#he looks like the most incongruous just some guy little guy and then he opens his mouth and Sings Like That

[omegalomania]

patrick stump is the best vocalist on the planet cause he looks nothing like he sounds. white boy the size of an ipad with the voice of a whore.

[retlasute]

॰ In The Rich Man's World ॰

Word count: 8800

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Chapter 20 - You've Got A Friend

Mister Steel was a tall, contemplative man, with an incongruous blond head of hair that looked more like a little sea animal on top of his head. He told that he had obtained a set of gold-plated Chinese ceramics in exchange for a few bottles of authentic Scotch whisky.

''I'm not a professional potter, you see.'' He said, sitting on the couch. ''I don't travel much. But things end up finding me.''

It was obvious. The tiny kitchen was crammed to the ceiling with expensive and delicate objects that had once been useful, and perhaps could be again, when he decided to use them.

"Why don't you sell them?'' Johnny asked, raising an eyebrow at a cupboard full of crystal cues that didn't seem to have been used for a long time.

''I've thought about it sometimes.'' Mister Steel replied laconically. ''But most of them are gifts, they say that doing that is bad luck, you know.''

They continued talking about parallel, informal, friendly things. Like old friends catching up. Lucy sat on the edge of the couch, picking up a small piece of fabric which she seemed to be finishing embroidering, and assigning it to the task while listening to the chatter in the room. Louise watched Lucy's delicate movements, distracted. All the women, including the maids, were remarkably silent.

''Oh yes, I came back because the conference was canceled, some damn protesters, anarchists or whatever they are decided to throw rotten tomatoes at a business partner of mine. In the end, I just had to sort out... well, everything.'' Stephen said when he heard Lucy mention quietly that he had arrived earlier than usual for his conference.

''In that case, maybe we shouldn't be disturbing you.'' Johnny said.

Stephen stared at him for a moment, it was clear that he agreed, but then he remembered his manners.

"Don't worry about that, don't worry!'' He said, fervently. ''I was just wondering about you guys these days.''

He gestured for Johnny to sit down on the couch.

''I wish I had come sooner.'' Said Gyro, settling himself better in the huge bergere armchair.

The fourth wall of the room had floor-to-ceiling windows, and the light of the setting sun sparkled off the pearl clip in Lucy's blonde hair. The strands were beginning to break free from their confinement and she absent-mindedly tucked one of them behind her ear. You involuntarily approached the armchair where Gyro was sitting, because just behind it was a bookcase crammed with books and trophies.

"Really?'' Stephen said distractedly, gently shaking a small bell on the center table of the room, summoning the helpful Vionnet to some routine task. ''Well, you could have come. Our doors are always open.''

Then the little green-eyed creature, like a squirrel, appeared between you and Gyro. Summoned to serve cognac, she appraised the two of you with a shrewd glance, and then was disguisedly surprised when Louise smiled at her.

''Actually, I had already arranged for me to come at the beginning of the year.'' Gyro continued, accepting the glass of cognac poured for him by the girl, who blushed when she received a smile of thanks. Her reaction, however, was quite neutral when you smiled at her as you accepted the same drink. ''But there was an emergency at the hospital in Napoli. I'm a doctor, you know.'' He explained, smiling discreetly at the look of surprise that Stephen couldn't disguise. ''But I'm sorry I didn't come. I really would like to have visited Manhattan.''

You wondered why Stephen seemed so surprised; you imagined that saying he was a doctor was some way of hiding the family's true lineage of executioners, and if Stephen didn't know that about him, then he probably didn't know anything else. You didn't say anything, because it seemed rude to question.

"Oh, no, you wouldn't.'' Stephen said after taking a long-overdue sip of cognac. ''That's Dio's territory now. Like dogs that piss from one street to another.''

The comment drew a laugh from Gyro; Mister Steel laughed a little too, but held back when he realized that you and Louise were still standing, gesturing nicely for you to sit on the other couch, next to Lucy. You glanced briefly at Louise, who understood the message and went to sit down. You, however, were curious about the books.

''Excuse me...'' You said sympathetically, interrupting the conversation. ''But those books... I recognize many of them. Do you like history, Mister Steel?''

It would make sense if he did, you thought as he considered your question. ''Beyond Borders: Explorations at the Edge of the World'' was one of the books you recognized as also being on the nightstand in Thom's room, you didn't know who had written it, but you knew it had something to do with the Steel Ball Run - of course, everything Thomas consumed had something to do with that race.

Apart from this book, there were many classics that had been released relatively recently for the time. Clearly, Stephen's library was not one of dusty old books; Fyodor Dostoevsky, Dickens, George Elliot and even the unforgivable Oscar Wilde were some of the authors present. Their works were very well cared for, some in editions and models you'd never seen before, all with shiny leather covers. But of all of them, the ones that most caught your eye and made you wonder were Michelet's books on the French Revolution and some that you didn't know, but seemed suggestive for historians, such as "History of the Popes" and "The Protestant Reformation in Germany".

''Not just history.'' He answered. ''Anything that can be put into words and read. I'm a voracious reader, you know. Books are good for the mind. Do you like reading, miss... ah...''

''(Y/N).'' You replied, smiling. ''Yes, I like to read. I've read most of these books.''

''Oh! Even mine?'' He asked, smug but good-natured. ''Look at the name under the title of some of them.''

And you looked more assiduously at the authors' names. Stephen seemed to be a dedicated writer, you thought when you saw the thickness of a book called ''Beyond the Finish Line: The Transcontinental Race and the Exploration of the American Spirit'' and three others right next to it; ''Running for the American Dream'' and...

''Beyond Borders!'' You read, amazed. "Did you write it?''

That would explain Thom's idolatry.

''I see you've read something of mine.'' He laughed, pleased and flattered. ''What did you think?''

''Ah, well... I haven't read it, but I know someone who has... an old friend. It's about the Steel Ball Run, isn't it? He was obsessed with the race.'' Everyone seemed to have glimpsed a fleeting shadow crossing your eyes, although it was quickly concealed when you went back to looking at the books.

''Yes, I wrote it during the race; it was my first book.'' He explained, intrigued by your curiosity. ''Your friend seems to have good taste, I'd say. But what about you? From the way you talk, I can tell you're not a farm girl, not even a simple housewife. What would you be? Let me guess... a student?''

''Oh, is there something different about the way I talk?'' You asked, refraining from answering right away.

''Of course. You speak clearly, cleanly. Maybe it's just nerves or politeness, but I feel there's something more. In both of you.'' He nodded politely to Louise, who was looking at some embroidery Lucy was doing. ''Maybe it's your companies, Gyro and Johnny, that make you seem unique... but there's something else.''

''It makes sense, maybe you're right.'' You snorted, moving closer between Gyro's armchair and the couch Louise was sitting on. ''I was a student, yes, when I was at university. I'm an archaeologist now.''

''Fascinating.'' Stephen smiled, he looked really impressed, and placed the empty cognac glass on the small table. ''An intellectual, I'm surprised you're accompanied by Gyro and Johnny.''

You giggled when you saw Gyro's frown under his hat.

''Fascinating, really fascinating. And you... Louise, right?'' He nodded at her, who confirmed with a brief glance. ''And what about miss Louise, should I ask?''

''Me?'' Louise looked up, surprised by the sudden attention. ''Nothing as fascinating as (Y/N). I'm just a widow.''

''Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. And how did you two meet?'' He continued to ask.

Louise took a few seconds to answer and, feeling that it would be unfair to keep her as just a widow, you decided to intervene.

''She's being modest, mister Steel. We met at college.'' You lied.

''Oh, so you're both academics? I must say that fills me with joy. I've never met a studious woman, and now that I've met you two I'm more convinced of investing in Lucy's education. Tell me, miss, what do you have a degree in?''

''I'm... ah, well, I have a degree in social communication, you know? Human resources, advertising, that sort of thing.''

''Advertising?'' Suddenly, Stephen's eyes lit up. ''That's a very useful qualification. Do you work?''

''Not at the moment.'' She replied. ''We're having... well, some personal problems.''

You noticed that she indicated Johnny and Gyro with a glance, and Stephen's sharp mind suddenly seemed to understand and recognize the situation. It was obvious that he knew about the corpse, and it was obvious that he knew what Gyro and Johnny were doing there. The only thing that wasn't obvious to him, however, was you and Louise - that's why there were so many questions, you thought, but now everything seemed to have been suddenly clarified in his mind. Archaeologist. Corpse. Gyro and Johnny.

''Yes... I understand.'' Stephen was silent for a few seconds, until a thought occurred to him and he rose from his chair. ''I'm being a terrible host; please allow me to invite you to dinner again and then we'll talk about it further. Perhaps I can help you myself.''

Lucy paused for a moment, watching her husband speculatively. And that made a little knot of anxiety form in your stomach. You didn't intend to take part in this conversation; however, the food was smelling very good and your stomach needed some peace after days of eating fruit and oat breads.

Without much choice as to what to do while sitting at the table waiting for dinner to be served, you watched everything with frightening clarity, also without any relevant conversation to listen to.

Then, suddenly, all anxiety was relieved for a moment when the robust Margaret appeared with plates and a bottle of champagne. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, until you saw the brief astonishment on Gyro's face as he stopped beside you to look at the bottle.

From the name, it seemed to be a French champagne; it wouldn't make sense if something French evoked memories of his homeland. So why did he seem so hesitant? If not, simply amazed.

''Let's have something to celebrate your coming.'' Stephen waved his long, thin hand in the direction of the glass case. ''I don't suppose you've tried anything decent since you left Italy, have you?''

Gyro laughed, pulling out the chair next to him, but not sitting down.

''Indeed not, mister Steel. And how do you get it here?''

''I was lucky to make a good stock.'' He shrugged and smiled, looking complacent.

Johnny looked at Gyro, who was staring at the bottle with strange familiarity. Stephen extended his hand towards the table, not bothering to look. He didn't need to. The butler set down a crystal glass where his fingers could reach it. Stephen held it up and placed it in the center of the table, along with the other glasses.

''Ah...'' Johnny said, looking equally surprised, but not as expressive as his friend. ''You kept this?''

''Nyo-ho-ho...'' Gyro smiled and laughed again, almost as if he had just been challenged. ''Where was this bottle, anyway? I thought you'd lost all your stock at the end of the first stage.''

''Ha!'' Stephen said good-humoredly. ''Luckily, I kept some on the train. Would you like to do the honors? No holes in the ceiling, please.''

Gyro brushed a strand of hair out of his face and picked up the bottle, raising it as his eyes fell on everyone at the table, but resting on your face.

''This, ladies, is a special champagne.'' He said. ''I can't believe you saved it just for this occasion.''

''And why wouldn't I?'' Stephen asked, amused. ''Just open it however you like.''

You didn't understand the last sentence until you saw what he meant as you watched Gyro lift one of his steel balls and place it under the bottom of the bottle. As far back as you could remember, you knew that the Zeppeli family was full of secrets, intrigues and, above all, techniques, used as much to save a life as to end it. Gyro, as the first-born, should have a good knowledge of all this - and he was making good use of this ancient technique to open bottles and impress ladies.

Louise opened her mouth as she watched the steel ball begin to rotate between the bottom of the bottle and the palm of Gyro's hand; the energy transforming into a gentle heat, and the heat reverberating through the glass of the bottle, affecting the pressure to the point where the cork popped out, bounced gently against the ceiling and fell onto the table beside your hand.

Gyro bowed and served everyone. Lucy and Stephen looked happy, Louise was completely impressed and Johnny pleased; everyone smiling except you.

Wherever your mind was, it wasn't at that table, Gyro thought as he watched you pick up the cork and analyze it, feeling the soft warmth dissipate from the material, trying to understand.

''There's plenty more where that came from, bella.'' He said, smugly, as he poured your glass. You tried to smile politely. ''Cin cin!''

It was good champagne, smooth as silk and strong as the sun. You could feel it reach the bottom of your stomach, take root and spread down your spine. It seemed to have a similar effect on Louise. You saw the slight frown diminish, and then her face relaxed.

The topic of conversation fortunately moved on to more current news, things that you and Louise, who weren't present during the Steel Ball Run, could understand.

''Hmm...'' Stephen straightened up in his chair after hearing the news of the terrorist attack in Tuckertown; knowing full well that, as Johnny said, there was more to it than that. You could feel a sudden wave of anxiety when you saw Louise clenching her own fingers at her side. ''Be that as it may, Johnny. Lucy said you should think of here as your home, and she's absolutely right. You're all welcome here. And I'm sure we'll find a less scandalous and less deadly way of recovering what has been lost.''

''I appreciate that.'' Johnny murmured, but didn't want to look him in the eye. He looked down at the table, and you saw his hand around the champagne glass, holding it tight enough to turn his knuckles white.

Dinner was being served, you could smell the delicious aroma of roasting chicken coming from the kitchen, carried by the evening breeze across the lawns and flower beds, and Johnny's embarrassment subsided a little. He frowned over the glass of champagne, having only accepted it out of politeness. He hadn't tasted it yet, although everyone had already drunk half of their respective glasses.

''That.'' Stephen said. ''Exactly what brought you here, which I know very well. How are we doing?''

Johnny took a deep breath, giving up drinking altogether.

''Not good. We've lost track of it and all we can do is speculate. There's a good chance they're accurate, but they're still speculations. I'm sure the same is going on in your head; it's about Dio, I know you have it easier for you to know where he is and what he's doing.'' Johnny hesitated as he said the name. ''Can I ask you...''

"I can't promise you anything, mister Joestar, but you can ask.'' Stephen replied formally. He had barely touched his own dinner, no more than he had touched his champagne.

Johnny paused even longer, calculating his chances. He wasn't going to get everything done so quickly; he had to tackle what was most important, but leave room for Stephen to reject a few requests.

''We need time, mister Steel. Time and information that you have.''

Stephen swirled the champagne in his glass, watching the firelight play in the vortex. Ordinary business first, he reminded himself. There will be time enough for conversation later.

''We don't need that much time.'' Gyro intervened, confident with his club. ''We just need you to tell us where Dio is and we'll take care of the rest.''

''Johnny's request is already a bit complicated...'' Stephen began. ''Now yours, mister Zeppeli... I have no words.''

He definitely wasn't happy, but he didn't seem disappointed either, as if he'd expected it from them.

''We don't intend to overstay our welcome.'' Gyro insisted. ''Just tell us where we can find Diego, and we'll do what needs to be done away from here. We don't want to put you and your home at risk. We're just asking for cooperation.''

''Forgive me if I sound rude, but am I not cooperating enough by just letting you step inside, have dinner with me and my wife?''

''Stephen...'' You heard Lucy mutter with her eyes downcast, staring at the untouched plate.

''I can see you're in a hurry, a real hurry. We all are. But what makes you think that Diego is behind this?''

''What makes you doubt that Diego is behind this?'' Impatient, Gyro questioned. ''He's the only one who came out of all that mess alive apart from us.''

''Yes, exactly. And I can safely say, mister Zeppeli, that the odds of him getting out alive were much higher than yours. You were saved by divine goodness, if not by Valentine's carelessness. Are you willing to start all over again, without even being sure of what you're doing?''

''It was with Joshua Creed.'' Louise finally intervened, hesitantly, but feeling it was necessary. ''Joshua Creed kidnapped me, and there I saw the corpse. Joshua Creed is some kind of business partner of Diego's, isn't he? That's proof enough.''

Stephen's broad shoulders suddenly tensed, his muscles bulging under his green jacket. He picked up a piece of chicken and spun it on his plate casually, his elbows on the table, breaking some notable rules of etiquette.

''That was a curious subject to broach, ladies.'' He said. ''You haven't told me how you met Gyro and Johnny, isn't that a bit rude? After all, you're still strangers here. I don't believe you're wives, so what brings you here?''

''Actually, dear...'' Lucy intervened, gently taking your defense. ''We talked this afternoon, they clarified everything for me. It's a complicated situation, there's no way of pointing out rudeness.''

''Oh really? Can you ladies tell me?'' After Lucy's intervention, you noticed that the broad shoulders relaxed a little, the tension easing now that you had won his wife's sympathy.

"Ah, well...'' You began, thinking of discarding many details, but keeping to the same path as the story you'd told Lucy. ''It's a long story, but Louise and I were unlucky enough to meet Creed. As far as we know, he's the last person to have laid hands on the corpse. ''

''And how exactly do you know this?''

''We were attacked.'' Louise quickly intervened. ''His gang held me hostage and I saw the corpse in their hideout. That's all.''

Stephen's eyebrows rose, intrigued, but he allowed you to continue.

''I don't want to prolong such a bad mood at the table...'' You continued, this time looking at Johnny. ''But I sought the help of a bounty hunter to find my friend, and I heard that Johnny had been hunting Creed for months.''

''Exactly.'' Johnny also contributed, much more confidently than you. ''Creed and Dio have a partnership; I'm sure you've heard his name. He's one of the biggest smugglers on the East Coast.''

Stephen's eyes turned to the piece of chicken on his plate. It was a thigh, meaty and tasty.

''Definitely.'' He confirmed, with a slight tone of frustration. ''Yes, I've heard that name. But I didn't know he and Dio were connected.''

''Apparently, they are. And louise saw the corpse in one of the gang's hideouts. Now, tell me, what would an outlaw do with a relic like that?''

''Hm, sell it, that's for sure.''

''And have you been doing business of this nature, mister Steel?''

He hesitated, almost as if trying to avoid choking with outrage at the question.

''Of course not!'' He answered promptly. ''Where are you going with this?''

''Just tell me, what other person would be interested in negotiating with a smuggler for the corpse?''

''You still don't have enough proof, Johnny, just making sense isn't enough in this situation, you know that. What about the others? Isn't Pocoloco a suspect too? What about Hot Pants and Wekapipo? What about the big corporations? What about the Vatican? They could all be behind this.''

''But wouldn't it be wise to try for the most obvious and closest? We know that you and Dio are quite close.'' Gyro said, almost teasingly. ''Look, we're not asking you to go and ask him anything. We just want some information, some time to come up with a plan and beat his ass!''

''For God's sake, I know you've been in Italy for two years, but have you lost your mind?!'' Stephen retorted, his voice raised but more frightened than angry. ''Diego is the governor! Not only does Manhattan belong to him, but the entire state of New York! Did you hear that right? New York! He has more influence in this region than the president himself.''

''Ah, yes, yes, of course, the new president.'' Gyro said in a dismissing gesture with his hands, leaning further back in his chair. ''You talk as if you didn't know about our capacity. Or have you forgotten that we've already taken care of...''

''Please, that's enough.'' Lucy intervened, impatient and still not touching her plate, fearing that the maids would overhear. Her voice was low and hoarse with anxiety, but she remained motionless, a figure carved out of marble, gilded by the candlelight. ''I understand the rush, that's why I called you two. But please, listen to Stephen. Things aren't the same anymore.''

''Right.'' Johnny obediently said. ''What did you have in mind, then, Stephen?''

There were no sounds in the room, apart from the humming and crackling of the peat in the fireplace. There was a brief movement from Stephen, no more than the twitch of his fingers against his leg, and then nothing more. The man remained seated, his head turned, staring at the fire in the living room as if searching for an answer.

Johnny and Gyro also remained seated, waiting. They could afford to wait. Finally, Stephen turned and faced them.

''I have a lot of employees, you know. Maybe they'll be of some use.''

''A spy, you mean?'' Johnny asked.

Lucy raised her head, looking astonished, but not that astonished. She seemed to have an almost permanent look of astonishment, so it was difficult to discern exactly what she was feeling in a conversation like this.

''That journalist...'' Lucy suggested. ''He's a good writer, he's the one who's doing your book, isn't he?''

Stephen looked at her, not quite understanding her reasoning.

''Oh, yes, why him?''

''What if you recommended him to Dio?''

''Recommend that Dio hires someone to write his biography, you say?'' He frowned, groped his chin and then returned to normal. ''It's not a bad idea, but Dio would only lie in his biography. It's not reliable information.''

''No, dear, I'm not telling you to get information from the book!'' She clarified. ''That would take months... I'm saying that he could observe Dio's routine and, of course, visit him all the time. See the places he goes, where he works...''

''Let me get this straight... I'm supposed to use young Joe as a spy? If something goes wrong, we'd lose a very good writer and two very good biographies. But that's not the worst of the problems...''

''It seems better than nothing.'' Gyro said. ''But no better than me and Johnny going there and putting an end to all this once and for all.''

''Gyro, forget it.'' Johnny scolded him. ''Let's use our heads a bit. Why wouldn't it be a good idea to use your writer, Stephen? Are you saying he'd be in too much danger?''

''That's not it.'' He explained. ''Young Joe's problem is much more diplomatic and personal, but if the knowledge of it fell into Dio's hands... the boy would be ruined.''

''I don't understand.'' Lucy said. ''What's wrong with him?''

''Joe is a good boy, yes. He could be a great help. But... ah, damn it.'' Stephen said, nibbling on his chicken hesitantly. ''You see, this could take a while, as Joe is in danger of getting involved in some scandals. The fool is a communist. But neither the Republicans nor the Democrats know that, and he works for both, but they're starting to get suspicious and... well, the way Dio is, it won't be long before he takes advantage of something like this.''

''Don't you have anyone who isn't easily threatened?'' Gyro questioned, somewhat frustrated.

''Even I don't fit that requirement, mister Zeppeli. Dio is very different. More influential.'' He stopped eating, serious, to face him. ''When the race ended, I was preparing myself for the tsunami of accusations of negligence and then the millions I would lose in compensation, but... that didn't happen. No, not even half of the scandals were publicized, and the ones that were publicized I was able to easily keep quiet by donating to the families.''

''Did you manage to hide everything?'' Johnny asked.

''No, I didn't even try. It was never my intention to hide it... I intended to bear the consequences, because I knew that part of it was my fault. But I was afraid of what would become of me and Lucy in the future.'' He sighed. ''I didn't expect Dio to make it out alive either... you know what I mean. The damn train could have cut him in half, but the bastard somehow managed to get stuck in the middle of the tracks or slip away far enough to only suffer a few scratches and come out alive. He negotiated with the press with the little fortune he had left, as he was unable to compete for months and was practically anonymous. When he could walk, the first thing he did was reveal himself to me. He told me all the scandals that had been going on, threatened me horribly and... threatened Lucy in a much worse way. I'm not subservient enough for him to use me as a puppet, as you can see. But the time for carelessness is over. You killed someone important in broad daylight and the nation doesn't know about it either, thanks to Dio. Now, doing anything in daylight, anywhere, is suicide. I'm not trying to slow you down; on the contrary, I want Dio dead more than anyone. But my hatred is no greater than my love for this home. I can't let it all be destroyed; and when I do that, I'm looking out for Lucy's well-being and future.''

The current situation reminded you, in a way, of home. Here, you'd come away from the cold, damp filth of the road to the gleaming Steel's house, able to rest both mind and body for a few hours, to relax in the warmth, the conversation and the abundance of food. There, however, it wasn't quite like that; you remembered when you went out drinking at weekends, those oases of life and warmth in the desert of the loneliness of work and your empty house. You didn't understand why the current situation reminded you of that, because they aren't even similar.

Maybe it was the feeling.

The feeling was the same. The cold, strange feeling of displacement; that feeling of losing some valuable part of yourself that couldn't survive the next morning. For a second, you felt jealous of him and Lucy. Envious of that mutual affection, and something inside you said that Johnny and Gyro shared that envy, but you reserved yourself to just listening to the conversation about the poor writer about to be sentenced. Gyro seemed to have finally understood that the current circumstances involved more diplomatic approaches than simply assassinating important politicians and almost dying in the process, so the conversation was mainly reserved for Stephen and Johnny.

''Communist, you say? And what's he doing writing about bourgeois life?'' You asked at one point, curious about the journalist.

''Making a living, working.'' Stephen answered simply, but also curious about you. ''Why the question, miss?''

''Oh, nothing. I'm just surprised that you sympathize with communists.''

''I sympathize with Joe, not with communists. Actually, I don't mind as long as they don't interfere with my work.'' Stephen sipped his champagne, looking at everyone at the table. ''I hope we share that mentality.''

''I've never met a communist in my life.'' Gyro commented indifferently. ''I didn't know there really were people stupid enough.''

''Do you even know what communism is?'' Somewhat indignantly, you questioned, and no one paid you any attention apart from Louise's amused glance.

''I didn't know you were a communist, Lady Loboutin.'' She said, seemingly intent on finding something hilarious in the idea; you had seen her biting the inside of her cheeks as she listened to you speak, and the smile she had disguised was now on her face.

Taken by surprise, you needed a few seconds to say something without stuttering.

''Don't put words in my mouth.'' You said, trying to sound good-humored.

Even though you weren't totally radicalized, you remember at least being politicized. Although at university you only went to the archaeologists', geologists' and paleontologists' building, you always crossed paths with historians and their students. Among them, many of your friends.

Every Wednesday, in those simple years, even when you started working on a research project on the Mesozoic era, you would wake up earlier than usual and at around five in the morning, together with sleepy-looking boys and girls, some with work uniforms and books under their arms, you would enter - one by one, so as not to arouse suspicion - the house that served as a refuge, where camarada Yudel lived. As a university honored by Kennedy's wife, it was to be expected that communist espionage would not be welcome - that is, Russian, Latin or Chinese students and educators. 

At 6am in the morning, in the back shack, a communist morality lesson began, given by a leader who lived underground, comrade Chris, who later returned to legal life with his baptismal name, not his wartime name, and his real profession: Alexei Jankowski, a journalist.

He was relatively young for the position he held - no more than fifty, but he had served in the Red Army in the Second World War - and was a member of the regional committee. His short black hair was parted on the side, his sport shirt was very well washed and ironed, and he was very eloquent. Some mornings, he would simply read the book Red Star aloud to the group, and he would conclude at 8am, also religiously, with maxims like:

''Have no doubt, comrades, in a reprisal we will be the first targets and perhaps the first killed. But our ideals are eternal. Only communists go to heaven, and you can confirm that up there, when you look for Nixon and find Allende.''

''So you're a sympathizer, miss?'' Stephen asked with a certain air of defiance, but a glint of admiration in his eyes. With great tact, however, he knew the right time to change the subject to the more neutral field of personal questions. ''May I ask where and what exactly you studied?''

''Georgetown University.'' You answered, without lying and without beating about the bush, because you were sure it existed at this time. ''I lived with historians, geologists, archaeologists, paleontologists... I must say that some of them were communists.''

''Paletologists? What's that?'' Lucy asked, rarely intervening in the conversation at the table.

''People who study dinosaurs. Giant lizards, you know?''

''Oh, they exist, then? Stephen Steel, twenty years younger, would be very happy about that.'' Stephen said, laughing at himself. ''Maybe some other time I'll tell that story. I need to tell it to young Joe anyway.''

''They certainly do.'' Gyro answered before you, with a suspicious dose of humor. ''Be thankful you didn't find them.''

You found that sentence strange, but refrained from any comments. Whatever Gyro meant, it wasn't something you could understand, as you saw him immediately look at Johnny as one would look at a friend to see if he understood an inside joke. What intrigued you, however, was that Johnny had also made strange comments about dinosaurs. You thought you'd ask them about it some day. Some day.

''Georgetown...'' Stephen muttered after a while, thinking. ''I don't remember any university with that name near here. You've come a long way, I suppose.''

''Yes.'' You answered, also simply and without lying. "We're from Washington.''

''Ah, Washington!'' He said, as if everything now made sense in his head. ''Now I understand, Washington universities are known for accepting women, right? But it still puzzles me that you... Louise, isn't it? It still puzzles me that you chose to work in advertising. I've never seen a woman in this field, and I never thought I would. Tell me, where have you worked?''

''Ah... well... I used to work for the Speedwagon Foundation.'' She said simply, and you didn't even blink, staring at your plate. ''An oil company, you know. It was a sponsor of the Steel Ball Run, wasn't it?''

For God's sake, don't say another word. You thought.

''Hm, yes, of course... but I don't understand, were you part of the publicity team? Why would an oil company need advertising?''

''I wasn't in advertising, no... I was in another area, which also involves communication. Human resources. I managed company relations, employees and complaints.''

''Interesting. I'm not impressed that Robert invests in this kind of department.'' He observed, smiling. ''He's quite... diplomatic. A man who cares about social relations, am I right?''

''Ha... yeah.''

You sighed, relieved that you weren't linked to the Speedwagon Foundation. You never overestimated Louise's ability to lie, but, dear God, she could have said any other company, you thought as that name repeated itself in your mind. Robert...

Then you remembered, very vaguely, an old painting in the reception area of the building that greeted you every day. Robert E. O. Speedwagon. A strong man, in the painting he looked to be in his fifties, perhaps a little younger than Stephen; but you didn't know when that portrait was made, or how old he would be now. But it seems that Stephen knows the man and a simple exchange of letters could be enough to bring Louise's story to its knees. After all, there was no problem being linked with the Speedwagon Foundation if Stephen trusted you enough; but how the hell are you going to know if Robert Speedwagon would be interested in investing in a human relations department in his company before any strikes or labor rights claims?

