#i love the weightlessness of salt water as well its like your flying or in space or something

[cj-kenobi]

I miss my wife (the ocean)

[the-mirror-witch]

hello! I see you accepted new requests so may I ask for a headcanon/scenario (whichever you prefer!) with the dorm leaders where they see their short s/o wearing their clothes then run away? something like "If you want your clothes back then come and get it~" thank you<3

(Tooo Cuuuutttteeee! 💖💖 I love thiiiisssss!!!!)

Riddle Rosehearts:

Riddle was fuming, marching through the Heartslabyul like a man on a warpath. Students were ducking out of the way the moment they saw the shade of red on their dorm leader’s face. 

Why was Riddle so angry on what was otherwise a beautiful day? Knowing Riddle, it could have been for any number of reasons. Perhaps Ace had done something mind-numbingly stupid or Cater had posted embarrassing pictures on his Magicam. As it turns out, it was none of these things.

The true reason was that it was nearly time for the Unbirthday Party, and Riddle couldn’t find his dorm leader cape anywhere.

He at first suspected Ace and Deuce of pulling an ill-timed prank on him by hiding his esteemed uniform. They pleaded ignorance, but he still used his unique magic on them just for good measure. 

If Riddle didn’t find his cape soon, he was going to blow up like a boiling tea kettle. 

He happened to pass by one of the open dorm rooms (he would have to yell at the occupants later. Rule #254 stated that the dorm rooms were to be kept locked when not under inspection) and lo and behold, who should he find standing there in front of a mirror, giggling like a child wrapped up in his cape?

Yes, you, Riddle’s darling rose, where the culprit behind this entire fiasco. You may owe Heartslabyul an apology after this. But you simply couldn’t resist yourself when you found Riddle’s cape just lying on his bed. You had ever intention of returning it before Riddle could miss it, but got so caught up in the way the cape enveloped you that you lost track of time.

It also distinctly smelled like strawberries, like a certain redhead you were rather fond of.

The moment Riddle saw you, his face turned red for entirely different reasons. 

The silent moment was short-lived when you noticed Riddle in the mirror, giving you quite a start. You whirled around and Riddle cleared his throat, insisting that return his cape to him.

He should have known by the evil glint in your eye that it would not be that easy. 

So, Heartslabyul was treated to the sight of its dorm leader chasing you down the halls as you laughed like a madman.

Worry not, Cater got plenty of blackmail pictures to share with you later.

Leona Kingscholar:

Poor Ruggie really does get the short end of the bone sometimes, doesn’t he?

But what else was he supposed to do? His giant cat of a dorm leader was too lazy to do his own damn laundry, so Ruggie as Leona’s un-official babysitter had to do it for him.

You were visiting Savanaclaw, something you did on a near daily basis. You happened to stumble upon the disgruntled hyena and, in a moment of sympathy, decided to offer your assistance. 

Your offer was happily accepted. 

The two of you finished the laundry in a timely manner. You were rather pleased with yourself as you admired how nice, warm, and clean you made Leona’s shirt. 

Then temptation hit you like a rhino. Should you? Yes, yes you should.

Before you could second guess yourself, you quickly slipped on Leona’s shirt after making sure Ruggie wasn’t looking at you. You’d never live it down otherwise. 

It was so nice and warm, it reminded you of being cuddled by the lion himself. Such thoughts made you feel rather sleepy. It made you keep the shirt on just another second longer.

That second was all that was needed.

Leona was in a rather grumpy mood (when wasn’t he, tho?). You, little herbivore, were late for your routine napping session. Leona wasn’t one to normally give a flying damn about routine and timelines, but this was rather uncharacteristic of you. 

What was he left to do but to hunt you down himself? 

That was how he came to find you, wearing his shirt like you belonged in it.

The smug lion came up behind you, smirking and asking just what were you thinking, wearing his shirt like that? 

You froze up, unsure what you should say. When Leona smirked at you like that, there was no telling what could happen, and you beginning to get nervous. Well, you know what they say? Fake it till you make it.

So, you boldly looked up at him, and claimed it was your shirt now. Finders, keepers, and all that jazz. 

Leona was greatly amused, and damn him if confidence wasn’t a good look on you. 

However, Leona simply couldn’t back down from your challenge. You heard the growl rumbling deep in his chest and without a second thought took off running. You had no doubt that the King of Beasts was hot on your heels. 

Azul Ashengrotto:

The lights of the Mostro Lounge were dimmed, allowing the reflection of rippling water to become more prominent. It was very atmospheric, and allowed for everyones attention to be on the main performance of the night. 

It was rare for Azul to give a performance at the Lounge, so each occurrence was a privilege. In this case, it was the Lounge’s anniversary. The entire night had been a special one, with rare additions to the menu and discounts and promised prizes that kept the Lounge booked weeks in advance. 

The twins had kept the guests entertained for the majority of the evening, and now it was Azul’s turn. And you, lucky little angelfish, got a front row seat. 

No eyes were off of Azul as he played the piano. If the twins were to be believed, Azul was playing an ancient merman song, from the times when the Seafolk would lure unsuspecting sailors to their doom through their enchanting voices alone. Given the twins’ affinity to messing with people, you normally took their tales with a grain of salt. 

This time, however, you were inclined to believe them. There was some sort of alluring magic within the notes of Azul’s song, there had to be. It demanded attention and refused to relinquish it. You could practically smell the salt of sea wind and see the rise of ocean waves with each crescendo. You were spellbound. You imagined that, if Azul told you to throw yourself into bone-shattering waves, you’d reply with “Yes please.” 

And from the glazed eyes of the other guests, you knew you weren’t alone. 

You weren’t entirely sure what force pushed you to stand from your seat. Perhaps you truly were entrapped by Azul’s siren call. Perhaps there was an ugly part of you that bristled at the many eyes trained on the silver haired man. Whatever the reason, you moved through the mist that had settled under the lounge. Azul’s song was coming to an end. He noticed your approach, raising an eyebrow but not once stopping the movement of his fingers. It never ceased to amaze you how well coordinated he could be, despite being a literal fish out of water. Perhaps it was from years of simultaneously using ten limbs. 

The song reached its final crescendo as you came to stand beside Azul. The final wave, preparing to crash down on the battered shore. 

The wave came crashing down as you grabbed the hat off of Azul’s head, putting it on your own. You cut off Azul’s protest with a swift kiss, as gentle as the cold spray of the sea. As the guests of the lounge applauded, you stepped down and left Azul sitting there wide-eyed and blushing furiously. 

You made your escape to the underwater hallways of Octavinelle, passing by the snickering twins as you did. You weren’t entirely sure if Azul would chase after you or not to get his hat back, but it didn’t matter either way to you. Your brain hadn’t quite caught up to your bold actions. There was a part of you that was still blissfully lost at sea. 

Kalim Al-Asim:

It was late in the evening, with the half-faced moon looming over the Arabian night, and the party showed no sign of slowing down. 

Kalim had his misgivings, but he sure as hell knew how to throw a party. Even though it was undisputed that Kalim was the life of the party, with everything gravitating around him like brilliant sun that he was, he had the strange ability to make it feel as if the party was centered around you. 

Sometimes you felt guilty about stealing away Kalim’s attentions from everyone else, but then Kalim would give you that brilliant smile of his, reminding you that you were his guest of honor and it was only natural that he made sure you had the best night of your life. Well, who were you to argue with that? 

You spent a great deal of the night dancing with Kalim. Your lungs burned and legs ached, but those things seemed to disappear into the wind, scattered by Kalim’s breathless yet exuberant laughter. His joy was infectious, filling your veins with sunshine and warmth as you laughed too. 

Could a moment truly last forever? You wished that it would. This moment was perfect, as you spun around in Kalim’s arms, your feet feather-light and a feeling of weightlessness washing over you. It was all too easy to forget that there were other people around. Their presence faded into little more than background noise, leaving nothing but you, Kalim, and the lively music that sang in your bones, flowing easily from your body to Kalim’s and back again as you moved in time with one another. 

You hadn’t drunk anything alcoholic that night, but Godmother save you if you didn’t feel drunk. You were light-headed and wonderfully happy. You were in a whole new world, one just for you and Kalim. Perhaps this feeling wouldn’t carry over into tomorrow, perhaps you had this one night alone. If that was the case, you were sure as hell going to make it last a lifetime. 

You didn’t know when it happened, but at some point in the night you had managed to steal Kalim’s half-turban right off his head and had it hanging loosely around your neck. The jewels that decorated it clanked every time you moved, and it was a wonder you hadn’t noticed it before. 

Well, Kalim had yet to point it out, so he either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Either way, if he wasn’t going to bring it up, then you weren’t about to. Thus, your unintentional thievery was completed.

The dance ended and you finally managed to drag yourself away from Kalim long enough to get yourself some much needed refreshment. 

Kalim truly hadn’t noticed that you had taken his turban until its absence was pointed out by Jamil. It didn’t take long for either of them to spot it hanging around your neck from where you stood across the crowd.

