#i remember saving cords over the years but apparently NOT THAT ONE

[3am-cheerios]

shoutout to my baby sib who saved me 100 bucks this semester and who knows how much in the future

[the-little-moment]

Part Six

Words: 3,500

Warnings: Grief, referenced starvation, mention of medical procedures and related trauma

Summary: Making it back to Coruscant was only the beginning of Crosshair's struggle to find his way again. Craving forgiveness and being able to accept it are two different things.

Memories

Now that she knew the truth, Senna was desperate to tell Crosshair about his biochip. She didn’t understand all of what had happened to him and the others on Kamino, but he needed to know that his actions before that had been out of his control. She needed to tell him how sorry she was for…everything.

The day after he regained consciousness, Senna decided she couldn’t wait any longer. 

Crosshair took the pad the doctor held out and studied the image on it. “What is it?”

“It’s…called an inhibitor chip. You and every other clone trooper had one implanted in your frontal lobe during the third phase of your development.” She touched her right temple, voice low. “It’s—it’s responsible for making you more…obedient. Less violent. Less independent.”

Crosshair looked up at her. “Hunter said it was controlling me. But I had mine out, after Bracca.”

“Bern told me. He said it was badly damaged by the engine blast. He was worried about it degrading.”

Crosshair ran his hand over the pitted skin on the side of his head. “Yes.” He looked back down at the pad where the ugly thing slowly spun, taunting him. “Did you know? What they did?”

“No.” Senna’s voice broke. “I—I only knew what the Kaminoans told me, not that it could do…this. Tarkin ordered yours to be enhanced the day of—the day they left,” she breathed. “That’s what made you do all those things. That’s what…that’s why— Order Sixty-Six. I should have known. I should have known.”

“Yes?” Dr. Divehdi looked up from her console at the trooper in her doorway. He removed his helmet, placing it under his arm before entering the office and offering the doctor a white, flimsi-plast bag.

“It’s all been checked, ma’am. He can have it back now.”

“Oh.” Senna took it from him. She hadn’t even noticed that someone had taken Crosshair’s things. “Thank you.”

The clone saluted her and left the room. Senna looked down at the bag in her hands and stood with a groan as her back twinged, heading down the hall to Crosshair’s bed in the medbay. 

The sniper was sleeping when she approached and Senna paused for a moment to watch his chest rise and fall, the comforting blip of his heartbeat on the monitor, the strange softness of his usually pinched face, before she reached into the bag to arrange its contents for him. There hadn’t been much in his belt, apparently, and she didn’t know how he’d lost his pack. Senna laid out the few items on the small table attached to his bed. An almost empty pack of toothpicks, of course, she smiled in exasperation. A few meters of cord. A compass. The next item made her catch her breath as she lifted it closer. It was a small, grey holo projector, its metal surface scratched and worn. This device had three mates somewhere out there in the galaxy, wherever Crosshair’s brothers were now.  

Senna walked dazedly out of the medbay to the quiet hall around the corner, still grasping the forgotten plast bag in one hand. The surface of the small dome was smooth under her thumb as she remembered the last time she had held it – in her quarters in Tipoca City. Senna took a deep breath and flicked back the top to see what she’d known she would: a small, blue memory of herself as she had been almost four years ago, the night before the Batch had left Kamino for their first mission. The hologram spoke.

“Hello, sweetheart. I just made this so you won’t forget about me while you’re out there saving the galaxy. I’m thinking about you every day. I love you. Please stay safe and take care of each other for me.”

The tiny, blue Senna waved before she flickered and disappeared. The real Senna slid down the white wall to bury her head in her arms, fist clenching around the projector. He’d kept it. After everything. After all this time.

Crosshair looked almost skeletal after surviving on whatever rations he’d had with him, whatever he’d been able to catch from the sea or sky for more than thirty Kaminoan rotations. The sniper had never had any weight to spare and, like all clones, he was cursed with a rapid metabolism. 

Senna tried to hide her sadness as she took a sensor from the attending med droid. “I can do that, Ef-Ex.” She attached it to Crosshair’s chest, thinking for a second that she might even be able to lift the trooper if she had to, now that he was all long bones, sinew, and shadowed eyes. Then again, she looked down at her own strangely thin hand, maybe not. 

Crosshair could read her very well after all this time. “You alright?”

Her fragile grip on her bedside manner was clearly slipping. Senna felt her lips twist at being caught out. “I’m just not used to being able to see your ribs like that.” She smiled to soften the statement.

Crosshair’s eyes flicked down to his chest as Senna placed the second sensor, her brown fingertips a contrast to the paler skin that was always covered by armor. It was uncomfortable being seen by her in this condition, needing all this help. There was nothing he hated more than being trapped in a medbay. “They’ll be gone soon,” he joked lamely.

Senna rewarded him with a soft chuckle. “Let’s not create any new problems.”

Crosshair studied the doctor as she turned to check the monitor, noticing how her cheekbones stood out more sharply than when he’d last seen her, her wrists thinner at the cuffs of her jacket. “You don’t look too great yourself,” he pointed out gently.

He caught the flash of a grim smile as she typed a line on her pad. “I’m starting a new diet trend. It’s called solidarity starvation.” 

The thought made him wince. “Sounds like a shit diet.”

“Yeah,” she sighed. “Bern would agree with you.”

Did he take care of you while I was gone? It wouldn’t be fair of him to ask her that. As if he had been doing anything but hurting her since the others had left. Two months. That was how long they’d been apart. Crosshair couldn’t remember another time he’d gone so long without seeing the doctor, at least by holo, even if that was only because Wrecker was incapable of enduring long missions without calling her. 

He’d missed her more than he’d thought possible, although it had taken his stint on that landing pad to finally admit it to himself. She had always been there. She was supposed to always be there, impossible to lose. He’d almost lost her anyway. 

They’d been carefully avoiding the topic of the fight that had separated them two months ago when Senna had fled the medbay and given his care over to a quietly cold Bern. Avoiding anything painful really. Senna was so incredibly relieved to have him back and Crosshair was desperate not to upset her in any way. She’d looked like complete shit when he’d come back and he hated that he’d done that to her. Everything had gone so terribly wrong.

Part of him was terrified that Senna would remember why she should despise him, but the other part felt a horrible need to remind her, to truly face her for his hateful words and suffer whatever consequence she might give him, as if he could pay for the pain he had caused.  

There was no excuse for how he’d been willing to hurt the kid, although he had tried to save her on Kamino, but his brothers at least could defend themselves. Senna though, what could she have done if he’d gone after her? If she had tried to desert, he knew he would have done whatever he was ordered to. Nothing that she was to him would have mattered. 

Good soldiers follow orders. Crosshair stifled a shudder as the words slid down his spine.

He scratched distractedly at his irritating beard, fingertips prodding and teasing the new hairs and the itchy skin beneath them. He just wanted to feel like himself again. Crosshair paused his scratching, embarrassed when Senna looked over at the sound. But a fond smile spread across her face as she reached over to touch the dark hair herself, her eyes drifting into something softer as she finished with a brush of the back of her fingers against his cheek. 

She shouldn’t. She shouldn’t give him any kind of special attention. Their show of affection when he’d woken up had already been dangerous. He’d told the others he’d keep her safe. But her touch, after so many days alone, filled an empty ache inside of him that food and medicine couldn’t reach.

Senna turned back to her pad. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you not trying to shave that with a knife and slicing yourself up in the middle of the ocean.”

The woman knew him entirely too well. “You’re welcome.”

The doctor chuckled to herself as she finished her typing and set the pad down. Crosshair winced at the loud pop as she cracked her neck and then bent to stretch out her back, the stool she was perched on rolling back as she leaned down. “Mmmph, that’s better,” he heard her mutter from between her knees. 

Kriff, he had missed her. Her achy joints, the way she rubbed the backs of her fingers, right at the base of her nails, against the edge of her pad when she was thinking, that one piece of hair that never seemed to get any longer and was always out of her braids by the end of the day. All those stupid things he’d always taken for granted, until the only thing he’d had to do was sit and look out at the ocean and think. And he didn’t want to think about his brothers or the kid they’d left him for, so he thought about her. 

Senna turned from stretching to look at him again, the violet flecks in her eyes catching the light as she studied his face. Her smile was gentle as she gestured to her own face, indicating his tattoo. “I think some of that may have come off in all the rain.”

Crosshair shifted in the bed as his gaze moved down to the diamonds on her cheeks. He didn’t want to think about the rain. The way it had fallen down her face and washed her away from him. 

“Maybe. What’s your excuse?”

His half-hearted barb caught and Senna’s mouth fell open in mock outrage before she laughed. “My tattoos are older than you are! Show a little respect!” 

Crosshair allowed himself a small smile as the doctor continued to chuckle. There was that piece of hair, hanging down in her eyes. Any second now, he knew she’d push it away, just like she always did.   

Despite Senna’s admonishments, Crosshair had been setting a brutal pace for his reconditioning, finding some comfort in the pain and exhaustion that drove the circling thoughts from his mind and plunged him through the surface of sleep the moment he hit his bed.

After his return from Bracca, it was like a fog had inexplicably lifted from his mind, leaving him to grapple with the decisions he’d made during the weeks he’d spent recovering in the medbay. Weeks without Senna, endlessly replaying the stricken look on her face at his last, cruel words. He’d realized later that something had been different when she’d spoken against the Empire and he hadn’t felt the compulsion to do anything about it. He’d grabbed her instinctively, but there had been no invisible hand clamping down on his mind, calling her a traitor. Crosshair had tried to cling to his anger, but it was impossible to maintain. He knew now that it had been the chip in his head, but he hadn’t then, and now he wasn’t even sure if it mattered. He’d still done those things, like Senna had said, to his family. And he was the only one who had been weak enough to be controlled. The weak link.

Was that what Tech had meant when his brother had said he’d always been unyielding? Was that why the chip had worked on him? Because it was in his nature to obey, to carry out his orders, no matter what? How ironic that, in the end, Crosshair had been the least defective of them all.

He was the one who had lured them to Kamino. One last effort to bring them back to where they were supposed to be. With him. With Senna. Like they’d always been. And he’d almost gotten them killed there, again. Not my fault. He couldn’t have known that Rampart was about to strike the city. But they wouldn’t have been there if it hadn’t been for him. He couldn’t leave now. He was in too deep. And now that he understood the chips, he had to stay to protect Senna. None of the regs could be trusted anymore. No one could. 

But they had argued today. 

Crosshair hadn’t fought with Senna since he’d been a kid but, lately, their relationship seemed to be one long cord of tension that he was scared would never ease. He could feel it now, wrapped around his neck, getting tighter every time he thought about the danger she was in. Life on Kamino had been bad enough, but the oppression of the Empire after three years of relative freedom with his brothers felt like a crushing weight on his shoulders, trying to bend him down. The Imps were just like the Kaminoans, always watching and waiting for someone to fuck up. And punishments were harsh. Crosshair wasn’t afraid for himself. He knew how to stay in line when he really had to. No, he was scared for her. 

He’d been too wrapped up in his own misery as a cadet to be particularly aware of what the doctor must have been going through, but now he saw her wither a bit more every day as her clone medics disappeared without explanation and care for the clone troopers was increasingly withheld, citing inane budgetary restrictions. He didn’t particularly care what happened to the regs, but he wasn’t stupid. He could see the pattern of what was happening and he knew Senna could too. Crosshair watched her, day after day, suffer some blow and straighten herself to smile at him and her patients, only to crumple when she thought no one was looking.  

Maybe it was the perfect recipe for strife. Maybe that was what the Empire wanted—to get into their brains and tear them apart. But when he thought she wasn’t being careful enough, they’d inevitably argue, voices low and tight with pent up emotion, punctuated with stabs of hand signals that hadn’t been made for this. He knew he should stay away from the doctor entirely, but he couldn’t, telling himself that the only way he could keep her safe was to watch her and try to make sure no one else was. Which was stupid really. They were all being watched.

The door to his quarters chimed and Crosshair sighed. No one came to see him but her. He threw the stylus from his datapad across the room to hit the control panel, the angle he chose sending the tool sailing back into his hand. When the door hissed open, Senna stood framed in it, just as he’d suspected. 

“Cross? Can I come in?” 

Crosshair was sitting on the floor next to his bed, the only one in the tiny space. Senna entered when he nodded, not looking at her. 

The private room, dim and thoroughly depressing, was his right as a commander, but she wondered if they didn’t know where to put him otherwise, now that his squad was gone. As an experimental unit, the Batch had always been barracked separately, and now he was the only enhanced clone left. The small space was bare except for the bed and the locker that held his gear and the few belongings she’d been able to save after he’d been marked KIA. His black armor was stored in the locker, his helmet and rifle atop it.

Senna sank down beside the sniper, her back against the side of the narrow bed. He probably didn’t want to talk, but she wanted to be with him regardless. Ever since he’d almost died on Kamino, she’d been terrified by the thought of losing him after some fight of theirs. 

After a moment, she leaned over slightly, pressing her shoulder to his arm. To her surprise, he spoke first.

“I’m sorry about…what I said before. I shouldn’t have yelled.”

“You’re not usually much of a yeller.”

“No.”

She looked over at him, but he was avoiding her eyes. Senna sighed and tucked her hand into the crook of Crosshair’s elbow, looking up at the green visor of his helmet in front of them. “It’s okay. I know things are hard right now. And it wasn’t really yelling.” He smirked slightly at that so she continued, “It was just Crosshair yelling. You’ve never even heard a real Senna yell.”

The sniper scoffed. “I’m sure that’s terrifying.” 

It was true, he hadn’t really raised his voice that morning in the empty hall between her office and the medbay. But it had been meant that way and they both knew it. And she was also right that he didn’t usually let himself go like that. Why would he need to, when Wrecker was always more than happy to blow everyone’s eardrums? That was before. Everything was so fucked up now that some days it was all he could do not to scream. 

“Hmm.” Senna looked at Crosshair thoughtfully. “I brought you something.” She dug in her pocket and pulled out a small holo projector, not army issue, the cheap, plast kind you could get at any corner store. When he didn’t move to take it, she set it in his hand. “Go on.”

Crosshair looked at her dubiously before setting down his datapad and flicking the projector open. A holo sprung from the device, shining in the dim room. Crosshair quickly lowered the brightness until it was barely visible to Senna. They were almost certainly being listened to, but they might also be being watched. He studied the small image in his hand. It was a picture of him and his brothers as cadets, taken in their old barracks on Kamino. 

Crosshair didn’t say anything, but Senna felt the muscles in his arm tighten as he looked at the miniature faces. 

The next holo was one Tech had taken. Senna and 99 were laughing at a table in the mess. He had said something funny to her, but she couldn’t remember anymore what it was. Wrecker was visible beyond them, a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. She knew Hunter and Crosshair had been just out of frame. 

There were many others, each one a memory of a happier time. Childhood. Graduation. An unconscious Crosshair after a wild night at 79’s, facedown in his rack on the Marauder. Proud faces after their first successful mission. Wrecker dancing in the medbay with Senna, both of them a little blurred.

Senna watched Crosshair’s harsh face soften in the blue light. “I miss them too, Cross,” she breathed.

Crosshair shifted to wrap his arm around her waist, and she sighed as she leaned into him, trying to memorize the way he felt in that moment, the drag of his calluses against the fabric of her jacket. “Not safe,” he signed, closing the projector and handing it back to her.

“I know.” Senna sighed and prised the cover from the bottom of the small device, flipping the tiny switch to erase the data on the holodisk. They both looked down at it as she replaced the cover and pushed the projector back into her pocket. 

“I saw that you kept the one I gave you, way back when. Even after—” Her eyes lifted to the scar where his chip had been. 

Crosshair looked down at her, not sure what to say. He had kept it, convincing the pressure in his head that there was no harm, nothing treacherous about an old gift from a loyal officer as he’d moved it from his old belt to the new one. It must have passed whatever check his gear had been through upon his return, possibly under the eye of a more sympathetic clone inspector. The doctor was well-liked among the troopers, even if Crosshair wasn’t. 

Senna smiled sadly. She took his hand and spread it open to sign into it, as he had in the medbay. They didn’t have signs for everything, but there were letters, even if it took a little longer. “You know I love you.” “Right?”

“I know, Sen,” he whispered.

“Always.”

“I know.”

Other holos:

Crosshair painting Senator Amidala onto the Marauder.

The boys with Echo in his new Bad Batch armor.

Tech braiding Senna’s hair on his bunk, mouth full of hair pins.

Taglist: @just-here-with-my-thoughts @lightwise @clonethirstingisreal @freesia-writes @kybercrystals94

[prentissvest]

where's my baby? -a Jemily fanfic

warnings: mentions of death (haemorrhage), grieving, birth (idk if that's one), hospitals

I don't own any of these characters, or original episode plot lines only the fanfic. please don't steal this story.

(not my gif)

After nine long and anxious months the baby was finally on its way.

Emily and JJ had always known that they had wanted to have children together, well as it was the main conversation of their second date one might say they were even a little enthusiastic. it had been 4 years since that second date Emily thinks back to, she chuckles to herself as she remembers the pickup lines that Derek had told her would win JJ over but apparently "hey baby are you ice?because I could make you cream" was maybe not the best one for that date, the one after that.. maybe.

At around the 3 year mark Emily proposed to JJ in Rome it was beautiful the fairy lights and 'will you marry me' written in roses as Emily stood there speaking sonnets to the blonde about her love for her before the finally awaited answer of "YES."

Emily gets instantly pulled out of her thoughts by a strong grip stiffen around her hand, Emily grunts in pain which gets her a dirty look from her wife. and not too long later JJ's body relaxes as the pain begins to subside.

Emily gets a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach when she sees the doctors look at each other with worry and then speed off with the incubator with her newborn but she doesn't want any stress for JJ so she just goes down to the shorter woman's level and whispers kind words to her. "you did amazing baby" Emily says with a pained smile as she begins to realise why the baby was ever so quickly rushed away, there were no cries...

"where is she? where's our baby Em?" JJ says trying to look around but lets out a pained grunt. "she's ok, they just want to check on her" Emily says with clear worry on her face. "no, no why wasn't she crying- Em.. she wasn't- she.." JJ begins to sob into her wife's chest as the doctor begins to walk into the room once more. "where is she" "there's no need to worry mrs. prentiss, when you daughter was born her cord was wrapped around her neck stopping the oxygen flow and resulting in less oxygen to get to her brain but she is now stable and will be brought in shortly."

the two woman relax into each other. "why do they never start with the good news?" JJ says rubbing her eyes tiredly while sinking further into the bed.

"you ok hunny?" Emily says while running her hands through her wife's hair, "yeah just a little dizzy, ill sleep it off once i've seen that she's ok"

"do you need anything to eat? it might help" Emily offers, "yes please" JJ says with a tired smile.

Emily begins to walk out of the hospital room and begins to head to the cafeteria, when she turns a corner she sees a nurse leaving a utility closet, she smiles at them to make her aware of the raven haired woman, the nurse gives a small smile and scrambles away in the opposite direction as an alert on her pager began to go off.

Emily decided to get a small fruit cup, small cupcake and a sandwich as a small meal for her wife, but as she is heading back she hears "CODE BLUE, I REPEAT CODE BLUE" she runs in the direction of JJ's room when she sees doctors scrambling around trying to save her wife. the food tray falls to the floor as Emily tries to help her. the doctors manage to pull Emily away but as the others continuously work the line on the monitor goes flat for the 3rd time. there's nothing that can be done, silence fills the room until..

"JJ"

"mrs-"

"come on JJ come back to me please-"

"WHY AREN'T YOU HELPING HER"

"mrs. prentiss" a doctor she recognised from earlier places a hand on her shoulder.

"NO YOU HAVE TO HELP HER- I- I can't loose her.... I can't"

"im sorry mrs but there's nothing we can do, she haemorrhaged not long after the birth, there was too much blood loss, there's nothing we could have done"

"get out." Emily says with her face numbed

"but mrs-"

"I said GET OUT"

all of the doctors disperse from out of the room as Emily crumbles to the bed where her wife lay, holding her hand in her own while her warm tears hit the coldening skin of the woman whom lay infront of her.

"im so sorry my love- I should have gotten the doctors to check.. I could have- I- why didn't I get them to check? why didn't I know?" Emily says sobbing into the pillow nest to where JJ's head lay.

"im so sorry" she says placing her hand on her wife's face. "I will do everything. everything. in my power to keep our daughter safe."

a few hours later..

a soft knock is heard from the door way, "im sorry to disturb but I thought you'd like to see her" a nurse says holding a small baby wrapped up in a blanket.

Emily who now sits in the empty room sitting in the chair which used to be nest to the bed which JJ lay in but had been wheeled out now mere hours ago yet that moment replays in her head like a broken record that chips aways at her shattered heart more, and more each time.

Emily nods, wiping away the tears she was unaware had slid down her face. the nurse walks over and slowly lowers the small child into Emilys arms. big beautiful blue eyes stared back at her, the brown eyed woman tears up again.

" oh sweet Roslyn were gonna get through this together" Emily says smiling at the name that her and JJ had picked as soon as they knew they were going to have a baby girl. the small child wrapped her miniature hand around Emily's finger.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

apologies for the crappyness of this story, it is the first one I have written, if anyone has any tips or story ideas they'd like me to write id be more then happy to do so :)

[servin-up-surveys]

survey #132

Who is your favorite sibling? I'm not picking a favorite.

Do you have neat handwriting? Yeah, people regularly say it's almost too fancy to read lmao. Once you're used to how I write my letters though I think it's perfectly decipherable.

Have you ever tried seaweed? Yes, I thought it was disgusting.

Would you rather grow wings or a tail? WINGS

Have you ever been to a gynecologist? I went to my very first one over a month ago, maybe close to two; I'd been able to avoid them this long because of being a virgin but by 27 years old, it was understandably being pushed on me for my own protection; not everything that happens down there is related to intimacy and I was being very unsafe by refusing to go for this long. It was an extremely upsetting and difficult experience that took a long time to do because I just wouldn't cooperate and calm down but we eventually got it done. I'm very, very thankful for how patient and understanding the doctor and her assistant were, and obviously my mom being so supportive and present too.

Do you get on Facebook every day? Generally, yes.

What is your Instagram screenname? I have three lmao (brittsburrow, brittanymphotography, eldritch_obscura), all for different purposes.

Would you ever consider naming a child after a family member? No. They're having their own, unique identity.

Do you know anyone who has the virus? Not currently, I think.

What do you remember from sex ed class when you were younger? That apparently you were either abstinent or stupid. No in-betweens.

Are caterpillars more cute or disgusting? Cute!!!!

Did you reject or accept your last friend request? No, some rando I didn't know or even have mutuals with.

Have you ever made out with someone you weren’t dating? No.

What was the last thing you threw away? A food wrapper.

When you were born was the umbilical cord wrapped around your neck? Not that I know of, and I'd definitely assume no because of how my mom explains mine and my two immediate sisters' births: Ashley was born with a very red face, I was normal (white as a newborn baby is gonna be), and Nicole was blue (she wasn't breathing/at risk of dying), so she sometimes calls us the American Girls lmfao.

Do you have a guilty conscience? YES

Would you enter a burning building to save a kitten? I think in the heat (lul) of the moment, unless it was a very clear, indisputable case of "you're going to die walking directly into fire," I feel like I would.

Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John? If you're asking which section of the Bible I prefer, none. What name do I like best, Luke.

Do you like avocados? Ugh no, I do NOT get the appeal whatsoever.

What’s the worst name you’ve ever been called? A weak-willed deadweight. Or martyr (and not in the "I'd die for my beliefs" sense). The first one hurt more though, because I get insecure over myself in the way of seeing myself as weak and burdensome.

What are some pieces of furniture that you must have in your dream house? Uhhh I haven't thought much about this. Obviously a comfortable bed large enough for me and my partner, a decent couch (that is NOT leather, that I do have a strong opinion on, lol), and I'd actually really really like a cozy hanging swing chair for reading and stuff. Certainly an entertainment center of some sort for a television and gaming consoles.

If you smoke weed, what do you usually do after you get high? If you don’t, what would you do if everyone around you were smoking? I don't, and I've been in the second situation before lol, I just chatted with 'em and watched TV.

Have you ever studied human anatomy? No. I mean, besides lightly in very basic science courses that cover like our different bodily systems.

Do you plan to do much or go anywhere tomorrow? Um nothing that I know of. I'd like to see Girt though, maybe I will.

Would you have more Word documents or images saved on your computer? Images, by a long shot.

What's your favourite non-dairy milk? I only enjoy dairy milk. Trust me, I've tried not to.

Which sibling are you closest to, both physically (distance) and emotionally? Physically, uhhhh... I'm preeeetty sure Ashley's place is closer? Emotionally, none, honestly. I WISH I was closer with them.

What would you do if your partner cheated on you? I'm gone, immediately.

What’s the furthest you’ve gone with the opposite gender? I guess it'd be oral.

Have you ever taken part in an orgy or bondage party? Noooooo I have no interest in doing intimate stuff with more than just my partner present.

Does pain turn you on? More than what I'm rather positive is considered normal but not to an extreme level, I absolutely have boundaries.

What time of day you were born? Like, 11:30 AM.

Have you ever had sex at school before? You couldn't have paid me to do that.

What piercings do you want? A good chunk more in my ears, right nostril for the third time lmao, I'm DYING to get a pair of collarbone dermals if my collarbones are ever prominent again (or with this new tattoo I'm actually considering the possibility of just getting one in the middle of the arch of the moon that's in it), and I've also thought about MAYBE back dimple dermals if my body/weight gets to a point that I'm happy with. There are more facial piercings that I'd like, but me ever not having glasses again isn't realistic and I don't think they'd look good with glasses.

How many people have you kissed? Four.

Describe your dream home. Not sure about the building material (I love wooden houses but there are more sustainable options), but I know with absolute fucking certainty it's GOT to be out in nature, very preferably the woods, with only few neighbors. A nature-friendly yard is absolutely mandatory; fuck that bland-ass green carpet shit, we're having plenty of flowers (even those that are considered weeds), a birdfeeder, hopefully a bat house, and a bird bath would be AMAZING. I'd really like a flower garden too, but that REALLY depends on if I develop the dedication for it and tolerance to being outside in the heat and stuff. As far as interior stuff goes and besides the very obvious essentials, I'd like a room to dedicate to my hopeful collection of reptiles and inverts, as well as one for gaming and computer stuff... more so for Girt at this point, haha, but I'd love it too. A room dedicated to productivity (drawing, doing yoga, writing poems, etc.) would be really beneficial for me, and it's one where I'd like big windows to let tons of light in.

Do you watch porn? No, very much not my thing.

Do you have/would you get your nipples pierced? Most likely not.

How would you spend a million dollars? House and car for Mom, then buy a house for Girt and me.

Describe your best friend. Funny as hell and loyal as a dog. He leaves nobody he cares about behind, ever, and despite he himself actually thinking he's generally selfish, he's SO far from it. When he cares, he cares incredibly deeply, and he's the most hard-headed human being I've ever met, sometimes to his detriment. He's an extremely hard worker, but on the downside, puts an absurd amount of pressure on himself and is convinced he's never enough in any sort of way. He's very much a provider in personality, like he's straight-up said he LIKES knowing that he's taking weight off people and that it gives him a sense of purpose. He's an introvert and a major homebody that likes sticking to himself, but he's perfectly friendly when he does interact with others, unless you give him reason not to be. He's VERY much more logical than emotional, like it's not even close, but he's absolutely not heartless and especially as his s/o I certainly see he has feelings. He is honest to god just such a fucking fantastic person and I consider myself remarkably lucky to know this one guy out of eight billion people.

Do you still have feelings for any of your exes? No romantic feelings, no. I do care that Jason stays okay (even though I don't have a way of truly knowing this) and I want him to do great in the world, but I don't have surviving romantic feelings for him anymore.

If you could marry any celebrity, who would you pick? I don't personally know a single celebrity, so none of them.

What’s your favorite kind of weather? Snowy! Not like a blizzard, but just a gentle, quiet snowfall.

What in your opinion is the best love song ever written? Maaaan idk there's so many lol, I have a long-time adoration of "When It's Love" by Van Halen, but I also think "If It's Love" by Train is insanely adorable.

Was your mother married when she had you? No, apparently.

Who was the last person(s) you took a photo with? Uh, I'm actually not sure, I feel like it was my sisters on my birthday...

Do you like cheeseburgers? They're actually one of my favorite foods and I really wish they weren't lmao

Are you mad at your best friend right now? No, got no reason to be. On the contrary I've been clingier than normal the past few days, I've noticed.

Do you have a Flickr? Yeah. Not a big photography platform focus for me, but it's there.

Anything exciting happening in the month of September? Yeah, that'll be mine and Girt's second anniversary.

Where was your FB display pic taken? This desk chair.

Your ex calls wanting to hang out. What do you say? I don't know how the hell he'd have my number, but in the total hypothetical, the answer's no. I'd ask him why he's asking, and I mean... I guess maybe I'd be fine meeting up in a public location with Girt present if he in some foreign universe wanted to like, make amends/try to dispel any remaining bad energy, but I'd prefer that not happen. I'm not willing to "hang out" on a more personal level, that I know for sure.

Would you get back with your last ex if they asked you? HELL FUCKING NO

Are any of your friends virgins? Extremely unlikely.

[thedysphoriadiaries]

Entry 40 - Time - 3 March 2023, 11:24pm

I boot up a Walkman, and play a few songs through it.

It belonged (and still belongs) to my dad, though he doesn't use it anymore.

It plays music through a pair of earpieces, made eleven years after it was.

It still thinks that we're in 2007.

I was four, then. Three years away from going to school. Three years from feeling those unexplainable feelings. Feelings that still plague me to this day.

Sixteen years have passed, and yet the clock points to 2007. I flip over to the date and time set page. It begins at 2007, and ends at 2037.

31 December 2037, 11:59pm, to be exact.

There will come a time when I'll no longer live in a year that this device recognizes, if I make it till then.

I don't know how to feel about it. Some of the more... practical people (such as my ex-partner), would probably tell me, in a brusque manner, albeit saccharinely so, as if to sugarcoat their words (to avoid bruising my weak heart), that the time was off, or that I was overthinking things, or wishing for a time that has long since passed.

Maybe I am doing that. I find myself sitting by the little things. Trinkets, if you will, of my journey on this mortal coil. I wonder what could have been.

I always was a sentimental person.

I still am one.

But I am, because I remember. I must not forget. What value will memories have once they evaporate into the ether?

...

Dad owned a pair of speakers. They crumbled after an accident that involved his fish tank happened - water spilled onto the floor, and got into the speakers, causing them to crumble (they were made of woodchip). They're gone now.

He used to keep fish (guppies, apparently), in a fish tank which used to be where my piano (a Yamaha U1) is. I'd always go up to the fish tank and tap on the glass, and gawk at the fishes swimming about in there.

The sound of the rushing water accompanied me then.

Now, it's deathly quiet, save for the sounds of raised voices, birds, and lost time.

Dad always was an amazing cook, though I never told him.

When his hair was still black, he'd cook for us occasionally, and I remember how he'd cook steak for us, in this solid, cast-iron pan that I still find unbearably heavy. How he manipulated that pan with ease is beyond me.

He doesn't use that pan anymore. His hairs have grown white.

