#like I can’t recall them but I’d understand and follow the thread if I heard the names in the context of the story

[broodygaming]

I took the train to go back and forth to my friends wedding and on the way back decided to be cheeky and download the Girl On the Train audiobook. Didn’t know anything about it, hadn’t heard of it or the movie that apparently exists.

And ?? Are the straights okay? I could barely make it more than an hour or two. It’s exhausting and I don’t think I’ve even gotten to the first big twist. I think there’s a bloody scene and it’s on the plot description of the wiki page so it’s prob relatively early and I have not gotten to that haha so holy shit. Don’t think I’ll finish it. Ehh. It took so much effort to learn their names it feels like a waste to not finish it but also YEESH it’s exhausting.

[embyrinitalics]

An Inconvenience

Read the previous thread here, or jump down the rabbit hole 🕳🐇

Link lays awake that night, staring restlessly at stars.

She’d left, and he can’t for the life of him figure out how he’d let it happen.

The stories don’t help him sleep. He finds Farosh’s Tail and tells himself the story of the first thunderstorm and lifegiving rains it brought with it. He finds the Mighty Boar and the story of the first hunt, but he can’t imagine ever having an appetite again, so dwelling on that seems pointless. He finds the Great River, where the first woman stepped out of the waters and made herself a companion out of clay and animal bone and bits of dragon’s claws. When she pressed her mouth to his to give him breath, he was so grateful and awed by her that he kissed her again, trying to give it back.

His chest twists and cramps, and he rolls out of the hammock and feels his way down to the water in the dark.

The lake is still, the flagstones around the shrine are empty. But he can hear Mara humming at the pool, her song echoing out of the dragon’s mouth, lending it a voice. It’s not surprising. The old priestess never sleeps. He thinks he’s been quiet as he climbs the stairway beneath its teeth and drifts down its throat towards the light of the fire she keeps flickering at the goddess’s feet, but before he can make himself known she turns around and hands him a bowl of broth.

His lips move to form a question.

“I heard you not sleeping,” she says before he can ask, and when he opens his mouth again, “I know. But you need to eat something. This will keep you strong.”

He frowns, but takes it anyway, scenting the stock and taking a sip. He knows better than to argue with her. It tastes of porgy and thistle, and just a hint of banana. Her brow is arched at him when he chances a glance in her direction again.

“Did you really think she would stay? Leave everything and everyone she knows behind, just to be with you?”

“I didn’t think she would stay,” he argues, but quickly finds he has no where to go. “I just... never thought she would leave.”

“Typical,” she chides him, smiling, and turns to lower herself into the pool. “Leading with your heart, without thought for what might be. Without fear. You are a dragon through and through.”

He drinks, just so he can’t ask the question trying to squirm its way out of his mouth. He swallows and asks it anyway. “Was that wrong of me?”

She barks a laugh, so loud he hunches his shoulders and glances warily up into the colonnade, and wades out with her palms skimming the water’s surface.

“Oh, Link. What are we going to do with you? You are what you are.”

He downs the rest of his broth, folding his legs under him to sit at the water’s edge. He doesn’t dare dip his feet in, as inviting as Mara makes it seem. He knows better, even if he is so dragonlike.

“Have you been to the spires?” he asks, planting an elbow on his knee so he can drop his jaw against his fist, and she laughs again, more a puff of air than a bark.

“No, of course not. My place is here.” The water around her hums, glows gently, as though harboring lightning. She glances curiously up at the statue, and then turns with a knowing look in her eye. “Have you even thought about what you’ll do when you find her?”

“I wasn’t—”

Mara snorts at him before he can deny it and turns back to the goddess, humming as she sways her hips. The waters glows a little brighter, just a pulse, and then it’s fading again. He doesn’t understand the communion at all; but then, it really isn’t for him to understand.

His words at the edge of the plains echo in his head instead—too loud to be memory, too distinct. Trapped in him, shoved deep in his brain when they ricocheted meaninglessly off her ears. As infuriatingly unintelligible to her as Mara’s song is to him.

You can’t leave. I have too much I want to say. Too many things I don’t have the words for!

He remembers the rise of panic in his throat, the awful clench in his stomach when he realized he had no way to tell her and that she was mere seconds from disappearing forever. How frustrating it was to know useless words like rain and bird and banana, and none of the meaningful ones he needed, like fire or breathless or love.

If you go, I’ll only follow you, he’d tried to tell her. I’d follow you anywhere.

He feels stupid for it now. How futile that had been.

“They’re not like us,” Mara says—sighing, like she’s talking into the wind. “They lean towards the other balances. Far-sighted as an owl, single-minded as a boar. It’s makes them anxious. They’ll fear you because you’re different.”

He frowns. What a strange reason to fear something.

“Are there no dragons there at all?”

“A few,” she smirks. “But none so dragonlike as you.”

He stares up at the goddess, watching impassively over the world with powerful, unseeing eyes. For the first time he feels an unpleasant twinge of doubt. Maybe they’re too different. Maybe she’ll foresee too many problems (because there’s no doubting towards which of the balances she leans). Maybe it will take too much courage to love him.

He doesn’t like feeling doubt. He’s not used to it at all.

“They’re her children too, you know,” she hums, the water around her pulsing again with submerged light. “Though as I recall they believe she came from the sky, not the waters.”

He frowns harder. “Who’s right?”

She turns to smile at him over her shoulder. “Does it matter?”

Mara goes back to her humming. All at once he feels unwelcome—perhaps because the water gets darker the longer he looks, and brighter when it’s barely in his peripheral, like the goddess is urging him away. Perhaps because she’s humming much louder than before, like she’s trying to drown him out.

He’s getting to his feet and retreating from the spring before he can draw any more conclusions.

For a moment he feels in a fog. But then, beneath the row of stone teeth, watching an icy moon begin its slow descent, the old priestess’s words snap together like puzzle pieces, and the doubt melts from the heat sparking off them.

You are what you are.

He doesn’t know if she meant to chide him or encourage him, but either way, if a dragon is what he is, why does he pretend to be anything else?

He climbs back into the colonnade to gather a few necessities and heads out into the plains with the morning light.

[doodleimprovement]

CSAU :: Moonie Jericho and the Mysterious Case of the Moon-Jumper Mask - Alternate Ending

Or: “The extremely self indulgent 7 page fic were Nell gets to be more helpful and has some actual characterization” 

Yeahhhh this isn’t canon to the fic, but I wanted to write it because I can, at LAST give ya’ll Nell’s backstory for how they came to live in Subcon in the CSAU

Per usual, the “Coffee Shop AU” belongs to the ever wonderful @doodledrawsthings

Also, note: Both MJ and Nell use “they/them” pronouns, with MJ being “He/They” and Nell being “She/They” To keep things from getting too confusing, Nell will be “They” and MJ will be “He” 

Enjoy! 

--

Nell was honestly a bit surprised when MJ came to their home the morning after Halloween, sheepishly stating that the mask seemed ... stuck.

“Really?”

He nodded.

“Huh.. Come on in then. I’ll get some tea going and see about helping you out, hm?”

He walked into their house, taking a moment to actually look about the place- as he didn’t get much of a chance before- and took a seat in their small living room.

The ambiance of the outside followed inside, with the walls painted chestnut brown with warm yet bright pops of color on the windowsill and the various picture frames full of people he didn’t know. The curtain over the wide window was patterned with little pumpkins, which he found cute, and hanging from a few ceiling hooks were what Clover would call “Low-maintenance” plants. The dark colors match well with the room, making it feel a bit comfier than it otherwise might.

The couch he sat on was across from an armchair, and both were colored a warm orange, with an espresso-colored coffee table. On said table were some envelopes and a copy of “Better Homes and Gardens”

Huh, he didn’t peg them as a reader of those types of magazines. Then again, Clover was the one that knew Nell, not him.

They came back with two mugs - one was purple with the “Snatcher” face on it, and the other had a little grumpy ghost on it, with “I’m spooky before my coffee” written above the drawing.

They handed him the Snatcher mug

“Can I ask where you get all of this Snatcher merch?”

“My best friend is an Etsy fiend. Despite him living all the way in Nyakoto, he ships me Snatcher merch whenever he finds something fun. He’s a real character” they chuckled.

“Huh” MJ acknowledged as Nell walked around the coffee table and sat next to him

“Do you feel the mask?”

He nodded, his hand up at the edge, right where he felt it “When I pull, it just… doesn’t move”

“Hm..” they sipped. “When you try to take it off, how does it feel?”

“Like… it’s like a thousand little… things? Pulling at my face, I think?” MJ pulled up their mug and sipped the tea.

“Like… string? Thread?”

MJ nodded. “I think that's the right word, thread”

Nell puts down the mug as MJ takes another sip. “Let me see” they scooted closer to him, and he put his mug down and turned his head.

Their hands seemed to glow green as they raised it “There we go…” They muttered, hand immediately finding the mask’s edge, and seeing what he was talking about “... Huh, the threads… well, that's the right word. They’re… criss-crossed…”

Before he could ask if they could remove them, he felt a slight burning at the edge of his face and jumped

“Ah!”

“Sorry, sorry, but, that did work… Though, it means you might be here a while” they admit “I’ll need you to stay still, okay?”

“Oh.. okay”

It was... Not Okay.

A few minutes into Nell’s attempt at getting the mask off, they let out a huff.

“You can’t keep squirming”

“I- I’m sorry” He muttered “It's just, you know, hard to stay still”

“I understand that, but I don’t want to mess this up. I’d like to see your actual eyes” They muttered.

“I know, it just.. Weird feeling” He tried to explain.

“Moon” They pressed, but sighed “... You seem still enough when I’m talking to you, need a distraction?”

“I mean, I guess…?”

Nell sighed “Hm… How about I tell you how I came to live in Subcon? That’s a long-ass story”

“Oh uh, if you’re okay with sharing!” MJ tried to be polite. He knew that even Clover wasn’t completely sure why Nell came to live in the town, she just knew that “something happened” back at the coast where they were from.

“Nah. It’s been 5 years. That’s more than long enough” The nurse stayed focused on the magic threads, their magic seeming to thrum in his ears- sounding almost like the hum of a fan in the dead heat of summer..

There was a pause, before they took in a breath.

“When I was 19, I took a job in Nyakoto, and left my hometown as fast as the train could take me. I had a scholarship to a little nursing school there, and before my 21st birthday, I’d gotten a nice, decent paying job as an ER nurse for a hospital in the East Side” They started “The hospitals were all interconnected, so I ended up meeting different doctors and nurses while I worked, and sometimes was called to assist in other hospitals.

“I was.. 25, when I met him” They recalled, something in their voice seeming heavy. “We’ll call him Chris

“He was in residency at a hospital down in the Wesservale neighborhood. We met at a medical appreciation gala… He had something about him I couldn't place. . . A charisma, almost. A kindness. He seemed so eager for the future, so excited for what the next day might bring him. I’d never been like that. His optimism drew me in.

“We started dating the year after. Like with most relationships, everything seemed great. He was funny, kind, thoughtful, all of that stuff. He even went with me to pride stuff, which was pretty cool at the time.”

“Pride?” MJ chimed in. Nell couldn’t hide a chuckle.

“Yes. You’ve heard of the Nyakoto Annual Pride Bonanza, haven’t you? One of the biggest in the country”

“I have, yes”

“Good. Back to the story” Nell redirected “When I was 27, about a year and a half into the relationship, I realized, quite unhappily, that we weren’t actually very different, and didn’t really get along as well as we thought.. It's not that we argued, but.. We didn’t really… talk. I never spoke to him about my problems, I didn’t feel like I could, and that really made me realize that we weren’t actually all that comfortable around each other. So, when he came over to my place that night for dinner, I spoke to him, and tried to tell him that we weren’t compatible, and that I thought perhaps we’d be better off as friends.

“He convinced me that we just needed work, going on and on about all these plans he had for us. Trips, dates, things to look forward to, always looking toward the future, Chris did”

Nell paused again

“.. I really should have noticed how little he cared about happiness in the present.” They commented “Not a traditional red flag, but it was a warning nonetheless”

“Well, I mean, that’s not so bad”

“In a way, no” Nell replied “But when you think about the future so much, you forget the present, you forget to live, and your past just.. Ends up a horrible haze. Even the happy stuff is hard to recall”

MJ hadn’t thought of it like that

“But hindsight is 2020, and in the moment, I believed him. I wanted to believe those bright dreams of the future, and I let go of the fact that I did not even like to talk to him very much.

“... I tried to break up with him 4 more times in the 8 years we were together.”

Okay, MJ hadn’t been expecting that much time passing.

“By the time I was 34, we were living together, but barely seeing each other. From the outside it must have seemed perfect to everyone else. I think only Daph knew about my.. Issues, with Chris. I still never talked to him about anything that wasn’t the future, or how the day was, or.. Just, absolute nonsense.

“One night, after one more attempt to break up, I’d gone to bed defeated, and woke up at 3 in the morning while he was on the night shift in Wesservale.. I came to this… realization

“If I didn’t leave right then and there, I’d marry him…. and I’d …. I’d be stuck. He’d have me, and I’d be stuck for the rest of my life..

“So I grabbed everything I had in the apartment, sent a resignation email to the East side hospital I still worked at, left him a note telling him I was leaving, took my car and just… started driving”

“.. Did he call you?”

“I blocked his number.” They answered curtly. “Drove for days until I came across Subcon.”

MJ didn’t comment.

“I stayed at the Alpine Motel for a few nights, and when I was at the diner, overheard that there was an open position for the school nurse at the elementary” They continued. “I applied for it, and 3 months later cashed in my savings to put a down payment on this little place” They made a motion with their hand briefly “The rest is history”

“Well… If it's any consolation, I think that's a good reason to get out of the city”

Nell couldn’t hold back a laugh. There was something a little… sad, in it, but the laugh was genuine.

“Yeah, then again, every reason is a good one to get out of the city” They commented, and MJ had only just realized that their hands were now on the other side of his face. Nell worked quickly, it seemed. “Hm.. okay. On the count of three, I'm going to try to take it off, alright?”

“Oh, uh, wow, okay!” He replied eagerly, closing his eyes.

“One…” They slowly started, both hands on either side, their nails right at the edge of the mask.

“Three!”

MJ startled as Nell pulled, and a cold, sharp feeling spread over his body before it abruptly ended. When he opened his eyes. He looked at Nell, who had, in their hands, that damned mask.

His hands went up to his face, and he let out a relieved laugh as he felt his skin, glasses and hair “hah! Hahah! I’m human again! No more magic!” He raised his hands and leaned back on the couch “Sweet relief”

Nell let out a chuckle, putting the mask down gently “Finish your tea, I’m gonna grab you a damp towel. You have… paint? On your face”

His brow was furrowed, but he reached for the still-warm mug anyway as Nell got up and went down a short hallway.

He took the few moments that Nell was done to think over the story he’d been told, the exhaustion in the nurse’s voice as she told it. Was he really the first one to learn? It gave him a weird feeling right in his chest.

When Nell returned, she offered a small, damp towel… that had the “Snatcher” smile on it

“... How many of these do you have?” He almost laughed again, and they just answered with an amused smile and grabbed their own coffee cup.

MJ cleaned his face, seeing a candy-red color coming off on the purple towel. “Hm..”

“What?”

“Well uh, the color looks like the magic strings I was able to summon”

Nell Blinked “... Well uh, bring that up with Tim when he’s back in town. That’s a little out of my wheelhouse”

“Noted”

The two fell into silence, sipping their warm drinks and giving them some time to unwind

“Will you need a ride home?” they asked him, putting their mug down.

He hadn’t actually thought of that.

“Oh, uh, it’s fine”

They raised an eyebrow at him

“You live 20 minutes away and Luka isn’t here to … fly you home, per se” They laid out “I’ve got a car, I’ll drive you home”

He turned a little red to the ears “Oh.. Thank you”

“No problem, Moon” They smiled back at him. “I’m going to change real quick, then we’ll leave”

And with that, they left back into the short hallway, to what Moon assumed was their bedroom.

Nell returned a few minutes later, dressed in a loose blouse and skirt that went down to their ankles, a far cry from the tank top and sweatpants that he’d seen them in before. He supposed that it was more so not wanting to go out in Pajamas than anything else. She picked up the mask, wrapping it in a handkerchief before holding it out to him

“It’s chosen you. You have to keep it”

He just nodded, and gingerly took the troublesome thing into his hands.

The two got in their truck (Nell owned a truck??) and drove into town.

MJ took in a breath as they turned onto a main street, passing The Horizon. “So uh, Nell..”

“Hm?”

“About your uh, the story you told me.. I won’t tell anyone”

“I don’t mind if you do” they answered, eyes on the road

“What, really?”

“Like I said before. Five years feels long enough”

MJ’s brow furrowed “I’m still not going to say anything.. That’s a personal story. It’s not mine to tell”

Nell glanced over at him with an unreadable expression, before moving to turn on the radio. Lo-fi started, and it seemed they were right in the middle of a Billie Eilish song.

“.. Thank you” They ended up responding as the song picked up

”I know supposedly I'm lonely now.

Know I’m supposed to be unhappy without someone.

But aren’t I someone?” 

MJ didn’t say much of anything else once until they got to his apartment building

“Thank you, Nell. For everything”

“Don’t mention it” They gave him a small, but sincere smile “Get some rest, hm? The bags under your eyes are aging you”

MJ just laughed “I will. Don’t be a stranger, Mx. Buonacci”

The nurse gave him a lazy salute with a soft smile, before the window rolled up, and they drove off

Exhaling, he looked down at the covered mask, wrapped in a…. Snatcher-patterned handkerchief.

He couldn’t help but laugh.

[vinceaddams]

obvs feel free to keep this private, but I got recommended the UFH channel by a friend of mine, haven't gotten around to watching anything from it. I trust your judgement on the content, but my friend considers it her main resource 🙃 of course, since you only watched a few videos you might not be able to answer this, but was there any specific really bad/unacademic approaches I should keep my eye out for that my friend might have adopted? we work on a historical festival together so im concern

(I was going to answer this privately but then it got really long and turned into a post I want to post.)

Oh dear! Well, It appears that the lady behind that channel only cares about the 20th century, so maaybe she’s got good stuff on the 20th century at least? I don’t know, but the 2 videos that I saw were so incredibly awful that I’m highly suspicious of all her stuff. 

The first bad thing about her channel is that her videos all have a one or two sentence caption and nothing else. (I clicked on a few more just to check) No sources listed, no links of any kind except to her merch store. I don’t recall her mentioning any particular sources for any of the things she said in the videos either, she just declared them very matter of factly. 

Good historians cite sources! Bernadette Banners’ video on the history of PPE has so many source links she ran out of room in the description box and had to put the rest of them on a page on her website.  (Oh poo, now I feel a bit bad because I love Karolina Zebrowska but she really needs to do better with leaving source links. But she does talk about doing research, talk in a more nuanced way, and doesn’t present herself as an expert or academic, unlike the UFH lady.)

Good historians also embrace nuance, and aren’t afraid to say “I don’t know” or “I was wrong”. Presenting things in a “this person did this one big thing, and then this happened, and that caused this” kind of way isn’t good because history is more like “all these things happened and as far as we can tell it appears to have influenced this, which was also connected to this other stuff that we don’t know all that much about”. History is foggy and complicated, no matter how much the general public wants it to be simple.

Her description of herself also seems a bit... misleading? In her about page on youtube it says “Amanda Hallay, a college professor specializing in fashion, costume, and cultural history.” but if you look at the CV linked on her website the only degrees she has are in creative writing and art history. I’m not saying a person can’t be really knowledgable about something without a degree, but her whole online presence is about being a “professor” who teaches this stuff so I find it weird.

And if the 1850′s-60s video is anything to go by, she presents things in a shockingly unprofessional way. She starts off by saying she thinks these fashions are ugly and ridiculous and that she has some “theories of her own” on them. @marzipanandminutiae has a post with a lot more about what was wrong with that video, and a few others I haven’t seen. She claims that hoop skirts were oppressive cages when in reality they were a liberating garment that allowed women to achieve full skirts without the heavy layered petticoats they wore previously. 

She posts a photo of a naked lady and says “Now lets start with a beautiful naked lady and cover her up with ugly and unflattering clothes. Now this sexy naked lady isn’t so sexy” I wish I was making this up but that’s almost word for word what she said. Along with a whole lot of untrue or exaggerated stuff about Victorian modesty. She says dresses with layered flounces were called “pagoda dresses”, which isn’t a term that anyone has ever used for those dresses. She says this is cut down from a longer video she uses for teaching class, and I find the thought of this being presented in a classroom quite appalling.

After spending about 95% of the video talking about womens fashion in an extremely condescending and disdainful tone of voice, she posts what appear to be the 5 biggest and most extreme examples of 19th century moustaches she could find, presenting them as if they were what every man looked like.

This part really grinds my gears, because she says “I haven’t said anything about menswear because there’s really not much to say.” She posts photos of suits from 5 different decades and says they’re basically all the same, and also basically the same as a modern suit. Excuse you, there is A LOT of difference between menswear of the 1850′s and the 1890′s. Yes the changes over the decades are more subtle, and the colours are often more subdued than in centuries past, but it is absolutely not (as she claims) “the century when men stopped doing fashion”.   I personally am not hugely interested in 19th century mens fashion, and can tentatively date things in the first few decades but after the middle of the century I can’t. But people who are interested and who study that era can tell the decades apart. Because they’re different. And there is SO MUCH to talk about! Suits for different levels of formality, accessories, waistcoats, sportswear, sleepwear, knitwear, swimsuits, loungewear, underwear, etc. are all extremely different from their modern equivalents. 

It’s perfectly fine to only study womens fashion if that’s what you’re interested in, but it is not okay to then declare that the history of mens fashion is worthless and nonexistent. Simply not being interested in a thing is no excuse for publicly shitting all over it. (I’ve seen people do this more than once. We already have so few men who do historical fashion stuff! Stop putting off newcomers who might be interested!!)

The fact that her online presence is so closed off is also highly unusual. Comments are turned off for her videos, and the only social media link she has is to a private facebook group. (There is also a link to a fb page, but it appears to have been deleted.) Turning off comments is of course the personal choice of the one posting the videos, but the fashion history side of youtube usually tends towards pretty decent comment threads, and people often have nice little discussions and learn stuff in them. Here it looks like she doesn’t want discussion, doesn’t want to be contradicted or asked for sources, doesn’t want to learn new things.

I had never even heard of this channel until I saw @marzipanandminutiae mention it, nor have I ever heard any of the many historical costumers/youtubers I follow mention it, yet somehow it has 55k followers? I don’t know the demographics that watch it (especially not with the comments turned off!) but I’d wager that videos like the 1850′s-60′s one I suffered through are mainly watched by people who like hearing things trash talked, rather than people who actually want to learn about fashion history. The same sort of people who loved that Beau Brummell twitter thread, which was also full of lies and unsourced garbage. People like to believe the past was way worse and grosser than it was because it makes them feel like we’re smarter and better now.

Lastly, the whole premise of the channel is just bad. Calling any one thing “The Ultimate Fashion History” is a bad idea. Her channel trailer says “Youtube’s number one channel for original fashion history content” “we’ve got it all, fifty thousand years of fashion history”. You can’t have one channel that’s the ultimate resource for ALL of fashion history! It’s a huge, HUGE subject, and even if she did do actual good research she’d barely be able to scratch the surface of fifty thousand years. That’s like saying one channel is the ultimate source for all of science, or all of music, or all of cooking. No one thing can come close to covering all of it. I will deign to admit that she’s at least right to call it “original”, because she has some very original lies I haven’t found anywhere else. 

Most people who study fashion history/historical sewing have one or several eras they like best and find most interesting, perhaps with occasional jaunts into other eras. This way we can focus and get a much better understanding of the eras that we find most interesting, rather than just a vague notion of everything. 

For example: I’m most interested in 18th century menswear, and so far have mainly researched and sewn 1785-95 stuff, and more recently some 1730′s. I usually focus on fashionable civilian clothing, so I don’t know as much about working class clothes, and next to nothing about military and other occupational dress. Even with this narrow area of interest, which I’ve been obsessed with for many years, I still have so much to learn! I could never make anything claiming to be the ultimate source for 18th century menswear, because I’m just one person focusing on some aspects, and there are other people out there who research other aspects of it and their work is just as important. It’s all so big and so much, even if you narrow it down to one era.

Amanda Hallay is basically holding up a bucket of saltwater and calling it the ocean.

I haven’t watched any of her 20th century videos, so maybe they’re better than the older ones I watched. I don’t know. (But even if they’re actually good they still don’t have source links.) Edit: okay, nope, turns out they’re just as bad! They appear to make up the vast majority of her videos, so if she’s most interested in the 20th century then maybe she should just... make her channel more clearly 20th century focused instead of trying to paint it as a channel for all eras?

TL;DR, the main bad things about that channel are:

Lying and making ridiculous claims, not citing ANY sources. Spouting easily debunked myths.

Stating things matter of factly without any nuance, even though history is foggy and complicated.

Being extremely judgemental about historical fashions and talking about how much she hates them and thinks they’re ugly, which really isn’t appropriate for a fashion history teacher. You can hear the disgust in her voice and it’s awful and I hate it.

Comments turned off on all her videos, leaving no way to communicate or have public discussions. Unknowing viewers are left to accept her statements as fact without any outside opinions.