Kalim happily took it as an excuse to pull you into another dance. 

Jamil let out a long, suffering sigh. The two of you were hopeless. 

Vil Schoenheit:

Confession time. You might have, sort of stolen Vil’s crown. Um...oops? 

In your defense, Epel had dared you do it. He had deliberately chosen the dare, knowing no one in their right mind would attempt to steal from Pomefiore’s queen. Not unless they were Rook, or you apparently. 

Besides, how mad could Vil be? (Mad, very mad, you could practically taste the poison already, Epel was going to get you killed how could he do this to you he knew your impulse control was non-existent-)

Well, what done was done, and you proudly showed off your prize to your dumbfounded friends. In full honesty, they hadn’t expected you to go through with it.  Now that you had the crown, why not take full advantage of it. 

You took plenty of pictures of you wearing it. Epel gave on heck of a Vil impression while wearing it. All in all, you had a roaringly good time and nearly forgot that you had stolen the crown in the first place. Unbeknownst to you, a certain hunter found you with the crown in your possession and, with a cruel smile, slunk back into the shadows to relay his findings to his enraged queen. 

It didn't take long for Vil to arrive, amethyst eyes burning like gemstones that had fires trapped within them. You felt like a meek little mouse under Vil’s glare. One look towards Epel and you could practically see the “oh shit” reflected in his eyes. 

Vil held out his hand, a silent demand for you to return his property and accept your punishment. 

Welp, your grave was already dug out. Why not go a little deeper? Or perhaps that was the panic trying to rationalize your truly idiotic potato move.

You ran for dear life, dragging poor Epel with you. If you were going down, he was going with you. 

You didn’t get far. Damn that hunter. 

You and your partner in crime were caught, and the crown returned to the head of its rightful queen. 

Vil smirked down at you, a gloved hand stroking your cheek. 

There was something befitting about a crown on your head. After all, he expected the person who would stand beside him to be just as well-adorned as he was. Perhaps he should look into getting you a crown of your own. 

Idia Shroud:

Welp, Idia was lost to the realm of campaigns and RPG's. Again. Not that you were particularly surprised. Idia spent a lot of time either online or working on some high-tech invention, and would probably never see the light of day if you and Ortho didn’t drag him outside. 

You fully supported Idia’s interests and his hobbies, but you couldn’t help but feel a little lonely while you sat in his room and waited for him to finish and finally spend some time with you. 

You flopped down on his bed, pouting. Maybe you should get up and explore the Ignihyde dorm. You didn’t get to see enough of it, and as the most technologically advanced dorm in the college, it should be a sight to behold. Perhaps you could even met another one of the dorms reclusive members before they ran away screaming at the prospect of human interaction. 

Making up your mind, you got up and your hand brushed against one of Idia’s hoodies, which was lying haphazardly off the side of his bed. You thought about it for all of one second before putting it one, the hoodie practically swallowing your entire body. You giggled. With how much Idia slouched over, it was easy to forget just how much taller he was compared to you. 

Now properly dressed for your impromptu adventure, you walked out of Idia’s room and went exploring. 

Soon after, Idia finished his game, cheering in victory as he won. He pulled his headset off and stretched his back. That’s when he noticed that you were gone and he immediately spiraled into a panic. Where had you gone? You normally waited around for him to finish so that you could spend time together. 

Had you finally gotten sick and tired of him? Has he finally driven you away with his anti-social behavior? Had he just epically failed your route and received a bad ending???? NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!

Ortho found his brother in the middle of an otaku level meltdown and calmed him down, telling him that he had just seen you walking around the dorm. 

Ortho encouraged his brother to go looking for you himself to show you that he noticed your absence, and Idia in his still distraught state agreed without hesitation. 

Ortho “accidentally” forgot to mention what it was you were wearing. Idia was very underprepared. 

When Idia saw you wearing talking to another Ignihyde student while wearing his hoodie, his face instantly turned red. Why were you so cute, wearing his hoodie like that? Didn’t you know how dangerous for his health that was?

You didn’t know why Idia was supporting himself with one hand against the wall and another clutching his chest, but Ortho assured you it wasn’t a bad thing. 

Malleus Draconia:

You had gone to the Diasomnia dorm to visit Malleus. It was something you did regularly and should come as a surprise to no one, yet Sebek still insisted on giving you grief about showing up unannounced. 

Ignoring him, you asked Lilia where Malleus was, and the amused bat told you that Malleus was busy at the moment. Before you could become disheartened and leave, Lilia informed you with a knowing smile that Malleus wouldn’t be much longer now and you could simply wait for him in his room. 

Once again in good spirits, you thank the ancient Fae and did just that. 

Only, now that you were in Malleus’s room, you weren’t quite sure what to do with yourself. It was the first time you had ever been in Malleus room, and you found yourself simultaneously fascinated and awkward. Would it be okay for you to sit on his bed? Perhaps you should play it safe and just sit on the floor like a goblin. Would he get mad if you snooped through his things? Well, he might not, but Sebek sure as hell would. 

Eventually, boredom got the best of you. So, you went through Malleus’s closet. You were a terrible person, okay, it’s been acknowledged let's move on to the raiding. 

You pulled out one of Malleus’s cloaks, a black one (shocker). You wrapped it around yourself, and it was so large it might as well have been a blanket on you with the way it pooled at your feet. You always knew that Malleus was unfairly taller than you, but being wrapped in his cloak like this made you feel oh, so small. 

You weren’t going to acknowledge how the cloak smelled like Malleus, like cinder and the evening woods. Nope, nada. If you did, you would be red-faced for the rest of the evening and there was no way Malleus wouldn’t notice. 

You were just about to unwrap yourself from Malleus’s cloak when the door opened, Malleus entering and being unwillingly escorted by the ever insistent Sebek.

Malleus stared at you in his cloak with wide, green eyes. Meanwhile, Sebek got personally offended. 

How dare a human such as yourself dirty Lord Malleus’s attire with your stench?!?!?!?!?!?!

In the end, Sebek ended up chasing you around trying to get the cloak back and you ran with a speed you didn’t even know you possessed. 

Malleus was still stunned for several moments, but he eventually got enough presence of mind to order Sebek to leave you be. 

Still, after that incident, you couldn’t help but notice how, during your evening walk with the future King of Thorns, Malleus every excuse to wrap you up in the cloak he was wearing. 

Not that you would complain, as you happily pulled the cloak tighter around you. 

[gloomy-goober]

Chapter Warnings: Drowning, talk of eggs in corpses, talk of dying, self deprecation

**

The smell of salt and the crash of waves hit Roman as he stepped out into the cool night of the imagination. The usual kingdom and rolling hills that he usually was greeted with had been changed. No longer did the prince look out upon his city capital where skyscrapers and flying cars merged with horses and fairies.

The door shut behind him and he turned to stare at it. It was a dark, unfinished wood. Despite the aging the metal hinges seemed to be well kept. The door was at the base of a tall dark tower that was attached to a smaller, but still intimidating castle. All a black stone that seemed to glow in the light of the full moon.

Remus’ castle. Remus’ Duchy.

The Imagination had not felt the need to shift over to where Roman rightfully belonged when he entered. This was alarming.

Contemplation was no longer needed as he moved forward. The weed covered stone of the courtyard were crunched under his quick strides. The gates opened with a low and ominous whine that would have scared anyone unfamiliar with Remus’ more spooky melodrama.

To Roman, the sound was just a reminder that his brother’s domain was at least functioning as it should still.

“Remus!?!” He called out above the sound of the waves as he started down the gravel path. They were all that answered as he moved down to the water.

“Remus, where are you!?!”

Glowing red eyes glanced out from the shadows and Roman moved a little faster. His palm sweated against the morning star’s handle. Whatever stared out at him would not be any help in the location of Remus.

“Remus!” The sound of waves got closer and with it came the worrisome idea that the crashing would drown out his calls. How would Remus be able to hear him over all this noise?

How did he even know he was going in the right direction?

Roman grounded his teeth together as the path dipped down onto the sandy shore of the beach. At this moment he loathed his brother’s artistic choice to have a beach front, rural society instead of a metropolis to govern. At least there would be a helpful construct to assist him. Not a wild beast that was made to attack any and all moving creatures.

“Duke Stinky-Butt! Show your face or so help me if I find you dead, I will bring you back and kill you myself!”

The morning star landed on the soft sand with a dull thus as he looked around. The beach alone seemed to stretch for miles. The moonlight only did so much to help him see the dark world that his brother’s mind had conjured.

“Remus please,” he would never admit that it was a quiet plea to the air. For someone to listen and help him.  

He grabbed the morning star’s handle and started to drag it along the beach. An outline started to form as he walked slowly up the landscape. He stayed away from the dark waves for now. Every crash onto the shore seemed to be the ocean reaching out a claw to take him. Take him down into who knows where.

It was ominous.

He called Remus’ names a few times. Loud over the waves and echoing off the nearby cliffs. There was never the response he wanted.

No nickname.

No feeble cough.

No sudden appearance behind his back.

No tackle.

Nothing but surf and sea salt.

