#its the fact she refuses to and is 'setting herself up' for repeated losses

[haunted-xander]

One thing I really love about Marcille is that despite her deep fear of outliving her loved ones, she never, never let's it get in the way of her making bonds and getting close to people. She loves deeply and strongly and she doesn't try to supress that! She embraces it wholeheartedly! Her friends are so important to her and she's not ashamed or scared of it!

Actually, out of all the characters, I'd say Marcille is one of the ones who care the most about bonds of friendship. She's angry at Namari for leaving after Falin got eaten and holds that grudge up until Namari helps defeat the Undine (and therefore having 'proven' herself). She's shocked and upset when Chilchuck explains his policy of payment and that he's not really here bc of friendship. She puts a lot of focus on the party being a Group Of Friends rather than a team of hired hands dedicated to the specific role(s) they are paid for. Which of course makes sense since she joined the party to begin with because of her friend! To her, the party has always been 'Falin and her brothers' friend group' rather than a hired party. (A little reminder: Marcille was the most recent member when the story starts. She never met the previous members who left so the team of Laios, Falin, Chilchuck, Namari and 'Shuro' is what she's always known it as.)

When she becomes dungeon lord, the thing that manages to snap her out of the Winged Lions grasp is the earnest care and love her party is showing her. Literally 'power of friendship'ed their way through the Lions hold and gave her her clarity of mind back.

And!!!! At the end of the feast right before they're about to attempt to revive Falin again, she says!!! this!!!!

She's ready to accept that Falin might not come back, even after everything. The entire story she's been running away from death, from having to outlive her loved ones (in this case: Falin). But here she is, ready to let her stay dead if this last attempt doesn't work.

And it's not giving up. It's realizing that she did all she could, and that it's okay. Because she still got to meet and be friends with Falin. That time with her might be just a speck in the length of life Marcille will have to live still, but it still happened and that's what matters.

It's not about escaping death; it's about cherising the moments before it.

[searidings]

hi, i just love you and your writing

can i suggest something - you are in love (taylor swift) and supercorp

i cannot listen to that song without going yeah, that's them

(also on ao3 if you prefer)

Five years from now, Kara is going to reach across the table at Noonan's and take her hand. She's going to look deep into Lena's eyes, biting her lip as her thumb rubs gentle circles into Lena's palm, and her voice will barely rise above a whisper when she asks, “When did you know?”

And when she does, five years from now, Lena will think back to this moment.

This moment, which is as close as Lena's come to happiness since she'd woken up ziptied to a chair in her brother's office. This moment which, despite the fuzzy feeling of her unbrushed teeth and the pungent aroma of burnt toast filling the air, is perfect.

Kara, bed-warm and sleep-heavy, is gazing beseechingly down at the charred remains of a slice of a bread as though if she only pouts hard enough, its edges will un-blacken and its corners will stop smoking.

“I'm so sorry,” she says as Lena rounds the screen separating Kara's bedroom from the rest of the apartment and perches herself on a barstool, tugging her borrowed sleep shorts a little lower down her thighs.

Kara's tone is mournful, her face so forlorn she looks to be one deep breath away from tears. “I wanted breakfast to be perfect, since it's your first time staying over and if it's terrible you might not want to stay again and I, I really want you to stay again, but I don't know why you would since you probably have a private chef waiting for you at home and I can’t even manage toast—”

“Kara,” Lena interrupts, biting at the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as Kara's bottom lip trembles. “It's fine, really. I once set fire to my dorm kitchen trying to boil an egg. And besides,” she winks as blue eyes meet hers. “I like to give my personal chef the weekends off.”

Kara huffs out a relieved chuckle, her face brightening. “Oh, well, in that case,” she grins, a sparkle returning to her eyes. “I'd better feed you up before you go home. Never let it be said that I don't look after you.”

Lena can't help the smile that pulls at her as the warm bright feeling in her chest grows and grows. She tugs the sleeves of Kara's sweatshirt over her hands, fighting the urge to fidget as the blonde orders a frankly obscene amount of food from the brunch place on the corner.

She feels exposed like this, face bare and hair sleep-mussed, unshowered with unbrushed teeth, huddled inside borrowed clothes after the impromptu invitation to stay over when last night's movie marathon ran late. It's a far cry from the regimented composure she fights so hard every day to project, and something in her chest twists anxiously.

Kara is a reporter, after all, and National City really doesn't need any more reasons to hate Lena right now. The darkest corner of her mind – the one which has been waiting for the other shoe to drop, for everything to come crashing down ever since the whirlwind of Kara's too-good-to-be-true friendship had come blazing into her life – still worries that this may all be an elaborate ruse. A trap, a way to get close to her in order to assess her weaknesses, to bring her down with an inside scoop.

But in their six months of friendship, Kara's never given her any reason to believe she has any kind of ulterior motive. And despite the suspicions and anxieties hammered into her by a lifetime of hurt, Lena knows now that even if this is a trap, she'll take the bait willingly. Especially if it means Kara will keep looking at her like there might just be something in Lena that's worth her time.

"Hey,” the blonde says gently, leaning back against the counter opposite and pinning Lena with a searching look. “You okay? You kind of zoned out on me there.”

Lena jumps, blinking back into herself with a start. “Yes, sorry. I was miles away.”

The blonde only smiles, flicking on the coffee machine at her elbow. “You sleep okay?”

“Very well, thank you,” Lena answers, fighting to lessen the formality of her tone, to soften the edges her harsh childhood had sharpened into a fortress to keep the world at bay. “Your bed is surprisingly comfortable. I had a great night's sleep.”

"Perhaps the company had something to do with it,” Kara winks as she turns to pull two mugs down from the hooks at her shoulder. Lena thinks back to the smell of Kara's sheets and the soft pulls of her breathing, to the warmth of Kara's ankle against her calf and the strong fingers that had wrapped themselves in the sleeve of Lena's sweatshirt in sleep, anchoring them together. She blushes.

Kara only smirks, pouring their drinks and grabbing the milk from the fridge. “Well, the food's all ordered, it should be here soon,” she says over her shoulder, the waterfall of her golden ponytail mesmerising in the bright rays of morning light filtering in through the vaulted windows. “And you don't need to head off in a hurry, unless you have plans—?”

She glances back at Lena, who shakes her head. “Great!” she grins. “’Cause I was thinking, maybe we could check out the botanical gardens, since it's such a nice day? Oh, and there's a new bakery right across the street that I've been dying to try—”

Lena listens to the blonde's excited rambling with an endeared smile plastered to her face, feeling happy and warm and wanted with every fibre of her being. The feeling is new but so welcome she could cry, and Lena wonders – not for the first time – how she ever got so lucky.

Kara's presence in her life is like sugar in her coffee; meant only to sweeten that which has always been bitter.

Lena's always taken her coffee black. Softening the blow was never much her style.

But here, now, perched at Kara's breakfast bar with her hands wrapped around a steaming mug the blonde has brewed to perfection, sunlight streaming in and highlighting the angles and planes of Kara's face, the way she’s smiling at Lena like there's nowhere else in the world she'd rather be, she realises her reasoning is twofold.

Sugar isn't just appetising. It's addictive. And now that Lena's had a taste of sweetness, she's hooked.

In this moment, Lena knows. She's in love.

-

Four years from now, Kara is going to reach across the table at Noonan's and take her hand. She's going to look deep into Lena's eyes, biting her lip as her thumb rubs gentle circles into Lena's palm, and her voice will barely rise above a whisper when she asks, “When did you know?”

And when she does, four years from now, Lena will also think back to this moment.

This moment, which may well be one of the lowest of Lena's life. And she's had some doozies.

The two bottles of wine she'd managed to mainline between Sam leaving to orchestrate damage control at L-Corp and Kara arriving and attempting to confiscate her glass have well and truly caught up to her now. She sways heavily on her stool, the room spinning. Tears sting her vision and guilt scorches her throat as she presses a hand over her eyes so she won't have to look at Kara's face anymore.

“Please, just— just, stop believing in me, okay?” she slurs, heart full to shattering with the faces of lead-poisoned children. “I am not worth it.”

She hears Kara sigh, and the room falls silent for a long long time. Lena drops her head fully into her hands, fighting the nausea that's taken root in the pit of her stomach. It could be the booze that's causing it, of course, but it could also be the incessant headlines baying for her blood, the bullet James had taken for her that she'd fully deserved, the curse of her family finally fulfilling itself.

The guilt, the worry, the crushing disappointment of the knowledge that despite her very best efforts, she'll never be anything but a monster— it's too much to feel. It's too much to bear.

So, Lena drinks.

She drains her glass. She pours another. Kara watches, silent and disapproving, fingers twitching against the granite countertop between them.

Lena finishes her glass. Splashes the last dregs of the bottle into it, blood on ice. Still Kara watches, motionless and mute. It's only when Lena's swallowed the last of the red and is lurching unsteadily to her feet to source another that she moves, a hand reaching out to encircle her wrist.

Shame ignites beneath her skin and she pushes Kara away. Snaps at her to go home, to learn to recognise a lost cause when she sees one and just give up already. Kara refuses with a stoic shake of her head, and Lena sighs.

They repeat the same routine three times en route to Sam's wine rack, the blonde shadowing her every step. Each time, Lena wobbles, head fuzzy and room spinning. Each time, Kara steadies her, and Lena flinches from her touch like her palm is a brand, snarls at her to leave, to cut her losses, to just fuck off. Each time, Kara refuses.

She eventually retrieves the wine after a number of unsuccessful attempts but overbalances on her toes, bottle slipping from her grip as she sways dangerously. And then Kara is there, glass bottle caught a split second before it can shatter, a firm arm at her waist that will not be rebuffed.

Lena struggles, shoving and protesting, but this time Kara does not give in. “Enough,” she says quietly, firmly, blue eyes burning a mere inch from Lena's own. “Lena, enough.”

Lena's unsteady legs buckle further and Kara’s basically holding her up now, walking her slowly over to the couch and she shouldn't be this strong, surely, shouldn't be lifting Lena onto the cushions quite this easily. But it's such a minor concern when weighted against the fact that Lena is personally responsible for the hospitalisation of children that her mind brushes over it, forgets it immediately.

"Please go home,” she slurs as the blonde arranges her on the couch, as she stashes the unopened wine far out of reach and sets about finding blankets and pillows in various cupboards. “Please, just— leave me alone.”

“No,” Kara says, almost snaps, glancing back over her shoulder. Partially hidden in the linen cupboard, her face is cast deep in shadow, a splinter of half-concealed truth. “I made you a promise, I gave you my word. I'm your friend, and I will protect you. Always.”

She crosses back to the couch, soft blankets and pillows held out in invitation. When Lena refuses the offering Kara sighs, draping a knitted throw over her anyway and perching on the cushions beside Lena's hip. “I'm not going to leave you, so you might as well stop asking,” she hums, softer now, a hand reaching toward her that Lena no longer possesses the strength or coordination to bat away.

Long fingers make contact with her cheek, with the mussed curls tangling in her eyelashes, and Kara sighs. “You are not your brother,” she murmurs, fingertips grazing Lena's cheekbone, sliding back to thread into the fine hair at her temple. “And you never will be. There's too much light in you to allow for that kind of darkness, so put that fear down, Lena. Let it go. Be free of it.”

Tears spring unbidden to her eyes. “I poisoned children.”

Kara tilts forward and Lena wonders if it's just that her vision has upped its spinning, but then warm lips are pressing against her forehead, soft and delicate as gossamer wings. Kara's mouth moves against her skin, breath damp and sweet and unmistakeably her. “You saved the world.”

Neither one of them moves. When Lena speaks again, the words hit the elegant hollow of Kara's throat. “I don't deserve your kindness. I don't deserve you.”

Kara's lips are still on her forehead. “I don't care.”

Lena feels as if her throat is splitting open, every last fear and hatred and worry and insecurity gushing out of her in an unstoppable stream. “I'm scared.”

“I know.” Kara's lips press once more, and then withdraw. They watch each other in the dim light from the kitchen. Lena's vision is beginning to blur at the edges. Kara's hand is still in her hair.

“You will get through this,” the blonde whispers, so earnest Lena almost manages to believe her. “We'll figure it out. Together.”

Heart in her mouth, tongue sticking behind her teeth, Lena's eyes slide closed.

The sweetness of Kara's words, her gentle touches, seep inside her like honey. She doesn't deserve it but God, she wants it. She wants to be worthy of Kara's faith in her more than she's ever wanted anything in her life. She wants Kara more than she's ever wanted anything in her life.

And it's telling, she knows, that she's just lost the trust of all of National City, that she has no way of easing those children's suffering and no way to prove that she isn't the cause of it, that she's finally living up to the Luthor name she's been running from ever since she'd learned what it truly meant and yet in this moment, with Kara's hand in her hair and the ghostly imprint of her lips on Lena's skin, none of it seems to matter.

In this moment, Lena knows. She's in love.

-

Three years from now, Kara is going to reach across the table at Noonan's and take her hand. She's going to look deep into Lena's eyes, biting her lip as her thumb rubs gentle circles into Lena's palm, and her voice will barely rise above a whisper when she asks, “When did you know?”

And when she does, three years from now, Lena will also think back to this moment.

This moment, which stands alone as an oasis of calm in the turbulent tumult of the past days, weeks, months of chaos. Lex's escape from custody, Eve Teschmacher's betrayal, James’ shooting, the Harun-El serum, the whole shitty totality of it all has been weighing Lena down like an nth metal chain around her neck.

And Kara, Kara hasn't been around. The one person who has always managed to ease Lena's suffering has deserted her when she needs her the most and it feels like she's been sliced open, cracked in two.

She tells her as much, when Kara at last comes to see her. Tells her she's missed her, tells her she needs her, all but begs her to stay. And what does Kara do? She leaves.

And when she leaves, Lena is gripped by a panic so intense she fears she may never breathe freely again. So terrified is she that Kara is gone for good, that she's forced away the best thing that's ever happened to her, that almost before she knows what's happening she finds herself at Catco with apologies dripping from her own tongue.

Anything to get Kara back. Anything to keep her.

Lena apologises. Kara apologises. Lena cries, and Kara holds her, and tells her that the decision to help her brother when he was dying of cancer doesn't make her the monster she now believes herself to be. And standing on her office balcony with Kara's fingers wrapped around her biceps, with her own tears spotting dark on Kara's blazer, Lena manages to believe her.

When she's collected herself, smoothed away the wetness coursing down her cheeks, she speaks. “I really want to help you with your investigation on Lex.”

Kara's face lights up; Lena's whole world along with it.

“I'd love that,” Kara says, voice quiet and still a little tentative in the wake of their new truce. “But first— would you, um. Would you like to have lunch with me?”

Lena blinks. “Don't you want to get started on the exposé?”

“I do. But—” Kara's face is still painted that earnest shade from earlier, when she'd smoothed her hands over Lena's shoulders and whispered you are a brilliant, kind-hearted, beautiful soul against the sensitive skin of her neck. Lena feels her cheeks heat up at the memory, at the intensity in the blue eyes still roving her face.

Kara shuffles her feet but her gaze is clear, unwavering. “But you were right. I've spent too much time recently prioritising the wrong things. So, I want to work on this exposé with you, and I want to bring your brother down. But first, I'd really just like to have lunch with my best friend.”

Lena's heart trips in her chest. “I'd like that too.”

So, that's what they do. Kara asks her to wait, which she does, idly tapping out a few emails on her phone. And then the blonde is back, far quicker than should have been possible, with her arms full of takeout bags from the café on the third floor and she's taking Lena by the hand and leading her to Cat Grant's private elevator. She presses the button for the roof and Lena's gaze jumps to her face but Kara only smiles, and squeezes her fingers. “Trust me, it'll be worth it,” she hums, her excitement infectious. “You'll be safe with me.”

And Lena believes her.

That's how she ends up sitting at the edge of Catco's roof on a clean sheet Kara had borrowed from the builders on the second floor, heels kicked off, Kara's red blazer draped around her shoulders. It is worth it, she'll admit; the view from this high is phenomenal. The sun burns bright in a cloudless sky, glinting off the glass-sided skyscrapers of the business district, the glittering waters of the bay beyond.

Kara had picked up Lena's favourite salad, some flatbreads and dips, and they drink kombucha and eat strawberries in the sunshine. They talk and they laugh and they catch up and there's no more fighting, no animosity, no megalomaniac brothers or backstabbing secretaries or worlds needing to be saved. There's only them, she and Kara, and it feels like all she will ever need.

The blonde's hands are braced behind her on the rooftop and she looks happy and carefree as she regales Lena with stories of her upstairs neighbour's antics, and Lena feels the tight knot of tension that had taken up residence in her chest begin to unfurl.

"Hey,” Kara hums, pushing up straighter as Lena licks strawberry juice from her fingertips. The motion brings them closer, their shoulders brushing. “Look up.”

Lena does. High above them, a huge murmuration of starlings whirls and swoops through the air. Thousands of birds move together as one, a vast wave cresting but never breaking against the blue canvass of sky.

“Wow,” Lena gasps, awed.

Against her side, Kara hums. “Yeah.”

They watch the birds for a long moment, captivated by the ceaseless swirling and diving. When Lena at last tears her gaze away from the sky, Kara's eyes rest intently on her face. "Here,” the blonde murmurs, reaching out. The pad of one finger makes feather-light contact with her cheek. Lena's breath catches in her chest.

Kara holds out her finger, proffering the stray eyelash she'd captured with a smile. "Make a wish,” she whispers, her fingertip an inch from Lena's mouth. Her eyes never leave Lena’s.

Lena looks from Kara's face to the eyelash, and back again. From somewhere deep inside her heart, the truth bubbles its way to the surface. “I don't need to.”

Kara smiles, a brilliant, beautiful smile, and Lena knows. The stresses and anxieties of their current crisis feel far away here, harmless as birdsong. She's meted out forgiveness, received it in return. For the first time in her adult life Lena has communicated an issue with a loved one and been heard, understood. She has admitted her own mistake without having it spell out the end of her relationship.

Lena smiles back. The weight of the world sublimates into nothing beneath the bliss of a simple picnic in the sun.

In this moment, Lena knows. She's in love.

-

Two years from now, Kara is going to reach across the table at Noonan's and take her hand. She's going to look deep into Lena's eyes, biting her lip as her thumb rubs gentle circles into Lena's palm, and her voice will barely rise above a whisper when she asks, “When did you know?”

And when she does, two years from now, Lena will think back to this moment.

This moment, which has sapped the both of them to the bone. Another fight, another screaming match, another quick-fire back and forth of accusations and recriminations. Another night of cursing and crying and choking on all the things they never said before this, on all the things they can't now that Kara's secret has detonated in the shrinking space between them like a nuclear bomb.

Another round of bloodshed, and for what?

Lena sags against the arm of the couch, exhausted. Her face is hot, scratchy with salt from the tears still drying on her skin. She's dehydrated, probably, and half hoarse from shouting, tongue blistered with the bitter sting of betrayal.

Across the no man's land of her living room, Kara slumps against the floor-length windows, drops her temple to the cool glass. She's breathing heavily, cheeks wet, posture battered and eyes dark-bruised beneath the force of Lena's wrath. As Lena watches, her eyes slide closed.

It's been three months since Lena found out. Three weeks since Kara found out that Lena had found out.

Every night since, they've done this. Every night, Kara has shown up on her balcony and begged, pleaded, apologised, cajoled, defended, rebuffed, and sobbed. Every night, Lena has unleashed the hollow agony of Kara's deception masquerading as anger in her chest, incinerating the both of them in the fires of her desolation.

She would have expected the wounds to have cauterised by now. To feel some kind of release, the relief of catharsis. Or at least, to have expended some of her fury after all this time.

She hasn't.

They've been at this for three hours already this evening, and gotten nowhere. Kara's skin is pale above that fucking supersuit, face drawn and complexion sallow.

Lena knows how she feels. The singular exhaustion that is her rift with Kara has sapped her in every way imaginable. She can't sleep. She barely eats. She's no longer interested in work, research, friends. There's nothing in her life that isn't tainted by the shadow of the lies her best friend told and kept telling, every day for four years. Lena doesn't know how any amount of screaming and crying is ever going to get them past that.

Across the room, Kara sighs. It might be the saddest sound Lena has ever heard.

“Should we keep doing this?” she asks after an interminable silence, voice rough with tears still building. Her eyes are still closed.

Lena manages, with exorbitant effort, to raise her drooping head. “What?”

“Is there a point to all this?” Kara asks quietly, hunched body sliding a little further down the glass. "The explanations, the fighting?”

Blue eyes blink open. The weight of the sadness in them is unbearable. Lena struggles to find it within herself to care.

“Lying to you about who I am is the single biggest mistake I have ever made, and if it will make even one single shred of difference I will apologise to you every day for as long as I live,” Kara says into the aching chasm between them. “But I can't keep doing this. Not if it won't change anything. I can't— I don't want to keep hurting you.”

An hour ago, Lena would have scoffed at a sentiment like that. Would have parried back with some piercingly dry comment about how the blonde should have thought about that before she decided to betray Lena's trust as soundly as she possibly could.

Now, though— now, she's just too tired.

“So, should we keep doing this?” Kara whispers, throat working. “Or— God, Lena. Should we just— should we give up?”

Green eyes meet blue, two shattered hearts haemorrhaging between them. “Is that what you want?”

“No.” Kara's voice is loud, fiercely determined in the face of Lena's hesitant whisper. “God, no. Never. I don't ever want to give up on you, Lena. I don't ever want to give you up.”

Kara straightens then, with a strength Lena cannot imagine mustering herself. Perks of being a superhero, she supposes. Perks of being Kryptonian. The thought stakes another shard of ice through her bleeding heart.

“But I know that I've spent four years calling the shots for both of us by keeping you in the dark,” Kara continues. “I've taken away your agency. I've taken away your choice. I won't do that again.”

She sucks in a deep breath, a little of Supergirl's regality seeping back into the defeated slump of her shoulders. “So, I'm doing what I should have done from the start. I'm being honest with you, and hoping that you'll be honest back. I'm asking what you want.”

Kara's fingers twist anxiously before her, bottom lip bleaching white beneath the nervous pressure of her teeth. “Do you think we should keep doing this? Or do you— fuck.” Her voice cracks, the tears brimming in her eyes once again breaking free. “Do you want to give up?”

Jesus Christ. Lena never knew that the prospect of doing the right thing could hurt so much.

“Fuck,” she mutters as she kneads her knuckles over her closed eyelids, digging in until white lights starburst across her vision. “Fuck, Kara.”

“I know,” the blonde whispers from across the room, brittle and broken. “I know. I'm sorry.”

Lena slows her assault on her own eyelids, pinching thumb and forefinger hard at the bridge of her nose instead. “I want to give up,” she mutters, and in the taut silence between them she hears the blonde gasp, watery and thick.

Lena blinks open her eyes to find Kara's face crumpling, every facet of her seeming to fold in on itself even as she visibly fights to keep herself upright.

Lena sighs, and hates Kara, and hates herself even more. “I want to, but— I can't.” She sucks in a ragged breath, hating the truth that's just fallen from her lips, hating the lies that had necessitated it. Hating everything and everyone and most of all, hating just how much she's hurting. “I can't give this up.”

The tiniest spark of hope flares to life in Kara's eyes. Lena hates that she notices, hates that she cares, hates that the sight eases the tight knot of devastation clawing at her ribcage just the tiniest bit.

She also knows that this was inevitable. She knows that, though she hates Kara, though she's nowhere close to forgiving her, though she has no idea how they can rebuild from here or even if she truly wants to try, a question like Kara's could only ever have one answer.

In this moment, Lena knows. She's in love.

-

One year from now, Kara is going to reach across the table at Noonan's and take her hand. She's going to look deep into Lena's eyes, biting her lip as her thumb rubs gentle circles into Lena's palm, and her voice will barely rise above a whisper when she asks, “When did you know?”

And when she does, one year from now, Lena will also think back to this moment.

This moment, which is barely even a moment at all. It's more like a dream, warm and faded and fogged in darkness, seconds stolen when sleep should have long since claimed them.

Kara's nightmare had woken them both. In the month since they'd pulled her out of the Phantom Zone, she hadn't slept alone once. Often, she stays with Alex, curling into her sister's side the way she would when they were just kids after one too many late-night horror movies. Once, she stays with Nia, tucked up snug in a borrowed pair of puppy print pyjamas.

Mostly, she stays with Lena. It's natural and unspoken and easy as breathing, the way Kara will show up at her place after a Supergirl save or Lena will let herself into the blonde's apartment after a late night in the lab. They cook dinner and watch Celebrity Masterchef and brush their teeth elbow to elbow at the bathroom sink and when Kara is inevitably tugged screaming and sobbing from her night terrors, the way she presses her face to Lena's neck and her hand over Lena's heart is natural and unspoken and easy as breathing, too.

Kara's racing pulse has calmed a little, her grip on Lena's body beneath her losing some of its urgent desperation. After a long moment of Lena's hand stroking her hair, of gentle reassurances and lips pressed to her temple the blonde pulls back, just enough to rest her head on the pillow facing her.

In the dim light filtering in through the bedroom window Kara's pupils are blown, her face solemn. There's something in her heavy gaze that Lena can't identify; something weighted and potent that prickles goosebumps up the length of her spine.

"Feeling better?” she whispers into the inch of warm air between them, reaching out to tuck a sweat-matted curl reverently behind the blonde's ear.

Kara catches her retreating hand and holds tight, twining their fingers together on the narrow swathe of pillow between them. If either of them were to move so much as a millimetre, their clasped hands would press against their lips.

The blonde nods and sure enough, the soft heat of her mouth brushes the back of Lena's knuckles. She shivers.

Kara is still watching her, the intensity of her gaze causing Lena's heart to thud hard in her throat. She squeezes lightly at the fingers threaded through her own. “What?”

A pause, heavy and sweet as overripe fruit. Kara blinks once, slow. “You're my best friend.”

Lena swallows down a sudden swell of emotion. The blonde nudges closer and when she speaks, the wet seam of her lips catches on the angle of Lena's bent knuckles, painting her skin with the words.

“You're the most important person in the world to me,” Kara whispers, breaths skating fire-flashes across Lena's fingers, voice muffling out past the mouth pressed to her skin. “You know that, right?”

Lena's voice deserts her in the wake of the quiet words. She leans forward instead, presses her lips to Kara's fingertips where they rest against the back of her own hand. It's answer enough.

She hears Kara's breath catch, feels the disruption mirrored in her own chest. Both their mouths are pressed to the joined hands clasped between them. If they were to move their fingers down even just a fraction, there would be nothing separating their lips but a promise, a prayer.

Kara's eyelashes flutter in the semi-darkness. The tip of her nose brushes Lena's own. Neither one of them moves their hands.

They only gaze at one another a long moment, and Lena wonders if the blonde is memorising the planes of her face the way she's memorising Kara's. She could look at her forever, be happy here with her forever, and in this moment, Lena knows. She's in love.

For the first time, she wonders if she might not be the only one.

-

Right now, Kara is reaching across the table at Noonan's and taking Lena's hand.

It's been three weeks since they'd taken down Lex for the last time. Three weeks since Kara had stormed into the Tower's med bay to cup Lena's bloody, bruised face in her hands; since she'd brushed her thumbs feather-light over Lena's split eyebrow and purpling jaw and growled don't you ever scare me like that again. Three weeks since she'd leaned in and pressed her lips to Lena's.

It's been two weeks and six days since Lena, confined to a gurney but utterly uncaring thanks to the warm Kryptonian curled against her side, had pressed her aching face to Kara's shoulder and first whispered that she loved her. Two weeks and six days since Kara had first said it back.

It's been two weeks and five and a half days since Nia had walked in on Lena in Kara's arms, lips pressed to her neck and hands wandering beneath her sweatshirt, and promptly shrieked the place down. Since their friends had exchanged pointed glances and relieved sighs and congratulated them on finally making it official, their expressions ranging from overjoyed to exasperated to plain exhausted.

It's been two weeks and four days of she and Kara dating; of morning kisses and shared showers and the perfect partner at game night and all of Lena's wildest dreams coming true.

It's been less than a minute since Kara had admitted, hushed and wondering, that she'd known she was in love with Lena ever since she'd found herself suddenly prepared to poison National City's entire water supply rather than let Lena fall. That she hadn't been able to fully it admit it to herself until she'd found herself suddenly prepared to alter the course of all of history in order to get Lena back.

And right now, Kara is reaching across the table at Noonan's and taking her hand. She's looking deep into Lena's eyes, biting her lip as her thumb rubs gentle circles into Lena's palm, and her voice barely rises above a whisper when she asks, “When did you know?”

And now that she has, Lena is sure of her answer.

The highlight reel of her relationship with Kara lays itself at Lena's feet, each precious memory between them stretching out like a roadmap of her growing affection, with every hard-won step leading her right to this moment.

And in this moment, Lena knows. She's in love with Kara. Really, she always has been.

[refinedbuffoonery]

Broken Like Me (1)

masterlist.

THIS FIC IS NOT INTENDED FOR READERS UNDER THE AGE OF 18. Please see the masterlist for content warnings. 

Here it is, the long-awaited dark!MacRiley AU! First, I want to thank my lovely beta readers and my life-saving brainstorming/workshop buddy. You all know who you are. ❤

This fic adheres to canon through 5x05 and then goes off the fucking rails. Backstory and other important tidbits of information revealed in the latter half of season 5 may be used, but timeline-wise anything after 5x05 does not exist in this fic. Also, Jack is dead and is staying dead, so don’t get your hopes up for a happy ending. 

I will do my best to update this regularly, but hanging out in and writing such dark headspaces is HARD. I will definitely be taking breaks to write fluffier fic, because a big chunk of this story is all hurt and no comfort. 

Without further adieu, let’s get this party started. (It’s not a party. In fact, it’s like...the opposite of a party.) 

*****

They say he was a good man. 

A good soldier. 

A good father. 

A good friend. 

They say they are sorry for her loss, sorry he was taken from this world too soon. 

They say Jack would be proud of the legacy he left behind, would be proud to have gone out in a blaze of glory. 

Riley is sick of it. 

It’s like she’s a teenager, and Jack is leaving her all over again. Only this time it’s worse. This time there’s no coming back. 

The guests at the wake gaze at the folded up American flag on the fireplace mantle with deep respect, but Riley only feels anger every time she glimpses the piece of fabric the government sent back in his place. A flag and a life insurance claim feel like a mockery of the kind of man Jack Dalton was. 

Was. Past tense. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

*****

Mac has never been afraid of Riley before. 

He’s seen her angry and upset, but the rage-filled woman he stopped from killing Anya Vitez with her bare hands back in Croatia is someone he does not know. 

The frightening part is that Riley isn’t a hot-headed person. In work mode, she is cold and calculating, so for her to go after Vitez like that...something inside her snapped. 

Three weeks have passed since then, and every time he looks at Riley, Mac remembers holding her back, fingers digging sharply into her waist until she stopped fighting him. He sees the fury radiating off Riley’s body like heat waves off asphalt—sees the way she clings to it, finds purpose in it, letting it consume her so there’s no room for guilt or grief. Mac knows the feeling all too well. And he also knows there will be a very loud thud when she finally comes crashing back down. 

But he also knows that the woman is like a loaded gun, safety off and desperate to fire at something. 

Which is why he worries when Matty calls them in for an op and Riley isn’t there. She’s at Vitez’s trial, Matty informs them, but that doesn’t make Mac feel any better. Whenever there’s downtime during the mission, and Mac’s mind is free to wander, he can't stop thinking about her. This new Riley is becoming obsessively vengeful, and if someone doesn’t reel her back in soon, she might do something she can’t come back from.

The thought plagues Mac every second there aren’t bullets whizzing toward his head. 

After the op, Mac drives to Riley’s apartment. Upon arrival, his ears are assaulted by Riley’s upstairs neighbor blasting Macklemore’s greatest hits. Mac hears the lyrics clear as day, even though both his truck windows and the apartment windows are closed. 

Riley really shouldn’t have moved out of Mac’s house, not if this is her best option. He still doesn’t understand why she did. 

It doesn’t take long to notice the GTO is missing. Riley should be back from the trial by now, but Mac has a sneaking suspicion where she is. 

The drive to Jack’s apartment seems to take forever. The brick building is in an older neighborhood, one of few affordable ones with trees planted along the sidewalks—a luxury in LA. Sure enough, the GTO is parked on the curb, not far from the fire escape that connects to Jack’s living room.

Looking up, Mac spies a familiar body perched on the stairs. 

Riley sits on the fire escape, soaking in the last rays of sunlight. Her eyes are closed, head resting against the brick wall. Mac doesn’t say anything as he sits beside her on the narrow metal stairs, their hips and thighs just touching. 

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Should he hug her? Hold her hand? Leave her alone? Riley isn’t a super touchy person. Mac decides on the latter, picking at his fingernails while his gaze drifts west to study the sunset. 

Several minutes pass before Riley says, “Hey.” Her voice is low and scratchy, like she’s been crying. 

“Hey,” Mac repeats. “How long have you been here?” 

Riley shifts beside him, sitting up. “I don’t know. A while.” 

“This isn’t the first time you’ve come here, is it?” 

A sigh. “No, it’s not.” Mac figures as much. Aside from the constant clamor of the city, Jack’s apartment is relatively quiet. It’s not in the greatest neighborhood, but it’s safe enough for Riley to sit alone and think. Or not think. Whatever she feels like doing. 

Riley rests her head on Mac’s shoulder, and a wave of protectiveness floods his system. It’s new, this need to watch her back more than the others’. It came on so gradually that Mac doesn’t know when it started or what triggered it, only that he feels it all the time now. Especially after Jack’s…

He avoids examining the feeling too closely. 

Without warning, Riley says, “If you hadn’t held me back, I would’ve killed her.” 

Knowing exactly who she was talking about, Mac glances down at Riley in surprise. He knows it’s true—thinks so himself—but hearing it come out of her mouth makes his stomach turn. The last, and only, time Riley killed someone...it took her months to piece herself back together afterward. And that death was in self-defense. 

This one would’ve been murder. Intentional and vindictive. 

Mac isn’t sure Riley could come back from that, at least not as herself. The woman who would emerge from that would be a total stranger inside his best friend’s body. Mac suppresses a shiver. “I know,” he says.

“Thank you for stopping me.” Riley’s voice is quiet. So, so quiet. 

“You would’ve done the same for me.” Gingerly, Mac wraps his arm around Riley’s shoulders, ready to let go at the first sign of her discomfort. When she doesn’t react, he relaxes and holds her more surely. 

The sky is painted in vibrant oranges and reds, fading into deep blue overhead. Subtle strokes of pink outline the scattered clouds hanging above the horizon. Out of all the sunsets Mac has seen, all over the world, nothing quite compares to the ones here at home. He wishes Jack was here to see it. 

Mac spends far too long debating whether to bring it up before asking, “Why did you go to the trial?” Agents, especially secret ones, don’t go to trials, mostly to keep their identities safe. Publicly tying oneself to a case is never a good idea, for more reasons that Mac can begin to name. 

“I swore I’d be there every step of the way. I meant it.” Mac tries not to bristle at the snarling, defensive edge to Riley’s tone. “Eventually, she’ll make a mistake, and I will be there when she does. And then I’m going to rip out her entire organization from the roots up.” 

Fear wraps its ugly hand around Mac’s heart. Until every single person associated with Tiberius Kovac is behind bars, there will be a target on Riley’s back, and Riley will have put it there herself. Losing one person to Kovac is more than enough; Mac refuses to lose Riley too. 

“How can I help you?” 

Riley looks up, eyes wide like she’s expecting him to try to talk her out of it, not offer to help. “You don’t have to do that.” 

“And miss out on all the fun?” Mac almost smiles as he quotes her. Almost. 

She sits up. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’m going to hack Interpol first, to see which of her colleagues might also be dirty. So unless you secretly picked up hacking…” 

Mac huffs. “Sorry, I only hack hardware.” He expects some insane, crackhead plan, not something so…reasonable. Maybe Riley isn’t as off-the-rails as he thought. 

But only maybe. 

