#i made him a vestigial nose

[sigmaelxgr]

Charybde <3

[legendl0re]

A Court of Peace and Ire, Chapter 1: A Little Night In Spring

The full first chapter of A Court of Peace and Ire, a Tamlin healing arc fanfic featuring actual acknowledgement of wrongdoing, conversations to actually heal the divide of Prythian, with a little bit of Neris vibes and whatever else I feel like putting in here.

This is my first ever fanfic for ACOTAR and I wrote it in a feral haze, so please be gentle. Also warning, this is a Pro-Tamlin fanfic. If you're not a fan of Tamlin, scroll on. The full fic will be on AO3 once I get a damn account, but i feel this could work as a one-shot by itself.

Trigger Warnings: Slight su*c*dal ideation, depression

--

Tamlin wondered what day it was, awakening to the sun spearing into his eyes through broken slats. A huff blew through his nose, deepened and heavy by the huling shape of his bestial form. 

Having golden fur didn’t help, his pelt sucking in all the light in an auric bloom and making it difficult for him to look at himself. 

Well, more difficult…

He had stopped bothering to clamor up the steps to his own bed at night, opting to let the weight of melancholy send him huddling into the corner of his foyer. It was cold, and it bothered him, but he didn’t deserve much warmth. 

Didn’t deserve much of anything actually, beyond incessant tirades from the High Lord of the Night Court and the occasional drop off from Lucien; a friend that was wasted on him. 

The High Lord of Spring ran his long beast-tongue over his teeth; he was glad Lucien had found true friends in this so-called Band of Exiles he had formed. The name was fitting, but Tamlin hoped that Jurian and that mortal queen would treat him better than he had.

Tamlin tucked into himself more, as if to brace himself for the great mental fall into his own dread. Everyone had fled, left his service, left his side, all for the things he had done and allowed to be done on his watch. Whipped sentries, predatory priestesses, letting the devil Hybern slither through his land to poking holes in the walls, and rend Children Of the Blessed apart like crows with corpse-flesh.

Such an immense, spectacular failure would be emblazoned in the history books soon enough, and Tamlin would probably also be cursed to see it consumed and discussed by the next generation of Fae. He couldn’t starve himself, couldn’t let dehydration sap him to a husk, and every beast and briggand he had come across during the days he actually got up to patrol, were all no match for even a sliver of his magic and strength.

Such is the strength of the High Lord, especially of Spring; “blessed” to never wilt. Doomed to never die a “passive” death.

High Lord. The one thing Tamlin never wanted to be, and the thing that Rhysand and his father damned him to become.

Tamlin heard a sound of wind rumbling through leaves; the unmistakable sound of winnowing. It came from down the hall past the stairs, and the High Lord braced himself for Rhysand and more of his half hearted attempts to reach out.

And indeed, a fae did march in with dark hair and eyes of glimmering blue, but he was barely two feet tall and had a set of dark pajamas ordained with stars. Two vestigial wings peaked out from behind him, and he held a plush night-beast in his tiny hands.

Tamlin swallowed, caught somewhere between genuine curiosity and terrible dread as the boy turned and gazed at him, eyes wide as he took in the High Lord of Spring’s animal shape. 

He braced for a wail, a cry of fear at the sight of him, but it ever came. Instead, the boy smiled and made his way down the hall in a slow but resolved toddle, his intent clear as he dropped his toy to free his hands.

Out of instinct and a spark of hatred from the boy’s resemblance, Tamlin craned his neck and growled, teeth flashing in the light of day. But the boy only paused, cocked his head to the side, then kept right on walking until he was inches away.

 Either the child was too young to yet know fear, or the Illyrian in him refused to let him back down, to ignore the danger in the pursuit of his goal. And he indeed reached it, pushing his small hands against Tamlin’s muzzle and running his fingers through the fur.

At the touch, Tamlin was utterly paralyzed, save for one twinge of the nose as he sniffed the air above the boy’s head.

He knew who this was, knew it in his blood and heart and bones, the smell a mixture of a familiar pair that had melded into something new.

It was his son. 

This was Rhysand’s son…by Feyre.

The Heir to the Night Court was in Tamlin’s manor, and was fucking petting him.

--

Mother above, what did kids his age eat?

Tamlin scoured his kitchen and cabinets for something to give the kid. A vicious rumble rose from the boy’s belly after about two minutes of roving over the High Lord’s snout, but his face hadn’t lost the pout he made when Tamlin changed back into a Fae. At least he didn’t start crying, thank the gods.

Two lone jars of applesauce rested in the dark shadows of the cupboard, Tamlin picking them up and searching them for any signs of rot or wasting. Thankfully, neither was present. “Guess you’ll have to do.” 

He turned back, unscrewed the top, and gently laid the green mushed mixture across a wooden plate he fished out, topping it off with a mismatched spoon before placing it down in front of the child.

The boy glanced up at him, utterly lost to the purpose of the silverware.

“What?” Tamlin said, eyes narrowing as the part-Illyrian shoved his tiny hand into his tiny mouth. “Oh, gods. No. I’m not feeding you.” Tamlin pushed the plate closer to him, and as if intent to push his buttons, the boy pounded his hand into the sauce and scooped it into his mouth, dribbling down his chin and onto the floor.

Tamlin hadn’t cared about a clean floor for years, but somehow that got him on his feet. A rag found its way into his hands, wiping the mess from the kid’s face and hand before getting the rest off the floor. Then he remembered that he had gods-damned magic, and that he could have just made it all vanish at a whim.

He really had been out of it, hadn’t he?

The kid made to dip his fingers in the apple sauce again, the High Lord halting him and reluctantly picking up the spoon. Carefully, he caught a spoonful and brought it to the boy’s mouth, a groan bursting from his lips as the child ate, then smiled with full cheeks.

“Cauldron boil me, what am I doing?” Tamlin asked himself, even as he picked up another bite for the kid to take.

He looked so much like Rhysand, minus the cool, daylight blue of his eyes, young and wide with wonder. It reminded him of the first day she had come, how in awe she was of his manor, of the world of the fae at large…of Tamlin himself.

The High Lord caught a drop of sauce before it stained the boy’s clothes. He had to have winnowed here by accident, a consequence of his already burgeoning power. Even at his young age, Tamlin could feel it, a smoldering ember that would blaze right past both him and Rhysand once he reached adulthood . 

The fact that Tamlin had not kept up with his wards didn’t help matters either, but still, why would he have ended up here of all places? He figured Rhys would have probably spelled the boy to never come within miles of Tamlin’s Court, yet here he was: Rhys’ son.

Feyre’s son…

Something in Tamlin dropped, a heavy weight whose rope had finally snapped. He held no hope of Feyre ever returning, of there ever being some chance for reconciliation. But the presence of this boy, the manifestation of her and Rhysand’s love for one another, the finality of it was a cold shard to his heart. He should hate this boy, be doing everything in his power to banish and scare him from the manor. But then he remembered exactly whose words—whose feelings—those were. 

The echoes of his father and his brothers circled around him, telling him the boy was a grave reminder of his failures, a taunt or some kind of trap to give Rhys the excuse he needed to rip out Tamlin’s throat once and for all. 

The second he harmed a hair on his head, the High Lord of Night would come and indulge in his violent delights.

Tamlin broke from his thoughts, noticing that he had paused with the spoon just out of reach for the boy to eat. He brought it down to let the kid feast, and in time the entire bowl of applesauce was gone.

As Tamlin cleaned the bowl, his eyes lingered on the rest of the dishes, the disgusting stack that had grown from his immense negligence. He cleaned about seven more than he intended, before noticing the part-Illyrian had gotten up and began waddling, keen to collect the night-beast toy he had discarded.

Tamlin walked and sat on the step leading to the foyer, watching the kid mimic the growls and hisses of the beast in emulation.

“Your parents must be worried about you.” He said, knowing the kid wasn’t paying attention. Visions of Rhysand tearing his manors apart, soaring over the night skies in search of his son, Feyre worried sick and hunting right alongside him, bow in hand in case of any danger.

 It should have brought Tamlin comfort, to imagine them so harried, so desperate and worried and willing to do whatever it took to find him, just as he had done…

But it didn’t.

The High Lord of Spring flicked his gaze back to the boy, catching in the middle of a yawn as he exhausted himself. His  half-lidded pale blue eyes struggled to stay open, but he shuffled up and approached Tamlin at the steps, his tiny hand tugging on the high fae’s pants. Tamlin’s brow rose, unsure as to what the kid was trying to tell him, until the heir of the Night Court pushed and nuzzled his head against Tamlin’s side.

“Are you…are you ordering me to change?” The boy’s head rose, his blank stare holding save for a single blink. He was. He was asking him to turn back into his beast form so he could fucking sleeping on him!

Tamlin almost laughed. Only a toddler and he was just as indignant and entitled as Rhysand was. He had half a nerve to scoop the kid up, winnow straight into the Night Court, and drop him off right then and there.

But he didn’t.

Instead Tamlin sighed, letting himself fall back into that golden, antler-crowned form and sloping down at the base of the stairs. The boy laughed and giggled, happy to see the great beast once again, and quickly made himself comfortable laying down at Tamlin’s gilded flank. 

The High Lord waited, held still and calm until he heard the soft breaths to sleep. He inched up slightly but the boy didn’t stir. Made sense that the heir of the Night Court was a heavy sleeper. He shifted and caught the boy in a masterful flair of magic, picking him up and gently moving to stand as he thought on what to do.

Did he send a fucking missive? “Hey, your kid wandered into my mansion and I was wondering if you wanted him back.”

No. No, he would have to go himself. Have to winnow in with no notice and explain everything, and hope that the gods were kind enough to grace the Night Court with enough patience for him.

He watched the boy sleep, and sighed. This was their child; Rhys and Feyre would have no patience for any story, any excuse, especially from him.

Tamlin let the shadows of his power coil around him, praying to the Mother that the sound of winnowing wouldn’t wake the boy, and as he felt the cool bite of frosted grass under his bare feet, he opened his eyes and found the kid still asleep.

Seems the gods were kind today.

Gazing up to the massive soap-stone colored tower, Tamlin lost himself in the coiling darkness of the night above, in the quilt of stars that peered through the clouds.

He hadn’t been here in years, and he didn’t realize just how much he missed the sky here until now.

The boy stirred in his hands, reminding him of his mission, and Tamlin skulked carefully towards the back door of the yard he now realized he was in. A small quilt sat at the edge of a stone bench, and he quickly wrapped the boy in it so as to beat back the Night Court chill.

Laying him down carefully, Tamlin brushed a small curl out from his face and stood to leave, but not before noticing a set of banners and decorations through the back door’s window. Frills and starlight-colored decorations flanked a trio of Italic letters: “N, Y, X.”

“Nyx.” Tamlin repeated, smirking at the irony of it. Some kind of celebration had been had, the decorations left up for some time, either out of pure laziness or lack of time on the boy’s parents’ part. Then the door within the party room suddenly opened, swift movement sending Tamlin scuttling behind the bench.

When the sound of the back door opening never came, he peeked out, and his heart shuddered at the sight within.

Feyre, face stained and garbed in a dark sweater, stood there speaking frantically to another girl with the same colored hair; probably one of her sisters. A dirty paintbrush was nestled in the bun she had put her hair in, and it was clear she was on the verge of crying with how upset she was.

Tamlin kicked himself; he should have bought the kid back sooner. Damn the crying or the hunger or the petty revenge, or whatever strange compulsion that made him keep the boy around this long.

This was his life, and his mother was worried sick.

Tamlin’s hand dropped and picked up a small piece of gravel, arching back in preparation to tap the glass before winnowing back to the safety—and loneliness—of Spring. He only paused when a pair of sleepy blue eyes stared back up at him.

Damnit, he was awake.

The boy was putting two and two together despite the haze of slumber, sitting up and reaching out for the High Lord as he reeled back, threw the tiny stone, and winnowed out of the yard before he could even hear the tap of its landing.

Nyx, alone in the of the estate garden, began to cry.

[darkness-and-books]

Purr-fectly Tipsy

Jim Kirk x gn Vulcan!reader

⚠️: drinking, tipsy reader, extra clingy drunk

word count: 500

Sure, neither of you really drank much, but it was a night after a long shift and everyone was gathered in the recreation room eight. So now you were a little buzzed and looking for your boyfriend because, "I miss his pretty face," is what you had said when Bones asked. You had been pointed to one of the pool tables by Chekov. When you looked over your already flushed face lit up and you made a beeline for him. "I missed you!" You let out when you reached him, clinging to his despite the fact that it hindered his ability to play. "Hi sweetie," Jim cooed and booped your nose. You preened at the affection and leaned even further into him. His pool cue now planted firmly on the ground as he turned his attention to you fully. "Love meeee," You demanded as you shifted your weight and were now practically hanging off of the man. "I do love you sweetie. How much have you had to drink?" He didn't mean it as an insult, he was just concerned that maybe it was time to take you back to your quarters. "Not that much," you bubbled, Jim briefly glanced at Bones who was still at the bar and pointed at you with a questioning look. When Bones gave him a silent thumbs up in response Jim turned back to you in acceptance. "Okay," he answered, putting down his pool cue and leading you to a chair. He sat you down in a chair and then moved to his own, only to have you ditch your seat to climb into his lap. He wasn't complaining by any means, but it was unusually clingy of you (at least for there being so many people around). "Hello there," Jim joked as you put your face in the crook of his neck and nudged him with your nose. You sighed and tugged at his sleeves, getting the hint Jim wrapped an arm around you and began to rub your back. If it were even possible, you melted even further into his touch and purred, a soft vibrating that came from deep within your chest and radiated through your whole body. "Woah!" Jim exclaimed, Spock smiled slightly at his reaction. "They do that sometimes, it's a vestigial trait of Vulcans," Spock explained from across the table. "Would've been nice to know before you nearly gave me a heart attack," Jim whispered to you and you giggled. "I've never done it while sober, so I never really thought bout it," you mumbled truthfully. Jim hummed in response and continued to rub your back, beginning to feel comforted by the purring that was emanating from you. "Mmm, maybe it's time to head up to bed," Jim thought out loud to you, "mmph," you grumbled, not opposed to sleep, but opposed to moving. "What?" He asked, "don' wanna get up," you mumbled. "Fine," Jim conceded and swept you up bridal style, "How's that?" He asked you triumphantly.

[transgamerism]

Title: Welcome to my Table

Rating: T

Relationship: Astarion/Dark Urge (pre ship)

Summary:

“Four survivors of a nautiloid crash spend their first evening among the stars. A former magistrate learns a little something about bloodlust from a bard.”

Read here or on ao3

Astarion has never thought much of bards. Music is all well and good, but in his experience they’re entirely too easy to pry away from bright taverns with a few words promising a good time. And then even the most musical of them scream just the same when they’re faced with the fangs of his master. Former master, Astarion reminds himself as the sun licks harmlessly against his skin. But this bard may well be worth a bit more. There is, perhaps, something that lurks beneath the surface of them.

He saw a flash of it, when they first met. Or at least, when his blade first kissed the skin of their throat. The way they bared their fangs at him as they scuffled on the ground, how they wormed from his grip and thrust the tip of their own sword beneath Astarion’s chin, posture and sure gaze clear signs of an experienced killer.

The way they spoke so flippantly, flicking the point of their rapier away from his neck and saying, “Such a shame. I was looking forward to becoming well acquainted with your innards.” They smiled the same way they snarled, with all their sharp teeth. “You can call me Étaín, and keep that clever dagger of yours to yourself, unless you fancy being gutted.”

A fanciful musician has never said anything like that to Astarion before.

And again later, in the bowels of the ancient crypt they stumbled across. They weren’t the first looters to look at the place with interest, and the four of them (Astarion, Étaín, the grim cleric, and the talkative wizard) were less than prepared for a pitched battle against brigands amongst the dust. Three of the other would-be looters had Étaín’s back to a wall. Astarion figured it was the end of the charming little tiefling, for bards were mostly bark and very little bite. No sooner had Astarion had the thought than did Étaín lunge forward and fasten their jaws around the throat of the nearest attacker, latching onto his windpipe and biting down hard. Astarion could smell the blood spilling outward, hear the wet scream as they tore his throat out with their teeth.

They pulled away, covered nose to chest in fresh, hot blood, and the gurgling, choking body slumped out of their grasp and to the floor. Then, they opened their mouth and laughed loud and long like a hyena, scaring the other two attackers so badly that one of them stumbled back and directly into Astarion’s waiting dagger embrace.

The group made short work of the remaining looters after that, and took advantage of their packs and provisions as well. Étaín allowed the blood to dry tacky and stiff on their face, except for where they licked it off of their own lips.

Astarion astutely ignored the way his mouth watered at the sight, but took note to not underestimate the bard again.

It’s bearing close to the evening, now, the sun heavy and orange on the western horizon, painting the wilderness they’ve found themselves in with shades of red and gold. Astarion soaks it in, the way the sun sparkles off of the river by their small camp, nestled against the side of the ruins, the evening sounds of bugs in the trees. All the colors in the world. He forgot it, those two centuries of miserable nights. He forgot how much color there was.

