#it's just that it feels a bit forced to lump me with new century kids who are still teenagers or early 20s-since I'm pushing 30s lmao)

[babbeldumpsterfire]

I've been discussing this recently with people older than me, and I've always considered myself as a person who got to experience, albeit fleetingly, the XX century. Some say that being born in the 90s means you basically only experienced 1/10 or less of the XX century, so you can be lumped with 2000s kid as honorary member lol. Some say early 90s are the last conceivable birth years to call yourself a 90s/XX century child. So, what's the opinion on this here on tumblr? Who can be realistically called a XX century kid? (edit: to better explain, who can be said to have experienced fully or at least pretty satisfactorily the XXth? People who turned 20 in the 90s? People who hit 30s in the 90s?) Reblog for larger sample size!

[watermelonlipstick]

Dreams, Chapter 18

If you haven’t read this series before, you might want to start on Chapter 1, or check out the Dreams Masterlist! Here’s the series description:

When Dean dies for good leaving Sam and his girlfriend (the reader) behind, they must figure out how to carry on without him. Alone, reeling, and unsure what to do next, trying to honor Dean’s memory and follow their hearts gets even more complicated when their nightmares become dreams that feel a little too real.

Title: Dreams, Chapter 18

Pairing: (past) Dean Winchester x Reader, (eventual) Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 4326

Summary: Dean gets a better sense of what Sam and the reader’s new life is like.

Warnings: FLUFF, swearing

           Barbie opens the door with an honest to god plate of pigs in a blanket as though she just had them going and you have to remind yourself you’re in a dream. “What a nice surprise! Come in, come in. And who’s this?” she asks, hugging Sam with one arm while holding onto the plate and offering for you to take one. It’s as buttery and salty as you ever could’ve hoped.

           “This is, uh, this is my brother Dean.”

           “Well hello, Dean! What a handsome pair you two are.” She offers the plate to the brothers. Dean grabs two with a pincher, tossing both in his mouth. Sam politely takes one as Barbie yells over her shoulder. “Mike, we have company!” She motions for you three to follow her into the house and Sam has to practically clothesline his brother to get him to take his shoes off before he trails blindly after the plate full of sausage.

           Mike stands up from one of those leather armchairs, folding back the magazine he’s reading to greet Sam with a bear hug. “This is my brother Dean,” Sam offers as Mike hugs you with decidedly gentler back pats than he had for Sam. Dean holds his hand out as if to shake but Mike curves his big paws around Dean’s shoulders and pulls him in for a hug with enough force that Dean almost falls into him.

           “You didn’t say anything about a brother!” he bellows to Sam over Dean’s shoulder.

           Sam and you both freeze, and you can only speak for yourself but you suspect Sam is also worried Dean will be upset to hear that. Instead, finally released from Mike’s binding embrace, Dean rocks back to holding up his own weight with a big smile. “Crazy private, these two, right? You’d think they were in the witness protection program.” For another second you’re worried about how you’ll do damage control, how you’ll talk to them about Dean after this, and then you remember this isn’t actually Mike and Barbie, they won’t actually remember anything.

           Mike leans into Dean conspiratorially. “You can say that again. Now, what can I get you three to drink?”

           “Whatever you’re having works for me, sir,” Dean answers, charming as ever with his most clean-cut smile.

           “You’re going to regret saying that,” Mike laughs, heading over to the kitchen where Barbie is fiddling with something in the oven. He fills a row of pint glasses with dark beer out of a growler you know is the extremely strong beer he brews himself and hands one to his wife with a kiss on her cheek, motions for you and the Winchesters to each take one. “To a pleasant surprise and finding out there’s another man in the world like Sam.”

           “I think you mean another man like me,” Dean says cheerfully as you all clink your glasses together.

           “So you’re older?” Barbie asks, handing Sam a stack of plates to go make the table with.

           “Four years, yeah. It was easier to tell when I had a foot on him.” Dean reaches up to ruffle his baby brother’s hair, and Sam generously waits a half-second before swatting his hand away with a sheepish flush.

           “A foot? Really? I wouldn’t have thought anyone would ever have had a foot on this behemoth,” Mike laughs, catching Sam with a jokey punch to his bicep when he comes back for silverware.

           “Oh, yeah. Sam was a little squirt until he was like 17.” Dean continues.

           “How’s Luke’s basketball team doing?” Sam asks, color rising in his cheeks and desperate to have the focus shifted off of himself.

           Barbie grants his wish with a knowing smile. “Going to the playoffs! He’s very excited.” She hands Sam a huge bowl of salad to carry to the table and takes out a hot casserole dish from the oven.

           “They do playoffs for middle school?” you ask, about to trail into the dining room after Barbie with Sam and Mike like a chain of ducklings. Dean stops you with a hand on your arm.

           “It’s going to make it weird if you’re not yourself with him,” he mutters, low so the Kaisers and Sam won’t hear. “I’m okay, kid, I promise. This is…awesome, but I know you’re holding back. You don’t have to.”

           “What’re you talking about?”

           “You touched Sam more when I was topside and we were together. You’d think he has leprosy the way you’re dodging him now.”

           “Dean, we’re always going to be togeth—”

           He rolls his eyes in frustration. “Okay, fine, yeah, we’re together now. But you know what I mean.”

           You bite your lip. “I thought they’re just my mind’s projections, who cares if they think it’s weird.”

           “Babe.” He holds firm, his gaze steady.

           “Jesus, Dean, it is weird, okay? The whole thing is bizarre!” Your whisper has turned into a bit of a hiss and he glances to the dining room to make sure you haven’t caught anyone’s attention.

           He wraps his fingers around your hand and swipes an arc into it, looking down as he does. “I know it is, I’m sorry. Can you try, just a little bit? The whole thing is only going to get less awkward if we keep at it.”

           “Fine, yeah. I’ll try.”

           Dean holds your eyes for a moment, not seeming to buy it, before staring back at his feet. “For you it’s a dream but this—this is the closest I’m going to get; to being part of your lives. I just—I just kinda want it to be as close as it can be, you know? If you’re acting different then it’s not really—”

           “Understood.” You swallow hard against the lump forming in your throat, willing it to dissolve, not about to keep feeling sorry for yourself when he’s clearly putting so much aside to be present.

           Too quickly for you to react Dean lifts your hand to his lips, and the warmth of the kiss on your skin sends a shudder through you. He follows you into the dining room, where Sam and the Kaisers are about to sit down. You grab the seat next to Sam, leaving the head of the table opposite Barbie for Dean as the new guest.

           “You okay?” Sam asks, quietly enough you’re sure you’re the only one who can hear it.

           You squeeze his thigh reassuringly under the table. “Yeah, definitely.”

           Dean catches your eyes to give you a meaningful look that makes you swallow again, and before you can think about it you’re sliding your hand around Sam’s neck, looping him down to kiss him on the cheek. Sam’s cheeks flush pink as the corner of his mouth tries to tug into a smile and it’s so impossibly cute that you’re not faking your subsequent smile for Dean’s sake.

           Both Barbie and Dean smirk thoughtfully at the two of you before pretending to be engrossed in the salad she’s passing to him. “So, Dean! We heard your families were friends before these two got together; was it one of those things that you always knew was going to happen?”

           Sam chokes on a sip of beer, trying his best to cough with his mouth closed to keep the sputtering to a minimum. You think you’re probably the only one who catches the flair of joyful ribbing behind Dean’s eyes as he pretends to be concerned.

           “Aw, I remember my first drink. All good over there, Sammy?”

           His little brother strains to stop, his voice sounding as rough and cracked as if he’d spent 50 days breathing sand. “Yep. Wrong pipe, sorry.” He gives a closed-mouth smile of reassurance to his hosts that makes him look like a kid.

           Dean turns to Barbie, smile smooth and charming as anything. “You know, it’s funny you ask that. When we were younger, I was the one with the crush on her.”

           You probably should’ve guessed Dean would pull some kind of jokey shit like this but you’re still thankful that the Winchesters aren’t sitting close enough to kick each other’s legs under the table. As it is, you give a grin you hope seems warm and not tense.

           Mike finishes chewing a huge bite and nudges Dean’s arm with his elbow playfully. “I hope there’s no jealousy there.”

           “Ah, you know how it is. You grow up, things happen.” And if that isn’t the damn understatement of the century. “Couldn’t ask for a better girl to take care of my baby bro.”

           “Well I think that’s pretty damn sweet. Barb’s sister hated me until I drove to Wausau on Thanksgiving Day to change a blown-out tire for her. We’d already been married six years!”

           Barbie rolls her eyes across the table at Sam, mouthing “not true,” with an easy smile.  

           “I think that’s worth a drink,” Mike emphasizes, raising his beer. “To the best girl for—what’d you call him? Somehow I can’t imagine He-Man over here ever being a ‘Sammy.’”

           You raise your own drink with everyone else and Dean catches your eye with an iridescent twinkle as he repeats the toast. “To the best girl.”

           The rest of dinner is the exact emotional and literal comfort food you always get from the Kaisers, a respite from the world in the best way. As you had suspected he would, Dean gets along perfectly with them, falling into a good-natured ribbing of Sam borne of admiration with Mike and charming Barbie within an inch of her life. Dean tells stories about Sam as a little kid that you know are really far more embarrassing than the version he shares, and hearing Dean edit to idealize Sam for the Kaisers even as an eight year old makes you want to melt into the floor.

           You pretend to be tired too early in the evening, feeling selfish and wanting the boys all for yourself. Being handed a Tupperware of leftovers reminds you this isn’t real; the futility of carrying them a flash in the evening that you’ve otherwise forgotten won’t last.

           Standing in the doorway, Sam’s already on the porch when Barbie stops Dean as he’s following you out. Quietly, trying for privacy, she says to him, “Honey, I am so glad we got to meet you. We worry about these two being all by themselves, but knowing they’ve got you looking out for them is going to help me sleep a little more soundly tonight.”

           Dean covers her hand where she has his arm and looks at her with soft doe eyes. “You have no idea how much I could say the same to you.”

           They hug for a beat longer than necessary and then Dean’s right at your side, trailing after Sam’s long legs down the road to your cabin.

           It’s hard not to think it’s purposeful, Sam going ahead to let you walk with Dean on the way back. Dean flicks a side of his jacket away from his body and you slide in there like you always did, warmed by the pre-contained heat coming off of him and giggling when he kisses the top of your head. “Man, I guess some things never change,” he murmurs, breath spilling over your hair. “You even move to the damn arctic and still don’t get any warmer coats.”

           He’s feeding you the intro to an old script but you don’t have the heart to tease back, just snuggling up to him and walking to the cabin together feeling the familiar way the muscles in Dean’s side move against you as he does. Sam doesn’t even look back and it’s so unlike him not to check that you’re there that then you know definitively he’s giving you a moment together. “I miss you, baby.”

           “Kid, I’m right here.”

           You peer up at him. “Don’t be a dick.”

           He glances down at you bundled against him. “I miss you too. But I see you guys all the time; it’s like nothing changed.”

           The reflex to laugh bitterly doesn’t fit the moment but you can’t stop it. “Right. My mistake.”

           His jaw muscles tighten to a ball for a whisper of a beat. “I need you to fucking work with me here, babe. I know this is not ideal but it’s so much more than anyone else gets and I gotta be honest, you’re being kind of a bitch about it.” You kick your eyebrows up on your forehead, both disbelieving and challenging. Dean realizes the mistake borne of his frustration immediately. “Not a bitch, that’s not what I mean, sorry. A baby. You’re being a baby.”

           “A baby?”

           He stops you both. Sam’s already about halfway up the driveway. “Listen, I know that you’re—I don’t know, mad. At me for not being here, the way things happened, whatever. But it’s done. It’s over. No one else in the fucking world gets this, gets to have it both ways, visit like I’m just a town away. You get to see me, I get to see you guys, pretty much whenever we want.”

           A few tears start collecting in the wells of your eyelids, indignance or grief or both. You try to blink them back but when one falls, lightning fast and stupid like Wil E. Coyote running out over the edge of a cliff, Dean brushes it away with a swipe of his thumb. “I get it. I miss you too, all the fucking time. I miss the way things could’ve been; I miss shit I didn’t even have, you know? I miss this fucking cabin, believe it or not—I—we all could’ve lived in a cabin like this together. We—maybe we could have had kids or something, couple of little girls to braid Uncle Sammy’s hair, the fuck do I know? But at some point I had to accept what I do have, and you do too.”

           You look over his shoulder, not wanting to meet Dean’s eyes or the truth that’s there. He’s right, but that doesn’t make the bottomless pit of greed for more of him go away. “Sam’s going to be waiting for us.”

           “Don’t deflect. It doesn’t have to be this second, but you have to get good with this. Today—tonight, whatever—was pretty damn near perfect and you’re upset because you want something that doesn’t exist.” He flicks his gaze up the driveway to confirm it’s empty; Sam’s already inside. His jaw is still tight but his eyes are tender and fuzzy, the same way he looks when he’s tired. When they lock onto yours, you can feel them sear straight into you, heating you up slow like an Easy Bake oven. “But right now you’re going to kiss me like it’s the first time. Then we’re going to head in, and you’re going to act like I know you’ve been with Sammy, sappy freaks that you both are, I’m going to have a few drinks with my brother, and we’ll tell the same stupid stories you’ve heard a hundred times.”

           That’s finally enough to make you chuckle and you venture an arm out of the protective embrace he has on you to take his chin in your hand, thumb on that perfect indent as you catch Dean’s lips with yours. It’s soft and delicate, a thank you and a reminder and a memory at once. His lashes catch a shadow when he opens his eyes, and you hold them for a long second. “I thought you said like our first kiss—you didn’t even try to jam your tongue down my throat.”

           Dean rolls his eyes through a smile and a part of your mind flares with victory knowing you’ve made it past the bramble patch of emotion. “I was like twenty, can’t blame a guy for trying. You couldn’t have been that mad; you still let me get under your shirt the next day.”

           You laugh hard, letting it ring out along the driveway as you tug Dean to the house with your fingers interlinked in his.

           Sam is pouring a few fingers of bourbon into three little juice glasses when you walk in, and you grab one right off the counter without breaking your stride, tossing it back and offering it to Sam. “Hit me.”

           He smirks and obliges as you slide a hand to his lower back. There’s a half beat of hesitation before he leans back that inch or two into your palm like he always does, but what’s more important in that moment is that he still does, and without flushing. Sam and Dean both grab their glasses and you don’t remember the last time you’ve done this many toasts in a night that weren’t at the bar following a Packers win.

           “To you two morons finally figuring this shit out,” Dean says, raising his glass.

           “Yeah, whatever,” Sam grins. For a beat you can see in his eyes the unbridled admiration he has for his brother, the complete devotion and deep grain of grief he’ll never be free of even if he can see Dean like this every day for the rest of forever. You wonder if you had truly realized the way it flared in his eyes before everything. All three of you sip at your whiskeys together, and you have to fight to keep your mouth closed through a petite yawn.

           Sam tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear and lets you lean into the wall of his body, wrap your hand around to his side. His hand moves to envelop your shoulder, thumb swiping absentmindedly back and forth. It’s nothing, genuinely less physical affection than you used to show Sam most of the time when you and Dean were two halves of a living couple like he’d pointed out to you earlier, but the most important thing is that it feels okay. More than anything it feels like being at the bar, the ‘aren’t they so cute’ on Dean’s face the same one that you get at work only made different by how much you wish you were somehow able to tuck up under Dean’s arm at the same time.

           A couple drinks and a while later you’re sprawled on the couch, head laid back on the armrest. One foot is tucked under Sam’s thigh where he sits next to you and one rests on top of his lap, a large, warm palm gently wrapped around your shin. The living room—area in the non-bedroom-or-bathroom-space in the cabin where you’ve put a couch, armchair, and rocking chair you’ve grown fond of, really—is small enough that Dean’s knees, extended and one crossed over the other where his feet are on the coffee table, are right by your shoulder, absentminded slow rocking of the maple chair he’s on not quite matching the pace of the hand he has playing with your hair. You’re close to drifting off, and isn’t that weird, that you would get sleepy in a dream, but listening to Sam and Dean is so relaxing. They’re talking about the few weeks they stayed in Bar Harbor as kids, running around Acadia National Park like it was their own personal playground and swimming in freezing cold Atlantic waters, creating all kinds of imaginary games in spite of even Sam being maybe a touch too old for it, by then.

           It’s warm; Sam has put a couple logs on the fireplace, trying to hide how eager he is to show his brother all the repairs he’s done to the cabin. More than that, you realize suddenly, it finally feels like home, Dean’s appraisal the baptism that it needed to make you feel safe enough here to approach sleep so casually without Sam’s body as physical protection. Dean’s hand wraps around to cradle your head and he leans over to whisper in your ear. “It’s okay, you can fall asleep.”

           You shake your head loose of a little of the drowsiness. “No, I—we’re in my head, it’ll be over if I—” you murmur, waking up even more as you talk.

           Sam’s hand moves up and down your shin reassuringly. “It’s okay. We have a greenhouse filled with dream root now, we can come back all the time.”

           “Well, not all the time,” Dean amends. “You guys have to get out there, not become sleep junkies. Once, twice a month or something.”

           “Oh good, a standing appointment. Like the dentist,” you say, rolling your eyes around a bitter smirk and killing the rest of your drink. Sam smiles softly and looks up at Dean, silently willing him to be the one to argue with you.

           Dean takes the bait, sliding his hand out of your hair to prop his elbows on his knees. You sit up straighter to be able to fully see his face.

           “Babe, come on, don’t make this harder than it needs to be. Sam and I have seen what happens to people who get hooked on this shit, take it every day. It’s a risk to do it even every couple weeks.”

           “You haven’t even explained to me how this works—do I have to decide to wake up or will it happen by itself?”

           “It’ll be a natural transition if you don’t consciously decide to,” Sam offers, voice quiet and smooth like you’re some victim’s family member he’s trying to soothe. You let him do it, stop yourself from rankling defensively and appreciate for a second how nice it sounds, how comforting it really is. “Most likely it’ll get easier to control it with a little practice, but I think Dean’s right, if you go to sleep that’ll probably do it a little more, uh, gently.”

           Sam’s eyes reflect the firelight as they do every time he sits in that spot on the couch. He looks warm, looks calm and whole. You can see right away that he needs you to be the one who’s struggling to let go—maybe partly for Dean, who’s eviscerated every time he sees his brother hurt and has always been, but also for himself, for the way he’s telling himself this is enough. Though you were the one who’d threatened Dean, Sam had undoubtedly gotten closer to following through—following Dean—both actively and passively. You loved Dean, but Sam in many ways was Dean, just like Dean was Sam. Inextricable in the parts that really counted and that was the point, why you would’ve mainlined dream root swamp ass tea until you withered away like a rat choosing a pleasure button over food to see them both. They were each perfect alone, Sam and Dean—different and perfect—but together they were the sun and the moon, the entire universe inside one Impala.

           It’s easy to let him have it. Sam deserves so much more than this small mercy and you are struggling, want desperately to have been put in some kind of coma together in this little play-pretend world where the food’s always exactly what you want and the time passes inconsequentially if at all.

           You wipe a tear off your cheek that you hadn’t felt fall, can tell before you open your mouth that your voice is going to falter. “Couple weeks, right? You promise?” Sam and Dean nod in tandem and you try to drink up every drop of it, try to ignore the shade of sad-desperate behind both of their eyes. “And it’s going to be the same? No one’s going to like, forget or anything? Is this like Groundhog Day where you’ll have to be re-introduced to Barbie and Mike every time?”

           Dean’s eyebrows screw up in thoughtful empathy. “Pretty uncharted territory here, kid. I hope not, but I don’t want to promise you something I can’t deliver.”

           Sam reaches over to take your hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb. “It’ll still be us, though. That’s the important part, right?”

           You nod tightly, feeling small and stupid ironically like a kid trying to fight off bedtime. It hangs in the air for a beat.

           “Catch you losers later, I guess,” Dean smirks, standing up and offering you a hand. Like he’s heading to his house on the other side of the block you reach up for a hug, only momentarily surprised when Dean foregoes the hug to slip a strong hand into your hair, cradling your face for a kiss that’s somehow bruising and tender as he presses your lower back to weld yourself to him. The feeling of his lips steals the breath from your lungs and you barely have the presence of mind to realize you’re blushing, getting dangerously close to making out just a step away from Sam. Dean, cocky asshole that he is, winks at you as he draws back.

           When you turn back to Sam, he’s—he’s rolling his eyes through a smile. With a start you realize it’s exactly the same long-suffering playful tolerance he’d have catching you stealing a kiss during a case and that thought alone is a buoy as Dean pulls Sam down to tuck into his arms, that same eternally-little-brother hug that has always made you smile. You look down at your feet, giving them a second to share a few of those ever-indecipherable looks.

           “Do you guys want to just stay out here maybe? I can ‘go to sleep’ or whatever in the other room? Feels a little weird to just sit here and have you both staring at me,” you offer with air quotes.

           Sam’s eyes are earnest and reassuring when he meets yours. “Whatever makes you most comfortable. Do you want me to, ah, also…?” He tosses a casual thumb over his shoulder to the bedroom.

           “I’ll be okay, I think. Thanks, though.” You rock back on your feet awkwardly. “Um, goodnight, I guess.”

           “See you soon, babe,” Dean says, and it’s not hard to see the sweetness under the casual affect he’s trying on.

           “See you both soon. Love you, morons.”

           You don’t remember falling asleep, but then you wouldn’t, because in reality you’re waking up.

-

Continue to Dreams, Chapter 19

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[the-sympathetic-villain]

You Belong With Me - Chapter 36

AO3 | First | Previous | Next | Masterpost  

Description: Much to his surprise, after being released from prison for a crime he didn’t commit, Logan has been appointed as a the prince’s new advisor.  

Word Count: 6909

Chapter Warnings: Mentions of potential child neglect/abuse, Threats, Mentions of crime, Memory loss, Mentions of hunting people/fae, Brief mentions of minor violence/branding (Please let me know if there’s anything you’d like tagged or if I missed anything!)

---

    Remy stalked down the halls at a steady pace. At each intersection, he found himself glancing down the dimly lit hallways on his reluctant journey to the castle’s northern tower. His shadows crept across the skin, tingling a warning as he dipped into the darkness to avoid a patrolling guard.

    He slipped out of the shadows as the guard strode past. Remy found himself staring as the guard continued to meander aimlessly down the corridor, completely unaware he'd missed an enemy of the crown crouching in the darkness. His eyes narrowed in suspicion as he traced the patrol's movements until they turned the next corner and the halls fell silent.

    Remy let out a slow exhale, moving toward the stairwell. A faint pink glow emanated from his eyes as he sent a faint vibration out into the world around him. The small gesture reverberated out into the world to be reflected back to him, allowing him to sense movement beyond what even his keen eye could naturally see.

    He paused, taken aback by the lack of sound echoing against the walls of the stone tower. Aside from the guard’s haphazard footsteps, he could sense no other life nearby. Remy gritted his teeth, clenching and relaxing his fists as he allowed his shadows to take the lead up the stairs of the silent tower. He sucked in a breath through his teeth as he turned the corner onto the next floor.

    Something ain't right.

    The thought lingered in his mind as Remy cast a glance down the corridors on this floor before sidestepping to the next set of stairs as he continued upward toward his mission. His eyes started to glow a faint pink as suspicion began to well in his chest. It was becoming readily apparent that the patrols were bare tonight. Remy had hardly seen more than a handful of guards as he'd slipped through the castle undetected.

    Remy bit his lip. He wasn't stupid. The choice was clearly intentional. The crown wouldn’t allow the secret of the century to leak into the general population, only to then strip down their guard to its bare essentials. There was no denying what was happening. He was walking into a trap and he was well aware of that fact.

    Regardless, Remy kept moving, allowing hi shadows to extending even farther ahead of him as an uncharacteristic nervousness fluttered in his chest. The kid probably wasn't even there, but his hands were tied. Someone had to find out what game the crown was playing at, and at this point, he would rather see the trap snap shut on his own neck than the weaker fae that would follow if he abandoned his mission now.

    The Fair Folk weren’t going to be satisfied until they found answers. So, with great reluctance, Remy’s eyes flared a bright pink as his shadows crept up the walls, swallowing the corridor into a pitch-black darkness. After all, let's be realistic. They may be forcing his hand, but that doesn’t mean he'd be going down easy. He'll be damn sure they have to work to bring him to his knees.

    His journey found its end as he stopped in front of the last door at the top of the stairs, finally he stood at the highest point in the tower. A fierceness filled his shadows movements as they twisted around him, curling into every nook and cranny of the corridor. Eyes flaring with power, he snarled as wisps of darkness seeped into the door frame and the latch to the door in front of him clicked open, allowing the pitch-black tendrils to rush across the threshold.

    Remy tensed as the door creaked open and he still. The glow in his eyes faltered at the sight before him. He'd expected to be greeted with a company of guards and at least a few deadly weapons, but the room appeared empty. A calmness hung in the air as a subtle, glimmer of the moonlight cascaded down from the narrow slit-like windows of the outer wall. Long, blue tapestries hung from the ceiling, waving as a draft breezed through the room. The room may even be peaceful if he weren’t so unnerved by its unnatural stillness.

    The silence was deafening. He was sure he would have heard the smallest pin drop on the far side of the room, but still not a sound filled the air around him. Instinctively, his tendrils of darkness curled around him in a comforting gesture as he pressed forward into the room. He may not have immediately been met with a dagger to his throat but an ambush still wasn’t out of the question, even if every one of Remy’s senses screamed at him that the room was empty. Almost as if to confirm his doubt, a soft whimper shattered the silence, stopping him in his tracks.

    Hesitant, Remy cast a last forlorn glance at his exit before stepping forward to turn the corner around a large, oaken bookcase. His senses were heightened. He found himself bristling as he caught sight of the back of the dark room for the first time, but his hesitation only lasted a moment. His shoulders immediately fell as he caught sight of the twin bed on the far wall. His heart stopped and he glanced warily around the empty room before rushing forward.

    A jolt of panic shot through him as the blankets shifted and he quickly ducked out of sight, watching carefully as a tuft of hair appeared at the head of the bed. He paused as another breathless cry escaped the lump of blankets, but curiosity edged him out of his hiding spot. Casting a suspicious glance at the door behind him, he stepped forward into the open space. The tuft slowly became a face as he loomed over the bed, shadows curling around him.

    Gods. He looks just like her.

    Remy didn’t have to look twice to know this was Tara’s son. The sandy brown hair and gentle look on his face was all the evidence he needed to know he'd ended up in the right room. In silent motion, Remy slid forward, unable to tear his eyes from the scrunched face of the kid tossing and turning below him.

    None of it made sense. He glanced to the door again. Suspicion burned in his chest as his shadows formed tight curls around him. The room should be crawling with guards. Surely, the kid was a prized possession to the crown if they had kept him for so many years.

    Ain't no way it’s that easy. So, what gives?

    And where’s Ta—

    Remy tensed as the kid's brow creased and a breathless gasp escaped from the child’s lips as he twisted in his bed and Remy's heart dropped.

    Nightmares.

    It would seem the kid had not been spared from the unfortunate side effects of the curse for which the child’s own mother was responsible.

    What were you thinking, Tara?

    Why'd you do it?

