#like show kate's room is probably a disaster but she still knows exactly where everything is and can locate anything in half a second

[mvshortcut]

I feel like the difference between the book and show versions of Kate and Constance is best summed up by the state of their rooms. Because Book Constance has like. Moldy muffin wrappers and 600 socks scattered around the room, which Kate is always tirelessly attempting to tidy.

And I'm going to guess that Show Constance's room is immaculate based off the state of her hair, while I know in my heart that Show Kate's room looks like a tornado passed through it.

[zzinvolterra]

I’ve read your post about the downsides of having powers and I loved it cause I always thought it couldn’t be that easy. Now I want to know the others!

I have a couple of ideas but I’d love to read your headcannons for Aro, Marcus, Edward, Alice, Jasper... I mean... everyone with a power.

Have a splendid day and be safe!

[previous post]

Thank you so much, you too!!

// mentions of panic attacks, anxiety attacks, sensory overload //

Aro

When he touches someone, he can read every though the person has ever had.

The possibilities.  I think the primary concern would be losing or mixing up his own memories with others’ thoughts.  He’s come into contact with vampires with millions of their own thoughts many times, and because of his memory, they’re all locked in there, perfectly preserved forever.  (Also, the criminals that he would be reading would likely have quite gruesome memories.)  So forgetting who he is, experiencing constant déjà vu and horrific flashbacks (that aren’t his... or are they?), and becoming overwhelmed to the point where he can’t function are all very possible.

Marcus

He sees the relationships or connections people have to one another.

I suppose Marcus could occasionally be overwhelmed, perhaps experiencing headaches when looking at a large coven.  (Also, there’s so much honesty in his gift, meaning in nearly every relationship he has, he knows exactly how they feel about him.  Which could be painful at times.)

Didyme

Aura of happiness, I guess. [not a quote]

Didyme emits an aura of happiness that seems unconscious and may have occurred to a lesser degree as a human.  Like I mentioned before with Chelsea, every relationship she’s had could have been affected by that.  (...including Didyme/Marcus - would their love be the same if she didn’t have her Ability?)  And depending on how much her gift affects a person, she could be sobbing (vampirically) and everyone else in the room would still be grinning and laughing euphorically.

Everyone else is under the cut!

Edward

Edward can read the thoughts of anyone in close proximity to him...

I just started MS, so I’m not quite sure how this is in canon, but I imagine it would be quite easy for Edward to become overwhelmed, especially as a newborn when he didn’t know how to block out voices.  He could also experience migraines.  Plus, in terms of how much he’s got bouncing around in his head, he’s like Aro Jr.  Not Good.

Alice

She can see into the future, although what she sees is based on decisions being made; thus, she must wait for a decision to be firmly rooted in the mind or acted upon, before she can see the end result.

Her visions send her into an almost catatonic state, and she sees them often enough that there must be quite a few of them preserved in her mind.  She exists on a different plane of reality, really, that must make it harder for her to connect with others.  Could definitely see her experiencing constant déjà vu (she’s just living to catch up to her next vision) as well as anxiety attacks from trying to avert every single possible disaster.

Jasper

Jasper has the ability to both feel and manipulate the emotions of those around him.

It seems like Jasper is constantly inundated with the emotions of others, including their thirst, so him experiencing sensory overload is definitely possible.  He’s also able to manipulate others with his gift, so unconsciously influencing someone could be a concern of his.

Bella

Her mind is impenetrable; no one can read her thoughts unless she allows it.  She can shield herself from all types of psychic attacks and learns to shield those around her.

I like to think that Bella feels a dampened down version of whatever she’s blocking, especially when she’s expanded her shield.  For example, she could feel a stinging sensation when Jane attempted to Pain™ them in BD.

Resume

She can show people her thoughts by touching their skin.  So far, no one has been able to block her talent.

Sounds scary, but okay.  Maybe showing other people her thoughts drains her energy?  (While we’re talking about her, I support the headcanon that Resume is like an immortal child in the way that she draws people in and encourages them to die for protect her.  Her Ability could increase that effect.)  There are also some weird parallels between her and Aro.

Zafrina

Zafrina has a strong illusory talent.  She can make her target see any illusion she wants, or see nothing at all.

Hmm.  I suppose for Zafrina, she could perhaps experience a diluted form of her own Ability when using it on others for an extended period of time.  I’m assuming that she has to concentrate on what she wants them to see, and maybe after a while, she starts seeing bits of it herself.  Or, her own vision could start growing dimmer as she exerts more energy.

Eleazar

He has the ability to sense the type and strength of gifted vampires’ talents.

Eleazar is like a gift metal detector.  Consequences could be that being around powerful gifts, or many at the same time, could overwhelm him.  For example, getting headaches when he was part of the Volturi or during the army witness gathering in BD.  (And I’m assuming Aro visits him semi-regularly, which is not an enviable position to be in.)

Kate

She has the power to cause a painful, electric shock-like jolt in anyone she touches.

I think with Kate, she could become drained, especially if she’s touching more than one person or using her Ability for an extended period of time.  And until she fine-tuned her control over her gift, she was probably shocking everybody and was afraid to touch those she loved in fear of hurting them.

Benjamin

He can influence the elements – water, earth, fire, and air.  He is able to physically manipulate the world around him with his will, similar to telekinetic.

Because of his power, Benjamin wasn’t allowed to leave the house for years, so yeah.  Downside of being the Avatar is everybody wants you.  Also, it seemed, at least in my opinion, that he doesn’t have the greatest control over his gift - meaning every time he uses it, it’s large and powerful.  In the BD (movie) vision, he creates a chasm... that’s deep enough to reach magma?  (Fault lines!!)  So if he were to ever lose that bit of control over his Ability, he would do a lot of damage.

Maggie

She is able to tell if a person is lying.

Maggie is compelled to point out lies, to the point where she can’t stop even when people become uncomfortable and punish her for needing to state the truth.  Therefore, hearing lies could hurt her, mentally or emotionally.  It could also be sort-of an obsession of hers to have everything be the “truth”.  (Do with this what you will - basically what I’m trying to say is that Maggie is unable to not point out lies.)

Siobhan?

Some suspect she can affect the outcome of a situation through willpower alone.

If she does have an Ability, I suppose it could be that the outcomes she causes have unintended side effects - a bit like how Alice attempts to manipulate events, but those new events bring new potential disasters.

James

He was a skilled tracker, able to sense in advance the most likely moves of his prey.

Demetri-ish?  Hyper-aware of his surroundings.

Victoria

She was exceptionally good at evading enemies.

She’s canonically good at hide-and-seek...?  To me, it seems like an Ability that was invented to explain why nobody could find her, but all right.  Perhaps a mix of Afton, hiding-wise (though she doesn’t turn invisible-ish), and Bella, evading-Demetri-wise.

Fred

He has the ability to make anyone feel physically repulsed.  He can use this ability to make someone unable to think of him for a period of time.

In “The Second Life of Bree Tanner”, it seems like Fred’s Ability is always active.  Perhaps gaining control of that power could be difficult because, until he does, he pushes everyone away...(Reneta-ish?)  Also, he’s called “Freaky Fred”.  Rude.

Raoul

He had a limited ability to make others view him as their leader.  It worked best on those who were directionless.

This is hard because it almost seems like Raoul is just exceptionally charismatic.  Potential scenario: if his directionless followers somehow found direction, he would have to deal with an uprising.

Alistair

Alistair can track both people and things.  He can sense the general direction of whatever he is looking for, but it takes him a long time to narrow this feeling down to a specific location.

(He’s very good at finding those car keys.)  He would be aware of his surroundings, similar to Demetri but to a lesser degree.  Not sure if he’d be as overwhelmed as often since it seems like he needs to focus on something specifically to find it, but I imagine his first few years weren’t fun.

Charles

Charles can sense when someone is lying to him.

Maggie 2.0?  Or perhaps more accurately, Maggie 0.5?  Sounds like he’s essentially Maggie, but less affected by lies.

