#her tail tip is white not grey… pretend that was intentional

[leori-the-unlearned]

ok last thing for tonight…….. instead of drawing out the leoryu comic ideas i have i drew these.

if you have questions… please ask them i would be glad to answer you

[azvolrien]

Gryphon Beach Party

I’m not even going to pretend that this has much of a plot; it’s more of a slice-of-life thing, winding up characters and letting them bounce off each other, with a fair helping of worldbuilding. It also ended up quite a bit longer than I’d intended when I started, but I was having fun.

In the spring of Asta’s second year living in Stormhaven, she decides to attend an important cultural festival and makes a new friend into the bargain. What Happens Next Will Shock You! (no it won’t)

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           There had only been one to start with, but as the afternoon went on more and more had joined the parade until a whole flock of young gryphons hurtled around the College, all screaming something over and over at the top of their collective voice.

           Asta attempted to tune it out. “So, remind me how many of the day students have decided to start boarding?”

           Matron Inkfoot sat up on her haunches and double-checked her clipboard. “Seven first-year apprentices, four second-years, and one third-year.”

           “A third-year? It doesn’t usually take them that long to decide.”

           “It is out of the ordinary,” said Inkfoot, nodding, “but Ffion Howell’s family are moving out of the city in a month, so she’ll have to start boarding on a full-term basis. The others will be week boarders.”

           “Right.” Asta scribbled the details in her notebook. “Will the dormitories require any reshuffling to make room for them?”

           “No, there are enough free beds,” said Inkfoot. “The actual floor space is running somewhat low, but the new dorm annexe should be ready by the end of the summer before the next batch of first-years arrive.” She hung her clipboard from one of her harness straps and dropped back to all fours.

           “Good, that ought to simplify things,” said Asta just as the bell rang to signal the end of the day’s last lessons. “I’ll amend the apprentice records in the admin office and see to it that the kitchen staff know how many breakfasts and dinners they’ll need to account for. And then…” The chorus of gryphons outside had fallen silent at the bell, but as soon as its echoes faded they took up their cry even louder than before. “…And then I give up. What are they chanting out there?”

           Matron Inkfoot cocked her head, angling her ears to listen properly. The tip of her tail flicked to and fro in amusement. “Arakhasthan,” she said, making the kh and the sth into a resonant click in her throat and a sort of roughened hiss from the sides of her beak.

           Asta rolled the word over in her mind a few times. “I don’t think I have any hope of pronouncing that properly,” she admitted. “What does it mean? I assume it’s Gryphic, but…”

           “No, humans always have trouble with Gryphic,” said Inkfoot. “You just don’t have the right vocal structures. It’s why our names are usually in Imperial. Arakhasthan means something like ‘time of new feathers’.”

           “Oh, the New Feather Festival?” said Asta. “Tigerhide mentioned something about it earlier but I didn’t know what she meant.”

           Inkfoot nodded and half-spread her wings to display her glossy new flight feathers, each one a deep gold-brown tipped with black and almost five feet long. “It’s when we celebrate the end of the spring moult, when everyone loses their winter plumage and gets their summer coat instead.”

           “I did notice the gryphons were all looking a bit, um…”

           “Scruffy?” suggested Inkfoot, her tail-tuft twitching again.

           “I was going to say ‘unkempt’,” said Asta, “but it didn’t seem polite to comment.”

           Inkfoot made a soft clicking sound in her throat – the gryphon equivalent of a light chuckle – before she cocked her head in the other direction and her crest-feathers raised slightly in a curious ‘frown’. “Were you not here for last year’s festival? I know you came to Stormhaven that Hawk Moon. Sirakithi, in the Kiraani calendar.”

           Asta stared into space for a few seconds, counting the months backwards on the joints of her fingers. “I was living in Stormhaven by then, yes, but I was on a trip up to Northold around this time of year.”  

           “That explains it, then. There aren’t as many gryphons up north – they don’t make such a big fuss about Feather Fest. Do you think you’ll come this year?”

           Asta blinked and drew herself up a little. “I – well. Is it allowed? I’m not exactly…”

           “A gryphon?” said Inkfoot with another flick of her tail-tuft. “Or from Stormhaven?”

           “Well, both, I suppose, but I meant being human.”

           “No, no, plenty of humans come to the festival,” Inkfoot assured her. “There are some parties in the city – you might’ve spotted bundles of shed feathers hanging from lampposts and so on – but the big get-together will be on Aberystrad Beach tomorrow. Quite a lot of the wizards like to attend; I’ll be shepherding a few apprentices myself.”

           Asta gave it a few seconds’ thought. “I… need to get this up to the admin office,” she said, holding up her notebook. “But after that… I suppose it might be nice to get out of the city for a few hours.”

           She was far from the only person to have made that decision. The next day was perfect weather for a festival – clear skies and a light breeze off the sea, with the warmth of late spring before the oppressive heat of high summer properly rolled in from the south – and there were so many people trying to leave Stormhaven that there was a queue for the north road. Asta drummed her fingers on Pardus’s saddle-pommel as she waited her turn to pass through the Soldier Gate. Stormhaven’s city walls were not as substantial as Kiraan’s old fortifications, now long overtaken by urban sprawl and only encircling a small area around the Emperor’s palace, but they were still more than twenty feet tall, five feet thick at the base, and a more than adequate barrier to everyday passage; while there were smaller gates for pedestrians around the walls, each of the main ones was only wide enough for two lanes of traffic. There were no checks, however, and the guards waved Asta through without delay. Outside the wall, she tapped Pardus in the ribs with her heels and spurred the construct into a brisk trot. Even past the gates, the road was busy with a steady stream of carts, carriages, pedestrians and beasts of burden both natural and constructed, but the pace soon picked up and as the city fell behind, the road widened until Pardus could overtake the slower traffic and accelerate to a flat-out gallop.

           Aberystrad Beach was a few miles north of the city, but Pardus at full tilt ate up the distance in less than a quarter of an hour, easily keeping pace with the cloud of gryphons soaring above and outstripping many of them. The well-signposted turnoff soon came into sight up ahead, and Asta tugged on the reins to steer Pardus down the narrower, more winding side-road to the beach. Rolling dunes covered with wiry marram grass rose up to either side until the paving was completely engulfed; only the trail of footprints and wheel-marks through the soft, dry sand gave any sign it should be there. The sand slid under Pardus’s paws as the construct slowed to a walk and crested the last dune before the beach.

           After five years in the Sea Lochs and more than one in Stormhaven, Asta sometimes felt she was used to the sight of the Western Ocean, but she seldom had a view with no buildings or hills in the way. Out here, beyond the city walls and on top of the dunes above the beach, there was nothing to obstruct the view, and for a long while she forgot to do anything but stare. There was a chain of islands out there somewhere, she knew, but they were far enough from the coast that even on such a clear day there was no sign of them. A single ship – three masts, so not Captain Steel’s Curlew – was under full sail a couple of miles offshore, bound for the north, but otherwise only a few white dots of seabirds and the shadow of the odd small cloud broke up that vast expanse of blue-grey-green stretching to three horizons.

           Below the mottled green-yellow of the dunes and with the tide well out, the beach was a long, broad sweep of white sand split in two by the River Ystrad, its broad, looping channel shallow enough to easily wade through. Above the river, a natural outcrop of some rock hard enough to withstand the sea had been carved into a huge statue of a gryphon – more than twice the height of the city walls – sitting up and gazing out to the west. Years of wind and waves had worn its front claws smooth, leaving only vague shapes to show the sculptor’s intent, but its head with its alert stare, fierce hooked beak and pointed ears could have been carved yesterday and the detailing of the feathers on its half-folded wings was still clear even from a casual glance. A few of its flesh-and-blood cousins perched atop its head and on ledges at its shoulders and haunches, but far more had staked out little campsites along the sand below.

           There was no shortage of humans as Inkfoot had said, but if the gryphons did not truly outnumber them, the numbers were as close to equal as Asta had ever seen; hundreds of gryphons had set up colourful blankets and sunshades all along the beach, lounging on the warm sand, while others queued at food stalls just below the dunes where scents of cooking meat billowed up from fire pits dug into the sand. Still more gryphons circled above, soaring effortlessly as they caught rising thermals beneath their wings. A small group was hard at work down the beach attempting to erect two thin poles almost as tall as the huge sculpture, perhaps markers for a game of some sort. Snatches of music and voices raised in song – enthusiastic if not always tuneful – drifted on the air. And yet, for all the bustle of the festival, the beach was big enough that it did not feel crowded, and when Asta rode down from the dune she easily found a free space for herself and Pardus beside one of the statue’s hind feet. She climbed down from the saddle, laid her travel rug out on the sand, and had Pardus lie down for a backrest before she unpacked her picnic from the saddlebags. There was no one she recognised in sight – or at least, no one she dared to approach unasked – so instead she sat back against Pardus’s flank to drink her tea and watch the goings-on.

           A few of the airborne gryphons had stopped their lazy circling and, while the others drew back to fly in a vast ring around them, launched into some kind of aerial performance, twisting into loops and rolls and locking talons to fling one another across the sky. Some had clipped brightly-patterned streamers to their feathers while others trailed strings of polished metal discs from their legs and their tails, turning the whole display into a riot of colour and light to shrieks of approval from the audience. A band struck up on a stage below – two gryphons with a harp and a set of drums, and three humans with flute, guitar and fiddle – but it wasn’t clear if they were setting a beat for the flyers above or just playing along with them. A crowd quickly gathered around the stage to dance along.

           Between the cheering, the music and the thunder of wings it was absolutely deafening, and the Asta of two years ago would have been terrified – not just of the general uproar but of the gryphons themselves, of their talons like grappling hooks and their beaks that could shear through bone – but now, after the journey south with Steel, Pirate and their crew and then months of living in Stormhaven and working with Inkfoot and the College messengers, it was no more threatening than any other festival. The gryphons may have been huge carnivores who showed more expression in their feathers than their faces, but they were people as much as any human or elf.

           Asta had just finished her first cup of tea when one young man peeled off from the crowd around the stage and trotted over to her, almost tripping over a trio of small, fluffy gryphon chicks who were making a determined effort to bury an older male up to his neck in sand.  

           “Want to dance?” he asked, holding out one hand with a cheerful grin. Asta glanced up from her mug, and something in her throat and her stomach came to a juddering halt. Fair skin, dark hair, incredibly blue eyes – not Daro, of course not him, that wasn’t fair on this innocent stranger, but-

           “That’s very kind of you,” Asta stammered once her voice would obey her. “But I- I think I’m fine where I am for now.”

           “Are you sure? You could-”

           A shadow fell over both of them. “The lady gave you her answer,” said a new voice, this one a deep, gravelly rasp. The young man swallowed, nodded, and retreated back to his friends on the makeshift dancefloor.

           Asta shaded her eyes and squinted up at the gryphon who had just landed on the statue’s foot. “He meant no harm,” he said. “He’s a good lad; son of an old friend from the army. But I like to see a ‘no’ is respected. Mind if I sit?” Asta shook her head and he hopped down onto the sand at Pardus’s tail, clutching a leg of meat in his claws. His feathers were an unassuming dark tawny colour with off-white barring on his wings, and like many gryphons he wore a harness around his chest. However, where most of the harnesses Asta had seen were made of leather and often decorated with carvings and medallions, this one was sternly utilitarian – all tough, heavy canvas dyed a dull grey-green – and its only decoration was an old rank insignia pinned to one shoulder-strap. Even without it and his comment about the army she would have thought him an ex-military sort: he had clearly and literally been in the wars, for half of his tail, one ear and a toe on his left foreclaw were all missing, and various odd ridges and discoloured patches in his feathers suggested more scarring beneath them.            

