#i received both of these compliments with a little bit of an 'oh shucks' (blushes) attitude

[britneyshakespeare]

you know at the end of the day today i was chatting w some other paras. i was a special ed para for a seventh grader today that's what i did. and the last block for them is just learning center and it's chill and it's friday and some of the kids were making pizza and no one was really doing anything or stressed or bothered so the kids and the adults just have various little shooting-the-breeze sessions although im usually not that active in these bc Im Shy, And A Substitute so i feel very out of place a lot of the time. but anyway i had never really talked much w either of the paras i was with today and we struck up a conversation about some stuff and one of them says to me "you know just so you know i LOVE your hair" and she turns to the other para and she's like "isnt it gorgeous? dont you love her hair?"

and i kinda blushed and said thank you a couple of times and looked down bc that's what i do when i receive a sincere-sounding compliment unexpectedly. and then i chatted a little more before i kinda drifted out of the conversation and opened my book and after a page or two one of them asked me about what i was reading (it's Song of the Cell: An Exploration of Medicine and the New Human by Siddhartha Mukherjee if you were wondering and i started it a few days ago). so i told them a bit about it and started chatting again on the topic of reading and i guess i was just naturally smiling and the same one who complimented my hair said "look at those dimples. i just can't w you"

[jui-imouto-chan]

Arranged Marriage AU —>Chapter 2

[Chapter 1]

After the lovely art (from @lovelymelons) and reactions (@badwitcnl’s is especially great) towards my take on this AU, I’m feeling particularly enthusiastic about writing another chapter! (๑╹ω╹๑ )

•

Connor stands up from his chair, pulling his hand out of the other’s hold quickly to hold it against his chest, almost smacking at the small white rose boutonnière on the collar of his black suit jacket. He’s hit with a wave of dizziness at the sudden movement, and loses his balance.

His husband, a term that is still leaving him reeling, rises swiftly to steady him, a hand at his hip and on his shoulder, pulling him against his chest to keep Connor supported.

“Are you alright?”

Connor really wants to answer, ‘No, I’m not alright, you’re immensely attractive and mocking me and I hate you already,’ but he refrains. Instead, after peering past his partner, he leans his head against the taller man’s shoulder, one hand splayed on the man’s firm, white-clad chest and the other curved around his back, keeping him close.

“Honey,” he purrs, sickly sweet, then lowers his volume so that only the other can hear him, continuing once the steel-eyed man tilted his head down to lend an ear, “there’s a reporter approaching us. We’re going to go dance after speaking with her.”

His groom, who he finds he doesn’t know the name of, raises a brow in amusement. Connor spots the reporter nearing and deems it best to play up their ‘romance’. He presses his lips to the skin just above the man’s high collar, on the underside of his jaw, forcing a loving smile. His partner keeps his eyes trained on him, the both of them pretending that they’re too absorbed in one another to hear the loud clicking of heels behind them.

“So sorry to interrupt,” the woman says, eyes twinkling, “I just wanted to come and tell you this is a lovely wedding, and that you both look gorgeous. You’re quite the eyecatching pair.”

Connor pulls himself away, the flush across his cheeks not entirely fake as he stares at her with embarrassment spread across his features. He ‘sheepishly’ grabs his husband’s hand, interlocking their fingers. “That’s very kind of you to say, Miss...?”

“Maxine Traci, from Eden Magazine.”

Connor shakes her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Traci.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” She grins, but her posture shifts to become more professional. “By the way, Eden Magazine would actually like to make two you an offer.” The two of them look at each other then return their gazes to her, so she preceeds, “We’d like to write about your love story in our next issue, as well as have you two model for our cover page.”

Connor is ready to decline politely, but his groom is already speaking when he opens his mouth. “We accept the offer. You can contact our secretary about scheduling on a later date.”

She brightens up, looking delighted. “Thank you very much, Mr. Stern. We’ll be in touch.” Maxine calls as she takes her leave, short brown hair bouncing with each step.

Connor turns his head to pin his husband with a sharp glare. “I didn’t agree to this.”

The man smirks down at him, tightening his hold on his hip, “But I did.”

Connor scowls at him.

“Don’t look at me like that.” The man’s face swoops down so he can rest his forehead against Connor’s. “Your face is too beautiful to be marred by such an angry expression.” Unfortunately, he pulls away.

(Unfortunately?? No, he wants to be very far away from this man. The distance is not unfortunate. Nuh-uh, no way.)

Connor wants to retort, cheeks stained red, but his response dies in his throat as he instead plasters a happy, affectionate look on his face, the steel-eyed man leading him to the dance floor. Couples part to make room for them.

A song Connor vaguely remembers requesting to his father begins playing as they reach the center, spotlights focusing all of the attention on their forms.

Connor looks up to meet his spouse’s eyes, locking his arms around his neck while another large hand drops to his hips, long fingers urging him closer.

They begin their dance easily enough, slowly stepping about, Connor following his groom’s lead, but they add complexity to their motion with every millisecond that passes, as though they’re attempting to outdo one another.

It’s a spectacular sight, the two of them spinning and twirling and gliding across the floor with grace and intensity. Every move is met with a perfect responsive action, every spin is executed perfectly.

Connor remembers the dance in the video of this song as their motions slow, and it’s as though they choreographed it, his husband’s eyes alight in recognition as they press their backs together and slide to the floor,

“Place your hand on my beating heart.”

And then Connor is pushing the man to the floor and dancing on his own above him.

His heart is racing, he feels light even when he straddles the man’s torso and slowly stands, hands trailing down his legs.

He’s having so much fun, losing himself in the moment as he and what was no one more than a stranger but an hour ago dance with an unexpected intimacy.

“Baby, we found love right where we are.” The song repeats, almost at its end.

Connor sees a smile on his spouse’s face, and that’s when he trips over himself, colliding with the man’s chest. The two of them fall to the floor harmlessly.

Connor apologizes, pulling himself up with hands on either side of his husband’s head, staring down into surprised but warm grey eyes, noticing the slight tinge of blue only once he’s this close.

The two of them are panting, and Connor’s heart stutters in his chest as the smile resurfaces on the other’s face, a small huff of a laugh pushing past the man’s lips. Connor really likes the sound, really likes this closeness, really likes the pounding ba-bump, ba-bump in his ears. If he leans down, he could feel the other’s own drumming beat against his chest, and it’s a question of whether it’s only from physically exerting themselves to song or from something more.

The cheers and hollers and wolf whistles all around them bring him back into reality, make him scramble up and offer a hand to his husband. There’s a shout of, “Save it for tonight!!” from someone in crowd, and good-natured laughter errupts.

