#it took me over a decade but I finally bit the bullet and decided to talk about this series

[inkerii]

So I couldn't help but browse the THG tag bc those books own my whole heart. I actually check it now and again, and it's been interesting see how opinions have changed over the years, especially in regards to Gale and Peeta. Going through the evolution of them as just potential love interests to being far more complex than I could have expected has been a wild ride. Crazy how this reads different than from when I was a preteen.

That said, I wanted to give my unsolicited two cents on my boys, because though I have been enjoying the discussion on Peeta and Gale and what they mean to the story, I also feel like reducing them to Peeta = peace and Gale = war is far too simplistic... and oftentimes unfair to one or both of them.

See, I don't think Peeta and Gale are peace and war/destruction. They're compassion and indignation.

Peeta worries about the other tributes, or their families, or how to repay people like Rue and Thresh for what they did.

Gale is indignation at how the Capitol treats its citizens, it's anger at the injustice of inequality and brutality.

Both are needed in a story like THG. You can't have people like even Peeta not say something like "maybe we're wrong about keeping things quiet in the districts", you can't have him not drop the baby bomb, you can't start a revolution without Gale's indignation at the status quo. At deserving a better life but being denied it, at having your kids be mercilessly killed for literal sport.

However, if you start a rebellion and loose sight of your compassion, you end up no better than the people you're fighting against. Gale wasn't a bad person, imo. His heart was in the right place. He was flawed, yes, but so is everyone in this series. Gale, most importantly, lost sight of the line between fighting for the people he cared about and fighting against the people who hurt him.

Reducing Gale's indignation to just revenge and hatred ignores so much of what he stands for. Who hasn't seen laws passed that dehumanize people, who hasn't been angry and furious when someone is elected who fundamentally hates everything you are, who doesn't think some people need to pay for the atrocities they committed? There's a little bit of Gale in every single one of us - and it's important that it's there, because that's what gives us strength to challenge the status quo and make life better for the future generations.

But. You can't let it take over. You can't loose sight of your compassion or your empathy.

That's where Peeta comes in. Peeta is the voice in your head that worries about how many good lives will be lost when they give themselves up for this cause. Peeta is the worry about the people caught in the crossfire. Peeta is rebuilding when it's over and believing that the next generation will have a better life than your own. Peeta is being kind, even to people who may not deserve it.

And Gale... Gale looses sight of his compassion, and he doesn't realize it until it smacks him in the face when the bombs go off and Prim is gone and he's too far gone. Meanwhile, Peeta advocates for the end of the war even though it means the status quo remains - and regardless of what he believes himself, I don't think Suzanne chose him to say those lines by chance. It means both mindsets have their flaws: too kind and things that shouldn't remain will never be challenged and changed, too angry and you may loose sight of what you're fighting for.

And that's just how Suzanne uses her characters, both of them, all of them. Just look at who is with Katniss depending on the situation:

- Katniss chooses to "rebel" after Gale is brutally whipped. She kisses him.

- Katniss realizes that in order for D12 to rebel, everyone would need to be in on it, and she realizes most of them are not like her, that they're scared and she understands, emphasises with them. Peeta walks by her side.

- Katniss finally does it though, shoots the arrow at the force field, and Peeta is taken from her, it's now Gale by her side.

(You can't start a rebellion without indignation, and sometimes you HAVE to do it or things will never change, regardless of the inevitable pain that will come along.)

- Katniss is righteously angry at the Capitol bombing a hospital full of innocents to make a point. Gale remains there.

- Coin twists people's compassion into an army to fight for her own personal gain. Peeta is hijacked and looses his sense of self.

- Katniss and Gale go to District 2 and even though she tries to be like Peeta, she's still shot- reinforcing Gale's views, the person who was with her during that sequence.

- Katniss is angry at Snow, Katniss goes to the Capitol to kill him. Gale is there.

- Katniss gets in way over her head and realizes she is responsible for the death of most of her squad. She shares the lamb stew with Peeta, and later cleans his wounds.

- Finnick dies and she's at her lowest up until that point and all she wants to do is give up and give in to the anger. She kisses Peeta and begs him to stay with her.

... Claiming that Gale is destruction ignores the fact that he's with Katniss through her own moments of strength. Her desire to change things, to fight back, is as important as her compassion. Mockingjay just brutally shows you what war does to your indignation, to your compassion. How easy it is to cross a line between righteous anger and revenge, or how your sense of empathy and compassion can be manipulated into something monstrous by others, or by all the terrible, brutal, painful things you see.

How easy it is to loose yourself- and that goes for both of them.

Peeta and Gale aren't static characters, they go from representations of sentiments regarding an injust government to what happens to those feelings when an extreme situation such as war breaks out. All of that, by the way, while dealing with this duality themselves, because they are still characters who think and feel and struggle and have flaws of their own- and while I love what they stand for, I've seen too many comments that pin everything into what they mean, that they forget that Peeta and Gale are still people, they aren't perfect metaphors. They're human.

Ultimately, Katniss doesn't really choose peace. She wants peace, yes. But what she chooses is compassion. empathy. hope. There's a time and place for anger at injustice. There's a time when fighting back is the right thing to do. There are even times when you wanna give in to your despair and lash out. But if you want peace, then you have to choose Peeta, because Peeta represents what you need to focus on to achieve that peace. You have to let go of the anger or you won't ever rest. So Gale leaves, and does not come back... And yet, Katniss still has her moments of indignation, of making a stand, even as he goes - she still casts her vote at that meeting, she still shoots Coin. Katniss does not abandon that part of who she is. It's just not her main drive anymore.

So then she goes on to make the choice, every single day, to be compassionate to others. To have hope. To rebuild. Of course she chooses Peeta.

... Idk, man. These boys are so much more than what I see them so often reduced to. They're in all of us. There will be times to stand and fight, and times to show mercy and be kind. We just need to find that balance, as Katniss eventually did.

[justagalwhowrites]

“This one shouldn’t fuckin’ jam on you,” he said, a thread of pain in his voice. You looked up at him. His face was hard. You reached out to touch him but he stepped back from you. “Let me see how you shoot it.” 

It felt oddly exposing, setting up to shoot a target with Joel’s eyes on you, examining everything you were doing. It was harder to think straight this way, the feeling of his gaze seeping into your stance. 

You swallowed, hard, and shot. The bullet went wide, landing on the hay bale that Bill had set up at one point in time to practice. 

“Here,” Joel came up behind you. “Both hands.”

He guided your grip on the weapon and adjusted your arms. 

“Open your stance up a bit”

He nudged your feet apart, putting his leg between your own. You could feel him there behind you. He smelled good, freshly showered, his hair slicked back. Your first instinct was to bury your nose in his neck and breathe him in, fill your lungs and blood with him until there was nowhere else left for him to go.

“Keep both eyes open, don’t squint.” 

He kept his hands below your biceps. You took a shaky breath. 

“Don’t be nervous,” he said. “Just a target.” 

“Not nervous,” you muttered. 

“Feel nervous.”

“You just don’t know how I feel anymore,” you said before thinking better of it.

He laughed once.

“Guess not. When you’re ready.” 

alright bestie we all knew this was coming lmfao

here is the lavender moment that i would love to get a joel pov or joel thoughts or literally anything you wanna talk about lol

LOVE YOU AND ALL YOUR JOELS SO MUCH

lavender joel more than most tho

AHHH BESTIE!

DIRECTOR'S COMMENTARY TIME!

OK SO

This is such a great moment to me, it's kind of the foundation for this new journey for Joel and Doc. Their relationship is in a totally different space than it's ever been before. For a decade and a half, it was all on Joel's terms. He was the one who decided they couldn't be together, he was the one who decided he didn't want to even know her anymore, he was the one who decided who they were to each other and Doc tried to live within that standard without being in too much pain and not hurting him.

But, after the Andrew incident outside the QZ, things changed. Joel had been wearing down for a while - trying to emotionally disentangle yourself from the love of your life when they haven't done anything wrong and would take you back in an instant if you even glanced in their direction will do that to you - but so had Doc. There was only so much she could take from him before it broke her and he'd pushed her to that point. By this time in the story, she still loves him - she's resigned herself to always being in love with him - but has washed her hands of him as much as someone can while being in love with someone else. She's done pursuing a connection with him, she's done holding out any kind of hope and she's decided that she's not going to just let him use her because that's what she thinks their relationship has been for him all this time. That she was convenient, something he could have when he wanted and put down when he was done over and over again (which honestly hurts to think about, she loved him so much that, for so long, she was fine with that as long as he just picked her back up again.) She still cares for him, she still wants him to be OK and be happy and healthy but she is no longer wishing/hoping/trying for it to be with her. So when Joel - who is finally caving to his feelings after some sheer panic of "Oh my God what if I never see her again" - starts trying to show her care of any kind, she backs away from it.

Joel here is coming as close as he can to saying "I can't handle losing you, let me give you the tools you need to survive" and she's trying to keep her distance. Joel really does not know how to navigate that. He also doesn't know how to navigate his own feelings and he's starting to realize - pretty fast and pretty intensely - that he's wasted 15 years of their lives pushing her away. He could have been with her that whole time and instead he made them both miserable. He's in his reckoning now and I love that for him.

I hope this gives you some insight!! Love you!!!!!

[stressisakiller]

I'm Glad it's You

Steve Rogers x reader soulmate AU

As you wish part 3

Summary: A difficult conversation and a whole lot of fluff

Warnings: none, couple of curse words, mentions brainwashing

Word Count: 2.9k

A/N: I finally got to this chapter!! I am so sorry it took so long life has been hectic. Hope yall like it!

<< Previous Next >>

Blinking your eyes open you are surprised to see that you are still in the living room. You can't remember falling asleep last night. Then you feel the arm that's thrown over your stomach and the breath of the super soldier sleeping beside you. Right you think, Captain America is my soulmate and we fell asleep watching the princess bride. That was a sentence you never thought possible.

You carefully shuffle around for a better angle to see the man next to you. His mouth is slightly open and he had moved from mostly sitting up to lying on his side, one arm under your head the other around your waist. His hair is adorably messy, you wouldn't have thought that his hair could be anything but perfect. It is strangely endearing to see him like this, completely relaxed and looking slightly ruffled. 

Your gaze on his face seems to rouse him from his sleep, eyes slowly blinking open and taking in the world around him. He startles awake when he realizes how close you are and the fact that his arms are wrapped around you.

“Oh my goodness, I am so sorry, I didn’t mean..” He starts apologizing while trying to untangle himself from you.

You cut him off by snuggling closer to him, your voice is muffled by his chest as you speak. 

“Don’t you dare apologize, that was the best sleep I’ve had in ages, plus you’re my soulmate, I doubt cuddling on the couch all night will be the worst thing we do.” You look up to see a slight blush painting his cheeks at your words.

“I never said it was," he counters, still a little flustered, "but we only just figured this out last night and I didn’t want to assume anything.” He quickly gains his composure back, allowing himself to enjoy the feeling of you in his arms. That is until Tony walks in.. 

"Please no sex on the couch, it's a bitch to clean." He states loudly causing you to laugh at his antics. You force yourself to leave the warmth that is Steve's arms and walk over to Tony who is grabbing a cup of coffee.

“I’m still mad at you, you know, for not telling me earlier.” You state matter of factly. "All this time I thought I'd end up dying alone because of one of your experiments gone wrong, and it turns out that you knew who my soulmate is for months."

He looks at you for a moment, contemplating how to respond before softening and giving you a kiss on the forehead,

 “I’m sorry little Buttercup, I should have told you earlier and not just assumed that you already knew.” You smile at this softer side of Tony, the side that he usually only allows you to see. 

You pour yourself and Steve a cup of coffee, asking him how he likes it.

"A good amount of cream and a spoonful of sugar." He states looking a little sheepish. You smile at the fact that Captain America likes a little coffee with his creamer. 

You jump slightly when you feel his arms sliding around your waist and his chin on your shoulder. 

"Thank you, doll, that looks perfect." His voice is soft in your ear. You quickly realize Steve is an affectionate man that likes to cuddle and is quickly warming up to the fact that you enjoy it too. 

You lean back into his embrace, reveling the simple fact that you could. You found your soulmate and you were already head over heels for the man. 

Your mom always loved to cook and she taught you when you were young. So you decide to make up some pancakes and french toast for breakfast, after all, it isn't everyday that you find your other half.

Tony and Steve help set the table and everything while you cook. Steve askes if he can help but Tony knows that you enjoyed taking care of the cooking by yourself. That may partially come from the fact that, for the most part, Tony is a terrible cook and you don't want him anywhere near your food.

Once the table is set and you are well on your way to cooking breakfast, Steve and Tony sit down and start to talk. Steve, always the one to go straight to business, begins to ask about the girl he brought in the day before.

“She’s still unconscious, from the look of her she's been in some terrible fights, she has multiple gun wounds and some scars that look to be from some wicked knife wounds.” Tony answers, feeling a little bit of sympathy for the unconscious girl in the medical wing.

“Well all the same, I need to find out who so is and why she shot me.” Steve answers allowing a little bit of the exasperation he is feeling to slip into his words.

“She shot you?” Your voice is laced with worry and you walk up to him, placing the food in your hand on the table, “are you ok?” Your eyes search his body to see if you could find the wound he spoke of.

“Yes doll, she shot me. I had the bullet removed and the skin is almost completely healed." His voice is gentle, reassuring, letting you know that there is nothing for you to worry about. 

"Anyway, it was like she wasn't shooting to kill. It was like she aimed for the spot that would cause the least amount of damage." His entire face is scrunched up in confusion, before he shakes his head and continues. "But I must speak with her when she wakes. That is the only way we can find out for sure.”

“Well until then, let's eat and then maybe you can come up with me to my lab so I can make you that punching bag.” You say setting the last of the food onto the table and grabbing some orange juice.

“You weren’t kidding about that?” Steve's voice is incredulous, he really didn't think that you would actually make a punching bag for him.

“Of course I was serious, I never kid.” You can’t help the smile that slips through the serious look you are putting on.

The next two days pass with you and Seve spending as much time together as possible. You are quickly able to develop a punching bag for him and even develop a couple of smaller items to help make missions easier as well. You are surprised how happy it makes you to have Steve in the lab with you. You share stories of your childhood and are surprised by the similarities, especially when it comes to your health. He tells you about Brooklyn, and his friend Bucky. About trying to get drafted and the events that lead to him becoming Captain American. You enjoy how willing he is to share his life with you and how easy it is for you to return the favor. You are in the middle of telling him the story of how you met Tony when Jarvis comes over the speaker.

“Mr. Rogers, the woman you brought in has awoken.”

 

You look at each other before rushing down the halfway to the medical wing. Steve steps in first and you quietly follow him, not wanting to get in the way. 

“Oh good you’re awake,” Steve’s voice is harder than you had ever heard before, and you watch as the girl tenses up even more. 

“Now I get to ask you all of the questions that I’ve been waiting to ask you for the past 3 days.” You watch him pull a chair up and sit, his pose meant to intimidate. 

“Who are you? Why did you shoot me? What were you doing in that town and where did you get these?” You flinch slightly at the anger in his voice, glad that it isn’t currently directed at you. 

Steve is holding up a pair of dog tags, and you wonder what they have to do with anything. The girl seems to be reeling from the questions trying to decide how to answer. You are curious as to what she will have to say. Her voice is desperate when she finally speaks.

“My name is Alison, my father is Hydra and forced me to become one of their experiments, a soldier for them. I was planning on escaping but I never could, I couldn’t leave him there.” Leave him? Leave who you wonder, her voice grows more desperate when she speaks of him, he must be important to her. You focus back in on what she is saying. 

“I couldn’t leave him, not when I could do something to save him. I couldn’t leave him there all alone.” You can tell that she is close to tears as she speaks and that there is no lie in her words.

Steve balks, “Wait a minute, you’re Hydra.” He spits the words out at her causing you to look at him in confusion. 

“Not by choice.” Her voice is steel. She holds no love for her father or this Hydra organization.

Steve finally asks the question that is bugging you. “Alright then, who is this “he” you keep mentioning?” He leans back crossing his arms, waiting for her answer.

She stares at him for a moment, as if deciding whether she can trust him or not. She seems to come to a conclusion. Taking a deep breath she answers, 

“My soulmate, the soldier, the man on the dog tags, James Buchanan Barnes.” You can't help but gasp, James was Steve’s best friend, he had told you all about him the last couple of days. Your gaze immediately turns to Steve to see his reaction, his whole body has gone stiff, his eyes narrowed, teeth clenched.

“You’re lying. I watched him fall from the train, I watched him die! There is no way in hell he is your soulmate.” His anger is rolling off of him in waves.

 You however remain strangely calm after the initial shock of her words. What she said makes sense, after all a 95 year old super soldier who was assumed dead for 70 years is your soulmate. Who's to say that James didn’t survive the fall?

 You step up to Steve and softly place your hand on his shoulder.

The girl is still frantically trying to convince him, “I’m not lying! I swear! Hydra got to him. They made him into a weapon, they brainwashed him and put him on ice when they didn’t need him so that they could control him better. I swear, I’m not lying!" Her voice is practically hysterical at the end.

 Leaning in to Steve you murmur to him, 

“Steve, you survived an airplane crash and being frozen in a glacier for decades. Maybe she is telling the truth.” Your voice is soft, placating. 

He turns to you, the hardness of his face softening at the sincerity he can see in your eyes. 

“Fine,” he says turning back to the girl, Alison, “I can’t fully trust you and I can’t let you go, so you will have to live here in the tower, under surveillance. If you want us to trust you, you will have to prove yourself trustworthy.” Steve stands after this declaration, unlocking the cuffs on her wrists. You turn to her, 

“I’ll make sure that they have a room ready for you as soon as you are well enough to leave the hospital.” You give her a soft smile, heaven knows she needs it. You pause a second, alone in the room with her, Steve had walked swiftly out the door as soon as he had undone the cuffs. 

“I just have one last question,” she nods at you when you pause, “I know you shot Steve. But you missed anything important on purpose, didn’t you?"

She just gives you a secret smile and lays back against the pillow, but it is all you need to know the type of woman she is. You can tell already that you like this girl, and that it won’t take you long to trust her. Giving her one last look you step out the door, calling for Jarvis to make sure a room is ready for the new guest. You have a Steve to find. 

 

He is exactly where you expect him to be, punching the shit out of the punching bag you made him. 

“Hey Soldier.” You call to him, as you lean against the doorway. You watch as his body slouches at the sound of your voice, today was a lot.

“She said that Bucky is her soulmate,” his eyes are red as they catch yours, “what if he is alive and I could have saved him. All this time I thought that I watched him die and now there is this chance that he is alive. What if I abandoned him?” 

His voice breaks at the question, he looks so vulnerable. You step quickly towards him, keeping your movements light. When you reach him you take the hand that is hanging limply by his side and place it on your cheek.

“Hey, love, look at me.” His eyes slide up from the floor. “There was no way you could have known and nothing you could have done to help. If he is alive, I will be right there with you and we will do whatever it takes to get him back. He is your family, and that makes him mine, and we don’t leave family behind.” His eyes are full of tears as he leans his head against yours. 

The toll of the day, makes itself apparent in the slouch of his shoulders and the weight of his forehead. You slowly pull yourself out of the embrace, grasping his hand and pulling him with you.

“Come on, we both need sleep and there is no way in hell I’m letting you sleep by yourself after the day we just had.” He nods and follows your gentle pull to your room in the tower. 

Since you have lived here the longest you have one of the nicest rooms, save Tony of course. Entering the room you have Steve sit on the edge of the bed while you start up the shower for him. You place out a couple of towels out on the vanity and step back into your room. 

Steve hasn’t moved since you walked into the bathroom. You step up to him and gently place your hand on his cheek.

“Love, I have the shower running for you, everything is set out and I placed a clean pair of sweatpants and a shirt in there for you, they should fit. Go ahead and get cleaned up and then you can come lay down.”

He stares at you listlessly for a moment before nodding and moving to do exactly as you suggested. As he showers you change into your pjs, you would take your shower in the morning. You grab the book on your bedside table and allow yourself to get lost in the words for a moment. The sound of the shower turning off brings you back to reality, as Steve steps out of the bathroom in just the sweatpants. 

Your first thought is holy shit followed quickly by the thought that whoever decided that you would be the perfect soulmate for this specimen might have been mistaken . 

Steve is having a similar train of thought, looking at you in your too large shirt and messy bun, knowing that behind your beauty is a heart of gold. He can't believe his luck.

He walks to the other side of the bed, drying off his hair and throwing the towel in the hamper. Pausing for a moment at the empty side of the bed, searching your face for any trace of doubt. Instead all he sees is you smiling at him and gesturing for him to take his place beside you.

 Settling into the bed he is surprised when you lean over and place your head in his lap.

“I’m glad it’s you.” He smiles at the soft admission, thankful that he finally found you after all these years.

“I’m glad it’s you too, doll. For the longest time I thought I would never find you, I thought you may not even exist. But I did and you are even more amazing than I could have ever hoped for." He pauses for a moment deciding whether to say what's on his mind or not. He is hesitant as he starts to speak. 

"Thank you for today, for calming me when I needed it and for being there for me. Not many people have seen me cry, but I’m glad that you have and that you aren’t disappointed in me for not staying strong.” At his words you immediately sit up and stare him straight in the eyes.

“You listen here, Steve Rogers." You poke him in the chest as you speak. " I never want you to feel like you have to keep up appearances when you are around me. You may need to be strong for others but not for me. I am here for you, no matter what, and that especially includes the moments where you can no longer be strong. You better remember that, I will never judge you for the way you feel.” Taking in your intense stare, Steve feels warmth spreading through his body. Yes , he thinks, he is very glad that it's you. 

Smiling at you and nodding Steve grasps your arms and pulls you into his chest, savoring the feeling of your head resting over his heart. He can’t remember the last time he felt as content as he does in this moment. The world may feel like it's moments away from crashing down around him, but right now all he can think about is you. 

Tagged users: @writerwrites

[timeclonemike]

Axiom Verge 2: Here We Go Again

So Axiom Verge 2 came out not long ago, but I don’t have a Switch and I don’t trust the Epic Games Store. Rather than wait and possibly get spoiled, I bit the bullet and watched a Let’s Play.

Consequently I can now build on this post. Cutting for length and spoilers right about here.

The Filter: The biggest revelation that AV2 provides is a refinement of the multiverse theory, plus defining some terms from the original game. Trace’s note next to his wheelchair mentions going upstream to the Filter or beyond for answers. As it happens, “upstream” refers literally to the Worldstream, and different universes are connected to each other in a serial fashion. The terminology used to describe the connections is upstream and downstream, with upstream leading towards the Source Worlds that are the progenitors of all other universes. Likewise, the Filter refers to worlds in the worldstream that function as firewalls and safety mechanisms to keep disruptive influences from downstream worlds from traveling too far up, since disrupting one world can damage all of the worlds downstream from that world.

We even get to see the Worldstream or some analog to it when Indra (the protagonist of Axiom Verge 2) travels to the Filter world upstream of Kiengir (which is either upstream of or parallel to Earth) and the background of the rooms is a MASSIVE fractal pattern originating from / coalescing into a singularity off in the distance.

There are also some notes from Trace to Dr. Hammond, his research partner in the cutscene for the first game who took Trace’s revolutionary theory and turned into a way to make Faster Than Light communication and computing technology. Dr. Hammond also finds herself in a unique position to test one of the possibilities implicit in Trace’s theory, namely if the existence of an afterlife is somehow accounted for in the multiverse. One of the notes in the first game says that different instances of a person across the multiverse can survive events that their counterparts do not, but that the survivors have no idea that they even have a counterpart who died.

What happens in the second game is more about what happens to the ones that didn’t make it, because Dr. Hammond is communicating with Indra through the prototype superluminal communicators (called ansibles) scattered here and there, but Indra can also find Hammond’s body and a suicide note in some of Kiengir’s ruins. Dr. Hammond refers to where she is as a sort of “detention center” that she needs Indra’s help to escape from, and this help involves hacking the control computer in the Filter world. An earlier message at an ansible mentions data throttling, which seems to refer to the memory limitations of the ansible prototypes themselves; they can only send so much data over their operational lifetimes.

Except there’s Trace’s original paper and the axioms he starts with, where reality is described as algorithms running a universal / multiversal simulation, and cognition is a sub-algorithm within the parent algorithm. Put it all together and the game all but states that there is an afterlife, but it operates on the same rules as life - it’s an adjacent or related universe to our own and minds / spirits / souls / cognitive algorithms can migrate between those universes under certain conditions even if the material body they used to pilot is no longer functional. At least, that’s what normally happens, but for some reason the transmigration of souls was limited or stopped or throttled. It’s semi-implied but never explicitly stated that there’s a trans-universal system in place to keep the Worldstream stable, and the Lamassu computer network that controls Kiengir is part of that network, and the fact that realities are starting to glitch and break down further implies that this system is damaged or overwhelmed.

Trace’s Motivations: Trace never shows up in the game, and only gets mentioned here and there in a few notes. The game takes place in the 2050s and Trace’s lab accident was in 2005, with Dr. Hammond starting Hammond Corp and making money hand over fist in 2007 by selling the world zero-latency computing technology. Hammond’s suicide note explains that Trace was already exploring the Breach before she started her company, but she hasn’t heard from him in decades and the entire antarctic expedition was just so she could try to find him again. She mentions a few things in passing that come up in the first game, like a device called a Scry that can locate anything in the multiverse, and the term PatternMind which Trace was but Hammond was not.

By itself, this would seem to imply that we don’t know anymore about what Trace saw or experienced that turned him from a pacifist to somebody willing to commit genocide. But there’s another factor in play, one that has nothing to do with Trace at all at first glance.

At a certain point in the game, Indra gets stuck in her alternate drone form until she finds the right upgrade to become human (well, humanoid) again. She can still communicate with people, such as the survivors from Hammond Corp’s expedition and one of the Kazakh members of a Russian expedition that came through the portal and decided to settle a world upstream of Kiengir. However, coming back to revisit those areas and talk to those survivors later may result in them not being in the same spot anymore. Instead, there’s a sort of flying enemy that looks like a miniature version of the first boss of Axiom Verge. People who examined the game’s code found that there is actually an “infection” mechanic involved based on time elapsed since Indra comes in contact with the survivors.

That the survivors turn  into the types of monsters we see in Axiom Verge 1 is significant on its own, but it takes on more importance when we consider the endgame cutscenes. The Kazakhs have settled and colonized an upstream world, while a few of them are staying in an adjacent world where time passes differently; this is explicitly so that they can observe and track the changing of society over long spans of time and direct its evolution. After beating the final boss, Indra decides to team up with Drushka, the leader of the Kazakhs and a name mentioned in one of the notes found in Axiom Verge 1, in order to further her own goals.

Here’s the thing: What we see of the world that Drushka is standing watch in, called The Emergence, looks so similar to what we’ve seen of Sudra as to be almost identical. Given how time is explicitly stated to pass at different rates in different parts of the Breach compared to the worlds in the Worldstream, it isn’t out of the question that the Kazakhs were the ancestors of the Sudrans. The only problem with this theory is that long before anyone from earth showed up in Kiengir, the Lamassu had upstream technology brought in to allow the locals to defend themselves, as part of its broader directive to safeguard the Worldstream from disruption. Some of this technology included Rebirth Chambers - Indra even accesses the Filter through one - which was later destroyed to prevent too much cultural contamination. That technology had to come from somewhere, so either the Kazakhs inhabited a world adjacent to Sudra or downstream from it so there were similarities in art and culture and architecture, or the Rebirth Chambers and other advanced technology were themselves brought to Sudra from upstream worlds and simply shut down rather than completely destroyed after the Sudrans nearly wiped themselves out.

In either case, the important part is how Indra is subtly implied to be some sort of nanotech Typhoid Mary. She might be the actual source of the Pathogen that wipes out Sudra, not Athetos. In hindsight there is a hint to this effect in the first game because after Trace starts getting sick and hallucinating, there is a Rusalki called Ophelia that saves him. He doesn’t have any symptoms for the rest of the game, implying he is cured. If it was something unique to Trace that made him immune, he wouldn’t have gotten sick in the first place and neither would Athetos. Same with him getting better, if Trace could do it so could the original. So it had to be something unique to Ophelia that she couldn’t - or wouldn’t - do for anyone else.

And during Axiom Verge 2′s credits, we see a detailed close up look of Indra’s nanotech-enhanced body. The face and head look a LOT like Ophelia. Not conclusive by itself, but too similar to be completely shrugged off as coincidence.

And that has got me thinking.

I ended my first post pondering what Trace could have found in the Breach or while traveling the multiverse that caused a pacifist scientist to turn to genocide to achieve his ends. It’s possible that nothing could, because he didn’t. Maybe Athetos didn’t release the pathogen on Sudra, the Rusalki did; it’s shown in the notes that they resented the way that the Sudrans crippled them and reduced them basically to talking heads, but still had some influence over what was going on either through manipulating the priests or through exchange of data that the Sudrans were unaware of or incapable of understanding.

Athetos refers to the Rusalki as masters of war just before the final battle of Axiom Verge 1. He might have shown up at Sudra thousands of years prior to the events of the game as Trace, gotten healed, traveled up to the Filter to try to learn more, and then come back after the flow of time had changed to find a civilization on the verge of collapse from a virulent contagion that turned people into monsters. Trace may be a pacifist, but he will still use the Axiom Disrupter and all of its bells and whistles to protect himself in game. It’s entirely possible that the original realized that the Rusalki were trying to escape Sudra and would cause devastation throughout the Worldstream, and he applied his knowledge to create weapons and tools to turn himself into a one man army once he realized he couldn’t cure the pathogen. (Or maybe he did try to come up with a cure, and the Rusalki’s retaliation / interference was what made him realize what was actually going on.)