           As she watched – surreptitiously, from the corner of her eye – he took a waxed cloth from one of the satchels on his harness, spread it on the sand, and carefully laid the haunch on top before he pinned it in place with his talons and began to tear away strips of meat with the tip of his beak. The outside had been seared brown over one of the fire pits, but the inside was so rare it was almost still bleeding.

           “What is that?” asked Asta. “Beef?”

           “Horse,” he said with his mouth full, and flicked his head back to tip the flesh down his throat. “Want some?”

           “I… Wh… No, I brought my own food. But thank you for offering.”

           He gave a little shrug with his wings as if to say your loss and returned his attention to his meal. “Kiraani, are you?” he asked once he had stripped it to the bone. Asta nodded, and he lowered his head to the sand to scrub away the juices crusting on his beak. “Thought so. Last time I was in arm’s reach of one of your lot was during the war.”

           “Um.”

           He clattered a laugh in the back of his throat. “I won’t hold it against you. Bravest soldier I ever met was an Imperial scout I ran into in the Darkwald. Fought like a tiger, he did – not many humans’ll square up to a full-grown gryphon with just a knife to hand, but he left quite the mark. Would’ve liked to know him better, if we’d met under different circumstances.”

           “Is that what happened to, um…” Asta nodded towards his missing toe.

           “Ayah. What happened to this, too.” He turned to look at her squarely, and she narrowly stifled her horrified recoil down to a twitch. The same wound that had taken his ear had carved a huge gnarled scar down that side of his face, leaving a deep notch in the bony ridge above the empty eye socket and twisting the corner of his beak into a permanent grimace. He laughed again, waving what remained of his tail from side to side, and lifted a talon to his intact brow ridge in an informal salute. “Flight Captain Redbolt, lately of the Second Assault Wing.”

           Asta smiled despite herself. “Asta zeDamar, still working at the College of Sorcery’s admin office.”

           “Ah, the College? You’d know Inkfoot, then.”

           “Oh, yes, we often work together to sort out one thing or another.”

           Redbolt gave a little sigh and looked up at a small, wispy white cloud high above. “Had quite a crush on her when we were both younger, but she was never interested. Wanted to focus on looking after the little wizards.”

           “They do take a lot of looking after.”

           “Talking of schools,” said Redbolt, “here’s something I’ve wondered for a while. I know how we remember the Darkwald War. How’s it taught in Kiraan?”

           “Well, there’s a certain degree of embarrassment there,” admitted Asta. “As if a lot of the people writing textbooks aren’t really sure how the army of a nation as small as Stormhaven faced down the Legions and won.”

           “I’m not sure ‘won’ is the right word. Felt more like everyone just got tired and stopped.”

           Asta nodded acknowledgement of the point. “But otherwise it’s a lot more honest and even-handed than you might expect, both about how it started and ended and everything in between. The main focus from a tactical standpoint tends to be on the wizards and the gryphons – though you can tell in some of the older books that they hadn’t quite wrapped their heads around you being people rather than just well-trained animals.”

           “In the end, are we not all just well-trained animals?” said Redbolt with such exaggerated soulfulness that Asta snorted with laughter. “You know, the books – ours and yours – always gloss over how boring it was most of the time. Lots of long stretches of just sitting around waiting for something to happen, with the odd quick burst of-” he paused for an instant, glanced at her, and obviously changed what he had been about to say, “-heart-stopping terror.”  

           “The Voynazhi priesthood don’t really like to focus on that part for some reason,” said Asta drily.

           Redbolt chuckled. “Me, I always wonder how many priests of Voynazh have actually seen battle.”

           “And how many would find another vocation if they did.” Asta looked down at her hands for a moment and asked, more quietly and with some hesitation, “Have you ever met a berserker?”

           “One or two over the years. One or two.” Redbolt opened his beak in a gaping yawn and scratched under his jaw with a talon. “Deadly fighters, but they don’t make good soldiers. Don’t work well in a team; can’t hold a formation. What makes you ask?”

           “I… used to be a slave,” said Asta. Redbolt cocked his head slightly but offered no comment. “Up in the Sea Lochs. I escaped, but before I made it down to Stormhaven I… I lived with this woman for a few weeks. Roan.” Absently, Asta brushed her fingers against her lips. “She lived alone, a long way out on the coast miles from anywhere. And she was a berserker. I suppose I wondered… I’m not sure. If berserkers were usually loners like that, or if that was just how she was.”

           “Didn’t spend enough time with them to know,” said Redbolt. “Yours, well… Clearly not so much a loner that she wouldn’t let you stay with her.”

           “No, I suppose not.” Asta fell silent and gazed out at the horizon. “I hope she’s all right by herself up there.”

           Redbolt looked from Asta to the sea and back again, quietly scraping his talons through the sand, then got to his feet and stretched out his wings to their full extent, his feathers reaching thirty feet from end to end. Despite his buzzardish markings, his wing conformation was more eagle than hawk – long, broad, and almost rectangular – and he was the biggest gryphon Asta had met so far, taller than Inkfoot and more heavily built. “Tell you what,” he said. “They’ll be starting the ring toss in a few minutes. I can give you a lift up there if you want a better view.” He pointed up to the statue’s head high above them.

           “Ring toss?”

           He laughed. “Not the kind you’d see at a funfair.” Asta bit her lip, looking with some apprehension at the statue towering above. Redbolt cocked his head, lifting his crest a little, and went on more soberly. “By the sun’s egg and the sky’s breath,” he said, “you are safe with me.”

           Asta had spent enough time with Inkfoot to know how serious an oath that was to a gryphon. Some did follow human religions – she had once seen one making an offering at a shrine to Kura – but most kept to their own nameless sky-gods. She nodded, stowed what was left of her picnic back in the saddlebags, and stood up.

           “Ever flown before? Nah? I’ll give you the – ah – crash course now, then.” He took a belt made from the same canvas as his harness from one of his satchels and passed it over. “First, you can’t sit up like you can on a horse or a construct, or even a gryphon walking; the balance and the wind resistance’ll be all off. So…” He bent his forelegs and nodded for her to climb onto his back. “You’ll want to get your knees on the back of my wing joints first, just where they meet my shoulders – gods, do you have bird bones yourself? You hardly weigh a thing – and belt yourself to that back strap, then lie flat on your belly and put your arms forward over my wings. You see those loops on the harness collar? Put your wrists through them and hold on where they join the main strap, like you’d hold one of those handles that stop you falling over on a tram. There you go.”

           “You’ve done this before?” asked Asta.

           He nodded and walked away from the statue. “Every military gryph big enough to carry a human gets the training. Never know when you’ll need to pull one of your mates out of a sticky situation. Ready?”

           “I think so.”

           Redbolt rocked back onto his hind legs and leapt into the air with one massive downward stroke of his wings. Asta’s knuckles turned pure white, but the straps held; within seconds, they were soaring in a wide circle above the sea faster than Pardus could run. Asta looked down over Redbolt’s shoulder, watching his shadow skim over the waves. The sun-warmed water was a beautiful clear turquoise over the white sand beneath; more than a few festival-goers were taking a swim and throwing a ball around. As Asta watched, one of the gryphons flying above folded their wings and dropped in a breakneck stoop right into the water with an enormous splash, only to resurface to enthusiastic cheers with a silver fish clutched in their talons.

           Another, lazier beat of Redbolt’s wings carried them higher, before his outstretched feathers found a thermal that bore them upwards until they were above the statue’s head. Asta lifted her own to catch the wind on her face.

           “Make some room down there!” roared Redbolt. Half a dozen gryphons looked up from their perches around the statue’s ears and promptly scattered, leaving Redbolt free to glide in for a landing. He flared out his wings and the fan of feathers at the base of his tail to slow himself, lowered his hind claws to the carved stone, and dropped to all fours. “There we go,” he said as the other gryphons reclaimed their space. Asta unbuckled the safety belt, slid down from his back, and peered over the edge of the statue’s head. Pardus still lay on the sand where she had left it, some fifty feet below. “I’ll say this for you,” said Redbolt, hooking a precautionary talon into the half-belt at the back of her coat. “You’ve no fear of heights. Last rider I carried screamed his head off the whole time.”

           “No, I’d say heights are one of the few things that don’t scare me,” said Asta, sitting down cross-legged at the edge.

           “Evidently,” said one of the other gryphons, this one a younger female with grey-and-white plumage and long pointed wings. “When was the last time you gave a human a ride?”

           Redbolt shrugged. “Four, five years ago? I’ve kept up with the weight training in the meantime, though. Oh – Asta, this is my niece Gull. Gull, Asta. Thought she’d get a better view of the ring toss from up here.”

           “Ooh, yeah, you get the best view of the game from up here!” said Gull, her tail-tip drumming on the stone behind her. “Tunnel Fifteen’s put together a really strong team this year, but I was just talking to Stoat here and he thinks the Windstone Wing are the ones to watch.”

           “They’ve got a very good defence this year,” said Stoat, whose feathers did indeed give him a resemblance to the animal: mostly a reddish-brown, but with a white bib down the front of his neck and a black tail-tuft. “But it’s true, Tunnel Fifteen has some very quick players. Slate is one of the best flyers out there; the Wing’ll have to account for her if they end up against the Fifteens in the tournament. Who do you think’s in with the best chance?” he asked Asta.

           This was met with a blank stare.

           “You don’t… actually know how it works, do you?” said Gull. “Oh, well, it’s pretty simple. Each team has five players; they have to try and get the ring onto their team’s goalpost, but they have to throw it; if anyone’s touching the ring when it goes over the post, the point doesn’t count. A game lasts either an hour or seven rings’ worth of play, whichever’s shorter. If there’s a draw after an hour, they have a tiebreaker round.”

           “And no biting or clawing the other team,” added Stoat. “You draw blood, you’re out of the game.”

           “It’s not as interesting since they added that rule,” said Redbolt, his tone so bland that Asta couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Gull cuffed him on the back of his head with one wingtip as the first two teams took flight above the game field, marked out from each other by different colours on their harnesses. Another gryphon with a blue-and-white harness – presumably a referee – flew overhead and dropped a foot-wide wooden ring from their talons, and both teams launched into play.

           Asta had very little idea what was going on despite the running commentary Gull and Stoat provided for her, but it was surprisingly engrossing nonetheless. Ring toss, it turned out, was a fast-paced game of skill and agility where the airborne players flung the ring to their teammates or intercepted it from their opponents so quickly that it was difficult to keep track of where it was until it landed on the goalpost and slid down to a hook a couple of feet below the top. None of the games lasted the full allotted hour, and a few of the more uneven ones barely went a minute between the referee dropping the ring and a point being scored.

           The tournament final had just started – as it turned out, neither Tunnel Fifteen nor the Windstone Wing had made it there – in the late afternoon when Stoat pricked up his ears. “Asta, you said your name was?”

           “Yes?”

           “Someone’s yelling for you.”

           Asta leant forwards over the edge of the statue – Redbolt held on to her coat again – to see Fayn, Wygar, Inkfoot and a handful of blue-clad apprentices from the College gathered around Pardus and looking in all directions except up. Fayn cupped both hands around her mouth and shouted again, then shrugged and said something to Wygar that Asta couldn’t make out.

