#i also almost replied to this just with ‘Mary on a cross. because he canonically wants to suck enjolras off’

[legobatjoker]

♫+grantaire rly do not know too much abt this man but ik u enjoy talking abt him

ok ok once again tysm mwah. i am going to go with ms penelope scott’s ‘moonsickness’ this time….

[startanewdream]

I would love a number 3 Jily from the kissing prompt list.

Also sorry I ordered this like I'm at a fast food restaurant 😂

Hiiii! Considering how long it took me to answer it, it was not fast at all!

Thanks for this prompt! I thought a lot how to fill the idea of a Jily enemies-to-lovers kiss because I thought by the time they shared kisses they would be a lot more friends... then I messed a bit with canon and found this way. Hope you enjoyed it!

Set during their Fifth Year.

Read on AO3 or below:

Seven minutes in heaven

Sirius holds his chin languidly as he considers Peter’s question.

‘Three,’ is his answer, unashamed and not pretentious in a way that James can’t help but feel jealous.

Three .

Sirius kissed three people already and James has never kissed anyone.

It shouldn’t be a competition, because he doesn’t compete with Sirius — for most of the things they are equal, their grades always so close that for a while the professors thought they had to be cheating in exams.

But Sirius kissed three people and he doesn’t even notice all the stares he gets. It doesn’t seem fair.

I’m better than him at Quidditch , James tries to tell himself, but somehow this thought doesn’t bring him any satisfaction. While he was scoring goals, Sirius was scoring something else and though it’s not a competition he can’t help but think he is losing .

The bottle spins again and again and James eyes it with uneasiness. He will pick dare if the bottle points at him, because he always chooses dare on principle, but this time he knows he just doesn’t want anyone to ask how many people he has kissed before.

But the bottle stops at Lily Evans, who watches carefully the person at the other end before saying: ‘Dare.’

Mary grins mischievously. ‘I dare you to tell me who is the most gorgeous bloke in our year.’

James almost rolls his eyes at that, because everyone always says it’s Sirius so it’s not even an interesting question; but to his surprise, Evans just shakes her head, looking flustered.

‘No, that’s against the rules. You can’t ask a question in a dare.’

‘You are no fun, Lily,’ Mary answers, and James feels like this is some inside joke between them; he wonders what's the discussion about who Evans thinks it's gorgeous. ‘Fine, I dare you to try seven minutes in heaven.’

‘You can’t involve anyone else in a dare —’

‘I am not choosing anyone now . You’ll wait there until the next dare.’

Evans seems to consider this before she nods, grimacing, obviously not happy. The rest just watches Evans and Mary; they were the ones that came with that muggle game for animating that chilly October Friday night, and they are the ones that decide the rules.

‘If you are picked, I’ll be spending those seven minutes turning your life into hell,’ Evans warns Mary, her voice amiably, and James almost smiles. Sometimes Evans is funny. ‘The first broom closet to the right, okay?’

Mary nods.

‘What’s seven minutes in hell?,’ Remus asks, curious, watching Evans leaving the Common Room. James feels a little impressed; there are only fifteen minutes until curfew, and for good-girl Lily Evans to risk a detention, she must really take the game seriously.

‘In heaven,’ Mary corrects, grinning. ‘It’s a dare where two people spend seven minutes together in a room. Or in this case, the first broom closet to the right leaving the Common Room.’

‘And what do people do then?’

‘You’ll see if you pick dare,’ Mary answers genially. She indicates the bottle to Remus. ‘Spin it?’

Remus does, but now he is blushing. James looks around; Sirius doesn’t look particularly excited, but Peter has the flushed expression on his face, a little dreamy, and James knows he is far away. Or rather his thoughts are in the broom closet next to the Common Room.

Seven minutes in heaven with Evans ? James tries to imagine it, but he can’t, not really. It wouldn’t be heaven ; she would fulfill her promise of making it a hell, because he and Evans don’t really get along. She gets annoyed with every little thing he and his friends do, never cracking a smile and, most of all, always sticking with her annoying Slytherin friend. Snivellus . There is no way that seven minutes with Evans could ever be fun…

‘James?’

He blinks, coming back to reality. Sirius is looking at him with an innocent expression that doesn’t fit him.

‘What?’

‘I asked, truth or dare?’

‘Dare,’ answers James without thinking, because he can’t risk saying truth ( no, I have never kissed anyone, I’m a failure, ok? ), before he realizes what this means.

And then everyone is smirking at him, knowing looks on their faces that makes James want to flush, except James Potter doesn’t get embarrassed. Not in public. Not evidently. He has an image to uphold.

‘Go on, then, James,’ says Sirius, indicating the portrait. ‘I dare you to spend seven minutes with Evans. Heaven or hell, it’s up to you.’

The girls giggle, and James raises quietly, pretending it’s everyday that he gets to be in a broom closet with a girl, that this is very normal for him. He grins as smugly as he can, but the smile vanishes as soon as he turns his back to him.

Seven minutes in a broom closet with a girl . Not any girl. Lily Evans, really?

And then as he is leaving, he hears Mary’s whisper: ‘Maybe Lily will finally kiss someone, you think?’

Hmm, James considers. So Evans has never kissed anyone either?

He thinks about it; it’s not like he has paid attention to Evans so far, but he knows she has been on a date before. He may have heard something about her meeting the Hufflepuff prefect in the last Hogsmeade weekend, but that was not a thought that had bothered him.

But if he’d think about Lily Evans in a way that he had never really thought before, what would he think? Well, James is not immune to girls , not at all, but it’s just he never looked at Evans because he should feel attracted to someone who is nice to him, right? Like Emme Vance; she winked at him after the first game of the season, and he’d felt something warm inside him. If only he had not been distracted by a comment from Sirius, then he’d have gone talk to her and then his never-kiss-anyone problem would have already been fixed…

But since this is a problem he apparently shares with Evans, maybe, just maybe, they can solve it together?

It’s not a bad idea, he thinks, and when he opens the door of the broom closet, for a split second, he considers that it’s a great idea. Now he is positively considering Lily Evans as someone kissable, for the first time he really notices the thing he may already have noticed about her before, but disconsidered only because he and Evans don’t get along.

And the things is that Evans is a girl and James likes girls. And she is pretty, with her long auburn hair that falls on her shoulders, that fair skin that seems so soft, her full pink lips, and her green eyes that seem to shine under the light coming from the open door. Then his eyes fall to her chest, to the curves that weren't there in the 11-year-old Evans he remembers annoying since their First Year, and, yes, Evans is a girl and James likes girls and his body has a sudden urge to remind him of this.

He looks hastily at her eyes, hoping she didn’t notice where he was staring and trying to look nice and very kissable too; but the first words that come out of Evans’ mouth are not encouraging.

‘Oh, it’s you .’

Her contempt is nearly enough to make him regret everything he thought, but his stupid teenage body isn’t always on the same page as his mind.

He closes the door, only the dim light of the lamp above them illuminating the small closet.

‘Let me guess,’ he begins, looking for the way to most annoy her. It’s a favourite pastime of his and much easier than dealing with his sudden… attraction… to her. ‘You wished it was Sirius .’

She raises her eyebrows, not impressed. ‘I was hoping it was Mary,’ she says without any shame. ‘I had planned to transform one of these buckets into a rat, she hates them.’

‘You weren’t kidding with those seven minutes in hell, were you?’

‘It’s her fault for picking the worst dare,’ Evans says, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall. ‘Seven minutes in heaven , as if.’

His annoyance flares up. He still thinks Evans is gorgeous, especially with the way she crosses her arms under her chest, highlighting some curves very beautifully, but they don’t get along and they never will.

‘Your friends seem to think you’d take advantage of those seven minutes,’ he says, smirking, watching her eyes narrow in what it’s her favourite expression for him. He adores pissing her off. ‘Never kissed anyone, Evans?’

She blushes, a pinkness colouring her cheeks in the most charming way and James wants to touch her face, feel his cold hands burning with the warmth of her skin.

No, stop it , he shouldn’t want to touch her. He doesn’t stand her. And vice versa.

‘Don’t talk about you don’t know, Potter,’ she tells him angrily, but it’s just the same anger that James would use if the situation was reversed and he knows he hit a nerve.

‘What, been kissing Snivellus?’

‘Don’t call him that,’ she answers immediately. ‘And we are just friends, stop being creepy.’

‘But would you consider kissing his mouth? ‘Cause that’s creepy, Evans.’

‘I said we are only friends. You might try someday.’

‘I have friends,’ James says smugly, and Evans rolls eyes, but doesn’t reply. ‘If you never kissed anyone, what did you and Smith do last Hogsmeade weekend? Held hands like you were twelve?’

She searches her pocket for her wand, but it’s not there, so Evans throws him a look that would curse him if she had this power.

‘It’s none of your business, Potter. And I haven’t seen you having any dates to talk about my life!’

It’s true, but James can’t let her know that. ‘Oh, noticing if I have dates, Evans? What, you were jealous ?’

He takes a step closer to her, enjoying the way she just looks more nervous. That’s something more familiar for him, annoying Evans, and it’s much more comfortable to deal with, especially because if he is not concentrating, he would notice how she smells very nice.

And James is not thinking about that, of course.

‘I would be sorry for anyone who has to endure a date with you,’ she answers evenly. ‘Trust me, these seven minutes are taking way too long — imagine a full day.’

‘One might think you were imagining a full day with me, Evans.’

‘Only if I was in a nightmare.’

‘So I do appear in your dreams.’

‘Nightmares,’ she repeats, her eyes pure steel as she glares at him; James should notice the warning that look gives (he shouldn’t push her too much ), but for once he can only think on how green her eyes are, like the Forbidden Forest at night.

And he enjoys too much walking in the Forbidden Forest.

‘Maybe if you had a date with someone else you’d stop wondering about my dates,’ she declares, hissing. ‘Do you know what I imagine, Potter? You never had any date.’

‘I have,’ he lies easily, his hand running absently through his hair. ‘Just because I don’t go showing off about it —’

‘You? Not showing off? When was the last time you did something and didn’t brag about it?’

‘A gentleman does not show off,’ he says, which is something his father told him once but James didn’t think about it until now.

‘If you were a gentleman,’ she replies, a knowing smirk on her face that tells her she knows she hit a nerve with him too. Evans knows he never kissed anyone, and he can see her smugness about it, and if she tells anyone — Merlin, if she tells Snivellus he will never survive it…

‘Do you know what I imagine , Evans?’, he says, throwing her words back at her desperately. ‘That Smith kissed you and you were horrible at it.’

Her flushes intensifies, but if it’s shame or anger, James can’t know. She uncrosses her arms, coming closer, finger pointing at him menacingly.

‘He didn’t — you don’t know what you are talking about!’

‘I bet you don’t know how to snog.’

‘I can kiss just fine , Potter!’, she replies angrily (it’s anger after all, James realizes) and then she does the last thing James really imagined she would do.

She presses her lips against his.

And for two seconds, that’s all they do, really; he doesn’t know what’s keeping her immobile, and he almost asks if her brain has just turned to jelly too, because that’s what’s happening to him.

And then, in the fogness of his numb mind, other things emerge quietly. Her perfume, so close now that it’s more powerful than any other smell in the closet; the warmth of her skin, very different from that cold night; the green in her open eyes as she stares at him, as in shock as he feels, before the eyes are closed, stopping him from reading her emotions; and the sweetness of her lips, a hint of caramel that he suddenly wishes he can taste properly.

His eyes close and, in the darkness, all he can feel is Lily Evans.

They take a step closer in a synchrony that James knows they never had before, and then Evans’ hands are holding his arm and James holds her face. He moves his lips very tentatively, wanting to share more of that (whatever that is), and Evans raises on her tiptoes, her lips parting just the slightest. He feels her breath — it’s the butterbeer, a part of his mind realizes as if he should already know — and suddenly he wants to taste the drink too in her mouth.

(Is it possible to get drunk on a non-alcoholic drink? Because he feels intoxicated).

His tongue touches her lips, again tentatively (he has no idea what he’s doing, but so far things seem right), and she parts her lips even more, allowing him in. James has another moment of panic ( what is he supposed to do now? ), but then Evans’ tongue meet his and this feels right too.

Not just right. It sends shivers down his spine, it makes the world spins around him as if he is afloat and the only thing connecting to Earth is Evans’ lips and the way they move and Merlin why hasn’t he ever kissed Evans before ? He feels disconnected, as if he is watching them kissing from above, and James nearly laughs at the idea that he is snogging Lily Evans in a broom closet, that’s so unlikely — didn’t they hate each other?…

Then she breaks apart, jumping violently backwards, a look of terror on her face, and when James opens his eyes he sees that along with that kiss Evans was sharing the same thoughts as him.

She was in a broom closet snogging James Potter .

He breathes hard, urging air to fill his lungs; apparently kissing stops his natural reaction of breathing — though not other reactions. His body seems to be working overtime, judging by the way his heart is beating too fast in his chest.

Evans is out of breath too; he sees her chest rising and falling fast — then Evans notices his stares and she crosses her arms protectively, recovering faster than him.

‘I told you I could kiss,’ she says, voice full of dignity and he envies her for that.

James couldn’t form a sentence if his life depended on it.

‘You will not tell this to anyone,’ she adds, eyes narrowed again in what used to be James' favourite expression. Now he isn't sure. ‘I — I will deny it if anyone asks, so you will just look like a liar.’ She watches him. ‘Potter?’

‘Okay,’ he whispers, though he is not sure what he just agreed to. His brain is still not functioning properly.

‘Let’s go,’ she says, walking past him and opening the door, leaving just a hint of her perfume in the air.

He follows her, more on instinct than anything, surprised with the fact that he can walk .

People cheer when they enter the Common Room and James steals a glance at Evans. She looks normal, undisturbed, not at all like she has just shared a kiss with James that he… that he really wants to repeat.

‘You still have two minutes!,’ Mary notices, shaking her head disapprovingly at Evans, who just shrugs.

‘Two more minutes and one of us might not leave there alive,’ she says casually, sitting next to Mary.

‘James?,’ Sirius calls him, watching him closely, and James forces a smile upon his face.

‘Evans is right. One of us might not survive.’

They laugh, and James thinks he handled it well, half-truth as it is; everyone knows they don’t get along, he and Evans, they never had, and yet…

The bottle spins again, and now Remus is struggling to say who was his first crush, but James is not listening, not really paying attention to the game. His lips are still tingling, that lingering taste of butterbeer on his mouth, and he can’t help but steal glances at Evans — next time, he thinks feverish, he will let his hands (that stayed reprovingly still ) touch her face, hold her closer. Next time he will kiss her neck, will hear her sigh into his lips.

He will know what to do next time, he promises, but Evans never once looks in his direction.

The bottle stops pointing at her and it’s James turns to ask.

‘Truth or dare, Evans?,’ he asks, his voice sounding nicer than he ever talked to her before, while his hand runs through his hair nervously. His smile is confident, because Evans has to share that urge too, right?

But Evans eyes him as if she’d rather look at anything else and her voice is nearly dismayed when she calls ‘Dare’.

James doesn’t hesitate. ‘I dare you to go out with me, Evans.’

People whistle, but Evans doesn’t look amused. ‘It’s against the rules involving others in a dare, Potter,’ she tells him, coldly, raising. ‘And I think I’m done with this stupid game.’

She leaves the Common Room, and Mary throws a confused look at James before following her friend. Sirius looks at James with a baffled expression.

‘You stayed with her for five minutes and decided to ask her out? What happened there?’

‘Nothing,’ James says at ease. ‘I just realized Evans isn’t so bad.’

It’s a simple way of putting it, but despite what Evans may think about him, James will keep his word; that kiss (his first kiss) will remain between them only.

[once-upon-a-pirate-ship]

it would kill me (if you didn't know)

I know. Trust me, I know. But I've been working on my novel, and when this fic slapped me in the face last night, I just went with it. And so should you.

Neverland AU - canon divergence for somewhere in 3a

(Blatant disregard of canon to follow--don't make me rewatch the show, please)

They saved Henry but all got separated in the process, and when they finally made it back to the ship, Emma realized that they were down a man. She's just gonna have to save him.

This features some pretty awesome Emma/David bonding, too.

This is a classic 'Killian's been taken while saving them and now he's being tortured and Emma isn't gonna stand for it' fic. I've read them all, and I just needed more. POV switches 3rd person between Killian and the others.

Thanks in advance for accepting the sidestepping of canon that I love to do.

Rated M for language and violence

length: 5k+

Read it on ao3

In retrospect, it wasn’t the greatest plan he’d ever had. But it also wasn’t the worst. Well, it could hardly even be called a plan, really, given that the consideration for it occurred in approximately three seconds, but he was hardly going to worry about it now. There were other things to worry about.

The thing that Killian Jones, pirate captain of the Jolly Roger and unofficial Neverland guide to Swan (and the others), needed to be worried about was the little demon child Peter fucking Pan who stood over him with that stupid evil smirk on his lips.

“Seems like you’ve finally lost, pirate,” Pan spat, but the amusement in his tone only sharpened the anger in his eyes.

Killian’s gaze flickered from the child to the grove in the distance, and when he saw not a trace of the others, he returned his attention to Pan. “Aye, I suppose so,” he said, his voice rough though calm and certain.

Pan’s brow furrowed. “Really? No witty remark? No promise to skin me alive?” he taunted. “You’ve changed your tune, Hook.”

He resisted rolling his eyes, instead gripping his wounded shoulder a little tighter. The arrow wasn’t poisoned—he’d have felt it working by now—but it wasn’t helping his predicament at all. Neither was the sizeable gash on his abdomen that Felix had been kind enough to gift him when he’d been distracted.

“Have I?” Killian asked. “I wonder what you’ll do with me now,” he added dryly. He knew. Oh, he knew.

Pan’s eyes flashed, and in an instant he was crouching towards Killian, his hand grasping the protruding arrow. “Now, I get to have my fun,” he declared with a cruel twist of his lips and an even crueler twist of the arrow.

But Killian Jones was no stranger to pain. They were intimately acquainted. That’s how he grit his teeth and buried it until nothing but a tiny grunt sounded from deep within his throat. Pan wouldn’t consider his torture much fun if he didn’t scream in agony, so he would keep playing until Killian could fight it no longer. And he’d let him. Because egging him on would make him lash out, and ensuring him of Swan’s victory would put her and the lad in danger. Pan had spent his time since their arrival playing games with them, distracting them from the important things they’d come there to do. It was only fair that Killian would return the favor.

So the demon could pull out all his toys, could whip him and carve into his flesh, could burn him until his skin was blackened ash, but nothing would stop Killian Jones from protecting his loved ones. And gods above, he loved Emma Swan.

--

All she wanted to know was how the fuck this happened. Their plan had been so perfect that even she couldn’t doubt it, but somehow the winds had shifted or their luck had run out or her luck had run out, and when they returned to the Jolly Rodger and the groups had reunited, they’d been down a man. Down a captain.

Neal, for all his talk of fighting for her, didn’t seem to mind not fighting for something that she actually cared about. He was running for president of the Let’s Leave the Pirate Here Club, and that wasn’t exactly a great way to get into her good graces, though that would’ve been hard enough as it was.

Regina, predictably, prioritized Henry to a fault—Emma was always for prioritizing her son, but not when it came to sacrificing her values or her morals or whatever, fine, she just didn’t want to sacrifice him. Henry was okay, he was safe, and they could take precautions to ensure that he would stay that way, but Regina just didn’t care or didn’t think it was worth it. A good option for Neal’s vice president.

In all her silent canvassing of the group’s feelings regarding Operation Save Hook (Henry was asleep, okay? He could come up with a better name when he woke up), Emma blatantly ignored Gold. For obvious reasons.

Tink was mostly for saving him, but not confident enough in any plan she could offer to make it stick. She’d tried to sway Regina, but that had been less than successful.

Then it was her parents. And, for once, they weren’t in total agreement.

Mary Margaret was sympathetic, to be sure, but not enough. She wasn’t in the Let’s Leave the Pirate Here Club, but she was Queen of Save My Kid and Her Kid Kingdom, so that was that.

But David—that’s what had caught her attention.

When they’d first discovered Hook’s absence and began discussing their options, Emma had held back and held her breath, unwilling to reveal her hand without knowing where the others stood. She’d gone into full Observant Mode, and that’s when she saw David, her father, and his reaction.

His face stiffened, an automatic move to hide his feelings, but Emma saw through it, even when Mary Margaret didn’t (or didn’t want to see it). It was a set jaw, a twitching lip that was almost a frown, tensed shoulders that eventually gave way to firmly crossed arms because apparently, Emma had gotten her Observant Mode from her father, and that’s what he was doing.

A few minutes into the conversation had nothing decided, but Emma shifted her stance, and her father looked her way. Their eyes locked, and while the others continued their pathetic excuse for a rescue discussion, father and daughter exchanged practically imperceptible nods, and then they were allies.

It’s what gave her the strength to step forward at last and disregard whatever half-assed ‘it’s too late’ speech Neal had been giving with a pointed clearing of her throat.

“David and I will go back for him while you guys get the ship ready,” Emma announced. Regina did that haughty half-step back that meant something between ‘I don’t care’ and ‘do whatever you want,’ and Mary Margaret’s only response was to look questioningly at her husband. Tinker Bell gave an enthusiastic nod of approval before busying herself with some bit of the rigging she may or may not have actually understood how to work.

Neal, however, was predictably Neal. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Ems,” he said, that stupid nickname that he had no fucking right to use.

Emma’s head turned slowly to her ex, regarding him with the coldest gaze she’d ever offered anyone. Regina had some competition as head of the Looks That Could Kill Committee. “Hm, okay. Well, you don’t have to think it’s a good idea, because you’re staying here.”

“Emma—”

“There’s no discussion, Neal. No discussion from anyone, but especially from you. You have no right to talk, or interfere, and you especially have no right to argue against saving the man who is the reason your own son is alive and safe now.”

Mary Margaret was staring at her when she turned away from him, her eyes wide and openly confused, but she said nothing. David, however, had his eyes cutting into Neal, narrowed and calculating and damn, he was putting pieces together and he wasn’t liking the picture.

“Ready?” Emma asked her father.

He forced himself to look away. “Just have to grab one thing,” he told her, shaking his head at something Mary Margaret had said before he disappeared below.

Neal had huffed away after Emma’s little scolding, and he pouted at the exact opposite end from where his father pouted. Regina looked disinterested and mildly irritated, but when Emma glanced at her, she nodded towards Gold with a raised eyebrow.

Emma’s lips curled in something like a grateful smile, and she passed her bewildered mother on her way to the Dark One.

“You have something,” Emma said as soon as she stood in front of him. “Something to get Pan.”

“I do, Miss Swan,” he replied, that stupid tone that told her he had tricks up those stupid sleeves of his.

She hummed. “No, there’s no deal this time. No price. I’m done with games. So you can either give it to me, or I can take it from you.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Take it from me?” he asked, entirely amused by the concept.

“I’m done with your shit, Crocodile. You can play Dark One with me all you want, but we both know it’s just easier to just hand it over.”

He glared at her for a long moment, but eventually he cracked, and he glanced at his son who looked out at the water and away from them both. “Fine. But only because I’ve no use for it anyway.”

She took the box he offered, resisting the urge to mutter, ‘yes, that’s why,’ as he explained how it worked. When he’d finished, she offered him a simple but genuine “thank you,” before joining her father once more.

“Here,” David said, passing her another cutlass, one she hadn’t seen before. “You need a new weapon,” he added.

“And I’m borrowing…”

“Hook’s. An extra,” he said. “Figured he wouldn’t mind.”

“Right,” she mumbled, taking it with a frown and securing it quickly. “Well then, let’s go.”

--

For all his talk of being intimately acquainted with pain, Killian Jones was doing a piss-poor job of hiding it. The cracks in his resolve were starting to widen, and when hums and grunts became groans and low growls, he knew it was only a matter of time before Pan started to truly have his fun.

He’d been more clever this time around, to be sure. It had to have been at least a century since Killian had gotten cozy with the demon’s knife (or arrowhead, or branding iron, or whatever particular weapon he’d chosen to use that time), but Pan had certainly honed his skills quite a bit since then.

But Killian was sure that Swan had taken her lad and the others far away by now, and the knowledge that he’d helped her, that he’d kept his word, allowed him the strength he needed to keep the screams from coming.

For a while.

Pan, though, had used a trick on him he’d never experienced, and the shock alone was enough to get it working for a little while.

That trick came in the form of her, of Emma Swan, and the name had fallen from his lips like a prayer, hope that he’d never felt before rising like a rushing tide in his chest, and she’d smiled at him, a radiant, lovely thing that he’d never imagined could’ve been gifted solely for him, useless pirate that he was.

But then she’d started talking, and he knew it was a trick (tides always come back, because when there’s a rise, there’s also a fall). Not at first, he’d give Pan that, because it was easy enough to believe that the smile hadn’t been for him, that she resented him, that she hadn’t meant to save him, that they were better off without him. It wasn’t what she said that tipped him off, it was how she said it. Because Killian Jones had studied her since the moment she uncovered his pathetic hide in that pile of bodies, and he knew her—more than she knew herself, to her dismay—and he could read her. She was an open book, after all.

When her eyes didn’t burn like he knew they should’ve when she spoke of anger and hatred, he knew. When her lips didn’t quirk in that one specific way when she mentioned abandoning him, he knew. And then she spoke about her parents and Baelfire, and it was all wrong, because Emma Swan had walls, and even Neverland wasn’t enough to break them down so quickly.

Wherever she was, Emma Swan wasn’t about to run into her parents’ arms and live happily ever after with them and her True Love, because she wasn’t there yet. He knew her. He knew how hard it was for her to open up to him, someone who understood her from such shared experiences, and that wasn’t something she could just overlook as soon as she returned home. They’d hurt her—here, in Neverland, with assumptions and confessions and automatic behaviors, but also before. And if she did wish to ride off into the sunset with Baelfire, Neal, it wasn’t going to happen right away, because Killian had watched her while she shifted away from Neal when he’d moved towards her. He’d seen the way she recoiled at his touch, how she’d narrowed those jade eyes at his words, how she didn’t trust him, not anymore.

No, the Emma Swan that stood before his beaten and bruised body was a copy, and a bad one. When she hadn’t achieved her goal, she disappeared, and Pan took her place, and though he knew the demon was mocking him and prodding him with insults and hoping they’d smash the last of his resolve, he wasn’t ready to give in just yet.

Killian Jones was waiting for something. He just couldn’t figure out what it was.

--

“What’d he do?”

Emma faltered, the blade missing the piece of jungle shit in her path she’d been trying to cut down. “What? Who?”

“Neal,” her father said, clearing the vines for her before they continued on.

“Oh,” she sounded, pulling her lips together as she considered what to say. He’d noticed it before, and she knew that. He wasn’t stupid, nor was he as hope-prone and naive as Mary Margaret could often be. And they had another few miles to go, at least. “He left,” she said.

David stopped, a hand on her arm that was more than just an attempt to stop her from walking, too. “He left you?” he asked, his eyes somehow tight with rage and tender with something she wanted to dub dad-ness, because no one had ever looked at her like that before.

Emma huffed, because now was definitely not the time for Feelings, now was the time to rescue a goddamn pirate from whatever the hell Peter fucking Pan was doing to him. “He set me up to take the fall for his crime and let me go to prison instead. I didn’t find out I was pregnant until I was already in jail.”

David blinked once, twice, and then his expression was consumed by dad-anger (because it was just a different brand of anger that she’d also never seen before). “Emma—”

“It was a long time ago, dad.” They both started at the name, dad, because she’d never really used it before. A few times she’d said it, but it was something she’d had to force, a correction or a pointed joke, sometimes a near-death thing, but this was different. Authentic. Slightly heartbreaking.

“We don’t have time for this,” she muttered as she turned away, but neither was surprised, and even her dad wasn’t hurt, because Emma had her walls, and that was okay, because she’d needed them to survive this long. And if he had to put in a little time and effort to help take them down, that didn’t bother him one bit.

“I was kinda surprised that you wanted to come,” she said after a while, unable to bear the tense atmosphere any longer.

David gave her a half-smile, slicing another thicket (because they’d grown over since they’d returned to the ship. Fuck Neverland, honestly). “He did save my life, you know. And he was saving Henry when an arrow hit him—before your mother and I got separated from the group. I wasn’t about to leave him for dead after he took an arrow for my grandson.”

Emma froze, nearly dropping the cutlass that wasn’t hers. “He saved Henry?”

Her father’s eyebrows furrowed. “I thought you knew that,” he said. “So why are you so eager to help him? If you didn’t know.”

Her lips parted only to press together firmly, and when she spoke, they both knew it wasn’t a lie, but it also wasn’t the whole truth. “Because I don’t leave people behind. And even without the arrow, he still saved Henry. He brought us here.”

David studied her for a moment, and these pieces were coming together faster now, and quite suddenly, the picture made a lot of sense. “He came back.”

“For Henry. And Neal,” she replied.

“And you.”

She couldn’t deny it, and he knew that. But it surprised him that he didn’t mind it as much as he had before. Emma’s walls, no matter how much he wished he could change it, were in part because of him and Snow. They saved her, yes, but they abandoned her when they did it. And Neal had likely been the cause of the other fortress that surrounded her, because he’d abandoned her, too.

So if the pirate had gained her trust and her respect because he hadn’t abandoned her, then that was good. David had seen plenty of love and devotion in his life, but he’d never seen loyalty like the kind that burned in Captain Hook. Centuries in search of revenge for the one he’d loved and lost. That wasn’t the man who would turn around and abandon her the second the opportunity arose.

No, without him or the pirate realizing it, he’d pretty much gained his blessing. Because David knew damn well that if the roles were reversed, not even if Emma herself were in danger, but if Hook were here in his place and someone she loved was being tortured, there’s no one he would trust more than Captain Hook to help her. Neal had barely batted an eye. But he was apparently quite skilled at leaving people to rot.

David was just beginning to contemplate how to handle that particular situation when the screams started.

He took his daughter’s hand, meeting her huge and watery eyes, and they ran.

--

He’d held on so long, but it was worth it. It was worth it. No, she was worth it. Emma Swan was worth it.

Emma. Emma. Emma.

Her name became a mantra, a song in his head to fill the space between screams.

Killian Jones had loved Milah. He never doubted that, and his love for another didn’t negate it, either. He wasn’t sure what made his love for Emma Swan sharper, deeper, but it was just different. His working theory was that they’d both loved before, both been hurt before, both lingered in something that was slightly less than pure. Whatever had happened with Baelfire couldn’t have been perfect, because it hurt her. And she’d been so young when she’d had Henry. Milah wasn’t faultless, either. Ironically enough, that point was proven by Baelfire.

Killian had spoken to her about it for hours. She’d spun tales of rescuing the lad, taking him from his pathetic father and bringing him aboard, but it never happened. It wasn’t until Henry was taken from Swan that he realized the downfall of his Milah. He’d known it, truly, but nothing would have stopped Swan from getting back her son, and it should’ve been the same with Milah.

For a moment, the pain of his guilt overwhelmed the pain of Pan’s lash that sliced into his back.

But that was what made his love for Emma Swan different.

Try something new, darling. It’s called trust.

Be a part of something.

Too bad he’d never have the chance to explain it all to her.

--

Emma had seen so much in her life. So much pain, so much ugliness—it had made her start to believe that there was really nothing else. But then Henry showed up at her door, and things changed.