He doesn’t say any of this before his boss fight because he realizes that Trace and the Rusalki have the advantage now. Trace can keep coming back using the Rebirth Chambers, so Athetos has to come up with contingency plan. The secret ending shows Trace in a Dream Algorithm set up by one of the Rusalki, but Athetos shows up and shoots him, telling him it’s time to wake up. During his boss fight, Athetos shows the ability to manipulate the environment to a certain degree, spawning in new enemies and replacing power cells for the Breach Attractor when Trace destroys them. It’s not clear if this is a result of Sudran tech of being a PatternMind, but whatever the reason, it’s possible that Athetos was doing all of it to buy time.

Time for what?

To hack Trace’s Nanogates so that the Rusalki couldn’t control him anymore.

Trace keels over not long after the final battle, but Athetos showing up with a gun implies that Athetos was able to at least get a Trojan Horse into the nanogates that would wake Trace up when the remote overrides were disabled. Then Trace could wake up, find all his equipment again, and take the fight to the Rusalki before they could cause too much damage to the Worldstream, possibly including Earth.

The only truly glaring flaw in this theory is that it doesn’t account for why Indra would side with a bunch of genocidal robots, one way or another; she refers to the storage bay in Axiom Verge 1 as where “our bodies” are kept, and these are massive war machines, while her humanoid nanotech form is about human sized. The Lamassu refers to some fairly devastating war machines from upstream worlds and the Rusalki might just be those machines; she was heading to the world they were stored in because it might have the technology to restore one of her Apocalypse Arm upgrades - the child Damu that controls her drone body - to a flesh and blood body that can live a normal life.

There is a big gap between trying to help this kid she found and teaming up with sentient weapons platforms to devastate the multiverse. At least as big as the gap between Trace being a pacifist and Athetos committing genocide.

Like so many sequels, Axiom Verge 2 has raised even more questions than it answered.

[unbridgeabledistances]

kings of the southside: CHAPTER 2

The storefronts on the block were different now— fragile minimalist displays and organic coffee shops uprooting the aged wooden bar signs with peeling paint and bullet holes— but against all odds, and with everyone else moving on, he and Mickey had decided to stay.

(a canon divergent fic in which ian and mickey stay on the southside and take over the alibi)

read chapter 2 here on ao3, or below the cut! (see notes on ao3 for various credits)

--

The end of the first weekend of them running the Alibi came quickly, and with it came Mickey’s focus being pulled in a million goddamn directions; they still had to unpack all of their shit upstairs, still had to figure out inventory and restock the bar and balance the books. Between all of the swirling and circling tasks Mickey felt like his head was going to explode, a sharp shift after the smooth waters of doing fuck-all for the past few months before the weed security business took off and he’d been forced to snap back into business mode.

Ian had bounced back from that first Saturday night of running the bar, the slump relaxing and fading out of his shoulders, and he was chipper as ever all Sunday afternoon, constantly grabbing at Mickey’s waist and singing fucking songs in his ear as they brushed elbows while pouring beers beside each other at the bar. As always, Ian fucking sunshine Gallagher’s mood seemed to have some sort of trickle-down effect on Mickey on Sunday, despite Mickey’s best efforts to not be a love-crazed loon. So even though they had a million things to do for Ian’s 80s night bullshit and Mickey had every reason to be stressed, he found himself fucking whistling when he rinsed the dishes behind the bar on Sunday night, and Tommy started giving him shit— and Mickey realized that he didn’t think there was a time he’d remembered whistling, ever, in his goddamn life.

He couldn’t really help it; Ian was radiating this new, breezy energy that Mickey still hadn’t had the time to feel the past few months, with all the bullshit going on with Terry and his family next door that set his teeth on edge— but now Ian was melting into their new life, acting settled, acting like he didn’t have a goddamn care in the world and everything was all figured out. And Mickey started to realize, in the fuzzy back corners of his brain, that maybe, just maybe— he could start to feel that way about their new gig at the Alibi and their new place, too.

They didn’t have to run from anything anymore.

**

Mickey practically couldn’t believe his ears the other week when Ian had willingly accepted custody of the Alibi with a too-relaxed air of nonchalance, with a well, maybe Mick and I could take it off your hands, on one of their final days scarfing down sugary cereal in the late hours of the morning in the Gallagher house kitchen. There was no way Gallagher was being serious about this— Ian was always talking about going somewhere, about being something bigger than he was, so there was no way he was offering to Kev that they would take over his dump of a bar. Except he definitely was— and for a sharp and splintering instant Mickey was worried Ian was saying this for him; that once again, he was holding Ian Gallagher back.

But Mickey had felt Ian’s warm palm resting on his leg under the kitchen table— and he’d seen the warmth, that fucking warmth that always heated Mickey’s insides, as Ian turned to him with his eyebrows raised in a question, in a wordless proposition— and once again it struck Mickey like a goddamn lightning bolt just how much Ian Gallagher loved him, if he looked this blissed out about the prospect of living in a shitty Southside apartment and running an even shittier bar with Mickey Milkovich for the rest of his days.

Mickey knew part of Ian doing this was for him, after all the Westside bullshit that Mickey had resisted at every turn. Mickey knew he’d lost his shit when he made that yuppie poodle lady rip their lease to shreds, but could anyone blame him? The few hours they’d spent at the apartment complex made Mickey feel like he was going to crawl out of his fucking skin, like the glares of everyone he passed by in the too-clean, air-freshened hallways made him itch from the inside out. There was no fucking way he could stay in a place like that. But he was going to try, if Ian wanted.

But with a simple sentence, with a simple maybe Mick and I could take it off your hands spoken into the dusty kitchen of the Gallagher house, Mickey was saved. This Alibi plan pulled them both above water, gave them both a shore to rest on— and now they were finally, finally on the same fucking page, after figuratively (and literally) butting heads about the future for so long.

So now they were here, and they were doing it, and it was scary as fuck. Mickey had never lived in a place so quiet, a small space so devoid of the press of other people screeching and fighting and leaving trails of clutter, and he knew that Ian hadn’t either; both of their childhood homes were always crawling with various drunks or Russian prostitutes or batshit crazy relatives, and the silence of their too-small studio, in the morning hours before the bar was opened downstairs, was deafening.

Mickey could feel his jaw start to clench as he laid twisted in the sheets on Monday morning, when Ian had gone for a run and Mickey was left in the apartment alone for an hour and it was quiet, too quiet— but instantly the boisterous noise of the Southside streets had started to flow just outside the open window, a cacophony of honking horns and shouted slurs and gunshots, and the trickling in of the sounds tickled Mickey’s scalp, and reminded him that he was still rooted— he was still home.

And then Ian came clomping up the stairs like a sweaty monster after his run and tackled Mickey into the mattress, flopping onto him like a fucking Saint Bernard—and Mickey remembered why they did this, why this was good for both of them.

Against every single one of Mickey’s instincts, against everything he’d always known— he was going to let himself have this.

**

Ian’s brows were furrowed, a pressed series of creases narrowed in focus, as he stared at the paint swatches with a too-sharp glare.

“Mick, I really don’t see the fucking difference between Charcoal Gray and Burnt Ember.”

Mickey huffed, snatching the series of paint swatches out of his hand. “Nevermind then. You’ve got no eye for this shit, Gallagher. Charcoal Gray has cool undertones, Burnt Ember has a warmer vibe. We’ve definitely gotta go with Burnt Ember, the lighting in this place is shit and I wanna make sure the kitchen has a good ambiance.”

Ian’s lips curved into a smile of disbelief, rolling his eyes. Annoying motherfucker. “They both look like gray to me.”

Mickey flashed a grin in reply, then swatted Ian’s chest with the remaining paint swatches he was holding. “It’s a good thing you’re good at manual labor. If we wanna have this place painted by Wednesday, we’ve gotta get moving.”

“On it. Lip’s coming by with the paint for the main room and the wallpaper stuff, too.”

And just then, there was a gentle tap at the door. “Ey, it’s me and Liam.”

Ian bounded across the room to pull the paint-chipped door open. “Speak of the devil.”

Lip strode into their shithole apartment carrying cans of paint and a wrench clenched between his fingers, Liam trailing behind him.

“Damn. It’s only been two days and I already forgot what a dump this place is.”

Ian shoved Lip’s shoulder. “Fuck you. If you can renovate our shitty house, fixing this place up should be a piece of cake.”

Mickey noticed Liam scanning the room— in a fit of annoyance the other morning, with the bright fucking sun streaming in because they hadn’t gotten curtains yet with the bar pulling focus downstairs, Mickey had sliced a black trashbag and pinned it to the window as a makeshift curtain. Liam’s eyes lingered on the hanging trashbag, and he raised a judgmental eyebrow at Mickey.

“Love what you’ve done with the place.”

Ian chuckled. “Yeah, Mick’s a real interior designer.”

Liam just sighed. “You guys need all the help you can get.”

Mickey’s brows furrowed. “Fuck you both. That was a temporary solution.” He walked over to the kitchen to grab a bottle of beer, just so he had something to do.

Ian grinned again, then reached out to ruffle Liam’s hair. “How’s the new place, superstar?”

Liam shrugged nonchalantly. “I like it. I just hung up all of my posters. Added a bit of vibrancy to the color palette that Tami chose to paint my room.”

Ian smirked, and nodded a head towards Mickey, who was standing by the fridge and fumbling with his beer bottle. “You should talk to Mickey about color palettes—we’ve been arguing for the last half hour about what shade of gray to paint the kitchen. Something about cool and warm undertones?”

Liam turned to examine the kitchenette in the back of the studio, hand on his hips. “Definitely warm undertones in a small space like this, unless you get some updated light fixtures.

Ian grinned. “Damn. Guess I really do have two interior designers in my family.”

Liam smiled back, his eyes lighting up. “You need any other advice? Mickey, I’d love to hear what unified aesthetic you’re aiming for with the décor.”

The rest of the afternoon was filled with the rhythm of smooth paint rollers sliding against the wall, the old radio in the corner of the room (that had probably been there for decades) turned to a low hum— Liam and Lip helped them shuffle through their belongings in the trash bags, moving the mattress to the center of the room and not even bothering to cover the already-stained hardwood floors with a drop cloth before they coated the studio’s walls in thick layers of paint.

Mickey and Liam were tackling the kitchen, priming the walls in a comfortable silence. Frank’s death had hit Liam pretty hard, and Mickey could only imagine how fucked up it was, to have all the heaviness and all those complicated clumps of emotion that came with Terry dying inside you when you were only a kid— losing a shitty father was almost harder than losing a good one.

But Liam seemed enthusiastic about helping with the renovation efforts— he covered the walls dutifully in multiple coats of primer, ran to the corner store to pick up canned pints of “Burnt Ember,” and even offered Mickey advice on various wallpaper swatches for a feature wall in the studio (which Mickey actually appreciated, because he was still learning all this shit and fuck if he knew what a “feature wall” was or how to make it look good). Liam also gave his review of the various pieces of furniture Mickey had circled in an Ikea catalogue with a black Sharpie. Mickey was flipping through the catalogue, Liam methodically painting a final coat of paint in the kitchen beside him in a comfortable silence, when Mickey tuned in to Lip and Ian’s conversation from where they were painting in the main room.

“So, you guys are really doing this shit, huh? Running the Alibi?”

Ian paused, presumably taking a sip of his beer. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t we?”

“Don’t know, man. The neighborhood’s changing. My bet is the crowds’ll get thinner and thinner.” Lip paused, ripping a paper towel to wipe his hands. “You sure that you and Mick have thought this through?”

Mickey tried to hold back an audible scoff from the kitchen. There were a number of things he could’ve yelled from the other room— for starters, when in the last 12 months had fucking Phillip Gallagher thought anything through— but he decided to hold his tongue, listening for Ian’s reply.

“Jesus, Lip. Yes. We’re already living in the place, not gonna give it up now.”

A pause.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, asshole.”

Mickey could hear Lip twisting open the soda can he’d been drinking from.

“I don’t know, man. It’s my job to care about this shit, isn’t it? I thought Fiona taking over the laundromat was a bad idea, and she still did it anyways.”

Ian gave a soft chuckle. “Yeah.”

The soft tempo of the paint rollers on the wall continued.

“You sure this is what you wanna do with your life?”

Mickey felt that twist in his stomach again— the ice cold one, the feeling of fear that always sunk into his bones in moments like this, when he knew other people saw what he saw: that Ian Gallagher was far, far too good for him, and that all Mickey doing was ensnaring him in the dirty streets of the Southside and holding him back, when everyone else was moving on with their lives into gentrified apartment complexes.

But he’d heard the smile in Ian’s voice as he replied.

“Absolutely.”

**

Finally, after a long fucking day, Lip and Liam had left the creaky apartment— the place was looking pretty good, the kitchen and the main room both painted, and Lip had even been able to do a bit of work on the plumbing and fixed the leaky sputter of the upstairs bathroom faucet (he had also tried to convince Ian to install some sort of fucking backsplash thing in the kitchen, a multi-day project that they’d both resisted). Now, with Lip and Liam out the door, he and Ian were ready to crash. Mickey strode across the room and opened all the windows as wide as they could possibly go, trying to dispel all the paint fumes and let in gusts of humid summer air so they could collapse on the mattress. They probably could’ve crashed at one of the other Gallaghers’ places for the night if they felt suffocated by the fumes— but for now the light evening breeze was quickly drying the paint, circulating the almost-too-small room.

Across the room Ian flopped onto the mattress, a ridiculous streak of gray paint smeared across his forehead. Mickey smirked, and crawled into bed next to him, sitting so his legs were pressed against Ian’s upper torso.

“I can’t wait to get a fucking bedframe,” Ian breathed out—his face buried in the pillow, his eyelids drooping. “And a new mattress. Not this shitty one with stains all over it.”

“Oh yeah?” Mickey smirked, reaching a hand over to card through Ian’s hair.

“Mm.” Ian hummed happily in reply as he kept his eyes closed, probably starting to drift off to sleep.

While was probably a horrible idea— at the very least, Ian should change out of his paint-streaked clothes and wash his fucking face. There were flecks of paint all over his face and in his hair, mingling and dried in his copper curls, from when he and Mickey had gotten into a moderate paint-splattering war like a couple of teenage boys when they were trying to paint the living room walls later in the day. He prodded Ian in his side, who was now laying curled beside him with a dreamy fucking smile on his face.

“Hey. Mumbles. Get the fuck up. You’re gonna fall asleep with that toxic shit all over your face.”

Ian yawned, his nose crinkling. “Don’t care,” he said into the pillow.

“C’mon, Ian.”

And all at once Ian’s eyes were open, and he was crawling his way on top of Mickey, boxing him in with his arms on both sides of Mickey’s head. Mickey felt a gust of air whoosh out of his lungs in surprise—and in an instant he was reminded of when they used to live at the Milkovich house, in his shitty bedroom with far too many bad memories for Ian’s presence to completely tip the scale and outweigh them with the good ones, when Ian would be laying sleepy beside him and they’d get into little wrestling matches and tussles like this, with grips of hair and breathed out “C’mere, army!”s. There was the same energy buzzing between them in this moment—but god, they were so fucking different than they’d been then. They were fuller, more solid; Ian was measured in a way that still made Mickey’s toes curl when he looked at him and compared him to the scrawny and glassy-eyed teenager that he’d been, to the hollow frame he’d been on the worst days when Mickey placed a hand on a too-cold ribcage curled under thin blankets and run a hand through his hair and whispered “please,” trying to will the light back into Ian’s eyes.

But that light was there all the goddamn time now— and it was there right now as Ian dipped down and kissed at Mickey’s neck, Mickey breathing out as a no-longer-sleepy Ian made his way downward.

He guessed Ian could probably just shower all the dried paint out of his hair tomorrow morning.

**

Tuesday was a blur of getting ready for Ian’s idea to host fucking 80s night, and getting ready for Franny to stay— Mickey had thought the extent of Ian’s plan for this party thing was going to just be playing some tunes and charging a little extra for beers, but apparently Ian wanted to go all out. He’d had Debbie make some sort of poster with a colorful font and stapled them all over random bulletin boards and telephone poles on the Southside, and posted a bunch of shit on her Instagram (which had a weirdly large following because of her whole “hot handywoman” thing, which was still a complete fucking mystery to Mickey). Mickey wasn’t sure that Ian’s plan of throwing a party at their random Southside bar on a Friday night was going to fix all of their financial problems— but hey, if they needed cash then they needed cash. And while Mickey’s preferred way of procuring cash was heading down to the local corner store with a gun stowed at his waistband, for once in his life he was trying to do this shit right. So maybe his goody-two-shoes husband was making him soft (he definitely, definitely fucking was)— but when his jackass ginger giant of a husband looked at him with fucking puppy dog eyes and asked him to go along with this plan, instead of Mickey’s not-quite-joking suggestions that they just rob the bodega two doors over instead to fix all of the Alibi’s money problems, there really wasn’t much that Mickey could do about it.

He and Ian were wiping the bar, Mickey mentally running through the list of shit they had to order to prep for Friday’s crowd, when their phone screens both illuminated with text messages on the bartop.

Debbie (2:34 PM): everyone make sure to post the 80s night flyer on ur socials!!!!

Lip (2:34 PM): What the fuck are socials

Debbie (2:35 PM): 🙄

Debbie (2:35 PM): u aren’t an old man, phillip. instagram, twitter, even facebook for dinosaurs like u🦖

Liam (2:35 PM): 👍👍 Already posted.

Liam (2:36 PM): But I don’t know how useful advertising to a bunch of 11 year olds will be…

Carl (2:36 PM): me and a bunch of the boys r gonna roll through- get ready to rage motherfuckers!!!

Ian (2:37 PM): ❤️❤️

Ian (2:37 PM): Thanks for all your help Debs

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Sappy motherfucker.”

He decided to reply to the groupchat in the way that he knew best:

Mickey (2:37 PM): 🖕

Mickey remembered the first day that he’d been initiated into the Gallagher family group chat, nearly a week after returning from their “honeymoon” in the dingy motel that smelled like mildew and cigarette smoke— he and Ian had been back at the Gallagher house for about a week, sleeping in most long lazy mornings and getting up to… various activities. It was one of those lazy mornings in bed when Ian had gotten decidedly distracted from said activities by the series of notifications that were lighting up Mickey’s phone on the nightstand from the groupchat Gallagher Fam:

Debbie (11:34 AM): the jonas brothers are playing upstairs. everybody take cover

Lip (11:34 AM): Thank god I don’t live there anymore

Debbie (11:35 AM): also welcome to the group chat mickey xoxo

Liam (11:35 AM): Noise-cancelling headphones are on. An excellent investment

Carl (11:35 AM): i’m just seeking shelter & keeping it real in the basement 😎

Mickey had never been part of a fucking family group chat before—he’d barely been involved in any group chats, since the extent of his smartphone use before prison was nonexistent, and he’d relied on burner phones to do all of Terry’s shady bidding after he got out of jail up until the wedding. He’d used some of their wedding cash to get himself an iPhone—even though he barely fucking knew how to use it half the time, except for shitty multiplayer games he and Ian liked to mess around with— but he’d barely had an excuse to text anyone except Sandy about various wedding logistics, and obviously Ian.

But now he was crashing with Ian’s family, and he and Ian were fucking married, and he was a part of this shit for real— it was group chat official. Which strangely felt all the more real, even though Mickey already had a fucking ring on his finger. And he’d never tell a fucking soul, not even Ian, but it made something warm pool in his stomach— to have siblings to fucking banter with about who ate the last of the potato chips, or who could pick Franny up from school, or whining about whoever was making too much noise, in the same ways he and Mandy and his brother used to get on each other’s fucking nerves.

Ian smiled down at his phone at Mickey’s reply to Debbie’s nudge about the posters. “Excellent contribution. Thanks for showing Debs how grateful you are.”

Mickey brought his emoji to life and flipped Ian off. “You’re welcome.”

Ian bit at his thumbnail, looking down at his phone. “Debbie says she can get us a karaoke machine for Friday. That might be kind of fun, right?”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Whatever you think, man. It’s your idea.”

Ian started tapping away at his phone, and Mickey turned back to tidying the bar, the rows and columns of those fucking black binders from the Alibi’s storeroom still lingering in the murky corners of his mind. He didn’t want to blow too much money on this shit— he had no idea how much a karaoke machine costed, but it probably wasn’t cheap. Why the fuck couldn’t they just steal one? Mickey gritted his teeth. He could crunch numbers any day, could make enough bank to stay afloat— but something about this, about running a fully legit business, was making him start to feel like he was being pulled underwater.

Mickey stayed tense the rest of the day, feeling like a bundle of fucking nerves without really knowing why— there was just so much going on, between moving and painting and Ian’s nervous excitement at planning this event bullshit. They’d both stumbled through the slow day at the bar, and now were collapsed in bed for the evening; Mickey was scrolling through various furniture store websites, weighing their options, while Ian was curled next to him, talking about something in a low voice that Mickey wasn’t really paying attention to.

“Sorry, what?”

Ian breathed out and smirked. “Nevermind. You weren’t listening.”

Mickey scrubbed a hand down his face. “Sorry, man. Just distracted.”

“Why’re you distracted?”

“Just thinking about all this shit. Furniture shopping, unpacking, whatever.”

Ian smiled. “Yeah? We can probably just pick stuff out when we go in person, we don’t have to overthink it.”

Mickey blew out a breath. “Yeah. Guess so.” He stretched his arms over his head— when the fuck did his shoulders get so tight?

“You ready for bed?”

“Yeah. I’ll grab the light.”

Mickey stood to pull the string for the bare lightbulb hanging directly above them, then thudded onto his stomach on the mattress. Immediately he heard Ian rustling under the sheets, moving closer to him, and eventually lifting on his arms to hover over Mickey’s back.

“The fuck’re you doing?”

“Relax, Mick. Just take a deep breath. Lemme take care of you.”

Mickey blew a breath out of his mouth into the pillow. “Not in the mood right now, Ian. I’m fucking exhausted.”

“Not like that— just lemme make your shoulders hurt less, at least.”

Mickey could feel Ian’s hot breath on the back of his neck as Ian settled, sitting back on Mickey’s upper thighs and leaning over him. He ran his hands along Mickey’s upper shoulders, delicately rubbing his thumbs up and down near his spine and trying to work at the permanent knots there.

“R’you giving me a fucking massage?” Mickey mumbled the words into the pillow, letting his eyelids droop. It did feel pretty fucking good, if he was being honest—the tension was draining from where he’d been holding it in his shoulders all week long, absorbing the impact of all the changes swirling around them and trying to keep them both afloat.

“Mm.” Ian hummed in reply, working his hands down to Mickey’s lower back and digging his thumbs in right where there were bundles of dull pain. Mickey almost flinched—not because it hurt, really, but because Ian’s fingertips gliding across his skin felt so fucking good.

He remembered the first 17 years of his life, the years when he’d been touch-starved without even realizing it, when the only touches his nerve-endings knew were high-impact beat downs and fists connecting with his jawbone. Milkoviches didn’t fucking hug, aside from a casual slap on the shoulder or side-hug when one of them was released from juvie—and even after he and Ian got together it took fucking forever to know what being held, what being gently touched, felt like. Those first few times when Ian had dragged his fingers over Mickey’s hipbones when they were fucking made Mickey nearly shudder, his nerve endings sparking like goddamn fireworks; and he couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. It was like his body was going on alert, like there was an invader breaching and he was always used to bracing for impact; but despite himself, all Mickey wanted was more— all he wanted was to press his cheek to Gallagher’s fucking jawbone and just keep it there and breathe in the scent of him, absorbing the warmth of his skin.

He still wasn’t totally used to this shit, the luxury of a warm body next to his after those years in a narrow prison cot, and on the run— but as he drifted off to sleep, his shoulders now unclenched and Ian’s warm, sturdy limbs circled around him, he thanked god, if god even did fucking exist anyways, that living in the shitty apartment over the Alibi was where he ended up in his life right now, with Ian by his side.

**

The next evening, just as the sun was setting pink outside the windows and Mickey was finishing up organizing everything behind the bar, Debbie towed Franny into the main room of the Alibi, wearing some sort of pink frilly shirt and carrying a kid-sized backpack with her pajamas and toothbrush inside.

“Thanks for watching Franny tonight, you guys are the best!” Debbie had barely set foot in the door before she was out it again and letting it swing shut behind her. Seconds later, Mickey could hear the distinct roaring of a too-expensive car engine coming from the street outside the bar.

Ian peered out the front window to inspected Heidi’s ride. “Jesus. It’s some sort of Ferrari convertible.” He scooped up Franny’s backpack from the floor, slinging the comically small bag onto his broad shoulders as he crouched to give Franny a hug. “Hey Fran, it’s so good to see you!”

“I missed you, Uncle Ian!” Franny enthusiastically squeezed Ian back.

Ian pressed a peck to the top of her head. “Missed you too. We’ve gotta have a talk with your mommy when she gets back about child road safety. That Ferrari was noticeably lacking a car seat.”

“Uncle Mickey!!!” Franny nearly squealed as she spotted Mickey behind the bar, running up and trying to jump up onto a stool so she could reach him. Ian laughed and lifted Franny so she was perched on a stool, her legs dangling as she reached forward. Mickey reached out an arm to fist-bump Franny, the best he could do with the bartop between them.

“Hey there, Little Red. Missed ya.”

Franny immediately looked Mickey up and down, like she was assessing if he’d changed at all since she last saw him. Her brows furrowed—then finally she spoke.

“Uncle Mickey, I have a question.”

Mickey reached across the bar to ruffle her hair. “What’s up, kid?”

She paused. “Can I rip the sleeves off my shirt too, like you?”

Mickey chuckled in surprise. He was wearing one of his flannel tank-tops with the arms ripped off—a white trash summer look in every way. “Let’s see what we can do. I think Uncle Ian’s got some old shirts packed upstairs that we can mess around with.”

Luckily, the bar was totally empty for the evening, aside from their three or four regulars— so Ian and Franny got to go upstairs and play dress-up while Mickey dealt with shit at the bar for an hour or so, deciding they’d close early so they could pay attention to Franny.

“Hey, Mick! We’ve got a surprise for you.” Ian’s voice wafted down from the back stairway that led up to the apartment.

“What’s up?”

“One sec. Stay downstairs.” Mickey could hear two sets of pattering footsteps coming down the staircase—and Franny dashed into the room, wearing a very baggy white tank top that reached her knees and an oversized flannel with the sleeves ripped off, an exact replica of Mickey’s outfit.

“Look, Uncle Mickey! I have an outfit like you! Now we can play liquor store robbery.” She looked at him seriously—then her face contorted, her brows furrowed and her lip sticking out in a face that Ian had taken to calling the “Milkovich scowl,” a trait that Franny had adopted in her many hours of playing “robbers” in the backyard with Mickey with her fake guns he’d gotten her for her birthday.

“Gimme all of your money!”

Mickey chuckled, and threw his hands up in surrender. “You got me, Wonder Woman.”

Ian walked towards the bar, lifting Franny up so she was perched on the countertop. “You like Franny’s new look? She was pretty insistent about wearing the tank top too.”

But Franny was still peering over at Mickey, like something had caught her eye.

“Uncle Mickey, can I have drawings on my fingers too? Like you? All the real robbers on TV have those.”

This time it was Ian who was laughing. “Oh my god. Debbie’s gonna kill us. If Franny gets knuckle tattoos by the time she’s seventeen, I’m blaming you.”

Mickey rolled his eyes. “Ain’t nothing wrong with family tradition. Fuck you.”

Ian tapped his fingers on the counter. “Wait, I have an idea. Franny, wait here.” Ian rushed upstairs, and came back down holding the black Sharpie that had Mickey had been using to circle pictures in the Ikea catalogue.

“Here, hold out your hand Fran.”

Franny held out her hand for Ian to hold—and he started to draw blocky letters between each of her knuckles. When he finished, he held Franny’s hand up for Mickey to see the doodled serifs, smiling sheepishly.

“L T T L   R E D  ♡”

Mickey grinned. “Now you’re a real robber, Rockstar.” Franny looked at her hands and smiled contentedly, running her thumb over the letters.

“L. T. T. L. I know all these letters. They’re different from Uncle Mickey’s. Mommy said his say ‘fuck.’”

Ian snorted. “Yeah, you get your own special letters Franny. They say ‘little red.’”

Franny beamed. “That’s what Uncle Mickey calls me!”

“You got it, kiddo.”

The rest of the afternoon involved many rounds of playing “liquor store robbery,” and Ian lifting up Franny to “help” behind the bar by pulling the lever of the beer tap— and by the early evening, when even fucking Kermit and Tommy had gone, Ian had the idea to make a fort out of the leftover empty inventory boxes, and Franny had repeatedly busted through the tower of boxes and shouted “Put your hands in the air!” as she pretended to blow up fictional liquor store walls.

Now it was late and they were all upstairs—Franny had crashed after dinnertime, after bouncing on the bed with a sugar high from the Poptarts Mickey had snuck her after dinner (to supplement some bullshit pasta thing that Ian had forced Mickey to feed her, even though he never remembered wanting to eat that shit when he was five— he practically lived on Honey Buns and pork rinds from the nearby gas station).

They still didn’t have furniture, and at one point they’d perched on the mattress so Mickey could show Franny videos of monster trucks on his phone— and now Franny was totally passed out against Mickey’s chest, breathing those raspy, loud breaths kids make when they’re deeply asleep.  

Ian came in the room from the semi-divided wall of the kitchen, wiping his hands after finishing rinsing the dishes (two plates, and a bowl that Franny ate from because they’d only swiped two of everything from the Gallagher house last week); and Mickey saw Ian’s lips curve upward in a knowing smile as he noticed Franny curled in the bedsheets, half-leaning on Mickey’s chest. Franny and Mickey were smack in the middle of the mattress, taking up most of the room; but Ian crouched to sit on the edge of the mattress beside Mickey, hooking his chin on Mickey’s shoulder casually as he peered over at Franny, still wearing her oversized flannel and smudged knuckle tattoos.

