#it was just idle curiosity first but now i ship it

[ratsetflummi]

if you ever find yourself thinking that "surely someone has written a fanfic about this", that's the devil talking. turn back now. because if you go looking, you will find exactly that fanfic, and it will be pretty well written, and next thing you know you have a new ship

[nahoney22]

Underneath the Mistletoe

All Bad Batch Boys X F!Reader

How you had your first kiss under some Mistletoe with your favourite Bad Batcher.

warnings: none, fluff. Mistletoe kiss, non established relationship, female reader. It’s self indulgent icl. Queued post.

authors note: Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to all! 🎄

Echo 🎄

The day had been long and you just could not wait to hop into your bunk, pull your blanket up to your nose and drift off to sleep. However, Omega's festivities in the Marauder had disrupted your plans. Returning from the market on the planet, she had unleashed a whirlwind of decorations, adorning the ship's interiors in a chaotic array rather than neatly hanging them. "Omega," you sighed, exasperated and pinching the bridge of your nose.

“Everything alright?” Echo had approached you from behind, looking over your shoulder at the mess before you both and you turn to him with a tight smile. “I see...”

“She’s been busy.”

"Busy making a mess," he chuckled. He swiftly joined your cleanup efforts, maneuvering through strewn tinsel and rogue baubles.

Ten minutes or so later, a relieved sigh escaped as you surveyed the tidied surroundings. "I think that's everything."

"Yeah," Echo agreed, scanning the area before his gaze lifted. "Actually, not everything."

Following his gaze upward, you noticed it too. "Oh, Mistletoe," you remarked casually, its presence dangling between the two of you. However, realisation struck a beat later, and a flustered flutter danced within you. "OH. I, uh, I should not be standing underneath it with you," you laughed nervously.

He arched a brow, puzzled at your reaction. "Why? What's Mistletoe?"

"You don't know what it is?" you exclaimed with surprise.

"Should I?" Echo's innocent inquiry showed genuine curiosity, a look that you couldn't help but find endearing.

"Well, Echo," you began, fidgeting slightly in your place, "traditionally, you're supposed to kiss me now."

His eyes widened slowly, and a discernible gulp echoed in the room. "Why?"

Shrugging lightly, you explained, "It's a tradition. I don't know the deeper meaning behind it, but when two people are under mistletoe, they're supposed to kiss."

"Oh, well, okay."

You paused, struck by his response. "Huh?"

"Huh?" Echo repeats quickly, nervously rubbing the back of his neck.

This was interesting.

Raising an eyebrow, you pointed out, "You said 'well okay,' implying you were wanting to kiss me."

He froze for a moment before clearing his throat. "I don’t see why not… nobody's here, and, uh, you look pretty tonight."

You chuckled softly at his comment although you were just in your usual attire. "Okay," you said slowly, catching him off guard by taking a small step toward him. "Kiss me, then."

Without needing a second prompt, he leaned in, capturing your lips in a swift yet tender kiss. A breathless sigh escaped your lips as you melted into the unexpected warmth of the moment. The suddenness of it all left you surprised, but perhaps this time, you wouldn’t reprimand Omega for her messy antics; just this once.

Wrecker 🎁

Walking alongside Wrecker after a successful supply run, idle chatter filled the air as you both strolled beneath a festively decorated arch. Among the decorations, your attention snagged on a particular item.

"Look, Wrecker, Mistletoe," you pointed out.

"What's tha'?" Wrecker queried, stepping closer and standing directly beneath it. You held back, smiling as you prepared to enlighten him.

"Whenever two people are under it, you have to kiss, or you get bad luck," you explained, meeting his gaze with a playful grin.

"Oh, really?" Wrecker smirked mischievously, advancing towards you. Swiftly, before you could react, he hoisted you up, initiating an impromptu playful scuffle. Laughter rang out as he teased and taunted, attempting to maneuver you under the Mistletoe while onlookers passed by.

"Stop, Wrecker!" you pleaded amidst fits of laughter, struggling as he continued his playful pursuit, egging you on to kiss some of the people walking past. “You will get a kiss!”

Finally relenting, he released you, and you led him to believe the playful antics had reached their conclusion. Seizing the moment, as his back turned, you attempted to nudge him under the Mistletoe, expecting him to move. However, he remained rooted, not budging an inch.

He turned around with a cheeky grin, teasing, "Try again, little one." Bracing yourself, you nudged him with determination, but unexpectedly, both of you stumbled back, caught off guard.

In a stroke of luck, he caught you before you hit the ground, both of you chuckling as he steadied you. "You alrigh’?"

"Yeah," you replied with a smile. However, as you looked up at him, your eyes naturally fell upon the mistletoe positioned above his head, also looming over you. "Oh… Wrecker?"

"What- oh," he followed your gaze upward, and a sudden hush descended upon both of you.

Despite his hold on you, something in his gaze drew you in. "Don't suppose ya believe in that bad luck thing?" His voice was notably softer now.

"No... not really," you admitted.

"Still," he murmured, taking a small step closer to you, "better not risk it, right?"

"Right."

Then, his lips met yours in a gentle, unhurried kiss, igniting a sudden rush in your heart at the unexpected yet tender moment.

Hunter 🎉

"I appreciate your help with this, I'm not really adept at this kind of decorating," Hunter confessed sheepishly as he delicately arranged some vibrant red tinsel along the control panel.

"No worries," you responded with a warm smile, "I can already picture Omega's face when she sees this!"

"Wrecker too, I'm sure," Hunter added with a matching grin, gladly assisting you by holding a box of decorations while you organized their placements.

Returning to the box after a moment, you paused, catching Hunter's attention. "I think that's everything."

Agreeing with a nod, Hunter noticed something remaining in the box—a decoration that caused a flicker of concern on his face. "Hey, what about this one?"

You recognised what he was referring to—the mistletoe you'd intentionally left behind, following the tradition it held. But Hunter seemed oblivious to its significance. "Yeah, that's mistletoe, Hunter."

"And why can't we hang it up?" Hunter asked, confusion furrowing his brow.

"Because, according to tradition, you're supposed to kiss someone under it," you chuckled, enjoying his befuddlement.

Placing the box down, Hunter inspected the mistletoe curiously. "It doesn't say that anywhere on it."

With an amused roll of your eyes, you took a playful step toward him. "Nope, it doesn't, but it's just an old tradition. A bit silly, really."

Then, the atmosphere crackled with unspoken tension as Hunter gazed at you, a sudden surge of courage propelling him forward. He'd harbored these feelings for a long time, and an intuition of his senses around you suggested that perhaps you shared similar feelings.

"Well, I see no harm in hanging it..." he declared, stepping closer until his chest almost grazed yours, putting the mistletoe on the vent just above your heads, "right here."

Your eyes widened at the subtle yet unmistakable implication, a warm rush enveloping your body. "No...me neither," you found yourself whispering, his presence clouding your senses.

Without hesitation, he closed the distance, leaning in to capture your lips with his in a passionate, lingering kiss that left you both breathless.

As he pulls away, he smiles softly and tilts his head to the side. “I think I might have to take it down,”

You raise a brow, confused, “why?”

“Let’s just say I don’t want my brothers kissing my girl.”

Tech 🎄

“And what can you tell me about the properties of this plant right here?”

You found yourself on Felucia, dragged along by Tech for a resource-gathering mission. Initially, his impromptu botany lesson didn't bother you, but as he meticulously stopped to inspect every single flora, it became a bit tiresome.

"I don’t know, Tech," you grumbled, dragging your feet before stopping next to him to examine a simple, unassuming bush. "Is it a Buxus sempervirens or whatever?"

"Every plant has its distinct classification," he responded pointedly, "and no. There is also no plant called ‘whatever’. It’s Chamaecyparis. Did you know they can grow up to an impressive 70 feet in the wild?"

"Ah, no, I didn’t," you muttered, stifling a yawn that didn't escape his notice.

"Am I boring you?" he inquired, catching your weariness.

You felt a pang of guilt and shook your head, attributing your exhaustion to recent blasterfire and sleep deprivation. "No, sorry. Just feeling a little tired today."

He acknowledged your response, checking his device. "If my calculations are accurate, which they usually are, the ship is just southwest of here. About four klicks to walk."

"Okay, do we have everything we need before we head back?" You took a swig from your canteen, offering it to Tech, who politely declined.

"Yes, the petals we gathered from the flower are what we need for Cid’s client." As you both resumed walking, Tech made an intrigued sound and veered off from the direction of the ship.

"Tech?" You stopped and watched him curiously.

"Just a moment. I'm uncertain about the identification of this particular plant," he explained, engrossed in his investigation.

It was rare to see Tech not recognise something and so your intrigue piqued also but as you approached, you stopped just a foot away and look up at the evergreen shrub with recognisable white berriess. “That’s Mistletoe.”

Holding his scanner up to the tree, Tech turned his head in your direction. "I have not encountered this before. Do you have more information to share?"

"The berries are poisonous, so it's best not to consume them," you began, stifling a soft giggle. "Its scientific name is Viscum album and it's commonly used as decoration during winter festivities."

Impressed by your knowledge, Tech checked his scanner and found your information accurate, prompting you to continue. "You mentioned they're used for decoration?"

"Yeah," you replied, taking a small step back. "There's a tradition that if two people are under it, they're supposed to kiss. Otherwise, they'll receive bad luck." Folding your arms, you awkwardly explained the quirky custom.

Tech paused, studying the berries above him and then shifting his gaze to you. "Ah, I see. That explains why you took a step back." He adjusted his goggles and you couldn’t help but wonder if you detected a flicker of disappointment in his tone.

The air seemed to crackle with nervous energy as you shuffled on your heels, uncertain where the conversation was heading. Before you could find the words, Tech took the lead.

"If you were under this with me, I would have given you a kiss," he stated simply, a hint of confidence flickering in his demeanor, though it waned as your eyes widened at his bold declaration. "Due to it being bad luck, is all."

A smile played on your lips, and you moved a step closer to him, prompting a response. "I thought you didn’t believe in luck."

"I do not," he affirmed. "But I am rarely a man of chance either." Your heart raced as you closed the distance, standing under the mistletoe with him. "But I'd like to take the chance of kissing you right now."

Your hands found their way around his shoulders, fingers gently lacing around his neck, signaling your willingness to lean in closer. "Take the chance, then."

Tech smiled at your boldness, meeting you halfway as his lips met yours. There was a hint of hesitation at first, but as his arms enveloped you, he proved to be an unexpectedly excellent kisser.

Crosshair 🎁

In the midst of the ship's rare tranquility, you had decided to immere yourself in a thorough cleaning session.

Lingering traces of the festivities still loitered about—the occasional stray golden and green tinsel strands and dust of artificial snow, remnants of Omega's discovery of snow in a canister.

As beads of sweat gathered on your brow, you took a moment to survey your cleaning efforts, admiring the progress made. However, your contentment was interrupted by the sight of Crosshair's gear scattered haphazardly in a corner.

Upon closer inspection, it was clear that the usual meticulous upkeep of his equipment had been neglected. Finding no harm in lending a helping hand, you grabbed a crate and seated yourself upon it and dedicated yourself to tidying up his gear.

“What are you doing Missy?”

Crosshair's voice jolted you from your concentration, and you couldn't help but flinch at the sudden sound of his low, raspy tone. Alone with him, you always found yourself a tad flustered in his captivating presence.

"Kriff, you scared me," you breathed out, a nervous smile gracing your lips as he leaned against the wall, towering above you. "I noticed your gear lying here and thought I'd give it a clean. Is that okay?"

"Suppose so," he responded, folding his arms across his chest and fixing his gaze on you. "But why?"

You shrugged, trying to hide your nervousness. "Just saw it lying there and thought it needed a bit of sprucing up." Finishing cleaning one of his pauldrons, you handed him the rag, and he inspected it with a stoic yet impressed expression.

"Are you saying I'm not looking after my stuff properly?" His question made your stomach drop, feeling a hint of nervousness at his insinuation.

"W-Well, no, but—" you stammered, caught off guard.

"Relax," he smirked, setting down his armor piece and gently tilting your chin up to meet his gaze. "I was just teasing."

Caught in a trance by Crosshair's touch, you found yourself utterly captivated, your eyes widened like saucers as you gazed up at him. Oddly enough, you realised that Crosshair seemed to engage with you more than with his brothers or Omega. The thought crossed your mind that he might, just might, be flirting with you.

"Oh, I see," you whispered, feeling the weight of his gaze as he searched your eyes. His demeanor shifted slightly as he cleared his throat and stepped back.

"You did a good job cleaning up in here and with my armor,” he comments.

And admist the serene moment after Crosshair's compliment, you teasingly asked for a "thank you," prompting a rare chuckle from him.

"Maybe," he replied but then moved his finger so it’s pointing upwards. "But you left something."

Puzzled, you followed his gesture and noticed the decoration still hanging—a mistletoe. Maintaining composure, you felt Crosshair's proximity grow, sensing a shift in his demeanor.

"So tell me, did you leave it up there on purpose?" His question held a hint of curiosity.

Seizing the unusual openness from Crosshair, you matched his tone, placing your hands on the crate beside you, meeting his gaze invitingly. "And if I did?" you playfully challenged.

Surprised by your boldness, Crosshair eventually smirked. "I think it means you and I should have a little kiss. Don’t you?"

"Don’t have to ask me twice."

Suddenly, Crosshair drew you up from your seat, drawing you close. His lips met yours in a passionate embrace, a shared kiss under the mistletoe deepening the moment. The unexpected yet cherished encounter left a thrilling yet serene ambiance within the ship, both of you momentarily caught in the lingering sensation of the kiss.

That was better than any other ‘thank you’.

Masterlist 🎄

Tags: @id-rather-be-a-druid @the-bad-batch-baroness s @photogirl894 @whore4rex @imperialclaw801 @temple-elder @mysticalgalaxysalad @imalovernotahater @tech-aficionado @grizabellasolo @therealnekomari @tech-depression-inventory @brynhildrmimi @greaser-wolf @tinyreadersmur @seriowan @kaminocasey @marvel-starwars-nerd @ladytano420 @ladyzirkonia @raevulsix @mssbridgerton @andyoufollowyourheart @littlefeatherr @kaitou2417 @eyecandyeoz @captxin-rex @jesseeka @ashotofspotchka @theroguesully @ladykatakuri @jambolska-grozdova @arctrooper69 @padawancat97 @either-madness-or-brilliance @staycalmandhugaclone @ko-neko-san @echos-girlfriend @fiveshelmet t @dangraccoon @plushymiku-blog @chrissywakingup @pb-jellybeans @nunanuggets @sleepycreativewriter @erellenora @zippingstars87

[mnemosyne-xiv]

My Pinned Post~ ♡

I tried to schedule this for some ungodly hour as to not clutter timelines—but if you still stumble across this, I hope you have a lovely day/night! ^^

Hi! Hello.~ ♡ Hope you're doing well and thank you for checking out my blog! This is my personal and only blog where I post mainly screenshots + random bouts of writing for my ocs and their ships! Most everything revolves around my cynical miqo Remia and her developing struggling relationship with Zero, but you'll find varied content here for the few other oc's I have accompanying her on her adventures through the msq as well~

Here are the tags I frequently use to hopefully help you navigate the functioning mess that is my blog ♡

zerem: Everything having to do with Zero and Remia's relationship. til kingdom come: Ship tag for Vetis and Proserpina/ Gremory. wol questions/ wolqotd: WoL/OC question answers. Don't hesitate to send in questions of your own! They can be about anything or any of my ocs so let your curiosity run wild ^^ drabble: The longest writing you'll find on my blog. Roughly 2k word oneshots that I need to get out of my mind and I cross-post these on ao3. idle musings: Very short writing. A couple paragraphs long snippets at best that are just there to better expand upon whatever their subject is. before the flood: Writing and screenies that take place on the Thirteenth before the Flood of Darkness.

More tags will be added as needed but I'll try to keep them as few as possible if only to keep things organized ^^;

If you happen to enjoy my writing you can find more of my nonsenical ramblings over on Ao3! I'm currently working on finishing Aestelle's third fic in her trilogy but will soon start posting Remia's chaptered fic going through the msq. And I also on occasion publish gear-mashups of my own on the Mod Archive. I focus most on my writing but gear mashups and vfx overhauls are a nice creative break ˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶

Below the cut is a bit of info about my ocs but other than that, that's it for this lil pinned post! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy the descent into chaos ♡

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕆ℂ'𝕊

𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐚 A void mage who specializes in voidsent summons and forbidden arcane recollection arts, Remia is a villain in the eyes of most. She loathes helping others unless there's something to gain and is the first to cruelly deny someone if she suspects they're attempting to take advantage of what little kindness she was willing to show. Deep within her soul lies a spreading corruption that threatens to shatter her from the inside. With the few tidbits of information she has, Remia works on borrowed time to try and prevent the inevitable while those around her are none the wiser to her internal struggle. This nonsense about saving a great wyrm is a means to further search the Thirteenth, obtain stronger summons, and learn of a way to purify her soul. Her "good deeds" are all done in the name of self-preservation and nothing more.

𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐲 (𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐚) Once a princess of a kingdom on the verge of collapse prior to the Thirteenth's fall to the Flood of Darkness, the voidsent now known as Gremory follows Remia to a fanatical degree. Unlike that of a normal voidsent, Gremory's very essence was altered when she was summoned by an Amdapori white mage and experimented on to reverse the effects of Darkness only to have her aether go from one extreme to the other. She's now a voidsent of raw Light who acts as Remia's most steadfast ally despite no bargain having been struck between the two. Why Gremory is so loyal to someone seemingly so cruel, only she and Vetis know.

𝐕𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐬 Before the Flood of Darkness, Vetis was a vaunted knight and chivalric memoriate both. Now a mere imp voidsent who has entered a pact with Remia, the details unknown to all save themselves, he works alone to find a means to mend Remia's lost memories and restore Gremory to her true self. And in proper voidsent fashion, he isn't helping Remia out of the kindness of his own heart. He needs those memories in order to see his own dreams come true at the cost of Remia's sanity. Her life in exchange for his and Gremory's shared future is a rather small price to pay—one he's sure Remia will understand when her time is nearing its end.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐨𝐬 A white mage of Amdapor who lived during the end of the War of Magi. He possessed great charm and a lovely smile that masked the wickedness he hid deep within himself. The experiments he conducted on voidsent were far too cruel and inhumane for his fellow white mages to learn of and so he kept his work secret, a miracle he managed such a thing considering how popular he was among the masses. His magnum opus to the world was turning Gremory from a fiend of Darkness into a magnificent creature of primordial Light. She served him loyally up until the day he died while helping seal Diabolos deep within the depths of Amdapor. Now a fraction of his soul lives on within Remia, feasting upon her essence while slowly breaking her in order to revive himself. The question of how his soul came to reside deep within her own is a question neither Gremory nor Vetis are keen on answering...

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐚 A coy and cunning woman from the Thirteenth that Zero says Remia reminds her a great deal of. She and Mariella had met a number of times while traveling from one place to the next during the Contramemoria. Despite the two running into one another to an uncanny degree, there's little Zero can recall about that woman. Though, there are three things she does remember. Firstly, Mariella came from a noble family hence the two daggers she wielded having been made from better steel than most weapons memoriates used. Secondly, she was by no means a hero, but she did uphold a warped code of her own that led many to believe otherwise. And lastly, she died shortly before the Flood, Zero having been the very person Mariella sacrificed herself to save.

𝐀𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞 Now that the Final Days are no more, the vaunted Warrior of Light has stepped away from her role as Champion of Eorzea to instead pursue her own goals as Azem. She has reclaimed her former self prior to the Great Sundering—memories and incantations alike—and now works alongside her lover Hades to preserve the history of the Ancients in their entirety. And once their duty has come to an end, she and her beloved will return to the star to be reborn alongside all of their friends from those halcyon days. Etheirys is in good hands and she trusts the sundered to survive with Remia and Ravn both leading the charge into that brighter tomorrow. Her part to play in history has come to an end, and now she's only seen when a matter demands her direct intervention. Otherwise, not even Ravn knows where her dear friend has disappeared to.

(Aestelle has an entire longfic trilogy dedicated to her over on Ao3 that you can find here. By no means do you need to read that to follow along with Remia's story, but for those curious about my main WoL and her journey from 2.0 to 6.0, there ya go! aestelle might eventually get a side-blog one day tbh soooo :') )

𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐧 Remia's sister who isn't actually my oc. She belongs to my best friend who goes by the same name ^^ Ravn is currently in the process of setting up her own blog so once that's how she wants it, I'll link back to it here ♡

[thiswasinevitableid]

The Pact (OT4)

The winner of the previous monsters poll was fae! This fill is NSFW

The Appletown Fourth of July parade is an exercise in despair. It’s been this way ever since Joseph was six and someone threw egg salad at his sister, Lily, while saying her parents crashed planes into their fathers ship, before dashing off as she yelled that their dad was Korean, not Japanese. 

This, the 1960 parade, is shaping up to be worse. Sweat is dripping down his back, his hair is stuck to his forehead, and his father hasn’t even come marching by with the other veterans. He and his younger sister, Iris, are making the best of it by teasing Lily for her seemingly all-encompassing crush on a rotating cast of boys. Joseph, at seventeen, thinks a few of them are cute, and Iris, in spite of being thirteen, seems unconvinced by the idea of boys in general. 

It’s not the heat, the noise, or the threat of lukewarm pasta salads that’s making his skin itch; it’s the anticipation. Tonight, while everyone else is distracted by fireworks, he’s going to execute a plan that will change everything. He’s going to summon a Fae.

So he waits, and waits, and smiles, and waits. When they’ve gone home for dinner and a respite from the soupy air, he slows his movements a little, asks Lily if she’s feeling cold or if it’s just him. By the middle of dinner, he pushes his half-finished sandwich aside and asks if it’s alright if he lays down awhile, he’s not feeling well. 

He’s still on his bed when his father pokes his head in to ask if he’s feeling well enough to join them. He shakes his head and so his father ruffles his hair and tells him they’ll be home in an hour or so. 

Once the tail lights of the car are gone, he sneaks out the back door and crosses into a patch of undeveloped, scrawny woods, a piece of paper clutched in his hands. He found it tucked in the back of a copy of The Lord of the Rings and intends to follow the directions on it down to the last letter. 

He stands in a clearing in a patch of moonlight, then begins reciting unfamiliar words as he walks the shape of a winged sigil in the grass. The night goes silent and his skin prickles as if there was lightning on the horizon. 

“You wish to make a pact?”

The lilt is barely louder than the whisper of the grass, but when he turns it’s speaker towers over him. He puts Joseph in mind of a mouth, feathery, black antenna sprouting from moonlight silver hair and a ruff of black, speckled feathers around his neck. He’s cloaked in so much black Joseph wonders if he’s no more than a shadow, a trick of the light. 

Then he steps forward, red eyes glowing as he takes Joseph in with a placid gaze. 

“Well? Do you have something you would ask of me? Or is this one of those cases of idle curiosity?”

“I do.” Joseph clears his throat, reads from the paper, “great and wise emissary of the other realms, I ask that you…you make me a man.”

The fae studies him closer, perplexed “But you are one.”

“I am! Or, I am but no one will acknowledge it. I want to be one they’ll never question and I want…I want everyone to forget I was ever anything else. Can you do that?”

“I can. But surely a young man clever enough to summon a fae knows any favor comes with a price.”

“I’ll give you whatever you ask.” He frowns “if it’s money I might have to save up and summon you again. Is that an option?”

Soft footsteps cross the grass and slender fingers reach out, lightly touching his cheek. For a hopeful moment, he thinks the fae will kiss him, that the payment will be something he’s eager to give.

“No, Joseph Stern, I will not ask for money. My offer is this: you must promise me I may take your hand some time from now. I cannot say when. Will you agree to that?”

He looks down; if he starts now, he can probably be ambidextrous by the time he loses a hand. 

“I do.”

The fae extends his hand and Joseph places his own within it. Instead of shaking, the fae bows, touching first his lips and then his forehead to Joseph’s knuckles. 

“Then it is done.”

Joseph blinks once and he’s in bed, his family clamoring through the door downstairs. As his sisters shout that he missed some big ones, his dad pokes his head into the room.

“Are you feeling better, son?”

His smile could light every town from here to San Francisco.

“I am. Thanks, dad.”

—--------------------------------------------------------------

His deal with the fae resides in a special corner of his mind, one he never looks at purposefully but returns to when he isn’t paying attention, unable to forget cool fingers on his skin or the glimmer of power in ruby-red eyes. 

It’s just past five years past the bargain. This morning, Joseph made a pact of a different kind.

His college years were marked by a distinct lack of sex or romance; he was busy with a stack of classes, his workload at Berkeley threatening to crush him if he turned his back on it for too long. In spite of the fact some of his male classmates snuck into the city to find boyfriends, Joseph’s deep-seated fear of getting in trouble kept him from joining them. Half of them thought he was some kind of government plant anyway, so it’s not like he was invited often. 

 His junior year, a transfer student took the seat next to him in an entomology class. Joseph was taking it to fulfill a science credit and Duck, as the transfer student introduced himself, was taking it as part of his forestry degree. He’d needed a pen and Joseph had several, and they struck up a conversation that continued after class as they walked to the dorms. When Duck came to a stop at one of the women’s dorms, a familiar expression crossed his face and Joseph understood. 

Joseph asked if he’d like to join him for coffee tomorrow, and to his delight, Duck said yes. 

They became friends over those two years, and when Duck was, bafflingly, rejected from every forestry position he applied for, it was Joseph who sat and commiserated (with some help from Duck’s friend Juno, calling on the landline in Joseph’s apartment). And when Duck began worrying about moving home, about being pressured to get married, they came up with an idea. 

Joseph needed a “wife.” Duck needed a husband. Q.E.D, they should get married. 

It was only after they were engaged and on a trip to West Virginia to meet Duck’s family that Joseph realized he was actually in love with his friend. Lucky must be his middle name, because Duck loves him, too. 

And that’s what finds him here at an elegant suite in Yosemite Lodge, the two of them having driven down from their wedding in San Francisco this morning. 

“How do I look?” Duck steps from the bathroom in his suit, the black fabric showing off the strength of his thighs and an ass that would make god cry, and the jacket holding his muscular arms just right. 

“Like a dream, Mr. Newton.” Joseph sets his hands on Duck’s lapels, “thought you won’t be keeping that on for long.”

“That so?” Duck’s hands find Joseph’s ass, “how do you know I ain’t gonna keep it on while I bend you over this here bed and fuck you into next week?”

“Please.” Joseph tugs him towards the bedroom, “let’s-”

Static on his skin, prickling out from his chest to concentrate in his left hand. 

“Oh shit.”

“What?” Duck pulls back, green eyes wide with worry. 

“Do you remember that deal I told you about?”

“You mean the one with a fairy?”

“Fae. But yes. It’s, I think he’s about to collect.” He watches silver and black light curl around wrist and up to his fingers, “god damn it. Of all the nights to lose a hand, why did he have to choose this one?.”

“Joe? You sure that’s what he meant?” Duck points to where the smoke is coiling around Joseph’s wedding band. 

“Oh shi-” Is all he gets out before the room is gone. In its place are wood walls, painted black, with windows that tell him he’s up in a tree. Smoke is still curling around him, and the fae from years ago is grinning like a cat that ate all the canaries. 

“Hello, Joseph.”

“H-hello….”

“Indrid” the fae bows, black-feathered wings spreading slightly as he does, “since we are to be husbands, you may know it.”

He summons as much politeness as he can, “Indrid. Magnificent lord of the other realms. May I please have a little more time. I, well, I’m literally on my honeymoon and I, I can’t” he thinks of Duck alone and alarmed, “please don’t make me leave him so soon.”

“I’m afraid a deal is a deal. Though perhaps now and then you could see him? Time can be a bit odd here.” He frowns, “I am not certain of the exact conversion of fae days to human ones.”

As he’s despairing at the thought of not making it home before Duck is dead of old age, the smoke to his left coalesces into a hand.

Indrid’s head snaps back up, “What in all the world?”

The hand grabs Joseph’s shoulder and pulls, sending him through a rabbit hole between realities and right back into a hotel room in Yosemite. 

As he stumbles for his footing, Duck drags him into a bear hug, mumbling, “Thank fuck, I wasn’t sure I’d grabbed you” into his shoulder. 

“How did you do that?” Joseph strokes his husband's hair with awe. 

“Since the smoke wasn’t gone, figured the door was still open. So to speak.”

Joseph kisses him hard, laughing as the shorter man dips him. When they stop for breath, he keeps Duck’s face between his hands. 

“We need to get some salt from the kitchen and sprinkle it around the room.”

“This a kink of yours?” Duck teases. 

“No, but it will ensure my showing you a good time for saving me isn’t interrupted by an angry fae.” 

—---------------------------------------------------

Indrid stares at the spot where his betrothed was only seconds before. Then he looks over his shoulder into the dining room, antenna drooping at the table laden with candles and a lovely meal for two. 

—--------------------------------------------------------

Joe’s jumpy for the first month after their honeymoon, making their move up the coast to his new teaching job more stressful than necessary. But as they settle into their little house and there’s not so much as a wisp from the fae, his husband returns to his normal levels of stress. 

While Joe teaches history and folklore at the small college, Duck finds a job at the botanical garden, one of the tourists draws in a dying logging town. While a few of the staff at the college are weird about it, most of the town accepts Duck when he introduces himself as Mr. newton; god knows he and Joe aren’t the only two men sharing a home in this place. 

A year passes in a blink, mornings having coffee in the garden and evenings pressed together in bed blurring together in a steady hum of happiness. 

Duck usually beats Joe home, but tonight he had a special stop and the lights are already on when he pulls up the drive. As he steps inside, a baritone voice croons from the record player

And I'm sitting with friends, where forty-five cents

Will buy another glass of beer

He's got something to say, but I'm so far away

That I don't know who I'm talking to

Cos you just walked in the door, and honey, all I see is you

“You’re gonna run out the grooves on that thing.” Duck opens his arms and Joseph sets the duster aside to come get his kiss.

“I can buy a new one if I do. It just makes it so much easier to relax after work. I saw in the paper he’s playing at the Hornets Nest next week but I think I missed the window to get tickets.”

“Nope” Duck produces two, narrow rectangles from his pocket, making Joe clasp his hands over his mouth with delight. It never fails to make him smile, this show of excitement from his dignified husband, “what do you say, darlin? We got a date?”

—---------------------------------------------------------

A week later, Joe is practically in his lap as they wait for the show to start. It’s not that the crowd is huge, more that the space is tiny; the bar, stage, and tables take up less room than their house. Of the two of them, it’s Joe who sticks out; he looks a little square, a little soft, compared to bohemians and bikers smushed around them. Duck puts a protective arm over his shoulder, just in case anyone gets any ideas.

Barclay Cobb takes the stage to rowdy cheers, thanking them all for coming before strumming his guitar and staring in on his first song. Duck could take or leave the sea shanties, but he likes the folk and union songs plenty, and has to admit the guy writes a mean love song. Joe, on the other hand, is having a religious experience, face growing more rapturous with each song. 

These tickets were worth every goddamn penny. 

The show lasts two hours, and when he’s through Barclay tells everyone he’ll be hanging around to have drinks and talk. Enough of the audience drains out in search of more excitement that he and Joe can actually reach the bar without throwing elbows. 

Duck kisses Joe on the cheek, promising to be right back, and goes in search of a bathroom. It takes a shockingly long time to find somewhere that isn’t occupied by people doing each other, drugs, or both. By the time he gets back to the main building, it’s nearly empty and Joe is still at the bar.

He’s not alone. 

Barclay is leaning against the battered wood, listening intently as Joe talks. His beer is at his lips but he doesn’t drink, as any time he tries Joe asks something or makes him laugh. Duck can see a smitten glint in his eye all the way from the door.

He gives them more time, ordering a beer and drinking half before coming up behind Joe and slipping a hand into his back pocket. There’s barely a foot between them and Barclay, but to his credit the instant Joe turns and smiles at Duck, the singer steps back. 

After Joe introduces them, Barclay shakes his hand and then fidgets with a bracelet on his wrist, “Sorry, didn’t realize you weren’t flying solo.”

Duck glances at the pink in his husbands cheeks, the only tell that he knew damn well he was flirting, and says casually, “I don’t mind Joe gettin’ some on the side. Long as I get to watch.”

The nervous sip Barclay was taking turns to a cough, and Joe turns to him, eyebrow raised. 

“We talked about it before we got hitched, remember?”

They had, but it was before they’d admitted they were in love and were each assuming the other would want to have a partner outside the marriage. Duck’s overall stance hasn’t changed; he doesn’t need to be the only man in Joe’s life to know Joe is the man for him. 

“I guess we did.” Joe smiles, face like a movie star’s, and Duck watches Barclay’s knees wobble when Joe turns it on him. 

A voice calls for Barclay from the back door and he mutters, “Fuck. We’ve gotta hit the road. Uh, here” he grabs a napkin and scribbles on it, “I’m home starting week after next. See you then?”

Joe takes the napkin, folding it carefully and tucking it in his pocket, “Of course. Big guy.”

The singer says his goodbyes and hurries out, nearly banging into a door when Joe winks at him. Then he offers Duck his arm and they head for the car. 

“Can’t decide if I feel real lucky or real sad you never flirted full-on with me. It’s hotter than the fourth of july, but think I might’ve walked into fucking traffic from it.”

“I’m not that smooth. Am I?” Stern pauses at the passenger door, looking across the roof at him.

“Smoother’n ice and twice as cool. C’mon, hop in. And keep your eyes peeled for a quiet spot; not sure I got it in me to wait until we’re home to fuck you.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Barclay’s house is an hour and a half north of them, up a small, hilly road that’s so rough both Joseph and Duck wonder if they’ve taken a wrong turn. Then the cabin is waiting for them, windchimes and suncatchers dangling from the covered porch while the forest renders the whole picture dappled and dream-like. 

He’s asked Duck over two dozen times if he’s really okay with this. It wasn’t until his husband took him by the shoulders and said, “the second-hottest thing in the world is the thought of you getting fucked into next week by someone else. First hottest is doin’ it myself.”

Barclay welcomes them in with a golden retriever grin, showing them their room and giving them a tour as bread bakes in the oven. Joseph relaxes the longer they’re there, and not solely from the fact Barclay looks as excited as he feels; the singer is being incredibly friendly to Duck, and the two are getting along famously. 

They eat a light lunch, all made by Barclay, and have iced tea on the porch in the afternoon sun. Then the singer is offering him his hand.

“Ready, baby?”

He nods and lets Barclay lead them to his bedroom. The singer pulls a chair to the foot of bed, offering it to Duck and then saying, “How do you want him, babe?”

“Tied to it.” 

“Now that’s just fucking mean” Duck is already sitting and puts his hands behind the chair, “or are you just doin’ this because you like how I get when you ain’t bein’ good?”

“The second one.” Joseph pulls off his shirt as Barclay ties Duck’s hands.

“Then as soon as the big fella is done, I’m roughing you up and riding you into next week.” Duck growls, tilting his face up for a kiss. Joseph gives him one, then another just because he can.

“Can I get one of those?” Barclay purrs, voice rich and dark as caramel. 

Joseph turns to him, lets calloused hands cup his face and draw him into a sweet, exploratory kiss. His short, auburn beard tickles Joseph’s skin, and as big hands glide down his body Joseph moans and pushes closer. 

“You really are something, babe.” Barclay spins him so his back is to the singers chest, kisses trailing down his neck, “fuck, no wonder he wants you so bad.”

“That I d-” Duck stiffens, eyes darting to where a swirl of smoke rises from the floor.

“Are you kidding me?” Joseph tries to pull away, but Barclay just grips him tighter as Indrid appears in the room.

The fae offers Barclay a smile, “Thank you for your assistance, dearest.”

“Nope, fuck this” Duck struggles against the rope, glaring ar Barclay, “and fuck you for tricking us into whatever the fuck this is.”

