#irrational? yes. but i do Not think he's above impulsive decisions while embarrassed

[honeydots]

inigo (17) would make an instagram, post a thirst trap, and then get so bullied by his friends that he deletes his whole account

[typewriterghcst]

Title: But For Me It Was Tuesday Rating: also G-ish, but some allusions to probably what we would consider child abuse in the modern day lbr Characters: one (1) OC, Baron, Natori, Yuki Summary: The events of The Cat Returns, but told through the eyes of the smallest-- oh, sorry, my mistake— the youngest kitchen maid in the service of the Cat King. No romantic pairings. A crush or two may be mentioned, though. Notes: Written for the 2020 TCR Birthday Bash, even though I emphatically missed the deadline rip. This one was for the prompt of ‘Movie Extra’, which I took to mean, well, pretty much just what I wrote— the events of the movie as a backdrop to another character’s everyday life, lmao This is another one that isn't Entirely Finished, but I've been working on it since June-ish and I've just lost all motivation to finish it. Though, unlike the last one I posted that was unfinished, the only part missing from this one is the ending.  There's also a part in here involving Natori that needed to be changed, but I liked the wording and imagery of it, and never did get around to figuring out where else to put it, so some of the pacing in here is Off rip

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She oversleeps. That's the first unusual misfortune that happens to her on this particular day. Opens the day, no less, she  thinks to herself as she forlornly stokes the ovens' gently smoldering fires. Her ears are still ringing from the boxing she'd received— the fact that Cook had had to include a little hop to even reach them means what little pride she has feels just as bruised.

Were she a more superstitious, flighty sort, she might even have taken this setback as the first of likely many portents of an upcoming stressful day. But instead she is only Topolina, the youngest (but emphatically not the smallest; more on that later) kitchen maid currently languishing away in the employ of the illustrious royal castle of the Cat Kingdom.

Of course, it’s there she stops herself. It’s only the chaos of the morning that has her using such bitter language. She should try harder, she tells herself, not to linger on the unpleasant aspects of her current existence, and instead focus on… on… well, she supposes there’s something to be grateful for in all of this. 

Like…

Oh! She has a home. A relatively nice bed to sleep in. And meals, every day.

...Meals which she is most often forced to wolf down in the kitchen in solitude as she tends the fires and keeps a watchful eye on the simmering pots.

Ah.

Perhaps she needs a bit more practice with this gratitude thing, is all.

It’s entirely possible her recent light resentment had begun with her very name, Topolina, a name which had been quite fitting when she stood at least two heads shorter than all the other kitchen maids, one she'd even perhaps viewed with some fondness for its endearing quality. And yet, alas, it now exists as a name which seems only heavily ironic— that is, now that she's hit the tender age of fourteen and found herself towering over all but the very tallest of cats. It feels to dear Topolina like some massive, omnipresent joke that she remains her old timid, meek self, still eager to fade into the background and disappear... now without even the faintest hope of being able to do so.

Metaphorical salt in the wound is the undeniable fact that her pinafore's hem, once perfectly aligned with her ankles and cutely poofy, now drapes awkwardly far above its original position. Perhaps it’s comparatively trivial atop all her other complaints, but when she finds herself thinking back to her old unassuming silhouette, she can’t help but feel at least a little crestfallen. Nowadays, she feels quite akin to a pitifully overgrown shrub, no matter how many well-meaning words to the contrary she receives.

All in all, she imagines such a thing might make anyone feel rather less than appreciative.

It’s as she’s sitting there alone before one of the nine stoves in the palace kitchen, contemplating her rotten luck, that she hears— well. She’s not sure, exactly. It’s something of a crunching sound, like rusted metal grinding against itself, and she can’t imagine what its source could be. She stands, and gingerly inspects the oven itself from every angle she can think of. She even studies her fire iron. Yet still she comes up empty-handed.

Defeated, she flops back down in her original spot.

And then— she squeaks, because the ground under her is moving, slowly twisting back and forth as if she’s sitting on a lazy top. She leaps (falls is more accurate) off the emerging ground once her mind comes back to her, once it stops panicking, and stares in confounded shock as the very spot she’d been settled atop transforms into what appears to be a long-forgotten manhole covering. How long had that been there?! She’s never been made aware of an old servant’s tunnel in this area!

Her perplexion only deepens when she spies just who has made use of this abandoned tunnel— a cat much like herself, though she thinks that he looks quite a sight better than she would have had she just crawled through a dirty tunnel. His off-white suit is pressed and smart, for one, and hardly has a tear nor even a wrinkle to show for the abuse he’s no doubt just put it through.

His sharp gaze falls then on her, and she’s suddenly acutely aware of her ill-fitting, nearly threadbare pinafore, the scuffs of dirt and soot smattered across it, and her probably unkempt fur, smudged and mussed from fire-tending. Oh, if she could just will the earth itself to open its maw and swallow her up—!

“Ah,” he starts, in a much gentler voice than Topolina had expected, turning to her and offering a hand to help her up, “I apologize. It was not my intention to startle you.”

“N-No, it’s okay,” she stammers, taking his hand without thinking. (Were she in a right state of mind, she’d never do such a thing— the very last thing her poor Young Maiden’s Heart could stand is for a handsome gentleman to struggle to lift her.) He pulls her up with little difficulty, though, and in her chest she feels a very peculiar thump, and then a flutter.

“A-Are you here for the king..?” She asks impulsively.

He doesn’t answer immediately, appearing to think that over for a fleeting moment, perhaps aware of the myriad of ways the pairing of her question and his response could be interpreted, before he makes his decision.

“Yes. I would like to have an audience with him. It’s a matter of utmost importance.”

“Y… you’re not here to kill him, are you?” She whispers, perhaps irrationally afraid that the king himself might be listening in on her. And yet, not too irrational— she’s seen his spying Cat’s Eye floating languidly about the castle on more than one occasion.

There’s something pitying in his gaze, she thinks, but he replies graciously enough. “You have my word, miss. I am not here to usurp or otherwise harm your king.” Then, while dusting some nonexistent dirt off his clothes, “I do believe I will need a change of wardrobe, however. It won’t do to adress a king while clad in anything less than my finest, will it?”

He says it without flinching, and in such an earnestly straightforward fashion, that Topolina herself is almost led to believe there really is some flaw with his clothing that she simply can’t see.

“Oh!” She says then in sudden inspiration. Without explaining herself first, she scampers to the open alcove behind him, separated only by an unfinished wall. The kitchen servants have long used the area as a makeshift coat rack, and one particularly bizarre ensemble has been there for as long as she can remember. She comes back around the wall bearing the large hat and cloak before offering it to him, embarrassed now that she realizes that, judging by her actions, this is what constitutes ‘his best’ for her: an absurd hat and a dusty, worn cloak.

He himself appears no less than enchanted at her offering, however, and when he stands before her with the hat cocked just slightly on his head and azure mantle thrown over his shoulders, Topolina finds she’s again being assaulted by those odd, vexing heart palpitations. Is she really such a nervous thing? ...Yes, she answers herself firmly. Yes, she is. But she’s far from convinced nerves are to blame in this instance.