A seagull perches on the railing below them, honking and squawking for seemingly no reason at all. Gulls are just like that. It glares at Mac, pinning him to his spot with a beady yellow eye, challenging Mac to shoo it away. 

Go find some tourists to harass, Mac wants to snark at it. Leave us alone. 

The seagull cocks its head, as if to say, I know something you don’t. 

Mac narrows his eyes. I bet you do. 

He swears the seagull shrugs before taking off, flying low over the GTO before sailing over rooftops on its way back to the ocean. It passes a billboard advertising a new blockbuster spy thriller, the product of millions of dollars and Hollywood plot recycling. Mac saw the trailer. The movie is about a soldier who joined the CIA in a quest for retribution after his best friend came home in a box. Usually Mac likes watching spy movies—mostly to make fun of them—but this one hits a little too close to home. 

It takes a monumental effort to tear his gaze away. 

When his eyes finally meet Riley’s, Mac understands the silent ache in them—the ache that’s surely reflected in his own eyes. He and Riley are drowning, but at least they’re drowning together. 

Mac frowns. That must be the dimmest “on the bright side” thought he’s ever had. 

Riley doesn’t say anything more, so neither does Mac. They sit on the fire escape until long after the sun sets and the temperature drops, and the city's nightlife stretches its limbs as it wakes. Mac shivers, but Riley seems oddly unaffected by the cold. That or she’s too numb to notice. 

He threads his still semi-warm fingers through her icy ones, letting their joined hands rest on his knee. It seems like his last tether to the Riley he knows and loves, one who’s slowly slipping away from him and being replaced by a woman who might very well bring the world to its knees as payback for all that it’s done to her. 

Mac has no interest in ever meeting that woman. Mostly because he refuses to lose his Riley, but also because Mac knows he won’t be able to resist that other Riley. She will slash his restraint beyond repair, and Mac will follow her to the ends of the earth. 

He will find a way to keep them both afloat. He has to. 

Or else the Phoenix may very well be hunting him and Riley again, and this time, they’ll deserve it.

*****

Entering her apartment later that night, Riley realizes too late that it isn’t empty. Bozer is still there, and he’s making dinner. Locking the door behind her, she hears a rushed, “Got to go, Matty. She’s home.” 

Bozer crashed on her couch the night they got the news and never left. I don't want you to be alone, Bozer keeps saying, despite her insistence she doesn’t need a babysitter. Other than that, they don’t speak to each other much. In fact, Riley wouldn't have noticed he said anything at all if not for the way he stares at her, standing at the stove and twirling a wooden spoon between his fingers. 

"What?" she snaps. 

Carefully, Bozer asks, "How was the trial?" 

"Fine." Riley knows he cares, and that he’s hurting too, but nothing he says or does is going to help her. The sooner he figures that out the better. She drops her keys and jacket on a chair before heading for her bedroom. 

“You hungry?” he calls after her. 

Riley yanks off her boots, chucking them into the closet with too much force. “No.” 

“Have you eaten anything today?” 

Her fuse is running short these days, and she’s just about had it with his incessant smothering and questioning. Riley marches into the kitchen, rolling her shoulders back and bracing her hands on the counter. “Last I checked, I still have a mother, so if you’re just going to keep nagging me, then I think it’s time you get the fuck out of my apartment.” 

Bozer’s eyes widen and his mouth opens, but no sound comes out. 

“Get out,” Riley snarls. 

Still struggling to regain his ability to speak, Bozer stammers, “At least let me finish making you dinner first.” 

“Fine.” Cracking her knuckles, Riley retreats to her bedroom once more. “I’m taking a shower. You better be gone when I come out.” She doesn’t wait for a response. 

When Riley emerges, her dinner is cold, and Bozer is long gone. 

She doesn’t eat.

*****

On the second day of Vitez’s trial, Riley sits in the back of the room long after the trial adjourns for the day, thinking. She didn’t recognize the witnesses who testified today, and as the prosecutor called each one forward, Riley wished she had her laptop so she could look them up. Now, as she stares over the rows of empty wooden seats to the section where the jury sat, Riley can only hope that the witnesses’ testimonies are enough. 

Riley knows there’s more than enough evidence to convict Vitez—especially since she recorded the confession herself—but obsessing over the trial is easier than facing the reality waiting outside the courthouse doors. 

Her mom invited her to visit his grave today, after the trial, but Riley declined. Facing that slab of granite will make it real, make it…permanent. 

She knows what it says. Jack Dalton. Beloved. Gone too soon. Someone asked for her approval before it was made. It doesn’t say nearly enough to encapsulate all that he was, but at the time Riley couldn’t think about it—couldn’t look at it—long enough to suggest any changes. She still can’t. 

Chewing her lip, Riley anxiously toys with her rings, spinning them and moving them from finger to finger. 

At the wake, one of his old Delta buddies joked that the gravestone should read “Yippee-ki-yay, motherfuckers,” but Riley didn’t laugh. 

Riley hasn’t laughed since Matty broke the news. It’s like the part of her that knows how to feel joy died in that explosion too. 

Instead, she wants to scream at the universe until her voice gives out, cursing it for taking her dad away too soon. Because that’s what he is. Her dad. Riley doesn’t even know when she started calling him that again, but if she has to guess, it was sometime between the first “I’m proud of you, honey” and him kicking her ass at skee-ball for the millionth time.

Tears leak from Riley’s eyes without her consent. 

It feels like she failed him, in a way. By not being there. By not keeping him alive. 

Now the best she can do is make sure his death means something. 

Vitez will go to prison for the rest of her life, that Riley is sure of. But the rest of her organization is still out there, and Riley intends on putting every single member behind bars. No amount of justice will even begin to heal the Jack-shaped wound in her heart, but at least the world will be better for it. Safer. 

But she’d rather live in a more dangerous world with him still in it than a safer one without. That way they could save the world together, like they always did. 

This isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

Anger rumbles through her body, like a Texas thunderstorm in her veins. It’s the only emotion Riley feels anymore, ever since the sadness gave way to numbness. 

A woman in a security uniform pokes her head in the room. “Excuse me, ma’am. I need to lock up for the night.” When Riley doesn’t respond, the woman adds, “Are you okay?” 

Are you okay? Riley hates that question more than all the others. How are you? Have you eaten today? What can I do to help? 

She feels like she’s dying. She can’t eat. Nothing will help. 

But that isn’t what people want to hear. Even Mac asked that last question, yesterday on the fire escape, although Riley didn’t automatically despise the question like she usually did. It’s different coming from him than anyone else; his offer was genuine, not coming from pity or obligation.

She isn’t surprised Mac recognized her need to do something. After all, he had been the same way after his dad was killed. 

Coldly, Riley finally says,“I will be.” The woman doesn’t deserve her abrupt answer, but Riley can’t quite bring herself to care. She lets the anger the questions bring up fuel her, lets it hold her together. 

The anger is all she has left. 

Riley stands, her heels clicking on the floor as she exits the courthouse. 

She’s coming for all the monsters who hurt him. She’s coming for the ones who rendered him nothing more than ashes on the wind, the ones who turned her life into a nightmare she can’t wake up from. 

Because she doesn’t need to wake up to become theirs.

~

Want to be tagged in future chapters? Send me an ask.

[thesibfiles]

Courtney going on tour right after?

Theres a misconception that after Kurts death, Courtney went straight on tour right away. This is false. The album was already set to release a few days after and they couldnt change that on such a short notice. Promotion for the album was cancelled and she pushed back the tour 4 months.

“Live Through This was supposed to provide Love an opportunity to step out from her famous husband’s shadow. “It’s annoying now, and it’s been annoying for nine years, Love said in a 1999 Jane Magazine interview of always being connected to Cobain. Released four days after Cobain’s body was found, the album’s promotion was put on hold. Rather than retreat from the public eye, Love openly mourned and helped fans of Cobain and Nirvana make sense of the singer’s death. She sat with grieving teenagers gathered outside the couple’s Seattle home and recorded a reading of parts of his suicide note that was played at the singer’s memorial that gathered near the Space Needle. In the days following his death, Love showed a very raw and emotional side and admitted that, like many fans, she didn’t have all the answers. 

It was, and still is, impossible for people to discuss Live Through This without noting the irony of the album’s title. Love has said the name was not a prediction at all, but instead a reflection of all she had endured in the months leading up to its release, including a very public custody fight with the Los Angeles Department of Family Services over daughter Frances Bean. Rumors suggested that Cobain had written much of Live Through This (it’s Miss World, not Mister, just FYI). “I’d be proud as hell to say that he wrote something on it, but I wouldn’t let him. It was too Yoko for me. It’s like, ‘No fucking way, man! I’ve got a good band, I don’t fucking need your help,’” was Love’s response to critics in Spin’s oral history of Live Through This. Love and Cobain often shared notebooks and lyrics with each other, and while there is talk of Cobain’s influence on Love’s work, or the writing of all of it, less is mentioned in the press of her impact on his lyrics and music. Rather than sucking all the life out of Nirvana or threatening the success of the band, like many assumed she would do, she inspired Cobain. Fun fact: In Utero, Nirvana’s last album, was named after a line from one of Love’s poems.

Sadly, songwriting rumors would be replaced by other rumors. Women are often vilified and condemned for the deaths of their male partners. Love, like all women, was supposed to save her partner from death and addiction. Fans of Cobain projected all their anger and resentment over the loss of the Nirvana front man onto Love, and soon she was blamed for not only his addiction but also his death. There are even two movies devoted to the theory that Courtney killed Kurt: the awful Soaked in Bleach (2015) and the equally awful Kurt & Courtney (1998). If you think we’ve come a long way, baby, sadly we haven’t. 

One year after Anthony Bourdain’s death, Asia Argento is still being blamed, and in September 2018, Ariana Grande had to take a break from social media after fans blamed her for the death of her ex Mac Miller. A few months later, she would be blamed for new beau Pete Davidson’s mental health and addiction issues. It’s amazing she finds the time to write hit songs what with all the dude destruction she has going on. When women are not being blamed for the deaths of the men in their lives, they are being attacked for not grieving properly. “She wasn’t crying. She’s got $30 million coming to her. Do you blame her for being so cool?” a hospital staffer said of Yoko Ono following John Lennon’s murder in 1980. 

About four months after Cobain’s death, Love went on tour to promote her new album. Some questioned and judged why she would go on tour so soon, but Love has said it was a necessity. She had a young daughter to support. She needed to work. She also, sadly, still needed to prove herself. “I would like to think that I’m not getting the sympathy vote, and the only way to do that is to prove that what I’ve got is real,” Love told Rolling Stone in 1994.

Twenty-five years later, Cobain’s death still hangs over Live Through This. In the days leading up to the anniversary of Cobain’s death, former Hole bassist Melissa Auf der Maur wrote an open letter to music magazine Kerrang saying she “would not stand for Kurt’s death overshadowing the life and work of the women he left behind this year.”

“We were extremely well designed for each other,” Love has said of her relationship with Cobain. In a letter reprinted in Dirty Blonde: The Diaries of Courtney Love, she calls him “my everything. the top half on my fraction.” The two had similar upbringings, both came from broken homes and spent childhoods shuttling between relatives and friends. They both grew up longing for love and acceptance. When we tell the story of Kurt and Courtney we talk about drugs and destruction, but we don’t talk enough about love.

The two also shared an intense drive and ambition. “I didn’t want to marry a rock star, I wanted to be one,” Love said in a 1992 Sassy interview. Evidence of her drive can be found in the many notes and to-do lists she kept, some of which are collected in Dirty Blonde. There are reminders to send her acting résumé to agencies, to write three to four new songs a week, to “achieve L.A. visibility.” A scene in the documentary Kurt & Courtney features an ex of Love’s reading from one of her to-do lists, which has “become friends with Michael Stipe” as the number one task to complete (not only did Love do this, but he is her daughter’s godfather). This ambition is not surprising from a woman who, when she was younger, mailed a tape of herself singing to Neil Sedaka in hopes of getting signed. Love knew what she wanted at an early age, and what she wanted was fame.

She was certainly living by the “do not hurt yourself, destroy yourself, mangle yourself to get the football captain. Be the football captain!” motto she championed in the 1995 documentary Not Bad for a Girl. Ambition is often a dirty word when it is used to describe women and Love is no exception. She has been repeatedly described as calculating and controlling when she should be rewarded for her blond ambition and viewed as an inspiration. Critics and the press often call her a gold digger who only married Cobain for fame and money. They fail to mention that when the two met Pretty on the Inside was actually selling more copies than Bleach, Nirvana’s debut album. Even post-Kurt, Love’s intentions were always under scrutiny. On the Today Show to do press for The People vs. Larry Flynt, Love refused to talk about her past drug use, despite the host’s repeated questions, saying the topic was not an appropriate fit for the show’s demographic. She was right, but it didn’t stop a writer from describing the move as “calculating” in a 1998 Spin piece.

Cobain was ambitious too; he was just much slyer and more secretive about it. He was known to call his manager and complain when MTV didn’t play Nirvana’s videos enough, and he would correct journalists who misquoted the band’s sales figures in interviews. While success is typically celebrated and rewarded for men and it certainly was for Cobain, he also had to be mindful of the slacker generation that loved Nirvana and greeted success — and especially mainstream success —

While female celebrities like Love are criticized for their rebellion, male celebrities, like Cobain for example, are celebrated and mythologized for it. Cobain and Love both struggled with addiction, but it is Love who is repeatedly vilified for her drug use. “She was vilified for being a mess, for being a drug addict, for not being a great parent — in other words, all of the things we expect in a male rock star,” said Bust magazine in a piece in the magazine’s 20th anniversary issue, which featured Love on the cover.

We make jokes about the drug antics of male celebrities from Keith Richards to Charlie Sheen, idolizing their debauchery and depravity. The new Netflix/Lifetime movie by Jack Daniels, The Dirt, about Mötley Crüe, takes the band’s excesses to almost comic levels. Check out crazy tourmate Ozzy Osbourne snorting a line of ants by a hotel pool! Such zany antics! I would love to see Lindsay Lohan try to get away with that. We never allow women to live down their arrests and their addictions, but we repeatedly allow men to have a redemption arc. Robert Downey Jr. was in and out of jail and on and off drugs for much of the mid to late ’90s, but we rarely, if ever, talk about his past.

When Love isn’t being attacked for her addiction issues, she is being judged for her parenting. Love’s first unflattering press was “Strange Love,” the much publicized 1992 Vanity Fair profile by Lynn Hirschberg. While the piece talks at length about Love’s drug use and constantly questions her parenting ability, it doesn’t paint Cobain in the same light. “It is appalling to think that she would be taking drugs when she knew she was pregnant,” says one close friend in the piece. Hirschberg relies on many unnamed sources and focuses often on the tabloid-like aspects of Love’s life and addictions. “Courtney has a long history with drugs. She loves Percodans (‘They make me vacuum’), and has dabbled with heroin off and on since she was eighteen, once even snorting it in Room 101 of the Chelsea Hotel, where Nancy Spungen died,” she writes. “Reportedly, Kurt didn’t do much more than drink until he met Courtney.” (Even when it is reported by Kurt and Krist that Kurt tried heroin in 1989, way before Courtney, It was also known that he smoked weed and used caugh syrup to get high in 1989 and 1990.)

This double standard was common in coverage of the couple. In Kurt Cobain: Montage of Heck, the 2015 documentary by Brett Morgen, Love asks her husband, “Why does everyone think you’re the good one and I’m the bad one?” Later in the film we see a scene of Frances Bean’s first haircut. The child sits on Cobain’s lap while Love searches for a comb and scissors. The camera shows Cobain nodding off, and while he maintains that he is just tired, it’s clear he’s not. The scene is painful to watch, especially because those around Cobain carry on like nothing in wrong, giving the feeling this is just like any other day in the Love-Cobain household. The scene is a reminder of how the press treated Cobain’s addiction when he was alive. They just carried on like nothing was wrong, instead directing all their judgement at Love.

[laurelsofhighever]

Alistair x f!Cousland AU

SPOILERS FOR THE FALCON AND THE ROSE

--

Almost two years after civil war nearly tore Ferelden apart, Alistair has settled into his role as king despite the cost of the victory. Having come to Orlais to lead trade talks with Empress Celene and representatives from the Free Marches, he hopes to build a stronger future for his people. But grief and guilt still haunt him, the expectations placed on his shoulders cut deep, and to top it all off, there's a stranger in the Winter Palace with the power to shatter his world once again.

With a sigh, the King of Ferelden stared down at the mask in his hands, the red dye a match to the velvet of his cloak and the rich fabric in the rest of his clothes, the royal colours of the Theirin line, and the finely tooled likeness of a mabari snarling out of the leather in an elegant snub for the rules of the Game. A king’s mask ought to be made of gold, after all, as a way to reflect his station, but that scandal would be nothing to the one he planned to cause by not wearing it over his face. Already from below, strains of soft, unobtrusive music drifted above the murmur of voices gathered in the vaulted ballroom of Halamshiral’s Winter Palace, preluding the night’s extravagance. He couldn’t delay much longer in wading into that seething, perfumed mass, however much he wanted to.

Next to him, Fergus Cousland stood arrayed in similar finery. The golden Laurels embroidered into the deep blue velvet of his doublet marked his identity as the Teyrn of Highever, and the shadowed line between his dark brows revealed that his eagerness to attend the party just about matched that of Alistair himself. He caught the king looking, saw the fidget betrayed in his fingers, and drew in a weary breath.

“These talks might be just what it takes to secure lasting peace with Orlais,” he offered, an empty repetition of Alistair’s other advisors. “It’s more than Cailan ever hoped for.”

The king’s lip curled. “You and I both know that’s not the real reason I’m here. I could have left that stuff to Élodie.”

The Arlessa of South Reach had proven a capable ambassador in the time since the end of the civil war against Loghain, using her connections in the Orlesian court to divert the potential wave of old resentments that would have sought to take advantage of Ferelden’s instability as it recovered. It was thanks to her efforts that dignitaries from every Marcher port across the Waking Sea had gathered under the auspicious gaze of Empress Celene in the hopes of formalising a network of trade throughout southern Thedas, and no doubt she was already gliding through their ranks, smoothing the way for her liege lord to grace the crowd and start all the ladies fawning.

Too used to the hopes of noble daughters tilting for a throne, he doubted much of the flattery would be genuine. The only change to the usual pursuit was the fact that Celene now numbered among the hunting party, her desire to win him for herself and Orlais all but common knowledge. At their first meeting that afternoon she had been perfectly polite, but the weight of her gaze on the back of his head as he was shown out to his own apartments had sent a shiver like the lick of cold rain down his spine, and the thought of what she would do with any kind of sovereign power over Ferelden had thoroughly put him off his lunch. There had been a time when, in the entrance hall of Redcliffe Castle and with the warning of a witch ringing in his ears, he had told Rosslyn that the idea of being dangled like bait for political advantage disgusted him. And she had understood his distaste, had reached for his hand with softness in her eyes. He had kissed her hand that night, for the first time.

A sympathetic look from Fergus dragged him out of his contemplation, but thankfully he chose not to repeat the platitudes that had taken to following the king like footprints.

It’s been over a year, almost two, Teagan had scolded. We allowed you time to mourn but you must think of what is best for this country.

Only Fergus really understood. He was the only one in the same position, a lord with a domain left unsecured by the lack of an heir, with those roundabout all but scoffing at his lack of stomach to get one. Shared pain and politics had drawn them together after the army’s return from Ostagar, and now, aside from being a staunch ally in the Landsmeet, he was one of the few Alistair could class as a true friend.

“If I could spurn my duty in this, I would,” he said now.

“But you’re a Cousland.” Humour bled into Alistair’s voice, cold and tinged with grief. “I notice Karyna chose not to come.”

Fergus let his eyes fall closed. “She… ended things between us. She said she wanted to focus on her clinic, but I think part of it was wanting to get out of my shadow, and the expectations of…” a wave of his hand “all of this.”

“I’m sorry.”

He had once broached the subject of changing the law to allow mages to marry, but Fergus had refused, pointing out that what Ferelden needed after a year mired in civil war was stability, not an Exalted March called down because its new king wished to flout the Maker’s supposed Word. Too many would have accused him of playing favourites, too many more who would have raged against the idea of a mage being raised above them – even if Karyna Amell herself came from a line of Marcher nobles. She might be a talented healer dedicated to her people, kind, loyal, and level-headed, but none of that mattered to those who saw any unshackled mage as a prelude to the return of ancient Tevinter.

Fergus waved away his concern and set his own mask in place, pushed back from his forehead. “Let’s get this over with.”

When they appeared at the top of the stairs, the noise level in the whole room dimmed like a door closing on the roar of a great wind. All eyes turned to follow their progress into the melee as Guard-Commander Morrence, Alistair’s right-hand and bodyguard, peeled away from her post by the door and fell into line one pace behind her charge as a dour, watchful shadow. Curtseys and coquettish giggles fluttered up to them, but Alistair ignored them in favour of searching out the form of Élodie Bryland, smiling out from the crowd. Like the rest of the Fereldan entourage, she wore her mask as an accessory rather than a second face, the emerald green of South Reach’s colours rich against her blonde hair.

He felt like a ram walking into a den of blightwolves in broad daylight. Even after so long, so many days he could no longer count them from memory, a shard of his heart stirred in the tattered remains of his chest at the unbidden thought of Rosslyn’s disdain for his current company, the tight, tiny smirk she would have worn hidden at the corner of her mouth for only him to see. Her face was beginning to blur in his mind, but the reminder only ever added more layers to the pain. The pieces flaked away one after the other like rust on a forgotten monument – the sound of her laugh, her scent, the exact shade of her eyes – and every time he noticed another detail by its absence he found himself dragged back to the ruins of Ostagar, staring across the precipice into the void all over again.

Dwelling on his loss amidst the glamour of the Orlesian court would not be wise, however, so he shook himself into courtesy as he followed along after Élodie, smiled at every breezed introduction, and let himself slip into the easy gentility that had so far served him well as king. The meandering currents of conversation carried both him and Fergus at a steady pace to the other side of the vaulted entrance hall, where his left-hand waited for them.

“Ah, there’s my favouritest sneaky person in the world,” he called out when he got close enough for his voice to carry. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself?”

Leliana’s red hair flashed like a beacon as she turned towards him. Unlike Ferelden’s ambassador, she carried her mask on a stick in her gloved hands, and she twirled it up to cover the purse of her smile as she answered. “Your Majesty – Your Lordship. This is a grand assembly tonight, no? Little compares to the full splendour of the Winter Palace.”

“At least not in the way of architecture,” he answered genially. To be polite, he let his gaze wander the rows of gilt pillars with their garlands of blush-roses, the delicate silk streamers hanging from the crystal chandelier. Even more than Élodie, who was Orlesian by birth, Leliana fit in with the glitter, the jewels and the compliments that cut sharper than daggers, and put together, the two of them made a formidable team.

Especially when they joined forces against him.

“Your Majesty, if you will permit me, may I present Lady Ellana Pontival, younger sister to Vicomte Tremane Pontival, and Lady Cassandra Pentaghast, seventy-eighth in line for the throne of Nevarra and the Right-Hand of the Most Holy Divine Beatrix.”

Turning his gaze to the two women, Alistair dipped his head in a customary greeting. If Leliana had set out to find the two most contrasted people in the room, then she had probably succeeded; where one lady seemed about to drown in her layers of ruffled lace and pastel silks, the other cut an austere, imposing figure in the formal uniform of a Seeker of Truth, and like the Fereldans, she went unmasked. The ever-watchful Eye of the Maker, cut through with the Sword of Mercy, peered out from a pin clasped to her shoulder, a sullen reminder that if things had been different, the King of Ferelden would have ended up a templar instead.

“With so many connections, you must be used to parties like this,” he tried. The Seeker held herself with the economy of a soldier at ease, but the pinpoint of her onyx gaze made him itch.

“Hardly,” she said, in low, rich tones. “I am here at the request of Most Holy, who appreciates the unprecedented nature of this gathering. I myself am used to less… lavish surroundings.”

“But how do you find it so far, Majesté?” interrupted Lady Ellana. “Do you find it pleasing?”

He decided not to remark on the breathy quality to her voice, nor the sidelong way she was looking at him, and shrugged. “That would depend on whether we’ll soon have any sign of those – what are they called – cannapays?”

Leliana chuckled. “I’m afraid Your Majesty’s appetite will have to be content for now.”

“I’ve never known a society where it was considered polite not to feed your guests.”

“If one is full of too much heavy food, one cannot properly enjoy the dancing,” Élodie chided, laying a hand on his arm and less amused than her counterpart at his deliberate butchery of her native language.

“Ah.” He suppressed a grimace. “Yes. That.”

The indomitable Lady Ellana pressed forward with a flutter of her eyelashes. “Are you presently engaged, Majesté? For the first dance, I mean.”

Mostly to avoid meeting Fergus’ eye, Alistair cast his gaze out over the crowd. “Oh I’m sure someone has spoken for me.”

“I myself love nothing so much as dancing – and the waltz especially.” An elegant hand rose to cover a laugh. “So charming, yet so daring, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’ll take your word for it, my lady,” he replied with a forced smile. “It’s not one of my preferred pastimes.” The last time he had danced, it had been his wedding day. If he had known –

Lady Ellana gasped. “How tragic! That truly is a shame.”

The Seeker’s mouth twitched.

“I understand your ascension to society was fairly recent, perhaps you only have yet to acquire a taste for it. Perhaps the right partner –”

“I think it’s more to do with other demands on my time,” he interrupted. “Like keeping my people safe and fed. Besides, I prefer being outside.”

An uncertain silence met his words, discomfort at the bite in his tone that couldn’t be answered without causing a minor diplomatic incident.

Leliana recovered first. “The night is young and His Majesty is fond of modesty. I’m sure he will have time and attention for all those who wish it once his duties to his host are fulfilled.”

“Has Her Radiance arrived yet?” Fergus asked.

With a smile, Leliana nodded and motioned for them to follow her towards the doors of the grand ballroom. Neither she nor Élodie dared break their façades to scold him for being so taciturn, so Alistair pretended not to notice their silent disapproval. The cloying mixture of perfumes and sweat wafting through the hall, the crowd of heat from so many bodies in a confined space, all of it pressed on his already sour mood, and if he had to be rude to get out of an awkward conversation, what did he care? Whispers followed with the eyes on him, words just loud enough to catch his ear before darting back into the throng like birds flitting through a summer hedgerow. The speculative edge to them made him clench his teeth. There were insinuations, appraisals and judgements, musings on his preference for comme les chiens before the words dissolved every time into peals of muffled laughter.

“It’s almost enough to make a man jealous,” Fergus huffed at his side. “They didn’t even look at me. Not one pitying glance.” Time had healed most of the injuries he had taken in the months as Howe’s prisoner during the war, but some of the damage had been too much and too long neglected for even magic to fix; his cane tapped along the polished floor with every other step.

“How about next time I hide behind you?” Alistair asked. “You can do all the talking and I’ll stand and look aloof and interesting.”

“You just want an excuse to – what is it?”

He sensed a change in pressure in the eyes on him, an intensity of regard that set itself apart from that of the fawning mass seeking his attention. After almost two years on the throne, the concept of assassinations wasn’t entirely foreign, but as he watched Morrence scan the room he saw no sudden rise in tension to say she had spotted any maniacs with giant weapons about to pounce. A shadow did perhaps flash on the edge of his vision, but as he turned it was lost among the sea of faces waiting for acquaintances, for their turn to be announced, or for their own glimpse at dog-lord royalty.

He put the feeling from his mind. Empress Celene, resplendent in the purple and gold of House Valmont, stood at the far end of the ballroom above the sunken dancefloor and watched the obeisance of the people being announced, in the same way a fisher might wait with their spear poised to strike at a promising target. Already, dozens of couples mingled beneath the bright beeswax candles staving off the autumn dark outside, their fans held up to conceal the judgements passed on every newcomer.

When Alistair’s own turn to pace the length of the gauntlet came after a few moments of waiting, she smiled behind her mask and floated down the steps to meet him on an equal level, which only meant he got to see the avaricious gleam in her eye up close as she held out her hand. As he bent his head over it, he wondered if the look was meant to be alluring, but her fingers were cool and fine-boned under his, lacking callouses from swordwork, and the only thought that ran through his mind was that even when warmed by the fire a stone remained a stone.

“Majesté,” she crooned in delicately accented Common. “Be welcome. This meeting has been long anticipated.”

He had practiced his response for an hour in the mirror. “Thank you, Radiance. It is my hope that this moment can be the first step towards a better accord between our two nations.”

“It is ours as well. Please, join us in the gallery.” She turned. “And when the dancing starts, might we suggest the company of one of our ladies-in-waiting? They are all very accomplished dancers.”

“Uh…” He risked tripping over the considerable hem of Celene’s gown to a glance upward, to where three women of equal height watched the two of them from behind identical golden masks set with amethysts.

“Is this surprise?” the empress asked him, and laughed. “How very forward to expect a more prestigious partner so early in the evening. It seems the manners of Ferelden and Orlais have yet to fully understand one another.”

“Isn’t that why we’re both here?” he replied. “Though I have to confess, my mind wandered from the thought of dancing.”

“Oh? And where did it wander to?”

He nodded to the three attendants waiting at the top of the stairs. “It must get awkward on name-days if you can’t tell them apart.”

For the next half an hour, guests continued to trickle in as the mixed company watched from above, the steady ream of announcements and introductions keeping the threat of dancing at bay, and each name was accompanied by a whispered summary of all the associated scandals recounted by the waiting-women at Alistair’s side. He found their sameness disconcerting, as if at any moment they might steal away his mask and then ask which of them was hiding it under their skirts like a bait-and-switch scam in the marketplace.

When the castellan finally folded away his list of names and bowed an exit, the closest of Celene’s women reached up with a smile as thick and false as her makeup. “There is still some time until the dancing begins, Majesté – would you like to take a turn through the rest of the rooms while we wait?”

“Why not?” He forced a smile of his own. “Where do you think we should start?”

“Perhaps the long hall?” She began to steer him away from the rest of the party. “There are so many people you should meet!”

Before he could be disappeared entirely, he cleared his throat and called over his shoulder to Élodie. “We’ve been offered a tour of this fabulous palace,” he explained. “I don’t think we should miss it.”

“I am at Your Majesty’s disposal,” the ambassador replied, and stepped up to his other side

The tour turned out to be less a way to introduce him to Orlais’ finest and more a way to show him off as an accessory. With both Morrence and Élodie as chaperones to shield him from the worst of their dainty manners, he managed to stumble through pleasantries and inane topics of conversation, and even gave his opinion on Grand Duke Gaspard’s mission to quell giants in the Deauvin Flats without tying his tongue in any knots. He told bad jokes and people tittered behind their hands. In one room he was drawn into speculation about the merits of breeding nugs.

And throughout it all, the weight of the same mysterious scrutiny from before itched across his shoulders, making his clothes too tight, too coarse against his skin. Somebody watched him, or else he was in the first stages of some illness. In a move disguised as a readjustment of the faded leather bracers at his wrists, he checked the pair of daggers hidden in his sleeves, and then eyed the extra sword buckled at Morrence’s waist. Being his bodyguard permitted her to carry weapons where he could not, but he rarely went unarmed himself and the idea of being completely defenceless struck him as foolish – and so, the compromise, with the strict understanding that Maric’s runed blade would stay sheathed except in direst need.

The feeling followed him back to the dancefloor as the castellan announced the first cotillion and a charming smile appeared before him, attached to a name and a title that he forgot instantly. When the first notes cascaded down from the court musicians he took his partner’s hand and fell into the steps to distract from his unease, the beats f the dance like the repetitions of a battle drill that kept him turning, and facing, and weaving through the room. And then the music ended. Someone thrust another woman into his path, and then another, until he was breathless and overheated from the exercise, and relieved that he had yet to trip over his own feet.

In a pause between the sets, he tried to catch Leliana’s eye in the gallery above to ask to be rescued before he could be forced towards a refreshments table. To his dismay, she was too intent on the crowd to notice, watching for advantage or threat so that he could make a show of festive enjoyment – no easy feat considering how the entire room was staring at him.

No, not the entire room.

There. The flash of shadow that had followed him all night resolved itself into a woman who turned her face away from him as soon as their gazes met. Pearls were pinned in her dark hair, and the silk of her gown flashed with the violet-green iridescence of starling feathers, dazzling enough that Alistair wondered how he had missed it before. She retreated up the stairs, trying all too hard to disappear into the crowd in a manner that deliberately kept him out of her line of sight.

“Majesté?”

His current partner had noticed his distraction. He smiled down at her, but like the needle of a compass his gaze swung back to the strange woman, whose exit had been waylaid by a man with a shock of thin, greying hair poking out from under his yellow chevalier’s feather. He bowed over the Starling’s hand, boorish and insipid, and through her reluctance she cast her gaze around the room as if seeking an excuse. Her eyes lit on Alistair again, before skittering away up to the ceiling when she caught him looking.

Gotcha.

“Will you excuse me, my lady?” he begged of the young woman on his arm. “I have to talk to my advisor. You there, Ser! I’m afraid this beauty has been bereft of a partner, if you’ll oblige me? Thank you.”

He forgot the girl as soon as he handed her off. The music started. Leliana, noticing his approach up the stairs, nodded and plucked a glass of Antivan white from the tray of a passing server, handing it to him with a subtle gesture that let him sidle close enough to not be overhead.

“Have you seen her?” he asked.

“The woman in the dark colours?” She tilted her head in amusement. “Of course. She has been watching you, and does not care for the crowd flowing around her. She knows how to walk through a room of nobles but subterfuge is not her strength. And yet… there is something familiar about her. It worries me.”

For a moment, they watched from their vantage point in the gallery. The Starling moved through the room with grace enough to catch the eye, but with too much economy to fit in with the flounces of the rest of the dancers, the poise of a warrior more than a courtier. Still, the patience with which she dealt with her partner had to be admired. Alistair winced every time the old boor overstepped the bounds of propriety to tread on her toes; part of him wanted to step in between them and pull her from the line, if only to save her feet from bruising, but the strange urge didn’t stop him noticing how she cast her gaze to every corner of her room to avoid the man in front of her – every corner, except the place where he himself was standing.

“Find out who she is,” he grunted to Leliana, and pushed away from the rail.

Momentarily freed of his obligations in the dancing, he wound his way through the press of nobles, exchanging pleasantries, until he spotted Fergus resting his legs in one of the gilt-backed chairs that had been set at the edges of the room and made for him, worried about the guarded expression on his friend’s face. The reason for the scowl became apparent when the couple standing between them turned and stopped Alistair dead in his tracks.

“Ah – Your Majesty, it is good to see you. You’re looking well.” Eamon, the former Arl of Redcliffe, straightened from his bow as if the man he was addressing hadn’t been instrumental in his exile from Ferelden over two years before. He wore a mask like an Orlesian, with only the grey trim of his beard visible beneath its swirling, enamelled lines. On his arm, the once-Arlessa Isolde wore one almost identical, save for the extra decoration of feathers around the rim.

“What are you doing here?” Alistair blurted.

“We are guests of Her Radiance, of course,” Eamon replied with a blink. “I can see time has not been generous in your perspective towards me, but I would not quarrel with you here and mar Ferelden’s standing.” He swallowed. “Though it is late to say it, please accept my condolences for your loss.”

“Condolences?” Anger coiled in Alistair’s gut, kept at bay only by the interested stares of the people around him. Eamon had done his best to make sure he and Rosslyn were separated – had nearly succeeded – and now he dared to offer remorse?

“How are you enjoying Orlais, Your Majesty?” Isolde asked before he could storm away and blow all their diplomatic efforts.

“The weather’s nice. Please excuse me.”

Below them, the dance finished. Leliana slipped into the dispersing crowd with the ease of a master and cut the Starling from the crowd like a shepherd singling out a ram. Fergus joined him as he leaned over the rail to watch their conversation, Eamon and Isolde already forgotten, and caught the direction of his gaze.

“Has someone caught your eye?” he asked.

“No.” Alistair waved a hand. “No, it’s not like that.”