Connor thinks he’s going to explode from the fiery blush coating his skin. He notices a small bit of pink on his husband’s ears and is glad to know that if he’s going to be embarrassed, then he’s not going to suffer alone.

He sees the crowd shift, and then the son of Connor’s main bodyguard squeezes through the group of people to reach Connor, handing the brunet a bouquet of blue, black and white roses. I’m starting to see a theme here, Connor thinks dryly.

“It’s time for the tosses!” Little Cole informs him (and the crowd). “But your Dad said that you need to change clothes for it.”

Connor whines childishly. His father is known to mess with him at any chance he can get, so whatever he’s going to be wearing, it’ll be embarrassing.

Cole wraps his hand around Connor’s, barely able to hold it with his small, nine-year old fingers. He’s lead out into a hallway, and then brought into a room, where Cole’s father, Hank Anderson, sits beside a fluffy wedding dress.

“Is this why I was told to wear stockings under my dress pants?” Connor asks, unbuttoning his blue dress shirt, having already shucked off his black suit jacket.

“Your dad’s probably pissing himself laughing just thinking about what you’re about to wear.”

“Oh yes, that’s reassuring, Hank, thank you.” His words drip sarcasm. Hank barks out a laugh, Cole and Connor smiling in response. “Come on, I’m sure I can rock a wedding dress.”

“I’m sure you can, too. Doesn’t mean you’re not gonna be a walking tomato while wearing it, though.”

“That’s... not a reassuring claim. I’ve worn a dress before, what’s different about now?”

“Damn, you already forgot? Well, I’m not gonna be the one to remind you.”

-

Upon his return, he is met with compliments about his looks and the dress he sports, ruffled white bottom lifted just enough to let him walk.

Some business men are conversing with his groom, and when they all turn to look at him, his husband receives pats on the back, the men declaring him a lucky man.

The crowd is gathered back up, and the bouquet toss is relatively uneventful. Maxine and a blue haired woman end up catching the flowers together, meeting eyes as their hands make contact and sparks of interest flash in their expressions.

The garter toss originally starts as innocent as the relinquishing of his chastity can be, his groom’s hands gliding up his smooth legs to grasp the garter holding up stocking, but then Elijah Kamski, his goddamn fucked up dad, shouts that he’s supposed to use his mouth.

So now, Connor is crimson in mortification as his husband’s head disappears under the skirt of his dress, breath fanning against his thigh.

Teeth nip at his skin in the process of grasping the garter, and Connor hides his face in his hands as he squeaks. The garter is tugged down his leg, and finally the taller brunet’s head pops back out, the lace held in his mouth. His eyes are dark, but they aren’t meeting his, a whisper of red high on his cheekbones. He releases it into his hand and balls it up loosely.

The man throws it behind himself, moving immediately after to stand next to Connor’s seat. He leans down to scoop the smaller into a bridal carry—almost appropriate, considering his attire, but still utterly embarrassing. Neither of them can even bring themselves to care about who caught the garter as Connor is taken away from the party.

•

Okay, maybe I really like the idea of Connor in a wedding dress. I saw an edit of a screen cap from the game somewhere and saved it to my camera roll, but I kinda cropped out Hank because.. well, you know.

Here’s what the (cropped) edit is:

[icecoldparadise]

Thankful for a Change

Moxiety, Logince

I know not everywhere celebrates Thanksgiving, but here in Murica we do. So have fluff.

No trigger warnings.

             After the adventure of Halloween, the four men retreated to their own rooms for a much needed recharge period. They still ate meals together and worked on videos with Thomas, but no one was offended when the others kept to themselves for about a week. During that time, Virgil managed to convince himself the events from Halloween (especially between him and Patton) were just the influence of the holiday’s magic and withdrew even more from the others; Logan relished the quiet monotony of scheduling events and reorganizing information; Roman redecorated his room to reflect the new friendship dynamic he and the other sides had established (he refuses to tell anyone how he got pictures of them all in costume); and Patton looked back on the recent memories fondly while excitedly anticipating the next big event. Logan and Patton united first from the break with a common goal in mind: they needed to start planning their Thanksgiving celebration, which required both memories of past successes (and failures) and new ideas for this year. Roman felt them trying to brainstorm new ideas and felt inspiration flare up inside him. The three began planning, not realizing they were unintentionally leaving out the gloomier side. He had never taken part before, and while they would love him to they didn’t expect him to take any interest.

           It came as a surprise to them when he began giving small pointers here and there. Roman managed to find a way to decorate for the underappreciated holiday, and he was in the process of decorating the common room Virgil slinked in on his way to get coffee from the kitchen. He paused, a critical gaze on the prince’s handiwork. It was alright, but there were too many turkeys and the single orange streamer he had put up was haphazardly pinned up. “You should use some yellow and brown streamers, straighten the orange one, and put some of those turkeys in the kitchen.” The anxious side critiqued, his quick low voice startling Roman. The creative side turned to gape at him for a second before stepping back to look at his current progress. “Hmmm,” he began, and Virgil thought he was going to get mad for a moment when he continued, “You know what, System of a Downer, I think you might be right.” Virgil was surprised his opinion was validated and quickly muttered something about “Needing coffee” before disappearing in the kitchen. Logan and Patton were both debating the recipes they had settled on at the kitchen table. Virgil quietly listened as he got his much-needed caffeine fix. “But Logan! It’s a holiday! We should do everything and have lots of food to choose from!” The logical side quirked an eyebrow, unconvinced. “Patton, that’s absurd. Some of these recipes clearly have ingredients none of us like. We shouldn’t use them if no one will like them.” They went back and forth like this, running in circles. Virgil peered over their shoulders and read some of the recipes.

           Logan was right. A few recipes had ingredients such as prunes, spinach, cranberries or cooked broccoli. He scrunched up his nose reading those, but had to admit the rest of the recipe sounded delicious. “Why not just omit those ingredients and either substitute them with something else, or just scrap em entirely and make a modified version of the recipe?” He piped in before he could stop himself. The two stopped midsentence and gaped at him much like Roman did. ‘Ah, shit I ruined everything they probably think I’m annoying I shouldn’t have said—’ Patton beamed up at him. “That’s an excellent idea Virge!” Logan gave a small, stiff smile as well. “Excellent compromise, Virgil. I am quite certain we can work out alternative ingredients while still maintaining the integrity of these dishes.” The anxious side flushed before ducking out to his room, clinging to his coffee mug. His brain raced at the thoughts of them all liking what he suggested, but he couldn’t keep away the thoughts that they may just be trying to be nice while secretly hating what he said. He stayed in his room the next few days.