Étaín sits nearby, face cleaned of blood and their wool doublet drying on a rock beside them, scrubbed thoroughly with river water. Any lingering red stains are mostly obscured by the patterned fabric. Their cotton undershirt is thin enough that the ridges and spines that crest their ribs and chest are visible, the vestigial bones and joints between their shoulder blades where wings might sit, were they not separated by time and blood from their devilish ancestors. Their skin is a lush berry pink, rather than a more typical shade of red or gray, dusted with freckles the color of blood. Their hair is such a pale golden blonde as to be almost white, with tawny horns nestled in their tight ringlet curls, small and curved back away from their face.

They notice him looking, and he casts a smirk, letting them think that he’s admiring them out of attraction. Étaín isn’t difficult on the eyes, but Astarion hasn’t looked at someone with genuine want in years, having perfected the skill of covering up his hunter’s gaze with a veneer of sex. Étaín smiles back, their own predator’s grin, and goes back to organizing their pilfered supplies in their pack, allowing him to look his fill.

Gale, the wizard, pokes at a budding campfire, rummaging through the provisions they gathered from the camping gear abandoned by the dead, talking about fried fish for dinner. He talks about many things; his tower in Waterdeep, Waterdeep itself, his cat (not a cat, a tressym!), a pudding recipe he learned from his mother, the trees, the ruins, and anything else that occurs to him.

It’s been so long since Astarion has been in regular company, neither hunting nor hunted, that he doesn’t know whether or not Gale is overly talkative or if this is considered a normal amount of conversation. Either way, it sets Astarion’s teeth on edge.

Eventually, the conversation peters out as Gale becomes engrossed in cooking a few fish they found hanging on a drying line in a dented pan, and Étaín takes their violin from its case and begins plucking at the strings meditatively, before putting it to their chin and bowing out the first few chords of a song. It’s no tavern drinking song; it’s slow and almost grim, the strings creaking with a haunting melody that circles the small camp a few times before settling down heavily upon it, like a great resting beast.

Astarion only knows a sparing amount of magic himself, enough to get by, but even he can sense the Weave wrapped up in the music, spelling out wards of wary slumber and encroaching nighttime. It says, “Sleep, but lightly. Keep one eye open and a dagger under your pillow. Know that you are both watcher and watched.” It should be unsettling, and it is, but it’s also oddly comforting, and Astarion finds himself swaying into it.

Étaín draws out a few more notes before setting down their bow and violin and placing their chin upon their knees, looking into the flames of Gale’s fire.

“An original composition?” Astarion finds himself asking. If there is to be safety in numbers, there must also be camaraderie. He must ingratiate himself with these people, and who better to start with than the one that both Shadowheart and Gale already look to for guidance? He’s unsure if he sees leadership in Étaín, but for now, he sees the glue that’s holding the camp together. If he can edge himself into their good graces, and quickly, it will be all the better for him. He slaps on an interested smile for good measure, resting his chin in his hand.

Étaín glances at him, and Astarion feels their gaze sweep over him. Astarion is used to being looked at, generally with judgment, or carnal hunger. This is different. Étaín’s eyes spark with interest, which Astarion is accustomed to, but it’s clinical. The way a surgeon might look at their cadaver, or a butcher at their slaughtered swine. Seeking the places to cut. Étaín blinks, and their fire-golden eyes become calmer, more friendly.

“I think so. I don’t recall much of anything, from before the nautiloid,” Étaín replies.

Astarion tilts his head. “Do you think it’s a side effect? Of the tadpole.”

“Perhaps. Do you have a lapse of memory?”

Yes, he does. Decades, his entire life before becoming a monster, is lost to him. “No, but just because you’re the only one here that’s having a problem doesn’t mean it’s unrelated. Do you remember anything at all?”

Étaín frowns, pausing for a moment to think. “I know things about myself. My name. How to play violin. That I’m from Baldur’s Gate. But I don’t remember anything, no connection to my past that makes those facts concrete. Just indistinct suggestions. And a lot of red. Some snatches of music, maybe.” They sway, as if they’re listening to the music now, eyes gone grim and dark and hungry. It lasts only a moment before they smile again, waxen and brittle, but their voice is full of good cheer when they say, “I could be a famous Baldurian composer, or a lost child of an Elturel noble. A little mystery is alluring, I think.”

“Whoever you were, you learned how to hold your own in a fight,” Astarion says appraisingly, and Étaín gives a short huffing laugh, showing their fangs. Astarion keeps his well hidden.

“Fighting and performing are much the same. A bit of drama goes a long way,” Étaín flicks a wrist dismissively, as if the taste of metallic, salty blood spilling down their throat is an afterthought, a mere trick of battle. As if they’d do the same on stage, if their audience seemed bored.

Astarion pictures himself lunging onto a foe like that, latching his fangs into their throat and drinking down the adrenaline rich blood, tasting their fear and rage as he draws the life out of them. He can barely imagine it, a life sustained on emaciated rats lending little idea of what healthy, vital blood of a thinking creature might be like. The way it might struggle in his arms, growing steadily colder until its heart goes still.

“I’ll leave the drama to you, I think. All the better for me to hide in the shadows and wait to strike,” Astarion says, banishing such tantalizing thoughts.

“A lethal pair we could make,” Étaín says agreeably.

“Well!” Gale interrupts the quiet murmur of conversation and crackle of the fire. Shadowheart peeks one eye open, the first sign of movement from her since she began her evening meditations. “What I wouldn’t give for a little seasoning, but I believe our first supper as a company ought to be edible, at the very least!”

Astarion takes the plate offered to him without complaint, pushing the food around with his fork while the others eat. When he notices Shadowheart watching him out of the corner of her eye, he even forces down a forkful, swallowing past the taste of ash and rot on his tongue. Much more than that, and he’ll have to find a suitable bush to vomit into later, but the cleric turns her eyes back to her own meal, and Astarion relaxes minutely.

He waits until both Gale and Étaín finish, not wanting to be first or last to put down his plate. After the dishes have been cleaned with river water and the bedrolls they found in the crypt laid out, Étaín produces a dusty bottle of wine from their pack.

“Found this while we were snooping,” they say, wiggling it so the liquid sloshes. The glass is dark amber, turned richer with the red of the liquid on the inside, and the label has long since peeled off. There’s no telling how old it is, but the wax poured over the cork is still intact, so Étaín peels it away and pries the cork out with the tip of a small knife, sniffing at the opening. They shrug, and say, “To a successful first day of not succumbing to ceremorphosis, and the hope of many more to follow,” and take a long sip. They smack their lips, wrinkling their nose just slightly, before passing the bottle to Astarion.

“Here, here,” he agrees. The wine is rich and dark and heavy with age, bitter as a broken heart, and Astarion drinks deeply.

He passes it to Shadowheart, who drinks and says nothing at all before handing it to Gale. “A fine toast for the inauguration of our little company.” He sips, and suppresses a cough, before sending it back around to Étaín.

“I say we rise with the sun tomorrow, and seek civilization. There’s water here, and we’ve seen the unfortunate remains of fishermen around the crash. There’s got to be a town or village nearby. We need to trade for supplies, if we can. We won’t get far with no money and just the clothes on our backs,” Étaín says.

“What are the chances that the first village witch we come across knows how to remove these things?” Astarion gestures vaguely to his eye.

“Our best bet is doubtlessly returning to the city,” Shadowheart says, “Assuming we aren’t on the opposite end of Faerûn. Finding a town or an inn, or even a particularly populated shack, is the smartest first step.”

“Then we have our marching orders,” Gale looks around, taking in the wilderness around them and the old temple looming above, “Shall we… set up a watch?”

“I’ll take the first shift,” Astarion hastens to offer, “I need no sleep, and only a few hours’ reverie, after all.”

No one offers any argument, though Shadowheart casts him a distrustful glance as she says, “Wake me when you need rest,” before laying down upon her stolen bedroll and primly closing her eyes.

Astarion sits beside the fire, prodding it occasionally with a stick, and listening to the breaths and heartbeats of his companions even out. Gale is the first to fall asleep, his snores soft and slow, heart plodding along steadily. Shadowheart lays still as stone, but finally the tension bleeds away, and she even snuffles lightly in her sleep, curling her fist under her cheek. Ètaín remains awake for hours, switching from staring into the fire to staring up at the canopy of stars, restless. He ignores them, and they don’t speak to him, tossing and turning until finally, they slip into an uneasy slumber. They stir, twitching and whimpering, mumbling nonsensically, their heart rate picking up and slowing as their dreams crest and fall, but they do not wake.

He waits a while, listening to the sleep sounds of his new companions, before deciding to risk rising from his post, creeping toward the wooded trail beyond the ruined temple, straining his ears for the sound of nighttime prey. He’s never hunted before, never fed on anything more vital than a sickly alley cat, and even that was an indulgence that he paid dearly for. Still, Astarion is a vampire, and hunting is in his nature, even if his nature has been suppressed. He tells himself this as he scales a tree with relative ease, and perches among the low branches. He releases all of his living habits, no longer breathing or blinking, motionless and invisible against the night, the only disturbance in the air a faint smell of old death.

Astarion watches the forest floor beneath him. He doesn’t so much as twitch, not even when the lone kobold shuffles along below. Perhaps on a hunt of its own, venturing from its den in the safety of the night, scrounging around in the copse of trees. He allows himself a single curl of his lip in private satisfaction, before dropping from the tree branch with silence of movement he didn’t know he was capable of, landing with his knee in the spine of the kobold and his hand around one of its small horns.

When Astarion sinks his teeth in, he misses the vein. The muscle is firm and chewy beneath his fangs, gushing blood, but not enough. He’s seen this enough times to know what he’s looking for. The kobold thrashes and gurgles beneath him, but Astarion pays it no notice, simply pulling back and striking again, groaning at the burst of blood on his tongue as his fangs pierce the jugular.

The first messy swallow washes away centuries of putrid dead rat blood, the flesh of flies in his teeth, the single half-dead dog he dared to fish out of a gutter one sorry winter night.

He drains the kobold dry in moments, collapsing against the tree trunk and sighing contentedly. The hunger, of course, is still there. Cazador always warned him that bloodlust is insatiable, that a vampire could drink the world to the last drop and still desire more. But it is a start. Astarion stuffs the exsanguinated corpse beneath a tangle of brambles for carrion to find, wiping his face with fallen leaves to clean away any blood, and heads back for camp. It wouldn’t do for his first feed to be soured by being discovered abandoning his post.

The others are still just where he left them, the fire down to just embers now. Astarion licks his teeth and swipes at his face once more, checking for any errant drops of blood, and rouses Shadowheart, nudging her shoulder with the toe of his boot. Her eyes pop open as if she was never truly sleeping, and she nods curtly at him. When she sits up and reaches for her water skin, Astarion kicks off his shoes and lies down on his own bedroll, which smells rather unpleasantly of old sweat, and closes his eyes.

His trance comes easily to him, easier than it has in centuries, the cool night air and warm blood in his veins lulling him to rest. Dawn will arrive soon, and he can’t wait to rise and meet it.

[charkyzombicorn]

@botankirishima

Wright's life used to be simple. He would do the worksheets his father made for him, he would do his chores, he would work on his blueprints, he would go to sleep, rinse and repeat. Slow liked to talk to him sometimes, flickering the lights in patterns Wright had learned to understand. His dad too, but less. He didn't like talking to his dad's clients, either, they were all short with him. So it was mostly just him and Slow.

Slow was like his best friend, in a sense. Slow was the devil fruit his dad ate, and he (or they or it) was very interested in Wright. Slow would ask about Wright's blueprints, and his math wall, and what he wanted to do when he left.

Wright wanted to fly when he grew up, but his wings were vestigial - useless. Just like his father's were before he cut his own off. So he was going to invent a flying machine once he left. He wasn't sure when he would leave his home, but he was only twelve at the time, so he thought it was at least a few years away.

Then his dad left his workshop, left the house, and three days later a large, tidy man with antenna poking out either side of a beret saluted Wright and told him his father died in battle - which sounded strange. Wright floundered for a second while the man studied him before pulling a fruit from his pocket.

Then all the lights flickered, nearly too fast for Wright to understand. 'Me-- Wright-- take-- help-- bad-- bad--." and Wright snatched the odd magenta apricot from the soldier's hands. This was Slow - it had to be. So his dad really was dead.

The soldier stared at him, then the space above his head, then saluted again before turning a stiff 180° and marching away.

After that, things got complicated. Slow still talked to him, but now Wright had no real reason to stay in the house.

He left, Slow tucked in his pants pocket with a laser pointer. It wasn't as if he never went outside, but there was little reason to and he couldn't go very far. His house was on the border of God's Land, and his father said the people that lived on God's Land hated people that weren't like them.

Well, Wright never quite believed him; the thought just sounded stupid.

So he wandered into the forest full of trees as wide as his house, and then felt something with his Mantra - and he knew his range was small - and just barely dodged a rock the size of his fist from hitting him in the back of the head. He whipped around and saw a teenager with a deep scowl and more rocks. "Hey! You're the mad doctor's kid, right?!" He sounded angry.

He was too far away for Wright to sense how he felt - Wright hated that. "Maybe."

The teenager sneered. "You playing both sides, too, traitor?!"

Wright frowned deeply. He was at every disadvantage here, and it was likely this older kid's unprompted aggression wouldn't abade with a few well-placed words, so Wright, feeling his hands shake, spoke his mind. "You seem to be the aggressor here, I haven't met either side yet but you're certainly not making a good case for yours!"

The teen scowled. "And why would I care?!"

"I don't know, why do you care enough to find decent throwing rocks and then stalk me so you can throw them at me?! I've never seen you in my life!"

"You're a deserter! Look at you, you're Shandoran but you're wearing Skypiean clothes!" He spat 'Skypiean' like it was an insult.

Wright's face scrunched. "These are cargo pants! I made them myself with instructions from the blue sea! And I'm oh so sorry my father decided not to be a racist rock-thrower when he raised me!"

The teen was quiet for a second, face flush with anger. "Why don't you fight me, string-bean!"

Because he was angry. Because his house ran out of food days ago. Because he had hope for these people. Because he had nothing to lose. "Why don't you try?!"

And the teenager jumped at him. He just barely dodged and could only watch the fist that crushed his nose and sent him careening to the ground.

The man was angry, he noted, which was pretty obvious but at least he was close enough for Wright to be sure. He was also confused, and a very little bit scared, which Wright did not understand but could work with.

"I'm jus-- Just trying to find p-- food…" Not fully a lie, he did want to see if the people had food he could buy, and learn what their currency was.

The stranger's mood shifted, still annoyed, now more curious and sad - pitying? Much more useful than anger. "I thought the mad doctor was rich." He sounded accusatory.

Wright felt the bridge of his nose - probably not broken, but still really hurt. "I wouldn't know - only thing I got after he died was his-- notes." Best not tell him about Slow, who knows what he'd do about a cursed fruit.

Confusion, anger, pity, fear. "The mad doctor is dead?"

"Yeah." Wright said curtly. "So if you're done mocking him I'll be going." He felt a little satisfied when some of the anger turned to guilt, picking himself up off the ground while the stranger took a step away.

The teenager studied him for a second. "You have Mantra." A little bit of happiness, a little bit more anger. Wright felt Slow's own anger and fear like a buzz in his ear, he didn't answer. "You come back to my village with me and I'll feed you."

"Deal." Wright said almost too quickly, and the stranger's anger grew a little. Then he just started walking in a direction, and Wright followed him.

They walked for about half an hour in complete silence before they came to a settlement and Wright got a feeling like something was watching him. He looked over to an old-looking clay house that was much too far for his Mantra to see.

The stranger muttered something, annoyance flaring, and then an older woman started yelling at him. Wright found he couldn't focus on anything except the house, except the eyes on his back.

He walked towards it without a thought, the stranger and the old woman leaving his range. The building was almost decrepit, the clay chipped in places and the shutters left ajar. It was strange to have such a large building so close to the border of a town. He pushed the moldy wood door open, and in the light of the windows saw a little girl.

She was staring at him, with her hands over her ears, curled into a ball in the corner. He took a few cautious steps forward, and just as she touched his range all Wright's senses clouded over.

Fear.

Wright fell backwards, and the girl fell away from his Mantra.

"You!" The teenager from before barked from the entrance, and now the girl was staring at him. "What are you doing in here?!"

Slow's anger brought Wright back to his senses. "Wh-- It's--..." He had no idea what to say.

The girl was staring at him again. The teenager sighed. "This is Aisa. She learned Mantra somehow, just four months ago. She can see the whole island and it has an effect on her." He said soberly. "I don't know how to help her."

Wright sat up, scooting just a little forward to bring her into range.

Fear. That was still there, still grated on Wright's head with how loud it was. But curious, too. Just a little.

Wright swallowed. "You at-- brought me to help-- her, is that it?"

The stranger grunted. "The mad doctor's Mantra was beyond reason, you likely do as well." He said curtly. "Help her and I guarantee you a place in our ranks, outsider."

Happiness from the little girl nearly toppled him over again, but he stayed focused. "It's Wright."

The stranger nodded. "Wyper."

