#lenci writes

[midnight-moth]

Hiiiii, please consider this just me planting a seed and not a full on "ask" I know life has been giving you lemons and I hope you start getting sugar for them soon 🩷 In Ritual, you wrote

"Swiss could help the smile that spread across his face, never thinking “fucked up and perverted” would be a compliment. He was still thinking about how Rain basically fell apart toward the end, completely relinquishing control to Swiss, asking him to mark him. He knew that wasn’t part of the plan. But he decided he would save those questions for another day"

What if Swiss got his questions answered?????

My brain has not let this go, and I had to get it out, LOL.

Ok yes I am full of lemon flavoured struggle right now but I WILL ABSOLUTELY WRITE SWISS BEING A BIT SHY AND HESITANT AT FIRST AND THEN GOING FULL THROTTLE WHEN RAIN KNEELS ON THE FLOOR IN FRONT OF HIM LIKE A GOOD BOY AND DOES AS HE’S TOLD. Sorry. Got a little heated.

[melodious-madrigals]

the last shred of truth (in the lost myth of true love)

Pairing: wondertrev Rating: T Word Count: 4277 Tags: amnesia!fic, hurt/comfort, happy ending, steve and diana being soft for each other Summary: When Diana wakes up alone in a hospital room with no memory of who she is or how she got there, she panics. But even though she doesn't remember anyone, there's someone who seems fundamentally familiar... AKA: the "i may have amnesia but i trust you implicitly" trope, wondertrev edition

Read it below the cut or on [AO3].

***

Notes: @svgurl410 this fic is Your Fault™ (affectionate) because you posted a thing about the amnesia trope and WHOOPS my hand slipped, so, uh, due to the stars aligning for some very convenient timing, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!

***

She wakes up in a too-sterile room, white and soundproofed and empty, but for her and her bed and a battery of too-sterile machines, all hooked up to her.

The first thing she takes in is that everything hurts. Ache blooms down her body and her head feels like it’s about to split open.

She tries to lift a hand to knead away the pain, and that’s how she discovers thing number two: she is restrained here, in this strange place, by herself. Strapped to the bed with no recollection of where she is or how she got here.

Or, for that matter, her own name.

Normal hospitals don’t look like this, she thinks. Not that she can remember ever being in one, but she’s got the vague impression that there are usually windows, or people, or doors that look like they don’t require a top-secret clearance to exit through.

She’s in trouble, then; maybe the people tying her down are the reason for her faulty memory. (Retrograde amnesia, supplies a tiny voice in her brain that she doesn’t have time to examine.)

All she knows is that she needs to figure out how to get out. If she can’t remember anything, then she can’t rely on there being anyone who would help her out, which means she needs to rely on herself and only herself.

She struggles against the bindings—they’re tight, well-constructed, but she thinks she feels some give. With a little extra effort, she pulls, and low and behold, yanks the straps straight out of their holdings.

So she’s strong, then. Good to know.

She detaches her legs next, and is partway through unhooking herself from the plethora of machines when two doctors—scientists?—beep themselves into the room.

“Code yellow, she’s awake,” says one of them into a radio.

“Miss, you need to lay back down,” says the other.

“Where am I? What’s going on?”

“You’ve been gravely injured. You need to stay calm.”

The first one is still talking into the radio. “—and the patient is agitated. We need to put her on another macro dose of the sedative,” he adds to his colleague.

“No!” She wants to know what’s going on, not be drugged back into oblivion.

A frenzied swipe of her arm sends the man flying into the padded wall with a crunch that she’d feel bad about if there wasn’t panic rising in her throat.

Three more personnel, all bigger than she is, which is saying something, rush into the room and she leans back into a defensive stance until—

“Wait!” says a new male voice, and a tall, well-dressed man with the remnants of a cut over his eyebrow steps into the room. The orderlies stop their forward motion, but they don’t leave, and she’s scanning them for signs of weakness before she’s even aware she’s doing it.

“Diana, you need to calm down.”

Her attention snaps to the new man, and she eyes him warily. “Who are you? How do you know me? Where am I?”

“You don’t remember me?” He seems hurt when she shakes her head. “You’re at a hospital facility. You took a bad blow to the head, and now you’re in recovery.”

That would make sense, except, wait— “A head wound requires being tied down?”

“It was for your safety and theirs.”

“It seems more the thing you would do to a prisoner.”

“You’re safe here.” The man catches her hand as she tries to sidestep away from his advance. “Diana, you can trust me.”

There’s half a beat as she considers, where he makes eye contact, looks at her imploringly—

—but nothing good ever comes of people telling you to trust them, of this she’s sure, and when his grip tightens almost imperceptibly as he shifts, at the same time that one of the orderlies off to the side flinches forward, she throws him off, breaking his grasp and sending him flying into the hospital bed and related machinery.

The orderlies advance, but she’s properly panicked, now, desperate to get out of here, find something—anything—familiar, and it’s muscle memory that takes over, dodging around them and hurling them to the ground, blows strong enough to make sure they don’t get back up without hurting them too badly.

She’s out in the corridor when an alarm starts blaring, sending loud noises and flashing lights through the hallway that make her already-splitting headache throb as more people rush at her. Most seem to be technicians of some sort, but two are security guards carrying guns.

She doesn’t know how she knows how to fight—can’t even confirm with herself that her name is Diana—but she knows being here is not the answer and sets to work, lashing out at each successive wave of people.

As she’s dispatching with the last of this group, she hears a new set of voices and almost starts to cry—will these people stop at nothing to keep her locked up?

“—has gone crazy!”

“What the hell did you do to her?” At the sound of this newest shouting voice, another man’s, she counterintuitively feels her muscles involuntarily relax a little.

She turns around, dropping the last of her would-be attackers just as the man to whom the voice belongs skids around the corner and comes to a stop in front of her.

He is beautiful: dirty blonde hair and an angular jaw and striking blue eyes that have fixed themselves on her. There is fear in them, and anger, but it is not the same fear or anger of the scientists holding her in this place. She has the sudden, inexplicable thought that it might be for her rather than of her. Indeed, the second their eyes meet, she notices him deflate, relief evident in the lines of his body.

She sees him, and she feels—calm. He is familiar, somehow, even if her mind can’t pull him up.

“Diana,” he says, and the shape of her name in his mouth is a balm, like honey drizzled in tea or a whiff of lavender on the breeze under a hot summer sun.

Time dilates a little, as she drinks in the sight of him, whispers flitting in the corners of her brain that she can’t quite catch.

She takes half a step forward and sees the owner of the first angry voice fling an arm out in front of the man in warning.

“Stay back, Agent Trevor. She’s disoriented and extremely dangerous.”

“You’ve done more than enough already, and I’d thank you to stay out of it.” The man pushes the arm away and steps towards her, slowly, telegraphing the move before it happens. “I’m sorry it took me so long to get here, Angel.”

Like the chiming of midday bells, a dozen discordant memories of him saying Angel like that flicker through her brain before fading back into foggy nothing. She’s moved instinctually, before her brain has time to approve the motion, and then she’s in his arms, holding tight.

Home, her brain supplies, and she feels her cheeks getting damp from silent tears that she does her best to blink away.

“Hey, I’m here,” the man says, pulling back just enough to swipe the moisture away. “I know you must be scared right now, but you’re going to be okay.”

“I don’t know why I’m here or what’s happening,” she admits, whispering into his ear. “I just want to get out of here.”

Before he can reply, another wave of security floods the hallway, and the man reacts accordingly, twisting out of her arms and nudging her behind him.

“Everybody, stand down,” he commands.

The alarm stops, but the personnel don’t move and there are several holding what look like big-game tranquilizer guns.

“They’re technically friendlies,” he says over his shoulder to her, “even though they’re doing a shit job of it right now. Everyone, back off.”

Finally, the woman he appeared with nods, and with a wave of her hand, people start to retreat back down the corridor.

“You could convince her to stay, Agent Trevor,” the woman says, somewhere between imploring and accusatory.  

“Maybe,” the man agrees. “But I won’t.”

“Think of her treatment. Be reasonable—”

“I am.” His voice brooks no refusal, and she’s strangely relieved. “After the way you’ve bungled this, she isn’t going to be comfortable here and I’m not making her stay. She wants to leave, so we’re leaving.”

“Her memory—” The woman’s face is pinched, like she’s swallowed half a lemon.

“Will not be improved by you poking at her. Diana?” He turns to her, offering her his hand, and she slips her own into it without question, letting his guide her down the hallway.

“Oh,” he says, over his shoulder, “and tell Bruce to expect my call.”

The parking lot outside is just asphalt and concrete, but it’s a relief to be out of the building and in the sun.

“I’m taking you to one of our houses,” the man says. “You’ve been there before, and you liked it.”

“Anything’s better than that lab.”

Something in his jaw ticks, and he nods before sliding into the driver’s seat.

“Thank you, Agent Trevor,” says Diana, once they’re speeding away from that awful facility. The way he flinches tells her it’s a mistake, somehow.

Her brow furrows. “Is that not your name? I thought I heard them call you that, but I don’t know your name. I feel like I must know you, but I can’t remember. I’m sorry.”

The man next to her takes a deep breath. “You remember the important things,” he says reassuringly.

“I don’t see how that can possibly be true.” She can’t remember a single name or face, or any of the events that precipitated the memory loss.

He’s quiet for a moment, and then he reaches out and takes her hand, ever so gently, and slow enough that she could pull away. (She finds she doesn’t want to.)