Claiming one channel is the ultimate channel for an incalculably enormous subject. Says it covers 50,000 years of fashion history when it’s mostly just the 20th century.

I would like to add that I am not what I would consider an expert either, and have no formal education in fashion history beyond the one college class that was part of my 2 year sewing course. I have learned mainly from books and the internet, and as I said earlier I still have a huge amount to learn. I’m sure a more knowledgable historian could put things better than I have. 

But I’m confident in stating that primary sources are needed to back up a claim! Sometimes even widely accepted beliefs turn out to be entirely unfounded myths, like that one about doctors using vibrators to treat “hysteria”. Total nonsense someone made up in 1999.

Wow this post got way longer than intended. Anyways, yes, I do not like condescending slideshow lady.

[so-i-dont-forget-again]

So I Don’t Forget Again: A Breath of The Wild fanfiction

Entry 160: ???

 Below the mountain is this trail. Somewhere along the trail is this place, there a mountain with a statue of a horse on top, and the little area is shaped like a horseshoe. We were riding towards it. Zelda thanked me for the advice I had given about horses, but she never said exactly what. Maybe it was for training or bonding? Maybe she directly said my words? She did say something about soothing your companion so they know how you feel, but she just started so abruptly I don’t think I quite caught it. She wasn’t sure about adorning her horse with all the royal gear, thinking it’d have to earn it, but she decided to be more empathetic and give them the benefit of the doubt, whatever that meant. But she was looking directly at me, not in the way when you talk to someone but like the comment, giving the benefit of the doubt to me? She also seemed different in this memory, more relaxed and open. I guess we had become friends, but I’m not sure. When we arrived at the place we got off our horses.

The sun was setting and she pointed out Mt. Lanayru. It’s named after the goddess of wisdom. The goddess said that no one younger than seventeen can step foot on the mountain because they are not wise. I find that rather odd. I don’t think age dictates how wise someone is. I’m a hundred and something years old, and by far I believe Sidon, Kass, and even the children in Kakariko and back home are wiser than me, but in different ways. The children know how to take responsibility when needed but also how to just let go and have fun when needed, Sidon he just understands everyone so amazingly on an emotional level I often overlook, even when the person I’m trying to understand is myself, and Kass, he knows how to stay true to himself, he follows his heart and is such a comforting presents, maybe that’s something he learned from being a father. I however, I struggle with all those things, but I know how to battle and I know how to keep going even when I can’t take any more! It think everyone is wise, but it different ways, it just depends on their experience, and age just says how long your experience was, but it’s doesn’t… age doesn’t show the quality of your experience. I could be wrong, since I’m not wise in… whatever this is, self-reflection? I don’t think that quite describes this, but if a goddess of wisdom thinks wisdom is dictated by age, I might just laugh at her, she doesn’t seem to know much, but I could just be horribly wrong about that.

The princesses had tirelessly trained at the other springs, the spring of courage and the spring of power but she had yet to unlock her powers and so she was hoping the spring of wisdom would finally do it. There was no evidence the spring of wisdom would be different from the others, but there was always the chance, after all… your life could always change completely in just a single moment. Tomorrow was going to be her seventeenth birthday, and she was going to go there.

It… has been a while since I last found a memory. I checked the slate and indeed this was one of the locations. I wonder… Why do I only remember something at these locations, and why only Zelda, and the champions? Why do I never recall my family, or the time before preparing for the Calamity. Why is it never anything before that?

I recall there being the goddesses, but I never really thought about them, or questioned them… They seem rather cruel. Even if it was to test me, it’s not fair to trap living beings just for me to take their scale and place it in water to unlock a shrine. What else have these gods done? Did they set up all the shrine tests? Did they force the Sheikah members to be sealed away in them, to be forced to live in cages till I arrive and complete the trial and allow them to die? What are these gods like, truly. I’d like to know. It’d be nice to know why they did what they did, and if I’m just misinterpreting their actions.

In the memory, I was also riding a black and white horses, it was mostly black with only a little white, but… maybe if Sidon reincarnates, maybe Friend dose too.

If I ever get the chance to meet her again, I just wish I could say I’m sorry, and promise to try to be a better traveling companion for anyone who travels with me, even if they aren’t her.

The castle is so close by and I can see three long red lines of light pointing to it from the Divine Beasts. It’s so eerie seeing the place, those odd pillars pointing to it and that dark smog that shrouds the place.

There’s a deep chasm that a bridge crosses, when nearing it, I heard Kass! He was surprised to see us; I think we more so startled him since he even lost his footing for a moment and almost fell over. First thing I did was thank him for telling Sidon I needed help, of all people I think Sido really was the only one who could guide me through all that. He told me I was looking much better and admitted that I had him really worried for a time. He knew Sidon and I were close and he couldn’t imagine anyone else who could be of better help to me, and he also knew Sidon would want to know about my less than poor condition. I loved getting to talk with Kass again. I told him about how I have the infection that’s eating me and about my dark thoughts, about being some hero when I don’t feel like one, how all that was just taking such a toll. Kass understood completely how all that could be so strenuous, he told me as much as he loves the isolation of exploration, often when left in your own head for too long you end up hurting yourself, that’s why keeping your connections with others is all the more important. People need other people, it’s as simple as that.

He told me he knew of a song of the area, and asked if I wanted to do some puzzle solving again. “When a single arrow threads two rings, the shrine will rise like birds on wings.” This song is rather self explanatory he admitted but because it had been so long since I last had traveled he thought this simple song would be good to get my footing back. There are many oddly shaped rocks around here, some piled atop one another, some not, but almost all of them have a hole that goes through them, so all I had to do was shoot an arrow through two rocks. We had gone searching for a while, some seemed like they might work, but no matter how I shot the arrow wouldn’t reach. Kass taught me a few things about bows and techniques on how to shoot farther, even with that though it didn’t work. We wondered if there was more to this than meets the eye, but we couldn’t figure out anything else. Eventually we did find the right alignment and rocks and when I shot my arrow through them a shrine unborrowed itself from the ground. It took even longer to collect all my arrows, we really should have collected them right after I shot them, but we were kind of impatient and wanted to solve this. We speculated on how Sheikah technology works again, how any sort of technology could recognize that specifically an arrow was shot through both and not two people each shooting through a different rock with great timing or an arrow was shot and it wasn’t some fast bug that happened to fly though both.

It was night so Kass, Bossa Nova, and I set up camp. Kass asked if I was sure I didn’t want to sleep in the shrine. I told him I was okay now, I could get some sleep, and protect everyone from the Yiga Clan, and skeletons and other monsters. Kass asked for me to sleep tucked under his wing. His feathers are much softer and warmer than any blankets or clothing.

Kass asked me how Sidon was doing. He hadn’t seen Sidon since telling him about my looking unwell. He then chuckled and told me I must have had a good time with how I was blushing. He wondered aloud about perhaps writing a song about the love between the great adventurer and Prince of the Zora. I just blushed more. He told me it was kind of obvious though when he saw my new armor piece with Sidon’s scale in it. I think Kass took too much joy in flustering me. I asked Kass how his family was doing. He told me they were safe and staying in the village. How he worded it was odd though and I asked about it. It’s been too dangerous to fly as of late, everyone is earthbound unless they want to be lit aflame in the sky. I know Kass has his own things to do but I asked him if he could lead me to his village. For now I’m going to sleep while Kass keeps look out, then the moment the sun rises we’ll set off.

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[seanfalco]

So I had a thought for another ValdoxReader, if you want. Your repeat-Reader is a minor noble. You know who else comes from nobility? Jask. So maybe he and the reader are old friends (or even formerly arranged betrothed?) and she and Valdo run into him on the road. A jealous snark off ensues and/or Something happens and our beautiful bards have to set aside their differences for the reader's sake?

Fandom: The Witcher Pairing: Valdo Marx x Reader / Former lover!Jaskier x Reader Word Count: 2.5 k Rating: T Tag List: @ficsandcatsandficsandcats @nevadawolfe @magic-multicolored-miracle @wayward-dream a/n: Sorry I’ve been away for a bit, been overwhelmed with some stuff and working on some original fiction.  :3  This takes place after ‘A Matter of Honor’ & I got a little carried away trying to push through this writer’s block, oops.  I hope you enjoy it though.  <3

Another day, another courtly party.

Upon arriving you were met with talk of another world renowned bard slated to perform that evening, much to your paramour’s chagrin and you wondered just who the mysterious performer might be.

Valdo’s sharp green eyes surreptitiously scanned each room you entered, no doubt searching for his competition, though he would never admit that he actually saw anyone as such, and you fought back a grin; squeezing his arm reassuringly.  He turned to you and smiled, his expression softening, and that was when you saw him across the room, recognition flashing across your visage before you could stop it.

Valdo noticed instantly, his gaze seeking out what had caused your reaction, his warm smile twisting to a disdainful sneer.

“Ah, Jaskier,” he hissed.  “So that is the other entertainment they invited.  I would have thought the Noble host had better taste than that talentless wastrel who spends his time pandering to the masses.”

Arching an eyebrow at the venom dripping from Valdo’s words you glanced past him at the other bard -- the man you once knew as Julian.

“So… you know him, do you?” you asked.

“Unfortunately,” Valdo answered coolly, raising his chin to peer haughtily across the room at his rival.  “From my days at Oxenfurt Academy,” he explained and you wondered how Jaskier hadn’t noticed the icy glare currently piercing his shoulder blades -- surely the hostility in your lover’s gaze would itch.

It was obvious Valdo despised Jaskier enough as it was, you could see no reason why you should disclose your own history with Julian Pankratz as well.  For that would surely only fan the flames and that was not a fire you wanted to fight this evening.  All you had to do was keep the two bards apart.  

Simple enough, in theory.

Jaskier performed first, which seemed to mollify Valdo slightly.  You heard him mutter something about him ‘getting the audience warmed up for him’ and you shook your head ruefully.  

Careful to keep your expression neutral during Jaskier’s performance, you slipped your hand in Valdo’s, twining your fingers with his and pulling him off to the side for a few stolen kisses, hoping the distraction might help lighten his sour mood -- all the while wondering if omission of the truth was the same as a lie or not.

When it came time for Valdo to take the floor he brushed shoulders with Jaskier, his icy sneer a match for the other bard’s fierce glower.

Wonderful, you thought with a sigh; obviously Valdo’s disdain for Jaskier was mutual and all the more reason to keep the two apart.

Settling in to watch, your eyes followed Jaskier as he left the room and a small sigh of relief passed through your lips.  Soon the large hall was filled with people dancing -- some gracefully and others rather drunkenly, for the host was far from stingy with the wine and you rose from your spot at the table to find more of said wine to refill your cup and possibly peruse the sumptuous spread of deserts.

Nearly being trampled by a spirited couple twirling across the floor, you stumbled backwards into a pair of waiting arms, catching you before you could fall.  Your savior set you upright and you straightened your skirts as you distractedly thanked him, finally raising your face, your voice failing as you found yourself met by a pair of clear blue eyes you hadn’t looked into in years.

“Julian!” you exclaimed once your voice had returned and he flashed you a grin, the cheeky one you remembered all too well, which was usually accompanied by trouble.   

“[Y/N], it really is you,” he replied, looking over you as if he still couldn’t quite believe it.  “I caught sight of you earlier, but thought my eyes were playing tricks on me.  How are you?” he asked.  “You look… stunning.”

Smiling politely you waved away his compliment.  “You look good yourself,” you replied, taking note of his thread of gold embroidered doublet, wondering who his tailor was and imagining Valdo in something similar.

“I’m well,” you continued, refocusing your attention on Jaskier, a genuine smile slipping through.  “I’ve been traveling lately, seeing the world.”

“Oh?” he asked, surprise flitting across his boyish features.  “On your own?”

“No, I have someone I’m traveling with,” you answered, somewhat enigmatically as you poured yourself a drink, your eyes searching for Valdo amidst the crowd.  Luckily he was still preoccupied and hadn’t seemed to notice you speaking with his rival.

“Well, where is he?  Or she?  I’d love to meet the lucky person who’s managed to pull you out into the world.”  Jaskier asked, glancing around as if expecting your beau to appear at your side any moment.

Choking on your wine only bought you a handful of seconds to think as you swallowed, a lame excuse springing to your lips.  “Ah, he’s… around here somewhere.  Perhaps I’ll introduce you later.”

Jaskier appeared a trifle disappointed, but he soon perked up again as he asked if you happened to catch any of his performance.  As you caught up, you found it rather ironic that you’d nearly married a man who had run off to become a bard, only to end up in love with another bard.  How different would your life have been, you wondered, if Julian hadn’t broken off your arranged betrothal to seek his adventure?

“Would you like to dance?” 

“What?”  Jaskier’s question pulled you out of your thoughts and you gaped at him, mouth moving soundlessly for a moment.  “Oh, I dunno, uh, maybe later,” you floundered, certain that Valdo would see if you took the floor with Jaskier, even for one song.

“What, are you worried your lover will get jealous?” Jaskier asked with a laugh, flashing that rakish grin as he spread his hands.

Before you could answer, you felt an arm wrap around your waist and you jerked, glancing over to find Valdo at your side.  “Jealous?  Of you Pankratz?  I think not.”

Jaskier’s surprised face might have been comical in any other situation but as he stared wide eyed and gaping between you and Valdo you chewed your lip.

  “Am I missing something?” he asked incredulously.  “[Y/N], this must be a joke, because you can’t seriously be with-with him.  With Valdo Marx,” he nearly spat the name, while Valdo glared back, equally disgusted.

“I assure you, it is most certainly not a joke,” Valdo shot back, bristling.  “The only joke I see here is you.”

Jaskier spluttered angrily as Valdo ignored him and turned back to you.  

“[Y/N], please tell me you don’t truly know this poor excuse of a bard?  ...Because it seems as if you two are already acquainted.”

“I, uh…” you hesitated, not quite meeting his eyes which flashed momentarily with betrayal.  “Yes, Valdo,” you admitted, though quick to assure him it wasn’t what it looked like -- as if you were going behind his back.  “I know Julian from a long time ago.  We were friends as children, but I haven’t seen him for years.  How was I to know that you two were… rivals?” you asked, a frustrated snap to your voice.

“Rivals?  More like bitter enemies,” Jaskier grumbled under his breath, though you ignored it, keeping your eyes trained on Valdo’s.

“You… may have a point.  I don’t recall ever mentioning him, nor my distaste for the drivel he peddles as music before tonight.”

“Hold on a moment,” Jaskier butted in, his eyes narrowing with mischief.  “We were more than just friends, I’ll have you know.  [Y/N] was my first kiss and we were very nearly married.”

“Julian!” you hissed warningly, no trace of amusement in your tone.

Valdo’s eyes hardened as his lips went taut; his arm around your waist tightening perceptively.  “Not exactly something to boast of, Pankratz, as I’m assuming you were the one who broke it off, no doubt to chase your dreams of fame,” he sneered.  “You are a greater fool than I thought, if you let [Y/N] go so easily.”

“Oh my Gods,” you groaned, completely fed up with the pair of them and their bickering.  “You two are acting like children.  Valdo,” you exclaimed, turning to the man at your side.  “I have no feeling for Julian other than friendship, and Julian,” you said, next directing your attention to the other bard.  “Stop antagonizing Valdo just to make him jealous!  It is cruel and beneath you.  I understand neither of you care much for each other and that’s fine, but in my presence at least all I ask is you be civil, like adults, for my sake.”

Giving both of them one last stern glare you slipped out of Valdo’s arm and stalked out of the hall, leaving them both quite speechless and thoroughly chastened.  Without a word Valdo took off after you.  Prideful as he oft was, he was loath to admit you had a point, though he knew it was true, and his pride was certainly not near as important as you were.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Jaskier cried, scrambling to catch up to Valdo, falling into step with him with a frown.  “Where do you think you’re going?”

“To find [Y/N] and apologize to her,” Valdo explained shortly, purposefully quickening his stride so Jaskier would have to as well if he wanted to keep up.

Jaskier’s frown deepened as he noticed, breathing beginning to labour as he worked to keep pace.  “Well, I’m coming too!” he announced.  “Don’t think I’m going to let you look like the mature one here,” he puffed, swinging his arms forcefully.  

Valdo glanced over at him and scoffed.  “Oh please, Pankratz, you will never be mature, no matter how much you age.”

“You take that back!” Jaskier gasped, blue eyes widening at the insult.

“I will not,” Valdo replied sharply.

“You--!  You… rapscallion!”  Jaskier cried, grasping for a suitable retort, thoroughly scandalized.

Valdo’s lip curled with amusement as he continued to look for [Y/N].  

Up ahead a commotion shook the small gathered crowd, pulling Jaskier and Valdo up short.  Glancing at each other curiously they proceeded to push to the front.

“What’s going on?” Jaskier asked at the same time Valdo demanded, “What’s happened?”

“Oh!  Valdo Marx…” The chief servant withered visibly when he turned to see who had arrived.  “I’m afraid there’s been a-an accident.”  The man blanched further under Valdo’s level gaze and Jaskier hovered next to him anxiously.

“What do you mean?  What sort of accident?” 

“A d-disgruntled member of the kitchen staff came out wielding a large knife, raving mad and-and abducted one of the guests.”

“Which guest?” Jaskier exclaimed sharply, though he and Valdo could already guess.

“Why… the young lady that accompanied you, Valdo Marx,” the man’s voice wavered as a bead of sweat rolled down his temple.  “We’ve alerted the guards, but --”

“Which way did he take her?” Valdo demanded, cutting the steward off.

“Uhh, that way,” he answered, pointing down the hall.  “Deeper into the estate, but -- wait, it’s dangerous!” the man called as Valdo already turned in the direction indicated, hurrying down the hall, Jaskier right at his heels.

“Are we really doing this?” Jaskier panted, jogging now to keep up.

“I am, Pankratz,” Valdo replied, barely seeming to break a sweat.  “I could care less if you tag along or not.”

“Oh please!  Just admit you might need my help!”

Before Valdo could answer, the telltale sound of a struggle could be heard from the balcony up ahead and he shushed the other bard, pulling him off to the side.  The two crouched down, moving closer so they could get a clear view of the madman, brandishing a long dagger and pulling [Y/N] along behind him.

“Get your hands off me!” you cried, struggling in the servant’s grip.  “What do you think this is going to accomplish?”

“Shut up wench!” the man hissed, pressing the blade closer to your skin as you drew back.  “I just want what’s owed me.  And the ransom I’ll get for your pretty head will do just the trick.  If you cooperate I won’t have to hurt you.”

“So what’s the plan?” Jaskier whispered, blue eyes flicking back and forth between [Y/N] and Valdo.

“You really want to help, Pankratz?” Valdo asked, his sharp green eyes never straying from the knife at his beloved’s throat.

“I do!  I care about her too!”

Valdo thought for a moment, stroking his goatee thoughtfully.  “Good, then a distraction will do nicely, I think.”

Jaskier nodded, thinking quickly.  “That, I can do.  Now, watch a professional at work, Marx.”  

Standing and straightening his blue doublet Jaskier stepped out into the hall with a flourish, his hands spread, and an ingratiating smile on his face.  

“You there, don’t come any closer!”  The servant cried as soon as he spotted the bard, holding the dagger out toward Jaskier.

“Oh my, there you are,” he stalled, flashing a small smile for you.  “I’ve er, come at the bequest of the uh, host to find out what it is you are after and how we might get [Y/N] back safely.”

The dagger lowered slightly as the servant obviously believed him.  As Jaskier kept the man talking, you swallowed, catching movement off to your left and quickly averting your eyes, lest you alert your kidnapper.  Without warning you felt Valdo slip around behind you, the glint of steel visible in his hand before the arm around your waist went slack and the dagger clattered to the ground.

Pulling you away and into his arms, you buried your face against Valdo’s chest as several guards rushed in and hauled the servant to his feet as he clutched at his side, blood running through his fingers.

Taking a shaky breath you glanced over at Jaskier who slowly approached before tilting your face up to Valdo’s.  

“Are you alright, my darling?  You’re not hurt in any way?”

“I’m alright now, thanks to you two,” you murmured, tracing Valdo’s jaw before reaching out to take Jaskier’s hand and squeeze it.  “You know, I’m sure you’ll hate to hear this, but you two make a pretty good team.  Perhaps you might translate that to your music?”

Both men recoiled at your words, eyeing each other with disgust.  

“Songbird, are you quite certain you haven’t retained some sort of head injury?”  Valdo asked wryly and you couldn’t help but laugh.

“No, I’m serious.  You should think about it.”

“I think this may be the one and only time I agree with Valdo Marx, [Y/N].  I don’t see that happening any time soon,” Jaskier exclaimed, propping his hands on his hips, though he couldn’t quite keep the grin from his face.  “I think the only time we’ll put aside our differences will be the next time you get kidnapped.”

“There will be no next time!” Valdo cried, frowning disdainfully at Jaskier, his arms tightening protectively around you.

[themackenzies]

Thoughts on Outlander 5.05 - ‘Perpetual Adoration’

Time is a lot of the things people say that God is. There’s the always preexisting, and having no end. There’s the notion of being all powerful—because nothing can stand against time, can it? Not mountains, not armies. And time is, of course, all-healing. Give anything enough time, and everything is taken care of: all pain encompassed, all hardship erased, all loss subsumed. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Remember, man, that thou art dust; and unto dust thou shalt return. And if Time is anything akin to God, I suppose that Memory must be the Devil. — Prologue, A Breath of Snow and Ashes

Wow, I loved this episode, and for the first time this season I’m excited to sit down and write about Outlander.  The 1960′s flashbacks, Roger and Bree hashing things out, adorable Adso (I am a dog person, but geez that’s a cute kitten)...this episode felt nostalgic, and good, and right.  Material from the books was adapted really well and didn’t feel shoehorned in.  To be honest, after last week’s ‘The Company We Keep’, I was considering abandoning the show because I was so disappointed by the writing and characterization of Roger.  But, after Episode 5?  I’m excited to see the rest of the season!

There’s a lot to unpack from this episode, so I won’t touch on everything, or this will get too long, but here are my thoughts.

Since the title card for this episode is taken from the flashbacks, I’ll start my episode review by talking about Claire, Joe, and Bree in the 1960′s.  Claire’s voice over of the prologue from A Breath of Snow and Ashes gave me goosebumps, as did Bree’s line, “Man, I guess you never really know what’s coming, do you?”

It’s so great seeing Joe again, even though it makes me sad that we never got to see Roger or adult Bree interact with him on the show.  I smiled at the reference to the romance novel The Impetuous Pirate from Voyager.

The lounge wasn’t empty. Joseph Abernathy sat in one of the rump-sprung stuffed chairs, apparently absorbed in a copy of U.S. News & World Report. He looked up as I entered, and nodded briefly to me before returning to his reading. The lounge was equipped with stacks of magazines— salvaged from the waiting rooms— and a number of tattered paperbacks, abandoned by departing patients. Seeking distraction, I thumbed past a six-month-old copy of Studies in Gastroenterology, a ragged copy of Time magazine, and a neat stack of Watchtower tracts. Finally picking up one of the books, I sat down with it. It had no cover, but the title page read The Impetuous Pirate. “A sensuous, compelling love story, boundless as the Spanish Main!” said the line beneath the title. The Spanish Main, eh? If escape was what I wanted, I couldn’t do much better, I thought, and opened the book at random. — Chapter 18, Voyager

The 60′s costumes, sets, and hair were on point.  Man, I really miss the 60′s-70′s stuff (and wish there had been more of Roger and Bree in that time in Season 4 - flashes back and forth like they did with Claire and Jamie in Season 3 would have been awesome).  I also liked how the flashbacks connected with the 1700′s story lines.  It wasn’t until I rewatched that I even really listened to and absorbed Claire’s voice over throughout the episode about God and the spiderweb:

“I wonder, is time God’s eternal web, silk strands stretching through time, the mildest touch setting off vibrations that echo through the eons? ... Is God the spider, embracing us through our death and resurrection, or is he simply the spinner of the web, watching as the silk shimmers and vibrates through the cosmos, awakening the real spiders, the ones lurking deep within the recesses of our own natures? ... God the infinite, God the merciful, God the eternal.  Someday, I will stand before God and I will receive answers to all my questions about everything in his universe, and I do have many questions.  But I won’t ask about the nature of time. I’ve lived it.”

There was something about the spiderweb metaphor that sounded really familiar, but I couldn’t recall if it was taken from any of the books or not.  So, I did a search for “spiderweb” in The Fiery Cross, and found a couple of passages that I’m still mulling over.  There’s this bit from Chapter 37:

“Brianna. What do you want? Do you want Stephen Bonnet dead?” She glanced at me, then away, looking out the window while she patted Jemmy’s back. She didn’t blink. Finally, her eyes closed briefly, then opened to meet mine. “I can’t,” she said, low-voiced. “I’m afraid if I ever let that thought in my mind … I’d never be able to think about anything else, I’d want it so much. And I will be damned if I’ll let … him … ruin my life that way.” Jemmy gave a resounding belch, and spit up a little milk. Bree had an old linen towel across her shoulder, and deftly wiped his chin with it. Calmer now, he had lost his look of vexed incomprehension, and was concentrating intently on something over his mother’s shoulder. Following the direction of his clear blue gaze, I saw the shadow of a spiderweb, high up in the corner of the window. A gust of wind shook the window frame, and a tiny spot moved in the center of the web, very slightly. “Yeah,” Brianna said, very softly. “I do want him dead. But I want Da and Roger alive, more.”

