#it’s probably just my brain associating the voices sounding similar but oh well

[frmulcahy]

Love seeing everyone’s varying depictions of the Magnus Protocol gang but my drawing skills are BUSTED so even though I can’t draw her atm just know that my headcanon of Alice is this specific photo of Susan Kare lmao

[perriewinklenerdie]

Follow my steps (Ethan Ramsey x MC)

Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x Claire Herondale

Word count: 3,8 k

Summary: OH3 Chapter 12/13 added content. Claire gets fed up with the way Ethan’s been treating her lately. She gives him one last chance to make things right, at Boston Opera House - for old time’s sake.

Warnings: It’s angst time.

A/N: I don’t even know what’s going on lately. I wanted angst and here it is. My girl C really is running thin on her patience for her man’s bullshit (and so am I).

Are you okay? was the first message he received from her that day. He left shortly after he revealed his departure from the team, so her concern really should be no surprise. Still, he sighed deeply, silenced his phone and turned it screen side down, then went back to cooking, unsure what his answer would be.

Minutes dragged by, yet somehow turned into hours and before he knew it, the sun was racing towards the horizon. Almost completely consumed by it. He reached for his phone, planning on heading to his living room and rest his mind after he spent what felt like ages of grueling research into his options. His face twisted into a frown at the sight of his screen. Immediately after, blood drained from his face.

Ethan, please let me know you’re in one piece.

A simple ‘I’m fine’ would be enough. Seriously, I’m getting worried.

He battled with his brain, still uncertain what to tell her. She had enough on her plate with the team and the Boards, she didn’t need his problems to be added onto the already enormous pile. He replied with the only thing he could think of in that moment, resenting himself for letting her worry about him for so long.

I’m okay.

By the time he sat down on the couch and some ridiculous show was playing in the background – Claire was the one that introduced him to it, and he would never admit it, but he enjoyed their debates about it – a new message was waiting for him.

Oh, thank god.

Followed shortly after by a longer one, contents of which made him feel a pit opening in his stomach.

So, want to share with class why you went radio silent for the whole day, instead of, I don’t know, letting your girlfriend know that you’re not dead so she could worry a bit less?

He had no answer to that. How was he supposed to tell her that he was terrified of what was to come and that it could possibly be fatal for him? How was he supposed to say that he didn’t want her to be even associated with the case, because he cared about her too much to risk her getting affected by it too?

In the end, he didn’t reply. And she didn’t say anything else. An impasse, of his own doing, that he had no idea how to end. He knew he had to do something – she was a very patient woman, much more patient than him, but even she had her limits. And this? This wasn’t the first time he’s pushed her away in a similar manner.

Although he was aware of that, he still refused to call her. It was getting late, she was probably studying or getting ready for bed. She needed her rest, the next week was incredibly important for her future as a doctor.

That’s what he told himself for the next two days. Every time he felt a tingle in his hand to contact her, he reminded himself of her commitments and pushed the thought down. Despite that, every single time his phone made even the smallest sound, he threw himself towards it, hoping that it was her.

It wasn’t. Two days of no contact between them.

Realizing how long it’s been made him think of their conversation a few months back. They were sitting in the exact same place he currently occupied, close to each other. His hand holding hers with certainty.

They promised each other no more secrets. No more pushing each other away. And honest conversation. All of which were his ideas. He whispered all of them with deep sense of urgency, in a fever-like state that surprised her. She nodded her head eagerly, muttering words of affirmation, then let him pull her onto him, their lips meeting again and again in a soft reassurance.

He’s broken the rules he wanted them so much to have. And not even once. No wonder she didn’t try to get in touch with him – he’s given her every indication that he didn’t want to talk about it, and she pushed only until a certain point was reached.

“I can take a hint, you know.” She once joked, poking his ribs when they walked out of the patient’s room, their initial consult being far from ideal. He smiled sadly at the memory, his chest aching from her absence.

As though he called her with his thoughts, his phone announced an incoming message. He planned what he would say, what he would do once he saw her – and what he would not do in the future. He hated when they didn’t talk to each other, and he hated the thought of losing her even more.

Instead of her words, like he expected, the screen greeted him with a single picture she sent him. Two tickets, for an evening show at Boston Opera House. A clear invitation, an olive branch that she should not have been pushed to extend – she didn’t do anything wrong. He looked closer at the photo, zooming in on the time the show was supposed to start.

Two hours. He had two hours to get himself together. Two hours until he’d see her again.

Heart pounding, he jumped up from his seat and began preparations, dialing another phone number and giving clear instructions to the person on the receiving end of the call.

~

He doesn’t think there’s ever been a time he was this nervous when stepping into the Opera building. And it was a different kind of nervous, a kind he never wanted to experience again. He was used to the anticipation that came with every date they ever had, the good kind of nervousness that stemmed from his inability to wait until he saw her. This, however, was torture in its purest form, and he admitted to himself with a pang of guilt that he subjected himself to it on his own.

His hands were full. Full of flowers that the florist somehow managed to put together when he called frantically two hours ago – he left a hefty tip with a grateful nod. His fingers traced the stems of the white roses, shaking nervously. From time to time, he tugged on the collar of his shirt, restlessly, the uncertainty of what was to come making his breathing labored.

“Nice tux.” She called out, waiting patiently for him to face her. It didn’t take long – her voice made him turn around haphazardly, his eyes drinking in her face and then widening when he noticed the dress she was wearing. Suddenly, he couldn’t see anything else but the way the fabric hugged her in the classiest way.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he breathed out, his brain short circuiting. Her lips curled in a subtle smile. She touched the pearl necklace he once gave her in wonder.

“Haven’t decided yet.”

Ethan took a step towards her, extending the bouquet slightly with an uneasy look. Her eyes fell towards the flowers and, for a moment, he thought he could see her gaze softening. She took the roses from him, the scent reaching her in waves.

“Thank you.” she muttered without looking up at him. Despite her being just mere centimeters away from him, he could still feel the chasm between them – and he felt like the space was suffocating him.

“It’s not nearly enough.” He tried again. Claire hummed, not disagreeing with his words. She reached into her purse, taking two tickets out and handing him one of them. He accepted it gratefully, combing his mind for something that would start a conversation between them. The silence was killing him.

He looked closer at the ticket and noticed something was off. “You didn’t book our booth?”

The corners of her lips shot up slightly at ‘our’. “No, I got us seats in the booth on the other side. I needed…” she hesitated, avoiding his searching gaze. “A change of perspective.”

His mouth opened and closed. She rarely said anything without thinking it through, so the choice of words she used made him feel unease all over again. Claire finally looked up at him, giving him a teasing smirk.

“Before you say anything, I didn’t go bankrupt because of those.” She nodded towards the tickets in their hands. “I have more than enough money to spend on things I want.”

“That resident salary is treating you that well, huh?” he tried joking and it worked. She gave him a laugh, shaking her head.

“A resident that’s also on the Diagnostic Team. And you’re clearly forgetting what my family does for a living.”

“Did you just flex your family muscle on me?” Ethan grinned, taking another step towards her. She nodded, challenging him with her stare. “Are you trying to impress me?”

“That’s your job tonight, babe.” Claire shot back, walking around him swiftly. He froze in place, turning towards her like a sunflower towards the sun – always following where she went. Her hips swayed from side to side alluringly as she walked, and he couldn’t look away. Suddenly, she stopped to look over her shoulder, smirking at the look he was giving her. “Are you coming or not?”

~

The lights from the stage illuminated her face just enough for him to see her features. Since they sat down and the show has started, he’s spent a total of maybe five minutes watching what was happening on stage. Remaining time was occupied by her, on the forefront of his mind and right before his eyes. Her cheeks were reddened slightly – something he noticed when a particularly bright light shone on her face.

They’ve done it countless of times before. Dates. He never got used to nerves that accompanied them, and he hoped he never would. It was a part of the allure that made it all the more exciting. Claire’s always made him feel nervous, since the first day he’s met her. Three years later, he still felt the same spark that ran through him when he first touched her hand.

He turned to her again, unable to ignore the pang that hit him every time he saw her stopping herself from reaching for him. She may have been the one that organized their evening, giving him a chance to make things right between them, but it didn’t mean she was going to ignore what was obviously there.  

She’d never make him talk if he wasn’t ready to do so. Their relationship was built on mutual respect. They recognized when the other needed to talk and when they needed some time to gather their thoughts. Through the time they’ve known each other, they learned to find those cues and signs.

That’s how Claire knew that Ethan wasn’t really ready to tell her what exactly happened, hence why she stuck to texts instead of calls or visits. His lack of any contact, however, hurt her – more so when his previous behaviors similar to this were taken into consideration.

In light of this, her hesitation to initiate any sort of contact between them made perfect sense. All he had to do was let her know that he was okay, however relative it was to say in his current situation, and none of this would be happening. All he had to do was let her in, even if only a little – she’s never asked for anything more. And yet, he couldn’t even give her that, not immediately at least.

It became clear to him that he needed to let her know how much he trusts her. When she said she knew him. When she said she understood him – better than anyone, he added with a grin. When she said she’s falling for him. He trusted all of those words, but his actions didn’t support it. He could see it in her eyes when their gazes crossed earlier that evening. She thought he still sheltered himself from her, and him disappearing, again, was the proof that spoke the loudest.

Slowly, he reached for her hand. A soft brush of his finger against hers, testing the waters to see if she would flinch, if she would push him away or avoid him. When she did none of those things, he carefully covered her hand with his, only to, after a moment, lace their fingers together. Ethan gave her a squeeze, unable to bring himself to look away from the way their hands fit together like two pieces of the same puzzle. She squeezed his hand lightly, still refusing to look him in the eye.

Music swelled around them, tugging on their emotions until it was difficult to breathe. He noticed how her face twisted gently, revealing more of her feelings to him than he’s seen the entire evening. The characters on the stage have separated, each singing their hearts out about the feeling of loss – Claire couldn’t have known that, but the pain in their voices was enough to bring her to the edge of tears by the time the break in the show began.

Before Ethan could say anything, she excused herself breathlessly and walked out of the booth, leaving him alone to his thoughts. And he’s been alone with them for quite some time now.

He began reflecting on the first time he took her to see an opera. The similarity of the situation was striking – he suddenly knew why she suggested this out of every place they could go to. Her thoughtfulness really shouldn’t surprise him, yet he was always amazed with how well she knew what needed to be done. Oftentimes, she neglected her own needs to accommodate others, which left not much space for her in it all. That’s what became one of Ethan’s priorities early on in their relationship – make sure she remembered about herself.

She was taking care of him too, sometimes even unknowingly. Making him take breaks in the middle of the day. Bringing him coffee when he was stuck in meetings and couldn’t walk out of the room for even a second – the whole Board by now knew about their relationship from their first-hand observations, sending him meaningful looks when she left the room.

One thing that spoke more of her feelings for him than anything else was how she persistently stayed by his side through it all. His world was quite literally falling apart, and she was the one holding it in place. She told him that she knew how it felt to risk losing something you’ve worked for, how it felt to come so close to having everything slip away and that she was going to help him in any way she could.

Claire told him all of that when he broke the protocol – yet here they were again. If there was one person between the two of them that had a pattern of behavior, it was him – running away when things got too complicated. Or, as it stood right now, when he didn’t want her to get impacted by his problems. She’s told him that she wants to be impacted, that she wants to help him, because she cares about him. She’s by his side because she cares about him. And he told her he knew and understood her concern, but clearly, he didn’t register it enough, if he was in the exact same position right now. It’s as though he hasn’t learned a thing.

Perhaps she was getting tired of it. If he continued to act the way he’s been acting up until this point, she’d surely be pushed enough to leave him – and he couldn’t imagine a fate worse than that for himself.

It was the last time I let myself run, he thought to himself, cursing for even allowing it to get to this point. Where was his brain when he even considered it a viable option? In what universe would that behavior be okay? Her resolve and persistence became even more striking to him – he knew that he most likely didn’t deserve her.

She was still here, though, so he must have done something right. But one good deed wasn’t enough to make up for letting her down, time and time again. Ethan didn’t need her to tell him that what he was doing was unacceptable – he’s realized it on his own.

It’s never happening again.

Claire walked back into the booth, leaning against the wall to watch him. He was perfectly aware of what she could see in his posture. His nervousness in the way he played with the edge of his jacket. She’s been gone a moment too long and he was a second away from standing up from his seat to go after her.

Ethan turned around at the sound of her steps, refraining from saying anything until she was seated. His hand itched to reach for her, to feel her skin again. He got the permission to do just that, when their gazes finally crossed and she nodded gently. Letting out a shaky sigh of relief, he laced their fingers together, feeling the soft fabric of her dress under his skin.

“I’m sorry.” He muttered, raising their joined hands to kiss her wrist. Claire guided the movement, pressing her palm to his cheek. The gesture ensured their eyes didn’t stray from one another and allowed them a moment of clarity.

“Aren’t you tired of running?” her words were laced with emotions so much, it felt like a mental blow to both of them. It was a simple question that he already knew the answer to. Nothing was more obvious to him.

“I am.”

She held his gaze, silent for a moment, then placed her second hand on his shoulder. “Don’t do it again.” she whispered, a hint of a tear shining in her eyes. “We’ve talked about it before, Ethan. I’m tired of going in circles with you.”

“I know.” He brushed the tear away, bringing her closer to rest his forehead against hers. “You don’t deserve this.”

“No, I don’t.” Claire agreed, nodding her head. She leaned away, lowering their hands and resting them in her lap. “You can tell me anything, in your own time. I’m the last person to judge, because I know that some things need that time. But I would never cut you out the way you just did, especially if I knew that you were worried.”

Ethan lowered his head in shame, finding no words to defend his dense behavior. He knew she was right – his behavior left a lot to be desired. Claire continued.

“It tells me that you don’t view me as your equal. You don’t trust me enough to confide in me. Every time something happens, it’s always the same story.” She sighed, falling deeper into her seat. Her hand was still in his, allowing him that form of contact. “I need transparency here, Ethan. We have rules, that you came up with, that you break every time things get tough.”

He winced at the vulnerable edge in her voice. More than ever before, he felt as though the ground was about to be pulled from beneath him.

“You can’t be in a relationship only a little. Or only on weekends. You’re either in it for good, and you take everything that comes with it, the easy and the difficult, or there’s nothing left to say.”

And there it was.

Ethan’s eyes widened. A hand wrapped around his heart and squeezed, making him feel lightheaded. If he ever had gotten a wake-up call before, this one was the loudest one. And the most devastating.

“Claire, wait.” He said, his voice strained when she tried to pull her hand out of his hold. She glanced at their hands, then up at him, her eyes glassy. Ethan breathed out heavily, pleading with his whole being for her to stay where she was. “You’re right. I haven’t been fair towards you.”

“That’s saying it mildly.”

“I know I don’t say it enough, but you’re my person. I trust you more than anyone else, even if I’m utterly useless at expressing it.” He gave her fingers a tender squeeze, his eyes finding hers urgently. “I’m an asshole for making you worry, and an even bigger one for keeping you in the dark. You deserve better, and lately, I’ve been messing up.”

“Can’t say I disagree.” She mused, tilting her head slightly. “Is there a reason for that?”

“I don’t know.” Ethan’s thumb traced her ring finger “It’s as though there is this outside force that’s making me do all those idiotic things, and before I realize what’s going on, everything’s already going to hell.”

“Sounds like you need to work on your impulse control.” Claire said, a tiny grin appearing on her face.

“You’re my impulse control.”

He cupped her cheek with his free hand, stroking the line of her cheekbone softly. She leaned in, just a fraction of a centimeter. Her gaze was a mix of feelings Ethan couldn’t describe – it made him feel a bit more at ease and at the edge of his seat, all at the same time.

“I’m sorry, Claire.” He muttered, voice low and thick, overcame with emotions. Claire nodded her head, a sigh filling the space between them. Her eyes, even though they were growing softer just a moment ago, were now hardened and serious.

“Don’t ever do that to me, ever again.”

“Of course. I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” She cleared her throat, straightening her posture. “If you don’t start treating me like your equal here, I will leave you. There’s only so much I can take, Ethan, and I draw the line at this.” Ethan’s entire body froze at a very real perspective of her walking away. The feeling of ground disappearing from beneath him came back, twice as strong. He shook his head, words rushing through his head. “And that would suck, because I don’t want to leave you.”

“I can’t lose you, Claire.”

“Then don’t lose me. Don’t push me away.” She breathed out, at last, squeezing his hand tightly. The atmosphere between them was heavy and it became difficult to breathe. Ethan knew they were not out of the woods, but he felt a bit less nervous when she cracked a smile. “Do I need to tie you down so you’d stop running?”

“You already did.” he mused, waiting for her permission, then leaning in to kissing her cheek softly.

They missed the second part of the show. He leaned close to rest his chin on her shoulder, his arm wrapped around her waist to keep her by his side – she wrapped her hand around his forearm in return. Voice low and quiet, he finally began telling her everything, sparing nothing. Once the show ends, he’ll follow her lead – after all, he’s never gotten lost with her by his side.

Notes

Am I above dissing PB in a fic, of all places? Hell no, I’m not. 

Opera because C is clever like that - and we love throwbacks to better times. 

PB is making Ethan act like an angsty teen. And don’t get me started on the ‘prying’ bit. Ma’am, it’s not prying, it’s called caring about your husband boyfriend because something is clearly going on and it seems as though he’s covering someone else’s ass and taking a fall for it. It’s called *concern*.

Thank you for reading! <3

Tagging separately

[misha-moose-dean-burger-lover]

for @bend-me-shape-me's spn advent calendar 2020. prompt: carols.

dedicated to @one-more-offbeat-anthem!! happy birthday <3

After Chuck's defeated, and Billie's gone, and the Empty has been bargained with (semantics, any of the Winchesters would say if you asked one of the four to elaborate) into returning Cas in exchange for eternal sleep, there's peace.

After they're done, and really done, there's time.

A moment to breathe, a minute to look at the clouds, and hours stretching endless, days on end, resonating with something resembling quiet.

And then, there's a guitar.

*

"Nope." Dean declares. "Never seen that thing in here before. And I once did Christmas inventory by myself, so I should know."

Sam snickers at Dean's cavalier tone. He'd been content to examine the instrument from a distance, unlike his brother, but that didn't mean he wasn't paying attention. "You had to do it yourself, Dean. Those were the exact words of the bet."

"I was drunk, and you hustled me!"

"You've known I play poker my entire life!"

"Well, yeah." Dean flashes his best shit-eating grin. "But you've sucked, your entire life, so —"

"— sure I have —"

"— your entire life has really just been a very long, very lame hustle!" Dean spreads his arms in a display of triumph. "And ergo, you hustled me into Christmas inventory-ing. The case is rested, your honor."

"That's not how you say —"

"Sam. Dean." Cas interjects, loud and exasperated. Sam shuts up immediately, eyes falling to his lap, while Dean exchanges a sheepish look with Cas (and Jack, who to his credit, seemed to be unaffected by the mini-feud. But that's less the part about him being God-Lite and more about him being himself. A kid who grew up watching his dads bicker endlessly and mostly, uneventfully, and has come to terms with it as a primary aspect of (at least, his) family.)

Cas, as usual, puts up with less of their crap. "Is this really necessary right now?"

Dean loves him for it, except when it's targeted at Dean and since that's kind of a lot, he isn't sure he loves it, or just loves Cas and generalises the things he does under the wider bracket of Cas.

"And if it's not," Cas goes on, using what is probably his I-led-garrisons-in-heaven voice, which automatically sends a shiver up Dean's spine. "Can we agree the guitar is, somehow, a recent addition and leave it at that?"

Sam nods slightly, apologetic. Dean just rolls his eyes, but it's a yes. (Everyone there knows it's a yes.)

"It's not cursed." Jack cuts in brightly. "Or out of the ordinary at all."

"So," Dean blinks. "We just happen to have an awesome new guitar show up, completely randomly, in this top secret Bunker no one know about, minus any ulterior motives or death curses?"

Jack grins. "Yes."

"Cool." Dean says immediately, and Sam huffs an amused laugh. He thinks he sees Cas smile as well, and a smirk grows on his face.

"Dibs."

*

Unsurprisingly, nobody counters his dibs, and Dean ends up taking the guitar to his room.

It's after a few days of insecurity, leading right into embarrassment, leading further to ignoring its existence, and further still to a mostly depressive array of memories — before it circles back to insecurity, and is about to repeat all over again, when he stops himself in his proverbial spiral, and decides to just friggin' do it.

That night, he picks up the pick.

Fiddles with it in his hands for a minute, and proceeds to abandon the idea again, because it does not feel right. Different shape, different weight.

And Dean Winchester's already enough of a misfit for this project, for his guitar pick to be a poor goddamn fit in his hand too.

But there's something about being so close that stirs up motivation in his heart, similar to the first day they found the damn thing, and next morning, he's out looking for a music shop in town.

That night, he finally plays.

It's uncertain — experimental — and he soon realizes why nobody ever says a damn thing about guitars when they say you never forget how to ride a bike.

But then, slowly, and really slowly at that, music seems to return to his fingers.

It isn't smooth by any chance, or even really accurate, but there's a faint tug in his brain that leads him to the next chord, and a twitch in his wrist that tells him when to strum, and he's awful, he's really friggin' awful, but even repeatedly saying so in his head refuses to dampen the overwhelming feeling that lights him up from the inside to start to feel like maybe he can play again. There's hope, and there's terrible, off-timed, broken music, and there's Dean in the middle of it, and maybe he can actually do this.

Recollection of how to play had come to his hands as they trembled, and tried, but the exhilaration of it, and the joy, only come back to his heart once he'd stopped, heart racing, adrenaline high, and unexplainable tears pricking his eyes.

Dean Winchester goes to bed that night, giddy in a way he hasn't been in years.

And outside his bedroom, his family of three exchange confused glances when the playing stopped abruptly, and then smiles when a sound that can only be said to bear semblance to a squeal, follows the silence.

(The first song Dean had played in over twenty five years had been Joy to the World.

It had also been the first song he'd ever learned — Cassie's choice, not his. Sam, Cas and Jack didn't know any of that. To them, it had just been a christmas carol. But there was also something so moving about that, soft in a way each of them knew Dean would fight against being, that they didn't realize they hadn't budged from Dean's door, long until faint snores replaced the quiet, and they left for their own beds, wordlessly already having decided on a plan for the next day.)

*

Cas knocks first on Dean's bedroom door, and all music immediately ceases. There's a yell from inside after ten seconds of a shuffling kind of silence.

"Yeah?"

"May I come in?" Cas asks.

Another pause.

Cas wonders worriedly if Sam and Jack were mistaken when they said that Cas had to be first, that he was their best shot at getting Dean to open up — the easiest past Dean's line of defense.

Then Dean says, a little quieter. "Yeah, sure."

Cas enters, gently closing the door behind himself before his eyes land on Dean — and he fights the urge to smile, because Dean hasn't kept away the guitar or anything. It's still on his lap, not in playing stance, with his arms folded over it — but he's not trying to hide it from Cas.

"Is everything okay?" Dean interrupts his reverie. Cas nods.

Neither of them say anything for a minute.

"Can I listen?"

Cas surprises himself with his own courage to ask — no twisted words or excuses to stay, just a simple question. Things were so rarely simple for them, but this wasn't a common occurrence either so it evened out.

"Y-yeah." Dean mutters.

Cas lights up.

"I suck, by the way." Dean adds, almost immediately. "But I'll suck less with time, I'm hoping. I mean, I'm supposed to, you know, but I — uh, I mean — maybe I —"

Cas realizes that he hadn't stopped smiling at Dean and that's what had made Dean falter, and he looks away, embarrassed.

"I'll just play, I guess." Dean manages smally, sounding as embarrassed as him.

"Please."

Dean clears his throat instead of playing.

"Yeah."

Cas can tell he's nervous. Even if he weren't good at, and very used to reading Dean, he could've gauged as much. And he wishes he had the right words, he really does, but he's aware a sincere speech of how much it means that Dean let him stay, and listen, would have the opposite effect of calming.

Then there's another knock on the door, and Cas relaxes.

"Dean?"

Sure enough, it's Jack.

Sam had explained how Dean was most likely, unfortunately, to deflect if he was there — "his denial fires up, Cas. I associate it with a parenting complex of some kind, and he just won't let go of it." — so the order had been decided as Cas, Jack and Sam. No overwhelming by arriving all three at once, or one after the other as if it were planned. No, they'd enter after some time, giving the previous person time to make Dean comfortable to them before the next enters.

Cas thinks it's a rather brilliant plan, and wonders if he should ask Sam to formulate a similar one to get Dean to open up about other things too. He doesn't, ultimately.

"Yeah?" Dean yells back.

"Have you seen Cas?"

That had been the plan.

"Yeah," Dean raises his voice to answer. "He, uh. He's right here. Come on in."

And Jack does, and eyes Cas with probably too much meaning (he means triumph) for Dean to not have noticed, before turning to the latter. "Oh. Were you about to play for Cas?"

Dean colors at that, his ears reddening almost instantly, and Cas files it away for pondering later.

"Can I be here too?"

And Dean's eyes widen a little — sign of anxiety, maybe understanding — and he licks his lips and then he nods. "I guess. I mean, okay, fine. But didn't you need Cas for something?" He adds, confused.

"I," Jack hesitates. Oh no, Cas thinks. Sam's prepared him for this, but Jack looks like he's about to, as Dean would say, wing it. And all-powerful or not, he knows his son is a terrible liar. "No, I just wanted to know if you'd seen him."

Dean narrows his eyes.

"Now I do know. That, uh, you've seen him." Jack braves on, determined to reach the bottom of the proverbial hole he'd dug for himself apparently. "So now, I don't need to know anything. Now I can stay."

Dean sighs.

"I can, right?"

There's a lightness in Dean's voice instead of tension when he says, "Yeah."

"Thank you." Jack says brightly, and all Cas can do is shake his head when Jack turns to him for feedback, and the both of them proceed to wear (nearly matching, but not on purpose) excited stares as they focus on Dean.

*

The final straw is when there's a third knock on the door, and Sam pokes his head in. One unconvincing "Where's everyone at?" later, he's joined Cas and Jack in staring with a unnecessary (and hopefully unintended) comfort-the-vic's-family smile at Dean.

God, he loves these dumbasses and would give his life for everyone present in the room, but none of them can act for shit.

It's glaringly obvious they've all respectively shown up to listen to him play.

Which is bullshit in itself, because Dean wasn't being modest when he told Cas he sucks — he does suck. But then, he doesn't think any of them would mind. Sam would probably unlock new levels of the puppy eyes if he knew how happy even playing awfully, made Dean. Jack would be blunt, of course, but undeterringly sweet. And Cas? He'd probably smile at him all the way through, just — that smile of his, that always seems to make time freeze and Dean's heart stutter.

So Dean decides magnanimously to not call them out.

Right away, anyway.

Instead, he turns to them with a question. "Any requests?"

(He can't play one of the only songs he remembers having learned without errors yet, so obviously asking for requests is the right way to go. But you see, once you've given up on impressing, it's only fair to see yourself to the end of the chaos.)

"Christmas carols." Jack answers before anyone else.

"It's May."

"Sam's," Jack swallows. Dean should really get on teaching the kid how to lie. "Sam's making me listen to carols."

"In May?" He asks his brother this time.

Sam shrugs, struggling to keep a diplomatic face.

"You're going to grow up to be the young adult who doesn't take off the Christmas lights in January." Dean informs Jack, who absorbs his words with all the seriousness Dean should have expected. "And, fine. We can do carols."

Cas speaks up. "Any carol you'd like, Dean."