“This” Indrid glowers at Duck, “is only necessary because of your cleverness” he points at Joseph, “and your stubbornness.” For that he points at Duck, who makes a rude gesture in return. 

“Look, Joe don’t want to go with you, so fucking drop it.”

“I am aware. If Joseph does not wish to give me his hand, fine.” The fae’s voice is oddly calm, “but a fae bargain does not care about his wishes, nor mine. Once I invoke the contract, I have five hundred days to collect. If I do not, I become what humans call a ‘fairy ring’ for a hundred years. And we are approaching five hundred days far faster than I would like.”

“And how, exactly, do you come into all this?” Joseph looks over his shoulder at Barclay.

“Indrid’s the reason I’m famous.”

“I heard him singing and was so enchanted by his voice that I offered him anything he wanted if he would give me the honor of a private concert each month. That and, ah, one other favor, to be called in at my discretion.” 

“So he got you with that too” Joseph murmurs.

“Very few futures showed you having a marriage you like!” Indrid throws up his hands, “Yes, I can see them, and when you offered me anything I wanted that summer night, I looked and saw a man who intrigued me and who had fallen into a loveless marriage to please others.” He points at Duck once more, “he was completely unexpected! And when I summoned you I thought… I thought…” his whole body droops, imperious tone gone in a breath, “never mind what I thought. It was clear you abhorred the idea of a life in my realm.”

Joseph breathes in for a count of three, out for four, and in his best professor voice says, “Barclay, please untie my husband while I talk to Indrid.”

The singer doesn’t even look to Indrid before obeying, and is apologizing under his breath to Duck as Joseph takes a careful step towards the fae. 

“Indrid, the idea of living with you fascinates me. And you’re right, had it been anyone but Duck, I probably would have agreed to stay with you. I don’t want to break our bargain.”

The fae chirps, unconvinced.

“I mean it. And I didn’t know avoiding it put you in jeopardy. There’s nothing in the books about that. If there’s some way to keep both my promises” he looks back at Duck, who’s clearly poised to pull him from another realm again, “I need you to tell me.”

The fae clicks his nails together, “If a human comes willingly–no tricks, no vague language–they may move between worlds as they please and without losing time in the mortal realm.”

“Seems like an important loophole there.” Duck says. 

Indrid shoots a displeased glance his way, then bites his lip, “Here is what I propose. I am a very generous, attentive partner. Barclay can tell you that much. Allow me a week to court you, to show you that I could make you happy and you would not lack in the days you left your waterbird and visited me. If at the end you do not wish to come willingly, I…I will make our bargain void and accept my fungal fate.”

Joseph looks to an equally surprised Duck, who nods when he meets his eyes. He holds out his hand and, for the second time in his life, makes a deal with a fae.

—--------------------------------------------------------------------

Duck and Joseph decide to stay at his place for the week, neither of them wanting a fae near their actual house. Barclay isn’t complaining; he likes them both. And this will give him a chance to apologize more than he already has for tricking them. 

Part one of his apology is breakfast, which is why he’s been up since four, trying to get everything perfect. A little after six, Joseph’s reflection appears in the kitchen window. 

“Good morning.”

“Morning.” Barclay swallows down his nerves, “Joseph, look, about last night-”

“You don’t have to explain. I get it; Indrid tricked you too.” Joseph, unfairly handsome even when sleep-rumpled, hunts for a mug, “I just don’t appreciate someone pretending they’re interested in me when they really have an ulterior motive. Oh, thank you.” He takes the offered cup and turns his focus on the coffee pot. 

“I don’t! Or, I, I did but it wasn’t my only reason for inviting you. I didn’t even know about the deal with Indrid until after we met at the bar. I was telling Indrid how excited I was that you wanted to see me again and he realized who you were. And yeah, he had that favor to call in, but I…shitty as it is I woulda helped him anyway. He’s been my patron? Partner? For years. I really care about him.” He feels silly saying it; Indrid dotes on him, but only the way you would a pet you wanted to show off. 

At least, he thinks that’s the case. It’s hard to tell what Indrid is thinking sometimes. 

Joseph sets his mug down, studying Barclay’s face. Barclay wonders if he turns this kind of scrutiny on his students, or on Duck, and how anyone survives it without getting a little turned on. 

“Okay, you’re actually interested in me. But you still fucked me over”

“Please let me make it up to you. Just tell me how.” He winces at his own earnestness; here he is about to add a “professor who’s not even a one night stand” next to “fae lord” on the list of people he hopelessly pines for. 

Whatever Joseph reads in his expression, it softens the suspicion in those blue eyes, “You can start by telling me where you keep your cream.”

Once his coffee is to his liking, Joseph sits at the kitchen table and asks Barclay a dozen questions about his life, about Indrid, about the food Barclay heaps in front of him. When he bites a cinnamon roll and moans, Barclay thinks he might die of wanting to kiss him again. 

“Mornin’, darlin. Whoa damn, Barclay did you make all this?”

“Yeah, it’s part of the ‘oh god I’m so sorry’ breakfast.” 

Duck snorts, rests his hand on Joseph’s shoulder, “I’m gonna take a walk before we eat.  No fuckin’ the big fella until you’re sure he’s trustworthy.”

Barclay grips the edge of the sink, wondering at what point getting on his knees and begging is justified. There’s a soft clink of tableware, and then Joseph sets his plate in the sink. Barclay turns his head to say something and gets a chaste kiss on the lips instead. 

“Thank you for breakfast.” Joseph murmurs, “need some help with clean up.”

Even his “mmhmmm” comes out as a whine. Joseph just kisses him again and goes to find a dishtowel.

—-----------------------------------------------------

Duck knows the birdcalls of this area, so he’s guessing that anxious twittering is coming from somewhere else. 

He reaches a place where the earth dips down into a grove of redwoods. Indrid is standing at the center, glowing writing in the air all around. He’s paced a path in the leaf litter and muttering to himself as he erases and replaces words. Then he stills, looking out into the trees beyond them. 

“You can say it.” He sighs, defeated. 

“Say what?” Duck descends the slope.

The fae keeps his back to him, “You are going to say that none of this will work, that Joseph is not a fool and will not fall for anything I offer him, no matter how shiny or magical.”

Duck reaches the edge of the writing, and it morphs into English, “Was mostly gonna ask why you came out here to do this.”

Indrid turns, only barely hiding his surprise, “You…you do not wish to taunt me?”

“More wanna chew you out for buggin’ Joe. But I believe in second chances. Third ones too.”

“...I came out here to give the rest of you space. I see you both forgiving Barclay more easily if I am not around. And I also enjoy it out here. I love the woods of earth.”

“Me too. More or less what I went to school for.”

“Really?” Black antenna perk up, “do you know what bird keeps making that-” he cheeps “noise?”

“Chickadee. Folks say the name comes from the call but I don’t really hear it.”

“And what’s that?” 

“Fern. You get ‘em on the coast sometimes.” 

He goes on to explain why when Indrid asks, then answers six more questions about the world around them before realizing something. 

“Can’t you just see my answers in the future?”

“Yes. But I like this way better. Your voice is so much more pleasing in the real moment, and you keep adding these little stories and asides at the last moment that make it all the better.” The earnestness is too clunky, too awkward, to be anything but genuine. 

Duck looks at the glowing letters once more, “It’d make Joe happiest if you just talked with him. Let him ask questions about fae and your world and whatever other weird stuff comes to mind. He loves gifts as much as the next fella, but when he gets to investigate things, puzzle them out…he lights up like a Christmas tree.”

Indrid nods, waving a hand to clear the air. Last night he seemed ageless, old features mingling with young on an alien face. As the morning light spreads, Duck sees lines of worry on his forehead and that his lower lip is chewed raw.

“Thank you. If it is alright, I will walk back with you.” His wings rustle in the breeze as they start for the cabin. Then he stops, hesitates, and touches Duck’s arms with his fingertips, “They are few, the futures where he chooses to see me again. But I promise you that if they come to pass, I will cherish him no less than you do. And that I, I will never seek to keep him permanently from you” a nervous laugh, “I am not sure I could. You are rather determined. An admirable trait.” 

He smiles, reserved, until Duck returns the expression. Then his eyes glow brighter, and he talks with Duck all the way back.

—---------------------------------------------------------

“And that is how new fae royalty comes to be.” Indrid cocks his head at the drawing he made at Joseph’s behest, the two of them sitting side by side at the coffee table, “I fail to see how this is any less convoluted than human government.”

“Slightly fewer duels. At least these days.” Joseph closes his notebook; he’s going to need another one before the week is out. Over the last two days, Indrid has talked with him for hours, the two of them trading questions and stories about their realms. It’s clear that Indrid is as intrigued by human life as Joseph is by the fae realm.

Duck and  Barclay will join in the conversation from time to time, and tonight Barclay is passed out on the floor after fiddling with new songs on his guitar all evening, and Duck is asleep on the couch behind them, book open on his chest. 

There’s a tingle of magic, and then a notebook, bound in blue leather, appear on the table. 

“You were about to say you were running out of pages.” Indrid nudges the books towards him, “that one will always have more space to write.”

“Incredible.” Joseph smooths his hand over the cover as the clock ticks over to one in the morning. He stretches and murmurs, “I should go to bed.”

“Then I will say goodnight. And thank you once again for allowing me to pass an evening in your company.”

Joseph catches his hand and kisses it, smiling at the resulting, breathy chirr, “My pleasure.”

—----------------------------------------------

“Y’know, thought Duck was joking when he said your back is just solid knots.” 

“I can’t prove I’ve gotten where I have by worrying about everything, but I’m not about to stop now.”

Barclay chuckles, running his hands over Joseph’s shoulders. They’re on a patch of secluded beach, Joseph laying on his back with his head in the singer's lap. A fog bank curls up the sand, but the sweater Indrid gave him keeps the damp at bay, making him feel like he’s sitting by a cozy fire. 

Strong hands massage his neck and shoulders and he lets his eyes drop closed. For a while there’s no sound but the wind and the waves. Then Barclay hums to himself, soothing and slow, and gradually he starts singing The Sailor’s Boy. Joseph’s favorite. 

The singer’s voice pulls him down, first into the calm of the moment and then into a deeper, dreamy place where he’s a lost sailor floating in the dark sea as a merman circles him, singing him back to life. 

Barclay sings two more love songs before Joseph opens his eyes and reaches up to rest a hand on his cheek. 

“How Indrid was the first person to offer you anything you wanted is beyond me. I’d give you the world just to hear you every day.”

“You don’t need to. You’re the first person who could cage me up like a bird and I’d still sing for.” Barclay’s fingers trace Joseph’s jaw and pet up his throat, “I’m crazy about you.”

“Then I guess this isn’t my final visit.” Joseph grins flirtatiously and a deep, needy whine rumbles out of the other man. 

“Fuck, I was hoping you’d say that. But I, I need to show you something.” He eases Joseph into a sitting position, squeezes his eyes shut, and pulls off the bracelet on his left hand.

Fur the same auburn as his beard appears on his arms, face, and chest, his ears turn pointed, and his fingers show short, black claws. 

“Oh my god.” Joseph desperately wants a closer look but now doesn’t feel like the moment. 

“Indrid says it’s a side effect of the initial spell he used, and of me and him spending a lot of time around each other. I don’t really mind it, but I figured I shouldn’t hide it from you.” His posture turns shy, “what do you think?”

Scratch that, this is exactly the moment. 

He climbs into Barclay’s lap, the singer letting out an adorable, rumbling purr as Joseph runs his hands down his chest. 

“I think you should let me” he bites the tip of one ear, earning him a growl, “investigate.”

His beast flops obediently onto his back with a grin, “I’m all yours, baby.”

—----------------------------------------------------------------

They’re five days into their week, and Indrid has walked with Duck for every single one of them. Barclay’s cabin isn’t far from a series of barely maintained trails, and in spite of his dislike for the cold, coastal breeze, Indrid seems content to stay beside Duck for hours. 

He’s talking about the drawing he did of Joe that he hopes he’ll like when he gets distracted by a hummingbird zipping between the bushes. When he glances at Duck, smile breathless and bright, Duck shakes his head. 

“I don’t get it, Indrid. How come you had to trick Joe into that marriage deal? Seems to me you’re charmin’ enough to get anyone you wanted back home.”

The fae’s antenna droop as he crosses his arms comfortingly around himself, “You are kind to say such things. But to my kind, I am rather offputting. Insectoid fae are not common and are seen by many as harbingers of doom, or incapable of true enchantments. Some days I fear they may be right; being near my magic is already causing Barclay to morph into something less human, for which I am certain he will hate me one day.” He gives a wistful smile, “we cannot all be such perfect suitors as you.”

Duck laughs, hurrying to explain himself when Indrid looks hurt, “Lots of humans have made it real fuckin clear they disagree with you. Took me awhile, but these days I think they’re as full of shit as fae who can’t see you for the gorgeous, sweet thing you are.”

Indrid’s ruff poofs slightly, then turns away, wings open enough to cover the movements of his hands. When he faces Duck once more, there’s a small, obsidian planter cupped in his palms, the plant at the center blooming gold and blue. 

“Please let me woo you?”

A blush seeps up his ears, “Hell yeah I will.”

Indrid trills happily, taking Duck’s hands as the plant floats beside them. Duck tugs him closer, kissing him first on the cheek and then on his lips. When he meets red eyes, they’re wide in shock. 

He writes it off as first date jitters. Though he hopes it means Indrid will be fun to fluster in bed. 

That evening, he and Barclay have drinks on the porch while Indrid teaches Joe a painfully complex, fae card game. Their talk turns to Indrid, and when Duck–only half joking–says he must be as giving in the sack as he is the rest of the time, the singer frowns.

“I wouldn’t know. He’s been in my life years and he, like, never touches me. Offers his hand or arm sometimes but that’s it.”

“Huh. He ain’t done more than that with me, either. And from what Joe says he barely touches him. You think he doesn’t want to?”

“At first, yeah. But there’ve been times it was really fucking obvious he did. He almost kisses me, then pulls back, or I offer to cuddle and he gets to the point of sitting next to me before changing his mind. And it’s like…like I can feel him still looking at me afterwards, like there’s this whole wave of want rolling off him and he’ll just sit on his hands and his voice will go tight and it’s so frustrating. Like, I know fae aren’t just about courtly love; I’ve run into a few who asked me to fuck without knowing my name. I just…I’d give him anything if it would make him happy. Doesn’t he know that?”

It’s like looking through a camera lens, the image only coming clear when you focus on the right thing. 

“I got an idea. But we’re gonna need Joe’s help.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------

His time is almost up. Were he braver, he’d look to the futures to see if they’ve changed since that first day. But now that he knows Duck and Joseph better, it will hurt all the more to see them turn him away. And Barclay…

He’ll miss him so much, even when he’s asleep. And humans don’t live to be a hundred and thirty. 

Indrid tries not to think about that as he sits on the bed as Joseph requested, the human opening the gifted notebook and starting a new page.

“Thank you for letting me do this. It occurred to me I don’t really know how wings work on someone with a human body. Shirt off, please.” 

He removes the loose fitting,short sleeved, black tunic.

Joseph sits on the bed in front of him, “Open your wings a little?”

Indrid obeys, gasping as the human sets a warm hand on his chest, feeling for flight muscles, “You know, I would not do this for just anyone. To open your wings is to offer vulnerability and even submission.” He manages a grin, “but how can I not spoil you, my pet?”

The fingers on his chest still, “What was that?”

“N-nothing. A slip of the tongue!” He squeaks as Joseph’s left hand digs into the sensitive patch of his wing.

“Try again.”

“I called you pet!” He chirrs as the hold tightens, “I am sorry, it slipped out, you are not my anything.” 

“Don’t be silly.” The hand switches to stroking his wing, “I’m your fiance. At least I was the last time I checked.”

He gives a helpless chirp; what is Joseph doing, addressing him like this? As if he was the powerful one and Indrid no more than his toy. 

“Speaking of which, I appreciate your attentive courtship. But there’s an important piece of information I’m missing.” Blue eyes pierce into him, “any husband of mine needs to treat me right in bed.”

“I, I don’t, you do not need to-”

“Indrid” Joseph rests a hand on each shoulder, “do you not want me that way? Or Duck and Barclay for that matter?”

Tears well up, unbidden and deeply unwelcome, “I do! I want you all so badly but look at me. Even if Duck finds me handsome surely none of you could truly desire me, not when I look like this and am a conniving, powerful fae who you fear deep down.”

The human catches his hands before he can hide his face in them, “You couldn’t be more wrong. Did you two hear all that?”

“Yep” the door opens and Duck steps through, followed by Barclay. The singer is on the bed immediately, arms wrapped around Indrid’s waist and face buried in the dark feathers of his ruff.

“I was never afraid of you, little moth, never ever ever.” His beard tickles Indrid’s skin as he traces kisses across his neck and shoulders, “I’m so sorry you ever thought that, I love you so much-”

“You what?” His words cut off into a chirp.

“Love you.” Barclay’s voice is muffled against him, and the singer seems wholly uninterested in doing anything but pressing himself as close to Indrid as possible. 

Indrid glances at Joseph and Duck, who are trading a remarkably conspiratorial look. 

“Not sure we feel the same as the big fella does-”

Barclay lets out a little, affectionately apologetic howl as he kisses the back of Indrid’s head. 

“-Joe and I have talked it over and, uh, we wanna take you up on your offer.” Duck scratches the back of his neck, bashful in a way Indrid’s never seen. 

He turns his attention on Joseph, heart gnawing on his ribs, “You will honor our bargain? Freely?”

The human takes his hand, pressing it first to his lips and then to his brow, “Indrid Cold, I’ll gladly be your husband.”

His hands act without his permission, grabbing Joseph’s shirt and pulling him into a kiss. It’s as precise and clever as everything the human does, and when Joseph breaks free Indrid clings to him, chirping and pleading for another. 

“I’ll do anything pet, please.”

Duck laughs, sitting down beside Joseph, “Damn, darlin, he’s even needier than you were the night we got hitched.”

“I am not nee-EEP” his whole body is lightning bolt as Barclay bites one antenna, “alright, I am needy, I need all three of you like a tree needs the sun, I need you to never stop touching me because I will disintegrate from loneliness if you do, and you” the looks over his shoulder at Barclay, “I need you to take me this instant because I have loved you for years and wanted you so badly my heart aches.”

“Fuck yes.” Barclay grabs his face, kissing him, and Indrid swears there’s honey on his tongue by the time they part, “gonna be so good for you.”

“Unless fae are real different, these have gotta go.” Duck grabs Indrid’s flowing black pants and pulls them down. They’re barely clear of his ankles when Joseph is between his legs, full attention on his cock.

“Oh, this is gorgeous. I expected it to be human but this is so much better.”

Indrid looks at his lap; he supposes his cock, which goes from narrow to wide and back again three times before reaching the base, is more elaborate than the uniform shaft of a human. 

“Duck, get on it.”

“Yessir.” Duck offers his husband a teasing smile, pulling off his pants and oh, Indrid understands now why Joseph was so upset to be taken on his wedding night.

Duck’s belly sticks out from under his grey-green shirt, and Indrid runs his nails over it with a purr. When he digs them into the skin, Duck moans.

“He likes it when you bite” 

“Hey, no fair tellin’ him th-AH” Duck shudders in his arms as Indrid nibbles his throat, “okay no this is fuckin amazin nevermind. Still gonna tell him how to fuck you so you cry.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Don’t you ‘yes dear’ me” Duck lunges backwards, dragging a laughing Joseph into a kiss. Indrid only tears his eyes away from the scene when claws tap his arm. Turning, he finds Barclay without his bracelet, auburn fur stunning in the lamplight and smile sharper than usual. 

How could he have ever seen this as some unwanted remnant of his power? 

“You are a vision, my dearest.” 

“Glad you like it, little moth. It’s funny, there’s more colors in your feathers when I’m like this. Whelp, question for another time.” He growls, playfully, “you still want me to be good for you?”

“So badly.”

“Uh, how should I warm you up?”

“No need” Indrid waves his hand, loosening and slicking himself up, “fae magic is good for more than strange bargains.”

He straddles Barclay’s lap, facing away from him, and sinks down on a thick, long cock.

“Ohhh, oh I was an absolute fool to deny myself this for so long.”

“Don’t worry, gonna make it up to you.” Barclay rolls his hips, “Indrid, Indrid, you feel so good.”

“Bet he does.” Duck is in his lap once more, staying up on his knees to line Indrid’s cock up with his entrance, “you wanna fuck me, sugar?”

He chirps at the nickname, nodding frantically until Duck lowers himself. Then he makes a rather undignified noise and throws his arms over the human’s shoulders. Claws dig into his hips and he keens, Barclay’s strokes turning rough as he fucks him deeper.

“Like that, baby?”

“Yes, yesyesOH” he trills as he bottoms out inside Duck, who’s busy kissing his chest.

The bed dips beside him as Joseph joins them, fully clothed save for where he’s unzipped his pants enough to release his cock. Indrid has never wanted anything in his mouth quite so badly, but his position prevents it.

Joseph leans in to kiss his cheek, then moves on of Indrid’s hands from Duck’s shoulder to his cock. 

“Are you going to take care of me like a good husband?”

“Yes, always, anything you wish.”

“Then prove it.” The demand is loving but an order all the same. Indrid curls his fingers around Joseph’s shaft, stroking it until he’s hard and panting.

“What do you say?”

“Th-thank you, thank you my darling pet.”

Joseph pets his wing, “Good boy.”

“Holy fuck darlin, where’s this comin’ from?”

“These two, oohgod, bring it out in me.” He smiles, “well, Barclay does some of the time. Yesterday he ambushed me in the kitchen and held me against the wall .”

“That’s where that hickey came from.”

“Yeah” Barclay grunts, holding Indrid’s ass flush against his body, “sorry man, but you know he’s cute when he pretends to fight back.”

“Damn right he is.”

“Careful, big guy” Joseph’s hips begin to stutter, “if you get cocky I won’t let you blow me anymore.”

Barclay whimpers, “Would sharing Indrid’s ass make up for it? Bet he’s got a spell that could make him loose enough to take us both at once.”

“Another time, right now I, I need him to be a good boy and open his wings.”

Indrid obeys and a moment later Joseph cums across them with a moan. It’s one of the filthiest things a fae can do to another, and the fact that he has while another uses his ass like a toy and a third tells him to be a sweet little thing and cum in is all too much at once. Indrid cums, wings spreads and body thrashing, chirping and trilling for more even as the exhaustion hits. Barclay must cum right after him, as by the time he’s floating back to earth the singer is soft inside him and thanking him over and over for the honor. 

Before he can apologize to Duck for finishing before him, Joseph is kissing Indrid while rubbing swift, practiced circles on Duck’s dick. Then he moves Indrid’s hand and uses it for the same purpose. 

“That’s it” Joseph whispers in his ear, “any husband of mine is going to be a good boy and make damn sure my other husband cums.”

“Fuuuck” Duck groans, tightening around him, “Jesus fucking christ, Joe, we shoulda gotten someone in bed for you to boss around ages ago.” Duck turns his attention back to Indrid, “you okay, sugar.”

“I am in heaven.”

Duck chuckles and kisses him, the gesture at once playful and so grounded Indrid wants to put down roots. 

Once the human slides from his lap, Duck goes to fetch water while Barclay tidies up the room and pulls back the covers on the bed. Soon the four of them are crammed into it, Joseph on one side of him and Barclay on the other, Duck spooning Joseph so his hand can reach over and hold Indrid’s. 

It’s a tight fit, but nestled in the heart of this tangle of affection, drifting off to sleep as the others discuss logistics of visiting each other, Indrid knows he’s never been happier.

[hannie-dul-set]

WHAT BEST FRIENDS DO | n.jm

PAIRING. best friend(ish)! na jaemin x g.n. reader GENRE. high school! au, maybe secret relationship! au hihi, FLUFF, light humor WARNINGS. swearing, mentions of food WORD COUNT. 988 PROMPT(S). “i need a hug” NOTE. the drabble isn’t actually centered around the prompt i’m so sorry ; - ; but i still hope you liked this, anon who requested ><

When Jaemin entered the classroom, uniform freshly pressed, hair styled neatly, the first thing he saw was the ghostly apparition of you, sitting on your usual seat beside him— front desk, middle row— head down with your unbrushed hair covering your entire face. He shook his head, a minuscule smile on his face as he walked up to your unsuspecting figure.

“Morning.”

You did not answer, not even a slight budge or tell that you had heard him, save for the faint rocking of your head back and forth. An indication that you were almost, if not already, fast asleep.

“They’ve been knocked the fuck out the moment they sat down,” Donghyuck announced his arrival, dragging out the empty seat from the desk beside you, a smug grin on his face. “What did you do to Y/N last night, Jaem?”

The insinuating question caught the interest of the students sitting around— including the rest of Jaemin’s friend group, all huddling around the two seats in front with idle curiosity, minding their own business as if they weren’t listening, but it was an obvious fact that they were. You were barely hanging onto your consciousness as all of this stirred around you.

“Oh, Y/N did homework until two in the morning—”

It was evident from the disappointment on Donghyuck’s face that Jaemin’s reply was not what he, or any of them, wanted. Oh, how they were hoping that there was finally something between the ship that the entire class was rooting for, and so they dispersed back into their seats, save for Jeno, Renjun, Jisung, and Chenle who remained surrounding the both of you, clearly unimpressed.

“—fell asleep during our call.”

With that, Jaemin shook off his grey uniform coat, folding it into a neat square, which elicited a few questioning looks from his friends. He placed it on top of your desk, right before placing a hand behind your head, the other barely grazing over your jaw, as he lowered you onto the makeshift coat pillow, brushing the hair out of your face so you wouldn’t wake up to having your face tickled. The five exchanged a few glances. Jeno cleared his throat.

“Friends don’t usually do that,” he prompted with a cough, sliding onto the desk directly behind Jaemin. The rest of the bots murmured voices of agreement, trying to provoke their soft-hearted friend just to get something out of him.

“Oh, yeah?” Jaemin simply answered dismissively, focused on the affectionate caresses he was giving you head when you squirmed in your sleep. They all shared knowing glances.

There weren’t even any protests this time. Not a single hint of disagreement. At this point, there was no denying it.

But before they could pry out any information from Na Jaemin, he suddenly stood up.

“I’ll be back. Don’t make too much noise, please.”

The moment he left, the rest of the boys dispersed into a hushed discussion because there was in no way that you and Jaemin were just best friends. It was not a secret that their friend was overly affectionate, overly doting, and overly adoring to the point of gags and barfs, but this was different, okay? They knew it was different, but why won’t either of you two just admit that you two were more than anything you claimed?

Perhaps it was from the bickering surrounding you that you woke up from your oddly comfortable nap.

“Oh, you’re awake.”

Luckily for the rest of the boys, Jaemin came at just the right moment. You stared at the bag of milk and container of sliced fruit that he placed on your desk with a hint of confusion, leading you to notice the wrinkled uniform coat that you were sure wasn’t yours, and were also sure that you’d been sleeping on it. At that moment, your head snapped back to Jaemin— realizing that he was only wearing his undershirt and tie.

You quickly unfolded the coat and smoothed it out before throwing it back to him. “Dude, why would you do that?”

Jaemin sat back down beside you, putting the rest of his uniform back on. “Didn’t want you to sleep uncomfortably.”

“But now your coat’s all wrinkly”

He sent you a sweet smile. “But you had a nice sleep.”

It was as if there weren’t any prying eyes looking at you at that exact moment. The five couldn’t butt in— none of your classmates could butt in because it would feel like an intrusive crime if they did so.

Sighing, you slipped off your own coat because you were still very, very tired, but before you could do that, Jaemin stopped you. His chair screeched as he dragged it towards you, pulling you closer by the waist, his touch lingering there for only a fleeting moment before he raised his hand to your head, steadying it to rest on his shoulder. You blinked a few times in a daze.

“There,” his hand fell back to his side.  “So that neither of our coats will be ruined, and so that you’ll also sleep comfortably. Eat the food later after you've recharged, alright?”

It was a sweet moment of nothing but eye contact, dead silent until Renjun screeched out.

“What the fuck, are you two sure you're just friends?”

Ignorance is bliss. And so you ignored Renjun, as well as the mess of everyone else losing their shits from behind you. You didn’t understand what was there to make a fuss about.

“Why aren't you sleeping yet?” Jaemin asked, a slight whine trailing off his voice. “Do you need anything else?”

You pressed your lips into a thin smile. “Maybe I need a hug, too.”

He laughed, shaking his head, and did as you asked without a moment to spare, wrapping his arms around you as you drifted off to sleep once more, brushing off the frantic voices calling out the both of your names.

© hannie-dul-set, 2021

[neutron-stars-collision]

The Art of Inversion

Neil x Reader

Chapter 27 - Keeping Your Head Up

Masterlist; Chapter 26

Summary: Sleepless nights and plotting the way forward. You and Neil finally talk about the approaching battle. The conversation provides the spark for action.

Warnings: 18+ (not so implied content, if ya know what I mean); swearing.

Author's Notes: Here we go, earlier than I expected because who said that uni should be more important than fanfiction. This one goes through the whole spectrum of human emotions and I'm not even sure what's going on... but here it is. And I'll hope you'll enjoy! Let me know what you think?

P.S. Yes, Stalsk is soon. Yes, I'm terrified. How about you? :)))

Once the last arcs of light disappeared from the night sky and the troops started to disperse, one look exchanged with Neil was enough to help you decide. You led him through the ship’s quarters, hands holding tightly in the unspoken promise. Whatever happened during the aurora only confirmed what you knew from the previous night. There was no question of giving him up. One does not give up on the love of their life. Simple.

As the door to your cabin closed, both of you knew what had to happen. Neil wound his arm around your waist, pushing you against the wall. No space left between your bodies as your gazes met:

“I love you,” a whisper leaving his mouth reverence and certainty.

With the pulse pounding in your ears, you took the words off his mouth with a kiss. Hunger and need betrayed by your eager hands, grabbing hold of his sweater and pulling him down. In response, Neil kissed you harder, lips bruising, teeth tearing the skin to make you understand. Soon it became a duel of passion, each desperate to push the other off the edge. To stake the claim. Mindless of time and caution, you tugged at the clothes and stole the breath from each other’s lungs. Minutes passed, but it was never quite enough. Never satisfied. Only once the lightheadedness made you feel close to passing out from the lack of oxygen, you broke the kiss with a gasp. Your eyes opened to see Neil gazing back at you with a grin on his face. He glanced at your mouth as you licked off the saliva, chasing the taste for that second longer. Then, lost in the daze, you leaned forward, resting your forehead against his chest.

“What?” he gently cradled your head, pulling you closer into the strange hug.

With words missing, you took the additional moment to catch your breath and piece together a response:

“It’s... this is good. I don’t want it to end” a shy smile which he could not even see.

Still, the truth. Your idle hands ventured underneath the clothes, settling on the belt loops with the thumbs grazing over his sides. The warmth of the skin, a vivid reminder about the previous night. Something within your reach.

“It won’t. I’m never letting you go again,” confirming the words he tightened the hold, “Do you want to pick up the conversation or...” Neil trailed off, something in his voice arousing curiosity.

You raised your head, noticing the hint of a smirk on his lips. And the sparks in his eyes.

“Or?” courageous fingers ghosting over his stomach, bringing out sharp inhales.

You were never someone who paid too much attention to men’s musculature. It was never on the list of ‘requirements’ or expectations. And yet, as you carefully brushed your fingertips over his firm abdomen, that spark of satisfaction was there. And attraction, never waning since you first laid your eyes on him.

“We could continue with this...” ignorant of your thoughts, Neil searched your face with hints of hesitation in his eyes, “But only if you want to. I wouldn’t want you to think that all I’m here for is…” the deepening frown made you snap out of the reverie and shut him up with a finger against the mouth.

“Neil,” firmly, yet with a playful smile upon your lips, “You’re telling that to someone who just considered fainting if it meant extending that kiss,” your grin widening upon the shock on his face.

And then he grinned, cupping your cheek and brushing the pad of thumb over your lower lip. Drawing out a sigh with ease that not that long ago would have embarrassed you. Now there was no reason to hide it.

“Fair point” Neil smiled lightly, gaze distant showing you that he still had some things to say, “It’s just that…”

His eyes met yours a helpless plea. To understand, to chase away the worries and doubts. He did not need to ask for that.

“Yes?” you picked up the conversation, fingers running through his hair.

The gesture both a comfort and a way of reminding him of where you were. Of what you could give him if he only agreed. Judging by the way he leaned into your touch, it did work. After a beat, he met your gaze again, words pouring out with desperation and self-directed bitterness:

“We’ve lost so much time because of my stupidity. And I feel like it’s running out. If there’s not much left, then I want to give you all I’ve got” the earnest look stealing away the remains of breath from your lungs “And words can only go as far. Some of what I feel can’t be expressed like that, it’s...” trailing off, he faltered as though uncertain.

Oh god. It felt almost surreal to understand. That he would be questioning your desire to have sex again after all the confessions and admitted truths. That he would worry about going too far. As if that was not exactly what you wanted. All because he cared too much about your issues with being this close. Idiot. Ignoring the need to stop his silly doubts with a kiss, you tilted his chin and made sure he could see the longing in your eyes:

“I don’t need much convincing to agree for a repeat of last night. Only an idiot would’ve said no to all that… pleasure” simply, just as letting your free hand bravely brush over his crotch.

The answering gasp was more than promising. You could see the resolve breaking as he tried to level the breathing. Fingers taking hold of your shirt, toying with the material. Knuckles brushing over the skin on your stomach. The internal conflict close to a resolution. A favourable one. Only…

“You’re not tired?” the blue eyes full of concern and unmeasurable yearning.

Too good. With heart close to bursting from the amount of love, you took that as the cue to be brave. To be honest and show him the extent of need ravaging through your blood:

“I am. But I want you” purposefully meeting his gaze with an unguarded look, “I want to feel your hands on my body. To make love with you, knowing that you’re mine,” you observed as he swallowed hard, hands grasping onto your waist underneath the shirt “To feel you inside me” the conclusion whispered as your courage wavered.

Because that was a first. Explicitly stating wants and desires were never a forte, with the insecurities and anxiety making you forgo every attempt. Until now, with Neil, who was stunned into silence. His eyes darkened almost imperceptibly as the words sunk in. He understood.

You barely had the time to register when his lips crashed against yours in the kiss to put every single one before it to shame. This time there was no moderation, no slowness in any of your actions. Hands barely had the time to catch up with the needs as you both fumbled around with the clothes. A casualty – the cup of tea abandoned by the bed sent tumbling onto the floor. But you have not even noticed, too occupied by Neil, his skilful hands and breathtaking moves.

Logic of your closeness startling in its simplicity. Without needing to ask, he made sure you were ready, consent chased at every stage with something as straightforward as eyes searching yours, looking for that nod. For the spark, that told him what you wanted. And then, as he allowed you to have everything once again, gazes locked and held. Love passed with each sigh, shudder and moan. Faster and harder, seeking that familiar rush. Confirming what you both knew already. Never enough. Hands worshipping every inch of your body as you drove him to the edge and over, following suit. This time you did not bite back on words that settled on the tip of your tongue. With every single instance, the three words rolled off with more ease. That moment not any different, the I love you whispered as he offered you the necessary release, sealed with a kiss and explosion of pleasure. Nothing came close. Nothing ever would.

***

The quietness of the moment right after was astonishing in its tranquility. Neil pulled you back down to lie next to him on the bed with your head propped on his chest, the heartbeat a constant white noise bringing peace. With those careful hands caressing your skin, there was no place for insecurities. Only the overwhelming feeling of completeness, as if now when you knew that your heart was safely his, everything else has sunk into the background. That, of course, was an illusion, one that had to be shattered pretty quickly with the reminder about the topic you were yet to discuss. But it could wait. Just a little longer.

“Not a bad way to finish off the evening,” the low murmur tinted with a playful edge.

Of course. Despite the warmth spreading through your body, you grinned, arms embracing him tightly, even if only to show agreement. It really was. And yet…

“Was it still that good? Like you said, in the morning-” the eternal need for validation speaking up before you could properly gather the thoughts.