“Oh,” she breathes eventually, clasping her paws together and resting them against the edge of her cheek. “You look like you came out of a storybook.”

Well… that was more childish than she meant it to be.

“Then it’s perfect,” he says succinctly. Then, removing the hat and inclining his head to her, he adds, “Thank you for your assistance, ah—”

“Top— erm, Lina.”

“Miss Lina, it is. I’m quite grateful for your help. I am sorry only to startle you and then run without so much as a token for your assistance, but it’s imperative I make good time.”

Topolina shakes her head. “It’s okay— I-I don’t mind!”

And with a final bow, he leaves her and the kitchen behind.

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Peculiar dashing stranger aside, the rest of her day passes in relative normality. There’s a clamor about the servants some time later, and she catches snippets of an excited buzz about something happening with the prince (something that ties in with a group of special guests, but she’s yet to put together how) as she goes about her duties, but in all, for how bizarre the day started out, it all strikes her as rather uneventful.

She’s instructed eventually to scour the floors in the audience chamber in preparation for a banquet, which means filling an old rusted tub with hot water and soap, and then carting it to said room. She’s no stranger to the task, of course, and thinks nothing of trudging through the hall with this metal burden in her arms.

Perhaps as penitence for her lack of investment in the day’s continuing  Wonders, another ill-fated obstacle is tossed onto the tracks before her. In this case, literally. 

Earlier that day, a courier had accidentally overturned a loose stone in the hallway floor. Scratching his head, staring down at the disturbed piece of clay as though it had personally insulted him in the most obtuse way possible, he’d eventually looked from one end of the corridor to the other and quietly snuck it back into place, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed.

Unfortunately, Topolina notices.

With a decidedly unfeline-like squawk, she trips over the rogue stone; the tub in her arms ends up the victim of gravity, as we all so unfortunately are.

And who should turn the corner then but Natori, just in time to be the unwitting second victim of her bad luck— drenched by the ensuing sheet of warm, sudsy water and so jarred by it, it seems he can do little other than look rapidly from his own sodden person to her no-doubt horrified countenance for near a full two minutes. In the fraught silence that follows, his glasses clatter to the earthen floor, and the tiny sound echoes in her ears like a gunshot. Trembling, Topolina instantly drops to her haunches, paws clapped together in desperate and tearful pleading.

"I-I'm so sorry, sir! Please, I beg your pardon— I didn't mean— i-it was an accident!"

"...Topolina," Natori finally interrupts quietly, gently, even, but the hum of exasperation vibrates just underneath his patient tone like a trapped butterfly, "—retrieve a mop and a towel, please.”

“Of course, sir! R-Right away!”

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It’s afterward, as Topolina does her best to mop around him while he tries to dry himself without incurring any extra… floof, that Natori deems an appropriate time to address his reason for coming this way in the first place.

“It’s possible that Cook may have instructed you about this task already, but the kitchen staff will likely be needing every pot and pan that can be spared for today’s dinner, so do ensure that you tend to the ones that have been, er, languishing in... that corner.” When she chances a glance at him, she sees that his gaze is inconspicuously trained on a particularly infamous corner of the palace kitchens, one where abandoned cookware is just shy of creating its own ecosystem by now. For a brief, heart-pounding moment, some measure of indignation rises in her; she’s so very close to telling him she isn’t the one to blame in this instance! ...At least, not the only one.

Ah. Alas, once more. Her courage withers in the face of this culpability, small as it may be. Instead, she goes back to her doleful mopping. Still, there is at least enough nerve left in her to present him with one continuing question on the topic.

"Is it... is it for the special guests?"

Natori pauses, giving her something of a searching glance. "...It is, yes." Then, after a few seconds spent appearing to think this over, he continues ringing out the bottom hem of his robe. It seems at some point while she was distracted, he’d laid the drenched towel at his feet. "I see word spreads fast through the kitchens."

To herself, she thinks that he has no idea how true that is, nor precisely how fast it truly does.

Finally satisfied with all that the towel can accomplish in drying him off (and evidently feeling his now damp robe will no longer leave any puddles as he wanders through the castle), he returns it to her. "Now, Topolina, please try to keep the mishaps to a minimum. We do have an exceptional guest today, after all."

She only nods frantically, all too aware of her ears flapping up and down. To this, he gives an approving nod of his own, and then finally turns on his heel and leaves. Secure in her admittedly paltry position for at least another day, Topolina breathes a sigh of relief as she puts the mop away.

...An exceptional guest, he’d said. Curiosity flares again, this time stronger than before, and she can’t stop wondering just who they could be. For the most fleeting of seconds, she remembers the cat who had interrupted her delayed routine this morning, but he’s quickly waved away.

Honored guests did not arrive to their own commemoration by climbing through old servants’ tunnels.

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Once the dirtiest, most grime-caked pots and pans are finally scrubbed to perfection, she peeks around the corner in search of Cook or Natori, wondering what other (insignificant) part she may have to play in the care of these exceptional guests. To her consternation, however, the kitchen aside from her seems rather empty, present only to the sound of a maid or two prepping extra portions of stuffed mice on the off-chance they’re requested.

Cautious as always, Topolina all but tiptoes through, still careful not to draw attention to herself, and— once she’s certain she’s not being scrutinized— peeks out of the kitchen itself into the servers’ hallway. There’s music playing, muffled, down the hall in the great dining room— something elegant, bouncy. A waltz, perhaps. She wonders distantly who it is that might be dancing, and if the well-spoken cat she’d crossed paths with earlier is anything of a dancer himself. She could imagine him dancing… Oh, the flutter is back.

“Lina—”

“Yes!!”

She jumps impressively high, her hackles on edge and tail fluffed out in alarm.  Yet, when she whips around to face her unexpected company, she’s met only with Yuki. Another of the kitchen servants, Yuki has existed as a consistently friendly, warm presence, to the degree that she’d willingly adopted Topolina’s attempts to shorten her, well, newly embarrassing name, something a few of the other servants (and Natori…) were still having trouble with. Her fright abated, Topolina tries to greet the smaller cat with a smile, but it wavers.

“Oh— Yuki, it’s you.” She’s carrying a large glass bottle, freshly-filled with some unfamiliar pink-tinged liquid, Topolina notices.

“I’m sorry,” Yuki starts in reply. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I-It’s okay!”

“What were you looking at?”

Oh. That.

“I was looking for Cook,” Topolina admits reluctantly. “Or maybe Natori. I’ve finished the dishes they wanted me to clean earlier today.”

“I saw The Corner was all clean. It must have taken a while.” Yuki sounds impressed, perhaps. Topolina doesn’t mention it, of course, but deep down she’s a little tickled. “Natori’s already taken his place in the dining room, though, so I don’t think you’ll have any luck getting more directions from him.”

“Oh…” Thinking back now, she realizes she should have surmised that already. At least, if the banquet has progressed to the point that entertainment is warranted. “What about Cook? Have you seen her?”

“Sorry, I haven’t.”

After a short silence, it suddenly occurs to Topolina that Yuki seems… a little distracted. Troubled, even. Fidgeting, she gathers her resolve for the third time that day.

“...Are you okay? You look like… um, something’s on your mind.”

