#i spent so long withdrawing i cannot go back but god there are nights i want to

[adlibitur]

not to be old me on main again but

[poutyniall]

Yoongi partner ask Yoongi for a break from their relationship to focus on her mental health and Yoongi is supporting about of course but he wanted to do it together as couple

(Part 2 of distant story)

Here's part 1

At some point he took your hand and took you to the bathroom, took both of yours clothes off, put your hair up so it wouldn't get wet and gently guided you under the hot water in the shower. He softly washed and dried both of your bodies, put pajamas on and led you to the bed. And you let him.

You laid on the bed, facing each other, and spent most of the night talking till you fell in a deep, dreamless sleep.

When you open your eyes he's still there, facing you, so close you can feel the heat from his body. Without thinking you reach out your hand to brush the hair out of his eyes, letting your hand slide down to leave a light caress on his cheek. He looks so cute and ethereal when he's asleep. And that's the moment you realize you can't do this to him. You withdraw your hand and when you look up you find him looking back at you.

''Hi'' his voice is low and a little husky from sleep.

''I didn't mean to wake you'' you murmur but he smiles softly ''It's okay, I don't mind it.'' You can't look him in the eyes, you can't hold his gaze and he notices it. He sees your eyes moving around trying to look at everything but him that's why he stretches out his arm from under the duvet to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear with his fingers and then gently put his hand on your cheek, smoothing it with his thumb.

''What's going on in there, kitten?'' you glance at him for a second before looking down again.

''I think I need a break f-from us, at least until I... you kn...I...'' he freezes, thumb stops and his hand shakes lightly, but he doesn't retire it. He opens his mouth to say something but he immediately closes it. If there is something he's learnt is that if you're lucky enough to have someone opening up to you, you wait and you wait for as long as they need to gather up the courage to speak. He watches you close your eyes, take few deep breaths and swallow hard whilst he feels a little chasm starting to open in his chest.

''You know I love you, I've never loved anyone the way I love you, I love you so much that sometimes I think it's unhealthy...'' another deep breath ''...but you deserve the best, you deserve someone that can love you and give you their all and...'' another shaky breath ''...and I can't give you that right now, I can give you my all, I can't even give you the third of what you deserve and I cannot hold you back, it'd be selfish. I can't let you waste your time worrying about me and taking care of me, trying to fix the mess that I am, I don't want to be a burden.'' you really believe what you're saying and he knows it's not you talking, he knows how it feels struggling with depression, he still does it everyday in the back of his head, but it still kills him.

''You've got more important things to think about, to do... and I can't ask you to wait for me for god knows how long so I'll understand if you...'' he stops you, that's enough, he can't hold it in anymore.

''That's enough, now's your turn to listen. If that's really what you want and need I can step back and be there for you anyways while I wait for you. Because doesn't matter how long it takes, I will wait for you, love. But I want you to erase that nonsense from your brain, you are not a burden to me, you never were. And I don't want to fix you, I just want to walk with you and hold your hand while you pick up the pieces and put them back together. And if you fall or just want to stop, I'll sit next to you and wait with you till you're ready to move again. I want to take care of you, just like you've always took care of me. I need, I want you in my life. Is it going to be hard? Yeah, probably, sometimes. But we'll face it, together we're strong enough to do it. I have no doubts about that. Hey, hey...' you've started quietly sobbing while he was talking and now you're trying to cover your face ''...you don't have to hide from me, love. I won't judge, you know that.'' he tenderly swipes away your tears.

''So, what...'' you whisper, trying to understand where you are now, as a couple, what this is going to lead you.

''We're in this together, love and I won't let you go. Who's going to annoy the shit out of me otherwise?'' the laugh he managed to get out of you is the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.

[smallblip]

Don’t drink the kool-aid

Levihan | rated for mentions of sex

It’s on Ao3! https://archiveofourown.org/works/29942904

“Levi... Think of a number between one and ten-“

Hanji says, her breathing is a little ragged, but she’s looking at him excitedly, like there’s something shiny that he has to offer and she’s taking the bait, biting down. Whatever it is, he knows she isn’t going to let go. But he wishes she would-

“Really Hanji? You wanna fucking do this now?” Levi says, he looks down to where their bodies are connected. She laughs and wriggles above him, “just answer the question!”

Levi regrets letting her take control of the situation. Regrets letting her flip them over so she’s on top, promising to ride him until he’s spent and her thighs are burning.

Because right now she’s really not delivering on that promise.

Levi nods, letting her know he’s playing her little game.

She wraps an arm around her chest, another hand coming to stroke her chin. Levi sighs. He shifts uncomfortably under her.

“Seven!” She announces, like whatever shiny incentive there is is within grasp.

“No. Four...” Levi replies, watching as Hanji slumps against his chest. He can’t see her face from where it’s buried against his neck, but he knows she’s pouting.

“Idiot...”

This is how you love in this world. First you toss out the word love. You tell it to its face that Commander Erwin Smith says “love is the ultimate cult of men... A sect... A dirty ploy by the whatever god is up there to make us all vulnerable..." Erwin spits the last word in disgust. "Is that what you want? To be sheeple?”

They are having one too many drinks at the pub and Hanji is laughing her head off at whatever subconscious train of thought streams out of Erwin’s mouth. Love isn't the only thing that can render a man vulnerable. She thinks alcohol is far more practical, and yet, Erwin doesn't seem to have any complaints about it.

Levi shoots Hanji a look, a little tired, yet a little amused despite his frowning- want me to knock him out?

She shakes her head- no, this is fun!

Erwin catches them making eyes at one another and he points from Levi to Hanji, then back to Levi again. “Don’t you dare fall in love... Both of you... You’re too good for that...” Erwin says before taking another swig of whisky. Except it’s a little late in the night and Levi has already swapped it for water. Hanji wonders how long it would take for him to notice.

But it’s a little late and the alcohol settles as a blush on the bridge of Hanji’s nose, and Levi is staring at her now, a little too tender for comfort.

Hanji averts her gaze, this is far too much to deal with now. So she turns her attention back to Erwin instead, chuckling, she says “you must be fun at parties...”

Erwin wakes up the next morning with a colossal headache. “What did I say last night?” He groans at a meeting that’s really just everyone staring at one another with bloodshot eyes.

“Nothing out of the ordinary...” Hanji says, chipper through her hangover. But Erwin catches her and Levi sniggering to one another later. He wonders what the joke is.

But that’s how you talk about love in this world- you don’t. Instead, you replace it with the feeling of bandages wrapped taut over torn skin and broken bones.

“Gentle, Levi... These bones cannot take more breaking... I did the math...” Hanji is wincing and already she’s withdrawing from his touch. He chides her. If she stays still this would all go by much more painlessly. "Stay still or I’ll break your legs too..." he says, but the menace disappears behind deep concentration.

“Thank you...” she says when he’s testing the integrity of her bandages, and his heart misses a beat.

Strange how broken bones can heal themselves in time. But the dull throbbing in his heart and the wrenching in his gut don’t go away. Maybe it just means nothing’s broken. Maybe this is the feeling of life itself. Of the universe telling him hey... You're not done for yet... You've still got a lot of living to do...

After all, this is how you love in this world. First you look romance in the eye and tell it to take a walk. Tell it that it has no business in these parts of town.

Some days Levi is bestowed with the blessing of self-awareness, enough to know he has the romantic capacity of a child with a playground crush.

He kicks her under the table during a meeting, you idiot I told you this was a bad idea, he glares her down, hoping she would somehow read his mind. And somehow, whether by some sort of hallowed bond between them or sheer dumb luck, she does.

She narrows her eyes at him-

watch me.

He pulls her back by her cape, "don’t go charging into danger you idiot!" And he wants to let the sentence run on, you have to be safe, to live a long life, prove the gods wrong, but he doesn’t. Instead he purses his lips and his hand drops from her cape to her arm.

She narrows her eyes, lips pursed. Hanji has always had a rebellious streak and an untamable spirit, and it shows in the way she juts her chin out at him-

watch me.

So Levi learns to love in other ways.

He squeezes her hand before battle, like a silent prayer for deliverance. And she squeezes back, fingers lacing with his, eyes bright with determination- a promise to make it back home.

He drapes his cape around her when she falls asleep at her desk, fingers tracing the lines between her brows, and she relaxes. She dreams of fresh laundry and a small, clean cottage that smells like him. And she learns that love can be kind.

Love is tender, love is kind, love is Hanji’s fingers circling his wrist, her hand on his cheek, her arm around his shoulder. Love is her touches that ghost his forehead, down his nose- little gossamer touches; like butterflies. Like she’s trying to remember every detail before it’s too late. But it’s still early and they still have relatively long lives to lead. Whatever it is “long” means in this world.

“This is easy...” she says, ambiguous.

“What is?” he asks.

“This,” she says again, pressing a kiss to his cheek when they’re sitting in the trees, recovering from battle.

And Levi thinks it’s funny how things turned out. Neat freak, disciplined soldier, fussy little runt from the underground, trailing after a person with a penchant for the macabre and little capacity for decorum. Like two opposite poles of a magnet, pulled together by forces unknown.

He remembers joining the Corps and meeting Hanji Zoë, and thinking he doesn’t want anything to do with her. But somehow along the way she has crawled under his skin, sinking into the chambers of his heart, made a home out of him.

They’re lined up on their horses behind the gates, and Erwin is saying something about freedom, about the cause, about fighting and spirit and bravery. Hanji turns to him in the middle of it all, and Levi braces himself. What's it going to be this time? A joke about sheeple? A comment about the flowers beyond the walls?

“Levi, think of a number between one and ten!” She says, and his instinctive reaction is to roll his eyes. But he nods anyway, crease between his brows relaxing when he watches her smile.

“Five!”

“Three...”

“No way!” She kicks herself. She had been so sure she’d get it right. After all, in the years that have gone by they learn to trust one another, lean on one another. She translates his words with clarity and he tells her how she’s really feeling past her burying herself in work. No matter. The gates are opening and Levi watches her eyes light up in wonder. She looks at him one last time before they ride beyond the gates, and Levi knows what that look means-

this is my favourite part.

He smiles back at her-

mine too.

And Levi thinks he had spoken too soon about not wanting anything to do with Hanji Zoë. Because now he looks for her in the battlefield, he needs to know she’s alright. And every single goddamn time, he finds her looking for him too. And it hits him like a brick, because this is how you love in this world. Levi stares love down from across the room, pocket knife drawn by his side, he tells it to go fuck itself. But the thing about love- it has always had a rebellious streak, and an untamable spirit. It makes its way under your skin and builds a little home for itself nestled within arteries, heartstrings, and skin upon skin upon skin-

First, comes the tentative touches. Like a deer peeking past the trees in the forest. Hanji laughs too much, and it makes his heart beat out of his chest, but it also throws him off. “Stop laughing!” He snarls, but that only makes her laugh harder.

“Don’t look so scared Levi...” she says.

Levi scoffs. He wants to tell her he isn’t scared. But there’s never a point in lying to Hanji. The fact that they’re so transparent to one another proves inconvenient at junctures like these. He tries to think of something else- anything else. But it shows on his face, and she’s giggling again.

It shouldn’t be this difficult. He’s too old for this degree of imprecision. It shouldn’t be difficult at all- first you undress your partner, then yourself, and then everything will fall into place.

Now they’re both stark naked, and Levi can see the goosebumps rising on her skin. He knows he’s supposed to do more than stare at her face. But-

Her hand finds his and she presses their palms together, fingers intertwined, we’re okay. You ready?

And that’s how they love in this world. That’s their signal- palm against palm, fingers laced, a little squeeze- ready? Go! There’s no turning back now.

Sometimes it’s the feeling of fingers digging so deep they bruise, of hair-pulling, of teeth scraping against flesh- a reminder that affection and pain are lovers.

In these times, kisses taste like blood. It’s unclear whose blood it is- only that they all taste the same at the end of the day- like rust and iron and the earth. And Levi doesn’t want to dwell on the details lest it distracts from the way her hands slide under his shirt, the way she guides them to the bed. He wants to comment on how the sheets are ruined beyond salvation, but Hanji doesn’t let him. Oh well. It’s nothing a little soap and a hot iron can’t solve.

Her hands seek his out, and she places them on her neck. I want it harder, every time, that means I want it harder. And Levi gives.

Next comes a reckoning that's something short of divine.

“When are we going to admit we love each other and move on?” Levi asks after, hands stilling on Hanji’s sides, just below her chest.

Don’t stop... she guides his fingers to stroke her skin again, and he does, tracing each bump and raise, each a testimony to survival, feeling the rise and fall of her ribs.

“That would be too easy now wouldn’t it?” She grins sleepily at him.

And love is anything but easy in this world, so why should it make an exception for them?

“My mother once told me to really reel a man in, you gotta slip through his fingers, let him give chase a little...” Hanji chuckles, eyebrows wagging.

Levi scoffs.

“An old geezer at the pub once told me if you know how to give a woman an orgasm, she’s yours forever...” And Levi almost regrets saying this. He doesn’t know why he says most of anything he says. But the words come easy, sloppily when he’s with Hanji. And Hanji never seems to mind, armed with a repository of equally horrific things to say.

“I mean... He’s not wrong...” she shrugs, and Levi thinks maybe this is as good a declaration of love as he’s going to get. He wonders if he’d be alright with this if they weren’t poking a stick at death all the time. Then again, he has fallen in love with a person born with a stick in her hands. So maybe it comes as a package deal.

Levi scowls at her and pinches her nose, “disgusting...”

But she does slip through his fingers a little, returning to him an eye short, a new title gained, and a fog in her lungs that makes it hard to breathe. Levi feels a dull ache in his heart that doesn't go away. This time he's certain that something's broken.

He kicks a chair towards her and sits her down, "you have to rest you idiot. You barely eat, you haven’t slept."

She narrows her eyes at him, “there’s no time, Levi... There are things I have to do...”

Already she’s getting up, but Levi grabs her arm and glowers at her wordlessly, one day you’re going to drop dead and we’ll all have a dead fucking commander on top of every other fucking inconvenience we’ve been dealt.

And Hanji shoots him a look. The one that says watch me do everything you told me not to do. But her expression softens when she sees the anxiety in his eyes. Because she recognises the look on his face- she had worn the same concern when she had found him after Isabelle and Farlan passed. The same look every time they return from beyond the walls. And she regrets pushing him away. She hates it with every fibre of her being. So she squeezes his hand before she leaves, I’ll be alright...

He squeezes back.

And that’s how you love in this world. You take whatever instinct there is to keep your lover from danger, to drag her kicking and screaming from the frontlines. To tell her to stop being petulant and sit this one out. Instead, all Levi manages is a- “don’t you dare go running off playing hero again Hanji! You hear me? Don’t you fucking dare,” when they’re alone again in her quarters, two naked bodies lying by candlelight.

And she grins at him, the nerve, the audacity. She actually grins at him.

“Hey Levi, think of a number between one and ten...” she says, and he really doesn’t want her to change the topic. He wants her to promise him. To swear on everything good that’s left in this world that she’ll be safe. But it’s also too late to pretend he isn’t going to play along.

“Ten?” She guesses.

“Five...” he smiles.

Hanji smiles back, “still got it!”

And he kisses her like it's the first time. He always kisses her like it's the first time. Soft, lingering, like a drizzle in the middle of Summer, like raindrops clinging to skin. She smiles at him when they pull apart-

this is my favourite part.

He smiles back at her-

mine too.

↭

And Hanji thinks it's truly ridiculous. It's a scandal really. Erwin was right. This is mind-control of the highest and most elegant order. Whatever this feeling is, it has possessed her to build an alter from stick and stone and stitches over torn skin.

A little commune for two in the forest.

Levi’s hand is in hers, but she faces away from him. She doesn’t want to see him like this. Not when it manifests an ache in her heart that she doesn't quite know how to nurse. How will they recover from this?

“When are we going to admit we love each other and move on?” Hanji asks absentmindedly. She thinks it’s alright to bend the rules of this world a little. It's okay to talk about love, to give a name to the horror that plagues them. Because whatever conspiracy this whole love business is pedaling, she thinks it’s pretty goddamn convincing, and they might as well admit it.

But they’ve gone so long without having to use words, and Levi doesn’t want to jinx it-

“That would be too easy now wouldn’t it?”

And this is how you love in this world, romance comes in unexpected forms. It's been so long since they've been alone like this. And Hanji dreams of fresh laundry and a small, clean cottage that smells like him. She hopes to god Levi sees it too- and he does. He sees it every time he looks at her. But he settles for the next best option. He takes whatever words left unsaid and hoards them into a stockpile of recurring motifs that are proxy for affection-

"Four eyes... I'm thinking of a number between one and ten..." Levi manages through the pain, and he knows it's all worth it because he gets to watch that smile spread across her face.

"Two?" She says, only a little above a whisper.

"One... You're getting closer..." He says, like a prophecy, because immediately, she closes the gap between them and presses a kiss to his forehead, then to the corner of his lips. She lays down next to him and he musters all the strength in the world to push a stray strand of hair from her face. Like the lifting of a veil-

this is my favourite part.

She smiles back at him-

mine too.

↭

Wall Maria has been breached. The day is breaking and soon everything will spiral out of hand. But for now, it’s still dusk and the sun has barely made its way past the horizon. There’s something so rare and sacred about this moment that it feels surreal.

Levi can’t remember the first part of the conversation. They must have been talking about something stupid. They always are. But the next part falls into place so beautifully that it has to be premeditated somehow. Maybe Erwin was right. This is all some sort of grand scheme, a cult of wonder.

“Don’t tell me you’re in love with me, four eyes...”

“What a ridiculous notion...” Hanji replies with a scoff and a little chuckle. Because this is how you love in this world. You look love in the face and think, oh god no, really? Of all the people in this world, him? But love is tender, love is kind, love is Levi holding onto the belt around her waist as she tip-toes across a short ledge so she doesn’t fall.

“Me? In love with you?” She continues, throwing her head back to laugh. Her arms are out, she’s getting pretty good at keeping balance. But Levi’s hand is still there regardless.

Levi clicks his tongue, “idiot...”

It’s good that they don’t speak of love. After all, this is as far as love goes in this world- the swell in Levi’s chest and all the words left unsaid, translated into a curated repertoire of looks and touches. A hand on the small of her back means I’ve got you.

And god is it inconvenient to love in a world like theirs. It’ll inevitably end in heartbreak, and Levi doesn’t enjoy being a cliché in a tragedy. He hears Erwin’s voice echoing in his head, “don’t fall in love... Just don’t...”

But he looks at Hanji, his lips curve into a smile when she looks back at him grinning. It’s just a moment, but Levi recognises the look, and Hanji sees it too in the glint of his eyes.

Her hand in his says we’re in this together, a squeeze says it’ll all be alright. And a look of determination tells the rest of the world to take a walk.

In this world, they tell you not to fall in love. It's a recipe for disaster. Like cyanide in a Styrofoam cup.

But Hanji kisses him, and she looks at him like he has something shiny to offer, like he’s slipping it into her pockets. There’s a look in her eyes and Levi knows exactly what it means-

watch me.

[martykatewrites]

The Mummy: Chptr 3 The White Skies of the Desert

Early the next morning, she found Ardeth-Bey sitting at the table eating breakfast. When she sat down, he poured her a cup of coffee and pushed the basket of flatbread towards her.

"Eat," he commanded and took another strip of lamp from a platter and took a bite. She shook her head, having no desire for anything but coffee.

He looked at her, studying her, "I saw your father this morning carrying a strong box. I told him 'good morning' but either he did not hear me or he did not know I was here."

"You mean he seemed preoccupied, don't you? I told him good night and he acted as if I wasn't even there. Today's the day we pay the workers, I wonder if he carried their wages?" She paused, then said, "I am going to call the bank and ask if he made the withdrawal, if not, I must do it for the workers must be paid."

"I think that is wise," he said as she got up from the table, "I am afraid your father is not himself."

She dialed the number of their bank and Luxor and asked if the month's withdrawal had been made. "I see," she said, "I will be in there shortly and do it myself. My father has obvously forgotten." She hung up the phone then put her hands over her eyes as she began to cry.

He left his seat and put his arm around her waist. "I am sorry this is happening," he said, "I want you to know I will do everything I can to help."

"I have to go to the bank and get the money. I cannot believe Father did this to his workers. I must make sure that things are packed up and ready to be delivered to the museum. The tents must be taken down and the equipment readied for storage until the next season. And I must see if Father is sincere regarding this mad scheme to transport part of the artifacts by camel, if it is true he must have taken leave of his senses."

"I will meet you at the site and try to find out from the workers what is going on." Ardeth tried to soothe her, "They may be willing to tell me things they would not say to you for one reason or another. If we are truly meant follow through with this madness, I will find us some good camels and supplies. The first half of the journey we will be mostly on our own, there are several small towns after that where we can acquire what we need. Please do not worry, it will be all right."

She allowed herself a quick bath, then dressed and drove the truck she kept in Luxor to the bank. She was half afraid that her father may have withdrawn their funds—for whatever reason she did not know—but the account contained not only the workers' wages, but the bonuses they handed out at the end of every season.

She took a felucca to the opposite bank and allowed one of the camel drivers to escort her to Deir El Medina. For a small fee, and food and drink, he was willing to wait for her and escort her back to the landing where she would return to Luxor.

Her father had returned to Deir El Medina and seemed his old self, slightly surprised that he had forgotten the workmen's wages, but laughing it off, saying he must be going soft in the head. And of course, he knew that if he had forgotten, he could depend on her to remember for him.

This disturbed her but she said nothing. She supervised the final packing, the load she would take with Ardeth remaining in a small supply tent. She paid the workers, making sure that each received his bonus, and asked them if they would be willing to come back the next digging season. Though some seemed apprehensive, most were more than eager for the professor would pay them better than any other archaeologist. Carter-Bey provided work but his wages were stingy, they would rather work for the professor.