It was too much to think about now, and Johnny seemed to have picked up on his and Louise's tension, as he quickly asked Stephen something on the side, easily distracted by the champagne glasses. But he quickly returned his attention to Louise. He seemed more than fascinated, which raised a degree of suspicion.

From what little you knew of him, you knew he was a great promoter and journalist. Great. It was hardly surprising that Louise's background was, at the very least, extremely interesting to him. So he smiled and tilted the rim of the glass in her direction, then brought it to his lips and took a sip.

"I imagine it's very tiring, I must say.'' He reinforced, ending his conversation with Johnny too soon and putting down his glass. "You know, ladies...'' He said, giving you both a slight nod. ''I have the opportunity to make an exceptional investment in a new wine establishment in New York. But the task of evaluating the venture is not such that I would feel comfortable entrusting it to a subordinate; I would need to see the facilities myself and supervise their development. The task would require several weeks.''

He gazed thoughtfully into the glass, gently swirling the softly yellowed, fragrant liquid so that its scent covered the table. You hadn't drunk more than a few small sips from your glass, but you were beginning to feel a little dizzy, more as a result of your growing anxiety than the drink.

''It's too good an opportunity to pass up.'' Stephen said. ''And there's a chance of several new contracts with wineries throughout the country; the products are French, excellent, but relatively rare here. My God, they'd sell among the elite like snow in summer!'' His shrewd blue eyes glittered a little more, with perhaps golden visions of power and wealth, then sparked as they looked at Louise. ''But...''

''But...'' Louise concluded for him. ''You can't leave your business here without someone to run it.''

''Intelligence, as well as charm. Congratulations, Gyro and Johnny.'' He tilted his well-groomed head in the direction of the two, who didn't seem to understand anything, one eyebrow arched in a sign of comical approval. ''I confess I'm a bit lost, not knowing how I should put it. Luckily, the shipment from this winery hasn't arrived on the mainland yet, so I have a few weeks to evaluate your performance, if you're willing to help me with that and prove your training.'' He said, placing the glass on the table with the air of a man who puts aside social frivolities in favor of serious business. ''What do you think? Are you good at accounting?''

''Ah, well, my department is human resources, but I've dealt with accounting, yes.'' She replied, still modest. ''I have a good head for administration in general.''

He hesitated for a moment, then smiled at Louise, with a peculiar wave of his hands.

''Knowing then that you, lady,'' He suggested, indicating Louise, ''have a great head for administration, I feel strongly inclined to consider your arrival as an answer to my prayers. Still, I think we'd better wait before making you a definite offer.''

That is, he'd better see how presentable you and she were, you thought cynically, but you smiled at him all the same. Your eyes met Louise's and one of your eyebrows rose. This was your day of luck and proposals, evidently. For a widow with no possessions and an archaeologist suspected of stealing the holy corpse, your services seemed to be in good demand.

Stephen Steel's offer was more than generous; in exchange for Louise's work helping the French branch of the wine business for the next few months, Stephen would not only pay her a salary, but would guarantee his house. In the meantime, Gyro and Johnny would be free to devise the most diplomatic means of recovering the corpse - lamenting that they could no longer simply kill a politician in broad daylight to do so - and you, well, you'd be there. Maybe helping Gyro and Johnny, however you do it.

''Not at all, not at all...'' Stephen said, when Johnny tried to protest against such generosity. He pressed the knife into the tender meat of the chicken, looking speculatively at you and Louise. ''A beautiful woman to host dinner parties is a great advantage in the wine business, my friends.''

Louise laughed, clearly having drunk more champagne than you.

''Of course. Not least because Johnny has no idea how much wine you can sell if you let the customers taste it first.''

Stephen shook his head decisively, agreeing with her.

''Yes, and it will be a great service to me if our publicist and her friend are willing to organize meetings and receive people. I've been planning this for a while, but I wouldn't ask Lucy to do it, I don't want to distract her or expose her to these kinds of people. Those socialites are disgusting, I imagine you already know that.''

The idea of hosting social gatherings for Stephen's social and business circle was actually a bit scary. Louise looked at you, her eyebrows raised questioningly, but you swallowed and smiled, nodding in assent. It was a good offer; if she felt competent to take on the running of this kind of business, the least you could do was help Lucy organize dinners and maybe learn a little French for lively conversations.

''Certainly.'' You muttered, but Stephen had already taken your agreement for granted and continued, his blue eyes fixed on Louise.

''If we consolidate this idea, I could try to find some kind of housing, in Manhattan perhaps. Don't get me wrong, you're completely welcome here, but it would be advantageous to have you in a zone that I refrain from entering. Besides... I imagine that this would be the most effective and least lethal method of approaching Dio. Well, less lethal and less risky.''

Lucy huffed in an elegant ladylike style, indicating what she thought of social gatherings involving wine and socialites. You'd have thought she was right, but Stephen and indirectly Louise ensured that the informal evenings were a great help in finding out what was going on in Manhattan and making valuable contacts around Dio Brando - and probably dealing with him as best they could before things got out of hand.

''Then leave (Y/N) and Louise in the vanguard, because if I see Dio's face again I won't be able to split my fist from it.'' Gyro commented, finishing his champagne.

Johnny smiled evasively, which made Stephen laugh and pick up his own glass. Everyone at the table had also been served a glass of water, to cleanse the palate between sips, and Stephen took one of these in his other hand.

''Well, a toast again!'' He exclaimed. ''To our partnership, friends.'' He raised his glass in salute, then ostentatiously passed it over the glass of water and brought it to his lips.

You observed this strange behavior with surprise, but refrained from questioning it too much. Now, at least, there was a roof over your head and the choice to trust Johnny and Gyro had proved very fruitful, for now they were only a few handshakes away from Dio Brando and eating at the same table as geomorphologist Lucy Steel. And at the same table as the killers of Funny Valentine and the promoter of the Steel Ball Run. A peculiar historical get-together, you thought.

Being the promoter of the Steel Ball Run and Lucy Steel's husband, you already imagined Stephen's correlation with Gyro, Johnny and Dio was much more than a convenience: the odds were that Lucy's letter announcing the disappearance of the corpse came alongside a letter from Diego to his affiliate Creed, demanding the same corpse; perhaps explaining the assignment you had received from Stephen. With a sudden admiration for the intricacies of the Ecclesiastes project networks, you raised your glass and drank to this partnership - and the new society with the Steels.

Louise and Stephen then sat down in the living room to discuss business and were soon hunched over sheets of paper covered in ink notes, evidently bills of lading and the dispatch of goods by sea. The large room reeked of tobacco, champagne fumes and roast chicken, and you began to feel slightly queasy again. Seeing that your presence wouldn't be needed for a while, you got up quietly and went out onto the porch.

From there, the view of the surrounding plains and woods was complete and unobstructed. You leaned your elbows on the fences, enjoying the sea breeze from a nearby beach and the soft scents of tar. It was still cold, but with your jacket wrapped tightly around your body, you were well warmed up.

You suddenly remembered the steamed mussels you had eaten one day at Sapore di Calapria and suddenly felt hungry again. The absurd contrasts of the travel seemed to keep you constantly aware of your digestion; if you didn't want to throw up, you were ravenously hungry. The thought of food led you to think about menus, which brought to mind the dinners and get-togethers Stephen had mentioned. Dinners, huh? It seemed like a strange way to start the task of recovering the corpse, but in reality you couldn't think of anything better to do to get closer to Dio.

At least, if you had Dio sitting at the table in front of you, you could keep an eye on him, you thought, smiling to yourself at the thought. But maybe that wouldn't be so pleasant after all.

Thinking about it reminded you of Joshua Creed and your smile disappeared. He had captured Louise, done horrible things to her and narrowly failed to do it to you; Gyro and Johnny rescued you. The memories of the dark hideout and Creed's dirty hands were still too fresh, and suddenly the wind seemed too cold, when you thought that these memories must be even more vivid for Louise.

You shivered, and not from the cold. You couldn't think about what happened to Louise without a shiver running down your spine. Darkly, you felt unable not to think that it was your fault; that it was you who should have suffered the consequences, not her. Louise was like you in every respect; a woman in a man's world; someone who supported her friend's plan more than slightly tinged with madness; someone who was tired of that place and that life. Worse still, she was what you were - a time traveler.

The only difference was that she was innocent.

You went back into the house, tired and chilled by the wind, to the comforting warmth of a bathtub upstairs, right next to the guest rooms. After a brief argument about who would bathe first, in which Louise was the first to give in, you and Gyro came to a favorable agreement.

Without haste, you did all the toileting that could be done with water, soap and a comb, which were the only implements you had at your disposal for grooming. If Stephen Steel was serious about hosting dinners with his elite friends, you could see that new clothes would only be the beginning.

The bathroom was simple, some elements you missed; toilets and showers being some of them. You were amazed when a little man opened the door, carrying two buckets of warm water, and poured them into a large, ornate iron bathtub, finishing filling it. You guessed it was an expensive model, perhaps inspired by the Victorians, and the little man nodded to ask permission and closed the door as he left the bathroom, giving you the privacy you missed so much.

You noticed that the wooden sink had a drawer to the side of the creams and perfumes drawer, with perfectly frayed lines of willow branches to clean your teeth with. You took one out of the box and set to work, pondering the incredible luck that had brought you there.

Unwilling to test Gyro's patience any further, you finally left, after stripping off your dirty, sweaty clothes in favor of a silk nightgown that one of the maids had laid out for you.

When you went downstairs, you found Gyro sitting by the fireplace, his eyes narrowed, his hands on his knees, as if he were thinking.

''Do you need something?'' You heard Lucy's sweet voice echo just behind him, reluctant.

''Ah, I'm fine.'' He said, with the strange sympathy of an old friend, then looked at you. ''I'm going to pray that she doesn't have all that time to wait for the water to evaporate on its own and take my bath.''

Ignoring that comment as you did most things Gyro said, you turned back to the bookcase in the living room. You asked Stephen if you could pick some up to read, and he politely allowed you to; he then showed a certain amount of enthusiasm when he saw that most of the books you were picking up were his own.

Louise had started yawning on the table and then excused herself upstairs to have a bath when Gyro had returned; the short man's frantic footsteps carrying buckets of heated water to only partially change the water in the bath were easily heard from upstairs. You stayed in the living room for a few more moments, chatting with Stepheen, and it was almost ten o'clock when you went up to your own room.

Louise used to go to bed early and wake up early; her soft breathing greeted you when you opened the bedroom door. She was an early sleeper and a deep sleeper too; you moved carefully around the guest room, hanging up your clothes and tidying your belongings, but there was no risk of waking her. The house fell silent as you tidied up, so that the murmur of your movements began to sound too loud to your ears. It was too dark for you to pay attention to your surroundings, so sometimes you bumped into something and made more noise than usual.

You removed the books last, one by one, placing them on the bed. Five bound volumes, shiny in their leather covers. Heavy, solid objects; five or six hundred pages each, apart from the tables of contents and illustrations. Three of them by the same author: Stephen Steel.

They were complete works by Lucy Steel's husband, half biographical, half narrative, half didactic. All about his life as the promoter of the biggest event of the century. Critics' praise covered the ears of the dust jacket, with comments from every renowned expert in the press. Not bad for someone who could die at any moment, you morbidly thought. An achievement to be proud of. Compact, solid, prideful. However, at a glance, none of them seemed to mention the runners directly. Perhaps it would be better to look in the morning.

You stacked the books carefully on the table next to your bed so as not to forget them. The titles on the spines were different, of course, but you stacked them so that the names ''Stephen Steel'' at the ends lined up evenly, one above the other - just as the words ''beyond'' also lined up. They glowed like a jewel in the small shaft of light formed by the candle on the bedside table.

The house was silent; it wasn't yet midnight, but you could hear Gyro's snores in the next room. In the other single bed, Louise's breathing made a slight noise and she turned over, letting long locks of red hair cover her sleeping face. A long, bare foot protruded from under the covers and you gently covered it.

The urge to touch a sleeping child or younger sibling never goes away, even if that younger sibling is much bigger than you. You removed her hair from her nose and mouth, fearing that she might suffocate in her sleep. Surprising you, she smiled in her sleep, a brief reflection of peace, undone almost as soon as it appeared. You, however, were unable to reciprocate this peaceful smile. You whispered into her sleep-deaf ears, as you had done so many times on this journey.

''I'm going to take us home.''

You swallowed to get rid of the knot in your throat. It had almost become a mantra by now. It was freezing cold in mid-October, but you weren't yet ready to seek the cozy sanctuary of your new bed.

Lucy Steel had assured you that the fire would go out soon, that there was no need to worry. You closed the bedroom door slowly, still watching the long limbs sprawled on the bed, the cascades of silky red hair spilling over the blue matelasse bedspread. Then you looked at your own reflection in the small mirror next to the door.

''Not bad either for someone who could die at any moment.'' You whispered into the dark corridor as you looked away from your own reflection. Maybe not so compact or solid, but absolutely prideful.  

[softguarnere]

Like A Girl (Like A Man)

Shifty Powers x OFC

Chapter 24: Good Ol' Bill

Summary: “Hey.” Bill grabs her arm. He gives her a sage nod. “We’re gonna be okay, kid.” A/N: Behold - some of the first bits of this fic that I ever wrote! These scenes and interactions have been living rent free in my brain for almost a year now, so I hope that you enjoy them Warnings: blood, death, grief, injury, language, war Taglist: @liebgotts-lovergirl @lady-cheeky @latibvles @ithinkabouttzu @lieutenant-speirs @mrs-murder-daddy @hxad-ovxr-hxart

Belgium, 1945

It’s the strangest interaction that Zenie has ever had with another person, to say the least.

When Zenie had wandered far off into the trees by herself, it was because she knew better than to take her chances using the same latrine as everyone else during the day. She didn’t expect anyone else to be this far out. Let alone him.

“What are you doing out here, trooper?”

The merry sounding voice is incongruous with the barren snow and scarred earth that it echoes through. Zenie jumps. After drawing a deep breath to slow her thudding heart, she turns to face him.

Lieutenant Dike’s expression is open and expectant. He’s never spoken directly to her before. She’s never been this close to him. There’s a chance that no one has. Most of what she knows about Dike and his mannerisms comes from watching Luz do impressions of him. With Winters she had intentionally kept her distance to avoid being found out. With Dike she doesn’t have to try because he’s never around. But is this really where he comes? To the middle of the woods – the middle of nowhere?

“Trying to use the bathroom, sir.” At least she’s being honest.

Dike nods. He stands, staring, both at her and without seeing her all at once.

After an uncomfortable moment of silence, Zenie clears her throat. “Is that a problem, sir?”

“Hm? Oh, probably not. Good, secluded place for it, I suppose.” He steps past her, not even bothering to look back at her as he calls, “Well, good day, Private.” Then he disappears into the trees.

Zenie stands still, watching his retreating frame until he’s out of sight. She turns the interaction over and over in her mind as she makes her way back to the rest of Easy Company.

“Jesus Christ,” Bill spits when she tells her friends about the interaction. “They’ve really put a maniac in charge of the company, haven’t they?”

George laughs. “Good, secluded place for it, I suppose,” he mimics perfectly in Dike’s voice. He shakes his head. “This guy is going to get us killed.”

“They oughtta put someone else in charge,” Bill says. “Like Compton. He’d do good.”

“Yeah, but with our luck, they’d probably pick Peacock instead.”

“Or Shames,” Zenie adds, thinking back to all of Shifty’s complaints about the other lieutenant.

“Either way,” George says with a shrug. “At least they would be here.” He laughs. “Just wandered off into the trees, huh? Like something out of a campfire story.”

“Telling campfire stories, are we?” Lipton’s cheerful voice announces his presence as he steps up to their little group. They all share a knowing glance – here’s a man who could lead Easy Company. Lipton smiles at them, his voice simultaneously playful and chastising when he asks, “Which one is it? The one where a bunch of paratroopers all get blown to bits standing around in the middle of the woods when they should be in their foxholes?”

They can’t really argue with that. But now might be the time to voice their concerns; for the hundredth time – but maybe this will be the time that does some good.

“Actually, Sir,” Babe pipes up. “We were talking about Lieutenant Dike.”

Lipton frowns. “Ah.”

“Tommy here had a  . . . weird interaction with him earlier.”

“Weird how?”

“He found me out looking for the latrine,” Zenie explains. “And then he just wandered off into the woods. He disappeared.”

“Disappeared?” Lipton raises his eyebrows.

“Yes, Sir. Never saw where he went. Haven’t seen him since.”

Lipton allows himself a harsh sigh through his nose. He must be – has to be – just as frustrated as they are, if not more so. Whatever he feels, he does a good job at hiding it.

“Well,” Lipton says finally. “There’s not much that we can do about Dike. Just try to keep yourselves warm and keep from getting hit by German artillery.” In other words: get back into your foxholes.

They all nod. “Yes, Sir.”

“Driver?”

“Yes?” Zenie asks.

Lipton points to Zenie’s hands. “Driver, where are your gloves?”

Zenie crosses her arms, tucking her cold hands into her armpits. She had been sharing a foxhole with Joe on New Year’s Eve when the Germans had decided to send them a little present to ring in the New Year. He took shrapnel to his arm and got sent to the aid station. Meanwhile, Zenie’s gloves had gotten blown to bits during the shelling after she foolishly took them off and laid them out in an attempt to dry them. Trench knives, it turns out, are not the best tool to use when attempting to make holes in socks that you hope to turn into gloves. Good thing she doesn’t need the extra pair from the “feet, hands, neck, balls” rhyme that Muck loves to remind them off. The fabric no longer looks quite like either socks or gloves, but at least she has something on her hands. First Toye’s boots, then Zenie got hit in the arm, then Toye took shrapnel to the same place, and she lost her gloves. The two of them are bound to lose something during a shelling.

“They uh – they got blown to bits a few days ago.”

“Huh.”

“But I’ll be fine,” she assures him.

They say their goodbyes as Lipton leaves them. In a stellar imitation of Dike’s voice, George smirks at them and offers, “Good day, Private.”

His Dike impression is coming a long way, with all the opportunities for making fun of him that the lieutenant unwittingly provides them with. Even Joe, when he makes his glorious return from the aid station later that day, chuckles when Luz recounts Zenie’s story just for him.

“That’s pretty good, Luz,” Joe admits as he gives the radioman a friendly slap on the arm.

Luz shrugs. “Eh, it’s okay. Needs some work, but it’s coming along.”

“Is it true?” Popeye asks when Easy Company returns to their position near Foy that afternoon. The Virginian’s eyes are wide as he looks at Zenie expectantly. “About Dike? Did he really just walk off into the woods?”

“How’d you hear about that?”

“Everyone’s heard about it.” Shifty nods towards Luz, several feet in front of them as they walk. “Don’t think there’s anyone that he hasn’t previewed his impression for.”

“Except for Dike, I hope,” Zenie says. Although if it really came down to it, Luz probably would do an impression of Dike to the lieutenant’s face. Dike would probably misunderstand the joke and take it as some kind of flattery, accidentally giving Luz all the more to work with. The idea makes her giggle, and beside her, Shifty and Popeye also laugh.

It’s good to be back with them. She can only hope that they don’t get sent to the Out Post this time. After every round of German artillery fire she had had to wonder where they were, if they were okay. Now if she can just keep them near her and the rest of Second Platoon –

“Hello, boys!” Bill chirps as he hops into a foxhole between Zenie and Shifty. He slings an arm over each of their shoulders, beaming at them.

“Hey, Bill. You sharin’ a foxhole with us?” Shifty’s question is polite enough, but he still glances around the other sergeant at Zenie, brows slightly furrowed.

Bill shrugs. “Well, everyone else has been findin’ shit in their foxholes, and this one looks clean enough.” He sits down. After exchanging a glance, Zenie and Shifty slowly take a seat on either side of him.

This isn’t the first time that this has happened, now that she really thinks about it. Ever since Shifty got to come back from the OP, Bill has managed to show up in whatever foxhole the two of them have been sharing. And, just like now, he’s had no problem making himself comfortable sitting right between them.

Shifty must be realizing the same thing. He gives Zenie a knowing look, but he bites his bottom lip and says nothing.

“Bill, what’s really going on?” Zenie asks.

The Philadelphian gives her an incredulous look. “What do you mean? Am I not allowed to sit with my friends?” A hint of a smile pulls at his lips as he leans in and lowers his voice. “Or to keep an eye on them?” He puts his arms out again and pats them both on the shoulder. “That’s right; no hanky-panky on Ol’ Guarno’s watch!”

“There hasn’t been any –“ Shifty clears his throat. “– uh, hanky-panky.”

“Really? Not even in, I dunno, Paris?” Heat rushes to Zenie’s face at the same moment that Shifty’s eyes go wide. 

“How did you - ?”

“Nothing gets past me, kid.” Bill winks. “Word along the rumor mill is that you finally lost your virginity, supposedly on that pass to Paris. After I learned your secret, well, it didn’t exactly take a genius to piece it together.”

Babe. It had to be Babe! He was the one she told about losing her virginity. Of course he told Bill! They might be her friends, but the last thing she needed was for them to know details of her sex-life. She buries her face in her hands to hide whatever face she might be making.

“Hey, it’s all right.” Bill pats her on the back again, and when she looks up, he’s smiling, though Shifty’s cheeks are still a little pink. “Just watchin’ out for you, la mia sorellina.” My little sister. Zenie doesn’t have time to fully process his words before her friend turns to Shifty. “Just don’t go hurting her, okay?”

“I would never,” Shifty says.

Bill smiles. “I know.” He claps his hands and stands. “Well, now that that’s taken care of, I guess I better go find a foxhole.”

Neither of them speaks after he leaves. Zenie squeezes her eyes shut, like if she’s very still, the embarrassment will wash away and Shifty will forget about the interaction.

There’s a laugh, bright and crisp – from Shifty. He’s still chuckling when Zenie opens her eyes. The sniper shakes his head. “Good old Bill.”

“I’m sorry,” Zenie says automatically. Her face is still warm.

“Don’t be,” Shifty replies, voice still bright. “You’re our girl. He’s just watchin’ out for you.”

Il mio fratellino, Bill had once called her. Now he’s corrected it to la mia sorellina. He’s always been watching out for her, since way back in Toccoa. Even when she had been ready to fight him on her first day there. That’s what it feels like, then, for someone to always have your back. It’s not bad.

Somewhere nearby, a shell explodes. Screams of “Incoming!” follow it as the earth begins to shake. Zenie hunkers down, getting as low in the foxhole as she can, Shifty tucking in beside her.

Now she understands why their old position looked so different when they returned. The snow that blankets the ground is dirty, all churned up and mixed with soil. This is no peaceful woodland scene from a winter postcard. No, between the trees that have been broken down to nubs, the excrement that waits at the bottom of several foxholes, and the piercing explosions that shatter the air and shake the earth, this is the furthest thing from peaceful.

It ends suddenly. Zenie sits up and looks around, rifle at the ready. Her eyes dart in every direction. Behind her, Shifty takes the same position, watching the opposite direction. He’ll be able to see any approaching Germans from a mile away. Zenie has no doubt about that. After all, this is the same man who, just days before, realized that the Germans had disguised a tank as a tree.

“Anything?”

“No. No – “ Shifty stops short. Somewhere out there, a voice is carried through the forest. It sounds hazy. The echo distorts is, making it hard to pinpoint its location.

“Who is – “

“Stay in your foxholes!” Sergeant Lipton yells as he runs by. He stops a few feet away from them and looks down into a different foxhole. “Are you good, Popeye?”

“I’m one hundred percent ready to kill Germans, Lip!” Their friend chirps. As Lipton passes, he catches sight of Shifty and Zenie, offers them a big smile and a thumbs up, which Shifty returns.

Shifty relaxes a little. “That can’t be the end.”

“You think they’re trying to zero us in?”

“Hmm.” A crease appears between Shifty’s eyebrows. “They – “

Ka-BOOM!

So close to the line, maybe the Germans can hear them. Maybe they took their speculations as suggestion and started the next round of artillery fire.

Once again, Zenie slides down into her foxhole and braces herself. Trees crackle overhead as they burst into pieces, raining down all around them and impaling themselves into the frozen earth. No wonder so many of them have been hit by shrapnel. Zenie unconsciously reaches for the place on her own arm where she got peppered with it. Lucky, indeed.

“M-MEDIC!” A deep voice thunders out.

Snow crunches as Eugene goes racing by. He doesn’t stop to answer when a few men call out, “Who got hit?” Duty calls, and Eugene always answers.

From somewhere nearby, an all too familiar voice screams for help. His South Philly twang is strong, even with his raised voice. “Is anyone there?!”

Babe! Zenie leaps from the foxhole. Shifty reaches for her, but she’s already gone.

An entire tree was felled during the bombardment, collapsing right on top of Babe’s foxhole. Through the branches, everyone who crowds around can only just see the top of his helmet, can make out the shape of a hand reaching up for them.

Babe sounds . . . desperate, almost, as he urges them to get him out. It’s not a tone that Zenie has ever heard from him before. Like his sadness after Julian’s death, it feels unnatural on someone so happy-go-lucky.

Breathless, Babe manages a laugh and a smile when they manage to pull the tree away. “Think I went overboard on the cover for my foxhole?” He jokes.

Zenie manages to laugh it off, too, as do most of the others who arrived in time to help him. Except for the one person who’s known for laughing, that is.

From the corner of her eye, Zenie catches a flash of Luz racing by. He doesn’t stop at the sound of their chuckles, doesn’t even look at them. Focused, he hurries back to his foxhole.

There’s some commotion from the direction that he came from. With Babe uninjured and accounted for, Zenie steps away from the group and follows the direction that Luz just left.

A metallic scent stains the air, mingling with the scent of burned trees and charred earth. Freshly snapped trees litter the ground. And the ground around the shattered pieces is that peculiar mixture of snow and dirt that has become such a familiar sight in their month watching the line. This snow, though, has an extra quality to it – blood. Zenie doesn’t have time to wonder where it all came from, because at that moment, she spots a leg lying a few feet away from two figures sitting amongst the destruction.

Joe is in the center of it all, Eugene kneeling in front of him, trying to stop the blood that’s flowing freely from the place where his leg has been blown off. A few feet away from him, a trail of blood leads to another man who’s sitting propped against a tree, gritting his teeth and staring at his outstretched, mangled leg.

Zenie freezes.

From where he sits in front of the tree, Bill looks up at her. When their eyes meet, he holds her gaze, steady as ever.

“Hey, Tommy Boy,” Bill calls to her. “Be a pal and light me a smoke, would ya?”

Somehow, she finds herself on her knees beside her friend. She can’t feel her hands. They won’t stop shaking as she fumbles for the pack of cigarettes in her pocket. Bill doesn’t complain, though, about how long it takes her to remove one from the pack, to finally light it and place it between his lips.

“Thank you,” he manages around the cigarette.

She might reply. If she does, she can’t hear her own words over the pounding of her heart. Her spine turns into a tube of ice water, making her shiver as she watches her friends. This can’t be real. Out of everyone, Bill and Toye can’t be the ones going home.

“Bill, you’re goin’ first,” Eugene calls.

Bill nods, taking a drag from his cigarette. “Whatever you say, Doc.”

The next thing that she knows, some of the men are loading Bill onto a stretcher. He yells out in pain when they move him, cursing as they touch his injured leg. The cigarette in his hands falls to the ground, extinguishing itself on the snow. Numbly, Zenie stamps it out.

“Hey.” Bill grabs her arm. He gives her a sage nod. “We’re gonna be okay, kid.” As chipper as he can manage, Bill calls out as they carry him away, “I told ya I’d beat ya back to the States, Joe!”

Someone touches Zenie’s arm, making her jump. Sergeant Lipton is studying her with his all-knowing eyes. “Tommy, are you okay?”

He doesn’t stop her when she walks away, never answering his question. No one calls out after her or tries to follow her.

She doesn’t make it back to Shifty in their foxhole. Instead, she drops down into the nearest one that she sees. Her helmet feels heavy in her hands as she removes it and runs a shaking hand through her hair. Any time that she cried as a little girl, her mom would stroke her hair like this.

But Mama isn’t here now. No one is. She’s all alone.

Words – the words she wants to scream up at the sky, up at God, if He’s really up there – stick in her dry mouth, lodging in her sandpaper throat so that she chokes on them. It’s not until she’s been sitting there, shaking for a thousand years, that she manages to loosen them enough to whisper to no one the single sentence that keeps racing through her mind.

“What the fuck?!”