Thankfully, Neil sensed what was coming before you did. He sat up, dragging you with him.

“Christ, you-” the exasperation betrayed by the heavy sigh, “If I need to tell you how amazing it was every time we have sex, then I will. Keep that in mind” he observed you closely, taking in the spreading blush and deepening shock “My love” an addition followed by a bop on the nose.

Just like that. Without giving you time to react, he laid down again. This time you seemingly had a choice, no arms holding you close as if to show that you were free to suffer the doubts alone. As if. With a quiet huff, you settled back on the bed facing him. The lack of touch felt strange.

“I’ll take that as a warning” stubbornly, you met his gaze, awaiting nothing but satisfaction.

Rightfully so. The infamous smirk graced his lips as he stared at you fondly. Maybe it was time to abandon the uncertainty. Maybe you really got that lucky.

“You should,” as though he too was missing the contact, he reached out to stroke your cheek slowly, “And yes, it was still very much mind-blowingly good. Splendid. Terrific” with each word, the blush was darkening.

Neil’s smugness growing exponentially. Too much.

“Okay, stop,” ignoring the sudden desire to punch him, you chose the puppy-eyed look instead, “Please,” placing your hands on his shoulders if only to assert the dominance.

The sudden flash of darkness within the blue eyes was unexpected. And fascinating.

“Make me,” a whisper accompanied by his touch trailing down your stomach.

That was a challenge you gladly accepted. Using the moment of stagnation, you rolled over to trap him beneath you. His eyes swept over your chest, hands settling on your waist, making everything easier as always. It was not difficult to lean in and shut him up with another breathtaking kiss, with teeth catching that frustrating lower lip showing him why it was unwise to test you. The answering groan and tightening grip were good enough confirmation. And also, a perfect moment to let go and let him suffer alone.

The offended look on his face - absolutely delightful. You waited patiently as he got over the initial shock and wound his arm around your waist once again. From the wistfulness on Neil’s face, you could tell that he was not done:

“Now I know why I’ve always been so drawn to you. You’ve got quite the skillset” the meaningful look giving more confidence than anything ever “And, mind you, I might be catastrophically in love with you but that… no wonder we couldn’t keep our hands off each other” accentuating the meaning, he cupped your face once again “You’re unforgettable. Wonderful. Extraordinary. And mine” the litany closed off with happiness in his eyes “Which is why I’ll start counting my blessings” a kiss on your forehead finishing the speech.

You met his gaze with a gaping mouth. What on earth… That amount of affection expressed just like that was overwhelming. The only thing that could be done was to hug him tightly and hide from the fond look by burying your head in the crook of his neck. The warmth of your bodies slowly lulling you back into the peaceful illusion of safety. Into believing that the drama was truly beyond you. Only one last issue circulating your brain, nagging at the thoughts and creating ‘what ifs’ that needed answering. Maybe…

“I’ve got one more silly question before I’ll be quiet for eternity” your whisper broke the silence with the husky timbre.

You felt Neil’s low chuckle before you heard it. His hand stroking your back without a stutter. As if that was second nature. As if he always knew how to touch you but held back. Until now.

“Go on then,” you raised your head in time to see a happy grin, “Miss silly questions,” fingertips skirting over your profile, stopping at your mouth.

The ghost-like touch, parting your lips just because it was possible. Because casual intimacy was no longer out of bounds. Ignoring the sudden onrush of feelings, you chose to use the rare courage to your advantage:

“Are you my boyfriend now? Is that what I should call you?” blurting out the questions with deepening blush and increasing embarrassment.

Too clingy. What if he wanted to keep this casual, without labels? And you just messed it up? Like everything in your life. Before the sabotage could take over, a familiar hand tilted your chin up. The blue eyes, searching yours, looking for clues towards the extent of self-inflicted damage. Whatever he found was enough to call for a soft kiss, followed by a cheeky smile:

“Boyfriend, partner... husband, whatever you want darling,” the wink almost making you brush over the words.

Almost. Your brain froze as you remembered the meaning of the terms used. The ridiculousness of it all taking away the last bits of reason.

“... We’re not married,” staring at him as though he has officially lost it, you stated the obvious.

Only the answering grin was not that obvious. Or the way he took hold of your hand and kissed your knuckles, all the while maintaining eye contact.

“Are you sure about that?” the arched eyebrow adding the final blow.

There was no end to the shock as the absurd of everything caught up. The laugh could not be contained anymore, giggles interrupting whatever you could want to tell him. The happy look in his eyes, making everything even worse. Only once you could catch your breath again, an expression of exasperation the only thing passing through your throat:

“Jesus Christ… Neil” a hint of warning.

Mostly to stop being so bloody charming. Even with spite, it was difficult to find flaws in that beautiful face. Or to stop the constant flood of affection whenever your gazes locked. He looked completely unbothered, amused by your reaction.

“You knew what you’re signing up for,” a shrug showing no remorse whatsoever.

He did have a point. Still.

“Yes, but… I hate you sometimes,” the words triggered by the eternal frustration, “You with your perfect eyes and jaw that cut through my defences. And let’s not even mention all that smooth talk” ever so casually, you traced the outline of his jawline.

Catching the hints of something darker in his expression, you felt the need from before return. Making you cling closer to him, find a temporary fix for the addiction in the way you fit together. Legs entwined; comfort brought by something as simple as the possibility to share the pillow with him. Or the option to get lost in his gaze, let his hands explore all the curves and edges. Everything that you could offer.

“And yet,” the simplicity of his answer was enough to make you grin.

Distractedly, you let your fingers skim down his chest, watching with fascination at how easy it was to treat him as yours. The naturality of the conversation and the variety of responses to keep up the banter. Effortless. Before you found the right words, Neil traced the path down your thigh, creating the tiniest sparks of electricity.

“My most humiliating defeat,” you admitted with a feigned disappointment painted on your face.

That seemed to be the bait he needed. You observed with satisfaction the way his eyes lit up. The cheeky smile back on his lips. There we go.

“You didn’t seem humiliated. Just now,” hand getting dangerously close to the space between your thighs “More like… satisfied” Neil shifted forward, closing the gap between your faces “By me” a low whisper before he captured your lips in a kiss.

A hard one that deepened the bruises and showed you why you had no choice but to give in. Why resting within his embrace was where you were meant to be. You let the feelings consume you whole, clinging even closer to him, arms holding him tightly, letting the breathlessness roam free. The only cue to end the kiss came from Neil, who has run out of oxygen and ended the contact with a sharp gasp. He did not let go, however, extending the hug for at least five minutes, during which you both savoured the moment. The quiet only disturbed with the sounds of your breathing and the synchronised heartbeats, marking the passage of time. It would be easy to fall asleep like that, feeling safe and loved. Finally important to someone. Finally his. But you knew that the things needing talking over would catch up eventually. And so, with the heart getting heavier and the body aching for more, you let go and disentangled enough to meet his eyes again. Nothing but affection there. It was that overwhelming love that prodded the next reflection:

“Sometimes I can’t quite believe you’re real” you let yourself stare a little longer, taking in his infatuated gaze and ruffled hair.

His beauty always startling in its harshness. The angles and sharp edges capable of shattering a heart. You knew that best of all. And yet, with the blue eyes that always showed a myriad of feelings, he was not intimidating, only absolutely fascinating. Someone you could admire for hours and would never have enough. Now, with your curious glance reflected and gentle touch caressing your temple, the luck felt almost immeasurable. Because how could you get this fortunate?

“I am, all yours to touch... and do whatever else you want,” the response bringing the confirmation.

It was that simple. The darker glimmer in his eyes told you as much. You hoped the smile was a good enough answer, for there were no words. Neil acknowledged your speechlessness with a timid smile, as though he too needed time to get used to the new dynamic. To the honesty and unrestrained confessions passed between you to make up for the lost time. The longing in his gaze was enough to let you know that it was time. That you could not stall anymore.

“Tempting…but…” you let out a long exhale and forced out the serious tone, “We should talk,”

One look in his direction told you he understood. The smile wiped off his face in an instant, the frown replacing the previous shyness. With the sudden need to make your circumstances a little bit more bearable, you got up and took hold of his t-shirt abandoned on the floor. Without thinking too much, you slipped it on and turned back to face Neil. An answering grin was a needed reassurance. You observed as he put on the boxers and settled back next to you, instantly drawing you into a half embrace with an arm placed over your shoulders and a hand resting on your thigh. It was all the comforts you could hope for beginning the difficult topic. Nothing to hold you back now. One look at him was enough to permit you to start. Alas…

“Every second I’m falling harder in love with you, and there’s no end to it,” the opening sentence getting out without a stutter as you stared at his fingers idly tracing patterns on your bare skin “I might not understand much-” watching with horror as he opened his mouth to protest you closed it with hand placed over his lips “No, Neil, let me say it” firmly, gaze held to show the determination; after a beat, he nodded and you resumed “I don’t understand much. Probably a quarter of what you know since you’re the smart one here, but... I refuse to give up before we try to make it work together. Let me help you” you could see the conflict brewing in his eyes, thousands of worries passing through his face; one last thing to say “I like to think that there’s a reason why I’ve been brought into this. That I’ve got a bigger role to play than being your lover” you whispered the word shyly, as if almost unsure if it was the right one.

It seemed correct, but… With growing uncertainty, you watched as Neil’s frown deepened. Then he seemed to consider something with eyes closed as though needing to block you out of the picture. That did not help the anxiety. Before your heartbeat could kick in with the elevated speed, he faced you again with new emotions painted all over the features. Most obvious of all – hesitancy. And then…

“You’re much more than that,” a long inhale as though that could give him courage, “You’re… You could be my- We could-” he faltered, the blue eyes looking anywhere but at you.

With your mind starting up the sirens for the world-ending kind of emergency, you could only blurt out the straightforward questions:

“What? What are you trying to say?” your voice wavered, betraying the chaos within.

It was that one false note vibrating through your vocal cords that made Neil calm down a fraction. Finally, he met your widened gaze, and after an extended second of soul-searching, he responded:

“I want to marry you… even today,” oh “If you’d want that, of course,” a hurried addition, with eyebrows knitting together and teeth nibbling on the lower lip restlessly.

Oh. Christ. Now nothing was stopping your pulse from picking up the tempo. The blood rushed into your cheeks as the words sunk in. That was far from anything you expected to hear. Now or ever. From him or anybody else. The sight he presented at the moment told you that there was no point in doubting the authenticity of the proposal. No one would look this terrified because of a lie. With words missing, you could only let out a half-hearted laugh:

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the forced lightness bouncing off his rigid resolve with the speed of light.

He took your hand in his, thumb brushing over the knuckles. Additional regard given to your ring finger almost thoughtlessly. It was hard to remember about something as basic as breathing as you stared at him, pondering his very next sentence. An explanation, hopefully.

“I’m serious. I need you to understand how much I love you. More than I can express and enough to know that I want to spend the rest of my life with you” the earnest look stunning you into silence with his beauty.

The confession needing at least two business days to be processed and understood. But there was no time for that. The part of your heart that has fallen in love with him circa New York ready to abandon logic and say yes. No matter the approaching battle, the lack of reason or sense in any of this. But that voice had to be silenced. For now.

“Neil… You can’t- It’s been less than a day since we-” you stumbled over the protest, failing to piece together a coherent argument.

Because it was both a yes, and a no. Yes, I want to marry you. Not now. Not yet. Not with the world on fire and uncertain chances of survival. But how do you say that?

“I know, but I’ve been feeling like this for months. And everything that happened showed me that I’m right. I need you” your internal monologue got cut short by Neil’s response, “But if… if you don’t want me like that, it’s alright. I-” it was the sudden insecurity betrayed by the stutter that alerted you.

You could not allow him to doubt your feelings like this. Never again. Following the instincts, you clamped your hand over his mouth again, cutting off the horrifying ramblings.

“Shut up,” you met his gaze and replaced the hand with your mouth, kissing him slowly, “I want you, exactly like that. But I want to have a future with you, filled with so much love and understanding that it will make my heart ache” the meaningful look focused only on the man inches away from you “That’s why we need to work together. So, one day if you’ll still feel the same… you’ll ask me properly, and I’ll say yes” the breathless addition costing you blush on the cheeks and a flash of anxiety.

The best answer you could offer hanging in the tense silence. Hesitantly, you looked at him again, searching for a response. The knowledge that he understood your plea and was willing to accept it. As your eyes locked, Neil smiled, the expression brightening up the mood in an instant. Maybe it would be alright.

“That might have been the most poetic rejection I’ve ever heard,” he murmured, and before you could comment on that, captured your lips in a kiss.

Gently showing you that he understood. Deepening the contact, making the reality catch up. It was real. He wanted you, and not just now. Loved you enough to marry you if the universe allowed. That was a prospect good enough to fight for. An idea to fight off the doubts and worries. Because no matter what your brain had to offer in exchange, it could not compare. Ending the kiss, on a contented sigh, you rested your forehead against his. Taking an additional moment to level the breathing and stare into the eyes that have seen the inside of your soul and accepted it.

“You took me by surprise,” the nervous grin appearing on your face on its own accord.

Neil mirrored it, fingers cupping your face and stroking your cheek tenderly.

“Sorry…” a kiss on the forehead “Since I woke up today and looked at you… it’s been on my mind. The idea that you’re the one, and I need to let you know somehow. An obvious way would be to make you my wife” an overwhelming wave of fondness passing through the system at his words.

Neil’s wife. That sounded good. Hopeful. A label you would be proud to have one day. Final confirmation of your love. That was the needed spark to steer the conversation back on the right track. You leaned in once again and laid a small kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“Will you let me help you?” the simple question as you forced the seriousness once again.

This time he looked less nervous. Instead, you could see the battle playing out within his gaze. Fear and worry most prominent, close to tipping the scales and engulfing his mind within their shadow:

“I understand your logic… and why you want to go with me,” the diplomatic tone making you frown, “But… I don’t think I’ll be able to survive losing you. If something went wrong and you’d- I can’t let that happen” steel-cold resolve you knew from those disastrous meetings where this topic was the ultimate hot spot.

Now, technically, the issue of holding back was out of the way. Now neither of you had to pretend that you cared less; that there was anything else at stake but your feelings towards each other. Still, the fear of another argument was settling in the pit of your stomach as you aimed to answer with necessary determination:

“That goes both ways, Neil,” your comment causing him to look up with a surprise, “You need to understand that we’re both stubborn idiots who won’t let go. The best we can do is compromise” the softer tone needed to persuade him somehow.

You observed as he swallowed hard, your hand still within his grasp, now clutched tightly. As if he was afraid you would disappear if he relaxed the grip. Finally, he raised his head once again and met your searching gaze. Panic. Denial.

“But what if-” the words coming out strained, broken.

You did not like where it was going, and so you interrupted the supposition:

“What if what? There’s a reason why TP sent me those materials. Why he thought it’s crucial we know about the lock, and we prepare for it” the urgency crept into your voice, disrupting the illusion that you were the calmer one.

But how can one discuss something this important emotionlessly?

“Maybe they’re meant for me. So that I can go in there, open the gate, and leave” Neil’s answer made you snap up with sparks of passion burning in your eyes.

What you found on his face made it worse. It was that same resignation from before. As if he had no other choice but sacrifice himself. As if that was the only option, and he did not even want to consider alternatives. Why? Ignoring the desire to slap sense into him, you urged the reason to fight alongside you and put on the most definitive of voices:

“But what if something or someone stops you?” the question tearing through the fragile reality as you faced his conflicted look, “You’ve got reasons to come back now. Don’t you dare give me that same self-sacrificial crap” mindless of your need to stay strong, a single tear trailed down your cheek.

It fell perfectly onto your joined hands, making Neil look up sharply. His forehead creased with a new dose of angst as he reached out to wipe the wetness from your cheek. Taking a moment to stroke your neck then, gently caressing the skin as if it was necessary. As if the time was running out.

“Maybe this… maybe it’s all we’re meant to have. Those few days and-” the heartbroken look he gave you was enough to call for drastic measures.

Impatiently, you took hold of his free hand and grasped his chin to force him to meet your gaze:

“No” certain, no place for bargains, “I won’t give up on you without trying. You’ve made yourself essential to me, you’ve given me something else to… to be” you faltered, more tears streaking down your face; words needed but missing “I can’t let you take it away like that” a sudden stroke of anger adding inspiration for the very next argument “And why? Because ‘what’s happened happened’? That’s just another way of excusing inaction” with fascination you saw him flinch.

You have hit the right spot. Now it was the question of persisting. Of making him understand how ridiculously he was acting. How selfish it was to get himself killed in the name of philosophy. The wrong one, at that.

“It’s not. It’s an expression of fate in the mechanics of the world, not an excuse to-” he recited the words as though he knew them by heart.

As though it was his credo. Bullshit.

“Do nothing?” you completed the sentence with an arched brow, “And what is it that you’re planning to do?” biting edge unplanned but helpful.

If only to see him hesitate. No scripted cue for this question.

“Save the world. For you,” the candid answer taking you by surprise, “Because this the only way I can assure your survival” Neil stared at you with startling emptiness.

It was not exactly unexpected, but still. The fact that you mattered that much, the lengths he was willing to go to for your sake. Fuck. Overwhelmed with love and fear, your heart begged to be released. It thrashed within its cage, pulse pounding in your ears as you forced the brain to work. To tell him how wrong he was to think you wanted a life that did not guarantee his presence.

“The trouble is I don’t want to live in the world without you in it” that straightforward; making sure he held your gaze before continuing, “Listen to me. We will devise a plan, the best we can come up with, and then we’ll go in there together. I’ll cover you and help you escape after the job is done” you outlined the most reasonable of options and added upon his silence “It’s that simple,”

The conversation slowly draining the remains of energy in your body. You wanted nothing but to curl up in his embrace and sleep, forget about this whole mess, even if for a few hours. But you could not have that yet. Not with Neil offering yet another counterstrike:

“It’s everything but simple,” more worry in the stormy eyes, “I don’t know if I can do it… if I can let you…” he trailed off, the unspoken concerns making him interlace your fingers securely.

That called for the final defensive.

“Do you trust me?” you dropped the question with a neutral tone.

The answer hoped for but never taken for granted.

“Yes,” he did not stumble, the word rolling off his tongue with ease.

A rare surge of hope blooming in your chest.

“Then trust me on this too,” raising your joined hands to your lips and kissing his knuckles, “Together we can come up with something brilliant, I’m sure of it” a tentative smile to sign off the sentiment.

You did not know it was the gesture or your words that did it. You saw him waver, teeth nibbling on the bottom lip showing you the depth of the internal struggle. And then his eyes softened.

“You’ll need to be careful. I can’t risk losing you,” refusing to look at you, attention focused on your hands resting in the space between your folded legs.

It felt strange to know that you were this important. But it also explained everything, helping you find the solution to his worries and a way out of the stalemate.

“I know. I love you, and I’ve no plans of dying until we’re both ready to go. Together” you could only grin at his shocked expression, “So?”

You knew you had won the moment he cracked a tiny smile:

“…Okay… but only if you promise me that if things get nasty, you’ll leave. Without putting up a fight,” waiting for your response, he gazed into your soul, careful touch running up your thigh.

That seemed like an acceptable condition. One that offered space for maneuvers. One that could be argued with later.

“I promise,” the whisper opening up a space to lean in and kiss him.

Sealing your fates, confirming the beliefs. A final opportunity to show him why you were willing to do anything to save him. And vice versa.

As the kisses evolved into cuddles and the simple need to find comfort in each other, the tiredness caught up with you both. Another yawn interrupted the comfortable silence. Your hands were idly resting over Neil’s heart, the steady rhythm helping you calm down after the eventful day. He kept on stroking your hair, fingers tangling in the strands and smoothing them down. The repetitive movement easing you in, bringing a needed break from the stress and anxiety of the past weeks. As your eyelids felt heavier with every passing breath, a final question had to be asked:

“Can you stay with me?” the sudden timidness not fitting in with the intimacy of the situation.

And yet. Any voices of uncertainty got extinguished the moment you looked up at Neil and met his bright gaze:

“As if you think I’d leave. Don’t be silly,” the sheer audacity of your question causing his grin to widen, “I need to make up for all those lonely nights somehow” voice lowered to a whisper, gentle touch trailing up your arm, soothing and promising.

Good enough to succumb to and let go already. However, that need for water was stronger, causing you to smile apologetically before untangling from the complex web of limbs and standing up. His eyes followed your movement like a hawk, smirk forming on his face as he took in your dishevelment. As you stretched, the hem of the borrowed shirt rode up, exposing the glaring lack of underwear. The rare rush of confidence was strengthened by the look in his eyes. Suddenly being seen did not hurt that much.

“That you do” taking a sip of the water, you asked, “Can I keep the t-shirt?”

It was just a simple black shirt, good enough to sleep in, engulfing you in the additional dose of that ‘Neil smell’.

“Of course,” an appreciative nod, distracting you to glance at the abandoned phone, “You seem to like me shirtless… which I’m not complaining about,”

The comment was enough to make you turn back, however. Obviously. Taking in his satisfied grin, the urge to slap him was back. That, though, could turn your peaceful evening into something else. Something that perhaps was best left for the future.

“I just generally rather like you, Neil” the retort dropped with perfect disinterest.

No one messaged you, which was bound to be counted as a win. You got a far as making sure the phone was on mute, and you were ready to join him back in the bed when Neil’s question made you turn with widened eyes:

“Can you check my phone, please?” there was nothing suspicious in the way he asked.

As if it was nothing. But it was not exactly nothing. With trembling hands, you went through his notifications. Nothing remarkable or worth mentioning. It was when you faced Neil again after a minute that you noticed his taxing gaze, analysing your every move. He acknowledged your startled look with a serious smile:

“I can see that shocked face, and I’ve got one thing to say to your mean brain - I’ve nothing to hide from you” the emphasis placed on the right words “You can go through my texts if you want to test that” a passing glance at the device you still held in your hand.

Now that was too much. The idea itself triggering the reservoirs of worries. That you were too possessive. That the insecurities were getting ahead of you. As though burned, you put the phone down:

“Christ, no, sorry,” covering your face with your hands for a beat, “I don’t know why…”

Why what? Fuck knows. Looking for comfort, you glanced at him helplessly. Maybe with time, it would get easier. Maybe.

“It’s alright. Come here” Neil had no doubts as he extended his hand towards you in the simple invitation.

He need not say it twice. You switched off the remaining lights and took his hand, letting him pull you into a hug. The whispered reassurances and affirmations followed as you settled for the night. Carefully, you placed your hands over his heart and the scar on the side, mirroring night from another place and another time. As you closed off the day with a final breathless kiss, it was astonishingly effortless to realise that it was where you were meant to be. His lips glided over yours with tenderness reflected in the way he pulled you closer. Finally, you exchanged another confession and closed your eyes. Joined hands resting in the space between your heads like a beacon of hope. Someone to hold on to.

***

The initial sleepiness lasted for about three hours. After that, your brain switched back on, no longer satisfied by the presence of Neil’s steady breaths or the anchoring touch reminding you of the new circumstances. With every minute, it was harder to focus on falling back asleep. Instead, you were forced to go over the various what-ifs and worries centred around the battle. Thoughts of locks, guns, and bullets elevating your pulse and warming up your body in the familiar signs of an upcoming anxiety attack. Overwhelmed with the flood of ideas, you opened your eyes. No salvation in the darkness. Only the warmth of the embrace acting as a reminder to breathe. With a spark of fondness, you realised that Neil pulled you even closer throughout the night. His hands have slipped underneath the shirt. The touch comforting yet also warm enough to be bothering the heightened emotions. You had to get up and cool down. Only that was easier said than done. With his tight hold, it was difficult to untangle, and the first attempt got stopped with half-asleep Neil clutching you with stubbornness, refusing to let go. Despite your heart desperately clinging to the comforts of the position, you decided to take it slow. You raised your head and watched him for a short moment, involuntarily smiling at the peacefulness painted across his features. The relaxed forehead, long eyelashes falling on the cheeks, and strands of hair splayed on the pillow like a crown of gold. Beautiful. Leaning in, you placed a fleeting kiss on his temple, then another one on the cheek, lips brushing over the corner of his lips in a ghost of a touch. Message simple – sleep, it’s alright.

It worked, for he relaxed his hold enough for you to get up from the bed and trod over to the window. The coldness of the room waking up the senses, moonlight spilling over as you glanced at the horizon. Nothing but the ocean and the starry skies. No salvation to be found there. Unable to let go of the worries, you sighed heavily and pressed your forehead against the glass. There was hardly any point in trying to go back to sleep. That train has left the station. Your hands trembled lightly, betraying the anxious energy stored in every single cell of your body. Needing to get out somehow. Briefly, you considered putting on clothes and slipping out to let the cold air calm you down. But that could only help for a brief moment. You needed a better solution. A way to shut down the qualms. How was an entirely different question.

Your nervous internal ramblings got cut short with the unmistakable rustling coming from the bed behind, followed by:

“Why did you leave?” Neil’s husky voice enriched with the sleepy drawl causing a smile to spread on your face.

With the permanent warmth seeping through your chest with the reminder that it was finally your reality, you turned back to face him.

“I can’t sleep,” sheepish admission completed with a small shrug, “It’s fine though, I can-” as you sat down on the mattress, Neil silenced you with a hand taking yours and lacing the fingers.

“What’s wrong?” he seemed more awake now, the familiar focus back in his eyes, “And don’t tell me it’s nothing because I’m not buying that,” the disclaimer placed with a firmness that still startled you.

Supposedly it was time to get used to being seen like this. Right through, no bullshit allowed. Terrifying and endearing. Because for once you were understood. Accepted.

Taking an additional moment to collect the thoughts, you brushed the hair away from his forehead. Careful touch making Neil shut his eyes and lean into your palm as you traced the sharp edge of his cheekbone.

“I can’t stop thinking about the lock… All of the what-ifs and plans are starting to drive me insane,” you admitted quietly, not stopping the tender caress, “It’s like whenever I try to go back to sleep, the thoughts just keep rushing in, and there’s no end to them” the dejected note causing Neil to open his eyes and meet your tired gaze.

His brow furrowed, hold over your hand tightened as though he wanted to reassert his presence. A reminder that you did not have to deal with it alone anymore. In response, you squeezed his palm and rested your head on his shoulder.

“I know the feeling well,” a kiss on the top of your head, “Maybe we should make use of it,” the hopeful edge kindling curiosity.

“How?” somehow, it already felt a little bit better.

As though being able to share the troubles could make your heart less heavy. Because he was there and willing to fight the demons away with you. That was enough to assure you that he was the one. He had to be.

“Let’s go to the bridge and start planning. You won’t sleep and, frankly, knowing you’re feeling like this, I won’t either, so what have we got to lose?” the explanation simple in its directness.

For a moment, you wanted to argue, to tell him to go back to bed and let you deal with this one your own. Because it was selfish to drag him along at 3 am to brainstorm over the filter coffee and A0 format blueprints. Yet the moment your eyes met his, the protests died on your lips. Everything you saw in his gaze told you that there would be no bargaining over it. That he was bound to follow you into the bridge and start the planning right now if it meant you would be able to sleep and calm down. You could only show how that realisation felt through a kiss that strengthened every single feeling twice fold.

***

That is how you have found yourself slouched over the terrain maps and Sator’s compound blueprints with the old-school ticking away the early morning hours on the opposite wall. This early (or late?), the bridge was bathed in the glow of the dawn spreading throughout the eastern horizon. It was incredibly cold, the biting chill causing you both to huddle at the corner of the large table with pullovers zipped up and mugs clutched in your hands. The adorable pinkish tint on Neil’s cheeks and tips of his ears were almost good enough to suffer.

Quickly you established the main points needing covering: the area separating the drop-off zone from the epicentre and tunnel leading inwards, the ten minutes you would have for the whole job, and the potential fuck-ups. With your directions, Neil drew the simplified plan of the terrain on the blackboard, and you attempted to figure out the optimal time needed to cross the distance while inverted. That turned out to be a rather inspiring conversation…

“How fast can you run?” standing at the head of the table, Neil threw a glance at you in passing.

With a grin, you noticed that he managed to get a blue marker stain on his chin. The desire to get up and deal with that distracting you from answering the question. Long enough for him to glare at you offendedly. Riiight…

“Not as fast as you… with all those legs, but I’ll manage” you eyed his slender form with a glimmer in your eye, noting down the exact route to cover.

Tough, but manageable. You were definitely not going to back out now. Not a chance.

“All those legs?” Neil’s clueless tone made you look up with a wide smile.

Cute. One would think someone this gorgeous would be vain. Not this one, however. You stared at him, fascinated by the confusion visible in his face. There was only one way to show him. You got up and crossed the space in two strides, stopping half a meter away, a wicked grin on your lips.

“Legs for miles, sunshine,” one more taxing look directed at him, slowly slipping over every single inch of his body.

Ending the scrutiny on his face again, you closed the space and cupped his cheek. Taking in the widened pupils and parted lips.

“Blimey,” a longer exhale, timidity highlighted by the deepening blush and disbelief in his voice, “Is there a part of me you’re not crazy about?”

As if. Perhaps it was the mix of anxiety, sleep deprivation, and unbelievable luck that made you braver. You placed your hand around his neck to get proper leverage and make him bow down slightly.

“…nope,” the poker face easily achieved before you kissed him on the marker smudge, “Do with that what you will,” a wink as you made sure to press your body against his in a clear message.

And then you strolled back to your chair. As though nothing happened. After all, it was time for work… and a little bit of fun.

Your punishment for the provocation came not long after when Neil came back to the table to help you figure out the best way into the epicentre. Busy with the blueprints, you only noticed his presence once you felt a teasing touch run up your spine, followed by lips trailing kisses down the nape of your neck. However far the collar of your pullover allowed. Involuntarily you shuddered, the reaction instantaneous as you grasped the edge of the cold table to keep focused.

“Neil-” a half-whine exposing the frustration.

Mistake. He must have knelt on the floor behind your chair, for the next thing you felt was the warm breath causing goosebumps all along your neck and throat. He pressed another kiss to the spot right under your ear. The specially chosen one always resulted in thighs clenched tightly and warmth spreading down your veins.

“Don’t tell me you thought I’ll let that pass” the whisper confirmed your suspicions.

One glance at Neil told you he was rather proud of himself as he mirrored your wink from before with a satisfied smirk.

“Rude,” you rolled your eyes, huff added to the drama.

Perhaps mission planning could be interesting like that. Perhaps. As though following your line of thinking, Neil leaned in once again and pressed a kiss to your throat. His hands sneaked around your waist and between the thighs for a split second. Enough to make you groan.

“Is it now?” he chuckled and got up before you could utter a sound, “So… which entry do you propose, miss?” leaning over your head, tone strictly business.

Just like that. Bloody bastard. There was nothing else to do but sigh heavily and begin to plot revenge in the quiet of your mind. That could be rather pleasant.

You decided on an entry point, separate from the tunnel used by the splinter unit just in case. Whatever that case might be. Around five o’clock, when the whole of the room was bathed in the mellow sunlight and the few fucked up seagulls were desperately trying to fight over a fish on the line of your eyesight, you yawned for what felt like the hundredth time and glanced at the sofa longingly. It seemed like now, after over two hours spent planning and talking about nothing but the bloody lock (and the possibilities of your relationship), anxiety has started to die down, leaving nothing but the worst of energy slumps. Neil must have caught your worsening state, for, suddenly you felt a careful touch on your shoulder. He drew you into a half hug, lips pressed against your temple in the soft kiss. You relaxed in his hold instantaneously, the sense of peace finally palpable and within your reach.

“You can go lie down,” he murmured, gently steering you towards the settee, “We’ll go over the obstacles we need to prep for now, but I don’t need you at the table for that” with a small smile, Neil pushed you down to sit.

“Thanks,” you grinned at him, the expression carrying over the rest of what you could not say just yet.

It was too easy to prop your head on the armrest and listen to him ponder on the various ways your mission could be hindered. So easy that you did not even realise when sleep has won over everything else, and you have given in to dreams with Neil’s steady voice fading into the background.

***

When your consciousness has once again reached the surface, you have noticed two things at once. A presence of a duvet you have been covered with that was not there previously, and a blinding light shining right at your face. Slowly, you opened your eyes, squinting at the brightness, and took in the surroundings. The bridge. Early morning. The steady sound of the keyboard typing. Neil. An unauthorised smile welcomed itself onto your face as you stretched out the stiffness from the nap on the sofa. One look at the clock was enough to let you know how badly you have fucked it. 7:30. No more, no less. One question needing answering… why hasn’t he woken you?

You sat up, quietly folded the duvet, and glanced at Neil still slumped over the plans. He had his head propped on the hand, hair falling over his eyes, and fingers restlessly typing out the document. Next to him, there was an unfinished coffee and a half-eaten protein bar. With a flash of gratefulness, you noticed that apart from fetching the blanket for you, he also remembered to eat.

It was that affection and fondness that prompted you to sneak up on him and use up some of the many vengeance scenarios you have thought of. In a smooth move, you have covered the distance and threw your arms around his neck. A startled yelp he let out, only giving more conviction that this was the right maneuver.

“What-” the beginning of the question cut short when you kissed him on the neck.

Slowly savouring the taste of his skin, you placed your hands on his thighs, relishing in the feeling of the muscles tensing underneath the clothes. It was easy to become addicted to this kind of power. The rush of courage prodding you to graze your teeth over his skin. The answering groan and slight head tilt giving your more space for exploration, nothing but approval.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” giving him a breather, you asked the question.

There was no reason to acknowledge it in any way. He would understand you were sure of that. Before he could answer, you picked up the activity, trailing kisses down his neck, giving additional attention to the pulse points and spots that made him fidget in the chair.

“Could never,” the hoarse whisper complemented with his hands covering yours, “What are you doing?” the hint of uncertainty causing a wicked smirk to spread across your lips.

A teasing answer on the tip of your tongue when the unmistakable sound coming from the airlock shattered the moment.

“Well, well, well… good morning, lovebirds,” the familiar Cockney accent broke the silence with an impish edge tinting every syllable.

There was no point in fooling yourself that they have not caught what you have been doing. Still, with cheeks burning red, you took a definitive step back, away from Neil and faced the rest of the team with an awkward smile:

“Hi,” the word came out quiet, raspy voice bringing out even more embarrassment, “We’ve um…” you trailed off, gaze helplessly slipping over Wheeler and TP.

No help apart from a knowing grin on her face and an inquisitive look in his dark eyes. The pronoun you have used ringing out in the space. We. Correct, and yet strange. Because you knew that after a show like this, there would be no more pretending. Everything out and clear. But maybe that was better… Your increasingly more hectic thoughts got interrupted by the sound of the chair scraping the floor.

“Couldn’t sleep. So, we decided to start the planning. For the lock,” Neil finished your sentence and added an explanation on a long exhale.

Unable to deny yourself the pleasure, you glanced at him briefly. He took a step closer, throwing you a reassuring smile. His cheeks were still flushed after your earlier ministrations, hair ruffled and begging to be arranged. Maybe later.

“You’re one entity now?” the shameless staring got interrupted by another cheeky question by the squad leader.

Oh christ. Resisting the urge to facepalm, you fought hard to find an answer.

“No, but… I’m going in with Neil. To help and cover” the truth had to do.

After all, it was what Ives wanted from you. The final decision on the state of things. A way out of the impasse. A sleepless night seemed worth it. One look at the soldier told you the decision has surprised him. He turned to look at Neil, directing the next question at him:

“Alright… and you’re all prepared for that? No more drama?” the emphasis given to the last three words brought back all the traumatic meetings from mere days prior.

No more drama. At last, there was no reason to feel the fear rise at the mention of the war council. Maybe the worst was truly beyond you?

“Yes, we’ve talked it over” Neil confirmed your thoughts with resolution.

On its own accord, his hand brushed against yours, the gesture not escaping the attentive gaze fixed on both of you.