I sit here, typing.

Twenty years on, and still around.

I remember how I wanted to be a scientist. Or a computer programmer, as a kid.

Oh, the irony. Oh... the irony.

It must have been tough, navigating school, life, and those unexplained feelings that came up, all the while being a good sibling to my 'younger' twin brother (I see him as someone to guide, even though I could have been the younger one; I only came out first because my water broke, and my cord was wrapped around my neck, or something. I don't know; parents didn't say much other than that my water broke first).

What I'd give to have those years back again - to go back to a simpler time, when I'd not have to worry about relationships, or dysphoria (if you can even call it that). But no.

Time marches forward, no matter what we do.

I wonder what, or who I'll be in five years.

Will I be a guy? A girl? A person?

Where will I be?

Will I even be around?

I hope future me is looking at this point, recalling it from her memory.

I hope she finds happiness, finally doing the things that she always wanted to, but was never able to due to how she was born.

Yet, I wonder if it will come to pass; what I said about my desire to be a computer scientist never did. What's to say that this will?

What's to say I will be happy?

It's another long day.

It'll be another long one tomorrow.

But I will survive.

[ragingbookdragon]

The Secrets Best Left In The Dark

Batsis x Batfamily One-Shot

Word Count: 4K Warnings: Angst, Mentions of Death

Author's Note: I thrive on angst, so I have no apologies for y'all. Enjoy! -Thorne

They’d never claim their eldest sibling was cowardly. Far from it, she put her life on the line every day, in and out of the suit, defending those she cared for with a strength that they’d never seen in anyone. But while everyone in their family was typically hot-tempered and ready for a beatdown, she was calm and quiet. Always kind, and never letting anger, or any type of other emotion show besides pleasantness. For a while, they merely assumed she was the doormat type, simply on the basis that she never argued with their dad over anything—the whole “It’s my way or the highway” and his way was what she always went with—and that made her seem like an alien surrounded by humans because everyone argued with Bruce. That, and the fact that whenever she got into the rare fight during patrol, she’d never hit anybody. She was trained to take down multiple combatants and not once did she ever punch, hit, or kick a single person.

It was practically abnormal to be in the Batfamily and never lay a hand on a criminal, and yet that was what their sister did. Hardly ever did she use force to get what she wanted, always relying on stealth. Even on the minute cases when she got caught in an infiltration and had to fight her way out, she used electrified gauntlets to subdue them, rarely coming to blows. So, in a sense while everyone in her family was an aggressive fighter, she was a defensive—or perhaps a passive one—and that’s how she acted in life too. Always passive by nature, but always playing the peacekeeper between brothers and between fathers and sons.

They never knew why she was such a way, from the stories that Diana and Clark used to tell, back when it was just their sister and Bruce, she was a whirlwind that got into fights with anything that dared breathe in her direction—apparently, she made her angriest siblings look like mice. But no matter how many times they pried or even asked Bruce (apparently, he didn’t know what changed either—and this was coming from the World’s Greatest Detective), she never talked about it, simply saying that she grew out of always being angry and wanted to be calmer.

They suspected she held a dark secret—but no one could’ve prepared for just how dark and damaging it had been to her all these years.

***

In hindsight, taking a trip into Scarecrow’s lab was a bad idea, but when the offer had come up in the cave from her father, (Y/N) was happy to lend a hand, knowing that with his recent injury, he wouldn’t’ve been able to get out there during the night. It was also amazing, in the twenty-seven years she’d been alive, and in the past nineteen years that she’d been a vigilante, she’d never seen her father take a break—she could count on one hand how many times he had, and even then, he was still working in the cave, so technically it wasn’t a break.

But after tangling with Bane and Croc, he’d broken a few ribs and after repeated complaints and worries from her, his sons, and Alfred, Bruce finally agreed to let his children handle patrol. Which is why when the quadrants of the city were split up between Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian, it left (Y/N) to pick up specific places that Bruce wanted checked out—she warmly agreed to do so. And while she was confident in her abilities to do everything, he asked of her, she should’ve called for backup when it came to infiltrating Scarecrow’s hideout.

***

Another vent went off above her and she ducked, eyes narrowing as she watched the orange fog, appearing blue through her detective mode, drift out. She would’ve sprayed it, but she’d used up all of her explosive gel covering the others. Now she simply had to avoid them and hope that her gas mask filtered properly—so far, it was. A shrill laugh echoed through the speakers above her, and shivers went down her spine.

Anytime now, Batgirl. You will fall too.

She frowned. “I’m not afraid of you, Doctor Crane.” Ducking under another pipe, she added, “I can help you if you’ll let me.”

Help me? Help…ME? You can’t even help YOURSELF!

Scarecrow had always been a talker, much like the majority of the villains they faced, and he was looking for a rise. She came to the end of the corridor where the pipes met a brick wall and she sighed, searching for a way through. A vent covered the top right corner and she pulled out the grapple gun, pointing it at the grate. She pressed the trigger and it latched onto the metal bars; grasping the cord, she yanked as hard as she could, stepping backwards when it fell, hitting the ground with a clang.

(Y/N) heaved herself up into the vent and crawled on her hands and knees, as quietly as she could, twisting and turning through the maze of confined metal. When she came to the end, another grate covered the exit and she pressed her foot against it, pushing until the bolts popped loose and she could slip out.

From the looks of it, if the advanced chemistry equipment were any help, she’d ended up in Scarecrow’s lab. He wasn’t in sight, but that gave her time to look around and see if he’d changed any formulas recently. She raised her wrist and tapped at the blue screen, taking a moment to run a program. When it beeped, (Y/N) sighed in relief and reached up, pulling the gas mask off—the air was clean.

She set the mask down on the counter and put a finger to her ear. “Batman, do you read me?” His voice came through a moment later.

“I read you Batgirl. Loud and clear.”

“I’m in Doctor Crane’s lab,” she said, poking around at the notes he’d scrawled out. “I don’t see anything new. The formulas all look the same.”

“Compounds?”

She frowned and read. “Honestly, it’s a bit hard to decipher. His handwriting is a lot like Red’s when he’s had one too many energy drinks.” A quiet huff came from over the line, telling her that he was amused. “I’ll send you pictures of it and see if you can.” (Y/N) snapped a few photos. “Get ‘em?”

“Just now,” he replied, and she walked over to one of the lit Bunsen burners.

“Looks like he’s got something brewing right now though,” (Y/N) leaned over and peered into it, careful to avoid any steam that was rising.

“Recognize it?”

She paused. “It’s not the usual stuff he’s got. It looks almost golden and—”

All at once the dish exploded and she had just enough time to cover her face from the shattering glass, letting out a gasp as she recoiled.

“Batgirl, what happened?”

(Y/N) coughed and waved a hand, and when her hand appeared double, she breathed out in shock. “Oh no,” she whispered.

“Batgirl, report.” She hurried to the exit of the lab as Scarecrow’s cackle sounded overhead.

“I’ve been hit with a blast of toxin.” Pulling open the door, she fumbled with her utility belt then let out a sigh.

“What’s wrong?”

(Y/N) shook her head and weaved down the corridors, the faster she got to her bike, the faster she could get back to the cave.

“I don’t have any anti-toxin on me.” She pushed against the doors and stumbled out into the cold and rainy night. Her mind was already beginning to fog over as she climbed onto her bike, and she barely had enough focus to keep it steady while she programmed it to auto-drive.

“I’m sending one of the boys to you.”

She grunted and lifted her foot as the bike revved and shot forward. “Don’t. I’ve already programmed the bike to the cave’s coordinates. I’ll be back in less than fifteen minutes.”

“You won’t make it that long.”

(Y/N) groaned as the lights began to flash around her and she saw faces and images passing her. “I just have to…focus.”

Horns blared around her as the bike weaved in and out of cars and she held onto the frame with all the strength she had. His voice started echoing in her ears and she shut her eyes, trying to block it out.

You could’ve saved me.

Another groan escaped her, and she heard, “(Y/N), talk to me.”

She shook her head. “I can’t—I have to—focus now.” But with every passing second, his voice got louder and more insistent.

You let me die. You watched me die.

(Y/N)’s eyes filled with tears and they dripped down her cheeks. I tried to save you. she thought, hoping it would suffice, but she knew it wouldn’t. I tried so hard to. The last thing she remembered was turning onto the street that led to the cave.

***

Bruce was already pushing away from the Batcomputer when the boys arrived back at the cave, Dick and Damian from the Batmobile, and Tim and Jason from their own rides. Knowing that their father wasn’t one to sit around, it wasn’t out of the ordinary for him to be moving, but with how quick and worried his movements seemed, they knew something was wrong.

Dick pulled the cowl away from his face and asked, “B? What’s wrong?”

Bruce didn’t respond at first, hurrying towards the medical station they had. “Your sister was dosed with fear toxin and she doesn’t have anti-toxin to counteract it.”

Jason, who’d already taken his hood off, was already in the process of putting it back on. “Let one of us take it to her.”

Their father shook his head, rummaging for an antidote. “She’s coming back here.”

“Here?” Tim repeated, striding over. “Fear toxin works within seconds on normal people, minutes for us.” He looked at his brothers. “She won’t have enough time to get back here and not be under the effects.”

Bruce nodded, focusing as he poured a vial of glowing green liquid into the needle gun. “I know.” He looked at Tim. “That’s why I’m getting it ready for her.”

“Father, can we do anything?” Damian questioned, pulling away the domino mask from his eyes.

“Get ready to be on the defensive if she’s offensive,” he replied. “I don’t think she’ll hit anybody, but you never know.”

“She can’t hit that hard. (Y/N) only weighs—” Jason cut off as the rev of an engine cut though the air and they turned to see their eldest sister coming in on a sleek black motorcycle, that was shaking badly.

“(Y/N)!” Dick yelled and the bike suddenly shifted and toppled sideways, throwing her from it. It slid across the cave floor in a hail of sparks, metal, and plastic flying in every direction as (Y/N) rolled too.

They started running towards her, hoping to stop her when her back collided with one of the glass cases that held their suits, and she went limp.

Bruce reached her first, and knelt down, setting the antidote aside to check her first. The way she hit the case and with how hard, it was possible that she could be seriously injured—or worse.

“(Y/N)!” he called, hands coming to pull her away from the case. She whimpered and he let out a sigh—she was still alive. “(Y/N), can you hear me?” he inquired, reaching up to pull the cowl from her face.

Her brothers crowded behind him and they all stared in horror as tears streamed down her cheeks, and blood out of her nose.

“I’m sorry,” she bawled. “I tried to save you.” Bruce looked at her then grabbed the needle gun, bringing it up to her neck.

“Hang on, (Y/N). You’re gonna be okay.”

She grabbed his hand and cried, “I held on as long as I could, but my grip was slipping. I’m sorry I couldn’t hold onto you. I’m sorry I let you go. I let you die. I’m sor—” her sobs cut her off as she curled in on herself, and as if finally snapping out of a trance, Bruce pulled his hand from her grip and pulled the trigger of the gun.

(Y/N) jerked as the needle entered her skin and they watched the neon green liquid in the vial emptied. She fell into whimpers and mumbles of “I’m sorry” before her eyes rolled back and she collapsed in Bruce’s arms.

He stared at her for a second, feeling numb at his daughter’s admissions. Whatever her fear had been, it’d been there a long time, and he had no idea what it was about. Sighing heavily, he drew his eyes to his sons, to Jason.

“Will you take (Y/N) to her bedroom while I get an IV ready?”

Jason nodded and bent down, picking up his unconscious sister. He tucked her head in the crook of his neck and looked at Dick. “Get the doors, yeah?” Dick nodded and hurried ahead of him, while Tim and Damian followed in suit.

Bruce was left alone in a matter of moments, and all he could do was rise to his feet and ready the medical supplies, all the while, thinking back on every night that (Y/N) had gone on patrol in the last nineteen years—and the last time someone died in front of her.

***

Her head felt like an overripe melon ready to burst, and that first moment of cracking her eyes open was the biggest mistake since she told her dad what ‘Thot’ meant. The second she opened them, she shut them once more, inhaling deeply through her nose as the fog started to clear from her mind.

“Queenie, hey, you’re awake,” Jason murmured, and she nodded, blinking a few times before his face came into focus, Dick appearing Tim appearing behind him.

“Go get dad,” Dick said to someone, and she figured it was Damian since neither Jason nor Tim moved.

(Y/N) started shifting, trying to sit up when Dick put his hand on her shoulder, gentle, but firm as he said, “Don’t try to move, Barbie.”

“Where’s dad?” she asked, craning her neck to see.

“Damian’s going to get him sis,” Tim answered, smoothing out the blanket covering her. “Just relax. You took a beating when you came into the cave.”

“I did?” she questioned, eyes widening in shock when they nodded, faces pinched with worry.

The ceiling light turned on just bright enough to give sight and they looked at Bruce who was coming in, Damian following.

“(Y/N),” Dick moved, letting Bruce take his spot, and he took her hand in his, running his thumb over the back of her hand. “You had us all worried.”

She frowned and exhaled heavily. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.” She gazed between them, and something in their eyes made an emotion she couldn’t describe rise in her chest.

“Why are you all looking at me like that?” (Y/N) met Bruce’s eyes. “What happened?” Before he could answer, she gasped and looked at her brothers. “I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?”

A chorus of hurried, “No’s!” rang out and she sighed in relief, reclining back on the pillows.

“Oh, thank goodness.” She went silent, then started, “But…something did happen, didn’t it?”

Her brothers glanced between themselves then they looked at Bruce who sighed and squeezed her hand, drawing her attention to him.

“What?” she asked and when he said nothing, she repeated, “Dad, what?”

His steel blue eyes met hers and he murmured, “You were apologizing for…letting someone die.”

Whatever had flashed in her eyes that told them she knew exactly what they were talking about was shocking enough because Jason said, “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t wanna, Queenie.”

(Y/N) fell silent for a full minute and when she spoke again, her voice was quiet and the look in her eyes was far away. “Before Dick came to the manor it was just you and I patrolling Gotham. At eight, I wasn’t really let out of your sight, but one night I had wandered off while you were dealing with Two-Face.” She looked at Bruce. “I found an injured GCPD officer on a bridge. He had been tailing Killer Croc.”

She glanced at Tim. “His name was Grady Richards.”

Tim’s eyes fell to the tablet in his hands, and he tapped at the screen for a few moments, then read, “Hero cop Grady Richards honored after dying in line of duty. He fell off a broken bridge on Miagani Island.”

Bruce’s eyes found hers again. “He didn’t fall, did he?”

(Y/N) felt tears grow in her vision and she shook her head. “No…no he didn’t.” Inhaling deeply, she recounted, “Croc came back and there was no way either of us could’ve taken him, so we ran. And Croc chased us.” She shut her eyes, remembering the night.

***

Fear pulsed through her veins as she sprinted as far away from the overgrown crocodile as she could. The GCPD officer was ahead of her, but he stopped and spun around to see her.

“Hurry!” he yelled, pointing back to the car. “Get to the cruiser!”

She spared a glance over her shoulder, eyes going wide when she saw Killer Croc picking up one of the concrete guards.

“Duck!” was all she heard, and she hit the ground, watching as if in slow motion as it flew overhead, then smashed into the top of the cop’s car, glass and metal shattering under the pressure.

Someone grabbed her by the back of her suit and hauled her up, slinging her behind them, and the back of the GCPD officer’s uniform came into view.

“Start running, Batgirl! And don’t stop!” he yelled, and when he has his sidearm drawn, he looked down at her. “You’ve got as much time as I have bullets.” He turned, opening fire, and she took a moment to stare before scrambling to her feet to start running.

A cry of pain sounded behind her, and against her better judgement, she turned and looked, gaping as Croc’s arm sent the officer flying. He hit the guardrail and collapsed against it and her feet were moving before she could stop them.

The first punch went to the back of Croc’s knee and she knew it had to have hurt her more than it did him because he didn’t even flinch. But when those glowing yellow eyes peered down at her, she knew she was in trouble.

“Looks like I’ve got an appetizer for the night!” he laughed and reached for her, but she ducked and rolled out of his way, standing in front of the wounded GCPD officer, who weakly looked up at her.

“What are you—doing? I told you…to run.”

She couldn’t beat Killer Croc, and she knew it, but she shook her head and stared down the villain before her.

Croc’s attacks were wide and though she was small, she was pushed to her limit rolling and dodging every one. After a few moments, she was practically dead on her feet, huffing as her lungs begged for air. She kept wiping away the rain that splattered against her mask and on a particularly unlucky step, she found herself slipping.

And it was all the opening that Croc needed because he swiped at her and she flew backwards into the officer who’d managed to stand, just barely. Colliding with him tipped his balance and they went over the guardrail, barreling towards the ground.

She reached out as fast as she could and grabbed hold of the metal beam that ran the length of the under bridge, crying out in pain as it pulled the joints and bones. Her other hand gripped the officer’s and she held on tight. Croc leaned over the bridge, apparently not seeing them because his footsteps went off in the opposite direction, leaving them in silence.

Time passed and she wasn’t sure how long, but both her arms were getting tired, and she looked down at the officer.

“Sir?” she called, and he looked up at her. “You have to climb. I’m starting to lose grip.”

He tried to reach up but let out a cry and grabbed his side with his free hand. Pulling his hand away, she saw the crimson dilute with rainwater.

The hand that held the ledge began to cramp and she started hyperventilating. “Please, you need to hurry! I can’t hold on much longer!” Again, he tried, and she looked down at him as her fingers began to shake.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered and let go of his hand, and the last thing she saw until he hit the ground was the sight of his eyes, wide with fear and pleading.

***

“I watched his head explode when he hit the ground,” she said, tears pouring down her cheeks as she stared out the window, watching the rain hit against the glass. “I had to make a choice. Either both of us died or one of us lived.” (Y/N) looked at Bruce. “And I chose my life over his.”

No one could believe their ears at the story she’d told, but suddenly, the self-sacrificing attitude their sister had, the way she’d bend over backwards for anyone, made perfect sense—she did it out of atonement, for a wrong she carried since she was eight years old.

“I pulled myself back up onto the bridge and I ran as far as I could and didn’t look back,” she said. “I kept my mouth shut when the paper ran his story and never told anyone about it.”

(Y/N)’s breath shuddered. “I just pushed it down as far inside me as I could and tried to forget about it.” Her eyes met Bruce and she tearfully stated, “But every time I closed my eyes, I saw his face.”

He leaned forward and took her hand. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked softly, dark brows furrowed in hurt.

She swallowed thickly and shook her head as she replied, “I killed someone that night. I was terrified about what you would’ve said. About what you would’ve done.” He gazed at her and (Y/N) whispered, “I’m sorry, dad.”

Bruce dropped her gaze and took a deep breath before murmuring, “It was just an accident, (Y/N).”

“I let go of—”

“I would’ve been more upset having to bury my daughter,” he interrupted, and she fell silent, gaping at him. He searched her face and reached up, placing a hand on her cheek. “I understand why you kept this secret, but you should’ve come to me, (Y/N).” Shaking his head, he added, “You didn’t deserve to be buried under this for nineteen years.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, lowering her head and Bruce shook his head in response.

“No, I’m sorry.” When she met his eye, he continued, “I’m sorry I didn’t know you were carrying this. Then and now.”

(Y/N) swallowed and rested back against the bed. “I send his widow money on the anniversary of his death. I slip it into the pension she’s given.” She let out a sigh. “It’s the only way I’ve found that I could sleep at night.”

Her eyes drifted to the window and Bruce placed a kiss to her forehead. “Get some sleep, sweetheart.” She nodded and before he left, he said, “And when you feel up for it, we’ll see about setting up a fund in his name.”

She wished it didn’t make her as emotional as it did, but silent tears dripped down her cheeks as the door closed, leaving her and her brothers alone. They gathered on her bed, leaning close to offer their support, and she was thankful for them doing so. And for the first time in nineteen years, when (Y/N) closed her eyes, she didn’t see Grady Richards’ face.

[forthegothicheroine]

The King in Yellow, 1949

Much of this story is true.  Warnings in the tags.

When I had pneumonia in my early teens, my mother brought home an armful of VHS tapes from the library to alleviate my misery.  Knowing my snobbish preferences, she had grabbed copies of whatever she found in black and white.  I remember something musical that I suspect was Busby Berkeley, I remember Mildred Pierce (a bad choice, as it turned out- the plot includes a young girl dying of pneumonia), and I remember a period piece called The King.  I faded in and out of consciousness while I watched it, but it soothed me while I was awake and filled my fever dreams with sparkling images.  I could never find it at the library again, nor at Hollywood Video or even early Netflix (once my father got the subscription service where you could order practically every DVD.)  It was a bit odd that it seemed to be so obscure, given that it starred old Hollywood legend Ingrid Bergman (and, although I initially forgot it, Marlene Dietrich.)  But even big stars make films that fall by the wayside in public memory, and it seemed that this was one of them.  Google was no help, and at the time that was that.

I didn’t see the film again until I was watching Turner Classic Movies at my grandparents’ house.  I loved watching that channel with them while filling out the crossword puzzle that came in their little TCM catalogue (all of it based on movie trivia, the only kind of crossword puzzle I’ve ever been any good at.)  I recognized a certain scene where Bergman stood on a balcony, looking sadly at the moon.  Her face had an expression of unutterable melancholy, and the crescent moon reflected in each of her eyes, giving the impression of two moons in one sky.  I had very little time to catch up on what I’d missed before we had to go meet my cousins at the local Italian restaurant.  I knew logically that the movie would be long over by the time we returned, but I turned on the channel anyway.  Of course it had moved on to the lesser known Alfred Hitchcock film Stage Fright, but then I heard Marlene Dietrich sing before I could reach the remote to turn the tv off in disappointment.  I knew that I had heard her sing before, and I knew it had been in The King.

Dietrich’s singing often comes across as somewhat campy today, with its Rs pronounced as Ws and it’s up-and-down tone.  Madeline Kahn parodied it brilliantly in Blazing Saddles, such that it was a bit of a disappointment when I finally saw Dietrich’s western Destry Rides Again and found it to be lifeless and inconsistent next to the parody.  Still, we remember her voice for a reason, and when I remembered it that night, I knew that its sardonic loneliness had rung through The King and made me shiver in my dreams.

The TCM schedule didn’t list The King in its time slot, but something else.  If I had taken down the name, maybe it would have helped me find it.  Sometimes the same movie runs under multiple names.

I didn’t see the film all the way through for many years, after I graduated college.  I had found a web page that listed public domain film noir, including one called The Masked Guest.  The website described it as a costume noir, and I curiously clicked on the link.  Once I took in the credits running on the youtube window, my eyes grew wide and I did not move from my place on the bed until the movie had run its course.

The credits did indeed list it as The Masked Guest, but I recognized the strange repeating design on the title cards.  They told me that in addition to starring Dietrich and Bergman, it was directed by Fritz Lang, and a character called The King was credited to “???”  (I hadn’t seen that kind of credit since the first Karloff Frankenstein.)  When the King finally appears on screen, though, it is unmistakably Orson Welles’s voice that booms out from behind his elaborate costume.

Here are the things I understand about The King, or The Masked Guest, or The Man in Yellow, or any other title I’ve found for it on public domain archive searches.  Dietrich and Bergman play princesses named Cassilda and Camilla, respectively.  Though Dietrich’s accent is German and Bergman’s is Swedish, they blend together to give the film the impression of being set somewhere on the map that I can’t quite find.  The scenery and camera angles are very Freudian, with a great deal of archways and pillars.

The first act of The King involves frankly dull romantic plotlines, and the only thing that really saved it was the feeling that the suitors were supposed to be insipid, a suspicion lended credence by the fact that the love interests were listed so low on the credits.  Dietrich is the scandalous sister and Bergman is the responsible one, though each takes on aspects of the other as the film goes on.  Dietrich sings her song at a party, dressed in a fake 17th century gown and leaning against a piano.  Although just a moment ago she had been laughing and joking with her gentleman friends, her song takes an abruptly serious tone (not seductive, not sentimental) as she tells the story of a city lost to time and memory.  Bergman slips away from the party and onto the balcony, where we see that wonderful shot of the moon in her eyes.  Is she mourning?  Is she longing?

Dietrich cuts off the song by abruptly screaming “Not on us, King!  Not on us!”  She flees the party weeping and shaking, and from there on the film goes mad.

Though uncommon, it is not unknown for movies to switch between black and white and color, done most famously in The Wizard of Oz.  The film The King recalls here is the silent Phantom of the Opera, which had a masqued ball scene tinted in shades of red and green that tried to provide a whole spectrum of color.  The effect is even odder in the masqued ball scene in The King- the only color that appears is yellow, highlighting things like candlelight, Dietrich’s hair, a passing gown, a vase of tulips.  It also highlights one particular masked figure, whose expressionless mask was decorated with a black pattern against a sickening yellow canvas- the same pattern I had seen in the opening credits.  The color of his costume causes him to stand out from the crown even when he is far off in the background, just one head among many others.  It must have taken long and painstaking hours of work to color in every frame.

Dietrich still seems broken up days after her song, though Bergman tries to coax her into joining the dance.  Finally, at midnight, Dietrich goes out to face the party, but only to demand that every guest remove their mask.  The yellow man with a voice that once warned America about a Martian invasion tells her that he wears no mask.  Bergman reacts with disbelief, but Dietrich starts laughing like a woman unhinged.  As she laughs, the yellow hue seeps out of the King’s clothing and face- if that really is his face- and begins to color the entire ballroom crowd.  I think that what follows is bloodshed, but if there is any carnage (doubtful under the Production Code censorship), the blood must be tainted yellow and splashed across the camera like daubs of paint.  Dietrich’s laughing face is doubled and tripled on screen until it dissipates, but even when it has faded offscreen, it feels as if her ghost continues to watch the proceedings.  

By the end of the scene (filled with German Expressionist camera angles and mad violin screeching), only Bergman remains alive, cowering behind a grandfather clock.  It does not hide her for long.  The King steps towards her and extends his hand.  Reluctantly, but with a fatalistic expression, Bergman takes his hand.  They walk away together hand in hand.  The screen shifts back into black and white, and then the credits roll before we can get a good look at all the bodies in the scene.  The credits say it was based on a play called The King in Yellow, although Raymond Chandler of all people apparently had a hand in the screenplay.

As I said, that’s what I think I understand.  It’s an oddly experimental art film for the era, and it may be awaiting rediscovery by the film festival crowd.  I feel as if I alone know about it, though that obviously isn’t true.  It is my little secret; I tell myself that my husband doesn’t need me to show it to him, it would be too odd for his taste.  I’ve rewatched it many times, even if it seems like each time I search for it I have to find a different video platform or torrent.  Naturally, no subscription site has it available.  Maybe I am the last person who will ever watch it.  Maybe no one will ever think to look for it again after me, and it will be completely forgotten.

When I was hospitalized, they let me use my laptop at night before I went to sleep (no power cord, though, in case I tried to hang myself.)  I found a youtube link for The Man in Yellow, and I watched it every night.  It wasn’t a soothing sort of movie, but having it in my mind all day and then watching it in the evening allowed me to think as opposed to crying endlessly while the other patients shot me awkward looks.  I clutched the childhood stuffed animals my mother brought me when she visited, and I always held them extra tight when the masquerade scene started.

I watched the movie when I had to move away from my beloved San Francisco.  I watched the movie when I lost the last of my grandparents.  I watched the movie when a doctor unwisely took me off my medication and I couldn’t manage to eat for a month.  I watched the movie when the whole world got sick and we all locked ourselves away from each other.  I don’t mind that I don’t entirely know what it means.  I don’t mind the nightmares.  In the hospital they kept telling us about mindfulness exercises, and maybe the fact that I can focus on every aspect of the film so closely that all else falls away is the reason I keep coming back to it.  I’m being mindful.  I’m not letting any stray thoughts invade my head.  I’m just watching and waiting for the next beat of every scene, leading inexorably to that yellow-stained bloodbath.

Streaming media doesn’t last forever, and each time I find The King, I worry that it will be the last time I ever can find it.  My efforts to download it have so far been unsuccessful, odd considering that it is in the public domain.

When I watch The King, I am once again a child in my bedroom being cared for in the throes of agonizing sickness.  I am once again sitting on the couch with my grandparents in front of the tv, both of them alive and lucid again.  I am once again in the hospital, all alone except for my stuffed animals and the staff trying to keep me alive.  The film reflects in my eyes like the crescent moon in Ingrid Bergman’s gaze.  It sings to me.

I am determined to find a way to obtain The King under any name so that I never have to worry about losing it.  During some of the worst times in my life, it is the only thing that has kept me sane.

[mourntheantagonist]

#HarringroveApril Day 16: Nostalgia

***

When Billy signed those discharge papers, piled into his dented Camaro and headed west towards the sunset despite the screaming redhead banging on the windows crying “please don’t go!”, with an aching chest both metaphorical and physical, he didn’t think for a second about looking back.

So how he ended up back in the same shithole he turned his back on ten years ago was entirely beyond him.

He had made a life for himself in California. He got his associates degree at the local community college and worked his way up from a nine to five teller position at the local bank all the way to branch manager, making an upper middle class salary. It was easy work. Boring work, unfulfilling work, but easy and worth every penny. He had a couple of friends, mostly coworkers, more so acquaintances than friends. He had a fancy apartment in the city, he went on dates, though they usually ended in one night stands where the other guy snuck out in the dark hours of the morning leaving Billy to sleep in a bed that was just too big for one person. But he was free from all of those forces in his life that always held him back and pinned him down, and each and every one of those forces just reeked of small town America.

He hadn’t heard a peep out of Hawkins since Max had given up on calling around eight years ago, or at least he hoped that she’d given up and something worse hadn’t happened to her. He regretted not answering those calls everyday. The guilt of leaving her behind like that weighed heavy like an anchor, but he did it anyway. Bad decision after bad decision he was surprised he made it to where he had today, and he just wished she’d call again.

But he also wasn’t sure enough of himself that anything would change if she did, and that phone would likely remain on the hook until the ringing stopped and she was left to the sound of his voicemail.

“You’ve reached Billy Hargrove. Leave a message.”

He wasn’t home the day she finally did call, which fortunately took that decision away from him. Her message was tossed in with a mix of telemarketers and employees calling in for days off, it could have easily been dismissed, passed over like every other piece of junk in the system if her voice hadn’t been exactly the same as it was the day he left her.

“Hey Billy, it’s Max. I know you probably don’t give a shit, but Neil died of a heart attack last night…” Billy stopped listening after the words ‘Neil died’ came over the speaker. He had to replay the message to hear the rest because by the time he’d gathered himself it had already ended. “...the funeral is next Saturday in Hawkins. Nobody expects you to come but I thought you should know anyway and that everyone would still like to see you. Call me back at…” Billy wrote the number on the back of a blockbuster receipt and set it flat on the counter quickly with a firm hand and a quick retraction, like it might burn him. Max’s name and a ten digit number below it in a blue ballpoint pen stared back at him and he just drummed his fingers on the counter and bit his lip trying to think everything over.

He looked at it for probably another thirty minutes while the rest of the voicemails cycled through in the background before he decided to make a call of his own. Slowly and shaking, he dialed the phone number and tried to even out his breathing while he waited for the sound of the pick up. He was partially hoping that it never came.

But it did. The click sound was followed by a voice that didn’t belong to Max, but one he still recognized.