[writethelifeyouwant]

Make Him Look - Ch 1 / 2

Pairing: Cordell Walker x Reader Rating: 18+ Tags: flirting, many many drinks, jealousy, dancing, slow burn Word Count: 3k Created for: @walker-bingo - In Vino Veritas | @anyfandomgoesbingo - Jealousy A/N: Written with the lovely @thinkinghardhardlythinking in mind ❤️and y'all can also blame her for the fact it got so long I split it into two 😂

Cordell swings his leg over a barstool and settles into his usual spot. The bar is busy but not crowded. There’s a few more empty stools awaiting occupants for the night, and Cordell hooks one with his foot and draws it closer, popping his hat down to save the seat for Liam, who’s on his way. But there’s no reason to wait for Liam before he orders – they get the same thing every time.

“Barkeep! Can I get some queso, hot wings, and whatever Pinthouse you’ve got on draft?”

“Sure thing, man,” the kid behind the bar drawls, his accent thick and voice lazy. Cordell would bet anything the guy had had a joint on his break earlier, but he’s off duty – tonight is not about busting people for drugs, tonight is about letting loose. He checks his phone to see if Liam had texted him that he’d left the office yet, but there is nothing there. Taking a sip of the drink that has just been plopped on a coaster in front of him, Cordell scans the room. It’s a bad habit that every law enforcement worker he’s ever met has developed. Even when he’s trying to relax and blow off some steam, he can’t help being a little vigilant.

He takes in the tableaus around him; the groups of kids from the local community college, the gaggle of mid to late aged men in awful polos that Cordell recognises as the inner city bowling league, a couple of less savoury looking guys playing pool, the cluster of women those guys keep eyeing up – he’ll keep an eye on that one.

Checking his phone again and taking another drink, he still hasn’t heard anything from Liam. He opens his brother’s contact and is about to give him a call to tell him to get his ass in gear when someone suddenly reaches down beside him, picks up his hat and drops it back on his head while they slide into the seat he’d been saving - except it’s not Liam.

“Hey you,” the stranger says familiarly, bumping her shoulder against his. “Thanks for saving me a seat.”

You shrug out of your jacket and sling it over your arm as you head up to the worn wood counter of the bar. You don’t see your friend yet, so you decide to go ahead and order a drink while you wait for her to show. She’s always late, you should have just assumed and shown up fifteen minutes from now. You play on your phone as you wait for the bartender to finish serving the gang of people at the other end of the bar. When you feel someone in front of you, you look up, about to order a glass of wine, except one is already being placed on the bar top in front of you.

You stare questioningly at the kid serving you the drink. You’d been here before, sure, but you’re hardly a regular, and even if you were you don’t recognise this server – so why does he know what you were about to order?

“Um, I didn’t–” you start but the kid interrupts you.

“From the gentleman at the end of the bar, milady,” he gave a geeky little bow, “Sorry, he told me to say it like that,” he grimaces at himself. You chance a fleeting look back to the group you’d noticed him serving a few minutes ago and to your horror, you recognise your ex, Dirk, grinning back at you. He tips the brim of his ball cap and gives you a wink, like he’s expecting you to be impressed that he remembers you drink red wine. Shit, this is not how this night is supposed to go. You’re supposed to be here to get drunk with your best friend and have a bit of a dance, not be looking over your shoulder the whole night hoping that jerk leaves you alone.

Panicking a little now, you check your phone but there’s no text from Lea telling you when to expect her. Knowing her like you do, you would bet anything she won’t be here soon, and you don’t want to wait on your own and risk Dirk coming to talk to you. Desperately, you scan your eyes around the bar, cataloguing your options and escape routes. Someone catches your eye a few seats along from where you are. Tall, broad – dark and handsome, your mind supplies unhelpfully – but what really catches your eye is the badge hanging from his belt. He’s a Ranger.

Normally, you’d pick a group of girls who you know would happily pretend to know you so you don’t have to wait alone but you know Dirk, and you know he won’t be shy enough to let any number of girls stop him from coming to ruin your night. But a guy - and a Texas Ranger at that – Dirk wouldn’t dare. He had an outstanding DUI, and he’d always been a bit of a chicken around cops anyways.

Choice made, you grab the wine he’d bought you – hey, you’re not made of money, free booze is free booze – and you march purposefully over to the Ranger, who’s checking his phone and not paying attention until you grab his black cowboy hat off the chair next to him. Clearly he had been saving it for someone, and you want Dirk to think that someone is you.

“Hey you,” you chirp, placing his hat back on his head as you slide into the seat he’d been saving, “Thanks for saving me a seat.” You smile at the Ranger long enough to see him looking at you completely perplexed before you glance back to Dirk and see him watching you with a scowl. You let yourself feel inwardly triumphant and turn back to the man you’d just decided to befriend, if only temporarily.

Swivelling back towards him, you let yourself get a good look at his face for the first time. His bright hazel eyes are staring back at you, confused but not unkind. Tall, dark, and handsome is definitely apt, and now you’re seeing him properly you’re a bit speechless. You hadn’t counted on him being this freakin’ attractive.

“Sorry,” you finally manage to choke out under your breath. “I’ll leave you alone soon, I promise, I’m just hiding from my ex,” you explain, and understanding melts across the man’s face.

“Anything I can do to help?” he asks sympathetically.

“Just pretend like you know me until my friend gets here?” you propose hopefully.

“Happy to,” he smiles, grabbing his drink and holding it out to clink against your wine glass. You tap your glass against his, relief flooding your body as you settle onto your stool a little more comfortably.

“Thank you…” you trail off leadingly, hoping he’ll fill in his name.

“Cordell,” he supplies.

“Now there is a Texan name if I ever heard one,” you giggle.

“If you’re gonna laugh at my name do I at least get the chance to laugh at yours too?” he grins jokingly.

“Y/N,” you give him your name, tucking your hair behind your ear and taking a sip of your wine.

“Well that’s no fun, how can I tease you for such a pretty name?” Cordell takes a sip of his own drink, mirroring you. Jeez, this one is a smooth talker.

-

When you finish your glass of wine, probably a little quicker than normal due to your anxious state, you check your phone again and see a missed call from Lea. “Crap,” you sigh, drawing a concerned look from Cordell, who is happily munching away on some chips and queso next to you.

“Everything okay?” He asks, muffled, mouth still full of food.

“Yeah, s’just my friend bailing on me,” you gripe, listening to the voicemail she’d left on your phone a few minutes ago. “Sorry I gate crashed your night for nothing,” you apologise, popping your phone back in your bag and planning on just going home to turn in early and watch some junky tv show in bed now that your ‘girls night’ wasn’t happening.

“Hey, you aren’t gate crashing.” Cordell shrugs, like he’s hedging his bets with his next statement. “I’ve had a good time so far.” His smile is shy and sincere, and you soften just a little in your annoyance at the world.

“I totally am though, you were clearly waiting for someone,” you gesture to the stool you’d taken up residence on.

“Just my work-a-holic brother, who, as luck would have it–” Cordell pulls his phone from his pocket and holds it up to show the message on the lock screen “–also pulled out on me.”

“Oh,” you blink, not sure what to make of that. It sounds like he’s asking you to stay but… “Well, thank you for being my knight in shining armour for a bit, seriously, but I don’t really want to stick around just to have my ex looking at me all night.”

“Well, if he’s gonna be a creep and keep watching you all night, we could make that fun, give him something to watch,” Cordell offers, his smirk incongruous with the almost hopeful expression in his eyes.

“What?” You’re perplexed.

“I mean, I don’t know what happened between you, but it’s pretty obvious to me that he wants you back, and you seem pretty pissed at him for that. I’m guessing the bastard cheated on you?” You huff in response, a little bitter that he’d read the situation so easily.

“Yeah, he did,” you admit, slumping against the bar, feeling downtrodden at the memory.

“So don’t let him chase you off,” Cordell shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “He messed you around – you tellin’ me you wouldn’t like to mess with him right back?” he raises an eyebrow in temptation, a knowing smirk twitching at his lips.

“And you’re proposing that instead of not wanting him to look at me all night–”

“You make him look,” Cordell finishes your sentence for you. “We’ve already pretended to know each other for the past–” he checks his watch “–twenty minutes. May as well just do the whole pretend date.” Cordell looks at you with so much honesty, you believe that he really does just want to help you screw with Dirk. And you cannot say the idea isn’t appealing.

“Alright,” you concede, shaking your head slightly in disbelief that you’re actually agreeing to this, and Cordell’s face splits into a wide smile. Honestly, seeing that expression alone made agreeing to this worth it. “So, if we’re on a pretend date, you gonna pretend to buy me another drink?”

“No,” you insist, shaking your head vehemently.

“C’mon,” Cordell chides, grinning madly.

“I did not agree to this,” you shake your head, finishing off the last bit of wine in your glass.

“Come on,” he urges again, leaning against the bar and tilting his head close to yours pleadingly.

“I am not dancing,” you repeat, wholeheartedly meaning it. You think if you have to come into genuine skin to skin contact with Cordell, you might actually melt into a puddle. Now three glasses of wine into your fake date, you can feel yourself loosening up and really enjoying yourself with this handsome stranger. He’s kind, and funny, and a little weird but in a charming way – exactly your type. And him begging you to dance with him wasn’t helping your self-restraint. This is a fake date, you keep reminding yourself firmly every time he flashes you that little half smile that makes his eyes light up.

“Well, I don’t know what kind of boring fake dates you usually go on, but mine aren’t complete unless I get to show off my two-step and knock back a tequila shot.”

“Oh, we’re doing tequila now, are we?” You laugh – this guy is actually ridiculous, and you kind of love it.

“That wasn’t a no,” he jumps on your ‘non denial’ and waves at the kid behind the bar. “Two tequilas, two limes?” he holds up two fingers and the bartender nods to him, quickly pouring out the shots and dropping two lime wedges onto a plate. Cordell grabs a salt shaker from the condiments rack on the bar and sets everything up between you. You let him work, watching incredulously but enjoying the show nonetheless.

“Give me your hand,” he holds out his own hand expectantly once he’s arranged all the pieces to his liking.

“Why?” your voice is nervous but your hand reaches out instantly of its own accord. Without answering he proceeds to rub the edge of the lime over the inside of your wrist, then puts the lime in your fingers and shakes some salt over the trail of juice he left behind. He does the same thing to himself, then passes you your shot, which you take in your lime-free hand.

“Right, you wanna do this the normal way or the ‘make Dirk jealous way’?” Cordell asks with a smirk once he’s oriented himself.

“I’m gonna regret asking this, but what’s the ‘make Dirk jealous’ way?” you groan exaggeratedly, like he’s put some great burden on you, but the truth is you’re really enjoying yourself.

“Like this,” Cordell steps up to you and links your right arms together. Catching his drift you smile and try to hold back the snort of laughter that bubbles up inside you – a nervous reaction to feeling the warmth of his body against yours, even through the layer of his shirt. “One, two, three,” he counts off and you go to lick the salt off your wrist except that’s what Cordell is doing. You freeze momentarily, heat shooting up your arm from where his tongue and lips are laving over your skin. You don’t think to move until Cordell puts his own wrist against your lips and you lick obediently.

Your linked arms pull you closer together as Cordell lifts the tequila to his lips and you follow suit in a kind of trance, both knocking back your shots. The tequila hits you harder than you remember it ever doing before, and you scrunch up your face, disoriented for a moment until you once again feel Cordell’s lips on your skin. This time they’re wrapping around your finger tips as he sucks the lime into his mouth. You stand frozen, the burn in your mouth and your fingers meeting in your chest and ratcheting up your heart rate as if you’re trying to run away from the oncoming flames. But it’s hopeless, you’re stuck in the blaze now.

“You want your lime, darlin’?” Cordell laughs at your stock still frame and holds his fingers to your lips, gently pressing the fruit inside and urging you to suck. You’re sure you must have physically combusted into fire by now, but Cordell isn’t jumping away like he’s been singed – he’s pressing closer. “Dance with me,” he rasps, voice hoarse from the burn of the alcohol. It’s not a request anymore, it’s an order, and you don’t question it.

Drawing his hand down the arm of yours linked with his until your fingers lace together, he pulls you away from the bar and out onto the dance floor. It’s an upbeat country song, the kind you’d normally jump around to, but he pulls you in and wraps an arm around your waist like a proper partner dance calls for – except he’s ignored the social convention of leaving room for Jesus. He pulls you after him in tiny circles and you let him lead happily. When the song changes to something a little slower he pulls you just a little tighter, and you can’t stop yourself from moving your gaze off his shoulder up to his face.

His eyes dart over your shoulder, then smile down at you wryly, and you feel yourself blush. “He’s watching,” Cordell grins mischievously. You go to look but he puts a hand on your neck and holds you still, keeping your eyes on him. His fingers are strong and warm against your collarbone, ironically causing you to shiver. “No, don’t look at him,” his voice is low as he leans in conspiratorially, “you wanna make him look, remember?”

“Why are you helping me?” The alcohol swimming through your veins is making you comfortable and fuzzy, and you let yourself lean against him familiarly, your head resting against his chest as he continues to move you both around the dance floor. You feel him shrug as his grips on your hand and the nape of your neck tighten a little.

“The truth?” he asks. You can hear the nerves in his voice, even if you can’t see them on his face.

“No, I want you to lie to me, please,” your voice manages to stay serious through the end of the joke before you burst into giggles, and you feel your laughter move into his body and trigger his own, making his chest rise and fall unevenly beneath your cheek.

“You are one hell of a gal, you know that?” You’re glad your face is buried in his chest so he can’t see just how brightly you smile at the compliment. “Truth is, I’ve been trying to get you drunk and have my wicked way with you.” You can tell by how expressionless his voice has gone that he’s winding you up, but you pull back and slap your hand to your chest in mock horror.

“Well Cordell Walker, I have never met such a rogue in my life,” you gasp in your best Scarlet O’Hara accent. It’s not a good one. Neither of you can keep a straight face for more than a few seconds, and you both double over in laughter after your minuscule standoff.

As your laughter dies down, Cordell grabs your hands again and pulls you back to him, swaying entirely out of time to the song that’s playing. He looks like he’s about to say something but the words haven’t quite found their way to his tongue, and when you catch his eyes you suddenly don’t want to hear what he has to say and you pull away from him. He looks at you, puzzled and just the slightest bit hurt as you try to find some cover for your sudden movement.

“You wouldn’t happen to be a bourbon fan, would you?”

Part 2 Here!

We’re All Mads Here: @vulgar-library @tintentrinkerin @negans-lucille-tblr @fandomfic-galore @petitgateau911 @schaefchenherde @kickingitwithkirk @little-diable @laxe-chester67 @kassyscarlett @austin-winchester67

All Walker: @lovealways-j @delightfullykrispypeach @stoneyggirl @thinkinghardhardlythinking @sams-sass @walkersbabygirl

[soyforramen]

If you have time/energy, 41 for the bughead prompts pls! It’s the “overhears they have feelings for you.”

Now that i finally have the time, here’s some fluff to counter the angst!

-

             Betty paused at the door to the Blue and Gold office when she heard voices.  This late in the day, it was usually only her and Jughead still working on the college newspaper. Or, rather, while she continued working diligently on page layouts while he worked on homework on the couch.

             “It’s not that big of a deal,” Jughead said.  “Right?  So I should just say it.”

             She peeked in through the crack in the door and saw him pacing back and forth, his hands waving wildly in the air.

             “If it’s not that big of a deal, why haven’t you said it?” came a reply from Toni.  

             Strange; Toni was always the most punctual person on their team.  Her photos had been ready to print for over a week, and she rarely spent her free time in the office..  Unless Jughead had dragged her into his usual shenanigans regarding things that went bump in the night?

             “Because –“

             Jughead stopped and made a pained noise. Unsympathetic, Toni snickered, and even Betty had to cover her mouth from laughing.  As much as she enjoyed his company, even Betty had to admit it was amusing to see him get so wrapped up in himself.

             “It’s just three words,” Toni pointed out.  “And it’s not like it will kill you to say it.”

             “She might.”

             “Betty is not going to murder you –“

             “Not her, Cheryl.”

             This time, Toni burst out in peals of laughter that covered up Jughead’s response. Curious to hear her cousin’s name, Betty leaned closer to the open door.   The fiery tempered red-head was as much of a fan of Jughead’s as he was of hers, and that wasn’t saying much of anything.  

             “Cheryl is why you’re afraid to say ‘I love you‘?”

             Jughead grumbled something inaudible, and Betty glanced up and down the halls to make sure she was alone.  This close to information so pertinent to her life – Jughead was in love???? When did that happen??? Why??? - the last thing she needed was someone as boisterous as Kevin or Veronica yelling her name down the hall. Pressing herself against the door frame, Betty bit her lip and tried to calm her pounding heart.

             “The last time someone even mentioned asking Betty out –“

             Betty had to bite her tongue to keep from starting.  A pen fell from her pocket and echoed in the empty halls. There was a silence, and she waited to be found out.  

             “That was because it was Reggie Mantle doing the asking,” Toni pointed out, completely ignorant of being eavesdropped on.  She continued in a less than sure voice. “Besides, Cheryl … doesn’t dislike you.  She’d probably even be happy with you if you got Betty out of the apartment for something that wasn’t school or work.  You know, like a date?  The thing people ask about when they like someone?”

             Now too nervous to stay still, Betty rushed from the door, clutching her bag to her chest, and fled to the bathroom.  As soon as the door closed behind her, she couldn’t help but clasp her hands together in glee.  She and Jughead had danced around each other for over a year now and the closest they could get to anything called ‘dating’ had been a late-night stake out to see if the Dean of the Journalism school really was moonlighting as a click bait writer for BuzzFeed.

             She breathed deeply to calm her nerves. Try as she might, she couldn’t contain the thrill of hearing that Jughead Jones, the guy she’d been crushing on since freshman orientation, liked her.  Not just liked.  He loved her.  Betty couldn’t help but hug herself.  

             Straightening her shirt and steeling herself to be as forward as she imagined Cheryl would be, Betty stepped out of the bathroom and made her way, once more, to the Blue and Gold office. As she neared the office, Toni emerged and sent her a wink.  

             “Good luck in there, boss,” Toni said with a salute.

             Betty bit down a response and opened the door.   Jughead jumped up as if electrocuted, his face white at the sight of her.  Any other time, Betty would have rushed towards him, asking him twenty different questions to try and figure out why he looked so ill.  Now, though, it was all she could do to keep from smiling.

             “Good evening, Jughead,” she chirped.  

             He stammered a reply and she set her backpack on her desk.  

             “You know what I really love?” she asked, unable to help herself, especially when a faint blush rose to his cheeks.  “Those wontons you got last week.  Where was that from again?”

             “Klump’s Kafeteria,” Jughead said.  “Did you get my article?”

             Betty nodded, disappointed he’d jumped so quickly to business.  “I did. I really love,” she paused, sitting down on her desk and pulling her laptop out, “the way you captured the emotions in your review.  Especially whereyou talk about the mise-en-scene and how well it pulled everything together. It made the recommendation that more meaningful.”

             “Honestly?  I couldn’t stand the movie,” Jughead said.  He rolled his eyes and sat on the corner of her desk.  

             And suddenly, the spell was broken, and her regular, normal Jughead was back in front of her.  She watched his face as he complained about plot pacing and script-incongruities.  Only half paying attention, Betty wondered if he’d finally make a move.   It would be even better, though, if he’d finally notice that she’d been flirting this whole time.

             “Regardless, it was a very well written piece,” Betty said when he’d finished.  “You know what I also love?”

             Jughead raised an eyebrow at her, finally beginning to notice a trend.   “Those weird blue macaroons that taste like Peto-Bismol from Chez Bonuit?”

             She flicked her pen at him and scowled.  “You just have a warped sense of taste after eating all that grease and sugar at Pop’s.”

              “And yet who’s the one also asking me to bring them a strawberry milkshake whenever they find out I’m eating all that grease and sugar?”

             “It’s one of the little things I love you for,” Betty said, slipping it in as casually as she could. “That and the lattes you bring me after a late night editing.”

              Jughead’s eyes flew open and heat bubbled up in her cheeks.  Pressing on, Betty opened up a browser on her computer and turned it to him.

             “I also love, and I hope you will too, that R.R.J. Swift is putting out a new Play of Chairs book next month.”

             His face light up and he crowded in next to her, their faces a few inches from the screen.  “How did I miss this?  There’s no way they could get that to print so quickly.”

             “Everyone in printing was told it was a new Donna Sweet novel,” Betty said, clicking a few times until a different website came up, “so it’s been hush-hush until he broke the news an hour ago.”*

             “Finally, we can see what happens to Trienne of Barth.”

             She elbowed him lightly.  “I can’t believe you still like her after she betrayed Don Ice.”

             “I can’t help it.  I love her storyline,” he shot back, his eyes searching hers.

             Undeterred, Betty thrust out her chin.  “And I love –“

             “Yes, yes, we get it,” Toni said.  “You two are trapped in a bubble of love.”

             They both turned, blushing, to the door.  

             “Sorry to interrupt the futile flirting, but I forgot my notes,” Toni said, walking towards the couch.  She held up a notebook and shook it at them.  “Just kiss her already Jones, or I will.  And since the last time that happened I ended up going to prom with your girlfriend...”

             “She’s right, you know” Betty said when Toni left.

             Jughead cleared his throat.  “About which part?”

             “You should kiss me.”

             “I –“

             Whatever his protestations might have been, Jughead smartly decided to ignore them.  Instead, he leaned towards Betty, who happily met him more than half-way.

             A few months later, when Jughead claimed their first date was at a Play of Chairs release party, Betty couldn’t help but cover a laugh.  She loved that he was technically correct, even if it was only a party of two.

*(No, I do not know how printing works, nor do I care enough to Google this or other characters from the series.  Apologies if I’m wrong.  If I am, just pretend they’re talking about Minecraft.)

[yellowocaballero]

Desolation Destroyed My P****: Web!Jon, Gertrude/Agnes Repressed Homoeroticism, and Gerry faking his own death

Another installment in the slowly complicating Web!Jon AU based off The Convention on Chronographer Lane/The Monster at the End of This Book. You don’t need to know anything about the other two installments, the main story, or the actual Web!Jon story that will get WRITTEN once I’m done with Space Cadet. Full story under the cut. GERTRUDE POV BABY LET’S GO DON’T BE A COWARD AND EMBRACE THE GERIATRIC LESBIANS. 

CW for body horror

2002

People did not call Gertrude for favors. 

Somehow most of the community had fallen under the impression that it was a bad idea to owe a favor to Gertrude Robinson, because she always came to collect. Gertrude had worked hard to enforce this. Most of those in her...field knew better than to ask an enemy for favors, and Gertrude made a habit of collecting enemies. She was not in the habit of collecting friends. 

Allies, maybe. She could count her allies on one aging hand and have fingers left over. Unfortunately, Agnes Montague was one of them. 

Also unfortunately, Agnes disliked and distrusted the Institute so severely she only ever called when she knew Gertrude would be in her own home - so, at one am, on a Saturday. The shrill blaring of Gertrude’s almost unused home phone startled her from her nightly reading, and she was forced to bookmark her place before picking up the phone. 

She never spoke first on the phone, and old precaution, but Agnes knew that. “Don’t worry. I’m only calling for business reasons. I need another favor.”

Gertrude’s lips thinned. “Agnes. It’s been a while.”

Six months and a week, not that Gertrude was counting. The last time Agnes had called her up asking for a favor was the first time they had ever spoken: a request for help escaping her cult. It had been a long, messy business. The burn scar had only just healed. 

They had a moment of sentimentality, then. A moment of sentimentality that had begun so many years ago as their lives were tied together in that forest, and stretched forward in time and space to culminate in a single mistake. It was a mistake Gertrude was afraid she was still making now. 

“I would have called, but it was still dangerous,” Agnes said cheerfully. She had been a morose and sulky woman, when Gertrude first met her. She had brightened considerably since they had won her freedom: like the turn of winter into spring. “It’s settled down quite a bit, which is why I need the favor.”

“You still haven’t paid me back for last time,” Gertrude said mildly. 

But Agnes just laughed, warm and soft, despite the cold welcome. “I feel like we both got something out of that arrangement, don’t you?”

They did. Gertrude wasn’t sure which arrangement Agnes was referring to. “Fine. What is it you need? Within reason, Agnes. I’m not sure I have another great escape in me.”

“I need three false identities,” Agnes said, shocking Gertrude deeply. People only tended to call Gertrude when they need something murdered or blown up. Not that she minded. “You know everybody, and I’ve been a bit cloistered these past few years. I have a source who knows some people, but the person that we’ve been avoiding also knows those resources, so they’re right out.”

“Running an underground railroad, are we, Agnes?” Gertrude asked archly. 

Agnes laughed again, and despite herself the sound still rang something buried and cold in Gertrude’s heart. “I figured I’d try my hand at the good guy thing. What can I say, Gertrude? You were a good influence on me.”

“Don’t mock me.” But Gertrude sighed anyway, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’ll get you in touch with who I use. If you give me your email I can connect you.”

“...what’s -”

“Never mind. I’ll pass your phone number along. Goodnight, Agnes.”

But the line crackled and fuzzed, and Agnes didn’t hang up. Neither did Gertrude. When Agnes spoke again it was soft - not hesitant, Agnes was never hesitant, but gentle. Agnes, Gertrude had found, could be more gentle than anybody else. “We never visited that lake.”

“Those are just dreams, Agnes,” Gertrude said - harshly, maybe unkindly. She didn’t know how to be anything else. 

“Not to me. I - no, John, don’t eat that, you don’t know where it’s been!” Agnes sighed, sending a crackle of static over the line and catching Gertrude’s attention severely. “I have to go. Goodbye, Gertrude. Thank you for your help. Call me sometimes, will you? For personal reasons. I gave you my number for a reason.”

Gertrude hung up on her, deciding not to dignify any of that with a response. She hardly had the time to make - personal phone calls. 

 What foolishness. Agnes had infected her with such foolishness. 

Gertrude went back to her book, mind working furiously, trying to remember if she had ever read of a ‘John’. 

*****

Unfortunately, ‘John’ was about as common a name as they came. 

Gertrude herself scarcely had any time to follow-up. Judging from Agnes’ words and tone, John was a child of some sort - had Agnes kidnapped somebody else’s child? Her child? (Gertrude had a very ridiculous thought for a moment before dismissing it, before grudgingly accepting that Agnes was made out of wax and that nothing was technically impossible). She gave Agnes her guy’s phone number and wished she could wash her hands of the matter. What Agnes did from now on would hopefully be none of her business. 

Gertrude wished she could delude herself into believing that. 

But Gertrude’s work was picking up, the rituals coming in faster and faster, and she found herself running about much more than she should at her age. Emma was invaluable, Fiona worked hard in research, and Michael was...sweet, but she trusted them with little information and trusted them less to watch her back. She couldn’t dedicate the amount of time she wanted to a hunch.

To make matters worse, Mary Keay had seemed to misplace her child. She was torn up about it, in her...own way. Gertrude wasn’t concerned. The boy was seventeen. He’d be back in three months with another two piercings, a Grateful Dead shirt, and no money. Goodness knows Gertrude had done it enough at his age. Did kids still trail along at Grateful Dead concerts? What was Gerry always listening to these days, Green Day? Green Day concert. 

As such, it was two weeks before Gertrude even had time to follow up with her contact. It only took minimal application of her blackmail before he spilled what Agnes had him make, and the full details therein. Most importantly, her new listed address. That, at least, ought to be real. 

As Gertrude rode the Underground to the humble London neighborhood where Agnes had apparently escaped her followers, sneering at young men who tried to give her their seats, she flipped through the paperwork. Agnes Montague, twenty seven - my, wasn’t she vain - born in London, England. All of her details seemed fairly legitimate. New NIN, credit score, false history, the usual. So it wasn’t her she was trying to hide. 

The second file was more interesting. There was her mystery John. Jonathan, apparently. Jonathan Montague. 

Gertrude’s eyebrows crawled up. What was her game?

The announcement of her stop echoed smoothly through the train, and she quickly folded up the papers and stuffed them back in her purse. It was a short walk from the station to the flat complex where Agnes was now staying, and she found herself ridiculously wondering what Agnes would look like. 

Would her hair be the same color, the color of licks of fire straining into the night sky? Her eyes the same forest green, a rainforest any woman could drown in? Her skin rosy and soft, with full appearance of youth and longevity, never to age or decay? Gertrude was only barely sixty, but she was feeling her age with every year. Her living had been hard, and it was finally catching up with her.

What else would catch up with her, once she knocked on Agnes Montague’s door?

Apartment number 426,  1446 Frederick Street. The strange thing about it was the welcome mat set outside the door. There was a little smiley face. It was so incongruous with Agnes, yet so oddly fitting, that Gertrude found herself smiling. 

She knocked once, twice. Her lockpicks were up her sleeve. Hopefully Agnes wasn’t home and she could snoop, but - 

The door opened to reveal Gerard Keay, looking down at a loose crumple of bills in his hand. He was so busy counting them out that he didn’t see who was standing at his doorstep.