[fangedmagick]

@the-raven-dhampir

Raven was silently observing the surroundings, half hidden by the obscure night shadows. Inky obscurity reflecting on black clothes, black hair. And white skin framing cobalt blue eyes.

Motionless as a statue, he was barely even blinking. Or breathing.

There was something about that young man he was contemplating. Something impossible to define in one word or in a thousand.

His vampire aura was lingering in the air, strong and vivid to whomever possessed the necessary means to grasp it. Vampires, Dhampirs, or vampire hunters maybe…?

But that was not it. There was something else. Something far darker and more destructive. A powerful energy slithering under his skin, different than any magic Raven had ever encountered.

Impossible to say whether it was still trapped inside him and ready to explode or it was a trace left by a vestigial power.

Raven squinted his eyes.

“You have blood on your cheek,” he pointed out loudly. A weird conversation started indeed. And that was not all.

"Been a bad boy tonight, ah?" he winked.

Curiosity will definitely kill the cat. Eventually.

He vaguely smiled.

Aurelius should have guessed he was being watched.. then again, in this world he had been tossed into, being watched was all to common. But he didn’t pry given he hadn’t sensed any need to defend himself or any attack coming yet.

He hid it best he could, but a Tremere with a power that was darker and shouldn’t be taught by any means outside of LaSombra circles did confuse some. But he hid it usually, that darker side of him. A side that, if found by the wrong Kindred, would give him the final death for a crime he didn’t mean to commit.

But he walked without a care in the world. The one he fed on would not have remembered outside of being attacked and some valuables stolen. He needed some money like usual. So he got some extra money from his feeding. 

Tremere shouldn’t have the power that slithered dark under his now less pale skin. A point out made him frown and check his cheek in a nearby reflection... sure enough-- damn. He began to wipe it off and flick it to the asphalt like trash. “So you finally reveal yourself?” He called back, finally looking in the direction of the other.

Now the scent was strange. It wasn’t Thin Blood.. no, it wasn’t another Kindred. Was his nose playing tricks on him? “He had it coming. Muggers of innocents should get mugged is my motto... well, not really, but I prefer the ‘they had it coming’.” He blinks at the wink. Okay, either the guy was playing innocent to try and mess with him, or was genuine. “Is this your territory? I am just passing through. The guy won’t remember outside of maybe a hangover and lack of funds.” He smirked some.

[nicolos]

non-self-raising

Read on AO3

“You know,” Nicky mused idly, “you are very lucky that I am not in this frame of mind when you are in heat.”

Joe made a disbelieving noise, but didn’t bother to look up, buried knuckle-deep in Nicky’s ass and moving at no pace to make it any more any time soon. “What are you implying here, babe?”

Nicky groaned as Joe stroked a cool line up the underside of his cock. “I am implying nothing,” he said. “I am saying that you are being intentionally cruel right now, and you will not like it very much if I returned the favour.”

“I’m sorry, this coming from the man who wouldn’t fuck me properly for—what was it—four hours last time?”

“You still came thrice!”

Now Joe did look at him, one eyebrow raised. “Would you like to come thrice, because I can—”

“Joe.”

Joe grinned and slid his finger in the rest of the way. Nicky clenched, back tight with how long Joe had been teasing this out for. There was enough lube involved that it made an obscene noise, one that had even Joe wrinkling his nose. That was the problem: Nicky liked feeling it. “All I’m saying, Nicky, is that you’re pretty cruel when you want to be.”

“Some of us,” Nicky ground out, as Joe rubbed a second finger into him, slow and wet and obscene, “don’t have biologically obsolete self-raising cocks that can stay hard for three days straight—”

“Nicky,” Joe said, “stop trying to make me feel bad for wanting to fuck you properly, it’s not going to work.”

“—and I would hate to leave you unsatisfied in your time of need.”

Joe wrapped his other hand around the base of Nicky’s cock. "As if you could ever disappoint me,” he murmured, frowning with concentration as he began to slowly—far too slowly—thrust his fingers in.

“I did not say disappoint,” Nicky said.

Joe laughed out loud, looking delighted. “Where’s all that patience when you need it, eh?”

“It is easy to be patient—Joe—no, yes, do that again—when you look so sweet and open and are begging for my cock—”

“Nicky,” Joe interrupted, and then stopped moving entirely. Nicky opened his eyes just to glare at Joe, and Joe said, “babe, sweetheart, love of my life, please stop talking about fucking me when I am trying to concentrate.”

“Is that what you are doing? Because I do remember asking you to fuck me,”

“I’m getting there.”

“It is not actually that difficult,” Nicky said, just to see if it would work.

It did. Nicky bit his gasp in as Joe’s long fingers began to stretch him. It was not the sort of burn he wanted, yet—but he was so close. Joe seemed to have heard it anyway; he looked entirely too pleased with himself already.

“Good?” Joe asked, and he nodded, breathed his yes more than actually said it. “More?” he asked. The way the joint of his fingers rubbed against Nicky’s sensitive skin sent heat through his cock, gathered into pure need to be full. He nodded, breathing out roughly through his nose.

“We’re almost there,” Joe murmured, and the pad of his finger brushed against his prostrate for one delicious, tantalising moment.

“Stop touching my cock,” Nicky said, and Joe took his hand off.

“You’ll find,” Joe said, sounding a little rougher himself now, “that it is a little more difficult with some of us who don’t have biologically obsolete self—yeah, I’m not saying that.”

“I was not talking about you,” Nicky said. “Though now that I think of it, a self-raising cock does sound like a, ah, yeast infection.”

“Nicky,” Joe yelped, fingers slipping out of him when he laughed. The fact that he could do that was a pretty good testament to how slick Nicky was now, with lube if not vestigial mechanisms.

“Fine,” Nicky said. “I will let you concentrate.”

He would never say that he preferred Joe silent to talking, but he did not object to the in-between stage that followed. It was the opposite of what he was familiar with, which was Joe insensate with pleasure, begging in half-sentences: this was Joe eager to please, giving him breathy words of encouragement that went straight to Nicky’s cock even as he was too slow about actually fucking him.

Nicky groaned when Joe’s last knuckle brushed against his perineum, a whisper of a brush that had him shaking. “I will grant that it is useful.”

“What is?” Joe asked.

“Knowing when you are ready for me.”

“But?”

Nicky wondered if Joe was also, somehow, slowly losing his vocabulary to pleasure. He had been untouched thus far. “Butt.”

Joe grinned at him. “Lakin?”

Oh. “Fuck me,” he said. “I can take it.” When Joe looked hesitant, eyeing his leaking cock and his too-dry ass, Nicky licked his lips. “You won’t hurt me anyway I don’t want. Trust me.”

Joe rubbed at his hip with his free hand, and Nicky hissed as his thumb stroked too close to his cock. “Yeah,” Joe said, sounding a little hoarse. “Okay.”

Nicky could kiss him, except he would rather not distract him when the goal was so close at hand. He breathed through his nose, preparing for the burn of Joe’s cock against him, the intrusion, the slow, growing friction—

Joe opened the bottle of lube once again.

“I will remember this,” Nicky grumbled. And he would. Joe’s next heat would be the best of his life, and he would be pleading until he had no words left to him.

Joe winked at him, both hands on his own cock. “I’m counting on it, babe.”

[hedgehog-moss]

My animals, ranked from most to least ear

(as promised)

#1 Pirlouit! You win!! You win because I organised this contest specifically to make you feel better about ranking last in the previous one. Congratulations!

Your ears don’t even fit in the frame, that’s how much of a winner you are.

#2 Pampérigouste, my love, your ears are excellent and I almost gave you the first place but that would have defeated the whole purpose of the contest, I’m sure you understand. Still, look at you, you ridiculous little camelid. Your ears are so long and slender they were the first thing that broke off when the Snow Pampe thawed.

#3 Pandolf. Your ears looked ridiculous when you were a baby so this is partly a nostalgia ranking (then your nose just wouldn’t stop growing, which made the rest of you look well-proportioned in comparison.) (I also mentioned your nose in the last contest, one day I will organise a snout competition just for you)

Another reason why Pan deserves the third prize is because of this important ear fact: at night after his last walk he lies down in front of the door and whines for me to let him in. The door is half-glass and in this position only his ears can be seen, and when they’re covered in snowflakes it makes a pattern that makes him look like a phosphorescent owl staring at me with inquisitive eyes. Nighttime photos always disappoint so here’s a pictorial representation of what waits for me behind the door on winter nights:

#4 Merricat has been elected cat representative for December but I could have picked any of my cats to illustrate my point: cats can never win or lose an unusual body proportion contest because they are the perfect shape from head to toe bean. Their ears are not too big, not too small, not banana-shaped, not a convoluted Minotaur maze like the human ear, they are the Platonic ideal of the hearing organ and the same applies to every part of the feline body.

#5 The chicken sisters. You might say, wait, there’s still one animal left and chickens haven’t got any ears. Surely they should rank last? All I can say is, as a mammal I feel an inborn, vestigial terror of angering these dinosaur-looking creatures and I will never pronounce them losers in any contest. Not even the long snout contest.

#6 Which brings us to Pampelune. My apologies to this deserving young mother llama but there isn’t a single ear to be found anywhere on your body. I checked. I looked thoroughly. I took one cursory look while the chickens clucked cretaceously behind me.

“But wait, they’re here”

Sorry, you can’t submit more than one picture for the contest. That would be unfair to the other animals. Better luck next time, Mama Pampy!

[heartlurch]

art of a pair of designs I recently adopted with my wife. They were from a set, designed by a twitter user. We just loved the look of them so much, we wanted to both get one, and draw them together <3

The one that is mine is the large bodied one with dark hair and stripes. His name is Ni (”nee”). The smaller pink one is his big sister, Ne (”neh”).

They actually were born aquatic, and more similarly sized/shaped. My wife has drawn this early stage of their life!

you can imagine them living in a little puddle, together. verrry small. eventually they matured and developed into a terrestrial form. They’re actually relatively small, Ne is only liable to reach halfway up your leg while standing, Ni perhaps up to your waist. they are both scrawny little things.

Overall, their dynamic is one where Ne is manic and energetic, and frets over the more slow-paced Ni.

An excerpt from Ni’s toyhouse profile: "Born in the wild, in an aquatic larval form, Ni has known his entire life to be with his sister, Ne. They were once more similarly shaped and sized, in this state, though eventually their life changed as they developed more and took to the land. Ni's body did not take to the transition well, and he is a bit stunted and irregularly developed; he retains features that Ne lost during the shift. As such, his multiple eyes and extra set of small, vestigial arms are neotenous in nature, atypical. Ni's teeth and muzzle never quite developed right either; it's incredibly soft and delicate to the touch, like a rabbit's nose and lips, but no teeth.

Neither Ne or Ni understood why he was different, they simply accepted this as a fact of life. Ne would continue to hunt food for him, just as she always had. The only difference was that she had to shred his food into tinier pieces, so he could suckle blood directly from flesh and swallow down small pieces of meat, organs. It doesn't always settle well with him, but he is still technically a carnivore, just a poorly developed one. Together, they got by, and it was the same as ever. Until…

Through unfortunate incident, Ne was separated from him, and could not find her way back. Ni waited as long as he could for her return, but one day had to move on from their shared den. Without her, he was subject to starvation, and easily driven away by other animals. Eating became more painful, as he had to swallow food he was not equipped to ingest. He became covered in scuffs and cuts. Eventually, he began to take roost in abandoned human settlements, and through stumbling through them, he realized he could manipulate tools with his strange dexterous clawed hands. Ni has never seen or known what a human is (they are long-dead in this world) so he cannot intuit much about where he lives; to him, the abandoned town is a strange structure of the world. He runs into things by happenstance.

This change in lifestyle helps Ni survive, but he doesn't realize the dangers it incurs. One day, he gets caught by a snare around the neck, and struggles for days with the rope around his neck, steadily choking him. He manages to escape, but carries the scar with him. Finally, at this point, the memories of his sister made him too grief-stricken and in despair; he was convinced now she had to have died. He became out of touch with his emotions to survive the pain of her loss. This repression of his self is so effective, that even when they are reunited, he is in disbelief of her return, and how much he has changed since she has gone. It is a bittersweet circumstance. He is still learning how to be with her again. But, she makes him very happy; this is always the truth. Love endures…"

[carnegiemuseumnaturalhistory]

Real Dinosaurs Versus Reel Dinosaurs: Film’s Fictionalization of the Prehistoric World

by Shelby Wyzykowski

What better way can you spend a quiet evening at home than by having a good old-fashioned movie night? You dim the lights, cozily snuggle up on your sofa with a bowl of hot, buttery popcorn, and pick out a movie that you’ve always wanted to see: the 1948 classic Unknown Island. Mindlessly munching away on your snacks, your eyes are glued to the screen as the story unfolds. You reach a key scene in the movie: a towering, T. rex-sized Ceratosaurus and an equally enormous Megatherium ground sloth are locked in mortal combat. And you think to yourself, “I’m pretty sure something like this never actually happened.” And you know what? Your prehistorically inclined instincts are correct.

From the time that the first dinosaur fossils were identified in the early 1800s, society has been fascinated by these “terrible lizards.” When, where, and how did they live? And why did they (except for their modern descendants, birds) die out so suddenly? We’ve always been hungry to find out more about the mysteries behind the dinosaurs’ existence. The public’s hunger for answers was first satisfied by newspapers, books, and scientific journals. But then a whole new, sensational medium was invented: motion pictures. And with its creation came a new, exciting way to explore the primeval world of these ancient creatures. But cinema is art, not science. And from the very beginning, scientific inaccuracies abounded. You might be surprised to learn that these filmic faux pas not only exist in movies from the early days of cinema. They pervade essentially every dinosaur movie that has ever been made.

One Million Years B.C.

Another film that can easily be identified as more fiction than fact is 1966’s One Million Years B.C. It tells the story of conflicts between members of two tribes of cave people as well as their dangerous dealings with a host of hostile dinosaurs (such as Allosaurus, Triceratops, and Ceratosaurus). However, neither modern-looking humans nor dinosaurs (again, except birds) existed one million years ago. In the case of dinosaurs, the movie was about 65 million years too late. Non-avian dinosaurs disappeared 66 million years ago during a mass extinction known as the K/Pg (which stands for “Cretaceous/Paleogene”) event. An asteroid measuring around six miles in diameter and traveling at an estimated speed of ten miles per second slammed into the Earth at what is now the Yucatán Peninsula in Mexico. The effects of this giant impact were so devastating that over 75% of the world’s species became extinct. But the dinosaurs’ misfortunes were a lucky break for Cretaceous Period mammals. They were able to gain a stronger foothold and flourish in the challenging and inhospitable post-impact environment.

Cut to approximately 65 million, 700 thousand years later, when modern-looking humans finally arrived on the chronological scene. Until recently, the oldest known fossils of our species, Homo sapiens, dated back to just 195,000 years ago (which is, in geological terms, akin to the blink of an eye). And for many years, these fossils have been widely accepted to be the oldest members of our species. But this theory was challenged in June of 2017 when paleoanthropologists from the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology reported that they had discovered what they thought may be the oldest known remains of Homo sapiens on a desert hillside at Jebel Irhoud in Morocco. The 315,000-year-old fossils included skull bones that, when pieced together, indicated that these humans had faces that looked very much like ours, but their brains did differ. Being long and low, their brains did not have the distinctively round shape of those of present-day humans. This noticeable difference in brain shape has led some scientists to wonder: perhaps these people were just close relatives of Homo sapiens. On the other hand, maybe they could be near the root of the Homo sapien lineage, a sort of protomodern Homo sapien as opposed to the modern Homo sapien. One thing is for certain, the discovery at Jebel Irhoud reminds us that the story of human evolution is long and complex with many questions that are yet to be answered.

The Land Before Time

Another movie that misplaces its characters in the prehistoric timeline is 1988’s The Land Before Time. The stars of this animated motion picture are Littlefoot the Apatosaurus, Cera the Triceratops, Ducky the Saurolophus, Petrie the Pteranodon, and Spike the Stegosaurus. As their world is ravaged by constant earthquakes and volcanic eruptions, the hungry and scared young dinosaurs make a perilous journey to the lush and green Great Valley where they’ll reunite with their families and never want for food again. In their on-screen imagined story, these five make a great team. But, assuming that the movie is set at the very end of the Cretaceous (intense volcanic activity was a characteristic of this time), the quintet’s trip would have actually been just a solo trek. Ducky and Petrie’s species had become extinct several million years earlier, and Littlefoot and Spike would have lived way back in the Jurassic Period (201– 145 million years ago). Cera alone would have had to experience several harrowing encounters with the movie’s other latest Cretaceous creature, the ferocious and relentless Sharptooth, a Tyrannosaurus rex.