“Hello?”

Billy took in a deep breath. “Hi. This is Billy.”

“Wow, I’m surprised you actually called.”

Billy huffed and if it had been ten years earlier he would have already hung up the phone by now.

“Who is this?”

“Lucas Sinclair. I take it you want to talk to Max?”

Billy tensed at the mention of her name, as if that hadn’t been the whole plan in the first place. “Yeah,” he said, a little bit of shakiness to his voice, “could you put her on?”

After a few short moments of silence and a little bit of movement in the background, he heard her.

“Hey Billy.” she sounded… glad… and it made Billy let out a heavy sigh of relief.

“Hey Maxine.”

“It’s Max.” There was that tone, she hadn’t changed at all.

“Yeah, I know.” There was a pause, Billy twirled the phone cord around this index finger to the point it started going pink and then purple while he tried to get the question to leave the tip of his tongue. “So, he’s really dead?” he asked, blunt as ever.

“Yeah. I don’t expect you to want to come for the funeral, but I just thought you should know, and if you need a place to stay you can– hold on one second” Billy could hear muffled bickering and Max yelling ‘Lucas Sinclair’ through clenched teeth and it brought a smile to his face. It reminded him of all those times he’d eavesdrop on her phone calls with him just to piss her off, just to hear her yell at him through their shared wall before she’d chase him around the house. Those were good days. “As I was saying. You can stay here if you need. We have a spare room.”

“Thanks for the offer.”

“I really hope you decide to come.”

“We’ll see.” He was just about to hang the phone back up, but he stopped himself, “Hey Max?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s nice hearing the sound of your voice again.”

Billy wound up taking the week off and driving that same old Camaro, restored back to its former glory, that did the distance twice before, back over to Indiana, to the place he said he’d never go back to, and he really couldn’t figure out the reason why he didn’t just go into work. There was nothing to drive him to go but the weird feeling in his gut that refused to go away until he called in, and a little bit of that pressure was released.

For each freeway exit he came across on the over thousand mile journey he contemplated turning around, getting back on that on-ramp going the other direction and save himself from whatever hell he’d be walking into.

Because that’s what Hawkins was to him. Hell. There were monsters like his father, and then there were real, legitimate monsters as well and Billy wasn’t safe from either of them, well he was safe from one now. He couldn’t imagine why Max decided to stay in the shithole and not get out like he did.

Maybe that’s what makes him the coward.

The welcome to Hawkins sign gave him chills. He remembered seeing that for the first time, following behind the rickety Uhaul pulled by their beat up truck when Billy decided not to follow them into their next turn, and instead got lost on the “scenic route” of Hawkins which really meant “trees, trees, and more trees” when he hit the Quarry’s dead end and nearly went off the cliff into the water below.

At the time he might’ve thought it would have been better if he had.

A lot of things had looked to have changed about the town since the last time he saw it. Places that he remembered being nothing but vast forests now had neighborhoods and restaurant chains and the place that once had a natural canopy was now completely deforested and exposed to the sun.

But the Quarry was exactly the same as he left it.

From the beer cans crushed and scattered, to the sounds of gravel pieces bouncing up and chipping the paint on his car.

The continuities continued to add up when he stepped foot out of the car, pulling on that same old denim jacket he hadn’t worn in years after trading it in for a suit and tie. His boot hit the gravel path just like it always had, with that same stomp that demanded attention, like each time he got out of that car he had to play into the dramatics, put on the mask and play the part he chose for himself. The breeze and the smell, it was all the same as before, as if the industrialization just several blocks north hadn’t had any effects on this little corner of the town where the birds still sang their songs in harmony and the smell of nature was pungent. It felt like no time had passed at all.

But it had been the sound of a rumbling BMW rolling down the crushing gravel that made him feel exactly like he was back in highschool again, the same rotten kid who used fists as forms for problem solving, the kid who as an adult had worked on his impulsivity, standing there, staring up the gentle slope with his fists clenched so tight his fingernails left marks on his palms. All that work, all that progress he thought he’d gone through, thrown straight out the window at just the mere sight of something from his past.

The BMW pulled up beside him, and the quarry apparently wasn’t the only thing that hadn’t changed. Steve still had the same big swooped back hair and that same exact look on his face when they made eye contact through the passenger window, the same exact look he had the day he told him he was leaving, and screamed at him to get out of his hospital room.

That was the last time they spoke.

Steve got out of the car without a word and just leaned against the door, looking him up and down, and Billy didn’t feel like he had any right to say the first word, considering he’d had the last one.

“It’s good to see you Billy.” Steve broke the silence, and it was almost startling, with both the sudden change of volume, and the sound of that voice he’d almost forgotten singing in his head like a song he didn’t remember learning the lyrics to.

“Is it?” Because it felt like it was all just a formality coming out of his mouth.

He wasn’t expecting an answer to that, so he shouldn’t have been surprised when Steve changed the subject. It was oddly refreshing seeing Steve write the script this time, steering the conversation his way.

“Looks like we both kept our old wheels,” he said, slapping the top of his car twice, maybe a little too hard. The sound of a hand against metal echoed through the trees. “though there’s not as many dents from what I remember.”

“I had it restored.”

The majority of Steve’s body was hidden behind the car that separated the two of them, but he could see in the way that his shoulders moved that his hands had found his own hips, doing that same stance of a mother who just caught their kid in the act of something naughty. “Some good memories happened in that car.”

“Some bad ones too. Or do I need to remind you how the dents got there in the first place?” Billy crossed his arms over his chest, as if the thousand pound chunk of metal that served as a barrier wasn’t enough to protect him. Because it felt like Steve could see directly through him with the way his head tilted when Billy threw his words back at him. Because they both knew that it was horseshit. Memories of whatever happened between Steve and the Camaro existed only in the dents that remained and the neck pain that still lingered. He didn’t actually hold any grudge about that, and he never did.

Because Steve was right. There had been good memories in that car, some he didn’t remember until seeing him again, some that still played in his mind when he went to sleep at night. Maybe that was the reason he kept it around for so long, that one piece that contained all of those few good times, all of those times with Steve.

“You were always so good at that.”

“What?”

“Deflecting. Pushing people away.”

Billy opened his mouth to defend himself, but there was nothing that came out but his own breath, but Steve filled that silence anyway before Billy would have even had the opportunity to speak.

“You cut your hair.”

It was like he was being interrogated.

“Company policy, they practically had to strap me down and take the clippers to my head themselves.”

Steve actually laughed, and it seemed genuine at least. Billy pulled out the pack of red that he always kept on the seat like it was muscle memory. His hands would only ever stop shaking when he had that little stick between his fingers, and they were only shaking more since Steve got out of that car.

“You still smoke?”

Billy put the cigarette in between his lips and lit up, pausing for a nice drag before bothering to answer Steve. Just letting his eyes fall shut and experience just a short moment of relaxation.

“Some old habits never die”

Steve pursed his lips. Every single one of his mannerisms were exactly the same. This one meant that he wanted to say something that he didn’t know if he should.

“Was I just an old habit too?”

“Steve–”

Steve just kicked the side of his car with his knee, sure to leave a dent of his own. The sound was loud enough that the consistent stream of chirping birds transformed into a cascade of flapping wings as the birds on the trees flew away from the scene. He walked around to the front of his car and the physical object that once created separation was gone, and suddenly Steve was within reach and he couldn’t breathe.

“Glad to know it’s harder to quit nicotine than it was to quit me!”

Billy chucked his lit cigarette at the ground and scuffed it with his heel into the gravel. “Who told you it was easy?!” He had a finger pointed to Steve and had closed their distance a few feet more, less than an arms length apart from each other.

“You left!”

“Because I had to! You know I did!”

“You didn’t have to leave me!” Steve practically screamed that final word, his face was now just inches away from Billy’s and he was nearly foaming at the mouth and from an outsider's perspective, Steve looked about two seconds from either kissing him, or killing him.

He did neither. He took a step back and recollected himself with a dramatic clearing of his throat. “You didn’t even ask me to come with you.”

“And you don’t think I regret that every fucking day of my life?” Billy’s voice broke, trembling throughout the sentence like he was containing a ticking time bomb. “Why are you even here?”

Steve just rolled his eyes at the steer. “Max sent me.”

“Of course she fucking did.”

“She cares about you y’know.” Billy scoffed, because how could she? After all he did to her? He could still hear those palms banging against those windows and her muffled screams for her to stay every time he got into that car. “Why are you here?”

“Did she not tell you the part where my dad died?”

“I know damn well you didn’t come all this way to pay your respects.”

Billy let himself drop to the ground and sit on the rough terrain with his back against his tire, unable to continue standing, his legs were ready to betray him.

“I have no idea why I’m here, okay? I just am.”

Steve nodded his head, and he didn’t say anything, no quip back in his face, he just followed Billy to the ground.

“Are you upset he’s gone?”

Billy let out a groan and tried to rub the growing migraine from his temples.

“I’m feeling a lot of things, but I don’t think ‘upset’ is one of them.” Neither of them said anything after that. They just sat there on the ground and enjoyed the silence together like they used to do. Looking up at the clouds and arguing over what shape they were. There’d be none of that today though, and it had nothing to do with the overcast skies. “You still keep a six pack in your trunk?”

Steve laughed and got up from where he was seated and popped the trunk. He was right. Some old habits never fucking die.

Steve tossed a can over to Billy and sat back down on the gravel, maybe a little closer than he had been before. Billy took a long swig and swallowed the bitter taste down. He hadn’t drank much since he was a teenager, he traded in his Coors for Cola and he doesn’t understand how he used to enjoy the taste of it before.

“Why did you stay in Hawkins?”

Steve dug his heel and pushed a pile of rocks forward, kicking a plume of dust into the air.

“Nobody ever gave me a reason to leave.”

Billy wanted to ask if he would have even come with him had he asked him to. But he opted against it, instead just taking another drink from the can and a genuine “I’m sorry.” passed his lips.

“You know I followed you?”

“What?”

“Yup. Made it all the way to St. Louis before I turned around.”

Billy was just staring at him at this point, unsure if he’d just heard him right. He just sat there with his mouth agape, catching flies and waiting for Steve to say more.

“I knew that you needed to go. I knew that you were hurting and it took me almost ten hours on the open road to realize that you needed time to heal.” Steve’s eyes looked glossy and his cheeks flushed but he kept his smile on. “So I came back home, and I waited here for you to come back. I wanted to make myself easy to find when you needed me.”

“You waited for me?”

Steve inched his hand over to where Billy’s was propping himself up and let his fingers gently trace the back of his hand. Steve’s touch was everything. It made his heart start racing and his palms start sweating and it felt just like 1985 all over again.

Billy took Steve’s hand in his own and entwined their fingers together and Billy let out a long exhale as they did.

“Billy,” Steve said softly, scooting his body just a little bit closer, less than a foot of separation now between the two of them, and he looked Billy in the eyes. Billy had almost gotten entirely lost in those pools of deep brown before Steve had the chance to speak again. But he heard it, loud and clear. “I’m still waiting for you.”

He waited.

Waited ten fucking years.

Billy wasn’t going to make him sit there and wait for a kiss too.

Billy closed the distance at the moment the penny dropped, sinking all of his weight into the kiss in a frantic and uneven pace just like they were eighteen again trying to squeeze both of their bodies into the backseat of the Camaro, refusing for even a second to separate themselves from the one point of contact that sealed them together like glue. The kiss felt just like their first. In the same spot, instead under the stars and the two of them both drunk off their asses, and that time Billy tasted of only blood and liquor.

But it was that same feeling. That desire to never pull away, that fear that it would end and that it would be the last time. He had that fear with everyone of Steve and his kisses, that each one might just be their last.

So he made a point to savor all of them.

They kissed until they physically couldn’t anymore. Out of breath with swollen lips and an inability stop the smiles that peeked through every couple of seconds. They sat there with their foreheads touching and their clasped hands still intact, relishing in the heat that was each other’s breath on their faces. Billy was crying, just streams of tears paired with a smile that Steve gently wiped away with his thumb, the brush of contact making him shiver.

“I missed you so fucking much.”

Steve cradled Billy’s head in his hands and peppered a few short kisses to his lips.

“I missed you too.”

“You think this is why Max invited me here?” Billy asked. “I can’t imagine she’d actually think I would want to come to this thing.”

Steve laughed. “No. She’s not an idiot. She figured you’d want to crash the funeral.”

Billy immediately got up from his place on the ground and held his other hand out for Steve to grab onto. “Well you wanna join me while I go piss on my old man’s grave?”

Steve took his hand without hesitation and let Billy pull him up off the ground.

“It would be my honor.”

Hawkins made a lot of bad memories for Billy, most of which he locked somewhere far away, but the good still remained. Right there in the look on Steve’s face with the way he looked back at him.

And he was happy to make a couple more.

[queenmuzz]

So, anyways, I saw something @liulyam had posted for Spardaverse a while back I DON'T KNOW HOW I MISSED THEIR WONDERFUL ART FORGIVE ME! Anyways, I saw specifically THIS piece of art, and it sent the brain juices into overdrive....

So, the same thing plays out everyday. Nero gets off the school bus and runs in, backpack flying, and tells his uncle excitedly about his day at school, before racing up the stairs to tell his dad the same thing, in the same adorably animated manner. Unfortunately, Vergil doesn’t respond the same way as Dante, sitting still, not even acknowledging that the boy is talking to him. Initially, Nero doesn’t mind, understanding his recently rescued father has been through a lot, and needs time and patience to recover. But as the months pass by, Dante notices that his nephew doesn’t run up the front steps as eagerly, his descriptions of school become shorter, paler. And most worryingly of all, Nero spends less and less time with Vergil, preferring to peek his head in the man’s room, sigh, and slowly make his way to his own room, closing the door sullenly.

“What’s going on Nero?” Dante takes the plunge and asks him one day, before the boy trudges up the stairs. “You haven’t been that rambunctious ball of energy lately.”

Nero kicks the worn hardwood floor. “It’s dad… I know you told me I need to be patient,” his face scrunches up at the word, it’s a thing he’s never been able to truly do. He’s definitely a Sparda boy. “But he just keeps ignoring me. He won’t talk, won’t even look at me. It’s like I don’t even exist! Maybe...maybe he doesn’t want me to exist-”

“Hey now!” Dante needs to nip this train of thought in the bud. He knows first hand where it can lead to. Had he not found Nero nearly nine years ago, while wandering the world, drinking up every bar’s entire inventory in a vain attempt to fill a void in his chest, who knows where he would have ended up? “Your dad...well, even without the stuff he’s been through, he was never much of a talker. Always preferred to have his actions speak for him.” “But that’s the thing, Uncle Dante!” Nero blurts out, close to tears. “He DOESN’T DO ANYTHING!!! He doesn’t care!” And with that, Nero bolts up the stairs, past Vergil’s room, not even checking up on him, and slams his bedroom door with such force, Eva’s portrait wobbles on the desk and tips over. Dante sighs, sets his mom back up, and slowly makes his way up the stairs. Not to Nero’s room; Dante knows better than to provoke that tiger cub when he’s in an ornery mood. It’s time to talk to his dad.

Vergil, or what’s left of him, is sitting in an oversized chair, the only one that fits his giant frame, facing the window, the only one in the place with a view. If he’s heard the ruckus (and Dante knows he has), he makes no indication that it affects him.

“Verg,” he calls out, “I know it's been rough, I know I piled on a lot of shit on you, the whole thing about having a kid and everything these past nine years. I’m not expecting you to just snap back to normal, and start insulting me like in the good old days, but…” Dante’s not good at this sort of thing. He’d rather Royal Guard his emotional turmoil. It used to be with alcohol, but now it’s with a cheery smile. “The kid needs a sign that you’re still there, you’re still fighting. I know you are, hell, you’re the one that helped me take down that bastard Mundus on Mallet Island. But that’s the thing, Nero’s only heard things that you’ve done, not seen them. You need to show him yourself, otherwise…” Vergil makes no motion, and even Dante, stubborn as he is, knows it’s fruitless to continue much more, “you’re gonna lose him too.” And then Dante heads back downstairs, to see if he can whip up a snack to bribe his nephew to come out of his lair. Strange, he swears he hears the rustle of fabric from Vergil’s room, as if his brother had just moved.

--

Nero sits at Dante’s desk, working on his math homework. It’s his least favourite thing, fractions. Uncle Dante is a whiz at them, and usually would be able to help him, but he’s gone out on an ‘Really quick, won’t be more than a half hour’ errand run. It’s been nearly two hours, and the only other adult here is his dad… so Nero is practically by himself.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of Nero’s neck prick up, and he hears scrabbling at the front door. He’s still not allowed to go out with Uncle Dante or Auntie Lady on their hunts, but he knows what a demon feels like, especially when there are a lot of them. ESPECIALLY when they’re really powerful Instinctively, he grabs a chair, and wedges it underneath the door knob, and looks around in a panic. He’s never had to deal with a demon attack by himself before. He remembers his uncle has a case of weapons that he was told to NEVER touch beside the jukebox, but Nero figures that he can say sorry to his uncle later. He smashes the lock with a billiard ball, and yanks open the lid. He’s disappointed. He thought there would be a treasure trove of swords and guns, but all there are two swords, one red and one blue. But he doesn’t have much of a choice, and the whine of protesting wood ends with a thunderous CRASH, and demons pour through. “FIND THE HERETIC GOD SLAYER!” One says, before turning in Nero’s direction. Without much warning, it shrieks as it launches at him with razor sharp obsidian claws.

Nero might be little, but his uncle has trained him well. Whipping the two blades around, they connect the monster’s waist in a pincer move, and like a pair of scissors, bisect it in a shower of blood and ash. Nero swears he hears a voice (or is it two voices?) approvingly say, “Impressive!” but doesn’t have a chance to savour his very first demon kill as another demon comes at him, knocking him over. The reddish gold blade clatters away on the floor, way out of reach, not that it matters. Nero’s pinned to the ground by a skeletal foot, as the demon lifts a blade to impale him. He squeezes his eyes shut, preparing for the end.

The final blow never comes. Instead, he hears shriek, and the pressure on his chest instantly subsides. He opens his eyes, to see it stagger back, its decapitated head clattering to the floor. Its brethren likewise are either dead or dying, their high pitched screams shattering the glass in the jukebox.

Nero’s first thought is that his Uncle has finally come home, Dante’s come to save me! But what’s odd is that there’s no sound of Dante’s beloved Ebony and Ivory. And last he checked, his uncle never was able to shoot out blue ghostly blades that now impale most of the horde. But it doesn’t matter, because his uncle is here to save the day! That is, until he yelps as he’s quickly, but not roughly picked up and held as whoever holds him spirits him out of the building, the blue blade still clutched in his hand. Nero begins to panic, but hears a voice, almost like a croak, as if the vocal cords had been in disuse for years…

Nero

And even though the voice is harsh sounding, it's one of the most comforting things Nero’s ever heard.

--

Of course that half hour errand run would turn out to be three hours. But when he was promised a free pizza for clearing out that demon nest on the West side, Dante couldn’t say no. Besides, he’d pick up some freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on the way home as a way of apologising to Nero. The kid might be cross with him, but he’d forgive him the moment he smelled those chewy biscuits. Dante might even let him have more than half of the package.

So when he gets home to find his front door smashed open, his office trashed, and worst of all his jukebox shattered-wait no, worst of all, his nephew missing, all thoughts of pizza and cookies vanish from his mind as he rushes in, guns drawn. There’s no sign of life, but the black splatters of demonic ichor painting the walls shows that some real bad mojo went down here. The strangest thing though, is Agni, a weapon Dante was definitely sure he had under lock and key, laying there on the ground, alone.

“Alright, time to spill your guts” he yanks the blade up so that he’s at eye level with the pommel, “What the hell happened here?” Agni makes the same response as Vergil. Which means silence.

“I swear to…” he pulls out ivory, and presses the muzzle into the (more troubled than usual looking face), “You’re gonna tell me what went down, or we’re gonna see how many bullets I can jam into your ugly mug.” “You told us to remain silent.” He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, consider that rule temporarily relaxed.” “There was an attack.” Agni starts, its distorted voice unusually agitated, “The little one fought with great valour, but eventually even he was overwhelmed.” Dante’s blood goes cold. “But then a great bulk of a demon came out and slaughtered the attacking filth, and spirited the boy away, alongwith my brother.”

“Rudra’s still with Nero?” That’s odd, if they were trying to capture the kid, they’d disarm him first.

“Yes, they are not far, I think they’ve stopped moving.”

“Alright,” Dante makes his way out of the disfigured wood, “let’s go find the kid and your bro...and if he’s alright, maybe I’ll reconsider giving back your talking privileges.” “Oh, that would be wonderful, will you allow us to leave the dark box? It’s been so long since we’ve fought, we crave batt- ”

“I said IF, and I won’t guarantee anything if you keep jabbering on and on.”

--

Angi directs the demon hunter to a dark secluded alleyway, a few blocks from Devil May Cry. One hand on its hilt ready for attack, the other fingering the trigger of Ivory, he cautiously makes his way past the recently overturned garbage cans, to a shadow alcove, where a shadow crouches. Beside it is Rudra, glowing faintly, it’s turquoise blue light providing enough illumination for Dante to make out what has happened. There’s Nero, peacefully slumbering away, apparently unharmed, not even his shirt is torn. And holding him gently, stroking his downy white hair with a giant hand...is Vergil… And for once, even though he is still staring straight ahead, there’s a different look on his face, a sense of contentment.

Huh Dante thinks to himself as he holsters the weapons, I was right, actions DO speak louder than words.

[august-anon]

Tickle Monster

sequel to Tickletober 2020 Day 13 - “Wake Up!”

---

Someone on ao3 asked about a sequel to that fic literally in October of 2020, and mentioned it again in Jan of this year, and I’m finally posting this. I am so sorry this took ages, whoever you were, I hope you enjoy this lol

---

Fandom: Gravity Falls

Ship(s): Gen!!!!!!

Characters (lee/ler): Lee!Ford,Mabel,Dipper,Stan, Ler!Ford,Mabel,Dipper,Stan

Word Count: 1720 words

Summary: Dipper and Mabel complete their mission, distracting Great Uncle Ford, with flying colors. Unfortunately for them (and for Stan), Ford knows how to fight back.

[ao3 link]

ALSO: warnings for some light angst in the beginning because apparently i can’t write Ford as not angsty lol

------------------------------------

Ford sighed as he watched Stanley go, that lost, desperate look still in his eyes. He really didn’t know what to do to help him at this point, and that hurt more than Ford had been prepared for.

It seemed that he just kept failing people.

He started this whole thing. He came to Gravity Falls in the first place. He brought Bill into this world. He was foolish and naive and power-hungry enough to listen to Bill’s lies. He built the portal Bill wanted, not considering the dangers. And he failed to protect his family, Stan especially.

And now his own brother could barely remember him.

Ford forced himself out of his thoughts as he moved toward the refrigerator. He said he’d make breakfast, so that’s what he’d do. Eggs could be easy enough, maybe even omelettes? Or perhaps pancakes, they were probably easy, right? They were just flour and eggs… and maybe they had some sugar in them? He’d figure it out.

He let out a bitter smile as happy, childish laughter rang out from the attic. Stan was a far better great-uncle than he was, even with his lapses in memory. It wasn’t really all that surprising to Ford.

Ford hadn’t really made all that much effort to be good with the kids, after all. Yet another failure of his.

He continued to struggle with breakfast, his bowl of pancake batter looking more like foaming grey sludge than anything edible. It seemed his multitudes of knowledge didn’t extend to cooking. He was debating starting over, maybe trying to actually find a recipe somewhere in this old shack, when he heard tiny footsteps thundering down the stairs.

“Great Uncle Ford!” Twin voices rang out.

Ford turned away from the counter, plastering a smile on his face that was probably more of a grimace. Dipper and Mabel slid into the kitchen on socked feet, giddy and giggling. A far cry from the tear-streaked faces he saw when he checked on them at night, making sure they were still there and alive, and finding them curled together in one of their tiny twin beds, clearly shaken by nightmares.

“Hello, kids,” he said. “You’re rather awake for the early hour.”

Mabel gave him a mischievous grin. “We’ve been tasked with distracting you.”

Ford furrowed his brow. “What--”

The two launched themselves at him and Ford’s eyes went wide in shock. He reached out to catch them so that they wouldn’t slip and hit the floor (tile floor and heads did not mix, Ford remembered that well from tussling with Stanley back in the day), but in doing so he overbalanced himself, toppling backwards and taking the kids down with him.

Before he could even begin to process what had just happened, and just what Mabel had meant by distracting him, he had two tiny bodies on top of him, pressing him into the tile. They had matching devilish grins focused on him, and Ford wondered what the hell Stanley had told them, and whether or not he needed to get up and run.

“Grunkle Stan told us about a monster that you might not have in your journals,” Dipper said, leaning forward.

Ford scrunched his face up in confusion. Was this just a distraction, as they said, or was Dipper telling the truth? Just as he opened his mouth to ask for clarification, Mabel leaned forward as well.

“Yeah, yeah! It’s such a cool monster, too! You know what it is?”

Ford shook his head, playing along. “No, what is this monster?” Perhaps if he placated them, he could get back to making breakfast before Stanley came back down and saw his pitiful progress.

Dipper and Mable exchanged an evil glance and grinned down at him. They raised their hands, fingers shaped in claws and wiggling wildly, and Ford felt a spark of recognition run through him. His eyes widened before they even answered.

“The Tickle Monster!” They shouted in unison.

And then, before he could even blink or think to defend himself, he had four tiny hands wiggling into all sorts of sensitive places. Ford tossed his head back against the tile and snickered quietly, trying to keep the worst of his laughter in. He couldn’t let two children best him!

But Mabel’s fingernails were wreaking havoc on the nerves of his ribs and neck, and Dipper’s fingertips digging into his sides and stomach weren’t serving him much better. He forgot how uncoordinated he got when he was tickled, not having been subjected to it since before Stanley got kicked out when they were younger. His hands were flailing everywhere, unable to latch onto either twin and save himself from their playful torture.

“No no no, you’re doing it all wrong,” a voice called out from the entryway. 

Ford felt a mix of dread, excitement, and anticipation fill his belly when he saw Stanley standing there. It only grew when he saw the spark of recognition in his eyes as he stalked closer.

“You gotta do it like this,” Stanley told the kids, and unceremoniously stuffed his hands into Ford’s armpits, scribbling away.

Ford howled, curling in on himself as best he could with two almost-teens still sitting on top of him and Stan looming over top of them all. He cackled madly and he could feel the tears building up in his eyes the longer the playful torment went on. It was so embarrassing, so humiliating, so…

Fun.

It felt kind of nice to let loose and laugh like he was, something he hadn’t done in a long time. The fingers driving him insane left him with no chance to overthink things as he usually did. All he could do was laugh and squirm and gasp for air.

The tickling abruptly halted and Ford sucked in a much-needed breath. He was naive to think it was over, however, because Stanley only grabbed his wrists and pinned them above his head before grinning at the kids. A nervous, playful, fluttering feeling filled his stomach, and he shot a look down at the kids.

“Have at it,” Stanley said.

Dipper and Mabel laughed before darting forward, burying their hands into his armpits. Ford was lost to his hysteria once more, only this time it was worse. His hands were pinned, he could even pretend like he was trying to defend himself from their dancing fingers, and he was too weak from laughter to tug his hands back.

Just when Ford was finally reaching his limit, he tilted his head back and made teary eye-contact with Stanley. Stanley gave him a smirk and a wink before releasing his wrists and setting Ford free.

Ford shot up, still laughing, and tackled Dipper and Mabel to the ground, careful to cushion their fall and avoid any injuries.

“Do you know what’s even worse than a Tickle Monster?” He asked, voice hoarse from the laughter his vocal cords were no longer used to.

Dipper and Mabel were giggling and squirming, clearly having picked up on where this was going, but neither made an attempt to escape. They shook their heads.

Ford raised his hands, fingers curled threateningly into claws, just as they had done to him. “A six-fingered Tickle Monster.”

Dipper and Mable squealed as his hands darted forward, the two soon lost to childish shrieks and cackles as he tickled away. The wide grin still hadn’t left Ford’s lips, even as his cheeks and eyes began to dry from his own mirthful tears. He even let out a few more chuckles at particularly silly sounds the kids made.

Maybe he wasn’t such a failure with them, after all.

But there was still one thing missing from their morning full of laughter. Ford turned around, slowing his ticklish assault on the kids, searching out Stanley. He stood at the counter, a new mixing bowl in front of him, making something that looked a lot closer to pancake batter than Ford’s attempt was.

Oh well, can’t win them all.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook,” Ford growled playfully.

Stanley froze, his body tense, and he slowly turned around to face Ford, a nervous smile spreading across his lips. His hands were raised in surrender, and he looked ready to bolt at any moment.

“You were just so sad this morning,” Stanley tried to reason with him, “I thought the kids could help cheer you up.”

Ford raised an eyebrow. “If I remember correctly, you were rather melancholy earlier, as well.”

They stared each other down, trapped in their little stand-off as Dipper and Mabel giggled quietly behind Ford. Then, Stanley tried to bolt, but Ford was much faster, the two of them crashing to the floor in no time. He quickly got Stanley pinned underneath him.

“Any last words?”

Stanley scowled (though Ford could see the amusement dancing in his eyes, so he wasn’t too worried), but Ford never actually gave him the chance to speak. He dug his fingers in, skittering around with no rhyme or reason as he mentally catalogued Stanely’s tickle spots. Eventually, he settled on Stanley’s ribs, the left side, the second rib from the top (that always used to get him screaming), as well as the little patch of skin on the right side on Stanley’s stomach, just a couple inches under his ribcage (that always used to get him begging for mercy). Stanley yelled and burst out into wild laughter, shoving at Ford’s hands but being too weak to stop him.

“You little--” Stanley started to yell through his laughter, but Ford cut him off.

“Ah ah ah, there are children present, Stanley.”

Stanley only cackled louder. Though that could have also been due to the fact that Ford had upped his tickling.

But speak of the devil and he shall appear, for the kids chose that moment to again make themselves known. Dipper attached himself to Ford’s back, shoving his hands into Ford’s armpits and clumsily tickling away. Mabel, on the other hand, launched herself into Stanley’s chest and started scribbling away at his stomach and sides.

Alright, Ford thought. The kids want a tickle fight? I’ll give them a tickle fight. And he dove back into the fray.

Needless to say, breakfast soon became brunch and the Shack was filled with laughter for a long time to come.

[fanfic-scribbles]

Smile

Fandom: MCU Captain America/Avengers

Summary: Bucky gives you some reasons to smile.

Quick facts: Romance – Bucky Barnes/Reader – Female Reader

Warnings: Fluff, puns, cheesy jokes, so cheesy

Words: 3344

A/N: I’m going to admit it upfront, about 40 percent of the time spent on this fic was spent on writing it. The other 60 percent was spent on finding the jokes. Also, this story is semi-inspired by the fact that my face is not nearly as expressive as it feels (I basically look like the polite cat meme when I really try and I can’t do it for long before my face hurts too much) so this goes out to other people who get accused of resting bitch/asshole face. And get written up for it. Anyway, please enjoy this goofy little Bucky/Reader get together.

  ~

‘How do you make a tissue dance?’