Just the mention of her evident disquiet is enough to erase its presence from her expression; Yuki almost instantly brightens some, shaking her head gently.

“No, no. I’m fine.” And then, before Topolina can press the issue, “How about this? Stay here— I have to go back in and serve refills. If I see Cook, I’ll ask her what else she wants you to do and then fill you in when I come back. Okay?”

Topolina is just about to enthusiastically agree (leisure time in the sparsely occupied kitchen? Not being the one to personally ask Cook for more work? Of course she’d be on board!), but a sudden eruption of screams and breaking glass from the direction of the banquet room means the two of them are turning their startled attention to the ruckus instead.

“Wh— what could it be..?” Topolina wonders aloud, shaken.

[ and that's it rip the ending i had in mind was that yuki tells topolina to find a safe place, topolina cowers probably in the kitchen the whole time, especially upon hearing an Explosion. and the next day there's all kinds of rumors and tall tales about baron and The Daring Rescue he pulled off. topolina connects the dots and. well basically becomes haru 2.0 crushing on him and indulging in fantasies where she's also swept off her feet by a dashing hero fjfjkda; ]

[veky1993]

Impulse

Merry Christmas, @savedher! 🎅

Your prompt was:  Lucien and Jean, 3.5, he says he likes her as a blonde but then takes off the wig and says he likes her best just as she is.

This is what I made of it. It may or may not have gotten a little away from me, but I hope you like it! 🤗

It can also be find over here. 

It was all very unfortunate. The evening was to be a joyous occasion, what with the lovely surprise of Christopher’s visit for Jean’s birthday. Lucien had also been so excited about and so very pleased with Jean’s performance, even as subtle there in the background it had been, and he had been looking forward to rounding up the evening with a small, private celebration at home. Instead, against any of their wishes, everyone was locked up in the club until the investigation into the unexpected death was concluded, and hopefully, the murder solved.

Considering the famous actress had obviously been poisoned, it was with relief that Lucien went looking for Jean once the body was moved to the billiard room. It was a dreadful thought to think about intended targets, misplaced poisons and collateral victims. That it could have been his lovely Jean (because that’s how he’d come to think of her) that collapsed on stage, lifeless before her body even hit the ground…

It was a terrifying thought indeed.

He found his Jean in the small makeup room assigned to the supporting cast of their little performance. She stood motionless next to a chair, a hand hovering above it as if in mid-decision whether to take its seat or remain standing. She hadn’t heard his soft knock, nor when he walked in, but instead slowly shifted her gaze to the mirror. It was with a contemplative expression that her eyes scanned her reflection, and only then did she finally make out his in it as well, her features instantly relaxing.

“Lucien.” He smiled at the breathless sound of his name on her lips, and with the way her brow furrowed as she quickly and more firmly, added, “Do you need me?” he decided her tone had not gone past her notice either.

“Uhm…” he hesitated, using the moment to glance surreptitiously out into the hallway. When he found it empty, he quietly clicked the door shut, then turned around to face Jean again. He wasn’t too eager to dump this request on her, he didn’t need an audience either. “Yes, actually.” Her quirked eyebrow as her eyes bore into him through her reflection prompted him to smooth down his waist coat and to quickly elaborate. “We were wondering if you could show us to Miss Maddern’s changing quarters.”

She turned around abruptly and with a curtness to match, said, “Of course.” Whatever contemplation he thought her to be in a second ago, now seemed gone, and she was ready to get down to business, even as morbid one as this.

It was then that he noted she was most likely about to change. Her hair was still hidden underneath the wig she’d worn during the play, but she’d donned a robe that either covered the outfit she had performed in or replaced it altogether. For a moment, his mind lingered on what could possibly lay beneath the heavy concealing material, before he remembered this was Jean Beazley. It would not do to entertain such thoughts, certainly not in these circumstances, and most certainly not when they would encroach on the high esteem he held her in. Reminding himself of his manners, he shook his head, and waved a hand at her.

“You were changing,” he told her. “It can wait a few minutes.”

“Nonsense.” She waved him off with a stern shake of her own head, and took a couple of determined steps in his direction.

He stepped into her path, even at the risk of her wrath, and with placatingly lifted hands palms up, pleaded, “Jean…”

She came to a halt, and suppressed an eye roll; he could tell. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Lucien.” She tilted her head to the side, averting her gaze momentarily to an unseen spot behind him, exhaling slowly. “And God rest her soul, but the sooner we get on with this, the sooner-”

“You can enjoy your son’s visit,” he interjected gently, lowering his hands. “I know.”

She relaxed, her shoulders visibly slumping, and suddenly smiled. A bright, blinding smile, he knew only her children could ever coax out of her. “Did you know he was coming?” she asked, and she sounded breathless again, just like a minute ago, only this time, it was wonder that caused it.

“Yes, it was a surprise,” he revealed, but truth be told, part of him wondered about the timing of her son’s visit. However, not wanting to spoil her birthday or her suddenly cheery mood, he decided not to share his suspicions, if he could even call them that. “I’m glad,” he paused, and allowed a mischievous little smile to curl his lips, “he’s remembered his mother was getting older today.”

He actually shrank beneath her sharp, narrow-eyed look, and took half a step back, fearing more than a verbal reprimand, but then she laughed at his teasing, and his lips widened into a grin. “I do hope,” she started, apparently deciding to ignore his jab, her voice still thin with lingering laughter even as she grew somber, “that everything is alright with Ruby and the baby.”

He smiled sympathetically. He should have known she’d consider the very same possibilities as he did, but tried for optimism. “Surely he’d have already said if something wasn’t.”

On a tight smile, she nodded.

Considering the topic closed for the moment, he placed a hand on each of her shoulders, happy to see her let go of the sigh of worry she had been holding in, and gave them a gentle squeeze. “Now, how about you finish transforming back into Jean,” he quirked his lips into an encouraging lopsided smile, “and then we can see about getting you and Christopher out of here?”

“Okay,” she agreed on a steeling breath, and took a step back until his hands slipped off her shoulders. Without asking him to leave, she started pulling at the pins that held her wig’s do in place, and started conversationally, “How long do you think Munro is going to hold us here?”

He suppressed an annoyed grunt, and muttered, “Too long.”

She scoffed, dropping the pins on the table beneath the mirror. “I thought so.”

He was about to leave the conversation at that, and excuse himself while she finished changing, but when she proceeded to tug on her wig to lift it off her head, he remained rooted to the spot and found himself watching her instead. She had looked so lovely on stage, she always did actually, but there was something about her blonde wig just then that had his eyes lingering on her longer than usual. He was never particularly into bottled blondes, or fake anything, but he couldn’t deny that the color suited Jean well. He was certain she would be even lovelier if it weren’t just a prop wig, looking course and artificial, but soft and gentle as he was sure her natural hair was. His fingers suddenly itched to touch it, test his theory, but his musing was interrupted when Jean suddenly paused mid-movement and lifted a curious eyebrow at him. Clearly he was far too obvious in what could only be called ogling her, but she still wasn’t shooing him out of the room, and he wasn’t quite yet back to thinking clearly. Rather than act like the gentleman he considered himself to be, and leaving her to change in privacy like he should have, he did the exact opposite. Not sparing possible impropriety even a fleeting thought, his feet unglued themselves from the floor and moved him toward her. He suddenly wanted to be part of her transformation back to the Jean he liked and cared about most, and when she still said nothing, he reached a hand out and wrapped it around her wrist, gently prying her fingers away from the wig.