Now, standing in her hiding place with her father, she was forced to watch as the demon child inflicted brutal and unrelenting torture to Captain Hook—no, no, he wasn’t Hook anymore. Not after this. He was Killian Jones, and she was going to save him.

She just couldn’t jump in and do it. Not without a plan.

Once they’d decided who was the distraction and who was taking the box, they were ready, but she wasn’t. Each scream pierced her heart, and by this point, the tears were just a permanent fixture that neither of them acknowledged. You couldn’t listen to that kind of pain and not feel it down to your goddamn soul. And she knew that as much as it hurt to hear it, Killian was hurting a thousand times worse while he endured it.

It had only been hours, maybe, but she’d never seen a person look so broken and not be actually dead, and it felt like her fault. Because maybe if she’d been strong and reasonable enough to let go of Henry’s hand for even a second, she would’ve realized that he wasn’t at her side like he was supposed to be. Sure, they’d all been separated into groups that slowly returned to the ship, but she should’ve known. She should’ve been there. He shouldn’t have been here.

None of that mattered now. It was time to save him, and then she could worry about everything else.

Her father kissed her forehead, brushing her tears with his thumbs and offering her a reassuring nod that said we’ve got this, and then he disappeared to play his part. When she stepped into the clearing, she was much more confident than she had any right to be.

“Pan.”

The kid snapped to attention, whirling around to look at her. “Really? You’ve come to rescue the pirate?”

His words, his face, his stupid grin pissed her the fuck off, but what really sold it, the thing that solidified everything for her was the sight of Killian’s hook tucked into Peter Pan’s pocket like it was a fucking souvenir.

“Well, you know what they say about us hero types,” Emma stalled, keeping herself from glancing at Killian where he lay in the dirt. “We don’t leave anyone behind. We come back for everyone. It’s just in our nature.” She had no idea what she was actually saying, she was just talking, just waiting until her father got into place.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you take the pirate, Emma. He’s mine, you see,” Pan told her, and she thought that he’d never looked less than a child with the straight-up evil in his eyes and the weapon in his hand.

She folded her arms across her chest, pulling on strength she didn’t have. “Hm, no, I don’t think he is,” she said, letting some of her anger seep into her voice. “He’s a pirate, sure, but you and I both know that he’s pretty determined about that good form nonsense, and he made me a promise, you know,” Emma continued. “He told me he’d see to it that Henry gets home safely. He can’t do that if he’s here.”

Pan’s shoulders shifted as his chest puffed out, and he wanted something. “How about this,” he said, “the pirate in exchange for your son.”

Emma scoffed. “As I told the Dark One earlier, I’m done playing games. No deals. I’m leaving this island with my son and my pirate and everyone else, and that’s it. You lose, kid.”

Peter Pan grinned, and if she hadn’t just seen David out of the corner of her eye, she would’ve been terrified. “How’s that? I’m not going to let you leave with Henry or the pirate, no matter how much you’re convinced I’m going to,” he said, almost petulant.

“Sorry, I should’ve been clearer,” Emma smiled, “I should’ve mentioned the part about you being captured. Whoops. Too late.”

Emma surged forward, snatching the hook just before Pan was sucked into Pandora’s box from David’s outstretched hand. Neither he nor Emma hesitated for a second before they rushed to Killian where he was no more than a pile of cuts and bruises on the ground, stripped of his coat and his vest and his bravado.

David rolled him onto his side carefully, shooting her a concerned look when he didn’t even flinch.

The hook fell from her grasp and onto the ground beside them. “Killian?” Emma said softly, her hand reaching out to ghost across his sweaty forehead. If she didn’t see the rise and fall of his chest in time with the shuddering breaths he took, she would’ve been certain he was dead, because anyone else would’ve been dead.

“Emma, I have no idea how we’re going to move him when he’s like this,” her father told her, and if he were someone else, that would’ve meant that they’d run out of options, but hope was the family motto.

Emma pushed out a breath, bringing her hands back to her face, running them over her hair and locking a few fingers around her necklace. “Alright, okay, lemme think,” she said, but of course that was when her brain turned to absolute mush.

Time, nonexistent here though it was, was marked with Killian’s shaky breaths, and several minutes passed before David spoke. “Emma…” he began, and when she looked at him, that family motto was shining in his eyes. “Emma, you have magic. You can heal him.”

“I—” I can’t, she wanted to say. But it didn’t matter that she’d never done it, that she had no idea how to, because she’d do it. She’d do anything to save this stupid, ridiculous, insufferable, amazing pirate. He promised that he’d win her heart, and she wasn’t about to lose him right when she finally had a chance to let him.

“How?” she asked, hoping—yes, Emma Swan did things like hope now—he’d know something helpful.

David hesitated, as if he were gathering everything he’d ever learned about magic. “Okay, your magic is about emotion, right?” At her nod, he continued, “Well, that’s good, because you’re feeling a lot of things right now. You want to help him, to heal him, so maybe think about why?”

Emma chuckled, and it was a watery thing, but she wiped the dampness from her cheeks. “I don’t think I’ve cried this much since…I have no idea when,” she confessed.

David met her gaze, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. “Use it.”

She took a breath, her eyes slamming shut so she could focus, but her hand didn’t leave her father’s.

Why was she crying now, this much, after everything? She wasn’t a crier (you couldn’t be in the system that long and still be a crier), so what had changed? All at once, she knew.

Captain Hook is what changed. Killian Jones had towered her walls, and now she was crying over him. Because she felt things. Things with a capital ‘t,’ and it was the first time in her life that she was finally, truly letting herself feel Things, the first time she honestly wanted to. There hadn’t really been a choice with Neal. He was just there, and that’s why she’d loved him. She was young, and he offered her this tiny piece of security and she’d latched onto it, and that was it. It wasn’t even about him, not really, not when she broke it down like that. Everything she felt for Killian Jones was about him.

Right from the start, he’d terrified her, because he could see right through her walls like they were made of glass. He read her because he already spoke the fucking language, but she hadn’t let herself understand that piece until later. But how many times had she been standing beside her family (she had that now), knowing that things were off or just not feeling right because they didn’t quite get it—but then she’d looked over and he’d been watching her because he got it. He knew. And he came back.

Killian Jones had never abandoned her. Well, there was that one time he locked her in a cell, but that was only because she’d just chained him up on the top of a beanstalk and it was honestly only fair, so that was different. Every moment when she waited for him to race off while in Neverland, when leaving her to her fate would’ve been the smart and easy thing to do, he’d proven her wrong (but she wasn’t really wrong, because she didn’t really believe it. She’d trusted him right from the start, and each time he didn’t leave her was somehow both totally surprising and totally predictable).

But it wasn’t just that. It was everything she saw in him when he thought no one was looking. The shadows that crossed his face when they ran into something familiar, the hesitance when offered assistance by anyone, the mysteriously filled waterskins that appeared by her bedroll after his watch. Everything he did for her and her family was a promise that he was no longer a villain—that maybe he’d never actually been one—and she could doubt everyone else (except for Henry), but she couldn’t doubt Killian Jones.

She was falling for him. Hard. She probably already would’ve fallen if she’d let herself, especially if she’d gone with her gut at the top of that beanstalk and trusted him, so she wasn’t about to let him die.

Emma raised her free hand, feeling all of her Feelings and thinking all of the Things, and she healed him, because she needed to. She felt the warmth that radiated from her palm, and when her eyes flickered open, there was a brilliant light that washed over his face and followed the path of her hand as she hovered along his body. The cuts shrank, sealing themselves while the blood seeped back into his skin, and when his breaths were no longer labored, she knew he was healed.

Her father gave her a proud smile (it was watery, too), but their attention was quickly brought back to the groaning pirate.

Killian’s eyes took several fluttering blinks before they focused correctly, and when he spoke, it was no more than a disoriented grunt. “Swan?”

“We’re here,” she said, releasing David’s hand to take Killian’s. “We trapped Pan, Henry’s safe on the Jolly Roger, and now all we need is for you to take us home.”

His eyes were stormy when he looked up at her, and his rough palm lined up with her soft one, and for a single, fleeting moment, it was as if he’d never felt pain in his life. The warmth, the ease, the life he felt holding Emma Swan’s hand made him briefly forget the hours of torture from Pan, and for what may have honestly been the first time in his life, Killian Jones felt safe.

There were many questions that he needed to ask, ones he hadn’t had the chance to think of with his present exhaustion, but he pushed them aside, because she was smiling that smile, the one he’d never imagined could be directed and him, and it lacked the tightness that Pan’s version had. Where Pan’s version had pranced around words, the real Swan was straight to the point and not flowery about anything. But what was most comforting about this Swan was that even though her smile was warm and lovely and nothing like he’d ever seen on her lips, he could see her walls hidden in her gaze, that lingering hesitance, and he knew. She’d come back for him.

“Think you can walk?” David asked him, and it almost made the pirate jump (centuries of always being on his guard, always prepared and aware of his surroundings, and Emma Swan gave him one smile and held his only hand and that was enough to block out the rest of the realm).

Killian nodded, and with some careful maneuvering by Swan and her father, he was upright. He wavered slightly—blood loss, he reasoned, because Emma had definitely healed him with her magic, but there was only so much magic could do—but they secured both of his arms without delay.

“Oh,” Emma paused, bending down to grab his hook. “Thought you’d want this back,” she added with a smile that was almost sheepish.

It was the way she held it that made him lightheaded (not at all related to the blood loss). Her hand was wrapped around the metal like it was nothing but also everything. She didn’t fear it, didn’t scrunch her nose at it—the way she held it was like the way she held his hand: a part of him, something she couldn’t quite bring herself to let go of.

“Thank you, Emma,” he murmured, and all three of them knew it wasn’t just for returning the hook. He gestured for her to attach it, and after a glance of confirmation, she did. And he couldn’t help but feel whole.

[fantasy2739]

A Douxie story where he appears in Trollhunters or 3Below with Archie and is just like, yeah, so I'm a wizard, this is my dragon-cat, you're the Trollhunter, you have shadow stuff, you have a big hammer and you two are from another planet, can we deal with the attack now?

Hi, thank you for the ask. I’m sorry I didn’t quite quite know where to go with this. I decided to go with Trollhunters and the battle against Morgana. So less 3Below, more Trollhunter gang. I hope that’s okay and you enjoy it.

Canon divergence/ slight AU:

Douxie just wanted to chill. Participate in battle of the bands. Maybe grab some food after. A nap. The sky turning a weird orange was not in the plan. Gumm-Gumms marching on the town was also not. After taking out the ones attacking Mary and Darci, he started to head through town. He passed Krel and Aja, who were with another couple of people that were distinctly blue. He just kept going, not particularly interested in the aliens. By the looks of it they were protecting Arcadia. He saw the girl in purple armour, Claire fighting with a shadow staff. Morgana’s shadow staff. He tried not to shiver at that. She was fighting the Gumm-Gumms, along with someone in orange armour. Toby, he thought his name was. He had a hammer that was covered in something. Made it lighter clearly given how it was being swung around like mad. He blasted a few Gumm-Gumms himself. Archie flew over to him, probably coming from the bookstore.

“Douxie, I see we’ve had an invasion.” He said with a wry look. “Judging by what it is. I’m guessing Morgana.”

“No doubt. Only she would summon up Eternal Night.” Douxie said. He remembered Morgana before all of this. She’d been nice. Caring. Then everything had changed, almost as if overnight. He hadn’t been privy to everything going on.

“If she’s awake, then someone must have gotten the Staff of Avalon.” Archie said. Douxie’s eyes widened.

“Merlin.” He breathed. “He could be awake.”

“900 years in that crystal tomb.” Archie said. “I wonder if it’s done anything for his sense of humour.” Douxie shot another blast of magic. As they made their way through the rubble of town, they saw the Trollhunter. He looked different.

“Is it just me, or is he half troll?” Douxie asked, hitting yet another Gumm-Gumm.

“Oh this has Merlin written all over it.” Archie said. “Excuse me, Trollhunter person.” The Trollhunter stared at Archie as if debating wether to eat the cat or just let him talk.

“Jim right?” Douxie greeted, making his way over. “We met at the cafe. Thanks for tipping by the way.” Jim stared at him. Toby and Claire joining them with two trolls.

“You have a talking cat.” Jim said.

“Actually I’m a dragon.” Archie corrected.

“Okay.” Toby said. “Maybe now isn’t the best time. The evil lady beat Merlin.” Douxie and Archie shared a look.

“This evil lady, gold armour. Green hand. Goes by Morgana?” Douxie asked.

“You know her?” Claire asked.

“We’ve... met.” Douxie said eventually. “Any idea where she is?”

“I’m guessing near the the big glowy thing in the sky.” Toby suggested.

“Good guess.” Archie said. “Shall we get on then?”

“Who even are you!?” Toby asked. “Like aren’t you a waiter?” Douxie blasted a Gumm-Gumm, smiling as their jaws dropped.

“Oh I’m a lot more than that.”

Morgana was at the bridge over the canal because where else would she be. The whirlwind of magic poured into the sky next to them. He floated down, smiling mockingly.

“Ah Little Douxie.” She said. He hated the way she said his name. It used to be an endearment, sweet. Now it was mocking. “Still trying time please Merlin?”

“Still pretending we didn’t kick your butt at Killahead?” Douxie replied. Morgana glared at him.

“Why don’t you drop dead?”

“You first!”

“Uh when you two are done could we maybe have the battle, stop the apocalypse?” Jim asked.

“Sorry.” Douxie winced, selecting a shield spell on his gauntlet. Just in time, as Morgana threw magic bolts at them. Douxie blocked while Jim charged towards her. He slashed daylight at her quickly but she managed to avoid each blow. The trollhunting team was good. Claire summoned portals quickly, keeping everyone out of danger. Toby swing his hammer hard. Jim moved with speed and accuracy. The two trolls slotted themselves in seamlessly. Distractions. Shields. Attackers. Whatever the kids needed. Claire opened a shadow portal, letting Douxie get behind Morgana.

“Your weak magics are nothing compared to mine.” She jeered at Claire and Douxie.

“Tenebris Exilium!” Douxie yelled, his own sky blue magic clashing violently with the gold of hers. He could feel himself being pushed back. She far outmatched him. “Nope.” He dropped the spell, nine hundred years of training kept him alive as he ducked and rolled. It was still a narrow miss as a jet of gold flew over his shoulder. He saw another troll appear. Duel fiercely with Morgana, grabbing her. The Trollhunter stabbed them both. And for a moment it looked like they won. And then Daylight vanished.

“Angor!” Toby yelled. Douxie watched the troll die.

“Arch, light me!” Douxie yelled, enchanting the flames to surrounded Morgana. It gave everyone time to get clear of her. Jim has managed to call daylight back. Douxie ended up near Claire.

“We need to stop her, seal her away or something.” Claire said, clutching her staff. “We can’t overpower her.”

“The shadow realm.” Toby suggested.

“Yes Toby! That’s a great idea.” Claire said. “And then we lock the staff away. Trap her forever.” Douxie thought that was a little idealistic. Morgana always seemed to find a way back. But at least they’d have a reprieve. And he’d probably still be around to enjoy Morgana trying to kill him again.

“Could you make another shield?” Jim asked, landing next to them. Douxie nodded, making one.

“It won’t hold for long.” Douxie warned. “Whatever you’re going to do, do it now.”

“Jim.” Claire said, sharing a look with her boyfriend. Jim nodded, running to Morgana. Claire opened a portal and instead of Jim going through, she and Toby pushed Morgana into it. Jim had been a distraction. And it worked. Briefly. Morgana had Claire in her grasp, pulling her in. Claire grabbed them edge of the portal. “Jim!”

“Don’t worry Claire.” Jim said, jumping and grabbing her. “I’ve got you.” Douxie cast a rope spell, tying it around Claire’s wrist.

“A little help here?” Douxie panted as he tugged on the magic rope. Toby grabbed his waist, while the two trolls grabbed him. They all pulled as hard as they could, yanking Claire free. She tumbled onto her boyfriend while Toby whacked the shadow staff into the portal. Morgana was gone. For now.

Merlin landed on the bridge after dispelling Morgana’s magic to a group of worn out teens. Douxie watched the wizard who was his mentor curiously as he approached.

“Well done young Trollhunter.” He said before pausing and staring at Douxie. “Hisirdoux what are you doing here?” Douxie rolled his eyes.

“Oh not much, just protecting the realm. Same as I have been for the past 900 years.” He said with a shrug.

“Ehehehe yes.” Merlin acknowledged.

“You’re name is Hisirdoux?” Jim asked with a frown.

“Wait did you say 900 years?” Claire asked.

“Give or take a century.” Archie added, jumping onto Douxie’s shoulder. Douxie shrugged again.

“Why didn’t you contact me?” He asked Merlin. “With the Queen of the Apocalypse turning up and all.”

“I didn’t know you were here.” Merlin said.

“So much for seeing the future.” Toby muttered.

“I heard that chatty.” Merlin said, turning to Toby before looking at Douxie. “There wasn’t enough time.”

“Enough time to turn Jim into a Troll and construct armour.” Douxie said bitterly. He was being a little petty but it had been 900 years. “Morgana was out here, where were you?”

“Morgana took my magic.” Merlin said with a sigh. “I couldn’t fight her without it.”

“We managed without you.” Jim said, crossing his arms.

“Yes I see that.” Merlin said, giving him an equally petulant look. “But I was right. You needed to be more.” Douxie didn’t roll his eyes. He didn’t. It was so like Merlin to do a his way or the highway speech.

“You could have called.” Douxie interrupted. “Smoke signal, texting, magic memo.”

“Hisirdoux, if I’d known you were around I would have said. But I didn’t so can we let it go.” Merlin said firmly, ending the conversation. “The heartstone is dead so we need to look for a new one...”

[swissmissficrecs]

Hi I love your blog! I now have 9 pages of fics marked for later so i'm not sure what that says about me but anyway I'm wondering if I can have some recs of fics where Sherlock is fluent in French and/or they go to France. (So I can tell myself I'm revising for French tests while reading fic). Thanks.

Reply: What a cool idea! There are obviously many more than this, since it’s semi-canon that Sherlock’s grandmother was French, but here’s what I found in my bookmarks:

Sherlock speaks French/goes to France

A Death in Harfleur by OssaCordis (22K, M, Johnlock) October 1415 Surgeon John Watson arrives in France in the days following the siege of Harfleur, only to find the English camp haunted by a series of suspicious suicides…Lord Sherlock Holmes wants nothing more than to understand the cause of these deaths, but finds a certain surgeon rather distracting…A slash retelling of A Study in Pink set during the Hundred Years' War.

Against All Odds by ravenscar (126K, E, Johnlock) When a Crusader crosses paths with an enigmatic young Briton in the Holy Land, their lives are changed forever.

France by SilentAuror (11K, E, Johnlock and Warstan) John comes home from his honeymoon to find that Sherlock has gone to France and everyone seems to be angry with him.

La vie en rose by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (18K, T, Johnlock) The only reason why John took French class, well, was because Mary said something about it being the language of love. If John, at the time, had sneered internally, he propped his chin on the back of his hand and asked her to tell him more about it.Let it be said that John Watson is not entirely incapable of taking a clue.

Over Hill and Under Hill by khorazir (75K, T, Johnlock) John and Sherlock travel to France to tackle the Col du Galibier (of Tour de France fame) by bicycle, and the confused state of their relationship after Sherlock's return from the dead at the same time. A long journey, and a long climb ...

Reason Goes Before a Fall by Lorelei_Lee (27K, M, Johnlock, John/OMC) John Watson is just a man. A man whose tolerance for sexual frustration has almost reached its limit. The object of his desire? Sherlock. The problem? Sherlock thinks he's straight and John doesn't think Sherlock's interested. Sherlock is just a man too, but he doesn't want to jeopardise their friendship. The solution? A prostitute who looks a lot like Sherlock. This is never going to end well...

Siege by PlainJane (55K, E, Johnlock) In 1415, English archer John of Kenilworth is sent by Lord Mycroft Holmes from the field of victory at Agincourt to protect a remote French castle. Cherinfourde is under some dark cloud and John means to get to the bottom of it, in his lord's name. If only he could stop thinking about the most unusual omega he has ever met.

Song of the Dauntless Knight by antietamfalls (48K, E, Johnlock) 14th-century England. Sir John Watson and his knightly comrades return home from fighting for the Black Prince in France and enter into the household service of Duke Moriarty. Among the many castle denizens is Lord Sherlock Holmes, heir to his brother the Earl and long-time hostage of the Duke. An unlikely relationship soon emerges.

The Calming Effects of Tea by flawedamythyst (28K, E, Johnlock) Agreeing on a compromise is one thing, living with it is quite another.

The Iceman Cometh by Polyphony (60K, M, Johnlock, Viclock) Title from the Eugene O'Neill play of the same name. An intriguing puzzle tempts Sherlock to accept Victor Trevor's invitation to the French Riviera, but all is not what it seems. Frustrated by the case and increasingly concerned about an absent John, Sherlock uncovers far more than he was meant to and is forced to become a fugitive, pursued by those on both sides of the law, as he fights for his freedom and the lives of all those around him.

Tennis Series by Jupiter_Ash (216K, E, Johnlock) John and Sherlock are professional tennis players and it’s Wimbledon. One is a broken almost was at the end of his career, the other an arrogant rising star tipped for greatness. It should have been a straightforward tournament. It really should have been. How were they to know that a chance encounter would change everything?

Voulez-Vous by AlbaNix (5K, G, Gen) It’s an ordinary day at 221B apart from the fact that Sherlock is speaking in French. What John doesn’t know is that Sherlock has an ulterior motive. What Sherlock doesn’t know is that while John may not speak French, he’s almost fluent in Sherlock. [NB This fic has been deleted, link goes to Wayback Machine.]

I also found this list of language/voice kink fics from @pmastamonkmonk​ (scroll down, the post contains several lists).

And here are some from the original stories:

ACD Canon

An April’s Journey by Katie Forsythe (ACD, 13K, M, Johnlock) Set against "The Reigate Squire", Watson learns Holmes has fallen ill in France, and for another reason than simple exhaustion.

and you are its only tenet by Ellipsical (ACD, 6K, E, Johnlock) In Paris. John knows how to give his husband an anniversary to remember, but wait, Sherlock might have one or two tricks up his sleeve too...

Inside These Rooms by addicted2hugh (16K, E, Johnlock) The thought of losing Watson drives Holmes insane, which in turn leads to Watson investigating his strange behaviour. A lot of talking and even more kissing ensues. Oh, and a lot of Victorian smut, of course.

In Vino Veritas by gardnerhill (10K, E, Johnlock) Grafting is the process of adding something new to something old and established, which makes the whole stronger.

Learning to Speak French by tinzelda (16K, E, Johnlock, Viclock) Holmes tells Watson about his first case and reveals more than just the basic facts.

The Answer to a Question by A_Candle_For_Sherlock (22K, T, Johnlock) These are the stories behind the story we know: what really happened to Watson's marriage, and what made him follow Holmes to Reichenbach; what secrets were hidden in the mountains, and what a dead man wrote to the man he left behind.

[buckyreaderrecs]

Blood

Summary: Bloody Mary; a ghost who appears in a mirror when called by name three times.

Words: 2235 Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Reader Characters: Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Shuri Additional Tags: Infinity War and Endgame didn't happen, Stark Tower is still a thing, recovering Bucky Barnes, Winter Soldier Bucky, a bit angsty, mostly canon compliant, Bruce Banner and F.R.I.D.A.Y. are mentioned but aren’t in the story, I love Shuri SO MUCH, female pronoun Reader Warnings: death/dying, blood, description of body decomposition, nightmares

Note: This is my submission to @waiting4inspiration's Myths, Folklore and Legends writing challenge! Hope you love it, Jess!

Tag list (open): @darlingtholland @browngirlmagic

Blood

Bucky Barnes doesn't believe in ghosts. In this day and age, it's more likely that a ghost is just a loved one brought back to life. Reanimated to fight on the wrong side, kind of thing. Or maybe the ghost is a clone. A hologram. A science experiment gone wrong. If you are lucky, the ghost could simply be a hallucinatory symptom of brain disease. But, no matter what, there is always a scientific explanation.

Bucky Barnes doesn't believe in ghosts because the existence of them implies the existence of an afterlife, some sort of potential of God. Of meaning and purpose. If he thinks about that too much, he unravels. So, he chooses to not think about it.

Bucky Barnes just does not believe in ghosts, so when he sees you standing behind him in the bathroom mirror, he runs straight to Steve.

"Something's wrong with me," he blurts out.

Sam and Steve look up from conference room B's table. Case files are open and spread across the room, spilling down onto vacant chairs and placed in chronological order on the carpeted floor.

"Gonna have to be more specific, Buck," Steve replies, eyebrows furrowed.

Sam considers making a joke, but there's a darkness splashed across Bucky's face that warns him away.

"I'm… They… I don't think they got everything. In my head," Bucky tries to explain.

"What happened?" Steve asks, pushing away from the table and assessing Bucky's body language. He's cagey, almost afraid.

"I saw… someone… She's dead. She's dead but I saw her,"

"Happens a lot around here, man," Sam offers.

"It's not like that. I was in the bathroom. She was in the mirror,"

"Like, in the mirror?" Steve asks.

Bucky shakes his head, annoyed but aware that he's not really helping them help him. "No… I was shaving and…" He tried to think. What exactly happened? When did he notice you standing behind him? There was blood…

 …

 The small cut would heal before he left the bathroom, with only the few drops of red blood in the porcelain sink left as evidence that he'd been distracted enough to cut himself shaving at all. You'd been in his head again. The nightmares had started on the day that would be your birthday.

Somewhere in the middle of being The Solider, the people around him made the mistake of not seeing him as sentient. They spoke around him, conversed and told secrets to each other, thinking he couldn’t understand. That's how he learnt about your arrival at the facility. Your name. Birthday. Power.

Bucky had nightmares about a lot of things, but you were often there. Sometimes you were centre stage with your sad eyes and painful defiance. Sometimes you lurked in the shadows, having being taught by The Solider how to do it so well. Nightmares and restless sleep were synonymous with being an Avenger, a hero. It was a high price, but Bucky considered himself to be in enormous debt.

The blood in the sink reminded him that he was still there, alive, human. He watched it slowly seep downwards, sighing out loud to himself. "Fuck," he muttered, shaking his head and trying to move the haze from his head. "Y/N," he said, then stopped. Your name had slipped through his lips straight from his unconscious. It didn't sound quite right. "Y/N," he tried again, adding another sigh like it was the last syllable of your name.

Bucky looked up, studied his reflection. He wondered what you'd think of him now.

"Happy birthday, Y/N," he whispered, his attention returning to the razor and shaving cream.

The bathroom light flickered, freezing Bucky entirely. Without moving, he glanced out the open bathroom door. The hallway outside was still. He couldn't recall if the light had flickered out there too.

He felt it then. He wasn't alone.

His eyes moved fast, up to the mirror. You were there.

Sad eyes. A strange fragility despite being possibly the most dangerous thing in Stark Tower. Alive.

He bolted. The razor clanked into the basin and the bathroom door slammed shut behind him.

Steve… Find Steve, Bucky thought.

"There's something wrong with me."

 …

 "We talked about this. It's normal to se-"

"It wasn't like that," Bucky interrupted Sam.

"We can look at the CCTV. I'll ask F.R.I.D.A.Y. to-" But Steve was cut off too.

"She's dead, Steve. There's no way… She's dead, alright?"

"I would have said the same about you," Steve softly tried to reason.

Bucky could vividly remember what it felt like to lose you. He chewed his lip and crossed his arms across his chest. "I watched her die. She… she died in my arms and nobody came for us for three days. Alright? She was dead in my arms for three days."

Sam and Steve glanced at each other.

"Okay… Okay, Buck. I'll talk to Shuri. See what we can do," Steve agreed.

"If I'm- I'm seeing shit, I should be-"

"Come on, man," Sam stopped him, moving to hold his hands on Bucky's shoulders. Bucky felt the weight of each of them differently. "If you're seeing shit, you're like every other vet out there. Something's wrong, we'll cross that bridge. Ain't no use walking around all gloom and doom… We need a break anyway, right, Steve? Let's go get some pizza."

 …

 In Bucky's nightmare, the three days turn into a week. Then longer. He sits as still as a statue in the corner of a boarded-up room of an old snowed-in cottage. It's a Hydra safe house, and it contains the bare essentials to keep someone alive. Not you though. You're too hurt. It's bad. There's so much blood. He can see your insides and shoving everything back in and holding his jacket hard to the wounds isn’t helping.

You cough up blood as you watch The Solider panic. It's rare to see any emotion, so you feel grateful in your final moments. When you die, The Solider shuts down, like a computer malfunctioning. Hydra would have to do one hell of an 'alt ctrl delete' when they finally come for him.

It's cold, which is good. But you're an open corpse, which is bad. The blood hardens and turns dark. He can smell your organs as they begin to decompose. The whites of your eyes turn a sick colour, but The Solider never tries to close your eyelids. If he does that, he's alone. The inside of your mouth goes darker and darker, and the weight of your body on his continues to change.

In reality, that's about when Hydra arrived. Any longer and you would have started to fall apart very literally. In his sleep though, that's exactly what happens.

Your body begins to bloat, small blisters appearing along the surface of your skin. Parts of you liquify, find their way out, soak into The Soldier's clothes. It happens slowly at first, then within dreamstate minutes your muscles and organs and skin tissue turn to goo. Sometimes The Solider just sits in the human muck, counting the teeth left behind. Sometimes he's frantic, scooping you back up and trying to hold you together; it makes it worse.

And, although he hasn’t seen a single fly in the safehouse, there are hundreds of maggots infesting the deepest cavities of your body.

When Hydra came to claim their property, The Solider fought back. He clawed and kicked to get you back close to him. He screamed your name in every language he knew. That's where the memory stops. Often too, the nightmare.

"Y/N,” Bucky whines in his sleep, almost sounding like he's drowning in sticky, syrupy blood. “Y/N!” It is louder the second time. “Y/N!" Bucky yells, shooting up in bed and almost tearing a pillow in two.

He tries to breathe in, but the air is icy cold. Bucky only then notices the door. The balcony door is open. And you are standing there, hair moving in the breeze. Suddenly the room is bright, and warm palms are dragging his head to face away from the balcony.

"Buck?! Buck, are you okay? You’re screamin’ again,”

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky replies, pushing Steve's attempts at emotional first aid away. "Just a dream… nightmare… whatever."

He looks back for you, but you are gone.

Steve stands and watches Bucky crawl out of bed and move across the room.

"You hate the cold," Steve laments, concerned.

"Did you-" Bucky goes to ask, but stops himself too late.

"You saw her again, didn't you?"

 …

 Wakanda is beautiful. It's the closest thing to peaceful Bucky's ever known. Before making his way to Shuri, he visits old friends. The goats don't seem to remember him, but the children promise the White Wolf that they do. They show Bucky how well they've been caring for the goats, and they show him all the things they're learning in school. They ask if they can be Avengers too. He smiles sadly, and tells them, "Not yet."

"Ah! Bucky Barnes! My favourite broken White boy!" Shuri greets while pulling Bucky into a hug, then immediately focusses on his left arm. "So, your boyfriend says you need a check-up?" she asks as she opens a panel and frowns.

"It's not my arm, Shuri. That's workin' perfect,"

"Of course it is!" she laughs, yet doesn't stop tinkering. "But there can always be more. Be better."