    Remy sighed, biting his lip as he stepped forward. His shoulders slumped and he shoved his fists in his pockets as he lowered himself down onto the edge of the bed. He found himself staring as the kid twisted, almost kicking out as the nightmare seemed to worsen. His heart sank and without thinking he reached down to push the kid’s hair out of his eye.

    Unfortunately for Remy, his comforting gesture seemed to jerk the kid awake and the darkness was violently pushed away as the room filled with a luminous, bright blue light. Remy shivered as the electricity passed through him, temporarily displacing his solid form with wisps of shadows. A shiver wracked his body as the shock passed through him harmlessly, but as Remy’s body solidified once more, he stopped stock still as a familiar blue light stared at him in the darkness.

    A solid moment passed before Remy rationalized that the glow was emanating from the from the dark was not in fact Tara. The soft, blue light staring back at him was the unfortunate, wide-eyed kid staring up at him after he'd been jolted upright in his bed to find a stranger looming over him.

    “Y-you—”

    A wave of panic surged through Remy's body as the kid started to stutter. He was going to be in hot water if the kid called out for help.

    “Hey, relax. Kid, I’m not going to hu—”

    “You’re like me.”

    Remy stilled in shock at the kid's statement until he realized his eyes were still glowing. He blinked, staring as the kid glanced around at his shadows swirling in the dark. His stunned expression gradually faded to a soft smile as the kid stared at the shadows curling around him.

    “That's right. I’m just like you, babes.” Remy curled his legs up on the bed, stunned as the kid's attention turned back to him. “No need to be afraid.”

    The kid barely even acknowledged him as his shadows wound around the edge of the bed. Remy’s shoulders eased and a soft smile spread across his face as the child’s quiet awe at the darkness swirling around him.

    “Girl, I promise they aren't that interesting.” Remy smirked as he leaned back his hands.

    The kid’s cheeks reddened as he ducked his head away, feigning a lack of concern as Remy’s presence. He seemed to stall for a moment before his attention was pulled back to the shadows shifting around them. “Are you making them?”

    “They’re a part of me.” Remy smiled as the kid curiously reached out as if to grab the shadows, making a disappointed face as his hand passed through the darkness. “I guess I lied. They’re pretty amazing. Don't you think?”

    The kid blinked before hesitantly reaching out to grab Remy’s wrist.  Remy couldn’t help but chuckle as the kid startled, clearly not expecting him to be solid. He could feel the glow of his eye flicker and fade and his dark wisps faded to gray.

    “Sorry.” The kid mumbled, scooting away as his cheeks darkened. “I didn’t mean to make you stop.”

    Remy smiled, leaning forward to rest his elbow on his knee as he watched the kid slide back nervously. “You really enjoyed my little trick. Didn't you, kid?”

    The kid stared at him with a quiet hesitance until his curiosity seemed to get the better of him. He gave a reluctant nod, looking up at Remy with a hopeful glimmer in his eyes. “Will you bring them back?”

    Remy hummed, pretending to think it over as the kid stared up at him. “Tell you what. If you answer my questions, I'll bring them out again."

    “Yes!” The kid faltered as Remy flinched from the sudden shout. He shrank back, dipping his head as he lowered his voice.

    “Love the enthusiasm, kid.” Remy smiled as the kid relaxed and unfolded his arms as he leaned closer to him. To see a child so calm with his shadows, let alone excited, was a rare sight but he wasn’t particularly surprised. The kid was literally woven together by the mistress of night herself.  

    “How ‘bout we start with your name?”

    “Logan.”

    “Beautiful, babes,” Remy smiled, raising an eyebrow at the boy. “But that’s not your whole name is it?”

    Logan tensed as his eyes flicked up. A faint blue light glowed in his eyes as he looked up at Remy. “Only bad people ask for the whole name.”

    “Oh, yeah?” Remy couldn’t help but smirk at the kid's indignation as he sat up straighter and distanced himself. “And who told you that?”

    “My mama.”

    Remy's heart sank as the kid's eyes glistened in the dark. He stared at the child as regret tightened in his chest. Tara's energy hadn't been felt on this realm or the next for the better part of a century, which meant more than likely since he was here, the kid hadn’t seen his mother in just as long.

    “It's fine, kid.” Remy's posture softened as the kid frowned at him. “She was right.”

    “What?”

    “Your name belongs to you alone. Anyone who asks for your true name is looking for trouble.” Remy whispered as a smirk twisted on his lips.

    “You asked for my name.” Logan's eyes narrowed on him suspiciously. “Are you bad?”

    “What do you think?”

    Logan blinked at him suspiciously as he fidgeted with his blanket in his hand.

    “Seriously, girl.” Remy flashed him a reassuring smile. “You woke up to a complete stranger in your room and you didn’t even flinch. Why?”

    The kid stared down at his lap, still fidgeting anxiously with the blanket. “Your feelings aren't scary.”

    Remy’s carefree smile faltered as he picked up on the nervousness radiating off the kid. He chewed his lip, clenching his fist as he carefully kept his voice calm. “You get a lot of people in here who scare you, kid?”

    “Not anymore.”

    The kid's soft mumble sent rage boiling in his chest as he watched the kid avoid his gaze. He stared for a long minute as he forced his posture to relax. “Listen, babes. You're not in any trouble, but if someone’s hurting you, it's safe to tell me. No one's laying a finger on you while I’m around.”

    Still fidgeting with his blanket, the kid's eyes darted up to him. “No one hurt me.”

    “You don't seem very sure about that.” Remy prompted hesitantly.

    The kid dropped his gaze. He crossed his arm across his chest, forcing himself to drop the blankets. “I-I don’t like the guards. Their feelings are bad, b-but they’re not allowed near me.”

    “You’re sure about that?”

    Logan nodded stiffly. “He doesn't even let them in my room anymore. If I say no, he makes them go away.”

    Remy blinked,  furrowing his brow in confusion. “Who?”

    “T-Thomas.”

    Now, it would seem that it was Remy's turn to stare. “The king?”

    Logan nodded nervously at him. “H-he's nice to me.”

    Remy’s shoulder slumped as the kid started to shake. “Listen, kid. I'm glad someone was around to keep you safe, but you’re smart to trust your instincts.” He paused, softening his voice as he slowly slid over to Logan. Leaning over to catch the kid's eye, he offered him a tentative smile. “I should’ve known your mama would have taught you right. She was always the best of us.”

    “You knew my mama?”

    “She was my friend, kid. Me, your mama and—” Remy paused. He could feel tears brimming in his eyes as memories of a past lost to time played in his head. A smile twitched at the corner of his lip as the kid’s head tipped up to him curiously. “Well, I guess that part doesn’t matter much, but we were friends for as long as I can remember, babes.”

    “What's that word mean?”

    Remy lifted his head to see the kid's wide-eyes staring at him. “What?”

    “Babes.” Logan asked, crossing his arms across his chest as he glanced down. “I've never heard that word before.”

    “It'sa term of endearment, kid.” Remy chuckled at Logan's blank expression.  “Means I like you.”

    “Oh. Thank you.”

    “Gods. You’re a riot, kid.” Remy leaned into the wall behind him. Even in the dim light, he could see the kid's blush darken as he looked up at him. “You really need to get out more.”

    Logan blinked at him, eyes shining in the dark as he stared at Remy. His gaze suddenly dropped from Remy guiltily.

    “You've got to be kidding me.” Remy’s fists clenched as his eyes glowed pink once more. “If you tell me these bastards don't even let you out of this room, I'm going to be breaking bones tonight, starting with that good-for-nothing king—”

    “Wait, no.” Logan shot up to his knees, holding his hands up at Remy. “Please, Thomas is nice to me."

    Remy‘s words stalled in his mouth as the kid squeaked out his protest. “Come again, hun?”

    “He visits every day and gives me books and teachers.” Logan whispered, breathless as he reached out to grab Remy’s arm as if to stop him. “Please, don’t hurt him. He’s a babes.”

    Remy stared at the kid hanging off his arms in wide-eyed shock. “That ain’t even remotely close to how you use that word, kid.”

    Logan’s grip tightened on his shirt and his breathing became ragged and irregular. Remy sighed as the kid let out a sob and he gently lifted his arm, curling it around kid’s shoulder. “Hey, now. Relax. I ain't actually going to lose my shit and start hurting people,” He smiled patiently as the kid stilled on shoulder, relaxing into his side. “but this isn’t normal. You should be playing with other kids, not boxed up in a tower with a bunch of humans lecturing you about the way of the world. Seriously, when was the last time you were outside?”

    “A few days ago.”

    The kid's whisper was so quiet he nearly didn't hear him and Remy couldn't resist raising an eyebrow in disbelief. “Really?”

    “I went up to the tower to see the stars.” Logan whispered, chewing his lip. “Thomas took me.”

    Remy sighed, pulling the kid into his shoulder. “Listen, you seem pretty quick on the uptake, kid. I know you know this isn't okay. Protecting you is one thing, but if he's not letting you out, that’s—” Remy paused as the kid started shaking under his arm. He stopped, softening his tone as he pulled the kid’s head into his chest. “Your mother would have wanted for you to be out exploring the world. She would have wanted you to be around your own—”

    “Doesn't matter.” Logan suddenly mumbled into his shoulder, interrupting him. “She's dead.”

    “What?” Remy blood suddenly ran ice-cold as he stared down at the kid. “Who told you that?”

    “She did.” Logan muttered absently. “The last time I saw her she said she wasn't coming back. She wanted me to be brave but—but I don’t want to do it anymore. I'm tired of it hurting. I don't want—”

    “Woah, kid. Take it easy now.” Remy hushed him with a gentle whisper. “Ain't nobody expecting you to be brave forever, babes. You’re just a kid.”

    “But—”

    “No. There's no ‘but'.” Remy interrupted him with a stern squeeze of the kid's shoulder. “That ends tonight. You've done enough.”

    The kid stilled underneath his arm, leaning into Remy's chest. His breathing slowly steadied as he tucked into Remy’s side.

    “Hun, we are getting you outta here.” Remy ran his hand through Logan’s hair, smiling as the kid's breathing became easier and he seemed to relax. It wasn’t long before small snores filled his ears and he allowed himself a chance to relax as the kid slept peacefully against his side.

    This damn kid.

    Remy knew this shouldn’t surprise him, but he hadn't truly expected to actually find the child.

    Tara's child.

    He glanced down at the kid sleeping on his shoulder. His assumption had always been that Tara had fled the realm, taking her child with her, but that was about as far from the truth as he could imagine. She was dead, leaving her poor orphaned child at the mercy of the humans who'd taken her life. Humans who clearly weren’t even willing to give the child any stretch of freedom.

    Gods, kid.

    How did everyone in your life fail you so spectacularly?

    Remy clenched a fist as he considered. The Unseelie court would expect him to hand the kid over. No doubt both fae courts would expect the kid to answer for his mother’s crimes, but he wasn’t about to let that happen.  Kid had suffered enough. He deserved a break.

    He deserves a home.

    Remy frowned. Whatever simple chance had decided to throw the kid in his path had sealed his fate. The kid was his responsibility now, and he wasn’t about to be part of the long line of adults who had failed him. He tensed as a small yawn passed Logan’s lips and he settled deeper into Remy’s shoulder. Any doubt in his mind about what he need evaporated in an instant as the kid melted into Remy’s side. The humans and the fae had already taken everything from this child. He wasn't about to let them take his life.

    Emile would find the kid a place to live a normal life, a life where he wasn't playing the pawn for a war that had started long before he was even born. No doubt, getting the kid to his friend in the countryside would be his first priority after leaving here, but that would have to wait. He let out a slow breath, snarling as he settled in for the night. First, he needed to have a conversation with a certain king.

---

    Thomas took the stairs in stride as he hastily climbed the tower, staying determined on his path even as his mind wandered. The footsteps of his guard echoed on the stone walls behind him, but the sound barely even registered through the thoughts bouncing around in his head.

    This had been his routine since he'd assumed the throne only a few, short years ago, yet somehow it seemed he hardly remembered a time when he didn't reluctantly leave his loving husband to tend to the court while he climbed these familiar stairs alone. He straightened his shoulders as he glanced up the narrow corridor. Nico had offered to bare some of the responsibility the mysterious fae child in the tower but Thomas could never bring himself to share burden of guilt with his husband.

    The child was the crown's most privileged secret, and as far as Thomas was concerned, its greatest shame. As a prince, he'd only heard tales of the fae child kept away in their towers. His tutors had told him of the dangers of the mythical child and he'd believed them until the day of his coronation as king. Only after he'd met the child had he realized the truth.

    The child was simply a child. Powerful, certainly, but hardly the ancient, wizened power that his father’s advisor had made him out to be. The first time he'd met Logan he had lit the entire tower up like the night sky during a storm. Brilliant lightning had struck nearly every surface of the empty room, except Thomas noted, where he and his advisors had stood.

    Convincing the child he meant no harm was months long process, but fortunately, the rain the child brought had given him an excuse to limit his public appearances. The process was slow but he was eventually able to remove the kid’s guards and give him a room more suitable for living. Thomas smiled at the memory. Logan had bristled and curled into his arms while the workers had installed his bookshelves, but when the boxes of books had arrived, he could barely even keep the child out of their way. He knew he spared no expense in giving the kid everything he could possibly need, and after a few months, the kid finally had a place he might be able to call home.

    Still, Thomas knew the tower was no place for a child, and now more than ever, shame wrenched in his gut as he reluctantly placed one step after another up the stairs. He felt himself holding his breath, unable to exhale as he waited to see whether the child would even still be there. It had been Nico's idea to return the Logan to the fae in the hope he may have a better life than he would have trapped in the tower. He'd happily agreed to it in the moment. The idea had seemed so perfect at the time, but once they'd talked through the details, it had quickly become apparent that Thomas could have no part in the hand off.

    The Fair Folk had no reason to trust any human after the sheer destruction his family had brought on their people, and both he and his husband feared, if the fae came for Logan and were met with a human contact, the fae may abandon him entirely. So, they'd leaked word out to the kingdom that the Logan was in the tower, hoping that one day, Thomas would go to visit the child and he would be gone.

    Regret twisted in his stomach as he considered their plan. Thomas thought he’d come to terms with their resolve not to intervene, but with each day that passed he could feel his regret growing. He hadn't considered the sleep he would lose over the kid’s safety or how painful the journey to the tower would be each day as he reluctantly pulled his lead feet up the stairs to check on the kid. He dreaded the day that he'd walk up to Logan’s room and found him gone, with no guarantee the kid had gone to a better life.

    Every day, he'd let out a long sigh of relief when the kid came bounding up to him. His muscles would slump as the kid rushed to into his arms, excited to tell him about the new books he'd read or the stars he'd seen out the window last night. He'd hoped that time would prepare him for the day the child was no longer in his hands, but each visit only seemed to make increase his dread that the kid may one day be gone.

    He chewed his lip as he paused outside the child’s door, trying to prepare for what was on the other side. A chill rushed over his hand as the morning breeze swept past him aandhis hands trembled as he reached forward to the door handle. Another day, he might have knocked, but it was still early, and he didn’t want to wake the kid if he was still sleeping.

    Thomas slowly twisted the door open, pushing it inward. The room was quiet as he ducked through the doorframe. Not a single movement broke the sight of the picturesque bookshelves forming a barrier between him and the kid. He swallowed, tensing as he stepped forward into the still room, quiet as he leaned around the bookshelf to check on Logan.

    Any hope in his heart quickly fell apart as he caught sight of the kid. He froze, paralyzed with fear, as his eyes lingered Logan. Narrow wisps of shadows curled around the face and body of the child as he lay limply in the arms of the monster wrapped around him.

    “Lo—”

    “Stay where you are.”

    Thomas' legs were suddenly rooted in place, no longer able to move forward as he stared helplessly at the kid. He nearly cursed out loud as shadows closed around Logan. He couldn’t eventell if the kid was breathing as the menacing shadows curled around his chest. Snarling, Thomas fought to step forward, resisting the magic that had bound him in place.

    “Let him g—”

    “Ah, careful.” The strange fae’s eyes glowed a brilliant pink as a sinister smile stretched across his face. “If one of your guards hears you, I may be tempted to flee and if that happens, you’ll never see the kid again.”

    Thomas hesitated as he turned his head up to the fae whose arm was wrapped around the child’s neck. The glowing pink eyes only served to intensify his fear as he recognized the man's signature snarl.

    “Sleep.”

    “Ah,” The fae’s almost chipper tone sent shivers down Thomas’ spine as his haze briefly flicked down to the kid paling in the powerful fae's arms. “So, our most honorable monarch has heard of me?”

    “Of course, I've heard of you.” Thomas snapped. “Your face is plastered on every other tree between here and the border. You're a criminal.”

    “I’ve seen the posters, babes. They really don't do me justice.” The powerful fae ran his fingers through the  kid's hair as his heated glare continued to burn holes into Thomas. “And tell me, what exactly is the crime of which I am accused?”

    “Smuggling—”

    “Oh, please. I deliver goods to those who need them. Food and medicine to the humans and fae who your family has determined unworthy of the crown’s assistance.” The fae snapped with a guttural snarl. “If you’d done your job, those people wouldn't have needed my help to begin with.”

    “They’re stolen goods.” Thomas growled back.

    “Stolen from those who didn't need them in the first place.”

    “Your bandits are thugs who threaten people, take their goods and leave them stranded in the middle of the forest.” Thomas rambled, losing his composure. “They break into people’s houses, leaving them penniless and afraid. Do not pretend what you do is justice.”

    “Wrong.”

    Thomas started at the finality of the man's word. “What?”

    “That’s not what happened. Not with a single one of those bastards who claimed they were robbed.” Sleep growled. “It's not my fault that a rich person's pride is worth more to them than the truth.”

    “What is that even supposed to—”

    “Every person who’s claimed to have been robbed by me made a choice.” Sleep whispered, glancing down at the kid. “The merchants in the city jump at the opportunity to do business with a fae. They made a deal, and they knew the consequences if they tried to wiggle their way out of the terms. Yet, their greed always got the better of them, assuming their money would protect them when they inevitably double-crossed me. They knew was they were doing. Just because they choose not to admit their own fault doesn’t make it mine.”

    “And you expect me to believe that?”

    “I do.” Sleep whispered. “You see your people’s greed every day. These people would sell their souls in a heartbeat, if it would increase their bottom line.”

    “Even if I believed that, you leave people bound and broken in the middle of city's square.” Thomas hissed in rage. “The insignia burned into their chest was yours. So, if you’re such a stand up member of your community, what excuse can you give for torture?”

    “I needed to send a message, yer majesty.” Sleep whispered, bitterness heavy in his tone as he stared down at the child.

    Thomas bristled. “It’s not a very effective message, if I didn’t catch the meaning of whatever that possibly have been meant to—”

    “That’s because the message wasn’t for you, babe.” Sleep snapped, baring his teeth at Thomas. “Believe it or not, you’re not my only enemy.”

    “What?” Thomas blinked in confusion as Sleep hissed at him.

    “What I did to those men was only a fraction of the terror they'd inflicted on the fae in their captivity and I refuse to take fault for punishing them for the atrocities they committed.”

    There was a brief moment before Sleep’s words registered in his mind. Thomas' shoulders dropped as the realization washed over him. “They were fae hunters."

    “Ain't a chance I’m allowing those bastard hunters to poach people in my own territory without consequences.” Sleep growled threateningly. “Unlike you, I actually protect the people under my care and I have no problem punishing those who would prey on those weaker than themselves.”

    Thomas’ posture softened as he caught a glimpse of kindness in the powerful fae's eyes. He paused, lost in the thought as his gaze dropped to the ground. “And what about the kid? What heinous crime did Logan commit that put him in your hands?”

    Sleep glared at him for a long minute before letting his gaze drop to the kid in his arms. “He existed.” 

    Thomas was silent, shocked by the simple words that left Sleep's lips.

    “The fae courts demand blood for his mother’s crimes, and since his mother’s dead, the debt falls to the kid’s shoulders.” Sleep's eyes darted up to Thomas in accusation. “Works out for you perfectly. Two fae lives lost to fix the terror your family caused and not a single price paid for the luxury given to you at their expense.”

    Thomas’ mouth hung open in disbelief. “They’re going to kill him?”

    Sleep scoffed at his blank expression. “Not exactly what you imagined when you abandoned him to the mercy of whatever fae plucked him from your tower?”

    “No, I only—” Thomas' shoulders slumped as he stared helplessly at the kid in Sleep’s arms. “I didn’t want him to be a prisoner anymore. Please, don't hurt him. He's just a child.”

    “It's a little late to be pleading for his life, Thomas.” The fae whispered menacingly as he ran his fingers through the kid’s hair.

    “He’s innocent.” Thomas whispered, desperately glancing down at the kid. “Please, he doesn't deserve to get hurt.”

    “I'm afraid your pleading is too little, too late, yer highness.” Sleep cooed dryly. “The kid's leaving with me today and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

    “Take me instead.” Thomas pleaded, desperately trying to move forward. His attempts to move were met with an immovable resistance. Sucking in a breath, he dropped to his knees.

    Sleep glanced up at him lazily. “No.”

    “You said yourself that it wasn't fair that two fae should pay the price for my family’s crime.” Thomas’ voice trembled with desperation as he stared at the kid in the fae’s arms. “If the fae courts demand blood, spare the kid and take me instead. Let me make things right.”

    Sleep cast a curious glance in his direction, but his resolution didn't falter. “Don't work that way, babes. Only the kid's blood breaks the curse, so only he can pay the price. Besides, don’t you got a husband expecting you to come home tonight?”

    “He would understand.” Thomas stiffened resolutely. “The kid's innocent. I'm not letting Logan become a casualty in a war he had no responsibility in starting.”

    Sleep hummed, stroking the kid's hair as he considered the king's words. “Seems a bit like the pot calling the kettle black to me.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “You’re barely more than a kid yourself, yer majesty. I was there when the gauntlet was cast, but you were born into this mess as much as he was.” Sleep whispered, quiet with contemplation. “Not that it matters. Kid's coming with me tonight. If he didn't, another less friendly fae would be by to collect him within the day.”

    “Less friendly than you?” Thomas growled, lifting his head just as Sleep held a single finger up at him. He watched as Logan stirred in Sleep’s arms, twisting as though he might wake. Thomas stared in disbelief as the powerful fae gently hummed, rocking the kid lightly until he lulled into a deep sleep once more.

    Sleep turned his sinister smirk back to Thomas as the child’s quiet snores filled the air. “Kid could have done worse than ending up in my hands.”

    Thomas’ mind went blank as he stared at Sleep. “Worse than the person who will deliver him to his death?”

    A soft chuckle passed Sleep’s lips as he leaned Logan back onto his pillow. The fae gently rose off the bed and strode over toward the king. Thomas startled as the spell binding him lifted and he jumped to his feet, stumbling back into the bookshelf as the fae grabbed his collar, looming over him.

    “How ‘bout we clear the air a bit, Tommy Boy?” Sleep’s voice sent shivers down his spine. “Kid’s coming with me, but I'm not bringing him to the faerie courts. I'll roll over dead before they get their claws into that sweet kid.”

    Thomas turned his head up to the fae's knowing smile. “You’re not going to hurt him?”

    “Nah,” The fae grinned down at the wide-eyed monarch. “I’m not one to play games with a kid's life.”

    “Then what was the purpose of this conversation, you bastard?” Thomas growled, pushing him away.

    “Oh, babes. Don’t know if you know this, but the kid’s pretty sweet on you.” The man chuckled grimly, circling around him as he pointed back at the kid. “I just had to know if you really lived up to all that hype.”

    Thomas' eyes flashed to Logan and his heart twisted with guilt. His moment of distraction was enough for the silent fae come up behind him, reaching an arm around him and pulled him close to the fae's chest.

    “So, what do you say?” The man cooed in his ear. “Do you want to make a deal?”

    “W-why would I do that?”

    “Because I'm not lying when I said I'm taking the kid.” Sleep leaned into him, breathing into his ear. “It's not safe for him here anymore. Fae are going to come sniffing around for him and he can't be anywhere close when they do.”

    “Where will you take him?”

    “Can't tell you that, babe.” Sleep chimed in his hear. “Like I said, fae are going to come looking for him and it's best you don't know the answer when they come asking questions.”

    “Then, what's the deal?” Thomas glanced at the glowing eyes on his shoulder. “What are you offering if its not to tell me where you’re taking him?”

    “Listen closely, my dear king. I can hide him, but it’s a temporary solution.” The man whispered seriously, as his grip loosened on Thomas’ shoulder. “Funny thing ‘bout being immortal is that all secrets come out eventually. The Unseelie court will find out I went rogue and they'll find the kid. It's only a matter of time.”

    “So—” Thomas’ voice trembled. “—what does that mean?”

    “Means we have to be ready.” The fae muttered in his ear.

    “How?”

    “There has to be another way around the curse. Nothing in nature has only one solution.” The man suddenly let go, swaying as he walked forward to Logan.

    “Sleep—”

    “Remy.”

    “What?”

    “I think we’re ready to be on a first name basis, babes.” Remy mumbled, glancing over his shoulder. “Name' Remy.”

    “Remy—” Thomas muttered, stepping up behind him. “—Do you really think you can do it?”

    “It’s not a matter of whether I can do it,” Remy whispered. He glowing eyes faltered and went out for the first time. “It’s a matter of how long it will take me.”

    “What do you need me to do?”

    Remy glanced up at the king’s resolute expression. “Every wanted poster with my face on it comes down immediately.”

    Thomas stared at him in shock, barely able to process what was happening. “Consider it done.”

    “Good,” Remy pointed at him. “The fae hunting stops.”

    Thomas quickly glanced down at Logan sleeping below them. “The hunters don't operate under the crown. I don't have any control over them—”

    “You do now.” Remy stated dryly, turning on Thomas with a snarl. “Girl, I am not abandoning the people under my protection. So, if you expect me to spend my time chasing for answers for the kid,  then it’s time to take responsibility for your worst citizens and do the job I've been graciously doing for you.”

    “Fine.” Thomas relented, immediately tensing as Remy loomed over him. He stepped back, keeping his gaze trained on the fae threatening him. “You’re right. I'll make it illegal. It should have been anyw—”

    “No. If you do that and you’ll drive the whole trade underground.” Remy growled, poking Thomas in the chest. “I haven’t spent my life tracking those bastards down to have you ruin all my hard w—”

    “Fine.” Thomas growled, pushing him away as Logan seemed to twist and turn beneath them. “What then?”

    “Not my problem.” Remy growled, leaning down to run his fingers gently across Logan’s cheek as he glared at Thomas. “Figure it out.”

    Thomas stared as the child stilled at Remy's touch. Logan curled quietly into the man's hand and Thomas could almost feel his breath catch in his throat as the child relaxed. “Fine. I will.”

    “Good. So, then we’re down to the last catch.” Remy whispered, turning to look at Logan as his thumb brushed against the kid’s cheek.

    "Which is?”

    “You’re going to have to forget the kid.” Remy sighed. “At least any of the details that would make him traceable.”

    “I know. It's—” Thomas bit his lip, unable the force out the word ‘fine'. It wasn’t fine. It was heartbreaking to imagine life without the kid’s bright smile. “It's—necessary. I know that.”

    “It's not forever.”

    “What?” Thomas lifted his head to find a surprising display of sympathy in the fae's eyes.

    “When the curse is lifted, I can give you your memory back,” Remy paused, watching the monarch’s expression fall. “And seeing as we are going to be working with each other, I can give you updates on the kid. You’ll have your full memory while we meet, but I'll have to take it from you in between our little meetings.”