"Nah," Dean shakes his head. "Jack requested it. We'll do what he says." And he insists to his conscience that he said so because he wants to make Jack happy, and not because he's well aware the kid isn't being subjected to carols by Sam in friggin' May, and probably doesn't know any.

"Oh." Jack's face falls. He looks at Sam in the most conspicuous way anyone's ever looked at anyone. "I —"

"Uhhuh?"

"Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer!" Cas blurts, on behalf of Jack, and there's a two second gap where Sam facepalms and Jack exchanges a conspirational glance with Cas, and then Dean's throwing his head back and laughing.

And soon, Sam's joining in with an exasperated kind of chuckling as if he's gotten stuck in the wrong team but he doesn't regret a thing, and then Cas starts too, mostly from looking at Dean losing his shit (Dean strictly ignores thinking about that part and focuses on imprinting Cas's laugh to memory) and probably also because the ridiculosity of the entire situation probably struck him, and of course Jack's smiling at all of them, and it's, altogether, everything Dean could ever have wished for.

The evening ends with Dean playing Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer (of course) for at least an hour while consistently getting better at the repeating music, and although it's him humming under his breath (like he always has while playing) that starts it off, soon all of them are offering their own awful renditions to the chaos. Cas is off-key, Sam somehow manages to screw up the lyrics, and Jack is as flat as a friggin' plateau.

And it all comes together in a wholly unmelodious kind of awesome — to Dean the same way they say a mother's love comes through for an ugly child.

After Rudolph, it's Silent Night (another song Dean's learned, it hits him, once he's trying to find the right chord) and even Cas manages to look disappointed at the lyrics Sam and he come up with to make up for not knowing the real ones, and since Jack's never heard this one, he simply listens in rapt attention leaving Dean wondering if he probably ended up learning the wrong version on account of all his concentration.

And last of all, it's We Wish You A Merry Christmas, and Dean plays the chorus enough times that he's perfect at it, because for once, no one messes up the beat or the lyrics, and everyone has the most fun.

All in all, it's an evening to remember.

What Dean learns through it all is primarily the lesson that letting your family think they tricked you into having an audience is sometimes an excellent choice to make, and that things can be crap, but still be enjoyed. That doesn't mean he's not going to practice his ass off learning to play at least the choruses of the Led Zepp tracks he gifted Cas (the idea came to him in bed last night, and Cas has always sounded like he enjoyed them, okay?) so he can play them 'for Cas' as the kid so casually put — but then, some things are different from other things, just the way some love's different too.

And while some things are about efforts, and saying the words that scare you, others are about letting go, and singing carols in bright and sunny May.

The only thing Dean's sure about is that just about all of it comes down to being free.

[emy-loves-you]

Have Your Name (And Your Back) Chapter 10

A Different Perspective

Patton wakes up and gets his godfather's perspective on magic.

Chapter 9 | Masterlist | Chapter 11

When Patton woke up for a second time, it was just after midnight.

Well, he’s pretty sure it’s for the second time. He doesn’t actually remember waking up the first time, just a dull hum of voices and a warm feeling in his chest. It might’ve just been a dream, dulled down to obscurity the moment he woke up. It didn’t really matter by this point. Patton was used to waking up in the middle of the night because Lady Hart wanted a snack or Lord Hart wanted a glass of brandy. Those nights were always a blur unless he was punished or if he was given an order that he needed to follow the next day. If there was something that he needed to remember, he would remember it as soon as he woke up.

Patton took a nice, deep breath before opening his eyes. The first thing he noticed was that someone had closed the curtains over his bed, giving him a sense of privacy and security. There was a small gap in the curtains, a small stream of moonlight peaking in and providing a small amount of illumination. He was still wearing his long gray t-shirt, and when he lifted the hem up all of his bruises seemed to be gone. He was about to get up when he realized that he was still holding his Fairy Godfather’s hand.

As soon as Patton realized that, Prince seemed to realize that Patton was awake. He magically parted the curtains with the flick of his wrist, still sitting in the same plush chair. Patton held back a wince in sympathy. He knew how painful it could be to sleep while sitting up - he’d been punished frequently for being caught asleep with a soapy sponge in hand - and with the way the chair was positioned, there was no way he could’ve leaned against the back of the chair and held Patton’s hand at the same time. That must’ve been an uncomfortable night. Did he even sleep last night?

Prince didn’t appear to be uncomfortable. In fact, he didn’t seem to be tired at all. He was wide eyed and alert, fretting silently and reminding Patton if the hens he would see fretting over their chicks. He waved his hands around Patton like he was wanting to touch him but didn’t want to startle him. That reminded Patton of the jester he had once seen when he was out at the market, waving their hands and jumping around. He imagined his godfather in a jester’s suit with makeup and a dangly hat with bells, and he couldn’t help but snort at the image.

That seemed to calm Prince down. The fairy chuckled nervously, putting his hand near Patton’s forehead but not actually touching him. Patton froze for a moment before leaning into the touch, smiling softly. They stayed like that for a few minutes, giving Patton a silent comfort that he hadn’t realized he needed. He was used to the cold silence of the Heart Manor, where any sounds were followed by dread and pain. After he moved into Prince’s manor, the silence around him always set him on edge. Sometimes he would keep the sink on and leave the bathroom door open so he could hear the rush of running water. When he was walking with Prince or reading about fae lore, he would hum random songs that he remembered hearing in the marketplace. Sometimes he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep for a while because the room was too quiet and dark.

But this silence was different. After he arrived at the manor, Patton had associated quiet with cold or pain. Either the physical chill and pain that he always felt deep in his bones, or the loneliness and fear that always seemed just around the corner. This silence, however, was different. Here, the chill was melted by the warm hand on his forehead. The loneliness was sated by the comforting presence of his fairy godfather. The pain was numbed by the knowledge that Prince cared, he cared enough to sit in the same spot for hours, just so Patton could feel safe. It was the type of silence that made the flame in his chest get just a little warmer, a little brighter. It made him wish, for the first time in a while, that the silence would never end.

However, the silence was inevitably broken when Prince spoke softly. “It’s good to see you awake, child. You gave me quite the fright.”

Patton felt that flicker of warmth in his chest return when Prince called him ‘child’ but he squashed it down. Prince is just calling Patton a child, because he technically is one. It doesn’t mean anything. He doesn’t view Patton as his child. He would probably stop calling Patton ‘child’ if he knew how it made him feel. Besides, there was a much more concerning part of what Prince said. “What do you mean?”

His Fairy Godfather sighed and ran a hand through Patton’s hair. “You were asleep for nearly three days, Heart. I was starting to worry that the nosebleed I had given you was actually fatal and you would never wake up.”

He gasped. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to sleep for that long and-” he tried to quickly sit up, but his muscles were so stiff that he ended up whining in pain.

“Shhh, it’s alright.” Prince gently pushed him back onto the bed. A familiar red light filled Patton’s vision as Prince’s fire magic licked at his skin. “It wasn’t your fault, child. Your body just wasn’t ready to handle that much healing magic. I should’ve realized it was your first experience with powerful magic.”

Patton frowned and gestured to the flames. “What about your magic? And Duke’s?”

The fairy chuckled. “I’m flattered that you think so highly of me, but this isn’t very strong magic. From a human’s perspective, this would seem like it’s difficult to perform. However, when you’ve been doing magic for centuries, this type of magic is almost as easy as breathing. Magic itself is more or less suggesting something to happen. The more you need to convince the outside world, the more powerful the magic. The human mind is… easily persuadable. Especially if the human is unaware of what the magic is persuading. My magic also specializes in protecting and defending, so anything to do with protecting you from harm will come easier to me than, say, Duke’s magic.” He gestured to the flames licking across Patton’s skin. “Right now, my magic is laced with the intent of relieving pain. That doesn’t  mean that you’re not in pain or injured. If I used this magic while you had a broken bone, the bone wouldn’t change at all. All I’m doing is telling your nerves and brain that there isn’t any pain to be felt. You can still feel normal sensations, but with a small bit of magic your nerves will quickly believe that there’s no pain.”

Patton’s eyes went wide, excited by the new information. “Is that a part of physical magic or negotiation magic?”

Prince chuckled sheepishly. “A little bit of both, I guess? Magic is too fluid to be easily sorted into two categories. Or any categories for that matter.” The flames slowly receded from Patton’s skin and formed a ball in his godfather’s hand. “Magic is all about the creator’s intent and the situation surrounding them. You try the same thing twice and get a different reaction each time. Even spells and potions, which are designed to have the same effect no matter the caster, will still have minute differences. Anything can affect what the magic actually does, from the ambient magic in the air to if the caster has indigestion. Sure, when you’re not the one casting it’s important to know the different types of magic. But when you’re the one casting, you have an easier chance at getting the results you want if you focus more on what you want to happen, not what’s supposed to happen.” The fire in Prince’s hand dissipated, revealing a small red ball.

The ball was placed in Patton’s hands and he stared in wonder, squeezing it gently. The ball looked tiny in Prince’s giant hands, yet Patton was barely able to wrap his hand around it. It was squishy and malleable, but when Patton let go it quickly rose back up to its original shape. Patton didn’t realize how long he had been staring at the ball until there was a knock at the door.

The door opened to reveal Duke carrying a large silver tray, his bracelet emitting a soft orange glow. Prince must’ve summoned him while I was playing with the ball. Duke noticed that Patton was awake and his face lit up as he rushed over, the pile of objects on his tray miraculously staying in place. “Kid! You’re finally up!” He practically threw the tray onto the bed and held out his hands, making a grabby-motion with his hand. “Can I hug you? Please? I promise I’ll be gentle!”

Patton thought about it for a moment before nodding, and Duke wasted no time before climbing onto the bed and wrapping his arms around the human’s tiny frame. Patton relished the warmth, hugging Duke back with all the strength he had. Patton felt his heart twist as he sniffled. “I don’t know why, but a part of me still thought you wouldn’t want to touch me after this.”

Prince smiled sadly and Duke squeezed Patton just a little harder. “Kid, trust me. The only reason why we wouldn’t want to touch you is if you told us not to touch you.”

Patton nodded, pushing down the urge to cry happy-tears. He didn’t want to make the fairies worried, and honestly he almost felt too tired to cry. He glanced over at the tray that Duke had thrown down, everything on it still sitting upright and unspilled. Probably magic. Patton didn’t recognize anything on the tray. There was a bowl with a dark orange broth and what appeared to be minced vegetables, some of which he couldn’t recognize. There were also multiple bottles, similar to the expensive perfume Lady Hart used to buy, all different sizes and shapes, but the nozzle was replaced with a cork. “What’s that?”

Duke pulled away. “Oh! It’s lunch!” Duke grabbed the tray and pointed to the bowl. “This is lentil soup. Logic and I made it yesterday, and I’ve used magic to keep it warm and fresh.”

Patton perked up as he looked over at the soup. “Logic helped make it?”

The fairy shrugged. “It was more like I helped him. I think this was a family recipe or something, he didn’t even need a cookbook!”

Patton stared at the soup in awe, carefully grabbing the spoon and taking a bite. It was like nothing he had ever tasted before, and he couldn’t stop himself from humming in surprise. He quickly went for a second bite, then a third, then a fourth. Before he knew it, a third of the bowl was already gone and he was practically shoveling soup into his mouth as quickly as possible.

Prince chuckled and held his hands up. “Woah! Slow down, the soup isn’t going anywhere.” Patton nodded and slowed down a little, but he didn’t stop eating. Maybe it was how tasty it was, maybe it was the fact that Logic made it, maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t eaten in 3 days. But for some reason the thought of putting down this soup for even a second sounded like the worst thing he could do.

Duke held up one of the weird bottles. “Make sure you save room for these!” Patton tilted his head in confusion and Duke explained. “They’re potions to help you grow strong and heal better. You’ll start out drinking all of these with every meal, then you’ll take them once a day, and eventually you’ll be all fixed up and won’t need them anymore!”

Patton nodded and put down his spoon. He might as well drink the potion now and finish the soup after if he’s still hungry. “Why aren’t they in normal bottles? They look like perfume bottles with wine corks.”

Duke chuckled and picked up one of the bottles. “They do kinda look like that, don’t they? These are pure crystal vials, and the corks are made of a special material so it doesn’t mess with the potion.” He uncorked one of the vials and held it up to the human. “Drink up!”

Patton grabbed the vial and sniffed it, surprised by the lack of smell. He carefully took a sip before immediately spitting it back into the vial. He cringed and fought back the urge to gag. “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Prince sighed. “There’s not much we can do about the flavor without tampering with the potion. I can temporarily take away your sense of taste, but it might not help much.”

Patton nodded his head frantically. “Please, I think I might get sick if I taste that again.” There was a quiet whoosh and the aftertaste of the potion completely disappeared. It was really weird, but Patton was thankful anyways as he downed the first bottle. He couldn’t really do anything about the texture as he tried to swallow the weird goopy substance. He gagged a little every time he finished a bottle, the only thing keeping him going was Prince softly encouraging him and Duke handing him the next uncorked bottle.

He eventually downed the last potion and shuddered, pushing the rest of the soup away. The soup was delicious, but if he swallowed anything else he would actually throw up. Prince carefully climbed onto the bed and wrapped his arm around Patton in a sideways hug, and Patton melted at the touch. “You did such a good job.” His Fairy Godfather praised, running a hand through Patton’s hair. He shuddered again but forced himself to smile, trying to convey his appreciation without talking.

After a while, when Patton felt like he could talk without getting sick, he realized something and shuddered again. “I have to go through that with every meal, don’t I?”

Duke nodded. “Until we’re sure that your body can naturally heal yourself.” He picked up the tray and touched the human’s knee. “But we’ll be here to help you through it!”

Prince nodded and rubbed Patton’s lower back, in a spot where there were no scars. Did he remember that there weren’t any scars there, or did he use magic to find the right spot? “I’m sorry that you have to go through all of this, child. But we will be here to help you through it all. If you allow me, I’ll make sure you never have to suffer alone again.”

Patton sniffled, letting a happy tear slide down his cheek. “I’d like that a lot. Thank you.” He didn’t fully believe his Fairy Godfather, but for now, he would let himself hope.

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@itawalrus @arodynamic-enby @whatishappeningrightnow @idont-freaking-know @cute-and-angsty-prince @girl-who-reads @count-woe-laf @im-an-anxious-wreck @shadowylemon @stopthe-presses @the-sympathetic-villain @echo-goes-aaa @everythingisstardust

[mechawaka]

Spring in Derdriu

A commission for @artsytardis​

Words: 11.7k

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Claude/Byleth

Rating: Teen

Mood music: Roses & Revolutions - Dancing in a Daydream

Summary: Five years after the war, Claude is the king of Almyra and Byleth is the queen of United Fodlan - but neither of them had the courage to propose at the Goddess Tower. When Byleth comes down with a sudden fever, they might have another chance.

---

They couldn’t possibly name Derdriu the new capital of United Fodlan, Lorenz had declared the very day after Byleth’s coronation. It would ‘imply things,’ he’d said, aghast that she would even suggest it.

Lo and behold, Ferdinand and Sylvain had expressed similar worries about Enbarr and Fhirdiad, respectively, and what ‘things’ their hosting would ‘imply.’

And Garreg Mach was also out of the question. Archbishop Seteth, recently crowned himself, wanted to keep the reformed Church of Seiros as far removed from political power as possible. Byleth couldn’t make her capital there, he’d insisted. The implications!

So which will it be? her newly appointed cabinet - four representatives from each geographical region, with twelve in total - had prodded, each sect adamant that theirs couldn’t possibly be the permanent home of the new government.

And Byleth, already exhausted despite only being in charge for a grand total of one moon, had replied:

All of them, then.

That day, United Fodlan’s migrating government, colloquially known as the Wandering Court, had been born. Byleth spent one season in each capital - spring in Derdriu, summer in Fhirdiad (on which she was insistent), and winter in Enbarr. In the fall, she and the entire cabinet gathered at neutral Garreg Mach to conduct any business which required everyone’s presence at once.

For five years, the system had worked perfectly. There had been some inevitable pushback at first, mostly from anti-Imperial factions who were upset that Byleth had adopted the old Empire’s ministerial structure, but they had gradually quieted down as the continental economy stabilized and flourished under its guidance.

Moreover, Byleth liked being on the road. She was raised in tents and on horseback, always moving between destinations, and the frequent travel helped soften long days of paperwork and political debate. 

It also let her document certain supply and infrastructure problems firsthand; to this day, Byleth fondly remembered a tiny village on the Rhodos Coast whose inhabitants had sent in an official request for a new bridge - and had been shocked senseless when the queen herself, in transit from Fhirdiad to Garreg Mach, had shown up to build it.

(Petra had put her personal stamp of approval on that one; you only rule what you can see and touch, she’d written of the event.)

Today, though - this season, this cursed spring - the system was not working.

Oh, it had started normally enough. Byleth, once settled in the palace at Derdriu, had taken up her usual duty of hearing the cases which had passed since her last time in residence and breaking any tied votes. 

It wasn’t until her ministers were tying up the season’s work that a heavy rain swelled the Airmid, causing flooding in four different territories and knocking out a siege-battered section of the Great Bridge of Myrddin. Suddenly, they were swamped with petitions: drowned fields, lost livestock, choked roads. All with less than a moon remaining before the court’s transition to Fhirdiad.

In short, Byleth hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours.

Her head was a splitting fissure of tectonic activity, rumbling in the background of every meeting, every hearing, and roaring to life at random intervals that left her gritting her teeth and glaring at Lorenz, wherever he was in the room.

Oh, we simply can’t stay in Derdriu permanently, she mocked him mentally as, again, a searing wave of pain spiked behind her drooping eyes. It would ruin everything, or whatever.

“- and with that in mind, the Merchants’ Association asked us to move the boundary twenty feet down the riverfront,” Marianne recited from an open ledger. She, like all the other ministers, was dressed in a smartly cut, floor-length robe of office that bore the seal of United Fodlan, with her hair gathered neatly at the back of her neck.

“Ministers Victor and Goneril voted in favor of the merchants, while Minister Gloucester and I voted in favor of the fisheries. How do you rule?” Marianne looked up from her record and across their round discussion table. Her eyes were bright and serious at first, but they creased with worry upon taking in Byleth’s pinched expression. 

“Are you feeling ill, Your Majesty?”

This garnered the other ministers’ attention as well. Ignatz pushed his glasses up his nose to study her better, staring in that perceptive, sympathetic way that said he’d already identified all the faults in her appearance. 

Hilda, who’d been twirling a quill pen between her fingers, glanced up and gave Byleth a detachedly brutal once-over, indicating with an arched, sculpted eyebrow that she disliked her findings.

Lorenz, meanwhile, simply regarded his queen with a dry, ‘I told you so’ stare.

“No, no. I’m fine,” Byleth asserted, avoiding everyone’s concerned faces, and especially Lorenz’s. He had warned her against overworking only a week prior, and here she was zoning out like a bored student. She’d get an earful from him later, no doubt, about a ruler’s responsibility to their subjects extending to self-care and time management.

“My apologies. Minister Edmund, please recount the case again.” Byleth pushed herself up, ignoring the pounding rhythm inside her brain. She often paced the length of the room for difficult petitions, anyway, and maybe movement would help ease the pain - but she took one step and the world went sideways.

She swayed dangerously on her feet, catching herself on the edge of the throne. Her legs were soft and wobbly as a dessert jelly; her vision swam with blots of darkness and intense color at random. 

In a hushed, grave voice, she whispered, “Oh, that’s not good.”

“Quite,” Lorenz agreed curtly, having materialized at her elbow to aid in stabilization. He turned to the others, lips pursed and demeanor supremely unamused. “I believe Her Majesty is finished hearing cases for the day. All in agreement?”

Byleth barely registered the other ministers’ responses; her ears were suddenly full of cotton, dampening all incoming sound. Even Lorenz’s voice, so close at her side, was fuzzy and jumbled. She could only nod and follow him out of the throne room, vaguely aware that Marianne had joined them.

When had her headache gotten this bad? It must have been a slow progression, she reasoned as the trio headed toward her chambers, building in intensity during the meeting. She vaguely recalled an old medical lecture of Manuela’s about blood vessels in the brain, and how moving suddenly after a stationary period could cause...something. Something bad, probably.

Not for the first time, nor even for the hundredth, she wished she’d paid closer attention to the other teachers’ seminars back at Garreg Mach.

Lorenz politely turned around while Marianne helped Byleth out of her heavy court mantle and into her gigantic bed, busying himself by preparing a teapot at the dresser.

“I’ll be fine by tomorrow,” Byleth professed as she collapsed onto her mattress, allowing Marianne’s white magic to flow over her in a soothing current. “We can re-convene at first light.”

With his back still turned, Lorenz scoffed. “I highly doubt that.”

“I’m sorry, but he’s right,” Marianne corroborated, ceasing her spell and pressing the back of one hand to Byleth’s forehead. “You have harvest fever; you’ll need to rest for at least a week to let it run its course.”

“A week?” Byleth demanded, sitting straight up again. “But I leave for Fhirdiad in two!”

Lorenz brought the teapot over on a wheeled cart, putting his hands on either side and warming it magically. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t have taxed yourself to infirmity, hmm?”

At that, Byleth shot him an impotent - and, in all likelihood, given her state, pathetic - glare, but the mere action of tensing her forehead muscles worsened her headache and she fell back onto her pillows, defeated. He was right, damn him.

“Byleth,” he continued, exasperated, dropping all formality as he always did in the absence of prying ears. “Just rest. We designed this government to run in your absence - let us handle things from here.”

Marianne echoed the sentiment with a soft smile, pouring some strong-smelling medicinal tea from the pot. “We’ll see that Ordelia and Hrym are well cared for,” she said, holding out the teacup like a peace offering.

Byleth grudgingly took it.

---

Lorenz squinted down at Byleth’s sleeping form, sprawled and content amongst her blankets, and sighed. No one had ever prepared her for a life of leadership and politics, but she’d risen to the challenge admirably in the last five years. Perhaps too admirably, if situations like this were any judge.

Her problem, he’d decided long ago - and informed her whenever the chance presented itself - was moderation. Temperance. Byleth Eisner tackled every problem with a single-minded determination that, while remarkably efficient during the war, had tended to cause a variety of problems in peacetime.

In that regard, she was quite similar to him. To Claude. And speaking of Claude -

“We had two guards and a trio of footmen at our assembly today,” Marianne observed, keeping her eyes on the bed, but her message was clear.

“Indeed.” Lorenz tapped the heels of his polished boots restlessly against the floor. He could practically hear the wagging tongues from here; he could picture the story of their fainting monarch billowing out from the palace like blood in water, ripe for scenting - and there was one particular green-eyed shark always circling for a whiff.

He forced a long, resigned breath out through his nose, and said dismally, “I’ll direct the staff to prepare the guest wing at once.”

---

Thanks to whatever was in that tea, Byleth slept straight through the next few days. Even when she woke, she was groggy and mostly insensate to the world around her; she recalled Marianne’s visits to administer medicine or urge a few sips of water, but other than that - nothing. Only light and color and sound, all indistinct and running together.

The fever itself wasn’t so bad. She was being treated by the most studied healer in the region, and the rest was good for her, as much as she resisted the notion.

No, what had her itching for freedom, for an escape, had nothing to do with the sickness and everything to do with her own shoddy mental compartmentalization. Byleth had a single unbreakable rule, and it had kept her safe and stable for most of her life: don’t slow down.

Her friends - formerly students, and now United Fodlan’s new ministers - had always struggled to understand what went on in her head, and Byleth had to confess that it was often a confusing place for her, too. That was why she spent as little time there as possible. If she was solving governmental disputes or plotting a route through the Oghmas, she wasn’t thinking about her problems - and for someone that had attended the Jeralt Eisner school of “don’t confront your problems until they literally confront you first” coping strategy, that suited her just fine.

But these hours cooped up in her bedchamber were slow, and Lorenz had taken great strides to ensure that nary a tax report breached its threshold. And when there was no work to do, no roadblock for her mind to chew on, it drifted to contemplation, to nostalgia, and then, inevitably, to Claude.

What would he think of the stalemate between the merchants and the fisheries? That one was easy. He’d find a third option, something neither of the institutions had proposed but that benefited both, and dazzle them with its presentation. He’d find a way to spin the conflict so that it wasn’t about competing guilds, but about the betterment of the city as a whole.

She wondered if he looked different now compared to when she’d seen him last, at the Alliance Founding Day celebration the previous Horsebow. They only ever saw each other in formal wear these days, painted and decorated and utterly without privacy. Had he let his hair grow over the winter like she had? Was it curling near the base of his neck, thick and wild?

Oh, here we go, she thought, rolling her eyes and then squeezing them shut. This was why she kept herself preoccupied; any lapse in activity brought these sorts of ideas to the forefront, and they always turned to indulgent fantasy. Only Claude brought out that side of Byleth - and it made her so paradoxically angry, and afraid, and lonely.

Angry because she hadn’t intended to let him in; he was just there one day, snugly by her side, a few months after she’d joined the faculty at Garreg Mach (and she would always lament, at least a little, that Rhea hadn’t put her with the students instead). Even after he’d admitted his ulterior motives in getting close to her, Byleth never had the heart to be mad at him for it. He was so damn endearing.

Afraid because, as easily as he’d attached himself to her, he’d un-attached. Byleth could admit to herself, alone in her darkened bedroom, that most of her mental evasion strategies centered around one specific memory: that early morning conversation they’d had right before her coronation, in which Claude had spontaneously announced his departure from Fodlan.

(“There’s something I need to do,” he’d said up at the Goddess Tower, and she had been so sure he’d wanted to say more, but instead he’d just...left.)

Lonely because their friendship had never been the same after that. They were both so busy, now, and with so much responsibility - and she missed him. Missed their easy conversation and matching drive; missed the academic dissections of famous battles and the late nights spent comparing various cultures’ names for the constellations. 

Her remaining friends were certainly a balm, and she wouldn’t trade them for the world, but none of them were him. She’d never filled that spot at her side. Couldn’t fill it. Nothing and no one else fit there.

But she also couldn’t ask him back. He was the king of Almyra now, fulfilling everything he’d wanted and worked for and talked about with stars in his eyes - and Byleth could never begrudge him his lofty and admirable goals. Never. Instead, she’d had to accept the possibility that the grand arc of his ambitions no longer included her in its trajectory.

She sprawled out sideways on her bed, letting the warring emotions flood her body. Maybe this was good for her. Maybe, like the fever, she just needed to let them run their course. Maybe these were the natural consequences of escapism and denial.

And it wasn’t like she’d be able to get away from herself any time soon.

---

“Of all the - absolutely not,” Lorenz stated, planting himself in the center of the hall that led to Byleth’s bedroom. “There are procedures, Claude. Royal protocol. You know this!”

But Claude had already danced around him, utilizing that foot speed the mages never needed to master. “Come on, Lorenz, I’m not some Srengan diplomat - we’ve all seen each other covered in mud and guts. What’s a little illness between friends?”

To his credit, Lorenz didn’t ask how Claude had come by that knowledge. Nor were his protestations very vigorous, as if the man had foreseen this exact scenario - and for that, Claude was proud of him. 

That pride wouldn’t keep him from his goal, however. He’d saddled up his wyvern as soon as the words “queen” and “sick” had left his spymaster’s mouth.

“She’s not well. You’ll be interrupting her convalescence - Claude,” Lorenz said sternly, holding his friend by the elbow and fixing him with a soul-searching gaze. “She cannot receive visitors in this state. What’s gotten into you?”

For an instant, Claude’s happy-go-lucky mask slipped. He’d been too pushy, so much so that even Lorenz got a glimpse of the panic underneath - the cold terror that had driven him across the continent and still gripped his heart. He knew it wouldn’t let up until he could confirm Byleth’s condition.