When Bucky fails to reply, Shuri studies his face, then nods. Softly, kindly, she says, "Come, my friend. We'll have tea."

Shuri is easily one of Bucky's favourite people. She listens, which is already more than she has a responsibility to do. Bucky knows she's just a kid, but he also knows better than to stop a kid with that much genius and tenacity.

...

When all physiological and psychological avenues have been explored, Shuri shrugs at Bucky. "Maybe she's real,"

"She can't be," Bucky replies quickly.

Shuri makes a face. "You, of all people, really gonna stand there and say it's impossible for the dead to come back?"

"She was… very dead,"

"The dead are never truly gone, White Wolf. Not really."

 …

 Bucky hasn't seen you in a couple weeks. Sam says to him, "Two's only a coincidence, man. Three times, then we'll worry, yeah?" But Bucky remains worried nonetheless.

The mission they've been preparing for, the one that has taken over conference room B, is on Bucky's mind. He finds Steve sketching away, curled into an armchair and looking a lot smaller than he actually is. For a second, Bucky almost catches himself missing the 1940s.

"I shouldn't go," Bucky declares, dropping to the floor in front of Steve, back resting on the armchair and head falling back.

Steve looks down at his friend. "Nobody's going to make you do anything you don't want to do… But you are okay, Buck…"

Bucky looks up at him, exposed and vulnerable. Slowly, he shakes his head. "If I see her again while I'm meant to be focussed… I don't wanna screw anythin' up,"

"Okay. Sit this one out," Steve replies, brushing loose strands of hair out of Bucky's eyes. "But you gotta promise to be here when we get back."

 …

 The floors occupied by the Avengers are quiet. Bucky’s almost alone, save for F.R.I.D.A.Y. and Banner who is basically living in his lab. Bucky doesn't ask why he's not on the mission, and Banner returns the favour.

The irony isn't lost on Bucky; he haunts the spaces he shares with Steve, silent and invisible like a ghost. Part of him is waiting for you, he knows. The other part is genuinely terrified in a way he hasn't felt in decades.

He kills a few hours in the pages of a book, then finds himself lingering outside the door of the bathroom.

It's a little past two am when he gives in, stands in front of the mirror and closes his eyes.

"Y/N?"

He listens.

There are sounds but none of them you.

"Y/N… I… If you're there… alive… I'm sorry…"

His voice is shaky and he feels stupid, but he's started and now he can't stop.

"I'm so, so sorry… I… tried. I tried but I couldn't… And we were… If you're here, if you're here, please… just… Are you still…? Are they still out there?"

Bucky can't collect his thoughts. Each shatters into ten more, then those explode into even more, until there are hundreds of unanswered question in a web of confusion and emotion.

"Y/N…" Bucky's voice cracks.

It hurts you to hear.

You listen to his uneven breathing, listen as he tries to calm himself, hold back tears.

Bucky stands up straight, stretches out his neck muscles. He opens his eyes.

Those stormy blue-grey eyes.

"Hi," you say as softly as you can.

There is a split second where Bucky almost turns, an automatic movement, but he stops himself from spinning and stays firmly planted where he is. He's afraid that if he moves, you'll disappear again, like you had before.

"…Hi," he replies.

"You know my name… My real name. I didn't know that you knew it…"

Bucky nodded, slowly. The Soldier had never called you by your name while you were alive, just like you had never said 'Bucky.'

His blood gets pushed faster and faster around his body when his heart rate increases. The top of his cheeks flush pink.

"I know your name," Bucky says.

[jinmukangwrites]

Forcibly Stripped

X: Done // Diamond: Next // Fire: Requested

Summary: Amy Rohrbach probably has the most interesting partner in the entire force. The only problem with that is that she's usually dragged into some equally interesting situations whenever Blüdhaven's newest big baddy decides that Dick in on their shit list.

Another square crossed off! Not all of this fic will be posted on tumblr because I’m still paranoid of Tumblr and this fic has some forced nudity as hinted at in the title. (Though it is non-descriptive of said nudity). Anon requested Dick, the pretty boy cop, being made an example of by crooks. And another anon requested Outsider POV. Enjoy!

Note: Took liberties with canon here, by now we should all know that dc canon sucks most of the time, especially when it comes to Dick so... I reject your canon and substitute my own.

Link to full fic on AO3

-o-o-o-o-

Not many cops in Blüdhaven can say that they came from a rich background. Even fewer can say that they belonged to a traveling circus for their entire childhood. This is why Dick Grayson is such an interesting guy because he can say both, and what's so respectable about it is that he never makes a big deal out of it. He never goes out of his way to throw names like Bruce Wayne, never tried to gain sympathy for his tragic upbringing (because once you knew Dick was raised by Bruce Wayne, you knew what happened to his birth parents). 

There are people with a fraction of the wealth who would prance around their family name at the first sign of conflict, with a not even that sad of a backstory who will tell it over and over to get sympathy. 

Not Dick Grayson. Dick would rather be his own man, the only way anyone would find out of his past was if they took the time themselves to dig into it. Otherwise, Dick lives in the moment, takes things as they come, and always does what he thinks is right. 

Nightwing is another story, but Amy Rohrbach is still pretending she doesn't know about that. 

The day today is like any other: gray, bleak, smoggy, filled with grumbling criminals coming off their latest high or groaning ravers waking up with hangovers. Most officers are also recovering from those things but corruption is corruption and Blüdhaven embraces it. 

Amy is one of the rare few walking into the office without painkillers in her system to fight off the consequences of questionable activities last night. She has some Advil in her desk, but that's for when the sheer stupidity of the people she works with gets to be too much. 

Dick is already here, which Amy has a mixture of feelings about that. The guy is pristine, and when he's told to come in at 6am, he'll come thirty minutes earlier. Most other people Amy has the pleasure of working with come in a few hours late, their excuses ranging from they saw someone doing something shady on the way to work and had to check it out, traffic, or the coffee machine was broken; in reality they were probably vomiting in the toilet and trying to convince themselves to take another sip of pickle juice or whatever people used to get rid of hangovers quickly.

Dick is the kind of person who will not only come on time, but will be there early, and she respects that because she does that too. It's what any decent person should do. But, she also knows that Nightwing was up late last night, taking out some shady trafficking at the docs. She woke up to the news coverage, and she can only wonder how much sleep Dick gets. 

Considering he came from Gotham, is apparently… and allegedly (she hasn't proven it yet) a superhero that's been in the business since his tweens, he probably doesn't get much. 

So how he can look so happy and bright on any Blüdhaven morning is beyond her. God, she wishes that he'd at least have the decency to have eye bags, the shit. She'll have to ask him about his skin care routine because she's still getting acne the moment she even looks at a doughnut and she's seen Dick swallow a whole cake slice before and his skin is still silky smooth. What a bastard.

She needs coffee. And sunglasses. It's too early for Dick's bright and perfect happiness.

"Good morning, Amy!" Dick says, sitting himself down next to her with a coffee in each hand. Starbucks. Not from the office. Curse him for being so thoughtful. Of course he is. He's from Gotham. Anyone from Gotham looks kind and carefree while in Blüdhaven. "I got this for you, your favorite if I remember correctly."

He hands her one of the cups and she glares only slightly his way. Stupid Dick and his stupid coffee.

She takes a sip and immediately almost sinks into her chair. Caramel and creamy. She used to drink straight black but then Grayson came into her life and… well. Brightness, happiness, smiles, waves, puppies, rainbows, yada yada yada, all of that shit nonsense.

"I was thinking we could work on the Trisha Meyers case," Dick continues after she takes a couple more sips. She glances above her cup and lifts an eyebrow. 

"That's a cold case, been cold for months, Dick," she says. 

Dick shrugs and sets his own coffee down on the desk. She isn't sure what kind he likes, it's different every time she asks. 

"With the round up Nightwing did last night, we might have a few leads," he says, casually, as if he wasn't talking about himself. It's frustrating knowing your rookie partner is actually a vigilante, she kind of wants to slap him for putting her through this, even if he doesn't know it yet.

Woah. She's never thought about that. This guy has been working with Batman for most of his life and he doesn't know she knows. Or… maybe he did know but he's pretending not to know that she knows that- she quickly takes another sip of coffee. Bastard.

"It's still cold, there's no evidence that she was taken by traffickers."

"It doesn't hurt to ask, right? Are the perps being held here?" 

"Before you two go off on another case," a third voice interrupts and Amy sighs as Dick smiles and looks over towards the captain. "I need a word."

"Mornin', Captain Johnson," Dick greets happily. Amy simply nods her head and looks down at her desk. "What can we do ya for?"

Captain Johnson's lips thin at Dick's greeting but instead of scolding him for being way too chipper on a Blüdhaven morning like Amy is about to do, she forces a smile and looks down at the rookie like she's actually happy to be here.

She's not. No one is. Except Dick apparently. 

"Grayson," the captain greets, "you're familiar with Elliot Cancio, correct?"

Amy feels her blood run cold as she watches Dick's eyebrows come together. Of course Dick knows Elliot Cancio, everyone does, he's one of the biggest names in the Cancio family, a group of mafia that has bloomed like poisonous algae in the past year. Elliot is not the leader of the family, but he's up there, up enough that it's generally known by everyone to not mess with him unless you want your whole life destroyed and your body to be found in the flooded district of Blüdhaven a month later. 

Why is the captain throwing his name around?

"Yes ma'am," Dick replies and Amy is relieved to hear a bit of caution in his voice. Even Dick knows that the big names in the mafia are off limits, off limits until the mayor's chair is free of corruption and the police department is no longer under their thumb. 

"He turned himself in last night," the captain says, casually, her voice deadly calm, so calm that Amy can't help but tense. No mafia member would just turn themselves in… let alone a Cancio. "He wants to confess, but he insists he'll only talk to you."

Bad sign. Back out now, Dick. There's a feeling of dread pooling in her stomach and it's showing only slightly on Dick's face. His expression is open, surprised, but she can see how his eyebrows are sliding closer together, she can see his jaw twitching like he's fighting the urge to grind. 

"Really?" Dick asks, and god, Amy can practically see the gears turning in his head. There's a lot of stuff Amy has noticed about him since he showed up, since she put two and two together and realized the not-so-caped crusader was her rookie partner. Knowing who he really is, it's opened doors for her to read her partner better, when before she always thought his surface expressions were the real ones, but in reality there are so many layers, so many she's still figuring them out. But now, now she can read him clearly. He's wondering what the hell is going on. 

"Yes, so if you're already familiar with him, we'll save the paper work and have you go right in. We're going to have a couple other rookies follow you to see first hand how confessions work."

"Yeah, because that's normal here," Amy says before she can think of it, "confessions. Even more so from a known mafia member."

"Allegedly," the captain corrects coldly, until she plasters on a fake grin and turns towards Dick. "That is until you get the truth out of him."

Amy doesn't like this. She doesn't like this at all. There's something more in play here. There has to be. The Cancio family is so rooted and comfortable in Blüdhaven, they own half the strip and it's casinos, making easy gains and grabs when Blockbuster was killed (Jesus, once Amy corners Dick she will find out what happened that night). There's no reason any Cancio would feel the need to turn a leaf when the leaf they're sitting on is gold plated. 

That, and, by chance, if Elliot really wanted to confess anything, he wouldn't have made it within a mile of the precinct. His grandfather and his henchmen would have made sure of it. The body would be found floating in the harbor if it was found at all. 

There's something smelly going on here, and by the looks of it, Dick is at the center. 

Jesus Christ and Mary above why did she get stuck with the ultimate good guy from happy town Gotham? Couldn't she have just gotten some kid straight out of Blüdhaven Juvie like everyone else? 

But nooooo. She got good guy Dick from happy town Gotham and now she's stuck with him until he gets himself killed. Well, it would be just her luck if she gets brought down with him. Only she would be stuck with a rookie vigilante until death. 

However, from the sounds of it, it's not she this time getting dragged down with him… it's other rookies. 

Something's going on. Decline Dick. Get out of it. Just this once, save your own skin. 

"You can count on me, Cap," Dick says, grinning, even mock saluting. Any evidence of concern or caution one his face is gone, like he's made a decision, and Amy is the first to know that once Dick makes a decision, he's not backing out of it. 

Dear lord. Maybe this is what Batman had to deal with. (Jesus Christ, Bruce Wayne??? She never even thought…)

"It's very much appreciated, Dick," the captain says. "Luckily, detectives Hogan, Rodriguez, and Payne are already here, so we can begin right away. Just gather them up if you will, Grayson."

Dick nods and stands up, shooting a smile Amy's way and she can't help but tense even further. Dick knows something, he's willingly walking into a trap. Dick nods at the captain before heading over to one of the rookies listed who's trying to figure out the coffee machine. Amy goes to stand up, wanting to follow him and tell him to forget it just this once, just this once keep his nose out of it, but she's stopped by a hand hand to her shoulder. 

"Let Grayson handle this, Rohrbach," the captain says. Amy glares at get and shoves off the hand. The captain's expression has done a 180, her fake smile turning into a sad frown. Amy knows the captain isn't the best of people, sometimes doing corrupt things just because she could instead of being told, but deep down she cares about people. She's more about personal gain than harming others. "For once, let Grayson take all the responsibility."

"What are they going to do to him in there," Amy snarls under her breath, watching past the captain's shoulder to see Dick greet the third rookie and pat another one on the back. They all turn to head towards the interrogation room where something bad is surely waiting for them. 

"He's going to question-"

"What is really gonna happen, captain?" She shifts her focus back onto the captain, giving her sharpest glare, and according to Dick she has a pretty mean glare.

The captain seems to fight an internal battle for a moment before she sighs, her shoulders falling. She lowers her voice so it's barely above a whisper. "There's nothing I can do. Grayson has been barking up the wrong trees recently."

"They're going to kill him…"

"No," the captain says, shaking her head, "just… teach a lesson. He'll be fine."

They're going to humiliate him..  injure him… in front of the newbies so they know not to step out of place like Dick has been. Amy has told him time and time again to not pick up the cases the department has worked hard to make cold, that has been made cold because the mafia told them so. Hell, Trisha Meyers is one of those cases and Dick just tried to convince her to open it up. 

She takes a breath and pushes past the captain. 

"Rohrbach," the captain calls behind her, her voice sounding pathetically worried as if she had no choice but to send Dick to the hands of angry mafia members, "let Dick take responsibility, you don't need to get yourself involved!"

Amy clenches her jaw and rolls up her jacket sleeves. "He's my partner, ma'am," she growls, heading to the hallway where Dick has disappeared a few minutes before, "he's my responsibility."

[him-e]

Hi, I'm the anon who wrote the 5 asks about the Dany plotline and GRRM. I'd like to apologize to u for lashing out, it was uncalled for and u have every right to state those opinions regardless of what I (or anyone else) think. Feeling hurt by the show wrt Dany's story made me react badly to the idea that it was actually acceptable, especially coming from someone whose ideas I appreciate so much and have spent hours invested on. You can answer them, delete them, idk, I just wanted to say sorry.

No need to apologize, anon! I’m currently on semi-to-full hiatus and that’s why I’m being so slow at answering messages—and yeah, I understand the frustration completely, and I don’t blame you for it. ;))

I’m going to answer your ask anyway. Long reply after the cut:

I hope this doesn’t come off as offensive or confrontational bc that’s not the point, I’ve enjoyed reading your ASOIAF/GoT and TB metas for years and would not reply to them if I weren’t invested on them. That said, I’d like to ask why do you insist on 1) arguing that Dany’s dark turn was reasonable if you don’t hate her and 2) defending D&D and blaming GRRM for what happened on the show. When it comes to 1), sure, Dany might *accidentally* burn KL, but to willingly choose to burn thousands of innocents? She may accept that some casualties would have to occur, but not in the way that the show presented (in that she had the choice to not kill anyone but did). You argue that that direction was valid of because of the recurring theme of how power corrupts, but then I’d argue, what if it were Sansa, another character very much involved in the world of politics? Would you be ok if people argued that it’d make sense for her to give up her ideals and become just as power-hungry and cynic and bitter as Littlefinger? Probably not; what’s the point if those characters become their worst possible selves? Dany was made a villain, was implied to be mad and was called “your satanic majesty”. I really can’t see how you could call those writing decisions valid. When it comes to 2), I’m not saying GRRM is perfect, he’s been quite callous in the book series and especially in F&B when it comes to social issues, but D&D are also professional writers with critical thinking skills and moral values of their own who could have tried to alleviate the problems in the books and not made things even worse. That’s why I don’t get why you’re blaming GRRM for what D&D wrote when the former wasn’t even involved in the ending’s writing process aside from possibly giving them an outline of what happens. GRRM should be criticized for what he wrote and will write, and the finale may have feel been a product of his ideas, but he still has no (moral or legal) responsibility in helping to make the TV show better or worse.

The reason why I maintain that the show’s ending is a (badly written) version of GRRM’s ending is that I can 100% see Martin’s blueprint in the climax+anticlimax structure of the season. The way it twists the audience’s expectations and delves into what happens AFTER the final battle is won, the way it subverts the most reliable narrative conventions and, instead of building up in a crescendo towards a final spectacle where the heroes would sacrifice their lives to save the world in a blaze of glory, it shifts gears almost unpleasantly, slows down to show what happens to them once their heroic purpose is fulfilled and zooms in on their identity crisis, their depression and isolation and sudden lack of purpose… it’s all too deliberate, and IN MY PERSONAL OPINION it’s done with a vision in mind—something I don’t believe d&d would spontaneously put any effort in, especially not if GRRM had already served them a perfectly fine, crowd-pleasing endgame involving Dany’s heroic sacrifice against the Others.

I understand my stance might come across as “defending d&d and blaming GRRM”, but I’m really not? I’ve often repeated how I believe d&d messed things up and that GRRM’s version will make infinitely more sense and be infinitely better written, and I’m sure he will avoid the pitfalls of cynical, circular storytelling, because he’s ultimately a better writer and someone who believes in idealism and true heroism even as he deconstructs it. How can the overall narrative remain uplifting & give a message of hope and faith for humanity while still telling a story that ends with Dany’s descent into “true villainy” (but haven’t we repeated ad nauseam that heroes and villains are too reductive categories for asoiaf?), I don’t know, but it’s not my job to figure it out, and I ultimately trust & respect Martin’s vision and ability to tell the story HE wants.

sure, Dany might *accidentally* burn KL, but to willingly choose to burn thousands of innocents? She may accept that some casualties would have to occur, but not in the way that the show presented

1) I’ve always conceded that, while I think the gist of the storyline is Martin’s, there’s absolutely no guarantee that the battle of King’s Landing will go as we’ve seen in the show, or even happen at the same point of the story (for one thing, Young Griff & JonCon will probably be involved, and that seems more likely to happen before, and not after, the war for the dawn);

2) That said, what I’m relatively confident of, at this point, is that Dany will NOT die in the WftD as a self sacrificial hero (this is entirely FANON SPECULATION, and people treating it like a fixed point in the universe, something the narrative is “inevitably” building towards, is one of the reasons the fandom seems unable to critically analyze show!Dany’s evolution without going hysterical about it and resorting to no true scotsman arguments. I’ve often complained about the dangers of elevating fan theories to canon status, and trust me I never wanted to go full cassandra about this, but here we are). The details and plot points leading up to this might be wildly different from the show’s version, but I think Dany will survive the WftD, which will leave her directionless and purposeless and doubting the truth of her heroic destiny for the first time in her life after she hatched the dragons, and that she’ll cross the ultimate moral horizon in a hail mary to restore that sense of self, that sense of purpose, completing her parabola from princess in rags, to breaker of chains, to conqueror, to savior of humanity, to conqueror again, to TRAGIC HERO. How can this be a valid writing decision, you asked—well, why shouldn’t it? Is something only valid as long as it pleases the audience? What screams tragic hero more than the hero turning into the very thing she swore to eradicate, and realizing it only when it’s too late? There’s something genuinely chilly in Dany’s “if I look back, I’m lost” refrain. This is the mantra of someone who thinks the only way to stay alive is to cross one threshold after the other. So far this coping mechanism has brought her higher, and higher, and higher. But what if it will be her downfall? “I tried to grasp a star, overreached, and fell”, indeed;

3) Dany’s burning KL *accidentally* is like Stannis burning Shireen “but only if the circumstances are dire enough / the stakes are high enough”. No offense, but this is typical stan logic: you admit the possibility that your faves might go through a dark phase but you don’t want to have to unstan them, so you want them to do bad things for good reasons, or because there’s no other choice, or because “they didn’t know”. That’s understandable, but I don’t think Martin is the type of writer to give his character free passes or soften the blow of their moral crucibles like that. This is NOT to say that the show did Dany’s dark turn WELL, because it DIDN’T—her motivations were all over the place, the turning point (the bells) wasn’t believable because it lacked connection to her character arc, the narrative backed away from showing the attack from her pov which betrays the writers’ inability to make sense of this psychological downfall from HER perspective, etc. But to say “Dany will NEVER! BURN! INNOCENTS! ON PURPOSE!” sounds very, very premature to me.

(re: Sansa, hasn’t power corrupted her too, to an extent? Hasn’t she lied, schemed, manipulated, spilled secrets, in order to restore & secure the Stark hold on the North? Isn’t she queen, in part, because the rest of her family was scattered at the four corners of the known world? I’m not particularly happy with the way she was written this season, and I think some of her choices were questionable; but at the same time I reject the idea that a character ending up more flawed, or morally ambiguous, or less likeable than they were at the beginning must necessarily be bad storytelling)

I’m not saying GRRM is perfect, he’s been quite callous in the book series and especially in F&B when it comes to social issues, but D&D are also professional writers with critical thinking skills and moral values of their own who could have tried to alleviate the problems in the books and not made things even worse. That’s why I don’t get why you’re blaming GRRM for what D&D wrote when the former wasn’t even involved in the ending’s writing process aside from possibly giving them an outline of what happens. GRRM should be criticized for what he wrote and will write, and the finale may have feel been a product of his ideas, but he still has no (moral or legal) responsibility in helping to make the TV show better or worse.

Martin is not responsible of the show’s writing, but he is responsible of the outline he gave to the showrunners, and right now I have no reason to believe they didn’t follow it, at least for the most part. For years I’ve been told that “the show is not the books”, and while that’s certainly true, I can’t, and won’t, separate the show from the books when it comes to book speculation, because the show is still for all intents and purposes an ADAPTATION of the book series, and while it’s irresponsible to expect it to be a 1:1 transcription of what will happen in TWOW and ADOS, it’s also equally (imo) irresponsible to act like the two canons have nothing to do with each other and that it’s stupid to use the show as a resource for book speculation. If people want to pretend the show never happened, good for them, but that’s not the way I think, personally. I don’t blame GRRM for the show’s faults, and my reservations are actually 90% about the EXECUTION of the plot which is ENTIRELY on d&d, but there’s a 10% of my concerns that is about the IDEA in itself, regardless of context and execution—the idea of the story ending with a bittersweet anticlimax involving the death/downfall of the MOST PROMINENT FEMALE HERO OF THE SERIES, who is also the carrier of the most subversive anti-establishment political message in the story.

tldr: I’m not criticizing GRRM for what he hasn’t written yet, but I can certainly criticize him for what I think is a (however botched) adaptation of his outline, if the main selling points of said outline are questionable in themselves. No one can convince me that GRRM told d&d that Jon and Dany would die heroically to save the world and they ARBITRARILY decided to fuck it up for shock value or whatever, and just accidentally stumbled onto a more subversive and provocative ending than what Martin HIMSELF was planning. (that would make them two geniuses, even if the execution sucked, lol)

and if i’m wrong about it, well:

but until then…

[honeypiehotchner]

Trust -- part three

So...I’m thinking of deviating completely from canon soon because I love Mary and John’s relationship, and I’d love for the reader to meet Mary. So obviously what goes down with Mary wouldn’t go down here. It’d be a much happier ending, so to speak. I watched the wedding episode yesterday and immediately got hit with so many ideas. Thoughts? I do want some input but let’s be real, I’ll probably doing it anyway, because I’m going through it lately, and I need to write something with a fairly happy ending/happy scenes.

That being said, here’s another part.

Warnings: Just Mycroft and you having a chat. And a case.

It’s been four days. Four days since you met Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Four days since you moved into 221C.

All you wanted to do was check out the music store around the block. That’s all you wanted to do.

           But apparently when you’re living at 221 Baker Street, nothing is ever that simple.

           You did get to check out said music store, at least. You were just getting to the letter B – just past The Beatles – in the crate of vinyl records when you were rudely interrupted by a woman in a black dress standing next to you.

           Not one to turn down a good time, you offer her a smile – that she returns. She’s too busy typing on her phone to carry a conversation, though, so you continue looking through the records, amused to find some artists you’ve never heard of.

           Then, your phone starts ringing. Thinking it’s John – because the old man has really become like a mother hen in the past four days you’ve been staying at 221C – you pull it out of your pocket with a huff. But it’s not John at all. It’s an unknown number.

           “You might want to get that.”

           You give the woman a strange look as you answer the call, pressing the phone to your ear. “Hello?”

           “Hello, Y/N.”

           You don’t recognize the voice at all. “Who is this?”

           “Do you see the security camera to your left?”

           You look. You nod. “Yes.” For Christ’s sake, can you not look through vinyl records in peace? You just wanted to do something simple after being cooped up in your flat for the past four days.

           “Get into the car, Y/N.”

           “What car? I’m in a fucking vinyl store—” Your sentence is cut short when you look out the store window, a black (very expensive looking) car pulling up to the curb. “Who are you?” You ask again.

           “Get into the car.”

           “Alright, fine,” you snap, ending the call. You look to the woman, who is still on her phone, mind you, and ask, rather harshly, “I’m assuming you work for him?”

           She merely nods before she walks off toward the front door, giving you no choice but to follow her. And you do, a little reluctantly you add, because you aren’t sure who she is or who that man on the phone was. But you’ve gotten into enough trouble to know you’ve probably done something to him or some corporation he owns, and now he wants a word with you. Whether it be for revenge or to settle (because you have had some who are a little too annoyed with you to even bother with revenge), who knows.

           For God’s sake, can you not have one normal afternoon while you’re in London? You haven’t had a normal life, so normal days aren’t normal, but a few here and there would be nice.

           “Any point in asking where we’re going?”

           The woman snickers. “Your brother asked the same thing. No.”

           You blink at her statement and her answer to your question. You’re now thoroughly confused, especially since you didn’t know of John until four days ago. So there’s no possible way this could be connected to any trouble you’ve gotten into – or could it?

           Do others know John is your brother and the both of you have just been clueless this entire time?

           You shake your head at the absurd thought. John’s father’s name isn’t even on your birth certificate for Christ’s sake. The only reason you know who fathered you is because of your mother telling you and showing pictures.

           You have his eyes. So does John.

           The thought startles you. You always liked to believe you got every aspect of yourself from your mother. But meeting John has showed you which aspects are not at all hers.

           After what feels like an hour-long ride, the car pulls into a warehouse. Not abandoned at all, from the looks of it, but also not frequently used, considering the position you’re in.

           There’s a brief moment when your car door opens that you wonder if you’re going to die. But no one around appears to be posing a threat so far.

           Cautiously, you step out of the vehicle. In front of the car, but further away, stands a tall man leaning on his umbrella. Someone of high regard, judging by his attire…and entire being. You almost let yourself smirk at his appearance.

           You’ve dealt with a few like him before. You know how they work.

           You walk up to him, grateful in this moment that you decided to wear your heels – but not grateful as the thought of needing to make a run for it crosses your mind. Not because you can’t run in heels, but because your feet will absolutely kill you tomorrow if you do.

           “Nice place,” you comment. “Who the hell are you?”

           “It’s not mine,” the man replies, avoiding your question and instead addressing your sarcastic comment. “And when one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place and hence phoning when you were outside 221B Baker Street.”

           “Ah,” you nod. You should’ve known this had something to do with him. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think Sherlock has a reputation worse than yours. “Sherlock Holmes. The man of the hour. You know, everyone seems so interested in him. Care to tell me what your interest is?”

           He smirks. “You don’t seem very afraid.”

           “Trust me, I’ve been in far worse situations. This,” you gesture around you. “A damp warehouse and some power trip in an overpriced suit? Not my first.”

           “Right, the Troublemaker. That is what they call you, yes?”

           “My favorite nickname,” you grin proudly, glad to hear it again. This is fun. It’s been a while since you’ve heard it. “You’ve heard of my work then.”

           “Yes, and it seems only obvious you’d run into Sherlock Holmes.” The man sighs, suddenly very focused on the concrete beneath your feet. “What is your connection to him?”

           “Connection?” You scoff. “He’s barely uttered a few complete sentences since I’ve met him. The connection is nonexistent. Well, besides annoying him while he experiments.”

           “But you’re living in 221C.”

           “And you’re spying on me.”

           “I spy on everyone.”

           “What is it you want? I’m impatient.”

           “Yes, I see.” He taps his umbrella on the concrete. “I want you to provide me with…information.”

           “Information? On Sherlock?” You nearly laugh. “He doesn’t sleep. He’s been doing a chemistry experiment since yesterday afternoon and hasn’t finished it yet. And he’s a pain in the ass when he can be. Anything else?”

           He doesn’t seem at all amused. “I meant what cases he’s solving.”

           “Cases? There haven’t been any.” Well, there has. But minor ones. Ones Sherlock, and you quote, “solved without leaving the flat.”

           “And you’ve only known him for four days.”

           “Okay, again, who the hell are you?”

           “An interested party.”

           “Like that means a damn thing to me,” you shake your head. “Waste of my time.”

           “What was that?”

           “This is a waste of my damn time!” You repeat, louder so he can hear you. “What the hell would I get in exchange for giving you meaningless information on Sherlock?”

           “I’d be willing to pay you a large sum of money to…ease the financial burden you’re under.”

           “You would be willing, or you will?”

           He clenches his jaw. You almost smile. Pushing buttons; it’s your favorite hobby. “I will.”

           “Tell me why you’re interested in him.”

           “I worry about him. Constantly.”

           “Not good enough.”

           You’re bound to weasel it out of him. The secret you picked up on from the second you heard a single sentence leave his mouth.

           He’s Sherlock’s brother. You’re not an idiot.

           But he’s not giving up that easily. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”

           “Well then,” you shrug. “I’m afraid I’ve suddenly forgotten who Sherlock Holmes is and what he does on a regular basis.”

           “I occupy a minor position in the British government,” he replies, rather quickly because in that lull you had decided to turn and begin walking away. “And I know you have a long history of getting in trouble.”

           “See, now we’re getting somewhere,” you smirk. “You work for the government?” He nods. You narrow your eyes, an idea suddenly coming to mind. “I’ll consider your offer…” You pause, crossing your arms over your chest. “If you can do me an added favor.”

           He seems pleased with this progression. “And what might that be?”

           “You know I have a record.” He nods. “Wipe it.”

           “I’m sorry?”

           “Clean slate,” you continue. “Erase all the charges. Give me a fresh start.”

           “Does this mean the Troublemaker is retiring?”

           “Christ, no,” you laugh. “I’m too young to retire.” You would just prefer to not run for your life for a while. Something about living on Baker Street has changed that in you.

           He narrows his eyes, weighing the options. “Alright. Done.”

           “Done?” You scoff. “You expect me to just take your word for it?”

           He tosses a roll of cash in your direction, a surprised look crossing his features when you catch it effortlessly with one hand. “Is that better than my word?”