           “Up here!” called Asta, waving one arm. They looked up at that; Inkfoot half-spread her wings, but folded them again at some comment from Fayn. Wygar nodded, stepped back, took a quick run-up, and clambered up the side of the statue as quick as a squirrel. He had abandoned his usual long blue coat in favour of a sleeveless shirt, baring his wiry, well-toned arms and the flowing blue tattoos on his shoulders. A couple of the apprentices giggled and nudged each other at the sight.

           “I hope you’re wearing plenty of sun cream,” was Asta’s only response when he reached the top.

           “Thought you were afraid of heights?” said Redbolt, his tail twitching.

           “Yes, Fayn and I are both well-protected,” Wygar assured her. “And I’m afraid of flying,” he added to Redbolt. “I like heights just fine. You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?” Redbolt shook his head to muffled laughter from the other gryphons. Wygar turned back to Asta. “Fayn and Inkfoot spotted your construct down there and were worried when they couldn’t see you anywhere.”

           “Oh. Well, it’s very kind of them to be concerned, but I’m quite all right. Redbolt here carried me up so I’d have a better view of the ring toss.”

           Redbolt rubbed the back of one talon against the scar on his face. “Thought she looked like she needed cheering up,” he mumbled.

           “Inkfoot was right,” said Wygar, grinning. “You are an old softy.”

           “Oh-ho-ho, you want to have that conversation again, boyo?”

           “…You two clearly have some history together,” said Asta as Gull, Stoat and the rest of the gryphons quietly backed away.

           “All journeyman warmages are put through a course of gryphon-riding practice,” said Wygar in an extremely neutral voice.

           “You make it sound like some horrible torture,” said Redbolt. “‘Warmage’.”

           “The good Flight Captain here is of the opinion that no mage who hasn’t actually been to war should be permitted call themself that,” said Wygar.

           “I can see where he’s coming from,” said Asta slowly.

           “Thank you!” said Redbolt.

           “But if Stormhaven hasn’t seen an actual war in twenty years, surely there can’t be that many people in active service today who do fit that criteria.”

           “Which is my point,” said Wygar. “But the way he goes on, you’d think I’d never even been in a playground fight!”

           “Reckon you’re just going to have to agree to disagree on this one, lads,” Gull interrupted. “Look, the ref’s just dropping the last ring now.”

           The referee hovered above the pitch at the exact midpoint between the two goalposts and released the ring from their talons. Immediately both teams lunged into action. One big pale-feathered gryphon with crest-feathers long enough to mark him as male even from that distance grabbed the ring in his beak and hurled it halfway across the pitch with a flick of his head. One of his teammates stretched out their talons to catch it, but before it even reached them a smaller, quicker player from the other team intercepted it and threw it in a high arc to one of their own teammates, who batted it further up with their tail. One player with pointed falcon-like wings, hovering above the fray like a kestrel, hooked their talons through the ring and beat their wings, flying for the goalpost, but the pale gryphon half-folded his wings and barged into them with his shoulder.

           “Is that allowed?” asked Asta as the crowd gasped.

           “Didn’t draw blood,” said Redbolt with a shrug.

           The ring fell, but the pale gryphon’s teammate reclaimed it before it hit the ground and threw it to a player circling above the other goalpost. They caught it in their beak, passed it into their talons, and dropped it. The ring fell neatly over the post, the referee rang a bell to signal the end of the match, and the air exploded with gryphons cheering themselves hoarse.

           “What was that team calling itself again?” asked Wygar over the uproar.

           “They’re the Crag Shadows,” said Gull. “New team, they’ve never entered the Feather Fest tournament before, nobody thought they’d get this far – but look at them!”

           The captain of the losing team touched beaks with the leader of the Crag Shadows – Asta presumed that was the equivalent of shaking hands – and led their team off the pitch as the victors lined up between the goalposts and looked up at the sky. Asta hadn’t noticed in the excitement, but everyone who had been flying overhead had landed, leaving just one imposing figure in the air.

           Lady Starfeather, the chieftain of all the gryphons of Stormhaven, glided above the crowd and landed neatly on the pitch, settling on her haunches. The white tips on her otherwise jet-black feathers seemed to glitter in the sun, which had not yet begun turning red but was well past its zenith. The Crag Shadows bowed low, their beaks almost scraping the sand, before their captain straightened up and accepted the trophy – just a ring painted gold – from Starfeather’s talons. They touched beaks for the briefest of moments before Starfeather drew back and the team captain reared back on their hind legs, holding the ring above their head in both front claws.

           The cheers that followed almost totally drowned out the sound of another gryphon landing on the statue’s head. “You all need to clear the summit,” she announced. Like Redbolt, she wore a tough canvas harness, but it was dyed a vivid shade of red with a strip of gold braid down one side of her collar and she wore a sort of ornamental diadem-helmet, its bands of polished steel framing her face. The brass chestpiece of her harness, almost big enough to count as a breastplate, was engraved with a five-pointed star framed by raised wings.

           Redbolt stood up. “Time for the fledgling parade?” he asked. The newcomer nodded. “All right. Well, you all heard the Wing Guard – clear off, the lot of you!” Gull, Stoat and their friends took flight, leaving only Redbolt, Asta and Wygar on the statue’s head.

           “Need a lift back down?” asked Redbolt wickedly. Wygar just scowled at him, nodded to Asta, and clambered down the side of the statue. “Ah, he knows I don’t really mean anything by it,” Redbolt added when he caught the disapproving look on Asta’s face.

           “Does he, though?”

           “Well… Hm. Hop back aboard and I’ll take you back to the ground, eh? Truth be told,” he added as they glided down from the statue, “if it came to a real fight between him and me, unless I caught him off-guard, I’d be ash. No illusions there.”

           “Who, Wygar?” They reached the ground not far from where they had first taken off; Asta unbelted herself from Redbolt’s harness and dismounted. “I know he’s technically a warmage, but I see him around the College a lot; he’s really more of one of those harmless, slightly scatterbrained academic types.”

           “Oh, really? Ask that harmless academic about his body count some time.”

           “…You can’t be serious.”

           “I watched his Master’s exam,” said Redbolt. “He turned a bladehound into a puddle of molten steel.”

           “Wait, really? But those are-” Asta ran one hand back through her hair, attempting to reconcile that image with Wygar currently standing stoically as Inkfoot attempted to clean a smudge from his face with a handkerchief, much to the undisguised amusement of both Fayn and the apprentices. “That is… an odd idea to think about.” She shook her head as if to chivvy the thought away. “You said something to that guard about a ‘fledgling parade’?”

           “Oh, yeah, that’s an old gryphon custom,” said Redbolt as they walked back over to Pardus and the others. Asta unbuckled the saddlebags from Pardus’s harness and dismissed the construct into its summoning stone. “Though ‘parade’ is putting it a bit strongly. Every Feather Fest, all the youngsters who’ve just finished growing their first lot of flight feathers gets presented to her Ladyship up on top of the statue.”

           “It’s not mandatory,” said Inkfoot, tucking her handkerchief into one of her bags. “But a lot of families like to mark the occasion in some way – your first flight under your own power is a big milestone.”

           Lady Starfeather took off from the game pitch and flew up to the statue’s head where she landed on top of the beak, in easy view of everyone watching from the beach below. Young fledgling gryphons – not much bigger than the chicks, but with proper structure to their wing feathers and the beginnings of their adult markings instead of fluffy grey down – fluttered up out of the crowd towards her. Each one was accompanied by an adult, perhaps a parent or an older sibling. Complete silence fell on the beach, even among the humans, as one by one the adults escorted the fledglings up to sit in front of their chieftain for a moment. With each one, Starfeather lowered her head to inspect them, made some statement that none of the watchers below could hear, and lightly touched her beak to theirs before they and their escort glided back down. A hint of orange had come into the sun by the end.

           “I remember my presentation, years and years ago,” said Inkfoot once the last fledgling was back on the sand. Starfeather remained on the statue’s beak, lying down with her front claws folded over each other. “That wasn’t with Starfeather, of course – her uncle Lord Eclipse was in charge back then.”

           Redbolt chuckled. “I remember old Eclipse! Now, there was a gryph with a sense of humour.”

           “Wait,” said Wygar, rubbing the back of one hand against his face. “Lord Eclipse died in – Inkfoot, how old are you?”

           “Ninety-seven,” said Inkfoot brightly.

           “Have you told me that before?” said Fayn, wide-eyed. “I don’t think I knew that.”

           “Neither did I, and you practically raised me from age twelve!” said Wygar.

           “That’s a slight exaggeration,” said Inkfoot. “You did go back to your parents’ house every weekend.”

           “Hundred and three over here,” put in Redbolt.

           “…Huh.” Asta ran one hand through her hair. “You do give off a certain aura of ‘old soldier’,” she said to Redbolt, whose crest lifted slightly. “But I had no idea you were that old!”

           “Well, you haven’t known me very long,” said Redbolt, waving his tail. “Should have another fiftyish in me, all going well.”

           “Fayn, you’ve been in Stormhaven longer than I have,” said Asta. “Did you know gryphons could live to be that old?” Fayn shook her head.

           “I knew that they could,” said Wygar. “I just didn’t know Inkfoot, specifically, was that old!”

           Inkfoot just shrugged.

           “If it makes you feel any less out of place,” said Fayn quietly as her husband quizzed Inkfoot for further details on the ages of the various gryphons he knew, “this is my first time at the festival too. Wygar talked me into it – I’m not fond of crowds, but I get on well with Inkfoot.”

           “Doesn’t everyone?” asked Asta.

           Fayn laughed, nodding. “She’s a likeable person. Besides, Wygar’s actually got more of a role to play this year than just attending.” She cleared her throat and stood forwards, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready for the bonfires?” she asked.

           Wygar swore, prompting a chorus of “Ooooooh!” from the apprentices, and ran off.

           “He’s quite a fast runner,” commented Asta.

           “He is, isn’t he?” said Fayn with a fond smile as Inkfoot led the apprentices off to one of the food stalls. “Sometimes I think he doesn’t really have speeds between ‘stroll’ and ‘sprint’.”

           “What was that about bonfires?” said Asta.

           “That’s a human thing,” said Redbolt. “Before the first humans came to our land, we gryphons didn’t make much use of fire. But they have their own traditions for this time of year, so a bit got added into the festival. They light those big ones you can see along the beach at sunset,” now that he pointed them out, Asta could indeed see the wood and brush piled in heaps along the tideline, “and the littler ones in between. Folk line up to jump over the small ones for some reason.”

           “Oh, Beltane!” said Asta. “Yes, I’ve read about that. It’s sort of a fertility-luck ritual thing. The fire-jumping, that is.”

           “How is jumping over a fire going to help with fertility?” asked Redbolt.

           “That’s… a good question,” said Fayn, frowning.

           “I’m sure there’s some reasoning behind it,” said Asta. “It’s not really a Kiraani tradition – I’ll have to read up on it.”

           People returned to their little camps along the beach, chatting amongst themselves, until finally the sun touched the horizon and Lady Starfeather got back to her feet, flanked by the Wing Guards in their red-and-gold uniforms. She spread her wings, took a deep breath, and roared out over the sea. The roar of a gryphon was a higher, shriller sound than that of a lion, but still deeper and more resonant than the cry of a hawk and far more impressive than the chirping of an eagle. Standing at the edge of the water, Wygar stretched up one arm at her call and clicked his fingers. A brilliant spark flared around his upraised hand and every one of the bonfires erupted with flame, instantly burning as hot and as bright as if they had already had hours to build up.

           “He didn’t really need to do that,” said Fayn, clicking her own fingers. “That was just for show. He could’ve woken those fires with a thought.” Her voice was exasperated, but there was no disguising the pride in her smile.

