#it is a twisted knife in the gut paired with a warm check caress of understanding

[invisiblemonstrosity]

sometimes your body takes you places that you didn’t really plan on going

thrash unreal - against me! // saint sebastian - antiguo de lisboa // saint sebastian attended by st irene - hendrick ter brugghen

[heli0s-writes]

winter dreams

Summary: Six months after a perfect summertime kiss, you see him again in time for the new year. Music: Death Cab for Cutie - I Dreamt We Spoke Again

Pairing: Reader/Bucky

A/N: 2.1k words. Pining & Soft Bucky. Holiday fluff.  TW: references to cancer

A follow up to summer skin but it’s not necessary to read it first. This was written for @sourpatchkidsandacokecan​​‘s Merry Kismet Writing Challenge. Thank you so much for hosting! The prompt is “You owe me a kiss.”

It’s cold.

December reaches your childhood home in disappointing periods of drizzling rain hitting windowpanes, fogging the insides gray with the house’s heat. Brief winter winds ice the city, never quite enough to flurry like how it did in New York.

Yet somehow, it feels colder here.

You bundle up all over when it sinks into your bones. Blankets and two pairs of wool socks, knitted hats and gloves indoors, still rattling, falling lovesick and not participating in festivities.

Your sisters chide the melancholy, ask you to cheer up, tell you it’s the most wonderful time of the year incoming. Tinsel and allspice, brown sugar candles and the crisp snap of pine. A real tree propped up by the fireplace, topped by a burning red star.

You miss him.

The ornament glows his sigil and, you miss him.

Miss his eyes. His hands. Miss his damn shadow.

Thanksgiving had tasted like wet sand. The turkey and cranberries a mush of pulp. Basting and seasoning, rosemary and garlic, rubbing all manners of things down with butter… and in the end, no matter how you tried, the last six months crumbled like ash in your mouth.

Your father’s illness and subsequent recovery bloomed relief but it was still too soon. There was one more round of radiation and then, it would be over. The cloak of death could finally be ripped down, hung up elsewhere to shrivel and flee; he’d finally be free of cancer.

Six months after sweltering summer kisses on a dock and you were still sick with longing for Bucky. He calls rarely because your civilian life can’t bleed into your hero life; you’re the only one with family—the only one with a possible hostage situation.

Two conversations, maybe. With his low timbre saying hello. Don’t know when I’ll see you, but I’ll dream of you until I do. And the sadness in your gut volleys into hope—careens itself into balmy spring and the taste of his tongue on yours. The only reprieve you receive is in darkness, when you might be lucky enough to find him under a clear June sky, the two of you meeting in the middle of a midnight yearning.

The days between Christmas and New Years smear together. A foggy mess of unknown hours and habits, waking and sleeping all blurring into some kind of purgatory overcrowded with glazed ham leftovers and candles with names like Twisted Peppermint and Merry Berry.

A steaming mug is slid over the frosted windowsill on the 30th. Your youngest sister plops down on the sofa seat with a hum, pulling striped red and green sock encased knees up to her chest. Mind-reading. That connection between siblings.

“You go.” She states casually, and it takes you by surprise. “Dad’s doing well. You go. World needs you and all.”

Under a heavy quilt, you’re already quivering with preemptive heartbreak. A sip of your drink and the beginning of a protest before she puts up her hand, “We’ll be fine.” Then, a smirk and a roll of her eyes, “Figures. You finally fall for a guy and he’s probably Captain America.”

You bite your smile down and stay silent.

-

Voicemail. Even the automated tone repeating his phone number before the shrill beep gives you butterflies. War drums echoing from your chest. The practiced message you ran through your head sounds stupid no matter how many times you rehearse it. No matter how many times you’ve dreamt of him and this moment.

“H-hey... I, uh, I’m heading to the compound. Uh. Well, I think I’ll be there in time for tomorrow night’s party. Can’t wait to see you, Buck.”

A string of the dumbest syllables ever known to man.

-

The commons room is aglow when you arrive. Soft and brilliant in orange and yellow, warming up the darkness of dimmed lights. There are at least three trees on your way in, lit up with gold, then blue, then silver for the third, overflowing with ribbon and sparkling garland. Hand-blown glass ornaments refract a rainbow array of hues. There is fake snow in a trail flanking the velvet red carpet running inside, shaped meticulously so that it imitates a snowbank to perfection. Soft music hums from deeper in, harps and violins, and the smell of the fireplace crackling spiced woody notes soothes your bones.