    Thomas nodded stiffly. “Will he—will he remember me?”

    “No.” Remy shook his head as the king dropped his gaze. “For now, it’s best for him to know as little about his past as possible.”

    “Okay.”

    Remy forced himself to face the man’s disappointed expression. Slowly, his hand dropped from the kid’s face and he rose to his feet as he extended a hand to the man in front of him. “So, Tommy boy, do we have a deal then?”

    The king hesitated only a moment before clasping a hand into that of his unexpected ally. “We do.”

---

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[arsonistslut]

Suddenly...Liu woke up. His face didn't feel like it was burning anymore, and the sunshine that flowed into his room was starkly different from the darkness of the room he was just attacked in. It wasn't just that, though, everything around him seemed to be in a sort of dreamy haze. He was about to stand when his brother burst in the room. Liu nearly jumped out of his skin, quickly realizing that the scars that riddled Jeff's body before were totally gone. Was everything from before just a dream?

"Wake up, bro! You're gonna be late for school!"

All he could do was just stare at Jeff, confusion riddling his face.

"You alright, man?"

"..Y-Yeah, I'm fine!"

Liu rushed out of his bed and began preparing for school as his brother waited downstairs, rushing down as well once he was ready and walking into the kitchen, expecting the same wordless room where his parents usually were in the morning. Carla looked over at her son and smiled as she ruffled his hair.

"Good morning, you two!"

"Mornin' mama!"

Liu thought something was deeply wrong. His brother was never this jovial, and their parents barely ever talked to them in the slightest, and that was for 15 years! Was..was that all a bad dream? Was all that Sully shit a bad dream, was Jeff getting set on fire a bad dream? When him and his brother got to the school bus, Jeff sat next to one of the other kids, and Natalie sat next to Liu.

"Hi, handsome!~"

"Hey, Nat! How are you?"

Liu was thankful that at least she didn't change.

"I'm doing really well, my dad's recently gotten arrested, so now I'm living with my grandma, she's a sweetheart!"

"O-Oh, that's great!"

"Hey, did you hear about Jeff's new girlfriend?"

"No, he never told me! What's her name?"

"Cassie! I'm gonna be honest, those two are the cutest. They're such sweethearts, they're practically made for each other!"

"That's wonderful!"

Liu then looked outside the window..he couldn't help but wonder how he'd just realized this, but it was such a beautiful day outside! The birds were singing, the flowers were blooming, days like this came practically once every century in New Orleans. Maybe everything from before really was just a bad dream.

A delighted giggle came from Sully as he watched Liu go about his day in the world he'd so carefully crafted for him in his head.

"Finally safe..safe from the horrors that would taint your pure soul."

Nina boredly flipped through the late night channels, sighing as she wasn't able to find anything that interested her. It was far past her bedtime, and her eyelids were getting heavy, so when a particularly eye-catching news report showed up, it grabbed her attention right away.

"And now, we turn to New Orleans, which has been the site of a brutal massacre tonight, as 7 people have been recently found brutally murdered over the course of an hour. Police are not releasing any names of the victims, but they have apprehended a suspect who they believe is the killer, 17 year old Jeffrey Woods was recently arrested after having set the house of Bruce and Aurora Arkansas on fire. The lone survivors of this horrible night are reportedly one individual, along with the daughter of Bruce and Aurora. Liu Woods, Jeffrey's brother, has gone missing, if you have any information regarding where he may be, please contact the police. We do have footage of Jeffrey's arrest, but be warned, it may disturb some viewers."

The TV then showed footage of a group of police officers surround a pale teenager, his whole body caked in blood. Jeffrey shrugged and laid his knife down on the ground, placing his hands behind his head and allowing the police to arrest him. As he was led to the back of a cruiser, Jeff looked into the camera.

"You win some, you lose some, I guess."

The TV then cut back to the clearly shaken reporter.

"We'll provide more information as it comes to us. IN other news.."

Nina shut her TV off, a wide smile growing on her face. She couldn't quite place her finger on it, but she related to Jeff. What was keeping someone like her from going on a rampage like that...? Snatching her laptop off her desk, Nina quickly logged onto 4-Chan and started a thread. She pondered over what to call it, then typed in an adequate name.

"Jeff's Killers."

Chapter 19: "Nothing but pure evil"

"Jeffrey..do you feel even the slightest bit of guilt for your actions?"

Woods had shown no shame throughout his trial. No guilt or remorse for his actions. He sure as shit wanted to, but when the judge asked him that question, he couldn't restrain the smile that came to his face as he remembered how good it felt to plunge his knife into his father's head, how good it felt to snap Troy's neck, how good it felt to drop that match. Besides, wasn't Zalgo right? This was going to keep happening until he died.

"I don't. They all deserved what they got. Besides, I didn't have any other choice."

Silence followed his words. Some gasped, some began to sob, some just laughed in amazement, but most of the courthouse was silent.

"Jeffrey Woods..you are nothing but pure evil. This court finds you guilty of all charges, and sentences you to death."

The judge forced back tears and pointed toward the door.

"Get him out of here.."

Woods was led away by a pair of policemen, and the courtroom cheered as he was led away.

"And then, my sentence got reduced to life in prison, and now..here we are, doctor."

"I see.."

Dr. Oborn wrote down more notes in his clipboard, before looking back up at his patient.

"Doc..can I ask you a question?"

"Of course, Jeffrey."

"...Was that judge right? A-Am I just..evil?"

"While murder is a horrific crime, and many people do seem to see you as nothing more than a psycho who killed for fun, I've spoken with you for over a year now, and I don't believe you to be evil. After what you've told me, I now know that your condition was likely caused by the trauma you referred to earlier."

"..Doc, I.."

Jeff let out a burst of relieved laughter, almost tearing up from joy at the doctor's words.

"You h-have no fuckin' clue how much that means to me! I..I thought I was a lost cause for the longest time..I-I mean, people don't feel happy when they kill someone, y'know?"

"You're not a lost cause, by any means. We've made incredible progress today, and I believe that you will be able to comfortably integrate back into society soon enough. Although, I am confused by one thing."

"What?"

"..How did you know about the things that happened after your hospitalization?"

"Zalgo showed me."

"Zalgo? Who is that?"

"Zalgo is the reason I believe in the afterlife. Apparently, it's a medical miracle I even survived the incident at the party, let alone heal so quickly that my body's now one big lump of scar tissue. Zalgo helped me to survive."

"This is the first time you've mentioned this.."

"Demon."

"Demon to me. You have previously stated your beliefs in Leveyan Satanism, so is this a sort of..representation of the devil?"

"No, the devil isn't real. Zalgo is. Look, can we t-talk about something else?"

Dr. Oborn placed one of his hands on Jeffrey's shoulder, growing concerned due to his growing..worry, almost.

"Is everything alright, son?"

"I...didn't get a lot of sleep last night."

"Nightmares, again?"

"No, I saw things, doctor..I've seen how this world will end."

"You've seen the apocalypse, you say?"

Jeffrey then just shook his head, something he feared he would do suddenly worming it's way into his brain unannounced.

"Jeff..are you having intrusive thoughts?"

"I..I don't want to hurt you, you don't deserve it.."

"Nothing will happen to me, son. I'll be just fine!"

"You..you sure?"

"I'm positive."

"Thank you, doctor.."

"Of course-"

Dr. Oborn was pleasantly surprised when Jeff reached across the table and hugged him, but didn't hesitate in hugging his patient back.

Chapter 20: A new terror

"Listen, man, I know what I saw! Some lanky motherfucker was running around my backyard, and wearing a white hoodie! They didn't catch Jeff The Killer, he's still fucking running-"

Carlos Kennedy changed the channel of his radio, confused as to how someone could genuinely believe that it was a good idea to log onto a radio show, ramble about how you believed a convicted killer was still able to run around your backyard, and think you'll be taken seriously. His attention to that was quickly interrupted by seeing a person lying near the road, face down. The good Samaritan quickly stopped his car and got out, rushing over to the seemingly unconscious person that was lying in a ditch.

"Hello?! A-Are you-"

A knife to Carlos's throat quickly cut him off, blood spraying out of his wound. The girl who stabbed him lifted his corpse off the decoy, a teenager in a white hoodie and a somewhat poorly made, but nonetheless effectively scary Jeff The Killer mask.

"Good work, Jethro."

"All I did was sit here, but thanks, Nina."

This was the first recorded murder committed by Jeff's Killers, after a year of just being a bunch of teenagers hanging out in an abandoned house where a bunch of patricide took place.

[novembermurray]

Patient Evil Haunts Your Steps

Read on AO3

Rating: General

Pairing: Din Djarin x Omera

Summary: Jedi!Omera AU - When Din returns to Sorgan he brings something of the Dark Side with him. It drags up a past that Omera has tried to forget and threatens a future they both long for.

For @mandomeraweek Day 5

It was a subtle sensation of wrong that Omera tried to ignore. It nagged at the back of her mind, from the shuttered abandoned place within her memory she tried to forget. But that feeling of wrong didn’t go away. It came with the Mandalorian when he returned, and it hung around him, not a part of him but never apart from him. 

The Mandalorian himself was changed. 

When the unknown craft had landed just outside their village the people had been terrified; were these new bandits? Pirates? Conquering warlords? Slavers? But only the familiar figure of the Mandalorian they knew had emerged. Alone.

The ship took off again, leaving the silver armored man behind with a spear and a jetpack and no other luggage or company. He had been a silent tumult of grief, relief, regret, hope, pain, love… but mostly just exhaustion. 

“I… I needed a place to…”

“To rest,” Omera finished his sentence. There was no need for any other greeting. 

She showed him to the barn. He thanked her quietly and no one saw him for a whole day afterward. 

That was a month ago. 

The Mandalorian had become something of a shadow in their midst, at the edges of their lives but never integrated with them. He wandered the forests, dissuaded any bandits that strayed closer than he was comfortable with, hunted birds to supplement the village’s aquatic food source — once even using his jetpack to retrieve medicine from the nearest town in a quarter of the time it would have taken anyone else. He enriched their lives, but he didn’t join them. There was still a barrier—something more impenetrable than beskar—that kept him separated from everyone else. Omera knew that only time would wear it down, so she waited. 

The wrongness waited too.

It waited.

Until now.

Omera put down the bowl of krill she had been shelling for their dinner, eyes wide and looking around for the source of a sensation that had no sound, or smell, or touch, or visual. But she felt it all the same. Wiping her hands on her apron absently she got up and left the kitchen, following that feeling through the village, between the krill ponds, and into the forest. It wasn’t far away, just far enough that the sounds and sight of the village were lost in the trees. There was a clearing, she had brought Winta there on quiet evenings before. That’s where she found him and the pulsing sense of  wrong  that grew with every step. 

The Mandalorian’s armor gleamed in the afternoon sun, flashing as he stepped through a controlled series of prescribed movements; slash, block, uppercut, spin, parry, parry, block, lunge. Turn. Repeat. They were the motions of sword drills that were familiar as a childhood dream. He moved through each form with a fluidity of practice yet the hesitation of long disuse. Everything about him channeled focus and calm. He was rigorous in all his crafts; this was no exception. His dedication and intensity was neutral, neither joy nor fear; only  right .

The wrongness was in the blade. It had gleaming white edges that crackled in the shadows and disappeared in the direct sunlight while its center was a stark black void deeper than the darkness between stars. It seemed to suck in the sunlight and offered absolutely nothing back: hungry, greedy, demanding. Wrong.

“Omera,” the Mandalorian had stopped his practice when he saw her. “Is everything alright?”

“What is that?” She asked him.

“A laser sword. It’s called the Darksaber,” he lifted it, horizontal and out towards her in a relaxed grip. There was nothing threatening about the motion, but when he stepped forward to offer her a closer look she took an instinctive step back. He paused, reading the fear on her face and thumbed a switch on the blade. The void, the light, the wrongness slithered back into the handle with a hiss. But it wasn’t gone, just dormant. 

Waiting.

Omera shivered.

“It is… not a pleasant weapon,” the Mandalorian explained. “I didn’t want it to unnerve anyone in the village.”

She felt herself nodding.

“You were looking for me?”

Omera shook herself out of her shock and confusion, scrambling for a lie to dispel his suspicions. Suspicions meant death. Two decades of running and hiding had beaten that lesson into her.

“Dinner will be ready soon. Perhaps we could eat a little early, take Winta up the hill for some stargazing; she likes the stories you tell.”

“That sounds nice,” he agreed. “Thank you. I’ll be along shortly.”

Omera nodded and backed away. She forced herself to turn around and walk towards the village. She flinched when the wrongness flared behind her, released once more. Something about it felt like vicious satisfaction, and she shivered again.

Over the following week the Mandalorian spent more and more time with the blade—the Darksaber. He found time to practice with it usually once a day. Omera tried to find reasons to keep him from it: something she needed help with, someone who wanted his opinion, a broken machine, a missing child wandered off… but it didn’t always work. She thought he might be seeing through her as the days wore on. Her excuses grew thinner and her desperation grew stronger. 

He took to practicing at night, when there was nothing to distract him or keep him from his task. It was all together worse because there was nothing to distract Omera either. She lay in her bed feeling the pulsing sensation ebb and flow from beyond the village and bit her lip against the helpless tears of fear. When she would finally find sleep she would dream: nightmares. Usually they were of war, sometimes of assassinations, of armored warriors cheering her as she held the black blade aloft, of cutting down her foes with its impossible sharpness… of the hundreds  and hundreds of dead it had claimed… of the rivers of blood it had spilled… of the darkness… and the wrongness.

On the third night she couldn’t stand it any more. She heard his footsteps on the path outside and rose from her bed. She caught up with the Mandalorian as he passed between the krill ponds toward the edge of the forest, his beskar edged in moonlight. 

“That blade is evil.”

He stopped dead at her words though he gave no indication he was surprised at being followed. She saw his hands flexing at his sides. He turned towards her tensely.

“It’s just a weapon,” he replied.

“No,” Omera shook her head, “It isn’t. It remembers. It remembers centuries of blood and ambition and greed.”

“You didn’t even know what it was until a week ago,” he snapped, taking a step towards her.

“I don’t need to know what it's called to know it is corrupted,” she argued back just as sharply, matching his step with one of her own and refusing to be intimidated. “You should get rid of it, throw it away.”

“I can’t,” he shook his head and turned away from her.

“You must,” she knew she sounded desperate, “before it destroys you.”

“You don’t understand,” he spun around, ripping the handle off his belt and shaking it at her angrily. “I can’t get rid of it because it isn’t mine to discard. I shouldn’t have it. I don’t want it. But I need to know how to use it well enough to lose against another Mandalorian and relinquish it with honor. So I  must  train with it. Don’t try to stop me again.” The  wrongness  thrummed in the night air and even the insects fell quiet under its heavy presence, but Omera would not be quelled so easily.

“If you fight with that blade it will only be a fight to the death!” 

The Mandalorian shook his head, ignoring her warning. “Bo-Katan doesn’t want to kill me. She just wants to win the Darksaber properly and reclaim her homeworld, reclaim Mandalore. It isn’t about me.”

“Maybe that is how it will start,” Omera softened her voice and dared to take a step closer, “but that weapon can twist the intentions of weak willed minds, and it will demand blood. That is its nature. Do not fight with that blade, please. It will only end in more tragedy.”

“Then why didn’t I kill Gideon?” He demanded angrily. “I won it from him, after he stole the child— nearly killed my-my son with his demagolyc experiments— and I spared his life. Explain that!”

Omera was brought up short and drew a sharp breath. Of course he wouldn’t have given in, she thought. He has carried it so long, and still it has not overwhelmed him.

“Because there is nothing of the Dark Side in you,” she said tenderly. “Because you are strong and kind despite everything that has happened to you, all the horrors you have seen. Everything you have done, you do out of selfless love. But the longer you carry that and the more you wield it the darkness will find ways to bend you to it’s will, take advantage of your grief and your pain to make you covet, and fear, and hate. I couldn’t bear to see that, to lose you to the Dark Side. Please, get rid of it.” She begged him through the lump forming in her throat and the hot liquid pooling in her eyes.

“The Dark Side?” His helmet tipped, questioningly. “The Jedi said something about that too.”

“You met a Jedi?” Omera barely managed to breath the question.

“Two. Ahsoka Tano and another; Cara told me he’s called Luke Skywalker. He… The kid, Grogu…” The Mandalorian’s helmet dipped as his gaze dropped to the ground, arms limp at his sides. “I let the kid go with Skywalker to be trained… to be safe.”

He took a deep breath, he looked up at the stars spreading overhead. 

“I’m…. tired, Omera.” He admitted to the night sky. “I did what I was tasked to do and it cost me everything: every home I have ever known is gone, my people dead or scattered, my Creed broken, my child…” His voice failed him and he paused to swallow painfully. “I need to learn to wield this blade so I can pass it on. Until I do I can’t take this armor off for good. I want that. I want what you offered me the last time I left. But I can’t until I find a way to give up this weapon. I didn’t come here to disturb the peaceful life you have made.” His tone took on the pall of defeat. “I will leave, return when it is done.” His visor was turned away from her, unable to meet her gaze.

“Ok,” Omera breathed, the short agreement coming out shaky.

The Mandalorian nodded before she could explain and started to turn away again.

“No,” Omera rushed forward the last of the distance between them to grab his hand. He looked back, shock practically vibrating off him. “I meant…” Omera took a deep breath. “Ok, until you can take this armor off for the last time, I will help you.” 

She dropped his hand and lifted her own over the pond beside her. She closed her eyes and mentally stepped into the long abandoned place at the back of her mind. It felt like coming home, like opening the windows to a bright summer day and feeling the warm breeze on her face. The world was abuzz with life around her and a familiar presence called out from the bottom of the pool, where it had laid buried for seven years right where she had left it. That presence was easy to grasp now, rising at her command through soil, mud, and water. 

She opened her eyes to see the rippling surface of the pool break and the cylindrical handle lift into the air. Drops of water that fell from it caught sparks of twinkling moonlight. At her call the handle floated to her outstretched palm, and her fingers closed around it; right. She thumbed over the switch and the blade of blue plasma sprang to life between her and the Mandalorian.

His visor was bright with the reflected glow of her lightsaber when she met his gaze with determination.

“I will train you.”

[twoidiotwriters1]

Written In The Stars IX (Harry Potter xFem!Oc)

A/N: Ron, Harry, and Mel share one braincell when they’re left alone and that’s valid.

Words: 3,684

Warnings: None!

Series’ Masterlist

Previous chapter // Next chapter

Chapter Nine: The Duel.

"Don't you get tired of listening to his voice?" Mel pushed her empty plate away, "Every. Bloody. Morning."

"Don't listen to him," Hermione replied distractedly, her attention on the book in front of her, "only idiots believe him"

The second week started with a notice saying that the flying lessons would start on Thursday, and Gryffindor would share their lessons... with Slytherin.

So obviously, Malfoy had been telling stories non-stop about his flying abilities, and Mel was sick of it.

Hermione was nervous as well, Mel soon learned to divide her time between the boys and her:

She shared her desk with Hermione, Mel paid more attention during class if they were sitting together. During her free time, she would stay with the boys, since Hermione had a -quite unhealthy- habit of studying after class, and she didn't like to be disturb.

She was a nice friend overall, offering her help in subjects that were making Mel's life difficult, and even had a functional sense of humor. The only problem was that she was too demanding.

Mel tried to make her see that she needed to calm down, it wasn't fun to be surrounded by books all the time, but Hermione didn't listen.

Hermione was on edge, she closed her book and rambled about Quidditch techniques that didn't actually sound useful unless you were a professional, Mel could sense the rest of the kids getting tired of her friend's chat, but luckily, she didn't have to interrupt, because the mail arrived at that moment.

Neville's grandmother sent him a remembrall: it turned red as soon as he touched it. Malfoy was passing by and decided he wanted to cause trouble.

Harry and Ron jumped to their feet, ready to fight. Professor McGonagall appeared soon and calmed their nerves, once the boys sat back Mel leaned in to whisper:

"You complain about me trying to fight older students but you're always trying to find excuses to punch Malfoy"

"Well, he deserves it," Ron replied, "Malfoy's a little-"

"If you could get close enough to touch one of his hairs, Crabbe and Goyle would turn you into pulp without using magic, so don't even think about it," Mel warned him, "let's focus on the important task at hand: not die on our first flying lesson."

Everyone was reasonably afraid of what could happen, however, once the class started, as most of her other lessons, it wasn't that much of a trouble. Her broom obliged in the first try, and she listened to the proper ways to mount it and how to keep a steady grip on it with full interest.

'Baby steps', she thought in relief.

But baby steps weren't enough with someone like Neville, who somehow managed to break his wrist.

"Did you see his face, the great lump?" Malfoy asked loudly once Madam Hooch, the teacher, was out of sight.

"Shut up, Malfoy," Parvati Patil scowled at him.

"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" said Pansy Parkinson, a girl just as unlikeable as Malfoy. "Never thought you'd like fat little cry babies, Parvati."

"What about you, Pansy?" Mel pushed some kids away so she could see her, "Do you relish on laughing stupidly at everything that passes through Malfoy's bird-brain? Or is your brain as small as his?"

Before Pansy could reply, Malfoy picked up something from the floor.

"It's that stupid thing Longbottom's gran sent him."

"Give that here, Malfoy," said Harry quietly, standing next to Mel.

"I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to collect – how about – up a tree?" Malfoy smiled.

"Give it here!"

Malfoy mounted his broomstick and took off.

"Come and get it, Potter!"

Harry listened, grabbing his broom with spite.

"No!" shouted Hermione, "Madam Hooch told us not to move – you'll get us all into trouble."

"Hermione's right, Harry," Mel added, "forget about the rest, you can't afford getting expelled!"

Harry, impulsive as ever, ignored both. Mel knew that Harry was a proud boy, that also meant he could get in trouble as much as her, if not more.

The next few minutes were something next to impressive: Harry seemed to finally have found his place; the broom and the boy united by an invisible bond.

Something grew in her chest as she watched him fly, something similar to joy, she couldn't quite pin-point what was it. She just knew she liked the way he looked while flying. Mel also knew that it didn't mean she was happy about what was going on.

She walked over to Ron and slapped his arm.

"Ouch!" He glared at her, "Why did you do that?"

"You didn't stop him! You should've helped us to change his mind!"

"For what?" He frowned, "Malfoy's an idiot and Harry's making him look like a fool, watch!"

Mel didn't want to, but she forced herself to watch. At that very moment, Draco was throwing the ball far up in the air, descending rapidly as Harry quickly followed the remembrall'strayectory. She held her breath and watched her friend plummeting to a practically unstoppable, awful crash.

He caught the ball, and a foot before colliding against the grass he expertly readjusted his broom in a matter of seconds. Safe again, he landed softly.

Mel's stomach did an odd flip as she watched, amazed by her best friend's skills. She had the impression that the feeling on her chest was something not so normal, but she forgot about it a second later.

"HARRY POTTER!"

The girl gulped at hearing the voice, blood draining from her face.

"Never – in all my time at Hogwarts– how dare you... might have broken your neck –"

McGonagall could hardly form a sentence, she was pissed.

"It wasn't his fault, Professor –"

"Be quiet, Miss Patil –"

"But Malfoy –"

"That's enough, Mr Weasley. Potter, follow me, now."

'He's expelled', Mel thought, panicking as she watched McGonagall take Harry away, 'this is it, Harry's not coming back.'

"This is YOUR FAULT!" She yelled at Malfoy.

"Mel!" Ron followed his friend, who was sprinting towards the Slytherin student.

"It's not my fault he wasn't fast enough," Malfoy sneered, "he deserves it-"

She grabbed him by the collar of his robes.

"The only person that deserves something it's you, and it's a kick in the-!"

"What's going on?" Madam Hooch had returned, "Why are you screaming like that, Dumbledore? Let go of Malfoy! And where's Potter?"

"McGonagall took him away, Madam Hooch," Lavender replied, "he got in trouble."

"I see," She gave them all the same stern look, "well, let's continue the class, shall we? Potter and Longbottom can catch up later..."

But Mel was having a hard time focusing. How could she, when her best friend was about to get expelled? Everything was over, and it was all fault of his stupid impulsiveness!

The worst part was that she couldn't even scowl him properly because he would be terribly sad, and she didn't want to make it worse.

She left the grounds with teary eyes, Ron walking quietly beside her. It looked like he wanted to say something, maybe he couldn't find the right words or he wasn't familiar with how to make girls feel better.

Hermione found the right words, though. She managed to not mention what she obviously thought about Harry so Mel wouldn't get more upset.

"You won't be alone, you know? You still have me and Ron Weasley, although I don't know why you enjoy spending time with him. Neville's also here, and he's much more interested in school than the other boys. You don't have to cry, Mel. You'll be fine."

"Harry won't be," She pouted, "you don't know the way his relatives treat him, it's an absolute nightmare! And... And now I won't be there to help!"

She didn't know why she felt so guilty, maybe it was because she hadn't insisted enough, maybe she just cared a lot about him. Either way, she found herself completely powerless, again.

When Harry met them for dinner, he was anything but sad. She examined his attitude for a second before saying, in a very confused tone:

"You weren't expelled."

Harry blinked in surprise.

"How did you know?"

"Your eyes are really shiny," She pointed out.

"Oh?" Harry tilted his head, "Thank you?"

"I mean," Mel blushed, "you look happy"

"I am," Harry smiled, "you won't guess what happened..."

Harry told them that McGonagall introduced him to Oliver Wood, the captain of the Quidditch team. Now, Harry was:

"Seeker?" Ron repeated, "But first-years never – you must be the youngest house player in about –"

"– a century," said Harry, eating happily, "Wood told me. I start training next week. Only don't tell anyone, Wood wants to keep it a secret."

Mel was beaming, but she still was mad. Considering that her friend had had several good news for a day, she allowed herself a bit of relief and punched Harry's shoulder.

Harry groaned with his mouth full.

"Wha' was that fo'?"

"You fool! You absolute idiot!" She exclaimed, "I hope this is the last time you do something so stupid, it won't help my anxiety if you keep throwing yourself into this kind of problems!"

"What are you saying? You're no different!" Ron replied in disbelief, "You should've seen her when you left, Harry. She was ready to kill Malfoy-"

"Not true!"

"It is! I saw Malfoy's face, he thought you were going to rip his head off!"

"He's a coward, of course he got scared..."

She looked away to avoid Harry's little smirk and noticed Fred and George Weasley walking up to them, she grumbled under her breath.

"Not them..."

"Well done," said George as they arrived, "Wood told us. We're on the team too – Beaters."

"I tell you, we're going to win that Quidditch Cup for sure this year," said Fred. "We haven't won since Charlie left, but this year's team is going to be brilliant. You must be good, Harry, Wood was almost skipping when he told us."

"By the way, now that we're here..." George added, leaning to catch Mel's eye, "we wanted to ask you something"

"What thing?"

"Exactly how many liberties do you have as the Headmaster's grand-daughter and would you be interested in helping with a few-"

"I don't have any liberties," She said coldly, "I won't help you with your silly pranks now or never. I promised my mum I would stay away from trouble, and you two are always causing it. Also, I'm her niece, not grand-daughter"

"Are you saying you don't like us?" Fred raised a brow.

"I didn't say that. I just prefer to ignore you exist, that way I stay out of all the mischief."