The Starling was turned away from Leliana, shrinking back as if to avoid a blow, but his left-hand could not be outmatched so easily and peered closer nonetheless. And then she drew back. Her mask flicked up with a twitch of her wrist to fully cover her face, and the Starling reached out for her elbow in an urgent gesture that conveyed as much familiarity as alarm. They knew each other. The words that passed between them were too far away to hear. Leliana paused, then nodded, and together the two of them retreated from the bright lights of the dancefloor into the shadows at the furthest corner of the room.

Fergus noticed. “Well that was strange.”

“I don’t like it. Will you be alright here?”

“For now.” He shrugged. “Holding court in the corner holds much more appeal than sweating about with people I don’t care for. A younger version of me might have tried to forget myself in one of these pretty smiles, but now…” The liquid in his glass caught the light as he tilted it for inspection.

“It’s not so easy,” Alistair agreed.

He left his friend still contemplating his drink and rounded the gallery with Morrence in tow, not straight for Leliana but angling for Élodie, who had taken up entertaining the delegates from Ostwick and made a nice middle ground. He barely registered the answers he gave to their polite enquiries as he approached. The Starling had disappeared and Leliana was wending her way towards one of the quieter hallways, where there were balconies with doors that could be minded by one’s guards to glare at any passing eavesdroppers. She flashed him a brief glance and a nod.

He thought quickly, turning to his ambassador.

“My lady, you’re looking a little warm, and I’ve neglected you.” He shot her what he hopes was a winning smile. “I hope you’ll forgive me, you’ve worked so hard, after all. Why don’t we get you some fresh air?”  

Élodie frowned at him, but nodded. “Your Majesty is very kind. I am a little flustered, now that you mention it. If you will excuse me, sers.”

Threading her hand through his arm, he hustled her away with as much nonchalance as he could muster, while she, sensing his mood, kept quiet. They met Leliana a few moments later on a trellised balcony overlooking the gardens, or as much as could be seen of them beyond the torchlight.

“Well?” he asked, almost before the door closed behind him.

“Have you two been hatching plans?”

His left-hand let the mask fall from her face, though she kept it close, fidgeting with it. “The lady… presents no danger.”

“Lady?” repeated Élodie.

“There’s no need to look so hopeful.” Alistair rolled his shoulders. “We caught someone acting suspicious. Did you find anything out? You looked like you were surprised when you found out who she was.”

“I… knew her in another life.” Leliana hesitated. “She thanked the King of Ferelden for his regard, but said she would rather not become a spectacle.”

“A disagreement with family, perhaps,” Élodie supplied.

The corner of Leliana’s mouth lifted. “I did not ask.”

Without even waiting long enough for him to draw breath, she bowed and swept back into the hall. He caught sight of Morrence, watching her go with something very like suspicion written in her features, but the expression flickered back into a blank before he could be certain.

Behind him, Élodie cleared her throat.

“It is a shame this woman is not what you hoped,” she said. “I would see you happy.”

He snorted. “I didn’t hope anything – and I was happy.”

“You could be so again, if you allowed it. You cannot fight your duty forever.”

He bit back the retort squeezing past the sudden lump in his throat. Reminding her that her own husband had died in the siege at South Reach would be rather ungallant, especially considering the genial nature of the evening so far, and he had tried hard to curb the spiteful edge to his temper over the past two years. He wanted to be better. Rosslyn would have wanted him to be better.

As the thought spiralled and led his mind towards the dark precipice that would mean yet another sleepless night, the nature of the sound inside the ballroom changed. The music died away. The thump of the castellan’s staff reached his ears, followed a moment later by the announcement of Celene’s arcane advisor, the mysterious apostate who had managed to charm her way to the centre of the Orlesian court and who now, according to some, whispered spells in the empress’ ear.

“No doubt people will want us introduced,” he muttered.

Élodie nodded. “We should not keep Her Radiance waiting.”

Just inside the doors, however, he stopped. Even from across the room the Starling drew his gaze with the furtiveness of her movements, the deliberate indifference with which she moved against the flow of people, and his patience ebbed.

He touched Morrence’s elbow, leaning close. “Do you see her?”

“Aye. I want a chat with that one.”

“Get her out to the terrace garden and make sure she’s alone. Hopefully it’s cold enough outside that any interested bystanders will be discouraged.” He sighed. “I’ll get away as soon as I can.”

“I shouldn’t leave your side. The danger to you –”

“What if she’s a danger?” he pressed. “What if Leliana’s wrong? Something is going on here, and I won’t be kept beyond the chain – or don’t you think she was acting strangely before?”

At that, his right-hand let slip a curse. “I’d still be leaving you in a nest of snakes.”

“I’ll be alright.” The hilts of his concealed daggers sat snug against his wrists.

“Fine – but if you die, I get to kill you for it.”

Nobody commented on his lack of a bodyguard when he once more joined Celene and her waiting-women at the head of the room. Morrigan, her advisor, spoke Common like a Fereldan, but she had clearly spent enough time in Orlais to learn the dismissive nature of their manners. For a long moment, Alistair was distracted by a nagging familiarity he could not place, until the witch rose from her curtsey and turned a pair of piercing yellow eyes on him. The breath stopped in his lungs. His hands clenched into fists. Even the smirk was recognisable, catlike and secretive, and the instant it appeared he was shunted back to a campfire in a glade under a star-strewn sky, and mocking laughter in his ears.

“You’re Flemeth’s daughter,” he said.

The smile froze. “I did hear you encountered my mother – during the war, was it not? What did she tell you of me?”

“Only that you didn’t like living in the Korcari Wilds.”

“She resented my wanting to make something of myself outside of her influence.” She drew herself up for better display of her plum-red gown, the gold links around her throat. “And now here I am.”

“I can see the appeal,” he offered, to laughs from those gathered around them.

Celene clapped her hands. “Ah, this is delightful. You must have many things to talk about, given you share a homeland.” Her head dipped in what Alistair presumed was amusement. “Though we must ask that Your Majesty does not steal her away from us! No promises of Ferelden’s new leniency towards mages, if you please.”

He made sure to chuckle along, schooling himself not to look round to see whether Morrence had caught the Starling yet. All he could do was wait for a break in conversation and make excuses to be allowed away for some air.

When his chance finally came, a brief interlude during an influx of new people wanting introductions, he slipped through the crowd and met his right-hand at the door to the terrace. The fresh, cold scent of the night washed in, frost and damp earth, and beyond the lighted windows a dark figure stood at the balustrade that separated the garden from the sheer drop to the ground below.

“She’s waiting for you,” Morrence said.

“Any trouble?”

“Only until I threatened to draw attention to her,” came the reply. “And she wouldn’t look me in the eye. Good luck.”

He steadied himself with a breath as he stepped into the open air, a pause in which he studied the woman so invested in not being noticed. She faced away from him, hunched over as if still trying to make herself invisible, picked out by a rime of moonlight that glowed in her hair and reflected in the pearl beading on her skirts, rippled along the silk gloves that covered her arms to the elbow. Her head turned as he approached. Breath fogged silver in the night but the tension didn’t leave her shoulders and he felt it draw him along a knife’s edge as he realised too late how it might appear, a king ordering a woman to wait for him beyond earshot. A jab of self-disgust coiled in his stomach.

And yet, like Leliana said, there was something familiar about her.

He cleared his throat, set his hands behind his back. “You won’t come to any harm here, not from me.”

The Starling only flinched further away from him.

“Who are you?”

He waited, patient, until it became clear he wouldn’t simply give up and leave. The Starling’s fists bunched against the stone of the balustrade, and her shoulders heaved with a deep, almost panicky breath.

“Désolée, Majesté, le Marchandesse est –”

“In Orlesian, then,” he answered. “What’s your name?”

She paused. The line of her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “I’m afraid… the only name I can give you is Laurienne, Majesté. Laurienne de Savrenne.”

“Laurienne.” He risked a step closer, and she angled even further away from him, determined to hide her face even behind the mask. “You know, it’s strange – most people here tonight have been falling over themselves trying to catch my attention, but not you. You’ve tried very hard to remain unnoticed, not just by me, but by my guards and entourage as well. Why?”

“I might point out that of all those who wanted the king’s attention, I am the only one to have it bestowed.” She licked her lips. “Perhaps that was my plan.”

The sharp mockery ignited his temper. What was this but yet another sly courtier throwing jests at his expense? All night he had been nice, he had smiled, danced, dressed himself up in pretty words so the nobility would chase him for something he didn’t even want to give, and now he couldn’t even get one straight answer when he asked for it.

“A lot of people think I’m a fool,” he bit out. “It might come in handy sometimes but I assure you I’m smarter than I look, and I don’t appreciate being messed about, especially not after such a long day.”

“I’m…” Was that a fraction of a move towards him? Her head dipped towards her hands, and her eyes pressed shut. “I’m not here under my own power. In truth, Majesté, my debtor bid me come, but did not say you would be here as well.” A distinct note of bitterness entered her voice. “No doubt the thought of us meeting amused her.”

“Do you know me?” he asked.

She fell utterly still. “Do you know me?”

“Are you an assassin?”

“No.”

“But you are hiding something.”

At that, she scoffed, and again that frustrating tingle of familiarity, though it was gone too quickly for him to examine. “We are in Orlais, are we not? Everyone is hiding something. I am no different to any other noblewoman, we are all the same. Wouldn’t you agree?”

His heart stuttered. His mind conjured a sweep of raven hair, the scent of jasmine, warm lips soft against his. “There are exceptions.”

“Is it the exception you were trying to find tonight?” The Starling’s tone rang cold. “All evening you have danced with one after another and tossed them aside afterwards like a wine-taster who finishes his sip and spits the rest away. How delightful the passage of your days must be to never want for such company.”

“How dare you.” He stepped closer. “What do you know about what my days are like – or what it’s like being passed around by all those magpies in there who only care about the shiny crown I could get for them? It’s all, ‘remember it’s your duty, Alistair’ and ‘just pick one and get it over with’. If I could even have one night where I could complain about it, or – or say no – that would be something, but everyone seems to think I should be flattered by all those people pawing at me and never giving me a moment to myself!”

He paused for breath. The tirade had winded him, as much for the emotion it let loose as for the wild gestures flung out with the words. The Starling had remained still, taking the onslaught like a tree against a howling wind, though now only fatigue was left in him she shrank as if he’d struck her a physical blow.

“Forgive me,” he muttered, horrified. “I wasn’t angry at you, it’s just…” What words could he say? “I wouldn’t expect you to understand – but don’t worry. You can go. Do as you wish, my guard won’t detain you any further.”

Still she didn’t move. Cursing, he pinched the bridge of his nose and swallowed back the lump in his throat as he turned for the door. He needed sleep, he needed –

“I understand better than you would think.”

Her voice. Common, not Orlesian. The quiet servility deepened into a clarion note – it stirred his heart from its withered slumber, called it like a dog to heel. Her voice. With pulse thundering, with hope and disbelief and horror wadded into a tight ball in his throat, he looked back.

The Starling no longer shrank into herself but stood tall in defiance of the cold, her shoulders thrown back, chin lifted, in the attitude of a general. He drank in the arch of her throat, the pale skin that gleamed like marble under Satina’s light, the shine of raven-black hair gathered in an Orlesian knot at the back of her head, all details he had ignored before because it was impossible. When he didn’t move, her head tilted, and he recognised the sorrow in the gesture, the self-deprecation in the curve of her mouth.

“The man I love is at this ball tonight,” she told him. “He’s the centre of attention, but I’ve had to watch and do nothing while everyone covets what I cannot touch.”

Her voice.

“Why not?” His tongue fumbled the words through the fog in his brain, the steps he took back towards her shaky and numb, desperate, his chest constricted trying to hold his breath in case it broke the spell somehow cast around him. “Why hide?”

“I owe a debt. Until it’s paid, I can’t – my life is not my own and I have to pay it back. Besides,” she added, with a new wobble in her voice, “what would I say? He – everyone thinks I’m dead.”

They stood so close now he could have reached out to touch her hand, but he hesitated, worried that that, at last, would make her disappear and prove him mad. She was shaking; her fingers had raked lines in the frost on the stone as she clenched them into fists.

“But you’re not dead. You’re –”

Their breath mingled heavy under the moonlight as he leaned in, his hand braving night-chilled skin where her glove had fallen to her wrist, and finally she turned into him, drawn, like him, and while he closed his eyes seeking in vain for the familiar scent of jasmine and sweetgrass, the weight under his fingertips and the stulted breath that left her lips made her solid, and all that was left was to beg her to say something, to let him hear her voice again.

“I was afraid you’d forgotten me,” came the whisper, so full of doubt.

“Never –” He caught the side of her face, pressed a kiss to her temple though the rim of her mask cut into his lips. “Never.”

“I – I thought you’d hate me.”

The absurdity of it made him giggle even as he shook his head in denial. He stroked her hair. Kissed her again. And then, because it was too much to have such certainty without proof he pulled back, searching for the ribbons that secured her mask in place, her pulse flying under his fingers as he worked at the knots. When the mask finally came free, he pushed it up over her forehead – and found himself looking down into a pair of eyes that were the grey of cracked ice on a winter sea.

[i-did]

what would make renee angry in your opinion?

I had a really hard time answering this one actually. I thought about it for a while and asked a lot of my friends to see if they had any ideas, and here's what I came up with:

1) A professor or TA who is super shitty to her

Just a really shitty teacher.

as she goes through college, she’s bound to run into some assholes, and I don’t think Renee has perfect grades in the past or present. her not knowing academic terminology and feeling out of place in the college setting would make a lot of sense for a lot of the foxes, and Renee is good on putting on a smile, but she still eventually gets that one professor or TA that scoffs at her questions and “doesn’t have time for the likes of her” and the constant complete dismissal digs painfully under her skin and brings out her anger.

2) People who are intensely rude to her despite her best efforts to be as kind as she can be

Renee is patient, but we all have our limit. similar to the one above, but Renee dealing with someone who is just rude all the time and she struggles to keep reminding herself “we all have bad days, I don’t know what they’re going though.” Renee working in a coffee shop and a woman bumping into Renee and spilling her coffee on herself, only to yell at Renee for an hour, ignoring all of Renee’s pleasant customer service smiles. said customer later on becoming a regular and repeating this behavior, cutting off people in parking lots and flipping them off, Renee being kind and trying to give her a free scone only for the woman to tell her she hates scones, Renee offering something else only for the woman to tell her to shut up. that shit wears you down, and Renee still dumping her kindness onto someone every time only for it to backfire or be dismissed would make her have to take a few deep breaths in the back room before deciding, fuck it, she's cut off from active kindness, now only passible neutrality and not being aggressive is enough. 

3) someone who refuses her help

her knowing she could really make a difference, but some people just don’t want help, and she feels helpless and angry. she's not angry at the person, but the situation of them not being ready to accept help or even able to accept help makes her so frustrated she would start to grind her teeth in her sleep. She understands how it is, how hard it can be to take the first step to change or giving up pride or whatever the hurtle may be, but that doesn’t make it any easier than her thinking in her head “just let me fucking help you!!! or anyone!!! just let anyone in to help you!!!! fuck!!!” inside her head. she knows not everyone needs help or saving, but some people do, and when they shove her back, unwilling and not ready for it over and over while she’s trying to save them, she gets frustrated that she can’t.... do anything. and just has to wait. but Renee can be patient, and she’s willing to wait. 

4) Someone actively trying to wear her down and get under her skin

okay so this isn’t something that happens often, the closest Renee has really come to it is with Andrew when he first was scoping her out. but– if someone was actively trying to aggravate her, laughing at everything she said and making fun of her, pulling at her looser strings and picking at her ticks, watching to see what brought out her reaction, they could eventually do it and get under her skin. i think she wouldn’t let herself blow up at them since thats what they want, but she would silently excuse herself from the situation to take a breather. no one really does this with her, and Andrew only does this to size her up and even still his interrogation isn’t the type of harassment i’m imagining. i mean like old school bullying, not locker shoving, but the middle school girl shit that leaves emotional scars. and them being older, they’re less afraid to show it and be more straight forward mean. people don’t really do this to her tho, its too much effort to get a reaction, and when they do, its never what they would have wanted, like crying, but instead is her smile falling and then finding a way to make them feel like shit. Renee is kind, but she also knows how to play on a similar level as them, not just with fists. i HC Renee as plus size, and fuck it is hard to be different in anyway as a kid. but childhood bullying was the least of her worries and these people dont see how deep her personal self assurance has grown and how she has learned to stand with her head held high and her face serine. her and dan are quite similar in this, but dan is much more active and direct while Renee is passive in her letting it glide over her, dan has even gotten annoyed on Renee’s behalf and then annoyed that Renee was not affected and why she didn’t fight more directly back. 

5) People who are overtly cruel and she struggles to sympathize with

okay so, you ever see someone so mean and rude for zero reason to someone else and you’re just like... what the fuck??? Renee doesn’t let others get to her really, but damn.... someone going after someone else in ways that are just so uncalled for and so harshly.... it gets to her. She once watched an episode of catfish where the catfisher laughed at the girl, uncaring that he crossed so many emotional lines and manipulated people without really any care. and she wanted to throw the remote and punch the tv right where the guys face was on the paused screen. nothing like someone just, kicking someone else while their down with no mercy, or making fun of someone behind their back and them not knowing, making fun of the deaf kids voice behind his back and he doesn’t see them doing it, and she’s like, man, Fuck. You. in her head. I don’t think she was like, always a nice person, in fact, i think Renee used to very much so not be the type to sit with the alone kid at lunch but instead ignore him and think “yea he’s weird, kinda ugly” without thinking much of it. But then she decided to change, and she took everything she thought it meant to be a good person, and became that. she started sitting with the alone kid, she started doing charities, she started to smile instead of punch, and she started going to church. and so when she sees cruelness she was once passive in the face of, maybe even active in, she uses kindness. Renee is she good at using taking the high road in such a graceful way it makes others feel bad. like when she tells Nicky calmly “thats not very nice” after he jokes about Seth dying in a car crash on his way from the airport book 1, and Nicky feels like shit. it feels like shit to get called out sometimes, and while its not her goal, she does know it is an effect of it. (i don’t think she’s mad at Nicky in that scene, but she did say something since she is there to protect hers and she redraws that line in that moment, especially without Allison or Seth there yet to say fuck you themselves.)

6) Injustice and systems of oppression

for these i feel she gets more frustrated, overwhelmed, and sometimes resigned. she knows how dark and shitty the world is, but she stays up at night with her hand on her heart as she breathes deep, thinking about how... utterly fucked everything is. its pretty easy for me to HC that Renee is politically far left and has seen the dark side to lack of resources and systemic issues that are just... so overwhelming she doesn’t even know what she does as just one person. world pollution, corruption, class divide, flint water crisis, the homeless crisis, the prison system, functioning segregation in school systems, just... it all. she’s had nights after volunteering where she thinks “i did something, i did.” and she has days where she realizes “...i’m doing nothing, in the end... its all for nothing, there’s just too much.” just a bad day where she sits there, thinking about how much is wrong and wont be fixed and how ‘doomed’ things are, how broken, and she doesn’t feel at a loss, but rather this deep anger that comes from who she was before. 

7) herself. 

Her being unable to live up to her own standards. she still thinks mean things, she has mean and cruel urges, and when she has them, she remembers that she’s still a bad person trying very hard to be a good one, and she thinks she’s still a bad person at her core. she’s not self loathing with it, but she does think to herself “i’m a hypocrite.” and sits with that thought for a minute. sparring with Andrew has helped her, to balance the two sides of her in a way that feels both self indulgent and honest to her path forward. but sometimes while sitting in that church pew, she thinks of her dead mother, her dead step father, those she turned in without batting an eye, stabbing in the back to save herself, and she thinks “i should feel something.” but she doesn’t, she wasn’t sorry then and she’s not sorry now. and she thinks, “the others call Andrew a monster, and they don’t realize that i’m one too.” and she tries to muster up something deep inside her, but she cant. and it can frustrate her, how after all these actions, all those hours of beach clean up and homeless shelters and building houses in some other country and going around clapping her hands to the songs, but she’s still the person she is deep down. and it gets to her. i think her having a conversation with Neil one day, on what it means to be a real person, is she pretending who she is? is she her thoughts or her actions? which is the real her? and Neil saying, it’s all of it. every facet of the self is still the self, he is Nathaniel and Neil and Abram and every other person he has been and will be. we change but we are also always ourselves, and her actions are just as true as her thoughts. 

[wisteriashouse]

red lights, lilac eyes.

pairing: kamado tanjirou x sumiyuri hayami (oc)

genre: fluff, comfort

word count: 6612

remarks: this was a request by the lovely @hinokami-s​!! i hope you enjoyed it, and thank you so much for commissioning me! i really enjoyed writing hayami <3

Tanjirou is, to put it lightly, uncomfortable.

He can’t place his finger on what exactly it is about this place that makes him feel so. At a simple glance, he can tell that the flooring of the waiting room is made from expensive wood, its surface polished smooth by a carpenter’s hand and covered with a finishing layer of lacquer. Around him, rare pottery line the shelves and tasteful pieces of art decorate the walls, but the opulence of it all cannot hide the heavy smell of sex that lingers in the air, no matter how much incense the pleasure house burns in an attempt to mask the scent. Trying to breathe through his mouth as much as possible, Tanjirou forces himself to calm down, fisting his hands in the fabric of his hakama as he exhales slowly. 

Hayami will be alright, he repeats to himself for the fifth time. Tanjirou hasn’t seen her for days, and every second that passes his worry only grows. He knows that Hayami is strong, and he knows that she is more than able to take care of herself, but that knowledge doesn’t stop the unease that continues to linger -- he knows it will refuse to abate until he sees that Hayami is fine and well with his own two eyes.

A week ago, the kasugai crows had come to the two of them with a mission - to infiltrate the red light district of Yoshiwara. Several slayers had reported rumours of a man eating demon in the vicinity, and both Hayami and Tanjirou had been assigned to eliminate it. The plan had been simple, Hayami would infiltrate the red light district posing as a hopeful future oiran to gather intel about the demon, while Tanjirou would enter and leave the oiran house as a customer to provide backup as needed.

When they’d both heard about the mission for the first time, Hayami’s expression hadn’t changed much, but Tanjirou could smell the change in her mood almost immediately - the sour scent of deep unease and reluctance.

Tanjirou had instantly volunteered to infiltrate the red light district as a prostitute in her place (an idea which had been shot down by his kasugai crow in an instant), but Hayami had only managed a laugh, shaken her head at his suggestion and reassured him that she would be alright. 

She had asked Tanjirou to trust her, so Tanjirou must have faith in his friend and wait patiently - as much as he wants to search the oiran house for her right this instant, it would only compromise the mission. Furrowing his brow, Tanjirou lets out a slight sigh - even if he has full belief in Hayami’s strength, he can’t help but worry. After all, he-

“The shinzo Hanamurasaki will enter now.”

Tanjirou’s back straightens in an instant at the voice outside the door, the leather of his concealed sword sheath bumping against his back. He can think about his feelings later. Right now, he needs to focus on the mission at hand - eliminating the demon before it can take yet another life.

The door slides open.

Quickly sliding a smile onto his face, Tanjirou turns towards the doorway to greet the woman. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he begins, but then his eyes widen in shock when he takes in the sight of the person in the doorway. “Haya-”

“No, it is my pleasure to be able to entertain you today.” The courtesan before him - no, Hayami - bows slightly to him, a finger raised subtly to her lips which are painted pink with shimmering gloss, reminding him of the cherry blossoms that bloom in spring. The long platinum hair he’s only ever seen in a high ponytail is done up in an elaborate up-do, carefully waxed and adorned with tortoiseshell pins, not a single strand out of place. He can’t tear his eyes away from her. “I am a courtesan in training,” she gives him a slight smile, chaste and alluring, looking up at him shyly from under her lashes. “You can call me Hanamurasaki.”

It takes only two simple sentences, said so sweetly, for Tanjirou’s cheeks to burn as if they’ve been set alight. Embarrassed, he ducks his head to the side in an attempt to hide his flush. “I will.” He says, not trusting his voice to say any more than that.

“Come with me, I’ll bring you to your room.” Hayami waits for Tanjirou to rise before following suit, hands delicately clasped in front of a colourful obi. The two of them make their way down the winding corridors, and it’s only when Tanjirou no longer picks up the scent of any other people nearby that he whispers, out of the corner of his mouth, slightly confused. “Hanamurasaki?”

“The pseudonym given to me by the brothel owner,” Hayami murmurs in reply, maintaining her graceful, sweeping gait. Tanjirou glances up at her when he picks up a familiar scent of unease coming off her, sees her mouth pulled into a tight line. “I didn’t want to leave my real name in a place like this.”

The scent thickens, and Tanjirou’s brows furrow in worry. Although Hayami has never explicitly mentioned anything about her childhood, he thinks he picks up enough - the familiarity that Hayami has with the Floating World of Pleasure that is Yoshiwara tells him all that he needs. Reaching over, he places one hand on Hayami’s - the only exposed skin that isn’t hidden away by layers of brocade and silk - and squeezes it lightly in an attempt to comfort his friend. 

“Do you want to stop the mission?” He asks seriously. When Hayami frowns, opening her mouth to reassure him that she’s alright, Tanjirou continues. “I know that you’re more than capable of succeeding, Hayami. But I don’t like the fact that you have to stay in a place that makes you unhappy.”

At Tanjirou’s words, Hayami’s steps falter, before she comes to a standstill. “Unhappy…” She repeats the word slowly, and then to Tanjirou’s surprise, she huffs out a little laugh through her nose, the action completely at odds with her elegant attire and so much more Hayami that Tanjirou can only stare for a moment. “Well, I wouldn’t say completely unhappy. It just brings back some bad memories that I’d rather not think about.” With a smile, she squeezes Tanjirou’s hand in return. “But the fact that you’re here with me makes me feel a lot better. So thank you, Tanjirou.”

Tanjirou’s breath catches in his throat for a second before he manages a slight cough, shaking his head. “It’s nothing.” He says, feeling his cheeks burn pink again and Hayami giggles slightly. “Don’t laugh at me! It’s not my fault that you look so beautiful!”

“Alright, alright.” Hayami’s lilac eyes dance with amusement and Tanjirou breathes a small sigh of relief, she’s smiling for real again. “On the bright side, I don’t think I’ll have to stay here for much longer. I have an idea of how the demon has been eating the girls here unnoticed.”

“Oh.” Tanjirou sucks in a breath, eyes widening as he looks up at Hayami. His hand subconsciously brushes the sheath of the sword on his back. “How so?”

“Its Blood Demon Art is likely the ability to shapeshift, it assumes the form of different men for each woman.” Hayami explains, her eyes narrowing. Tanjirou can hear the clear disgust in her voice when she speaks. “The demon treats the prostitutes gently and showers them with gifts, promising them that it’ll run away with them and free them from the brothel house. The stories get spread between the girls working here, so no one really suspects a thing when a prostitute goes missing entirely after a night.”

Tanjirou frowns, anger mounting in his chest. Giving the girls false hope of escaping this life only to devour them, that’s far too cruel. “What about the owner of the brothel house? Won’t they care that the girls are running away?”

“The house owner doesn’t report it because it gives the brothel house a bad reputation, so the disappearances are never made known to the public.” Hayami answers. Tanjirou can see the way her hands clench into fists under the elaborately embroidered brocade of her obi. “As long as it doesn’t result in a significant loss of money, the house owner won’t care in the least. The women here are just money making objects to them. The demon is careful to eat mostly lower ranked prostitutes, ones that the brothel house haven’t invested much money in training, so their deaths just end up swept under the rug.”

“That’s awful.” Tanjirou says softly. Hayami nods in agreement to his words, before she lets out a pained sigh. “Sorry, I got a little emotional there. Well, as much as I’d like to, I can’t save every woman here from this place.” She looks so crestfallen that Tanjirou feels his own heart throb in pain.

He pats her hand. “There’s no need to apologise for being upset about the unfairness of the world, Hayami.” He tells her firmly. “Let’s focus on what we can do instead, such as making this place a little safer for them by taking out the demon. Alright?”

Hayami takes a moment to compose herself, taking a deep breath before she nods. “Okay.” The determination burning in her eyes is hard to look away from, Tanjirou thinks to himself. “Let’s head to the room first, I’ll tell you more about the different brothel houses I think the demon may strike tonight-”

All of a sudden, a choking, rotten scent fills Tanjirou’s nose and he immediately claps one hand over his mouth, trying not to gag. Hayami’s eyes widen, before her expression instantly turns cold.

“Demon?” She whispers sharply. Tanjirou nods, urgent.

“It’s approaching. Do we engage it?”

Hayami shakes her head immediately. “We don’t know enough about its abilities in combat to take it on right here. The corridors are narrow and it’d be difficult for you to swing your sword.”

The sound of wooden geta clicking against the flooring grows steadily louder, and to Tanjirou’s surprise, Hayami quickly tugs him into a small alcove in the wall by the sleeve. It’s clearly too cramped for two people, the top of his head brushing against her chin and his hands braced on either side of her to prevent himself from being pressed up against her. “Wait, wait, what is it?” He tries to keep his voice level even as his heart thumps rapidly in his chest. This isn’t the time to be embarrassed, Tanjirou!

“The demon might be suspicious of me. It’s probably caught wind of me asking around about the disappearances.” Hayami mutters under her breath, looking over Tanjirou’s head. This action only serves to press Tanjirou’s face into her neck, his nose suddenly filled with the heady scent of floral perfume. Head spinning, Tanjirou tries to keep his composure by holding his breath, doing his best not to inhale the intoxicating scent. “By my estimates, the demon should have headed to one of the other houses tonight, not come back here. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s trying to find out how much I know.”

“What do we do then? It’ll be bad if we lose the advantage of surprise.” Tanjirou tries his best to extricate himself from Hayami without too much contact, but it’s far too cramped in the alcove to do so. Hayami ponders this for a moment, before she suddenly looks down at Tanjirou with a slightly flustered expression on her face.

“Tanjirou, forgive me for this,” one of her hands cup the back of his head firmly, the other tilting his chin up so he’s looking into her delicate purple eyes, “but I’ll explain later.”

Their faces are so close that he can count every fine eyelash, her breath warm against his lips. His heart is beating far too hard at the proximity for it to be healthy for him, and it takes everything in him to maintain his Total Concentration Breathing. “What for-” He barely manages to get out without stuttering, but before he can say another word, Tanjirou feels a pair of soft lips pressed against his.

“Mmph!”

Her lips are soft. That’s the first thing Tanjirou registers when Hayami kisses him for the very first time, his knees suddenly weak, fingers clutching at the heavy kimono around Hayami’s shoulders. The second thing he notices is that they taste sweet, like the candy that Tanjirou used to buy for his younger siblings every New Year. For a moment, he wonders if it’s simply the lip gloss that Hayami wears, or if her mouth has tasted like honey from the very beginning. Curiosity has him leaning in instinctively to press his mouth harder against hers. More, his heart and mind echo, and Hayami tugs him closer so that their bodies are pressed flush against each other, her fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck as she hums lightly against his mouth.

She’s too close. All Tanjirou can think about Hayami, his senses driven into a frenzy by her scent, intoxicating-

When she tugs, Tanjirou’s mouth parts with a little gasp, his own fingers scrabbling weakly for purchase on the smooth brocade of her kimono. Something wet flicks against his lower lip - the tip Hayami’s tongue, he realises, and the shock of that is enough for his mind to return to him at once.

He pulls away with a gasp, both hands clasped over his mouth as he stares at Hayami with wide eyes. The pink on Hayami’s lips are smeared slightly across her mouth, and when he subconsciously licks his own lips at the sight, he can taste her lip gloss still lingering on his mouth. 

He can’t seem to catch his breath.

“The demon seems to have left.” Hayami says, glancing over his shoulder as she straightens her robes, her voice only a little shaky. Thoroughly embarrassed, Tanjirou presses both hands over his cheeks in a futile attempt at hiding the flush burning at his cheeks. He’s still struggling to form coherent thoughts when he catches sight of Hayami’s ears, the tips bright red. 

Did she… perhaps like it too?

Not quite meeting his eyes, Hayami reaches out to wipe at the corner of his mouth with her sleeve. His lips, still sensitive from the kiss earlier, tingle at the sensation, pinpricks of heat dancing under his skin. “You have a bit of gloss here.” She murmurs, and Tanjirou wonders if her cheeks are just as warm as his under the layer of white painted on her face.

“O-oh.” He wonders if Hayami knows that she’s the one who has taken his first kiss. “Uhm…”

Hayami ducks her head, straightening out her robes. “We should go.”

“Oh, right.” Slapping his cheeks lightly, Tanjirou forces himself to refocus on the mission at hand. The demon is still here! He can think about the kiss later. When he turns back to Hayami, she’s tugging at the elaborately done obi around her waist before her hands fall to the side in resignation. A groan of frustration leaves her mouth. “This outfit is going to take at least an hour to get out of.” Hayami shakes her head. “Tanjirou, do you think you can deal with this demon on your own?”

Tanjirou nods, pulling out his sword. Its weight is comforting in his hands, and he shrugs off the drab brown overcoat he’s wearing to free his arms before glancing up at Hayami. “Let’s go.”

Hayami takes him by the hand, leading him down the hallway with quick, hurried steps. “The demon should be having a meal now, entertained with a few other courtesans in training, just like me. You take on the demon while I evacuate the rest of the women in the room.” They stop just outside a sliding door, and from within Tanjirou can hear the chatter of the women, completely unaware of the true nature of the creature they’re dining with. 

Tanjirou readies his sword in his hands, but he can’t help the worried glance he sends towards Hayami. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

Hayami nods, sending him a warm smile that has his heart stumbling a beat in his chest. Taking a deep breath, Tanjirou throws the door open with a violent bang.

“Evil demon! For your crimes of devouring humans and taking the lives of innocent people,” Tanjirou declares, leveling the point of the nichirin blade right at the demon. Although it may take the form of a human, the pungent, sour smell of blood and rotten flesh that clings to its form is something the demon cannot hide. “I will destroy you right here!”

The courtesans next to it scream at the sight of his sword, an item forbidden to carry about in Yoshiwara. They’ve probably never had one pointed in their faces before, and Tanjirou internally apologises for frightening them out of their wits. The demon scowls, baring its teeth as its face begins to shift and morph - Hayami was right, after all. As the grotesque face of the demon reveals itself, the once human features melting away, the courtesans scream again, one of them scrambling to get as far as she can from the nightmarish sight. Tanjirou catches sight of the demon’s eyes flicking towards her, attention drawn by the movement, and he lunges forward with a yell, swinging his blade down before the monster’s claws can graze her skin.

“Breath of Water, Eighth Form, Waterfall Basin!”

The demon lets out a piercing shriek as its arm falls off, thudding to the ground with a wet thump, barely inches from the hem of the trembling courtesan’s kimono. Her eyes widen in shock, mouth beginning to open in yet another scream when Hayami, having kicked off her geta unceremoniously, scoops the courtesan up into her arms easily in spite of the cumbersome outfit and waltzes out of the way of the demon’s crushing grip.

“It’s okay now,” he can hear Hayami reassure the courtesan gently as he stands between them and the demon protectively. The demon snarls once more, multiple arms sprouting from its sides threateningly. Tanjirou counts eight as he grips his sword tightly once more. “You’ll be fine, my friend here will take care of the monster. Just get away from this place, alright?”

Twisting his body, Tanjirou leaps forward and slashes at the arms rapidly with ‘Flowing Dance’, mind furiously doing its best to keep track of the movements of all eight limbs at once. So focused on the battle at hand he doesn’t notice that the demon is slowly morphing in shape once again, eyes turning a warm, familiar red, hair elongating into a ponytail. It’s only when Tanjirou finishes cutting off all the eight arms and changes his grip to slash at the demon’s neck that he realises that it is his father standing before him, looking down at him with a gentle gaze that is already beginning to fray at the edges of his childhood memories.

He makes a fatal mistake. He falters.

His father is dead, and Tanjirou knows that from the bottom of his heart, but he can’t help the way his blade hesitates for just a second - he cannot possibly strike down the image of his father without a second thought. Unfortunately, however, the demon has no intentions of waiting for him to steel his heart and instantly lunges forward in an attack, claws outstretched.