Ardeth-Bey rode up, leading four sturdy and well-fed camels. "We can load them up today and I will leave them with my father overnight. He is willing to tarry for one day, but the valley is barren and the herds need to be fed. You must be ready to leave tomorrow morning—I will come and fetch you. He is also willing to supply us with enough food to make it through the desert. We can fill the waterskins and hopefully they will supply us with enough water."

"Tell your father 'thank you', or better still, I will tell him myself tomorrow. That is very kind of him."

"He is worried, he feels that this is not good. He admires your father and wonders why he does this. He is sending word out to the tribes to let them know we are coming. If any Bedouin are in the area they will be on the lookout for us."

"Ardeth, is it true that your people claim they are descended from the Medjay?'

He laughed, breaking the tension, "There are some who like to tell that story. If so that would make us rather ruthless and cruel, don't you think? After all, we guarded the village to keep the inhabitants from stealing from the pharaoh's grave goods. No, and you should know this, we are more Arab than Egyptian now, with maybe a little Turkish and Greek thrown in. If we were the Medjay, it was a very long time ago."

She did not sleep well that night. Nightmares haunted her sleep with images of the old Egyptian gods, long-dead pharaohs, and monsters. Taking a bath helped refresh her, somewhat, and it would be the last she'd have for a while she reminded herself.

She was finishing her breakfast when Busa led Ardeth into the room.

"Did you eat well?" he asked, "I want to cover as many miles as we can before the weather gets too hot." He peered closely at her, "You did not sleep well?"

"No, I did not," she would not tell him why, "But it is probably because I am uneasy about this. We probably should have left last night while the air was still cool. I will sleep after we stop—if not, please make sure I do not fall off my camel."

Some of the Medjay—how funny it was that they named themselves after the guards of the Valley—were waiting for them at the site of her father's camp. Her father was supervising the loading of the pack camels they would use, his truck had been loaded the night before.

She could hear Ardeth and his father arguing about the folly of the trip to Minya through the desert, she was surprised to hear Ardeth defending it. The necessity of protecting her was the priority, he told his father, it was only the first part that would be hazardous, but he had heard that there might be Bedouin roaming in area so if they needed trouble there would be help.

Sandstorm season was a month away, Ardeth argued, their route would follow the Nile and if one did occur there were caves and old tombs in the cliffs that they could take refuge in. The camels could be brought in, too, so their would be no danger of losing them.

She agreed with Ardeth's father, this trip was folly. Something must have possessed her father for had he been in his right mind he never would have suggested it.

He came over to her and hugged her, "Be careful daughter, don't let the camels out of your sight. I am sure that Ardeth Bey will protect you. I will see you when you arrive in Cairo." He kissed the top of her blond head and went to his car.

"How is he?" Ardeth asked her.

"I don't know," she replied, "He is acting too normal and it bothers me. For once I am eager to leave the village. Let us travel as far as we can in the heat, then make the camp—I could certainly use some sleep."

"Well, the camels are packed and loaded with supplies. The goatskin tent I brought will be easy for two people to assemble and give us some progection from the heat during the day. My father brought along a generous supply of food, some dried lamb and dates, along with lots of bread that we must eat before it grows stale or moldy. The water skins are full and placed where we will have easy access. Is there anything else you need?"

"I was hoping to make one last trip to the village before we left but there is no time. Let us leave, Ardeth, if I linger too long here I will lose my courage."

The pack camels were tied to their saddles. Roma had long ago learned how to make the camel kneel so she could mount and had learned how to ride them like a Bedouin. She would have preferred taking horses, but these "ships of the desert" were better suited to their needs and she had long ago learned to tolerate their cantankerous natures.

The sun had already started its ascent into the clear blue sky of the desert. The day would grow from hot to unbearably hot in a few hours. She cursed herself for making such a slow start, hoping that they could at least make their way past the valleys of the kings and queens before they halted.

The relentless sun was growing hotter and even Ardeth, son of the desert that he was, decided he wished to go no further. "There is not much to shelter us here," he said apologetically, "But let us pitch the tent and try to get some sleep through the hottest part of the day. When the sun begins to go down it will start to cool a little."

She would have objected, she felt as if eyes were watching her back but she was tired from lack of sleep and needed to rest. They pitched the tent, a curious affair of black goatskin and a little awning to provide shelter for cooking and allowed the camels a bit of shade.

Though it was hot, she collapsed on her cot without the precaution of drinking water first and woke with a terrible thirst. She got up, careful not to wake Ardeth, and found of of the waterskins and drank deeply.

It was so hot now that the sky seemed to have lost its blue color and turned a ghostly white. She was familiar with this phenomenon having spent a good deal of time in the desert herself, but it never failed to catch her off guard. Now it seemed like an evil omen to her, like a sign that nothing good would come of what she was trying to do. The desert would win and she would lose and whatever it was that the baggage hid on the camel, the evil it carried would doom her.

"What are you doing?" asked Ardeth and she held up the waterskin, "I was thirsty, I forgot to drink before I lay down."

"That was my fault," he took the container from her and replaced it on the camel, "I should have made sure that you did. Come inside and rest, it will be some time before we leave in the evening."

She didn't move but stared at the ghostly white sky, "Do you something is going to happen to us, something bad, I mean?"

"Of course not, why are you letting your imagination run away with you? I could hide you safely in the desert for weeks and no one would find you and that is what I will do if I have to. Come inside and rest, you are anxious for your father, that is all."

She lay down once more and went back to sleep, a deep sleep empty of dreams. She did not see Ardeth watching her, not falling asleep himself until he was sure she was all right.

[in-tua-deep]

Excuse! You cannot just say this: (there’s a heartbreaking moment where Five thinks that because Ben had Klaus back he’s going to kick Five out which they both hug it out over), and then not elaborate.

(ben saves the day au: post one, post two)

here’s the thing: Ben knows how to handle Five. Sort of. 

Funnily enough dealing with 58-year-old Five in a 13-year-old body is actually remarkably similar to dealing with actually-13-year-old Five, not that Ben would ever say as much within Five’s hearing because he quite likes being alive, thanks. 

The thing is, despite what some of their other siblings would say, Five is not selfish. If he even thinks something is for his sake, then he runs the other way or puffs up like a kitten trying to be intimidating. Five rarely does anything with himself in mind, as much as that breaks Ben’s heart.

So Ben tells Five that he was lonely with no human company. He tells Five that he likes cooking and that it’s nice to have someone else to cook for. He tells Five he doesn’t have anyone else to argue over physics in the morning while brushing his teeth. He tells Five he missed reading nights and having someone to pester about the characters in whatever series he’s currently consuming.

So Ben probably shouldn’t have been surprised by the impending disaster that starts brewing when Klaus pops up like an impossibility and moves in with them.

(He’s still surprised though, because he thought he’d shown that he loves Five. That he wants Five around. But Five walks around like he’s expecting his family to drop him like a hot coal, like he’s expecting to be hated and thrown out and abandoned. 

One day, in the future, they’ll have a fight over this. They’ll yell and scream and there will be tears and then when Ben has Five bundled up in his arms in the fiercest hug possible he’ll ask Five why.

Ben doesn’t actually know who the Handler is, or even if she’s still alive, but she better hope she never crosses paths with vengeful big brother Ben.)

Ben knows that Five is fifty eight. He knows Five spent something like four decades surviving in an apocalypse with his only company a mannequin he treats like a real person. He knows Five ate cockroaches and almost starved to death a dozen times. He knows Five was scooped up and told his escape was conditional. He knows Five was an assassin, that his brother killed countless people in his quest to finally get home and save his family.

Five is broken, with jagged edges and wary eyes. 

They’d been making progress. They’d been making progress. And Ben will never regret Klaus showing up, Klaus being alive, and getting that second chance. But he does wish that Klaus showing up hadn’t caused a backslide with Five.

(Ironically, Klaus is much less fragile than Five. He’s been dead for something like thirteen years, following his siblings around and dipping into the afterlife to pester God before dipping out again. 

Turns out ghosts aren’t interested in other ghosts, only people who are alive who can see them. Klaus got a reprieve, got a breather, and got sober. He hated not being able to talk to his siblings, hated that they grieved him, longed to touch them, to hug them - but even dead he still had powers. Such as being able to slip between lingering and the afterlife.

When he was tired and exhausted and hurting, he’d slip into the afterlife and argue his case for being alive again with a little girl who was getting really tired of Klaus being able to find her no matter where she was. He’d go hang out with a squad of Vietnam soldiers who were achingly young for having died such violent deaths. They’d all ruffle Klaus’s hair and regale him with war stories before he goes back to shadowing his siblings.

Klaus knows he should be grateful that God finally listened to him, finally restored him, finally let him touch his siblings and speak to them and tell them how much he loves them and didn’t blame them and - 

He just wishes he could have had both his family and his friends. 

It’s not fair.)

Ben is distracted, because Klaus is back and it’s so unexpected and there’s so much to do to prepare. Of course Klaus is staying with them, because Ben says so and because he loves Klaus.

Except to Five it looks like he’s being replaced. Which is silly, because Five is their brother, too, right? Except out of the two children who vanished and miraculously came back, Klaus is clearly the better option. He’s older, he smiles more, he makes Ben laugh. Everyone seems to tear up and draw Klaus into a hug and babble at him that they were so glad he was back, that he was alive. 

(Five can’t help but remember that only Ben and Vanya had seemed to miss him. The others all had lukewarm reactions to his return, didn’t seem to really care. No one cried because he came back. 

Admittedly, no one witnessed his ‘death’ - for all they knew he’d just run away. All but Vanya - and Five - had witnessed Klaus’s death, bloody and terrible and traumatizing. They’d held grief in their chests, blamed themselves where they never had for Five. It made sense. 

It didn’t make the uneasy feeling in Five’s stomach any less strong.)

Five hates the fact that he’s jealous. Hates it because he’s also glad Klaus is back, he also gripped Klaus’s elbow tight and wouldn’t let go for hours when he’d first woken up to realize that yes, Klaus was there and alive. Five loves Klaus like everyone loves Klaus - Klaus is exceptionally easy to love.

(Five is not.)

So Klaus comes back, and suddenly Five realizes that all of those reasons Ben gave Five to justify Five coming to live with him? Klaus can fulfill all of those. Five isn’t needed. So he starts to withdraw, and Ben doesn’t notice because he’s distracted.

And it all finally comes to a head with Five packing his things (just a few changes of clothes, his toothbrush, as much food as he can stuff in there from his hoard stash, and Dolores) and heading out to hike to Vanya’s place. Because logically if he’s being replaced with Ben, he needs somewhere else to stay and Vanya is the only other sibling who he can think who he would want to house him.

(If Vanya won’t take him, that’s fine. He spent decades in the apocalypse - spending five on the streets until he’s officially ‘old enough’ to get his own place is nothing. But he’s going to leave before he can be kicked out, because he’s not sure he could take that rejection.)

Except when he finally arrives, Vanya is on the phone and looking frantic and when she sets eyes on him her body sways with relief. “It’s okay,” She says into the phone, voice shaking just slightly, “He’s here. He just walked in the door. Yeah. Of course. I’ll see you in a minute.”

She hangs up the phone and turns fully to Five who is standing there looking confused as she puts her hands on her hips and takes a deep breath. “What,” She says, pausing to take another deep breath, “Do you think you are doing.”

Five shifts, his grip on Dolores tightening. He’s a grown ass man and Vanya’s tone shouldn’t be making him feel like a scolded child. “I need - you said when I went to live with Ben that if it didn’t work out I could stay with you.”

“I did say that, yes.” Vanya says, nodding without her eyes leaving Five’s face. 

Five shifts again, “I’m? Cashing in?”

“Why - you know what? Don’t answer that.” Vanya pinches the bridge of her nose and takes another deep breath. “Go sit on the couch, Five. I’m going to make us some tea before Ben arrives.”

“Ben’s at work.” Five says slowly as he shuffles in the direction of the couch. 

“He was.” Vanya clarifies, “Until Klaus called him saying that he couldn’t find you anywhere and that you’d vanished while he was taking a nap and that Dolores was gone.”

Five looks down at Dolores in his grip, suddenly feeling a little guilty and not quite knowing why. “He didn’t have to leave work. I made it here okay.”

“That’s not the point, Five.” Vanya says, voice sharp and cold. It makes Five flinch slightly. But before he can even ask, she’s turning on her heel and opening cabinets to pull down some cups and the kettle. She clearly considers the conversation over, and even though Five bristles at being treated like a child he also doesn’t want to hear Vanya use that tone again, so. 

Silence falls between them until there’s loud footsteps in the hall and the door is being flung open and there’s Ben, in scrubs and gasping in air like he’s just run a marathon. His eyes find Five and he’s breathing “Thank god” as he strides forward and grabs Five and - 

Pulls Five into a crushing hug. 

“I was so worried.” Ben whispers where his face is pressed against Five’s hair, arms strong and firm and warm. Without his permission, Five’s eyes start tearing up and he doesn’t even know why. 

(It has something to do with the fact that he hadn’t really thought that Ben would care that he’d left. He had Klaus now, after all - and Klaus was a much better brother than Five was.)

And then Ben withdraws (Five pretends he doesn’t mourn the loss) and holds Five at arms length, “What were you thinking!” He exclaims, “You can’t just run off like that!”

And Five’s knees go weak, and suddenly he comprehends why exactly Vanya is angry and why Ben was worried. He’d vanished again, like he had back then. He hadn’t even thought about it - he’d known that he was just on his way to Vanya’s house after all. He’d known he wasn’t vanishing. But his family clearly hadn’t known. 

“I wasn’t running off.” Five says, because it’s important they know that. Vanya leaned against a counter with a cup of tea looking unimpressed. “I wasn’t. I was just coming to Vanya’s. I should’ve left a note or something I just - ” Thought Ben wouldn’t care.

Ben takes in the bag, takes in Dolores, looks over his shoulder at a grim looking Vanya and then back to Five. “Why were you coming to Vanya’s?” He asks, looking soft and wounded all at once. He’s already put the pieces together, but he wants to hear it from Five.

“It’s okay.” Five assures Ben, “I get it, don’t worry. Klaus is - he’s a kid and I’m not. He needs you. It’s okay, I don’t mind moving out. It’s fine.”

“Five,” Ben chokes out, and there are tears in his eyes and Five can’t help the panic that goes through him because he can’t handle people crying. He made Ben cry, he’s the worst person in the world. “Five, why on earth would you move out?”

Five hesitates. “You don’t need me anymore. You have Klaus to keep you company.”

“Of course I need you.” Ben says, like he can’t imagine why Five would think anything else. “Five, just because I want Klaus around doesn’t mean I don’t want you around. It doesn’t work like that. Love isn’t - it isn’t some kind of pie that gets divided between everyone, and loving Klaus doesn’t mean I love you any less. I love both of you.”

“Oh.” There really isn’t much Five can say to that, is there? He can’t help the stinging behind his eyes and the tears that are suddenly spilling down his cheeks as something shatters in his chest, like ice breaking as spring comes. 

Ben reels Five back in for a firm hug, and Five winds his arms around Ben and clutches at him like if he lets go Ben will disappear. 

“Come home, Five.” Ben breathes, soft and pleading, “Please.”

“Okay,” Five sobs against Ben’s shirt, “Okay.”

[ollie-ollie-oxenfreee]

reverie

The empire siblings have a chat about notebooks, feelings, weird smut and memories.

It takes a while for you to get up the courage to talk to her. Quite a while. You’ve spent the last hour pacing and fidgeting and giving Frumpkin half-hearted speeches about why this is a terrible idea, you should very much not do it and you are going to return to your book now, thank you very much. The cat - little instigator that he is - blocks off this method of avoidance halfway through your latest monologue by hopping up onto your desk, curling up into a ball on the worn cover of your spellbook, giving you a pointed look and shutting his eyes.

“That - that is very unfair,” you protest, waving a hand indignantly. A wave of sly mischievousness floods your bond in response. Problem solved, it seems to say, rumbling with a soundless, satisfied purr.

You hover in the doorway a moment longer, wondering faintly how your own familiar could have betrayed you like this, before another mental nudge - like the tap of a paw against your shoulder - pushes you forward a step. Go. You’ll be just fine.

“I will be just fine,” you repeat, soft, like a mantra. Like the prayers the clerics whisper on the battlefield. “I will be fine. She has been my - my traveling companion for some time now. I can share things with her if I so choose.”

You close your hand around the tiny, precious journal in your pocket, take a deep breath and knock three times on Beauregard’s door.

A grumbled, sleepy “the fuck?,” then silence.

You come so close to taking the gods-granted opportunity to run back down the hallway and escape into your room before steeling yourself and knocking again. One, two, three. Clean and measured and precise.

“Door’s open, Jessie. You don’t have to knock.” “No - nein, Jester is not - Jester is downstairs.”

A pause. A shuffle of quiet footsteps. You flinch back a bit as the door swings open, revealing a thoroughly rumpled Beauregard. She blinks at you for a moment, her expression softening just a fraction as she takes in your obvious unease. “You okay?”

“More or less.”

“You’ve gotta know by now that I’m gonna call bullshit on that.”

“That may be wise.”

She raises an eyebrow and gestures for you to continue.

“I, ah, I have something that I would like to discuss with you. Something of some importance.”

“‘Of some importance?’ So like, quest stuff?”

You swallow thickly, shake your head. “No, not exactly. Nothing quite so urgent. Memories. Of my past… education.. Since you were so open as to share your history, I thought it was only right to unveil a bit more of mine. Is that something you would be comfortable -”

To your faint shock she nods immediately, opening the door a crack for you to step through. “Yeah, yeah, absolutely. Do you want Nott to be here for this, or -”

“No, no, she is with Yeza.”

“Alright.” She knows you well enough by now not to push. Thank Ioun for small miracles. “You can sit wherever,” she says, gesturing widely around the room as she flops back on her bed. You instinctively scan the unfamiliar space as you hover in the threshold - Jester’s art desk, covered in paint splotches and far too realistically rendered genitalia; Beauregard’s teetering stack of books, their blue leather spines stamped with the Cobalt Soul insignia; an expensive half-melted candle spilling warm yellow light across the floor and filling the air with the scent of sugar and flowers. You spot a rickety wooden chair in the far shadowed corner of the room and make for it before Beau rolls her eyes - not unkindly - and pats the foot of the bed.

“C’mon, Widogast. We’re gonna be adults about this. Gonna have feelings out in the open.”

“Is that what makes one an adult where you come from?”

“Yeah. Real important milestone.”

“In that case, I had not realized we were still traveling with a child. It puts so much in perspective.”

“Get over here and sit your ass down already.” You smile wryly in spite of yourself and do as she says, inching over to perch on the very edge of the soft pile of blankets.

“So,” she says after a moment of painfully awkward silence. “Feelings.”

“Yes.”

“Any in particular you’ve been feelin’?”

“Quite a few.”

“Can you be a little more specific than that?” She lifts one bandaged hand to jab you gently in the shoulder. “Show me what the important thing is. Lay it on me.”

I will be just fine. I will be just fine. I trust her. Nerve slipping away bit by tenuous bit, you reach into your coat pocket and withdraw your journal. It looks so innocent, laying there on the bed. Its oiled leather cover dark as coal against the starched white blankets, its ragged pages translucent in the pale light. Just as damnably unassuming as it’s always been.

You clear your throat thickly, finding the words. “Has Nott told you about my notebook? My, ah, other notebook. I would just like to gauge how much you know. Before we take this deep dive into ‘feelings.’”

She nods. “One night after you went to bed. Back at that open bar place in Zadash. Didn’t tell me what it was or what’s in it, just that you had a ‘secret book.’ Then Jester asked if it was porn and the conversation kinda stopped.”

You smile ruefully. “That is about what I expected, I suppose. It is not porn. To everyone’s great disappointment, I’m sure.”

“Yours included?”

“Mine included. I imagine I’d have to be much less secretive if it were.”

“That depends, man. Who knows what kind of weird shit you’re into.” She pauses and hums a bit, thinking. “Do you think wizard sex is like, a thing? Like Essek or whoever uses his arcane powers to bone down? Are people into that?”

This rampant train of thought startles a laugh out of you. “I cannot say that I have much knowledge of wizard sex, but I don’t doubt that there are some. Jester seems to be an expert on this sort of thing - perhaps you should ask her?”

You don’t miss the tiny, wistful smile that ghosts across her face at the name. “Yeah. Maybe she’d know. Anyway -” She shakes herself out of the daydream with a roll of her shoulders and fixes you with a pointed if not unkind look. “Back to feelings.”

“Back to feelings.” You pick the notebook up and ruffle gently through the pages, the flood of memories crashing over you as it always does. The sketches, the notes, the scraps of paper and snippets of old books, the coffee stains and ink splashes. Closing your eyes, you find your way to the proper page. The drawing of both of them.

“These were my - well, I suppose they were more than friends. We studied together. This was Astrid -” you trace your finger over the sketchy rendering of the girl, standing proud and tall with her nightingale on her shoulder, that familiar crinkle to the corner of her eyes. “She was always the ambitious one. Brighter than any of us. She made her mission to learn everything the world had to offer. Nothing was ever out of her reach. Once, when she learned that our other friend and I hadn’t learned to dance, she spent the rest of the night teaching us how. I would not have known how to waltz if not for her. That and - many other things.” Your scars pulse dully, and a tiny flicker of flame dances across your fingertips before guttering into a wisp of smoke. No. No bad memories now. This is not the time.

“What happened to her?”

“That I am not sure of. I haven’t heard from her since - since things went wrong. I can only hope that she found her way out intact. She deserves that much.” You sigh, trace your still gently smouldering fingertip along the worn out page. “She had a wicked sense of humor as well, you know. Coarse as a sailor, and clever. She’d figure out what made you tick, what made you laugh, within moments of knowing you. Always was good at reading people. And Eodwulf -'' you look at the drawing of the young man beside her, tall and strong, that little smile on his face - “he was kind. Big and tough and strong, but so kind. Gentlest soul I knew for quite some time. He told us stories about his farm back in Blumenthal, his little garden. How he’d tend the plants every day and make sure they reached the sun.”