“Lucien?” she finally questioned. Her tone was sharp, and even her stance instantly became rigid, but she seemed more surprised than truly bothered by his sudden action. She still didn’t ask him to leave either, and it gave Lucien irrational courage.

“Allow me, please,” he requested, and if she had any objections she kept them to herself, with a gracious nod of her head granting him permission despite otherwise remaining frozen in place. “I must say,” if his voice was more gravelly than usual, he couldn’t be bothered to do much about it, “this is a rather fetching color on you, but,” he released her wrist, and curled his fingertips underneath the wig on her head, proceeding to delicately lift it, “I’m rather more partial to this one.” He allowed his fingers to briefly thread through her tresses, his heart soaring when they confirmed just how soft her hair truly was, then with a neat, little smile he tossed the wig onto the nearby table. When he turned back to her there was a wide-eyed look on her face. He should have, but couldn’t feel all too guilty for making her a little uncomfortable. In fact, if not for propriety’s sake, he’d go as far as to tell her he found her slight embarrassment rather fetching, too. Instead, he simply shrugged a shoulder in tandem with a lifted eyebrow as he flashed her an honest smile and added a less genuine, “If you don’t mind my saying...”

With soft eyes, she met his and smiled his compliment away. A sense of silly pride filled him at his ability to make her blush, but before he could secretly marvel at it, she recovered. “Hmm...” The mere hum was already teasing, but when she closed the distance between them and when her hand lifted to hover to the side of his head, the tables were suddenly turned and it was his turn to hold his breath. “Perhaps I ought to be the judge of a brunette mop of hair on your head then.” She ended her little proposition with a flick of her wrist, and he wasn’t sure if she had done it on purpose or not, but a tip of her finger just barely brushed against his hair. The touch was so faint actually, that it could hardly even be called that, but it tickled his scalp anyway, and he very nearly shuddered at the feel of it.

Remembering to breathe, he snapped himself out of it and barked out a laugh, answering quickly and seriously. “Of course,” he nodded vigorously, his eyes twinkling mischievously, “it would only be fair.”

“Yes,” she agreed, smirking at him in that way that seemed as though she was guarding a delicious secret, “it would.”

He had another retort at the ready, and he opened his mouth to say it, but he realized she stood so close to him, and all speech left him. It was a familiar predicament, one they’d been in before, and it was as exciting as ever. Even though her hand no longer threatened his tamed blonde curls, for she had lowered it down to her side again, he felt it radiating heat mere inches from his. Less than half a step forward and their bodies would collide. He already knew how her hand felt in his, but this was different. The impulse to grab it and risk what he thought would indubitably be an explosive collision was strong, and hard to resist. His mouth remained open, forming a silly, soundless, “Aah,” as he fought the urge, and then her eyes momentarily dropped to his lips, and he knew it wasn’t all just in his head. She felt it too, and had become aware of their inadvertent close proximity as well. When he managed to swallow and press his lips closed again, as if startled, her eyes snapped back up to his. If either one thought that would help, they were both immediately proven wrong. He was caught up, sucked into her tender gaze. It was as if time had all but stopped, what little space remained between them now charged with—sizzling really— with something. It was a bad idea, not breaking the connection, they were both certain of it. But Lucien’s heart thundered loudly in his chest, excited and wanting, hers must have done so too, and neither made a move to put some distance between each other and to put a stop to this. In fact, although Lucien couldn’t speak on Jean’s behalf, he was fairly certain that opposite ideas crossed her mind in much the same way as they did his. And then her tongue darted out to wet her lips, consciously or subconsciously, who cared, and his eyes dropped to them. Good or bad idea, he was beyond help. Even if he wanted, he couldn’t stop now, not when he felt so much suddenly, and when he wanted to make her feel it, too. Where they were, and what they were supposed to be doing no longer mattered. He took that half step between them, extending his fingers towards her hand, his entire arm nearly vibrating in anticipatory sensory overload, and slowly leaned in.

If time truly did stop, or if the moment simply lasted a felt eternity, neither could say, for just as Jean tilted her head up to close that last hair’s breadth of distance between them and their breaths mingled with each other, an impatient knock kickstarted the clock again, and they flew apart a millisecond before the door was flung open, an impatient looking Munro barging in.

The moment was broken, for better or worse, and a discreet look at Jean found her already composed as if nothing had almost happened. He wasn’t allowed to untangle what that could possibly mean when his heart was still trying to pound its way out of his chest, and he thought, both with sadness and a tad of relief, that another opportunity was unlikely to present itself ever again. For the time being, Munro would certainly make sure of that.

“Doctor Blake!” he barked, and Lucien turned around, feeling rather than seeing Jean bristle at the condescending way his name rolled off the man’s tongue. Munro’s eyes flickered between Jean and Lucien, and he felt heat creeping up his neck and his ears burning, too, but there was no way of telling whether Munro knew what he had interrupted (not that Jean and Lucien really knew either). He merely frowned and spoke. “May I know what the delay seems to be,” he crossed his hands behind his back and all but towered over Lucien as he straightened, “or have the two of you simply forgotten we have a murder on our hands here?”

Lucien rubbed a hand over the back of his head, only barely managing not to shift uncomfortably on the spot, before finding his words. “I was just going to allow Mrs. Beazley to change.” He took a breath, and stole another glance at her. “Surely that-”

“You can change later,” Munro cut him off, looking Jean up and down sharply. “Now,” he stepped to the side in the doorway and extended a hand outside, “if you would please…”

The way Jean pursed her lips into a tight line and glared at the superintendent made it abundantly clear to Lucien that she most decidedly wouldn’t please, but ever the dutiful woman, she merely smoothed down her robe, nodded, and did as told.

Lucien was glad Munro immediately followed, for he was still to tame his thundering heartbeat. He took a deep breath, tightened his jacket around himself and shook off whatever transpired between him and his housekeeper.

He would analyze this ‘whatever’ later.

What almost happened.

What could have happened.

What Munro could have walked in on.

Yes, he would overanalyze it later.

First, however, he would try to find the murderer in their midst.

[haechan-haedamn]

it’s two a.m. - Haechan

*it’s two in the morning, you don’t know how to say no to a bet, you forgot your gloves outside, and there is something moving behind you.

Characters: Haechan, Reader, Mark

Pairing: Haechan/Reader

Genre: Fluff 

Word Count: 4K

Somedays you needed to sit yourself down in front of a mirror and have a serious, personal conversation about your impulse control. Sometimes it worked out fine for you, ending with an ultimate face off with your fear of heights on a cliff edge (you didn’t even flinch on Ferris Wheels anymore) and other times it landed you in situations much like the one you were in now. The kind where you were by yourself in the middle of the night, in somewhere clearly housing a poltergeist, while your idiot friends laughed safely and decidedly not located inside an abandoned mall.