“Tanjirou, watch out!”

In the nick of time, Hayami hurls one of the heavy geta she’d kicked aside earlier at the demon - her aim is impeccable, and the shoe strikes it dead in the eye. The demon lets out a howl of pain, its swipe missing Tanjirou by several inches, much to his relief.

However, that relief is short-lived when Tanjirou turns to thank Hayami… only to realise that the demon’s attention is now on her instead of him.

Tanjirou raises his blade to sever the demon’s head at once, but it takes less than the space of a single breath for the demon to change form once again, the familiar checkered haori of his father melting into a sea of vermillion silk, fancifully embroidered with golden thread. Tanjirou glances up at the new face the demon wears and a gasp escapes him unbidden - platinum hair done up in a elaborate knot, features that could have been carved by the hand of a master sculptor - the person whose form the demon assumes is so stunningly beautiful that it steals the breath from his lungs - its face reminds him so much of Hayami, except for its cruel, carmine eyes. 

“M-mother?”

Tanjirou’s head whips around in shock when he hears Hayami’s voice tremble - the word is strained not from longing, not from surprise, but from fear. Her purple eyes are wide, pupils dilated as she stares down the person before her. Hayami is one of the strongest people he knows, unflinching in the face of terrible demons and courageous in the fiercest battles, and yet, before this woman she calls her mother, she trembles?

His empathy instantly sends off hundreds of warning bells in his head, his grip on his blade tightening instantly. Every nerve in his body is screaming at him that he needs to cut this woman, this demon, down right now. 

“I’m… I’m not going back there.” Hayami shakes her head furiously, taking a step back as the demon takes another forward. She trips on the long hem of her robe and ends up falling to the ground, but she doesn’t even seem to notice in the least, her eyes still fixed on the demon before her. Tanjirou can practically smell the terror in the air, so overpowering that he feels as if he might choke on it. “Y-you can’t make me. You’re dead.”

The demon raises its hand, and Hayami flinches back, throwing both hands up to protect herself.

Tanjirou sees red.

He doesn’t even realise that he’s cut off the demon’s head until he hears a mangled scream and a heavy, wet thud at his feet, the acrid scent of ash wafting through the air. Completely ignoring the demon’s corpse even as it begins to crumble, Tanjirou heads straight over to Hayami, hands tentatively reaching out for her before he decides to pull them back. Hayami’s breathing is still uneven, her body trembling slightly, and Tanjirou doesn’t want to cause her any more distress than she already has to deal with.

His heart aches for her. 

Quietly, Tanjirou sheaths his sword and kneels before Hayami, resisting the urge to wrap his arms around her form and pull her into his embrace. He should have been faster, he shouldn’t have hesitated, he-

“Are you…” Tanjirou pauses, biting on his lower lip before speaking again. “Are you alright?”

It is obvious that she isn’t, but he asks anyway.

Hayami remains silent for a few moments, but Tanjirou can see her doing her best to school her expression, taking slow, deep breaths to regain her composure. After about a minute, she forces a smile onto her cheeks, shakily getting to her feet.

“I’m fine. Just taken by surprise.” She says. Her voice is too casual, too lighthearted. Before Tanjirou can say a word in response, Hayami extends her hand to him. “Come on. I want to get out of this kimono as fast as possible.” Their eyes don’t meet.

Tanjirou has no choice but to take it.

>>>

After informing the owner of the brothel house about the demon and reassuring the courtesans at the scene that the demon had been eliminated, the two of them had been provided a room for Hayami to change out of her disguise. The second they get to the room, Hayami instantly steps behind the folding screen, and a second later, Tanjirou hears a heavy thump - the sound of fabric falling to the ground. 

Thoroughly flustered, Tanjirou wonders if he should leave the room to give Hayami her privacy, surely it can’t be appropriate for a man to be in the same room as a changing woman. He’s about to tell Hayami he’ll be waiting for her outside when she calls for him first, startling him.

“Is there something you need?” Approaching the folding screen, Tanjirou hovers outside nervously, wondering if he should enter or not. Before he can ask, however Hayami reaches out and tugs him in, much to his shock. He instantly clasps both hands over his eyes, shaking his head frantically. “Hayami!”

“Don’t worry, I’m decent.” 

Hayami’s voice right by his ear doesn’t help in the least to calm his racing heart, but Tanjirou lowers his hands slowly anyway to see that she’s shed the outermost layers of her kimono. The exorbitant pieces of brocade and silk are strewn carelessly on the floor. 

“Can you give me a hand? I can’t quite reach the tie by myself.” Hayami gestures to the knot done at her back, keeping the inner kimono in place. Stepping forward, Tanjirou reaches out and hesitates for a second, tugging on the knot while being as careful as possible not to touch her unnecessarily. The knot doesn’t even budge.

“Give me a moment.” Sucking in a breath between his teeth, Tanjirou struggles to undo the knot - his fingers are too big and she’s far too close once again, the scent of her perfume tickling his nose just like it did during the kiss earlier. Her lips on his, her fingers in his hair, pulling-

“Tanjirou? Tanjirou, is there something wrong?” It takes Hayami calling his name twice for him to realise that his fingers have stilled. Embarrassed at being caught off guard, Tanjirou instantly returns his attention to the task at hand, smacking himself in the head mentally. Stop thinking about it! “No.” He answers, and is utterly dismayed when his voice cracks. “There’s nothing wrong. Nothing at all.”

He doesn’t sound convincing even to his own ears.

“I…” Hayami begins, hesitating for a moment as Tanjirou continues to attempt to undo the knot diligently. “I’m sorry.”

Of all the things Tanjirou had expected Hayami to say, this was definitely not one of them. “Sorry?” Tanjirou repeats, totally bemused. “What is there for you to be sorry about?” 

“The kiss earlier.” Hayami clarifies, her voice a little louder this time. When she glances back over her shoulder, Tanjirou once again catches sight of a slight red touching the tips of her ears - something that makes his own cheeks heat as well. “I’m sorry… I didn’t get your permission, and well, we’re not together, and-” Hayami pauses in horror, suddenly clasping her hands over her mouth and turning around in a flurry of brightly coloured fabric. Her eyes are wide as she stares at him. “Tanjirou, that was your first kiss, wasn’t it?”

Tanjirou awkwardly bobs his head in confirmation, the heat spreading down his neck and intensifying in the tips of his ears. 

“Oh my, I’m so sorry, Tanjirou!” Hayami turns around to apologise, looking completely flustered. One of her hands reaches up to twirl a lock of her hair around her finger, a nervous habit of hers that Tanjirou has noticed over time, before she realises that her hair is still done up in its up-do and her hands end up twisting nervously in the fabric of her kimono. “I’m really, really sorry, I should have thought of something else to distract the demon instead-”

While Tanjirou does think Hayami is absolutely adorable when she gets flustered like this, he’s far too soft hearted to leave her in this state. 

“It’s alright.” He reassures her immediately, reaching out to squeeze her hand. At the contact, Hayami’s rambling stops, and she looks down at Tanjirou nervously. He continues to speak. “I’m alright with you being my first kiss. In fact…” he glances down, unable to meet her eyes. “It was nice.”

“Oh.” That’s all Hayami says in response. The two of them remain that way for a while, awkwardly glancing this way and that in an attempt to avoid looking at each other. It takes Tanjirou a whole minute to realise that he’s still holding Hayami’s hands in his.

“Well!” Tanjirou drops Hayami’s hands in an instant, moving to undo the knot at her back once again so she can’t see how painfully red his face is. It comes apart easily now, the traitorous little thing. “As much as I’d like to leave this place, I think it’s too late for us to travel to any of the Wisteria Houses nearby.” In front of him, Hayami’s shoulders instantly tense up, visible even from beneath the thick kimono she’s wearing. Tanjirou is quick to pick up that she’s uncomfortable with the idea. “I mean, I could go look around the area for an inn or somewhere else to stay that isn’t,” he gestures vaguely at the room they are in, trying his very hardest to avert his eyes from the erotic artworks hanging from the walls, “a brothel.”

To his surprise, Hayami simply shakes her head. “There’s no point in doing so.” She sounds tired. “We’re in the red light district of Yoshiwara, no inn that abstains from selling sexual services would survive in this place. I’ll be fine.” The last word wavers, but she continues as if nothing has happened, forcing another smile onto her face. Tanjirou doesn’t like it when she does that. “Besides, I’m hungry! What are we having for dinner?”

When she’s so desperate to change the subject, Tanjirou can’t find it in him to press on with questions and only relents, nodding his head. Hayami clearly doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. “I’ll head downstairs and see if I can get any food for the two of us.”

“Thank you!” Hayami says cheerfully. “I’d appreciate it!”

As Tanjirou slides the door to the room closed, he catches sight of Hayami looking at her own reflection in the looking glass, a hand raised to her painted cheek.

Her expression is forlorn.

>>>

Dinner is a simple affair, the two of them too tired out from the long mission to make much conversation. After finishing their meal, Hayami and Tanjirou both change into their nightclothes and head to their separate bedding, Tanjirou insisting on some form of decorum by placing the folding screen between them. Tanjirou falls asleep first, to the sound of Hayami’s soft breathing from the other side of the room.

And wakes a few hours later to the sound of soft crying.

He lies there for a few moments in the dark, trying to put the pieces of his mind together when he hears another soft whimper from the other side of the folding screen. In an instant Tanjirou has thrown off the covers, scrambling to his feet, his hand reaching for his sword. The scent of burning wisteria incense still lingers at his nose, so it can’t possibly be another demon, but Tanjirou isn’t taking any chances when it comes to Hayami’s safety.

“Hayami!” Tanjirou calls, his voice still raspy from sleep, shoving the folding screen to the side. His eyes scan the dark room, searching for the source of her discomfort. There’s no one in the room except for the two of them. “Hayami, are you alright-”

It’s then that Tanjirou realises she’s still fast asleep.

Even as he watches, Hayami continues to toss and turn on the bedding, legs tangled in the covers, moonlight glancing off the thin sheen of sweat on her forehead. The same scent of fear from earlier in the day is almost overbearing to his nose, and Tanjirou immediately crouches next to her bed, intent on waking her up so she doesn’t have to spend a minute longer in her nightmares.

“N-no… I’m not going back…” Hayami shakes her head, platinum hair spilling over her pillow. Tanjirou pauses in rousing her awake, hands stilling for a moment at the edge of the blankets. “Mother! Enough! Stop hitting me, please!”

At her words, Tanjirou sucks in a breath between his teeth. Anger rises in him, his body temperature increasing as if his very blood is beginning to boil over. He has to consciously relax his grip on his sheath - if it breaks, he’ll never hear the end of it from Haganezuka-san. 

How could any parent do something like that to their own child?

Shaking his head in despair, he turns back to Hayami, hands resting on her shoulders before he shakes her firmly. “Hayami. Hayami, wake up.”

She doesn’t wake, still trapped in her own dreams as she flinches and trembles. “No, no, I’m not coming with you.”

“Hayami,” Tanjirou is more desperate this time, shaking her a little harder by the shoulders in an attempt to wake her up. “Hayami, please, wake up!”

This time she does, lurching forward abruptly with a strangled cry buried in the back of her throat and her lilac eyes wide with terror. They lock onto Tanjirou’s, and she exhales, the sound short and weak.

“Tanjirou?” Her voice is shaking.

“That’s me.” Tanjirou picks up her hand in his own, clasping it tightly - to act as a comfort, a lifeline connecting her back to reality. Hayami only stares at him and at their intertwined hands for a short moment, blinking once, before she bursts forward and wraps her arms tightly around Tanjirou, taking him completely by surprise. 

Her entire form is trembling like a leaf in the wind, and Tanjirou hugs her back equally tight, crushing her against him. He can feel her chest heaving from barely restrained sobs. “I… I thought…” Hayami hiccups and shakes her head, burying her face in the crook of Tanjirou’s neck. “I thought she was coming back… that she was going to take me away… back to that place.”

Tanjirou simply holds her close, his palm resting in her hair and stroking slowly. He can feel her heart thudding through the thin sleep robes they’re wearing.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks, careful not to be too loud. Hayami takes a deep breath, her nose pressed to his shoulder. It’s a long moment before she begins to speak.

“My mother used to train me to be a courtesan. She wanted me to follow in her footsteps.” Hayami trembles, her fingers tightening around his hand. “She had very high standards that I could never meet… and when I failed… she would punish me by…” Her voice breaks, and she buries her face in Tanjirou’s shoulder once again. “I’m sorry. It’s hard to talk about it.”

Tanjirou doesn’t remember the last time he felt such rage. But what Hayami needs is comfort, not payback on her parents, and so Tanjirou takes a deep breath to cool his head, before squeezing Hayami’s hand lightly.

“You’re safe here with me.” Tanjirou says quietly, so as not to startle Hayami. She stills against him at his words, her breath dancing across the skin of his neck, before pulling away to look into Tanjirou’s eyes. Her own eyes are wet at the edges, and Tanjirou raises a gentle hand to wipe the tears away. “I’m here for you if you need me, alright?”

Hayami falls silent, looking at him with those beautiful, vulnerable eyes before she nods silently. “I trust you, Tanjirou.” She says, her voice slightly hoarse with emotion. Tanjirou beams at her warmly, his hand coming to rest on top of her head.  

“I’ll tuck you into bed now, alright? We’ll leave this place first thing tomorrow, as soon as the sun rises.” Obediently, Hayami lies down in the bedding as Tanjirou gathers the blankets strewn on the floor before moving to lay them over her, careful to cover her feet so she doesn’t catch a cold at night. It’s only when he’s tucking the blanket at her shoulders does he feel her hand wrap around his wrist, drawing his attention. 

“What is it? Is something wrong?” Tanjirou asks, surprised, looking down to see Hayami peering up at him with a soft look in her eyes. Hayami only smiles slightly and shakes her head, chewing on her bottom lip hesitantly for a moment before speaking up.

“Could you…” she pauses, playing with the ends of her long hair before she looks up at Tanjirou once more. “Could you please… sleep with me tonight? I don’t want to be alone.”

Tanjirou’s eyes go wide at her request. His mouth opens and closes several times, trying his best to speak, but no words leave his lips. Seeing his reaction, Hayami instantly backtracks, suddenly flustered as well. “No, no, that’s not what I meant for it to sound like! I didn’t mean any sort of indecent things, I swear! I just-”

His hand comes to rest over her mouth, cutting off her rambling. He’s sure his cheeks are as red as hers.

“It’s fine. I know what you mean, there’s no need to say any more.” Hayami buries her face in her hands, thoroughly embarrassed. Awkwardly, Tanjirou lifts the covers so that he can slide into the bedding next to Hayami. It’s too small for the two of them and half of his body rests on the tatami, but Tanjirou hardly pays any mind with how fast his heart is racing at their proximity.

Sure, he’s slept next to Nezuko and his younger siblings like this years ago, and he’s slept in futons smaller than this when on missions, Inosuke’s shins in his face and Zenitsu’s drool on his knee, but none of them have been like this. 

None of them have been with Hayami.

Next to him, Hayami curls up into his side, her hand reaching for his and Tanjirou seriously worries that his heart might just burst from his chest with how hard it’s beating. Trying to keep his breathing even, he chances a glance to his side - and nearly has a heart attack from how close Hayami’s eyes are to his.

“S-so.” Tanjirou curses internally at the way his voice cracks. From the little giggle at his side, he’s sure that Hayami has heard it, much to his mortification. “Do you want me to count some snow bunnies?”

Hayami smiles next to him, an innocent, beautiful sight. “Count snow bunnies?” She echoes. “I thought people are meant to count sheep.” Tanjirou nods dumbly. She’s too close, her subtle, sweet scent muddling his mind, scattering his thoughts. 

“I used to do that for my younger siblings when they couldn’t sleep or when they got nightmares. There weren’t any sheep near our home in the mountains, so I counted snow bunnies instead.” Tanjirou explains in a hushed whisper, careful not to disturb the delicate moment they’re sharing between them. “Ah, apologies. I can’t count very high.”

“I doubt I’ll stay awake that long.” Hayami hums lightly, before she rests her head on the pillow so that she can watch Tanjirou. Tanjirou feels his cheeks burn once again at her gaze. “Could you count them for me, please? Your voice is nice to listen to.”

“O-okay.” Tanjirou mumbles, shy at the unexpected compliment. He sucks in a breath. “Here I go. One snow bunny, two snow bunnies, three snow bunnies...”

It’s at thirty snow bunnies that Hayami moves closer, her cheek pressed against his shoulder as he tries to remember the number that comes next. It’s at sixty-eight snow bunnies that she’s curled up against his side, their hands clasped tightly, her breathing soft and even next to his as he struggles to keep his eyes open and to continue counting.

He never reaches a hundred, both of them lost in sweet dreams and the warmth of each other.

[tanoraqui]

I am a huge sucker for one character being chill about a situation while everyone else is freaking out, so if you’re up to it would you tell us about This Is Normal?

@tolrais​ asked: Sizhui genii locorum!

okay so i must disappoint bc that wasn’t actually a jesting “This Is Normal” - let’s talk genii locorum, known more commonly in the singular: genius loci, the “intellects of [the] place”. In this case: what if it was perfectly common that if cultivation was practiced in roughly the same way in roughly the exact same place, by roughly the same bloodline, for long enough, power built up in the land itself? Power and something resembling thought, in the slow way of geography? (That’s why it tends to attach to a bloodline - individual humans, even cultivators, disappear so fast on a geological scale.) 

Say that each generation, the land picks a favorite to bestow its power to - one person, one generation, at a time, only. Others of the blood may access it, but to a far lesser degree. Petty effects. More if the land is partial to them. The true wielder of the land is, of course, traditionally the sect leader - and if they’re not at first, they’re probably gonna be appointed as such.

Say the powers are elemental, roughly, Say their personalities are shaped by the land itself - lakes or mountains, hills or plains - and the continuous philosophy of those who cultivate (upon) them. They choose their favorites based on who most matches what they are, and the strongest sect leaders are those with the greatest affinity for their land.

Or, lemme put it like this: 

Lan Wangji was always GusuLan’s favorite, unwavering and fastidious, aloof and righteous and eternal as the cool mountain peaks. Its cool shrouded him; its ice turned Bichen’s edge even sharper. Even though he was far away in a land of fire, it flowed to him like a high-speed glacier when his father died - and he, panicking and desperate, denied it. 

It wasn’t the refusal that turned it away - though it’s true, one must actively accept a land’s power; it cannot be forced upon a person. But usually, in such a dispute, the wouldn’t-be recipient dies - in a fight between one human and an entire countryside over that human’s soul, it is acceptance or destruction. Instead, it was...well, the fact of refusal. The fact that he broke, that his gut instinct - resolute as ever - was the shirking of responsibility. That, GusuLan could not tolerate. It didn’t press the issue to destruction, because Lan Wangji wasn’t its chosen after all.

There was nothing, to be clear, wrong with Lan Xichen. He was a little warmer, but still beautiful and distant. He would bend, but his core was upright and unfaltering. He followed the rules to the letter. He was even closer, physically - and in that little cabin in which he was sleeping, hidden, he woke sharply from a restless sleep as the air around him turned to welcome ice.

Or like this:

Jiang Cheng was never YunmengJiang’s first choice. He wasn’t even its second choice. The lakes of YunmengJiang - bright and warm with sunlight, loud with the chatter of market crowds, sweet and beautiful with lotus seeds and petals, all over drowning-dark depths...how could they not fall in love with the boy their Jiang Fengmian bought home? How could the water not leap to follow his every gesture, whenever he went out upon it?

(Except that when he first felt it pressing at him with not just curiosity but love, he thought of Madam Yu’s clenched fist and Jiang Cheng’s yearning gaze, and he shoved it away as hard and fast as he could.)

Failing that, how could they not adore their eldest daughter, sweet and kind and welcoming to all, and protective enough to wield words like deadly blades? Once the land is cultivated to its own sentience, it doesn’t need to be a cultivator who bears its power...

(Except it does still need to be someone whose heart the doctors don’t worry over every time she does something more spiritually strenuous than meditate. And she cannot stay, she’ll explain one day, weeping, on a boat she’s rowed out to the middle of the lake herself. If it was just a matter of love - but they also need the alliance, or Lotus Pier, Yunmeng, YunmengJiang itself might be lost - )

So. Jiang Cheng wears all his deadliness on the surface and all his joy and welcome deep beneath, and YunmengJiang is the opposite. But at least he stays. Land moves on a geological time, and YunmengJiang more than most loves all its people, not just a select family. It can leap readily to the will of someone who stays and looks after them.

Or:

Agreement was universal that Nie Mingjue was a perfect bearer of QingheNie, mighty and stern and stubborn as the mountain granite. As tall, too, some would joke. It’s traditional for a Sect Leader to wear at all times a symbol of their land’s blessing - Lan Xichen’s headdresses always sparkle with a thin coating of ice; a lightly jeweled hip flask has been passed from Jiang to Jiang in which to hold lakewater. Upon taking title and land from his father, Nie Mingjue wears a circlet of rock on his brow, hard stone crafted with his own hands as though molding clay. 

Agreement was equally universal that Nie Huaisang was possibly the worst bearer of QingheNie in the clan’s entire history. Flighty where he should be staunch and stern, barely able (much less willing) to lift a blade, as flappable as one of his fans...as Sect Leader, he set a chunk of granite into the base of each one of those silly fans, but it was a public secret that the stone had been carved and smoothed by a stoneworker, not the Headshaker.

The mountains of Qinghe shook with grief on the day Nie Mingjue died, as they had for his father; grief and rage. The Unclean Realm itself shifted and nearly collapsed in several places - some of its famous defensibility came from being set into the mountainside itself, the back halls giving way to twisting tunnels running through the rock. Can you imagine how long one fighter with a saber can hold a single slim tunnel? Hidden ways, their secrets known only to the inhabitants; the deeper an enemy goes, the less likely they are to come out...

A single chip of granite launched across the room with fury can drive through a man’s eye and into his brain, killing him instantly, even with a fan trailing behind. Fortunately, it never needed to come to anything that gauche.

(It would have preferred Nie Mingjue, it really would, but even more than GusuLan, the last thing QingheNie has ever done is falter.)

So...

If the Burial Mounds had once been cultivated to a benevolent sentience and their power then corrupted, it’s been forgotten. But resentful and spiritual energy are two sides of the same coin, and the Burial Mounds yearn for company, for lives to call their own, just like any other land...but what sort of person has enough rage, vengeance, heartache, and loss to match them? Who could have enough strength of spirit to bear the touch of a land whose elemental power is death itself?

Trick question, we all know the answer to that. 

Good thing we got him, too, because defeating Wen Ruohan at the heart of the volcano he commands is a bitch and a half. (He wears a jagged crown of obsidian glass and Nie Mingjue will walk away with a burn on his face from the man’s touch.)

LanlingJin’s power is invested in light. Their Sect Leaders - or in Jin Ling’s case, Sect Heirs - carry a lantern at one hip, representative more than anything (one cannot cage light.) Or, you know, they just lowkey glow all the time - but that’s not convenient on a night hunt; you need something coverable. Jin Ling would have inherited it from his father, but instead it came directly from - you know, I so, so want to say his grandmother? But I don’t think Meng Yao, Jin Guangyao, would turn out quite the same were Jin Guangshan not exactly as Sect Leader as he in canon, and I’m loath to say Jin Sect is, like, particularly sexist or something to let both be true. So, grandfather it is, unfortunately. 

Jin Guangyao is jealous, but Jin Guangyao has too many secrets for bright LanlingJin. Maybe it would twist to suit him, with another couple generations dark and poisoned beneath the pretty lights, but not yet. Not even with how easily it’s gift can flow into illusions. Fortunately, LanlingJin is also the most gentle of the Great Sect Lands - perhaps weak, with how its family has been failing it, recently, in their stated intent. So Jin Ling can withstand its sudden flood even at the ripe age of two and a half.

It makes up for a little, for Jin Ling to have no memory of a time when he didn’t have the fierce, warm, bright affection of a coastal tower, busy city, and sun-drenched skies curled possessively around his soul. YunmengJiang bristles at the intrusion and mourns another loss (oh, YunmengJiang...at least it’s in accord with Jiang Cheng); and LanlingJin doesn’t like that its favorite so often strays so far. But family is important, both lands can reluctantly agree (in the manner of circling tigers, wary and territorial, thoughts not quite human.) They both want him loved.

...oh yeah, I was supposed to talk about Lan Sizhui, wasn’t I.

GusuLan would love that boy. It does love him, in its cold, discreet way. But it’s...complicated. It’s not Lan Sizhui’s fault. (Of the three, this is very much the AU least about Lan Sizhui.)

It’s the second battle of the Burial Mounds, as the second horde of corpses approaches. Wei Wuxian paces, mutters to Lan Wangji, "If I still had the land...but I don't know where it is. I can't hear it at all. I don't understand it."

This is not how Lan Wangji wanted to do this - though in fairness, he had no idea what would be a non-awkward way. He still doesn’t. Just a little louder than to be an answer to Wei Wuxian, he says, "Lan Sizhui."

"Yes, Huangang-jun?" The boy is at his elbow in an instant

Lan Wangji turns a little to include him in the conversation. He'd be gesturing if he was a man who made unnecessary motions. "Lan Yuan."

"Yes?" he repeats. 

Wei Wuxian stares at the both blankly.

"A-Yuan," Lan Wangji clarifies. He draws his guqin but he can't quite make eye contact with either of them.

Wei Wuxian gasps. He cups Lan Sizhui's very baffled cheeks (except something is a little familiar...) and peers at his face, turning it this way and that to check for familiar features. He peers deeper in a way that would be stunningly rude in anyone else (it’s still stunningly rude; they’ve all just come to expect that of Wei Wuxian) and likely impossible if there wasn't a shared affinity for what he seeks - but the bond is distant, so distant. Buried, smothered, bound.

(Lan Yuan, now Sizhui, has always felt like there was something he was missing, something he couldn't remember that was just out of reach. He thought it was the concept of parents or something like that, or maybe just a natural ennui that everyone had and didn’t speak of for propriety’s sake. He discarded it, because of course he had everything he could ever want.)

"A-Yuan..." Wei Wuxian looks at Lan Wangji, wondering, smoldering with love - and just the tiniest bit of reproach.

Lan Wangji looks away. It's a terrible thing to block someone off from their spiritual power, and it's a worse thing yet to block them off from the any power of a land they may bear. One is an insult to an individual, the other to the earth itself, almost as heretical as demonic cultivation. Su She, of course, has done both today, but only temporarily...and that’s a low bar to which to be compared.

But there was too much roiling in Wen Yuan when Lan Wangji found him, death and -

(You know what, I can’t decide: Did QishanWen’s smoldering lava pass to Wen Qing when no one closer was available, ceaseless fire matching ceaseless fire? Or were the Dafan Wens sufficiently distinct for long enough, far enough, that she was already taken? Is there DafanWen in its own right, high hills with the power of growth, from dainty flowers to ancient trees, twisting vines to healing herbs? 

...yes, I think so. 

But I also think they were close enough in blood, had spent enough time in the heart of the Nightless City, for some inheritance. So the reason no one stepped forward, at the Yiling Patriarch’s demand, to admit to killing Wen Ning was that...Wen Ning knew he was too weak, insufficiently greedy/ambitious for things to burn and build anew; he knew QishanWen was too quenched and dormant after its defeat to the Sunshot Alliance, and he was too far away and it was literally raining. He knew that to fight back would only bring pain down on more of their people. But even so, there was no one to step forward, because the man who dealt the killing blow burned screaming to ashes.

There were sparks left in the souls of each member of the blood left alive, but not enough to burst to flame. With that last death, QishanWen lay...dormant.)

(Until, maybe, almost all the rest of them were killed in the space of about 10 minutes. That must’ve sent a couple sparks flying.,,)

- so there was too much roiling in Wen Yuan when Lan Wangji found him. Verdant DafanWen was barely settled, still reeling from the loss of its favored daughter, the best healer in three generations. QishanWen sparked with new loss and ire, driving a fever. And the Burial Mounds, whose touch was death...

It is possible, for two lands to share a host. Boundaries are a human invention; the Earth is all one thing. Pride and territorialism are taught. And even if those have set in, they can certainly fight, in the infinite space of a human soul.

And the Burial Mounds loved that child. He wasn’t raging, he wasn’t mourning (except he was just starting to, now); but he wasn’t scared of them. Why would be be? The dead things that roamed it belonged to his Xian-gege; the living were his family; this land was his home.

But the Burial Mounds’ was the power of death itself, and A-Yuan wasn’t a teenager filled with enough determination to burn down the sun, he was three years old and scared. The extremely forbidden hasty ritual to (not cut it off, to late for that) hide it, bind it, bury it - this wasn't just for concealment. It saved his life.

Back in the present day, Lan Wangji says this with reluctantly raised eyes, and Wei Wuxian nods. Because oh boy does he know about that roiling spirit of death.

There's a horde of corpses approaching; they don't have time to be tender. 

"A-Yuan," says Wei Wuxian, swiping a thumb over his cheek as though to clear away a tear, and then dropping his hand. "Lan Sizhui, you trust us, right?"

"Of course?" Lan Sizhui glances uncertainly at Lan Wangji, head aching with memories about to surface.

Lan Wangji nods imperceptibly and starts to play - and it only takes a few strong chords, precisely chosen. It's always easier to break a wall than build it.

It's in QishanWen's nature to erupt but it's weak, dormant; it hasn't been home in over a decade and this boy has been trained to ice, not fire. It’s in DafanWen’s nature to flourish but it, too, is far from the earth of its body, and this is a place of death, not life. 

They are in the Burial Mounds, fifty steps from the blood pool that may as well be its heart. So the volcano stays dormant the grassy hills are quiet as ever, and the raging, too-long-stifled spirit of the Burial Mounds pours forth in whirling shadows that double Lan Sizhui's height. He gasps a scream at the weight of the sudden flood, at the tearing sensation in his soul (tearing open in a way that is right - last child of a dead clan remembering; lost child of a dead land coming home.) Several other people scream and point at the family meeting that had previously gone mostly unnoticed, in a corner of a Demon Suppression Cave. What is the Yiling Patriarch doing to that Lan disciple?!

The Burial Mounds are starting to turn on their only-just-realized child, whether they mean it or not, because their nature is death to all they touch. The Yiling Patriarch is standing forth, spreading his arms, and shouting, "Hey, jackass! Get back in here, we have more vengeance to wreak!"

The cultivation world watches (Lan Wangji catches a staggering Lan Sizhui) as with a sound like the rushing wind, shifting earth, screaming dead, it pours back into Wei Wuxian.

It’s just like before. It’s rage and pain and loss and vengeance and heartache. It’s Madam Yu’s hard eyes and the way Jiang Fengmian’s face shuttered when he heard the Core-Melting Hand was in Lotus Pier, before he even shoved them back in the boat; it’s Wen Ning’s broken form and Jin Zixuan’s, not fifty feet and ten months apart; it’s Wen Qing’s soft, I’m sorry, and thank you, and Jiang Yanli’s blood dripping down his arm. It’s the crack as the Tiger Seal shattered in his hand, or was that his own neck...

Wei Wuxian might be laughing, as he greets death like an old friend. But when he opens his eyes, it’s to a soft, “Wei Ying,” on the lips of his...Lan Zhan. Mourning whites sullied with the Burial Mounds’ (Wei Wuxian’s) dirt and blood. He’s holding up Lan Sizhui - A-Yuan, their son - and maybe Wei Wuxian is closer to a land spirit than human right now, or maybe he’s just hallucinating, but he swears he can see leaves uncurling behind the boy’s wide eyes. Wen Qing would be proud - if they get out of here alive, he’ll grow the most amazing things.

[missingartist]

The Witcher’s Mate Chapter 17

Adva woke to the birds singing cheerfully outside. It was far later then she would normally wake, the sun now perched high in the sky and a few rays broke through the chinks in the heavy blue curtains that shielded the room from the offending brightness. She was one her side, but behind her, there was a heavy heat blanketing back and legs with a welcoming warmth. Groggily she turned her head to find the sleeping Witcher contently slumbering behind her. As impossible as it was, he looked even more gorgeous, silver hair fanned out across his pillow as lightly he snored. The events of last night came hurtling back to her, causing to bite her lip and cast her eye over the man beside her. Never did she think the night would end with Geralt confessing his feelings or the dry humping, her face redded as she moved to squeeze together her thighs and felt the sticky wetness that dripped from her core. Turning slightly she gazed at the mans sleeping face, he looks peaceful and happy, the corners of lips tugged slightly upwards, the dark circles under his eyes were nearly gone and the fever mostly absent, just the gentle warmth that cocoons him.

Hissing slightly, she felt the strap of her bodice dig further into the dress. Sliding quietly off the bed, she slipped from Geralt grasp and to the little chamber off from his room. The room was illuminated by a wall rectangle window at the top of the room, just enough light to allow someone to care for their daily ablutions but not big enough that anyone could look in. Adva could barely face her reflection in the mirror without a giggle; her lips were red and slightly bruised, hair a wild nest of bed head which she managed to smooth into something a little more presentable, she was sure her eyes look bluer. Her dress was ruined, totally unsalvageable. The netting of the skirts had been ripped and pulled from the bodice; the bodice has been mauled by Geralt explore hands, but she could bring herself to care that much.

Moving behind the screen, careful hands peeled off the tight bodice, sighing in relief. Pouring the water into the washbasin, she dapped the damp cloth across her skin the best she could. Washing the mess from her thighs was the most laborious task, but it gave her time to contemplate what she should do. Should she quietly return to her room? Or slip back into bed with him? Or breezily announce she was leaving. Having limited experience of this left her at a loss, the whole ettiquict was not something she understood. The woman mind cast back over the confession. Geralt seemed genuine hurt when he thought he disgusted her.

‘I. Adore. You.’ The word repeated again and again in her head. What did they even mean? Did he just want a light and casual thing, or was it serious?

Her head hurt, rolling her eye she slipped on her dress, pulling a face as the bodice refused to do up, she pulled one of the Geralt shirts from on top of the dressing screen and pulled it over the top of the running dress. With a deafening, screech jostled her from her thought to reveal a frowning Witcher.

‘Arghhhh Geralt doesn’t do that you frightened me.’ Adva squealed, pulling her cloth tighter around her.

‘You left the bed.’ Scowled the Witcher

‘Is that a question or a statement? Generally, its what people do at some point in their life.’ Adva laughed awkwardly, franticly attempting to fastener borrowed shirt around her while keeping her eyes trained on the man in front of her

‘I mean you left the bed before I woke up.... that not very becoming for a young lady to leave her lover in bed….’ Geralt pulled away and sniffed the air. ‘have you washed’ he growled stepping forward and encircling his arms around  her, burying his face in her neck ‘hmmm I don’t like that you washed the scent of us off.’

‘Well maybe we could do it again….’ Adva shyly offered to pull back to.  Geralt smirked and leaned forward. ‘After I have a bath.’

‘Woman, you tease.’

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

God bless Triss. The bath had been already prepared. The fact that Triss knew she would need a bath and did not make it back to her room was not something she wanted to entirely think about, but it was welcome. Tossing a handful of baths salts, she pulled a pile of clean clothes from the closet and set them on a chair. Looking at the marks on her skin, a small blush flushed against her cheek, and her heart swelled, this was the happiest she had felt in a long time, hell the happiest she had ever been. Pulling the various oils onto the counter, she sorted through them. The oils where a collection that Triss had presented her with when she first arrived, along with several dresses and perfumes. Laying out the rest of her provision on the counters, she caught sight of a pair of violet eyes staring murderously at her in the mirror.

‘Well, well well, you are not what I expected. So, you are the Witcher Wife. Aren’t you a pretty thing? But not pretty enough. I don’t have all day; tell me the enchantment you use.’ A bronzed skin woman spat at her.

‘What enchantment? Who are you? Get out!’ Adva span around, eyes are running over the woman in front of her.

The strange woman was dressed elegantly. The finely embroidered dress clung to her slim, willowy figure, a clash of black and white was woven into a stunning dress fit for a queen. Yet for all her beauty, they were a murderous look etched on her face, make her look bird-like, with her gaze unmoving and unwavering.