Pepper’s outdone herself heralding in the New Year. You’ll have to apologize for dripping water all the way in, pelted by snow and shuddering head to toe.

It’s flurrying in New York, alright. Your chattering teeth are a testament to the temperature.

Natasha’s the first to see you by the entrance. A raise of her champagne class and you grin shyly, stepping in, wet boots tracking to the bar. Steve beams and rushes across the room, nicking off his conversation with a fan in the middle, throwing his arms around you for a hug.

“He’s in D.C.—does he know you’re— Christ, where’s your coat?"

You shake your head and quiet your trembling as you take in Steve’s pressed denim shirt and his slacks and hair neatly combed to one side. Clean shaven and handsome, twinkling eyes as he holds tight. Your shoes are dripping onto his and you chuckle, “I forgot it—too eager, I suppose.”

The gown you pulled on at the airport is an old one—silvery lavender with thin trails of sparkling tinsel. Worn once during an undercover mission near New Mexico and then hung up to sway limply in your sister’s closet because it was too beautiful to discard even though it smelled like gunpowder. The excitement of your arrival was too pressing that you’d forgotten the right shoes. Boots it is—black and clunky, the kind you’d prefer to have on in a fight.

“He’ll be mad you’re not dressed for the weather.” A silly grin as if Steve’s hiding a secret. Then, a single raise of his sandy brow as he looks down. The gossamer hem a darker purple as it sways over your shoes. “But maybe you can go barefoot for tonight.”

-

Sam is elated when he arrives, pulling you into a spin before his hand clasps onto yours and he sways all the way to the middle of the dance floor. It’s like you never left as he chatters on, making you laugh and cry, his steps goading the band to play faster accompaniments.

Three songs in and you’re reminded of how tired you are from the trip. Your feet are freezing on the tile and so you lead Sam to the couches, accepting a drink from Natasha’s hand before leaning into her, tingling toes tucked beneath your thighs. She plays with your hair, rubs your shoulder, and whispers that it hasn’t been the same without you.

“I remember this dress. We got into some trouble that mission.” And you know that look even without seeing it. Half-smirk, eyebrow up, the Natasha trademark.

You laugh at the memory. Gunpowder from her Beretta and the skirt hiked up to reveal your own pistol strapped tightly to your thigh. Beneath it had been a knife. Overkill, you’d thought, but it came in handy anyway.

“James will appreciate your sentimentality.”

The two of you had played lovers, and it was easy slipping into the role. Your heart flutters at the memory and how nervous you had been when his hand caressed yours at the auditorium entrance. He had bent over and whispered that you looked beautiful, and you snorted in return—a broken noise of disbelief.

“We missed you.” Natasha blows into your ear playfully, “You won’t believe how annoyingly long he sulked. If he’s not here at midnight, you’re getting a kiss from me.”

“Woah. I’m gonna kiss her.” Sam protests, leaning forward dramatically.

You turn to Steve with a grin, waiting for his bid but he only puts his hands up, palms faced outward. “Not me. I’m not trying to get into any fights with Buck. Had enough of that for a while, if none of you remember.”

A few more minutes of chatting and you dismiss your friends, shooing them back to their company and unwilling to take up any more of their time.

New Year’s Eve and you certainly can’t be the most interesting person here, you say. Check out the band, gosh, there’s a celebrity—and Tony, sweeping in with gusto to shoot a comment about how he didn’t even notice you were back but that your room is still in pristine condition, if you were wondering.

And you weren’t, but you thank him anyway with a wink.

11:50 and the back wall is glaring a projected image of the NYC ball drop. You stifle a yawn behind your hand, leaning over the couch lazily. Guests come and go, welcome you back, and you’re always a little startled when another stranger flits by to say hello and thank you. Everyone blurs together in a rush of sparkling cream gowns and silk suits.

11:55 and your eyes are shuttering close, cheekbone resting upon your palm.

11:58 and a hand is skimming up your arm, softly prodding, but you’re too tired to move.

Cheers and whoops. It’s so loud. Music crescendoes, Natasha placing a peck on your cheek along with a blanket over your shoulders and you reply with a wilted little smile. Then, you return to a familiar sweetened coffee black dream of someone tall and soft-spoken.

