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katytheinspiredworkaholic · 3 years

Text

Correspondence, Chapter 03

Pairing: HotchReid

Summary: An AU where Reid never joined the FBI, but got roped into consulting for the LA field office while working and teaching at Caltech. Hotch gets his email referred from a fellow agent, and they start to work on cases together -- until they start talking on a regular basis. Regular becomes frequent, frequent becomes constant. They know nothing about each other, but they don't really mind.

Rating: Mature/Explicit (eventually)

Chapter CW/notes: Mentions of alcohol, a very long conversation happens where Hotch is a little buzzed. Big, BIG focus on their age difference, and unintentional misinformation. Spencer has no idea Hotch thinks he’s older, or at least not OLD older, and gets a little panicky/clams up -- and yes I realize Hotch could just background check him and find it out but he respects the man enough to not do that. The chapter is linear, it just encompasses a lot of time passing so hopefully that’s not too confusing. Set in season 6, self beta’d.

Word Count: 5025

Masterpost Link

Ao3 Link

Chapter 03

Early September 2010

And so, it begins.

The dynamic shift, the vast change in how Hotch and Dr. Reid had been corresponding for the past few months. Evolving from something so professional and academic to something… looser. More freeing. More room for error, of course, but the risk turns out to be more than worth it for what they gain.

The texts are sporadic, at first. Short interactions, here and there, all stemming from that first, longer conversation about Jack. Hotch follows up the very next day, after he gets to talk to his son in the morning over pancakes. Jessica hovering nearby the whole time. She had apologized for her harsh words, and commended him after the fact how he’d approached Jack on the subject and led the little boy into a conversation rather than a lecture like his teachers had done. Because, as Spencer had mentioned -- there was no need for one. Jack already had the situation handled.

[]6/4, 12:39[] You were right.

[]6/4, 12:39[] He invited the kid that was bullying him over for a playdate. Trying to win him over by killing him with kindness.

[]6/4, 12:43[] My kind of kid.

[]6/4, 12:44[] You’ve taught him well, Hotch.

And that was it. That was all it took to kick off what turns into a frequent occurrence. Slowly, as time passes, their quick texts turn to conversations that naturally revert to work. It’s where they spend most of their time, after all, and what they had bonded over in the first place. But unlike in their emails, it isn’t just about the cases or profiles or statistics required to crack them. It’s much more opinionated than that, erratic in it’s content and frequency. Commentary on Hotch’s team, ideas on the cases they work, case studies and research projects and sometimes even just office gossip that somehow always makes its way to Hotch’s attention despite everyone trying to keep it from doing so.

Or just Dr. Reid observing their antics. This is the beginning of the tonal shift, and Hotch can’t help but think… it just might be a welcome one.

[]6/12, 10:03[] Your tech analyst always sends me rainbow font emails.

[]6/12, 10:07[] Yes, she’s doing that with everyone on the team. It’s Pride month and she’s being supportive.

[]6/12, 10:11[] She considers me a part of the team? How sweet of her.

[]6/12, 10:12[] You are, and as far as the bureau goes you might as well be.

[]6/12, 10:13[] I doubt I could sneak you into payroll, though.

[]6/12, 10:21[] I bet Ms. Garcia could.

[]6/12, 10:28[] Don’t. Say. Anything.

[]6/12, 10:29[] But yes, she could.

It turns into a small reprieve, for Hotch, in the constant deluge of bureaucracy and violence that fills his work day. The single moment he allows a sliver of himself to appear through the cracks of his armor he has to wear to guard himself from it all. To be the stoic leader the team needs, the unmovable tree in the storm.

Only in his quick, typed under the table conversations he has with Spencer does he allow himself the slips of humor. Barely there traces of a smile. Finding the smallest spots of light in his dark days, in his work that can surround and consume to the point of suffocation. Hotch thrives in it, he always has -- while others have drowned. But he doesn’t mind finding this small self-indulgence. Making the decision for himself that he can joke and poke fun at his work and not feel guilty about it. That, for once, he can allow himself this.