“Guess our babysitting duties are over.” He breathed out, trying not to unsettle Franny’s steady breathing. “Hope we didn’t corrupt her too much.”

Mickey scoffed. “Debbie’s dating someone who’s more of a fuck-up than we’ll ever be. Don’t think the ball’s really in our court on that one.”

“Fair.”

Franny scrunched her nose in her sleep, sighing out heavily before nestling deeper into the bedsheets.

“I kinda missed her, man.”

Mickey was surprised by the words as he heard them coming out of his mouth— they were true, but he hadn’t even voiced them to himself until now. As shitty as he’d always been with kids, he had to admit that goofing around with Franny was pretty fucking fun.

Ian smiled from where his mouth was pressed against Mickey’s shoulder. “Yeah. Me too.”

There was a silence, the room filled with the soft sound of Franny’s steady breathing. And then:

“Maybe… we’ll have a kid of our own sometime.”

Immediately, Mickey felt his gut lurch. It wasn’t like they hadn’t talked about this shit—they definitely had, in the abstract moments before the wedding; before everything blew up in their face and the pandemic took hold and any thought of kids was pushed way, way to the sidelines. And it wasn’t like Mickey was avoiding the topic— but he wasn’t exactly bringing it up, either, and neither was Ian.

Mickey thought back to that moment before the wedding, back to the hushed “you want kids?” Ian had placed between them— and how in that moment Mickey had known how much Ian wanted kids, how much Ian constantly cared for other people, how his voice got all soft and mushy around the edges in the vicinity of a baby. He knew how much Ian wanted this— but even broaching the topic made Mickey’s muscles start to clench.

Mickey tried to keep his cool—even though he felt the tides starting to roll inside of him, threatening to pull him under.

“I’d be a shitty dad, man.”

Ian’s head pulled away from where it had been nestled against the crook of Mickey’s neck—and Mickey turned his head to meet Ian’s piercing gaze.

“No you wouldn’t.” Ian’s voice was soft, surprised.

Mickey swallowed. “What if I like. Beat it. Or—” he cut himself off, knowing his voice was starting to waver.

Ian’s voice was firm when he replied. “You won’t. You’re great with Franny.” Ian paused.” “You were great with Yev.”

And there it was—the other fucking elephant in the room, beside all of Mickey’s other daddy issues; the fact that Mickey already was a father, was forced to be a father against his own will, giving him some sort of complex that he didn’t even have the energy to dig into about the potential of scooping up some kid to raise with Ian…. when there was already one out there with his gene pool that he didn’t want, that he couldn’t want, whose existence was forced onto him at gunpoint and who he didn’t have the strength to take care of.

Mickey felt Ian’s hand, feather light, tracing down his side— pulling him out of the current of his internal monologue. Ian’s hand hooked around his hip; a touch to root him, giving Mickey solid ground to hold on to.

“Hey.”

“What.”

“You’re gonna be a great dad.”

Mickey swallowed down the lump in his throat—and with it he tried to swallow down whatever bullshit was holding him back from letting himself have this. He thought about Ian—despite all his own reservations, he knew Ian must be having the same type of feelings about all of this shit; Ian was the one who had stolen Yev, who had worked so hard to get himself to the person he was today—a stable place where he was allowed to dream about being a parent, allowed to dream about shit like this.

“I hate this.”

Mickey didn’t really know what he was referring to in particular as he said the words—he hated all of this, he hated the churning emotions inside him. He felt so fucking uncomfortable—but that was always the first thing he felt, wasn’t it, when there was something deeper inside? It was the first thing he’d felt when he started to fall for Ian, when he started to realize he much preferred scrawny redheads to the busty figures with long hair; the pushing and heaving of no no no from somewhere in his ribcage, because he knew how much letting himself have this was going to hurt, how much shit he was going to have to wade through.

But he’d fucking done it—and look where he was now: Ian curled against his back, their fucking niece sound asleep beside him.

“Hey.” Ian’s voice was soft, nearly tickling Mickey’s ears. “There’s no rush for any of this shit. I’m just talking about… big picture. Eventually. When we’ve got all our shit settled.”

There it was again—that word, the one Ian had been saying all the time lately, the one that had been radiating out of his pores. Settled.

Mickey clearing his throat, trying to dispel the huskiness he knew would be there when he spoke. “Yeah. Maybe someday.”

He looked down at his hands. He knew that saying that wasn’t enough— Ian had to know how much he meant it.

“I— I wanna give you that shit. Someday.”

Mickey knew that was still an inadequate expression of everything he was feeling, of how much he wished he could just race carefreely into making fucking forts and playing dress-up with a kid of their own; but he also knew that for tonight, Ian understood. He knew in the way Ian pressed a kiss to the corner of his jaw, and said into the silence of the room:

“You’re so fucking good at taking care of people, Mick.”

Mickey let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. They were going to do this—someday.

“You know… now that we’ve got our own place.” Ian’s voice trailed off.

Mickey raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

“Well— we could be good millennials and start with a dog. Y’know, as a practice run. Get your fucking Milkovich pit bulls or whatever.”

Mickey instantly felt whatever remaining tense energy that had been clinging to him dissipate. He felt a grin creep onto his face. “Hell yeah. I’m in.”

Ian pecked his shoulder. “Cool. We can check out shelters sometime next week.”

Mickey shook his head, still smiling in relief. “A pit bull, I can handle. We’re gonna treat her like a fucking princess. Who needs kids anyways?”

Ian smiled back. “The first step in starting our own Southside family.”

Mickey’s insides instantly got warm and gushy at the words— and again, it was that mix of no no no and you don’t deserve this alongside something deeper, something more solid. He tried to do what Ian always told him to do, in the moments that he felt like this: he forced a breath in, forced himself to expand his ribcage. He forced himself to think:

You deserve this.

**

The next day had been uneventful, other than Franny’s tearful goodbye— and now it was the early afternoon on Friday, far too early for any sort of rush. Once again only Tommy and fucking Kermit were seated at the bar, but today he and Ian were barely paying attention to them, despite Tommy’s halfhearted attempts to drag Mickey into some sort of bullshit banter (as much as Tommy said he preferred silence at the bar, everyone knew that was a lie. Why the fuck else would be have been coming here every day for the last eleven years?).

Today, Ian had dragged a chalkboard out from the clutter of the dingy back closet of the Alibi, a sandwich board meant to be placed on the curb to promote the bar that looked like it had hardly been used. Ian continued to shuffle through the various boxes in the back room, making a shit ton of noise, until he finally found whatever else he’d been looking for.

“Aha!”

He held up a bent cardboard box of multicolor sidewalk chalk— half empty, and half broken, but it would get the job done.

He strode over to the bar, laying the chalkboard on it— then turned to Mickey, folding his arms in front of him.

“Alright, bartender extraordinaire. What drinks should we make for 80s night?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, puffing out a breath. “I don’t fucking know. Most of the guys who come in on Fridays just drink beer. We don’t gotta overcomplicate shit.”

Ian pressed his lips together, contemplative and looking down at the blank canvas of the chalkboard. “I’m not saying we should force out the regulars, because that’s definitely not what we’re going for with the event— but it’d be nice to have a couple of new things, in case the new people in the neighborhood do some by. Nothing too fancy or frilly or whatever.”

Ian dug in the cardboard box, plucking out a piece of chalk.

“And we should make our own signature drinks anyways, since we’re taking over the place. Make our mark on the Alibi.” He grinned. “Got any fun drink name ideas?”

Mickey rolled his eyes again, and felt the corners of his lips turn upwards in an amused smile against his will, thawing. “I don’t fuckin’ know.”

Ian continued smiling. “How about… the Milkovich Mojito.”

Mickey puffed out a breath of air, shoving Ian in the chest and furrowing his brows. “No fucking way.”

Ian just waggled his eyebrows. “C’mon, we own the place. It’ll just be a mojito with a shit ton of rum, only enough for someone with Milkovich-level tolerance. People will think it’s funny.”

Mickey felt his eyebrows lift upwards a bit, and he could see from the expression on Ian’s face that he’d lost this one. “Fine.”

Ian smirked, penciling in “Milkovich Mojito” on the chalkboard and drawing a little design around it. Mickey forgot how good Ian was at this— at the little details like this, at making shit look nice.

Ian rose from where he was hunched over the chalkboard when his masterpiece was completed, hands on his hips. “Alright. What else?”

Mickey shrugged. “I don’t know. How about ‘just fucking beer’?”

Ian laughed, and a warm feeling pooled in Mickey’s stomach despite himself. “Yeah. We should spell that out on the menu, so people know that’s our standard.” He leaned to write “JUST FUCKING BEER” on the chalkboard, drawing a little cartoon beer stein with foam on the top next to it. Mickey reached out, smudging a bit of the chalk of the drawing to annoy Ian, just because he could.

Ian swatted his arm away. “Hey! No touching the masterpiece.” He drew over the part Mickey smudged as best he could, biting his lip in concentration. Fuckin’ dork.

Ian stood tall again, admiring the finished product. “There. One more?”

Mickey shrugged again, feeling utterly out of ideas. He could balance a budget, sure, but he was useless with all the creative shit like this.

Ian bit his lip again, thinking. “What’re even mixed drinks people like? Sex on the beach?”

Mickey smirked. “There ain’t a lot of beaches in Chicago, man.”

Ian rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I guess it’s more like ‘sex behind a dumpster.’ Or ‘sex on your twin bed at your family’s house.’”

Mickey grinned, catching Ian’s drift. “Sex in the dugouts.”

Ian laughed, then made a little gesture with his hands like inspiration had struck. “Mick, I think we have our final drink name.” He turned to write it on the chalkboard.

“What the fuck are we gonna put in it? Just a fuckin’ lukewarm beer?”

Ian smirked, looking off dreamily. “Ah, memories.”

Mickey prodded him in the sternum. “You’re a fucking sap.” He shoved Ian over. “Here, let me write this one.” He took the chalk from Ian’s hand. “No peeking.”

He scratched on the chalkboard for a moment, then stood back to reveal his work. “Ta-da.”

In scratchy handwriting, not unlike the “STAY THE FUCK OUT” sign that used to be taped to his door, read “SEX IN THE DUGOUTS”—and next to it was two drawings, of a cartoon dick and two stick figures fucking doggy-style.

Ian grinned wide. “It’s perfect. Definitely captures the vibe of the new owners.”

Mickey just smiled back.

**

It was 6 p.m. now, and the bar was just about ready—Ian had compulsively swept the floor during the lull in the afternoon, even though it would be dirtied and scuffed within seconds of the usual Friday blue-collar crowd streaming in through the doors, and Mickey was perched on a stool at the end of the bar, laboring over his playlist. He usually didn’t overthink this shit— he’d included all the classics, from Bon Jovi to Queen to fucking Cyndi Lauper, but there was something so public about he and Ian running this thing now, and about throwing a loud event to proclaim it, that make Mickey’s stomach start to do somersaults for some reason as the first huddled crowd of Southsiders shuffled their way in through the door.

The bar did look good— Ian had got some sort of lighting gels to put over the lamps in the Alibi, and the room’s lighting was tinted a suave blue color, making the small space feel a little hipper, a little cooler, while still retaining its comforting dingy feel. It almost reminded Mickey of the soft, colorful lighting in that random Westside bar they’d gotten engaged in, with the shitty overpriced beer and the sparkly fucking lights when they’d watched that god-awful harp band with Barry or whatever the fuck his name was— but the lighting here looked cooler, more deliberate, and cast a calculated glow across the room that added to the vibe. The bass was thrumming low through the speakers Ian had rented from somewhere— right now it was just playing some mellow Joy Division song as people continued streaming into the bar.

Ian had crept upstairs at some point, probably to change out of whatever sweaty t-shirt he’d been wearing all day; and Mickey saw a flash of red hair emerging from the stairway now, turning the corner to stride into the dark room.

“Hey! Oh my god, it’s great to see you guys!”

Immediately Ian was swept away by some group of people in their mid-twenties near the swinging door that led to the back of the bar, who were chattering away about how they’d seen the poster on Debbie’s Instagram or some shit. Mickey assumed they were some people Ian had known when he’d been locked up, one of the unfamiliar faces from their wedding that got involved with Ian’s “Gay Jesus” bullshit—and as much as Mickey knew Ian’s relationship with those figures from a very different time in his life was complicated to say the least, it was nice to see Ian leaning comfortably against the bar, chatting away with someone that wasn’t him or Lip— chatting with friends. Looking settled.

Mickey smirked, knowing his gaze was lingering for too long when Ian locked eyes with him from across the bar, tilting his head towards the stairway. Giving Mickey a chance to go upstairs, to freshen up, to take a deep breath if he wanted to.

Fuck it. Mickey strode across the bar, heading upstairs to the quiet sanctuary of the studio and its fresh-painted walls. He shuffled through the various shirts and baggy jeans that were now in their designated-clothes-pile in the corner of the room, at least until they got a dresser and hangers and all that shit. He decided to peel off his sweaty tank top and change into a blue Hawaiian-print shirt, the one he’d swiped from the laundry room at the yuppie fucking Westside apartment complex before he’d burned that bridge, to amp himself up and fit the vibe downstairs. The shirt was only a little bit creased from being shoved in a pile in the corner of the room, which felt like a bonus— and Mickey smoothed a hand through his hair and fixed the collar of the shirt as he caught his own eye in the cracked bathroom mirror. There weren’t lots of times Mickey really gave a shit about what he wore—he and Ian pretty much lived in tank tops and boxers at home, and tank tops and denim at the bar especially on hot fucking days like these ones— but he had to admit that it did feel pretty nice to put on a shirt with a collar, a shirt with bright colors and patterns on it that, fuck it, he knew made his eyes pop—just because he wanted to have fun, just because he could.

He ruffled his hair one last time, then clomped back down the back staircase towards the light chatter swirling in the room below. Immediately he noticed the line at the bar starting to grow, and walked with intention over to behind the bar to start taking orders from a mixed sea of regulars and younger, new faces.

“Looking pretty festive there, Mick.”

Mickey held up a middle finger to where Tommy was seated on his usual stool. “Fuck you. I look hot and you know it.”

“You definitely do.” Ian slid behind him, speaking low into Mickey’s ear and his hands gliding to bracket Mickey’s waist for a moment as he shuffled by to pass a beer to a customer, then walked to the end of the bar and start to take more orders without a glance back. Mickey felt his neck flush red, just for a second— Ian was always just saying shit like that, about how good Mickey was, whenever he looked nice. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to it.

After a few hours the party was fully humming, and both he and Ian could barely glance up from the bar because of how many people were streaming through and placing their orders. Courtesy of Debbie, a karaoke machine was up and running in the corner of the room, the speakers blasting a series of poppy instrumentals across the small space—and as much as Mickey hated to admit it, he had to say that this event bullshit was actually a pretty fucking good idea. There were a handful of new faces in the crowd, a bunch of fucking millennials with man-buns and Ray-Bans and brimmed hats; but most of the crowd was the typical neighborhood crew, blue-collar workers with beer guts who were dropping slightly more money than their usual tab on an extra beer, and walking sloshed to the corner of the room to serenade their buddies with “Livin’ on a Prayer” (which made Ian stare across the bar at Mickey with a knowing smile between pouring drink orders).

At some point in the evening Debbie rolled in with a group of people from some gay bar she’d been pregaming her evening at, and Carl came by with some of his cop buddies; and all in all, the place had all the makings of a good fucking party. Which meant they were making good cash—beyond the wads of bills left on the bartop as tips, all the millennial jokers filtering through the space were surprisingly biting on the overpriced cocktails Ian had concocted, and they were racking up a good profit as the night went on.

Maybe they could fucking run this place after all.

Right now, a very sloshed Debbie was singing on the karaoke machine in the corner, belting out the final verse of “I Will Always Love You” and practically eye-fucking her new Grand Theft Auto girlfriend— an image that Mickey was trying not to pay attention to at all costs as he scanned the room, trying to mentally calculate just how well they’d done for the night. There’d been a good crowd streaming in for hours— and now the numbers were finally dwindling, and at last he and Ian could finally slow their pace for a bit, instead of being pulled in a million goddamn directions to wipe up beer spills or clear tables or refill the ice cubes in the freezer.

“Heeeyyyyy everyone! Listen up!” Debbie’s muffled voice took over the fade of the final chords of the song, her mouth a little too close to the microphone and making it screech as she spoke out to the crowd in the bar. “I just wanna say a shoutout to Ian and Mickey for taking over the Alibi! And for being the heroes that kept this place alive!” She teetered slightly. “Southside forever!”

Mickey scowled, and locked eyes with an amused Ian across the bar. “Control your fucking sister, man.”

Ian shrugged. “Eh. She’s the one that helped plan half this shit. Let Debs have some fun.”

Debbie pointed a finger over to where Ian and Mickey were standing behind the bar. “Everyone give them a round of applause! C’mon, they deserve it! C’mon!”

There were a couple of chuckles from the crowd, at Debbie’s deeply inebriated state as she tried to put the microphone back in its stand and drag herself away from the small TV showing song lyrics— but then, one by one, people at the bar started to clap— regulars, random newcomers, and even Tommy gave a little whoop as the cheers grew louder and louder and started to erupt.

Mickey just rolled his eyes, but Ian straightened his spine and smiled as he addressed the crowd. “Couldn’t have done it without all of you guys!” He wiped his hands with a towel, and went back to wiping down the bar as the applause settled.

Just then, Debbie turned and fumbled to grab the microphone once more. “Wait! Ian, Mickey! Come up here and sing a song.”

If Mickey thought he was scowling the first time Debbie had stumbled her way into the mic, now he was on a whole different level. He flashed a glance to Ian, and saw the sappy grin starting to grow on his face, like it always did when Ian had some dumbass idea. Jesus Christ.

Mickey needed to pump the brakes on this one fast. “No fucking way, Gallagher.”

Ian stepped closer to Mickey, reaching a placating hand onto his elbow. “C’mon, Mick. It’ll be fun.” Ian raised his eyebrows— and his stupid fucking eyes were shining again, doing that fucking thing where Mickey could feel in his bones that Ian was so ridiculously happy that they got to do sappy, mundane shit like this together…

Mickey blew out a breath. “I gotta do a shot or some shit before we do this.”

Ian’s grin grew ten sizes as he dropped the towel hanging from his shoulder onto the bar and swiftly turned to pour Mickey a shot of Jameson. Mickey’s frown deepened as he lifted his head back to pour the liquid fire down the back of his throat, bracing himself for battle; of course his stupid fucking American-Idol-wannabe husband couldn’t resist a call to do goddamn karaoke. Mickey blamed himself—he should’ve known Ian anywhere in the 1-mile radius of a karaoke machine would inevitably be a recipe for disaster.

Ian strode past the length of the bar and toward the corner of the Alibi where the illuminated screen of the karaoke machine was sitting there waiting— Mickey trudged behind him, shooting a glance at where Tommy and Kermit were seated on their regular stools.

“You two are in charge of the bar for 2 fucking minutes. Don’t fuck this up.” Kermit raised his hands in surrender, and Tommy just raised an eyebrow.

Ian was already punching at the little arrows on the machine. “What song d’you wanna do?”

“I could give less than a fuck, man. This is your fucking idea.”

Ian just flashed him a grin as he scrolled through the preselected song options. “Here, let’s do this one.”

He handed Mickey a microphone, and reached over to grab the second mic from Debbie’s hand (who was now successfully being corralled back to a booth by Heidi).

Instantly, the techno intro rhythms to the song began—and Ian started bobbing his head, causing the onlookers at the bar to laugh and one person to whistle. Mickey just shoved his upper arm.

“I fucking hate you so much.”

Ian just raised his eyebrows, and in a very off-key voice, started to sing:

“You were working as a waitress in a cocktail bar

When I met you

I picked you out, I shook up and turned you around

Turned you into someone new”

Mickey felt his heart thudding in his chest—and fuck that. He owned the fucking bar, he could fucking sing with his goddamn husband if he wanted to. Fuck whatever everyone else was thinking.

So when the first verse ended, and quickly streamed into the second, Mickey clutched the microphone and half-spoke, half-sang the illuminated words on the screen:

“Now five years later on you’ve got the world at your feet

Success has been so easy for you

But don’t forget it’s me who put you where you are now

And I can put you back down too”

Ian’s grin was splitting across his face— and once again Mickey had to reach out and prod him in the chest.

“Stop looking so fucking sappy!”

Ian just held the microphone in both of his hands, and playfully started to sing the chorus:

“Don't

Don't you want me?

You know I can't believe it

When I hear that you won't see me”

He looked over at Mickey, raising his eyebrows. “C’mon, Mick!”

Fuck it.

Mickey swallowed down whatever lingering… feelings were happening about all of this shit, and let the people watching them melt away, fading into the hazy blue lighting— because fuck all those assholes, anyways. He and Ian had been through way too much shit in the main room of the Alibi for Mickey to be afraid of doing fucking karaoke right now; he’d literally come out to his dad in these four walls. He’d had his face bashed in the moment he decided right here, rooted in this same spot on the scuffed hardwood floors, that he would do fucking anything to always be by Ian Gallagher’s side. So he squeezed his eyes shut, just for a second— and pretended it was just him and Ian, singing fucking Lady Gaga in their bathroom as they brushed their teeth (which, yes, they had been prone to do since Chromatica came out, fucking sue him)— and let himself actually sing, deep from his gut in the same goofy, lighthearted way that Ian was doing along with him:

“Don’t you want me baby?

Don’t you want me? Oh!

Don’t you want me baby?

Don’t you want me? Oh!”

Ian’s face was slightly flushed, still grinning from ear to ear, his eyes shining as he bobbed his head along with the music— and as they both finished singing the chorus, everyone in the bar started to lose their shit. Everyone was clapping and whistling; even some of the old regulars Mickey had pegged as homophobes a long time ago were cracking smiles through their scraggly beards and clapping their hands together.

When the song finally ended, Ian took a dramatic bow— then he took Mickey’s hand, clasping it and raising it over their heads. The applause and cheers erupted from the crowd, and someone yelled out:

“Let’s hear it for the new owners!”

After that, for the rest of the night Mickey loosened the fuck up— and maybe it was the couple of shots in his system, or maybe it was the fact that there weren’t that many people in the bar now at all except for a thin crowd of familiar faces— but he was feeling happy and warm as he milled through the crowd picking up empty glasses. At some point Debbie switched up the playlist to more dance-y stuff, causing her and Heidi to start spinning in the middle of the room, and a couple others to push the bar tables to the side and follow suit.

And now, people were dancing—and some random middle-aged neighborhood lady grabbed Mickey by the wrist, a smile on her face, to come dance with them—and usually Mickey would scowl and say “Fuck no” to dancing with some random fucking stranger in a situation like this, but he was feeling the blood rushing through his veins, feeling fucking settled—so for just this once, he decided to dance like a fucking goof in his Hawaiian shirt with the random lady for a while, til he locked eyes with where Ian was standing across the bar.

And maybe they were supposed to be paying attention, because they were still the ones running the fucking bar— but all Mickey wanted to do in that moment was walk across the room and press himself closer, closer, and reach his hand up to the side of Ian’s neck, and drag him to lean down to just the right height to press their lips together, to feel the warmth between them.

So that’s what he did, in the midst of the whirring of their neighbors and strangers in the Alibi around them.

We don’t have to run anymore.

[jumpingjaxx13]

First Lines

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

No one tagged me, but I saw it and thought it would be fun! I’ll tag @boostthatgold and @immaplatypus if you want to participate! No pressure obvs!

Also, as a disclaimer, I realized that many of my first lines are rather abrupt, simple sentences, so I put in the first few lines for some. I’ll be putting a “Keep Reading” a little bit of the way down!

Finally, if you decide you want to read one of these fics, be sure to read the tags!! Many of these contain angst and/or dark themes, but not all. Please heed the tags so you can make sure it’s right for you!

1. Purpose, Kurogiri & Tomura Shigaraki

“Do you trust me?” It was a heavy question to expect a young child to answer, but there was no way to avoid asking it.

2. Tuesday Morning Flowers, Ougai Mori/Yukichi Fukuzawa

As of late, Tuesdays had become Ougai Mori's favorite day of the week. There was nothing particularly special about it-- in fact, it was an arbitrary selection that didn't harbor much significance-- but he had given it meaning of his own volition.

3. Understanding Love, Ryuunosuke Akutagawa/Atsushi Nakajima

Ryuunoske Akutagawa understood hatred.

It was something he had been saturated with as far back as he could remember. Whether he was struggling on the streets or thriving in the Port Mafia, he was more than familiar with being the object of fear and hatred. Even more so, he was accustomed to dishing it out.

4. Unstoppable Force, Ranpo Edogawa/Edgar Allan Poe

They found him on the sidewalk.

Over the course of his life, Ranpo had seen more corpses than the average person would ever wish to. They rarely perturbed him; they were little more than another element to any given case he was working on. Gruesome scenes didn’t leave him fazed in the slightest. He’d seen where a knife had sliced through someone’s throat, bullets pierced their chest, or their body had been mutilated to the point of entrails seeing the light of day.

Never before had he seen a body look this peaceful .

5. In the Language of Flowers Ch 2, Teru Hanazawa/Shigeo Kageyama

Kageyama Shigeo liked Takane Tsubomi.

Teru knew that well enough. Hell, anyone who had spent a decent amount of time around Shigeo would know that. It wasn’t something he necessarily tried to hide.

6. In the Language of Flowers Ch 1, Yuusuke Sakurai/Megumu Koyama

Love; what a concept. It was easily the strongest force in the universe while simultaneously being the most volatile. Love could be a saving grace and everything someone needed; Love could be the most destructive weapon known to mankind when wielded as such.

7. Lovely, Hatchi Kita/Robby Yarge

Betrothal. 

Hatchi had only been home for a short while before the topic was brought up again. It wasn’t new in the slightest-- he had always known that he would be paired off with some wealthy gentlewoman and that he was going to have to at least pretend to like it-- but he hadn’t expected it to happen so soon.  

8. Flawless, Katsuki Bakugou & Tsunagu Hakamata

“Ouch! Watch what you’re doing with that thing!”

“If you weren’t squirming around so much, you wouldn’t get poked as often.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

9. Where It Doesn’t Hurt, Tsunagu Hakamata/Keigo Takami

Heroism and death walked hand in hand. Any hero who insisted otherwise was either new, naive, or completely in denial. Hero society itself was born from the need to protect people against a new form of death and destruction that had razed the world upon the introduction of quirks, and it was impossible to separate the two.

10. Casual, Shouto Todoroki/Tenya Iida

Shouto was familiar with affection in theory . He knew what it was supposed to be like. When he was young, he experienced brief moments of loving kindness from his mother wherein she would kiss his forehead and run her fingers through his hair (the right side; he didn’t notice it at that age, but she always favored his right side).

11. Playing the Villain, Shuichi Iguchi & Tenko Shimura/Tomura Shigaraki

You can play with us, but you have to be the villain!

That was what the other kids said every time Shuichi approached them, costume cape tied around his neck and eager to join in with the other little ‘heroes.’ Even at only five years of age, he was more than familiar with that kind of discrimination-- that kind of unfairness -- but it never stopped him from going back to try again.

12. Running Out of Time, Hari Kurono/Kai Chisaki

Hari’s relationship with time was a unique one; that much, he could recognize without any issue.

13. Remembering Shirakumo, Kurogiri-centric, background Kurogiri/Atsuhiro Sako, background Shouta Aizawa/Hizashi Yamada

Being caught hadn’t been part of the plan.

14. Becoming Kurogiri, Kurogiri-centric, Kurogiri/Atsuhiro Sako, Kurogiri & Tomura Shigaraki 

Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones: a deep, throbbing ache within him making his limbs heavy and distress swell up and spread to every extremity. The epicenter of his pain was positioned right above his eye, every awful feeling radiating out from that focused point. His head spun, rushing through empty thoughts faster than he could process their meaninglessness. The pain meant something; the weight meant something; this terrible, hurried static in his head meant something, but he could not place his finger on it. He was equal parts incoherent and consumed by his blank, dark surroundings and, had he possessed the bodily control to do so, he may have succumbed to nausea.

Move. Get away. You can’t stay here. You’re not safe. They’re not safe. You need to protect them. It’s too late.

15. Keepsakes Ch 3, Yogar Lyste/Kassius Konstantine

Minister Maketh Tua had died.

The news was laid upon him without ceremony or compassion, so he hardly had the bearings to comprehend it before the topic switched over. He could hardly ask for the information to be repeated-- no, he wouldn’t have a leg to stand on, seeing as he shouldn’t have been eavesdropping on a report between an ISB agent and a superior officer. Nevertheless, even if he weren’t intruding in such an unprofessional manner, his voice was nowhere to be found. Blood rushed from his cheeks, forgetting his limbs and turning him into an ashen grey statue as daunting, echoing thoughts boomed in his head.

16. A Quiet Night, Kurogiri/Atsuhiro Sako

Kurogiri hadn’t known quiet in over a decade. Ever since taking young Tomura Shigaraki under his wing, peace had become a foreign concept to the warp villain. If his hair could show from behind his smoke, each grey hair would tell the story of another late night where sleep just wasn’t an option; another close call that had him stitching up open wounds; another task placed on Shigaraki’s shoulders that he was still far too inexperienced to execute properly of which he often took the brunt of the consequences.

17. Same, Daniel/David or Daniel & David

“ This is for your own good. You’ll understand later.”

18. The Dark Knights, Bruce Wayne/Jeremiah Valeska

Killing Jerome Valeska the second time around felt too easy. The man had clawed and ripped his way out of hell, gasping through waves of shed blood to feed his madness, his entire being a reflection of everything perverse and rotten in the human soul. To be felled by a proverbial “fall from grace” was insulting.

19. Different, Jerome Valeska & Jeremiah Valeska, Jerome Valeska & Paul Cicero

Jeremiah was nothing like Jerome.