           You raise your eyebrows. There’s more here than you’ve ever held in your hand at one time. This will last ages if you spend it right. “Much.”

           “I’ll be in touch,” he pauses, “when your slate is wiped clean as you say.”

           You smirk. “Pleasure doing business with you,” you begin backing away, and under your breath, low enough so he can’t hear, you add, “Mr. Holmes.”

Upon arriving back at Baker Street, you head past your flat and up to the boy’s. You’re surprised to find John has gone out, leaving Sherlock in his chair – thinking.

           You lean against the doorframe. “I was just speaking with your brother.”

           Sherlock doesn’t move.

           “He’s rather annoying, isn’t he?”

           “Who, Mycroft? Yes.”

           “Mycroft Holmes,” you mutter. “Doesn’t have the same ring to it as Sherlock Holmes.”

           This causes Sherlock to open his eyes, almost glaring at you.

           “Come to the store with me,” you try.

           “No.”

           “You don’t even know why.”

           “Fine then,” he huffs. “Why?”

           You smirk, knowing that he’s only asking to make fun of you. “I need help carrying stuff back here.”

           “No.”

           “An ass when he can be,” you shake your head, chuckling. “When will John be back?”

           “I don’t know when he left.”

           “Alright.”

           You head back down the stairs to your flat, chuckling to yourself. You hadn’t expected anything less from Sherlock. You merely wanted to let him know you’d spoken with Mycroft, and see if you could annoy him in the process.

           Mission accomplished, you’d say.

           And Sherlock would agree. Back in 221B, he resumes his thinking, but his mind is now clouded. An unfortunate thing that has been bothering him for the past four days, and he hasn’t found the cause yet. No amount of thinking has provided him with a good enough answer.

           He stands abruptly, grabbing his violin from the desk and begins playing a random tune.

           Down in your flat, you smile at the sound, moving to leave your door open so you can hear him play more clearly.