Mele

Could take Abilities and transfer them to other people.  However, she couldn’t use the gifts herself. [Also not a quote]

Gift snatched.  Her power on its own is not very helpful to her survival, since she can’t harness the gifts she takes, nor is it beneficial to her existence.  In my opinion, Mele, due to her Ability, will always be stuck in the position of serving someone (like Sulpicia in Life and Death) or be killed because she’s a threat (Aro).

[mor-beck-more-problems]

The Paths We Choose || Morgan & Blanche

TIMING: Current

PARTIES: @harlowhaunted & @mor-beck-more-problems

SUMMARY: Morgan has a request for Blanche as she helps ward off her and Deirdre’s home.

Blanche sped far too fast to Morgan and Deirdre’s house, practically peeling up the driveway. She could be nostalgic for all the times she and Morgan laid on the floor watch Kate Walsh save lives and deliver babies in heels - and hell, maybe they could even do more of that - after Blanche was done ghost proofing Morgan’s house so a probable-poltergeist didn’t try to stab anybody. She had yet to meet Constance, but Blanche was absolutely certain that she didn’t want the displeasure of the trouble. She hopped out of her jeep, slamming the car door as she struggled with her too heavy bag. “Morgan?” Blanche called, banging on the door. Her senses weren’t going off, so that was good. It meant that she wasn’t here - for now. “It’s Blanche. I have wards. And a lot of salt. And a lot of iron - but well, I guess iron was kind of stupid. Sorry.”

Morgan couldn’t keep still. She had already swept away the glass and changed the sheets, started on laundry, and excused her class for the day. But eventually, even with as quickly as she’d messaged Blanche, she ran out of things to do and was left standing in her kitchen, just as helpless as she’d been in the night. Fuck, she should have known. She should have trusted herself when she saw the woman at Lydia’s. She should have reached out to Blanche sooner, or called Rebecca, or done...anything but waltz stupidly down to sleep like everything would be fine just because she wanted them to be.

Blanche’s knock shook the door. Morgan darted to answer it, not even checking her hair or the haggardness in her face. Infinite stamina, my ass, she thought. If she could squeeze a whole fucking week without her world exploding out of White Crest it would be a miracle. “Oh, good, you’re here,” she said. “We need to ward up...everything. All the things. Every wall, drainpipe, the grass, the fence, I don’t even know what the range is on these things or how they do their thing, but if we have to burn them into the ground for it to stick, I’ll get a shovel, a wheelbarrow, torches, whatever!” It was only after her voice cracked, lacking enough oxygen to go on that Morgan realized how deranged she sounded and how much Blanche almost certainly did not need someone else to be falling apart in front of her. She stopped herself. Breathed. “Sorry. I’m a little...rattled, I guess. We can...um, I don’t know...settle in first. I have lemonade. The good stuff, not the watery crap I leave out for Urk. Do you wanna come inside, set some stuff down? Also, Deirdre won’t mind the iron under the circumstances, I don’t think, just don’t leave it where she’ll run into it on accident.” She beckoned Blanche inside. “And thank you, for coming over so fast.”

“Uh -” was Blanche’s intelligent response to Morgan, looking half crazed as she ran out of air. But then she kept talking. Blanche snapped her mouth shut, and shook her head as she followed Morgan inside. “I’m, uh, not too hungry. Thanks though.” Besides, taking a moment to drink lemonade while they had more important things to do seemed sort of foolish. Or maybe she was just a little freaked out about Constance still being around. Blanche would have thought  that the stupid bitch would have fucked right off after impaling Morgan on a pole. Was that not enough for her? Blanche shook her head, swinging her backpack off her shoulders as she put it on the counter. She began taking everything out - first a long metal rod. “This is made of iron. It should be able to fit in a backpack or something. Keep it on you - one swing of this if she gets too close will cause her to dissipate for a few hours and give you a chance to run.” Blanche had considered giving Morgan her dagger than she had gotten from Nell, but decided that was perhaps not a good idea. Blanche started pulling out the ward slips. Rebecca had taught her how to make them, and now she had plenty on her at all times to keep ghosts out. “These need to go on inside of each of the perimeter walls around the house. That will make the barrier that ghost can’t cross. I’ll come check them every two days or so, just in case. That’s sorta over-kill, but just in case a disaster happens and one of them falls.

Morgan took the rod and hefted it gently. She had one similar, out of cold iron, but it hadn’t been anywhere near by when Constance had burst in. Maybe it was time to start leaving spares in different places. A ‘work’ iron weapon, a ‘car’ one, a ‘just in case all hell breaks loose while you’re at home’ one… She should have known better than to exhale and think she’d get to have anything. Even in death, a fucking shriveled up, numb, eternal living death, how dare she even try to be okay, be nearly happy. Morgan grimaced and took the iron rod, walking into the great room to stash it near the couch where she and Deirdre spent most of their time together. This was fucking ridiculous. A ghost. Some bloodthirsty bitch who didn’t even bother getting to know her long enough to get a good grudge going. Just once, once, Morgan wanted to show her what retribution really looked like.

“Great. We have a lot of walls to cover, so that’s something we can start with. Does it matter what we stick them with? I mean, I’ve got tape, sticky tack, push pins, you name it…” Morgan said, marching back into the kitchen for the junk drawer and knocking around for what she needed. She took out a handful of everything and held them out. “I know this is just step one in what is going to be a painfully, obnoxiously long process, but at least we’ll be able to, you know, rest easier. It’s not exactly going to be easy looking up how to give her what she deserves and knock her out of existence if I can’t even be safe in my own home.” She headed toward the outermost wall in the kitchen, gesturing for one of the ward  slips. “I don’t really like dragging you or anyone else into my personal bullshit and I know you’re not an exorcist or anything, but, will you help me, Blanche?” She didn’t exactly know many other ghost watchers or ghost-be-goners. Not well, certainly.

Blanche pulled out a couple things of double sided tape. “These will work. I usually stick them behind things - like paintings or stuff to hide them. It prevents people from taking them down or people from asking too many questions. Feels a little national treasure-esque too.” Blanche was considering Morgan’s options in her head. Connor could get rid of Constance, assuming she was a poltergeist. She had to be by now, right? Even if she wasn’t, an exorcism might be enough to push her over the edge if she thought her unfinished business wasn't done - and from the sound of it, that was making sure Morgan was good and dead and wasn't going to come back.

“Well, as you said,” Blanche said as she started to lay the wards gently on they backs, sticking tape to the back of them for easy sticking purposes, “I'm not an exorcist. And I don't particularly have a need or want to become one.” And maybe that was selfish of her, but Blanche wasn't sure could physically handle it. She couldn't handle having to deal with souls that she was too late to properly help. “So I need to see her, and… uh… well, get a feel for her, I guess. Poltergeists and regular spirits feel different.” What a strange sentence, but she wasn't wrong. Neither felt particularly nice, but the feeling was different enough to help her tell the two apart. “And I can help if she isn't a poltergeist… as much as I can, at least. I don't think she’s really… uh, talkative. Otherwise you'll definitely need an exorcist.”

“No need to worry about anyone in this house taking things down.” Morgan said, taking a strip of tape and mounting the first slip. “You know, as long as it’s out of reach from the cats, which…” Morgan looked behind her at Anya, who glared at her suspiciously from the top of the couch. She had come around to claiming this house as her own, including the fridge, and anything else that had a flat surface. “Yeah, we’ll hide them.” She shimmied over to the fridge and stuck one behind it, then went to the wall by the back porch door and slipped another behind the clock. She smirked a little as she tucked the clock carefully back into place. They did look a little like they were hiding secret treasure clues. If only this was as fun and wholesome as all that, she might have actually been able to enjoy having Blanche around again.

As they moved onto the next room, Morgan asked, “What’s the difference in how they look? I mean, would I be able to tell, if I knew what to look for? She still seemed, you know, normal for being a ghost. Still looks like tall, evil, Laura Ingalls. Has all of her evil fingers and toes and creepy woo-woo ghost power. Still hates me for no reason. And--” Morgan let out a long sigh. She didn’t like the idea of dragging more people into this than she had to. Blanche was one thing. As much as Morgan hated to pile more on her, she had at least been in this almost at the start. But others? Some random exorcist off the road or Craigslist? “I could use any exorcist recommendations from you whether she’s gone polter or not. I want her gone, permanently. And I want her to pay for this, for everything. And that’s not going to be something I can call Becca back here for.”