Even before they could speak, the boys couldn’t have been more different. Jeremiah would take the cheap, plastic blocks and pile them; Jerome would wait for the perfect moment to strike and knock them down. He would laugh; Jeremiah would not.

20. How to Lie to Yourself, Janus “Deceit” Sanders

Start with something simple.

Look in the mirror and hold your own gaze. Don’t break eye contact-- that’s a sign of weakness, even to yourself.

So, it looks like I definitely do have a pattern when it comes to opening lines. Out of these, I have to say that my favorite is either Unstoppable Force’s or Flawless’s line(s). 

[miss-tc-nova]

A Way Into the Future - Luxu

Alright, we’ve got the green light kiddos! So, without further ado, here’s my piece for the Shattered Fates - Foretller Zine. Enjoy!

Music Inspiration: I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead - Set It Off

~~~~~

              Footsteps echo off the stone walls of the underpass beneath the Outer Gardens. One set—much faster than the other—struggles, moving unsteadily and with a lot of panic. It’s no wonder considering the owner of said steps took quite a beating. He put up a decent fight, but poor Braig had no hope of prevailing against his tormentor: a legend, a man of time, a Master—Luxu.

              Ruthless yellow lights barely have the power to illuminate the tunnels, but the young man doesn’t need to see to know the man hunting him is not far behind.

              As the black coat stalks persistently closer, his prey stumbles down the path, unaware that he’s being driven straight into a trap—doing everything that the stalker had intended to a T. Luxu has spent many years refining a variety of skills, both combative and strategic; coercing his victims into his snare is child’s play. Decades of thought have gone into formulating the criteria for his perfect vessel and, unfortunately for the young man, he matches every point perfectly. 

              Unbeknownst to the Radiant Garden native, Luxu had scouted his playground days prior to this encounter and had collapsed the only escape that gave his victim any prospect. His hope is effectively crushed at the sight of the clogged tunnel. 

              Eyes wide with pure terror, he turns back to Luxu. The sharpshooter has a quick draw, even in fear, but it proves just as useless as it had before. Barely any thought is spent on the barrier that prevents the bullets from reaching their mark.

              “I already told you resisting me was useless,” Luxu drawls. “All this fear and pain could’ve been avoided if you had just done as I asked. But I guess it’s only fair to assume any self-respecting warrior worth his salt would struggle.”

              Backed against the debris, the kid quivers. To his merit, he maintains his aim, despite how utterly doomed he is. 

              “What do you want with me?!”

              Luxu pauses his approach. “Hmm, let’s see—that brand new job you just took at the castle is a good start.”

              “A job? You want my job? I-I can talk to my boss! Just let me talk to Ansem!”

              “I hate to tell you, kid, but I need more than your job. I need your entire existence. Or more specifically, I need your body.” The boy’s petrified face goes pale. “My scapegoat has finally arrived; things are about to get very interesting and your life perfectly fits all my needs. Now, I’d appreciate it if you’d stop struggling; I’d like to avoid injuring that body any more than necessary.” 

              As he closes the gap and the boy cowers beneath him, Luxu recalls how he came to be here, stealing the bodies of young men. 

~~~~~

              “Master, what is this?” the young man asks, looking over the paper and not entirely sure he’s read it correctly. 

              As he has many times before, Luxu stands in the Master’s study. The room is filled with books, vials, and plenty of objects of which Luxu couldn’t even guess the purpose of. The only thing he can be sure of is that none of it is as it seems, and that broad statement brings with it its own sense of security. It has always been filled with wonders and the Master seems to introduce him to a new one each time he visits. This time is no exception. 

              The eccentric man folds his arms. “What do you think it is?”

              His voice catches in his mouth. He’s read it over once, twice, but surely, he must be mistaken. “This sounds like a method for taking over someone’s body.”

              “Bingo! You are correct, sir!” the Master praises, waving his hands animatedly. 

              “WHAT?!” In his exclamation, young Luxu throws the paper in the air. 

              His master snatches the fluttering paper. “Don’t lose it! I only have one copy of that!”

              “Okay, one, why don’t you make another copy? And two, why do you know how to possess someone’s body?!”

              “Oh, I don’t know how; this is all just theory. I wrote it this morning.”

              His master never fails to perplex him. “And you think I need it why?”

              “Because you’re only human,” the Master of Masters replies. “That body of yours will become old and decrepit and weaken over time but your job will be far from done. So, you need some way to continue living and persist into the future.”

              The Master may be a strange man, but it’s no secret that he enjoys pulling emotions from his pupils—his favorite being shock. Luxu has made a point to accept his master’s eccentricity and all it entails, having come to see the unpredictability as predictable. It’s been a long time since the Master has been able to truly flabbergast the young man. 

              Luxu’s arms wave in disbelief. “And you think body snatching is the way to do that?!”

              Matching the animated gestures, the Master retorts, “Well do you have any other bright ideas?!”

              Luxu glances away. “Couldn’t you figure out immortality or something else?”

              The Master holds his arms up in an X. “Absolutely not. Immortality is far more complicated and we just don’t have time for that. So, this is your only hope of completing your task.” Again, the paper is pushed into Luxu’s hands. As the student stares at the page, the Master’s tone turns serious. “Remember, while the others have very important roles, everything hinges on the success of yours. If you don’t see this through, the Book of Prophecies won’t be written and things will fall in ruins.” His tone drops even more, almost as if he’s threatening his pupil. “And all those people you care about will die for nothing.” 

              Those words strike the young man. Aced, Ira, Invi, Gula, and Ava—they’re family. Even if they sometimes bicker and disagree, Luxu grew up with them. He already disliked the idea of them fighting, possibly to their destruction, but they’re all fighting for the light’s survival. If he doesn’t do his job, they’ll lose their guidance and their struggles will be meaningless—his family will die in vain. 

              But taking someone else’s body and losing his own: it’s unthinkably horrifying. He’d never considered that his body could be disposable; that something so undeniably “Luxu” could just be swapped out as easily as his coat. These thoughts become too much to deal with in this moment, so he decides not to. Still, he can’t simply throw away a key aspect of his master’s orders, so the paper is carefully folded and tucked into his jacket to address later. 

              “Thank you for your guidance, Master,” Luxu murmurs. 

              Back to his light-hearted self, the Master of Masters slings an arm around Luxu’s shoulders. “That’s more like it. Now, let me show you why you’re going to need that paper.”

~~~~~

              Spasms wrack every gasp he takes. They come not from his chase of the now-unconscious man at his feet, but from the seriousness of what he must do next. 

              Staring down at his very first victim, he feels a heavy guilt in his chest. Based on what’s written, he can only assume the original heart will be ejected and either become a Heartless or ascend to Kingdom Hearts. This man had no say in the matter; he was hunted down like a dog and endured only terror and pain in his final moments. He’s still young and could’ve had a full life ahead of him filled with happiness and adventure. He had potential but Luxu deemed him a lamb for slaughter. 

              Luxu shakes his head; he can’t have these sorts of distractions dragging him down. 

              The old parchment slips from his pocket, a perfect cross forever creased into its aged surface. Instructions written in black still read perfectly clear despite time’s efforts. He’s read and reread the page thousands of times, each time going through the shock of what exactly is being asked of him: ice shoots through his veins while his skin scorches, a suffocating grasp squeezes at his throat, and a violent churn nearly upheaves his stomach. The possibility of failure reels in his mind, threatening to evolve into a full-blown panic attack. He spent his whole life as himself—as Luxu—but now, for the sake of light itself, he must discard that. Just thinking about looking in a mirror and not recognizing the face looking back reminds him of his nightmares. Supposedly, his heart will retain his memories, but he still worries over exactly how much of himself he’ll get to keep; after all, sacrifices for such sins must be made. 

              The tremors in his chest have spread, shaking the page in his gasp. A deep breath does nothing to soothe his fears but allows him to regain focus. He reminds himself that this is for the existence of everything—for the people he loves. It doesn’t matter if he’s scared, it doesn’t matter if he loses himself, it doesn’t matter if the people who matter don’t recognize him, he has no choice.  

              Sighing, he lets the paper float to the ground, letting his eyes linger on the victim at his feet. He can’t let himself dwell on anything lest his mind trail back to his fear. He gets started.

              Clearing his head, he rests both hands against his chest. The suggested mental imagery serves him well while his heart begins to compress. He remembers the most important parts of himself—the things about himself he values—and imagines placing them in a box. His personality, skills, and knowledge are added inside. Memories follow suit; all the good, the bad, and the in-between are stowed away as important, for they have shaped the person he’s become. The young man takes great care in packing all of himself away. 

              As these things fade from his conscious mind—all bound to his heart for transfer—the darkness stalking at the edges of his mind begins encroaching on his thoughts like wolves prepared to devour him. Luxu’s natural instincts react in fear, causing the man to tremble and his physical heart to pound in his ears. Just like the darkness, a chill creeps along his quaking limbs, his control over them waning. With every bit of himself that he stows away for his next life, the little rationality that must stay behind cowers in terror. He would simply do away with all his senses, but he knows that some of his consciousness must stay to facilitate the move. He must suffer this fear and lose part of his mind to succeed. 

              The body to be left behind is nearly shut down. His throat closes, no longer able to draw air into his spasming lungs. He has no idea if he’s doing anything right or if he’s even ready, but the innate fear of death has him in a panic. He has to go now. 

              Eyes snap open, nothing but bright light consuming his vision. This is it; this is where he discards everything he is. This is the point of no return. With the dread as potent as ever, his consciousness fades as he sends the light on its way. 

              Instantly, Luxu becomes aware of the intense, stinging pain. Every nerve is like a needle, searing at his heart. He would absolutely be screaming if he could but, as it currently stands, he has no access to any vocal cords, let alone a mouth. 

              A firm pressure resists his heart, struggling against him. The way it reverberates is reminiscent of his own screams. This is his victim, desperately fighting to keep control. Their panic gives them strength, allowing them to push against Luxu to the point he feels his grip slipping. A desperate alarm shoots through him, fueling his struggle.

              As it turns out, Luxu’s fear is stronger than that of the man he’s possessing. 

              Resistance suddenly stops. Slowly, the presence of the other heart begins to fade, allowing Luxu’s heart to fill the hole left behind. The pain begins to ebb at an unbearably slow rate, but there is solace in the fact that it is fading. 

              His consciousness begins unfurling within his brain as he lies on the ground gasping. Comprehension begins weaving through the unpacking, bringing attention to what exactly just happened. He hadn’t been prepared for resistance; he didn’t know he could still lose after disarming his target. There was no warning for that. If Luxu’s heart had lost the struggle, he would’ve been expunged, become a heartless, and failed his task; he would have failed his loved ones. And this is only his first time. 

              It takes an eternity for the agony to fade enough and allow him to assess the body. It’s all still sensitive, like a limb falling asleep and waking back up, only far more intense. Nevertheless, he manages to open his eyes. Even they feel the stinging, giving him blurry vision. Nerves feel like fire as he struggles to raise a hand. The trembling extremities are different: the skin tone is a shade off, fingers are slightly longer, and there’s no sign of a mole he used to have on his wrist. It’s strange to feel and control the hand of a stranger. 

              It takes some time for all the nerves to properly connect. Small repetitions get the muscles moving as they should, and after a few hours, he is able to stand. Weak legs hold him up while he tries to regain his bearings. Palms press against his eyes, struggling to get rid of that remnant sting. 

              When his hands drop, he finds nothing. The expelled heart is gone and so is the body he left behind. There is no going back. 

              The old paper flutters, threatening to fly away. However, this is only the first of many stolen bodies and he will need those instructions to repeat the move in the future.

              Reaching down, he scoops up the paper. The action nearly topples him. Despite his careful decision for this particular individual, he couldn’t find someone exactly like himself. There are still differences that will take some getting used to, driving home one very important, horrendous fact. 

              He is no longer Luxu.

                             He is no longer Luxu.

                                            He is no longer himself. 

              The reality finally kicks him in the gut, bringing him back to the ground where a foreign scream tears from his mouth. 

~~~~~

              “You’re crazy! Stay away from me!”

              The cry drags the man back from age-old memories. Braig is the latest of his numerous casualties. 

              Luxu could’ve stopped long ago, given up his master’s orders and spared so many ignorant hearts—innocent people didn’t have to die for this. However, sacrifices must be made for sins, and Luxu’s been paying his due. With every bit of himself left behind, the rest naturally tries to fill in that hole, but it’s not the same. The new pieces become influenced by the suffering and bitterness Luxu endures with each move, filling him with more and more darkness. That’s not to say darkness is a bad thing, but it fuels the apathy born from repeated trauma.

              Luxu’s views on humanity have deteriorated; each passerby could die at his feet and he would simply step over them. Those chosen as new vessels hold some interest, but he no longer has any qualms putting them down. Only the people he started this journey for mean anything to him now; they are the only light left in his unrecognizable life. They would likely look down on him with disappointment, scold and abhor him, but he would burn every world in existence for their fates. But the end is near. The scapegoat has finally shown himself and soon Luxu will be free of this burden—his family will return to him. No matter what wrath he may incur from them, the relief of the end is just too tempting to spare this last victim.

              Luxu shrugs. “You might be right about that; repeatedly losing part of your mind does that to a guy. Unfortunately for you, there’s nothing more dangerous than an insane person with a goal. You were simply the poor soul that caught my eye this time.”

              “N-No! Please!”

              Having done this so many times, Luxu doesn’t even need the instructions, so he burnt them long ago. His mind already begins to pack away the things he wishes to carry forward and the chill starts in his fingers. 

              “Sorry, but everything I’ve dedicated my life to hangs in the balance. Neither of us have a choice here. But don’t worry—this isn’t my first time and I’ll ensure it’s as painless as possible.”

              As he strides closer, the man scrambles closer to the wall. Fear shines brightly in his eyes, but it doesn’t faze a man who’s seen it so many times before—who’s endured it so many times before.  

              “Take a deep breath, Braig. It’ll all be over soon.”

[dorminchu]

ALL THESE THINGS THAT I'VE DONE

The war against Paradis is over. Eren and Annie are forced to confront their mortality in a world that seems to have no need of them, and their significance to each other. [Post-Canon]

I didn't know there was an ereani week this year until a couple days ago, but I figured: cool, I should probably post something. Title comes from the track of the same name by The Killers.

The prompt is: Day 3 (4/12): "I love you" / "I loved you"

[Ao3 | FFNet]

i.

When the war was over, it was Armin who took the glory. That was a new look for him, Eren thought. Smart but eternally overlooked until he inherited the role of the Colossus Titan. Willing to carry the burden of humanity's savior without much complaint, unlike his teenage self who had always been plagued by doubts and fears. Eren wouldn't have thought Armin would be ready to chew the bullet while he quietly slipped into the background—but he was the leader, and Eren had always been accustomed to his status of figurehead.

Their roles had inverted with age.

As part of an overarching deal with Queen Historia, Eren was granted quarters—a cabin ten miles from the border of what had once been Wall Rose—and a modest pension, as long as he held his tongue and did not make any attempt to intercept the negotiations between Paradis and the surrounding countries. Eren put in an application for professor at the local military academy and spent the days trying to record what he could remember of his experiences in Marley.

The cabin had been around since the start of the war. About ten or so miles from the nearest village. Perhaps even before Eren was born, when Paradis was just a penal colony in name and the boundaries on inhabitable territory were less strict. The pipes still worked and there was evidence of an outhouse as well as quarters for a small animal—he wondered if it had been a hunter’s lodge.

After growing up in the back end of Shiganshina for the first nine years of his life and living in barracks and halfway houses for the next ten, it was a lot quieter. He felt oftentimes as if he were on a permanent state of leave, awaiting orders that would never come. There was so much time to fritter away now, without a war on the backburner.

ii.

In a bid to lessen the severity of his scarring, Eren tried growing a beard. He couldn't sprout a full one like Zeke could, just the chin-hairs, an innate reminder of his days in Marley. Most often he kept his hair pulled back in a short ponytail or else cut it short in the warmer seasons, though never as short as it had been in his days of adolescence.

He'd regenerated his leg and other limbs since the ceasefire, regained his motor functions in a week-long, agonsing process that he was sure Hanji would've loved had she been alive to witness it—but a day or so after settling into the cabin the old pain was flaring up again. He had a vivid memory of asking Commander Hanji once, at seventeen, after exhausting his father’s journal, but the only conclusion either of them could come up was phantom pain. Even if he were whole and unmarred, he did not anticipate sleep as any source of relief. Colours in his right eye gradually turned dull and it was getting harder to read even by candlelight, disorienting to walk out into harsh sunlight. Eventually he just began wearing a patch for the sake of simplicity. His other eye was unaffected.

He could still remember Ramzi's face better than most of his dead Scouts and it kept him up at night for hours. His way of life—the Titans, ODM gear—was quickly being phased out, trading blades and canisters for rifles and ammunition. His place among the armistice seemed moot.

Eren thought more often of his father. He did not wish to, explicitly, but the memories of him that popped into his head were usually indecipherable and triggered by stress.

The doctors in Marley would define this as shellshock. Other times they left impressions like the outline of the sun under closed eyelids; warmth, family, agony, guilt that would eat away at him for the rest of his remaining life.

Eren was, at least, confident in the fact that he was nothing like his father. He didn't pretend he was doing anything morally righteous, nor had he allowed himself to be molded into a pariah like Zeke. He had only accomplished what those same men were afraid or unable to do. It was nothing to crow about. He did not blame Zeke for that upbringing. Eren had taken action, knowing he would be hated and feared by his own comrades. He could only leave behind his memories in print, and if by some Godforsaken chance they somehow managed to fall into the hands of a like-minded company—well, perhaps one day he would be understood or misconstrued further. Rotting in the ground he could not defend his truth or bias.

But while he was alive, he could not rest. He knew better than most that all of this was fleeting.

It wasn’t as though he was out of shape with all the walking. He still stuck to drills in the morning to keep himself busy; awaiting orders that would never come. It sounded like something Armin might say. But Armin was content to busy himself with the sons and brothers of deceased bureaucrats; the succeeding generation to the brilliant men and women who'd led them right into the mouths of hell and out again.

Commander Hanji was dead. Commander Irvin had been dead four years now. Captain Levi was on his way to retirement and attempting to get Mikasa to replace him.

After seven years of military service his soldier’s inclinations remained unshakeable. He'd wake up every morning, going through the motions as though he were still a stowaway in Marley. He'd never allowed himself to consider a life beyond the pretext of enlistment and eventual expiration within the Scouting Regiment, much less the seemingly endless war between Paradis and the rest of the world. In the best case he had assumed he would die eventually, of old age or a more unheroic death out in the field. He'd never allowed himself to be ruled by that fear of mortality because he had to eradicate the Titans first—it was a child’s logic that had gotten him through military academy. Yet here he was, nineteen, with four going-on three years left to kill. Annie had three, going-on two. That was the only certainty she'd admitted to him without need for prying.

So Eren had to be sharp for the rest of their sakes. The war on Paradis had ended and brought with it economic turmoil. A mourning period that seemed to extend indefinitely. The next decade of prosperity would not be won in a year, nor three, and it would come on the backs of the losing side and breed the same old resentment, and then inevitably the same slow descent towards outrage and madness and oppression. Always in the back of his mind like the learnt urge to drink, or his inherited memories—he could almost convince himself of his hard-won stability. It was a good enough reason as any to stop answering Mikasa's letters.

iii.

The door opened to reveal the very last person he had ever expected to see again. She was every bit the woman he had seen in Marley and little of the girl in the crystal remained. What could he say to a four-year old crush-turned-heartbreak whose face he could scarcely recall among the hundreds of thousands of other casualties? "You shouldn't have come back."

When he moved to close the door, she stopped him with her heel. "I'm no longer a Warrior, nor a soldier. I have nowhere else to turn. You and I understand each other, so there's no point in bloodshed."

He gauged this, chewing his tongue. "Did someone send you?"

Her shoulders stiffened. "No one you'd know."

"I suppose you were sent here to finish the job for Marley?"

"No." Bluntly, she forced herself into the doorway. "I came here on my own. I just—"

"—all right, it seems like there's been some kind of miscommunication between you and whoever sent you."

"I was told you'd be able to accommodate me." 

"I don't need anyone else here."

Annie squinted at him. Her hand was clenched tightly on the doorjamb. "You must get bored living up in the mountains. And you could use another pair of hands if you're not regenerating." Eren said nothing. "Did you carve your eye out again?"

"Goddamn you," he growled, and wrenched the door open.

He let her walk past the threshold. Looked at her once, and then away. "I'll set a place aside for you to sleep," indicating a well-worn sofa, "you can stay as long as you need to until you find somewhere you like."

"I don't know why you're so upset. You could have killed me years ago. You've had every opportunity, and yet—"

"—I've moved on." He said it flatly, almost resigned. "You haven't, obviously."

Annie didn't flinch. "So you're just going to stay here and wait to die?"

"I keep myself busy."

"What do you do?"

"I teach the new cadets over at the Academy. It's about two hours from where we are; nothing special, but they seem eager to learn."

"I see."

He turned finally to face her. "What about you?"

Annie hesitated. "Used to work with the other displaced soldiers up until a few days ago."

"How'd that treat you?"

"It was all right. Why, are you too good for it now, now that you're a war hero?"

Eren ignored the barb. "It's been a while since everything settled down, so I wondered how you would fare."

"What, so you just popped up in this house?"

He scoffed. "Of course not. There was a tribunal, and it was decided to let me live on the condition I'd be kept far away where I wouldn't bother with anyone. I can't say the same for the others."

"You sold them out?"

He chuckled. "I didn't have to say much. They did it to themselves. We shared a common goal at one point but never the same ideology. At the very least, I can say I took no pleasure in what I—"

"—Ackermann gave you an out?"

Eren gauged the sharpness in her tone, the stiffness of her posture. "I didn't ask her to." He frowned. "You never told me how you got here. Did Mikasa have something to do with this?"

Annie froze, then averted her eyes. "I didn't have much of a choice. It was either come here or work myself to death doing manual labor. I wouldn't have minded that."

"Why didn't you tell me that she sent you?"

"I don't know. She seemed to pity you."

"Oi, it's not your fault. She can feel however she wants." He sounded bemused, scowling. "What the hell else she she think I'm going to do in four years? I have no plans to start another war."

Annie finally eyed him in her peripherals. "We didn't talk much other than that."

Within the next few hours he'd gotten a few more details out of her. In exchange for agreeing to be quartered here, her record was wiped clean. She had recently reapplied for the MP brigade under a new name and secured a position as secretary in the Karanese district headquarters. She had also admitted to him that she was dying to get back onto the streets again.

As a bedfellow Annie was, in some ways, more than he could've hoped for. Despite the introduction, she talked far less than they had as cadets. She did not seem particularly happy or unhappy, just neutral. She woke up each morning at six hours and left to do her drills. She would come back in an hour and offer to help him with whatever menial tasks needed doing, as if they really were holed up together in the remnants of a cabin lost ten years ago to a threat that would live on in sordid, haunting memory. The kind of life one would find beyond the realm of a weathered photograph. 

Unobtrusive without becoming idyllic. The best outcome he could afford her was three years of uneventful domesticity.

They didn't spar anymore. Not for lack of want, or kicking the habit. Eren just couldn't keep up with her the way he used to. His leg was shaky and she pointed it out first. It would have an impact on the kind of punishment he could take as opposed to when he was fifteen and shrugged off every injury like it was nothing. His eye was not healing. 

Annie was in better condition. Just by studying her gait it was obvious that she'd taken better care of herself. She had not had to bunk up with a gang of stinking, vulnerable soldiers riddled by shellshock. Trying to communicate with them in German worked, but it got him a lot of funny looks and no end of comparisons to fathers and grandfathers enlisted or long since dead.

Annie wasn't interested in his stories from Marley but she didn't brush him off either. She just tolerated it in a much more polite way than Mikasa or Armin would.

At twenty years old she came up to his chest. Either the crystallization had stunted her growth or she was naturally short. She was also scarred enough down her face but it was of the same sheer consistency as her hair. You would only know what she was if you were paying close attention.

She got skittish and temperamental if he tried to push his luck training with her. Initially it had pissed him off:

"What do you think I'm going to do?"

She'd looked at him bluntly. "You're still recovering. Why overexert yourself?"

He'd never told her about his injuries but the idea of her picking up on it this quickly rankled for reasons he did not care to discuss. "I'm not a kid."

Something flashed in her eyes. "I'm not going to push you."

And that was the end of it. He'd decided that this ritual mattered more to her than him, and respected her space. He still did his own drills.

But every time they locked eyes now he'd get that same, absurd itch in the back of his mind from a year ago. Sharpened his tongue and made him want to speak in ways he didn't think he should attempt to justify whilst sober.

iv.

Days passed. He did not always see her until late in the evening.

In the middle of the night he rolled over onto his bad leg and the pain woke him. In silence he got up, not enough to require medication but still pretty uncomfortable.

“Eren?”

He went still. Annie was up herself, over by the window, staring at him as though he were on his deathbed. In the low light her eyes looked strange and luminous. “Does it hurt?”

“Does—what?”

“Your leg.”

Eren sat up slowly as not to aggravate his condition. She didn't say anything else. “It’s not so bad that I can’t sleep.” He studied her face for signs of age, finding naught but scars, a weariness in her eyes he could speak to. She didn't frown. She just watched him coolly. Eren shrugged. “You can’t sleep either?" No answer. "Thinking about to-morrow?”

“I can get you something for it.”

Eren shook his head. “That's not necessary."

"Don't be stupid."

"This isn't something I can just take pills for.”

"It's chronic." Her tone pregnant with incredulity. "Why haven't you seen a doctor for this?"

"Annie, what the hell is a regular doctor gonna do for either of us? We already fix ourselves. There are other veterans that have been stranded here, they aren't growing their limbs back. They need all the help they can get. Anyway, it's only, what, three more years of living? I can take three. Fuck, I've taken ten."

The more he kept talking, the darker her eyes became. Clench in her jaw, tautness of her shoulders, pronounced enough to notice from a distance—an involuntary reflection of his own revulsion.

"I don't know how you managed to win one war, let alone, if you can't even prevent yourself from running into the ground." Her voice was icy and distinctly contemptuous. She stalked over to him. Cold fingers dug into the meat of his naked shoulder, pushed him upright between the wall and headboard; tight, controlled movements. "Four years later and you still want to pretend you're a fucking martyr. It might've worked on Mikasa, but I'm not your sister. I'm not going to help you hurt yourself."

She kneaded at his leg in a much brusquer way than the way the orderlies in Marley. Eren didn't argue. She was not going to take no for an answer. When it was done she coaxed him to lie down again. He stiffened as he felt her weight join his on the mattress, curled almost tentatively against his chest. She didn’t try to hold him, just huddled as though for warmth. She did not explain herself.

Eren had a vague recollection of the last time this had happened. Back then she came up to his chin, rather than the middle of his chest; their disparity was only thrown into relief. He could feel the human warmth of her through the thin undershirt, the softness of her hair on his cheek. He’d dreamt about this a lot when he was sixteen, while the tragedy of her betrayal was no longer fresh but still painful in his mind. He had no energy left to hate her then, for she was not his enemy.

He heard her breathing even out.

She had stayed this long. There was no sense in abandoning her now.

v.

Sometime after that, Eren started noticing her in more tangible ways. Smell of her hair. The subtle glint in her eyes in lieu of a smile. She'd wait up for him in the mornings before he left. He'd tell her good-bye.

When he came home he’d catch her eyes lingering on him in profile.

Just one day too many of the same quiet inactivity. The fact that they had slept in the same bed was just a catalyst of how familiar they were with each other already.

She woke up an hour later than usual and, fuming, went out to train. A light rain had started. Eren made breakfast. Over the next twenty minutes the light sheet became much more torrential. Annie came back in about half-an-hour, dripping water all over the floor. He would've told her off but she grabbed his wrist. He turned as she leant up and took his face in her hands and kissed him like her life depended on it.

Maybe the situation had always been building to this. He had forgotten about its immediacy until the moment presented itself. But now there was nothing left to say. So he gathered her up and placed her on the counter, kissing her breathless, bunching up her threadbare shirt, palming her tits through the military-issue brassiere—he muttered, "see, I thought you were just being nice," and she scoffed, set her heel to the small of his back even as he put his mouth on her. She was chilled from the rain; it was not yet summer. Half-dressed and needy, he took her right there on the countertop. Afterwards, there was no shame or lingering uncertainty that would have been present as cadets. She pressed her cheek to his.

"I'm going to be away for a while. It's higher pay if I stay in Karanese. Maybe two or three weeks." She looked up at him. Her eyes were bright but her tone was stoic. "I just…" She trailed off because he was only looking at her face. Eren smoothed her damp hair away from her cheek.

"I love you." Then he stopped. Like he was finally coming to grips with the idea. Annie blinked rapidly. A crease formed in her brow. Her mouth worked but no sound came out. Eren kissed her chin. "But, if you're gonna be trackin' mud everywhere you'd best clean it up after yourself."

She finally came back to herself. Shoved him lightly in the chest. "Fuck off." Then hoisted herself off the counter, fixed her trousers, and asked in a dry voice where he kept the washbasin.

vi.

On his own the cabin felt distinctly empty. Sometimes he'd wake up hard and just—take care of it. Annie on top of him. On her knees. Pulling him up to her. He missed her a lot more than he'd care to admit to her face and it wasn't just in the sense that she was available. She'd probably just smirk at him anyway.

But when she returned it was nice to have her around, even for a little while. She kept to herself and he gave her space; it was as though she had never left.

It was still morning. He was working when he felt her come up behind him, hands slipping over his wrists. “Oi,” he muttered, “I’m a little busy.”

“You’re just sitting there.”

He scoffed. “Really? How would you know what I’m doin’?” No answer. Eren closed the book. “You really are demanding, ain’t you?” Faux-annoyance. But he turned.

She looked prettier in uniform. Hair pulled back into less of a bun, more of a severe ponytail. She was looking him up and down as though deciding something for herself.