           “See what I meant?” said Redbolt to Asta, quietly enough that Fayn wouldn’t overhear. “Ash.” Asta nodded.

           Wygar ran back over to them, and had just been dissuaded from explaining the precise technique he had used when Starfeather raised her wings for silence again and, once she had it, began to sing.  

           After more than a year in Stormhaven, Asta had heard many different sounds a gryphon’s voice could produce. She had heard them speak, roar, laugh and screech. She had never heard them sing. Starfeather’s voice was nothing like the high piping of birdsong; like her roar, it was a more resonant sound that reminded Asta curiously of drumming. Other gryphons took up the song, even Redbolt; humans, their voices incapable of the Gryphic words, had to settle for humming the melody. Soon it felt like almost everyone on the beach had joined in. Wygar had closed his eyes to listen; Fayn leant against his side and held his hand tightly.  

           Asta sat down on the sand, folding her arms around her shins as she listened. The lyrics meant nothing to her – she would have to ask someone for a translation – but the tune somehow conveyed a deep sense of renewal and belonging. Life goes on, the gryphons sang. We are a family, and we’re exactly where we’re meant to be.

           “Are you all right?” asked Redbolt once the song was over and Wygar and Fayn had gone to join the line of couples waiting to jump the fire.

           Asta sat up, blinking. She hadn’t even realised she was crying until she lifted one hand and felt the tear-tracks down her face. A few different explanations came to mind, but somehow the only one that made it past her lips was the truth. “I want to go home,” she said quietly.

           “Ah-hm.” Redbolt looked around. “Well… I can give you an escort, if you don’t want to go by yourself in the dark. Or you can maybe tag along with Inkfoot if she hasn’t already taken the apprentices back to the College. Where’s home?”

           Asta thought. Her flat near Stormhaven’s northern wall didn’t even register; instead her mind went to the house where she had grown up back in Kiraan, then considered Lady MacArra’s fine manor overlooking the water in Duncraig, and finally settled on an old stone tower by the sea, where hens pecked through a little vegetable garden in the shelter of an outer wall and water horses rested on the rocks after dark. “A very long way from here,” she said, watching the fires.

           “Ah. That kind of home.” Redbolt sighed and lay down on his front beside her. He laid Pardus’s saddlebags across his shoulders and took out Asta’s tea flask. It had held its temperature throughout the day and the tea was still hot. He handed it to Asta; she unscrewed the cap and poured herself a cup. “Tell me a bit more about your berserker.”

           Asta sipped her tea. “She’s… Have you seen the portrait the museum has of Lady Meredith?” Redbolt nodded. “It reminds me of her. She’s tall, very tall, with long red hair she usually keeps in a braid and fair skin with hundreds of little freckles. Lots of tattoos on her face and her arms, and maybe more under her clothes.” She smiled. “And strong, too. Very nice arms. I expect she could pick me up like a kitten if the mood took her, but she was always gentle with me while I was staying with her. Her eyes are… Do you know Captain Steel, from the Curlew? They’re grey like hers, like… well, like steel. Piercing, is the word. Like they see right to the heart of you.

           “She’s not always talkative – there’s a shyness there – but she always answered whatever questions I had and if I needed to talk, she listened. Really listened, not just sat in the same room while I spoke. I don’t think I’ve known anyone who listened to me like she did.” Asta took another sip. “The man I escaped from recaptured me after a month in her home and tried to take me back to his family’s castle near Duncraig.” Redbolt’s wings came up in a protective stance Asta recognised from Steel, though he didn’t seem aware he had reacted. “She killed him and his guards and put me on the next ship south – Curlew – to here, where I’d cross the border to freedom and be well out of reach if his family came looking for revenge. That – fighting the guards – was the only time I ever saw her go berserk. Maybe it should have scared me, but…”

           “But you felt safe with her,” finished Redbolt.

           Asta nodded. “I thought a lot about it on the journey south, and after I’d got settled here. Whether what I felt for her was real or if I’d just fixated on the first person to show me some kindness after… after a very trying period in my life.”

           “And?”

           “And… a lot of people have been kind to me since I got to Stormhaven. Surely those feelings would have faded by now if that was all there was to it.” She sighed and wrapped both hands more snugly around her cup. “What about you? Any romance in your life?”

           “Nah, not for a long time.” Redbolt stretched out his front claws, curling his tail as far around one hind leg as it could go. “Even among gryphons, the ladies prefer a fellow with both eyes and all his toes.”

           “Well, you’ve been very gallant with me today. I’m sure any lady would be lucky to have you.”

           “Ah, well.” Redbolt scratched his remaining ear. “You looked like you could use an outrider for the day.”  

           “It was very kind of you.”

           Redbolt folded his wings again. “I flew north once, a long, long time ago,” he said, watching the silhouettes around the fires. “Followed the coast all the way up to the great ice. Kept away from humans mostly – they’re not so used to us up there, or at least they weren’t back then – but I ran into the odd hunting party or trade caravan in the Sea Lochs, up in the hills or out on the water. Seemed a nice place to live – peaceful, even in the towns.” He sighed. “I’m no seer to go telling the future, but… I have a feeling you’ll find your way back one day.”

           “I certainly hope so. I’m just… Not entirely sure when.”

           “Give it time, and keep your eyes open,” advised Redbolt. “You never know when you’ll get your chance.”

           Asta finished her tea and packed the flask back in the saddlebag. “Thank you,” she said. “For everything you’ve done today.”

           Redbolt nodded. “Do you want an escort back to wherever you’re staying?” he asked. “A lot of folk just sleep on the beach – Wygar and Fayn would probably let you share their camp if you want to stay until morning.”

           “I’m sure they would,” said Asta, “but I wouldn’t like to impose. I think I’d rather go back to my flat, if you really wouldn’t mind.”

           “It’s no trouble.” Redbolt stood, stretched, and looked back at his wings. “Though I don’t think I have it in me to fly you all the way there. You ride your construct and I’ll follow.”

           The road back to the city was well-lit with lampposts every fifty feet, but it was still reassuring to have Redbolt prowling alongside Pardus while Asta rode at a walk or soaring above when she spurred the construct into a run. The sky was fully dark by the time Asta reined Pardus in outside 103 North Wall Street and climbed down from the saddle.

           “Where do you stay, out of interest?” she asked as she removed the saddlebags and dismissed Pardus.

           “Got a nice cosy eyrie up in Gryphonroost,” said Redbolt, flicking his beak in the general direction of the gryphons’ traditional home beneath the Crag. “Reward for my long service – don’t you worry about me.” He gave another little salute, tapping one talon against his scar. “Could show you around some time, if you haven’t been up to the tunnels yet.”

           Asta smiled, lifting the saddlebags onto one shoulder. “I’d like that, actually. Maybe next Starsday?”

           “Sounds good. I’ll meet you at the west ramp around noon?”

           “I’ll see you there.”

           “Sleep well, then.” With a last nod, he took flight and vanished into the dark. Asta let herself into the stairwell and climbed to her flat on the third floor. All things considered, it had been a rather interesting day.  

---

Asta gets on rather well with gryphons - once she’s used to them she finds them less intimidating than other humans - and in return they’re quite protective of her. Gryphons in general have a tendency to go ‘is anyone gonna adopt that’ and then not wait for an answer, even if the object of their interest is a grown adult in their late twenties. Redbolt made a passing comment once about how easy it had been to fly carrying her (she’s 5′5″, a fairly average height for a woman, but she is quite slim; Roan could indeed pick her up like a kitten) and the others got very concerned she wasn’t eating enough and started offering her snacks.

Further gryphon trivia:

The corners of a gryphon’s beak can curve up enough to mimic a human-style smile, but it isn’t a natural expression for them. They generally only do it if they’re trying to put a human at ease (or freak them out, whichever). A natural ‘smile’ for a gryphon is lightly flicking the tip of their tail from side to side, while waving their entire tail from side to side is a more effusive ‘grin’. Redbolt missing half of his tail means that other gryphons sometimes view him as much more stern than he really is.

Leadership among the gryphons is hereditary up to a point. That point is when the others decide that the current chief isn’t doing a good enough job and they elect someone new. Lady Starfeather’s family line have been in charge since her grandmother (Eclipse’s mother).

Although gryphons are longer-lived than humans - a hundred and fifty years is a fairly average lifespan - they mature more quickly; a ten-year-old gryphon is physically and emotionally an adult, roughly equivalent to a twenty-year-old human.

Redbolt was originally called Goshawk from his wing markings. ‘Redbolt’ is essentially a nom de guerre that people started using consistently enough that it just became his nom de paix as well. Lord Eclipse was named such not for any markings but because he was such a huge gryphon that people used to joke he blocked out the sun whenever he took flight.

[hollywritesinstardust]

Sister Sinner, Chapter Five

Request: Do you do cross-overs? I was thinking Neal Caffery’s younger sister works with the BAU, her brother, Mozzie, and Peter on a case, and ends up crushing on Derek Morgan.

Fandom: Criminal Minds/White Collar

Characters/Pairings: Derek Morgan/Reader; Hotch, Neal, Peter, OMC (Gio), OMC (Frank)

Words: 2,452

Y/N - Your Name

            Although Mozzie seemed to think that you’d let yourself be handed over to the wolves, your case continued steadily. Over the next five days, you had been contacted by Gio and had another meeting with him, this time in an almost-empty library while you wore a wire underneath your bra strap. You talked shop. You knew how to shoot a gun, but you didn’t know how to smuggle them or what grade of weaponry he and his bosses would be after, so you repeated the information given to you in your earpiece by Agents Prentiss and Rossi during the meeting. You also lifted a cigarette butt that Gio had been smoking and got it to the CSI lab, where they sent Garcia their file on the DNA match and you positively confirmed who Gio was.

            While you were waiting for the next part of the operation, you kept talking with the BAU agents and irritating Ruiz with your mere presence. Morgan was the one you spoke with most, and the most candidly. There was something about him that made you feel like you could speak in confidence. Reid was also kind of a sweetheart, and he reminded you of Moz in some ways which made you more comfortable. JJ was also one of your favorites. She had a calm, caring demeanor like El but carried herself with the authority and confidence of an agent you could feel safe trusting your health to.

            “Boyfriend?” Morgan – well, Derek, as you called him now – asked, playing 20 Questions and bouncing a stress ball back and forth across the desk with you.

            You smirked. “Why, are you interested?” You caught the particularly hard throw and tossed it back. “No, for the record. Last one turned out to be a buzzkill.”

            “You mean a cop,” he accused lightly, his eyes a little mischievous and daring.

            Shaking your head, you repeated, “No, I mean just in general a buzzkill.” You grabbed the ball again and gave it a squeeze, battering it between your hands. “No wine, no dancing, ‘don’t run in the snow, there might be ice.’ And that counted as two questions.” While Derek protested that the second wasn’t a real question, just a follow-up, you threw the ball back at him and asked, “Dogs or cats?”

            “Dogs,” he replied with no hesitation. “Don’t tell Prentiss.”

            “And, let’s see, DC or Marvel?”

            “DC,” he replied easily, giving you a scolding look. “Superpowers versus a powered suit? Sorry, Iron Man, there’s no competition.”

            “Superpowers versus hyper intelligence,” you countered, because that was Iron Man’s real strength. “… But I see your point, a little bit.”

            Hotch clearing his throat made you both stop. You took your feet off of another of the chairs and let yours tip back down onto the floor evenly, sitting up straight. Derek tossed the stress ball over his shoulder towards the side of the room without blinking, pretending he hadn’t been playing with it. The boss looked at the two of you both a little sternly, like he knew you hadn’t been working.