“They look largely the same,” Blanche said apologetically. She was slipping a ward behind a painting. “The difference is more… ah…” She wasn’t sure how to describe it. “In the feeling. An itch, I guess. Like little needles pricking my skin whenever a ghost is around. They do it differently when a ghost is more powerful or when a ghost is on the verge of being a poltergeist or has completely turned onto a poltergeist.” She explained. Blanche didn’t think that Zombies, while they were able to see ghosts, could feel spirits like that. At least, Remmy had never mentioned being able to when Granny was around. But she didn’t get the chance to ask Morgan when she continued on. She wanted Constance to pay.  “To pay?” Blanche had read something while researching with Connor. In one of the ancient looking scribe books - the kind where she sort of felt like she should be wearing gloves when she turned the pages - there was a mention of a to the pain ritual. They hadn’t paid much attention to it, it hadn’t been something Blanche was interested in. Why would she or Connor want to cause a spirit pain when getting rid of a poltergeist already destroyed them. For once, the information Blanche had was held on the tip of her tongue, and she didn’t know if she wanted to share it.

Rebecca’s words echoed in her head. She will never exist anywhere as Lauren Langley ever again. She felt sorrow for Kaden’s mother, even if she was a horrible person. Even if what she had done in life was horrible. The idea of having a soul being stripped away until they were nothing at all wasn’t something she liked to think about, and it was the reason Blanche wasn’t interested in learning how to do exorcisms. She couldn’t handle having to do that on a daily basis. There were souls much better than Lauren Langley who wouldn’t be able to stand being on this plane for too long that would turn, and Blanche wouldn’t be able to do it. Constance was likely a poltergeist, so the destruction of her soul was unavoidable. “How do you mean? Like...  More than getting rid of her soul if she’s a poltergeist?”

Morgan didn’t make much of Blanche’s silence. She was still trying to rewire the part of herself that felt safe in this house, that remembered something other than the previous night. But nothing in the house looked right in spite of all her efforts to clean it. All she’d wanted was her own fucking life, with no one’s mistakes or bullshit floating over her but her own. If her own miserable death had given her anything good at all, it had at least ended her curse. But apparently that was just a pipe dream. There was no getting free of Constance’s shadow. Stars, it wasn’t like the past few months had been free of suffering for herself. Heck, aside from the dying part, you might say her normal, un-cursed friends had it worse. Her freedom hadn’t amounted to all that much in death’s shadow. All she had to show for it was her Wellbutrin and spinal fluid cocktail, an amethyst buried in the flowerbeds out back, and this house. This house that had once looked like a magazine spread to her that now marked the absurd, tender movements of her life with Deirdre. If either one of them had been a second slower last night, Constance would’ve taken it all away for good. And then what would there be? What would she crawl out of the hole inside herself for when she was too heavy and tired to be of use to any of her friends?

“I mean I want her gone, and I want to give her back as much of the pain as she’s given me over the past thirty-nine years. And a downpayment of what’s in store for me down the road. And, you know what, maybe some interest on how her bullshit probably fucked up my mother into becoming the nightmare she was to me. And hers, before that. I know there’s no equivalent exchange for that, but I’ll take whatever I can squeeze out of her on the way out. She’s not worth keeping around for chaotic shit’s and giggles, I don’t mean like a game or anything, I just...I need this from her, after everything that’s happened now.” Morgan cleared her throat and did her best to will away the gravity that had hung from her words and slumped her shoulders. This wasn’t the time to curl up on the floor and wish for some benevolent non-existence. This wasn’t the time to let Constance win, or even think she’d won. Morgan had to push through. “There’s gotta be something for that, right? Some exorcisms that hurt more than others? And is it really that different if she’s a poltergeist or not? Whatever state her spirit’s in, she still did this, all of this, to me.” Morgan gestured vaguely for emphasis and went to the next wall.

How was what Morgan wanted to do any different than what she did to August? Blanche was silent for a long time in thought. They hadn’t destroyed August’s soul. They had traded his life for Bea’s. August was free to go where he pleased in the afterlife, free to move on to Heaven or Hell or whatever existed on the other side. They hadn’t destroyed him completely - they could accomplish their goal without it. His murder was a means to an end. What was the end here? Was this more about revenge or being safe from something that was after her? And what made a monster? What was Constance’s true unfinished business? Blanche was having a hard time wrapping her head around it and her own hypocrisy. August was chosen as a sacrifice because he killed Bea. It was his fault she died, and in a way, it served as perfect revenge, even if Blanche viewed it as an inevitable sacrifice. It was Constance’s fault that Morgan had died, and it was clear her spirit wasn’t planning on her to come back. But what would it do? Morgan was already still here. They just needed to keep her safe. The exchange didn’t make sense to Blanche, and for a single moment, she thought about what her Granny would tell her to do. And as the words responsibility and gift echoed in her head with Granny’s voice, Blanche knew what the answer was.

Blanche swallowed hard, shifting on her feet as she glanced over at Morgan, almost guilty. “I… will help keep you safe, Morgan,” Blanche said, quietly. “But… I can’t do what you want me to be a part of. What you’re talking about… Destruction of her soul even if she’s a normal ghost isn’t… I can’t be a part of something like that. I can’t stop you.” But if she didn’t take action, wasn’t that as good as doing it herself? Blanche hadn’t done anything when she knew Erin was selling organs because Erin was her friend, and that ended poorly on all accountsShe couldn’t think like that, though. That wasn’t fair. Things weren’t that black and white and she knew that. She wouldn’t be friends with so many hunters if she didn’t know that. Blanche wasn’t responsible for her friends actions and it wasn’t her job to police them into following her exact ideals of what was right or wrong. “I can’t knowingly destroy a spirit that may not have to be destroyed. And I don’t want to torture her, either. I just want her gone, so she leaves you alone.”

Blanche’s words had a chilling tone of certainty that reminded Morgan of Rebecca and why she was determined not to reach out to her on any of this. For what felt like a long time, Morgan didn’t have any words. It was okay for Blanche to help facilitate human sacrifice, but not to get payback on a ghost that had died over a hundred years ago. Constance didn’t even have a body, and she had outstayed the invitation Morgan has extended by summoning her in the first place. Morgan tried to math out whether or not she had done something to Blanche to find herself on the outside of her alignment. They had so much in common, sometimes it was jarring when the girl said something Morgan couldn’t understand at once.

“I see.” She finally said, her attention fixed stubbornly on the wards. She picked up another slip and went to a new wall. “Are you going to tell me why?” She couldn’t help a bitter edge from creeping into her voice. This was what happened. This was what always happened to her: the moment she needed something desperately, something big, all that nice comfort and support she thought she had disappeared. But Blanche had seen her fair share of shit. It was probably better for her, in the long run, that she tap out of this. The last thing Morgan wanted was for Constance to set her sights on the girl. She wouldn’t know how to protect her, she could barely protect herself. Morgan cleared her throat, doing her best impression of Deirdre’s coping apathy. “It’s your business, obviously, but I would prefer it if you tell me. If it’s just because I haven’t earned something like that from you yet, or if you draw a distinction on revenge when it comes to killing humans or wrecking ghosts. Or something else.” She shrugged. “You can tell me.”

“Earned?” It was hard not to miss the bitter edge in Morgan’s voice. Guilt gnawed at the edges of her insides as her nails dug into the palm of her hand. Blanche was going to stand her ground. She did so much to help people, but she drew the line here. “Morgan, it’s not about what anyone has earned. It’s about the end result. What will torturing and destroying Constance do? I want to keep you safe and alive and here. Constance has to go, and there’s - it isn’t going to do anything. It’s more work, more research, more everything for something that’s awful.”