           At last Thanksgiving arrived and the entire mindscape felt warm and cheery, the scents of maple pancakes and bacon filling each room in a tasty breakfast call. Everyone stumbled into the kitchen to see Patton in a ridiculous turkey-themed apron with “Kiss the cook” stitched on the front. He turned briefly and flashed his characteristic smile beam at the others. “Morning kiddos! Happy Thanksgiving!” They greeted him, lightly teasing him for his apron (“Seriously Patton, it even has tail feathers!” A laugh, “It’s so I can shake a tail feather!” Groans.) Logan began spouting off facts related to the holiday, some of which mortified the fatherly cook, before Roman took mercy on the heart and turned the conversation away from the history of Thanksgiving. “I declare, I think this year I am the most grateful for our epic (if not slightly disasterous) Halloween adventure! It was the best one yet!” The creative side boldly stated, causing some laughter at the memories. “Remember how cute Logan looked as a cat?!” Patton cried out, causing the normally reserved side to blush and scowl slightly. “Oh! Or how those werewolves nearly got us but Virgil saved us?” The laughter turned to a solemn agreement. Logan peered at the flustered boy who was currently stabbing his pancakes with a vengeance. “Yes. I am quite grateful we got out of that alive and in one piece. I am also thankful for Thomas’s renewed interest in academia.” Roman snorted, choking on some orange juice he had just taken a swig of. “Of COURSE you would be, AstronoNerd.” Laughter resumed, and they piled into the living room to watch the Peanuts Thanksgiving episode. When that finished up Logan pulled out a book to read out loud while Patton started on dinner, and Virgil couldn’t help but follow him inside the kitchen.

The anxious one watched as Patton started gathering ingredients, noticing a haphazard measuring system that was mildly terrifying. “P-pat? That’s not how you measure stuff.” The fatherly side peered up, his eyes warming up the way they did on Halloween. “Whatdya mean, kiddo?” Virgil fought down a slight blush and ignored the slight chill that went down his spine. “You’re not… Um, being very precise and that can affect the flavor.” Patton tilted his head, thinking about it, then smiled and offered a apron to the other. “I suppose you’re right! Why don’t you help me out, Virge?” The dark brooding man nodded and quickly got to work. Everything was measured precisely, times were kept exactly in the middle of the suggested times, and food was plated to the detail. The entire time they cracked jokes, commented about how the food looked and smelled, joked about the cream of broccoli and possible effects it could have on Princy… And Virgil felt at peace. He ignored the unnecessary, almost affectionate contact Patton would give randomly throughout the process. He hid his disappointment when the cooking was done and Patton called the others in, not wanting the time between them to be done yet. Roman and Logan came in, looking suspiciously disheveled. Patton appeared blissfully ignorant but Virgil caught the subtle shift in his eyes- an amused warmth that wasn’t quite like how he looked at the anxious side. Virgil smirked, not able to resist a snide remark. “So Princy, I see you were extra Charming while Pat and I slaved away in the kitchen.” The sheer brightness of the red on Roman’s cheeks was worth the disapproving glare from Logan and the gentle chastising he received from Patton; still, he saw the two quietly hold hands under the table later and couldn’t help but feel simultaneously happy for them and a bit jealous of them. He shoved those thoughts down as they all grabbed a plate and loaded it with food. Conversation was light and full of abnormal amount of praise for the food. “I must say, Patton, this food is absolutely out of this world! You’ve outdone yourself this year.” Roman complimented, digging into some stuffing with turkey shredded into it. Patton glanced at Virgil before grinning widely. “Actually, I can’t claim all the credit here. If it weren’t for good ol’ Virge here, I would have added too much of everything all together.” The others looked at the hiding side with a pleasantly surprised expression on their faces. “You can cook, Green Day?!” Virgil buried into his hoodie more but nodded. “I-I learned so that Th-thomas wouldn’t burn the house down or give someone food poisoning.” He muttered, red as a beet. Logan rescued the clearly distressed side. “Well, I for one am grateful you’ve ensured our food is safe for consumption. If you aren’t opposed, I think it would be beneficial for you two to cook together from here on.” Patton and Roman enthusiastically agreed before moving on to spare the poor man from the attention overload. Midbite Patton exclaimed, “You know what I’m grateful for?! I’m thankful for how close we all have gotten and how far we’ve all come!” They all toasted to that, clinking glasses of juice together.

Once dinner was done Logan and Roman volunteered to clean up the dishes since the other two cooked, allowing them to plunk down on the couch in a food coma. Patton had sat close to the anxious side, which Virgil blatantly tried to ignore as his cheeks dusted red. “You haven’t told us what you’re thankful for, Virge.” Patton said softly, forcing the darker side to look at him. He ducked his head a bit. “I’m thankful for you, Pat. You’ve helped pull me out of the darkness, more than the others could.” Patton put an arm around him gently and pulled him into a hug. “Awww shucks kiddo. That’s the nicest thing someone’s ever said to me.” Virgil relaxed into the hug, heart racing a little at the contact. He noticed the moral side was still wearing his “Kiss the Cook” apron. Gathering up his courage, Virgil peered up at Patton. “Pat? Has anyone ever actually kissed you while you were wearing this?” Patton glanced down and chuckled, a surprisingly deep rumble emitting from his chest. “No, I don’t think so. The others aren’t very touchy-feely with me besides occasional hugs.” There was a brief silence as Virgil contemplated his next action carefully. Fuck it. He quickly kissed Patton, surprising the moral side. He was about to pull away when the heart gently stopped him and gave him a soft kiss back. Virgil’s heart fluttered, and they both cuddled together on the couch for the rest of the night.

  @storytellerofuntoldlegends

@justanotherpurplebutterfly @ssides  @thelogicalloganipus @pirate-patton @thatsthat24 @tinysidestrashcaptain @sidewritings @i-love-word-association-games @fandomsandanythingelse

[tyrwinthyr]

Episode 1, part 3

Sheila thumped the ridges of the corrugated metal walls on her way inside. The room was small and spartan.  It had a bed, a nightstand with a lamp, and a small closet. At least someone had made an attempt at hominess by painting it beige.

“I love the décor,” she quipped, “So glad I didn’t go to jail…”

“I’m heading to the Egg & I for breakfast.  Any requests?”  Zbrozek poised at the door, one hand on the handle.

“The veggie Benedict seems somehow appropriate.”

The man sighed as he closed the door, “Back in an hour, take a nap.” 