“You remember how I make you feel, otherwise you wouldn’t have come with me,” he says finally. “The name stuff is a bit trivial compared to that.”

“Still,” she says, frustrated.

“Steve,” he relents. “My name is Steve Trevor.”

“Steve.” She turns the name over on her tongue and sees his mouth quirk out of the corner of her eye. Then he sighs.

“We’re about three hours away from the safe house. There’s plenty of time for a nap, and I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

“No, the copilot’s in charge of the music,” Diana says automatically, surprising herself. Beside her, Steve glances her way, a bemused look on his face. In her seat, Diana just sags. “I have no idea why I said that. I’m exhausted.”

“You said that because it’s our road trip rule,” Steve explains gently, “but I think today calls for an exception. Get some sleep.”

She nods and lets her eyes flutter shut. Her eyelids have been heavy since she woke up the first time, but it’s only now she feels comfortable doing something about it. She’s asleep before they hit the next mile-marker.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” she says, leaning in for a kiss that Steve is only too happy to provide.

“The hazards of loving someone who’s constantly saving the world,” Steve jokes.

“Alas, it was only a museum trade agreement this time.”

“As long as no artifacts were harmed in the process.”

“No, none at all,” Diana says, grinning. “What smells so delicious?”

“It’s—”

Her phone, on the Do Not Disturb setting that only Steve and the Justice League line can get through, pings angrily.

“Damn, I have to go.” She hands him her phone so he can read the sitrep from Alfred.

“I’d come with, but I have the meeting with Waller tomorrow.”

“I know,” says Diana ruefully. “It’s not worth an eight-hour flight for you. I should be home by tomorrow evening, anyways. It looks pretty standard.”

“Be careful.”

“Aren’t I always?”

“You are absolutely not. That’s why I’m telling you now.”

She laughs and kisses him. “Don’t forget to buy new basil plants again on the way home from the market.”

He huffs good-naturedly and rolls his eyes. “Diana—”

“Diana.”

She jolts upright, still looking at Steve’s face, but in a different time and place. She tries to hold on to the memory, but it filters away like the tide receding on a beach, out of her grasp before she can catch onto its ephemeral quality. When she tries to chase it, pain stabs through her head.

“Diana, are you okay?”

“Fine,” she says, wincing.

He looks unconvinced but doesn’t press. “We’re here.”

It’s a little cottage in a secluded wooded area, and it feels welcoming even from the outside.

“Is this where I live?” she asks, trying to figure out if this is the type of place she would want to live, as he unlocks the door and ushers her in.

“No, you mostly use this house when you come to the US for long business trips,” Steve replies. “You live in Paris, most of the year.”

Her brain conjures up an image of the Eiffel Tower, but it doesn’t feel like hers, just something clinical that she knows about Paris. She finds she also knows French, though once again, she doesn’t remember learning.

“I figured we could stay here a few days to see if your memory comes back on its own. If not, maybe going home will help.” He pauses. “Is that okay with you?”

“It sounds reasonable. I don’t—I don’t really know how to make my memory come back, though.”

“I don’t think there’s an established protocol for that,” Steve says, cracking a smile. “Except to make yourself comfortable and try not to stress too much.”

They stand there, staring at each other for a moment, and she gets the intense, sudden urge to kiss him. To see if that would help, like some sort of fairy tale. She’s halfway towards working up the nerve to close the distance between them when Steve clears his throat.

“You should take the shower first,” he says. “I know you hate the smell of hospital.”

As soon as he says it, she knows it’s true.

“Will you answer my questions after?”

“As best I can, yeah.”

How long she stands under the pounding hot water, she’s not entirely sure, but it feels good. Her muscles relax, and she closes her eyes, letting the water stream over her body.

A phantom touch on her shoulder, gentle but blazing with heat, and eyes to match, and the sudden feel of cold tile against her back—

—her eyes fly open, and she gasps, scrabbling to chase the feeling, one she’s sure is a memory, but the harder she tries to catch it, the more painful the stabbing sensation in her head becomes, and she’s forced to give up, tired and frustrated.

When she finally emerges from the bathroom, hair still damp and curling, it’s to find Steve finishing a call. Even as he’s occupied on the phone, she sees him gravitate towards her and then consciously stop, hovering a few meters away.

“I have to go. We’ll talk later,” he says tersely, and hangs up. Then to her, “That was Bruce.”

He says it like the name should mean something to her, but it doesn’t, and she shrugs helplessly.

Steve sighs. “Someone you work with,” he explains. “You encountered him earlier. Sent him flying clean across the room.”

She feels a stab of guilt—she’d sent a number of people flying across the room in her desperation, and she hopes that if he’s her colleague, he’s okay and that she’ll be able to properly apologize. Until then, “The one in the pretentious suit?” she clarifies.

It startles a laugh out of Steve—fluttering white curtains and mischievous bright blue eyes and that laugh, warm and infectious, snatched away in a flicker of pain—who just says, “That’s the one.”

She nods once, and then looks around, unsure. “Can you tell me why I’m like this? What happened?”

“Let me put the kettle on,” says Steve. “It might take a while.”

He tells her about the extent of her abilities, surprising in the abstract, and yet not so much when she thinks about the thrum that ignited in her veins when she felt like people were closing in on her. He tells her about the mission she left for, last night, that was pressing but apparently standard enough in scope. He tells her that something went wrong, that something powerful and unidentified was used to deal her a blow to the head, that she was unconscious for eight hours, that he got there as fast as he could but not soon enough because transatlantic flights take time, even when you’re the pilot on a requisitioned jet. He tells her that the explanation that he was given was that she’d been convulsing in her sleep, and really had been restrained only to prevent injury to the attending doctors. He tells her that the doctors—who never really had a chance to examine her, but for a single CT scan while she was unconscious, and who have no precedent since her physiology is so different than any other being on Earth—aren’t sure whether her memories will return or not. (One of them said to give it a few days; the other wasn’t optimistic at all, based on the scans.)

Through it all, he barely references himself, but she can see the contours of him woven in: he has intimate knowledge of the things she can do, and the ways in which she uses them. He was with her when she was called away on the mission; indeed, he is clearly with her often. He speaks about her with delicate care and a small smile on his face, and she can’t help but think that given the chance, she would probably talk about him the same way.

“And you?” she prompts finally, when he’s done, when the tea has long since gone cold and dinner is prepped and in the oven.

“Me?” says Steve. “What about me?”

“You’re clearly important to me. I trust you, somehow. But you’ve said almost nothing about yourself, and I’m not quite sure how you fit in.”

“I guess it wasn’t relevant.”

It’s a bullshit answer, and they both know it.

“I love you.” It’s a question phrased as a statement, but Steve has the uncanny ability of hearing it just as she meant it.

“Yes.”

“And you love me.”

“Yes.”

It confirms everything she heard in the subtext of his words, his tone. They’re something, something powerful, and she’s gone and thrown a wrench in it by forgetting everything about him, about them. The absence plagues her, but she can barely imagine the weight he must feel at the loss of their history, of being the only one to carry it. For the first time, she really contemplates the implications of the gaping holes in her mind.

“What happens if I never get my memories back like the doctors said?”

Steve scuffs a hand over his face, the only overt sign so far that he’s feeling the stress of the situation.

“Well, I’ll go on loving you all the same, and you can decide whether you still love me.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

“Love isn’t simple, Diana, but loving you is the easiest thing in the world. I’ll love you no matter what happens, and no matter what you decide when it does.”

She regards him for a moment. Now that she’s looking, she thinks she can see lines of tension in his body. He’s good at covering it up, but there’s worry there. Then the understanding hits.

“You’d let me go.”

His eyes fall shut, and she thinks maybe it’s so she can’t try to read them. It doesn’t matter: she can already see that he’s pushing down his pain to put her first, a clear character sketch if she ever saw one.

“Yeah.”

That one word, it makes her heart break for him.

“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’d like to.” He looks up at her, confusion dotting his features. “Go on loving you, that is,” she clarifies, and is rewarded by an absolutely incandescent grin.

“Well, that’s neat.”

The sacredness of the moment is shattered by the insistent dinging of the oven timer, signaling that dinner is ready, and Steve ducks his head, breaking eye contact as he gets up to retrieve the food.

They’re not very talkative for the rest of the evening, but even though the mood is heavy, the silence is not uncomfortable. There is an unspoken agreement that they can deal with the ramifications of the day tomorrow since it’s been such a long and stressful day for them both.

The house is small, one bedroom only, and given the conversation they had earlier, she just assumes that they’ll share the bed, but Steve, apparently, does not seem to share that assessment, because when he leaves the bathroom, he picks up the spare blanket off the foot of the bed and heads for the door.

“You could stay,” she says, so soft she’s not sure for a second if he even heard.

“Are you sure?”

“I feel better when you’re close by,” she admits into the darkness, and a moment later, she feels the bed dip next to her as he slips under the covers.

Her hand finds his under the duvet, and she links their fingers together. She wants so badly to remember him properly, but every time she pushes, there’s a searing pain that drives its way through her skull.

“Goodnight, Diana.”

“Goodnight, Steve.”

It takes surprisingly little to drift away on the current of sleep.

The air is acrid, thick with smoke and gunpowder. She’s been here before; she knows this place. It is dark, but there are fires burning all around and the thunder of bombs, lighting up the horizon.

The earth shakes somewhere close by.