“Thanks, mate, we -” Gerard finally looked up, and his face whitened. “You aren’t pizza.”

“So I’ve been told,” Gertrude said dryly. “Are you going to let me in?”

He let her in. 

******

So that was where Gerard had gotten to. 

Agnes, who had been pulling soda out of the fridge in their small kitchenette, was much happier to see her than Gerard was. It was the first time anybody had been happy to see Gertrude suddenly turning up at their doorstep in a very long time, and it made Gertrude almost uncomfortable. 

“I’m here for business reasons,” Gertrude felt the need to tell her, as she glared Gerard into sulking miserably on the couch. He had dyed his beautiful hair some nasty black color, which was either for disguise purposes or for...what was the word...goth? Goth purposes? Gertrude was very thankful she did not have children. 

But Agnes just smiled at her, as if she saw straight through. Which was ridiculous. There was nothing to see straight through. “It would be pretty strange if you stalked me until you found my address and showed up at my home in the middle of the day holding lockpicks for business reasons, Gertrude!”

“It’s for personal reasons.”

“There we go. I would offer you some pizza, but it seems that it’s not here yet.”

“So it seems.” Gertrude turned her eyes on Gerard, who wilted. “I hope this is a valuable lesson in checking to see who is at the door before you answer it, young man.”

Gerard mumbled something. 

“I know for a fact your mother did not raise you to be this careless.”

“My mother barely raised me at all,” Gerard grumbled. 

“Fine. Then I did not teach you to be that careless.” That got an actual flinch out of him, and Gertrude sighed. “What is going on here, you two?”

“It’s a very long story,” Agnes said. 

“Containing very many events I am under pain of death not to tell you about,” Gerard added. “Are you going to tell Mum I’m here?”

Gertrude sighed. 

The flat was small, clearly newly rented. They had very little furniture, and what they did have was clearly liberated from charity shops and kerbs. Their living room held a battered television, one of those gaming consoles Gerard liked so much, a scuffed and thoroughly singed coffee table to match an equally singed couch, and a pair of overstuffed bookshelves. A cutaway wall revealed a small kitchen, with a nook that held a rickety kitchen table.  None of it seemed particularly out of the ordinary for two young people, strongly resembling Gertrude’s own first flat. 

She cautiously sniffed the air. No smell of candles. Hm. 

She was just about to push the matter of how exactly the Messiah of the Eternal Flame and a bookseller’s son met and became flatmates when a crash and a thump echoed from the hallway. Gerard jumped off the couch, and Agnes bit her lip. Another rattle echoed from the hallway, and something deep in Gertrude’s mind recognized the sounds as those of a caged animal. 

“What is that,” Gertrude said flatly. 

“I’ll check on him,” Gerard said quickly, fleeing into the hallway. He knocked on one of the doors - Gertrude noticed that there were two on each side, three bedrooms and a bathroom - and said something quietly against the door, before cracking the door open a few inches. Gertrude couldn’t see what was inside, and she couldn’t maneuver herself closer without alerting Agnes. 

There was another crash, and Gerard slammed the door shut quickly. He grinned broadly yet anxiously at Gertrude, tittering a laugh. “It’s nothing! Nothing to see here. Would you like a cuppa, Gertrude!”

“Hm,” Gertrude said. 

They gave her a cuppa. She sat on the couch, Agnes and Gerard anxiously standing in front of her wringing their hands, and pretended to sip the cuppa. 

“Promise there’s no human flesh in it,” Gerard said. Gertrude arched an eyebrow at him until he sighed, took it, took a small and exaggerated sip, and then passed it back. 

It was only then that Gertrude tried some. She couldn’t help but smile. Agnes’ tea was always perfect. 

“Can one of you tell me why, according to the government, you are now legally siblings?” Gertrude asked archly. She put one hand down on the cracks between the sofa cushions beside her, pretending it was for balance. “Without lying, please.”

Agnes shrugged helplessly. “Gerard didn’t want to live with his mother anymore and I wasn’t doing anything important.”

“We thought about faking a corpse but was afraid that would just excite her,” Gerard said, depressed. “Hopefully when I don’t turn up she’ll just assume I was eaten by a book.” He affected a faux-nasally tone that did, admittedly, sound a lot like Mary. “ ‘If he’s too incompetent to survive he’s no good to me as a son. Good riddance to bad rubbish, his whole line’.”

“Gerry won’t let me immolate her,” Agnes said seriously. 

“She’s my mum, Agnes!”

“Immolating parental figures is very therapeutic.” Agnes patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. “When I set everybody who ever loved me on fire, I felt great about it.”

“It seemed very cathartic,” Gertrude said dryly. She dug her fingers deeper into the crack between the cushions until something soft and thread-like rubbed between her fingers. Bingo. “Why the false identities? Why not simply let Gerard live with you until he turned 18?”

“We want him declared dead,” Agnes said simply. “And we want him to have an actual identity for when that happens. This is the best way to keep him away from his mum. Besides, Gerard Montague has his A Levels and a diploma for uni. ” She shrugged. “And hopefully he’ll be staying with me for quite a bit longer than a year.”

Interesting. They really did know each other. Maybe they were even really friends - although Gertrude was forced to wonder what a woman in her sixties and a teenager had in common. Gerard had mentioned wanting to go to university, but they had all known it was a pipe dream. Dreams like that often were. Gertrude neatly withdrew her hand from the cushion, folding her hands over each other in her lap. She rubbed the thread between her hands, satisfied when she felt its loose, sticky elasticity. 

 How interesting. 

“And Jonathan?”

Both of them froze. 

Gerard broke first, laughing nervously and high pitched. “Who’s that?”

Gertrude lifted her hand, showing both of them the thin strand of spider-silk pinched between two bony fingers. Both Agnes and Gerard whitened. “I imagine it’s whatever Avatar of the Web you have locked in the back room that is responsible for these.”

They winced simultaneously, glancing at each other. Doubtlessly trying to come up with a cover story. Gertrude sighed, standing up from the couch and straightening her skirts. Nothing for it then. Her Glock was still strapped to her thigh, and a hunting knife at her other. 

Gertrude knew very little about the Web. Just, she suspected, as it liked. It had no rituals, and held no explicit threat to the safety of the world. It was a threat, for sure. Even worse, a threat that Gertrude knew infuriatingly little about. But it was not the most immediate threat, and as Gertrude spent every day drowning under more and more immediate threats she held very little time for those which weren’t promising to end the world anytime soon.

Maybe that was why Gertrude was fully planning to leave this flat and never mention its inhabitants again - not to Mary, not to Dekker, and not to whatever scattered remnants of her cult that Agnes had left alive. Whatever Agnes wanted, it seemed to be closer to a normal life living with her friend than anything world-destroying. And whatever Gerard wanted...well, he was a good boy. He wouldn’t do anything dangerous to anybody other than himself. Mary didn’t have to know. Perhaps it was even for the best.

“You really don’t want to go in -”

“Gertrude, please, he’s in a rather delicate stage right now -”

Another thump against the door. As Gertrude left the living room, crisply walking down the thin and crowded hallway until she stood in front of a thin and battered-looking door, she could slowly begin to hear the faint but distinct sounds of...chittering. Skittering. It was a sound she had heard only once before, during a brush with the corruption.

Gertrude raised a hand to knock at the door. 

A hand shot out, pale and thin, and clasped Gertrude’s wrist in its grip firmly. Despite herself, Gertrude’s breath caught. Agnes’ touch still did that to her, it seemed. When she glanced to the side, she saw Agnes standing next to her, mouth stubbornly set firm. Her long and silky orange hair tumbled over her shoulder, glimmering under the soft lights.

“The world’s a cruel place, Gertrude,” Agnes said. “We’re just trying to look out for each other.”

“We all chose this life,” Gertrude said, voice tinged with reproach. 

But Agnes just set her jaw stubbornly. “We didn’t.”

It was a we that didn’t include Gertrude - but, of course, so little of Agnes’ life did. 

Gertrude let her hand drop to the doorknob, and she didn’t meet Agnes’ eyes as she twisted the knob and let herself in. 

Some part of her felt it very idiotic, to walk into what she knew was a spider’s lair. A ridiculous part of her mind couldn’t help but hum the little nursery rhyme she had learned as a girl. But if it was truly dangerous Agnes would have prevented her from going in, instead of asked her to. Some part of Gertrude trusted that, a part of Gertrude that somehow still survived despite everything. 

It wasn’t that Agnes appealed to the softer side of Gertrude. It was more that Agnes appealed to the hardest and cruellest parts of her, her tough outer shell, that ached for a reassurance that even a woman raised in utmost cruelty could make the choice to be kind. That there was still goodness in the world. If even a Messiah of the Eternal Flame could smile like that, could look at Gertrude with those deep and unfathomable eyes, then maybe all of Gertrude’s efforts weren’t for nothing. 

The room was white. No, not white - just covered in long, ropy strands of spider-web. Different shapes and sizes, different lengths and thicknesses. Some of it was wispy and gentle, like cotton fluff, while some of it was closer to rope. It wasn’t arranged in a spider’s beautiful pattern, an elegant nest: it was more like an explosion, as if it was thrown anywhere and everywhere without regard. 

The webs didn’t cover everything in the room. A bed was clearly visible, draped with webs as it was. There was a closet, and several boxes stacked in the corner with loose clothing draped over them. That was every piece of furniture and personal item in the room. It was a minor miracle that the living and dining rooms didn’t have more spidersilk in them - a testament to Agnes and Gerry’s tidiness, or a sign that the inhabitant rarely left the room. 

The inhabitant of the room was curled on the bed. It - he, perhaps? - was sitting upright against the wall, knees curled up against a chest, forehead resting on the knees. He was half-obscured by webs, but Gertrude could immediately tell that the figure wasn’t very old. Gerard’s age, or perhaps a bit younger. 

The webs did little to obscure the four arms - two flesh, two hinged and black and hairy - curled around the boy’s body. 

The boy didn’t look up when he saw her. Gertrude wondered if he even noticed. She was only just beginning to wonder what the thumps were when one of the spider arms lashed out and crashed against the wall, shaking the room. 

Hm. This was Gertrude’s first Web Avatar, but if they all looked and acted like this then she could only assume that they would be much more obvious than they are. New, then. Maybe as new as those identities Agnes had applied for. 

Normally she’d torch it and go home, but with both Agnes and Gerard in residence that option was out of the question. Her curiosity had been satisfied: she could turn around now and leave the room, knowing what it was Agnes and Gerard were protecting. She could let the inhabitants of this flat fade into obscurity, secure in the knowledge that none of them wished to harm her or the world. 

But Gertrude was a bit too curious for her own good, or perhaps a bit too soft, because she found herself stepping forward.

Her low-heeled boots didn’t slide on the web, but it did stick. When she lifted her feet they tracked up thin spiderweb, and she resolved to burn this outfit once she made her way back to the Archives. After a few breathless moments, Gertrude found herself standing in front of the boy, who hadn’t seemed to notice her yet. Poor situational awareness. He’d fit in well with Gerard. 

“Jonathan.”

The boy looked up at her, and anybody else would have bit back a scream. 

He had eight eyes - black, glistening, unreal. Bulbous and unsettling, they skittered and twitched in strange directions, as if uncertain how to work or how to see. New, brand-new. Uncontrolled. The boy’s mouth parted in slight surprise, but it was obviously difficult to read any sort of expression. 

He didn’t say anything. Gertrude found herself absently wondering if spiders had tongues. 

“Do you know what is happening to you?” 

The boy stared at her, long enough that Gertrude found herself wondering if he still clung to sentience, before slowly nodding his head. Good. 

“Then you know how to stop it,” Gertrude said sharply, and the boy sat up straighter. “Stop moping about, now. Look around. You’ve destroyed your room.” She gave the boy a moment to look around, expression still inscrutable, before she went back on the attack. “You’ve sulked long enough. Put away those arms, now. Go on.”

The boy stared at her, coarse black spider arms twitching and curling. 

“You know what’s happening,” Gertrude said firmly. “It’s your body. Not theirs. It’s your body, Jonathan. Bend it to your will. Not theirs.”

Slowly, disgustingly, the arms began to recede. They slid back inside his torso, sucking into his ribcage, shifting and clicking and chittering, until there was nothing left but an ordinary chest. Gertrude was even now able to recognize his shirt. It was one of Gerard’s. Green Day. 

“Your eyes now. Come on, hurry up. I haven’t got all day.”

The eyes pulsed and twitched, bubbling strangely. One of them whirred, glistening with a thousand fractals. 

The boy opened his mouth, and garbled speech came out. “I can’t...I can’t…”

“You have no choice. You must, so you will. Come on, Jonathan. Listen to me. It’s your body. It’s not theirs.”

The eyes melted back into Jonathan’s face, and that was so disgusting Gertrude politely looked up. She had seen worse, but no point in subjecting herself to it. When she looked back down she was shocked to see, for all appearances, a teenage boy. 

He had a thin, severe face, and large cloudy grey eyes. His hair was curly and matted, and despite his posture Gertrude could tell that he was the kind of short and built that was straining up against an imminent growth spurt. His skin was a light brown, with thin lips and features that suggested mixed ancestry. He looked very much like a regular, if somewhat striking, teenage boy. 

“There you go,” Gertrude said, “that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Who the fuck are you,” the rude child said. 

“Jon!”

She had been so focused on Jonathan, that she hadn’t noticed when Gerard and Agnes entered. Gerard practically jumped onto Jonathan’s bed, mindless of the spiderwebs, and folded him into a tight hug. Jonathan clung back desperately. 

“Don’t worry us like that,” Agnes said. She had appeared at Gertrude’s elbow, and moved forward to sit on Jon’s other side and give him a tight hug too that he returned just as fiercely. She looked up at Gertrude over Jon’s shoulder and mouthed ‘thank you’ to her, which she waved away. It had hardly been anything. 

“I think I’m rather owed a full explanation now,” Gertrude said pointedly. “And I think young Jonathan needs a bath.”

“What? No, I -” Jonathan separated from Gerard, and sniffed his shirt. He pulled a disgusted face. “Ew. Yeah, okay.”

******

They did not give her the full story. Gertrude wasn’t sure what she was expecting.

Oh, they gave her the broad strokes of it. All three of them were ‘old friends’, despite one of them being sixty and the other two being actual teeangers. Gerard and Agnes, especially, gave off the air of having known each other for years. They both seemed less familiar with Jon, though no less affectionate. Gertrude felt like she was trying to put together a puzzle with mittens and no idea what the final image would be. 

“I’ve been keeping an eye on Jon for a while,” Agnes said apologetically. They were all sitting around the rickety kitchen table now. Gertrude passed her teacup to reheat, which she did with a smile, and Gerard was at the door accepting the pizza from a confused deliveryman. Judging from the amount of takeaway containers, these two hadn’t been doing a lot of cooking. “He ran away from his grandmother’s a month ago. He made it to London and lived on the streets for a few weeks until I finally tracked him down. He’s been staying with us ever since.”

“When Agnes got in contact with me and told me that she found Jon, I figured it was time to bounce.” Gerard put some plates on the table and slid the pizza box into the center. Agnes eagerly grabbed the pizza and put a slice on her own plate. At Gerard’s look, Gertrude held up a hand in a ‘no thank you’ motion, and he shrugged. “Agnes has been trying to get me to stay with her since she lost her cult, but I figured I would just ditch Mum once I hit eighteen. Then...stuff happened...and I don’t really trust Agnes alone with a teenager anyway, so I left. Easy.”

“Thank goodness she’s only left alone with two teenagers now,” Gertrude said. She glanced at Agnes, who seemed unrepentant. “Is anybody looking for Jonathan?”

She shook her head. “Parents long dead. His Gran...she won’t look for him. Nobody will. I doubt any of them remember he exists. ”

“Did Jonathan make sure of that?”

Abruptly, Gerard looked very uncomfortable, but Agnes just nodded calmly. “Yes, likely.” At Gertrude’s ticked eyebrow, she continued, “She’s alive. But Jon...he’s convincing. We think. So far as we can tell. Nobody’s going to be looking for him, even the police.”

“Did we tell you how he was getting money while he was on the streets?” Gerard asked gleefully. “Apparently he can walk up to Canary Wharf bankers and convince them he’s their cousin visiting from out of state and ask them for spending money. They just believe him! Isn’t that wicked?”

“It’s easy. All you gotta do is make them feel guilty for forgetting you were coming.”

Jonathan, dripping wet from the shower and dressed in some cleaner hand-me-downs, appeared in the doorway. He walked forward until he was leaning against the kitchenette wall, accepting the pizza Gerard quickly passed to him. Clean and human, he looked like any other teenager. The only thing that revealed him for what he was were his eyes: empty, lifeless, and dull. 

“Hey, you’re still human!” Gerard said, perking up. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Yeah, tons.” Jonathan masticated his pizza, grease dripping down his chin. He locked eyes with Gertrude, who was careful not to blink as she stared back at him. “Who’re you?”

“The Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute,” Gertrude said crisply. “Gertrude Robinson.”

Jonathan’s mouth slowly fell open, revealing the primordial mass of globby cheese. Gerard was nearly bouncing in his seat, mouthing ‘It’s her!’ over and over again. 

“I told him about you,” Agnes said quickly - so quickly that it could have only been a lie. “Only good things, believe me!”

“I’m sure.”

“Wait,” Jonathan said, eyes darting back and forth between Agnes and Gertrude - who, Gertrude was somewhat embarrassed to find, were sitting somewhat close. “She’s the girl -”

“Girl who helped me get those new IDs for you guys,” Agnes said desperately. “Although she’s more of a woman. Say thank you, boys.”

Both boys mumbled thank-yous through mouthfuls of pizza. 

“How did it happen?” Gertrude asked Jonathan carefully. She was careful to keep that - pressure off her words. Very few reacted well to it, and she didn’t want to deal with a rampaging spider teenager again. “Your transformation. And don’t speak with your mouth full.”

Jonathan sassily made a show of swallowing the whole mouthful of pizza before he spoke. “I trapped my entire secondary school in a nightmare web where they all got turned into flies and eaten by spiders,” he drawled. “Oh, wait. I got bitten by a radioactive spider and ran away to London to fight crime.”

Gertrude gave him a very, very unimpressed stare. Jonathan smashed more pizza in his face. For a boy that must have been raised by his grandmother, he had no manners. 

A grandmother that he had likely done something to, to guarantee that she wouldn’t look for him. To ensure that an entire town wouldn’t search for him. Wiping a life off the map like that - what kind of teenager would do that without a second thought? 

A boy who found himself turning into a monster, fleeing the people he could hurt so he could reconvene with friends that understood?

Or a newly born monster that shed its old skin the minute it could?

Gertrude, as a younger woman, would have tended towards the latter. As an even younger woman, a child, she would have said the former. Now, she knew better than anyone how it could be both: a boy’s motivations propelled by a monster’s impulses, until even limbs of flesh were puppeted by silken threads. 

The Web was the fear of manipulation and being controlled, Gertrude repeated to herself, a mantra so familiar that it had worn grooves in her mind long ago. Jonathan had already proved adept at the art: swindling money to survive, erasing the imprints that a life left behind. 

Was she being controlled now? Was it any coincidence, that Jonathan ran into the arms of the one supernatural force in England that Gertrude wouldn’t shoot on sight? That he was lying in wait with the disappeared son of two people who had once been prominent in Gertrude’s life, a little boy she had seen grown up into a kind man despite all odds? 

Jonathan had inserted himself neatly, cleanly, and absolutely into Gertrude’s life. And he had done it almost even without her noticing. 

Of course, it was also the nature of the Web to make one ask these questions. It wasn’t just controlling - it was the fear of being controlled. By even thinking about this, Gertrude was playing straight into his hands -

“Gertrude.”

It was Agnes, sitting by her, looking at her with a softly sad expression. Her hands were in her lap, but they were twitching as if she wanted to reach out and take Gertrude’s hands in her own. They would be so different - they had always been different - but occasionally it felt as if whatever warmth they carried was the only heat that warmed Gertrude at all anymore. 

“If you don’t trust him, trust me.” Something flickered deep in Agnes’ eyes, like a hearth. Maybe that was Agnes: a hearth, house and home. “You can trust me.”

“Can I?” Gertrude asked, mouth unexpectedly dry. “How can someone like me trust someone like you, Agnes?”

Agnes smiled, baring teeth white and perfect as wax. “There’s nobody on Earth like you, Gertrude. You know that just as well as I do.”

Both boys had their hands slapped over their eyes, horrified. 

Maybe that was what convinced Gertrude: not Agnes’ promise of a safe place to rest in a tumultuous and dangerous world, but the fact that both these boys found that promise horrendously yucky. It wasn’t human - Gertrude had the feeling that no emotion from Jonathan could truly be human - but at least it was benign. In this world, sometimes that was the best you could ask for. 

“Fine. I put them in your charge, then, Agnes.” Gertrude drained the rest of her tea, eyeing the leaves critically in her cup as the boys whooped and Agnes exhaled heavily. Her tea leaves read a bad omen. That was comforting: she liked to know what was ahead of her. “If I hear any statements about a strange boy swindling businessmen out of their salaries then I’ll know exactly who is responsible. Am I understood?”

“They weren’t missing it,” Jonathan grumbled, before Gerard elbowed him in the side. “Fine! Fine, you won’t hear anything about it.”

Not what she had said, but she’d take it. The supernatural was at its least dangerous when it felt scared and hidden. Nothing was more dangerous than an Avatar who felt themself above human laws and rules. Or, at best, Gertrude. 

They never tended to live long. 

“Uh. Ms. Gertrude.” Gerard awkwardly creased his greasy napkin, expression tight. “Are you going to tell Mum?”

“Tell her what?” Gertrude asked archly. “I hardly think what Gerard Montague does is any of Mary Keay’s business.” As Gerard broke out into a relieved smile, Gertrude added, “Don’t give me any reason to charge after you, Gerard. You’re impulsive and reckless. Your mother’s kept you safe from yourself so far, but you’ve decided that you no longer need that protection. Don’t make me regret keeping my mouth shut.”

Jonathan snickered, ignoring Gerard’s flush. “Whipped.”

“I’ll speak to you outside, Jonathan.”

This time it was Gerard’s turn to snicker as Jonathan flushed and straightened away from the wall. “You’re in trou-ble!”

Good lord. This was why she hadn’t had children. 

But he followed her out the flat anyway. The flat complex was smaller, just a few buildings connected by sidewalks and catwalks, and the flats opened into the fresh air. As they emerged onto the first story, Gertrude let Jon lean against the railing and turn his head towards the sun. The wind blew softly, and Jon exhaled softly as he closed his eyes. Issues controlling a human form meant that he likely hadn’t been outside very often lately. 

“Tastes weird,” Jonathan decided finally, as if they had both been waiting solely for his judgement. “Air back home always tasted like salt. Everything was fresh and clean. It wasn’t anything like dirty, smoggy London.”

“Go back home, then.”

Jonathan snorted bitterly. He had turned his back to Gertrude, leaning on the railing to stick his head out. As if she wasn’t a threat. “Can’t. Gran doesn’t know I exist anymore. Trust me, nobody’s missing me back home.”

“How can that be? There must be school records, any kind of documentation. You must have known dozens of people.”

“Ah, that’s the genius of it.” Jon turned around, grinning lazily at her. He leaned against the railing, elbows back and resting on top of the metal frame. “All I needed to do was implant a few strategic suggestions. Just on the people who interacted with me the most, or the people most responsible for me. Gran, Mr. Heathcliff, Ms. Robbins, Dr. Yung.” He wriggled his fingers experimentally - like a magician doing a magic trick, or a puppeteer pulling strings. “Every time someone asks them where I am, they tell them that I never existed. And, you, know, wouldn’t they know? Jon’s Gran would know if Jon existed or not. So they doubt themselves too. Maybe Jon was never here, not really. Maybe he was just...a faint dream. The kind you forget the moment you wake up.”

“And the papers?”

Jon shrugged. “A person’s in charge of those papers. Ms. Hastings, school secretary. When she sees my student file, she’s going to ask my headmaster about it. And he’s going to say - who? And she’ll remember that I was nobody to remember at all. And those papers will become just so much garbage. When the cop, the government clerk, whoever, remembers that there’s no Jonathan to remember, that’s it.” Jon grinned at her, a proud kid showing her a perfect score on a report card.  “Anything is beatable, Ms. Gertrude, if there’s human error involved. You can build the most perfect machine in the world, but so long as a human’s involved in any step of that process then it can go wrong.”

 “Did the Web tell you that?”

“My Mother trades in lots of secrets, Ms. Gertrude,” Jonathan said, and in the turn of a second his eyes hardened into beetle-black shells, black and inhuman, before he forcibly pulled them back in again. Jonathan grimaced, gritting his teeth as he kept the transformation at bay. “Sorry. Sorry. I - I don’t want to hurt anyone. I won’t. Agnes and Gerry are going to help me. I’m going to choose what kind of mo - person I am. I’m going to choose right.”

“See to it that you do.” Gertrude stepped closer, and she knew that her face was stony and cold. Revealing nothing, with no weaknesses or cracks to exploit. She had lost every weakness long ago, save one. “I know where you live, Jonathan. I know what you’re capable of - even more, I suspect, than you yourself do. Mind yourself, and I won’t have to find a solution to your problem.” She let her eyes glint, just once. “I’m very good at finding solutions, Jonathan.”

Jonathan looked away first, of course. He swallowed heavily. “Mother told me about you.”

“All good things, I’m sure,” Gertrude said dryly. 

“She says I’m not ready yet. She said we have someone else for you, but I’m not ready yet. She says I’ll be the King one day, maybe, but not today. I’m...still hatching. It’s uncomfortable. It’s so -” Something haunted flashed through Jonathan’s lifeless grey eyes, and he shivered. “It hurts. So much.”

“So I hear,” Gertrude said, no trace of sympathy in her voice. “Good day, Jonathan.”

She left Jonathan there: shivering, alone, and human for now. 

She would see him again, she knew. A frightened teenage boy who promised her that he’d be king of the Web one day was a warning sign if she’d ever heard one. But if it was a warning sign, then it was one Gertrude was meant to hear. A shake of a rattlesnake’s tail: a creature that wants to go through the energy of biting you as little as you want to be bit, so save us both the trouble. 

And maybe Jonathan’s comment, so offhand he may not even have realized that he was making it, was a warning of its own: a spider in her own camp. Who?

Agnes was waiting for her, by the Underground station. She didn’t know she got there before her. Young people moved so fast these days. She smiled and waved when she saw Gertrude, as if they both had arranged to meet there. 

“What is it now?” Gertrude asked, exhausted. “Another favor?”

“Just a thank you for helping me keep the boys safe,” Agnes said cheekily. She stepped up, carefully, brushed a kiss to Gertrude’s cheek. Gertrude, idiotically, let her. “Call me, okay? For personal reasons.”

“Maybe,” Gertrude said, to the hearth that burned low in her heart, “if it’s for personal reasons.”

It wasn’t until she was halfway home on the Underground, thinking about noting down the address of Agnes’ apartment, that she found herself wondering what the address even was. Thomas Street...No, Jackson? 144...5?

What was she trying to remember?

No matter. Getting old again. Gertrude continued making notes in her notebook, reminding herself to search for a spider’s web, as the train rattled on for home, and the warmth of a kiss lingered on her cheek. 

[flowers-creativity]

Fic: The One Bed Job

Fandom:  Leverage

Characters: Eliot Spencer, Parker, Alec Hardison

Warnings: None

Summary: A rainstorm forces Eliot, Parker and Hardison to take shelter in a cabin in the woods. There is only one problem ...

Notes: Written for Spud (@callipygianspud) for the @leverage-secret-santa-exchange with the prompts “Parker/Hardison/Eliot, oh no one bed?!?!, slice of life bickering”.

There are a lot of firsts in this story for me, most notably that it's my first Leverage fic ever! It was a lot of fun working on it - thanks to the mods of the Leverage Secret Santa Exchange for organising this 😊.

I’m late in posting it because I missed that the authors had been revealed but finally, here it is on my blog, too.

AO3 link

Eliot threw the truck into park and stared out the windshield at the desolate view: a cabin in the middle of the woods, looking small and forlorn in the wind that had been picking up speed over the last hour. Rain was driving diagonally across the picture, and he didn't want to make any bets on how long it would be until it was going fully horizontal. “Damn it, Hardison, that's the best you can do?”

“Hey man, you wanna try finding a place to stay in the middle of nowhere during a rainstorm, with no advance warning?” Hardison twisted in his seat and stabbed a finger at him. “I'm not freaking clairvoyant, couldn't have known it woulda hit so hard!”

“Yeah, well, always actin' like you are,” Eliot growled as he unbuckled his seat belt. There was no use arguing, they were out of other options. Not that it would stop him from doing it anyway. “C'mon, let's look at that rat's nest you found for us.”