“Doubt that’s the only thing you did,” the comment whispered low enough to be caught by the three of you stood close.

Your face reddened as you understood the connotations. On the one hand, it was nothing to be ashamed of. On the other, the part of you that always hated being seen like that was close to lashing out. However, your boyfriend had your back.

“Ives,” Neil uttered the warning, shooting you a worried look.

That was enough this time, luckily. Without a shadow of remorse, Ives grinned and strolled over to sit at the head of the table. Nonchalance personified.

“Mind sharing what it is that you came up with?” he arched his eyebrow in an open invitation.

Alrighty. You glanced at Neil, a silent question on your lips instantly understood, and answered with a nod of the head in the direction of the whiteboard and your abandoned plans.

As TP and Wheeler took their seats around the table, you both took hold of the papers and arranged them to prepare the presentation. Then a short eye contact was enough to kick it off:

“We’ll go in” Neil uncapped the blue marker and drew two dots on the board.

“Inverted,” you added, gaze sweeping over the audience.

So far, comprehension has seemed to be maintained.

“Yes. We’ve figured out that 4 minutes might be enough to cover the distance from the drop-off zone” drawing the line indicating your route, he motioned for you to pick up the compound blueprint.

“And get into the hypocenter. Via this tunnel,” exchanging a small smile, you took hold of the paper and pointed at the alternate entrance.

“Different to the one you’ll be using in case something went wrong,” he explained, “Then I’ll pick the lock and open the gate” quiet confidence you have missed hearing tinting the sentence.

Maybe it could work out just right.

“While I make sure he’s safe and sound,” complementing his sentence, you took that one step closer to Neil.

Emboldened by the dynamic you have easily fallen into, you shot him a confident grin and placed your hand on his shoulder.

Suddenly being watched did not feel half that bad. As though he was following your logic, Neil winked at you and finished the presentation with a telling shrug:

“And we exit,” you enjoyed the way his eyes glimmered with conviction.

For once, it felt like it was not just you who wanted it to work. Perhaps the conversation made an impact on how he saw things. And now he was willing to fight for your future. Together. The sudden need to take his hand got interrupted with a neutral question coming from Wheeler:

“What if someone stops you?” the poker face masking the hints of concern you knew well.

“We can discuss that now” Neil grabbed the list he composed during your nap and opened his mouth to speak.

Not for long.

“Have you been rehearsing that?” Ives’s question made all of you snap back to him in an instant.

The witty smirk gracing his features was a cause for concern. Because you knew well what he meant. Feeling the wave of embarrassment wash out the bravado, you struggled for an answer:

“No… that’s just-” biting on your lip in search of words, you barely registered what happened.

“Chemistry” Neil smiled assuredly and took your hand in his without missing a beat.

As you faced him with wide eyes, he raised your palm to his lips and kissed the knuckles in a gentlemanly fashion.

That was certainly a memorable way of announcing your relationship. Probably better than a Facebook status. Then you did not have Neil befriended on that. Did he even have an account? For whatever reason, your tired brain decided to treat those types of issues as most important of all, fixating on bloody Facebook of all things.

“You alright?” the tightening hold on your hand combined with the worried undertone in the question made you drop the pointless thoughts in a second.

As you met Neil’s gaze, you mustered another smile and squeezed back his hand. The company did not matter he was everything you could see anyway.

“Yep, sorry. Just knackered,” you whispered the assertion, refusing to acknowledge the ridiculous questions.

However, judging by the scepticism in his face, you knew it was not getting brushed off eternally. The sound of a throat being cleared pointedly made you both turn back to the audience with apologetic smiles.

“Hate to interrupt your little conversation, but I think we should use your head-start and try to complete the plans” Ives stood up from the chair and strolled over to the blackboard.

Marker in hand. Things still needed looking into if you were to make this mission successful on all fronts. Sleep and tiredness would have to wait.

“Sure thing” you passed the soldier a weary nod and sat down on your chair with a quiet groan.

Sofas were not the ideal places to nap. Note to the future self. Before you could do as much as glance at the documents again, a passing remark made you look up with eyebrows knitted:

“Congrats, by the way,” Ives threw the words with a telling wink directed at you and Neil.

Does the torture ever end?

“… Thanks?” the frustration seeping through your tone as you added, “It’s not like we’re getting married or anything, though”

“Yet,” the husky voice on your right chimed in with just the right amount of cheekiness.

Naturally. You glared at Neil sharply, any intent or purpose forgotten once he met your gaze with that familiar affectionate look in his eyes. Might as well…

The next few hours were spent on making sure every part of the plan and the tactics made sense and fit with the rest. It meant more filter coffee (fifth cup? More likely than you think) and more marker smudges all over your hands and arms. On the chin, too, if you ever got too lost in staring at the blonde bastard to your right. Which did happen. Often.

The cause of your death was the assigned job of drawing out the tactics on the large block of paper spread across the table. It was well past noon when you had finished half of it, and the pounding headache only seemed to increase with each second spent on staring at the red and blue lines and dots covering the piece. Stuck with the especially tricky part of indicating your two special task units on the plan, you let the frustration boil over with one simple curse, breaking through the dam:

“...fuck me-” the rest of the sentence, saturated with even more annoyance, was never meant to be heard.

“I am,” the two words invited themselves into your intended message.

Your eyes widened as the culprit confidently approached your workstation and gave you a little pat on the head. What the fuck? From every available expletive, you knew in a few different languages nothing seemed to come to mind in the outrageous moment.

“Neil, I swear-” that had to do as you made sure to show him the extent of fury through the look in your eyes.

You did not even dare glance at the others, knowing that this was quite the scene. Hilarious.

“What? Everyone knows anyways” the feigned innocence in how he batted his eyelashes at you only increasing the frustration.

He did have a point they knew. Especially after something like this. Still.

“That’s not an excuse,” the steel-cold voice doing nothing against the playful sparks in the blue eyes.

It was in the way Neil pushed himself closer to you that you knew what was coming. The ultimate finale to your early morning banter. Showdown. He caught the bottom lip between the teeth and glanced up at you through the dark eyelashes. Nothing but allure personified.

“Am I gonna be punished for the disobedience?” he overenounciated the words with a challenging tilt to the tone.

All of the annoyance was gone, the prospects opening up with his question. Mirroring him, you nibbled on the lower lip, letting the permanent desire back into your gaze. It was easy when faced with someone like Neil.

“... perhaps,” the word whispered with the promising wink.

And a pat on the blonde head, for good measure.

You need not turn to look at the company to know who facepalmed at that.

[sabraeal]

Get Up Eight, Chapter 8

[Read on AO3]

Obiyukiweek 2021, Day 1: The Fool Upright: Beginnings, Innocence, Fearlessness Reversed: Recklessness, Folly, Risk 

Pine presses around the road to Oiso, jostling with the hackberry like meddling neighbors, eager to see misfortune. Their branches chatter in the breeze, gossiping behind needled hands, and oh, what misfortune Obi has for them to gnaw their toothy mouths upon, traveling with this sorry lot.

This stretch of road is meant to be the shortest; less than the length between bells, but each minute sweats to an hour, the natural flow of time no longer a given but a whim. Maybe they met with some accident, doomed to wander the same stretch of barren road over and over until some monk came to exorcise them-- or else all the priests are wrong, and the road to Meido is no mountainous path, but a road that winds around one barely deserving of the name. And with them but a day into their journey--

No. Not even he can believe such a story. For no matter how red his hands or black his spirit, he could not have earned such miserable oni on his chuuin as the monkey and his merry band. Besides, there is too much light here. Even the virtuous must navigate the dark with but a candle’s light to guide them, lit by the ones they left in life, and he, well--

He wouldn’t even have that.

Ojou-san hobbles in front of him, pretending her mincing steps have to do with the wrap of her kimono rather than the bindings on her feet. A creditable trick, in the right hands-- too bad his mistress was no actress. A man would have to be worse than a fool to believe it.

With every limping step, she jingles; her pack clanking against the swell of her hip. A wounded deer, gingerly testing each spindly leg to see if it would bear her yet another breath further. The monkey’s men circle her like crows waiting for carrion, though the scent they follow is not death but gold.

Idiots, every last one of them. They are too busy salivating over the meal in her pack to notice she does not tremble as she walks, that even if each step is a labor, she does not shy from taking it. Lame deer she may be, but Obi is not fooled-- more than once he has stopped at the shine at Nara, and found his netsuke noticeably lighter. His mistress is like that; so tame and docile at first glance that no one watches where those small hands go, nor notices the lies that tip from her lips.

Because they do; not with the ease of a practiced liar, but the earnest determination of a survivor. Cousin there may be in Kyoto, but Obi would bet what remains of his ryo that he didn’t know about the books in her pack. A good little ojou-san might know some remedies-- a salve to stave off infection or a powder to quell a fever, the kind a mother would use to treat her child-- but they certainly didn’t read about rampo in the original Dutch.

No, if Obi had his guess, this cousin-dono knew nothing about the sweet visitor that traveled toward him. They’d arrive at his doorstep in Kyoto, and he’d have the same view he has now, standing three respectful steps behind her as she faces the future with a strong back, and standing on two--

Ojou-san stumbles. One moment she is upright, and the next he’s surged forward, hand clasped around an elbow to steady her. It’s just like her wrist; narrow and delicate, like it might break under his grasp. His breath catches, his eyes meeting her wide ones--

“Careful, ‘Nee-san.”

Obi blinks, and there it is-- the monkey’s mocking grin, one paw wrapped around her other arm. “It’d be easy to turn an ankle on these old roads.”

Every word cants with careful concern, but the glint in his eye is three hairs away from anything more than hunger. This ronin can pretend to be samurai all he likes, but desperation drips from him like water in a kappa’s dish, and it’s Obi’s job to see his ojou-san does not get soaked.

With a firm tug, Obi settles her on her feet-- and out of the monkey’s reach. “Don’t worry, we’ll reach Oiso-juku soon, Ojou-san.”

She sends one of her thoughtful looks down the road, brow furrowed and lip jutting in a pout. “They really aren’t all that far apart at all, are they? If we hadn’t been slowed by--” my blistered feet, she doesn’t say, jaw taking an even more determined set-- “circumstance, we would be there by now.”

Obi nods, watching as she takes a single, mincing step. “Shortest leg of the journey.”

“I wonder why that is.” In any other mouth, those words would be idle, a way to fill the air. But not in his ojou-san’s; oh no, her gaze has already sharpened, scouring the shrubbery as if it might hold answers.

“Hard to say.” Keeping pace with her is a trial; he’s used to long strides, using every last inch of his leg to put ri between him and what he left behind, but between her blisters and her curiosity, Ojou-san moves as slow as a snail’s crawl. “If I had a guess, it would be the mountain?”

“Mountain?” Ojou-san should be hiding those eye of hers with a convincing demure, but instead she turns them to him, wide and wondrous. Not that he’d be caught complaining, not when all her attention is bent on him, as if he’s her next puzzle to solve.

The monkey scoffs, insinuating himself a branch too close for comfort. “Mount Koma? It’s barely more than a hill, and we’re walking around it, not up.”

Obi’s lips peel back from his teeth, a wolf’s grin. “I never said we were. But if you look down the road from Hiratsuka, what would you see?”

“A mountain,” Ojou-san murmurs, sending a speculative glance toward where Koma rose beside them. “And if you do not often travel the road, it would be easy to mistake this for running through it.”

“Well said, Ojou-san. Hakone is nearby, too.” Obi lets his lips soften from animal to man. “And its reputation marks it as the hardest climb. Even a thinking man might take this stretch as much the same.”

“Absurd.” The monkey scowls, hands hooking over his hips. “That might explain the shukuba at Oiso, but on the other side they would know the road’s ease.”

“That’s the funny thing about roads.” He casts the monkey a cagey smile, enjoying the way his fur stands on end. “They run both ways.”

The pines thin as they walk, the air taking on its first taste of salt, so thick and stinging that a man doesn’t even need to be Ojou-san’s kind of polite to think so. Oiso is close then; its bay must be the scent of the sea on the breeze. Good. He’ll be glad of the chance to shuck himself of their escort and his easy manners.

A bridge crests ahead of them, little more than some boards patched over the sluggish stream that runs beneath. Nothing like the great wooden arcs in Edo, made for palanquins to pass, great processions crawling over both sides like ships passing in the night. So it’s no surprise Ojou-san falters at its edge, blinking down at the lazy waters below. A deer again, hesitant and shy.

A warmth kindles where his kimono gaps too much to cover, a tightness that he cannot swallow away. Obi raises a hand to scratch, coughs to clear it, but stubbornly it stays, lodged right in his breast. An inconvenience, one that should be smothered as a seed rather than allowed to grow like kudzu on the shore. Ojou-san paid for his skill and what loyalty gold could buy, not...this. She is his duty, not a pleasure.

Even if he sees that bead dripping down her back when he closes his eyes still. Obi grips at his shoulder and stifles a groan. Twenty days. Three weeks until he is six ryo richer, and this girl is in the hands of her cousin instead of dancing out of the grip of his.

He steps up, hand outstretched. It’s his job to see her over, safe and sound, and it would be just like her to bend over a hair too far and let herself be swept away by the current, small as it is. But his hand clasps around air instead of elbow, and when he looks--

The monkey has her, guiding her along at a leisurely stroll. She stumbles to keep up even still, only getting her feet beneath her when he stops, staring up at the maples swaying overhead.

“Known to me who had denied joy and sorrow of this world,” he intones, every syllable rolling with the cultured tones of Edo. “Is the autumn scene of the rivulet where sandpipers walk at dusk.”

Obi lifts a brow, peering down at the water’s edge. Salt might be on the air, but there’s not a sandpiper to be seen this far from the shore.

Ojou-san is too kind, as always, nearly turning those wide doe eyes to him before remembering herself. They skitter downwards instead, to where leaves skim the stream’s surface. “What is that?”

The monkey’s heavenly gaze drops to her, smiling within unearned satisfaction. “I’m surprised you don’t know, onee-san. I thought you well read.”

Ojou-san stiffens, hands curling over the rough-hewn rail. “Well enough. Though I must admit, I never spent much time on poets.”

His eyes blink wide. “Not even Saigyo?”

“No.” She ducks her chin, the very picture of a demure young lady, but Obi knows-- her rosy cheeks are not from a docile temper. “But he was...a monk, was he not?”

His mouth curls wide, the self-satisfied smile of a master with a well-taught pupil. Obi’s hands itch watching it unfurl, tempted to give monkey-sensei a lesson he won’t soon forget.

“Yes,” he hums, chin lifted with a lord’s poise. “Of the Heian era. The story goes that he used to be one of the Emperor’s personal guards, but one day he shed himself of his worldly desires to dedicate himself to the temple.”

Obi stifles a snort. He’s had clients that made him feel the same more than once.

“He lived here, after, in a little hut just upstream, hidden away from the world, writing waka, meditating on the loneliness of change.” The monkey stares down the length of the stream. “A haikai dojo stands there now, built hundred of years later in his honor. Even Basho was inspired by his writings...”

Obi peers over the bridge’s edge, letting the monkey’s babble roll over him like a ceaseless river. The stream does much the same below, curving gently into the distance, disappearing into a cloud of summer green maple. Even with his sharp eyes, he cannot see this dojo, nor any hut where a monk might sit and spend his life thinking in verse.

Probably because Shigitatsu-an sits on another rivulet entirely, further toward the sea. Something this monkey might know, if he traveled this road; the stone in the middle of town proclaims it, bright as day. Still, Obi holds his tongue. A dagger to the chest might miss, but given enough rope, an idiot always hangs himself.

“For all his shedding of worldly trappings,” Obi hums, sauntering up to where the pair of them stand, “looks like this Saigyo was fond of them.”

Sweet as his words were, the monkey’s mouth turns sour fast enough. “He lived his life in quiet contemplation of nature, dwelling upon the sadness of seasons passing--”

Obi lifts an infuriating eyebrow. “Which he couldn’t do at a temple?”

The monkey’s mouth opens, then closes. “Some people,” he sniff haughtily, “do not understand the artistic process.”

Thatched roofs peek above the shukuba’s gates as they round the bend, hazy in the distance, like close-clinging clouds above Sagami Bay. Salt coats Obi’s mouth as they tread closer, stinging his nose, but today the taste savors of relief-- only mere moments now until Ojou-san can take her rest, and he can shuck these unwanted pests.

The monkey strolls beside Ojou-san, his voice smugly pitched for all to hear: “It’s too bad it isn’t raining.”

Oh, the hour cannot come soon enough. “Really?” Obi slides an easy grin onto his face. “I didn’t think monkeys liked to get their feet wet.”

“M-monkey?!” If looks could smell, the one this Mihaya levels at him would reek; growing even more rank with every giggle Ojou-san stifles. “Funny words coming from a stray cat!”

Obi shrugs, a production of shoulder and head worthy of the stage. “It was not my lips that begged the kami for rains.”

“Not mine either!” The monkey turns to Ojou-san with his mild, scholar stare. “I only meant it would be fitting. Hiroshige drew rains when he made his print of Oiso, falling on the travelers as they entered the shukuba. A light drizzle, of course, nothing to get--” he cuts a pointed glare over his shoulder-- “any paws wet.”

“Ah!” Ojou-san brightens, fingers fluttering joyfully before her. “I have seen that. Ojii-san...”

It’s as if the name were a spell; invoked, it steals the words from her lips, leaving only air to part them. They round again, forming the shape of ojii-san, before pressing tight once more. Obi has only known her mere days, but her grandfather’s legacy seems only to be the knuckles that blanch around her bag’s strap at the barest mention of his name.

A subtlety lost on the monkey prancing next to her. “He called it Tora’s Rain, after the lover of Soga no Juro. Do you know that story, onee-san?”

Obi restrains a roll of his eyes; it’s more of an effort than any of the monkey’s men bother to make. There’s not a child alive who isn’t raised upon the Soga Monogatari, even if the details blend in the telling, each domain vying to put their stamp upon a piece of history.

“Ah...” Ojou-san blinks, her spell disappearing in the bat of an eye. “Oiso no Tora, you mean? The courtesan?”

Again, the monkey-sensei puffs with a teacher’s pride. “The very same. She was raised here, it’s said, after her father prayed to Benzaiten for a child, and she gave to him a stone--”

“He asked for a child and she gave him a stone?” Obi smothers a smile to a twitch. “Seems he got the better end of the bargain.”

“--And she gave to him a stone as a sign the child would be born,” the monkey continues, voice pitched above his. “As O-Tora grew, so did the stone. When the Soga brothers sheltered at her home, it shielded them from--”

“Is this before or after they ambushed a man in his sleep?” Obi asks, deadpan.

That is, it seems, the final straw. The idiot rounds on him, voice dropping into a growl as common as the gutter he grew up in. “A tyrant, for revenge. Kuto-sama murdered their father and took his lands. No honorable man-- no, no bushi-- could let such an insult stand.” Something dark moves beneath the eyes of monkey-dono when he adds, “even if it took years.”

With only a breath, his face smooths back into the scholar’s, the samurai’s learned son. “That rock is still here, should you want to see it.”

Ojou-san smiles, eyes soft with understanding. “You must like this story quite a bit, Mihaya-dono, if you want to see O-Tora’s stone.”

“Me?” His brows raise, two neat little arches. They’re meant to be surprised, but it’s almost as if the angle of them is wrong, a degree off from being sincere. “I meant for you, onee-san. It’s a talisman for fertility.”

Her eyes round. “Oh--!”

“After all, you are now on the way to your husband.” There is a razor’s edge to his smile when he says, “Surely he is looking forward to being so blessed.”

Not unless her cousin has plans for her that he hasn’t seen fit to inform her of. Not an unlikely, knowing the way men think of their women-- though the idea has never occurred to Ojou-san, by the way she gapes.

“Ah!” She glances back at him, helpless. “N-no. That definitely won’t be...necessary.”

Another shadow passes over the monkey’s face, leaving behind a grin that glints as cold as coin. “You don’t say, onee-san...”

Ojou-san tucks into his side as they pass through the sekisho, her head and heart bowed demurely while the doshin glance at her papers. It’s cursory; this is no Hakone to demand papers so spotless they gleam. Still, she shivers when Kino’s permissions leave his hands, and doesn’t stop until they’re tucked back into his sleeves.

The monkey casts her a speculative look when he strolls through, the kind he’s been giving her more and more of as the day wears on. That’s fine enough; he can ponder Ojou-san’s mystery while he and his men wander down the rest of the route, alone.

That brings a smile to Obi’s lips. “Well, we’ll be leaving first.”

The wide eyes monkey-dono turn to him are only rivaled by the ones his ojou-san does. “Obi-dono, what do you mean?”

“We’re stopping here for the night.” He jerks his chin toward a particularly clean looking hatago. “How about that one, Ojou-san? Does it meet your expectations?”

“Yes, b-but...” Her mouth works, searching for the shape of the words that rattle between her teeth. “But why?”

“Ojou-san...” His gaze drops to where her tabi peek out from beneath her kimono’s hem, pink with her blood even through the bandages. “You’re in no condition to continue. Our best course is to rest. But I’m sure--” he can’t help the smug sneer he turns the monkey’s way-- “these men are eager to make good time. It’s a long journey to the capital, and time is money.”

The monkey’s mouth purses, trapped. Unless he wants to admit that he has no business besides following Ojou-san and her purse, making a lie of his casual coincidence-- well, there is no way to graciously decline.

Lucky for him, Ojou-san spares him the footwork. “We’ve barely walked an hour since Hiratsuka.” Her shoulders set like a shogun bent on battle. “You said you wanted to reach Odawara tonight.”

He inhales sharply, annoyed. “That was before--” we collected men better left in the gutter.

True as it is, it will not please his ojou-san. Not when she is so determined to see samurai in every ronin she meets. A different tack is needed if he wants to convince her.

“Ojou-san,” he soothes. “There is no shame in stopping. You should take care of yourself, or else we will have to spend more time waiting for you to recover later.”

The set of her jaw informed him this is not it.

“I can make it,” she insists, because of course she would, this young woman of quality who carried her heaviest pack on her back. “I won’t be the one to slow us down.”

“Plenty of travelers stop at every station.” He gestures to the crowd around them, to their leisurely pace. “Perhaps we should consider it, if--”

“And spend fifty-three days to get to Kyoto?” She arches a brow, a reflection of his own. “I’m not paying you near enough for that, Obi-dono.”

His jaw clenches. He only needs to convince her of one night extra, enough to be rid of these knives at their throat, but... “Ojou-san...”

“I don’t mean to pry,” the monkey says, insinuating himself between them. “But there is plenty of daylight left. If jou-chan wants to move on we should. There are better places to rest, if she needs it.” His teeth flash as he suggests, “Hakone, for one. It’s said that their hot springs are healing indeed.”

“Ah, see?” Ojou-san brightens, a quelling hand laid on his sleeve. “Hot springs! That seems like a fine place to take an extra day.”

Obi glares as the monkey hops around behind her, too elated for him to trust. “I don’t think--”

“And it’s better to travel in groups,” the monkey offers, pressing his advantage. “Six people is certainly safer than two.”

Obi frowns. “That depends on who the other four are.”

“It’s decided then,” Ojou-san says brightly, hands clapping together. “We’ll push on to Odawara. And when we reach Hakone, we can rest as long as you like.”

Obi takes in a deep breath, boiling as the monkey grins at him, triumphant. “If that’s what you want, Ojou-san.”

“You heard jou-chan,” the monkey mutters as he prances past, victorious. “It is.”

[sellyoursoulforagoodfic]

Shelbys at Somme: Chapter 9

Thomas X Reader

Word Count: 1644

Summary: Grace is forced to endure Reader’s company as Reader heals.

by @adventuresintooblivion

On Saturday morning, it was Thomas that welcomed Y/N instead of Ada. He sat across from her taking a long drag from his cigarette. His eyes were cast out the window a thousand miles away as Y/N sat up. He didn’t acknowledge her at first. 

“Thomas?”

He stirred only slightly. “I’ve got something waiting for you downstairs. Do you think you’re up for a small trip?”

Y/N dressed slowly, using the nearby table as support and taking time to make sure everything was in place. She put on women’s clothes for once; the stays prevented her from making any sudden movements that would jostle her ribs. When she was done, she turned to face Thomas. 

His eyes had gone wide as he watched her. The cigarette was held loosely in his hands, the end burning dangerously low. Ashes fell onto his fingertips, jolting him into the present. He yanked back his hand from the burning sensation. 

Thomas cleared his throat, “I...I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a dress before.”

She shrugged. “I don’t hate them, but the structure is usually too much for running across rooftops and such.”

“What’re you doing on a rooftop?”

Y/N flashed him a wicked smile, “Illegal things.”

He stood and offered his arm. “Someday you’re gonna tell me what you did before the war.”

She didn’t answer as they made their way down the stairs. It was slow going and she didn’t exactly enjoy any of the movement, but she’d be damned if she was cooped up in her rooms for the next two months. Thomas was patient with her, letting her pick the pace, but she was still relieved when they made it to level ground.

The Garrison was already somewhat busy, people grabbing a drink before heading out. Y/N vaguely remembered talk of a football game, so it would only get busier. However, more people were standing than normal; a table by the stairs seemed to be missing. Something was still taking up quite a bit of room.

There against the dingy wood of the pub, stood a black gleaming Baby Grand Piano. It was massive in the crowded space and seemed to glow despite the dim lighting due to it’s highly polished surface. Ivory keys were stark white and begging to be played.

  Y/N froze, “Thomas, what the hell is that?”

“Well, I’d expect you of all people to know what that is. But I’ll humor you nonetheless, it’s a piano. A Steinway to be exact.”

“Tommy! Those cost a bloody fortune.”

“To get them shipped here, even more so. But I hear they’re extremely popular in New York City. If we’re going to fancy this place up a bit, might as well have one, right?”

She couldn’t stop her head from shaking, but no words left her lips. Thomas gently guided her towards the seat.

Y/N glanced around wildly. “What’re you doing?”

He leaned forward and she could hear the grin in his voice, “You’re so worried about earning your keep. Go on, play it.”

The room parted for them until finally she sat. Leather creaked beneath her weight as she settled into place. Her fingers brushed over the keys reverently, it was the barest touch and yet it took everything she had not to just play. A thousand notes flooded her mind. Long lost memories ingrained in the notes of a song.

“Tommy, this is too much.” She didn’t feel the tears until she tasted the salt on her lips.

His hand lifted ever so slightly, but he stopped. His eyes casting out among the crowd. 

Thomas whispered, “You’ve shown me genuine kindness time and again. And I’ll not have you up in that room feeling useless. Now please, play for me.”

“Any requests?” Y/N bit her lip. She refused to let the sob escape her throat. 

He grinned, “The one you made for me?”

She slapped his arm half-heartedly, “You bastard. Trying to make me a blubbering mess in front of everyone.”

“Well if you’re not up for it . . .”

“Shut your heathen mouth.” 

Her fingers returned to the keys as Thomas stood. He left to go to his office. Despite the distance between them--and the wood--he could hear each note as she began to play. The idle chatter died. Men turned from their conversations to listen to a song only a handful on earth had heard before. 

One song led to another. The day passed by in a blur as Y/N’s hands soured across the piano. All the frustration of the past few days coming out in a prolonged concert. Patrons became used to the background music, their chatter filling what would have been silence.

Eventually, Grace came to stand beside her. A small tray with a bottle and two glasses was grasped tightly between her hands.

Grace cleared her throat. “You’ve been playing for hours. Think you could use a drink?”

Y/N glanced up. “Actually that’d be fantastic.”

It was the first time Grace had seen Y/N since before her abduction. Every time her eyes strayed towards her busted lip or bruised skin a cold chill ran through her. Campbell had really done that? She nodded and poured the drinks quickly. She was about to step away when Y/N stopped her.

“Are you ok? You’re looking kind of pale.”

“It’s been a rough few days.” Grace answered as she ducked her head. “I worked a job for Thomas, and it wasn’t what I expected to say the least.”

Y/N took a drink. “He took you to the races.”

Grace started, “He told you about that?”

“He told me what he had planned for you.” She glanced up at Grace. “So, is he as much of a bastard as he thinks he is?”

“No.”

Y/N caught herself smiling, “That’s good to hear. Come, join me.” 

Grace paused a moment before joining Y/N on the bench. It was a tight fit but it worked well enough. 

“Do you play?”

Grace shook her head. “No, singing is where my musical talent stays.”

She nodded, sipping her drink as she glanced around. Eventually Grace caught herself staring at Y/N. Her voice was almost too soft for Y/N to hear, “Thomas trusts you.”

“I might’ve saved him once or twice during the war.” She shrugged.

Grace blinked, “You were a nurse?”

Y/N snorted, “I don’t know anything more than what they teach you in basic.” 

“You fought?!” 

Y/N flinched. "Tell the whole world why don't you?"

Matthew's death finally made more sense to Grace. This woman beside her was trained to kill in the bloodiest war the world had seen. She couldn't have been running on much more than base animal instinct, just like the other men in this bar. She reluctantly admitted to herself that she'd like to see another woman lose her senses in battle. However, she squashed down that natural curiosity, appalled with herself.

Grace's words were barely a whisper, "You killed people, how many?"

Y/N blinked. "It's a bit morbid to count. But it was a side effect of what I actually did. I was the distraction and the insurance to get our boys out if something went wrong in the tunnels. The only person out there who is a better shot than me is Jeremiah."

"Why're you telling me all this?" Grace bit back a snarl.

Y/N cast her a sidelong glance, an eyebrow slowly raising, "Do you not want to be friends?"

Why the hell would I want to be friends with a monster like you? Grace flashed her a perfectly cheery smile, "I apologize. I guess I'm just tired. If you'll excuse me?" She stood without waiting for an answer. There was so much she wanted to say. All of them clashing together fighting for their chance to be said, but every single one of them would've revealed her.

But she couldn't stop one last quip from slipping past her lips, "Brass knuckles, are they a good weapon for self defense?" 

Silence hung in the air so heavy the idle chatter of the bar couldn't seem to penetrate it. 

"Only if you know how to throw a good punch. Why do you ask?"

Grace stammered, "I wanted something just in case. This isn't exactly the best area in town."

Y/N gave her a tired look. "You work at the Garrison. No one will hurt you."

Grace didn't know what to say, so she simply nodded her head and left. She gripped the tray to stop her hands from shaking. It wasn't until Harry tapped her shoulder that she realized she'd frozen behind the counter.

"Come on, Girl; we've got work to do."

The rest of the night kept Grace too busy to breathe easily let alone think about Matthew. It wasn't until Thomas came in a few hours later that she realized that it was almost closing time.

"Hello, Grace." He leaned against the bar, his eyes roaming over her figure. 

She wasn't going to pretend she hadn't noticed it happening more and more often. "Hello, Mr. Shelby."

He shook his head. "I thought we were past that by now."

Grace glanced away. "Your friend by the piano seems to have a high regard for you; I wouldn't want to offend her."

He raised his eyebrow. "What did she say?"

"She said that since I work at the Garrison, I'm free from any harassment on the streets."

"You are."

Her eyes snapped up to meet his, holding his gaze for a long moment. "And why is that Mr. Shelby?"

He shook his head, "Don't worry about it. Just call me Thomas, alright?"

Grace nodded before returning to her spigots. Out of the corner of her eye she watched as Thomas headed directly for the piano.

[ace-oreos]

Alpha-17 back on Kamino, taking Anakins suggestion and helping the clones come up with names and describing what working with jedi will be like. Also i like the idea of the clones asking why he SO scarred and hes like now thats a good story and watch out for general kenobi he gets into stuff and only after they meet him and anakin are they like "Oh now i get it."

Anon! I got SO. EXCITED. when I got this! Alpha is such a great character and I really enjoy working with him. Thanks for the prompt! I hope it hits everything you asked for. :) 

Kamino is… even worse than he remembers, quite honestly. If not for the verd’ike, Alpha would be more than tempted to burn the place to the ground and be done with it. 

(It’s not the first time the thought has ever crossed his mind, and it’s certainly not the last.)

But at least he doesn’t have to deal with Kenobi or Skywalker anymore. 

Which is a plus, all things considered. Rattatak had been rough, to put it lightly - much more so than he’d let on, partly to ward off potential concern from Kenobi and partly because he refuses to admit it to himself.  

Of course, he’s traded the Jedi for a batch of cadets who are entirely too boisterous for their own good. Kenobi is still stuck with Skywalker as far as he knows, and sometimes he can’t help wondering who got the better deal.

(Then again, knowing Kenobi, he’d be all too happy to spread some osik about serenity and inner balance or something equally revolting.)

Alpha suspects it’s a product of Jango’s teaching that he’d initially headed into this assignment with high expectations for the command batch. In retrospect, he can’t for the life of him fathom where he’d acquired that notion - every single cadet under his command is the embodiment of chaos with a healthy disrespect for authority. 

He’s not one to talk, but as an officer - and a recently promoted officer at that - he feels that it’s his duty to try to uphold the command structure of the GAR. 

Still, he can’t help feeling a sense of grim satisfaction whenever one of the di’kute fires back a retort at the Kaminiise or one of the nat-born instructors. Normally any deviant behavior would be smothered for fear of reconditioning, but the Kaminiise know better than to cross him. He’s one of Jango’s, after all. 

Fett may have been a rotten father, but Alpha has a grudging respect for the man’s ability to keep them all in line for twelve years. Wrangling these cadets is exhausting; he can only be grateful that they’ll be rotated out in a few months. 

(Truthfully, he hasn’t been able to shake a sense of bone-deep fatigue since Rattatak, but that’s no one’s business but his own.) 

No one could ever accuse him of going easy on his cadets, but even he knows that every soldier needs a break sometimes. Taking a second to breathe does wonders for morale. 

Unfortunately, it also invites the possibility of conversation with the verd’ike. He’s never been as inclined to idle conversation like many of his brothers, but he’s pleasantly surprised when the rambunctious boys he’s slowly becoming accustomed to prove to be much more insightful than he’d previously imagined.

He indulges their curiosity some days. More often than not their interest lies with the Jedi they’ll be serving with soon enough, so he does his best to share an adequate depiction. They’re not omnipotent tactical masterminds like the clones had been raised to believe, Alpha warns, but they’re decent officers for the most part. 

“You served with General Kenobi, didn’t you, sir?” one of the cadets asks. 

Alpha barely suppresses the first sarcastic remark that comes to mind and instead settles for a nod and a noncommittal shrug. 

“And?” one of the other boys pipes up. 

“And what?” 

“What did you think of him?”

Well, for one thing, he’s a kriffing Jedi playing at being a politician while having at least one affair that’s strictly forbidden by his creed… 

“He’s a good officer,” Alpha says at last. “Gets a bit high-minded, and we rarely ever saw eye to eye, but he listens to his men.”

He’s been sure to drill that into them over and over, because if there’s one thing he wants them to retain it’s that soldiers will follow a commander into hell if he makes an effort to connect with them. 

“What really happened on Rattatak?” 

The question catches him off guard. For a second he has half a mind to deflect it - it’s a long story, for one thing, and an unpleasant one at that - but these cadets will be shipping out soon. He’ll have little say in things once they deploy, but he can certainly do his best to prepare them now. 

Besides, Alpha can’t fault them for wanting to explore the galaxy beyond Kamino through any outlet available. Being slated for a command slot can be isolating, and they’ve heard enough about the galaxy from older troopers to be ravingly curious about what awaits them once they step foot outside Tipoca. 

“It’s really not that interesting,” he sighs in a last-ditch effort to deter them. 

Sadly, they seem content to wait him out. 

Shabla cadets and their shabla games. 

Grumbling - they look far too smug for having secured such a minor victory - Alpha opts to give them a vague overview rather than a meticulous account of everything that had taken place after Ventress had seen fit to interfere on Jabiim. 

“The campaign on Jabiim was tipping in Separatist favor…” 

_____________________

Skywalker may be a pain in the shebs, but Alpha is coming to realize that the kid had a point about naming the cadets. It hadn’t been much of a priority among the Alpha batch, but it seems to be something extraordinary for the later generations. 