Then there’s Steve, in front of her, telling her he loves her, that he wishes they had more time. She doesn’t understand; as far as she can tell, he’s young and healthy. They have time, don’t they?

Time fuzzes and suddenly she’s staring at the sky, and a plane that she knows to be carrying Steve explodes, high above her in the cold dark air.

“NO!”

This can’t be how it ends. He can’t leave her like this. Think, Diana, she tells herself. The pain in her head is unbearable, but it is nothing compared to the one in her heart. If she can only push through, maybe she won’t have to feel this way anymore. Maybe she can change the ending. Maybe they’ll have more time.

…a cerulean ocean, and a diving plane.

…the soft shimmer of snow in lanternlight.

…a plane exploding high overhead.

…the weight of arms, too long gone and miraculously here, enfolding her.

…dancing in the late-night glow of streetlamps on a bridge over the Seine.

A thousand tiny flashes, all swirling together as her past and present unfold before her, and there at the heart—

“Steve!”

Diana sits up with a gasp, struggling for air as her brain tries to sort through the influx of information that it suddenly has access to once more. It’s all out of order and too much at once, but it’s there.

A hand on her shoulder tells her that Steve’s woken up too, and she slumps back against him, relishing the way he rearranges his arm so that she’ll be more comfortable.

“Did you remember the basil plants this time?” Diana asks, exhausted.

He lets out a little huff. “I was a little busy, what with—” She feels him stiffen under her, the whole of his body silently asking the question that his mouth isn’t. “Diana?” he manages, hesitantly.

She twists a little in his arms so that she can see his face. “I’m so sorry I forgot you.”

Everything in him relaxes. “You didn’t; not really.”

“No,” she corrects, “I think it would be impossible to forget you entirely. You’re written in my soul.”

He chokes a little at that, squeezes her closer, shifting just enough so that he can rest his forehead against hers.

“I’m glad you’re back, Angel.”

Diana kisses him softly, feels the dampness on his cheeks. “Oh, my love. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” he insists.

“No, but I ache for what you must have felt, and yet you handled it all so calmly.”

“Shit, Diana, I was terrified,” Steve admits, somehow managing to pull her even closer, like he’s scared she might physically disappear, too. “It was only a day, but it felt like a century. I mean, we’ve had some pretty good times, and I didn’t want to be the only guardian of those memories.”

“That will never happen.”

“You can’t know that,” he says helplessly.  

“I can. We always find our way back to each other, my love. I believe in us.”  

“And you say I’m the one that spouts the romantic lines.”

“You love it.”

“I do.” He kisses her, soft and slow, and any quip she might have had flies directly out of her head in favor of this feeling.

“Don’t forget me between now and tomorrow,” Steve whispers later as they drowse next to each other.

“I wouldn’t even dream of it,” Diana promises, tucking her face back into the juncture between his shoulder and neck, before falling asleep herself.

(She doesn’t—her promises, after all, are unbreakable.)

***

[scythian-andromache]

the 7-Eleven off I-40

based off this post

also available on [AO3]

Drew has worked at the 7-Eleven off I-40 for three years, and two of those he’s spent on the night shift. It’s a shit job, honestly, but it’s what he’s got to pay the bills while he works at getting his GED (long story) and takes care of his baby brother (even longer story).

He’s seen some weird shit in his time; kids high off a late-night adventure, actual addicts shaking as they bring snacks up to the register, people so drunk they couldn’t walk straight, someone dressed up in a full-on ball gown and feather boa, you name it. He’s been held at gunpoint twice for the contents of the register, and has been cussed out more times than he can count.

So when, at six minutes past two in the morning, a guy that looks like he could be straight out of an action movie—and probably the villain, because he’s vaguely good-looking in a European way—waltzes in with another pissed-off looking guy dressed like a bum, hoodie pulled over his face and grunge jeans and what’s clearly a gun in his back pocket, Drew’s immediate thought is fuck. This is going to be a bad night.  

The two men are clearly arguing about something, but it’s low enough that Drew can’t hear, and he’s not about to approach them to listen in. He hopes desperately that they’re not arguing about how to rob the store.

Then, Action Movie Villain says something that causes Grunge Wannabe to gesticulate wildly, flipping the guy off with a hiss of “connard!” Or maybe Drew misheard, and the guy’s name is Connor. Yeah, that’s probably it.

Connor moves on to examine the display of beef jerky and Grunge is looking at the day-old pastry section, but it feels suspiciously like they’ve fanned out, like they’re casing the place, glancing shiftily around every few moments. Drew is five seconds from typing 911 into his phone and holding his thumb over the call button when the door bursts open again, and two more people tumble in: a women and a man, also in ripped, dirty clothing, and fuck, are those bullet holes in that dude’s jacket, the one soaked in a dark substance that Drew doesn’t want to think about?

The woman—white, thirty-something, looks like she could murder him with her pinky—says something in a language that definitely isn’t English, and Connor and Grunge each snipe something back. Drew tries his hardest to listen in without making it obvious that he’s listening in, and glances down just as Grunge makes another profane gesture in Connor’s direction.

“Calmati, Habibi,” says the man with curly hair and the maybe-bloodstained-jacket to Grunge, and then, “Booker, cut it out,” in English to Connor.

There’s more hushed argument in what Drew thinks might be a different unfamiliar language—and this time, the scary woman says, “Hey!” sharply—and then they’re interrupted yet again by a young black woman entering, with a heaved sigh of “We’re all gassed up and ready. Everyone got their snacks?”

“Not quite,” says Blood Spatter, this time in lightly accented English. “Booker, as I was saying, just let me drive if you think Andy’s so bad at it.”

“You?” snarks Connor—Booker? “The last time I let you drive, you drove us to Bratislava.” Drew takes a moment to wonder where that is. Kentucky? Missouri, maybe? They’ve got some real funny place names there.

“So?” says Blood Spatter, apparently unperturbed.

The man’s eyes almost pop out. “So? We were going to Vienna!” There’s definitely a Vienna in Missouri; he drove through it once.

“Eh, that is barely two marhalah away from Vienna.”

“Sure, except it was the wrong country”—oh, so maybe they’re talking about Europe—“and in the interim the wall went up and we got stuck behind Soviet borders for a MONTH.”

Soviet borders? Drew isn’t particularly up on world affairs, but he’s pretty sure that was like, from the 80s, wasn’t it? None of them look old enough for that, in fact—

“Hi,” says the younger woman brightly, leaning against the counter, and he’s distracted by how pretty she is, the angles of her face and the swirl of her braids. “I was wondering if you had any earplugs.”

She smiles disarmingly, tilts her head as if to say this bunch, huh? and Drew finds himself grinning back, mentally trying to run through the catalogue, remember if they do have any earplugs anywhere.

“I, uh. I don’t think so,” he says.

The woman looks disappointed, but just shrugs. “No biggie. Thanks anyways.”

“Hey, uh—” says Drew, before he can think the better of it. “Do you need any first aid supplies?”

The woman raises an eyebrow and he flushes, gestures vaguely at her midriff where there’s definitely dried blood ringing perfectly circular holes in her shirt.

“Oh,” she says. “Nah, but thanks for checking.” There’s an awkward beat. “Costume party,” she adds, gesturing at herself, like it’s an afterthought.

(There’s been no such party anywhere in the county, or he would have heard about it. In their neck of the woods, it would be a stretch even at Halloween, and it’s currently March.)

He’s considering saying something more, or maybe just shooting his shot—stranger things have happened, right?—when five armfuls of candy and snacks get dumped on the counter.

The older woman sends an icy glare his way, and Drew immediately starts ringing up the purchases, as fast as he can, barely noticing as half of them leave again.

It’s the Booker guy who pays, dropping a bill that looks like play-money on the counter (it says “100€”), before the pretty woman elbows him and swaps it out for a hundred dollar bill, smiling apologetically.  

“Keep the change,” she says, as they sweep up the bags and glide out the door.

Keep the change? This is a 7-Eleven, not a restaurant, and he blinks for a second, stupefied, before running to the door to protest, to tell them that’s not how it works, and also that he’s not supposed to accept any bill denomination above twenty, but there’s a screeching noise, and their car is already disappearing down the road and into the night.

He stands, alone in the empty convenience store, the overhead lights too bright and too harsh as he tries to make sense of what just happened. The hundred dollar bill sits limply in his hand, and he returns to the register to make the correct change and set everything in order.

Drew looks around, wondering, for just a second, if he imagined the entire experience. Everything looks exactly the same. They’ve gone without so much as the slightest indication that they—with their larger-than-life bickering and supposed costumes and strange stories—were ever there, and Drew is suddenly struck by the vague feeling that he just fulfilled a role as an extra in, like, a heist movie. Strange, indeed.

But this is the 7-Eleven off I-40, and sometimes the night shift is just like that.

***

fin.

***

*connard: Nicky has just called Booker a bastard in French, as one does.

*calmati: google translate tells me this means “calm down” in Italian, but what do either of us know?

*Habibi: we all know this one, right? “My love” in Arabic.

*marhalah: an Islamic measure of distance from antiquity, equivalent to roughly 44km, and considered about a village-length. Joe is sort-of correct; the quickest route from Vienna to Bratislava is about 80 km (but the shortest is 67 km).

[shinjishazaki]

Story Update: The Nature of Fire: Paralogues

Part two: sudden as lightning

A realization and its fallout: the start of a pair.

AKA, some self indulgence with Anahid/Lenci silliness and a bit of gay panic on Lenci’s part.  Enjoy!