But he was a consummate faker, and so the mask slotted deftly back into place. “Why don’t you go ask her, hmm? I’m sure she’ll be positively overjoyed.”

---

When Lorenz walked in, Byleth was still in the same position, all spread out and despondent. 

“How are you feeling, Your Majesty?” he asked pointedly, and his use of her title - coupled with his formal position near the door - should have clued her in to what he was really asking, but Byleth was far too addled for nuance.

She tilted her head in his direction and flatly, shamelessly said, “Fine.”

Lorenz’s disciplined expression soured a fraction. “Well, that is wonderful news -” his ironic lilt suggested that this news was anything but wonderful, “- because you have a visitor.”

He stepped back to clear the doorway, giving Byleth a look that said she deserved everything that was about to happen. “May I present King Khalid ibn Riegan of Almyra.”

Claude poked his head in much too casually for Lorenz’s theatrical introduction. “Byleth! I brought you some -”

He paused, staring at her depressed-starfish pose. Byleth, in the blink of an eye, sobered completely and experienced all the stages of grief in quick succession.

“- fruit,” Claude finished lamely. Behind him, Lorenz pinched the bridge of his nose.

---

“Claude,” Byleth intoned, dredging up her ‘serious teacher’ voice for the occasion. She’d bathed and changed her clothes since his impromptu arrival - Byleth had never possessed a single modest bone in her body, but, again, he just incomprehensibly brought it out in her - and now she sat on the edge of her bed while he occupied the bedside armchair.

“It was so nice of you to drop in,” she continued, folding her arms across her chest.

Claude laughed anxiously, holding a woven basket full of fruit in his lap half like a shield and half like an offering to an angry deity. “Okay, why do I get the feeling you’re mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you,” Byleth said icily. It wasn’t a lie; it was more like she was mad around him - mad at the space surrounding his stupid, handsome head - mad that he’d shown up, as if summoned, right when she was feeling so sorry for herself about him.

But that was far too complicated to explain, so instead she asked, “What’s your business in the city?”

He brightened a bit, perhaps relieved to divert the topic. “Thought I’d tour the Goldroad - see what travel is really like there outside the official inspection dates.”

Byleth cocked her head to the side, staring out her west-facing window. He referred to the winding trade route that now spanned the Throat, starting at the Locket and ending at a similarly sized fort across the border in Almyra - but that was over a day’s travel from Derdriu.

Following the path of her eyes, Claude went on quickly, “And, you know, I was in the area, so why not visit my very best friend?”

She wasn’t sure she’d classify a seventeen hour wyvern flight as ‘in the area.’ Byleth narrowed her eyes, looking from his rigid smile, to his posture, to the basket he carried, then back to his face, waiting for the actual answer.

“- All right,” he confessed, exhaling deeply. “My spies said you were sick, so I came to check on you - how are you still so good at that?”

She smiled despite herself and pointed at the basket, which he promptly handed over. Popping a dried date into her mouth, she asked coyly, “At what?”

Claude laughed heartily, reaching over to get one for himself, and that simple action propelled them effortlessly into a comfortable, familiar rhythm, dispelling their outer veneers of royalty. 

They traded stories about travel, about new friends, about insufferable opposition; Claude told her about one of his subordinate satraps - which served a similar function to Byleth’s ministers, but with more concentrated local authority - who had threatened to raise an army in his territory over the price of grain, and then panicked when Claude had called his bluff and negotiated a lower price.

(“Did he even have an army?” she asked, completely absorbed in the story and eating sour cherries by the handful.

Claude, with a wide, gleeful grin, replied, “Not a chance.”)

In return, Byleth told him about last year’s failed rebellion in eastern Faerghus, in which a group of Blaiddyd royalists had tried to rally the region’s former aristocracy under the banner of House Fraldarius - and how Felix himself had ridden out to personally disband them.

(“Oof. Embarrassing,” Claude commented, making a face like someone had punched him in the gut. “What did he say to make them listen?”

Byleth snorted and modulated her voice to match the prickly swordsman’s. “‘This is not happening. Leave.’”)

As the afternoon wore on, servants brought in tea service and then dinner - and Byleth’s temporary surge in vitality upon seeing her dear friend started to fade, replaced by the fever-aches she’d come to know so well. Her movements grew slower and her answers shorter, overcast by brain fog.

Claude watched this change in her with considerable worry, helping her back under her blankets after they’d finished eating and re-situating the pillows around her head.

“Oh, stop it,” she chided, swatting away his hands. “I’m not completely helpless.”

He backed off, smiling easily, but stayed within range to aid her again if needed. “I don’t know about that,” he teased. “You know what they say about people who catch colds in the summer.”

“It’s spring,” she insisted, wrinkling her nose, but he didn’t laugh. In fact, there were no traces of mirth left anywhere on his face.

Byleth sat up straighter. “Claude, it’s only harvest fever. Marianne said it should clear up in a few days.”

He dropped back into his chair, resting his elbows on his knees so he could bridge part of the gap. “But what if it’s not, though?”

A nearby Church of Seiros’s evening bells rang out across the palace grounds. The brassy sounds changed with each echo, reaching her bedchamber as ghostly distortions.

“What, you think Marianne got it wrong?” Byleth asked, pulling her blanket up subconsciously.

“No, just -” Claude ran a hand back through his hair, pushing it even further out of its usual style, “- what if it’s related to...whatever Sothis did to you after the siege?”

He’d spoken so quietly that Byleth had to lean forward and slow her own breath in order to hear it. The concern in his tone - the restraint in his clasped hands; the uncertainty in his eyes - made her take a second pass over everything.

She no longer saw a casual check-in made by a concerned friend. Claude had traveled here with speed and intent, and now she knew why; just like their parting words at Garreg Mach had stuck with her, her long and mysterious slumber had probably stuck with him.

(The realization, while illuminating, didn’t hit her as hard as it should have. She thought some version of that truth, formless and undefined, must have been swimming around in the back of her mind for a while. It explained so succinctly why Marianne had insisted on treating Byleth herself, and why Lorenz stood vigil so often outside her room, even though the two had comparably little free time.)

Now that she thought about it, the long-term consequences of merging with a goddess should probably be a bigger concern of hers, too.

“I haven’t heard Sothis’s voice, nor felt her presence, in six years,” Byleth explained calmly, striving for an affect that would put him at ease. “And I’ve been in perfect health, besides.”

Claude gave her a long, lingering look - one that took in not only her face, but her long, mint-green braid and her customary wardrobe, unchanged from her days at the monastery - as if he wanted to commit her current state to memory. Byleth returned it with a confused frown, ready to comment on the odd behavior, but then his usual smile returned in a flash.

“You’re right,” he acquiesced with a little shrug, standing and straightening his riding harness. “It’s probably nothing serious. A few days, you said?”

Byleth’s confusion skewed into suspicion. Claude never let anything go that easily. “Yeah,” she answered slowly, searching his face for signs of duplicity. “Marianne said I’m already over the worst of it.”

“That’s great,” Claude enthused in the exact manner he’d use to win over his enemies, and Byleth’s misgivings quadrupled. “You should get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

He was out the door in a flourish of his royal half-cape, paying no mind to the official etiquette of departure. (Byleth didn’t care about such things, but Lorenz was surely fuming about it in the hall.)

She let herself fall, warily, back onto her bed, pondering what Claude could possibly be up to - because he was up to something. It was only after she’d started to drift off, her head nestled warmly in one of about a dozen pillows, that the implications of his parting words struck her.

---

Ignatz rushed down the administerial wing’s main corridor, clutching a stack of accounting ledgers in one arm and several sheaves of operational business licenses in the other. Sunlight was just starting to peek through the hall’s windows, painting slowly elongating bars of yellow on the opposite walls; nobody would be in their offices yet, but if he could deliver his cargo before breakfast, he’d be able to get a head start on his own day’s work -

Thus distracted, he pushed his slipping glasses back up the bridge of his nose - using an occupied hand. Fifty business licenses, previously sorted alphabetically and geographically, drifted to the ground in a fluttering cloud of failure.

“Oh, no,” Ignatz muttered, dropping to his knees and gathering up the papers as best as he could without dropping the ledgers. If he didn’t deliver his cargo before breakfast, that would delay all of his tasks by at least an hour, thereby pushing back tomorrow’s tasks as well, to say nothing of his meeting with the merchants’ guild - 

A head of shaggy brown hair and a pair of leather-gloved hands bent to organize the papers into a messy but holdable pile, then helped to situate it more snugly in Ignatz’s grasp.

In his haste and immeasurable relief, Ignatz threw a grateful, “Thanks, Claude!” over his shoulder as he resumed his flight down the corridor.

At the threshold of Hilda’s office, though, while balancing both stacks with one hand so he could turn the doorknob, he froze and shouted back the way he’d come, “Claude?!”

---

Instead of the usual morning sounds - like the rustling of Marianne’s skirts or the trundling of a breakfast cart - Byleth woke to singing. It originated somewhere to her right, winding and unhurried, and she knew this gentle melody; Claude had taught it to her during the war.

So he really was still here, then. He’d really stayed. 

She opened her eyes just a hair, hoping for a chance to observe him before he noticed that she was awake.

It was still early. All the curtains were tied back and the windows cracked, letting in pale, diffused light and a sea-salt breeze off the bay. Claude stood at her personal writing desk, which Marianne had turned into a makeshift apothecary, weighing a small pile of freshly ground coriander. He was dressed more casually today, having discarded his courtly attire and riding leathers in favor of a belted Almyran-style tunic; his hair was bound in a simple but flattering tie at the nape of his neck.

Byleth watched him work - watched him thoughtfully consider the ratio of coriander to ginger to water, his hand hovering over each as he deliberated. All the while he sang that soft tune, so beautifully laden with memory and affection. 

When he’d finally settled on a mixture, he reached into a pouch at his belt and uncorked a vial of honey, adding a spoonful to the mug. She tried her best to hold it in, but a tiny, breathless laugh escaped her; that rich wildflower honey was a signature of Claude’s home-brews - a sweetener to make his questionable concoctions more palatable.

He jumped and whirled at the sound, his cheeks darkening somewhat at being caught unawares, but Byleth just shook her head slowly, reassuringly, and hummed the next few bars of his song. At once, his embarrassment morphed into a wide, slanted smile, and he turned back to put the finishing touches on his creation.

“What are you still doing here?” Byleth asked, pushing herself up to a sitting position. Her hair must have been a mess, but she had to settle for a quick smooth-down.

Claude chuckled and sat on the edge of her bed, holding out the mug of steaming medicinal tea. “Really? No ‘Good morning, Claude, and thank you for taking such good care of me?’”

She took the cup and shot him a faux-scowl. “Who’s running your country, though?”

“Oh, it basically runs itself.” He waved a flippant hand, staring out a window in the direction of the Throat. “Our scholars say, ‘A king is a great ship’s rudder.’ It just so happens that my ‘great ship’ has a good heading right now.”

Byleth regarded him doubtfully. She knew this proverb, and its wisdom was definitely not intended to excuse literal flights of fancy.

“What?” he asked, rolling his head to the side playfully. “If anything happens, Nader knows where I am. Besides, aren’t you happy to see me?”

Her stern facade - only performative, anyway, since Claude never failed to disarm her - softened. “I’m always happy to see you,” she said quietly, hiding her vulnerability with a big sip from her mug. (It was delicious, of course, after being assembled so skillfully.)

The curious look he gave her in response lasted a little too long, probed a little too deep for comfort, so she followed it up with a nervous, “Where’s - where’s Marianne?”

Claude, ever-insightful, let the moment pass without remark. “She allowed me to perform her caretaking duties in exchange for a little, ah...discretion...on my part.”

That was easy to imagine. Her ministers had enough on their legislative plates without the obligatory fanfare that would accompany an ‘official’ royal visitation - so the last thing they needed was King Khalid, the former leader of the Alliance, showing his highly recognizable face all over Derdriu.

“We’re both locked up, then,” Byleth said plainly. That explained his wardrobe; a casual observer might think him no more than a member of the staff. As long as he didn’t linger in unfamiliar company, he could move freely about the palace.

“Yep.” Claude smiled contentedly, like he’d gotten the best possible end of this deal. (Byleth begged to disagree.)

In a comically professional, woefully unconvincing physician’s voice, he asked, “So, how are you feeling today, my liege?”

Byleth choked on a sip of her tea, cough-laughing and beating her chest to clear her airways. “Much better, doctor,” she spluttered, setting down her mug to prevent any spasm-related accidents. It was true; her head and body aches had been fading with each passing day, and the fever was low enough that she didn’t feel like a boiling crab leg anymore.

“Good, good,” he mused, looking far too pleased with himself. “Then what do you say to a bit of chess on the balcony?”

She gave her sternum a few more good thumps to really get all the spicy ginger out of her lungs, using the extra time to examine Claude more closely. He knew he couldn’t beat her at chess; what was this about? And was it related to - to whatever inscrutable scheme he was currently enacting?

“Sure,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t give up his plans if asked. (Not until the most dramatically poignant moment, anyway.) If she was going to figure it out on her own, she’d need more opportunities for candid observation, and chess should do nicely.

His face split into a grin immediately. “I saw a board in Lorenz’s office. Meet you back here after lunch?”

“Yeah, it’s a date,” she agreed lightly, and didn’t miss the way it tripped him up on the way out. 

---

“You’re still here,” Lorenz observed with the same sort of weary derision one might direct at a persistent rug stain. He stood in the doorway to his office, holding a tea tray and projecting an aura of disappointment.

Claude, who was currently inside said office and in the midst of burgling a marble chess board, hastily clicked all its pieces back down and clasped his hands behind his back. “I am! Very astute of you to notice.”

Lorenz’s eyes flicked pointedly from his uninvited guest to his now-askew board, then he calmly strode around both to reach his polished mahogany desk. “Well, then. Would you join me for tea, Your Majesty?”

The way he gestured to the opposite chair spoke clearly of interrogation, but Claude sat anyway. It wouldn’t be polite to steal a man’s gaming paraphernalia and refuse his company.

“Why, thank you, Minister,” he answered, exaggerating his friend’s formal air, “we are simply delighted by your invitation.”

Lorenz’s poker face had improved over the years, but Claude still caught the subtle tightening of a jaw and the slightest arch of a brow; dead giveaways that he’d still snap at a piece of bait like a Brigidian piranha. Good to know.

“All right,” Lorenz said, clipped, like he’d come to a decision at the end of a long internal debate. “What are you doing here, Claude?”

Claude blinked, taken aback by the suddenness of the question. “Uh, well, Marianne and I -”

“I quite understand the generous arrangement which Marianne has afforded you,” Lorenz cut in quickly, pouring out two cups of tea. He handed one over the desk with the gravitas of a commander handing down orders. “What, precisely, are you here to do?”

Faking affrontation would be a moot point here, Claude thought. Lorenz was chasing down a specific answer, and from the set of his brow, he’d probably figured out most of it.

And that was fair. Despite their rocky interactions, Lorenz was one of the few people that Claude would say he trusted, and he knew that Lorenz felt the same (even though he had a peculiar way of showing it).

However, while Lorenz looked confident in the answer to his question, Claude didn’t even know where to start. How could he sum up this whirlwind?

Should he begin with the primal fear of hearing that Byleth had collapsed? With the breakneck flight to Derdriu, imagining all the worst possibilities in his head? (The mild shock in her eyes as she toppled backward into the chasm; her ensuing five-year absence, silent and absolute.)

Or at the boundless relief - the sheer, joyful knowledge that she had not, in fact, been re-afflicted with Sothis’s ancient sleeping sickness?

Or, should he skip straight to the certainty that he wouldn’t survive another such scare, and the unwillingness to be apart from her for even a second more, political repercussions be damned? 

In the end, holding a steaming, fragrant cup of bergamot, Claude - in one of only a handful of occasions thus far in his life - couldn’t find the right words.

Luckily, Lorenz, who must have witnessed his friend’s rapid expression shifts, found one instead. Gently, and with more sympathy than expected, he asked, “Still?”

Ah, so he had figured it out.

Claude raised his teacup in a silent toast. “Still,” he confirmed, then downed it in one gulp.

“Hm.” Lorenz paused to serve out refills and scones, and Claude knew exactly what his friend was remembering.

(For five years during the war, Claude had periodically returned to Garreg Mach, even though everyone else had given up the search for Byleth. As the visits persisted in the face of increasing danger, one by one, and with varying levels of understanding and acceptance, his friends had all come to the same conclusion: their leader was in love with their former professor.)

“I can’t say that I’m surprised,” Lorenz said curtly, but not unkindly. “You have a plan, then? - Oh, what am I saying? Of course you do. The Master Tactician wouldn’t have shown up without a plan.”

Claude, who had been trying to decide if Lorenz was mocking him or not, visibly fumbled his cranberry scone at that final comment.

Instantaneously, Lorenz’s face went from invested concern to mortification. “Goddess above - you don’t have a plan.”

Claude didn’t have the heart to say that his “plans” often sprung from gut feelings like this; that, very often, he was building a bridge to his goals and walking it simultaneously, trusting that there would be another plank when he reached back for one.

In this particular instance, his bridge took the form of an impromptu and extended stay at the palace while he figured out the world’s most diplomatically sensitive marriage proposal. He wanted to tell Lorenz that, actually, he had several possible scaffolds in place, he just hadn’t chosen one yet - but Claude could see the foundational flaws in all of them, and still hovered at the juncture, unsure where to lay the next plank.

“- No, I don’t,” he finally admitted, steepling his fingers on the desk. “I’m taking suggestions, though, if you have any?”

Lorenz took a slow, calculated sip of his tea, giving Claude one of his patented ‘how did you manage to become the leader of anything’ looks. “Marianne assures me that Byleth will recover in a matter of days -”

“I know,” Claude interjected miserably. His timetable was tragically inadequate.

“- And, while your presence here is temporarily acceptable on the basis of friendship, it will become much harder to justify after the palace returns to its normal operations -”

“I know, Lorenz,” Claude said, letting his forehead fall onto the points of his fingers. The pain, he thought, was well-deserved. “Sheesh, you don’t have to rub my nose in it…”

Lorenz laughed softly. “Apologies. I’m simply savoring the moment; it isn’t often you need my strategic input.”

With his face downturned and concealed, Claude grimaced. He supposed he’d deserved that, too.

“But,” Lorenz went on, “I do have a suggestion. Given your limited available time and lack of direction, we should enlist outside support.”

Claude raised his head incredulously. “Your solution is to have more people laugh at me?”

“Yes. Hilda and Marianne, to be precise.” Lorenz smirked and crossed his legs. “And they won’t laugh - in fact, Hilda will be delighted.”

His tone of voice was too amused for the answer to be anything good, but Claude still asked cautiously, “Why?”

“Oh, because I owe her quite a bit of gold, naturally - I thought it would take you and Byleth far longer to act on your feelings, and my money was on her acting first.”

---

Byleth loved the balcony off her bedchamber. It was on the same side of the palace as the throne room, only higher, with a wider perspective of the canal below and a down-angle view of the opposite block. Sitting on it and looking out, with the stone railing acting as an artificial horizon, she really felt as if she were floating above Derdriu; the city sprawled off endlessly to her right, while its great network of canals spilled into the bay on her left, all set in miniature from this height.

A tangy sea breeze teased through her hair, rustling the many and vibrant plants - in pots, hanging from the roof, and mounted in window boxes - that scattered the area. They were in perfect health, she noticed, despite the rarity of her visits, and Byleth wondered if it was some palace staffer’s entire job to maintain luxurious spaces like these, even though some busy official might seldom use them. 

She privately resolved to appreciate the balcony more often.

It didn’t take long for Claude to come whistling through her chambers, bearing a chess board like a server delivering a high-end meal. He put it down on a small, circular table where Byleth’s own board was already set up, then carefully aligned their edges to create a double-long playing field.

(They’d invented this game early on at Garreg Mach after discovering that neither of them felt challenged enough by the base rules. It had gone through several name changes before they’d agreed to just keep the original; after all, if either of them ever mentioned the game to the other, they both understood which (clearly superior) version was being referenced.)

“So, you managed to get Lorenz to part with it,” Byleth commented as he arranged his pieces and sat down opposite her. “What’d it cost you?”

Claude made a face like he’d just licked a lemon. “Oh, nothing much. Just my reputation and dignity.” He laughed it off, but there was a distinct, hollow ring of truth to his words. “Anyway. Sixty-point game?”

She cocked her head, intrigued. Their special rules allowed for custom “armies” to be built from the standard chess units, each with an individual point cost. Byleth personally liked to run an army without pawns - high risk, high reward (usually reward).

“Not forty?” she asked mildly, picking out her standard array plus an extra frontline of knights. Claude would regret handing her such an aggressive opener. “Are you trying out a new strategy?”

He grinned and laid out his own army, which seemed to focus around his sovereigns - and, as usual, contained a robust line-and-a-half of pawns. What he sacrificed in speed, he made up for in defensive surface area.

“I am. I think you’ll really like this one,” he said, playing his first (highly predictable) move. 

That was the thing about Claude, though. Byleth thought his move was predictable right now, at the beginning, but he was a highly intelligent improviser. The long field between armies meant that most of the game was based on ranged path speculation. 

Was a cluster of pieces actually heading toward her left flank, or would it divert to threaten other units at the last second? She’d have to put a metaphorical shield in place for the first possibility, and a sword for the other - and with Claude, it was impossible to tell ahead of time which he would actually pick. 

But, despite the chaos his playstyle caused, its spontaneity was also what made him such a compelling opponent. The tactical element never got stale.

“It’s bound to be more exciting than your rook phalanx idea,” Byleth teased, starting her knights off on their long journey.

Claude gasped like she’d just insulted his mother. “Hey, that was not my fault - it was a good attack pattern in theory!”

She made a tiny sound of agreement to humor him, but remained privately unconvinced.

As usual, they lapsed into silence for the first phase of the game, each trying to dissect the other’s overall strategy. Of course, at this stage, it was largely conjecture; there would be many, many reactive and counter-reactive moves before any two units actually engaged.

The quiet was nice, though. Ships’ bells echoed in from the piers, mingling with street noise rabble and the shrill cries of bay gulls. There was no one to demand her ear or her time - a rare commodity. She could tell Claude enjoyed it, too, by his easy smiles and relaxed posture.

Why had they ever stopped doing this? It dawned on Byleth that it had been years since their last game.

“- Hey, Claude,” she said at the thirty-turn mark.

He didn’t look up from his spread. “Hm?” “What in the world are you doing?”

His green eyes, which had been bouncing between forward pawns, flicked up to her face. “Setting up my midgame?” he half-asked, gesturing to his formation like the answer was obvious. “Why, what are you doing?”

Byleth narrowed her eyes at the board. He’d split his pawns into two staggered ranks with his sovereigns in the middle, like some sort of sandwiched convoy, and the outer ring of mid-tier pieces looked to be guards.

“Your brilliant new strategy is to hand-deliver your king to my army?” she contended, tracing his column’s trek down the board with her hands, then opening them wide, fingers hooked, to mime the pieces being eaten by a sharp-toothed monster.

Claude laughed confidently. “You’ll see. The king and queen together are unstoppable.”

It was certainly an unconventional approach. By virtue of its novelty, it tripped Byleth up several times in the early game - one might even say, around turn sixty, that her opponent had the advantage. But the sheer speed and maneuverability of her knightly vanguard eventually prevailed, and by turn ninety, she had his entire escort block surrounded. 

“Multi-point threat,” Byleth declared, moving in on his rear line. “This was an interesting idea, but I do believe your king is in mortal peril.”

Claude, who’d been standing for the last dozen turns, paced to the other side of the table. (He loved to do that - to see the situation from all angles, like he would in a real conflict. Unfortunately, that expanded perspective could do little for him here.)

“No, I think - listen - he still has his queen.”

Byleth examined the setup again. “Uh-huh, he sure does,” she drawled, trying to understand how that might change their fates.

“I’m just saying,” he went on, crouching so that he could view the board at eye level. “Look how far they’ve already come. Look at all they’ve been through together - it’s not like a little opposition could stop them now, right?”

She crossed her arms, a bewildered smile tugging at her mouth. “Are you seriously trying to Nemesis me right now? My bishops have them both in four.”

Claude gave a frustrated sigh. “No, this isn’t a scheme - well,” he amended, scratching pensively at his chin scruff, “okay, it is a scheme, but -”

I knew it, she thought, vindicated, and grinned accordingly.

“Ugh, forget it.” Claude toppled his king. “You’re right, it was an ill-fated venture that clearly needs outside support.”

Byleth frowned. “What? I didn’t say that.”

He waved his arms like he was dispelling the entire conversation. “Never mind. We’ve still got plenty of light - how about another game?”

---

Later that night, after Byleth and most of the palace had retired, Hilda’s raucous laughter rang out through the entire administerial wing.

“You tried to tell her with chess?!”

She, Claude, Marianne, and Lorenz all sat around a table in one of the meeting rooms, passing around a bottle of strong Faerghan whiskey.

“No wonder she didn’t get it,” Hilda continued, wiping tears from the corners of her eyes (in a delicate manner that spared her makeup). “You know how Byleth is!”

Lorenz refilled his glass, nodding emphatically. “Agreed. Subtlety will get you nowhere in that arena, my friend.”

“I thought it was sweet,” Marianne disclosed quietly.

Claude propped his feet up on an unused chair and dipped his chin gratefully. “Thank you. I also thought it would be sweet. And successful.”

He took a long swig straight from the bottle, much to Hilda’s amusement. “But you were right, Lorenz, okay? So -” he slapped the tabletop in invitation, “- go on. Advise me.”

Perhaps sensing that their friend was already punishing himself enough, no one pushed the teasing any further. Lorenz and Hilda shared a look - one that said they’d already discussed the matter privately - and then everyone got straight down to business.

“First of all, we should discuss the legal ramifications of your union,” Lorenz said, indicating the palace walls. “It’s true that anti-Almyran sentiment has died down greatly since the war, especially here in Leicester, but I fear widespread confusion - how much power would the king of Almyra suddenly have over their territories? Their livelihoods?”

Claude recoiled from the intensity. “Whoa! She hasn’t even said yes - aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves, here?”

(In truth, he had the same worries about his own homeland; it wasn’t like xenophobia was exclusive to Fodlan. His current plan - if she agreed - was to introduce her presence like he’d introduced his own: aggressively and unapologetically, with hopes that the Almyran public would regard it with the same eventual respect.)

The other three gave him bland looks.

“You really, honestly think she’ll turn you down?” Hilda asked in angry disbelief.

Claude gritted his teeth. “I don’t know - I mean, that’s Byleth’s whole deal, right? Unbeatable strategist? You never know what she’s thinking?”

“Oh, Claude,” Marianne said, patting him on the arm. “You should have more confidence in yourself.”

Hilda snorted into her tumbler.

“- Regardless, I don’t want to discuss the politics without her. If she says yes,” Claude emphasized with a stern glance around the table. “I have to get to the actual question first, okay? Lorenz. Ideas. Go.”

The man in question raised his eyebrows. “All right - well, Leonie proposed to me during a horseback ride. She’d painted all of her mounted archery targets with one word each, and in order they spelled out a question...oh, it was very romantic,” he said, his tone warming as he spoke. He then promptly cleared his throat. “But, ah, Byleth isn’t in a physical state for riding, hmm?”

Hilda propped her elbows up on the table and cradled her chin in her hands, recounting dreamily, “Marianne took me deep into the forest at night and professed her love under the light of the full moon. How could I have ever said no to that?”

Marianne hid behind her glass, her face beet-red. “I don’t, uhm, think there are any full moons coming up soon, though,” she managed to squeak out.

“Yeah, you have to do something quick.” Hilda pointed at him with her glass. “Let’s see - we already know it can’t involve winning something, so that’s out.”

