilty again. Was he trying to make you feel guilty? By making it seem like he’d gone out of his way to come help you, only to find a lacking student. You only wondered what Madame Choi had told him about you to make him arrive so quickly.

“I’m sorry about that,” you said again, setting up your sheet music on the stand in the right order.

“No worries. You already said you were.”

You ducked your head, letting your hair block your reddened face from his view as you settled your fingers in the right position for the beginning of your opening piece, the Sonata No.7. Without waiting for Yixing to tell you to start, you began playing, forgetting - or trying to forget, at least - his comments from earlier as you settled into the rhythm of playing.

You managed to get through the whole first movement without Yixing speaking up in between. You paused to lean away from the keys and quickly stretch your fingers. Before you started the next movement, though, you dared to take a glance at Yixing, cheeks reddening again when you saw he was already watching you.  

He spoke before you could begin the second movement. “That part. Play it again?”

“This?” You flipped back through the sheaf of sheet music until you found the section he was talking about, holding your breath.

“Yes, that one. You play it too stiffly. It stands out.” You nodded, relieved that the remark wasn’t as bad as you had expected. 

As you began to play, he stopped you immediately. “No. Do that again.” You refrained from letting out a huff of breath, frustrated once again. You’d thought that he would be a little more patient now that he seemed to have warmed up to you, but unfortunately, that didn’t seem to be the case. Nor did you even entertain the thought that he would ‘go easy’ on you.

“That transition there,” he pointed, holding up a finger. “You add a pause where there isn’t one in the notes.”

You weren’t surprised that he had noticed. “Yes, it helps me switch my fingering a little easier. Madame Choi suggested I do so.”

His hand turned into a wave, dismissing your explanation. “You don’t need a pause there, fingering or otherwise.”

You wanted to tell him no, that this was how you had been practicing, that you would struggle in this segment without the pause. “I do need one. I thought this was about interpretation.”

“It is about interpretation,” he said shortly. “However, a correct interpretation is what we’re looking for here.”

“There is no right or wrong in music,” you defended; that was something Madame Choi had told you many times.

“But there is ‘good’ and there is ‘bad’, and in music, ‘good’ is right and ‘bad’ is wrong.” He raised a brow.

You didn’t know what to say to that. It was barely anything, but that anger, the need to defend yourself, rose up in you again. The only way you could think to retort was to grit your teeth and play the part again, in an attempt to show him his words weren’t jabbing through your skin. Which they were. You followed his advice, eliminating the pause in favor of the traditional structure. Only to have the unfamiliar fingering trip you up, your thumb hitting an ugly note.

“It’s okay,” Yixing said. “Try again.”

You nodded and did as told, but with more vengeance this time. Your thumb glossed over the right notes, only for you to fumble three measures later. You bit your lip, staring at the notes in the hope they would rearrange themselves into something simpler. How many times had you played this piece? This very segment?

Yixing hummed thoughtfully. “You’re forcing yourself. Try to let it come naturally.”

Despite yourself, you snorted out a laugh. “There’s the line I was waiting for. You should know that’s easier said than done.”

Surprisingly, he cracked a smile at that - albeit a small one - before the upward curve of his lips disappeared once again into their usual stern line.

“You can try starting from a few lines previous, maybe here?” He reached over, turning the pages of the sheets for you himself before sitting back and resuming his earlier position, eyes closed as he waited for you to play.

The rest of your lesson went like that, with you playing, him interrupting, and making you play it again. By the end, you’d only managed to run through the first movement of your first piece, and you felt like the song had dug a groove so deep in your mind that you could collapse inside it.

“I think we’re done for today,” Yixing said, looking under his round-framed glasses at his watch.

You looked up at the clock on the wall yourself, eyes widening as you saw where the minute hand sat. You’d actually gone beyond the three-hour boundary for your lesson; the clock now read ten minutes to 9. Which was surprising, given how much you’d felt like running away when Yixing had first walked in. You’d thought you wouldn’t be able to make it through one hour. Much less three.

And you had finished the three hours without anything disastrous happening. You still had an instructor, and you still had your debut. 

Tenderly, you slid the piano lid shut, pulling out the keys that would lock it shut until you arrived tomorrow from your purse and pushing the lid down. You were silent, as was Yixing, as you moved around and put down the top of the grand piano, then pushed the bench underneath it.

“Practice,” Yixing said simply, as he shouldered his bag and buttoned his coat. “Practice only what we did today, nothing else. You can run through some of your other pieces if you need to, but don’t spend too much time on them.”

You nodded, reaching for the doorknob to hold the door open for him. “Thank you,” he murmured as he walked through, and you followed him down the hallways of the building to the main lobby. He bent down at the front desk to sign the visitor’s sheet, and you lingered at the doors, waiting.

“See you tomorrow,” you called out finally, pushing open the door and letting a blast of cold wind from outside leak in.

Yixing looked up, spotting you before lifting his hand in a slight wave. No smile, then. You were almost disappointed.

a/n: so since this has been rotting in my drafts for a few months, and i don’t have anything else to post for a while...enjoy the first two chapters of this! as always, i appreciate ur comments x

[thecorteztwins]

Fanfic Friday,,,,Fabian and Anne Marie get turned into hulks?? ( g o d hulk Fabian is cursed but hulk Anne Marie 👀)

(Awesome, unique, and horrible idea all at once! Tagging @awkward-snake-girl for Hulkness. Also I combined the second and first gen Acolytes teams in this---like Chrome and Anne Marie but also Frenzy and the Kleinstocks---even though they were never on the same squads and probably would have hated each other if they were, since the second squad was just “kill all humans!” and the first squad, who I play, were actually a lot more noble. But whatever, this is its own canon! On with the fic!)The plan had gonewrong, horribly wrong.This was what both sides were thinking,heroes and villains, X-Men and Acolytes. This was NOT whatwas supposed to happen.For the X-Men, the Acolytes were NOTsupposed to have reached the great gamma radiation blaster in thelost Banner labs. For the Acolytes, it was NOT supposed to go offwhen they did reach it.It was definitely NOT supposed to hittheir leader and his sister at full force.The morecompassionate of the X-Men, and those among the Acolytes who hadcounted the pair as friends rather than just teammates in terrorism,cried out on their behalf...but did not come closer. There was nohelping these two. The only mercy was that their death, horrible asit was, would be quick. Hopefully, there would be nothing left tobury, for if anything remained it would be twisted and horrible tolook upon.Yet, within the painfully bright light, like asupernova star in miniature, the bulky twin forms of the Cortezsiblings were not diminishing...but growing. Exploding, perhaps?No...no they were simply...Getting bigger.“Nein...”Nightcrawler breathed, the sole person to make a sound as the lightfaded as quickly as it had come. Standing there in naught but thescant remains of their costumes were Fabian and Anne MarieCortez...but not as they were.Always an Amazon, she nowtowered at eight feet, he at ten. Her skin was a beatific blue ashade softer than her hair, while his skin had a bronze tone, likehe'd been cast in brilliant metal sans shine. But the greater changewas more than skin-deep; it was muscle deep. Both of them seemed tohave tripled in bulk at least, he still slightly larger than she byhalf again.“Hulks,” Beast whispered as they all gazed,Acolyte and X-Men alike, at these familiar but very newbeings.“They've become Hulks.”