‘Don’t give me that you little bitch’ The woman snarled, and a blast of energy burst from her sending her crashing through the floor.

The flesh of her back slammed with use force she though he had been split in two. Blood rushed through her ears like the sound of a ranging ocean.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Jaskier curses the Witch with all his being. He has awoken with a feeling of great relief that the plan had worked, that Adva and Geralt were together. Jaskier was not proud, but he had slipped into the house a while after Geralt had left to hear the soft moans of pleasure drifting through the house. Now he was having to carefully peel a dazed Adva off a pile of rubble all because of that demented Harpy. Pale blues eyes watched as bruised has started to bloom against her pale skin and cuts wept a crimson that smeared across her skin.

‘What happened? Adva blinked up, ‘If Geralt alright?’  

Jaskier stared down her with sadness, with Yennefer around he knew Geralt would not be able to withstand her predatory charms and Adva would be cast out. A bubble of anger gripped down in the pit of his stomach. It honestly he had thought Adva would be different, but it hadn't been, it was the same as it would always be, Yennefer would whistle, and he would come chasing after her, he was a fool for believing it would be different.  At that minute he hated Geralt, he should just whisk Adva away and pray their paths never cross again.

‘Yennefer blasted you through two stories of the house.’ Ciri broke in as came to stand in the doorway, looking down as the tattered women laying on a pile of stones and splintered wood.

‘Yennefer?...Why?…Help me up.’ Adva coughed, a trickled of blood escaping from her mouth. Jaskier looked worriedly over at Ciri who hung back, undecided whether to interfere.

The small was not what Ciri was expecting, not at all. She expected some tall slinking femme fatal. Instead, she was presented with the plump curvy figured woman with deep blue eyes. She also thought that she would have Geralt tied in some dungeon in a stupor, but he wasn’t. He was with Triss Merigold, in her home while both of them tried to calm a very aggressive mage down. Ciri’s light blue eyes run over the woman again in curiosity, never had she seen Geralt use any signs on Yennefer. He usually let her rage and rant till she stopped, but now he was throwing every spell he knew to calm the rampant mage from a second attack on the dazed girl.

Limping slowly, she was relied heavily on Jaskier to support her as she moved. Her whole body ached as she moved. The house was messy; walls where broken, furniture shattered and the marble of the tiled floor drug up in giant patches. Had she lost consciousness? Adva brain was foggy, and she could focus on anything for more then a couple of seconds, she would have remembered this happening surely? The noise alone at least.

‘Yennefer stop! Stop your going to kill her. She his soulmate’ Triss screamed at the top of her voice.

Lifting a very heavy head, she glanced the scene in front of her. The violet eyes woman was pinned against the chimney stack, the mage and the Witcher either side, crowding her submission, for the moment at least. The sound of Triss’s voice ricocheted around the inside of her head with such force she thought she might shoot out again through her ears. Wincing, her tentatively touched her head, bright red blood smear across her fingers. Sucking in a breath, she recoiled with sickness as she forced her misty eyes to focus on the conversation ahead of her

‘You can’t be serious! That creature? She has enchanted you!’ Yennefer chortled her beautiful face twisted in disgust.

‘Yennefer. Listen to me she had not enchanted Geralt. They are soulmates; I checked their bond myself. I used the blood trace Yen; there is no way she could create something that powerful to connect them in that way.’ Triss countered.

‘It not possible.’ Yennefer gritted out, a burst of wind crashed through the window sending papers Triss was holding flying across the room. It was such a force that it pushed her and Jaskier back, papers getting struct to their bodies.

‘We don’t know how or why but Cersi brought these two together. We think it about something to do with her book. Adva is important. She has an Arcana to protect her…we know that Adva is not human just don’t know what. We have spent the last Goddess knows how many weeks trying to find that out. We think that it has intensified the bond somehow. I know your hurt but stop; you kill her you kill Geralt.’ Triss pleaded to throw Adva red bound journal to the mage.

Geralt had her book all this time, and she was his soulmate. Soulmates were partnered souls, Adva brain hurt but she could vaguely recall something in a book Triss had made her read. If Geralt was her soulmate if such a thing truly existed, why not be with her a less he didn’t want to be because he wanted to be with Yennefer. Then why keep her around. Was everything just an attempt to sleep with her even though he clearly had feelings for Yennefer. A thousand thoughts passed through her head, and it made her feel weak, her leg slackened at the feeling and Jaskier grunt under the extra weight.

‘Yen I tried but I can’t… you have to understand…. Just stop.’ Geralt grunted.

The pain in his voice was evident. It was broken and tired. A surge of nausea washed over her; she was stupid and foolish; she should have gone with her first instinct. Of course, he didn’t want her. Of course, he couldn’t when he had someone like Yennefer. He was being forced. A pang of raw guilt knarred at her, he had tried to fight it. He probably resented her. Adva both hated and pitied him at the same time. For making her think that he could want her, for lying to her and for wanting to be with someone else. For bring her to Triss to be taught when she was really just being kept amused. Sheer panic rose in the pit of her stomach; bile rose in her throat.

‘You are really picking her over me. Someone you are forced to be with.’ Yennefer sniffed.

‘It’s not like that Yen, and you know it.’ Geralt spoke calmly but clearly.

‘It doesn’t have to be’ the willowy women whipped across the short distance between them and planted her lips on his.

It was short and passionate. For a brief second, Adva thought he would pull away in disgust, but he didn’t. From where she was standing, she could only see the back of Geralt, but it was enough. It was enough that he didn’t move away. It only lasted seconds, but to Adva it said everything that she wanted to know. Yennefer pulled back; her face was pinched and dejected as she backed away her violet eyes coming to focus on Adva.

‘You little bitch.’ Yennefer bite out lowly as she fingered the red book, looking over at the woman in defiance.

‘Adva…’ Geralt grunted out as he pushed his way passed Triss, his face was a swirl of emotion, which seemed so strange against the usual blank expression.

‘Adva wait’ cooed Triss.

But Adva ignored them, pulling her body away from Jaskier and back out the doorway they had been standing in. Tears weald up ran down her face before she turned and limped away, Jaskier shot a scathing look at the trio as he rushed off in chase of her, Ciri gave the three a lingering look before following.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Adva fingering a fading cut on her palm, she knew it had been to clean to be from that night by the fire, but from a knife to draw blood for whatever spell they need to cast. She should have questioned it along with several other things, but she was too caught up in the sheer thrill of learning proper magic that she hadn’t wanted to. Signing, she squared her shoulder and glanced around her room. It was in chaos. The very little she had was destroyed, it broke her heart to see all the clothes she had accumulated in the last couple of month in tatters. Even the leather under corset was ruined. Torn in half by some stray fragment of wood.

‘Are you okay?’ Jaskier asked, cuddling his lute to his chest.

Both Jaskier and Ciri watched as Adva picked through the ruins of her belonging

‘Yeah, I am fine.’

‘Are you sure as I think if I had just found out, I was not human, Geralt was my soulmate, and Yennefer had tried to murder me, I think I would be freaking out. I mean when Yennefer tried to kill me, I think freaking out was an understatement.’ Jaskier pondered.

‘I am just an idiot…foolish girl.’ Adva wavered and gave a watery smile. ‘I will be fine….just a little banged up.’

Ciri shared a look with the bard; it was a knowing look. If she had been Adva walking in at the precise moment, she would have been upset too. She had been there the exact moment Yennefer felt their bond break, she was enraged calling Geralt every name under the sun but as they travelled word of the Witcher Wife spread which fuelled Yennefer to find out what sort of enchantment could break a Jinn’s magic. Love was a very strange thing. But Ciri gave the girl a sorrowful smile as the woman held a ruined bundle of clothes to small cut at the side of her head.

‘I haven’t introduced you to Adva of Brightwater this is Princess Ciri….’ Jaskier merriness died on his lips as Adva blankly blinked at them still pressing the tattered scraps of her material to the side of her head.

‘You're not going to blast me through the wall, are you?’ Adva slowly asked, wincing at the pressure she applied the cut.

‘No…I am sorry about Yennefer; she can be a little bit of a…’ Ciri hesitated, unsure what to say or do, glancing for support at her friend.

‘Harpy? Bitch? Murderous Hag?’ Jaskier offered causing Ciri to laugh, eyeing the other girl in the hope of a reaction but nothing, but return to her searching.

Ciri watched the woman shift through her belonging. She was very pretty, with a very satisfying body, different from Yennefer but she had seen Geralt go through all types. However, in her long relationship with the man, his women always seemed to be…outspoken and forthcoming. The Witcher was not one for teases and disliked the chase. Adva seemed innocent and untouched, very much the virginal type that Geralt didn’t normally go for. Maybe there was something in this whole soulmate thing she pondered.

‘I need to have a bath.’ The curly hair women winced as she bent down to gather the little pile underwear. ‘Could I use you bathroom Jaskier? Mine is a bit…destroyed.’ Adva gestured to the collapsed floor as a door swang clumsily on one hinge.

Jaskier nodded silently, and two pairs of eyes followed her as she scurried away.

‘Right Jaskier explain everything.’ Ciri snapped.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The marks on her skin were still visible, she remembered the tenderness of his touches, and the painstaking sweetest that he lavished on her was excruciating beautiful, but now looking at them made her feel hollow and empty. Slipping off her clothes was harder than anticipated, the dried blood coated her skin and pulled as she attempted to rid herself of the clothing. If the dress hadn’t been ruined by activity last night, it was now. Glancing at the mirror she was reminded of what had happened, the feelings she felt, the way Geralt had felt. The way he acted towards the morning after made her feel wanted, to think it was all fake burnt her. Why didn’t he tell her? Was she really that bad he did not want to tell her? Adva knew the answer, and she refused to dwell on it a moment longer.

Removing the last of her clothes she pulled a stray page that had stuck to her from the pages that the had been in Triss’s hand from the shirt she had borrowed from Geralt, Cersi messy scrawled smeared across the page.  It detailed placing her it ‘suitable accommodation’ and how she reacted to her placement in a brothel. Her whole life had been an endly string of manipulation, of being prodded and poked and used. Bitterly she thought she had gotten away from that with Geralt and Jaskier, escaped to a place where she was just Adva, but she was wrong. Her sole purpose was because she was Geralt’s mate or soulmate whatever that meant when he clearly would have preferred Yennefer, the honeyed skin siren. Her mind replayed the scene in front of her, his tone when he talked to the other mage and the kiss. The kiss broke her. She didn’t know who she was the angriest at, Geralt for lying to her or herself for falling for it. Geralt hadn’t really wanted to be with her. They even looked good together, both tall and statuesque; she didn’t fit in with that.

Climbing into the cold water, she was too exhausted to heat it and scrubbed her skin raw till she could no longer smell any of his scent on her skin she wanted to erase any reminder of their night. But the scent still lingered, throwing the cloth against the wall Adva screamed into her hand. It was the kind of silent scream; an angry scream as invisible sobs wracked her body. A sadness waged within her, along with an undercurrent of repulsion. It was quite clear that Geralt preferred Yennefer to her. For a while she allowed herself to wallow in self-pity. The whole revelation that she was not human was a surprise but not something unexpected that was always something different about her something that Tradi took great joy in exploring, her mind went to Cersi notes she most probably knew something about her she was the reason she was placed in the brothel, the reason Geralt took her. A swirl of resentment toward Cersi swelled. Why should she been controlled and manipulated for the whim of mages who didn’t care for her, she was worth more than that. If she could survive Tradi, she could survive anything. Yes, it hurt and would hurt for a long time, but why should she be the one wallowing in self-pity. If Geralt wanted to be with Yennefer he could, she would be okay whatever happened she knew that. That what she thought as she curled up to on the side of the tub and buried her head into her knees.

Sorry this chapter was late! Very busy week with birthdays and work.

So what do we think? I know I am a horrible person but blame Yennefer! 

Some interesting chapters coming up so please stay tuned- I promise that Adva will be kicking ass soon.

@ayamenimthiriel​ @uncoolcloudyhead​ @multixwolf​ @shesthelastjedi​ -Your comments made me so happy  

Please let me know what you think!

@sageandberries-png @wastingmypotential @luxyash @whitespring21 @ayamenimthiriel @crazynocturnalkiki @wonderlandfandomkingdom @shesthelastjedi @broco8 @introvertedmouse @threepupsinapuddle

I hope everyone is safe and well. With all the terrible things that are going on the world seem terrifying and uncertain place but please remember. Three things Faith, Hope and Love. But the greatest of these is love.

[a-damn-good-medic]

scentedbygunpowder​:

The world seemed to be moving very fast around Riza, and she was having a little trouble keeping up. Things were changing super fast, and the only thing she was able to completely latch onto was the fact that she had hit her head. Which was what she repeated to the woman she had been left with in the medical offices as she stood there, swaying a bit.

She blinked at the woman–the medic’s–words, and slowly but unsteadily looked around for the cot. It wasn’t far, and she stumbled towards it, somehow managing to sit down on it. It took her head a moment to settle down, and then she was looking up at the doctor again.

“Right, um,” Report. The medic was asking for her report, and she did her best to function on doing that, even if her words were a bit stilted and slow. “First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye. I was on mission with Colonel Mustang’s team. We were… we were trying to confront an alchemist who was doing unauthorized experiments. A fight broke out. I… I’m having a little trouble recalling the particulars right now. There was an explosion. I don’t remember what happened, except for feeling pain in my head, and Havoc pulling me up. Its hard to keep up after that.”

That was all that she could recall, or that she could articulate. She swayed a little, and her hands gripped the cot, trying to keep herself steady. She refused to pass out or fall. “…I hit my head.” she repeated, looking back up at the medic. “It hurts. I’m dizzy. It’s hard to concentrate.”

The head injuring is more serious than I thought.

When the lieutenant arrived, Lottie didn’t anticipate the slowness of her movements, or the fragility with which she turned her head. Even the smallest of movements were treated with the utmost of care. Glancing over the patient in front of her as she seated herself on the cot, a mental tally of symptoms and observations formed in the medic’s mind.

A head injury. Reported feelings of pain and dizziness. A bout of memory loss around the time of the injury. Doesn’t appear to be blood, at least not anywhere currently visible. Uniform is surprisingly well kept considering she came from a fight and explosion. She wasn’t trusted to walk here on her own, and given her slight sway, that was the right call. Probably nauseous too…oh god, please don’t be sick.

A quick movement to the side, and she grabbed hold of a nearby trolley, pulling it over to the bed. Best to keep supplies nearby, just in case.

“Okay, first things first. Where does it hurt?”

Picking up a pair of rubber gloves from the tray, she briefly glanced at the stack of disposable bowls on the shelf beneath before setting eyes firmly on her patient.

“And do you feel like you’re going to be sick?”

[santos-emilia]

An exploration with Emilia’s relationship with struggles and addiction Word Count: ~ 2,400 TW: drug use & addiction, miscarriage, self-harm More for me than y’all

Pain is powerful. Everything in life comes from pain - yours or someone else’s. Even, the first breath one takes only comes after hours, sometimes days, of pain from the one who had birthed them. Pain fueled anger. Pain fueled revenge. The thing is, there is always relief from pain. There is always something better to come, something to take pain away. Pain fueled life and with it the pleasure of joy. Pain fueled happiness. Pain fueled relief. 

But there is one thing that is even more powerful than pain. Numbness. A loss of sensation of feeling. 

When the decision was made to give the daughter she had so dearly wanted up, to make a promise never to interfere in her life and all to keep her safe, Emilia had felt pain. She and Tony had dearly wanted that tiny bundle of joy, had a name picked out and even a nursery made. But time had made her realize that being her daughter would put a target on her back. If President Snow would kill a victor to get his way, what would he be doing to an innocent child to get the cooperation of the child’s parents? It wouldn’t be safe for the child. And so the child was given up, given to someone who could hopefully provide a safer home, one without the constant attention, one without the threat of retaliation if her parents stepped a foot out of line. 

Emilia had only had two weeks with the child, two weeks before being forced on a train to tour the nation. She had cried and grieved for the life lost, for the lie that she tried to pretend was a reality - that her child had died. But in her fragile state she could only take so much, so much poking and prodding, so many touchy hands, so many sponsors she was forced to entertain before she just let go. It was easier to be numb than to feel everything else, pain and shame and worthlessness. It was easy to feel nothing at all - a stagnant, harrowing nothing. 

Numb : deprived of the power of sensation or responsiveness

Being numb took you away from everything. It took away your pain and with the absence of pain came an absence of happiness and joy, pleasure and satisfaction. You would do anything to regain some semblance of normalcy, to break through the fog of numbness. But numbness has no adversary in the way pain does. Numbness lingers. Numbness spawns tendrils that work into every fiber of your being. Numbness’s only adversary is you, and if you refuse to face what invited numbness in, numbness will make your world go black. 

But nothing is not pleasant and trauma, unfaceable. So when a sponsor offered a hit, a line of cocaine, an assurance that it’d make the evening more interesting, Emilia had given in. If for no other reason than to feel something without dealing with her issues. And the euphoria offered by the fine white powder became a problem, a problem that she would seek out in droves. It wasn’t her first run in with drugs (a morphling addiction fueled by a want to escape her post-games pain, but she’d stopped cold turkey at the barest suggestion that it might harm her growing pregnancy), and it wouldn’t be her last. No, the cocaine and the euphoria it offered quickly became an addiction. 

Something was better than nothing even if that something was artificial. 

It would be an addiction she would struggle with on and off for several years, even after the void of numbness abated. A positive pregnancy test would come back and she’d force herself to stop. A miscarriage, or the absence of Tony, or the worry that he might end up dead if caught by peacekeepers while in his search for rebellion would send her spiraling again. Rinse, wash, repeat, the cycle would continue for seven years until an overdose nearly ended her life. 

Chemical euphoria was better than numbness, but numbness was better than death. And numbness was broken by fear so strong it made her blood run cold. She’d almost died, almost killed herself. Tony would forever be physically scarred, his back a grisly mess of blood and muscle (the retribution of the head peacekeeper for activities relating to rebellion) as he fought to keep her alive. And she would be forever emotionally scarred by the fact she’d nearly died, nearly died trying to keep the love of her life alive, that he had nearly died. 

And so, Emilia would wake for the first time in seven years. Emilia would fight off withdrawal, vomiting, shaking and exhaustion. Pain would resurface. And with pain, would eventually come happiness and joy, relief - right? That’s how things were supposed to happen. 

Emotions would be felt again, life would be lived again. She would go about her daily activities and actually take note of them. Emilia would take up the things that had provided her with happiness and excitement and joy before. She would begin cooking again, reading from the small library she'd brought from her childhood home, dancing and listening to the music left behind by her father. 

Pain would make its presence know again and again. Another baby so dearly loved, lost - heartbeat gone at week eleven; a set of twins suffering from twin to twin transfusion, the 'healthy' one with a large gap in its skull; a lack of movement. Each time the numbness would try to resurface, try to creep in, but Emilia knew how to stave it off. Remember that night, the night spent tirelessly tending to her husband's tender back, the night spent covered in his blood, the next morning with her heart racing, the morning spent on the shower floor in the frigid water, Benadryl forced to be taken, her husband's pleading voice begging her to stay with him. If that didn't work, she'd disappear to the Academy for hours with the girl she'd taken on as a mentee, practice and focus, the ache of muscles worked until they could no longer,  would drive off the numbness. Tony would always be there to hold her close and provide the relief she'd need from the self-inflicted pain. Pain to drive away the numbness, relief to drive away the pain. 

But when her husband joined the rebellion again, something Emilia was not against for any reason other than her husband's safety, and his arms were not always there to provide comfort the pain was harder to get rid of and with the pain harder to get rid of, numbness crept in a little more successfully. So a dog was brought home, Metztli named for the Aztec Goddess of the moon and night for the black fur that covered the animal. A dog that was trained to recognize the signs of Emilia's depressive states or when she was on the verge of an anxiety attack. A dog that offered her the comfort her husband could not when he was not home. 

And things would be okay again. Okay and even enjoyable sometimes. She'd garden. She'd cook. She'd spend time with Alejo, the father-in-law who'd become like a second father, a man who'd teach her to shoot a gun just for the relief it offered, nothing more than blanks or paintballs. It was a relief from pent up emotions. But life was okay and she was coping. 

But when Emilia lost that little girl who'd become her mentee. When the little girl became a teenager and volunteered and died, Emilia would feel the pain. She would mourn that little girl who'd been as near as a daughter to her as seemed possible. She would cry in the privacy of her own home, blame herself and wonder if there had been something she could have done different. And in those months nothing seemed to be able to relieve the pain stuffed in her chest, but she had learned pain was better than numbness and so she clung to it. Clung to the pain for fear of the deadening of sensation that she knew came when she hid from the pain. 

Months passed in this way, clinging to the pain. She was tired and nauseous and that too she blamed on the nightmares, or rather refused to believe what else they might lead to. Her husband was away more. Rebellion thick on his skin when he returned. And he would be the one to mention she looked different, though by this point after loss after loss he knew better than to point out what seemed different. That could lead to tears and anxiety, it was easier to Emilia to just pretend she wasn't.  It when clothes begin to fit differently and still nausea clings worse than ever before, she was forced face the reality. And at eighteen weeks she was confirmed pregnant, a miracle, the furthest she'd ever made it since the very first. And at twenty-two weeks she was told she was having twins. 

Everything was great, everything grand. Emilia had finally set up a nursery, her husband was keeping home more, and for the first time in seventeen years Emilia felt well and truly happy despite the still present morning sickness. But as with everything it seemed, life was intent to tear her down and at twenty-six weeks pregnant she stood for another reaping. A reaping that would throw her daughter, the one she had birthed a mere six months after her own victory, at the arena with no hope and Emilia's world would come tearing down around her again within a couple of weeks. 

But Emilia was good at acting. So good that she almost convinced herself she was okay. Her beloved died, but two and a half months later she gave birth to two more children. And though numbness had seeked her out again, dragged her under, she was great at smiling for the cameras. Happy mom happy life despite the warning obviously dolled out by the Capitol. Everything looked and seemed fine. But under it all lulled a sense of dread and failure. Post partum depression danced in hellish circles with the depression and anxiety she was acquainted with. 

And when a year after the death of her beloved first child, the Capitol threw a wicked curve ball - resurrected tributes; the mentee, the beloved, and the father all in the arena again, Emilia could no longer ward off the cold clutches of numbness. Desperation sang out, and one by one she watched as her loved ones died in screen again, Tony gone when one right after the other Diana and Amada died within half an hour. She fell into the only relief she knew in the absence of her husband. Even with Metztli and her children with her, she fell, succumbed to the icy tendrils of nothing and gave in. 

Addiction : the fact or condition of being addicted to a particular substance, thing, or activity

Addictions are tricky things. The vast majority of people deal with an addiction in some form; caffeine, tobacco, alcohol. But for some addiction runs deeper than those accepted by society. For some, addiction comes in the form of cocaine or morphling or heroine. For some addiction comes in the form of harming oneself. Whatever it is, from socially acceptable, to those often hidden, there is one universal truth. Addiction is hard to kick, addiction with fight you with headaches and convulsions, paranoia and exhaustion. Addiction is not willing to let you go easily.  

Addiction is a hard thing to fight off and nearly ten years after making the choice to be sober, Emilia gave in again. She sought out the only solace she knew, the only thing that was sure to make feeling something possible again. Cocaine was an old friend, and easy to come by, especially when she knew where her old stashes were kept. But when stashes ran out and the itch grew stronger, contacts were made and old acquaintances pulled in. 

And for a while, the old friend worked well. A line or two here or there, kept secret and behind closed doors and she could at least pretend. She could pretend behind her suits of white and her hair pulled back that she was once again that picture perfect victor. But that perfect picture was always a lie, had always been so. The poised and polished exterior hid her darkest of secrets just as it had in her early years of victory. She could stand tall (as tall as she could at 5’2”) when the nothingness was dulled by the euphoria of drugs. She could smile and wave, give advice and live. But is it really living when you're a slave to something else? 

For Emilia it was as good as, at least while her life still maintained some semblance of normal. But when shit hit the fan and the world around her seemed to crumble, fires spread and houses broken into, lives lost and bombs set, and Tony... Tony in the thick of it. When Emilia didn't even know where her husband was, left at home with the kids and her in laws, in laws that took more care of the kids at that point that she did, well not even the comfort of her drug of choice could bring her back from the deep seeded, vast emptiness she felt. Emptiness to stave off the constant worry, emptiness to stave off the anxiety, emptiness to stave off days spent in bed... But when her days were spent aimlessly, wandering and without any emotion to give purpose, when the emptiness could no longer be staved off Emilia found another vice that made her feel something, anything but numb.

It started as half-moon indentations, nails dug into her palm or into the fleshy underside as her arm as she watched news reports of the ongoing rebellion efforts; of bombs set in various districts including her own, of boats set adrift and sank, of factories destroyed and animals let loose, of reported deaths, rebels caught and imprisoned. And it worked for a small while but quickly delved into deeper lacerations. As things got worse so did the numbness and her need to feel anything but, nails in skin no loner could drag her out of the reveries that would suck her in, the what-ifs; what if Tony got caught, what if he was killed, what if they came after her or the kids. 

Half-moon indentations gave way to thin lines of red, to the cool press of metal against skin, one of Tony’s straight razors taken to the thick of her thighs or the tender skin of her belly. And not long after the rebellion would fall quiet, Tony would return home, injured but safe. But the thing with addiction, a fact Emilia knew entirely too well, was that addictions were not easy to kick, no matter what the addiction was. But she could feel something now, even if that feeling was a sharp pain, even if she often chased the pain with a line of euphoria, even if her husband was home to hold and comfort. 

At least again she could pretend, a facade falling back into place and just in time for her to be thrown back into the public face for the Victor’s Ball.

[ladylynse]

Perception: [FF| AO3] Valerie always took seeing colour for granted—until the day it went away. Soulmate AU (colours), Gray Ghost

Happy birthday, @ave-aria! You wanted a soulmate colours AU with Gray Ghost, and I swear once you get past the angst, happy endings exist. I promise. 

-|-

Valerie couldn’t remember a world without colour.

She hadn’t realized that she was different from anyone else at first. She hadn’t realized, for instance, that she saw colour where Star and Paulina and the rest of her friends did not. She had thought that perhaps colour was something different, something more.

She didn’t realize she’d had something to lose, not something to gain, until one afternoon the summer before grade nine. Between one blink and the next, the wondrous thing she now realized was colour vanished. Everything was less. Dull, bland, bleak, faded.

Washed out.

Forever.

The realization—the implication—caught her breath in her throat and spilled out as tears from her eyes.

Despite the vastness of the world, despite the fact that she had barely travelled outside of Amity Park, she had already met her soulmate—and they had died before she’d ever had a chance to know who they were.

She might be able to have a happy life with a similar unfortunate soul, but it would never be on the level it could have been, had she found her soulmate before this. Had she been able to be with them before all this, maybe even prevented their death.

But now they were gone, and there was nothing she could do except scan the obituaries in the coming days to see if she could find someone who was unclaimed. If she couldn’t find someone, or if there was more than one— She’d never know.

She’d never know who her soulmate was supposed to be.

Never know what life she should have had.

The light they had brought her had gone out of the world, taking the wondrous array of colours with it.

Valerie wiped at her eyes, but tears still turned the world into a swirl of grey. She didn’t know how long she cried, aching from a loss she’d never fully known. At some point she’d moved to her bed, burying herself in blankets as if imagining all the colour and light in her world were still there, would be there again once she let herself out of her self-imposed darkness, but she couldn’t bring herself to look.

When her father got home and found her, she couldn’t force the words past her throat and explain.

But it was the anniversary of the day her mother had died, the day her father had lost his soulmate, and he thought there was nothing more to explain.

They sat in silence, and Valerie eventually fell asleep.

XXXXXX

When Valerie woke, she opened her eyes to colour.

She didn’t understand it. She knew she hadn’t just dreamt its absence yesterday, yet….

Yet it was back, inexplicably but undeniably. She’d never heard of colour returning. It exploded into being the moment you met your soulmate, and it disappeared with death, extinguished with the other’s final breath.

She picked up the paper each day after her father had read it, just in case, but she recognized none of the names in the obits, and every person whose date of death matched her experience already had a soulmate.

By the end of the week, she very carefully, very strategically, wondered aloud if anyone had ever found colour again after the loss of their soulmate. Her heart leapt when Damon told her he’d heard stories of such things, though he hadn’t experienced it himself or personally knew of someone to which it had happened. But as he kept talking, explaining that colour grew into the worlds of those living with and loving someone other than their soulmate, that the richness of the hues deepened as their bonds grew stronger, even if they would never reach the vibrancy of a true soulmate, the sinking feeling in her chest returned.

She hadn’t needed to go back out into the world and meet someone before the colour had come back to her.

Whatever had happened was different.

XXXXX

It didn’t take Valerie long to realize that the colour was unstable. Between one breath and the next, it could vanish entirely. Sometimes, the world became filtered, bleached but not entirely devoid of colour. As far as she could tell, there was no rhyme or reason to it. No schedule, no pattern, nothing set off by her action or inaction or even her thoughts.

She was getting used to it. She wasn’t jerking like she first had, and she’d only screamed the first time the colour had disappeared again. It wasn’t giving her a headache any longer, either; sometimes, if the colour wasn’t there or wasn’t right, she simply imagined it as she knew it should be. It helped. Somewhat.

Not enough to keep her father from worrying, nor her friends and teachers.

She began to lie.

She didn’t know the truth, but she knew it had something to do with her soulmate.

She just didn’t know what.

Even if they were dying, lying in a hospital somewhere, balanced between life and death…. It should have settled by now, one way or another. It had been a month.

When the ghost attacks began, Valerie wasn’t as scared as she knew she should be. When her world turned grey again, it was nothing she hadn’t experienced before. The ghost attacks were new, of course, but she was already dealing with one impossible, inexplicable problem. Ghosts turning up in town when she knew Fenton’s parents were ghost hunters was hardly unexpected.

She hadn’t expected the supposed town hero to ruin her life, though.

And she definitely hadn’t expected to see his eyes blazing green when she first encountered him, nor to begin seeing shades of the same colour afterwards even when the rest of the world was grey.

It was enough to stay her initial swell of hatred long enough to listen to him. She didn’t regret it. As it turned out, she really hadn’t known the entire story. Of course, she suspected Phantom wasn’t telling her everything, but she thought she might be able to earn his trust and hear the rest eventually.

And it made her want to help him, if only in her own way.

Ghost hunting seemed like a sound enough release of her frustration at the hand she’d been dealt. It would keep her sharp, keep her fit, and—even if she planned to remain masked—give her the satisfaction of playing the hero.

Doing something to protect her town, like her dad had.

It had taken her a while to convince Phantom to train her. He kept trying to tell her to go talk to Maddie Fenton—something about Jack’s aim being terrible—and tried to tell her that he wouldn’t always be there to protect her. But that was the point. He wouldn’t be. Which was why she wanted to be able to defend herself.

He gave her his thermos and let her practice on him, but she wanted more and made sure he knew it.

When he first handed her a Fenton Lipstick, she raised an eyebrow at him. He knew her question without her having to voice it. “You need an ecto-weapon if you’re going on the offensive,” he said, “and that’s small and easy to use. It’s a good starting point.”

It was a good starting point—point and shoot, lightweight, no recoil—but between persistence and practice, it didn’t take her long to master it. (Her words, not his. He thought she could be more precise—not just hit the target but hit the target exactly where she wanted to.) She wanted field training. He didn’t want her out on her own, yet he refused to go with her, claiming he wouldn’t be able to protect her.

He didn’t seem to understand that that was the point.

Months later, when he presented her with more stolen FentonWorks tech, she took the ecto-gun without question. She knew what the gift meant. He finally thought she was ready for an actual fight, and she didn’t plan on proving him wrong.

XXXXXXX

She didn’t have the nerve to bring up the subject of soulmates until much later, on a surprisingly calm summer night that found them both on their backs in the grass in the darkest part of the park, looking up at the sky.

Her world was a strange mix of filtered colour now, greens and purples jumping out with easy brilliance while other colours were trapped in prisons of grey. Sometimes they all returned, but they no longer all disappeared. She didn’t know what that meant—or if it even meant anything.

Phantom was a ghost—a coherent ghost, unlike some she’d met with him by her side—and while he was probably too young to have found his soulmate before the end, he might know some stories. He might know the solution to her problem.

Or the reason she had it in the first place.

“Phantom,” she said hesitantly, “have you ever seen colour?”

He was quiet for a moment, knowing what that question meant, and she thought he might not answer her at all—or laugh it off if he did and make some joke. Instead, he whispered, “Yes.” She turned her head to look at him, his soft glow making his features easy to pick out, but he kept his gaze firmly fixed on the stars above. “I always thought dying severed that connection between people, and it does, sort of. My world isn’t as colourful as it used to be. It’s…dulled, I guess.”

She pushed herself into a more upright position to get a better look at his face and repeated, “Dulled?” It didn’t sound like her world—so many colours were just gone altogether—but….

“They’re still there,” he explained, finally flicking his eyes to her and then pushing himself into a sitting position. She mirrored him, fully sitting up even as he turned his gaze down to his hands, fiddling with his fingers and tugging at his gloves. “All the colours. They’re just…washed out or faded or something. Mostly. I think…. I think spending so much time here might have helped me get some of it back. There aren’t a lot of ghosts who see in colour. Most…most are separated from their soulmates, if they ever found them.”

“And you’re not?”

He laughed. It sounded…bitter. Harsh. She wasn’t used to it. It was so unlike his usual light laugh. “I’m a ghost, and I think my soulmate is still alive. How much more separation can you get?”

“You think they’re still alive.” The words tightened something her chest and settled unpleasantly in her gut, though she couldn’t explain why. “Your soulmate is still out there, and you don’t know who they are.” It wasn’t the same with her. She knew her soulmate was gone; she’d have a happy approximation of it at best, and that’s all she allowed herself to want, except in her darker moments when she wondered what could have been. But Phantom…. “We can try to find them, you know.” It was harder to say those words, to make that offer, than she’d expected. “You’re a ghost, but…. You could at least be friends with them, right? Even if they’ll want to find someone else?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Finding them, I mean.”

Relief flooded her at those words, but the look on his face tempered it. He was afraid. Afraid, no doubt, of how his soulmate would react to the news. Of ruining their life with news of his afterlife. He still wanted the best for them, even though he didn’t know who they were. He was willing to spend his afterlife alone so he wouldn’t taint the happiness he assumed they’d find without him.

Valerie wasn’t much of a hugger, but she leaned over and wrapped her arms around Phantom anyway. He was stiff for a few terrified seconds before relaxing into her grip. He was more solid than she remembered, and…warmer, somehow, than he’d ever felt when he’d grabbed her to pull her out of harm’s way.

It was…nice.

She only felt a few tears soak into her shirt before the weight of him vanished from her grip and he was hovering above her. “I should go,” he said, his voice thick. He wiped at his eyes. “I…. I’ll do another quick patrol. You can go home.”

He vanished before she could find the words to protest.

Valerie had no way of stopping him, no way of tracking him back down, and instead flopped back down into the grass and stared back up at the starry sky.

She hadn’t noticed the transition, but she could pick out blues again—most evident by the clouds that threatened to obscure the moon—and she knew that meant something.

Her soulmate…. Something had changed. Getting better, perhaps? Maybe it had been a terrible accident, and they’d died on the operating table or something and been brought back to life, and now they were just…in a coma. Or something.

Except that didn’t explain why sometimes her vision was perfectly normal, as it always used to be.

And it didn’t explain why she hadn’t found any answers in the newspapers or online—be it in obits or the local news—when an accident that severe would’ve been reported on in a town as small as this.

She was still missing something.

And Phantom….

She didn’t know what to think about Phantom.

She should help him reconnect with his soulmate. It was the right thing to do, whether or not he could see it. They’d both be happier for it. If nothing else, it would give his soulmate some closure.

But she felt awful when she realized how happy she’d felt when he’d refused the idea. She treasured this time alone with him. If he found his soulmate again, that would change. It would have to change. And she didn’t want it to. She liked how things were, just the two of them.