She leant down, kissed him firmly, nipping at his lip until went with it, half-amused. She stepped back, breathing evenly, eyes glinting. She cupped his face, a vestige of tenderness he did not anticipate.

Then her eyes shifted, something empty, strange. A harsh crack against his jaw he could not anticipate and he took it, worked his jaw, blinking rapidly. “What the hell are you—?”

Annie jerked her head back slightly, fixing him with the same expectance he realised he’d completely misinterpreted. “Hit me.”

Eren didn’t move. Her jaw trembled, then set. He caught her wrist. “That’s enough.”

“Why?” She sounded annoyed. “It’s all right. I can take it.”

“What is this?”

“I’ll be dead before you anyway, it would be easier just to take—”

“—I said that’s enough,” he said, terse. “I’m not going to do anything to you."

Her brow furrowed. "I thought you understood.”

Eren just stared, fighting to keep himself calm when he wanted to grab her shoulders and demand her to justify why the hell she wanted to be hit. "What am I supposed to understand?"

Annie’s eyes darted over his face and then to his wrist. “I want you to hit me back.”

“I’m not going to do that.” He cupped her jaw and she almost flinched; his stomach twisted. “Do you understand me?“

Silence built up between them. "I know you’d stop if I asked you to.”

“I’m not going to wait until after I’ve hurt you to stop.”

Annie pressed her face into his chest. He took her by the shoulders, watching her stiffen.

“Do you hear me?”

She nodded.

"Why d'you want me to hit you?"

"Do you want a list?" He gripped her tight enough to make her flinch and immediately regretted the look of fear that came across her face. He let go of her. "I’ve been complicit in the death of your comrades.” Her voice thickened. “And I’ve taught you everything I know. You don't need me here for anything other than your own gratification.” Returning to the facade of impassivity with unnerving ease. “So, there’s no point in comparing our tallies.”

“Annie—"

“Are you stupid?” Annie spat, the most emotion she had exhibited thus far. “You've taken my country and my life and my father and you—now you want me to love you back. You want to marry me as if we're ever going to—I'm the one who killed your friends, why would you ever want to be reminded of—"

"You love me." She looked helpless in her vulnerability. "What? What's the matter?"

"Why would you want me? I—I can't even have children. I'm going to die in four years. I'm going to watch you die unless I kill myself fir—"

"—Annie—"

"—you could fuck anyone you wanted!" she exploded. "Why does it have to be me?"

"Because you don’t have to earn anything from me! I just want to be around you—can’t you accept that?”

Annie kissed him hard. He trembled though he was holding her.

“Take me to bed." Eren opened his mouth and she kissed his chin. “I want you to take me to bed. I—”

Even then, he was hesitant to touch her. She led the way, stripping down to skin and splaying on his bed. He caressed her when she asked him to, a gentleness in his hands that betrayed his own sympathy; for once she didn’t chastise him.

Her scarring was far more pronounced in the light. He'd noticed before, briefly on the counter and more clearly with enough attention, but not like this. It clustered around her sternum and down her spine. He wondered, briefly, if that was why she'd wanted to do it quickly. Now her eyes were bright and shimmering but she took him into her, reached for him.

"Is this OK?" His voice was a croak.

Her eyes flickered to him. Cautious, sure. "Yeah."

He was on his knees, lifting the small of her back, working her towards a much sweeter surrender. He slid one arm around her waist to support her and touched her breasts, the side of her neck, cupping her jaw. His thumb ran over her scarring.

“Annie.” She gasped at the sound of her name. “Ann. Look. Come here.” She was biting her lip. Head fallen back, her hair was almost diaphanous in the light. He murmured her name and she was shivering with emotion. She turned into her elbow and told him in an unsteady voice to go faster, and the bed creaked to match him.

Her body arched, jaw slack. She wouldn't stop shivering. Her voice did not rise in expectation. It just wavered, edgeless.

He took her wrist away from her face and—she flinched. This serrated, ugly, sound that jerked out of her body. He pulled out, holding her. “Look at me,” his voice hoarse and horrified, “please.”

Annie curled up against his chest and shook. Eren just kept apologizing. She didn't push him away.

Eventually she stopped. Raised her head. Their eyes met and she lost composure again. He brushed her hair from her face. “Stay,” she croaked, “please. I need you.”

He kissed her brow. She almost flinched. He tucked his chin into her shoulder, arms around her back, until she’d calmed down.

"You don't have to do anything," he said quietly. "Do you understand that?"

"I know."

Laying prone, she only came up to his sternum. Annie sat up first. She got to her feet and went over to the window. Her shoulder was parallel to the glass. His attention stayed firmly on her profile. “You’re gonna get colder than hell. Come back here.”

She turned and glanced at his forearm curled half-surreptitiously against his stomach. Scar tissue along her breasts was prominent. In the dead light of this cloudy, April afternoon she finally looked her age.

There was a naked uncertainty in her eyes that made him freeze. "You're not my father and you never will be. You've been kinder towards me than I deserve, given the circumstances. I wish I could despise you."

Eren rolled his shoulders. The silence held for a while. "I don't know if what either of us have done can be forgiven. But, as long as you’re here, I want you to know that I don't hate you." All she did was stare, a slight crease in her brow. “I never could.”

“You love me,” she said. Not with scorn. Like she was testing the idea in a way they would have shied away from as kids. She averted her face towards the window.

She watched him get up and tensed. He limped towards her in a couple strides and draped the blanket around her shoulders with the same tentativeness. She did not put her arms around him. She pressed her face into his shoulder. His arm came around her back and she closed her eyes, just existing in the cold slats of wood against her feet and the rise and fall of his breast.

He put the blankets around her and laid beside her.

He’d always supposed he would heal with enough rest. He didn't know how to put what he felt into words, but eloquence had never been his forte. It was not unlike laying on your deathbed, mulling over all the things that hardly seemed to matter until there was no time left to spare.

There was no pain now, just certainty in the presence of another—the old urge to drink was absent.

This is a cleaned-up version of a couple tumblr WIPs + some old/new material blended in for fun. Think of it as a pilot episode for a much larger fic.

For what it's worth I did like the ending of AoT. Elements of that ending will likely factor into the aforementioned larger fic. I am totally disinterested in arguing about ships or wasted potential—at this point, I’d rather write whatever seems interesting, and leave it at that, canon or not.

And hey, if you think acknowledging canon will override my crippling addiction to the "morally challenged antihero/problematic blonde" dynamic… I really don't see that happening. Even after exiting this fandom, it's like, ALL I've been writing for a year (looking at YOU Insult to Injury) and I feel like I'm going insane. Back on topic though: Now that AoT has concluded, I find I am far less stressed at the prospect for writing for this series again. It won’t be my main focus, but I do like this fic’s concept enough to flesh it out.

[havertzgalaxy]

Deep Orange - Kai Havertz fanfiction (Chapter One)

A/N: First part of a series I hope to continue. Title is still uncertain for me so this is kind of a place holder. This is a little bit of a dark tale, but I love the idea of Kai in a darker role. If you enjoyed it please give it a like or anything so I know to keep writing! I have a lot more to say about this story :) 

Warnings: Alcohol, drug use, swearing, sexual references 

Summary: Kai Havertz, a rising star in the football world, has just moved to London and he's off to a rocky start. After agreeing to go to a party with one of his old friends from high school, he meets Katrin Hummels, a mysterious, German musician who has lived in the UK for over a decade. Katrin flirts with Kai at this party, and he reveals that he is in a committed relationship. Nevertheless, Kai is heavily intrigued by her and the two quickly become friends. As Kai balances his career and his relationship, Katrin invites him out constantly to parties and clubs, which distract him from his important life goals. Soon, Kai finds himself on a downwards, drunken spiral of addiction and on a collision course with Katrin.

Available here on Tumblr, but here is the link for the fic on wattpad incase anyone prefers to read stories there: https://www.wattpad.com/1094322435-deep-orange-chapter-one 

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

Chapter 1 

Let me start with the night I first met Katrin. Now, it seems odd to even think about a time before Katrin had a poisonous grip on my life, and there really isn’t anything in my life worth reciting before her. It was a quiet week in between matches in the Premier League and I had off for seven days, which was rare. I was invited to an evening out with a friend from high school who was studying in London at the time. Hesitantly, I accepted, but made it clear to myself that this was not a friend I would like to hang out with regularly. I mostly accepted to please my mother who had been pressing me to find friends from my previous life so I would eventually return home. So I called up my mother and told her I was finally meeting Leo Sauer. The most German German I had ever known moved to London. And I was meeting with him. 

I had never thought of Leo as a wild card. He pretty much stuck to the rules. A good German boy got good grades and excelled in athletics, but this German boy had blossomed out of the rulebook. Suddenly Leo was a stoner philosophy student with connections to an underground intelligentsia-creative scene, a world woefully unfamiliar to myself. I have had so few nights out in my life, due to the demands of my rigorous football schedule, but I always accepted that absence in my life as a necessary sacrifice. It was not something I ever thought I would miss as I aged, especially if I had a World Cup in my hands. But my first memories of regret started as I took a cab out to the party. I noticed the way the signs on the businesses had a fading and mesmerizing glow, like there was a specific quality of the night that was turning everything neon forever. The air was orange, then it turned red. I thought to myself how odd it felt to go out to a place where I was specifically going to socialize. 

And these feelings worsened when I arrived at the party. I was way out of my element.  I began contemplating my own death as I walked through the doorway at a frustratingly overpriced two story flat in South London. I wondered what such an eccentric party was doing in a rather lame neighborhood, and why it was heavily decorated with memorabilia from India. As I turned each corner I passed another Ganesh, another Vishnu, Brama, until I was greeted with an overwhelming scent of incense and marijuana. The house was very dimly lit and seemed to be decorated in a frantic rush for a party, with multicolored christmas lights sufficing as lighting in long and dark stretches of the house. In one corner there was a red lamp without a lamp shade that provided an intense source of light that you couldn’t look at for two long. The entire house was pulsating to a dull bass line that rather confused me and as I breathed in the display of punk, artistic, and heavily braided London set, I quickly scanned the room for Leo and immediately joined forces with him, promising to myself that I would not to leave his side for the rest of the night. 

“King Kai!” Leo gasped. He reached out his hand and pulled me in for a hug. “I didn’t think you’d make it, man!” 

I switched to German, feeling uncomfortable and vulnerable for the moment in English. “Leo, bro, you look great.” I shuddered at my own words, did I usually sound this stupid? I never have this lack of confidence, what was going on with me? 

“Jasmine, this is my friend Kai.” Leo turned to a beautiful girl sitting beside him. She had her hair fixed behind a vintage bandana and wore large and thick gold hoop earrings. “Kai, this is Jasmine. Her parents usually live with her, but she’s had a free house since last Tuesday. She studies philosophy as well with me at UCL.” 

“Nice one! I’m Kai,” I extended my hand to her, suddenly overly aware of my accent. 

“So great to meet you, Kai. Leo’s been mentioning how he has another friend in London. What are you doing here?” Jasmine revealed a thick London accent, or what I presumed to be one. 

I was puzzled as to why she did not know what I was doing in London, but I responded quickly, “I play with Chelsea Football Club. Sort of recently moved to London, it’s been about three weeks so far.” 

“You’re fucking with me!” Jasmine threw her head back in laughter. 

“No, no. He’s actually totally serious.” Leo replied coldly. 

“Oh no way! That’s wicked, man. I don’t think I ever met anyone on my sixth form’s football team, let alone Chelsea. I don’t give a fuck about football, but I hope your team does well now.” Jasmine cackled some more and Leo cracked open a beer quietly. “I actually don’t think you’re gonna meet anyone at this party who cares about football.” 

Leo looked around and tensed his face awkwardly. 

I smiled and retorted, “I think that’s a good thing!” 

Jasmine darted up from her seat to reconnect with a girl who had arrived apparently called “Therese.” And suddenly Leo and I were momentarily alone. After an awkward silence between us Leo pressed me about my life. I asked him about his, and we spoke on and off about our past life back in Germany. 

For the next thirty minutes, Leo continued to introduce me to a staggering amount of substance-abusing artists, unemployed twenty-two year olds, or trust-funded humanities students. Thinking quickly, I introduced myself as another philosophy student from Germany. I didn’t want to repeat the same conversation I had with Jasmine again. Although they questioned why I couldn’t have a bump of ket or a hit off a joint. After pretending to be someone I was not, I felt nervous. My palms were sweaty and my shirt felt tight. I wondered whether I actually passed off as someone from this corner of society, or if I looked like an outsider. 

“Leo,” I turned to my only friend at this party. “I think I should go before someone takes a picture of this and sends this to my manager. I shouldn’t be at a party with anything illegal.” 

“Kai, if someone takes a picture of you at this party and does something like that they’d never be invited to anything ever again.” Leo explained, “This is a very moral group of people. They’ve certainly had more than enough time to think about their values.” Leo responded with a quick joke. “Just let loose. Tonight might be your last night of this kind of freedom.” 

So I ran across the street with a mask on in an anonymous pursuit of a Best-One and bought as many beers as I possibly could, deciding to get rip-roaring drunk. Something I had not really experienced properly in my life before that night. I returned to hide my beers in a bookshelf upstairs, downed three beers in a row with Leo, and talked to as many people as possible claiming I was this philosophy student of German philosophers. When they tried to talk to me about philosophy I just bullshitted my way through the conversation and we all laughed together. They were too high, I was too drunk. Nothing mattered. None of us were on the same page anyway. The alcohol hit me like a bullet train and I laughed and laughed at the fact that I was finally wasted. Everything felt like a dream. 

In my drunken stupor I could hardly recognize the couch from the floor, although I delicately found the last available place on a couch in the upstairs hallway of the flat. I don’t remember properly reflecting on why there was a couch in a hallway, there just was and I accepted that. Upstairs, the music was slightly softer, and it sounded like it was made years ago and was playing out of an old stereo. Although the upstairs music was struggling to make itself heard over the louder computer-made music coming from downstairs. Deep in my philosophical contemplation over the music, I forgot how my legs and depth perception worked, and I stumbled onto the couch, nearly spilling over my beer onto a girl on my way down. 

“Entschuldig-” I began in German, quickly correcting myself and forgetting how to speak English under the influence, “ah, fuck, sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.” 

Short dark brown hair, a fading tan, big brown eyes with heavy eye makeup, and slightly crooked teeth turned to me at once declaring back in German, “You’re very drunk.” She locked eyes with me deeply. She was direct. Holy shit. “I don’t think we’ve met.” 

“Wow, you speak German as well?” I held her gaze for moments more before feeling something too intense. “I mean,” I stuttered, “I’m Kai. I just moved here a few weeks back.” 

“I’m Katrin.” She smiled wide and took a long sip of her drink. “Of course I speak German.” 

“Of course you speak German? Not every random stranger speaks German.” I teased, leaning my head back against the wall to stop the room from spinning out of control. 

“I’m not every random stranger.” She smacked her lips and leaned back. She had a low, husky voice. A voice that had clearly been weathered by smoking and yelling. Even if her lifestyle choices were made apparent through her voice there was something about this woman that was puzzling me in a wonderful way. She had long intense stares and big brown eyes that powered them. She spoke sharply and lit a joint. I drunkenly inhaled her smoke. “I think I recognize your face. I think you play for Chelsea.” 

Something inside me broke. I freaked out that she had some kind of power over me, as if she was threatening to blow my cover. She stared deeply at me as my lips fumbled to create a response. I raised my eyebrows in shock. Slowly I slurred a response. “Do you watch football?” 

“Not if I don’t have to.” Katrin laughed, she quickly changed expression and replied. “Sorry, I don’t mean to insult.” 

“Nah, I’m not insulted. I think the majority of the world would agree with me that it’s a sport worth watching.” I retorted fast, feeling my breath hot in my throat suddenly. In the other room I could hear some large bouts of laughter and the music changing at irregular intervals. Someone must have been skipping through songs. 

“Let’s just say you win that argument then.” She cooed. “But I must tell you...I’m only lying.” She giggled, “I didn’t even know what Chelsea was until my friend, Jasmine, told me about an hour ago that another German was here. She told me that you play football here or something. And then she was like, ‘no one's gonna recognize him here’ and I was like, ‘as I German maybe I will, is he famous?’ So we googled you and we were like what the fuck. This dude is famous as shit.” 

“Clearly not that famous.” I gestured around the room to the slew of preoccupied people, but quickly returned my gaze back to Katrin. I was utterly transfixed. Each word out of her mouth weighed heavy on my mind. Was she telling the truth? What was her story? She was a challenging conversation, making me nervous for no reason, “We don’t have to talk about that football shit. We don’t even have to talk in German.” I paused and burped. The room was spinning. I felt myself losing control of my reserve. “Sorry I’m quite drunk.” 

“You’re not the only one.” She smiled and lifted up her small bottle of cheap vodka. 

“I...I don’t usually drink. I’m not really allowed.” 

“Not allowed?” Katrin raised her eyebrows. “Says who?” 

“It’s part of my job. I’m not supposed to be rebellious, I’m supposed to be a role model.” I added nervously. 

“You’d be a much better role model if you broke some rules.” She poured a large amount of vodka into her cup before mixing it with a little bit of soda. “Fuck, you’d be my role model.” 

“You’re a rule breaker? That’s not very German of you.” I took a long swig of my beer after I spoke. She stayed silent so I spoke quickly, “Why are you in London anyway?” 

She put her hands in between her face and wiped her hair back, composing herself. “I was forced to move here from Bavaria when I was twelve. My dad got a job in London and the whole family moved except my older brother who seems to get out of everything. Forced to learn English when I was thirteen, forced to go to university, make my parents proud. Then I dropped out. It wasn’t for me. Now I’m what you call a ‘soundcloud musician.’” She explained, “And I’m also what you’d call a lifeguard for a leisure centre near me.” 

“That’s a lot to unpack.” I let out a loud laugh. 

Katrin did not respond right away to me and this freaked me out. I wondered if I said the wrong thing, maybe I should have responded with some compassion and sympathy. Surely she was looking for a more in depth conversation, something which she might find with the intellectual class around us, I was just merely a guy she struck up conversation with because he almost spilled cold beer all over her. Where did I put the rest of my beers, anyway? 

Before my thoughts spiralled off any further, she spoke again. “You have the most unusual face I’ve ever seen.” She touched my cheek with the tips of her fingers and my skin burned. As she moved her fingers across my face, her eyes flared and her pupils dilated. “Like you weren’t born on this planet.” 

Her words sent shivers down my whole body and penetrated deep into my soul. Why was she touching me? What did she mean by any of this? Do I look ugly to her? I felt awkward by her comments, so I laughed nervously and asked suddenly, “What kind of music do you make?” 

Before she could reply, the song had changed to something I couldn’t quite hear and she shouted out, “You fuckers! Turn this shit off!” She turned to me, grabbed two beer cans in her hands, dangling the joint in between her fingers, and did a dance, “I’m sorry, Kai, I’ve got to go make these idiots turn off my music before everyone with a brain leaves this party... But come to my show on Friday and you can see what kinda music I make.” 

“Where is it?” 

“Islington Assembly Hall. 7pm.” She leaned over, and I watched her lips grow closer to mine before she stopped, and whispered, “I wish I could stay longer and talk. I haven’t met anyone this captivating to me in a while… You’re a troubled soul and I can sense that. And God do I wanna fuck you.” 

Her words had floored me so much I could hardly reply, but I mustered, “Unfortunately I am already spoken for.” 

“That’s a shame. I think we were in love in a past life.” She winked, pulled back her intoxicating scent, walked off with a spring in her step before shouting back, “See you Friday!” 

As she left I felt time moving more slowly for the first time in my life. I felt a sense of impending doom, while simultaneously feeling an inexplicably intense ecstasy. I knew from the moment I met her, Katrin was a ticking time bomb. For the rest of the night I stayed on the couch in the upstairs hallway at a party in a forgotten corner of London, completely transfixed.

[fluffykitty1999-blog]

Dog of the Military- Chapter 26

Chapter 26- New Room

Hello! This is just another reminder- if you’re into my fanfictions and they bring you enjoyment, I’d super appreciate it if you could go over and leave an encouraging comment at my ko-fi here https://ko-fi.com/fluffykitty12, or even slip me $3 for snacks. 

Thanks so much! :)

The hospital was full. Or at least, that was the excuse they gave them when they were unceremoniously dumped into a second bed that'd been placed in Mr. Water's room.

The quarters were a bit tight- Roy had to relocated his plastic chair to the foot of ed's bed rather than beside it, but after settling Ed into the new bedding, the remainder of the night passed quietly.

It was around seven that morning when a knock on the door frame caught his attention.

Roy couldn't help it- he broke into an exhausted smile at the sight of Hughes.

"Finally. None of my team had spoken to me since yesterday, I was beginning to worry."

"Yeah, well, there's a reason for that. They managed to apprehend the fake judge fleeing the scene, but Banks managed to get away. They've been doing paperwork and issuing orders for the capture of Banks since then. The higher ups are eager to put a lid on this while fiasco- they're embarrassed it's even happened. How's Ed doing?"

"Seems to be alright. Except a Drachman operative broke into his hospital room last night and tried to abduct him."

Hughes jolted, looking shocked. "You're kidding!"

Roy shook his head. "I'm not."

"Mr. Mustang!" their conversation was interrupted by nurse Aubrey jogging over, holding a clipboard and looking out of breath. "I have those blood test results you wanted."

Roy cocked an eyebrow. "And what do they say?"

"Well, Ed's blood type is A+, and several of the other blood smears were found to be B-. So Edward wasn't alone in his room last night. Someone else was there. I'm sorry I didn't believe you."

Roy shrugged.

Hughes decided to make himself known, peering at the paper on her clipboard and adjusting his glasses. "Say, can I get a copy of that, please? I'm Colonel Maes Hughes of investigations- I have no doubt the military is going to want me investigating just who would try and attack a hospitalized state alchemist. I also want the room Ed was attacked in sealed off- I'll process the crime scene later."

"Of course." Aubrey hurried off to do as she was told, and Roy and Hughes sat in silence for a moment.

"So." Hughes finally spoke up, face impassive. "It appears Edward might've been onto something with his whole 'Banks is a Drachman spy' theory."

"It certainly looks that way." Roy agreed. "Either that- or Banks wasn't involved, but now that he's backed into a corner, any Drachman operatives are capitalizing on the chance to scoop him up. But why bother trying to take Ed too?"

"Ed's knowledge of Alchemy is a good enough reason as any. He knows more than most alchemists in the country- he could easily train Alchemists for the Drachman army. They've wanted to learn alchemy for decades now. And Ed's young- he's got a lot of potential, he's still forming his opinions and growing up. They'd want to capitalize on that- mold him into a ruthless killer."

Isn't that what you want to do as well? that small voice in the back of his head hissed. The same one that tortured him about Ishval at night. But Roy brushed it aside- it was lying, he cared for Ed like his own son. He was only trying to do what was best for Ed. And for your reputation, you heartless bastard.

"I know you need to be here. I get it. But your office is sorely missing you in your absence. Hawkeye is doing her best- I have Brosch, Ross and Armstrong watching the hospital starting today. No one else will come near him."

"Right." Roy ran a hand through his hair, looking at Hughes. "Can you stay with him? For a little while? I need someone I can trust with him- someone who I know can protect him." Roy thought fo all the knives Hughes kept hidden on his person. He pitied any Drachman who tried to abduct Ed from his best friend.

"Yeah, I can stay." Hughes frowned. "Where are you gonna go, though? The office?"

"Probably. Was going to stop home and at least chance my clothes first. Have a quick shave, probably."

His uniform was wrinkled from sleeping in it and smeared with Ed's dried blood. His five o' clock shadow was also getting out of control.

Hughes nodded, smiling slightly. "Yeah. I haven't seen you this bad since our last bender. I can stay half the day with him."

"That's all I need. Thank you."

"No problem. Take care of what you need to at the office." Hughes took his place sitting in Roy's plastic chair at the foot of Ed's bed. Ed was still sleeping- Roy had wet a cloth and cleaned the blood from the boy's face hours ago, and he looked peaceful, despite his circumstances.

"Alphonse is with Gracia and Elicia for the time being- he's probably going to want to see Ed later today."

"I'll bring him back with me on my way back from the office." Roy promised absently.

"Alright, thank you." Hughes smiled, and Roy returned the look.

He almost felt bad that he was lying to the man's face. Almost.

LINEBREAK LINEBREAK LINEBREAK

"You look like hell." Madame Christmas didn't parse words, sliding him a glass of cold bourbon across the bar as a way of greeting. IT wasn't even 9am yet, but Roy took the drink happily.

"You made the papers again." his aunt put down a copy of the newest Gazette in front of him- FULLMETAL ALCHEMIST SHOT IN COURT MARTIAL DEBACLE. The front page featured him clinging to Ed, trying to stop the boy's bleeding. It wasn't exactly a flattering shot, and Roy wondered briefly how the press had managed to get that picture.

"Are you alright?" He looked up to meet his Aunt's dark brown eyes at the question- she was being sincere, and he nodded.

"I'm okay."

"And that boy of yours? The prodigy they shot?"

"He's gonna be okay too. Bullet hit him in the arm."

"And yet you're here instead of watching him. Which means you need something." his Aunt tapped her long fingernails on the bar, looking pensive.

"How much have you read about the courtmartial?"

"All of it. But it isn't much. The Furher withholds most of the details- all I know is that man was facing charges of misconduct that the Fullmetal Alchemist boy uncovered."

Roy fought the urge to wince. Yes, of course the military would've white washed everything and censored it. The general population didn't need to know the gruesome scope of Bank's misdeeds.

"That Colonel Banks is still on the lamb. He hasn't been here, if that's what you're searching for." Madame Christmas said, reaching down to start polishing some glasses.

"That's not what I'm here for."

"Then what? We both know you aren't here to visit Vanessa."

"Some fellows who ought not have visited Amestris have come here. Foreign- Drachman, I think. Tried to kidnap Ed last night- and I have a feeling that they're trying to get into contact with Banks and smuggle him from the country. An outfit like that wouldn't just send one man- they'd send several. A team, maybe. Men like that go looking for girls. Have you seen any?"

Madame Christmas had stopped polishing her glass abruptly and set it down, nodding once. "Yeah. Five who'd fit your description, recently. I don't ask too many questions. What would you like to do with them? They're quite rough customers- hardly pay for their drinks, rough with my girls. So what do you have in mind?"

"I want to speak to one. Doesn't matter which, any of them will do. As soon as you can."

"You'll be delivering the usual message to someone who's unkind to my girls?"

"And then some. For trying to take my Alchemist." Roy swirled his glass, taking another sip. He was almost done.

"How soon can you deliver by?"

His aunt scoffed. "Tonight. One of those dogs is always by, at least one, every night."

"I'll speak to you soon, then." He finished his drink, placing his money on the bar and standing.

"Thanks, Auntie."

"Not a problem, my boy."

LINEBREAK LINEBREAK LINEBREAK

Roy managed to stop at the office for two hours- Alphonse had decided to walk there from the Hughes' residence- so it turned out he hadn't completely lied to Hughes when he said he was going to the office.

Either way, he was back at the hospital at one with Alphonse and a fresh cup of coffee in tow.

"What do you mean I can't leave yet!? They just gave me this whole bag of blood I have more than enough now! I want to go!" Roy heard Ed before he saw him, and he gave a tired grin, sipping his coffee as he and Al strode into the room.

"The doctors want you here another day and that's what's going to happen." Hughes said, ever-patient.

Mr. Waters was sitting in his bed reading a book on barrel-making, seemingly hardly disturbed by the commotion.

When Alphonse walked into the room, however, he looked up, eyes brightening. "What craftsmanship! I'm a welder- let me have a look at you!"

If Alphonse could've blushed, he would've. but he walked over to the bed anyways, letting the construction worker rave about how well his joints fit together and the well-placed rivets of his design.

Ed cast a glance at his roommate, watching him talk to his brother, before he noticed Roy and perked up.

"Can we go home yet?"

"What's this I heard about the doctors wanting you to stay another day?" Roy cast a glance at Hughes, who crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. "Ed did well during his blood transfusion, but he's still dizzy and tired. They want to watch him for one more day."

"Then that's final. You're staying for another day." Roy took a sip of his coffee, symbiotically absorbing the caffeine through his tongue to fortify himself for the coming outburst.

"This is stupid! I should be out there catching the bastard who shot me, not sitting around in this stupid hospital!"

"You're pale as the sheets. I hardly think another day in the hospital could hurt." Roy remarked.

"Who're you calling so anemic he doesn't even have the iron to be called a fortified cereal?!" Ed kicked his feet beneath the sheets and ranted.

Well, that's a new one. Roy thought to himself.

"You said I could sleep on the couch again! Last night!" Ed had turned back to whining, and Roy was slightly surprised he even remembered the exchange they'd had in the emergency room.

"Yes. And you can. Once the doctors say you're well enough to come home, and not a minute sooner. Speaking of fun things people said- you said a lot of things, Ed. You threatened to bite an EMT, accused him of trying to steal you leg, and said something about riding in the wee-woo wagon."

"Wee-woo wagon?" Alphonse asked, tinny vice echoing the question.

"He was too drugged up to think of the word ambulance." Roy supplied.

Alphonse and Mr. Waters burst out laughing, Hughes was grinning, and Ed flushed bright red in embarrassment, a red hashtag throbbing on his temple.

"Don't sweat it, Ed. Investigations and everyone is working hard to catch Banks and everyone else involved in this. You just need to rest up." Hughes said, standing up from his place on the chair and stretching.

"And I'm sure Colonel Mustang here agrees."

Roy nodded, taking his seat back and pulling out a large stack of papers from his briefcase. "I do. In fact, Hawkeye wanted me to stay here and do my paperwork to make sure you don't decide to sneak out of the hospital."

Ed's pout made his facial structure sag so much he looked like a pug, and he crossed his arms over his chest.