That was all theAcolytes needed to hear for them to let out a cheer. Their victoryhad not been thwarted after all---it was more assured than ever! Theyhad Hulks on their side now!“Eat, X-Me---” was all thatone of the Kleinstock brothers managed to get out before he waspunched off his feet by Anne Marie. Fabian followed, attacking theperson nearest him, also one of his own team.“They turnedon their own?!” Rogue gaped as she dodged a thrownAcolyte.“Nah---they're just crazy,” said Wolverinegrimly, “Standard side effect o' this kind o' thing. They're likerabid animals, just lashin' out at whatever's close---and we'renext!”He was completely right. Anne Marie's next target wasindeed the tiny Canknucklehead himself, while Fabian was wordlesslyattempting to assault Colossus into a pile of so much scrapmetal.“Can they still use their powers?!” Jean called tono one in particular as she floated above the reach of the twinmonsters.“How should I know?!” called back one of theAcolytes in answer, Joanna “Frenzy” Cargill. Standing at almost 7feet tall, with super-strength and impentrable skin, Frenzy wasalmost a Hulk herself, and was trying to grapple with Anne Marie. Shewas usually a heartless killer, but that was only when it came tohumans and her enemies---for Anne Marie, all she wanted to do wasrestrain, get her under control, get her back into her right mind (orwhatever counted for it, in Anne Marie's case)Anne Marie,however, had no such concerns to hold her back. She only had onethought in her head---to smash. She did exactly that, hurling Frenzyoff her back and to the floor. She raised one giant fist, about tofind out if Frenzy's skull was as impenetrable as the rest of her,when she found it was suddenly encased in cold, hard, silveryomnium---one of the hardest metals on the planet, courtesy of atransmutive blast from Chrome.“Couldn't get enough juice tocover her completely,” he said aloud, “But I got one of thedangerous bits.”Anne Marie howled in anger....then smashedher fist into the floor next to Frenzy.And smiled when shesaw the size of the hole.“You idiot!” yelled one of theKleinstocks who was still conscious, “You just gave her somethingharder to hit with!”In return, Chrome rendered him, astatue, “Well, here---I'll keep you safe from her then.”“Keepdistracting them, all of you,” urged Psylocke to her team and herfoes, “Jean and I are trying to get in their heads---but it'sproving difficult. They don't have human minds anymore, there's justRAGE! There's nothing to control! We need time to find the peoplestill buried in there!”“And Anne Marie's a psychicherself,” Jean groaned, trying to speak through the strain, “Ifthat still holds true...she's got extra defenses...”“I'dworry more about her brother!” said Nightcrawler, who was currentlytrying to distract Fabian from simply smashing the two telepathicwomen where they stood. He did this by teleporting in front of him,to and fro, back and forth, drawing his attention like a rodeo clownwould with angry bull. The Fabian Hulk took the bait, bellowing andbeating his chest as though he were a great gold gorilla with a badhaircut to match his nasty temper. Eventually, through acombination of good luck and grudging teammwork, the Hulks were worndown...and began slipping back into their original forms. Anne Marieand Fabian, as they had been, dropped to the floor, unconscious.Cyclops began limping up towards their prone forms, holdinghis injured arm to his side, but Frenzy, who was far less worse forthe wear than he was, planted herself between them.“Just asecond, X-Man---you aren't getting near them!”The otherAcolytes, those who could still stand, gathered around their fallencomrades, expressing similar sentiments with similar hostility. Themomentary truce had been just that, momentary, and that moment wasover. “Hulks are unstable,” Cyclops explained with calmrationality, “Do you really want their transformations triggered atyour base?”The Acolytes all looked at each other, thinkingof Lord Cortez's raging tantrums and Anne Marie's volatile, extremeemotions in general. Frenzy, however, was not swayed, and crossed herhuge muscular arms across her leather-clad chest,“Thatdoesn't mean we're going to hand 'em over to YOU. We are the Acolytesof Magneto, Cyclops---and we take care of our own.”“Yourfuneral,” grunted Logan, turning, “C'mon, Summers---leave 'em totheir fate. S' a fitting one, if you ask me, considerin' what they'vedone before.”Indeed, the Acolytes were hardly what onewould call noble foes. While some among them were well-intentioned,perhaps even good people at heart, most were bloodthirsty killerssimply looking for an excuse to exert their perceived “superiority”over humankind in the most murderous ways possible...beingslaughtered by the same man who had give them that opportunity didindeed have an allure as poetic justice.But Scott Summers wasnot swayed. He did things by the book. By Xavier's rules.Andspeaking of Xavier....Professor? he called out mentally.Andthe Professor answered.- - -“Still don't seem rightto me,” grumped Logan as they flew back on the Blackbird, with thetwins in tow, kept in their unconscious state by the dual efforts ofJean and Betsy.“Look at this way, Logan,” explained Scottas he piloted, “What if they had learned to control theirtransformations on their own? Then the Acolytes would have a pair ofHulks on their side, just like they thought at first. Can youimagine? It was hard enough taking them down WITH help; dealing withthem in their right minds and in tandem with the rest of their teamwould be impossible.”“So why not get rid of the threatnow?” Logan popped his claws. This was the fifth time he'd madethis suggestion since the Professor had mind-controlled the Acolytesinto letting the X-Men collect the Cortezes.“That's not howwe do things,” Scott said calmly and solidly, “You knowthat.”“Besides,” suggested Kurt optimistically, “Sometime with us might do them good!”Logan lookedunconvinced.- - -“Nngh...” Fabian awoke, rubbingthe vast expanse of his pale forehead. He looked around, realizingquickly he was in a cell. Not a jail cell made for a standard human,no---the door was made of a forcefield, which had only a vaguereflective glimmer which demonstrated its boundary, otherwise givingthe illusion of freed. Within the confines of the modest space itselfwas a cot attached to the wall, upon which he was lying, and anattached tiny bathroom. How insulting. Fabian snorted at the sight,and in the process, looked down at his clothes---his Acolytes uniformwas a wreck! What had happened?!  At the foot of his bed was a smallstack of neatly folded clothes, but he didn't even touch them, hecould tell already that they were previously worn. Had he actuallyhad a look at them, he'd have been disgusted further, as theybelonged to former farm boy Colossus, the only one o the X-team largeenough to have something that would fit Fabian's muscular 6'5frame.“Are you feeling more yourself now, Mr. Cortez?”Xavier had wheeled up to the boundary of his cell.“You!”Fabian ejected angrily, “You knocked me out! You kidnapped me!You--”“I understand why you would think so,” Xaviersaid, resting his chin on steepled fingers, “But that is not, infact, what transpired. Allow me to explain; there is security footagefrom the Banner labs that will confirm what I say, as I realize youare likely hesitant to trust me.”Fabian listened to whatXavier said.Fabian watched what Xavier showed him.AndFabian wondered...When he had become a Hulk, had EVERYTHINGgrown?