She…cared for him.

More than she wanted to admit.

Even to herself.

XXXXXXX

The first time she saw red was the following fall. It wasn’t the autumn leaves that burst into brilliance around her; she’d have been too focused on the ghost fight to notice that. Trouble was, she hadn’t been focused enough. She’d made a mistake. She’d slipped on the ghost ice underfoot and went down.

She’d rolled, but she hadn’t been quite fast enough, and neither had he.

The ice shard only clipped her arm—she’d nearly dodged it, whatever he said—but it easily tore through her shirt and the fragile skin beneath. It had stung, sure, but she’d found her feet again and kept fighting. She hadn’t thought it was bad. She hadn’t even realized it was bleeding.

He’d managed to end the fight soon after that, finding strength and beating up the ice ghost she’d never seen before with an anger he usually managed to keep buried beneath bad puns. And when he came to her side, the first thing to fall from his lips was an apology. It wasn’t until he actually had both hands pressed to her arm that she finally felt the full force of the pain.

That’s when she’d noticed the red stain on her sleeve, visible even beneath his gloves, and realized she could feel every throbbing heartbeat.

“I think you need stitches,” he said. She could hear the underlying panic in his voice; he thought this was bad and didn’t want to say it more bluntly than he had to. “I’ll take you to the hospital.”

Her dad would kill her if he found out what she was doing—well, not really, but he’d ground her until graduation. And their insurance wouldn’t cover this. Assuming they still had insurance after everything that had happened. “Just take me home. It’ll be fine.”

Phantom frowned at her.

“No hospitals,” she repeated.

“Then I’m taking you to FentonWorks,” he said.

She was too surprised to protest when he scooped her up. “What? Why there?”

“Mo—Maddie’s good at stitches. Better than Jazz. And even Sam. And…and I’m not sure I could keep a steady hand right now.”

Valerie knew Phantom was teaching the basics of ghost hunting to Sam and Tucker, too, (Danny presumably got enough of that from his parents) but he never wanted her to go along with them. He claimed it was because it would be too draining for all of them to be out all the time, that it was more effective for them to take turns going out because they had grades to maintain and homework to do and she had her job at the Nasty Burger, but she’d always gotten the feeling that he didn’t want her out with them. That it wasn’t a matter of safety or consideration for how much sleep they got or free time they had. That it wasn’t simply that he thought her worse, and needing the one-on-one time, or better, and able to handle more on her own. It was…something else.

Something he wasn’t saying.

Or something she wasn’t saying. Or doing. Or seeing. Something she didn’t know.

It wouldn’t bother her if she didn’t have the feeling that she was missing something. She liked having Phantom to herself, relishing the times it was just the two of them and they were relaxing together on a slow night. But the way he avoided her gaze whenever she brought it up….

Maybe it was just that Phantom didn’t want any of them overworked. And maybe Danny wanted Phantom to teach his friends instead of them being taught by his parents so he didn’t get roped into more ghost hunting when he didn’t like it, but for Phantom to just go directly to FentonWorks and not intend to sneak in for something….

“It’s too dangerous!” she finally forced out, but he ignored her and starting flying. It was fine at first, and then he started going fast, too fast, and—

He turned them intangible before she could say something, and she instead had the disquieting sensation of knowing that the tearing wind went right through her.

She shut her eyes and leaned into him, not trying to talk. She didn’t really want to fight him on this; he had a better eye for injuries than she did. He’d been doing this for longer. And even if he healed faster, he got hit worse, far too frequently, and remembered too much of human life to misjudge this for that reason.

He still might be overreacting, but that would be…sweet, sort of. And his concern might lead to more one-on-one sessions, which would be nice. Not that she didn’t want to hunt alongside Sam and Tucker one day, she did, but…. She liked having Phantom to herself. Just the two of them, patrolling the town, fighting ghosts. Or stargazing. Or just talking. Making jokes and telling stories and enjoying each other’s company.

She opened her eyes when he shifted her and she felt cloth beneath her. He’d laid her down on a couch. The Fentons’ living room? He’d just…barged in here? The home of ghost hunters? For her?

“I’ll find Maddie,” he said, and he dove through the floor. Like he fully expected her to be in the lab even this late at night, like it didn’t even occur to him that she’d probably be in bed like most people.

Valerie stared at the spot where he’d disappeared, realizing exactly how much he was risking right now. How much he was sacrificing. For her.

She kept her good hand pressed over the wound, finally accepting why she could see the red staining her fingers for what it was.

Phantom might not be her soulmate, but he might as well be.

He brought more than just colour into her life.

As for her actual soulmate, well, she was still convinced they must have died that day, if only briefly, and something had severed their connection. She couldn’t think of any other way to explain the fickleness of the colour in her world. And just like she didn’t want to search for Phantom’s living soulmate, she didn’t want to continue the search for hers, either, half-hearted though it had been for far more than a few months.

She heard glass shatter in the basement, and her ears filled with the blaring sound of alarms, but they stopped a moment later. And then she heard footsteps on the stairs, a door opening and closing, and the soft pad of footsteps on linoleum. Phantom came into the living room with Maddie on his heels. He pointed at her and started to explain, lies and truths coming out of his mouth in equal measure, but Valerie didn’t try to keep track of it. All she saw were the phase-proof Fenton Cuffs snapped around his wrists.

He'd traded his freedom to make sure she’d be okay.

And it…it broke her heart.

“Please, you have to let him go,” she said, but her voice only came out as a whisper.

Maddie ignored her, instead calling for her husband to bring one of their first aid kits, and gently nudged away Valerie’s hand to get a better look at the wound.

Phantom hovered anxiously in her peripheral vision, never trying to escape. Not when Jazz stumbled down the stairs in her housecoat to see what was going on, not when Jack emerged from the basement with more than just the first aid kit and started scanning her for traces of ecto-contamination because her wound had been sustained in a ghost fight, not when Maddie was focused on stitching her up. (Valerie wasn’t going to ever tell Phantom he had been right about her needing stitches, but if he tried to gloat, she’d just say they were a precaution, nothing more.) He was still there when Maddie told her she was going to call Damon, and he was still there when Jazz brought her a different pillow and a couple of blankets.

He was gone when she woke in the morning, though the fact that Jack was absent from the breakfast table made Valerie wonder if he’d gotten free and was trying to lose Mr. Fenton or if he’d simply been taken downstairs for proper containment. She hoped it was the former.

The world felt bleak without him here, knowing he could be in danger because of what he’d given up for her, and her filtered vision seemed to match her mood. No cheery yellows or oranges this morning, though it seemed she could see the other colours well enough.

Valerie was halfway through a bowl of dry cereal (Jazz had warned her not to trust the milk) when she suddenly realized someone else was conspicuously absent. “Where’s Danny?” Really, she was surprised he hadn’t stumbled downstairs last night with his sister.

“Sleepover at Tucker’s,” Jazz said, overriding Maddie’s comment that Danny was still asleep. “Something about a science project.”

Valerie frowned. “We don’t have a project in science.”

“Maybe it was English, then.”

“But we don’t— Ow!” Valerie shot a glare at Jazz. “What was that for?”

“What was what for?” Jazz asked innocently, as if she hadn’t very deliberately kicked her house guest.

Whatever. Valerie got the hint. “You’ve gotta be thinking of the American Revolution one we have in history.” She didn’t know what Danny was really up to, but if Jazz was on board, it wasn’t going to be anything too bad. Probably doing some additional training with Sam and Tucker on the whole ghost hunting thing. She knew neither Fenton kid believed all ghosts were evil like their parents, and Danny was probably afraid that showing too much interest would get him dragged out on hunts to take out ghosts like Phantom—ghosts that didn’t deserve to be hunted down, whatever his parents believed.

She could understand how avoiding a family argument seemed like the more preferable option, especially on that front.

Jazz nodded. “Yes, that was it.” She had her spoon halfway to her mouth, but with a glance at her mom’s back, she set it back down in her bowl. “Why don’t I drive you home, Valerie? Save you the walk.”

Right, it was Saturday. She’d lost track. She checked her watch; her shift at the Nasty Burger didn’t start till two. More than enough time for her to track down Phantom if he wanted to be found, assuming he’d gotten free. She’d find some excuse to come back and save him if he hadn’t. She owed him that much. The idea of him being trapped because of her…. It didn’t bear thinking about. But she couldn’t hear him screaming, and that had to be a good sign.

“That’d be great, thanks,” she said, smiling at Jazz. Then, with a glance at Mrs. Fenton, “Assuming I’m free to go?” Maddie’s examination when she’d woken this morning had been cursory at best.

“I think you’ll be fine, sweetie,” Maddie said, looking over at them from the sink, “but I would appreciate you dropping by so I can check on it again. And I really don’t believe the tale Phantom told us yesterday, so I would also appreciate the truth of how you got that in the first place.”

“Right,” Valerie mumbled, quickly getting to her feet and picking up the bowl. “I’ll, um, yeah, when we have more time. I should really be going now.” She dropped the bowl on the counter next to the sink. “Thanks for everything, really.”

She fled, and Jazz followed her.

XXXXX

Valerie didn’t want to ask Jazz if she knew what had happened to Phantom right away; she needed to have something to tell Maddie before she showed her face at FentonWorks again, and if Phantom needed a rescue, Valerie would need to be armed with something, even if it was only a clever distraction. She concentrated on the easier subject instead. Granted, the last thing she expected when she worked up the courage to ask was a real explanation.

“What’s up with the project excuse? Where’s Danny?”

Jazz pressed her lips together and signalled to turn left, even though Valerie had already told her to go right.

“Danny’s working through some stuff,” she said slowly. “He doesn’t want to tell Mom and Dad everything yet.”

“Ghost stuff?”

Jazz bit her lip. Valerie waited for the lie, even though she didn’t know why Jazz would lie about something that was obvious to anyone who knew the Fentons.

“He thinks he found his soulmate,” she said.

Valerie blinked.

If Jazz was going for a lie, why pick that one? Most parents were happy when their kids found their soulmates. There wasn’t any reason not to tell them…unless you thought they wouldn’t approve. Not that they would have much say in the matter. Soulmates trumped parents. And Valerie couldn’t imagine someone the Fentons wouldn’t approve of.

“And he’s panicking?” she finally guessed. “Instead of being happy he can finally see in colour?”

“Not exactly. He’s just…. I think he’s known for a while, or at least suspected it. He hasn’t told it to me straight, either. I know more than Mom and Dad, but I’ve been guessing for a while. It wasn’t until recently that I realized that I’d finally guessed it right.”

“And?”

“And Danny’s Danny. He can struggle to talk to the people he cares about most. He shows his love through actions more often than words.”

Valerie frowned. She had a feeling Jazz was trying to hint at something, but she had no idea what it could be. “So where is he really, if he didn’t sleep over at Tucker’s?”

Jazz pulled over to the side of the road and parked the car before turning to Val. “He’s back in our lab, Valerie.”

“What?”

“Danny’s still in the lab. I can’t sneak him out when Mom and Dad are home. I need you to create a distraction.”

“Wait, what? Why’s Danny in your lab? Why do you have to sneak him out?”

Instead of answering, Jazz reached into her back seat and handed Valerie a package of firecrackers and a lighter.

Valerie stared at them and then looked out the window and realized that they were just down the block from FentonWorks. She turned back to Jazz. “You’re…you’re kidding, right? This is some kind of elaborate joke? Your parents wouldn’t just lock your brother up in the basement.”

“They wouldn’t knowingly lock him up,” Jazz agreed slowly, “but they don’t realize what they’ve done. He never told them, and they haven’t figured it out.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She had to be talking about something, hinting at it, but Valerie had no idea what it was supposed to be. She’d always gotten the impression that Mr. and Mrs. Fenton, while not necessarily the most attentive parents, meant well and loved their children. In a way that didn’t involve locking them up. Sure, from the brief snippets of stories she overheard in the hallway, it didn’t sound like Danny and Jazz exactly lived in the safest environment, but—

“Danny hasn’t been the same since his accident just before the start of school last year.”

Valerie frowned. She couldn’t remember anything about an accident in the school rumour mill, and she’d been at the top of it back then. But the timing—

That was around the time her soulmate had—

She’d never found any report of an accident like the one she’d been looking for.

She’d never found an obituary that fit the few details she knew.

“What…what accident?” she breathed.

She’d been seeing colour for as long as she could remember.

She’d known Danny for as long as she could remember, knowing his face before she’d ever learned his name.

Something inside Valerie twisted, and when she blinked again, she could see the orange in Jazz’s hair, and her skin—and everything else—no longer looked like it had been put through a blue filter.

“Please just set off the firecrackers, Valerie.”

How could Jazz be so calm about all of this?

How could she sit there as if this were normal?

Valerie fumbled for her seat belt and then for the door handle. She had…. She couldn’t just sit here, and she wasn’t going to set off some stupid firecrackers. She had to know for sure. She didn’t…. She had to figure this out. She didn’t understand.

But if she saw him again, face to face, she’d know.

Even before she asked.

Even before he answered.

She’d know.

He’d be able to see the question in her eyes, and his expression would answer it for her.

Or maybe just the feeling she’d get when she saw him.

Not that she needed any of that for confirmation.

Not really.

Not now that the colour had fully returned to her, and she suddenly knew why it had been taken away and come back in pieces ever since.

She didn’t know how this could be normal. How it could be true. Except it was the Fentons, so maybe this was normal, for them.

Jazz caught up to her as she reached the front walkway of FentonWorks and pulled her to a stop. “Back entrance,” Jazz said, and this time Valerie listened. She followed Jazz around the house and inside to the kitchen as Jazz explained, “He’s in the large containment unit. You just need to hit the button on the side to release the lock. If that doesn’t work, just…. Tell him you know. He can walk you through it.”

“What…what about the distraction?” Jazz hadn’t brought the firecrackers, and Valerie suddenly felt like a fool for leaving them behind.

“I’ll be the distraction,” Jazz said, gently pushing her to the side of the basement door. And then she screamed, high-pitched wordless terror that made Valerie’s skin crawl. The moment they heard footsteps, she started running, her scream fading and then cutting off. She was out the front door ahead of Jack and Maddie, and all Valerie could make out was some vague wailing about a ghost.

None of them looked back.

Below, the lab seemed too quiet. She couldn’t hear anything beyond the dim buzz of machines. Her heart raced in her chest, and she kept a firm grip on the railing as she descended the stairs.

Phantom floated near the top of the containment cell—some kind of reinforced glass, if Valerie had to guess—but when he heard footsteps, he turned to look at her.

He didn’t bother to mask the surprise on his face. “Valerie?”

He looked fine. He sounded fine. He was trapped, but otherwise, he was fine.

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and approached the control panel. “Hey, Phantom. How do I get you out of this thing?” Jazz had said to hit the button, but there was more than one button. And she couldn’t read any labels with her world a sudden swirl of colour, blurred by unshed tears.

“Uh, I mean, I don’t know the specifics, but I think you just hit that one.” A blob of silver pointed to the button nearest to her. “The right one, not the big one on your left. The left is the flush, and I don’t really want to be sucked into the Ghost Zone right now.”

“Right. That would be awkward.” She didn’t sound like herself, but this didn’t feel real. She blinked and wiped the wetness from her cheeks.

“Are you okay, Val? Your wound—”

“I’m fine. It’s…it’s not that.”

“Then what is it? What can I do?”

It was everything. And he…he could hold her once she got him out of there. Reassure her that this was real. That it was happening.

“You can just be yourself,” she whispered, and she meant it. She squinted at the labels and hit a button. There was a hiss and then a faint pop. She looked up to see Phantom slipping out of a door in the top of the unit; the one at ground level was still sealed, as far as she could tell. A security measure, maybe, though she didn’t think it would matter where ghosts were concerned. She hadn’t met a ghost that couldn’t fly.

She blinked, and he was by her side, wide green eyes anxiously searching her face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

She felt like a fool for not recognizing his features before now, but she’d never seen Danny Fenton in anything less than full colour. And when her world had been thrust into black and white, she hadn’t thought to connect him to Phantom just because she was able to see Phantom’s green eyes. She hadn’t thought she had any reason to.

The truth was, she’d never looked.

All that time she’d spent with him, and she’d never realized it. How could she have not realized it? He was…. There was no denying who he was to her.

“How long have you known?” she whispered.

He frowned. “Known what?”

“You know what, Danny.”

He froze, maybe wondering exactly how much she knew, if he was mistaken about her knowing anything when he went by Danny Phantom when he was like this. She swallowed and didn’t break his gaze, and after a long second, he relaxed. “I’ve suspected it for a while,” he finally admitted. “And then, when you got hurt…. Val, I can’t lose you. The idea terrifies me. This—” he waved a hand at himself “—is bad enough, and…and not everyone becomes a ghost.”

“And you….” It sounded stupid, but she didn’t know how to ask it. “You really are a ghost. But then how are you…? How can you…?”

He took a step back from her. “It’s more like half ghost,” he said. He was giving her a nervous smile, and then there was a brilliant light, and when it was gone, Danny Fenton stood before her. The world seemed more vibrant than it had before. She hadn’t even realized the colours could be richer. “See? Human.” He stuck out his hand, but she wrapped him in a hug instead.

He was solid, like he’d promised, and warmer than Phantom had been, and—

“I know this is a lot,” he was saying into her ear, and she realized she was sobbing into his shoulder. She just…. She couldn’t stop. Wasn’t sure she wanted to stop, when it meant he was holding her so tightly in return. “And I know I should have said something earlier, once I knew for sure, but I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t…. I didn’t know if we were still connected. After I…died, or part of me died, or whatever. I…I know I lost something that day, but I don’t know what, and—”

“The colours were gone.” That was the simplest way to say it, mumbling it into his shoulder in between sniffs. “That first day, they vanished. I…. They were back the next morning. I didn’t understand it. Sometimes I could see them, sometimes I couldn’t, and sometimes they were… Dulled, like you said. There, but…less.” She quieted, wondering if he wanted to say something. When he didn’t, she admitted, “I didn’t know it was you. I…. I wondered, once it was gone, once I knew I’d had it to lose, but I never knew who….” Her voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I should have known. I’m sorry.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, you don’t need to cry,” he said, hugging her tighter and starting to rub her back. “I mean, you still found me. Even when you weren’t looking, you found me. Even when I…. Even when I didn’t want you to look because I thought the truth might hurt you. You still found me. You…. Valerie, that’s amazing, you know that, right?”

Her emotions flipped, and she started to giggle. Giggle. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d giggled, and now she couldn’t stop. “You can’t get rid of me that easily, I guess.” She pulled back and looked at him, unable to keep the goofy grin from spreading across her face. “After all, even death couldn’t keep us apart.”

This was new and terrifying and confusing and wonderful. She didn’t understand everything, but she didn’t need to. (Oh, she’d ask. She’d definitely ask. But she wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, having her soulmate—her soulmate—come back like this. Come back to her, specifically. For them to be given a second chance.)

She’d always liked Danny’s company, even before her fall from grace, even if she hadn’t been able to do anything about Dash’s bullying. And she’d always been happy hanging out with Phantom and had treasured each moment that it was just the two of them. And now….

And now she knew, like he knew, that it could become so much more if they let it. If they worked together, gave it room to grow—gave themselves room to grow—and took care of each other, well…. They’d have everything they would ever need. Everything that mattered, anyway. They’d be able to lean on each other in the rough times. Tease each other and laugh together. Pick each other up and build each other up or knock each other down a peg or two if they really needed it. They’d discover new things and rediscover old, and….

They’d be able to live. To survive. To face life, together. And to love it. Maybe not every second—there always would be trials—but the hard times and finding ways through them would remind them to cherish the moments they had. To cherish each other.

They could be happy if they chose to be. If they chose to work together and to try.

She already knew she wanted to. And, from the way he was smiling back at her, or maybe the way his hands had found hers, she knew he wanted to try, too.

She had thought everything had ended the day colour had been stolen from her world, but it had only been a way of opening her eyes to what she’d missed before.

It had shown her a path, guided her back to her soulmate with each new colour she had begun seeing.

If she’d ignored it, it might have been an end. If she’d continued to think of it that way, her actions—or inaction—would have turned that to truth. She might have lost the colours entirely, breaking off her connection with Danny more effectively than the accident had.

Instead, the colours—and their initial lack—had given them another chance. It had been a new beginning. Their new beginning.

And her world would forever be more vibrant, more vivid, for the opportunity they’d been given together.

(see more fics)

[greyfen]

Mithra 01: Looming Shadow

Been a long time since I posted any writing on here but in case there is anyone still interested in what I occasionally come up with these days, here is a bit of writing.  It’s from the perspective of Mithra Hyndell, an elven druid who I play in a D&D game on Sundays, this scene took place at the conclusion of the first arc the party experienced. After we’d gotten stuck in a house full of time magic, a vampire and a whole host of other weird shenanigans.  For context, Mithra is the last remaining (as far as she knows) druid of a place called the Verdant Thicket, a forest that has been overrun by some sort of magical corruption. At this point in the story she is working with the group in the hopes of speaking to the personal alchemist of the Queen of the kingdom they are in so as to find a lead on how to fix the Thicket.  For those wanting a read, enjoy! 

The walls felt as if they were closing in. 

Mithra wasn’t sure how she got here, it had sounded pretty simple: work with a few mercenaries or other interested parties, do a favour for the queen and in return gain the information that could help her home that she desperately needed. Instead, in a short period of time she’d been attacked by orcs, met a man claiming to be a god, visited an impossible mansion and got trapped in a vampire’s castle. 

For all her own pride in her abilities, she’d felt increasingly out of her depth since arriving at the town outside the estate of Lord Cartwright, the eternal night the vampire seemed to have conjured around the town and area, the tortured prisoners they’d found and escorted to safety and the bizarre time magic that kept everyone who spent too long on the estate trapped in some sort of loop; a fact they’d only recently discovered when electing to temporarily leave. It went entirely beyond her own experiences, she’d felt increasingly caged, something that the circle of the moon within her railed against in the back of her mind. It had taken a surprisingly understanding Nilsa to snap her back to reality earlier when she’d dropped into a panic; now she was here on the top floor, looking at the dead bodies of her friends. 

No, not my friends, some…  vision of the future perhaps. Gods this must be hard for them, how do you even comfort at times like this?

The smell of mold and decay hung in the air throughout the library, both musty books and the aroma of rotten flesh; the dead paladin’s skeleton was slumped against the wall, the ominous barred door led to the greenhouse and more bodies. The dark corridor their new companion refused to let go down altogether, shaking her head frantically when traversing it was suggested. Their new companion was an enigma too; an older version of their warrior friend Fiora, older, tired and worn, seemingly unable to speak or communicate beyond the written word and frantic gestures, the last survivor of a group that failed. 

That had died. 

Around them the ghosts of the Lady Celeste and her killers played out their repeated macabre performance, the same murders and fights over and over again, every hour. Even with all kinds of insanity around them, Lilli dashed off to a side room and Mithra intended to follow but found her eye resting upon a body in the greenhouse with the remains of Zenn, another companion. When she saw it, all thoughts of everything else deserted her mind as a creeping suspicion and fear began to gnaw at her chest. 

That figure; the garb looked elven, druidic even, but it wasn’t what she wore; as the wraiths wailed and argued she tuned them out, even the conversations and frantic questioning of this strange future version of Fiora failed to register as she looked the skeletal remains over. Patting down the body, gently at first, then more frantically as she became more and more sure that the body was not her own.

Another might have felt relief to avoid the sight of their own remains, but not Mithra. Death was not the worst thing that could bring an end to a druid from the Verdant Thicket. She found a token, a simple cast leaf denoting rank within her circle, but it wasn’t hers. 

A heavy weight set on her stomach as around her the ghosts played out their argument, the daughter and father who’d come here to save her, even if she didn’t want to be saved, the looting of the mob that accompanied him. To Mithra it was as the wind in the grass, of no importance and mere background noise as she made her way back to the older version of the tiefling she’d met only days ago.

She nodded at the paper in her friend’s hands, her eyes meeting Fiora’s directly, almost unblinkingly as she kept her voice level, Nilsa a spectator as the two women gazed at one another.

“Fiora, was that me in the greenhouse?” 

She already knew the answer as the older Fiora scribbled down something frantically on her paper before holding it up. 

‘NO’

“Am I dead? Is that why I’m not here?” 

A solemn nod was all she received in answer as the tall tiefling woman looked at her, eyes full of pity, loss and more, a sense of loneliness; Mithra was used to solitude, but the type she saw looking out of Fiora’s eyes chilled her. As much as she felt for this lost soul however she also felt the creeping dread rise from the pit of her stomach, like a weed, choking her level breathing as it came. 

“Did.. Did something take me? Is that why I’m not here?”

‘YES’

Nilsa looked on, concerned and confused and tired at the back and forth, opening her mouth as Mithra turned, her head spinning as her fears seemed almost confirmed. Walking, or was it staggering, five paces back towards the centre of the room. That sick feeling grew, reaching her lungs and biting down her fears she turned again. 

“Was it my home? Did the sickness, the curse of my home take me too?” 

A pause. 

‘YES’

After that, Mithra didn’t register a lot of what happened next, it was like everything happened at once, their friend of the future had been waiting, waiting for Lady Celeste and her father to be near the window and then threw both them and herself out of it. Ending the loop, the curse all of it; saving both herself and her friends, even if it wasn’t the same friends she’d been through hell with. In the aftermath, everyone took a moment to recover, but Mithra could stand to be in the house no longer. 

Catching Nilsa’s attention while the others took a few moments, Mithra smiled a pained mirthless smile that hid none of her internal torment. Her words tumbled out of her mouth at a rapid pace, uncertain and troubled; in her core fear had seized her heart and wouldn’t let go. 

“I.. I need outside, I can’t be in here, sorry but I have to breath fresh air. Or as fresh as it gets here.”

Nilsa looked at her and then said something that she didn’t expect, the steely gaze meeting her own. 

“That’s fine. I can come with you, if you need it.”

And Mithra said yes.

Minutes later Mithra was sitting on the grass, staring at the dark sky and opening up a part of her history and soul to the paladin beside her. She told her of her fellow druids, the curse that affected not just land and tree but animal; how the druids had feared that their connection to animals, to the forest might leave them vulnerable too. 

How it looked like at some point, she was going to turn into a monster if she did not find a way to negate its effects, find a way to save her home. 

Nilsa gripped her shoulder and promised to help her, a gesture from the taciturn paladin that was not lost on Mithra, but even in that moment a cold feeling settled inside the druid. 

Despair. 

She had no idea where to start, she was not powerful, she was not wise and she was out of her depth.

As the rest of the day passed she found herself buoyed by the others, their presence and made a silent vow to herself. In one world she had already failed, but she would not give up: she would fight tooth and claw until her last breath to save her home, to save the others, to save herself. 

[scaredandbored]

the one with the sonic showers

for @julie-yard , (sorry it’s so ooc but it’s got DaForge in!)

word count (excluding the compulsory grouching i do in the brackets next because i ran out of space in the tags whoops) : 2233

(also this is my first ever piece of writing using solely other people’s characters so i apologise in advance lol)

(constructive criticism welcome just please be nice i cry really easily)

(hey so data is literally an android and geordie is CHEIF FRICKIN ENGINEER and i am Bad At Physics. so there are large gaps in dialogue which i would LOVE to do some more research on (not sarcasm i really would but i would get sucked into it and never actually write lol) but i’m more of a chemistry/biology Basic Bitch™️ so even though i’m supposed to know enough about sound waves to write that dialogue i don’t trust myself enough to do it)

(also, i’m a First Aid Responder, not a doctor, damnit! so all medical talk in this is me reading three (3) articles on chronic tension headaches and then seeming myself fit to write about it)

(sorry in advance, here you go!)

The alarm he had set for twenty minutes before the beginning of his shift made Geordie feel as though he was being hit repeatedly by a phaser. Wincing, he groped for his VISOR, slamming his other hand on the button that would stop the infernal shrieking. Logically, Geordie knew the noise was just barely above a soft trill, but as he rummaged around his drawer for his acetaminophen hypo, he was considering having a word with the senior medical staff about limiting the volume of the ships alarms in the interest of the crew’s wellbeing.

As usual, the hypo did very little for the inescapable pressure on his skull, and the activation of his visor did nothing but restore him to the state he was before the hypo. Grimacing, he dragged himself over to the replicator in the far corner of his room, toeing off the black regulation bottoms he’d slept in and tossing them into the laundry shoot as he walked by. “Coffee, black, sixty degrees Celsius.”. Hoping against hope the caffeine would keep the dull pain from spiking until he could administer her perscription later in the day. He rolled his head between sips of the slightly too bitter beverage, with the intention of loosening up in order to stave off neck and shoulder tension later in the day. “Computer, set a reminder to schedule a meeting with Dr.Crusher for me, will you?” The computer’s answering trill was, again, much too loud for his liking, so he gave a second order for all automated auditory responses to decrease intensity by 50%.

Sliding off his VISOR, Geordie decided to pick out his uniform and dress using muscle memory, the idea of putting his VISOR back on before absolutely necessary was enough to make his stomach turn, violently. “OK, so don’t put it back on, Geordie, it’s not rocket science.” he sighed to himself as he tugged the zip up, catching his thumb in his collar. Adequately annoyed at himself and already aching to take another shot of his hypo, Geordie lamented the fact he hadn’t decided to shower, the warm water would’ve done some good towards the inevitable spasms his upper back and neck would undoubtedly engage in later that evening. Sitting down, he pressed the heels of his almost-cool hands against his temples, rubbing around the terminals for his VISOR, where the ache was the worst. As he considered requesting sick leave and how to tell Riker he’d be missing poker tonight without raising suspicion, his communicator went off, the obnoxious trill sending a jolt of nausea through him as Barclay’s voice rang around his room.

“Barclay to Commander LaForge.”

Geordie winced and sighed before tapping his badge. “LaForge here.”

While Reg was relaying his message, Geordie reluctantly picked up his VISOR and clicked it into place. “There’s been several complaints shipwide about sonic shower malfunctions, the captain has asked us to assemble a team and look into it as soon as possible, sir.”

“Acknowledged. I’ll be in Engineering as soon as I can. Until then, Reg, you get a few ensigns and run a few tests on the basic functions in the malfunctioning units on the lower half of the affected decks. I want the results updated in real time so I can check them against the ones I’ll run. LaForge out.” Geordie considered popping into Sickbay on his way to see if he could get a muscle relaxer to avoid any serious cramping of his neck muscles, but the acetaminophen seemed to be kicking in, and he’d hoped this meant the worst was over.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

After numerous hours of running several different sonic showers at increasingly higher frequencies, Geordie felt as though his head was going to burst. He’d missed the hour he was supposed to re-administer his painkiller by a good thirty minutes, and the ensign he had taken with him to the upper decks had noticed his smile was less a smile and more a pained grimace. When she’d suggested he let her run a few tests while he updated the logs, Geordie had politely declined with a small laugh and an even smaller smile. When she repeated the question ten minutes later, he complied without a word.

Lunchtime arrived what felt like years later, when Geordie finally caved and turned himself into sickbay.

“Hey, Alyssa, can I talk to you for a second?” Geordie held out his hand in a sort of rushed, half-thought out greeting that immediately told Alyssa what it was Geordie wanted to talk to her about.

“Geordie, maybe you should sit the rest of your shift out.” Was all she said in the way of sympathy as she administered several of his usual hypos. This was why Geordie came to her before any other nurse on the Enterprise. Her sympathy was just enough to get her job done and she kept her pity to herself for the most part.

“Well, you know what they say!” Geordie jumped to his feet, rubbing his hands together briefly before giving one sharp clap to test the rapidly receding pressure in his head. “No peace for the wicked. I’ll see you around, Alyssa, thanks for the help.”

As Geordie moved out from behind the thin curtain Alyssa had pulled for privacy, he found himself looking straight up at his best friend, and his heart skipped a beat. “Data!” He grinned.

“Geordie.” Data’s head nodded in acknowledgement. Geordie admired the halo his VISOR caused around Data’s head. “I fail to see the relevance between your chosen turn of phrase and Nurse Ogawa’s reccomendation. I also object to the comparison you have drawn between yourself and the afformentioned ‘wicked’.”

“Data, it was a joke.” Geordie smiled again, the combination of the slightly stronger meds and his closest friend reducing the pain to a tolerable level. The fact his crush on Data was all-consuming only meant he had something to distract himself from what pain remained. “And Alyssa was just being nice, you know how I’d love to take an evening off to fool around on the holodeck.” Geordie immediately regretted his choice of words, but Data remained oblivious, his concerned head tilt still in place.

“Nurse Ogawa is not known for the benevolent prescription of unnecessary sick leave, Geordie.” He opened his mouth as if to suggest something, before closing it again and taking a step forward, placing his hand on Geordie’s shoulder. Now, it was Geordie’s chest that was under considerable pressure. “Do not hesitate to contact me if necessary. I must return to duty.”

Geordie chuckled in order to hide his disappointment at the loss of Data’s hand on his shoulder, shaking his head fondly. “No problem, Data. I’ll do that.”

Geordie was nearly out the door of Sickbay when Data called after him. “I shall see you at poker tonight, Geordie.”

It didn’t sound like a question, but Geordie knew Data well enough to know he was hoping to prompt a response. “I dunno, buddy. I’m kinda tired, if I’m being honest. I’ll let you know later, ok?”

Data blinked once, then twice, then nodded, his head adjusting itself into a neuteral position. “That is satisfactory.”

This time, Geordie laughed, the pain in his shoulders creeping up on him slowly once again, despite Data’s adorable half-attempt at a wave as the doors slid shut behind him. “Computer, what time is it?”

The shrill chime that preceded the response didn’t particularly hurt his head, but Geordie could feel his shoulders tensing even further, and he knew beyond doubt there was no way he would make it to cards that evening.

That evening found Geordie still in one of those awful, shrieking showers. He’d been technically off-duty for an hour now, and desperately needed to take off his VISOR for ten minutes, but Barclay had taken one look at Gerodie’s drawn face and refused to leave him alone in the bathroom they were checking out. “Hey Reg, do me a favour?” Geordie needed to get him out of the room so he could slip off his VISOR and massage his temples. That, or he needed to stop working with the shower on; the high frequencies were really not helping his situation.

“Sir?” Barclay’s hands had stuttered to a sudden stop the minute his commanding officer had spoken.

“Could you run and grab a coffee? The Gamma Shift doesn’t start for another five minutes, we can take a break from this instantaneous reporting.” Geordie didn’t take his head out from the panelling they had removed half an hour ago, afraid Reg would see the pained twist he could feel in his lips and call Dr.Crusher. He knew he could handle it, it wasn’t the worst pain he’d ever had from his VISOR, and he’d managed to subtly administer another hypo when he’d gone to grab them both a water around twenty minutes ago.

“Yessir.” Was Barclay’s anxious reply, and there was a prolonged silence between his response and the sound of the doors opening and shutting. They’d had to shut down all replicator and environmental control activity while they worked, which meant Geordie had five minutes to give his head a well-deserved break. Clicking the VISOR out of its terminals and heaving a sigh of relief, Geordie felt his head swim. Taking a few steadying breaths, he fumbled blindly at the sonic shower’s controls, silently cursing himself for not having shut it off before removing the VISOR. Only succeeding in shifting the tuning to an impossibly more painful frequency, Geordie sat down on the floor of the shower, back pressed against the back wall, head falling back against the cool slate. He rubbed at his eyes. “Goddamn.” His sigh made his head swim once more, and his subsequent calming breaths only served to worsen the sensation. The constant drone pressed down on his head so much the pain from that morning seemed as intimidating as... Geordie couldnt think properly; he could only conjure up an image of Data as he worked at his desk in his quarters, resolutely ignoring Spot on his stack of PADDs, aside from his gentle, regular strokes. The image made him smile, which caused his tensed muscles in his neck and shoulders to spasm, violently. Again, the deep breathing Deanna had helped him with when he’d first arrived on the ship did nothing but worsen the sensation.

Geordie dragged his shaking hand down his face, which came away damp with what Geordie briefly considered to be sweat, before everything went black.