“So he was kinda like Cad?”

“I suppose he was. He was good. I miss them both very much.”

She reaches a hand out and rests it with surprising gentleness on your shoulder. “Yeah, I get that. They sound like they were good.” She pauses for a moment. “You know that you didn’t deserve the shit you went through, right? None of you did. If you can think of them as being nice kids who were manipulated by a fucked up monster, you can think of yourself that way too.”

“I was not a nice kid, Beauregard.”

“Doesn’t change anything. No kid deserves to be treated like that.”

“Would you say the same for yourself?”

The silence is heavy for a long, long moment. “If I did, would you try? Make it a part of our hold - each - other - accountable deal?” She lifts the hand off of your shoulder and holds it out for you to shake on it.

You take a deep breath and take her hand in your own. “I will try.”

She nods, just a little, and gives a proper businessman’s handshake. “Alright. Cool.”

“Cool.” Still holding her hand, you give it a little squeeze. “You did deserve better than the way your father treated you, Beauregard. He was a dick, and he was wrong. You deserved a family that loved you as you were. And our little group, I believe you may have one.”

“Thanks, Caleb,” she says at last, her eyes watery as she smiles at you and pops you gently on the shoulder.

“Of course.”

The two of you sit like that for a while, watching as the moonlight filters in narrow silver bars through the window, and for the first time in a long, long time, your mind is quiet.

[bellwetherspromise]

apastron I

Mylinel,

In a month’s time I will convince him to come home with me to Silvermoon. Please prepare the red room for him and tell Kellarin that he must behave. We will not stay long, I suspect that if he goes through with this it will take a single night.

I know that you think I am foolish, Mylinel. I refuse to produce an heir, I am not our mother--nor do I have the skills to be a mother. Perhaps that is why it was always the men of our family that the Infinite chose. It allowed father, his father, and so on to be distant enough that it could all continue.

Most of all, I do not want to die. And so, I have to find another way. To preserve myself. To expand. Our father thought it was possible, you know that, mother failed. But he is not our mother. I still believe in our father’s theory, and if it holds true, he could be an architect. 

I was never anxious to take your birthright. If it is true and his capacity is at where I think it is, we may one day establish coconsciousness. Together we could build new solutions.

Please believe me when I say that if I could take you with me-- I would. 

Love, Your sister

The last month of her life was a blur, occurring all at once as though it were laid on top of one another. Each night she spent with Zelphryin in her flat, she became more intertwined. Every step toward her end goal filled her stomach with butterflies. 

In the sitting room of Shol’Shar manor, Mirin laid across a chaise. Surrounded by her brother and grandmother. It had taken all of twenty minutes for Kellarin, the youngest of them to provoke Zelphryin into going to her father’s observatory. “Open it, Mirinia,” Amonrath urged her, she was but a teenager. They stood in front of the gate, four puzzles that changed depending on who solved it. A test only the wielder of the Infinite could pass. 

“This foolish, Mirin,” Kellarin said, leaned against the wall. Mylinel, her twin brother, looked up from his book. “Do shut up, Kell. She knows what she is doing,” he said. 

Mirin twisted uncomfortably on the chair. “He is through the first gate.”

Then the second. Then the third. 

She took off up the stairs in as close to a run as she got, up and into the room. Barely getting the door open, she saw him standing in front of the final gate. An unassuming door with the brand on her chest pulsating. “If you go through, there is no undoing it,” she said. By then, he was mad with power-- too gone to stop. She did not want him to stop. 

When he opened the door, a rush hit her that was unlike any drug man could grow or make. She swore that she saw the future.

[TW: Blood, Death, Mild Gore]  Two Weeks Later

Later when she tried to recall the events that lead up to Anathemia’s death, it was while Zelphryin mending a massive bruise on her temple. She could recall the way her wrist snapped when she cast Know Pain on Anathemia’s mind. And she remember vividly the way Lunastus took up Eilithe’s blades and drove them through Ana’s back. 

But most of all, she recalled the blindly rage that drove her to plunge her dagger into Anathemia’s chest. It boiled in her like a foreign virus--this rage, had not been her own. 

"When the fighting started..she said..Finally. And I cannot shake the thought that she wanted to die because her God had abandoned her," her voice cracked and she quieted herself. "You are disappointed...irritated," she finally got out. "Because she is dead or because I killed her?"

“Neither.” 

Back at the Shol’Shar Estate

Whatever they found in the Infinite was theirs and for them alone. Against her better judgement, Zelphryin had persuaded her to stay for the gala her grandmother was hosting. All to welcome Lord Soir Emberblaze back to Quel’thalas, after all the tragedy he had known in his life. 

When she came down the stairs, on Zelphryin’s arm-- dressed to match him. Quietly, she’d introduced the families that gathered before parting from his side. Zelphryin blended into her worldlike a streak of red, vibrant-- but not out of place in the picture. 

“I hadn’t expected you to be here.” The voice was so familiar, it haunted her ear. When she turned, however briefly, she did not see Soir-- she saw him. 

“It was my mother’s,” he said, clasping the necklace that fit close around Mirin’s neck. Castiel Emberblaze was a handsome Quel’dorei, with hair that was dark red--almost mahogany. He wore it pulled back neatly, always. “It’s beautiful,” Mirin said.

“Lady Mirinia,” Soir said low, in a raspy unkind voice. “Apologies, I did not hear you. What did you say?” She said, pulling back to reality-- or at least what she thought reality was. “I said it is beautiful. May I see it?” He gestured to the bracelet around her wrist, one given by Kellarin the day before. “Oh..yes, it was a gift,” she said, holding up her wrist. He grabbed it a bit to hard, “A gift? From who? Don’t tell me you’ve finally taken another suitor.” 

Mirin lied steadily, “From Lord An’Diel. Though I wouldn’t be so bold as to call him a suitor.” Soir squeezed her wrist, just enough that the diamonds pressed into her wrist. “The foreigner? How open-minded. You know, Mirinia-- I have not seen you since his death. Not even at the funeral.”

"Lord Emberblaze~ I presume?  We have never met, but I have looked so forward to making your acquaintance,” Zelphryin’s voice was welcomed in that moment. 

When Zelphryin brought himself around, Emberblaze had slipped his hand from Mirin's wrist down so that it looked like he was taking her fingers in greet. "It is good to see you again, Mirinia," he spoke, kissing her knuckles.

"Soir," she said, curtly before withdrawing her hand back to her side. "Lord Zelphryin An'Diel is my guest-- this is Soir Emberblaze. You'll both do just fine on your own, won't you?" Mirin dipped her head to Soir, and he bowed just slightly as she left to go and enter with Ann to make a speech.

Only once she was around the corner and into the back hall did she press her back against the wall and inhale a shaking breath. She covered the brand on her chest that pulsated with magic. 

His voice unnaturally hoarse on her ear, he wasn’t there-- not really. But his breath, rancid and moved her hair when he spoke. “A man arrives at a party, one he is out of place in. He does not know it yet, but he will end a man’s life before the sun has a chance to set again.”

@kurel-andiel​ @revthepunchbear​ (for anathemia) 

[katcadecascade]

Owl Be Here

Qrow Branwen does bird shenanigans at five in the morning. James and Clover suffer. 

Ao3

James was honest when he said it was good to see Qrow again. He missed his oldest friend, missed their banter and how Qrow would be the first to push against his logic, force James to rethink his less than sound plans.

It was nice to have Qrow and his kids in Atlas. He missed having real company who weren’t suits or soldiers.

Although, he could do without the bird fights in four in the morning.

Gods, James hasn’t dealt with this in years and yet it feels utterly normal to be awakening to the noise of what can only be described as a screaming death match. He recognizes the high pitch squalls of Qrow, too loud to forget.

So for the first time in a long while, James leaves his warm bed in search for the source of the commotion. His apartment is located far too close to his office to anyone’s liking so it’s a short walk from here to the apex of the dormitories.

There’s a main lobby and lounge area with access to the outside courtyard where James spies a crow and an owl roaring at each other.

Yep, that’s his closest friend alright.

James spends who knows how long sighing at the open doorway, thinking about closing it just to muffle out the two birds. This is by far the most effective alarm clock, albeit rather annoying but he knows Qrow’s not doing this to annoy him.

It doesn’t change the fact that James is annoyed though. He doubts he’s alone on that since this is the school dorms so he hopes Qrow will finish his argument with his nocturnal enemy.

Mindlessly he wonders which niece of the shapeshifter will snap awake first. He bets it will be Yang who convinces Qrow to stop while Ruby throws something at him.

But his guesses are wrong when it Clover who joins him on this not so quiet night.

“Sir, what,” the captain yawns and trudges over to see the broken symphony of screeches. “What is going on? It’s too early for whatever this is.”

“Tell that to Qrow.”

“Huh?”

“That’s Qrow up there, screaming at that owl.”

It was refreshing to see Clover out of uniform and in sweatpants and an academy standard muscle tank. The fuzzy socks are a nice touch.

According to his wide eyed staring the captain is shocked to catch his general in a similar state. Perhaps his silken robes are a tad surprise. It is practically the only thing James pampers himself with.

Sleepiness falls away from Clover as he processes the situation. The high branches of a courtyard tree are the stage for the opera of a crow and an owl. That may sound whimsical or majestic but trust James when he describes it as the most annoying thing to wake up to.

It’s a real shame that he’s used to this crow shit.

Clover, new to the bird shenanigans, asks the logical question, “Should we stop him?”

The first time James interrupted Qrow’s spiel, he made the impulsive and rude decision to fire his pistol in the air. Whether he spent a minute debating on aiming at either bird is a lapse in judgment James will keep to himself.

That resulted in both birds targeting James in the classic, enemy of my enemy is my friend tactic.

“If you’re eager to get pecked and clawed at, by all means go ahead Captain Ebi.”

It must be the lack of sleep that has Clover disregarding the chain of command to glare the general.

Clover steps passed him and made his way to the base of the tree. He yells up, “Qrow, please stop!”

James scoffs at the pleasantries. Qrow would always takes please as a challenge to further play up his antics. That and Qrow just loves to mess with James by getting a straight-laced man like him arguing with a bird. Glynda thought James as insane before Qrow revealed his magic trick.

Honestly that was more embarrassing than that time when James mistaken a regular bird as Qrow. That memory was more depressing than humiliating since it happened weeks after the Fall of Beacon.

He had really hoped Qrow visited him.

Any amusement left in James mellows out to curiosity as he watches Clover take up the mantle of persuading Qrow and the owl to shut up. Maybe Clover has better ways of words than James since eventually the owl flies off.

Qrow’s still in the tree. He flaps his wings in agitation and caws again.

“Qrow it is four in the morning,” Clover complained.

“Five,” James corrects as he studies the remaining stars above and the phase of the moon fragment.

He continues without missing a beat, “It is five in the morning! Get down here right now, please.”

Another fluttering of wings and then the crow glides down. He ignores Clover’s offered arm to land on his brown hair.

Yep that’s the Qrow James had missed.

“Clover,” James cocked his head a bit, gesturing for him to follow.

Carefully, the man walks with his general all the while balancing a bird on his head. Qrow squirmed around, shaping the strands into a fitting nest as James lead them to the closest communal kitchen. That just happened to be the one linked to the dorm assigned to Teams RWBY and JNOR.

This definitely promises coffee machines.

Almost instinctively, James goes through the motions of preparing three mugs of coffee. The beginning smells of it has Qrow shifting back into his human body, just as James predicted from the countless morning they did this.

And if memory serves, Qrow might not be entirely as human as he appears.

“So,” James politely begins like he always did, setting the mugs at the table, “what happened?”

A series of squawks and trills are the answer, along with Qrow dramatically waving his arms around like he still has wings.

James nods in key moments, letting Qrow rant in a language that, justified, he quite cannot comprehend.

Next to him, Clover is jaw slacken and can’t form a single thought as he bears witness to James and Qrow seemingly having a normal conversation over coffee.

Despite the obvious fact there are no pronounce-able words in the human tongue, of course.

“Wow that owl really said that to you?” James queried, a little dully but Qrow’s not going to call him out.

In fact the shapeshifter takes it as genuine, too caught up in his anger as he recounts the argument with the owl. Probably, James is just guessing but he’s had practice on reading Qrow’s body language.

There’s still that hunch in his spine, straighten up in his fury as more violent squawks leave his vocal chords. James once berated Qrow for such posture but that man never listened. He has to note that there is a difference in his stature since arriving with the kids.

Stress and grief always hung upon Qrow’s shoulders, mirroring James, but lately there has been less tension. This is likely the results of the kids’ influence. James can attest to that, finding relief and comfort in the children’s optimism.

Yet he can’t help but be pleasantly surprised by Qrow’s other source of happiness.

As arrogant as it sounds, James takes credit and pride for setting Clover in Qrow’s path. It’s about time one of his plans goes accordingly.

On a strategic perspective, both huntsmen are skilled fighters with styles that complement each other in the field. That’s proven correct from the success their mission reports.

But on a personal level and as their friend, James had high hopes the two of them would get along.

Both have their own grief and tragedies and struggles regarding the concept of partners, something James himself can also relate to. Qrow’s team was a story of fire constantly dying and reigniting while Clover’s lack of partner is a fable of the ocean’s tides claiming and withdrawing without a second thought.

An empty space of a partner is something they both want to fill back up, whether either would admit that or not. So James took it upon himself to appoint their team set.

Their unique semblances on the other hand are something he cannot speak for. That is private conversation for Qrow and Clover alone, James will not dare to interfere further on that matter.

He’ll just have to trust that whatever bond is growing between Qrow and Clover will be good for the both of them. It can grow from the heat of battle or the chill morning like right now where Qrow is currently far too nuzzled in his bird habits.

He focuses more into the bitter taste of coffee, enjoying its slowness compared to the rapid talk of Qrow’s trills. While he’s goes off about how much of an asshole the owl was, James notices Clover trying to get his attention through painfully confused facial expressions.

James hides a smile with his mug.

Subtly, something that Qrow won’t bother to care about, James shrugs in a way to show that this is pretty normal.

Clover still gives Qrow a concerned and baffled frown as more squawks are uttered.

A sort of cooing noise emits from Qrow’s throat. James flickers his eyes back to the bird man, crossed arm and waiting for his response.

Lying through his teeth, something that will for sure impress or anger Robyn Hill, James speaks with great certainty that he has been paying attention, “Yes, Qrow, I completely agree with you.”

Qrow nods in approval and this sets him off to rattle out more coos and clicks.

Meanwhile Clover stares dubiously at James, takes a long gulp of his coffee, and does a little shake of his head. A small sigh of defeat and resignation leaves the man.

Good, it’s best to accept this all.

Of all the insane things that could happen, having a conversation with a shapeshift still speaking as his namesake is a blessing compared to anything else Ozpin had a hand in.

Still, to Qrow this is a normal conversation so at some point in James turning off his brain to just drown out his mug, Clover is prompted to speak.

“Um,” he blinks owlishly with an uncertain smile, “I think…”

His teal eyes dart around, seeking help but James is ignoring them, closed eyed but the tiniest of amused smiles is there. Clover nearly wants to kick him underneath the table but no Clover can handle this.

Still, having Qrow’s red eyes peer into him expectedly is a bit nerve wracking.

Beautiful and bright, Clover admits but it’s not the time or the place what with only one cup of coffee in his system.

“I think,” he continues, a slight hesitance in his tone, “that um.” Well he could always fall back on one thing, “I think that you’re absolutely amazing. That owl has nothing on you.”

Apparently that is the right thing to say. Clover could kiss his lucky pin when Qrow blushes and does a low coo. Maybe it’s a deflection, Clover has no idea but it doesn’t appear so as Qrow  continues his clicks and caws.  

Then finally, Qrow takes a sip from his coffee and as if he hasn’t been speaking in chirps and clicks, complains, “That ratty flying piece of roadkill better not show his awful peak here again or I will bring down the full force of Harbinger on that fucker.”

His two companions nod in agreement, James’ was a bit lazier and tired while Clover’s was kind of jerky and surprised.

It’s so nice to have pleasant company in the morning.

[himluv]

The Meadow

Riallan and Solas find each other in the Fade after he banishes her nightmare for the first time. Comes directly after Dreamer.

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Riallan said. She sat on the bank of the creek that cut through the meadow of her clan’s favorite camping spot. They always spent summer outside Wycome, enjoying the cool mountain breezes that cut through the valley’s humidity.

Solas sat beside her, legs crossed beneath him. “I had intended not to,” he said.

She tilted her head and rested back against her hands. “What made you change your mind?”

He pursed his lips as he thought of how best to answer her. “You were… difficult to ignore.”

Riallan smiled at that. “I’m glad to hear that,” she said, then frowned.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. It’s just… I don’t feel like myself right now.” She shook her head.

“Ah.”

“Does that make sense?” If this conversation were happening in the real world she’d be blushing and stammering, but sitting on the bank of a creek she hadn’t seen in almost a year Riallan felt no self doubt, no needling anxiety pouring over her every action.

“I should have warned you,” Solas said.

“Warned me?”

“The Fade blurs the line between feeling and thought. They often bleed together and it can be difficult to tell one's emotions from reality. It is reactive, in this case to your will, since I am visiting your dream.” He paused and tilted his head to consider her. “Why? How are you feeling?”

“Calm,” she said at once. “Confident. In control.”

He laughed, soft and true. She understood then what he meant about the Fade. She had never seen Solas so free with his expressions or laughter as he was sitting with her beside the creek just then.

He picked up a smooth stone and skipped it across the water. She watched it go, fascinated with the detail of her dream. “It’s so real,” she murmured.

“Perhaps because it is,” he said. “In its own way.”

“We’ll both remember this when we wake up?”

He nodded. “While it may have started as a normal dream, I am sustaining it so that we might talk. We are as lucid as if we were awake.”

Riallan looked around, taking in the details of the trees that surrounded the meadow, the warmth of the mud under her palms where the sun had shone down upon it. She could smell rabbit cooking somewhere behind them, where her clan would have camped if this were really summer in the Free Marches.

“This is amazing, Solas.”

He inclined his head. “Thank you, lethallan, but I cannot take credit for the setting. This is all of your creation.” He looked around and smiled. “It seems you have quite the attention to detail.”

“I guess I just didn’t want to forget it,” she said.

He watched her for a moment, then said, “you miss them.”

She sighed. “Very much.”

“Why did you leave?”

She drew a line in the bank with her index finger. “Maela said it would be good for me. That I should see the world before my whole world became the clan.”

“You are the First, yes?”

She looked up at him and, as usual, was surprised by the intensity of his gaze. In the waking world she was always shocked to find his eyes on her when she felt there were a million more interesting things he could look at. In the Fade his gaze was even more focused.

“Yes. I’ve known since I was seven that I would someday be the Keeper of Clan Lavellan.”

He frowned. “Isn’t that young? I thought only mages could be Keepers.”

“You’re right, but my power manifested the summer of my seventh year.” She glanced back toward the camp. “It was in this meadow actually, during a storm.” She shrugged. “Anyway, Deshanna wanted me to go to the Conclave. She said I was the only one she trusted with such a task, but I think she was testing me.”

“How so?”

“I think she wanted me to be sure I understood what I would be giving up if I became Keeper. That I would defend my people from the world instead of being a part of it.”

“And here you are, defending the world.” He smiled, but it was sad at the corners.

She chuckled. “She knows how important knowledge is to me.” Riallan smiled. “She called me ‘dirthalen’.” She looked down at where she dragged her finger through the mud.

“Knowledge-seeker,” he said.

“That’s why I chose Dirthamen, you know.” She looked at him and her stomach clenched at the interest in his gaze. “My vallaslin isn’t just a promise to the God of Secrets,” she said. “It’s a vow. That I’ll never stop searching for who we were. Where we came from. It’s a promise to myself.”

Solas froze beside her, but before she could comment he relaxed, leaning back into his palms to mimic her posture. Her eyes followed the long lines of his body, not for the first time appreciating the lithe physicality he exuded.

“And? Did you pass your Keeper’s test?”

She ran a hand through her hair and sighed. “I don’t know. But even if I did, I won’t be going home until the Breach is closed and this Elder One is defeated.” She smirked, trying to cover the worry she felt deep in her chest. “That’s assuming I survive the whole ordeal.”

“You are surrounded by passionate, devoted, and powerful people. Your companions will not let you come to harm.”

The conviction in his voice made her look at him. The warmth of his gaze held her captive, made her want to reach out, to brush a fingertip along his jaw. Creators but she was so painfully lonely. And suddenly being in the Fade made it so much worse.

Here was this man, all long lines and subtle strength, with so much knowledge and passion for learning, and he was promising that he would protect her. That he would help her however he could. Her longing in that moment was so strong she could practically taste it on her tongue.

Riallan opened her mouth to speak, even as her mind balked at what she was about to propose, but Solas looked away from her and even in the Fade, she lost her courage.

He tilted his head, as if listening for something. “We should go,” he said.

She sat up. “What? Already?”

He smiled at her, so much broader than he ever had in their waking lives. “Time is an illusion in the Fade. We spoke the whole night through. It is just after dawn.”

She sighed. “Josephine will be knocking on my door if I don’t make an appearance soon.” She glanced at him then quickly looked away. “Can we do this again sometime? I… I like talking with you.”

He didn’t answer right away and the long moment of silence filled her dread. She had finally done it, crossed that invisible boundary he’d put up around himself and now he would withdraw from her. She’d be more alone than ever.

Then he said, “I enjoy speaking with you too.” He was quiet, the words barely more than a murmur, but they were sweet music to her ears.

She smiled at him as she felt the dream around her melt away. “I’ll see you soon, lethallin.”

The last thing she saw as the meadow went dark around them was his smile.

[aviatrickss]

a fic about bruce throwing that batarang into jason's throat in utrh would be nice, we never got to see the aftermath of it! and if alfred found out it could be really cool to see his reaction!