[404botnotfound]

Cat and Dog

she’s stubborn. he’s patient.

SERIES: Far Cry 5 WORD COUNT: 3,456 SHIP: N/A (unless you squint) CHARACTERS: quinn leonis (AU), jacob seed

cc @jasonbrodys  ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ thanks for enabling me bitch

It isn’t the first time this one has failed him.

Not the first. Won’t be the last. It was like a chronic disease with men like him—get an order to follow, fail once and beg for a second chance. Get the second chance, fail it again. And so on, like clockwork. Tick, tock, tick, tock.

What had this one’s name been? Mickey? Christ, even his name was weak. How’d he let this one slip through the trials?

Jacob paces slowly in front of his Chosen, his fingers steepled together as he moves, gaze unfocused but hardened as he tallies the details and thinks on what to do next. He doesn’t have to think long or hard to know what needs to be done now.

The man he paces in front of—Mickey—is tense and rooted to the spot in which he stands, fists held rigidly at his sides like he’s under the impression that Jacob can’t see him if he’s immobile. But he had eyes, and body language was one thing but eyes, eyes you couldn’t lie with. Mickey knows, like Jacob knows, that he’s failed.

He looks like a deer in headlights. Like prey.

“…she was injured in the crash from the bridge, wasn’t she? Separated from her allies? A lone,” Jacob draws the word out to length, voice neutral, but it still causes the statuesque Chosen to flinch, “woman, injured and on unfamiliar terrain, still manages to slip away. Again.”

This would be the fourth time. In nearly a week, with all the odds stacked against her and with his best being sent on her tail, she’d slipped out of the Project’s hands four times. With Mickey leading the hunting party.

If it were up to him, he’d have ordered his forces to just shoot her dead and dump her body in the Henbane, but Joseph had taken an interest in both her and the Deputy that had tried to arrest him. Something about the Voice and their places in the coming Collapse, though he’d implied that this one held a different importance than the Deputy. Whatever it was the Voice was telling him, Jacob didn’t know and didn’t care—if Joseph wanted her in the Project, then Jacob would deliver her compliant and with a pretty bow on top.

Time for another test.

Mickey visibly swallows when Jacob stops pacing and faces him, though all but his eyes are covered by a mask. “Yes, Brother Jacob. She was still limping, but she’s gotten faster, and her instincts are—” The last word is choked down quickly, but Jacob’s good at reading people and he knows by the look in his eyes the man had been about to say scary. “—impressive.”

Weak.

Jacob stares at him, and he sways where he stands as though contemplating bolting away. Behind him, two of Jacob’s other Chosen stand comfortably still, a direct contrast with their panicking leader.

After a moment of silence, a smile spreads across Jacob’s face. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

But the easy expression lulls Mickey into thinking there aren’t any teeth in the room, and he relaxes, fists unclenching by his sides and posture falling into an easier, if tired, slouch. “We know where she is. It won’t be difficult—”

Jacob lifts a handgun from the table next to him and fires off a single, deafening shot in the enclosed room, and the only sound Mickey makes now is a dull thud as his body hits the floor. Jacob stares impassively. “Clearly, she’s more than you can handle.”

Neither of the dead Chosen’s compatriots so much as flinch at either the gunshot or the body hitting the ground directly in front of them, and Jacob nods, satisfied, as he gingerly sets the handgun back down on the surface of the table with a solid clack.

“Where is she?” He asks, glancing briefly at the chair nearest him in the room—occupied by one of the Whitetail militia his hunters had dragged in. The man was shaking and avoiding his eyes. If he were a betting man, he’d bet that this one was meat, just like Mickey.

One of the two remaining Chosen straightens slightly at being addressed, a bow held comfortably at his side. “Southwest of the FANG Center. She was headed towards the Elk Lodge.”

“Move some of our soldiers up from that area, drive her north.” Jacob says, gears clicking in his head like the music box now sitting on the table next to the gun. “I want her captured and brought here. Here, not the Lodge. Keep her alive, even if you need to Bliss her the whole way to keep her cooperative.”

The Chosen shifts idly; eager to get out and return to the Hunt. “And the Deputy?”

“Let me know if she crosses into the mountains and track her when she does. Let Faith and John handle her until then.” He replies, his mind elsewhere already. The Deputy had disappeared after the crash off the bridge, but one of the two major islands in the Henbane had gone completely silent and Jacob wasn’t stupid enough to think that was coincidence. If she was there, she only had south and east to go unless she was stupid enough to try and bypass the roadblock he’d set up on the bridge heading north.

His Chosen both nod and without needing to be given the order both of them move to pick up and carry the body of their former ally out of the room.

The room falls into a thundering silence broken only by the pathetic whimpering of one of the three militiamen strapped to the chairs within it. After allowing himself another handful of breaths to think, to plan, Jacob turns around. His fingers close around the tiny music box.

He begins to wind it slowly, humming the familiar tune under his breath and stepping closer to the captive men; one of them starts struggling to get away from him, muttering a mantra of ‘no, no, no’, and another glares furiously at him.

“Train.” He says. The man’s whimpered mantra grows louder.

He twists the turnkey. The man glaring at him is trying to struggle towards him, fingers flexing as though he meant to snatch the box out of his hands. Good.

“Hunt.”

Another twist. The third man is crying.

“Kill.”

Once more.

“Sacrifice.”