“Why couldn’t this be simple? Like break your arm falling from a tree.”

“Don’ think anything about this sit’u’ation is simple, sonny.”

The grizzled voice made Princey jump out of his musings and move quickly to stand guard. The morning star was left on the ground in favor for the side to pull out his sword. At the end of the point stood an old man, skin turned practically to leather by the ocean, and lips wrapped around an old pipe.

How cheesy could his twin be?

“Who are you? State your purpose,” Roman demanded.

“Could ask ye the same, boy,” the man bit back, “This is my beach to look ‘fter for His Royal Highness.”

He used the pipe to point back in the direction that Roman had come, most likely at the distant silhouette of the tower.  Roman glanced in the direction for only a second before his eyes returned to the older gentleman in front of him. His sword did not waver. The dull ache in his chest pushed him forward.

“I see,” Roman said the words slowly, “Then you should have no reason to object in telling me the location of the Duke.”

The man’s pipe returned to his mouth and some smoke rings slowly came up and floated into the air.

“I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’. Ye could be some kind of killer types.”

Roman slowly let the sword point lower but he kept his grip tight. Nothing could be trusted to be as it seemed in Remus’ Duchy.

“I can assure you, I am the last person to ever wish ill will onto him,” He gave a small bow, “I am Prince Roman, and I have reason to believe that my brother, the Duke, is in grave danger. I would much appreciate your assistance in pointing me to his last location.”

He tried to watch the construct’s expression, but it seemed impossible. The tough weathered skin was folded into many lines. The darkness of the night kept him in shadows. And the eyes. Roman could not find a twinkle in them, or an indication that there even were any in the sockets.

That would explain why he had saw a large centipede move over the man’s nose and then disappear.

The prince had to push down a terrified shiver at the thought. He did not need to once again be disgusted at his brother’s creations when this old sailor was tame. That and Remus always did have trouble drawing eyes, would make sense that he would just omit them from creations all together.

Unless they were unattached.

Roman’s spiraling thoughts were broken as the old man slowly opened his mouth to speak. The pipe somehow stayed balanced on his bottom lip.

“My apologies, yer highness, I did not recognize ya’.”

“It is quite alright. Now my brother?”

“Yes,” The man seemed to think for a second, “Well, ter be honest, he was right there where you were standin’ earlier today.”

Roman looked down and then around at the beach. A lighthouse was on top of a high cliff face that ended the stretch of sand abruptly. The structure itself cast an earie green glow over the ocean and every so often it flicked. He had to guess that is where the old man had come from.

“He was?”

The man nodded and blew a few rings before he spoke again.

“Yep. Said he was on his way to his ‘secret project’ on the cliffs,” he used the pipe to point, “Real excited. Good to see young men happy ‘bout somethin’.”

“When was this?”

“’bout sunset, I’d say.”

Sunset. Roman put a hand to his chest. The sun had only fully hidden away behind the tree’s minutes before the first wave of pain. He was close.

“Thank you,” Roman breathed the words, “Thank you so much.”

He pushed the sword back into his sheath and started to move towards the cliffs in a hurry. Hoping that his brother had not fallen and gotten impaled.

“Be careful, sonny!” The old man shouted after him, “The waters ain’t safe at this hour.”

Roman’s advancement slowed. Confusion and fear clutched at the aching numbness in his chest.

“What do you-?” Roman turned to face the sailor again but his question stopped when he found he was alone on the beach. Alone with just a vague warning and a sinking feeling in his gut.

(Line break Dancing Remus)

Water.

Water everywhere. In his lungs, on his skin, in his underwear.

He would have laughed at the stupid line if he was not so tired. His body felt heavy and weightless at the same time. Like he could sleep for days.

Honestly, Remus was not even sure how he was conscious.

He considered the idea that this was an out of body experience. That this is the slow crawl of death coming to claim him.

He had always said he wanted to greet the Grim Reaper first and express how much he loved the guy’s work. Guess his conscious mind was giving him what he wanted. A chance to meet his hero.

He could have sworn Deceit told him that meeting Hero’s was a bad idea.

Deceit told him a lot of his ideas were bad ideas.

Remus missed him. He missed Virgil too. And Logan. And Patton, kinda. And…and his brother. He hoped Roman was not beating himself up over this. Whatever this was, that is.

Something moved out of the corner of his eye, but he could not gain the energy to care or look. Probably a friend of the creature that currently had a tight grasp on his ankle. A grasp had had failed to break out of when he was closer to the surface. It was probably just waiting for him to finally succumb to drowning before it began to consume his fresh corpse.

Or lay its eggs into him.

Or both. That would be cool. Would that make him a father?

“Man,” he thought, “I’m not ready for kids.”

His eyes, already blurry from the stinging salt, began to show him darkness. He was not sure if the creature had just pulled him that deep or if this was it. Either way, he did not fight it. The exhaustion pulled at his very soul.

Remus let his eyes close as the last bubble of air left his lips.

[trumpetnista]

CMW2/Trumpetnista: True North

Summary from FFN: CANON COMPLIANT AU WITH HEAVY SPOILERS FOR THE END OF SEASON 4 AND THE FIRST EPS OF 5; After the events of 'Not You, Too', Bruce is ecstatic that Selina is alive but he is about to truly lose it. Being the True North of his life, Selina enlists the one person who loves him more than her to help him escape Gotham's ruins.;Rated for words & imagery;4th in my 2019 SSS Project

Words from the Hooded GOTHAMITE: Your eyes are not deceiving you, folks. It's a double header! I'm really gonna knuckle down and update/finish at least one of my established stories in another fandom after this one, I promise but again, what the Muses want, they get. If I don't cooperate with them, they go away for ages. They really want Bruce and Selina right now. It is what it is.

Selina and Alfred's bond is one of my favorite on the show. I've always loved a good 'started from the bottom, now we're here' plotline and I'm glad that they've united. Other than Jim, they're all Bruce has so it's best that they get along. They've gone from enemies to frenemies to family and I really, really hope that the BatFamily can become some kind of an official thing in GOTHAM's endgame. If not, that's what fanfic is for.

Again, I just want everyone to be happy. Is that too much to ask?

Anyway, here's the follow up to 'Not You, Too' and after I do the aforementioned updating/finishing in my other fandoms, I will get started on my next big Baby BatCat fics. There is a need and I will fulfill it!

Disclaimer: “Honestly, it’s not mine!”

"I once said that the only reason he wanted to be with me was because I was literally the only girl he knew. That myth is just busted all to pieces now, ain't it?"

"Completely. You're the love of his life."

"He's a masochist. And I'm an idiot because I love him back. One of those Tangs for me?"

"Yes."

"Any vodka in it?"

"Unfortunately, no."

"Don't worry. I'll swipe some Goose from Barbara later. I gotta go see Tabby. Pay my respects."

"I'm sorry for your loss, Selina."

"Are you?"

"You cared for her."

"She tried to kill Bruce. Like really, really tried."

"Everyone has."

Laughing still hurt like hell but Selina Kyle couldn't help but do so. It wasn't like Alfred Pennyworth was wrong. Every maniac worth their salt in Gotham took a crack at Bruce Wayne at least once before their temper tantrum was done. That was what he got for being an overly noble piece of shit like Jim Gordon. Not to say that Gordon wasn't a good man (not that she'd ever tell him so to his face) but to model one's life choices after him really wasn't the best idea. It led to so much trouble.

Hopping down from the roof's ledge aggravated her injuries but Selina welcomed the pain. She welcomed the fact that she could climb and jump again. Even when she had nothing, even when she was all alone, she had been able to move. She had been able to run, jump and be free. Jeremiah Valeska had taken that away from her. He had shot her, nearly ruined her, but fate in the form of Bruce had intervened. He had gone out and found a Cure for her. He had risked becoming a living garden from Ivy Pepper Version 3′s venom for her. He had saved her and in turn, she would do her best to save him.

Eventually, she wouldn't be able to. It went back to him being an overly noble piece of shit but damn it, she would try. Bruce didn't get to die on her, not for a long time.

"How are you feeling?"

"I look the way I feel, Lurch."

"So, like a walking piece of roadkill?"

"Fuck off."

And it was very clear that Selina could not die on him. It wasn't an option. Jeremiah Valeska and his crazy girlfriend bitch had tried to kill her. They had damned near blown her up but she had made it out. She had managed to get out of her restraints and had been in the process of climbing out of a window when the explosives went off. That had sent her flying and while there was a bit of a blank, she remembered the feeling of weightlessness, the impact with the truck, and more importantly, the feeling of needing to get home.

Home was Bruce. Whether they were in Wayne Manor, The Haven, or anywhere, Bruce was home. She needed to get her ass up, pull herself together enough to function, and get home. If Valeska went after her, it stood to reason that he was going to go the whole nine yards. Her, Gordon, Alfred, anyone positive in Bruce's life had a bulls-eye on them again. Valeska wanted to break him. He wanted to convert him to his special brand of madness and the circus freak probably wanted his body, too. Bruce was damned fine to look at, like one of those angels in museum paintings. He had been adorable before but puberty had been very good to him.