And also this bit from Chapter 73:

She had begun to realize, listening to the talk in the Sherstons’ parlor over the last few weeks, that the Colony was a vast spiderweb. There were innumerable strands of commerce along which a few large spiders—and a number of smaller ones—made their delicate way, always listening for the faint hum of distress made by a fly that had blundered in, always testing for a thinning strand, a broken link. The smaller entities glided warily along the margins of the web, with an eye out always for the movements of the bigger ones—for spiders were cannibals—and so, she thought, were ambitious men. Her father’s position was prominent—but by no means so secure as to resist the undermining effects of gossip and suspicion. She and Roger had talked about it before, privately, speculating; the fracture-lines were already there, plain enough to someone who knew what was coming; the strains and tensions that would deepen into sudden chasm—one deep enough to sunder the colonies from England. Let the strain grow too great, too quickly, let the strands between Fraser’s Ridge and the rest of the Colony fray too far … and they might snap, wrapping sticky ends in a thick cocoon round her family and leaving them suspended by a thread—alone, and prey to those who would suck their blood.  

Back on Fraser’s Ridge...

That pillow talk scene between Roger and Bree is the best romantic chemistry I’ve seen between them this season (yes, even better than their wedding).  Sophie and Richard acted their scenes, most of which were adapted from Chapter 6 of The Fiery Cross, extremely well.

She was an only child, as he was; she knew the yearning for connection and closeness—but hers had been gratified. She had had not one loving father but two. A mother who had loved her beyond the bounds of space and time. The Murrays of Lallybroch, that unexpected gift of family. And most of all, her son, her flesh, her blood, a small and trusting weight that anchored her firmly to the universe. But Roger was an orphan, alone in the world for such a long time. His parents gone before he knew them, his old uncle dead—he had no one to claim him, no one to love him for the sake only of his flesh and bone—no one save her. Little wonder if he hungered for the certainty she held in her arms when she nursed her child.

My one complaint is that I wish Bree hadn’t stayed silent after Roger asked, about Jemmy’s paternity, "In your heart, what do you truly believe?”  That discussion was very heartbreaking.

Thankfully, Roger returns to Bree in the morning, apologetic, after his heart to heart with Claire.  

“Oh I wish I had a bit of a husband’s intuition.”  “You haven’t been married very long. Intuition comes with listening and time.”  “I have time in spades.” [...] “Roger, don’t be careless with the time you have together.”

Perhaps Roger is remembering what he told Jocasta in Episode 1: “I may not have any property or money, but I have time.  And I will give it all to Brianna and Jeremiah.”  

Everything comes full circle at the end of the episode when Jamie returns home, and Claire shares what’s on her mind:

“Do you know what I finally realized after all these years? Just how much I owe him. His death had a profound effect on me, so much so that I took a leave of absence from work, and went to London with Brianna, and that was where I learned of Reverend Wakefield’s passing.  Had we not attended that funeral, we would never have crossed paths with Roger or...or found you.”  

A few final, stray thoughts:

I know the priest’s line, “No one’s lost who’s not forgotten” is about Claire remembering Jamie...but, Stephen Bonnet haunting Brianna is what popped into my mind.  Brianna has forgiven Bonnet, but hasn’t forgotten him.

Lizzie being present during Kezzie’s surgery and blushing/smiling when he had to drop his britches was funny and cute.  They’re clearly laying groundwork for Season 6 (or maybe Season 5?).

I love the sunshine and verdant trees in this episode.  It was pretty and refreshing.

Even though I loved Roger in this episode, I haven’t forgotten how poorly he was written in the first 4 episodes and in ‘The Company We Keep’ in particular.  I’ll leave that rant for another post, though.

I’m still puzzled by Roger and (maybe?) Bree wanting to back through the stones.  On thelitforum.com, Diana said something about the writers, in the first episode, establishing that Bree promised Roger they would go back.  But, if Bree made a promise like that, we haven’t heard about it on screen.  I don’t understand why that would be cut, because it’s important context to have.

I don’t really have anything to say about Jamie in this episode.  I’m bored by the Regulator story line, and am anxious for us to get to Alamance, so all of that can finally be put to bed.  

Based on the preview for Episode 6...it looks like Jamie and Claire will be going to Jocasta’s wedding by themselves, while Roger and Bree stay on the Ridge.  Interesting.

Roger’s scruff was perfect.  Crossing my fingers he stops shaving for the remainder of the season.

“Women will do anything for trinkets, coins, jewels. Anything at all.  They’re yours for a pretty penny, or a diamond, or a ring.”  “My lass is more concerned with words and deeds.”  Bonnet makes me want to vomit, but I loved Roger’s response about pragmatic Bree.

I love how naturally God and religion are being woven into this season.  It makes me wish the show runners had the guts to do it in earlier seasons.

[kaibacxrps]

Memories of the rod

Discord thread with @kaibacorpbros !

_____________________________________________

Entering Set’s soul room could be compared to a russian roulette of sorts. No one knows what is behind that door, and anyone could only come up with assumptions about it.

From the outside, faint cries of a baby could be heard coming from the partially open door.

The room had undergone drastic transformations. The indoors seemed to have become some sort of a patio, with a small fountain in it’s center - another part of the royal palace that Kaiba had seen a few times in the past. The faint cry of an infant could still be heard, and soon enough the sounds of footsteps down the corridoor joined it.

“Ah, there you are Seto.”

A familiar voice rang through the corridoor as Set slowly walked up to his vessel, with a little surprise- bundle in his arms. The cry had ceased, by the time the priest made it over to Kaiba. There is a smile on his gentle face, while he showed up wearing the same pajamas has him.

He just couldn't sleep. So what to do about that? Barge into Set's soul room to kill some time.

But he didn't expect to find himself here or for the spirit to come walking around carrying what was most definitely a child. It certainly produced an odd mirror image for Seto, he hadn't dealt with any babies for a very long time.

"You... why do you have a baby in your soul room?"

It had stopped crying at the very least, and Seto peered at it. Was it really there in a way, or could it fade at any moment? 

Seto's surprise was written all over his face, it was obvious how something like this was probably the last thing he would expect to come across in this place. Somehow this made the priest's smile widen, as his gaze shifted from his vessel to the child in his arms.

"This is another one of my memories." Set responded faintly, in order to not disturb the sleeping baby. A light yawn came from the bundle, followed by a few slight movements.

The spirit appeared to be beaming- so happy to be holding the infant like that. With one hand, he proceeded to gingerly tug aside the cloth that the boy was wrapped up in so Kaiba  could see him. "This was my very first child." He commented with a prideful smile on his face. The baby had his father's distinct, deep blue eyes, the skin was dark and had some black hair on him.

Seto didn't bother questiong how the memory stystem of Set's soul room operated, nor did he really care.

But, he did move closer to look at the kid, quiet curiosity on his face.

"The one that grows up to be king, right?" he asks softly.

Looking at it was like looking at a mini version of the spirit. And the tiny form brought back memories of when Mokuba was a baby.

"Hello there..." Seto extends a hand to lightly brush a finger against the child's hand to let it know someone else was there. He didn't want to startle it.

"How old is he right now?"

A soft cooing noise came from the baby, when he got into contact with Kaiba's finger. Another yawn followed it, as his tiny hands moved slightly.

"I'd say a few months old... Yes, around this age." Set responded as he proceeded to gingerly stroke the baby's cheek, with a finger.

"He turned out to be just like me, when he grew older." The spirit added while he still tended to his bundle. The baby had his eyes widely open the entire time, his gaze seemed to shift between his father and the other who looked just like him.

"Isn't he adorable? Heh he stole mine and his mother's hearts since the day he was born..." 

"He looks healthy."

With the comment Seto nudged his index finger into the baby's hand to see if he'd grab it in that little baby not-quite-death-grip-grip, but boy did kids act like it was one.

"You said he succeeded you in his teens, right?"

There was a small rufffle to the child's hair, much like Seto used to do to Mokuba. Which made him wonder... could it be held by him as well?

Though he didn't know how to go about asking. "Do you mind...?" He settled on holding out his arms slightly.

"Teens... I told you Seto. He was a full grown man by then." Set promptly responded with a chuckle, as he bounced the baby in his arms for a brief second in order to elicit a laughter out of him.

He got what he wanted out of him, but at the same time he caused the newborn to start whining and quickly evolved into crying.

"Oh no, no, no... Shhh... Oh it's okay, I'm sorry..." Set cooed to the crying baby, as his eyes averted from him upon hearing Seto's request.

That's right, as much as he loved his son Set didn't have the best of luck handling his kids so early in their lives. Given how Kaiba used to take care of Mokuba since very early in their lives, then maybe he would have an easier time soothing him down.

"Well, I suppose... There won't be any harm to it. You know how to hold it, right?" Set asked while carefully, handing over the crying baby to Kaiba- much to his dismay. 

The repeated culture clash prompted a brief exasperated scowl from Seto. Right, because making a teenager the prime minister of Japan or any country would work out sooo well.

Though he wouldn't have imagined that the kid would have changed its mood so quickly with its father there. Perhaps its mother primary spent time with him?

"Of course I do." And he did, indeed. He took the fussing child in careful arms, supporting the head and bottom, holding the bundle close to his chest.

"Oi, oi, there's no need to cry," he whispered. It'd been quite some time since he'd done anything like this, but he started gently rocking the child.

"Your dad's right there, shh, shh. If you calm down a bit, I'll tell you a story about dragons. Mokuba would vouch that they are worth it."

Well, if Mokuba remembered them, that was.

The fussy newborn's cries didn't cease, neither did squirming. His small arms and even legs, tried to wrestle- against his holder. Even more high pitched whines left the newborn, when Kaiba spoke to him.

Set had joined the other man in trying to calm down his son, to no effort. This didn't surprise him at all, it happened with all of his children. Eventually a defeated sigh left the priest, as he stepped away from Kaiba.

"I wonder if he's hungry... Or wants his toy. Can you stay here? I will have a look around this place." He said, while already facing away from Seto and heading deeper into the hallway.

In a matter of seconds Kaiba was left all by himself, with the crying newborn- future heir to the throne. 

"That could be it," Seto agreed, more focused on the squirming baby though. "Sure," he said absent-mindedly, but Set was already gone.

He continued to rock the wailing kid, never seeming to be bothered or annoyed by it in the slightest. "Fine, fine," he said with a soft sigh.

"Shh... listen. If you do carefully, you can hear wing beats- of what? Why, the most powerful dragon of all time!" While his expuression didn't change much, his voice had much more range, and many would question of this was really Seto Kaiba speaking.

"He's humongous, and black as night! But he had one flaw, a missing wing. He could never fly like the other dragons. But then he met a brave knight that was sent to kill him--but they teamed up instead, for the knight didn't need to fight in the sky..."

At first instance, it seemed like the baby's cries had gotten louder in volume and sharper in tone. As he kept squirming- the tiny legs tried to kick, as the squealing didn't end.

But eventually, the baby caught on to Kaiba's voice. It was a lot different from his father's, so soothing as well. It didn't take long for Kaiba's efforts to be paid off, as the baby's cries slowly diminished.

By the time Seto stopped talking, the baby was quiet and staring intently at the man's face. There was a bit of cooing, accompanied by the end of his squirming.

It is likely he didn't understand what the man was telling him, but that voice was entrancing and so soothing for the little bundle. 

"Heh... there. Thing's aren't so bad, once you calm down, now are they?"

With a smirk he stared back at the child for a brief moment. Something familiar niggling at the back of his mind. His purpose, his mission.

Take care of your brother.

Seto knew very well there was no chance the kid could have the foggiest idea of what he was saying. But he still continued on, back to his story. He believed he may have told Mokuba this one, but he had spun so many over the years and he likely retold quite a few to his brother with neither of them realizing.

No matter, there was no way for the baby to know.

It was impossible to tell how long Kaiba was left with the baby. Regardless of it, there was no more cries from the  newborn or even any kind of problem going forward from there.

By the time Set returned, his son was in a state of deep slumber in Kaiba's arms. The spirit came back empty-handed, thankfully by the looks of it whatever he had set out to look for wasn't necessary. He stood by a doorway for a moment, before he approached Kaiba.

"I hope he didn't give you too much trouble... I recall the servants that looked after him, mention how much of a troublemaker he could be." Set spoke in a low tone as he got closer to him, he is extremely careful in order to not wake up the infant. There was a momentary pause, while he stared at him- the way he held the bundle and looked at him... A thought crossed his mind.

"Mokuba. You and him..."

His eyes didn't leave the small sleeping form. And quite a few heartbeats passed with Seto not even seeming to acknowledge the spirit's presence, or if he even heard him.

"No, he was fine," he said with a nod at to-be pharaoh. "Just had to figure out what worked for him."

There was another pause. It seemed like Seto was simply going to ignore the latter comment.

"Many people assume that I would be useless with children. That I wouldn't have the patience for them or something. I can't figure out how they assume such a thing." He scoffs softly. He's still not looking at the spirit. All of his focus was on the bundle in his arms.

"Mokuba was a little yokai in his own right. Most of his early time was spent with me."

It was far from a straightforward explanation, but Seto would have to actively try to form one for memories so far supressed. Even before anything went too far downhill, Seto had loved taking care of his brother. And then when things got worse, he simply stepped up to the plate.

"You've got a good kid here. Didn't take me nearly as long to get him quiet." 

Set remained in silence the entire time Kaiba spoke, his gaze flickered between him and the bundle. At first he had a faint smile on his face, but it slowly diminished throughout the other's ramble.

Mokuba has only made very vague nods and mentions of their past, and prying these sorts of answers from Seto was nearly impossible most of the time. His explanation and answer made sense, and it shouldn't surprise or even come as a shock to him.

It might be better, if he didn't try to delve deeper into that. As such, he gave Kaiba a silent nod with his head before he spoke."That's good hear... I wasn't worried, it just..." Has been so long the last time I got to look at any of my children.

His voice trailed off, as his smile faintly returned to him while he dared to take a closer look at his son. "He was the very first good thing to happen to me, after that tragedy." Set added, his voice was incredibly soft- almost as if he were holding back tears. "For now, he doesn't have a name... We, me and his mother, only gave him one when he turned 5 years old." The priest moved away from them for a moment, as he took a deep breath. 

His instinct was to ask why, but a moment later he put it together. "Probably the right thing to do."

Right, survival rate wasn't exactly the best back then.

"I see. That's... good. Being a positive thing after it all--I mean."

Seto finally looks up from the infant now that the topic has been shifted off of him.

"Would you like him back? I'm sure he misses you," he offered. He could tell something was off, but he didn't want to ask what was wrong. Perhaps this would do some good. 

“It was common practice, my mother had done the same to me.” Set responded, trying to dismiss and maintain the lighthearted theme in their talk. However, before he could answer to Kaiba’s offer Set took a look around, as though something had crossed his mind.

Was that the big day’s memory? That one? This has to be it.

The priest at first was hesitant to take the infant back, after all he looked so peaceful in Seto’s arms... But alas. He proceeded to retrieve it from his vessel, and took one of his hands for so the other would follow him.

Set didn’t say a word, he simply took them through a doorway, another memory would be played for them.

The harsh sunlight immediately greeted them once they walked through the doorway, which led to a balcony. There stood Set, accompanied by servants- other members of the court, he wore a distinctly different set of garbs from what he had on himself just a second ago. The bundle- baby somehow, ended up in that Set’s hands. The pharaoh walked forward - just a bit more on the balcony, then raised the infant in order to show to his empire the his first son, the promising future of their kingdom.

“In this day, I showed him to the rest of the world... The Gods blessed us with him...” The spirit commented, as he stood by Kaiba’s side watching over the whole scene with him. “I look fondly back to this day... It’s one of my favorite moments, in my life...”

Seto gives a small nod at the explanation. It certainly made sense, even if a bit morbid. Ironic that in present day the issue was too many kids and not enough homes.

But Set takes the kid back, and Seto was thankful to stretch his arms out after that. And luckily, the child didn't spiral into another crying fit. What he didn't expect was to be led elsewhere. A new passage, a new memory.

It was odd, to watch the scene before him with the Set and the child next to himself as well. Nor did he quite know what to say to the priest's words. Seto was better with the children than the parents in all honesty.

"Congratulations." He speaks in a soft tone, without any sense of his usual dry wit or sarcasm. He doesn't know what else to say for a moment, he felt as if he was intruding in all honesty. But Set brought him to see this, so it must have wanted him to see it.

"I'm sure he made a good king."

[handmaidensofnaboo]

“Ultimately, it is very apparent this novel was noticeably, lovingly, and carefully crafted by a Prequel fan, a Padmé fan, a Handmaiden fan... Queen's Shadow is a fitting tribute.”

❦

Queen's Shadow had a somewhat impossible task for me as a handmaiden “super fan,” a potentially “tough critic,” so I commend E.K. Johnston for willingly providing me with an early copy to share my thoughts on it with you all... I was nervous about how Queen's Shadow would turn out to be honest, but EKJ was up to the task...

I'll preface this review by saying Handmaidens were my first real community engagement in fandom. My older sister and I joined the Royal Handmaiden Society on TheForce.Net boards back around 2001 when I was about 14. The RHS was the reason I went to my first convention (Celebration II) and although the group isn't as present online as it once was (please follow @royalhandmaidensociety​), I made life long friends and it forever shaped and changed me. It was an overwhelmingly positive fandom experience at a very impressionable age and for that I'm forever thankful...  So for those of us who have such deep roots to this, who have, for the past 20 years, analyzed the handmaidens’ every micro expression, every costume, and have carved out our own understanding of them (from what little information that would could find), this book might be a bit "complicated " to process.

 At least it was for me.

With the announcement of Queen's Shadow, I was of course initially ecstatic, validated even, that they/we were being seen and heard, finally!! Yet mixed feelings slowly sunk in too. Despite us RHSers long lamenting the lack of content—handmaidens unjustly being overlooked in both Star Wars official media and for a long time in mainstream fandom—it also became this amazing small community space for each of us to freely imagine and play in. It’s been a kind of safe haven I've come to greatly appreciate. With a book featuring them... That could all potentially change. This fandom could change. I found myself wondering a few weeks ago, "Will I even like these girls? Will I love these new versions of Eiraté, Rabé, Sabé...” Something I've previously never had to consider. My fictional friends were about to be exposed on a larger than ever level, and reshaped, officially, forever. I was worried.



I knew I had to go into this book open minded, no way could EKJ take each one of our different headcanons and fantasies and appease us all in one ultimate text—but to my surprise, there were certainly select striking scenes, moments, I had while reading, where (for me) she did accomplish just that.  

After both the prologue and the first chapter in particular (which were centered around my favorite Handmaidens, from TPM), I had to put the book down for a while because I was so overwhelmed in the best kind of way. It truly was so close to capturing what I have wanted all these years that I just wanted to bask in it. Maybe that sounds silly but even simply one chapter filled with handmaidens, is an overwhelming amount of content for us to receive, let alone an ENTIRE book. This little fandom is just so used to excavating for scraps. I reread the beginning of the book again the next day, out of pure enjoyment, before I continued on.



The unbelievable news, the great news... Something I can't believe even is real... Is that Queen's Shadow starts with handmaidens and ends with handmaidens, and there are handmaidens in… NEARLY? Every. Single. Chapter. I really never thought I'd never see the day. I’m stunned. Yes, they are different then I imagine them, but I'm happy to see them, I still like them, just the same. And Padmé, who has also been sorely ignored, unappreciated, and underutilized within general Star Wars media/merchandise, is also finally getting the spotlight she deeply deserves.

❦

Queen's Shadow is woven like an intricate tapestry threading together Padmé's stories throughout the entire prequel trilogy (especially the first two films), and highlights some of my favorite stylistic and thematic choices within them. Similar to the prequels (especially TPM) it reminded me of a period drama, with it's more formal dialogue, richly detailed costumes, ceremonies and politics, and admittedly a more contemplative pace than the swashbuckling fairy tales of the OT (but still engaging in it's own way). Also like the prequels, you get that occasional ominous foreboding, that sense of pieces being moved behind the curtains by shadowy figures, of unclear motivations by supposed "allies," of tragic destinies being spun—but still find yourself swept away by moments of hope and idealism, despite it all.  There is a particularly heartbreaking yet beautiful finale moment of this book with her that was so fitting to George Lucas' vision of Star Wars, it was, as he once said, "like poetry—it rhymes." Anytime something can capture that Lucas approach to storytelling, I am thankful to be reminded of why I loved Star Wars in the first place. (Especially in the Disney era years when I've felt a bit "post break up" about the franchise, to be honest.)

Queen's Shadow is foremost about Padmé's work, shifting and hardening herself into her new role as senator. It does justice to the themes and qualities that originally enchanted and inspired me about her: fulfilling her duty to her people, her compassion for vulnerable communities, and fighting for what's right—through language, through political and inner power, strategy, and unexpected partnerships. And as always, Padmé is luminous. 

There is one cause in particular she is advocating for that is notably poignant in its connections to TPM. I was incredibly pleased it was there, relieved even. It was so important and needed for her character. It enriches the choices she makes in the later films. And it is just one of a number of political themes in the book that are timeless and ever relevant, but wasn't inserted into the story in a heavy-handed way. I love that the main audience for this book (young girls), will get these meaty concepts presented to them through our beloved political heroine and the diversely talented women supporting her.  While we do see the various skills and character moments of Padmé and her handmaidens, I admit (and this is just my first read impressions) they all still did feel somewhat at a distance for me. I personally would've liked to have dug deeper into their personalities. I'm not sure how to properly articulate it, but I just felt a bit left "wanting more"—for more walls to come down, to have gotten further into their inner thoughts... But I think it's partly the challenge of the large number of characters, the book’s YA length, and a personal preference of writing style. Which, in EKJ’s defense, does compliment these particular characters, who have long had these kind of untouchable, unknowable presences, these masks over them (and she does address that). I think as I reread it, my feelings on may improve as I retain all the subtleties better. But if they remain elusive, that gives us room to fill it out with our own head canons, which is something many of us all ~clearly~ enjoy! It is part of their appeal, part of why we first loved them after all. 
It's also important to note the impressive attention to various Star Wars lore that is entwined throughout Queen's Shadow, from remnant gems of "Legends" handmaiden lore (and even RHS in jokes), to architectural details found in Battlefront II, to various appearances by Clone Wars characters... And many more I’m sure I’ve missed. Yet thankfully I can't recall any of it is done in a way that comes off as showy, elitist, or hard to follow (if for example, you're like me and admittedly haven't watched hardly any of the Clone Wars).  Additionally, here and there, there were some scenes or lines that didn't quite hit the mark for me personally, one minor set of changes from "Legends" handmaiden ages irked me a bit (we had so little to cling to ok! lol), frustration at already established lore (such as Panaka and Clovis, which EKJ can’t help), and other things that were simply just creative choices of the author (which of course happens for me with almost every Star Wars spin-off). 



Regarding the last point, that was the only other occurrence where I put the book willingly down, this time because I needed to get some space—to process something I decidedly didn't like. It was about midway through the book regarding a particular minor storyline. I don't want to spoil, but I will say it involved a new character that, for me, was taking up too much room in a book that already had plenty of amazing characters I wanted to spend more time with. I just felt he wasn’t exactly needed, or that others easily could've substituted his place and it would've been more meaningful to the lore.  These critiques are relatively minor however, and most of them are easy to move beyond, especially when I consider the bigger picture, and the majority of scenes, quotable lines, and pivotal interactions in Queen's Shadow that do seamlessly work. Those more than make up for the handful of things I struggled with.

 Ultimately, it is very apparent this novel was noticeably, lovingly, and carefully crafted by a Prequel fan, a Padmé fan, a Handmaiden fan. For this I'm deeply thankful, because it's easy to imagine if it wasn't—How poorly or sloppily Padmé could've been mischaracterized or the possible omission and/or confusion regarding the handmaidens… The latter of which BOTH the revered Dave Filoni and Timothy Zahn are woefully guilty of, (full offense). It hits me sometimes how so much damage could've been done were this in less capable, less attentive hands, with an author that would've cared less. EKJ clearly cared a lot. Minor issues aside, that's really what mattered most to me, at the root of it. So I'm very glad.



The more open minded you go in, the more you will enjoy Queen's Shadow, and (I say this for myself, as much as for anyone else who can relate) we can still make space for and enjoy our old head canons alongside to the new lore, or even mesh them together... I admittedly struggled a few times, but I definitely enjoyed reading it overall, particularly all the scenes on Naboo (and another planet that will go unnamed for now)... 

If you love Padmé, the handmaidens, Naboo culture, prequel politics—this book is a must read. The more time that passes, and as I reflect back, the more I feel that Queen's Shadow is a fitting tribute to Padmé and our handmaidens, let alone the prequel era itself. Queen's Shadow will be comfortably situated on my bookshelf beside our other established classics: Queen Amidala's Journal and Queen's Amulet, and I’m looking forward to revisiting it again when the audiobook comes out (holy heck we're finally gonna hear almost all the handmaiden names pronounced??! Have we been saying them "correct" all these years?? Stay tuned lmao...) I'll probably be posting my spoiler thoughts on Queen's Shadow after the book's release on March 5, 2019. Pre-orders are available online, though I really recommend purchasing it at your local independent book store if you can, and/or requesting your local libraries get a copy! Please share your own pictures/thoughts/reviews on here, twitter, instagram etc. and tag it. We gotta encourage Disney to give us more, because this book definitively ends with an invitation for a sequel or spin off of some sort, and I, a bit desperately, want it!!  The more we can support Queen's Shadow with the language Disney knows best ($$ and exposure) the better chance of future Padmé and handmaiden content, and they deserve it!! All of it—books, comics, Disney+ streaming miniseries, video games—Give them the legacy Rogue Squadron got. It's their time.