ANON I’M LOVE YOU!!!! (sorry there wasn’t really any Alfred, my mind kind of ran away with me on this one)  I could write a whole essay about this moment and how it could have gone down, but instead have this lil fic about how Bruce really really really should have gone to therapy :)

TW: panic attacks (based on my own experiences), violence

The thing about panic attacks is that they don’t change.

A panic attack is not a drug or alcohol or anything you can build a tolerance to.  A panic attack is not swimming or riding a bike or something that can be learned.  Every time is like the first, as lungs stutter and thoughts run together and your heart beats a staccato, frantic rhythm.  

Bruce Wayne knows this.  He knows it because he was nine and had to withdraw from school for the first time because he couldn’t hear a door slam without breaking out into tears.  He knows it because he was fourteen and storming out of Leslie Thompkins’ clinic because I don’t need therapy I’m not broken only to be stopped dead in his tracks by the sound of gunfire down the street.  He knows it because he was nineteen and Zatara rubbed circles in his back and told him that no one handles their first drowning very well and the sound of pearls hitting water kept echoing in his ears.  He knows it because he was twenty-two and Ra’s al Ghul shoved a sword into his shoulder and snarled that he had to be better but he couldn’t catch his breath and oh God, he wanted to be better.

But this, Bruce thinks, as the ground tilts under his feet and his eyes narrow in on the gun gun gungungun, this is the same and yet so much worse.

Jason’s voice (so different from when he last heard it the way he read books out loud at the kitchen counter the school musical when he was twelve) sounds distorted in his ears or maybe it’s the rain outside and Jason(‘s hands are curled around the gun the gun that’s pressed against the Joker’s head and dull black metal glints as the hammer cocks back and he hates guns he hates them) says, “You have to decide- it’s him or me!”

The Joker (the gun) is laughing and some part of Bruce’s mind is (the gun) thinking back to the darkest of days, when he couldn’t sleep because (the gun) he was trying to think of a plan, something, anything to get Jason back.  I would do anything - how many times had he whispered those words to a silent glass case, an empty domino mask glaring down at him?

And now (the gun) the universe seems to be laughing alongside the clown.

Would you do this?  Would you do this?

“Jason,” he manages to say, softly (because Jason has always scared easier than his other boys because this is Jason who he lost and mourned and failed because this is Jason, his son).

“Decide!” 

Bruce will never fully remember what happens next.  No matter how many nights he spends hunched over his desk, pulling at his hair, straining until his head feels like it’s going to explode, he will never remember entirely except that it’s his fault.  It’s his fault and he can’t even hold himself accountable because all he has are snapshots, moments frozen in time forever because little Brucie Wayne never got over his trauma and his brain goes into a meltdown when he sees that gungungun in his dead son’s hand.

This is Jason, bigger than he remembers but blurred almost to the point of anonymity because even in Bruce’s memory there is only the gun, black and hateful and a finger tightening on the trigger.  

This is the Joker, laughing even as blood streams down his face, even as the gun jams into his temple, and why, why did his mind latch onto this memory when so much of the rest is a wash?  How can he devote any more gray matter to the man who murdered Jason (his son his son)?  How can he?

This is Batman, the boogeyman that Bruce built on the bare bones of what happened in Crime Alley until he had someone who could protect (him) Gotham from ever being hurt again.  This is Batman who spent years and years and so much of his soul to learn how to react faster, to overcome what the mind and body cannot, to stifle Bruce Wayne because sometimes he couldn’t do what needed to be done.

This is the batarang, polished metal and deadly razor edges, cutting through the air in a fraction of a second to end (gungungun) the (no that’s Jason that’s JASON) threat.

This is Bruce Wayne, breathless and choking and losing his mind because none of this is right, he would do anything, that’s his son that’s his SON and there is no way to break to the surface there is no way to get this right because Jason is red-raw pain that burns so bright hurts so bad and he needs Bruce he needs his dad but there’s a (the gun) he has a (the gun) Bruce cannot get past the (the gun) and that’s what he needs Batman for but Batman is-

One batarang, flying through the air.

(This is Bruce Wayne’s family falling down in front of him and there’s nothing he can do.)

There is a timer clicking down to zero.  There is an explosion.

(He thinks he tried to cover Jason.  If he prayed, if he was the sort of man who could pray, he would spend the rest of his nights on his knees praying that he had tried to save Jason.)

Somehow, in the rubble, in the dust and ash, he finds his lungs again.  His vision clears and the deafness brought on by the blast somehow clears his mind.  He is himself again and it’s too late it’s too late it’s too late.

“Master Bruce?” Alfred’s voice somehow breaks through the silence and how long has it been anyway?  “Sir, a bomb just went off at your location.  Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Batman says.  “I’m fine, I’m…”

He starts moving through the rubble because ohgod Jason was in the building with him.  Jason was in the building with him and a bomb went off and someone had hurt Jason and that someone wore a black gauntlet threw with inhuman accuracy didn’t know that he would do anything.

(This is the Red Hood, nineteen days later, with a gun in his hand and a scar wrapped around his throat from the person who loves him most.)

[seriouslyblacklikemysoul]

Someone to Stay - Sirius Black x Reader

I have been away... All I ask is your forgiveness and I cannot tell you how much I love you all. This is not a request. It just came to me... in a dream, really. It’s a tad sad and not exactly like my previous works but we are all growing up... This felt like a more personal experience and so... you will be the judges. Around 2k words. So, thank you for never losing your faith in me. Take care.  MASTERLIST

"I want a real love. The kind of love where you ring me just because you miss my voice, where I get to hold your hand when we are walking down the street, just to show everyone that you’re mine, where I can hold you so tight at night that I can feel your heartbeat. I want the cliché kisses at the top of mountains, at red lights, but also the sleepy morning kisses when we both have bad breath. I want to explore the world with you by my side, but I also want to make grocery trips so fun that we forget the one thing we came for. I want to pick flowers for you, sing with you and share my food with you after you said you weren’t hungry. I would like to take you home to meet my family if I had one - I want to become a part of yours. I want to know the person you are with your friends, the person you used to be and the one you want to become. I want to sit down with you so we can work our problems out because we know we have something that is too good to lose. I want to know what you want your life to look like in ten or twenty years. I want to support you and grow with you so that we can build that future together. I want a real love, Sirius... This... this is not. God, it's not healthy. It's poison, Sirius". He did not dare to look at her, for she was right. He did love her, he did. The problem was that he was never taught how to love -he had never seen it, felt it or witnessed it. Everything hurt and felt black, oh, what an irony. She let a breath out, hid her face in her hands, tangled her fingers in her hair and looked at him. "And yet somehow, every time you kiss me I feel like it's the only time I am actually breathing... I have never known home, and with you... Goddamn it, Siri. You are my home, have been. Will be. Help me, please" she mouthed, frightened to her very core that she would lose him. 

Being with Sirius was easy, difficult, beautifully tragic and catastrophically perfect - and she knew it. What they had... it didn't feel like they were lovers, more like soulmates. And it was magical. Ever since their worlds had collided, it was painfully obvious to everybody that they would not, could not be friends. Something in their eyes made even the coldest of heart believe again. It was strange the way he loved her; a sidelong and almost casual love, as if loving her was simply a matter of course, too natural to mention and at the same time it suffocated her making her believe that she was the problem. A problem to what? It felt like a drug, once she tried it, she always craved more while being fully aware of its consequences. It was a race she could not win.She loved him. But he didn’t know how to love. He could talk about love. He could see love and feel love. But he couldn’t give love. He could make love. But he couldn’t make promises. She had desperately wanted his promises. She wanted his heart, knew she couldn’t have it so she took what she could get. Temporary bliss. Passionate highs and lows. Withdrawal and manipulation. He only stayed long enough to take what he needed and keep moving. If he stopped moving, he would self-destruct. If he stopped wandering, he would have to face himself. He chose to stay in the dark where he couldn’t see. If he exposed himself and the sun came out, he’d see his shadow. He was deathly afraid of his shadow. She saw his shadow, loved it, understood it. Saw potential in it. She thought her love would change him. He pushed and he pulled, tested boundaries, thinking she would never leave. He knew he was hurting her, but didn’t know how to share anything but pain. He was only comfortable in chaos. Claiming souls before they could claim him. Her love, her body, she had given to him and he’d taken with such feigned sincerity, absorbing every drop of her. His dark heart concealed. She’d let him enter her spirit and stroke her soul where everything is love and sensation and surrender. Wide open, exposed to deception. It had never occurred to her that this desire was not love. It was blinding the way she wanted him. She couldn’t see what was really happening, only what she wanted to happen. She suspected that he would always seek to minimize the risk of being split open, his secrets revealed. He valued his soul's privacy far more than he valued the intimacy of sincere connection so he kept his distance at any and all costs. Intimacy would lead to his undoing—in his mind, an irrational and indulgent mistake. When she discovered his indiscretions, she threw love in his face and beat him with it. Somewhere deep down, in her labyrinth, her intricacy, the darkest part of her soul, she relished the mayhem. She felt a sense of privilege for having such passion in her life. He stirred her core. The place she dared not enter. The place she could not stir for herself. But something wasn’t right. His eyes were cold and dark. His energy, unaffected. He laughed at her and her antics told her she was a mess. Frantic, she looked for love hiding in his eyes, in his face, in his stance, and she found nothing but disdain. And her heart stopped. "It was never meant for us, was it?" she softly said. He moved fast and cupped her cheeks just to kiss her like he never did before.  "I am sorry. I don't think I know how to love. My broken family never taught me" he whispered against her lips. She had thought that her heart had stopped, but she was wrong. It just did.  "There is no such thing as a “broken family.” Family is family, and is not determined by marriage certificates, divorce papers, and adoption documents. Families are made in the heart. The only time family becomes null is when those ties in the heart are cut. If you cut those ties, those people are not your family. If you make those ties, those people are your family. And if you hate those ties, those people will still be your family because whatever you hate will always be with you. Maybe it's not the Blacks, maybe it's the Potters. But that is not an excuse, Sirius. I am sorry". "There is something between us. Always will be. You can't deny that" he said as he saw that she was finally letting go, slipping away from him.  "And I won't. However, I am slowly learning that some people are not good for me, no matter how much I love them. I deserve someone who is gentle and kind, because my soul is getting tired. Realizing that I deserve something good is one of the first steps. I love you Sirius. Like the moon loves the sun, but honey, just like those two, we can and will not be together. Loving you was a privilege. Take care, Siri. Live a worthy life. I will miss you. Deeply".  The single greatest thing about love, in their experience, was the way it was doomed to pain and loss from its onset. There was no escaping that most solemn of inevitabilities. That two people could commit themselves to all this sadness and heartache in the name of such brief happiness, the warm touch of familiar skin, the unrivalled pleasantness in waking up beside the same person she spent the entire night with in her dreams, was all the proof she needed that insanity existed, and it was fucking beautiful. She hadn't realized that James had crept in to her room nor that he had shut down next to her, having the familiar knowing face, until he said things, she never expected him to say. "Just because someone hurts you doesn’t mean you can simply stop loving them. It’s not a person’s actions that hurt the most. It’s the love. If there was no love attached to the action, the pain would be a little easier to bear. People aren’t always what you want them to be. Sometimes they disappoint you or let you down, but you have to give them a chance first. You can’t just meet someone and expect them to be everything you’re looking for and then be angry when they’re not every hope and aspiration you projected onto them. It’s foolish to believe that someone will be what you imagine them to be. And sometimes, when you give them a chance, they turn out to be better than you imagined. Different, but better". She didn't pay attention to him after that, nor the fact that her heart was aching for him. She tried to understand everything... Tried to understand why was love grabbing blindly at a pit full of snakes and waited to feel the only heel among the rows of all the venomous teeth... 

"You could rattle the stars,“ she whispered. “You could do anything, if only you dared. And deep down, you know it, too. That’s what scares you most... I love you and always will. I will never un-love you. And I will always be here for you, my dark star” she whispered. He felt tears in his eyes... trying to escape.

It felt bittersweet... It was a perfect Christmas Eve, snowflakes landing on his black hair, silver like his eyes. The school felt more home than it ever did before. And yet in the middle of all the carol-singing, the trees and the fire burning bright back at Gryffindor’s common room, she felt as cold as the fragile windows of Ravenclaw’s Tower. For all her cleverness and all his boldness, they both felt utterly weak. It wasn’t healthy, they knew that... going back and forth, wasn’t great either.  She took in the beauty surrounding them. How marvelous the Castle looked, how soft and tender was the wind, how breathtaking he was. And made the most difficult decision of her life, so far.  “I am never going to leave you. I will always be here whenever you need me. And I will wait for you to love yourself, so I can love you too, without making us feel like we are swallowing broken glass. I will wait. As long as it takes”, she said a bit more sure than she would ever be, and tiptoed to kiss him as gentle as a feather. 

@kapolisradomthoughts @nadinissavage @geeksareunique  @fandom-rpblog @evyiione

[thesickpanda]

Where is My Mind?

Stress can make you feel like you're going crazy.

I cannot emphasize this enough. Long-term, persistent and intense stress well above your baseline levels can make you feel like you're losing your mind.

Life is stressful and when I think back to when the intense periods of stress started in mine it gets a bit ridiculous because I grew up in a domestically violent household with severely mentally ill parents in a country on the brink of civil war with one of the highest crime rates in the world. So I have been kinda stressed for a very long time. However, in more recent months, the level of acute stress I've been experiencing has made me feel disconnected from reality. I've experienced derealisation a number of times due to Lyrica withdrawal and accidental cannabis highs. But this one is different. The depersonalisation I’ve been experiencing is from pure, unrelenting stress. I really did question my sanity more than once.

 In July, I saw my psychologist to describe this feeling to her. She very helpfully drew a diagram which explained the neuroscience of why we feel this way when we've experienced high levels of stress for a long time. It was really helpful to see that because it reassured me that what I was feeling was, as much as this can be said, "normal", given the amount of strain I was under. But the stress hasn’t let up since then and I have been well above my baseline for much too long.

 Long story short, I haven't really recovered since my family visited me last year. 2018 was a year from hell. 2019 hasn’t been much better but for different reasons. Basically, the hardships I’ve endured being the leader of a non-profit all these years reached critical mass and finally, at long last, broke me. After 8 years of pouring all my heart, soul and every last spoon I had into it, I quit last month…and to very little fanfare at that. 3 people turned up for our final meeting, and only because we needed to hand them the organization’s physical assets. We had a little unplanned dinner out and that was that.

I'm grateful to the handful of people who have reassured me they will continue its legacy beyond my departure, genuinely I am, but overall I think I stayed in that position at least a year longer than I should have. I feel incredibly jaded and cynical about the whole thing.

 And I’m sorry if this offends anyone, but screw Sydney’s activists. The vast majority of them can barely call themselves that. I have never been in such an apathetic, vain, self-centered and lazy city when it comes to political activism. This migrant has had enough of trying to get Australians to care about their own issues. (And yeah, the people I handed the non-profit over to? Also migrants).

It is telling that the final meeting was also the night before we moved house (because we always had to wrap our own lives around the goings on of that organisation, not the other way around, which is another major reason we quit). So after an hour and a half’s drive into the city, we had to get home late to get up early the next day to start that fun process.

 But I am getting ahead of myself. Before we ever got to moving day, we first had to find a house. If you haven’t done it before, let me tell you, the process of house hunting on a tight budget in a hostile market is disgustingly stressful.

We were looking from June. The property market in Sydney is unbelievably expensive and even though it experienced a so-called "correction" for a year, (meaning that house prices stabilized instead of continuing to rise), that ended just as we entered into the property hunt. I am extremely grateful that we got the house we did at the price we did, but my God, getting to that point nearly killed me. I keep explaining to people that it felt as if my partner and I ran full blast over broken glass to the edge of a dock, leapt several metres and grabbed onto the barnacles of a departing ship by our fingernails. I really do think we may have been among the last millennials that got on that “property” ship, and it was only because, at long last, we had help from my partner's extremely wealthy parents. After shaming us for a decade for not being able to afford impossible house prices (“ok boomer…”), he finally relented and helped us out. Again, I'm grateful, but also disgusted that this is the world we live in. Housing should be a human right and we shouldn't have this intergenerational greed and infighting over something so basic. Forgive my inner socialist. 

Finding the house was only the first part of the equation; moving into it was the next step.

 The moving process was incredibly arduous. At the time we should have been packing up the house, my partner's work decided to send him interstate for business on multiple occasions. By the time moving day came round, we were not ready and we couldn't afford to pay removalists. We enlisted the help of two amazing friends and Joe's brother-in-law. Again, super grateful that I had their help, but my God, was it intense. It took the better part of four days to move everything. We had to pay off the mortgage and the rent for the previous place for a two-week period, putting considerable strain on our savings. At the same time, we needed to get some work done in the new house so that was being done while we were trying to sort out the old house. The rental laws in this country are a joke and are widely considered to be abusive to renters, including by many of my American friends who now live here. I doubt we will ever see our bond returned, even though we were treated like crap living there for three years in a house that was not sealed, had no insulation or air conditioning, leaked and was draughty, didn't have proper doors et cetera et cetera. I mean, we had maggots falling from the ceiling… twice. The place was rotting and rotten but because my partner couldn't completely colour match the paint when he tried to cover up what was absolutely reasonable wear and tear on one of the walls, I'm sure we will lose all that. As usual, the landlord will claim it costs our entire $1800 bond to get a $50 an hour painter in to patch up one wall.  They always do this. In your contract it says reasonable wear and tear are a few knocks and dings on the wall and that the tenant is not expected to pay for that. In reality, in every rental we have ever lived in,  the landlord has refused to refund the bond when there’s been even the slightest bit of damage, even if we had a record of being model tenants. It was almost comical how hard my partner was trying in the middle of the move to cover up a few scrapes on the walls from moving furniture in and out. It all came to nothing because for love nor money he couldn't find the correct match of paint. And then of course he had to mow the entire grounds of the last rental when he really wanted to be using his weekends to sort out and unpack the new house. Good God, it was awful.

 My partner and I barely spent any quality time together during this period and he was extremely stressed out and distant from me. I totally understand why but the whole thing flared every single one of my conditions and I needed him as my carer. But he couldn’t really do that, as he was trying to do literally everything else. Moving house is hard on a healthy body, never mind one with two chronic pain disorders, irritable bowel and generalised anxiety disorder. And then (because of course), a family member of mine (one of the abusers) picked that moment in time to start harassing me, thereby triggering my PTSD which led to a nervous breakdown which led to intense depersonalisation, insomnia and nausea. Everyone and everything seemed unfamiliar to me, even my partner. I started to doubt whether or not I loved myself or anyone else anymore. I just felt so completely and utterly disconnected from the world. I began to lie awake at night terrified that I was fading away, that I could no longer feel anything other than fear. All the time, people kept saying, “congratulations on the new house! You must be so excited!” But all I could feel was sickness and dread.

 Two weeks after moving in, I had to drop my Lyrica one more time. This drop has been very difficult. All of the stress has led to some dark thoughts in the back of my mind which of course Lyrica then co-opts and exaggerates. I have had a more than a few moments of suicidal ideation. Everything in my life on paper has improved. We are now homeowners, we live in a beautiful part of the world, we've made some new friends lately, things are settling down et cetera et cetera. But I feel like I'm in shell shock after this year and last year. I haven't even had time to process that I am no longer the president of the not-for-profit I founded and formulated an identity around. I just haven't had the time to process literally anything. I've been more exhausted that I have ever felt. Oh, I'm sure everyone will say, “this too shall pass”. But I do not believe that bullshit. Yes, this individual stressor will pass but more horror will come and I know that makes me sound super negative but I just cannot remember a period of time when things were calm for… I can't remember. I just feel like I've been in a hurricane forever.

 So yeah, I'm writing this post while experiencing Lyrica withdrawal which makes me depressed and anxious. It's probably colouring my vision on everything. Fine. But I have been going through Lyrica withdrawal for two years, so it’s kinda become my normal. My final drop is on 26 December after which I will experience two more months of withdrawal and hopefully, after that, some semblance of sanity again. In the midst of all this I have to study for my citizenship test which is at the end of this month. I don't get any government support for my disability until I have been a citizen of this country for eight years, and as I’d like to survive my 40s, I need to get citizenship now. But yeah… studying an eighty-page textbook with an addled brain is just so much fun.

 Of course, during this time we haven’t have Internet because we had to disconnect the old place and it takes an age for it to get reconnected at the new place. We only recently acquired it at the new house. So there are piles of emails waiting for me. Many of them are from friends and I'm glad for that. But there is also a lot of life admin I now need to do. I have to change my address on every account I hold, which is really tedious. We have also had to organise time with family. Because my partner's family helped us get this house, we feel especially obliged to go to every single one of the family events, of which there are many. He comes from a big Catholic family so every relative who comes to visit, every party that's being held, every birthday, wedding, funeral and religious holiday, we’re now expect to attend. We have several in the next few weekends, taking up most of the time we *needed* to be unpacking the house. We’re obligated now.

 In all this negativity, though, I want to say that I am genuinely grateful to be one of the lucky ones to have a house. I know it sounds like I am whining about a good thing. It's not that I'm not glad for this (I know how ridiculously privileged we are). I just haven't been able to really feel it yet. I think that regardless of what happened this year, I’d be feeling this way. Something broke in me last year and just hasn't really come back. I feel shattered.

 And all my chronic pain conditions have been wearing me down too. I found out this year that the operation that cost me and my friends so much money (to remove that nerve in my foot) had failed. Or rather, the surgeon had completely botched it up. I have PTSD from that surgery. Just the thought of going back to have it done again fills me with heart racing terror and cold sweats. I’ve had numerous surgeries before that one and been fine, but the reaction I had from the anesthetic last time was so severe, and the recovery so long, that I genuinely fear it more than almost anything else. And yet I need to go in for that nightmare all over again in 2020. I'm going to be asked to trust a different surgeon to do the same so-called “simple operation” to restore some functionality to my left foot. My right knee is probably also going to need surgery since it has been resistant to any physiotherapy rehabilitation. And on top of all this, my poor partner's health has also taken a hit this year from the stress which is worrying me. Because I can always do with some more worry…

 But hey! This too shall pass! You should be happy! Life is great now! Yay yay yay!