However, the only person who would be touching the art was her.

Even if Jeremiah wasn't crazier than the cow that jumped over the moon and blew it up, the age difference was not good. Jeremiah was in his mid-twenties. Bruce may be 40 years old in the head but he had just turned 18. Jeremiah's Evil Twin Jerome, may he forever rot and burn in Hell, had ruined his birthday party when he took over that concert with exploding neck bombs.

The cake had been damned good, though. God, Selina missed cake so much. It was still possible to find the ingredients or a done one but it was more trouble than it was worth. The energy would be put to better use finding medicine or ammo.

Anyway, it had taken some time but she had gotten to the Twelfth Precinct, only to find a broken Bruce Wayne. He had thought she had been murdered. Jeremiah had said she was dead and instead of breaking in the way the freak longed for, Bruce had beaten him to death with a chair.

Jeremiah Valeska was very much dead.

Selina had demanded to see the body, just to make sure he was gone, and it had been a mess. Absolutely justified but a mess, all the same. Jeremiah's girlfriend had been catatonic but when three unfortunate saps tried to transport her to Arkham, she had murdered them and ran. Word was that she The Dark Zone's leader now and she would 'continue her beloved's legacy' or some other nonsense like that. As long as the demented bitch left Bruce the hell alone, Selina didn't care.

She would never forget the way he looked when Bruce came out of Gordon's office.

He looked as if his whole world had been destroyed but reborn in front of his eyes. The wild look in his eyes, the way he was shaking? It was the warehouse with Scarecrow's Terror Gas all over again, only a thousand times worse. All Selina could do was touch him, tell him to breathe, tell him to look at her but he hadn't got it. It had taken seconds for him to get it but it had felt like hours. Seeing him like that? God, if the motherfucker wasn't already dead, Selina would've gone after him. He already had a target on him for the bullet to her spine but hurting Bruce, breaking Bruce...

The hug he had given her had been so painful but she didn't dare pull away, not until she was sure that he was back. The anguish and relief in his voice as he cried in her arms, even as he responded to her would haunt her forever.

It also put a very heavy responsibility on her.

She had to stay alive.

She had to keep her remaining 7 lives close to her because if she didn't?

"...Selina? Are you up here?"

"Hey, B. You want some Tang? There's no vodka in it but it's still pretty good."

"No, thank you. I...I woke up and you were gone."

"Sorry. I needed some air and you needed the sleep. I didn't mean to scare you. C'mere."

Bruce came to her and hugged her, hiding his face in her shoulder. It had been 2 days since her supposed demise and Selina knew that he would cling for quite a while. Afterwards, he would be even more protective of her and she had to get ready to deal with it. Not just from Bruce but from everyone. Even though Valeska was gone, eliminating one of Gotham's biggest problems, she and everyone else was far from safe. The government was still doing its best to avoid helping them, meaning that the city would continue to fall apart. Eventually, even the good people would start turning on each other for the sake of survival and then, where would they be?

"You two weren't fighting, were you?"

"Nah. Truce is still on."

"Good."

"You need to eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"I didn't ask if you were. You need to eat. I found a bunch of MREs and water. There's enough."

"Selina..."

"Look, I get it. You thought I was dead, went full on WrestleMania on Valeska, found out I wasn't dead, and had the panic attack to end all of them. You're stressed out. You're feeling guilty for caving that asshole's head in, which you really shouldn't, by the way, you're still sad because the city's fucked but let me tell you something: I'm still here. We're getting by as best we can until we can get outside help. Valeska had it coming to him and all not taking care of yourself is gonna do is make Alfred worry about you and piss me off. Do you wanna do that?"

"...no."

"You need to eat. And you need to sleep some more. I'll come down in a few minutes. I gotta bandage and ice my ribs, anyways. Eat. Talk to Gordon and get some damned sunlight, will you? You look even more like a vampire than usual."

Bruce let out a noise that was between a scoff and a laugh before looking between them.

"Anything to add, Alfred?"

"No, I think she covered things nicely."

"I don't know if I like this. You two ganging up on me..."

"Somebody has take the L. It might as well be us. Are you still here?"

"I'm going, I'm going..."

"Wait."

Stepping forward, Selina pulled him down into a tender kiss and pecked his forehead.

"Now, scram. Grab me some chili mac and a vanilla pudding."

Bruce looked at her fixedly, nodded, and headed for the staircase. He hesitated in the doorway and when he turned around, Selina gave him a tired but genuine smile. Relief visibly filled him at the sight and he was gone. Shaking her head, she let out a noise that was half sigh and half sob.

"For fuck's sake...Alfred, we've got to get him outta here. Enough is enough. I don't...he has been on the edge of the worst nervous breakdown ever since it all went down with his parents and now this shit, on top of all the other shit? We gotta get him the hell out of here, government bullshit be damned!"

"Agreed. How?"

"I dunno. I was hoping that you had an idea. All that gray hair. There ought to be some wisdom underneath it..."

"This gray hair used to be blonde."

"Oh Christ...don't tell me you were walking around looking like one of the bastards from The Bee Gees back in the day..."

"Okay, I won't."

"Ewww...I wanna see pics but ewww..."

"...we're all he's got. Us and Gordon and he won't leave."

"Gordon will help us get him out, though. Him, Bullock, and Foxy. Maybe even Barbara. She's always had a soft spot for him from back in the day. If not, she'll do it for me...or Gordon. Gross."

"Problem is that Bruce may refuse to leave. He sees Gotham as his responsibility."

"I'll change his mind about that."

"I don't think you're in enough good physical condition to do that, yet."

"First of all, where there's a will, there's a way. Secondly, you need to mind your business, Jack. I know you're his Guardian and I guess mine now but there are boundaries..."

"Apologies."

"...and third, I don't think getting him to bounce will be as hard as you think. He doesn't want to lose anyone else he loves to what's left of this place. That's us. If we get out, he'll get out. Of course, he'll come back here to help as soon as possible because he's an overly noble piece of shit..."

"He's our overly noble piece of shit."

"...I know but...if we stick together, we can pull it off. Truce is still on."

"For Bruce."

"For Bruce."

[lex-again]

don’t you ever tame your demons || Lexus selfpara || 6.14.20

There’s an experience that comes along with crossing the border into one’s hometown. Despite the firm understanding that you belong to these surroundings, there’s a weightlessness that washes over you. You’re home, and it’s freeing.

Freedom takes on a new meaning in Boston, the cornerstone of a nation’s independence. Soaked in the history of the new world’s uprising, freedom transcends the abstraction of thought: it runs deep in the Massachusetts soil. Patriotism isn’t just a flashy display of lights on the fourth of July, it’s a grounding principle that hauls each Bostonian onto the streets and a feeling they follow home.

Residing on America’s most picturesque cobblestone street, Lexus Hale should have felt this pull most of all. 

In the absence of wings taking flight, her feet felt heavier stepping onto the tarmac. By the time they’d reached the Hales’ red door, standing ostentatiously against the sea of its colonial black counterparts, her limbs had grown numb. Iron bar clanging against the door knocker, she felt nothing but the cool iciness of harsh Boston winters despite the heat of summer sticking to her skin. Throwing open the door without receiving response, black pumps echoed throughout the cavernous halls of her childhood home. The Hales’ style could be summed up simply: New England charm meets luxury, but despite its homey aspirations, the residence felt passionless as she ventured into its depths.

Together, Lexus and Cameron found her parents lounging on the patio. Cold drinks in hand, they didn’t rise to greet her. Shifting awkwardly, the 22 year old finally slumped over, dispassionately throwing her arms around her mother and then repeating the same with her father -- neither let go of their drinks to embrace the daughter they’d nearly lost.

“Long flight,” Her father remarked in a way of greeting that Lexus could only shrug in reply to. Simple hellos were always the hardest for the family, years of toxicity preventing the possibility of niceties, and although she knew she shouldn’t, her heart fell with each and every lackluster greeting. This time was no different, standing beside Cameron as she wished her parents would make an effort, if only for his sake. Oddly enough, the Hales’ gaze shifted between each other, Lexus and their drinks, but never Cameron. Squeezing his bicep, she offered him a small smile, not entirely sure if she was trying to apologize or reassure him.

Each passing hour of their trip had gotten worse. Dinners were by far the most awkward, silent apart from the odd scraping of cutlery. They sent her nerves into overdrive, spine tingling with anxiety as she sat rigid against the chair. Her foot was rooted to the floor, spinning in monotonous circles beneath the table. Often she lost herself in the daydream of her foot sinking through the rug, past the hardwood and into the Earth, dragging her down into its unknown depths. With no such luck, Lexus resigned herself to eating quickly in an effort to be excused almost immediately.

On their second night, two glasses too deep, Lexus’ mother broke the silence. Mother like daughter, Lexus had found the cure for her frenzied feet in the bottle of cherry wine. Just tart enough to cut the sweetness, it went down easily, pacifying her until red fingertips clung to the weighty crystal glass like a lifeline.