Until one day, Spencer returns the favor -- and starts talking about his own work.

[]7/21, 16:17[] If I leave all of my Ph.D. applicants in a ditch in the desert, is that still murder?

[]7/21, 16:30[] Technically or hypothetically?

[]7/21, 16:34[] Different question, would you be my legal council if I snap and it happens anyway?

[]7/21, 16:37[] Of course.

[]7/21, 16:38[] But as your attorney, I have to advise you that we never had this conversation, and murder is wrong.

[]7/21, 16:40[] Hypothetically.

Spencer takes a little longer to open up, but when he does it is through this window into an academic world Hotch had never planned or thought he would ever be privy to. He begins to reveal pieces of it, bit by bit, until Hotch starts to form a picture in his mind of what shape this professor’s life really takes. Making deductions based on his speech patterns, what goes on throughout his day, his word choices, and profiling the man through text message without even meaning to.

He tries to put a stop to it as soon as he realizes this. Dr. Reid isn’t just a consultant anymore, he is his friend -- and Hotch will always do his utmost to not profile his friends. But it’s a little too late for some aspects that can’t help but stand out as time goes on. Such as the inkling that the other man probably isn’t senile with a cane and a stooped back, like Hotch had first thought. Certain parts of his day allude to someone who is a bit fresher to the academic scene -- instead of spending decades on a college campus.

But Hotch sets that aside, to be scrutinized at a later date, and instead turns his focus into enjoying what Spencer has to offer him. As his friend. The stories he shares freely, now that they’ve spent all this time breaking down the barriers. He regales Hotch with his own daily problems, grievances, as well as the little bright spots that he just wants to share with Hotch so that it can lighten up his own days. Which were much more bleak, and crowded with danger and horrid things.

Hotch lives for those messages.

[]7/28, 20:42[] So I have a godson.

[]7/28, 20:44[] He’s four, and he just came to visit last week with his mother. Have you and Jack ever done science experiments at home?

[]7/28, 20:46[] Because I have some that are definite crowd pleasers. Do them right, you can call them ‘physics magic’. I can send you the instructions, it’s well worth it.

[]7/28, 20:47[] I’m not sure how helpful I would be in a scientific area, but I’m always willing to try.

[]7/28, 20:49[] I’d require video evidence of it, then.

[]7/28, 20:50[] But they are so fun, I’d forgotten how much.

[]7/28, 20:51[] No children of your own?

[]7/28, 20:54[] Never found the right person, but I always spent so much time on my degrees that I hadn’t really thought about being a parent.

[]7/28, 20:55[] My Godson really brought it to light, though. I love having him here.

[]7/28, 20:56[] I bet he loves when you come around, or when they get to visit you, too.

[]7/28, 20:59[] I work in a science lab, with lasers and telescopes bigger than my first apartment. My approval rating is pretty high when it comes to my godson.

Although Hotch finds that he doesn’t always start these interactions, the ones that lead to topics outside of work, he also isn’t against them in the slightest. They begin to start messaging at all hours, because of this; first thing in the morning, during their lunch break, whenever something pops up -- what used to be jokes that would just be kept to themselves, turn to conversation starters. And that development shifts the dynamic even more.

[]8/11, 10:31[] Coffee shops always make me feel old, and like I’m a grad student all over again.

[]8/11, 10:38[] You don’t have a T.A. to run and get you coffee?

[]8/11, 10:41[] Of course you would send out for coffee.

[]8/11, 10:42[] Well my order is two steps, not sixteen.

[]8/11, 10:43[] Tyrant.

[]8/11, 10:43[] Pretentious.

They start to tease, banter, and poke fun at each other. Comradery, friendship, and the more it goes on the more it seems to spiral towards something else. Something new.

But it’s these small moments, messages, conversations that can last a minute or an hour, that make Hotch’s chest feel so much lighter as the weeks go by. Hints of a smile easing onto his face, smoothing out and softening the edges in a way they haven’t in a long time. Garnering some attention from the rest of the team, or whoever is in the vicinity that felt brave enough to mention it.