Claude laughed sarcastically into the bottle.

“A grand display would not be diplomatically feasible, either,” Lorenz added.

Yeah, that made sense, Claude thought. A single plant in the throne room had brought word of Byleth’s illness to him in under three days - and he wasn’t the only one with eyes here. 

“You should do something that’s meaningful to both of you,” Marianne suggested, her face returning to its usual pallid shade. “Something simple but significant. Byleth would appreciate that, I think.”

Simple but significant.

Claude swirled the idea around in his head at the same time he swirled the contents of his bottle. Significant he could do - had been doing - but simple was another story. Maybe that was his problem; maybe he just needed to go back to the basics.

“And don’t get her a ring,” Hilda said. “I never see her wearing jewelry unless the tailors insist.”

He chewed on all of that, taking slow, measured sips of whiskey. Something meaningful to both him and to Byleth - something memorable, but uncomplicated. No rings, he added mentally. That was fine; as an archer, he disliked having obstructions around his hands, anyway. (And while they were out here breaking traditions, who cared if it was one or one hundred?)

“Hey,” he began, doing some quick calculations around wyverns’ seasonal nesting habits. “How quickly could I get something down the Goldroad?”

Lorenz’s brows knit together. “From the capital to here, I presume, and with the use of your royal seal? Within the week. Why? What do you need?”

Claude grinned, luxuriating in the rush of a good plan coming together. “All right, listen to this -”

---

If she could’ve had her way, Byleth would have chosen to remain in those last days of her fever forever. Her symptoms were mild and unobtrusive, she didn’t have to do any paperwork, and Claude was there; simply put, it was the ideal situation.

They spent four whole days together playing games, mixing various drinks, going for (short and supervised) walks around the garden, and reminiscing about old times - but Marianne’s medicines were effective and all things, even good things, must end.

On the morning of the fifth day, she knew she was cured. Her mind was clear and her body strong, if a little feeble from the bed rest. Everyone else must have been on the same page, too, because Marianne came to greet her after breakfast in Claude’s stead.

“So that’s the end of the arrangement, then?” Byleth asked, trying to keep her voice even and normal.

Marianne smiled softly and pressed the back of her hand to Byleth’s forehead. “Yes. Claude will be returning home this evening, as I’m sure he has many decisions waiting for him there.”

That makes two of us, Byleth thought dejectedly.

“Your temperature is perfectly normal,” Marianne reported. “Do you have any lingering fatigue? Dizziness?”

“Nope. Nothing,” Byleth said, heaving a reluctant sigh. “I suppose I should head down to the audience chambers.”

She really, truly hadn’t meant to sound like a pouting toddler bound for punishment, but that was exactly how it had come out.

Marianne laughed. “Yes, you should - tomorrow.” To answer Byleth’s questioning stare, she pointed across the room. “I think you’ll be too busy today.”

Right on cue, something large impacted outside the windows with a dull, cracking thud. Without thinking, Byleth whirled, ready for some sort of threat - (her sword belt was hanging next to her bed, easily accessible for such emergencies) - but it was only Claude on the balcony.

Rather, it was his massive white wyvern, Sahar. She’d perched on the railing, her sharp claws gouging long scrapes in the stone, and he was mounted on her back.

“Don’t worry, I’ll pay for that!” he called, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Good morning! Care for a ride?”

Byleth burst out in surprised laughter, too endeared to be mad about the property damage. She looked back, confused and curious, but Marianne just shook her head.

“Go,” she said, gesturing outward. “Have fun. You have my official medical clearance.”

That was all the permission Byleth needed to throw open the doors and run out, barefoot and grinning, to leap at Sahar’s saddle. The seaside wind blasted her hair back and Claude opened his arms for her arrival, bracing in his stirrups to absorb the impact.

They’d performed this maneuver many times during the war; since Byleth preferred to do her fighting on foot, Claude would often sweep down to reposition her more quickly. Even after five years without practice, they executed the pick-up without a hitch: she landed knees-first at the front of the saddle and Claude anchored her, wrapping both arms around her midsection.

In combat, the move had been utilitarian - the fastest way to mount up. Right now, though, it felt more intimate; with no armor, no weapons, and no urgency, they were basically just hugging on wyvern-back.

Byleth quickly turned herself around, hoping he hadn’t seen the blush rising up her neck. 

“That eager to get out of there, huh?” he teased, helping her get situated.

She rolled her eyes and cinched a pair of flight straps around her waist. The fit was snugly familiar, securing her to both the saddle and her fellow rider.

“You know the answer to that,” she replied, glancing down the tall outer walls of the palace. A few people in the canal-side gardens had looked up at the spectacle; they were too far away to see much detail, but this was clearly the queen’s bedchamber. “This isn’t the most discreet escape, is it?”

Claude scoffed, turning his mount skyward with a nudge. “Oh, it’s fine. Not many Fodlanese know about the white wyvern thing. Besides,” he said mischievously, testing the knots on her straps, “didn’t Marianne tell you? Our arrangement is done.”

With that, they were off. Sahar spread her massive wings - leathery and smooth, delicate and powerful all at once - to catch the current, pushing herself off into it and raining stone chips and dust in her wake.

Byleth yelped at the sudden lurch, falling back against Claude, who gladly supported her while they gained rapid altitude in the midday sky. Sahar’s rhythmic wing beats took them high above the notice of anyone in the city, down the palace’s canal and out into the bay.

She watched it all fall away as they climbed. The great trade ships shrank to the sizes of beetles in their lanes; the flocks of gulls that chased them, to mere specks. The ocean itself became an undulating cobalt tapestry, shot through with threads of white and gray.

When they leveled off and the wind died down in their ears, Claude spoke, “Remember when I taught you to fly?”

A series of images flashed in her mind: wrangling a saddle onto an impatient wyvern; losing straps and buckles under flapping wings; falling before she could even take off - so, so much falling.

“I remember when you tried to, sure,” she said, cringing at the memories. Even Leonie, who never gave up on anything, had declared Byleth’s flying skills unsalvageable. “Why?”

Claude laughed a little too hard, like he was recalling the very same foibles. “Nah. You just needed more time - we couldn’t spare any in the war. But now?”

“Are you suggesting,” Byleth said, throwing him a flat look over her shoulder, “that I fall on my ass repeatedly in front of the entire court? It was bad enough when it was just jeering students.”

“No, no, my point is -” Claude directed her attention back to their view of the bay, “- you could come out here whenever you wanted. Get away from it all.”

So he’d noticed her restlessness. Well, of course he did, Byleth admonished herself. He’s Claude.

“That would be...nice,” she admitted, giving him a half-smile. “It’s different, isn’t it? Leading during peacetime?”

He relaxed his hold on the reins and let Sahar go where she would in the open sky; she took full advantage of the freedom, floating into various air currents and skirting low, wispy clouds.

“Yeah, it is.” Claude’s tone was sober and diminished. He prodded gently, “How have you really been, Bee?”

The nickname brought unexpected tears to her eyes; he hadn’t used it since they parted at Garreg Mach five years ago. She’d forgotten how fond and welcoming it sounded - how warm - coming from his mouth.

Byleth faced straight ahead, glad he couldn’t see her expression. It must have been just as regretful and conflicted as her mind.

“I never expected to be here,” she murmured, and in her heart she finished the thought: without you. Her voice barely carried over the wind, but she knew Claude had heard it; he scooted closer to her in the saddle, whether consciously or not. “Everyone around me is so certain of their place, and I’m...not.”

Her thoughts strayed to Edelgard and Dimitri, to their twin drives that - even misguided and corrupted as they were - strove for a better world at their roots. Byleth, who held no grand vision for the future, couldn’t help but feel unfit for the mantles they’d left behind.

(Truthfully, that was one of many reasons why Derdriu was her favorite capital, and spring her favorite season. Fhirdiad’s and Enbarr’s thrones still felt like someone else’s seats to her - someone else’s dreams.)

“I don’t think anyone expected to be where they are now,” Claude said, matching her volume. When Byleth shot him another ‘quit your bullshit’ look, he chuckled and corrected himself, “Okay. Maybe I did, but nobody else did.”

“Lorenz thought he’d be leading the Alliance, hitched to some noble lady. Hilda didn’t think she’d be doing anything.” Claude put up one finger for each example. “Marianne wanted to keep her head down. Ignatz thought he’d be barred from his passions.”

He rested his chin on the top of Byleth’s head. “Expectations and reality don’t always match up. Are you unhappy with where you are, Your Majesty?”

I’m exceedingly happy where I am, she thought, easing herself back to rest against him. And that’s the problem.

“No,” she answered simply. “I’m not.”

Claude, perhaps sensing the dishonesty in her words, hummed doubtfully. The sound rumbled deep in her chest. “Well - if you ever were unhappy, you know I’d help, right? No matter what it was.”

“I know,” she said, tilting her head to smile up at him. “And - I think you’re right.”

He shifted to accommodate her better, crossing his arms over her lap to grip the saddlehorn. “Oh? About expectations?”

“No, about flying.” She settled into their pseudo-embrace, resolving to enjoy it while it lasted. “I should learn.”

Claude made a small, happy noise in his throat. “I’ll teach you. It’ll be great.”

They drifted down the Edmund coastline in a comfortable quiet after that. If not for the Throat looming in the distance - a constant reminder of the hourglass hanging over their flight - Byleth would’ve been perfectly content. The longer they went, the more she wished he would just keep flying straight over the mountains - but the sun continued on its inexorable path through the heavens, and all things, even good things, must end.

Still, though, when he wheeled them around and began the journey back, Byleth thought she detected a resonant note of hesitation in him.

By the time they’d reached the bay of Derdriu, the sun hung low and the sky had turned to vibrant oranges and indigos; the frothy crests of waves, the metal fixtures on ships’ masts, and even the scaly tips of Sahar’s wings shone golden in the rich evening light. 

The palace’s white marble exterior reflected sunset-colors onto the streets and canal below. In any other instance, she’d find it beautiful, but right now it was no different than the Throat: an ominous, prohibitive barrier.

Claude guided Sahar to the balcony again, wincing as her claws ground fresh holes into the railing.

“- I’ll pay for that,” he reiterated sheepishly, then hopped down to offer Byleth a hand.

She took it, letting him assume her weight while she scrambled much less gracefully to the ground. The stone tiles, quickly cooling with the onset of night, chilled her bare feet on contact; she shivered, looking back wistfully at the evening sky. 

When she turned around again, Claude was watching her intently. Unreadably. 

“Did you enjoy the ride?” he asked.

“I did. Thank you.” She tried to match his tone, to hide her sadness - to appreciate the time they’d had together instead of mourning its conclusion. “I suppose you need to get going, then?”

“Mm, not quite yet,” he replied with a secretive smile, wrapping Sahar’s reins around her saddlehorn. He muttered a phrase to her in Almyran, to which the great wyvern nuzzled into his hand and took off in the direction of the aviary.

“Let’s get you warmed up, first.” He strode past her to the open balcony doors, jerking his head toward it encouragingly when she didn’t immediately follow. “Come on, it’s okay - I have time.”

Byleth trailed after him, instantly suspicious. He was using his ‘false sense of security’ voice again, like he had on the first night. “Claude, what are you planning?” she called out warily, stepping into her darkened bedchamber.

A spark struck in the hearth, setting the tinder inside ablaze and silhouetting Claude in a red-orange halo. “Why do I have to be planning something?” he countered, overly defensive, as he stoked the fire. “- You looked cold, is all.”

She gave him a skeptical once-over, then turned to grab a cloak from her wardrobe - and there on her dresser, shining in the firelight, was a lacquered ebony box the length of her arm.

It was decorated with glittering gold leaf along its edges, clearly meant to hold something valuable. Byleth whipped around to fix Claude with an accusing glare, but he just shrugged innocently and motioned for her to open it.

He had a long history of bequeathing strange gifts to his friends, always seeming to enjoy the reactions a little too much. Byleth wasn’t aware of any current holidays, though, either in Fodlan or Almyra.

She sighed and lifted the lid. “I swear, if this is another apron -” 

The breath caught in her throat. It most definitely was not an apron.

Nestled in a bed of burgundy velvet, only slightly smaller than the box itself, laid a porcelain-white wyvern egg dotted with flecks of pearlescent ivory. 

This time when she glanced back, it was in affectionate curiosity. “So this is why you were pushing flight training,” she said, gingerly touching the warm shell. “But - aren’t white wyverns only given to members of the royal family?”

Claude moved to stand next to her, drained of all his earlier mirth and bravado. In its place was a tense energy she hadn’t sensed in him since they’d last met at the Goddess Tower.

“Well, yeah, that’s the idea,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I was hoping you’d, uh, well - I wanted to ask you, since -”

He stopped and grunted, looking disgusted with himself. “Let me start over.”

Byleth nodded, absolutely baffled. What in Sothis’s name was he trying to say?

Claude ran a hand back through his hair and took a deep, steadying breath. “We both didn’t have the best experiences with family growing up. I mean, you had Jeralt and I had my mom, and they were great, but other than that it was…”

“Lonely,” she offered. They’d discussed their respective childhoods many times before - commiserated in the shared wounds of alienation and neglect.

Delicately, he took her hand and squeezed it. “Yeah. Lonely. And if I’m reading this correctly, so were the last five years, right?”

Byleth swallowed a lump in her throat and nodded again.

“Yeah,” Claude repeated softly. “For me, too. So, I thought - maybe neither of us has to be lonely anymore.”

His meaning dawned on her like a sunrise, blooming heat high in her cheeks. Her embarrassment fueled his, in turn, and they were left staring at one another in stunned silence; from an outside perspective, they must have looked - fittingly - like a pair of panicked deer.

“Claude,” she pronounced thickly, needing to verify her theory, “are you asking me to…?”

“Mhm,” he confirmed, a portion of his usual confidence flickering back to life in his smile. He tipped her chin upward with his index finger. “I want to be your family. I want you to be my family.”

Byleth had spent the first part of her life without adequate modes of expression. Before meeting Claude, she’d gotten by on curt gestures and a flat affect - and now, in the face of overwhelming emotion, she regressed right back to that state.

All she could do to communicate her answer was to jump and reach for him, just like she was leaping onto his wyvern - and, predictably, protectively, his arms closed around her. Anchored her.

Like always, she thought. A perfect catch.

“Woah - I’ll take that as a yes, then?” Claude asked, tentatively hopeful, laughing and stepping backward from the unexpected force.

Byleth buried her face in his shoulder and nodded, unable to speak; hot tears spilled from her eyes, soaking into Claude’s tunic collar, and her wrists trembled where they were clasped at his neck. Her heart had never beat, yet now it was overflowing, filling her chest with something happy and potent and home that she’d never dared to covet before.

In the glow of the hearth, to the crackling of logs and the faint rush of a sea breeze outside, Claude rocked them back and forth at a measured, soothing pace. He kissed her forehead, her temple, her cheekbone, wiping away her tears with his thumb and whispering in a shaky voice, “It’s okay, Bee. We’re going to be so happy, I promise. I promise.”

---Epilogue---

Lorenz understood the severity of the Airmid flooding - really, he did - but he did not understand why it needed to translate into a six-in-the-morning assembly. Anything the ministers discussed there could be handled just as easily, and with more lucidity, during their regular working hours.

Still, he trudged diligently up the stairs to the meeting rooms. If there were emergency measures to enact, then, by the goddess, he’d see them enacted. The peoples of Hrym and Ordelia had already suffered enough for several lifetimes.

He was just inside the threshold, blinking and stifling a yawn, when he saw them: Byleth and Claude, seated side by side at the head of the meeting table, the former digging into a plate of food and the latter grinning like a madman.

Lorenz’s yawn cut off abruptly; his jaw snapped shut with a click.

“You’re still here,” he grumbled, sliding into a chair on an empty side. “Somehow I doubt this is about the floods.”

Hilda and Marianne, who were sitting opposite him, giggled quietly together, their hands clasped on the tabletop. (Frankly, it made him jealous. Leonie hadn’t wanted to touch the office of royal minister with a ten-foot lance.)

“Nope,” Byleth said, pointing at Claude with her fork. “This is about the legality of our marriage.”

Hilda clapped frantically with excitement. “Congratulations! Ooh, this is going to be the biggest wedding ever - can you imagine the guest list? We’ll be curating it for months.”

“I think I’ll exclude my paternal cousins,” Claude mused. “Just to watch them squirm.”

Marianne nodded. “They deserve it.”

“Wait. Hold.” Lorenz slapped his daily ledger down on the table like a judge calling for order, and it worked just the same. The rabble died down, all eyes turning to him. “First of all: congratulations, you two. You’ve made me a marginally poorer man.”

Hilda snickered triumphantly.

“Second: this is going to be a legislative nightmare - and don’t you tell me differently, Claude von Riegan,” he added, holding up a finger when it looked like Claude would cut in. 

“I’ll abdicate,” Byleth suggested, stabbing into a sausage.

“No -!” all three ministers shouted in unison - even Marianne, who’d also half-stood from her chair, hands braced on the table.

(Meanwhile, Claude simply watched his new fiancee with moon-eyed adoration; Lorenz was sure he’d humor anything she said right now.)

“That - that won’t be necessary,” Lorenz said, clearing his throat and smoothing down his ascot. “I only mean that it will take time and collaboration. Claude, I insist that you stay another week while we draft something for you to take home. I’ll write to Nader.”

Byleth let out a rare exuberant gasp; beside her, Claude glanced down the table and gave Lorenz a sly, conspiratorial wink. 

“- Oh, try to act professionally about this, would you?” he insisted, but an infectious smile was already spreading across his own face. 

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

Author’s Notes

candidates for game names:

byleth: better chess (rejected - judgmental)

claude: long chess (rejected - misleading)

hilda: chess 2 (considered but ultimately rejected - legality)

lorenz: tactician’s chess (rejected - boring)

[agentfreckles]

So I saw this video on Instagram where this woman was pranking her partner and basically she randomly got all dolled up and claimed she was just going to the grocery store to see how they would react. Do you think UB would have any funny reactions to that prank??

This is probably not at all what you were looking for, anon, but the second I read this I was immediately hit with inspiration. Long story short, your ask allowed me to complete my first fic after over a month of intense writer’s block. So I hope you enjoy my dumb little Adam drabble because I am seriously so thankful for you rn 😭

All Dolled Up 

Rating: General

Word Count: 1,308

Pairing: Adam x Female!Detective (Ramona Gibson)

Summary: Ramona selects a highly unconventional outfit for her trip to the grocery store. Adam is not amused. 

Notes: This is my first time writing specifically for Ramona which has me feeling all kinds of happy. Her name is only used twice and there are no pronouns used, so hopefully it’s not too distracting if you want to imagine your detective instead. But I’m so excited to finally give Ramona a voice and I hope you all like her as much as I do!

"Oh, come on!" I mutter angrily, about ready to rip out this stubborn curl that has decided to flop in front of my face yet again. My reflection stares back at me through the hallway mirror as I shove the lock of hair back in place for what must be the hundredth time in the past five minutes.

I don't even know why I'm putting so much effort into some lame practical joke anyway. The fact that I'm even doing a prank at all is completely ridiculous and so unlike me. Surely Felix hasn't been that much of a bad influence on me the last several months, right? But then again, he was the one who brought this concept to my attention by showing me some video he had found a couple days prior before not-so-subtly suggesting I try out the same thing on a certain Commanding Agent next chance I get. 

And somehow despite my reservations I ended up taking Felix up on his proposition and spent the better half of one of my rare evenings off getting all dressed up for what exactly? Just to get a rise out of Adam -- something that I can do just fine without having to fight to get my hair under control or squeezing into a form-fitting dress and high heels? Sounds like a hell of a waste in retrospect when it seems like all I have to do these days is breathe in his general direction to press his buttons, given how much tension there's been brewing between us the past couple of weeks.  

Now that I think about it, maybe it's that same tension that has me feeling compelled to act out in this way. Perhaps this whole thing was bred out of some desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, seeing me all done up and glamorous will give Adam the push he needs to throw away his inhibitions and finally-

No. I won't even entertain the thought.

This is just a silly little prank amongst coworkers. No big deal.

Renewed determination quells the nerves in my chest and I give my reflection a resolute nod before squaring my shoulders and striding down the length of the hallway. With one final calming breath and a whispered "You can do this, Ramona," I give the living room door's elegant brass handle a twist and step inside.

No turning back now.

Adam is sitting on the worn leather sofa near the fireplace when I enter the living room, looking lost in thought as he stares into the crackling flames with a deep-set frown. He breaks from his pensive state and stands at the sound of my footsteps before turning to offer a greeting, but the sight of me, or rather my outfit, makes the words get caught in his throat. When he does eventually speak, it's in a voice so soft I nearly miss it. 

“Ramona...”

Heat blooms on my cheeks both at the unexpected use of my name and the way his gaze passes over every inch me with the reverence and care of a lover's caress. With the help of the dim light from the fire's glow I am able to detect a glimmer of desire in those icy green eyes, the intensity behind them making my brain fog up with so much steam that I nearly forget about the practical joke I'm supposed to be pulling entirely.

"Hi," I offer pathetically, immediately clearing my throat to dispel some of the tension in the room and restore power to my malfunctioning brain. Miraculously, it manages to do the trick as even Adam seems to break out of the trance-like state he was in. He folds his hands behind his back, adopting the familiar rigid stance I've come to associate with the Commanding Agent when he's attempting to appear guarded and aloof.

“I haven’t heard mention of any formal events in your schedule," he remarks cooly. A soft smile grazes my lips when I notice his gaze still lingers on me a few seconds longer than necessary despite his attempt to convey casual disinterest. "May I ask where you’re headed?”

I smile, everything from the expression on my face to my body language a perfect picture of innocence as I deliver the punchline. “Just to the market to grab some groceries."

I wish I had brought a camera to record the speed at which Adam's eye dart up to meet mine, immense confusion overtaking his features. Suddenly I'm not so sure which reaction I enjoyed more: the unmistakable attraction radiating off of him in waves when I  had first arrived or the perplexed, almost outraged look on his face now.

"You’re welcome to come with me if you’d like.”

“I beg your pardon?” Adam scoffs, ignoring the invitation and instead cocking a brow and folding his arms disapprovingly as he studies me with a far more judgmental eye than he had before. “I fail to see how cocktail attire is an appropriate garment choice for a supermarket.”

Oddly emboldened by the clear distaste in his words, I decide to push a little further.

“What, you don’t like it?” I reply in mock offense before turning once in a small circle, my pace deliberately slow to give Adam the best possible view of the way the fabric clings to my every curve while I try not to get too wrapped up in the feeling of his eyes hungrily drinking me in once more.

“I didn’t say that.” Adam replies once I've finished my little display, coughing lightly in an effort to hide the slight strain in his voice as he speaks. “However, my point still stands. You are far too overdressed for a simple errand run. I would highly suggest you change into something more practical that is better suited to the task you aim to complete.”

Oh, now that's a bit of a mood killer.

Really, out of all the possible outcomes I was hoping to get out of this, an impromptu lecture from Adam was not one of them. The heat that was steadily building up between us fizzles out at his commanding tone and annoyance quickly takes its place.

Must he always be such an ass?

The indignant scoff that escapes my lips this time is completely genuine. “Says the guy who wore a button up and slacks into a sewer not too long ago.”

“I-You—Those were entirely different circumstances!" Adam splutters, clearly not expecting to have that particular incident brought up again, let alone in the middle of a debate he was so certain he had won just a moment before. The disbelieving look I toss his way helps him regain his composure quickly and his expression hardens once more as he fixes me with an icy glare. “And even if they were somehow similar, my motivations for doing so were far more commendable than whatever ridiculous excuse you’ve managed to come up with for this, I'm sure.”

“Oh really?” I mimic his stance, folding my arms across my chest and raising a challenging brow. “And what were those motivations exactly?”

“I...“ My chin proudly raises in triumph as I watch Adam’s stony mask crumble, a blush now rapidly coloring the pale skin of his face and neck as he struggles to speak. I must admit his reaction comes as a bit of a surprise. I’ve never seen him quite so flustered. And clearly neither has he judging by the way his gaze darts around the room in search of something, anything to rescue him from the nightmare this conversation has turned into.

"Well?"

Just as the red tinge on his cheeks is beginning to reach tomato-like levels of intensity Adam suddenly straightens. “I have work to do.”

And with that he turns on his heel, quickly marching past me and out of the room.

[wordsablaze]

7/13 - soulmate’s deathdate on your wrist

A Dozen Denials Soulmate-identifiers exist to make things easier unless you’re Jaskier, who’s equally as deep in love as he is in denial. But there’s only so many excuses you can make to avoid the truth… (aka jaskier’s soulmate is definitely a witcher, just not the one he first assumes)

A/N: this one’s techincally cheating bc i don’t vibe with mortal jaskier but oh well :p

previous chapter

-

Anyone with magic was usually immortal.

That was common knowledge really, to anyone who’d ever hired mages and witchers or anyone who’d heard the stories of their battles and reputation. Unfortunately, where most townsfolk might marvel at an extended lifespan, nobles tended to frown upon it; nobles tended to see it as something unnatural and therefore unwanted, as something that should be feared or frowned upon, as something that made magic-users even less human and not at all desirable.

Nobles like Jaskier’s family.

Jaskier grew up with the knowledge that living forever would be awful because it meant you were inhuman, it meant you were monstrous and existing against nature, it meant you weren’t the perfect picture of nobility that you should be. And unfortunately, being linked to someone who was going to live forever made you the same just by association.

At first, he hated it.

He hated the little ouroboros symbol etched into his wrist.

But just like the heartbeat he eventually grew to love under his skin, he eventually accepted that the symbol over his skin simply meant his soulmate would probably outlive him. He was happy with it, in fact, because he’d never want to have to bury and outlive someone he loves, and despite all the taunts from his siblings that he’d probably be forgotten as soon as he passed, he didn’t mind it too much.

Yes, he threw himself into perfecting his songs because the idea of being wholly lost to time absolutely terrified him, but he was fine - totally fine.

And then he met Geralt, who always wore armour until he didn’t, until Jaskier dumped water on his head in bathtub after bathtub, catching sight of a similar ouroboros on his wrist every so often. A familiar ouroboros that meant Geralt's soulmate was also not just human, that meant Jaskier was also destined to live until he was killed.

At first, he thought he was wrong. He thought that he’d just been seeing things or that somehow Destiny had gotten things mixed up, for he was a noble and he couldn’t possibly be immortal.

-

“Jaskier, you’re alive,” Geralt says with something like shock in his voice.

Said bard nods, sitting up on the healer’s bed. “Wouldn’t be very interesting to die at the hands of a small cliff,” he jokes.

Geralt hums, then in a rare moment of unfiltered humour, smirks. “Lucky the cliff wasn’t the same size as your stupidity, then.”

Jaskier splutters, flushing red, and chucks a pillow at Geralt. “Excuse you, I was trying to help!”

Gently tossing the pillow back, Geralt shakes his head. “It was a stupid distraction.”

But Jaskier can read between the lines and since he’s only been halfway unconscious when Geralt had carried him all the way back on foot because he’d forgotten about Roach in his concern, he doesn’t take offence, simply glad to still be alive.

-

“Most humans would have died from this,” Geralt tells him after having pulled an arrow out of his leg that’d only been there because he’d annoyed the wrong person.

Jaskier blinks. “Was that an insult or a compliment? I’ve lost too much blood to decipher your tone.”

With a soft laugh, Geralt finishes making sure he won’t actually bleed out before sitting back and shrugging. “You can choose.”

“Can’t you express your gratitude for your very best friend in any other circumstance, Geralt?” Jaskier asks incredulously, his brain too tired to even decide if he wants to stay awake or not.