“No appreciation, man,” Hardison mumbled. He took off his seat belt, then twisted around and nudged the lump that was Parker on the backbench, just a shock of blonde hair peeking out from under the blanket she'd wrapped herself in. “Hey mama, we're here. Time to wake up!”

The lump protested sleepily but finally uncurled to reveal the thief who stretched and yawned mightily. “Where's here?” she asked.

“Cabin in the woods,” Hardison said. “Storm's getting pretty bad, so Eliot wanted to stop driving. Never mind that we're in a Faraday cage,” he added, raising his voice so the hitter just about to close the driver's side door could hear him, “but apparently the only thing frightening big bad Spencer is some lightning. Can't hit that, eh?”

“Hardison,” Eliot said grumpily, pulling the door open again, “you wanna wrap the car around a tree 'cause you can't see with the rain comin' down so hard, be my guest.”

Parker snorted and leaned forward to give Hardison a quick peck on the nose. “He's got a point there,” she pointed out.

Eliot flashed her a quick look of thanks, fighting down the incongruous urge to have a corner of his mouth tick up. It wasn't a smile; it wasn't. And it wasn't a problem that his face constantly wanted to do that around those two lately. He finally slammed the door shut and switched on the heavy-duty flashlight he kept in the truck's cabin at all times. He more sensed than heard the passenger side's door opening and the other two hustling after him as he made his way towards the cabin, the rain soaking him down to the skin within moments.

The door was locked; he contemplated it for a moment, then stepped aside. “Parker, do your thing,” he commanded, directing the beam of light onto the lock. She gave a quick sound of delight and dove forwards with her lock picks appearing in her hands like magic. That lock wouldn't take her more than five seconds, he knew, but even that was probably a treat for her after an exhausting job that had her do most of the grifting. No matter how much she had grown and learned since they had become a team, coming into her own in both the grifter and the mastermind role, she would never love it as much as she did the jobs where she could be what she really was, a cat burglar and safecracker.

It was maybe eight seconds until the lock clicked and Parker stood back up. She frowned a bit at the door as she pocketed her lock picks. “Sorry, I'm off my game,” she said.

Hardison huffed and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Don't be ridiculous, babe, you're fine. A bit tired, that's all.”

Eliot nodded and gave her a quick pat on the back before he pushed open the door and went ahead into the cabin. “Stay here,” he told them as he swept the flashlight's beam through the room.

Hardison rolled his eyes so hard Eliot could hear it even though he had his back turned. “No need to unpack the guard dog routine, El,” he said, and another flashlight beam joined his. “It's a cabin in the middle of the woods. If there's anything dangerous, it'll be a bunch of spiders or a raccoon at best. C'mon, I wanna get inside and get dry.”

Eliot flashed him a nasty grin over his shoulder. “You're the geek, tell me how many horror movies there are that look just like this,” he said. “And how the black guy usually does in them.”

“Damn, man, don't you use pop culture against me, that's just wrong,” Hardison complained.

Parker snorted a laugh, still leaning against Hardison's side. “We'll protect you, Eliot and I,” she told him earnestly, then slipped from his arm and had his flashlight in her hand a blink of an eye later. “I'll help him make the security sweep, and you find out if there's electricity.”

Hardison sighed in defeat and waved them off, shaking his head. “Then go do what you gotta do.”

“Nice to know we have your approval,” Eliot said with a smile that was all teeth and very little warmth (no matter that he wanted to put a lot more into it). Nevertheless, he didn't further protest Parker's joining him and sent her off to check one of the two doors leading from the main room while he finished sweeping its meager contents – a small table with two rickety chairs, a wood stove and an old cupboard that held a little bit of crockery, a battered pot and a few cans of soup. He left Hardison to poke around near the stove, mumbling to himself about barbaric conditions and using his phone as a flashlight, and headed for the second door.

It didn't take much time to determine that this was the bathroom, such as it was, and little more to check the shabby toilet and sink – they worked, which was probably the best they could hope for. When he emerged back into the main room, he found that Parker had just done so, too, and was now perched on the table. For once he could not fault her for her propensity never to sit on a chair like a normal person; the table looked like a much safer bet.

“That's the bedroom,” she reported immediately once she caught sight of him coming back, pointing at the room she had checked. “Nothing there but a lot of dust and spiderwebs.” She grinned brightly. “Only one bed, though. We'll have to snuggle close, it's not very big.”

“Wa---” Eliot was vaguely aware that he was standing there gaping like a moron but his mind was stuck on Parker talking about snuggling in one bed.

“Huh, what was that, Eliot?” Hardison had abandoned whatever he had been doing with the stove – couldn't have been lighting a fire, he severely doubted Hardison could do that – and came over, leaning against the wall next to the table with Parker on it, both of them weirdly illuminated by the display light of Hardison's phone.

Eliot finally marshaled his thoughts enough to grind out: “I'm sure you'll be fine for one night. I'll take the floor.” Parker must have been talking about herself and Hardison anyway, no reason to assume that she wanted to snuggle with him – even if his traitorous heart had done just that.

Parker frowned. “What? No, you won't,” she said with a shake of her head. “Not when there's a bed and no reason for you to be on watch. We'll fit in there the three of us.”

“Wha-- Dammit, Parker, you can't just get into bed with any man!” Eliot protested.

“Fine, then Hardison and you can take the floor.” She folded her arms over her chest and stared at him, the challenge more conveyed by her tone than by her expression he couldn't see too clearly in the gray light on her face. Next to her, Hardison made an outraged sound, just as Eliot sputtered:

“What? No, why should Hardison sleep on the floor?”

“Well, if I can't get in bed with any man, then I can't get in bed with you two, since you're both men,” she said with a shrug, in that tone that clearly said that she thought she was being perfectly reasonable.

“But he's not any man,” Eliot pointed out, “he's your boyfriend.”

“Okay,” she said, cocking her head to the side in one of those moves that made her look sort of like a bird, “but you're not any man, too. You're Eliot. My--” she broke off, gave a short sideways glance to Hardison and then continued: “Our-- You're Eliot. So you can come, too.”

Eliot sputtered again, and how did she always manage to have that effect on him? He was Eliot goddamn Spencer, he was always in control, but she stole it from him as easily as pick-pocketing a watch was for her, with nothing more than a few words and looks. He desperately looked to Hardison. “Back me up here, c'mon, man!”

Hardison, the son of a bitch, just shrugged, his teeth white in the dim light as he grinned. “You heard the lady,” he said, “you're not any man, so you can get in bed with her, I mean, with us, any time.”

“I-- But--!” Eliot raked his left hand through his hair, casting around for the right thing to say, to make sense of these words in a way that didn't make warmth spread through his chest and … somewhere else that had made a very specific sense of it and was sitting up and taking notice. In the back of his mind, another part was busy pointing out that in a way, any man was probably better to have in your bed than Eliot Spencer. It was surprisingly easy to disregard this voice, though, just as Parker and Hardison disregarded his words whenever he pointed it out to them. He had told them so a hundred, a thousand times, even had shown them glimpses of it a few times – the swimming pool, probably even the warehouse, despite Nate's promise not to tell anyone – and they had always sailed past it without the slightest worry despite what he had been, what he still was. And he knew it was true: whatever danger he presented, it never was a danger connected to his past. Only to a present that he held sacred in his heart like a talisman, like he had held preciously little since he had lost faith in God and the American flag and whatever else he had believed in once upon a time.

“Helloo-ho!” Hardison suddenly loomed up in front of him, his face just inches away from him. “Earth to Eliot!”

Eliot honest to God flinched and took a step back. “Dammit, Hardison!”

The hacker raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “You back with us, man?” He looked him over seriously. “Honestly, I'm starting to think you're getting sick. You're usually more with it than that.”

Eliot took a deep breath and ran a hand over his face. “I'm fine,” he gritted out. He let his shoulders slump down. Sleeping in one bed it was. “You had any luck with that stove?” he asked Hardison in a bid of hopefully redirecting the conversation.

Hardison shrugged. “Not really, there's some old ashes and half-burnt wood in it but I don't have a lighter. I'm sure you can get it going, right? Don't tell me you haven't been a Boy Scout, too.”

“Nope.” Eliot hoped the relief and eagerness with which he fell into their banter was not too obvious. “Army boot camp's better than that, anyway. Plus, y’know, spending lots of time in the actual wilderness, not some parent's backyard.” He dug into one of his pockets for a lighter and wandered over to the stove, angling the flashlight beam into the open compartment.

Parker had her chin in her hands as she watched him with her usual Parker intensity. “Backyards sound boring,” she agreed. “But you should take us camping some time! We can throw Hardison off a cliff instead of a building!”

This time it was Hardison who was sputtering, and Eliot couldn't resist, he laughed, a bark that reverberated deep in his chest. “That's a great idea, darlin',” he drawled, grinning at the hacker.

“Now that's just unfair! Two against one! And no one's throwing Hardison off any cliffs, are we clear? Are we clear?”

Parker pouted at him. “Aww. You went on that fishing trip with Eliot, didn't you? I want to do something like that with you, too, with both of you.”

Eliot scowled at the reminder of how their fishing trip hadn't happened after that stand-off with a white supremacist militia. “Not exactly like that, preferably,” he growled under his breath. Louder, he said, “I think Hardison had a problem with the cliff thing, not with going on a trip with you, Parker. We can keep that in mind, okay? For now, just let's get through the night.”

In the meantime, he had kept working on the stove, pushing the old ashes to the side and rearranging the partly burnt wood into a neat pile. He looked around for some old paper to start the fire, then reconsidered. The small fire would be pretty useless to heat or light the room.

“Any of you hungry? There's some soup in cans.”

Hardison and Parker exchanged a look, then shook their heads.

Eliot sighed and stood up, brushing off the knees of his jeans. “Then we don't need to bother with the fire. We'd need some candles or a torch for some real light. Don't think it would produce much heat to get the room warm, either.”

Parker shrugged. “I don't have any candles.”

Hardison grinned. “I guess if we're cold, we just need to snuggle close in our bed,” he said, and Eliot's belly did another backflip at the thought of the three of them in one bed together.

Parker laughed and dropped down from her perch on the table, grabbed Hardison's hand, then lunged and did the same with Eliot's. “Come on, I'll show you,” she said brightly and pulled them over to the door she'd discovered the bedroom behind earlier.

“Parker, that's --- Parker, I can walk on my own,” Eliot protested but it was halfhearted at best. He turned towards Hardison but found little sympathy there.

“Just go with the flow,” the hacker told him. “Relax.”

Eliot bit back a retort and instead just took a deep breath, his feet automatically following where Parker led. Relax. As if that was a thing he could do when he was about to get into the same bed as his two best friends. As the two people he-- He-- His thoughts kept stalling but he knew the word that should go there.

In the small bedroom, Parker let go of his hand, and he took in the room and the furniture occupying it, which was just one more of those rickety chairs, with Parker's flashlight on it casting a beam through the shadows, and the bed itself. It was small indeed, and short enough that Eliot guessed Hardison's feet would hang over the edge. Parker and he should be fine – for a certain measure of fine when he was intruding where he didn't belong. Never mind that they seemingly didn't see anything wrong with it, even though they were the couple…

Meanwhile, Parker had taken possession of the bed, pulling back the covers. She looked back at the two men contemplatively, then shrugged and quickly pulled off her shirt, sending it flying toward the chair. At Eliot's spluttered “Parker!”, she shot him an annoyed glare. “What? It's wet,” she explained as she unzipped her pants and shimmied out of them, then threw them after the shirt. Eliot averted his eyes and prayed for strength.

When he looked back, she had slipped under the covers, and Hardison was sitting at the edge of the bed, taking off his shoes and socks, his phone on the quilt next to him. Hardison looked up at him, and his dark eyes were soft in the beam of Eliot's flashlight. “Eliot, man,” he started, then stopped, then started again. “Look, man, you don't have to if you don't really feel comfortab-- Ouch, Parker!” The thief had straightened up and slugged him in the back of the shoulder. “C'mon, he should only do it if he really wants to!”

“But he does!” she hissed at him, then turned towards Eliot. “You want to, right? You want to be with us. Like, here with us.” She gestured between the two of them and then the bed as a whole, and Eliot's heart constricted in his chest. Yes, God, how he wanted to.

“Because we want you, too.” She looked at him hopefully, not bothered in the least that the blankets were pooling in her lap and she was only wearing a simple black sports bra in the cabin's cool air. He tried to look away but couldn't, not when her eyes were holding him captive like that. They wanted him? Just for snuggling in a small, unheated cabin in the middle of nowhere? Or… for something more?

Eliot pushed that thought way back in his mind. He needed to stay in the here and now. And maybe, just maybe, he could just be selfish tonight and take what they were offering. If that was all it was, he would deal with it. Would it be better or worse than never having had any of it? He didn't know.

Hardison was looking at him steadily. “Your decision, El,” he told him, “but we're here. Whenever you're ready, we'll be there.”

And that—that did actually sound like this was more than just a night of snuggling close for warmth. Eliot took a deep breath, closed his eyes and released it. When he opened them again, he nodded. “Yeah,” he said roughly. “Yeah, I'm--” He stopped and decided to give up trying.

Instead, he put his flashlight on the chair next to Parker's, then bent down to untie his boots and quickly stripped off his jeans and his soggy outer layers, leaving him in a mostly dry T-shirt and boxers. A few more steps brought him to the bed where Hardison had joined Parker under the covers, his torso bare. Both of them were looking at him with so much hope that it was the easiest thing in the world to lift the edge of the covers and slip in after them. He smiled at them and said softly, “Hey.”

“Hey you,” Hardison said and as if it was nothing, he put his arm around Eliot's shoulders and pulled him close. From his other side, Parker put her arm across Hardison's body until her small, strong hand rested on Eliot's chest. “I'm glad you're here,” she told him. Then she gave him a short whack. “So now, snuggling and sleep,” she ordered. “The rest can wait until tomorrow.”

Eliot felt his smile grow into a grin and turned it into the crook of Hardison's neck. “Yes, ma'am,” he replied seriously.

And as he crowded closer to Hardison and reached for Parker with an arm across the other man's stomach, Eliot did as any good soldier would do and followed the order given by his leader. It was probably his favorite order of all time.

[ad1thi]

@starklysteve me?? spamming you w recs because i love talking about my ships?? more likely than you think :)) (here’s some rhodeytony to get you started on what is objectively the best tony ship)

i place your hands around my neck:  @fanfictiongreenirises

"Rhodey could practically feel his lungs getting heavier again, weighed down by roots of plants that he’d thought would never take hold in him again."

Or: the one where Rhodey's been pining over Tony for much longer than either of them realised and develops the Hanahaki disease

Pretend We’re In Love (The Heartache Still Hurts): @marvelingjules

Rhodey's dad is dying, and what he's always wanted is for Rhodey to be happily married. Tony and Rhodey were best friends, and haven't spoken in years. But after a chance meeting at the airport, and a desperate, insane idea on Rhodey's part, they end up pretending to be engaged.

But how much of it is really pretend?

i can’t seem to get a grip, no matter how i live with it:  @psikeval

Tony knows he's got no business being a father.

A Million Shades of Blue: @notfknapplicable

“I just know that if I could get to wherever he is, I could find him. Dead or alive, I'd bring him back to us.”

James Rhodes will never stop searching for Tony Stark.

Twenty Five Years: @notfknapplicable (part of a series)

Nobody knows how long this has actually been going on. (Tony Stark has pretty much been in a monogamous relationship since he was 18 years old.)

Leave The Light On: @notfknapplicable (part of a series)

He was never doing this for fun. He'd just wanted to stay awake. And whatever you do, please don't tell that guy he's been fucking. He kinda likes him.

coloured in sun: @heleus

The one in which Anthony Edward Stark, having just reached the warm age of seventeen, realizes that he's in love with his best friend.

(The idea is terrifying.)

the planets that bend us: @deathsweetqueen

When Antonia Margaret Stark wakes up on her sixth birthday, it’s to the words: I didn’t get any sleep last night after that fucking lawn mower decided that 7 in the morning would be a perfect time for him to start his day, right outside my room.

She runs a thumb over the long string of words, wrapping around her wrist like a thick leather band.

She smiles.

She’s fourteen when she meets James Rupert Rhodes for the first time.

Written for the "more than a partner" square (S3) for the Tony Stark Bingo 2019 and the "soulmate" square for the Iron Husbands Bingo 2019

we rattle together in a bed of honey: @deathsweetqueen

Toni first met James Rhodes in Cellular Neurophysiology and Computing, when she was fourteen and trying very hard to stay in the shadows. She stumbles into the classroom, clutching her books and binders and pencil case close to her chest, as she stares at everything, wide-eyed and hungry and terrified. She seizes on the contempt, the confusion, the incredulity of the other freshman who look at her like she’s an incongruity – she’s used to that look, all that hate and derision.

She eats it up like chocolate cake.

Much to her luck, all the seats are filled, all except for one towards the middle of the row, a table shared only by a tall, handsome black boy, sleeping on top of the counter.

a winding road that stretches to the truth: @/coulddaughter (this author ostensibly has a tumblr but im unable to locate it -- so if anyone knows what their tumblr is please let me know so i can tag them!)

“Why do you need a date? Also, no offence, but why did you come to me? I stole, like, four of your girlfriends and at least two boyfriends, remember.”

“I do remember that, Tony,” said Jim, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No, I need you to come on a date with me.”

Love in the Eyes:  @child-of-sunshine

The moment each of the Avengers realized Tony and Rhodey were in love.

The Curious Case Of The Discarded Condom:  @/AssvengersArsemble

Natasha, Clint and Steve get just a little nosy about Tony's love life. Tony finds it extremely amusing they can't see what's right under their noses.

takes a lot of love and compliance: @gyzym

She's born breech, feet kicking out before the rest of her screams free; she's born breech, and never stops running. (Rule 63!Tony)

Targeted Persuasion: @galwednesday

Jim opened Tony's most formal closet and started pulling out tuxedos. "Put one of these on.”

"Why?"

"We're getting married."

Tony froze. "No, we're not."

"Oh yes we are." Jim tossed three tuxedos onto the bed. Three was a good number of options, enough for Tony to make a choice, but not so many that he'd get lost analyzing the ramifications of navy pinstripes vs. charcoal paisley. Tony did best with clear, specific expectations rather than an unlimited universe of possibilities that he would inevitably filter through his neuroses and obsess over, and Jim was really kicking himself for not considering that, oh, ten years ago when they’d first started this, but there was no point in beating himself up about it now when he could put that energy towards solving the problem instead. "You brought this on yourself, Tones. Pick a damn tux."

Five thousand roses: @/forestgreen

She is broken and all the more dangerous for it. The world should tread carefully around the shards of her former self lest they cut themselves on Antonia Stark's sharp edges.

A Guide to Handling the Unhandleable Tony Stark:  @/nightrider101 (this is ab a/b/o verse)

Written for the following prompt on the Avengers Kink meme: The rest of the Avengers assume Tony is an unbound Omega by the way he acts. He's reckless and carefree and does what he wants. Imagine their surprise when they find out that Rhodey is Tony's Alpha. They're all confused at the way Rhodey lets Tony act and how they can be away from each other for long periods of time and Rhodey's just like 'He didn't want to give up his career and I didn't want to give up mine. And I gave up trying to tell Tony what to do years ago.'

It’s Not Bacon Until It Ceases To Be Bacon: @sobebold

Tony has lived with his best friend Rhodey for fifteen years, and everything is perfect.

Until Rhodey finally gets a boyfriend, and Tony's world gets turned upside down.

by any name: @machi-kun

Tony calls him ‘mine’, sometimes.

And he also calls him platypus, honeybear, sugarplum, all those stupid nicknames; but James’ favorite will always be ‘mine’.

Tutor Me: @wisiaden

Tony really wants James Rhodes to be his math tutor. The guy was hot, and if he had to play dumb, well, he can say he hates math.

run and hide: @/starksrhodey

Tony may or may not have a crush on football captain James Rhodes.

Or, Tony is extremely insecure, Pepper knows best, Steve likes to bake, Bucky loves red heads, and Rhodey keeps trying to talk to Tony.

This Is The Real Life: @blancheludis

It takes doing the laundry for Tony to realize he is completely, irrevocably in love with Rhodey. Who knew that the way to Tony Stark's heart is to teach him how to wash his clothes.

Anything For You Darling: @areiton

Tony is sitting on the balcony of his palace in Malibu, and Rhodey hates it, more than he's ever hated anything, watching his best friend stare at the water, limmed by the sun and utterly alone.

"She's dead," Tony says, before Rhodey can ask and he feels his breath catch, his heart stumble.

There's--

Grief. For pretty, troubled Maya with her big eyes.

Heartbreak. For a sweet infant who will never know the mother who gave him up, whose life will never be exposed, now.

Relief. Because Harley is safe. Safe. Gods, he's safe.

or

Rhodey helps Tony raise his son.

it goes like this (just like heroin): @quandongcrumble

He’s twenty-six and you’re twenty-eight and you get a midnight phone call from Obadiah and between the two of you, you manage to beg and bully until you can fly back to the States and sit beside the white hospital bed while they say words like heroin and accidental overdose and that Tony should pull through but Tiberius might not wake up.

It goes like this—for almost sixteen years Tony’s addiction problems are a blight on Rhodey’s relationship with him. Friendships crack and trust is shattered, over and over again.

motor oil and coconut oil: @/halfasgoodasanything

James loves his best friend. He's entirely supportive of his friendship and his almost relationship with Steve Rogers. He is! He is. Carol and Pepper seem to think otherwise, but he's cool. Loving Tony doesn't mean no one else can. Even if he wanted to.

lost and found: @starkslovemail 

“Are you lost?”

Tony jumped at the voice cutting into his thoughts. Turning around, he saw another teen, maybe a year or two older than him, decked out in Team USA gear. He shook his head, flashing what he hoped was a disarming smile, “Nope.”

“Are you sure about that?” The athlete raised a disbelieving brow as he stared down at Tony. “You’ve been walking up and down this hallway for the past ten minutes, and the least embarrassing reason why is being lost.”

The blunt honesty startled a laugh out of Tony. He grinned cheekily, rocking back on his heels, “Guess I’m lost then.”

--

Written for the RhodeyTony Mini-Bang! Art can be seen on twitter here!

two boy geniuses walk into one frat house: @starkslovemail (part of a series)

There were too many white people at this damn party.

The Other 'Mr Stark': Iron Man’s Mysterious Paramour:  @presidentrhodes 

Clint leans over to Tony and whispers. “For the record, I know you’re lying. You’re describing the perfect man and he doesn’t exist. You might as well say you’re dating Superman because at least Christopher Reeve was a looker.“(Based on this prompt: Tony keeps telling the avengers how awesome his husband is but they don't believe he exists because it has been months and they still haven't met him yet and then finally, Rhodey comes home.)

[actualbird]

nobody asked but pat gill is so fucking hot to me and im going to tell you why im attracted to him | a 2.3k word long post where i hold you, dear reader, hostage

[SCENE: You, the reader, are tied to a wooden chair in an empty room with nothing but a small table and a projector. You pull at the ropes that tie your hands together behind your back, but then the door opens and I stroll in. I am dressed in a full black suit and am also wearing shutter shades. I am also holding a powerpoint clicker. The fancy ones with a laser pointer in them. You shudder in contempt for you know that you are about to witness a horrible lecture.]

Hello, reader. I know you know why I’ve brought you here. I’m here to discuss something very important to you. Don’t look at me like that, it is important, I swear. I am here to tell you why I find Pat Gill hot.

[I switch on the projector. My presentation slides flash to life on the wall. Behind your back, you locate the feel around the knots tying your hands.]

This is not a presentation where I will convince you that Pat Gill is hot. No, I wouldn’t prescribe my tastes onto anybody, that’s not nice. What I will do is explain in horrid, vivid detail why I myself find Pat Gill hot. 

Like everything I do, I cannot dive in without first setting up some kind of framework or system of analysis. What I am trying to explain is how I find another person attractive, and that has thus pushed me to make the AHG Criteria, a criteria made up of the three principal characteristics of a human which makes me attracted to them and is also, coincidentally, the sound I make when I see images of Pat Gill. 

The AHG Criteria refers to the following:

Appearance: the most shallow but noticeable of characteristics. Here, I will explain just what it is about Pat Gill’s perceivable flesh prison that gets me so upset in an attracted manner.

Humor: I love a funny human and humor theory is one of my side interests. Here, I will dissect two specific instances of Pat Gill’s humor, bringing in references and related literature, in an effort to explain why his sense of humor is stellar.

Good at presenting things: I am very attracted to competence, but one skill I hold in very high regard is the skill of explaining and conveying information. Here, I will analyse Pat Gill as a communicator.

So let’s jump right into it. 

Pat Gill’s Appearance is, frankly, an anomaly to me. This is not to say that anything about his appearance is strange, but that, quite honestly, as handsome as he is, he’s basic. He is white, he is tall, he is thin, he has black hair and a slight beard (though currently he is sporting more of a moustache, which I’m still into). At first glance, one wouldn’t pay him much attention. I sure didn’t, until I watched more and more videos of him. I sure didn’t, until I realized.

His Appearance is basic, but his vibes, which I am including in the criteria of Appearance, bring his Appearance to life. Pat Gill looks a little unapproachable, with his resting sad face; but, when he smiles, he is so shameless and happy. Pat Gill looks like somebody you’d see leaning on a wall outside a bar, looking up at the sky, and you wonder just what he’s thinking about---wonder if you could get lost in his thoughts. Pat Gill looks like somebody friendly--- once his resting sad face gives way---somebody who would help you pick up your stuff when you bump into him and the contents of your bag spill out. Pat Gill looks like somebody who would use his goddamn turn signal. Pat Gill looks like somebody who would pet many dogs, as many dogs as he physically could. Pat Gill looks---

[As I prattle on, your fingers explore the knots behind your back. In your mind, you are mapping out the knot’s shape and orientation, thinking about how to undo them. When you tune back into my voice, the slide on the projector has changed and I have shifted topics.]

Let’s move onto the next criteria. Humor.

Paul McGhee in his book Humor: Its Origins and Development brings up Göran Nerhardt to define humor as “[...] a consequence of the discrepancy between two mental representations, one of which is an expectation and the other is some idea or percept” (McGhee 14). Nerhardt’s definition of humor is one that relies on incongruity: wherein there is an element that is not in accordance with the other elements. An incongruous element is one that is not the expectation, and in this subversion of expectation, humor is achieved. What is funny in a humorous situation, is then, what is unexpected to a certain degree. Humor, and the reaction to it, is due to the recognition of the incongruous. 

Despite this incongruity, there is still an internal logic to anything humorous. This internal logic is different for each humorous situation, and consists of everything within the situation; the set-up, punchline, characters, etc. It is this internal logic that allows for jokes to “make sense.” It is that internal logic that helps us get from one element to the incongruous element, realize their relationship, and thus find the whole thing funny.

Incongruity and internal logic are one of the many characteristics of humor, and they are the ones I will be focusing on. With those definitions in place, let’s talk about what you’re here for: Pat Gill.

Pat Gill is a funny guy. If I tried to analyse every single instance he was funny, I would never shut up. You wouldn’t want that, would you?

[You shake your head no. God, no.]

Right, so I’ll just be focusing on two instances of his humor that stuck out to me (originally, I wanted to discuss three, but then I saw that the length of this post was getting kilometric, so I cut it down to the essentials), these of which I think is a good marker for the kind of sense of humor he has.

The first one is my absolute favorite tweet of his:

This tweet is, at first glance, a lot. Pat Gill doesn’t wait for the punchline to be incongruous, he throws incongruity straight at our faces with the opening line, and one may think that that’s a bad move. Not necessarily. It’s just a ballsy one. It’s a move that doesn’t spoonfeed the audience with the internal logic, you have to work for it. As you read through the tweet, the internal logic starts to come through the incongruity. The literal dramatic situation of the tweet is a persona talking about the good state their nemesis is in. The language of the tweet keys us in to the kind of Medieval vibe, like a scheming duke in the hallways of a castle. The punchline comes after the last comma. The monolog of the nemesis’ good fortune will be interrupted by the persona’s attack on their life.

This tweet is an example of the bedrock of many of his jokes. He doesn’t give a damn if he makes sense or not. He will throw you into the deep end of the joke and it is up to you to tread the water. However, if you do manage to keep afloat, his internal logic will bring you to the punchline and, thus, satisfaction.

[Your fingers have been working on the knots steadily as I speak. You try your best not to react as you start to feel something give way, and you keep working quietly.]

The second instance of humor I want to discuss is the Solid Snake Skincare Routine dialog he wrote and performed with Brian in episode 8 of Gill and Gilbert. The full transcript is as follows:

Pat (as Solid Snake from Metal Gear Solid): Colonel, how do I know which moisturizer to buy, and how do I know it’ll match my skin type?