“Who are you talking to?”

“Who’s the lucky lady?”

“No one,” Hotch would answer, schooling himself and pocketing his phone. “Just a consultant on a case.”

This is how it goes… for months.

They never speak on the phone. Never even hint at video calls. Never send pictures. (Although Spencer does make a mention once or twice about that promised video when Hotch finally gets around to attempting the ‘physics magic’ experiment he’d emailed him. Hotch secretly hopes that maybe, one day, Spencer will just get to show them in person. Instead of Hotch having to record it for anyone to witness.)

But they talk like clockwork. Play chess on the regular, allowing them to talk more fluently with a laptop to aid the flow of conversation. It starts with once a week, then twice a week, standing dates after hours that meld so seamlessly with their messages every workday. They keep it to the weekdays, at first, since Hotch is busy with Jack on the weekends. But that doesn’t last long. Suddenly, without warning -- it becomes every night as well. That shift is such an organic, natural progression, that it slips in without either of them making comment on it. A silent agreement, because mentioning it would mean admitting why they were pushing this in such a new direction.

They just… missed talking to each other. Two days was too long.

Now, it’s every day.

They text for hours; check in on each other at random throughout the day even when Hotch is on cases or Spencer is busy with his duties as the leading doctoral expert of Caltech. Times when they should be swamped, unavailable to anything other than their primary focus and work load, still littered with short messages. Before and after each flight, when Hotch gets back to his hotel at night, when Spencer has to lecture out of town and they just so happen to be passing each other during travel -- mere states away. So close, yet so far. It’s all the time, it’s constant, and it’s wonderful.

Spencer still helps with cases. Often, even more often than he ever helped the L.A. field office. But it’s not always through email, anymore. Sometimes it’s just easier for Hotch to shoot him a quick text. A detailed message in the middle of their everyday banter and dribble but no less out of place, knowing the good Doctor will answer him quickly. Time is of the essence when they are on a case, but they are always on retainer for each other. Waiting in the wings, ready to jump in with quick, snappy wit and bitten-back smiles, and Hotch feels so good. So light. Better than he has in years.

Happy.

Hotch is happy, finding a friend in Dr. Spencer Reid, even if sometimes that friendship seems to transcend layers he didn’t know were there. Developing into something else, something he hadn’t touched in a long, long time.

Months pass. Months. Like a blur. Like they’ve only just started this thing that’s anticipatory and comfortable and flexible in its medium and that is so easy -- everything Hotch needs in his life -- that he can barely imagine what his days and nights were like before this. Before Spencer.

But it’s months into this correspondence, this charged and bright thing, that he’s home late one night with a Scotch in one hand and a losing game of online chess long forgotten on his laptop screen. Lost in messaging Spencer, back to his phone instead of the chat feature of the chess game. Because texting is their comfort zone, now. He never thought it would be, had seen teenagers and adults attached to their phones like a lifeline and used to scoff about it, but he finally has begun to understand.

Because here he is -- not even looking up when he takes a drink -- lost in his conversation with Spencer. Making each other laugh, in a way he hasn’t in so long. Loud and high and afraid he might wake Jack down the hall so he stifles it with another sip of his Scotch.

[]9/8, 21:12[] If Jack wakes up, you know that’s it for us. He’ll never go back to sleep.

[]9/8, 21:13[] Then stop laughing so loud. I honestly can’t imagine you laughing enough to wake him.

[]9/8, 21:14[] Usually I don’t. I never laugh like this, but I used to.

[]9/8, 21:16[] Mr. FBI isn’t allowed to laugh, I thought. Didn’t they beat that out of you at the academy?

[]9/8, 21:19[] I was able to retain a smidgen of humor, it’s well hidden. You just seem to bring it out more than others.

[]9/8, 21:20[] I’m flattered.

[]9/8, 21:20[] You should be.

[]9/8, 21:21[] If my team saw me crack a smile I’d probably be forced to get a CAT scan.