Geralt only frowns, clearly wondering how he’s meant to do that, and for a second, Jaskier wants to laugh at the ridiculousness of his witcher being confused about the etiquette of conversation. He doesn’t though, he only takes Geralt’s hand and squeezes tightly, both as a reassuring gesture and because he’s in a rather large amount of pain.

-

“Loving the wrinkles, bard,” Yennefer drawls.

Jaskier rolls his eyes at her abrupt reappearance, not even looking up from his songbook. “Likewise, my dear witch.”

Geralt intervenes before either of them can go any further. “Neither of you have wrinkles?”

Yennefer and Jaskier share an exasperated look before the bard goes back to rearranging verses and the sorceress turns to Geralt with a sigh because it’s her turn to explain things to their somewhat clueless mutual friend. “Don’t take everything so literally, Geralt.”

“How else am I meant to take it?” Geralt asks, but the other two take it to be rhetorical, with Yennefer switching to discussing something about their latest contract.

Not bothered about the creature they’re discussing, Jaskier pauses only for a moment to ponder the exchange because in truth, he really ought to have wrinkles at his age, but he doesn’t dwell on it because the tale of the wyverns he’s weaving is far more compelling.

-

“Jaskier!” Geralt yells moments before tackling him.

Jaskier groans as the two of them land on the uneven ground, something flying over their bodies as they do, but doesn’t get much time to register any pain before Geralt is pulling him upright, tugging him along until both of them are out of range of whatever it is they’re under attack from. It’s only when they stop running that Jaskier realises the sharp pain in his chest isn’t just breathlessness.

“Geralt! Geralt- can’t... breathe…” he manages before the world fades to nothing.

When the void fades back into awareness, he’s met with the all too familiar sensation of bandages wrapped around his torso and the sight of Geralt’s puzzled face hovering above him.

He blinks. “Am I dead?”

Geralt blinks back at him, then scowls. “Apparently not.”

Jaskier makes a face, scrunching his nose up and furrowing his brows. “No need to sound so disappointed. You’re the one who saved me and it gets a little confusing when you look like you regret it every time.”

At that, Geralt’s expression softens. “No, I don’t regret it. I, uh- you broke a few ribs. I thought…”

“You thought I wouldn’t make it? I’m sorry,” Jaskier murmurs, then cracks a smile. “Foolish of you to assume you’d be free of me so easily.”

Thankfully, Geralt smiles back - it’s small, barely a curve of his lips, but it’s a smile nonetheless - and nudges him carefully. “Not being free of you isn’t so bad.”

Jaskier positively beams at him.

-

Eventually, he just accepts the small ouroboros on Geralt’s wrist.

He figures that, as many nobles are prone to doing, someone had lied about sleeping with someone else at some point along his lineage. And he silently thanks whoever it was for being too concerned with upholding their honourable reputation to tell the truth every time he makes it out of situations where he’s readily informed he’s lucky to be alive.

Geralt’s ouroboros is slightly different to his, sleeker and longer, but he doesn’t worry about it, knowing it’s probably related to how and why the two of them have longer lifespans than the average human. He’s perfectly happy just knowing that he can literally spend the the kind of forever that he writes so many balled about with his soulmate because the length of their lives match almost perfectly.

(little did he know his matching forever was still unknown to him.)

-

ik it’s chaotic but the trope is perfect for confusion here :)

-

thanks for reading! masterlist | witcher blog: @itsjaskier | next chapter

[writing-fool]

Hey, real stressed out right now, if you're not too busy can I get the Mlqc boys with a stressed out s/o? I'm in some need of some serotonin, love your work x

mlqc | so will i

Hi hun, I’m very sorry to hear that. I hope you’ll feel better soon. If this doesn’t end up giving you enough serotonin, I have something a little similar up on my blog: here

That said, I think I’m becoming a comfort writer, and I can’t really complain about that. So, here’s a couple of quick and loving headcanons for each boy.

Much love,

R.

Victor

Victor isn’t actually all that cold as a husband anyways (and we ALL know author Ré likes their moody boys just a little gooey) 

but when you’re stressed? oh boy this gentleman is ready to do anything in his power to make you feel better

he was deadass about to buy a whole spa before you stopped him and told him you just need him to hold you

“Oh. I...guess I can do that.” be careful, this man will not let you go until you feel better

as an excellent chef, he’s also The Person to ask when you need comfort food

mac & cheese? you got it. congee? already done. chicken noodle soup? yes yes.

the way to a person’s heart is through their stomach and mine is currently growling

on occasion, he’ll be the cause of your stress, and while he doesn’t want to favour you over his other employees necessarily, he does understand that sometimes you need a break

for once, he’ll be the one pulling you from your work

how does he notice you’re stressed? your reports become dangerously subpar. sorry hun, it’s the truth

if you don’t listen to him and keep working yourself to near death, he’ll just have to use drastic measures

did he swing you over his shoulder? yup.

did you low-key enjoy it because his ass is Immaculate? also yup. 

he knows you like it when he pampers you, so when you’re stressed out, he’ll run you a nice bath with expensive oils and soaps

he’ll wash your back for you, digging his large fingers into those knots at the nape of your neck

afterwards, Vic will brush your hair for you, making sure you’re all cozy in your fluffy robe

he doesn’t like to admit it, but seeing you relax warms his heart and makes up for all the mediocre reports you write

Lucien

our favourite perceptive professor notices right away

i mean, everyone has tells when they start getting stressed out, and Lucien knows yours like the back of his hand

sometimes, he even notices before you do. how does that even happen?

prepare for the endless amounts of chamomile tea he’ll make you drink

Lucien’s very supportive of what you do, but he also reminds you that you need to rest like a filthy hypocrite~

so he’ll jot down cheeky notes in your agenda

14:00 / come have a relaxing walk in the park with me. ~L

7:30 early morning online meeting 8:00 have a lie-in with your favourite scientist. for research purposes, of course

you confront him about it and he’s just staring at you with this innocent look that’s absolutely illegal because you’re not innocent Lucien, not in the slightest i won’t believe it i’m not going to fall for it—damnit i fell for it

“Am I not allowed to take care of my little flower?”

is really good at clearing your schedule

like, suspiciously good

he’ll probably help you with anything you’ve got going on regarding paperwork, and instead of having to do research for a production, a whole stack of highlighted and marked articles will already be on your desk, waiting for you to quickly sift through everything

on a more serious note, he does know a lot about destressing and ways to relax

so he’ll suggest practicing mindfulness together, or something similar 

from experience, these things may sound silly, but breathing exercises or meditation can really just refocus your brain on the tasks at hand to lessen stress. obviously though, this is all very personal

but he knows he can’t love your negative emotions away, so most importantly, he’s always there for you

whether it is to listen to you rant, to give advice or even just to soothingly rub his thumb over your shoulder

Lucien’s always right next to you, and that’s one less thing to worry about

Gavin

Birdcop! lately i’ve been associating him with bnha’s Hawks/Keigo, and i don’t know how to feel about that. but i digress

Gavin’s not the quickest to pick up on your emotions

like, he knows there’s something going on because his mind is filled with you all day, but he can’t really decipher what’s wrong

will just straight up ask you what’s going on, how you’re feeling, etc

i always turn Gavin into this really understanding and communicative, healthy relationship poster boy, but y’all deserve it

“Babe? Are you feeling alright?”

if the answer is no, this man just clears his schedule for a week, or a month, or a whole year Gavin you can’t ignore your responsibilities don’t—

not really, but he does go out of his way to spend more time with you

clocks out earlier, only does missions that require him,...

flies to you the moment he’s got time to spare

does so recklessly. gets caught by some people who, fortunately, are convinced it’s just some very weird humanoid bird. gets reprimanded by STF. does not care.

at home he doesn’t really do more than give you space when you need it, offer a listening ear when you need that. he’s really not doing anything grand, because that’s not really Gavin, but he lets you know that he cares, and that’s good enough.

Gavin will force Minor to look out for you at work, and will stage a freakin’ intervention if you’re getting overworked

“MC, you’re getting kidnapped.” wraps you into a blanket like a burrito and flies home with you in his arms

actually flying seems like a relaxing thing to do, especially at night

when the stars are twinkling, the moon is glowing, and you’re high above the city, all your problems seem just a little smaller

Kiro

the chances of him not knowing you’re feeling bad aren’t very small

he’s obviously very busy, and if he’s overseas...

being concerned that you’re going to be lonely without him like he is without you does make him call you as often as he possibly can

he’s a clingy pupper, what can i say

he picks up the stressed out tone in your voice though, even when you try to hide it

“Oh, Miss/Mr. Chips, you can’t fool me, The Best Actor Of All Time. Now, tell me...are you alright?” imagine him saying that last bit in like a hushed, slightly worried tone. i wouldn’t even be able to lie

he’ll let you complain as long as you want on the phone, even when Savin’s been calling him

he’ll just hide in the closet so he doesn’t get found

when he goes back home, the first thing he does is trap you in a big hug

he refuses to let you go, pouting about how worried he was, and how much better he’ll make you feel

“Because I’m your brightest star after all!”

if he’s free while you’re feeling stressed, for example, when you’re at home together, he’ll do something silly to cheer you up

like dance on the coffee table

yup. that’s why it broke.

i don’t think he’d be too focused on your problems, as in, he doesn’t need to know 100% of what’s going on

Kiro just kind of zooms in on the fact that you’re feeling sad, overwhelmed, stressed out, and he’ll do anything in his power to relieve that feeling

and that’s one of his qualities, to be fair

you’re not going to do stuff like have long chats about your feelings, but he is going to propose doing face masks together to calm down

maybe you’ll play a couple of video games together

at the end of the day, how could you worry when your sun is right next to you?

Shaw

look, i don’t know if you’re of legal drinking age...but Shaw’s coping mechanism is drinking and going out

so the moment you say you feel bad, he’s whipping out the wine, hun

lowkey wants to drag you to the club to make you forget about your problems...but even he realises how inappropriate that type of behaviour is

he’s actually a lot cuter when he’s a little tipsy

“Hm, beautiful.” “What?” “Nothing.”

Shaw’s also a huge diva, which is canon now you guys can’t stop me from making it canon

so you guys will have matching head bands on, face masks, glasses of wine, bottles of nail polish, talking about how horrible life is

you’re venting to him, and he vents back, and you just both come to the conclusion that life sUCKS, work sUCKS and Shaw...doesn’t suck at all

the next morning, you wake up slightly disheveled and a bit disoriented

but you feel significantly lighter

well, not physically, since there’s literally an arm slung around your waist

he doesn’t really change much about his behaviour...but you notice he’s a tad more affectionate

and a lot less mean

like, forehead poking suddenly turned into teasing hair ruffling.

tickling turns into soft kisses in the crook of your neck while you’re cooking

his rough hands intertwine with yours

“Don’t just overwork yourself, stupid.”

ahh, his words don’t match his actions at all

I had very little inspiration for Shaw...but I wanted to get this out ASAP. Feel free to send in any requests!

[pixieposts]

Dice Prompt 33: Ew that is so sappy I just might vomit

Want some self-indulgent fluff with a side of my secret addiction to poetry?  Cause that’s what you’re getting.  

AO3  

“You know you could just talk to him”

“I have no idea what you mean, I am reading”  

“No Cay, you’re holding a book up and occasionally glancing at it” Beauregard flicked his cheek, her voice rising as she continued to speak “in between staring at Fj—”  

“Shh!” Caleb glared, cutting her off “okay okay I was looking, I was not staring, please keep it down”  

She sighed, but the smirk on her face told him that it was sarcastic.  

“Some sister you are”  

“This is literally exactly what sisters are supposed to do, who even reads at a party?  Do you want me to talk to him for you?”  

“Absolutely not”

She bumped her shoulder into his suddenly, throwing him off balance and sending his book sliding across the old hardwood floors.  He cursed, shoving her back and standing up as she laughed, eyes locked on his errant book.  

As he caught up to it and stooped down, it was swiped from the floor by a large green hand.  Caleb swallowed and stood slowly, feeling his cheeks heat as he looked up into Fjords smiling face.  

“Beau messin’ with your books again?”  

“You could say that, ja”  

Fjord flipped the book open, and the heat in Caleb’s cheeks turned fierce, spreading to his ears and neck.  Fjord read with a curious look on his face, amber eyes trailing across the page.

“I never saw you as the poetry type” Darrows voice teased from as he walked up “Pablo Neruda?”  

Fjord smiled and shrugged “it’s not mine, but I like it” he turned back to Caleb “you highlighted this one, a favourite?”  

“I--well in a way, yes... I only read it this morn--”  

“Bitter love, a violet with its crown of thorns in a thicket of spiky passions, spear of sorrow, corolla of rage: how did you come to conquer my soul? What brought you?”

Caleb tried not to shiver as Fjord read, his low, smooth voice doing the words a service that Caleb felt his own never could.  He made the almost-anger that Caleb had associated with the sonnet soften into something so much more vulnerable, almost sweet.  Fjord smiled and held out the book, still open to the page he had been reading from.  Caleb took it slowly, a jolt like lighting going through him as their fingers brushed, and he could almost convince himself he saw a similar expression flash over Fjord's face.  He held the book to his chest, taking a steadying breath and mentally cursing Beauregard.  

“Th-thank y--” “Do you have any other favourites?”  

They blinked at each other for a moment, then Fjord chuckled and shrugged.

“Sorry, I just figured if you’ve been reading it, you might have some favourites?”  

“I... do not usually read them out loud, I likely would not do it justice”  

“Well” Fjord’s smiled softened “I won’t force you, of course...”  

Caleb felt the familiar flutter in his chest when Fjord’s eyes found his again, and he opened the book instinctively, flipping through the pages.  

“I loved you without knowing I did; I searched to remember you I broke into houses to steal your likeness, Though I already knew what you were like.  And, Suddenly, When you were there with me I touched you, and my life stopped.”  

He stopped reading, realizing with a sudden jolt that the room had gone quiet and the weight of many eyes was on him.  He looked around in horror, seeing that yes, in fact, this was his worse nightmare.  Everyone was staring, Beauregard’s expression dropped from good-natured teasing to guilty horror as she caught his eye.  He looked up and met Fjord’s amber eyes, a look of shock on his face.  

He dropped the book and ran.  

He ran all the way out the door of the old duplex, down the three blocks to the nearly identical one he shared with Beauregard and Jester, and up the stairs.  He fumbled with the key, collapsing against the inside of the door the second it was closed.  He panted, chest heaving and lungs on fire as he tried to calm himself enough to get up without falling.  His legs ached, his head ached, his chest ached.  He absolutely could not ever go back there, in fact, he should probably just start packing now.  He couldn’t face them again, not Beauregard or Jester, and definitely not Fjord.  

Eventually, he dragged himself up and into the shower, pulled on his most comfortable pajamas, locked his bedroom door and burrowed down into his bed.  

Maybe he could just hide out in here forever.  

---

He did hide, for a good three days in fact.  He managed to sneak food into his mini-fridge while the others were sleeping off the hangovers from the night before and knew his housemates well enough to know when he was safe to use the bathroom without running into them.  Beauregard knocked at one point, speaking in the tone closest to kindness, telling him that everyone got so drunk they wouldn’t even remember (“and it wasn’t even so bad anyway man, you’re good at reading out loud and stuff!”).  He elected to ignore her.  

Jester slid pictures under his door, a couple from her instant camera that showed the three of them at the beginning of the Cursed Evening, and one that she had drawn for him.  It was pretty, and abstract piece with almost floral patterns hidden in the colours.  He hung it up... but still did not speak.  

He checked his socials almost obsessively, looking for any mention of his social faux pas.    

Being one of the awkward quiet kids paid off sometimes, it looked like Beauregard was right about everyone forgetting.

By the end of the fourth day, he felt nearly ready to face the world again.  In an effort to test the waters he crept out of his cave that evening and threw together an easy dinner of pasta with meat sauce.  Half because he was sick of cold food, and half because it was something that both women would be distracted enough by to only tease him for a little while.  Just as he was setting the table he heard the tell-tale sound of keys in the lock.  He turned and pinned on a sheepish smile as the door opened.  

Jester walked in laughing, but her eyes went huge when she caught sight of him standing there.  

“Uhhmmm...”  

Before she could explain, Beauregard walked through the door... followed by Fjord.  

They all paused, staring at him as he stared back, feeling the colour drain from his face.  He cleared his throat, setting down the last plate.

“Hallo.”

“Hey Cay” “Hi Caleeeb”  

He looked at Fjord, whose cheeks had gone a ruddier shade of green, as he coughed.  

“I um... I have extra, if you want to stay”

“No, I—well actually that would be—that is...” Fjord stumbled over his words before setting down his bag and pulling out Caleb's book “I came to give you this, and maybe talk to you?  If you want I mean”  

“Oh” his instinct to be polite kicked in as he nodded towards the living room “ja sure, do you want to-?”  

“Yeah, yeah that works”  

He heard the shuffle of the girls tossing their jackets and shoes and making their way to the table, and his nerves ramped up.  They would definitely be eavesdropped, but there really wasn’t anywhere else to go in the house at the moment.  He stopped in the middle of the living room, wishing absently that he had tidied up more today.   There was a moment of mildly uncomfortable silence, before Fjord stepped closer to him, a sheepish look on his face.  

“So... I wanted to return your book” he reached and rubbed the back of his head with one hand, the nervous tick was endearing and Caleb felt his expression soften “I also... well, I wanted to—want to apologize, for what happened”  

“Apologize?”  

“Yeah, I kinda pushed you into reading, and I shouldn’t have, it was shitty of me when I knew you’d probably be uncomfortable” he looked down, face dark again “You just have a great voice, I wanted to—well, it doesn’t matter, it was shitty”  

“Oh” Caleb blinked in confusion “Well, thank you?  You did not need to apologize; I do not blame you for it.” he paused, the rest of Fjord’s statement settling in his brain “you... like my voice?”  

“Yeah” Fjord looked up, a tentative smile on his face “it’s nice, I like your accent.  Why do you think I started going to those books and wine things Jester set up?”  

“Oh” Caleb repeated, feeling like more of an idiot every time he said it “I-I never thought about it, well, no, I did think about it but I thought you were into Jest--” he bit his tongue, trying to stop the waterfall of stupidity that seemed intent on flowing from his mouth.  

“You thought I liked...Jester?”  

“Yes?”  

“No”

“Oh”  

They stood and stared at each other for a moment, Fjord's expression softening to a fond smile.  He stepped farther into Caleb’s space, holding up the book slightly.  

“You’re smart Cay, really smart, but I think you maybe missed a few points here”  

“Explain them to me?”  

“I started going to the wine nights because I liked listening to you talk, I asked you about your books, and your cat, and I wanted to hear you read the poem at the party because I like your voice.  I like you darlin’, not Jes”  

“You like... oh”  

“There you go” Fjord flipped the book open, revealing a scrap of paper being used as a bookmark “you missed part of the poem you know”  

Joy soared in Caleb's chest as the understanding that not only did Fjord like his voice, but he also liked him settled there.  It filled him with a new kind of warmth, and sent a bright smile across his face.  

“I know, tell me anyway?”  

“When you were there with me I touched you, and my life stopped: You stood before me, ruling me.  And you reign:   Like a wildfire in the forest, and the flame is your dominion”

He reached out as he spoke, capturing a lock of Caleb's hair between his fingers.  The red of his hair only looked more vibrate against the rich green of Fjords skin.  A wildfire among the trees.  

Caleb blushed, pulling his eyes from where Fjord held him to catch his gaze instead, and found him staring back.  As they stared, Beauregard's voice rang out from the adjoining kitchen:  

“Ew, that is so sappy I just might vomit.”

Caleb caught the mischievous glint in Fjord's eye only a moment too late.  

“If you didn’t like that, you’ll hate this”  

And then Fjord was kissing him, soft, almost chaste really, but with one hand in Caleb’s hair and one still trapped between them holding the book... it was perfect.  

[currywaifu]

𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: pansy 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐩: hyodo juza/reader 𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: sfw 𝐰𝐜: 3.3k words 𝐝𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨: Pudding~☆ ~, Anne, & ballpoint✨

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: reader teachers juza how different flower colours can mean different things 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫: this work is a part of the flower shop event, a series of unconnected flower shop AU one-shots

“Will you let him stay for a while?” Tsumugi asked you, your eyes immediately shifting to the tall, purple-haired man beside him. Though his expression was tough, he refused to even spare you a glance save for the when he first entered the store.

“Well…” you trailed off, still a little conflicted on what decision to make. On one hand, it was hard to refuse one of the flower shop’s regulars— especially when the explanation behind his sudden request reasonable enough. On the other hand, as nice as Juza probably was on the inside, if he was just going to stay silent the whole time it not only would be awkward, but there was a chance he’d scare some customers away.

As soon as the thought entered your head, you felt a little awful. He literally hasn’t said a word to you?

Making up your mind, you slowly nodded in response. “I don’t mind. He’ll just be observing the flowers, right? And looking at the reference book?”

“Yes, that’s pretty much it. Thank you for accepting,” Tsumugi turned to look at his junior, patting his arm lightly, “see you back home.”

“Thank you for your patronage, Tsukioka-san.”

“… see you, Tsumugi-san.”

As soon as the blue-haired man left the building, all was silent again.

What were you supposed to do? Would he appreciate you showing him round the store? Telling him about all the flowers? Do you ask him about what he needed to know for this role? Would he prefer to be left to his own devices and do it on his own?

When he suddenly called you by your name, well, surname, you’re caught off-guard. You turned to face him, and though he still can’t look you straight in the eyes, he at least knew you were listening.

“… sorry, I’ll try not to be a bother,” he says, frown still present but voice unexpectedly genuine, “…might scare your customers away, though.”

He didn’t sound sad about it, resigned if anything, but you found that you were kicking yourself anyway despite him not knowing what was going through your head a while ago. While you couldn’t comfort him or anything, there was at least something you could do to help him.

“Juza-kun,” you said, and for the first time, his eyes met yours. Perhaps if the two of you were to lock gazes at another place and time, you would have been intimidated; enclosed at the space of your flower shop, you somehow figured you’d end up enjoying his company.

“Would you like to see some flowers?”

…

Sunday.

“… don’t really get it,” Juza muttered, the pads of his fingers carefully brushing against the petals, “why I got chosen for this role.”

You paused your previous ministrations, setting aside your spray water bottle to look at him questioningly. By the manner Tsukioka-san explained Juza’s situation earlier, he made it seem as though the latter was enthusiastic to play this role— was he mistaken?

“What do you mean?” you asked, walking over to the same spot Juza stood. Neither of you faced the other, as though you two were talking to the vibrant colours instead.

“Flowers are delicate,” the petal slipped from his index, “I’m not,” he said matter-of-factly.

Neither of you could deny that.

“… maybe you’re focusing too much on thinking of flowers generally,” you replied, the silence consuming the both of you thereafter.

The two of you barely talked the rest of the day, the only other time the two of you glanced at each other was when he said his farewell.

Monday.

Coming back from school for your shift at the shop, you didn’t expect to run into the purple-haired man on the way there.

“Juza-kun?” He stood quietly at a street corner, his stillness making you wonder how long he’d been there. Weren’t… weren’t people looking at him suspiciously? Did he notice? What was he doing?

He greeted you back, and you found yourself in an awkward stare-off with him for a few seconds. With a cough, he darted his eyes away from yours. “You weren’t at the shop,” he replied gruffly.

Oh, was he waiting for you?

You let out a little laugh as you asked him to follow you, failing to miss the small hint of surprise on Juza’s face as he walked behind you. The walk was quiet, but your mind was noisy with questions.

“Did you want to look at the flowers again?”

“… thought about what you said.”

You couldn’t react immediately, already stood at the storefront. Stepping into the shop, you greeted your co-worker and your companion quickly distanced himself, taking to the assortment of potted plants instead.

“Is that delinquent your boyfriend or something?” your co-worker whispered quietly, peeking behind you worriedly. You stopped in the middle of tying your work apron, narrowing your eyes.

“What?”

“He was standing outside a while ago,” she explained, “but he left pretty quickly. I thought he was being shady, but then he comes in with you?”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. Right, you didn’t get the chance to mention Tsukioka-san’s request from yesterday. You didn’t think you had to?

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you corrected, immediately shutting down whatever notion she had in her head, “Tsukioka-san asked me to help him with something.”

You almost giggled at how quickly she perked up at the familiar name. You bet he didn’t even realise how popular he was.

As you bid your adieus in advance, you exited the storage backroom and nearly yelped at the sight of Juza hunched over the counter, looking through the reference book.

“Are you looking for something specific?” you asked, leaning onto the counter to peer over the pages.

“… yesterday, you said I was being too general.”

You raised your eyebrows. Was he still thinking about that? “Guess I did, yeah.”

He flipped over another page, eyebrows furrowed as he skimmed through the content in front of him. You were sure he was trying his best to absorb the content, but you had a feeling it wasn’t working out as well as he had hoped.

You placed a hand over the book, and though you barely covered anything he got your intention pretty quickly.

“That’s going to take you forever,” you insisted, angling the book to face you instead as you flipped the pages over to the table of contents.

“What do you need for your characterisation, anyway?” from the corner of your eye, you could see the gears turning in his brain.

“Something happy,” he started, and you found yourself mentally listing down all the readily available flowers that fit into that meaning. Should be easy enough, there were many flowers that corresponded to happiness—

“Something calm,” he continued, and you found yourself turning around to look at him incredulously. “Something innocent.”

Was he gonna keep going?

“Something passionate, and something about new beginnings.”

“That’s a lot,” you stated the obvious, racking your brain for any flower that could possibly mean all of those. Maybe even a set of flowers from the same family? Happiness and innocence were often associated with each other anyway, and there were many flowers that meant passion anyway— though more on the love side of things. The other two, though…

“I’d need to look a bit more into that,” you apologised, eyes flitting from name to name to find a similar flower, “did Tsukioka-san say anything that could help?”

Juza let out a small hum, “he gave me a list.”

You thought he’d pull out his phone or something, so you couldn’t help the small laugh as he brought out a ripped out piece of notebook paper from his pocket. As soon as he handed it to you, you found yourself ticking off the flowers that wouldn’t work— whether it be obscurity or having a too vague meaning.

Lavender… Lily… Magnolia…

You stopped at the next flower listed. Oh, that could actually work?

“I think I have a reference for you,” you said. Unbeknownst to you, Juza subconsciously registered that as the first time you smiled at him.

Tuesday.

Why weren’t you surprised he would be at the street corner?

“Juza-kun, just wait inside the store,” you told him, a little exasperated. You understood his intentions, but he didn’t have to keep waiting outside every time for your arrival? "What if I got back a little late?”

“S’fine,” he mumbled quietly, falling into step with you, “it was only for a few minutes.”

“Ouka High is a lot closer, though,” you reminded him, “at this rate you’re gonna end up as a landmark.”

The conversation fell short again, the background noise filling up your silence. The door chime rang as you opened the door, and you checked in with your co-worker while Juza found himself with the flowers again.

“Did the delivery—?”

“Yep, it came today! Aha, he’s actually looking at some of them right now?”

Thanking her, you headed over to him and stared at the vibrant pink.

“Gentleness,” you said, loud enough for Juza to hear you, “pastel pink pansies mean something along the lines of gentleness and innocence.”

With Juza’s head bowed down, you thought he himself looked a lot like a pansy— a flower that resembled the human face, intelligent and pensive, nodding forward late in the summer as though deep in thought. The colour of his hair didn’t help diminish your imagination, either. After minutes of silence, he finally spoke up again.

“Muku,” he muttered. You tilted your head in confusion.

“Muku?”

“… my cousin,” he explained, “is a lot like this flower.”

Maybe it was your imagination, but somehow he sounded, looked a little softer.