            “We’ve been so productive,” you promised, reading the expression. “Already did a cognitive interview.” Derek walked you through one of your meeting with Frank Gambino, and Garcia did a comparison against the DMV and the sketch from the artist you sat down with and confirmed you had met with the Don.

            “You’re about to get even more productive,” Hotch decreed, pulling out a seat and sitting at the table with his crossed arms on top. “Sofia’s burner phone just got a text with GPS coordinates, a time, and a date.”

            You perked up, intrigued and a little excited to see it through. “Think this is the drop?” You asked, eager to finish playing your part and see the rats get put in cages. Neal was your loved one and he went out of his way to make sure no one was hurt; those that took financial hits were always people who could afford to lose. The Gambinos were just monsters, plain and simple.

            Hotch was nodding while Derek took a photograph of your burner phone’s screen, then gave it to you with the text pulled up. You noted that the time was in military time and Gio was planning on you being there that night. “Wow. He moves quick,” you remarked.

            “There’s a cargo ship sailing into a northern shipping dock this evening,” Hotch explained. “Garcia got ahold of someone with SECNAV and found it’s sailing in from a region known for its loose handle on guns and similar dangerous equipment. With the information you floated undercover, they’re likely betting that her armament is on that ship. They want to trade hands at the docks.”

            “Get done with me before moving the goods, so I don’t get to see where they take it.” You realized, and yeah, that was pretty smart. You had to applaud them for doing their research.

            “That’s our thought, too,” Hotch agreed with you. “If all goes well, we can nab them as soon as Frank Gambino shows up. With the probable cause, not to mention the incriminating audio you’ve recorded, we can get a warrant and search his premises. Anything we find there can be added to the prosecutors’ case.”

            “So I just need to show up, get them comfortable, and wait for Derek and his raid party,” you summarized, giving the younger agent a sidelong, confident look. We’ve got this, you told him with your eyes, and he hid a smile by looking down to the table, shaking his head slightly at your assurance and enthusiasm. “It’s practically in the bag already.”

            Gio met you – well, Sofia – outside of the shipyard. You were pretty sure that you were supposed to need an ID card to get in, but there was no one on duty at the gate and Gio had a code that seemed to open it up. You sent a glance towards the guard’s booth and made a mental note to send someone there ASAP to make sure it really was empty, and the guard wasn’t lying incapacitated.

            “So polite of you to come at last notice,” Gio told you, seeming like he was trying to be conversational. He was definitely wearing an earpiece and made no attempts at hiding it, and you wondered if you’d hear Frank’s voice if it were just a little louder.

            “Business is business,” you replied coolly, not giving anything away. “I like closing deals, just like any businessperson.”

            Gio socialized poorly, like he was usually taciturn, but he had never been quiet for very long before. You didn’t think much of it when he didn’t continue making small talk with you. If Frank just wanted to get this over with, fine. You at least had that much in common. The muscleman led you through the shipyard. You checked your watch after walking four minutes, glanced around for the sunset, and realized you were going east. When Gio stopped finally in the midst of a collection of unloaded trans-Atlantic shipping containers – huge metal boxes, coated in solid copper, silver, and red coats – you felt a little overwhelmed. The containers were too big to see around and created the impression that you were in a maze.

            Is it intentional? You wondered as Gio looked down at his phone, continuing to hold his silence. You had him in a shipyard he wasn’t supposed to be in, waiting for a nonexistent armament of smuggled firearms. As soon as Frank showed up, your job was done, and you could leave, and you knew that the tracking aspect of your watch meant there were FBI agents tailing you.

            You didn’t wait long, just standing there like a sitting duck and looking around yourself. The rendezvous point reminded you of a scene from NCIS. (You were pretty sure the scene you were remembering didn’t end well for Tony or Ziva.) Then there were more footsteps, faint at first but growing in volume, and metal-toed boots carried in an Italian-looking man you’d never seen before on your left. Just then you realized that you were in a narrow cross-section of the containers and looked to your right. A second man, this one looking less Italian and more Latin American, came from that direction; from around a container at your front approached a man you remembered seeing at the library in your last clandestine meeting, but you hadn’t flagged him as another henchman. Now you knew better.

            Surrounded on all sides… which means…

            You turned around slowly while putting your hands up to show you were harmless. Frank Gambino slunk up behind you, wearing leather loafers and a grey tweed suit. He was immaculately groomed, looked richly dressed, and though he was short, he had an air of power and intimidation around him that you could see the others felt, too. It was the kind of atmosphere Keller wanted to carry but just never could manage.

            “Sofia,” Frank said genially to you, with a handsome smile above his dark beard. He had a wide face, thin eyebrows, and pink, sun-damaged cheeks. And a handgun clenched in his dominant fist. “Cara ragazza. Thank you for coming, really, it makes my job so much easier.”

            He raised the handgun. You lifted your hands higher above your head and locked your eyes on his. You knew it made you seem more controlled, but its main purpose was to keep you from staring at the weapon pointed right at your face.

            “What’s this about, Frank?” You asked, forcing your tone light. You were a few notches higher than usual. “I thought we were friends. Ish.”

            “I did, too. Then, me and my boys, we thought, save the pretty girl the trouble, unload the shipment for her.” Frank gestured around you at the containers and you saw with a start that they’d been opened, left just slightly ajar. They went through everything. “And wire your money through those lovely islands. Except… there’s one problem. There’s no shipment.

            “Your references checked out at first,” the Don continued, giving you credit and waving the gun slightly as if in praise. “Convincing cover. Dig a little deeper, though, and Rydell’s burnt. He was one of us because he went away. Know how to look, work the system, he never went away.”

            You cursed under your breath. In most cases, convictions were public record. Neal’s alias of Gary Rydell had been arrested to preserve his cover, but Frank or one of the people who work for him must have searched for more info to prove that Rydell was legit and found that the man never really existed… at least, not the way you’d led them to believe.

            “It will be a shame to ruin such a beautiful face,” Frank mourned, considering your scowling expression. “But then, no cop can be as beautiful as liberty.” One side of his mouth lifted up and he cocked the gun, preparing to fire. “I do love your American values.”

            It would have been such a cliché to say that your life flashed. You’d come close to dying on many occasions, and you’d never actually had your life flash before your eyes. You had regrets and you had thoughts, and you missed people, and you wanted your mom before she became so distant or you wanted Ellen because you thought of her as a mother, too. This was the first time you’d really had memories come to mind while looking down the barrel of a gun, and it was probably because your family been right, this was too dangerous, and you hoped they wouldn’t feel too guilty because everything that had happened had been your choice.

              Neal raised a glass towards you with a serene smile, both of you around his dining table in the penthouse. “To first drinks,” he offered as a toast.

            You snorted. “Neal, you gave me my first drink when I was sixteen.”

            “Yeah,” he recalled, nodding with a smirk, “But this is the first time we’ve drank together while it’s legal.”

            You rubbed your eyes again and let him celebrate. You’d let him celebrate any stupid thing he wanted as long as he wasn’t wearing an orange jumpsuit.

            A knock on the door came before it was opened, but only just. Before Neal could say so much as an invitation, it was being pushed on. It was left unlocked, so a tall man in a suit came right on inside, looking around curiously.

            “Nice place,” he commented. You held your tongue from everything you wanted to say. You’d never forget what Peter Burke looked like for as long as you lived. He was the man who’d taken Neal away for years.

            As if he knew what you were thinking – and hell, he probably did – Neal reached for your hand and squeezed softly under the table, where Peter couldn’t see, trying to remind you that he would still be in jail if the FBI agent hadn’t chosen to take a chance on him. It didn’t matter. Peter was still your least favorite person.

            “Oh, you had company,” Peter said in surprise, just noticing you. You smiled thinly. He smiled back, uncomfortably, not recognizing you. “Well, um – you didn’t mention you had a date.” He said to Neal.

            You both looked at each other in horror. “Oh, God, no,” you both objected simultaneously, devolving into hurried assurances that you were not, in fact, dating. You departed soon after, bitter and angry at Peter for interrupting your first evening with your brother in more than four years.

            Give me a different memory, you thought at your brain angrily. Give me a happier one. Where I’m not so pissed off at Peter anymore, because now he’s like family. That gun was still there, waving in front of your face, and you didn’t want to die period but especially not with resentment towards someone who you wanted to think about with respect and love. It was hard to think, though – whatever came to mind just happened to be what you remembered, and the panic and fear and adrenaline clouded everything else.

            Everything except for your current senses, which were still ready to fight or to take flight. You darted your eyes around fearfully like a bird looking for a safe escape, and encroaching on all sides from around shipping crates and the large metal containers you saw FBI agents in Kevlar vests. It could’ve been Peter or Hotch or even Ruiz, and you still would have felt like the sky had opened up and shone a ray of angelic, saving light on you. Derek’s voice magnified in a bullhorn made your knees weak.

            “Put the gun down! You are surrounded!”

A/N: There will only be one more chapter after this! I expect the total of Sister Sinner to be about 14-14.5K, counting all six chapters. Thank you all for reading!

On the tags list are: @bestillmystuckyheart, @skeletoresinthebasement, @werewitchling, @1enchantedfantasy1, and @ragweed98!

[ambiengrey]

What Kind of Jerk Would I Be? #7

All the things you need to know: summary.

<--previous

Spitfire.

PALO ALTO

February 14, 23:48 PST

Team Year Seven

Artemis was down on her knees, scrubbing vigorously at the red striped carpet underfoot. Dirty soapsuds clung to the yellow gloves she wore, to the sponge, to the rug.

She sniffed, rubbed at her nose with the back of her hand, leaving bubbles behind without noticing.

She scrubbed some more, then left behind the now shiny circle of rug to move onto the next patch.

A knock, potentially at the door, stopped her short just as she threatened the rug with a spongeful of water. But it was a quiet sound and, in the stunning silence that followed, Artemis thought she might have imagined it.

Finally, she decided she had, and took to squeezing the sponge out over the rug. Soapy liquid dropped onto the fabric and Artemis sighed. This was going to take a small eternity. But she’d started and insisted on doing the whole thing, so...she had to see it through. Or, at least try to. There were too many things she’d been leaving unfinished lately.

Another, very distinct this time, knock sounded at the door and Artemis frowned up at it. It was nearly midnight, she knew – who in the world could be bothering her at this hour?

With a heavy sigh that was trying and failing not to sound annoyed, Artemis pushed herself up to her feet, leaving wet handprints on the knees of her jeans without caring. She plucked one yellow glove from her hand as she approached the door, and opened it just as another knock sounded. It ended a little feebly as she pulled the door away from one darkly gloved hand left hanging now pointlessly in the air.

Her visitor was tall, his hair as dark and lengthy as ever, a familiar-looking set of sunglasses perched on his nose despite the clear lack of sunlight.

For the shortest of moments Artemis couldn’t do much more than stare at the apparition in front of her – because it was so ridiculously absurd that, of all the places to pop up, it’d be her front door. Wasn’t there like a manor of people – well, alright, four, or, two if you wanted to be technical – just watching the front door for any sign of his silhouette beyond the glass windows?

Artemis clicked her tongue at the grin tugging on the corner of his mouth.

“Who am I talking to?” she said, narrowing her eyes and raising one eyebrow at him. “You-know-who, or…secret ID You-know-who?”