Blanche didn’t want to watch that. She turned her back on the resurrection for a reason, even if she had gotten a little too trigger happy with the taser when apprehending August. “I don’t get pleasure in torture or revenge or anything like that. What happened with Bea…” Blanche pressed her lips together, and she shook her head. “I did what I had to do. And I would do it again if we went back in time because it means she’d be here.” Morgan was still here. She had died, but Constance’s soul was not a needed price to pay for her to rise up again. “Doing this isn’t going to undo the pain or the hurt that she’s caused you and your family. It isn’t going to make things better. Nothing is going to be better after this.” Things were even arguably worse after the resurrection. But at least Bea was alive. Blanche wrapped her arms around herself. I’ll help keep you safe. I’ll help you find an exorcist that will do a regular exorcism. But I… It’s my job to help spirits. Not to torture them.”

Morgan grimaced as she went back from another slip and left the latest room to find a new one. She was bad at pretending like she didn’t care, and in all her months at White Crest, she’d gotten even worse at pretending like she wasn’t hurt when she was. “Fine,” she said shortly. It was one of those awful, hurtful things to say that didn’t actually tell anyone anything. Morgan stopped and turned and slouched against the wall, finally facing Blanche. “I mean-- I accept what you’re telling me. Obviously, not what I expected. I thought...I don’t know. Differently. But that’s on me.” Becca sure would be proud of you though, she said silently, looking at the difference between them now, Blanche full of her idea of fairness and conviction, Morgan fraying at the seams after two hard nights in a row and off to do some contraband ghost torture. Back when she was alive, she’d embraced her crybaby tendencies because no one else would cry for her, so why not. It made for a kind of narrative symmetry for revenge to be the same in death, at least where Blanche was concerned. But this was okay. She would be okay. “I don’t need to convert you to my perspective or coerce you into something. I don’t want that for you, or us. I uh…” She sniffled and reached inside herself to see if she had one of her smiles left. (She didn’t.) “I’ll take care of finding an exorcist for what I need. Just… if you can not get in the middle of this one way or another, and maybe...don’t tell Becca? Can that be okay, with where you stand on things? I won’t ask you for any more favors related to Constance now that I know how you feel. Just...I would appreciate it, if you wouldn’t do anything, or tell anyone to stop me. Because I need this, for me. She thinks she’s fate and justice, and she is the reason I grew up hating myself and the reason my mother was so broken inside she couldn’t...she’s the reason I died, Blanche. And if she wants to play bloody justice, then that is what I will give her as she is wiped from the earth. I need this.”

You thought wrong. Blanche wanted to say, but she knew that would just escalate things into a fight. That was the last thing she wanted. Honestly, it wasn’t what she expected either. Especially that sick feeling in her stomach that churned over and over again at the thought of torturing a spirit - even a bad one - til the point where they didn’t exist anymore. The hypocrisy was clear, and Blanche wondered if she was using the afterlife as an excuse. She didn’t even know what lay on the other side. No one did. Maybe she was using the tangibility as an excuse because she couldn’t put her money where her mouth was and actually do it again. Maybe she wasn’t strong enough to do it again, even for Morgan. But Morgan was still here. Morgan was still here and her head was on straight and she could do this for herself. She had a body. Blanche could make sure she was safe, and if she didn’t want to do this, no one was going to force her. Grow a backbone, dear. You are not any less for not doing this. You are allowed to say no if you believe it’s wrong, no matter the reason. A voice, similar to Granny’s echoed in her head and she squared her shoulders as she picked up more warding slips. As for telling Becca… “I haven’t really talked to Becca since she left town,” Blanche admitted quietly, though she did hesitate…. But Blanche already knew she wouldn’t run to Rebecca, not for this. Then she really would be a hypocrite. Blanche shook her head. “Do what you have to do, Morgan. For yourself and only that. That’s… That’s all any of us can do.”

[christinesficrecs]

hey boo!! i was wondering if ya got any fics you could recommend that have tattooed stiles? xx

Ooh yes!!! 😍

Beltane by DevilDoll | 8.2K

Watching Stiles heal someone has always been a little uncomfortable for Derek, like he's seeing something intimate and private that shouldn't have an audience. That's nothing compared to how it feels.

Layover by dr_girlfriend | 3.6K

Big, serious brown eyes were staring right into his from only a few inches away. The child had clambered half over the arm of Derek’s chair to study him at close range, her little rosebud mouth pursed in concentration.

“Uh.” Derek couldn’t look away as the girl reached out one pudgy hand and patted him gently on the cheek. Her scent was soft and sweet and somehow a bit familiar, just enough to keep Derek from shying away. Derek didn’t know too much about kids but he guessed this one was probably three years old or so, head still oversized in proportion to the short limbs and round little belly.

She seemed fascinated with Derek’s beard, eyes widening further under incredibly thick lashes as she petted Derek’s cheek some more, smoothing down the short stubble. Finally she grinned widely. “Good wuff.”

Queer Your Coffee by alisvolatpropiis | 3K

For a second, he thinks he must have fallen asleep while he was waiting, because what he sees when he looks in the window surely must be a dream.

Stunning brown eyes like glowing honey and sweet little nose, slightly upturned; a shapely pink mouth, bottom-lip pierced by a thin black hoop that he's worrying with the tip of his tongue as he smiles a gorgeous hello.

He's the most beautiful man Derek's ever seen.

And he’s shirtless.

So, uh, wanna be my boyfriend? by Nerdy_fangirl_57 | 3.6K

Derek broke up with Kate Argent less than a week ago and she already has a new batch of arm candy plastered on her side. Everyone around campus is gossiping about when Derek will ‘move on’ and get a new girlfriend.

Thing is, dating is the last thing Derek has in mind after the disaster that was Kate Argent. Then Kate starts getting a bit too ‘friendly’ with him and he snaps.

“I have a boyfriend!”

And that’s how he got tangled up into agreeing to go on a double date with Kate and her boyfriend on Friday, leaving him with only 3 days to find a fake boyfriend.

Font size twenty-four by Vendelin | 10.4K

Stiles is a librarian and research professional extraordinaire. So, when Derek comes in, asking for help with research for his new book, it's only natural for Stiles to offer his help. He just didn't count on late night waffle eating, or that his heart would go boom.

Flowerwolf & Beacon Roots by alisvolatpropiis | 5.2K

Derek tries not to show his surprise, curiously hopeful, but still suspicious of Laura’s involvement. “Oh. How do you know my coffee order then?”

He grins. “The cute baristo knows your order, dude. All I had to do was ask for Grumpy Flower Guy’s usual.”

Derek huffs. “I’m not grumpy.”

“He says grumpily,” Stiles smirks, winking.

Dragon’s Breath by trilliath | 56.1K

Between the hunters and the monsters that have interfered with life in Beacon Hills, the pack has had to learn a lot in the last few years, including Stiles teaching himself to practice magic in private. It's not exactly a secret from the pack, but it's not something he's shown much. When it comes time to put his skills to the test, Derek is the only one who finally gets to see Stiles's wild magic put to use saving Erica's life from a new threat in town.The aftermath changes something between them, and those tenuous lines tangling them together may mean the difference between life and death for them both.

little boy lost by smartalli | 14.8K

If someone asked Stiles to write a parenting book, Stiles would say the best and most important rule is to love your kid. Just love the hell out of them, and make sure they know it.

The second most important rule would be don’t turn your back on a curious three year old with supernatural speed.

Stiles is currently failing at the second rule. Badly.

Better Fortunes by SmallBirds | 39.6K

When a group of sinister men attempt to kidnap Stiles Stilinski from the Brooklyn apartment he shares with his stepsister, Lydia, Stiles is forced to activate a spell that translocates him to where he'll be safest.Derek Hale isn't sure what to do about the soaking wet young man he finds wandering down a Beacon County roadside during the middle of a thunderstorm, but he feels compelled to help him. There's something about Stiles that Derek finds fascinating, and before long the two become embroiled in each other's lives.Despite the threat to his life and the sudden upheaval of everything he's ever known, Stiles is having a hard time feeling too upset about that.

Stand Fast in Your Enchantments by DevilDoll, Rahciach | 76.9K

Stiles knew damn well what a pissed-off wolf sounded like, and every hair on the back of his neck was telling him that somewhere in this room was a very pissed-off werewolf.

There's Monsters at Home by calrissian18 | 83.6K

“How did you get past the wards?” Derek had put them up, with Peter’s grudging assistance, after the Alpha pack had made themselves at home a few times too many.