Again, thank you so much E.K. Johnston for creating this beautiful book, and going out of your way to provide me a copy. I'll always treasure that moment when I got that surprise package in the mail, a book nearly 20 years in the waiting. I was 12 years old again, that snowy day on my porch.



Can't wait to read everyone's thoughts. MTFBWY. ✨✨✨

Thank you for reading,

@handmaidensofnaboo​

❦

♕ Pre Order Queen's Shadow 

♕ Purchase Queen’s Shadow at your local independent bookstore

♕ Follow author E.K. Johnston: website | twitter | instagram | tumblr

♕ Follow cover artist Tara C. Philips: website | twitter | instagram | tumblr

[beautcous]

A Friend’s Perspective

Involving: Ezra Meyer & Veer Malhotra @ofheavcnlysx

Timeline: Following the last thread for Sezra and Vriya

Location: Pablo’s Restaurant

Veer was surprised when Ezra Meyer reached out to him, they'd worked together on a few occasions and he had taken a liking to the actor. While they got along, their conversations were brief and mostly limited to the work they did, namely Veer would ask him to be the face of his games and boy did business boom when Ezra became their face. Still, Veer enjoyed his company thus he arrived at their chosen location for some coffee that afternoon. "I apologize for being late, got held up at a meeting." He told the male with a friendly smile. "Not that I mind your company, but can I ask what had you reach out today?"

After Sydney ran out of his home to say that Ezra had been a mess would be an understatement. He didn't know how to proceed, nor did he try to contact his soulmate. He needed time to process everything before he tried to talk to her again. Ezra didn't know where he went wrong. All he tried to do was be honest with Sydney, and to have her push him away hurt like a bitch. Today he was having coffee with Veer, needing someone to talk to even if it wasn't about Sydney. "It's okay I understand that you have a life." He smiled at the other male before taking off his sunglasses and gesturing for the other to sit down. "I needed someone to talk to." He said, his voice sounding downcast.

Veer's mind had been occupied not only by work but Priya as well, having just recently learning that she was his soulmate. He had no clue where his fiance's mind was at, but recalling the many times he had tried to kiss her or even get her to open up about what she felt, well it was to say he was struggling with both which led to his fears of rejection rising. So, he was thankful for Ezra's invitation to divert his own mind from his troubles. Veer heard the crestfallen tone of his friend's voice and immediately grew concerned, "Of course, I'm glad you reached out to me, is everything alright?

While Ezra initially thought that he could stop himself from talking about what was going on with Sydney, he simply couldn't keep mum for too much longer. It was killing him and he needed to talk to someone about it. Veer just so happened to be the person he knew he could talk to even despite knowing that they weren't close to begin with. "No, I'm not." He sighed, running a hand over his face tiredly. "I met my soulmate, fell in love with her and she wants nothing to do with me now." He added shaking his head, "how pathetic is it that me, Ezra Meyer, can't make my soulmate fall in love with me?"

The longer Veer watched this man's expression the more worried he began to grow, normally he was a positive person choosing not to jump to worse conclusions but he had no idea what to make of this man's plight. Until he heard Ezra's words of his soulmate, and Veer's brow rose as did his concern. "Hold on, what do you mean she wants nothing to do with you? Did you hurt her?"

In the days since Ezra had a talk with Sydney, he hadn’t even slept a wink. He missed her and wanted more than anything else to be able to talk to her and appease her worries about him somehow, but he knew that would be pointless, so he decided not to bother. “I don’t think I hurt her, or maybe I did. I don’t even know anymore.” He sighed, head shaking at the whole situation. “I told her that I’m in love with her the other day and before that everything was fine, but once the ‘I love you’ came, she’s saying that I shouldn’t love her. How the hell am I supposed not to love her? If you’re in love with someone, do you think you could switch off your feelings for that woman? No, right? So why the hell should I be the special case here?”

Veer's confusion grew but as did his worries for this man, now this situation did seem unusual to him but then again was he not more or less in the same boat with Priya? It since their kiss, Veer had no idea what was going between him and Priya. "She said you shouldn't love her?" He placed his hand under chin while his brows furrowed, "No one said reading a woman is easy but this one seems more than a bit confusing." He then met Ezra's gaze, "Special case might not a bad thing, she didn't say she didn't love you but you shouldn't. Did you ask her what she meant by that?"

Ezra would never ramble in the way that he just did, but he was desperate to get the answers that he clearly was not going to get from Sydney. He loved her and he could feel that she felt something for him too. So, why would she not let him love her? Why would she push him away? It makes no sense whatsoever. “She did.” He nodded slowly, a sigh leaving him right after. “Tell me about it. What would you do if your soulmate told you that you shouldn’t love her?” He shook his head at the next question. “What kind of stupid logic is that? I shouldn’t love her, but she loves me? And she never gave me the real reason.”

Veer understood his plight to an extent, he and Priya hadn't said their I love you's but she hadn't out right rejected him either. For Ezra to confess such a thing and then be told he shouldn't, it baffled the CEO but more so his concern grew for this man. "I'd be feeling how you are, I imagine.   I wish I had an answer but women are not easy to read." He paused, meeting Ezra's gaze. "She might but youll have to find out why she won't allow you to love her. You have a right to demand an answer from her, if she was involved with you in any way, then it's your right to ask her for a real reason. For its worth, I'm sorry it didn't work out the way you wanted but I would also say if you love her, then don't take no for an answer."

Above all else, Ezra knew that he shouldn’t be letting his anger out on Veer; the other man had no idea who Sydney was, or even the whole story of how he met her and pursued her. Still, it just felt right to allow his frustrations to come out. He felt like if he held back any longer, he might end up exploding, and that would not be good, especially if it happened while he was on set. “Women are frustrating that’s for sure. Sometimes I wonder why we men are so enamored by them.” It was his exasperation talking of course. Nothing would stop Ezra from loving Sydney, not even when she was hell-bent on him not loving her back. “I’m not going to let her go. I just didn’t want to push her too much. I’ll talk to her though. Thanks, man.” He flashed the other a smile. “Are you seeing anyone? If you are, I hope your love life is not as complicated as mine.”

"If we knew why we were, we wouldn't be in this plight." He told her with a soft smile, still his concern lingered for Ezra because he could see just how desperate he was to have his soulmate. Veer was curious to know exactly why she had turned Ezra down but he hoped the woman would see just how much this man loved her. "You're giving her space, I get that. But I do see how much you love her, you will win her over." Just as the CEO hoped he'd do the same for his soulmate, Priya. "I...I'm engaged to my soulmate but we're not quite there with the 'I love you's' either...as I said women are frustrating..." He told Ezra a bit jokingly but also semi-serious.

Although Ezra wanted to take comfort in Veer’s words, he couldn’t bring himself to smile. There were so many conflicting things in his mind and it was all starting to make his head spin. He didn’t know what else to do for him to make Sydney realize that they belonged with each other. He loved her beyond words, but what good could his love do if she would never see him in the same light? “Maybe space is what she needs. What I’m afraid of is giving her too much space. What if she’s using this time to push me away? Then I’m really screwed.” His brows knitted together and he stared at Veer for a moment before asking, “So you’re not in love with your fiancée then? But hey, I’m sure things with her will work out. I mean, just because my soulmate doesn’t want me, it doesn’t mean yours won’t want you either. And at least, you’re going to marry her, so in my book, you’re still winning.” He let a laugh pass before deciding to end the sad conversation. “Alright, we came here for lunch, let’s order something before they decide to kick us out of here.” Once the waiter arrived, they ordered their meals and went on to chat about their upcoming projects.

COMPLETED

[littlemonstersau-blog]

The Feels Awaken Part 1: Return of the Memori

Written by @jkl-fff, illustrated by me

PART I (you are here)  - PART II

———————————————————————————————–

The lone wolf sat and watched, and that was an excellent development; the creature was learning to wait patiently, even though it was a wild, apex predator and doubtlessly could have ripped the dead squirrel from the hands of a teenage boy with ease (under normal circumstances, at least). Of course, since Bill was only wearing the clone of a teenage boy, he probably had an advantage in training the lone wolf. It could sense him—the real him—inside the clonesuit, and therefore was wary of making any aggressive moves … Animals always were around Demons, unlike most humans. Another instance when instinct trumped intellect …

So, instead, the lone wolf sat and watched patiently while Bill swung the dead squirrel around by its tail. Sat and waited for Bill’s conversational monologue to end.

“You’re prob’ly wondering why I haven’t eaten your soul like I did Chatterface McBurymynuts right here. And why I’ve taken to feeding you the soulless carcasses of my victims in person instead of just leaving them out for you. Well, I got three reasons. One: I like your aesthetic; you’re nearly all triangles in shape—really angular all over your body—and I really dig that. You’re relatably triangular, and I wanna see more of that in the world. Two: you’re endangered; if I let you live, there will be more wolves (so more angular creatures) in the world … and also more werewolves, which would be weird and awesome. And three …” Here, with a grin, Bill tossed the dead squirrel high and watched as the lone wolf snatched it out of the air. “Yeah, that’s right, wolf it down—heh heh! The third reason is, I’m gonna partially domesticate you and train you to pull me around in a sweet-ass chariot! Doesn’t that sound rad?!”

Having swallowed the last of the squirrel, the lone wolf turned and padded away into the woods.

“Don’t worry, we’ll talk more about how awesome my idea is later!” Bill called after him. “Just think a bit about what a fair exchange it would be! Actually, it’s a great deal for you! Tasty treats just for letting me occasionally ride you into battle like a chaotic, Norse deity! We can workshop ideas about the chariot’s design next time!”

On a nearby branch, a bird chirped.

“No, I think the wolf’s gonna seriously consider my offer,” Bill replied optimistically. “This is all just part of the deal-making game, which you’d understand if you weren’t a dumbass robin.”

The bird chirped again, then flew away.

“… Welp, that killed some time. Guess I’d better go back to the Shack and find some other activity to pass away the seemingly endless seconds until I get to skyelp with my Dipper …”

While he was tromping back through the woods, however, Bill was distracted by an unusual, yet strangely familiar sound. Juddering and throaty, then sharp and quick, then juddering and throaty again. Repetitive, too, though intermingled with a soft noise almost like keening or … no, exactly like whimpering. Then it clicked for Bill, even though he hadn’t heard that sound in over thirty years. It was the sound of a grown man sobbing. And not just any man, either, but Ford.

Softly, Bill crept towards him, eventually looking through bushes to the stump of a felled tree. Ford sat on it, hunched over and alone, crying as though he couldn’t hold back his own tears … as though he were too weary to hold them back anymore … That was probably why he’d come all the way out here in the woods, Bill suspected, where no one could see his moment of emotional vulnerability. Or so he had believed, at any rate, not knowing Bill was out here …

On Ford’s lap was an open book with brightly—even garishly—colored pages. One of the many scrapbooks Mabel had made. In between bouts of sobs, he slowly turned the pages and murmured things like, “Can’t believe she came b-back with a whole handful of it … So t-tough, even though always so sweet …” and “Terrified, but he f-faced it down anyway … for me … And I was s-so … so proud …” and “Heh! That f-fashion show she put together for Pacifica, made us all t-take part in … Can’t remember when I laughed so h-hard …” and “Oh, here’s that Jack o’Mellon he carved like the Gremloblin … from m-memory … So t-talented … And then they went trick-or-treating together both as the protagonist from that one game series—Myth of Hilda, or something like that?—Moses, it was adorable …” to himself. With each turn of a page, he was reminiscing about something different from the past summers: family game nights, hikes and fishing, short roadtrips, and on and on and on … Ford himself summed it up succinctly when he finally closed the scrapbook, buried his face in his hands, and whimpered, “Damn, I m-miss those kids!”

For a moment, a spark of bitter satisfaction flared up in Bill (“Good. Let that asshole suffer.”). And yet, it was soon doused by empathetic pity and sorrow (“I feel the same, though—we all feel the same … We all miss those kids …”). Then came a splash of feeling surprised, because of all the pity and sorrow; they were still such strange emotions for him as to be almost foreign. Following that, a bit of meta-emotional introspection at realizing he was feeling about feelings. Fortunately, before Bill could become too confused and horrified by the idea that he had become so human as to have feelings about having feelings, Ford stood and slowly trudged back home. After a safe amount of time had elapsed, Bill did the same.

Inside the Shack, sitting on the card table in the living room, was the scrapbook (no doubt left there by Ford on his way down to his lab). Along with several more of them. Picking up the most recent one, Bill began to flip slowly through its colorful pages filled with photos, stickers, notes, and miscellaneous memorabilia.

And as he did, he began to flip slowly through his own memories …

****

Terrified screams as he burst forth from his prison of a stone statue, rose up over them out of his shell (“Did you miss me? Admit it, you missed me!”), and tried to … tried to …

Bill shuddered to think of what he had almost done—what he surely would have done, if he had had enough power at the time. “Thank all the Gods that ever were or will be that that failed …” he muttered to himself.

Making little overtures of friendship—or at least not-malice—to Mabel until he got her to listen to his spiel about wanting to understand how he lost to them and to change and blah blah blah. Ford’s utter disbelief that the others could be so easily suckered. Entering a clone that first time and devouring that delicious little bit of soul in it (“Yum! Tastes just like mangoes and fear!”).

“They shouldn’t have. Ford was right that I was plotting their doom back then … Not anymore, but they all took a huge and stupid gamble, and just happened to get lucky … We all did …”

Steel slicing through paper and ink, dumping the scraps of bodies left, right, and center and relishing the screams of surprise (“Hehehehehe! What, you didn’t like my joke? You wanna … piece of me? Hahaha! Well, take your pick, there are plenty of pieces of me there on the floor!”). Sharpening his teeth to fine points to chomp at people. Gouging out his own eye. So much edge and shock at play, cold and hot at the same time, hilarious ticklings of pain.

“Such a waste of clonesuits,” Bill sighed. “And … all for the sake of just shocking them? Taking advantage of their love of Dipper? Stupid—can’t believe I thought that was funny at the time … So much time wasted during those first few weeks of the summer. Don’t wanna remember that, not anymore … wanna remember something else, something happier …”

Jokes so bad they made everyone groan, which made everyone laugh. Fireworks made of lasers. Taking part in an impromptu fashion show for the newest line of summer sweaters. Watermelons carved into jolly grotesqueries, lit with candles, and eventually tossed from the roof to splat. Making muffins with apple and cinnamon. Uncontrollable laughter at a rock shaped like a dong and after arcs of water accidentally melted another clonesuit. Wonderous eyes aglow with uncontainable excitement and the soft light of an everadiant crystal. Warmth of a shared blanket and the fun betrayal of an ambush of tickling underneath them. Kisses snuck around corners, behind doors, within shadows, inside the safety of a Nice Place.

“Heh …” Bill couldn’t help but smile to himself. “Even when I start out with all the others, too, it always comes back to him … But maybe I should focus more, not just look at the flashes and snapshots of memory? Delve in deeper to some memories? After all, what’s the point of perfect recall if I hardly ever use it? But, um …” Looking around the currently empty (though perhaps not for long) living room, he closed the scrapbooks and stood up. “Maybe up in the attic, where there’s a little more privacy …”

****

It was one specific memory that detoured his chain of thoughts, as memories tend to do.

Dipper. Sitting on a couch with Ford standing behind him, reaching over the couch to him. Flushed with simple happiness as Ford tousled his hair and praised his monster hunting work from that day. “Good boy, m’work! Er, I mean, good work, m’boy!” he had said, making Dipper smile so big and bright that the room had practically glowed with it. Bill’s insides certainly had.

Déjà vu, though, he had felt it then, too, remembering it. Almost exactly déjà vu … So Bill decided to follow the tangential thread of it now.

A young Ford, seventeen or eighteen, maybe—not yet out of high school. Sitting on the couch of his childhood home. A young Stan standing behind him, reaching over the couch to him.

“Oh, yeah … That’s why it’s so familiar; I watched it in Sixer’s memory and then more or less reenacted it for him. With him. Whatever, twice. Back when we were still working together, back when we were still friends …”

A young Ford flushed with simple happiness as Stan tousled his hair and praised his shipbuilding from that day. “You’re such a good cabin boy! Good work, me ol’ cabin boy!” he had said, making Ford smile so big and bright that—here the déjà vu ended and became simple memory— (“Pff! Why am I the cabin boy?” “Duh. ‘cause I’m the captain!” “Why do you get to be captain?” “Heh. ‘cause I can do this!”) Stan had swung over the top of the couch to drape himself across Ford. Pinning Ford down, while both brothers trashtalked and giggled and squirmed … and then gradually began to kiss …

“Was this the first time Sixer and me …? Ha! Yeah, it totally was! The very first time I set Sixer’s mindscape stage and played a part for him to work out some of his many, many issues. First of many … How’d it go, anyway? How’d we even get to this point? Need to rewind …”

Bill blinked, and the scene formed. Ford’s mindscape as it once had been: an endless field of strange but beautiful flower blossoms stretched to the horizon in every direction, with gleaming structures like the lovechildren of marble-cut temples and glass-and-steel skyscrapers rising in the distance-yet-closeness-of-thought like the aspirations of some new deity of science-fiction-becoming-science-fact, bold and untainted by the conformist conventions of old; swirling slowly overhead, so close one could have climbed up and touched, was a vault of stars, galaxies, quasars far larger than they appeared from earth and blazing so brightly that the field below them was as illuminated as a comfortable reading room; stairways made of books and journals ascended high to viewing platforms made of solid theories, equations, and blueprints all like shining neon signs.

Bill blinked again, and he saw himself chattering away about whatever had been their project. There was Ford, a late-twenties man and cutting-edge weirdologist in a weatherworn trenchcoat. Unusually subdued that day, though … Normally nigh manic with energy and enthusiasm, overflowing with ideas and theories and observations and cornball jokes to contribute to or even to drive the conversation … but not that day … No, that day, he barely listened to Bill or looked at the images and organizing visual aids Bill had mentally conjured for their brainstorm together. And when Bill turned to see why, he found Ford’s back was to him as he gazed away out across a sentimentally altered portion of the mindscape: salty sand strewn with bits of trash at the edge of a turbulent sea, all under clouds that were dusky and dusty from reflecting the dying daylight, and a sailboat at the center of Ford’s attention and therefore of his mind … listing and sinking into dark waters, the name on the prow all but lost to the waves—“Stan o’ War” now just “Stan”.

Bill watched the rest of what had happened as one might watch oneself on camera.

“Oh boy … I smell emotional issues …” he muttered before floating up beside Ford’s shoulder. “Got something on your mind, Fordsy ol’ buddy? Besides me, that is.”

“S-sorry, I just, um, got distracted,” Ford stammered apologetically. “I’ll try harder to focus. Won’t happen aga—”

“Because of your brother? It’s the anniversary of the day he got kicked out of the family, right?”

Ford gaped in shock for a moment. “… You … You know about that? But how?”

“For one thing, all the trash ‘round here is crumpled or torn up calendar pages for the same date. For another, I’m your Muse,” Bill replied, as though it should have been obvious. “I’m literally inside your head with all your memories at my fingertips, looking for anything I can use to help inspire your success.”

Blanching white, Ford asked, “All of them? You can s-see … all my memories?”

“Yep times a thousand! So I know you and your brother were—heh—close before that incident.”

Ford blushed.

“So no wonder you get distracted thinking about him today. Wasn’t that the last time you ever saw him?” Bill continued conversationally.

“Um, I … Maybe I m-might’ve seen him once after that. During my college graduation, but … Don’t know, honestly,” Ford admitted sadly. “Might’ve just imagined him being in the crowd.”

“Wishful thinking? ‘cause you got some stuff to get out of your system with him?” Bill waggled his eyebrow, making Ford blush a second time. Before he could respond, though, Bill suggested, “Y’know, I could help you unpack some of that emotional baggage you’re lugging around. Which’d help us get back to productive work sooner—get you from distracted back to tracted.”

“First of all, that’s not a word—”

“It is now that I’ve used it! Tracted, adjective, the state of being that comes after one has been distracted but is focusing once again.”

“Second of all … How could you help with that?”

“Why, with a little bit of roleplay. I know how much you love to roleplay, Fordsy ol’ pal.”

“I don’t know …” Ford said uncertainly. “This isn’t exactly a D&D&MoreD campaign. Besides, this is hardly an appropriate setting, and … well, no offense, but your voice and mannerisms aren’t exactly reminiscent of Stan (or most humans, for that matter). I doubt I could get into it.”

“Heh. You’re just saying that ‘cause you ain’t never seen what a good actor I can be. Goes with the territory of being a MASTER OF THE MIND! Watch this!” Bill clapped once, then suddenly multiplied into a dozen more Bills.

“Whoa! What the—”

From nowhere, the original Bill pulled a megaphone, a chair with the words “Director” and “Leading … Well, Not ‘Man’ Per Se, But Close Enough” on its back, and a thick script. “OKAY, YOU SUPER SNAZZY STAGECREW,” he projected through the megaphone. “LET’S GET THIS STAGE CLEARED AND READY FOR A NEW SCENE! LET’S MOVE! AND SOMEONE GET ME A TWO-CREAMS-ONE-SUGAR COFFEE AND A MAPLE LOG! What about you, Fordsy? You want anything? Same thing, yeah? DOUBLE THAT ORDER! ONE FOR ME, ONE FOR MY COSTAR!”

Slack jawed at all the activity flurrying around him—one Bill pulled a rope from nowhere, causing the seascape (while waves continued to toss, clouds continued to billow, and the ship continued to sink) to part down the middle like a theater curtain and swish away; another Bill pulled a massive pushbroom from nowhere and cleared away all of the beach (sand, trash, and salty odor) to leave a hardwood platform beneath; several other Bills were now wheeling away the endless fields of flowers that stretched to the horizon (plus the phantasmagorical buildings standing among them) like scenery backdrops painted on squeaky canvas frames—Ford could only mumble, “Costar?”

“Well, duh, Fordsy ol’ chum. We’ll be centerstage, you and me, and in the spotlight together—me as Stanly, you as yourself. If that doesn’t make us costars, I don’t know what does!”

“BOOOOOO!” another Bill shouted from behind them, seated in a newly revealed spectator section with boxes of popcorn. “Directors shouldn’t play parts in their own productions! That’s a crass and masturbatory act of egotism that invariably cheapens the production! BOOOOOO!”

“Just ignore heckling critic me,” the original Bill told Ford. “Now, speaking of the spotlight … LET’S GET THE LIGHTING AND SOUNDCHECKS DONE, MES! TIME IS MONEY! AND WHERE’S OUR COFFEE AND DONUTS ALREADY?! WHAT AM I PAING YOU FOR?!”

Yet another Bill came trundling up with a long rack of costumes that looked exactly like the contents of Ford and Stan’s old bedroom closet. While going through them, he pointed out, “You’re not paying us for anything, babygorgeous, because we don’t actually exist. We’re just visual constructs you conjured to represent the complex yet entirely abstract process of manipulating a mindscape into a specific scenario Stanford can experience (or reexperience in the case of actual memories) so it feels to him as if it was entirely real. This whole setting is, too. Also because you’re extremely melodramatic, overly theatrical, and crave being the center of someone’s awed attention, sugardumpling.”

“One more smart-alecky remark like that, and you’re fired!” the original Bill snapped.

“No! Please, angelpie, I need this job! I need the money, or they’re gonna break my legs!”

“Fine. Just go get the makeup equipment already. AND WHERE ARE WE ON THE LIGHTS?!”

Ford looked up to see a span of catwalks and electrical equipment overhead. The Bill up there gave a thumbs up. “Good to go, boss! Same with sound, too!”

A new Bill came running up with a platter. “Here’s your coffee and donuts, sir!”

“Freakin’ finally!” the original Bill exclaimed, passing over one of each to Ford before snatching the others for himself. “I’d have you dragged into the alley behind this soundstage and shot for taking so long, except we’re not actually in a soundstage and you’re just too darn cute to kill.”

“Oh, sir, you’re gonna make me blush!”

Taking a bite out of his maple log with his eyelid, the original Bill snapped, “Stop being so cute and go find something useful to do.” Then, turning back to Ford, he continued lightly, “Yep, costars, you and me! Collaborators! Partners in … What? There something on my face?”

With a gulp, Ford asked, “Is … Is that how you eat? With your eye?”

Bill smiled despite not having a mouth. “Only when I’m in polite company.” Then he took a sip of his coffee—a long, slow sip while looking right at his weirdologist friend (who spazzed reflexively at the sight of coffee washing into sclera). “But now that mes have cleared the stage, we should really pick the scene we’re gonna roleplay. So what you wanna do, Fordsy ol’ mate? Relive a memory, act out a hypothetical conversation/argument to get some words off your chest, or experience a fantasy in real-body-stimulating intensity? Whatever you want, I can do for ya.”