Sheila’s stomach growled, and she instantly regretted trying to get a rise out of the Lieutenant. A soy latte would have gone a long way towards making her day better.  An hour would give her plenty of time, though, so she got to work.

Closing the closet door, she focused on the portal in her bedroom.  After moistening her ring and pinky fingers with spit, she drew a quick symbol on the surface.  To her, the rune had always reminded her of a letter ‘P’ with an arrow sticking out of its ‘eye.’

“Cúldoras,” she intoned, pushing hard on the word as she said it.  It felt a bit like the tightness of a cough in her chest, but it allowed her to channel the energy she needed to open the trod.  The laughter of her white-haired siblings, laughing at the way she scrunched her face, echoed in her ears.  For them, opening the doorways was as easy as breathing.

She waited a moment for the ‘anáil iontrála,’ or ‘breath of entry’ to finish before passing through.  Logically, it was just the equalizing of temperatures and air between the two rooms, but her teacher had said it was the worst luck to step through before it was done.   Once in her apartment, she stuck a rubber stopper into the portal, so it wouldn’t close.

Wearing her silk kimono, hands folded neatly across his chest, lay Gaspar.  To Sheila, he looked like Leyendecker had reimagined a Disney princess.  Her time was short, but she could not resist sliding across the bed to rest her head on his chest.  Without opening his eyes, he started stroking her hair.

“Took you long enough,” he said, voice a little raspy, “I expected you hours ago.”

“There were complications,” she said, her own eyes slipping shut. “I think I made a mistake, Gaz.”  While he petted her, she told him the whole story.

“Firecrotch, hmm?” he chuckled, which turned into a sleepy cough. “I’m surprised you didn’t flash her the hardwood flooring.” Coughing again, he sat up in her bed, carefully placing her horns in his lap.  Dangerous things, horns.

“Contrary to what you believe about me, Sir,” she grumped, pulling her legs closer to her chest in a fetal curl, “I do not just go about giving people flashes of my goods.”  She could feel him soundlessly chuckling at her, so turned her head carefully to look up at him. “Do you think I fucked up?”

Gaspar tapped his lower lip with a delicate index finger, then shrugged noncommittally. “On one hand, you’re working for the Man now. On the other hand, if your previous job was any more banal your horns would have fallen off.  ‘Sides,” he said, patting her motherly-like on the side. “You can’t write to save your life.”

Sheila’s drew into an ‘O’ of surprise. She tried her best to look offended, but it was hard when she knew he was right.  She had never received a reply from her many (many, many) letters, and her campaign adverts were always rewritten.  

“I guess I’ve known for a while now I was only there as the ‘Fae face’ of the organization,” she admitted, sitting up on the edge of the bed.

“It is a pretty face.  People are easily swayed by freckles.” He slid off the other side of the bed, coming around to help her to her hooves. “Think Lindsay Lohan would have gotten anywhere without them?  Don’t think so!”

Sheila shucked her by-now-hated dress, then kicked it towards her dirty laundry pile.  Exasperated, Gaz moved it the extra foot, so it was actually on the pile, then started sorting.  

“Please, don’t,” she reminded him, heading towards her shower. “Could you just find me something to wear?  I’m not sure when I’ll be able to come back.”  He grunted something that sounded like an affirmation, so she closed the door to the bathroom.  She didn’t usually close the door, even when her friend was over, but today she needed the comfort only a bathroom could bring.  

After turning on the water to let the room steam up a bit, she sat on the toilet. The abstract pattern on her linen curtain swam lazily in front of her staring eyes. The sound of the water soothed her as it pummeled into the porcelain. On either side of her sink she had ferns; they enjoyed the moisture as much as she did.  Their earthy, mossy scent got stronger with the steam, filling the air. Closing her eyes, she could nearly feel the forest around her.  

She didn’t enjoy showering as much as she should. With so many advertisements showing women in rapture while they washed, Sheila always wondered if there was something wrong with her. To her, that was just part of staying clean, not a thing to be enjoyed.  It was the pre-showering moments she truly enjoyed. Today was no exception.  After spending time relaxing, she was only in the water for a few minutes. Fastest shower in the west, Gaz had called it once.

As she turned off the water, she heard him talking to someone.  She paused at the edge of her tub, towel held to her chest, ears perking to hear.  Her heart dropped when she recognized the other voice.  Moving quickly, she toweled herself off, tied her hair back, then exited the bathroom. Since Gaspar had appropriated her kimono, Sheila resorted to ‘towel-wrap as clothing.’

Zbrozek raised an eyebrow at her as she stepped in, stopping whatever conversation the two men were having.

“Feeling better?” he asked, his face stoic.  He was leaning on her windowsill just outside the bathroom.

“Infinitely,” she responded, walking past him towards her dresser.

“You didn’t tell me he was so handsome,” Gaz teased, sitting pertly on the edge of her bed. It was no accident that his entire right thigh was showing.

“She shouldn’t have told you anything at all,” grumped the Lieutenant, giving away only the slightest blush at the compliment, “The oath means nothing to you?” She could feel him staring at her back as she shuffled through her underwear.

“It was an oath of constraint,” she replied, finding a suitable pair and sliding it on.  It only took a small adjustment for her tail, which she did while looking over her shoulder at him, “Which means I can’t run away from you, can’t speak of what you forbid, and cannot use any magic against you.”   She waited for him to nod, enjoying the hint of curiosity she saw behind his mask. “I didn’t run, I went for supplies. Technically, I didn’t leave my room.” She pointed towards the still open trod, her room visible on the other side.

Gaspar gamely patted the pile of ‘supplies’; clothing he had gathered, as well as a spare toothbrush and deodorant.

“You didn’t forbid me to tell the story,” she continued, dropping the towel to put on a bra.  His eyes didn’t drop from her face as she turned, the cups in front of her breasts. “Plus, he’s bound to me.  He won’t tell my secrets, and my secrets are your secrets.”

Zbrozek inhaled deeply, then blew it out in an effort to cleanse himself of his frustration.

“You don’t want to play the semantics game with me,” he warned, adjusting his jacket. “You won’t like it much if I restrict you completely.  I’d rather not,” he shrugged, folding his arms, closing the conversation with a blunt, “But I will.”

Sheila missed two hooks on her bra, so Gaz stood up to help her.

“Right,” he said, expertly adjusting her straps. “So, now that’s behind us.  Can we be friends now please and thank you?” He smiled past the satyr at her ‘boss’, eyes merry.