The guy pulled a face. “You mean the wards a five-year-old girl with the mental ability of a goldfish could deconstruct?” He blinked wide eyes at Derek. “Gee, I don’t know. It’s bound to go down as one of life’s great mysteries.”

Derek despised him.

A Desperate Arrangement by mikkimouse | 115.5K

After seven years of lengthy negotiations, the treaty between the Hales and the Argents has fallen apart and the two countries fell into war.

Months later, there's an uneasy truce, thanks to the intervention of King Scott McCall, but it won't last. In a desperate attempt to maintain the peace, the Hales sign a treaty with the McCalls to marry Prince Derek to Prince Stiles Stilinski, King Scott's brother.

In the history of the world, there have been many better ideas.

Tattoo My Heart by inhystereks | 2.3K

Stiles was born with the phases of the moon tattooed down his spine.

As he grew older, he would lay awake at night wondering.

Why the moon?

And when Scott got bitten, he laughed until he cried. And then laughed some more.

[qqueenofhades]

the tangled web of fate we weave: vi

shh, this is very therapeutic.

part v/AO3.

Lucy gets through the next several weeks mostly on autopilot. There’s spring break in there somewhere, but she doesn’t really notice, since she spends it working anyway. Her dissertation is inching toward the final finish line, though she still has to write a conclusion, put together her bibliography (which will be an absolutely torturous process of going through the whole thing and copy-pasting every footnote – why hasn’t someone invented a better way to do this yet?) and add her acknowledgments: places she went for trips, foundations who gave her scholarship money, people she’s collaborated with, that kind of thing. Most of it is straightforward, but when Lucy gets to the personal section, where people thank their parents, significant others, grade school teachers, supervisors, etc., she stares at the screen until it goes out of focus. Ordinarily she’d write, Thanks for everything, Mom and Dad, no problem at all, but how can she do that now? Thanks for everything, Mom and Henry Wallace, except for never telling me who my biological father was? Thanks for everything, Mom, but Benjamin Cahill, why?

Lucy leaves that part undone, just adds Amy for now, and finally pushes back her chair and lets out a hoarse war cry of victory, punching the air with both fists and startling the nearby students. She emails it to her supervisor, Dr. Kate Underwood, with the triumphant subject line FIRST COMPLETE DRAFT!!!!, then cleans out her carrel with something probably akin to what a new mother feels, when they finally hand her the baby after the sweat and strife of labor. Not that Lucy’s interested in kids, at least for a while, but still.

She sleeps like the dead for the entire weekend (her neighbors are actually still being quiet, and she certainly isn’t going to tell them that she’s probably never going to see Flynn again) then gets up and goes off to her final review meeting with Dr. Underwood on Monday. Most of the changes she suggests are small, though there’s one part of the last chapter that she pushes Lucy to do a little more with. Nothing outside her usual corrections, but since that was the chapter Lucy was dramatically interrupted from writing with the Weekend of Total Insanity, it triggers something in her. In one of the more embarrassing moments of her life, she bursts into tears in Dr. Underwood’s sunny office, as her supervisor looks bewildered, gingerly hands her Kleenex, and finally asks if everything is all right.

Lucy figures that last-minute nervous breakdowns are far from uncommon for PhD students just about to submit, and there’s a ready-made way to play this off as just that, which she more or less does. There are student counseling services that she could probably make an appointment with, though they’re busy enough at crunch time that it would be another few weeks until anyone saw her. And she just can’t picture sitting across from some graduate-student psychiatrist-in-training and actually making sense of this. Has the usual feeling that she doesn’t need to burden people with her first-world problems – “starving kids in Africa syndrome,” one of her friends called it. This is a little more than ordinary, perhaps, but still.

Having promised that she will have the changes in by next Monday, Lucy confirms the date for her oral examination, six weeks from now, and realizes that she has no idea what she will be doing for that time, aside from sleeping and bingeing on TV shows. Her work is done, she has class to finish teaching but only two days a week, and her schedule gapes perilously wide open. She isn’t good at sitting around and doing nothing; can manage maybe a week or two, then she starts feeling that she needs to be productive. Another gift from her mother. She never let Lucy just veg out during the summer as a kid. She had to be doing an extracurricular, or preparing for a AP exam, or off at Young Achievers Camp, which is exactly as nerdy as it sounds. She’s not sure she even knows how to rest.

Once Dr. Underwood has sent her off with advice to get some sleep and feel proud of her accomplishment, Lucy staggers out into the world beyond Stanford like Rip Van Winkle. It’s a nice day, warm and summery and almost difficult to remember that that whole ridiculous seventy-two hours ever happened, and she pauses. Then on a sudden impulse, she digs out her phone and scrolls through her contacts. Hits call, and waits.

Wyatt Logan picks up on the last ring, sounding slightly breathless. “Hello? Lucy?”

“Hi. I’m sorry, is it a bad time?”

“No, it’s fine. What’s up? Are you all right?”

“I. . . yeah, I am. I just. . . finished my dissertation, actually. And I thought if you were in San Francisco, maybe we could meet up and grab a coffee, or. . . or something?” Her heart flutters in her throat. “Just, you know, to catch up?”

There’s a slightly awkward pause. Then Wyatt says, “I’m, uh, I’m back in San Diego, I’m based out of Pendleton. And I promised my wife we’d go to the beach today, or whatever.”

“Your w – ” Lucy can feel her cheeks turning the color of a fire engine. “Oh my God, I didn’t – I really wasn’t – of course. No, no, of course. I’m sure you’ll have a great time.”

“Yeah.” Wyatt coughs. “Congratulations on finishing your dissertation, that’s an amazing accomplishment. Nothing else weird has happened recently?”

“Not that I’ve noticed. Maybe they’ve given it up.” Lucy knows this is too easy, but she wants to think so. Likewise, she both does and doesn’t want to ask. “Have you heard from Flynn?”

Wyatt hesitates. “No. I called back to the hospital a week later, they said they let him out, but I have no idea where he went. Probably off the grid. I would, if I was him. There’s an APB out, anyone who sees him is supposed to call it in. Whoever Rittenhouse is, they’re still very, very pissed.”

Lucy struggles to take this in. On the one hand, it’s good news, of a sort, that Flynn somewhat recovered and was released from the hospital, but was this because he was ready to roll again, or because he didn’t want to take the risk of lying there waiting for his enemies to show up? There are a nearly unlimited number of ways that they can kill him in a hospital and make it look like an accident, after all. If he is officially persona non grata for a lot of powerful and high-ranking people, and he’s hurt, that doesn’t sound like a good combination. Maybe he’s fled the country, gone up and crossed into British Columbia and hidden out somewhere in the Canadian Rockies. Lucy reminds herself that either way, she shouldn’t care. Whatever the hell his actual feelings on her might be, he made himself clear.

“Thanks,” she says, after a too-long pause. “Let me know if. . . well, whatever happens, all right?”

“Do my best. Congrats again on the dissertation.” Wyatt clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Lucy echoes, cheeks still hot, and hangs up rather quickly. Well, that was a disaster. She should have known that the only guy she’s even attempted to ask out recently was unavailable, though there’s a cute-ish geek with glasses who smiles at her whenever he sees her in the coffee line. Lucy thinks his name is Alan. But not even for the principle of the thing can she really work up any desire for a closer approach. After a final moment, she fishes her keys out of her purse, heads to her car, and tries to decide if 280 or 101 will be more congested at this time of day. She ends up taking the latter, despite the unpleasant associations of recent escapades on it, up to Amy’s apartment in South San Francisco.

Lucy turns into the complex, parks, and heads up the steps to Amy’s place. She rents it with two of her friends, one of whom is named Sage Tranquility and the other of whom is usually getting arrested at protests. There’s plenty of room at the Preston house in Mountain View, it’s not like Amy had to move out, but she’s always butted heads with their mother far more than Lucy has. Said that she would rather live in a shitty apartment, away from Carol’s domineering and constant questioning about why she’s doing this sociology degree and wasting her potential, and build something that was hers. Lucy doesn’t know how much she should tell Amy, but she is the only person she feels like confiding to.