Really, you blame Mark for his stupid comments and his stupid way of knowing how to push your buttons. He always knew how to make you do something, and he was especially motivated when it would almost guarantee you being pissed or scared pissing. This was one of those times.

The worst part of it all wasn’t that you were all alone with a dim flashlight in a two-story knock-off of the Mall of America, or the cobwebs that were stuck to your elbow- no, the worst of it all was that you had left your wool gloves outside, with Mark. Your hands were cold and your jacket’s pockets offered nothing but a flimsy excuse for warmth, and you still had fifteen minutes left on your phone’s timer. The half-dozen box of donuts Mark’s wallet was going to buy you were probably warm, melting into vats of sugar after they were freshly baked.

Your stomach growled at your motivation. You couldn’t wait to get those donuts and you couldn’t wait to not share them with Mark Lee.

You walked slowly through one of the many, vast corridors, your flashlight flickering as it bumped against your thigh. The broken skylights above filtered stabs of starlight onto the dust-covered tile that used to be flooring. All of the stores were closed tightly with gates, the insides long empty and left to rot, the metallic-plastic of the black bars mattifying under the swing of your beam. A rat ran across the floor in front of you, hiding amongst a pile of long-forgotten boxes.

You really hated small rodents.

The bet was so simple, but as you travelled farther into the building you felt yourself regretting your decision more and more. The comforting skylights eventually forego into tarp covered plaster, blocking out the remnants of natural light with finality. Your skin began to crawl as the walls began to deteriorate, the feeling of small, jagged-foot ants tapping into your spine. Your foot caught the edge of a broken tile that layered over the rest, latching your boot beneath it as you pitched forward, barely regaining your balance in time.

Your shoe’s sole shuffled against the old ground, making a sound similar to a wind gush during a silent storm, calling out to ancient energies with a neon sign. Something shifted behind you.

Now frozen to the pattern of the mall, your foot caught into a cracked linoleum square, you began to list off as many curses you knew towards Mark.

Another shuffle. The sound of faint footsteps, of calculated breathing.

Maybe donuts weren’t worth a premature death.

Your own breathing had stopped, clogging in your throat like the dust bunnies in the corner, your leg molded stiff as your left knee locked. You began to pull frantically at your foot, but your shoe was stuck tight into the valley, and the weight had shifted towards your ankle. The pour of the tile was scratched from the edge, and the terrain was cutting into the skin of your tendons- but at this point your fear was so palpable it was hazing over the pain like a memory from your childhood. It was insignificant in the scheme of things when you were about to be possessed by the angry spirit of a Paris-Hilton-wannabe mall rat who had found you on their turf.

Your breathing had changed from nonexistent to a frenetic stutter, a heavy gasp coughing out of your throat as you sucked in the musk of the air. You were going to kill Mark if you ended up dead. Your ankle was starting to sting and something wet was seeping into your socks, soaking the rim like a rain puddle.

The footsteps were heavier now, close to your shivering frame. A shrill, violent screech catalyzed your own return- your scream filtering and echoing in the once-vacant mall.

“Who’s there!” a frantic yell attacked your ears as you crouched and cowered, your hands clutching the sides of your head.

The voice didn’t sound like a ghost.

But you really didn’t know what ghosts sounded like, anyway.

“I heard someone scream!” the voice whisper-yelled, “I know someone else is here!”

You muttered prayers absently as you curled in on yourself, your leg still bleeding and hammering in pain to the tune of shuffling steps. The thing was coming slower now, and you could imagine the creature crawling- it’s head rotating as it threw its voice in a false comfort. A light coaxed from behind you, the feeling of it breaking on your skin in a lukewarm whisper as you sat, grasping your arms and predicting your imminent death.

“Whoa…” the voice came again, now paces away and shocked.

Shocked?

You shuddered. “Hey… are you okay?” the voice asked.

In a cautious rotation, you leaned and tried to crane your neck around to see the source of the mysterious voice, but in vain you were met with the view of a dim yellow light. You couldn’t see past it, but the steps were only a couple paces from trampling you (or so you expected that to be their intention).

The thing was right beside you now, and the presence felt warm, like the summer afternoon and warm coffee in early autumn. You turned your head slowly again, half-expecting to see the grudge’s final form before you. The thing was close enough this time for your eyes to adjust to their figure and expression. What you didn’t expect to see was the contorted worry of a teenage boy.

A very pretty teenage boy.

“I asked if you were okay,” he restated, slowly reaching out to shake your shoulder. You were almost certain you were blushing at this point, embarrassed of your irrational fear and mental breakdown- now extremely aware that you were crouched on the molded floor. And that your ankle was hurting, burning- badly.

“Shit,” you hissed, your hands coming to place pressure on your bone and bleeding wound, but you still couldn’t reach the real injury as your ankle was still lodged under the tile.

“That’s not a usual answer to ‘if you’re okay’, but I think I can let it slide,” the boy joked, not realizing your compromising position against the ground.

“I’m not okay,” you seethed, “I feel like someone just snapped my ankle with their bare hands and then sloshed lemon juice over the places their nails had raked.”

“Violent.”

“Well, yeah,” you rolled your eyes in a testimony to his obliviousness, “I usually get creative when I’m in pain.”

“Pain-?”

Not knowing this strange boy (who was wondering around a dark, abandoned mall on his own without reason), you resisted the urge to reach out and punch his leg in the middle of your frustrations.

“Yes. Pain, P-A-I-N,” you started gesturing towards the large four by four square of thick murder that was stabbing and crushing you, “Do you mind offering a hand here, Scooby?”

He quickly washed the beam of his light over to where you were pointing, his tan face paling considerably as he dropped to his knees to help you. He curled his fingers under the ledge of the tile, his knuckles pushing up against your bare calf, before lifting with a held breath. The tile flipped over onto it’s back, letting gravity drag it pitifully into the hearth with a loud crash. You whimpered when you finally felt the realization of the full extent of your pain, observing the awkward twist of your ankle and the gash across it- still leaking wet, hot red blood into your shoe and staining the fungi-infested cement that was revealed after the tile was gone.

“Oh,” the boy commented eloquently, “That really doesn’t look good.”

“You think?” you bit back, not able to hold your tongue as shocks of misery raced up the nerves in your leg.

He reached down and lifted you upwards, his right hand coming to grasp the circumference of your biceps, the other pushing into your back as he struggled to support your wavering body. Your head felt light.

“How did you… well, I’m not sure what you did- but how did this happen?” he asked, his arm coming to wrap around your shoulders as you threatened to collapse, your balance unsteady on your one good foot and blood rushing to your head.

“I was casually exploring this horrifying building,” you started. Leaning your shoulder into his broad chest, “because my friend bet me that I couldn’t last 17 minutes in here, and then suddenly my foot was trapped and you were appearing from the ashes like a poorly executed exorcism.”

“Why poorly executed?”

“Because obviously, the demon had not left.”

He scoffed, digging the pads of his finger into your body in annoyance, and you frowned as you looked up to glare at him. His face was making it minorly hard to be pissed- from his deep eyes to pouty lips, the softness that exuded from him was enough to wisp some of the steam away from your anger. But not enough for you to hold back on insulting his dimwitted approach to the stranger (you were the stranger this time) in a dark, haunting mall.