After picking through her clothes, Sheila put on a pair of stretchy blue jeans, then found a purple Luan blouse to go with it. Something about today just screamed puffy sleeves to her.  The silence was definitely the uncomfortable type, so finally she threw something out there just to fill it.

“How did you get back from the Egg and I so fast?” All she needed for the clothes Gaspar had picked out was a backpack.  She noted that everything he had picked was comfortably expensive.  She only had a couple pairs of Lole yoga pants, for instance, but he found them both.

“I got breakfast burritos instead. Something told me you’d do something like this,” the Lieutenant answered, motioning to the portal.

“She’s got a can-do attitude,” Gaz admitted. “If she can, she do.”  Sheila glared at him, which didn’t last long.  His grin was infectious.

“You aren’t supposed to be telling my secrets!” she scolded, shouldering the backpack.  Her friend tsk’d at her, waggling his finger.

“It’s no secret, silly goat,” he said, giving her a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. “The tasty lawman figured it out already, after all.”

The tasty lawman in question colored a little at the cheeks before heading through the portal.  

“Oh, right, almost forgot,” Sheila opened her laptop, logging in for Gaspar. “I’m supposed to meet my brother at the airport, but now I have a good excuse not to see him.”  She opened her email, printing out Simon’s itinerary.

“So, I have to babysit?”

She blew him a kiss while handing him the paper. “He’s cute and straight, two of your favorite things,” she offered. “Plus, my father will hate that I sent you.  How many wins can I stack up here?”

Gaz clucked his tongue, then smacked his lips theatrically, “I guess if I MUST…”

 “You are hereby forbidden from opening any trods without my express permission.” Zbrozek started in as soon as the doorway sealed itself. “Also,” he continued, arms folded, standing between her and the bed, “You will only speak about what we do here with other people who are on our team. Understand?”

Sheila could feel the oath tightening, binding his words to her.

“Sure,” she stepped around him, placing her backpack on the bed.

“No,” he corrected, grabbing her arm. “You will answer yes or no when commanded.  Now, do you understand?”

For a moment she felt the familiar urge to see what happened if she hauled off and hit an oath-holder.  It passed as soon as the oath started to steal her breath.

“Yes, sir.  I understand, sir.  Let me go, sir,” she said, yanking her arm free.  The stress she had relieved in her apartment was already crawling up her spine again.

“Good,” he said, his voice flat. “There’s food in the meeting room, plus we have our first mission.”  He opened the door to the hallway, pausing there to comment, “I think I might be hangry.”

Sheila followed him shortly after, hooves heavy and clodding.  It had been years since her father had used the oath of family constraint against her, but this felt all too familiar.  She’d thought she was free, but she was still under his thumb after all.

When she got there, the room was fuller than she expected. The two Fae she’d met already were there, as well as three new humans.   Settling in with half a burrito, she watched the others quietly until the Lieutenant spoke up.

“All of you know who I am… I’m the one who recruited you,” Zbrozek started, pausing to take a sip of coffee. “Usually I would give you all a ‘settling in’ period to get to know one another, but we have an emergency.” He paused again, sipping once more, “So, I’ll introduce you all.”

He drew their attention to Fei, who once again was sitting on the table, her small frame leaving plenty of room.  

“Fei is our resident hacker…” he started.

“Internet technologist with a specialty in creative problem solving as well as an expert in the art of exploitation,” she interrupted, not looking up from her laptop.

“Right.” The lieutenant rubbed the bridge of his nose. “She’s also an apsara.  Care to explain what that is?” he said, raising an eyebrow in her direction.

“No,” she answered coldly, glaring up at him for only a moment.

“Also known as the bidadari, apsaras are air spirits, a subspecies of nymphs,” one of the humans spoke up, a rather pinched looking man wearing glasses.  To Sheila, he seemed older, but trying to be much younger. The skinny jeans and Vans sneakers gave it away. “Usually of Malayan descent, but found in many Indian areas as well, they were known to dance for the gods’ pleas--”  He stopped talking abruptly. Fei’s glare had finally registered.

“This is Alois Uhl, a specialist in mythology,” the Lieutenant introduced during the awkward pause.  Another interruption brought his fingers up to his nose to rub again.

“I have an M.A./PhD in mythological studies, with an emphasis on depth psychology,” Alois broke in, smiling at everyone.  He was obviously crestfallen when they simply blinked at him in return.  “Um, right… specialist.” Pushing his glasses further up on his nose, he settled back into his chair.

“Moving on,” Zbrozek said, “Whipple is a combat specialist, having worked side by side for many years with BNC’s SWAT teams.”

“I’m a Pisces, love long walks off short piers, and have a bachelors in geekology,” Whip jumped in, whiskers flickering as he wiggled his nose. “Also, I’m a mink, not a weasel, so…” he offered his arm to Fei, “See?  Soft… go on, touch it, you know you want to.”  The look in her eyes said that she did not, in fact, want to touch it.

Nervous laughter swept through the room, and a few smiles lingered afterwards.  

“Okay, then,” said the boss, “This is… shit, we haven’t given you a code name yet.”  He frowned thoughtfully at Sheila. She tried to shrink down in her chair a bit; she knew what was coming.

“I thought we agreed on ‘Rouge?’” Whip’s enthusiasm settled at the satyr’s Look.

“I would have offered the name of a historical satyr,” Alois interjected, “But there are no female satyrs in mythology.” He looked her over with furrowed brow, as if confused by the concept of her existing at all.

“First off, I’m a faun,” she corrected, holding a hand up quickly when it seemed the man was going to correct her. “Second, where the hell do you think baby satyrs come from?” Again, she waved a hand at the doctor of mythology. “Shush.  I know what you think.  Finally, my name is Sheila.  Okay? Can we just go with that?”

“Wait, where does he think baby satyrs come from?” asked Whip, eyes wide, childlike.

“Nymphs,” answered Fei, bitingly, one eye twitching slightly.

“Wait… how would that even…”

“Stop… that’s enough interruption.” Zbrozek abandoned his nose to rubat his eyes with his thumbs, a motion Sheila recognized well. “She’s a trodwalker, and that’s all you need to know.”  The rest of the room ignored the latter statement by staring at her: they wanted to know more.

After taking another long sip of coffee, he continued. “Brice is our network securities man, as well as our acting IT.  Since the Fae here need to be working with me, it’ll be his responsibility to do all the technical work.” The man in question was younger, with dusky skin and a casual look about him.  He wore his clothes well. Sheila felt a momentary urge to see what he smelled like.