"Unless someone is messing with you," Ron whispered to Harry, who smiled in complicity as a reply.

"Shut up, Ronald," Mel scowled.

"Anyway, we've got to go, Lee Jordan reckons he's found a new secret passageway out of the school."

"Bet it's that one behind the statue of Gregory the Smarmy that we found in our first week. See you."

"And Mel," George smirked, "have fun staying out of trouble"

She turned to face Ron.

"What a way to support me, Weasley"

"I was just being honest!"

"Well, keep your honesty away in times like this, alright?" She crossed her arms, "Your brothers annoy me..."

"What did they ever do to you?" Ron asked.

"They just... I don't know," Mel replied, "they're too problematic"

"I think you like them," Harry teased.

"I don't!" She exclaimed, knowing that she was blushing, "they're..."

Before she could say what they were, Malfoy walked up to their table, a smug smile on his face.

"Having a last meal, Potter? When are you getting the train back to the Muggles?"

"You're a lot braver now you're back on the ground and you've got your little friends with you," said Harry coolly.

"I'd take you on any time on my own. Tonight, if you want. Wizard's duel. Wands only – no contact. What's the matter? Never heard of a wizard's duel before, I suppose?"

"Of course he has," said Ron, wheeling round. "I'm his second, who's yours?"

"Crabbe," he said, "Midnight all right? We'll meet you in the trophy room, that's always unlocked."

They left, Mel was upset again.

"What is a wizard's duel? And what do you mean, you're my second?"

"It means you're both stupid," She said, "you just saved yourself from getting expelled and now you're accepting a duel?"

"A second's there to take over if you die," said Ron casually, ignoring Mel's comment, "but people only die in proper duels, you know, with real wizards. The most you and Malfoy'll be able to do is send sparks at each other. Neither of you knows enough magic to do any real damage. I bet he expected you to refuse, anyway."

"What if I wave my wand and nothing happens?"

"Throw it away and punch him on the nose," Ron suggested.

"I'll go with you."

"Mel, you can't-"

"I wasn't asking"

"Excuse me," Hermione talked to them for the first time in the whole hour.

"Can't a person eat in peace in this place?" said Ron, Mel lightly pinched his arm.

Hermione continued.

"I couldn't help overhearing what you and Malfoy were saying –"

"Bet you could..."

"–and you mustn't go wandering around the school at night, think of the points you'll lose Gryffindor if you're caught, and you're bound to be. It's really very selfish of you."

"And it's really none of your business," said Harry.

"Goodbye," said Ron.

"Don't be rude!" She complained as the three of them got up from the table, "She's trying to help our house win the cup. I should follow her steps from time to time..."

"Well, you should start by controlling your own temper," Ron offered under his breath.

She had a hard time trying to make Hermione leave her alone. She spent the afternoon hearing her ramble about how Dumbledore would be disappointed if she got caught doing such atrocities. In the end, it was useless to try and convince her to go to bed, even if she was already wearing her dressing gown. She angrily followed her downstairs and dramatically waited for the boys in one of the sofas while Mel waited as far as she could from her, standing next to a chair.

"You're ready?" Ron whispered, "Remember, you can't help Harry, so I hope you're not bringing your wand."

"I'm not," She replied upset, "she wouldn't let me"

"Who?" Asked Harry.

"I can't believe you're going to do this, Harry."

A lamp flickered on.

"You!" said Ron furiously. "Go back to bed!"

"I almost told your brother," Hermione snapped. "Percy – he's a Prefect, he'd put a stop to this."

Both of them turned to look at Mel, expecting her to control the situation.

"I tried to send her away," She sighed, "Hermione wouldn't stop insisting, so I let her stay here until we had to leave."

"Come on," Harry pushed both of his friends towards the door.

However, Hermione decided she wanted to keep arguing.

"Don't you care about Gryffindor, do you only care about yourselves, I don't want Slytherin to win the House Cup and you'll lose all the points I got from Professor McGonagall for knowing about Switching Spells."

"I'll help you get them back tomorrow 'Mione, I promise," Mel whispered, urging her to go back.

"Go away."

"All right, but I warned you, you just remember what I said when you're on the train home tomorrow, you're so –"

Mel noticed grimly, that the Fat Lady was gone. She came into a halt, watching with worry.

"Now what am I going to do?" Hermione asked.

"That's your problem," said Ron, going back only to grab Mel's arm and drag her along, "We've got to go, we're going to be late."

"I'm coming with you," she said, rushing over to them once they were reaching the end of the corridor.

"You are not."

"D'you think I'm going to stand out here and wait for Filch to catch me? If he finds all four of us I'll tell him the truth, that I was trying to stop you and you can back me up."

"Hermione, what we're doing is wrong, but that's just an awful idea," Mel retorted.

"You've got some nerve –'

"Shut up!" said Harry. "I heard something."

That something was Neville, he forgot the password and now he was sleeping outside. He wanted to join them because he was, as usual, afraid. Ron was angry.

In spite of the complications, they hoped for the duel to end well.

In the trophy room, they waited and waited. Minutes passed by and there was no sight of Malfoy and Crabbe.

"He's late, maybe he's chickened out," Ron whispered.

"Or maybe he wasn't coming at all," Mel offered.

"Sniff around, my sweet, they might be lurking in a corner."

A hand closed tightly around her wrist and pulled her back. It was Harry, and he was silently urging them to run to the opposite side. She moved, guiding her friends away from Filch's voice.

"They're in here somewhere..."

She walked as fast as she could while also being quiet. Unfortunately, Neville panicked and ran into Ron, the two boys crashing against a whole line of armors.

"RUN!" Harry yelled.

It wasn't the first time Mel and Harry had to run away from something, but it was certainly the fastest. Until their legs were hurting and their lungs weren't properly working anymore, that's when they decided to stop.

"This... is the last time... you believe anyt... anything that rat... says!" Mel concluded, breathless.

"Malfoy tricked you," Hermione said to Harry. "You realise that, don't you? He was never going to meet you – Filch knew someone was going to be in the trophy room, Malfoy must have tipped him off."

"We have to go back to the Gryffindor Common room," Ron said.

"Let's go," Harry walked forward.

The door in front of them opened with a bang and Peeves came out of it swiftly, delighted to see students out of bed.

"Wandering around at midnight, ickle firsties? Tut, tut, tut. Naughty, naughty, you'll get caughty."

"Not if you don't give us away, Peeves, please..."

"Should tell Filch, I should," said Peeves, then his eyes shone wickedly when they landed on Mel, "It's for your own good, you know. You, the dumb-dumby, you're in big big trouble."

"Get out of the way," Snapped Ron, pushing Peeves away.

Mel felt her blood run cold.

"STUDENTS OUT OF BED! STUDENTS OUT OF BED DOWN THE CHARMS CORRIDOR!"

They ran, crashing against the nearest door, which was -as their terrible luck would have it- locked.

"This is it!" Ron exclaimed, in a nervous fit, "We're done for! This is the end!"

Mel looked around and locked eyes with Hermione.

"Just this once?" Mel begged her.

Hermione rolled her eyes but stepped forward.

"Move over," Hermione hissed as Mel grabbed Ron by the collar of his dressing-gown and pulled him away from the door.

Hermione grabbed Harry's wand, tapped the lock and whispered:

"Alohomora!"

Mel pushed everyone inside and then got in herself, closing the door behind her and turning around.

She was living a nightmare.

In front of her, there was a three-headed dog, black and enormous.

"What the..."

"He thinks this door is locked," Harry whispered, he obviously hadn't turned around, "I think we'll be OK – get off, Neville! What?"

It was the third floor, they were inside the forbidden corridor.

"Out," Mel whispered with a broken voice.

She felt Harry turning around and opening the door, they went back outside in a rush and fell on top of each other as Harry quickly closed the door behind them. He helped her stand up so they could go back to running. And so they ran, they didn't even care about Filch, they just wanted to leave that dog as far away as possible.

Almost as a miracle, they reached the seventh floor and the portrait without any complications.

"Where on earth have you all been?" The Fat lady gasped.

"Never mind that – pig snout, pig snout," Harry urged her.

They rushed into the common room, falling heavily onto the armchairs. They were so big, that Mel and Harry even managed to fit into one.

"What do they think they're doing, keeping a thing like that locked up in a school? If any dog needs exercise, that one does." Ron complained.

"You don't use your eyes, any of you, do you?" Hermione snapped. "Didn't you see what it was standing on?"

"The floor?" Harry suggested. "I wasn't looking at its feet, I was too busy with its heads."

"It was standing on a trapdoor," Mel recalled easily, but she shrugged it off, "I don't see how that's important?"

"It's obviously guarding something," Hermione stood up, glaring at them, "I hope you're pleased with yourselves. We could all have been killed – or worse, expelled. Don't expect me to help you again with any of your stupid expeditions in the middle of the night, Mel. Actually, don't even try to start a conversation with me for the rest of the term. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to bed."

"No, we don't mind," Ron grumbled, "You'd think we dragged her along, wouldn't you?"

"Merlin's beard," Mel leaned against her chair.

Hermione could be bossy sometimes, she could be too much for other people, but Mel genuinely liked her and now she was gone, she didn't want to be friends with her anymore.

"Mel?" Harry nudged her arm softly, "Is everything alright?"

"I'm going to bed," She answered, not even daring to look at his eyes.

Next Chapter —>

Taglist.

@vampiregirl1797 @tiphareth2018 @siriuslysirius1107  

[packsbeforesnacks]

Harmony Hall || Mercy & Winn

TIMING: Thursday, July 9th, 2020, Evening LOCATION: The Western Archives (Mercy’s Loft) PARTIES: @cryxmercy & @packsbeforesnacks SUMMARY: Mercy offers an explanation. Winn faces the truth about his lost years. WARNINGS: None

The lighthouse was intimidating, Winn thought, but no more intimidating than meeting someone for the first time… again, apparently. ‘Cause apparently this ‘Mercy’ woman knew him, said he’d lived in White Crest before he remembered livin’ in White Crest. The possibility had never crossed his mind, that there would be — could be — someone with the answers to the riddle of the years that had been taken from him. Winn would need to buy Rio something nice, if this panned out. Boy deserved, like, a fruit basket, bare minimum. Winn made his way up the staircase, twisted up in the lighthouse like a coiled spring, ready to pop out at any time and remind him why he was actually here.

An explanation. Mercy had promised one and Winn wasn’t about to let his only real chance at fixing all of this slip through his fingers. No one — Rio, Darwin, his dad — had been able to turn up any real leads, and there wasn’t a magic Facebook, where Winn could just post until someone said they’d fix his memories. He’d gotten lucky. He knew it. The chance of him findin’ another person with access to mental magic was too big of an ask. Luckily for him, White Crest kept an eye on wishes.

One of the many problems that came with living as long as Mercy had was that inevitably the past would circle back around at some point, either to bite you in the ass, or simply make life more complicated. She wasn’t quite sure which category the current bit of her past fell into. Winn was a good guy — it was why she’d helped him in the first place all those years back -— so perhaps it fell into neither. Perhaps it was simply the right thing to do. Because Mercy had seen first hand what missing memories could do to a person. How confused and lost they could become. Wondering what had happened to them in a span of time they couldn’t remember. It could drive a person mad.

So Mercy didn’t blame Rio for sending Winn her way. Even if she wasn’t sure what she could tell him, other than what the young wolf had asked of her all those years back, and the events that had followed. Perhaps that would be enough. Even if it didn’t bring the memories back. Because Mercy didn’t know how to do that. So she’d made sure the tower would let Winn pass through, that the roses that grew in the field outside wouldn’t harass him. And when she heard footsteps on the spiral stairs, Mercy looked towards the open door of the small flat at the top of the tower. Her tone was warm and easy as she spoke. “You can come in. I don’t bite.”

Winn passed through the open door with more confidence than he felt. He racked his memory, trying to figure out if he’d known her, some time ago, but there wasn’t even the faintest pulse of recollection. He took a seat, movements a bit stiff, as he considered the woman. There wasn’t much he could tell from just her posture and voice; if he had to pick an age— Well, ‘sides bein’ rude, he couldn’t really do that anymore. Living in a lighthouse wasn’t the most unusual thing about this situation, but it was as good a place as any to break the ice. “Sooooo,” he drawled, “you lived in White Crest long?” He wasn’t sure how to broach the subject of her knowin’ him. “This lighthouse looks old. Beautiful, though, the roses are lovely.”

A compliment, a well-placed smile. She knew Winn. But that didn’t mean she had liked him, in whatever history they shared together. He scanned the room, looking for another point of conversational topic, but his eyes drifted back to the woman’s. It occurred to him that, well, she might know him by his old name. He should clear up any confusion, introduce himself again. “Um, sorry, right. I’m Winn. Winn Woods. Winner Lycus Woods. Said that on the phone.” He gave a small wave, feeling incredibly awkward. What was it about this woman that put him on-edge? Or was it just that she knew more about him, perhaps, than he did? There were no easy answers, and so, he admitted what she’d probably already guessed: “Do I… know you?”

“About six years,” Mercy said, watching Winn as he took a seat. “Going on seven.” He was wondering about her, she knew. Who she was. Probably even what she was. Mercy hadn’t told him much over the phone. But that was deliberate. This was a conversation that needed to happen face to face. “Thank you. I… acquired it some years back.” She smiled at him, small and knowing. “The roses are just a bonus.” And a damn fine security measure. In case anyone who was unwelcome thought they could just waltz up to her tower.

Mercy’s eyes didn’t leave his face as he looked around. The room was small, but cozy. Full of shelves and books and benign things of interest that she’d brought up from down in the archives. There was evidence of Arthur here and there as well. A chess set she’d dug out of one of the rooms for him. New journals and fountain pens stacked neatly on a nearby table, along with a stack of scrolls and manuscripts still covered in dust. There was also a small bed in one corner, a tiny kitchenette, a small bathroom behind a closed door, and a woodburning stove. It was very liveable, even if Mercy usually stayed elsewhere. Winn’s gaze came back to her eventually, and Mercy waited a moment as he introduced himself.

“You did. Once. My name’s Mercy.” She watched him for a short but weighted moment. “I’m the one that took your memories.”  

Well, huh.

Winn wouldn’t pretend there wasn’t a part of him that had been… hoping for this. When Darwin had told him that they weren’t buried, but missing, he had been ready to abandon this entire ‘quest.’ Rio’s message, askin’ to give Winn’s information to one of his allies, had been a Hail Mary, as far as Winn had been concerned. But then, Rio had messaged him back, gave him a number to call. Winn had leapt at the chance.

Once. Maybe… Maybe, even if Winn couldn’t get back his memories, she could tell him about himself. It was another confirmation. When something went missing, there had to be a force behind it. Darwin had given him the information, Mercy had revealed herself as the thief herself. He took a deep breath, in, out, almost like he was preparin’ for Darwin to take another look around his mind. But, really, Winn knew that, if he let himself make assumptions, Winn would be transformed in the middle of this flat. That wouldn’t help anyone, least of all him. So, before he’d climbed the tower, he’d ran through scenarios in his head.

And… Well, this hadn’t been the worst. Could be bleedin’ out. Winn locked eyes with Mercy, and said, strong and far more confident than he felt: “Why?”

Mercy often wondered if her long life — or perhaps her nature — had made her some sort of… beacon… for lost and wayward souls. She seemed to cross paths with them more often than not. If that was the case, it was ironic really, since she had no power whatsoever over the souls of mankind. Unlike the Valkyries of her homelands legends.

What she did have was knowledge. Centuries upon centuries of it. But with great knowledge came great power, as they say. And what good was knowledge if it wasn’t shared? At least when it was for the better. So while Mercy had also prepared for the worst, she didn’t pull any punches in answering Winn’s questions. She wasn’t afraid of the young wolf. Never had been. That said, she was very aware of the damage one could do. To her, and to their surroundings. And Mercy was in no mood to deal with an angry shifter tonight. Or at any point in the near future.

Mercy waited on Winn to process what she’d said. She watched for any signs he was going to lash out or react badly. Any tells that his emotions were going to get the better of him, and the wolf would take over to protect him. Or to get revenge for a perceived wrong. Thankfully, that didn’t happen. And Mercy let out her own internal sigh of relief.

Her tone was soft and even as she didn’t hesitate to answer his follow up question. “Because you asked me to.” There was more, obviously, but Mercy wanted to give him time to process the main parts before overloading him with the rest of the details. Of which there were many.

Winn felt like he’d been smacked with a sledgehammer, like the ‘brain freeze’ he’d felt at Darwin’s probing had been only an appetizer for this main course. The memories weren’t stolen. The memories were given. And his mind scrolled and scrolled through scenarios, trying to figure out what could have happened — what he could have done — that would make him do this.

He put his head in his hands, trying to stave off yet another anxiety attack. Winn had been preparing for an answer, even this one, for nearly a month — two, if he counted that first inkling that there was something inside of him. Finally, scrubbing the fresh tears away from his eyes, he met Mercy’s gaze with tired determination. He had to know.

“Tell me more. Please. I can… I can handle it.” Winn tried to give a weak smile, ended up somewhere in grimace, and settled back down into a flat line.

Mercy watched as Winn started to absorb what she was saying. It wasn’t easy to be told things about your past that you couldn’t remember. This wasn’t the first time Mercy had been in such a situation. She had learned, however, that giving too much all at once could send some people over the edge. Others did better receiving things in one big lump. Mercy wasn’t sure which category Winn fell into just yet. He’d survived the giving away of the memories. But that didn’t mean the opposite would be true. When he got himself together and looked up, tears staining his face, Mercy felt her heart ache for him. He was a good kid. It’s why she’d helped him in the first place.

“We met a few years back when you signed up for my self-defense classes. Didn’t take me long to realize you weren’t human. Took you a bit longer to realize the same was true for me.” Mercy explained how they’d come to be friends, and later, how Mercy had come to be a confidant of sorts for Winn. And how eventually Winn came to confide his personal traumas to Mercy. Who had already encouraged him to stand up to what frightened him. To take back control of his life, by not letting the past control his present, or his future. That effort — thanks to Mercy’s Fury nature — doubled when she found out what the hunters had done to him.

“One day you came to me and asked if I knew how to get rid of unwanted memories.” Mercy sat a book — bound in worn leather wrappings — and an ornately carved wooden box on the table between them. She opened the lid of the box, revealing a pair of ravens — carved from obsidian — nestled inside. Each was small enough to hold in one’s hand, and covered in delicately crafted patterns and runes. “This is the how.” She indicated the book and the stone ravens before looking at him evenly. “Are you absolutely certain you wish to know what memories you wanted gone? And why?”

There was a part of Winn that wanted to laugh at Mercy, to tell her that there was no way that she was right. It was a stubborn, temperamental part of himself that he hardly recognized. But, as she spoke, he realized that… well, that what she was sayin’ made sense. Winn had been in a bad way, after he left the pack. That… That was where the memories got fuzzy, where the train stopped because the track had been cut off. He’d always thought the wolf had finally gotten fed up with him, ran on a Full Moon and stayed transformed that way until Winn could get his shit together.

But none of that was true.

“I… kind of hate that you know more about me than I do,” Winn admitted, honestly. “So, I came to you to erase two whole years? That seems,” Winn grabbed one of the stone ravens to inspect it, “excessive.” His head pulsed, his vision blurred. Shit got weird. And painful.

“I’m used to it,” Mercy said of being hated, her voice holding a hint of something that might’ve been weariness. Or perhaps regret. Maybe both. But her expression turned to a true frown as he told her that— “Wait—” Mercy held up a hand, her tone one of shock. “You’re missing two years? Two entire years?” But Winn never got the chance to answer.

He reached for the raven… and collapsed to the floor.

Mercy was instantly on her feet, both out of concern for Winn, and to be ready in case she ended up with a fully shifted, angry werewolf in her flat.  

“Please…” Winn heard himself begging Mercy and a robed figure behind her. The room was barely lit, but Winn could make out himself, younger, and speaking in broken sobs. It looked like the loft, but… different, in the pieces he could see. “Mercy, I did something I can’t take back. Ever. I want… I want a second chance. I’m not… I don’t want to be this person. I— I wanted my life back, but not like this. I didn’t— He didn’t—” There was a crackle in the air as he looked up, meeting the eyes of the fury. “I want this. No going back.”

The scene cut out, Winn heard three words in a language he didn’t recognize. Then, there was darkness.

In Winn’s memory, Mercy looked on in sympathy at the young wolf’s pain. The air hummed with static. “If this is your wish, if you believe with all your heart, that this is what’s right for you… that your life can only be better for forgetting, then so be it.”

When the spell had been cast, Mercy had merely been an observer, until the caster had come to the final seals. How fortuitous it was that she was there, and capable of speaking the three runes that activated the spell and set it in motion.

When Winn came back to himself, in the present, he was on the floor of the loft, holding his head in pain, tears streaming down his face, claws and fangs extended and digging tiny cuts into his skull and lip. Fuck. Fuck. His ears rang, his heart was racing.

“... What did I do?” Winn asked, finally, when he had just enough energy to pull himself off the floor. He couldn’t look at Mercy, not now. Not until he knew.

In the present, Mercy had moved to place herself between Winn and the door to the stairs, just in case. She knew he was in pain. She could see the partial shift his body had gone through in response to such huge amounts of stress. Mercy waited, relaxing slightly as moving towards him as he came back to himself. And asked the million dollar question.

Mercy sighed, wondering where the hell to start. Perhaps the cut and dry version would be best.

“You started this… one-man ‘protect the wolves’ mission… tracking down and killing the hunters, and others, that were hurting them… You were ruthless. Vicious even. You grew numb to it. Or so you said. Until one day… you killed a hunter in front of his children.” Mercy squatted down so she could be level with the wolf. “That was when you realized all those people, those hunters, were people too. With families. Children. People who loved them.” Mercy knew all hunters weren’t created the same. But that didn’t mean she thought Winn had been in the wrong for what he’d done. How many lives had he saved by taking the ones he had? Though it wasn’t what Mercy thought that mattered, was it? This was about Winn. “It set something off inside you… and you couldn’t live with what you’d done. You wanted it gone.”

She watched him for a long moment. “You’re not a bad person, Winn. I know bad people. You’re a good person that bad things have happened to.”

“Okay,” Winn said finally, curling in on himself on the floor, taking it all in. Numb, Mercy had said. Well, Winn didn’t feel very numb right now. He felt… he felt awful. And part of it was recovering from the stress of touching the raven, but… It was true. There was no denying it. Mercy had no reason to lie to him, and, fuck, was that what Winn had seen at the carnival? Killing a hunter, apparently the last in a string of killings. Winn had found his answer. Or, part of it. And that answer was awful, ripping into him and carving at his heart. He could hear his heart hammering in his chest. Winn sat there, just… thinking.

Until: “Wait, then… Why? Why two years?” Winn said, finally looking up and into Mercy’s eyes. “It doesn’t— Tell me I wasn’t… killing people for two years.” Not that it mattered, he supposed, in the grand scheme of things. Just more bodies to the count. Fuck. Fuck.

Mercy waited patiently while Winn processed everything. She was used to this too, after all. It was the story of her life. Waiting and watching… sometimes for months, even years at a time. But when he asked his next question, the only answer Mercy had was, “I don’t know why the spell took two years away. But no. You weren’t. It was… a few months. Maybe.”

“I’m a coward.” Winn sighed, looking up at the ceiling and away from Mercy’s gaze. He’d run away again. He couldn’t stop running away. “And I’m… I don’t know if I’m a bad person, Mercy, but I… I don’t think I can be a good person, if I did that, if I hurt all of those people — and you said, you said others? So, not all of them were hunters? I mean, that… that makes it worse, right?” Would it be better, if it had only been hunters? No. No, Winn didn’t think so. Even without his memories, without his apparent realization, he knew so many hunters now and he knew they were just… people. Fallible and too, too human.

Mercy’s jaw clenched as he called himself a coward. She remembered a moment very like this one, where she’d told him he should take control of his fears, his doubts, his demons… face them and conquer them. She couldn’t help it as the air in the flat started to hum with static. “A coward wouldn’t be sitting here in my tower, asking to remember things he once thought so terrible that he begged to have them removed from his mind forever.”

“The fact that you feel remorse for any of it…” Mercy shook her head, her expression softening slightly. “Bad people don’t feel remorse, Winn.” What did that say about Mercy, and all the people she’d killed over the centuries that she hadn’t thought twice about? The thought was fleeting, and thankfully didn’t settle in Mercy’s head. So she pressed on. “We can’t judge ourselves for the way we deal with trauma. That’s why it’s called trauma. Because it’s a deeply disturbing experience. Something we can rarely control. The only thing we can do… is learn from it. And try to be better in the end.”

Mercy’s words were as much for herself as for Winn, even if she didn’t realize it. But even then, there was nothing more she could say that hadn’t already been said. So again, she waited. Where they went from here was up to Winn.

And try to be better in the end.

Winn pulled himself off of the floor of the flat, scrubbed at his eyes, and looked at Mercy. She was right, even if he couldn’t believe it right now. Had Winn learned from it? When Winn got the memories back, would time have helped? Or would he just be back to that broken man, cryin’ at his friend to take it all away?

No. No, he refused.

Winn had barely finished saying, “I want them back,” though, when he collapsed, again, to the floor, unconscious and still.

[soultosell13]

Welcome to Winston!

Population: 23.458

Creatures: 2.689

Likelihood of injury or death: 43%

We hope you enjoy your stay!

Winston is your average small town hiding in between the corn, with all it’s small lost town quirks. For starters, everyone knows eachother, you think you’ve “met” someone new? They’re either your cousin or one of your friend’s cousin. All the citizens have been here since, well forever. The road to get anywhere else is endless, so no one leaves often or for too long. It’s not necessary anyways, we’ve got all the essentials covered, plenty of home-grown food, a small but efficient hospital and someone always ready to offer a helping hand. We solve everything ourselves and then thank the Higher Being. Because of course there’s also an official religion with a picturesque white church set a little to far from the rest of the town. Somehow it manages to fit a good part of the town who goes every Sunday to listen to the Pastor preach about the divine and it’s morality. Ancient stories about a deity that’s older than the universe that were in fact created less than a century ago by the Pastor’s grandfather. He was the one who founded Winston, so it’s his descendants who now rule it. Although, nowadays there’s more players in the tug and war for the money, power and control. Like that weird family up in North Street, 13 mysterious women of varying ages who live in a huge gothic house, all known to be witches. They also have a say on every important decision. However, the creepiest place is the abandoned manor up in a hill on the outskirts of the town. The urban legends say it’s haunted. It’s definitely haunted, believe me I talked to the ghosts myself, and in fact they are quite lovely. And the place, even though it’s quite run-down and overall kinda terrifying has a certain charm to it. Especially the garden which is stunning but out grown and unattended, it gently brushes de edge of the forest, as if creepy things got along well. The forest is another story, you could even say it’s a town of itself, one whose inhabitants come alive at night. That’s why you only go for a walk there at noon. Although, perhaps the most unsettling thing that happens here is when the Visitors come to town.