[rainydaydarling]

Happy STS! 😊 (If you’re not doing STS that’s ok just ignore me) Anyway,how would your characters in their current state react if they were introduced to their original character concepts? Would they be different enough that it’s like meeting someone completely new, like meeting an uncanny doppelganger, or somewhere in the middle? I’m always a sucker for seeing how characters grow and develop not only within the course of the physical story, but also how they change and evolve as you write them.

Oh my gosh! What a great question! Thank you! I don’t normally do STS just because I’m bad at coming up with good questions, not because I don’t want to.

As for the answer, one character in each of my two books has had drastic changes.

In Edifice:

Lenci would think her original self was very abrasive, even down right rude! That had been her way of showing she was a strong woman. Her current self is aware she doesn’t need to be mean to be strong. New Lenci would probably react kindly but be very put off. Also, she’s recently undergone a shape change as her original self was thin and now she’s a curvy plus size beauty. So they would look and act similar, but with a few distinct differences.

In Wedding Bells and Blood

My villain, nicknamed Cliff, started out as a good guy. So the current Cliff would probably think original Cliff was a sissy. He would probably kill original Cliff. But they also looked very different! He doesn’t look anything like original Cliff anymore.

Thanks so much for the ask! Happy STS! I’ll try to come up with something to ask too!

[gloomystories]

Cleansing

Ever since Leena's mother died, strange things had begun to happen. At first, it was all nice things. We'd notice things lovingly put in order, and occasionally, one could hear someone humming a sweet lullaby. Papers were organized by someone and no one, and a mug that had "World's Greatest Mom" clumsily painted on by a 10-year-old Leena's hand sitting on top of the television.

However, it had become more vicious, leading us to believe that it was not really her mother. In life, her mother was the sweetest woman you could possibly meet. An amazing baker, and an excellent housewife and mother. There wasn't a violent bone in her body. However, the spirit began throwing books, scratching us in our sleep, and breaking things. Decorative dishes flew off shelves, teapots slid off shelves, and books had pages torn out.

There had been a few incidents, but nothing like what happened. I was taking a shower, and moved the dog shampoo from in front of the human hair wash. When I turned back to the wall in front of me, it looked like my reflection had been scorched into the wall. My heart went into my throat and the hot water seemed so cold all of a sudden. Mouth dry, I reached out to touch the burned image. When I almost touched it, I felt arms wrap around me.

They were as cold as the grave. The being was of superhuman strength. It wrestled me to the floor of the shower. I screamed and screamed, trying to wake up Leena. She bolted in just as my head was being forced under the faucet. As soon as she entered, the arms released me and I could move freely again.

Scrabbling out of the shower, crying, I yanked a shower off the hook, and held it in front of my body to shield my privates from Leena. She gawped at me and asked, "Was it... was it her?"

"No," I gasped, trembling. "It's not her. Your mother would never try to drown me. She wouldn't do any of this. She's gone. It's not her."

Morosely, Leena stood there, curly hair under a headscarf to keep it out of the way. I knew what she was thinking, why she was despondent; I had been thinking it, too. It was nice to think that she was still here, watching over us. Even if she WAS different. Now we knew for sure that it wasn't - it couldn't be - her.

Eagerly, I scurried out of the bathroom, and into my bedroom. Throwing on a pair of light pink pajamas, Leena knocked. Allowing her in, we both sat, frazzled and shaking on the edge of the bed. My heart was pounding and My head hurt from the spirit's murder attempt. "What should we do?" She whispered.

Tremulously, I answered, "I think we should call a friend of mine. He's a medium, but he's a Christian medium. He will help us put the spirit to rest."

Leena, almost looking teary, nodded. With the approval, I called Reggie. "Reg, I need you to do me a favor."

"Okay, shoot."

"It has to do with... your practice."

His tone became serious. "What do you need?"

"I have an issue. My roommate's Mom died about nine months ago, and a month later, there was spirit activity. It WAS nice at first, and then it got violent. It threw dishes, scratched us, pushed and hit us. Tonight, it tried to drown me in the shower. It's not her, but we don't know who it is."

Concerned, he exclaimed, "Don't move. I'm coming over right away. Just stay in your room.  It'll be fine. I'll be there in 15."

Heart in throat, I waited with Leena, forbidding her from leaving. She didn't mind; it took no convincing that the ghost was evil. It was the longest fifteen minutes of our lives. Whilst waiting, many knocks and bangs were heard. We listened to dishes being thrown around. At long last, he came in.

Opening the door, he immediately uttered a grunt, as though met by a repulsive sight or smell. "Get up!" He barked. "State your name." He demanded loudly, “State. your. name!”  He muttered, "Mm-hmm." With that, he walked down the hall and knocked on our door. Flinging it open, we greeted him eagerly.

"Who is it?" "We heard you talking." "Do you know who_"

He raised his hand and said, "Please, girls. Yes, I know who it is. Your mother IS here, but there is someone else. Another spirit who's been taking advantage of the situation. It wasn't Leena who made the spirit stop hurting you, it was Jackie, her mother."

Tremulously, Leena asked, "So then who's the other one?"

Looking down, Jason muttered, "He said he was your father." A choked sob escaped Leena's lips, and Reggie crumpled into himself more. "I know that he used to hurt you... and Ms. Seymour." He pressed his lips together.

Leena's dark skin looked pale. Her lips trembled as she remembered the things he had done. She never told me about these things before. I knew she'd had an abusive father, but she'd never gone into detail. "How can we get rid of them?" She looked at Jason with pleading eyes.

He smiled gently, and said, "I'll see what I can do. And every night, pray. Pray for rest, for peace for the spirits. With that, he reached into the brown leather bag he always carried with him, and pulled out two candles He burned them, and began walking up and down the halls praying.

There was wind. A wind that shouldn't have been possible inside. Pictures flew off the walls and books flew off shelves. There was a bellowing  sound. Leena and I shook, clasping each other tightly. Fervently, we prayed. We prayed for Him to banish all evil, for him to put the spirits to rest.

In an instant, it all stopped. My heart beat madly in my chest, and I knew Leena's was, too. Anxiously, we looked around to see if there was anything going on. There was one final, unholy howl of a tortured soul, and then all was silent.

With the saunter of success,Reggie waltzed into the room. His shirt was crooked, his hair was blown in a hundred directions, and he looked physically exhausted. He was covered in sweat and was breathing hard, but he said, "It's clean. I don't sense them anymore. However, keep praying to KEEP them gone."

Leena dissolved into tears and I hugged her. Reg bowed his head. I whispered reassurances to my friend. We both knew that it meant her mom was gone. Gone for real this time. Ms. Jackie, the best woman I'd ever known, was gone. Jason patted her on the back and gently punched my shoulder and said, "Till next time, eh?"

[inspirenationshow]

Spirit Guides — Messages from Spirit on Living, Loving, and Awakening with Lee Harris

If you’ve ever wanted guidance from the other side for powerful transformation, then do we have the Energy Speaks show for you!

  Today I’ll be talking with Lee Harris, speaker, musician, rock star intuitive medium, and the author of a beautiful book on changing your life, Energy Speaks.

  That’s just what I want to talk with him about today, about messages from spirit on living, loving, and awakening!

  That plus we’ll talk about the Glastonbury Music Festivals, Chuck and Lency Spezzano, Nina and dowsing, the no options club, and what in the world a built in got your back spartan warrior has to do with anything!

  Energy Speaks Self-Improvement & Self-Help Topics Include:

How did Lee Harris end up in Weight Watchers by age 10?

How did Oprah help?

What was his metaphysical journey and what brought him back?

When did he start hearing his guides?

Who are “the Z’s”?

What is the collective? 

What’s the importance of the line “God, Use Me?”

How can writing help us get in touch with our guides?

What does it mean to be “spun” and what’s the importance of reconnecting with the earth?

What does it mean to own our personal power?

Are we all light workers?

What’s the shift going on, on the planet?

What does the shift in consciousness mean for us?

Video mentioned from YouTube/LeeHarrisEnergy “Year of Beginnings”

What can we learn from people’s Ayahuasca journeys?

What’s the importance of remembering who we are?

What are the top three things the guides want us to know?

How do we get in touch with our guides?

Do we all have a giant angel who has got our back?

What is our inner observer angel?

  To find out more visit:

http://www.energyspeaksbook.com/

http://www.leeharrisenergy.com/

https://www.inspirenationuniversity.com/offers/wsp7xTHE/checkout?coupon_code=MYSTICAL60 - Join Michael Sandler's School of Mystics

https://amzn.to/3qULECz - Order Michael Sandler's new book, "AWE, the Automatic Writing Experience"

www.automaticwriting.com 

…….

Follow Michael and Jessica’s exciting journey and get even more great tools, tips, and behind-the-scenes access. Go to https://www.patreon.com/inspirenation  

For free meditations, weekly tips, stories, and similar shows visit: https://inspirenationshow.com/  

We’ve got NEW Merch! - https://teespring.com/stores/inspire-nation-store  

Follow Inspire Nation, and the lives of Michael and Jessica, on Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/InspireNationLive/  

Find us on TikTok - https://www.tiktok.com/@inspirenationshow 

Check out this episode!

[georgeyofthetrumpets]

Can somebody give me some writing tips?