‘Put a little boogie in it.’

Bucky snorts and coughs when he accidentally breathes coffee instead of air. ‘That’s disgusting,’ he texts back but Sam just replies with an obnoxious smiling face. Bucky shakes his head and goes back to his coffee. It’s actually not so terrible today.

He doesn’t hang out in a dive, but this coffee shop is a type of quiet he almost never sees in the city. It’s too far from the tourism path for convenience and just outside the neighborhood purview where there are many other local (better) favorites. It’s clean enough and decently sized, but it’s decorated like it was supposed to be trendy ten years ago and the place is barely staffed, to match its perpetually nigh-empty interior. There was a short-lived attempt at hiring another person, but after a ridiculous amount of turnover the owners, or whoever, apparently cut their losses and the only constants that remain are Bucky, the lone customer, you, the person actually working the counter, and your manager.

You’re nice. You always speak kindly to Bucky and, when you think you can sneak it, upsize his cup without comment or charge. Also, one time when his glove broke and slipped off, you hadn’t even commented on the arm; you’d even helped him stop panicking enough to see it hadn’t gone far and helped secure it temporarily with a rubber band.

Your manager, meanwhile, is a dick who glares at Bucky and once made a snide comment about him leaning too close to the register, and only talks to you in demanding barks. Like now– but the five minute “hushed” conversation is winding down and soon it will be safe for Bucky to go get his refill.

“I’m writing you up,” the manager says.

You jerk back in shock. “For not smiling enough?”

“It’s what we got marked down for, it’s what’s going on your record,” he says, turns on his heel, and retreats into the back to do jack shit. Bucky glares at his back as he goes. His harsh expression turns to a milder frown when he looks at you, hunched over and staring at the counter with a dead expression on your face.

He looks at his phone, looks at his empty coffee cup, and makes a quick decision.

“Can I get a refill?” he asks when he’s in front of you, startling you out of your stagnant misery. You look up at Bucky and after a second force an unnatural smile on your face. He winces on your behalf.

“Of course,” you say softly, and turn to refill the cup.

When you hand it back to him Bucky shuffles, hesitates, but finally asks, “Why are colds bad criminals?”

You blink. “Uh…why?”

“Because they’re easy to catch.”

You blink again, and then let out a startled laugh. Bucky smiles slightly at the sound, and smiles more at the more natural, smaller turn of your lips as you say, “That’s…that’s a good one.”

“It’s pretty terrible.”

“All the best ones are,” you say, and the door chimes making Bucky break away. But as he watches you talk to the delivery man like normal he nods to himself. He leaves with his coffee to start the day and fires a quick text to Sam: ‘Where do you get your dumb jokes?’

~

The next day when the door chimes and you see your one regular customer, you let yourself smile a lot more naturally than you have been. Your face is starting to hurt and your boss is probably napping in the back, so you take the chance to relax.

“Hi,” you say. “The usual?”

“Please,” he says, polite as ever as he hands you exact change and you go to fix his cup. When you bring it back he asks, “What did the fish say when he swam into a wall?”

“What?”

“Dam.”

You giggle despite yourself. Bucky’s smile is small and guarded, but you haven’t had a moment yet where you haven’t been grateful to see it. Maybe this ‘smiling’ business is all it’s cracked up to be. If only it didn’t hurt your cheeks so much.

But as he tips his cup to you and goes to his favorite corner, you find you don’t mind the ache as much.

~

Every time he comes in now, he brings a new joke.

“What do you call a fake noodle?”

“An im-pasta.”

“What does a clock do when it’s hungry?”

“It goes back four seconds.”

“Why did the bike fall over?”

“It was two tired.”

The delivery is fairly flat but there’s always at least the hint of a smile and, you don’t know, it might be his absolute seriousness that sells it, because every one of them raises your spirits. You don’t know why he’s suddenly telling you jokes. For anyone else you might think they’re flirting, but you don’t get that impression here. He’s handsome, always looks put-together in quality clothes even if they seem picked for comfort over anything else, and even before this he has always been unfailingly polite. If he wants someone, he has to have someone just as lovely. Right?

You can’t help but think about it even after he comes back. And the wonderfully terrible jokes, thankfully, don’t stop.

“Why did the mushroom go to the party?”

You keep pouring the coffee while you ponder an answer. “I don’t know,” you decide and lift your head as you hand Bucky his drink.

The way he smiles is very fetching– not quite a smirk, it’s a little too unsure for that, but it tilts up to the side and gives him a boyish charm that would make anyone weak in the knees. “Because he was a fungi.”

It makes a smile big enough for you to feel, but considering how self-conscious you are now you quickly tell him, “I liked that.”

“I know,” he says. “You smiled.”

“You can tell?” Maybe you aren’t as bad off as you thought. Or maybe he’s just being nice. But he seems honest, and he nods decisively.

“I get not being the most…expressive.” He shrugs. “But anyone can still see it, if they look.”

The implication that he cares enough to look stuns you both to silence. He ducks his head shyly and lifts his coffee cup in thanks before retreating to his corner. When you finally have working vocal cords again you say, “Have a nice day.” It might be the first time you’ve ever really meant it.

~

“What’s the opposite of coffee?”

Bucky’s eyes widen and narrow in quick succession as he goes from surprise to contemplation. He weighs your question with all the dramatic seriousness you could hope for before he says, “I don’t know. What is the opposite of coffee?”

You grin when you say, “Sneezy.”

His smile is bright and he nods his head. “Not bad, not bad.” He leans on the counter, looking more relaxed than you’ve ever seen him. It’s…shockingly warming. You have to remind yourself not to get too close. He showed up out of the blue and he can be gone just as quickly. Just because he’s nice doesn’t mean he has any attachment here. In fact, you hope he doesn’t– you’d question his sanity otherwise. “Why did Mozart hate chickens?”

“I don’t know,” you say, eager to hear the answer.

“Because when he asked them for their favorite composer, they said, “Bach! Bach! Bach!’”

You laugh– that is, of course, when your supervisor pokes his head out of the back and scowls at you. He should be happy that you’re ‘smiling enough’ but you know full well anything you do is never going to be good. You freeze whatever expression is on your face as Bucky’s mood darkens and your heart sinks. “Enjoy your coffee,” you say, infusing meaning into every word. That ekes out a small imitation of a smile as Bucky raises his cup and goes to his seat.

Your supervisor starts to stalk over to you but you are saved by the sudden ringing of a phone, and he blessedly turns on his heel and goes to answer.

You sigh and start cleaning up the counter. Bucky is in his corner, hunched over and quiet as usual. He looks fine, but you feel bad for the interruption, even though you get the impression he understands. Still, this is one nice thing you’ve had in this otherwise miserable job and you’re not going to lose yet one more good person to your superior’s shitty attitude.

You push out a roll of receipt paper, scribble ‘Why did the espresso keep checking his watch?’ on it, and stick it in your apron. You walk over to wipe down an untouched table and, before heading back, make a little detour to drop it next to Bucky’s arm. He grabs the paper as you’re scooting away (plausible deniability in case your boss comes out) but it isn’t until you’re back behind the counter that you realize what that just looked like. Does he think you just dropped your number? He hasn’t opened it yet. Is he trying to figure out a way to let you down? You suddenly regret playing into this so much; he was just trying to be nice, he probably didn’t expect you to latch onto it so–

He opens the paper, reads it, and shoots you a little smirk. You breathe a sigh of relief and mindlessly wipe things down and rearrange well-organized creamers and straws until Bucky comes up for his customary pre-leaving refill. You’re a little disheartened it’s that time already, but it means you’re that much closer to the end of your shift, at least.

“Why?” Bucky asks quietly. It takes you a second before you remember the receipt paper and you surreptitiously check the back to see the door is closed.

“Because he was pressed for time,” you say quietly as you hand back his cup.

He chuckles. “I like it,” he says and takes a sip. “Thanks,” he adds as expected, but then he winks and you…you just stare at him as he leaves.

Should you have dropped your number?

~

A few days later, Bucky is caught off his guard and pays for it.

“What’s this?”

Bucky doesn’t get to his coffee cup fast enough and Sam snatches it and reads. “Sam,” Bucky grumbles but there it is, Sam’s eyes go wide and he turns that stare on Bucky. “Don’t look at me like that,” Bucky snaps and snatches his drink back.

“You’ve been using my jokes to hit on a dorky barista?” Sam asks and follows him across the room.

“I’ve been using jokes from the site you steal yours from to share with the nice woman who makes my coffee,” Bucky says and sits in a chair. He never stays for Sam’s group VA sessions and he should have left sooner, damn it. “I wouldn’t use yours. They’re gross.”

“Potentially inappropriate for a lady,” Sam says. Bucky opens his mouth to argue but, no, that’s exactly it, even though Sam’s tone implies something completely different from what Bucky would have said. “What’s her name?”

“Bucky?”

Steve has never been more of an actual hero to Bucky than he is right now. Right on time to walk back home with Bucky, Steve wanders in, sees the two of them, and stops. “Oh, should I…”

“Let’s g–” Bucky is immediately stopped by Sam’s hand on his shoulder.

“Bucky’s got his eyes on someone,” Sam says, immediately centering himself as Bucky’s most hated arch-nemesis.

…Okay, maybe not, but if Bucky didn’t have real problems he would be.

“I do not,” Bucky grumbles, because he knows it’s pointless and Steve is immediately sitting in front of them and leaning in like he’s the last girl at the sleepover.

“Really Buck? That’s great!” Steve says. “Have you…are you going to make a move?”

“No,” Bucky says and quickly runs down the situation, hoping that it will clear things up but knowing his friends too well. Indeed, Sam and Steve share smirks before looking at him again.

“You’re a real hero,” Sam says, only partly joking.

“I hate you,” Bucky says, ducking his head down. He doesn’t really blush anymore, if he ever did, but the motion is instinctive.

“You don’t.”

“I wish I did.”

Steve grins, as does Sam, and Bucky wants to duck into a hole. Goddamn mother hens, they’re going to want to–

“Should we come by?” Sam asks and leans back in his chair. “Be real wingmen?”

“No,” Bucky says, harsher than he means to. Sam and Steve don’t look bothered– they’ve weathered worse emotional snaps than that– but they wait for him to explain and Bucky doesn’t know if he can. Because what if this is leading to something? Is he ready for that? He thinks he might like you, but would he be okay putting in the effort of getting to know you? What if he can’t handle it? What if Steve and Sam walk in and they’re all you see? Both of them are plenty distracting, and charming, while Bucky can hardly put one foot in front of the other, some days. And what if this isn’t leading to anything, you’re just nice, and it’s nice, but Sam and Steve find out and look at him with all the pity they can muster?

“I just…want to see it through. On my own. Whatever this is.” ‘Or could be’ he leaves unspoken, because hoping for anything still feels like too much.

“Okay,” Sam says first, because of course he does, but Steve nods along quickly. It’s enough to make Bucky exhale deeply and relax muscles he didn’t know he had tensed. He rolls his eyes and stands up to cover for it.

“You’ll keep us updated though, right?” Sam asks, an easy grin on his face as he lounges in the chair.

“Like I’ll be able to avoid it,” Bucky mutters, finishes his drink, and lets Sam know they’re okay by throwing the empty cup at his head.

~

The fact that you’re running out of coffee-related jokes is stressing you out. You wanted to keep on theme but too many more days of this and you’ll be scouring the internet for whatever jokes Bucky hasn’t used yet. There are some coffee-related puns, but…the ones you like carry a romantic hint to them, and you were hoping to save those in case Bucky showed any interest. So far you haven’t picked up on anything, but you’re also very oblivious, and your roommate thinks you’re an idiot and he’s obviously into you.

But he might not be.

You do what you’ve been doing since your boss snarked at you about flirting on the clock and get Bucky’s cup ready with maybe your favorite joke.

‘How did the hipster burn his tongue?

He drank his coffee before it was cool.’

And smile proudly at it. Your small handwriting is getting better– Bucky barely has to squint at it this time, and he gives you a conspirator’s smile when he slides his twenty-dollar bill across the counter at you, with the neatest print writing along the margins.

‘What do you call an alligator detective?

An investi-gator.’

It’s cute and you snicker to yourself as you gather his change and place it gently in his gloved hand. He doesn’t retreat to his corner right away, though, and shuffles in place. “I was…I just wanted to say…” But then his eyes glance to your side and his face freezes in an unfortunately familiar way. “Thank you for the coffee,” he says woodenly and raises his cup just so.

“Of course. Have a nice day,” you say as robotically as possible and watch him go. Your supervisor clears his throat pointedly and you pretend like the place isn’t as clean as it was since the last time you went around. But now you’re thinking. About how awkward Bucky looked, and how he mentioned wanting to say something…maybe…maybe he is open. To you. Potentially.

Tomorrow, you decide with a thrill of nauseating adrenaline. Tomorrow you’re going to bring it up.

~

The next day you arrive at the shop at your usual time in the pre-dawn cold only to find an extra padlock on the door and a note in the window.

You stare, dumbfounded, and read the note. You read it again. And again.

‘Out of Business.’

But nobody called you.

You immediately grab your phone and dial your supervisor’s number. When he doesn’t pick up you call it again because this cannot be real. The job was shit but it was a job, and you knew what to expect, and you’ll never see Bucky again, will you?

It takes almost half an hour for the asshole to pick up– or maybe more, as the sun is starting to show up– and upon answering, he snaps, “What?!”

“What happened?” you ask, just as unkindly.

Your boss grumbles unintelligibly but you wait. “Did you see the sign?”

“I was working yesterday; no one mentioned anything about this.”

“Corporate called last night.” He yawns loudly. “I tried to call you.”

That’s a lie if you’ve ever heard one, but your tongue gets tripped up in anger and he says, “Sorry but there’s no room at the other branches for you, your last check is in the mail,” and hangs up.

You stand there for a while, trying to blink away tears at the sudden upheaval of your life. You should have found a replacement job while you had a chance. You should have asked your co-workers where they were going. You should have given Bucky your number.

You stand there for a little while, debating spending money you shouldn’t on a nice breakfast to wallow in, when the sound of footsteps coming up behind you makes you turn around.

“Oh, Bucky,” you say and rub your face. You think you’ve managed to hold it in, but it’s chilly and any exposed skin feels frozen.

“What’s going on?” he asks and peers around you at the note.

“Um…” You gesture uselessly. “Apparently this location is no longer in business. Just found out.”

Bucky’s jaw drops. “That asshole didn’t even call you?!”

The amount of anger on your behalf startles you. Startles both of you, actually, but just as he’s about to say something you laugh and say, “At least that asshole isn’t my problem anymore.” You sigh. You have savings, and the other job, and there’s always some other crappy job waiting for someone like you. But there’s something here that won’t be, and you pull out your phone and start typing. “Um…Bucky…there’s something I wanted to say to you. But it’s hard to say.”

“Okay?” he asks. You squeeze your eyes tight, brace yourself for impending rejection, and hold out your phone.

‘I like you a latte,’ followed by your phone number, hopefully gets the point across. After a few seconds your phone buzzes and you jump and bring it back, hoping no one texted you anything terrible while Bucky was staring at your phone.

It’s a new number, and the text reads, ‘It’s hard to espresso my feelings for you.’

You look up at him and he’s smiling, mouth parted slightly, and you start smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. But it’s okay. “I only had two more coffee jokes left before that line,” you confess and save his name to his number.

“Maybe you can tell them to me over breakfast? My treat,” he says and extends his arm.

You don’t even have to think about it. “Your treat this time,” you say, and link your arm with his. “In return, I’m going to show you where to get some good coffee.”

“Oh I don’t know,” he smirks at you. “The last place had its perks.”

Lacking a good comeback, you push your face into his shoulder to muffle your laughter. He leans into you, and doesn’t pull away even when you’ve gotten under control.

It’s the beginning of a brew-tiful relationship.

[lovelyirony]

"a single thread of gold/tied me to you" for ironhusbands?💛

If there is one thing that James Rhodes cannot stand, it is “love at first sight.” In his professional and personal opinion, there is no such thing. It is simply a concept that Disney invented so they could make cutesy stories about princesses finding their princes immediately and give people hope about love, but in the end it is all about the money. 

“You’re a cynic,” his sister Jeanie tells him over breakfast. She flings a stray Cheerio at him. “You are a cynic and you’re never gonna date someone because they’re going to think you suck.” 

“People are going to date me and realize that I’m a good, realistic choice,” James responds, sticking his tongue out and stealing a drink of her orange juice. “People are going to date you and you’ll be disappointed because you watched too many romantic movies and you let it taint reality.” 

“Loser.” 

“Dork.” 

And then he’s in college. 

Surprisingly, he doesn’t meet Tony Stark for two years despite the fact that every single year, they live in the same building on different floors. He has had to evacuate about twenty different times because Tony cannot stop himself from doing experiments in his room. 

The third year, James is an RA and required to live with one of the residents because of “experimental tendencies.” They don’t elaborate on why he’s stuck with a roommate, what the tendencies are, or who he is. 

“You’ll know,” comes the email from the coordinator, and he has never wanted to curse so badly in an email before, but here he is. 

But he’ll deal with it. Just like how he’s going to deal with everything this year. 

-

He thought he would get the room to himself for a little while before everyone moved in and brought everything and he would check them in. 

But no. 

There’s his roommate, lounging on a bed, and grinning. 

“Simply enlightening to meet you, James. They told me I could come back if I had a trusted roommate.” 

“And they stuck you with me?” 

“Well they were going to stick me with some dude who got the email, and then immediately transferred to Dartmouth. So I think you were the second option.” 

“Great.” 

He hates life, maybe just a little bit. 

Tony wants to do things. Which is fine, but he isn’t really in the mood to have the conversation of the fact that he can do things, but he doesn’t want to do them. He has to focus on being an RA and preparing for the Air Force. 

“Why prepare for that when you could be living?” Tony asks, lounging on Rhodey’s bed. 

Oh yeah, that’s new too. Rhodey. Apparently, “Jim,” “James,” and “Rhodes” were unacceptable nicknames. 

What is acceptable is Rhodey. And of course, the “honey bunches of oats” and “loveliest RA of all time in the history of MIT” and “sugar-puff” and “sweetness overload” 

He’s responding to all of them, by the way. 

Rhodey didn’t think his mental health would get this bad by the beginning. He had actually scheduled it to be around October. 

- 

And then the students come. There are nervous freshmen, the sophomores who don’t say anything as they move in and get settled, and the returning juniors and seniors greet Rhodey and Tony with familiarity and laugh about the posters that Rhodey’s worked hard on. 

“So, we’re having joint-RA’s or something?” Miles asks, throwing his comforter over his bed. 

“No, we’re not,” Rhodey says, hoping his expression is somewhere along the lines of not-showing-emotion. “Tony’s just...” 

“I’m simply too exhausting for Housing to deal with anymore, so I have a babysitter,” Tony says with a wink. “And who better than our lovely Rhodey?” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

“Sugar-puff?” 

“Still no.” 

Miles snorts. 

“This year should be good. Tony, you gonna pull any fire alarms this year?” 

“Rhodey has expressly banned experiments in the building, unfortunately,” Tony sighs. “It’s like he doesn’t want everyone to bond over having to leave at two in the morning...” 

“Nothing says bonding like hating a rude wake-up call,” Rhodey says, and Tony nods. “We’ll let you get all moved in, Miles. Remember that floor dinner is at six!” 

“You got it!” 

Rhodey gives Tony a look. 

“You know, I can do this on my own.” 

“Aw shutterbug, I’m not gonna let you.” 

“Are you really this intent on following me around?” 

“Well, what if I want to overtake your position next year? What if you tragically get a raging headache and it’s up to me to know what to do? What if your mother kidnaps you and never lets you come here again?” 

“I’m sure the college kids will be fine,” Rhodey stresses. “And I’ll still have access to email and the groupchat, genius.” 

Tony just laughs. 

“Alright, okay. I gotta go get some shit for my new class. The teacher sent out an email stating that the textbook is mandatory, and we have to do book work. This feels like eighth grade all over again.” 

Rhodey snorts. 

“Is it for Professor Casper?” 

“Yeah, did you have him?” 

“Yeah, you don’t need the book. You can find it online for free, and he never collects the book work. It’s a waste of time to get the book.” 

“You’re an angel-and-a-half, love of my life,” Tony says. “And for that, I’ll snag an extra pudding for you at the dining hall.” 

“Is it vanilla or chocolate this time?” 

“Chocolate with cookies in it.” 

“Oh my god, seriously? Already?” 

“Guess they must have had a jump,” Tony teases. “I’ll see you at dinner.” 

- 

Tony has a specific way of getting people to open up and actually talk with others that Rhodey envies. 

If Tony wasn’t so hellbent on convincing the group that if Miles and Kamala create a distraction, they could totally sneak out one of the pictures of the mascot. 

“We are not doing that the first week,” Rhodey says. “Maybe the last.” 

“It’s a beaver,” Tony whines. “Who’s gonna miss it, a Canadian?” 

“It’ll be the floor bonding activity,” Gwen says, finishing off her fifth (maybe sixth) slice of pizza. “Better than talking about your feelings about the campus or whatever.” 

“No.” 

“We’ll convince him soon,” Tony whispers conspiratorially. “Also, who here is a freshman? I have some advice regarding the math classes and which teacher you want...” 

- 

Rhodey does have to admit, that sometimes it’s easier to have Tony around, who is so willing to stay up until the late hours because of some stupid drama or to help Peter at his chemistry homework and also ease his anxiety about leaving his Aunt May all alone. 

Tony isn’t all wild and crazy as stories have led him up to be. 

"I wore out all my crazy freshman year after going to two frat parties and deciding that no one knew anything about how to have fun,” he declared. “I mean, come on. Why have beer pong when you could quiz people about obscure fashion facts?” 

Rhodey snorts. 

“Don’t make that the next game night. Hey, what do you think about having a movie night this Friday? I’m thinking something not scary, we’ve been doing a lot of those.” 

“It is October, what do you mean not scary?” 

“Some of our residents don’t like scary,” Rhodey reminds him. “Honestly, I think we could do with a bit of Halloween fun.” 

“Hocus Pocus? Double Double, Toil and Trouble? If you want to be slightly scared of old women and clown parties, I’d recommend it.” 

“You weren’t scared of clowns beforehand?” 

“Of course not, I wanted what they have; the ability to fit eighteen people in a car.” 

“Couldn’t you just gut the car?” 

“Not the same effect, honey-pie. Not the same effect.” 

Miles and Peter both end up lobbying for Hocus Pocus, with little to no competition other than a promise that the other choice would be shown later on in the semester. 

They’ve shoved all the chairs together and multiple people have brought out their own chairs, and Tony saves a seat for Rhodey under the premise of “Rhodey organized it, he gets a seat.” 

It’s a tough squeeze, and Tony and Rhodey get all tangled up together. 

Tony smells like expensive cologne and coffee, and he grins up at Rhodey and maybe the lights from the TV aren’t bright enough, but for a moment his heart skips a beat. 

Well. Shit. 

When he goes home for Thanksgiving break, Tony seems a bit...sad. 

“What, your mom cook the worst turkey in the world?” he jokes. 

"Sure,” Tony says, eyes unfocused. “Yeah.” 

"Dude, you okay?” 

“Yeah,” Tony says, turning. His smile brightens, eyes crinkling. “Why wouldn’t I be fine, buttercup?” 

Rhodey gives him a look. 

“I’m gonna call you when I get home, okay? You better answer.” 

“I always answer to you,” Tony says, and damn Rhodey’s mind shouldn’t be going where it is. 

Rhodey waves, gets in his car, and thinks about how Tony most likely has a problem on his mind, how he should probably not room with him, and his Aunt Ada’s green beans. 

God, he loves those green beans. 

- 

Tony is alone for Thanksgiving. Jarvis and Ana got an opportunity to visit Aunt Peggy in England, and he knew that they hadn’t seen her in two years. He didn’t want to be selfish, have them stay just for him. 

So, it looked like deli turkey sandwiches were in his future. If there’s still some soda in the fridge, maybe that too. 

He sighs, and turns towards the lab. Dum-E’s not even here, as he didn’t fit in the travel car, so Tony let him loose on the floor to “keep guard” over the dorms and make sure that no one broke in or stole the cords that he knows he accidentally left in the common room. 

The odd thing is, he had almost told Rhodey. Almost let him know that he’d be alone for Thanksgiving, but is that weird? That’s weird, right? To tell people your emotions just...it’s so messy. 

They have to deal with it, you have to deal with the fact that they’re dealing with it, and then other people know that you both are dealing with it and it’s just a whole mess of epic proportions, you know? 

-

Rhodey finds out on Thanksgiving, when they’re doing the parade on the TV and there’s a new snippet on the gossip channel when they go on commercial break. 

Howard and Maria Stark, vacationing off the Mediterranean Coast. 

“It’s reported that Tony Stark has preferred to spend his time in the vacation home,” the news reporter said, her smile wide and placid. 

“Tony’s lucky,” Mama says, wrapping golden yarn around her fingers as she works on another sweater. (A small one, a tiny one. It’s for the new baby in the family for Christmas.) “He tell you about it?” 

“He’s not there,” Rhodey says numbly. 

“He’s not?” Dad says, eyes raised over the newspaper. 

“No.” 

“He didn’t tell you, did he?” Dad asks. 

“No, no he didn’t.” 

“Well then. Next time he’ll come with us.” 

Rhodey nods. 

“Christmas?” 

“Clear it with his parents if they’re not spending time together.” 

“Got it.” 

- 

Rhodey’s Thanksgiving is...nice. He can’t stop thinking about Tony going alone. 

So he calls him. It’s two in the morning, he might be asleep, and Rhodey’s not sure if he got the “eight” in the last four digits right or not. 

“Howard’s out, who is it?” comes a sleep-addled voice. 

“Good thing I’m not looking for Howard, Tones.” 

“Rhodey? Why are you calling me?” Tony asks, and Rhodey can imagine his eyes lighting up and that’s...that’s something. 

“You spent Thanksgiving alone, I wanted to see how you were.” 

“Aw, checking in your residents?” 

“Checking in on you.” 

Tony stills for a moment at the phone. 

Besides Jarvis, no one had ever really checked in on him. 

“Um, I’m fine?” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah. I mean, it sucks to be alone on Thanksgiving, but I don’t really like any of the foods that people usually have, so I’ve been fine. I ordered wraps from my favorite place.” 

“Good to hear, good to hear.” 

There’s a silent pause for a moment, the one where they both try to find something to say. 

“Listen,” Rhodey says. “If you’re ever stuck for a holiday alone, you’re coming with me, okay?” 

“I don’t want to intrude on your family,” Tony says softly. 

“They all wanna meet you. Jeanie says she can kick your ass at ice hockey!” 

“You guys can actually play ice hockey?” 

“With limited degrees of success.” 

“Oh, now that I gotta see some time.”

- 

They come back to college, and Tony is back to his usual antics, greeting everyone who comes through the elevator with a shower of shredded paper. 

“Welcome to Winter Wonderland! Next stop: suffering through finals!” 

“Ugh,” Kamala groans, “stop it. Stop making me think. I have to memorize Byronic poetry. Do you know how boring that is?” 

"Speak for yourself, I have to build a wooden chair,” Riri whines. “Who works with wood these days? It’s so old-fashioned.” 

“Create the most bitching chair alive,” Tony says. “And I’ll help you with the necessary tools. Your professor isn’t expecting much, mainly just that it can support the weight of two people, you’ll be fine. Kam, Byronic poetry is not that bad, you will be good. We will bake cookies.” 

“Can we even bake cookies? I thought our floor got banned from kitchen usage,” Peter says. “Hey Rhodey.” 

“Hey kiddo,” Rhodey says. “First of all, yes we are banned from the kitchen. Second, we’re only banned and get in trouble so long as they know we’re there. And since more than half of us are nocturnal creatures and I am willing to wake up to help, we can bake cookies.” 

There are cheers around the room, and Tony mocks offense. 

“You don’t trust me to help the future youth?” 

“Given that we’re not allowed to rent out any more equipment from the front office? Yes.” 

“You wound me, darling.” 

“Only as much as kitchen equipment goes, sweetheart.” 

Tony grins. 

“Aw, you missed me.” 

“Yeah, I did. Now come on, you gotta help me with a billboard about the movie night this Friday. We thinking a romantic comedy or something mildly terrifying but probably won an award?” 

“Mildly terrifying!” Gwen calls from her dorm. “If we watch two people falling in love I’ll choke! We’ve been doing it all year!” 

“We’ve only watched, like, three rom-coms?” 

Gwen rolls her eyes, as if he’s missed something completely obvious. 

“You don’t get it. I’ll try again later. Hey, are we doing floor dinner tonight?” 

“They’re serving pizza sandwiches, so obviously,” Tony says. “We will feast like kings.” 

- 

Christmas is a festive time for Tony. He loves it, and goes overboard with decorations. Rhodey lets him, because you can’t stop Tony once he loves something (and Rhodey is kind of. Fond of him). 

Pepper comes up from the fifth floor, whistling. 

“Damn, Jim. I knew you would do a good job with decorations, but not this good. Is this...did you buy a miniature village? How was this budgeted?” 

“It wasn’t,” Rhodey says. “Tony’s really into Christmas and the floor convinced him that the theme should be Christmas Village. He’s been crafting identities for each villager instead of studying for any exam. The craft store employees know him by name now.” 

“Well, we all have our vices. You two seem to get along well. Housing is pleased that he hasn’t blown up anything yet.” 

“If they try to serve cheese ravioli again, he might.” 

“That’s a problem for Dining,” Pepper reminds him.  

“Still, it’s abominable. Where did they get them, bottom of the Hudson River?” 

She snorts, adjusting her shirt. 

“Probably, but hey. They still got eaten, even if that one freshman threw them all back up at the entrance.” 

“It was payback, they were vile.” 

Tony waltzes into the lobby, arms filled with glittering tinsel. 

“We are not letting you hang that,” Pepper says, gaping at it all. “Do you know how hard it is to get rid of tinsel?”

“We’ll manage!” Tony says. “Also, are you free at six-thirty?” 

“No, that’s when we’re getting dinner on my floor, what do you need?” 

“Just that little tidbit of knowledge,” Tony says, looking down at his phone. 

A message buzzes from the groupchat, and Rhodey glances at it: 

We are a go for the real Christmas tree. I have the vacuum, and a believable lie. Rhodey’s gonna tell us when the RA on duty is gonna come so we can hide it.��

Rhodey looks at Tony, grinning. He smiles right back. 

“Is there some weird roommate telekinesis I’m missing here?” Pepper asks. 

“Yes,” Rhodey says. “We’re discussing dinner plans.” 

Another text from Harley: 

I’m already picking one out with Peter. I have good taste. When is the ornament-making party? 

Pepper looks at them. 

“You’re planning something that I probably would have to disapprove of. I’ll tell people I got your floor watched tonight.” 

“Pepper, light of my life, my absolute sunshine? You’re the best,” Tony says, grinning. “Rhodey-darling, help me with tinsel?” 

He can’t say no. Simple as that. 

That is how tinsel gets strung throughout his hair as he’s watching Tony climb onto chairs that shouldn’t be climbed on to hang it from everywhere. 

“People deserve to have a good-looking Christmas,” he says. “Besides, I wanna win the decoration contest.” 