“You must be pretty fond of him,” even if he weren’t to reply, you knew you already had your answer.

Wednesday.

You were running. Somehow you got distracted by the new cookies they were advertising at a cafe near your high school. Perhaps it was because of your ongoing situation with Juza, but as soon as you read the words “dessert” and “edible flowers” you made a bee-line for the store.

… and you ended up buying more than one, too. A whole pack of 6, actually. Really, who could blame you? The blue, pressed pansies atop the honey glazed lemon shortbread cookies looked absolutely scrumptious!

But now you were in a rush to get to work, and in your haste, you accidentally bumped into someone. You found yourself a little shocked as you looked up, familiar purple hair coming into vision.

“Oh, Juza-kun,” you greeted, “you’re actually not at the corner today?”

“Got dismissed late,” he said with a shrug, “you?”

You let out a chuckle, lifting the paper bag so he could see. “I bought some cookies after school. I thought the flowers on them were cute,” you explained, and for a split second, you swore Juza’s eyes widened slightly.

“… cookies?”

“Hm? Yeah. Do you like cookies?”

“… they’re fine,” he turned to face sideways, though that didn’t hide the pink blooming on his cheeks.

Oh?

“I’ll give you one later,” you said, doing your best to stifle the laugh that threatened to escape. How unexpected! That was kind of cute, actually. “We’re going to keep blocking the sidewalk at this rate, we should go.”

Somehow, the silence wasn’t so awkward this time, a little calming, even.

Thursday.

That was weird. No sight of Juza on the way to the flower shop— was he running late? Would he not be coming today, after all? For some reason, the thought made you a little sad. Perhaps you were starting to enjoy his company, after all.

Your co-worker gave you a knowing glance as soon as you entered the building, and any confusion immediately dissipated as you saw your purple-haired… friend? (Did he consider you two as friends?) by the yellow pansies.

“Juza-kun!” you greeted with a smile, pleased to hear him say your name as he greeted you back. Even with just this much, you were glad to have crossed a new boundary with him.

You nearly ran over to him, only stopping midway as you heard quiet laughter. You turned to face your fellow florist, holding up your work apron.

Aha, right.

“I’m only doing this as a favour to Tsukioka-san,” she mimicked as soon as you stepped in the backroom, “he’s not my boyfriend~”

How was this woman older than you?

You groaned, trying to put on your apron as fast as possible before bolting out the door. “Byeeee,” you said, hiding from her line of sight as you rushed over to Juza.

“Hey,” you greeted again, alerting him of your presence, even though he probably already knew you were there beforehand.

“Haven’t seen this one yet,” he commented, eyes a little narrower as he looked at the bouquet of yellow blotch pansies. “You said they meant happiness, right?”

The corners of your lips turned upward. “Oh, you remembered!” you said in delight, if not a little proud, “yep! Happiness in general… but,” you trailed off, causing your companion to look at you with interest.

“Is there another meaning?”

You laughed a little awkwardly, not meeting his gaze while not exactly avoiding it either. “I mean, it’s more of a personal interpretation, so it’s not really important.”

You could still feel his eyes on you, making you feel a bit self-conscious. Aha, seriously, the atmosphere between the two of you was already good— what were you doing?

“… I do think your opinion is important, though.”

You coughed, looking at him with a mixture and disbelief. Surprisingly, he didn’t retract or back down from his statement at all, further amplifying your flustered feelings. He remained unbothered, almost as if he somehow didn’t realise your reaction?

“Um, well,” you began, “you know how there’s like a dark coloured blotch within the yellow follower?”

Juza hummed in response, letting you know that he was following.

“On one hand, I think it could mean pretending to be happy even though you’re in a dark place,” you explained, “but it could mean finding happiness even though you’re battling your inner demons…”

He doesn’t respond for what seems like minutes, and you have half the mind to quickly change the topic. Your interpretation was probably a bit of a reach, wasn’t it? Too edgy, perhaps?

“… that was good,” he said, “I liked what you said.”

Though his praise was simple, you found yourself beaming anyway. It… was nice to know that he appreciated what you said.

Before you could get another word in, you heard the door swing open. You should probably attend to that.

You turned your back to Juza, about to walk away from him until you felt a tug on your arm. You stilled, wondering what could have possibly prompted the sudden contact.

“Juza-kun?” you asked quietly, voice unexpectedly shaky.

“… your apron is loose.”

“Oh! Thanks, I, uh, probably didn’t tie it properly,” you reasoned, your arms reaching back behind you to tie it, a somewhat futile attempt but an attempt nonetheless.

You failed to notice the cherry red blush on Juza’s face, to focused on trying to remove your own.

Friday.

“So how many colours are there?”

“Way too many,” you answered, “like sometimes they come in one colour, sometimes two or three; sometimes pastel, bright, or dark— all of them probably have different meanings too.”

You propped your elbows on the counter, hands cupping your face. In the past few days, you were able to accompany Juza wherever in the shop, but Fridays tended to be more busy compared to the other weekdays, causing the need to be heedful for incoming customers.

“So even more colours to learn…” you laughed out loud. How seriously was he taking this? Just for one flower?

“I mean you only really need to stay until you have enough info to flesh out your character,” you pointed out.

He didn’t reply for a while, and you had nearly worried that something had happened back there, but Juza piped back in the conversation eventually.

“So red symbolises passion, right?”

“Yep!” you said, fingers idly playing with the loose thread of your apron, “though I supposed a lot of red flowers mean passion and love, huh.”

“… and the white pansies?”

“It can mean purity and spirituality,” you started to explain, “but some say that when you give it to someone, you’re telling them to give you a chance.”

The room fell silent once more, but over the course of a week you didn’t mind it anymore. It was a little comforting, actually, having someone around— not even to help you with the shop or anything, but just a friend to talk to.

As you were about to close the shop, Juza appeared in front of you.

“I think I have my character figured out now,” he told you, and you felt yourself swelling with happiness and accomplishment.

“That’s great! Our hard work finally pulled through!”

The tiny hint of loneliness that you felt got left unsaid.

“Sorry for bothering you all week.”

“Trust me, I wasn’t bothered at all!”

Saturday.

“Huh, he’s not gonna be here today?” your co-worker asked as you arrived for your shift, “I legit thought you were joking about just helping him out of the goodness of your heart or whatever.”

You smiled a little sheepishly, “he already figured out what to do for his role. I’m sure he must be busy practising now, so I probably won’t see him around.”

You pretended to not see the look of sympathy thrown your way.

Sunday.

Two weeks had passed since you last saw him, and you chided yourself for thinking that the shop felt a bit emptier lately. At what point did you get so fond of him?

Even now, on the way to the shop, you found yourself stopping at the street corner, as though he’d be there again and was just too shy to enter without you.

Seriously, just what were you doing? Friends could go a while without seeing each other, it wasn’t a big deal.

Or at least that was what you told yourself for a grand total of three minutes, because that all came crumbling down as you saw his familiar figure standing outside the flower shop.

“Juza-kun?”

You approached him with slow steps, briefly wondering if you just went through some next level hallucination, but the closer you got the more evident that he was the real thing.

“Umm, is there something you need?”

His eyes wouldn’t meet yours, not unlike the first couple of days you spent with him. “… here,” he unloaded the two things into your hands, one of which you recognised while the other was a mystery.

You checked the envelope first, a pleasant surprise greeting you.

“A play… your play ticket?” you asked him, and he nodded as though to confirm your assumption.

“I remember you said you weren’t busy during that time and day, so…” with a gentle smile, you tucked the ticket back inside the envelope for safe-keeping.

“I’ll be there to support you, for sure.”

With the mystery item set aside, only the white paper bag with the flower logo was left. Somehow, even without opening it, you already knew what the contents would be.

“… they had other colours and flavours for the cookies,” he said as you took out the small box of 6, “the ones with the white pansies are vanilla and cinnamon flavoured, and the ones with the pink pansies are dark chocolate and raspberry flavoured.”

It took a while for you to comprehend the situation, still a little befuddled by him even appearing again until you realised what he was trying to say.

“White and pink pansies,” you said with a laugh, before ushering him back inside the shop.

You suddenly felt a lot less lonely.

“ thank you for your hard work today at the flower shop! here, feel free to take home these pansies with you~ ”

【 pansy 】 admiration, remembrance  【 pink pansies 】 gentle tenderness, innocence 【 blue pansies 】 calmness, trustworthiness  【 yellow pansies 】 happiness, bright disposition 【 red pansies 】 passion, love 【 white pansies 】 innocence, purity, “take a chance on me”

“ maybe you’d like some more flowers before heading home? ”

-ˋˏflower shop masterlistˎˊ-  |  -ˋˏfic masterlistˎˊ-

[fatefulfaerie]

Lost and Found

Offshoot from this. Might still do a direct sequel to that one but I’m not sure.

Last post before Linktober. Probably. I know I keep saying that and then my brain is like but what if this idea...

Also sorry for the lack of content before October 1st.

“Sarqso, young vai,” Furosa said, her arms dangling on the counter. “My usual ice deliverer is on vacation so this shipment of ice is a goddess-send.”

Link was standing casually, with his hand on the counter.

“Don’t worry about it,” Link said. “You don’t even have to pay me the regular rate.”

“Good,” Furosa said as she stood up straight. “Because we don’t even have the budget for that. But if I may say so, you do look a touch older than when I first met you. If you are so inclined, I can give you and your friend each a Noble Pursuit, our signature cocktail, on the house. How old are you two?”

“We’re both eighteen,” Link said as Zelda came up beside him.

“Give or take a hundred years,” he muttered under his breath in his normal non-heightened voice, which made Zelda smile.

“Great!” Furosa said. “Right on the rupee! I’ll get those for you right away!”

“Link, are you sure about this?” Zelda asked as they sat on the barstools facing each other, Furosa leaving to prepare the drinks.

“We are of age.”

“But I’ve never had alcohol before. Have you?”

“Not that I remember,” said Link.

Zelda tipped her head with a slight smirk.

“They’re free,” Link argued. “We may as well try them. One sip.”

“Fine,” Zelda said. “But for the record Gerudo consider themselves adults at eighteen. For Hylians it’s twenty one. You’re being a bad influence on me with your impulsive courage.”

“You don’t have to drink it.”

“No, no,” Zelda said. “Don’t want you going around saying I’m a coward.”

“Here we are,” Furosa said, Link and Zelda’s gazes shifting. “Two Noble Pursuits for two lovely Hylian vais.”

It was in an elegant, long glass, the liquid hued orange like a sunset with a hydromelon wedge on the edge of the rim and two ice cubes floating in each.

“Thank you,” Zelda said to the old Gerudo bartender.

“Fair warning,” Furosa said. “It doesn’t have much effect on Gerudo but for small Hylians like you, you could be hammered in no time.”

Furosa departed, leaving them to their drinks. Link and Zelda took a gentle hold of the short stems of the glass with their fingers supporting the long bowl of the glass.

“Do we toast to something?” Link asked, assuming his normal voice now that all Gerudo were out of earshot.

“My father always did that,” Zelda replied. “The toast, I mean. Some long monologue about Hyrule’s prosperity.” Zelda shook her head. “I can’t guarantee that in its ruined state, and I’m not even sure if I want to rebuild the kingdom. Everything we’ve been through...with Calamity Ganon and with Ganondorf’s corpse...I think I want nothing more than to indulge myself into just taking a break.”

Link’s eyes had melted and saddened with concern, blue eyes attentive and watching hers.

“That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” Link said.

Zelda nodded.

“Yeah,” she said. “But…”

She looked down at her drink, pondering at the thought and not thinking about the drink at all. The ice was surely gradually melting as they talked.

“I think I want a longer break than I let on,” Zelda said. “I think I want to wait even longer before I return to the castle as Queen.”

“How long?” Link asked.

Zelda paused. She didn’t know why she feared Link would object. He had always supported her.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe a month, maybe a year and part of me.” She exhaled a sigh. “Part of me wants to forget it all together and stay in your Hateno house, living a simple life until we both die of old age.”

“That sounds nice,” Zelda heard Link say, looking up at him to see the smile she thought she heard. “But it’s ultimately your choice.”

Zelda took a deep breath in and out, closing her eyes before resettling them on Link.

“To something new,” she said, the words making Link smile more.

“To something new,” Link repeated.

Their glasses clinked, Link bringing the rim to his lips as Zelda decided to smell the beverage.

She immediately balked, coughing and feeling nausea rise up within her chest. Link, alarmed by the sound, didn’t meet the rim of his glass to his lips, stopping and setting the glass on the counter as Zelda teared up, noises from her throat similar to a cat’s hiss.

“Are you okay?” Link asked.

“It smells disgusting!” Zelda exclaimed. “I feel like I’m going to throw up!”

Link’s brow contorted. It didn’t seem that bad. He picked the glass back up and brought it to his nose.

It was sweet, with the slight bitter scent of alcohol.

“Smells fine to me,” Link said.

“I don’t think I’m drinking mine,” Zelda said, placing her elbow on the counter and her head in her hand, attempting to get over her nausea.”

She watched as Link took a sip, waiting for his reaction as his lips opened and closed. He looked as if he was trying to ascertain his own opinion until his eyes suddenly widened and the glass slipped from his hand, crashing to the ground with splattering broken glass. Zelda’s eyes had widened as her head came off her hand.

“Link?” she asked before Link’s eyes closed and he started to faint off the chair.

“Link!” she said, attempting to catch him, but only making it soon enough to be at his side after he crumbled to the ground with a thud.

“How much did he drink?” she heard Furosa ask. Apparently the commotion had attracted the worry of the bartender, who had come around to try and help.

“Just a sip,” Zelda said before shaking her head. She didn’t even look at Furosa, so concerned for Link she couldn’t afford the polite glance away, “but it wasn’t the alcohol. He faints like this sometimes.”

“He?”

Zelda panicked.

“Sh-she,” Zelda corrected. “Sorry, I misspoke. My worry must have jumbled my words.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Furosa asked.

Zelda finally looked over.

“No...no thank you...I know what to do. Thank you...I-I mean sarqso.”

Zelda returned her concerned gaze to Link as Furosa left, placing a gentle hand on his cheek.

“It’s been so long since you’ve gotten a memory,” she said quietly. Her hand changed so that the backs of her fingers grazed his cheek instead. She looked over at the sound of footsteps and saw some pedestrians.

As one of the pair said something indistinguishable to the other, Zelda thought upon how this must look, that Link resembled a very drunk vai. He picked the perfect time to remember something about a hundred years prior.

When Zelda looked to Link again, waiting for him to open his eyes, she wondered at what memory it would be, whether it was associated with Gerudo town or with her or even with the Noble Pursuit.

It was a couple minutes before his eyelids flitted open.

“Link!” She exclaimed, putting her hand back on his cheek.

“I’m okay,” he said with a smile and a hand on hers at his cheek. He sat up slowly. “I’m okay.”

“Are you feeling okay?” She asked quickly, her mouth running a mile a minute. “Did you get a memory? What was it? Did it have to do with your family? Or was it later? Did you--”

“Zelda,” he interrupted with a slight laugh. “I’ll tell you all about it, don’t worry. But first, let’s get out of the street. The Hotel Oasis isn’t far. I’ll pay for the broken glass later.”

“Okay,” Zelda said as they both stood up, each other’s hands clasping into each other. They walked along the street with swinging arms.

“One bed or two?” Link asked.

“Two, I think,” Zelda reasoned. “Being close to you is just so abhorrent.”

“All right, one it is,” Link said, catching Zelda’s sarcasm.

It wasn’t long before they faced each other on their bed, legs crossed and knees almost touching. The innkeeper had raised a brow when they asked for one bed and although the inference she made about their relationship was correct, Link and Zelda both reddened when she asked them not to engage in any “funny business”.

Link and Zelda were an incoherent mess explaining that they had never done that and that although they were technically dating, they preferred to wait until after marriage. It was obvious the explanation wasn’t needed, even as Link and Zelda explained that they just liked to cuddle in each other’s arms.

They stopped their rambling when the innkeeper was clearly unamused and sat on their bed. It occurred to them that the innkeeper more than likely thought of them as a gay couple, Link looking like a vai, but with their masks on and homosexuality just as acceptable as heterosexuality anyway, they didn’t really care.

“The memory,” Zelda prompted excitedly where they sat. “What was it?”

Link smiled, in fact, his lips curled inwards, as if he were trying to stifle a laugh.

“What?” Zelda said with an unrestrained laugh.

“You’re not going to believe me,” Link said.

“Of course I will,” she said. “Now out with it.”

He looked so excited to tell her, to see her reaction, his smile was brimming with impatience.

“It involved you,” Link said. “A bit after we went to Eldin. You were about sixteen. Your father had a banquet and...you got drunk.”

“No, I didn’t,” Zelda insisted.

Link raised his brow.

“Really, Link,” she insisted. “I didn’t. I know I said I would believe you but I’ve never been drunk.”

“Oh yeah?” He challenged. “What do you remember about that night?”

Zelda shrugged.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Most things from those times are foggy. You know how it goes.”

“Try,” Link said, Zelda exhaled a sigh and looked up at the ceiling for answers.

“I was at the banquet and then you escorted me back to my chambers when it was done...at least I think you did.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“But I wasn’t drunk,” she said. “I told you I’ve never had alcohol. I know for sure you escorted me back to my chambers because the next morning I woke up in my bed with the absolute nastiest headache. And I was nauseous...”

Those last four words were slowed down as she figured it out. That’s why she had such a reaction to the Noble Pursuit. Her mouth popped open.

“I was drunk!” She exclaimed. “How did I get drunk?! Oh goddesses, did my father know?!”

Link shook his head.

“Urbosa told him you were sick,” Link said. “I escorted you back to your chambers after you mistook the Noble Pursuit for something non-alcoholic.”

Zelda brought a hand to her mouth almost smiling as she anticipated both the hilarity and embarrassment of what was to follow.

“What did I do?”

Link’s lips pursed inward.

“In my eyes, you suddenly went from a princess to be kept at a distance to a girl clinging to my shirt. You barely even recognized who I was and then you went on and on about how perfect I was.”

Zelda shook her head.

“Goddesses, I don’t remember this at all.”

“I took you back to your chambers and told you it was time for bed,” Link continued. “And then you...kissed me.”

Zelda’s eyes widened and she felt her face pale.

“On the lips,” he clarified, “before proceeding to throw up immediately after. I cleaned you up as we talked about the kingdom’s expectations and after asking me if you were drunk, I led you to your bed. I went to leave immediately after when you thanked me for the first time ever. I smiled and departed.”

Zelda’s smile had faded and her eyes were fixed on him.

“The next morning I would learn that you didn’t remember any of it and at the time I convinced myself the kiss didn’t matter to you because you were drunk.”

“So…” she made out, lowering her hand as she figured it out. “So that whole time...we had already kissed? And...and you said nothing?”

She searched nothing with her eyes.

“Because you were keeping it hidden, weren’t you?” she asked rhetorically. “To shield me from embarrassment, to shield yourself from my anger and...to shield us from a scandal that would take on a life of its own.”

Link nodded.

“I assumed so, too.”

Zelda shook her head.

“I just can’t believe you knew that whole time why I resented you, your perfection, my imperfection, I guess it makes sense why you so easily forgave me, how we so easily became friends.”

Zelda let out a chuckle.

“I didn’t think I had lost a memory, too,” she said. “This is just bizarre.”

“Welcome to my life,” Link jived.

Zelda giggled as she tipped her head, her eyes adoring him.

“I wish I could kiss you now.”

Link put on a mischievous smile, looking to his right, to his left, and back to lean closer into her.

“The innkeeper is gone,” he said. “No one will see if we take off the masks connected to our veils.”

Zelda peered around Link at the empty street outside before looking around the inn.

“I suppose.”

She took off her blue mask, but that wasn’t the dangerous part, Zelda concerned as Link took off his. She considered them lucky he was facing away from the street.

“See?” He asked rhetorically when no one seized him for being male. “No problem.”

He leaned forward and captured her lips with his, the hero and the princess kissing deeply and losing their focus on anything else. The “Sound the alarm!” was not regarded by either of them as they made out with each other, their hearts burning only to continue.

“A voe has been detected!” It was just white noise to them. “Capture him at once!”

Link suddenly felt himself pulled from her lips, from her all together by strong hands on his arms.

“Link!” Zelda exclaimed, coming to her hands and knees on the bed before hastening off it, two Gerudo dragging Link away.

She followed them through the town, racing to catch up with how swiftly they dragged him, only to toss him into the sands outside the entrance.

“You didn’t have to throw him!” Zelda exclaimed to one of the guards.

“I apologize, Your Highness,” the Gerudo guard said. “But you know the law. You know what we had reason to believe.”

Zelda furrowed her brow at the insinuation. Link would never do that, but Zelda knew she couldn’t overturn Gerudo law. Link had already sat up when Zelda approached him, Zelda kneeling in front of him and looking back at the guard.

“No voe are allowed within the town!” the guard exclaimed with her spear pointed at Link. “It’s a rule of the Gerudo! Do not come back here! Not ever!”

Zelda exhaled a sigh with closed eyes before turning her head and opening them to look at Link.

“I’m sorry, Link,” Zelda apologized. “I shouldn’t have suggested we kiss.”

Link shook his head.

“It’s fine,” he responded. “I probably would have kissed you anyway.” He released a chuckle. “I’ve actually never been caught before, at least not like this.

“Wait,” he said with a different train of thought. “You are still technically the princess, aren’t you? Can’t you do something about the rule?”

Zelda shook her head.

“I don’t want to disrespect their culture, it’s unfair.”

“Why do they even have that rule? Do you know?”

Zelda nodded in affirmation.

“It’s myth by now, one of those cautionary tales that speak of danger and are meant to elicit fear, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t justified.”

“What do you mean?” Link asked, his arms were now casually draped over his bent knees and Zelda had already repositioned herself to sit on her heels.

“It is said they used to allow men when the town was first built,” Zelda explained, “but a Gerudo woman was raped and conceived a child. The woman was regarded as ruined, and although she loved her child, she never found romantic love. Gerudo do not allow men because of that story, but also because they want to control the way in which they find a mate. They want to be ready for it, to have reached adulthood and have prepared for a pilgrimage to Hyrule. On this journey, they get to know themselves, and eventually, they find a mate who matches them. It is courting on their own terms, where the men don’t hold all the power. That is why they hold classes on courting, to prepare those who have chosen to undergo the pilgrimage for the challenge ahead.”

“Wow,” Link said. “I had no idea. So just now they thought…”

Zelda nodded at the inference.

“Zelda,” he said as he too sat on his heels, taking her hand. “I would never do that to you, I promise. I could never hurt you like that, betray your trust in such a manner.”

“Link,” Zelda said with her infectious laugh. “I know you wouldn’t. But they don’t.”

The sky had already started to darken with the sunset, but the approaching night started to bring a chill, especially cold considering their light Gerudo fabrics.

“It’ll be cold soon,” Link said, looking out at the desert.

“Maybe we can stay at the Bazaar,” Zelda said. “Head back to Hateno in the morning.”

Link sighed, looking in the direction of Gerudo town, the one he was just ousted out of.

“It’s just…”

“What?” Zelda asked, searching him.

“Nothing,” he said. “It’s nothing.”

Link stood up to avoid suspicion and it wasn’t long before they started their walk to Kara Kara Bazaar.

But Link knew that they were walking away from the jewelry shop, where a special order was waiting for Link, a ring with a diamond in the center. He had planned to pick it up late in the night when Zelda was sleeping in the Hotel Oasis.

But if he could no longer enter the town, he would have to find a Gerudo who could pick it up for him.

And then, on an orange sunset like this one, at the top of Tuft mountain next to the lake shaped like a heart, Link would propose to his Princess.

“The men holding the power,” he said, the thought suddenly spurring him with worry. “Although the power should be equally shared, sometimes that is unfortunately not the case. Do you...do you ever think I hold that power?”

“Link, of course not,” Zelda insisted. “You’re the best boyfriend a girl could have. You let me speak my mind probably more than I should.”

“But...but what if I did something that steps on your power...made a decision that puts you in a place to...to choose one thing or another.” Link sighed. “Maybe I’m overthinking it.”

“The Gerudo are a race made up entirely of women. There is a great power in that and they wish to harness it. But that isn’t the case with our relationship, Link. As long as we approach everything knowing we both have input, everything will be fine.”

Link nodded, supposing there was a difference between asking her to marry him and forcing her to marry him against her will. Perhaps he was overthinking it.

“Right.”

He felt Zelda take his hand and his worries were soothed. Link smiled with a warm heart knowing the love of his life was beside him, safe from harm, and may even choose to be by his side forever.

[thepatricktreestump]

Crush pt1 - peter parker imagine

crush masterlist

part 1 - study hall

               Although none of the other girls in your class would agree with you, you were convinced that Peter Parker was the most attractive guy at Midtown High. He had stolen your heart from the very first day of AP Chemistry, confidently answering some basic questions concerning the structure of carbon compositions, and you basically swooned. You found smart guys unbelievably sexy, and ones who were humble were twice as good. Parker was a quiet kid, very sharp and sensible, but also friendly and courteous. Unlike the other boys at your school, he wasn’t loud mouthed and cocky, throwing outrageous parties and trying to hit on every girl within a five foot radius. It was refreshing to see a guy your age not be obsessed with copying down your homework or trying to invite you to a college frat party. Peter Parker was different, and you liked that about him. You liked it a lot.

            He kept to himself and two his friends mostly, MJ and Ned, which made you more interested in him and his life. Most days he either wore these adorable blue V-neck sweaters or these goofy science pun t-shirts that looked as if ordered in a bulk pack from Amazon. He was a proud member of the photography club, robotics club, debate team, and Science Olympiad. He was one of the smartest people you knew, and in turn, that simply made him the most attractive. Perhaps it was your father who had established your high standard in boys, seeing as he dabbled in astrophysics and technological engineering as a hobby. He was Ironman after all, being an overachiever was practically a household expectation. You were pretty smart yourself, and although it could be looked upon as rude or inconsiderate, the truth was you liked to surround yourself with others who either matched or challenged your intellect.

               Since establishing your crush on Peter Parker, you strived to spend more time with him. You told yourself you could start it off as a friendship with a silly crush and see how things went from there. Towards the end of the class one day, you were determined to talk to the boy. The plan was to ask him to go over some of his notes with you, maybe make it a study date situation, hope he didn’t call your bluff. It wasn’t that you didn’t understand the lesson, you understood everything perfectly fine. Hell, you could probably speak stoichiometry in your sleep. However, you needed a good reason to introduce yourself, so you hoped for the best and decided to take a leap of faith. Nervously smoothing your sweaty palms down on your thighs and gathering your books up from your desk, you walked over to where he was talking to his best friend Ned. “Hey,” you tapped him on the shoulder and he turned around, staring at you with his soft hazel eyes, brunette hair swept up neatly, eyebrows raised in curiosity.

               “Oh hi,” he gave a warm smile and nervously cleared his throat. “What’s uh, what’s up?”

               “I’m y/n, I sit over there,” you pointed out as an introduction.

               “I think I’ve seen you around. Aren’t you Tony Stark’s daughter?” he cocked his head to the side and you groaned slightly, ever the exhausted with being immediately associated with your father.

               “Yup that’s me,” you sighed. “Uh, anyways, I noticed you seem pretty caught up on this lesson and I was having some difficulty understanding some of the concepts, I was hoping maybe I could borrow your notes sometime? If that’s okay?”

               “Oh?” he seemed surprised, but flattered, blush rising to his cheeks. “Sure! Of course. I’m Peter by the way, Peter Parker.” He gave a nervous laugh and then shook his head. “My notes aren’t the neatest in the world but if you think they could help, I’d be more than happy to lend you them for a night or two.”