-

You jolt from the stupor with a gasp. The room has emptied and darkened, only lit by the soft glow of the projector spinning starry images. The blanket from your shoulders has slipped off some time ago, gathering to pool at your feet. Blinking sluggishly, you realize you’re no longer leaned against your palm on the edge of the couch.

Dusky pine and leather. Faint cool aftershave and the vital heartbeat of warm boy. Something heavy and buttery soft draped over your previously cold shoulders.

Another dream.

Yet, it feels more corporeal than ever before and the drumming in your chest strikes a thrilled beat. Your hands wildly pat him up and down, drawing forth his sweet laugh at your antics. You don’t stop, though, running up the neoprene vest, the straps buckled over his torso, his strong jaw and chin. Then hair, those long chestnut strands lightly curled at the edges, grown a little longer and tucked loosely behind his ears.

“Bucky?”

“Yeah, honey.”

You bristle in disbelief, distracted by the realization with some embarrassment that you’ve been sleeping on top of him for who knows how long.  Stupid syllables stuck like caramel chews in your mouth, welding your teeth together in a solid disappointment. After spending six months dreaming about seeing him again, now you’re finally here and you’ve got nothing to say. Bucky lifts his chin to place atop your head, pressing kisses down and chills race to your fingertips and toes.

“Nat said she kissed you at midnight,” Bucky muses, and you can just hear him smiling how he does when he thinks he’s done something clever. “And what about me? You owe me a kiss, unless you’re all done with kissin’ for the night?” His gloved finger traces your chin, thumb pad rubbing over your nose, lifting your gaze until you’re staring up into his eyes.

Blue, blue, blue, like milky ways dipped in a cerulean sea. Behind his head the cosmos continue to spiral, outlining him in silver and starlight. He is beautiful in the night, brighter than suns. You want to sob and say Bucky, Bucky, if I’m sleeping don’t wake me.

Cheekiness snuffs itself out as he tilts his head with a smile, eyes roaming over your expression curiously. A statement begins in the silence of his thumb caressing your cheek, then brow, then making a path down to your bottom lip, skimming over the edge.

He punctuates it with a press of his mouth to yours. Hand moving to latch onto your jaw, then neck, then cradling your head between two and your heart hurdles all the way to the finish line.

“Missed you.” He murmurs, “Missed you a lot.” Licks to your lips and you vaguely wonder when he learned how to sweep you completely off your feet. Bucky tugs on the lapels of his jacket around your shoulder, crushing your torso to his. After six months of longing and anguish, you could float away if he wasn’t holding on so tightly.

“You look beautiful. Always thought so.” Fingers rub the lavender tulle and he smiles. You didn’t believe him then, the night Bucky complimented you and yanked the knife from its strap. “Like a dream.”

Now, you know he means it.

“Happy New Year, honey.”

Bucky pulls you fully into his lap, solid beneath your hands and flush against your torso. Real. Real. Real.

Winter rages on outside. Wrapped up in him, here, now, finally, you’ve never felt warmer.

“Happy New Year, Bucky.”

-

perm tags:  @whothehellisbucky​​​ @serpentbaby​​​ @badassbaker​​​ @alagalaska​​​ @cake-writes​​​ @crist1216​​​ @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​​​ @infinity-saga​​​ @jamesbarnesthighs​​​ @pinknerdpanda​​​ @xoxabs88xox​​​ @imsoft-barnes​​​ @momc95​​​ @typicalangel​​​ @wretchedgoddess​​​ @readeity​​​ @iwannasail​​​ @ya-lyublu-tebya​​​ @geeksareunique​​​ @wildefire​​​ @satanxklaus​​​ @jhangelface0523​​  @wkemeup​

[kaen-ace-of-diamonds]

Wandering Child

[AO3]

Word Count: 3600+ (oneshot) 

Genre: Family/Hurt/Comfort

Pairing: Emerald Sustrai/Cinder Fall

Characters: Emerald Sustrai, Cinder Fall, Emerald’s Mother (OC)

Summary: Companion to Phantom Thief. Emerald doesn’t like to think about the last time she saw her mother. But all that’s bottled up has to come out eventually.

Warnings for implied/referenced child abuse and emotional manipulation. Beryl Sustrai is not a nice woman and Cinder’s no damn prize either.

~0~

"Is anything better than finally finding your way home? Is anything worse than finally reaching home, and finding that you're still lost?"

- Matt Stover

~0~

The detachment of Emerald from home had been a gradual process.