“I see rehab is clearly working well for you.”

“Well, mother, at least I tried.” Momentary bliss was immediately erased by the distinct scoff of Amy Hale, face reddened by the sheer amount of alcohol polluting her features as she huffed the insult. Lexus took no solace in her vengeful remark, the offending comment continuing to echo through her ears, culminating with the blood that now thudded at the same rapid pace of her hummingbird heart.

“Did you?” She queried in a slur of words, “Because you’ve been there for, what, a year? Year and a half? And you’ve made no notable progress. Picked yourself up a hooligan in the process to feed your diluted dayd—”

“Enough!” Cameron’s thunderous boom silenced her mother’s downpour of venomous words, the acidity of her statements hanging in the air. The 55 year old’s face blanched, though only Lexus could see the quaking of her fiance’s trembling fist. Flushed and emboldened by anger, Cameron’s rage rolled off of him in waves, but her father ignored it solely out of red-blooded American duty.

“Oh, I’ll tell you what’s enough! You dare to raise your voice to my wife—”

“Oh, please, go on.”  

In a cacophony of three voices bubbling in fury, the situation bore a disconcerting resemblance to previous trauma. Something — something raw and ugly — clawed its way up her throat, prying open her mouth until all air left her lungs. Three pairs of bewildered hues snapped to her attention, the fury of a siren’s startling scream drowning out the voices of quarrelling sailors.

“What are you doing? What are you doing? What are you doing?” Quaking with incurable anger, burning mahogany hues demanded an answer as she unraveled before them. “Can’t you see he’s the only one that had any fucking hope here? You fucking monsters! Who does this? Who actually does this?” Like a trainwreck — horrible yet impossibly striking — they couldn’t bring themselves to look away. In the midst of her swirling seas of unbridled fury, the levy broke, salt water leaking down the sandy shores of her cheeks. With no other option to save her dignity than run, she carried herself up the stairs, slamming her door with an unceremonious thwack. A blood-curdling curse left quivering lips that reverberated off the wall of her childhood bedroom.

Adrenaline savagely shook her body, shooting electricity down her spine as all extremities trembled at its mercy. Blood red nails tore at familiar chests of drawers, expensive clothes flying everywhere until they exploded in a tornado of materialism. Panting heavily, mascara-stained tears painted her tragedy in chaotic strokes of unforgiving black ink until the irrefutable riiiiip of torn threads came undone. Sweater inhibited by a drawer sloppily half-opened, Lexus kicked the wood with fury, a wet sob escaping cherry stained lips. Knotting a hand into her hair, five fingers squeezed with unrelenting force, her pesky foot stomping an attempt to release some of the tension that brimmed mercilessly over the edge.

Then the door opened. Black tresses fell down her shoulder as tumultuous eyes leveled their gaze with the intruder. “Don’t,” She warned through clenched teeth, uttering the word with force as every letter became a struggle to enunciate. Holding a hand up in vain, she tried to put distance between them. “Don’t, Cameron, don’t. I can’t, okay, I can’t. I can’t!” Persistent as ever, Cameron’s shoulder bypassed her hand, strong tattooed arms pulling her towards his chest. Gentle fingertips, resolute in their resolve to hold her, knotted into long black tresses as wet sobs racked the girl’s fragile frame. Significantly smaller than him, it was easy to get lost in his warm embrace, engulfed in an endless sea of Cameron. Even still, she clutched him closer.

“Shhh,” Came his steady plea, which she wordlessly obeyed, sobs softening to listen to his gravelly voice. “Shhh. It’s okay.”

Suddenly her hands found his forearms, struggling against him. “It’s not!” Lexus refuted, “It’s not! Fuck! I’m sick of this fucking — fucking — preformative bullshit! You know? I’m sick of being treated like a fucking pariah the minute — the absolute minute — they perceive me to be out of line. And what the fuck are their fucking lines? I mean, for the love of God, what the fuck did I do in there that warranted that? I mean — fuck — I just want something real, like, is that so much to fucking ask for?”

Now it was his turn to shake his head, two hands grabbing her face as he implored, “Hey, hey, look at me.” Stormy hues met oceanic orbs, one hand guiding hers, like gravity, towards his heart. “This,” Cam emphasized, pulling her hand taught against his beating chest, “This is real.” Gingerly, he brushed wayward strands of unruly black hair away from her features before placing delicate kisses to her temple. “Okay?”

In that moment, she could feel how much he loved her. Nodding softly as he wiped the final remnants of tears slipping down her cheeks, Lexus wasn’t quite convinced they stemmed solely from sadness. Ear against his heart like a low budget stethoscope, the 22 year old allowed the steady rhythm of his heartbeat to soothe her. Eventually, as the silence was broken, his words vibrated against the shell of her ear. “What do you need from me?” Sheepishly, he admitted, “I don’t know what to do, baby,” before pressing apologetic kisses into her hair.  

Lip quivering, tears sprang to her eyes at the weighty realization before it could be voiced. “I don’t know,” She confessed, voice trembling, “I just — I just don’t wanna be here anymore.” Immediately, Lexus buried her head in the crook of his neck, seeking refuge from another heavy moment steeped in desperation and sadness. Chest tight, she clamped her lips shut, suppressing a whimpered plea.

Shockingly, in a moment that validated the honesty of their true love, Cameron gave voice to her unnamed request.

“Okay, let’s get out of here.”

Flabbergasted silence followed his suggestion, the hammering of her heart the only noise in a room that had grown deathly quiet.

“What?”

“Get your things,” The 28 year old enunciated with increasing formality. “We’re leaving.”

The suggestion sobered her, like a slap in a cheesy Sunday morning cartoon. Blinking rapidly in surprise, Lexus struggled to wrap her head around Cameron’s proposal. “But how?” Brown eyes questioned, wide with inquiry.

With a light chuckle (that didn’t exactly thrill her), rose red lips pressed another kiss into her shiny locks. “We’ll figure something out, always do,” He mused, but that didn’t quite dispel her skepticism. Before she could press him further, Cameron asked, “You still have that credit card, don’t you?”

“But,” She sputtered, “But they pay for that.”

Now Cameron really laughed, smoothing down the hair on her head in what she could only assume was appreciation. “Babe, so? Fuck these people.”

That was a sentiment she could get behind, she realized, as a smirk with humble beginnings flirted with her features. Yeah, chirped her inner thoughts, fuck these people. Lost in the remnants of her once searing hot anger, Lexus swallowed hard, nerves tumbling frantically in her stomach. “Okay,” She relented, though wanting to believe him, “But they’re my parents — what if they get mad?”

One index finger pointed her chin upwards, meeting Cameron’s solid gaze. He spoke emphatically, “Fuck. These. People.” Adding, “You don’t need ‘em. I mean, you were right, what kind of fucking people are they, y’know? They’re fucked up, Lex. So, what do we say?”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“That’s my girl,” He folded her into his arms once more, kissing the crown of her hair. All too soon, he stopped rocking her, ripping her from his comforting embrace. “C’mon, let’s go.”

The luminous glow of a city at night reflected onto the leather backseat of a forgettable taxi as two pairs of eyes gazed seemingly past it, lost in introspection. Every so often, she stole a glance at her partner, his expression unreadable. “Cameron,” His name was softly spoken from her lips, like a prayer. Angling his head towards the sound, she watched him as he pulled himself from his thoughts and she squeezed the hand she’d been holding in reassurance.

“Mm?” Came his gentle hum of a reply, hand still propped on his chin.

“Talk to me,” She whispered, unwilling to disturb the fragile foundation of temporary peace in the land of unrest.

“About what?” His aloofness surprised her, though she chastised herself for it. Cameron was her favorite subject to study, and evasion was one of his signature moves. Extending her index finger towards his face, a circular motion gestured towards his entire expression.

“About that,” She clarified, “That look.” Brow furrowed, lips not quite frowning, gaze pensive, Lexus knew there was some emotion lingering beneath the surface, but she couldn’t be sure which. It terrified her. “What’s wrong?”

He exhaled a large sigh, running his free hand through his hair. Amber light flashing onto his features, even in his misery, he was beautiful.

“I’m supposed to protect you,” Voice feathery-soft, he admitted his betrayal to the wind. She shifted closer. “Last time we were here, I promised you, like it or not, I’d protect you. Because I loved you. And — Lexus — I’ve only fallen more in love with you. Everything I felt for you back then...it doesn’t even scrape the bottom of the barrel. It’s not even shallow, it’s almost — I don’t know, it feels fuckin’ dumb,” A humorless laugh interrupted him before continuing, “Like the way I imagine stupid fuckin’ 17 year old little kids to feel. And with that feeling, the way I feel about you now, I only wanna protect you more, y’know? And I know I’ve told you that, but...to know that this is my fault…” The torture was evident in oceanic hues, grief-stricken and red amongst the colorful array of Boston’s nightlife. Sitting away from him was torture, Lexus unbuckling her seatbelt to crawl onto his lap. Forehead resting against his, he sighed, eyes slipping closed as a hand knotted into her hair. Gently, two hands caressed the sides of his face as if he were just as fragile as she, the pad of her thumb skimming over his flawless skin.