               “Thanks,” you nodded. “That would be great. I think I’ve seen you in my lunch period too, so I could always just return them to you before class then.”

               “Yeah, yeah,” he agreed. “Or uh, if you wanted, we could always hang out at the library afterschool and I could explain it to you. Protein structural components can get a little tricky sometimes.”

               “For sure,” you chuckled, realizing how lame you probably sounded laughing over chemistry. “I’m usually free afterschool, as long as you’re okay with it, that sounds great to me!”

               “How afterschool tomorrow?” he offered. “Just for an hour or two?”

               “Perfect,” you couldn’t help but blush yourself. “Thanks, Peter. Really.”

               It felt like your heart was beating out of your chest as you walked away, envisioning his adorable smile still in your mind. He was so sweet, and kind, and understanding. Pretty eager too. You had to stifle a laugh as you heard Ned slug Peter on the shoulder and whisper shout, “Dude! You just scored a study date with Y/n Stark!”

               “See ya, Parker,” you turned around and winked, walking out of the classroom and towards your locker.

               The next day in class, you kept glancing back in your chair to look at him, smirking to yourself every time you caught him staring back. He was shy alright, and nervous, but it made him all the more adorable. That morning you made sure to fix your hair up and put on a little bit of lipstick, and after being thoroughly interrogated by your overbearing father, you were able to get out the door in one piece. It wasn’t that you were overexerting yourself into catching his attention, but you’d be lying if you said you weren’t hoping to have him compliment you. The rest of the school day, you caught yourself using the rest of your attention to calculate how much time was left until you could rush to the library and actually talk to him for once.

               “I thought you’d never show up,” you teased as he took a seat next to you at one of the tables, setting his backpack down on the floor and sighing.

               “Me either,” he groaned. “Ned wouldn’t stop bugging me about this being a date.” He gave a nervous laugh and turned to you, but you weren’t laughing. Instead you looked at him, smiling sweetly, unable to resist your temptation.

               “It can be a date,” you shrugged, opening up your textbook and waiting for a response, only to catch him dumbfounded, struggling to find words to say.

               “Oh, I mean- I-” he stammered and you chuckled.

               “I’m just playing with you, Parker,” you playfully reassured. “Now come on, open up those science notes so I can take a good look. I’m still lost on the GPCR structure similarities.”

               “That’s what doesn’t really make sense to me though,” he mused, doubtful as he instead swiped your notes across the table, reading them over and pointing at your diagrams. “I think you do. All of these are mapped out perfectly, and your comparisons are spot on.”

               “Well there’s no harm in getting clarification,” you replied, trying to grab back your notes but he held them out of your reach, narrowing his eyes. Peter didn’t buy it.

               “Why do you need my help, y/n? You’re literally the smartest girl in school. Your father is Tony Stark for heaven’s sake, you don’t need tutoring,” he insisted. “If anything, you should be tutoring me.”

               “You?” you scoffed. “Pete, you’re varsity on every academic team there is. No way.”

               “I just don’t get it,” he admitted. “Why’d you ask for my help? It’s obvious you understand the lesson perfectly fine.”

               “Well…” you blinked at him, shocked at how quickly he had seen right through your cover. “I uh, I don’t know.” Your face turned a bright shade of pink and you began to feel queasy. “Can I be honest?”

               “Of course,” he nodded, concerned but also curious as to what you had to say.

               “I just wanted an excuse to talk to you,” you confessed, embarrassed. “I always see you around and you seem so smart and you’re a part of all these clubs and teams and I don’t know…”

               He looked surprised, almost confused, but then smiled. “Me? Why me?”

               “I dunno. You seem really sweet.”

               “Thanks. You too.”

               “I was thinking maybe we could be friends? If that’s not too weird or-”

               “No, no that sounds, that sounds great,” he insisted, clearly flustered. He looked up at you, eyes sparkling, lips curled up in a smile. “You could’ve just asked you know.”

               “Yeah I’m uh, I’m clearly a fool when it comes to those kinds of things,” you laughed nervously, scratching the back of your head.

               “Well, since we’re here anyways,” Peter decided. “Want to do homework together instead?”

               “Sure,” you agreed. “That sounds great.”

               Both of you spent the next couple of hours solving Gauss-Jordan elimination matrices and memorizing resistance series equations. In a lot of ways, Peter Parker was just as much of a nerd as you were. It was comforting to know someone’s brain worked the same way yours did, excited to be challenged with theorems and calculations, determined to find solutions and build upon your already established intellect. When the library eventually closed, you walked to the cafeteria vending machines and grabbed some chips and sodas, exchanging conversation and making each other laugh with stupid jokes.

               “Sit at my lunch table tomorrow,” Peter invited after having added you on snapchat. “MJ and Ned will be there, and you can bring some of your friends if you want too.”

               “Okay,” you grinned. “Count me in.”

               Walking home, your entire stomach was filled with butterflies. Things couldn’t have gotten better. He was genuinely funny, and clever, and really sweet too. You hoped and prayed things would go well between you two. Practically skipping to the elevator, you tried to hide the stupid smile on your face in hopes that your dad wouldn’t pry too much. However, you instantly cringed when you heard JARVIS’ voice greet you as the doors slid open and you reached your floor.

               “Good evening, Miss Y/n. It seems that you have finally arrived home from school,” he chirped and you groaned, knowing what was to follow. “Your father has requested that I alert him upon your arrival, he has been inquiring about your whereabouts-”

               “Yeah, yeah, I know JARVIS,” you mumbled, setting your bookbag on your chair and frowning. “I came home late, I was at study hall with a friend.”

               “You are approximately three and a half hours late from your usual arrival,” JARVIS informed.

               “I am aware,” you insisted yet again, noticing your dad march towards you from a hall. Part of you was surprised he even noticed you were gone at all. Most of the time he was either out with the Avengers on a mission or cooped up in the lab working on a new project.

               “And where were you afterschool, young lady?” he inquired, arms folded, peering at you above the rim of his glasses.

               “I was at study hall with a friend,” you repeated, chewing at your lower lip, trying to play it off. “It took a little longer than I thought it would, I’m sorry.”

               “You couldn’t give me a call at least?” he asked, annoyed.

               “I didn’t think you cared,” you shrugged.

               “Well I’m your father, so I do,” he argued and you nodded, growing quiet and waiting to hear whatever scolding you had coming to you.

               Sometimes you wondered why he was constantly on your case. Maybe with him being an Avenger and all, always exposed to threats and danger, it translated to him being constantly worried about you. You knew it was just cause he cared, but at times, it did get a bit overbearing. You’ve learned by now to just nod your head and respond with “yes dad” and “I’m sorry dad” interchangeably.

              “Much less, why are you all dolled up?” he looked you up and down in disapproval. You glanced down at your skirt and sweater, remembering the way he had inquired about your hair and makeup this morning. He wasn’t wrong. You rarely ever put any effort into your appearance when it came to going to school. You usually threw on some jeans and a hoodie and made your way out the door. “If I didn’t know any better I’d think you were trying to impress someone.”

             “I’m not,” you lied, rolling your eyes. “I just felt like changing it up today.”

            “Uh huh,” he drew out. “Twenty bucks says your little friend at study hall was a boy.”

            “Dad!” you whined and he smirked.

            “That’s all I need to know,” he threw up his hands defensively, secretly proud of himself. “Hey kid, get your homework done and then meet me in the lab. Bruce has a project for you concerning some Dijkstra’s algorithms that are right up your alley.”

            “Lucky for you I already got my homework done in study hall,” you pointed out. “So let me grab a snack real quick and I’ll meet you down there.”

            “That’s my kiddo,” he smiled proudly. “See ya in a bit.”

[backpfeifenguy]

The Boy’s No Good: Chapter 1

Note: This story is a sequel to All In Your Head

TW: Emotional abuse Beast Boy was feeling… excited? Maybe? He wasn’t sure exactly what he was feeling right now, but he was feeling it, because today was definitely a special day; today was the day that Raven brought her boyfriend to the tower. Her boyfriend? You fool, YOU should be her mate! He was really happy for her; she’d had to deal with so much, it was nice to know that she had someone. She could be yours if you weren’t such a coward! His Beast… wasn’t quite so supportive. She hates you. And his anxiety issues were, as always, unhelpful. But honestly, he didn’t care; Raven was an amazing woman, and she deserved to be happy. If Raven’s mysterious boyfriend could manage that then he was alright in Beast Boy’s books.

Pathetic! You spent years trying to make her smile; years! And now someone else was having some better luck; just as long as she had a reason to smile. It’s not as though you’d ever be that reason. He really needed to meditate; ever since Raven taught him the basics he’d come to rely on it to keep himself centred. It wasn’t a daily thing like in Raven’s case, just when he really felt like he needed to; usually about three times a week. 

About an hour later, Beast Boy was feeling a lot better; his head was much clearer, and his Beast seemed to have gotten the message and shut the hell up. Funnily enough, Raven seemed to be the opposite of his relative calm; it was honestly a novel experience. She was pacing back and forth, scowling and muttering to herself; the picture of anxiety.

“He’ll be here any minute, so be on your best behaviour, okay?” Raven turned to face their leader. “Nightwing, no interrogating him.”

“I already said I wouldn’t!” Nightwing chuckled; he’d mellowed out more than a little. Beast Boy suspected Starfire was the cause.

“Cyborg, take it easy on the ‘protective big brother’ act this time.”

“I know, I know.” He grinned sheepishly. “Sorry again about the goth kid.”

“Starfire, I know that this is difficult, but please don’t hug him too tightly.”

“I will endeavour to avoid causing any harm or discomfort.” Starfire replied solemnly.

“And Beast Boy…” He braced himself; this was likely to be thorough. “You’re probably fine.”

“Wait, seriously?” Beast Boy asked, mildly stunned.

Raven shrugged. “You’re good at making friends. I trust you.” 

“I, uh… I won’t let you down.” Said Beast Boy, blushing faintly.

“I know you won’t,” replied Raven. The doorbell rang. “He’s here,” she noted, making a beeline for the door. After a moment, she walked back in, a man on her arm. “Guys, I’d like you to meet Leopold.”

He was, in Beast Boy’s inexpert estimation, handsome enough. Well, if you liked 6’2”, broad shoulders, lean muscles (they’re all for show) and a strong jawline; personally, Beast Boy considered the whole ‘classically handsome’ look to be kind of overrated. That said, he could see the appeal of those big, cobalt-blue eyes and that swept-back chestnut-brown hair, at least in theory. But he supposed that, if you were looking for the sort of conventionally attractive guy who had tanned skin and perfectly straight white (blunt) teeth, Leopold wasn’t too shabby. 

To his surprise, Leopold went right past the other Titans and walked right up to Beast Boy, hand extended. “It’s great to finally meet you; Raven’s told me so much about you.”

“That’s a loaded sentence,” Beast Boy quipped, shaking Leopold’s hand. It practically went without saying that Leopold had the sort of firm handshake that was typically associated with honesty and overall strength of character. And of course he had a relaxed, disarming smile; at this point, anything else would have been ridiculous.

“Relax,” Leopold chuckled. “It’s mostly been good things.” There was no denying it; Leopold had some serious charisma. Beast Boy had known the guy for less than two minutes and he already liked him. And yet… something about him felt a little off; Beast Boy had learned to trust his instincts, and they were telling him that something was wrong.

“So Leopold, how did you and Raven do the meeting?” Starfire asked politely.

“We met at the library,” He explained. “Our hands touched when we both reached for Fear and Trembling, we got into a conversation, and suddenly it was closing time.”

“We spent three hours talking philosophy,” Raven said, a tiny smile on her face. “After that, I figured I’d take a chance and ask him out.”

“That sounds about right,” Nightwing chuckled. “Flirting over Kierkegaard.”

“Raven’s nothing if not consistent.” Said Cyborg.

“I just don’t get why no-one beat me to it,” said Leopold. “With her brains and beauty, I couldn’t believe she was single.”

“I believe we have all expressed similar opinions.” Said Starfire.

“The dudes in this town are idiots.” Beast Boy said, firmly and confidently.

 “Yeah, but seriously; it’s just so weird!” Leopold exclaimed. “Normally when a girl like Raven’s single, you expect there to be something wrong with them.”

“Yeah, well I’m not exactly perfect,” said Raven. “I’ve got a few issues.”

“Well obviously, but I mean something wrong. Like, ‘everyone’s afraid to talk to you’ level stuff.” 

“So what do you do for a living?” Beast Boy asked brightly, eager to change the subject after seeing Raven’s discomfort.

“Well I’m working in marketing at the moment, but I’ve also been shopping some scripts around.” Successful and creative. 

“What are your scripts about?” Asked Cyborg.

“Well, my favourite’s about a brilliant, misunderstood young man struggling to make it as an artist.” Well, not THAT creative.

“Sounds great.” Beast Boy managed after a second. What must his other scripts be? A genius who’s a prick? A gay couple tragically dying for two hours of runtime? Hack. It occurred to Beast Boy that, for an entity originally composed of raw instinct, the Beast had gotten pretty good at sarcasm. 

“Very classic.” Nightwing noted, a barely audible tremor in his voice telling Beast Boy that he was struggling not to laugh.

“I’m already working on a few changes though;” He looked fondly at Raven. “The words have just come so much easier since we started dating. I think she might be my muse.”

“That is very sweet,” said Starfire warmly.

Leopold shrugged. “I’m just saying how I feel.”

They made conversation for another twenty minutes before Raven announced that she and Leopold were heading out. Moving quickly, Beast Boy was able to stop Leopold before he left the tower, the two of them alone in the lobby. “Hey Leo, can I talk to you for a minute?”

“Sure,” said Leopold. “What did you want to talk about?”

“Look, I know this might sound a little weird but… just be good to her, okay?” He sighed. “Raven’s had a tough life, especially when it comes to love, so don’t hurt her.”

“Understood,” said Leopold. “I’ll take care of her. But since you’re here, I have to ask… do you have a thing for Raven?”

“WHAT?!” Beast Boy’s eyes bugged out of his skull.

“It’s just that, you know, you just walked right up to me, did the whole ‘don’t hurt her’ bit; feels kind of like you’re into her. Seriously, I’m getting some serious ‘unrequited love’ vibes.” His features arranged themselves into a confident, self-important smirk. “I’m a scriptwriter, after all; we know about this kind of thing.” Asshole.

“Relax dude, you’ve got nothing to worry about from me.”

Leopold’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Okay then; sorry if I got weird for a minute there. I know it’s dumb, but sometimes I get a little territorial about stuff like this. It’s like an instinct or something.” His face split into a grin. “I guess you’d know all about that, huh?”

“About what?” 

“You know, instincts and stuff!” He clapped a hand on Beast Boy’s back, a little harder than necessary. “I figure you’re the expert when it comes to raw animal impulse.” 

“Yeah,” Beast Boy chuckled awkwardly. Is he mocking us? How DARE he?! Tear him to shreds! “Total expert.”

“So,” said Cyborg, his tone measured. “Leopold.” 

“He seems nice enough.” Nightwing observed.

“Indeed,” said Starfire.

“Sure,” agreed Beast Boy. “But… did he seem kind of weird to you?”

“Weird?” Cyborg’s eyebrow shot up; he’d long ago learned to trust Beast Boy’s instincts.

“I dunno, I just got kind of a weird feeling from him. And the Beast really didn’t like him.”

That was worrying; as Cyborg understood it, the Beast wasn’t especially interested in most people; it viewed the world in the basic categories of friends, threats, and Raven, who it was strangely obsessed with protecting… oh. Oh! “What’s the matter grass stain?” Cyborg leered. “Feelin’ a little territorial?”

“Come on, dude!” Beast Boy exclaimed. “I’m trying to have a serious conversation here!”

“A serious conversation about Raven.” Cyborg replied, grinning hugely.

“That’s no surprise,” Nightwing quipped. “All his serious conversations are about Raven.”

“I think it is quite sweet, if misguided.” Opined Starfire, smiling indulgently.

“It’s not like that!” Beast Boy squeaked, blushing faintly. “The Beast just wants her to be okay; I just want her to be okay!”

As tempting as it was to keep teasing his best friend, Cyborg knew it was time to ease up a little. “Okay, so you’re sayin’ your upstairs roomie doesn’t like Raven’s boyfriend, so you’re feeling a little bit of totally platonic concern.” The sarcasm in Cyborg’s voice made it clear just how ‘platonic’ he thought BB’s thought process was. “Well, your instincts are usually good, so I think I’ll run a quick background check on the guy; criminal record, news headlines, that kind of thing.”

“He had an East Coast accent,” Nightwing noted, slipping effortlessly into ‘detective mode’. “Almost a Gotham, but not quite. Considering the Germanic name, I’m guessing Bludhaven; I’ll ask around with my contacts, see if anyone dangerous matching his description skipped town in the last couple of years.”

“And I will do the talking with some of the other Titans ladies,” Starfire offered. “We shall keep an eye out for untoward behaviour. I assume you would prefer that Raven not be informed of your concern?” 

Beast Boy shrugged. “I don’t want to worry her if it turns out to be nothing.” 

Starfire smiled warmly. “I keep my lip fastened around friend Raven.”

“That went better than expected,” said Raven. “Nobody did anything weird or stupid, and they all seemed to like you.”

“I don’t know about that,” said Leopold. “I was getting kind of a weird vibe from Beast Boy; I don’t think he likes me much.”

“Seriously?” Raven could hardly believe what she was hearing. “Weird; Beast Boy usually gets along okay with pretty much everyone.

“Yeah, well he seemed kind of… off around me, like he was on edge or something. Said some real weird crap to me just before I left.”

“Weird?” 

Leopold shrugged. “I’m not sure, but I think he might have threatened me.”

“He threatened you?” Raven asked, incredulous. “That’s… crazy.”

“Like I said, real weird.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” said Raven. “I’ll talk to him about it.”

Leopold smiled. “Thanks for that Raven. You’re the best.”

Well, that marks the end of chapter one! I hope you enjoyed it and, just for laughs, here’s a little game you can play; it’s called “spot the red flags”. Just read through the chapter looking for things that Leopold says or does that feels like a red flag to you, list them in the comments, and if you spot the most red flags by the time I start the next chapter, you win! Winners will be acknowledged every chapter, so have fun!

[misssquidtracy]

The Great Tracy Cook Off

I’ve seen a number of posts floating around about the Tracys doing their own version of a cooking show (no idea how old these posts are). Coincidentally, my own mega fic is currently exploring this very scenario.

P.S. Mega fic is now sentient and actively evading capture. This is chapter 46 of 55, though it can stand on its own fairly well. The only piece of contextual information required is the pup named Celery. She’s an ex-stray who Gordon rescues in chapter 27. She makes regular appearances.

-x-

Gordon wrung his hands nervously as the holo-table beeped, signifying an outgoing call.

He was confident that his plan was a good one. He had the backing of Scott, Grandma and Celery.

What could possibly go wrong?

“Gordon!” a well-spoken voice danced around the room, closely followed by Lady Penelope’s holographic form flickering to life, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The aquanaut smiled with confidence he didn’t have, “Hey, Lady P! Sorry for ringing so late, but I have a proposal for you. And Parker and Sherbert, of course.”

Lady Penelope’s eyes widened in curiosity, “A proposal you say? Please, do elaborate. I’m all ears.”

The den was silent for a minute as Gordon’s mind suddenly went blank. He vaguely remembered John once complaining about something similar; a completely rational train of thought disappearing with zero warning, leaving behind nothing but the sound of chirping crickets.

Alan had taken the liberty of dubbing the aforementioned phenomenon a ‘brain fart’. John hadn’t been impressed.

Stood before the woman he harboured a not-so-secret crush on, Gordon felt his own brain fall victim to a fart of epic proportions. Had it occurred outside the confines of his head, everything on the island would have perished instantly (including Virgil’s potted plants).

Celery sneezing jolted the aquanaut back to the matter at hand.

“Uh, I was wondering if you, Parker and Sherbert would like to come over for dinner tomorrow evening. Are you busy?” Gordon asked, dragging one of his sweaty palms along Celery’s head.

“Tomorrow evening, you say?” Penelope repeated, her eyes narrowing in concentration as she twisted to look at something over her shoulder, “Parker? When is the Duke of Norfolk’s garden party? Next Tuesday? Oh, wonderful. Yes Gordon, the diary is empty for tomorrow evening. What time shall we aim to arrive? And do you need us to bring anything? A bottle of wine, perhaps?”

Gordon cringed as drunken memories from the previous Christmas and Scott’s birthday jostled for dominance inside his head, “Uh, no thanks, that’s fine. Just bring yourselves. As for time, does seven o’clock suit?”

“F.A.B,” Penelope chirped, “In that case, we’ll see you tomorrow!”

Gordon was about to reply, but was interrupted by the raspy voice of his grandmother echoing around the den.

“Gordon? Is this pile of underpants next to the dryer yours? I’m about to put a wash on and can’t remember which detergent you like best!” the Tracy matriarch bellowed.

Penelope quirked a playful brow as Gordon flushed scarlet. Of all the times his grandmother could have chosen to take an interest in his underwear…

“I’m kind of busy, Grandma!” Gordon barked, his tone a stark contrast to the pleasant smile he had plastered across his face.

“I remember you mentioned something about a rash?” Sally bulldozed on, oblivious to the distress she was causing her fourth grandson, “I think you might be sensitive to the detergent we’ve all been using. I’m going to try washing your underpants in the same stuff I use for John’s allergies. That should hopefully stop any more nasty rashes from interfering with your missions.”

Gordon felt part of his soul leave his body as Penelope let out an involuntary snort of laughter.

“I think we need to take you for another eye test, Grandma!” Gordon retaliated, his desperation evident, “You must be confusing my stuff with Alans. I never mentioned anything about a rash!”

“Are you sure?” Sally screeched, her voice like nails on a chalkboard, “I remember you complaining the last time you took your wetsuit off. And this pile of undies is definitely yours. I can see your favourite pair of pineapple boxers on top!”

“Nope, your glasses must be broken!” Gordon didn’t think he’d ever felt more embarrassed in his life, “Go and fetch your contacts and tell Alan to do his own laundry! Crazy old woman!”

The silence that followed was heavy, and it took all of the aquanaut’s willpower to suppress the groan of humiliation that suddenly hovered at the back of his throat. In the space of just sixty seconds he’d managed to tarnish his image in front of two of the most important women in his life.

Penelope would never take him seriously again, and Grandma would no doubt flay him alive for calling her ‘crazy’ as soon as she got her hands on him.

“Gotta go Lady P, see you tomorrow,” Gordon gabbled, terminating the comm link before he could faint from embarrassment.

Okay, that was one down (three if he included Parker and Sherbert). Now he just had to convince Kayo…

…which he’d worry about after apologising to his grandmother and pleading with her to follow through with her sensitive detergent suggestion.

Mothers (or grandmothers) always knew best.

-x-

Twenty hours later, Gordon was very much regretting his decision to give the whole cooking malarkey ‘a stab’.

Oh, something was going to get stabbed alright.

Right now, it was most certainly what little remained of his dignity.

“Put the chicken on the stove,” Gordon quoted from the recipe sheet Scott had given him, “Okay, sounds simple enough.”

Stepping over Celery’s sleeping form, the aquanaut fished a packet of chicken out of the fridge before placing it on one of the hob rings, packaging and all, “There, the chicken is on the stove. Now how do I turn this stupid thing on…”

The Tracy residence was equipped with a state of the art kitchen that boasted just about every appliance known to man. The stove in particular was a feat of engineering brilliance; motion sensitive temperature controls, voice recognition and an automated shut off feature to name a few. The latter came in particularly handy when an emergency call came through in the middle of breakfast/lunch/dinner.

Long gone were the days of Scott having to abort Thunderbird One’s launch sequence because he’d ‘left the oven on’.

Unfortunately, it was all wasted on Gordon.

“Let’s crank this thing right up,” the aquanaut muttered, turning the heat up to maximum as he ferreted in one of the cupboards for a saucepan. After locating one that looked suitably sized and dumping the chicken into it, he turned his attention back to Scott’s ingredient list, “Okay, now where does Grandma keep the pasta…”

Celery raised her head in curiosity as her master set about opening and closing every single cupboard the kitchen had to offer.

“We must be out,” Gordon mused, biting his lip in worry, “Never mind, I’ll use noodles instead.”

Oblivious to the rapidly charring chicken atop the stove, the aquanaut trotted off towards the larder to retrieve a packet of instant noodles, pausing en route to grab a Celery Crunch Bar, “Okay, so that’s the chicken and the pasta taken care of. What else do I need…hmm, cream and parmesan. Shouldn’t be a problem.”

Both items were acquired without difficulty, although it was with a smidgen of regret that Gordon realised he’d have to limit his sauce intake. Scott had been kind and made his portion of alfredo pasta with dairy free cream the night before, and parmesan was naturally low in lactose apparently. Gordon had no idea if there was even any dairy free cream left, but at the rate the chicken was burning, he knew he wouldn’t have time to find out.

The stove was hastily turned down, its contents smoking like the Australian wildfires Scott and Virgil worked every year to help extinguish. Thankfully, the chicken was saved just short of going nuclear, although the smoke detector didn’t seem to agree.

“Deactivate!” Gordon yelled, huffing in irritation as silence descended over the house once more, “Okay, nearly there. What do the instructions say to do next...”

The sauce recipe that Scott had given him was blessedly simple to follow, however possessed one fatal flaw, much to the aquanaut’s horror.

He hadn’t written down ingredient quantities.

Gordon was so past caring. Between the burnt chicken, noodle substitution and lack of dairy free cream, his hopes of redeeming himself were sinking through the floor. He was just amazed he hadn’t set anything on fire.

“What do you think, girl?” Gordon asked, peering down at Celery who was banging her tail against the fridge door in excitement, “Should we use the whole carton of cream, or just half?”

Woof.

“You’re right,” Gordon announced, dumping the whole carton over the top of the cremated chicken before reaching for the parmesan, “More is always better. I think I’ll add the cheese gradually though; don’t want it to be too salty.”

Woof, woof.

“Of course!” the aquanaut slapped a palm to his forehead and dove for the pepper mill, “Gotta have seasoning”

Woof, woof, woof.

-x-

John had never been fond of surprises.

Mainly because he associated them with heart attacks.

Scott putting a stump-toed gecko in his bed, Virgil accidentally lighting a firework in his room and Alan’s birth had all fallen under the ‘surprise’ umbrella.

None of them had been welcome.

“Are you serious?” John shook his head so fast his brain almost rattled out of place, “Why on earth does Gordon want to put himself through all the stress of playing hostess for the evening?”

Scott sighed as he handed the redhead a mug of tea, “No idea. Said he wants a chance to prove that he can take things seriously. I think it’s probably best to let him get it out of his system. Plus, he’s volunteered to try cooking. He’s a grown man, it’s about time he learnt how to make something other than toast and pancakes.”

John hissed as memories of Gordon’s last unsupervised kitchen stint flashed through his head, “I’m not touching whatever he ends up making. He’ll probably end up using ingredients I’m allergic to anyway.”

“Why don’t you write a list of all your allergies and pin it to the fridge?” Scott suggested, “It’ll certainly take a lot of the guesswork out of cooking for me.”

John grunted in approval, “That’s actually not a bad idea.”

Scott beamed and raised his mug, “The only kind I have.”

Forty minutes later…

“Seriously?” Scott gaped as his eyes scanned the two pieces of A4 paper John had stuck to the fridge, “You’re allergic to glitter? And shoe polish?”

John gave a sniff of defiance, “Kindly tell Gordon to not use either in his cooking.”

Scott cringed, “Might be too late.”

-x-

Gordon had always taken pride in his appearance.

Sure, he wasn’t as much of a peacock as Scott or Virgil and had been known to go weeks between sock changes, but he was still aware of his Tracy genes.