Brian (as Colonel from Metal Gear Solid): Unfortunately Snake, there’s no way to tell for sure. Certain retailers will offer samples, but in most cases, it’s up to you to purchase a product and try it out.

Pat: Sounds expensive.

Brian: It is, Snake. And the cost disproportionately affects women.

Pat: Women?

Brian: Societal norms in the west dictate that a woman’s value is tied to their appearance, and the thing every woman has…

Pat: Skin!

Brian: Right.

Pat: So, we expect women to attain a higher---So, we expect women---women, to attain perfect skin, and we also expect them to pay for it?

Brian: All while paying them less for doing the same jobs as men.

Pat: So Colonel, that means…

Brian: Yes, Snake. It is imperative that you give your money to women.

Pat: Right.

Like the tweet discussed before, Pat Gill shoves incongruity in your face immediately. Solid Snake, super cool spy dude (?? I don’t fuckin know anything about video games) talking about skincare. He expects you to keep up, and if you do, you are rewarded by a surreal yet lovely conversation between Snake and Colonel talking about the intricacies of skincare, but then things get really interesting. The topic shifts to the societal expectations of beauty and how it ties into womens’ experiences. This isn’t a grand woke moment or anything, but it is a surprising shift in subject that is perfectly in tune with the internal logic of the conversation. The punchline is amazing, giving all your money to women, yet it is also written in a way that does not imply that women are the butt of the joke. The butt of the joke here is the surreal vibe of the conversation as a whole.

This dialog builds upon the bedrock of Pat Gill’s humor: he isn’t afraid to go places. This is something that is apparent in many of the Unraveleds that he writes (Dark Souls Bosses is a very good example), he brings in real issues, makes the jokes funny, but never treats the marginalized or the victims of these issues as the butt of the joke. In Susan Purdie’s book The Mastery of Discourse, she remarks that to joke about a certain topic, to make something the “butt of the joke” can degrade this topic and bring it down lower, in the process shifting the power to the joker instead (Purdie 59). Pat Gill is aware of that power dynamic and never jokes at the expense of those who are struggling. He instead makes us laugh at characters, at situations, at surreality.

[The knots tying your hands are almost undone. You just need to bide your time. You’re so close to escaping from this thirsty pseudo intellectual motherfucker]

The last criteria I need to discuss with you is GreatAtPresentingThings. 

Pat Gill has done a lot of presenting. For this, I will be analyzing just one of the many videos where Pat Presents Things, my favorite among his “X is Y because of Z” videos, “Why Bloodborne and Muppets are the exact same thing.”

I’ve talked about this video in a previous long post analysis about Pat Gill, but let me talk about it again. Pat Gill, on camera, brings up an absolutely bonkers fucking thesis: that the horrible monsters in Bloodborne are similar to the Muppets because of how they use character design. 

Pat Gill, as a presenter, is very lovely to listen to. The cadence of his voice is not only extremely relaxing and makes me feel like a tranquilized zoo animal that Pat is talking to very gently about video games, but his voice is also very easy to follow. There are many voices on the internet, and I have a bunch of sensory issues, so a lot of the time, even when I want to listen to somebody, I just can’t because of how their voice grates at my ears. Pat Gill’s voice is not that. It is of a good speed and good vibe that not only puts me at ease but makes me want to listen.

Pat Gill uses gestures. This is most apparent in this video, where he does that cute thing when he says Shape, Movement, and Texture. Here are screenshots of it because it’s so fucking cute, what the fuck.

I know, I know, what do gestures have to do with presenting things? Well, if you told me “shape, movement, texture”, six minutes later, I wouldn’t fucking remember any of those. But with these gestures, those words do stick. When words stick, the explanations behind those words stick as well. When words and explanations stick in your mind, congratulations dude, you just learned something! Pat Gill when talking, and whether it is scripted like this or unintentional like a random gesticulation, the movement catches my attention and I become a more rapt listener.

Honestly, I could go on and on about Pat as a communicator and---

[Before I can speak, you bolt upwards from your chair, finally having gotten the ropes loose. Quickly, powerfully, you grab the projector from the table and smash it over my head. I stumble and fall to the ground, and you look down at me as your chest heaves.

As I slowly lose consciousness, you hear me say, softly, but with so much fervor:

“Pat…..Gill…..hot.”]

Thanks for reading! 

(Read my other unhinged analysis essays at actualbird.tumblr.com/tagged/nobody-asked-but. If you have a suggestion for an unhinged analysis essay I can write, send me an ask!)

References:

McGhee, Paul E. Humor: Its Origin and Development, W.H. Freeman and Company, 1979, pp. 1-41.

Purdie, Susan. The Mastery of Discourse. Harvester Wheatsheaf. 1993.

[solasan]

28 for june/adam úwù

#28: one person tracing the other’s lips with a fingertip until they can’t resist any longer, tilting their chin towards them for a kiss

2.7k, set in early book 3, ao3 link if you’d rather read it there

Over the years, Adam has often heard it said that history has a habit of repeating itself. Be that in small ways or larger ones, it would seem that some souls simply find themselves walking the same paths without forethought or awareness; that some events cling too strongly to the earth to be entirely washed away, no matter how hard the world around them might try.

Adam puts little stock in most belief systems. Perhaps the closest label he might ascribe to would be ‘atheist’, but even that is a mere afterthought; he is not Nate, and he has had plenty of time to grow bored with philosophy and religion.

And yet. Even he must admit that, in this one small analysis, the world is not wrong; history does repeat itself.

The Unit have not been so relegated to protection detail since their first arrival in Wayhaven. It has been only a matter of months since those days — barely a blink of an eye, compared to his lifespan — and yet the return to such a routine is… galling. Incongruent. Bizarre.

So much has changed. Murphy. The Maa-alused. The carnival itself.

June.

The detective, he means. She has — they have all — changed.

Still. Cycles. The world has only one way to turn. The enemy has come, as they always do, and once more he and his team are left to protect the thing their foe wants most.

The Trappers are not Murphy, perhaps, but in the end, the result is the same.

Farah and Nate have spent the most time guarding the detective as of late. Morgan’s senses are too invaluable to spare when she could be patrolling the town for threats, after all, and Adam—

Well. He has had his own work. His own patrols. And he has always been better suited to working from a distance, these past few months notwithstanding.

Still, Adam du Mortain has never been a man to shirk his duty. And, whatever efforts the others might make on her behalf, he knows that the detective will never be as well protected as she will be with him.

By which, of course, he means that he is the strongest of their team. He means that he is capable of feats that the others simply are not. He does not mean— It is not—

You understand.

It’s a brisk morning, for all that they’re cresting summer now, and the detective spends the entire walk to Haley’s Bakery with her hands in her pockets, huffing out misty breaths and dancing on her feet for warmth. 

She’s replaced her much-beloved denim jacket with something thicker, puffier, something that rustles every time she moves, and it makes her look somehow smaller than she already does. As though her usual oversized hoodies do not complete the job well enough.

They do not talk. They have not talked, not properly, not since—

Well. Since the carnival, perhaps. And to look at her, you would not know it; she still smiles at him, still jokes and laughs and shines like the sun made flesh, but there is something… wooden to it, now. As though she is waiting, every moment, for it to fall apart.

Her pulse still skips to look at him. Not as much as it had that night, their palms brushing, her radiating warmth at his side, but— but it happens.

And he is a fool for encouraging it.

They pass through the door to the bakery as Adam is still flagellating himself, the bell ringing somewhere above their heads and the scent of pastry and coffee filling the air. And under these fluorescent lights, the detective blooms.

“Honey, I’m home!”

The baker is behind the counter, fussing with a display of cakes, but she straightens up when she sees them, turning a grin on the detective that is almost as bright as June’s own. “June! How’re you doing today?”

“I’m good. How’s my absolute favourite baker-slash-coffee-dealer on this cruel cold morning?”

The baker snorts. “You don’t have to butter me up, y’know.”

Detective Lovelace drapes herself over the counter as though it were a pillar of fine marble and not merely a sickly-smelling construction of glass and pine, batting those big brown eyes at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her grin — in a feat Adam would previously have thought impossible had he not known her these past months — widens.

The baker rolls her eyes with a good-natured smile, darting a curious look Adam’s way that is soon redirected by his stony silence. “Right.”  

Then, wiping her hands off on the striped apron across her front, she says, “your usual?”

“Fuck yeah. You’re an angel, a light in the darkness. A goddess among women. A Titaness.”

Her nose wrinkles as she heads for the coffee machine. “Titan— are you calling me fat?”

“I’m calling you beautiful, Hales, don’t get it twisted.”

The baker snorts again, shaking her head.

And then there’s a pause. Adam does very well with pauses, generally; he learned remarkably quickly how easily they could be ignored, favouring silence above small-talk even in his youth.

But this is— this is different. He cannot quite pin down why.

The detective clears her throat, then nudges him with an elbow. “Want anything, big guy? I’m buying.”

Adam takes a moment to reply, because the proximity, brief as it was, has her scent catching in his nostrils, drowning out vanilla and cinnamon with strawberries and cotton. He is used to the smell of nicotine and smoke by now, after so long with Morgan, but perhaps the detective smokes a different brand, because for a moment he finds himself dizzy.

The moment passes. He clears his throat, shakes his head, then says stiffly, “I’m fine.”

The detective’s brows rise. “You sure? Nate loves the blueberry muffins here.”

“I am sure.”

“Hm. Is that a Nate thing, then? Or, like— no wait, Farah loves junk food. Is this an Adam thing, then?”

He blinks at her for one very long moment.

Eventually, she rolls her eyes and clarifies quietly, leaning close again: “Y’know. Human food. Not liking it, or whatever?”

They are the only people in the bakery this early in the morning, and the baker is still preoccupied with the coffee machine, which is whirring loudly. If it had been otherwise, perhaps Adam would reprimand the detective, but she is… careful, here, as she so rarely is with anything else.

And so he allows himself to respond, “Nate and Farah are… different. For the rest of us, it is— unappetising, shall I say.”

The detective hums thoughtfully, eyes narrowing. Then her nose wrinkles. “Shit, dude. Sucks to be you, I guess. The four-cheese from Giuseppe’s is to die for.”

Adam’s lips twitch. “I shall have to take your word on that.”

“Yeah, guess you will. So, wait, why is it so unappetising? Is it just, like, by comparison? Is a good ole’ cup of O-neg just totally orgasmic, or something?”

Did— she cannot have just said what he thinks she has just said. Can she?

Of course she can, he thinks, meeting her dancing eyes. She’s June.

Adam shakes his head, aiming for chiding and falling short. “That…  is not the word that I would use.”

The detective purses her lips. “You’re dodging the question, Agent du Mortain.”

“You ask poor questions, Detective Lovelace.” 

She laughs and it is a startled sound, like a bird pushed from the nest, but it’s— goodness, it’s lovely. He has not made another person laugh in so very long. He had… forgotten, quite, just how thrilling it could be.

“Answer it anyway?”

Sighing as though he were greatly put-upon, he acquiesces, “our senses are— too refined for most foods that you would consume. It can be overwhelming.”

She processes this for a moment or two, her brows furrowing. Then: “Wow. And here I thought nothing could overwhelm you.” 

June’s grin is cheeky, yes, but in a warm kind of way. A wonder. She is a wonder.

“Now, we both know that cannot be true.”

Her smile turns surprised, confused and just-slightly lopsided, and she blinks at him rapidly for a moment, her brow beginning to furrow. 

Why would you say such a thing, you imbecile?

June’s mouth opens as though she were about to reply, and Adam is both dreading and waiting with bated breath for it—

“Here ya go.” 

Adam flinches. The baker has set down a thickly-scented to-go cup of coffee, and she’s looking between them with the beginnings of a smile lurking at the corners of her lips, brow cocked.

His fists clench. He affixes his gaze to a spot over the baker’s shoulder, a part of the chalkboard where an old offer has been only-mostly scrubbed away, and very carefully thinks of nothing.

After a moment, the detective clears her throat. “Uh, yeah. Thanks, Hales. Purveyor of the precious bean juice.”

A huff masquerading as a laugh. “Anytime, June. You want anything else? Maybe something for your man here?”

Her man. What— what foolishness, what absolute madness. He is— Adam is no one’s man, and he is most certainly not the detective’s, whatever anyone else may think, however she might make him feel.

Not that she makes him feel anything in particular, of course, however much Nate might argue to the contrary. Not that his chest had jerked at the very idea of them being— of her and him— of the baker being correct in her utterly outlandish supposition.

The detective laughs, too loud and just an octave off-kilter. “You should do stand-up, Hales, you’d kill.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Adam won’t have anything. And I— just the coffee, you know me. I live off this shit. Like, uh— like zombies, only it’s caffeine instead of brains. The Walking Dead, Lovelace style.”

“Right.”

The baker rattles off a price and Detective Lovelace passes the cash over, and then they pause briefly at the condiments for her to spoon in one, two, three, four sugars.

“I can feel you judging me from here,” the detective comments on their way out the door, and Adam frowns.

“I am not judging you.”

“No, you totally are. You get this tiny little crease between your eyebrows when you’re judging something. And I should know, man, I’ve seen it, like, a gazillion times.”

His lips purse, and he makes a conscious effort to relax his forehead and smooth out his brow.

The detective snorts. Then, in sing-song: “I still saw it.”

He shakes his head. “I was merely thinking that things… make a great deal more sense now.”

“Hey, I am a grown-ass woman, du Mortain, and grown-ass women can have as many sugars in their coffees as they want.” And then, as if to prove her point, she takes a sip.

The urge to smile is one he only-barely manages to tamp down on. “So it would seem.”

“Glad we agree.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpses her smile. All teeth and pink lips and dancing eyes. The early-morning sunlight is slanting over her face, seizing her bronze hair and setting her aflame. She really is just—

His foot catches on a cobblestone. It takes only a matter of milliseconds to right himself, but still. Adam has not tripped in— in decades. Centuries, perhaps.

“Woah there, old man,” the detective teases, knocking her side into his. “Don’t go breaking a hip there.”

He grumbles something unintelligible, shoulders tensing when she laughs.

“I am not going to break a hip.”

“No? Could’ve been quite the fall, man. And you’ve gotta be careful, y’know, in your twilight years. Ooh, double joke. Those are rare.”

Adam scowls. “I am hardly as breakable as your kind.”

She whistles lowly. “Damn, the human jabs are coming out. Must’ve been a nasty fall. Gonna tell me to get off your lawn next?”

“I should never have told you my age.”

The detective grins. “But’cha did.” And then, elbowing him again, she adds: “It was kinda funny, admit it.”

“I will do no such thing.”

“Oh, c’mon.” She steps into his path, grinning up at him without a care in the world. “Just a tiny bit? A little? A smidge?”

Despite himself, he feels his lips beginning to jerk. And he can hardly have that, so his scowl darkens and he shakes his head. “Detective.”

“Adam?” She bats her lashes.

And in the face of those big brown eyes and that sunshine-smile, his resolve crumbles. “Fine.”

“Fiiiiiine— what?”

“Fine.” He gives her a stern look, because perhaps he is willing to unbend for her, but only so far.

June pouts just slightly, and it is then that he becomes aware of the smudge of coffee at the corner of her mouth. Tiny, barely noticeable in fact, just a stain of deep brown lapping over part of her lip and some of the pale skin around it, but suddenly the only thing that he can see.

He clears his throat. “Ah. You have—”

“What?”

He gestures vaguely to his own mouth, and June blinks at him, wide-eyed, for a moment, as though he has done something truly obscene, before realisation hits and she laughs.

“Ah, shit. Thanks.” She tugs the sleeve of her hoodie out from her jacket and uses it to rub her lips roughly. “Gone?”

“No.” He points to the approximate spot on his own face again, and again she misses.

And then, easy as breathing, his hand is reaching out to catch her chin and he is wiping it away.

Her lips are— they’re soft. Warm. He can feel her breath against the pad of his thumb, and that is warm too. And she is wonderfully yielding under his touch, her teeth faintly solid through the meat of her lip on his up-swipe, mouth all pink and plush and lovely.

She smells like coffee now. Would she taste like it? It would be so easy to just lean forward and find out. To learn just how abominably sweet those four sugars really are. They would be bearable, he thinks, on these lips. DMB would be bearable on these lips.

Of its own accord, his thumb begins to trace the rest of her. The pretty swell of her lower lip, right in the middle; the other corner, her teeth flashing white behind it when he peels it down slightly; the fine curve of her cupid’s bow, sturdier than any archer’s. She is so soft. Almost fragile. Like china, only— only warmer.

Her throat bobs when she swallows.

Would she let him kiss her? Would she welcome him? 

Would she kiss him back?

He cannot bear to meet her gaze just yet, but her breathing is a little uneven, and when he listens— yes, there it is. The stutter in her pulse that he has become so accustomed to, that he treasures so dearly. Her ears are pinking, too, a flush beginning to spread across the ripe apples of her cheeks.

Perhaps— perhaps she would?

When he has finally gathered his courage, he lets himself look her in the eye. And such splendid eyes they are too, darker than usual but so big, like a doe’s perhaps, her lashes all soft and wispy.

June blinks, pupils blacker than anything and so much bigger than he’s ever seen them. By God, they are so close now, she and he. Her breath just-barely brushes his chin with every exhale. He wants to feel that breath all over him, wants it against his lips, wants to taste it and commit it to memory so thoroughly that he will remember it a hundred years from now. A thousand. 

His thumb has stilled, index and middle finger cradling her chin, and oh, it really would be hardly anything at all to tilt her head up. Just a little bit. Just enough that he would not need to stoop in half to meet her.

She swallows again, blinking rapidly, and her tongue darts out to wet the side of her mouth that he is not touching. Adam finds himself following it with his eyes, his need sitting so heavily in his chest that he can scarcely breathe. 

And then she clears her throat; a creaky, hoarse sound, as though it were full of rocks. “Did, uh— did you get it?”

“Yes,” Adam croaks, snapping his hand back as though it had been burned. “I— yes.”

June nods as the world tidies itself into its proper perspective around her. “Right. Right. Cool. Uh— tha— yeah, thanks.”

“You are welcome,” he acknowledges roughly, not looking at her, rubbing his thumb over his fingers to make sure he does not forget her skin. 

He cannot forget her skin.

[katekaned]

i want your midnights

my @lgbtincomics​ secret gift exchange gift for @kaurwreck! 

“So… I heard you have a date for tonight’s party, Hel.” Dinah’s voice thrummed with barely contained glee, even over comms, as Black Canary and Huntress sped through the streets of Gotham toward that night’s (really, early morning - it was 2 am) target. 

Helena’s reply came tersely through Dinah’s earpiece, “It’s not a date.” 

“Well, I heard from Babs who heard from Steph who heard from Tim who heard from Kon who heard from Lois who heard from Maggie who heard from Kate… that a certain ex-detective Montoya will be accompanying you to the Clocktower festivities tonight. Sure sounds like a date to me.” 

“Can we try and keep our personal lives out of the field tonight?” Barbara broke in to reprimand them. 

Dinah cheerily responded, “Well, we never have before, so I don’t really see any point in starting now, O.” 

A deeply resigned sigh came over the comms to which Dinah cackled and Helena gave a begrudging smile under her motorcycle helmet. 

Barbara’s voice crackled across the comms again. “This is a simple mission, guys. Get in, make sure Seeber gets the message, then get out. Got it?”

“We’ve got it, O. After spending the past month taking down this dick’s trafficking business, tonight will be a breeze,” Helena replied. 

“It’s just too bad Zinda’s not with us - she could really put the fear of God in this bastard,” Dinah chimed in. 

“Canary, we agreed this was a two-woman job -  and besides, Zinda’s been hard at work decorating the Clocktower since midnight.”

“Only because you wouldn’t let me start any earlier!” Zinda’s brassy voice came through their earpieces loud and clear. “This clocktower will not become party ready all by itself!”

“Ooh that reminds me,” Dinah said in a sing-song tone. “Hel - you need to look like an absolute BABE for Renee tonight. Please let me take you shopping for a date outfit this afternoon?”

“Not! A! Date!”

____________________________________________________________

Is tonight a date? 

Renee’s mind was always filled with a hundred different thoughts at any given moment - cases she was working on, what to have for dinner, various exercise regimens and dozens of other things, all competing for her full and undivided attention. Most days, she’s a consummate pro at multitasking but, this December 31, one thought returned again and again to the forefront of her mind.

She paced all around her apartment, careful to step over the piles of gear strewn haphazardly on the floor, as she pondered whether or not Helena Bertinelli, her occasional (though more and more frequent) partner in vigilantism, had invited her to a New Year’s Eve party tonight as a friend-date or … as a date-date. The party was being hosted by Helena’s crime-fighting team, the Birds of Prey, and, according to her, was going to be a relatively small affair attended by teammates and a few affiliated heroes. Which did little to assuage Renee’s anxiety. 

Renee Montoya is not typically one to worry about such silly and mundane things as whether the girl she (potentially) likes likes her back. Renee Montoya sleeps with women and breaks their hearts and she doesn’t do the whole dating thing. (Not anymore. Not after Daria. Not after Kate.) So to feel her heart jumping in her throat like she’s a damn schoolgirl again is not a familiar sensation and she doesn’t like it, not one bit. 

Outside her windows, the telltale early signs of a winter storm were taking place. The wind picked up, whistling sharply through the alley below and carrying white flurries along the way. Overhead, thick, gray storm clouds menaced the city of Gotham, giving no indication that they were going to dissipate any time before midnight. 

Just as Renee felt herself about to begin dissecting and analyzing every interaction she’d had with Helena since she asked her to attend the party with her, a sharp rap sounded from her door. Trying to ignore the sweat gathering under her armpits, she ran her hands through her hair one final time and went to open the door. 

“Hey, I know I didn’t buzz up, but your doorman recognized me, I think from when we had drinks a few nights ago, uh, and he just let me up, so, yeah…” Helena trailed off as she took in the funny expression on Renee’s face. “You feeling okay, Montoya?”  

Renee was not, in fact, doing okay. In fact, the very sight of Helena Bertinelli standing in her doorway, looking absolutely, drop-dead gorgeous had driven all the air out of her lungs and all coherent thought out of her brain. Helena’s dark curls were piled high on her head with a few stray curls framing her face and she wore a black cropped turtleneck with the tightest pair of leather pants Renee had quite possibly ever seen. Fortunately, at Helena’s confused expression, a few synapses in Renee’s brain began firing again and she managed to stop looking like she had recently been concussed. 

“Oh, um, I was just, uh, thinking … it’s kind of cold for, y’know, a turtleneck.”

Oh, God, now she knows you were looking at her abs! Say something different! Anything!

“Not that there’s, uh, anything wrong with that, you look great, I mean, you always look great. Um. D’you wanna come in and drink something?” 

Great save, Montoya. How are you the same suave lesbian who managed to bed a woman in Kahndaq of all places? 

As Renee held the door open for Helena to enter her apartment, she tried to keep her eyes from gazing too long at any ... particular part of her body and, in doing so, missed the shy smile on Helena’s lips at Renee’s flustered greeting. Helena sauntered into the kitchenette area and sat down on a barstool at the counter. 

“What do you have?” 

“I’ve got lemonade, OJ, water, of course, and some non-alcoholic eggnog that Kate and Mags brought over earlier this week!” 

Renee managed to find two clean glasses and turned to Helena, waiting for her response. She noticed an almost pensive furrow in her brow that definitely wasn’t there before. The playful light in her eyes also seemed to have vanished. 

“Just some water will be fine. I’ll need to be well-hydrated to withstand even one of Zinda’s drinks tonight.”

“Alright, then,” Renee shrugged and grabbed a pitcher from her fridge, filling the two glasses and handing one over to Helena. “Are Zinda’s drinks really that potent?”

“Oh, God,” Helena snorted in the middle of her first sip. “Just be grateful you don’t drink anymore because that shit could take down a fucking elephant.” 

Renee inhaled sharply through her nose as she drank deeply from her glass of water. 

Helena flushed deeply and shot an apologetic look across the counter. “Shit, Renee, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to make light of -”

Renee cut her off, “It’s fine, really, Helena. We should be heading out now anyway.” 

She made her way briskly over to the entrance table where she kept her wallet and keys and shoved both into her jacket pockets. As she opened the door, she turned back to look at Helena, who was still looking rather like a kicked puppy, and gave her a sharp smile. 

“Come on, princesa, you’re the one who knows where the fuck where we’re going.” 

As Helena rushed out the door and started toward the stairs, Renee turned to lock the closed door behind her and took a slow, deep breath.

So not a date.

______________________________________________________________

As soon as the elevator doors slid open, Renee and Helena were hit by a barrage of sound and lights from the loft space at the top of the Gotham Clocktower. Stepping out into the brightly lit, colorfully decorated and rambunctious party from the cold, damp and dark streets of Gotham was a jarring experience. Seeing the party already at full tilt, sent a fresh prickle of nerves through Renee, when she felt a cold hand slip into hers and squeeze it tight. 

She glanced up at Helena’s face. Much of the tension from the motorcycle ride over and the brief yet eternal ride up the elevator seemed to have disappeared upon their entrance into Helena’s second home. Helena smiled softly at Renee. 

“Don’t worry. I’ll show you around.” 

As Helena tugged her further into the celebration, Renee felt her heart give an involuntary skip. 

Stop it, she admonished internally. She’s just being friendly.

“This is the kiddie table!” Helena’s face looked almost completely different with the giant, shit-eating grin she sported as she gestured to six young girls grouped around a flat-screen television, all with video game controllers in their hands and surrounded by bowls of various snacks and bottles of soda.

“Just because you guys are ancient doesn’t make us kids,” fired back a tall, blonde girl in a purple sweater without even looking up from the TV screen. “Anyways, Cass and I are only here because Zinda promised to slip us one of her special cocktails at midnight.” 

Helena narrowed her eyes at the shorter, dark-haired girl sprawled out next to the blonde, who just smiled and gave a what-can-you-do shrug. 

“Not under my watch, she’s not. Unless we’re suddenly a year in the future and you both are 21, there will be no underage drinking tonight.”

“Can’t be watching us… when you’re busy watching her,” the dark-haired girl replied smugly. 

Helena sputtered violently at that and the entire group dissolved into giggles. Renee noted that all of them were teenagers with the somewhat incongruous exception of a nine-year old who was busy shoving handfuls of M&M’s into her mouth. Two of the girls were blonde, three, including the nine-year old, had black hair and one of them had bright red hair. 

Blushing furiously, Helena spoke loudly over their snickers, “ANYWAYS. These gremlins are Stephanie, Cass, Mia, Lori, Charlie and Sin and they are all little shits. Enjoy your video game, girls, Renee and I are going to go talk with the adults now.” She said the last part pointedly, giving a killer stink eye to the rambunctious group. Tilting her head, she signaled to Renee that it was time to move along. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, Helena…” Renee began talking as they weaved their way past countless obnoxious New Year’s themed decorations.

“What the hell are the Birds of Prey doing partying with a bunch of kids?” Helena flashed her signature sharp smile at Renee who felt her treacherous heart thump a little harder.

“Yeah, pretty much,” she’d only worked with the Birds a few times but she’d never seen any of those girls with them before. Although, a few of them did look awfully familiar.

“They’re family,” Helena replied. When Renee only looked more confused at her response, she explained further, “Steph and Cass are Spoiler and Batgirl. Cass is basically Babs’ daughter and where Cass goes, Steph goes. Mia is Speedy and like a surrogate daughter to Dinah and Sin is Dinah’s actual, adopted daughter. Lori and Charlie tried to get into the superhero business a while back and Babs basically took them in. She keeps them housed and fed and going to school and loves them like daughters, too. So, yeah, they’re family.” 

Renee and Helena had stopped walking at some point in their conversation and were now standing between a set of giant, glittery numbers spelling out the upcoming year and the largest, most elaborate display of cupcakes Renee had ever seen. While Helena talked, Renee tried her hardest not to stare at her exposed abdomen or her leather-clad legs and, in doing so, found herself watching her full, dark purple-painted lips move as they formed words that Renee was definitely supposed to be listening to. After they’d stopped moving for a few seconds, Renee’s gaze snapped up to Helena’s sparkling brown eyes and blushed at her knowing look.

“That’s … pretty awesome that you guys have, like, a superhero family,” Renee ended up saying.

“Yeah, it kind of is.” Helena’s hand brushed against Renee’s.

Renee stopped breathing for a second.

“HEY YOU LOVE BIRDS! Stop hiding over here and come join the par-tay!” 

Popping out from behind the giant, glittery 2 came Zinda Blake in all her obnoxiously loud and exuberantly happy glory. She was wearing the classic bartender outfit of slim, dark pants and black vest over a white shirt and her blonde hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She had a devilish smirk on her face as she wiggled her eyebrows at Renee and Helena. 