Most times, the kids don’t tell Alpha directly that they’ve chosen a name for themselves; rather, he learns to listen to the quiet discussions between squad mates, and makes a point of using those names rather than the designations they’d been assigned at birth.

Sometimes a cadet’s delight gets the better of him and he blurts it out during an exercise. Alpha rarely reacts in the moment, but he makes sure to give an acknowledgement when they’re off-duty. 

After a while, their names spring to mind before their numbers. Cody, Bacara, Gree… he still can’t determine what exactly the change signals, but he can see it in their eyes. It’s a source of pride, and who is he to deny them? 

Besides, he thinks wryly, it’s better than an unruly Padawan deciding to bestow a nickname upon them in the middle of a war zone.

______________________

The cadets seem to be under the impression that stories from the battlefield will become a regular fixture in their routine. Alpha doesn’t let that notion stand very long, but he occasionally allows their questions after a successful exercise or a particularly impressive sparring match. 

They’ve gotten even bolder since he first took command; apparently, no question is off limits. 

“You’ve got an awful lot of scars, sir,” one of the boys observes. From the tone, Alpha guesses it’s Bly. 

“Very astute, cadet,” Alpha huffs. “I’m glad my training isn’t wasted on you.” 

“Are they all from Rattatak?” 

“For one thing, I honestly don’t remember how I got every single scar, and for another, I’m not here to tell you stories,” Alpha says firmly like he hasn’t spent the past twenty minutes addressing their various questions about his experience with Jedi command. 

“It’s General Kenobi, isn’t it,” Cody pipes up sagely, and in that moment Alpha realizes he’s taught them a little too well. 

“He had something to do with most of them, yes,” Alpha admits. 

“Some officer,” Neyo mutters with his usual cynicism. 

Alpha cuffs him. “Put a lid on it, cadet. I didn’t say they were his fault - it’s just that he was usually involved in one way or another. Kenobi likes to poke his nose in where it isn’t necessarily wanted.”

Most of them look disbelieving. Alpha just shrugs. They’ll figure it out one way or another.

_____________________

Alpha jerks awake sometime around 0300 to the incessant beeping of his comlink. Grumbling to himself, he activates it and rumbles a greeting.

“Hope I didn’t wake you up, sir.” 

“You’re lucky I’m not in theater, or I would smoke your shebs for this one, Cody,” Alpha growls, because even though it’s been a while since the first batch rotated out he vividly remembers every cadet’s distinct inflection and tone. 

“We’ve heard that one before,” Cody says teasingly.

Alpha ignores the jibe. “Spit it out, di’kut.”

Cody hesitates, then bursts out, “How did you do it?”

“Do what?” Alpha asks, awake enough to be puzzled.

“Deal with Kenobi,” Cody whispers. Alpha can’t help being amused by the desperation in his voice. “He’s a disaster on legs, sir.”

“That’s nothing I didn’t know already, al’verde,” Alpha informs him.

“But sir…” 

“You’re the commander. He’s your problem now,” Alpha adds, thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Alpha…”

“Give the general my regards, Commander.” 

“Wait - ”

 “Sorry, al’verde. Duty calls.”

If Alpha is smirking when he sets aside his comlink and shuts his eyes in the hopes of getting a few more hours of sleep, no one is the wiser.

[purplesauris]

Let The Universe Go Red

Din doesn't know what to do without his son and a broken creed- how does he pick up the pieces scattered among the stars? 

This is entirely dedicated to @frostedbasilisk who not only got me into the Mandalorian but held on while I ranted and raved about these idiots

Read on AO3 here!

He’d broken his Creed. He’d told himself, reminded himself that he’d done it for a far less selfish reason than his brain supplied. That he’d done it for his ad’ika, to save him. He would do it again a thousand times over, no matter how the outcome remained the same. 

The recycled air on his face felt as much a betrayal as the influx of light that blinded his sensitive eyes. But the small clawed hand that smoothed over his cheek, touching with the same gentle insistence as he did when he wanted dinner or a snack or just to be held, that didn’t. It felt like a homecoming, like a part of his soul was finally settling after drifting aimlessly for far too long among the stars. Grogu stares up at him, dark, bottomless eyes wide and enraptured by the way that Din’s brows twitch, lips twisting as nerves strangle his heart.

“It’s okay, kid. You can go with him. He’s your kind.” A large, soft ear brushes against his chin as Grogu tucks his head against the fabric of his bodysuit, right above where his chest piece begins. Din lets out a shuddering breath, closing his eyes and tucking his nose against the top of Grogu’s little green head, hugging him a bit closer. The back of his neck crawls, jitters making his fingers twitch as he straightens up again, aware that every moment he spends with his helmet off is another he can never reclaim. “This isn’t goodbye, I’ll see you again, okay?”

Grogu coos sadly, ears drooping, and Din runs a finger along the bottom edge, trying to smile and unsure of whether he succeeds. He glances up toward the Jedi- Luke, he’d supplied, and finds his head turned away, gaze respectfully pinned on the distant stars through the windows of the bridge. His head tilts, birdlike, toward his stoic form, and Din watches the way that the corner of Luke's mouth quirks up in a smile, easy as breathing. 

“Of course.” Luke’s voice surprises him- strong and unwavering, refined in a way that makes him feel rough around the edges. It takes a second for Din to realize that he isn’t being spoken to, and that Grogu has turned in his arms to regard Luke with open, childlike curiosity. The kid gurgles quietly, tilting his head much like Din and giggling all of a sudden. Luke’s smile grows, and he turns then, eyes downcast as he walks over and holds his hands out. “I’ll hold him a moment. Your helmet, Mandalorian?”

Din hands Grogu over with jerky movements, unsure, but Grogu grabs onto the folds of Luke’s dark cloak, settling down and getting comfortable. Din stoops, scooping his helmet off of the floor and hesitating once again. It’s- not allowed. For him to put it back on, to pretend, but Luke waits patiently, gaze averted so as not to look. The crawling on the back of his neck overpowers the logical part of his mind, and he slips on the helmet, sighing as the lock snaps into place, sealing around his jaw and equalizing the pressure inside. Din feels like he can finally see again, vision tinted by the visor, and he drags in a breath. The modulator in his helmet distorts his voice, making it rougher, but it’s a comfort to hear the feedback from his own voice rather than the echoing silence of the bridge. “You’re leaving?”

“Yes. Walk with me a moment?” Luke finally looks up, blue eyes curious, and Din stands under his scrutiny as he looks over the contours of the helmet. Each look is a brand on his skin, knowing that whatever Luke is looking for he’ll find. Din dips his head toward the door, motioning, and Luke turns in a swish of fabric, hopping easily over the discarded pieces of the dark-troopers that his saber had cut through like butter. Din skirts around them, kicking a few pieces out of his way, and stares helplessly as Grogu peeks over Luke’s shoulder, giggling happily at the way that Luke boosts him a bit higher. His little hand waves, the corners of his eyes crinkling happily, and Din feels like his heart will beat out of his chest. 

“You’ll protect him?” Din asks, not expecting the way that Luke stops and turns to him, blue eyes steely as he holds his hand out. Din reaches out automatically and Luke grips his forearm tight, pulling him a bit closer, Din biting down on the rising panic to shove away, to put distance between him and Luke. 

“He’s my student now, Mandalorian. My life without him is forfeit.”

“That’s a bit dramatic.” He replies, uncomfortable with the thought, but Luke only laughs, as if seeing the way that Din’s thoughts mirror that sentiment so close. 

“He’ll be safe under my care, Mandalorian. That I can promise.” Luke nods his head, releasing Din’s arm and dropping his hand. They continue their trek back to the hanger, where an old, battered x-wing idles, an R2 unit poking out of the top. Its head piece swivels toward them on approach, whistling merrily at the sight of Luke coming back. Luke pauses by his ship, turning and considering Din for a moment as Grogu balances on his shoulder, a tiny hand gripping a handful of Luke’s sandy blonde hair tight. Luke doesn’t seem at all concerned, and doesn’t wince even when Grogu stretches to touch the side of the ship, pulling on his hair. “Have you said your last goodbyes?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Din stands, awkward under Luke’s observant gaze, and Luke sighs softly. He waits a moment more, as if expecting Din to speak before hoisting himself up onto the wing of his ship before slipping into the open cockpit. Grogu holds on tight as Luke climbs, and he disappears from view momentarily as Luke pulls him down off his shoulder and into his lap. Grogu pops back up once the cockpit has lowered, sealing them in, and Din raises a hand, waving weakly as Grogu wags his little arms in goodbye. Heat burns at the back of his eyes as the ship maneuvers back and out of the airlock, momentarily drifting unanchored before the ship turns with a deft movement and zips off, disappearing rapidly into the inky black of the sky. 

The others find him there, standing so close to the airlock that one stray movement would send him plunging into the cold crushing abyss of space. He doesn’t move when they approach him, though his fingers twitch toward the holster of his blaster on pure instinct alone. 

“Hey, Boba’s on his way. Once he gets back we can take off, get back to Nevarro.” Din doesn’t reply, and his head jerks toward Cara when she places a hand on his upper arm. “The kid’ll be fine, Mando.”

“I know.” He looks back toward the airlock, ignoring the heavy sigh that Cara lets out. He knows that Grogu will be fine- that was his quest, after all, to deliver him to his kind, but the signet on his arm, the vicious, graceful curve of a mudhorn seems like an empty promise now. He’s a clan of one again, with his kid gone, and he doesn’t know what to think about that. What he’s supposed to do, now that he has no home, no clan, only a broken creed left for him to cling to. He’s nearly knocked over when Boba comes sailing into the airlock, the waves from his engines buffeting Din in forceful waves that push him further away from the air lock, displacing him. 

Cara and Fennec stand off to the side, well away from the landing area, and only move closer when the door to the ship drops, allowing them access. Din is the first one in, stalking up the small ramp and climbing with smooth, determined movements up and into the cockpit where Boba lays, strapped into his chair. It takes a bit of maneuvering, but Din swings himself up into the adjacent chair, laying back and strapping himself in. The last thing he wants is to be down below, with others who will drag words out of him he doesn’t want to say. Boba though, is silent as he slips back out of the hangar bay, calling out a warning for the ladies to settle before he tips, taking off like a shot. Din watches the stars shoot by the glass of the cockpit, hands itching to take the yolk from Boba and make them go faster, further and further away from the cruiser and Bo Katan and the memory of holding his child for an instant before losing him again. 

“Where’s the kid?” Boba’s voice is low, melodic compared to his, and still it takes him off guard whenever he chooses to speak. 

“I didn’t come up here to talk.”

“Too bad, Mand’alor.” Din jerks in his chair, the restraints digging the plates of his armor mercilessly back into him. 

“Do not call me that. I’m not-”

“You carry the darksaber.” Boba points out, head turning toward him, and Din’s hand reaches to pull the handle of the saber from his belt, staring. He’d tried to hand it over to Bo Katan, didn’t want the responsibility, but she’d refused. He’d have to be defeated in battle in order for her to take it, to truly rule, and she hadn’t seemed inclined to try while they were stuck in the bridge of a ship she found useful. Maybe she had less of a death wish than he’d first been led to believe. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“I told you I didn’t come here to talk.” Boba hums next to him, unconvinced, but Din sits resolutely beside him, turning the darksaber over and over in his hands, memorizing the pattern etched in the dark hilt. The longer he stares, the more he finds that he does want to talk. “A Jetii showed up. I let him take the kid.”

“Which Jetii?”

“He said his name was Luke.” Din catches the way that Boba’s hands tighten around the yolk, the ship jerking forward a bit with the extra pressure, and he lets out a sharp breath, relaxing. “You know him?”

“Might have captured him a time or two.” That draws a startled laugh out of Din, and he can practically hear Boba grinning behind his helmet. Din finds himself smiling back, but it falls quickly, fading as he looks over his shoulder for Grogu, remembering that this isn’t his ship, and that he’s gone. Din turns back, hoping that Boba didn’t notice, and presses back into his seat as they slide into hyperspace, headed for Nevarro. Boba reaches up, clicking on the autopilot, then unbuckles himself, turning his chair to face Din fully now. Din unbuckles, mirroring him, though he can’t quite meet his gaze.

“I broke the Creed.” Boba crosses his arms over his chest, bobbing his head in a gesture that tells Din to go on. He feels like he’s choking, the smooth fabric of his bodysuit pulling in tighter and tighter, and he gasps in a breath before he finds the words to speak. “I took my helmet off.”

“Who saw?” The bounty hunter in front of him is a quiet, deadly force, and Din can feel the simmering rage that so mirrors his own. But while Boba’s is noble, turned toward whoever saw, Din’s turns inward, toward himself. Toward the weakness that had him break his creed not once, but twice. For his inability to let go, to leave that day that he’d dropped the kid off with the Imperials. 

“The kid. A few Imperial soldiers.”

“Are they dead?” Din nods, and Boba relaxes a bit. “That leaves your ad’ika. Did you claim him as your own?” Din looks up then, helmet raising, and his eyes close despite knowing that Boba can’t truly see him. Ni kyr'tayl gai sa'ad, Grogu. He’d said it so long ago, when the signet on his armor was still fresh and gleaming, and hadn’t looked back since. He’d been tasked with a quest by his Armorer, one he couldn’t ignore, but this had been- different. Grogu had brought a light and a purpose to his life that he hadn’t had since he was a child, since he’d sworn the creed and let the helmet seal around his jaw, hiding his face away. 

“Yes.” Boba doesn’t say anything else, but when Din opens his eyes Boba is still watching him, as if the answer lies in front of him. 

                                                              -*-

Nevarro is just as Din had left it- the lava flats still bubbled and shivered with heat, and dust crusted every inch of anything that wasn’t uncovered. The town was better, happier, the air less oppressive now that the Imperials had been driven off and Karga had taken over to straighten the city out. Cara seems relieved to be back on solid, familiar ground, and she heads off to find out what’s been going on, leaving Din to wander the market by himself. He watches the crowd for sneaking hands or hidden weapons, but nothing serious has happened on Nevarro in months, and Din isn’t quite sure what to do when faced with a crowd who doesn’t want to kill him or steal bounties right out from under him. 

He’s beginning to get used to people finding him in places, because he doesn't jump when a hand claps across his back in a friendly pat, merely turning and tilting his head at the sight of Greef’s graying beard. “Karga.”

“Mando, good to see you again. Here to reconsider the guild?”

“If I am?” Karga grins at him then, squeezing his shoulder and ushering him through the crowd and away from the main bulk of the town. 

“I’ve got a job lined up, if you’re inclined to take it.” 

“Reward?”

“Something you’ll like.” It’s willfully vague and Din doesn’t like it at all. Karga seems to know because he sighs, exasperated, and pulls him along when Din begins to lag behind. “Let me show you the reward before you complain.”

“Is it beskar?”

“No, but something valuable.” Din follows along after a moment to consider, and Karga leads him out to the docks, weaving among the ships to a spot at the back of the yard. All of the ships have crews milling around them except for one, and Din stops short at the sight of it. “I figured you’d need a ship, after what Cara said happened to the last one.” 

“I-” He has to be seeing things‐ before him is the Razor Crest, metal hull gleaming faintly in the gray light of Nevarro's suns. Karga extends a hand, a small piece of metal in his palm, and when Din takes it he can tell it's the chip to the steering grid, which leaves the ship unable to be flown when taken. How in the hell he found another Razor Crest is beyond Din- he didn't think there were anymore.

"You won't get anything else for the first job, but I figure this is a start." Din looks over at Karga, unable to say a word, but Karga only inclines his head toward the ship. "Get settled. I'll bring the puck along later."

"Right." Karga leaves him with the ship, and Din stares, dread and excitement swirling in his gut in a deeply unpleasant mixture of emotions. He bounds up the ramp in two long strides, having waited long enough, and ducks inside, letting the bay door close behind him with a smooth hiss. The lights don't turn on yet, won't until Din gets up into the cockpit and registers his signature into the computer, but Din can navigate the ship in the dark even without his helmet. 

Or so he thinks. 

The ladder to the cockpit is about three inches too far to the left and his helmet clangs uncomfortably against a pipe hanging just low enough to catch him in the forehead and make his ears ring on impact. He swears colorfully, hauling himself up into the cockpit and dropping down into the pilot’s seat. At least here he can see with the light coming in through the viewport. His eyes are drawn across the control panel immediately, mapping the buttons and finding the slot that the steering chip slips into, plugging it in with a faint click and watching as the computer boots up under his hands. Logging himself as the sole owner and user is easy enough, synced to the machinery at his wrist, and the ship comes to life under his hands with little coaxing. A giddy kind of excitement lodges itself in his chest, and he can’t help the stupid little giggle he lets out when he flips a couple of switches, the engines roaring to life on either side of him. 

He doesn’t mean to, but Karga didn’t tell him not to, and he’s taking off, inching the ship up into the air without a backwards glance. The yolk is more sensitive than he’s used to, and his ascent is a bit jerky before the muscles in his forearms can adjust, but he levels out, laughing again and taking off like a shot. 

He rockets through the atmosphere faster than he should, but the computer adjusts for him and his heart pounds in his ears, a staccato symphony. He feels like a teen again, having just gotten his first chance to fly solo, and he can feel the g’s dragging at him as he whirls in exaggerated loops and spins, testing out the responsiveness of the ship and finding it both familiar and better than ever. The ship is lighter, not so heavy with all of Din’s extras like the carbonite bay or his supplies, but that’ll change eventually. For now Din shoots through the stars, riding toward nowhere and only turning around when a comm clicks, Karga’s voice echoing in the cockpit. 

“Having fun up there? I’ve got the puck and some basic supplies, when you feel like landing.” 

“Thank you.” Din breathes, voice cloaked in awe, and he hears Karga laugh over the comms before he disconnects. Din’s landing is much smoother than his takeoff, and Karga is waiting for him when the bay door drops open and Din steps out, grinning like a fool behind the mask of his helmet. The eager anticipation of having a ship, of flying by himself is tangible, and Karga helps haul the supplies on board, ducking underneath the pipe and snorting to cut off a laugh when Din hits his head. Again. 

Din huffs angrily, the sound warping into an odd metallic growl, and he stalks off to find tools, coming back and using a bit of strong wire and will power to hoist the pipe back up into the ceiling where it belongs. Once that’s done he surveys what Karga has brought him, holding his hand out for the puck and tracker. “Alive, as usual.”

“Might be a bit bruised. No carbonite bay.”

“Bruised is alive.” Karga agrees, slipping around the boxes of supplies to observe Din’s quick fix. It’ll keep him from hitting his head, at least. “Spend the night on the ship before you take off. I’ll have the lads refuel you for the trip.”

“Thought I wasn’t getting anything outside of the ship.”

“You have a tab.” Din chuckles softly, bobbing his head in a nod, and Karga smiles at him smugly. “When you’re done with this job, I’ve got more for you. As few or as many as you want.”

“Thanks.” He means it this time, truly, and Karga leaves him to settle in for the night. Once the bay seals shut, trapping him in the low light of the fluorescents Din allows his shoulders to slump. This ship is the same but wildly different, and Din needs time to adjust. The refresher and sleepbay on this one are bigger, wider, and there’s actually room for what looks like a small shower that collapses into the wall. He has less storage, but he’s going to rip out half of it for the carbonite bay as soon as he can afford it, so he isn’t worried as he packs away the filtered water and rations that karga supplied him with. 

Once, and only once he’s gotten everything into place does he reach for the clasps of his armor, letting the segments fall away from him. He tucks the armor neatly into a cubby underneath his cot, hidden from view of anyone who might snoop, and his blaster is left on the shelf running the length of the wall in the bay. Din sits on the end of the cot, breathing slowly to calm himself and ease the odd, barren feeling that crawls over his skin. This is his home, and will be for the foreseeable future, so the longer he sits there, just breathing, the easier it gets to relax. Until it’s habit more than anything to reach up and release the seal of his helmet, slipping it up and over his head. He doesn’t open his eyes just yet, letting his other senses adjust, and when he does he has to blink rapidly, waiting for his vision to dim. 

Taking off the helmet had always been a debate- how long was too long before it was considered against the Creed? How long could he chew on a ration bar, or trim his beard, or stand in the shower before the shame of what he was doing caught up to him? Staring down at the dull grey reflection of his helmet now though, it isn’t shame that trickles through him. It’s bitter, twisting sadness brought on by the echo of a small hand on his cheek. Of eyes crawling over his face in an enemy base while the rest of them were completely unaware of what they were seeing. Din’s grip tightens on the helmet, the hard edges digging into his fingers, and he hurls it as hard as he can against the wall with a shout, hands shaking and the metallic clang reverberating through the empty space of the living bay. 

“Fuck. FUCK.” Din leaves the helmet on the floor, collapsing back onto the cot and burying his face in his hands. Here, in the solitude of his new ship, Din allows himself to cry, dragging fingers through his hair and not caring at the way it stands on end. Grogu’s absence echoes through the ship louder than any noise Din could possibly make, and the walls feel oppressively small around him, trapping him in a world of his own making. He feels rubbed raw, foolish and weak at the way he misses him, but it isn’t a weakness, not truly. The Foundlings were important, vitally so to Mandalorians, and Din had taken Grogu as his own, his clan of two. Din allows himself to cry until his eyes and throat are raw, and only then does he slink to the refresher, taking a quick, cold shower before tucking himself into bed. 

                                                          -*-

Din is up and in armor by the time the workers come to fuel his ship, and he’s out of the port minutes later. He goes through his bounties on autopilot, falling into a routine as familiar as breathing. The work keeps him blissfully busy, and the less he’s on land, the less time he spends stopping to think the easier it gets to ignore the panicked, anxious worry that gnaws at his stomach, twisting and tying it in knots at night when he’s trying to sleep. He pays off his tab on Nevarro and quickly builds his stock of weaponry, watching when his carbonite bay is installed. He debates testing it on one of the workers just to see that it works beforehand, but he’s got a bounty on hand already and he can stand to be a bit more patient. 

His ship's responsiveness doesn’t dwindle with the added weight, much to Din’s delight, and he actually finds that the engines are just… Stronger. Hardier than his last ones. He doesn’t refer to it as the Razor Crest, despite that being what it is, and he goes months without a name until Cara finally snaps and demands that he either come up with a name or just suck it up. In the effort of laziness Din relents, and the Razor Crest is brought back again. 

He’s stuck at light speed, traveling from Tatooine to Nevarro when a light flares on his holo, just a soft red button that flashes slowly with a new message. Din hits play, hardly paying attention, since Karga is sending them constantly, and jerks in his chair when a soft, firm voice so totally unlike Karga’s plays through the cockpit. 

“Do not share this with anyone.” Luke’s face, half concealed beneath his hood stares sightlessly into the chamber, and Din’s heart pounds in his chest when he begins to rattle off coordinates. He punches them into the computer as fast as he can, listening to Luke repeat them two more times before his recording cuts off and the image of him fades. It’s a planet on the very edges of the universe, far out in a sector Din has never even heard of, and Din is relieved that his bounty is on the way. 

He puts the bounty in carbonite as soon as he can and takes off, following the coordinates and pacing the length of the cockpit all through the suspense within hyperspace. He tries to calm down, to remind himself that he knew this wouldn’t be forever, but when the planet finally comes into view, with vast stretches of water and forest and desert Din’s heart is nearly bursting through his beskar. He slides into his seat to prepare for his landing, and finds that the coordinates are deep in the forest, and he’ll have to land further away. He spots a familiar x-wing, faded red stripes slashed down the side, and carefully lands next to it, snagging the steering chip and trodding down the ramp.

He has no clue where to go, especially once he breaks into the forest, but there's a path worn into the grass, and when he ticks his visor over to another channel Luke’s bootprints flare to life in front of his eyes. He follows them, ignoring when they loop back a few times to ward off other less talented trackers. His trek through the forest is short, and he sweeps the area as he steps out into a clearing that dips into a valley. When Luke had said temple Din hadn’t been expecting…. This. A large, ancient city sprawls across the valley, buildings of dusty brick towering among the trees and overgrown pavement. Din doesn’t have the slightest clue which building they could be in, but it doesn’t seem to matter as something tingles across the back of his neck, an awareness that wasn’t there before.

Din whips around, hand on his blaster, but nothing but wind and trees greets him, and that same cool tingling tugs, insistent. Din finds his feet following the feeling without knowing exactly why, leading him down into the valley and past building after crumbling building. Most of them look unstable, like a stray wind strong enough will knock the whole thing over, but the deeper he goes the more the buildings change from rough hewn stone to something more like the glass and steel that Din is used to seeing among civilization. 

Din breaks out into a square, an old, stagnant fountain in the middle, teeming with frogs and moss and bugs. His attention catches on the small green child sitting on the edge, giggling with delight as a frog floats in front of him, just out of reach. 

“Grogu.” 

Din’s voice breaks saying his name, and he laughs wetly, disbelief plain along the lines of his body as the little one whips around, dark eyes wide with surprise. At the sight of Din’s armor shining in the light he squeals, scurrying to climb down off the edge of the fountain, little legs carrying him as fast as they can toward Din. He drops to his knees, ignoring the way the stone bites at his joints as Grogu crashes into his chest, babbling and cooing and little hands grabbing at the leather straps across his chest. Din laughs, near dizzy with relief, and he lifts Grogu a bit higher, letting Grogu grip the concave edges of his helmet, shaking it lightly, impatiently. 

“Later, Grogu. Not now.” Grogu frowns, little brow furrowing, and Din grins despite himself. “I missed you, kid. Have you been good?”

Grogu croons happily, and he looks back as Din looks up, watching as Luke sits on the edge of the fountain. He’s still draped in black, but the long cloak is gone, and the rest of his clothes are form fitted, hugging his frame, and Din finds that he’s much more delicate than he first expected. There’s an undeniable strength in his posture, a certain poise that Din doesn’t see in many people anymore. His sandy hair is a mess, strands whipping in the wind, but Luke seems unaffected, crossing his legs at the knee. “He missed you too. Quite loudly, I would say.”

“Did he cause trouble?” Luke laughs, a rich, decadent sound, and Din stands, moving closer. 

“No more than any trainee. He’s stubborn, when he wants to be, but he’s learning.” Luke reaches out, tugging on the end of Grogu’s ear affectionately and smiling when he grabs his finger, holding on. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” The thought of not showing up, of not seeing that Grogu was fine months later seems so wrong that he never even considered it. 

“There are a thousand things within this universe that no one can change should they get in the way.” Din snorts, rolling his eyes, and Luke grins ruefully, the waxing poetics dropping from him as he leans back to regard Din with a full body sweep of his eyes. “That and you’re a busy man.”

“He’s my priority.” Luke dips his head in a nod, acknowledging the fact, and his eyes flick over Din again, a pale eyebrow arching just so. 

“And what about your throne, Mand’alor? Have you made any progress with the darksaber?”

“How do you-”

“Grogu told me. He talks about you. A lot, I might add. And especially about the way you saved him from the saber itself.” Luke doesn’t move, but his head cocks to the side, regarding Din with an expression he doesn’t have the time or energy to pick apart. “You have it still, don’t you?”

Din nods, shifting Grogu in his arms and pulling the saber from his belt. His thumb finds the button easily, and the blade extends with a soft hiss. The blade itself is coal black, a seemingly never ending abyss, but the edges glow with an unearthly white sheen, reflecting in shattered images across the beskar of Din’s armor. The blade unnerves him, makes his skin crawl, so he extinguishes it and tucks it back into his belt as quickly as he can. He expects Luke to say something, some stupid Jedi nonsense, but instead he watches as Luke’s eyelids flutter shut, skin gone pale and body slumping backward. Din swears, lurching forward to catch the front of Luke's shirt to keep him from tipping back into the fountain and drowning.

“Hey, Jetii-” Luke’s hand comes up, gripping Din’s wrist tight, and Din is once again struck by the urge to pull away and put some distance between him and the other man. The urge fades quickly when he hears the noise that Luke makes, soft and pained, and Din shakes Luke’s hand away. He sets Grogu down on the ground gently before slinging one of Luke’s arms around his shoulders, hauling him to his feet as the Jedi sways unsteadily beside him. “Hey kid, lead us home.”

Grogu makes a soft noise that Din hopes is a yes and begins tottering away, leading them deeper into the city. Luke is still near incoherent against his side, stumbling along and head lolling forward onto his chest, and the sight makes Din’s stomach clench with nerves. They pass through the rest of the city and out along the other side, climbing the hill and disappearing into the forest. He wants to turn back, to insist they actually go to where they’re staying, but occasionally Luke will suddenly lurch to one side, guiding them, and they come across a small cabin tucked away in the woods before too long. There’s a sprawling garden teeming with verdant plants tucked away behind a fence, and when Din ducks inside Grogu runs straight to the toys sprawled by the fireplace. Din deposits Luke unceremoniously in the first chair that he sees, but Luke doesn’t complain, groaning softly and slumping. 

Din doesn't have the faintest clue about what’s going on, but he busies himself with tearing through Luke’s things until he finds what Din surmises to be some kind of herbal drink, standing impatiently in the small kitchen as the water boils. By the time he’s gotten everything situated Luke seems well enough to drink, though Din refuses to hand him a cup of scalding liquid. Luke’s face screws up at the taste, and Din didn’t add anything extra, but the smell alone seems to help, and soon Luke’s hands come up, covering Din’s and blue eyes focusing tiredly on his visor. 

“I can hold it.” Din gives him a hard, disbelieving look and Luke snorts, taking the cup from his hands and proving that he very much can manage on his own now. He sips at the drink slowly, lips twitching at the taste, and leans back in his chair, watching the nervous way Din’s fingers twitch, ready to catch the cup just in case. “I’m fine, Mand’alor.”

“That didn’t look like fine, Jetii.” Din’s voice is scolding, annoyed, and Luke huffs a small laugh.

“That was an- anomaly.” 

"An anomaly." Din repeats, voice flat and unamused. Luke is supposed to be protecting and training Grogu, and he's just watched an anomaly debilitate a trained Jedi, so he isn't feeling particularly warm when his next words come out demanding. "Explain. Now."

"Lightsabers are attuned to the Force. The Force retains… echoes of memories, good or bad, and the bad ones can be- rough." Din draws in a breath to interrupt, but Luke shoots him a look that makes his mouth pop shut, teeth snapping together faintly. "The darksaber is old, and mostly aligned with the Dark."

"Mostly?"

"There have been good, just rulers who handled the blade. Their influence lingers."

"That doesn't explain your reaction."

"I wasn't prepared for the onslaught of the memories from the blade. It won't happen again, I can promise you that." Din wants to point out that as a supposed Jedi Master he should have been ready, but Luke's cheeks are pink with embarrassment already and twisting the blade needlessly would just be cruel. 

"You're expecting me to take the blade out again?"

"Someone has to train you in its use."

"I don't need you to-"

"How many other lightsaber users do you know, Mand'alor?" When Din says nothing Luke nods his head, draining the rest of his drink and standing to take care of the cup. "We'll begin in the morning, after breakfast."

"I didn't agree to anything, Jetii." 

"But you will. The bedroom on the left is yours. I'm just down the hall if you need anything." Din watches him walk away, a muscle ticking in his jaw, and he turns to Grogu, frowning. Grogu looks up, sensing Din's attention, and he toddles over, stepping on Din's foot and raising his arms high. Din leans down, scooping him up and standing.

"Guess that means we better get some sleep, huh?" 

Din carries the kid with him as he heads into the empty bedroom, glancing around. It's pretty barren, as far as bedrooms go, but there's a bed, a dresser and a small crib for Grogu tucked near the bed. If Din hadn't been invited, he would have thought that Luke could see into the future. Well, he's not entirely sure he can't do that as a powerful Jedi. Din sets Grogu down on the bed, knowing he'll just crawl out of the crib right now, and reaches for the clasps of his armor. He's- not entirely sure he wants to take it off, since he hardly knows the man sleeping across the house, but Grogu trusts him and that speaks volumes for his character. Grogu, while a child, distrusts almost as badly as Din does, and the fact that he's not constantly watching Luke is a testament to his comfort. Grogu reaches up toward him, brown eyes big as saucers, and Din sighs, stripping out of his armor but keeping the bodysuit on. It's the best compromise he can manage right now, and he hesitates for a second before deciding that he's already taken it off around the kid, he might as well be somewhat comfortable. 

The room is dim enough that he can open his eyes right away, and when he lays back the kid ambles up, patting his nose and pulling a handful of his hair. Din allows his exploration, watching the way that Grogu's face lights up when Din tries to smile at him. He laughs quietly when Grogu settles down next to him, tucking his little head against Din's neck and pressing his back along the length of Din's shoulder. He should put him in the crib, it's there for a reason, but he missed him more than he cares to admit to himself and so what if he falls asleep, his child curled up in the crook of his neck, snoring away?

                                                       -*-

Din is woken up by the sound of the door opening. His first instinct is to grab for his blaster, the second his helmet, but Luke's voice stops him in his tracks.

"You could have woken him up, you know. Or opened the door by yourself." There's a brief pause, and though Din can see Luke's hand on the knob he can't see any other part of him. "No, that's not a frivolous use of your powers, that's practice. No, I'm not going into his room. Wh- Grogu-!" 

Din can't help himself- he laughs at the shocked, appalled squeak that Luke lets out, slipping his helmet onto his head and letting it seal tight. "You can stop hiding."

"You're decent?"

"You'll have to find out." He hears Luke chuckle, a soft sound that zips up his spine, and Din resolutely ignores the feeling in lieu of shrugging back into his armor. He's securing a pauldron when Luke finally slips into the room, gaze carefully averted, and Din shivers when something races up his spine, pooling around his neck and going not further than his helmet. The feeling fades quickly, and only then does Luke look up, grinning as usual. 

"Did you sleep alright?" Din snorts, tugging the strap across his chest tighter and lifting a leg one at a time to secure the plates on his thighs. 

"Fine. Not going to pass out again?" Luke groans at the mention, as if he'll never live it down, and Din smirks behind the safety of his helmet. 

"I told you it wouldn't happen again. Test me if you want." Luke folds his hands in front of him, meeting Din's eyes through the helmet and waiting patiently. Din tilts his head, debating, but the saber stays tucked away in his belt as he slips past Luke, pauldron brushing against his arm. He hears Luke mumble something to himself before turning on his heel to follow them out, and Din jerks forward, catching the knife that's floating in the air and dragging it down despite the way whatever holds it up fights him.

"Hey kid, easy on the knives." The strain stops suddenly, and Din goes to shove it back into the small block, turning to pin Grogu with a look. His child merely coos, tilting his head until a large ear brushes the floor, and Din sighs heavily. "You don't practice with dangerous objects, that's how you lose an eye."

Grogu gurgles, obviously unhappy with the scolding, but Din stands his ground, crossing his arms. "I've seen you lift a mudhorn, I'm sure your toys aren't a problem."

"Do you hear him?" Luke's voice breaks their staring contest, and Din glances up, tracking Luke's movements through the small kitchen as he begins to pull things out. All of it seems plant based, but that doesn't bother Din much, and if Luke isn't a hunter then he shouldn't expect much in the way of meat. If this planet even has wildlife to hunt. 

"Hear what? The noises?"

Luke stops for a moment, a faint, calculating look on his face. "You were answering him." 

"I was just- talking to him." Luke hums low in his throat, resuming his work at making breakfast and occasionally catching fruits or ingredients out of the air. It seems a common enough occurrence between the two of them, and Din sits back to watch just what Luke will allow. Occasionally a slice of something will float over to Grogu, which Luke either does or allows, and sometimes Luke will laugh or shake his head, shooting Grogu a look that Din doesn't understand. 

Din slips the saber from his belt while Luke is occupied washing something, and his thumb hits the release, angling it so it doesn’t take out the leg of the table or screech over his beskar. Luke’s whole body shudders, shoulders twitching madly, and Din watches, breathless, as Luke turns slowly, blue eyes bright with anger and lips pressed together.