Speaking of Sharptooth, The Land Before Time’s animators made a scientifically accurate choice when they decided to draw him with a two-fingered hand, as opposed to the three fingers traditionally embraced by other movie makers. For 1933’s King Kong, the creators mistakenly modeled their T. rex after a scientifically outdated 1906 museum painting. Many other directors knowingly dismissed the science-backed evidence and used three digits because they thought this type of hand was more aesthetically pleasing. By the 1920s, paleontologists had already hypothesized that these predators were two-fingered because an earlier relative of Tyrannosaurus, Gorgosaurus, was known to have had only two functional digits. Scientists had to make an educated guess because the first T. rex (and many subsequent specimens) to be found had no hands preserved. It wasn’t until 1988 that it was officially confirmed that T. rex was two-fingered when the first specimen with an intact hand was discovered. Then, in 1997, Peck’s Rex, the first T. rex specimen with hands preserving a third metacarpal (hand bone), was unearthed. Paleontologists agree that, in life, the third metacarpal of Peck’s Rex would not have been part of a distinct, externally visible third finger, but instead would have been embedded in the flesh of the rest of the hand. But still, was this third hand segment vestigial, no longer serving any apparent purpose? Or could it have possibly been used as a buttressing structure, helping the two fully formed fingers to withstand forces and stresses on the hand? Peck’s Rex’s bones do display evidence that strongly supports arm use. You can ponder this paleo-puzzle yourself when you visit Carnegie Museum of Natural History’s Dinosaurs in Their Time exhibition, where you can see a life-sized cast of Peck’s Rex facing off with the holotype (= name-bearing) T. rex, which was the first specimen of the species to be recognized (by definition, the world’s first fossil of the world’s most famous dinosaur!).

T. rex in Dinosaurs in Their Time. Image credit: Joshua Franzos, Treehouse Media

Jurassic Park

One motion picture that did take artistic liberties with T. rex for the sake of suspense was 1993’s Jurassic Park. In one memorable, hair-raising scene, several of the movie’s stars are saved from becoming this dinosaur’s savory snack by standing completely still. According to the film’s paleontological protagonist, Dr. Alan Grant, the theropod can’t see humans if they don’t move. Does this theory have any credence, or was it just a clever plot device that made for a great movie moment? In 2006, the results of ongoing research at the University of Oregon were published in the Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology, providing a surprising answer. The study involved using perimetry (an ophthalmic technique used for measuring and assessing visual fields) and a scale model T. rex head to determine the creature’s binocular range (the area that could be viewed at the same time by both eyes). Generally speaking, the wider an animal’s binocular range, the better its depth perception and overall vision. It was determined that the binocular range of T. rex was 55 degrees, which is greater than that of a modern-day hawk! This theropod may have even had visual clarity up to 13 times greater than a person. That’s extremely impressive, considering an eagle only has up to 3.6 times the clarity of a human! Another study that examined the senses of T. rex determined that the dinosaur had unusually large olfactory bulbs (the areas of the brain dedicated to scent) that would have given it the ability to smell as well as a present-day vulture! So, in Jurassic Park, even if the eyes of T. rex had been blurred by the raindrops in this dark and stormy scene, its nose would have still homed-in on Dr. Grant and the others, providing the predator with some tasty midnight treats.

Now, it may seem that this blog post might be a bit critical of dinosaur movies. But, truly, I appreciate them just as much as the next filmophile. They do a magnificent job of providing all of us with some pretty thrilling, edge-of-your-seat entertainment. But, somewhere along the way, their purpose has serendipitously become twofold. They have also inspired some of us to pursue paleontology as a lifelong career. So, in a way, dinosaur movies have been of immense benefit to both the cinematic and scientific worlds. And for that great service, they all deserve a huge round of applause.

Shelby Wyzykowski is a Gallery Experience Presenter in CMNH’s Life Long Learning Department. Museum staff, volunteers, and interns are encouraged to blog about their unique experiences and knowledge gained from working at the museum.

[sisterspooky1013]

Only One Choice, Part 2, Chapter 15

Read it here on AO3 / Tagging @today-in-fic

Missy gives her a skeptical glance as Mulder knocks on the door for an eternity in a strange pattern. She shrugs, then startles when a cacophony of loud pops and clicks erupts from the other side of the door before it swings open to reveal a short man with a receding hairline and bushy sideburns.

“Mulder, ladies, please come in!” he greets warmly, stepping to the side.

Mulder touches his hand to Scully’s lower back, ushering her inside and waiting as Missy follows before he enters last. The short man holds out his hand to Missy and when she takes it, he brings her hand to his lips and kisses the tops of her fingers.

“Enchante, you must be Melissa,” he says suavely, and Missy gives her sister an amused smile. “Melvin Frohike, pleased to meet you,” he finishes, and Missy giggles.

“And you must be the enigmatic Dana Scully,” he says, turning to Scully and offering his hand.

She takes it, but tugs hers away at the first indication that he intends to do more than shake it. Frohike turns to Mulder with raised eyebrows and a knowing smirk.

“She’s hot,” he says matter-of-factly, and Scully looks at Mulder with big eyes, unsure whether he’ll find his friend’s flattery offensive.

“Yes, I’ve noticed. Put a damper on the Don Juan act would ya, Frohike? You’re going to scare them away.”

Frohike presses his hand to his chest in mock sincerity. “I aim only to properly welcome these beautiful women to our home, Mulder,” he defends, then holds up his hands in surrender. “Back to the kitchen I go,” he finishes, leaving the room.

A slender man with long blonde hair and glasses passes through, pausing when he realizes they have company.

“Mulder, hey man. I forgot you were coming by.”

He looks at Missy and Scully but doesn’t say anything.

“Langly, this is Dana, and her sister Melissa,” Mulder offers, and Langly waves, looking back and forth between them.

“So which one’s yours?” he asks, and Mulder mutters something under his breath.

“That would be me,” Scully answers, holding her hand up at her side. For the first time that she can recall, being referred to as belonging to a man doesn’t bother her.

“Cool,” he says, then turns away and sits down behind a computer.

Scully and Missy both look at Mulder expectantly, asking hundreds of questions with their eyes that they are too polite to speak aloud.

“I know, I know,” he says regretfully. “I told you, they grow on you.”

“Mulder, hello,” calls a new voice, and Scully turns to see a tall man in a suit with neatly coiffed brown hair and a matching goatee.

“Hello, ladies, I’m John Fitzgerald Byers,” he says, holding out his hand shaking each of theirs in turn. “I apologize for my friends’ behavior, they don’t get out much. Please, come in, make yourselves at home.”

As Byers leads them to the living room, Scully takes stock of what Mulder had referred to as their “lair.” There’s one large room that is sectioned off into a living area and a tech lab, the latter hosting several computers as well as hundreds of computer parts and boxes upon boxes with wires sticking out of them. There’s a kitchen just off the living room, and beyond that a long hallway that must lead to bedrooms. They sit down on a well-worn orange couch, Scully in the middle, while Byers takes an armchair next to the end of the couch where Missy is seated.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Byers asks, his eyes lingering on Missy for a beat.

“It’s margarita night!” Frohike calls from the kitchen, and Byers smiles meekly.

“We also have beer, or wine, if you don’t care for margaritas,” he offers demurely.

“I love margaritas,” Missy answers with a shrug, “so does Dana, right Sis?” she continues, giving Scully a little jab with her elbow, and Scully smiles and nods.

“Sure, margaritas sound great,” she says, and Byers looks visibly relieved.

“Please excuse me, I’ll be right back,” he says, standing with a slight bow.

After he has disappeared into the kitchen, Missy looks over at Scully and widens her eyes momentarily, then juts out her chin.

“Really?” Scully says with some measure of surprise, and Missy nods enthusiastically.

Mulder chuckles, and Scully looks at him with furrowed eyebrows.

“What?” she asks accusingly.

“You two have some kind of secret language. You sure you aren’t twins?”

“I remember when Dana was born,” Missy says, “it was awful. We are definitely NOT twins.”

“Missy, you were two when I was born, there’s no way you remember that,” Scully says doubtfully, and Missy rolls her eyes.

“Believe what you will, Sis, but I distinctly recall you crying for hours and Bill Jr. peeing his pants in protest,” she says confidently.

“That does sound like Bill,” Scully concedes, and they both laugh.

“Why do I get the impression that Bill isn’t the favorite sibling?” Mulder asks, and Scully rests her hand on his knee.

“Just be glad he doesn’t live close enough to attend Sunday brunch tomorrow,” she says with a squeeze, “if you’re lucky, you won’t have to meet him for years.”

Mulder smirks at her with soft, affectionate eyes. “Years, huh?” he asks, and Scully smiles as heat rises to her cheeks, realizing what she’d implied.

“Here we are,” Byers says as he re-enters the room carrying a tray with four glasses on it. He sets the tray on the coffee table and passes a glass to each of the sisters and then to Mulder before he takes one himself and sits down.

“What should we drink to?” Missy asks, holding her glass up.

“How about, to new friends,” Byers offers, giving her a small smile.

“To new friends,” Missy repeats, and they clink their glasses together.

———

“A WHAT tail?” Missy asks, her tongue thick with tequila and her eyes glassy.

“A ves- vesigible? Vestibule tail?” Mulder attempts, closing one eye in concentration.

“Vestigial tail,” Scully corrects them, retaining her medical terminology even under the influence of four very strong margaritas.

“Yes, that was it,” Byers says, pointing at her triumphantly.

Frohike drank too much and retired to his bedroom an hour ago, while Langly is still stationed behind his computer, headphones on and seemingly immersed in some kind of first person shooter game. Byers has shed his suit jacket and cuffed his sleeves, his tie loosened around his neck. He long ago joined them on the orange couch where they are now stuffed like sardines, the sisters sandwiched in the middle with a man on each side.

“Caudal appendages are a normal part of fetal development,” Scully says, her head leaning against Mulder’s arm and their hands entwined in his lap. “The coccyx enlarges to contain the spinal fluid and then it shrinks as the child develops. Occasionally it doesn’t. It’s extremely rare, but it’s been known to happen.”

“But that’s not the point,” Mulder retorts, sticking his nose into her hair. “The tail was just how they made the connection, the freaky deaky part is that this guy could change his appearance to look like the women’s husbands so they’d have sex with him.”

“That’s disgusting,” Missy says with a frown, and Byers puts his hand on her upper back, rubbing comfortingly. She looks at him and smiles sweetly.

“I don’t buy that at all,” Scully says, shaking her head clumsily.

“The shapeshifting?” Mulder asks, assuming the answer.

“Well that too, but even just the idea that they didn’t know it wasn’t their husband. They would have known,” she says plainly, it being an obvious fact to her.

“He was physically identical to their husbands, there was no way to tell the difference,” Byers explains, looking at the side of Missy’s face while he talks.

“Well maybe he looked like them, but partnered sex is very routine based,” Scully continues, “if you’re with the same person for a long time, you develop somewhat of a cadence, an order of things, that there’s no way he could have replicated. So even if he was physically identical to the husbands, he would have kissed differently, touched them differently. They would have noticed the difference.”

Mulder sits back against the arm rest so he can see her face more clearly.

“So you’re telling me that if a man who looked exactly like me in every way, physically identical, tried to seduce you, you’d know it wasn’t me?”

Scully gives him an irritated look. “Yes.”

“How?” he asks incredulously.

“Because no one else kisses like you do,” she says at a lower register, hoping Missy and Byers aren’t listening.

Mulder looks past her to the other end of the couch and his eyebrows lift in surprise, his mouth curling into an amused smile. Scully turns to see what he’s smiling at and finds that Missy and Byers most definitely were not listening, because they currently have their tongues halfway down each other’s throats. Scully turns back to Mulder with an open-mouthed smile.

“Oh my god,” she gushes, leaning her forehead against his chest.

He wraps his arms around her back and gives her a squeeze.

“I was just about to say we should get outta here,” Mulder whispers against her ear, “but I’d hate to interrupt them. I think this is the most action Byers has gotten in years.”

She stifles her laugh in his T-shirt, then sits up to look at him.

“Is he a good guy?” she questions in a bit of sisterly concern.

“Oh, yes, the best,” Mulder says emphatically. “If it were either of the other two stooges down there I’d pry Missy off of him and transport her to safety, but Byers is good people.”

Scully nods in approval, sneaking another glance towards the lovebirds as Missy’s foot starts to press against her thigh; they seem to be orienting more horizontally by the second. She glances over at Langly, but he’s oblivious.

“Do you think it’s okay if we leave her here?” Mulder asks cautiously, unsure if it’s an obscene suggestion.

Scully looks at her sister again. “Missy, we’re leaving,” she says loudly, and Missy holds up her arm, flicking her wrist in a “go” motion. Scully turns back to Mulder. “She’s fine.”

Mulder lives closer to the Gunmen so they direct the cab driver there, quietly kissing in the backseat on the ten minute drive. She is pleasantly drunk, just this side of sloppy, and feeling particularly amorous after such a fun evening. Mulder stumbles through his front door ahead of her, swearing as he stubs his toe on the table. He feeds Priscilla as Scully removes her shoes and jacket, making her way to the couch. As soon as he sits down beside her, he leans over and presses his boozy lips against hers, the kiss firm and insistent and...weird.

“Mulder,” she says as he continues to plant strange kisses on her mouth, “what are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” he asks, moving his pecking down her neck.

“You’re kissing me weird,” she says flatly, and he lifts his head to give her a shocked look.

“Motherfucker,” he says in a disappointed tone, and she shoves his shoulder.

“I told you I would know, jerk,” she says playfully, and he laughs.

“I guess you would,” he says, starting to kiss her more properly.

“Shall we take this to the bedroom?” she suggests, and he stands, holding his hand out to her.

She leads him into the bedroom, and as she approaches the bed he grabs her roughly from behind, clutching her to him. She gasps at the sudden contact, but it also excites her.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice gravelly.

She nods her head tersely, wanting to see where he’s going to take it.

He growls and sticks his hand down the front of her still-buttoned jeans, forcing his fingers under her panties until he meets with her vulva. Keeping his fingers still, he slips his other hand under her shirt, shoving it under the underwire on her bra and grasping her breast roughly. Her heart is racing but she doesn’t move.

“Unbutton your pants,” he says levelly, and the authoritative tone in his voice sends a little rush between her thighs. She does as he said, unbuttoning her jeans and pushing them off her hips while his hand is still tucked against her.

With more room to move, he slips his hand down further and drags his fingers lazily over her lips. She can feel herself growing wet, her clit aching to be touched. He suddenly removes both hands, grabbing the hem of her shirt and tugging it over her head before she’s even had time to lift her arms, her bra soon following it to the floor. He steps forward, pushing her along with him, and then touches her upper back.

“Bend over,” he says, and she does, her torso resting on the mattress while her legs dangle over the side.

She feels him tug her jeans off her legs, and then her panties, leaving her nude. She waits, her heart pounding in her ears nearly blocking out the jangle of his belt buckle and the slide of his zipper. She feels his naked skin press against hers, his erection stiff and hot against her lower back. He leans forward to put his mouth to her ear.

“Still okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says breathily.

She hears the crinkle of the condom wrapper and wriggles her hips in anticipation, nearly moaning when his hands touch her bare hips, tugging her towards him. She feels the slick press of his latex-covered cock against her entrance and bucks back towards him, earning a little chuckle. He pushes into her, each groaning with relief, and wastes no time finding a hard and fast pace, the slap of skin deafening in the quiet apartment. He changes his angle, and she feels his hand snake around her hip, his touch rough and firm and perfectly paired with the strike of his head against her cervix on each upstroke. It hurts just a little bit, but in the best kind of way, and she cries out when he finds just the right combination, begging him not to stop.

A stream of obscenities, foul and offensive remarks about how she feels and looks, what he’s doing to her, pour from his lips and she is concurrently shocked and delighted, finding herself at the crest as he asks her how much she likes it, and calls her some questionable names. She comes hard and suddenly, the obscenities stopping as he explodes inside of her, falling partially on top of her as he loses the strength to stand.

After he’s extricated himself from the bed and disposed of the condom, he pulls her on top of him and peppers her with tender little kisses and gentle strokes of his hands over her naked body, telling her how beautiful and perfect she is, bringing them back to equilibrium. She props her chin on his chest and looks up at him with a wry smile.

“What did you call me?” she asks, and he does a silly cartoonish cringe.

“I’m not totally sure, to be honest. Did I say something bad?” he asks with genuine concern.

“I’m not totally sure, to be honest,” she replies, “I was otherwise engaged.” She smiles at him so he knows she’s not mad. She looks over at the clock beside his bed. “We better go to sleep,” she says, her eyes already drooping. “We have to be at my mother’s at ten tomorrow.”

———

“So, what did you all do last night?” Maggie asks around the lunch table, and Dana chokes on her water while Missy clears her throat.

“I introduced Dana to some of my friends,” Mulder answers jovially, on his best ‘meet the parents’ behavior.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Maggie answers warmly. “Are you from the area, Fox?”

“It’s Mulder, Mom,” Dana corrects her, and he waves his hand dismissively.

“It’s okay, moms get a free pass,” he says, smiling at Maggie. “I grew up on Martha’s Vineyard.”

“Ooooo, fancy schmancy,” Charlie remarks with raised eyebrows, and Dana glares at him.

“Do you have any siblings?” Maggie continues.

This is a line of questioning he’s had to navigate since he was twelve, but for Dana it’s a first. She tightens her grip on his hand under the table.

“It’s okay,” he whispers to her before turning back to Maggie. “I had a younger sister, but she died when I was twelve.”