           This is the first time you’ve heard him play.

 ~~~

John comes through the door some hours later, groaning because when he left, Sherlock was playing the violin, so now that he’s returned home to the same sound, he only wants to bang his head on the wall. You almost let out a laugh at how shocked his face looks when he passes by your door to see it wide open, willingly letting the sound travel inside.

           He knocks on the doorframe, not noticing you sitting in the middle of your living room floor with a book. The sight almost startles him. Something as mundane as reading a book is not something he pictured you enjoying.

           “Did you mean to leave your door open?”

           You give him a strange look, closing the book in your hands. “I did.”

           “Oh. Okay.”

           You offer him a smile. You can always tell when he wants to say something else, but never does. “What is it now?”

           “Nothing…have you eaten?”

           For some reason, he’s been concerned with your eating habits since he met you. You aren’t sure what brought it on, but it has become a bit over-bearing.

           So, you change the subject. “I meant to,” you stand to your feet, leaving the book on the floor. “But I was paid a visit by Sherlock’s brother.”

           “Mycroft?”

           You nod.

           “What was he doing here?”

           “Not here,” you shake your head. “I was out at the record store and got a call. Next thing I knew I was in a warehouse talking to some power trip in an overpriced suit.” You roll your eyes. Regardless of what you got out of the encounter – which is so far only some cash because Mycroft hasn’t been in touch yet – it still wasted your damn time.

           “Power trip in an overpriced suit,” John chuckles. “That sounds like Mycroft.” He pauses, a thought occurring to him. “Did he tell you he was Sherlock’s brother?”

           “God, no, he’s not stupid. But neither am I. After he said one sentence I knew exactly who he was.”

           “Did you tell him?”

           “‘Course not,” you smile. “Remember? I’m not stupid.”

           “Yes, well,” he shakes his head with a laugh. “Did you accept his offer?”

           John’s eyebrows raise when you nod. “I had one condition, but yeah.”

           “What was it?”

           As if on cue, your cellphone chimes in your pocket.

Done. –MH

           You smirk. “And my condition has been met.” You look up to find John still giving you a confused look. “Oh, I asked him to wipe my criminal record clean.”

           “You had a criminal record?”

           “Don’t look so shocked. Don’t we all have a record?” You roll your eyes, bending down to grab the book. “Anyway, that was him,” you give your phone a little shake. “He wiped it clean.”

           “So you’re just going to give him information about Sherlock, then?”

           “What more do I tell him? I already told him he doesn’t sleep or eat, he just sits around thinking.”

           “Well…”

           “JOHN!”

           You both jump, the loud exclamation startling you, but John looks less startled and a little annoyed.

           “We have a case, I’m guessing?” John calls back, shaking his head. “I guess we’re going out.”

           “We’re?”

           John gives you a look. “Yeah, you can come with. I could use someone else around on these things.” He turns, then pauses, “Hurry. He’s impatient.”

           Knowing that to be a fact – and being fairly impatient yourself – you slip into your heels (they’re closest) and follow John out into the hallway. Sherlock meets you both there, a smirk settling over his lips when he sees you’ll be joining them.

           The three of you climb into the taxi that Sherlock so forcefully hailed after barely stepping foot outside the flat.

           You sit beside John, but in between him and Sherlock. The silence isn’t as deafening because you can feel the excitement rolling off of Sherlock’s body.

           “Would you mind introducing yourself as Y/N Watson?” John suddenly asks, gaining your attention.

           You raise an eyebrow. “Why?” Your first thought is John wanting you to be a Watson, which will never happen. You’re a L/N, for Christ’s sake. You always have been.

           And the look John gives you tells you that he wasn’t intending for that subtext. “I just mean it would make this easier to explain.”

           “But this is none of their business.”

           He tries again. “It’ll make them quicker to trust you.”

           “You know I don’t care about trust.”

           “I know you don’t, but they do.”

           “He means it’s easier for their simple minds to think that you’re trustworthy by introducing yourself with the last name Watson rather than saying Y/N L/N and adding on the fact that you’re John’s half-sister he just happened to meet four days ago.” Sherlock barely moves an inch while he speaks, but does once he finishes to give the two of you a look. “It saves time.”

           “We were too loud,” you snicker to John. “Interrupted his thinking.”

           “Yes,” is all Sherlock replies with, but you see him turn his head to hide a smile. A smile Sherlock feels his brain beginning to scold the action, wondering why he would need to hide a smile or smile at all, for that matter. You had interrupted his thinking. That was something he should be frustrated with, not smiling about.

           You smirk. John gives you a strange look, your attitude toward Sherlock still being a first for him. He remembers being royally pissed at the man for the first few weeks he lived with him until he finally got used to the comments he makes and the way he behaves. But you seem to take everything in stride, with an amused smirk.

           When you reach the crime scene, which is a fancier looking hotel, you’re more than confused. You know Sherlock can observe and make deductions from just about anything, but what is the point of analyzing the crime scene if they’ve obviously taken the body to the morgue?

           That one is too easy to notice. There’s an obvious, cleaned bloodstain on the concrete outside the hotel. And there’s too many people mulling about. They’re not going to keep the body here if the hotel is still operating as usual – which they no doubt are. A hotel that looks like this has to have a reputation they want to uphold, and part of that reputation would not be that they left a dead body lying on their sidewalk.

           As soon as you get closer to the building, you recognize a certain face, immediately cursing under your breath and nudging John. “I think plan Y/N Watson isn’t going to work.”

           “What? Why?”

           You faintly hear Sherlock mutter his deduction. “Because Y/N and Lestrade have already met.” John’s head whips around to give Sherlock a bewildered look.

           “Y/N L/N,” Lestrade shakes his head, walking over with an almost shit-eating grin on his face. “Didn’t I arrest you just last year?”

           “That was me. How’ve you been Gerald?”

           He frowns. “It’s Greg.”

           You grimace. “Right.”

           “Bloody hell,” he groans. “First Sherlock, now you?”

           “Sorry,” you shrug, trying to lighten the blow. You’ve always been awful with his name in particular.

           “I got a call this morning,” Lestrade continues. “Telling me all your charges had been dismissed. What’s that about?”

           “Hm,” you smirk. “No idea.”

           Lestrade begins to ask you for a more in-depth response – because he knows you know, especially if you’re hanging around Sherlock Holmes and John Watson now – but you’re off and following Sherlock into the crime scene before Lestrade can even blink. John just sighs, giving the detective a smile before following after his half-sister.

           “The body is at the morgue already,” Lestrade announces when he reaches the hotel room, right behind John. “You’ve got five minutes Sherlock.”

           “I only need two,” Sherlock replies, lifting his head from the nightstand. “But thank you for your overwhelming generosity.”

           You roll your eyes, poking about the room aimlessly. You’re not expecting to find anything. You’ve met enough people to be able to analyze them when you meet them, but analyzing their hotel room? Not exactly your area of expertise.

           Nor do you particularly care about it all that much.

           “I don’t understand what we’re supposed to get from this,” you huff, kicking a random shoe over to the corner. It knocks into an open suitcase. “Whoever it was, obviously wasn’t here long.”

           Once Sherlock finishes his examination, which takes all of those five minutes, he stands, abruptly announcing, “I need to see the body.”

           Great. Now you’re off to a morgue.

           You follow John out the door and back into the street, Sherlock busy with hailing a taxi. While you’re waiting, you see Lestrade walking up with another smile.

           “Try and keep yourself out of trouble, okay?”

           “Lestrade…” You shake your head with a grin, seeing Sherlock stop a taxi out of the corner of your eyes. “You do remember my name, don’t you?”

           “Yes, I do, Troublemaker,” he sighs. “Just don’t get yourself arrested.”

           “Oh, I plan on it,” you smirk, sliding into the taxi after John, shutting the door behind you.

           You actually don’t plan on it. You never plan on getting arrested, really. It sort of just…happens. But then again, you did ask Mycroft to wipe your record clean for the sake of starting fresh. You think you can go a few more days without getting into serious trouble, maybe longer if Sherlock keeps you as entertained as he is doing now.

           Cases, even though this is your first, appear to be fun. Mind racing, adrenaline pumping. The same feeling you get when you scale buildings.

           You sigh, suddenly feeling a wave of nostalgia for the activity. You haven’t had fun in a while like that. Maybe one day soon.

[galadrieljones]

The Lily Farm - Chapter 23

Formerly A Funeral

Fandom: Red Dead Redemption 2 | Pairing: Arthur x Mary Beth | Rating: Mature

Content: Existential Angst, Friendship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Nature, Touch-Starved, Humor, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Angst, Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Fake Marriage, Epiphanies, Backstory, Banter, Deep Emotions, Sharing a Bed, Swimming, Arthur to the Rescue, Forests, Abduction, Angst, Heavy Angst, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, Sexual Content, Sexual Themes, Adult Content, Canon Divergence, Found Families, Brotherhood, Fatherhood, pregnancy, Drug Use, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Protective Arthur, Minor John Marston/Abigail Roberts

Summary: To help her process Sean’s death, Mary Beth asks Arthur to take her on a hunting trip, somewhere far away. He agrees, and on their journey to the north, they find quietude and take comfort in their easy bond. They’ve been friends for a while now, but life, like the wilderness, is full of uncertainty and complications, and in their desperate search for meaning together, they endure a number of trials, some small, some big, all of which bring them closer to one another, as well as to their future. But they’ve fallen in love during hard times. With the gang tipping dangerously close to a breaking point in a changing world, Arthur must make a difficult choice. Can he escape the past, as well as the outlaw life and start over, building a family of his own? With Mary Beth by his side, one thing is certain: redemption and second chances finally seem within his grasp.

***For the rest of this story, you can visit the masterpost or AO3, both linked in the replies to this post and also at my blog ^_^***

Chapter 23: Out on a Limb with Mary Beth

Back in their room at the saloon of St. Denis, Arthur and Mary Beth commenced undressing from the evening. It was a slow process, as neither of them was used to such elaborate sartorial affairs. Arthur was tense and very quiet as he took off his gloves, took off his tie at the dresser, untucked his shirt, and loosened his collar. Dutch had sequestered him toward the end of the party, while Mary Beth waited beside the champagne with Hosea and Bill. Hosea was subdued, scribbling something down in a leather notebook. Bill complained ceaselessly about the attitudes and accents of rich, French people, and in that time, something had happened to Arthur. When he came back, he was solemn and preoccupied, and he had barely spoken since—not to her, not to Hosea, not to anyone.

She was in her chemise now, and her powder blue bodice, with her hair down, sitting cross-legged on the bed, fussing with the rose gold bracelet around her wrist. The latch was delicate. She couldn’t get it with just one hand. At some point, Arthur leaned back against the dresser, hanging his head. He seemed like he might say something, but he didn’t.

Mary Beth watched him, real careful. She scootched up to the edge of the bed, letting her feet dangle off the mattress. She almost asked him what was wrong, but then she became discouraged. Normally, she would have, but now, she didn’t know how to navigate this part of him. She’d seen it before but never been this close. His stoicism was powerful. It wasn’t cold, but it was big. It could swallow the whole room. She sighed, looked back down at her wrist. She wasn’t gonna push him. She knew that it was Dutch making him so quiet, and she wasn’t gonna push him.

At some point, he straightened up off the dresser. He undid his cufflinks, one by one. With both gathered into his palm, he took a long look at them like they were poker chips and then set them on the dresser. They made little metallic clinks. She commenced focusing on her bracelet. She wondered why the hell anyone would make a piece of jewelry that was so impossible to get on and off. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to take it off, but in truth the metal was pricking at her skin and she did not much like metal pricking at her skin. Aside from her turquoise necklace—a hand-me-down from her mother—she didn’t really like jewelry all that much. Too much drama. Like this stupid little clasp on this stupid little bracelet. When she was almost ready to give up and just break the damn thing, Arthur approached her. Finally. He sat down next to her on the bed, and it sunk beneath his weight. Gently, he took her wrist into his hands, and he undid the little clasp of the bracelet for her. He piled the bracelet into his palm, looked at it for a moment, and then handed it back to her. He then picked up her hand, kissed her knuckles, and gave her back her hand. Then he sighed, folded his own hands together in his lap, and looked down at the floor.

She was very still. He was untucked beside her, all rumpled with no jacket, his pomade wearing off. He was just the old Arthur now—simple, undone, and hers. She was deeply touched by how he had unhooked the clasp to her bracelet, without even being asked. It was such a small but meaningful gesture. She tried to remind herself that Arthur was much better at communicating his feelings through his actions, not always words. She felt relief. She felt understood.

She waited. And after a little while, he finally spoke.

“You’re a storyteller, Mary Beth,” he said.

The sound of his voice surprised her. It seemed to come out of nowhere, and it was so deep, it could have vibrated the floor. “What?”

“I said, you’re a storyteller. A writer. You write stories.”

“Oh,” she said. “Pft. I mean, I try. What about it?”

“I wonder,” he said, looking up, wringing his hands now, “if you were writing this story, who would the villain be?”

“The villain?” she said.

"Is it Bronte?” said Arthur. “Leviticus Cornwall? Who?”

She thought on it. She was flattered but also somewhat confused. “I mean, I don’t know much about it, Arthur, besides what little you’ve told me.”

“You were there tonight,” he said. “You’ve seen enough.”

“I suppose.”

“Is it Dutch?”

“Dutch?”

“Is Dutch the villain, Mary Beth?” he said. Now he was looking at her. His blue eyes looked sad. He seemed desperate for something, anything of wisdom. “Because I gotta tell you. I’ve known the man for twenty-two years, and I still can barely make heads or tails of his motivations.”

“No one can,” she said. “It ain’t just you.”

“Just tell me,” he said, shaking his head. “Who’s the villain?”

She took a deep breath. She hadn’t thought about it like this, but now that she was, she could see with some modicum of clarity the thing that he was asking. “I don’t know, Arthur,” she said, “but if you want my honest, uneducated opinion, it seems to me that the villain in this story ain’t no who.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s not a person. It’s time, and it’s space.”

“Time and space?”

“Yeah,” she said. She looked down at the bracelet. Despite its annoying little clasp, it was still a pretty piece. “We’re running out of both, ever since Blackwater. It’s time and space that’s catching up to us. We got nowhere to run, and no time to do it.”

Arthur looked down at his hands. He closed his eyes.

“Arthur,” she said.

“Yes, Mary Beth,” he said.

“Can I just—I got a question.”

“Go on.”

“Why did we come here?”

Arthur looked at her. “To the party?”

“No,” she said. “To St. Denis.”

“We followed Bronte,” said Arthur.

“But why did we follow him here?”

“Because he took Jack.”

She shook her head. “No, he didn’t. The Braithwaites took Jack, and we got Jack back, and the Braithwaites—well, they been dealt with.”

Arthur clenched his fists, opened them up again. He had such enormous paws. “You’re right.”

“I’m just saying,” she said. “Bronte is just—he’s an illusion. A red herring. Dutch is blinded. We ought to leave, escape, while things is quiet, while we still can, but I ain’t sure escaping is his aim no more.”

“What else would he be aiming for?”

“Vengeance,” she said. “We been running from the Pinkertons for months. But the Pinkertons, that’s just Leviticus Cornwall, and Cornwall, that’s just civilization. It's laws. You asked me before at the party if Dutch was still sweet on me. I don’t know, Arthur, but I have spent a lot of time with him, listening to him read from the pages of that book by our friend Evelyn Miller. Men like Bronte and Cornwall—to Dutch, they represent the death of the frontier, of freedom and the whole big American way. The West. We is all trapped, Arthur, enslaved by law, the way he sees it. They’re reshaping the world, us in it, and Dutch don’t like it. I don’t know if this is about escaping, Arthur. I think it’s about revenge. Big, cosmic revenge.”

Arthur seemed to be thinking hard on this, something sharp coming up and catching him in the chest like a fishhook. He swallowed, looked away, squeezed his eyes shut. He hands were winding together anxiously now.

“Arthur,” she said. She began to wonder if she’d said too much, gone too far.

Then he spoke, but he would not look at her. “Who am I?” he said.

“What?”

“In the story,” he said. “Am I the hero? Or am I the fool.”

He was serious, defeated. Last time she’d seem him look like this, it was when he was talking about Eliza, up on their camping trip, somewhere in the grassy canyons of Ambarino. She shook her head. She put her hand on his back, like she always would have, even when they were just friends. “I don’t know that one, Arthur.”

“Why not?” he said.

“Because I'm in love with you,” she said. “That part of the story I can’t see. It’s too close.” She thought she might cry. She got closer to him, linked her arm in his. His arms were big and warm and full of welcome for her and her alone. She placed her head on his shoulder. “You’re my hero,” she said, shrugging against him. “If that means anything at all. I ain’t forgotten what happened up at O’Creagh’s Run. You saved my life, Arthur. You saved us both.” She had one hand on his chest, feeling his heart beat, his breathing. Time passed, and you could hear the ticking of the clock as it did. You could hear the people outside on the cobblestone streets, the clomping of the horses. You could hear the piano downstairs, somebody singing to the tune.

At some point, Arthur put his arm around her because of this. He kissed the top of her head, and held her like that, just for a minute to show her his gratitude. He didn’t have much to say. Not to that. What do you say to that? There was nothing. He turned toward her. He pushed all of the hair off her shoulders to see her skin and her millions of freckles. Her hair was all undone. It was all a mess, a rat’s nest, just how he liked it. He looked right down at her, full up even though he did not smile. He studied her, all the different parts of her face and how they fit together. “Thank you,” he said.

“It’s gonna be okay, Arthur,” she said, like she meant it. “We’re gonna figure it out.”

“I know,” he said. He was calm now. “I know.”

He kissed her then, finally, a long kiss. It started deep and then it became something else, though that was not necessarily what he had intended. They were both so tired, and the night had been forever, but soon their hands grew frantic, and then it was inevitable. He undid the laces of her chemise, and it slid off easy, but the bodice was new and too sturdy, and he lost his patience. He ripped it open like a shell. Like he was cracking her open. That was the sensation. Like she had many layers, and he was cracking them all wide open until he got to the soft parts, which he held and kissed in generous ways. He took her in the sheets like he was both thanking her and reminding her—sometimes smooth, sometimes gentle, sometimes hard enough that she became feral and needful as she held him close, said his name, vindicating his long held though latent belief that there was good somewhere, out there left in the world and that if he just held on long enough and did not let his grief and his anger consume him, some share of that good would come back around and become his.

He was lucky.

After, the room felt stifling hot. Arthur got up, threw the french doors open to let the air come sweeping in and cool their skin. He went downstairs and came back with a pitcher of water and a very fine bottle of Bordeaux, which the bartender gave to him for free as a thank you for his continued patronage. He and Mary Beth drank it out of the glass cups provided and drank the water right out of the pitcher, passing it back and forth until it was empty. The hour was either very late or very early. They could no longer tell the difference. At some point, Mary Beth remembered something important, and so she found her blue dress on the floor and reached into the pocket of the skirt, fishing around until Arthur asked her what the hell she was doing down there.

He was leaning against the headboard, naked, drinking his wine, waiting for her. She had thrown on the blue over shirt he’d been wearing the day before. She liked wearing his clothes. “What’s that?” he said.

Mary Beth climbed back up onto the bed and showed him—it was Angelo Bronte’s pocket watch. “I stole it back,” she said, handing it to him. “When you wasn’t looking.”

She didn’t meet his eyes at first, worried he’d disapprove. But when she finally did look at him, he was holding the watch. He set his cup down on the nightstand and looked resigned but also pensive. She was proud of what she’d done. She didn’t regret it. Still, he sighed. “You should not have, Mary Beth.”

“Ain’t no fence gonna bat an eye,” she said. Then she grabbed the watch to show him more closely. She clicked it open, showed him the face. “See these? These is diamonds, Arthur. This watch is platinum, with diamonds, and that’s a ruby there, and that there’s a trio of emeralds.”

“He’s gonna notice,” said Arthur.

“So? As to who took it, he ain't none the wiser, and you know he’s got ten more just like it. But for us, this watch could bring in a couple thousand dollars, Arthur. Easy.”

“And?”

“And we can put it toward our lily farm,” she said, giving it back to him, closing it inside his big palm. “In Wisconsin, whenever we get there. Or, maybe not a lily farm. Maybe a horse ranch, or general store. It don’t matter. We’ll put it toward something, something of our own. One rich asshole’s watch for a whole new life. Seems worth the risk, don’t you think?”

Arthur stared at the watch, and then he stared at her—always full of her surprises and many directions at once. He gave in. They were still outlaws, after all. He gave her back the pocket watch and sighed. He closed the watch inside of both her hands, and then he closed her hands inside of his. “Best we fence it at a distance,” he said, “in Emerald Station, just in case.”

She smiled big, like the sun.

They left St. Denis the next morning in the carriage with John and Charles. The weather had cooled off, and there were more clouds in the distance, creeping inward off the water, looking like more rain. John seemed full of tension and happy to be getting back. He and Abigail had made their decision, it seemed, and he had told Arthur about about during a quiet moment as they both sat up front in the carriage. Arthur smoked, hands on the reins as John said that they were with him, that they were ready when the time was right, that they could be ready tomorrow if that’s what Arthur wanted. To even his own surprise, Arthur had become the de facto patriarch of their arrangement. John deferred to him on every instance and gave him his word.

“We’re loyal to each other now,” he said. “I mean that, Arthur. Okay?”

John had an ironic sensibility, it was true, but he could be sentimental as all fuck when he was sincere about something, and Arthur believed him. Arthur nodded, seriously, then put his eyes back on the road. Truth be told, he was still uneasy from the night before and yet unwilling to speak on the matter and this put a strain on almost everything. He had not yet had the opportunity to decompress his feelings about Dutch beyond those moments with Mary Beth. He needed to speak with Hosea.

He flicked his cigarette as John took to wiping down the barrel of his shotgun. He then looked out past the edge of the horizon to the endless waves of the Lanahachee and where it dumped off into the wild sea and the green clouds that swirled above it. He turned around and glanced back to where Mary Beth was in conversation with Charles about the weather, and he smiled as he listened.

“I ain’t seen no tornado since I was a girl,” she said. “But they used to rip through Shawnee like no tomorrow.”

“Shawnee. That’s where you’re from?” said Charles.

“Yes, sir.”

“Did they hit the city?”

She shook her head. She was eating a plum. When she finished, she tossed the pit out the side of the carriage and wiped her hands off on her skirt. “They’d dance around the city like ballerinas. It was so strange.”

“I’ve never seen one,” said Charles, chewing on a piece of leather and whittling a little polar bear out of wood with a carving knife. “A tornado. It must be spectacular.”

“They sound like freight trains.”

“Yes, well. I can imagine they’d be pretty loud.”

When they approached the tree tunnel that would eventually take them off the main road and through an arboreal vortex to Shady Belle, a chilly wind came through with some rain on its edges. They all shivered. They then saw a strange sight grazing on the turnips growing wild by the edge of the trees, a great big draft horse, a mare, all alone, hanging out and saddled with no rider, looking like she had wandered in out of nowhere. As they got closer, Arthur straightened up. He pulled back on the reins to put the carriage at a full stop. He tossed his cigarette and studied the horse, which he dearly recognized.

“What’s going on?” said Mary Beth. She stood up and put her hands on his shoulders, leaning forward to see what he was seeing. “Is that Diana?”

“It sure is,” said Arthur.

“What’s she doing out here?” said John.

“I got no idea,” said Arthur.

He hopped off the carriage then, and he began to approach Diana, his old Ardennes who had retired a month back. He was careful, just in case she'd been spooked. He held out his hands and spoke to the horse in a calming fashion, but she recognized him immediately. She did not start or stir. She licked his hand as he got closer. He patted her behind the ears and smiled at her softly. “Hey, girl,” he said. “What are you doing out here?”

Mary Beth climbed off the carriage. She was coming toward Arthur cautiously.

“That’s weird,” said Arthur. “It ain’t like Diana to wander.”

“Strange,” said Mary Beth, looking around.

“Didn’t you mention that Kieran was taking her out, a few days back?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Before the storm hit. He hadn’t returned by the time we left for St. Denis.”

“Kieran wouldn’t have let her wander out the camp like this.”

“I know,” said Mary Beth. She bit off a hangnail, looked around again, a little frantic this time.

Arthur watched her fretting. “You worried?”

John and Charles were getting antsy now back at the carriage. “What’s going on?” said John.

Arthur dusted his hands together. “Did either of you see the O’Driscoll boy before we headed off for St. Denis?”

“No,” said John.

“I don’t think so,” said Charles. “Why?”

Arthur turned back to Mary Beth. “Do you know where he was headed?”

“Rhodes,” said Mary Beth. “Oh gosh, Arthur. Do you think something bad happened?”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” he said. “We’ll head into camp. He might be there.”

“And if he ain’t?”

Arthur took a deep breath, placed his hands on his hips. “If ain’t, then we’ll deal with that then.”

Arthur gestured for John to take over the reins on the carriage after that. Then he mounted Diana and rode at a trot alongside them the whole way back to camp. When they got there, he hitched her up at the horse station and fed her an apple, and then he, Mary Beth, John, and Charles commenced their way up through the yard and back to the house. It was business as usual, with Pearson preparing the stew for the evening and carving a deer hung up by its haunches. Abigail ceased her knitting by the dried up old fountain and greeted John in a bashful manner that suggested she was happy to see him but was unwilling to openly express herself. Jack and Cain came running around front. Sadie was feeding the chickens and Javier was chopping firewood. The Reverend was passed out on the grass by the gazebo while Tilly tried to nudge him awake, concerned for his health. Karen and Lenny had been on perimeter duty, with their shotguns resting on their shoulders, drinking whiskey out of tin cups and discussing the foreboding weather, while Mrs. Grimshaw was scrubbing the floors inside the house. Uncle was passed out against one of the covered wagons, and Micah nursed a hangover by the fire, drinking his hair of the dog. Dutch, Hosea, and Bill had not yet returned from St. Denis.

Mary Beth, Arthur, and Charles went around, asking if anyone had seen Kieran. Had anyone seen the O’Driscoll boy, they asked. Was he somewhere in Shady Belle, hanging out where they could not see? Did he ever find his way back after the storm. They asked everybody, one by one, and the universal answer they received was no. Nobody had seen or heard from Kieran in three days. He was missing.

Mary Beth became sick with worry after that. They stood at the scout fire as the wind picked up in the swamps all around.

”Arthur, we gotta find him,” she said. "This ain't good."

Arthur looked at her, and then he looked at Charles.

Charles nodded. “I’ll ride with you,” he said. “We can do our best to track him. But the rain ain’t gonna make it easy.”

Arthur nodded. “We should wait it out,” he said. "Hope the rain don't do too much damage. No use getting caught in a storm.”

”I agree,” said Charles.

But Mary Beth was hurried. “I wanna come with,” she said. "To find him. When you go."

Arthur have her a look. “No.”

”Why not?”

”Because,” he said. “We don’t even know what we’re looking for, Mary Beth.”

“Then there ain’t no set reason I can’t,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.

Somewhere over the water, thunder cracked. Arthur glanced, and then he sighed, sounding torn. “It might not be safe, Mary Beth,” he said. “I won’t put you in danger.”  

“He’s my friend,” she said, sensing his ambivalence, softening. She uncrossed her arms. “I been out robbing with you before, and you just took me on a ten-day hunting trip up into the Roanoke Valley. I can do it."

"Mary Beth."

"Don’t make this something it ain’t," she said. She was reading his mind. "Arthur. Please.”

He felt a cold pain in his chest, a tug. He sighed. He could no longer tell. How dangerous was it? What were they even hunting anymore? Up at O'Creagh's Run they'd been hunting moose, and they got hunted instead. By psychopaths. Everything had become so unpredictable. Everything was wooly. It felt like he was dreaming again. He looked at Charles, who shrugged. “It could be nothing, man,” he said.

Arthur closed his eyes. He placed his hands on his hips, hung his head so that his chin nearly touched his chest. He had a bad feeling, but he relented. “Fine," he said. "We leave as soon as the storm passes.”

“Sounds good,” said Charles.

“Thank you,” said Mary Beth.

He gave her a long, worried look, tried to smile. Little raindrops started falling from the sky. “We best get inside,” he said.

Mary Beth watched him go on to the house. She said she'd be right there. Then she sort of waited back, and Tilly came along and wanted to hear from her all about the party. Mary Beth was eager to talk to Tilly, but Tilly was a bit of a gossip. She wanted to know all about her and Arthur, even more so than Abigail, but Mary Beth felt private about her and Arthur. She wasn't ready yet to tell anyone about her and Arthur getting married. It still felt like something secret, something new to nourish, an intimate truth between them, and she felt like if they let it go too soon, it would slip away. So much of their lives they had to share, and that can make things feel diluted, less real. She wanted every moment she spent with him to be as real as possible. So she hung out with Tilly in the gazebo for a little while, protected from the weather and talking only about the glittering fools of St. Denis. She smiled demurely all the time and thought about Arthur. She knew he was protective of her safety. It was another part of him that she appreciated, like his stoicism, but that she was not always so sure on how to navigate. Sometimes it was good, sometimes it was bad. From the gazebo, she saw Charles prepping the horses for the coming rain. She saw the rest of the camp begin its lazy migration to the indoors. Tilly was so eager. She wanted to see Mary Beth's dress from the party. Mary Beth blushed. It was all in a pile in a canvas sack, getting soaked in the back of the carriage, by the storm.

Meanwhile, Arthur felt pressure on all sides. He was thinking about O'Creagh's Run, all those things he got from talking to the veteran Hamish Sinclair, the subtext about starting the rest of his life as soon as possible. He felt sucked back in now. The distance provided to him by their time up in the Roanoke Valley and nights talking with the Wintersons in Emerald Station was feeling more and more like an illusion. He didn't want to lose it, wanted to get back there but the more he reached the more it all seemed to fade out of reality and into the scenery of dreams. They were out on a limb. There was no rest here. It was a constant balancing act and all he wanted to do was rest.

When he got back to his quarters, Arthur sat by the window and listened to the advancing rain in solitude. He heard a bit of scrambling outside as Mrs. Grimshaw and Mr. Pearson got into some sort of argument over the stew. He smoked and opened his journal for the first time since they returned from their hunting trip.

The O'Driscoll boy has disappeared, he wrote. He ashed his cigarette directly into a tin can as the rain got steadier and the thunder rolled. His pencil was dull. He sharpened it with the tip of his knife and then he continued. I will admit that I don't feel good about that. Charles said it could be nothing.

But it could be something.

He thought he heard someone coming up the stairs but it could have just been another illusion. He smoked.

[hnrywinchester]

Fare Thee Well - - 18

Summary: She hasn’t seen Gabriel since he died nine years ago, then a phone call changes everything.

Pairing: Gabriel x OFC

Series Warnings: ANGST, smut, swearing, PTSD Gabriel, character deaths, canon compliant

Beta’d by: @aquietuniverse

Words: 6k

Here’s the Ao3 link because I don’t know what tumblr is doing with formatting now... it looks fine when I’m editing and all my page breaks are gone after. 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/16429499/chapters/38468501

When Gabriel and Liv reached the camp, Jack was still nowhere to be found. Neither was Lucifer. Gabriel’s jaw tightened as he scanned the area for them, his annoyance at Liv’s urging to the young, very impressionable Nephilim resurfacing. How could she have been so stupid? Did she not understand the implications of those two teaming up? He wanted to walk off and say not his circus, not his monkeys, but maybe this was somewhat his issue. She’d made it his issue. “Hey, did you find him?” Sam asked, Dean and Mary following close behind. “Uh, yeah,” Gabriel admitted, his face falling, “then we lost him again.” “Shocker…” Dean grumbled, rolling his eyes. The annoyance now was only growing at Dean’s reaction. He’d always treated Gabriel like a burden, a fuck up, like everything he did was wrong. He wanted to go home, to get away from his family, the Winchesters, this miserable, dying universe. It was wearing on him, every nerve fraying with each passing second. “So, new plan,” Dean barked, causing Gabriel’s nostrils to flare, “We have a few more people we’re bringing across. We’re gonna go get ‘em a little ways down the road at the main camp and then caravan back to the rift somehow.” “How many?” Liv chimed in. “We got about twenty five more.” “Wait.. what?” Gabriel snapped, pulling himself completely from Liv’s grasp, “Oh no. I didn’t sign up for this. It was get mom, get the kid, go home. That was it. Done deal.” “Mom won’t come without everyone else,” Sam confessed, his face falling. “Well that’s her issue then. We offered.” “We aren’t leaving without her,” Dean growled, his face hardening as he looked at the archangel. “I am. Bye.” “Gabe, wait,” Liv sounded, grabbing his bicep before he could take a step. “No! I’m going home. We are going home.” “I’m gonna help.” Always the martyr. Why was she always so incapable of leaving those three idiots to sweep up their own messes was beyond him. Didn’t she want to go home? They’d literally just spent the twenty minute walk back to the group fantasizing about what was to come in just a few short hours, now here she was offering up both of their lives, again. This shouldn’t matter to her, it never should have. “Liv, this isn’t our mess,” he pleaded, pulling gently on her grip, his voice filled with desperation. “We came here to help, and I’m seeing it through,” she committed, heavy with guilt. “You aren’t even supposed to be here.” “Well, I am now. And I’m staying ‘til it’s done. Are you staying with me?” Gabriel pursed his lips as he averted his gaze. She knew exactly how to play her chips, of course he wasn’t going to leave without her and she knew it. Was everything they’d been planning just a ruse? At this point, he wasn’t really sure they’d ever leave this life of hers, no matter how many times she said she wanted to. “Yeah,” he sighed, “don’t have a choice, now do I?” Rougher than he intended, he ripped his arm free of her grip and stalked off. There was another mess of hers needing his attention. Liv watched him as he left, his posture stiff, and she knew he was angry. Rightfully so, she knew she’d forced his hand, but the thought of leaving Castiel and the Winchesters in their hour of need again just wasn’t going to weigh on her conscience well. Neither was Gabriel being upset with her. This was an impossible situation —one she wasn’t going to win. “Cas, hey. Any update on Jack?” Sam asked, Liv’s heart jumping at the sight of her friend. “He’s back, “ Castiel replied, his voice less than thrilled. “Great. Where is he?” “He’s with Lucifer.” Castiel’s face turned desperate while Liv tried to mask the blame threatening to bloom across her features. “Gabriel is… keeping an eye,” Castiel continued, “Liv can I… can I talk to you?” “Sure, Cas,” she replied, nervous. Did he know? Did Gabriel tell him this was all her doing? That she’d encouraged Jack to talk to his father? She couldn’t bear the thought of Castiel being upset with her, especially not with Gabriel already less than thrilled. “I need your help,” he pressed, pulling her away from the group lightly by her arm, “Heaven is dying.” “And what exactly does that have to do with me?” she inquired, face twisting in confusion. “We need Gabriel.” Her heart fell into her stomach. This explained everything. He had to leave again. Just another disaster pulling them apart. “What do you mean you need Gabriel?” she snapped, harsher than she intended. “He’s the only one who can save it. We need an archangel,” Castiel divulged, “We need him to make more angels. There aren’t enough of us to keep heaven powered. Soon it will shut down, and all of its souls will be forced to Earth. Billions of them.” There was no argument outside of her own selfish desires that she could think of. Her gaze fell away from the trench-coated angel, dejected, tears brimming over. This explained everything. Why he was in such a rush to get home, to get time. He had none. Once they returned, it was back to separation and pain. Again, her naivety had won out, thinking they could have the life they so desperately wanted. Neither one of them would ever be free of what they truly were. Soldiers, pawns, pieces of a puzzle much larger than the both of them. “He won’t go,” Castiel blurted out, Liv’s heart skipping a beat as her eyes snapped back to him, “He won’t leave you.” The revelation caused her mouth to hang agape. The world was potentially in the balance, and he’d chosen her. Cas needed her to convince him to go, but what if she didn’t want him to? At what point did she say, fuck the world, I’m done? How much more could the universe possibly take from her? Just when she thought she’d given everything, it came knocking for something else. How were some given the world and others expected to sacrifice every glimmer of hope they’d ever been taunted with? “I won’t do it,” she fumed, not even needing Castiel to make his request, “I won’t convince him. We’ve given enough.” “I know you have,” he sympathized, “I wouldn’t ask, if there were any other way.” “I can’t, Cas. You understand, right? I can’t watch him walk away again. I can’t, I’m sorry.” “Liv… please. It wouldn’t be forever. He’s safe in heaven-“ “I said no.” The pair stood in awkward silence. Castiel knew he’d met another dead end, she wouldn’t budge. Neither would Gabriel. Liv needed to see him. She didn’t care that he was angry with her, even in his irritation he’d settle the war between what was right and wrong raging on in her head. She knew that he was needed, sending him would be what was right, but she needed him just as much. Her self-interest was wrong, but clearly he wanted this as much as she did. He didn’t want to leave, he didn’t want the responsibility. He wanted peace. Without another word, she walked off, hoping she was heading in the right direction. She had not a clue where Gabriel was spying on his brother and nephew, but she’d find him. Being alone with her thoughts was dangerous; things tended to skew and over-exaggerate when her emotions were so unchecked. Gabriel was angry with her, Castiel now too, Sam and Dean had thrown triple the amount of weight on everyone’s shoulders and now the guilt of keeping Gabriel both here in Apocaland and away from a dire task all swirled in her brain, and the basin was overflowing. She’d wandered off without even noticing where she was heading, but a familiar mess of dark blonde hair caught her eye, Gabriel. He didn’t notice her, his attention still focused on the two people twenty feet away, sitting shoulder to shoulder as they chatted. “What’re you doing?” Liv asked despite already knowing the answer, approaching him slowly. “Watching Jack,” he responded flatly, not even turning his attention to her. “Why?” “Making sure Lucifer doesn’t win him over.” “Seriously?” “That is a duo we do not want even considering pairing up. Obviously you don’t understand the severity of the situation.” “Are you still mad about that?” Why she was pressing each of his buttons, she wasn’t sure. It was almost as if she wanted him angry with her, that somehow coping with these added burdens was easier if he wanted nothing to do with her. Which of course was the opposite of the truth and what she wanted. “You have no idea what you could have potentially put into motion,” he scolded, his soft tone poking at the anxiety-induced bear waking in her head. “Well it was true,” she spat, one half of her head chastising the other for allowing the words to come out in that tone. “Not really!” “Yes really! You were the trickster, half the hunters on the damn globe were looking for you. And I was fucking you!” “That’s different.” “How so?” “Because one, I’m not