Now at the front of the room, spots dancing in his vision from the light of the projector in his eyes, Jacob turns around, and he slowly lifts the lid of the music box. As the music rings out, the two that had been muttering and crying look dazed and confused, but the third—the third, oh, he has the right idea.

The glare and open aggression on the man’s face are wiped clear for a few pure chimes of the song, and then grow focused, something animal replacing whatever humanity had been there moments before. “Good.” Jacob says, evenly.

He reaches out to one side and presses the play button on a stereo, the lilting tones of an old song replacing the tinny box meant to replicate it and filling the room. As he heads for the door, he pauses at each chair along the way to undo one of all three’s restraints—just one. They’ll figure it out. Or they won’t. Either way, he’ll send someone to pick up the bodies later.

He mutters the words to the song as he leaves, thinking about the woman being hunted while he shuts and locks the door behind him.

An animalistic snarl reaches his ears through the solid surface. Crashing. Good.

They were all distantly familiar with the Deputy, considering she had accompanied the local Sheriff whenever complaints had arisen that needed to be addressed. The Marshal was unfamiliar, but predictable. But the blonde woman was completely unknown—no identifying titles or badges, just nondescript civilian clothing and an expression that even Faith had admitted was difficult to read.

She had some kind of training, that much was obvious. He doubts many people were capable of dodging his hunters for so long while so handicapped. And Joseph had said she’d remained completely calm when things had gone badly for her group the night of the arrest. Military? Police?

He wonders if the Marshal was far enough under Faith’s spell to be manipulated, yet. Jacob didn’t relish the thought of speaking to her—useful as it was, he hated that Bliss shit—but the Marshal had access to information that he didn’t.

The woman was smart and focused, but whether or not she was strong…he’d find out in due time.

“Only youuuu…”

It was obvious that she wasn’t afraid of him.

All the others, they would stare at him, wide-eyed, lips trembling, hands and feet straining against restraints or pacing the floors of their cages searching or fighting for some kind of escape. They’d spit at him, curse him, attempt to throw their skulls into his face should he step too close. It was admirable, in a way, but ultimately just the expressions of cornered animals, ones that would either be broken by his training or would come out the other side stronger. Fearless.

Not her, no, she was already fearless, it seemed.

He had dragged a chair out into the yard ten minutes ago, metal legs purposefully dragging on the loose stone and gravel in front of her cage. She didn’t flinch.

He had sat down, one leg hooked under the chair and the other stretched out comfortably, sole of his boot nearly touching the bars of her cage, and crossed his arms. Stared at and studied her, waiting for a reaction or for her to be the first to lose this little game and speak. He got neither.

She sat there at the back of the cage with her back against the wall, knees bent and feet planted flat on the ground, arms draped loosely over her knees. Head back. Eyes closed. Breathing steady. As calm as he was, absolutely unbothered by where she was and who she was being held captive by.

Or she was putting on airs. Time would tell.

Her leg was still injured, according to the Chosen that had finally managed to drag her in, three days after Mickey’s body had been dumped in the back of a truckbed heading for a fire pit. There’s a myriad of scrapes and bruises from her time in the mountains, leftover from the night of the arrest, and freshly gained from her scuffles and near-misses with his hunters. A fresh bandage is wrapped around her shoulder and torso under her tank top, evidence of the bliss arrow that had struck her in the shoulder.

None of it seemed to bother her.

Forty-eight hours in that cage with just enough food and water to keep her alive, but not nearly enough to sate hunger or thirst, and the circles under her eyes were beginning to grow pronounced from lack of decent sleep. Deprivation that hadn’t gone on long enough to have any profound effect, but long enough for most people to be showing visible signs of fatigue and weakness.

She appears unaffected.

He doesn’t do this with all the recruits, doesn’t study them the way he’s studying her. Just the important ones—not that there were many. All the rest went into conditioning without regard. If they survived, they survived. If they didn’t, it was because they were meat.

But Joseph wanted her alive, so he had to figure her out, first. Dig into the core of her being, find out which parts he could pry loose and which he could replace or straighten out.

“You know, the last time a guy stared at me with the kind of intensity you can feel, he wanted into my pants.” She breaks first, finally speaking up. Her eyes remain closed. “He wasn’t very successful. You’re cute, but sorry, dude, the overbearing machismo thing is kind of a turn off.”

Somewhere behind him, Pratt tries and fails to stifle a choked laugh. To her credit, Jacob’s lip twitches.

Cheeky. His first puzzle piece slides into place with ease. “You don’t even know what I look like.” She hadn’t once opened her eyes since he’d come out here, and though he and his siblings had been present at the time of Joseph’s arrest, the church had been poorly lit and they hadn’t exactly been the focal point of the scene.

It’s hard to imagine, considering her current position, she was saying that for any reason except to try and get a rise out of him even if she did recall his face.

“Big, scruffy, red hair, and you hold yourself like a trained soldier with a chip on your shoulder.” She lists off without missing a beat, and one of Jacob’s eyebrows lift. So she did remember him from that night. “Got some wicked chemical burns, too.”

“You remember all that from ten minutes in a poorly lit church?”

“What can I say? I’ve got a thing for scars and guys twice my size.”

Another choked noise from Pratt; it irritates him this time. He’s going to have to work harder on that—or keep Pratt away from her until she’s more…docile. The last thing he needs is her undermining his far-from-complete conditioning of the officer by lifting his spirits.

He leans forward and, like her, drapes his arms over his knees, steepling his fingers together between them. The sound of gravel and loose stone scraping under his boots finally rouses her attention, and her unflinching eyes lock with his. They’re a bright, stormy gray and, despite the dark circles under them, are alert and focused.

He sees now why she remembered him and likely also remembers his siblings—has no doubts that she’s trying to pick him apart like he’s trying to do to her. “Or,” he says, “it’s your job to remember potential threats.”

Her eyes narrow. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve wiped the floor with guys your size.”

“I don’t doubt it, agent,” his voice is lower, a raspy growl, and he takes a small amount of pleasure in the way she visibly tenses up, though he can’t tell if it’s a physical response to his voice or the fact he knows what she is. “Ah, but you haven’t gotten that title yet, have you, Quinn? Top of your class at Quantico, but you went and screwed things up getting into an altercation with another student. Still being investigated, right?”

She says nothing.

“So, you’re not here for official business. Not like the Deputy or Sheriff. Definitely not like the Marshal.” He lets his words sink in, waiting for another reaction, but while she’s watching him like a hawk she’s clammed up again. Disappointing. “Makes me wonder what was important enough for you to come here and end up where you are now. And how you convinced your higher-ups to green light it. If you convinced them to.”