“Lemonica is a nurse practitioner who has experience with the Folk,” the Lieutenant continued, smiling at a middle-aged woman. Her skin was brown, her body thick but not overweight, and much like the satyr’s, her hair was pulled back tightly. She offered the group a comfortable smile before he continued.

“Okay, now that introductions are done, we have our first mission.”  He opened a leather satchel, taking out eight folders, then passed them around.  After giving everyone a moment to remove the contents, he continued.

“As you are all aware, human and Fae relations are calm right now.  Tense, but calm.  Other than isolated incidents involving common citizens, there hasn’t been too many… yes, Fei?”

“So, we aren’t getting involved in those ‘isolated incidents?” she asked, looking up from her laptop. The folder remained untouched next to her.

“They are being handled on a local level,” Zbrozek responded, eyebrow quirking.

“So… fuck the commoners, right?” she taunted back, turning her laptop to show a video.  In it, a group of human teenagers could be seen lighting a bent backed man on fire. It was obvious the man was homeless from the state of his clothes, and he twitched like a dying insect as they beat him.  “Like, this, right?  Doesn’t this incident seem a bit… bonkers to you?”  Everyone turned their eyes towards the lieutenant, expectant.  

“Turn that off,” he demanded.  Fei turned it back towards herself, but made no movement to shut the video off. “I know how you’re all feeling, particularly you Fae…”

“Don’t leave me out of that.” Lemonica spoke up for the first time. “There shouldn’t be anyone who doesn’t feel for that poor man, or any of the others suffering.  I might not know what it is like to be Folk like y’all,” she added, looking around at the Fae. “But y’all new to this struggle. I’m here if you need to talk about it.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Brown,” Zbrozek said, offering her a tight smile. “It isn’t the job of the BNC to investigate those incidents. It is our job to make sure the human population, of which I’m part, continues to remain calm.”

“Right, so they can continue executing us without any repercussions.” Fei broke in, her round face clouded with anger.

“Because you are outnumbered ten million to one,” he continued, leaning forward on the table to loom over her laptop. “Because the crusades killed millions of you, and we can’t let that happen again.”  His gaze dropped, brow furrowing deeply, pacing a few steps away. “Look, I know what you all think of the BNC, that we’re some terrible agency put here to oppress you.  What’s really happening is that without us, the larger population of the world would fear you even more.”

Fae and humans both sat quietly, watching him pace. Whatever they thought of that claim, they kept it to themselves.  Sheila took a cleansing breath.

“If that’s really what we’re doing,” she said, sitting straighter at the table, pushing her half-eaten breakfast away. “I, for one, want to know what the mission is.”  There was a bit of communal head bobbing, then the lieutenant started explaining.  Everyone listened, looking at the man, but the satyr found herself staring back at Fei. The look from the apsara was so filled with hate it chilled Sheila to the bone.

 “A… vampire,” Fei echoed, incredulous. Her usual sneer was dampened slightly by bemusement.

“Blah blah blah,” Whip said, pretending to rise out of a coffin, “I am a vampire, come to suck your blood, blah blah blah!”

“I do not say ‘blah blah blah,’” joked Brice, though it appeared only the two of them got the humor in it.

“I would take this quite seriously,” Alois commented, reading through the paperwork in the folder. “There are many myths of sanguinarians amongst the Fae.  I’m sure the… Toothy Day left those details out when sharing your ancestries for obvious reasons. It leaves me to wonder how much of those tales were creatures who needed it for food, and how many were just suffering from Renfield syndrome.”

“I never said it was a vampire,” Zbrozek sighed.

“’The victims were found completely drained of blood,’” Fei read out loud. “Exsanguination appearing to have been achieved by puncturing the jugular veins of the victims.”  She peered at the next sentence, then asked, “Does this next part mean they used a fat straw?”

“Indeed,” Alois advised, “The next means that only a few drops were found on site.”

“Sure sounds like a vampire to me, boss,” Whip said, holding up his index fingers like they were a cross. “Need to stop at Waldemart and pick up some garlic!”

Sheila, closest to Whip, reached out to lower his hands down and shook her head at him. “Careful,” she whispered, glancing at the humans in the room.  They were all busy reading through the papers.  Whip considered his fingers a moment, then oh’d softly. “Right… sorry.”

“All the victims were men,” Lemonica noted aloud.

“Probably incels,” Fei commented. “Says they all lived alone.  That usually means incel.”

“Try not to assume things, or make snap judgements,” Zbrozek instructed.  For a moment, Sheila felt for him. His forehead had wrinkled mightily, and she knew the way he rubbed his brows could only do so much for the pain in his head. But only for a moment.

“It also says they were all on Tinder, as well as other dating sites,” Fei continued. “I’m getting into their accounts now.”

“If they were all men, lonely, and looking for a date,” Alois mused, putting their pictures side by side on the table in front of him, “May I suggest the baobhan sith?”

Whip stood up, eyes wide. “Wait… did you say the sith?”

The human nodded. “The alp feeds on human women, mainly from the nipples.  The lilitu drain babies… the baobhan sith are known to appear to lonely men who wish companionship.  The stories are usually bloodier, but you know how…”

“You said it again,” Whip said, tail whipping back and forth behind him. “Sith… are you sure?”

Alois thought about it, then nodded, “Quite sure.”

“I’ll be right back,” the pooka vanished out the door, his chair clattering to the floor behind him.

“I’m not sure what that was about,” Zbrozek said, gathering up his files. “But we have a good start, thank you doctor.  Fei, work with Brice on getting their social media files, whatever you can find online.  Doctor Uhl, I’ll need any information you have on the baobhan, as well as any other likely candidates you can find.  Sheila, while they are working on that, you and I have a door to paint.”

“Yes, sir,” Sheila grunted, pretending to salute.

As suddenly as he’d left, Whip entered the room at top speed.  He had changed into long brown robes with a hood, from which he withdrew a toy lightsaber. Posing at the head of the table, he gazed into the distance, chin high.

“You may count on me, my friends,” he declared.  Blue light and thrumming started coming from his weapon, “I will protect us from… Darth Bob!”

He held his pose as the rest of the room filled with groans.  He held it still when they all stood up to collect their files, then moved past him one by one.  Brice followed Sheila towards the door but stopped next to Whip.  She turned back in time to see the man lean closer to the pooka.

“Help us, Obi Mink Kenobi… you’re our only hope!”

Whipple’s tail, which had been holding perfectly still in his ‘hero pose,’ suddenly started curling and uncurling. The smile on his face was wide and delighted.  Sheila hid her own as she left the two geeks to their moment.

[bazilton]

unfinished x/anl/ow au fic

Inigo is late.