He chuckled, the sound a vague, faded version of an old familiar cackled he’d been infamous for. “I think the second one,” he said, forever smiling, as he reached for his sunglasses and pulled them off his nose. His eyes were still so blue. “You-know-who doesn’t walk around in civvies anymore. It’s just Dick now, sunglasses included.” He waved them back and forth before pocketing the eyewear.

“Hmp,” she snorted, but smiled as well. It was good to hear his voice. “Well, stay out there freezing, if you’d like,” she said, and stepped aside for him to enter.

“I’d like,” he replied cheekily, crossing the threshold, looking around her apartment as he did, quick blue eyes taking in everything just as they’d been trained to. Artemis took distinct notice of something as well – the way he never turned his back to her, keeping one hand out of sight.

He was turned to face her as Artemis shut the door and Dick gave her another quick once-over. Her hair was shorter than he remembered, kind of choppy-looking in their layers now, and she had a fresh tan, like she’d recently been in the sun a long time… Probably a mission, he figured, but it wouldn’t have been today. The puffiness was leaving her eyes, the red rims of her dark grey orbs only detected by his blue ones because they’d been looking for it. Her jeans were dirty, and that was Wally’s sweatshirt, its sleeves rolled up and over several times so they’d stay up above her elbows. Her upper arms were wet, above where she was wearing the yellow gloves, one of them removed now to answer the door with a dry hand.

“I like your nose,” he commented, tapping the side of his own.

She frowned, wiped at her nose, removing the bubbles that had been left behind. “Hmp.”

“Spring cleaning?” he inquired with a bemused smile, raising an eyebrow at her.

Artemis scoffed, pulling off the other glove as well and dropping it into a bucket at the edge of the rug. “I spilled some wine,” she shrugged.

Dick made a face, sort of pursing his lips, sort of frowning, but he nodded like he got it, and looked down and around in search of the cleaned patch. “Across half the carpet?” he asked, seeing the spots of soapsuds from one edge towards the bucket where Artemis had been working.

Briefly she narrowed her eyes at him, unable to tell if he was being obnoxious or genuinely confused. She rolled her eyes. “It was bothering me. So I cleaned it.”

He looked back up at her with an expression that clearly said, Across half the carpet?

“It was too clean. It bothered me, so I decided I’d wash the whole thing,” she shrugged again, annoyed.

“Okay,” he said easily, with a shrug of his own and a quirk of his mouth.

She nodded shortly, crossed her arms and relaxed her weight onto one leg. Dick looked around a second time, not offering up anything for conversation. That was decidedly odd, Artemis figured – generally he was chattier than this.

What are you doing here, anyway?

She’d get there, she decided, or if she didn’t, he would.

“With gloves, though – really?” he asked abruptly, his tone plainly amused.

Artemis glared good-naturedly at him, “Yes,” she replied flippantly, sparing one hand a quick glance before curling up her fingers to hide her nails.

“Oh,” Dick replied, a knowing air to his voice.

With a sigh she waved him off with a hand though the air, “I’ll make coffee. You can tell me how you’ve been,” carefully not saying ‘where you’ve been’. She stuck her hands into the sweatshirt’s pockets.

“Sure,” Dick grinned, and stepped a little aside for her to pass – not that there wasn’t any room, but he was being careful not to let her see what he had behind his back. She’d noticed, too, by the roll of her eyes, which, Dick thought, she probably hadn’t thought he’d seen, but really she should have known better. Humouring him, he thought, she made her way to the kitchen ahead of him.

“I like your nails,” he commented, having seen them neatly trimmed and painted green. “It fits your skin.”

“Oh,” Artemis said shortly, watching her nails as she flicked the switch on the kettle with one finger from ‘off’ to ‘on’. Belatedly she added a mumbled, “Thanks,” and then, because it was Dick and he was Dick, she felt the need to explain herself – explain that rude undertone that had crept into her voice. “Wally…” she started, haltingly, her voice almost catching in her throat as she said his name. Thinking it came a lot easier, and she’d thought on it often. But how many weeks had it been since she’d said it? “Picked it out,” she trudged on, in a quiet voice. “Thought it…would look nice,” she shrugged.

“Yeah?” Dick said, just as quietly. “He…wasn’t wrong…”

Artemis didn’t add that she’d found the teal green colour a little gaudy after the first wear. She didn’t go into detail about the pathetic tearfest she’d indulged in upon finding the little bottle discarded in a drawer somewhere earlier today. She didn’t admit that she’d been wearing the yellow gloves so as not to chip her nails, because, watching her fingers on the kettle switch, she was becoming increasingly fond of the colour. It was nice, and yes, it did…match her skin. Just as Wally had said, too.

I know, Arty… Dick thought, watching the archer’s back. She still stood as straight as ever, her shoulders back; she was regal-looking in her stance, even though she was just standing in her kitchen, waiting for the water to boil, intent on making coffee. I was there when he picked it… at a flea market in Gotham on one of the rare days he and Dick got to spend time together. …I missed him, too, but… Hm. How to go about this?

The slobbering sound of a licking tongue, footsteps padding heavily across the wooden floor, pulled Dick from his reverie, and he turned just enough to see Artemis – and Wally’s – white dog trotting up to him, tail wagging.

“Hey, Brucie!” he grinned, genuinely happy to see the dog. He dropped down to his haunches, his free hand patting the dog’s head before his fingers took to scratching him behind the ears. Bingo.

Artemis had turned around and crossed her arms as she leaned back against the counter, watching Dick with Brucely. That dog could sleep through anything. And generally did, too. Most days he didn’t bother doing more than cracking an eye to watch Artemis pass before he went right back to snoozing. When Wally was still…well. Well, Brucely hardly bothered getting up for him, either.

“How’ve you been, boy? Been good, have you? Took good care of Arty?” Dick chuckled.

But Dick. The dog would wake up scant minutes after his voice sounded through the apartment and come rushing out of his hidey-hole to meet the ex-Boy Wonder with enthusiastic licks and doggy-hugs.

“Traitor,” Wally would scoff, grinning, and Brucely would bark as if to say he knew Wally was only kidding and he still loved him, before he went back to enjoying Dick’s tickling fingers.

Brucely – Bruce – had been exactly the right name for him.

“I bet you have,” Dick said, looking over at Artemis. She’s still alive, after all, on the tip of his tongue, but his grin faltered a bit as he decided against saying those words aloud. Despite the news, it wasn’t a proper joke to be making at the moment. He got to his feet instead, pretended the sudden lack of vigour on his face was on account of his following question, “So… how is Bruce? My Bruce, I mean.”

“You haven’t even spoken to him yet? Or – or been home?” Artemis said, unable to keep a bite of incredulity from her tone.

Dick shrugged nonchalantly, “We’ve spoken. I just haven’t been to see him or anything. I had something else to do first…”

Artemis raised one delicate eyebrow at that. Behind her, the kettle stopped boiling with a soft click. She ignored it. “You’re gone for more than half a year – just…off the grid, not a word. Then you waltz back…into our lives,” her crossed arms came undone and she shrugged with her hands in the air, stepping away from the counter. “And your very first stop, isn’t your…dad,” she insisted, “It’s me,” a pause, as she left that to sink in for a second. “…Something you’d like to tell me, Dick?”

He fought not to smile, the grip behind his back tightening a little.

“Not…tell,” he replied carefully, “So much as, something to give you.”

Artemis’s eyes narrowed. She’d known he knew she’d caught on to his little game. He’d been moving strategically for all of the ten or however minutes he’d been in her apartment, careful not to turn his back to her, indiscreetly hiding something behind it. Purposely hiding something behind it. So she knew, of course, that he wanted her to comment on it. Wanted her to ask what it was.

Naturally, thus, Artemis had made a point of ignoring it. She hated being baited – something Dick was not entirely unaware of, either.

But Dick had been trained by the Batman. Manipulation was an art form and he was drowning in talent in that area. Since openly hiding the thing behind his back hadn’t been enough to entice her, or aggravating her, into asking what it was, however, he’d manipulated the conversation so the only logical, following comment she could make, had to be a question – what do you have to give me? What is it? What-what-what – leading him straight to the grand reveal of whatever he was hiding. Just as he’d wanted.

Artemis scowled. She’d missed Dick.

It wasn’t that she had no more connection to the rest of the Team – M’gann was still her best friend, practically her only one, but Dick… Dick and Wally. Dick and Artemis. Dick and Artemis and Wally. The three of them had something…else. Some other, some more…“special” connection. After Wally…after he was gone, Artemis had almost thought she and Dick would rely a little more on each other. The old clichéd “being there” for each other bit. But he’d left. He’d left, and finding comfort with Wally’s parents had turned awkward very quickly, and Artemis was alone again. Alone with her thoughts and her memories that no one would understand, because no one knew Wally the way she had, except for Dick, maybe, but…he was gone.

Seeing him standing in her doorway—

“If I hit you,” Artemis said abruptly, deciding to ignore the bait after all. “Just once, but, really hard, right on the nose…would you forgive me?”

Dick blinked at her, and then laughed, doubling over once as he chuckled – cackled almost. What was with that sound? What was it doing at the edge of his laughter? Artemis hadn’t heard that youthful echo in years.  Even before Wally—

“Get in line, Arty,” he said at last, shaking his head, still smiling. “I can think of at least three other people – four, if Alfred has no restraint left – who have first dibs on that,” another laugh, like he didn’t mind at all.

Artemis frowned. What was so important he needed to see her first? Before his family?

“Come on, Arty,” he sobered up, no longer smiling, exactly, but it was hardly a frown on his handsome face, either. His eyes looked so… serious. “I don’t know how to bring it up. I don’t know how you’ll react. You have to ask me what it is.”

“Now I really don’t want to,” Artemis mumbled under her breath, though he’d probably heard anyway. She bet his ears got training, too. She sighed, rolling her eyes again – not sure if it was at him or herself, though. “How is this more important than going home, Dick?” she had to ask.

“I was a little late,” he answered at once, as if he’d had it waiting in the wings. “I had to get this to you today, so,” a one-shouldered shrug. “I had to stop here first. I promised.”

Well. He was nothing if not bound to his word.

“Fine,” she conceded, crossing the space between them, watching Dick’s face light up with a grin. “What do you have to give me, Dick?” amusement coloured her tone despite herself, making Dick’s grin grow even wider.

He pulled it out with a flourish to hold it up between them, right under her nose.

Artemis suddenly found herself staring at a single flower, its five scarlet-red petals brilliantly bright, framed by lily-pad shaped leaves, tied close to the flower’s stem with a thin string.

Her mouth dropped open with surprise, and she glanced up at Dick. “Who did you ‘promise’ to bring me a flower for?” she asked incredulously, fingering a delicate petal with two fingers.

“Wally,” Dick started, and Artemis’s eyes snapped up again, watching him through her lashes suspiciously, a knot in her throat.

He swallowed, eyeing her just as carefully, but then traipsed on as intended, “…had always wanted to give you one. It’s called Spitfire.”

She slipped the flower from Dick’s fingers into her own, blinking at the hotness in her eyes. She bit her bottom lip.

“She’s my little Spitfire, Dick,” she’d overheard Wally say about her once, not long after they’d started dating. He’d been whispering, sounding happily far-off. She’d paused outside the doorway, bemused at what he’d called Robin, until the Boy Wonder replied with a hiss, “Dude – secret identity!”

“Duuude!” a clap as Wally covered his mouth at an inhuman speed. “…Sorry…”

“Never mind, I don’t think anyone heard…”

A small smile crept across Artemis’s face as she looked at the flower, shifting her weight from one foot to another. “Thanks,” she mumbled, breathing in deeply, trying hard not to think about his face, only because she didn’t want to burst into tears in front of Dick.