“Am I not helping you right now?” he snipped back, making obvious motions to the fact that he was the only thing helping you from getting re-acquainted with the evil flooring.

You shrugged slightly, hopping as you tried to shift your weight, letting your arm wrap around his waist as a reflexive attempt to regain stability before you pivoted forward- again. “You are helping now, but you were also giving me a heart attack three minutes ago. So, I’m sorry I’m not inclined to kiss your feet at the moment.”

“Does that mean you’ll kiss them later?” he teased and you grimaced at him, your nose scrunching up under his mischievous glance.

“Was that a poor attempt to flirt with me?”

He laughed (you decided you liked the sound), leaning into you playfully as he hefted you upwards again, righting your swaying frame. “You didn’t give me a lot of material to work with.”

“Then I’ll give you a tip.”

“Hm?”

“Try not sneaking up on girls… and avoiding lines that involve feet.”

“Noted,” he conceded, attempting to step forward and help you at the same time. You weren’t expecting the sudden movement and your other foot twisted strangely, sending you sideways and slipping from the boy’s grasp. He quickly reached out for you, his hand latching to your wrist as he spun you back towards him. You came around in a quick circle, landing before him with your forehead to his chin, your hands pressing into the soothing material of his hoodie. You cleared your throat and he took a small step back.

Now knowing what he was trying to do you were much more cooperative in moving towards an exit, taking small hops with his steps and limping back the way you had come and he had appeared from. The bottom of your jeans was now a russet color, sticking sickly to your skin- letting the cold air press into the wound.

On top of it all- your hands were still cold.

“My name isn’t Scooby, by the way,” Mall Boy told you, the sleeve of his overcoat grazing the underside of your wrist as you wobbled through the damp halls.

“I’d hope not,” you snarked, “If anyone named their kid ‘Scooby’ that would be enough to file a child abuse report.”

“What if they named them ‘Donghyuck’?” he prompted.

You smiled at him, raising your eyebrows facetiously. “Not much better in my book, but much more manageable. I’m sure a Donghyuck would only be bullied the appropriate amount through his childhood, but it may lead to weird hobbies- like sneaking around deserted shopping malls at two in the morning.”

“You can call me Haechan, then,” he stated, helping you over a rougher patch of terrain, his hand (so unbelievably warm, and so completely unfair) grasping yours to keep you standing tall.

“I guess you can call me Y/N,” you returned, slipping back into the growingly familiar stability of his arm.

“You guess?” he teased, “Are you not 100% sure about that name?”

“Well I’ve never seen my birth certificate, so…”

He hummed, pointing towards the main entrance of the building where you had come from, the lock still laying into the ground where you and Mark had popped it off earlier that week during one of your explorations.

“You might want to check up on that,” he said, referring back to your previous comment on your birth certificate, “You may be a lost princess or something equally inspirational for a Y.A. Novel.”

“You’re right,” you nodded, “I could have a huge inheritance right below my nose. I could use it to make sure no more malls get neglected and turn into horror houses.”

He agreed with you as he helped you lean against a wall, his thin fingers splayed against your hips. You dropped your head backwards, watching him carefully as he yanked the reluctant entrance door open.

He wasn’t very tall, but he was well built and proportional. He had a comfortable confidence that fell on his face (maybe a mask, maybe a truth) and his brown hair fanned across his forehead in peaceful waves. He turned his head slightly to check up on you, the soft outdoor light catching against his jawline and turning his eyes a mahogany brown. You blushed as he smirked knowingly, having caught you observing him with critical intensity.

“Enjoying the view?” he jested and you rolled your eyes even though your face was still aflame.

“It's better than the distorted hellion I was imagining when I first heard you,” you admitted, playing through your embarrassment with purpose, trying to turn your cards back into his hands.

“I'm going to take that as a compliment… and also as your weird way for asking my number,” he said, pulling you off the wall and twisting his arm back around your waist, this time allowing his fingers to tap into your stomach through the fabric of your clothing.

“What part of ‘distorted hellion' translated into ‘please, give me a way to contact you'?”

“English isn’t my first language.”

You laughed at that, sending his sarcastic smirk into a wide-blown grin, lighting up his face with a carelessness you enjoyed more than you should from a stranger. He watched you in wonderment, his other hand coming to hold the wrist that was covering your giggling mouth, pulling it away gently so he could see your whole face. You blushed again.

He winced slightly when your wrist had met his hand, his mind immediately taking notice of the arctic characteristics of your hand.

“God, why are your hands so cold?” he hissed, fully enveloping your bluing fingers into his warm palms, rubbing circulation back into them slowly.

“I got distracted by the thought of getting donuts after winning the bet, so I left my gloves with Mark,” you muttered, shrugging sheepishly as you both paused at the curb of the old parking lot. A flash of cold air befell onto you, reminding your distracted brain of the slow blood that pooled inside your shoe and the sting of your jagged cut.

“Mark?” Haechan asked, not noticing your hidden grimace as he maneuvered you off the raised block of cement, lifting you with ease.

“The asshole that sent me into the B-Movie horror set behind us,” you explained, falling slightly into him as you regained your faulty footing.

“Boyfriend?” he inquired sourly, a hint of disappointment clouding his focus.

You laughed. “Oh God no, I love Mark, but I saw that kid go through puberty- I could never think of him romantically.”

“Oh,” Haechan smiled, “good.”

“Good?”

“Yes, good,” he stressed as you walked across the parking lot, towards the area you had left Mark in, “it would be really hard to flirt with you if you were in a relationship.”

You quirked an eyebrow at him. “You’re very forward, you know?”

“It's not everyday I get the chance to meet a pretty girl inside a creepy ass mall, then help her hobble outside after scaring the shit out of her, so I'm taking it as a sign from God,” he told you seriously and you smirked at him, amused by his over-dramatic interpretations of your meeting.

“Fair enough.”

“So that means I get your number, right?”

“Only if you use it for good.”

“Fair enough,” he mimicked you, smiling happily as you paused under an inactive street light.

“Y/N?” a surprised voice yelled from an unknown corner, and Mark appeared from the shadows of a small grove, his face screwed into worry.

“Geez, I thought you were dead- it's been a lot longer than seventeen minutes,” he panted, running towards you and Haechan before stopping in confusion, his thumb coming up to point at Haechan's amused expression.

“Who is this?”

“Crazy mall boy who is trying to create a new ‘Mystery Gang’,” you replied, still holding onto Haechan.

“What’s with you and Scooby Doo references?” Haechan asked, giving you a perplexed look. You shrugged, ignoring the still confused expression on Mark’s face.

“We used to watch them religiously when we were kids,” Mark interrupted.

“Really? Cool.”

Mark nodded, his body posture screaming stand-offish, hands stuffed deep in his coat’s pockets as he flickered his eyes between yours and Haechan’s bodies. Your two still very close bodies. You flushed under Mark’s watchful gaze, prying yourself away from Haechan’s heat slightly.

“I hurt my ankle,” you blurted out as a serving to explanation, your hand pointing to your stained jeans and lifted foot.

“Oh- yikes,” Mark shuddered, “How the hell did you pull that?”