“I, um …” Shaking his head, Ford admitted, “There’s just … so much. When I think about him. About everything that happened then. And before. And after. And I … I just … can’t process it enough to … y’know, make sense of how I feel about it all? Gah! Can you understand that, Bill? The only thing I know for sure right now is … is I miss him … even if I don’t know what I’d do if I saw him right now …”

Bill blinked a bite off his maple log, then chewed thoughtfully, ignoring the other Bills (“Hey, guys, wanna see something funny? MacBeth!” “Don’t say that! It’s bad lu—” A sandbag smashed into that Bill from above. “Hehehehehehe! I got more!” Then he whistled sharply. “Argh! You can’t do that either, it’s also bad lu—” A light fixture exploded, blasting the Bill on the catwalk off so that he kersplatted onto the platform. “Hahahahaha! How about this one? Good luck during the performance!” “No, you fool, you’ll kill us all if you say—” “Guys, you think this pyrotechnic equipment still works?” a different, oblivious Bill asked right before pushing a button. The bad luck would’ve been spectacular had anyone paid attention.) now milling about the visual construct of an empty stage which represented a mindscape ready for shaping. Eventually, he suggested, “Tell you what, Fordsy ol’ comrade, let me choose for you this time. I think I know what you need right now to feel better, and it’ll be an actual memory of a good time you two had together. Something … positive and fun and a little whacky to help you get out of this slump. Whaddya say? Trust me enough to follow my lead in the roleplay?”

A glum shrug. A passive affirmation. “Sure, why not?”

And then original Bill was broadcasting through his loudspeaker, “OKAY, LOOK ALIVE, TRIANGULAR TROOP! LET’S GET THE STAGE SET FOR SCENE #618: ‘CABIN BOY AND CAPTAIN NOBEARD, THE COUCH PIRATE’!”

Ford blinked. “Wait, what?”

“I WANT IT READY TO PERFORM IN—”

“BOOOOOO!” the spectating Bill suddenly shouted, spraying popcorn everywhere. “That choice is a cliché and uninspired piece of saccharine hackery! Also, it’s practically meta-theater, which always sucks because only self-inflating, pomposity-spewing fartbags think it’s clever to make plays that are ham-fistedly obvious metaphors for making plays! BOOOOOO!”

“So it’s perfect for our director,” one of the Bills stage whispered, making the others giggle.

“I HEARD THAT!” the original Bill snapped. “DON’T YOU HAVE PROPS TO SET UP?! ACTION IN FIVE, MES! AND WHERE’S THE ME FOR COSTUME AND MAKEUP?!”

“Right here, angeldoll! And ready to get Starford suited up!” That Bill wheeled a vanity piled high with brushes, pencils, and cosmetics right to them. He then pulled an outfit off the rack, scrutinized it, put it back, pulled out another, nodded his approval, and zoomed over to slap it onto Stanford’s body. Right before assaulting his face with a blur of all the cosmetic products—powder, rouge, eyeliner, etc. All of it happened so fast Stanford didn’t even have time to protest, and when the air cleared and he stopped coughing, that particular Bill was adjusting a mirror before his face. “What do you think, honeydear? Don’t you just look divine?”

Breathless with astonishment, Ford touched first the mirror’s surface … then his own face … “Incredible!” he breathed. “I look seventeen!”

“If I did my job right, teddypearl, you don’t just look seventeen. Your whole body (or astral form dream body, technically, sweetiedumpling) should be seventeen down to the smallest of details. Now, if you want, I could also do your nails and hair so you look even more divine than you did at seventeen, darlingpeaches.”

“Nope, we want his ratio of divineness to undivineness to be exactly as it was then, thank you,” the original Bill dictated abruptly. “Now let’s get me suited up for—oh, Azathoth’samygdala!” Snatching up the megaphone, he bawled, “TVS GO IN FRONT OF COUCHES, NOT BEHIND, YOU IDIOTS! AND YOU’VE GOT THE BACKDROPS MIXED UP! C’MON, YOU MES ARE SUPPOSED TO BE MORE PROFESSIONAL THAN THIS!”

Ford tore his eyes from the mirror and looked onstage. The living room of his parents’ house was being formed by a bunch of Bills pushing frames of painted canvas (reproductions of the walls) and setting up prop after prop (a couch, a rabbit-eared TV, old chairs, side tables with doilies, framed photos, knickknacks, bric-a-brac, that hideous lamp with the more hideous curtain shade he had always wanted to smash to bits, etc.); it looked exactly as he remembered … No, it looked more accurate than he remembered … He could even smell the dusty, musty carpeting and hear the tacky windchimes outside the window …

“There, treasurebear, you look ready for your big part. And divine, too! Simply divine!”

“Thanks, me. Looks like you won’t be fired today,” the original Bill decided.

“I can’t believe you could recreate the old place. Every little detail—” Ford turned to Bill, then felt his knees buckled beneath him; he had to grab onto a corner of the vanity not to fall over. Standing before him in a dissipating cloud of face powder was the seventeen-year-old version of his twin brother. “… St-Stan?”

Bill grinned with Stanly’s cocky, crooked grin. “Or close enough. Oh, sorry.” Clearing his throat, he then repeated in Stanly’s husky voice, “Or close enough. Right, Sixer?”

Stepping forward, Ford laid his hands on the shoulders of the boy in front of him. They felt real. Solid and strong through the t-shirt, with the kind of ropey muscles regular boxing gave a person. Same for the arms and the chest, although there was a little pudge on top of the muscles there (just like Stan had … or had had the last time Ford had seen him for certain) thanks to a nervous tendency to overeat … It all felt so real … so achingly real …

“Done feelin’ up the merchandise yet, Sixer?” Bill-Stan teased. “I could flex for ya, if ya want.”

“How … How are you doing this?” Ford whispered, his voice almost trembling.

As one, all of the Bills dropped what they were doing and turned to face him, then clapped and spread their hands. A rainbow spread between every set of palms. “THROUGH THE POWER OF IMAGINATION, FORDSY OL’ COMPADRE! AFTER ALL, I AM YOUR MUSE!”

Fingers clenching into the fabric of the t-shirt, throat constricting, Ford said, “Stan, I … I …”

“You’re not gonna start blubberin’ on me, are ya, Sixer?” Bill-Stan asked coaxingly. “Not before all the fun even starts?”

“N-no … No, I’m in c-control. Ahem! Of myself.” Ford composed himself, feigned brushing some dust off his clothes, then resumed, “So, um, you said something about following your lead in a roleplay?”

Grinning more widely than before, Bill-Stan took him by the hand (sending a jolt of long ignored and even half-forgotten emotions through the weirdologist) and led him onstage …

The thing about a person’s mindscape (or about a person’s dreams, since they’re the same thing, essentially) is they’re completely immersive. To the brain, they’re almost as real as reality itself; every ganglia involved in processing sensory input for the one is equally involved with the other. Which explains why dreams usually feel real enough that a person can forget they’re dreaming. Which explains why a true master of the mind can manipulate a person’s mindscape enough that, with just the right triggering image (such as walking through a conjured doorway or stepping onto a conjured theater stage), the person can believe what they’re experiencing is real, and even actually find traces of the mental experience on their physical body afterwards.

Especially if the person really wants to dream, to believe, to be manipulated by the master …

That was why Ford knew with certainty that he was sweaty and dirty after hours of working on the Stan o’ War, knew with certainty he was trudging into the living room of his family home, and collapsed onto what he knew with certainty was a sagging couch likely as old as he was (seventeen years). He also knew with certainty that he heard the jangling of the house phone in the hallway, and then the voice of who he knew with certainty was his twin brother answering it. That knowing certainty was manifest in every gesture he made; it even shone in his eyes.

A moment later, Stan was leaning over the top of the couch. Sweaty and dirty, too, since he’d been working on the Stan o’ War, too. “Heh. You look beat, Sixer. But if anyone’s got the right, it’s you. I mean, after all that hard work today? And figuring out the waterproofin’ stuff, too?” Then Stan reached over the couch and tousled his brother’s hair. “I guess what I’m saying is … You’re such a good cabin boy! Good work, me ol’ cabin boy!”

Ford beamed with pleasure at the praise and the loving gesture, yet still retorted (because having a brother means living in a perpetual argument, at the very least as a matter of principle), “Pff! Why am I the cabin boy?”

“Duh. ‘cause I’m the captain!”

“Why do you get to be captain?”

“Heh. ‘cause I can do this!” And then Stan swung himself over the top of the couch and dropped down onto his brother, draping himself over his brother like a heavy, sweaty, noogying blanket. “How do you like it, cabin boy? Huh? I said how do you like it, nerd? No, wait, cabin nerd!”

“Ghaha! Get off me—haha!—you’re gross from the beach!” Ford half-spewed and half-laughed beneath his twin. He was pinned against the cushions now, squirming but unable to get free.

“Heh heh! You don’t get to give the captain orders, cabin nerd! That’s not how it works aboard this ship!”

“W-we’re—hehehe!—not even on a ship!”

“Sure we are! The S.S. Couch, and I just boarded it! And you!”

“You did not have permission to come aboard!” Ford giggled, still squirming, now trying to push his twin back with his hands.

But Stan caught them both at the wrists and pinned them against the armrest, too, bearing down with his whole body. “That’s ‘cause I’m a pirate captain! Arrrrr, me matey!”

“Pff! W-what do they call you?! Nobeard?!”

“That’s ‘Captain Nobeard’ to you, cabin nerd! And I’m gonna be lootin’ yer booty!”

Ford threw his head back and laughed at so corny a line. But the laugh turned to a surprised gasp when he suddenly felt his brother (on an impulse) press his lips against Ford’s throat. It was like being hit by a single raindrop right before a spark of lightning—a single spot of warm, wet skin, then an electric jolt through his brain and body that left him rigid. Or perhaps made him realize he had been rigid already? And that his brother’s counter-squirming had taken on a decidedly grinding motion … Or had it been a grinding motion already? Ford moaned, “Aaah, St-Stan …”

“I told you, that’s ‘Captain’ to you, me ol’ cabin nerd,” Stan countered into his twin’s neck. “And I’m gonna shiver yer timber.” With that, he gave an extra hard grind, groin against groin.

“Mmmmoses! Oh … B-but, wait … What if … Dad and Mom walk in on us … like this?” 

“Heh. You can be pretty dumb for a nerd, sometimes,” Stan teased. “They went to Grandma’s today, remember? And that was them on the phone just now, callin’ to say they made it there. Even if they head home right now, it’ll be at least two hours afore they get back. So relax, okay? Just … follow my lead …”

“Y-yeah, I can … Wait.” All at once, Ford stopped, because that phrase … He suddenly didn’t know with certainty what was really going on here, nor where he really was, nor even how old he really was. Intently, he peered at the face of the boy on top of him. Was there a golden gleam in his irises, where there should only have been brown? A twinkle in the eyes, but different than the twinkle normally there. He thought he could remember who this boy actually was. “… Bill?”

Stan grinned. “Only if you’d prefer havin’ a triangle in a tophat grind against you instead of your brother.”

Ford looked around, and remembered he was on a stage. A stage that had been set by multiple copies of Bill, and that he was now pinned beneath the original Bill who was mimicking his twin down to his cornball double-entendres, the smell of his sweat … and the exact length and girth of his hardon, currently pressing down on Ford’s own hardon (the thought of which made him blush a shade deeper than he already had been—did he really remember his twin’s member that well?). In the spectators’ seating, there was another Bill now distantly shouting, “Boooooo! You ruined the flow and the affect of the whole scene! The momentum’s gone and can never be gotten back! Boooooo!” and Ford found he desperately hoped that was not the case.

“You okay, Sixer?” Stan asked. No, not Stan. Bill. Bill mimicking Stan’s voice and manerisms. Bill mimicking Stan’s body so they could …

Ford cleared his throat. “Y-yes, I am. But, er, I just want to… to make sure that you are. This, uh, scenario doesn’t … doesn’t bother you? At all?”

“What? Why would … Oh!” Stan-Bill exclaimed suddenly. “You mean ‘cause we’re not just crossin’ a bunch of taboo lines in your meatbag culture, but went a mile past ‘em and are now buildin’ a small but charmingly perverted, summer cabin we can visit at our leisure?”

“I, um … suppose that’s one way of putting it …”

“Heh heh! It’s funny how awkward you are about this!” But before Ford could get defensive, Stan-Bill continued, “Sixer, I’m not human. I’m a Muse, here to inspire you to break through arbitrary human conventions (like the restrictive barriers they are) to something higher, purer, and truer. So all the arbitrary moral codes you meatbags make for yourselves, especially where sex is concerned? Don’t apply to me, don’t affect me. Whatever you desire, whoever you desire, however you desire (no matter how weird, complex, or how many parts it needs performed) I can play out for you here in your mindscape so well it will feel real. I can give you the psychological or sexual release you need to get tracted again on our oh so important work!”

Though overwhelmed by the possibilities, Ford still maintained, “That’s not a real word …”

“Like I said before, Sixer, if you wanna relive a memory, act out a hypothetical conversation or an argument with someone (like your brother or your parents or an ex or that one bald professor you loathed), or experience a completely new fantasy altogether … I’m down. Let’s do ‘em all.”

Ford gulped. “Y-you’re sure … it doesn’t bother you? At all? I mean, this is … er …”

Stan-Bill sighed in almost-exasperation. “Look, Fordsy ol’ friend, my true form doesn’t even have sex organs. Not that you’ll be able to tell when I change shape in your mindscape and go to town with pleasurin’ you, ‘cause I’m just that good an actor—can act like I’ve always had ‘em and got tons of experience usin’ ‘em to turn people specifically named Stanford Filbrick Pines into puddles of contented, post-coital bliss—and always happy to put on a show for a friend.”

Beneath him, Ford felt so turned on he was having a hard time breathing regularly.

“Plus, I come from a species that has roughly millions of genders, so homosexuality doesn’t bother me in the least. If anything, it radically simplifies things. You wanna get it on with a guy? I can do that. Two guys? Ditto. A guy and a gal at the same time? No prob. An entire roomful of different people? Sure, it’ll be a nice stretch of my talents. Something or somethings that aren’t remotely human? Well, if either of us can imagine it, I can make it in here for you to fuck.”

Beneath him, Ford felt so turned on that he was practically vibrating with excitement.

“And as for what you meatbags call ‘incest’, well,” Bill-Stan shrugged. “Far from the weirdest kink floatin’ around in the collective unconsciousness of humanity. But it is just weird enough, luckily, to keep me invested in any—heh heh—boldly transgressive or unapologetically perverse theatrical performances you might want to try here on the mindscape stage. So c’mon, brother,” he added emphatically, positively dripping Stanness now. “Just follow my lead … We got hours ‘til Dad and Mom get home …”

Beneath him, Ford felt so turned on that he was sorta surprised the couch hadn’t caught fire around the two of them. Another low moan escaped his lips as he felt Stan-Bill’s lips press against his throat again … as he felt Stan-Bill grind against his bulge again … as he felt Stan-Bill carry him back into a more fulfilling moment than the present reality could ever hope to offer …

“You like that, cabin nerd? Huh? You like when I do that to ya? Go on, say ‘Aye-aye, Captain’.”

Though his hands were still pinned against the armrest of the couch and his body born down into the cushions, Ford arched his hips into the grind.

“C’mon, cabin nerd, go ahead and say it … Become a part of my couch pirate crew …”

Giggling, Ford turned and offered himself up for a kiss. It was long and warm and wet and deep, and so very, very sweet. It left him breathlessly whimpering, “Mmm, Stan … Bill …”

“Who’s this Bill?” Stan-Bill asked teasingly. Then, as if to punctuate every following sentence, he humped slow and hard at the end of it. “Someone I otta be jealous of? Someone I gotta go beat up? Someone who’s gotta learn that you’re mine … my brother … my lover … and no one else gets to touch ya but me?”

“Ah! Yes!” Ford cried out.

And, distantly, the Bill in the seats shouted, “Boooooo! Going off script like this is for amateurs! Improv in an established piece is for hacks who can’t remember their lines! Boooooo!”

That was when Bill (not the original Bill playing Stan, nor any of the copies playing stagehands, but the real Bill in a clonesuit stretched out on the bed in the attic) snapped out of his fascination and decided it was time to stop reviewing memories for a while. Especially this one in particular. Not because it wasn’t nostalgic or entertaining or sexually titillating for him (it was very much), not because he couldn’t remember what had happened next (his recall was still just as perfect as the rest of him—heh heh!), but because …

Because it just wasn’t worth watching the rest. Both in Ford’s memory of the actual event with his brother, and in the slightly altered reenactment Bill had performed with Ford, it hadn’t been more than another minute or two of cornball dialogue, couch grinding, and rough kissing before they climaxed. And why not? Ford and Stan had been horny, pent up teenagers way back then … and Ford had been a horny, pent up adult back then (what with his tons of emotional baggage and sexual frustration) …

“Not worth getting wound up over,” Bill muttered to the cabin ceiling. “Not when jerking off won’t be enough to take the edge off the horniness I’ll feel afterwards … And besides, if I want to feel wound up and horny, there are much wilder memories I could perfectly recall than that. With Dipper or with Sixer …”

His hand came up wearing a sock puppet Mabel had made to look like his true form—or, at least, as much like his true form as a sock with a hand shoved in it could, (though, honestly, it looked less like a dapper triangle and more like the bastard lovechild that would result from a wild night of passion between him and Kermit the Frog)—and said, “Funny how you didn’t even realize how good a thing you had with ol’ Fordsy, isn’t it?”

“How do you figure that?” Bill asked his sock puppet. “Working and hanging with him was a ton of fun, and I missed the 79 Hells outta it after he sided with this mudball … Still do, actually …”

“I mean all that wild, limitationless, mindscape sex you had with him. Back then, for you, it was just the fun of weird playacting (and manipulating a gullible meatbag); you didn’t appreciate any of the physical side of it.”

“Oh, yeah, you’re right. Of course, y’know, I kinda couldn’t appreciate it back then.”

“The beginning of the summer was a lot like that, too, with Dipper and Mabel and all the others,” the sock puppet continued matter-of-factly. “You didn’t appreciate any of the emotional side of spending time with them, what with how full of hate and plans for vengeance you were.”

“… No, I didn’t,” Bill admitted.

“All that time spent with them, and you didn’t even realize how good a thing you had.”

“… I kinda couldn’t appreciate all that back then, either, in my defense.”

“You could now, y’know.”

“What, you mean … relive the memories? Actually, that could be a fun way to pass the time,” Bill mused to himself. “Might not feel quite so bored or lone … Cthulhu’s cartilaginous cranium, I could go through all my memories with Ford! Maybe there’s something I filed away in there—something I didn’t think was important at the time, something that could spark another thought—that could help get me past the bubble!” he exclaimed, bolting upright. “And back to my Dipper!”

“That wasn’t exactly what I meant …” the sock puppet pointed out.

But it was rather futile; Bill was on a role now. “The bumblr crowd could even help with this … Them asking the right questions might give me some direction, instead of just prospecting—”

“HEY! LISTEN!” the sock puppet shrilled. “I meant you could be having a good thing right now with all the people here at the Shack. Emotionally and such. Enjoying it fully. But you’re not. Even though you want to.”

Looking away from the reproachful, googly-eyed gaze, Bill muttered, “Kinda hard to with Ford setting such a grim mood for everyone here any time he walks in on me and someone else.”

“You’re wasting time,” the sock puppet stated irrefutably. “Like at the beginning of the summer, when you were too busy being … being not nice—being mean—to everyone, especially Dipper. Now you’re wasting time being bitter at Ford.”

“He’s wasting time being just as bitter at me!” Bill countered defensively.

“And when was the last time you really tried to do anything about that? Huh? When you bought everybody gifts, maybe, a few months ago?”

“… Honestly? I guess so, yeah.”

“Go try again. You wanted to, anyway, since you saw him in the woods crying ‘bout how much he misses the Twins, too,” the sock puppet affirmed. “It’s the reason you turned away from remembering that time on the couch before the climax, too; you’re not in the mood for sexiness, not deep down, but for sappiness. You can appreciate that emotional side of things now, so stop wasting time not enjoying ‘em.”

“What if … What if he doesn’t want to stop being bitter? What if he doesn’t want to move on?”

“Then at least you’ll have tried. You won’t be wasting time being bitter. And you get to spend more time perfectly recalling individual memories to see if you can find something helpful to escape, so win-win for you.”

Bill sighed. “I’d argue with you, but you are me, so I know I won’t win … Well, let’s go …”

[raspberryparker]

these foolish things | one

Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader — WWII AU

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word count: 5,207 summary: july 7th 1944: on his way to normandy, bucky is tasked with a special assignment and made to join an infamous platoon (not my gif) warnings: PLEASE read the masterlist (implied smut for like.. one paragraph)

read it on ao3 add yourself to my taglist! like my work? consider buying me a coffee!

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  The first time he’d thought about going to Paris had been with a girl in his arms.

  He didn’t remember much of their time together now—it was all so faded and out of reach—but he still knew her name. Dolores. She liked it when he called her Dot, and he liked the way the blush that spread over her shoulders and neck masked the freckles there like ink bleeding through paper when he did.

  The idea to visit the city of lights came to him as she lay before him, sixteen and perfect from head to toe. Bucky had been eighteen, with hardened calluses over his fingertips and a growing collection of scars over his chest, but she’d traced each one with first a fingernail and then her lips and made him believe that maybe they weren’t as ugly as he’d thought. Her hair seemed to glow against the white of his pillowcase, spread out around her in a fiery halo. She reached for him with ghostly touches and he swore she shone like a star. The only star that mattered.

  She was under him, naked and shimmering like the sun, grasping at every part of him she could reach. He felt the press of her nails into his back, her teeth at his shoulder, as he pressed himself against her, tried to meld their bodies into one whole mass of tangled limbs and sharp breaths. It was as she mouthed the mark of her teeth in a silent apology after the fact that he’d had that brilliant thought.

  “Let’s go to France.”

  The words were spoken against her hair into the darkness of his bedroom, but they rang in his ears as if he’d shouted them from a rooftop.

  She pulled back from his neck, a hand coming up to grasp his cheek and rub softly at the stubble that grew along the length of his jaw as she smiled at him. The moonlight that bled through the open curtains behind him made the beads of sweat along her hairline shine like mercury, but he thought it only added to her afterglow.

  “Bucky, we can’t go to France,” she sighed, the smile still playing on her lipstick smudged lips.

  “Why not?” he argued, rolling over onto his back and pulling her against his chest on top of him. Her hair fell around them like a curtain, and for a moment Bucky could pretend that it was only the two of them in the whole city. Nothing mattered except the way her cheeks rounded underneath her eyes as she giggled and the weight of her breasts against his chest. Dot lowered herself atop him, folding her hands over his ribs and resting her chin upon them. She kissed the line of his jaw and gave him another smile.

  God, how he loved that smile.

  “Because,” she said, bringing a hand up and tracing it over the skin of his chest. She felt the dip in his clavicle and tapped the bone there with a finger as she spoke. “We can’t just pack up and go. Our lives are here in Brooklyn, Buck.”

  “I think I’d rather run away to Paris with you,” he sighed.

  Dot laughed again. “I know you don’t mean that.”

  She removed her hands and pressed the top of her head under his chin, her temple resting against his throat. Bucky ran his fingers through her hair, untangling the knots that had formed there. She sighed at the feeling of his fingers against her scalp.

  “I have my family, and you have your brothers and your sister.” Her voice was so quiet as she spoke that it was barely above a whisper. “At the very least, we can’t go now. Maybe one day, though.”

  He felt her smile against his chest before she pressed a kiss to the skin there.

  “One day I’ll let you sweep me off my feet and whisk me away to Paris,” she said. “We’ll have champagne by the Eiffel Tower and walk at night hand in hand through the city of lights.”

  “I’d like to think of it more as the city of love,” Bucky grinned.

  “Alright then,” Dot agreed with a laugh. “You and I, and the city of love. I’ll hold you to that, Barnes.”

  The memory of her was faded now, blurred at the edges and sun-bleached like a worn photograph. He held onto the dream of seeing Paris long after she broke his heart on the night before his twenty-first birthday, running off with that railroad worker who promised her a better life on the west coast. Through the ache she’d left behind, he still felt a desire to see the world beyond New York. His motivation for doing so had simply changed, he’d reasoned.

  Though he wasn’t necessarily a man of faith, he believed that if he wanted it badly enough it would happen one day. It wasn’t prayer—more like a desire so strong, he’d will it into existence simply by wanting.

  As he’d predicted, it had come to be. It came about much faster than he’d wanted and under vastly different circumstances, but it happened nonetheless.

  And there was not one thing he regretted.

━━━━━━━━

  The first time Bucky Barnes laid eyes on the coast of Northern France, it was between gasps and coughs, and with the sting of ocean spray in his eyes. If he hadn’t been so incapacitated while pitching ropes of seasickness over the side of one of the many Liberty ships that moved across the English channel that cloudy afternoon, he might have taken the time to… relish the moment a bit more, at least.

  The coast seemed to stretch endlessly to either side of the horizon, looking more like a long beige shadow against the stark grey curtain of clouds than anything else. It gripped the scalp of the sea with rising bluffs as black as charcoal along almost the entire length of it. He could barely make out of the shape of the landing craft and other troop ships much like the one he was on that still lay against the shore, their forms only tiny spots amongst the gargantuan beaches.