“Cameron,” She breathed, heart heavy with the weight of her conviction, “You’re always saving me. You’re always protecting me.”

“Yeah?” His voice cut through the air in a low snarl, self-hatred dripping from every word. Her heart fractured, splintering into tiny pieces of sharp glass. “Is that what I was doing in the library? Huh? Let’s not forget I pushed you. Not Casey, you.”

“Because I jumped in the way—”

“Sweetheart, tonight. What do you call tonight?” His demand left her sputtering, grasping at straws as she searched for the words that would restore his faith, but the wound was too big. This self-hatred had always been deep-seated, rooted in the very soul of Cameron’s being. He continued, “If I never got involved, if I never stuck my fuckin’ nose where it didn’t fuckin’ belong, let’s be honest, you wouldn’t’ve been here. Y’know, I got so wrapped up in thinking that you were missing out on this great opportunity for a happy family — something I never had — I didn’t even realize I was walking you right back in to all your shit—”

Hands resting on either side of his neck, Lexus snapped cerulean hues to hers. “What you did was admirable.” With a tut, Cameron tried to turn his head, but she held him still. “No, honestly, Cameron. Listen to me, I’d rather you advocate for me and be wrong a million times than stand by and let me fall for everything like I used to. I mean, that’s what I’d do for you, y’know? And, let’s flip the tables — would you just want me to keep my fuckin’ nose where it belongs or whatever?”

“Yeah,” He sighed, fingers slipping beneath the fabric of her shirt as they skimmed over the sensitive skin of her hips. Part of her wondered if he knew it tickled as he flashed her a devilish grin, “But I’m right all the time.”

Despite the gravity of their conversation, Lexus found herself laughing as she shoved his shoulder. “You are not!” She refuted, Cameron humming his disapproval.

“Oh, come on,” He teased, full smirk settling onto his lips as he nuzzled his nose into her hair and tickled her sides. Giggling, Lexus held two hands straight against his chest, trying and failing to put distance between the two — especially due to the cramped setting. Mid-laugh, with his hand cradling her head, Cameron guided Lexus towards him as he connected their lips in a passionate and everlasting kiss. As full lips met hers hungrily, she found herself tangled up in him once more, lost to his embrace. Moments later, breathless and panting, Lexus rested her cheek on his shoulder with both their arms wrapped tenderly in an embrace.

“Lex,” Cameron mused, resting his cheek against the top of her head. Content for the first time all weekend, the 22 year old only hummed in reply. “If I were to tell you I’m sorry...would you know what I mean?”

Brows knitted together in confusion, she wished she could sit up to meet his gaze but his arms held her steady. “What do you mean, ‘would you know what I would mean?’”

He thought for a moment, each passing stretch of silence frightening her. Cameron was a quiet man. Typically, when he spoke up, he already knew what he wanted to say: armed with a well-thought out quip or carefully planned argument. 

“They’re just words,” He finally mumurred, voice far away as if he’d lost himself in his thoughts. “I don’t know how to make up for this yet...but I want to. Lex, you have to believe me, I never wanted this to happen. I just wanted to give you something I never had…and I blew it. I’m sorry isn’t enough. It doesn’t even cover it. I—I don’t know how to fix this.” Desire dripped from every syllable, the weight of his words settling into her chest. Pressing her lips to his neck, silence enveloped them once more, unable to speak through the thick layer of remorse coating her throat. I don’t know how to fix this, either, the girl silently avowed, heart pouring with an open wound she knew would never heal. As the pair ventured further into the darkness of the night, Lexus mumbling forgiveness into the crook of his neck, she found herself wishing for Thornewood’s familiar facade, a thought that simultaneously terrified and humbled her.

[imagineclaireandjamie]

Can we please have some more "Our story?"

What happens after Claire calls Jamie in “Our story?”

anonymous asked: When will we get a continuation of “Our Story”, this is a really great fic and I can’t wait to discover if Jamie and Claire will finally meet after all these years apart. Thanks to all the writers, you’re each doing a terrific job with your own world and creation. Keep up the great work :)

[December 24th, 2007]

When another deadline flies by, Jamie is flying at 10,000 feet, Boston-bound with a mouthful of pretzels. He can almost see Geordie in his Glasgow office, fat fingers typing misspelled threats into a text: droppING representaton, beach of contract, an etc. etc. dripping with career-ending venom. But no matter. How could anything matter, when the sea is a sheet of blue glass below? When a woman—his woman—is waiting for the sound of his knuckles on the other side of her door?

Later that evening, Jamie’s rental pulls up outside Claire’s home. He does not move from his seat, but waits, wanting to see what fragments of life he can snatch from the trees, the waft of peanut butter from the swaying pinecones. The house is large and painted brick, with a mismatched patch of white above the garage. Roman Column instead of Lily of the Valley. (He imagines a man, Frank, on a ladder; Claire looking up, shielding her frustration from him and the sun). The grass is freshly cut, and Jamie knows that if he wanders to the back, he will find a garden. Marigolds sleeping until spring.

Jamie thinks, with a certain sense of awe, This is the place. This is the place and that is the yard and that is the door. Inside, there is the kitchen where she has eaten breakfast, the table where she’s done her taxes, the mirror that has fogged with her breath when she leans close. (He remembers being that close, once.)

Finally, he gets out of the car.

The slats of thin metal clank when Claire pulls at the blinds. She sees Jamie striding up the pathway, looking as impressive as he does on glossy paper, or in the intricate webbings of her late-night brain. She smooths her curls and her skirt to tame whatever has burst inside her. (Loneliness, that old friend—just a puff of smoke.)

The first thing Claire says when she opens the door is, “You broke your nose.”

There is no intonation at the end, implying doubt, or criticism (“You broke your nose.”). Rather, there is only quiet evidence that Claire has not forgotten, still knows Jamie and the once-sharp bridge of his nose, through and through.

And Jamie, seeing Claire, says, “Aye, and you’ve gone a bit gray.”

Similarly, it is not a question or an insult (he thinks she looks wiser, wants to see what she’d look like in all white), but merely a quiet recognition that time has passed, they are older, and he does not care.

“I’m assuming there’s a story to go with it.”

Claire squints, trying to mine the story from his face. The possibilities: a horse, riled by the teeth of flies. An angry lover, whose palm soars, its heel shoved outwards and up. It’s unsettling, almost, how Claire can only fill these blank spaces with assumptions.

“Aye, there’s always a story,” Jamie says.

With her face pinched this way, Jamie can read the years in the crinkles of her forehead. He sees the spot where the furrow is at its deepest, the place where she probably wonders, “What other parts of you have broken?” He wants to put his lips there, tell her about every splinter and fracture without speaking them aloud. 

Claire’s eyes travel downwards until they sparkle. Apparently, she has found something in the cut of his jaw because she puts a hand to her chin, saying, “I’m going to assume…an unfortunate encounter with a mountain lion? No. A bear. A grizzly. Are there grizzlies in the Highlands?”

“Nay, unless ye count Rupert,” Jamie replies and, as if on cue, a roar comes from a nearby porch. A man staggers towards an idled taxi, all hairy haunches and pale flanks in the streetlight. “Merry Christmas!” he shouts to no one, voice ringing with booze. He draws up when he spots Jamie and Claire across the way, and his lips are spit-shined when he puckers them, cooing, “Now kissssssssssssss!”

Jamie laughs quietly, so that Claire must work to hear it once the engine putters awake. (When she moves a bit closer, she does; decides it is still the best thing she’s ever heard.)

“Well, there appears to be a small population of them in Boston,” she jokes. “Now’s your chance. I’ll hold those flowers while you two go at it.”

Christ, he’d forgotten the flowers. 

“Thank you,” he says, placing them in her arms (the pulse of an old grief when she cradles the roses). “Make sure ye dinna crush them, mind. The woman I’m taking to dinner wouldna appreciate crushed flowers.”

“Better crushed flowers than a crushed date. Not much you can do with that.”  

Whether either of them realizes it, the four feet between them have become one, and if Jamie were to extend his arm, he could wrap it entirely around Claire’s waist. Instead, he jerks his head towards the car, and she follows him.

“But if a ghastly beast did break your nose, I’d love to hear about it.” 

“The story’s not as exciting as all that,” he replies, opening the passenger door, taking an extra second to admire the clumsy way she ducks inside. “Just a rugby match against the Mackenzies.”

“Beasts enough,” she says, once he’s in his seat. “Was it worth it?”

Already, the new-car smell has been replaced by hers: that fertile spring scent, moss and rain and opening flowers. Jamie rubs his nose and wonders if, after all these years, Claire’s green thumb would set it straight by simple touch. Crunch, click, wholeness.

“A broken nose in exchange for Dougal on his arse, doing the splits for all king and country? Worth it, I’d say.” 

“Oof.” Claire cringes. “Think I could die happy without that one.” 