“None of your fucking business, big guy.” She bites back, and he smiles. There was the nerve he’d been trying to strike. Puzzle piece two slides into place.

“You bat your eyelashes and flirt to get your way all the time?” He asks her casually. There’s a brief curl to her lip at the implied accusation. She’s got a Goddamn pretty face and he’d be a blind fool not to acknowledge it, but she’s gonna have to try harder than that with him.

Quinn dodges the question and shifts forward, crossing her legs and slouching so her elbows sit on her knees. “So if you know I’m effectively useless to whatever cult bullshit you’re pulling here, why am I still alive? Your goons didn’t seem to care too much for keeping me or the others alive when they peppered our truck with bullets and drove us off a fucking bridge.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’ve got a filthy mouth, kitten?” Every muscle in her body stiffens, a near-imperceptible ripple of discomfort rolling through her from head to toe, at the pet name. He hums with interest, leaning back and crossing his arms again.

“Get fucked.”

He can’t help but bark out a laugh at the instantaneous response, not an ounce of hesitation as she flatly delivers it. “Charming.”

“What, you want me to be simpering and demure? To play nice?” She hisses at him, as Jacob wordlessly checks off a few more boxes in his head; she should learn to keep her mouth shut if there was this much of a difference in her ability to keep her cards to her chest while she was conversing.

He says nothing, listening to frustration leech into her words as she stands and steps towards him, her fingers curling around the bars of her cage. “Your people shot me with a drugged arrow and then tossed me in a cage like a fucking animal. Excuse me if I left my manners at home, you self-righteous jackass.”

‘Self-righteous’? His smile widens into a grin. He’d been called a lot of things by the Whitetails and Resistance members that had been brought here, but that was a new one.

A furious noise bubbles in her throat at his continued silence and at the smile on his face. He reads the attack in the lines of her body, and he drags his extended foot away from the cage; her heel, jabbed down in between the bars, misses and slams into the ground instead. “Why am I here? What the fuck do you want from me?”

“Me? I don’t want a damn thing from you.” Though he was curious to see what kind of soldier she’d make. With this kind of an attitude, things usually went one of two ways: either they refused to bend and eventually snapped, or they became the best damn weapons he could create. Letting out an exaggerated sigh, Jacob plants his hands on his knees and pushes himself up to stand, stepping closer to her cage, eyes not leaving hers. “You’ll have to talk to the Father if you want an answer to that question.”

“So give him a call and tell him to get his Bono-glasses-wearing dumbass up here—” Her arm slips between the bars of the cage towards him.

Fast as a flash his hand snaps up and clamps down tightly around her wrist as she reaches forward to grab a fistful of his shirt, and he twists his body just enough to jerk her forward. The metal bars ring with the strike as she slams into them and a startled, soft cry of pain leaves her. If he’d used his full strength her arm would’ve been yanked from its socket and she seems to realize it because the rest of her demand is immediately bit down and swallowed.

Fury lines every inch of her expression and burns in her eyes, but her hand trembles under his fingers around her wrist. It wasn’t fear, no. Maybe a combination of fatigue and her own anger. Maybe pain.

Pain wasn’t part of his training and he had no intent to use it, especially not for this one—too brutal, too detrimental to what he was trying to accomplish here. But this, he imagines, was his first and only real chance to break through that headstrong personality of hers to show her exactly where she stood here. “You’ll talk to him,” he says, the tips of her shaking fingers brushing the fabric of his jacket as he leans closer to her, smile still on his face, “after you’ve learned to behave.”

Mortification wars with the rage in her eyes, the indignation of a prideful creature being scolded like an immature child. John would have a field day with her. She tries to yank her hand back from him and then winces when his fingers close tighter around her wrist.

Their eyes stay locked like that, his expression easy, calm, almost serene—and hers furious. She no doubt wants nothing more than to reach between the bars of the cage and strangle him right then.

But she’s the first one to back down, her gray eyes blinking away from him. He lets go of her, watching her expression lose some of its heat with distance as she stumbles back, gingerly holding her wrist to her chest.

He smiles at her like the cat that got the canary—or, given her ironic surname in this case, the dog that caught the cat—and she answers by pulling her lips back in what one might consider a snarl. He pays it no mind as he turns away from her to leave.

He hears her mutter a “not likely, asshole” after him as he goes.

We’ll see.

[paigenotblank]

The Age of the Wolf (4/?)

Pairing: Eight x Rose

Rating: Mature

Written for @doctorroseprompts and Eight x Rose August. Prompt: Dimension hopping!Rose meets Eight / What if Rose was with Eight or met Eight during the Time War?

Read it on Tumblr: Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9

AO3  TS  

The Doctor paced back and forth in his brother’s suite of rooms within the Citadel.

“I’d like to study how she regenerates and heals.”

The Doctor stopped in his tracks. “Absolutely not.”

Braxiatel leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Don’t you trust me, brother?”

“Not with this.” He shook his head. “Not with her.”

“I should be offended by that.”

The Doctor snorted and resumed his pacing across the shiny floor. “But you’re not.”

“No. I’m not. I understand her importance to both you and the future of Gallifrey.”

The Doctor stopped suddenly. “Do you really believe Gallifrey has a future? Some days, it’s so hard to...” He sighed.

“I have to believe we do, or I’m afraid I’d become like the rest of them...stopping at nothing to survive. But she’s from your future, so at least I can cling to that little thread of hope.”

“Well, you’re one of the only ones that feel that way. After that ridiculous prophecy was found and all eyes turned to her, I don’t trust anyone to be able to keep her secrets. There are too many eyes watching. And too many who would see her downfall.”

“You must admit, as far as prophecies go...I can see why they think it’s about her.”

The Doctor looked at his brother in shock. “You can’t tell me you believe that twaddle.”

Brax grinned. “‘A Valiant Child will die in battle, and the blood spilled will herald the era of the wolf.’ Very poetic.”

“Oh, please. She’s hardly a child-”

“If she were a Time Lord, she’d be but a babe.”

“She’s not though, and that’s my wife you talking about. Also, in case you haven’t noticed, she didn’t die in battle. She is very much alive.” The Doctor scoffed. “And the era of the wolf? Ridiculous. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“The Visionary seems to think otherwise. There are no wolves on Gallifrey. Why choose that word? Hmm? Think about it. The words ‘Bad Wolf’ follow your Rose everywhere. ”

The Doctor paled. “Bad Wolf? How do you...?”