Rhodey laughs. 

“Okay, okay. I think we got it in the bag.” 

Later on in the week, Tony can be seen flitting about from room to room with help and jokes to lighten the mood. 

Rhodey has to admit, being an RA with Tony around is...nice. Better than he thought. 

And maybe he has feelings. He’s not going to say anything about it. After all, they’re roommates. He also isn’t allowed to have a relationship with anyone on the floor, regardless of anything. 

It doesn’t mean every RA follows it. God knows Sharon’s snuck down to the fourth floor to see Sam near-about every night, and her residents usually keep it a pretty good secret. 

Still. There’s also everything else to consider, and the fact that he doesn’t even know if Tony likes him like that. 

He doesn’t have to focus on it. 

- 

At least, not until the week of finals when he’s dying and Tony’s made him peppermint hot chocolate and sits on his bed, just about an inch away from his notes for his history class. 

“Do you remember what you told me on the phone?” Tony asks softly. 

“You up to compete against Jeanie for this year’s ice hockey championship?” Rhodey asks, smiling. 

Tension releases from Tony’s shoulders. 

“Only so long as you’ll have me.” 

“Always, genius. Always.” 

- 

After the last resident leaves for the holiday and Rhodey checks in with those who are staying, he and Tony hit the road, dragging suitcases behind them. 

“Are you sure I’m allowed?” Tony asks. “I can always find a hotel along the way...” 

“Mama wants to meet you, I keep telling them a ton about you,” Rhodey says, laughing. “They told me they want to hear your side of the great Glitter Debacle.” 

Tony laughs. 

“You mean the truth?” 

“Uh, I’m sorry, how are you going to convince them that green glitter was needed? And that you could clean it out of carpet?” 

“Determination and grit?” 

Rhodey laughs again as they pull onto the highway. 

- 

After a couple of hours, they make it to Rhodey’s home. His sister comes out, hugs for both. 

“Good to meet you Tony,” Jeanie says. “I’ve heard a lot, and I think we’re going to get along awesomely after I tell you every single embarrassing thing that Jim’s ever done.” 

“Only if I get to share stories too,” Tony teases, grinning. “Aw, they call you Jim?” 

“What do you call him?” Jeanie asks. 

“Jim-Jam, angel-dear, sugar-puff, Rhodey. You know, the usual.” 

Jeanie snorts, taking one of Rhodey’s bags. 

“Calling you the first one from now on.” 

“Tony did you have to let her hear any of those?” Rhodey asks, exasperated in a teasing manner. 

“Of course I did,” Tony sing-songed. “Now after you, I’m sure your mom is waiting to hug the living daylights out of you.” 

- 

It’s not until Rhodey gets all settled in and Tony is downstairs competing with his dad in a round of chess that Jeanie sits on his bed, the intention to annoy. 

But it’s...different. She looks at him. 

“You love him a lot, don’t you?” 

Rhodey stills. 

“You wouldn’t have told him he could come here if you didn’t.” 

“You’re right.” 

“I’m always right,” Jeanie says, flipping braids over her shoulder. “Nice of you to finally realize that I’m the smart one.” 

Rhodey doesn’t say anything as she saunters out of the room. 

He makes the decision not to tell Tony. 

If it goes wrong and if Tony says no, he doesn’t want it to be an awkward family event but more importantly, the most awkward rest of the year ever. He can say it as they’re moving out, and that’s that. 

He tells Jeanie as such. 

“I thought you didn’t believe in love,” she says as they’re preparing the soup for dinner.” 

“I don’t believe in love at first sight,” Rhodey says. “I do believe in love. There’s a difference.” 

There’s a hell of a difference. 

First sight, you don’t know everything. The second, third, fourth, fifth, and so on? Oh you learn so much more, and they become that more important. 

He learns that he doesn’t mind picking up tinsel, so long as Tony is laughing and singing along to all of the worst Christmas songs ever, and maybe. Just maybe he could picture looking at Tony underneath the fairy-lights that they hung in the dorm room for all time. 

Love is terrifyingly exhilarating, even when it isn’t supposed to be. 

Rhodey did not think his heart would race so much as Tony listened to his Mama talk about her wedding china, about the utter disaster that his father was. 

“He forgot his tie,” Mama said, smiling. “Oh my lord, my mother had a cow about that. I thought he looked kind of dashing.” 

Tony’s eyes drift towards the wedding pictures, which are slightly shaky, but everyone had such wide smiles. 

It’s a far cry from the publicity photos from the Stark wedding, Rhodey remembers the solemn expressions, the stuff tuxedos. 

“I love it,” Tony says softly. He looks at Rhodey across the table, setting down the final plate. “Tell me more, Mrs. Rhodes.” 

“Call me Mama, honey, Mrs. Rhodes is for people I don’t like that much. I think you’re gonna be my new favorite.” 

“Even over me?” Jeanie says, grinning as she kisses Dad on the cheek. “I’m your favorite.” 

“You’re my favorite until now,” Mama says. “Don’t think I don’t know that you skipped out on setting the table because Tony was here and graciously offered.” 

“It was nothing,” Tony says. “Just happy to help. Thank you for letting me stay at your home for the holidays.” 

“We’re always lucky to have guests,” Dad says, setting down the main dish. “Now let’s eat.” 

Family dinner is a brand new concept to Tony. He’s had maybe four or five of them, and the majority of which were staged for some holiday shoot or some “celebrating American values” shoot. 

It was awkward, weird, and he didn’t get why. 

Now, he does. Jeanie has been steadily moving mashed potatoes away from Rhodey’s plate, and Mama caught her eye and winked, distracting him with talk about his college major and news about the neighbors. 

Mr. Rhodes watches it all with a careful eye and a lax smile. 

After dinner, they play cards. 

It should be boring, but Jeanie puts on an old record and Rhodey keeps trying to count cards, and Tony didn’t think you could count cards in a game of Spoons. 

“You can’t, he’s just a try-hard,” Jeanie stage-whispers. 

“You-” 

Jeanie laughs, rolling herself out of Rhodey’s grasp as he chases her around the family room. Tony leans back into the couch, and shouts with surprise as Jeanie trips Rhodey into the couch. 

His body twists, and Rhodey’s facing him on the couch and they’re close and with the fire roaring in the fireplace and the Christmas lights outside shining through the windows, it’s almost magic. 

It is magic, but Rhodey is kind of terrified of that. 

Tony breathes in, breathes out. 

“Hello sugar-puff,” he says. 

“Hello genius,” Rhodey says, a smile on his face. 

Oh. 

The night does not get much sleep. 

Tony doesn’t sleep anyway, but Rhodey finds that quite often he can’t sleep without some softly-playing rock in the background, doesn’t matter if it is a highly-questionable AC/DC song. That and Tony softly murmuring about his plans, and it’s like a personalized lullaby. 

Rhodey cannot sleep. Tony’s in the guest room, and he can’t sleep. 

There’s a soft knock on his door. 

Tony’s there in shorts and a t-shirt that’s probably expensive, but he’ll never say if it is or not. 

“Can I...I can’t sleep.” 

“Get in here, Tones. I can’t sleep either.” 

The bed is a tight squeeze, but they make it work. 

Rhodey whispers until he drifts off to sleep about Christmas and school and everything else. 

Tony watches with quiet eyes, interjecting with his own stories occasionally. 

They fall asleep tangled up together, and Rhodey doesn’t mind it one bit, not as he pulls Tony in closer. 

-

Waking up is bittersweet, honestly. Rhodey has Tony in his arms, and that’s...that’s perfect. He thinks this is going to be the best thing that’s ever happened in his lifetime. 

“It’s too early, darling,” Tony groans. The light from outside is already peeking through the blinds, and he has stuffed his head right back into a pillow. 

“Jeanie’ll be here soon to bother us for Christmas breakfast,” Rhodey says. “And unless you want her pouncing on the bed and landing on wrong everything, we better get down there.” 

Tony smiles sleepily, stretching. 

“Thanks for letting me sleep in your room, honey-bunch.” 

“No problem,” Rhodey said. “Missed the constant AC/DC and late-night discussions about robotics.” 

“Not like I did much talking, Mr. Sap,” Tony teased. “Or was it me who mentioned that they had a favorite plate for dinner?” 

“Listen, it’s superior and you did not once interrupt that story to complain. I think I did a great job explaining it.” 

Tony laughs. 

“I’m gonna go get dressed, okay?” 

“Not until after present unwrapping,” Rhodey says. “We stay in pajamas.” 

“I’m cold,” Tony whines. 

Rhodey chucks his sweatshirt at him. 

“Then here you go.” 

Tony’s eyes light up as he shrugs it on, wiggling as he brings it up to his nose. It shouldn’t be that cute. But it is. 

“You are the light of my life.” 

Rhodey laughs, rolling his eyes. 

“Maybe. Now come on.” 

They head downstairs together, and they both get swept up into the speed of things, with Jeanie racing around the house and telling Tony that he got treats too, they just didn’t have a back-up stocking. 

“Hush,” Mr. Rhodes says, handing Tony a carefully wrapped gift. “After breakfast, we’ll go ahead and open it.” 

He smiles, and Rhodey thinks it’s the best thing he’ll ever see. 

- 

Christmas gifts, Rhodey thinks, are his new favorite thing to see Tony interact with. 

It’s painfully obvious that he’s never really had any personal gifts, anything that reminds people of himself. He carefully unwraps the paper, careful not to rip it. 

“You nerd,” Rhodey says, grinning. “Come on, show us what you got.” 

Tony laughs as he opens a box with two coffee mugs from the rest of the family, emblazoned with “Rhodes” on one cup, and the other being a simple red with gold trim. 

“They’re perfect,” he says. “Thank you so much.” 

“You’re feeding his coffee addiction,” Rhodey answers. 

“Like you aren’t doing the same,” Jeanie teases. “You made him his cups of coffee this morning.” 

“That is because I have trained him well,” Tony says, grinning. “Rhodey, here’s my present to you, open it.” 

He’s nervous. 

Both of them are, but Tony especially so. 

He told Rhodey once that he’s not good at shopping for other people. He tends to have the phrase “go big or go home” permanently circling in his mind, and it can lead to...complications. 

(Rhodey remembers the overhaul of his closet for his birthday, complete with a visit from a rather well-known designer.) 

Inside is a beautiful jacket. It’s all patchwork, artfully sewn together with embroidery thread spelling out “James” at the lapel. 

“I commissioned Janet,” Tony says, smiling softly. “She wants you to still walk in her fashion show, by the way. Says you’re a model.” 

Rhodey snorts, shrugging on the jacket. 

“You helped with this, right?” Rhodey says. “I can see it in the gold thread you got on the sleeves.” 

“I may have had some creative input.” 

“I love it,” Rhodey says. “Now here’s mine.” 

Tony breathes, and Rhodey wonders if this gift will be enough. He feels a bit stupid, it doesn’t seem like that great of a gift, in retrospect- 

It’s a puzzle. 

A puzzle of their favorite cafe and restaurant to go to at MIT. It was in a shop window, and Rhodey could tell that Tony would love it. 

On top is a scarf, since Tony gave away his last one to another student in their philosophy class. 

“I love it,” Tony breathes, tackling Rhodey in a hug. “I love it, I love it! We have to do the puzzle after this.” 

Mrs. Rhodes sends her husband a look. 

Yeah, Tony would be around for a long time. 

- 

They set up the puzzle on the floor of Rhodey’s room, clearing away any luggage. It’s silent for a while, Tony moving around the pieces and Rhodey looking for edge pieces. 

They work closely together, side by side. 

Rhodey can’t stop staring. 

He should be able to. He’s stopped himself before, but now? 

Sunlight is coming in through the window, playing around Tony’s fingers as he nimbly picks up puzzle pieces, and this is the eternity that Rhodey wants so badly. If he died right now, he thinks he would choose for Heaven to look like this. 

“You okay?” Tony asks, eyes looking up. He took his contacts out, and now he’s just in his tortoiseshell glasses, the ones that he secretly likes more and Rhodey loves. 

“I’m in love with you,” Rhodey blurts out, because he can’t stop thinking about how beautiful Tony is and how much he loves him. 

He realizes that this could very well be considered a mistake. Because they still have to live together and drive back together and it won’t be the same, and the residents will notice no matter how well they both act--

Tony pops his head right under Rhodey’s chin. 

“Kiss me?” 

That’s all it takes. 

They mess up part of the puzzle, but that’s okay. They find they don’t mind it too much. They can work on it later, when Tony’s done getting Rhodey out of his new jacket and Rhodey works his hands underneath Tony’s sweatshirt. 

-

Mama takes one look at them for dinner and grins. 

“Jeanie, you owe me a night of dish-washing.” 

“Seriously?” 

“Mama!” Rhodey hisses, embarrassed beyond belief. 

Tony just cackles, and elbows Rhodey out of the way so he can get to his chair at the table. 

“Couldn’t have fooled you for a second, could we?” Tony teases. 

“Not at all,” Mama states proudly. 

Rhodey rolls his eyes and squeezes Tony’s hand under the table. All will be well. 

- 

When they both get back to college, none of their residents are surprised, at least not until they have to have a “knocking before entering” policy put in place after one particular late morning. 

[dontmindmyshadowhunting]

Do I see you? (Fan Fiction on Kit & Ty’s reunion)

All Chapters of my Fan Fiction on Kit and Ty’s reunion below.

You can scroll down or read it here (I have added a bonus chapter 10 on AO3 - link below): 

AO3 Link - Do I see you?

By kibi_writes

Kit Herondale, descendant of the First Heir and as such, legitimate heir to the throne of both Seelie and Unseelie Courts, is hunted down by both the Cohort and Faeries. He has now taken refuge at the New York Institute, close to the Consul and to the only other Herondale he knows. The Scholomance has answered the Clave’s call and decided to assign three of their First Company Centurions to Kit’s security. One of them is Tiberius Blackthorn, whom Kit hasn’t been in contact with since he last saw him, three years ago.

The events take place three years after the Dark Artifices. Characters based on Cassandra Clare’s, save for those I have created for the plot.

Chapter 1 - An unexpected guest

The New York Institute’s dining room was crowded with strangers. Well, mostly strangers.

Alexander Lightwood-Bane, Consul, was at the head of the table and Jace was behind him, leaning against the wall, playing with a knife clutched in his left hand, the only sign of stress betraying his casual stance.

There were other familiar faces: Clary Fairchild, co-head of the NY Institute, Mark Blackthorn and Cristina Rosales, as representatives of the Downworlder-Shadowhunter Alliance, Jem and Tessa who had brought Kit here. Max and Rafael were playing with little Mina in another room.

Kit looked at the grim faces around the table. It was like being at a Shadowhunter funeral. There was even a Silent Brother present. The image of a dark-haired boy dressed in white flashed in his mind then, and Kit immediately shoved it away and directed his focus on the ongoing conversation.

“…So, we all agree,” said a tall pinch-faced man with a faint accent. It seemed to be French. “Now that both the Cohort and Faeries know of his existence, and where he has been hiding the past few years, the First Heir’s descendant is in danger. Until we find out how to deal with these threats, his security is the matter of the Clave.”

Kit loved it when people were talking about him in the third person as if he weren’t there.

As explained earlier, we can keep him in the Silent City, but only temporarily, said the Silent Brother in the attendees’ minds.

Kit made a silent prayer. No, please no. Anywhere but the Silent City.

“The Scholomance will answer the Clave’s call,” said the French man. Probably the new person in charge of the Scholomance, Kit guessed. He had heard he was French. He seemed young though - in his late twenties or early thirties - for such a responsibility. “We will assign three of our First Company’s Centurions to Christopher Herondale’s security”.

“Thank you, Maximilien. We are most grateful-” started Alec.

“We will need to perform background checks first,” Jace interrupted. “I hope you understand.”

Maximilien Verlac’s eyes – Kit had just remembered his last name – showed a flash of anger, quickly smoothed over. “Certainly, although I am pretty sure you can be spared a background check on at least one of them.” He looked directly at Mark then. “You see, I was planning on assigning your brother to the task.”

Kit froze.

“Tiberius Blackthorn?” it was Jem who spoke. He glanced at Kit then, so quickly most people must not have seen it. “We are quite close to the Blackthorns. Would it not be preferable to entrust only people who are… unknown to us, with such mission?” Kit knew what Jem was trying to do. Protect his feelings. He felt both ashamed and grateful.

“I thought you would want our A-Team to be assigned to your boy’s security,” said Maximilien Verlac, raising one of his thick eyebrows. “Tiberius Blackthorn is one of our best Centurions, and it would be a shame to be deprived of his razor-sharp mind. I am afraid without him, we cannot assure you that you have the very best the Scholomance has to offer.”

The rest of the conversation melted into a blur. Voices raised, people stood, fingers pointed. But Kit wasn’t hearing any of it. The only sound in his ear was that of his heart, beating hard in his chest.

Kit only realized the meeting was over when people started exiting the room. He was vaguely aware of Jem telling him with a strained voice that the three Centurions assigned to his security would arrive at the NY Institute that very evening. One of them was Tiberius Blackthorn. Kit stormed out of the room without a word, ran to the bedroom that had been assigned to him, and locked himself in. As if a lock could protect him from the ache that had started growing in his chest.

*****

The three Centurions came in through a Portal a little before twilight. They were led to the training room where Jace, co-head of the New York Institute, had been spending his afternoon.

Jace gracefully jumped from one of the rafters as soon as the door opened to reveal the newcomers. They seemed to be moving in a V formation, Tiberius Blackthorn standing in front, flanked by the two other Centurions.

Jace strode across the training room to meet them, his hand outstretched.

He had come across Tiberius Blackthorn several times in the past few years, not frequently, but enough to see him grow from a lean boy into a man. However, now that he was seeing him up close, Jace could not help but feel a jolt of surprise as he took in his delicate features, silver gray eyes under impossibly long eyelashes, cupid’s bow lips so red the shade could have been used for expensive make-up, his pale white skin a sharp contrast with his frame of black hair. Jace was not into boys, but he had to admit that Tiberius Blackthorn was strikingly handsome. In fact, one could say his beauty was… otherworldly.

He must have his pick of girls, Jace thought.

As he was shaking hands with Tiberius and glancing at the two other Centurions watching him expectantly, he said “Welcome to the New York Institute, Centurions. Kit is training right now, maybe we could make the introductions later; not that you, Ty, need to be introduced. I can show you to your rooms, so you can start unpacking-”

Jace started to move forward, only to realize that Tiberius had not been listening to him at all. He stood motionless, staring at something across the room, his gray eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. His face, which had been pale white a minute ago, had turned a deep shade of crimson.

Jace followed his stare to a corner of the training room where Kit was doing crunches, his abdominal muscles showing where his shirt lifted. Admittedly, Kit had changed a lot since the first time Jace had met him. To say he had grown into his looks was an understatement.

Kit’s body was tanned, all broad shoulders, narrow hips, and sharply defined muscles. His blond hair and white shirt were drenched in sweat. Kit seemed to be absorbed in his own world, eyes closed, headphones on, loud music blasting in his ears.

Jace revisited his earlier statement. Boys, then. Tiberius Blackthorn must have his pick of boys.

“Tiberius?” Jace insisted. When he failed to receive an answer, he tried in a more commanding voice, “Centurion?”

Tiberius snapped out of his daze, then, and straightened his back, as if in a military drill. He turned and led the way out of the training room, his two guard dogs following in his footsteps.

Jace sighed. He had the feeling the situation was about to get even more complicated.

 Chapter 2 - A sense of déjà-vu

Kit had disappeared into his bedroom after training, to shower and dress for dinner. He tried five different shirts, before settling for the first one. He kept pacing, cursing, until he gathered up the courage to walk out of his hiding place.

When he finally came in the Institute’s dining room, Kit realized that he had no reason to be nervous after all. Ty was nowhere to be seen. There were two Centurions though, sitting at the table, with their backs very straight, as if a cord were pulling them upward. Was that part of the training at the Scholomance? Kit wondered.

One of them introduced himself as Anush Joshi. He was tall and dark haired, and had a friendly face, Kit thought.

The other was a girl, with white-blond hair. Kerstin Lindquist. She had apparently grown up at the Stockholm Institute. She was very pretty and looked more like a Barbie doll than a Shadowhunter. But Kit had learnt that, where Shadowhunters were concerned, looks could be deceiving. Deadly so.

They were both wearing casual clothes, rather than their Centurions’ uniforms, and that helped Kit warm up to them. So far, his encounters with Centurions had not been the friendliest. That was an understatement. He could only count one of them he actually liked. Well, “liked” was a big word. Diego Rosales, who was now the Inquisitor.

They made polite conversation with Simon and Isabelle, who had joined them. Clary and Jace were apparently caught up in Institute business.

“So, any juicy news from the Scholomance?” asked Isabelle, as they were having dessert.

Kit saw Anush and Kerstin exchange an uneasy glance.

“Not much fun, actually,” said Anush, closing the subject.

“Is Tiberius getting along well with everyone? I know Maximilien Verlac holds him in high esteem.”

“He is the best of us,” Anush said simply. “He actually makes us all look like sword-wielding idiots.” Kit could not help but notice the fondness in Anush’s tone as he was speaking of Ty.

“Yes, but what about friends?” enquired Simon.

“He has friends. We are his friends,” said Kerstin defensively. “But he does keep to himself most of the time. Himself and Irene of course.”

Irene? Kit felt his heart squeezing into his chest. Blood pounded in his ears, a mixture of dread and rage.

“Oh, I heard about Irene,” said Isabelle, her eyes glittering. “She’s a Carpathian Lynx right? Catarina Loss told me all about her. Where is she now?”

Kit felt relief wash over him. He hoped no one had noticed his emotional rollercoaster. Wait- Tiberius had a Lynx?

“Yes, well, Catarina Loss is the one taking care of her, while Tiberius is away,” said Anush.

“So, I guess he doesn’t have a girlfriend” Isabelle pursued. Kit murmured a silent thanks to Isabelle and tried very much to look uninterested.

“Well, he is definitely popular with the female crowd,” said Kerstin. “Although he is gentle and kind, he is as difficult to approach as a wild animal. And girls do love a challenge. Better yet, a mystery. Of course, being drop-dead gorgeous is certainly a bonus. But he is not interested.”

“What do you mean, he is not interested?”

“Girls – even boys – gathered the courage to ask him out, but he never said yes to any of them. Well, from what I’ve heard. Tiberius is a gentleman and doesn’t talk about those things. Anyway, it seems that after a while, people stopped trying. Some even started calling him “the marble statue”. Beautiful as a Greek god, but cold, emotionless” Kerstin sounded angry. “Rejection and jealousy make people spiteful”. Kit decided he was growing to like that Kerstin girl.

“Of course, people who actually know him, know that this could not be farther from the truth” said Anush. Kerstin nodded vigorously. Kit felt a twinge. How well did they know Ty? Well enough, it seemed. Was any of them secretly dating him? Was that the reason they were uneasy earlier?

“Talking about Ty, will he not be joining us?” asked Simon.

“Sometimes he gets engrossed in work. Skips dinner. I will bring him food later”. It was Anush who had spoken.

“I’ll do it” said Kit, speaking for the first time in a while, before he could stop himself.

Everyone at the table turned to look at him. So much for being inconspicuous.

They all started heading to their rooms a few minutes later and Kit exchanged briefly with Simon to know which bedroom had been assigned to Ty.

 *****

Kit tried to ignore his growing excitement and the hard beating in his chest as he hurried down the scarcely lit corridors of the Institute. He was just turning around a corner when he collided with a tall figure. They both stumbled on the floor, Kit landing on top of the stranger. Kit lifted himself on his elbows to look at his victim. His heart skipped a beat when he recognized who it was, even in the darkness. Not a stranger at all.

“Kit,” said the not-stranger.

“Ty.”

Kit moved then but did not stand. Instead, he kneeled so that he was sitting directly on Ty’s chest.

“Does this feel like déjà-vu to you?” Kit was relieved and surprised he had managed to sound calm and casual. That’s it. Get it together. Stay cool. He flashed his best smile. “Although, it seems, the tables have turned.”

Despite the dimness, Kit could not miss the two perfect V shaped eyebrows raising as Ty answered. “If so, I make a poor criminal. I didn’t even have time to fill a backpack with stolen goods before I got caught.”

Kit’s smile grew even wider. When had Ty learnt to respond to jokes? To make jokes?

“Didn’t you? Is that a stolen knife you are carrying or are you just really happy to see me?”

A look of confusion crossed Ty’s face. Well, maybe not all jokes.

Kit stood up, lending a hand to Ty, who gratefully accepted it. As their hands touched, Kit felt a little fire igniting in his body. Well not that little. And it was spreading. Stop. Stop it now. Stay calm. Stay cool. You’ve got this.

“So, I was actually looking for you. As you did not join us for dinner, I wanted to bring dinner to you. Your friend Anush told me sometimes you skipped meals. But not on my watch. The Angel forbid my bodyguards pass out on me, when I am in such grave danger” said Kit, in what he hoped was a conversational tone.

They were both standing now, facing each other. Although Kit had grown several inches in the past years, Ty was still taller than him. Kit cursed silently. Would he ever stop growing? If Julian was any indicator though, Ty’s height was not a surprise. He was leaner than Julian, though not as lean as he used to be, his muscles had developed, and his shoulders were broader and… Kit was grateful for the cover of darkness while he was making this assessment.

Speaking of which, Ty’s gaze seemed to be moving over Kit, mainly focusing on his hands, searching for something? That’s when it struck Kit. Food. He had just announced to Ty that he had brought him dinner. Kit wanted to smack himself. What kind of idiot finds a lame excuse to go see the guy he has a crush on and actually shows up without the excuse.

“You can see I have no food on me,” said Kit before he could take it back. Kit wanted to smack himself. Again.

Ty just smiled. “I can see that you brought the dinner I was going to eat before you came to see me.”

“Says the criminal without the booty”.

“Order out?”

“I have a better idea,” said Kit. No need to tell Ty he already had dinner. He could eat twice. He needed the fuel. Right?

Chapter 3 - Herondales love but once

They settled for an Italian restaurant, a short ten minutes’ walk from the Institute, since Ty didn’t want to wander too far in case something happened. However, he seemed to think they were safe going out that evening, as if he knew something Kit didn’t. Kit decided not to investigate the matter. He trusted Ty knew what he was doing.

Kit mostly talked about his time in Devon, with Jem, Tessa and little Mina.

Ty told Kit about the Scholomance, his experiments with Livvy and Irene’s funny habits. He also gave Kit news on the Blackthorns.

“So… As I was told, you are considered quite the catch at the Scholomance,” said Kit eventually, when he could no longer hide his curiosity. “So much so that you keep turning girls... and boys, down.”

Ty stiffened.

“Apparently,” Kit carried on, “you are a mystery that begs to be solved.”

“I am not a mystery,” Ty shrugged. “I am just different. Nothing mysterious about that.”

“Does this mean you are not interested in having… relationships?” Kit tried very hard to sound casual.

“Christopher Herondale,” said Ty, with a small smile. “Are you asking me if I am interested in sex?”

Kit chocked on his drink. Ty waited until he had finished coughing.

“I am different,” he said. Then, turning his face away, “But not in that way.” Wait- was Ty blushing?

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. I was just wondering why you rejected all the offers you received. You know, when you could…”

“Satisfy my appetites?” Ty offered, raising one of his perfect eyebrows. “Is that what you are doing?”

“What do you mean?” Kit started.

“I have heard of your reputation, Kit Herondale, the heartbreaker. Collecting flirts, never looking for a serious relationship.”

“That’s not entirely true. Well, that last part is true, but I am not a heartbreaker. I never lead anyone on, never offer something I cannot give.”

“I am sure you don’t,” said Ty. And Kit knew he believed him.

“I simply cannot have a serious relationship,” explained Kit. “For two reasons. The first is that being who I am, it’s dangerous to be associated with me. If any of my enemies sensed that I was seriously involved with someone, they would use that person to get to me. And I can’t allow that.”

“So, you are sacrificing love for the safety of others?”

“Well… That leads us to the second reason. You know what they say about Herondales?”

“A lot is said about Herondales. What are you referring to?”

“Herondales love but once.”

“So, you are having fun, until you find the one,” said Ty. It sounded like a statement, not a question. His expression was unreadable.

I already have, thought Kit. Instead, he said “Let’s go, we don’t want the Clave to discover we are out here having a conversation about relationships, when I am being hunted down by half the Shadowhunters and Downworlders in New York”.

Ty could not argue with that. So, they paid and left. Outside, the sky was darkening with clouds.

Chapter 4 - The First Kiss

As Kit looked up at the sky, rain started pouring down his face. “I should have anticipated this. The sky was full of clouds”.

“Cloud,” said Ty. “One of the words you like.”

Kit turned to look at Ty, who was staring at his right shoulder. “You remember them?”

“Whisper, cloud, secret, highway, hurricane, mirror, castle, thorns”. Ty spoke them so fast Kit barely had time to register them.

In answer, he smiled and whispered, more slowly, “Glass, twin, apple, whisper, stars, crystal, shadow, lilt”.

Ty’s eyes lit up and crinkled at the corners the way they did when he was very surprised.

“I have new words I like, you know,” said Ty, after a moment.

“You do?” Kit was staring at Ty’s eyelashes. Drops of rain were captured there, like diamonds glittering on a dark curtain. His wet hair was plastered to his head, dark wet curls partly obscuring his forehead and cheeks. He was so beautiful it hurt.

“Love, two, kiss, kite, lips,” whispered Ty.

Kit’s eyes widened and immediately searched Ty’s, and that is when he realized that Ty's gaze was no longer directed at his shoulder, but at his lips…

*****

Kit made a move toward Ty, but Ty had already raised his hand, as if to stop him. In the same movement, Ty gently pressed his long, calloused fingers on Kit’s lips, tracing their shape, uncovering their smoothness. He was whispering softly, so low that Kit could not make out the words.

Ty’s other hand came up as well and he was staring at Kit in wonder as his fingers moved slowly across Kit’s face, caressing the line of his jaw, stroking his cheeks, smoothing his eyebrows, leaving a trail of heat everywhere their skin touched. Kit closed his eyes, as if it could slow the fire burning through his body.

Ty exhaled, as if relieved by Kit’s reaction to his touch. He brought both his hands on either side of Kit’s face then, gently cupping as he pressed his mouth to Kit’s jaw, not exactly kissing, but rather enjoying the experience of his lips against Kit’s skin.

“Ty,” murmured Kit, in a daze. He felt his knees buckling under him and gripped Ty’s shoulders to steady himself. Ty gasped in surprise and stepped back. Kit moved forward to tighten his grip and ended up pushing Ty against the wall.

They both froze, staring at each other.

Ty swallowed and whispered, “Did I- did I do something wrong?”

Kit laughed at that, shaking his head. “Ty- you know, you are the cleverest person I know, but sometimes I swear...”

He crossed the very small space left between them. Ty’s lips were still parted in surprise as Kit crushed his own lips against them, using the opening to taste Ty’s mouth with his tongue. Another gasp from Ty.  Kit barely had the time to silently curse himself for being so forward – this was their first kiss, he ought to do things more slowly – long, urgent fingers were already moving up his back, his shoulders, and down again, resting for a few seconds against his hips before going up again. It was as if Ty was drawing a pattern, butterfly’s wings, on Kit’s back.  Gentle at first, his strokes became more and more demanding, until Ty’s hands slipped under Kit’s shirt and nails were digging into flesh. Ty seemed to be lost in the need to touch Kit, every part of Kit, as if his life depended on it. Well, if Ty was not being careful, why should he restrain himself?