“Sure,” Dick replied easily, stuffing both hands into his pockets, taking a quick, discreet breath himself in anticipation of what he was about to say. “He’d have given it to you himself, if he weren’t—”

“That is not funny!” she snapped at once, her voice sounding strained around the lump in her throat. She hit him against his chest, but he hardly flinched even though she’d put a fair amount of force behind the punch – wherever he’d been, he’d definitely been keeping up his training.

A throaty laugh escaped him unbidden, Dick’s lips curling into the smile he’d been trying hard to hide.

She scowled at him, making to turn around and stomp off to hide the tears that were threatening to form so much as because she wasn’t in the mood to look at him anymore. What was he thinking making jokes about Wally being—

Being dead. Hadn’t he been his best friend? What the hell?!

Dick’s hand emerged from his pocket to catch her by the arm, though, effectively stopping her in her tracks. He spoke quietly, but seriously, smiling kindly all the while though she wasn’t really looking at him, “If he weren’t on the other side of a dimensional wall.”

Artemis blinked. The what-now?

Slowly she turned her head just enough to watch his face comfortably, her grip tightening around the flower in her hand.

“Dick…” she said, her voice low, the tone somewhere between a plea and a warning, like she wasn’t sure which one she meant for it to be herself. But her eyes, dark and grey, were undoubtedly filled with a deep, desperate plea. A ‘dimensional wall’? her thoughts were whirling. What the hell does that even mean?! He’s… ‘stuck’? Like – in another dimension? Stuck, but…but alive? “If this is some kind of joke…” she whispered faintly.

Dick’s smile grew, a short delighted laugh escaping him. The faintest echo of his youthful exuberance bubbling to the fore again. “Arty,” he implored. “I wouldn’t kid. Not about this,” he squeezed her arm, willing her to believe. “You know that.”

She blinked, and the tears she’d been hopelessly trying to hold back, slipped free, trailing down her cheeks.

“You’re not…”

“I found him, Arty,” Dick said, his smile finally growing again, unable to keep his elation to himself. He wanted her to know, to understand – to be happy, the same way he was.

She sobbed, unable not to, and clapped her free hand over her mouth.

Dick laughed again, and pulled her closer, wrapping his other arm around her shoulders. “You… he’s… he’s not—” she sobbed against his chest.

“No, he’s not,” Dick replied. “And I’m going to bring him all the way home. I promise.”

Artemis’s reply was a cross between a sob and a laugh.

Dick grinned, squeezing her tighter, “He says happy Valentine’s Day, by the way.”

End.

[justrae2010]

Cool blue eyes scanned up and down him again and Yuuri was helpless to stop the rush of blood flying to his face, skin crawling under the Russian woman’s stern gaze.

His hand stayed empty.

Victor’s mother’s eyes shifted to her son. “This is him?”

Yuuri’s smile fell flat.

In the run up to the wedding, Yuuri finally meets Victor's parents. It doesn't go well.

The hiss of Victor’s shower was still in Yuuri’s ears as he stepped in the bedroom, loose tracksuit bottoms hanging low off his hips. He ran a hand through his wet hair, ruffling it lightly. It had another hour to dry before they met Victor’s parents at the restaurant for dinner.

The thought was mildly terrifying.

Victor’s parents.

Yuuri was finally meeting them after he and Victor had publicly announced their engagement, both flying in from halfway across the world to see their darling son and his beau.

They had dinner reservations for eight at a local Russian restaurant and Yuuri had everything planned to a tee. He was going to wear his best suit, give firm handshakes and a warm smile, and ask for their son’s hand in marriage. Meeting them was already long overdue. Yuuri wanted to make up for that time with an exceptional first impression and impeccable manners. And he was pretty sure that if Victor’s were anywhere near as dramatic as their son, they would love his asking their permission. Victor would adore it.

His stomach churned with nerves, but he was confident in his plan. Ready. He ran over in his head one last time what he was going to say when the sharp buzz of the apartment’s doorbell broke his trail of thought.

Yuuri frowned.

It was too late for the post and their elderly neighbour who sometimes called on them for help was away to visit their grandchildren. They weren’t expecting anything … were they?

Then something clicked. Victor had been buzzing with excitement last week about ordering the new Yuuri body pillow available and it had been due to arrive yesterday. Maybe this was the express delivery for the lateness. The doorbell buzzed again. Victor would be bitterly disappointed if he missed it, Yuuri already imagining the sad down turn of his mouth and the sparkle fading slowly from his drooping crystal gaze...

He bolted for the door.

Stray water droplets ran down his bare chest, dripping from his wet hair but Yuuri didn’t care, yanking open the front door for the deliveryman.

Only it wasn’t a delivery man.

Instead, wide aquamarine eyes the exact same shade as Victor’s stared back at him, framed with long platinum blonde eyelashes that fluttered in surprise. Between the eyes and the long, loose silver curls sitting around her shoulders, there was only one person this woman could be.

Yuuri felt the blood pool on his face as Natalia Nikiforov’s eyes darted down, drinking in his half naked form with a blush dusting her cheeks and something hard-edged flashing through her gaze. A heavy hand settled on her shoulder from behind. The tallest man Yuuri had ever set eyes on stepped up behind his wife, combed back hair dark and flecked with grey with fierce green eyes. A nerve jumped in his square jaw when he saw Yuuri, a light stubble over his chin. Vitaly Nikiforov.

For a moment, Yuuri wondered if it was possible to die of embarrassment, heart seizing up painfully in his chest. He was in nothing but sweatpants. In the back of his head, a snide voice hissed at him to cover himself - with a blanket, hands, anything! - but his body was frozen with shock, refusing to listen.

Natalia’s head cocked to the side, hair rippling like water. “Is Victor here?”

Yuuri squeaked in reply.

Her accent was like Victor’s. Excellent, practised English with the elegant roll of a soft Russian accent, curling around the ‘r’s and with a deliberate allure that Yuuri knew came second nature to Victor now after years of practise with the world's press. Now he knew where the tip had come from.

Heat burned over the bridge of his nose as Vitaly leaned in, angling his ear closer to Yuuri. Yuuri didn’t dare try to speak again, tongue feeling like lead in his mouth. The hand on the door was white knuckled.

“Mama!”

Yuuri barely had time to turn his head before Victor flew past him in a flash of pink, white and silver, naked all but the fluffy towel around his waist. He launched right into his mother’s arms. The pair hugged tight in a clash of silver hair and bright smiles, leather clad arms wrapping tight around Natalia Nikiforov’s only son and all but squealing with delight.

“Vitya!”

Something soft nudged Yuuri’s ankle and he stepped back as Makkachin padded through his feet to woof at Natalia’s heels as Victor was swallowed up in his father’s strong arms.

Yuuri just stood back, shocked. He wondered if he could make it to the bedroom in time to slip a shirt on, before anybody noticed he’d gone. They were all wrapped up in hugged and dog petting, chatting in happy Russian and stepping in from outside the bitter St Petersburg winter chill. Maybe they wouldn’t notice. Maybe he could-

“Mama, Papa,” Victor finally stepped back from his parents with a beam that could rival that of the sun, slinking an arm around Yuuri’s naked waist. “I’d like you meet Yuuri. My fiancee.”

Yuuri’s blood ran cold with horror the moment those blue and green eyes slapped on him, gazes intense and curious. A tiny crease played between Natalia’s eyebrows. That wasn’t a good sign, Yuuri thought. His first impression was all wrong. He’d been a stammering, naked idiot at the door instead of the polite, polished man he’d wanted to present himself to be. He’d been so caught off guard, so surprised, so mortified that he’d greeted his fiancee’s parents in nothing but sweatpants…

He swallowed hard - hoping that Victor’s parents didn’t notice - and forced his lips to curve, trying to settle the mad thump of his heartbeat. It wasn’t over yet, he told himself. He could still claw it back, make a good impression somehow...

Yuuri stuck his hand out, bright smile already plastered perfectly on his face. “Hello, Mrs Nikiforov. It’s great to finally meet you.”

Natalia Nikiforov didn’t move.

Cool blue eyes scanned up and down him again and Yuuri was helpless to stop the rush of blood flying to his face, skin crawling under the Russian woman’s stern gaze.

His hand stayed empty.

Victor’s mother’s eyes shifted to her son. “This is him?”

Yuuri’s smile fell flat.

“I thought Japanese people bowed as a sign of respect.” Victor’s father said over his wife’s shoulder, mouth a tight, thin line on his face.

Yuuri’s heart dropped into his stomach, feeling sick. His mouth opened, tongue darting out to wet his dry lips instinctively, but no words came out. They choked in his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing helplessly as he tried to stammer over the lump lodged in his windpipe. It just kept getting worse.

Victor’s laugh was melodical in his ear but Yuuri didn’t miss the way his fingers tensed slightly at his waist. “Papa, we’re not in Japan.”

The cold stares didn’t ease up.

Yuuri felt like crying with relief when Victor finally cleared his throat and muttered a quick ‘we’ll just go and get changed’. Something stiff radiated from his boyfriend, something uneasy that just made Yuuri’s nerves stand even more on edge. He felt the Russian’s gazes follow him even as he turned, ducking his flaming cheeks out of sight and trailing behind Victor like a retreating puppy with it’s tail between it’s legs.

“Where’s Yuuri’s room?”

He flinched at the question, pinching his eyes shut. When they opened again, they settled right on Victor’s pink face, mouth hanging open.

“H-he and I-”

“We, um, we share a-”

They both spilled at the same time, both stumbling over their words and both looking up to the other with equal shock at what the other was revealing - even though they were stating the same thing. Victor’s eyes were round, looking unusually flustered.

Yuuri could only imagine what he looked like. Slowly, his gaze rolled over his shoulder, neck feeling stiff as he tuned back to Victor’s parents. He didn’t miss the disapproving look they exchanged.

Dinner could not come quick enough.

Victor and Yuuri dressed in record time and they made their way to the restaurant, seated early to their table with one look at Victor and his family. The waitress barely glanced at Yuuri.

He wished the same could be said for Victor’s parents, who seemed to be watching Yuuri out of the corner of their eyes every moment. He fought the urge to loosen his tie. To do so would only draw more unwanted attention, he was sure, already shrinking in his suit and feeling inadequate in his old tie that Victor hated. He was sure his parents must hate it too. They were as exceptionally dressed as their son; Vitaly in a sharp suit and Natalia in an elegant black A-line dress with lace sleeves from her own designer collection.

Yuuri tried to hide behind his menu, pretending that he could read the stylish cyrillic writing with every intention of just ordering exactly the same as Victor to save himself the shame of asking for help.

“You like dogs, Yuuri?”

He blinked up at the question, only just battling down jumping in his seat. He breathed a small sigh of relief when he saw that Natalia’s eyes were softer now, gazing at him politely across the table. Even a small smile played on her lips.

“Um, yes.” he stammered, finally remembering how to speak. “I used to have a poodle.” He wasn’t about to tell them it was named after their son though…

Vitaly raised his eyebrows. “Oh, when you lived in America?”

A flutter of hope ran through Yuuri, noting the slightly warmer tone to Victor’s father's gaze and the way his mother's smile widened. Dog people. Finally, a topic Yuuri was comfortable with, knew was safe territory. Dog people could never be bad people and a very real - albeit still slightly nervous - smile curved on Yuuri’s face

The picture of his beloved pet floated in his mind, calming the fight between his heart and his ribcage. “Actually, he stayed in Japan when I lived in America.”