"So unfair. Why do I have to get punished when I'm the one who's been shot..."

"Cheer up laddy." Mr. Waters piped up. "'Least you ain't had a brick dropped on yer head."

[full-of-jams]

Good Riddance #1

Pairing: Jimin x Reader

Summary: There were two things life taught you. Money bought comfort, not happiness. And love was always a gateway to pain. When your former best friend Jimin suddenly returns into your life, he challenges your belief and rips open the past you tried so hard to forget.

Genre: heirs au, girl boss, e2l, angst, mutual pining, eventual smut, feat. OT7

Warnings: swearing, Jin’s dad jokes, prissy Namjoon, a very sunny dispositioned Hobi :)

Word Count: 5.5k

A/N: I decided to rewrite Good Riddance. After I finished outlining the entire plot, I realized that the characters and story were way more nuanced. So here we go!

Read: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | [ongoing]

°°°°°°°

It was a clear night. A bit chilly for mid-September, but you preferred the cold caress of the evening breeze over the smothering atmosphere of the party. The sky was painted dark, flecked with twinkling stars. You tried to blend out the lively buzz below you as you soaked in the view. Stars were scarce commodity in the City and being out here in the countryside was a rare treat nowadays.

You let out a sigh as you leaned against the balcony and took a careful sip from your glass of champagne. The icy railing bit into your skin, but you ignored the rising goosebumps. Light and music spilled out onto the ground floor terrace beneath you. People were enjoying themselves, laughing and chatting away. Usually you didn’t mind being amidst the crowd, but tonight you gladly exchanged the glittering socialite circles for a quiet reprieve.

You felt suffocated; you had to escape.

***

It started out as a normal Saturday evening. A celebratory one at that.

“Yeah man! Namjoons! Congrats! I can’t believe you’re getting hitched!” your friend Jin almost yelled across the room. He joyously greeted the man of the night and patted him eagerly on his back.

“Ah, hyung! You almost made me spill my drink! Do you know how much this tux cost me?” Namjoon asked. Despite his complaint, he couldn’t keep his goofy grin off his face. You fondly looked at both of your childhood friends.

“C’mon don’t be so stingy Mr. Investment Banker. You can make that money back in an hour. Here, in celebration of you finally relieving your beloved out of her five-year long misery, I’ll treat you to a new joke of mine!”

Namjoon threw you a pleading glance. You simply shrugged and gestured for Jin to continue.  

“This is an exclusive, so stop being so ungrateful you lot! Did you hear about the notebook who got engaged to the pencil?” Jin happily continued, glancing between the two of you, waiting for a response.

“No…?” you answered as you took a swig of champagne.

“She finally found Mr. Write!” Jin howled gleefully. You shouldn’t have laughed. It really wasn’t that funny of a joke, but Jin’s contagious cackle had you spitting out your drink.

Straight into Namjoon’s face.

“Oh my god! Joons! I’m so sorry,” you breathed between your gasps of laughter. You hastily grabbed some napkins off of a waiter passing by and started wiping his face. Jin was cracking up next to you, basically on the floor.

“Why did I ever expect anything else from the both of you? Why are we friends again?” Namjoon muttered in irritation as he took a napkin off your hands and patted down his tux.

You managed to stifle your laughter, “Because you looooove us. I’m sorry Joonie, really! I’ll pay your dry-cleaning.” You gave him your best puppy eye impression.

“Ugh, it’s fine Y/N. Stop trying to be cute, it’s giving me the creeps,” Namjoon groaned. You dropped your puppy eyes and gave him a stink eye instead.

Jin finally calmed down and threw an arm over his friend’s shoulder. “C’mon Namjoon, Y/N’s right. You love us. Your life would be boring without us. If it weren’t for your exquisite, completely-out-of-your-league fiancée, we’d be getting married right now!”

“You wish,” Namjoon grumbled.

“I’m handsome, I’m funny, I can cook, I’m filthy rich, I’m a catch!” Jin exclaimed indignantly. 

You nodded in solemn agreement, “He’s got a point. He’s a catch. You would make a lovely couple.” Your somber façade started to crack as another giggle escaped your lips.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m glad at least the two of you are having fun. On that note, did you see Jimin yet? I heard he’s back in town, he RSVP’d to the party”.

Your smile dropped; every trace of humor gone. “Who?”

Namjoon gave you a strange look and repeated slowly, “Park Jimin. He’s supposed to be here tonight.”

Your heart dropped. Fuck.

You forced a smile back on your face and ignored the furtive glance Jin gave Namjoon. “Oh really? He’s back? How long has it been? I’m sure his family must have missed him.”

“I’m pretty sure the whole City missed our golden boy,” Namjoon said with an awkward laugh.

Your voice turned steely, “Not sure I’d go as far as the whole City, but yeah I can imagine how he has them fooled and wrapped around his finger. I think I better go refill my glass, most of it landed on your face.” You excused yourself and walked away from the boys. In the background you heard Jin reprimand Namjoon, “Way to kill the mood, man!”

“I thought she should know. Better than to run head-first into him!”

“Whatever, c’mon take me to your bride-to-be! I need to tell her my joke!”

***

Later that evening you found yourself on the third-floor guest bedroom balcony, indulging in the starry night sky.

Alone.

You tried to lose yourself in the moment, telling yourself to enjoy this rare occasion.

After a view minutes you decided your attempts were futile. Who were you kidding? You were hiding.

Suddenly the bedroom door opened behind you, light spilled in from the hallway. You shifted your eyes and saw the outline of a sleek figure standing in the doorway.

You immediately straightened up, your long red dress rustled slightly against your body. The figure stilled for a second as he scanned the dark space. His eyes landed on you. He closed the door and slowly crossed the room.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You carefully kept a blank face and trained your gaze back to the seemingly captivating night sky. You took another big sip of champagne.

“Here you are, Y/N,” the words came out in a soft breath. His voice was quiet, but it was unmistakably deeper than the last time you heard it.

Don’t you get it? I don’t want you here. No one wants you here. The never-ending mantra that haunted you for the last decade. You wanted it to stop.

“Why are you hiding up here?” You threw him a sideways glance as he stepped up next to your side. The moonlight hit his cheekbones, his features were half lit and half hidden in the shadows.

Immediate regret coursed through your mind.

He looked good.

You hated that bastard.

“Who said I was hiding?” you answered in a disinterested tone. He was of course right, but he didn’t have to know that. „I was trying to enjoy my peace and quiet. Alone.” You waved your glass in his general direction without sparing him another glance.

Silence fell; you could feel his gaze on you. You silently prayed he would turn around and leave. Unfortunately he didn’t, or more likely refused to take the hint.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me. I thought I recognized you earlier. If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve guessed you were avoiding me. But that can’t be it, the great Y/N is nothing if not head-on. It’s good to see you again,” he said in an amused tone.

You tensed at his words, your inner voice warring whether to simply ignore him or not. Your rational side sighed in defeat as you gave up your haphazard attempt at stargazing and reluctantly turned your attention to the boy next to you. There was no point in avoiding him, your voice justified. As much as you wanted to, people like the both of you couldn’t afford to ignore each other. You both knew this.

Might as well rip the Band-Aid off now, fast.

“What are you doing here, Park? Did you run out of millionaires to greet downstairs, who’d pat your back and toast on your return to the City? Maybe you shouldn’t have hijacked Namjoon’s engagement party for this. But then again, manners were never your strong suit.” You willed yourself to sound bored and took a measured drink from your glass.

There was another beat of silence as your words hung in the air. You snuck a closer look at him. His hair was parted sideways, falling slightly into his eyes. He wore an elegant waistcoat and slacks. A simple black tie graced his neck.

The years did him well. He looked different than you remembered. Better.

Fuck. You had to have a strict conversation with that inner voice of yours.

As your gaze moved back up, you noticed that his eyes were searching your face. All of a sudden the evening air seemed cold. You had forgotten how his gaze always made you feel. Bared and exposed. Despite your discomfort, you kept your poker face and refused to break the stifling awkwardness. Both of you let another second of silence pass.

Go away.

“Sharp-tongued and witty as ever. I missed that.” He chuckled.

Liar. Still, your defiant little heart skipped a beat. You silently vowed to yourself to meditate more. That mind over matter shit was clearly not kicking in.

“I’m already done with all the millionaires downstairs. So I thought I’d come and greet some old friends up here.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and gave you a nonchalant shrug.

“We’re not friends, Park.” you shot back.

Jimin dramatically clutched his chest as if hit by a bullet. “Harsh words. And here I thought you’d be the happiest one to see me.”

Your only response was hard silence. Go away. Please.

He continued to disregard your silent prayers, “And what’s up with calling me Park? We’re not in high school anymore. Calling people by their last name is not gonna earn you any street cred, you know? Is this how you treat all your clients? I’m disappointed, tsk.” The boy clicked his tongue in taunting disapproval.

Your brain whirred as you processed what he just said. Shit. Shit.

“Your father is our new client with that new mystery project?” you blurted out before you could stop yourself.

A slight frown set between his eyes. “My father? Park Corp. consists of more than just my father. And he’s definitely not going to be working on that project.”

You dismissed his words with a wave of your hand, “Park Corp., your father, all the same. It’s just semantics.” Jimin wanted to argue back, but you ignored him and continued, “Don’t be so naïve, Park.” You quirked an eyebrow as you used his last name again. Nobody told you what you could or couldn’t do. 

“Your old man never lets his turf go unsupervised, especially if it’s a project developed in the City. You should know that better than anyone else. But how did my dad agree to this? He said he’d never work with your father. He thinks money and business ruin good friendships…” You suddenly realized you were babbling and bit down on your tongue. 

Damn it, how do you end this conversation fast? Ideally in a way which didn’t involve insulting the son of your biggest new client. Okay, maybe a bit of insulting was allowed. He wasn’t your client yet.

Jimin’s frown deepened before it was slowly replaced by a shrewd smile.

Uh oh. This didn’t bode well.

“Your father agreed to this because I convinced him.” His stupid smile grew wider as he leaned in. Your mind went blank at his sudden proximity, his woodsy scent marred your senses. “As I said, Park Corp. consists of more than just my father. He’s not overseeing this project. I am.”

You swallowed hard.

No one wants you here.

“Jimin. What do you want from me?” You had to shut him down, you had to shut your memories down.

He laughed quietly, leaned in even closer and breathed against your ear, “Like you said, I just wanted to toast with some of my millionaire friends.“ In one smooth move he swiped the glass out of your hand and knocked back the rest of your champagne.

You were too perplexed to react.

“I’ll leave you to your peace and quiet again. I should go greet some other millionaires, maybe even a billionaire or two. See you Monday,“ Jimin winked and turned to leave.

See you Monday. See you Monday?!

He stopped at the balcony door, turned around and looked at you again for another long moment. “Before I forget. I meant it when I said it’s good to see you again.” There was an odd sincerity in his voice. Your heart constricted. “You look good Y/N. I missed you.” With those words he headed back inside.

Fuck.

You were out of champagne.

***

>Beep<

“Yes Ms. L/N?”

“Ash, is this the updated schedule for today?”

“Yes, Ms. L/N. Your conference call with the London team on the current bidding process is in 15 minutes. At 10.30 a.m. there’s the project briefing with Eptá. You have a lunch date with Mr. Kim today. I placed a reservation at the restaurant at 1 p.m. I also cleared your afternoon schedule, per your request, so you can go investigate the properties. And at 8 p.m. you have your call with the West Coast team on the new development portfolio. It hasn’t changed since the last time you asked me 20 minutes ago.”

You ignored the slight annoyance in your assistant’s voice. Ash was nothing if not efficient. How wonderful.

“Ok thanks Ash.” 

>Beep<

>Beep<

“Ms. L/N, you seem a bit on edge today. Would you like some chamomile tea to calm your nerves?” she added in a sugary voice.

How. Wonderful.

“That’s very thoughtful of you Ash, but I think I’ll pass,” you answered just as sweetly. “Please follow up with Ren on the financial analysis and make sure to bring me the finalized report by end of today.”

There was a brief pause on the line.

“Of course, Ms. L/N.” 

>Beep<

You leaned back in your chair and let out a groan. How did you let yourself get to this point?

It was Monday morning. Two restless nights and three morning espressos in, you had to acknowledge that your brief conversation with Jimin affected you more than you were willing to admit.

Damn that boy and his empty words.

You closed your eyes and focused your mind on your breathing. After a few moments you released all your tension, determined to concentrate on the matters at hand. Any useless thought spent on that guy was just a waste of your precious energy.

Thankfully you were easily able to get back in the game. Your morning call went well. The team did excellent research and prep work and with a little bit of luck the bid would be as good as yours.

>Beep<

“Ms. L/N, your 10:30 appointment has arrived. Mr. Gardner and Mr. Jung have just registered at reception.”

“Send them straight in once they’re here.” 

>Beep<

You briefly checked your appearance in the standing mirror and straightened your blouse. Then you gathered the files that you’ve carefully studied over the past week and brought everything to your office seating area. You were told you were specifically requested by this client and you wondered what made them so special. Special enough for your father to insist. 

There was a knock on your door and then Ash came in followed by the two men.

“Mr. Gardner and Mr. Jung,” Ash announced.

You were about to greet your guests as you did double-take and froze. There, in the middle of your office stood Park Jimin. He wore a fitted light grey suit with a slim black tie, his hair elegantly sleeked back. Next to him his companion wore something more casual and flowy. His auburn mop of hair offset the cream color of his suit.

What the hell? Is this some kind of sick joke?

It took you a moment to realize that you blurted that last thought out loud. You cleared your throat and tried to compose yourself. “What are you doing here?” A clear hint of dread seeped into your voice.

Jimin laughed at your bewildered expression. Ash and Jimin’s companion glanced curiously between the both of you.

“I’m here to talk business, remember? C’mon you didn’t drink that much at the party to have a blackout. You were sulking around in the corner for the rest of the night. Don’t deny it, I saw you.”

You scowled at him. “Last time I checked your name was not Mr. Gardner nor Mr. Jung and you for sure don’t work for a company called Eptá. What game are you playing Park J…?”

Suddenly Jimin’s companion interrupted you,“Ms. L/N, how about we discuss our matters in a more private setting?” He briefly eyed Ash and the open door to the rest of your office floor.

You gave him an irritated glance but decided to concede. He was right, there was no point in making a scene in the middle of the office. Work was work and you were a professional. You could deal with that jerk later.

“Yes, of course. My apologies, I got carried away. Can I offer you gentlemen something to drink? Coffee? Tea?”

“Coffee would be amazing,” Jimin quipped while he sauntered to the chairs, unbuttoned his suit and sat down.

You threw him a dirty look before you turned to Ash who was taking in the entire scene with immense interest. “Ash could you please bring us some coffee and water?” You turned back to the companion and added, “Please have a seat.”

Once Ash left the room and everyone sat down, Jimin’s companion reached out his hand. “I’m Jung Hoseok, nice to meet you. My partner here has told me a lot about you. I’m sorry if we surprised you like this. Unfortunately, we have to treat the topics we are to discuss today with the highest discretion.”

Jimin told this guy about you?

“Wow Mr. Jung, what an honor. I really enjoyed your last article in the Financial Times. It was very insightful and innovative. L/N Y/N. It’s nice to meet you too.” You shook his hand, your curiosity piqued.

Hoseok gave you an easy smile and continued, “Of course you already know Mr. Park here. You probably have a rough idea about the project at hand through the briefing document we sent through earlier, but before we continue to go into detail, I’d like to ask you to please review and sign this NDA.”

You weren’t unfamiliar with signing NDAs. Real estate development was a lucrative but sensitive business, especially in this city. Client discretion and secrecy was always a given at your father’s company. But if it made your clients feel safer, you were also happy to sign a legal document to ensure no trade secrets were spilled.  

While you read through the terms of the document, Ash came back with a tray of refreshments.

“Here’s two coffees, water, milk and sugar at your free disposal. And one chamomile tea for you Miss.” She set the teacup in front of you as you gave her a sharp look.

She remained unbothered and asked in a saccharine voice, “Is there anything else I can get you?”

This girl…

“That would be all,” you dismissed her out of your office. If she had time to be sassy, she could handle your curtness.

After you signed the NDA you reached for the briefing document and flipped through your notes. “Mr. Park, Mr. Jung, I understand your need for discretion, but I’m a bit confused. I reviewed the briefing document and it describes your plans to revitalize the shipyard district. It does provide significant redevelopment opportunities and I’m sure it’s a great investment due to the rising popularity of the area, but to be frank, this is nothing you should hide from your competitors. Actually, it would be more beneficial to publicly market the redevelopment, as it would draw in more investors and increase the property value at a faster pace.”

You paused for a second and looked up at the two men. Hoseok opened his mouth, but before he could jump in you smoothly continued, “But I’m sure two smart gentlemen like you already know all of this. I checked our company’s asset register and we have no significant ongoing activities there at the moment.”

Jimin lifted an expectant eyebrow. And?

Was this some weird game of his? A test? Fine, you could play along.

“What we do have is a full-blown development plan for 53rd Street, which I’ve been asked to work on off-record for a mystery project in the past month. So tell me, why are you really here? Let’s stop wasting our time pretending we’re interested in finding ways to remove and recycle rusty hulls.“

Hoseok looked positively impressed. Good. “Phew, you weren’t kidding Jimin when you said she was smart as a whip. You really did your homework Ms. L/N”.

Jimin complimented you in front of strangers? Somehow this notion bugged you even more.

You brushed off Hoseok’s comment. “Mr. Jung, please, that’s my job. If you’re that easily impressed maybe I should increase my rates,” you deadpanned.

Hoseok blinked at you for a moment until he realized you were joking and started to laugh.  

You smiled back at him.  

Business rule #1 – always have a friend on the other side.

Your gaze shifted to Jimin and you noticed he was quietly observing you. Once again you felt exposed. Just like on that night of the party.

Focus.

You stared straight back and silently challenged him to say something.

“Yes Y/N, you’re right. Let’s stop pretending.”

No manners, not even in a business environment. What did you expect?

“We’re looking to branch out Park Corp. The hospitality industry is changing; travel and lifestyle trends are changing. As leaders of this industry we should spearhead that change.”

It was the first time you heard him talk in such a serious and determined way.

He briefly nodded at Hoseok and Hoseok brought out a new briefing document. The real briefing document. It had the word ‘Gaea’ printed on the front.

As you flipped through it, your jaw dropped. Your animosities subdued by the remarkable idea which unfolded in front of your eyes. What you read and saw was one of the most ambitious projects ever drafted. You felt a mixture of skepticism but also awe and excitement bubble up inside of you.

“An eco-hotel?” you asked aloud.

Jimin snorted, “Please don’t insult my intelligence. Look again.”

For a brief second you had forgotten who sat opposite of you. You swallowed your retort and flipped through the document again, gathering your thoughts.

You tried a second time, “It’s a new luxury experience. Seamlessly blending sustainability with affluence. A fully integrated concept of lifestyle, art and nature encapsulated in its own microcosm.”

Bingo.

This time Jimin nodded eagerly and leaned forward. “The new generation has a different view on things. The success of our company, of any company, is being measured through the impact we make in this world. They are the ones who are the breadwinners. They are willing to go deep into their pockets to appease their conscience yet unwilling to give up the luxuries that they are used to.”

You carefully took a sip of your tea and asked, “So you’re appealing to their sense of guilt? I’m not sure that’s the smartest thing to do, especially when it comes to hospitality.”

Jimin shook his head. “No. Not at all. People don’t want to be confronted with sustainability mantras or their own carbon footprint at every corner they turn. We’re not here to preach to them. We do what we do best - offer them a beautiful escape from their daily lives.” His eyes glinted as he explained his vision.

Jimin continued, “Travelling is an indulgence. When people travel they want to be pampered. They want to feel special. The last thing they want is to have a mirror shoved in front of their face. They don’t want to sleep on scratchy cotton, just because it’s recycled. Not when they’re paying $300 a night.” Next to him Hoseok nodded in agreement. Jimin glanced over and gave him a small smile.

They are friends. You realized with a small pang. You immediately pushed that thought aside.

“But what they will be interested in is that the tomatoes in their $25 Insalata di Caprese are grown right in the rooftop gardens they visited in the morning. That the honey harvested from the 7th floor tastes floral whereas the honey from the 10th floor has a deep, rich aroma because the bees fly to the park facing west. They’ll be mesmerized to see that the calories they burn on our treadmills fuel the lights of the beautiful art installation in the courtyard below them. Depending on their exertion the art changes and evolves. They’ll be surprised when they realize that the filtered and recycled water pumped through the veins of the building, fueling the water installation, the swimming pool or their en-suite Jacuzzis, is grade A drinking water. We are increasing our guests’ sustainability literacy by taking them into a world of wonder, providing them luxury experiences and showing them that one doesn’t exclude the other.” Jimin paused briefly to take a drink from his coffee.

His eyes settled back on you as he set down his cup. “This is what my project Gaea is about. Modern Mother Nature in the palm of your hands. There’s more of course, but we don’t have to go into all of the details right now.”

There was a moment of silence as you let Jimin’s words sink in and thought about how to respond. You were surprised by his demeanor. Unlike some investors who thought that the millions in their pockets made them into walking gods, you knew he wasn’t a spoiled brat. The Jimin of your past has always been a hard worker. But this was different. There was a sense of conviction and passion in the way he talked about this project.

You decided to go with a safe response. “I never thought of you to be such tree-hugger and activist, Mr. Park.”

A slow smirk spread across his face. “Don’t misconstrue this, I’m not trying to play saint.”

You snorted dismissively at his remark. He was the golden boy, he always tried to play saint. And the people fell for it.

Hoseok gave the both of you a tentative look.

Jimin shrugged casually, “Above all, I’m interested in growing our company. Let me be clear - my goal is to be successful no matter what. Might as well make a difference while I’m at it.”

You tried hard to discern his intentions. Why was he trying to play the cold businessman when he was clearly passionate about this topic?

Focus. Focus on the work.

You went back to the briefing document and flipped through the pages again, putting your analyst brain to work. “This is an interesting concept. While not novel in the industry, the mixture of lifestyle, art, experience and luxury is definitely an untried combination. It could work…,” your voice trailed off in thought.

“But?” You lifted your head, Jimin gave you a piercing look. You were surprised by the earnestness you found in his face. He was interested to hear your opinion. Your intuition was right, this was clearly not just an investment project to him.

“It could also just be a trend, a fad. You’re investing $730 million here. Whatever you’re doing, you want it to stick the first time. Yes, concepts can be changed and the location we’re developing at is prime real estate. So it doesn’t lessen the value of the property, but it would damage your brand. It would still be considered a failure and that would stick to your name. I can’t stop you, but if you want to pursue this idea I would personally recommend you do some tests and market research first,“ you voiced your genuine concern. Regardless of how you felt about Park Jimin personally, you didn’t want to ill-advise your client.

Jimin’s grin returned and grew impossibly wider. He leaned forward and took another sip of coffee. “Is that concern I hear in your voice Y/N? I’m touched,” he said in mocking delight.

Maybe you were willing to make an exception with this client. What a cocky bastard.

“Thanks for worrying, but this will work. Do you really think our executive board would have approved that amount of money without asking exactly those questions and many more? Hoseok here grilled me like I was at the Spanish Inquisition before he agreed to work with me.”  

His friend threw him an apologetic smile. “I’ve got a reputation and a career to uphold, man,” Hoseok insisted.

Jimin chuckled lightly and continued, “It won’t fail Y/N. What do you think I’ve been doing the last few years?”

I don’t want you here. You wouldn’t know. You didn’t care.

Focus.

“Research. It works, I’ve already proven it on a smaller scale.”

You perused his features. There was determination and confidence. Under any other circumstance you would’ve thought it was foolish confidence, but you also saw the way Hoseok looked at his business partner. If one of the world’s most renowned financial strategists had full faith in this endeavor, maybe so should you.

After you triple checked the numbers.

As if Hoseok read your mind he proposed, “Jimin, I suggest you ask Jungkook to send Ms. L/N the business case. I know it’s not strictly necessary, but she’s going to be part of the team, she signed your NDA. We should play with open cards.”

One heck of a team. To have Jung Hoseok as your financial advisor.

A new thought started to nag in the back of your head. Usually you would never ask, but this was Jimin you were talking about. You had to know.

“Why me?”

“Excuse me?”

“You mentioned you got my dad to agree to work with you. It mustn’t have been easy to convince him to break his principles. So why? Why go through all this effort?”

“Are you really asking me why I decided to hand a $730 million project to you on a silver platter?” Jimin asked in wry amusement.  

Now that he put it that way, your question did sound dense. You brushed off the judgement. You had to know what you were getting yourself into. No way you were going in blind.

“Tell me,” you persisted, your face resolute.

He stared at you for a long moment, deliberating his answer.

“Actually Ms. L/N we decided to go…”

Jimin interrupted Hoseok, “I chose your company because you’re the best in the country, maybe even globally. We did an evaluation and you came out on top. Gaea is an important milestone for Park Corp., so I think it’s only obvious to go with the best to guarantee its success.”

You were surprisingly disappointed. What a textbook answer. You decided to dig deeper.

“I get why you chose to work with Spring Development, but this doesn’t answer the question why you specifically requested for me to work on this project.”

You remembered the heated discussion you had with your father. How you refused to blindly take on a client who you, and more importantly the internet, knew nothing about.

“Because you were recommended as the best,” Jimin simply said.

“Bullshit,” you fired back.

Jimin let out a low sigh and ran his fingers through his hair. “Why can’t you just let it go?” he muttered to himself.

You stiffened at his remark. What was that supposed to mean?

“It’s not bullshit. You were recommended as the best. I followed your Aquarium project,” he finally revealed.

He kept tabs on you? The Aquarium project? Normally you were pretty good at reading people, but deciphering this boy was becoming increasingly impossible.

“The Aquarium project was a disaster,” you retorted. You started to doubt this man’s sanity.

Hoseok coughed quietly and interrupted your exchange, “Ms. L/N I can understand your skepticism. You’re right the project was a disaster, but that was because the owner and investors were morons who didn’t listen to advice. It’s now up and running and it’s become profitable in less than 12 months. That’s a huge feat considering the circumstances. It shows that you can work under pressure, you’re creative and very good at what you do. Although we’ve assembled the best team, Gaea won’t be an easy undertaking. We want someone like you. We need someone like you.”

Jimin hummed in agreement.

This was not the answer you expected.

You straightened yourself up and made up your mind. Business was business, and Hoseok was right. This project was going to be a challenge. You loved a good challenge, and this was too good of an opportunity to let pass by. You were perfectly capable of keeping your private matters separate.

“Alright gentlemen, I look forward to working with you. Should I take you through our current development analysis?”

Next >>

°°°°°°°

12/04/20

Copyright © 2020 full-of-jams. All Rights Reserved. Do not copy, repost or translate without permission.

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Hey! I saw you were taking requests :3 would you mind writing (hcs, scenario, anything!) a thing where, shortly pre-OVW recall, McCree and his old teammate (f or neutral pronouns are fine but it’s up to u!!) accidentally meet again after he left without warning? Bonus points for “I thought u were dead/I was never gonna see you again” type stuff :p thanks! Sorry if this was confusing!

{This was, like, super fun to write? I did kinda flip part of the script, but it still fits what you asked for (hopefully). Minor warning for implied alcoholism though, oops. It can also be read as more of a “bars exist for brawls” than “alcohol is my coping method” though, so maybe that’s not as bad??? IDK, at least the ending feels cute.} {-J}

After the fall of Overwatch and its subdivisions, there were certain things that you had been forced to accept: Dozens of your friends and coworkers had died, you were out of a job, and everything you had worked so hard for had crumbled into oblivion. So yeah, shit, you ended up drinking away your pain more than once. At this point you weren’t even sure how many places you were banned from. Still, you held onto the pride that came from never starting any fights, instead waiting for some asshole to decide he wanted to rumble with an ex-Blackwatch agent. It was messy, dangerous, and only added to your nasty reputation.

Few organizations would even think of hiring you. Did that make your drinking worse, or did your drinking make the job search harder?... It wasn’t something you wanted to dwell on, especially considering how desperately you were trying to change things. Mercenary work hadn’t suited you for long, as all your clients were faceless, mysterious forces pulling strings from the shadows. How could you trust that they weren’t like Talon?... Or like Blackwatch had become? In the end you had been forced to slink back into the shadows, praying to whatever gods may be that you could still do some good for the world.

That was a couple years ago. You had changed your name, traded out your old gear for something less suspicious, and set yourself up along the halfway point of Route 66. The area was known for its problems with gangs, violence, and a general lack of government intervention. Sure, the road itself spanned across eight different states, but most of it had been in a state of disrepair for a few decades now. The Omnic Crisis was the final push that sealed the region’s fate. Or, at least, it had been. Some people still cared.

Like you. Why else would you be here, now, scanning the horizon, a beer in one hand, binoculars in the other? There certainly weren’t any good birdwatching spots nearby. Just a rundown gas station perfect for staging ambushes, an old school diner with shitty coffee, and a dusty, dirty crevice up high, wonderful for keeping an eye on it all. You didn’t like it up here, but it was the only discreet place to perform surveillance on the local miscreants. 

Apparently a new gang was starting to harass people in the area, despite the proximity to Deadlock turf, and were trying to sell “insurance”. Understandably, that really pissed you off. Sweet-talking one of the locals had gotten you insight on the gang’s general daily routine. Nothing too specific, unfortunately. Now all you had to do was wait for the scum to show up so you could pound them into the dirt.

Taking a quick swig from your beer, you settled in a little, preparing to wait for who knows how long….

    Dust flew into the air like a trail of smoke, blurring your vision but not deterring you in the slightest. You slipped around your target, barely avoiding his second kick, before slamming your elbow into the back of his head. Sure enough he went crashing down with a thud. More dirt was kicked up in the process. At least it made it a little harder for the gang members still outside to target you. Another quick dash landed you behind cover, where you could finally take a moment to breathe.