  His stomach bubbled once more, the muscles in his abdomen constricting painfully, and he bent over the railing. His fingers burned as he gripped the metal threaded with dark bits of oxidation and weather-worn spots along the starboard side of the trooper. Bucky’s stomach squeezed in time with his throat, the entire organ seeming to bang up against his esophagus and forcing him to retch into the sea. He was sure the tone of his skin matched the overall pallor of grey that the afternoon offered, ghostly ashen and green.

  He thought he’d be alright, yet he was anything but.

  Wiping his forehead with the sleeve of the olive green jacket he and all others like him wore, he felt the press of the metal railing against his ribcage and allowed himself to sink into it. It was grounding. How close the sea was to him despite the size of the trooper, and how frightening. He’d only ever seen it from the beach at Coney Island before, where it looked the least menacing; nothing but a rolling blanket of blues and greens that softly smoothed away the footsteps in the sand. But now it undulated beneath him, writhing and foaming against the side of the ship, spitting angrily up at him. It was no longer rolling but roiling, folding against itself a thousand times over, deep pockets of it as dark and silken as velvet. It wasn’t blue anymore but black. The water looked more like an abyss than anything, ready to swallow him up whole if he happened to lose his footing for only a moment.

  He was half tempted to jump, recalling something from his high school English classes about the sublime. Something so beautiful—a striking vision of grandeur and excellency—that it was absolutely mortifying to look upon it. He felt that same dread in his gut when he gazed over the ocean. He held onto the rail tighter, his knuckles turning white.

  Trying to compose himself, Bucky licked his lips and squeezed his eyes shut, focusing on the sound of the creaks and groans of the ship as it glided across the angry sea. He was surprised to find his face damp, his lips salty. He hadn’t recalled the spray hitting his face, so he wasn’t sure when the sea had found him.

  He pushed himself up with the railing, legs stumbling slightly. He spit into the sea, watching it fall into the churning foam as he made a mental note to wash his mouth out and rid himself of the stench of bile.

  “Barnes?”

  He’d been so caught up in his moment of nausea that he hadn’t heard anyone approach, the sudden calling of his name causing him to jump and hit his knee against the metal in front of him. Bucky sucked a breath between his teeth and turned to face the man who’d called his attention.

  To say he was surprised to see his platoon leader standing behind him, his boot-clad feet spread to keep his balance on the moving deck and his arms crossed over his broad chest, would be a great understatement. Lieutenant Hudson looked angry for a moment, the creases below his thick brows darkening his expression as he looked at Bucky with his sharp nose tilted into the air (no doubt noting the horrid smell that came from his person), before his features softened into one more akin to understanding.

  “Sir?”

  Bucky cringed inwardly at the hiccup that followed his voice. He must have looked like a mess if the way he felt was anything to go by.

  “You alright there, Sergeant?” Hudson asked as he stepped forward. He leaned against the rail to the right of Bucky, a more casual feeling washing over their conversation for which Bucky was grateful.

  “Just finding my sea legs, sir,” he replied.

  The ship rumbled and hummed below their feet, and Bucky felt the movement in his hands that were still gripping the metal before him.

  “Yeah, aren’t we all,” Hudson agreed. “You seem to have it pretty bad, though.”

  “Never been too fond of the water,” he explained.

  “We’ll be on land soon enough.” Strings of chestnut coloured hair fell into Hudson’s dark eyes, the moisture in the air combined with the spray of the sea below them weighing it down and wetting the strands. He ran a rough hand through his locks, pushing them back into place. Bucky knew he liked keeping it longer on the top, but he was still unsure how he got away with it. “But I doubt that’ll be any better.”

  Bucky cleared his throat, turning to his superior and watching as he looked over the vast ocean. Back home, he might have even made friends with the likes of  Noah Hudson. He was only a year older than Bucky but had been in the army much longer. He’d wanted to be here, had enlisted the second he graduated high school, and although he wasn’t one for stereotypes, Bucky had to admit that the man before him was the poster boy soldier. He wouldn’t be surprised if all the propaganda back home was drawn in Hudson’s likeness. With just the right amount of rugged mixed with an aura of authority, Hudson demanded respect simply by existing.

  It was actually kind of intimidating. Though Bucky supposed that might have been a good thing.

  “Did you need me for something, sir?” he asked.

  Hudson turned to him, a serious expression falling over his features once again.

  “Not me,” he said. “Bauer wants to see you.”

  “Bauer?” Bucky asked. “What does he need me for?”

  “No clue,” Hudson said. He pulled a pack of Luckies out of his breast pocket, shaking one out of the carton and placing it between his lips, muffling his next words. “Son of a bitch never tells me anything. How am I supposed to lead my platoon if I don’t know what the fuck we’re doing?”

  Bucky stayed silent, watching as his Lieutenant cupped the end of the cigarette to block the wind coming at them and lit it, tossing the still burning match into the water. He was mesmerized by the glowing band eating it slowly as Hudson took a long drag. With smoke still in his lungs, he said, “Don’t tell him I said that.”

  “Of course.”

  “He’s up on the bridge with the rest of command.” Silky tendrils of smoke spilled from his nostrils as he exhaled. The lazy curls rose from the lit end of the cigarette, the shifting veil of grey blending in with the cloudy atmosphere. Bucky inhaled sharply, the familiar scent of tobacco and burning paper a welcome and comforting relief from his spinning mind. “Told me to come find you and let you know.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Bucky said. He squeezed his eyes shut one last time, before pushing off from the rail completely and balancing himself on his own two feet once again.

  “Yeah.”

  It might have been his vision playing tricks on him, but Bucky was pretty sure he was swaying slightly as he stepped toward the stairs that would lead him up to the bridge of the ship. Or it might have just been the movement of the craft itself that threw him off. His stomach was no longer bubbling but his head hurt from the force of his retching and white spots appeared behind his eyelids, growing like ink blots.

  “And Barnes?”

  At the sound of his call, Bucky turned to face Hudson once again. He was leaning with his back against the railing, elbows anchoring him in place and the cigarette still between his lips as he watched Bucky’s retreating form.

  “Might want to wash up before you go,” he smirked.

  As if he wasn’t already pale enough, Bucky felt all remaining colour drain from his face as he nodded quickly.

  “Yes, sir.”

━━━━━━━━

  The water smelled of metal and stung against his cheeks as Bucky leaned over the small steel basin. It was tucked behind the last row of barracks in the cargo hold that had been repurposed to house troops as they crossed the channel, the only somewhat secluded area the troops had amongst one another. Bucky curled his fingers around the edge of the steel wash bin sink, watching the water drops fall from his nose as they landed and plinked like little bells against the drain. He tried to drown out the chatter of the other troops in the hold, the sounds of a lost poker game or a shouted demand for breakfast leaving his ears ringing.

  When he was sure he’d rinsed his mouth out well enough, though the taste of copper remained on his tongue in place of the burn of stomach acid, he inspected his appearance in the small, dirty mirror mounted over the sink. He looked like every other soldier on the ship—tired and broken from the road behind them, and entirely unprepared for the journey ahead.

  He almost didn’t recognize himself, and it wasn’t because of the cloudy glass.

  Bucky’s face was lined with evidence of the war, creases in his forehead and under his eyes that hadn’t been there two years prior now catching his eye. It was nearly impossible to get a close shave in the conditions the men were in, so his cheeks and jaw were perpetually shadowed by stubble. His deep brown hair was the only thing that still somewhat reminded him of the man he’d been when he left New York. He’d always maintained the same style even before the war, but now the government-issue crew cut was getting increasingly messy and long enough to grip between his fingers. He made a mental note to cut it before they landed ashore, lest Hudson reprimand him for it (that damned hypocrite).

  But what concerned him the most as he stood there gazing upon his withered reflection were his eyes.

  “You have such beautiful eyes.”

  He remembered the words his mother told him again and again during his childhood with an ache in his heart. Bucky could almost feel the press of her hands against his baby soft cheeks, squeezing him firmly but ever so gently as he’d try to squirm out of her grasp, but she always held him close regardless. He closed his eyes and watched the light dance against his eyelids. Just to remember her. To hear her. To smell the perfume she wore every single day for twenty years, the one his father had bought her and that smelled like home and comfort to Bucky.

  “They’re like your fathers. Like river rocks through a stream in the summer. Like cloudless skies. You need to smile more, my love. It brings out the stars in them.”

  He should have thanked her for everything she did for him more often. But he was too young to regret so much.

  When he opened them once more, he saw none of that. Bucky saw only the hardened crease of his brows and the sag at the outer corners. Skies that had once been clear were now storming with darkness and the edge of war, the light of the stars his mother once described long snuffed out. He was a shadow of the young excited boy he’d been when he received his first deployment only two years before. At twenty-seven, Bucky finally began to understand why his father’s expression would darken sometimes in the evening, why he’d go days without leaving his room, and why when Bucky had told him he’d enlisted, the irises of the eyes that his eldest son mirrored grew sombre.

  His father once said that the Great War had eaten him alive. Bucky had been confused at the time, still only a child and wondering how that could have been if his father was right there in front of him.

  But now, on his way to Normandy aboard a crowded ship full of frightened men and boys who had already written the letters that would be sent home if the worst came to pass, he knew exactly what his father had meant.

  With a frustrated sigh, Bucky wiped wet hands against his face one more time, pulling himself out of the saddened stupor he’d been in as he looked in the mirror. He was needed on the bridge. This was no time to be reflecting on his past.

  It was cramped in the hold as Bucky moved through the barracks, the conversations of the men he served with buzzing around him like a swarm of bees. He passed a table where men had gathered around a particularly intense game of poker, cigarettes and any form of valuables being deemed a valid substitute for money, which there was no need for on the ocean. The men cheered and shouted, egging their friends on to win something for their squad, cries of “He’s bluffing!” following Bucky until he reached the stairway that would take him up the tween deck and eventually the bridge.

  But just as he was about to pull open the door, he was interrupted.

  “Hey, Bucky!”

  As he turned to face him, Bucky wondered how it was possible that Walls kept a smile on his face through all of it. He wore that same smile now, beaming broadly at his friend as he approached with his lips curled back to show off his (still somehow pearly white) teeth. The Corporal’s squad had fought alongside Bucky’s own for some time in Italy, and the two had grown close to each other despite the obvious difference in rank. Bucky refused to be called ‘sir’ by anyone, even his own squad. He was Bucky to everyone, even if Hudson clicked his tongue in distaste whenever one of the young Privates addressed him as such.

  “Walls,” Bucky greeted. “How you holdin’ up?”

  “Heh,” he replied with a humourless chuckle. “About as well as anyone else.”

  Bucky refrained from pointing out the fact that his hands were shaking as he brought one up to scratch at his cheek.

  Corporal Oliver Walls was a good man, one that Bucky came to trust with his life during their time fighting together. He remembered the young boy’s smile as they sat in an abandoned home in Sicily, a photograph between them on the rubble covered floor. “That’s my Ma,” he’d said, pointing to a round looking woman on the left with eyes as soft as clouds. “When we get back, come over and she’ll make you the best apple pie you ever had in your life.”

  That had been just under a year prior.  And while some men seemed to have lost their ability to smile, Walls’ was like a beacon of hope.

  “You wanna get breakfast?” Walls asked, jerking a thumb back towards the barracks. “Johnston managed to smuggle some oranges out of the pantry. They’re real fresh.”

  “I can’t,” Bucky sighed, looking down. Even if he could, he wasn’t sure he could stomach anything more than some crackers at best. A hint of nausea still lingered at the base of his throat, after all. “Bauer needs me.”

  “Bauer?” Walls looked as perplexed as Bucky had when Hudson had told him the same thing. “You in shit or something?”

  “Hope not.”

  “Well, tell him to get us some better coffee,” Walls said. “The shit we got now tastes like cat piss.”

  “I’ll be sure to deliver your message,” Bucky laughed.

  The clanking of his boots as he climbed the metal steps to the bridge was so loud that his ears began to ring.

  On the deck, the air was like sweat. It felt like a trapped breath, swelling hot and salty around him as if he were caught in a bubble. He continued to climb steps, this time much fewer, as the door to the bridge loomed in front of him.

  He sucked in a heavy breath through his nose and tasted salt on his tongue before swinging it open.

  There was no way that they could have fit more people into that room even if they tried, lest they be unable to move without bumping limbs. It was more crowded than the barracks if that was possible. There were a few men he recognized, but many of whom were inside were unfamiliar to him. Some were crouched over maps, designating the best route of travel through Normandy based on radio communications from the troops on the mainland, others sitting with chunky black headsets over their ears in front of the large radios as they received those incoming transmissions. The sheer number of dials and buttons and numbers that lined the wall underneath the large window that made up the entirety of the front of the room was enough to make Bucky’s head spin. He recognized the Navy Captain that had been working closely with Bauer standing next to a smaller man holding a notepad, the Captain dictating something to him that he would then take to either a typist or a radio operator. The bridge was alive with chatter and men bustling about, making last minute preparations before the ship landed on the coast.

  “Can I help you?”

  A rather large man, broad shoulders clothed in the sharp black dress uniform that was far more decorated than the one Bucky had at home, approached him. Glancing at his left sleeve, Bucky noticed the insignia he bore. A golden oak leaf. He looked back into the Major’s eyes and nodded.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Bauer asked to see me, sir,” he explained, but the upturn in his tone that made the statement sound like a question betrayed his nerves at the situation.

  The Major—whom Bucky now recognized as Major Walters, the commander of Charlie Company—eyed the name and insignia on Bucky’s own jacket with an air of displeasure, as if he simply didn’t have the time to be concerned with the likes of him. Which might as well have been true, given how busy the bridge was. But he squared his shoulders and nodded nonetheless, turning away from Bucky to gesture into the room.

  “Go ahead, Sergeant.”

  Bucky gave him a curt nod, and gazed into the room once again, trying to locate his battalion commander. He finally spotted him, speaking to the Major General that was leading their division for the operation.

  As he stepped carefully between rows of tables covered in documents, maps, telegrams and ashtrays, he wondered just how he hadn’t noticed him before. Lieutenant Colonel Adam Bauer was a man unlike any other Bucky had ever encountered before. Just the man’s stature in itself should have been the dead giveaway when trying to find him, as he stood about a head taller than everyone else in the room. His broad shoulders were tense as he wrung his scarred hands together, the marred skin of his fingers playing loosely with the cuff of his uniform jacket. He still hadn’t lost his habit of fidgeting when he was uncertain or nervous about something. But that was the only thing to give him away.

  As Bucky approached, his conversation with the Major General ended and their eyes met, and Bucky felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Bauer only ever held one expression; no one had seen him smile in the three years since the United States had joined the Allied fight against Nazi Germany, and Bucky had a feeling no one would until it ended. And even that was unlikely. He watched carefully as the young Sergeant walked toward him, hooked nose tilted slightly into in the air as if Bucky’s mere existence displeased him. His static black eyes were as bottomless as the ocean had been, shadowed by the hard line of his thick eyebrows. As soon as Bucky was in standing in front of him, he pursed his paper-thin lips and spoke.

  “Sergeant Barnes, glad to see you.”

  His southern accented voice was throaty and low and sounded as if every breath he let out held some purpose or meaning, every word weighted by its value. Bucky swallowed thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing nervously as he replied.

  “I came as soon as I could, sir,” he said.

  “Good to hear, good to hear.” Bauer looked at down at his hands, still clasped together, and shook them out, resting them at his sides. He was silent for a moment, almost eerily so, as he looked up and to his left toward the beachhead that loomed closer by the second.

  “I have an assignment for you,” he said finally, after what felt like millennia, eyes still glued to the only part of France they could see.

  Bucky shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “For me, sir?”

  “Yes.” He turned back toward the young man again, eyes much more serious than they had been before, a feat which Bucky would have thought near impossible. “I’ve been asked to choose someone from my battalion for this particular assignment. I spoke to Lieutenant Hudson, as I did with each other platoon commander, and we both came to the conclusion that you were the right fit for the job because of everything you did during your time in Italy. Hudson spoke very highly of you, Sergeant.”

  “Well,” Bucky said, glancing down at the metal floor beneath his boots. “Thank you, sir. I’m… honoured.”

  “And yet I haven’t told you what you’re going to be doing,” Bauer said, turning once again to the glass window. “In that way, you’re just like every other man on this ship—ready to throw yourself at whatever order comes your way for the sake of your country’s safety. And I admire that in a man. But it’s what sets you apart that made me choose you.”

  Bucky stayed silent, unsure of what to say. He sucked the inside of his right cheek between his teeth, gnawing softly on the skin with the blunt surface of his molars. It was a habit he hadn’t been able to drop.

  “I’m going to have to pull you from Oscar Company for the duration of the mission,” Bauer explained. “I’ve spoken with both Major Kelly and Lieutenant Hudson and they have agreed to this arrangement. Once we land, you will be joining Able Company of the 107th, who arrived this morning and are waiting for you on the beach. More specifically, it is Able Company’s first platoon that is entrusted with carrying out this assignment. You will be joining them. And believe you me—” Bauer sighed then, bringing two fingers up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “—they have a reputation for being… eccentric on the battlefield. But that was why they were chosen. Why you were chosen.”

  “May I ask what this mission entails, sir?” Bucky inquired. He set his jaw and pressed his teeth together as Bauer looked at him from the corner of his eyes.

  “You’ll be debriefed by the Lieutenant in charge when we land,” he said. “Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to say anything at this time.”

  “I understand.”

  “Good.” His back straightened then, those broad shoulders only drawing his frame up higher. “That is all, Sergeant. You may go back to your barracks unless you have any further questions for me.”

  “Actually, sir,” Bucky said, his brow furrowing the slightest bit. “You said it was Able Company’s first platoon, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Do they have a name?” Bucky asked, and at Bauer’s frown he added, “It’s just that it would make finding them a lot easier and quicker.” Almost as an afterthought, he mumbled a quiet, “Sir.”

  Bauer’s frown only deepened, and for a moment Bucky was scared he’d said something to upset him, but then he brought a scarred hand up to his chin and held it in thought. His brow furrowed, but this time Bucky recognized it as confusion.

  “They have an official title, but refuse to go by it so it’s almost been forgotten,” he explained. “I do believe they gave themselves a name, though.”

  “Do you happen to remember what that name was, sir?”

  Bauer thought for a moment longer, before his dark eyes lit up with realization, and he brought his hand back down to his side. He straightened his jacket by tugging on the end of it and cleared his throat before he replied.

  “Yes,” he said. “I do. Unless I am mistaken, they have given themselves the name Howling Commandos, or Howlers, as some refer to them. And if that is not indication enough of their unconventional style of warfare, then I do not know what is.”

  Bucky nodded, though mostly to himself as he repeated the name in his mind. And then the words found their way up his throat, spilling out of his mouth before he could stop them. He tested the name out, rolling the syllables over his tongue and seeing what taste they’d leave behind.

  “Howling Commandos.”

  Though at the time Bucky had been unaware, that name would come to change his life forever.

  As tacky as he may have thought it to be.

━━━━━━━━

A/N: this is the first part of my new series. i’m incredibly passionate about it even though it might not be for everyone. i’ve also adjusted my writing style to fit the time period i’m writing for, so please let me know what you think !!!

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[hopeisour4letteredword]

steady ground

my thanks to @namibulist​ and @dualexistence for the beta read! a short mcgenji piece that’s been sitting in my drafts for a while now.

Summary: It's been a while since McCree was staying in one place with allies he could really trust for any length of time. It will take some getting used to.

read it here on AO3 if you prefer.

The first time Genji opens Jesse’s door after the recall, he looks straight down Peacekeeper’s barrel.

There’s a pause. Genji wouldn’t say it’s dramatic, the way you might expect finding a gun between your eyes to be. It’s more awkward—two people realizing separate miscalculations.

“I am not sure what I expected,” he says. Jesse is already lowering the gun. “I probably should have knocked. My apologies.”

“Nah,” Jesse says, gruffly. He won’t meet Genji’s eyes. “S’my fault. Sorry. Shoulda recognized your footsteps.”

Except he shouldn’t have. Seven years is a long time, and Genji doesn’t exactly walk heavily.

“Better I feel awkward for a moment than you get shot when it really is an enemy,” Genji says, instead.

“Somehow I don’t think some of the newbies will have your wise practical perspective,” Jesse huffs. He turns away from Genji and puts Peacekeeper down on the bedside table again. Genji takes the unspoken invitation and steps further into the room. It’s nothing like Jesse’s room from Overwatch’s prime days, where his belongings were scattered haphazardly around the room and everything had the familiar tang of smoke. The closet is empty—he must be living out of the duffel bag next to the bed, still—and the room smells disconcertingly sterile. Jesse must be taking his cigars elsewhere.

He’s ready to pick up and flee at a moment’s notice. Genji’s heart aches with empathy for Jesse, so ready to have the rug pulled out from under him again, prepared to lose and lose and lose and keep on moving, keep going, find the next safe house.

“For example,” Jesse says, and it takes Genji a moment to remember the thread of the conversation, “I doubt Dr. Zhou would be too keen to find a gun in her face when she opened a door.”

“Dr. Zhou will have the good manners and good sense to knock,” Genji says.

“You sayin’ you don’t have good manners and good sense?” Jesse says, a dry smile curving up the edges of his lips. It’s the most Genji has seen him smile since their reunion.

“I am saying I must have forgotten one or the other,” Genji says, wryly, “If I thought it was a good idea to open a wanted man’s door with no warning.”

He moves slowly, broadcasting his movements before he makes them so Jesse has time to move away. Jesse stays put, but still won’t meet his eyes. Not even when Genji steps all the way into his personal space and sets his hands loosely over Jesse’s own.

“It is not your fault for having keen reflexes,” Genji says, firm and low.

“It’s my damn fault for not bein’ able to tell friend from foe,” Jesse mutters. “I should be better than this.”

“You are better than that. But you are in a new environment, and you are still adjusting.”

Jesse finally looks up at him, even if it’s only to give him a sullen scowl.

“Do you know,” Genji says. “The first time Zenyatta woke me unexpectedly, I threw shuriken at him?”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” Genji confirms, and Jesse cracks that dry smile again. “New ally, unfamiliar place. Still adjusting.”

“First time, though,” Jesse says. “S’different. I’ve had three weeks.”

“You do not unlearn seven years of watching your back in three weeks,” Genji says.

“But it’s you.”

Genji pauses. Jesse is still looking at him, smile gone and eyes tired. They always are, these days; he hides it well, but Genji has known him too long to miss the subtle signs of perpetual exhaustion and stress.

Right now, though, it’s blatant.

“Always told myself that you could have walked into any of my safe houses and it’d be fine,” Jesse says, quietly. “I—shit. I wanted to trust you. I do trust you. You’re trustworthy.”

“Thank you,” Genji says, slowly and carefully picking his words. “I am honored by your trust. But I think you need to be kinder to yourself.”

Jesse scoffs. Genji tightens his grip on Jesse’s hands.

“Seven years since you heard my footsteps,” he says. “My prosthetics are different. I walk differently now, as well. What was there for you to recognize?”

Jesse stares down at their hands.

“This does not mean that there is no trust between us,” Genji says, firmly. “It means there is a learning curve. Just like fighting with the new team, yes?”

“A learning curve, huh,” Jesse mutters.

“Yes,” Genji says. “We are neither of us the same people we were seven years ago. We will relearn each other. There is no shame in that.”

“Jesus, Genji,” Jesse says, shaking his head with a choked laugh. “You’re really gonna make me deal with the fact that you’ve gotten more emotionally stable while I fucked myself up, huh?”

“You did not fuck yourself up,” Genji snaps. “Other people betrayed your trust. It was not your fault.”

“Was kinda my fault,” Jesus mumbles, and Genji can’t take it any more. He reaches up and wraps his arms around Jesse’s shoulders, dragging him down into a hug. Jesse stiffens for a second, and Genji wonders if he’s gone too far. The moment passes, though, and Jesse melts into his arms, burying his face against Genji’s neck. Genji is glad he left his armor in his room, so Jesse’s face is pressed against soft silicone and not cold metal.

“I should’ve figured out something was wrong,” Jesse whispers.

“You did,” Genji whispers back.

“I should’ve fixed it.”

“You tried.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you did not leave until you had a screaming match with Reyes like no one had ever seen before.” The entire base had probably known that. For stealth operatives, Reyes and Jesse were both capable of putting their lungs to good use when it suited them.

Jesse is quiet for a long minute. Then: “Why didn’t he listen to me, Genji?”

“I do not know,” Genji says. He closes his eyes and leans his head on top of Jesse’s. There is nothing he can say here that will fix this. He hates it, but he knows. “I am sorry. I do not know.”

“I should have stayed and kept trying. You stayed.”

“You knew Reyes better than anyone in Blackwatch. If anything, I should have taken the cue and followed you out.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I did not think you wanted me to.”

A pause.

“I didn’t,” Jesse says, finally. “I would’ve yelled at you. Would’ve been a big fight. Prob’ly woulda said some shit I’d regret.”

“I thought you said you trusted me?”

“Shit, Shimada, it wouldn’t have been about trust.” Genji can feel Jesse’s jaw clenching against his neck. “I was so fuckin’—God. I was angry and scared. I am angry and scared. All the time.”

“I know.”

“Then what the hell are you doing here? Learning curve, right? This ain’t gonna stop any time soon. Not much fun for you.”

“Can I ask you something?” Genji says, instead of answering.

“Sure. Fine. Whatever.”

“What were you doing when you befriended me,” Genji says. “Back when I first joined Blackwatch?”