I'm writing a disabled character; she has a stunted wing. There is a way to mend it enough so that she is capable of some form of Flight, but as someone with a mental disorder (no physical disorder/disability) I knew in my heart it would be unfair to have her just fix her disability. I can't just fix my ADHD. I take meds that help but it never just goes away. That being said, I want to writer this character (her name is Lenci) in the most respectful and insightful manner as possible. And she happens to be the main character. I have no idea how to write a disabled character so that's why I'm asking for help. Thanks in advance.

[masivniluzer]

lukas sides : creativity

his name is kamil. he isn't strictly my creativity, as he also includes part of my ego [part goes to anxiety] and my pride. he's mostly the reason I'm extra all the time. he does not sleep. always tries to do a lot of things and ends up with breakdowns, accidentally drinks far too much coffee. huge fan of musicals and books. his favourite musical movie is the rocky horror picture show. cries a lot. very loud when excited. he gets along well with depression as she has a lot to say in his poetry, but he loves anxiety much more. he does not take care of himself properly. everything is about doing his art, writing all the time. because of him I play piano and guitar. he is a blonde unlike aki and lenci. second tallest side. he's the skinniest one. needs to chill.

[independentartistbuzz]

Lenci Blooms with “Wildflower”

Hailing from Raleigh, North Carolina, Lenci, a soulful R&B artist, expresses her emotions and perspectives of topics such as beauty among women to her fans. Her latest single, “Wildflower”, was written and released to empower women all around the world with positive imagery and uplifting lyrics. The song tackles the harmful truth of societal expectations within body image, and Lenci calls to her sisters to not be ashamed of their bodies and to walk with pride.  Lenci has dedicated her other singles and EP’s to sharing a similar message to her fans. Her angelic voice carries the message of self love to every listener. Lenci also incorporates her knowledge of psychology, as she pursues her Master’s in psychological research, by writing lyrics that describe the troubles of life on a psychological level. From a young age, Lenci allowed the cultures and the world around her to influence her musicality. Combining the lyricism and vocal ranges of Ari Lennox and Alicia Keys, Lenci showcases her talent by singing long, soulful trills. Her voice carries the central theme and melody of the song, with the instrumental accompaniment adding to the imagery created by the lyrics. Her backup vocals create a depth that widens the song to feel much more enchanting. Following her angelic voice throughout the song, Lenci entinces her fans to listen closely to her lyrics and generates the desire to replay the song. 

By beginning the song with a reverb vocal track and a beautiful piano, Lenci opens “Wildflower” in a very soulful manner. Her fans are asked to envision an ethereal figure coming down to shed some light on self love and how deserving each individual should feel of having a good and happy life. Once the beat drops, it feels like this angelic figure has touched the ground and she transforms into a human woman speaking on behalf of those who feel undeserving of love from others and themselves. Lenci speaks for her people, for her community and her fans, and as a wildflower, she describes how important it is to accept and love yourself the way you are.

  Stream “Wildflower” here:

https://soundcloud.com/lencimusic

https://open.spotify.com/artist/1eskzgbruGlZV6V11slN4s

 Follow Lenci here:

https://lencimusic.com/home

https://www.instagram.com/lencipops_1/

https://twitter.com/lencipops1

https://www.facebook.com/LenciMusicOfficial

[snailandhammer]

To pass a Censure upon all kinds of Writings, to shew their several Excel∣lencies and Defects, and especially to as∣sign each of them to their proper Au∣thors, was the chief Province and the greatest Commendation of the Ancient Critics. And it appears from those Remains of Antiquity that are left us, that they never wanted Employment. For to forge and counterfeit Books, and father them upon Great Names, has been a Practice almost as old as Letters. But it was then most of all in fashion, when the Kings of Pergamus and Alexandria, rivalling one another in the Magnificence and Copiousness of their Libraries, gave great rates for any Treatises that carried the names of celebrated Authors. Which was an Invitation to the Scribes and Copyers of those Times, to enhance the Price of their Wares by ascribing them to Men of Fame and Reputation; and to suppress the true Names, that would have yielded less Money. And now and then even an Author, that wrote for Bread, and made a Traffic of his Labours, would purposely conceal himself, and personate some old Writer of eminent Note; giving the Title and Credit of his Works to the Dead, that himself might the better live by them. But what was then done chiefly for Lucre, was afterwards done out of Glory and Affectation, as an Exercise of Stile, and an Ostentation of Wit. In this the Tribe of the Sophists are principally concerned; in whose Schools it was the ordinary task to compose 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉, to make Speeches and write Letters in the Name and Character of some Heroe, or great Commander or Philosopher; 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉, What would Achilles, Medea, or Alexander say in such or such Circum∣stances? Thus Ovid, we see, who was bred up in that way, writ Love Letters in the Names of Penelope and the rest. 'Tis true, they came abroad under his own Name; because they were written in Latin and in Verse, and so had no colour or pretence to be the Originals of the Graecian Ladies. But some of the Greek Sophists had the Success and Satisfaction to see their Essays in that kind pass with some Readers for the genuine Works of those they endeavoured to express. This, no doubt, was great Content and Joy to them; being as full a Testimony of their Skill in Imitation; as the Birds gave to the Painter, when they peck'd at his Grapes. One of them indeed, has dealt ingenuously, and confess'd that he feign'd the Answers to Brutus, only as a Trial of Skill: but most of them took the other way, and concealing their own Names, put off their Copies for Originals; prefer∣ring that silent Pride and fraudulent Plea∣sure, though it was to die with them, before an honest Commendation from Po∣sterity for being good Imitators. And to speak freely, the greatest part of Mankind are so easily imposed on in this way, that there is too great Invitation to put the trick upon them.

A dissertation upon the Epistles of Phalaris, Themistocles, Socrates, Euripides, and others, and the Fables of AEsop by Richard Bentley. London: Printed by J. Leake, for Peter Buck, 1697.

[melodious-madrigals]

prompt: “it was the best blind date I didn’t know I was on” -wondertrev edition

***

Diana is late.

And she’s not even sure she wants to be here, which is making her even more late as she dithers just outside the bistro where her blind date is meant to be taking place.

Damn it, Etta.

Etta’s been pushing to set Diana up on a blind date since a couple of months after her break-up with Kasia, which—it had been a bad break-up. Not messy or dramatic, but still heartbreaking to come to the conclusion that they’d grown, just not together, and wanted different things out of life.

Diana is still smarting, not entirely sure if she even wants a new relationship. And then there’s the fact that she doesn’t particularly like blind dates, and that the person Etta has suggested is a man. Which is...theoretically valid; Diana can’t contest that. But men can be such pigs, and it’s one of many reasons that she’s second-guessing this whole endeavor.

In fact, she’s in the middle of round four of questioning whether she’s even going to go in (and cursing the day she absentmindedly agreed to Etta’s offer to set her up with ‘Grant’) when she realizes: it’s a person in there, wondering why they’re being stood up, and that’s not fair, no matter how much she doesn’t want to be here.

Steeling herself, she marches in. Her eyes scan the restaurant—ah, there. Tucked away in a corner, near one of the windows looking out onto the street, is the only solo diner in the establishment. And he’s already got a bowl of soup in front of him. (That’s fair; she’s now twenty-four whole minutes late.) Taking a calming breath, she heads over to the table.

“I’m so sorry for how late I am,” she says, sliding into the chair opposite of what she now realizes is an unfairly attractive man: swooping blond hair and bright blue eyes and a strong jaw—focus, Diana! “It’s truly unforgivable. I—” She could fib, blame it all on her work, but that would only account for about seven minutes of tardiness. The rest is all on her, and she’s not one for lying. “I have no excuse.” She takes a breath, allows herself to reset. Gives the man in front of her a small smile. “I’m Diana.”

“Steve,” says the man, a strange expression on his face as he reaches across the table to shake her hand. (Firm, but not the arsehole power-grip that so many men prefer.)

She blinks, because Etta had said Grant, but now that she thinks about it, Etta has a habit, left over from her days in the military, of calling people almost exclusively by their last names.

“Right, Steve,” she says, testing the name out, and his mouth quirks up into a smile. Maybe this isn’t so bad after all. She ducks her head to hide her own smile, and her eyes again fall on the half-eaten bowl of soup. The smile drops, registering that she’s kept him waiting long enough to not only order but start eating. “I really am sorry,” she apologizes, but Steve waves a hand.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I’m glad for the company.”

If this is a strange thing to say to a blind date, Diana doesn’t notice, too focused on the way he hands her a menu and politely seeks the waitress’s attention. (Another point in his favor; he isn’t demanding, and makes casual, affable conversation with the woman while Diana scans the menu so she can place her food order right away with her drink.)

“So, Diana,” Steve says, after she’s ordered, “what is it that you do?”

It strikes her as odd; she would’ve thought Etta would have told him, but maybe he’s just being polite, so she launches into an explanation of her curation job, and he asks intelligent, relevant follow-up questions, and suddenly they’re talking about art and architecture and the best uses of beetroot and the innovation of the Gambian case in front of the ICJ and that Icelandic group that sang the haunting 800 year old hymn a cappella in the metro a few years back and a number of things in between.

There’s something that feels so natural about talking to him, and before she realizes it, the bistro is starting to close down for the evening.

“Can I have your number?” asks Steve, as they pay and make their way back into the cool night air.

Diana bites back a grin and nods, holding out her hand for his phone, where she adds herself as a contact.

“I had a really nice time tonight.”

“Me too.”

She kisses him on the cheek, and then they’re headed in separate directions. Almost immediately her phone buzzes, and when she pauses to look at it, she sees a message from an unknown number.