“What do you think?” the aquanaut asked as he paraded down the staircase, his usually coiffed hair slicked back against his head.

From the safety of the den, Alan snorted, “You look like a roll-on deodorant.”

Gordon gave a disgruntled harrumph before swanning off to check on the status of his culinary masterpiece.

“Chef’s privilege,” the aquanaut snickered, dipping a spoon into the alfredo sauce and licking it clean, “Not bad…could probably do with a bit more salt though.”

In went the salt.

“Better…but it’s still lacking depth.”

In went the parmesan.

“Oh yes, now that’s good. A little more black pepper and we’ll be good to serve.”

In went the black pepper.

“Hmm, I wonder if some of my canned cheese will make it a bit thicker…”

In went the canned cheese.

“Maybe just a dash more salt…”

In went the salt.

“Oh, that’s incredible! One more quick taste won’t hurt…”

In went the spoon.

“Man, that’s even better than the stuff Scott makes!”

In went the spoon again.

And again.

And again…

[rwbyremnants]

Sorry for that sort of ominous down-note. It's where the story went!

And thanks to everybody who's hung in there and kept reading. I wish I still had other active members but basically it's just me still in this fandom. Pretty soon I'll have some brand new fics for you - if I get them finished and polished up sooner rather than later. Hope you're all staying safe and having a good 2021 so far!

=Chapter 31

Sleep did not come easily to Weiss that night. Already, she had been having trouble with that lately, but the impromptu inter-gang meeting robbed her of a few precious hours. Tossing and turning did even less good than usual, so many things were swirling around in her mind.

Her father was evil. So evil that he didn’t care if he burned down a building with dozens of women in it, didn’t care if he made a hapless girl commit a crime without any control of her actions. A man was dead. Didn’t he have any remorse whatsoever? The answer was “no” - and she knew why. His religious superiority complex wouldn’t let him see gangsters and thieves as human; they were beasts, demons that he had to cast out and they would deserve it when he did. The more time went on, the more sure she was that trying to reason with him was an exercise in futility.

Then there was Neo. Maybe Salem saw things as simple and black-and-white, but she somehow couldn’t bring herself to look down on either her or Emerald; they weren’t truly to blame. The man on the slab and her father, and whoever was their go-between, were the true culprits. How could anyone be so careless with human life?

Even harder to think about were people like her mother, and Pyrrha, and Ruby… innocent bystanders affected by these ugly turf wars. It was as if there were three gangs now, and one of them was completely made up of Jacques Schnee and anyone on his secret payroll. Maybe she should spend a little more time focusing on helping her non-Dragon friends; after all, they were precious to her and deserved happiness.

The next morning came far too early. The only silver lining was her mother’s smiling face, encouraging her to wake up. Maybe she was worrying too much; even though she had nightmares every night about being stabbed, everything was getting better now. And how much worse could it get than a near-death experience?

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

“So I was wondering about something,” Penny said out of nowhere at lunch that day.

“Yeah?” Ruby piped up before shoving half of her sandwich in her mouth. Weiss goggled at the sheer ability she had to devour everything in sight. Where did she put it all?

“Would you like to go to the dance with me?”

The entire table went silent. By now, that table was the Dragons table; it was looking a bit empty without Cinder or Emerald there, so Ruby, Penny, and Pyrrha were welcomed as temporary fill-ins — given that Cinder was probably the only one of them who would bother to protest. Blake and Coco were still very slightly skeptical, but also too unconcerned to bother trying to run them off.

“U-uhhm… the dance? What dance?”

“Nice try, sis,” Yang muttered out of the corner of her mouth.

“You know! Homecoming! We can paint our nails, and do our hair up, and have a great time! Doesn't that sound swell?”

Ruby looked highly uncomfortable, glancing at Weiss and Pyrrha, the girls besides her sister she felt closest to. Other than Penny, who was the source of her discomfort at that exact second.

“Go on,” Coco laughed. “Unless you have some secret fella you're hoping will ask you?”

“Nope! No fellas, I promise! But I… isn't it going to be against school rules? Two girls showing up together? People will talk! So while that, um, that really does sound swell, I don't know if it's such a good…”

Penny looked positively dejected. Her eyes swivelled down to her tray as she moved the food around with her fork. “Oh. Well, that's all right. It was just an idea.”

“Wait! Umm…” The poor girl looked around at her friends, seeking some sort of solution to this problem, but most of them were content to smirk in slight bemusement. “We could try it? Like, there's enough of us, I g-guess…”

Weiss decided to bail her out. “I, for one, will most certainly be attending with Yang. And I am pretty sure Coco and Velvet will also be going. Isn't that right?”

“Well… normally we would skip it, but sure,” Coco said easily as she cracked open her milk carton. “That way, I can show off my best girl.”

“How many other girls do you have?” When she only tilted her sunglasses down to waggle her eyebrows at the cheerleader, Weiss sighed, “I withdraw the question.”

The others were still laughing at that when their table was approached by one of the teachers. She certainly didn't seem pleased that she had to, but had a duty to perform.

“Miss Schnee.”

“Yes, Miss Goodwitch?”

“Your presence is requested in Mr. Ozpin’s office.” She scarcely shot a disapproving look toward the other girls before returning her gaze to Weiss.

“Oh. Now? I haven't finished my-”

“I'm afraid it can't wait. You may as well collect your things; you likely won't be back for the remainder of the school day.”

The feeling of dread that had begun to rise in her enjoyed a drastic increase. She glanced around at her other friends, hoping they could offer some help, but all of them except for Yang and Pyrrha were suddenly quite interested in their lunch trays.

“I'll… see you later, then,” she began in a meek voice as she stood, gathering her books.

Once they were in the hallway, Miss Goodwitch spoke up again. “Thought I recommended against you continuing to associate yourself with those… ruffians.”

“They really aren't as bad as you believe, ma’am. Honestly! And… well, I think Pyrrha and I are a good influence. As you can see, we're all getting along just f-”

“This isn't about them,” she cut her off in a clipped voice. That was simply her normal manner of speaking; Weiss didn't take it personally. “The principal will explain everything.”

Weiss had been expecting to have to wait outside his office for some time, since that seemed to be the standard procedure. Not that she knew from personal experience. However, Miss Goodwitch escorted her directly past the other students waiting on the benches and into the office itself.

“Ahhh, Miss Schnee,” the gray-haired man said immediately, a genial smile on his face. He looked a bit too young to have so much gray, but still carried himself with the poise and dignity expected from an older gentleman who was in charge of an entire school. “We've been anxious for you to arrive.”

Who the ‘we’ was turned out to be something of a surprise to the girl. “Mother?”

Willow definitely looked like she had had better days. Though her overall health had improved quite a bit over the past weeks, she was currently shaking like a leaf, clutching the straps of her taupe purse as if it were the edges of a life raft in shark-infested waters.

“Hello, Weiss. We… have an appointment this afternoon.”

“Allow me to express my profound apologies,” the principal told her, smile fading to a serious yet friendly expression. “Had we been aware of your situation at home… well, perhaps we would have encouraged you to pare down your extracurriculars. Or intervened in some way.”

Weiss held up a hand to forestall any more talk before she understood what the subject was. “Wait, wait… what's going on? Mother, you told the principal about Father?”

“I had to. You see… I'm afraid you and I will have to go and visit the courthouse today.”

“What?!”

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

The judge was a crotchety old man with a receding hairline and a permanent scowl etched into his wrinkled features. The way he looked at Weiss and her mother the minute they entered his courtroom smacked of mistrust and derision. He had clearly already made up his mind how he was going to rule before striking the gavel a single time upon his bench.

“Insufficient evidence” was the official reason handed down for the dismissal of the charges leveled against Jacques Schnee. No matter how much time they wasted bantering back and forth, pointing to Weiss's scar on her cheek or corroborating stories, the judge sat with his head propped up by one arm, bored as if by a particularly dull radio program. He expressed similar disinterest in the counterarguments of their ties to the Dragons - which had terrified Weiss at first, but didn't seem to matter to anyone other than her and her father. The proceedings droned on and on into the late afternoon, until a completely arbitrary point at which the judge announced that he would retreat into his chambers to deliberate.

“I don't know,” Willow whispered in a quiet voice as they waited. Their state-appointed lawyer, a young man with mousy brown hair who looked like he ought to still be apprenticing rather than representing clients yet, had been largely no use and had no reassurances for them now. “Maybe… we'll still win after all.”

“Do you really think so, Mother? Father seems to have that judge completely wrapped around his little finger! It's as if nothing we said made its way past his ears and into his brain! Why even bother having a trial at all if it was going to go like this?”

“To keep up appearances.”

They both whirled to see Kali approaching, clothed in a dress much more conservative than typically graced her figure. Willow rushed forward and clasped hands with her, grateful to see a friendly face. “Kali, dear!”

“I came as soon as I heard. Blake phoned when you never came back from lunch, and I did some asking around.” Then she turned to rest a hand on Weiss's shoulder. “How are you holding up? Both of you.”

Weary to her core, Weiss told her, “Been better. I don't think we stand much of a chance… but I guess we'll know soon, won't we?”

Very soon. Not more than a handful of breaths after that, the bailiff came back out and waved for the waiting parties to return for the verdict. Kali bade them luck and let them wing off toward the courtroom.

Jacques looked slightly more haggard than when last Weiss saw him, but still not quite so wrung-out as one might expect him to after a stint in the local jail. His grey hair and mustache were much the same, cheeks and chin impeccably shaved. But there was a cold emptiness in his eyes that stretched far beyond what it had been when last they talked. She found herself recoiling from the sight, unsettled by the intensity. Her mother had looked at him so rarely during the civil trial that one might almost wonder if she failed to notice his presence. The complete lack of passion with which he spoke to both the judge and his family sounded like a completely different man than she remembered helping to raise her and her two siblings.

“Alright,” the judge sighed with a boredom that somehow outstripped the levels from before. “This court has reached its verdict.”

Both Schnee women held their breath. Things didn't look good, but sometimes people could surprise you. Maybe the judge always looked like that. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe…

“On the count of spousal assault, we find the defendant, Jacques Schnee… not guilty.” Even as an exasperated noise sounded from the rear of the courtroom, where Weiss was sure Kali had seated herself, the man went on, “On the count of child abuse, the court also finds him not guilty. As to the countersuit of assault leveled at Willow Schnee, the court rules that groundless. All charges against all parties are hereby dismissed.”

An instant later, Weiss shot to her feet and screeched, “You can't do this! He was going to kill us! And now he's going to do it, anyway!”

Her father chuckled as the bailiff approached to unlock his handcuffs, and the sound was sickening and awful. “Dear daughter, will have to have a talk about that mouth of yours once we get home. Perhaps I'll send you to bed without supper.”

Even while both Weiss and her mother opened their mouths to protest, the judge banged his gavel on the bench. “Order, order! Enough! You women can’t ever accept your place, can you?” Even while Weiss was feeling her eyebrows hiking upward into her hairline, he went on, “All families fight. Every time you get a little testy, that’s no call to haul us all in here for nothing. Go home and get used to each other again. This court is adjourned.”

Disbelief flooded through her veins. He actually won. In the face of irrefutable police evidence, he won the court case and was freed…

Except there hadn’t been any evidence. The officers testified as to the state they found the man, but somehow, any and all records of Weiss and her mother’s injuries had vanished. The entire thing had been a mockery, a circus meant to appease the legal procedures but still manipulate things to her father’s advantage.

“Hello, family,” Jacques said with a wide smile as he approached the both of them. A chill ran down Weiss’s spine but she held her ground; she knew that with so many policemen around - and some of them likely in his pocket - it would be suicide to do anything else. “I’ve missed you.”

“Husband,” Willow whispered. Weiss could hear the terror in every syllable.

“You made a little mistake, didn’t you? Ah, well. We all make mistakes. Now… let’s go home, shall we?”

As they turned toward the door, Kali moved to block their exit. The fear already in Weiss’s throat increased by a thousandfold - this could only go horribly.

“Excuse me,” her father bade her in a smooth tone.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Kali said with a curtsy. “Kali Belladonna.”

“Charmed. And why should I care?”

“That isn’t my place to say. But you should.” She stared at him evenly. Weiss glanced at her mother to see if she would introduce them further, or to remark on the situation… but she didn’t. And Kali didn’t glance at the other women at all.

“Mmm.” He gestured toward the doors, and after a moment, she bowed her head slightly with a polite smile and let him pass. “Thank you.”

“Oh… you shouldn’t do that at all.”

By the time her father turned to look at Kali again, she was making her way into a neighboring hallway. Weiss had the strongest feeling that she had engineered that entire exchange purely to unsettle the man, but without her around to ask, she had no way of knowing.

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

The ride home was extremely tense. A few times, Jacques attempted to engage in small talk, and his wife would give one-word answers that never lent themselves to further discourse. Weiss stubbornly refused to say even that much. As far as she was concerned, this was even worse than having to pack into a hot, sweaty bus with the other cheerleaders to attend the away games.

“Now then,” he finally sighed as they pulled into the drive. “Things are going to be a bit different around here.”

“In what way?” his wife asked calmly.

“For starters, I insist I be treated with a little respect. The both of you seem to have forgotten who is the patriarch of this family - who is the breadwinner. As such, I believe that entitles me to a certain amount of deference. I expect my orders to be carried out, not argued with or refused.”

“Hmm.” That was it: just “hmm”. Weiss knew that her mother was disagreeing without openly stating as much.

Her father knew it, too. “Willow, this is not the time to be stubborn. Unless you need me to remind you of the judge’s words to us of less than an hour ago?”

“No, Jacques. I don’t.”

“Good. Glad that’s settled. Furthermore… Weiss, you will stop associating yourself with those nasty women immediately.” No response. “They are a criminal element, whether or not you wish to acknowledge that. It won’t do to have a Schnee connected to such matters.”

“Really?” Weiss piped up. “Doesn’t seem to stop you.”

“Excuse me?”

“Father, let’s not play games,” she went on in a falsely sweet voice that even turned her own stomach - not that it wasn’t turning all on its own. “You paid to have a man, pay a woman, to drug another woman, to stab me. Whom exactly is associating themselves with the criminal element?”

His already-chilled gaze dropped a few more degrees as they locked eyes in the rearview mirror. “Careful, young lady. Remember what sort of punishment you’re earning yourself.”

“Oh, you won’t be punishing me like that ever again. Ever. I may be your daughter, but I am no longer a child. And neither is your wife. Keep your meathooks to yourself!”

“I am the head of this family. If you girls can’t fall in line with the way things ought to be, the way things must be to ensure we all enjoy a respectable and prosperous future, then certain… corrections are in order, regrettable as they are.”

The both of them were still glaring at each other half a minute later when Weiss’s mother spoke up, “I’m not a girl.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not.” Blotchy red patches were flaring up in the cheek Weiss could see from her position in the back seat when she turned to glare daggers at the man. “I am not a child, Jacques.”

“I never said you were. But if you insist on behaving like one, you will be treated like one.”

“No, I will not. I won’t be… bent over your knee like a baby! That is beneath a w-woman of my age, and I am sorry if you find that frustrating, but… but I just can’t. Not anymore.”

He bared his teeth. “That tears it. You will be punished the moment we get inside the house. Both of you. And let’s not entertain any more ideas of you breaking vases over my head; I’ve had a word with the police department. Any further incidents such as those will be handled very differently. You would be the one behind bars, not I. So you will prostrate yourself before me and take your punishment for such insolence!”

“Ah,” she said as calmly as she could. “Then in that case, I won’t be going inside the house.”

Again, he was forced to ask, “Excuse me?”

“Weiss, we’re leaving. Come along.”

“Of course, Mother,” she said sweetly. She was tempted to repeat a rude gesture she had once seen in her father’s general direction, but decided that a poisonous smile worked just as well.

They both could easily guess that he wouldn’t let it go so easily. The women had scarcely reached the end of the drive when he boiled out of the car and stomped toward them, incensed. “You get back here this instant! I will not be ignored, and you will not destroy this family over some… some petty squabble!”

“Jacques… you’ve already destroyed this family.”

“Get back in that house now, Willow, and all will be forgiven,” he attempted, changing tactics. His anger still pulsed inside every word, but he was attempting to mask it with ice. “Your last chance for amnesty. The judge instructed us to start fresh, and we’d best attempt it now.”

“I don’t believe you. And,” she added when he opened his mouth to speak once more, “I have a promise to uphold. A promise I made myself.”

“Oh? And what promise might that be?”

Her arm draped over Weiss’s shoulder, drawing her close to her side. “That I would never fail to protect my daughter from you again. You do not see women as people. Whitley may choose for himself if he wishes to stay with you, or come with us; we’ll ring him at the school. But for now, I refuse to step foot inside the same house as you. I… may have been blind and deaf and dumb before, but that was cowardice, and my parenting was… I was inadequate. You took advantage of that, and kept me under your thumb. No more.”

“What?” He laughed, arms spread wide as he tried to work his way through his wife’s words one at a time. “I’m baffled. You’re talking utter nonsense. What advantage have I taken? Oh, perhaps what you mean is that I did my best not to allow your weakness to ruin my attempts at grooming our daughter to be a responsible citizen! That I have tried my best, against your combined efforts and inaction, to keep her from turning into a delinquent!”

“Think what you will. But any man who arranges to burn down a building, whether or not his own daughter is there… no. We won’t be living under the same roof for a moment - a second longer. Goodbye, Jacques.”

As they walked away, he shouted at their backs, “HAH! Where will you go, then? Nowhere! Imagine, my pampered little princesses living on the streets, hand-to-mouth! Absurd! You’ll be back, and then you’ll suffer the consequences of your… your betrayal! This house belongs to be, it's in my name, and you are at my mercy! Whether you like it or not!”

“Don’t look back,” her mother whispered in a trembling voice, trying to stay steady in her high-heeled pumps. “Keep walking.”

“Where are we going?” Weiss asked softly.

“To see if your friend is home. If she is, she can take us somewhere safe.”

A little flutter of fear welled up in her stomach. “What if Pyrrha’s still at practice?”

“Then… we’ll keep walking," she answered in a voice so close to tears that Weiss clutched her hand even tighter. "I don’t care where we end up, but it won’t be in his house. Never again.”

[imacrowcawcaw]

Treasure Ch. 1 (Penntin)

(Ao3)

Pairing: “Penny” Adiyodi/Quentin Coldwater, past Penny/Pearl Sunderland, past Quentin/Alice Quinn, background Margo & Eliot

Fandom: The Magicians (TV)

Length of series: who knows

Warnings/tags: magic (like duh), universe alterations, canon divergence (obviously), spells gone wrong, magic rituals, slow build, enemies to friends to lovers, first kiss, first time, snuggling and cuddling, Penny is very physically affectionate believe it or not, attempted humor, fluff, angst, smut, happy ending

Summary: 

Quentin fucks up a spell (Penny may or may not have also helped/hindered).

Quentin is the reason Penny can’t see unless he’s hugging him and also why everything smells like the Bog of Eternal Stench.

Quentin’s run-amuck brain brings all sorts of problems to the table.

Quentin is starting to make Penny feel funny in his chest (and his pants). 

Fuck Quentin, man.

Author’s Notes: I’m nearly through season one and am also not willing to put in hours of research on this universe’s magical rituals, so -- keep that in mind, I guess. That being said, I am in LOVE with this show and also this pairing. 78 stories on ao3?!? Fair, but sad…. I am falling hard and fast for Penntin (idk the ship name). So I had to write out everything in my brain. So here. Plays off of some the other fics on here, particularly “Practical applications of falling in love” -- kudos to you, @echomoon, that was amazing and I can’t stop thinking on the concept!! 

----------

The smell was everywhere. It burned through Penny’s nose like it had a personal vendetta against every single one of his nostril hairs (which, it had been kindly pointed out a few years ago by a bitch who will remain unnamed, numbered quite a few. Especially visible when underneath him, which almost everyone was in this apparent plane of Hobbits. Right, moving on. Bitch.)

He covered his nose with his hands, then the scarf wrapped loosely around his neck - purple silk, today - but the smell just kept coming and coming until he was nearly choking. 

In the back of his mind, Penny could feel the waves of panic, frustration, and disgust coming off of Quentin fucking Coldwater in a mixture much similar to what he was feeling. More panic, or course, cause the guy was a walking circus accident, and some various streams of babbling mind diarrhea lamenting about the awful smell. Surprisingly, the guy had a vocabulary Penny could almost be impressed by. But he was much more focused on himself and his dying nose, no matter how insistent Quentin’s feelings were.

And Penny would like to point out that he never willingly associated with that geek. It was always outside forces convening to push them together, whether in a study group or room assignments or the weird-ass plot against their lives that somehow connected Mothman and cursed daggers and creepy pedaphilic authors (that he would have liked to punch in the face).

Of course, that ever-present, invisible asshole (fate, god, the Dean; what did he care?) pushed them together yet again with more disastrous results. 

Like them being together in the same room at all.

Like them being paired up to do spell work.

Like them fucking it up. 

The disastrous fucking results he just knew were going to happen were, apparently, this smell. He had scented some pretty bad (literal) shit in his lifetime, but nothing compared to the absolute atrocity that was Quentin bungling a simple ass locator spell. 

“Oh, my god!”

And that was the fucking idiot, desperately clutching his ever-present baggy shirt over his face like it would do some good against it. Magical stenches did not, as it appeared, let themselves be blocked out so easily. 

Penny rolled his eyes - watering like a baby’s, he might add - and made his way over to a window on the backside of the class, pounding at the frame with his fist when it wouldn’t fucking budge. 

Stupid Quentin, going and burning his nose because he couldn’t fucking concentrate on anything other than Alice’s tits. Bet he had something to do with the stuck window, too. 

“Come ON, fucking open!” Penny muttered. 

He was desperate for fresh air. He would beg and cry if he had to - his eyes were already crying, and also did he mention fuck this? - but he just needed this goddamn window to open up, so if he could just get the latch to jiggle a little more to the left-

Aha! Fresh air!

Penny stuck his head out of the window and breathed in deeply, opening his mouth as wide as it would go like a dog on a car ride. He gulped and drank in the life-giving oxygen -- but, but it was-

“-ON’T PENNY! GET AWAY FROM THERE!”

Ugh, Quentin. Trust him to fuck up not only the air inside the classroom but the whole fucking campus as well. He would have to be funding the entire infirmary at this point. 

Sighing (and then retching), Penny pulled back to shut the window and noticed something real fucking peculiar. And creepy. 

Either he had been blinded by the horrible smell - and it was that bad, he wasn’t immediately discounting the theory - or a thick fucking fog had rolled in while Penny wasn’t paying attention. Cause he couldn't see anything. All across his field of vision was grey -- actually, it was more of a murky blue than grey, and it was moving at a surprising speed for having no conceivable end to it. And it was so thick (like Quentin, god Penny was going to fucking kill him).

“Penny! Please get away from the window!”

Quentin was pleading with him now, and Penny almost felt bad about how scared he sounded -- not entirely, though; that voice crack was hilarious. Idiot fucking deserved to be scared. Look what he had done!

He turned around to tell him just that, except for, uh, he couldn’t see him. The fog was in the room. 

The podium near Penny’s left side was a vaguely visible outline, and the front lab table even less so -- man, don’t even get him started on the desks and chairs. There was nothing. He could be in Fillory for all he knew- oh. Hell to the fucking no.

“Quentin!” He roared, “Where the fuck are we?!”

“Wh- what do you mea-- here! We’re in class! Where the hell are you?”

So that was a relief, if a disappointing one (those were called oxymorons, right? Fits. Quentin was a moron who was causing him to run out of fucking oxygen.)

“I’m by the window, dumbass! Trying to get some fresh fucking air, cause you fucking destroyed it all and replaced it with dog shit!”

This is worse than dog shit.

Oh god-fucking-damn. He did not need Quentin’s thoughts right now. Penny carefully moved forward, sweeping one foot in an arch across his path before he stepped down. 

He figured Quentin was doing the same, because he heard the rambling oh fuck what was that where am I where’s Penny I’m such an idiot oh my god was that a rat streaming through his head as Coldwater, clearly, let all his wards down in an effort to fully concentrate on navigation and breathing. 

This once, Penny couldn’t quite blame him for devoting all of his energy to the task at hand instead of blocking him off -- but it was still annoying. He was so good at concentrating and yet Quentin managed to get into his brain clear as glass. And he was so fucking annoying. 

“Fuck, Coldwater! Shut the hell up!” Penny sighed and paused, running a hand over his hair. The waves of panic were increasing. “Just stay where you are and I’ll come to you. But stop thinking, please.”

“Yeah, okay- oh! Ow, fuck…”

There was a loud crash and then Quentin's pained noises as he clearly ran into some sort of furniture. Penny sighed again. What idiot had let this guy anywhere near a spellbook? (Nevermind how powerful he occasionally was -- that didn’t make up for stupidity.)

Penny breathed deeply - the one meditation practice he admitted could help, if only to calm him down - and kept making his slow way across the room. He was pretty sure that he was in the center of the room now, but he also knew that not being able to see made distances seem much longer than they were. 

He took another step and ended up tripping over the same goddamn chair Quentin had apparently ran into, because his body landed on another guy’s that made a pathetic “ow” noise again. 

“Jesus Christ, Quent, you could of at least picked yourself back up off of… the…. floor,” he slowly trailed off, looking around. 

There was no more fog. There was no more burning smell. The classroom was exactly like it was before they had started the chant -- empty desks and chairs left behind by all the people who didn’t have slow idiot’s for lab partners, wood paneling that tried and failed to look classy, and the front lab table covered in various magical instruments. 

“What the hell?”

Quentin sat up underneath him - as much as he could - rubbing his nose and sniffing deeply. Penny agreed. The air felt amazing, like a soothing balm on his poor, abused air canals. 

He quickly realized that there was still a geek that was responsible for all this mess half-lying on the floor underneath his body, and that someone could walk in at any moment. So that was un-fucking-desirable, in multiple ways (ugh, Quentin. Just thinking about him made Penny shudder.)

With a quick brace of his arms, Penny bolted upright and took several steps away from the nerd -- back into the fog and the awful smell. 

“Ah!”

He looked around, confused and pissed off. Was this some kind of joke the kid was trying to pull on him? 

Penny tried to do a simple fire spell, then again, and again; each time more desperately than the last. Nothing. It was like the fog was muting his magic -- it was curling in scarily tentacle-like clouds around his hands, engulfing them in dense smoke and snuffing out any sparks he could have produced. 

Now Penny was panicking a little. 

He was still mostly pissed off, mostly- extremely pissed at Quentin, possibly more than he ever had been before, and frustrated with just a twinge of panic at the absence of his magic; the opposite of the nervous nellie probably still huddled around a chair leg on the floor. 

Something grabbed at his foot, and, suddenly, the smell and fog had gone away again. He could breathe and see and there was a rather large flame coming from his hands, a culmination of the previously snuffed flames all working together to express his rage through fire. 

When he looked down, Quentin was actually clinging to his foot, not a chair, and looking very nervous. What was new. Penny tried to kick him off and succeeded after a moment, the blueness invading so suddenly he didn’t even notice the smell for a second. 

Then it was gone, again - he was gonna get whiplash from this shit - and Quentin was hugging his leg, again. This time he looked more sheepish than nervous, and it made Penny want to kick him in the face. 

(Ch. 2 on Tumblr)

“I, uh- I think that the fog and the smell only happens when we’re not touching each other.”

What. 

Well, it made sense considering the last three minutes of god dicking with the light switch - not to mention Quentin’s history of idiocracy and miss-castings, but-. Come on.

“Coldwater, I. Am. Going. To. Fucking. Kill. You.”

-----

(Ch. 2 on Tumblr)