She would do anything not to think about the very beginning of that process: unlocking her Semblance and getting herself quite literally thrown out of her mother’s home for it. There was about as much point to that as there was to taking a knife and slashing a stitched-up gash back open. Even all these years later, the shrill echo of the word freak still bounced painfully off the walls of her skull, and she could feel the sharp sting of hair being yanked from her scalp and the ache of a tiny arm being twisted and pulled by something much bigger and stronger. Better to run from that pain than to linger on it.

Even so, if she had been able to, she would have been able to pinpoint the stages she had wandered through since then. The layers of childhood naivete had stripped themselves away slowly, to be replaced by a solid guard of steel around her heart. First to go had been her hope that she would one day return home. She’d wandered the slums of Mitsubachi City with an unbearable tightness in her chest, imagining on loop that her mother would come running after her, scoop her up and carry her all the way back home, tell her how she had overreacted and how she was so, so sorry...a fantasy so stupid that it made her snort with derision now. Just the idea of the words, “I’m sorry, Emerald,” passing genuinely from Beryl Sustrai’s lips was laughable.

That stage hadn’t taken long to dissipate, in the long run. Only a few months. The next one had taken a couple years to let go of: the idea that someone else would one day come along to replace her mother. In the adventure stories and fairy tales she had read when she was little, if someone had a bad family, there would always be some great force of good that came to sweep them away, to someplace where they would be protected and happy. Perhaps her long-lost father, making his miraculous return to her life after going off to “work” one morning and never coming back. She still had one parent left, didn't she? He had said that he wasn’t leaving forever, hadn’t he?

It had taken her years to understand what her mother had known the instant she’d read his note: that it was all bullshit. Her father had abandoned them, thrown her away just as surely as her mother had. She knew she couldn’t call herself an orphan in the technical sense, but to have parents who wanted nothing to do with you had to be just as bad, the way she saw it.

The last thing to go had been something that Emerald hadn’t even realized she was hanging on to. Ever since being ousted from her childhood home, she had been roaming the streets of the city like a stray dog; sleeping on them, scrounging for food on them, and becoming intimately familiar with them. But that did not make them her home. For five years that stretched and blurred together into an endless torture, she had been operating under the impression that this was a temporary way of life. One day, far off as it might be, things would be better. Somewhere out there, was a place where she would be safe, where she belonged. There was someone who could find it in themself to love her.

How stupid she was. There was no person like that, and the only place that she would ever belong was the filth and hopelessness of Mitsubachi. Slowly but surely, her vantage points narrowed, until all that was left on her mind were surviving to the end of the day and finding a safe place to sleep at night. Tomorrows were both a luxury, and a cracked concrete road spiraling away into nothing.

So, on this particular winter day, that had begun no differently than any other, the only things Emerald had been thinking about was how to ease the ever-present pain in her stomach, and how to protect herself from the coming bitter cold. She wandered away from her usual haunts downtown, checking her red and numb fingers for signs of frostbite in between bouts of blowing on them and furiously rubbing them together. She knew, logically, that it could not set in so fast, but she had seen bodies, living and dead alike, with blackened and missing digits. She could not afford to take any chances.

This line of thought so distracted her, that at first she had passed by the alleyway completely.

She had entirely missed the puddle of fresh blood on the concrete, the shaking body curled tightly into itself against the brick wall, or the old backpack torn to shreds around it. It wasn’t the pained moaning and coughing itself, but the familiarity of it, that made Emerald do a double take and whip around to take a closer look. By now, she had come to pride herself on casting aside childish tendencies, and becoming as tough and guarded as any other criminal in this city. What she saw—what she recognized—at the end of the alley shattered all of that in a split second. The next thing Emerald knew, she was throwing herself forward and screaming, in a way she never thought she would again.

“Mom! MOM!”

The long brick alleyway passed in a blur, and she skidded to a stop, on her knees in the blood puddle. The part of her that was frozen instead of going wild with panic noted that Beryl Sustrai hadn’t changed one bit in the past five years. Same thinning, dark green ponytail curling over her shoulder, same worn-out jacket and faded jeans, same hissing of anger coming from between her clenched teeth, as she pressed down with both hands on her bleeding stomach. But when the woman lifted her head—blood trickling from her mouth down her chin as well—to see who was screaming for her, whose hands were pawing at her arms and shoulders, her dark eyes were shot wide with wonder and shock, both things that Emerald had never seen on this face before.