“Zinda! We weren’t even-” Helena started to snap at her but Zinda just laughed and turned back the direction she came from. 

“I’m just bustin’ your chops, Hel. But you really should come say hi to some more people or they’ll start wondering what you two are up to.”

Zinda winked at the two of them then began walking toward another group of women, clearly expecting Helena and Renee to follow, which the two women did after only a brief glance at each other’s embarrassed face. 

In quick succession, Helena greeted and Renee was introduced to a Cindy, Kendra (who she was pretty sure was freaking Hawkgirl), Sonia, Kate (Spencer, not Kane) and Dawn. They were all friendly and welcoming (and evidently more than a little drunk) but Renee could have sworn as soon as Zinda led them away, they all started whispering and … did money exchange hands? 

Renee still wasn’t sure whether she’d made the right decision, deciding to come to this party with Helena. She obviously enjoyed spending time with her and the party wasn’t awful or anything, but she just felt … out of place among all these team members, who knew each other so well. She had turned down a quiet night at Kate and Maggie’s for this! And why? Because she thought, just maybe, Helena had invited her because she was interested in her as more than a friend? Renee felt stupid for even thinking that could be the case. Even if Helena did think she was attractive, she’d never once done anything to truly indicate that she felt something romantic for Renee. And after her comment back at Renee’s apartment … well, they didn’t talk much about Renee’s past struggles with addiction but Renee felt surer than ever that anyone who knew that about her would never be able to feel anything more than pity for her. 

Lost deeply in thought, Renee hadn’t even realized that they had reached the elaborate bar at the other end of the loft. Zinda slid behind the counter and started mixing, in Renee’s opinion, far too many liquids from different bottles together in an enormous mixer. Seated right by the bar was Barbara Gordon, Oracle herself, and Renee’s old boss’s daughter. She still couldn’t quite wrap her head around Jim Gordon’s little girl being the mysterious and all-knowing Oracle that every superhero and vigilante had asked for help from at least once. And sprawled across Barbara’s lap, her fish-net clad legs dangling over the arm of her wheelchair was Dinah Lance, the Black Canary. Even though Renee had met Dinah and even worked briefly with her before, she still felt a bit awe-struck in the presence of the stunning blonde. Her reverie was quickly ended, though, as Black Canary was, well, pretty damn plastered, if the empty glass in her hand and the glazed look in her eyes was any indication.

“Whatever was in this drink, Zind, is fucking magical,” she slurred in Zinda’s general direction while Barbara ran her hands through her sweaty, messy hair. “I feel unshtoppa- umshoppab-” 

Dinah frowned as she struggled to articulate the word, then shrugged, “I feel like dancing! Take me back to the dance floor, Babs!” She ordered imperiously while stumbling off of her lap and beginning to stagger back to where some of the others were dancing to some music that was undoubtedly selected by one of the teenagers. Now that Dinah was out of Barbara’s lap, Renee could see that the mighty Oracle was also wasted, though not nearly as much, and she watched as she wheeled off after Dinah. 

Helena had a funny look on her face as she also followed her two best friends progress across the room. After a minute, she realized she was staring and turned back to Renee, who was feeling and looking quite lost again.

She started to apologize, “I’m so sorry, Renee, I really didn’t think they’d be this drunk already. I know they’re the only other ones you really know here and I thought -” 

Renee cut her off. “It’s New Year’s Eve, people get drunk, it’s fine, Helena. It really doesn’t bother me.” 

Helena continued to look upset, though, so Renee turned to Zinda and asked, “Any chance you’ve got something non-alcoholic back there that’s not soda?” 

Zinda paused mid-shake. 

“On New Year’s Eve, lady? You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me! I’ll mix you up something so divine, you won’t even taste the alcohol-”

As Zinda spoke, three things occurred in quick succession. Helena attempted to leap over the bar, whether to slap a hand over Zinda’s unthinking mouth or strangle her, it’s impossible to know, because even Helena Bertinelli can only do so much while wearing the world’s tightest leather pants. Instead of cleanly soaring over the bar, she crashed into it, knocking bottles and glasses every which way. As everyone in the tower started to look toward the commotion, Renee Montoya took off toward the closest set of doors, which turned out to lead to a small balcony on the south-facing side of the tower. And, lastly, Zinda Blake’s brain caught up with that fast-shooting mouth of hers and she remembered that Helena had already told them that Renee abstained from drinking, and while she could be around alcohol, maybe don’t offer her any? 

“Hel, sweetie, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t even thinkin’,” Zinda said, as Helena peeled herself off of the bartop and ignoring Zinda’s apologies and the mess of glass and liquor, rushed to the very doors Renee had just gone through. 

Helena burst through the double doors out into the freezing, wintry air. She wasn’t sure what she expected to see out there but it almost certainly wasn’t Renee laughing her ass off, already covered in melting snowflakes and surrounded by an assortment of incongruously green plants. 

Pausing in confusion, Helena managed one word, “What-”

Renee caught sight of her disheveled and distraught appearance and just started laughing harder. 

“How are there … fucking tropical plants growing out here?” She wheezed. “It’s below fucking freezing.” 

Still baffled, Helena responded, “Um… during a mission, we, er, liberated some of Poison Ivy’s experiments and after Babs determined they weren’t dangerous or anything, she put them out here. Turns out they’re, like, immune to the weather or some shit.”

“That actually makes a lot of sense.” 

As Helena was talking, Renee slowly pulled herself together and grew more somber. Helena started to move toward her.

“I should’ve known this was a bad idea.”

“...what?” Helena stopped in her tracks at Renee’s words.

“Coming here. To a Birds of Prey New Year’s Eve party. I don’t belong here… I’m the Question not fucking Hawkgirl or Black Canary or whatever.” 

“I don’t have any special powers, either.” Helena frowned. “And you do belong here. Because I invited you.”

Renee shook her head and turned to look at the view from the balcony. “Kate said this was a bad idea. I should’ve just listened to her.” 

Helena’s frown grew bigger. “Of course, this is really about Kate Kane,” she muttered.

Renee whipped around. “What the fuck do you mean ‘of course it’s really about Kate Kane?” 

“I mean that you’re still in love with her! And you can’t let yourself be happy with anything or anyone that’s not her!” Helena’s eyes widened as the words left her lips and she slapped her hand over mouth, but it was too late.

Renee’s eyes narrowed. “You think I’m still in love with Kate? And so, what, you invited me to this party to try and protect me from her? Just like you’re trying to protect me from alcohol? I don’t need your fucking protection, Helena!” 

Helena reeled backwards at that. “No! I-I didn’t- I never-” She slowed. “You think I’m trying to protect you, Renee?”

“Well, yeah,” Renee answered. “That’s why you can’t act normal around me and alcohol and you freak out whenever I talk about Kate…” She trailed off at the look on Helena’s face.

“Renee… I don’t think I need to protect you. You’re just about the biggest badass in Gotham City, if not the entire planet!” Helena exclaimed.

“Bigger than Batman?”

“Easily bigger than Batman.” Helena started to move toward Renee again. “I - I was acting so weird tonight because I’m really fucking nervous, okay? And, I know I can be an inconsiderate bitch sometimes, and there’s so much alcohol on New Year’s Eve and I just didn’t want to act or say anything bitchy. And so I acted like a fucking idiot instead who thinks you can’t handle being around alcohol. I’m so stupid,” Helena spun and slammed her fist against the wall of the tower. 

In the span of just five minutes, Renee had gone from feeling completely and utterly foolish and desperate to this wild, electric buzzing under her skin as Helena explained her actions. She licked her dry lips. 

“And… the stuff with Kate…” 

Helena didn’t face her. Staring at the wall, she said quietly, “I act weird when you talk about Kate because I know you’re still in love with her and … I’m so in love with you it physically hurts me to hear you be in love with someone who doesn’t love you back.”

Renee tapped on Helena’s shoulder. As Helena turned around, slowly, to face her, Renee slid both her hands up Helena’s muscular arms and grabbed her face gently. 

“You idiot,” but she said it like she didn’t really think Helena was an idiot. At all. And she stretched up on her tiptoes and placed the lightest kiss on those stupid purple lips of hers.

Helena’s eyes fluttered shut and Renee couldn’t help admiring the way her long, dark lashes brushed against her cheekbones. 

“You’re … not in love with Kate?” Helena whispered, too scared to open her eyes or move a muscle, lest Renee vanish into the dark night.

“Kate… is my best friend. My first love. But she has Maggie, now, and I … I … have you. If you’ll have me?”

Helena smiled tearily and pressed her lips against Renee’s again. This time it was not light and it was not gentle.

And they stood like that, wrapped in each others arms, kissing in the snowy night air, until Zinda opened the doors, Dinah and Babs (both far more sober then they’d been earlier in the night) behind her. 

Simultaneously, the trio’s faces moved through showing concern, shock and, finally, happiness, entirely unnoticed by Renee and Helena. 

Dinah finally cleared her throat and spoke, “You guys okay out here? Well, midnight’s in ten minutes. if you were curious, but it, uh, seems like you’ve got this handled.” 

They so had it handled. 

[irandrura]

The Elder Scrolls - a disclaimer and rant

I am going to make some posts about The Elder Scrolls, and in particular, its background, setting, and characters. That means that a disclaimer is probably necessary.

Here’s the tl;dr version: yes, I know about the lore. Please trust me when I say that I was really super into it about a decade and a half ago, and I’ve kept an eye on it since. I have read the Michael Kirkbride forum posts. I have read C0DA, The Seven Fights of the Aldudagga, Sermon Zero, the Loveletter from the Fifth Era, and so on. I know the forum roleplays like The Trial of Vivec. I know that Ayrenn is really a time-travelling mining robot from outer space. I think all the stuff I just referenced varies widely in quality, opinions quite reasonably differ on it, and it’s frequently at odds with what’s actually depicted in the games, but at any rate, I promise that I know it.

So when I go on and talk about Psijics – I know, all right? I know. I am choosing to engage with the setting on a level that focuses more on characters, human stories, and, well, the narratives of the games. The TES apocrypha is interesting, but of limited relevance to the things I’m interested in. There are many valid ways to enjoy TES. Okay?

Now, the longer part:

If you haven’t played TES, and… actually, scratch that, for like 90% of people who’ve played TES, none of the above needed to be said. The thing is, when you play a TES game, it is a fairly straightforward elves-and-wizards-and-dragons fantasy setting in the D&D mould. Indeed, the earliest versions of it, back in the 90s, were based on a D&D campaign. So there’s relatively little surprising about it, and “it’s like D&D” will carry you most of the way towards understanding it.

However, TES games are also renowned for containing lots of in-game books you can read, which are often some of the most striking and evocative parts of the games. These are supplemented by a large library of apocrypha: often unofficial material, posted by developers (and ex-developers) on the internet. The most infamous of these writers is Michael Kirkbride, who has some… very unusual tastes and interests, but there are a range of other names as well. In any case, the result is that TES has an ‘expanded universe’ composed of these non-canonical writings. Often canonical texts in-game hint at some of this vast, unofficial hinterland, and sometimes ideas invented in the apocrypha sneak back into the games themselves.

Further, the apocrypha often hints at what seems to be a very different setting to the one directly experienced in the games: one that’s less about warriors and wizards and adventure and more one about divine magic, transcendence, myth, and meaning. The descriptions often seem to be somewhat at odds. This can best be demonstrated with some examples.

For instance, here is Michael Kirkbride’s description of a High Elf warship, written before any game had depicted the High Elf homeland:

Made of crystal and solidified sunlight, with wings though they do not fly, and prows that elongate into swirling Sun-Birds, and gem-encrusted mini-trebuchets fit for sailing which fire pure aetheric fire, and banners, banners, banners, listing their ancestors all the way back to the Dawn.

This is Old Mary at Water.

 You will immediately notice two things. The first is that this sounds really cool. Some of it you need some context to parse (the old elven homeland is called ‘Aldmeris’, hence ‘Old Mary’ as a mocking nickname given by its foes; the High Elves believe that they are literally, genealogically descended from the spirits that created the world at the Dawn), but even so, man, that warship sounds awesome. This Kirkbride guy can write. The second thing, though, is that it is extremely unclear what any of this even means. Given that descriptions… what does this ship look like? Try to picture it! What the heck does ‘crystal and solidified sunlight’ look like? How exactly does a trebuchet throw fire? What?

You might then go on to play a video game where the High Elves are taking part in a war to conquer the continent. If you’re like me, you’re probably keen to see one of these fabled warships. But then it turns out that in-game, High Elf ships look… like this. Or like this.

(Indeed, the High Elves are often a good example of this. An earlier written text, in a pamphlet enclosed with the video game Redguard, described the elven capital of Alinor as “made from glass or insect wings” or “a hypnotic swirl of ramparts and impossibly high towers, designed to catch the light of the sun and break it into its component colours”. Needless to say, should you visit it in a game, it does not look like that.)

After a while, you start to notice that there is very little connection between the world implied by the apocrypha and the world experienced in the games. Kirkbride says that the “closest mythical model” for the ancient knight Pelinal “would be Gilgamesh, with a dash of T-800 thrown in, and a full-serving of brain-fracture slaughterhouse antinomial Kill(3) functions stuck in his hand or head”, and says “Pelinal was and is an insane collective swarmfoam war-fractal from the future”. Indeed in Kirkbride’s descriptions Pelinal seems to have been an ultraviolent schizophrenic who led a wild, genocidal band of anti-elven warriors, was very definitely gay, and who had only a red, gaping hole where his heart ought to be (which in turn is a reference to the missing heart of the creator-trickster deity Lorkhan, whom Pelinal was in part a mortal incarnation of). You might find that really cool or you might find it banal, but there’s no denying that it’s extremely different to the Pelinal whose ghost you can meet in-game. The apocryphal Pelinal is a mad butcher whose closest mythic model, contra Kirkbride, actually seems to be Achilles; the game Pelinal is a straightforwardly sympathetic chivalric knight. This is complicated somewhat by the in-game books being written by Kirkbride and therefore being gonzo bananas insane, so the ‘canon’, such as it is, is unclear – but at any rate it is impossible to deny that there’s an incongruity.

I could go on with examples for a long time. I haven’t even mentioned the most famous – the 1st edition PGE description of Cyrodiil compared to what it actually looks like in Oblivion – or more recent ones, like the gulf between Alduin the mythic dragon who will consume the world and indeed time itself in its terrible jaws and the frankly quite underwhelming beastie you fight in Skyrim. The point I’m making is that there are effectively two TES settings: one relatively down-to-earth, immersive, and depicted in great detail in the video games, and one that’s this absurd mash-up of magic and science fiction and whatever psychedelics Michael Kirkbride has been taking this week.

I write this long disclaimer because it has been my experience discussing TES in the past that people who are mostly interested in the former – in the relatively grounded setting experience in the games – sometimes run into an elitist attitude from people who are interested in the latter. Sometimes fans of the apocrypha can come on much too strong, or gatekeep the idea of being a fan of ‘TES lore’. Any sentence that starts with “actually, in the lore…” is practically guaranteed to go on to be awful.

My point is not that the apocryphal TES is bad. As I hinted above, in my opinion its quality varies extremely widely: there are things that Kirkbride has written that I think are pretty cool (I unironically love the Aldudagga) and there are things he’s written that I think are indulgent tripe (C0DA stands out). Ultimately it’s all about what you enjoy, and I would never try to tell anyone that they shouldn’t have fun reading or speculating about or debating the zaniness of some of these texts. Indeed, as far as online fandoms and video game fan fiction goes, TES probably has the most fruitful ‘expanded universe’ that I’ve ever seen, and I think that’s wonderful. Kirkbride himself has said that “it’s really all interactive fiction, and that should mean something to everyone” and “TES should be Open Source”, which is a position I wholeheartedly endorse – and does a lot to take the edges off some of the worse things he’s said.

Rather, my point is that everyone should enjoy what they feel most interested in, or most able to enjoy. Further, I argue that there is absolutely nothing wrong – and for that matter absolutely nothing less intelligent or less intellectual – about a person preferring to engage with the version of TES most clearly depicted in the video games. Part of this might be defensiveness on my part, because in my opinion what TES has always done best is a nuanced depiction of cultural conflict: this is particularly the case in Morrowind and Skyrim, and ESO’s better expansions tend to deal in this area as well. As such I take relatively little interest in the metaphysical content of much of the apocrypha. For me, Shor, say, is most interesting as the protagonist of several conflicting cultural narratives, rather than as a metaphysical essence.

I would also argue that the most recent game content has taken a good approach by going out of its way to legitimise a range of possible approaches to the setting. The latest chapter of ESO, Greymoor, includes a system where the player can dig up ancient artifacts, and a number of NPC scholars will comment on them for you. This allows the game to indicate in-character scholarly disagreement over issues fans have previously debated. One item shows disagreement over whether the mythical character Morihaus was literally a bull, or a minotaur, or whether he was a human allegorically referred to as a bull. Another one points to disagreement over the possibility of magical spaceships: apocryphal materials have referred to ‘Sunbirds of Alinor’, ‘Reman Mananauts’, etc., as sorts of magical astronauts, but that seems so ridiculous given what we’ve seen in the games as to be easily discounted. I like items like this in-game because they seem to say to players, “It’s okay to disagree over questions like this – no one is doing TES wrong.”

That said, I am reasonably positive that I’m in the minority here, because I am in the camp that usually says that legends exaggerate, and so Morihaus probably wasn’t a bull and magical spaceships don’t exist. This is not a popular position. My reason, of course, is that I think tales are more likely to grow in the telling rather than shrink, and I have a dozen of what I think are hard-to-deny examples of this happening in TES (e.g. heroic narratives of the War of Betony are very different to the grubby reality you uncover in Daggerfall, or Tiber Septim is almost certainly from Alcaire rather than Atmora). However, this means that I openly take an opposite methodology to Michael Kirkbride. Kirkbride was once asked by a forum poster whether some in-game writings are exaggerated. His reply was: “I prefer, "It is very possible, as is the case throughout this magical world, that some of the exaggerated claims made about some subjects pale in comparison to the Monkey Truth. ZOMGWTFGIANTFEATHEREDFLUTYRANTS."”

Needless to say, I find this implausible, and it means that, for example, I interpret the Remanada as an obvious piece of propaganda, inventing a story about Alessia’s ghost in order to retroactively explain why Reman, probably born the son of a hill chieftain with zero connection to the previous dynasty, really has imperial blood. This is a very different but in my opinion more historically plausible take than Kirkbride’s, who has a naked thirteen year old Reman standing atop his harem and slaughtering recalcitrant followers.

I’m not saying that my approach is objectively correct. It’s all fiction – and as Kirkbride said, TES is open source. The only thing that matters is what you the reader, player, or interpreter find the most interesting. For me, that means generally favouring what is seen in the games over the developer apocrypha, which I can take or leave.

At any rate.

I’m going to go on and make some more fannish posts about stuff in ESO that I liked.

Just… if it’s relevant, be aware that I am familiar with the zany stuff. Some of it I like, a lot of it I don’t like, and I feel no obligation to use it if I don’t like it.

There. Disclaimer over.

[is-it-art-tho]

Summary: After a truly crappy week, Bats and Jim decide they could both use a breather.

Jim Gordon sighed as he leaned back heavily against the brick wall, slick with freezing rain that had just begun to fall. He popped his collar as a bitter wind sliced through his duster to cut straight to the bone. His old joints ached in protest against the cold and he hissed a cursed, rubbing his eyes under his glasses.

It had been an exceptionally rough week, the kind that made him long for the early days, back when the worst things he had to worry about were petty drug dealers and domestic assault cases. Back then, most officers didn’t even wear Kevlar half the time. They walked the streets armed with a badge and a rarely used gun and felt invincible, wholly confident in their ability to stand between the public and those who meant to do harm. Back then, the uniform and the badge had been enough – more than enough to discourage most crime, and where the uniform and badge failed, it didn’t take much more to straighten things out.

But now as he watched as a dozen officers struggled to drag Killer Croc’s unconscious body out of the harbor, he couldn’t help but scoff at the hellish circus the city had become. Now most officers didn’t wear Kevlar, not out of a sense of safety, but rather a sense of futility. Standing against Croc or Bane or even Freeze, Kevlar would only slow the inevitable.

Some time not too long ago, a new darkness had spilled over the city like rain, and a wicked breed of evil had crept up from the sewers in its wake, ushering a new, horrible era that even now he couldn’t begin to explain, let alone accept. It was the stuff of nightmares; the sort of horrors that now plagued the city on a near constant basis used to be considered “once in a lifetime.”

But this week - this godforsaken week - had been one for the books, even in Gotham.

Jim’s phone chimed and he spared a glance from the scene in front of him to peek at the notification. It was a confirmation message letting him know that Harley and the Penguin had been safely returned to Arkham. Croc was basically as good as done at this point, which left only Ivy to worry about. Last he’d heard, his guys had her cornered in a plant nursery at the natural sciences museum. It was by no means an ideal location for a standoff with her, but Batman was there too, which just about evened the odds as much as anything anyone could hope for. It was the only reason he wasn’t on his way there now. That, and the fact that he was fairly certain that even if he left now and blew through every stop on the way there, he’d get there long after the fight was over, for better or worse. Fights with Ivy were fierce, but rarely very long.

Jim sighed again and tapped a cigarette free from the pack. The gentle thump and scuff of boots on damp pavement behind him only proved his point, and he said without turning around, “Ivy?”

“Neutralized.” Batman stepped forward so that they were side by side, coughing slightly, his eyes on Croc.

The officers had been trying to work by sheer manpower alone for nearly twenty minutes before Bullock, sweating an irritated, finally shouted, “For the love of– just rig ‘im up to one of the trucks already!” Now a few chains were looped onto Croc’s pants, the other ends hooked onto the back of a fire engine, and they were slowly backing him out of the water.

Jim noticed Batman’s arm wrapped around his torso, clutching his side. He assumed the gesture was meant to be inconspicuous, hidden almost entirely under the thick cape, and knowing Batman, it could mean anything from a simple bruise to a punctured lung. Or worse.

Without another word, he shook free a second cigarette and held it out.

“I don’t smoke,” Batman said.

“Humor me.”

To Jim’s mild surprise, and perhaps underscoring his belief that this had in fact been a spectacularly awful week, Batman took the cigarette and held it while Jim lit both of them.

It didn’t escape the older man’s notice that the black gloved hand trembled slightly, and Jim knew enough about the insulation of the suit, having seen Batman stand comfortably in significantly harsher conditions, to know that it wasn’t from the cold.

Batman took a slow drag, the butt flaring then fading again in the darkness, and exhaled a cloud of smoke and condensation into the frosty air.

They stood like that for a while, wrapped in silence as they watched the officers work. Well, to be fair Jim was only half-watching the officers, one eye glued to Batman. He smelled faintly botanical, sweet like nectar but also bitter and sharp like vinegar and acid. Small patches of his cape were missing, ragged holes that looked reminiscent of burn marks, and a light dusting of gold covered most of his body. Pollen, Jim assumed.

So, she’d put up a hell of a fight then.

“You’re staring, Jim.”

The older man jumped like a child caught stealing a cookie and redirected his gaze to the scene. “Christ,” he muttered, rubbing his neck somewhat sheepishly. “Here I thought I was being slick.”

Batman dropped the cigarette and snuffed it into the wet pavement. “Was there anything else?”

“No, thank God. I think that’s everything.”

“Then you should get home. Get some rest,” Batman said, turning to leave.

It was one of the few times Jim had had the chance to actually watch Batman leave rather than be left talking to the open air. He watched the man reach for a grapple beneath his cape and felt something drop into the pit of his stomach as he thought about the ride home.

No, he couldn’t go home. It was something Jim had learned soon after he’d gotten married, back when he was still new to the job. He couldn’t go straight home after a rough night. No matter how much he might want to, he knew he needed to get his head on straight before he walked through the door. Make sure he was ready to interact, to be a father and a husband, to be with his family. Otherwise, the events of the night clung to him like smoke, wafting with him from room to room and turning him into something dour and unapproachable. It wasn’t fair to his family or anyone around him, and he’d learned that the hard way, but he’d learned it all the same.

But this was one of those unique nights where the thought of being alone was almost worse. The way his mind was racing, had been racing for the past few days, the last thing he wanted was to be left to his own devices. To think about all the ways he’d screwed up, all the people who had been endangered or worse because of a clue he’d missed, a decision he’d made too slowly or blown all together. He would sit and he would think and he would descend into self-flagellation until he was just about ready to hand in his letter of resignation and fling himself into the harbor. It was a well-trodden path at this point, and one he didn’t want to revisit.

So, in a last-ditch attempt to salvage what was left of the night, Jim found himself asking, “Where are you headed?”

Batman paused and tossed a curious look over his shoulder. It was hard to tell through the mask, but Jim got the feeling he had an eyebrow raised.

“Is something wrong,” Batman asked.

“No, no, I was just…” Jim took a breath and jammed his half-frozen hands into his pockets, feeling impossibly foolish. What was he doing? “It’s been a rough week,” he continued. “And I was just…” His sentence trailed off with another deep sigh. “Eh, never mind. It was nothing.”

Batman kept his eyes on him, appraising him the way Jim had seen him study countless crime scenes. It made him feel strangely vulnerable, almost nude.

“Are you hungry?” Batman asked suddenly.

And even though he was one of the most infuriatingly inscrutable men in the world, Jim knew him well enough by now to recognize this for what it was. A small lifeline.

“Starving,” Jim grinned, dropping his cigarette to crush it underfoot. “There’s a little hole in the wall on 4th.”

“McLaren’s?”

“That’s the one.” Jim was beyond amused by the idea that Batman might be familiar with the little mom & pop health code violation they called a diner. He imagined him strolling in for a milkshake at 2 in the morning, cowl and all, and having an autographed portrait added to the wall of celebrity customers.

Jim glanced back at the scene. They’d finally hauled Croc into one of the armored vans and were just beginning to clear out.

“We’re just about done here,” he said. “Give me about 10 minutes and I should– Goddammit.” He was talking to himself again. Perhaps the first time had been a fluke.

About thirty minutes later, Jim was pulling up in front of the little diner, the windows papered with sun damaged menu items and flashing neon lights, and the only place still open at this ungodly hour. A bell chimed as he stepped in, immediately blinded by the contrast from wintry night to bright fluorescent interior.

“Gordy!” the round man at the grill shouted by way of greeting.

“Pauly.” Jim was too tired to return the same vigor, but he offered a smile, tugging off his coat that was now heavy with rain and stiff with cold.

Without another word between them, Pauly threw a few extra ingredients on the flat-top grill to start preparing Jim’s usual.

In the back, a dark figure was hunched in the corner booth by a window, completely incongruous with the otherwise ordinary setting, like a Tesla in a Norman Rockwell painting.

He caught Pauly’s eye then, and Pauly shot him wary half-raise of an eyebrow as if to say, What the hell you got going on here? and Am I gonna have to update my insurance policy on this place? and Do you think he’ll sign a photo?

Jim just shrugged in a way he hoped was reassuring then made his way back to the booth and slipped in. Batman was leaning over a half-drained mug of coffee, his head in his hand, and though Jim couldn’t see his eyes through the white lenses in the mask, he could’ve sworn the other man was dozing off.

“Surprised you’re sitting with your back to the door,” Jim noted. “Thought you were too paranoid for that sort of thing.”

Batman simply gestured toward the chrome napkin holder, angled in such a way that he had a clear view of the entire restaurant behind him. Of course.

Jim chuckled and shook his head as Pauly came over with a glass of Coke. He held up a coffee pot, offering to refill Batman’s cup, but Batman held up a tired hand and Pauly returned to the kitchen.

“So,” Jim began, tapping his straw against the table to open it, “made it through another one.”

“Hn.” Batman rubbed his face in an exhausted and somewhat startlingly human gesture and coughed, groaning a little.

Jim was fairly certain he’d never seen Batman so openly… human before. Even after some of their worst scrapes when Batman was practically bleeding out or loaded with some sort of toxin, he had always stood tall, stoic, betraying not even a hint of weakness. After a while, it had only added to the legend of it all.

Batman: the man who did not sleep, who bled but did not feel pain.

He’d taken on a mythos, became something larger than himself. Jim had watched the transformation with his own two eyes, had seen the way the conversation shifted around him in the precinct and on the streets. In the months after Batman’s first appearance, he went from being the crazy man in a costume to the lurking force that hung over the city the same way clouds always seemed to – at once haunting and familiar.

He’d known all along that the stories of his exploits were overblown, but he’d let them grow anyway because he also knew how necessary it was that the city believed them, that they saw Batman as this otherworldly entity. It was the only way for any of it to work. Batman’s very name, the signal in the sky, they had to be backed by an unshakeable belief that he was something more than a man.