“That was uncalled for, Mand’alor.” Din flicks the saber off again, lifting his shoulders in a shrug and trying not to sound too smug.

“You said to test you.”

“Twenty minutes ago, maybe.”

“Test is useless if you’re expecting it. The outcome changes.” Luke opens his mouth to say something, frowning, but Din lets the blade sing to life again and Luke chokes on his breath. His reaction is lessened, just a tensing of his shoulders and shake of his head, and this time when Din extinguishes the blade he tucks it away. “See?”

“Yes, I do.” Luke’s tone makes something burrow its way into his heart, and he isn’t sure he likes the feeling. Luke stalks over to the table, setting a plate down in front of Din and and one in front of the chair next to him. “Eat, then meet me outside.”

Din isn’t going to eat, not with Luke nearby, but Luke carries his own plate outside, disappearing into the yard and leaving Din more confused than he was before. He waits for Luke to come back in, for the door to open or a head of blonde hair to move past the window but he doesn’t, and Din feels stupid sitting there while Grogu digs into his breakfast. He pops the seal on his helmet, sliding it up just enough to take a bite before slipping it back down. 

Luke is not a good cook.

Din has had worse though, and he tucks it away dutifully, knowing he’s going to need the energy for whatever the Jedi has planned for him. Once he’s managed to get his breakfast down and cleaned Grogu’s hands off he secures his helmet and ducks outside, sweeping the area and finding Luke at the treeline, sitting cross legged with his eyes shut. Meditating. Din stops a few feet shy of him, watching the slow, even way that Luke’s chest rises and falls with his breath. He finds himself following along, dragging in deep, slow breaths, holding it, and then letting it out slowly. The longer he stands there, breathing in tandem with Luke the more a sense of calm crawls into his bones, settling him and making his muscles feel loose and slippery. 

“Breathing was the first thing my master taught me, and it’s the first thing I hope to offer you.” Luke gestures toward the ground next to him and Din takes it without hesitation, tucking himself down onto the ground with far more grace than his armor should allow. Grogu squirms out of his arms, moving to sit in front of them rather, little hands clasped together in his lap as he closes his eyes. Din glances between the two of them as Luke’s eyes close again, and while Din follows their breathing, relaxing, though he doesn’t close his eyes. Instead he watches the serenity that passes over his child’s face, the way his ears droop down a bit as his tiny breathing evens out. “Close your eyes, Mand’alor.”

Din squeezes his eyes shut at the command, tensing, but Luke hums approvingly and Din relaxes again. Or tries to, but he’s focusing too much on the slow, even inhale of Luke’s breath and the way power oozes from him in every exhale, shivering in the air around them and sticking to him like a cloak. It’s… Distracting, to say the least, and by the time Luke finally rises to his feet Din is wound up all over again. Luke leads Grogu a safe distance away from them, Grogu sitting down obediently and staring at them with those dark, bottomless eyes. 

“We’re a little close to the building.” Luke raises a brow, lips twitching in a smile, and he draws the lightsaber from his belt. It whirs to life with a quiet hum, green blade lighting up Luke’s robes in swathes of muted color. Din’s hand strays for his blaster automatically, but Luke shakes his head sharply and Din grits his teeth. 

“Draw, Mand’alor.” 

“I told you we’re-” Din leaps back as Luke lunges, lightsaber screeching along the front of his chestpiece. 

Their first lesson begins that way, Din uselessly dodging and ducking to avoid Luke’s sword and Luke coming at him with singular focus. Din’s arms burn from blocking the impact of Luke’s swings, and he shoves forward with his forearms, pushing Luke back. Luke doesn’t let him breathe or rest, left hand reaching out and fingers closing in a tight fist. A sickening feeling of being touched yet not touched wraps around him, cold and imposing, and Din’s feet skid through the dirt as Luke drags him forward. 

“Draw your saber.” Luke’s voice is a near growl now, and as the grip around him loosens Din wrenches the hilt free from his belt, the starlit blade roaring to life in Din’s hands. Luke’s face twitches uncomfortably, but Din’s heart is pounding in his ears and he slashes forward, as if wielding a club or a spare piece of pipe meant to bludgeon. Luke bats the strike away like he would an infant’s swing, and Din’s blade rises to block Luke’s this time instead of letting the blade scorch across his armor again. “Good! You aren’t using a stick, it’s a sword, treat it like one!”

“A sword is a stick!” Din shouts back, ducking under a blow and swinging upward. Luke ward's off his attacks with little difficulty, and as Din continues his attacks he finds that the saber feels more like an extension of himself than before. Much like his staff, he only needs to lean into the natural weight of the weapon and efficiency of his training, strikes evening out and blade singing in his hand. Din drops to the ground in a tight crouch, drawing himself in before his blade spears out, the tip sailing for Luke as Luke's blade hisses along the length of Din's, unable to parry. His blade connects with Luke’s thigh in a shower of stars, Luke staggering backward with a cry. Din straightens up immediately, eyes widening, but Luke’s leg is whole and undamaged, Luke rubbing at it for a moment before he looks back up at Din. 

“Force shield. Knew you’d land a blow eventually, when you decided to participate.” 

Din is storming forward before he can stop himself, fist twisting in Luke’s clothes and hauling him closer. Luke raises his hands, fingers splaying wide in supplication, and Din feels his breaths scraping out of his throat, fast and raw. “You tell me, Jetii, before we do this again. You-” Din can feel his hands shaking, and he can feel his anger pulsing against his forehead and up into his hair, hot and buzzing. Luke’s eyes are wide, impossibly blue and Din’s stomach flops and it’s too much, too soon, and his hand drops as he takes a couple of steps back. “I- have to go.”

“Where?” Luke doesn’t try to dissuade him, instead straightening his clothes and tucking his lightsaber away. 

“I have a bounty to finish.”

“Okay.” Luke’s tone is too accepting, too soft, and Din doesn’t have anywhere for his rage, as misplaced as it is, to go. “We’ll resume your training when you come back.”

                                                         -*-

Din is only two days late getting back to Nevarro to drop off the bounty and the puck, and when he steps into the building that Karga has set up as his base there’s a metallic laugh that sounds to his left. 

“Told you you didn’t need me.” 

Karga looks visibly relieved at the sight of Din standing in his office, and Din’s head tips to the side at the sight of Boba sprawled in the chair by the desk. Din tosses the puck onto the table, bobbing his head in a nod. “Fought pretty hard.” 

“Is he dead?”

“Sleeping in carbonite.” Karga nods, snapping his fingers toward a man lingering at the back of the room. He scurries out, probably to go collect the bounty, and Din swipes the money off the table that Karga offers. Din’s attention turns to his armored friend now, and he finds Boba watching him already, head tipped to the side inquisitively. “Fett.”

“Mand’alor.” Din scoffs- as if Luke insisting on the title while they were alone wasn’t bad enough. “Karga here was about to send a search party.”

“You’re hardly a search party, Boba Fett.” Karga splutters, denying it, but Din huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. 

“What do you have?”

“A couple of escaped convicts, a debt skipper. Interested?” Din nods, accepting the pucks and corresponding trackers. They're scattered across the system, will take a couple of weeks at least, and Din is grateful for the distraction once again. He knows, has seen that Grogu is safe and dare he say happy, so he can stop being so worried all the time, right? 

Din restocks at the market before retreating back to his ship, coming up short when he sees Boba, head tilted back as he admires the ship. "I never got to see the other one."

"They're the same." Is all Din says, slipping past him and up the ramp. He's got supplies to put away, paths to track, and no time for Boba Fett and his musing. Boba's musing though, seems to have all the time in the world for him, and he sits atop a crate, watching the way that Din organizes and reorganizes the same shelf. 

"Hey, leave it."

"I'm-"

"Fidgeting. Get your metal ass over here, I brought you something." Din turns slowly, wary of anything that Boba might have brought him, but he's holding up a metal container that's warm to the touch, even through the leather of Din's gloves. When Din cracks the lid steam temporarily fogs his visor, and Din stares down at the food contained within. Chunks of meat and veggies soak in a sauce that even with his helmet on Din can tell is nuclear red. "You don't have to eat now. It should stay warm a while."

Din looks up at Boba, as if debating, and reaches back to unlock his helmet, slipping it up over his head and tossing it onto his cot without looking. Boba dips his head down for a second, face turned away, but Din grunts and moves to sit next to him. "Thanks."

Boba is much nicer to his helmet, merely setting it down beside him, but Din is already digging in, devouring the meal before him. It's been ages since he's had anything truly flavorful, something that makes his nose run and brings tears to his eyes, and he savors the white-hot burn that coats his tongue. It's the best thing Din has eaten in weeks, and he scrapes the dish as clean as he can just to ensure he doesn't miss anything. Boba seems just as enthusiastic about the meal, though he passes off what's left of his to Din once he's had his fill, and watches as Din polishes that off too.

"Me'vaar ti gar?" Boba's mando'a is different than his, rougher, and it takes Din a second to realize what he's done. 

"Ass." He scowls, discarding the containers before leaning back against the sloped wall of the Crest and answering. "The Jetii sent me encrypted coordinates so I could see the kid."

"So you went, obviously. But why come back?" Din hesitates, glancing at Boba, and he's both relieved and strangely disappointed that Boba doesn't seem to be staring. Din thinks on it a moment, what he wants to reveal, and decides the truth, all of it, would be best. 

So he tells Boba- every detail he can remember aside from the planet's location and anything that might give it away to a more well versed traveller. He recounts the stupid, weak way relief has made his legs wobble when he'd seen Grogu again for the first time, the joy at seeing his son again, and eventually the conversation turns to Luke. His kindness, the contented way he laughs and smiles as if the entire world hasn't done him wrong already, the obvious care he harbors for the child in his care. The stupid smug way he smiles, the odd way that Din feels whenever he stares too long. How, in the day and a half he was there, Luke had driven him up the wall but also seen him in a way that most others didn't, like he could read him from across the room. He tells him about their first fight with the sword, and Din can feel his hands begin to shake as the anger bubbles to the surface. He doesn't have a way to explain why he's so angry, just that he is, but Boba is frowning.

"Jetii have always been secretive. It's not in their nature to share information."

“I could have killed him.” Boba snorts, picking his helmet up and turning it over in his hands. 

“He wouldn’t put himself at that much risk.” That… Is a good point, one that Din hadn’t thought about outside of fighting. No one he’s ever fought with, sparring or otherwise, has ever fought like they weren’t trying to kill each other. All of Din’s anger seems to slough off of him, and his shoulders slump, pauldrons weighing heavily against him. “When are you going back?”

“What makes you think I’m going back?” Boba pins him with a look, eyebrow raised, and Din looks away, tips of his ears burning. He feels far too exposed without his helmet, but it feels more like a relief to be able to breathe, to let his eyes sting with the brightness of the lights inside the ship. 

“You don’t run. Not once you have a plan.” 

The fact that Boba is right is irritating, and Din’s brow furrows as he thinks. The longer he sits there, debating himself, the more and more he realizes that he does have a plan. It’s stupidly simple, hardly even worth being called more than a thought, but it’s all that Din has, so it’ll have to be enough. Boba knocks his elbow into Din, shoving, and Din focuses back on the bounty hunter.

“Give me the pucks.”

“You’re not stealing my bounties, Fett.” Boba scoffs, rolling his eyes and holding his hand out.

“We’ll split it. Now get yourself ready.” Din stares him down, eyes narrowed, but Boba doesn’t relent until Din presses the pucks and trackers into his hands. Din rises to his feet at Boba’s insistence, grabbing his helmet from his cot and slipping it back on over his head. The fit is snug as always, and Din adjusts to the weight of it easily, climbing up into the cockpit to power the engines up in preparation for him to leave. The coordinates are still in his computer, primed and ready, and Din isn’t sure whether it’s the thought of flying or Grogu that makes his fingers itch to grab the yolk and take off. Din’s comm crackles in his helmet, making him wince, and Boba’s voice rumbles into the tiny space. “Get going, Mando.”

                                                            -*-

Din feels like an ass walking back up to Luke’s small cottage. Like an ass, and a coward.

He shouldn’t have left Grogu, left Luke the way that he did. He didn’t have any real reason to be mad and shame burns across the back of his neck when he stands just outside the door, debating on whether or not to knock. He's got a pack over his shoulder, more to prove that he's here to stay than anything else when the door swings open wide, knocking against the wall. Grogu's little form stands just out of the way of the door, hands raised, and Din smiles despite himself.

"Hey kid." Grogu giggles, hurrying over to his father and squeaking happily as Din sweeps him up into his arms. Grogu doesn't go for his helmet this time, instead jostling his chest piece with little hands. "Okay okay, cool it. I'm staying, alright?"

"Uh?" The child jostles his chest piece again and Din sighs, stepping inside and wincing when the door slams shut behind him. At least Grogu is practicing. 

"No, we're not going to get frogs, I know you just ate." There's absolutely no way he can tell other than the plates on the counter, but Grogu's pout only confirms what Din suspected and he tugs lightly on Grogu's ear. "Can't con a con man, kid. Where's your master?"

There's a sound from across the room and Din looks up as Luke leans against the doorframe, hair a mess and brow raised. "Yeah okay, you don't like that, but I don't like Mand'alor." Luke's brows go up, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, and Din isn't quite sure what the look is for. "My name is Din. Din Djarin. If you're going to call me anything, it better be that."

"No Mand'alor?" Din wrinkles his nose, though Luke can't see, and is rewarded by Luke laughing, grinning crookedly and finally shoving off the doorframe to walk closer. "No Jetii then either, Din Djarin."

"Just Din."

"Just Din." Luke agrees, amusement coloring his words. "You said you were staying?"

"If you'll have me." Din… probably should have asked first before assuming, but Luke reaches out, gripping his bicep in a friendly embrace and drawing a bit closer. 

"He's your home as much as he is mine." Din glances down at Grogu, who's begun dozing in his arms, and then back up at Luke. The hand clasped around his arm sears through the layers of his bodysuit, but Din craves the warmth from it. 

"I'm cooking." Din blurts out before he can help himself, Luke grinning in response. 

"Grogu likes my cooking."

"Grogu eats frogs." 

"He has refined taste." Din snorts, trying to hold back a laugh, and Luke squeezes his bicep lightly before finally dropping his hand. "Are you tired?"

"No." He's not sure why the question, but Luke's eyebrows twitch up for a moment before a sly smile overtakes his face. He regrets saying no.

"Meet me outside in five minutes." Luke sweeps past him without further preamble, leaving Din to do as he's told, tucking Grogu away in his crib and making sure he doesn't wake when Din slips out of the bedroom. He leaves his pack on the bed along with his jetpack, wanting to shed as much excess weight as he can. He has a feeling he's going to need as much agility as he can get. 

That doesn’t mean he’s going to take off his armor and risk getting cut to pieces by Luke’s lightsaber though. Because that’s exactly what Din is expecting when he gets outside, watching the way that Luke lazily rotates his wrist, letting the blade whirl through with the movement. Something warm heats in his stomach at the sight, and he draws his own saber, letting the blade flicker to life. Luke’s eyes flick up as the blade hums in Din’s hand, eyes tracing over the blade itself and then up and down Din once. 

“You didn’t react.”

“The blade is used to you now, and reflects more upon your feelings than the memories within.” Din shifts on his feet, uncomfortable at the thought, and Luke waves him over, further away from the building. “I haven’t been forthcoming about certain aspects of my abilities, and it upset you.”

“It didn’t…” But Din can’t finish the sentence, and Luke’s face droops in something sad. 

“When we fight I’ll have a shield up, like the one you saw before. It’ll keep me from being injured by your saber, like your beskar does for mine.”

“The blows will still hurt.” Din’s arms had ached for a day after their first clash, but Luke shrugs, smirking now.

“That’s part of the training. No fun if there aren’t bruises.” Luke reminds him so much of his trainers as a child then that he can almost imagine Luke in beskar, wielding a quarterstaff and laughing when a blow knocked him on his ass. “Ready?”

Din snaps from his reverie, and their training begins anew. Luke drives him hard, using whatever tricks and skills he has at his disposal, but Din matches him beat for beat. While his skill with a sword is subpar compared to Luke he catches on quickly, and he’s battle honed in a way that makes reading Luke’s next moves as easy as breathing. 

More often than not he finds himself sprawled in the dirt or thrown off into the trees, head spinning at the impact and every muscle in his body protesting at getting back up again. He never stays down for long, Luke extending a hand to help him up as many times as he knocks him down. Half the time that hand is used to yank Luke off balance and launch a counter attack, but Luke expects it, rolling in the dirt with Din and swinging madly until the invisible fingers of Luke’s power catches at the back of Din’s armor and sends him flying again. 

While Grogu and Luke train in the living room, lifting toys and chairs and practicing breathing, Din hunts. There’s plenty of wildlife to track, and plenty of meat to cure and use in cooking. Cooking with actual spices and flavor, which Luke insists is too much half the time, and not enough the other half. Din knows he’s complaining just to get a rise out of him, but it works every time, and Din watches, satisfied one night as Luke chokes, cheeks flushing and eyes watering. Din grins beneath his helmet, laughing when Luke glares at him and gulps down a mouthful of water to try and wash away the taste. Luke still complains, but after that he’s much more careful about just how red the food is that particular day.

Din is also the one to go on supply runs when they get low on the things Luke can’t grow in his garden or Din can’t hunt, and he takes a few bounties while he’s out, just to tide him over while he’s away. Luke tells him to take care of how he uses the darksaber, but Din hasn’t had the heart to tell him he doesn’t use it at all outside of their training. Most people don’t look too kindly on their bounty run through by a sword and encased in carbonite. The darksaber still unnerves him, for as much as he uses it at home- at Luke’s. 

Din has been away from home for two weeks too long when he finally makes it back, nursing a couple broken ribs and his own wounded pride. His last bounty had been a better fighter than he’d expected, and had gotten a good shoulder ram in the space right under Din’s left arm. It makes carrying the supplies he’d brought back a pain in the ass, and he drops them in the doorway, rolling his shoulders back to try and ease the tension pulling at his ribs. Luke’s blonde hair pops out of the back room, a smile on his face, and Din’s heart kicks up a notch. It had been doing that a lot lately, and Din isn’t stupid enough to ignore what it means. He just… Doesn’t act on it. 

“You’re home late.” Luke eyes the sky through the open door behind Din, already illuminated by the planet’s three moons.

“Your tea is impossible to find.” 

“Sure, blame it on me, like you weren’t out joyriding.” Din scoffs, but he’s partially right and Din’s silence only confirms it. Luke’s footsteps are quiet as he pads across the living room, and above that he can hear Grogu, snoring away. He’s much, much later than he expected to be, so he keeps his voice hushed to avoid waking Grogu in the room next door. “Did you have fun?”

“Mhmm.” The door closes with a soft click behind him, and Luke joins him in hauling the supplies to the kitchen, where Luke unpacks and tucks them away under Din’s careful eye. Luke knows by now where everything goes, and he makes quick work, leaving his tea out. Din has already put water on to heat, and he rolls his shoulders out again, pain lancing down his side. He hadn’t bothered to waste the money on a bacta patch- Grogu and Luke were just as good at healing, if not better, and Din is already beginning to heal on his own anyway. 

“You’re hurt.” Luke’s voice is accusing, and Din turns, biting back a yelp when Luke’s hands come up, pressing into his sides. He shies away from Luke’s right hand, trying to lessen the pressure, and Luke frowns. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“It’s nothing.”

“They’re pretty broken, Din.” Din laughs, wincing when that proves to be a mistake, and Luke’s fingers go for the latches of his armor. Din takes a step back, shaking his head, and Luke frowns again. “Let me help. Please?”

“I can undress myself.” Is all Din says, working in quick, efficient movement to shed the pieces of his beskar. Once he’s left in his bodysuit Luke looks to him for permission, Din nodding once and letting Luke get close again as his hands stray over Din’s chest. Din makes a noise, as if to tell him that’s not where it hurts, but Luke shushes him softly, eye slipping closed in concentration as his hand hovers over Din’s left side. Din chokes on a cry of pain when Luke presses his hand down, Din’s ribs shifting,  snapping neatly back into place. Luke holds onto Din, keeping him steady as he pants, head spinning with the pain. “You could have warned me.”

“That changes the outcome.” Luke’s eyes open, glancing up at him, and Din finds himself leaning forward for no reason at all. Din’s forehead bumps against Luke’s, just the barest pressure, but Luke smiles, leaning up to press into the embrace harder and laughing when Din’s hand comes up to cup the back of his neck. “Though sometimes it doesn’t”

“Luke?” Din feels the echo of Luke’s curiosity more than he hears what Luke says, and his lips quirk inside his helmet. “You’re ruining the moment.”

“Oh, we’re having a moment?” Din pulls back with a groan, muttering under his breath, but Luke chuckles softly, left hand coming up to catch the cheek of Din’s helmet. His thumb smoothes over the ridge of Din’s metal cheekbone, and he goes up on his tiptoes to press their foreheads together again. “I didn’t understand how this could be a substitute at first.”

“What?” Din’s head is foggy with having Luke so close, and his eyes close behind his visor. He doesn't need his sight at the moment anyway, not to stare down the slope of Luke’s nose. 

“This is your form of a kiss, right? Since you don’t take your helmet off.” Din hums in affirmation and Luke continues, leaning his whole body forward. Din hisses faintly at the soreness still lingering in his side, but Luke’s hand smoothes over him, sweeping it away with another gentle pules of what he insists isn’t magic. “It never seemed like it would be enough, but… It’s nice, being close to you like this.”

Din finds himself smiling then, chest tight and overflowing, and he pulls back, opening his eyes. Luke follows him, not wanting to be separated, but Din places a hand on his chest. “Luke.”

“Hmm?”

“Close your eyes.” Luke’s eyes slip shut immediately, and Din takes a step back. Luke seems to mourn the loss of his warmth, but Din is about to do something wildly stupid and he wants to go quickly before he loses his nerve. “Keep them closed.” 

Luke hums, reassuring Din that he will, and Din allows his helmet to unseal, sliding it up and off his head. He sets it down with the rest of his discarded armor as gently as he can, but Luke’s breath hitches at the noise, and Din can feel the unspoken question that radiates from him. He doesn’t answer, not right away, slipping his gloves off so he can feel the silky strands of Luke’s hair when he cups the back of his head. Luke draws in a shuddering breath at the touch, eyelids fluttering, and before Din can talk himself out of it he places the softest kiss he can against Luke’s lips. Luke’s whole body is a razor wire against his as Din draws the other man closer, kissing him with firm, even pressure. Luke’s thoughts pound through him in time with his racing heart, flooding his brain as Luke’s lips move against his, parting and tongue flicking out to trace the seam of Din’s lips. DinDinDinDinDinDin- wanna touch-

Din can hardly tell what thoughts are his and what thoughts are Luke’s, and he drops both his hands to where Luke has grabbed onto the front of his suit. He tugs lightly, Luke releasing his hold and fingers curling around Din’s. Din hums, bringing Luke’s hands up and bumping his knuckles against his cheeks. Luke lets go of Din’s hands immediately in lieu of cupping his cheeks, and Din gasps against his lips, skin blazing with each touch of Luke’s shaking fingers. He traces over his cheeks, down along his jaw, and one hand slips into the flat mess of his hair, dragging through the strands and eventually grabbing a fistful at the back of his head. 

It’s- overwhelming, to be honest. Luke is hot and insistent against him, pressing forward, crowding into his space, and Din really feels like he’ll drown in it. Din’s hands wander, lingering on Luke’s waist before he makes a decision. Luke is all wiry muscle, but Din doesn’t have any trouble hoisting him up, sitting him on the counter and listening as his armor goes skidding to the other side, a smaller piece, either a pauldron or thigh plate tumbling off. Din doesn’t care, not when Luke’s thighs press around him and his hand is in his hair. Din delights in the way that Luke shudders when he laps at the roof of his mouth, teasing over the sensitive area and humming at the taste of him. Luke’s fingers twitch uselessly in his hair, tugging at the handful he’s slowly tangling. Din pulls away reluctantly, panting and neck bowing as he leans back into Luke’s hand, chasing the sensation. 

Luke presses their foreheads together, skin to skin now, and seems just as affected as Din, breathing ragged and fingers trembling when he reaches up to trace over Din’s cheek again. Luke’s other hand combs through Din’s hair, occasionally snagging on a tangle, and Din twitches every time, fingers clenching against Luke’s sides. “We are having a moment.”

Din huffs out something between a laugh and a moan when Luke tugs particularly hard at a nasty tangle, whole body shuddering against Luke’s. Din peeks his eyes open, expecting Luke to be staring at him, trying to sneak some kind of glance, but his eyes are firmly shut, lips red and a flush sitting high on his cheekbones. “Ruined it.”

Luke laughs, bumping their noses together and sighing out a soft breath. “Where’s your helmet? As much as I could kiss you all night, we do need sleep.”

“I don’t need it.”

“Din-”

“I’ve been thinking about it. No living being other than one in my clan should see my face. Grogu, he’s-”

“One of your clan.” Din nods, glancing over at the metal reflection of his helmet before looking back toward Luke. 

“But you are too.” Din admits quietly, idly bunching the fabric of Luke’s shirt in his hands. Anxiety spikes in his gut, twisting it, but Luke smiles, radiant and happy, knocking their foreheads together again. 

“Do you want me to?” Din nods, a slow and hesitant dip of his head, and Luke hums, tipping his chin and slotting their lips together in a soft kiss. By the time that Luke pulls back Din’s head is pleasantly fuzzy, and when he opens his eyes and sees Luke looking back he doesn’t cringe or shove him back. His heart leaps in his chest, but Luke’s eyes are soft, adoring and so much bluer without the visor dulling the color. “They’re brown.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes.” Din raises a brow, as if that really should have been a given, but Luke rolls his eyes, leaning back a bit and crossing his ankles behind Din’s legs. “I didn’t even know if you had eyes.”

“I don’t. You’re hallucinating.” Din deapans, trying to keep his lips from twitching up into the smile he’s fighting off. Luke only shrugs, nodding as if it makes sense. 

“I’ll take hallucination Din. He’s yummy.” Din wrinkles his nose, scowling, and Luke laughs, leaning forward to kiss the wrinkles away just because he can. 

[hisakata-resutomoshibi]

Part two to this post that no one asked for-

There are smiles of Mikuni's that remind Jeje of someone, though he can not quite place who that someone is.

These are the ones that are most meaningful, the ones that Mikuni lets show unfiltered, un-tempered with hidden plans or ulterior motive; a purely honest smile that reaches from the corners of his gently curved lips up to his eyes, melting them from cold steel to sun warmed gold. They are Jeje's favorites, even though he could probably count the number of times he's seen them in the years they've been together on just two hands.

There were other things about Mikuni that rang familiar, like a church bell in the foggy morning, but Jeje didn't like to think too deeply about things like that. The past was best left where it was for unchangeable things would only ever bring stasis and suffering to the soul. All of this would run occasionally through his mind, incorporeal, idle musings that held no sway over his mood, and he would let them, carefully keeping his distance until they had once more passed. It remained this way until one morning when he glanced towards the kitchen doorway after hearing Mikuni give a frustrated shout.

"Damn it!" He yelled once more for good measure, staring down at the pancake he had been attempting to catch in the pan, and missed by a good three feet, sending batter splattering across the floor.

Jeje turned back to his ship, hiding the tiny smile that hovered over his lips. He had warned him that it was more difficult than it looked.

"What do you say we just skip the pancakes?" Mikuni asked boisterously, coming to lean in the doorway, arms crossed as he watched Jeje work. "And call a maid service."

Still fighting the telltale look of amusement, Jeje kept his head down, back bent over the miniature, and Mikuni huffed in annoyance. When, after seven stitches along the sail, he still hadn't returned to the kitchen, Jeje sighed and finally glanced back at him. "I'm not hungry."

"You're never hungry!" Mikuni accused, throwing his hands up. "Well, I need coffee at least." But he made no move to turn back and instead his eyes shifted to the small sail held so carefully in Jeje's hand and he grinned, that snarky, unwelcome grin that Jeje found so grating. "So, what's with the tiny boats anyway?"

He asked it as a slight, as a harmless poke at Jeje as he was so wont to do whenever he was feeling inadequate or embarrassed and normally Jeje let these roll off his back, forgiving the youth their ignorance, but something about the question was sharp and quick. It took aim and hit a memory that Jeje had not even known he had lost. As he sat, staring unseeingly at Mikuni, he felt the small needle and canvas square fall from his hands, and Mikuni's gaze shifted from teasing to a curious worry as he watched but Jeje could not find his tongue to redirect the situation.

A name had hit him with the force of a bullet. A soft, lilting name that he had not said or heard in over four centuries.

Matteo.

Matteo had taught him the infuriating art of bottling ships.

All at once, as though it had been a floodgate that had suddenly been thrown open, everything that had been repressed came flowing back, drowning him in the fear and rage and hurt again. So heavy and loud were the waves of emotion that it was several times before he heard Mikuni call his name and when he finally pulled himself back up, resurfaced from beneath the crushing weight of failure and regret, it was to find Mikuni crouched in front of him, brows twisted in unease, hands resting on his stiff shoulders.

"Are you ok?"

If he had been any more in his right mind, Jeje would have found it absolutely staggering to hear such a simple, caring question directed at him, but as it was, he was not capable of thought, and so he merely stared blankly back into the wild golden eyes and tried to decide if he was actually going to throw up.

With all the force of will left in his body he managed finally to breath a weak "yeah" and then could only pray Mikuni would lose interest, his ever busy mind discarding the experience as inconsequential. At first it seemed that Mikuni was going to ask another question, try to dig deeper into the newly unearthed, bloody remains of Jeje's sanity, but after a moment his eyes darted away, back towards the kitchen, and he stood, letting his hands fall from where they rested.

"Get ready to go. I wanna go into town for a cappuccino."

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

The fresh morning air was welcome and helped to clear his head. 

It was rather sunny and so he had finally given up the effort and simply wrapped himself around Mikuni's neck as he so often did, secretly reveling in the warmth. Mikuni's endless chatter also helped to soothe him and soon enough he was dozing off, having learned long ago that listening to anything Mikuni said with any amount of concentration was pointless. It was better to just get the gist, check out, and then when prompted, respond affirmatively.

Times like this, times without subterfuge and scheming and fighting were his favorite and Jeje always tried to keep the feeling of them bundled up tightly and safely where he could access it again later. He grew so tired of the constant warring, and, if he were being honest, a content, safe Mikuni was far better than a frigid, angered one. This Mikuni, like the one that made pancakes sometimes and liked lavender scented candles and would play solitaire and drink coffee all morning, was softer and gentler, less likely to poke and prod and be generally annoying. It was definitely Jeje's favorite version, but he was so very unusual to see.

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

It seemed that Mikuni had taken more note of Jeje's strange episode than he had let on for it soon became apparent that he was suggesting more and more early morning walks with badly concealed concern, his tone light and fake as he insisted that the coffee shop downtown was better and he just simply couldn't bare to have anything else.

"You are so dramatic." Jeje sighed finally, standing in defeat and tucking the small book he had been reading back into his pocket. "Let's go."

"What is that?" Mikuni asked, his eyes tracking the movement of Jeje's hands as he retied the cinch at his waist.

"What is what?"

"That little book."

Jeje hesitated, it was rare for Mikuni to show any interest in anything Jeje did at all aside from the occasional mad inquiry, and when he found genuine interest in Mikuni's expression, he gave in and pulled the book free once more. Holding it out for Mikuni to take, he started towards the door. "I'll tell you on the way."

It wasn't until several blocks later that he finally began to explain, glancing over and watching as Mikuni browsed the first few pages of the little directory. "It is a book of-"

"Names!" Mikuni interrupted, eyes still glued to the tiny text. "But they're odd."

"They are predominantly Italian." When Mikuni only raised a brow in question, he continued. "Genealogies of Vatican City, and any related diocese."

"Uh huh." Mikuni hummed skeptically. "And why are you reading this? Is this what your little errand was the other day? You went to the library?"

Jeje did not dignify this with a response, deciding he had said enough. There was no need to explain that he had been- was- desperately scouring any and all census sheets, service rosters, anything he could find, for the name Matteo Rossi. It wasn't anything he wanted to explain even if he could figure out a way to. But Mikuni was clever, dangerously so, and soon he was watching Jeje, the book still clutched in his hands.

"Who are you looking for?"

Closing his eyes, Jeje sighed. It was no use trying to keep anything from Mikuni, he knew this, had relied until now on his inherent disinterest in anything about him to protect him from prying eyes, but as was always the case with such a troublesome man, he had decided at exactly the wrong time to become invested. "A man I used to know."

A strange emotion passed over Mikuni's face, one that Jeje could not quite place, as though he were painfully curious but angry, and he flipped the book closed, handing it back. "How typical." When Jeje did not answer, he pointed out over the street. "That's the shop I'm trying today, come on."

The sky had been over cast when they left and was still obligingly dark and so it was that Jeje was following along on his own two feet today. When he had just stepped up to the curb across the street he heard it- the soft, musical voice of someone speaking quick, fluent Italian. It struck some secret place deep in his mind and without thinking he froze, eyes searching the crowd, somehow knowing, feeling it in his gut that- yes- just in front of them, sitting in the cozy little veranda chairs of the very coffee shop that Mikuni had set his heart on, were two men. Each was dressed in long black robes, the telltale vestments laid carefully over their shoulders- Jeje would know the look anywhere- with steaming mugs of drink clutched in their hands, but it wasn't the dress of the men that caught his eye, but the shining autumn brown of the youngers hair, soft and constant looking as though he had just stepped from out of a summer storm.

In a daze, Jeje found himself walking towards the table where the men sat, unsure why he was even approaching. When he came to rest at the very edge of their table, both glanced quizzically up at him and he was suddenly terrified. They could not see his face, and it would not matter if they could or not either way surely, but what of his soul? Could they sense it? None had ever before but that had been years, centuries, ago.

"Is there something we can help you with?" The younger one asked brightly, smiling. The other man threw him a vaguely disgruntled look and Jeje could have laughed. 

Of course. Matteo always was a bleeding heart.

Jeje felt Mikuni's curiosity pull at him through the contract, sharp and impatient, but he ignored it, and for the first time in all the recent years, spoke without the use of the illusionary magic of his curse, the words fitting like a glove on his tongue, a language he had never thought to need again. “No. I’m sorry, Father.”

"Ah! It is always so nice to hear a familiar language, no?" He responded in Italian as well now and Jeje felt the eons slide away, leaving him oddly bereft and exposed.

Mikuni's curiosity had spiked, tinted now with an almost violent irritation, when he had failed to understand what Jeje had said and, fearlessly, he barged suddenly forward, putting himself too closely to Jeje's elbow, staring down at the men. "Who is this?"

At his words, the young mans brows rose in subtle amusement and he once more smiled. "I am Father Matthias." He said, holding out a hand.

Jeje had never been more tempted to shoot Mikuni on the spot then when he merely snorted, arms crossed defiantly across his chest and refused the offer. To his credit, Matthias seemed unfazed by this and after a moment glanced at Jeje and extended the same hand. It was with great trepidation, nay, an almost debilitating hesitation, that he finally reached out and clasped it in his own.

It was like any other hand, warm and smooth; there was no shock, no angry gods lightning strike, just a simple handshake. Unsure if he was disappointed or relieved, he withdrew his and swallowed nervously. Why had he approached these men? What did he hope to accomplish? This was not truly Matteo, and never would be. There had been no spark of recognition in his soft brown eyes, no sudden flash of memory or past life. He should not have come over here. He should walk away right now, spare himself the anguish and the tangible building of Mikuni's wrath. He should-

"Why don't you have a seat?" Matthias asked, gesturing to the two empty seats at the table. "We just got here and like I said, it's always nice to hear the mother tongue!"

He sat down, not thinking, acting on impulse, and behind him heard Mikuni make a strangled noise of outrage. Not bothering to wonder if he would throw a fit and run away or not, he turned towards the other man and held out his hand.  "It's a pleasure to meet you."