This is Steve!

She turns back to find him standing at the opposite end of the block, grinning at his phone. He looks up in time to catch her watching him and raises a hand in a sort of faux salute, making her laugh and shake her head.

There’s a lingering smile stuck on her face that she can’t seem to get rid of (and doesn’t particularly want to) as she walks home, enjoying the cool night air and the giddy feeling of a nice evening.

*

The next morning, there’s a frantic knock on her door. When she opens it, it’s Etta, who’s absolutely beside herself.

“I’m so sorry, Diana. I’m going to murder him!” she exclaims, hurriedly pacing the room. “I really thought he was better than that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Grant,” she hisses. “He just—left you there. Decided not to show. Freely admitted to it via text this morning! I’m going to skin him alive when I find him in person.”

“But Etta, I—” Her brow furrows, and suddenly a couple of things that didn’t quite make sense about the evening slot into place. “Etta, it’s okay. I had an enjoyable night anyways.”

“—the audacity,” Etta is saying.

“Etta,” Diana says more forcefully, catching her by the shoulders gently. “Don’t trouble yourself. It was hardly a wasted evening. Maybe no more blind dates, though, okay?”

“Right,” agrees Etta, deflating. “Of course not.”

The moment Etta finally leaves, Diana picks up her phone, stares at the text there (“This is Steve!” stares back, bafflingly unhelpful in revealing answers to the questions she has), and hits the call button before she can overthink it. Steve picks up after just two rings.

“Diana, hi!” He sounds pleased and a little surprised, but she mostly misses it in getting straight to the point.

“Your last name isn’t Grant.”

She can almost hear the wince through the line. “Er, no. It’s not.”

“You weren’t at Bistro Papillon for a blind date last night.”

A slight pause. “I was not.”

“Steve—”

“I didn’t realize, right away, what was going on,” says Steve, rushed now, something desperate in his tone. “And when I did—I was going to tell you, I swear. But then—I wanted to keep talking,” he admits quietly, almost defeated. “And I was afraid if I told you, you’d leave, which in hindsight is stupid, because it should have been your choice—”

“My would-be date stood me up.”

“Then they’re an idiot,” says Steve, without missing a beat.

Diana huffs a laugh. “I’m the idiot,” she says, “for just sitting down when you were in the middle of your meal and assuming you were my date like a crazy person, and ruining your evening—”

“You didn’t ruin anything.” And gods, he sounds so sure.

“But when I sat down—”

“You looked like an angelic vision,” he interrupts, voice still perfectly resolute, “and I knew that even if I didn’t know you, or why you were at my table, I wanted to get to know you.”

“And—”

“And then you were brilliant and witty, and we had the best dinner conversation I’ve had in a really, really long time.”

“I ranted about the fallacies of using a hegemonic, patriarchal lens to view Hellenistic terracottas and marbles for at least eight uninterrupted minutes,” refutes Diana, somewhat sheepishly.

“Yeah,” says Steve, and she thinks, somehow, that she can hear the amusement in his voice. “As I said, brilliant, and the most interesting conversation I’ve had in ages.”

Diana shakes her head, then realizes he can’t see that through the phone. “This whole thing is ridiculous.”

“Yet here we are.”

He hasn’t hung up yet. Neither has she, for that matter.

(She finds that she doesn’t really want to.)

“So what is your last name, if you’re not the Grant with whom my friend was going to set me up?”

“Trevor,” he replies. “Steve Trevor.”

“Where does that leave us, Steve Trevor?”

“Well, what are you doing for lunch?” Steve asks, and she laughs; she can’t help it.

“I’ve got no plans, just yet.”

“I’d like to hear the whole story,” muses Steve. “Come on a date with me?”

“Yes,” says Diana automatically, before she can overthink it. Then, “This is absurd. The way we’ve started—”

“Will be an excellent story to tell, someday,” he counters.

And it is. Whenever someone asks them how they met, later, Steve inevitably grins, sharing a wink with Diana as he prepares his version of the tale. “Well,” he starts, every time, “it was the best blind date I didn’t realize I was on…”

***

[scythian-andromache]

is it really a road-trip if you don't stop at a 7-Eleven?

A ‘The Old Guard’ gen fic that is a companion piece to this fic, but can be read solo

Also available on [AO3]

Summary:  In the middle of a road-trip, the Old Guard Immortals make a stop at a 7-Eleven. A lot of bickering ensues, but that's what happens when you take road-trips with your family.

***

It’s been two hours since they got into the shootout, which brings their Days Without An Incident count (previously at four) back to zero.  

That was on them, a stupid mistake that’s put something of a damper on their road-trip (end goal: Grand Canyon, but who knows if they’ll actually make it there before something goes horribly wrong). Since then, they’ve been driving steadily westward. It’s nearly two in the morning, but Andy is (still) driving, and the rest of them are in various states of dozing—or as much as one can doze when Andy’s driving.

“Fuck, we’re getting low on gas.” Andy says this out loud like it’s a surprise, like there isn’t a gauge on the dash with the sole purpose of keeping the driver apprised of the gas levels.  

“This is the last exit for thirty miles,” Joe says absently, eyes closed and feet propped up. They’re also, by all rights, past the acceptable merge point.

In response, Andy swerves across two full traffic lanes and cuts off the only other driver on the road to pull off the exit ramp, not bothering to stop at the stop sign and careening across the road and into the 7-Eleven’s parking lot.

Booker lets out several extremely creative swears in a mix of French and English. “Jesus, Andy, there are traffic laws; please follow at least one of them,” he groans.

“My headlights are on,” says Andy, like that settles it, and Booker swears again.

“If not for us, then for you! You’re not invulnerable anymore!”

Andy rolls her eyes. “My driving has never gotten a single one of us killed.”

Booker makes a face that clearly indicates he’s skeptical of that answer, but whatever he’s working up to is interrupted by a new voice in the conversation.

“Nile could take over for a little bit,” suggests Nicky, blearily clearing sleep from his eyes.

“Nile doesn’t even have a license right now,” Booker shoots back, exasperated.

“Nile doesn’t even have a birth certificate right now,” grumbles Nile from where she’s squished between them. “The only thing I’m legally classified as is a problem.” Quỳnh laughs from where she’s laying—apparently not asleep—in the very back, among their duffle bags. No seatbelt, but far more room than Nicky, Nile, and Booker have, all crammed in together on the bench seat not really meant for three.

Nicky, meanwhile, ignores Nile’s comment, looking directly at Booker as he asks combatively, “And whose fault is that?”

“Oh, come on,” says Booker. “I haven’t had time to forge a new identity for her!”

Nicky says something under his breath in Italian and Booker flings open the car door and stalks toward the bright beacon of the convenience store.

“I’m getting snacks, Joe,” says Nicky, and follows. Joe gets out and opens the hatch to check their supply of baklava—not that the 7-Eleven off I-40 is the spot to replenish it—and Andy exchanges a few words with Quỳnh, while Nile sighs and starts pumping gas. After a few moments, Andy and Joe head inside too.

“You don’t want anything?” asks Nile, peering into the car to check on Quỳnh.

“Joe will buy more snacks than he needs in case Nicky wants them, and then I will steal them from them both,” says Quỳnh, a mischievous smile on her face, and Nile can’t help but laugh. They had a rough start, her and Quỳnh, but they get along pretty well now.

“Fair enough,” Nile says, as she returns the pump to its hook.

“Maybe a pair of earplugs,” Quỳnh muses, as an afterthought. “To drown out their relentless bickering. The only thing I miss about the ocean is the peace and quiet,” she deadpans, and Nile almost chokes on her gallows humor.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Nile says, and pulls the car around before heading inside herself.

They’re all still bickering when she gets inside—of course they are. Immortals, with more years between them than the populations of whole towns, and they’re still children. She heaves a long-suffering sigh—it’s self-care, okay?—and says, “We’re all gassed up and ready. Everyone got their snacks?”

“Not quite,” says Joe, and then tells Booker—in English, this time—to let him drive. Damn, they’re still on that?

Nile lets them be, looking around a little for some earplugs for Quỳnh, until she hears their voices raise, and Booker practically yells, “—and we got stuck behind Soviet borders for a MONTH.”

Shit. She glances over at the cashier, who looks entirely too interested in this particular conversation. For all their talk of laying low, they can be pretty bad at it, sometimes. Sighing again, she sashays over to the counter, throws on her most charming smile and says, in an effort to disrupt whatever train of thought is mentally calculating how they could possibly have been detained behind Soviet borders, “Hi! I was wondering if you had any earplugs?”

They do not have earplugs, and she tries to keep him distracted, but it backfires a little, because she’s forgotten she’s still wearing the same clothes from the shoot up—they all are—and the cashier (Andrew, his name-tag says) has noticed.

“Costume party,” she says, a lame excuse, but the best she’s got, and she’s about to talk about how their theater friend does really extravagant murder-mystery parties when the rest of them decide they’re done bickering, and drop all their shit on the counter.

Andy gives the cashier the iciest look Nile’s seen from her in at least three days, and the poor kid hops to, ringing in enough candy to send their bodies pre-diabetes until they reboot again.

Joe, Nicky, and Andy all head out, leaving her and Booker to finish up the transaction, and then Booker—that absolute dipshit—drops a hundred euro note on the counter instead of USD.

“Idiot,” Nile hisses in French, elbowing him and fishing money out of her out wallet. She pockets the euro note (serves him right) and grabs their bags.