    “Damn it,” you grumbled, hearing yet another bullet whiz past your hiding spot. There were still four or five gunmen outside. Truthfully, that was the total number of people you had expected to find, not just the backup boys. Sure, you had prepared for unforeseen hiccups, but apparently not enough. In over your head, stuck sitting like a duck, reminded more and more of the old days. Shit, you missed your teammates. Normally Jesse or Genji would have saved your ass by now.

    You missed them. So much, in fact, that you were pretty sure you just heard Jesse’s signature “high noon” line. It almost made you feel like you were a bit more tipsy than you had thought. When the sound of a revolver firing reached your ears, you couldn’t help but wonder if you had actually died; if so, this was the weirdest form of afterlife known to mankind. Curiosity ended up getting the best of you. Crawling to the side, you made sure not to reveal any part of yourself to your enemy, working your way towards the building’s secondary entrance. That was still within the gang’s line of sight, but you hoped it was far enough to the side that they wouldn’t immediately notice you poking around the corner.

    Sure enough, nobody shot at you when you turned the corner. Someone did, however, raise a silver revolver in your direction. Air got caught in your lungs as you stared down that ever-so-familiar barrel. Relief started to flood your chest… until you realized that the gunman wasn’t wavering in his stance. Your gaze follows up his arm, to his face, and you suddenly wish you weren’t wearing this stupid goddamn mask.

    “Hold it, buddy, unless you want to end up like your compadres back there,” Jesse McCree drawls, tipping his head back towards the fallen gang members. Evidently he hadn’t seen you beating the crap out of the ones inside. Still, you raised your hands slowly, showing your lack of weapons. “There we go. Now, take off that there lil’ mask, nice and easy, alright?” You complied, of course, tossing it to the side before throwing a grin in Jesse’s direction. His reaction made you really, really wish you had brought a camera. The normally smooth and put-together cowboy is now slack jawed, a sense of wonder (and something else…?) in his eyes. Soon your name drops from his lips, whispered like a sacred prayer.

    “It’s good to see you too, Jesse,” you manage to reply, still grinning like a fool. Hardly a moment passes before the wind is suddenly knocked out of you. Jesse had holstered his gun, closed the distance between the two of you, and pulled you into a hug in a matter of just a couple seconds. The action catches you by surprise, now making you the one to choke on the words caught in your throat. Still, you manage to hug him back, leaning in to gently rest your head against his chest.

    “Goddamnit, who gave you the right to surprise me like this?” He asks after a few moments of silence, his voice on the edge of breaking. His grip was tight, like a man desperate to keep his sanity clutching onto a lifetime of coping methods. Words failed you, barely managing a confused noise, as you pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. There was something you couldn’t comprehend in his gaze. Something you were missing, that required knowledge you didn’t have. Your head tipped to the side as you hoped for at least a little elaboration. Jesse seems to realize your cluelessness, and shakes his head with a bitter laugh. “I thought you were dead,” he murmurs, the words settling on his tongue with an all-too-familiar weight.

    Shit, you thought, eyes going wide for a moment. Thoughts raced through your head as you tried to process what he said, thinking back to what had happened after Blackwatch’s disbandment, wondering why he could possibly have thought that you were-

….

….

    Fuck.

    Yeah, that tracked. Going from constantly fighting in bars to fucking off to nowhere, changing your name, and turning to the vigilante lifestyle? No shit people thought you were dead. How had you ever thought that this was a good idea?... Sure, most of your old friends had done the same, scattering across the four winds without so much as a “lol bye” (or, you know, a proper farewell). However, that didn’t mean that there weren’t still people who cared, who you could have at least made the slightest effort to keep in touch with before disappearing. People like Jesse.

    “Now that you mention it, I realize I didn’t exactly leave much room for thinking anything else,” you replied, barely managing to speak through your embarrassment. A laugh tried to move past your teeth, even though you knew the timing was bad, but the sound died as soon as your gaze met Jesse’s.

    “That’s one hell of an understatement, old friend,” he said, hardly a trace of mirth to his name. Both of his arms were still around your frame, gently cradling you, as if a stiff breeze might sweep you away from him once more. You could feel his body shifting with every breath he took, slowly finding yourself matching the movements. One of Jesse’s hands moves to cup your cheek, fingers sliding so carefully that you almost didn’t feel it, but you lean it instinctively, finding your lips placing a whisper of a kiss against his wrist. “Darling,” he breathes, voice caught in his throat, blocked by joy and surprise alike.

    “I’m sorry for worrying you, Jesse. I swear I never meant to just vanish like that,” you plead, tears pricking the corner of your eyes. “Things were bad, and I… I just ran from that, I guess. But you didn’t deserve that, at all, and I swear to whatever passes for high heaven these days, if you give me a chance-....” Pulled in closer, you couldn’t help but squeak a little when Jesse plants a kiss on your forehead. One of his hands is rubbing gentle circles into your back. A reassurance, one you desperately needed. “I can make it up to you. We can do better this time, right?...”

    Jesse didn’t say anything, at least not at first, but the feeling of his hat settling down on your head gave you all the answers you’d ever need.

[voiceless-terror]

Proficient in PowerPoint (The Magnus Archives)

Summary:

“Why are there so many animations?” Jon tapped his foot impatiently through the unnecessarily arduous process of getting to the next page. “I’m not a child. This is for Elias, not a primary school.”

“I thought they looked nice…” Martin said softly, shuffling his feet. “I can take them out, if you’d like-”

“They’re wonderful Martin, don’t listen to him."

Jon has to make a presentation for Elias. Sasha, Tim, and Martin help, with dubious results.

“It’s standard procedure, Jon. Every new department head does a presentation.”   “But I-” Jon left off with a sigh. Being called up to his boss’s office at the beginning of the day to be informed that he would be making a presentation to all of his intimidating colleagues (and superiors, if he were being honest) was not the way Jon wanted to start his Monday. Besides, what was he going to say? How could he explain this mess of an Archive that was currently under his command? That he didn’t really know what an Archivist did, and that when he googled the position it didn’t seem anything like what Elias had described? He might as well get in front of the room, announce his resignation and go home. Somedays this felt like the best course of action.

 He’d heard the whispers following the email announcing his promotion to Head Archivist.  “Him?”  was said more than once. A few scoffs, a few appraising eyes from the other department heads who were all at least a decade older than him. Even Sasha and Tim had given him a sort of silent treatment, only speaking to him in short sentences and one-word answers in the weeks that immediately followed.

Elias seemed to sense his unease. “It doesn’t have to be long. Just a rundown, a simple assessment of the Archives as they are and what you plan on implementing during your tenure. Perhaps a little about you and your team. Introduce yourself. Everyone’s eager to learn a bit more about you.” Jon very much doubted that.

 “Well the Archives, in my “assessment,” are currently a mess.” His candor was not appreciated. Elias was not amused.

 “A mess that you’re going to fix,” Elias gave him a withering glance. “I assumed you could handle this, but if that’s not the case-”

 “No, I-” He sighed again, the only sound he was capable of making. “Al-Alright. You said it was this Friday, correct?”

 “Yes!” Elias gave him a brief smile and ushered him out of the door with a hand on his shoulder, signaling the conversation was over. “Let me know if you have any issues. Not that you will, of course.”  Of course.

 The door shut behind him and Rosie gave him a sympathetic look from her seat. “You hang in there, alright? You’ll do just fine.” Either Jon looked that pathetic, or Rosie truly did eavesdrop on every conversation.

 Perhaps a bit of both.

 __________

 It was Wednesday evening and Jon was staring at a blank screen.

 Everyone else was packing up for the day while he sat in his chair, stewing over what words to write. He should be recording statements like Elias  wanted, not putting together some bureaucratic nonsense so the others could ‘get to know him and his plans.’ He didn’t really have a plan for the Archives besides digitization, and even that was going disastrously. Should he even mention the tapes? He’d likely be met with scorn and laughter. Elias may find them promising, but anyone who took one look at their equipment said otherwise. Google told him that he should share fun facts about the team but that seemed highly unprofessional. Who cared that he liked to watch documentaries in what little spare time he had? Instead, he’d written a very bare-bones outline of what he’d like to say but for some reason typing it out was impossible. The only thing he’d managed to get was a layout and font in neutral, unobtrusive colors. This was very important to him. 

 “Still stuck on the presentation, Jon?”

 Sasha was leaning against the doorway with a gentle smile on her face. She knew how hard it was for Jon to get his thoughts together sometimes and was always a sympathetic ear when it got particularly bad. She seemed to have finally settled into her role (whatever that may be) and was talking to him more and more. Though no one in the department had any experience in archiving, Sasha at least had more concrete ideas.

 “Yes, I’m just-” he sighed, taking his glasses off and rubbing his temples to ward off the approaching headache. “I’ve got no idea what he wants. What is a ‘rundown’ and how can I have one with the Archives like...this?” He gestured to his mess of an office, currently drowning in paper and cardboard boxes.

 “Well, what do you have so far?” Jon grimaced and handed over his notebook, filled with messy scribbles and half-finished ideas. Sasha skimmed it and made a few promising noises; Jon hated the part of himself that sought her approval. She finished and looked up with a grin. “How about you let me have a go at it? You know I love this sort of thing, and then you’ll have some time to record that statement tomorrow, hm?”

 “I-really? Would that be okay? I don’t want you to have to- I mean, it’s my job.”

 “I’m your assistant, Jon,” she interrupted with a placating hand. “So let me assist you!” Her offer seemed very genuine. Jon was loath to ask for help or admit to trouble even in the best of cases, but Sasha had a way of wearing him down with one well-placed smile. He decided to take the hand offered. 

 “Thank you, Sasha. Really.” He leaned back in his chair and gave her a grateful smile, glad for any progress made on the project.

 “And it’s no problem. Really.” She tucked his notebook into her bag and gave a cheerful nod.  “I’ll show you what we come up with!”

  ______

Jon yawned into his fist for the fourth time in an hour. The Amy Patel statement wouldn’t record on the computer so unfortunately he brought out the tape recorder. For some reason every time he recorded to tape he came away exhausted and anxious, unsettled by the words he spoke. Luckily he managed to get to the follow up recorded without too many interruptions- usually one of his assistants would come banging on the door and he’d be forced to start over for the sake of professionalism. 

 “Knock knock!” 

  Speak of the devil.  Tim grinned at him from the doorway, Martin standing close behind him.

 “Yes?” he asked shortly, straightening the files on his desk. “Do you need something?”

 “Your presentation, as requested!” Tim bestowed upon him a flash drive with much pomp and circumstance. “You’re welcome.”

 “Oh! Er, I thought I gave that to Sasha?” He looked in surprise at the device before him. He wasn’t expecting them to actually finish everything- he also wasn’t expecting anyone but Sasha to help him out. If Tim and Martin helped out as well... “I’ll uh, check it out in a few moments, thank you.

 “But I want to show you now, boss!” Tim’s voice reached the whiny pitch that he knew Jon loathed. He sighed however, and plugged it in. After a few moments a window popped open, with a file labeled  Jonny’s First Work Presentation.  He rolled his eyes while Tim snickered.  I’ll need to change that before the meeting…

 The file looked...hellish, to say the least. Jon spied on the first few slides a strange and ugly gradient background that faded from bright green to black, along with garish rainbow WordArt. He was almost afraid to click on anything, lest it blind him or inspire a seizure.

 “It’s really best viewed in slideshow mode,” Tim nudged Jon’s hand out of the way and made it so, the full screen now proudly showing the title page-  Jonathan Sims’ New and Improved Archives!!   Martin and Tim leaned in over his shoulder, the latter clearly excited to showcase his work.  That’s never good.

 “That’s far too many exclamation points, Tim.”

 “There are never enough exclamation points, Jon.”

 The next slide came in with a sort of shutter effect that did nothing to minimize the horrendous resizing done on the Magnus Institute logo, which had been stretched to fit almost the entire page and was unrecognizable due to pixilation. Jon gritted his teeth. “This is unnecessary.”

 “Wow, everyone’s a critic,” Tim rolled his eyes.

 “I-I can probably find a logo with better resolution,” Martin offered timidly. Jon had almost forgotten he was in the room. 

 The next pages were not much better- the Oxford English Dictionary’s definition of ‘archive,’ the audio pronunciation for it had a page to itself. There were several collages of books and artifacts (these looked handmade, as if someone had copy and pasted several finds from google images). Jon felt his anger grow with each laborious click. Was this someone’s idea of a joke? Where was Sasha? “Is there anything of actual substance in this?” he asked, huffing as the current slide disintegrated out of view in a dramatic fashion.

 “God, so impatient! We’re building up to it.” A few more clicks. They got to a page covered with cartoon ghosts and nothing else. “Watch this!” With a click the ghosts all flew away, a clunky piece of animation that revealed  Jonathan Sims’ Plan of ATTACK!!

 “I did that one,” Martin announced in his ear with not a little pride.

 The ‘plan of attack’ included bullet points (which were also little ghosts) regarding the new digitization and accessibility project in clear, cogent prose which must have been the work of Sasha. The rest, however- random paragraphs about ‘synergy’ and ‘dynamic team players’- was clearly unsalvageable and designed to make him the laughing stock of the institute. 

 “I can’t...this is unusable, Tim!”

 “Keep reading! There’s good content there. God, there’s no accounting for taste these days, is there Martin?” Martin did not answer. What could Martin have said? Each page was worse than the last- the current slide had only a picture of what looked to be an ancient Egyptian scroll and nothing else.

 “This is the definition of unusable.”

 “No it’s not!” Tim argued though he was on the verge of laughter. He was smiling, clearly enjoying the entire scenario. “Look, I even put a ‘Meet the Team’ section-” He clicked through the slides, each piece of text gliding across the screen in an obnoxious star pattern. 

 “Why are there so many animations?” Jon tapped his foot impatiently through the unnecessarily arduous process of getting to the next page. “I’m not a child. This is for Elias, not a primary school.”

 “I thought they looked nice…” Martin said softly, shuffling his feet. “I can take them out, if you’d like-”

 “They’re wonderful Martin, don’t listen to him,” Tim had finally reached the first slide of his ‘Meet the Team’ section. Instead of starting with Jon it began with an incredibly large photo of Tim, smiling and winking at the camera.  Naturally.

 “Tim Stoker: A Gentleman and a Scholar,” Jon read aloud. “I’m not saying that. And shouldn’t we be starting with me? I ask for one thing-”

 “I saved the best for last, of course! Martin, you’ll  love this,” Tim began frantically clicking through animations, taking a full minute to get to Jon’s slide. “Ta-da!”

  Jonathan Sims: The Man, the Myth, the Legendary Archivist

 It was a picture of Jon from a happy hour years ago, smiling broadly with half-lidded eyes and sprawled across the bar in a state of disarray. He had a vague memory of Sasha snapping the photo before he fell to the ground and vomited everything he drank.  No no no no  - he attempted to slam down the laptop screen before Martin could see but the damage was done. The man was red and stuttering, clearly embarrassed for Jon. He took a deep breath, attempting to calm down. He contemplated his options- double homicide or self-immolation. Both seemed equally appealing in the moment. 

 “Please leave,” he fumed, his own face a tomato red as he stared at the floor. “Now.”

 “Aw boss, don’t be like that-”

  “Now!”  Two sets of footsteps scurried from the room as Jon threw his head into his hands.

 He had quite a bit of work to do.

 _____________

 Of course he scrapped almost all of it, keeping only the informative parts that Sasha had written.  This is why you should do things yourself. ‘Assist’ my ass. 

 Jon had kept the door closed for the rest of the afternoon, ignoring both the plaintive apologies from Tim and Martin and Sasha’s insistent knocking. He wanted to blame her for letting the other two get involved, wanted to yell and stamp and maybe throw a thing or two. But it was  his  job. He shouldn’t have left it all to them.  Lazy, incompetent, his mind raged but the words were aimed at himself. Perhaps that’s why they sabotaged the slideshow, to tell him they weren’t going to do his dirty work. Hazing the new boss.  Did they realize how important this was to him? Did they even care? He already looked like a fool- why not double down on it?

 He took the ‘Meet the Team’ page down, his fingers angrily punched the ‘delete’ key for every picture and turned it into one slide with only their names and positions.  That’s all they need to know, really.  He managed to throw together a few slides on a new organizational system and something about research follow up, but it all rang false and hollow- any academic would see right through this bullshit attempt. Even the digitization slides seemed trite- why was this his first order of business?  What the hell are you doing?

 It was late into the night when he finally finished, though the presentation was nowhere near what he wanted it to be. The clock informed him it was only ten though, so he still had some time before the last train. He was just going to rest his eyes for a minute and then he’d get up and go.  Just a minute...

  ____________

And then it was tomorrow.

 Fuck.  Fuck! 

 Jon woke up with his head pillowed in his arms and his back almost completely immobile. He squinted at the clock-  7:00 AM. He tripped down the hallway and into the bathroom to freshen up, splashing cold water on his face and cursing under his breath. How embarrassing to be caught in yesterday’s clothes- if he switched out his sweater vest for a blazer, they might not notice. His wardrobe was nothing if not consistent and boring. His hair tamed into some semblance of neatness, Jon went on to his next stop, the break room for a cup of coffee and then finally, back to his office to survey the finished product and perhaps do a few run-throughs.

 He settled in his seat and pressed the power button to coax his laptop out of sleep. The clock on the wall ticked a steady, droning rhythm that somewhat calmed his racing heart and he took a sip of coffee, savoring the bitter flavor. His eyes flickered down to the screen- still black. He pressed it again. Nothing. He looked to the side of the computer, noticing the lack of power cord.  Oh, it’s not plugged in. That’ll do it. He solved that problem quickly and tried again.  

 Again, nothing. He pushed it harder, hurting his finger with the intensity behind it. The screen remained black.

 It was then that Jonathan Sims screamed.

 _____________

It was nine in the morning and he still had no idea what to do. No amount of coaxing, either through nice words or obscenities had managed to wake it up. He removed the battery and put it back in. He prayed to several gods, none of which he believed in. He kicked the desk and promptly fell to the ground, screaming in pain. IT didn’t come in until ten, and his meeting was at nine-thirty. He was well and truly fucked.

 But then he heard footsteps coming down the hall and he dashed to meet them, hoping it was the person he needed. And it was.

 “Sasha!” he panted, taking in heaving, gulping breaths. “Help!”

 “Oh God Jon, is this one of your asthma attacks? Do you have your inhaler?” Her eyes widened and her hands fluttered nervously. ‘I’ve told you-”

 “No,” he grabbed her by the shoulders, feeling more unhinged by the moment. “I-I lost it. The PowerPoint. My laptop won’t turn on, and-”

 “Breathe, Jon! That’s no trouble at all. I can get into your drive, no worries!” she said, pushing him into a chair and booting up her laptop. Jon put a hand to his chest, attempting to follow her advice.  See, it’s fine!  “Where did you save it? On your ShareDrive or on the general Archives one? I’ll need your credentials if it’s the former.”

 His heart dropped.  No no no no. He’d done the one thing Sasha had always warned him against.  “I-I saved it to the desktop…”

 “Oh Jon.”

 And that's when he spiraled. He was going to have to walk into that meeting, hands empty, and face the firing squad. Elias will know he should have never hired him and everyone there will nod and agree that the stupid boy who couldn’t do one simple task does not belong at the table with the rest of him and Jon will be sent on his way, back to research if he’s lucky or fired if he’s not and he can’t do one fucking thing right-

 “Jon. Jon!”  Sasha had a hand on his shoulder, firm and grounding. “Fucking  breathe. It’s fine, you’re fine! Here.” She slipped the flash drive from yesterday into his hand and he groaned, attempting to pass it back

 “I can’t use that one, you know I can’t-”

 “No, this one’s different, I promise,” She grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes. “I tried to tell you yesterday- I’m sorry about all of that. It wasn’t funny. We fixed it.” She seemed honest, sincere. But Jon was still hesitant, taking in shaking breaths.

 “This isn’t a joke?”

 “I swear. Here, use my laptop.” She passed it over and Jon paused, considering his options, which were few.

 So Jon took the flash drive and laptop and left, ignoring Martin’s greetings as he brushed by him on his way up to the conference room.  Here goes.

 _____________

 “Erm, h-hello,” Jon coughed, clearing his throat. “I’m Jonathan Sims, the new Head Archivist, as Elias...already said, I guess.” He let out a nervous laugh which no one returned. Elias nodded, urging him to go on.

 Jon had made his way to the room with fifteen minutes to spare, giving him some time to boot up the computer and load the presentation. A quick, nervous glance let him know that it was much changed- at least the first few slides. He shook hands with each department head as they came in, trying to see which of their smiles and congratulations were sincere. The answer? Very few. This was not comforting. 

 His hands shook as he clicked his way to the first slide, his heart pounded in his chest to reveal-

  Bringing the Archives into the 21st Century- A Plan for Updating and Digitizing the Institute's Statements

  Well that’s not bad at all.

 He began to speak, his voice gaining clarity and confidence with every sentence. The presentation was lovely- incorporating his preferred neutral color scheme, a great improvement on the nauseating colors of before. The animations were minimal and sleek, making the transitions meld seamlessly from slide to slide. There was a bit introducing Gertrude’s past work and a dig at her filing system that earned him a laugh. There were new slides regarding the preservation of documents, a new organizational structure, the introduction of a database. All ideas they’d briefly spoken about before committing themselves fully to the digitization process as Elias instructed. Everything was written in his favored academic tone- so natural that Jon found himself speaking extemporaneously on the slides he felt more comfortable with. It was all met with approving nods and a studious gaze from Elias that Jon couldn’t parse. There was also no mention of the tapes.

 The dreaded ‘Meet the Team’ section had been heavily reworked- each one of them had the headshot from their IDs (poor Martin had his eyes closed) and a mention of which department they’d transferred from, along with their credentials. It was professional and informative, everything Jon had wanted it to be. Sasha had outdone herself.  Sasha should be the one making this presentation. 

 He tried to ignore the guilt settling in his chest, even as he smiled back at the approval from the academics he so desperately craved. He clicked to the last slide, which had their contact information and-  oh. It was a picture taken from his birthday a few weeks back, where they all looked fairly presentable and were smiling, no idea of the task ahead of them. Elias was there too; Rosie had taken the picture at Tim’s insistence. His audience tittered, though it seemed to be in good humor rather than mocking.

 “Ah, yes. Th-Thank you for your time.” He quickly turned it off and stared at the ground, his face warm with both embarrassment and a creeping sense of belonging that he didn’t know what to do with. He was startled when a small round of applause began and he looked up with wide eyes to find a smiling audience. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elias nod and smile as well and he finally felt the sense of accomplishment he’d longed for since the start of his promotion.  

 The room cleared rather quickly (no one really wanted to be in a Friday meeting, after all) but Jon was stopped by a tall, smiling woman he had only seen in passing. “Sonya from Artefact Storage,” she reminded him, shaking his hand again and giving him a warm smile. “I’m looking forward to talking to you more about that database. I was always telling Gertrude she needed one, but of course she never listened to me. Stubborn to the end!” He could only stutter, too overwhelmed to formulate a proper response. A hand reached out to his shoulder.

 “That was nicely done, Archivist.” For some reason the title made Jon feel odd, like he was having an honor bestowed that he had not yet earned. Elias wasn’t that much taller than him, but he always seemed to loom over Jon. “Quite the presentation. Lots of...ideas. But I must stress the importance of getting the statements-”

 “On tape, yes, yes,” Jon said, quick to agree. “I just thought, er- I should let them know some of our other objectives, as well?”  Seems like Sasha wanted to, at least.

 “As long as you don’t forget yours,” A pointed glance. Jon gulped nervously, shoving a hand in his pocket. “Still, a good job all around. That Sasha of yours seems like a good asset. Enjoy your weekend.”

 Jon froze in the doorway. Did he know?  Of course not, don’t be silly.  He shook his head and left the room. Well, at least that’s over with.

 ____________

 “Did it go alright?” Sasha asked immediately upon his entrance. He managed a self-deprecating smile. 

 “Surprisingly, yes. That was-  thank you, I guess.”

 “No trouble at all,” Tim jumped out from the break room, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Always knew you had it in you. A consummate performer, I was telling our Martin-”

  “Tim!”  He scowled and tried in vain to shove him away, still irritated by his presence.

 “Seriously, though. Sorry about all of that before. Just trying to lighten the mood, I swear we wouldn’t have actually left you with that-”

 “It’s- It’s fine,” Jon sighed, reluctantly giving in to Tim’s insistent affection. “Well, not really, but it turned out alright in the end.” Sasha gave an encouraging grin.

 “Did you like the photo?” Martin asked anxiously, hovering in the corner of the room. Jon paused. He considered telling him no, that he would have never put it in there himself and considered it rather unprofessional on the whole, but one look at Martin’s face told him that was the wrong move.

 “Yes, Martin,” he said, summoning up the equivalent of a smile. “I liked the photo.”

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27142390

[visionsofus]

For the mixtape: “death stranding” by chvrches?? Thanks

hi anon! thanks for the request ~ I hope you enjoy!

| read on AO3 here | mixtape playlist | send me an ask with your song/prompt request |  

track #10: Death Stranding by CHVRCHES 

synopsis: Wanda and Vision spend the night at a glitzy party for a mission and get jealous when they see each other with other people. Pre-CW

“Is this all really necessary?” Wanda asked, slipping her usual rings onto her fingers to retain a little bit of her everyday look.

“Of course, it’s necessary,” Nat said past the bobby pins in her mouth as she pinned up the last few strands of Wanda’s hair. “You’re going to the Hamptons; anything less will make you stand out.”

Wanda sighed but turned slightly to the mirror to take in what she was wearing. It was a rare pleasure getting dressed up like this, even if it was for work. She’d worried that she’d grown too recognisable in her year since joining the team but gazing at herself now she doubted anyone would think she was an Avenger. She’d chosen her dress from a selection that had arrived at the compound earlier that week for this specific occasion. Of course, it was no ordinary dress, the boddice was bullet proof and though the skirts appeared normal, dropping from her hips to the floor with several slits at the front and sides, Wanda had been told which button to press that would make the flimsy material snap its Kevlar protectively around her legs. It wasn’t as though she was going to go into this sting operation unprepared.

A soft rap came at the door right as Nat finished pressing pins into Wanda’s scalp.

“We’re ready,” Nat called over her shoulder admiring her work.

Steve stepped in, decked in a charcoal suit, sunglasses pushed up to rest on his hair. “Looking lovely, Wanda,” Steve said raising his hand to tip an imaginary hat to her, “we leave in half an hour.”

“I too, am ready,” Vision said his voice entering the room as he phased through the solid wall to their right.

Wanda raised her eyebrows at his unannounced arrival. “Captain Rogers was standing in the doorway…” Vision began but trailed off when he caught sight of her properly.

Wanda turned in her chair to admire Vision. He was dressed in a white suit with a pale pink and gold tie, holding the matching ivory jacket in one hand.

“Make sure you rehearse your cover stories, we don’t need any careless slip ups tonight,” Steve reminded him as he looked at his watch once more. “Nat and I are going to head to the jet, meet us down there.”

“We are?” Nat asked, as Steve tugged her out of the room without another word, door shutting behind them.

“You look beautiful,” Vision said reaching out to help her up. Wanda rested a hand on his arm and pushed herself to her feet, remarkably steady despite the outrageous heels. She liked the height they gave her but was quite sure her feet wouldn’t be enjoying things by the end of the night. At least they had a thick enough heel that she might be able to run or fight if need be. Hopefully things wouldn’t come to that.

“You look rather dashing yourself,” Wanda replied, giving Vision another once over. She could have sworn that there were silver threads running through the white of his suit, but it could have just been the harsh lighting distorting her gaze. At the compliment Vision’s gaze dropped to the floor, a happy smile about his lips.

“You remember our aliases?” Wanda prompted, walking over to her dressing table where she’d placed the necklace she wanted to complete her look with. She held it out to Vision, turning around so he could help her with the clasp. His hands were cool against the back of her neck as he delicately swept her hair aside.  

“Of course,” Vision replied stepping around to face her once the necklace was fastened, “I am Viktor Walkins and you are my partner Emilia Williams.”

“Exactly,” Wanda said turning for the door and leading him through the compound as she spoke, “Emilia Williams, 26, a post-graduate art student at RISD. My main focus is on the art of human anatomy, body paint, that sort of thing.”

Vision held the front door open for her and she smiled at him as she stepped outside. He continued their cover story. “Which explains my appearance,” he gestured to himself and Wanda watched as he bent the nanotech of his body to his will, “I am one of your models.”

Wanda had been expecting a new look from Vision, he’d been experimenting more with phasing, but nothing this detailed. His complexion remained the same, but little leaves and branches now extended up his neck, dipping below his collar as the same thing happened to his hands. Wanda resisted the urge to reach out and trace her fingers along the delicate gold whirls arcing over his cheeks. He was a piece of art.  

“Colour me impressed,” she said smiling as he led the way to the landing bay.  

Wanda felt out of her depth as soon as they arrived at the front gates to the mansion where the operation was to take place. The mission itself was simple enough, get close to their target, John A. Sterling a young-ish weapons distributor who had been attempting to recreate old Stark weapons, and get him on record saying where the next meeting was to take place. Wanda thought it was strange how public the underground weapons industry was, they certainly relished in having a good party. According to their sources, Sterling always attended things like this to catch new prospective buyers, inviting them to a private party at the end of a month. Wanda and Vision’s job was to either secure an invite themselves, or at the very least catch someone else getting one.

That wasn’t the difficult part, really. She didn’t doubt that with Vision’s help they’d secure the location by the end of the night. No, the real challenge was the party ahead of her.

She leant heavily on Vision’s arm as they walked up the marble stairs and into an actual ballroom. Wanda had only ever seen things like this on TV. The crowd was a swirling mass of glitz and wealth. It resonated with immorality and fraud and it was a good thing Vision took the lead because she felt minutes away from running away from the horror before her.