really the trickster. Two, the trickster and Satan, not even on the same level. And three, you’re a human. We can’t team up and level the world with a mere thought.” “We could make a Nephilim who could though.” “Irrelevant. I would never let that happen. My swimmers are locked deep, deep down never to see the light of day. Shooting blanks for eons over here, thank you very much.” She was losing this argument and she knew it. A normal person would have given in, apologized and went on with their day, but not her. She considered for a moment if he’d been anticipating this, it wasn’t his first rodeo with her and her skewed mindset, but he was also in his own mental turmoil. This was just a catalyst waiting to go off. “I believe in him,” Liv assured, crossing her arms over her chest. “Jack? Or Lucifer? It’s hard to tell at this point,” he criticized, finally turning his head to look at her. “Don’t be stupid.” “No. You don’t believe in him. You believe in the Winchester’s and Castiel’s influence on him. You think since they ‘raised’ him for a few months he’s gonna be some goody-two-shoes who does no wrong.” “Maybe so. Doesn’t change anything. I’d still tell him the same thing. “Yeah, well you better be right.” “What’s your problem?” “My problem?” His problem was being here. Her making him stay, forcing him by using her own safety and wellbeing as ransom. This place gave him the creeps, it wasn’t right. The sinking feeling in his chest grew deeper by the hour. Every minute left in this wasteland was one minute closer to a disaster he couldn’t foresee, but he knew was coming. “I don’t want to be here, Liv!” he fumed, “I want to go home. I’m so <i>over</i> putting my ass on the line for things that have little to no effect on me. We could walk back to that rift right now and go home. But no, you call the shots.” “You’re free to go,” she seethed. “Don’t. Don’t play these games with me right now. And stop acting like you want me to leave, or I will.” Her tongue caught in her mouth as tears fought to push through. Her eyes finally fell, it was time to accept defeat. “You’re the one who said you wanted out, but here you are dragging yourself, and me, back into every possible shitshow that offers itself up,” he continued, “You don’t wanna stop? Fine! I’ll drive around the country with you hunting every vampire and ghoul we can find ‘til you’re seventy! I don’t care. I just want to do it in our world.” “I do want out,” she maintained, voice meek and wary. “Then what’s the hold up?” “They’re my friends.” “Oh... sweetheart. They really aren’t. I’ll give you Cas, but Sam and Dean? No. They don’t give a shit about you or me.” “Cas told me about heaven.” “Did he now.” “Why won’t you go?” “Because you are my priority! You are! Not heaven, not the Winchesters, not even myself for fucks sake! Clearly, that’s a one way road though. Because here we are.” That did her in. Her bottom lip began to quiver as his words and gaze threw his unspoken blame at her. She felt small and insignificant under his scrutiny, but her decision remained the same. “I gave them my word,” she muttered, keeping her eyes on him although every instinct was screaming to look away. “So what?!” he yelled, “This isn’t about chivalry and bullshit egos! People are dying, Liv!” His raspy scream startled her. It was desperate and impatient, it was the sound of a man running out of options. He turned his back to her again, biting at his bottom lip to hold back his tongue. He wanted to scream again, try and scare some sense into her, but he knew it was useless. This was dangerous. They could die, or get stuck here. Lucifer’s word wasn’t worth a damn, he didn’t care if his brother had claimed the door would stay open for however many hours, he wasn’t buying it. “I’m sorry,” she lamented from behind him, and he could hear the difficulty of her decision in her voice, “I’m not… I’m not choosing them over you, over us. If that’s what you think…” “That’s what it feels like,” he admitted, dejected and broken. Unable to be in this conversation with a level head, Gabriel walked off. He could hear her sigh in frustration, well aware of the strain he was putting on her, but at the moment unable to fight past his own betrayed feelings to care. Expecting her to call out to him, her silence only stoked the fire. So she was just going to let him leave. Good to know. Between defending his brother, choosing to stay in this hellhole instead of going to start their lives together and now, getting nothing but a groan of irritation as he left, Gabriel was furious. He walked until silence overcame him, alone with his thoughts and anger, which was battle in and of itself. Liv dragged herself slowly back to the camp. There was no winning in this impossible situation. One way or the other, someone was going to end up angry with her. If she left, the Winchesters and Cas would be on the receiving end of her abandonment once again. If she stayed, Gabriel was going to be upset for being forced to stay with her. She understood his reasoning, but it didn’t change the fact that she had a responsibility to be here and help. “It’s time to go, where’s Gabe?” Dean barked as soon as she was within earshot. “I don’t know,” she mumbled, shaking her head. “What do you mean you don’t know? Aren’t you two attached at the hip? Literally…” “He walked off.” “Well get his ass back here.” Now she was regretting this decision. Home sounded like a substantially better option than being ordered around by Dean fucking Winchester. She trudged off to the opposite side of the decaying building she’d walked through with Lucifer only hours before, hoping that Gabriel would listen so they could get this over with. “Gabe, it’s time to go,” she sighed, not ready to face him, but he never came, “Gabriel?” “What’re you doing over here by yourself?” his voice rang out from behind her as he rounded the corner. “Calling for you.” “Oh… uh, angel radio is a little wonky. I can’t hear you. I found the group, Dean said it’s time to go.” Yeah, she was aware. He kept his distance, his hands in his pockets with his lips tucked up into each other. He looked better, normal, not so furious. She kept her eyes on him until his lifted to lock with hers, her gaze quickly averting in a poor attempt to prevent him from seeing her staring at him. “I love you, you know,” he called out, smirking, “even if you are a stubborn pain in the ass.” That wasn’t what she was expecting. Her heart jumped into her throat at his words, but she kept her eyes on the ground. “I realized that… I’m getting mad at the things I love about you,” he continued, chuckling lightly, “You’re hard headed. You keep your promises. You don’t give up on people, even when they deserve it. You’re everything I’m not. I’m with you, sweetheart, even though I don’t agree with it. I’m gonna fight your fight. But you gotta tell me why. Why does this matter so much?” “I have a lot of guilt, Gabe,” she confessed, and he nodded, he knew the feeling, “I left them, after you disappeared. I can’t do it again. Not now.”

“Okay.”

With her eyes locked on the ground, she didn’t see him approach, but when his arms slid around her waist she sighed in relief. She wrapped her arms around his, hugging him as she pressed her head into his shoulder. Resting his chin on the top of her head, he held her in a silent embrace. “Thank you,” she murmured against him, breathing deeply as a little relief washed over her. “Mhmm,” he hummed, and she knew he was still very apprehensive about the entire arrangement, “don’t make me regret it.” “Once we’re home, I’m all yours. Promise.” “I’ll hold you to that.” Shifting her head slightly, she leaned up to press a kiss to his throat. If she was committing herself to anyone for the rest of her life, she was thankful it was him. He tried. He always had. He took all of her blows with finesse and a patience she was almost certain was beyond a human’s capabilities. He didn’t move, waiting for her to pull away first was always how it worked, especially when she was upset. His stubble pressed into her forehead as she stayed nuzzled into his neck, for a moment they weren’t in an alternate universe with yet another insurmountable obstacle before them, they were just together. Knowing he was on her side made the mountain just a little less steep, but the she knew the hardest parts were still yet to come. “Come on, hop on,” he urged as she began to pull away, turning his back, “I like you all pressed up against me. Keeps me in the perfect state of hot and bothered.” “I think you’re supposed to be focusing,” she chided with a smirk, running her hands up his back and around the tops of his shoulders, “not getting hot and bothered” “I’m an exceptional multitasker.” Laughing, she jumped up onto his back, his arms linking under her knees as hers wrapped around his neck. She couldn’t deny she was happy to be hitching a ride for a little while, her trek through the forests with Lucifer had left her weary, and being curled up around him kept the bite of the cold at bay. Plus, the gentle brush of his hair against her cheek and sway of his bow legged walk calmed the storm raging in her mind. He was effortless, he was easy, and he reminded her that life wasn’t always a battle, sometimes it was okay to roll with the punches. As the group traveled down the paths leading to the base camp, Liv felt herself dozing off, her head lolling down onto Gabriel’s. Every time she did, she felt his grip against her thighs tighten, readying himself to support her should she fall limp and asleep. “You can sleep if you want,” he whispered, turning his cheek into her nose, “I got ya.” “Hmmm,” she whined against him, pecking her lips lightly to his cheekbone, “tempting.” “Someone needs to go ahead and scout!” Dean called from the front of the caravan, “Gabe? Cas?” “Or not,” Gabriel groaned, rolling his eyes. Gently, he placed her back on her feet, keeping a hand on her waist until she was steady. His eyes were intent on her, eyebrows furrowed in concern as she shook the half-asleep haze from her head. She linked her fingers with his against her hip, taking a deep breath in as she nodded, the cloud slowly dissipating. “I’ll be right back,” he bade, kissing her temple, “stay with… Sam and Dean, I guess.” The disdain in his voice made her laugh, his pursed lips and skeptical eyes only adding to the effect. He kissed her quickly, tapping her bottom once before walking off, a goodbye wasn’t necessary. He’d be right back. She watched him walk away, shoulder to shoulder with Cas, his blade at the ready. Her attention then turned to Jack and Lucifer as the group began following the angels down the path. Jack was still intently listening, and she could see the Winchesters growing more and more paranoid as the boy bonded with his father. As Gabriel and Cas walked on, he could feel the awkward silence that had settled between them. Castiel was no doubt still upset that Gabriel was refusing to help with heaven’s impotence, and Gabriel was a little peeved that he’d thought to get Liv involved. “Why’d you tell her?” Gabriel asked, keeping his tone level. “I was hoping she would talk some sense into you,” Castiel snapped back, side-eyeing his brother. “Leave her out of it.” “It’s her world that’s being threatened to go up in flames. A world she’s spent years trying to protect.” “Consider us retired.” “Is that you speaking, or her?” Gabriel swung around, pointing the tip of his blade into Castiel’s chest to stop him in his tracks, “Don’t you dare for one second think I force her into anything. Ever.” Castiel’s eyes softened, he knew that Gabriel had never been coercive towards her, if anything it was the other way around. He nodded, Gabriel pulling his blade away from him as he did. “You head back, I’m just gonna check around this corner,” Gabriel instructed, nodding his head to the heavily thicketed clearing to the left. Expecting to find nothing, Gabriel turned and wandered off around the corner. As he walked, he fantasized about what life would be in less than a day. Sunsets, margaritas and lazy mornings for the rest of their lives. He could practically smell the ocean breeze and see her perfect thighs peaking out from some skimpy summer dress he’d pick out and pray to his father she’d wear. She would, she wouldn’t admit it, but she liked them. A twig snapping turned his attention to the right, blade squaring up as he readied to fight, but the sight instead caused him to wrinkle his face in confusion. Six crows sat pecking at the ground, which was bizarre because he had yet to see one living creature besides the few surviving humans since he’d arrived. He sat and watched in awed reverence as they remained seemingly unaware of his presence only a few feet away, clearly very desensitized, as most were in this wasteland. He ignored the dread pouring into his thoughts, brushing it off as the effect of this world. When a louder snap echoed through the clearing, he didn’t even wait to see what it was. He could sense it. Them. “Shit!” he hissed under his breath, taking off in a run back to the unsuspecting group walking down the middle of the road. His legs couldn’t carry him fast enough, his chest aching as the cold air filled his lungs, branches whipping him as he scrambled through the bushes and brush. He had to beat them there, if he didn’t the entire group would surely be turned to dust, literally. “Angels!” Gabriel screamed as he turned the bend back onto the main pass, his eyes falling to the unscathed group as he went. Liv’s eyes jumped up, seeing Gabriel frantically running towards her, her heart beginning to pound as the group began to panic. She raised the gun she was holding onto her shoulder, aiming at the open space before them. When Gabriel reached the group, he immediately placed himself in front of her, holding one arm out to keep him behind her as his other raised his blade in front of him. “You know I can’t shoot with you in front of me,” she chided, scooting to the side to give herself a clear shot. He glared at her from over his shoulder before both of their attentions turned to the small unit of men dressed in tactical gear advancing. When their eyes fell to Liv, Gabriel swore their faces ticked in confusion. “Hey! Right there!” the leader called out, the two groups pausing for a stare down, “Kill them, on my command.” Gabriel’s heart dropped, as he planned to grab Liv and fly them off before any harm could come to her, the entire group of their enemies disintegrated to dust. Gabriel and Liv shared a confused glance, she looked to him as if he had done it, and he responded with a short shake of his head and a shrug. Their eyes then traveled to Lucifer, who stood smiling smugly, his hand still raised in a snap position. Gabriel’s eyes rolled as Liv groaned, lowering her gun back down to her hip. “Oh yeah, about the cuffs,” Lucifer drawled, “I knew they wouldn’t hold me in this world. Long story short, I didn’t want your impotence to get awkward, so I just went along. You’re welcome. Welcome. Right? Don’t… thank me at once. See. Team player.” As Lucifer nudged Jack with his elbow, Liv’s head fell to Gabriel’s shoulder as she groaned in annoyance. His arm slung over her shoulder as he pulled her away, not wanting to get into it with his brother. Of course he was playing along with games just to reduce Gabriel farther than he already was. Liv could sense his change in demeanor, she saw his shoulders slump forward and his head turn away ashamed. She hated that having his family around brought out these feelings in him, feelings of worthlessness and weakness. He was neither of those things. He’d been the one strong enough to rebel, to love his father’s creation, to fight for them. To die for them. “I love you,” she whispered into his ear, pulling his head down gently to press a kiss to his cheek. Of course she did. She was the lover of broken things. When she touched him, it was akin to when she ran her fingers over the cracked glass of a photo frame, jagged, and one wrong twitch away from scarring. Her fingers moved to the curls behind his ears, mindlessly weaving them between her fingers like the petals of a strewn rose. The haven of the forgotten. He’d never been worth a damn to anyone else until her. He’d give his life to repay that debt. “I don’t know why,” he croaked, her face falling from his response. Before she could find a moment to pull him aside, they were back on their way to main base. They moved in silence, Liv not wanting to have any form of heartfelt conversation with Lucifer within earshot, knowing it would be nothing but cannon fodder at some point. She felt blame, he wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for her, feeling this pain, reliving his traumatic family years. The longer they stayed, the more she regretted ever making this choice; for someone who was supposed to protect him she’d done a shitty job of it… their entire relationship. The Singer Salvage sign came into view, welcoming them to another safe zone. Gabriel immediately tore off to the side, heading towards a graveyard of abandoned vehicles, and Liv followed, despite wondering if Singer Salvage belonged to… Bobby Singer. It had to. She found Gabriel tossing stones against the rusted, metal, each ping a little harder than the last. “Gabe? Hey,” she soothed, taking a seat in the back of an old van beside him, “will you talk to me?” “About?” he grunted, keeping his focus on his mind numbing task. “Anything. I just want to hear you talk.” “What happened, Liv? How did you get here?” “Turns out, Lucifer gets a little juice from being angry. Broke the bonds, attacked Rowena. She got him off of her, but kinda caught me in the crosswinds and I shot over with him. He kept me around for leverage if Jack was being held somewhere, me for him. With you.” “Smart play.” All along, she’d known that he would have taken that deal, but hearing him admit it out loud was different. She’d have taken any deal to save him, too; she’d have sold her soul to get him out of hell had she known he was there. “Can we go back to that cabana? In Belize?” she inquired, lightening her tone. “Sure. If that’s where you wanna go,” he answered, voice still flat and emotionless. “How can I help, baby?” Finally, he turned to look at her and he could tell his suffering was waning on her. He could hear Lucifer jabbering on behind them, Jack still in tow, leaving him no opportunity to ease her mind. None of this was her fault, not really, and he wanted to relieve the guilt that he knew she was feeling. “So… thing about Gabe- class clown,” Lucifer introduced, causing Gabriel to clench his jaw as he turned to face them. “And you’re an ass clown,” he fumed, Liv’s gaze hard on the setting as it unfolded. “Ha! You hear that? He’s such a cut-up. I mean, I cant… Yeah, uh, I guess your time with Asmodeus didn’t do you any favors, did it, bud?” It took all of her self control not to lunge at that snarky asshole. Her anger was boiling her blood, this was the last thing Gabriel needed to be reminded of, and here he was jesting about it like it was all a joke. “Yeah, well my time with you was worse. You recall-“ Gabriel continued on, hoping to show Jack the true nature of his father. “I recall, uh, nothing. I don’t recall anything at all. Happy endings. All good, happy endings. Uh, meet Gabriel, your uncle. And that over there, that’s Liv. She’s uh… what exactly are you two? Is she...Auntie Liv? Is that what we’re goin’ with?” Gabriel shot his brother a warning glare before turning away. There was only so much he could take. He began to walk off, needing a second to clear his head yet again and when he heard footsteps behind him he was furious to find they didn’t belong to Liv.

She watched as Gabriel stalked off, Jack and Lucifer in tow, and she debated following behind or catching up with him once his brother had slunk off to his next ruse. When Gabriel’s voice began to raise she shot to her feet, ready to run to him, but waiting for the right moment. She wanted him to say his piece, to get the words out she knew he needed to say, or scream. Lucifer deserved the rage and Gabriel deserved his freedom. Her breaking point was met when Gabriel began to walk away again, his head shaking. “Leave him alone,” she spat as she passed, walking briskly to try and catch up with Gabriel a good few feet in front of her. “Aw Gabe, that’s cute! Need your girlfriend to fight your battles for you? See, not much has changed,” Lucifer jeered, causing her to stop dead in her tracks. Maybe her brain wasn’t working right, maybe it was the exhaustion or the hunger, but something in her made her turn back around, approach the devil, and punch him square in the jaw. Jack looked on, shocked, and Liv kept her gaze hard and unwavering as Lucifer recovered from her unexpected aggression. “Fuck you,” she hissed, her teeth clenched, fist ready to throw another one right into his nose. “Ah, no thanks. I’m not a fan of sloppy seconds,” Lucifer taunted, wrinkling his nose in disgust. She laughed through her nose, nodding as she tried to suppress the ire bubbling in her chest. Gabriel watched on from a distance, a sense of pride ticking his mouth into a smile as he watched her fist colliding with his brother’s face. He wasn’t overly concerned, at least for the moment, with Jack around he wouldn’t do anything detrimental. He was trying to be the goody-two-shoes he’s never been. Thankfully, he seemed to be failing. Jack’s face was skeptical as he listened to his father. Maybe Liv was right, there was a reason to have faith in this kid. “He’s not worth it!” Gabriel called, hoping to reel her back in and over to him; he wanted to kiss her. Of course he was worth it. Okay, maybe he wasn’t worth it, but punching him in the face was worth it. Stabbing him with the angel blade she wished she had would have been worth it. The look on Jack’s face was worth it as he saw through his father’s bullshit act. The thought of him snapping her out of existence didn’t even cross her mind as she stood in front of him. He was the devil, the biggest baddie there was, and she stood before him without fear. It took a lot of willpower to turn away and meet Gabriel down the path, but she did, her concern for him outweighing her own selfish wants to pummel Lucifer’s face into the ground. As soon as she was within arm’s reach, Gabriel looped his arm around her waist and pulled her into him, kissing her hard, free hand winding into her hair as he kissed his praises. Her muffled cry of surprise was music to his ears as her arms lazily wrapped around his neck. She melted into him, surrendering her anger for pure adoration for the man in her arms. “I didn’t think I could love you anymore, honestly,” he panted, “but watching you punch that arrogant S.O.B right in his jaw, dad as my witness, I’d write a hymn commemorating your triumphs.” “You’re an idiot” she jested, ruffling the hair on his head, happy to see him in higher spirits, even if it was only for a moment, “Come on, let’s find everyone else. Get the plan, go home, right?” “Yeah.” Slinging his arm around her shoulders, they walked into the main center of the large encampment, their hearts sinking as they took in the living arrangements of these poor people. Gabriel no longer felt angry being here to help them, they clearly needed it. If it took a few hours out of their lives to get these people somewhere safe, maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. They spotted the Winchester clan a few yards away, and the person with them caused Liv to tilt her head in confusion. There was no way… “Liv?” the gruff, old man called out as they locked eyes, his eyes widening as if he’d seen a ghost, “I can’t…” “Bobby?” she whispered, loud enough for only Gabriel to hear, the angel passing a confused look between the two. Bobby immediately ran from his spot, pulling her into a massive bear hug, her shock pulling a gasp from her lips. Gabriel debated his next move, should he wrestle her free? Let this play out? She didn’t seem in distress… “And you, too,” Bobby turned and cried, pulling the angel into his arms. “Uh… what?” Gabriel asked, holding his arms awkwardly to his sides. Clearly, they were all missing something.

TAGS: @idabbleincrazy @analisespn @nodistressdamsel @morganas-pendragons

[sasha-whos-askin-racket]

BTHB - Arm In A Sling

Bad Thing Happen Bingo - Square 10 Square - Arm In A Sling Fandom - Ritchieverse Sherlock Character  - John Watson Ship - Holmes/Watson and platonic Irene is SUPER important in this one. Requested by - N/A.

A/N: Here it is, the long promised 3rd part to what I’ve decided to call the “Wharf Trilogy”. I was going to call it the “canon correction” and then realised most of these are corrections of canon. Anyway, enjoy!

John Watson opened his eyes to darkness. As he tried to find something to anchor himself to, something to focus his vision on, he became aware of two things. One, he wasn’t in his room - or Holmes’s room - in Baker Street; and two, his left shoulder burned with the fierce feeling as if he’d been run right the way through with a rusty lifting hook. He swallowed down the instinctive feeling of panic that came with waking up both in pain and in unfamiliar surroundings, trying to piece together how he’d managed to get to this point. The slaughterhouse, Irene, Blackwood, all of it flickered at the forefront of his memory as he tried to sort the events into chronological order. Pulling Irene away from the band saw was the last clear memory he had, and then nothing after that. Nothing until now.

His eyes had somewhat adjusted to the gloom now, and he could vaguely make out the outlines of several objects around him. There was a window slightly above his head and somewhere to the left judging by the shadows it left, and a shaft of moonlight shone through. There was a door opposite, slightly ajar, and the light of a paraffin burner trickled through from the corridor beyond. He still didn’t know where he was, those two factors not being enough to fill the hole of the last goodness-knows-how-long. There was a chair next to his bed, he noticed as he turned his eyes gently in that direction. He wasn’t entirely sure who he’d been expecting to find sitting in that chair, but New Jersey operatic singer turned world-class criminal Irene Adler certainly wasn’t anywhere near the top of his list. She was very possibly asleep, but also maybe not, legs crossed, wearing the same practical outfit she’d had on the last time they’d seen each other, though it was slightly more scuffed. He hadn't been unconscious for that long then, though he noticed she did have an almost healed cut on her face that he was fairly she didn’t have the last time he saw her.

Almost as if she could feel his eyes on her, Irene looked up expectantly and slid forwards on the chair, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin on the palms of her hands. “Evening, Doctor.” Watson’s heavy tongue tripped repeatedly over itself as he tried to force himself to remember how to speak. “H-Holmes?” His voice came out of his dry throat more strained than he’d expected, but Irene seemed to hear and understand him anyway. “Why am I not even slightly surprised that’s the first thing out of your mouth? He’s hiding out in an attic above a bar because Lord Coward has a bounty on his head. He’s okay. He’s worried about you, but he’s okay.” “And I’m…?” “Royal Veterans.” Irene replied with a curt nod and slightly forced smile. “Nice place. Lax on security, but high quality interior design.” “Mary?” “I’ve only just managed to convince her to go home. She’s worried as well, but surprisingly not as much as Holmes. He’s been practically tearing his hair out.”

Watson stayed quiet for a moment, closing his eyes and trying to work out exactly what hurt. Now that he was properly trying to focus on it, everything ached. Every bone, every joint throbbed dully, and his head pounded in a way that probably would have concerned him if he’d been even a little more alert. His chest and back stung all over in tiny pinpricks, but it was his shoulder that hurt the most. It burned fiercely, and the constant waves of pain that radiated from the site were enough to send him dizzy. “What-“ he swallowed, took a deep breath and tried again. “What-“ “Explosion.” Irene cut in gently, saving him from having to try a third time. “At the wharf. You remember?”

Watson started to shake his head, then winced and stopped. “N-No.” He raised his right arm gently, running a hand along the side of his head. “A few scratches, a couple minor burns, your face got it easy compared to the rest of you.” Irene told him reassuringly. “Don’t worry, you’re as handsome as ever.” “Not my face I’m worried about.” He tried to shift himself slightly, but fell back with a yelp, losing all aura of composure as the pain in his shoulder tripled and spread down his arm and across his back, furiously blinking spots from his vision as he tried desperately to cling to the last shred of consciousness. He groaned involuntarily through gritted teeth and tried to curl inside himself, but could barely move, tears of pain blurring his vision. Irene lay a heavy hand on the centre of his chest to keep him still. “Don’t.” She warned him, her voice commanding but somehow still gentle. “You’ll only make it worse.” He fought for a moment to control his breathing, swallowing down a wave of nausea as he started to tremble. “Holmes.” “He’s okay, he’s hiding from the members of the yard, but we’ve got a plan.” “Holmes.” Watson insisted through gritted teeth, and a moment later he was able to make himself understood, though the pain clouded his head and made it hard for him to think enough to form a complete sentence, leaving him only able to stutter out fragmented attempts at words. “Want...Holmes.” “...Watson.” “Please.” Watson’s voice cracked, and for a moment Irene caught a glimpse of the scared soldier that still existed somewhere deep within him. “Need...Holmes.”

Irene studied him in concern for a moment. His body was tense with pain and trembling, and he was curled up the best he could, having shaken off Irene’s feeble attempt at keeping him still. His eyes were screwed up tightly, chin tucked to his chest,  his breathing hitched. Irene tried to find a way to calm him without hurting him further, and in the end held one of his hands, tracing circles on his palm with her thumb. “It’s not safe for Sherlock to be out right now. It was dangerous for him to come after the explosion.” Irene tried to tell him, but he moaned feebly, and only gripped her hand tighter. “Do you think…?” Irene paused for a moment to consider exactly what she was about to do. “Do you think you can sit up?”

Getting John upright was a slow, delicate process, but eventually he was sat on the floor, resting his head on the cold iron bed frame with his eyes closed while he waited for the room to stop spinning. Irene was crouched in front of him, examining his shoulder under the lamplight. “It’s better than it was. There was a piece of wood the size of your fist embedded in it when they first pulled you out.” Watson didn’t answer, and Irene gave him a weak shove, careful not to jar his shoulder while still trying to make it effective. “Are you listening to me, Doctor? I am doing this for you, you know?” Watson made a quiet noise but didn’t open his eyes, and Irene decided that was good enough for now. “Can I trust you to stay alive and conscious unsupervised for a minute or not?” Watson made an incomprehensible sound between his clenched jaw that she took to be a confirmation and she stood up, watching him carefully as she made her way across the room.

Bandaging his shoulder was a laborious and far more painful process than sitting him up, and he sat with his head braced against his knees, breathing raggedly and occasionally letting out a pained whimper. Irene apologised quietly to him each time he flinched, but if he heard; he didn’t answer. “Ready?” She asked, after she’d give him a minute to recover, and at his shaky nod had lifted him up so he was sitting on the bed. Turning to his clothes that were draped over the chair, she decided it wasn’t worth the hassle and pain it would cause him just to put a shirt on, and satisfied herself with pulling his good arm through the sleeve of his suit jacket, leaving his bad one tucked to his chest in a sling and just drawing the front of his jacket closer around him. “I just want you to know-“ she told him, “-this is probably a bad idea.” He lifted his head and opened his eyes, looking at her through eyes glassy with pain. “No idea that leads me to Holmes is a bad idea.” “Not so sure I agree, but we’ll go with it.” Irene told him, and slid his good arm across her shoulder.

Watson was surprisingly light, despite the fact Irene was taking most of his weight, and their movements were slow but deliberate. Watson was limping heavily, but she and Holmes hadn’t found his walking cane at the wharf, meaning it’d been picked up by Scotland Yard. They wouldn’t be able to get it back, not with Holmes considered a fugitive, but it didn’t seem to Irene like Watson was going to be doing a great deal of moving between now and then anyway. The hospital was relatively quiet, and Irene was surprised to see there were no members of the Yard stationed anywhere, which seemed to solidify what Holmes had told her before about them not particularly wanting to bring him in. The back entrance by which she had met Holmes the day before was the best way to avoid getting caught, and it seemed worth dealing with the few extra steps to avoid detection.

Watson winced with every step, and occasionally stumbled, but Irene kept a firm grip on him, at times almost pulling him along. Under the pale yellow glow of a street lamp she could see the patch of blood slowly growing against his grey jacket and cursed under her breath. “Turn around. You can’t do this.” John tried to pull away from her feebly and staggered, Irene instinctively wrapping her arm around his chest to support him. “Back inside.” She told him gently. “Come on, Watson.” He strained against her, taking shaky steps but not actually gaining any ground as Irene held him. “I’m a soldier. I can handle this.” He insisted, though Irene could feel him trembling against her, and felt for sure her grip was the only thing keeping him upright. “You’re a doctor, you know the dangers of pushing yourself too hard.” Irene countered, trying to think of a way to placate him. He pushed weakly against her again. “I want Holmes. I need Holmes. Irene, please.” Irene thought for a moment. If she insisted Watson go back inside, he’d probably only try and get to Holmes on his own when he was left unattended. Of the two options, this was decidedly the more preferable, not that she particularly wanted Watson’s well being on her hands when Holmes was already as irate as he was.

“Fine.” She said, and relaxed her hold on him, though having to tighten it again as he slid forwards against her. The bloody patch was spreading down the sleeve of his jacket, she could feel it against her fingers. Deciding that since she was already aiding and abetting a government fugitive, she might as well go the extra step and straight-up steal a patient from the hospital. Not as if she could get into any more trouble for it. Maybe she’d rob a man in the street as he passed; she wasn’t sure yet. Watson made a quiet noise of pain that reminded her of the urgency of the situation, and she pulled his arm over her shoulder again, practically carrying him, making a point of not listening to the sound of his blood drip against the cobbles as they walked. It was hard to navigate the city in the light, and even harder in darkness with a barely-conscious army doctor clinging to her as if she was the last person on earth.

It was only when they reached the end of Fleet Street that Irene first began to suspect someone was following her, though a quick glance over her shoulder didn’t reveal anyone obvious. She knew somebody’s eyes were on her, though whether it was Moriarty, Moran, Blackwood, one of the yard members, one of the Irregulars or someone else entirely, she wasn’t sure. She stood for a moment, the wind blowing through her hair, looking through the darkness for any sign of movement from the side-roads beyond. “Blackwood…” Watson murmured drowsily, though his eyes were closed and his head was buried in Irene’s shoulder. “What?” She kept her voice gentle as she continued to look around her, trying to work out if he’d realised something important or if he was just rambling. “At the wharf....Blackwood…He...He tipped his hat at me.” Watson’s voice was getting weaker, but there was an urgent tinge to it, as if he’d realised something important that he was terrified he’d forget forever if it was left unspoken much longer. “What do you mean?” “It was... “ Watson made a pained noise somewhere deep in the back of his throat and coughed weakly, his voice noticeably fading out for a moment. “It was like almost….almost a ‘thank you for your service’...kind of thing. As though he...he was expecting me to die.” Irene didn’t say anything in response to that, but held Watson closer to her, feeling how heavily he was shaking against her, his breathing coming painful and harsh next to her ear, though shallow. His skin was covered in sweat and she could hear his teeth chattering although the thick night London air was far from being cold enough for that. Deciding if there was anyone out there watching her, she and Holmes would be able to fend them off if they tried to follow her too far, she turned her attention back to Watson, who’d lost consciousness and whose head was now lolling against her shoulder, and she cursed loudly.

It only took a couple more minutes for Irene to reach the bar, and she took the stairs a few at time, finding it a bit easier now she’d gotten used to supporting Watson’s weight on her own. Unable to knock on the door due to the fact both of her hands were keeping Watson in place, she gave the base of the door three sharp kicks, before bashing her knee into it with enough force she was surprised it hadn’t swung open on its own. When nothing happened, she kicked it a bit harder, and a moment later, the door creaked open and Holmes was watching her with narrowed eyes. “I told you to stay with-” He stopped, eyes widening at the site in front of him. “Take him. I need to check no-one followed us.” Holmes obliged, trying to ignore the blood on Irene’s hands as he slung Watson’s arm across his shoulder.

Irene raced back down the stairs and to the doorway of the bar, looking out across the open streets. Once she was satisfied there was nobody out there, she allowed herself to relax against the doorframe, though her heart was beating painfully in her chest. ‘As though he was expecting me to die.’ Those would not be Watson’s last words. They wouldn’t. Taking a deep breath of the warm night air to calm herself, she made slow work of ascending the stairs again, listening for the sounds of Holmes’s pacing the floor. The last thing she wanted was to anger him further; the look on his face when he’d seen Watson had been enough to convince her he wasn’t in a mood to be trifled with. She knocked on the door again as she approached, then tried it and found it was open. She stepped into the room then locked and barred the door behind her, running a hand down her face before she turned around to face Holmes.

Watson’s grey suit jacket and the scrap of fabric she’d been using as a sling had been tossed haphazardly to the dirty floor, though it was now hard to see any large sections of grey material left because the thick wool was soaked all the way through with blood. Watson himself lay on a makeshift bed Holmes had constructed in the furthest corner of the room from the door, and Holmes was busy unwrapping the bandages on his shoulder. “Why did you bring him here? What purpose did it serve other than almost killing him?” He asked angrily without turning to face Irene. She’d made no noise as she entered, but knew better than to ask him how he’d known she was stood there. “He insisted. He wanted you.” “I don’t care.” Holmes threw aside the bloody bandages and studied the wound carefully, venom in his voice. “He was infinitely safer there than he is here. Look at him. He’s half dead, Irene.” Ah, so he wasn’t angry. He was scared. She could hear it, that tremor in his voice. It was obvious now. It all made sense. “I thought it was better me bring him than he try and make it on his own. And he would have tried. You know he would, Sherlock.” Irene’s voice trembled slightly. She didn’t need to justify her actions to him, she reasoned. Watson had wanted Holmes, and against her better judgement, she’d listened to him. 

Holmes turned on the bed, glancing from the half-drawn attempt at a pentagram he’d been working on to Irene who was now staring guiltily at the floor and then finally to Watson, stained heavily with an outpouring of his own blood, face pale, and ragged feeble attempt at breathing filling the whole room with its strained and shallow rasp. Sherlock allowed his head to hang slightly as he crossed the small room to fetch a roll of bandages he’d insisted Wiggins bring him earlier in the day.

Blackwood would have to wait; his Boswell needed him.

[jeonsolar]

Miraculous Commentary 3x3(12) ChristMaster

After far too much drama, it is time to come back to this wonderful tv show. Now let's see how this fucks up my fanfic canon. 😃

 Spoilers below

I feel Marinette on a personal level. But this kids too young to be going through the “I’m a big kid’ phase. That’s usually when you hit 11. I can tell you that from experience. I still live with someone who’s still going through the phase… On boys… there’s no deadline. Some still behave as children even though they are forty.

Mine is still 16 so, fingers crossed.

To be fair to the kid, the kid looks nine, so children’s show shouldn’t be the content for him-… *remembers she’s twenty-one, almost twenty-two, watching a children’s show*… ……..

Kid needs to FUCKING DIE!

I know! I know what kind of shitty piece of crap this kid is now! He’s a spoiled brat who gives no crap about anyone but himself! I know his parents too! Had nothing/everything when they were kids and thus they want their kid to have everything! Never said no to him. Was never spanked. Was never roughly grabbed by the arm and whispered yelled at in public by your mom threatening to send you back to the place you came from, she gave you life, she can take it back!

If theirs one thing this CHILDREN’s show needs to do right now is teach this piece of crap a FUCKING LESSON! THIS IS MOTHERFUCKING P E R S O N A L NOW!

No respect of privacy and demands to be shown/given things that aren’t his and he shouldn’t see? Drop him off the Eiffel Tower, teach him how fear tastes like! If not this kid will be that man who demands women date him because ‘he’s a nice guy’. Also that you sleep with him because you are dating/ he bought you many drinks. He’s gonna be the man who demands but never does anything to earn it.

Nino’s parents’ are dead to me.

I’m so sad.

Nino’s parent only had one good fruit.

I was actually praying this wasn’t Nino’s brother… How can Nino be so intolerant to Chloe, when Nino’s little brother is Tiny Male Chloe?

One. Mari is crazy. But also… smart. She’s ready for the next 35 years…. Adrien will be 50? Damn.

Two. Can I skip the entire dialogue with the kid? I can’t stand him. I know too many kids like this and I want to stab them just as much as I want to stab this one.

Entitled. Demanding. Why does this one have such good hair? And he’s a redhead?

I’m ignoring the plot like I did with Chameleon. I just can’t.

Listen, having a witch deliver my presents sounds awesome!

YO, GET YO HANDS OFF OF HER LEGS! DISRESPECTFUL, NON CONSENT! ALERT ALERT ALERT ALERT!

Adrien. Adrien is the best-behaved kid in the whole world. And sometimes Marinette.

Definitely not this piece of shit.

Also, why is Marinette babysitting him? Why not Alya?

THOSE TWO WERE FUCKING WHILE MARINETTE WAS SUFFERING!

…. I. HATE. HIM.

You can’t be all like “I’m a big kid!’ and then fucking cry and confuse me about your age THREE MINUTES LATER! ITS ONLY BEEN THREE MINUTES! Now I don’t know if he’s 9 or 5. But if he’s five he’s pretty good at conversational speech.

Chris. I have an ex-friend called Criss. He got off on making me feel like I was worth nothing, and laughed when he made me cry. His opinion was always a fact. And everyone else was stupid. And after my last breakup, he told me I was never gonna get anyone better than that ex who appeared to had been eyeing another girl while he was dating me. Even without that last part, no friend, NO PERSON should ever tell you that you are never gonna do better than your ex. He was not a God for there to be no one on a higher standard than him. Fuck Chris’ and Criss’(multiples. Find me a good one. The Avengers or dc don’t count.)

WHY DON’T YOU LOCK THE TRUNK?

I was right. 50

Oh, that was a nice one. I laughed out loud. “How long was I asleep?”

Is this Toy Story 4?

Criss is so far the only bad thing of this episode because so far the comedy has been better than others. I’m legit laughing and smiling at Tikki pulling Mari’s hair being all like ‘Not so fast, bitch! You made this mess, clean it up!”

Nice. Paris should do that every Christmas.

This is an Akuma that is entitled. I need Criss to be a non-important Character, please don’t force me to see this piece of shit on another episode. Please be a one-and-off.