Kit met Ty’s eagerness with his own, and it quickly became a chaos of tongues, bites, desperate touches. Kit could taste rain, metal, and musk, as his mouth continued to explore Ty’s – or devour would be more accurate. It was as if they were naked, skin against skin, through their water-soaked clothes. In that moment, Kit’s experience and Ty’s lack thereof did not matter. Neither of them could identify who was doing what, as they entangled their limbs and melted their bodies under the pouring rain.

Chapter 5 - When all hell breaks loose

Kit and Ty hurried back to the Institute, soaked to the bone. They slipped into Kit’s bedroom, as it was the closest to the entrance.

Kit kicked his shoes off and started to undress, lifting his shirt, then paused, looking over at Ty as he realized he was not alone in his room.

Ty caught Kit’s gaze then and locked it. Slowly, deliberately, he started to undress, taking his time with each piece of wet clothing, until he was standing naked in front of Kit, save from his boxer shorts. Two chains were tied around his neck. One with Livvy’s locket and the other one with a silver, heron-shaped pendant. A gift from Kit.

Kit felt his whole body catch fire as his gaze roamed over Ty’s body. He literally took his breath away.

Marble statue, you say? In that moment, Ty looked anything but. He was disheveled, his cheeks flushed, his eyes wide and questioning and his breath quickening.

But he was standing still, making no move toward Kit, leaving Kit to decide what happened next.

Kit swallowed hard. He removed his shirt then and threw it on the floor. Once he had decided on his course of action, he could not get fast enough to Ty. They collided, stumbled, and fell on the bed, Kit landing on top of Ty.

Kit cursed as he tried to undo the zipper on his jeans. “It’s stuck”, he said.

“Wait let me help- Oosh” Ty was cut short as Kit, still struggling with his zipper, inadvertently elbowed him.

“By the Angel, Kit, no need to knock me out. I am willing!”

“Didn’t you know? it’s payback time.”

They burst out laughing then, but it was not long before the sound of Ty’s laughter did things to Kit’s insides, that made him instantly turn serious.

As Kit started kissing his way down Ty’s body, all his senses attuned to him and only him. The scent of Ty, the sound of Ty’s raspy moans, the feel of Ty’s soft skin over taut muscles as he traced circles with his tongue around Ty’s navel.

Kit felt exhilarated. He could not believe this was happening, that he was finally touching Ty the way he had always wanted to and that Ty was not only fine with it, he was begging for it.

As Kit started stroking Ty’s hardness through the material of his shorts, Ty started shaking, his breath coming in short gasps.

“Kit” he chocked. “By the Angel, Kit- What are you doing to me?”

His voice was rich and deep, with a rasp that reminded Kit of the first time he had heard Ty’s voice. It fueled Kit’s own arousal.

“Beautiful” said Kit, as he remembered, the sound muffled as his lips moved against Ty’s skin. I love you Ty, I love you so much.

Kit froze. He had not said it out loud. But it was as if he had been brought back to Lake Lyn, to that moment when his heart had been ripped apart. The evening spent with Ty had brought pieces of Kit’s heart back together, each of Ty’s smiles acting like so many stitches.

But if his heart were healed, if it became whole again, did that not mean it could break again? And if It broke again, could Kit survive it?

Kit scrambled out of the bed and nearly tripped on his own feet. Such a graceful escape for a Shadowhunter, he thought.

He looked at Ty then, who was sitting up, clearly confused, his hair tangled, and his cheeks flushed. The white blanket was barely covering his body. Kit blushed as he looked away and swallowed hard. “I think we should stop here. For now.”

Ty got out of bed. His hands were shaking as he gathered his wet clothes, which were scattered over the floor. His head was bent, so Kit could not see the expression on his face. “I am sorry. I must have misunderstood.”

“No, you have not!” Kit almost yelled.  “I wanted this. I wanted you. I want you.” I want you more than I have ever wanted anything in my whole life, was what Kit thought but did not say.

“So, help me understand.” Ty had already put his wet jeans on. Kit exhaled, his sigh a mix of relief and regret. “You say you want me, but I was lying naked in your bed and you were touching me, making me feel things that I never…” Ty swallowed. “And then you stopped. You just stopped and jumped off the bed as if you couldn’t get away from me fast enough. Is this- is this a game to you?”

“No, of course not!” Kit took a deep breath. “I want to press pause for a moment. And rewind. I want us to spend time together, to go on dates, to get to know each other, before- “

“Get to know each other? As if we are strangers? Is that what you think?” Ty’s eyes were huge. Shock. Disappointment. Well, Kit couldn’t help but be disappointed as well. Ty was fully dressed now.

“I think – it’s been three years since we’ve last seen each other, and we may have changed, I know I have changed, and it would be best if we got to-“

“I. Know. You.” Ty enunciated each word. “I know you, Kit. And I thought you knew me too”, he whispered. His voice sounded tired. Defeated. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists. Kit almost wanted to give him something to grab hold of.

“I do know you…” Kit pleaded, realizing with horror how wrong his explanation had come out. How it might have been construed. As if what they had had three years ago could be wiped away, could be forgotten. It could not. Kit had tried to forget and then stopped trying as he had realized how precious it was. Sacred. Neither time, nor distance, nor life, nor death could touch it. What they had shared, what they used to have, was perfect. Up until Kit ruined everything by confessing his feelings.

Of course, he knew Ty. He knew all of him and loved all of him. He just wanted Ty to know him. The new him. Maybe if Ty took the time to learn to know the new Kit, he could fall in love with him. As Kit was in love with Ty.

“I just want you to know me, too. The new me.” He tried to explain but felt like he was failing.

“You were right” said Ty, after a moment. His hands had stopped moving and were clutched into fists. “You don’t know me. You don’t know me if you thought I was about to give myself to someone I considered a stranger.”

He went to the door and paused. “You are doing it again, you know? You can’t just make your way into my life, become part of who I am, and just leave without a look back. Without a single word. Leaving a mess that I am expected to figure out on my own.”

And with that, Ty stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Kit crumpled to the floor. For hours, he sat there, his bare back against the wall, wondering how the best day of his life and the worst turned out to be the exact same day.

Chapter 6 - Thank God for Livvy Blackthorn

Kit didn’t remember how, but he had somehow managed to crawl into his bed, sometime during the night, and had fallen asleep tossing restlessly.

When he woke up, the sun was high up in the sky, and its light shone on a familiar figure sitting on his bed, legs crossed. Kit blinked.

“Livvy.”

She wore the same white dress she had at her funeral and her Blackthorn blue-green eyes were staring at him with a pained expression. She looked exactly the same as she had the last time he had seen her.

“So. How bad did you screw things up this time?” she said.

“I didn’t just screw things up,” said Kit, sitting up. “I obliterated them. I am a wrecking ball.”

Livvy rolled her eyes. “So dramatic. You know, I never cared for soap opera when I was alive, and this has not changed with my untimely death. Thank the Angel.”

“So what should I do?” asked Kit.

“Listen to me, Kit. And I am telling you this as a fifteen-year-old ghost to an eighteen-year-old man. GROW. A. PAIR. Tell him about your feelings.”

“I already did!” Kit yelled desperately. “And… and he didn’t care. He didn’t care.”

“That doesn’t sound like Ty-Ty,” said Livvy dubiously. “When was that?”

“Three years ago. Near Lake Lyn. When we were… when we were raising you as a ghost.”

Livvy snorted. “So, my brother asked you to assist him in a resurrection ritual and you took that as a romantic date? Beats flowers and a fancy restaurant. Oh wait – where Dru is concerned – it probably does,” she added as an afterthought.

“It wasn’t like that!” cried Kit. “I knew what we were doing was wrong, and I tried to stop him and it just… came out.”

“Well, you certainly did” said Livvy.

“What?”

“Never mind. I have other things to do so please, Kit, can you do something for me and spare me hours of explaining how your confession of love – as grand and romantic as it must have been – probably sailed right over Ty’s head as he was, you know, BUSY RAISING HIS TWIN SISTER FROM THE DEAD.”

“Fine! I’ll figure this out on my own. Since you are so busy with… ghost stuff.”

“Don’t be rude. I have things to do. Ty and I are leaving in a short hour. A mission for the Scholomance.”

“WHAT? But I thought-“

“As important as you are, Kit, Centurions cannot simply abandon all their missions to play bodyguards for you. This is why three Centurions were assigned to your protection. Two of them will remain at the Institute, so you’ll be fine.”

Kit already felt Ty’s absence as a hole in his chest.

“How long?” he asked.

“Two or three days. Don’t worry, we’ll do as fast as we can. In the meantime, work this out. And Kit?”

“Yeah?”

“This was me being nice. Since it’s clear that you are not doing it on purpose. I know how much you love Ty.”

Kit flinched.

“But Kit- Don’t. You. Dare. Hurt. My Brother. Again.”

She looked like an avenging angel then, and her blue-green fiery gaze was the last thing Kit saw before she disappeared in the blink of an eye.

Chapter 7 - Let’s kick some Cohort ass

The two following days passed in a blur. Kit was returning to his bedroom after training one evening when he saw a package left on his bed. He opened it and emptied the content on his desk. There was a folded note and a necklace. Kit felt a jolt of uneasiness as he recognized instantly the whitish-green pendant with the Chinese characters carved into it. Even though he had only learnt a few Chinese words from Jem, and didn’t know how to read them, he knew exactly what the characters meant. When two people are at one in their inmost hearts, they shatter even the strength of iron or bronze.

It was the pendant Jem had offered Tessa over a hundred years ago, when he had proposed.

With a growing sense of dread, Kit opened the folded note and read. We hold someone you love. If you want to see her again, meet us at the following address. Alone. If you warn the Clave or anyone at the Institute, we will know. And what you’ll find there will be her dead body. The address printed at the bottom of the note seemed to be in a residential area, a 30 minutes’ walk from the Institute.

A flash of memories went through Kit’s head. Tessa smiling indulgently at him as he made yet another one of his bad jokes. Their banter about books and movies. Tessa carrying a giggling Mina and staring at Jem adoringly, as he was making faces to make them laugh. Tessa singing to Mina - loud enough for Kit to hear – the song his mother used to sing to him. Well, the mother who had given birth to him. Tessa was also his mother now.

When he snapped out of his daze, he was fully dressed in Shadowhunter gear. Thankfully, he always kept weapons in his room and was now heavily armed. He didn’t pause to think as he walked to the window and started escalading straight up to the Institute’s roof. He would not go through the corridors and risk being followed by someone at the Institute. He had noticed the way the Centurions sometimes seemed to suddenly appear out of thin air when he thought he was alone.

Perched on the Institute’s roof, he felt grateful for all the training Jace had put him through. He now knew that, as much as Jace could jump from unexpected, impossible heights, so could he. He had even trained to jump out of a Malachi configuration. Theoretically. Jace had smiled conspiratorially at the time, telling him it was a talent that could always prove useful.

He drew two runes, Heightened Speed and Surefooted, sparing a glance, as he always did, at the Voyance rune at the back of his right hand. He only paused to take one deep breath before jumping from the roof and landing gracefully on the ground. He murmured a silent thanks to Jace and almost wished his mentor were there for a high five.

He made it to the location in short time, although it seemed like hours to him.

He tried to circle around the meeting point, but it appeared empty. Just when he thought about doing another round, he heard laughter coming from an alley surrounded by two brick buildings. He peered his head. No one. He started as he heard a creaking noise behind him. Spinning toward the sound with his sword raised, he saw a familiar figure standing a few feet away.

It was one of the Centurions who had been assigned to his security. The Swedish blond girl, Kiersten Lindquist. She held a finger to her lips, hushing him, and slid silently next to him.

“It’s a trap,” she said low in his ear. “I have sent Anush back to the Institute for reinforcements. I’ll distract them and you run. Don’t – and I repeat – whatever you do, don’t let yourself get caught. It’s you they want. They will not hurt me if they are still looking for you. They would want to use me as bait.”

“But– Tessa…”

“She’s fine,” snapped Kiersten. Then, more gently, “please don’t mess up our plan.”

Wait– Kit thought, there was a plan?

Before he could ask, a dozen Shadowhunters – and it was plain they belonged to the Cohort - were circling them. They were calling themselves the Imperishable Order, now. Same shit, different name, thought Kit.

“Hey Barbie girl,” drawled one of the Cohort members. He looked very familiar. “We have no quarrel with you. We just want the Herondale Faerie-slut. Leave us be and we will not harm you.”

“Manuel. I see you haven’t changed,” said Kiersten calmly. “You’re still a disgrace to the Scholomance.” She drew her longsword and shouted, “NOW”.

Kit sprinted, knocking down two Cohort members on his way, disappeared around the corner of the nearest building and scrambled up its wall with a dexterity that would make both Jace and Jem proud. Up on the roof, he could see six Centurions had been dispatched to look for him. He glanced at the battle taking place beneath him and heard shouts as a newcomer joined the melee and incapacitated a Cohort member in a record time, before turning to fight two others. Kiersten was fighting two on her own.

Kit decided to check on the hunt party. Only two of them had decided to climb the stairs up to the top of the building, while the others were searching the area. Suddenly, he heard in a loud, clear voice, “STOP. STOP now, put your weapons down or I SWEAR TO GOD I will cut Barbie’s throat.”

He hurried back to stand at the edge of the roof, to assess the situation below.

Kit watched as the newcomer – a tall figure wearing a Centurion uniform – took a step forward and kneeled, laying his two blades on the floor. He raised both his hands as he stood. The moon lit his face. Kit gasped. Ty. No, no, no, Ty. I am so sorry.

Manuel strode to stand behind Ty, encircling him with his arms and lifting a knife to his throat. He was almost standing on tiptoe as Ty was taller than him, and it would have been comical if not for the dreadfulness of the whole situation.

A few feet away, facing them, another Cohort member had Kiersten in a headlock.

Kit had to force himself still. His hands were clutched into fists, his entire body trembling with the urge to fight. He kept repeating Kiersten’s words in his head. They will not hurt me if they are still looking for you. They would want to use me as bait.

“Well, well, look who we have here” said a woman’s voice and Kit recognized it at once. Zara Dearborn.

“Is this… Julian Blackthorn’s younger brother? The weird one? Well, whatever they say, he is hot as hell.”

Manuel laughed. “I figured you would say this, Zara. We all know you have wet dreams about Julian Blackthorn. No shame in that. You know what they say, keep your enemies closer and all that.”

Zara spluttered. “Seriously? You really want to talk about this? How about your crush on Emma Carstairs?” And in a mimicking voice, “Oooh Emma, you have such pretty blond hair and you’re such a badass, and you have this long, beautiful sword making up for my tiny, little…”

“Let’s make a truce,” said Manuel. “When we get back to Alicante, the Blackthorn Ken here will be all yours.”

“That’s actually a great idea. The look on Emma’s face when she finds out that her little brother-in-law and I…“

“I’m sorry, Zara, but this is not happening” said Ty, in a loud, clear voice, that didn’t betray a flicker of fear although he had a knife pointed at his throat. Kit felt a surge of pride. “No offense, but psycho bitches are not my type.”

Kit could see in the distance silhouettes running in their direction. He sighed in relief. Reinforcement was coming. He jumped from the roof and landed directly behind Zara, pointing his sword in her back in almost the same motion.

Several gasps of surprise.

“You think that jump was high? I can do it in my sleep,” said Kit, showing off.

He winked at Ty then, who was glancing his way, pride glittering in his eyes.

Kit knew he needed to stall until reinforcement arrived. Admittedly, the Cohort members were already doing most of the job.

“So… Manuel, I have to admit I am a bit jealous. You see, I have been fantasizing about holding Tiberius in the exact same position for years now.”

Ty, who had not betrayed a flicker of emotion until then, flushed a deep shade of red.

Manual smiled viciously. “Oh, I see. I guess all Faeries are queers.” And then, he spoke in Ty’s ear but loudly, so everyone could hear, “So, who’s the bitch?”

Ty didn’t answer but looked pointedly at Zara.

“Let me translate for you, freak. Do you hump him? Or does he hump you?”

“Come now, Manuel. This is the 21st Century. Keep up” said Kit, flashing his best smile. “We believe in equal opportunities.”

“OK guys, did I miss something? did we really run into Cohort members or some hormone-crazed teenagers posing as such?” it was Barbie – sorry, Kiersten – who had just spoken.  

No one answered as this was the moment when Jace appeared out of nowhere and knocked down the person who had her in a headlock with the flat of his sword.

Kit pushed Zara away, with such force that she ended up sprawling on the floor.

He instantly turned to where Ty was standing… looking down, his foot resting on top of Manuel’s body, which was writhing on the ground. Manuel was staring at his hands, his forearms, which were covered with red rashes and blisters, his face a mask of shock. A powder substance was eating away his knife, which had somehow landed a few feet away. 

Kit saw Ty put away a small vial filled with red-purple powder, with a satisfied look on his face.

All hell broke loose.

A fleeing Cohort member was swept off his feet as a whip circled around his foot and Isabelle, looking like a warrior goddess, pulled vigorously.

An arrow lodged itself in Zara’s thigh as she tried to stand up. Alec, standing a few feet away, had already pulled a new arrow. He looked… bored.

Kit knocked down another Cohort member using only his right hook. Because, well, he could.

In a few minutes, they had rounded up the wounded and tied their hands behind their backs.

The party that had been sent to search for Kit came back to an incongruous sight.

Zara, Manuel and the other Cohort members who had remained with the Centurions were now huddled together in the middle of a circle made by Anush, Kiersten, Ty and Isabelle, who was slashing at the air with her whip as to make a point to whoever thought they could chance an escape. Kit thought she looked like a hot school teacher scolding her very, very naughty pupils.

The search party turned around, making a run for it… only to be met by Jace. He was leaning casually against the side of the wall, his arms crossed.

“Hey, guys” he drawled. “Looking for something? Your dignity, maybe?”

One of the fleers launched himself at him, weapon raised, and Jace simply ducked out of the way as he drew his own sword.

Kit sensed a movement behind him, just as he was facing another one. Glancing backward, he saw that Ty had joined him to cover his back. He felt heat – the heat of the battle, the heat of Ty's body so close to his – as they fought back-to-back, four opponents at the same time.

Alec and Jace eventually joined them, and it was almost over before it had started.

The remaining Cohort members joined their friends in the circle where Kiersten, Anush and Isabelle had remained. Isabelle had put away her whip and was staring at her nails.

Clary finally swept in, gracefully, not a single hair out of place, and started drawing a portal.

“Sorry we are late” she said, standing next to Simon who was carrying large paper bags. “We had to stop to buy us dinner.”

Chapter 8 - What’s the point?

With the Cohort threat being mostly quashed, the following weeks passed uneventfully.

The Centurions remained at the New York Institute, as there were still other Cohort members and Faeries looking for Kit.

Kit and Ty never mentioned the fight they had had on the first day Ty had arrived at the Institute. Their friendship resumed; major events left unspoken.

It was as it had been before they had performed necromancy spells together. As if they had not raised Livvy’s ghost (except for the fact that they were seeing her every day). As if they had not lost all contact for three years. As if they had not kissed under the rain.

Kit still remembered though. How Ty’s lips had felt against his, the taste of his mouth. Rain, metal and musk. Kit could not forget the feel of Ty’s skin under his fingers, under his lips, the scent of him, the noises Ty made when he was aroused. He blushed, sometimes, thinking back to those intimate moments he had shared with Ty. And of course, there were the glances they cast at each other, the shiver of excitement when their hands accidently brushed, when they walked side by side and their shoulders touched.

Kit had started helping Ty with his missions for the Scholomance, and it was as if Sherlock had found Watson again.

“How many times do I have to repeat myself? I am not your Watson,” had said Kit one evening, when they were doing research on demons’ poisons in the Institute’s library.

Ty had smiled one of his rare smiles. “Well, Kit, that’s exactly what my Watson would say.” And Kit had blushed at the way Ty had naturally said “my Watson”.

Days went by, and everyone at the Institute carried on with their own routines.

This is probably why no one expected the events that occurred that evening.

Kit was returning to his bedroom after a late-night training session. He heard noise coming from the library. He stopped to peer inside, his brows furrowed, only to see Jace standing with his back to him. He thought he saw a flash of red hair.

“Jace?” called Kit.

Jace froze. When he slowly turned, Kit could see that he was carrying Clary in his arms. She looked fast asleep.

Kit felt an increasing uneasiness. Something was wrong. But this was Jace right? If there was anyone Jace would never, ever hurt, it was Clary.

“Jace? Rough night? I know Clary is probably light as feather but do you… need a hand?” asked Kit, unsure how to act.

As Jace said nothing, he took a step toward him.

Jace took a step back. Something was very wrong indeed.

“Stop! It’s not Jace!” yelled a voice that Kit instantly recognized.

Kit turned to where Ty stood, in the doorway, holding two daggers. His face was covered in scratches, his lips bruised, a deep red cut on his upper lip. He clearly had been into a fight.

“Not Jace from this world,” Ty continued. “It’s probably Jace from another world. That’s one of the few possible explanations at least.”

“How do you know?” asked Kit.

“Details” was all Ty said. And Kit believed him. If anyone – save for Clary, where Jace was concerned – could notice small inconsistencies, like in a game of Spot the Difference, it was Ty. Ty could see objectively, without the blurring curtain of expectations or preconceptions.

Jace – well, his evil doppelganger – stiffened. “Will you make me regret I didn’t kill you?”

“You didn’t give my friends that chance. They trusted you and you took them by surprise. Why spare me?” said Ty.

“I didn’t fool you” said the fake Jace. “I figured you probably knew Jace, the one from this world, very well. And I saw the heron-shaped pendant you carry around your neck. I thought this meant you had earnt the love – or at least the trust – of a Herondale. Sentimental me.”

“Leave Clary. And we will not hurt you,” said Kit, although he carried no weapon.

Jace laughed. He had moved to stand close to an open window and seemed ready to pounce. He would not try to jump with Clary in his arms, would he?

“You will not hurt me? The Jace from this world must be too soft, if you think you can bargain with me.”

In a swift movement, he had shifted Clary’s body in one of his arms and drawn out a sword.

It all happened in a blur. The sword flew. Ty launched himself in front of Kit and the blow hit him with such force that he was thrown back against Kit, who caught him in his arms. Kit crumpled to the floor, holding Ty.

Kit was filled with a dreadful sense of déjà-vu, as he looked at the knife protruding from Ty’s chest. He had not been there at the time, but he imagined that was what Livvy must have looked like in the Council Hall. He had imagined it, although he had tried not too, often enough. And he was probably in the exact same position Julian had been at the time.

Kit was barely aware of the sound of footsteps and shouts. People around him assessing the situation. It seemed the “other Jace” had somehow escaped. Without his prey. Clary was safe.

“No, Ty. No. Please don’t leave me.”

Kit was kneeling on the floor, carrying Ty’s limp body in his arms. He started rocking.

“What’s the point, Ty? What’s the point of Watson’s whole existence if there is no Sherlock? What’s the point of me if there is no you?” Tears were rolling down his cheeks. But he could not feel them. He could not feel anything.

Kit did not even bother to grab for his stele, he knew it was too late for that. Through his numbness, Kit gently lay Ty’s body on the floor and ripped his shirt. With desperate hope, he placed both his hands on Ty’s chest and willed him to heal. He remembered the time he had made the horses of the Riders of Mannan disappear. He thought about drawing that strength, all his strength, all his will, into healing Ty. He heard voices softly murmuring to let go of Ty, that it was over – but he did not listen to any of them. He shoved away anyone’s attempt to grab him.

He did not know how much time had passed but eventually, he felt a flicker of movement. It was barely there but Kit knew he had sensed something.

Ty gasped and his silver-gray eyes flew open. They widened in amazement. “Kit…“ he said. “I knew you would find them.”

What? What did I find? Kit wanted to ask. But he could not find his voice. Relief had washed over him, and although he was drained, he felt giddy with it.  

He did not hear anything further, as Ty slipped into unconsciousness a second later. It was not long before Kit himself collapsed on top of Ty’s body.

*****

Jace, carrying Clary in his arms, Isabelle, Simon, Alec and Magnus stood in a circle in the Institute’s library. In the middle of the circle, two bodies were lying on the ground, one resting partly on top of the other, as if in a lovers’ embrace.

Their skin appeared to glow from within and one of the boys’ exposed chest seemed to be pierced through with bronze-colored light.

*****

It was late in the night when the dean of the Scholomance, Maximilien Verlac, slipped through the door of the Institute’s infirmary. The room was mostly dark save for the moonlight filtering through the windows. He did not notice Kit, sitting on the floor, next to Ty’s bed.

He was entirely focused on Ty, his expression one of deep sorrow and… something else. Kit recognized that look. It was the look he probably had himself when he was glancing at Ty and thought no one was seeing him.

Kit knew then, that Maximilien did not only admire Ty as one of his best Centurions. He loved him.

Suddenly, Maximilien fell on his knees. “Oh, Tiberius. What did I do? I am sorry. I am so sorry,” he whispered.

Kit shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”

Maximilien snapped out of his daze and stood. Even in the darkness, Kit could see his cheeks were flushed. “Christopher Herondale.”

“Kit, please” answered Kit.

“Kit?” Maximilien’s eyes widened in surprise. “Oh, I see…”

Kit didn’t know why, but he suddenly felt uneasy.

“What is it? What is it that you see?”

Maximilien hesitated. He looked at Kit for a moment, considering.

Then, he explained, in a resigned voice. “One day, Tiberius returned from a mission to the Scholomance with very deep wounds that couldn’t heal. The demon poison had spread. We had to keep him in the infirmary for three days. He was delirious. He kept calling a name. Your name. Asking why you had left him. Why you never said goodbye. He also talked about the characters of the book he holds so dearly…saying that Sherlock was not Sherlock without Watson. It seemed like nonsense to me.”

Maximilien exhaled deeply. “I thought Kit was a girl’s name. Short for Katherine, in French Catherine. It could also be short for Quitterie, another French girl name. When Tiberius woke up, and I asked him about it, he simply shrugged and did not explain. We never talked about it again.”

Kit didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He just nodded, closed his eyes, and waited for Maximilien to leave.

Once he was alone with Ty, Kit lay down on the bed next to him, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the heat of his body. Ty’s face was turned to his. Kit fell asleep to Ty’s soft breathing, each exhalation caressing his skin like feather across his cheek.

Chapter 9 - Do I see you?

Kit and Ty were sitting at the edge of the New York Institute’s roof. They were staring in silence at the lights of the city under the twilight sky.

Ty had fully recovered, but Kit knew a scar could still be seen across his chest, a reminder of his sacrifice for Kit’s life. The scratches on his face, the cut in his lips were still there, but fading. Despite them, and maybe also because of them, all Kit could see was the most beautiful face he had ever set his eyes upon. Ty was wearing a hoodie and it made him look younger, more vulnerable.

“Why did you do it?” said Kit suddenly, breaking the stillness. “Is it because you are a Centurion and have sworn to protect me? Or…” He took a deep shuddering breath. “Or is there another reason?”

At first, Ty said nothing.

After a few minutes, he finally spoke. His voice seemed softer, younger somehow, as if Kit was not sitting next to the Centurion, but next to the boy who had held a knife at his throat, a few years before. “I don’t know. Why do you think I did?”

“Do you… love me?” Kit’s voice was shaking. He was staring straight ahead, not wanting to meet Ty’s eyes.

“You know, Julian once told me that to love someone was to see them. I didn’t understand at the time but…”

“But what?” said Kit, and he forced himself to turn, slowly, to meet Ty’s gaze. 

Kit did not think he had ever seen Ty look at him, at anyone, this way. His silver-gray eyes were piercing, as if he could see through Kit’s. Ty always had an intense gaze, but this was different somehow. His eyes seemed to glow with a secret, like he knew something about Kit that Kit did not.

“When you enter a room, without even having to look at you, my entire body seems to sense you and to relax, as if I had been waiting for you all along.

But when I do look… I see that your eyes are different shades of blue, the way the sky changes colors, all through day and night. I can see the way, sometimes when you are sad, you smile to hide it, but your smile does not quite reach your eyes. I can see the way, when you are truly happy, you do not smile but your whole face seems to light in a fiery glow. I can see that you think sometimes you are a coward when in fact you are the bravest person I know. I can see in the way you hold yourself, in the way you hesitate, that you think you are unworthy. That you don’t deserve anything, any protection or any attention, and when you are shown any affection, you cringe, as if to shield yourself from it, but cannot help the flicker of hope in your eyes. And it makes me want to give you everything I own. So… what do you think? Do I see you?”

Kit had never heard Ty speak so many words in a row before. He didn’t think anyone ever had. He knew, somehow, that this was not a rehearsed speech, that Ty had simply compiled a list of things he noticed about Kit, and kept them in his brilliant mind, the way he would remember the number of windows on a building, the various benefits of bees or the different stages of most animals’ migration cycles.

Kit smiled at Ty then, and it touched his eyes. Tears were rolling down his burning cheeks, alight with a fiery glow, as he answered. “You see me”.

He put his arms around Ty, then, and held him tightly. More tightly than he’d ever held anyone, except for that one time on the London Institute’s roof.

[hutchhitched]

The Marrow of the Story

Written by: @hutchhitched​ 

Prompt 17: Everlark enemies to lovers, a long-standing grudge (could be anything, even simple) but somehow it is discovered that Katniss is a bone marrow match for Peeta. If she doesn’t donate he will die. [submitted by @lovely-tothe-bone​]

Ratings/Warnings: E

A/N: I’m continuing to post the nine @everlarkficexchange prompts I took and then sat on throughout the early months of the pandemic and the world slowly ground to a halt. This is the eighth of the nine. Thanks for your patience, and I hope you enjoy. Huge thanks to @javistg for understanding the delays. I wrote most of this a few months ago before getting stuck on some transitions. Since then, the teenage daughter of one of my closest friends has been diagnosed with B-Cell Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia and must undergo a bone marrow transplant this spring. As such, this story became much more personal than a prompt. I’m sure I’ve taken some liberties with the medical aspects and ethics of this story. They are intended for story-telling purposes only. K, I hope you enjoy my take on your prompt.

  “Ms. Everdeen, I need your signature,” my administrative assistant says briskly as she enters my office.

 “What’s this for?” I ask as I scribble my signature on the form.

 She takes the manila folder and hands me another, indicating that I need to sign it, too. “Maintenance orders. The library and those lockers in the freshman wing that don’t lock properly.”

 “Got it. Thanks.”

 “Oh, and you have a call waiting on line three. I told him you were busy, but…” She shrugs as she walks out of the room, and I sigh and drop down in my desk chair. It’s been a really long day.

 “Ms. Everdeen, Panem North. How can I help you?”

 A rumbly, entirely masculine voice reverberates through the line, and I wrap the phone cord around my left index finger. Even before he’s spoken three words, I’m already impatient for the call to end.

 “Ms. Everdeen. It’s Peeta Mellark. How are you today?”