Scully understands that this is probably his stock answer, not wanting to get into the true story with each person he crosses paths with, and feels retroactively touched that he was honest with her from the start.

Maggie’s hand goes to her chest as though reaching for a rosary, her face a mask of pain. “Oh, Fox, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, Mrs. Scully, it was a long time ago.”

Sensing the need for a subject change, Charlie turns to his oldest sister. “What’s up with you, Missy? You’re looking a little rough today.”

She gives him a derisive smile. “Thanks, little brother, love you too. I just didn’t get much sleep, I’m fine.”

“Uh huh,” Charlie says knowingly, and Missy kicks him under the table.

After the dishes have been cleared, Maggie is pulling the trash bag out of the can when Mulder interjects. “Let me take that out for you, Mrs. Scully.”

She watches him with a soft smile as he goes out the back door, then turns to look at her youngest daughter, who is also watching after him with an affectionate expression.

“Dana,” she calls, and when she has her daughter’s attention, she gives her a beaming smile. They don’t need to say more than that; Dana smiles back with a little nod, and they both understand that she’s found something worth moving on to.

[robininthelabyrinth]

Initiative pt 2 - ao3 or tumblr pt 1

It was just typical of his brother, Nie Huaisang thought. He finally, finally, finally found a girl that might suit him, agreed to marry her, and then he spent all his time worrying about…saber.

Typical.

Nie Huaisang volunteered himself to act as the family representative in negotiations with the Jiang sect, seeing as his brother would undoubtedly get them fleeced if he were trying to do it himself – “Try not to be too mercenary, Huaisang. We are the ones in the stronger position, through no fault of theirs.” –  and with one thing or another he arrived at the Lotus Pier less than a week after Jiang Yanli did.

Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian seemed rather surprised to see him.

“I haven’t had a moment to tell them,” Jiang Yanli said, pressing her head to her forehead and looking a little tired. “They’d just completed the memorial hall, when I arrived.”

“And it’s been nothing but keeping them from fighting ever since?” Nie Huaisang said, not without some sympathy.

Only some, though. If Jiang Yanli couldn’t handle Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian, even the grieved and tragic versions of them, what was she going to do the first time his brother went into a rage?

Maybe he was being too cold-blooded. After all, they’d been her parents, too.

“Your arrival is a good thing,” she said, narrowing her eyes a little in satisfaction. “Now they have no excuse to run away from me.”

Nie Huaisang couldn’t help but smile a little at that.

She summoned a few sect disciples, divided them neatly into two groups – one larger than the other – and instructed them to go bring her two recalcitrant brothers to the main hall. “You may use force,” she informed the larger group. “I would advise you that A-Xian is especially weak to tickling around his ribs, and don’t let him scare you off with that Yiling Patriarch stuff. And as for the group going to get A-Cheng – may I suggest looking especially pathetic when you convey the message that his sister, who he left alone for almost the entire war, would really like to see him if he has a moment to spare for her?”

Nie Huaisang’s smile broadened. “Tears,” he added solemnly. “Tears are very good. He hates tears.”

“Just so. Thank you all.”

“My brother is already planning out your saber,” he told her once the disciples had left, and she brightened visibly. “If there’s anything you want to contribute in terms of design, now’s the time – I brought mine in case you want to have a look later on.”

Aituan was in his luggage. Somewhere. His brother had refused to let him leave the Unclean Realm before he’d produced proof of saber, and he hadn’t unpacked since then, so surely it was somewhere.

“I’m sure whatever your brother comes up with will be fine,” she said. “I don’t know anything about weapons.”

A brief hesitation.

“Although, perhaps not – so large…?”

Nie Huaisang decided to be daring. He opened his fan in front of his face and looked at her over it, allowing his eyes to curve up in a smile. “Don’t worry about that – though if all goes well, you’re going to have to accustom yourself to dealing with a large saber at some point in the process.”

She burst out laughing, which was good.

“Nie Huaisang!” Oh, look, Jiang Cheng was here. “What are you saying to my sister? You’d better not be harassing her!”

“What would you do if I was?” Nie Huaisang wondered. “I mean, I’m not, I don’t think, but –”

“Just don’t.”

“A-Cheng,” Jiang Yanli said. “Be polite. Where’s A-Xian? I have something to tell you both.”

Wei Wuxian came in a few moments later, grumbling and rubbing his ribs but brightening when he saw them all gathered up there, and he slid into place by Jiang Cheng’s side easy as anything even if they did sort of stare awkwardly with quasi-glares, quasi-grimaces at each other first.

And then Jiang Yanli told them why Nie Huaisang was there, and all awkwardness fell away at once so that they could unite in glaring at Nie Huaisang.

“Why are you looking at me for?” he asked. “I’m not the one marrying her, that’s my brother.”

“If you had anything to do with this –” Wei Wuxian started, doing his whole looming-with-the-subtonal-wailing-of-dark-forces Yiling Patriarch thing, but ticklish around the ribs and a summer of nonsense didn’t really do much to encourage fear in Nie Huaisang, who’d never had as much common sense as a regular person ought.

“Oh, no, I objected to it,” Nie Huaisang said breezily. “Your sister doesn’t deserve my brother.”

And that, of course, got them both up in arms even more.

“What’s that supposed to mean? What’s wrong with my sister?” Jiang Cheng shouted, and Wei Wuxian’s aura-of-darkness got even more out of hand as he crossed his arms and glared death. “She’d be a great bride for anyone! Give me one reason –”

“I’m glad to have your support, didi,” Jiang Yanli said, calmly ladling out the soup she’d promised Nie Huaisang as if they were sitting in the midst of a nice breeze instead of a hurricane, and okay, fine, maybe his brother had a point about the importance of things like backbone and patience. “Don’t worry so much. If Nie-er-gongzi is here as his brother’s representative, that must mean he’s accepted the match.”

Or that he was here to sabotage it, but he appreciated her good faith interpretation.

“Please, just Huaisang is fine,” he said, smiling at her. “You’ll be my sister-in-law soon enough, won’t you?”

“We haven’t agreed yet!” Wei Wuxian exclaimed.

“Oh, like your opinion matters,” Nie Huaisang said, rolling his eyes. “You know how many people have put good money down on you leaving the Jiang sect in the next three-to-six months?”

That got all of them looking like they’d just been unexpectedly stabbed in the chest, Jiang Yanli included.

“What?” he asked, batting his eyelashes innocently at them. “Did I say something wrong? Everyone knows you aren’t doing anything for the Jiang sect anymore, Wei-xiong. All the rumors says so, and the only reason for that is if you were planning on ditching now that you don’t need them anymore.”

“That’s enough,” Jiang Yanli said, and there was a bit of steel in her voice. “A-Xian isn’t leaving, and even if he was, his opinion on my marriage would still matter to me.”

“That’s one of the reasons I objected,” Nie Huaisang said to her, deciding that she was clearly the only one mature enough to have this extremely necessary discussion with. “Meaning no offense, but in every possible respect, you’re a bad match. If you marry my brother, will you be expecting him to run around defending everything the Yiling Patriarch does whenever he’s in the mood to thumb his nose at the cultivation world? Or paying for the Lotus Pier’s reconstruction costs, even though Jiang-xiong hasn’t made a single overture to our Nie sect in terms of reestablishing trade routes or even just swapping craftsmen for mutual benefit?”

Both Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian were positively black in the face.

“Of course, even if you weren’t going to anchor him down with even more political obligations, there’s your personal value,” Nie Huaisang continued, tapping his finger against his cheek. “Word has it that you’re weak and sickly. Who’s to say that you won’t die along with the first child you bear –”

“How dare you talk about my shijie like that!” Wei Wuxian shouted, slamming his hand down on the table, while Jiang Cheng’s Zidian crackled lightning like an overactive firework. “How dare you –”

“And do you still support the marriage, even with all of these disadvantages?” Jiang Yanli asked, holding up her hands to hold her brothers back. Her eyes were a bit wet, but she was otherwise unperturbed, at least on the surface.

“I do, actually,” Nie Huaisang said, pleased. Even if she went to go cry later, which he didn’t think she would, she’d done well enough to pass his personal test of what constituted backbone. “My brother doesn’t care about politics, we have plenty of money, and there’s doctors for the rest of it. If you’re really willing to put in the effort, I’d be happy to call you my sister-in-law.”

Jiang Cheng was hissing like a pot of water on the boil. Wei Wuxian was grinding his teeth.

“I appreciate that,” Jiang Yanli said, disregarding them entirely. “I can promise you that I’ll do my best.”

“Good, good,” Nie Huaisang said, and grinned at her. “There’s only enough room for one useless flower vase in the Nie household, and the position is taken. By me, if that’s not clear. I brought my brother’s eight characters – do you have yours at hand? We can calculate the auspicious date immediately.”

“I still haven’t agreed!” Jiang Cheng exclaimed, and Jiang Yanli reached out to touch his arm lightly. “I haven’t! Jiejie, you don’t have to marry anyone you don’t want to, no matter what good things you think it’d bring to the sect, okay? You should marry for love!”

“Jiang Cheng’s right, shijie,” Wei Wuxian said at once. “You should get anyone you like. Even if you still want that stupid Jin sect peacock, we’d find a way to get him for you.”

Nie Huaisang looked at Jiang Yanli carefully at that one. It was even odds if his brother minded her having some vestigial affections, especially in the beginning, but he himself wouldn’t be having any of that – least of all with a Jin, no matter how much better Jin Zixuan seemed to be than his father.

His brother deserved someone who would put him first, this time.

“No, thank you,” she said without the slightest hesitation, and Nie Huaisang nodded in approval. “Young Master Jin has made his opinion about me clear enough, and not just once. I’m not going to run after him like I think that’s all I’m good for. And anyway, Chifeng-zun is a good man, who you both greatly admire – why can’t I marry him?”

“You can marry anyone you want,” Jiang Cheng said at once.

“And I want to marry him,” she said, and smiled. “At first, yes, it was primarily because he seemed to offer the most advantages for our sect, but…I don’t know. He’s very nice.”

Nie Huaisang mouthed the word ‘nice’ to himself, rolling it around in his mouth like a fine wine. It might be the first time anyone had ever described his brother that way.

“I think I would be happy being married to him,” she concluded. “Even very happy. Will you approve?”

They folded like a stack of cards.

“Oh, I like you,” Nie Huaisang told her, finally but now wholly delighted. “It’ll be good for my brother.”

And it’ll be interesting to see how the Jin sect takes it, he thought with a smirk half-hidden behind his fan. Since you bring the power and influence of whole Jiang sect with you, and the Yiling Patriarch too.

He wouldn’t mention that, of course.

Only an idiot would negotiate against themselves.

[scapegrace74-blog]

New Ways of Turning into Stone, Chapter 5

A/N  Sorry for the long break between chapters.  As some of you might have seen from my Tumblr blog, I’ve been off on vacation these past two weeks.  Plus, when I felt the urge to write, it was my new Vaquero AU that kept calling to me (21,000 words and counting!), rather than this fic.  Which is probably a good argument for why I don’t like to post WIPs.  In any event, here is the next chapter some of you have been asking for, entitled Third Appointment.  Be careful what you wish for.  Angst ahead, plus a trigger warning for infertility trauma, miscarriage.

The first four chapters are available on my AO3 page.

The Thursday after her impromptu encounter with Jamie and his niece at the Royal Hospital for Children, Claire woke with a strange twisting pain in her gut.  Skipping breakfast, she was halfway to her office before she diagnosed herself with an acute case of nerves, the kind that sprouted between her lungs and ribcage like a vestigial organ whose sole purpose was to unsettle her.

She wasn’t in the habit of meeting patients outside of the clinical confines of her practice, but it was more than that.  Jamie had caught her in a moment of weakness, with both her personal and professional armour missing.  What he might have seen and how he could have interpreted it had occupied her thoughts ever since.

Eating lunch was out of the question.  By the time two o’clock approached, her insides were a buzzing hornets’ nest of anxiety, her palms clammy with sweat.  A half-empty bottle of Xanax called to her from the bottom of her purse.  Before she could weigh the implications of taking one at work on an empty stomach, Jamie’s familiar knock intervened.

She could tell as soon as he entered that Maggie hadn’t needed a transfusion that week.  His russet curls shone like garnets in the midday sun and his uncanny eyes glittered like sapphires.  Still, he avoided looking directly her way as he settled into his usual chair, and she wondered if the overlap of their personal and professional lives had left him feeling unnerved as well.

“No wheat grass smoothie,” he commented, his gaze running over her desk.

“No, I didn’t have time for lunch today.”  It was a blatant falsehood, since she’d spent her lunch hour picking her cuticles until they bled, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Ye should eat more, Sassen..., Doctor Beauchamp.  Ye canna help anyone else if ye’re no’ properly nourished.”  She caught the slip, and for some reason it angered her.

“Is this your attempt to negotiate a reduction in your fees, Jamie?  Dietary advice in return for counselling?  Because if so, I’m afraid I don’t bill on the barter system,” she snapped, despising her churlish tone.

Jamie’s eyes narrowed, then dimmed.  Message received, he sat up straighter in the armchair and crossed a foot over his knee, assuming a position of poised and detached calm that had no doubt served him well during business negotiations.  She regrouped by pretending to glance at her journal for the notes from their previous session, although the space next to his name was accusingly blank.

Boundaries thus defined, the session went surprising well.  Jamie spoke of his relief that Maggie’s latest round of chemotherapy was over, allowing her to return home and to some semblance of a regular life for a child of six.  Claire coaxed him gently towards the topic of his overwhelming guilt for abandoning his family when he was most needed.  Jamie processed pain through the recounting of stories, coming to terms with his self-decreed transgression by weaving together the tale of those he loved and pointing to the holes his absence had caused.

As his resonant voice spun its web of words, Claire became aware of an underlying hum.  At first it was subtle, like the mumble of traffic from a far-off motorway.  But as their hour together ticked by, it grew in strength until she could no longer ignore the buzz that pressed against her from all directions.

“... saw that it was really Jenny and Ian who I was... Claire?  Doctor Beauchamp, are ye well?”  Jamie was watching her with concern, and she realized she’d been shaking her head, trying to dislodge the omnipresent hum.

“Yes, I’m... yes.  Sorry.  Just a funny noise that’s...  Please, continue.”  When Jamie didn’t immediately pick up the thread of his narrative, she tried again.  “You were saying something about Jenny and Ian?”

Instead of continuing his previous thought, Jamie picked that moment to broach the topic she’d desperately hoped he would avoid.

“I hope ye’re no’ upset about the other day, at the hospital.  I didna mean tae impose or tae... o’erstep the bounds of our relationship.  No’ that we have a relationship, mind,” he hastened to add.  “Only a professional one.  But when I saw ye, I couldna resist introducing ye tae wee Maggie.  I hadna told ye about her yet, and I thought...”

“Jamie, it’s fine,” she cut in, halting his rambling explanation.  “She’s a lovely girl.  They all are.  It’s only that, I’m sort of...”

“Ye’re verra good with them.  Children, that is.  Ye’ll make a fine mother one day.”

All the oxygen left the room at once.  Her heart beat so hard there was a bruised feeling behind her sternum.   Launching to her feet, Claire stumbled blindly away from her desk.  She wanted to run, to scream, but her vision was a narrow chasm and a now-deafening throb filled her ears.  She only made it a few steps before her knees buckled and the carpet floated upwards to meet her.

“Ifrinn!”  Jamie leapt to her side, catching her by the shoulders before her head could hit the floor.  He lowered them both carefully to the ground, resting her body against his lap.  “Sassenach?  Claire?  Can ye hear me?  Do I need tae call an ambulance?”  The words reached her from very far away, but the threat of medical intervention acted like a dose of smelling salts.

“No,” she groaned, the room spinning around her like a kaleidoscope.  “No hospital.  I just... need to eat,” she grasped at the most innocuous explanation for her current state.

Without dislodging her, Jamie stretched his long arm and brought back the small basket of miniature muffins that were the day’s offering from Geillis.  With surprising dexterity, he peeled away the paper one-handed and broke apart a bite-sized morsel, holding it gently against her lips.  Realizing that her dignity couldn’t get any more battered, Claire opened her mouth and allowed Jamie to feed her.  After only a few bites, the buzzing disappeared and she was able to sit up on her own.

“Thank you,” she murmured, afraid to look into his eyes for fear of the pity she knew she’d see there.  “You were right. I  should have eaten lunch, I guess.”

“Claire.”  Jamie made a prose poem of the single syllable of her name.  She looked up at him through her lashes, stunned to find him looking back, not with pity, but with something akin to adoration.  “Mo nighean donn,” he ran a tender hand through her loosened curls.  “Ye need tae care more for yerself.”

“I will.  I’ll try.”  And when she said it to him, she really meant it.  Jamie made the impossible seem probable.

They stared at one another, shoulder to shoulder on the floor of her office.  She couldn’t think of anything else to say, but nor did she move.  Her gaze flitted over his face, noticing a vestige of boyish freckles across the bridge of his nose, a mole hidden in the harvest stubble on his cheek.  Jamie was performing a parallel inventory, eyes finally coming to rest at the level of her mouth.