Fuck, sometimes it just want to be allowed to feel shit and to have other people say “okay you can feel shit now. Yes, some good things have happened but right now you need to process the bad and that's okay too”. My lord, if people could just do that for me. If they could just let me feel what the fuck I need to feel.

 What I feel is exhausted, scared, freaked out, traumatized, weird, sick, angry, overwhelmed and fed up. And I need to feel those things before I can feel anything else.

[absclutezerc]

“I’m here- I’m here, now” -- GOD ALL I CAN THINK OF IS JOHNNY BEING ABDUCTED BY CERBERUS

Captured | Accepting; Selective @arianashepard​

   A scuffle, something simple. A battle, one he had fought before. One he had repeated over and over again in his head, wondering if he could have done something different. If he could turn the tides, if he could have escaped. He could have, couldn’t he? 

But he didn’t.

   This battlefield was not unfamiliar to him, few were. Regardless of those he fought, alleged enemies, he never saw a difference. Decades passed, centuries, and they all seemed the same. The shouting, the sound, the smell. Too many bodies, too much blood. To say he hadn’t lost control would be a lie, because he did. Jonathan had slipped, lost himself in the heat of it, and had been using his strength to tear armor from the bodies of the enemy and sink his fangs into the softness beneath. He drank until his belly was full, drank until he could convince himself if he swallowed more that he would make himself sick. He was teetering on the edge of an overdose, and he didn’t care. He disregarded the shouts of his comrades, of Ariana voicing her concern. All he could hear were heartbeats, all he could see was red, and he cast aside the discipline he had implemented.

   This battlefield was not familiar to him, few were. He was back in France, fighting in trenches and trying to stave off infections. Daring to push himself farther than his commanding officer allowed. Oh, the knowledge he gained! Oh, the tests he ran! Oh, the overflow of possibility, of creativity, of discovery! They were going to die anyway, weren’t they? Did any of it matter? Lives he took, lives he stole away, lives he saved. He was God, a messiah, a prophet!

   Body seizes, stops, skidding to a halt as his feet dig into the mud. His suit is torn, tattered, soaking from the rain and blood and sweat. He doesn’t know what is his and what is not, which splotch of crimson is a victim’s and which is not. Does it matter? To be a beast is to act like one dress like one feed like one. It was overdone, overused, overdosed. He can feel his body shutting down, can feel how his hands tremble and shake. The world is muted, everything moves in slow motion.

She’s there again, can you see her? Dressed in black, a veil over her face. Do you see her? You can see her, can’t you?

   Breath shudders, hitches in his throat, chokes him. Ariana is there, but she doesn’t know what’s happened. She too busy fighting her own war, and he had no place down alongside her. He was meant to be up aboard the Normandy, preparing for the carnage that would come back to the ship. Jonathan did not belong down on the surface, fighting against foes he never had quarrel with. Ten years prior he was coming out from his estate, dazed and confused, unsure of what happened while he slept. Part of him wishes he stayed asleep.

   There is a hand on his arm, pulling him away, but it is not toward the shuttle he came down on. It is not toward the rendezvous point. Another hand clamps around his bicep, and he feels his heels dig trenches in the mud. In his delirium, he cannot stop them. Cannot stop them from taking him, cannot stop them from pulling him away from his comrades. Is this how it felt in France, not knowing what would happen once you cross enemy lines? Part of him was always curious, but he knew better than to dare set foot across the barrier. Now, he was being thrown into their own shuttle, calling for troops to retreat. Jonathan wonders if Ariana will find him, if she knows he’s gone.

   Sunlight is all he recalls before the barrel of a gun cracks against his skull.

   He woke to needles, to bright light, to pain. Blood being drawn, someone daring to press a finger against his fangs. Jonathan tried to clamp down on the digit, only to find his jaw being held open by some contraption. For a moment, he regrets opening his eyes. The blood he held, the fuel feeding the fire, was gone. He used the last of it on the battlefield, and he wishes he hadn’t. There is chatter around him, discussion, and someone presses against his jugular to feel for a pulse. You won’t find one, he wants to tell them. You don’t know what I am. They withdraw, scribble something down, and his eyes follow them. Watch what they’re all doing.

   Those surrounding him are unfamiliar, he is not on the Normandy. He is not on the Citadel. Jonathan has been taken somewhere separate, far from his comrades and far from his Commander. What would be done now, he wonders? Would they keep him or kill him? Would he become a monster for them, would they starve him? Do they know of his schedule, his diet, his needs? Was he chosen out of the entirety of Ariana’s squadron, or was it happenstance? Is it possible to reunite with her, now that he is completely and utterly alone?

   A sharp, digging pain pulls him from his thoughts. They were cutting into him, breaking through bone as he is vivisected. Perhaps it is not terrifying for them to do such, especially if they understood his affliction. Internally, he looks the same as any other human. After all, his body has not changed so drastically. He is not some horrid creature being transformed like a werewolf, no. He is human, inside and out, though he rejects his lineage and disregards his humanity. Would they understand that, would they believe him? Will they begin removing his organs, and wonder how he could survive without them?

He can’t.

   Eyes shut, breath heavy as he feels his lungs puncture on his broken ribs, how he understands what remains for him now on this operating table. They want to see how he changes, what makes him tick, but he would never give them that satisfaction. There is a murmur of scarring as they press on, and he knows full well that they can see each and every injury he has ever received. He feels a finger probe at the bullet wound on his chest, while others push through the basin of his chest to find something- anything- that makes him different from everyone else. They find nothing.

   He is pulled from his mind once more, and he is seated in an empty room. Limbs bound, his strength the same as though he were mortal once more, he cannot break free. As he tenses, he feels a dull ache, and sees a tube hang from his arm and left to drip down into a basin. It’s no good if it isn’t fresh, he wants to tell them. You’re wasting your time. His blood, as other Ekons, loses potency after it leaves the body. After all, that was why Lord Redgrave wanted him to turn Aloysius Dawson himself. And, of course, Jonathan’s Sire was a strong one. Details, details.

You see her, don’t you? You can see her, Jonathan. Donned in black, longing for you. You can see her, can’t you, Jon?

   The woman is present again, and the train of her dress drags against the floor of what he can only assume to be a holding cell. She sings a broken melody, reminiscent of the lullaby his mother would sing to her children. “Twelve dreams for the red queen under crown of stone, that she may linger longer with eyes kept closed,” Oh, how he loathed her song. How he loathed the ties to his Sire and the Morrigan. But now, it seemed, he would need only heed her voice. “Eleven thorns blooming from her troubled brow, awaiting the next harvest to be gleaned at brisk springs.” Yes, her song was a simple one.

   “Ten copper veins ripped from the belly of the earth, melted into tears flowing towards banished brothers,” He sings along with her, lost to her pull. For a moment, there is a burst of warmth. A heat in his belly that blossoms in his chest, a sensation like hot tea spilling down his throat. He wants to be consumed by it, to be lost to it, to surrender to it. “Nine glorious pyres on the scorched plain, to punish those whose hands were slow to obey. Eight voracious beasts born from eight restless nights, their backs hardened by their race with the sun!” Jonathan shouts it, his voice booming in his ears as it echoes in the room. He continues her song, and the woman in black is gone from sight.

   When he wakes, his vision is blurred. It loses and regains focus, looking at the lights above him. There is a weight on his chest, pressing against his shoulders. A dull sting on his neck, and, for a moment, he feels a pulse. Part of him assumed it was his, while the rest would be whatever had made a home against him. There is a gulp against his ear, warm breath on his throat, and he realizes what was occurring. Someone was feeding off of him, and he was too weak to throw them off. Too weak to consider how long it had been, how many it had been. A moan escapes his throat before eyes roll back in his skull.

   Jonathan is threatened when his front is covered in red. Threatened with punishment, threatened with ultraviolet rays, threatened with fire. He doesn’t care. A guard, doctor, scientist, prey dared to stand too close to him, and he fed. He was starving, after all. It was the only way for him to tell how long he had been captured, the blur of memories not cohesive enough to answer his coherent questions. How could they? Too much time was spent fading in and out of consciousness, too much time spent fading in and out of his mind. Perhaps it was a skill he forgot he possessed; the ability to retreat within the confines of his cranium so that he needn’t worry about his physical surroundings. The disconnection of mind and body, letting his form run wild as his consciousness recessed and walled itself off. How much time had he lost doing exactly that? What day was the battle, how long had it been?

Feel her on your skin, Jonathan. Feel her lips press against yours. Our Crimson Lady, our Red Queen, our Morrigan. Do you feel her touch, Jonathan? Do you long for her embrace?

Yes.

   His body is beaten and burned, subjected to each and every brutality they can attempt. The recent feeding lets them be harsh, lets them be cruel, lets them have their way with him. What did it matter to them, he was nothing. They had their solution, they had their soldiers. The brief moments of quiet as they drew his blood let him ponder their experiments. They wanted his power. They knew Commander Shepard had an ace up her sleeve, and now they had it in their hand. They need only lay it on the table, parade it around like some trophy they had won. That’s all he was to either side, after all. A prize to be fought over, a secret weapon. Yes, a weapon. A machine that needed fuel to perform its basic functions, from there one would need only point it toward the target and let it loose.

   Even now, as he cries out in agony, he feels her against his skin. Even now, as his ribs are bruised and broken, as his bones protrude from skin and spill crimson down on the floor beneath him, he wishes he could feel her kiss. Give himself up to her, and let her breathe into him new life. Even now, as he is lifted up onto the freezing operating table. Even now, as the last remnants of his clothes are torn from his skin. Even now, as snarls and snickers resound in his ears. Even now, as ultraviolet rays singe his skin and his voice tears his throat. Even now, as the scent of burnt flesh and the feeling of his body trying to repair the damage nearly forces him to black out. Oh, agony! How sweet, how decadent! Oh, pain! How human, how mortal! Oh, fire! Cleanse this sinful skin, purge this hellish body! Burn it, raze it, char it! Let it regrow into something fresh, something pure!

   Hair hangs down, stringy with the mixture of blood and sweat. Repugnant. Abhorrent. Disgusting. His wrists are bound above his head, strength had seeped from his body long ago. His figure is burned, scalded and unsightly. He feels his skin flake and peel, feels each crack in his flesh. For a moment, he is thankful cloth does not hang from his limbs. It would only worsen the pain.

   Arms ache, wrists sting as metal bites into skin. If he could only feed, he would break free. If he could only feed, he could escape. If he could only feed, he would drain this entire base. Eyes glaze over as he fantasizes, mind running wild with the imagery of his chest coated in crimson. She is there, however brief, and her lips press against his. They are warm against his, and her aura alone is enough to pull him from his mind. Before him rests the Morrigan, her form a deep black with crimson eyes. Of all the times he had seen her, not once has she taken this form. It’s curious, but he lacks the strength to continue the thought.

Your salvation rests far from you, my Childe, but fret not. I am here alongside you, I ache as you do. I starve as you do. Oh, Champion, understand me, for I have seen your future. I have lived in your mind, in your skin, I see your desires. Champion, hear me. Your affliction will hinder you, but give in. Give yourself over to the thirst. Disregard your discipline, embrace me. Embrace me, my Childe.

   Jonathan shakes his head, disagreeing with her pleas, and she vanishes with a frown. Moments pass, and he accepts that he is alone once more, and he cries. Tears cut through the filth plastered to his skin, the only sign he has truly shattered. The only sign he ever lived. This was not living. This was pitiful, this was hollow, this was empty. This was nauseating, unsightly. If only he could free himself from his restraints, everything would be different.

Things could be different, couldn’t they?

   Dragged from his mind by gunfire, by shouts, by an explosion somewhere distant, he knows danger was fast approaching. Jonathan couldn’t bring himself to care. What harshness may follow would be kinder than that he had endured, that he had grown used to. It had become normal for him to fear lights, normal for him to fear raised voices, normal for him to fear metal clangs. Even now, with his bare torso against the wall, all he can feel is the metal operating table. He wonders when they will enter with surgical equipment to tear him open once more, to see if his insides have changed since he hasn’t been fed in weeks. His mind teeters on the edge of sanity, his stomach in knots. For a moment, he thinks of blood running down his throat. Tongue flicks over his lips, coating the chapped skin, before his head comes to rest against his suspended forearm. He can feel the grime on his body, the coating of dirt and sweat and blood. Ever briefly he thinks of his mother and sister. Ever briefly he swears he can see them both stand above him. Ever briefly do they lower a hand down to him, and he wants to take it. To be whisked away to wherever they had gone after their death. Even it were Hell, it would be better than where he sat now. His eyes drift closed, and he imagines himself taking their hands and moving on into the beyond.

For a moment, he swears he does. For a moment, he wishes he had.

   Sight returns, and his bonds have been broken. Hands cup his cheeks, head jostled slightly to rouse him from his slumber, and he sees red hair and green eyes. His expression softens for a moment, and he convinces himself it is another apparition to haunt him. Perhaps the Commander before him is nothing more than a ghost, having died trying to stop her war. A war he had no part in, a war he had no place in. He was a weapon for her, wasn’t he? Why would she come back? He was broken, couldn’t she see? Couldn’t she see his missing pieces, his broken parts?

   “I’m here-- I’m here now.” Her voice resonates in his skull, and he knows now that she is no ghost. She is here, standing before him, and she is pulling him up to his feet. Pulling him toward freedom, even if his legs cannot support his weight. Even if he cannot open his eyes fully, even if his lungs sting with each breath he takes. Perhaps she believes he can be fixed, perhaps he is still useful. What did it matter?

He was going home.

[antihero-writings]

Gods and Gravity—Chapter 1: Part 1: Autopilot—MCU/Gravity Falls Crossover (Full fic–LONG post incoming)

Fic Title: Gods and Gravity

Fic Synopsis: What's more fun than making Loki, Peter Parker, Wanda Maximoff, and Shuri interact within the MCU? Forcing them to live together at the Mystery Shack in Gravity Falls!

Chapter Title: Autopilot

Character Focus:  Loki, Peter Parker, Wanda

Notes: The following is a fic I spent pretty much the entirety of my 2018 summer working on writing, (and the next three months editing.) To this day (summer 2019) I am still trying to learn to write comedy, and this was one of my first attempts at comedy, as well as one of the longest fics I'd posted (on Ao3), and for those reasons alone it was a valuable learning experience for me. At the time I had a full plot for this planned out, and had every intention of making it into a long series. I still love this fic, I am proud of it, it makes me smile, I still have those ideas written down somewhere, and I hope to return to it someday.

However, the lack of comments I received on it, after six months of intense effort was very discouraging, and I lost momentum, and haven't worked on it since.

Knowing this, I couldn't keep my original note from Ao3, and I cannot make any promises that this fic will go anywhere. But, at the same time, I would still very very deeply appreciate your comments and encouragement, and would be much much more likely to continue this fic, even now, if I hear people are enjoying it. As I said, I love the idea, and would love to keep working on it, so please don't hesitate to let me know if you love it too!

Chapter 1, Part 1: 

Are you aware of where you are? Oh, I don’t mean to be rude. Welcome.

You must be looking for some sort of introduction. Humans are so particular about things like that. You cannot cast your voice into the dark and expect to understand the echo. You’re not a thing like me.

Afraid. Is that the word? You’re afraid of that which you do not know. In the end, it’s the only thing you’re ever really afraid of. You can only speak to those who are no longer strange. I can’t say I understand the feeling. Knowing is my job, is it not?

Of course, you wouldn’t. It’s not your occupation, after all. And the unknown, well…its not so strange as you may first think. Sometimes it speaks with your own face.

Me. That is the only name I need to know. I am, nevertheless, quite fond of human proclivity to naming things. I find it…what’s the word? Cute? That must be it. I have no need of such titles myself though. Make something up for me, will you? Your imagination is far more powerful than anything I could tell you. I am quite curious to see what’s in your mind.

You must want some introduction of your own. Would you like me to tell the others? Sing a song in your honor? No, I suppose that would be embarrassing. Quite affective in ancient society though, I must say. To be perfectly frank, I don’t think it’s a very good idea anyways. Not here. Not today. Not, yet, at least.

Mustn’t proclaim your existence to those who know not of it, right? Might scare them off. Might not. They are quite resilient after all. Still…

Be not afraid. That’s what they say, right? But would they be? Perhaps its too soon to tell. Perhaps it’s always to soon to tell. Are you? Afraid, that is. No? I suppose there isn’t anything to be afraid of. Fear makes everything more… complicated. Sometimes that’s a good thing. Others it’s not. This time I’m not quite sure which way it would fall.

I know you’re here for something. What is it?

Have you come for answers? Questions? Just a good story?

Come for that. The story. Or come for something else, and stay for it. It’s a good one, I’ll say. Not that a stranger’s opinion means much.

To Gravity Falls. I am well acquainted with such a place. Quite fond of it. It’s home to all manor of strangers though, so I’m not quite sure you’re ready. It’s full of, shall we say, imagination. You are looking for my Gravity Falls, are you not? The one with the gods and heroes. I am aware that there exist many tales about Gravity Falls, all sprung from one. Regrettably, I exist in only this one—and not the original. I know of the others though. And while I exist in the universe of the gods and heroes, there I am shut up in stones and eyes, and not-quite-men, and king’s instruments; I have no voice.

Set down your own worries a while. This is a fun story, I promise. Lose yourself in it.

You came here, for whatever reason. It matters no longer. You are here now. And maybe, just maybe, you could help me.

Free. It is such an elusive thing; freedom. Do you think this story will help you earn that freedom? I think it could help me earn mine. If freedom is a thing we must earn, of course, rather than it being given us, or ingrained in us from the start. And so could you. Help, that is. Could, being the key word here. The question is, will you?

  “Dude, how many cups of coffee have you had?”

Loki’s eyes darted from the mug in his hand, to the girl in front of him, Michelle, who clearly thought his overseeing of his employees’ task was invitation for conversation.

Loki sighed. Out of all the conditions one might be in when talking to teenagers, fatigue is not the most suitable. It would be important to make a mental note of this for the coming summer.

“If you must know, I am currently on my third.”

“Third of the week or…?”

“Of the day.” He leaned against the side of the archway between the living room and stairway.

Her face puckered like she’d eaten something sour.

“Then…why do you still look like that?”

He lowered the mug, tapping his fingers on the porcelain, trying to figure out the least insulting phrasing. “This may come as a shock to you, but honesty is not always the best policy.”

The other teen who currently worked for him, and who was carrying a particularly large box down from the attic, stopped to join the conversation. Ned glanced between them. “Yeah, who needs honesty, psh…What are you guys talking about?”

“Miss Jones has taken this opportunity to judge my daily caffeine intake. Which, quite frankly, I could live without.”

“I thought you said honesty wasn’t the best policy.”

He stuck his tongue out at her.

“Oh, yeah—Have you not seen him do that?” Ned asked. “He drinks like ten cups of coffee, it does nothing to him. You’d swear he’s like actually a god, or something.”

“While it’s enlightening that caffeine immunity is enough for you to come to that conclusion, I’ll have you know, it does work on me, it just takes a rather high quantity.”

“Dude, I’ve never seen you hyper.”

“Maybe he’s a robot.” Michelle offered.

“Or maybe you’ve just never seen me on my good days.” Loki fixed his eyes intently on Ned, and his gaze didn’t waver as he lifted the mug to take an uncomfortably long sip.

“Ohh crap that’s terrifying.” Ned whispered.

Loki swallowed and shrugged. Still-got-it.

“Can I have some of that?” Michelle leaned over the bannister from the stairs side, trying to get a whiff of the drink.

Loki tossed the mug to his other hand, and turned towards the living room so she could no longer get close. “No.”

“Why not?”

“The thought may be lost on you, but I’m not paying you to sit around and drink coffee. I may have to withdraw some of your pay for these last few moments.”

“Y-You wouldn’t do that.” Ned sweated nervously.

Loki lifted his head, looking at him out of the corner of his eye. “Would you truly like to risk it?”

That was enough to encourage Ned to get back to work.

“What if I told you I’d be more productive if I had some caffeine my system?” Michelle was undaunted.

Loki tilted his head to the side. “I’d tell you I don’t make a habit of being charitable.”

“Aww, I bet you’re a big teddy bear on the inside,” she mocked him with a baby voice.

Loki rolled his eyes, turning fully away.

“Come on,” she hopped onto the ground floor, “You know denying it just makes us want to find all your little weaknesses, right?” She came up behind him.

“By all means, look away. I promise you you won’t find anything on me.”

“Don’t be too sure.”

She turned, about to go back to work, but paused to ask, “What’s your excuse?”

“Your meaning?”

“Why do you get to sit around drinking coffee?”

“Other than being the one with the authority? I didn’t sleep well last night.”

Images of rusting dials, twisted metal, broken, blinking lights, and calculations his brain was too tired to finish came to mind. What exactly had compelled him to spend the entirety of the night prior working on that infernal machine, when he had teenagers coming to live with him the next day, he couldn’t say.

Or, more likely, it was because three teenagers were coming to live with him.

“Satisfied?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I just didn’t want to have to call an intervention.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“You know…an intervention?” she repeated.

It was apparent that he didn’t.

Her brows furrowed. “Where… someone calls all your friends and family together to make you admit there’s a problem?”

“Sounds revolting. It appears its rather rewarding not to have friends.” He took a last sip of coffee.

“Uhh…what about family?”

“That too.” He swallowed.

It seemed like she was about to argue, then she shrugged, and admitted to herself nah-that-sounds-about-right, and returned to her work.

Loki pointed after her, casting an illusion into one of the lower rooms.

“Hey, Ned! Come look at this giant spider I found!” Michelle called after a few minutes, a little too nonchalant for his enjoyment.

“What?!” Ned shrieked from the other room, “A spider?! Where?!”

The god of mischief frowned. That’s right; Michelle wasn’t exactly the kind of person to scare easily.