Braxiatel smirked. “I am a man of many talents, Doctor, and one of them is collecting information. You’d do well to remember that.” The Doctor narrowed his eyes at his brother. “Now, now, don’t give me that look. I’m not your enemy. Never your enemy. And that extends to your enigmatic wife. But, dear brother, whether the Visionary chose wolf specifically to draw attention to Rose or because it truly references her, that’s beside the point. There are apparently a trio of prophecies regarding the Time War. That was only the first. When the other two are found, you’d better hope they don’t point to your bondmate or it could mean even more trouble with Rassilon and the Council.”

The Doctor pulled on his hair. “Speaking of Rassilon, I’ve a feeling he was behind the ambush at Skull Moon.”

Brax sat forward in his seat, as serious as the Doctor had ever seen him. “Be careful who you go telling that to, Thete. I know it’s been a while since you’ve spent any significant amount of time here, but the walls within the Capital have straining ears and loose lips.”

“Should I do nothing then? Is that your advice?”

“Of course not. I’ll look into it and see what my contacts have to say. Just don’t go off half cocked as you tend to.”

“Why I’ll have you know-”

“There are fractions within the Senate who regret resurrecting Rassilon and we can perhaps find allies there, but with each victory he brings in against the Daleks, the popular tide turns in his direction, so we must use caution. I know you lean more toward action and hate waiting, but politics is-”

The door to Brax’s room swished open and Romana and Rose entered.

“Darling, I’ve missed you.” The Doctor took Rose’s hands in his and kissed her knuckles.

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop a smile from spreading across her face. “You nutter, I haven’t even been gone 20 minutes.”

“Seventeen minutes and 32 seconds, and I missed you every moment.”

The Doctor leaned in to kiss his wife when Romana cleared her throat.

“Doctor, you’ve been given another assignment.”

He pressed a kiss to the tip of Rose’s nose and grinned. “Ah, and where does the Council want to send us this time?”

Romana took a breath. “I’m afraid this time it is just you, Doctor. Rose is to stay here and be questioned regarding the prophecy.”

“Absolutely not!”

“Prophecy?” Rose asked in confusion.

“Rassilon ordered it himself. She cannot turn down a direct request from the Lord President if she wishes-”

“What prophecy?”

“It’s nothing, Rose. I’ll tell you about it later.”

Romana sputtered. “Noth- It’s...it’s not nothing!”

Hurt flashed across Rose’s features. “You knew about it and didn’t tell me?”

“It’s a ridiculous piece of fiction. Nothing but superstitious nonsense.”

“So what does it have to do with me?”

The Doctor flushed. “Some people might believe that the prophecy is about you.”

“Then you should have told me about it!” Rose turned away from the Doctor mumbling, “If ever I doubted you were the same man...”

Romana interrupted what could only be the beginning of an ill timed argument, “Life here could get very difficult for you if you dare to push back against the President too much.”

“This is completely unacceptable. She shouldn’t be questioned without me present.”

“Doctor, I urge you to consider this from all angles.”

“No, you don’t understand. I don’t trust Rassilon to not try something while Rose is alone with him.”

“She won’t be alone, the Council-”

“He’s behind the ambush at Skull Moon.”

Romana gasped. “You’ve proof of that?”

The Doctor grimaced. “No, right now I have only my suspicions, but-”

“Who else have you told this to?”

“Just Brax.”

“I told him I was going to look into it for them.”

“Tread lightly, Doctor. It’s a very serious charge.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

Rose took the Doctor’s hand and laced their fingers together. “You see why we don’t want to be split up? This would be the perfect time to go after one or the other of us. ‘Cos we’re stronger together.”

“If you don’t appear before the Council for questioning, Rose, you’ll be creating more issues for you both. I think it best if you each go along with the plan to separate you and knowing that something might be afoot you can prepare yourselves. Plus, we drop hints about the first ambush around those already suspect of Rassilon and if something is tried, it will be easier for us to sway them further.”

Rose bit her lip. “I don’t know.”

Romana turned to her former mentor. “And you?”

“Where do they want me sent this time?”

“Voltrix has been given information on the Supreme Dalek’s location. She’s ordered a fleet of Battle TARDISes to attack. You’ve been selected to lead the offensive.”

“Lead? Me?”

Romana smirked. “Oh, did I forget to mention? You’ve been promoted to Colonel, Doctor.”

“What?!”

There was a soft knock on Brax’s door, before a Time Lady, dressed in the uniform of Gallifrey’s army, entered.

Romana held out her hands in welcome to the newcomer. “Petrella. So good of you to come right away.”

Petrella nodded and nervously spun her helmet in her hands. “Yes, well, I was told it was urgent.”

“This is the Doctor. You will be serving under his command.”

Petrella’s mouth fell open. “The...the Lord Doctor?”

Rose muttered, “God help me if there are more of him runnin’ around right now.”

The Doctor laughed and winked as his wife. “With me you never know.” He extended his hand to the soldier. “A pleasure.”

The Doctor turned back to Rose and ran his hands up and down her upper arms. “I should go, love.”

“I don’t like this. Not even a little.”

“I’ll be fine, Rose. See what you can dig up during your interview with the High Council. And be careful.”

“I can handle myself. It’s you I worry about.”

“My Lady...” Rose glanced inquiringly at Petrella. “I’ll keep an eye on him for you.”

Rose smiled. “He’s very jeopardy friendly. You’ll have your work cut out for you.”

“You wound me, wife!” The Doctor playfully covered his left heart and staggered.

“Thank you, Petrella, I do appreciate it, but-”

“Darling, I swear to you that this will be the only time they split us up.” He sighed. “But Romana’s right, we need to appear to work with them or they’ll become more secretive and dangerous.”

Rose nodded. The Doctor swept her into his arms and snogged the breath out of her. When they pulled back, Brax was smirking, Romana rolled her eyes, and Petrella looked properly scandalized.

The Doctor clapped his hands together. “The sooner we leave, the sooner I can get back to my lovely wife. Ready, Petrella?”

She was still in a daze as she followed the Doctor out of the room.

--

The Doctor stood at the controls of his TARDIS and materialized into a formation of Battle TARDISes.

He and Petrella studied the monitors. “Look, Doctor, they’re exactly where we were told they’d be. The intel was good.”

The Doctor gripped the controls and studied they information that scrolled across the TARDIS screen. “Fifty Dalek ships. Two-thousand Dalek’s on board each ship. 100,000 Daleks.”

“Well, what are we waiting for? Let’s get them!”