Inigo is late because he’s stupid and forgot that he lives with the piece of shit known as the New York City Subway, and he didn’t realize the C train was diverted until he’d somehow managed to end up in the Upper East Side of all places, which is how he found himself on the A train instead, heading back down to Times Square while frantically texting his cast mates to please don’t let a swing go on in my place, please, I’m almost there, I swear.

His only consolation, at least, is that there’s some eye candy to tide him through the arduous journey. There’s a man sitting across him on the train, tall and blonde and broad-shouldered. Probably some Wall Street type, judging by the expensive-looking suit and even more expensive-looking watch and the fact that he’s dressed for work even though it’s a bright and early Sunday afternoon. But it’s okay, because he has a chiseled jaw and pretty hair and nice eyes, and Inigo lets himself stare openly, because he’s having a shitty day and he deserves this much at the very least, god dammit.

Except without warning Hot-Guy-In-Suit suddenly looks up, and Inigo doesn’t look away in time, and so there’s an awkward moment of sustained eye contact before Inigo finally regains enough presence of mind to drop his gaze. God, that’s embarrassing. He hopes he isn’t blushing. He keeps his eyes fixed to the floor for the rest of the train ride, refuses to look up even when he can see in his peripheral vision that Hot-Guy-In-Suit is looking back at him curiously.

And so when the train finally pulls into 42nd street Inigo doesn’t even hesitate before he grabs his bag and runs, out the train and up the stairs without even a single backward glance. After all, he has a show to catch.

He makes it in time, just barely, signs his name on the cast sheet with one hand holding onto the pen and his other hand braced against the wall while he tries to catch his breath. He receives his fair share of amused looks as he makes his way to his dressing room, and when he opens the door all he can think about is wiping the sweat off his face and getting into costume. Which is why when Owain unexpectedly claps him on the back he nearly jumps right out of his own skin.

“Owain!” Inigo yells. “What the fuck?”

“That should be my line,” Owain replies, slinging his arm over Inigo’s shoulder. “What’s the matter with you? Are you a Broadway star or not?”

“I’m not,” Inigo responds flatly, disentangling himself before dropping his bag soundly on his dressing room table. Owain follows closely behind as he shucks off his jacket and moves over to the costume rack to get dressed.

“Still,” Owain persists. “I can’t believe you actually made it. I thought our production manager was going to burst a blood vessel when she found out you were running late.”

“Yeah, well,” Inigo says absently as he grabs his costume from the rack. “Wouldn’t want to get the swings’s hopes up.” He starts pulling his shirt over his head, any semblance of dignity be damned, because when you’ve been dancing since the age of five, you kind of become desensitized to the idea of seeing your fellow cast mates naked in dressing rooms.

“You live life on the edge, my friend,” Owain says, sighing dramatically. Inigo isn’t looking at him, but he images Owain’s probably clutching his head for dramatic effect. “Fine, fine, I’ll let you change. You’d better hurry up, it’s places soon.”

“Thanks,” Inigo mutters, “I totally needed that reminder.”

Owain snorts before leaving the dressing room, probably to find someone else to bother, shutting the door behind him as he goes. Inigo’s left alone to try and shove himself into a stupid suit and squeeze his feet into a pair of tap shoes as quickly as possible. When he’s done, he looks up and finds himself staring at his reflection in the mirror. He’s still flushed from sprinting to the theater from the train station, and his hair is a mess, and he hasn’t put on any of his stage makeup yet so he looks like an absolute train wreck—but then he reminds himself, I’m on Broadway. I’m in a Broadway show. That’s all I’ve ever wanted since the age of eleven, and here I am now.

And then he straightens up, dusts his shirt off, and smiles.

-

Inigo has been in three Broadway shows, and counting.

He knows he’s lucky—it’s nothing short of a miracle that he’d managed to land a role on Broadway right after graduation. It’s even more of a miracle that he managed to get cast again in another show. And then another one. Sometimes Inigo finds himself struck anew by the magic of it all. He’ll be in the middle of a quick change, or standing in the wings waiting for his entrance, or scrubbing his makeup off at the end of a grueling two-show day, and it’ll hit him all over again just how fucking lucky he is.

And sure, he’s no star. He’s no leading man. But it’s okay. He gets to dance on Broadway eight times a week. And sure, it’d be nice to be a star. But he’s not. He’s a dancer.

And he gets to dance. And that’s more than enough for him.

-

The only thing Inigo loves more than dancing is meeting fans at stage door after a show. No matter how tired he gets he always makes sure to put on his best face afterwards, maneuver his way through selfies with teenage girls and smile while signing Playbills. There are always different types of fans: the seasoned veterans who come bearing vintage merchandise from the original 1954 production, the badly-dressed tourists who look far too excited about everything, the starry-eyed, slack-jawed theatre kids with big dreams and even bigger potential.

Even if the fans aren’t necessarily there for Inigo specifically, even if they don’t know his name, Inigo still loves being able to talk to them, look at their faces, listen to them enthuse about the show. It’s humanizing, in a way—being able to interact directly with audience members. It’s a reminder as to why exactly Inigo does this: the electricity of living in the moment, of knowing that there really is nothing more special than a night at the theatre. And. Well. Inigo also really likes flirting with people at the stage door. It’s fun. He doesn’t care if it’s earned him a bit of a reputation in the Broadway community. It’s harmless, and all the better to make himself memorable, he thinks.

Sometimes, though, there are really awkward stage door encounters.

Stage door starts off perfectly normal that day. Despite almost being late Inigo hadn’t faltered at all throughout the entire show, so he thinks he’s allowed to feel a little bit proud of himself for that. That’s probably why he’s in a particularly good mood as he makes his way down the line, smiles for photos, signs Playbills, says thank you for coming at least fifty different times.

And then he reaches the end of the line, and Hot-Guy-In-Suit is standing right there.

“Oh,” he says.

“Oh,” Hot-Guy-In-Suit says.

“Are the two of you acquainted?” a woman standing next to Hot-Guy-In-Suit asks, looking amused. “I didn’t know you knew anyone in this show, Xander.”

Hot-Guy-In-Suit (Xander? That’s probably his name, right?) turns to her, frowning. “We, ah. Met briefly,” he says.

The woman smiles like she’s just heard a joke no one else understands. Xander’s frown deepens. She turns to Inigo, presses her Playbill into his hands.

“It was a wonderful show,” she says earnestly. “My brother here and I really enjoyed it.”