Jesse is silent.

“When I was angry, and scared, and I trusted no one? Was that fun for you?”

“That was different,” Jesse says, sulkily enough that Genji knows he’s made his point.

“Was it?” Genji asks, lightly. He starts rubbing his hand in small circles over Jesse’s back.

“Hurt to see someone hurting that much. Even when you were being a shithead. You needed a friend.”

“Don’t you?”

“We’re already friends. I got friends. You got full rights to back out and not deal with my bullshit.”

“I know,” Genji says, again. “But I will not.”

“You’re so fucking stubborn.”

“I cannot believe you managed to say that entire sentence with a straight face,” Genji says, just because he knows it will make Jesse bark out a surprised laugh.

“Ain’t nothin’ straight about my face and you know it.”

“I do,” Genji agrees, and turns his face to press a kiss against Jesse’s hair.

There’s another pause.

“You still—?“

“What?”

“Genji, you’re nuts.”

“What?” Genji repeats, much more indignantly this time.

“We were just talkin’ ‘bout how I’m not the same man anymore.”

“You are still Jesse,” Genji says. “You are still a good man. I have not seen anything yet that has convinced me otherwise.”

“Yeah, well,” Jesse laughs again, but it sounds bitter and raw now. “Gimme another three weeks.”

From where they’re standing, Genji can see into the duffelbag next to Jesse’s bed. He really is still living out of it, ready to run at a moment’s notice. Ready to lose.

“That does not seem fair,” Genji says. He keeps his face pressed to the top of Jesse’s head. “Three weeks is not enough time to decide anything. I will give you longer, to be on the safe side.”

“You said it yourself, that neither of us are the same people we were last time we met.”

That’s true enough. But Genji looks at Jesse and he still sees the same core, the same heart. It’s just a lot more battered and a lot more guarded than it used to be.

“I missed you,” he says. “Whoever you are now. I missed you while we were gone. And seven years is a long time to miss a person.”

“Genji—“

“If you are not interested anymore,” Genji says, “I accept that. If you are not ready, I accept that too. We can go slow, or not at all, and either way I will be your friend. I need you to understand that.”

Jesse pulls away, and Genji lets him go. He doesn’t go far, doesn’t even break the loop of Genji’s arms around his shoulders. He just lifts his head enough to meet his tired eyes to Genji’s own.

“Say it again?”

“I will be your friend,” Genji says. “No matter what you choose. I promise.”

“No,” Jesse says. His cheeks have gone a little pink. “The—the other part. I—ah, fuck. I guess ‘again,’ isn’t really right, but—“

“I still love you. I never stopped.”

“We weren’t even together for real back then.”

“Because I was not ready,” Genji says. “Like you are not ready right now, I think. You waited for me. I can wait for you. I will wait for you, if that is what you want.”

Jesse is quiet again.

“And if you do not know what you want right now,” Genji says, “That is okay. It is all okay. We will figure things out, you do not have to know everything already.”

“Genji, if you don’t stop being so fucking understanding I’m gonna cry,” Jesse says.

“Then cry,” Genji says, without hesitation.

Jesse’s face screws up with emotion, sharp and desperate like Genji hasn’t seen him since the weeks before he walked out on Blackwatch. For a long moment Genji thinks he really will cry; instead, he drops his face back into Genji’s shoulder and takes a long, shuddering breath. Genji goes back to rubbing his back without a word, keeping his own breathing steady in case Jesse needs to use him as a guide.

“…Went off and got all mature on me,” Jesse mumbles, against his shoulder.

“I am thirty-five,” Genji says, a little amused despite himself and the situation at hand. “It was about time.”

“I’m startin’ to think Zenyatta hid the real Genji in a cave somewhere in Nepal.”

“I was not that bad.”

“Oh, man,” Jesse snorts. “I’m not even gonna touch that one. Wow.”

“I’ll let this slide,” Genji says, “But only because it’s you.”

“I will wield this power with great irresponsibility,” Jesse vows, and it’s Genji’s turn to laugh. He curls the hand that’s not rubbing Jesse’s back up to cradle the back of his head, threading his fingers through Jesse’s hair. Here is another piece of Jesse that hasn’t changed; he still pushes into it like a cat being stroked. Slowly, slowly, the tension bleeds back out of him, until he moves his hands to wrap around the small of Genji’s back.

“’S not gonna be easy,” Jesse murmurs. He sounds more sleepy than sad.

“I know,” Genji says. Nothing worth doing is, he doesn’t say.

“I’m not ready,” Jesse says. It’s small, quiet, a confession.

“That is fine.”

“But I—shit. You know I still—“ he clenches his hands in the back of Genji’s sweatshirt. “I missed you too. Thought about you all the fuckin’ time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like—the cats. You remember the goddamn cats? The ones we used to feed out by the supply sheds, even though Reyes kept telling us not to?”

“Of course,” Genji says.

“S’what I missed,” Jesse says. “You ‘n’ the damn cats. And Fareeha, of course.”

“We should get another one,” Genji says, thoughtfully. “A cat. I doubt Winston will refuse us.”

Jesse laughs, real and light for all that it’s over quickly.

“Abusin’ our position as senior agents already?”

“Lena will back us up,” Genji says. “And you know Winston won’t argue with her.”

“She always struck me as more of a dog person,” Jesse says.

“That is because she decided to save her two hour presentation of pictures of her girlfriend and their two cats for week four,” Genji says. “She does not want to scare you away too soon.”

Jesse starts to talk, then stops. This repeats a few more times before he just burrows his face back against Genji’s neck.

“We all want you here,” Genji says, soft and sure. “Everybody. We will all help, Jesse. However long it takes.”

“Okay,” Jesse says. He sounds like he barely believes it, but Genji will take barely. “Okay.”

They stand there for another long minute, still holding onto each other. Right as Genji is about to suggest they move to the bed, or the chair, or anyplace, really, Jesse lifts his head again.

“What, uh. What did you actually come here to talk about, by the way?”

“Oh,” Genji says. It’s been—an hour, at least.  “Uh. Dinner was ready. But—“

Jesse starts to laugh.

“There are always leftovers,” Genji offers, helpless to offer anything but a sheepish, hopelessly endeared smile in the face of Jesse’s crinkled eyes and grin.

“When Reinhardt’s at the table? Honey, you know better,” Jesse says, shaking his head.

Honey. It’s not the first time Genji’s heard him say it since the recall, not quite. But every other time has been another carefully calibrated part of Jesse’s façade. A facet of his larger-than-life cowboy persona, drawn out and drawling like an impersonator of his own younger self. This time, though. This time he says it like Genji remembers it. Thoughtless, automatic, lighthearted. Slipped into his sentences without forethought. There’s love behind it—love for Genji, certainly. But also love for himself. Love for life, for the world.

Yes, Genji thinks, as he curls a hand into Jesse’s to lead him to the kitchen. Jesse McCree is a changed man. But he is still Jesse, Genji’s Jesse, at his core. He just needs to find steady ground under his feet again. Maybe it will take more than another three weeks for him to relax. It could be three months. It could be three years. But Genji is sure that if he gives it enough time, if they can be patient enough to relearn each other, he will be able to open Jesse’s door with no warning and Jesse will turn to him with a smile instead of a gun.

And he’s willing to wait.

[blackrose-ffxiv]

Sowing Strife 10/02

Atlan Lanning heard the door open before he recognized the voice, and upon realizing who was there he made a not-so-valiant effort at trying not to cringe behind the curtain. Atlan groaned. Daijiro would have his head if he didn't do his job properly, so he stepped out into view to greet their guest. "...Lebeaux," he bowed politely to the man. "What can I do for you?"

Lebeaux Desrosiers tilted his head slightly as it wasn’t Kareem who passed through the curtain, but rather another familiar face. “Ah! The Dhavhas’ pet.” He declared as he reached up to remove his hat and held it out to the other, expecting him to hang it up for him. “Are your masters about, by any chance. It would be fortunate to have an opportunity to speak with either of them. A cup of tea as well. Hmm, Atlan, if I recall correctly?”

Atlan just....took Lebeaux's hat without putting up a fight and hung it on the rack behind him. He couldn't argue the fact that he was closer to it anyway. "Nooo, they are not," he answered after mumbling something incoherent under his breath. "I'm one of the hosts here. Believe it or not, I don't follow after Rin and Saerdha everywhere. And yes, my name is Atlan. Same as usual?" He did remember what Lebeaux usually requested when he visited the agency, at least. "There's more of a selection here.”

Lebeaux tilted his head as though shocked by that. “Is that quite allowed, that you should be out and about without them?” He mused as he made his way over to the couch and made himself comfortable. “I do hope that necklace you’re wearing is a return address tag should you wander too far.” He teased as he settled onto the cushions and tutted quietly. “For shame. Out without chaperone or leash.” He smiled sweetly at Atlan. “There was a particularly nice Ishgardian brandy on my last visit, "I’ll have some of that one the side.”

"...Any leash that's on me isn't being worn for public purposes anyway," Atlan shot back. "I heard you were a member now, so your choice of alcohol is free," he disappeared for a moment behind the curtain. Atlan didn't drink much himself, but he'd been there long enough to familiarize himself with Daijiro's massive selection of teas, coffees, and alcoholic beverages. "I think both of them might survive without me. Maybe."

Lebeaux smiled softly in amusement as he made himself comfortable, his right hand held carefully in his lap. “Though, I suppose perhaps moving from one pen to another is safe enough. Not as though you’re able to wander very far here.” He mused thoughtfully. “You’ve taken a bit of a sharper edge since we last spoke.” He noted in passing once the other elezen returned. “Something the matter?”

"Not at all," he smiled back at Lebeaux, "...Other than how I worry for Rinha'li, but," his smiled faded some as he handed Lebeaux his cup and saucer of hot tea and poured a half glass of the Ishgardian brandy on the side. "But, I also know Rin. He does what he does because he wants to, not because he's forced. That doesn't mean I trust your intentions, though." Atlan took a seat beside the man and waited to see if the tea was to his liking before he carried on the conversation.

Lebeaux tutted quietly again as he took the cup of tea and the serving of brandy. He set the tea down and sipped at the brandy first, tasting it to ensure it was of the same bottle as his prior visit. Satisfied with that, he tilted the glass to add its contents to the tea cup. “Oh, but it’s been some time since I brought him home bloodied and battered.” He noted calmly. “You surely don’t still begrudge me that incident? He's made a full recovery since.”

"I meant the more recent expedition," Atlan clarified. "Like I said, I know anything that happens is probably purely Rin's choice, and I can't change that. He's stubborn, but I want to know what happened." Atlan leaned forward in his seat, wringing his hands nervously. He wasn't so put off by Lebeaux this time that he failed to be as articulate as he wanted to be, but he was still anxious around the Ishgardian.

Lebeaux tilted his head slightly as he set down the glass and lifted the cup by its saucer, settling it into his lip so he could lift and sip using his left hand. He watched the other’s gestures as he fidgeted and leaned. “Ah, so you were told that there was a recent expedition. Yet he didn’t see fit to fill in all of the little details? Why would you ask me. I’ve no desire to sow strife in your happy little home.” He explained with that same saintly smile.

"He has his reasons for trying to protect me," Atlan shrugged. "I've pieced together some of it from what I know from him and Marvik. I know what Rin wants, in the end...It's always been something of an obsession with him. What do you get out of it? Something tells me you're not lending a hand out of the goodness of your pure heart, Lebeaux."

“Then perhaps we can help each other, Atlan.” He suggested calmly before he took another sip of the fortified tea. “I don’t know what Rinha’li wants. I knew full well that is agreement to assist was simply a means to his own ends. Yet I still don’t understand what those ends were.” He explained slowly. “If you would like to enlighten me as to some of his motivations, I would be more than happy to give you a full report on our activities in Amdapor.”

Atlan looked uncertain about that arrangement, but he did worry about the miqo'te; enough that he appeared to be giving it some thought as he looked away from Lebeaux and stared instead at the bottle of brandy resting in front of them on the table. Which decision was more dangerous? "...A powerful creature from the void has always had something of a grip on him, whether it was... real or just by fascination. He's always wanted to find ways to get closer to it; to control what we don't understand about their power. If he was there, it's because of his need for knowledge about him and the Amdapori people," he answered with clear hesitation. "...I want to help him, one way or another. I just don't know how."

Lebeaux smiled serenely as he listened. He had his own suspicions and this did confirm some of them. Yet it also brought up some new questions. “This voidsent being, he has had contact with it before and fully intends to establish contact again in the future?” He asked. “It seems to be a grander scale than your day to day nuisances. Something too large to go unnoticed for too long, save for when it’s locked away under a dead city. Do you suspect he wishes to bring it to our realm?”

"Yes, in fact that was how he and Saerdha got to know each other. Saerdha has...a habit of rescuing people with those kinds of connections," his smile returned briefly thinking on the magister's kindness. "If he ever did accomplish a connection like that, I honestly don't know what he would do. Rin doesn't believe that anything we don't understand is innately evil, and I agree with him. All I know is...he's stubborn enough to keep on going until he gets clear answers."

“As I suspected. I had formed the opinion that Rinha’li had some sort of contact ‘beyond’ and I was curious what would happen if we were to follow the threads towards that contact.” He explained calmly in between sips of tea. “A mentor of mine had a similar experience and was driven mad by it. I gave his notes and writings to Rinha’li to see what he could make of it and he came to the conclusion that we would find our answers at Amdapor.” He set the cup down and refilled it with straight brandy before he resumed sipping. “Yet there was nothing there. No ‘doors’ they kept going on about. No presence, save for the spiteful shade of my mentor. It was a bust.”

Atlan snatched up the empty glass he'd brought for himself, but he didn't fill it with brandy. He turned it in his hands, focusing on the light reflecting off of it rather than making direct eye contact with the elezen while he listened to his explanation. "Let me help," he said at last, still clutching the glass. "There might be a way I can, and even if I don't trust you, I'd feel better being able to do what Rin needs to succeed, whatever that means in the end. You must know things. You have connections. He wouldn't even have to know that I was helping you and him from the shadows."

Lebeaux paused with the cup partway to his lips before he lowered it again. “Allowing him to succeed would mean inviting a potentially problematic entity into our realm to wreak havoc as it pleases.” He noted. It would also be a generous helping of heresy, but so long as he wasn’t actually watching or helping directly, what was the harm. “It want to ensure there will be a measure of control. What can you do to help.” He asked, settling his icy pale gaze on the blonde. “Ensure we have an acceptable cup of tea waiting for when we return?” He suspected Atlan of hiding something as well, since their very first meeting. Now he was sure of it, but whatever could it be…

Atlan hesitated again. He didn't like the way Lebeaux always looked like he knew something but kept up such a convincing veil of innocence that one could never quite be certain. He opened his mouth to speak several times before finally settling on what he wanted to say. "I have my own connections," he answered cautiously. "If I were to lend them to your cause, I need a promise from you. Saerdha's peers in Ul'dah can't know. He's broken enough laws already keeping Rinha'li and I safe. You're his... friend, aren't you?" the word felt odd rolling off his tongue in this case. "I'm asking to protect him more than myself."

Lebeaux considered that silently as he sipped his vaguely-tea tinted brandy. Waiting patiently for Atlan to speak. He was in no hurry, so he waited for the boy to frame the words the way he thought would suit them best. Rather than speaking plainly, the blond opted for the polite version. “All of this is rather uncharted territory. At the very least it’s looked down upon, in the most severe cases it’s heresy and dark arts in all the City States.” He explained calmly, by way of assuring he had a very vested interest in this all remaining quiet. “I’ve no interest for our work to be brought to the light. The ends will justify the mans but that would require we achieve a satisfactory ending, which would preclude being arrested or murdered by vigilante hunters. What sort of contacts can you offer to such a cause.”

Atlan thought Lebeaux's words through. It was true that what they'd been doing—the expedition, all of it—would be frowned upon by almost everyone else. It wouldn't do the man any good to out himself in the process. Logically, he felt some semblence of safety knowing this, but it was still difficult to tell anyone his secret, especially someone he didn't particularly like. "A contact Marvik very nearly killed me for, on accident, of course. He didn't know any better when it tried to feed off him," he began, trying to gauge Lebeaux's reaction before he dared to dive further down that rabbit hole.

Lebeaux wrinkled his nose in disgust at the implication. Atlan’s contact was within his body. Making him… possessed for lack of a better word. “I see. That explains quite a bit now about several things. Another layer is lifted away.” He took a long sip of brandy as though to wash the taste of that out of his mouth. “It is a powerful contact? How firm is your control of it.”

Atlan expected something along those lines from his initial reaction, and he hardly flinched at the look. In fact, he looked somewhat relieved Lebeaux hadn't fled. "At first, it nearly drove me mad, but it's been years. Like any of them I suppose its power relies on how much it feeds, but that's rare, and never on a person," he shook his head. "Still, it's been useful on multiple investigations. We can speak to each other. It senses things, and Rinha'li has...an uncanny ability to put it in its place when I do allow it to have control."

Lebeaux snickered quietly into his cup at that. “Rinha’li, the monster whisperer.” He joked lightly. “How droll. In any case, I do suppose that puts you in a rather unique position to assist us. Even if it isn’t outright. Very well. I shall endeavor to keep you apprised of the situation so long as you do what you can to keep Rinha’li sympathetic to my cause and cooperative. He’s taken on something of a stubborn streak lately and it’s growing tiresome.”

@sedatayuun @black-omen-born

[elaianna]

Friends in Unlikely Places

[ Music | Part One ]

With the departure of the block captain things settled back in to the mundane ritual one could expect of the cell block. The torches were snuffed. Guards became a scarce presence that rotated on the half-hour. Then most of all the air became filled with the coughs of sickly prisoners awaiting the block, or the jostle of chains as bodies rattled beneath the heft of their heaving bodies. When the final guardsman finished his rounds and began his traipse down the long tunnel a sound came more closely to Anna's cell.

The newest arrival, a man known by frame only began to move three cells down. Though separated by a room and two stone walls he knew well where he was, and why he was here. Assured that the room was clear his head came to press against the bars though he'd never lay eyes on the woman two cells down for him. In a deep voice he tempted to whisper.

"Hey...psst...you're that Duchess what was taken from Stormhollow, aye?"

Elaianna wasn't sure she had heard it at first. She lifted her head and squinted, looking around for the source. Was she hallucinating now? It wasn't a far stretch. With rations as poor as she had, and with how sparse they had been for her, it would have been acceptable-- normal even.

"Beg pardon?" she murmured.

"That Duchess-" 

The man's face forced further into the bars as if that might somehow allow him to see who he was speaking to. Removing himself moments later when his ears denied him going any further he began to shift further to his left, all the way until he'd reached the wall and could get no closer before leaning back in to the bars.

"Mainlander what came to Stormhollow just before that right jammy bastard came in and started sendin' good folk t' the Wash left and right, aye?"

His voice raised and lowered every few words as his eyes would bulge in search of some unknown presence in the room.

"I've never been a mainlander," she grumbled. "Kul Tiran born and raised." Her head tilted to the side. "But.. I suppose aye. I am." She was looking in the general direction of the voice. "To the Wash?"

" 'Pologies then there m'lady but, s' not what I've heard. Here more folk tell tale you was born on the mainland, brought over here t' be raised proper but it didn't work right so's they sent ya back."

His grip of the bars in either hand wrung gently as he watched the nothingness of the room in full detail. The sinking dread filling him, the hesitance in his eyes as the situation settled more with him nearly brought a quiver to his lip before he'd snarl one nostril to mask it.

"Aye, the Wash. The Timber-ticker, Liar's lotto, the Woody- the Wash. Place what where they're sendin' fools off to waste away buildin' ships for the fleet, I've heard the stories. I was supposed t' be going there before that man cut me a deal for ya."

So that's what they think of me.

Her heart sunk. They truly believed she was from the mainlands, that she wasn't a Kul Tiran. Ever since leaving for Stormwind at her Father's orders to extend their network, she hadn't fitted in any land. Not as a mainlander, and now not as her own people.

"...Cut a deal?"

"Aye, aye- got everything here too just as I was told. Followed the instructions just like I was told, told the man named Philbert my name and gave him the coin, gave the man Linus his paper, and told that skinny fella on the dock his brother's been released. Yer man could have been a bit more polite about it, talked ta' me real slow like, felt like he thought I'd drank too much sea water...but I've got all yer thin's."

For a brief moment the man's chains could be heard skittering away as if he went to gather something before returning shortly thereafter.

"So we're square, aye? Barty is gonna be alright, aye? I don't know what I'd do if somethin' happened t' my boy, I'm all he's got left, m'lady. No family left,  cousin's already goin' for the Wash and I was 'sposed to too...now I'm here 'an...we're square aye? I'll be gettin' out? M' boy's bein' taken care of?" It was clear he was beginning to get choked up now by the wavering in his voice. While one could assume by the deep tone of his voice he was a big man, his blubberings only made that more clear.

"All my.. things?" she asked slowly, trying to understand.

"Slow down, slow down. Who'd you speak to? Who? I need to know which man," she told him, before breaking off to cough painfully. She was talking too much for a dry throat. "Describe what man told you this."

"The little man. Well, lad's pretty tall but...pretty skinny, he could stand ta eat more s' all I'm saying there m'lady. Got himself some of them spectacles, fancy pants, quiet, looks more like a reader than a man what works with his hands."  

While she couldn't see it the man was loudly beginning to scratch the side of his head, letting out long stints of the word 'uhm' before returning to whispered shouts over.

"One of the mainlanders who got off with ya there m'lady. He's the man what got me off the list t' the Wash, said he'd take my boy and put him up nice in Boralus until things settle, and sent me here- I swear to ya I did everythin' he told me you wanted, I've got everything and I'll keep doin' my part, I swear it Miss, swear on me little Bartleby. But please m'ady, I just need ta know he's gonna be alright, I been scrapin' by as it is for so long with the taxes and...I just, I can't stand ta think what would happen if m' boy ever gets his ticket called."

Eidrich.

Elaianna settled back against the stone, a sigh of relief leaving her as she closed her eyes. He was effective and able to be under the radar. If anyone could pull off what this man claimed, it'd be him.

"That man is amazing at what he does. I trust my own daughters with him. He should be able to be sure Bartleby is safe."

The lump he'd held back thus far was finally swallowed. The first breath of relief he'd taken since he was put to cart felt beautiful, like he could finally live again as if he'd been stuck in worry and dismay from the second he'd been torn away from his life. Sniffling quietly the man's chains began to jingle as he reached upward to swipe at his eyes. Sobbing quietly a moment his chains jerked more loudly as he began to nod out of joy and relief.

"Thank ya, m'lady, thank ya, m' forever grateful to ya. I've...I've got what ya wanted then." He sniffled again, harshly sucking in once with both nostrils to try and halt it.

"Don't have an easy way so I'm goin' ta have to slide it...think I saw how far things reached but ya may be needin' to catch it in case happens to get to slidin' too fast."

What did she want? She tried to rack her brain for what Eidrich could have possibly sent her.

Shrugging off her shawl-- something she had used as a makeshift blanket when it got cold, dingey and dirty as it was now-- she wrapped it around her chains to control the steady clink and clank of them. She shuffled forward, closer and closer to the edge of her cell. At least, as close as she could get and leaned as far as she could. "I'll do my best. -- What's your name?"

Picking at the thread of fishing line he'd wrapped around his waist numerous times just as instructed, the man began tying one end off to a tightly wrapped bundle no bigger than a half-eaten loaf of bread. One he felt it was secure enough, the man placed the bundle outside of the bars in the flat of his palm while the other hand wrapped the opposite end of the string around his finger for a safer recall if it should fail to reach her.

"The name's Gregory, m'lady. Gregory Corrinster, worked the market in Stormhollow shucking clams on the east end." Gently tossing the bundle up and down a few times in his hand to get a feel for it's weight he leaned far to the right to get as much of a gauge as possible.

"Incomin' to ya..." He signaled before skidding it down the hall in her cell's direction.

"Shucking clams? I'm fairly certain my husband used to do that at one point... He's always been on the move though. Never long for one place." Until he met her, at any rate. With a grunt she threw herself as far forward as she could, ignoring the cutting metal into her limbs. She had to twist her arm awkwardly to pull and nudge the package with her elbow closer to her, and closer still until she had the slack to use her hands to pick it up and open it.

"Got it? Aye...there it is, there we are." Gregory began to smile as he felt the line go taught then pull away from him. Pulling himself away from the bars, Gregory began to unwind the bit of fishing line still connected to his finger until the package was entirely in her control. Listening to her mention of her husband, Gregory began to nod whilst turning to plant his back squarely to the bars while calling back over-shoulder.

"That right then? It's nothing amazing, and it's not butcher coin I'll tell ya, those lads down at the slop shop don't have to be worryin' about bringin' home the bacon, aye? Aye?" He poked as if looking for confirmation in his joke.

"Pays well enough at least...or it did. Mary-Ann passed not too long ago though, m'wife...been hard on one lump o've coin to keep things goin' fer me and 'ol Barty but we get by. He's a good lad...good lad he is. Strong as an oarsman, stubborn as a mule to match it."

As Gregory became lost in reminiscing his words mostly muddled together in recounts of stories regarding his son as though it were all he could talk about, or perhaps all that had been on his mind the last few days.