“Something doesn’t feel right.”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, temporal mines flickered from another dimension into the path of the Time Lords. The weapons began shooting lasers at the TARDISes. The Doctor flicked a switch and the rotor began to groan. “Petrella, hold on!”

The Doctor’s TARDIS began flying through space and a shot meant for it struck a Dalek saucer instead. Petrella held tight to the rail that ran around the console and tried to keep a read on what was going on outside. “They’ve decimated a quarter of the Time Lord fleet!” Her eyebrows flew up. “Now half!”

The TARDIS shook with the effort of avoiding the Dalek weapons. “It’s no good. We’ve got to run.”

Petrella’s voice wobbled. “Three quarters. They’ve destroyed three quarters of the Battle TARDISes.”

“All those lives, it’s just collateral damage to the Daleks.”

“How did they know we’d be there?”

“It was a trap. They were waiting for something...for me. They must have fed us that intel. ”

“But-”

“Well, no more. Set the course for Gallifrey. It’s time I had a word with Rassilon.”

--

The President was seated across from Rose, at the head of the table lined with the members of his Inner Council. He leaned forward. “Ms. Tyler, what is your take on the prophecy that so many believe is about you?”

Rose gritted her teeth. “I told you, I don’t even know what the prophecy says.”

He smirked. “But you have a copy of it, right there in front of you.”

Rose looked down in the hopes that the circles and lines would reform themselves into words should read, and sighed. “I can’t read Circular Gallifreyan.”

Rassilon scoffed. “The Doctor’s bondmate can’t read?”

“I can read, just not Circular Gallifreyan. The TARDIS never translates it.”

“Of course not, they’re prohibited from doing so. TARDISes are meant to be flown by Time Lords only. They can’t be giving lesser species a guide to the Time Vortex. Can you imagine the damage that could be done?”

Rose looked away. At least he doesn’t know about that.

“The Visionary will read the prophecy to Rose Tyler.”

An old woman with straggly, gray hair looked at Rose. Her gaze seemingly penetrated straight to Rose’s soul causing her to shudder. “A Valiant Child will die in battle, and the blood spilled will herald the era of the wolf.”

Rose’s face lost its color as the words of the Beast, spoken so long ago, came back to haunt her. Her heart sped up and she didn’t know how she was going to convince them that she had nothing to do with the prophecy now that she was convinced of the very opposite.

“What a very interesting reaction, Ms. Tyler. Mydriasis, an increase in heart rate, and human hormones just flooding through your system. I wonder why? Tell me, what does the prophecy mean?”

“I...I don’t know.”

“Don’t lie to me! Bad Wolf is another phrase that follows you around the universe and up and down your timeline. It is no coincidence a wolf is mentioned in the prophecy. Tell me what you know!”

“I...There was a werewolf...well, a Lupine Wavelength Haemovariform at any rate. The Doctor an’ I met one of ‘em once. Could that be it?”

“Don’t play the fool with me, Ms. Tyler. Are you working with the Daleks?”

Rose gasped. “What?!”

“The Daleks. Are you a traitor? Is the Doctor a traitor?”

Rose stood up shaking and placed her palms on the table as she leaned forward. “Say what you will about me, but don’t...don’t ever say that the Doctor...that he would even think of siding with the Daleks. His whole life they have done nothing but try to ruin it. And he gives up everything to prevent them from destroying the universe!”

Rassilon sat back in his seat with a smile. The sight of it, so wrong on his face, stopped her short. She panted feeling regretful and weary from her outburst.

“He gives up everything does he? What do you mean by-”

A door to the Council Chambers flew open and the Doctor stormed in.

The relief Rose felt had her collapsing into her chair.

The Doctor glanced to his side and his expression softened for a moment when he saw Rose was okay.

His mask was back in place by the time he addressed the rest of the Time Lords. “90% of the battle TARDISes were destroyed.”

Rose gasped, but the Doctor didn’t dare look at her.

“How is that possible, Doctor?” An older member of the Doctor’s own house asked.

The Doctor turned to his cousin. “They knew we were coming and were waiting for us.”

A murmur of surprise made its way around the table. “An ambush?”

The Doctor nodded. “A trap. The Daleks had temporal mines waiting in another dimension and when enough TARDISes arrived, they called them forth. They decimated the Time Lord fleet and it was over for us before we even realized what was happening.”

Rassilon leaned forward in his seat. “That is a disappointing show for your first assignment as Colonel.”

“Disappointing? We were sent to slaughter. Where did that information come from?”

“What are you suggesting Doctor.”

“Where did Councillor Voltrix get her information?”

Rassilon scoffed. “Are you saying you believe Voltrix to be in league with the Daleks? She’s been-”

“I’m not accusing her of anything. I just think it strange that both places I’ve been sent, the Dalek’s attacked within moments of my arrival there. There might be a traitor in our midst.”

All ambient chatter ceased, as all eyes turned to Rassilon. He sat back with a smug grin. “A traitor you say? I was just questioning your bondmate on the topic before you barged in.”

“Rose?”

“Voltrix has been a key to our victories thus far, but wouldn’t you say it strange that these traps as you say started happening at the same time that Miss Tyler arrived?”

“You can’t seriously be accusing my wife of conspiring against me, against us! She’s my bondmate...I would know.” The Doctor tapped his temple.

The Time Lords seated around the table nervously glanced at each other.

“Are you involved in treason against the Time Lords as well, Doctor?”

“This is ridiculous. Rose didn’t choose to send us to Skull Moon or me to sector 6-Apple-Sigma-Delta-4. Ultimately it was you.”

The room went deadly quiet, the only sound being the scrape of Rassilon’s chair as he stood. “Are you accusing me of plotting against Gallifrey?”

The Doctor stared him down. “Makes more sense then my wife.” A collective gasp went up. “Check all communications to and from the Capitol after we were given our assignments. You’ll find nothing from me or my wife warning anyone of anything. We couldn’t possibly be involved. But you’d best find out who is. Because when I find the traitor, I’ll deal with them my way.” The Doctor grabbed Rose’s hand and pulled her to his side. “Let’s go, Rose.”

As the Doctor led Rose from the room, Rassilon slammed his fists on the table. “Damn him!” Rassilon sank into his chair and called for the General.

The man slipped from the shadows in the corner of the room and bowed his head. “Sir.”

“Send men to see if they can salvage any of the temporal mines from the Doctor’s last battle. Our engineers may be able to repurpose them to attack the Daleks.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And find out if Rose Tyler or the Doctor sent any communications either off world or within the Capitol immediately following notification of their assignments.”