Oh, hey Adrien, where… did you come from?

Also… why was fake Santa out?

… Right… this is a children’s show… Kids can’t know that Santa isn’t real… This.. is gonna be a tough one. *go back to child mind, go back to childmind*

Is the ice-skater supposed to be camp-gay? (if you don’t like that term, please tell me and I’ll change it to a more appropriate one, just tell what is more appropriate)

Will your husband freak out too? Or is he more reasonable? Also, get your phone and video chat with your girls you asshole! Show them Santa.

Chat’s just like “Bitch, at this point I don’t even question it. Just put on the suit and get to work.”

Chat became a little self-aware of how ridiculous this story is if you look at the full picture. And is funny, but I don’t like being pointed out how stupid this story is a whole.

Cuz like Chat is like “Our enemies are powered up by evil butterflies. Not humanoid butterflies, just regular, old evil butterflies. Are you really sitting down and analyzing how much does any of this EVER make sense? Because it already doesn’t when you look at the root, why should the result make sense?”

Why does the dog have a French accent, but the Parisians don’t?

Is everyone in Paris entitled? Or stupid? Rules are rules. YOU ARE A GROWN MAN! ADULTS DON’T GET PRESENTS FROM SANTA!

CHAT. NO!!!!!!!

This Santa isn’t real. This Santa was created by Criss.

Nice. I also forgot about ice physics.

This goes from being terrible (criss) to being awesome(comedy) in a span of seconds!

That was creepy Mari, never smell a stranger’s clothes.

Is Nino a surfer now? Why did he have the Surfer's voice?

Nino: Please save the little dude, Ladybug.

Ladybug: *places her hand on his shoulder and smiles* No. He needs to be punished for being A LITTLE SHIT-

Ladybug is, not Marinette. That’s a fact.

Santa: You know this is the only gift you’ll get all year from me.

Ladybug: Yes, I know, but I’m two people, and you don’t know who’s really behind the mask, so I know that the other girl will get a present. Also, you’re not real. Also, I have parents who love me.

Kill. The. Killer.

This is the kind of kid who rips off the head of his toys. And doesn’t ever appreciate them.

I was about to say, when did the whole miraculous stealing come in?

Pop-pop? POP-POP? NOT EVEN ADRIEN GETS TO CALL HIM POPS OR DAD, AND THIS FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT CALLED HIM POP-POP?

Is… hawkmoth really replying to Ladybug? This is new.

Hawkmoth has got to be like on the bottom 90% of the list, while Gabriel is on the bottom 98% of the list.

Criss is on the bottom 99% of the list.

Chat: YOU ARE BREAKING THE RULES!

Why doesn’t Chat just Cataclysm the floor? They all fall, Ladybug rescues the unworthy, and no one captures the snowglobe.

Criss is on the bottom of the list. Last place.

Santa could have easily murdered the wrong ones.

Hawkmoth- bottom 95%.

Gabriel- bottom 99%.

She said come and get it, not ‘destroy it’.

I have no words for this, just what the fuck. XD

Yeah, so glad that they 100% confirmed that the victims lose their memories afterward.

HIS WHAT? THIS FUCKER HAS A BIRTHDAY? WHAT? THAT’S GONNA BE IMPORTANT FOR THE PLOT? WHAT?

Mommy should have spanked him.

Meh, the ending was meh.

(Was Marinette’s hair darker? or was that my computer?)

--

So all together, this is actually one of my shortest commentary and not my favorite episode. But I don’t have one yet. Actually, Dark Owl is my favorite. But yeah. But I did enjoy this one a lot!

(does anyone have the list of realising dates for February?)

[rosymaplemoth]

An Italian Christmas

There comes a time in everyone’s life where you see a character that was just kind of left high and dry by their creators and you just sort of grab it like “ah, yes, this is my baby now”.

Anyway that’s the only explanation I have for why I’ve written canon x oc Code: Realize fanfic involving Avido fucking Crudele. Also blame @thebluestmage​ because Alice Liddell is our joint custody OC.

Wordcount: 6895 Pairing: Avido Crudele x OC (Alice Liddell) Rating: General Audiences (with a foul mouth) Warnings: Language, mentions of Catholicism and the religious aspects of Christmas, butchered Italian (I tried my best!!). 

Background: Avido escaped jail prior to the Nautilus’ attack and retreated to Italy with a plan to rise back to power, slowly but surely. This takes place at the same time as the Wintertide Miracles fandisk, that is-- the first Christmas after the Nautilus.

----

“Hold on, help me get the popcorn chain around!”

“You already have a chain of cranberries, nuts, peppermints… how many garlands does this tree need?”

“Many more! The best trees are absolutely chock-full of decorations, you know.”

“I was always under the impression that the most dignified trees had little on it but the regal glow of candles.”

I peer at Avido from my side of the tree, and he does the same with a quirked eyebrow.

Saying nothing, we walk around to see exactly what the other had done to their side.

His is almost completely bare! Sure there were the garlands, but those were technically borrowed from my side. All he had put on were gilded candleholders and a few cotton strands meant to be snow.

“Boss, there’s nothing on here…”

I turn to look at Avido, who’s staring at my side of the tree with a curled lip.

“… How tasteless. Tell me, do Great Britain’s trees often look as though a child has crammed an entire market into its branches?”  

I put my hands on my hips. “If it’s a traditional tree, they do!”

We take a few steps back and look at the tree. It’s lopsided. Badly.

“… Tell me, Miss Alice, where did you plan for me to hang your presents?”

I twirl a strand of my hair in my fingers and give him a cute smile. “My, Mr. Avido, whatever are you talking about?”

“In these ‘traditional’ trees you seem to be an expert on, aren’t the presents hung from the branches?” he gives a slow smile. “Don’t tell me you plan on having me hide yours among this wall of tinsel!”

“Oh, you plan on giving me a gift?” I put a hand to my chest, mocking one of his faux-polite bows. “You’re going to spoil your name if you do so many sweet things for me.”

I yelp as he suddenly grabs me by the waist and dips me down low, his lips hovering temptingly close to mine.

“The only thing I plan on spoiling is you, my little mole,” he says. “You fell in love with the cruelty that I’m named for, didn’t you? Wouldn’t it be cruel of me, then, to deny you that pleasure and instead treat you as a princess?”

“Avido…” my voice is caught in my throat, but I barely have time to register how quiet I sound before he kisses me deeply.

He moans as though simply kissing me is bliss, tilting his head and parting his lips to deepen it. I’m surprised to feel my heart pounding in my ears, and my fingers aching to hold him just as tight. Not wanting to give him that much, though, I simply curl my fingers into his lapels and pull him tighter to me.

“Alice...” his lips are still on top of mine, kissing me through his words, muttering devotional phrases in his native tongue.

“Mister...” I run a hand through his slick hair as he begins to kiss down my jawline. “A-Avido, wait, wait!”

I giggle as he kisses my neck, listening to him groan as he wraps both of his arms around me. I squirm to get away, finally laughing: “Is this how you plan on celebrating the Immaculate Conception?!”

I put a finger to his lips as he slowly pulls back, glaring at me over the rim of his monocle.

“I wasn’t aware you observed it,” he says, his voice even. It was like the desperate pleas coming from his throat hadn’t even been uttered.

Oh, I do love teasing him!

“I don’t,” I say with a shrug. “But since I’m new to this place, I wanted to learn as much about this country as I could. The Feast of the Immaculate Conception is the start of the holiday season here, right?”

Avido lets go of me and stands up, pausing to straighten himself out and smooth his hair back before walking back to the tree. When he picks up one of the paper ornaments I had made, I glare at him and cross my arms. He just arcs an eyebrow before moving it to the other side. He continues, with his violet eyes on me, to straighten out the tree so it looks more even.

Eventually he sighs and addresses me as he works: “You could have asked me if you were curious about Italy.”

“Oh, I don’t think I could have, Mr. Avido!” I balance on the balls of my feet and rock back and forth. “You’re such a MODERN man, quick to move past the dregs of old tradition!”

“Your butchering of my words isn’t needed, Miss Alice,” says Avido. “Please tell me you didn’t buy one of those touristy handbooks…”

“But this is such an ancient country—”

Avido interrupts me with loud laughter.

“An ancient country? That’s rich, little mouse! Italy has barely been unified for a decade!” his smile warps as he takes a step back to make sure he’s spreading my decorations evenly around the tree.

“If you want old tradition, Miss Alice, then you should have stayed in Steel London.”

“But I didn’t stay in Steel London, Avido—” I drop the honorific, hoping that he notices as I hug his arm, pressing the warmth of my body against him. “I came to Italy with my Boss.”

I look away, muttering in the hopes he doesn’t hear me too clearly: “The man I… love.”

I feel Avido shift to look down at me, and I look up at him with cute ferocity burning in my puffed cheeks. “So, I don’t want a British Christmas! I want you to show me what an Italian Christmas is like, so I can celebrate it with you!”

Any hint of affection that might have glowed dimly in Avido’s eyes is cut as he curls his lip. “Don’t push your cheeks out like that, it makes you look like a child.”

“Mr. Avido…” I sigh and step back.

He looks away before a smirk crosses his handsome features. “Show you what an Italian Christmas is like? Haha… Catholic. That’s what it looks like.”

“I could have guessed, since you insisted on waiting until today to put the tree up,” I say. “December 8th, a holy day celebrating the Virgin Mary. I guess even an ass like you still follows some traditions, huh?” I put on my best wicked grin.

“…You did buy one of those guide books, didn’t you…” Avido says as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Out of my own paycheck, at least,” I give him a wink.

Avido looks at me out of the corner of his eye for a long time before relenting the argument in a sigh. He glances out the window at the setting sun. “All right, then. … Miss Alice.”

He gives me his light bow, his features settling into a polite smile. “Would you accompany me to the Market tonight?”

He’s seething with irritation behind his composed exterior, and I can’t resist giving him a cocky smile as I take his offered arm. “I would simply love to, Mr. Avido!”

***

Back when I first came here, Avido was quick to talk about how backwater Palermo is compared to Steel London. I replied that everywhere is backwater compared to Steel London, and he would only continue to be disappointed if he continues comparing.

Not much has changed since we first arrived in Palermo. Avido still looks at the gorgeous architecture and vibrant streets with disgust wrinkling his handsome face. I don’t agree with him at all. This place is gorgeous, like a postcard straight out of a fancy art gallery.

But it isn’t Steel London.

And because it isn’t Steel London, it reminds Avido that he had to escape and go into hiding. What’s worse, he’s back in the city he was born in.

To him, this place is a sign of his weakness, despite it being the capital of Sicily and a thriving hotbed that he can profit off of.

But I’m not going to let his moping ruin my Christmas. Whether he likes it or not, I’m going to get the best out of this city!

… For him, too, though you’d never get me to admit it.

I squeeze his arm, leaning my head against his shoulder.

“I think this is the first time you’ve taken me on a date since we’ve been here,” I say sweetly.

“Oh? I’m fairly certain I take you out quite often, Miss Alice.”

“Taking me with you to business meetings doesn’t count, my Boss.”

He always gets the cutest smile when I call him that, like a little boy being crowned emperor of the playground.

I stop him and walk in front of him, smoothing out the front of his vest.

“We’re usually in a hurry then, and I hardly get time to treat you like a real beau…” I purse my lips in a cute pout.

Avido’s shoulders shake with laughter. “How pathetic! I didn’t realize you felt so neglected!”

I reach up and hold his scarf on both sides, using the leverage to pull him down closer to my height.

“I always feel neglected when you don’t have your eyes on me, Mr. Avido.” I stand on my tiptoes and press my lips to the corner of his mouth.

“My greedy little mouse,” he purrs as he tilts his head towards mine. But instead of kissing me, he straightens back up and adjusts his scarf. “But you could have had all of this back at the house. No, instead you insisted that I show you an Italian Christmas…”

He offers his arm to me again. “So let’s keep this outing civilized, shall we?”

“You sound a little on-edge, yourself,” I say, but I take his arm and walk next to him like a good girl.

I read in a letter from Polly that Queen Victoria had announced a grand Christmas Market to line the streets in celebration of Steel London’s triumph over the Nautilus.

Though the Market Avido and I arrive at is probably nothing in comparison to that, it’s filled with a nostalgic energy that Steel London can’t begin to dream of. Loud vendors in wooden stalls shout for attention, the thick smell of raisins and cinnamon fills the air with thoughts of Christmas, and for the first time this city really feels like home.  

“So noisy…” Avido scoffs quietly.

I look up at him with bright eyes. “I LOVE it!”

A mild look of surprise crosses Avido’s face for a moment before I take his hand and lead him into the crowd.

“Alice…” his voice gets dark, but I pay his fussing no mind as I half-drag him from stand to stand, taking in all the bright colors like a kid at, well, Christmas.

“I don’t know what I want to eat first…”

“To eat?” Avido arches an eyebrow. “Would you rather go to a café or—“

“Nope!” I point at the source of that intoxicating smell. “I want to try that.”

Avido stares at me. “A girl like you… I thought you would be attracted to sweets and candies. But, no, instead you seek out arancini.”

“You know I have a big appetite.” I pause to poke Avido in the stomach.

I look at the golden fried balls of something-or-another on display and salivate.

“Yes, when it comes to everything, it seems,” he says with a deep sigh. “Very well, if you wish to gorge yourself on common street food instead of sampling—“

“Sounds good!” I beam at the vendor. “Two, please!”

Avido is staring at me blankly, and continues to do so until I take his hand and deposit one of the balls in it.

“Oh man, this is good!”

I wasn’t expecting it to be filled with rice! The texture is almost creamy, making it taste more like a pasta than a grain.  

“Mmmm, there’s cheese in here too! I love street food, I love Christmas Markets, I love Sicily!”

Avido continues to watch silently as I chow down. Eventually, I look at him out of the corner of my eye. “Oh come on, don’t tell me you’re too stuffy for good food, Mr. Avido!”

“You don’t have to be so loud,” he says. “I assure you, your enthusiasm is obvious even without the yelling. For example, Miss Alice, you have some rice on your cheek.”

“Ah, shit!”

He rolls his eyes at my foul language, but his scoff sounds like he was trying very hard to hide a laugh. He eventually relents and joins me, and the two of us sit by a fountain in the center of the square. The mist would be refreshing on a summer day, but in December (as mild as it is) it feels a little strange.

God, the man sitting next to me is so ridiculously sexy. He’s just staring quietly over the square like he’s sizing it up, like it’s an enemy he’ll have to take down. Shadows cast by streetlamps emphasize the bags under his eyes, reminding me of how hard he’s been working. Things really are different than they were back in London.

Not that he wasn’t always a hard worker or anything!

It’s just, back when I first met him, he was on top of the world. It looked like everything came so easily to him, you know?

But it wasn’t like that at all. Avido had literally clawed his way out of a place that he never wanted to come back to.

… And now he’s back, and he’s been working ever since. Well, he’s been working my ass off too, at least, and the asses of all the men who weren’t too chickenshit to follow him out of London.

But tonight he doesn’t have to work. Tonight he’s on a date with me, the cutest girl in the Mafia! (Shirley who?)

“I have a question for you, Mr. Avido,” I say. “I see Santa decorations at the Market, but I also keep on seeing these cute little witches. Are these old Halloween decorations?”

“What?” Avido scoffs. “Your little guidebook didn’t tell you about La Befana?”

I huff. “I’m sure it did, I just… must have missed it, s’all.”

Avido looks down at me with that cocky smile of his before shrugging. “Then I suppose you can look it up when we get home.”

“Oh come on, Boss…” I scoot closer to him, nudging my knees against him. “Don’t be pouty like that.”

“Pouty? Is that what you think this is?” he raises an eyebrow.

“Sulky, then?”

Avido shakes his head. “La Befana is a witch who visits children on Epiphany Eve. That’s right, when you little British brats were able to open your presents at Christmas…” he pauses to smooth a stray hair from my ponytail. “Us good little Italian children had to wait until Twelfth Night.”

My eyes open so wide that I’m afraid they might roll out of my skull. “You didn’t get presents at Christmas?!”

Avido keeps on straightening out my hair, his smile looking surprisingly warm as he takes in my reaction. It makes me a little embarrassed.

“No. We’d have a great feast, but presents didn’t come until Epiphany. Hmmm…”

He gently strokes my cheek with his thumb, his expression dark and playful. “Maybe if you continue to misbehave, little mouse, I’ll have you wait until Epiphany, too.”

“Mr. Avido… you’re so mean to me…”

He waits until he has me helpless in his gaze before he calmly lets go of me and stands up.

“Well? You wanted to see what our Christmas is like, didn’t you?”

I smile, realizing that he didn’t notice what he said. ‘Our’ Christmas. I guess you can’t separate your identity from your homeland completely, no matter how much you want to.

I decide to keep the secret to myself, though. Mr. Avido would totally get huffy and say something about how I’m being preposterous or some other fancy-ass insult.

“Right, coming!” I run after him and hug his arm cutely. “What’s next, Boss?”

“Presepi.”

I look up at him, waiting for an explanation. He doesn’t offer one, though, just keeps on walking until he spots something ahead. He looks down at me and tilts his head, gesturing for me to walk on.

What Avido was looking towards was a little village made up of pretty dolls and wooden buildings, tiny trees and all kinds of animals. It takes up an entire wall of the market square and is lit up by multiple lanterns decked in ribbon.

One particularly humble-looking building near the front of the display glows with beautiful angels hovering over it. A gorgeous doll with dark hair is leaning over an empty manger, and next to her stands a bearded man watching over them both.

“Presepi… nativities?” I look back at Avido, who nods. I keep on staring at him, and he stares right back at me, until I finally gesture for him to join me.

With a dramatic sigh he walks over beside me and looks down at the little village of Bethlehem.

“The manger is empty,” I say.

“Of course it is,” he replies, rolling his eyes. “It isn’t Christmas yet. The Christ Child hasn’t been born.”

“It seems lonely without the baby,” I say.

This makes Avido laugh and put a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t be too disappointed! I’ll take you back out on the 24th so you won’t have to worry about lonely dolls, how’s that?”

He pulls me to his side, an amused smirk on his face. “In some ways you are quite the woman, and yet every now and then you surprise me by saying the most childish things!”

“And you think it’s cute, right?” I tilt my head.

“Not at all!” Avido laughs. “It only reminds me that there’s still a lot for me to teach you.”  

But his grip on my shoulder is surprisingly tender for him.

I look back at the scene and the little figures that Avido was being so mean to.

“We don’t have to spend so much time around this one, they are all over the city. Every house has a Presepe.”

I look up at him. “Do you?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

He smirks and looks like he’s about to say something when we hear a rumble. I look around and protectively move in front of Avido. When I begin to reach for my pistol, Avido waves me away.

“It’s the Presepe vivente, they’ve just lit a bonfire.”

“Vivente? What’s that?”

Avido looks down at me.

“Maybe I’ll just show you, since you seemed disappointed by the empty manger.”

Instead of offering me his arm, he threads my fingers with his and brings them to his lips.

“However, Miss Alice, I do want you to consider Italian lessons.”

My face flushes.

“After all, you said you wanted to be a part of this place, didn’t you? Learning the language is only natural, after all…” his lips curve into a slow smile. “Besides…”

He leans down and whispers something into my ear, something dark and slow and sensual. I can’t understand him, but it sounds like pure, unfiltered sex.

Avido pulls back slightly to look at me and my expression.

“See… with lessons, you would realize that I was just reciting the ingredients of the arancini we just ate. Really, little mouse, your ears didn’t perk at the word ‘mozzarella’?”

Well, that was mortifying.

“Oh, don’t pout!” he says with a laugh. “If you didn’t make such cute expressions, I wouldn’t want to tease you so often.”

“For some reason, Mr. Avido, I don’t believe you. Not one bit. In fact, I think at least fifty percent of our relationship is you teasing me.”

Avido’s smile widens, and his words drip with insincerity. “Hm, and what would the other fifty percent be? … No, such discussions of blood and sweat are ill-suited for these sacred icons to hear. Come, before it gets too crowded there.”

Avido leads me down a narrow cobblestone street hung with pretty baubles designed to look like stars. The smell of fire and hay is thick, but not unpleasant. It feels nostalgic, somehow, though I’m a bit surprised when we turn a corner and a donkey suddenly brays at me.

… Okay, when I say ‘a bit surprised’ I mean ‘I scream a phrase that would make my mother blush and jump a good meter back.’

This makes Avido burst out laughing, a hand over his stomach as he doesn’t even try to hold it back.

“Do you miss Steel London yet, little mouse?!”

I huff at Avido before looking back at the donkey and straightening my dress out. It’s not just a donkey, though, the more people I see the more I notice that they’re dressed in things like robes and sandals.

The street eventually opens up into another square, this one smaller and more intimate than the one the market was in. A large bonfire crackles with many villagers huddled around it for warmth. There are carolers bundled in cloths leading horses and carrying hay.

“A Living Nativity,” says Avido. “It’s a little more impressive than those dolls, isn’t it?”

I look back at Avido, who’s looking around the square with an expression I don’t really understand. He looked like that when we first got in the city, too. It’s like nostalgia, only a nostalgia that someone would rather forget.

“Mr. Avido?” I reach out to touch his arm.

“Yes?” Avido  responds a little too quickly.

“It’s getting late,” I say. “We can head back if you want.”

Avido sticks his nose in the air as though he had just gotten a whiff of shit.

“Don’t be foolish,” he says, moving past me towards the townfolk. He doesn’t look at any of them, his eyes are on the Holy Couple near the back.

I’m not really religious, and I doubt that Avido is (even as he pauses to bow to the Holy Couple), but I still feel my chest tighten when I look at them. Mary is dark and exquisite, looking from the spectators to the gentleman playing as Joseph. Saying she’s a looker is putting it mildly, and I catch my breath in my throat as I stare next to Avido.

“The most beautiful woman in the city is always chosen to be Mary,” he says. “The most beautiful and kind, devoted, gentle…”

Ah, so that’s it.

His voice always gets like this when he talks about his mother, tight—like it hurts for him to speak.

It’s the only time he sounds weak.

I hug his arm, leaning my cheek against his shoulder as he watches.

“You wouldn’t be half-bad yourself if you weren’t so crass,” he muses idly.

“Hey!” I let go of him and cross my arms, but seeing that smirk of his is still a relief. He puts an arm around my shoulder and rests his lips on my crown, something he only does when we’re alone.

“Boss…?”

“Hm?”

“What happened to being civilized?”

I feel him smile against my skin, his body trembling slightly from laughter.

“A man can’t be overcome by emotion at the sight of something as beautiful as the Christmas miracle?”

I raise an eyebrow, but don’t say anything as he straightens up and adjusts his tie.

Eventually, there’s a murmur as a shepherdess brings in a swaddled bundle and lays it on the bed of hay in front of the Mary and Joseph. The baby is as plump as a piglet, snotty and whining at being separated from his real mother.

“It must be really inconvenient getting a real baby to do this,” I say, wrinkling my nose. “Wouldn’t a fake one be just as effective?”

Avido doesn’t say anything, just watches as Mary gently strokes the baby’s head, trying to get him to calm down.

“Boss?”

Avido isn’t listening to me, staring at the baby with an intense gaze. It spits up a few bubbles, and to my surprise I see a warm smile tugging at the edge of Avido’s mouth.

“Hey, Boss,” I repeat, rubbing his shoulder. “You’re staring pretty hard at that baby. Plan on swiping it or something?”

Avido closes his eyes, that hint of a smile spreading across his face. He squeezes my shoulder and looks down at me with an expression of… something. I’m not good at describing it. It’s kind of weird.

“My dear Miss Alice, why would I steal a baby when I could simply have one of my own?”

Oh.

Yeah, I broke. I can just stare up at him with slightly-parted lips and a red face. He gives me a light bow before turning and walking away from the Presepe vitale, and for a little bit all that I can do is look after him.

When I realize that he intends on leaving without me, I trot after him. I’m sinking in the embarrassed silence, while Avido is smiling the most I’ve seen him since we’ve been out.

“You know, it’s not very nice to tease girls about things like that,” I mutter.

“And it’s not very polite to mumble,” Avido says with a smirk. “Besides, whatever gave you the impression that I was teasing?”

Yeah, I can totally feel my heart pinging around my ribcage like a toy ball.

The walk back to the house is a quiet one, something Avido doesn’t seem to mind in the least. He knows that he’s the reason behind the silence, so he’s basking in it.

Once inside, he helps me out of my coat and I walk back into the gallery where we have our tree.

It still looks pretty lopsided, so I work on evening it out while Avido walks by. Of course, my definition of “evening it out” is to add more ornaments to his side. Take that, you gorgeous jackass.

After I put up a few ornaments, I feel something cool press against my cheek and I jump back. Avido’s standing nearby, holding a glass of wine, that mischievous smile still on his face. It would be very attractive if it weren’t at my expense.

“Still so jumpy!” he says with a laugh. “I really must have given you a fright back at the Presepe vivente. Haha, poor thing…”

I take the offered glass, still fiddling with an ornament as I put on my cutest pout.

“No, I’m okay,” I say with a shrug. “I was just surprised, s’all.”

“Truly?” Avido quirks an eyebrow at me.

I feel my face heating up again.

“I mean, yeah, I don’t really… mind…” I laugh nervously. “I don’t mind jokes like that, I mean! About… babies and… family… uh…”

Shit, what am I saying all of a sudden?

Avido just smiles, almost to himself, and gives me a casual shrug before walking into another room.

“Mr. Avido? Hey!”

I follow the sound of his dry laughter to see him in the drawing room where he usually hosts his business meetings. I hear the click of a lock opening, and then he pulls open a chest of drawers.

“What are you doing, Boss?”

“Oh, little mouse…” he pauses to laugh. “Childish, womanly, either way you have the uncanny ability to charm me.”

I just stare at him. That smile of is as cold as usual, but that twinkle in his eye makes me nervous. It makes my heart race.

He sets an old and worn box down on the table and opens it. Faded newspaper wavers like it will disintegrate if it’s touched the wrong way, but Avido’s gloved fingers are reverent enough to open it without any problems.

“I told you that every house has a Presepe,” he says.

“Yep, and I called you a liar when you said this one doesn’t.”

“You were right.”

I blink at him a couple of times before slowly sinking into a chair across from him.

Looking down into the box, Avido suddenly looks smaller than usual.

“… It could hardly be called a Presepe, though,” he says. The charm dripping from his voice disappears. His throat sounds tight again as, one by one, he begins to pull out small wooden figures. They’re crude, barely carved pieces of firewood, almost looking like---

“… Did you make these?”

Avido sighs.

“A very small boy did, one who was tired of his mother not having a proper Christmas because of his father’s foolishness.”

His laugh sounds like a strangled attempt not to cry.

“Look, I forgot… there’s even sheep… haha… hahaha….!”

He pulls out a piece of wood that is balancing on four tiny little legs, one of them shorter than the rest.

“Pathetic, isn’t it…”

It looks like he’s about to strike the poor thing, so I quickly lean forward and grab it, cradling it to my chest.

“I think that little boy sounds very cute,” I say. “I would’ve loved to give him a kiss on the cheek.”

Avido shakes his head.

“Well, Miss Alice, you’re welcome to do with these as you see fit,” he gives a casual shrug. “I have no use for them. They were just taking up space.”

“Liar,” I repeat myself.

But I still stand up and look inside the box. They were wrapped with such care, and the thought of little Avido working so hard on them makes my heart swell.

“This one here,” I pick one up. “Is this Mary?”

“That’s a Wise Man,” Avido mutters.

I very quietly put it back down, but tilt my head when I see that there is something else underneath it.

“Hm? Oh…” Avido’s eyes widen slightly when I pull it out: faded paper wrapped in a pretty ribbon, clearly priceless to whoever had received it.

I look at him and watch as he laughs. “Go ahead. Just old memories. You won’t be able to read most of it, anyway.” He then cracks his neck and glances out the window. “It’s getting late… I’m going to go to bed. Are you finished?”

I look at him holding my empty wine glass and nod. He moves past me and pauses before bending down to give me a kiss on the cheek.

It’s cold, but not the aloof sort of coldness I had gotten used to. It’s like he’s trying to hold back all of the emotion that had built up inside of him throughout the day.

“Avido…?” I turn around to look after him, but he goes on without a word.

I look back to the paper and gingerly unwrap the ribbon.

A child’s handwriting in a language I cannot read.

But one word does jump out to me: ‘Mamma’.

Realizing that I was holding something very precious, I slowly look over the words, taking in every pen stroke. Though the language might be foreign to me, the love is still obvious. Avido’s mother must have treasured this letter, and why wouldn’t she? It’s so sweet. I bet he was such a precious little boy…

And there, at the bottom, another word I understand. Well, not a word, but a name. His signature. Not ‘Avido Crudele’, but the name his beloved mother had given him when he was born.

It’s my turn to be greedy… I’m keeping that name all for myself.

***

“Boss?”

I open the door to our bedroom. Avido’s already in bed, his bare back to me. I look at him, at the orange glow of my candle casting shadows over his body and the scars he earned when he was just starting his career in the underworld. I’ve kissed each of those scars dozens of times, but my mouth still aches for more whenever I see them. Damn attractive bastard.

He acts tough, but I know he’s had a long day. I wish he had a siren or something that would blare whenever something I say or do drags up his painful memories.

It might sound a bit obvious, but the guy really, REALLY loved his mom. You don’t dedicate your life to ruining one specific mafia family for just anyone, you know.

A grudge that he can never let go of.

And I’m a dumbass who was like, “Show me an Italian Christmas!”

Show me those traditions that you treasured, Avido, it’s not like it’d rip up your insides or anything. God, I’m a dumbass.

And then I hear something that immediately makes me feel better: a very specific meow. It starts as a rolling trill before ending as a very high-pitched, needy mewl.

“Mia signorina… bel micetto…”

Ugh, he always gushes over Angiola like that. She eats it up, too, I can hear her purring all the way from over here.

Well, he doesn’t sound too torn up, anyway. I quickly get undressed before sliding into the sheets next to him.

… This is awkward. I don’t know if I should put my arms around him or go back-to-back with him. Ugh, so much for trying to be smooth. I finally decide to roll onto my side and scooch up against him like a good big spoon should. His skin feels so good against my cheek, cool and soft.

I finally begin to relax and lazily wrap my arms around his torso when I hear a familiar fussing and movement and suddenly find two large eyes staring at me.

The little brat actually climbed on Avido to glare down at me!

“He’s my boyfriend, Angiola,” I mumble into Avido’s skin. “I thought we had reached an understanding.”

Angiola trills at me disapprovingly before reaching her plush paws down to prod at my arms.

“Nope, not letting go,” I say. “Tough luck, pussycat.”

She trills again before getting a good foothold and sliding down Avido’s back, pooling in-between us and purring as though she was in the most comfortable spot in the world—firmly wedged between me and my Boss!

“Oh! Really?! Are you comfy?”

Angiola just purrs and nudges her head against my breast for warmth, flicking her tail idly.

“And now you’re acting all cute, I see how it is…”

I sigh and look up at Avido, noticing that his back is trembling as he barely manages to hold onto his laughter.

“Avido, we need to get your cat a boyfriend!” I whine.

Avido turns slightly to look at me, Angiola whining in protest as her comfortable spot is adjusted.

He looks so fucking hot with his hair messy and hanging in his face like this, still damp from bathing. Angiola doesn’t seem to appreciate getting his wet hair in her fur as he turns over, though.

I stick my tongue out at her as her eyes widen in shock. Jostled AND wet? Oh, poor baby!

“Oh? Are you telling me you want a handsome tomcat for Christmas?”

“I’m saying that she needs a handsome tomcat to flirt with so she’ll leave MY handsome tomcat alone!”

This makes Avido laugh so hard that I see tears pooling at the edges of his eyes.

Angiola decides that she’s had enough and lets out a disgruntled yowl before standing up and inelegantly climbing over Avido to snuggle up against his back. I don’t waste any time snuggling up against Avido’s chest as he still tries to regain some of his composure.

Finally I hear his breathing slow, and I look up at him with all the cuteness I can muster.

“I’ve decided that we can have a British Christmas if you want, Mr. Avido.”

“Oh, my little Christmas mouse doesn’t want to wait until Epiphany for her presents?”

He wraps an arm around my shoulders, making me feel warmer than any blanket could. I love our height difference, it makes it so easy for me to rest my ear against his chest to hear his heartbeat, as cool and even as he is.

“That’s not why and you know it,” I say. “I kinda made an ass out of myself today, Boss.”

“Tch…” Avido begins threading his fingers through my hair again, pulling it out of its ponytail so it can flow freely down my back. “Don’t give yourself that much credit, Alice. Whether those things remained locked up or not didn’t matter in the least. Besides, I’ve worked beyond the limitations I had as a child. If I wanted to, I could have a Presepe that would put the Market’s to shame… no, not even the Pope’s could compare!”

Yeah, he’s getting back to his usual self. Whenever he talks about fineries and things he can buy, it usually means he’s in a better mood. He isn’t named “Avido” for nothing.

“Maybe we could put it up together,” I say as I begin to idly circle his chest with my index finger. “You know, make a tradition ourselves…?”

Avido laughs again (though he quickly stifles it when Angiola sleepily mewls at him). “Together? Not if it ends up looking like the tree! You’d probably try to stuff the manger with tinsel!”

“What? I wouldn’t do that!” I puff out my cheeks, only to wince when he pokes one of them to make it deflate.

“You absolutely would,” he says. He pulls my head back to his chest—god he smells so good—and sighs.

“What did you do with the box?” he asks with a low voice.

“I put it back in the dresser. I don’t have the key, but… I thought you would prefer to have it there. The letter’s in there, too.”

Avido pets my head as reward.

It’s weird, I specifically sought out big scary men because I enjoyed being chastised and yelled at by them, but right now, I’m so happy to be pet like this!

“What did you think of the letter?” he asks with an amused lilt.

“You know I couldn’t read it,” I say.

“So, will you take me up on my offer of Italian lessons?”

“Ohh, you didn’t say that YOU would be my teacher,” I smirk. “That changes things up quite a bit. I’d love to be your cute little student!”

Avido looks down at me for a moment before rolling onto his back. “Maybe a tutor would be best, after all… I doubt you would be able to concentrate if you’re acting out like this already.”

“You’re so cruel to me!” I whine, hugging onto his arm.

“My name is ‘Crudele’, not ‘Cortese’, Miss Alice,” he says before a smirk plays at his gorgeous lips. “I’m surprised you didn’t have anything to say about the signature on that letter, though.”

I shrug, crawling a bit onto him so I can lay my head on his chest. Angiola already got that idea, though, and the two of us stare at one another before eventually deciding to share (a rarity brought on only by sleepiness).

“It suits you,” I say. “But I think I like ‘Avido Crudele’ better.”

“Oh?” Avido’s voice is dripping with sarcasm. “I’m glad that you approve.”

Angiola stretches and yawns, her cute face contorting into an abomination of teeth like cats’ mouths always do when they yawn.

“Night, Boss,” I say.

“Mm,” is the dismissive noise I get in response.

As sleep begins to drag me down, though, I feel Avido begin to pet my hair again.

“Sogni d’oro.”

***

You know, it sucks trying to sleep when a cat keeps on flicking her tail on your face and trying to push you away with delicate little paw pads.

Yeah, I’m definitely asking the Boss for a tomcat for Christmas. One that will make Angiola feel just like I feel whenever I see…

Oh.

I quickly step out of the way and peer into the gallery, where under the Christmas tree Avido is bending down to show something to Angiola.

He’s facing away from me, so I can’t really see what it is, but it looks very small. She sniffs at it before sitting down and mewling at her owner.

“Well, I have her approval at least,” Avido stands back up and turns towards me, smirking and pocketing a small box.

A very small velvet box.

“G-Good morning,” is all I can stupidly mumble.

“I was just thinking about what you said last night,” says Avido. “About how you prefer my name as ‘Crudele’.”

He smiles cruelly, knowing what an impact these words will have on me:

“I was thinking about how fortunate you are to feel that way, as ‘Crudele’ is the name you will eventually have.”

My feet are stuck to the floor, and I’m staring at him dumbly as he walks towards me.

“I-Is that what that box…?” my voice cracks as I point to his pocket with a trembling finger.

“Oh, that?”

He looks at my eyes and reaches into his pocket, tilting his head as though in deep thought.

“I’ve decided to wait until Epiphany to give you that present,” he finally says. “Just like a good Italian girl should.”

I continue to stand there, frozen, even as Avido drapes my coat over my shoulders.

“Well, I believe I said something about getting a Presepe that would make the Pope gnash his teeth with jealousy, didn’t I?” he cocks an eyebrow. “I assume you want to help me make my selection.”

He bends down and gives me a kiss on the cheek.

I spring to life and give him my cutest smile. “You got it, Boss!”

[margridarnauds]

i know you reblogged the Thing a while ago but aaaa i really love reading your answers so - 002 for lazare, if you wanna?

Thanks! (And seriously, if I’d reblogged it a month ago, I would still be down for answering it; I love talking 1789, especially if it involves my boy.) I feel like I did this some time ago, but also I’ve never stopped screaming about Lazare and I’m not going to stop now. 

Be warned: The following is based off of various and assorted headcanons and theories, ergo the canon compliance is, as always, questionable. Since it isn’t like Lazare gets all that much in canon, bless his heart. 

How I feel about this character: My baby. My son. My murderous son. It’s funny because, when I first watched 1789, it must have been about 3-4 years ago, because I somehow managed to fall into the fandom just before the Takarazuka version dropped (I seem to recall some of the initial questioning over how Marie Antoinette’s role would be dealt with and expanded), I REALLY didn’t like Lazare. I remember seeing all the fanfic on him (in French, which I read via Google Translate on my college’s computer while I was taking a creative writing class over the summer) and being like “This guy? WHY? HE KILLS PEOPLE.” Ah yes. My 17 year old self was so painfully naive. On so many points. Then, about a year and a half ago, I fell back into Hell after a stream of the Takarazuka version and managed to latch onto him. I really resisted for the longest time, but after about a month, I ended up bonding with him, and the rest is history. 

I think that, of all the cast, he has some of the greatest potential, and I really think that Matthieu Carnot in particular did a great job with giving us a variety of interpretations on him. 

All the people I ship romantically with this character: For the most part, I’m pretty monogamous to Peyronan. I do ship Artois/Lazare as a purely one-sided thing, purely so that Artois can do a flip when he finds out about Ronan. Olympe/Lazare and Olympe/Lazare/Ronan is right there; it’s pretty much the only way I can actually stomach Ronan/Olympe as a ship, and at one point I had. Words. Written out on that one, though who knows if I’ll ever complete those Words. I’ve also batted around Louis XVI/Lazare as an alternative to Artois.

My non-romantic OTP for this character: I STRONGLY Brotp Solène/Lazare and Olympe/Lazare, as well as Lt. du Puget/Lazare (with du Puget filling in as the father that Lazare SHOULD have had, had things gone better) and Ramard/Lazare. (Toho/Takarazuka Ramard, with the two of them both having to deal with Artois and Ramard still being new enough to the job that he’s not been totally corrupted yet.) 

Olympe and Lazare, in my own headcanon, parallel each other well, with Lazare’s longstanding crush on Artois and Olympe’s on Antoinette. Both of them are fiercely loyal to their respective members of the royal family, both of them distrust the mob and what it’s capable of, but while Artois exploits Lazare for his own benefit, making him into his personal attack dog (you know, In the one scene they have together in canon), Antoinette...doesn’t MEAN to with Olympe, she doesn’t even know that she HAS a crush on her. Antoinette is pretty oblivious to the world around her, bless her heart, but she means well. But still, we see in canon that Olympe sticks her neck out on the line time after time for her sake, before MA FINALLY lets her go. And even then, I go back and forth as to whether she realizes Olympe has a crush on her (and is trying to spare her the pain + the damage to her reputation) or whether she genuinely believes that Olympe has a lover (and genuinely thinks she’s helping Olympe by letting her be with someone she loves, not realizing that the person she loves is...), given that both are pretty devastating in their own ways. Artois, though, would never let Lazare go. Even if he doesn’t personally have any LIKING for Lazare, he’s not going to let him leave him, because he wants that control and his pride can’t stand the thought that Lazare could (1) Move on from HIM and (2) Move on from him WITH A PEASANT. Like, Ronan’s existence is basically the single biggest middle finger that Lazare could deliver to Artois. 