“Ye’ve got a wee crumb, jus’ there.”  Unconscious, her tongue swept out, triggering a predatory response, twin blue laser beams narrowing on the target she had just painted on her lower lip.

“I... I’d verra much like tae kiss ye, Claire.  May I?”

An amputated moan was all she could manage in response, but Jamie must have understood its meaning.  He bent his head until only a whisper separated them.  The air crackled, sending that extra organ plummeting towards her hollow womb.  Clenching her eyes shut in defeat, she closed the infinitesimal gap until they met in an effervescent caress of lip and tongue.

Cold washed over her skin, bathing her in gooseflesh.  Jamie tasted like he looked; a banquet of fresh, volatile flavours that called to mind a picnic in a meadow, a spray of sea foam, the warmth of hearth and home.  She could feel him trembling against her, his moist breath rushing against her cheek in shallow pants.  For a score of heartbeats, Claire was the happiest she had ever been.  Then, reality crashed down around her.

“I’m sorry,” she stammered, pulling away.  “I... this can’t... I’m sorry.”

Jamie leaned back with a mixture of longing and resignation.  She hated adding herself to his list of regrets, but it was for the best.

“I’m your doctor, Jamie.  This isn’t right.”

“Aye, I ken.  I should apologize, but I canna seem tae find it in me tae repent.”

Jamie stood, reaching down to help Claire up as well.  As soon as it was apparent she was able to stand on her own, he dropped her hand as though it burned.  The line between his brows deepened, and she could see the question forming before he gave it voice.

“What if ye werena my doctor?  Would it be right then?”

“That’s neither here nor there, because I am, Jamie.  A relationship between patient and doctor of a romantic nature is ethically off-limits.”

Jamie nodded, apparently accepting her explanation at face value. Her heartbeat calmed.  He moved slowly, gathering his coat and starting to leave.  

“But what if ye weren’t?” he said, facing the door.  “If we’d met at the hospital, or out on the town?”

“I...” she stammered, searching desperately for any answer except for the truth.  “No, Jamie,” she said at last, watching as she destroyed his last bastion of hope.  “I’m sorry.  I just don’t feel that way about you.”

Nodding abruptly, Jamie let himself out of the office.  She listened to his low murmuring voice through the door as he spoke to Geillis, heard him make an appointment for the following week, then the loud snap of the main door closing.  Only then did she allow herself to collapse once more to the floor, angry sobs overtaking her.

***

“Are ye out of yer fuckin’ mind?” Geillis inquired with her usual brutal eloquence.

With the help of a Xanax, Claire had managed to see her last two patients of the day, and only needed to navigate the shoals of her office manager’s ire before she could go home and fully medicate herself into a dreamless sleep.

“Jes so we’re clear, ye want me tae write a letter terminating your services as a doctor an’ suggesting suitable alternative providers?  An’ ye want me tae send this letter, over email, tae Jamie Fraser?”

“That’s right.”  She had determined that icy calm was the best antidote to this conversation, which was fortuitous, since she felt numb all over.

“An’ what reason am I tae give fer this abrupt conclusion tae yer association wi’ Mr. Fraser?”

“I don’t owe him an explanation.  Only sufficient notice and an opportunity to seek counselling elsewhere,” she said, feigning reasonableness.

Pushed past her limits, Geillis rose from behind her desk, a tiny tempest of moral indignation.

“Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp, ye are a good friend, a fine doctor an’ a fair employer.  But I swear by the Almighty that if ye dinna drop the façade and tell me wha’ is going on I am going tae smack ye until yer ears ring!”

There was a certain relief in knowing that Geillis wouldn’t take no for an answer.  And unlike Jamie, she knew where Claire lived and would not let her rest until the truth came out.

“He kissed me.  Or rather, I kissed him.  And I liked it!  That’s why, Geillis.”

Her friend’s shoulders sagged, all righteousness gone in an instant.  She reached around Claire’s frame and held her in a bone-crushing one-sided hug.

“Och, hen.  An’ ye figured ye could deal wi’ those pesky feelings by jes, what? firing him as yer patient?”  

“I can’t deal with this right now, Geillis.  I can’t feel the way he makes me feel.  And this practice is all that I have left.  There’s no way I can risk losing it just for an affair that won’t even last the summer.”

She didn’t need to elaborate on her reasons for that dire prediction.  Geillis knew them as well as anyone.

“He’s an intelligent man, Claire. He’s gonna ken something is up.  Moreover, he’s a good man.  He deserves tae hear the truth.”

Shaking her head sadly, Claire walked towards the door.  Just before exiting, she called back softly to her friend.

“Geillis?  Make sure to include Dr. Rafferty’s name on the list of referrals.  I think they’d be a good match.

***

Monday morning dawned with little promise for the fledgling week.  Moving robotically through her weekend routine, Claire thought frequently of chickens.  How their bodies kept moving once their heads were lopped off, nerves and muscle and bone continuing to function for a time despite the fatal blow.

The elevator chimed its arrival on her floor.  As the doors slide open, Jamie was the first thing she saw.  He loomed by her still-locked office, a sun-topped thundercloud gripping a sheet of printer paper.

She’d worn her best black suit and a pair of chunky heels that brought her closer to his height.  Perhaps, on some subconscious level, she’d anticipated this confrontation.  Perversely, she relished it.  Vitriol and deceit didn’t suit her, but it was preferable to feeling absolutely nothing.

“Do ye mind tellin’ me,” Jamie began before she’d even set foot in the hallway, “jus’ what this is about, Claire?” He brandished the paper like a wanted poster.

“I would think it was self-explanatory, actually.  I’m terminating our professional relationship,” she huffed, golden eyes coming to life for the first time since Thursday.

“Via email.  Sent tae me by Miss Duncan, because ye dinna have the guts tae do it yerself.  Christ, Sassenach, even my ninth grade sweetheart didna dump me so cruelly!”

“I’m not your sweetheart!” she burst out, a flood of emotion cresting with her rising anger.  “Don’t call me that!  I was your doctor, Jamie, and now I’m nothing to you.  Nothing.  Just go.  Please.  Just go,” she finished weakly and without any hope that he’d listen.

“All this jus’ because I kissed you?” Jamie persevered.  At her stubborn silence, he continued, “Nah, I dinna think so.  Ye’re many things, Claire, but a coward isna one of them.”

She found this hysterically funny, since a coward was the only role she played to perfection.  She didn’t have time to laugh, however, because Jamie was suddenly standing much closer, forcing her to lift her chin to meet his stormy eyes.

“Nah,” he continued smoothly, a big cat alerted to the smell of its prey.  “If ye’d objected tae the kiss, ye would have told me so.  Read me the riot act or kneed me in the bawls.  I think ye’re scared, Doctor Beauchamp.  I think that kiss terrified ye, because ye realized ye liked it.  Somethin’ ye couldna  plan for in yer wee journal, right there under yer nose.  Bet it made yer heart beat so fast. So fast, jus’ like it is now.”

Jamie’s hand rested gently over the placket of her suit jacket, where he could surely feel the trip hammering of her pulse.

“Please,” she begged.  “Don’t.  I can’t...”

“Can’t what, Sassenach?” he whispered back, goading her.

The truth hung on her lips, and the toll of the past few days meant that she no longer had the strength to stop it from spilling forth.

“Can’t have children.  Ever.  I tried, for years.  Fourteen miscarriages, fourteen lost chances.  And seeing you with those children last week.  I know it’s presumptive, but I could never deny you that chance, Jamie.  That’s why I can’t see you anymore.”

She was looking down, watching the buttons of his shirt rise and fall with his agitated breath, but as she finished speaking, their movement ceased.  Chancing a glance upward, she was stunned by the fury that had overtaken his expression. 

Jamie opened and closed his mouth several times before he managed to speak in a gritty growl.

“Mutation of the RUNX1 gene tha’ causes leukemia.  I was tested, along wi’ Jenny an’ Ian, after Maggie was diagnosed.  I have a fifty percent chance of passing it along tae my children.  An’ since I canna stand the thought of ano’er bairn havin’ tae suffer as Maggie has, as soon as I got the test results, I went out an’ had a vasectomy.”

Claire recoiled as though she’d been slapped, a high pitched whine in her ears.

“Ye’re no’ the only one who’s hurting, Claire!” Jamie continued, voice dashing against the rocks of her name.  “We’re no’ meant tae suffer alone.  Ye, of all people, should ken that.”

Stunned in the silence following the thunderclap of his revelation, she couldn’t find the words to express her sorrow, her outrage, and her crippling shame.  By the time the power of speech returned, Jamie was gone. 

[draconic-ichor]

In the Steel Steeds Heart

Chapter 22: Reservoir House Call

Warnings: strong language, sexual themes, body horror

Summary: Moraue needs Heisenberg’s help.

Feedback appreciated, 18+

Movement tripped the alarms, something deep in the factory stirred the sensors. Heisenberg and Juniper entered the control room. He sat in the chair, looking over the cameras.

“What the fuck it that?!” Juniper pointed to one of the screens. Heisenberg turned to look where her finger led.

Down on the lowest reaches of the factory, where water from the reservoir flowed through the factory a large shape lumbered out.

It was a mass of fat and eyes, pulling free of the water with multiple legs.

“Aw Christ…” Heisenberg sat back in his chair rubbing the bridge of his nose, “it’s Moreau.”

 

“That’s Moreau??” Juniper said in disbelief.

By the time they made it down to the lowest level, Moreau had changed back into his more humanoid form, coughing near the edge of the waterway.

“H-Hello Juniper.” The man croaked. Seeing him now, without his usual coverings was a sight to behold. His back was covered with bulbous, pulsing growths. Damn, some looked to be monstrous eyes. A vestigial aquatic tail poked out from the mass, moving on its own accord. It looked painful, forcing the man into a hunchback.

“H-Hello.” Juniper managed.

“Yea Yea, fish.” Heisenberg stomped up, “What do you want, I’m busy.”

Moreau seemed to worry his hands, glancing down, “Brother…I…I need your help.”

“I fucking know that, what is it?” Heisenberg interjected, annoyed.

His tone made the other flinch a bit, “My television…i-it broke. I can’t f-fix it.”

Heisenberg signed, thinking over the situation. “I’ll come fix it.” He finally spoke.

Moreau’s face lit up with hope, shuffling his feet a bit. He turned towards Juniper, “You’ll come too?”

“Sure.” She nodded tentatively, hearing Heisenberg groan behind her.

“I can take you over!” The man gestured to the water excitedly.

Juniper felt a shiver, remembering what emerged from the water, until Heisenberg cut in again. “Thanks but…uh…fuck that.” He waved his hand, “Well take our own way.”

Slightly dejected, Moraue nodded, “I’ll meet you there.”

“Mhm.” Heisenberg shrugged tightly. Before anyone would speak again the fish man turned and jumped back into the waterway.

~

“Is that a purse?” Juniper asked amused. They walked towards the Reservoir, the ground muddy from the melted snow.

“It’s a tool bag.” Heisenberg answered through gritted teeth. He pulled the bag closer, it was letter and hung around his shoulder at hip level.

“It looks like a purse.” Juniper snickered, earning a growl of annoyance from Heisenberg.

As they drew nearer, past the town, the ground grew more sodden. The air slowly began to gain a certain smell, like the rotting of waterlogged plants. Juniper wrinkled her nose.

They walked through a narrow passage between a cliff face, Heisenberg holding back a bramble patch for Juniper to safely squeeze through.

She could see the windmills now, old and groaning as they slowly turned. Most of the land surrounding them had long since been lost to the rising water. The roofs of houses and other debris could be seen floating on top of the murky water.

“This is it.” Heisenberg announced, “The beautiful Reservoir, perfect place to cool off in the summertime. Just watch out for the fish!” His voice mimicked an old radio announcer as he split his face into a cheeky smile.

Juniper brushed him away, walking towards the edge to look into the swirling water.

“Be careful, buttercup.” Heisenberg came up behind her, “Won’t be able to fish you out if you sink in that.”

She felt a little shiver run down her spine.

She stepped away from the water, “So where does Moreau live?”

Heisenberg gestured for her to follow, easing his tool bag more comfortably on his shoulder. They entered the closest of the windmills. The old wooden mechanism slowly turned and groaned as they took stairs deeper into the underground. They came to a lift, resembling ones in the factory, but this one was wooden.

They rode it down into what looked to be an old mine. Juniper’s eyes caught the glittering flecks of crystals embedded into the rocky ceiling.

Going deeper still, with the far off shuffling of Lycans in abandoned mining shafts, they finally came to a metal door.

It bore the crest of Miranda.

“Don’t touch anything.” Heisenberg warned, “I don’t want you getting any diseases.”

Before Juniper could scold him he knocked at the door.

They heard mumbling and the scraping of feet across the wooden floors before the door opened. Moreau was a mixture of joy and apprehension, greeting them inside.

His ‘house’ was one of the mine shafts that had been converted into a living space. There were wooden floors and walls, and some furniture about. It was definitely sparse, save for some shelves with old books and storage containers.

Everything looked to be heavily damaged by water and the goo that Moraue would produce, not to mention the off colored stains that Juniper didn’t want to ask about.

It smelled about as one would expect, given the circumstances.

“I’m sorry…about the mess.” Moraue picked up a pile of old magazines, their covers warped and faded.

“It’s alright.” Juniper tried to sooth.

“So where is the tv?” Heisenberg asked with disgruntlement.

“Oh!” The twisted man exclaimed, “It’s right over here.” He padded around a corner into another small room. An old television set was staked on a crate, some soft things and boxes of films close by. This room looked to be the space he spent most of his time.

“Thank you, Heis-Heisenberg.” Moraue stammered.

“Yea, yea.” Heisenberg strode forward, kneeling down behind the machine. He placed the bag of tools beside him, pulling out a screwdriver.

Juniper wandered back to the entertainment room, Moreau curiously following her.

Heisenberg, busy with his task, took no mind of them. He wanted to finish this job as quickly as possible.

Getting all the screws loose he was able to free the back panel. It came away with an odd sucking sound, goo oozing out with it. The slimy substance hit Heisenberg’s boots as the television gave small sparks.

“Fucking hell!” Heisenberg grimaced at his boots, shaking the panel free of the muck.

“The TV is full of your green shit slime!” Heisenberg yelled into the next room. He heard more apologies from the room over. Grumbling, he began to clean out the inside of the box.

Juniper walked along the wall, looking at various  things that were hung alone it. Most of it was old gushing memorabilia but a few worn picture frames peaked her interest.

One photo in particular stood out. It was faded, the edges being ate up with mold. But she could still make out a man, stocky with jet black hair. He stood proudly in front of a clinic. She squinted her eyes to read the sign in the photo: Moreau’s Clinic.

“Sal?” Juniper turned, pointing to the photo, “Is this you?”

Moreau came closer, looking to where her finger led. His wide mouth parted in a smile as he spoke, “Oh yes!”

“Were you a doctor?” Juniper turned back towards the photo. Looking now she could see the shadows of his features hidden away under all the twisted flesh.

He nodded, “Yes, I took over the clinic. It was my Father’s. I helped people…before…before all..”

His voice trailed off, but Juniper understood.

He shook his head a bit, his smile returning, “But I help Mother Miranda now! I try to make her proud of me.”

Juniper gave him a small smile, knowing that nothing she said would sway his devotion.

“Heisenberg said you were sick.” Moraue looked up at her, his good eye full of worry.

Feeling her stomach she answered, “I went through a lot recently, but I’m feeling much better now.”

“Mother’s gifts hurt sometimes.” He tried to sooth, “But it’s worth it, she wants us to be strong.”

She tried to nod, her gut turning a bit at the memories.

“You are Heisenberg’s helper?”Moreau tried to change the subject.

Heisenberg’s voice sounded from the other room, “She’s my wife!” He corrected.

Moreau gave a small ‘oh’. Juniper’s cheeks bloomed with a rosy blush.

“I’m trying to teach him some manners.” She whispered mischievously, earning a warbling chuckle from Moreau.

“I heard that!” Heisenberg yelled again making the two snicker harder.

~

It was a good few hours before Heisenberg was able to get the inside of the machine clean and in working order once more. He had to use his powers with electricity to rewire some parts, replacing one of the tube bulbs and showering it with a plethora of curses for good measure during the whole ordeal.

Juniper kept Moraue occupied and out of Heisenberg’s hair. He had convinced her to look at his collection of finishing lures. Given his simple speech patterns and twisted visage one would think him very dim; but he was surprisingly intelligent and talkative with certain topics. Fishing was one of those topics, Juniper discovered.

The sound of boots tore them from their conversations, Moraue closing the old wooden tackle box to look up.

“Well I got it working again…but damn your slime mess is really fucking it up.” Heisenberg announced, holding his tool bag.

Moreau took Juniper’s hand excitedly, “Would you want to see one of my movies?”

“No, no.” Heisenberg interjected.

“One movie?” Juniper looked at him with big puppy eyes, “Just to make sure it’s working properly.”

The two looked at Heisenberg expectantly. After a long moment Heisenberg pinched the bridge of his nose and cursed, “Jesus fuck…Fine!”

As Moreau excitedly went through his box of films Heisenberg pressed, “Only one.”