“E...Emerald...?” Breathless, as if she were seeing a ghost. “That’s...i-is that you?”

Tears were spilling down Emerald’s face now, as she looked through her mother’s fingers at the ragged bullet hole in her gut, but she was far too frightened to be embarrassed about them. “Yeah...it’s, it’s okay, Mom. I-I’m here. Who...who did this?!”

Beryl didn’t seem to be listening to her. She lifted one shaking, blood-slick hand to Emerald’s face, thin fingertips brushing her cheek, as though to make sure that the girl was really there. Her nails were just as sharp as Emerald remembered. “Oh, gods...you’ve grown up...”

The blood on her fingers ran four thick, warm-wet trails down Emerald’s face. The blood on her stomach was gushing like water over Emerald’s own fingers, as she ripped a large chunk out of her already-tattered pant leg to wad up and press against the gaping hole. So much, oh, gods please help her, too much...She had to get her mother out of here, she couldn’t save her here. She didn’t know where to go or what to do, but...not here, at least.

“I-it’s okay, Mom,” she choked out again, trying to slide her arms under her mother’s back and shoulders. But it was no good, she was too small, too weak, and Beryl was already deadweight. “I...I’m gonna help you...please, work with me here!”

Beryl made no effort to help Emerald by lifting herself off the ground. Though her eyes were quickly hazing over, there was a certain glint in them. Her blue-tinged lips pressed into the same thin, grim, but satisfied smile that they always would when a customer pressed Lien into her hand.

“Emerald...baby doll...” Not quite a soft, affectionate lilt, but it was Beryl’s best attempt at it.

“Don’t, no, don’t try to talk, Mom!” That was what dying—no, no, what hurt people were supposed to do, right? Save their energy? If it was, her mother hadn’t seemed to get the memo, still caressing her face and forcing more words out.

“Emerald. Sh-show me something. Make...make me s-see something.”

Emerald stopped short. “Wh...what?”

Beryl was still smiling blissfully. “Y-you can do it...make me see something. So...so it won’t hurt, wh-when I...”

Emerald’s blood ran colder than the winter wind around them, as the meaning sunk in. There was static in her suddenly-aching brain. For one long moment, she was eight years old again, tiny and terrified, her mother’s fury at her newfound ability a huge and monstrous thing. Her Semblance awakening had changed everything. She was no longer Beryl’s tolerated daughter, but a mind-altering parasite worming its way into her head, like her father before her.

(“You won’t ever do that to me again! I don’t care where you go, just get away from me!”

“Mama!”

“No! GET OUT!”)

She remembered being thrown against the wall, being dragged by her hair away from her mother and her home. She remembered sobbing herself sick, stumbling alone through the darkening streets with an arm that refused to bend with pain, just wanting her mama, wanting to go home.

She remembered. She always would, no matter how many walls she tried to hide the memories behind. Had Beryl thought she would have forgotten?!

Her blood was roaring in her ears, and she felt her fingers tightening on her mother’s shoulders, nails digging in hard. The smile was fading from Beryl’s face, replaced with a look of confusion that only enraged Emerald more. Her heart pounded painfully, and her head felt lighter with every second.

Now she was acting sweet to her?! When she wanted something?! After everything...After everything—!

Her lips curled into a furious snarl, and the voice that growled up from the back of her throat was more a beast’s than her own.

“You want me to make you see something?!”

She wasn’t looking for an answer. But if Beryl had tried to give one, she would never know what it was. The relentless pounding in her head and heart reached an agonizing crescendo, and before she knew what was happening, her vision went burning, blinding white.

She did not know how long it was before that whiteness cleared away, and she slowly descended back to reality. She blinked several times, feeling a strange numbness over every inch of her skin, as she remembered bit by bit where she was, and...what she had been doing...

Her hands twitched up in surprise, when she registered that there was still hard, bony shoulders under them. The heavy scents of blood and cold rushed up into her nose again. Without thinking, she looked down, and reflexively recoiled. Her back slammed against the brick wall at the end of the narrow alley as another scream ripped from her throat.

Beryl lay there on the concrete, like a car-struck dog on the side of the road. The flow of blood had stopped, but the stains were still wet on her stomach and hands. Her face was like a grotesque wax sculpture, twisted and frozen into a mask of utter horror, her dull bloodshot eyes bugging out of her head and her mouth stretched inhumanly wide open.