One of his biggest regrets - not spending more time with Vicchan before he’d died, stuck half way across the world for the sake of his career. It hadn’t been ideal. He would have loved to have been able to spend more time with his beloved pet, like Victor was able to spend with Makkachin.

Obviously Victor’s parents agreed.

Yuuri watched with a plummeting heart as their once brightening expressions sank again, smiles sliding off their faces and the same edge to their gazes chipped back in place.

Natalia’s eyebrows pinched together, exchanging another look with her husband. “That doesn’t seem very responsible…”

Yuuri wished he could disappear.

He didn’t dare say another word after that, hiding behind his menu and picking idly at his food, ears dully tuning into the Russian chatter around the rest of the table. The alien language flowed so effortlessly from the Nikiforov’s tongues, sounding beautiful and pleasantly rustic at the same time. He didn’t know anywhere near enough Russian to keep up, eyes dropping to his dinner instead. He occasionally caught the way Victor’s eyes flickered across the table, ears pricking when his fiancee subtly switched language, trying to steer the conversation back to English for Yuuri’s sake. It didn’t work too well. The Russian swept back in, parents running away with their mother tongue like Yuuri wasn’t even there.

The meal crawled along painfully slowly for Yuuri and he could hardly bear the sympathetic glances Victor slipped him every few minutes. It wasn’t going at all how Yuuri had planned.

He didn’t dare ask now. He was pretty sure that if he did, the answer wouldn’t be what he wanted to hear, would only make it worse somehow…

So he swallowed his words, staying silent.

He sunk away straight to bed when they got home, trying to ignore Victor’s sad gaze bearing into his back as he retreated from the sitting room with defeated steps. As soon as the bedroom door was shut, Yuuri leaned against it, blinking fast. Hot tears pricked in the corners of his eyes, breaths ragged as they drew in short and sharp through his lungs. Fingers ripped through his tie, fumbling to loosen the top button of his shirt tightening around his throat, choking him.

It had all gone wrong. So, so wrong. They hated him. It was official and obvious, from their disapproving expressions, forced smiles, and exchanging looks…

Yuuri wasn’t used to being hated. Yurio’s harsh yelling was one thing, but someone actually hating him - and someone so close to Victor no doubt! - was something new entirely. Guilt churned sickening in his stomach and for a moment, Yuuri wondered if he was going to heavy up the ridiculously expensive dinner that he hadn’t been able to help pay for because he’d idiotically forgotten his wallet. It sat on the bedside table across the room, mocking him.

The back of his hand pressed into his mouth, choking back the sob that threatened to break free. The door wasn’t that thick. They might still hear him-

“He’s not right for you, Vitya.”

Yuuri froze as the words drifted through the door, in Natalia’s beautiful voice rolling over the English words with a thick underlying plea.

“Mama, you don’t know him-”

“We know enough.” Vitaly said firmly. “He’s shown no respect for our culture or heritage, no regard for us as your parents - he doesn’t even speak Russian, Vitya! ”

Every word was said in crisp, flawless English and Yuuri pinched his eyes shut in realisation, the first tear rolling down his cheek. Because they wanted him to hear. They wanted Yuuri to understand exactly what they thought of him, what they thought of their son’s new fiancee...

“He’s got no spine.” Natalia went on. “He didn’t stand up for you or himself once. We weren’t exactly being subtle, Vitya...”

“He broke your heart once before, son...”

“Are you sure he won’t hurt you again?”

“He didn’t even win at the final when you coached him. Are you sure he cared about your coaching? Are you sure he cared about you at all?”

Yuuri blinked down at his ring through his blurred vision, watching the way his hand trembled traitorously.

On the other side of the door, he didn’t hear Victor say anything.

When he woke up the next day - eyes aching from crying - Victor was already gone, a text waiting on his phone to meet them at the Vkusno Cafefor brunch when he was ready. Yuuri swallowed down the message, eyes wandering to the Victor shaped dent in the pillow beside him sadly. For a moment, he wondered if he should go to the cafe or to the airport for the first flight back to Japan.

After a deep breath and a shuddering heart, Yuuri scrunched his eyes shut. He made up his mind quickly, reaching for his phone.

Half an hour later, the bell chimed in Vkusno Cafe.

Yuuri stepped through the door, bell ringing softly above his head as his eyes scanned the cosy little cafe for his fiancee and his parents, swallowing down the last of his fear. He found them quickly, following the quickly fading laughter. Sharp gazes glanced over at him from the corner of the cafe, following Victor’s round, glittering eyes to the door as he paused mid-sentence, mouth hanging open. Half a second later, his parents were just as surprised.

Yuuri’s sleek suit glided smoothly over his skin as he stepped forward, strides strong and confident. His fist was tighter than was probably wise around the colourful flowers clutched in his hand, but it was suddenly the least of his worries as Vitaly rose to his feet from the cafe table, crossing his arms firmly over his broad chest.

It was an intimidating sight, Yuuri’s heart skipping a beat. He stuck firm to his resolve though, taking a deep breath.

“Sir,” he said, swallowing hard and bending at the waist, bowing deep and low but all the while holding Vitaly’s strong eye. “I know I haven’t made the best impression so far. But I want you to know that I love your son. More than anything. I know how special he is. I know I could search the whole world,” his eyes shifted, meeting Victor’s across the table. They were glittering, hand to his mouth. Yuuri’s heart just melted. “Nobody is better than him.”

Victor’s lips tweaked in a smile, and Yuuri flickered one back, but it wasn’t Victor he was trying to impress. Straightening up a fraction, he turned to Natalia and bowed again, offering out the flowers. Apparently Russian’s liked flowers.

After a moment, she gently accepted them. She looked stunned, eyes popped wide with surprise.

“I am learning Russian.” Yuuri went on, standing straight. “I want to learn more about your culture. I am going to win gold at the Grand Prix Final next season for Victor. And I want Victor there with me.”

His heart swelled with every word that spilled from his lips, rambling but voice firm with conviction. His heart was hammering in his chest, sure to catch up with him at some point and break his confident facade, but he prayed it would hold just a little longer. Just until he finished. Until they could understand, see his sincerity.

Natalia Nikiforov was a mirror image of her son, mouth hanging open and eyes glittering like stars, simply stunned. Vitaly still had his composure though, eyes narrowing in challenge.

Yuuri met it squarely.

“So, Vitaly Ivanovich Nikiforov,” he sucked in a deep breath, gathering his strength. “ Могу ли я заставить ваших сыновей вступить в брак?”

It sounded clumsy. Even he could tell how poor his attempt was, sounding nowhere near as melodic and beautiful as when the Nikiforov’s themselves spoke Russian or indeed the Google translate voice, but it was the best he could do with twenty minutes to learn. He just hoped the meaning came across, that the words made sense…

Vitaly’s lips pursed, sharp green eyes crisp. Yuuri’s heart plummeted with dread, sinking like a stone in water. It wasn’t the reaction he’d been hoping for.

“Please say yes.”

The words tumbled from his mouth in English before he could help it, but by that point he was struggling to care. Blood pounded in his ears, starting to sweat behind his collar. His composure was cracking. And if he had to beg for Victor’s hand in marriage, that was exactly what he would do. He would crawl across all of Russia on his hands and knees if he had to.

Vitaly’s arms unfolded from his chest. “No.”

Yuuri’s heart stopped.

His breath hitched and he was pretty sure his horror must be written on his face, eyes feeling so wide that they hurt. And wet. Welling with tears. No, that was not what he wanted. He couldn’t cry now.

“In Russia, we do not say yes to that kind of proposition.” Vitaly went on, stretching out his hand, palm flat.

Handshake.

It took Yuuri half a second to process, but he couldn’t move, frozen in place. He just stared down at the large hand in front of him, heart cracking in his chest. Was this it? One final handshake before Vitaly kicked him out of his son’s life forever? Yuuri didn’t want to shake it. He didn’t want to accept Victor was gone. He couldn’t. He wanted to scream and cry and fight until Victor was back in his arms and his forever.

His gaze flickered back up to Vitaly’s wondering just how the Russian could be so cruel, so mean. It was only then he saw the sparkle in those bright emerald eyes though. He saw light, and warmth, and kindness, and… relief? Lips tweaked in a smile through Vitaly’s greying stubble, leaning forward a fraction to take Yuuri’s hand for himself.

Yuuri sucked in a gasp, lost in the sparkle darting through the Russian’s bright emerald gaze. His fingers were firm and tight around Yuuri’s, his spare hand clapping down on top of their entwined fingers.

“We say да.” Vitaly said.

The echo of their vows still glowed solidly in Victor and Yuuri’s hearts as they walked out the front door of the manor house, still hand in hand and wedding bells chiming joyously overhead. Confetti and cherry blossom petals rained down around them. Cherry blossom petals - like from Hasetsu, Yuuri thought with a grin. Broad smiles lined their path and gravel crunched softly under their shoes.

Natalia Nikiforov threw herself at Yuuri. “Welcome to the family!”

She flung her arms around Yuuri’s neck, knocking the breath out of him in her enthusiasm and making him stagger back a few paces in surprise. He couldn’t help but grin though; so that was where Victor got it from…

Over her shoulder, Yuuri watched Victor embrace his father, lifted clean off his feet by the strong Russian man. His pale face pinched slightly as the air squeezed out of him, but it wasn’t enough to dampen the huge heart-shaped smile on his face. He beamed at Yuuri as they were both finally released, Natalia pressing a parting kiss to Yuuri’s cheek and moving to slip a rose crown - made from the same blue roses that had decorated the chairs for the ceremony - over her son’s head as she and her husband traded places.

Vitaly loomed over Yuuri with a dignified smile but Yuuri just beamed shamelessly, too brimming with happiness to hold it back. He held out his hand to his new father-in-law. His weathered grey-stubbled cheeks flickered a smirk.

“Congratulations.” he said, taking Yuuri’s hand firm and strong. “We’re proud of you.” His eyes glanced over his shoulder towards his giggling wife and son, something warm glowing there when they turned back to Yuuri. “We’re proud of both of you.”

Yuuri hadn’t thought his grin could get and wider, but he was quickly proven wrong, cheeks aching as his smile stretched. “Thank you, sir.”

His heart swelled with joy, hearing the words he’d so desperately wanted to hear from the Russian since the moment he’d found out he’d be meeting them. The ghost of their first meeting was still a little raw. It was quickly becoming the joke of the family, table talk of all the embarrassing things Yuuri had done and said softened with kind laughter and reassuring squeezes of hands. It made him just perfect for Victor, the parents had said. Truly dramatic enough to join the Nikiforov clan.

Yuuri’s gaze shifted slightly, searching for his parents through the crowd and expecting for Vitaly to move on, to be done with him. He was wrong though, the tall Russian man not shifting an inch.

Something sparkled in his eyes - something bright and mischievous. “But as my wife said,” he said in a serious tone, head tipping forward slightly. The tiny gesture made him seem so much taller somehow. Yuuri felt his smile slip, heart skipping a beat. “We’re family now.”

Yuuri barely had the time to gasp before the air was squashed out of him in a bone crushing hug, lifted clean off the ground just as Victor had been. His eyes popped wide over the Russian’s shoulder, catching Victor’s gaze. It sparkled with a smile, beam matched perfectly by his mother’s beside him. Yuuri choked out a laugh, heart thudding back to life. He was proud to be a Nikiforov.

Notes:

“Могу ли я заставить ваших сыновей вступить в брак?” = (Can I have your sons hand in marriage?)

да = Yes