“Some dislodged tile decided to launch a surprise attack on me, and then Haechan showed up and saved my sorry ass- but only after he scared the living hell out of me.”

“I said I was sorry,” Haechan protested, his bottom lip puckering as he widened his eyes.

“You literally never said ‘sorry’,” you corrected, squinting at him.

“Well, I’m saying it now,” he whined, poking your ribs.

Mark cleared his throat before you both got lost in your sparring again. “Okay, as seriously entertaining as this is- who are you?”

“Haechan,” he said, extending the hand that wasn’t on you to Mark, clasping the older boy’s palm and shaking it loosely.

“I’m Mark.”

Haechan let a spark of recognition light on his face before turning to you. “He made the bet?”

“Yeah,” both you and Mark said, the latter scratching his neck and shifting his weight- still unsure of the situation.

“You mentioned there were donuts involved,” Haechan said.

“I did,” you replied slowly, still not catching on to what Haechan was trying to say.

Haechan wrapped you tighter in his arm, pulling your body back towards his like you were old friends and not a pair of strangers that had met at two in the morning in an empty mall. His hand pulled the edges of your coat tighter together, letting his curled fist rest on your abdomen. It felt weirdly domestic and entirely strange for this boy who you had greeted by insult ten minutes ago. But for some reason, you didn’t step away- you didn’t stop him.

“I vote we fix your ankle and then Mark gets donuts,” Haechan offered looking between the two more experienced friends.

“Why do you get donuts?” Mark asked.

“Because I had to drag your bestie through a creepy mall at two a.m. and now I really want a donut,” Haechan explained as if it made perfect since, and you shrugged while looking towards Mark- not seeing a fault in his logic. Except-

“You didn’t seem to mind ‘dragging’ me, Haechan, so I don’t know why you get a reward,” you teased, tugging on one of the strings of his hoodie.

“I second that,” Mark agreed.

“You just don’t want to buy more donuts,” Haechan said to Mark before turning to you, “And I didn’t mind dragging you, I minded the fact that I felt serial killer eyes all over me when I was walking through there.”

“Yeah, that’s understandable,” you conceded, turning back to face Mark as your finger lingered on Haechan’s hoodie, “he has a valid point Mark- it’s creepy as fuck in there.”

“Fine, but first you need medical attention,” Mark said, coming towards your other side and hauling your arms around his neck to help carry you- much to Haechan’s sarcastic thanks as he acted like supporting you had given him more back pain than a wheelchair ridden seventy-year-old man.

“I also want coffee,” you told Mark, leaning most of your weight into Haechan (you couldn’t help it, he was just so warm), “as compensation for my injury- either that or I pull out my lawyer.”

“I’d rather get sued than give you what you want,” Mark rolled his eyes, turning in the direction he had parked his car an hour earlier.

Haechan’s breath fanned against your ear as he leaned down. “I’ll get you a coffee,” he amended and you nodded your head with a smile as you looked at him. The pain in your foot had lessened and you could either attribute that to the comfort expanding in your stomach under Haechan’s gaze or to the spreading numbness in your ankle’s bones.

“Oh come on,” Mark’s annoyed huff let out, “I am three inches away- can you not wait to flirt when I’m not close enough to hear both of your dumb heartbeats?”

You laughed at Mark’s frustration, knowing to him it was like watching his younger sister sweet talk a boy right in front of him, but it didn’t stop you from pushing the hand wrapped around Haechan’s back into the pocket of his overcoat- finally finding a warm place for your fingers.

“Don’t be bitter just because you lost a bet, Mark,” you laughed.

“I’m not bitter,” he muttered bitterly.

“And I’m not getting a dozen donuts later- oh wait!” you said, placing a finger to your chin as if you had just remembered something.

“We agreed on half a dozen,” Mark argued, unlocking his car with his clicker before opening the backseat for you to slide in, letting you prop your foot across the bench seat.

“That was before I got hurt,” you said.

“Also I have a big appetite,” Haechan supplied, his hand slipping from around your ankle as he pulled away with Mark to enter the front seats.

“You two are going to be an insufferable duo,” Mark sighed, starting the ignition and pulling out into the faded night.

You and Haechan laughed, his eyes catching yours in the rearview mirror as they curved upwards. Small shop lights fluttered through the windows, catching on Haechan’s grin in a fluorescent haze, ghosting across his tan features like paint strokes. You decided Mark wasn’t going to get killed for sending you alone into the mall, because you wouldn’t have stumbled across this peculiar boy with mirth that dripped off his lashes like Hermes’ himself. You let your head rest against the cool window, closing your eyes with the flame of Haechan’s gaze still on you like an electric current, seeping into the quiet of the song on the late-night radio station you and Mark loved.

You had won two things from the bet that night, and both would leave a sweet taste in your mouth when the sun rose.

FIN.

[jumpcr-blog1]

Character Chart

Character’s full name: Kit Aleksovich Yelchin Character’s nickname: to be determined Reason for nickname: to be determined Birth date: March 23rd, 1992

Physical Appearance

Age: 25 How old does he/she appear: 25 Weight: 148 lbs Height: 6′2″ Body build: slight, slender Shape of face: round Eye color: blue Glasses or contacts: none Skin tone: pale Distinguishing marks: tattoo over left shoulder blade. small, round scar on thumb-forefinger webbing on right hand. Predominant features: none that stand out Hair color: light brown / dark blond Hairstyle: very short, nearly to the scalp Voice: low, quiet Overall attractiveness: average, plain Physical disabilities: none Usual fashion of dress: something simple and nondescript, jeans & a plain t-shirt, a dark jacket, dark boots. usually also a beanie of some kind. Favorite outfit: a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt. Jewelry or accessories: none