He twisted his wrist, making it appear to crawl away.

“Wait—nevermind—it ran away.”

“Phew! I mean—I wasn’t scared.”

Still, at least he got a few good screams out of someone. Besides, it was ample punishment for Ned’s incessant enthusiasm these past few weeks.

Mentions of “Peter’s going to love…” this, and “Oh man, Peter’s going to have so much fun…” that, had bombarded Loki throughout Ned’s first week back at work. When the god had learned it was Ned’s idea in the first place, firing him wasn’t looking like such a bad idea. That, or something a little more… substantial, that would really quiet his babble… But killing the mortal children was off the menu.

Another important reminder for the coming summer; if one of the young heroes went missing, it would raise more than a few unwanted questions. If Stark himself came down here, everything he worked for might be all over. But the amount he could learn was worth the risk. It would be fairly easy to avoid incident, and if something did come up, he would be able to deal with it (he had before, after all), as long as he could keep any killing urges in check, the summer shouldn’t be too eventful.

Michelle didn’t appear to feel all that strongly about the coming presence of the other mortal she knew, or, at least she had the presence of mind not to show her excitement with extreme chattiness, or mention of the oncoming storm, and carry out her assignments without bothering him.

At least, in general.

“I’m kinda surprised you agreed to this,” She insisted on pestering him, remarking a few trips later, carrying an old, crooked candelabra—(that he didn’t remember buying)—down from the attic. This was, of course, when Loki had settled into the chair in the living room with a book, attempting to find some peace and quiet. “I mean; you can barely stand being around us. And this is three more of us we’re talking about it.”

“Well, Stark’s large sum of payment did have its appeal at the time.”

“Hey paid you?”

“Yes,” Loki set his now empty coffee on the table beside the chair. “I am aware of how babysitting works.”

“Babysitting?”

“He may have prefaced it as a sort of summer camp.”

She snorted. “A summer camp that lasts the whole summer?”

He shrugged.

She stepped back down onto the bottom floor. “You really think a bit of cash is worth it?”

“Please. I’ve dealt with far worse.

“Oh really?”

“Now, for just one example.” He licked his finger to turn the page of his book.

Starks money. Sure, it had its appeal, but the more convincing issue at hand was the amount of information he could learn from them. It had been Stark himself who had called, which meant whoever he was sending on this particular excursion, despite their age, was close to him. The opportunity to learn a secret or two about those in the circle of heroes was rather high compensation, and at the time had seemed enough to justify a summer with a few teens (especially when putting said summer into the perspective of a god’s life). Now that their arrival was fast approaching, doubt had more than a few well-thought-out counterarguments.

“Alright.” She set down the candelabra. “How much you want to bet?”

“Pardon?”

“No seriously,” she tapped her chin, thinking, “Let’s say, the moment all three of them arrive, if you already want the summer to be over, you have to…” she smirked, “You have to show my artwork at the museum.”

“Sure, that seems fair. I’m the one suffering, and you get paid.”

She shrugged. “That’s how betting works. One person’s doubly miserable, the other’s doubly rich.” She rubbed her fingers together.

“Even if I was interested in this little farce—which, to be clear, I’m not—how would you be able to tell that I ‘want the summer to be over’?”

“You really think I won’t be able to tell?”

“Oh please.”

“Maybe you’ll just have to fess up.”

He laughed. “As if.”

“You think you’re ‘Mr. Mystery’ but maybe you’re not so mysterious as you think”

“Yeah, come back to that question in a while, sweetheart.” He paused. “And if I can, in fact, handle it, what am I to win?”

“Well, what do you want?”

“Dangerous words, girl.”

“Let’s see…How about, I have to work overtime whenever you ask?”

He weighed it. It was tempting. But it had to be something more humiliating than that…

“How about, if I win, you have to be the official mascot of the Mystery Shack. Whenever I ask you to put on a costume and dance out on the street, you must do so, no questions asked.” A maniacal smirk crossed his features.

“Ooh,” she sucked in a breath, stepping into the living room, “You’re right. That’s gonna be tough to beat. Too bad we’ll never get to see that.”

“Feel free to bow out if you’re afraid to lose.”

“Oh we’re way past that by now.”

“Very well. The wager is set.”

“Let’s shake on it.” She extended her hand.

He shook her hand once. “As the mortals say, you’re on, Miss Jones.”

“Uhh You’re on.”

As she turned to pick up the candelabra, Ned called nervously from the spare room on the first floor,

“Uhh…Mr Loki?”

“What is it now?”

“What do you want me to with these boxes that say ‘property of’ and then a crossed out name—that, I’m not gonna lie, I tried to read—‘do not touch’?”

Loki rubbed his temples. “What are you talking—?” then he stopped, realizing what was in that room, “Oh for the love of—give them to me.”

“Scooch.”

Peter Parker glanced up from his phone to see Mr. Stark leaning in the doorway of the car. Quickly obeying the request, he grabbed his backpack and shifted closer to the window.

Tony slid into the seat on the other side of the car, motioning to their current chauffer (that wasn’t his official job, but Peter often found him performing it) to drive. As if he had received a top-secret message, Happy gave a curt nod, turned the key, and the engine growled, signifying the start of their trip to the airport.

Tony flipped off his sunglasses as if trying to impress a few hundred cameras.

“Let’s have a chat. Man to—boy.”

“What is, Mr. Stark?” Peter decided not to object to the category he was placed under.

“Don’t,” Tony emphasized, “screw the pooch.”

Peter blinked, expecting something more. He nodded, saying awkwardly, “Yeah.”

Iron Man didn’t seem convinced.

“Okay…?”

Tony raised an eyebrow.

“I promise.” Peter added.

“Don’t mess with me now. Don’t make promises you can’t keep, little man.”

“With all due respect, what do you think’s gonna happen, Mr. Stark? It’s not like I’m going out there to save the world—which don’t you forget, I have done on more than one occasion.”

“Don’t get cocky. You were never saving the world. Leave that to the professionals.”

“Agree to disagree. Anyway, it’s just a summer camp, and it’s out in the middle of nowhere. Frankly there isn’t much there for me to screw up!”

“‘Just a summer camp, out in the middle of nowhere?’ Funny,” Tony put a hand to his chin in mock thoughtfulness, “that’s not how I recall you describing it when you were begging me to find a way for you to go. I pulled a number of strings to get you this, kid.”

“I wasn’t begging!”

“Uh huh.”

“I-I just thought it would be fun, that’s all! And, don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful!”

“Is that so?” he folded his arms over his chest.

“Come on, Mr. Stark. You get what I mean.”

“I do. But you’d be surprised. The middle of nowhere can be host to a whole gaggle of excitement;” he waved his fingers over him, “I once met a man there named Chad, who taught me the way of the goat. Pretty fun guy, Chad. Could do without the goat smell though.”

“Seriously?”

“Maybe. I had had my fair share of of Mexican ‘soda’s at the time, and may or may not have been slightly drunk. Okay, a lot drunk. Funnily enough I wasn’t actually in Mexico. Maybe that’s why I can’t remember much after that. Let’s hope you never find out. The point is,” he held up a finger, “you have a tendency for pooch-screwing, even in low-profile situations—no, especially in low-profile situations.” He poked him in the chest.

Peter turned his gaze out the window for a moment, watching the buildings fly by.

“I—I can keep a low profile,” he defended feebly, turning back to Mr. Stark.

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “The Christmas party.”

“Come on! I was admiring your suits (innocently, if I might add), you can understand that—”

“Aaand you broke one.”

“It was just one finger!”

“Happened to be a very important finger. A finger of sentimental value, if you will. In case you don’t remember, it’s the one that lets me do this:”

He flipped him off.

Peter rolled his eyes. “You fixed it like three seconds later.”

“You know,” Tony extended his fingers as if admiring a good manicure, “people say I got that finger from my great grandmother. It hurts Peter,” he put his hand over his heart, “it hurts,” he wiped away fake tears, “How could you disrespect Great Grammy Stark like that?”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “They don’t say that.”

“How do you know? You think you know my family better than I do?”

“I’m just saying that—”

“You’re letting me get off topic. The point is, you were, as you say, ‘innocently observing my suits’—completely understandable, they’re the most amazing feats of technology most people ever get to see—and all it took was one little slip of the hand, and suddenly I’ve lost a very important finger. What happens when it’s not something that I can fix that easily? What if that was someone’s real finger? What if that was your finger?”

“Fingers don’t just fall off!”

“Maybe not, but trust can.”

“Huh?”

As they reached a stoplight, Mr. Stark leaned forward.

“Hey, Happy,” Tony pointed, “Could you get something from the thing between the front seats for me?”

“What—you mean this?” Happy pointed to the compartment he had been resting his elbow on.

“Yeah, that is what I’m pointing to. Can you pass me the—”

Happy held up the first thing he found, which was a lint roller.

“Why would I need that? Are you trying to tell me something about my suit?” he looked down at the perfectly tailored suit. “It’s my favorite suit, Happy.”

“I wasn’t! I—!”

“Why do you even I have that in there?”

“I just always like—it pays to be prepared, that’s all.”

“Don’t make me a part of your weird obsessions. Just pass me the M&Ms.”

“You got it.” Happy threw the brown package back to him, and Mr. Stark caught it. When he examined the label and color however, he leaned forward again. “Happy, these are regular M&Ms. Does it look like I’m a regular M&Ms man? Do you think I’m some plebian off the street?”

“All you said was M&Ms! You didn’t specify!” he protested, throwing back the peanut ones a bit less kindly, and Tony fumbled them.

“From now on, when I ask for M&Ms, I mean the peanut kind, not this pathetic excuse for a snack.”

“I’ll keep that in the ol’ mind palace.”

“Don’t refer to your mind as a palace. At best it’s a very small cabin. A hut. A hovel, if you will.”

“Oh yeah? What’s your mind, then?”

“Oh, my mind’s a five start resort, baby. You should visit some time…Not that I want you there.”

“Your confidence means a lot to me too, boss.”

“I hope so.”

“C-” Peter cleared his throat, leaning forward, “Can I have some of those?”

“Maybe. If you listen.” Tony bit the package to open it, “M&Ms are for people who listen.” He said, spitting out any plastic he had accidentally gotten into his mouth. He poured a handful of chocolates into his palm. “In the mean time, stay in your lane,” he pushed him back into his seat, “keep your mitts off my M&Ms.”

“Okay,” Tony resumed, throwing a few candies into his mouth, “So maybe it was just a finger I could fix like that”—he snapped his fingers—“But what if it wasn’t? What if it was a priceless heirloom my grandmother gave me? What would you have done then?”

“Still said I was sorry…?” Peter lifted his shoulders, “I would have felt worse about it though,” he made sure to add.

It didn’t seem to help.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Mr. Stark! I don’t intend to screw up!”

“Most people don’t. You know, I’m glad you brought that up,” he continued crunching on the M&Ms, “because it’s kind of the point of this little pep talk.” He pointed to peter. “Hate to admit it, but you remind me of me. Except without the devilishly handsome good looks, of course.”

“Hey!”

“You’re cute, I’ll give you that. But you’re like an oatmeal raisin cookie; it’s no one’s first choice, you’re not chocolate chip,” he brought his hands up to frame his own face, “but, hey, someone will eat it—Grandma made them, after all.”

“I think I’m at least—”

“Anyway, stop distracting me! You’re like me; you’re a trouble magnet. You and Trouble have a whole,” he waved his fingers, “scandalous affair.” He shuddered on purpose. “I’d like to compliment you on it, but whole point of an affair is to keep it on the down-low. And this, sir,” he circled his finger in the air in to refer to him, “is not the down-low. The sphere you’re working in is when you want your affair in the media. So as your standing guardian, it’s my job to either help keep it out of the public eye, or stop the affair altogether.”

Peter blinked. “I think I understood like half of that.”

“Alright, not my best analogy, but you get the gist.”

Peter looked out the window again. They were on the freeway now, getting closer to the airport. He was starting to see that this wasn’t the kind of debate he could win; this was one of those conversations where he was supposed to sit back and listen. He wasn’t particularly fond of those. Still, he didn’t foresee much happening out in Gravity Falls, Oregon, despite one of his interests in going being to study anomalies.

He had been careful not to mention that.

“Can I ask you something?” he turned back to him.

“As long as I can respectfully decline to answer.” He threw the last handful of chocolates into his mouth.

“Did you have this conversation with Wanda?”

“Alright, that I will answer,” he crumpled up the now empty M&M bag, turning to him. He put his arm around Peter, making a sweeping motion with his hand. “No.” He pointed to Peter. “And you know why? Because Wanda already knows not to screw the pooch. Last time she screwed the pooch, she did the walk of shame for at least a month. She’s Mellow Yellow, and you’re…that weird Mexican soda Chad gave me that one time. You’re the one who needs to be taught that pooches,” he waved a finger, “are not for screwing.”

Peter sighed as Mr. Stark let him go, staring at his hands, seriousness setting into his tone,

“I promise, Mr. Stark, I really do promise. I’m not gonna screw up this time.”

“Come on, don’t be like that.” Tony said after a pause.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re five years old, and I just told you you can’t have dessert.”

“Well, you kinda did.”

“Hey, leave my M&Ms out of this!” he hid the package ineptly behind him.

“Look, I just don’t think you’re giving me enough credit, Mr. Stark.”

“Oh I’m giving you plenty of credit. You know some of the things Happy’s told me about your little excursions?”

“Hey—”

“Let’s see, there’s the time you stole someone’s dog that was sitting outside a grocery store, because you thought it was being mistreated—it wasn’t. Or how about when you tried to bust a bunch of gang members, who turned out to be just the local goth kids hanging around?”

“Hey, those kids were shifty, anyone could have made that mistake!”

“Oh, and one of my personal favorites, the time you brought a guy in because you thought he was breaking into someone’s car. Turns out he had just forgotten his keys, and was late for a job interview. Which, because of you, he missed. I”—He pointed to himself— “had to give him a job in the end, which you don’t seem to realize, seems to be the cycle with your mistakes—I’m the one who pays the price.”

“Well, hey, you have to admit, he did get a better job because of me.”

“Don’t put a positive spin on this!”

“Look, I won’t screw up this time. Okay? Satisfied?” Peter’s frustration was reaching his tongue.

After a moment of silence, Mr. Stark cleared his throat.

“That’s good,” he said a bit more softly. “Better than good, it’s great. But, unfortunately, no, I’m not satisfied; there is one more teensy, little thing I’m gonna need from you.”

“What is it?” Peter said to the back of Happy’s chair.

“Where’s the suit?”

Peter sat up, his eyes widening. Then, realizing how telling that was, he crossed his arms and legs, clearing his throat, lowering his voice.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed.

“Mr. Stark, as I said, I’m gonna be out in the middle of nowhere, with my friends, as well as people who don’t know that I’m Spider-man, you really think I brought the suit?”

“Cut the crap, who do you think you’re talking to?”

The young superhero sighed, conceding. He glanced between the car windows as if the people in the cars next to them could see through the strongly-tinted glass, while they were going sixty miles per hour. Leaning forward, he gently unzipped the back of the backpack at his feet just enough to reveal a splash of red.

“Yeah…I’m gonna need that.”

“What?!” Peter blurted out, feeling his confidence plummet like the elevator in Washington, “But Mr. Stark—!”

“You better believe it, Spider-Boy.”

“I don’t understand!” Peter’s voice was becoming a whine, “I thought I earned it.”

He had been trying his best to sit back and listen, and already felt like he wasn’t getting his points in, and now Mr. Stark was going to take away the last thing that was important to him? Nope. Not happening.

“Hey now.” Happy had been glancing back to them in the mirror as he drove. Noticing the rise in tension, he cut in, “Am I gonna need to come back there and break up a fight between you kids?”

Tony quickly joined the joke, and grabbed the empty bag of M&Ms from behind him, flinging it at Peter and pointing. “He stole my candy.”

“Peter, did you steal his candy?” he said like an irked father.

“He told me I could have it!”

Happy looked between them in the mirror. “I don’t care what he said, it’s his candy, you’re gonna give it back.”

“What if I already ate it?”

“Spit it back out, Mister. I don’t want to have to—”

“Oookay, jokes over,” Tony cut back in. “I’ve thoroughly lost my appetite.”

Peter glanced back at his mentor, giving a small smile, but quickly dropped his gaze.

“You did earn it, Peter.” Tony’s voice was more gentle. “I’m not saying that you don’t deserve it, or that you can’t handle it. But you have to admit, when you have it, things tend to…escalate. I can’t trust that you’ll just use it for friendly-neighborhood-crime-fighting. Or that friendly-neighborhood-crime-fighting would be as harmless as you think it is. Besides, you sealed your own fate, Spiderling.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re going to be out in the middle of nowhere, are you really gonna need it? What would you do if these random hillbillys found out your greatest secret?”

“I…don’t think they’re hillbillys. And it would be nice to have it!”

“Believe me, I know. I want to be able to let you have it. But I also know if I let you have it, the definition of an emergency situation will suddenly slip your mind,” he made a ‘poof’ motion with his hand, “And then I’m seeing you in some forest fire on the news, and that’s on you.”

Peter looked away. Everything was being turned against him, his words, his actions, even his suit.

“This is how things should go;” Tony continued, “a nice, relaxing summer fiesta in the Pacific Northwest with your friends. Away from saving the world, and all of us. Just for one summer you get to be a normal kid—hey, it’s more than I get. You deserve it—get some fresh air, maybe learn a life lesson or two out there. But absolutely no pooch-screwing, got it?”

“Bu—”

“This isn’t your neighborhood. Did you ever think about that?”

“It is for the summer!”

“Look, I’m gonna level with you here; you’re a good kid. Got good grades, a brain in your head, hell, maybe you could even surpass me with your technology one day—”

“Rea—?”

“Nah. Still, you’ve got a lot of things going for you. But let’s be honest, being normal isn’t exactly your strong suit.”

“I can be normal!”

Really? Tony’s eyes said.

“At some point you’ve gotta learn there’s more to life than being a hero—even the friendly neighborhood kind.”

Peter focused on a speck of dirt the floor, unsure how to respond. He didn’t want to admit it, but he knew Mr. Stark had his points; he did have a tendency to screw up. Still, it didn’t mean he was going to screw up now. Why couldn’t Mr. Stark have a little more faith in him? Why couldn’t he recognize that his intentions were, in fact, honorable? More honorable, maybe, than his own. Hearing him say all this aloud, hearing that he would lose the suit over a couple of minor, past screw-ups, even if it was just for the summer, didn’t hurt any less. He wanted to be able to use the suit wherever he was, for emergencies, or otherwise. (And, you know, maybe a couple pranks and parties with Ned wouldn’t hurt). Why not help a few people while he was there? Why not make someone’s day, even if it wasn’t an emergency? Isn’t that what a friendly, neighborhood Spider-man was supposed to do?

Tony sighed. “I just don’t want to hear, from somewhere other than you, about how Spider-man got slashed by some lumberjack ghost—”

Peter screwed up his face in confusion.

“—Or something like that. You know, that’s an extreme, probably unlikely, example. I’m not going to be there to protect you, and this is the whole summer we’re talking about. I hope you can understand that.”

“I understand.” He murmured.

He understood, that didn’t mean he agreed, or was any less upset. He wasn’t a kid who needed constant protection. He thought Mr. Stark had learned that.

Reluctance in every motion, he leaned forward and gently tugged the suit out of his pack, as if he was telling his beloved pet, Sorry buddy, I have to leave you here, and shoved its crumpled form to his mentor’s chest.

Tony rolled up the suit up and placed it in beside him. Peter looked away, picking at a stray thread on his Star Wars shirt. He could feel Mr. Stark’s eyes on him, and knew his mentor could tell how upset he was, because Iron Man sighed, and spoke up.

“Alright, I’ll make ya a deal. If you absolutely need it, then you have my number. But I mean absolutely. I’ve seen your texts to Happy. I don’t want you calling because Spider-Man now has a mission to save the tree people.”

“Come on, who do you think you’re talking to?” Peter puffed out his chest.

Happy called from the front seat, “You once broke into some kid’s house because you wanted to play Santa, and texted me about it.”

“Come on, the poor kid wasn’t gonna get any presents!”

Happy rolled his eyes.

“Okay so…I won’t do that. I won’t disappoint you, Mr. Stark.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that.” Tony then cleared his throat. “Okay, good listening. Happy, give the kid some M&Ms.”

“Which kind?” Happy asked.

“Uh, the plebian kind.” Peter smirked.

Happy laughed, giving him a knowing nod, and threw Tony’s discarded M&Ms to him at the next stop.

Tony glanced between them, straight-faced. “You’re both dead to me.”

Spending three months in some town in Oregon, with people she didn’t know, or else barely knew, wasn’t exactly Wanda’s idea of fun. Nor was it her idea. Still, when Mr. Stark knocked on the door to her room, came in and explained the situation to her, she realized she was more partial to some peace and quiet, some fresh air, and a chance to make a few friends, than sitting in the stuffy, chrome Avengers headquarters. Watching guilt-inducing news, or else doing training, that, while helpful, she didn’t particularly need, or enjoy, wasn’t exactly the most pleasant way to spend her summer.

When her private chauffer dropped her off at an equally private jet, she couldn’t help but harbor some amount of resentment for Stark’s uncanny riches, spent on something that could be better used elsewhere.

Still, even if there was a little residual bitterness, she never doubted that the people she had found were the good ones. The way they treated her, like a friend and equal, the way they tried to comfort her when she has lost her brother, showed her she was in better company than she had ever been in. Even if the term ‘heroes’ was a little strong…Especially when used on her.

Even so, she was grateful to be heading to a small town in the Pacific Northwest, instead of a lavish, five-star resort, or, on the other end of the spectrum, a lab for testing. Some time to herself, a few months of comparative stillness, would be much appreciated. The thought of the fresh evergreen air, rather than the big-city smog, the sleepy town, instead of the sleepless crowd, and some company her age, had its allure.