After staring at him for a moment, he put out his hand as well, meeting him in the middle, wrapping calloused, short fingers over his. "Father Angelo."

Matthias clapped him on the shoulder and laughed. "You're always so dour!"

Jeje's heart, already beating at an irregular, surely unhealthy, tempo, sped up and he barely kept the gasp building in his chest from breaking free and falling garishly on the table in front of everyone. Hands clamped unseen on his thighs, he bit his tongue until he tasted blood and struggled to stay afloat.

"So what are you two supposed to be?" Mikuni asked suddenly, apparently having decided that his curiosity outweighed his annoyance. Leaning forward on the table, arms crossed, he tipped his head to indicate the deep purple stole that lay over their shoulders. "Priests?"

"Obviously." Jeje muttered under his breath, earning a kick to his ankle from Mikuni who continued to smile predacious-ly across the table.

"Correct!" Matthias said, pointing down at his robes.

"We're exorcists." Angelo then cut in, watching Mikuni as though waiting for a specific reaction.

He had feared it. In seeing the collars and rosaries, Jeje had come to the conclusion that they must be so, but had held out a vain hope, a desperate plea, that he was wrong, had simply forgotten even more than he originally thought he had lost to the sands of time. It had been a surprise to find that, when he had met those familiar warm, kind eyes, he had felt no anger, no hatred or loathing, just a simple yearning and pitiful nostalgia. Now, sneaking a look at Matthias as he leaned forward, immune to Mikuni's prickly aura, to explain their reason for being here, Jeje realized that he also was not shocked that, in a world such as this, where he could be ripped from the mortal plain so easily, where werewolves and demons and vampires were real, he did not find it at all hard to believe that reincarnation was also a fact of life.

"So tell me!" Matthias turned to Jeje, expression open and friendly. "Your pronunciation is beautiful! Where did you grow up?"

"Ah. I was from... Vatican City." He stumbled over the name, distracted by the increasingly interested looks Mikuni was giving him; no doubt he would be paying for this when they got home. Throwing caution to the winds, he continued, trying to keep his voice audible despite his nerves. "I studied. In the seminary. There."

"You don't say!" Matthias exclaimed, grinning. "What stopped you?"

Still studiously ignoring Mikuni's quiet, varying sounds of surprise, he hesitated, chest tight. "I was- not suited to the calling."

His eyes softening in compassion, Matthias laid a hand on Jeje's arm where it rested on the table. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked. We all have different fates. There are many ways to answer Him."

Jeje was staring down at the hand, the gentle fingers and pale expanse of skin, just as freckled as his face, and it was only when Mikuni subtly dug a boot into his ankle that he tore his eyes away. Feeling his face heat and for just a moment forgetting that they could not see it, he ducked his head down. "That may be true, yes." He managed to murmur. Matthias withdrew his hand slowly, looking curious but didn't say anything, and it was, strangely, Mikuni who broke the ensuing silence.

"As I'm sure you've both surmised, I am not from Italy. But I am interested- tell me, how does one go about becoming a priest?" He was staring hard at Angelo, singling him out to answer and leaving Matthias free, amused and trying not to laugh, to turn to Jeje once more.

Still grinning, he shrugged to indicate that he had no intentions of rescuing Angelo from Mikuni's rabid questioning and instead leaned over, pointing at the bag over Jeje's head. "Forgive me, as you've already seen I have a tendency to stick my foot in my mouth-" He laughed and Jeje almost gave himself away, almost let slip a wistful "I know", and then continued. "But I wanted to ask. Why do you have that on?"

A hand reaching up unconsciously to pat lightly at the brown pressed pulp, Jeje bit his lip. What kind of explanation even made sense? He couldn't possibly claim he was embarrassed, what kind of human wore a paper bag over their head anyway? Mikuni sure made fun of it often enough. But the truth, that he was ashamed, that his heart fluttered in panic at the very thought of anyone that had ever known him seeing his face after he had become this monstrous betrayal to his every faith and belief, was no more an option than saying he simply liked it. All of a sudden he realized it had taken him too long to answer and Matthias' brow was creasing in worry and before Jeje could stop himself, just wanting to wipe the anxious look from his face, he blurted the first thing that came to mind. "My eyes. They're... frightening."

"Is that all?!" Matthias exclaimed. "My friend, you have nothing to fear here. I have seen all you can imagine. Why don't you remove it? Just for the rest of our lunch?"

Never would he have dreamed of doing it, never would he have allowed himself the foolish indulgence, but he wasn't given the choice. Like an unexpected flash of lightning, Mikuni reached over and, pinching the very corner of the bag carefully between his fingers, whipped it off. As his hair fluttered down and free across his shoulders, Jeje turned to stare accusingly at Mikuni, the sudden anger he felt frightening, but froze when he was met with a somber, sparkling gold gaze. Without a word, Mikuni gently folded the bag up and laid it on the table, placing his arm securely over it, and looked back to Angelo, expression bland as though he had never looked away.

"It seems your companion doesn't think you need it either." Matthias said brightly when Jeje had finally found the courage to glance over.

"Either?"

"I don't see anything strange." He said levelly, eyes wide in sincerity as they looked straight into Jeje's red ones. "Now, with the fresh air, what do you say we get something warm? I've always found stew to be a good outdoor food."

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

It would seem strange to Jeje for the rest of his existence that Matthias had not said anything, not mentioned the devil in his eyes or the unnatural pallor to his skin, but it was something that, like all the other somethings, he preferred not to think about. A simple memory that could warm or chill depending on the lens it was viewed through. Now, months, years, centuries later, glancing over and finding Mikuni perched beside him on the couch, tongue between his teeth as he tried, enraged, to fit the sail he had sewn through the neck of the bottle, he thought that maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

"You must fol-"

"I know already!" Mikuni snapped, almost dropping his hold on the tweezers. "You've told me! Why do you do this?! It's infuriating!"

"It was a comfort."

Lowering the bottle and peering over, Mikuni hummed thoughtfully. "A comfort from what?"

The question surprised Jeje, still so unlike Mikuni it was to ask, and so he didn't think before he answered. "From the fear and tedium."

"Fear of God?"

Unsure if it was jest or genuine, Jeje merely sighed, looking away, out the bay window to the porch over which he could see the afternoon sun sinking lower and lower, towards the horizon line of the new city they had found. "Fear of failure."

"How could you fail?"

Hiding the small smirk as it crossed, fleetingly, over his lips, Jeje shrugged before reaching out and taking the bottle from Mikuni. "Is it not obvious that I did?"

"Who was that man? Really."

His tone was low, leaving no room to avoid, and Jeje frowned. He had been afraid that Mikuni would bring it up again. When they had parted ways, leaving the two ill fated priests at the café, he had watched Jeje like a hawk, refusing to let him out of his sight for the next forty eight hours and finally, at his breaking point, Jeje had resorted to his snake form, knowing in that at least, his expression was indecipherable. Mikuni, out of character, had not said anything about it, only made sure that Jeje was wrapped around his neck wherever they went. If he hadn't know better he would have thought, indulged in the idea, that Mikuni was actually worried he might disappear, running off to find the ruins of his past. Whether it was emotion or simple self preservation that motivated this intense vigil didn't matter. It was just nice to know that if he were there or not mattered in the slightest.

"He was..." He trailed off, unsure how to explain. Knowing in his heart, dead as it may be, that it had been Matteo, was different than saying it out loud. And in the end, he still wasn't sure he even wanted the truth to be heard. Matteo was never going to be safe, never have the life he truly deserved, because somewhere along the line his soul had been so ensnared with the evil he had ignorantly summoned he was now fated for a path that Jeje could do nothing about.

Eventually, tenacity fueled by their meeting, Jeje had managed to dig up a roster that listed one Father Matteo Rossi. He had lived in the same seminary, the same time; there was no question. The aged little book, now clutched worryingly tightly in Jeje's hands, had gone on to say that Father Matteo, upon his ordainment had chosen to branch out and been quite successful, listed as one of the Vatican's top exorcists. He had had few partners, often going alone, choosing places and people far removed from their home, leaving with little expectation to return, only to do so, shocking those that had bid him farewell. Viewed fondly by all who met or knew of him, his reputation had brought him fame and status, though it appeared it was never something he made use of. In the end, after fifteen or so odd years, he had met his end, and that's where the information had abruptly cut off. In a fit, Jeje had hunted up everything even remotely related that he could find, well aware he would regret knowing the details but needing them all the same.

When he had finally returned home that day he had slid beneath the couch, finding the heat register that ran along the wall and curling up on it. Mikuni had already dragged him through the coals about his daily excursions to the library and now, after what he had found out, he wasn't sure, even being immortal, that he could survive another sarcastic tongue lashing. He must have dozed off because it was here that Mikuni found him, hours later, and after pushing the couch back, pulled him free.

"You should have known better than to go digging." Was all he said, wrapping Jeje around his neck and wandering back to the bedroom.

Now, weeks later, he seemed to have deemed it a once more breachable topic and yet Jeje was still unable to answer him. Perhaps it was simply that there was no answer; there never had been. "He was a friend." He said plainly.

Watching Mikuni consider this response, he wondered if maybe this was, in itself, an answer, that the similarities between them, that spark of sass and fire, the innate ability to annoy, the quick silver smiles like honeyed light, were all that mattered, if that, in Mikuni, Matteo and Jeje himself, might be able to find forgiveness. Mikuni finally turned to him, mouth open to say something but Jeje interrupted, freeing the words that had lay buried so deeply for so long before he could even decide not to.

"I think you're my fate."

[siren1song]

Southern Caribbean

Summary: Pirate captain Virgil has a very big soft spot for the chaotic prince they'd brought aboard and made one of their own.

Warnings: Mentions of murder, mentions of guns, idle threats

Pairing: Dukexiety

Word Count: 1,682

General Taglist: @acanvasofabillionsuns, @emo-disaster, @greenninjagal-blog, @jungle321jungle, @sleepy-sides, @gattonero17, @another-sandersidesblog, @strawberryjellystuff, @logic-with-a-pinch-of-deceit, @gr3ml1n-loser, @main-chive, @firey-alex, @orca-iguana, @spooky-scary-virgil, @yalltookmyurlideas, @sanderssidesweirdo, @stormypaint, @just-a-little-bit-gay-oops, @dying-is-a-hobby, @the-angry-ship, @rosesisupposes, @just-perhaps

Notes: Day 3 of @dukexietyweek Pirates!!! So naturally I wrote Pirate captain Virgil and incredibly chaotic prince Remus.

Commissions!! | Buy Me a Kofi!! | Join Casper’s Crew!! | Ao3 Link!!

If you told Virgil a month ago he’d be the captain of the first crew with a pirate prince, he would’ve laughed in your face before running you through.

As it was, Remus was definitely an interesting type of pirate. Originally captured in hopes of holding him for ransom, the man was more excited about meeting pirates face to face than worried about getting back to his family.

Which was a whole other story, but honestly watching Remus rip off his skirts and declare himself a man right there on the deck after somehow nicking the sword off Pryce’s hip was the best show Virgil had seen in a long while (less for the indecency of a perceived woman and more for the hilarity of a man shocking one of the best pirate crews in the southern seas into silence).

“Let me be a pirate,” he’d proclaimed, “let me join your crew and help you cause so much chaos you’ll be not only the best pirates in the south but everywhere else as well.”

Who was Virgil to deny that offer?

And now they were raiding a small village on the coast of an island they’d just been planning on to hunt on until Remus expressed his desire for his first time doing something more dangerous than embroidering a table cloth.

He was so cute in his excitement, how could Virgil resist?

Watching the tiny man run off with a cutlass that Virgil wasn’t too entirely sure was balanced right for him and a gun strapped to his hip in case he needed it was grin worthy.

“You have a soft spot for him,” Dale commented, earning a glare from his captain.

“And you have a reason for staying on deck instead of stocking us up on spirits and food and gold?”

Dale grinned at him, pointing at the rest of the crew having already taken both the smaller boats and thus leaving him behind.

Oh great, being babysat by his lookout.

“Why you lot insist on leaving someone behind to look after me every raid I’ll never understand.”

“Really? You won’t understand when the last time we left you alone you decided to binge yourself on most of the dried meat on the ship?”

Virgil glared at Dale again before deciding watching the shore to try and see if he could find Remus amongst the chaos his crew had already started.

“There’s another entire half the crew still here Dale.”

“Yes, but most of them don’t know how to stand their ground against you. Some think the bags under your eyes are from black magic and not the lack of sleeping the rest of us know it is.”

“Every raid you make it more tempting to shoot you.”

Dale snorted, thumping Virgil on the back and making him let out a small ‘oof’ sound and hide a small smile.

As he watched the shore, he heard yelling, which was pretty normal for a raid, but the loud clear laughter wasn’t really something he was used to.

“Didn’t think Remus laughed loud enough to be heard over a raid on the shore,” he commented idly, tapping his fingers against the wooden railing he was leaning against.

“He has a laugh loud enough to wake the dead at the bottom of the sea, I think.”

Virgil’s smile grew at the thought. That sounded about right, with the amount of times Virgil heard Remus giggling while playing games with the rest of the crew  when they were up keeping the ship from sinking.

Maybe he did have a soft spot for the man, but he doubted he could be blamed when Remus had done nothing but grin the entire time.

Besides, he’d kept his promise and told him many things about coastline royal schedules that made conquering other seas that much easier.

“Hope you’re not thinking your soft spot for the man isn’t just because of the power over the seas he’s given you?” Dale asked, not looking at Virgil now but at the shore where the villagers were trying to defend themselves.

Virgil suspected, with the chaos he could see Remus inflicting, that very few residents would be left when they were done.

“Should I pull out my gun now, Dale?” he asked, not really meaning the threat but making it anyway because what kind of captain would he be if didn’t threaten his crew on occasion?

Another snort from his lookout.

“You wouldn’t dare. I’m gonna head below deck for a bit now though. Gotta sharpen my cutlass and my room is right next to the kitchens so you can’t sneak by without my seeing you.”

Virgil sighed, waving Dale off as he walked away.

The dedication that man had to the upkeep of his sword when the ability to get new ones was just as easy was a bizarre one but Virgil could respect it.

“That was exhilarating!” Remus shouted, now back on board and startling Virgil from staring at the stars to looking at him in his pants and now tattered shirt that showed his chest bindings.

The thumping in his chest and the smile Virgil couldn’t help at seeing Remus’ excitement was almost enough to make him think Dale was right about his soft spot for their prince pirate.

“I trust you had fun then?” he called down, having been a level higher then the deck his crew was climbing back onto.

Remus whipped around and grinned up at Virgil, eyes bright in the starlight and chest heaving to take enough breaths.

“I killed people!”

Virgil let out a bark of a laugh at the enthusiasm, ignoring the little looks some of his crew was giving him.

“You better have! I doubt you could’ve gotten out of there alive if you hadn’t, prince.”

Remus’ face screwed up at that, sticking his tongue out at Virgil, earning another laugh from the captain.

“C’mon up here, let me take a look at you and we can discuss your pirate name, now that you’ve made yourself a bit more known as a part of my crew.”

The way Remus’ face lit up made Virgil’s heart twist in his chest, but he ignored it in favor of waving the man up and stepping into his own quarters to grab the first aid he knew how to do.

Usually Teagan and Logan were the ones to see to injuries. They were the most medically inclined, but Virgil picked up a thing or two in his years of pirating.

“A lady alone in your room with you could start a scandal, captain,” Remus said, making himself known.

“Well then, it’s a good thing you’re not a lady, or that I don’t care for scandals. Have a seat on the cot.”

Remus did so, fiddling with a ragged piece of his shirt and looking around the room in what looked like either curiosity or nerves to Virgil when he looked over.

“Drink this,” he said, handling Remus a glass of whiskey he’d just poured before pulling his medical supplies closer to him.

The prince pirate downed the entire glass, only wincing just a little bit. A month has given the man a bit of time to get used to the harshness of alcohol going down his throat, Virgil supposed.

“Alright, any spots in particular that hurt? And don’t tell me you feel fine. I doubt you got out of that unscathed, almost no one does.”

Remus grinned at him and slipped off his tattered shirt to show the cuts and bruises he’d acquired, making Virgil snort a bit.

There were cuts he could already see through the holes, but there was also a nasty bruise forming on Remus’ side, likely from someone swinging a club type weapon at him.

“You look like you had fun,” he commented, getting started with cleaning the dirt and sweat around the cuts first.

“I did! I’ve also been thinking about my pirate name. I think Pirate Duke Remus has a great ring to it, don’t you?”

Virgil paused, raising an eyebrow at Remus before letting out a quiet snort.

“I have to agree, suppose if someone asks you who you are, you know what to say then.”

“I do! I’m Duke Remus of the Storm Crew, damn that sounds great.”

Virgil let Remus ramble from there, cleaning up his wounds and patching what he could with a small smile while the man told stories of how he wanted to be known. It wasn’t until Remus paused that he looked at his face in curiosity and concern that he noticed the way Remus was staring at him now.

“Is there something wrong?”

“You’re the first man to treat me as a man myself. And you readily accepted me, even if ransoming me would’ve gotten you more money.”

Leaning back on the stool Virgil was sitting on, he watched Remus a little more closely.

“My crew started as one of outcasts. Didn’t feel right not to take in another,” he explained, tilting his head a little to the left while he watched Remus consider him.

“And now? I feel there’s more to it than that, captain.”

Virgil hummed, then decided fuck it and tilted Remus’ head up by his chin with his free hand and placed a short kiss to his lips.

The silence that followed made nerves coil in Virgil’s stomach, but he ignored them in favor of speaking further.

“You’ve definitely endeared yourself to me. I understand if that’s not something you want though, knowing me only a month and all. And you don’t even have to answer right away, given I’m not sure if I’m asking to court you-”

Remus interrupted him by pulling him in for another kiss, making it feel like the kraken he hadn’t realized was there was releasing it’s grip on Virgil’s chest.

“You talk to much when there’s kissing to be done, captain,” Remus said, grinning mischievously in a way that only made Virgil wanna kiss him again.

“You’re a problem member aren’t you, Duke?”

“It’s always been my dream to be one, captain.”

[shadows-of-fate]

When Dragoons Fly...

Colors of red and orange melded with a deep blue as the morning reached up to bid the evening farewell. Nhea's tired eyes peered out into the desert sunrise from the bow of the Barghest, her mug of coffee in hand as she slowly delighted in the waking pleasure of the caffeinated beverage. She had brought aboard her belongings needed for the voyage the night before after having left a small social tea party with a handful of her company members where a new addition to the mission's crew was attained. With everything prepared to set sail, she simply awaited Osric's arrival while taking in the familiar and comforting sounds of a busy crew.

“If I’d known you were going to be up this early I would’ve made my way here sooner. I’ve found in recent months I don’t need as much sleep as I used to.” Osric wandered up behind her, the same bag he’d had with him the night before slung over one shoulder, a pair of daggers at his hips, and lance in hand. He set the bag down at his feet, laying the lance down to rest on top of it as he came to stand next to her, adjusting his jacket, effectively hiding the daggers underneath. He crossed his arms loosely over his chest, taking a moment to glance out at the sunrise for a moment before shifting his gaze back to the Miqo’te next to him. “So, to business then. Do you really not have the details about who we’re after and what we’re supposed to be returning, or did you just not want to share it with the group last night?”

A low chuckle rumbled in her chest at the sound of the familiar voice approaching behind her. "I slept on the ship." She began as her attention turned sidelong to him with a grin. " You're fine. We're just completing a few routine checks but should be ready to take off at any moment." His question caused her to purse her lips as she turned fully now to rest her back against the wooden boards. "Who, yes and I know where to find him. What, all I know is it's family relics."

“Family relics, hm?” He tapped the toe of his boot against the deck before taking a few steps, his brow furrowing for a moment. “Well...doesn’t that just sound messy.” He turned on his heel, facing her again, uncrossing his arms and slipping his hands into the pockets of his coat. “I’m tempted to ask how you know the individual we’re after - but I feel the more appropriate question might be how much of a headache are we in for?”

Her lips curled into a bit of a grin as she looked up to him, falling silent for a moment while emptying the contents of her mug before clicking her tongue. “Honestly it depends…” The raven haired miqo began, pausing only to clear her throat a bit as she waved a nearby crew member over and pointed to Osric’s things to usher them to take his belongings to his cabin if he liked. “...on if he remembers me or not.” The final words came as a bit of an after thought but the meaning held true that there was some sort of history between her and their target. 

Osric quirked an eyebrow, leaning down to pick up the lance, leaving the bag to the crew member, offering them a quick ‘thank you’ before slowly turning back towards Nhea. “On whether he remembers you or not?” He exhaled slowly, before chuckling - slowly shaking his head. “Well - I get the sense that this is going to be an interesting trip, at the very least.” He twirled the lance in his hands before planting the bottom of the weapon against the deck. “No sense in delaying. Shall we...captain?”

“Mm, we can leave it at that for now.” She reached over with her free hand, nudging his arm slightly as she flashed him a wink. With his words to be on the way, Nhea motioned toward the upper part of the ship in which the helm awaited her. 

Expecting him to follow behind, she made her way up the stairs that led them to the helm as she took a deep breath with a wide smile. “Care to join me while we set off?” After her question to him came a slurry of commands to the crew below them as the sails were adjusted and the ship roared to life and their course was set. “Our first stop will be in Limsa, we’ll dock there and travel outside of the city toward Summerford. Our friend was last seen there, let’s hope he stuck around.” 

Osric did follow, doing his best to keep out of the way. “Summerford isn’t exactly large - not an ideal place to hide out if one’s goal is to actually avoid being found.” He settled next to a nearby railing, leaning back - slowly turning the lance in his grip. “How...difficult to find is this friend - usually?” His gaze shifted from the crew shuffling about back to Nhea at the helm. “Just...out of curiosity.”

An idle hand rested on the large wheel, the wind picking up as their speed gained causing her dark locks to sway behind her shoulders. “No, I don’t suppose he’s exactly in hiding. If I recall correctly, he’s got a bit of an ego.” Her gaze held forward for a long moment while she spoke though as the way seemed to be clear, she glanced over to Osric with a grin. “It’s not finding him I imagine will be the difficult part.”

There was a long pause as the dragoon seemed to focus on the lance, idly turning the weapon in his hand. He chuckled, reaching up and running his free hand through his hair before easily meeting her gaze. “It sounds like you already have an idea of what the ‘difficult’ part is going to be - care to share?” He didn’t seem bothered by the notion that things might be a bit more complicated than originally implied - complicated meant a challenge, and a challenge meant more focus on the work at hand. 

Her chest rose slowly as she inhaled a deep breath before releasing it with patience. Nhea turned to the woman that had been standing off to the side, a red headed Miqo’te holding a small brass telescope to her eye to gaze further ahead of them. She was instructed to take the helm while the captain stepped aside to join Osric against the railing to lean on her forearms to look out over the side. "For starters, he's a brute of a man but as sneaky as they come. If we set eyes on him, it's probably best we don't lose those sights." Shifting now to rest sideways so she could address him directly. "As for the 'if he remembers me' part...I might have done a job with him a few years ago...where I might have taken off with the entire sum of earnings instead of sharing after leaving him stranded in the desert." Lips pursed in thought before she offered up her ever familiar wide and playful grin.

He drummed his fingers along the grip on the lance, his other hand rubbing his chin thoughtfully as his amused gaze met hers. “You might have, huh? Then it sounds like an individual who might hold a bit of a grudge. I’ve never been stranded in the desert or had all of my earnings stolen away before, but I can recall some situations with not so favorable outcomes that ended up being very memorable.” He let his hand fall away from his chin, tilting his head towards her. “I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that this friend of yours is probably expecting you, but would he be intelligent enough to plan for you? You mentioned he was a brute, not that he was smart.”

Shoulders lifted in a shrug as she coyly continued to grin as he spoke. Nhea never had a problem double crossing people for her gain but having settled in with the Ashen Wolves, she found herself mellowing to some extent. "It's hard to say honestly," Her tone had found a bit more seriousness now as she began thinking of what they might walk into. "Unless he sought me out specifically to settle that grudge but that would have been quite the work to track me down over a little disagreement. Either way, should be on our guard." 

Osric paused, glancing out over the horizon for a moment. "You learn very quickly in this line of work to stay on your guard, no matter the job. One wrong step, one second too late and that could be it.” He shifted his gaze back to her with a tired smile. “There’s almost always a hiccup of some kind. I don’t imagine whatever this ‘friend’ of yours has cooked up will be any different. But -” he took a moment before pushing away from the railing and stretching with an extended inhale. “...we won’t know until we get there. No need to stress about it now. What time do you expect us to arrive in Limsa?”

"Hm…" she hummed as she stepped forward to extend a hand to retrieve the small telescope from the other Miqo’te to gaze through the brass tube in front of them. "I'm always on guard, Osric. But also I learned to adjust quickly if needed and go with the flow of things." Nhea smiled as she glanced over her shoulder to him before looking up at the large sails of the ship. "Shouldn't be too long, the wind is at our back and we're making great time. But if you'd like, T'khau can show you your cabin to rest a bit more before we get there." Nhea looked to her first mate with a smile who nodded in response before looking to Osric for his decision. 

He shook his head. “That won’t be necessary, I was able to get more than enough sleep before we left.” He tilted his head from side to side - stretching his neck for a moment before offering the crew member a quick nod. “Besides - if it shouldn’t be too long, with my luck I’ll end up falling asleep right as we arrive. Unless that’s a nice way of telling me to get off your deck…” He trailed off, shifting his gaze back over to her, curious.

Nhea offered the telescope back to the other woman with a bit of a chuckle as she shook her head slowly and stepped back up to the wheel to take the rungs in hand. “I had a feeling you would say that and no- you’re welcome to stay. In fact..” She looked back to him with a grin before motioning to the wheel with a certain look in her eyes. “Ever flown a ship before?”

Osric paused, glancing over at the helm and then back to Nhea, still with the curious look. “No, no I haven’t.” He set the lance down - he’d been holding it the whole time - and loosely crossed his arms over his chest. “I can only claim to have been a passenger a handful of times...are you offering to let me?”

She perked up even further and seemed to slightly bounce in place as she stepped aside and gestured to the wheel once more. “Yeah!” One hand remained on a single rung as she waited for him to take hold of it entirely. “Just hold it steady, we’re straight on course so it would be hard to get us too far off. All the hard stuff is mostly seen to by the rest of the crew, steadying the sails and such.” A hand lifted to remove the object that rested around her neck, flicking the lid open to reveal the compass inside to show it to him. “Should stay heading north west, where it is now and you’ll be good!”

He slowly lowered his arms and approached, cautiously stepping up and gripping the helm - mindful of the direction the arrow within the compass was pointing towards. “I’m not sure if this is an act of trust, or pure entertainment, but I’ll do my best not to somehow get us lost.” He offered another small smile as he adjusted his grip, shifting his gaze from the compass up at the sky before them - checking back every few minutes to make sure they were still on the right course. He was so focused on the task at hand, that it wasn’t until several minutes later that he realized the individual standing next to him was not Nhea.

“Where did she…?”

“Sleep - she’s in her cabin, we’re to help bring the ship into dock and wake her up when we arrive.”

Osric’s jaw clenched for a moment as he sighed before he shook his head with a small chuckle - glancing up just as Limsa started to come into view. 

It was sure to be an interesting assignment...

(This will be fun. Blurbs with @osric-slater-ffxiv​)

[themangolorian]

Both Hunter and Prey (Pt. 4)

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Five | Part Six | Epilogue

Pairing: Mandalorian x Reader

Summary: A game of cat and mouse between you and the Mandalorian.

A/N: Part 4 of 5. Due to a sudden turn of events, the Mandalorian has to abandon his search for the baby’s people temporarily, which leads you one step closer to both the Mandalorian and finding out more information about your own past.

Warnings: Language, mild violence, mentions of blood.

There was no way out. You were ensconced in the village, all the doors closed and locked to you. There would be no harbor for you in the homes of those you’d put in danger in the first place. There was no sewage system here either. At least not one accessible from the street. They would be on you any second. And it didn’t seem like their orders were to take you in alive this time.

“Stop, scum.” A lone trooper blocking the exit to the street just ahead of you. You froze in place. There was nowhere to run anymore. And being captured alive had never been an option. It wasn’t that you’d willingly give up information on the Mandalorian or the kid. But given what you now knew about the kid’s powers and the stories your mother had told you about those types of powers, you knew there were ways to get information that didn’t involve the teller’s permission.

You turned on your toes, ready to run. The trooper’s finger closed in on the trigger. Just then, blaster fire rained down from above, taking the trooper all over his armor and the remainder of the trooper’s squad just behind him.

In awe, you gazed up at the sky to see a sight you’d never imagined you’d ever see, if only because you hadn’t known it was possible. The Mandalorian, curse him, had come back. But he was flying? The flames emanating from behind him told you that he had on some type of jet device keeping him afloat. He danced in and among the sky as he shot. The danger was he was now being shot at. He dropped straight down now, so quickly you let out a hoarse scream, but he pulled out at the last second and dropped gently to the ground in front of you.

“Let’s go.” His voice was rough, rougher than you’d ever heard it. Not mad. Just- The saddest you’d ever heard it. And you realized, as you ran into his grasp, that you’d caused that. Bizarrely you felt guilty for causing him pain, despite the fact that you’d done it to save him. And the baby.

“Stealing this next,” you grunted as you wrapped your arms tight around his neck, careful not to jostle the pack on his back that allowed him to fly. You were sure he chuckled in response under his helmet. You readied yourself mentally for what was about to happen.

Then, the next squad of troopers rounded the corner. Behind the Mandalorian. “No,” you breathed at the same moment that you used the leverage you had around his neck to twist him around in place. The shots were fired just the moment before the Mandalorian kicked off the ground. Your cries of pain were muffled by the strong resistance of wind as the Mandalorian sped straight up into the sky.

Within seconds, the two of you were blasting through the air far beyond the reach of the troopers’ blasters. But you were beginning to lose consciousness, and your arms were beginning to slip from their grip around his neck. The Mandalorian cursed hoarsely and wrapped one arm tightly around you, holding you to him just as the Razor Crest came into view where it idled high above the world. In your state of daze, you could tell the Mandalorian was panicked, but he kept calm long enough to open the ramp to the ship and slow down rapidly so he could land you both awkwardly in the bay of the ship.

You cried out when you hit the ground.

The Mandalorian seemed frozen in place when he saw your blood. But one of you had to remember what was at stake.

“The TIE fighters,” you gasped through your pain.

His helmet stared at you for one more too-long moment, then he was sprinting to the ladder and practically flying up it to the cockpit. The ship soared up further into the sky and you knew he’d have the Razor Crest in hyperspace within seconds. You were safe. Or at least he was. And the kid.

The kid. You opened your eyes; you had been dozing off. As if he’d sensed your thoughts, the child had poked his head out of the bunk where the Mandalorian insisted he stay to keep him safe. You closed your eyes, fighting the loss of consciousness coming over you. When you opened your eyes again, the kid was just in front of you, his large bright eyes shiny with curiosity. You smiled up at him reassuringly. “Hey, monster.” You teased, closing your eyes again.

You gasped as you lost consciousness when you felt tiny, clammy hands touching your injuries. But then you were out.

*********

When you awoke again, you felt light, weightless. Drugged. He’d drugged you. You should’ve felt pain. You should’ve been dead. The lights in the bay overhead were dimmed and you stared blearily at the ceiling, trying to make out the shapes in the metal above. There was no denying you were out of it. You felt numb, almost blissful. You tried to move but only succeeded in rolling slightly over to the left.

A rustling from across the bay suddenly. Then the Mandalorian was at your side, kneeling next to the cot. His ungloved hands hovered over you.

“Are you alright?”

The dim lights reflected off the shine of his helmet and your eyes widened. You smiled and reached one hand up to touch his helmet. He didn’t pull back. “My angel.” You whispered in a shaky tone of voice. “You’re glowing.”

The Mandalorian sighed with relief. You didn’t know what there was to be relieved about. Clearly he was surrounded by some unnatural light. He ought to take care of that. Maybe you’d both been drugged.

You watched his hand dizzily as it came up to your forehead. His blazing palm covered your cool skin. “Mmm,” you moaned appreciatively.

“I have something for you,” he said in a low voice.

Your eyelashes fluttered open and you smiled up at him crookedly. “I know what you have for me, Mandalorian.” You teased.

He half scoffed, half chuckled. “Even while injured and drugged?” His voice was so amused as he ran a finger down your nose and pinched your nostrils gently between two fingers.

You mimed biting his fingers as he drew them away. “Always.” You whispered, sticking your tongue out at him.

He tilted his helmet down at you, clearly amused by your antics, hyper even in this state. Then he was reaching into the clothing that covered his chest and drawing something out carefully.

“Oh.” You gasped at the sight of your mother’s necklace in his hand.

“I’m sorry I took this,” he was saying. “If I had known what it meant to you…” He trailed off as he placed it softly in your outstretched hand.

Your consciousness grew even fuzzier. In your mind’s eye, you saw your mother, smiling sweetly. Then it was as if she was there beside him. You shook your head then continued staring at a point past the Mandalorian’s shoulder. But his fingertip on your chin brought you back, and the vision of your mother dissipated until all that was left was her necklace clutched tightly between your fingers.

You smiled dazzlingly up at the Mandalorian. “Thank you.”

He seemed taken aback for a moment, but then his fingertip trailed up your face, past your eyelashes and came to rest just in the middle of your forehead. He traced your nose down again watching you as you studied the necklace fondly.

“Who was your mother?” He asked cautiously, letting his finger trail down to your lips now.

You were too out of it to realize that this was delving into territory you never would have touched if you were sober.

“A rebel.” You laughed. It was a laugh he’d never heard out of you before. Not bitter or cynical. Or horny. It was warm and it sounded like home.

He found himself grinning beneath the helmet along with you. “And what are you?” He couldn’t help himself with you in this state, so seemingly innocent and sweet. Not so much a different person, as perhaps more yourself, more at ease.

Your smile grew playful again. “A rebel.”

You sat up with some difficulty to kiss his helmet, and he let you, his hand supporting your neck.

“Yes. You are.” He said in his gruff, unapproving yet somehow affectionate voice.

You forgot yourself again, cradled as you were in his arms, and continued. “She was a rebel. She fought the Empire. She-.” Here, your voice faltered as you remembered all the details. “She died.” Your voice grew weak.

Absently, you’d taken his hand and your grip on him tightened as you spoke. He squeezed your hand comfortingly. “I’m sorry.” He told you.

Your eyes, previously out of focus, finally focused on him. Whatever he had drugged you with was really doing a number on your brain. But you couldn’t seem to stop talking. You smiled gently up at him now, more gently than he’d ever seen you smile before, and it made his heart clench. Only because he was usually so uncertain around you; you always had some sort of guard up, after all. Now was the only time he thought he’d seen you this carefree, this open.

“It’s alright, Mandalorian.” You turned his hand over in your yours, and traced soft lines over his palm, so often hidden from your gaze, that it was always such a pleasure to see with your own eyes. Even if you hardly ever admitted it to yourself. You really needed to ask the Mandalorian what drugs he’d given you; you could stand to take them more often.

“I’ve been trying to avenge her ever since,” you said softly, absently again as you studied his palm concentratedly. Never. You never would have revealed any of this sober. You never had before. Had never told anyone what it was exactly that you did or why.

The Mandalorian was too curious for his own good. Even as he spoke, he knew he shouldn’t, knew he was taking advantage of your state, to get you to open up. In his own defense, he thought it was good for you to open up like this. “What do you mean?” He asked haltingly, almost as if he wanted to stop himself from speaking.

You reached forward, the effort costing you energy and pulled at his other arm until you were grasping his other hand in yours as well.

“I’ve been stealing from the Empire since I was twelve years old.” You admitted conspiratorially into the hollow space you’d formed over your mouth between his two hands.

He shifted in place, but you missed the movement and the way it signaled his understanding that you’d lost your mother at twelve and that you’d been alone ever since.