The 9th of every month at 7:33 the whole town shuts down. A siren goes off ten and five minutes before and remains ringing for the last sixty seconds. That’s when you lock the doors, turn off the lights and shut down the blinds. For the next fifteen minutes no one is allowed to make any kind of sound, let alone look out the window or even dare to leave the house. Eventually you’ll hear a stumping noise aproching where you are, it’ll slowly get louder. They’re are getting closer, you might want to say a silent prayer by now. On one of the worse cases they’ll stop for a second, it won’t be long but i’ll feel like an eternity, they’ll keep moving though. At least most of the time. Before you know it’s over, everything goes back to how it was and everyone pretends it’s not as weird as it should be. We are used to it by now, it’s a habit, you don’t think to much about it. No one knows what happens exactly or what the Visitors are, but they don’t ask. The real danger there is with the kids, they are naturally curious and hard to keep quiet in the house. That’s when things go really really wrong. When I was in 3rd grade Molly Jenkins didn’t come to school on March 10th, but no ones said anything and the teacher dismissed the few questions about it. Her desk was just empty and we pretended it had always been that way, like she never went to our school, like she never even exsisted. That’s when I learned that things don’t go entirely back to normal after each visit, we just have to act like it does. No searchs are conducted for the people that go missing on 9ths, we know they won’t be found. That why no one wants to know what visits us every month, but today i’m gonna find out.

I put on my best running shoes and tied my hair in a tight ponytail, already anticipating what my fligh-or-fight response might be. I took one last breath before I left my room and went downstairs. The rest of my family was already locked away in their respective rooms, so I tried to not make any noise. I grabbed the box I had left by the entrance and opened the door with shaky hands. Before I knew it, I was out.

The streets were obviously deserted and silence ruled over the town. It felt so eerie, so wrong. I started walking, without really knowing where I was going. Truth is, I have no idea what to look for exactly. Eventually I reached the town center, but only stood alone surrounded by empty stores. At least five minutes had gone by and I still hadn’t seen or heard anything. However, I had to keep going so I did for a little bit. The fifteen minutes were almost up and I was starting to think that maybe they hadn’t come this month. Maybe I’d gotten lucky and I could just go home. But luck has never been on my side and it wasn’t long before I started hearing footsteps behind me. At first I hoped it was just my imagination but as they got closer and closer the thrumming sound became so loud it was impossible to ignore. I wanted to run away as fast as I could, I really did but chose to slow down my pace until i stopped completely instead. The footsteps ceased right behind me and i could hear a heavy breathing. For a few seconds we remained like that, I could almost feel my heart bouncing around in my rib cage and only picking up speed as time progressed. The tension was excruciating and I knew I was gonna have to turn around and face them at some point. So I gathered every no existant inch of strength I had and did so. At first I just saw a pair of boney legs with just some strokes of brown fur attached to it. Already I was regreating this, so I had to force myself to look up further. The creature in question was several feet taller than I, making me bend my neck in an uncomfortable position. First, i saw it’s ribs, similarly to the legs they stuck out horribly only covered by odd patches of skins. Then I focused on the arms, the were long and bony, and by it’s tips hanged sharp claws that were tinted crimson. Every cell in my body was begging me to run at this point, but I knew I had to stay. It’s not like my legs weren’t practically paralyzed anyways. Lastly, with much strength I diverted my eyes towards the head. Oh and how i wish I hadn’t done that. The mare sight of it made every single one of muy muscles tense and i couldn’t even move my head and look away. I was static, but wanted to desperately run. Only my heart was moving, picking up more and more spread by the second, so much that I thought it would stop when I saw it. Staring above me was what looked like a deer skull, yellowish in color and with huge but in places broken antlers. Although what had struck me the most were it’s eyes, or lack there of. The sockets were empty, though it looked like it could see perfectly fine. It even seemed like those pitch black hollows pierced right through my soul when they looked me in the eyes. Scared I broke my gaze away, even though what I saw then wasn’t any better. Behind the creature in front of me there were about five more, all identical and horrifying. However, those ones were too entertained to even notice me. They were agressiblly feasting on something on the floor, I thought it was some kind of animal maybe one of the cows, but then i saw the scraps of fabric. Red and gold to be precise, just like my high school’s color, just like the varsity jackets the football team wore. Then the memory of last Friday came to me, when I overheard Kyle and Russel talk about going out to see the Visitors while they were leaving practice. I didn’t think they were stupid enough to do it, but clearly I was wrong. I swallowed the lump forming in my throat and looked back creature in front of me. Quickly I handed him the box like I was instructed to, hoping Icould get out of here as soon as posible. The Visitor opened it and upon further inspection decided it was pleased with it. Thank God. Before leaving it extended it’s hand, if you could call it that, which took me aback. Was it doing what i thought it was doing? I cautiously shook it’s claw, which was big enough to fit in my entire hand. The creature then opened it’s mouth, showing off it’s sharp crooked teeth, but it’s was almost like a smile. We’re we friends now?

I didn’t get an answer, right after this strange exchange the Visitor’s left. I watched them crawl back into the woods as the town came back to life. Walking back to my house I started seeing people come out of their homes and stores opening their windows. It’s like nothing had ever happened. As much as I tried not to, I couldn’t help but think about Kyle and Russel. How about now their friends and family should be finding out now they are gone. But then again, tomorrow morning it’ll be like they had never even exsisted. So like everybody else I had to forget them. Finally, I arrived on North Street, where I lived. My neighbors were already out and some of the children were even playing on the street. I went into my house, where my aunt and cousin were waiting for me.

“Lydia!!” My cousin Cali jumped out to hug me “I knew you’d make it”

“Of course she’d make it” Aunt Clementine said.

“I doubted it for a second there” I told her but she just laughed. After a few seconds I decide to finally ask about something that had been on my mind for a while. “What were they exactly?”

“Wendigos” My aunt answered casually “Get used to them, you’ll be seeing them a lot when you become the next Supreme”

I opened my eyes wide as plates. Again?!

“Don’t worry, to us they are more harmless than you think. There have been a few mishaps... but nothing to worry about!” She just shrugged it off. I mean she had been dealing with them for years, I guess they didn’t scare her anymore. Maybe the the same would happen to me eventually, but I can only hope. For now i’m just relieved to be home.

“Come on, we’re practicing spells in the garden” Cali changed the subject. I followed her outside laughing like any regular day. Like the last 15 minutes of my life had never happened. Like everyone does in Winston.

[a-man-for-hire-and-his-archives]

Free Sample!

Happy New Year Everyone!

Though the world is on fire and our leaders are useless and the discourse is toxic and the future is uncertain, I hope you found some time over the holidays to sleep in, discover new music, indulge in one or more of life’s temptations and make a few unforgettable memories.

It’s time to kick this lazy blog back into action by sharing a piece from the first chapter of The Last Smile in Sunder City.

A few hours ago, Fetch Phillips received a call from Principal Burbage of Ridgerock Academy asking him to stop by the school so they can discuss a potential case. Though their meeting would happen after the kids had gone home, the principal asked Fetch to arrive a little early so he could witness a special presentation.

We pick up the story as Fetch enters Ridgerock…

It wasn’t my school and I’d never been there before, but the grounds were smeared with a thick coat of nostalgia; the unforgettable aroma of grass-stains, snotty sleeves, fear, confusion and week-old peanut-butter sandwiches.

The red doors were streaked with the accidental graffiti of wayward finger-paint. I pulled them open, took a moment to adjust to the darkness and slipped inside as quietly as I could.

The huge gymnasium doubled as an auditorium. Chairs were stacked neatly on one side, sports equipment spread out around the other. In the middle, warm light from a projector cut through the darkness and highlighted a smooth, white screen. Particles of dust swirled above a hundred hushed kids who whispered to each other from their seats on the floor. I slid up to the back, leaned against the wall and waited for whatever was to come.

A girl squealed. Some boys laughed. Then a mousy man with white hair and large spectacles moved into the light.

‘Settle down, please. The presentation is about to begin.’

I recognized his voice from the phone call.

‘Yes, Mr Burbage,’ the children sang out in unison. The principal approached the projector and the spotlight cut hard lines into his face. Students stirred with excitement as he unboxed a reel of film and loaded it on to the sprocket. The speakers crackled and an over-articulated voice rang out.

‘The Opus is proud to present …’

I choked on my breath mid-inhalation. The Opus were my old employers and we didn’t part company on the friendliest of terms. If this is what Burbage wanted me to see, then he must have known some of my story. I didn’t like that at all.

‘ . . . My Body and Me: Growing Up After the Coda.’

I started to fidget, pulling at a loose thread on my sleeve. The voice-over switched to a male announcer who spoke with that fake, friendly tone I associate with salesmen, con-artists and crooked cops.

‘Hello, everyone! We’re here to talk about your body. Now, don’t get uncomfortable, your body is something truly special and it’s important that you know why.’

One of the kids groaned, hoping for a laugh but not finding it. I wasn’t the only one feeling nervous.

‘Everyone’s body is different, and that’s fine. Being different means being special, and we are all special in our own unique way.’

Two cartoon children came up on the screen: a boy and a girl. They waved to the kids in the audience like they were old friends.

‘You might have something on your body that your friends don’t have. Or maybe they have something you don’t. These differences can be confusing if you don’t understand where they came from.’

The little cartoon characters played along with the voice-over, shrugging in confusion as question marks appeared above their heads. Then they started to transform.

‘Maybe your friend has pointy teeth.’

The girl character opened her mouth to reveal sharp fangs.

‘Maybe you have stumps on the top of your back.’

The animated boy turned around to present two lumps, emerging from his shoulder blades.

‘You could be covered in beautiful brown fur or have more eyes than your classmates. Do you have shiny skin? Great long legs? Maybe even a tail? Whatever you are, whoever you are, you are special. And you are like this for a reason.’

The image changed to a landscape: mountains, rivers and plains, all painted in the style of an innocent picture book.

Even though the movie made a great effort to hide it, I knew damn well that this story wasn’t a happy one.

‘Since the beginning of time, our world has gained its power from a natural energy that we call magic. Magic was part of almost every creature that walked the lands. Wizards could use it to perform spells. Dragons and Gryphons flew through the air. Elves stayed young and beautiful for centuries. Every creature was in tune with the spirit of the world and it made them different. Special. Magical.

‘But six years ago, maybe before some of you were even born, there was an incident.’

The thread came loose on my sleeve as I pulled too hard. I wrapped it tight around my finger.

‘One species was not in tune with the magic of the planet: the Humans. They were envious of the power they saw around them, so they tried to change things.’

A familiar pain stabbed the left side of my chest, so I reached into my jacket for my medicine: a packet of Clayfield Heavies. Clayfields are a mass-produced version of a painkiller that people in these parts have used for centuries. Essentially, they’re pieces of bark from a recus tree, trimmed to the size of a toothpick. I slid one thin twig between my teeth and bit down as the film rolled on.

‘To remedy their natural inferiority, the Humans made machines. They invented a wide variety of weapons, tools and strange devices, but it wasn’t enough. They knew their machines would never be as powerful as the magical creatures around them.

‘Then, the Humans heard a story, a legend that told of a sacred mountain where the magical river inside the planet rose up to meet the surface; a doorway that led right into the heart of the world. This ancient myth gave the Humans an idea.’

The image flipped to an army of angry soldiers brandishing swords and torches and pushing a giant drill.

‘Seeking to capture the natural magic of the planet for themselves, the Human Army invaded the mountain and defeated its protectors. Then, hoping that they could use the power of the river for their own desires, they plugged their machines straight into the soul of our world.’

I watched the simple animation play out the events that have come to be known as the Coda.

The children watched in silence as the cartoon army moved their forces on to the mountain. On screen, it looked as simple as sliding a chess piece across a board. They didn’t hear the screams. They didn’t smell the fires. They didn’t see the bloodshed. The bodies.

They didn’t see me.

‘The Human army sent their machines into the mountain but when they tried to harness the power of the river, something far more terrible happened. The shimmering river of magic turned from mist to solid crystal. It froze. The heart of the world stopped beating and every magical creature felt the change.’

I could taste bile in my mouth.

‘Dragons plummeted from the sky. Elves aged centuries in seconds. Werewolves’ bodies became unstable, leaving them deformed. The magic drained from the creatures of the world. From all of us. And it has stayed that way ever since.’

In the darkness, I saw heads turn. Tiny little bodies examined themselves, then turned to inspect their neighbors. Their entire world was now covered in a sadness that the rest of us had been seeing for the last six years.

‘You may still bear the greatness of what you once were. Wings, fangs, claws and tails are your gifts from the great river. They herald back to your ancestors and are nothing to be ashamed of.’

I bit down on the Clayfield too hard and it snapped in half. Somewhere in the crowd, a kid was crying.

‘Remember, you may not be magic, but you are still … special.’

The film ripped off the projector and spun around the wheel, wildly clicking a dozen times before finally coming to a stop. Burbage flicked on the lights but the children stayed silent as stone.

‘Thank you for your attention. If you have any questions about your body, your species or life before the Coda, your parents and teachers will be happy to talk them through with you.’

As Burbage wrapped up the presentation, I tried my best to sink into the wall behind me. A stream of sweat had settled on my brow and I dabbed at it with an old handkerchief. When I looked up, an inquisitive pair of eyes were examining me.

They were foggy green with tiny pinprick pupils: Elvish. Young. The face was old, though. Elvish skin has no elasticity. Not anymore. The bags under the boy’s eyes were worthy of a decade without sleep, but he couldn’t have been more than five. His hair was white and lifeless and his tiny frame was all crooked. He wore no real expression, just looked right into my soul.

And I swear,

He knew.

TO BE CONTINUED…

There we go. Yeah, it’s a bit of exposition but now that you have an idea of the world, we can launch into the rest of it.

More pieces coming soon!

P.S. If you’re reading this before Saturday 11th of Feb, I’m auctioning off a signed first edition of The Last Smile in Sunder City and a half-hour Skype chat for #AuthorsForFireys on twitter. Check out @longlukearnold if you want to join the bidding.

- LukeArnold. net

[piracytheorist]

Reunion

Summary:  Killian takes his wife and daughter to the place where he grew up, and has them meet someone special.

~

Note: This is a sequel to an earlier fic of mine, A Resting Place, but it can be read on its own.

I wanted to write this sequel for some time, and some recent comments on my fics inspired a bit of brainstorming, so it finally happened :D

If a face helps (and you don’t already know), I've fancasted Eleanor Tomlinson, as she appears in the show Poldark, as Mama Jones ;)

~ AO3 Word count: ~3.3k ~

Killian hadn't stopped feeling his heart at his throat from the moment he'd left Storybrooke with his wife and daughter. They both understood his silence; one more reason it was a good decision to wait until Hope was older to do this trip. Some even had said she was still too young; maybe wait a little longer so she'd remember more clearly.

Tell that to her, though. The promise of meeting her paternal grandmother hadn't left her mind, it seemed, from the moment her Fairy Godmother had given her a small bottle of Ale of Seonaidh for her sixth birthday.

“Remember, it can only be used once,” the fairy had told them, trusting them with the rare item.

Killian and Emma had shared one look and immediately known where they could use it. Still, they'd asked their still too young daughter at the time, who, after brushing her hand through her wild locks, she'd replied, simply, “Grandma.”

Killian had happily cried to sleep that night.

And now, four years later, Hope was about to claim the birthday gift she hadn't stopped asking since then.

“Are you ready?” Emma asked, wrapping her hand around his left arm.

He nodded, finally tearing his eyes away from the calming view of the sea to face the familiar uphill with the equally familiar oak tree at the top. He turned a little to look at his daughter and smiled at her, feeling his heart a bit lighter once she took his hand in hers.

He wanted to say something, anything, even a simple 'Let's go'. But the lump in his throat was too thick for him to risk bursting in sobs on the spot.

So he simply started walking forward, his family by his side.

The state of the oak tree alone nearly made him run away. It seemed to be at the end of its life span, if the decay on its bark and upturned roots was any indication. He sighed deeply.

“What is it?” Hope asked.

“That tree has been here since I was a child,” he said softly. “Me and Liam and other kids from the village used to play on it and around it.” He looked at the village, slowly starting to grow life again. “It watched as the village flourished, then died, then grew back again.” He softly slipped his hand from his daughter's to reach and touch the bark. Flakes fell from it as he did. “We hadn't named it anything. We always called it 'the tree' because it was the biggest one around. And the only one that was one of its kind, too.” He turned to look at Hope, sensing her overactive feet. “Would you like to climb it, love?”

Her jaw fell slightly, and she turned to her mother, who said, “I don't think it'll hold her.”

“That low branch seems strong enough,” Hope said with the smirk she'd no doubt inherited from him.

Killian looked at Emma, and there must have been something in his look that made her shrug. He felt the smile tug at his lips as he turned to help an equally smiling Hope climb up on a sturdy-looking branch. She grunted as she struggled to find footing on it, and he said, “Come on, love, I used to climb that when I was even younger than you.”

“Yeah, but could you dance a perfect floss?” she said, sticking her tongue out at him.

He laughed softly, thinking of her trying to fit that dance in the rhythm of every song she heard.

“Hey, look over here,” Emma said, her phone raised for a picture.

“Take a selfie!” Hope said, finally sitting steadily on the branch.

“No. That's a 'Like father, like daughter' moment,” she said. “We can take plenty with Grandma later.”

The thought finally hit Killian as he smiled for the picture. It had crossed his mind before, but they'd never actually discussed it.

Hoping, of course, that the magic would not somehow make her invisible to the digital lens... he would finally have pictures of his mother. One time, a night after Hope had nearly screamed asking to meet her, Killian had confessed to Emma that he could barely remember his mother's face. He had no sketch of her, and by the time he'd felt confident enough he could make a good enough portrait of someone, most details of her face had been eluding him. He was sure she had bright eyes, probably blue like him and Liam, and red hair... but that was it.

And now he'd finally have a complete picture of her.

“Hey, you okay?” he heard Emma say.

His head snapped up. “What?”

“You seemed a bit lost in thought. Are you okay?”

Emma's look of worry was even more explained by how Hope seemed to have climbed down from the tree on her own, without him even noticing.

“Aye,” he said softly, then turned back to the tree to touch it one last time. “Thank you,” he whispered to it. He allowed one fleeting moment of wondering what earth magic could do for the tree that was the only reminder of his childhood innocence, then focused back on the present, took his hand away and stepped back, feeling this moment as a true farewell. “Let's go,” he said, taking his wife and daughter by arm and hand respectively, then turning towards the village.

That place was certainly nothing like he remembered. It appeared that, a century or so after his previous visit people had started to rebuild the village, settling down there once again, giving life to a place that had lost it too abruptly.

The buildings were different; the people were different; hell, even the smell was different, and he felt the lump form again at the thought that he'd probably never relive that again. But it was a small loss considering what this journey would provide.

Unfazed by their Storybrooke clothing, the villagers simply went about their business as the family walked down the main – and probably only – street. It appeared that the new buildings were built just where the old ones used to be, so knowing the structure hadn't changed much, he stopped automatically in front of a lot that held a humble, sturdy house.

“My home used to be here,” he said. “Last time I came it had been completely destroyed, there was nothing left.” He looked at the new house, trying to smile through the complete lack of recognition at anything. The building, the garden, the earth itself looked completely unfamiliar. “I'm happy it's housing another family now, at least.”

His girls said nothing, and he appreciated that as he turned forward. He swallowed hard and focused on the sight of the graveyard far ahead. He looked first at Emma, then at Hope, then walked on.

The new villagers had cleared the path, fixing a whole new dirt road going directly to the graveyard.

“Isn't it a bit creepy?” Hope asked. “That the cemetery is right there for everyone in the village to see?”

“There used to be an orchard here, between the village and the graveyard. We had to take a small detour around the trees to reach it,” Killian said and sighed. “Maybe the new villagers are more comfortable thinking of their loved ones resting in a place closer to them.” He looked at Hope, and seeing the uneasy look on her face, he added, “Different people have different customs, even when dealing with their dead. You won't believe some stories I have from far off places.”

“Maybe later,” Emma said. “We have a very special way of dealing with the dead right now.”

He nodded, once again feeling a pang of guilt wondering who would gain more from Hope's gift, she or him.

There were two graveyards, after all, distinct by the look on the stones. One of them seemed to have older stones, with some of them cracked and moss growing around them, the other one had newer, cleaner stones.

He stopped to look at the entrance of the older graveyard, focusing on the touch from his family. He wasn't alone anymore. And he hadn't come here to mourn this time.

He was here to see his mother again.

“Do you know where she lies?” Emma asked. “Should we split up?”

He tightened his hand around Hope's, feeling her anticipation through her nervous hand. “No,” he said softly. He needed them both now.

He let his faint but stubborn memory lead him to the stone. The engraved letters were nearly gone, a 'Jone' being the only indication of a name, but the word 'mother' still stood complete, as if the force of her love for her sons had seeped into the very stone.

“Killian,” he heard Emma say and felt her hand leading his head to rest on her shoulder, which was when he realized he was crying.

Taking in a gasping breath, he leaned into her touch as Hope moved to wrap her arms around both of them. They stayed hugged together until his breathing slowed down and his tears stopped. He cleared his throat and moved to break the embrace.

“Do you need a moment?”

He shook his head. They'd wasted enough time already, and he couldn't care less about having red eyes in the pictures. He wanted to see his mama again, and he wanted her to meet the granddaughter who had inherited her wit and hair.

“Let's do this.”

Mother and father turned to look at their daughter, who, without letting go of her father's hand, took out the small, precious bottle from her satchel and undid the cap. She looked at them, her smile widening, then faced the stone and poured the ale on the ground in front of it.

He felt as if all three were holding their breaths together. They knew it usually took a moment, before anything happened, so he tried to-

Hope gasped when a thick cloud of magic started spreading from the ground nearly up to his height. It only took a moment for it to take the form of a person, then finally morphing into a woman.

She wore a brown dress with flowers embroidered on the corset. Her red hair was done half up, the rest blowing with the wind. Her blue eyes focused on him.

And she was smiling.

She turned to look at Hope. “Happy birthday, my sweet girl,” she said.

Hope's hand slipped from his as she ran to her grandmother, who leaned down so that Hope could wrap her arms around her neck, and held her tight. “Hi, Grandma,” she said, her voice betraying a wide smile. She squeezed her a bit then pulled away, allowing them a good look at each other.

She didn't say anything else; she simply ran her hands thought Hope's hair, so unexpectedly similar to hers, and Hope giggled, touching her grandmother's locks as well.

Then Hope turned back, flashing their huge smile at her parents, and stepped back, giving Killian a clean path towards his mother.

She stood tall, tears in her eyes. Her beautiful, caring eyes. “M'boy,” she whispered.

He didn't feel his legs bring him to her. He only saw her come close, felt her arms around him, her hair surrounded his view and he finally remembered to breathe.

Tears and sobs came together as the sweetest scent entered his nostrils; hers. He heard her softly shush at him, he felt her hand brush through his hair and her feet rock them a bit left and right and she felt too small, too lean, why couldn't her hands wrap him whole like the last time he remembered smelling her scent?

“Killian,” she said, pulling away to look at him.

His tears were flowing freely, he could barely see her through the haze now. “Mama,” he said shakily. “I'm- I'm sorry.”

“No, no, love. There's nothing to feel sorry about.”

“I- I- You don't know.”

“I know everything,” she said and used her fingers to wipe the tears from his cheeks.

He froze. “Everything?”

“I was watching over you. All this time. I know.”

“And you...”

“I'm proud, Killian. I'm so proud of the man you've become. I'm proud of your family, of the life you've built...”

His vision finally cleared. She was smiling wide at him, tears of her own staining her cheeks.

“But...” he started.

She shook her head. “No. I've told you. I am so proud of you.”

She raised on her toes to leave a kiss on his forehead, and that nearly brought him to his knees.

She then pulled back a little, and looked into his eyes. “Are you alright? Can I hug my daughter-in-law now?”

A mix of a laugh and a sob escaped him, and he nodded, but couldn't step away. Closing her eyes, his mama unwillingly stepped back, and Hope was quick to wrap her arms around his waist, quickly covering for the emptiness he felt at the lack of touch.

His mama turned to his wife. “Emma,” she said and hugged her as well.

Emma laughed softly, crying as well. “I'm so glad to see you,” she said in a shaky voice.

“No, love,” his mama said, moving back. “I'm proud to meet you. You made my son believe in himself again. You pulled him out of the darkness in which I suffered with him. You've given this old soul a solace she was worried she'd never get, even after moving on.” She then raised on her toes again to leave a kiss on Emma's forehead. “Thank you.”

Emma sobbed softly, and pulled her hand back to wipe at her face, as his mama turned to look at him and Hope, still hugged together. “Now,” his mother said, “I believe pictures were promised?”

“You know about that too?” Hope asked, running to her side.

“Of course. Did you think I wouldn't be excited for a portrait with my family?”

“But, when you... go...” Killian started.

She winked at him. “Have the pictures taken and I have my way of getting a copy.”

Hearing her use modern terms surprised him as much as seeing her the way he remembered her. He faintly watched as she posed with Hope, memories coming by as if he was reliving them all over. Playing in the garden; sitting by the fire, drying up after an evening swim while food was being prepared; her leaning over him on the bed, singing him to sleep...

And then she was right next to him, and without a word they both turned to face Emma, her phone's camera pointed at them, and none even bothered to hide their tears.

Then it was Emma's turn, then the whole group's, and Killian couldn't stop thinking of his last thought.

“Thank you, Hope,” his mama said and kissed Hope's cheek. “Thank you, Emma.” She hugged her tight, wiping away Emma's tears. “And thank you, m'boy.” She hugged him too. “I'm so proud of you.” Then she whispered in his ear, “And as your daughter would say, fyi, I've met my other self and she wants to meet her namesake. Don't let the poor woman wait until that stubborn survivor son of hers decides to die, aye?”

Killian laughed, knowing she was speaking for herself too. Emma and Hope joined them in a group hug, and Killian was certain he had never felt happier. Only one thing was missing.

“Can you sing, mama?” he said softly.

The silence lasted for only a few seconds. Then the sweetest sound from his childhood filled his ears.

My young love said to me My mother won't mind And my father won't slight you For your lack of kind Then she turned away from me And this she did say Oh, it won't be long, love Till our wedding day

Right after her last note, as if on cue, he felt the arms around him and the body pressed against his turn into nothing. His arms fell, but Emma and Hope quickly hugged him tighter, following him when he knelt on the ground.

It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

But it was something, more than he could ever have hoped for.

They didn't speak, and he didn't cry aside from the tears that fell as he replayed the last moments in his mind over and over again.

“Killian,” Emma said, “do you want to see?”

He sniffled and finally opened his eyes. Emma smiled at him, tears also staining her cheeks, and she offered her phone. Hope let go of his good arm so he could take the phone and look at the pictures.

He laughed at their messy faces; red eyes and tear stains were visible in every photo... as were their smiles. Emma had even taken pictures when Killian had no idea, like the first hug between grandmother and granddaughter, hug between mother and son, mother kissing son's forehead...

On one picture Emma brought her fingers to the screen and zoomed in on his mama's corset. “Check out those flowers, Hope. I guess we know now where your papa got his love for floral, huh?”

They all laughed together, then Hope swiped down so that her face was in center. “She was so beautiful... I mean, is...”

Emma snorted. “Well that's definitely not something your papa got from her,” she said, making the other two laugh again.

“I loved meeting her,” Hope said after a pause.

“Me too,” Emma said. “And she was so proud and happy to see you, Killian. Finally meeting the family she could only watch from afar.”

“Aye. I'm glad to know she will be there with us, in a way.”

They stayed there, for a few silent moments, when the breeze was getting too cold and Hope shivered against him.

He rubbed his hand against her back and kissed her hair. “Thank you for doing this, love.”