The jet was plush, and cool—the air-conditioning, forming condensation at the vents by the windows, puffing in her face, provided a nice relief from the sweaty, summer air outside. Cream-colored chairs, with full reclining capabilities lined each side of the plane, and there was plenty of foot room. Plasma screen TV’s stared down at her from each of the corners.

Well, she certainly wasn’t going to complain about the level of comfort.

She settled into a seat by a window. Afternoon sunlight blared in through the glass, draping the interior in gold. It felt strange to be sitting alone in an airplane, especially knowing there would be no flight attendants, or even a pilot. This was one of Stark’s state-of-the-art, fully automated, aircrafts. His AI system would be with them the entire time, to provide any services, and answer any questions. He thought it would be easier than hiring a full staff for their trip, and mentioned that it might be nice not to have an adult supervisor, and they should probably grateful that he trusted them not to need supervision.

With that in her mind, she sat and waited for them to arrive, watching the people working on the planes, and the other planes taking off.

As they arrived, Wanda heard the billionaire giving his begrudging protégé a few last minute nuggets of advice. When he turned to her, however, all he said was “Wanda…keep doin’ what you’re doin’” push Peter forward and add, pointing to him, “Keep this guy in line. Don’t let him screw the pooch, alright?”

She didn’t really know what that meant, but it seemed like it was the time to agree.

“See?” Mr. Stark turned to Peter and held out his hand to reference Wanda, “This is what I’m talking about.”

This was apparently not the treatment Peter had been getting, since he interjected, “Oh come on!”

“Friday, is there any alcohol on this plane?” Tony asked.

“There are several kinds of alcoholic beverages on this aircraft, sir.”

“Ah, should have known, it’s my plane, after all.” He clicked his tongue and winked.

He headed towards the back of the plane, and soon his hands were full of bottles of every kind of alcohol one could imagine. Wanda wouldn’t mind having some of that available, and Peter offered to help carry them out, but Mr. Stark made it clear they were not to touch them. His only excuse was, “Hey, I know what the kids do. I’ll just take these off your hands. It’s better for everyone this way.”

Before exiting he remarked lamely, “Well, you kids have fun,” shrugging.

“Of course,” he popped his head back in, “you can only have so much fun while I’m not there, right?”

“Of course Mr. Stark. It’ll be so lame without you.”

“That’s my boy.”

Peter finished putting away his luggage, and as the Friday signified the plane was getting ready to take off, he walked up to Wanda and smiled amicably.

“May I sit here?”

She shrugged. “Sit wherever you like.”

“Oh, well, then, that’s what I’d like—yeah…” He seemed to realize how awkward he sounded, and rubbed the back of his neck nervously, throwing his backpack onto the chair next to his own. “My name’s Peter, by the way,” he said as he sat down, holding out his hand for her to shake.

A small, somewhat forced, smile creased her lips. She leaned forward, shaking his hand, replying, “Wanda.”

“Yeah, I know your name.” He paused. “I mean—!”

She leaned forward, the smile becoming more genuine. “It’s okay. Mr. Stark told me yours too.”

Despite knowing each other’s names, it quickly became apparent that they really only knew each other by reputation—which wasn’t necessarily bad, but they had never truly met or talked to each other, (in Germany there wasn’t really much time for heart-to-heart)—the amount of silence between them was evidence to that.

“So… how about that autopilot, huh?” Peter pointed his thumb at the cockpit behind him.

She tilted her head to the side for a second glance, without comment.

“Pretty cool.” Peter grinned sheepishly, trying and failing not to let his love for technology be too obvious.

She had heard about that too; Mr. Stark had been happy to give her background information—how he had made his own web shooters (is that what they were called?) and how he stopped a plane when some guy in a wing suit was trying to steal Stark’s precious stuff in the move.

“Well, it is Stark Industries.” She pointed out.

“Still, I never thought I’d be in a plane without a pilot. Now I’ve been on two!” he held up two fingers as if he needed to demonstrate.

“Pretty scary if you think about it.”

“Well, like you said, this is Mr. Stark we’re talking about, I’m sure we’re safe.”

Friday assured them as much, that she would be with them the entire time, and it wasn’t long before she told them to fasten their seatbelts for take off.

They both stared out the window as the plane sprinted down the runway, bolting into the air; a slingshot made of pavement and metal, firing at the sky.

She hadn’t been on many planes, but she always liked this part: when the city fell away, bit by bit, the towns becoming paper and toys. The part when she understood just how far away she was from the ground.

“So… this whole summer camp thing was your idea?” Wanda asked once they were in the air.

“Well,” he ran his hand through his hair, “technically it was my friend Ned’s idea. He actually works at the place we’ll be staying at. He thought it would be fun if I came to hang out with him over the summer. And we figured it would probably make more sense for me to stay over at the place where he works for like a summer-camp-situation. He didn’t really go into detail about why I couldn’t stay at his house…something about his family, I think. And we thought it would make even more sense if I wasn’t the only one coming. Sorry…you kinda got roped into this didn’t you?”

Wanda shrugged. “It’s alright. If it weren’t for you I’d be sitting on my ass all summer.” She gave him a smile. “So who’s this friend of yours?”

“Ned? Oh he’s great. He’s kinda like my second in command. Helps me with all the technical stuff, you know? When he found out I was Spider-man he—” he cut himself off, his eyes widening, “wait, you knew that right?!”

She nodded.

“Oh, phew. And you can’t tell anyone while we’re there! Well, I mean, Ned knows. Oh, wait, you probably already knew that, because you—Nevermind.”

“Aye aye captain.” She gave a little salute. “It sound’s like Ned’s a good friend.”

“He is, yeah. I also have another friend who I just found out works there too, her name is Michelle—well, MJ is what we call her. Not sure if she’ll let you call her that though…She’s really cool too.”

“Do you know this person we’ll be staying with? Mr. Stark didn’t tell me much.”

“To tell you the truth, I’ve never actually met him myself. Ned says he’s kind of weird. I mean, the place we’ll be staying at is called ‘The Mystery Shack,’ so that should tell us something. But he said he’s also like one of the coolest people he’s ever worked for…Though, come to think of it, I think he’s the only person he’s worked for.”

“And you’re not nervous about staying with a complete stranger?”

“Well, Ned and MJ know him. And nothing bad has happened to either of them while working there—as far as I know—so I trust that.”

“But your friends weren’t living with him.”

“Well, yeah, but they still spend like ninety percent of their time there. He said the guy’s hosted summer camps before too—though I think that was years ago. If he wasn’t trustworthy, I’d think at the very least there would be a bad review or two online.”

She still wasn’t convinced.

“Ned would know, I’m sure.” Peter crossed his arms, jutting his chin out. “I’ve got a good feeling.”

Wanda bit her lip, looking away. She didn’t. Having played lab rat to Hydra scientists, she had her fair share of reason to be cautious.

“What about you?” he asked after a pause.

She returned her gaze back to Peter. “What…about me?”

“Do you have any friends you invited? Oh! Do you know this other girl who’s coming? I think her name was Shuri? I’ve never met her. Mr. Stark said she found out what we were doing, and wanted to come for some reason. I think she’s from Wakanda?”

She shook her head. “To be honest, I haven’t had many friends since…” she looked up out of the corner of her eye, giving a small, sad smile, “ever, actually. Most of the time it was just me and my brother, and now…” she tapped her fingers on the armrest, “it’s just me.”

She hadn’t meant for it to sound so sad.

Peter’s eyes widened. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry. I forgot.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Well, hey,” Peter tried to brighten the situation, “you’ve got one friend now—you’ve got me!”

“Yeah…I guess I do.” She gave a small smile.

“Definitely. I got your back, Sister.” He cringed. “Ew, that didn’t work did it?”

She laughed. His confidence and kindness were refreshing. She had been around heroes for so long, and she never doubted their strength, or passion, but he was… a kid. A little awkward and nerdy, but a lot more compassionate, a lot more genuine. Compared to the other Avengers, he was pretty young, maybe a little naïve but more…heroic, for lack of a better word. He actually reminded her of Pietro in some ways.

After that, things became more relaxed. They each told their funny stories about the other Avengers, and theorized about ridiculous things like which of the Avengers wore the most hair product (Tony was their best guess for that one), and who wore the tightest costume (Peter himself won that one). They drank concoctions Peter made out of the non-alcoholic beverages available (only one of which didn’t taste terrible), and ate more than their fair share of crackers, and other food available, which ranged from ‘generally okay.’ to, well, airplane food.

Peter was more than ready to introduce Wanda to the Star Wars universe (he had been in shock for a few full minutes when she asked about the reference on his shirt) but, much to his dismay, a few minutes after starting up, the TV flickered to black, and they couldn’t revive it. The others wouldn’t even turn on. With Peter’s Star Wars hopes thoroughly dashed, they spent the last hour in quiet company. She pulled out a book she had brought, and started reading. He didn’t seem like he was all that tired, but before she knew it, she looked up from the page to see he had fallen asleep.

A light breeze shifted through the city, lifting leaves, playing with Peter’s hair. His feet, clad in the bright red of his suit, kicked back and forth lightly in the open sky between sectors B and C, his mask lying limp on the brick edge beside him as he took the last bite of his churro.

The height would have been enough to send anyone’s heart pounding, but for Peter, to be up here, above the world, was freedom, and gravity; feeling the air open before him, the city below him but just close enough, knowing he would always come back down…

“Loki doesn’t usually associate with your type,” mused a voice he didn’t recognize. “What are you doing here?”

Peter looked around, startled, quickly grabbing his mask, ready to put it back on at a moment’s notice. Weren’t his Spidey-Senses supposed to warn him about things like this?

No one was there.

“Okay. That was…weird.”

“Is your presence here an accident?” the voice returned. “No…That much is clear. So why here? Why would a young hero such as yourself come here of his own accord? Shouldn’t you be in a place more like… the one before you?”

Peter quickly spun back to face the gap between the buildings, and breathed out, folding his arms, suddenly feeling much colder up here.

Calm down Peter, he thought, there must be a perfectly logical explanation as to why you’re hearing voices.

“Not so. Not in the way you’re thinking.” Peter thought he heard it laugh. “Why do humans always think hearing voices is enough to grant them insanity?”

“Because it uh…kinda is. This really isn’t funny, you know. You’re kinda freaking me out, to be honest…Nameless Voice.”

“What would you prefer to call me? I’m not nameless. I just have many. I really could care less what I am called, if only it makes you comfortable.”

“Uhh…let’s stick with ‘Nameless Voice’ for now. You know,” He tried to laugh it off. “I don’t want to get attached to you and all.”

Who—or what—was this voice? Where was it coming from? And how? Why? Why now? He glanced around for some sort of curtain to look behind. to show him there was a man in the workings.

His eyes lighted upon a spider, black, with a strange blue mark on its back. It had made its home between the shifting leaves of one of the garden plants sunning on the roof. Its web glinted in the sunlight. Peter scooched closer to it.

“Um, excuse me, Mr. Spider? Sorry to bother you, but uh…weird question, are you talking to me?”

“He speaks as if he knows the insanity has reached him. I like you, Peter.”

Peter gasped at the sound of his name, losing his balance, but caught himself on the side of the wall, standing sideways nearby someone’s window, looking down at the street below. He swallowed.

“That could have been bad.” He murmured, before grabbing the edge of the roof and pulling himself back up.

“Seems that way.” The spider had heard him. “But not necessarily. All too many worlds are built on seeming.”

“Are you actually implying that do you want me to fall to my death? That’s not very nice, Mr. Spider.”

“I was unclear, my apologies; You would not die if you fell.”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure that I would!” He walked up to the creature, forgetting the mask entirely by now.

“Know now that anything can happen in a dream. A dream is not so bound by things like life and death, rather sleeping and waking.”

Thanks Socrates. He facepalmed. Of course it was a dream.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“‘What am I doing here?’ I think I should be asking you that, Mr. Spider! I mean, if this is my dream and all.”

“Will you answer me first?”

Peter looked around the skyline. “To be clear, are you asking me what I’m doing here in my dream?”

“Dig a little deeper.”

“But you just—!” he sighed. “I’m…you know.”

“Up up and away, so far from the ground. Will you ever come down?”

Peter blinked. “Uhh…Well, yeah…” he sighed, “I’m, you know, fighting bad guys.” He shrugged, then made a kicking motion in the air, “Kicking crime in the butt!”

“The hero.” The spider laughed. “I knew that. But it’s not what you’re doing here.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Truth is more elusive, isn’t it? My apologies, I should more clear in my inquiry.” The spider lifted up one of its forward facing legs in a sweeping motion.

In a blink the world shifted. Peter felt its fabric and foundation shaking, an inkling of his Spidey-Senses creeping in as it settled into the new scene. It was still sunset, and he was still sitting on the roof of a building, but now, instead of a sprawling city, the sunlight was sifting through the leaves of an army of trees, clustered together, even closer than the skyscrapers from before, blocking his view of the sky beyond. The building was made of wood and glass, instead of concrete and dust.

“Mr. Spider?”

He cast his gaze around, and found the spider behind him, its web larger now, covering a triangular, red-tinted window behind him.

Peter pulled his legs from the roof edge, as if suddenly afraid of the ground, and looked around at the forest he didn’t recognize.

“What is this place?”

“That brings us back to my question. I will make my meaning plain; Why are you here in Gravity Falls?”

“Oh that!” Peter sighed, relieved. “That’s easy; I came to see my friend Ned!” He looked around, excitement sparking in his eyes, instead of confusion. “So is this the Mystery Shack?”

“Taunts will get you nowhere. That is too simple of an answer.”

“What?” Peter laughed. “I’m not taunting you! It’s kinda the truth! I don’t know what to tell ya.”

“Him…” The creature seemed to be in an entirely different line of thought now. Its voice became muffled, the edges of the dream growing blurry. “This is still about him. All, always about him. Though you may be a player...he is the one I must...”

“Who? You’re not making any sense. Wait… do you mean Ned? Or…?”

The spider gave no answer; it was in another conversation now, maybe even another place, and Peter wasn’t entirely sure he was a part of it anymore, or that he was the crazy one.

Peter felt his Spidey-Senses pulling him from the dream, along with someone shaking him.

“Peter! …Peter! Peter!”

Peter blinked open his eyes to see Wanda’s face, her steel eyes wide with worry.

“Peter…Something…” her voice was low and taut, her breath shaky, she kept glancing between him and the cockpit, pushing her hair nervously behind her ear, “something’s wrong with the plane.”

Peter sat up, shaking his head as if it would untangle the spider’s webs from his mind. “W-What? What are you talking about?”

“I-I don’t know—Everything just started shaking and—”

It wasn’t a joke; he could feel it—the tremor he had felt when the scene changed in the dream must have been this, here; the whole plane shaking. The luggage rattled as it shifted in its compartments, their leftover snacks and drinks spilled onto the floor. His stomach rose and fell, tipped and turned, as the plane dropped, and tried to right itself in the air. The last time he had been on a plane, every tremor had startled him, and Happy had always assured him it was just turbulence. Now he might have tried to denounce this as harsher-than-normal turbulence, and guessed Wanda probably did at first too, but the worry in Wanda’s eyes, along with the hair on his arms standing on end, and the dream he had had before, told him this was not normal. He felt a knot tying itself in his stomach.

“Come on!”

He grabbed her hand and stumbled with her to the front of the plane, trying and failing to ignore the shaking floor, and the amount of times they knocked against chairs, (and each other), in their pursuit.

They held on as best they could to anything solid as the shaking grew worse. The cockpit was quite tiny, two chairs crunched into the area. The view of the world below, trees and fields playing peekaboo behind the clouds, getting closer, took up most of the area—which, while helpful to the (here, nonexistent) pilot, only served to make their fall seem all the more eminent.

This was the kind of circumstance that could make him understand why people feared gravity.

The rest of the area was comprised of levers, buttons, blinking lights of many colors, and screens, splattered around the walls, floors, what you might call the plane’s dashboard, and ceilings. Without a manual they could never know which would create what reaction, or how to navigate the skies’ invisible paths.

When they tried the radio, no voice came through. Not even dead static.

They scanned the blinking lights, dials, screens, buttons, (and tried to avoid the window view), glancing at each other periodically, as if expecting one of them to suddenly shout, Ah! Yes! I know how this works!

“Hey, Friday,” Peter called, “c-can you tell us what’s going on?”

No response.

“Friday?” he felt his voice trembling too, and all he could think was I don’t have the suit, I don’t have the suit, I don’t have the suit, please answer, please be there, “You there?”

Nothing.

The tremors grew worse. The knot pulled itself tighter, making him feel sick with fear.

How? How could she not be there? Mr. Stark probably hadn’t expected this of his own technology, but he would have always made sure Friday was there. She even assured them she would be. Besides that, he would have made sure that any and every safety precaution was followed…right?

Okay, that didn’t exactly sound like Mr. Stark.

Still, how could this even happen? What exactly were they dealing with? Could ordinary turbulence, some accident, a malfunction, wipe out Friday?

“We could really use your help right now!” worry was creeping into the edges of his voice.

AFK.

Or, something in the back of his mind asked, what if we’re dealing with a villain? What if this is what Mr. Spider meant by ‘Up up and away, when will you ever come down?’

But he pushed the idea back down. Maybe. Hopefully not. But it didn’t matter. Not right now.

“What do you think we should do?” he could tell Wanda was trying not to let her worry reach her voice too.

“Um…Okay, let’s…uh—” Peter ran his hand through his hair, trying to keep his voice from devolving into whimpers.

There were a number of situations in which his heightened senses were much more of a hindrance than a help—(okay, that was an understatement)—and this was one of them. It was difficult to think at all when every rattle of luggage and metal sounded like snakes in his ears, warning him they were about to strike. Luckily (or unluckily) no alarms were blaring, but his Spidey-Senses were more than happy to provide the constant bark of Danger! Danger! in his ears. The outside sunlight glared at him, paired with the tiny blinking lights, each one a question he couldn’t answer, making the environment less than conducive to heavy duty thought. Each tremor grabbed him and shook him, like Flash on a bad day, causing him to lose calm and mental capacity second by second.

He wanted to fight back more than anything, but he had nothing at all to fight with, he didn’t understand the rules of the game, nor could he anticipate the enemy’s moves. There were so many levers, buttons—too many to count, to decipher, to learn—and no manual, no AI to talk to, nor a person on the radio to guide them. No help, no hope.

But he couldn’t break down, couldn’t sit back in a quiet moment and think this through, couldn’t process, or even wonder. He had to think, had to solve this, to come up with a solution—have to keep us alive. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, be useless without his suit. He refused to be. He promised himself history wasn’t repeating. He wouldn’t let it be. He was more than his suit—he had proven that much already. He knew he could still be a hero without it.

“Let’s try this lever,” he pointed to the big, gleaming, silver one in front of them. “it looks important!”

So much for that.

Wanda gave him a really? look. The same one Mr. Stark gave him before, when he said he could be normal.

“Do you have a better idea?!”

He lost his balance on the next tremor, and felt the console dig into his chest when he fell.

The lever was within reach. He glanced at Wanda for approval—who gave a little nod—and tried it.

It wouldn’t budge.

Okay…other direction?

Like an obnoxious child, it refused to leave the toy store.

“Let me try!” Wanda called.

He fell back into the pilot’s chair in an attempt to give her space.

She put her hands together, red pouring out from them, mist enveloping the lever. She pulled her fingers back as if her hand was tied to it.

The mist dissipated without the lever so much as shivering.

Nu uh.

She dropped her hands to the side, her eyes wide and fearful when at they met his.

“Has…Has that ever happened before?”

“Not really.” She gave a wavering smile, and pushed her hair back behind her ear.

“Okay…n-new plan.” He blew out a breath, trying to keep calm.

Except, he didn’t have any idea what that new plan could be. Really they needed a new plane. Maybe a new mentor.

Or, you know, a certain suit.

“You see a manual anywhere?” Peter asked.

They had already looked everywhere, but they tried again, looking for a secret panel or compartment that might hold it, knowing full well it would probably be easily accessible if it was here.

“Well it is an auto pilot, I doubt it would need to read the instructions,” Wanda pointed out.

Yeah, at this point, I wouldn’t be surprised of Mr. Stark threw it out.

He whistled out a breath. They had to do something, something, not nothing, not sitting here—not useless without the suit, not useless, I’m not just some weak little kid.

He then frantically proceeded to turn, touch, and pull every dial, button, and lever he possibly could. Many wouldn’t move, those that would did nothing to help their situation, or else broke off entirely like as if they were glass.

“Okay.” He ran his hands over his face, his breath weighing heavier on his chest every second. “OkayOkayOkay. Calm down, Peter, you got this.”

“Wait…didn’t you stop a plane before? How did you do it then?”

That struck something inside him. It crashed, Wanda. Didn’t he tell you that? I only know how to screw up. Everything I do ends up in flames. Please don’t throw that in my face, not now. He could no longer contain the stress piling up inside him, it now spilled onto his tongue, “Mr. Stark took away my suit, okay?!” he snapped, “I mean, I-I can still do stuff without it! Just—!” he tried to quiet the brew of fear and anger, “Stopping planes is going to be hard one, okay?!”

“Why would he—?” she breathed, then bit her lip, cutting off her words.

“He thought I would be reckless with it!” he answered her half-baked question. “Can you please be quiet for just one second, I need to think!”

She obliged.

“What if…What if, uh…” his voice shook.

How could he? How could he think when he just knew this would end the same way all his other missions did? How could he think at all when he felt like somehow this just had to be all his fault?

He tried to focus his energy on something other rather than himself:

Despite the fact that he didn’t have his suit, Wanda’s power was readily available. She could still do something… but what? What would be enough to stop a soon-to-be-crashing plane, when neither of them had any experience, idea what any of these buttons did, or even a manual to read? Superpowers didn’t quite match inexperience, and misinformation. Well, at least right now they didn’t—and this might be the only ‘now’ that mattered.

“What if you, uh, used your power to—”

What?