Every inch of her trembling, Emerald forced herself to creep back over to her.

“...M-Mom?”

She didn’t dare get too close. Arm’s length away, maybe a little less. She reached out to hold her hand out in front of the nose and mouth: no breath, no tiny clouds of warmth in the winter. Though every instinct she had told her not to, she leaned in to press her fingers to the neck, but the second her fingertips touched flesh, she scrambled back again with a shriek, heart racing again. She hadn’t been expecting a pulse, not really, and she had known it would be cold but she hadn’t known what it was like to touch something so—

Dead.

Emerald sprinted for the other end of the alley faster than she had thought possible. Not onto the street, no, someone would see the blood on her legs, her face, her hands, oh, gods, oh, gods, what had she just done?!

What did I make her see?! It’s my fault, it’s my fault, oh my gods, what did I do?!

Hide. Somewhere to hide. Nowhere was safe, she would never, ever be safe, but...somewhere to hole up for a while. Get this blood off of her, get it off, and then forget…. Sobs shook her body, burning her throat and wracking her chest as she ran. She had to forget, she had to make them stop, she had to get away...get away...

~0~

The first split second after waking up was one of stark, unthinking terror.

Emerald had no idea where she was, only that it was dark, her chest still hurt, and she was still sobbing her heart out. Gods, why was she doing that, a tiny, disgusted part of her brain protested, she hadn’t done that in—wait—how long had it—?!

There was something soft underneath her, and warm hands sliding under her shoulders that made her jump. She would have leapt up and bolted away, throwing up an illusion behind her to cover her escape, as she did every time she woke up to someone grabbing at her. But the gentle voice murmuring down to her grounded her firmly back in reality.

“Shh, Emerald, Emerald...”

A pitiful whimper came up from her throat, quite without her permission. She glanced down at herself. She wasn’t thirteen years old anymore, but sixteen. There were brand new clothes covering her skin, not blood. No blood. Not anymore. And she wasn’t alone, or in danger. It was Cinder next to her in their tent, Cinder’s eyes looking at her with concern, Cinder’s arm wrapped around her shoulders...

“Emerald, it’s okay. You’re okay. It was just a bad dream.”

Before she could think about what she was doing, she was throwing herself from the bedroll and burying her face in Cinder’s chest. Cinder allowed it, hugging her close with both arms.

“I...i-it wasn’t a dream! It really happened!”

“What happened?”

Emerald’s breath hitched -- there was so much to tell and she had never breathed a word of it to anyone, ever. But before the walls could come down over the memory again to stop her, it was all spilling out of her mouth like vomit.

“I, I, my m-mom, she...I u-unlocked my Semblance when—when I was little, and, and I was s-s-so happy, to show her...”

“I should hope so. You have a rare gift.”

What Emerald’s body did was supposed to be a laugh. She choked on another sob instead.

“She...She was disgusted by me. I tried so hard, but...n-nothing I ever did was good. My i-illusions scared her, a-and it made her s-so angry, that I could do that. She...” Her stomach swooped again, and she swallowed hard. “She s-screamed at me, hurt me, called...called me a freak, like my father. And...a-and then k-kicked me out and...I don’t...I don’t understand! What did I do wrong?! Why did she throw me away?!”

“I don’t know, Emerald.” Cinder’s calm and even tone, the hand running soothingly over her hair, only made her cry harder. Here she was, bawling and clinging like a little kid, but Cinder wasn’t angry at her at all. “It was a cruel and foolish thing to do.”

Emerald couldn’t seem to catch a proper breath. “She...she...sh-she thought I was a, a m-monster. And, sh-she was right!”

“Now, why would you say that? ‘Monster’ is the last thing I’d ever think about you.”

“I...” She had never said this out loud before, had barely even dared to think it, and it felt like choking up a sharp rock: “I killed her. I-it’s my fault, I killed her!”

Her eyes stung wildly, and she pressed her face harder into Cinder’s chest. For the next few minutes, she tried to speak but couldn’t, while Cinder continued to hold her close and stroke her hair. After that time, when Emerald’s breathing started to calm a little, Cinder gently prodded, “What happened? Was this when she threw you out?”

“N...n-no. I...I was eight when she d-did that. I d-didn’t think I would ever s-see her again, she...she told me to stay away, s-so I did. B-But...Three years ago, I found her, i-in the street. I—I was so scared of her, I hated her, e-ever since I got my guns I’d th-think about shooting her, a-and my dad, all...all the time...”