Personality

Good personality traits: resourceful, adaptable, adventurous, daring, hardworking, intuitive, organized, self-reliant Bad personality traits: abrasive, anxious, asocial, cynical, dishonest, impulsive. paranoid, possessive, reactionary Mood character is most often in: Kit spends most of his time being pretty convinced everything about his life is about to blow to pieces all over again, leaving him feeling paranoid. Years of doing his job and doing it well, however, has taught him how to hide this feeling. However, he would be very, very unsurprised (albeit crushed) if his secret got out. Sense of humor: dry humor, anti humor, sarcasm Character’s greatest joy in life: Kit finds it difficult to slow down and enjoy his life, but the time he spents with Luka ranks high on the list. He tries not to put too much weight on that, though, because after the loss of his parents he learned to detach a little from people. Outside of Luka, he takes a lot of joy in running, in smoking the most pretentious cigarettes in the world (lucky strikes, obviously), and winning. Character’s greatest fear: His greatest fear is being found out. This means a lot of things. Kit is afraid of his Big Secret(tm) being found out, he’s afraid his sexuality will be found out, he’s afraid his deep seeded inner fear will be found out. Basically, Kit’s biggest fear is every lie he’s ever told being paraded out in front of him, and at this point in his life there’s very little out of his mouth that isn’t a lie. Why?: Because he’s afraid of losing Luka, he’s afraid of losing the new place he discovered in society, he’s afraid of everything about him being nonredeemable. What single event would most throw this character’s life into complete turmoil?: being outed as a spy for the Rosteks. Character is most at ease when: he’s running. it doesn’t matter where, why, or from what. Most ill at ease when: he’s forced to sit still for too long. Enraged when: he sees people being cruel to animals, children, or Luka. Depressed or sad when: he is reminded of his parents, of his place in the world, or of the reality of the world around him. Priorities: His priorities differ depending on the day. There are days when his main priority is the Rosteks and what information he can give to them, then there are days when his main priority is the Lesyas and keeping the few friends he has made there safe. However, this is all just a convoluted way of saying that he is always his number one priority. Whatever path is the one of least resistance seems to be the one Kit takes. Life philosophy: he’s 25, he doesn’t have one. If granted one wish, it would be: freedom from the Rosteks v Lesyas war Why?: because then there would be no reason for him to be a spy, or for the lies, or for the secrets, and things would be a lot simpler. However, if given the opportunity to answer this question himself, he’d say “a real philly cheesesteak, because you cant get them in Moscow.” Character’s soft spot: Luka. his 3 legged cat, три (3). Is this soft spot obvious to others?: No. Well, maybe yes about три. Greatest strength: Kit is adaptable, above all else. He can learn to deal with any situation. His adaptability has led to him being a survivor. He doesn’t fear death. Greatest vulnerability or weakness: His lack of ability to relate or connect with people is a weakness. It assists some in his ability to be adaptable, because he doesn’t need anyone around to survive, but it also leaves him very isolated and lonely at times. Without those connections, his decisions become more irrational and reckless, as he doesn’t think about anything but himself. Biggest regret: his cowardice Minor regret: minor regrets are pointless, he’s done what he’s had to do to survive. Biggest accomplishment: He managed to move up the ranks and be trusted as a spy, he’s well paid, and he lives on his own. Minor accomplishment: not punching people in the face on a regular basis. Past failures he/she would be embarrassed to have people know about: Any time he had been outed as a spy. Character’s darkest secret: his true allegiance, or his desire to switch sides Does anyone else know?: the rest of the rosteks, no

Goals

Drives and motivations: survival, to be seen as “good” in the end, to make his parents proud Immediate goals: to provide the rosteks with relevant information on the lesyas, to earn money Long term goals: to survive, to eventually be able to flee the city and travel the world, possibly to have the guts to switch sides How the character plans to accomplish these goals: finding his voice, his balls, and waiting for the right time. How other characters will be affected: the rosteks will be betrayed, but ultimately fine without him. his lack of personal connections makes this a non-issue for him. however, he fears what it will do to Luka, or to Luka’s opinion of him.

Past

Hometown: Moscow, Russia Type of childhood: pleasant, loving, safe, protected Pets: none, mother was allergic to everything First memory: his first solid memory is driving in the car with his parents to see the lights of the city around the holidays, but he has brief glimpses of his father shaving, his mother pin curling her hair, the smell of pancakes in the morning, a feeling of peace. Most important childhood memory: his mother and father’s constant reassurance that everyone is absolutely, unequivocally equal. Why: because this forms the basis for his betrayal. he’s betraying himself, his parents, their teachings. sure, he’s betraying the lesyas and wants to betray the rosteks but before that he’s betraying himself and his past. Childhood hero: Zanjeer the Labrador Dream job: ice cream truck driver Education: left senior school at age 15 and never went back Religion: non-practicing orthodox Christianity Finances: middle class

Present

Current location: Moscow, Russia Currently living with: no one Pets: one cat Religion: agnostic Occupation: in order to maintain his cover story with the lesyas, he works as a cashier in a convenience store, however his true occupation is a Rostek spy. Finances: he appears to be lower class, but has a lot of money thanks to his true occupation as a Rostek spy

Family

Mother: Nadya Ivanova Yelchina Relationship with her: Kit loved his mother. She kept him safe, made him feel loved, and always did her best to raise him the right way. She was often his best friend and the first person he turned to when he had any kind of issue. Father: Vladimir Yelchin Relationship with him: the relationship here was a little more strained, probably because Kit and Vladimir were very similar. When he was very young, things were normal, but when he got a little older his own attitude started to come forward so they started to butt heads. Siblings: None Relationship with them: n/a Spouse: None Relationship with him/her: n/a Children: None Relationship with them: n/a Other important family members: Tatiana ‘Ana’ Aleksovna Yelchina, Marko Aleksovich Yelchin

Favorites

Color: blue Least favorite color: orange Music: pop, hip-hop Food: french fries Literature: anything george orwell Form of entertainment: movies Expressions: “shut the fuck up.” Mode of transportation: running Most prized possession: his dad’s zippo lighter and his mom’s prayer rope

Habits

Hobbies: card games, dice games, games of chance Plays a musical instrument? no Plays a sport? no, but would kill it at track and field How he/she would spend a rainy day: reading, watching movies, cooking, anything that he can do while also doing 2 other things   Spending habits: he spends lightly and keeps all of his rostek earnings in a tin below his bed. Smokes: no, bad for the lungs Drinks: occasionally Other drugs: occasionally What does he/she do too much of?: lying, eating sweets What does he/she do too little of?: self care, relaxing, sleeping Extremely skilled at: lying, pick pocketing, running fast Extremely unskilled at: sitting still, anything that requires a great deal of fine motor skills, walking in a straight line, not falling down Nervous tics: lip biting, leg bouncing, nail picking, skin picking, hair pulling (which is why he keeps it so short) Usual body posture: just slightly slouched Mannerisms: he pinches the bridge of his nose a lot Peculiarities: he’s a very slow typer, he still only hunts and pecks with one finger.

Traits

Optimist or pessimist? realist Introvert or extrovert? introvert Daredevil or cautious? daredevil Logical or emotional? both, depending Disorderly and messy or methodical and neat? methodical and neat Prefers working or relaxing? always has to be moving Confident or unsure of himself/herself? appears confident Animal lover? yes

Self-Perception

How he/she feels about himself/herself: he’s not a fan of himself. One word the character would use to describe self: liar One paragraph description of how the character would describe self: “I’m, like, you know. I’m just a guy. Not a particularly good guy. I mean, okay, I guess I’m kind of a bad guy. I lie a lot. I don’t regularly hurt people that I like but when the truth comes out they might be hurt beyond repair. I’m not worth much, honestly, I’m just here to survive.” What does the character consider his/her best personality trait? his ability to survive What does the character consider his/her worst personality trait? his cowardice What does the character consider his/her best physical characteristic? blue eyes What does the character consider his/her worst physical characteristic? too skinny How does the character think others perceive him/her: quiet, controlled, even tempered What would the character most like to change about himself/herself: he’d want to be brave

Relationships With Others

Opinion of other people in general: he tries to keep away from other people, but he generally sees everyone as just doing what they have to do to survive Does the character hide his/her true opinions and emotions from others? yes Person character most hates: tbd Best friend(s): luka, tbd Love interest(s): Luka Person character goes to for advice: tbd Person character feels responsible for or takes care of: tbd Person character feels shy or awkward around: tbd Person character openly admires: no one Person character secretly admires: Luka Most important person in character’s life before story starts: Luka After story starts: Luka?? tbd