 I narrow my eyes and resist the urge to slam the phone down in the receiver. Mr. Mellark is not my favorite person. He’s the principal at Panem South, my high school’s cross-town rival, and he and I have always clashed. It might be his smug arrogance when he explains his educational philosophy, or it could be the way he surveys me and then turns away in dismissal every time I see him. Whatever it is, I’ve never been able to stand him, and it’s obvious he feels the same if our interactions at every systemwide meeting and educational conference is any indication. My greatest fantasy consists of him being fired in disgrace. A close second is his forced transfer to another school—any school, so long as it’s out of state and I never have to see him again.

 “What do you want, Mellark?” I snap. I have so little patience today I’m afraid I might actually use profanity if he doesn’t hang up within ten seconds.

 “Doing that well, huh? Always good to hear a friendly voice when I have to contact you.”

 “I thought you were on medical leave,” I say with little compassion. It’s not my finest moment, I know that, but I really loathe this man.

 “I am,” he admits. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I really need your help. I know we’re not exactly friends, but—”

 “Friends?” I laugh. “Are you kidding me? I don’t even like you. There’s no way I’d be your friend. Not even if you were dying, and I had the cure.”

 Silence stretches across the line, and I cover my face at what I’ve said. The words are rather unforgivable, and I open my mouth to apologize when he says something I don’t expect to hear.

 “Well, I guess that answers my question. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

 “What question? You didn’t ask me anything,” I say, exasperated.

 He sighs heavily, and I almost throw the phone across the room. “Katniss—sorry, Ms. Everdeen—I don’t really know how to tell you this, so I’ll just ask you to check your email. I think you’ll find something there from me. It’s from my personal account, so you might have to look in your spam folder. It’ll explain everything. Have a good day.”

 And then he hangs up without even bothering to say goodbye. That complete and utter bastard hung up on me. I mean, I wanted him to leave me alone, but he could have at least had the courtesy to say goodbye before cutting off the conversation.

 I know I’m being unreasonable, but I don’t have time to deal with it at the moment. The last bell of the day is about to ring, and I hurry from my office to oversee students loading onto buses and wandering the parking lot as cars zip in and out of traffic. It’s one of the most nerve-wracking parts of my days, and I’ve almost forgotten Mr. Mellark’s phone call by the time I make it back to my office. If I’m lucky, I can finish within the hour and get home before dark. I hate it when the sunlight hours are so short the day quits before I do.

 I’m just about to shut down my computer when I remember the aggravating phone call. I consider forgetting about it and walking away, but something tells me to open my junk folder and see what that twit’s request is. And then I see it, and I want to throw up.

 Dear Ms. Everdeen,

I know we aren’t exactly friends, but I’ve always admired your ferocity and willingness to give everything you have for your students. Compassion in education isn’t hard to find, but the way you fight for your school, faculty, staff, and students has been inspiring to watch over the past few years.

I mean that. It’s not a ploy to win you over, even though I have a gigantic favor to ask of you.

You might remember that I’ve been on medical leave several times over the past few years. It’s difficult doing my job when I’m ill, so I’ve tried to hide the significance of my condition. The truth is I have a rare bone marrow disease that, without a transplant, is terminal.

Since this is not official business, I’m writing from my personal email, but the favor I’m asking does require your professional approval. With the upcoming blood drive in our district, health clinics have volunteered to be on hand to administer tests for the bone marrow registry. That would streamline the process and allow potentially myself and countless others in need of a transplant a match from someone who might not otherwise volunteer to be tested.

Please consider allowing your school to be part of this. It might save a life.

With admiration, Peeta Mellark

 ****

 Of course I end up giving approval. I’m not a monster, no matter what Mr. Mellark thinks. In good faith, I’m tested as well, and two weeks later, I get a phone call telling me I’m a match for someone in need. By a dramatic, ironic twist of fate, it’s Peeta Mellark who needs my marrow. Thankfully, I’m able to take some time to process, and it’s torture as I weigh the pros and cons.

 A few days pass before I work up the courage to call him. I haven’t heard from him since the phone call letting me know about the email. I’m sure his health takes up much of his energy, but I’m oddly saddened by his absence. I’m also angry with him, but that’s not fair. It’s not his fault that the favor he asked of me will result in me giving up a part of my body and DNA.

 “Hello?”

 “So, what is it you have exactly?” I ask and wince at how detached and unfeeling I sound. I’m anything but that. My squeezing heart is more than enough evidence to prove otherwise. Still, I’m barely holding it together. I can’t let go of the control or I might collapse, and then what?

 “Ms. Everdeen?”

 “Katniss. If you can ask me to consider donating bone marrow, then you can call me by my first name.”

 “Okay, Katniss.” There’s a long pause before he continues. He’s tentative when he finally says, “So, you decided to participate on top of allowing the clinic access to your school?”

 “I did, and I’ll repeat. What is it you have exactly?”

 The words sound just as cold the second time, and I hold my breath until he finally answers.

“I have something called aplastic anemia. I’ve had it since college. Been treating it with blood transfusions for the past decade or so,” he explains with no trace of self-pity or false bravado. His tone is pragmatic, which is almost heart-breaking considering what he’s facing. “There aren’t too many of us with AB- blood in the world, so, I don’t know. When I saw the option of getting more involvement, I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask for help. Directly, I mean. Instead of waiting for the system to work. The worst you could say was no, right?”

 “I’ve already said no to you several times,” I remind him, and he chuckles in response.

 “Yeah. You’ve fought me on every philosophical disagreement we’ve ever had.”

 “That’s because you have really stupid ideas about what works sometimes.”

 His chuckle morphs into a full-fledged laugh, and it makes my lips twitch. “You reject me with aplomb, too. Thanks for not holding back.”

 A grin quirks at the corner of my mouth. He’s funny, I realize. I guess I probably could have figured that out earlier if I’d ever bothered to listen to his words instead of merely hating him.

 “Well, you know. I’m not very good at making friends.”

 The words catch in my throat as I say them. It’s a true statement, but I hadn’t comprehended how much it bothered me until I heard them out loud. I don’t sound matter-of-fact like he does. Loneliness and sadness echo in my voice. I could take some lessons on self-pity from Peeta Mellark, apparently.

 “I’d like to be your friend,” he says softly.

 I blink away tears because my insides have melted into a very unprofessional puddle of goo. It’s a good thing we’re not interacting about anything regarding our jobs.

 “You just want my bone marrow,” I mumble, and my heart jumps at his soft chuckle.

 “Your bone marrow?”

 I inhale shakily and bite my lip. Finally, when I’ve regained a semblance of control, I answer in a quiet admission, “I’m a match.”

 “You’re my match?” His disbelief echoes across the line, and it breaks my heart to hear the trepidatious undercurrent in his tone.

 “I am.”

 “Oh…”

 “So, you want my bone marrow.”

 Silence stretches between us, and I hear rustling before he responds carefully. “I’ll start with that. We can talk about what else I’d like to have later.”

 His voice is warm and soothing, and I feel myself softening. I’ve known that I’m going to be his donor since I knew he needed me, but it feels more personal now. More like he’s my responsibility, my ally, and not my enemy.

 “Okay.”

 There’s a beat of silence, and then he asks tentatively, “Okay?”

 “Yeah. I’ll do it.”

 There’s almost no sound from his end of the line, just his breath in my ear. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking or feeling. It must be a massive amount of relief mixed with a hundred other emotions. Like me, I’m sure he hates asking for help, and to have to request it from me must have been terrible for him. I don’t want him to feel beholden. He doesn’t deserve to have to be grateful for the rest of his life just because he needs something I can willingly give.

 “Thank you,” he finally says, and the simplicity of it takes my breath away.

 I wonder exactly what it is he’s thanking me for—his life? For being willing to grant him a favor? For not being a complete bitch to him like I have been for the past three years? It’s the least I can do for someone who’s dying. I can’t be responsible for hitting him when he’s down.

 “Sure. Yeah, let me know the specifics. Or the hospital can or whatever. I’ll talk to you later.”

 I end the call before he can answer, or maybe he does and I just don’t hear it. I can’t bear to listen to his voice anymore. I don’t know how much I’m going to have to actually see him to complete this process, but I’m suddenly nervous. He’s melted me with just an email and a few phone conversations. If I’m in the same room with him, I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep up the façade of hating him, and I need to. I can’t afford to care about him.

 The next few weeks pass in a flurry of meetings with medical professionals and preparing for the surgery. I don’t see Peeta, and he doesn’t contact me. Maybe he’s afraid I’ll change my mind, or maybe he doesn’t have any interest in actually being my friend, after all. I don’t allow myself to think about why that disappoints me. Instead, I tell myself that he’s likely dealing with his own illness and concentrating on getting as healthy as possible so he can recover quicker following the procedure. Maybe I’m just making excuses for him, but I remind myself that making a friend isn’t why I’m doing this. He doesn’t owe me anything.

 Suddenly, it’s the day of the surgery, and I’m terrified. I haven’t ever been on anesthesia before, barely been sick, and never had an IV. Now, I’m about to go under the knife for my mortal enemy. Okay, that’s overdramatic and hyperbolic, but I’m allowed that on the morning of a procedure that will result in me being cut open and part of my hip scraped away. I comfort myself by imagining the simple pleasures I’ll indulge in afterward—an overly sugared hot chocolate with extra marshmallows, some of those cheese buns I never allow myself to buy, highlights from a hairdresser instead of a box. Surely, I deserve those after opening myself up to…

 I shut down that mode of thinking and concentrate on getting to the hospital. As nervous as I am, I manage to stop thinking and let the medical professionals do their jobs. Before I can worry about anything else, I’m on a bed and being wheeled to surgery. When I count backwards, all I see are Peeta Mellark’s deep blue eyes shining at me.

 ****

 I blink awake to a concerned gaze. My sister’s next to my bed when I wake up and greets me with a smile.

 “Hello, sleepyhead. Welcome back to the world.”

 “Little Duck,” I slur with a lazy smile. “Hiiiii!”

 “How do you feel?”

 “Very fuzzy,” I admit after a sporadic inventory of myself. “And my ass hurts.”

 “I hear that happens when somebody cuts you open. I could be wrong.”

 My bubble of laughter is almost giddy, clearly an aftereffect of the anesthesia, but I still manage to ask the really important question. “When can I go home?”

 “A few hours, I think. Outpatient surgery, for the win!”

 “I’m already thinking about how long I have to sponge bathe instead of showering. An incision on my rear end is a new one for me.”

 “I bet the guy you’re giving your marrow to would be happy to help you. He must be pretty grateful,” Prim said slyly, and I roll my eyes.

 “I’m guessing he’s more concerned about not dying, but I’ll keep that in mind.”

 “I looked him up, you know. He’s very pretty.”

 “He’s also an arrogant ass.”

 “Speaking of arrogant asses…”

 “Hey! I thought I’d gotten past being maligned by the Everdeen girls.” Gale Hawthorne’s deep bass booms from the hospital room door. “Hey, Catnip.”

 “Gale! ’S so good to see you.”

 “Well, Prim called. I thought maybe I should cut my business trip short and pay you a visit.”

 I reach for him, and he crosses to me quickly. His hand wraps around mine, and the warmth grounds me. It’s been way too long since I’ve seen my childhood best friend, and his familiarity makes me feel like I might be able to handle anything. They both keep me occupied until I’m released and then help me get settled at home. Gale and I sit on the couch and catch up while Prim makes a run for takeout.

 “I couldn’t believe it when Prim called to tell me you were doing this,” he says. “Especially not for the guy you’ve been bitching to me about for the past few years.”

 “I haven’t been—”

 “I’m going to stop you right there. You have, and we both know nobody takes up that much space in your brain unless there’s something there.”

 “There’s nothing between us,” I insist and grunt when he nudges my shoulder.

 “Then maybe you should figure out if there could be. I mean, you have a vested interest in the man. You have a lot in common professionally. He’s going to live a long life because of you. Maybe it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you were part of it.”

 “He’s in a bubble for a few months. Recovery. No germs. All that.” I’m making excuses, and he knows it. He looks at me with pity, and I want to smack him.

 “Katniss, give the guy a chance. From what you’ve told me, he’s into you. On top of the fact that he made arrangements for that massive bouquet of lilies and wildflowers over there.” He motions to the vase we brought home from the hospital. The note provides thanks for saving his life and an apology for flowers being inadequate as repayment.

 “He’s not—”

 “Give him a chance.”

 Gale’s words wash over me, and it’s like all the painful moments and deep bouts of loneliness resurface at once. No matter what’s happened between Peeta and me, I have a connection to him now that’s deeper than our usual snipping and snark. Being forced to think about him as someone with real hopes and dreams and challenges has softened me to him, but I barely know him. Why does everyone assume he wants anything more than he’s already received?

 Prim returns with food, and I’m grateful for the distraction. I promise Gale I’ll think about what he’s said as I recover, but that’s only to get him off my back. Yet, as the days pass, I can’t get Peeta Mellark out of my head. Now that I’ve saved his life, he’s got a hold on me.

 ****

 I don’t know why I’m so nervous. It’s not like I expect anything from him. I’m just stopping by to see how he is, and that’s it. No expectations, no nothing. Just an attempt to make sure he’s feeling better after the transplant. I shouldn’t even be able to see him, but I called the hospital, explained the situation, and found out I’ve been approved for visiting for the past couple of weeks. Peeta must have added me to his approved list, which makes me remarkably happy. It’s been a month since the bone marrow transplant, and Peeta’s body seems to be accepting it with no problem.

 Besides, no one can fault me for checking in on a sick colleague. It’s practically expected as part of my job. Except, that’s a lie. I’m not checking on anyone else who calls into work sick, but, then again, no one else called in because they had a disease that resulted in some of my own body inserted into them.

 Which sounds dirty and definitely not what I should be thinking as I knock on his hospital door and peer into the room.

 “Katniss!” he says as his beautiful blue eyes light up. “Please, come in.”

 “I, uh… I just thought I’d check on you. Make sure my bone marrow is behaving. Not giving you any trouble.”

 Oh, hell. I sound like an idiot.

 “Doing beautifully. It’s almost like it knows it’ll be in trouble if it acts up. Must be the principal coming out in us.”

 “Behavior issues are the least favorite part of my job.”

 “Same,” he chuckles and waves me to the chair. “Sit, if you have a minute. I’d like to thank you—”

 “No,” I insist. “No, you don’t have to do that.”

 “Katniss, you saved my life,” he sighs. “The least you can do is let me thank you properly. Let me take you dinner sometime or something. In fact, yes. I need to do that. No expectations, no nothing. Just dinner.”

 I feel an uncomfortable pang in my stomach as I hear my own thoughts repeated back to me. It’s almost like he can see inside my brain, and that’s terrifying.

 “Fine,” I concede. “Dinner, but not until you’re completely recovered. I don’t want to be cause for a setback.”

 “I can handle that,” he agrees and then gives me a soft, beautiful smile so incredibly shy that it feels like he’s only ever shown it to me.

 I don’t even want to think about why I’m floating as I leave the hospital.

 ****

 It’s another few months before Peeta finally insists he’s well enough and calls and invites me to the dinner I agreed to when he was in the hospital. His recovery has been rapid, and I hear through the grapevine he’s back at work and seemingly cured. I don’t know enough about his disease to know if he’s healing faster than normal or not, but I breathe easier when I hear the news. That is, until the phone rings.

 “Katniss Everdeen. My savior,” he says when I answer.

 “Oh, please don’t,” I gulp. “I’m no savior.”

 He chuckles at my discomfort but it’s clear it’s not with any sort of malice. “Sorry. That might have been hyperbole.”

 “You think?”

 “Maybe. Maybe not. I would like to see when you’re free for dinner. You’ve put me off long enough. I demand satisfaction. I mean, my belly does. In other words, I need food, and now that I feel well enough to consume copious amounts of it, I’d really love some company as I do that. Who better than the woman who made it happen?”

 He’s so charming it makes my toes curl, which is not at all what I want. Because how am I supposed to resist that adorable smirk I know is plastered across his face when he’s sitting across the table from me and plying me with delicious food? He’s supposed to be my nemesis, and I’m not strong enough to deny him when he’s not only good and kind but also a survivor of a rare disease. I mean, that’s not even playing fair.

 “You don’t have to buy me dinner,” I start, but he interrupts before I can get any farther.

 “If I remember correctly, you agreed to this back in the hospital, and I know you always keep your word. I wore you down, and you said you’d go with me. Don’t go backing out on me now,” he chides. His tone remains light-hearted as he speaks, but I detect a hint of hurt below the surface. My willingness to concur seems important to him. Why, I’m not sure, but the last thing I want to do is break the fragile truce that had somehow emerged between us.

 “I’ve got some back to school things coming up, so my nights are pretty full,” I protest feebly, but he just waits patiently until I relent. “Fine. Next Thursday. Does that work?”

 “Of course.”

 “Don’t you have meetings, too? You haven’t resigned, and I haven’t heard about it, have you?”

 “No, nothing like that,” he laughs. “I’ve just been given stringent orders from Superintendent Crane to take it easy. My assistant principal is covering anything at night until October.”

 “Lucky you.”

 “I have a good staff,” he deflects. “Next Thursday. I’ll pick you up.”

 “No! I can meet—”

 But he’s already disconnected the call. I don’t even bother to wonder how he’ll figure out my address. I don’t put anything past him anymore. Other than the life-threatening illness, he seems to have beaten, Peeta Mellark has the best luck of anyone I’ve ever known.

 ****

 “And then I lowered my hand and answered him in the most serious tone possible. I could hardly keep a straight face because I had fake buck teeth in. The poor kid looked at me like I was insane, but he didn’t ever wear the vampire teeth in class again.”

 I can’t help myself as I giggle at Peeta’s story. I never giggle. It isn’t like me at all, but Peeta’s so funny and disarming over dinner, regaling me with story after story of strange behavior modifications he’d tried when he was an assistant principal and mostly in charge of discipline issues.

 “I’ve gotta admit,” he says ruefully, “I don’t really miss that part of the job now that I’m head principal.”

 “No, I can imagine you wouldn’t,” I agree with a smile.

 Lifting my wine glass, I look at him over the rim and take a sip of the pinot. I dreaded this dinner all week, but it’s been the highlight of a pretty rough few days. I certainly wasn’t expecting to enjoy his company so much, not even after getting to know him a little bit better during his recovery. I thought his charm might wear off at some point, but he just gets more and more disarming the longer we talk. If I didn’t know better, I might think I actually like him, but that’s ridiculous. I’m just glad to have company over dinner. That’s all this is.

 My cheeks flush when Peeta grins at me and sits back in his chair. He’s kept up a steady stream of witty repartee throughout the evening, but now he merely surveys me as the soft sounds of the dining room echo around us. It’s almost intimate.

 “I can’t tell you how much I’m enjoying this,” he finally says. “And how grateful I am for what you did for me. I know it wasn’t an easy choice, but you… You’re an amazing woman, Katniss Everdeen. I’m in your debt forever.”

 I don’t know how to answer him because I can tell he’s completely sincere. He’s not gushing or trying to butter me up. He’s genuine in his words and actions, and I’m stuck feeling guilty for treating him so poorly before his illness threw us together.

 “You really don’t have to thank me anymore,” I insist. “It’s not necessary at all. I mean, what kind of an asshole would I be if I hadn’t agreed to help you? Besides, you’re a fellow principal. Administrators unite and all that.”

 “Stop deflecting,” he said. “You did something really great, and it’s okay for you to take credit for it.”

 Flustered, I fiddle with my napkin because I don’t want to say something stupid. He has a way of making me tongue-tied that I haven’t felt since I was a teenager. “Thanks,” I manage to mumble.

 “Thank you.”

 I hesitate but finally manage to choke, “You’re welcome.”

 “I’d like to do this again. If you’re willing.”

 His voice feels like a caress, and I lift my eyes to look at him. He’s studying me, unsmiling but not frowning, and I’m struck by how handsome he is in the dimmed light. He reaches across the table and holds his hand out to me. I stare at it for several seconds before I’m willing to reach out and accept it. He gives it a squeeze.

 “How about next week? Is that too soon?”

 “I— I need to check my calendar.”

 “I already did. No school activities.”

 “Are you—”

 “I’m sure,” he insists. “Please.”

 I don’t have a good excuse for saying no, so I agree. I’m still in a daze when he pulls the car to a stop in front of my house and gets out to walk me to the door. He leans in to kiss my check, but I turn my head at just the wrong time. His lips hover millimeters from my skin, and I struggle to breathe. After what feels like an eternity, he tilts his head and brushes his mouth over mine.

 The earth skews off its axis. There’s no other way to describe what happens because my entire world rearranges itself in that brief moment. Much too soon, he’s backed down the sidewalk and waves goodbye to me from his car before pulling away.

 ****

 I’m a mess by the next Friday when Peeta picks me up again for our second dinner together. I don’t know whether to call it a date or not, but the kiss the previous week indicates it could be. The night passes much the same as the previous week. He’s charming and funny and wearing the most stunning shade of green that makes his eyes sparkle turquoise. They do things to my insides. He’s a perfect gentleman as he drives me home again, walks me to the door, and kisses me softly. The situation repeats on the third and fourth and fifth time until I’m so wound up, I’m about to lose my mind. I don’t mean to complain, but my body wants more than what he’s offering.

 I can’t tell if it’s deliberate or just really bad luck that our schedules don’t align for another few weeks. The days pass slowly without seeing him, although we do talk often. Some of his messages and emails make me smile when I read them, while others make me wonder if he’s flirting with me or simply being his usual friendly self.

 I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to figure out what’s happening between us. The conversation I had with Gale after my surgery flits in and out of my conscious thoughts. I don’t want to open myself up. I’ve been hurt too many times in the past, but Peeta’s wonderful—smart, compassionate, funny, respectful, and supportive. He’s also got a backbone and knows how to advocate for himself and others around him. In short, he’s exactly what I’ve always desired in a partner. It scares me to death to acknowledge that I want him to be a bigger part of my life. It terrifies me to realize I can also picture him in my bed.

 Finally, we both have an evening without a work responsibility, and he asks if he can come over and make dinner when I tell him I’m simply too tired to dress up and go out to a restaurant. By the time he shows up on my doorstep with bags of groceries, my stomach’s in knots. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him, it feels like we’re starting all over again.

 He looks insanely good after having filled out a little since the transplant. His broad shoulders are strong underneath the soft cotton of his salmon colored sweater, and the jeans he’s wearing hug his thighs and hips like a second skin. When he turns around so I can inadvertently check out his ass, I swoon at the sight. I want my hands on that peach so badly my fingertips tingle.

 He leans in to kiss me hello, and time stands still. He pauses once he’s broken the kiss, and we stare at each other for what feels like ages. Something’s changed. We’ve evolved. Our relationship’s grown while we’ve been apart. The air crackles with anticipation, and I’m beyond ready. Finally, he recovers and surveys me, taking in my black leggings, forest green tunic, and braid with a whistle. I flush scarlet at the flattery.

 “Good thing I have these bags to occupy my hands,” he teases, but I swallow down disappointment. He doesn’t seem that interested in touching me, and that makes me feel like howling my disapproval.

 “Maybe I should help. Give your hands a chance to…uh…stray.”

 He whips his head around to stare at me, uncertainty mixing with something I can’t quite decipher. When I don’t drop my gaze, he gulps before heading into the kitchen and tossing the food on the counter. He makes himself busy while I flit around him, unsure what to do. When he finally turns his megawatt smile on me and asks me if I’d be okay cutting vegetables, I nod eagerly. If it puts me closer to him, I’m completely game. He positions me in front of a stack of carrots, potatoes, and mushrooms and turns to his own work.

 We keep up a steady stream of chatter that grows increasingly flirtatious as the minutes pass. He brushes against me several times, and I can feel the electricity sparking between us. When he reaches over to take some of the diced potatoes, our hands brush, and we both jump.

 “Peeta,” I sigh a second before he’s pressed against me, his chest hard against mine as he cups my jaw and kisses me.

 I growl in the back of my throat at the feel of his tongue tangling with mine, and he hauls me tighter against him. He wraps my braid around his hand and tugs my head back so he can lick deeper into me. I’m shaking with desire, frantic for his hands on me. We’ve been circling each other for four years. The months since I agreed to donate my bone marrow have all been foreplay. I’m ready to give into the craving I’ve denied for far too long.

 I wrap my arms around his neck and pull him closer. My hands tangle in his hair, and I can’t stop the wanting whimpers that fall from me. He’s just as frantic, his hands caressing everything he can reach, until they both cup my behind and squeeze.

 I realize I want to climb him like a tree. There’s no shame in admitting it. His body’s hard under his clothing, and he’s rigid as iron against my hip. When he thrusts his right hand under the waistband of my leggings, I don’t even try to stop him. Instead, I moan when his fingers stroke the patch of hair between my legs.

 “Fuck,” he gasps. “Katniss, tell me to stop if this isn’t okay. This is— You’re… You have to stop me now if you’re going to.”

 I don’t stop him. I couldn’t even if I wanted to. My limbs aren’t working other than to cling to him. My eyes roll back into my head when he breaches me. His mouth works magic while his fingers plunder and stroke. I’m begging him, my voice hoarse and broken. It’s been so very long, and I don’t have the patience to wait anymore.

 I’m pressed against the counter, my back bent as he fingers me. I don’t care about dinner or anything else except the feel of his calloused palm cupping me while he dips in and out in an uneven rhythm designed to stop me from falling over the edge too soon. His breaths are ragged, and I wrap my left leg around him to pull him closer. It also gives him better access, which he uses to his advantage.

 I’m sopping wet, squelching as he thrusts in and out, his thumb circling my clit and forcing wrecked squeals I’ve never made until experiencing the glory of Peeta Mellark finger fucking me in my own kitchen. My whole body trembles as the tension builds. I just need a release. That’s all I care about in the moment. The entire world could be exploding outside, and I wouldn’t care. He’s driving me crazy, and I don’t want to be sane. I just need him.

 “I’ve wanted this for so long, sweetheart,” he groans in my ear. “Wanted to feel you on me, hot and wet and sweet. I’ve dreamed about making you come. Imagined it so many times. Wanted to feel you fall apart because of me. You’re almost there, aren’t you, honey? I can tell you’re trying so hard not to let go. I’ve got you. I won’t hurt you.”

 I’ve abandoned all sense of propriety. I’m moaning and rutting against him. I don’t know who I am anymore, but then everything makes sense in a rush of euphoria. I come with a scream that Peeta swallows with his kiss. He holds me close, rocking me through the spasms, grounding me, and cheering me on as I quake and shudder.

 I blink as I come back to myself, but he’s there. His face comes into focus, and I give him a dopey grin that makes him chuckle. He welcomes me back with a kiss as he frees his hand. My pants are moist, and I wiggle at how uncomfortable it is. Still, I think it’s worth the discomfort. I feel like walking liquid.

 “I think we burned dinner.”

 “Don’t care,” I tell him through a kiss. “We can order pizza. Not hungry anyway.”

 “Well, I am,” he jokes as he proceeds to devour me.

 We haven’t talked. I have no idea where we stand, but that doesn’t matter. Right now, Peeta’s here, alive and well, and with me. We make sure the burners are off and then I lead him to the bedroom. I don’t ever want to let go. If I could freeze this moment, I would, but I also want to see about all the others he has left simply because fate threw us together. We’ll get to the deep stuff. For now, I’ll settle for him deep inside me.

[cotncandyboifics]

A Lovely Night: Chapter 3

AO3 Link

Masterpost

Chapter 1 ~ Chapter 2 ~ Chapter 4 ~ Chapter 5 ~ Chapter 6

Pairing(s): pre-established roceit & prinxiety, anaroceit, eventual anaroloceit, eventual intruality

Word count: ~2k

Story summary: Roman's boyfriends had had a rivalry since before either of them had actually met Roman. Running a bit late to a date night, Roman accidentally gets them to start dating too.

General CW: non-detailed description of an anxiety attack, non-detailed description of physical pain, food, kissing, potentially triggering descriptions of physical bodies, swearing, caps lock, school settings, s-xual innuendos, slight description of gore(imagery), vague descriptions of anxiety, Implications of an eating disorder, fatigue, dissociation, suppression of stimming, implied heavy restriction (ED), inner monologue-style anxiety description, eating,(will be added to as I write more)

Chapter CW: food mention, kissing, vague descriptions of potentially triggering physical characteristics (Logan is very skinny and Roman notices), (let me know if i missed anything please!)

Author notes: <<none>>

...

A few years had passed. Things weren't perfect, or easy, but they had each other. The three of them had found a one bedroom apartment together, and rent was easy to make with three contributors. They all went to college, Virgil and Roman to an arts school and Janus to a pregrad Law program.

Roman had rehearsals late that evening, and so Janus and Virgil had spent their free afternoon together, preparing dinner for Roman.

A stew (Virgil's family recipe) simmered on the stove, and Janus held Virgil close in his lap on the couch, carding his fingers through his hair. Virgil nuzzled into his boyfriend's collarbone, sighing with a small smile.

"Darling," Janus near-whispered, his voice rumbling in his chest as he pressed his face into Virgil's hair. Virgil hummed.

"Do you know the moment I started loving you?"

Virgil's head shot up, and he looked at Janus with pleading eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't force any words out. Janus smiled at him meekly, running fingers down Virgil's cheek.

"Do you recall," Janus continued, cupping the corner of Virgil's jaw in his hand, "In eighth grade, when I... when I found you between classes..." Virgil nodded, breathing shallowly. Janus pursed his lips. "It may be a bit... irrational for me to say, but... you allowing me to hold you in my arms when you were in such a vulnerable state..." A single tear ran down Virgil's cheek. Janus' brow furrowed, and he swiped the tear away with his thumb. "Oh, my darling, are you okay?"

Virgil made an odd noise, something between a scoff, a sob and a laugh, and suddenly surged forward, intertwining his fingers on the nape of Janus' neck as he connected their lips.

"That's when I knew, too." Virgil said as he pulled away, voice very very low. Janus raised his eyebrows in surprise, a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. "I knew you'd... keep me safe. I knew I could... trust you with my heart." Virgil swallowed. "Even if it took me another few years to actually... do that."

"We were very young, and... we both made that mistake." Janus admitted readily, bringing his other hand to Virgil's face in symmetry.

"Do you..." Virgil gripped Janus' shirt in his fists, "do you think we would have ever... let it happen, if... if we hadn't met Roman?" Virgil looked back into Janus' eyes. Janus sighed, tracing the bridge of Virgil's nose with his eyes.

"I'm not sure." He conceded eventually.

Virgil adjusted himself, shifting one leg so that he straddled Janus' lap. "It doesn't matter. I don't want to think about not knowing Roman. Or..." or not being able to love you two. Virgil shook his head slowly.

"Then let's not," Janus wrapped his arms around Virgil's waist, and Virgil wrapped his arms around Janus' neck in kind. He made to kiss him with an open mouth, but kept their lips just millimeters apart. Virgil rolled his hips once, and Janus chuckled at him, letting his eyes flutter closed. "Ever a tease, aren't you darling?"

Virgil simply responded by locking his lips with Janus'.

Roman chose that exact moment to open the front door to their apartment with a loud, exasperated groan.

"I give up!" He threw his hands in the air, stomping over to the couch to sit beside Janus, crossing his legs and pouting. "How am I to live?"