[]9/8, 21:23[] Do you need one? I have an M.A. in Cognitive Sciences, I’ll be your second opinion.

[]9/8, 21:24[] Probably, but I’ll live.

[]9/8, 21:25[] Very stiff upper lip of you. They teach you that at the academy, too?

[]9/8, 21:26[] No, that would be Scotland Yard. I liaised there for a while.

[]9/8, 21:28[] Wow, you get around. Have you been anywhere else on your global exploration?

[]9/8, 21:31[] Hardly that, I just go where the bureau tells me. I’ve already been bounced all over the country before landing at the BAU. All you can do is keep the ‘stiff upper lip’ and adapt.

[]9/8, 21:31[] “Keep Calm & Carry On”?

[]9/8, 21:33[] Garcia gave me that on a mug last Christmas. I still don’t know what it’s from.

[]9/8, 21:34[] Your age is showing. Get with the times, old man.

[]9/8, 21:35[] You’re one to talk.

[]9/8, 21:35[] What?

Hotch bites back a smile, thinking about how for months he had been so sure Spencer was this elderly professor in his 60’s or 70’s that just happened to find their conversations interesting. That was… very apparently wrong, Hotch can see that now, but he hadn’t had any evidence to the contrary for the entire time they corresponded those first few months.

He could have done a background check on the professor at any time, is sure Garcia already has one saved in a file ready to send him at his first request, but it’s more fun this way. The not knowing, the learning about each other piece by careful piece. Even the smallest bits of information, such as age.

He bet Spencer would get a kick out of his first impression of the man, though.

[]9/8, 21:37[] Oh come on, you know.

[]9/8, 21:39[] No, I actually don’t. Congratulations, you’ve stumped the super genius.

[]9/8, 21:39[] But really, what do you mean?

[]9/8, 21:42[] I always just assumed you are at least ten years my senior, maybe even fifteen. How are you more with the times than I am?

[]9/8, 21:43[] I work at a University. I am surrounded by hormones and the dribble of youth.

There’s a slightly lengthy pause after that exchange, enough Hotch starts to pay closer attention through the buzz of liquor settled over his skin pleasantly.

[]9/8, 21:49[] How old do you think I am?

[]9/8, 21:50[] I don’t know, is it rude if I answer?

Hotch is not laughing to himself, he promises.

[]9/8, 21:52[] Why do you think I’m older?

[]9/8, 21:53[] This feels like a trap.

[]9/8, 21:53[] It’s not.

[]9/8, 21:56[] Well, honestly just from your academic achievements. Not everyone has that kind of time. And all your departments you run, you have to have a pretty level head and knack for maturity to keep that all in order. Especially doctorate students.

[]9/8, 21:58[] Thank you, I think.

[]9/8, 22:00[] I bet you’re the coolest old man on campus, though, don’t get me wrong.

Hotch does outright laugh after he sends that, manages to keep it a little bit quieter, and commends himself on having the upperhand in the conversation for once as he stares at his phone for a few minutes, awaiting an answer.

If he had to guess, Hotch supposes he’s held on to that stubborn image of Spencer being a stooped old professor out of habit. But the more the two have talked, after he'd gotten to know the man and his written verbal expressions and just the way his life runs day to day, it’s pretty easy to see that that is not correct. Spencer could be someone around Dave or Jason’s age, but more likely even younger than that -- closer to his own.

And that… is an intriguing thought that sparks something in his chest. He smothers it with another sip of Scotch and realizes that it has been a solid five minutes of silence. With Spencer not even typing out a response.

[]9/8, 22:06[] Was it something I said?

[]9/8, 22:07[] No, I’m just… contemplating my answer.

[]9/8, 22:07[] Answer to what?

Hotch hasn’t drank that much, but he doesn’t believe he asked a question at all. He scrolls back through their conversation and doesn’t see one. Spencer has asked a good handful, though, all about Hotch’s perception of his age.

Interesting.

[]9/8, 22:09[] Respond, not answer.

[]9/8, 22:10[] I’m all turned around now.