There was a hand on either side of his face, a comforting pressure being applied by what felt like a pair of thumbs around the terminals on his temples. “Do not be alarmed, Geordie.”

Data was whispering, Geordie noted, and his tender head thanked the android for it. “Data? What happened?”

The thumbs stopped rubbing briefly, but resumed without hesitation when Geordie accidentally, slightly whimpered at the loss. “You passed out while completing your tests on the malfunctioning sonic showers. Dr.Crusher administered a variety of medications which she noted in your medical log, if you would like for me to read them to you?”

Despite his hushed tones, Geordie’s head really wasn’t going to put up with any noise for very much longer. “No, no talking, please, Data.” he managed to get out, curling up a little, before starting, which caused his shoulders to spasm lightly. “Wait, my VISOR-” Data’s hands shifted to the problematic muscles immediately, massaging firmly.

“I have your VISOR on the arm of your couch to my left. However, given the negative effect it has had on your condition throughout the day, Dr.Crusher has requested you refrain from replacing it this evening.” There was a pause as a mildly confused but very tired and complacent Geordie allowed himself to be gently manoeuvred into a reclined position, his head in Data’s lap while the second officer returned his hands to Geordie’s head. “I am here to assist you in every way possible, and I have downloaded various massage techniques frequently used on those who suffer from long-term, extreme tension headaches.”

“Why?” Geordie mumbled, slowly drifting off despite the pressure slowly returning with a vengeance behind his eyes.

Another pause, the hands stilled. Geordie frowned and they started to move again, but the silence continued. Just as Geordie was about to fall asleep, Data spoke. “You are my friend.”

“Huh?”

“I am helping you because you are my friend, Geordie.”

Geordie smiled softly, shaking his head. “I know that Data.”

Another pause, much more brief, and the hands did not stop their gentle rubbing on his delicate head. “What was the purpose of your inquiry, Geordie?”

And Geordie, as much as he wanted Data to know, he couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t say he wanted Data to be there because he liked the domesticity of this situation, to be there not only to massage his knotted muscles and play nurse, but to hold his hand, to kiss his forehead, to... “No purpose, Data.” He sighed softly, settling further into his best friend. “None at all.”

His breathing had lengthened, he was almost fully asleep but not quite there yet, when he felt cool lips press against one of the terminals, then the skin right beside it.

“Hmmm, Data?”

A pause. “Yes, Geordie?”

A mumble, the beginnings of a snore.

Slightly more urgently, “Geordie?”

“Said, I l’ve ya,,,”

Several minutes of soft snores and gentle massages later, an almost unintelligible: “I believe... I am in love with you also.”

fin

i was going to put in a bit about Data finding Geordie because he hadn’t gotten back to him about the poker but then i felt like it took from the kind of,,, geordie pov vibe i had going idk

hope you enjoyed!

sorry for all the inevitable typos i did this on my ipad and i didnt proof read because i’m kinda using this one shot prompt thing as a warm up to writing as opposed to actually writing fic? idk if that makes sense but i enjoyed writing it and i hope you enjoy reading it!

[raywritesthings]

Not Set in Stone

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Cisco Ramon, Laurel Lance, Oliver Queen, Barry Allen, Thea Queen, Quentin Lance, Felicity Smoak, John Diggle, Iris West, Samantha Clayton Pairings: Eventual Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen Summary: Before the Flash and Arrow teams return home from defeating Vandal Savage, Cisco's powers warn him about an event in Laurel's future. The limited knowledge of this possible future has a ripple effect all of its own. *Can be read on my AO3 or FFN, links are in bio*

Things were winding down at the farmhouse now that Vandal Savage was little more than ashes. Cisco wished he could enjoy the victory, but he was too busy watching Kendra standing with Carter across the room as they talked to Barry and Oliver. Cisco was pretty sure he was officially dumped, even if they hadn’t had the conversation yet.

Before he could get too deep into his wallowing, however, a voice pulled him out of his musings. “Hey, Cisco, can I ask you a favor?”

He looked up and to his left. Laurel stood there, and a part of him still had trouble believing someone as awesome and gorgeous as her would give him the time of day. He’d thought the same about Kendra, too, and look how that had turned out.

“Sure. Uh, step into my office?” He suggested, gesturing towards the far less crowded hall. She nodded with a smile and followed him.

“So, I don’t know how much any of the others may have said, but my sister is back. Sara.”

“The Canary?” When Laurel nodded, Cisco’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But, I thought she was dead.” Caitlin had run a DNA test on the murder weapon and everything.

“She was, but there was this magic that I used to bring her back,” Laurel explained. She seemed to sense he was pretty bowled over by that news, for she quickly added, “And it can’t be used anymore, so it doesn’t really matter, but the point is she’s struggling to figure out what she wants to do with her life now. She had trouble suiting up in the field. Her old suit, I think it reminds her of her life with the League and that makes it harder.”

“Okay,” Cisco agreed, still at a loss.

“I wanted to see if you could make her something new, like how you did for Oliver.”

Oh. That was better, much more familiar territory. “Yeah, totally. I mean, I’ll need measurements and idea input and stuff, but I can get on it. Might not be done in time for Christmas.”

“That’s okay,” Laurel assured him. “She’s traveling right now, so I’d just like to have it for the next time she visits.”

“Great.” He was excited just thinking about a new project, and it helped distract him from his romantic woes.

“Okay, do you have an estimate on what that might cost?”

He waved a hand. “Don’t worry about it. I just bill STAR Labs for the materials. Barry should probably get on that, though.”

“Alright, well, thank you so much.” Laurel smiled again and offered a hand to shake on it. He grinned back and took it.

Then the whole world shifted around him.

Everything became tinted that blue color he associated with his visions, and Cisco gasped at the sudden transition. Then he nearly did again when he was able to focus enough to see what was in front of him.

Laurel, on the ground, an arrow embedded into her abdomen through the jacket of her Black Canary suit. Blood trickled out of her mouth as she barely kept herself sitting up with a hand braced on the concrete floor.

And the arrow, even with the blue haze that covered everything, was green.

He jolted back to himself, gasping for breath.

“Cisco? Are you okay?” Laurel’s other hand was on his shoulder as she watched him with concern. He gripped the hand that he still held even tighter as his head shook.

“No. Oh, no, no, that can’t be possible.”

“Cisco, talk to me.”

He stared back at her. How did he even try to explain? What would explaining do? “I- I vibed just now. With my powers.”

“Your powers?”

He nodded. “They let me see things. Like on other Earths or in the future. I… I may have just seen the future. Your future.”

Laurel took a moment to process that information. “Something tells me it wasn’t good.”

Cisco shook his head, his eyes stinging. His throat threatened to close up just thinking about it. If that was the future — Laurel dying, her own teammate’s arrow the murder weapon — why was he shown it? Why did his visions always seem to herald some kind of doom?

Some laughter came from the main sitting room. The room where Oliver was. His breathing picked up just realizing that fact. Cisco pulled on Laurel’s hand to lead her further back into the house. They ended up in the kitchen.

“Okay, okay, if I saw it, then it has to mean something. I have to be able to do something about this, to fix it or- or I don’t know…”

“Maybe if you told me what happened in the thing you saw, we can figure it out together,” Laurel suggested.

“I really don’t want to,” Cisco said. “But okay. What I saw was, I think, you dying.”

Laurel sucked in a breath, her eyes wide. But she didn’t scream, didn’t cry. “How did it — does it… happen?”

“You were, or will be, in some kind of fight, or you were wearing your suit at least,” he told her, his voice hoarse. “You get stabbed by an arrow. Right here.” He placed his hand on his abdomen, closer to the right. “You were struggling to breath, it was- it was horrible. And the arrow… it was Oliver’s.”

Laurel’s face drained of the little color it had left. “No.”

He blinked to try and clear his blurry vision. “I don’t like it either, but that’s what I saw.”

“Did you see him?”

“No,” he admitted reluctantly.

Laurel’s chin raised, defiance in her eyes. “Then I refuse to believe it. Oliver would never.”

“He’s put arrows in people before,” Cisco couldn’t help pointing out, wilting under the sharp look Laurel threw him.

“He’s changed. And even in those days, he wouldn’t have done something like that. He was never cruel.” Laurel licked her lips and paced the tiny space in the kitchen. “It could be an imposter. That’s happened to him before. Or, worst case scenario, he’s drugged like Thea was last year. That’s the only way Ollie would ever do something like this.”

“We got to figure out how to stop him,” Cisco decided. “Or how to stop that happening to him,” he amended to avoid upsetting her again.

But Laurel just looked at him, lost. “Can we even do that? You said you saw the future. Doesn’t it have to happen?”

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “I mean, it can’t be, right? What’s the point of me having these powers if, if I can’t do anything with them? Save people?”

“Cisco, it’s not your job to save me,” Laurel said, watching him with compassion.

“But I—”

Footsteps and a shadow falling into the room caused him to snap his mouth shut, and he was grateful a million times over that he had. Oliver stood in the kitchen archway.

“I was just getting some water,” he said, nodding to the refrigerator over Cisco’s shoulder. “Was I interrupting something?”

“No.” Laurel said right away. “Um, I was just asking Cisco for some help with a present for Sara. Let me get that water for you.” She turned to the cabinets to search for a clean glass.

Oliver shifted one step further into the room. Cisco placed himself in between him and Laurel, shaking in his shoes with both anger and fear.

In an out-and-out fight, he could never hope to do anything against Oliver. The man had held his own against Barry while the speedster had been in a meta-induced rage, for crying out loud! But was that going to stop Cisco from trying? No.

Oliver eyed him for a moment, his expression unreadable. Did they really even know each other? Did Cisco really know what he might be capable of? Laurel trusted him, but was that trust unfounded given what they now knew?

“Here.” Laurel’s hand landed on his shoulder as she moved around him to give Oliver the water glass.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” And he didn’t know how Laurel continued to keep smiling at the man she’d just learned would have at least a hand in her potential death — except Cisco knew that look in her eyes, of watching someone slip away from you to stand with someone else across the room. Of pretending to be happy with all the rest. Cisco had worn that very look barely twenty minutes ago, even if it felt like a lifetime from now.

She loved him.

As Oliver disappeared through the archway, Laurel turned back to Cisco and spoke in a hushed tone. “We can’t tell anyone else what you saw.”

“But they should know if he’s—”

“We don’t know what Oliver will do. It’s an unsubstantiated claim based on circumstantial evidence. It would destroy the team, disrupt his campaign and throw everything we have all worked for the last four years into question.”

“But it’s your life!” He barely managed to keep his exclamation to a whisper.

“So it’s my choice. Please, Cisco. At least until we can learn more.”

She was begging him with her eyes, and what could he really do? March into that sitting room and declare they throw Oliver in the pipeline? He’d look as crazy as Barry had when locking up Jay. His shoulders slumped. “Okay.”

She gave him a last, strained smile and disappeared through the archway, going upstairs as opposed to joining the others in the sitting room. Cisco’s eyes narrowed as he noticed Oliver following Laurel’s movement before Felicity got his attention again.

Laurel would never believe Oliver capable of striking the killing blow, so it would be up to Cisco to look at this objectively and make the necessary precautions. They’d just prevented history from repeating itself by saving Kendra and Carter tonight.

Now it was up to him to change the future.

---

Laurel didn’t sleep at all that night, a fact she thankfully managed to conceal from Thea who was sharing her room in the farmhouse. If Thea had asked about it, she wouldn’t have known what to tell her.

How did she even begin to describe knowing she was going to die?

She didn’t know much about how these metahuman abilities worked, but they seemed to be accurate. If Cisco had seen it, was there any real way of avoiding it? Or was he just saying they could prevent it to try and give her some false hope? Laurel wasn’t sure if she wanted that or not.

The team packed their things back up and waited for Oliver, Barry and Cisco to return from seeing Cisco off. Cisco was almost dogging Oliver’s steps as he approached them at the van, and Laurel gave a little warning shake of the head. Oliver was far too trained not to pick up on repeated aggression like that, and she didn’t want Cisco getting in trouble over all this — not that she thought Oliver would hurt him. She couldn’t see Oliver hurting any of them, so how could that vision be real?

“We ready to go?”

Laurel nodded along with the rest of them and got in the van. She tuned out the conversations being had, trying to think her options through.

She might be dying soon. She needed a will. Did she have much to leave people? There wasn’t much she really owned beyond clothes and her car.

Her lease. Thea needed to sign on in order to keep the apartment after. She’d have to make up some sort of excuse as to why she was asking her friend to do so now. Something that didn’t make it sound like she was getting her affairs in order so Thea wouldn’t wind up homeless once she was gone.

It occurred to her halfway into the drive that Oliver didn’t look to be contributing much to any talking in the van, either. His gaze was turned towards the window, watching the scenery pass as John drove on. What was he thinking about? Did she even dare to ask?

They returned to their daily routines back home, and Laurel did her best to pretend nothing was wrong all the while preparing. She took a lunch meeting to get her will officially filed. She attended a couple AA meetings with her dad to check up on his progress and make sure he was sticking to it. She started leaving detailed notes about each of her cases, for whoever might have to pick up the pieces of her job and her life after her.

Every time she suited up with the others now, a tiny voice asked in the back of her mind, Is it tonight? Am I going to die? She forced herself to ignore it. Forced herself to ignore the flutter of fear that went through her every time she passed by the line of newly hardened arrows on a table in the base, green tips pointed upward.

It couldn’t really be him. There had to be some other reason or person involved. By the time she was racing down the streets on her bike or in the thick of a fight with her tonfas and her fists, it was barely a thought in her head. It was the only time she could truly let go of that thought and just be.

And then the others were all abducted at Oliver’s holiday party and Malcolm arrived to play the Green Arrow’s double to help rescue them.

It could be him. Laurel’s heart thudded in her ears as she finished suiting up, watching Malcolm every second out of the corner of her eye. Was he really here to help, or was he about to betray her for the final time?

But it didn’t come. Malcolm helped them, and all her friends were safe. Back at the Bunker, they regrouped as a team.

“I’ll have to thank him,” Oliver noted and stopped there. Laurel didn’t know what to think. Was her thanks implied or just not deemed necessary?

She turned away and walked off to the empty side room, ignoring the confused or surprised looks of her team members. It wasn’t that she did this for thanks or for credit — but was it so hard for him to acknowledge when she actually did something right? He’d promised to be a better friend, but here she was wondering already if that promise was sincere. If he was supposed to kill her…

No. Laurel gave a sharp shake of the head. She couldn’t let herself give into those doubts. Oliver was a good man. He was the man, God help her, she still loved; broken and jagged and ill-fitting as they had been, he held her heart in his hands, not her life.

And of course he was the one to follow her to where she’d retreated. “Laurel?” Oliver stopped just a couple of feet from her. “Was there something wrong?”

“No. It’s just—” She shrugged. “Malcolm wasn’t the only person there tonight, you know?”

Oliver’s head bowed as his eyes squeezed shut for a moment. “He wasn’t. You’re right, I — thank you,” he said.

Laurel’s lips pressed tight together, trying to force a smile. It was stupid, dragging it out of him like this.

“Are we okay?”

“You should get Felicity home. She went through a lot tonight.” John and Thea had as well, but the former would likely only let his wife in on any fear or vulnerability leftover, and Laurel would see to the latter. She marched past Oliver to do just that, skirting around him with a wider berth than necessary.

“I know it wasn’t easy for you to work with him after everything,” Oliver said, making her pause in the archway for a moment. “So really, thank you.”

Laurel looked back at him. “I’ll do whatever it takes to keep the people I love safe. Just like you would.”

“Yeah.” He nodded, and she couldn’t detect even the slightest hesitation or deception. She wanted to believe that wasn’t just naivety on her part.

Laurel left and was barely home with Thea for an hour when they got the call from Oliver that Felicity had been hospitalized after an ambush on the couple’s car. They went to join him, but Oliver hardly seemed to want to be there. He was manic in his need to see Darhk pay, making reckless decisions and risking the progress they’d made in bringing peace to the city, in working together as a team. She couldn’t believe he’d broken Machin out without even talking to the rest of them so they could show him just how badly that could go wrong.

“And when your master plan doesn't work, you just sent a murdering psychotic back on the streets,” she told him. 

Oliver advanced a step, his face thunderous and eyes flashing and she—

She couldn’t help it. She backed away. She wasn’t in her suit, there was no bow and arrow in his hand and it was Oliver. But had she finally gone too far, pushed this strange contentious thing between them, stood in defiance too many times?

He froze, his shoulders dropping back, his fists unclenching. “Laurel?” Something like hurt, like fear of his own took over his features.

“What’s going on?” John’s voice seemed to startle both of them, and Laurel realized she’d completely forgotten what they’d been fighting about.

“I… you tell him.” She rushed out of the room, wiping at the few tears that managed to slip past her eyelids.

How could she have really thought that? In all their fights, in all the various ways Oliver had ever hurt her, had he ever struck out at her physically? She was losing control, too much knowledge of her own impending future clouding her common sense and making her jump at shadows. She needed to get a grip. The team needed her, for however long she could be with them. 

And she didn’t want anyone thinking she couldn’t handle this life; however it ended, being the Black Canary was the one thing that kept her going when everything else seemed to fall around her. They’d have to kill her first to ever take it away.

So Laurel managed to regroup in time to take care of Machin with Speedy and Spartan while Oliver finally went to see his fiancée in the hospital. She told herself to live in the moment and forget about the future for now. No more living in fear.

And then, of course, her sister came back just in time to turn everything upside down for her.

“Time travel. I can’t believe we’re talking about it like it’s actually real.” Seeing the future was one thing, but being able to go there and interact with it?

What if Sara could go to that day that was waiting for Laurel? What if she was the key?

Yet she still couldn’t say when it would happen. She’d be sending her sister on a wild goose chase if she told her what Cisco had seen, and what if there was nothing she could do? She didn’t want Sara blaming herself for Laurel’s death the way their father had blamed himself all those years Sara had been away thanks to the League.

In that same vein, it would be better that Sara was as far from here as possible, so she couldn’t feel it was her fault. “I think you should go.”

She couldn’t ask Sara to stay. She never could, and Laurel didn’t want to be treated as some invalid on her deathbed. She didn’t want to keep Sara to herself if it meant the pallor of death hung over all their final memories. So she gave her the suit she’d asked Cisco to make and sent her to find herself. It was the best thing for her sister. It was all she could give her.

She hoped it was enough. For Sara, for the others. She hoped she was doing the right thing for them.

---

Barry wished he knew what had gotten into his friend.

At first he had thought Cisco was acting strangely thanks to being left behind by Kendra. Now that he and Patty had gone their separate ways, he could relate even. But Cisco’s behavior spoke of more than a broken heart.

The engineer had been keeping late hours. Now that Barry was in charge of the running of STAR Labs, he noticed things like that more and more, when he bothered to look at the papers. Cisco had also been ordering a lot of textiles, which told him he was working on at least a fair number of extracurricular projects.

But what really had Barry concerned was the sheer mania Cisco had exhibited earlier today when they’d been working against the clock to save Dr. McGee’s life. When Barry had gotten to her, averting the death Cisco had foreseen, his friend shouted for joy so loudly Barry had been tempted to take the comm out of his ear.

Of course, he was glad that Dr. McGee was still with them, too, but he suspected there was something more to it than that. Especially since Cisco was right back to feverishly working away.

Cisco had rigged something like those machines that fired baseballs for people to practice hitting. Only instead of baseballs, this machine fired arrows straight into a mannequin torso wearing a black bodysuit. Previous models stood in the background, testament to repeated failures.

“Damnit!” Cisco smacked his fist against the wall as the latest arrow pierced the material the mannequin was wearing.

“Uh, dude?” Barry asked, feeling he’d seen enough to warrant stepping in. “What’s going on?”

“Testing some designs.”

“Okay, well it’s getting late.”

“I’m fine, dude,” Cisco said, his voice terse as he moved the mannequin to the side to join its fellows.

“I’m not sure you are.” He took a couple steps further into the room. “You should get some rest.”

“It can wait.”

“Cisco—”

His friend whirled around to shout at him. “It has to wait, Barry! We- we changed time today without time traveling and that is huge, and I have to figure out how to do it again because if I don’t? Laurel’s going to get killed with a green arrow!”

“What?” He couldn’t have heard that right.

“I vibed. Last time we all met up, Laurel was talking to me and we touched hands and I vibed that she was… she’s going to die, Barry.” Cisco’s eyes were red-rimmed and his voice wavered badly. “Unless I stop it, he’s gonna kill her.”

Barry shook his head. “Not- not Oliver. You didn’t see him. Right? It wasn’t him in the vision.”

“I didn’t see anyone else. But it was his arrow, man, I know it was.”

Barry sat hard on the end of the table Cisco had covered in spare materials and notes. He just couldn’t believe it. Oliver wasn’t the killer he had been, and even then he had never killed someone as good and loyal as Laurel. His friend had just discovered he was a father; he would be doing everything he could to be the kind of man William could look up to. So how could this be?

“Walk me through the vision. Everything you remember seeing. What did it look like?”

“I don’t know. It was kind of… gray? I think the walls and everything were concrete.” Cisco walked over and sat beside him, one hand dragging through his hair as he concentrated. “But there was something else.”

“Another person?”

“No. But I think it might have been a sign on the wall. Something- something about a security level?”

“Just focus on that, forget about Laurel or the arrow for a second,” Barry encouraged him. He was sure that was all his friend would have been concentrating on when he first had the vision, and likely the subsequent nightmares. “Is there something else in the room?”

Cisco’s eyes were squeezed shut. “Maybe… a table. Like in a cafeteria. There’s some weird statue-thing sitting on it. That’s all I got.”

“Okay… you don’t see a time or a landmark or anything?” When his friend shook his head, Barry blew out a breath. “So this could happen any time.”

“Any time they’re both out in the field, yeah.”

“Who else knows?”

“Just Laurel.”

“Just — dude, you told her she was gonna die?”

Cisco stood back up just seconds after he did. “Well, I wasn’t exactly able to hide my reaction to seeing her die when she was standing right in front of me, okay? These powers — I barely understand how they work and it’s rarely in any kind of way I want. I’d rather have not seen it at all, but I don’t get that option!”

He knew that, and he knew blaming Cisco was useless, but God, imagining going through life with an imminent death sentence hanging over you… what did Laurel have to be feeling right now?

“Has she told anyone? Her family? Oliver?”

“Why would she tell him?”

“So he can figure out how to keep it from happening?”

“We don’t know that he’s not the one who’s going to do it,” Cisco pointed out darkly. “Telling him might just be like some kind of self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“She really thinks he would?” Barry considered Oliver a good friend, and he believed in him. But Laurel was his teammate, worked with him every day. He actually didn’t know how long they’d known each other, come to think of it. If she really thought it was possible, what did that mean?

But Cisco gave a shake of the head. “No, she’s with you. Thinks there has to be something else, and that’s why she doesn’t want him to know. She’s more worried about him than herself,” he said, hitting his palm with his fist in frustration.

“Wow.” He’d had no idea Laurel cared that much for Oliver. If he found out tomorrow that one of his friends might be implicated in his death, would he have that same capacity for care, even over his own life? Maybe if it was someone he loved; after all, he had forgiven Patty with hardly a thought for trapping him with the B.O.O.T. while she went after Mardon.

Did Laurel love Oliver? His head felt like it was spinning with all these new revelations, and Barry knew even one secret more than everyone else: William. Had Oliver told anyone else? Who all knew what?

Whatever anyone knew, the thing he knew right now was that Cisco looked dead on his feet. “Look, I get how important this is. But you’re working yourself into the ground. Get some rest, and we can attack it from a whole new angle tomorrow.”

Cisco sighed in defeat. “Yeah, you’re probably right. I just don’t want…”

“None of us want that,” Barry assured him. Certainly the Oliver he knew wouldn’t. “And we won’t let it happen, alright? Just like with Dr. McGee.”

His friend nodded, looking heartened, before he left the workroom. Barry’s gaze swept over the skewered mannequins, his lips pressing tight together. What were they actually going to do?

There was very little that could stop an arrow once it was fired at a person, provided they weren’t a metahuman with some kind of exoskeleton or invulnerability. The best way to protect Laurel would be to figure out precisely where and when the vision Cisco had seen was to take place.

Despite his own advice, Barry found himself tossing and turning alone in his bed as he thought it over. He wasn’t sleeping well without Patty there to wake and calm him from his nightmares about Zoom anyway, so he told himself it was probably better to put his mind to use.

A concrete room, with cafeteria-style tables and a sign about a security level. Barry wasn’t an expert in Star City geography or its landmarks, but something about Cisco’s description stood out to him, made him feel like it meant something. Maybe one of the others would have a better idea.

But how many of them could they tell? Did knowledge of Cisco’s vibes pose the same risk as knowledge of time travel? And if he told one member of their team, it was likely to get out to the rest.

If he could just talk to one person, like his dad…

And it hit him suddenly why the place Cisco had described seemed familiar in some way to him. He had been there countless times throughout the years, ever since he was eleven and his father had been wrongfully imprisoned.

Barry sat straight up in bed.

“It happens at Iron Heights.”

---

Oliver didn’t know what the right decision to make anymore was.

He had agreed to Samantha’s ultimatum because it was the only way for him to get to know his son. He had proposed to Felicity because it was the only way to keep her from thinking he was having second thoughts about moving their relationship forward. No matter that he should be happy, having just become a father and a fiancé, he found himself plagued by a sense of unease. And the source of that unease had shocked him.

Laurel.

He couldn’t quite pin down when it had started. Around the holidays, he thought. Laurel had grown tense and withdrawn; her usual smiles seemed strained and she’d stopped seeking him out for partner training, turning to John or Thea instead. He’d been so caught up in his own adjustments since learning about William that it had taken some time for these changes to register in his conscious mind, and it had taken their argument about Machin for it to really break through.

The way she had taken an involuntary step back from him, her sharp gasp of breath and the widening of her eyes — he had only ever been faced with that look from her once before; when she had stopped him from beating a man to death in Iron Heights prison. It was fear.

He hadn’t known what to do, a rash, ill-thought out retort dying on his lips as he’d realized she was afraid of him. When had that happened? And why?

Did she somehow know his secret? The affair he had never disclosed? Was it making her question him? His very character, his intentions?

He couldn’t stand the idea. Lord knew Laurel had every right to doubt the efforts he was trying to make to better himself for his city and for his loved ones. But she had always put aside her own hurts to encourage him; at her best, she had always believed in him before. Was this just one hurt too far?

Guilt kept him awake as he lay on the couch in the loft, Felicity needing the bed to herself with her condition now that she had been released from the hospital. He just couldn’t see an easy solution to this. Telling Laurel the truth on his own might restore her faith in him, but it broke Samantha’s ultimatum. Leaving things be meant losing his oldest friend and possibly destroying the team’s functionality. 

The thing was, he was so sick of always letting her down. He still felt the bitter sting of her words from almost a year ago: it’s hard to remember a time when I was ever in love with you.

He wondered uneasily for a moment why that hurt so much. It wasn’t as if he would want Laurel to be in love with him still while he was with someone else. She deserved to be happy someday. She deserved so much better.

He found himself rising from the couch and stepping into his shoes, grabbing the keys to his bike from the pocket of his coat on his way out the door. His decision was made.

It was late, he knew, but he also knew Laurel tended to stay up past even their forays into the field in order to catch up on work from her day job. She had always been that way. And people wondered when he slept.

Sure enough, Laurel answered the door in a baseball tee and pajama pants. “Oliver?” He was glad to see it was mostly confusion on her face rather than the fear from before. “Is everything okay with Felicity?”

“Yeah. She’s fine. Resting, but as fine as she can be, considering.” He was let into the front hallway and studied Laurel as she closed the door. “I guess I’m wondering if we’re okay.”

She tensed, and her voice was carefully light as she asked, “What do you mean?”

“Things have been different the last month or so. And I think I know why, and I’m sorry.”

Her face scrunched up for a moment. “You’re sorry?”

Was that so hard to believe? He turned, walking a little into the living room while he figured out just how he was saying this. “I am. It wasn’t fair to you. It never was, and I know I should have just been honest all those years ago—”

“Ollie, wait. What’s this really about?” She’d followed him and looked just as confused as he felt.

“Then… you don’t know?”

Laurel shrugged. “Safe answer when it comes to you is yes.”

He winced. Now he’d really done it. Laurel didn’t know about William, but she had to be incredibly curious as to why he’d brought up the past. And her not already knowing didn’t change the reasons why he’d felt compelled to tell her. “You might want to sit down,” he said quietly, eyes on her rug.

“Okay…”

He pursed his lips together, and began, “Do you remember Samantha Clayton?”

Laurel blinked. “Yeah. She went out with everyone to the clubs a few times, why?”

“One of the times she was there and you weren’t, we…” He hated himself for being unable to just say it. He was a damned coward, no matter how many people he saved at night.

Laurel’s breath caught, and he saw her blink back the shock and the pain. “I see. Why tell me now?”

“I should have told you years ago. It wasn’t fair to pretend it never happened, especially because — I’m a father, Laurel.”

It was the first time he’d truly gotten to say the words out loud. Barry had told him and Samantha of course had already known.

“How’d you find out?” He was sure she was using the questions as something different to focus on rather than the betrayal she had to be feeling.

“I ran into her when we were in Central City. She’s been living there, since… well, I was always told that she’d lost the baby, but it turns out my mother paid her to tell me that and then move away.”

“Oh, Ollie.” She half-stood. “I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t know what to think about that. I mean, Lord knows the person I was then wasn’t ready. But why couldn’t she have told me when I came back? When she could see that I’d changed? I — I‘ve lost almost nine years with him.” He knew he was ranting and that she was the last person who deserved to have all of this unloaded on him. “Or why couldn’t she have just left me to pick up the pieces of my own mess? I would have stayed home and never taken Sara on the Gambit.”

“But your son would have been made into a spectacle,” Laurel pointed out, the same as his own inner voice did. “Considering how much you’ve struggled with being your father’s son all these years, I’d hate to have watched him grow up under a scandal like that.”

“William,” he murmured to his toes. “That’s his name.”

“What are you doing about William now? Has Samantha agreed to look at custody arrangements?”

He shook his head and sank wearily onto the other end of the couch. “She wants to be sure that I’ve changed my ways before even telling him, and she asked me not to tell anyone in my own life. Barry knows because I had him run the paternity test.” In one version of time, at least, or so he’d been told.

“Then why tell me? You’re risking your chance with him.”

“I know. But you deserved the truth.” He finally forced himself to meet her eyes; they were shining in the lamplight, and he knew that was from her holding so much back. “I want to be in William’s life, but I want to teach him to be better than me, too. If I can’t be honest to a woman I wronged and who is kind enough to still consider me a friend, how can I be the kind of father or role model he needs?”

Laurel reached across the space between them and took his hands. He watched her lips press tight together as she swallowed once, then said, “You’re more than that. You’re a hero. And one day, William will know that.”

He gripped her hand tight in his, so much feeling in his heart he worried his chest might burst. Relief, regret, gratefulness and, beneath it all, an old, bone-deep longing, so raw and so powerful it took his breath away for a moment.

He forced himself to let go and push the feelings back down, clearing his throat with a gruff, “Thanks.”

“Thank you for being honest,” she returned.

“I am sorry.”

Laurel’s lips pursed, a smile that hadn’t quite made it. She drew back and waved a hand over herself. “Hey, ancient history, right?”

There was a warble in her voice that made the joke fall flat. Oliver knew he should go. She was putting on a brave face so he wouldn’t have to see the hurt he had caused. But he couldn’t help this strange need to be there by her side, to help ease the pain he himself had brought on her.

“Can I get you anything?”

“Maybe just some water,” she said after a moment, her gaze far away.

Oliver got up to get it, glad to have some space to himself in the kitchen for a moment. He still didn’t understand; if Laurel hadn’t known about William, then what was going on between them? Why did her mind seem to be somewhere he just couldn’t quite reach her?

He got the glass down from the cabinet she kept it in, his motions as familiar as if he were in his own kitchen he knew the place so well. It was a comfort, being here and opening up to her like this.

Oliver couldn’t help questioning Barry’s warning about Felicity's reaction in the original timeline. Surely if Laurel, who would have had every reason to hate him, scream and throw him out of her home, had handled the information with such grace and compassion, his own fiancée would do the same. Felicity loved him as he did her, so why wouldn’t she be understanding? He would talk to Samantha tomorrow about having told Laurel — he could hardly see how she could object considering Laurel had been involuntarily involved in even a tangential way — before asking her again about telling Felicity.

Just as he had decided this, there was a whoosh of air out in the sitting room, and then he heard none other than Barry’s voice. “Laurel! Great, I caught you awake. Listen, I think I figured part of the vision out.”

“The vision?” He heard the creak of Laurel’s floorboards and had a feeling she’d just stood up. “Cisco told you?”

Oliver frowned. What vision was this? What did Cisco and Barry know? He crept out to the hall on the balls of his feet, minimizing the sound it made.

“It kind of slipped out. But he described some of the surroundings, and I have a pretty good idea of where it’s supposed to happen: Iron Heights.”

He peered around the corner. Sure enough, Barry was gesturing excitedly as he talked, but Oliver was forced to momentarily duck behind the wall again as Laurel’s nervous gaze flickered in his direction.

“Okay, but Barry, wait—”

“As long as we keep you away from there, you’re not going to die!”

There was a shatter of glass, but it was only when water started seeping through his shoes into his socks that Oliver realized it had been from him dropping the glass in his hand.

He couldn’t have heard right, or he was missing something or he just misunderstood. Why would Barry say Laurel was going to die? She couldn’t.

In a flicker of sudden movement, his friend was standing in front of him, eyes wide. “Oh, God, I did not realize you would be here.”

Laurel appeared in his line of sight next, a hand over her mouth and her eyes glossy and wide. Oliver didn’t think he pushed Barry aside, but it was hard to say in his sudden move to reach her. His hands landed on her shoulders. “Laurel, what’s going on?”

“I…” Laurel drew in a shaky breath. “I was told by Cisco that I’m going to die. That I’ll be killed,” she amended. “I don’t know when, but probably soon.”

This had to be some cruel joke. Or a nightmare. It couldn’t be real.

But Laurel was real under his hands. Her pain and worry and the certainty in which she spoke told him this wasn’t some lie.

He looked back at Barry. “What happens at Iron Heights?”

His friend shifted, uncomfortable, then spoke towards the floor. “All Cisco saw was Laurel bleeding from an arrow in her side.”

“An arrow?” His stomach flipped, and a vision of his own — a reoccurring nightmare he’d had all of last year — rose to the forefront of his mind. Laurel in the place of her sister, dead on a table in the base.

“Not just an arrow,” Laurel spoke, barely above a whisper. “Cisco says… it looks like one of yours.”

“No.” In all his worst, darkest fears, nothing so horrible as that had ever crossed his mind. “It can’t- I would never—”

“I know. I know you wouldn’t,” she said, shifting one step closer, and he couldn’t believe that she could possibly be smiling at a time like this — except he felt her shoulders shaking and saw the relief in her eyes. “I know it’s not you, Ollie.”

He pulled her close without a thought, her head tucked under his chin and his hand running through her hair. He still had so many questions, but for now all he could do was hold her, wondering at how she had been carrying this burden practically on her own. She was so strong. Even the thought of losing her was enough to make his eyes water.

What caused them to spill over was the realization that she did still believe in him. She had overcome her fears, the very instinct to protect her own life, to keep working alongside him every day all while knowing what she did about the circumstances Cisco had foreseen.

Oliver gave a shaky exhale, his lips pressing to the top of her head for the briefest moment, and he felt Laurel’s hands clench the fabric of his shirt. She fit so perfectly here, he couldn’t ever imagine losing it much less being the cause. He had hurt her in the past — no matter what he did, he’d always seemed to hurt her — but by God, it ended tonight.

What was it they were missing? A copycat like the League last year? Someone else gaining possession of his weapons? He thought of Ra’s ripping the sword Oliver had chosen from his hands to plunge it through his side and shuddered. There was no way in Hell he could allow that to happen to Laurel. He would have to be dead first.