Virgil smirked, turning to grab his prince's jaw and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "What happened, princey?" Janus wrapped one arm around Roman's shoulder, pulling him slightly closer, and Roman began relaying his tale.

An hour ago almost to that exact moment, Roman shook his auburn red hair out, allowing it to roll in its curls in any direction it would like. He stretched down, touching his toes and beginning to walk his hands out, settling into a solid plank before beginning a few pushups.

He stood again with a small jump, readjusting his stage garments. They were simply a pair of black tights and a white undershirt, but the top had rolled up his navel slightly when he'd been stretching.

Rehearsal had all but ended, and he bounced on the balls of his feet as he waited for his turn to get unmic'd. He was one of the leads this semester, and so got his mic off last... for some odd reason. Most every production he'd been involved in prior had done things in a reverse fashion to what was happening now, but he didn't mind so much. He loved the feeling of standing on stage with the theatre enclosure all revolving around him. It created a strange comforting and confidence-boosting sensation that he could never get enough of.

Soon enough, his name was called. He hopped quickly offstage, tromping over to the sound booth.

A man with a jarring appearance approached him with tact. Roman had to keep his jaw from dropping, and opted instead to stare until the man was behind him. He payed Roman no mind, never meeting his eyes.

Roman hadn't had time to look closely at the man, but caught a few key details. His hair was glossy and black, plainly slicked back with some sort of product that Roman could smell faintly (vanilla?), save for one or two strands straying across his forehead and resting on the upper rim of his square glasses. He was almost concerningly pale, and his cheeks sunk in slightly. His eyes were a deeply piercing blue. His jawline was subtle and yet extremely sharp; everything about him appeared angular and calculated. He wore a white dress shirt that was a bit ruffled, top two buttons undone to reveal his collarbones - Roman assumed that was intentional, but in full honesty he had no idea.

Suddenly the man's slender hands were up the back of Roman's shirt, and Roman quite nearly squealed before remembering that this was completely standard protocol for unmicing someone. He tried to focus on literally anything else besides the fact that this painfully attractive man had his hands working clinically beneath Roman's shirt, against the heat of his bare skin. His hands were very cold against Roman's back, and Roman very nearly outright shivered at the feeling.

Suddenly the hands were no longer up Roman's shirt, and the man walked around to Roman's front, beginning to carefully untangle the mic cord from Roman's hair.

The boy was almost a head taller than Roman, roughly the same height as his Janus, Roman guessed. There was a very faint dusting of tiny dark freckles splayed across his cheeks and nose, and there were little flecks of gray and white in his eyes, almost like a cloudy sky. His jaw was set, but his hands moved gently. Roman tried not to gasp when he finally looked down at him, eyebrows knit.

"You're all set, Roman," the man said, eyeing Roman strangely before receding back to the sound booth to begin sorting through and putting away the mic packs.

"Thank you," Roman breathed, and kicked himself internally for how small and weak his voice came out. He shook his hair out again, trying to clear his head of the onset of gay panic he'd just experienced.

It's now or never; you might not get another chance at an actual conversation with this guy until the production is over. Roman steeled himself and took a few hesitant steps towards the sound booth.

"I didn't catch your name," Roman leaned a little too casually on the door frame, almost stumbling. the boy smirked, apparently not needing to turn and look at Roman to know that he was making a fool of himself.

"I did not figuratively 'throw' it," he replied coolly, continuing to work with the stacks of mic packs that had accumulated on the desk before him.

"Well, I would greatly appreciate if you did. It seems unfair for you to know my name and I not know yours." Roman thought for a moment when he was met with silence. "And you don't need to say figuratively; I know you didn't literally throw your name."

The boy turned then, adjusting his glasses as he sized Roman up. "A little clarity has never hurt anybody."

They looked at each other for a long moment, Roman still leaning haphazardly on the doorframe. The taller boy sighed a laugh quietly through his nose.

"Logan." He said, shaking his head with a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "My name is Logan."

Roman smiled, standing up properly and clapping his hands together. "Wonderful! Logan, my dear, my sweet," Roman began verbally serenading him, and Logan only scoffed at his antics, long used to the ridiculously over-the-top confidence that actors had, "would you do me the honor of allowing me to take you out for coffee some time?" He bowed dramatically low, holding one hand out to Logan.

Logan stared for a moment, and Roman looked up when Logan didn't react to his proposal. Logan only laughed through his nose again, shaking his head slightly.

"I'm afraid I must decline."

Roman snapped up into a standing position, scoffing loudly. "Truly?" he stared at Logan, who just looked at him once more, nodding slightly. Roman scoffed again, even louder. "I- I don't know what to say! Not once have my highly sought out charms been resisted so strongly!" He gripped his shirt over his heart in a dramatic gesture, getting on one knee and reaching out to Logan, who was putting away the last few mic packs. "And that may not seem like much to say, since I have only ever used them on two others... however I-" Logan cut him off with a very very intense stare. And Roman all but swooned.

"I appreciate the... offer, Roman," Logan slung his backpack over his shoulder, which jutted out against the thin fabric of his shirt in a quite boney fashion, "but I have no interest in..." Logan looked Roman up and down slowly, but disgust was nowhere to be seen on his face. Something more similar to heartbreak, however, was palpable as Roman watched Logan's eyes.

Logan never found the words, opting to sigh and begin pacing out of the theatre.

"Wait," Roman whispered mostly to himself, reaching out vaguely in the direction Logan had left in.

...

"And that's why I have officially given up on love," Roman, his storytelling concluded, buried his face in Virgil's shirt, mimicking a sob as his boyfriends laughed at him endearingly.

"Roman, my dear," Janus took Roman's hand in his own, kissing his knuckles gently, "I expect that you'll see this Logan again soon. I'm positively baffled that he managed to evade your charms this time," Janus gripped Roman's jaw with an uncharacteristic tenderness, "but i sincerely doubt he'll last long." Janus pressed a kiss onto Roman's lips, and then removed Virgil from his lap, standing and righting himself. "For now, however," He reached a hand out to his boyfriends to help them stand, "We have a stew to attend to."

[majimemegoro]

When Saejima drifted to consciousness and opened his eyes to see the well-worn beams of a traditional house, with dried fish hanging from its rafters and a pot over the hearth, he was more surprised at the fact that he was anywhere at all than at the particular surroundings he found himself in.

It only took a few more seconds of his blinking at the ceiling before a voice beside him said, “Ah, you’re awake.”

Saejima groaned and somehow managed to sit up despite the fact that every muscle in his body felt like it had been pulverized. Then he realized that between the brawl in the prison, the tumble from the snowmobile, the fight with the bear (had that been real?), and whatever effects he was suffering from exposure to the elements, every muscle in his body probably had been pulverized. The skin, bones, and organs, too.

The person who had spoken sat across from Saejima, on the other side of the little hearth and hanging pot, from which a delicious smell was emanating. His hair and beard were grey.

“You can call me Okudera,” the man said. “I brought you down from the mountain. You’re lucky to be alive.” And without pausing: “Here.” He pushed a bowl of hot stew into Saejima’s hands.

Saejima looked down at it, and then back up at the man - Okudera. His expression was calm and clear, but Saejima couldn’t help dwelling on all the ways this situation was strange and had the potential to become terrible. Did this guy not realize that Saejima had escaped from Abashiri?

“It’s good,” Okudera said impatiently. “Now go on, eat.”

Carefully Saejima took a piece of meat in his chopsticks and put it in his mouth. His eyes widened.

Okudera cracked a grin. “That was made by the best damn cook in Hokkaido,” he said.

Saejima attacked the meal. He was inclined to believe Okudera was right.

As he finished scraping the last of the sauce into his mouth, there was a sliding sound and the whistle of wind, and a second man entered the house. The man hesitated for a moment when he saw that Saejima was awake, but his eyes weren’t fearful. There was something animal-like in the placid intensity of his gaze, as though he were a predator looking at something that wasn’t food, something it wasn’t planning on devouring. It was unnerving. Then he turned away and began shedding his hat and coat.

“Ah, you’re back,” Okudera said. “Our guest has awoken.”

“I can see that,” the second man said expressionlessly. His voice was soft, but hoarse. “How are you feeling?”

Saejima opened his mouth to answer, but Okudera beat him to it. “I said I’m fine,” Okudera said, in the mild tone of a man who had gotten tired of pretending to be offended at inquiries into his well-being. “It will take more than a little weight-bearing hike to put me out of commission. Didn’t even muss my ponytail.”

The other man shrugged. He took a stool and sat down by the wall, facing towards Saejima and hunched over with his elbows on his knees. The single light bulb hanging from the ceiling did little to illuminate the harsh planes of his face, only hollowed his cheekbones and turned his eye sockets into dark holes, making his grim stare unsettling indeed.

“Ah...” Okudera said. He turned back to Saejima. “Well, you’ve already heard who I am. And this is my-”

“I’m his hunting partner,” the other man broke in, deadpan. “Suzuki.”

“Uh, yeah, this is my hunting partner... Suzuki,” Okudera repeated, looking at him. “He can be a bit unfriendly, but he’s a good guy, really. Suzuki - cheer up!”

Suzuki didn’t take his eyes off Saejima, and his expression didn’t soften.

Saejima nodded slowly. “I’m Saejima,” he said. “Thank you for rescuin’ me. I owe you my life.”

“Not a big deal,” Okudera said. “Besides, if the bears eat human flesh they get all fucked up, apparently, and we already have a demon bear on the loose around here, so...”

Recalling the bear he had fought, Saejima nodded again, darkly. He could very well imagine that thing being a man-eater. He was really lucky to be alive.

And then he remembered, and ice shot through his veins.

“Oh no!” Saejima said. “Baba-chan! My - I came here with a friend, did either of you see-?!”

Okudera’s brow creased with worry as he shook his head. “There was someone else with you?”

“Yeah! Baba, he’s - I have to go get him-!” Saejima tried to rise.

“Oh no, stop moving!” Okudera said. “You’ll damage your flesh, remember? I didn’t see anyone else out there, but I’ll go back and look-”

“I’ll go,” Suzuki said, standing up. “You’re exhausted, you should rest.”

“I’m a better tracker,” Okudera protested, also rising.

“You might as well have recently carried a deer down from the mountain,” Suzuki said bluntly. “You’re pretending to be fine, but your back is acting up, no? I’m faster than you, anyway. And furthermore, Yama-oroshi is out. I’m better off on my own.”

For a moment Okudera’s mouth twisted, as though he were tasting the fact that Suzuki was right, and hated the flavor. Then, “Fine, Simo,” Okudera said, sitting back down. “Do what you want.”

Suzuki had already turned away and begun outfitting himself in winter gear by the time Okudera finished giving his grudging permission.

“Simo?” Saejima echoed. “Yama-oroshi?”

“Simo is just a nickname,” Okudera said morosely, watching Suzuki tie a pale yellow animal pelt over his shoulders and back. “Because Suzuki is such a fucking amazing sniper or whatever. Yama-oroshi is what the villagers call the demon bear.”

“Ah.”

As Suzuki finished pulling a dark green hat down over his ears, Okudera climbed off the wooden floor and took the rifle off the hooks where it hung by the door. He handed it to Suzuki.

Suzuki took it with a nod of thanks, and stood there, ready. Okudera reached down to adjust the cords holding Suzuki’s pelt in place.

“Be careful,” he murmured.

“I will,” Suzuki replied, almost as softly. Then he moved away and slid the door open. A gust of cold wind whistled through, making Saejima shiver.

“Come back alive!” Okudera said.

“I will,” Suzuki said, and the door slid shut.

For a moment Okudera stayed by the entrance. Then, with a heavy sigh, he returned to his cushion by the fire and settled down.

“He’ll be pissed that I’m telling you this,” Okudera said, “But Sa- Suzuki is like you.”

“Huh?”

“He escaped from Abashiri. Ten years ago.”

“Oh!” It made sense, then, why Okudera and Suzuki weren’t rushing to turn Saejima in - apparently Okudera had long ago made a decision about how to react to escaped convicts, and that reaction didn’t involve running to the police. It might have made Saejima suspicious, but he found he could only be grateful for the fact that the two men were generous enough - odd enough - to take in a man in prison garb without question, and even to go out after his comrade, in what sounded like dangerous conditions. “I’m really so grateful for all you’ve done,” Saejima said.

“Ha. What was I going to do, leave you to die?” Okudera dismissed. “Anyone would have done the same.” He got up again and walked over to the shelves on one side of the room. He rifled around, and Saejima heard clinking. Okudera returned with two cups in one hand and a bottle of Block Party bourbon dangling between the fingers of the other hand.

“I know just what you need,” he said, wiggling the bottle invitingly. “Nothing like a good drink to warm you up after a brush with death on the mountain.” He poured out two cups, and Saejima accepted gratefully.

The bourbon burned going down, but it set a welcome glow in Saejima’s chest.

Okudera took a long drink. “Ah,” he said appreciatively. “Bet you missed that in jail, huh?”

Saejima nodded. “Shit’s dehumanizing. No cigarettes, no booze, disgustin’ food.”

Okudera leaned forward. “Some guys get cigarettes and booze in jail, though.”

“Well, sure,” Saejima said. “But I was on my best behavior. Tryin’ to get out fast. Couldn’t break the rules except in real serious cases.”

“Were you in for a long time?” Okudera asked.

Saejima paused before answering. “I was in for a long time on false charges,” he said. “Then I was out for a bit. Then I was in for two years on true charges.”

“No shit? False charges?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask-?”

“Murder,” Saejima said. “The real charge was on assault.”

Impressed, Okudera whistled. “I bet you’ve got a hell of a story, huh?”

“I’ll drink to that,” Saejima said, and finished his bourbon.

Okduera raised his cup and did likewise. After tossing back the rest of his drink, he refilled his cup halfway, and then, “That’s all,” he said, screwing the bottle shut. “I can’t get drunk while - Suzuki is up on the mountain. It doesn’t feel right.”

Saejima agreed. Intoxication would be a welcome respite from worry about Baba, but it wasn’t a respite Saejima would willingly seek. “Um, Okudera-han,” he said, “What do you think the chances are that Suzuki-han will find Baba?”

The look on Okudera’s face was full of sympathy, and it made Saejima’s heart sink. “He’ll definitely find him, I think,” Okudera said gently. “Just hope that your friend was able to find some kind of shelter, otherwise...”

Tears pricked at Saejima’s eyes. If only he hadn’t fallen unconscious after fighting the bear, he might have saved Baba himself. As it was - “How long has it been?” he asked. “Since you found me?”

“...You slept for a few hours after I got you back,” Okudera admitted. “But think on the bright side!” he exclaimed. “Sa- Suzuki wasn’t kidding when he said he’s fast, and he’s observant and tenacious as hell, too. There’s no one better to have looking for you if you’re in trouble on the mountain. So don’t you get all mopey on me, okay?”

“There’s also a demon bear out there, you said.”

“Uh, yeah.” Okudera raked a hand through his hair, nearly ruining the ponytail.

“It sure is dangerous up in the mountains,” Saejima said morosely.

Okudera sighed heavily. “Yeah. Shit.” A pause. He fidgeted, playing with his still half-full cup of bourbon. “Are you usually the responsible type or the impulsive type?”

“Uh... depends who I’m with,” Saejima replied. “Compared to some people I’m responsible, I guess, but plenty of folks seem to think I make dumb decisions, so-”

Okudera let out a sound of relief. “Oh, thank fuck,” he said. “So you wouldn’t stop me from going out after my hunting partner even though he told me not to?”

“...Nope.”

“Great.” Okudera slapped his knees and then rose. “I’m going after him. He might need help.” He bent back down to grab his cup, and threw back the remaining alcohol like a shot.

“Hey, Okudera-han, are you the type to stop me from taggin’ along to help my partner?”

“Ah...” Okudera paused in his flurry of activity, and his face twisted. “You really could die if you exert yourself too much right now,” he said regretfully. “Or get permanent tissue damage.”

“The booze thawed me out. You said so yourself.”

Still Okudera hesitated. “Suzuki would bite my ass off if I let you come with me,” he said at last. “He’s the responsible type through and through... most of the time. As much as I know he can handle himself, I can’t just sit on my ass while he might be facing off against that monster. But you’re another matter. I’d love to bring you with me, guns blazing and all, but it’s also true that having a novice with me will slow us way down-”

“Fine,” Saejima grunted in frustration. He didn’t like it, but Okudera was right. It was for the best, however painful, that Saejima sit here uselessly while Baba was rescued.

Okudera pulled on a blue parka and tied off the sleeves, then attached a fur cape across his shoulders with rope, the same as Suzuki had done.

“Suzuki-han said somethin’ about your back-?” Saejima broke in.

“I already took painkillers,” Okudera said. “I’ll be fine. And it’s not like your friend can possibly be as heavy as you... right?” Apprehension evident in his tone.

Saejima shook his head. “He’s a skinny guy, actually.”

“Good. That will be no problem, then.” Okudera fastened an ammo belt over his coat.

“Okay. Are you sure there ain’t anythin’ I can do to help?”

“Keep the hearth warm, I guess,” Okudera said distractedly, hopping around as he pulled on rubber boots. “Just stick some new logs in if it starts to burn too low. Oh, and you should put some proper clothes on, you’ll freeze if you stay in that dumb prison jumpsuit.”

“I don’t got a change of clothes,” Saejima said.

“You can wear some of my old stuff - in that basket.” Okudera pointed at it. “It should fit okay. By the way, I know you said you were on your best behavior, but do you have any contraband with you?”

“Contraband?”

“Like cigarettes or... other stuff. From jail. You know. Drugs.”

“Uh, I might have a few ibuprofen.

“Never mind, never mind,” Okudera said hurriedly. He straightened up and adjusted his pelt one last time before heading to the door and pulling the rifle from the upper set of hooks there. “Okay,” he said. “Wish me luck. For the bear and all, but also so that - Suzuki doesn’t get too pissed at me for disobeying orders.”

“Good luck,” Saejima said, and then with a stiff nod, Okudera was gone.

Saejima drummed his fingers on his knee. The wind whistled mournfully against the cracks of the door. Even near the fire it was a bit chilly, as he was dressed only in the thin prison uniform. He decided to get changed, as Okudera had suggested.

In the basket he was able to find a decent outfit. First thing, a pair of thick woollen socks. The black t-shirt was pretty tight and the pants were a little too short in the leg, but tucking them into the sturdy leather boots got rid of the problem just fine. Best of all, Saejima found a heavy parka with fur trim, and it was in army green - just his color. He happily slid it on, and it fit perfectly.

He started pacing the floor.

For a few minutes he walked around, examining the items hanging on the wall and stored carefully on the various shelves. He briefly picked up a book of poetry and flipped through it.

Then he ran out of self-control and walked out the door.

A helpful villager pointed him in the direction of the trailhead, and Saejima was soon heading uphill, the river rushing beside him. Snowflakes blew into his face, stinging his skin. He fumbled with the zipper on the jacket, but a few seconds made it clear that the zipper was broken. He gave up trying to close it, and began to walk faster. He couldn’t get frostbite if he wasn’t outside for long.

The wind was bitterly cold. After a few minutes Saejima’s face and neck went numb. He pulled the collar of the green parka closer around his throat and kept walking. Snow got into the top of his boots.

He was just beginning to think that maybe it was stupid to go up into the mountain completely unprepared and with no idea where he was going when he spied Okudera coming the other direction. He was hunched, and on his broad shoulders-

“Baba!” Saejima exclaimed, running harder to meet them. Baba was slung over Okudera’s back, looking frighteningly white and still. His lips were blue. “Baba! Is he-?”

“He’s alive,” Okudera said, stopping. There was a smear of blood at the corner of his mouth, above the scrubby beard. “But he’s in shit shape. And Sato’s in trouble.”

“Who?”

“Suzuki!” Okudera corrected hurriedly. “Sato is his given name. But never mind that! Now listen.” He spoke quickly. “Baba’s going to die if he doesn’t get to proper shelter fast. Really fast. So as much as I hate it, I have to be the one to take him back to the house. But Sat- Suzuki was attacked by that fucking bear and he’s holding it off for us.”

“Shit-”

“He can handle the fight, but he was injured and I’m worried about him getting back; Saejima, go find him - just follow the tracks. There isn’t anything an unarmed person can do against that thing, so don’t try to help Sato. Just don’t get in his way.”

“But you want me to help him get back?”

“Yes!” Okudera hefted Baba higher on his shoulders, and started walking sideways back towards the village. “He’s incredibly stubborn and he probably won’t want any support. But promise me you’ll at least take his arm! His side was all torn up - it looked deep-”

The frantic worry in Okudera’s voice was something Saejima was intimately familiar with, in the same way he was all too familiar with the problem of a companion who was unwilling to admit weakness or accept help.

“I promise!” Saejima said. “And - take good care of Baba-chan!”

With only a bob of the head for confirmation, Okudera turned away and headed off again. For a few seconds Saejima stood reluctantly watching him retreat into the falling snow with Baba’s body. Then Saejima turned around and set off again, following Okudera’s tracks.

After only a few more minutes of trudging through the snow, Suzuki appeared in the near distance. He was hunched in a sturdy shooting stance, and there was blood splattered all along the pelt he was wearing. As Saejima watched, a shot cracked out and an an unearthly roar emanated from somewhere beyond the haze of swirling snow, but not far enough for safety.

Suzuki split his gun open, deftly reloaded two bullets into the chambers, and in an instant had the gun braced on his shoulder, ready to shoot again.

“Suzuki-han!” Saejima called. “Suzuki-han!”

Suzuki’s attention only flickered towards Saejima for an instant, then the roar came out of the woods and Suzuki fired once more. There were parallel gashes carved in his cheek, no doubt a lucky outcome given that one swipe of a bear’s paw could take off a man’s face if he wasn’t fast enough.

“Stay back,” Suzuki said, not removing his eyes from the space between the trees where Yama-oroshi lurked just beyond eyesight. Saejima hovered anxiously behind Suzuki. The wind blew harder, and Saejima was racked with shivers he was unable to suppress.

“What are you doing here?” Suzuki said, still keeping his attention focused on the bear. “Return to the village.”

“But I promised-”

At that moment the unearthly roar came a third time, and Suzuki fired a third shot. This time Suzuki let out a short cry of triumph and stepped forward. “Ojisan is retreating! I can give chase,” he said, already starting in the direction from which the roar had emanated.

“Wait-” Saejima said desperately. “Suzuki-han, you’re already hurt and I promised Okudera-han I’d bring you back safe and sound. Can’t the bear wait?”

Suzuki wavered. “You promised?” he demanded.

Saejima nodded.

For another moment Suzuki stood still, frozen in mid-stride, gritting his teeth. Then he lowered the rifle. “Fine,” he said. “So Okudera and Baba got back okay?”

“I don’t know if they got all the way back, but they got to where I was, at least, yeah.”

“...That’s good,” Suzuki said. He eyed Saejima critically, lingering over his exposed face and neck. “Well, I guess we had better get back before you get all frostbitten again.”

Nodding, Saejima reached for Suzuki’s elbow, to support him.

As though he had been stung, Suzuki pulled his arm very far away, and fixed Saejima with a look that was at once questioning and accusatory, a how dare you?

“Okudera-han said I should help you walk...” Saejima explained.

“Tch. I’m not a senior citizen in a retirement home,” Suzuki said acerbically. “I carried your friend all the way down from the ice grove, I think I’m capable of walking on my own-” At that moment Suzuki bent double in pain and let out a cough, and a trickle of blood made its way down his chin, stark against the light grey stubble.

“Hell,” Saejima said worriedly. “You got internal bleedin’ or somethin’, Suzuki-han. We gotta get you to a doctor.”

Suzuki hissed through his teeth. “It’s not that serious,” he said jerkily. “I just-” He swayed on his feet and Saejima leapt forward to catch his arm.

“You got like this protectin’ my friend, now let me help,” Saejima insisted. “Okudera-han said you were stubborn, but if I’d known you were gonna be this stubborn I woulda conked you on the head five minutes ago so that you’d come quietly.”

“I just bit my tongue in half when I tripped over a rock while trying to keep my eye on the bear and carry your friend,” Suzuki snapped. “I don’t think I have internal bleeding.” He spat a gob of bloody saliva onto the ground, shook off Saejima’s grip once more, took a few steps back towards the village, and keeled over face-first into the snow.

Saejima rushed to his side and helped him up. This time Suzuki didn’t complain.

“Now, where are you hurt, Suzuki-han?”

With a grunt Suzuki gestured at his right side, under the ribs. Saejima stepped around to the right, and wound his arm around Suzuki’s waist on the uninjured side. Suzuki held onto Saejima’s left shoulder. Suzuki was a good fifty centimeters shorter than Saejima, so the position was awkward, but it would work. Carrying Suzuki would have been easier, but Saejima didn’t want to know how that suggestion would have gone over. The man was - independent, to put it politely.

In silence save for Suzuki’s ragged breaths, they made their way back down the mountain to the village.

Finally they reached the house. Saejima helped Suzuki up the stairs, and then slid the door open and all at once they were enveloped by the warmth of the indoors.

“Ah!” Okudera exclaimed in the tone of a very relieved grandmother. He leapt up and came rushing over to them and began to fuss over Suzuki. “Thank the fucking mountain gods! How are you doing, Sato?” he said.

There was a pause wherein Suzuki (Sato?) gave Okudera a truly icy glare.

“Ahaha!” Okudera laughed fakely. “You’re so formal, Suzuki, what does it matter if I use your given name around Saejima-san? He doesn’t care, do you, Saejima?”

“Uh, no, it’s fine,” Saejima said, gladly relinquishing the ornery Suzuki to Okudera’s care.

Saejima kicked off his boots and went to Baba’s side.

Okudera and Suzuki had begun whispering furiously by the door, but Saejima could only focus on Baba. He lay stretched out beside the fire on his back, the same heavy quilt that had kept Saejima warm pulled up to his chin. Baba’s face remained very pale, but there were spots of red on his cheeks and his lips were no longer blue. Saejima hoped it was a good sign.

“Hang in there, Baba-chan,” he muttered. “You’re safe now. You just focus on recoverin’.”

Behind him, Okudera and Suzuki had moved onto the wooden floor and were bickering about how to treat Suzuki’s wounds.

“Don’t cut the shirt,” Suzuki was saying in annoyance. “I don’t want to have to mend it again, I can get it off - fuck!” The phrase ended in a hiss of pain.

“I’ll mend it,” Okudera said, and then there was a loud ripping noise, a cry of dismay from Suzuki, and a string of grumbling.

Saejima looked over to see Suzuki sitting shirtless with Okudera dabbing at the place on his side where Yama-oroshi’s claws had raked across his ribs. It looked like some fabric and bits of fur from Suzuki’s outerwear had been embedded in the wound. Saejima grimaced and quickly looked away.

He gently took one of Baba’s frostbitten hands in his own and held it, careful not to rub against the damaged skin. For a few minutes he just sat there, trying to convey strength via telepathy into Baba’s body. It was Saejima’s fault that Baba had almost died; Baba was shorter than Saejima, so Saejima might have put him in front on the snowmobile. And after the crash, Saejima should have defeated that bear faster, saved his energy for searching for Baba -

A creak on the floorboards announced Okudera’s arrival behind Saejima. Saejima didn’t take his eyes off Baba’s face: the peaceful expression, the brush of dark eyelashes against his cheeks. Saejima couldn’t wait for him to wake up and show life, for him to smile or for his brow to furrow in thought.

“He should pull through,” Okudera said. “Suzuki found him just in time.” The last sentence was said with a little bit of pride evident in the tone, pride in his partner’s skill.

“Yeah,” Saejima said. “I don’t know how to thank you two enough. By rights you shoulda just called up Abashiri to take us back. But I’m grateful.”

“Oh, well...” Okudera said. “We don’t have a phone, so...” He laughed. Then, “Suzuki,” he called over his shoulder, moving back to his fireside cushion, “Come eat something.”

Suzuki - now wearing a black zip-up fleece that was much too big for him - came over and sat down stiffly, his mouth set tight with the sternness of a person concealing pain. “Not really hungry,” he mumbled.

“I know,” Okudera said, rubbing his shoulder. “I know. Just please eat? It’s after lunchtime. And you’ve been through a lot.”

With a grunt Suzuki shook off Okudera’s hand and bent forward to serve a small bowl of stew. Okudera sat down comfortably beside him and filled up his own bowl when Suzuki was done.

“You should eat, too, Saejima,” Okudera said around a mouthful of food. “It’s even better now. It gets more tender the longer you simmer it. Right, Sa- Suzuki?”

“Yes,” Suzuki said briefly before continuing to eat in silence.

With reluctance Saejima turned away from Baba’s prone form and faced the fire. He accepted a bowl of stew and chopsticks from Okudera.

“How’s Suzuki-han?” he asked, judging that it would be more productive to ask Okudera than Suzuki himself.

“He’s a tough bastard,” Okudera said fondly. “He’ll be fine. Right, Suzuki?”

Suzuki just grunted again.

“Though I guess he won’t be as pretty from now on-” Okudera went to wipe a thumb alongside one of the gashes on Suzuki’s cheek, but Suzuki flinched away.

“Stop it,” he hissed at Okudera.

Okudera drew away, looking hurt and offended. Suzuki turned to Saejima.

“Saejima,” he said. “You escaped from Abashiri. What were you in for?”

“He was in for assault,” Okudera said, definitely sounding annoyed.

“Oh?” Suzuki said coldly, still directing his attention at Saejima. “What kind of assault?”

“Brawlin’, I guess,” Saejima said. He couldn’t remember the details of what precisely he had agreed to get nailed on. “I got into a lotta fights on the street.”

“And what about your friend there? Baba?”

Saejima paused. “That ain’t my place to say,” he said. “I’ll just tell you that he went in young, when he was just twenty, and he wasn’t actin’ of his own volition, really.”

Unexpectedly Okudera’s face lit up. “He’s a yakuza?” he asked excitedly. “He did a hit for the yakuza, right?” He pulled excitedly on Suzuki’s sleeve. “A hit for the yakuza, Suzuki!”

Again Suzuki shook him off with a growl of frustration. “Is that supposed to be a good thing?”

Okudera deflated, but only a little. “Well, it’s interesting, because-”

“-Well, this stew sure hit the spot-” Suzuki said loudly.

“-We’re yakuza too! Or, we were.”

“For fuck’s sake!” Suzuki cried, banging his bowl down on the floor. “Okudera, what is the matter with you?”

“What’s the matter with you?” Okudera shot back. “You haven’t been this wound up for years, you’re giving me war flashbacks to when you were fucking-”

“Enough!” Suzuki said. “Enough! Fucking enough!” And then, dangerously polite, “Okudera, could we speak outside, please?” He stood up and left.

Saejima, who had been following the exchange with the enraptured bafflement of a dog at a baseball game, watched the door slide shut with a bang.

“Uh, sorry about that, Saejima,” Okudera said, rising to his feet. “The wife is being pissy again. I’d better deal with it. Let’s show each other our tattoos later, yeah?” Without waiting for an answer he followed Suzuki outside.

the end, for now

thank you for reading. please let me know what you thought, especially any questions you have - theres a lot here that is not stated overtly so im interested to know if its coming across properly. im not sure where or how far ill go with this WIP but i wrote it up because i came up with the whole thing one night while i couldnt sleep, and since it existed it would be a shame not to instantiate it in writing and throw it at some people..