Hope shrugged. “I wanted to see her too.”

He looked at her and smiled, then kissed her hair again. “Come on, let's go.”

“Can we stop at the old tree again?” Hope said enthusiastically, hopping to her feet.

Killian and Emma nodded, and let their daughter walk to the gate, taking their time to get up and look at the stone one last time.

“You know,” Emma said, “I acted on a whim, and when you asked your mother to sing, I... I recorded it.”

He felt his eyebrows raise up. “You did?”

She nodded. “I don't know how it'll sound, but-”

He quickly leaned forward and caught her lips in a deep kiss. “Thank you,” he said when they pulled apart.

“I thought that's what the kiss was for,” she said and breathed a laugh against his lips. She leaned back and looked at him, her eyes still red. He didn't dare imagine how his eyes must be like now. “You want a moment?” she said.

He simply nodded, and she left a quick kiss on his lips, then turned to join their daughter, who was happily picking up flowers that grew outside the gate.

He looked at the stone, for the first time not feeling the immediate need to put flowers on it. He touched it, and through the remains of the letters, he imagined the complete epigraph:

Alice Jones Beloved wife and mother

He knew he didn't need a stone, and that his mama didn't need flowers.

He knew this moment would be all they needed in their hearts.

“Until we meet again, mama.”

His heart feeling lighter than any other time he'd visited that place, he turned to his wife and daughter, his very own future.

~

~

Note: I want to say that I have a few reservations with writing those three, because I just can't believe that two people like Emma and Killian, with their past, wouldn't adopt once their life became stable. Like I literally find it ooc for them to not adopt. But I'm not sure I'm interested in writing and handling a big family fic, since my focus on my stories is, admittedly, Killian's feelings (and angst!). Of course there can be a lot of feelings and angst in a big family fic, but here I'd have had to choose between writing a) a big family meeting Grandma Alice and the adopted kids being background characters, which wouldn't be fair to them, or b) making the big family the theme of the story, something that would veer away from the actual theme I aimed for.

But now that I think about it, I may just well write a whole new fic about the kids Emma and Killian adopt after (and maybe even before? Who cares about canon) Hope's birth, and develop them as original characters. We'll see.

[fluffyvillain]

Rules are meant to be broken

This is my first CharacterXReader story ever. Like I predicted, it turned out that this writing style isn’t really my cup of tea, but you never know unless you give it a try.

This one is for you, @the-baby-bookworm <3 Thank you for the idea. I hope I didn’t disappoint much.

Characters: BaldwinxReader(You)

Synopsis: Baldwin falls for his new employee (I’m really good at writing synopsis, aren’t I?)

“You got to be kidding me.” Baldwin Montclair followed your every move since the second you stepped into his office.

You always gave people benefit of a doubt, but from one sentence you could tell that people seemed to be right about him - Baldwin Montclair was indeed a self-centered, stubborn, rude and who knew what more. Still, you chose to be polite. “Good afternoon, Mr. Montclair, I’m…”

“I said I needed a CFO, not a fetus, Jenna.” He disregarded you completely.

Jenna, an HR manager, a woman in her fifties, obviously bit her tongue and stopped for a few seconds to cool down before responding. “I was present in all rounds of her interview, trust me on this one, she is extraordinary.”

“Thank you, Jenna. Mr. Montclair, first of all, I am not a fetus, I’m 26 and I am pretty good at what I do.” You stood in front of these two, deciding not to take a seat.

“Jenna, you may leave now.”

She stood up without taking a look at Baldwin and sighed. She patted your shoulder in support on her way out.

Baldwin got up and buttoned one of the buttons on his jacket. He was way taller than you imagined and way more menacing, the closer he came to you, the more menacing he appeared, but you stood your ground, your parents didn’t raise a coward.

“Why are you here, little witch.”

“Because I want to learn from the best.” You shrugged your shoulders, making it sound like the most normal thing in the world.

“Flattering will not get you anywhere.” He came even closer, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m telling the truth, you’ve been in business for centuries and I’m already damn good, but I feel like I could improve.”

He kept his gaze on you. “Do your parents know you are here?”

“Of course…” You took a step back, straightening your blouse and he lifted one of his eyebrows. “Not. They would get a stroke if they knew. Still, I don’t see how that has anything to do with this situation.”

Baldwin took it as a compliment, he loved when creatures were scared of him. “You are right, let’s see what you got.”

He let you sit on his chair and opened a few Excel spreadsheets, giving you the most basic task. “Is this a joke?”

He closed them and opened a few others, giving you 10 minutes for the necessary analysis. You did it in exactly 7 minutes and he was genuinely impressed.

“I think we might have a deal here, but you need to tell me what your powers are.” He set on the desk.

“You know very well that I shouldn’t tell you that.” You were the one crossing her hands over your chest now, but you did it in defense.

“That’s not how things work, if you want me to trust you, you need to trust me too.”

Did this sound like s trap? Most definitely it did, but did you want this job? Even more definitely. “I can blow up things, but I’m pretty bad at it.”

“Handy. Care to show me?”

You moved your hand slightly and the vase next to the entrance door exploded causing him to get off the desk and turn.

“Niiiiice.” He gave you a small clap.

 “I was actually aiming for that small glass on the table.” You pointed to the other side of the room and he lifted both of his eyebrows in surprise. “Told ya.”

 You realized why he called you fetus the first day you started working. All of his employees were in their fifties and he explained that it was because he didn’t want to raise any suspicion, they would work for him for about 15 years and then retire. Short enough for them not to become suspicious about his not-aging.

Other than telling you that, he wasn’t very open, when he actually talked to you it was business. In the following months, you noticed he had a habit of disappearing for weeks which became more frequent, but for shorter periods, usually a couple of days.

When he was there and when he actually acknowledged you, you enjoyed spending time with him. He was so smart you could listen to him talk for days. Some might say you had a crush on him, but you knew it was pure professional admiration.

Baldwin, on the other hand, started feeling like he was suffocating and he couldn’t figure out why for a long time. He was well fed, he got enough sleep and he didn’t have more problems than usual. Then eventually he figured out you were the main cause of his unease, it all started once you walked into his life. Even though you were somehow the root of his problem, you were also the cure. All the unease would go away the second he got close to you. The way your brain worked fascinated him, the way you smelled, that small smile that appeared on your face when he praised you, he memorized every little detail.

The problem was, him liking you stood against all of his believes. Sure, it worked out for Matthew and Diana and a few more people, but he still believed that vampires and witches shouldn’t get together. And, yet, he wanted you. He tried to get away as long as possible, but the feeling would actually get worse the longer he didn’t see you.

One day he ran down to the cafeteria even though he went there only every couple of years. Albert, who set in front you eyed Baldwin as he entered. “Can’t remember the last time I saw the boss.”

Baldwin went to the water machine, greeting everyone present. “Yeah, well, he’s a big shot, he probably likes to eat at fancy restaurants,” you knew well why he didn’t enjoy the cafeteria food.

One look from Baldwin was enough to make Albert get up: “I’ll see you later.”

Baldwin took his spot, gripping a plastic cup that was now empty, causing it to lose its previous shape. “Hello.”

Tapping of his foot was audible and he looked disoriented. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay, why wouldn’t I be okay. Actually, I’m great.” He got up without saying another word and grabbed your shoulder before he turned around and left, leaving you dumbfounded.

Later that day he yelled at a cleaning lady for leaving a speck of dust on his desk, he also yelled at his regional sales manager for messing a monthly forecast by 0,005% and he yelled at Jenna for absolutely nothing.

In the next two weeks Baldwin hasn’t once left for a few days, he even called you to discuss business topics that were only remotely connected to his company.

You were thankful he was there when you figured out something was wrong. You kept quiet for a week until you were sure, but when you gathered enough evidence, you went straight to his office.

“George is embezzling money.” You lay all of the papers on his desk.

“You are wrong.” He lifted his gaze to look at you, but he didn’t even glance at the papers.

“When am I ever wrong about numbers? Numbers don’t lie, bur George obviously does. Everything is here, take a look.” You dragged a chair so you would be able to sit next to him.

“Fine.” Baldwin took a close look at papers and he stiffed, his eyes narrowed and he punched an inside of his desk so hard that he sent the splinters flying. “Son of a bitch.” He dialed his secretary and told her to order George to come to his office.

You instinctively grabbed the hand he used for punching the desk with both of yours. “You need to calm down.” You expected him to aim his anger at you, but his eyes went from your hands to your face and back. His hands were cold and smooth and his eyes went from murderous to warm in a second. You let go of his hand when the door opened.

“Don’t say a word, George.” Baldwins voice dropped, giving you chills, making you hope he never talks to you like that. “You are fired and you know why. You are lucky I won’t call the police, but don’t get me confused, you will never find a decent job in this country, or, as a matter of fact, in this world.”

George opted that it was better to keep quiet, but he pierced through you with his eyes.

Baldwin thanked you and after that you left his office, avoiding the curious colleagues of yours. Baldwin called a meeting at the end od the day to briefly explain the situation and he requested that everyone kept quiet about this.

When you were done, you stayed a little longer to tie some ends before leaving for the parking. Right when you were in front of your car, George appeared out of nowhere and punched you. “You bitch.” You stayed on your feet but only thanks to the fact that your car was your support. It rang in your ears and pain kicked in after a few seconds. You felt blood oozing from the corner of your lips.

Just like George appeared out of nowhere, Baldwin did too and he sent George flying 10 meters, knocking him unconscious. He engulfed you in a hug, your blood smearing all over his white shirt. “Are you alright?”

“Mhm.” You couldn’t say anything because you felt a lump in your throat forming and your tears started raining down your cheeks.

Baldwin wiped away your tears, but the more he did it, the more they stubbornly fell. He hugged you again but this time you wrapped your arms around him too. “Don’t cry, my little witch.” He drew circles on your beck until you completely calmed down and then he backed away only to press his lips where you had the split. His hands dug into your hips and his lips slowly moved, but they remained around your injured area.

The pain slowly subsided, but you heard ringing in your ears again, but your blood racing through your body caused it. He moved back, licking his lips. You hand flew to your lips, but there wasn’t a trace of blood. “What did you just do?”

“I simply made you heal faster.” His eyes fell to the floor. “I’m sorry if I was…”

You cut him off, you slammed at him with full force and pressed your lips against his, you meant to give him only a pack, but when you were about to pull away, his lips followed yours, not wanting to part. His kisses were soft and slow until you completely melted in his arms, then he got needier and hungrier, digging his fingers in your hip, while holding you at the nape of your neck with his other hand.

 You were the one pulling away first as you grasped for air. You leaned on your car for the support once again.

A smirk was plastered on his face. “Well, your parents are going to definitely get strokes now.”

Your breath was still uneven and you missed the coldness of his body against yours already. “Shut up.” You smoothed out the mess you made out of his hair. “What are we going to do about our boy Georgie?”

“I forgot about him.” You ran your hands across his chest, willing him to calm down. “It seems like he wanted to go to jail after all.”

[swanslieutenant]

a place in time - chapter xi

Summary: Emma’s an agent working to reunite missing people with their families when the biggest missing persons case of all time appears in front of her in a flash of bright, white light. Thousands of missing people from throughout history, including one particular pirate, appear on the shore of a lake in the middle of winter: none have aged a day since their disappearance and, with no memory of their missing time, must venture into a strange and uncertain future. Loosely based on the TV show “the 4400.”

Rating and Warnings: Teen. For now.

Catch up: ch1, ch2, ch3, ch4, ch5, ch6, ch7, ch8, ch9, ch10

Read on AO3

Sorry it’s taken me so long, life, ya know. Enjoy this chapter!

The next morning, Emma wakes up before her alarm clock to the quiet and darkness of her bedroom. She lays there in the still dark for several minutes, listening to the faint sounds of police sirens and the gunning engines of cars on the freeway nearby, dreading the moment she has to get out of bed. Her eyes feel dry and raw from the tears of the previous night, and the rest of her feels empty, as if all her emotions drained out of her and haven’t yet returned.

She leans back against the pillows and closes her eyes. The last few days have been extremely challenging and hard, probably the hardest days she’s ever had in her life, but as much as she wants to stay in the comfort of her warm bed, Emma knows she can’t wallow in it. Like she thought last night, today’s the first day of the reality that her parents are really and truly here.

And she needs to get up and face it.

Emma sighs, and forces herself to swing her legs out of bed, her bare feet pressing hard against the cold floor. Henry is still asleep beside her, snuggled into the pillows, and she runs a hand over his head, ruffling his hair.

“Come on, kid,” she says, tugging the covers away from him. He groans in protest, rolling over and pressing his face into a pillow, and Emma sighs fondly at him. “It’s time for school, Henry.”

He grumbles, as per usual, but gets up when Emma promises him scrambled eggs before they have to leave. Throughout breakfast and the car ride to school, Henry is his normal, chattery self, but he doesn’t say anything about the night before. He’s apparently too preoccupied with telling her about another story in his book to continue the conversation from last night, but Emma knows her kid too well; he’s sad that she won’t let him meet Mary Margaret and David.

And that makes her feel like the worst parent in the world, even if she knows she’s doing what’s best for him in the long run. They are strangers, after all.  

But if he is cross with her, he doesn’t let it stop him from turning to hug her before he hops out of the car, squeezing her tightly. “Bye, Mom. Have a good day at work.”

“Bye, kid. Have fun at school.”

He’s already out of the car when he turns back, hand holding the door open, a shy, nervous smile on his face.

“Will you say hi to your parents for me?”

She swallows the lump in her throat, hands tightening around the steering wheel, and she hopes he can’t hear the tremble in her voice.

“Of course, kid.”

The rest of the drive to Storybrooke, Emma’s thoughts twist and turn, stuck on a loop of Henry’s disappointed face from the night before and the shy smile this morning. Her sweet boy, who has only ever had Emma for family just as she’s only ever had him, has now got two new family members - his grandparents .

Is she wrong to keep him from them?

No, she thinks just as quickly. This isn’t a forever decision, this is a right now decision. Right now, these people are strangers. Emma doesn’t know them at all, and she will not let Henry get attached to them when they decide that they’ve missed too much, that they don’t want her anymore and, by extension, don’t want anything to do with Henry either.

When she arrives at Storybrooke, driving through the usual crowd of reporters to enter the facility, she forces those worries and thoughts away. She’s nearly late for their usual Thursday morning meeting, and when she reaches the meeting room, it’s already chock full. It’s one of their larger boardrooms, with seats for about a dozen people, and the one end of the room clustered with more people. She slips into the crowded room, shutting the door quietly behind her, as the meeting is already in full swing. A few people glance over at her entrance and Emma catches the eye of a few of her fellow agents: Anna, who she exchanges a smile with, and Graham, from whom Emma looks quickly away, her pulse jumping immediately in anger and betrayal.

She knows he was doing his job and that he truly wanted to help her, but Emma’s not ready to forgive him yet for springing this life-altering news on her with no warning.  

At the front of the room, Regina is leading the meeting, standing in front of a large projection screen with the words RETURNEE EXIT PLAN emblazoned across the top.

“As some of you may be aware,” she’s saying as she flips the slide to a more detailed list of bullet points, “after much consternation and discussion, the committee down in D.C. has finally agreed to the re-location of the returnees off of Storybrooke grounds.”

A murmur of excitement filters across the room and Emma raises her eyebrows in surprise. She hadn’t heard that the exit plan for the returnees was at a stage where they could be released anytime soon, but it appears she may be one of the few who didn’t know, given the looks and smiles of triumph being exchanged across the room.

That’s what finding out the parents you thought abandoned you have time-travelled to the present will do to a person, she thinks bitterly. 

After all, Emma reasons, it’s about time for the returnees to get out of here. It’s been more than five weeks since that fateful night down at the lake, and Emma can think of a handful of returnees offhand who should be released immediately, like Ariel Andersen and Marian Locksley. They’ve only been gone for a few months or at most a few years, and they deserve to get back to their lives, the lives that are still waiting for them.

For others, however, Emma knows five weeks is not enough time. For one example, Killian Jones - the centuries-old pirate, out in the modern world, away from Storybrooke and his support team? Emma’s stomach clenches uncomfortably at the thought.

As the room quiets, the dim hum of excitement still lingering in the room, Regina gestures to the screen again, and continues, “As you can see, my team and I have triaged the returnees into four groups, with the first group to leave the ones thought to be most re-adapted to our time. Even still, all returnees will need a signature of approval from their assigned agent, social worker, psychologist, and physician before they can submit the report for our final judgment on their release plan. Housing accommodations and work prospects must also be in place outside of Storybrooke, as well as a summary of available social supports like family and friends and community supports. The returnees will be followed still by our team and our colleagues in other cities upon their resettlement, but new physicians and community support teams must be in place as well. We want to give our returnees their best shot at re-adapting to life outside Storybrooke.”

There’s several calls of agreement, and the room briefly breaks into a chorus of applause until Regina gathers everyone’s attention again, returning to her presentation. The next few slides explain the application process in finer detail, and then Regina passes around copies of the report that has sorted the returnees into their different triage levels.

Emma flips through the package as Regina finishes up the presentation, looking for names she recognizes. She starts with the fourth group - the last group to leave - and Killian Jones, predictably, is named amongst them. That settles her lurching stomach, relief settling over her; at least he’ll be here for a bit longer before he’s gone.

As quickly as the relief had settled upon her, Emma frowns at herself. What does she care whether or not Killian Jones is around Storybrooke for longer? She wants him to leave, because that’s her job - get him re-adjusted to this world and then send him on his way. Clearly, that’s what he wants too; he even tried to escape , for God’s sake.

So why does the news of this exit plan make her stomach fill with dread and wish for the exact opposite?

In the back of her mind, there’s an answer lurking, a low whisper of you know why, Emma ,

She shuts that down just as quickly as she thinks it, flipping to the next page of the package so aggressively she nearly rips off the top page, making the agent beside her give her a quizzical look. She ignores her too, looking firmly down to the rest of the list, scanning for another name to take her mind off Killian Jones.

She finds that distraction easily - a few names is away is Elsa Arendelle, Anna’s sister who vanished only two years ago. She frowns at the sight of it amongst the other returnees in this fourth group, wondering what has made the triage team think she needs to stay here longer. She checks the list for the first group and finds names like Ariel Andersen and Marian Locksley, just like Emma thought they would be.

Maybe Emma should check in with Anna and make sure everything is okay with her sister. She glances over to Anna, across the room from her, but Anna is looking down at her own list, frowning, and Emma can’t catch her eye.

“Any questions?” Regina calls from the front of the room, and Emma looks back to her. Regina fields a few questions around the logistics of this exit plan, taking up about twenty more minutes of time. Finally, when the room is exhausted of questions, Regina nods in satisfaction and says, “Then get to it everyone.”

The room interrupts into chatter as everyone begins to exit the room. Emma looks back to where Anna had been sitting, wanting to ask her more about Elsa, but Anna is already halfway out the door.

“Agent Swan, a word, please.”

Emma turns around. Regina has made her way through the crowd, and she beckons Emma to follow her back to the front of the room. Regina’s expression is serious and cold, and dread settles over Emma.

She knows Regina has to know about Mary Margaret and David; Graham would never have been allowed to talk to Emma about it without Regina’s permission in the first place. Emma just hopes she’s not going to make it into a bigger deal than it is.

Speaking of Graham - as he’s on his way out of the room he catches her eye and gives her an apologetic look as she passes him. She ignores him, resisting the urge to glare, and dodges through the rest of the leaving crowd to join Regina at the front of the room.

“What’s up?”

Regina doesn’t answer right away, instead looking over Emma’s shoulder to the back of the room, and it’s only when the door shuts behind the last agent, that she speaks.

“I heard your happy news. You must be thrilled.” Her voice is flat, almost cool, and Emma stiffens.

“I … uh, well, it’s been an adjustment.”  

“I imagine,” Regina replies, leaning back against the front table, crossing her arms and surveying Emma with cold eyes. “So much of an adjustment that you’ve taken to leaving work early.”

Emma’s mouth drys and she stares back at Regina, blinking hard for several long moments. Seriously ? she thinks in growing anger. Somehow, somehow this turn of events that she didn’t ask for, that she didn’t want , is being turned back on her as if it’s her fault?

“I - okay, that’s unfair, Regina. That was the first day I heard about … this , so - so I left early, yeah. After all,” she adds, bitterly, “Graham sprang it on me with no warning.”

Regina raises an elegant eyebrow, and scowls at Emma. “Agent Humbert was performing his duties as an agent of BDMFP, as I asked him to. I need my agents to be at their best, and that includes following my directions. And, that also includes you performing at your best as well . ”

“I am at my best,” Emma fires back, her voice raising loudly, far louder than she really should taking with Regina, her boss after all, but this is so unfair. She is being blamed for having a poor reaction to the news of a lifetime, and all her defensive haunches raise, her old fighting instincts resurfacing as she braces herself for a fight. “I’m not - I’m not slacking off , Regina, if that’s what you think. I was taken aback that first day, alright? I wasn’t expecting this, I needed some time to compose myself!”

“I know that,” Regina says immediately. Finally, her voice softens as if she’s finally realized the combative, harsh beginning of this conversation, and she continues, “And that’s why I wanted to talk to you, Emma. I would imagine this news is … challenging to adapt to. It would be appropriate for anyone, even someone like you, to take a few days off and adjust to this properly.”

Emma shakes her head and takes a deep breath, swallowing down her bubbling rage. Logically, Emma understands what Regina is saying, but there’s no way in hell she is taking any more time off. She’s only just gotten back after her days off because of the media disaster with Killian and Will Scarlet. She can’t afford (as in literally cannot afford) anymore time off, especially if this ends up being an extended leave as she’s sure Regina is hinting it to be.

Besides all of that too, being at home, with nothing but time and silence to occupy her thoughts … that is the opposite of what she wants.

“I don’t want any more time off, I’m fine . This isn’t going to impact my work, Regina. That first day - that won’t happen again. I promise.”

Regina regards her with unreadable eyes, before she shrugs finally, as if unbothered by this whole thing after all.

“Alright, Emma. I��ll take your word on it. But remember, when you’re at work, I expect you to be at work . Leave your personal life to after hours. Is that understood?”

Emma nods stiffly. “Yes. I understand.”

“Good.” Regina pushes off the front table and picks up two thick stacks of yellow paper off the table behind her,  each stack held together with a black alligator clip. She holds them out to Emma, the papers so heavy in their stack they flop down around on each side. “This is the paperwork for each returnee’s exit. These ones are prepared for your parents already; you can give it to them.”

Your parents .

It’s the first time someone has said the words your parents so casually, so normally, as if it’s something one would say to Emma all the time. The sound of the words make her freeze up, and she doesn’t immediately take the papers from Regina, her fingers turning numb and cold.

At her hesitation, Regina’s eyes gleam in a strange mix of triumph and frustration, and Emma snaps quickly out of her shock. This was a test set by Regina, and Emma fears she’s already failed it. Even though it’s Graham’s job to distribute this to Mary Margaret and David, Regina is testing her, wanting to see how she’ll react when faced with working as an agent of Storybrooke with her parents.

Emma nearly snatches the paperwork from Regina, her fingers curling tightly around the edges and says, as coolly as she can manage, “Of course. No problem.”

Regina nods, smirking in satisfaction, and Emma swallows heavily as she turns back to the front table, shuffling more papers. She feels defeated and tricked, and even though her goal for the day, the promise she made to herself last night, was to accept that her parents were truly and really back, being forced into this by Regina makes her grit her teeth in anger. She glares at the offending paperwork in her hands, her fingertips white around the edges as she’s gripping it so tightly. The top page is a demographic sheet labelled for David and Emma nearly rips the papers apart when she notices that under ‘NUMBER OF CHILDREN’ there is a gleaming, bold font number one.

“Everything okay?”

Regina has turned back around now, watching her closely with her dark, cool gaze. Emma nods, shifting her weight to tuck the papers under her arm, the top page with its gleaming number one out of sight, and she shrugs casually.  

“Yeah, of course. Is there anything else you wanted to talk about or can I get to work?”

Regina is silent for a long second, her gaze piercing enough that Emma feels like every movement, every breath is being scrutinized. Finally she shrugs, making the casual gesture somehow seem condescending and dismissive, and says, “Yes, get back to work.”

Emma doesn’t wait around any longer. She turns promptly, leaving Regina and her biting gaze behind her, and hurries to her office. The place is busy now at this time of the morning, and Emma ignores the chipper chatter in the breakroom as she passes it, the other agents excitedly talking about the new exit plan over their morning coffees. Grumpy and ticked-off by her conversation with Regina, Emma is in no mood to talk with the other agents. Most of them in there are the ones who can leave at the end of the day and not take Storybrooke home with them, unlike her where it’s become a twisting, tangled mess that is now her job and her life.

In her office, she drops the paperwork for Mary Margaret and David on her desk, scowling at it and chewing on her lip in thought. Emma hates being backed into a corner like this and she doesn’t want to do this, to take this paperwork to them, to be forced into talking with them. The universe is sneering at her again, dropping her into the depths of what she doesn’t want to do, and she mutters a swear, still glaring at the paperwork on her desk.

Damn it all, now or never it is.  

For the first time in a long time, Killian feels like himself again.

Granted, he still regards himself as a prisoner within these stone walls, and never more so than in the mornings, as it is currently. Waking up to the low hums and rumbles of the modern technology that surrounds him is when he misses the familiarity of his ship the most. The rocking of the ship in the waves as he would awaken, the thudding of the boots of his crew above him, the crisp sea breeze that would greet him when he came up on deck.

But now, at least, he has some memories of his time on the Jolly Roger , solid items he can link back to that time, a reminder of what he once had. His rings are returned to their place on his fingers, his flask tucked into the pocket of his new jacket, Liam’s old insignia resting beside it. The weight of these items, something he took for granted until he no longer had them, is an anchor, tethering him back to the past he’s lost. He may still be a stranger in a new world, but at least he has parts of his old life with him.

With a lighter spring to his step, his growling stomach sends him from his room, down to the breakfast hall. The large area is filled with other returnees, most halfway through their breakfasts, and once Killian has collected his own serving of toasted bread and bowl of fresh fruit, he surveys the room for a free table. To his delight, he spots Alice and Cyrus at a table near him, and he moves to join them as Alice catches his eye and waves him over.

They both a bit strange, particularly Alice, but Killian likes to keep up with them nevertheless. They’re two of the few people here who tolerate his presence, who actually speak to him instead of scowl and turn away.

They are finished their breakfasts already, the plates empty and pushed to the side. Spread haphazardly about on the table in front of them are an assortment of pictures. Killian recognizes them as photographs, this time’s version of portraits. Most of them are of a dusty landscape, the ground brown and sandy for apparently as far as the eye can see, while others are of muddy objects, wide-smiling people crowded around them.

“Killian, come take a look at these,” Cyrus says excitedly in greeting, passing some of the photos to him as he sits down across from the pair. “My agent printed them out for me, I used to work in this area. It’s changed a bit since I was there, but see here? This is from 1990s, do you see that man with the long white beard? He was in my class at school.”  

Killian peers closer at the photograph. There is a group of six men and women, clustered around a muddy hole in the ground, small shovels and boxes of rope and hammers.

“What are they doing?”

“It’s an archaeological site,” Cyrus says, casting a longing look towards the photo. “They’re showing what they found from under layers and layer of sand and soil.”