“Thank you.” Juniper whispered, hugging Heisenberg softly.

Rolling his eyes, Heisenberg hisses, “I don’t know why you humor him.”

“Because it’s a nice thing to do.” Juniper snapped under her breath, “Don’t be so mean.”

When he didn’t speak she gave a little huff, wandering closer to the crouched Moreau.

The man was sifting carefully though the films, mumbling things to himself.

Juniper made a sound of surprise pointing into the box, “You have ‘The Secret Garden’?”

Moreau nodded, pulling that film free. It was the 1949 version, in black and white.

“I used to love that book.” Juniper spoke excitedly, “Can we watch that one?”

Moreau, just overjoyed to have company, instantly agreed.

Heisenberg leaned against the far wall, watching them set up the television. Moreau apologized profusely for not having proper seating, while Juniper shrugged and sat on the floor.

He smiled as the two became quiet when the movie started, walking quietly up to sit besides Juniper. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer as he settled in.

The movie wasn’t his cup of tea, liking westerns or thrillers more himself, but the quiet was nice. Even if the place was damp and smelled.

[thecreaturecodex]

Venger

“Venger” © Robson Michel, accessed at his deviantArt page here

[Bust out those Peter Cullen impressions. After that Venger post I reblogged blew up, I started thinking, and this had to get out on paper. There are “canon” 3.5 statistics for Venger, where he’s a CR 21. Some of that CR is from giving him the half-fiend template, which I think is unnecessary. As previously mentioned, I don’t think Venger is that powerful (I think their justification for giving him 9th level spells is that he uses something that looks like imprisonment in one episode, and that is the 9th level spell the stats give him). The 3.5 Venger also has levels in archmage, a prestige class that doesn’t exist in Pathfinder. I did give him feats that duplicate some of that version’s archmage abilities.

My version is designed to be a mid-level boss. He could easily be a recurring character, harassing the PCs starting relatively early in their careers. I chose an infernal over abyssal bloodline in order to give him wings, but he doesn’t really use them much in the TV show. Riding a nightmare is much more stylish.]

Venger CR 14 NE Outsider (native) This imposing humanoid stands tall, his blue skin, reduced nose and small fangs marking his inhuman nature. He wears a red cowl and vestment over a dark gray gown, and bat-like wings lay across his back like a cape. A single curved horn grows from his left temple.

Venger is the epitome of the dark lord, maintaining the obedience of an army of monsters while constantly striving for complete domination of the whole realm. He maintains several strongholds, each of them manned by a menagerie of humanoids (orcs and boggards are favored minions). Venger has no patience for creating magic items, and so covets powerful, unique treasures, going so far as to stalk adventuring parties for years if they have something that he wants.

Venger’s powers stem from a deal made with the powers of Hell, but he has little patience for strictures of law, and freely traffics with a wide variety of fiends. The closest thing he has to a hobby is environmental degradation, and he hunts unicorns, fey and other creatures of nature for sport. He is rarely found alone—he rides a nightmare into combat, and a shadow demon acts as his spy and informant (as well as attempting to pull his evil closer towards chaos and the goals of the Abyss).

Venger maintains a strict watch on his allies and enemies alike through frequent scrying spells, and teleports between his fortresses regularly. He uses mind-influencing magic to ensure the cooperation of his minions, but rarely uses it in combat. When dealing with non-evil creatures, he has been known to travel in disguise, compounding magical and mundane deceptions. Venger often punches below his weight class, terrorizing the weak and targeting low-level adventurers for harassment by his armies. He is somewhat cowardly despite his power, and typically flees from creatures that can properly challenge him, preferring to engage them indirectly with hired or mind-controlled minions.

Venger  CR 14 XP 38,400 Tiefling sorcerer 15 NE Medium outsider (native) Init +7; Senses darkvision 60 ft., Perception +8 Defense AC 20, touch 16, flat-footed 16 (+3 Dex, +1 dodge, +4 armor, +2 deflection) hp 115 (15d6+60) Fort +10, Ref +10, Will +13; +4 vs. poison Immune alignment detection, detect thoughts, discern lies; Resist cold 5, electricity 5, fire 10 Offense Speed 30 ft., fly 60 ft. (average maneuverability) Melee masterwork dagger +7/+2 (1d4-1/19-20) Spell-like Abilities CL 15th, concentration +20 (+24 casting defensively) 9/day—corrupting touch 1/day—darkness Spells CL 15th, concentration +21 (+25 casting defensively) 7th (4/day)—greater teleport, mass hold person (DC 23), prismatic spray (DC 24) 6th (7/day)—chain lightning (DC 23), disintegrate (DC 22), mass bull’s strength, planar binding (devils and fiendish template only, DC 22) 5th (7/day)—cone of cold (DC 22), dismissal (DC 21), dominate person (DC 21), polymorph, wall of force 4th (7/day)—bestow curse (DC 20), charm monster (DC 20), scrying (DC 20), stoneskin, wall of fire 3rd (7/day)—fireball (DC 20), haste, ray of exhaustion (DC 19), suggestion (DC 19), vampiric touch 2nd (8/day)—acid arrow, command undead (DC 18), invisibility, resist energy, scorching ray, see invisibility 1st (8/day, 1 used)—disguise self (DC 17), identify, mage armor, protection from good (DC 17), shield, shocking grasp 0th—acid splash, detect magic, disrupt undead, light, mage hand, message, read magic, ray of frost, touch of fatigue (DC 16)  Sorcerer Bloodline—infernal (pit born) Tactics Before Combat Venger keeps a mage armor spell up 24 hours a day; this is included in his statistics. If expecting combat, he casts shield and stoneskin, as well as haste and mass bull’s strength if accompanied by minions During Combat Venger prefers to debilitate enemies with mass hold person and reach bestow curse spells, and then let his minions capture or kill them. If he intends to kill, he targets weaker-looking opponents with spells such as chain lightning and disintegrate. He fights from the air, either on his own wings or aboard his nightmare, and remains on the move to avoid being pinned into melee. Morale Venger has not lived as long as he has by being reckless. He teleports away to heal and plot his revenge if reduced to 50 or fewer hit points. Statistics Str 8, Dex 16, Con 16, Int 15, Wis 10, Cha 20 Base Atk +7; CMB +6; CMD 21 Feats Blind-fight, Combat Casting, Eschew Materials (B), Elemental Spell (electricity), Dodge, Improved Initiative, Iron Will, Quicken Spell, Reach Spell, Spell Focus (evocation), Toughness Skills Bluff +14, Disguise +11, Fly +15, Intimidate +14, Knowledge (arcana) +13, Knowledge (planes) +10, Perception +8, Ride +9, Spellcraft +12, Stealth +9,  Use Magic Device +15; Racial Modifiers +4 Fly SQ bloodline arcana (+spell level to Intimidate checks), on dark wings, vestigial wings Gear headband of charisma +4, sorcerer’s robes, cloak of protection +2, ring of protection +2, ring of mind shielding, wand of cure light wounds (50 charges), potion of blur (x2), masterwork dagger, 3 doses diamond dust (stoneskin components), silver mirror worth 1000 gp (scrying focus)

[aloysiavirgata]

In The Gale

Title: In The Gale

Author: Aloysia Virgata

Rating: PG

Category: MSR

Author's Notes: For @perplexistan, who asked and helped me make it better. This is shortly after settling into the Unremarkable House. I tried making sense of their legal status, but it’s simply impossible and I gave up.

Our heroes quote from Melville, Shakespeare, Sagan, Baudrillard, and (Emily) Dickens.

***

Because I know that time is always time And place is always and only place And what is actual is actual only for one time And only for one place I rejoice that things are as they are and I renounce the blessed face And renounce the voice Because I cannot hope to turn again Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us And pray that I may forget These matters that with myself I too much discuss Too much explain Because I do not hope to turn again Let these words answer For what is done, not to be done again May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly But merely vans to beat the air The air which is now thoroughly small and dry Smaller and dryer than the will Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.

T.S. Eliot, Ash Wednesday

***

She recites The Raven to herself on the drive in, lists all the state capitals in alphabetical order, and goes through the periodic table. Her body fizzes like a shaken soda, tiny anxious bubbles rising through her blood. They’ve done so much for this, called in so many favors. Mulder put his book on hold for a month, quizzing her with dog-eared notecards. 

“Immediate treatment of myocardial infarction,” he’d call, and she’d say “MONA TASS.”

She feels a pang for the simplicity of the other life, the hiding one, where she just had to ring up cigarettes and herbal Viagra at gas stations.

***

She’s the new girl at the cafeteria table, awkward and alone. Mulder had prepared her a lunch like it’s the first day of school, and she stares at it, wishing for an appetite.

From the corner of her eye she sees two colleagues - an MRI tech and an obstetrician, she thinks - talking softly and glancing over. Scully thinks she hears “FBI,” and she looks up and smiles, uncertain.

They blink at her, look away.

***

Ybarra comes around the corner, gliding in his cassock like a disapproving ghost. “Dr. Scully,” he says, in his pinched voice.

She smiles thinly. “Father Ybarra.”

“Nurse Mossing was looking for the chart for Mrs. Sullivan. Imagine my surprise when I found it in Room 314 instead of Room 413. That’s a potential HIPAA violation, Dr. Scully. That’s a federal law.”

Scully curls her hand so that her nails dig into her skin. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “Father Ybarra, please forg-”

He holds up his palm. “It won’t happen again,” he says, and glides onward.

Scully closes her eyes and leans against the wall. She breathes through her nose until the ringing in her ears stops.

***

She wants to collapse into his arms and cry when she gets home, but that would be giving in. It would be letting them down.

“How’d it go?” he asks. He’s wearing basketball shorts and a Knicks shirt, a five o’clock shadow.

She smiles brightly. “It was good. Learning curve, but good. I think Father Ybarra might be a tough nut to crack, is all.”

Mulder rubs his cowlicked hair. “Put your feet up, Scully, since you won’t wear sensible shoes.”

She does, and accepts the glass of wine he holds out. “Thanks. I’ll sleep well tonight, anyway. There are miles of hallways.”

He sits next to her on the couch. “I wrote a few pages,” he says. “I deleted a bunch, but I think there was a multi-paragraph net gain.”

“I’m glad you’re able to stop focusing on my stuff now,” she says. “Both back in the saddle.”

“Go team.”

She clinks her glass against his. She drinks her wine too fast.

***

Ybarra had come in during her rounds that morning and startled her into knocking a metal bedpan onto the floor. Scully thinks the reverberations of that sound will follow her to the grave.

She’s now in the chapel, tucked into a back pew. She’s been staring at the small altar, at the stained glass windows flanking the crucifix. The Blessed Virgin smiles beatifically down at her, a wretched sinner.

Scully laces her fingers on the back of the pew in front of her and bows her head against them. “Please,” she whispers. “Please.”

***

Mulder wakes her with tea and eggs. “You haven’t been eating,” he says, brow furrowed. 

She rubs her eyes, yawning. “What?”

He sits next to her on the bed, sets the plate and mug on her night table. “You just push your food around your plate, you hardly talk when you get home. What’s going on, Scully?”

She sits up, looking at his worried face. He’s sun-browned and tousled, beautiful, with a mouth that still makes her weak in the knees. “Nothing. It’s just a lot to jump back into.”

“I’m sure it is. And I still want to help you with it.” He pulls the flash cards from his pocket, touches her wrist with his other hand. “Let’s see - causes of upper zone pulmonary fibrosis?”

She looks at the ceiling, back at him. “I don’t need help.”

Mulder blinks, stung. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. You just don’t need to hover over me. You have your own things to work on. Work on your book, patch up your henhouse. ” Her voice sounds snappish to her own ears.

His changeable eyes, now mossy green, darken. He chews his bottom lip, nodding slowly. “I thought you were one of my ‘things.’ Sorry to bother you.” He rises, walks downstairs.

“Mulder,” she whispers.

The tea goes down fine. Scully tries to eat the eggs but feels bile rise in her throat. She flushes them down the toilet instead of leaving them behind, because that is love.

***

She arrives at the nurses’ station on the second floor with three dozen donuts and two cardboard boxes of coffee. She deposits them on the desk. “Good morning, Annabel,” she says.

“Anneliese,” the woman says.

Scully nods, walks away.

*** 

He slides his hand up her pajama top, tracing circles on her ribs, sliding his fingers around to her breasts. He kisses the back of her neck. “Scully,” he whispers, his breath warm and ticklish in her ear.

She wants to pretend to wake up, to turn towards him and lose herself in his body. She wants to tell him everything, to be held and loved and petted and reassured. She wants him to remind her that she once stared down Congress, that some backwater priest and his prickly staff should be a joke to her. She wants them to laugh together at these silly, petty people.

But she can’t, she can’t disappoint him. He’s been so proud of her.

Scully stays still, breathes evenly until his hands move away and she’s alone again.

***

Her car rattles over the driveway, through shimmering waves of heat that rise from the crisping grass. It is the kind of late July afternoon where the sun is a hazy white ball in the west, and clouds of gnats are a permanent feature of the landscape. 

Scully parks, avoiding a puddle in which a peacock is standing. Mulder has recently become enamored of yard fowl. She narrows her eyes at it while opening the car door. 

“Good boy, Kevin,” she calls to it, wary.

Scully picks her way over the gravel in her thin heels. The peacock mews an alarm as she approaches, but doesn’t charge. She lets herself inside, shuts the heat and sun and wildlife outside. The house smells of coffee and microwave popcorn.

She walks into Mulder’s office and finds him hunched at his desk, typing. “Hey,” she says, and drops a kiss on his head. There’s a sketch of Baphomet taped to his monitor, her worn flash cards atop a tome about Raëlism.

He turns in his chair. He puts his arms around her hips. “Hey.” 

“Kevin behaved himself,” she offers.

“You two will be friends yet, you’ll see.”

She peers at the computer. “You get a lot done today?”

Mulder shrugs. “Eh, a bit. Waiting on a few emails, and I had to run that tubing to drain the sump down into the woods. Ate up most of the afternoon.”

Scully shakes her head in admiration. “I don’t know how you manage all the multitasking.”

“Well, the book helps me avoid the house, and the house helps me avoid the book. It’s a perfect system. That Ybarra guy still riding your ass?”

She chews her lip. “No,” she lies. “I think we’re okay now.”

“Good,” he says. “I’d hate to have to beat up a priest.”

***

Scully gazes at herself in the empty locker room. She looks thin and tired, and her hair is frizzing up, even pulled back like this. All her makeup has sweated off except for smudged crescents of mascara. Her bra is the color of a Band-Aid, her underwear white and sensible. Between the two is the hard white rose of her gunshot scar, like a second navel, an artifact of a second birth. It is numb when she touches it, indifferent. There are no stretch marks from William, a tale missing from the anthology of her skin. She unhooks her bra, lets it slide down to the damp floor. Scully turns to observe her body in profile. The scar is gone this way, the tattoo hidden as well, and she smooths her hands along her ribs. Her breasts seem out of place to her when they are unbound, frivolous somehow. Vestigial. 

She looks away.

***

The hospital is labyrinthine, having been constructed of various additions when funds allowed. There are dead ends, pointless staircases, and a mysterious storage closet filled with old televisions. She makes little maps on notepaper. 

“So where did you work before this?” an orthopedic surgeon asks her.

A diner in Wyoming. 

“I was out West for a while,” she says.

***

A week in, and Mulder has made a cake to celebrate. A bouquet of Kevin’s shed tail feathers ornaments the table.

An offering, Mulder calls it, tickling her chin with one.

A week down, she thinks, and blows out the candle. She wonders when she’ll stop counting the time.

***

Shy, he gives her a chapter to read. It’s good, and she tells him so. It’s very good. She hears his voice in her head when she reads it, his passion. She loves the esoterica tucked into his gyri and sulci.

“Your prose was never this clear in your reports,” she remarks. 

“Hey if you can’t blind them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit.”

Scully laughs. “You want to read a few medical reports?”

He looks at her, suddenly serious. “Yeah,” he says. “I would. It would be nice to hear about your day for once.”

She wonders if love is the weapon that lets them wound so casually.

***

“You’re late,” Ybarra says softly. 

She doesn’t explain that she’d somehow ended up at the TV closet again, that the room numbering system in this hospital had been designed by nihilists, that the nursing student had Dermabonded her glove to a patient’s forehead.

She lowers her eyes like she did at Catholic school. She promises to do better.

***

“What’s going on?” Mulder asks her for what feels like the hundredth time. “Talk to me, Scully.”

She presses her hands to her face for a moment, drops them to her sides. “Nothing,” she says again, frustrating them both. “I’m tired. It’s a hard schedule.”

He places a throw pillow on his lap and pats it. “Come here,” he says. “Please.”

She acquiesces, curling on her side with her back to him. He runs his fingers through her hair, traces the Fibonacci spirals of her ear. She wants to relax, to melt into his touch. She indulges in a Mulderesque conspiracy theory that the hospital microdoses the water with tetanus toxin to keep everyone rigid and tense.

Scully gazes at the windows, at the hard white light of summer streaming in. The curtains are blue with an arabesque pattern, and they looked very chic in the store. She wonders now if they seem desperate in this odd little house. She thinks of Meg March, dressed up in borrowed finery at the Moffats’ ball.