“Iron Heights,” he muttered, glancing over his shoulder, his cheek brushing against Laurel’s hair. “Barry, you’re sure?”

Barry hung back rather than approach, watching them. “Without seeing the vision myself? No. But everything in Cisco’s description of the place matches up. He also mentioned some sort of statue thing?”

A statue in the prison. Something didn’t add up, but he couldn’t think of it. Probably because he was exhausted. Laurel didn’t look much better. He thought he might likely be the only thing holding her up soon if he kept rubbing her back in soothing circles.

“You should rest,” he told her softly.

She shook her head. “I have to clean up the glass first.”

“I’ll get it,” Barry offered immediately and was gone and back with a broom and dustpan in the blink of an eye.

“Come on.” Oliver noticed her socked feet and chose to scoop her up in his arms to avoid anything while Barry finished sweeping. As he passed the spare room, he had to be grateful that Thea had always been a heavy sleeper even before the late nights that came with patrols.

He only set Laurel down once they reached her room. “Will you be okay?”

“I will. I think I needed to tell someone, even if I’m worried.” 

He could understand that better than most anyone, he thought. Having the truth out with her about Samantha and William just before this had been both relieving and one of the most terrifying things he had ever done.

She glanced up at him, raising a hand to cup his cheek while she implored him with her gaze. “Please don’t think, whatever happens, that this is your fault.”

“I won’t,” he promised. Maybe in another time, he would have thought that way. Been defeated before he even began. But it wasn’t his fault; it was his responsibility to ensure what Cisco had seen would never come to pass.

Laurel held his gaze for a long moment, and he thought neither of them dared to breathe. Then she withdrew and slipped through the doorway.

He shuffled back towards Barry, who regarded him with sympathy. “The less people that know about this, probably the better. It’s not exactly a science, but we don’t want to risk somehow setting things in stone.” At Oliver’s nod, Barry stepped up and placed a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll make sure Laurel’s safe, Ollie. Cisco thought he saw Dr. McGee die earlier this week but his vision helped us prevent it instead. It is possible.”

Hope, however faint, bloomed in his chest as he looked back at Laurel’s door. She could live through this. She could go on being with them. They still had time.

“Did, um, did something happen?” His friend’s question startled him, and Oliver turned with a frown towards Barry. “I mean, obviously the vision, but — you’re here kind of late. Is Felicity…?”

Right, Felicity. He needed to get back in case she had need for anything, though he thought the chances were slim considering most people were asleep at this time of night. “She’s at the loft. I should- I should go.”

“Yeah, me too,” Barry said, still scrutinizing him with the strangest look. But the speedster was gone in the next instant, leaving him alone in Laurel and Thea’s apartment. Oliver let himself out and made the solitary trek back to his own residence.

He called Samantha early the next morning to tell her the decision he’d made. “Laurel won’t share this with anyone, she’s not that kind of a person. But I should have been honest with her.”

“No, I agree,” Samantha said after a pause. “And if she wants to talk to me, you can pass on my number. I’ve always regretted that I didn’t apologize when I knew how much she — well, you’re a lucky man to still have someone like her in your life, Oliver.”

“I know,” he replied with solemnity, thinking of just how lucky he would be if they pulled this off. If they saved her.

There was another woman in his life, of course, and as he opened his mouth to ask Samantha for just the slightest bit more leniency, he heard that woman call down from the bedroom for assistance. “I have to go,” he said with some regret. “Thank you for understanding.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

Oliver hung up, his mind on the various futures he had been warned about. Could it be possible that Felicity’s reaction to learning the truth would be different than what Barry had seemingly experienced in the first timeline, just like Laurel’s fate would be different than what Cisco had foreseen? He felt hope for the latter, yet, as he climbed the steps to the bedroom he’d once shared with his fiancée, there was a sense of trepidation towards the former. If experience had taught him anything, it was that life was a series of choices. It wasn’t very often a person got both of the things they wanted.

What did it say that he already knew without hesitation which he would choose?

---

Felicity had always hated feeling like the odd woman out. In joining the team with Oliver and John along with now being engaged, she thought she’d never have to feel that way again.

And yet, here she was. On the outside looking in once again. Watching Oliver and Laurel.

Nothing had happened, from what she could tell. Laurel wasn’t that sort of girl to be the other woman, not after Oliver himself had cheated on her. They were just friends, and yet…

There was just a closeness that hadn’t been there for a long time. She didn’t know a better way to describe it. It seemed every time the group was down in the base, Oliver was working with Laurel on some aspect of her training. Strength on the salmon ladder, dodging and blocking, even catching arrows from midair!

He was using ones with foam tips for that purpose which he’d designed himself, along with a whole series of projects he had decided to take on for himself. “You know, I can work out the specs a lot faster,” she’d pointed out.

“I’ll run them by you. I just want to be sure.” Where this newfound interest in trick and non-lethal arrows had come from, she didn’t know, but he was honestly starting to remind her of the early days with his micromanaging tendencies. And with the whole Laurel thing.

Was this just his defense mechanism? Every time he got close to another woman, he started backing off and then would inevitably try to endear himself to Laurel again. He’d been pushing Felicity away before this latest turn, ever since they got back from Central, and if her mother hadn’t found that ring box who knew if they’d be here right now.

It wasn’t like he was ignoring the others when it came to training or teaming up in the field. She could just be exaggerating, letting insecurity get to her since her paralyzation. There was no proof of the suspicions she held, even if someone with Oliver’s track record didn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt.

And then she heard it. Late one night, as she lay somewhere between sleep and waking, a creaking of the couch downstairs. His voice crying out.

“Laurel… Laurel!”

Felicity struggled to force her body to sit up. “Oh, he is so not dreaming about her while I’m literally upstairs,” she grumbled under her breath before calling as loud as she could, “Oliver! Oliver!”

It took a demeaning amount of time for him to make it up to the room, with bloodshot eyes and a deliberate slowness to his breath that spoke of having to calm himself down. “Hey, everything okay?”

“Not really. I heard you,” she said pointedly.

He winced and sat down on the corner of the mattress. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Wow, that was what he thought she was upset about? “Well, you should have maybe thought about that before you started dreaming about another woman.”

He startled. “Felicity, I wasn’t — it’s not anything like that.”

“Really? Well, if you have a good explanation for why you were literally screaming Laurel’s name, I would love to hear it.”

His lips thinned into a line. “It’s not something I can share safely right now.”

Felicity scoffed. “How convenient for you. You know, I’ve been trying to put up with the secretiveness lately, trying to believe better of you, but this is not going to work if you can’t be honest with me.”

“Felicity, wait,” he said, reaching for her hand. “I promise, when the danger has passed, I will tell you everything. But it is not what you’re thinking.”

There was danger? But they were all in danger, weren’t they? As long as Darhk was around. She wavered, some of her anger receding.

“Laurel is my friend, someone I will do whatever I can to protect,” Oliver continued. “And she is always going to be in my life. That’s something anyone I love should know.”

And she had known it. But, the more she thought about it, the more she just couldn’t help it getting to her. No matter what happened in Oliver’s love life, Laurel was going to be there. Felicity could marry him or leave him, and it wouldn’t change that. She was not the constant in his life; Laurel was.

“I think Alex was right before,” she said quietly, surprising herself. And Oliver, judging by the widening of his eyes. But she wasn’t one for backing off a position once she’d taken it. “There’s too much history and baggage between you two for me to be comfortable with, especially when it just seems to draw you back together like this.” Even if he and Laurel were both determined to keep things totally platonic, there was no ignoring the deep care and even love that was in the looks they exchanged every so often.

“Laurel’s a part of the team, and we need everyone,” Oliver reminded her.

“Okay, but in the future I am asking for you to partner with either John or Thea in the field and to let John or Thea train with her.” She squeezed his hand, which had gone somewhat limp in hers. “That is not an unreasonable request considering your past.”

His head bowed. “I know I don’t deserve your trust, but Felicity, I have to keep training Laurel. That doesn’t change my love for you. Please don’t make me choose.”

“Because you can’t decide?” What sort of a man couldn’t decide between his fiancée and his ex?

But when Oliver remained silent, she realized he was decided. Felicity drew back, her hand pulling away from his. “I need you to go. Right now.”

“Felicity—”

“Go!” Couldn’t he respect the fact that she was trapped here and couldn’t leave herself? Once the door shut behind him, Felicity let herself cry into her pillow. Why did it always end like this?

—-

Thea wasn’t sure what was going on, but she didn’t exactly disapprove.

Oliver and Felicity had apparently decided to take a break, and Oliver was refusing to explain the reasoning behind it. This was frustrating John to no end, but Thea thought she’d found the cause in her mother’s finances.

Finding out she was an aunt was shocking, but listening to Oliver talk about his son when she’d brought her findings to him made her happy for him. He had always loved being part of a family and she knew he wanted to have his own one day. Though his prospects didn’t look good at the moment.

“Does Felicity know?” She guessed. It would be reasonable to expect the woman needed some time to process this information.

But Oliver shook his head. “No. And it is really not the time to tell her.”

Thea’s brow furrowed. “Then why the break?”

“We, uh, had a separate disagreement about something,” he told her. “Actually, the same disagreement Alex and I had last fall.”

It took a moment for Thea to realize just what he meant by that, but when she did she couldn’t help her eyes widening. “Felicity wants Laurel off the team?”

“Not that extreme,” he hurried to say.

Good, she thought, because if Laurel was to be kicked off the team then Thea would be going with her.

“Just… she wants me to keep my distance, or something,” he continued miserably. “I tried to tell her that Laurel and I aren’t like that, but she didn’t believe me. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Ollie?” Was he saying what she thought he was?

He studied his hands rather than meet her gaze. “Do you ever think about what it would be like to lose someone — a specific someone? When I try to imagine the people I couldn’t stand to lose, the one that would, would change a part of me forever and not for the good, there’s you.” He looked up and caught her eye for a moment. Thea tried to smile for him and took one of his hands. “There’s William, now. And… there’s Laurel.”

“But not Felicity?” She asked softly.

“Not because I don’t care for her,” he said, “but you and Laurel and John would stop me. I know that. If I lost Laurel or you, I don’t think I could be stopped.”

“What’s got you thinking like this?” She had to know. He could just be taking his and Felicity’s problems hard, but it seemed to be for reasons other than a broken heart.

“A few things. Darhk, for one. He took you all at the party because he wanted to get at my loved ones. By sheer luck, Laurel wasn’t there, and because she wasn’t in danger she was able to help me. I was able to fight back. And I guess it made me remember the first time I ever told Felicity I loved her.”

Thea raised an eyebrow which caused a wry half-smile. At least he recognized he was hardly making any sense.

“It was almost two years ago, right before the Siege. I knew Slade was planning to go after one more person, the person I loved. I also knew he’d planted cameras in the Manor. So, I took Felicity there and basically played out a scene.”

“So Slade wouldn’t target Laurel,” Thea realized.

He nodded, and his shoulders drooped. “I convinced myself that it wasn’t really a lie, and I- I wanted this with Felicity, I know that. But if she makes me choose between having her in my life or Laurel…” his head bowed once again. “What does that mean?”

Thea sat back, her breath leaving her in one big whoosh as she thought about all of this. “I think,” she finally began, “it means that, whether you still love her romantically or not, Laurel is important to you. More important than just about anything. Does she know about William?”

“I told her,” he admitted.

Thea threw a hand up for a moment. “Then I think that says it all, really, Ollie. Laurel’s the person you want involved in your life and in your family. And, truth be told, she would never make you choose like that.” As far as Thea was concerned, that settled the matter right there and then. “But you should probably stop worrying yourself sick about losing her. Highly doubt that’s going to happen after everything she’s stuck with you through.”

“I hope you’re right,” Oliver said, with a weariness that caused her teasing grin to fade. He rose from his seat. “I’ll ask Felicity if she wants me to stay as a carer, but if not I may need to make arrangements to move my things out of the loft.” Her brother looked at her again. “Thank you for letting me work through that, Speedy. I needed it.”

“What are little sisters for besides relentless teasing?” She asked. “And hey, I’m proud of you for facing these things head-on. I’ll support you whatever happens.”

“When did you ever get so wise?”

They shared a smile before Oliver left to have his talk with who Thea suspected would become his former fiancée. Thea, for her part, left for the apartment she shared with Laurel.

A part of her felt kind of giddy upon entering the place. She’d meant what she’d said about supporting her brother no matter what; that had included his engagement. But there was just something special about the idea of him and Laurel. Maybe it reminded her of happier, simpler times. Maybe she could picture their mom’s delight that she’d been right all along. Maybe it was just that these were the two people Thea held dearest in the whole world, and she wanted to see them both get a happily ever after. If it was together, so much the better.

So she practically skipped into the living room where Laurel sat at her desk, frowning over a pile of documents. “Hey.”

It took her friend a moment to look up, and when she did her smile was strained. “Hey, yourself.”

Thea paused. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I’m just trying to figure out the best deal for selling my car,” Laurel said.

“Why would you do that?”

Laurel shrugged. “I don’t use it much. John tends to drive the team around, and I can always borrow my dad’s if I really need one for an errand. It’d just be kind of a hassle to hang onto.” Her friend flipped the folder she’d been looking through shut and turned fully around in her chair. “But how’s it going? You stayed kind of late to talk to Ollie.”

“Yeah, well, we had some family stuff to discuss,” she said with a significant look; Laurel clearly understood by the slight widening of her eyes followed by a nod. “And he wanted my advice on something.”

“Is it something he wants discloses to the rest of the team or a private matter?”

Thea shrugged. “You’ll probably find out sooner than later. I think he and Felicity are over.”

Thea considered it a very near thing that Laurel didn’t fall right out of her chair. “What?”

“Apparently Felicity gave him a bit of an ultimatum,” Thea informed her with a grin. She’d never quite been able to quell her inner gossip, after all. “Only she’s not getting the answer she was probably looking for.”

“It wasn’t about William, was it?”

“Nope.” She could only try to imagine Felicity’s reaction to learning about that one. “Turns out it had a little bit more to do with you.”

She watched Laurel freeze for a moment, a whole range of emotion flickering in her eyes as she asked, “Me?”

“Yeah. I guess all the training you guys were doing lately spooked her and she wanted Ollie to promise to keep his distance, and he’s not exactly prepared to do that.”

“But he- that’s not— I can’t believe him sometimes,” Laurel grumbled, standing roughly enough to cause her chair to rock back on two legs. Thea backed up in surprise. “Where is he?”

“Telling Felicity his decision.”

“I have to stop him.”

“Wait, what?” She moved in front of her friend before she could go for the car keys — the ones she had just been talking about getting rid of. “Laurel, there’s no reason to stop him. He decided you’re important enough to stand up for, and if that’s a deal breaker for Felicity then it might as well end now.”

“But he loves her.”

“So you don’t want Ollie to love you?” Thea asked, fixing her friend with a look.

“Of course I—” Laurel seemed to realize what she’d been about to say and drew in a calming breath. “I’m happy that Oliver cares about me enough to put his own relationship on the line, but he’s throwing away his chance to be happy.”

“Maybe he can be happy with just us,” Thea pointed out.

But Laurel shook her head. “He and Felicity have a future, he’s only wasting his time—”

“What do you mean?”

But Laurel clammed up, arms folding over her chest and cheeks paling. “I— never mind. You’re right, it’s his decision. I should get some sleep or something.” Laurel retreated back to her room, shutting the bedroom door with a snap.

Thea felt more confused than ever as she slowly crossed to the couch. What did Laurel think Oliver was wasting his time on? Her? But why would that be? Why did Laurel seem to think he and Felicity had a future together and that she and Oliver couldn’t have one?

But that wasn’t exactly what she had said, Thea thought, reconsidering Laurel’s words. She had merely said that Oliver and Felicity had a future. That could be together or apart. And by contrast, it was as if Laurel was saying she didn’t have one.

Thea looked over at the desk with its documents. Laurel was selling her car. Last month, she’d put Thea’s name on the lease after procrastinating on it for the better part of a year. She’d been cleaning some, too, organizing things and boxing them up as if to make them easier to pack up and move somewhere. All of these incidents when combined seemed to paint an image of a woman who was getting her affairs in order.

A cold chill went through her, setting deep in her heart. Was Laurel dying?

Tears stung her eyes just at the thought, try as she might to tell herself she was overreacting and jumping to conclusions. Laurel was just as healthy as ever, just as active in the field and in training, if not more so. She wouldn’t be doing those things if she’d received some kind of diagnosis, would she?

Unless she didn’t want anyone to know. She hadn’t said anything to Thea, and the others hadn’t been acting all that different — except Oliver. She’d chalked her brother’s strangeness up to finding out about William reordering his priorities, but what if it was more than that? What if Laurel had confided in him and now he was making the most of whatever time they had left?

Her tears spilled over. Thea felt totally unsure of what to do. Did she confront her friend? Pretend nothing was wrong? What was the best way to help her?

Ollie has been wrong; she didn’t feel very wise right now. She felt scared.

---

Quentin had learned over the years that there were few things more reliable than his gut. Detective’s instinct, honed from long nights on the case. And right now, his gut was telling him something was wrong.

The trouble was, he couldn’t see what. The impossible had finally happened; Darhk was captured. Even more than that, Oliver’s heretofore secret son had been rescued unharmed.

Maybe that was it. Maybe he was worried about what this news had to be doing to his daughter. Quentin had done the math in his head and knew this young boy, innocent though he was, was proof of Oliver’s less than honorable character from years past. Laurel had seemed unaffected when she’d come to his office to loop him in on the search for the kid, but he also knew better than most that his daughter tended to push everything aside to avoid dealing with the emotions of it. Until it became too much to ignore.

He went to her apartment, but found no one home. His next stop was the base. He found Diggle packing up for the night and Thea sitting in Felicity’s old chair — the latter having chosen to take a break from the team thanks to her and Oliver’s breakup, which he’d heard some about through Donna.

“Hey, is Laurel still in?”

“She and Oliver are talking,” Thea said, gesturing to a room off the side that she had been watching pensively until now. Quentin nodded his thanks and marched over there. Better for him to hear some of this for context if his girl needed comforting later on.

But Laurel’s voice was all business as he approached. “He’s being held in Iron Heights, and assuming our office can get a judge to deny him bail, that’s where he’ll stay until his trial.”

“Iron Heights,” Oliver repeated, something about the weight he gave the words making the very air sound heavy.

“I know.”

Quentin frowned at the worry creasing both their brows, the tension that seemed to fill the small space. “Know what?”

Laurel jumped and turned to face him, and Oliver tensed. “Dad! Um, we were just talking about Darhk.”

“Yeah, and I’d have thought there’d be a little more of a celebration going on here considering,” he replied. “How come it feels like I just entered a wake?”

“We’re just concerned about him having a backup plan,” Oliver said when Laurel looked to him seemingly for help. “His idol Mari broke, it has some ability to repair itself. If he can get a hold of the whole thing again, we’ll be right back where we started.” With a deliberateness Quentin couldn’t help noticing, the younger man took his daughter’s hand. “Our best bet is to figure out a way to separate the idol’s pieces as permanently as possible and remove Darhk from Iron Heights before he can instigate trouble that requires our intervention.”

“He say something about doing that?”

“It’s only a matter of time.”

“If we want to keep the idol’s pieces as separate as possible, we should get some of them out of the city, right?” Laurel asked. “I could take some of them to Central on a visit? But I don’t want to leave them with mom if it puts her in danger,” she added, worrying her bottom lips with her teeth.

“She would want you out of danger,” Oliver insisted, “but I think I have a different idea about Central.” He took out his phone and left the room.

Quentin stepped forward before his daughter could follow. “Honey, what’s going on?”

“Um, we have somewhat reliable information that Darhk might be able to stage something within the prison, and that if he does it could… I could get hurt.”

He blinked. “What exactly does that mean?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t really say anything more than that.”

“Well, Oliver seems to know,” he pointed out. “Seems pretty worried about it.” And if Oliver was worried then that had to mean something worse was coming.

A rush of wind and crackle of light from the next room over drew his attention, and Laurel led them back out into the main room where they others stood around the Flash.

“Do you think this is the statue?” The Central City hero was asking.

“I know it is,” Oliver answered. “Which is why it has to stay broken. I need you to scatter the pieces, Barry. Nowhere with any significant meaning or ties to any of us. Just as far and as wide as you can run.”

“Oliver, are you sure we shouldn’t be keeping track of the pieces?” Diggle asked with a frown.

“If we know where they are, then Darhk could find out from spying on us,” said Oliver. “The goal is that no one can keep track of the pieces.”

The Flash nodded. “I can do that.”

“Thank you, Barry. I’ll owe you one.”

“Actually, I will,” Laurel said, stepping up beside Oliver again.

“Neither of you owe anything. Oh, but I was asked to bring this along,” the Flash said, picking up a box Quentin hadn’t noticed set on a side table. “A new suit. Cisco’s pretty confident in this design.”

Laurel took it from him, hugging it to her chest. “I’ll have to come out and thank him sometime.”

“He’d like that.” The Flash scooped up the broken pieces of the idol. “Scatter to the winds?”

“To wherever you can,” Oliver confirmed. The other hero nodded, and was gone in a Flash like his namesake.

Diggle gestured to the box still in Laurel’s arms. “How come Cisco made you a new suit?”

“I didn’t ask him to. I guess he just wanted to do his part.” She set it down, lifting the lid and smiling wide.

Oliver leaned in close, too, touching the material inside. “It’s good work. Sturdy.”

Quentin started to come forward to get his own look, but Thea’s timid voice seemed to cause them all to freeze. “You’re still gonna be out in the field?”

Laurel looked up. “Yeah, Speedy, of course.”

“Then… you’re not dying?”

Quentin’s mouth dropped open as he watched Laurel pale and exchange a panicked look with Oliver.

“What’s Thea talking about?” Diggle asked, giving voice to the question foremost in his mind.

“I, um…”

“Cisco had another vision,” Oliver explained, “warning us about something that might happen. But we’re taking steps to prevent it.”

“He saw Darhk killing Laurel,” Quentin said, his voice gruff. He’d known, hadn’t he? The minute he realized what a dangerous man Darhk was, the minute he had threatened Laurel’s life, he should have known he’d placed his own daughter on borrowed time.

“We don’t know for sure,” Laurel said quietly. “But the evidence seems to point that way.”

“Then we take care of him first,” Diggle said. “He brainwashed my brother for years. I’m not letting him take away someone else.” He walked up to Oliver and Laurel, placing a hand on her shoulder. “How long have you known about this?”

“A few- a few months,” she admitted.

“You could have told us. All of us,” John said with a glance towards Oliver. “We’re a team, and we help each other.”

“Cisco’s not sure how his visions work, if more people knowing is a bad thing or not,” she told him. “And I didn’t want to worry all of you. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“And that’s why you put me on your lease and were looking at selling your car,” Thea murmured, almost to herself as she looked up at the ceiling.

As she said it, Quentin started thinking back through the months, too. Her seemingly random drive to make sure they got to AA regularly even amongst all the chaos in their lives, the sorrow on her face as he’d explained all the things he had done, both for Darhk and as a double agent against him, to keep her safe, the smile she had forced on at the tree ceremony when she’d watched Oliver propose. All the time she’d thought she didn’t have much left, and she’d spent it on others.

Laurel winced. “You weren’t supposed to notice that.”

Thea sniffled, looking even tinier than she normal. “Well, I didn’t, until you kind of implied you didn’t have a future. I thought you’d been told you had cancer or something.”

Laurel shook her head, moving forward to the younger woman Quentin knew counted as a sister in her heart. “No. And, hopefully, I’ll be okay now. I’m sorry.” She hugged Thea tight, and Thea held on just as much.

“We’re removing the idol from Darhk’s reach, Laurel will be wearing Cisco’s new suit instead of her old one, and I’ve taken some steps of my own,” Oliver outlined. “All designed to prevent that future from playing out as he saw it. It’s the best defense we have.”

“I’ll do one better,” Diggle added. “Lyla can probably get jurisdiction over Darhk, or convince the Feds that he’s too dangerous to leave just in Iron Heights. We’ll get him moved.”

Laurel looked back around. “Thank you, John.” As she said it, her gaze drifted in his direction, and the smile she wore slipped off her face. “Oh, daddy.”

“This would’ve been my fault. If Darhk has come after you.”

She crossed the room to him, already shaking her head. “We don’t know why he would’ve targeted me. It could be he’s planning to break out and I would be one of the people stopping him. This life… it is dangerous. If anything, this experience has made me confront that. I could die,” she said, looking him straight in the eye as she did. “But I know for certain now that if I’m not going out there as the Black Canary helping my team, I don’t really feel alive inside.”

“I want you to be safe,” he told her. “But... I know it’s more important you’re happy.”

She smiled before pulling him into a hug. He squeezed her to him, unsure if he could ever really let her go. Just the thought of losing her made it hard to breathe.

There wasn’t a dry eye in the room when at last they separated. “Damn, I should’ve worn the waterproof mascara,” Thea joked weakly, earning a couple watery chuckles. “I’m just gonna fix this in the bathroom.”

“And I’ll call Lyla now,” said John, leaving the room as he took out his phone.

Laurel wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand as she headed back over to the table. “I really want to try this on,” she murmured, her hand running down the side of the box. “But maybe it’s best we call it an early night.”

“Yeah,” Oliver agreed softly.

“What did you and Samantha end up deciding?” She asked. “If you don’t mind…”

“No, you all probably need to know,” he replied. “Um, we both agreed that, that William’s safer the further away he can get from my life.”

“I’m so sorry, Ollie.” Laurel turned away from her new suit to face him. Quentin was surprised at the amount of compassion in her gaze. Sure, his girl had the most generous heart he knew, but news like this would have to take days if not weeks to really process to be able to have this kind of talk.

Unless she had had weeks. Had she known? This closeness he was seeing between the two; had Oliver finally stepped up to do right by Quentin’s family?

“It’s what I had to do. This life that I lead, it’s not something I can do and maintain a family or- or a relationship,” Oliver said, looking down.

“I think Thea would disagree,” Laurel pointed out, though as Oliver frowned she added, “Yes, right now William might be too young and vulnerable, especially with enemies who know your identity out there. Enemies like Malcolm, I might add.”

“You might,” he acknowledged with chagrin.

“But,” Laurel continued, “when he’s older, I think you and Samantha both need to talk to him and let him decide for himself what he wants to do. Let him make the choice when he’s ready.”

“I sent a video with Samantha for her to give him when he’s eighteen,” Oliver told her. “Telling him why I couldn’t be there for him. I hope he understands, that he can… forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” Laurel brought one hand up to his shoulder. “Oliver, you and William were kept apart through circumstances beyond your control, and now you are making the best decision you can to protect him. You’re sacrificing more for this city than anyone should expect of you.” Her smile turned wistful. “I was trying to make sure everyone was okay before, well, whatever Cisco saw might have happened. I think I did a pretty good job except for you.”

“You’re here,” Oliver said. “So I’m okay.”

They didn’t seem to realize anyone was still in the room. That was, Quentin hoped Oliver had forgotten he was in the room if he was going to look at Quentin’s daughter like she was the most precious thing in the world.

He cleared his throat as the pair of them seemed to sway forward a little. Oliver froze and Laurel quickly stepped back, removing her hand from Oliver’s shoulder as if it had been burned. Good to know he could still return them to their young adult selves.

“Uh…”

“Look, I don’t mind exactly,” he began with a look to both of them. “But maybe take things a little slow, huh?”

Oliver’s lips pressed together as he looked down, and Laurel’s cheeks were pink with embarrassment. Just doing his job.

Thea came back into the main area, looking around at them all. “What’d I miss?”

Quentin smirked and shook his head, turning and walking to the elevator. They could fill her in if they wanted. When they were ready.

---

He’d been worried about events in Star for so long, it took Cisco by surprise when things turned really hectic in their own neck of the woods.

Caitlin has been taken. He was so scared for his friend it was hard to even think sometimes, but he needed to because his other friend was in trouble, too. Barry had given up his speed in exchange for Wally, which meant that they were not just powerless against Zoom once again, but also that there was no one to fight the regular crime in Central City.

No one, that was, till their substitute came in.

“Wow, it’s great to meet you,” Iris said with a smile. “And that you’d come out here for this.”

“I owe Barry and Cisco a few favors,” Laurel explained with a smile. “And it’s better for all of us if we help each other out now and then. Next week is Oliver’s turn, since I’ll have to be getting back to work.”

“It hopefully shouldn’t come to that. Harry’s got a plan to give Barry back his speed,” Joe said. Cisco wondered if he just didn’t want Green Arrow hanging around their city.

“Well, I hope for Central’s sake it works.”

It didn’t.

Cisco ran down from the roof after transferring the lightning through their specially-built wand only to find the others mourning the charred remains of Barry’s suit. All of the others except Wally and Jesse, collapsed in the hallway, and Laurel, lying still by the machine.

He hurried to her side, panic rising as he reached to check her pulse. Just as his fingers brushed the skin on her wrist—

He was plunged into the blue-tinted world he associated with his visions. Cisco looked around, terrified of what he might see this time.

He ducked reflexively as a ripple of sound raced past him accompanied by a loud scream. The source was none other than the Black Canary, standing in a protective stance in front of Green Arrow who knelt on the ground. Cisco watched, amazed by the power her Cry now possessed, and it occurred to him he couldn’t see the choker he’d made around her neck.

The Laurel of this vision stopped her cry, turning to pull Oliver up from the ground. But Oliver remained kneeling, holding Laurel’s hand in his own as he took out a ring box.

Cisco found himself back in the real world, gaping as his mind caught up with what he’d just seen. Laurel groaned and turned over, not quite awake and aware.

“Cisco, is she okay?” Iris asked, a waver in her voice from her anguish over Barry’s disappearance.

But Cisco couldn’t help smiling as he answered. “Yeah. She’s gonna be just fine.”

[hunkpurveyor]

The Traitor Baru Cormorant

The Traitor Baru Cormorant is a sickening, electric novel which completely enraptured me - I read it in 5 days which is a feat I haven't accomplished in possibly a decade. Dickinson's plotting is just incredible. The narrative is constantly churning into new and unpredictable configurations and that once the novel kicks into gear the first primary conflict is about monetary policy, of all things, and remains utterly gripping is the product of inspired writing. 

I don't usually gravitate to such plot-heavy books, I often find them light and immemorable in retrospect and The Traitor possesses that sugary narrative - it is so irresistible, impossible to stop reading but has a question that throbs like a sickening heart at the core of the novel. It's in the title, it sits marinating in the heart of every clever stratagem tangled through its pages. Baru is a traitor. She will betray anything for her cause. The key question: What destruction, what ruin can a person wreak in service of an ideal? And hanging afterwards in the air, waiting to descend like a suffocating smoke: what will be left of them when they have wrought it?

(spoilers throughout)

The theme of betrayal is obviously brought to apotheosis at the end of the novel but an enormous part of the success of the betrayal narrative is that Dickinson ensures Baru betrays not only Aurdwynn but also the reader. Her conversation with Apparitor makes it clear where her ultimate goal lies but as that recedes in the narrative we are taken up with the knife-edge whirlwind of rebellion and romance and in one beautiful, touching moment of hard-won fulfillment with Tain Hu I found myself doubting that fateful conversation. I went back to it several times because I could not help but hope things might end happily. To see treachery coming and hope against it anyhow is a remarkable effect to achieve in a novel.

Baru’s final betrayal is heart-rending, and I think it situates the novel in a really interesting relationship with genre. The Traitor refuses to stay just an exciting and forgettable novel because by the end it sickened me. Baru becomes revolting: completely understandable but horrifying all the same. This project of alienation by Dickinson elevates the novel - and it’s fascinating because it is so often that a novel is striving to do the exact opposite to affect its readers deeply: they want to connect, to resonate. But by writing a genre novel, particularly a low fantasy novel where the expectation is plot and dirt and grime and a heroic-if-compromised protagonist and then to defy it by alienating us completely from what we have taken to be the hero of a trilogy radically transforms the meaning of the novel. Specifically low fantasy - the magic has been plucked out of this setting, it is just a medieval age, filled with disease and cold and it flirts with the 'grimdark' but then deftly sidesteps the stereotypical pitfalls of that subgenre as well: the overwhelming (thematic and textual) brutality of it is not for its own sake but situated specifically within the violence of empire.

And this is utterly a book about imperialism, it's almost on the nose how exact the account of the Masquerade conquering Taranoke is a historical one, with names changed. It's abundantly clear from the outset that the attitude of the book is that the project of empire is deeply evil but it develops that idea in unusual ways, and Baru’s own ideology is inchoate. She is trying to "change it from within," which, whew, but by the end of the book it's clear her attitude is vengeful, her aim is not reform but annihilation, and she thinks the master's tools are the only ones awful enough to do it. We can see also, of course, that she does enjoy power, this is what her brain was built for, what she was specifically shaped into being. But that enjoyment, that self-centredness exists, exemplified in her characteristic inability to account for others’ capacity to act. She confesses her fundamental fear is not that her home will be destroyed but that the world cannot be controlled, or that she is incapable of controlling it. So her idealism, her desperate insistence that all this carnage and ruin is for Taranoke has to reckon with that deeper fear. My fear upon first reading was that idealism must continue to disintegrate as Baru is confronted with the fact that the Taranoke of her childhood no longer exists, annihilated by Empire and furthermore lost in the way that all childhood homes are lost when seen again with the uglier perspicacity of adulthood. With her sole ideal decaying would she become a loose weapon? So fundamentally has she rid herself of her own values that she is at risk of becoming something an empire can wield, or descending into a total nihilism. Which makes Tain Hu’s final play so important: “It was no lie.” Her loyalty, her belief in the existence of truth - of a human - within the ruthlessness that Baru has become instils a seed of that same faith in Baru. The necessity not just of saving Taranoke, “that will not be enough now,” but of obliterating empire. 

Baru’s evil is complicated. There is something easier to accept about total nihilism - I can live beside it, breath with it, I know it: if you despise the world, if you despise yourself within it, that fury has a purity, even a nobility to it. Burn everything down. But the refusal to embrace a villain gone utterly evil, gone over entirely to destruction is another mark of maturity within the genre. Baru is nightmare, machine-savant, her control complete but for the body performing its own limp act of treachery by erasing half her world - but she is human. Her repeated refusal to use her body as coin is a gesture at this remaining humanity. Even when it would bring clear advantage her refusal of the boy at the Elided Keep is a parallel to the test Unuxecome and Tain Hu gave her at Welthony harbour. In refusing to personally execute the Imperial Naval Captain she displays she is not a true sociopath. Here her love for women is the line she will not cross, the single note of conflict and want remaining in her which makes her simultaneously so compelling and so revolting. She is no Sauron, no Star Wars Emperor, she is someone who loves. And this is the sting of reality. That bad people are not cut from an evil cloth whole and perfect, but are made. Curdling a pure fury with one note of love sickens it massively - the roaring void gone putrid.

It actually took me a few rereads of the final chapter to imagine any future for Baru, to be anything other than revolted at Baru’s treachery. How could such a fundamentally broken vessel ever be redeemed? And alternatively what further depravity could she possibly sink to? But upon reflection I can see there is room to explore her future, even if that does not include redemption. I’m biased - a redemption arc is a narrative I am deeply attached to and so I naturally interpret a lot of texts towards this conclusion. But there are other stories, and I suspect Baru’s will hurt all the way and I will be glued to it. 

Some final notes - I think it’s definitely worth thinking about how behaviourism and eugenics are presented in the novel, an immediate criticism is that though they are depicted exclusively as evil tools of an empire they are also depicted as effective in a way that is less complicated than the reality. But the novel touches on these concepts only lightly and there might be more to think about as I read on. The way the novel conceals the ideology of the ruling council until its ultimate pages is interesting as well. An acknowledgment that the whys given by the ruling class are largely irrelevant to the reality of subjugation? But the project of “causal closure” echoes interestingly with Baru’s fear of loss of control - and this is the avenue that will really be fascinating to develop. What does it mean for the Masquerade’s ideal to align so closely with Baru’s methodology? She is relying on her causal mastery to overturn a project of causal mastery. And what happens when it is inevitably proved impossible for both Baru and the Masquerade?