Amy opens the door a few moments after Lucy’s knock, her headphones around her neck still emitting the echoes of her music, but she pauses it at the sight of her sister. “Hey, you. What are you doing here? Aren’t you still working on your dissertation?”

“No, I just finished it. Just. Hey, are you doing anything right now?”

“No. Come in.” Amy frowns. “You don’t seem super jubilant, Luce.”

“I. . . have a lot on my mind.” Lucy blows out a breath. “I’d kind of like to talk.”

Amy agrees, gestures her in, and goes to fetch some cookies from the kitchen, before they got to the secondhand futon, Amy sits down, and beckons Lucy to put her head in her lap. “Okay,” she says. “So talk.”

As Amy gives her a head rub, which feels heavenly, Lucy closes her eyes, tries to find somewhere to start, and can’t think of any way to do this delicately. She teeters and stumbles at the edge, then finally comes clean about Flynn, about Rittenhouse, about Benjamin Cahill, about Wyatt, about everything. That it turns out they’re only half-sisters, that Carol has lied to them – to her – her entire life. That her real father is Corporate Darth Vader, and all of this. . . all of this. . . she’s slowly losing her mind, and has just squashed it down and put it away to concentrate on finishing. Now that’s done, and she’s. . . here.

Amy stays quiet as Lucy talks, until she finally chokes up and can’t finish. Then she grips Lucy’s shoulder hard and says fiercely, “We’re sisters, all right? We’re sisters. I don’t care what Mom did or did not tell you, it doesn’t change anything. We’re just the same as we’ve always been, and nothing is ever going to take that away from us.”

“Thanks.” Lucy’s voice remains stuck in her throat. “I just. . . this has been a lot.”

“Shyeah.” Amy reaches over her for a cookie, breaks off a bite, and dangles it above Lucy’s mouth like a zookeeper feeding the seals. Lucy manages a weak laugh and snaps it up, as a sigh shudders through her from head to heel. They remain in silence for several more moments, until Amy says, “So, this Flynn guy. You have feelings of some kind for him, but he’s a complete emotional disaster, not to mention possibly on the run from the feds for God knows what or where or why. Accurate?”

“I don’t – ” Lucy opens and shuts her mouth. “I wouldn’t say I have feelings feelings for him, he’s – I don’t really – ”

Amy raises one eyebrow. “Now who’s being the emotional disaster?”

Lucy feels as if this is rather unfair – she’s here sharing her problems and trying to work through them like a grownup, even if, yes, she did repress them for several weeks beforehand and hope they would go away. “I’m not the one who set my phone passcode as the day he saved my life, then told me not to fool myself that he wanted to see me again and basically vanished off the face of the earth!”

“Fair.” Amy considers this. “But you do feel something.”

“He saved my life. Twice. He did endanger it the second time, but. . .” Lucy stops. “Maybe there was something between us, or I believed a little too hard in fate or design or whatever. I could have been imagining it, but. . .”

“But you don’t think you were,” Amy completes. “He just blew it. Super hard. Complete buffoonery.”

Lucy snorts. “Remind me why I bother with men again?”

“You could always date another lady,” Amy points out. “I liked Carine.”

Strictly speaking, this is true, and does have a certain appeal after the recent overabundance of testosterone in Lucy’s life. But she dated Carine Leclerc, a journalism student from Montreal, for eight months in her senior year, and while Carine was making noises about looking for jobs in California after she graduated, it stalled over the fact that Lucy never got around to introducing her to Carol. It wasn’t exactly a secret – Amy knew, her friends knew, they went to a pride parade, there were pictures – but Lucy never talked about it directly with her mom. It wasn’t the queer thing, exactly. Just that whenever Carol discussed Lucy’s future, it always seemed to involve a husband and kids. Not because of any awe or reverence for the patriarchy – Carol gave both her daughters her own surname, rather than, apparently, either of their fathers’, and was a women’s studies professor for many years – but, well. It just did. And while you can obviously have a family by non-traditional methods – adoption, fostering, surrogacy, whatever – Lucy somehow didn’t get the impression that was what her mom had in mind. The kids just seem to be part of it. It’s why, although she’s not really had any enthusiasm for the idea now, she’s subconsciously penciled it in for five or eight years in the future, once she’s presumably met Mr. Right. Lucy has all kinds of arguments with herself over whether that makes her a bad feminist. But because it’s what her mom wants –

“Oh, God,” Lucy says hoarsely. She raises both hands to her face, then drops them. “You’re right. I really have let Mom dictate my life, haven’t I?”

The expression on Amy’s face clearly says, no duh, although she charitably refrains from uttering it aloud. Instead she says, “I still think you should have followed through on that band thing. At least it would have shown her that you can stand up to her.”

“I – no, that was definitely a bad idea, I’m glad I didn’t.” Lucy is still Lucy, and thus cannot believe that she ever treated the prospect of her education so frivolously. “But maybe if I went over there now and confronted her about Cahill – ”

“You’re sure that’s a good idea?”

“What? You’re always the one telling me to push back against her more!”

“Yeah, I know.” Amy chews on a thumbnail. “But this is more than about just that, isn’t it? From what you said about Cahill, it sounds like he’s mixed up in some pretty skeevy shit. I give Mom a hard time a lot, but maybe she did have a good reason for separating us from all that. Are you sure you want to know?”

“If they come back, I should at least know the truth.” Lucy rubs at her tired eyes with her fingertips. “I’d like to think they just gave up, but I’m not sure. Maybe if I tell her that I know, it might help clear the air.”

Amy gives her a probing look. “And are you going to tell her about Flynn?”

That catches Lucy short. She wants to say that she will, that if she’s demanding or even requesting honesty from her mother, she should be prepared to return the favor. But something – she doesn’t even know what, not quite what it was with Carine – gives her pause. “Why would I?” she says feebly. “It’s not like anything actually happened.”

“Aside from him turning up and you two going on a three-day joyride that ended with him getting shot and telling you to go piss up a rope.” Amy’s tone is more or less lighthearted, but her expression is serious. “That’s definitely something that happened.”

Lucy opens her mouth, then shuts it. She reaches for the last cookie and eats it, partly to give herself an excuse not to talk, then brushes off the crumbs and gets to her feet. “Well, if I am heading over there today, I should get going before the traffic gets too bad. I should at least tell her that I finished.”

“Because you’re hoping she’ll finally tell you that she’s proud of you?” Amy glances up at her. “You know you did a good job even if she can’t choke it out, right?”

“Of course I know.” Lucy manages a smile, picking up her purse. “See you later, Ames.”

Her baby sister hugs her, not without a final look, and Lucy lets herself out, heading to the parking lot and getting into her car. She drives down to the Preston family home in Mountain View, the attractive four-bedroom ranch house on an affluent, leafy street where Lucy grew up. Worth a tidy chunk of change if Carol decided to downsize, since it’s currently just her living there, but she has held onto it. Not good at letting go of things, Carol Preston. It is only in the last few days that Lucy has realized just how much, and it saddens her.

A light is on in the kitchen as Lucy parks by the curb and gets out. She heads up the front steps, noting that the plants could use some watering; it’s not like her mother to let things droop, or look anything less than perfect, daughters or azaleas alike. This is her house as much as anyone’s, and yet Lucy stands there for a long moment, feeling as unwelcome as a door-to-door salesman or friendly local Jehovah’s Witness. It feels as if she finally got here the way she was intending to do seven years ago – before the accident, before nearly dying, before Flynn, before Flynn’s reappearance, before Benjamin Cahill and Rittenhouse, before everything that’s brought her back. She tries to rehearse words in her head, questions, justifications. Nothing really occurs to her.

Lucy swallows hard, and rings the bell.

It takes a bit before she hears footsteps, and then Carol Preston opens the door. She looks down at her eldest daughter in surprise, or perhaps confusion. Something about her seems as off, less than pristine, as the drying flowers, and her makeup is slightly smeared, though Lucy can’t imagine her mother actually crying. “Lucy,” Carol says. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been finishing my dissertation.” Lucy twists her fingers together anxiously. “I – I did finish, by the way. Just today. Dr. Underwood gave me her final changes, Dr. Gardener in anthropology still has to look it over as well, but he’s at a conference until Friday, so that will take a little longer. But – yeah, it’s done, I did it.”