“Aye, there’s a few other things I’d rather see…” Suddenly bold, Jamie lets his words become a suggestion. A flush blooms across Claire’s cheeks as she reaches toward the dashboard. 

“Easy there, lad.” 

Jamie notices how her fingers waver in the air, seem to yearn for the knob of his knee. But Claire freezes, suddenly self-conscious, and only turns the radio dial. When Joni Mitchell sings through the speakers, she hoots, “You’re still listening to this stuff?”

“Always,” he wants to say. 

“Better than what’s on nowadays,” he says instead, tapping the cracked CD case on the consul. “And my iPod broke.” 

“Broken nose, broken iPod…” Claire looks out the window and hums. (What other parts of you have broken?)

It’s as though the music is dragging them from Jamie’s car, pushing them into a crooked Edinburgh flat where a needle crackles and the record spins. The soundtrack of their newlywed bliss, “Blue”—forever playing in tune with the creak of their cot, the groan of the pipes behind their heads. Lying awake at night, they had dreamt aloud of the 70’s—of history—believing they’d both been born late, two souls adrift. (“If you could be anyone, who would you want to be?” they had asked each other. But whatever time or place, the answer was always, “Yours.”)

“So where exactly are you taking me?”

“That’s for me to ken and for you to find out.” 

“I do hope it’s at least remotely interesting,” Claire replies. 

“Jury’s still out. Awaiting yer judgment.”

“Hope you remember I’m a difficult one to please.”

“Not as difficult as ye think,” he says. Another suggestion. Suddenly, Claire remembers bubble wrap and a weightlessness where there was nothing but the flutter between her legs. Jamie remembers her face, gone slack, and her heavy-lidded sighs above him.

“No,” Claire says, “maybe not.” 

And when she smiles, it is just as Jamie remembers (the most beautiful, the best thing). He feels himself wrap and wind, like a red string, around her finger.

Jeanne’s, the place is called, a tiny French joint where a glass of water costs $2 and the tablecloths feel like spider silk. It is a short walk from Jamie’s hotel and a much longer drive to Claire’s home, out in the suburbs. Both of them silently agree to ignore the implications of these distances, shunting away thoughts of alabaster shoulders and muscled calves under a hotel bedspread. 

“So tell me,” Claire says, their meals ordered, “why this place?”

“You have to promise ye won’t laugh.”

“Promise,” she says (though she will giggle halfway through, a teenager’s star crossed giddiness). “I won’t laugh.” 

So this is what Jamie tells her: that he’d once looked up restaurants in Boston, and found this one. That he’d used it as a reference—a stage set in his mind, which he could place Claire easily inside, see her occupy. That, in knowing the menu and the wine list and the painting near the bar, his memory of her could be something more than memory. Something just short of real because there she’d be, ordering from the menu and the wine list, sitting beneath the painting that he’d memorized from the bookmarked Yelp page. (This, Claire understands. It’s why she used to read the articles, why Frank shredding her collection seemed like the greatest theft.)

There’s a synchronicity to their movements as they eat. When Claire reaches for the salt shaker, Jamie’s hand is already there, passing it to her. And when Jamie spills his whisky, Claire is already advancing with a napkin, blushing as she grazes his lap and feels a hardened promise in his trousers. At one point, there is a crumb at the corner of Claire’s mouth, and Jamie does not feel shy about telling her it is there, about flicking it away with his finger (but God, does he wish it was his tongue) when her own cannot seem to find it. 

“There.” 

They talk about everything: Sorcha the horse, the online forum, Laoghaire, Frank. The random moments when they were reminded of each other: a particular slant of light on a penny, a navigation system set to British English. They smile, they laugh, and begin to think that a span of fifteen years is no significant thing. No time at all.

But for all their honesty, they are skirting around the great, fat elephant. It squats in the middle of their table, fattening itself on the bread basket, until it grows too large to ignore. A breathing wall that Claire considers hopping, sticking one brave limb over the edge; testing, testing. Are ye sure about this, Claire? 

Their conversation halts when a fight breaks out beside them. A couple, much younger than they, lips curling with their fists. Everyone—Jamie and Claire included—braces for the smack of a cheek or the slosh of drink, but a waiter intercedes and guides them out. The combatants rush into the night, huffing a trail of hate that only lovers know.

Claire seems to wilt then, her shoulders and eyes lowering. The last bite of coq au vin is left untouched.

“I suppose we should….” She pauses, bullying a lone mushroom onto the table. “We should talk about some things.”

It is then that Jamie realizes what is to come and that—no matter how hard he wishes it wouldn’t—it must. He straightens himself in his chair, gives a noncommittal, “Mmm.” And only after Claire’s lips tremble does he realize his mistake: like so many years ago, he has not said the right words. 

“Ironic,” she says. “You seemed to have a lot to say about it in your books.” 

He stares at his plate. 

“You’re not going to say anything?” 

“Not here, no.”   

“Ever?” 

Jamie’s gaze falls further, to the floor. The hardwood is darker than in the pictures, he thinks. More mahogany than chestnut. Suddenly, he feels betrayed, like his picture-perfect stage was built from rotten planks all along.

When he finally looks up, he sees Claire’s empty chair, spots her back as she spins through the revolving door. 

“Wait!” he shouts (A word! A word!). He slams $100 onto the table and weaves his way to the entrance, rattled nerves rattling wine glasses. Once he’s outside, he finds Claire leaning against the building. Eyes like smothered coals in the full dark. 

“Mo nighean—” 

“Don’t say it,” she barks, so fiercely, that he shuts his mouth. “You don’t get to say that. Not yet.” (He had forgotten her fury, how her tiny body could hold so much of it, wield it carefully or recklessly whenever she wanted.) “You know, I’ve never heard you say her name since that day.”

Jamie thinks his gut has been sliced open. Believes that, if he looked down, he would see his liver, his intestines, his kidneys—a collection of his organs—soaking into the sidewalk. Streams of his blood trickling into five letters. 

No, he hasn’t said it. Can’t.

“Of course I remember,” he grumbles.

“Then what else do you remember?” she asks, but she gives him no time to respond. “Do you remember that morning, Jamie? The half-empty church? The too-full cemetery?” She shakes her head, laughing. “No, you wouldn’t, would you? Because you weren’t there.” 

“How was I to know what to do?” he yells, his own grief-rage pouring out. “I was 23, just a kid!”

“And I was your wife. You know, that person whose side you promise to stand by? But you weren’t standing by me, Jamie. You were in a bloody prison cell.”

“I did it for you. For her! We had no money, and I thought—”

“Which part did you do for us? The prison part? The not being at the funeral part? The let’s-just-make-another-child-and-things-will-be-better part?” 

“Jesus, Mary, and Bride. I’m trying to explain myself so that you can understand, if you’ll only give me the chance.” 

Claire takes a staggering step forwards, drives her index finger into his chest. She cranes her neck to look at him, unafraid. “No, I want you to understand first. I want you to understand what it was like, standing there, surrounded by “Beloved Mothers” and “Devoted Fathers.” All these people who’d lived long enough for that kind of stuff.”

She whirls away again, caught up in memory.

“And the priest, the damn priest! Jamie, he couldn’t even say your name right. Faith Eraser. Like some sick joke. I didn’t know who I hated more. Him, for not being able to pronounce it right. Or you, for having that stupid name.” She pauses, catches her breath so that her words don’t break when they hit the air. “In the end, I remembered: it was you who I hated more. Because at least the priest was there.”

“You’re the one who left. You’re the one who didn’t even try.” 

“I tried. I—” 

“Nay, give me just one second, because I think you’ve got it in yer head that ye somehow own this grief. The grief of—” He swallows. “Of Faith. But ye don’t. Ye werena there when I finally took the crib down, or when I brought all the wee clothes to the charity shop because I couldna look at them. I pretended—Christ—I pretended they were my niece’s because I couldna allow myself to think I had a daughter. That I was ever a father.” 

“You were a father. You still are.” 

“Aye, I ken that now,” he says. “It was too painful, though, at the time. To think of what I had, to remember what I’d lost. And then there were the phone calls, all the questions: Where’s Claire? Is she all right? When is she coming back? The worst of it all, really, because I didna ken the answers. Wasna sure you’d ever come back.”

Claire looks down, but he can see the beads on her lashes, the thin stream flowing down her neck, inside her collar.

“Why did ye leave? How could ye leave?”

“I don’t know,” she whispers. “Back then I thought I did. You couldn’t look at the crib or the clothes? Well I couldn’t’ look at myself, or you, without seeing her. Remembering everything: how she felt, what she smelled like. What it was like to hold my entire heart in my arms, just for a moment, and then watch it break.” 

(She wants to tell him about the butterfly ears and about the sheets—Please, please just to remember—but is afraid of them, even now.)

“The day I came home, she was everywhere—on the walls, in the little flower mobile—and you weren’t. And then when you were, I would look at you and there’d be a split second, just a blink of time, where I’d forget. Because how could she be dead if she was still there, in the bones of your face?” Claire is sobbing now. Streaks of mascara under her eyes and snot from her nose. (Grief: such an ugly, ugly thing.) Jamie steps forward, waiting for her to shrink away, but she doesn’t. Welcomes his arms. “The moment after that—where I remembered again—was more painful than anything else. Y-y’know?” 