“Keep the change,” she says to the cashier, and uses her free hand to pinch Booker’s arm hard (“Ow!”) and steer him out of the shop. They slide into the back seat of the waiting car (Andy, unfortunately, is still driving), and it skids off before the door is even fully closed.

“Y’all need to work on your subtlety,” says Nile, glancing back at the gas station, where the cashier is standing in the door, staring after them. “Or at least have your arguments in French. That kid was listening to everything.”

Andy waves a hand dismissively—unfortunately, it also happens to be the hand that was holding the wheel and the car swerves—and says, “We’ll send a text to Copley. He can wipe the footage. What’s one more convenience store after a bloodbath?”

“Yeah? You also gonna wipe that kid’s brain?”

“We’re in the middle of nowhere, and he’s a nobody,” says Booker.

“I was a nobody,” hisses Nile. “You can’t just…discount people like that. That kid could become the next Kozak or the next Copley, or someone just like them could see him as collateral damage when they try to find us.”

“You are right, Nile.” It’s Nicky who says it. “It is easy to let people blur together, to believe them inconsequential, but it’s a poor mentality to have. We will be more careful.”

“That’s all I ask,” says Nile, softly. The car lapses into silence for a few moments until Joe asks for his Twizzlers, and all of a sudden there’s bickering over who bought what snacks.

Quỳnh somehow ends up with a pair of Twinkies and the Flaming Hot Cheetos, and just gives Nile a little wink over the back of the seat when Nicky says, “Booker, did you steal some of my Twinkies?”

Booker makes an indignant noise in the back of his throat, flashes his bar of chocolate, and says, “You couldn’t pay me to eat that garbage!”

Nile laughs into her iced tea, and then looks up and accidentally makes eye contact with Andy in the rear-view mirror. She’s got an amused smile playing around her mouth, everything in her expression telegraphing her fondness, and also her exhaustion.

“Let me drive for a while,” Nile says, over the argument happening between Booker and Nicky (“Don’t call them garbage, a Twinkie is just a petite madelaine with a little cream in it.” / “How dare you even utter Twinkie and petite madelaine in the same breath!”)

“You don’t have a license,” says Andy, although it’s a weaker protest than it had been before they stopped at the gas station.  

“Oh, come on. Like that’s gonna make a difference. Like you’re really gonna show a license to the police if they pull you over for a traffic violation.”

“I—”

“You need sleep, Andy. Pull the fuck over.”

To the astonishment of the whole car, Andy does. Well, except for—

“Ha!” whoops Nicky gleefully, leaning around Nile to get a better look at Booker. “Pay up!”

“Nile stole my euros,” says Booker grumpily.

“No. Uh-uh. Don’t make this about me,” says Nile, as everyone shifts around to accommodate the change in drivers. “I know you have more. And besides, I spent $100 at the store.”

“You were the one that told him to keep the change, and besides, a hundred euros is ten dollars more than a hundred dollars.”

“It was $87 and I was just trying to get us the fuck out of there. And consider it a dumbass tax, for trying to give him euros in the first place,” says Nile, and the car erupts in cackles.

“Everyone good?” She checks the rear-view mirror as she pulls back onto the highway: Andy has climbed into the very back to stretch out (snuggle) with Quỳnh; Joe and Nicky are shifting around in the back seat; and Booker is sitting shotgun next to her.

“I’m not,” complains Nicky. “Booker still hasn’t paid me.”

Booker says something under his breath, but digs his wallet out of his pocket and fishes a fifty euro note out, passing it back to Nicky.

“Grazie,” he says, waving the note to Joe like it’s a trophy.

Booker huffs. “Prego, è stato un piacere, va’ all’inferno!”

“No, I don’t think I will,” says Nicky pleasantly. “I have a papal indulgence.”

That draws raucous laughter from both Joe and Quỳnh, and for all that he puts on the air of being grumpy, Nile sees Booker’s smirk from the corner of her eye.

They all settle down pretty quickly after that; it has been a long day, after all. They’re the only car on the road, and the miles disappear into the inky black night quickly as they fly down I-40. The next time Nile glances into her rear-view mirror, she sees that Andy and Quỳnh have tucked themselves into each other, and Joe is leaning into Nicky, arms half around him as they doze together.  

Only Booker, slouched in the seat next to her, remains awake. “You can go to sleep, Book,” she says, easy.

“Nah,” he says, “someone must stay awake with the driver.”

She doesn’t take his statement at face value, but she doesn’t challenge him on it either. “Well,” she says lightly, “then you’re the DJ. Find us something good.”

Booker leans forward and turns the radio on low. The opening strains of a Depeche Mode song drift from the speakers, and Booker hisses. “English bastards with a French name,” he says, but tellingly doesn’t change the channel. He must secretly like this song.

As the song fades out and the opening chords of another song thrum, Nile looks over to find that Booker, too, has drifted off, but Nile finds she doesn’t mind. She’s surrounded by her ridiculous family, finally taking a break, and she’s got this. She turns her attention back to the highway, focusing on the thrum of the engine and the soft strains of the music and the peacefulness of an empty road, as they move ever closer to their next adventure.

***

fin.

***

~Twizzlers are halal! ~grazie = thanks ~Prego, è stato un piacere, va’ all’inferno! = (roughly; I am not a native speaker) “yeah, you’re welcome, my pleasure, now go to hell” (PS: Italian has all kinds of fun, creative, extremely dirty swears. Soooo even though Booker technically says "go to hell", it's fairly mild. Nicky's still salty at Booker but not salty enough to take it seriously.) ~There really was a papal edict offering indulgences to those partaking in the crusades. Nicky 100% exploits this.

***   

[melodious-madrigals]

who hogs the covers? - wondertrev edition

***

Diana Prince is a Grade-A certified cover hog.

Steve knows this about her, and still loves her. He even finds it amusing.

Well, 99% of the time. The feeling's a little hard to latch onto sometimes, when he wakes up shivering in the middle of the night because there are no blankets to be had. He’ll roll over and find Diana, nestled up in a little cocoon of them, entirely tangled and grip extremely tight.

It baffles him, it really does, because she can walk outside in the middle of winter without a coat and not even flinch at the cold, and yet when she sleeps, it's a wonder if so much as her nose is exposed.

And look, he may run warm himself as a general rule, but when it starts to snow, he needs those covers. It's one of the benefits to no longer being in the trenches: you get luxuries like mud-free boots and no one shooting at you and cozy duvets.

It's on one such night, deep into autumn and already feeling a sharp bite in the air, even with the radiators in their apartment on, that Steve awakes to find the covers gone yet again—the third time this week, a new record—and spends a solid ten minutes trying to wrestle some of them back. He manages, but only just, and as he falls back to sleep, ever the tactician, he forms a plan.

*

"Diana, I love you," Steve starts hesitantly the next morning over a hot, strong cup of coffee, handed to him by Diana, just as she does most mornings, because she always gets up first.

"I love you, too," she says, clearly not thinking anything of it as she unfurls Le Monde (another daily habit despite the fact that it's a full day behind her Twitter feed). The words are so simple, but they still manage to send a pleasant zing down his spine, making his next sentence even harder.

"It's just—I think for this winter, we need separate duvets," he says, wincing.

To his mild surprise, Diana looks delighted. "What an innovative solution!" she exclaims.

Steve blinks. "Yeah?"

"Well, I certainly would not wish to sleep alone, and I certainly do not wish for you to be cold."

"You're not upset?"

"Why would I be? We all have our flaws, and I seem to take more than my fair share of the duvet."

That's an understatement, but Steve's not about to point that out when this is going so well. So well, in fact, that he's left unsure how to proceed.

"Oh. I just—had several arguments laid out,” he says lamely. It's not that he expected her to be difficult about it; he just didn't expect it to be this easy.

Diana tosses him an amused look. "Would you like to list them, then?"

"No, it's fine," Steve mumbles, sheepish.

"Well then. Do you want to use the duvet from the guest room, or do you want to get a new one?"

Steve really hadn't thought that far ahead, and Diana leaves him to his musings, turning back to her paper.

*

In the end, he gets a new duvet, because they actually do put the guest room to use rather frequently.

(It turns out to be the right move, because Barry shows up unannounced the next day, and ends up crashing with them for the weekend.

"It's wild that you don't use a top sheet," he says, not for the first time, "but that is the most comfortable bed and quilt ever.")

The new duvet is fantastic, really.

In the evenings, Steve unfurls it and overlaps it a little with Diana's; they cuddle together until they fall asleep, and when—both active sleepers—they eventually roll away in the middle of the night, they each end up with their respective duvets. Steve luxuriates in having warm covers all night long, and Diana sleeps soundly in the knowledge that she can turn herself into a burrito without bothering Steve.

In the mornings, Diana untangles herself and goes to make coffee. Steve spends a few minutes relishing in the warmth of the bed and in feeling well rested, then he gets up, makes the bed, and joins her.

It's the perfect solution, and as the days pass and they continue to get optimal sleep, they congratulate each other on the creativeness of it all.

*

And then Steve wakes up shivering.

He thinks it's a dream, at first, because they solved this problem. But the chill he's feeling is very real, so he looks off the side of the bed, convinced that he accidentally kicked the duvet off in his sleep. Nothing.

What he does find, upon closer examination, is a truly towering pile of blankets on his other side. The smallest possible gap in the blankets reveals the tip of Diana's nose and little else.

It's so absurd and Steve is so disoriented because it's three in the morning that he bursts out laughing, the kind that starts deep in his chest and shakes his whole body.