The General’s brows rose, but remained silent. He nodded and left the room.

--

As soon as the door to their suite closed behind them, Rose turned to face the Doctor. “Was that smart to-”

The Doctor pulled her into his arms and kissed her as if they had been parted for months rather than hours. Rose pulled back and slowly opened her eyes. “Doctor?”

“As soon as I realized it was a trap, I was so afraid that Rassilon would try to harm you as well while I was gone.”

Rose cupped his jaw and gave him a half smile. “Made of tough stuff, me.”

“Rose...I know you’ve...cheated death before and I hope that you continue to do so, but Rassilon is...well he is the closest thing to a god that the Time Lords have. A mad, power-hungry god, with access to an arsenal of the universe’s most dangerous weapons. I’m not confident that even you’d be safe from them.”

“But-”

“No. We don’t know if you’re truly immortal or if there’s something out there than can kill you. And I don’t particularly want to test it to find out. I need you, Rose.”

She flung her arms around his neck and buried her head in his shoulder. “Need you too. My Doctor.”

They stood there holding each other for several moments, just breathing in the scent of the other. Rose finally pulled back enough to look him in the eye. “D’you think it was a good idea to provoke Rassilon the way you did?”

“Brax might regenerate me for it, but Rassilon needed to see that I’m not going to be so easy to get rid of and that I’m not going to take his scheming lying down.”

“Wouldn’t be you if you did.” Rose chewed at her bottom lip. “Why you though? What threat are you to him or Gallifrey that he’s workin’ so hard to get rid of you?”

“We have a bit of a history, and it hasn’t always been a pretty one. He is brilliant and has accomplished so much for the Time Lords, but a few times I got in his way and was able to circumvent his plans for me. He doesn’t like not getting his way and might see me as a threat. Especially if he intends to do something horrendous for the sake of winning the war. Cass was right, you know, it’s getting harder and harder to tell the difference between the Time Lords and the Daleks.” The Doctor hugged her close once again. “I’m so sorry you’ve been dragged into it with this whole prophecy thing.”

“Erm, about the prophecy…”

The Doctor tilted his head and waited. Rose backed up and sank onto their lounger.

“...I think it’s about me.”

“What?”

“I’m actually certain of it.”

“How?”

“Er, so the first part of it was told to me once before.”

“But-”

“Nearly word for word, Doctor. It was a prophecy told to me about my death.”

“By whom?”

Rose looked worriedly at the Doctor and took a deep breath. “The Devil.”

The Doctor laughed, but at Rose’s hurt expression he sat down beside her. “I’m sorry, darling, but the Devil? Which one. There’s more religions than there are planets in the sky. Archiphets, Orkology, Chris-”

Rose put her hands on his arms. “Look, you didn’t believe it then, I don’t expect you to believe it now. But he said he was the Beast. Had us on a planet orbitin’ a black hole without gettin’ pulled it.”

“But that’s impossible!”

“Was an impossible planet, with an impossible evil, and he called me ‘the valiant child.’ Said I would die in battle soon.”

The Doctor shook his head. “No. No, no, no.”

“You told me he was lying. An’ then after we were separated, I just assumed…” She shrugged. “What’s it mean?”

“It’s not gonna happen, Rose.”

“But the same prophecy from two different sources?” Rose hugged herself.

The Doctor pulled her into his embrace and rested his lips on her temple. “You’re not going to die, I'm not going to let you.”

“A few minutes ago you were afraid Rassilon was gonna kill me, now that you know my death’s been foretold by a Gallifreyan prophecy and the Devil himself all of a sudden you've taken the opposite stance?”

“That's me...you’ve married a man who’s quite contrary.”

“Don’t I know it.” Rose teased, but then her grin fell and she caught her lip between her teeth.

“What is it?”

“The second half of the prophecy…”

“The bit about the wolf?”

Rose nodded. “Future you and I once came across a werewolf-”

“Werewolf? There’s no such-”

Rose huffed and crossed her arms. “A Lupine Wavelength Haemovariform.”

“Right, yes. Sorry. Carry on.”

“An’ just before he turned from his human form into his werewolf form he said that I had something of the wolf about me. And he knew that I burned like the sun instead of needing the moon like him.”

“Burn like the sun? Like on Karn?”

Rose nodded.

“Bad Wolf?”

She nodded again and looked at the floor.

“But what is it? I know you’ve said it’s you, but how?”

“I...I don’t fully understand it myself. I can’t remember everything that happened an’ future you explained it a little, but I’m not sure he even knows the full extent.”

“Tell me? Please.”

“I...I’m not sure if I should. What if I screw up the timelines?”

The Doctor sighed. “I’m going to have to forget, Rose. It’ll be okay. I’ll make certain of it.”

Rose leaned her head on the Doctor’s shoulder. “I absorbed the Time Vortex an-”

The Doctor stiffened beneath Rose. “You did what?”

She glared at him. “You gonna let me tell it or not?”

“Sorry, but...how are you even alive at all? No one is meant to do that? I can’t even-”

“Doctor.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“I don’t remember doing it, just know that the TARDIS is involved somehow.” She glanced at him and he looked like he wanted to say something, but was keeping quiet. Her lips twitched. “Right, so anyway, I somehow absorbed all of time and sort of became a goddess or something. Did it to save you, an’ I did. But I killed you also.” At his questioning look, she told him, “You regenerated trying to remove the vortex from me.”

“You didn’t kill me.”

“You said it felt like dyin’ and I did that to you.”

“If it came to you dying for good or me regenerating, I would choose to regenerate every single time. No question.”

“But-”

“Every. Single. Time. I don’t like it that you throw yourself in danger for me, but I can appreciate the sentiment behind it. If I could save you I would, because I love you and I can’t bare the thought of a universe without you. I’m guessing you feel the same?”

“Fishing for compliments?” He tried to give her a stern look, but couldn’t maintain it with her fluttering eyelashes. “Oh come ’ere you. Course I love you the same.”

“So, I’ll try to not get too twitchy when you throw yourself into danger for me, if you try not to blame yourself for my regeneration.”

“‘S not gonna be easy-”

“You think it’ll be easy for me?”

“No, don’t suppose it will. Alright, deal.”

Rose stuck her hand out for the Doctor to shake. He glanced at it in amusement, before grabbing it and pulling her up.

He growled before kissing her. “Now that that’s settled, let me show you how much I love you, my bad, bad Wolf.” Still holding her hand he dragged her to their bedroom and proceeded to show her all night long.