“Your brother?” Inigo asks, smiling back. He uncaps his sharpie, signs his name on the corner of her Playbill. “And for a moment I wondered if you were already spoken for,” he adds, because he can’t help it.

“Oh, no,” she says, throwing her hair behind her and laughing. “And neither is my brother, just in case you were wondering.”

“Camilla,” Xander hisses under his breath. The tips of his ears are faintly red. It is actually ridiculously endearing. Inigo turns to him, smiles, extends his hand.

“Would you like me to sign your Playbill too?” he asks.

The glare Xander’s been throwing at his sister softens as he turns to look at Inigo. There’s a beat of silence where the both of them just look at each other; then Xander hands his Playbill to Inigo, and Inigo drops his gaze, dutifully signs it. He pauses, considering, and then adds the words for Xander right underneath his autograph for good measure.

“Thank you for coming to the show,” he says, handing the Playbill back to Xander. “I really appreciate it.”

Xander’s eyes widen as he looks at Inigo’s inscription. He looks up again, meets Inigo’s gaze.

“Thank you,” he says. “It really was an incredible show.”

And Inigo gets compliments like that all the time, but somehow he finds himself faintly embarrassed. He hopes he’s not blushing.

“Thank you,” Inigo manages to get out, smiling at Xander and Camilla. “It was nice meeting the both of you,” he says, waving awkwardly, and then excuses himself.

It’s only when he’s halfway through the long train ride home that he says, out loud, “Why the fuck did I do that?”

The girl sitting next to him gives him a weird look. Inigo ignores her.

This is all the New York City Subway’s fault. Fuck hot guys in suits, but most of all, fuck the New York City Subway.

-

Inigo resolves to forget about the whole thing. After all, he’ll probably never see Xander or Camilla ever again unless they come to see the show a second time, which probably isn’t going to happen anyway, so it’s fine. He’ll just never speak or think about it ever again, and it’ll be fine.

Which is why the first thing he does is to tell Severa all about it.

“He was so hot,” Inigo moans, lying down on the floor of the dance studio they’ve rented out for the day. Severa towers over him, looking down at him with her hands on her hips and a look of unmistakable disdain fixed on her face.

“I literally do not care,” Severa says. “At all.”

Inigo sighs. “Why am I even friends with you?”

“I ask myself that question every single day.”

Actually, the real answer to that question is that Inigo, Severa and Owain had all been in the same dance program in college, and they’d been the only tolerable people in a sea of pretentious assholes. They’d stuck together purely out of necessity at first, and then somehow managed to become actual, proper friends, and now here they are today.

Both Owain and Inigo ventured into musical theatre right after graduation. Severa was the only one who ended up applying to dance companies. She’s been with the same one for three years now, some avant-garde up-and-coming modern dance company. It’s small and fairly new, but that has its perks too, because Severa’s been able to choreograph a few pieces of her own and land herself some really impressive solos in the short span of a few years. Honestly, she’s probably the most successful of the three of them. Inigo’s really proud of her, although he’d rather die than admit it out loud.

Which is how they’ve ended up here today, bumming around in a rented studio space in the middle of SoHo on a Monday afternoon.  She’d dragged him over to help her out with a new dance she’s choreographing, and Inigo agreed because he’s a good friend, but. Well. There are more pressing matters on his mind right now.

“You don’t understand, Severa,” he groans. “He was… he’s so…”

“And so your instinctive response was to flirt with his sister?”

“Look, I never said I make good decisions when it comes to matters of romance—”

“Good, because if you ever said that, it would be an outrageous fucking lie.”

“Okay, now that’s a little bit harsh—”

“Do I need to bring up your latest ex again?”

“Listen, Peri wasn’t that bad—”

“She had hair like a Harley Quinn cosplay attempt gone wrong and ran a blog on Tumblr where she photoshopped flower crowns onto serial killers.”

Inigo opens his mouth, and then shuts it again.

“Point,” he says at last. Severa just rolls her eyes at him.

“Inigo,” she says, using her patented I’m-trying-to-be-patient-here-but-you’re-a-complete-fucking-idiot voice. “You made a fool out of yourself in front of one hot guy that you’re never going to see again. Big deal. Just move on. They invented Tinder for a reason.”

“I just want to add that I met Peri through Tinder.”

Severa kicks the back of Inigo’s head. He whines, sitting up and rubbing at the bruised spot while putting on the most betrayed look he can muster.

“Look,” she says. “I didn’t call you here so you could complain to me about how single you are, okay? Are we going to dance or not?”

Inigo thinks he could probably argue, but then decides it’s not worth it. He gets up, dusting off his clothes and turning to Severa with a grin.

“After you,” he says. Severa shoots him a glare, but slowly, it softens into a smile.

“Alright,” she begins, already turning towards the mirrors. “So I was thinking…”

-

Inigo walks out of that dance session with Severa feeling a lot better than before. In the following week he recklessly swipes right on Tinder, does a full eight shows with only very minor hiccups, signs a bunch of Playbills, and goes on a date that doesn’t end with his dismembered body being flung into the Hudson River. All in all, it’s a pretty good week.

So on Tuesday afternoon he finds himself running to the nearby Starbucks after a matinee show, ready to grab a cup of coffee. He has a couple of errands to run before heading back for the evening show, and he’s preoccupied with thinking about how long it’ll take for him to get back to his apartment and whether or not he’ll have to time to drop by SoHo and say hello to Severa for a bit. Which is probably why he doesn’t notice he’s about to walk into someone until he quite literally runs into them headfirst.

“Shit,” he says. “I’m so sorry—”

And then he looks up and sees Xander staring right back down at him.

Severa’s voice echoes in his head. You’re never going to see him again, she said.

Clearly, Severa is a complete fucking liar.

What are the odds? he thinks. This is quite literally the worst day of his entire life.

“Are you okay?” Xander says, breaking the silence.

“What? Oh.” Inigo realizes he’s still standing way too close. He takes a step back, blinks rapidly until he feels like he’s at least somewhat capable of rational thought again. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m fine! Are you okay? I’m sorry, I should’ve looked where I was going—”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Xander says.

More silence.

Shit.

“So what are you doing in the area?” Inigo asks, and then winces. Smooth, Inigo, he thinks. Real smooth.

“I had a meeting nearby,” Xander replies, and well. He’s still standing there, holding a cup in one hand and a suitcase in the other. And he’s not running away in the opposite direction, which is. A good sign, right?

“Sounds riveting,” Inigo says, and Xander smiles. Inigo’s heart does not flutter at the sight of it. It does not.

“As riveting as a business meeting can possibly be, I suppose,” Xander says.