The blanket behemoth beside him shoots up. "What's wrong?" Diana asks blearily as she fights her way out of the tangle of covers.

"Angel, how many blankets do you have there?"

Diana looks down, the moonlight revealing two very distinct colors twisted together, and falls against Steve's shoulder, groaning.

"I'm sorry." It's muffled, her face still tucked against his collarbone.

“I can’t believe you managed to get both full duvets,” gasps Steve, still shaking with laughter.

Diana grumbles something unintelligible under her breath as she separates Steve’s duvet from hers, and they rearrange the blankets so that it once again resembles a bed and not a chrysalis.

Diana keeps herself tucked into Steve as they lay back down, slipping an arm around him and twining their legs together.

“I really am sorry,” Diana whispers. “I’ve never had this problem before. Not even as a girl when we would go on practice scouting missions and share pallets and I got properly cold at night. I don’t even realize I’m doing it, now.”

“It’s really alright,” he whispers back. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” Her speech is slurred, sleepy. He’s not sure she even really fully woke up.

As he mulls her words over, he realizes there’s an unintended implication there, one Diana may not even have stumbled on herself: she is not aware of doing it because she is sleeping deeply, not half on-guard even as she rests. Steve melts a little at this trust, and if he’d had any lingering annoyance, it would certainly be gone now.

He glances down to say something more, only to find Diana already asleep again. He drops a soft kiss to her forehead and lets his eyes drift close. His last conscious thought is that getting to sleep next to her is worth it.

He would gladly wake up cold every single night, so long as he was waking up next to her.

*

(The first rays of morning light find them still curled into each other, warm and content—and blissfully unaware in their deep sleep—as outside, a midwinter storm coats the world in white.)  

***

[melodious-madrigals]

within your soul love’s tender words i’ll hide

Fandom: Wonder Woman Pairing: Diana (Wonder Woman)/Steve Trevor Rating: T (reference to canon-typical violence and shellshock/PTSD) Word Count: 7′104 Summary: Steve is seconds from death. He feels it as acutely as he feels his own heart, thrumming away in his chest, beating a fast, abrasive plea to live. All he needs is a little more altitude, and then he can blow the plane up. He tries to steady his breathing, and glances around the cockpit in an effort to distract himself. And that’s when he sees it. If it is what he thinks it might be…well, that could change everything. AKA: Steve can save the day, but this time, he finds a way to save himself, too. One last 1918 fix-it fic before WW84 drops!

Notes: Despite the fact that it languished in my drafts folder for over a year, I finally decided to post this yesterday half in honor of WW84 coming out and half because WW84 introduces new canon that will probably make this an outdated fix-it. It never quite got to where I wanted it to be, but I am pleased with bits of it, and wanted to put it into the world before I started hyperfixating on WW84 content instead. Enjoy :+)

If interested, you can [read it on AO3].

[melodious-madrigals]

“person A grows a beard; how does person B react?”  -wondertrev edition 

***

It's almost midnight, but Diana is just getting home. She's been on a business trip for the better part of a week, and is endlessly relieved to be back. She opens the door, already feeling the tension drain from her shoulders at the prospect of seeing Steve, and makes her way to their bedroom, where she suspects Steve will still be up, reading. 

She enters, drops her bags, and when she finally focuses on him, blinks in dismay. 

"What is that?"

Steve looks up from his novel. "Hello to you too."

Diana just stares at him in abject horror.

"Your face," she manages, inelegantly.  

"Oh," says Steve, reaching up and running a hand over the several day old stubble now adorning his chin. "Something new I'm trying."

"No." It falls out softly, reflexively, without her brain's permission, and immediately her hand comes up to cover her mouth. "Sorry," she says, at his amused look. "It's your body."

"How do you really feel?" Steve asks, mirth in his eyes. The war inside her is evident: she clearly hates the beard, and is also not willing to insert herself into his bodily autonomy, something she feels strongly about on every level. He chokes down a laugh at the expression on her face, tries not to betray how funny he finds the whole situation. 

"That it's your body, but I'm the one who has to look at it," she says finally, her bluntness winning. Steve's pretty sure it's a subtle mark of trust that she's willing to say it aloud. 

He's not offended in the slightest, and doesn't pretend to be. "Noted," he says, "So far it's working for me, but I'm still experimenting." 

"Hmm," Diana says, doing her best not to be too disapproving. She drops the subject, but takes another moment to glare at the beard before proceeding on to more normal conversation. 

*

"It's itchy," complains Diana the next day, as it scratches against her cheek in an unfamiliar way. 

"You're telling me," says Steve. "The first few days were hell." It was only after everything grew in that the itching stopped. 

Diana, trying hard not to be petulant in her dislike for Steve's beard, once again moves on, silencing her misgivings and resigning herself to the ticklish sensation of the scruff scraping across her face and neck when they kiss. She'll get used to it. 

Probably. 

*

Perhaps her vendetta against the beard would not be nearly so pronounced if there weren't so many people remarking on how much they like it. 

"Oh, Steve, you look so handsome," coos their eighty-something year old neighbor, Mme. Giraudet, when they run into each other in the hallway, and Diana bites her tongue as Steve grins and thanks her. 

"Your new beard suits you," comments Diana's colleague, Inès, when Steve stops by the Louvre for lunch one afternoon. The interns, meanwhile, titter amongst themselves, and Diana's sure they're also talking about the beard too, given that they gossip about everything else.

"Love the beard," says Arthur at the next Justice League meeting, and Diana huffs as they talk about the best trimming techniques and Arthur asks if Steve plans to grow it any longer. (The answer is no, thankfully.) 

"Maybe I should grow one too," says Barry thoughtfully, and Diana rolls her eyes, because Steve has officially crossed the line into bad influence. 

"I know an excellent styling product should you wish to give it a little panache," says Alfred, and under her breath Diana mumbles, "Don't encourage him." 

*

"You are lucky my skin heals so quickly," Diana grouses one evening, as she examines the inside of her thigh, where there's a light trail of irritated skin, already starting to fade. 

"Perk #327 of dating a literal goddess," Steve quips jovially. They both know her skin will be completely unmarred in the next quarter of an hour, as if there had never been even the slightest bit of beard burn. 

Diana shoots him a dirty look, vaguely annoyed at his flippancy and simultaneously charmed by his infectiously good mood. 

"Shall I take a look for you?" he asks, far too innocently. 

She can't help it; it makes her laugh. 

"Maybe I can kiss it better," he continues, as though that isn't exactly what precipitated this situation in the first place.

But honestly, the red is entirely faded now, and his smile makes her feel warm, as does the way his pupils are suddenly blown wide. She just might let him. 

*

It's been a couple of months since Steve grew the beard, and Diana has resigned herself to its permanence. He likes it, and there's no getting around that. 

So when Diana comes home one afternoon, she's treated to a proper shock, one that makes her freeze upon entering the room. Steve's focused on the computer, typing out an email, and she stands there staring at him an obscenely long time, because his beard is just...gone. 

"Your beard," she manages finally, slightly strangled. 

"Huh? Oh, yeah. I shaved it," says Steve absently, casual as anything—like he didn't care about it, like it wasn't secretly the bane of her existence—still focused on whatever he's writing. 

"You shaved it," she repeats faintly. 

"Eh, it stopped being exciting," he admits, then looks up at her. "Besides, you hated it. It was a little funny at first, but ultimately not worth it."

"Right," she echoes, "I hated it." 

He grins at her, soft and sweet, and closes the computer in front of him. 

"Seriously, I wasn't trying to torture you or anything. You know that, right?" 

Finally, something else that she can latch onto. She laughs at its absurdity. "Of course I do," she says. "A beard is hardly a torture device, no matter what I wanted you to think." 

She leans in to kiss him, and touches his face lightly as an anchor, taking a moment to feel the now-smooth skin of his jaw. He laughs, taking it as another retroactive indictment of his beard, when in fact it's anything but. 

She finds herself conflicted; she spent so much time thinking she hated his beard, and now that it's gone...she misses it. Objectively, it did look good on him—didn't soften his jaw too much or make him look scruffy in an unappealing way—and as much as she complained about the beard burn, it wasn't actually as annoying as she'd made it seem. In fact, it became a rough sensation she finds she may have liked, not that she'd admit it. And she liked how much he liked it, the way he smiled every time he decided that nah, I'm still keeping it for today, that she'd have to try to convince him to get rid of it tomorrow, instead. He clearly enjoyed having the beard. 

Which leaves her in a quandary: she can be silent, or she can set aside her pride and do an about-face on her opinion of the beard. 

"Steve," she says hesitantly. 

"Yes, Angel?" 

"I just...I do not want you to go without a beard because of me." There. Perhaps there's a middle path. 

"It really doesn't make that much difference to me; I'm happy to be clean shaven if it matters to you." (Or maybe there isn’t a middle way. Drat.)

"It doesn't, really," she admits, almost too softly to be heard. 

"What was that?" asks Steve, the sneaking start of a smile edging along the corners of his lips. Shit, he knows. She rarely gets anything by him, and today is no different; he knows her too well. 

"I did not really mind the beard, after all." 

Steve opens his mouth to say something, but Diana gets there first. 

"Not a single word," Diana warns, face hot.

"No, ma'am, not a one," agrees Steve, but his smirk—wide and mischievous and knowing—says it all. 

Oh, she's in for it. One way or another, that damn beard is going to be the death of her. 

***