“Petty theft.” You squeezed his hands and giggled. “I did what I could to hurt them.” Your face grew somewhat forlorn. “It wasn’t much at first. Small things, here and there. But I started to learn what it took to really make a dent. It was hard…” You trailed off studying the creases in his fingers as if they were the most interesting things in the world. “On my own.” You supplied.

He was watching you intently, every nerve of his on end, tensing further with every passing second at each little bit you revealed about yourself. His face must have been one of despair beneath the helmet as you unwittingly peeled back your layers carelessly one by one to him. He wanted to stop you, knew that sober you would want him to. But he couldn’t. He wanted to know you so badly. More, every moment that you spoke.

“I never knew my father. He left my mother before I was born..” You watched him watch you. Your eyes sought out the sleeping place of the child. Your gaze was tender. “To see you with him…” You trailed off, somewhat choked. “It’s...you took him in. When my mother...I had no one. No one took me in. So...I did what I could. Then I got older...and I did worse, stole more valuable things, and they started coming after me.”

Silence grew around you and in the spaces between you two, piercing in a way loudness could never be. By the flex of his fingers, the way in which he leaned into you, you felt a space being filled you’d always thought would be empty. It was simultaneously overwhelming and not enough all at the same time. But you were too drugged to comprehend your own emotions.

“But I learned to run.” You finally filled the silence in again, the silence in which you missed his evolving emotions about you, a silence that for you was peaceful and warm. This was the longest you’d consciously held his hands, even if you were a bit out of it. “I learned to like it.” You grinned wildly up at him, and he pulled one hand gently out of your grasp to smooth your hair away from your face comfortingly. You reveled in the feeling, shutting your eyes briefly to enjoy the sensation.

“You’re not a thief,” he said gruffly, his voice emotional in a way you’d never heard it.

You struggled to open your eyes, fighting the exhaustion that was once again taking over you. “Yes I am.” You said somewhat indignantly.

“You’re a hero,” he clarified, dragging his knuckles over your cheekbones gently. “Your mother would be proud.”

Your throat grew tight, and you closed your eyes so he couldn’t see your tears forming. Even drugged, you knew you couldn’t abide him, anyone, seeing your vulnerabilities.

Somehow he must have known. He leaned over, placing your arms around his neck and resting his heavy beskar helmet on the cot next to your head, in a strange sort of half embrace. His weight over your top half soothed you and before you knew it, you were out of consciousness again.

Time seemed not to exist when you awoke again. You couldn’t have said how much time had passed since Felucia, how much time had passed since-

You sat straight up so swiftly that your head swam dizzily immediately. You grunted in pain. The drugs had long worn off. The pain in your back was almost blinding.

“Wait-” An exclamation from across the bay and with double vision, you watched as the Mandalorian who’d been feeding the child in his lap, placed the baby down carefully but quickly and then rushed your way.

You groaned again and held a hand up in his direction. He stopped in his tracks. He was the very last person in existence you wanted to face right now. General Ulric would have been preferable, and you’d stolen his entire spaceship.

You winced, recalling bits and pieces of your last interaction with the Mandalorian in that very cot. How much had you said? You couldn’t remember. Had you cried? Oh, stars, you’d cried. Your face warmed and you wished very much you could fade into nothingness.

Mistaking your pained face for physical pain, the Mandalorian ignored your outstretched hand and surged forward again, placing a heavy hand on your shoulder. “You need to lay down. You’ll hurt yourself again worse.” His voice was commanding if gentle.

You twitched out of his grip which only resulted in a sharp twinge of pain in your back. You hissed.

The Mandalorian made a noise of impatience in his throat. “Stop.” He bit at you. “Just lay down.” He held his hands up, indicating he wouldn’t touch you again.

You glared at him but obeyed, lowering yourself slowly back down, every movement bringing with it stabs of pain. The Mandalorian watched your face carefully, noting every expression you made, and though his hands hovered worriedly above you, he made good on his silent promise.

You closed your eyes in humiliation and used your hands to toss the blanket back over your face.

You heard a metal clanking nearby and knew he’d kneeled down next to you again. Meanwhile the baby was cooing and giggling, small pitter patters telling you he was making his way towards the both of you.

“No,” you heard the Mandalorian mutter and from the sound of it, he’d picked the baby up and placed him back on his knee.

“Where are we?” You made your grumpiness known in the tone with which you asked.

He seemed to hesitate. Then- “Almost to Arvala-7.”

You threw the blanket back off your face so you could continue glaring. “What in the world could you possibly need on Arvala-7?”

The baby shrieked delightedly when your face reappeared from behind the blanket and he leaned forward towards the cot. The Mandalorian glanced down at him and pulled the child further towards him and away from the cot.

“I was...” The Mandalorian’s voice finally betrayed emotion again. “I thought…” He trailed off as he struggled with the child, always trying to break free and roam these days. “I thought you were going to die.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, but from the way his helmet was still tilted down towards the child, you knew he was evading your gaze. You relaxed a little, dropping some of the anger from your eyes.

You looked at the child now too, his big bright eyes watching you intently, curiously, clearly very happy to see you though you could not say why. Your gaze, of its own accord, softened a bit more as you watched him.

But something had been bothering you in the back of your mind since you’d woken up. Your eyes went from the child to the spot on the floor where you’d thought you would bleed to death. You recalled the puddle of your own blood you’d been in. The pain. The fading of everything when you’d lost consciousness. You’d been so certain…

“How am I alive?” You exclaimed suddenly. Your eyes found the Mandalorian’s visor again but he too was looking at the spot where he must have found you passed out.

He looked down now meaningfully at the child who stared up at his father curiously, as if searching for some cue as to what was taking place between the two of you.

Your eyes landed on the child again and realization came, but… Your eyes widened, then you were shaking your head.

“It’s not possible…”

The child and the Mandalorian both looked your way now at the same time. The child giggled but the Mandalorian merely stared.

“He passes out.” The Mandalorian finally filled the awestruck silence. His words were faltering, as if he wasn’t sure he should even be saying them, but something in his stance told you that he trusted you. “When I got us away….I came back down. You were both…” Every time he broached the topic, his modulated voice grew heavy with emotion. “I thought you were…” The Mandalorian shook his helmet and placed the child down then leaned forward as if he couldn’t help himself.

You watched him, confusion and wonder etched across your face. “He did what he could,” the Mandalorian muttered. “But your injuries are still… You need time to heal. I gave you what I had left of the bacta. Your reaction was…” He trailed off, not wanting to bring up what was clearly the topic of your ire.

The child had clambered up onto the cot at your side. Neither of you stopped him, but he only sat there and watched you, one tiny three fingered-hand on your knee.

You stared at the child, the sides of your mouth pulling up against your will. “Is he alright?” Your hand came up involuntarily and you brushed the baby’s little hairy face briefly before dropping your hand. The baby cooed.

The Mandalorian reached forward and stroked one of the child’s ears. The child cooed more excitedly now as he stared back at his father. “Yes…” He paused. “I think he gives up energy to...heal. He requires rest to recover.”

You stared in wonder at the kid who blinked his big eyes at you, his little hand patting your knee playfully as he grasped at the blanket. He seemed to want you to get up and play. Maybe the little game of chase he’d led you through only a few days prior.

You smiled finally at the kid. “Maybe later, little monster.” You intoned at him. “When I’m feeling better and can actually get away.”

The child shrieked happily and clambered off the cot and back toward his food. He seemed to understand your words. For the most part.

The Mandalorian watched this exchange fondly if silently. The child busied himself with the food the Mandalorian had been feeding him before.

Now it was just you and him.

He shifted in place where he kneeled next to you.

“I shouldn’t have-” He began.

“What’s on Arvala-7?” You interrupted him.

He paused then looked at you. “If I had-”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Mandalorian.” You interrupted again, more forcefully this time.

He tilted his helmet at you, then nodded. “A friend.” He paused, then- “Two friends.”

You waited.

“I want to make sure you heal.”

“I’m fine,” you said stubbornly, resting your head back on the pillow.

The Mandalorian hesitated. “I just want to make sure you completely heal.”

You ignored that as you stared up at the ceiling.

Then-

“Thank you.” Almost a whisper, static-filled and broken.

You snapped your head up to stare at him, wondering what he was talking about. “For what?”

He seemed to have difficulty talking again. His hand moved as if he wanted to touch you but he thought better of it. “You saved my life.”

Your brow furrowed and you threw your head back down stubbornly. “I slipped.” You lied through your teeth, still so mad he’d gotten information out of you while you’d been drugged. But you were madder at no one than yourself, for so willingly giving up all your secrets, no matter your state.

He took your hand anyway, for only a moment, and squeezed before letting go. You were sorry the instant he let go, immediately missing his warmth. But you swallowed the noise of protest and the thought as he walked away. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched as he scooped the child up and made his way back up the ladder to the cockpit.

You shifted in place, groaning quietly at the pain. It was dulling, you could tell. The bacta might have run out, but you were healing.

You felt something chafe against your neck and you reached up to grasp the leather cord around your neck. Your hands found the little metallic medallion in the shape of a disc, simple but sophisticated.

Your eyes watered again against your will as you cradled it in your hand. You’d seen beautiful jewelry all around the galaxy, worth millions and millions of credits. This was ugly objectively in comparison yet nothing was more precious. You ensured the necklace was secure around your neck and realized he must have put it on for you.

Your eyes found the ladder again. As mad as you’d been - were - you missed his presence more. And maybe that of the little green goblin. You pondered making noise to draw them back down, but stubbornness won out over reason.

This time, it took you much longer, but finally you fell into what was now a restless, somewhat painful sleep.

The jostling of the Razor Crest as it landed woke you this time. Immediately, the first thing you noticed was the pain, dull even more so than before. The second thing, the child, sitting in the crook of your arm, watching you curiously as you slept with his big bright eyes. You blinked at each other.

The child cooed, giggled, then reached his three little pudgy fingers toward your face. You blew at his hand as if willing it away, and he merely giggled, bringing a reluctant smile to your face. His hand rested on your collar bone and you tilted your head at him, wondering his game when-

You began to feel a calm run through you and a sharp pain went through your back followed by a numbing bliss.

“No,” you uttered, realizing what the baby was doing. You slapped his hand away more harshly than you meant to and tumbled backward off the cot, letting out a hoarse scream of pain when your tailbone hit the metallic floor of the ship.

A storm of footsteps above, then on the ladder.

“Are you alright?” The Mandalorian fell to your side, his hands helping to straighten you out.

His gaze went from you to the child who sat forlornly on the cot, his ears drooping.

“I’m fine,” you said through clenched teeth, involuntarily squeezing the Mandalorian’s hand through the pain rippling in your back.

“I’m sorry, I think I scared him.” You meant the apology to the child, and he seemed to understand because he cooed curiously down at you two, a question, his ears rising again.

The Mandalorian gently helped you sit up and you let him.

“He tried to...heal me again, I think.” You murmured appreciatively.

The Mandalorian made a sound of recognition as he gazed at the child now too.

“I didn’t want…” You started. “I don’t want him knocking out again for me.” You finished lamely, not wanting to be sentimental. It wasn’t not true. You didn’t want the baby weakening himself for you. You would live.

But the Mandalorian stared down at you for several long moments until-

“Help me up,” you huffed impatiently.

This made the Mandalorian chuckle unexpectedly. Clearly he was glad to see that your anger towards him had mostly dissipated.

He picked you up carefully and put you on your feet, apologizing unnecessarily for the hisses of pain you let out.

Then the ramp was lowering and he was helping you down the ramp and into the bright sunlight of this desert planet, the child toddling behind after you both.

You’d learned your lesson from before. Rejecting the Mandalorian’s touch, even when you wanted it, only made him withhold that touch. So, instead, you leaned into him as you walked. Though there was something to be said for the fact that you also weren’t completely sure you could have made the walk alone. You’d always taken for granted how much an intact back had helped you walk.

A shorter humanoid figure waited for you in front of a hut.

“Kuill,” the Mandalorian greeted the figure warmly.

“Welcome back, Mandalorian.” The ugnaught responded. “Welcome to you, young one.” He nodded at you. Then, “And you, little one.” The child shrieked in response.

“Greetings,” you nodded at the ugnaught through teeth clenched in pain.

Suddenly, another figure appeared from within the hut. An IG droid. A hunter. You tensed, your head swiveling wildly to see where the child was behind you. Your back spasmed as you did so. It took you seconds before you wondered why the Mandalorian hadn’t reacted before you did.

“Wait,” he was saying, trying to get ahold of your shoulder without hurting you. “He’s a friend.” The words weren’t registering right. But that could have to do with the pain coursing through you.

“A friend?” You said painfully through gritted teeth, grasping the Mandalorian’s hand painfully as you tried to straighten yourself from the way you’d almost fallen backwards in your haste to cover the kid from the hunter. A friend??? Didn’t he hate droids?

“What were you doing?” The Mandalorian muttered quietly as he stood you up straight again, his arm coming around you protectively just above where your wound was healing. But he followed your gaze to the child then rotated his head slowly to look at you. Was that awe? You ignored it and started forward again so he’d stopped paying attention to your mishap.

“Mandalorian. Baby. Miss.” The droid was saying mechanically, if somehow warmly.

The baby shrieked happily up at the droid.

“A hunter IG unit?” You whispered confusedly at the Mandalorian at your side.

“I am a nurse droid.” So apparently droids weren’t against listening in on conversations.

“Cool, I’m a thief,” you shot back. The droid focused his block head mechanically on you. The ugnaught seemed both taken aback and amused.

“You require a nurse.” The droid said suddenly.

You narrowed your eyes at the droid. “No. I’m perfectly fine.” You attempted to take a step without the Mandalorian’s arm as support and almost buckled.

The Mandalorian caught you swiftly around your waist, careful not to jostle your back. “Wait.” He said patiently. He looked up at the droid. “Will you help her, IG?”

“I can help.” was the mechanic response.

You looked carefully from the man at your side to the droid. Since when was he cool with droids? You filed that away for later, deciding that you couldn’t argue at receiving medical attention when your back was hurting this bad.

“Please, come in.” The ugnaught gestured to the entryway of his home.

The Mandalorian helped you through the entryway and into the home. The ugnaught followed. Then came the droid who had picked up the child who, in turn, was giggling in the metal arms of the droid. You were perplexed to say the least.

The droid placed the child down gently on a small plush chair and produced food for him seemingly out of nowhere before turning toward you.

“I will see to you back there.” The droid gestured to a room just off this one with a cot.

You looked at the Mandalorian who nodded then rolled your eyes. The Mandalorian helped you to the room then left to give you privacy.

“I will require you to lift your top.” The droid approached you mechanically, his arms twirling as intimidating medical tools emerged from the armpiece.

“Not even going to buy me a drink first?” You joked and you appreciated the chuckle you heard from the doorway as the Mandalorian retreated back towards the ugnaught.

The droid stopped and stared. “Do you require liquid provisions? My sensors indicate you’re well hydrated.”

You rolled your eyes again.

The droid noted the gesture, turned back toward the doorway, looked back at you, then- “Besides, I believe you are already spoken for.”

You scoffed in disbelief, your mouth hanging open briefly at the droid’s ability to crack an almost joke. “Touché, IG.” You said happily. Since when were droids sarcastic?

You turned carefully and lifted the tunic over your head. Distantly, you heard the Mandalorian and the ugnaught’s voices fade. They must have left the home altogether.

You hissed when the droid poked your skin, his tools cold and somewhat sharp.

“How did this occur?” The droid asked as he worked. “Were you attacked by a battalion of stormtroopers?”

You turned your head so you could see him out of the corner of your eye. “What?” You asked, shocked he might somehow already know what had happened.

“That’s what happened to me last time I was with the child and his father.” The droid replied matter of factly.

You appraised him for a moment before turning back to face the wall. You chuckled. “Me too.”

“Curious.” The droid responded.

“Were you also protecting the child?” The droid asked in a curious tone. Was he jealous that you might have?

Before you could respond, a sharp pain erupted in your back.

You cursed. Loudly.

“What the kriff, droid?” You shot up involuntarily, dreading the pain, but then- As quick as the shot of pain followed your jerky movement, it was gone, fading fast until all that was left was a remnant of what it had been.

You lowered your tunic as you turned, your eyes wide. “What was that?” You looked at the large needle in his hand, wincing at the size of its tip.

“A bacta infusion I’ve concocted.” The droid responded almost proudly as he disposed of the needle.

“Are you healed?”

You stretched your arms up over your head, your necklace slipping out of your neckline and falling over your tunic. “Yes.” You said in amazement. “Thanks, IG.”

The droid tilted his head. “If you are as dedicated to protecting the child as I am, do not consider yourself in my debt.”

You nodded instead of indicating you hadn’t thought yourself in his debt, biting back the words to be kind because he had been.

“Does your holodisc require charging?” The droid pointed at your neck.

“My what?” You asked in puzzlement, gazing down at your front.

“My sensors indicate your holodisc is out of power.” The droid’s fingertip grazed your mother’s necklace.

A beat then- Dazed, you fell back onto the cot, bringing the necklace up to your eyes. It was a blank piece of metal, just a medallion, its only meaning your great love for and nostalgia for your mother.

You looked up at the droid, took the necklace off and offered it to him. “Charge it.”

*********

You were still in a daze.

The droid had charged the...disc. Not a necklace. A disc.

The Mandalorian had seemed as startled as you to find out the necklace had not been what it’d seemed. The ugnaught had been quiet, but his eyes seemed knowing. It bothered you how little he spoke but just how much his eyes seemed to understand.

They all gave you your privacy when the disc was ready to be sorted through on the ugnaught’s data pad. Only the child remained at your side. Ironically toothing on the Mandalorian’s mythosaur medallion, the one that had started this whole mess.

You took a deep breath and pressed the select button to open the files. Your heart was beating faster than it did on a chase. The child seemed to sense your erratic energy and he made what you took to be encouraging cooing noises at your side, occasionally reaching a tiny hand wet with his saliva to poke at your side. You ignored him.

Your eyes glazed over as they took in what they were seeing. It was an encyclopedia of information on high ranking officials in the Empire, from all varieties of ranks, from an amalgam of background and planets. You hadn’t realized you’d been holding your breath until the child poked you with the medallion.

You gently swatted the sharp medallion away absently, as you scrolled, taking in the information with your eyes as a person dying of thirst might down water.

This was a treasure trove of information. You recognized many of the names. Some you’d come into contact with during your thieving, most of them when you’d been stealing from them. Many of them were now considered legitimate members of the senate or other governments, their involvement in the Empire’s crimes either being explained away or excused, many believing they had no involvement. Your mother’s necklace contained the proof, the evidence needed to condemn them all.

You began to find it hard to breathe. You felt trapped again. Your mother had gathered this evidence down to every minute detail over the years. The Empire must have found out. This must have been what set her on the run, why she’d hid you first and stashed the necklace with you. Many in the Rebellion had not known of your existence; your mother’s best efforts to keep you safe from the Empire had been to keep you secret. And it had paid off. After her demise at the hands of the Empire, no one had sought you out.

Your mother had died for this information. And had trusted only you to keep it safe. Years later and you’d only just realized the medallion’s secrets. And not without help.

You gasped, disconnecting the neckl- holodisc from the datapad and pushing back from the table violently. You looked around wildly. Where to run when there was nowhere to run. This hut was unfamiliar, so were its surroundings. There was only one place you wanted to be right now.

You stuffed the holodisc down your shirt, out of sight, and rushed out of the room, ignoring the child’s questioning coos. You half-galloped across the sand, intently not looking in the direction of the blurgs’ enclosure where the Mandalorian stood with the ugnaught and the droid.

You heard the Mandalorian call out for you to wait, but instead you rushed up the ramp of the ship and ensconced yourself safely in the bunk where the child usually slept. You had to pull your knees to your chest to fit so the door would close, but once the darkness surrounded you, you were finally able to release your tears.

You prayed the Mandalorian would leave you in peace until you were ready. Somehow, you knew he would.

Tag List: @disn3yfreak @cosmo-bear @rintheemolion @readsalot73 @space-princesssss @crushingonmando  @imaginebeinlovedbyme @scintilla-morningstar @creamysacrilege @abesottedlass @persephonehemingway @mando--daddo @satans-tongues @doubtedbus409 @retrofaek @random066 @pascalisthepunkest @fruitsaladtree @snokesthrussy @groovinomicon @brooklymw @bithepowerofgay @blue-tidal-wave

A/N: No smut in this one, but there will be next chapter. Hope everyone is enjoying where this is going. Definitely tried to add a more overall emotional element to this and something of a backstory to sort of raise the stakes and create some more meaning. Hope that all comes through and that you all enjoy the building feelings/emotions/climax of the story. But stick around if you're more here for smut, there will definitely be more next chapter! Thanks so much to everyone for reading/enjoying/commenting, it honestly means so much to me! 💖

masterlist

[ohthatsviolet]

Mirage’s Favourite Seat

A Mirage & Pathfinder fic. 

(1.269 words) (Ao3 link will be in the RBs)

The stomping and pounding of loud footsteps could be heard throughout the dropship as they approached, the sound making Anita roll her eyes. "Oh, here they come." Pathfinder's screen displayed a bright yellow question mark as Mirage and Octane barged into the ship, pushing and shoving each other until the trickster collapsed down into a seat that they both seemed to have wanted. "Heh, I thought you were supposed to be the fast guy around here," Elliott said playfully, beginning to make himself comfortable. "That's bullshit amigo, and you know it! You tripped me on the stairs!" The trickster shrugged nonchalantly. "Hey, you snooze, you lose." Octavio folded his arms and stomped away in a huff. "Whatever. I didn't really want your stupid seat anyway." 

Pathfinder approached the trickster after the other Legend had left, curious as to what his friends had been arguing about. "Good afternoon, best friend!" "Hey, Path." "Were you and Octane having an argument, friend?" the robot asked, his question mark still on his display. "Nah, not really," Elliott replied, shaking his head. "He was just trying to bug me by trying to take my seat, that's all." "Your seat?" Pathfinder questioned, now more confused than before. "We don't have assigned seats on the ship, friend." "Yeah, well...I just...like this one. I sit here all the time. When I can." The MVRN looked around at all the identical seats on the ship that were now being filled with other competitors. "It looks the same as all of the other seats here," he pointed out, before his display switched to its usual smiling face. "But if you like it, I like it! Liking things is fun!"   "It's the only seat, with a window that isn't blocked by a wing or some thruster or something," Elliott explained, beckoning for his companion to look out the porthole style window. "See? You can see where we're going. Sometimes you can see flyers. Nice way to relax before a game. Looking down at the world. So, yeah. It's kind of my favourite seat."   "That sounds nice, friend." "Yeah. It's the little things, y'know?" Pathfinder nodded in understanding. "That's true. It is a very small window." "That's not what I...Oh, nevermind," Elliott sighed, with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Anyways, onto more important issues. How does my hair look?"

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

The idea that a human could have a favourite seat when they were surrounded by identical looking seats was still a slightly confusing concept to Pathfinder. But if his best friend was happy, he was happy. He removed himself from his charging port early the next morning and made his way to the landing zone where the dropships would come in to take them to the arena. He found an old supply crate to sit on and waited. And waited.

Anita hummed quietly to herself as she approached the shipyard, making her way through the large gates and to the landing zone. She squinted against the early afternoon sun, just barely being able to make out the lone figure a few metres ahead of her. Odd. She was usually the first one here. "Pathfinder?" "Good afternoon, friend!" "What are you doing here?" "Waiting for the ship to come!" The soldier's lips formed into a pout at that. She usually turned up about thirty minutes before the ships were due in to take a walk around and clear her head before the game, but it looked like she was going to have some company this time. Time passed by quickly, as she and the robot made idle conversation until the dropships came into view and made their landing. Pathfinder immediately jumped into action as soon as the doors were opened and competitors were given permission to board. The soldier followed him out of curiosity, and watched him perch himself in one of the seats closest to one of the windows. She didn't think anything of it at first, and made herself comfortable in her own seat until Mirage entered the ship, in the middle of sharing some joke with Wattson. "Over here, best friend!" the MVRN called out to him. "I saved you a seat!" The trickster almost looked embarrassed, when he noticed Pathfinder frantically waving in his direction but made his way over and took the seat that was offered to him, while the robot himself moved to the one opposite him.

And that's when Anita began to notice a pattern. Every day there was a game, she would show up to the shipyard and find Pathfinder already there and waiting. He would board, take the same seat and offer it to Mirage as soon as he arrived. Even when the games were moved to an earlier morning time slot, he would still be there and the trickster would arrive, barely awake, with a takeaway coffee in hand, and collapse into the seat Pathfinder had saved for him without as much as a "thank you". This went on for several weeks, until one day the ship announcer told the competitors to prepare to drop, and Mirage sauntered over to her and informed her they were squadmates this round. Anita's eyes scanned the crowd of people around her, spotting Pathfinder chatting excitedly to an unenthusiastic Revenant. "You know he shows up here every day, ridiculously early, to save you that seat, right?" she said, nudging the trickster with her elbow as she nodded in Pathfinder's direction. "Huh?" "He's always here when I get here," she explained. "And he always waits until you show up to give you that seat." "Wait...seriously?" Elliott asked, sounding confused. "Don't tell me you haven't noticed." The trickster glanced in the robot's direction, who's screen lit up with love hearts when he noticed him looking and gave him a small, excited wave. "N-no," Elliott stammered, turning to face the soldier again. "I guess, I...just didn't realise."

A couple of weeks had passed until they were expected to take part in a game again. And sure enough, when Elliott boarded the ship that day, there was Pathfinder waiting for him; he hadn't forgotten. "Good morning, best friend!" the robot said, when he approached. "I saved you a seat!" Pathfinder began to stand up, to offer it to him when the trickster held up a hand, stopping him. "Path...you know you don't need to give me this seat every day, don't you?" A question mark flashed on the MVRN's screen. "I'm confused, friend. I thought this is your favourite seat." "It...it is! But…," Elliott trailed off for a moment, lowering his voice. "You don't need to go out of your way to get it for me every day. I appreciate it but...Don't you have better things to do?" "What's a better thing to do than making sure my friends are happy?" The trickster was genuinely touched by that, and was suddenly feeling an awful lot worse about not paying attention to the robot's gesture sooner. "Hey, I have an idea," he said, gesturing towards the window. "Why don't you take this seat today? Since it's the best one." "But this seat is your favourite!" "Y-yeah but...it's okay. You take it." "It's okay, friend. I want you to have it," Pathfinder began, as he stood up, and allowed the trickster to sit down. "I would prefer to sit in my favourite seat." "You have a favourite seat?" Elliott asked, running a hand over his beard in curiosity. "I sure do, best friend!" the MVRN replied, plopping himself down in the seat opposite him. "My favourite seat is the one next to you!"

[haberdashing]

The Archivists

Elsewhere University’s Archivist meets The Magnus Archives’ Archivist.

on AO3

The Archivist was inside their office, the door cracked open, when they heard nearby footsteps and rushed outside to take a closer look.

The man prowling the Library’s stacks was not from here, that much was evident from his wide eyes and the confusion crested upon his brow. If the Archivist had to choose one word to describe the man, it would be dark. Dark hair, dark clothes, dark eyes with dark bags underneath them, dark skin covered in dark scars. So unlike the Archivist, whose form (such as it was) was translucent to the eye, light and color refusing to cling to them any more than was needed to provide a bare outline of themself.

The Archivist didn’t concern themself with the man at first, though they did watch his meandering out of idle curiosity. That sort of thing was better left to the Pages, after all. One of their number would find him in time, they were sure of it.

But before that could happen, before the man was no longer visible in the library stacks that stretched and stretched and stretched, the Archivist heard a high, cheery voice call out “Archivist!”

The Archivist, naturally, turned their head to follow the sound, in order to spy who was calling them, who wanted their attention and perhaps their assistance.

They were a little surprised to find that the strange man wandering the Library turned his head to do the same, their movements nearly synchronized as the both of them looked over at the new visitor.

The Archivist recognized the speaker before long as she approached. It wasn’t the first time Timber had come to the Archivist, likely with another trinket to trade away--and sure enough, as Timber grew closer, the Archivist could see that her hands were cupped, that she must be hiding something within them. The Archivist wasn’t sure where she got all of her little charms--some seemed handmade, but others were more likely the product of other trades with beings likely to be less benign than themself.

Not their business, though. They were there to be a resource, to trade and give to those in need and to tell stories of those who came before,  not to lecture those who either already knew or already should know the danger they were putting themselves in.

As Timber met the Archivist, she opened her cupped hands to reveal what looked to be a paper flower, well-made but otherwise unexceptional.

Of course, the Archivist knew well enough that looks can be deceiving.

“I come bearing a charm to trade you, Archivist!” Timber said.

The Archivist merely raised an eyebrow; that much seemed evident enough already, but some people do insist upon following their internal scripts just the same, and this wasn’t the first time that Timber had proven to be one of that ilk.

“It may appear to be a rose made of ordinary notebook paper, but its form is firm and unyielding as stone.” Timber demonstrated by poking and prodding the flower repeatedly in a way that would crinkle or rip ordinary paper, but left the paper flower unharmed. “And if you smell it-” Timber took a deep, theatrical breath in through her nose, then held the flower up so that the Archivist could do the same. “-it always smells of a filled cranberry bog just before harvest.”

The Archivist nodded, a thin smile appearing on their face. “A fascinating charm, though I fear whoever made it may earn the ire of the Courts for so commingling their blessings. I know just what to trade for this, one moment...”

A quick pop into and back out of their office, and the paper flower was safely stored away, with the Archivist holding out a thick red pen in exchange.

“For paper, a pen. The indigo ink of this pen flows of its own accord, and it will only ever write exactly what its current owner needs it to.” Timber eagerly extended their hands, and as the Archivist handed over the pen, they added, “Do note that need and want are often very different things indeed.”

“Of course, of course.” Timber said, though her tone wasn’t a terribly solemn one, and the Archivist was less than convinced that she had actually taken their warning to heart. “I do appreciate the trade, Archivist.”

“As do I.” The Archivist responded, adding a slight nod of the head as Timber bounced back towards the building’s entrance.

Truth be told, the Archivist had almost entirely forgotten about the strange visitor to the Library during the course of their exchange with Timber, and they were thus more than a bit startled when the man, who had apparently been standing in place watching them the entire time, asked, “What is this place?”

There was a certain urgency to his question, one that could be found not in its volume nor its tone but in something else entirely, something that made the Archivist’s speech rise up before they could think their words through.

“The Library of Elsewhere University, though further in than most students will ever wander.” And they recognized what had happened, knew the stranger’s trick for what it was at least broadly, so they added, a bit curtly, “And for what it’s worth, my tongue will flow freely enough without your assistance in the matter.”

“I’m sorry.” The man said. To his credit, he looked like he meant it, looked like he truly did regret invoking whatever magic that had been, the picture of contriteness. He also looked scared, though, scared of the Archivist of all things, like their meager semblance of a body was going to lash out at him any second, like a half-being like them could strike real physical harm.

“Apology accepted, no debt owed. And do be careful about handing out apologies so easily; some on these grounds would not dismiss a potential debt so easily.”

“...sure. Thank you.”

“I’d avoid thanking people as well if I were you. ‘Please’ is also a dicey one, for the record. But I suppose you’re not accustomed to the Rules, now, are you?”

“I don’t even know which rules you’re referring to... I’m not from around here.” The man let out a bitter laugh as he added, “Really not from around here, from what I can tell.”

“I gathered that much already; the Library does have a way of picking up strays from time to time.”

“Strays.” The man laughed again, shaking his head as he did so. “Interesting term for it.”

The Archivist shrugged noncommittally.

“So you’re an archivist, then?”

That strange, unnatural urgency from before wasn’t present this time around, and the Archivist hesitated before they answered, weighing their options carefully. They knew well enough that their title was growing perilously close to a Name as their time in the Library dragged on, but... but the man had already heard Timber refer to them as such, could put the pieces together easily enough even if they tried to skirt the question, and even if their title was nearly a Name at this point, it was unlikely that he would know how to do harm with it.

“I’m the Archivist, yes. That’s been my role here for some time now.”

“The Archivist?” The man shot the Archivist a weak smile. “Funny, people call me that too. And not-people, sometimes. It gets annoying, really, I do have a name-”

“Best keep that to yourself, then.”

“What?”

“Names are valuable property, here. Better not give them out to any who ask.”

The man nodded, starting to speak with a “tha-” before stopping himself and taking a breath before restarting. “Alright. I’ll keep that in mind.”

The Archivist looked at the man again. He’d said he, too, was called the Archivist? Well, they had received a few inquiries clearly intended for another with that title, heard a few stories not about them but about another who shares their role... and as they gazed upon this man, upon the scars that criss-crossed his skin, upon his eyes that shone with an unnatural gleam, the Archivist began to put together some of the pieces.

“Other Archivist.” The man met their gaze, then, and oh, there was fire in his eyes, a sign of something burning deep within. “I may have heard your story before. Or pieces of it, at any rate.”

“Oh?” The man raised an eyebrow. “Do tell.”

“You are the Archivist from across the multiverse and across the pond, the one who watches and is watched in turn, the one who Knows too much and yet too little. Is that right?”

The other Archivist let out a laugh as dark as the rest of him. “That does seem to sum things up pretty well. Though... do you always speak like you’re telling a riddle?”

His eyes lit up, and some of that unnatural urgency was back, but it went away with a glare and a curt “Often, yes.”

“I didn’t mean to, I’m s-”

The Archivist cut him off before he could make another unnecessary apology. “Words are valuable here, too. Loose lips sink ships, or so they say. One should be either very specific or very vague in speech, lest the wrong thing slip out, and many here, yours truly included, find the latter to be easier and safer than the former.”

“I... I think I understand. Sort of. Isn’t this-” He paused. “This place has a strange sense of logic, I suppose.”

The Archivist shot the man a tight smile. “Between your appearance in the Library and what I already knew of your story, I suspect that you might well be able to say the same about the place you call home.”

“You’re not wrong.” His laugh sounded a little less bitter this time, a little more genuine, but there was a hunger behind his eyes. “You already know the big picture of who I am, it seems. I- I would appreciate it if I could learn the same about you.”

The Archivist’s smile widened. He was learning.

“I was human, once, long ago, lifetimes ago. I was a sailor, back them, and I drowned upon the Unsea.”

The other Archivist silently mouthed the term “Unsea” shortly after the Archivist used the term. Not a familiar one, then? Not a huge surprise; the world of the other Archivist sounded like an unfamiliar one indeed, and it was only fitting that their world would be equally unfamiliar to him.

“Fog rolled in on the Sargasso Sea, and none of us knew what it presaged. Drowning on the Unsea was like drowning on a true sea, but also like nothing you can know. It was like nothing. I washed up on the Unsea’s shores, and I was preserved, such as I am now. But much was lost along the way. Much of myself was lost. I freed myself, I sought shelter within the Library, I became the Archivist of this place.” The Archivist paused for a moment before adding, “Such is my story, or at least the grand outline of it.”

A minute or two passed where the only sound to be heard was that of the man’s breathing, neither especially shallow nor especially heavy for a human, or one claiming to be so.

“You were human, you were drawn into something much bigger than you knew, and becoming Archivist was both a gain and a loss, a role to be played in a strange new world...” The man shot the Archivist a wry smile. “I think the two of us have more in common than merely our titles.”

The Archivist tilted their head to one side and pondered this for a long moment. “Perhaps.”

“Much as I appreciate meeting you, though, I really should be getting back. There are people that need me back home.” Another bitter laugh. “Or that need an Archivist, at least.”

“Go back the way you came, then. The Library is vast indeed, but searching enough will lead back to where you started. If you need more detailed instruction than that, I can try to hunt down a Page for you.”

“No, no, that should do just fine, th- I appreciate it.”

As the man turned to head back into the depths of the Library, he waved and called out behind him, “Goodbye, Archivist.”

The Archivist nodded, a smile on their face, as they echoed, “Goodbye, Archivist.”