Because it wasn’t enough to be a good man. Not here; not anymore. Good men didn’t scare criminals, not the kind that stalked the streets of Gotham. And good men didn’t last long in these parts, besides. Harvey Dent’s presence in Arkham was a painful, permanent reminder of that fact. And it was Harvey Dent, along with other fallen or corrupted good men, who solidified the cynicism that clung to the hearts of most Gothamites like a parasite and made it nearly impossible for them to take any solace in the efforts or words of simple good men.

In a battle against devils, men simply did not do.

No, they needed something more, something greater. They needed a legend, a story whispered over barrel fires and on street corners, an ever-present threat to those who prowled the shadows and a hope for those searching for the light.

They needed Batman.

And Jim was mature enough to admit that he needed it, too. He clung to the stories, craved them the same way a child might cling to Santa Clause – a desperate last attempt at hope in this city that seemed to try its damnedest to crush it.

But now, sitting across from Batman and getting a chance to really look at him up close in something other than the dim lit of a rooftop or back alley, and seeing the drawn lines in his face and the weary drag in his voice, Jim couldn’t help but kick himself for being so foolish, so selfish. It was one thing for the city to believe the stories, but he didn’t have that luxury. He couldn’t. Because at the end of the day there needed to be at least one person out there who saw Batman for who he really was: just a good man trying to save the city from itself.

Someone had to see that – had to know that.

Otherwise, who would save the Batman from the city?

And when Batman coughed again and stretched his neck painfully from side to side, wincing as he did, Jim kicked himself again. He’d noticed from the first moment that Batman seemed worse for wear, yet never once had he suggested any medical intervention, however futile the offer might be. And he vowed in that moment to do better at remembering that this man before him was just that.

A man.

“You all right?” Jim asked in a belated attempt to do what he should’ve done almost an hour ago. And many times, before that. “If you want, I can get one of the guys to give you a once over.”

“I’m fine,” Batman said, his eyes scrunched.

Sitting here, Batman’s chest and arms were visible beneath the cape, and Jim could get a better read on the extent of the damage. The burns he’d noticed in the cape itself were also on his torso, leaving holes in the fabric that revealed the tough, lightweight armor beneath, and Jim recognized the telltale slashes across his chest and biceps left by Ivy’s thorny vines, some of them slicing clean through to the skin. There was a particularly deep gash across Batman’s left side, and when he noticed Jim staring, he let the cape fall a bit more to cover himself.

“Really,” he added with a slight edge in his voice.

Jim put up his hands in surrender. “Hey, listen. I’m not your mother. If you say you’re fine,” he shrugged, taking a swig from his Coke, and he could’ve sworn he saw some tension seep out of Batman’s shoulders, as if he’d been bracing himself for a battle on this issue.

Jim was a caring man, and he could worry and nag with the best of them, but he was also an old man, and tired. And the last thing he intended to do tonight on top of everything else was argue with another grown man about a damn checkup.

“What do you usually do after nights like this?” he asked, pivoting easily. “I’m assuming by the nervous sweats on Pauly’s collar that you’re not exactly a regular here.”

“No,” Batman granted. “Usually, I go for a drive.”

“Huh. I would’ve thought you’d just go right home. Crawl into bed and pass out.”

“Sometimes, but not always. Nights like this… I need to be alone for a while. Clear my head, wait for the adrenaline to wear off.”

It hadn’t occurred to Jim that the Batman might live with other people. He wondered what that looked like. A wife? A family? He found himself imagining the Christmas card – a smiling family in matching sweaters and then… Batman. His lips curled into a smile around the straw in his mouth.

But he also understood the sentiment exactly, and he nodded, saying, “I hear ya,” while suppressing the million questions burning at the back of his throat about Batman’s home life. Not the time, not the place, and not his business.

“Do you want to, uh… Do you want to talk about it?” he asked after a brief pause. “What happened, I mean?” Jim’s eyes flicked back and forth between his Coke and Batman’s face, suddenly feeling wildly out of his depth. He figured it was a necessary question to ask, especially given everything that had happened, but he felt impossibly unqualified to have the conversation with this man in particular.

“No,” Batman said after another moment, staring out the window at the sparse, pre-dawn traffic. If Jim were anybody else or any younger, he might have flushed with embarrassment.

Because of course Batman didn’t want to talk about it with him. What could he possibly offer by way of advice or comfort to the man who had saved the entire city – hell, the world – on multiple occasions; who had fought battles in different solar systems and gone toe to toe with aliens and demigods? Comparatively, Jim was a nobody, practically irrelevant in the grand scheme of things.

Self-pity wasn’t a familiar sensation for him, and he shifted uncomfortably in the overstuffed seat, cringing as the plastic covering whined beneath him.

“Not about tonight,” Batman continued.

Jim blinked, confused, and Batman went on a little hesitantly. “Let’s just… talk.”

“Oh.” The response felt incredibly lame coming out of his mouth and seemed to plop onto the table between them, but he was so caught off guard that he didn’t know what else to say.

It looked almost like Batman was suddenly unsure, because he immediately straightened in his seat, and his expression became more guarded, that familiar stoicism returning to his mouth and all of the apparent exhaustion evaporating in an instant.

“You’re right,” he said quickly, even though Jim hadn’t said anything. “It’s unnecessary. And you’re probably tired. You should go.”

Batman had just begun to slide out of the booth – wincing in pain as he went – when Jim reached out a hand.

“Hey, hey, wait a second. At this point I won’t be getting to sleep anytime soon, and I’ll bet the same goes for you. Now, I plan to sit here, eat my roast beef sandwich and maybe get an extra order of fries. I can’t force you, but if you wanna sit here with me and talk about something other than criminally insane meta humans and murder and armed robberies, I’d like that quite a bit.”

Batman held his gaze for a moment, still halfway between sitting and standing as Pauly returned and set two plates down on the table. A hefty roast beef sandwich pierced with a toothpick and topped with a pickle for Jim and a Philly cheesesteak for Batman. Jim couldn’t tell if it was his little speech or the food that pushed him over the edge, but Batman settled back into the seat, a little stiff, but apparently ready to stay for at least as long as it took to finish the sandwich.

Jim grinned as he watched him drag over a ketchup and squirt it into the center of the sandwich. The whole image was just so surreal he wouldn’t have been surprised if his alarm went off in a minute and he woke up only to realize the whole thing had been a dream.

“So then,” Jim said around a mouthful of bread and meat, “seen any good movies lately?”

[tlbodine]

Strange Dark Fairy Tales

A weird duo of horror movies from the 1980s this week. They’re not really on a theme, but they also...kind of totally are on a theme? 

Hellraiser (1987), was written and directed by Clive Barker as an adaptation of his novella The Hell-Bound Heart.  It’s about a woman who lures strange men into her house so she can sacrifice them to her undead lover (who happens to be her husband’s brother) so that he can put his body back together after having been ripped apart by demons he summoned after opening a portal to hell while pursuing forbidden heights of pleasure and sensation. 

Basically. 

Look. In order to understand Clive Barker’s fiction, it helps to know a bit about the guy. He’s multi-talented -- professionally writing, painting, and directing for both film and stage. He’s openly gay. He worked as a male prostitute early in his career to help pay the bills when his writing wasn’t going well. 

Sex and religion are huge, recurring themes in Barker’s work, and Hellraiser is pretty unambiguous about it. Hell is a sex dungeon where demons deliver pleasure and pain, bringing about sensations you never thought possible before completely destroying you. 

Now, I’m just speculating here, but I don’t think it’s entirely coincidental that a gay prostitute in the 1980s would become fascinated with writing about thrilling-but-dangerous deviant sexuality. 

Ahem. Anyway. If Clive Barker didn’t invent the genre of splatterpunk -- these days what we refer to as “extreme horror,” or horror centered on violence, gore, depravity and sex -- he certainly contributed a fair amount to its development. 

Hellraiser would go on to spawn a great number of sequels, none of which Barker had much involvement with, and Pinhead (a demon-prince with a face full of nails, who is never actually called Pinhead in the canon anywhere) has become an iconic face of the horror genre. It’s actually kind of interesting, because he is in very little of the original Hellraiser, but when you happen upon a neat design, you learn to stand behind it by way of clever marketing, ya know? 

The Company of Wolves (1984) was directed by Neil Jordan, with a screenplay written by Angela Carter (adapted from a radio play, adapted from a short story, all of which she wrote). 

Almost the entirety of the film is an extended dream sequence, which itself includes several embedded narratives as stories are passed along -- it’s basically an anthology film, a nesting doll of storytelling where it’s not entirely clear what’s meant to be real. 

That said, at its most basic, it’s a retelling of Little Red Riding Hood. 

I’d never seen the film before, although I did know the story (Angela Carter’s dark fairytale reimaginings in The Bloody Chamber are some of my favorite short stories ever). And I have to say, although I’m not entirely sure what that movie really was, or exactly what it all meant, I loved it a lot.

It predates Labyrinth by two years and I really wonder whether it influenced the later film at all. Similar themes and conceits show up in both, from the fashion choices of the “demon lover” trope to the presence of life-size, animated toys and an incongruously fanciful forest. That’s a thought that demands a whole essay. 

Very fun movie, though. If you like fairy tales, I absolutely recommend it. It also has some of the absolute coolest werewolf transformation sequences. The effects are a bit rough -- like, you can absolutely tell that the animatronic is a puppet! -- but the ideas they’re evoking are really imaginative and neat. I would not be opposed to a modern remake of this movie, using today’s CGI effects, but only if it could be made by someone who deeply appreciated and understood Angela Carter’s work. 

[ellewritesathing]

So Close - S.S. XXXIV

Summary: The universe has a funny way of putting the things you want right in front of you, but just out of reach. Stiles and Y/N have been best friends ever since Scott brought him home, but when Stiles realizes that he might want to be something other than best friends, she leaves to go to some fancy private school up North. Now that she’s back though … maybe he’s got a shot? A Teen Wolf AU in which the reader has always been so close to Stiles and yet so far.

Masterlist   Prev. | Part 34

Word-count: 3.3k+

A/N: we love angst in this house 

Even though the semester had just started, you already felt like you were falling behind. You should have been used to the feeling by now, but it still felt like you were slowing sinking down with every unfinished assignment. Or being dragged. It depended on the day, if you were honest. That’s why you were so relieved when Stiles and Malia gave you an excuse to take a break from all the unfinished work that was glaring at you. 

“Hey, did you guys manage to see Lydia?” you asked, turning in your chair to get a better look at them. 

“No, I tried using my free period but she’s still in the ICU-” Stiles ducked his head to press a quick kiss to your forehead, hand staying on your shoulder as he straightened back up “-and no one outside of family is allowed in.” 

“But we did get one thing,” Malia said as she set down an old book on the library table and flipped it open. The pages of the bestiary stared up at you.

“Anything in here about half-werewolves, half-kanimas?” Kira asked, turning through the pages. 

Scott hunched over to look at the book. “The chimera,” he said in a low voice.

“Um, what?” Stiles asked. You pulled your other hand across your chest to meet the place where his hand lay on your shoulder and interlaced your fingers.

“Chimera,” Scott repeated, looking up. He took a breath and tried to explain it as clearly as he could: “It’s a creature made of incongruous parts. And if Liam said he found two burial sites, it means Tracy’s not the only one.”

“Then who’s the second chimera?” you asked. 

“And why would they bury them?” Stiles asked.

“Deaton thinks it’s part of their process,” Scott said.

“The people in masks,” Malia said. 

Her voice still sounded like it did the night Tracy was killed, still sounded scared. Malia’s whole body tensed and even her heart jumped for a second. Whatever she went through that night clearly left a mark. It also made you incredibly guilty for thinking she’d ever been the one who killed Tracy. 

No one seemed to notice your guilt as they dived back into your homework. Well, except for Stiles - he slumped into the chair next to you and kept himself busy sifting through the bestiary for anything interesting. One by one, all your friends disappeared for the night, leaving you and Stiles in the library. 

He was passed out over the bestiary and a pile of other mythology books, lightly snoring as you finished your algebra homework. You leaned over and ran a hand through his hair. 

“Stiles? Hey, babe, come on,” you said gently. Stiles somehow managed to be both a heavy and a light sleeper which made waking him up a fun little game of figuring out which it was. “Stiles-”

He shot up, swatting your arm away and you pulled it back. At least he didn’t try to punch you this time. He apologized as soon as he realized who you were and where he was. “Sorry, sorry. I- uh, I’m a little jumpy.” Stiles rubbed his face in an attempt to wake himself up. “What happened?” 

“Nothing. I just need to get home and, um, eat something,” you said, looking down and gathering your books to avoid eye contact. “I’ll meet you at your house later, okay?” 

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles said. He took a deep breath. “You need a ride or can you get home okay?” 

“I’ll be fine,” you said with a smile. You shouldered your bag and walked around the table to kiss the top of his head. “I love you. See you soon.” 

“Love you too.”

Walking around Beacon Hills at night used to be something that terrified you. Even after all your training with Derek, you could never muster up the courage to walk around by yourself in the dark. Now you knew that you were probably scarier than anything else out there in the shadows. 

Most of the time, you didn’t mind the change. Being stronger and faster than everyone had its perks, especially considering that most of the time things that were stronger and faster were usually trying to kill you. But it came at a price. Not just the craziness that came with the full moon - that you were starting to figure out - but also the near-constant hunger. If you ignored it for too long, like you had for the past few days, it started to feel like there was sand in your veins. Not just slower and weaker than everyone else, but in pain. 

The pain subsided almost seconds after you drank some blood, replaced by a sickening sense of guilt.

You checked your phone for any updates from Scott about the kid who wouldn’t stop screaming but the last thing he said was that he was headed to some club to find Lucas. Who Lucas was, you weren’t sure, clearly missing some information from people who weren’t answering their phones. 

Malia tried to call a few times but you didn’t feel like talking to her right then. So, instead, you sent off a text saying you were home safe, put your phone back in your pocket, and headed over to Stiles’ with your overnight bag and things you needed for school tomorrow. 

It was late when you got to his house and later still when you heard Stiles come home. His heart was racing and he smelled like fear, anxiety, and blood. 

You took a deep breath and tried to calm the rush that came over you every time you smelled blood. You tried to focus on Stiles, on his heartbeat, and on how much he needed you to not be a monster for five minutes.

“Stiles?” You pushed back the covers to meet him halfway but the floorboards in the hallway creaked under his weight stopping and standing still. He swore under his breath. It made you freeze in the doorway. His heartbeat was starting to scare you but you couldn’t bring yourself to go to him. 

After a few seconds that felt like hours, Stiles started taking painstakingly slow steps towards you. The blood wasn’t his. The blood was on his hands, but it wasn’t his. Thank god it wasn’t his. 

You lifted a hand to the side of his face and any sense of resolve he had left crumbled. The tears started pooling and for a second you thought he’d push you away but he pulled you closer to him at such a speed that you almost lost your balance. Your hand shot up to cradle his head and your arms tightened around his shoulders. 

His sobs broke your heart, even more so when he tried to keep them quiet so as not to wake Noah. 

“Hey, hey,” you whispered, arching your back to look Stiles in the eye. “Hey, let’s get you cleaned up, okay?” 

Stiles started trying to say something but gave up - all he did after that was nod and try to wipe his face. He froze when he realized that he’d lifted his bloody hand to do it. He stared at it like it wasn’t his, like he didn’t even recognize it. You put your hand over his and wiped his face with your free hand. 

“It’s okay.”

He didn’t believe you. 

But he did let you lead him into the bathroom and start running some warm water to wash his hands. Stiles was only ever quiet when something horrible had happened, and he was silent as you cleaned his hands, blood staining the washcloth. You knelt down to wash his face, trying to be as quiet and gentle as you could, focusing on getting the blood out instead of asking all the questions running through your head. He caught your hand when you started lifting his shirt. If you were still human, the grip on your wrist almost would have hurt. 

“Aren’t you gonna ask me why I’m covered in blood?” Stiles asked. His voice was almost as empty as when the nogitsune used it. 

“Aren’t you gonna let go of my arm?” you asked, dropping your gaze to his white-knuckle grip on your wrist. 

Stiles blinked and let go of you, opting instead to rub his face and bounce one of his legs. All of the ice from a second ago melted back into his usual anxiety. “God, I-” his voice broke. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t- didn’t mean to.” 

“I know.” You lifted your hand to cover his and pull them off his face, and then gave him a gentle smile. 

“Shouldn’t you, uh-” Stiles sniffed and shook his head, rolling out his neck and wincing when it stretched the muscle on top of his shoulder. “Isn’t the blood driving you crazy?” 

You looked away, like you always did when someone brought up blood. “A little. I mean, it always does,” you admitted. “But this blood is … different. Metallic.” 

“Isn’t all blood metallic?” Stiles asked. He sounded like he was still thinking about something else but just talking to keep whatever it was from eating him whole.

“Kind of,” you said. But this wasn’t metallic like the iron in blood; this was metallic like the mercury on Tracy’s lips. You couldn’t tell him that. “Can you take off your shirt? There’s still blood somewhere.” 

Stiles looked like he was going to argue but he just sighed and nodded after a few seconds. You took a step back so he had space to unbutton his plaid shirt without bumping into you, and your breath hitched when he moved and you saw the deep gash on his shoulder. It looked like something bit him, thousands of sharp teeth tearing through the fabric to get to his skin. 

“I think he got my legs too,” Stiles said. It was his turn not to look you in the eyes. “But I don’t know. Honestly, everything just hurts right now.” 

You took two silent steps closer and touched your fingertips to the top of his shoulder. He almost flinched at the touch, trying to make a conscious effort not to be jumpy around you. Taking a breath, you closed your eyes and focused on his pain. It snaked up your fingers and into your bloodstream. How had you not thought of doing this before? 

Stiles let out a long breath that you didn’t realize he was holding and his muscles relaxed under your touch. The pain was exhausting and you had to pull your hand away when you started getting lightheaded. You held your hand in your other one, massaged small circles into your palm, and worked to slow your breathing for a few seconds. 

“It was Donovan.” You opened your eyes again when Stiles started talking again. He was staring at himself in the mirror, or through himself. “He, uh- he came at me when I was trying to get the Jeep started. I hit him with the wrench and ran for it.” 

This was what you were afraid of ever since Noah told you about Donovan getting out the night Tracy died. You bit your lip to keep yourself from interrupting. 

“He found me in the library. He- he was saying all this shit about my dad.” Stiles shook his head before ducking it into his hands. “He was gonna kill my dad when he was done with me. I didn’t- I didn’t mean to kill him. I just wanted him to stop.” 

Stiles started crying again and you lost your resolve. You got down on your knees and put your hands over his to keep him from pulling out his hair and to keep him closer. You didn’t care if he killed Donovan; in that moment he was breaking your heart and you wanted to make it better more than anything else. 

“Stiles, it’s okay,” you said, running a hand through his hair. “It was an accident. He was trying to kill you.” 

Stiles grimaced as he looked up at the ceiling light - it illuminated every one of his tears - and lifted up his shoulders. “You can’t-” His voice broke. “You gotta promise not to say anything, okay? I can’t- Scott can’t know about this.” 

“Hey, hey ...” You inched closer and cupped his face. “I’m not gonna tell anyone. I promise.” 

“God, I-” Stiles shook his head again and wiped his face. “You shouldn’t have to do this. I’m sorry. I-” 

“Stiles, it’s okay,” you said. “I’m here for you, no matter what, okay? You’re gonna get through this and I’m going to be right here. I’m not going anywhere.” 

“You should.” His heartbeat was slowing down but Stiles was still shaking. “All I do is hurt the people close to me.” 

“You’ve never hurt me,” you said, rocking on your heels to kiss his forehead. “And I’m not leaving.” 

“I love you,” Stiles said softly, still looking ready to cry any moment now. 

“I love you.” Smiling felt wrong, but you gave him one anyway. “Let’s finish cleaning up so we can get some sleep, okay?” 

“Yeah, okay.” 

After letting you clean up all his bites and scrapes, Stiles took a shower and you went back to his room to process. The sound of the water hitting the tiles was deafening, but not enough to block his labored, frustrated breaths out from your super-hearing. Waiting for him to come back was painful, but you didn’t want to push anymore than you already had. 

You didn’t move from where you lay when you heard Stiles come back, but you did when he froze in front of the light switch. 

“You can leave it on,” you said, shifting to look at him. “Or I can put on the lamp?” 

Stiles nodded and mumbled a reply as he shut the door. He made sure you’d switched on the lamp before he switched the lights off. All his movements were hesitant, calculated as he made his way to the bed. He relaxed once he was under the covers. 

“I didn’t tell you the weirdest part,” Stiles said quietly, taking his eyes off the ceiling to look at you. “When I went back, the body was gone. All of it was… gone. Except for a drop of blood on the scaffolding.”

“Someone took the body?” 

“Or he’s still alive.”

Carefully, you moved closer to him and lifted a hand to the side of his face. Your thumb stroked his jaw and his hand went up to hold yours. “We’ll figure this out,” you promised. “I’m not going to let anything else happen to you.”

If Stiles was going to say anything else, he didn’t get the chance. His phone started ringing and he flinched at the sudden noise. Sighing, he hit his forehead before rolling over and looking at the screen filled with Scott’s name. 

“Scott?” 

“Stiles-” Scott didn’t sound right over the phone. He’d woken up not long ago but something else was wrong “-someone’s taking the bodies.” 

Your blood ran cold. Stiles’ whole body tensed as he tapped the bedside table to try and think of something. 

“Stiles? You still there?” 

“Yeah,” Stiles said. “Yeah, um …” You put a hand on his back, trying to calm him down. “Where? What are you talking about?”

“I’m at the animal clinic with Kira,” Scott with a sigh. “Tracy’s body is gone. The lock on the door was broken from the outside.” 

Stiles relaxed, slightly. Scott didn’t know what he’d done. 

“And my mom just told me Lucas’ body went missing from the morgue. They’ve been searching the whole hospital for it. Someone’s stealing the bodies.” 

“Okay, I-” Stiles took a breath and reached to rub his face. “Do you need me to come down? What can I do?” 

“Well, nothing right now,” Scott said. “We’ll do something in the morning. I just thought you should know.” 

“Right, thanks,” Stiles said. 

They said their goodbyes and Scott hung up. Stiles threw his phone across the room and you bit your lip. He collapsed back onto the bed with a sigh, being too rough on himself as he glared up at the ceiling. 

“At least we know he’s dead,” you said. 

Stiles choked out a laugh and rolled over to face you. “God, I love you,” he said, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. 

“Yeah, you better.” 

---

Reading the book, you got. Going to speak to Valeck, you got. What you didn’t get was why Lydia and Stiles had to speak to him alone. Okay, yeah, they were the only humans left in your rag-tag group of friends, but still. Someone tried to kill Stiles every time he’d been to Eichen and Lydia’s track record wasn’t that great either.

Overall, the two of them were handling it a lot better than you were. They spared some glances over their shoulders before disappearing around the corner to the closed unit and breaking your heart. 

“Hey,” Scott said, lifting his hand to squeeze your shoulder. “They’ll be okay. Stiles and Lydia make a good team.” 

“Yeah, I know,” you said with a forced smile. “I just hate this place.” 

Scott’s smile was less forced than yours and more sincere. “Me too.” 

Despite all the anxiety, the wait wasn’t that bad. The dust didn’t bother you anymore and your heightened senses made up for the dim lighting. Honestly, the most uncomfortable part was being a third wheel while Scott tried to keep Kira calm. 

And then the lights started going out and electricity started flickering through Kira’s fingertips, spreading to cover her whole body. 

Scott looked terrified as he faced Kira. “Kira, whatever you’re doing, please stop it.”

“I’m not doing anything!” Kira said. “It’s just happening.”

“Okay, we need to get you out of here,” you said. The electricity started bouncing off the walls. “Like right now. Kira-” 

She blew out one of the lights and you ducked to protect your head. Scott rushed forward and you grabbed him but it was too late. She electrocuted him and he conducted the energy to you. It felt like your insides were fried. 

When you managed to get back up, Kira was passed out on the floor and a guard was talking to Scott. He scrambled to help you up but you just patted his arm and pointed down the hall to where three men in masks were standing at the gate. The Dread Doctors.

“I think you better run,” the guard said. 

“I can’t leave her,” Scott said. 

“I can.” 

The guard made a run for it and managed to slip through your fingers. You kept the door to the stairwell open as the Dread Doctors messed with the security gates on the other side. 

“Scott, you’ve gotta grab her,” you said. “They killed Tracy and almost killed Malia.” The gate swung open. “Scott, now! I’ll be right behind you.” 

Scott rushed forward and scooped Kira up. The electricity was burning up his insides but he managed to rush down the stairwell. Before you had the chance to follow him, one of the Dread Doctors hit you with their cane, knocking all the air out of your lungs and cracking your ribs. You caught one last look at them before the door slammed shut and left you in the dark of the stairwell. 

You prayed Stiles and Lydia got out by the time you dragged yourself outside. You found Scott and Kira crumpled on the front steps of Eichen. They almost looked peaceful, hands intertwined and bodies sleeping. 

They weren’t going to be peaceful much longer if you had anything to say about it.

“Where are they?” you asked, shaking the two of them awake. “Where’s Stiles and Lydia?” 

“I don’t know,” Scott said. “They’re not out yet?” 

“If they were out, I wouldn’t be asking!” you snapped, letting go of them to put your head in your hands. “I need to find them.” 

“Find who?” Stiles asked. 

When you looked up, he and Lydia were holding each other up on the steps in front of you. You raced over, ignoring the pain from your still-healing ribs, and pulled both of them into a hug. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Lydia said when the three of you untangled yourselves. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.” 

Part 35

Tagged: @ietss​ 

[ittakesrain]

So for the class I’m taking, we have to share our narratives. Our stories, our struggles, our hopes.

We talked this morning about how powerful it is to be vulnerable and how it’s sometimes difficult. I felt a bit disconnected from the conversation because I’m usually able to be vulnerable very easily. At least with other people. I’m good at relating to other people. I’m an open book, I know that I’m worthy of love and kindness, and like…all the stuff we spoke about in regards to sharing excited me. Some others were excited too. Some weren’t. But I really am looking forward to the next few classe.

Anyway, I’ve been reviewing a few pieces of my writing so that I can read one out loud while I share my narrative. I think I’m gonna go with something that I’ve already written and rework it a little. But as I was figuring that out, I smashed the keyboard and something fun appeared on the screen. Something about me walking into the unit at the psych hospital for the first time, being emotional and overall just scared as shit. It isn’t finished, but I’m eager to share it with the interwebs…

They took my elephant. Sickness swirled in my stomach. I looked again, pushing everything else around frantically. I swallowed hard, hoping to suppress the rising panic at the fact that my elephant wasn’t in the brown paper bag that held (most of) the other belongings I’d brought with me. Leggings, shirts, hoodie. No notebook. No stuffed elephant. Why was I frantic? Why was I starting this whole process by having a meltdown, why was I panicking over a stuffed elephant?

I was sitting in a chair like the ones behind the desks in my old high school. I was wearing something that was basically paper. I was cold. I was grossly depressed, exhausted from weeks of it, no– years of it. And my goddamn fucking elephant wasn’t in the piece of fucking shit bag.

A yell across the unfamiliar hallway broke me from my sad-angry mixture as I helplessly stared into that stupid brown bag. I inhaled deeply, unsteadily. But before I could exhale there were more yells from the same general area, way down the hallway of the unit that looked pretty much what you would’ve expected it to look like.

I brought my hands together with stiff arms, fingers laced, thumbs alternately massaging the opposite palm: a visible representation of my twisting, writhing anxiety.

The screaming got closer, along with banging and stomping and other voices arguing. Something happened to my right, and, oh god what was this place? What did I do to myself? Were they going to–

“Sweetie, are you okay?” said the guy who’d minutes earlier been screaming violently about the staff being idiots. He put his hand on my shoulder to comfort me, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it, although I had a hunch that he was harmless. Regardless, I didn’t have to ponder too long because two men in blue scrubs jumped on him to pull him off of me in a manner that was incongruent with the tiny interaction I’d just had with him.

I rocked back and forth as the scene unfolded in front of me and they pulled the man somewhere around the corner, and I didn’t realize I was sobbing until a nurse came over to the little chair where I was folded into myself, crouched down on the floor in front of me, and asked me if I was okay. I looked at her quickly and concluded that she was trustworthy (I’m good at those kinds of determinations).

“It’s so stupid,” I gasped. “I’m 28 years old and it should matter.” I wiped my nose on the sleeve of the paper scrubs they’d given me to wear. “They didn’t give me my stuffed animal, I brought him, I packed a whole bag knowing what was going to happen to me, I knew I’d come here, I need this, but my elephant…” I sobbed in one long exasperated breath.

I don’t remember how she answered. But I remember going into a little room with a table and absurdly heavy chairs with her and explaining a bit about my history for her charts while I calmed down. And I remember when we walked out of that room she handed me a blank marble notebook that she’d grabbed from the closet. I knew she’d just given me one of the most important tools I’d get in that place.