“Like buried treasure,” Killian says, with a grin, and Cyrus and Alice both laugh.

“Exactly like that, you’ve got it.”

Cyrus passes him another photo, this one of three large triangle-shaped structures, stretching high into the wide blue sky above. Killian has never seen anything like it before, and he asks, interestedly, “What are these?”

“Those are the pyramids in Egypt,” Cyrus explains, and then grins, adding slyly, “They’re older than even you.”

Killian rolls his eyes, but it’s all in good fun. Cyrus’s delight at these photographs of his time is infectious; just like Killian’s returned belongings, these images are Cyrus’s own link to his past. After he’s gone through several more, explaining to Killian his job as an archaeologist, Cyrus picks up another photograph, one full of an array of dusty objects that look similar to the oil canisters that he would see on shore in taverns and shops.

“See these? This is the area I was in a few years before I left for Egypt. My agent couldn’t find an exact picture, but these are similar to the artifacts I was working on before I left. Old Arabian oil lamps, discovered in the ruins of an old temple. I used to have something similar myself,” he adds, with a fond, wistful smile. “My very own Arabian oil lamp. One of my professors at Oxford gave it to me, it was what got me started in archaeology. I remember I misplaced it just days before I – before I arrived here.” His smile fades abruptly. “It’s probably lost forever now, that was so many years ago.”

Alice, who has been mostly silent throughout this conversation, pats his arm warmly. “Perhaps not, Cyrus. I know you’ll find it again when you’re back.”

He nods, and sends her a warm smile.  “Yes, you’re right Alice. I hope so.”

Killian narrows his eyes, an eyebrow raising as the pair of them give each other a knowing look. Alice says a lot of strange things, and he’s used to her thinking that she’ll be back in 1885 in no time, but Cyrus has never agreed with her before.

“What do you mean by that? When he’s back where?”

He was thinking that perhaps the pair had talked about visiting this area of the world, but at once, Killian knows it’s no mere trip - there’s something more to this. Cyrus’s eyes widen, and he glances over sharply to Alice. She, as per usual, doesn’t look perturbed and he leans forward over the table, closer to Killian.

“We’ve been doing some research,” she says in a low voice, before glancing around quickly to the rest of the tables. No one is paying them any attention, and Alice continues, her voice hardly audible now, “on time travel.”  

Killian raises his eyebrows and leans closer to them across the table. It doesn’t surprise him that the pair have been researching it - after all, it’s what the returnees and the agents talk about the most around here. But this seems to be something more than that; there’s a gleam to Cyrus’s eyes that Killian hasn’t seen before, a seriousness to Alice, and a bubble of anticipation forms in his stomach, the precursor to a sense of adventure he hasn’t felt in a long, long time.  

“Oh?”

Cyrus nods excitedly, and Alice continues, her eyes now dancing with delight, “We’re going to find a way for us to go back.”

Cyrus shoots her a harried look and quickly amends, “Well, hold on, Alice. It’s only been preliminary searches so far. There wasn’t much research into the idea of it before we got here, but since we’ve been back, as you can imagine, the knowledge out there is growing every day. The Internet - you know, those black boxes we can use in the lounge? - they have hundreds of ideas of how to do it.”

Hundreds of ideas.

The sense of anticipation grows, flooding through Killian like a wave. If there are hundreds of ideas about time travel, then somewhere, somewhere , there is a chance - a chance to go back to his world, to the Jolly Roger , to his crew, to his life.

“Here’s one theory for example,” Cyrus continues, smiling at the look on Killian’s face,  “I found this group of scientists - NASA, I think they’re called. Their theory is apparently the leading one on what happened to us, it took me two whole days to figure what they were talking about - they kept mentioning something called string theory - but I think I have figured it out. They think that instead of time being linear, where once one day is gone, it can never be gone back to, time runs concurrently. So where for me, it’s a Wednesday in 2011, at the exact same moment, for someone else in a different timeline, it’s a Sunday in the 1880s. We’re all living our lives, unaware that we’re only separated from a different time by something as thin as veil. And they think that someone found a way to open, let’s call it a door, between the two times.”

“And pulled all of us out of our own time,” Killian muses and the pair nod in unison.

“That’s the theory anyways. And if this is what happened to us, then it has to be possible to do the reverse. There must be a way to actively create those doors, because there’s no way that, by chance alone, more than a thousand people from all throughout time would appear in the same spot, in the same time at once. So someone, somewhere out there, knows how to do it. If we can figure out how to open these doors again … well, it’s exactly like a normal door. You go in one way, and then come out the other.”

Killian nods, thinking back to the moment everything changed for him in that flash of white - he looks back sharply to Alice and Cyrus at the thought, and says, “The white light - do you have any theories on that?”

Cyrus frowns, unsure, and Alice offers, “Perhaps it was the door opening? I did see another white light when I went to Wonderland, you know.”

“You did?”

She nods, and Killian is momentarily taken aback; perhaps she isn’t so strange after all.

“I used to think it was magic,” she says, tilting her head thoughtfully. “But perhaps it is science, just like the rest of this time.”

“Could be magic,” Cyrus offers. “After all, nothing like this has ever happened before, so who knows what it is?”

Science, magic - to Killian, there’s hardly a difference, and truly, it doesn’t matter either way to him. He sits back from the table, leaning back in his chair. His mind is spinning with the possibility of returning back to 1748, whether it be science or magic, back to his time, to where he belongs.

It must show on his face because Cyrus quickly leans forward, hand raised in caution. “Don’t get your hopes up yet, Killian. It’s all just talk for now. We don’t even know if this is the right theory . Besides that, who knows what the consequences would be of sending us back to the past, it could change the future! For example, there’s another theory that if we do get sent back, that it would mess up the fact that we were sent forward in the first place, meaning we’d never have been able to go back in the first place, so -”

Cyrus gets into the complicated consequences of time travel, the details so confusing that it makes his head start to ache, and Killian stops listening after a while. Like he said, magic or science, he doesn’t much care how it works, he never has. All he knows is that this is a chance .

But he’s a cautious man. He’s been burned too many times through his life to have get his hopes up by the mere possibility of returning to his time. And yet, the chance, even this small chance, makes him feel like a drowning man catching his first breath of air.

He glances around the room, taking in the sight of this modern time, all the other returnees here who he knows would give anything to return to their time too. All those who were ripped from their lives, their families, their homes. It would only be too easy for them to all, Killian included, to jump at the chance to return to all they’ve lost.

The main doors to the cafeteria opens as he’s looking around and Emma Swan, looking frustrated and on edge, enters the room. She doesn’t notice him, instead looking around the cafeteria, her brow furrowing as she focuses in on the east side of the room. He follows her line of vision, and spots Mary Margaret and David Nolan across the hall near the window.

As he watches her march over to them, her back rimrod straight, her jaw set in determination, his mood drops drastically and he frowns. Leaving this time, returning to his time would mean leaving everything and everyone behind ... perhaps it wouldn’t be so easy to leave after all.

After departing her office, Emma searches for Mary Margaret and David in the breakfast hall, not having to look too far. They’re sitting at a table near the window, Mary Margaret’s head resting on David’s shoulder. Even from across the room, Emma can see two full plates of breakfast in front of them, left untouched.

She takes a deep breath, clutching the paperwork tighter, and braces herself as she walks purposefully over to them. They don’t notice her approach, talking to each other in low voices, and she stands awkwardly a few feet from their table before forcing a grin onto her face.

“Good morning.”

They startle, turning around with wide eyes, and instantly their expressions change from gloomy to gleeful.

“Emma!”

She bites back a grimace at their exuberance. “Uh, hi.”

Both of them are grinning back at her, and it’s clear they are unable to believe that she’s willingly standing in front of them. Emma feels a sharp pang of guilt at that, it swirling down heavily to rest in her stomach. She’s only known them for a few days, only spoken to them for probably an hour total, and already they’re surprised when she gives them the time of day.

David shakes himself free first. “Are you hungry? I can get you a plate of food, give me one second.”

He’s standing in front of her before Emma even blinks, already turned to walk back towards the long breakfasts tables, and she instinctively reaches out a hand to grab his arm, stopping him in his tracks.  

“No, I’ve already eaten breakfast.”

“Oh, right. Of course.”

There’s an awkward moment then, the two of them standing there, Mary Margaret looking between them with wide eyes. Emma steps back from David, tucking her hand into the pocket of her jeans.

“I have some stuff for you.”

She sets the paperwork down between them as David returns to his own seat. She stands there for a moment, lingering, and then grits her teeth, pulling out a chair and sitting down across from them.

“They’re applications to leave Storybrooke.”

“Oh,” Mary Margaret says, and she frowns, glancing over to David. “We’re leaving Storybrooke now?”

“It wouldn’t be right away,” Emma says, and with the way her throat nearly closes on her as she says it, she’s not sure if she says it for their benefit or her own. “You’re in the second triage group, and if the first group’s exit doesn’t go well, you might still be here for a while.”

They exchange a glance, and David nods once. “The second group. Alright, that’s something I guess.”

They look back to her, expectant, but suddenly even more uncomfortable than before, Emma glances down to the top sheet of paperwork, trying to think of something else to say, internally cursing Regina for sending her here. She doesn’t know how to interact with these people, who clearly want so much from her that she doesn’t have to give.

Instead, she focuses on the form, already populated with David’s information. In addition to his demographics, it lists their last known address, a small town over two hours away from Boston, and she grasps onto that fact.

“You’re from a small town, right? I’m sure it would be fine to move back there, Graham would have to check that there’s an appropriate team for you but I think - what?” She stops talking when she glances up, seeing that Mary Margaret and David are looking at each, both frowning.

“When we leave Storybrooke,” David starts slowly, watching Emma closely, like she’s a caged lion, ready to pounce at any moment. “We’re going to stay in Boston. We - we want to be near you.”

Emma blinks, taken aback. “Oh. Really?”

“We could pretend to be your long lost cousins,” Mary Margaret starts immediately, looking over to David who nods in agreement. “That way, no one will ask you too much about us and we can still spend time with you, and you won’t have to worry about any awkward questions or anything like that. What do you think?”

The feeling of guilt returns, slamming into her as hard and cold as a rock. Is this what it’s already come to? She has finally found her parents, but they’re already so aware of her skittish behaviour, they’d be happy to pretend to be her cousins instead of her parents? Sure, it might make it easier to explain to people their age difference, but … it’s wrong .

She imagines if she was in their shoes - if she’d lost Henry at birth and was reunited him later. Would she be okay with pretending to be his cousin, instead of his mother? Would Henry even want that?

Does Emma want that?  

“I don’t want you to have to pretend,” she says after a long pause, clearing her throat which has become croaky and choked. She pauses again, and then continues,“I don’t - listen, I’m not very good at this. I’ve been alone my entire life. I don’t - I don’t know how to do … this. Right now, it’s just - I’m taking it day by day.”

“Day by day is perfect,” David says, with a smile so reminiscent of Henry that it’s enough to make Emma smile too. “If that’s what you want, Emma, that’s what we want too.”

She nods. “Okay, great.” She pauses, unsure what else to say. They’re both staring at her, expectantly, but she’s at a loss for words. “Um, well, I guess I better get back to work. If you have any questions about the applications, let Graham know, okay? He’s still your agent.”

They both deflate as Emma rises to her feet, Mary Margaret’s smile dropping and David’s back slouching. It makes Emma curse internally - damn it, Emma, we were doing so well -  so she adds, in a softer tone, “But I’ll - I’ll see you guys later, okay?”

Thankfully, this appeases them, and David and Mary Margaret’s faces alight in smiles again, and Emma manages a smile back before turning and leaving them. She tries hard not to speed walk out of the room, trying to slow her usual quick pace, the desire to run out of the room exacerbated by her lateness to the meeting. But she doesn’t want to give David and Mary Margaret the wrong impression; she’s already run away from them twice, and she promised herself she wouldn’t do that anymore.

Out in the hall and out of sight of the occupants of that hall, Emma pauses, taking a deep breath. Her hands are sweaty and clammy, her heart fluttering anxiously, the bundle of nervous energy she’d been holding in throughout the time with Mary Margaret and David bubbling over.  

“Swan!”

Emma startles at the voice, turning around sharply. Also emerging from the breakfast hall is Killian Jones, and she lets out a breath of relief that it’s him and not someone else like say, Regina.

“Oh, hi, Killian.”

He smiles at her, but it quickly turns to a frown as he takes in her appearance, her flushed cheeks, the tense set to her shoulders.

“Are you well, Swan?”

“I’m fine,” she replies, straightening her back and crossing her arms over her chest. “How are you?”

He doesn’t answer her immediately, glancing back over his shoulder into the breakfast hall. Emma tenses, wondering if he saw her with Mary Margaret and David, and if he did, if he’ll say anything about it. She sincerely hopes he doesn’t - she can only deal with so many emotions at once these days - and thankfully, Killian, when he looks back to her, doesn’t press the issue further.

“I’m fine. Though,” he adds, a twinkle of mischief appearing his eyes, “I believe I was promised rum.”

Emma laughs, the bubble of anxiety popping at the abrupt change in conversation. “Bit early for rum, isn’t it?” she replies, smirking at him.

“It’s never too early for rum,” he counters swiftly, and Emma laughs again. It’s surprising how much better she feels already, and she can’t help but wish it would be this easy with her parents as it is with Killian.

But she’s also known Killian longer, even if it is just for a few weeks, as she’s been his agent. And in her role as his agent, she needs to tell him about the fact that returnees will be leaving Storybrooke soon. She remembers their previous conversation, just after he was released from the isolation rooms, that he would one day be allowed to leave Storybrooke, and she knows how thrilled he will be to hear this news.

And though her stomach still flips uncomfortably at the thought of him leaving Storybrooke once and for all - because she’s not sure he’s ready for it, she tells herself sternly - selfishly, she wants to be the one to tell him, to see the delight it will bring him. He’s been so miserable here, and perhaps this will bring a bit of light back into his life.

“Walk with me, Killian,” Emma says, gesturing for him to follow her. “I’ve got something I think you’ll like better than rum.”

[edgeofthedales]

darrowbyeightfive in response to this reblog (wouldn’t an alternate cricket outfit been lovely for the Fifth Doctor)

I’m not sure whether the trousers represent something that was popular at some time in the past. I always assumed that they had just made them up because they thought the stripes and colours looked nice. I believe that he cut of the trousers, with the high waist (as seen on Planet of Fire) is typical of Victorian or early 20th Century men’s fashion, although I don’t know enough about fashion history to be able to say this for sure. It seems a flattering sort of cut. I do remember when I was a kid, there were still elderly gentlemen around who wore high-waisted trousers and braces (suspenders). Most of them were considerably rounder in figure than Peter Davison!

I also like the trousers and the general colour scheme of Davison’s costume. I agree that there needs to be at least some element of eccentricity to make it Doctorish. Since he’s a gentler, less forceful Doctor who sometimes struggles to impose himself on the people they meet, he does need something with a bit more impact than just the cricket whites, now I come to think of it.  I did like the way that there just happened to be a cricket pavilion (with notices and what looks like other people’s gear) in the TARDIS. It’s so typically Doctor Who because (a) it’s totally way-out in the context of the story - who were all these other cricketers anyway, and what were all their notices about? and (b) the scene was probably filmed at the cricket club that one of the production team belonged to and cost next to nothing!

They do seem to have picked colours that suited him, and he probably was lucky to take the job not long after Brideshead Revisited had been really popular, because, as you say, he got a nice costume rather than some of the over-the-top 80s gear. Maybe the over-the-top stuff came later in the 80s. I do feel sorry for Colin Baker and his companions having to wear such garish outfits. I find Sylvester McCoy’s costume nicer, although I think the question marks on all three of their costumes are a bit silly. I much prefer it when the Doctor’s clothes look like an eccentric combination of human clothes, rather than a ‘costume’. It’s nice that they have gone back to this in the new series. My favourite Doctor costume is Jon Pertwee’s, with those fantastic velvet jackets and shirts.

Davison’s costume was better than the next two Doctors’ in this respect apart from the question marks and the fact that he and his companions never seemed to change for the first season! There is the inevitable “when did they (the characters) wash their clothes/didn’t they get smelly?” question, and I wonder whether the actors had multiple identical outfits, because they too might have got a bit smelly after spending several hours recording and running around under studio lights! I saw on a Sherlock making-of that Benedict Cumberbatch had three identical copies of his long coat, one of which was used for stunts, but I think the Sherlock budget must be a lot higher than the Doctor Who one in the 80s. So overall I do like Davison’s costume a lot but I just wish there had been a little more variation because it would have been fun to see him in other outfits too. I particularly like his coat and was really happy to see that it was authentic-ish. I would happily wear a coat like that myself and do actually have a winter coat that’s just a little bit like it and has red piping around the pockets and cuffs, although it’s dark blue rather than beige. It does have a lovely ‘swish’ (I realised some time after writing it that the ‘Tristan strutting around the TARDIS in the Doctor’s coat’ scene was based on me and how happy I was when I got my new coat!)  I even like the clown costume from Black Orchid that everyone else apparently hates, because Peter looked so cute as a kind of ‘Pierrot’ (was that deliberate, I wonder? Maybe there is a whole level of symbolism in Black Orchid!) and I thought it was amazing that they put pockets in it (what would have have done with his hands otherwise?).

I do wonder at times if part of the reason why he ended up with a more straightforward historical outfit was because he had been on some historical shows (the lesser known, Love For Lydia and the very well known ACGaS) and thus there was this subconscious decision to continue with that trend. Ok, that might not have been the driving reason behind the cricket costume, but I also doubt that it escaped anyone’s notice that Davison does look good in period dress.

I guess I would lump the Doctor having a cricket club in the TARDIS under the same file as the swimming pool. XD You never know when you might need alternate forms of exercise besides running down corridors....

But yes, I agree that the softer color palette suited him well (much like how the cream colored Fair Isle sweater is so lovely on Tristan) and those extra “dramatic” touches ensured that it remained Doctorish and not “the Doctor is on a weird cricket kick”. I mean, that seems strange to say, but I honestly think that making it a more bizarre cricket costume made it so that you didn’t always think of it as specifically a cricket costume....if that makes sense. XD

And yes, I always regret the costume they gave Colin especially for his Doctor. The Sixth Doctor is one of my two favorites (the other spot belonging to Patrick Troughton’s Second Doctor) and I get a little sad when people focus on that outfit first...and to the point of distraction from the depth of Colin’s Doctor.  McCoy’s outfit wasn’t at that level of eye-pain, but I still don’t know if his outfit “suited him” as much as Davison’s did for Five.

I guess I’ve always thought that the TARDIS made extras of everyone’s outfits. XD And that the laundry machine was going at all times.....

And I agree that the costume Five was given to wear in Black Orchid was great. I mean, it was the same muted colors as his normal outfit and were still flattering for Davison. 

And of course, they had to put in pockets for Davison’s hands. It’s an absolute must for his signature acting quirk. Although, the more I watch (and re-watch) ACGaS, the more I’m convinced that he might have gotten some inspiration for his trademark “hands-in-pockets acting” from elsewhere....

[la-fille-en-aiguilles]

Andrew Garfield x Female Reader: New Rule (Forty-Fucking-Three, Part 2)

A/N: To all those beautiful human beings who have been patiently waiting for this - I am so sorry it took me so long. There’s not much Andrew in this part (I’m sorry, this had to be written in order to put things into perspective), but in the next one (which will probably come out during the week) there’s going to be quite a lot of him… I’m actually planning on making two more parts of it, but only if you guys are interested. Feel free to message me with your opinion on the matter :) As always, I can’t ever thank you enough for taking your time to read this. This really means the world to me. I really hope you enjoy it, lads xx  Warnings: Overall sadness? A couple of swear words. My English… The usual, really. Oh, and also, there is that friend. The one who wants to warn you, but always ends up giving you all sorts of ideas instead… :) 

New to the series? Start by chilling at LAX

 here

!

The ride to Ritz took place in a deafening silence, as you stared stubbornly out the window, refusing to acknowledge Teddy’s concerned stare. Drops of rain rolled down the toned glass, blocking your vision, making it impossible for you to figure out where you were exactly and how much time was left until you could finally let out the sobs you kept swallowing down, in the silence of your empty, lifeless room with a king-size bed.

Struggling to make out the silhouettes of the speeding cars, rushing past the limo, you wondered where these strangers were hurrying. Bright, blurry shine of their headlights blinded you, but you refused to close your eyes. LA was heartbreakingly beautiful tonight. 

You knew he wasn’t coming, yet in that frantic whirl of completely oblivious people, driving their fancy cars, your eyes were still searching for him.

Ironically enough, the minute you walked into your Presidential suite, you didn’t feel tired anymore. Teddy carried your suitcases to your bedroom, not a word escaping his lips. Meanwhile, you made your way to the French windows and, dropping your bag on the floor, tore the curtains open, sparkling Los Angeles, naked and wet, unfolding before your eyes.

“I am coming for you at 7 am, is that right?” you could see Teddy’s reflection on the window surface as he paused in the doorway, waiting for your confirmation.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice strangely low. “Once I am done with Ellen’s show, you are free to go on your well-deserved holiday, Teddy”, you turned around to face him, hugging yourself.

He furrowed his eyebrows at you, confused.

“I’ll explain everything tomorrow”, you hurriedly added before he could ask any more questions. “I’m sorry you did not make it to your kids tonight”. Teddy gave you an almost invisible smile before shaking his head slightly and disappearing behind closed doors.

And just like that, you were left all alone, one-on-one with your thoughts.

Exhaling noisily, you fell onto the ground in front of the window, not even bothering to reach a very comfortable-looking sofa further away. You dumbly stared into the ceiling, your mind completely numb yet restless. As much as you needed to get some sleep, you weren’t entirely sure that this was what the stars had in line for you for tonight. Turning your head towards your bag, your cheek feeling cold at the contact with the parquet floor, you pulled your bag closer by the shoulder strap. 

You knew you could allow yourself to cry freely now, but tears simply weren’t coming. God knows you wanted to cry. You wanted to cry, yell, scream at the top of your lungs, but its like your emotional switch was finally turned off.

You felt like you simply didn’t care enough to bother doing anything anymore.

Bringing your upper body abruptly up, you sat down, your legs crossed, tucking a strand of lose hair behind your ear. Digging in your bag, placed in your lap now, with both of your hands, a minute later you found what you were looking for. With your heart treacherously skipping a beat, you made the display of your phone come alive under your fingertips.

Seven missed calls. 

With your hands trembling, you slid you finger across the display, opening up his messages.

You groaned, dropping your phone back into your bag and burying your face in your hands.

If you could get a dollar each time you got this kind of messages from Andrew Garfield, you’d be as rich as J.K. Rowling by now. In fact, you could abandon your acting career on the spot, and the money you’d have accumulated would have lasted you a couple of lifetimes.

At least he wasn’t trying to reach you anymore.

All of the sudden, you felt an urge to talk to someone. To let it all out. If you couldn’t cry tears, you were sure as hell going to shower someone with words. 

And you knew just the right person for the job.

You met Brittnee, your voice of reason, at one of the movie premieres you attended back when you went out with Dane. She was there with one of her best friends – Ben Barnes, King Caspian himself. He was the one to introduce you to each other, and you have been inseparable ever since. You deemed yourselves lucky if you could meet in person at least once a month – being Ben’s publicist, she had a very hectic schedule – but that didn’t seem to stop her from being there for you when you needed her. You’d been calling her a lot lately, and although she was always happy to hear your voice, you knew she wished you’d have been calling for all the different reasons.

Feeling your head throb with yet another fit of a dull kind of ache, you got hold of your cellphone again, speed dialing the only person in the world who could stop you from making stupid choices you knew you’d regret in the morning. As you prayed for her to still be up, you heard a clinking noise, followed by an overly cheerful hello for three o’clock in the morning.

“Hey Britt, it’s me,” you bit your lips, staring at the winking city behind the glass. “Did I wake you? Where are you?”

“Y/N?” her voice suddenly came down an octave, the cheerfulness of it replaced by worry. “Are you okay? I’m in New York”, you internally groaned at the mention of the city you’d have razed to the ground if you could. “I just got back to my hotel room, I’ve been at this perfume event with Ben… It really did last forever! What’s going on, chica?”

“Do you want me to call you after you’ve gotten some sleep? I totally can”, all at once, you felt like you should stop bothering Britt with your stupid problems. She warned you about this. You shouldn’t have gotten yourself into this mess in the first place.

Yet here you were, sleepless and weary, wanting nothing more than to rewind the time back to when you could still walk away from it all.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in LA, doll? With Andrew? Where is he?” Britt inquired, pretending she didn’t hear your words. It was as if she could read your thoughts. You sighed heavily, brushing your hair back with you cold fingers.

“Out fucking I suppose,” you answered bitterly, dropping your head and closing your eyes. “He stood me up. I’m at Ritz, and he keeps bombarding me with messages of how sorry he is”. 

It was right there and then that you’d finally felt it – a giant lump, rising in your throat, blocking your breathing. Desperately trying to regain your composure, you inhaled deeply, but it seemed to only tighten your windpipe. You could feel your eyes water, and you fought the tears of stress and fatigue back with all the force that was left in you.

“Okay, Y/N, listen to me,” Britt’s determination resonated in her voice, so strong it made you open your eyes and raise your head back up. “It’s about time you stopped ignoring my every word, and listened to me just this once. Are you following?”

You nodded slowly first, but when you realized she couldn’t see you, you barely muttered a yes.

“What did I tell you the last time we had this conversation?” her speech became softer now. “Do you remember?”

“Yes,” you spoke more confidently now. “But I can’t just leave him. What kind of person would that make me? He won’t handle Ellen’s show all on his own…”

You could hear Britt puff her lips sarcastically, before she interrupted you:

“What kind of person would that make you?” she repeated in disbelief. “You could handle being left alone, when he promised you he’d show, couldn’t you?” she paused for a second, letting the meaning of her words settle in. “Is he with her again?”

“Yes,” you could barely feel your lips as they emitted that odious word. “He is”.

You were almost certain you heard Britt swear under her breath.

“Well, isn’t that just fantastic!” she was probably pacing in her hotel room now. “That guy just begs me to go winter soldier on his ass!” 

At any other time, you’d probably kill yourself laughing. Now you weren’t sure you were capable of handling even another breath.

“I’m out,” you heard yourself say all of the sudden. “I’m going to that Ellen’s show in several hours, and then I’m out. For good.”

Silence hang in the air for about a minute, which seemed like a century to you. Then Brittnee cleared her throat.

“Then what?” she asked simply.

You gripped your bag tightly in one hand, pressing the phone to your ear with the other. Standing up, you could feel your stiff legs shake, yet somehow you still managed not to fall.

“I don’t know yet,” you threw your bag on the sofa as you passed it by on your way to the bedroom. “Any ideas?”

“You gotta get yourself another acting deal, Y/N”, Britt’s voice was serious now. This was a publicist talking. “It will give you a legit excuse to ditch all the Breath’s promotional campaigns. I hear Tony Kushner is looking for an actress for one of his new plays… Rehearsals are going to start any day now…”

“How do I get in touch with him?” falling down on an enormous bed fully closed, you suddenly felt the weight of the world lifting off your chest. Brittnee’s voice was lulling your tired mind to sleep, making you feel peaceful.