They walked around the edge of the decadent room, stopping finally at a table of canapes and fading into the background as one of many couples milling about the food.

“I have eyes on him,” Wanda said quietly pretending to straighten the lapel of Vision’s already impeccable suit.

“Take your time getting close,” Steve’s voice crackled in his ear, “we don’t want to scare him off.”

“I’m not scary,” Wanda huffed, grinning at Vision but he was keeping his eyes on the crowd, watching their target dancing. “I’ll just go and dance with him.”

“Go slow, and if you have the opportunity to get close, plant the mic on him,” Steve reminded her before going quiet.

“I think I’d rather you just scare him,” Vision said his eyes narrowing at the figure moving through the crowd. Wanda tilted her head but decided not to question what he meant and instead turned back to the crowd.

“He’s on the move,” she murmured, placing her hand at Vision’s elbow once more and casually starting to move around the room. She followed the example of couples they passed, smiling at those whose eyes were unable to avoid Vision’s glamour, though his appearance was on par with the cosmetics of some guests.  

Sterling had left the floor with his wife and was making his way to the spread of tables and seats at the back of the ballroom. Wanda paused briefly to collect a plate and some canapes so that they might fit in better and then led the way to a table near their target couple.

Vision gave her a look that said he thought they had gotten too close, but she shook her head imperceptibly and sat him down next to her. The tables were mere feet apart, but she had positioned them so that their backs were to the Sterling’s, whilst being close enough to listen in on their conversation.

“… too warm tonight,” she heard Sterling say gruffly.

“John, stop complaining,” came his wife’s short reply.

Wanda pushed the small food about her plate, feeling too on edge to eat. Vision was sitting unnaturally beside her, his head too high as he glanced around suspiciously.  

“You look too nervous,” she whispered, lifting a champagne flute to her lips and pretending to take a sip. She also wasn’t going to let alcohol dull her senses tonight. Vision snapped his eyes to her, and she was shocked to see his demeanour change almost immediately. He sat further back in the chair, smoothly crossing a leg over one knee and leaning closer to her chair, an arm slouched haphazardly at her back.

“Better?” he whispered back, his head now much too close to hers, she felt his warm breath on her neck.

“Yep,” Wanda murmured, this time taking a legitimate drink.  

They remained sat behind the unsuspecting couple until they rose once more to join the crowd milling about the ballroom floor. Wanda’s eyes snapped to Vision’s and she gave him a look someone along the lines of trust me. At least she hoped that’s what her face said because he looked shocked as she abruptly stood up, spinning and walking straight into their target.

“Oh my goodness!” She gasped delicately, bringing her hands to her mouth in shock as Sterling was forced to stagger back slightly. Wanda tried not to cringe at the warmness her hand was met with when she patted the man’s shoulder in apology. “I am so sorry.”

All those months working on her American accent with Nat was worth it all for this moment, her intonation was perfect.

Sterling had steadied himself and looked fit to argue until he looked up and saw precisely who had run into him. Wanda gave him her best apologetic smile. “Oh that’s, quite alright.” His hand went absentmindedly to his hair, running a hand through it.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Sterling’s wife piped up, standing up from the table and extending a hand to Wanda.

“Emilia Williams,” Wanda smiled shaking her hand delicately, “I am here in my father’s place.”

“Your father, Williams you say,” Sterling murmured with false understanding as though he were familiar with the man, which was of course impossible considering he was a fictional father.

“Say,” Wanda said turning a hopeful, yet shy, gaze to John Sterling, “I don’t suppose you can dance; my partner doesn’t like dancing.” Vision scowled from where he was still sitting.

“Well as a matter of fact, we were just about to join the floor again.” John looked at his wife for permission, “you don’t mind do you darling?”

“Not at all,” Ms Sterling replied, her gaze on Vision, “I’ll be quite happy sitting here and talking with this fascinating figure, I’m sure.”

To her dismay, Wanda had to take the arm Sterling offered as they made their way out to the dance floor.

“How has your father been?” Sterling asked as they stopped in an open space, Wanda taking one of his hands while the other came to rest at her waist. It amused her that he was still pretending to know the fictional man she had created, but all for networking she supposed.

“Oh he’s doing well, he just wasn’t feeling up to this evening and I was more than happy to come in his stead,” Wanda said sweetly as they starting to dance slowly. “He speaks of you often, always talking about the good work you do.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Sterling said graciously dipping his head, but Wanda knew she’d pressed the right button to direct the conversation where she needed it to go.

The music picked up and the dancing became livelier, and she had to focus on keeping up with her dance partner. Over his shoulder she spotted Vision still stranded with Mrs Sterling, who appeared to have gotten quite touchy in investigating the paint on his body. Vision was in the midst of rolling up his shirt sleeve to the elbow so that she could see more clearly, and Wanda’s heart tightened with irrational jealousy. She mentally reprimanded herself, she had no right to be possessive. Instead, she focused on the task at hand, she needed to get more out of Sterling and the sooner the better judging from the friendliness of his hands.

“Such terrible disasters happening in California this week,” she said in an attempt to make small talk.

“Dreadful,” he replied shortly, and Wanda resisted the urge to step on his toes a few times as his gaze dipped too low.

“I almost wish I had a better way to protect my family, if such things begin happening further north,” Wanda said contemplatively and tried not to bristle at how quickly his eyes snapped up to meet hers. Now he was paying attention.

“It’s important,” he murmured more quietly, “that we can all protect ourselves in these troubling times.”

“My father agrees,” Wanda sighed forlornly, “but alas we don’t really have any good contacts in that sort of industry.”

They were quiet a little longer and Wanda feared she had pressed too far. Regardless, the conversation had made him serious enough that she’d had an opportunity to drop one of her rings, one with a microphone within the gemstone, into his pocket as the dance swapped directions and they traded hands. Mic planted.

“I have special parties each month,” he began slowly, “if you are interested, I could put you and your father on the guest list for July.”

Wanda let herself smile I surprise and excitement. “Really? My father would be so grateful.”

Back among the tables, Vision was trying to figure out why he had grown so irritable all of a sudden. It was really interfering with the flattery he was currently delivering to Mrs Sterling whilst Wanda was busy out on the floor with their weapons distributor. He kept one eye on the spinning couple, growing frustrated at how easily the man was touching her.  

“Gosh this paint is just divine,” Mrs Sterling said, fawning over his glamoured skin, “she is quite remarkable.”

“I know,” Vision said not thinking as the words left his mouth and the tenderness that went along with them.

Mrs Sterling smiled wryly at him. “Don’t give up yet. A nice man like you? She’s sure to fall eventually.”

“Pardon?” Vision choked out, wondering what on earth had given the woman the impression that he and Wanda were anything more than platonic.

“Oh you know what I mean,” she waved a hand and laughed lightly, “shall we go rescue her from my husband?”

Vision looked at the woman with new appreciation and offered his hand to help her to his feet. “You know, I think you’re right, I am suddenly in the mood to dance.”

“That’s the right attitude,” she said patting his arm affectionately as he led her onto the dance floor.

“John,” Mrs Sterling called out, waving a hand as he and Wanda spun past, “give this young man a chance, will you?”

It seemed they were too far away to hear, and John was decidedly preoccupied by his dance partner. Vision caught Wanda’s eyes and she tilted her chin down slightly. It was done.

“Thank you for your charming conversation,” Vision said patting the back of Mrs Sterling’s hand at his arm, “but I had best get to her.”

Vision arrived just in time to see Wanda spin in time with other dancers and reached out a hand to catch hers before she could spin back into Sterling’s grasp.

“Oh,” she said softly, as his hand came to rest at her back, steadying her.

“You’ll have to excuse me, Mr Sterling,” Wanda said apologetically, “it seems my partner is finally ready to dance, it was lovely chatting with you.”

Mrs Sterling was at his arm in a moment, coaxing her husband away from the dance floor.

“I’m glad thatis done,” Wanda sighed, turning towards Vision once the other couple was out of sight. “Mic planted, and hopefully Cap will get news of a personal invitation for Emilia Williams by the end of the night.”

“Excellent work,” Vision said taking her hands and putting them on his shoulders.

“What are you doing?” Wanda asked slowly, but she didn’t pull away.

“It would look suspicious if we left now,” Vision said, “so I am dancing.”

“I didn’t know you could dance.”

“While Natasha gave you your lessons, Steve gave me mine.”

“Huh,” Wanda murmured in surprise but stepped into the music with him, their feet moving in synchronicity, taking them around the other pairs about the floor.

It was different, being with her like this. But Vision enjoyed the closeness. In the past they had been physically affectionate without thinking about it but Vision was becoming more conscious of exactly how often they reached for each other, and what was worse, he was beginning to question his own reasons behind it. He rarely thought of ignorance as something good but there was a nagging feeling to this situation, an apprehension that if he examined the emotions he felt around Wanda there would be no going back.

Steve’s voice crackled to life in Vision’s head, “good job you two, get out when you can.”

“Sure thing,” Wanda murmured but made no move to leave the dance floor. When she saw Vision’s questioning gaze she smiled. “You wanted to dance right? It would be a shame the let those lessons go to waste.”

“Yes, it would be a shame,” he said absentmindedly, overly conscious of her hand resting at the nape of his neck.

“You seemed to be getting on well with Mrs Sterling,” Wanda said, her gaze a little distant as she looked determinedly over his shoulder.

“No more than was necessary,” Vision replied and then felt a little silly for saying it in such an assuring way, what did Wanda care if he had been friendly with their target? After all, it wasn’t as though she had done anything different. “You didn’t seem in a hurry to get away from Sterling.”

Wanda huffed in frustration and Vision felt bad for pushing further.

“It was part of the job,” she explained through her teeth trying to keep a smile on as they danced past chattering bystanders, “at least I wasn’t rolling my sleeves up and showing off my muscles.”

Vision actually sputtered. “That is not what I was doing.”

“Could have fooled me,” Wanda shrugged smiling pleasantly, but her refusal to look at him showed more.

He sighed wishing he hadn’t teased her or gotten onto this line of conversation. “I did not want for us to argue.”

“And what did you want?” Wanda said, her voice a dare asking for the truth, her eyes a constant on his and Vision resisted the urge to look away, maintaining her steel gaze.

“I want to be honest,” he said quietly and when Wanda didn’t prompt him, he continued speaking. “I’m afraid of saying something that might change things between us.”

Us.The word hung between them as an unspoken truth. They hadn’t acknowledged the possibility that they were becoming something other than Vision and Wanda, that perhaps there was a third alternative where they were something more.

“I’d rather honesty, even if it changes things.”

“As silly as it sounds,” he began hesitantly, “I was jealous, seeing you dancing out here without me. It irritated me that I had been shrugged off in favour of that man, even if it was for the mission.”

Wanda smiled and raised a hand to his cheek, his skin warmed as she brushed her palm over the intricate gold ‘paint’ still on his face. “It was not a choice I was making, but if I’d had to choose you could have no doubt it would be you.”

Vision resisted the urge to close his eyes and lean into her palm, trying to focus on the understanding in her gaze. “I was jealous too, watching you with her.”

“That has to mean something doesn’t it,” Vision said, his voice barely above a whisper as Wanda moved imperceptibly closer, his hand moved comfortably around her back as they slowed to a stop.

“It does,” she smiled and nodded, and Vision felt a wave of relief emanating out of him that they were on the same page. “The truth is out in the open now I suppose, no going back.”

“I think I’d rather look forward,” he said and slowly pulled them towards the outskirts of the ballroom and to a stop. Wanda’s cheeks were pink from the dancing and her eyes were light as she turned to him.

“So, we’ll just see what happens?”

“I’d like that,” Vision said keeping a tight grip on her hand, reluctant to let her go just yet. They went to leave the ballroom and once out in the night air he shrugged his suit jacket off and let it rest around Wanda’s shoulders. With one arm around her waist and the other holding her hand they left the faux cheer of the ballroom behind. The evening had been an adventure and a step out of his comfort zone, but Vision was as eager as Wanda was for home, to be back in the space they both knew so well and to relish in the step they had taken, to dream of all that was to come and all that they might be.

[samtheflamingomain]

thanks, it's the mania

I'm pretty sure I'm hypomanic right now. I'm bipolar; most people know the 2 extremes of those poles, severe depression and abject psychosis. Mania is below psychosis, hypomania is like Mania Lite, then there's "mixed states" where you have symptoms of both depression and mania at the same time. Anyway.

I like to make birthday/xmas presents for the very few close people in my life. I'm talking painstaking realistic portraits of a dog from the background of a friend's FB profile because she hasn't posted any other pics of her.

My best friend in the world, Connor, who lives in Toronto (2h away) and I see maybe 3-4 times a year, was coming home for labour day.

I've had some shit going on that meant I had delayed the main present I was making for him until this week, thinking labour day was next weekend.

Then, Thursday night, I realized I was wrong, and Connor would be here at noon Sunday. I had to make a decision: bite the bullet and forget about the gift, or bite the bigger bullet and spend the next 72 hours putting in insane amounts of work for a project that might not even come out very good.

I decided I really wanted this to get made, and for him to see it before I don't see him again till Christmas.

Sorry for waiting so long for the reveal. It's a card game. Hope it was worth the build-up.

I've made games before - card, board and video. I'm good at it, and it's a very satisfying result to play a game with a friend that you personally made.

So when all my roommates played a game called Gloom last week, I knew I loved the concept but hated the execution. I could do it better, and change it up enough to make it an entirely new game. It's called Casting Call. It's pretty hard to explain but I'll try.

Basically your job is to "write" a reality show. You're dealt 5 "cast members" and use "drama cards" to construct their stories throughout the show. Play the "lost an ally" card on Jane for minus strategy and luck points. But the thing is that in order to play that card, you need to tell the story of how she lost that ally, and if any other cards/stories have been played on her, it all has to flow together.

Anyway, I've never undertaken such a huge project with so little time, and I had to work 5 hours today. I knew as soon as I sat down to crunch this fucker out by Sunday that I needed to Optimize The Machinery.

I wrote macros and shortcuts for programs to make writing, printing, cutting and sealing 85 cards across 5 categories as seamless as possible. I started at 9pm Thursday, and buy 9pm Friday with 4 hours of sleep, I was so close to being done.

I had neglected a lot of tasks so I took 3 hours to do that, relax a bit, and then suddenly remember I'm missing 15 cards. So I worked from 12pm to 3am to make those. I finally went to sleep at 4am Friday with nothing left to do except the packaging/box and to write out the rules. I could do that in a few hours after work.

Well, I overslept, barely made it to work on time and had some chores to do when I got home. When I started working, I was already exhausted, but I knew I wouldn't be likely to get much if any sleep again that night.

Then Connor said that the trains weren't running that day and he'd come visit next weekend instead and I almost collapsed from relief.

I know it sounds completely insane to do what I did. For a fuckin card game.

But it's really, really good, and I loved every minute of making it, and I know it would've been worth it to see Connor laugh at the funny cards and appreciate the subtle inside jokes we have.

It's not like he could take the game home and play it with anyone else but me and maybe our friend Casey if we explained some of the references. But I've made him another game, and whenever he visits he always brings it to play with me.

I don't own many board games myself, because they're expensive and I don't have a lot of friends, and the friends I do have to play board games with "just don't get" Cards Against Humanity. We play mostly Catan-like games and Harry Potter Trivial Pursuit which is over in 5 minutes because every one of us knows every single answer.

But Connor loves every game I've made him play. He was so resistant to Trivial Pursuit for years until he played it, loved it, and proceeded to kick my ass at it for the past decade.

I was relieved to hear he was postponing his trip, but honestly, I would've stayed up all night tonight to finish it, and it would've been worth it.

Not sure why I wanted to write about this; it's just not really something I can tell people. When my coworker asked why I was so tired today I couldn't exactly tell her this essay of a reason, and saying "I worked 20 hours straight on making a card game that only one other person on the planet would enjoy playing with me". I said I didn't sleep well.

I get to have a normal night's sleep tonight and do some other shit tomorrow, but then I'll be back to finishing it up. Looking forward to that dopamine hitting when I open the box to my new game.

Stay Greater.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Run on for a Long Time

Jericho had lost sight of his friends. The rushing of blood in his ears eclipsed the scratching sounds, caused by claws scraping along floors and walls. Coming from abominable things that crawled through the corridors of the derelict hospital, in search of them.

Catching his breath, he stared down the length of one such hallway he had gotten lost in. The scratching and scraping and skittering were far away enough. For now.

One of the long fluorescent tubes kept flickering while all others remained dead, drowning the corridor in darkness and flooding it with a cold hard light. Flickering in and out, in an irregular rhythm, robbing his eyes of the ability to adapt.

He blinked and his vision blurred. That made some of the dried splatters on the wall almost appear like something else, like something that was not blood.

Gunsmoke still stung his nostrils, rising from the muzzle of the revolver in his hand. He dared to tear his gaze away from the other end of the corridor and check the chambers of his gun. Every single one of them was empty.

The rushing in his ears continued, his wheezing breaths competed with it and made it hard for him to hear if any creature’s sounds were nearing. Or to hear if any of his friends were sneaking around nearby.

Something scratched against the linoleum floors. Metal screeching followed, like a metal bar being wrenched apart, or twisted and bent.

Without looking where he went, Jericho instinctively ducked through the nearest door into whatever room awaited him nearby.

The light behind him projected a soothing warmth just by virtue of its soft orange color. It dispelled the wintry cold flooding the corridors outside the room. But Jericho also sensed a presence here. Eyes—a gaze—burning into the back of his head.

He still heard the scraping sounds from outside, so before even bothering to look around, he closed the door behind him with care, gripping it between one hand and the fingers of the other still holding his gun, letting the door’s lock emit nothing beyond a soft click once it latched into place within its frame.

This place did not belong. Jericho could tell as much without even turning around to fully take it in. The rustic and homey appearance of the wooden-paneled walls, sturdy bookshelves lining the walls which he already saw from the corner of his eyes, and a lush green potted plant.

The rest of the hospital looked like a slaughterhouse left to rot for a decade. By comparison, this place looked like it was in another world entirely.

And he still felt like someone was staring at him, standing right behind him.

He slowly turned and raised his gun. Whoever it was would not know there were no more bullets left inside of it.

A single burst of sharp breath escaped his lungs as he found nobody there. Paranoia had gotten the best of him.

Yet the room still did not belong. Immaculate, untouched. Some antique-looking chairs with fine leather upholstery and brass tacks. A marble bust of some Greek philosopher stared past him, adding to the atmosphere of sophistication that permeated this place.

One single other door leading out of the room. Footsteps approaching it.

Jericho trained his weapon on that next door, ready for anything.

The door opened and a man poked his head through. Sharp, angular features, short curly hair that had turned salt and pepper over the years. A piercing gaze, like what Jericho had expected to see staring at him upon turning around. And a well-fitted suit that clung to a sturdy and muscular frame, like that of a person who constantly worked out.

This stranger’s eyes went wide, staring right into the barrel of the revolver in Jericho’s hand for several seconds. If he felt fear now, he was hiding it well. He peeled his gaze off the weapon and locked eyes with Jericho while fully opening the door.

With a sweeping gesture of his arm, he presented a larger room beyond that door, a lavishly decorated office filled with more antique furniture. The small adornments like statues, taxidermized deer heads, antique books on more shelves, and water-colored paintings all screamed of a strange sense of opulence.

“Mister Day?” the man asked Jericho. “Please. Would you do me a favor and put the gun away?”

Jericho swallowed and registered how the rushing of blood in his ears had quieted itself somewhat. His heart had decided to take it down a notch, too. Descending from frantically thundering drum solo to a softly thumping background beat.

Confused by how he was being welcomed in here and how none of this fit together with the nightmare he had just hidden himself from, he shoved the weapon into the back of his belt. Once he blinked, he uttered a string of foul-mouthed profanities as he tugged it back out—in response to the searing pain of heated metal stinging his right butt cheek.

The man stepped fully into the waiting room and flashed him a feeble smile, communicating a sense of sympathy towards Jericho’s plight. He held out an open palm to Jericho while also giving him enough space to enter the office.

“Allow me to hold onto that for you until our session is over,” said the man.

Jericho swallowed again and placed the pistol into that open palm. The stranger took it and nodded to him, the air about him heavy with expectation.

Not having forgotten the clawed monstrosities prowling through the abandoned hospital’s hallways, where he had lost track of his two friends during their panicked escape, Jericho never felt more confused.

Jericho bit his lip, shook his head, and muttered under his breath, “Fuck it, I guess.”

He walked into the large office. Surveying the desk and chairs and the small couch and their respective placements finally made the needle drop. This office was a therapy room.

The man closed the door behind them and placed Jericho’s revolver on the desk, then he gestured to one of the chairs. That chair looked newer and more modern than the ones in the waiting room, but also more comfortable.

Jericho hesitated and stood in the middle of the room. Right now, he preferred the idea of standing, just in case he needed to make a run for it.

Because something was wrong. Not only with this place, but with this man. This therapist?

“Who are you?” he asked, his skepticism elevating each syllable to a higher pitch and instantly annoying himself at the sound of it.

“Wolff,” replied the therapist. “Doctor Simon Wolff. We have been working together for a while now, Mister Day. It is especially important that you do your best to remember that.”

Doctor Wolff straightened his jacket’s collar, slipped a small journal from the desk’s tabletop, and paired it with an expensive-looking pen. Taking the objects, he sat down on one of the chairs across from the other that he had gestured towards before, where he expected Jericho to sit.

The geometrical placement of the furniture was so perfect that it unsettled Jericho. He stayed standing and earned another small smile from Doctor Wolff, this one warmer than the last.

Windows to the outside world reflected everything in this room like darkened mirrors. The dead of night swallowed everything outside of them, save for clues of pine trees standing in a thick, snowy mist beyond them.

“Shall we begin?” asked Doctor Wolff, opening his journal and twisting his pen.

He crossed his legs, rested the journal on his lap, and tapped it twice with his pen, the smile never fading from his face.

Jericho mentally reeled. Doubt started eating away at the frayed fringes fluttering around in the darkest recesses of his mind. Was this real and the hospital before, those creatures—was that all unreal? Delusions?

“Do you know who you are?” asked Doctor Wolff.

It took Jericho another moment of internal deliberation, another instance of him swallowing emptily before he replied.

“Yeah. I’m Jericho Day. Private investigator of Fuller & Day.”

Wolff nodded and wrote a short note in his journal.

“Anything else?”

“I, uh, served in the military for almost four years. Uh, am 33 years old, uh,” Jericho stammered his way along, pooling his identity into the format of some lame fact sheet. It helped him get his mind off the horrible hospital behind him.

The more he rattled it down, though, the more the temptation to tell the truth grew. He added, “Two friends from high school hired me to help them, uh, well, check out a letter from our dead friend. It was, uh, sent posthumously.”

The regular ticking of a grandfather clock tocked away in the background, filling every empty beat and every awkward pause of his. The mechanical clicks thudded louder with each strike. After taking down more notes in his journal, the pages rustled as Doctor Wolff flipped through them, at one point back and forth before settling on a specific spot.

“The letter was authentic, the writing indeed Harry’s, but running the fingerprints yielded no match. So you traveled to your home town with your childhood friends, Daniel Smith and Joel Kline,” Doctor Wolff read out loud, in a monotone punctuated by the grandfather clock’s ticking. He clearly removed all melody from it to not offend Jericho, to not make it sound like he was mocking him with the brief summary.

The accuracy still stunned Jericho. He stopped fiddling with the black marble statue of a buffalo on a stand nearby and stared at the doctor.

How in the hell did he know? Jericho sheared every thought over Occam’s Razor and concluded that he must have told him all of this. The doctor obviously knew. But how come he himself did not remember telling him? The doctor acted as if he had been here with him several times before. Jericho wondered if he was losing his mind.

The hospital out there—was it even real? The creatures that infested this town in the absence of people? Had he been seeing a therapist and telling him about all of this? Was all of that out there the hallucination, or was this in here the illusion?

The gun on the desk suggested: both were real. Somehow.

Right?

The therapist’s gaze softly trailed from the book on his lap back to meet Jericho’s eyes again.

“Please stop me if I have gathered anything wrong from our previous conversations, Mister Day.”

Doctor Wolff cleared his throat and continued.

“You keep running into,” he paused, arching a brow. “Monsters—vaguely human-shaped, often faceless or eyeless. Some of them look like people wrapped in plastic that shamble around like zombies. One of them, you described, was a tall man with a horse’s head that attacked and injured your friend Daniel with a—with a stop sign.”

He looked up at him again and Jericho felt put on the spot. Sweat erupted from his pores, knowing how absurd it all sounded when read out loud like that. Yet the therapist allowed no pretention, no derision into his voice. His relaying of Jericho’s experiences felt earnest. Jericho felt taken seriously.

A nervous grin spread across his face, a day to the night of the doctor’s calm, statuesque, mask-like expression.

Still—it was all the truth. Nothing but the truth.

Jericho’s truth.

Right?

Jericho nodded in response. Doctor Wolff mirrored his motion. The therapist pursed his lips, flipped through the pages and kept his gaze locked onto Jericho.

“Good. There is more, but I see that you remember all the experiences you shared with me, even if you do not remember any of our sessions together. That is—somewhat, at least—to be expected.”

The clock continued to tick and tock away, unnerving Jericho further.

“I have been following your progress for a while, Mister Day,” Wolff said. The pause that followed left a lot of wide-open space for pondering. A lot of time for dread to take root in Jericho’s heart, even if the ticking and tocking indicated mere seconds to be wasting away.

He shot a glance at the gun. Even with its chambers empty of ammunition, just looking at the weapon’s cold steel lent him a sense of safety. Jericho wanted it back in his hand.

Some part of him wanted to be back out there. Looking for his friends. Running from those monsters.

Away from whatever this strange place was.

“Though I do not think you are ready, yet.”

Wolff clapped the notebook shut and folded his hands, resting them on top of the little black book, with the pen peeking out from between his fingers like a cigarette.

“Ready for what?” asked Jericho. Each word sharper than the last. “Who the hell are you, anyway? Who are you—really?”

Wolff savored the seconds as they passed upon letting that question sink in. An eerie and knowing smile crept across his face until it froze in place there.

“I have many names, Mister Day. Some call me Judas Iscariot. Some have dubbed me the First Man, others the Harbinger of the End Times. But for you, I’m simply Doctor Wolff.”

Jericho squinted at him.

“‘Kay. I’ll be leaving now while you wax poetic about, uh,” he paused. He waved a hand in a figure eight motion in Wolff’s general direction. “Whoever the fuck you are.”

Wolff still smiled at him. Tilted his head.

“Soon, you will be done with what you came to Evergreen for,” the therapist said. Shook his head. “But until then, the dusk will refuse to end. The sun will never rise again until you commit.”

Jericho had enough. He paced towards the desk and took his pistol. The steel had cooled down again. He wedged it into his belt behind his back.

“Do you realize how long you have been wandering your hometown? Jericho?”

Jericho decided not to indulge him.

Although he did not turn to see it, the rustling of fabric told him that Wolff took a theatrical glance at the watch wrapped around his own wrist.

“Twenty years. You have been trapped in a soulless place, unable to leave for all the mountains of snow that swallow the streets leading out of town, unable to see beyond its borders for all the fog that strangles your vision. You and your friends have lost all sense of time.”

Jericho clutched the brass knob of the door, but he did not twist it yet. Hesitated to leave.

Wolff spoke with such authority. His voice exuded such clean resolve.

It all sounded true. Like nothing but the truth. An impossibility, but now that he thought about it, his memory was obviously not what it used to be. His mind must have been Swiss cheese, or something. Deep down, Jericho knew, that all of this was real.

“Ten years ago, while you still aimlessly stumbled around in this little pocket of personal purgatory, you weren’t even a private detective. You were a petty thief—a grifter—who had burnt down every last relationship in his life before returning to this town. Are you aware of what you are running from?”

Jericho opened the door, returning to the waiting room he had entered from.

“The exit is through the other door, Mister Day,” Wolff informed him in his strangely melodious monotone. “I would kindly ask you to follow the proper path.”

“Fuck off,” Jericho muttered while stepping back into the waiting room and heading towards the final door.

Wolff had nothing left to say. Perhaps Jericho’s rude retorts had finally rendered the sickeningly polite therapist speechless.

Opening the door, the single fluorescent tube in the hospital’s hallway flickered again, alternating between flashes of pitch-black darkness and a harsh, cold light. Cold air poured through the doorway, biting his skin and reminding him of the winter outside, the winter that had taken hold of the abandoned hospital’s bowels.

“Perhaps, next time, you will not even be Jericho Day anymore. Perhaps you will be Danielle. Or Jerry. Perhaps, next time, you will be ready to move on. Ready to finally grow some balls,” Wolff’s voice echoed behind him, the tone rising in pitch to underline his sudden taunt.

Jericho slammed the door shut. Then the words fully sank in, poured fuel into the dimming fire of his fury. He ripped the door open to tell this Doctor Wolff to go fuck himself.

But the waiting room and the office had vanished.

Instead, he only found empty rooms beyond that door. Windows to the outside had been fogged up with years’ worth of grime, boarded up from the exterior. Trash from squatters and disaffected youths littered the corners and the place smelled of urine. Graffiti and lewd comments had been scrawled onto the defaced walls.

With nowhere else to release his anger, Jericho slammed the door shut again.

Scratching sounds erupted in response, traveling to him from the end of the corridor.

A pallid head with neither nostril nor eyes reared around the corner. Its toothless mouth opened, and black slime oozed out from its lower jaw, dripping to the filthy floors. Slender fingers with the flaccidity of undercooked sausages, covered in polyps, flopped around the corner, tipped by long, sharp, black claws. Those talons dug into the surface of the wall, scratching the paint from it, sending more unnerving sounds his ways.

Though it had no eyes, he felt seen by the creature.

Jericho ran.

He would be running for a long, long time.

—Submitted by Wratts