“I see.” Carol considers, then steps back. “I think we should talk. Come in.”

Lucy follows her mother inside, wondering if Carol’s guessed somehow, if Cahill came by to creep on her as well or ask why she never told Lucy the truth, and feels absurdly guilty for causing more trouble. She almost starts to apologize, though with no idea what for, and a tiny, ridiculous part of her half-hopes that Flynn will be sitting in the kitchen, somewhat recovered if doubtless no more tactful, come by to ask Carol what she knows about Rittenhouse. Which seems like a bold move, given that he’s a wanted fugitive from the government, but reality doesn’t have much to do with Lucy’s thought process just now.

Nonetheless, it comes crashing back in in a cold, sobering wave when they step ins. There’s a piece of paper lying on the counter, and Lucy can’t see the wording, but it looks clinical. Hospital. Carol turns it over as Lucy tries to get a better look, then says, “Tea?”

“No, it’s all right, I was just over at – ” Lucy stops. “Mom, is… is everything…?”

“I went to get that cough checked out, like you wanted,” Carol says, after a slight pause. “And, well, the scan turned something up in one of my lungs. They’re going to run more tests, they can’t be sure, but there’s a possibility it’s malignant.”

She says this like the professor she’s been for thirty years, explaining a difficult fact with her usual classroom voice, and so it takes Lucy a moment to understand. Then she does, and it feels as if the world has gone out from under her feet. “M… malignant? As in cancer?”

“Yes.” Carol takes a deep breath. “I suppose it’s not entirely unexpected – your father was a heavy smoker, after all, and I never picked up the habit until I met him. I stopped when he died, of course, but if this does come back positive…”

Part of Lucy wants to inform Carol point-blank that she knows Henry Wallace isn’t her father and never was. The rest of her wonders how awful you have to be, to confront your mother about that when she’s just told you that she might have cancer. “I – I, I’m so sorry,” she stammers, once more as if this is her fault, has not gotten the right score on a test or has whined about never having summers off. “Mom, I’m sure it’s fine, but if – ”

“But if it’s not?” Carol looks at her levelly. “I know we’ve had a bit of distance recently, Lucy, but this is the sort of news to put things in perspective. Of course, there’s medicine, there’s chemotherapy, there’s options. We don’t know anything yet. But if the worst-case scenario does come to pass, I really want to make the most of whatever time I have with you. There’s still so much I need to teach you, to talk with you about.”

Yes, Lucy thinks, there is. But any urgent desire to force answers to all her questions has vanished in her flood of guilt and fear and concern. “Of course, Mom, of course. If there’s anything I can do – and I’m sure Amy too, we’d both be happy to – ”

“I’m not sure about Amy.” Carol sighs. “But if you have finished your dissertation, like you said, and therefore don’t need to be at campus every day… I’ve seen that apartment of yours, Lucy. It’s terrible. Is there any way you might consider moving back in? We would be closer here, we’d be together. It would be easier, and if I did get sick…”

“No, of course. Of course I’ll move back in. Absolutely, you don’t have to worry about that at all. My lease on campus runs through the end of the school year, but – ”

“I’ll pay your early termination fees.” Carol takes Lucy’s hand. “I really want us to be together again. Believe me.”

“Me too,” Lucy says in a rush. “But – if the test did come back clean – if you’re not really… well.” She can’t bring herself to utter the name aloud, speak of the devil and he will appear. “If you’re not… sick, do you… will you still want me back?”

“Why on earth wouldn’t I?” Carol looks hurt. “Do you think I only love you when you’re useful? You are my daughter, my eldest daughter. So much like me, my historian. You’re so bright and you’ve worked so hard. Of course I want you back.”

Lucy opens and shuts her mouth, then reaches out, and Carol wraps her arms around her, pulling her close, as Lucy rests her chin on her mother’s shoulder and has to struggle to blink back tears. And so, within ten minutes of going home with the intention of some final confrontation, some ultimatum or insistence on separating herself from Carol’s trunk, Lucy instead cleaves back in, root and branch, and promises that she will never bring it up again.

There really isn’t time to arrange a move – even a short-range one – between the last-minute rush of dissertation edits, job applications, and graduation plans, and Lucy’s apartment has a few pitiful half-full boxes sitting around, which she will toss things into when she remembers. She feels like a terrible daughter, which is not helped when Amy calls her up at the end of the week and wants to know what happened to telling Mom off. “You know how she is, Lucy! Even if – God forbid – she was actually sick, doesn’t this seem a little…?”

“A little what?” Lucy challenges. “Are you really going to accuse our mother of faking possible lung cancer just because she wants – I don’t know what, something?”

“I didn’t say she was faking,” Amy says reluctantly. “I’ve been worried about her health too. But Mom has a couple nest eggs, you know she does. If it got to the point that she needed a live-in helper, she could hire someone who actually knew what they were doing and would get properly paid for it. That’s not your job. You’re not that kind of doctor.”

“I know.” Lucy shifts the phone to her other shoulder. “But – look, I know what we talked about, I know what we said. I just don’t think this is the right time to bring it up.”

Amy doesn’t argue with her again, but Lucy can sense that she still isn’t pleased. And yet, all of that goes out the window when Carol calls them both and says they should come by, there’s something she needs to tell them. That doesn’t sound like the kind of invitation that ends with “and nothing’s wrong, the doctor said I’m fine,” and indeed, it doesn’t. The biopsy results came back. It’s cancer. Carol’s prognosis isn’t terrible – they caught it before it was already irreversible – but it’s not particularly great either. The words fifty-fifty chance are used. A lot will depend on how she responds to treatment.

Amy starts to cry – she and Mom have fought a lot, but they do still love each other – and Lucy puts an arm around her, feeling numb. It feels crass to ask for any graduation celebration, even if she’d like one. Suddenly, even applying for jobs is up in the air. Lucy doesn’t want to complain about being inconvenienced by her mother’s serious illness, but she was so ready to start her own life, do something else, stretch her wings, and now she’s back in the birdcage, throwing away the key. It just doesn’t seem (and she winces at the thought) fair.

Lucy finishes the rest of the revisions recommended by her second supervisor in a blur. At the last meeting before this three-hundred-page monster is sent off to the committee for reading and to the printing service for binding, Dr. Underwood mentions that she’s been in contact with the history department at Kenyon College in Ohio. Kenyon is a small liberal arts college, upper-tier and avant-garde, and while it would unfortunately mean living in Ohio, there is currently an opening in the faculty for a junior lecturer with almost exactly Lucy’s research specialty. Dr. Underwood has passed her name on, and the people at Kenyon would like to speak to her next week, if that works.

Lucy’s first reaction is delight and disbelief. Tailor-made opportunities for academic jobs at places where you would like to work, and that are looking for your research interests, are as rare as the proverbial rain on the Sahara. She’s thought for a while that she’d like to teach at a small liberal arts school, one of the places that doesn’t think SAT scores are a good measure of academic performance and give a lot of focus to student development – somewhere in the Northeast, maybe. Sarah Lawrence, Vassar, Middlebury, Wellesley, something in that vein, the usual schools described as “diehard liberal” by U.S News and World Report in their college rankings. Stanford is obviously Stanford, but it takes a lot of work not to get lost in the machine, and plenty of students who come through Lucy’s classes now are clearly just checking elective boxes and playing on their laptops during lecture. At a place like Kenyon, she could actually talk to them more, have smaller and more immersive seminars, supervise senior projects and have more of a say in shaping the department. Have that exact chance to make it her own, rather than following in predestined footsteps.

At that, however, something catches Lucy short. She remembers Benjamin Cahill essentially promising her that he could get her any dream job she wanted, anywhere in the country. Is this Rittenhouse’s clever new strategy? Realize that the face-to-face approach backfired bombastically, and take a more subtle approach, pull some strings and call in some favors so this fat juicy worm just happened to land on the right hook? Would she move there and find herself surrounded by their people, or expected to pay something substantial back?