Cinder hummed sympathetically. “It didn’t happen the way you imagined, did it?”

“S-Someone actually shot her, r-right through her stomach. And it was cold, a-and there was so much blood, a-and I ran over, I...I just wanted to help...”

“If she was shot where you say she was, then there was nothing you could have done to save her. It isn’t your fault.”

Emerald shook her head frantically; Cinder wasn’t understanding.

“She...she thought there was. She...smiled at me. Told me I could...make her see something. S-So when she died, she wouldn’t know she had. She’d forget she was h-hurting. A-And I could have done it. I, I could have done it. B-But...” Cinder waited patiently for her to force it out. “I...I got so angry. I was hurting her, just yelling in her face, and then...Everything went all bright, and...Oh, gods, it hurt!”

“You used your Semblance, unconsciously. What did you make her see?”

“Th-That’s just it, I don’t know. I couldn’t see, it...knocked me out for a minute, I guess? B-But...When I woke up...She was d-dead. She was dead, and she looked terrified of something, a-and I, I know p-people’s hearts can st-stop, if someone scares them that b-b-bad...”

“Well.” Cinder’s voice was carefully level, as if she were trying not to laugh. “She did ask for it.”

Emerald startled slightly in her arms. “But I...She was dying, and she...she was m-my mom, I-I shouldn’t have, I should never have—!”

“Shhh...” Cinder was stroking her hair again, soft and gentle, and Emerald sank into her touch. So warm, so safe, she had never known an embrace like this. Not even her nights of sleeping in her mother’s arms, back in her very earliest memories, had felt like this. “Shh. Questions of should and shouldn’t aside, it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t realize what you were doing.”

“I...I...I should have controlled myself. S-Semblances aren’t supposed to do that...”

“It happens. Stress and trauma activating them is very common, actually. And such occurrences aren’t exactly voluntary.”

Emerald tentatively wrapped her arms around Cinder’s waist, and then tightened them into a hug when Cinder did not object. “It was my fault. I sh-should have...I could have just ran away then. Or...ignored her, and...g-gotten her somewhere, maybe. Th-there weren’t any hospitals nearby, and...I didn’t know any back-alley p-people, but...”

“Listen to what I’m saying, Emerald. It was too late before you even reached her.”

“I-I just wanted to help...”  

“If she wanted your help, she should have kept you, embraced you for everything that you are. But she chose not to.”

Emerald sniffled ungracefully. “I only wanted to make her happy...”

“Oh, I have no doubt of that. But you can’t help somebody who doesn’t want to be helped.”

She managed to stifle another whimper, and tried to tense her body up to stop its trembling, but that part wasn’t as successful. “I should have...I-I should have...”

“Shh, now. What’s done is done. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Emerald...wasn’t quite convinced of that, but didn’t want to push whatever vague points she’d been trying to make. Her head felt light and dizzy, and it felt like there was a hard rock in the pit of her stomach. And of course the stream of tears down her face felt as if it would never stop.

“I...I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she mumbled into Cinder’s chest. “I never...I mean, I-I try not to think about it, and I u-usually can. B-but I, I’ve never...just lost it like this. I swear, I’m not really like this. I haven’t c-cried like this since she...”

“I believe you, don’t worry. It’s because you’re safe now that you can talk about it like this. No one will stop you.” Cinder snickered softly, and added, “And the Grimm know to stay away.”

Emerald suppressed a shiver, remembering how Cinder had ordered the hunting Grimm in the woods away from her just the other day. There was no one like Cinder in all of Remnant, she had realized that day. It wasn’t just that she was fearless and strong, but that she had chosen to use that strength to take Emerald under her wing. She couldn’t imagine the warm hands stroking her hair ever yanking it, like her mother had, or the arms holding her so protectively ever turning rough on her. She hugged Cinder tighter; as long as she stayed by her side, she was safe now.

“There’s...a lot to tell. A-and it’s late, I’m sorry, I don’t want to keep you up...”

“Nonsense. You’ve clearly needed someone to lend an ear for a long time, haven’t you?”

“...I guess so. Yes,” Emerald agreed, already trying to organize all her thoughts so they’d come out the right way.

She felt Cinder smile against her hair. “So tell me. Anything you want. You mentioned your father? Why did she think you were like him?”

Emerald took a deep breath, and began...