Solène and Lazare also have a hell of a lot in common, aside from just...the shit-talking Ronan opportunities. Both of them are the more pragmatic, cynical partner in their respective pairings, both of them pretend to feel a lot less than they actually do, and both of them have reputations of being People You Do Not Fuck With but also MELT for their respective love interests. 

My unpopular opinion about this character: This is something I’ve noticed primarily from the French and Russian fandoms (with a LITTLE bit in the Chinese, though I’ve also read fluff in Chinese), but Creepy Crawly Lazare. No. Absolutely no. I once literally started an Angsty Childhood Friends AU fic out of sheer SPITE over Creepy Crawly Lazare. (Not Le Cri, another one that I will unleash when the time is right.) I understand it with the Japanese productions a little bit more, because they tend to deal with a much darker look at him than the French, but I still don’t see Laz...like that. And, for the most part, I tend to favor the interpretations of Laz where he genuinely BELIEVES in the Ancien Régime and has managed to convince himself that he’s doing the right thing. I love the Takarazuka Laz; I love the Toho Laz (I’ve FINALLY warmed up to him. I mean, he replied to my mom on Instagram. How can you not like him if he replies to your mom on Instagram?), but they’re...not MY take on Lazare. I tend to see him as borderline asexual/demisexual as it is.  

Relating to that, any interpretation of Laz where he’s a smooth talker. My boy can play the political game as needed, primarily by keeping his mouth shut, but casually giving out pick up lines...no. The only way I could accept this is if he ran to Ramard for help, desperate, and he jotted down all of his favorite pick-up lines (hint: They’re all awful), only for Lazare to blank the second he saw Ronan. I genuinely have a hard time believing he’s had any kind of relationship pre-canon. Like, RONAN’S probably had more experience kissing than he has, and we’ve all seen how Ronan kisses. 

One thing I wish would happen / had happened with this character in canon: Obviously, I would love canon, mutually consensual Peyronan. I think that all three productions have hinted at it; I don’t think ANY of the Lazares have really played him as Straight™, especially when it comes to Ronan (THE HUG IN THE FRENCH PRODUCTION), but I would actually like to see it 100% canon. Not that that would EVER happen in a mainstream musical, especially in the Japanese productions (not saying there’s NO progress there, because there have been some stupendously gay things I’ve seen via Zuka and Toho, but most of the time it’s either [1] villains, [2] comic relief, or [3] queerbait, with the lead still ending up with the lead female character) but a girl can dream. 

Shipping aside, I would genuinely love to see Lazare and Ronan develop side by side as an antagonist/hero pairing. I would love to see Lazare grow increasingly desperate and brutal as the musical goes on (IF and only IF we’re going to have him as the villain and not the antagonist), just as Ronan slides deeper and deeper into the Revolution. I would love to see them parallel each other in various and assorted ways, not the least in their devotion to their respective sides, as both of them suffer from the society they were born in, just in differing ways and extents. On one hand, Lazare never starved like Ronan did, but on the other...he was made into a machine for the sake of preserving the Ancien Régime (and...it does seem like there’s a small amount of canon backing to that one, given some of his lines in Nous ne Sommes.) If you’re going to kick off the musical with the Lazare/Ronan rivalry and Ronan swearing vengeance, then you’ve got to make SURE you carry that one through to the end, even if it’s Ronan ultimately realizing that he doesn’t WANT Lazare dead. I just...need that development between the two of them, since it’s such a missed opportunity in the original. I do give Toho some props for showing SOME of that, as far as explaining why Lazare wants Necker out of a job + having Ronan there during Nous ne Sommes, but still...I need more Lazare development, dammit. 

my OTP: Lazare/Ronan. Was there any doubt? 

my cross over ship: Lazare/Chauvelin from The Scarlet Pimpernel is, like...my trash crossover ship. Not the least because Ryuu Masaki played both Ronan and Chauvelin in the Zuka productions. So it’s not TECHNICALLY cheating on Peyronan. 

Also, guilty pleasure ship I’ve been tossing around: Der Tod from Elisabeth/Lazare. I mean, given how often Lazare’s around dead people, I think it could go swimmingly. 

@janetcarter and I also have a longstanding 1789/Terra Nova crossover where the 1789 crew ends up in the colony of Terra Nova and meet some dinosaurs, and in that one Lieutenant Washington and Lazare are a big BROTP, given that they are both staunchly loyal soldiers with ponytails who fall in love with someone on the other side of the conflict and who were massively underwritten in canon. 

a headcanon fact: 99% of what I do with him is extensive headcanoning anyway and there are times I almost feel like I run out of headcanons, but Lazare wasn’t given an extensive education, ESPECIALLY not by aristocratic standards. Robespierre, Desmoulins, and Danton all outpace him there. He never learned Latin or Greek, his only two languages are German and French, because his grandfather went for the Prussian influence with him and he thought that Latin was unnecessary and would lead him to libertinage. His education was strictly kept to what would be immediately useful for his military career. When Lazare is talking about the “high class education” of the revolutionaries in the Takarazuka + Toho versions, he’s not just trying to convince Ronan to join him, he’s also projecting his own deeply buried, unacknowledged envy towards them. It also means that he often finds himself uncomfortable in the intellectually driven salons and court discussions, and his lack of formal court training puts him at a disadvantage, especially since the Comte d’Artois (who isn’t one to TALK there, historically), regularly uses him as the target for his mockery. A solid background at court was necessary to be a good officer and advance, connections were EVERYTHING, and a socially stunted officer was never going to make it as far as someone like, say, Fersen, who could navigate the best of both worlds. 

Also Autistic Lazare is very, very important to me as a concept. Whenever I write him, it’s with the idea that he falls somewhere on the spectrum.

Also, bluntly speaking, I have my. Ideas. For what happens to Lazare post-canon, and most of them don’t end well for him, though I truly don’t believe he makes it to the guillotine. I think Toho!Lazare in particular sings his lines in Pour la Peine with a certain resignation. 

In a happier timeline, as Lazare gets older, he needs reading glasses and grays quicker than Ronan. Ronan relentlessly teases him about being an old man; Lazare retorts that the reason he has so many gray hairs is because of Ronan. 

[sweetdollfromhell]

Chilling tales of Riverdale, a crossover fic

Chapter 6 of a old fanfic but stil alive that is a mix of Riverdale, CAOS and Archie horror. Located in season 2 and will have differences with the canon for both shows. This fanfic contains corrections for something that bothers me in the canon like the fact that Toni's actress is not a first nation (this detail is there but presented differently and I hope to use the terms correctly ), the weird thing with the multi-cultural neo-Nazi (plus I go with the comic book where Archie is Jewish), the impacts of the snake dance, Joaquim (because it's weird that these friends talk about it exactly once in 22 episodes and in a disposable sentence), for Sabrina's family, as shocking as it sounds, given the dates given, yes Sabrina's father is literally 10 years older than Ambrose in  the show canon (not the actors, I know but it's worth wondering if Ambrose is aging well or if Edward is aging badly)and yes, you can find Toni or Sabrina pretty bitchy towards one or the other but don’t be afraid, no one is going to become a bad guy for the purposes of the plot, I just think they would have tensions between the two given the situation (I really like the two chararctere and I expect a possible friendship because who doesn't like Vitriolic Best buds?)Sorry, it was a long explanation, but I didn't want people to misunderstand my intentions.

*******************************************************************************************

-What do you think of Archie's plan? Asked Betty of Kevin.

-That it may come from a noble intention, but it will end badly.  You know how many accidents happen because a few idiots thought they knew better than everyone else," replied the young man. -And let's just say, if I'm willing to trust Archie, I doubt a little more about Reggie or Dilton. But we're a little hypocritical of ourselves.

-What do you mean? Asked Betty surprised her.

-Hello Betty, the whole Jason Blossom case where we played Scooby-doo? Call Kevin back.

-Maybe but we must do something... Me and Jug met tonight to read some documents that will help us with the black hood case. Do you want to come?

Kevin was surprised by the invitation asking if Betty is still trying to make amends but realizes that the runaway was at her boyfriend's house. Yeah, he was going to let him benefit from the doubt.  

-Isn't that going to stress your guest out?

-Sabrina? Uh, I don't know, she seems really in need of human contact, I guess he won't have a problem. We just must avoid talking about where it comes from. She almost had a panic attack when I tried to talk about it. And I hope you like cats.  

Once in front of Jughead's trailer, Betty and Kevin will knock on the door. Toni open them up.

-Hello Toni," said Betty, surprised to see her there. -I didn't know you'd be here.

- Jugh told me about your project and it's a subject I'm passionate about too. I see you brought someone along too.

-Oh yes, here is Kevin Keller, said the young woman to introduce her friend who reached out to her.

-Hi.

-Toni Topaz, said the interested party, but she did not take his hand. -In, Jugh is gone looking for food for everyone and I stayed here to babysit Poison Ivy.

-I heard that! Shouted a voice in the Caravan.

-That was the goal, Toni replied.

As Betty and Kevin entered, Sabrina came to meet them. She looked much more presentable than when Betty saw her in the drinks. She had worn a vintage horror red t-shirt, a short black skirt, a big jean jacket with a wool lining, knee socks with striped , mary-James, un gold necklace and the headband given by Toni held her short hair in place.

-Betty! I am happy to see you again," said the girl smiling.

-I am also happy to see you again Sabrina," Betty replied surprised by the welcome. -This is Kevin," she continued.

Sabrina looked up at the young man with an intriguing look before reaching out.

-Hello Kevin, it's nice to meet you.

-I also like your cute grunge loli look, I especially like your Gremlin shirt," Kevin continued, watching it blush.

-Thank you, it's probably one of the most representative things in my wardrobe... Most of my clothes are practical.

-Oh what a shame, maybe Ronnie can lend you something...

Kevin kept talking with Sabrina about everything and nothing that probably lowered her defenses, Betty hoped.   She went to Toni wondering what to say to her: she wanted to silence that stupid feeling of jealousy in her and become friends with that person whom Jughead clearly appreciated but she had no idea how to interact with that person. She decides to try the banality.

-I hope we have enough for everyone," she tried clumsily. -You will tell me what we owe you and Jughead.

-You will ask your non cousin, she is the one who is buying, Toni replied.

Betty was surprised to see that Toni knew the lie to invent about Sabrina's origin (she was her cousin exception if the question was asked by the Cooper or the Sheriff, then it would be Jughead's) but let it go

-Oh, that's nice of him.

-No, it's necessary. Because personally, if I were Jug, I'd throw away everything in my fridge!

-I'm not sure I understand," Betty said troubled.

Toni sighed before explaining below:

-You know the Ghoulies who attacked you?

-Yes?

-She didn't just beat them, she poisoned them.

-What? Says Betty surprised. - How? How? Are they...?

-With a mushroom junk from which she had covered her broom. They are in the hospital, Miss swears that even if it has violent effects it can be treated well and without any backlash but still. Personally, I won't eat what she's cooking just so we know more about Jolly Jane. Note, having a criminal mind could be useful even if there is a world of difference between a teenage poisoner whose primary purpose is not murder and a guy in his forties who kills by violent means such as a gun or knife. Both are motivated by punishing someone they consider having committed a crime.

Betty was speechless when she heard the revelation; it was a little too much for just five minutes.

-I... she... how did you come to that conclusion?  Does it end with a request?

-Jug and I have to investigate," Toni answered proudly. -And she has no choice but to confess.

-I see, said Betty trying to untangle what she was feeling. -But you said she didn't want to kill them?

-That's what they lend and for what I learned about this thing, it seems possible but it's still dangerous. Shit, I was there when one of the Ghoulies developed symptoms, he could have had a concussion or choked on his vomit. I don't have them in my heart and I believe her when she says they wanted to see harm done. ¨Damn, they already beat him up once....

-What? Exclaimed Betty, unwittingly drawing Sabrina and Kevin's attention.

-You didn't know... Toni realized. -Sorry, I didn't mean to... Hey, you two, it's a private conversation," she said.

-Sorry, but it's a little hard to ignore when space is so limited, and no one is discreet, Kevin replied.

- Not to mention the fact that most people have the decency to talk behind their backs when they are not in the room, says Sabrina with an icy voice.

-Oh, that's cute, you think I didn't want you to know," Toni mocked.

Betty wants to calm things down in between but also asks Sabrina and Jughead for explanations while we're at it. Because right now one part is shocked by her revelations but another part that she would like to silence herself thinks it's well done for the Ghoulies. But two things stop her; the first is something that only lasts for a moment and that she is the only one who has noticed.

She had felt ants crossing her and a sudden cold and noticed Sabrina's eyes: it seemed as if the pupils were dilating... No, not really, not really that they seemed to want to pass the iris without making it disappear by swallowing only the white, but the operation started without ending, the pupil returning to its normal size so quickly. A play of light, fatigue, who knows?

The other was the sound of the door opening to reveal Jughead carrying many of Pop.

-Hi, a little help would be nice.

Kevin and Toni hurry to help while the two blondes stay where they belong.

-Toni told you what? Asked Sabrina whispering.

-That you've been poisoning people. Do you confirm?

-Yes, but only in self-defense. I'm not stupid or cruel either, Betty.  I took something that's not fatal and with obvious symptoms, so they'd have to see a doctor. This way, he had less risk of complications if something went wrong. A silent aggressor is worse than a noisy one.  

-It seems like you're talking about experience...says Betty was confused.

-I told you, my ancestors were pretty good at it and we kept their notes. We try to keep their knowledge alive and learn the tricks that can be used.

-That explains Toni's comment.  

-You don't have to be afraid of me," Sabrina said in an almost begging tone.

Her sentence made Betty uncomfortable but not for the reason she thought she did. Sabrina seemed more frightened at the thought of being repelled than any consequence has its actions. She also had a darkness in her that terrorized her, something dark that if she pointed her dirty head at her, would drive away all those who had never had affection for her. Because Betty still wonders why Veronica was talking to her after what she did to Chuck, how Archie could say he wasn't good enough for her after knowing him all his life, why Jughead loved her and treated her as a fragile thing rather than some kind of monster escaping from the asylum. Was Sabrina just a rebellious child who became pariah like Polly or a good soul who had to learn never to let her guard down to survive like Kevin.  

With hindsight, these next actions would seem very stupid, but too bad.

-I'm not afraid of you. For the moment, you haven't tried to hurt me or my loved ones, on the contrary, you wanted to protect us. So it's okay, but if you have other things you'd like to tell us that are important, it's better if you do it quickly. So that we can help you and avoid unpleasant surprises, but I would understand if you don't feel ready yet. It's just... I think it's a lot of trouble for Toni and...

-You too, Sabrina finished.

Not for the reasons you think, would have wanted to answer Betty. Because after this new information given by Toni, Sabrina could literally make the Ghoulies regurgitate their guts and bleed their eyes for what concerns her! And the one that realized horrifying her more than the idea that Sabrina was an expert in poison.  

-I...

-Betty? Are you coming?

-Of course, Betty replied, giving her an emergency exit to allow Sabrina to leave the conversation.

Surprisingly, they had enough food for everyone and no one tried to tear someone else's face off. Sabrina's cat, Salem, had decided to make his presence known once the food was served, searching for it. He had managed to get some from his mistress, Betty and Kevin. As a reward, the young man even won that the animal settled on his lap by purring with satisfaction.  In fact, Betty realized that the group she and Jughead had assembled was actually quite effective: Toni had experience in the darker parts of the city had several ideas or the killer could have found an unregistered weapon in addition to his interest in criminology, Kevin also shares this passion in addition to having literally grown up among the criminal cases thanks to his father and Sabrina seemed to know more about the dark history of the region whether it was Riverdale, Greendale, Sunnydale or other city in the region without speaking that Toni had been right for this criminal mentality story.

-You can find a weapon anywhere, see it taken from no one where you are and delete the number is easy with the right contacts, says Toni.

- The guy probably also has security experience because he knows so much about surveillance and if he doesn't succeed in all these crimes, he didn't leave any clues.  It means that his first concern is his safety," Kevin continued.

-Speaking of which, am I the only one who thinks her motive is fake? False-Grundy of what you explained made sense in the sin department to be a pedophile but the other victims? Two teenagers taking drugs and perhaps having some adventurous caress?  A single man who had a short affair with a married woman for whom he may have had real rather than purely sexual feelings and who acts like a saint the rest of the time? added Sabrina. -A little weak as sinners, don't you think? And this even if he was only motivated by lust.

-The best thing would be to make a list of everything they have in common, Jughead cut out. -It can't hurt.

Betty felt her stomach twisting as she thought back to the serial killer's letters and saw Kevin's strong gaze. She would rather keep quiet, it could have been just a stupid joke after all....

-Easy! All from Nordside and privilege! Says Toni.

- Fake Grundy came from Greendale, Moose is the eldest of six children with parents composed of a soldier and a mother who has a home daycare not what I would call privileged, corrected her Kevin. -Moose has already said that if he can get into a good university it will only be because he is good at football and they will want more minorities.

-Fred Andrew is also not rolling in gold,gave up Jughead.

- Grundy still lived in Nordside, Toni continued. -And how is this guy a minority? She continued surprised.

- His mother is an Amerindian. But she was adopted so Moose just knows the name of her tribute, unfortunately. And before you ask, they never had any government money for it because his mother thinks it's horrible to just use it to make ends meet, Kevin concluded.

-Uktena? Sabrina asked.

-I think so, said Kevin.

-Impossible, said Toni. -I am one and I've never heard of him.

-That's normal, isn't it? They were almost all massacred, only children and a few naaldlooshiis survived. The first dispersed to the four winds and the second having found refuge in Greendale. Honestly, that's the way it is in every small town, if you go through people's genealogies, discover lots of weird links and cousins you didn't know you had.

Betty almost laughed as she remembered the whole drama with her family and the Blossoms. Oh my God, she didn't know how right she was.

-And I'm going to be honest like Moose, I wouldn't have known you were if you hadn't told me, Sabrina continued. By whom, by the way?

-My grandfather, Toni answered quickly.

-Oh, so you're a Native American quarter?

-Well, technically yes," said Toni suddenly uncomfortable.

-Technically? Insista Sabrina.

-He is my grandmother's husband but he is not the father of his children, but he adopts them and raises them! So that counts, right? She defended herself.

-It makes him a good man and definitely your grandfather! But as a very white girl, I'm not going to get into a discussion about whether you can say you're culturally Native American," says Sabrina laughing.

-Are you from your origins? Oh, don't worry, don't you have to talk about Mom and Dad, just say if you have something interesting in there? Asked Toni, frustrated at having been taken to class.

-My grandfather was an American, but he lived in England where he met my grandmother who was herself a mixed English and Australian. They got married, they have my three aunts before returning to the United States and having my father. The oldest of my aunts is staying there with her late husband.

-Did she marry young or does she just have a big difference with your father? Ask Jugh.

-Both. My father and cousin must be about ten years apart. Her husband was Afro-English and otherwise we also crossed the geneological tree we have German, Indian, French and Uktena

-What's is that word you use? Nanalooshi? Asked Kevin.

-An abomination/victim! Both girls said with a heart.

-Okay. Maybe…, Betty began.

-Hey, it's my culture! These people were criminals who deserved their fate! Says Toni.

-Need I remind you that being gay or having an abortion was once a crime? Most of his people were healers for not being able to heal someone or sick people rejected out of fear? Says Sabrina.

Jughead decided to intervene at that moment:

-Maybe get back to the main topic? I don't think we can solve this issue tonight, but maybe the Black Hood issue.

The two girls stared at each other but obeyed each other. Jughead continued:

-I admit that even if there is still the possibility that only attacks people he can reach and leaves out targets like Hiram Lodge, it doesn't go with his provocative attitude.

-Overcompensation? ask Kevin.

Jughead shook her unconvinced head before turning to Sabrina.

-Sabrina, can I ask you something else with this investigation and was hoping for an honest answer?

-Wow, almost no pressure! Says Sabrina uncomfortable. -You can always try. I wouldn't lie, but I keep the privilege of pleading the fifth.

The cat suddenly stopped purring on Kevin's lap and he felt it tender. Did the animal feel the stress of its owner?

-I suspect that Greendale is not a village, but have you known anyone with a connection to the real Miss Grundy or the fake one? Her real name was Jennifer Gibson, known as Jughead.

Sabrina seemed to reassure immediately, and the cat became soft again on Kevin's lap.

-Oh, just that. I don't know Jennifer or any Gibson. I know a little bit of some of the Grundy family, but it's just that we went to the same church. I can try to answer as best I can about them if you want but I don't see anything very useful in it.  

-Do you think the killer could have come from there? Suddenly ask Kevin.

-What makes you think that? Asked Betty surprise.

-He was very comfortable with this attack: he succeeded in his murder and was much more violent with it. It was a crime of passion! If the killer hadn't sent personal belongings from the other victims, I would have said it was someone who wanted revenge on her and made it look like the work of the Blackhood," Kevin explained.

-Aren't you saying this whole thing would be a plot to get rid of fake Grundy? Toni asked.

-It does seem a little big to me, says Betty.

-There may be another explanation... Sabrina whispered.

This time, the cat jumps from Kevin's knees to Sabrina's knees, who mechanically started stroking him.

-It's a little silly, but maybe the reason he took his time was because he knew no one would bother him.

-Because he attacked her at home? Asked Betty.

-Among other things. But also... It's really stupid but... It's Greendale. Let us say that the population has certain habits. Like not leaving the house after dark. Especially if you hear screams.

Toni laughs before answering:

-It's Greendale, not Los Angeles! What the hell are you gonna do if I drag you into my corner!

Sabrina looked at Toni with deep boredom and replied:

-I never said I was part of a superstitious population, on the contrary I loved walking at night! But I can tell you that I am a minority and even outside there are people who will hesitate. The city has traumas that night brings back.

-What kind of trauma?" Betty asked.

-Want to hear stories of heroes and monsters? This is far from our study topic....

-Oh no! No! I want to hear this story! Exclaimed Kevin with stars in his eyes. It's even better when it's based on real-life experience.

Kevin had always been fascinated by horror and gore, never missing an opportunity to expand his repertoire of history by the fire.

-I guess a break can't hurt, Betty yielded.  

The cat jumped from Sabrina's knees to take refuge in the room, Sabrina looked at him worried but quickly recovered.  

Sabrina smiled and began her story:

-The settlers would arrive in America...

-Seriously, how far do you have to start? Toni asked.

-It's just a summary to get you in the mood! So all his settlers are there to escape persecution and build a free and accepting land...It really took a hypocritical level of hypocrisy crazy enough to believe such shit. The local population is mistreated like women, pocs, other religions and everything else that comes out of their morals stuck puritanically to the impossible criteria. In this wonderful hell on earth that the trials of heretics begin, it seems, very ironic when you consider that most people have fled from these persecutions in Europe. The most famous of his trials is of course Salem and this despite who is not the most murderous, in fact he shines by his mediocrity! His popularity is probably related to his industry from the beginning turning murder, torture, rape and treason into entertainment for the whole family, go figure! Sabrina continued.

-Well, Confederate soldiers have statues, don't they? Not to mention dumb people like Christophe Colom, says Toni coldly.

-True, Toni, that's right. But good for us the rest of the story is more joyful: Greendale is not spared by this madness, the vast majority of non-Puritanical settlers had even been driven from the lands they had or they had settled by the most extremist leaving them without homes or resources and some poor souls are offered in sacrifice to their larvae addictive to the suffering of others. Hanging slowly, fighting to keep the air from their lungs, losing control of functions in front of their beaten child in front of their execution zones with religious leaders telling them to bow their heads and let the scapegoats be sacrificed for the good of others, Sabrina continued, filled with cold anger.

-Sabrina, don't bother to be so precise we just ate," moans Betty.

-Betty, you've been through worse, make fun of Kevin nicely.

Jughead attracts his girlfriend against him and Sabrina takes over:

-So many decided that they were because it was all women who were tired of shaving walls and just watched them suffer! They had to expect it badly and no consequence could be worse than what they were going through, to act. They will not flee, they will not hide and more importantly, they will no longer let people get hurt with impunity....

-One of your ancestors among them, Sabrina? Jughead asked curiously.

-Not impossible, Sabrina said with a little smile. So they broke into his so-called hunters, judges and other criminals who hide under titles. They would find them and their families: they would slit their throats, skin them alive and tear their hearts still beating from their chests! And to make the message clear, they will throw their carcasses to the same trees where their victims were murdered!

Betty looked at the storyteller in shock, so the way Sabrina told her story was disturbing. You could feel a kind of pride and respect in his words. And his expression! Betty thought she would rather have seen a psychotic smile than that kid's expression of a joke, laughing eyes and a candid smile!

-And with the bodies a note sticking on one of the bodies warning that it was not revenge, only a warning. If such horror were to happen again in Greendale or even in a nearby town or village, they would be happy to show that they had not yet seen anything! And it worked, the inhabitants of Greendale learned how to love and respect its slightly different inhabitants. Night and the forest have remained their domain and even nowadays, one can laugh at his stories, at night when the moon shines and one wonder if one waits for a cry in the distance, that sometimes perhaps just maybe, there is still one of his women who watches over the grain. And fine! Sabrina said, clapping her hands.

-Great story! I wish Riverdale had had something like that! Says Kevin with a big smile.

-Not bad, I admit that it's nice that oppressing them wins and not because of the power of love or some shit like that," Toni said.

-Not sure that people will build a museum to attract tourists with this history... Seeing children, violence is sometimes the solution, says Jughead more troubled.

-Are you saying they killed their families too? Asked Betty to horrify.

-Yes, Sabrina said as she realized the implications. -But they had done the same thing... and if it makes you feel better, as much they had peace after that, as much the women or at least the woman who organized everything had to pay for it to the leaders of her community more for overriding their permission than because they had problems with her methods. No problem has taken advantage of the benefits anyway I don't think anyone is learning anything new.

-Indeed, and it continues to this day! The minorities pay, suffer and fight while the rest benefit from advancing by posing as moral guardians," says Toni gloomily.

Jughead clumsily tapped Toni's shoulder but she seemed to appreciate the attention.  

-So, your theory is that people if they heard something, they didn't do anything because of these stories? Says Betty, still trying to silence her illogical feelings by focusing on something else.

-I know it sounds stupid, but superstition is stupid by definition! Easy to say that it's bullshit in broad daylight with friends, it's a whole different story at night, alone when every shadow looks like a ghost. You don't care about people who believe in Bloody Mary but not enough to try the ritual just to prove to them that it's bullshit. My point is that maybe this guy was lucky or maybe he knew they had old monsters to use as a screen but in the end, he could kill her.

-So, we eliminate the theory that false Grundy was his only intended victim, but we add that he can come from Greendale or at least be familiar with the city? Asked Kevin.

Everyone nodded, and Kevin wrote their last notes.

-What's the result? Asked Jughead.

-Uh... male, white, in his forties, with a high probability of having green eyes, height and average weight according to the information we have, in good physical condition, knows how to shoot, knows the city of Riverdale and Grendales well, has access to private information, seems obsessed with the sins of the city which may indicate that he is religious in a way, concludes Kevin by always having a supportive eye towards Betty. -In other words, we don't have much.

-Bright green eyes are the rarest natural color in humans, only 2% of the population has eyes of this color, says Jughead.

-Ironic as a remark in a room with 3 people with green eyes, Kevin remarked, referring to himself, Betty and Sabrina, all of whom have eyes of this color. He could even have included Jughead so the look oscillating between green and blue.

Everyone stared at him for a moment Kevin who caught up:

-Hey, I'm not accusing anyone, it was just a remark that includes me too! You don't have to get paranoid.  

-Yes, in addition, limiting oneself to only people with green eyes would be counterproductive. Archie was in shock, the Blackhood's eyes could be hazelnut or blue but seemed green because of the lighting, Jughead recalled.

-We should still prioritize them without kidnapping suspects because they have a different color," says Betty.

-Good idea," Jughead approved.

-Speaking of Archie, can either of you explain how the fact that his father got shot gives him the right to leave a neo-Nazi group? Said frustrated Toni.

The other four turned to Toni, shocked by his accusations.

-Toni, what are you talking about the red circle? Asked troubled Betty.

-Yes, I'm talking about these morons! Ready to attack the southside in the first movement! Toni continued.

-I didn't know that the neo-Nazis had become multicultural," says Sabrina coldly.

-Sorry? Toni asked.

-Apology accepter, Sabrina quickly said, taking advantage of Toni's poor choice of words. -But my point is that I don't understand why you call a multi-ethnic group without any iconography related to fascism or Nazism, Sabrina continued.

-And Archie is Jewish by his mother, feels obliged to specify Betty to defend Archie. Information that was greeted by a frustrated look from Tony and a satisfied look from Sabrina.  

-They had hoods... Toni began.

And they were bare-chested, usually except for a bad case of Vertigo, people have the same color face and torso, the Sabrina cut.

-I was going to say that the KKK wears hoods too! Toni defended himself.

-Like many Islamic extremist groups or pussyriots, I don't see you accusing them of being one or the other, Sabrina continued.

-As soon as we could all agree that it looked like bad porn at first? Tempted awkwardly Kevin only reaping the fiery gaze of the two girls.  Betty also tried to calm the situation down:

-This is the third time we've changed the subject, I think it's a sign that everyone is getting tired. We've made good progress, so why are we getting

-Sorry, but if it's to make the Southside serve as a scapegoat, then it'll be without me, Toni shouted before leaving the caravan.

-Toni, wait! Says Jughead as he goes to his suite leaving the other three alone.

Betty sighed with her head between her hands.

-Sorry," said Sabrina. -I shouldn't have corrected it.

-You didn't do anything wrong," Betty said flatly. -She needed to vent her anger one way or another, my sister is the same.

- Do you have a sister?

-Yes, Polly.

(And a brother somewhere she thought silently).

-Is it just Polly, Pollyanna or Appoly? Sabrina asked.

-Uh... Pollyanna, says Betty surprised by the question. -My mother likes the classics, Pollyanna after the novel of the same name and I am Elizabeth after Pride and Prejudice.

Kevin had a little laugh, from what he knew about Betty's mother, a novel about an indescribable optimist and another about the danger of preconceived ideas and misplaced pride seemed quite funny from Alice Cooper. Betty seemed to think the same thing because her expression seemed closer to a I know what you think than a hurt expression.

- Not everyone can have a name with a cool meaning, others like your servant are named after the top 10 popular names of 2003, complains Kevin. - What about you? Was he a fan of the movie with Audrey Hepburn? Asked Kevin.

-Maybe. But I think the important part was the A at the end," says Sabrina.

-The A? continued Kevin that Betty could see mentally taking notes.

-All the girls in my family for more than 400 years have a name that ends in A even if it means changing the spelling: Sabrina, Zelda, Hilda, Vesta, Esmeralda, Lydia, Priscilla, Evanora, Locasta Kezia, Sara and many more!

-I hope there are still some good ones left among them, Kevin continued.

-We'll see, you already must have a daughter on the way to do that! Retorqued Sabrina.

-I hope it's not too bad with Toni," says Betty as she leaves with Kevin.

-Yes, especially since Sabrina should have apologized to me. I had planned to make connections with her, replied this one.

-Did you want to hear from Joaquin? Asked Betty.

-I just wanted to know if he was okay," Kevin said hastily. -His life was not exactly easy and no matter what happened between us, I don't wish him any misfortune.

-I don't judge, on the contrary if you came back together, we could have double dates with our snake buddies, Betty tried.

-Yes, and we can visit them together in prison," says Kevin sarcastically. -Why don't you ask the question that burns your tongue?

-On Sabrina?

-On Luna Lovegood herself.

-So?

She's self-monitoring, I can confirm that, but she talks as much as I do and if she tries to be careful, she lets things slip. She comes from Greendale with her family who has been there for a long time, among the names of women she named some are obscure enough that if Spellman is her real name can find them. Plus, she was talking about doing a congregation and seems to have had a good education so probably was at school at one time or another. Hopefully, someone saw something.

-Won't it be too hard to get? Betty continued.

-My father is already contacting the Greendale police because of the black hood and I just need to ask the archives manager to send us information pretending it's for my father. Madge trusts me, I'm the gay son she never had," Kevin proudly said.

-Oh, my God, Kevin, you're awesome!

-I know but I can't promise you a result; too precise would risk attracting attention and it may be that it is really nothing. For all we know, she could be a bored mythomaniac or a kid who lives without contact with civilization because her parents are in a cult or something, Kevin reminded her. -And you will have to deal with his reaction and or the problems that will follow, Kevin reminded him.

-I will take responsibility for my actions, Betty promised.

-Toni, wait! Jughead shouted.

-What? Asked Toni frustrated but stopped anyway.

-I'm sorry about what just happened, but no one is our enemy!

-Our enemy? Asked intrigues Toni.

-I'm going to become a Southside Serpent, aren't I? And Betty defended the snakes and my father in the newspaper even though it made her threaten, Kevin made....

-Allows Joaquin to flee the city, Toni added.

-Do you know each other? Asked Jughead.

-There are exactly 3 LGBT Serpent of our age in and for all, we stick together.

-Joaquin, you...including Jughead

-I like guys but I like girls even more," smiles Toni. -And Fang is like me, but it stays between us.

-I promise! And for Archie....

-He is an idiot, and someone will end up hurting: turn into a martyr if it is someone from the north and if it is someone from the south, he will probably have run after it, concluded Toni.

-Yes, unfortunately. I intend to fix this. It's horrible what's his father’s but drowning a bunch of idiots in their own testosterone isn't going to help the situation. Neither is Sweet peas' plan.

-He is not the only one to have this point seen," said Toni gloomily. -But you can't do anything until you're an official member. I'll also have to talk to your roommate.

-Why?

Toni had a little amused smile

 When they returned, they found Sabrina alone cleaning up. The cat eats with enthusiasm the little bit of staying behind.

-They left but Betty said you could do the text her, Sabrina quickly answered.

-I'll do it right away," replied Jughead, taking his phone and settling down on the sofa.

-It's all right Toni? continued Sabrina

-Not bad, don't even think of taking advantage of a moment of weakness for your cat to eat me," replied this one. -Besides, you and I must have a chat," she continued, taking Sabrina's wrist and dragging her into the room.

Sabrina stiffened under her fingers but did not try to resist, following her. Toni saw the cat watching her following her with her eyes...Stupid animal!

Toni closed the door and turned to Sabrina who had sat on the bed.

-Why this sudden desire for privacy, Antoinette? Asked the other coldly.

-Don't flatter yourself, Sabrinette," said Toni before taking a deep breath and choosing her words carefully:

-I need you to listen to me: Jughead is going to have to have an initiation to be a gang member. One of the challenges for this involves getting into his home. We won't touch you and nothing serious will happen, okay?

-For this one, said with a kind of amusing dry Sabrina. No problem! - No problem! Just let me know when I should take out my first aid kit.

- I never talked about that! Said Toni forcefully.

-So, none of the events can hurt Jughead? Sabrina asked with a big smile.

-Well... Toni began.

-That's what I thought," said Sabrina clinically. -Don't worry, I'm not judging and it's none of my business.

Toni should be happy to hear him say that, shouldn't she? Or maybe he replies that it is none of his business. But she can't do it. There was something wrong with this girl; something missing or at least had been damaged, leaving that feeling of cold and death that comes out of her. Sabrina's gaze passes over Toni in such a clinical way that she feels naked: an animal judging its prey before speaking:

-I like Jughead, he's a good person. I won't let anything happen to her, I promise, conclude this one with a smile. Then she reattached in force:

-Same, worse or better than for you?

-What?

-Your initiation? Is Jughead going to get the same one as you or is it going to be different? Sabrina continued.

Images of the snake dance reappeared in Toni's head with feelings of anger, shame and disgust. Dancing at the age of 14 in front of adult men, some of whom she considers to be family and others who had looked like a piece of meat, still haunting her today. So far from the stories of pure warriors of his grandfather protecting theirs. Again, one of the elders had told him what it was like before FP took the lead of the Serpent...

-I see...said Sabrina looking sade to the surprise Toni.

-What do you see? Toni asked dryly.

She looked embarrassed before she answered:

-Your expression... I’m sorry. It's not a good memory...

- Like when you come from? Because I don't know if you ran away from home because you wanted to live the life of a young adult novel character or if you're as fucked up as you say you are going to have to give something other than your word. Because believe me, I know what it's like to have no one and not be able to go to the cops...  

Sabrina stiffened up but replied with a smile closer to the grimace:

- I gave you my hometown, didn't I? Doesn't that give me points for good conduct?  And you want to take me out with the not so different after involving that I hide by boredom? Oh Antoinette, you know nothing about my situation and if you were me, you'd wish you were dead! So, you take care of Jughead and I'll be there if you ever need help to put the pieces back together again because if it were really safe, I wouldn't have the face of someone who would take him to the slaughterhouse, Sabrina continued, spitting out his venom.

-You crazy bit...started Tony who wasn't as to why she hadn't hit him yet.

(Because it would mean touching her) and Tony's gut told her that something horrible would happen if she did. The poisoning episode was probably not the worst.

 -Not a you are wrong or it a lie? If you switched to insults, it's because I had a good argument.

Then seeming to find a semblance of calm:

-Everyone survives as best they can, I don't judge, I don't think I even have the right to judge others' choices anymore. I'm just asking you the same thing, okay? I want help to thank you for your help and I will leave at the slightest sign of disturbance on your part," she said, realizing that the violence of her reaction and extending her hand apologizes.

-Swear on what little I have left, Antoinette.

Toni, gave him a cold look and before saying:

-Don't you dare go out the room when we get back tomorrow, before turning his back on her and leaving the room.