Asking Dr. Underwood about this, however, just makes Lucy sound crazy. She doesn’t mention anyone by name, but she delicately probes whether anyone just happened to call up and offer this, and if so, why. Dr. Underwood is puzzled, says that no, this has been in the works for a while and it just happened to time well with Lucy’s completion. Due to someone who knows Dr. Underwood, who supervised so-and-so’s thesis, etc. – not the creepy Rittenhouse networks of patronage, but just the usual byzantine channels of academia – Lucy currently holds right of first refusal on the job. If she turns it down, they’ll shop it more broadly, but assuming she doesn’t completely bomb the interview, buys some winter clothes, and is all right exchanging Palo Alto for Gambier, it’s hers if she wants it.

“I…” Lucy hesitates. “My… my mom was just… she was actually just diagnosed. With cancer. She wants me to move back in and spend more time with her. I don’t know if I could justify going to Ohio instead. That’s the exact opposite of what she wants.”

Dr. Underwood hastens to offer her sympathy, and appreciates that this is a difficult decision for Lucy to make. However, while she knows family commitments are important, ultimately Lucy needs to think about what she wants from her career and getting established and so on. If Lucy does decide to stay in California, there will probably be several teaching opportunities at Stanford for her, and she’ll submit papers to journals and attend conferences and the rest of the rigmarole that it takes to be a Professional Academic ™. It’s not necessarily the wrong thing to do. But Dr. Underwood thinks Lucy should consider the Kenyon job carefully. She knew Carol when they were both faculty in the department, knows what kind of personality she had, and maybe it’s not the worst thing for Lucy to go.

Lucy nods and smiles, even as she wants to go somewhere private, put her face in a pillow, and scream. At least the damn dissertation is done, exam date is firmly set, no more of that, no more, praise Jesus, NO MORE. She picks up her bag, swings it to her shoulder, and heads out of Dr. Underwood’s office, riding down the elevator and stepping out into the foyer. As she does, she collides with someone coming the other way, and starts into the usual apology. But as she does, she catches a glimpse of the face under the hat, and freezes. Reaches out to grab at his jacket sleeve, her voice a hiss.

“Flynn?”

Garcia Flynn has not been having the greatest week. Or two. Or three.

He stayed for six days in the hospital, being cared for by a doctor named Noah who was entirely professional to all outward manners and appearances, but who kept shooting him looks out of the corner of his eye that made Flynn suspect the worst. Either he’s a Rittenhouse agent, or he used to be some sort of gentleman acquaintance to Lucy, and Flynn would almost prefer the former. At least that way he could kill him without anyone being too upset about it.

Of course, and regretfully, killing is off the table, at least for the moment. At least for Flynn himself, as he’s fairly sure that Rittenhouse has authorized everything short of public beheading to apprehend him, and which was why he decided that he was no longer going to trust to the dubious safety of Santa Rosa Memorial and the judgment of Noah. . . whatever his damn last name is, Flynn hasn’t been arsed either to find out or remember it. So he checked himself out against medical advice, gave a fake name and address for the bill (the American health system is a racket anyway, and technically he’s supposed to have insurance – yes, the NSA does offer dental) and left the rental car in the garage. It’s too conspicuous, and he has bigger fish to fry than whether he is blacklisted by Enterprise in the future. They can take it up with John Thompkins, later.

After which, Flynn rode a Greyhound (yes, it’s as miserable as you’d think, especially when you’re six-foot-four) to some shithole Inland Empire city, somewhere in California close to the Nevada border where nobody goes if they can possibly avoid it, probably still riddled with decades-old radiation from the Las Vegas test site. Rented a room in some motel that definitely has one filled with haunted clown dolls, laid low, gingerly tended his raw wounds with over-the-counter antibiotics and sutures, and was forced to admit it was a good thing he did not die of septicemia. He hasn’t succeeded in coming up with a new plan just yet, as it’s clear that he’s been cut off from the usual channels with extreme prejudice. He has kept his old phone with the NSA numbers, but keeps it switched off and hasn’t used it. He can’t risk calling Karl to see what he did, or did not, know about the Wyatt Logan fiasco.

And so, Flynn grimly considers his options. He can try to throw together another fake identity and go to Canada, or travel on his real name back to Europe and hope they haven’t gotten Interpol on this, or just lie here in a motel room that might literally be the manifestation of hell on earth, with air conditioner that barely works in 25-plus Celsius heat and a stain that looks like a murder victim on the carpet. If Rittenhouse is after him, no holds barred, he may just be able to avoid their notice if he stays, especially for a man whose professional tradecraft is disappearing. And yet.

The more Flynn thinks it over, the more he can’t account for everything going sideways as fast and as comprehensively as it did, unless Rittenhouse was plugged into the whole thing almost from the beginning. They must have multiple high-level operatives across several branches of government, focusing on the ones you’d expect – CIA, NSA, FBI, Homeland Security, whoever’s stealing your personal information these days – but by no means limited to them. They could be salted through every level of middle bureaucracy (he wonders if all DMV and IRS workers get an automatic membership) and beyond. It sounds ridiculously, relentlessly paranoid, like that prizewinning intellectual who insists that the Royal Family and other leading British celebrities are all secretly lizard people. But given what Flynn saw at the gala, Cahill and his powerful, well-connected, wealthy friends, this also might not be entirely off the ranch, and that means he has to do more digging. Where?

It takes him a bit, but he recalls what Lucy said to him at their first (well, first real) meeting. Something about David Rittenhouse, who Flynn discovered to be a famous eighteenth-century astronomer and professor at the University of Pennsylvania, and asking if he founded it. Flynn doesn’t know the answer to that question, but it seems to strain credulity that the man it’s literally named after has nothing to do with it. It also is not a given that Rittenhouse’s secret archives are housed somewhere at UPenn, but there are several things named after the man in Philadelphia. It’s not entirely implausible.

That, therefore, is where Flynn is faced with the final part of the plan. It’s going to be hard enough for him to get in as it is, what with the Take Dead or Alive order they probably have out on his head. But if he didn’t appear to be attached to it – if it was just an innocent research visit from an up-and-coming academic who would have plenty of legit business with UPenn’s history collections on colonial America, and he just so happened to appear –

Flynn is well aware that this is quite a reach. That it’s dangerous, that it’s unfair, that he doesn’t really have any right to ask it, given how their last parting went, and what he said then. That she has any number of things to do right now, and none of them necessarily involve dropping all her work and heading cross-country to pick up, again, the world’s most demented and dangerous scavenger hunt with him. No sir.

He checks out of the motel and hops a ride with a trucker the next morning.

As they stare at each other for a very long and very excruciating moment, all Lucy can think is that he shouldn’t be here. Rittenhouse could have been watching her from afar, guessing (correctly, apparently) that she will prove too tempting a target for Flynn to resist contacting again. Maybe this is the moment they jump out and dogpile them both, or – or –

Lucy hesitates only a split second before tightening her grip on Flynn and dragging him around the corner into an unused classroom. She bangs shut the door behind them and leans against it, legs trembling. “You need to get out of here.”

“You just shut me in.” Trust Flynn to have a smart-aleck response readily at hand, as he watches her from under hooded eyes. “We would need to try reversing that first.”

“Just be quiet.” Lucy clenches her fists, fighting a brief urge to slap him. “Did anyone see you?”

He shrugs. “It’s a public university, I imagine they did. Nobody who seemed to recognize me, though.”

Lucy blows out a breath, getting the table between them just so there will be something to prevent her – or him – from anything intemperate. “You’re such a bastard.”

A hard, sardonic smile glimmers in the edges of his mouth. He seems unruffled by the accusation, almost even pleased. He does not bother with small talk, explaining where he’s been, or why he said everything he did in the hospital. (Don’t fool yourself that I want to see you again. . . this is my war, I don’t need you and yet, lo and behold, here he is. He’s a disaster.) Instead he says, “Did you finish your dissertation?”

“Yes,” Lucy says, curt and unwilling. “I have a lot going on, a lot, so why don’t you just – ”

“Is there anything else you can pretend to be working on?”

“What?” Screw the table, she might want to do something intemperate after all. “Why?”

His eyes remain on hers, cool and unswerving. “I need your help.”