"Sounds like he'll be a strong man," she murmured to him, trying to give the man some consolation for what he went through to come here. If there was one thing she could sympathize with, it was wanting the best for their children.

The package that reached the Duchess did not appear much, nor did it weigh more than it appeared. Soft, in some parts, crunchy in others, then hard as a rock in another it had a differing texture in every turn of the hand. Bound by twine and a brown parcel-paper it was tightly compacted which certainly took some digging to tear open. Inside she'd find one note wrapped in a tight roll, a photograph stolen from her desk that showed herself, her children, and her husband, and then lastly a tiny linen bag filled with herbs and two bottles of a strange liquid of indiscernible color in the low light.

Carefully, with shaking hands, she pulled the twine loose, and unwrapped the package. All contents were forgotten when she saw the photograph. She felt like the world had been kicked from beneath her. As she picked up the photo, she felt the hot prick of tears in the corner of her eyes. Her babies... Her love. Her family. Her entire reason for pushing onward.

Blinking back the tears, she sniffled, swallowing back a sob, as she grabbed the note, and unrolled it, reading it through blurry eyes.

On the small piece of torn parchment Eidrich's handwriting could be seen tightly compacted yet neatly presented to relay as much information as he could in such a short allotted space.

Your family is safe. Few company members taken, most are free of Stormhollow. It proved too expensive and difficult to bribe assistance for you directly, instead I've sent you help through this man. Should you need anything, ask, and he shall relay. Drink the potions, one now, one if you grow ill. Take herbs. Do not stir the pot, hide what you're given, help will come. More to follow soon.

On each of the bottles given Eidrich had been kind enough to label them with but three words; For immune system.

As the man two cells down continued to prattle on another 'flap' of a sound hit the ground but a few inches from Elaianna's cell, followed by a tough hunk of bread skidding in beside it moments later.

"Almost forgot about that bit- said it'd be waitin' smuggled in to this here cell for you m'lady."

The item in question? A waterskin.

Elaianna's eyes closed and she held the letter and photograph close to her chest, to her heart as she allowed herself a small moment of relief. They were safe. Everything she had been fed through these bars was a lie. Not that it should surprise the noblewoman. The photograph was folded up and tucked into the bosom of her dress. The letter she read over once more, committing the instructions to memory before she tore it up into tiny shreds. It wasn't the best meal but, it would make her stomach feel like something was in it, and make it so that the guards couldn't find the letter. Shred by shred, she ate the parchment, ignoring the taste of the ink on her tongue. The less evidence the better.

She uncorked the vial and swallowed it back in one slow gulp, letting the moisture of it's contents wet her whistle, and swish back the taste of ink. The second vial was similarly stowed away on her person.

"You'll be getting out of here then?" she inquired, wondering how this man was going to relay anything back to Eidrich.

As she spoke, she went about portioning a pinch of the herbs to take now, knowing she'd need some later on as well.

"That's what yer man told me, m'lady."

Gregory began to nod if only to himself. Hiking his knees to rest against his chest the prisoner leaned further back into the bars of his cell, head finding a place within a pair of bars as he talked off absently to the Duchess he'd been sent for.

"Six weeks he said to me. In the mean time I'm just here ta be hearin' what you need, forkin' over rations, and sendin' word through the man what tossed me in here yer boy paid off."

"...Have you any rations for yourself?" she asked, with a raised brow. Six weeks of giving his rations over to her and he'd be dead.

Still, she found herself breaking off at least a bit of the bread, sprinkling the herbs on it and taking a bite. All the while, she was careful to eat slow, so as not to shock her stomach.

"Oh aye."

Gregory responded, his face scrunching and giving a highly positive tone. Pulling his head free with a few tugs from the bars that had suction-cupped his head inward, Gregory's pants could be heard sliding across the floor before pushing himself to a knee beside the far wall. His voice coming a little more faded he called once more.

"Said he'd switch my name from the lotto list ta the list headed here. Offense he put me under's supposed ta be light so m' gettin' m'self no limits on muh meals. I fork over half mah food, pass along what ya need done and he'll pay m' fine and keep m' boy above water."

Clever.

Eidrich deserved a raise after all this was said and done, and maybe a vacation. If she survived for all of his hard work to be paid off.

"I need word to my lawyer. He'll know the one. Is that a message you can relay? To get word to my lawyer?" Not that she was sure he could do anything. She wasn't even sure what to do. "And... and make sure he can get whoever else out he can. Not much to be done for me down here, but people up above? ...Sounds like it's bad."

"Been pretty bad a while now there, m'lady, but aye, I can get word back ta your man, you just let old Gregory know what needs tellin'."

Coming back across the room, Gregory approached the spot he'd formerly been sitting. Hands wrapping around the bars he pressed his ear closely to the bar waiting for if any instructions were to come.

What needed to be done? How could she even process that? She didn't know the exact layout of everything above her. Everything beyond this cell. She didn't know what resources they still had. Who they still had.

"Use the invested money to get away and shelter people from the labor camps. Use Barrowfield, make temporary tent camps, if none of the other Kul Tiran Lords and Ladies will shelter the people."

"Can do, anythin' else yer needin' to tell? Anythin' ya need down in here?"

Gregory paused in silence for a moment as the sound of a clanging door echoed down from one of the halls far in the distance.

"Might be a bit before I'm gettin' any information sent, have ta wait on specific guard and I don't know how much I can tell 'm. Wanna make sure I get all yer needin' fer now."

"I imagine a lock pick would be asking too much?" she inquired with a tired voice.

"I uh..."

By his tone it was clear Gregory was contemplating it, or perhaps contemplating why he wasn't sent in with one in the first place. Stroking his hand down his beard, Gregory's lips pulled aside with a dragged down brow.

"I mean I could ask but...feel like me tellin' that to a guard, even one on the take might uh...might quickly be gettin' me in hot water."

"Fair, fair," she mumbled. "Not sure what else I'd need then, other than food and water, and that's covered. -- Not unless a letter can be reached to my husband, but that's not a need. That's a want."

"M'lady, m' just at your disposal here. I can understand y' wantin' ta tell anything ta your hoosband. If my wife were still with us, tide's be kind ta her, I'd be wantin' ta tell her many thin's in here. So likes I said, you say it, I pass along anything ya need sayin' or doin'."

Her eyes closed as she envisioned her family, particularly her husband. "Tell him... I love him. I'll be anchored back to him soon... but, not to do anything foolish. Keep the girls safe. Sing them a song for me."

There was silence for a time following her request. Silence, then the sound of a man audibly blowing his nose into his shirt with a weepy mumble briefly.

"Oh aye, aye... 'll pass it along there, m'lady."

That was the first night that even the faintest traces of a smile graced Elaianna's lips since she had been taken from her family. There was some semblance in knowing that her family would at least hear once more about how she had loved them.

@atc-wra @eidrich-crone @thomasstalsworth 

[sp4c3-0ddity]

Oct 23

So Canon Divergent AU with a ‘reunion’. I settled on my fourth idea for this (after writing a bit for the first lol) and it ended up being a reincarnation AU (which actually corresponds to one of the tropes listed on the original prompt generator whoops). anyway, i’d consider it gen with a healthy dose of plance. ~3700 words, kinda Weird(TM), but i hope you like it!!

Lance recognizes Shiro the moment he hears his name.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table, struggling throughmatrix multiplication while his older sister gnashes her teeth in frustration.“And the determinant is…five?” he asks, glancing over at her.

Veronica scowls, snatching the pencil from his hand andpulling his notebook towards her. “Look, it’s not that hard, Lance.” Shescrawls the problem on the page, walking him through each step.

Lance tries to focus, but math doesn’t come naturally tohim, so it can’t hold his attention like other subjects do. Instead, he tunesVeronica’s pointers out, the distant hum of the TV coming into focus instead.

“…making Takashi Shirogane the youngest pilot on adistant space mission in history!”the news anchor says.

Lance blinks, unsure about the prickle of familiarity that strikes him. The name Takashi Shirogane rings through hismind, and though he knows he’s neverheard it before, a distinct face follows, that of a broad-shouldered man withblack-and-white hair and a kind smile.

Just like that, Lance loses all interest in algebra,letting his sister do his homework for him like she usually does if hefrustrates her enough. But later, he retreats to his bedroom with the communallaptop and does some digging:

Lieutenant TakashiShirogane, new graduate from the Galaxy Garrison, was selected as the pilot forthe mission to Pluto’s moon Kerberos in two years’ time.

Lance stops reading; he’s not sure why he’s smiling, notwhen the man in the articles accompanying photograph is too fresh-faced to bethe strange man in his memory. But his old dreams of space travel and pilotingreturn, and the low marks in math and science on his report cards don’t matteranymore.

The next afternoon, Lance brings his homework to hissister without his mother’s prompting, and he grins when she stares up at himin surprise.

He and Hunk take to each other immediately, which makesLance wonder if Hunk senses that same strange connection as he does. It’s all too easy to fall into a routine in theirshared room, and their disagreements are infrequent. Hunk even helps Lance withhis homework, even tells Lance without prompting that there’s nothing wrongwith being on the cargo pilot track.

(”But what am I going to tell my mother when I can’t advanceby the end of the year?”

“Call it my gut, but I have a feeling it’ll work out.”

“Just like your gut had a feeling and you got food poisoning eating the commissary’slasagna?”

“Oh, very funny, Lance.”)

But Lance still can’t shake the feeling that he and Hunkmet somewhere - sometime - before theGarrison.

It doesn’t really click until a night he convinces Hunkto sneak into a bar with him. They flash fake IDs, Hunk an anxious mess whonevertheless can pass as an adult over twenty-one thanks to his bulk, andwander inside.

Hunk has only one drink, but Lance, still reeling fromKeith’s expulsion, overindulges and winds up drunk for the first time in hislife. He clings to Hunk’s arm, more sentimental and bubbly than usual - or so Hunk will tell him later - and rambles.

“I feel like I’ve known you for my entire life, man,”Lance tells him. He stares at Hunk’s earlobe and, finding it fascinating, pokesat it. “Or, no, not my entire life, because that would be stupid.”

“Ha, well, me too,” Hunk agrees with a smile, though hetwitches and bats Lance’s hand away from his face.

“No, you don’t understand, Hunk,” Lance reiterates,fisting a hand in his sleeve. “I’ve known you for longer than my entire life, or that’s how it seems.” He meetsHunk’s eyes, and in his intoxication the severity of his words don’t register.

Hunk stares back, jaw dropping slightly. “That’san…interesting way to put it,” he says.

“Oh yeah?” Lance smiles, pleased with the interestedresponse he’s getting. Maybe if he was sober, he’d worry about sounding crazy, about speaking of a recognitionin Hunk that he doesn’t even have for his own mother. “What about…how did wemeet again?”

“We met because we’re roommates at the Garrison,” Hunkreplies with more patience than Lance probably deserves.

Lance giggles. “No, that’s how we met here, Hunk,” he says with a playful andsloppy punch to his shoulder. “I mean how did we meet the first time?”

“We met…oh.” Hunk frowns and stares at his empty glass,then at the half-full pint of beer and the single shot in front of Lance. Hepushes them aside and says, “I think you’ve had enough for one night, Lance.”

“Yeah, well, if you drink more maybe you’ll remember, huh?” Lance pokes Hunk in theside, pleased to see he’s as ticklish as he recalls when he flinches, afleeting smile on his lips. “I remember…somuch right now! Wow, I didn’t know one person could have so many memories…”He trails off, lost in thoughts, of battles and fights and struggles tooinnumerable to count, along with a face, a very important face, one that makes his chest ache in a way it never hasbefore.

At least not inthis life.

Lance’s mood drops, so suddenly he thinks he’ll never behappy again. He drops his forehead against the bar and mutters, “But where’sKatie?”

“Who?” Hunk asks.

Lance shoots up and grabs Hunk’s shoulders, shaking him.“Katie!” he says. “Don’t you remember her?”

Hunk shakes his head, his eyes wide and, even to Lance’salcohol-muddled mind, worried. “Idon’t, Lance,” he says, but then he sighs and admits, “Well, it sounds familiar, but that’s such acommon name that…” He pats Lance’s hand. “Let’s get back to the dorms.”

Lance’s goes along willingly, too distracted by loosethreads of thought that end before he can follow them to the next. Shiro, Hunk, Keith, Katie… They’re allimportant, in a way he can’t begin to explain, least of all while drunk, but apart of him knows that as soon as he sobers up, the thoughts - the memories - will vanish almost as if theynever were.

Except for that…sense,that same recognition he felt when heheard the name Takashi Shirogane,when he shook Hunk’s hand, when he saw Keith’s face.

The journey back onto Garrison premises is a blur, andsomehow, they don’t get caught. Silence sits heavily between them, Lance tooconsumed and Hunk picking up his slack in avoiding detection. But once they’reback in their room, Lance collapses face-first onto his bed and says, “You’remy best friend, Hunk. You always were.”

“You’re mine too, Lance,” Hunk says, “but I don’t thinkwe should do this again.”

Lance hugs his pillow to his chest, closing his eyes andnodding into the sheets. His limbs weigh him down, making him unwilling to evenexchange his jeans for pajama pants, and Hunk’s distance hurts.

They never talk about that night again.

Keith is a different story, and one that Lance is surehe’s read before.

Top of the class, someone to whom piloting comes aseasily as breathing, and despite their instructors’ praise, he lets it fly overhim, as if it has no effect, as if he’s toogood for it.

Lance grips his pen tighter, hard enough he can imaginesnapping it in half and squirting blue ink all over his cadet uniform. Acomplex tangle of emotions always rises within him whenever he catches sight ofKeith, and he can never tell if he wants to break his jaw or pull him into ahug. Both temptations are strong, and neither really makes sense.

Sure, he dislikes Keith, covets the place he has withinthe Garrison, how effortlessly he rises to the top of the rankings, but hedoesn’t want to fight him, and hecertainly doesn’t want to show him affection.

(Absurdly, he wonders if Hunk also senses that strangekinship, but something stops him from asking.)

At first, that touchof familiarity drives him to attempt to befriend Keith, because it’s somuch - yet so different - from whathe first felt towards Hunk that he can’t help but be drawn in. But Keith showsno interest in befriending him, soLance gives up.

Maybe Keith is too goodfor him too.

Lance can’t bring himself to be surprised when he hearsthat Keith was expelled from the Garrison, but he smiles and celebrates when hespots his own name on the list of fighter pilots a few days later.

(It still feels wrong, somehow.)

There’s something familiar about Pidge, about his faceand his slight smile and even the way he dismisses them so thoroughly, butLance knows he’s never heard that name in his life.

There’s just something about Pidge that makes it hurtwhen he resists Lance’s attempts to draw him into conversation, when he tunesout his teasing and declines invitations to hang out. Of course, Lance alwaysfound it easy to make friends, though most were shallow relationships that hecould easily let go of when he started at the Garrison, but he had been brushed off before.

But when Pidge does it, when he mumbles something abouthaving homework and not having the time to sneak into town with him and Hunk,Lance’s chest aches, heart heavy with disappointment.

“You look like someone just told you your dog died,” Hunkobserves once after they successfully sneak out - without Pidge.

Lance stuffs his hands into his jacket pockets andshrugs. “I’m fine,” he tells Hunk, flashing him a smile he doesn’t quite feel.

“Is this just because Pidge won’t come out with us?” Hunkasks. When Lance doesn’t answer, he says, “Just give him some time! He’ll comearound.”

“How do you know?” Lance says.

“He always does, doesn’t he?” Hunk says with a sidewaysglance.

Lance stares at him, surprised by the ring of truth inhis words, but says, “What does that even mean?”

Hunk blinks, but then his eyes go round, as if he nevermeant to say what he did. “It just means that I…think he’ll come to us whenhe’s ready,” he says with a nervous smile, clasping his hands together.

Lance has the impression that Hunk isn’t being entirelyhonest with him, but he accepts his words anyway in favor of complaining,“We’re supposed to be bonding as a team, but Pidge doesn’t seem to care aboutthat!” He makes a wide sweeping gesture with his hands and slumps. “How are wegoing to improve our simulation scores if one of our teammates won’t even talkto us outside of class?”

Hunk claps him on the shoulder. “I don’t know, Lance,” headmits, sounding worried himself, “but I have a feeling that Pidge is dealingwith a lot more than we think.”

Lance snorts but doesn’t press his point, wanting tobelieve Hunk despite his hurt.

“You seem to care about it more than it being for a gradethough,” Hunk observes.

“Do I?” Lance says, raising an eyebrow at his friend.

Hunk nods and says, “Yeah, if I didn’t know any betterI’d think you have a crush on Pidge.”

Lance trips over a loose stone, and the only thing thatstops him from falling on his face is Hunk’s hand shooting out to catch hisarm.

The sight of Shiro, not dead after all, strapped to anoperating table makes Lance’s breath catch in his throat. There it is, thefamiliar white forelock, the scar across the bridge of his nose, and…themissing arm.

Only now a prosthetic replaces it.

It’s a strange thought, but the sight of the prostheticsomehow seems wrong.

Lance glances at Hunk, his eyes widening when he spots ashell-shocked face nearly identical to his own. Hunk’s gaze flicks up to meethis, but before he can ask if he sensesit too, Pidge decides they’ll need to free Shiro.

The situation is eerie, makes the hair on the back ofLance’s neck stand on end, and it only gets stranger when light and soundexplode from the desert, smoke billowing into the sky. Lance presses Pidge’sbinoculars to his face, inspecting the direction of the explosion, and when hesees Keith he shoots up.

They have toget Shiro now.

Luckily Pidge and Hunk - if reluctantly - agree.

Lance sleeps fitfully in Keith’s shack, partly becausethe only thing between his back and the floor is a thin blanket, and partlybecause he can feel four other mindsbuzzing within this small space. And from the sound of the others’ breathing,Lance isn’t the only one struggling to fall asleep.

He eventually slips into a doze, snatches of dreamsplaying through his mind. They’re of scenes he doesn’t recognize from now, of cities he’s never visited andviews he’s never witnessed. Faces dance in and out, but some linger,indistinct; as they resolve themselves, Lance recognizes them.

There’s Shiro, his teacher once, a brother-in-arms moreoften, and always his mentor; Keith is always with him, or so it seems, andLance knows he can call him a friend. Hunk smiles warmly, except during aflicker of danger, whether it’s a gun or a blade held to his throat. Andthere’s Pidge - no, there’s Katie,balancing an open book in one hand and spinning a pen between her fingers inthe other. She glances up from her reading and meets Lance’s eyes, and a smilehe’d never seen her wear - yet one she’d smiled, just for him, countless times- graced her lips.

Her mouth moves, but Lance can’t hear the words as thesparse background details fade. His heart skips a beat, alarmed, and he extendsa hand out to Katie. She only stares at it, uncomprehending, and Lance tries toshout for her.

Darkness swallows her first, and Lance bolts upright,dizzy and gasping for breath. He lies back down once he catches it, staringaround and heart pounding as he remembers that he’s not in his own bed in theGarrison dorms.

No light peeks in through the curtains over the shack’ssingle window, so Lance turns onto his side and closes his eyes again.

He passes the rest of the time until morning trying toremember the name that almost escaped his lips.

“I had some weird dreams last night,” Hunk says asthey’re trekking through the desert.

“What about?” Lance asks.

“I don’t know,” Hunk admits without taking his eyes offthe path in front of them. “I just remember it was…weird. I think you werethere.”

“Aw, Hunk,” Lance says with a grin, elbowing him in theside, “I’m honored to star in your dream.”

“I never said you starredin it.” Hunk rolls his eyes.

“Well, since we’re talking about dreams…” Lance makessure Shiro, Keith, and Pidge are a little ahead of him, then lowers his voiceand says, “I had some strange ones too. You, Shiro, and Keith were there.”

Hunk raises an eyebrow at him. “Pidge wasn’t?”

Lance opens his mouth to deny it, then closes it again.“I…don’t think so?” he says, Hunk’s question making him second-guess hismemory. “She could’ve been though, since I don’t remember much else.” Heshrugs, trying to make it look like he was unbothered, though…

Well, he hasn’t been able to look Pidge in the eye allday; the worst part is that he can’t even beginto explain why.

They enter the cave with the paintings around noon, afterseveral hours of walking. Lance mourns his lack of a water bottle, at leastuntil the paintings glow as soon as he rests a hand on one, and the ensuinglandslide distracts him from a mere physical discomfort.

The Blue Lion is even more diverting.

A low rumble echoes through his mind, and no matter whichdirection Lance weaves yellow eyes track his movement. The fact that no oneelse can sense it isn’t comforting at all…

…at least until the sphere around the Lion descends, andan alien voice sounds in his mind.

Lance sits in the chair inside the Lion as soon as herecognizes the room as a cockpit. He can’t help the smugness, the excitement,the impatience - all of which may notbe entirely his own. But he freezes as soon as he rests his hands on thecontrols, and—

The sounds ofbattle wash over him, of gunfire and the grunting of hardworking men and thescreams and groans of the dying. Lance leans against the wall of the trench,Hunk and Keith on either side of him, his rifle loose in his sweat-damp grip.

“This is rotten,”Keith observes.

“Yeah, we’re goingto die here,” Hunk says, sounding surprisingly calm.

Lance grimaces andsays, “God, I hope not. Katie will kill us if we do.”

Hunk nods, andKeith hums in agreement.

A shrill whistlethen sounds, and Lance’s eyes widen. “Duck!” he yells, right before theexplosive lands in their midst.

Lance opens his eyes; he can feel sweat beading down hisforehead as he tries to shake off whatever…thatwas. But he smirks and, as the Blue Lion feeds information directly intohis brain, says, “Let’s see what this baby can do.”

“Lance, mind if I ask you something about the Blue Lion?”

Lance raises an eyebrow at Pidge, surprised and a littleflattered that he addressed him. “Go for it,” he says cheerfully.

Pidge smiles, but before Lance can smile back he asks,“Did you get some weird…vision thingwhen you touched its controls the first time?”

Lance stares at her, his mind slow to process his words,but when it does his heart starts to race, mouth going dry. “What kind of vision?”

Pidge shuffles his feet, directs his gaze away from him,and if Lance doesn’t know any better he’d say he looks embarrassed. “A vision of…us.I mean, not us us,” he amends, wavinghis hands dismissively. “I mean all five ofus, but sort of in a different time or place?”

Lance blinks at him, but then he sighs and admits, “Yeah,except, well, you weren’t in mine.”

“Oh, then…the others were?” He sounds so disappointed bythe idea that he might’ve been left out that Lance grins and flings an armaround his shoulders.

“Pidge, you may not have been in my vision - or whatever it was - but I promise we’re friends.”Lance frowns. “Or we will be as soon as we figure out this Voltron business.”

Pidge snorts, but to Lance’s surprise he doesn’t pullaway. “So who was in yours?”

“Keith and Hunk,” Lance says with a shrug. “It wasa…trench of some kind, in the middle of a battle. I think we…” He swallows, thememory - because that’s how it feels,like something remembered rather thandaydreamed - hitting him all overagain. “What was yours about?”

Now Pidge withdraws, taking a step away from him.“Nothing like that,” he says. “I was reading some…old journals of my father’s.”He crosses his arms, a scowl upon his face. “It seems like even in daydreamshe’s gone.”

Lance frowns at him, uncertain what he means, but he canread the misery and anger on hisface. He rests a hand on her shoulder, reassurance like he did for him beforehe nudged the Blue Lion through the wormhole, and smiles when he looks up.“Hey,” he says, “I still have no idea what’s going on with you, but I hopeit’ll work out.” 

Pidge bites her lip and meets his eyes, but then he nodsand says, “Thanks, Lance. You’re really…not so bad.”

Lance scowls, but when he spots the teasing glint inPidge’s eyes it softens into a smile.

Lance stumbles out of the Blue Lion, fumbling his helmetoff and throwing it to the side without a second glance. He presses an armagainst his stomach, nausea threatening to empty it, and doubles hover.

His mind still fills with images and thoughts andmemories that do not belong to him,ones both familiar and unrecognizable. He sees a hundred lives in a hundredtimes, a hundred births and a hundred deaths. All the emotions and pain that accompany these new threadsthreaten to overwhelm him, and Lance experiences the collection agony of ahundred deaths’ worth of injury, disease, and weakness.

He doesn’t know how long it takes for it to pass, butwhen it does, he’s curled up on the hangar floor, tears streaming down hisface. Other memories lie in wait, and distantly Lance wonders how the rest ofthe team is coping, because he knows.

They all know.

The only constants in a hundred lifetimes is them.

Eventually, Lance manages to dismiss the memories thatdon’t belong, the ones to be mulled over later - like laughing with Keith,drinking with Shiro, studying with Hunk, and kissing Pidge.

Kissing Pidge.

Lance groans, burying his face in his hands once he sitsup. He can hear worried voices rising from the speakers in his discarded helmetand reaches for it.

“Shiro?” Allura says as he puts the helmet on. “Keith,Lance, Hunk, Pidge? Are you all right? Why haven’t you returned to the bridgeyet for debriefing?”

Lance grimaces, unable to muster much surprise that thebeautiful princess would be so businesslikeafter a major battle. He’s about to reply, or at least attempt to, butShiro beats him to it:

“Please give us all a moment, Princess,” he says, voicefainter than it should be. “We won, but I think forming Voltron took a toll onus.”

Lance chuckles, and fondly thinks of every suchunderstatement Shiro made, whether in this life or one of the last hundred.