“I understand, Sassenach. I do.”

“I’m sorry,” she says softly. “I—I don’t think I should have left. Jamie, I really shouldn’t have left.”

“I’m sorry too. And I wish you hadn’t.” 

“God, we fucked everything up, didn’t we? Made a real fucking mess.” 

“Aye, perhaps we didna do—or say—the right things. But it’s nothing we canna fix.”

Claire’s laugh is mirthful when she says, “Fix? How can we ever be the same?” 

(Jamie was asked a similar question, years before, in a cabin up in the Grampians. He had doubted it too, then, thinking of nothing more irreparable than a speechless husband, a fleeing wife, and a baby who never cried. But that was long ago and before this night, where he is hugging Claire and feeling a ring beneath her blouse.)

“We can’t, Sassenach—but I dinna want to be the same. I dinna want to make the same mistakes.” His head bows, an oath. “I willna make the same mistakes.” 

“You’re really willing—”

“Yes.” 

“And even though—“

“Yes.”

“Will you stop bloody cutting me off?”

Jamie’s silence. Claire’s pointed look.

“Oh sorry. Wasna sure if ye were going for a dramatic extended pause or no’.”

Jamie grins, and it pulls at the corners of Claire’s mouth.

“You’ll forgive me?” she asks, then. Shy. “And trust me enough to know that I won’t run off? Because that’s what I do, Jamie. I disappear.”

“And I get too quiet, and I dinna say the right things—or anything—when I should. Too prideful, too ashamed.” 

“But you do, eventually. Say the right thing. The perfect thing.” 

“And you come back, Sassenach. Eventually.” Jamie tweaks her chin, brings his forehead to hers. “Can ye no’ see it? You are my courage, and I am your conscience. We canna be whole if yer no’ here to bring the words out of me. If I am no’ here to bring ye home.”

Claire rubs a sleeve across her eyes.

“Bloody writer,” she chokes, and he kisses her. (A second passes where they are 21 and 22 again, two young things dashing through the streets of Edinburgh. All this life ahead of them.) When Claire tries to break apart, he keeps her to him as if wanting, somehow, to fall into her.

“Are you going to write me into your bed tonight?” she asks, breathless.

“Is that a proposition?” 

“Merely the question of a curious reader.” 

“I thought I might drive ye home first and see where the story takes me. Dinna like working from an outline.”

“All right. Spontaneity’s nice. I like a good plot twist.”

“Are ye ready, then?”

Claire reaches for his hand, and he gives it to her. Jamie squeezes, she squeezes back. She leads him toward the car. He follows, holding the keys and her heart. 

“I’m ready,” she says. “Take me home, Jamie.”

(At her doorstep, Jamie will give Claire a Christmas gift: a vase wrapped in old hopes, tied up with a sweater ribbon. Because of this, she will say, “Want to come in?” and will allow him to shuck his shoes on the rug, kiss her in the moon-drenched foyer. It will be immediate—the dissolution of their separate mouths and the resurgence of a familiar knowledge—once Jamie’s shirt parts and Claire’s skirt drops. Blue stripes and liquid gold on the floor.

She will let Jamie lay her down—gentle, so gentle—in front of the fireplace. And Jamie will bend—reverent, so reverent—and lick the pale tributaries of her inner thighs, inching towards the most tender part of her. “Please,” she’ll say, and he will make her say it again.

“Please.”

There are old lines. Ones they will know, remember as a soft curve or a particular bulge of muscle. Theirs to re-meet, reclaim and own.

There are also new lines. They will cut their teeth on them, tasting each other’s now-bonier spines or the looser skin of their upper arms. Jamie’s hands will still be larger—so much larger—than hers, and he will grasp the soft side of her knees, spread, and sink. “God,” Claire will think he says, and then wonder if he’d ever prayed in an empty church. Found some kind of grace in religion, as she had done, during those lonely, intermittent years.

Claire will kiss Jamie’s jawline, remembering that he likes it. Jamie will nip Claire’s neck because he knows it makes her shiver. And they will both be happy when they see that they’ve remembered correctly, that he does, yes, still like it when she kisses his jawline and that she does, yes, still prickle with goosebumps when he nips her neck. Please. God.

Jamie will begin to move faster, pushing Claire up and up until stars fall into her open mouth, then pour out again onto his shoulder. The bite marks there will glisten. 

Not long after, Jamie will follow, the fullest kind of breaking. And this time—oh, oh, oh this time—she will hear his whisper. Not “God” at all, but: 

“Claire.” 

And maybe, she will think, her cheek finding his steadying beat. Maybe this is what God is. The sound of your name in a lover’s mouth. Your face inside his heart.)

[sailrenacer]

Candlelight. “Renh’a. Walk with me.” The man leans on the door frame, his beard flicked with grey. The boy stands. “... With you.” The Elezen and Miqo’te walk side by side; their footfalls rhyme. They walk and as they walk Llymlaen’s ocher stone halls turn to ivory white. And they emerge together into the sun. A distant foghorn sounds. Scattered crowds and chirping gulls. The winds and tide bellowing softly. They pause to bask. “Have you heard from sweet little L’nhokla recently?” A bashful, bemused smile! It sharpens into a smirk and the boy combs a hand backward through his hair. “No, Aerom. In fact I’ve not. We’ve been kept rather busy, ‘aven’t we?” “Hmhm.” Knowing. “This way, lad.”

They descend, skirting along the edges. The chattering crowds fade behind them. The warmth of the sun and the salt in the air. Cerulean waters ebb into view, stretching far and over the horizon. They walk. And they walk. And they walk. To the very last stones at the edge of Limsa Lominsa, they walk.

The man slows. “Mmm... here we are.” They stand together in silence, their eyes cast out over the endless expanse of sea. The ocean’s song envelopes them. Ships dot the skyline, seeming not to move at all. A gentle wind tousles the boy’s hair, unkempt. The man glances to him. A smile. The boy doesn’t notice, his gaze swept up in the tide. “You have your grimoire?” “Course.” “And your quill?” “Aerom.” “Excellent. Pray, make note of this.” “... All right. Ready.” “... Do you know what the day is, Renh’a?” “The sixteenth of the fourth Astral, aye.” “And the significance?” “... ‘Tis the seventh anniversary of our meeting, by my count. Why are--” “Too right! Go on, take down the date.” The boy sighs and writes. The man smiles out over the water. The wind sweeps them by.

“Tell me, lad... how’d you like for this lovely day... to be your nameday? Mm?” The boy stop writing. Frowns. “Aerom.” The man nods. Pride. “I reckon it’s time, lad.” The wind fills the silence between them. The boy turns to look outward once more. A million diamonds gleam, strewn across the sloshing blue. Beauty. “Mmm, aye. It’s time. You’ve come far.” The man reaches up, adjusting his spectacles. The boy doesn’t notice. “Hells, just have a look at you! Not a trace of that wretched little whelp clawin’ at me shins left! ...You were born again some time past, my boy. Ah, pardon me. You’re a man now.” The boy returns his gaze to the man. Questions. The man smiles down at the boy. Knowing. The wind blows. “And it’s time you -- this you, the you standin’ before me here today, his own man... a Renacer -- celebrate your bleedin’ nameday! But you’ll be needin’ a name, then, won’t you?” The boy stares. His fingers tightly pinched around his small book. “Well, go on. Take your time...”

Wary, unsure, he looks away from the man. His gaze naturally finds it way back out over that azure expanse. Gods. That. That is what freedom looks like. It is all. None may master it. Well, perhaps... A sudden, deep gust of wind hits their backs, pressing into them, blowing through them, caressing. The boy heaves forward, his eyes widen... then close. For a moment, with his eyes closed he can feel it. He is weightless. His feet feel as if they may be lifted up from the ground. He is airborne. He is flying. The wind takes him in its embrace and guides him outward over the sea. Jumping and flying and kicking and soaring. The fluttering of wings. Fluttering butterflies in his belly. This. This is freedom. He smiles. And the moment passes. His eyes open. His feet are firmly planted to the warm stone beneath, the ships seem still as ever, but he is smiling.

“... Sail.” “Mm?” The boy looks up at the man. “Sail. Sail Renacer.” The man blinks. He crosses his arms in consternation and considers... the wind continues softly humming its song.

The man throws out his arms and laughs -- that deep, joyous laugh. “Sail! Sail! Attaboy! Why, Sail it is!” He claps a hand down in between the boy’s shoulder blades. The boy laughs with him. “Aaahhh, aye. That’s a name! Write it down, boy, write it down! Ah, gods... to think...” The man sighs heavily in content through his nostrils. “Right, then! That is that and this celebration is long overdue, my boy! Go on, go get changed! Go! Make haste! Begone! Away with you!”

Aerom stands and watches the boy go before turning his own eyes out to sea. He smiles to himself, listening to the wind.