“I’ll get in touch with him on your behalf. One of his people will most likely call you tomorrow morning. Don’t tell your publicist though, she ain’t gonna like it,” she said, as you heard her scribbling something down on a paper. “And Y/N,” she paused, making sure you were listening. “About tomorrow. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t let you do if I were there. Just because you have finally decided to burn the bridges doesn’t mean it’s a good idea to adopt the now or never attitude, okay? I can’t believe I’m quoting Dua Lipa’s New Rules here, but if you’re under him, you ain’t getting over him.”

Your eyes flew open at her insinuations, as you sat on your bed, astounded.

“What the hell are you hinting at, Britt?” you spoke, your voice coming out higher than you’d expected.

“You know”, she replied calmly. She then continued after a while:

“I honestly have no idea how you’ve managed to keep your feelings a secret from him all this time. You must really be a good actress”.

You gaped at her words, caught completely off guard. A wave of protest rose in your chest, as you felt your insides freeze.

“I don’t see what you’re talking about,” you said, your voice as cold as ice.

“Funny,” you could feel her smile at you kindly. “Because everyone else in the world does. Except that idiot, of course”.

After thanking Brittnee and saying your goodbyes, you forced yourself back on your feet. Having taken a cold shower, you crawled into bed, wearing nothing but a pair of panties. 

She was wrong. 

She had to be wrong.

Because you were so much smarter than falling in love with your fake boyfriend after having dumped him. 

You had to be smarter than that.

[cathygeha]

COVER REVEAL

RABETTE RUN by NICK RIPPINGTON

A psychological page-turner with a shocking twist

Publication Date: February 21, 2020

Publisher: Cabrilon Books (February 21, 2020)

    BOOK DESCRIPTION

‘ALICE IN WONDERLAND... WITH TANKS AND GUNS’ – NICK RIPPINGTON

EMERSON RABETTE has a phobia about travelling on the underground, so when he is involved in a car accident his worst nightmare is about to come true.

A middle-aged graphic designer and father of one, Emerson’s entire future depends on him reaching an important business meeting. Without an alternative method of transport, he has to confront his biggest fear.

Things immediately go wrong when Emerson’s Obsessive Compulsive Disorder kicks in and his fellow passengers become angry at the way he is acting. Thankfully a young woman called Winter comes to his rescue and agrees to help him reach his destination.

Once on the train, she thinks her job is done. What she isn’t prepared for is Emerson taking flight after reading a message scrawled on the train’s interior. 

It simply reads: ‘Run Rabette Run’.

(Rabette Run is Nick Rippington’s fourth book, a standalone psychological thriller. The author’s Boxer Boys trilogy is highly acclaimed and is now available in a digital boxset)

What the critics say about Nick Rippington

‘Addictive, funny, touching, brilliant stories’

‘’Characters that truly come alive on the page’

‘’Evocative, original, unfailingly precise and often humorous’

EXTRACT

PROLOGUE

HE was sneaking a glance at his daughter in the rear-view mirror, listening to her talk about college and friends, when their blue family estate was broadsided by the Jeep.

Time suspended before a tsunami of shattered glass crashed in and he lost control of the steering wheel. The airbag deployed and the seat belt cut painfully into his shoulder as it absorbed the strain of his 15-stone bulk before boomeranging him back into place. What was left of the windscreen retreated as his body reacted like the lash of a whip and, in his confusion, he experienced that eureka moment... ‘Ahhh, whiplash!’

As the car skidded across the road he was dazzled by a kaleidoscope of bright lights – neon advertising boards, shop windows and street lamps. When his eyes adjusted it was as if he was watching everything in slow motion: A couple he had noticed walking hand in hand moments earlier ran in different directions, while a newspaper seller deserted his pitch, money pouch flapping against his pounding legs. Further along, a dapper-looking bloke in tweeds seemed in two minds which way to flee before settling on the safety of the Underground steps.

The visions tumbled from his mind as the car completed its 360-degree spin and he finally locked eyes on his assailant. Marooned in the stationary Jeep, the dark-haired woman stared through the windscreen vacantly, a thick stream of blood meandering down her face from a garish wound above her eyebrow. Devoid of expression, it seemed the shock had vacuumed all thought from her brain.

As soon as she appeared, she was gone, the car continuing to spin. Facing the pavement again, the driver’s attention was captured by what he thought was a bundle of blankets and rags in a shop doorway. With alarm he noticed startled eyes staring out from a face swamped in facial hair. ‘Get out of the fucking way!’ the driver mouthed as he realised one of London’s street dwellers was totally oblivious to the approaching danger.

The car made jarring contact with the kerb and suddenly it was the driver who was spinning, like a sock in a washing machine. His head bumped against the ceiling, his left arm smashed against the twisted metal of the door and his right leg sent jolts of electrifying pain through his nervous system.

Finally, the fairground ride from hell came to an abrupt halt, the car thudding against something hard. The heap of tangled metal that was once a solid and protective shell settled slowly back in an upright position, bouncing like one of those gangster rides with hydraulic suspension that featured in American movies. This wasn’t America, though, this was twenty-first century Britain and he wasn’t a teen gangster, just an ordinary Joe going about his boring, routine business.

New sounds invaded the void left by the disintegrated windows: horns blowing, tyres screeching, glass crunching, people screaming. His ears slowly acclimatising to the noise, he then detected an unfamiliar ticking and saw steam pouring from the bent and buckled bonnet. Performing calculations in his head, he tried to work out how much this entire calamity might cost him. What would the insurance company say? Was there any possibility the vehicle wasn’t a write-off and did his policy contain the use of a courtesy car? How the hell was he going to get to work? What the hell was he going to tell his wife?

Shit, his daughter!

‘You OK back there, honey?’

There was a pause during which his heart skipped a beat.

Then...

‘Yeah, I think so. I’ve a... pain in my tummy.’

Superficial damage. Nothing serious. Thank God. Relief flooded through him.

‘You?’ she asked.

‘My leg’s killing me but otherwise...’

His thoughts were interrupted by another sound. Looking to his left, he was surprised to see the passenger window still intact. Outside, a man in a navy-blue uniform and cap gesticulated wildly, but it was hard to make out what he was saying. The driver felt as if his head was submerged in that slime kids found all the rage.

Still, at least he was conscious enough to interpret the police officer’s manic, hand-waving gestures and detect the urgency in them. Shaking his head to free himself from the gloop, he felt needles of pain attack his nervous system as he shifted sideways, utilising every muscle necessary to reach out and press the button which released the window.

The car’s electrics made an uncomfortable, whirring sound as the glass slid down a few centimetres then stopped. Jammed. He continued pushing the button, but the internal workings were badly damaged. He watched as a gloved hand slipped through the gap at the top of the door and exerted pressure. There was another crunching noise and the window dropped to around halfway, the brute force almost certainly rendering the mechanism irreparable. Not thinking straight, his first reaction was one of anger and his mind made calculations about how much compensation he should claim once he was back on his feet.

The police constable battled gamely to get his point across amid a deafening ensemble of alarm bells and sirens. ‘We need to get you out of there, sir. No need to panic, but we have to make you safe before we can get the paramedics to check you over.’

‘Sounds serious, Dad,’ said his girl.

‘Thanks, Sherlock, always the optimist.’

‘What was that?’ The officer’s face seemed blurred as the driver tried to focus.

‘Sorry, it’s my ears...’ he shouted, the frenzied effort to make himself heard betraying his underlying fear. ‘I can’t... Is the car going to explode?’

‘Umm, I sincerely hope not, sir, but there is a lot of fuel around, the engine’s smoking... It’s best to err on the side of caution. We need to get you a safe distance away in the unlikely event that things escalate. The fire brigade will be here in two ticks and they’ll bring it under control in no time. Until then...’

‘Not sure I can move to be honest, son. I think my leg’s trapped.’

‘Ahhh.’ The policeman nodded. ‘Can you have a look around – see what the problem is? You might be able to free it. On second thoughts, hold on, I’ll come around to your side and see what I can do.’

Appearing at the driver’s window, he then brushed aside fragments of glass and leaned through, peering into the gloom of the footwell. ‘O... K,’ he said slowly. He wasn’t very good at disguising his feelings. It was serious. ‘We have a bit of a problem. A lump of metal appears to have wedged itself in your leg. I’m guessing it will take special tools to get you out of there.’

Shit! The Jaws of Life. Only the other day he had been watching a TV programme about the fire service and the equipment they used to cut people free from road traffic accident wrecks. The jaws had saved many lives, but the name alone was enough to send a shudder rippling through his damaged body. The sirens in the distance were getting louder as they announced their urgency to the world. Blue spinning lights roamed the darkness of the car’s interior, before a more permanent red glow encroached on the shadows. Was it getting hot?

‘Ahhh...’ said the officer.

There were snapping sounds followed by a crackle. Random memories of an old advert for cereal entered the driver’s head: snap, crackle, pop. Twisting as best he could, the driver realised the noise was being created by flames eating into the car’s paintwork. ‘No!’ he muttered through clenched teeth. Damn, he’d just forked out a small fortune on a touch-up job after some local punk had dug a thick groove right along the passenger’s side with a coin or a key.

‘Uh oh!’ said his daughter, looking over her shoulder. ‘They’re going to get us out of here, aren’t they, Dad? I’m scared.’

‘Stay calm,’ he replied, wishing he could practice what he was preaching. ‘I’m sure it will be fine. The fire brigade is on their way and will be here shortly.’

‘Ahh, they’re here,’ the policeman announced on cue, relief evident in his tone.

Moments later the driver heard a new voice, the accent pure Cockney. ‘Stay calm, sir, and we’ll have you out in no time.’

The driver twisted in the direction of the person speaking and another wave of pain rolled through him. On the periphery of his vision he could make out a tall man with a pointed jaw in a fire brigade uniform.

‘What seems to be the trouble, eh? Let the dog see the rabbit.’ The fireman leaned inside. ‘Rrrr...igh...t,’ he said before shouting some instructions to the rest of his crew.

Suddenly, the car was plunged into darkness. The driver guessed it was being buried in that foam the fire services used to bring a blaze under control. It felt strangely comforting to know they weren’t going to be burnt alive. Another sound, a screeching, grating noise soon invaded the car’s interior, setting his teeth on edge.

‘Cool!’ muttered his daughter as sparks sprayed through the roof. Moments later the metal was peeled back like the lid on a tin of tuna, bright lights invading the space, making them cry out and shield their eyes.

‘Sorry, mate, it’s got to be done,’ advised the fire officer. ‘Once we’re inside, we can hopefully remove the obstacle that’s holding you in place and get you out of there. Second thoughts, the best thing we can do, looking at it now, would be to remove the door, together with your good self. It should be easier to cut you free elsewhere, rather than in the midst of this, um, chaos. When we get somewhere a bit less volatile the medical people can assess the problem and hopefully free your leg from the door.’

As he said this, for the first time the driver realised that up until now the darkness of the footwell had prevented him taking a closer look at his injury. Shielding his eyes from the glare, he glanced downwards. A thick metal shard was protruding from his leg and a dark, sticky substance soaked his trousers. The limb looked like a theatrical prosthesis in a zombie apocalypse movie, the foot at a right angle to the rest of the limb.

He experienced an unfamiliar dizziness and passed out.

GLOVED hands grasped the limp body and gently carried it to the stretcher. The patient felt a needle entering the soft tissue in his arm and after that remembered little, sliding into unconsciousness as he murmured her name. The paramedic whispered to one of the fireman.

‘What did he say? Sounded like a name? Jane, was it? I think he said something about a daughter. Was there anyone with him?’

‘Nope,’ replied the fireman. ‘He was all on his lonesome.’

A colleague arrived at the paramedic’s shoulder. ‘Right, best get him to intensive care, lickety spit,’ said the new arrival. ‘I hate to be the prophet of doom, but it will be touch and go if he survives the night.’

BUY LINKS:

UK https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B084D3TT36

shortlink is https://amzn.to/36Iqhta

In the USA it's https://www.amazon.com/dp/B084D3TT36

shortlink is https://amzn.to/2OisZ1U

AUTHOR BIO

NICK RIPPINGTON is the award-winning author of the Boxer Boys series of gangland crime thrillers.

     Based in London, UK, Nick was the last-ever Welsh Sports Editor of the now defunct News of The World, writing his debut release Crossing The Whitewash after being made redundant with just two days notice after Rupert Murdoch closed down Europe’s biggest-selling tabloid in 2011.     On holiday at the time, Nick was never allowed back in the building, investigators sealing off the area with crime scene tape and seizing his computer as they investigated the phone-hacking scandal, something which took place a decade before Nick joined the paper. His greatest fear, however, was that cops would uncover the secrets to his Fantasy Football selections.     Handed the contents of his desk in a black bin bag in a murky car park, deep throat style, Nick was at a crossroads – married just two years earlier and with a wife and 9-month-old baby to support.     With self-publishing booming, he hit on an idea for a UK gangland thriller taking place against the backdrop of the Rugby World Cup and in 2015 produced Crossing The Whitewash, which received an honourable mention in the genre category of the Writers’ Digest self-published eBook awards. Judges described it as "evocative, unique, unfailingly precise and often humorous".     Follow-up novel Spark Out, a prequel set at the time of Margaret Thatcher and the Falklands War, received a Chill With A Book reader award and an IndieBRAG medallion from the prestigious website dedicated to Independent publishers and writers throughout the world. The novel was also awarded best cover of 2017 with Chill With A Book.       The third book in the Boxer Boys series Dying Seconds, a sequel to Crossing The Whitewash, was released in December 2018 and went to the top of the Amazon Contemporary Urban Fiction free charts during a giveaway period of five days. A digital box set, the Boxer Boys Collection, came out in September last year.

       Now Nick, 60, is switching direction feeling that, for the moment, the Boxer Boys series has run its course. His latest novel, Rabette Run, will be released in the Spring and Nick says, ‘It is a gritty psychological thriller with twists and turns galore. Think Alice in Wonderland with tanks and guns.’     Married to Liz, When Nick isn’t writing he works as a back bench designer of sports pages on the Daily Star. He has two children – Jemma, 37, and Olivia, 9. 

Author links: 

Website: www.theripperfile.com

Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/buckrippers

Twitter: @nickripp

Instagram: @nickrippingtonauthor

Where to find Nick’s books...

Amazon Author Page in the UK: 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Nick-Rippington/e/B0135YST78

Amazon Author Page in the US:

https://www.amazon.com/Nick-Rippington/e/B0135YST78

CITATIONS:

For Crossing The Whitewash: “"Evocative, original, unfailingly precise and often humorous" – Writers Digest eBook judges

 For Spark Out: “Down and Dirty, visceral, occasionally violent but engaging and strangely compelling. The writer has a great street voice” – IndieBRAG judges

 COVER STORY

 Nick’s covers are designed by the hugely talented Jane Dixon-Smith of JD Smith designs. His second book Spark Out received the cover of the year award from the reviewer website Chill With A Book.

[chasingthecosmos]

By Any Other Name

Fandom: Doctor Who Rating: T Pairing: The Doctor/Rose Tyler, Eleventh Doctor/Rose Tyler (The Doctor/Clara Oswald, Eleventh Doctor/Clara Oswald) Chapters: 25/32 Read on AO3 here.

“Rose Tyler was dying - or, at least, she was relatively certain that that’s what was happening …” A Season 7 AU where Rose returns to her home universe only to find that 100 years have passed and nothing is quite the way that she remembers it. She wakes up with a new body, a new life, and a new Doctor. What has the Bad Wolf gotten her into this time? The 50th Anniversary will be included in this story.

Unfortunately, the Under Gallery proved to be filled with only more questions and not very many answers as Kate led them into a room littered with shards of broken glass that seemed to have shattered off of the empty oil landscapes lining the wall before them.

"But ... how is that possible?" Rose asked as she gazed at the tablet that Kate had put in the Doctor's hands that showed the pictures as they once were - complete with still, miniature figures that were now nowhere to be seen. "Something's got out of the paintings."

"Lots of somethings," the Doctor agreed ominously. "Dangerous."

Suddenly, a loud hissing noise filled the room and a bright light began to strobe from somewhere behind them. The Doctor and Rose turned in unison to gaze at the swirling lines of golden light that seemed to form a sort of tunnel in the air above their heads.

"Oh, no, not now!" the Doctor groaned in frustration.

"Doctor, what is it?" Rose demanded, eyeing the disturbance nervously.

"No, not now, I'm busy!" he continued as though she hadn't spoken, glaring at the wispy golden tunnel as though it had personally offended him. "I remember this," he added as an aside to Rose, his eyes still trained on the anomaly before them. "Almost remember," he amended with a small shrug.

"Doctor, what are you talking about?" Rose asked in frustration, not at all liking the way that he was slowly approaching the thing as though he intended to jump headlong down the rabbit hole.

"Oh," the Doctor murmured, reaching for the fez that he had nicked from one of the Under Gallery's displays and then promptly donned earlier during their trip, "of course. This is where I come in." He stepped back without any further explanation and tossed the obnoxious accessory into the swirling light, where it immediately disappeared. Though Rose couldn't say that she mourned the loss of the dreaded fez, she did feel a sharp stab of fear as the Doctor immediately jumped in after it, shouting excitedly the entire time.

"Geronimo!"

"Doctor!" Rose cried as she desperately attempted to jump in after him, but Kate's grip was firm on her elbow, keeping her locked in place as she felt her mental connection with the Doctor thin and grow taught, like a rubber band being pulled almost to the point of snapping.

"Wait!" Kate hissed under her breath, her eyes narrowing as she attempted to make sense of the muttered voices emanating from the wormhole before them. "Listen."

The murmured words echoing through the room around them were indistinct and difficult to make out, but the familiarity of the voices made Rose's heart skip a beat as she leaned in closer towards the swirling light of the time fissure. "Doctor, is that you?" she called out curiously.

"Ah, hello, Clara," the Doctor called back breezily, his use of her fake name immediately alerting her to the fact that he was not alone. "Can you hear me?"

"Yeah, it's me. We can hear you," she replied quickly. "Where are you?"

"England, 1562."

Rose stopped breathing altogether as this second voice met her ears. She reached out to her mental bond on instinct, but was met only with the quiet regret and sympathy of her current Doctor on the other end of it. I'm sorry, Rose, he murmured sadly, filling her thoughts with as much loving reassurance as he could manage through the distance that separated them.

"Doctor ...?" she finally breathed in quiet disbelief, both longing and dreading to hear the familiar voice of her dead husband once more.

"Yep," two separate voices answered in tandem.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me ..." Rose sighed exasperatedly, rolling her eyes as a third Doctor suddenly seemed to join the first two. She found that she was bitterly disappointed to find that the third gravelly voice was one that she didn't recognize. She didn't realize until that exact moment that she had been hoping to hear a familiar Northern accent, but it seemed that the universe had supplied her with a different, even earlier version of the Doctor instead.

Whoever this new man was - he filled her current Doctor with absolute dread, which Rose could sense even over the great distance that separated them. She listened with rapt attention as the three Time Lords bickered amongst themselves and then were promptly taken prisoner by the woman who may or may not have been an alien from outer space posing as the Queen of England.

"Oh, but that man is clever," Kate murmured in awe from where she still stood next to Rose in the secluded room of the Under Gallery. "Come on," she commanded easily, motioning for Rose to follow her as she quickly turned on her heel to leave.

"Where are we going?" Rose asked nervously, hating the idea of leaving the wormhole behind and still desperately fighting back the urge to jump through it herself.

"My office," Kate replied matter-of-factly, "otherwise known as the Tower of London."

Luckily for them all, UNIT seemed to be an organization that moved very quickly, and it didn't take them long at all before Kate was ushering Rose into the top-secret area that she called the "Black Archives". The whole place had an eerie, uncomfortable atmosphere to it, and Rose couldn't shake the odd, itching sense of déjà vu that seemed to follow her every footstep as she and Kate hurried down the long, dark corridors.

"The Black Archive," Kate announced grandly as they went, "highest security rating on the planet. The entire staff have their memories wiped at the end of every shift. Automated memory filters in the ceiling."

"'Memory filters'?" Rose repeated dubiously. "Then ... how do you even know what's really down here? Wouldn't you just forget every time that you left?"

"Certain memories can be preserved, depending on your security rating," Kate replied evenly as she flashed her credentials and a man standing nearby instantly granted them access. "You have a top level security rating from your last visit. You'll be able to retain your knowledge of all that you see down here."

"Well, I obviously didn't remember the last time," Rose grumbled as they entered the secure facility and she immediately laid eyes on a wall full of photos - some of them showing black-and-white security images of her and Kate walking through the Black Archive on a day that she had absolutely no memory of.

Rose also caught glimpses of other faces on the wall as well - some known, and some unfamiliar to her, with brightly colored strings that seemed to connect them all together in some sort of infinite, intricate web. It looked as though UNIT had been attempting to lay them all out in some sort of basic, chronological order. Rose held her breath as she slowly moved down the length of the wall, tracking back through the Doctor's history without her (she recognized the photos of River, Jenny, Vastra, and Strax as she went, as well as the couple who she had met in the dalek asylum - she had forgotten their names at first, but UNIT had helpfully labeled their images as Amy and Rory), until she got to a large gap that stood between one group of photos and the next. The area there was filled with varying pictures of a nineteen-year-old blonde with wide, brown eyes and a sunny, bright smile.

Rose swallowed thickly around the lump in her throat as she blinked away the sudden tears in her eyes and forced herself to focus back on Kate once more. It wouldn't do to waste time taking a walk down memory lane while the Doctor was trapped in a prison cell in the sixteenth-century with two other versions of himself. She told herself that she would have time enough to peruse the old pictures later.

She found Kate on the other side of the room, staring pointedly at an oddly familiar leather cuff that was propped up like a piece in a museum on a silver stand behind a wall of glass.

"What is that?" Rose asked warily, stepping forward to get a better look.

"Time travel," Kate replied ominously. "A vortex manipulator bequeathed to the UNIT archive by Captain Jack Harkness on the occasion of his death. Well, one of them, anyway."

Rose felt her heart drop into her stomach as she stared wide-eyed at the old vortex manipulator and tried very hard to get control over her erratic breath. All of the old secrets hidden down here in the Black Archive were quickly becoming too much for her, and she longed desperately for the Doctor - if only so that he could explain a little bit of what was going on.

"What do you mean 'one of them'?" Rose asked breathlessly, her voice little more than a whisper as tears began to sting the back of her eyes once more and threatened to spill over onto her cheeks.

Kate ignored Rose's question, however, as she moved around the glass panel and opened the door that would allow them to reach the old vortex manipulator. "This is how we're going to find the Doctor," she explained simply. "I don't have the activation code - the Doctor has always kept it hidden from us. Let's hope he changes his mind."

As if on cue, Kate's phone began to ring, but Rose couldn't bring herself to focus on the other woman's muttered conversation as she peered closely at the old leather cuff before her. It was exactly as she remembered it, though it looked lost and lonely without a certain rogue American time agent attached to it. She ran her fingers gently across the worn buttons and felt her heart ache for all that she had loved and lost in her long, long life.

Rose was so distracted by the old memories, that she didn't realize until it was almost too late that Kate and her companions were actually zygons in disguise. She watched in horror as the blonde woman before her morphed and changed into a giant red alien covered in suckers.

"Prepare to dispose of one more human," the creature hissed as it glared down at Rose. "We have acquired the device."

Kate's phone suddenly began to buzz from where the alien had abandoned it next to the vortex manipulator, shocking Rose into action as she quickly snatched it, memorized the short line of letters and digits, and hastily inputted them into the time traveling device. She slid the leather cuff around her hand, flashed the zygons her best imitation of Jack's old, cheeky grin, and pressed the final button that immediately zapped her out of existence.

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

When Rose opened her eyes again, she was standing alone in a long, dark hallway that looked distinctly medieval. She groaned as she pressed her hands to her head and swayed slightly on the spot, fighting to get her bearings back after the jarring experience of using a vortex manipulator for the first time. It all reminded her of her days of using the dimension cannon with Torchwood - which, in turn, just brought up more memories that she wasn't exactly eager to relive.

Suddenly, there was a gentle tug at the back of her mind that instantly grounded Rose's thoughts and reminded her of her current objective. She glanced up and set her eyes in the direction where she could feel the Doctor's presence emanating from and moved quickly towards him. Now that they were in the same time and place once more, their mental bond had come fully back online and she could clearly sense him just down the hallway, tucked away behind an old wooden door.

She could also sense that he wasn't alone, and Rose could feel the strange way that time was bending around the area as she stepped closer towards the prison cell that was currently holding three versions of the same man within it. There were voices murmuring quietly to one another on the other side of the door, and Rose could feel her Doctor's heartache like a stab in her own chest as she crept slowly forward and strained her ears to listen.

"Did you ever count?" the Doctor with the unfamiliar voice asked quietly.

"Count what?" Rose's Doctor replied gruffly.

"How many children there were on Gallifrey that day," the other man elaborated tersely.

Another shockwave of pain rolled over Rose and she squeezed her eyes shut tight as she silently reached out to her bondmate and attempted to console his troubled thoughts.

"I have absolutely no idea," the Doctor lied succinctly.

"How old are you now?" the other man insisted curiously.

"Ah, I don't know. I lose track," the Doctor replied irritatedly. "Twelve-hundred-and-something, I think - unless I'm lying. I can't remember if I'm lying about my age, that's how old I am."

Rose wondered if he was lying - she had a direct link to the man's thoughts, and even she couldn't quite figure it out. The first time that she and the Doctor had reconnected in this universe, he had told her that he was a thousand-years-old. She knew for a fact that two hundred years hadn't passed for him since then, so it was clear that there was a disconnect somewhere in his story. However, it wasn't as though it mattered much - time and age never really did, when it came to the man who could change his face and keep on going into eternity.

"Four hundred years older than me," the gruff, unfamiliar voice replied, "and in all that time you've never even wondered how many there were? You never once counted?"

The Doctor's anger flared, then, and Rose's hands fisted in frustration at her sides as she fought the urge to barrel into the room and throw her arms around him in a desperate attempt to shield him from his own pain.

"Tell me," he muttered coldly," what would be the point?"

"Two-point-four-seven-billion." The old, familiar voice stopped Rose's breath, just as it had done earlier in the day when she had heard it through the time fissure in the Under Gallery.

"You did count!" the younger Doctor shot back angrily.

"You forgot?" Rose's previous Doctor spat in contempt. "Four hundred years, is that all it takes?"

"I moved on," the Doctor lied again, his tone low and dangerous as a sensation of crushing guilt swept over him.

"Where?" the other Doctor snapped angrily. "Where can you be now that you can forget something like that?"

"Spoilers," the Doctor muttered quietly.

"No," the other Doctor growled dangerously. "No, no, no - for once, I'd like to know where I'm going."

"No," Rose's current Doctor snapped in reply, "you really wouldn't."

And suddenly, Rose couldn't take it anymore. It was bad enough having one Doctor's self-hatred filling her thoughts without having to deal with all three of them arguing with each other over the weight of their shared regret. She needed to do something - she needed to save her daft, precious alien from himself.

Rose pressed her hand to the old wooden door and tried not to be too surprised when it swung easily open, instantly granting her access to the large prison cell beyond. However, she did gasp in surprise when she realized that there weren't just three pairs of eyes staring back at her in dumbfounded shock, but four.

"Oh," Rose breathed as she went quickly down the line form her Doctor, to the face of her dead husband, to the old, weary-looking man sitting against the wall, and then to the young blonde woman leaning casually against his side.

"It's you ..." she muttered in disbelief.