***

Scully clomps up the steps to the porch and kicks her rain boots off next to the umbrella stand. It contains four umbrellas and a gnarled hickory limb that Mulder claims is going to be polished into a fine walking stick one of these days. She goes into the house and is dismayed to find it stale and stifling and dark. Dust motes waft in Brownian motion through shafts of sunlight, undirected by fans or air conditioning. 

“Mulder,” she calls, and there is silence.

She twists her hair into a bun as she pads upstairs, old wood satiny under her bare feet. She pushes open the bedroom door, and the air is hot and still. 

“Mulder?” She needs his help with her zipper, but there is no reply.

She wrestles herself out of her silk sheath, sticky and irritating, and lets it puddle on the floor. Her bra follows. She feels guilty, as Mulder has turned out to be a surprisingly diligent housekeeper. His office is filled with perilous stacks of home improvement books and arcane journals about lake monsters, the walls papered with clippings and blurry photographs, but he seems able to quarantine his own entropy.

She is trying to do the same.

Scully pulls on soft cotton pajama shorts, a gray tank top imbued with the compressive powers of Lycra. She uses lotion to rub away the mascara beneath her eyes. She goes downstairs and out the back door, shielding her eyes against the piercing sunlight. A mosquito whines at her ear and she pinches it out of the air.

“Still got those reflexes, kid,” Mulder says from somewhere off to her left. 

She turns and sees him crouched next to the hulking green block of the transformer. “All the lights are off, and the house feels like a rainforest. I take it you’ve had an eventful day?”

He sighs. “Not really. Well, not the event I was hoping for, which is the power coming back on. There was a pretty heavy thunderstorm around one and that’s when the electricity blew.”

She sits on the bottom step, knees drawn up. She likes to watch him working, a side of him they’re both still learning about. There was never much call for home maintenance at Hegal Place, or living out of cash-only motels. “You call the power company?”

He huffs. “Yeah, they told me they had no reported outages and the power should be fine. I explained that I was trying to report an outage and that it definitely was not fine and she promised someone would be here between tomorrow and eventually.”

Scully smiles. “And that’s why you’re out here toying with death?”

“Not much else to do, really. Can’t write with the power out.” Mulder sits back on his heels and shrugs. “You, uh, have a good day?”

She hadn’t. “Yep. Starting to feel like part of the team.”

“Good. You need to get your career standards as high as your standards for men,” he says, getting to his feet.

“Oh, well, that’s an obviously unattainable bar.”

“Obviously.” He sits next to her on the step. “You wear that to work? You know I think bras are a tool of the patriarchy and you shouldn’t bother, but I’m just surprised Our Lady of Perpetual Shame takes such a liberal view.”

She laughs a little. “I figured as long as I tossed a lab coat over it, I’d look like a real doctor. It worked when I was a kid.”

“Hey, that’s what I did with my badge half the time. Listen, Scully. The house is pretty tropical. You want to bunk up in a hotel until they get the power sorted out?”

Scully thinks about the convenience it would afford. Maids and room service and maybe a pool, depending. But she is tired of hotels, even nice ones. She is tired of polite signs that remind her that the pillows and towels and hairdryers aren’t hers, the tiny toiletries an indicator of her temporary status. She is tired of living out of suitcases and dressers that made her clothes smell strange, tired of running from her own life.  She wants to be home.

“Nah,” she says. “We’ll manage.”

Mulder looks surprised, but doesn’t question it. “I’ll call Lowe’s about getting a generator delivered tomorrow. We ought to have one anyway out here.”

She’d always had a vague idea that Mulder had money - it was the only explanation for his complete disinterest in it. But when they’d come back, when they’d talked to his lawyers, she'd been staggered. The Vineyard house alone explained his casual international jaunts. They can have things now, endless things, and there is something frantic in her that wants to spend the money. Bingeing chocolate bunnies after Lent.

Mulder peels his shirt off, wadding it into a limp ball. He tosses it so that it hooks over the doorknob. “Still got it,” he says. He preens.

“Does the NBA realize the tremendous talent they’re missing out on?” she asks. “Do they even know that, at this very moment, a six foot tall middle aged white man is out here flinging his clothing a distance of several feet?”

He snuggles up to her, wrapping his sweaty arms around her shoulders. 

“Ugh,” she says, and pushes at him. “Mulder, you’re disgusting and it’s a thousand degrees out here.”  

“Hoping that cold, cold heart of yours might cool me off.” She sniffs disdainfully, and he releases her. “Scully, how do you feel about bees?”

“We have a history, bees and I,” she observes, tapping the back of her neck.

Mulder curls his hand over the scar, kneads the muscles there. “Well, these wouldn’t be fancy bees.”

“Hmmm,” she says. “I’m not inherently opposed. Why do you want bees, Mulder?”

He shrugs. “I’m getting older, and I’ve got to consider funeral plans. The last one didn’t really go as expected, so I thought maybe I’d mellify myself this time.”

She nods. “Makes sense. I mean, of course, there’s no actual proof that mellification actually occurred, but that’s never stopped you.”

“I also like honey,” he adds. “And bees are good for the planet.”

“Honey often contains botulism spores,” she remarks. “Botulinum toxin is the most lethal toxin known, and it’s estimated that as little as 40 grams of it would be enough to kill everyone on earth.” She doesn’t say you shouldn’t give it to babies, that she sweetened her smoothies with dates and maple syrup so that -

“Well, nobody better piss off my bee army and me,” he says darkly. 

“Everybody eventually pisses you off. Mulder, is that old tent in the shed still? We could sleep in that tonight.”

He shakes his head. “Heavy mildew and dry rot, so I threw it out. We could sleep out here if you want, though. We’ve got that big air mattress.”

“Let’s do that,” she says. “We can put it on the porch. Tell you what - you get stuff together, and I’ll even make dinner.” Scully doesn’t like cooking, but she wants to create order, to complete a finite task. She can be domesticated again, like a lost house cat finally returned to a hearth.

“We having eggs or peanut butter?” he asks, smirky.

“I’d hate to spoil the surprise,” she snips, and goes back into their sauna of a house. 

In the kitchen, she stands in front of the open fridge, letting the delicious leftover cold soak into her skin. She’ll deal with the spoiled food later. Eggs had, actually, been her plan but it’s just too hot. The stove doesn’t work, and she doesn’t have the fortitude to turn the grill on. She finds some leftover shrimp pasta that Mulder has made, some vegetables, and assembles it all into a passable salad.

There, she thinks, pleased. I’d pay twelve bucks for that somewhere. She uses her foot to scratch a mosquito bite on her calf.

Her skin is clammy, hair stringy and damp from sweat. Maybe they should just go to a hotel after all. Perhaps she should stop ascribing symbolism to every damn thing and enjoy herself once in a while. But she thinks of packing, of driving, of unpacking and somehow it’s all too much and her eyes start to fill and her sinuses sting.

Scully pinches her wrist until it passes, feeling weak and hating the weakness in herself. It’s the heat, it’s the exhaustion, it’s the heavy mental load. She considers going outside for a dip in the pond, but suspects the water will be unpleasantly warm. Instead, she drags herself back upstairs for a cold shower.

She sits on the edge of the bed, weary, and stares at a framed picture of a sea turtle on the far wall. If she lets her eyes drift out of focus, it looks like it’s swimming. She tips her head back for a better angle, watches it float across her vision. It slips away then, into the black of the deep waters.

***

She startles awake when he touches her shoulder, gasps.

“Jesus,” Mulder says, and sits next to her. “Bad dream?”

Scully sits up, dazed. “What? No, was I asleep?”

“You’ve been out cold for over an hour, but I wanted to make sure you got some food. Water at least, it’s too hot up here.”

She blinks, confused. “I don’t remember,” she says. Peering to her right reveals night outside.

Mulder holds a hand out and she grasps it, letting him pull her to her feet. She wavers and he steadies her, arm about her shoulders. 

“I just need some water,” she says, defensive.

He guides her down the stairs and out the front door onto the porch. The air outside is substantially cooler, a light breeze kissing her face. She settles into a chair, stares deep into the felty dark. She still can’t remember falling asleep. 

Mulder hands her a water bottle from the little table and she rolls it between her palms, the plastic crinkling. “Hey, I thought you were setting up the air mattress out here,” she says.

“No air flow behind the wall,” he replies. “Drink that up like a good girl and I’ll show you what we’ve got.”

Scully obeys and feels better. The water tastes stale, but it’s cool and wet. “Maybe you should have my job,” she says, looking up. “Caring for live people is so much work.”

“Everybody eventually pisses me off,” he reminds her. “Come on, Doc.”

She follows him down the steps and around the side of the house. Their property is vast and feral, pocked with mole burrows and rabbit nests. The floodlights are out with the power, and the house is nearly swallowed up by the vast night. Scully glances up at the Milky Way, at the waxing moon, and marvels again at the sky they have out here. We are star stuff, she thinks.

“Moonstruck?” Mulder asks.

“The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars.”

“As long as you can tell a hawk from a handsaw,” he says, and tugs her along.

She follows him to the back of the house and then stops, smiling. Mulder has hammered some old two-by-fours into a frame, draped the structure in white bedsheets. Inside, the air mattress is piled with sofa pillows. Outside, camping lanterns, candles, and two strands of solar lights make it into a kind of fairy circle.

“Mulder,” she says, delighted. “This is ridiculous.”

“Indian Guide saves the day,” he says.

“Your architecture badge is definitely more impressive than your fire badge,” she says, walking over to the little tent. He’s brought her salad inside, and there is a cooler packed with ice and water bottles. Cans of bug spray sit at the flap. She crawls inside, suddenly ravenous. 

Mulder joins her on the mattress, which bounces in response. “Remember my water bed?”

She laughs, piling food on a plate for each of them. “What a swinging bachelor you were.”

She remembers the water bed fondly, the leather couch and the fish and the postage-stamp bathroom in his apartment. It shouldn’t hurt still, but it does. She knew herself there, her place on the map. She eats her salad, wistful for Chinese food and beer at that battered coffee table.

“Scully,” he says.

“What?”

“Scully.”

“Just middle-aged nostalgia, I suppose,” she murmurs.

He reaches out to take her hand. “You’re scarcely middle aged.”

She smiles, squeezes his fingers. “If you go by life experience, we’re both about two hundred years old.”

“Like those Galapagos tortoises. But you need to tell me what’s going on at work. You won’t disappoint me.”

It can be very disagreeable to live with a profiler.

Scully drops his hand. She bites at the fleshy part of her thumb. This is real, she thinks. This place. It is not down in any map; true places never are. She can only deflect for so long, and her armor is rusting away. “I’m afraid,” she whispers, then chances a look at his face.

His eyes are soft, searching. “Why?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t know, I don’t…” Her sinuses sting again and she presses her palms hard into her eyes. “Please.”

Mulder’s hand on her back, in endless, gentle figure eights. He pulls the elastic from her hair and lets it tumble down to her shoulders. He shifts so that her back is to him, his long legs on either side of her body.

“Mulder, what -”

“Shhhh,” he says, and gathers the hair at the crown of her head. “It’s not a real sleepover if you don’t get your hair French braided.”

Scully blinks. “Since when do you know how to braid hair?”

“Little sister, absent parents. Now stop moving and talk.”

She keeps her head very steady, thinking of her own sister’s deft fingers when their mother was too busy for anything but ponytails. Mulder tugs at another little section of hair. Scully thinks she might be okay if she isn’t looking at him, if she can’t read herself in his eyes.

Moth shadows dance across the white sheet wall, drawn to the flickering candles outside. It fascinates her that they never figure out that fire burns.  “I don’t know how to do this,” she says, and her voice is thick.

“To talk, or to be still?” he says in his Oxford psychologist voice.

She isn’t sure of what she means either. “Yes,” she says, with a hiccupy laugh. “Both.”

“Me too,” he says, slipping his thumb through the strands behind her ear. “I don’t know how to do this.”

She swallows hard. “I just...I’ve always had something to consume me. I had the FBI, we traveled all the time, and then we were running and I thought it was hard but it was so easy to just survive. There were no decisions. I didn’t care about, I don’t know...plates.”

He pauses in his work. “Plates?”

Scully chews at a hangnail, frustrated. “Just things, the things you buy for a house. Long term things. I did with William and then…” she trails off, her chest tight. “I feel like I’m playing a game sometimes, like improv theater. Fox and Dana Build A Home.”

“Fox and Dana?” he repeats. “Surely not.”

“Well, we’re hardly Mulder and Scully anymore, are we?” Her stomach clenches and that’s it, she sees. That’s the fear.

He finishes the braid and fastens the elastic at the end of it. “Of course we are,” he says. “We are who we are.”

She turns to him then, the whispering anxiety back with a roar. “And who is that, Mulder? I was plain old Dana Scully until I met you. And we had this life, this strange and wonderful and terrible life where I was Scully because I was your partner and now that’s over. It’s all nothing.” She’s crying openly now, quietly, and it feels cleansing.

“You’re still my partner,” he says, and his eyes are shining too.

She wipes her nose with a paper napkin. “Am I? At what? I go to work and see patients but I forgot there’s no closure with the living. People get sick and get better and get sick again. It doesn’t end. And this house, the power is always going to go out and the chickens will always be hungry and -“  she stops, feeling hysterical.

“You don’t have to work,” he says softly. “The settlement from the FBI, my inheritance…”

She shakes her head. “You know I have to work.” 

He sighs, rubs her knee. “I know you do. But it doesn’t have to be this. It doesn’t have to drain you.”

He’s right, of course he’s right, but he’s also so terribly wrong that she wonders if he knows her at all. She has to be a doctor for her father, for William. For him. She has to see something through. Scully smooths her hand over the back of her head, feeling the even ridges of the braid. Mulder is so competent with everything he does, so easy with himself. He’ll get his damned bees and become some kind of honey magnate in no time.

“People at the hospital, they ask me what I did before. And I don’t know how to answer. How can I possibly answer that question? I just say I was with the government, but that isn’t really the answer, is it?”

Mulder shrugs. He’s never felt the need to explain himself to people. “It’s true.”

Scully stretches out on her stomach across the mattress, chin on the pillows, watching the moths again. They tumble like acrobats, untethered in the thick air. “There’s this number called Graham’s number, used in Ramsey Theory, which is, well, nevermind. It doesn’t matter. Anyway, it was in the Guinness Book for being the largest specific number used in a proof at the time. And Mulder, this number is so big that writing out all the digits would exceed the bounds of the known universe.”

“Nobody likes a math nerd, Scully.”

She rolls onto her back to glare at him. “Yes they do, they give them Nobel prizes. Anyway. A whole new notation system, Knuth Notation, had to be developed to express these massive numbers. Graham’s Number, Tree(3), et cetera. And I feel like that at times. That there’s this endless amount of vital, inexpressible information inside of me that is so essential but that I have no way to share.”

She blinks a few times, spent by this unburdening.

Mulder stretches out next to her, propped on his side. “You can express it to me,” he says, massaging her temple with his thumb.

Scully closes her eyes. “I feel like a ghost sometimes. How do you do it, Mulder? How do you just keep moving forward without getting lost?”

He sighs. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but you have a tendency to compile people into perfect specimens, then measure yourself against that imaginary standard. It’s the precession of simulacra.”

She looks at him, indignant, then realizes he could be right. “Well,” she says. “It’s possible. But Mulder, is that such a bad thing, to want to hold myself to the highest goals?”

He tugs her onto her side so that she’s facing him, nearly nose to nose. Her lips feel tingly. “Yes,” he says, stroking her hair. “When the goal isn’t attainable. And when it puts everyone else on pedestals where we’re ill equipped to balance. And when it puts you in a constant state of frustration and anxiety. No one is perfect. Not even you.”

“I don’t want to be perfect,” she lies. “And I don’t need you to be either.” That part is true, at least.

He laughs in reply. “Apropos of being Galapagos tortoises, Charles Darwin once said ‘I am very poorly today, and very stupid and hate everybody and everything.’”

“He rode the tortoises,” Scully says, calming. “I can’t defend his methodology.”

“See? You’re better than Charles Darwin.” He kisses her forehead.

“Well,” she says. “Well.”

“Scully, look. You’re not alone here, feeling at sea. I went to the feed store and some guy picked a fight, shoved me pretty hard with his shoulder. And this reflexive part of my brain wanted to grab my badge, stick it in his face, and put him against the wall for assaulting a federal agent. But I ignored it and bought the chicken feed and just headed out. And I felt like, is this who I am now? Some pushover with yard birds and home improvement books?”

“You made a little fast and loose with your authority sometimes,” she says, thinking of Roche. She curves her palm against his cheek, thumbs the fine ridge of his zygomatic bone.

He bumps her nose with his. “You broke into a secret morgue.”

“You made me.” She sniffles, laughs a little. “The good old days.”

“These can be the good days too,” he says. “They can, if we work at it.” He traces her mouth with his finger.

“Okay,” she says. Hope stirs in her, a thing with feathers. “Partners?”

“Partners.”

He kisses her, in their small tent, in their ring of light.