He snapped his fingers, pointing at her, finally getting an idea, “Can you use your powers on the entire plane?”

“I…can try.”

It was a crazy idea, but crazy ideas are how superheroes get by, right?

Using the walls, chairs, and Peter, to keep her balance, she walked out into a more open, middle area of the plane. Peter kept his distance, as she shut her eyes, and held her hands out to the side, red energy flowing from her, diving into the floor, inch by inch enveloping the plane in a red sheen, creating puppet strings to tie it to the sky.

“Yes! Yes!” Peter encouraged.

She cried out in pain, the weight of the machine falling upon her, but she kept going.

Just as as the forcefield was almost finished covering the contraption, and he felt it start to rise back up, the strings broke, and the girl collapsed onto the floor.

Peter ran to catch her.

He was afraid this might happen.

“I’m sorry—” she began.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay!” he brushed the hair out of her face, “We’ll find something else.”

But even as he said it, the creaks and groans of the plane straining to stay afloat grew in intensity. His stomach flipped, the knot caught in his throat, fear gripped at his heart.

What could they do? She couldn’t keep the plane from falling, they didn’t know how to fly it, or have anything to communicate that they were, in fact, falling, and he didn’t have his suit…What choice did they have but to fall?

No. He couldn’t think like that. There had to be something. He couldn’t give up hope.

Maybe it just had to be even crazier. Maybe they wouldn’t fall after all, maybe there was something, some way they hadn’t thought of yet. They were awfully close to their destination, maybe they would come to the right place after all, and they would land safely. They had to. This couldn’t be it.

Maybe. Or maybe they would fall.

He couldn’t think with the creaking grating on his ears, and his blood drumming his own death march beneath the skin.

Shaking, creaking, rattling—keep breathing.

But that breath was snatched away; the plane finally gave out in its efforts to stay above the waves, and it took a different direction.

A wrong direction. A down direction. A falling direction.

And for one brief second, the thought crossed paths with his mind: we might die.

But the thought flitted out of his brain as quickly as it entered, or, more accurately, it was stifled when The Scarlet Witch grabbed his shirt, pulling him further down, shouting, “Hold on to me!”

He did, and as he wrapped his arms around her, the crimson mist came over them both, a merciful curtain separating them and disaster. It seemed so thin—like you could brush your hand through it and it would tear—but somehow it kept calamity at bay.

He understood now; she had been hoping to keep them afloat, or else save more, or ideally all, of the plane, (and, after what had happened in Lagos, she was probably afraid her power would be more of a hindrance than a help), but this had always been her last resort.

The crashing came in muffled blips to their scarlet cage. He put his finger on Wanda’s chin so she would turn to look at him. She did so, fear lining her irises. He put his hands over her ears, resting his forehead gently on hers.

She didn’t need the sound of more tragedy in her life.

They both shut their eyes tight. They didn’t want to see. To admit that they had failed.

Though he kept her safer from the noise, he had to listen. He tried and failed to block out the sounds; the curling metal, and bending trees, so close. Even if he had covered his own ears he doubted his super-hearing would have allowed him to block it out.

They could still breathe. And that breathing was amplified by the field, the same single, bated, fearful, forced-calm kind of breath.

If only their thin bubble of safety popped…what would happen? How quickly would they die? Seconds? Minutes? Or would it be hours, and even now, they still had a chance of never being found? Never finding their way out of the wreckage, or back home?

The metal twisted, the engines failed and and fell, flaming to the forest floor. The dirt flared up, and the trees, like spears, jutted into the sides of the machine. Those trees who dared challenge man’s invention had their points dulled, scratched, and split by the presence of the unnatural. The forest buckled, but in the same token, technology became putty in the hands of nature. Everything fell apart, and in the end, it all was left in a fiery heap of scraps in the midst of a forest.

But the two of them were safe.

Loki sighed low, wiping the sweat of his brow, stepping through the curtain, changing his clothes from the all-back suit to something more casual in a flash of gold. Last tour of the day.

Yet, of course, with a movie-like flair, the real mess was just beginning. He was going to savor every second before the pests arrived. Maybe finally settle down with that book, drink some tea to calm down, reset his system before he had to deal with—

“Hey, catch!”

Loki caught the snow globe Michelle threw at him.

“Noice. This guy,” she pointed her thumb at the person before her, at the front counter, “wants to know if the sticker on this means it’s 30% off.”

Loki barely glanced the sticker before leaning on the desk and saying through the side of his mouth. “What do you think?”

“I’m sorry sir,” Michelle responded, “I’m afraid I can’t give you a discount. But may I interest you in a free jar of one-hundred-percent, one-of-a-kind Gravity Falls dirt?”

She pulled a perfectly worthless jar of dirt out from behind beneath the counter, like it was on the secret menu, and held it up.

He accepted it from her and held it up to the light, as if admiring it, or trying to discern its authenticity.

“Nice.” Loki whispered back.

Only a few stragglers from his last tour were left in the gift shop, and they would be gone soon.

A few moments passed before Ned joined them, lowering his phone, something akin to worry creasing his features.

“Something wrong, Mr. Leeds?”

“Peter isn’t picking up.”

Loki raised an eyebrow, and Michelle lifted her gaze.

“Your meaning?” Loki asked, barely concerned.

“They should have been here half an hour ago.”

“Their flight was probably just delayed, dude.” Michelle offered calmly.

“You’re right. I’m probably worried about nothing.” Ned tried to shrug it off.

Though, clearly, as time continued on—the last customers of the day exited the shop, closing time came and passed—worry was not absent from his thoughts. Loki gave them a few last minute tasks to prepare for their friends’ arrival, though they had finished most of it earlier that morning. Later he found him pacing in the quiet gift shop, periodically checking his phone to make sure he hadn’t missed his friend’s call—as if he his constant vigilance warranted any possibility of that.

It appeared Loki might have to abandon his moment of silence.

Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen.

“Miss Jones,” he found her watching TV in the living room, snacking from a bag of chips. “Your friend is looking rather…pathetic.”

She smirked, not looking up at him. “Yeah, he always looks like that.”

He crossed his arms.

She looked up to see he was being serious. “Come on, he’s just worried about Peter.”

“See to him, will you?”

Michelle lifted her hand. “Why don’t you do it?”

He started tapping his foot on the ground. “Because I have some rather important reading to do.”

“Really? How important? Are we talkin’ The History of Farting, or War and Peace?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. This summer was not going to be an easy one.

“Just do as I ask.”

She shrugged, grabbing her chips and roaming over to her friend.

It seemed his reading plans were destined to fail, however, as he was interrupted yet again by the ringing of the the Mystery Shack phone. He groaned, leaning over the yellow armchair to pick it up.

“Hello, Mystery Shack?” he sat on the arm of the chair, “Mr. Mystery speaking.”

The person on the other end snorted. “Mr. Mystery, nice one.”

“I’ll have you know—!”

He cut himself off, eyes wide, realizing he recognized that voice.

“Darcy?” he tried to sound unaffected.

“The one and only. You wouldn’t happen to have ordered two marginally distressed teenagers, would you?”

He sat on the arm of the recliner. “Don’t tell me something happened during shipping.”

“Kind of, yeah. Let’s just say autopilot, plus Gravity Falls weirdness, equals …not a good time.” There was a pause. “They’re fine—Not that you asked.”

“Where are they now?”

“They’re in the farmhouse…You know, the one with the with the mailbox that looks like an alien cow? We’re sitting here drinking tea. I promise they’re eating healthy—hey put down that cookie! Can you come pick them up? Or do I need to entertain them for an extended period of time? I do have an Ipod here, and some old newspapers, but don’t think that’s nearly enough to keep them occupied.” He heard her cracking her knuckles. “But I think I can manage.”

“While that would be quite enjoyable to see, it won’t be necessary.”

He walked into the atrium to grab his keys, forgetting the phone was a landline…which, when he reached the end of the cord, ended up pulling him to the ground. He stood back up with dignity, tossing his hair out of his face, (he was glad Ned and Michelle hadn’t seen him, and that he wouldn’t have to use a certain memory gun on his employees), and finished,

“I’m coming.”

“Mr. Mystery to the rescue, huh?”

He tried not to smirk. “The one and only.”

“Oh, and to be clear, what’s really going to be fun to see, is you trying to entertain them, not me.”

He glared at the phone before hanging up.

When he got off the phone and walked into the gift shop, he found the other two teens staring at him expectedly from across the room.

Loki cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair.

“It appears your friend Mr. Stark made the mistake of trusting your friends lives to his autopilot.”

Ned had been snacking on Michelle’s chips—(he had a tendency to do that when he was nervous)—and as his mouth dropped open in shock, the chip he was holding fluttering sadly to the ground.

“And…as often happens with the machinations of mortals”—(he tried not to smirk at his turn of phrase, then felt something in him stir)—“something…”

He didn’t intend it, expect it, or want it, but at the mention of technology, and of malfunction, for a brief moment—

“Uhh…what about family?”

“That too.”

—he didn’t see the two of them before him, their worried faces.

Instead, a bright blue glow saturated the world, a low hum filled his ears, he felt a burning sensation on his shoulder, and heard a single voice, a voice he hadn’t heard in years, shouting his name, and a command, that he had then failed to follow:

“LOKI!! DO SOMETHING!!”

He shut his eyes tight, and swallowed the memory, trying to focus on the situation before him.

This was not that; these two were not him. They were mortals, who could never understand, and though the scene still haunted him more often than he would like, it was not happening now.

“Something went wrong.”

[chicgeekgirl89]

It All Fades Away

Doing some serious wish fulfillment for myself here after “Better Angels” last week. Here’s where I hoped things were going. 

Kensi’s throat closed and she couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t watch this man die, not after all they’d been through today. She thought she might be sick. The world was spinning and she put a hand to her head in an attempt to try and right herself. Deeks. She needed Deeks.

When his car pulled up it seemed like nothing short of a miracle. She collapsed into him, all of the façade she’d kept up so valiantly during the day crumbling as his arms cradled her against his chest. “I’ve got you,” he murmured stroking her hair. “You’re amazing. You were so good baby.”

“It’s not fair,” she said, her voice breaking. “It’s just not fair.”

“I know,” he soothed.

Nothing he could say would make this any better, but she wanted him there all the same. She felt sick with grief and fear. David deserved more time with those he loved. He’d deserved peace and home and family and he would never have any of those things again.

He hadn’t had enough time.

And as surely as she knew that, she knew what needed to come next. She couldn’t wait. Not a minute longer.

“Deeks I want to marry you,” she whispered, tears still streaming down her face.      

“I want to marry you too baby.”

He didn’t understand and she desperately needed him to. Nothing else mattered. Nothing but this. “No, now Deeks. Today.” She pulled back, wiping her eyes so she could look at him. “I don’t want to wait anymore. I don’t need a cake and a party. I just need you.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to waste anymore time.”

 He took a shaky breath. “Are you sure? Baby, are you serious?”

“We can still have the wedding in March. But I want you today. I want our always to start now.”

He cradled her face in his hands, eyes searching hers. He nodded. “Okay. Yes.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There was something in the desert

There was someplace wild and green

And a child in a village I passed through

There are places that I've travelled

And so many things I've seen

And it all fades away but you

 The distress signal went off at 5:00am. Nell shot up and reached over Eric, grabbing her phone. “Who is it?” he asked as he scrambled to put his glasses on.

“Kensi and Deeks.” Nell was already out of bed. She grabbed her dress from the day before off the floor and pulled it on. “Get dressed.”

They were in the car within five minutes. “Which way?” Nell asked as she hit the gas. Everything had been fine when they left last night and she felt sick imagining what could have caused both of their friends to hit their distress signals simultaneously.

“Turn left here,” Eric instructed, never taking his eyes from the GPS. A single mistake could cost them precious time. “Straight through that light.”

It took twenty minutes to find the coordinates that had been sent to their phones. They flew into a parking lot by the beach right after Sam and Callen appeared only seconds behind them.

“You good?” Sam asked, checking his gun as he got out of the car.

Callen nodded, withdrawing his own weapon. “Anybody see them?”

Nell had been scanning the beach and she grabbed Eric’s arm with one hand, the other coming up to cover her mouth as tears sprang to her eyes. “Oh my god.”

Kensi and Deeks were standing hand in hand on the sand, Kensi’s white dress fluttering in the breeze. Julia and Roberta stood on other side of them and a man Nell didn’t recognize was in the middle. It became immediately clear that the only danger anyone was in was of crying their eyes out.

“Well it’s about damn time,” Sam said.

I was sliding down a mountain

I was burning in the sun

I was crying with amazement at the view

I was capturing a moment

But when all is said and done,

Well it all fades away but you

Deeks’s eyes were suspiciously wet and he smiled as they drew near. “We couldn’t wait any more,” he said.

“It was just going to be us but then we realized, we needed our family here,” Kensi said, her voice breathy with emotion.

Nell squeezed her into a tight hug as Callen shook Deeks’ hand. “We’re glad you called,” he said.

“Is everyone ready?” The officiant they’d spent all night looking for was surprisingly pleasant for such an early morning ceremony.

“I think they’re past ready,” Sam said, eliciting a laugh from the small group.

“Then let’s begin. Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today…”

I have sailed across the oceans,

Passed the cities and the farms

On a never-ending quest for something new

And the only thing that mattered

Was the four days in your arms

And it all fades away but you

Kensi felt her heart race as the officiant looked at her and asked her to say her vows. This moment, so long in coming, was finally here and she wasn’t sure she could speak at all, let alone say anything coherent.

“We can do the traditional vows if you’d rather,” he offered .

She shook her head. Deeks deserved to hear from her heart. “Deeks,” she said, and then paused, looking into his blue eyes, so full of life and hope. “Marty. I know you’ve waited a long time for this. But you never once pushed me, you let me come to it in my own time. You took care of me, and you held my hand, and showed me in a million ways that you loved me and would wait for me to be ready.

“You have changed me.” She looked back at their team. “You’ve changed us. When you came into my world, I didn’t need or want anyone. I was scared and angry. But you made me see that love,” she took a breath, “love is worth having. It’s everything.” She looked directly into his eyes. “You are everything. I could never in my life have dreamed someone as amazing as you.”

She reached up and brushed a few curls from his face. God he looked handsome today. “You are strong and you are brave and you are kind. You’re one of the best people I know.” She blinked back a few more tears. “And because of that, you have my whole heart. You have my soul. And I love you to the end of time and back.”

Deeks swiftly leaned forward and captured her lips in a kiss, eliciting a laugh from the group. “You’re a little early. But I think we can let it slide,” the officiant said as they broke apart. “Martin, what would you like to tell Kensi?”

“Oh god,” he shook his head and blew out a shaky breath, trying to get his bearings. “Kensi, I’ve thought about this moment for forever. And I don’t even,” he laughed as he choked up, “I don’t even know how to say all the things you mean to me.” He shook his head. “Uh, my life was…so dark. And you just came out of nowhere and filled it with sunshine.

“As if you weren’t already the most beautiful, kind, amazing person on earth, you’re also a complete and total badass,” he said, making her laugh. “Every single day with you is the greatest of my life. You make me so happy and whether we have ten more minutes or a thousand years together, I’ll love you for every second of it.”

She smiled at him through watery eyes and he could barely breathe. They’d been up all night trying to put everything together and even still she was the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen with her hair falling down her back, the white dress she’d picked out shimmering in the sun. He took her hand and placed it on his chest. “This heart? It’s is yours. Today and everyday, forever. My world doesn’t exist without you Fern. I love you.”

Both moms were in tears and Kensi suspected Nell and Eric were too judging from the sniffles she was hearing.

They exchanged their rings and Kensi felt a profound sense of relief and happiness as the gold band slid onto Deeks’ finger. They’d made it. “I think I’ve cried more this morning than I have my whole life,” she said, as he reached to wipe another tear from her cheek.

“That’s okay,” he said. “As long as they’re tears of happiness, not regret.”

She squeezed his hand. “Definitely happiness.”

Deeks looked at the officiant. “Now?”

The man smiled. “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

Deeks grinned at her and twined his fingers in her hair, pulling her close. “All in?” he asked quietly, so only she could hear.

She smiled back. “All in.” His lips found hers and she heard their friends and moms cheer. When they broke apart Deeks had the most ridiculous grin on his face and Kensi was pretty sure she looked equally besotted. They’d done it. Forever was theirs.

There is one thing that's eternal

That cannot be torn apart

There is one thing that remains forever true

Past the thinking, past the breathing

Past the beating of my heart

It will all fade away but you

  --“It All Fades Away” from The Bridges of Madison County by Jason Robert Brown

[desertgourd]

warning for drug mentions, detox/withdrawal, character death mentions, general air of misery

he can’t remember ever being so tired. not on the long nights staring at a stucco-pocked ceiling with the hallway clock ticking out the raw and liminal stretch of night before the school bus arrived to throw him through another eight-hour gauntlet, and not when he woke in the hospital bed with grey skin and a tube down his throat and in his arm and two policemen waiting in the corridor like vultures. now he shivers on their living room sofa (it smells like cigarette ash, had since they’d lugged it off the corner of 164th and the Union Turnpike, and Kankuro’s growing habit hadn’t done it or his brother’s asthmatic lungs any favors) with two blankets up to his chin and his life in a shithole so deep it curdles his nose hairs.

he hasn’t eaten breakfast or lunch and the thought of them makes him want to vomit all over again. the bucket on the rug at his feet had been cleaned twice already since that morning but god praise Kankuro, or whatever powers that be praise him. Gaara’s last belief in a god died with the first time he realized he couldn’t go twelve hours without the needle. there was no sound except the thunder of footsteps and some mystery thudding from above that came with the territory of slumlord apartments in south Queens. three times in as many months Gaara had banged the hard end of a broom on the ceiling and each time a man with skin like cracked leather and circles of sweat dried yellow on his undershirt had screamed at him in a language he did not understand and at the time Gaara had been too far gone to do more than shut the door back in his face and slump back to bed for another hit. now he keeps to himself, mustering the energy only to pull the blanket over his head and rearrange his neck on the sofa to avoid the soreness he knows will come anyway.

he knows he asked for this and in more ways than one. he asked for it with the first mark in the crook of his elbow and every new one since (you know you can’t do this forever). he asked for it when the only man he ever loved in his life (the only man who ever loved him?) had begged him, god please, Gaara please, look at yourself, you’re dying and you’re the one who’s doing it. Gaara had heard the words on his tongue then in an echo of his childhood taunts (freakfreakfreak) and knew he must reject him before he had the chance to be rejected in turn, but the heartstrings yanked like fishhooks and Gaara had clung to him like a pup to its mother’s teat, and when he had left once and for all who could replace him? a series of encounters with men who saw him more as meat than the soul his broken body held, who took what they wanted and left the husk to rot. Gaara had seen that and compared it against every other man and woman in his life and called it love.

and then his father died.

the blood vessels between his eyes throb. everything throbs. the muscles in his calves spasm, his fists clench and unclench, his forehead sears like the sun and there is nothing he wants (nothing he needs) more than the one thing he cannot have. he’s spent the last three days begging Kankuro and Kankuro, bound by the will of their sister and the corpse of their last living parent and by the oath of his own brother, denied him, and Gaara had cursed him to Hell for it and then praised him and then cursed him all over again.

his father died and the knife Gaara never knew was wedged between his ribs dislodged and out bled everything he’d kept walled up behind a fortress of smack and stone since he was six. his father died and everything he knew about his world crumbled to ash.

(don’t you want to live? he’d been asked once. i don’t know. i don’t know how.) 

Temari had shown up at his door like a fairy godmother made of tough love and steel and picked her way through the wreckage of her brother’s life. did she understand that he was gone, that the smack had taken him hostage and there was no way to rip through the webbing with which it had constricted his life? was there a life left in there, even, and what did it mean when Temari was the only one who claimed to see it?

(get clean or i’m done. get clean or it’s over.)

and Gaara had picked himself up in a way he never had before. and picked himself up and picked himself up over and over again, because nobody had told him that being sober meant steps made of glass that slipped if you put your foot down wrong, that folded over on themselves so he would slide back past every one he’d climbed and had to start all over again. nobody had told him that the first one felt like dying and so would every one after that, and that the light they all said was at the end of the tunnel was good for nothing if it looked so far away he could barely glimpse it over the stairs extending endlessly in all directions like a labyrinth, a light, no more than a pinprick, some far-away star, which never came within reach no matter how hard he fought.

he curls in a ball on the cushion and finds he’s sweat through his clothes. has been sweating through them for a while, and the perspiration on them is cold and damp and rank and itches at his thighs and the small of his back. when he stretches to shift the fabric his muscles scream again and he remembers, infuriatingly, achingly, that his dealer is one text away, only that Temari has taken his phone (and his laptop for good measure) and there is nothing here but a light at the end of a maze of steps and he is lost. who is he doing this for again?

another shiver rips through him. skin like ice. tongue against his upper lip and he tastes snot. he stomach clenches and he retches again only there is nothing left but the shooting pains in his gut and an ache in his jaw. he drags himself into the evening hours by the skin of his teeth. Kankuro stops in from work and Gaara smells chicken soup, takes a spoon (the feel of it too familiar, molded too perfectly between his fingers, it’s enough to send him reeling), manages not to gag back up a few mouthfuls of broth. he can feel the judgment from his eyes like holes burnt in balsa wood. Kankuro looks at him like a stray dog he’d pulled in from the rain and is he so wrong? yet was he not the same brother who shoved him out in the storm to begin with?

at some point he knows he’ll sleep again, will take a joint or two to get the job done, barely held in his shaking hands, fire on his tongue. he will drift into some uneasy form of half-consciousness broken by memories of what was and what could have been and nightmares of that which is yet to come. somewhere, there is hope, too far to reach but glittering far up there, the North Star. he thinks he can follow that. if he can sleep and make it through this day and the next and the next, if one day at the end of it all he can look back and see more steps behind him than there are ahead, he can make it. for Temari or Kankuro or everyone else he’s failed, or his own damn self. he can do that. he'll follow that North Star home.