[]9/8, 22:12[] Flustered in your old age? Now I’m flattered.

This is almost like flirting. Skirts the edges of it, and Hotch feels more emboldened to try the more Spencer tap-dances around what is obviously Hotch’s incorrect assumption of his age. He had had no idea Hotch thought he was older, that is apparent, and it’s throwing the other man for a loop for some reason Hotch can’t ascertain.

[]9/8, 22:15[] I’m not old.

[]9/8, 22:15[] I’m not even older than you.

[]9/8, 22:16[] And how do you know that?

[]9/8, 22:17[] Just trust me on this.

[]9/8, 22:17[] Well, how old are you?

Another long, lengthy pause that Hotch waits for with baited breath. He knows that Spencer is there, that he’s staring at his phone and trying to decide the best way to answer without really answering anything. It’s only a matter of minutes, but that is a long time for them. When they are deep in a conversation like this.

Hotch isn’t laughing to himself anymore, but he’s more pleasantly confused than worried. He really has no idea what is making Spencer so hesitant.

[]9/8, 22:22[] Spencer?

[]9/8, 22:25[] I’m not going to tell you.

[]9/8, 22:26[] What, you want me to guess?

[]9/8, 22:28[] You’ll never guess.

[]9/8, 22:29[] That sounds like a challenge. How many guesses do I have?

[]9/8, 22:31[] None. Listen, I don’t want you to know. I shouldn’t have said anything.

[]9/8, 22:33[] I’m afraid it’s going to change your perception of me, and we’ll stop talking like this.

[]9/8, 22:34[] Just keep imagining me with wrinkles and a cane, I’m okay with that.

That drops the small smile right off his face.

Hotch is… surprised by this turn of events. What could be so shocking about this that Spencer thinks they would stop talking to each other? They’re corresponding every night. How could he possibly stop on a dime like that?

It doesn’t make any sense. And that’s not the alcohol talking.

[]9/8, 22:37[] I honestly don’t see how that would be possible.

[]9/8, 22:39[] I’m not going to stop talking to you just because you aren’t the senior professor I imagined running Caltech with an Iron Fist.

[]9/8, 22:40[] Now you’re projecting.

[]9/8, 22:40[] You saying I’m too strict?

[]9/8, 22:41[] Tyrant, I think was the term I chose.

[]9/8, 22:42[] Pretentious.

[]9/8, 22:44[] But Spencer, unless you are somehow underage with five Ph.D.’s, there’s no reason for us to stop talking.

[]9/8, 22:47[] You would not believe how many people treat me like I'm underage, to this day. So that doesn’t inspire confidence.

Hotch pauses with his glass halfway back to his lips, only a few sips left in the glass. Staring at his phone and struggling to make sense of what Spencer is saying. Hotch had been trying to joke and tease with him, but now the word ‘underage’ feels like a glaring beacon of a word on his screen.

He’s very suddenly more than a little nervous, even through the haze of alcohol. He is 45 years old, no matter what he keeps telling Spencer -- there is a limit to this being appropriate or not. What that limit is, he’d have to consider when he’s more sober, and it makes him feel like he should be reigning in the flirtatious notes that keep worming their way into the conversation.

But it’s not actually possible for him to be that young, and everything he’s learned about the man indicates he’s closer to his own age. Was he in his 30’s? Even that felt too young for what Hotch had (subconsciously) profiled -- no, it has to be something else.

No matter what, he didn’t want to keep getting Spencer worked up like this about it. His age hadn’t bothered Hotch before that night, so maybe if he drops it they can revert back to how they’d been spending their late evening hours before this turn in the conversation.

[]9/8, 22:50[] But I’m NOT underage.

[]9/8, 22:51[] If that needed to be said.

[]9/8, 22:53[] Can you buy alcohol by yourself?

[]9/8, 22:54[] Yes.

[]9/8, 22:54[] See this is what I was afraid of.

[]9/8, 22:55[] Relax, I was trying to tease you.

[]9/8, 22:57[] You don’t have to tell me, Spencer. I’ll just keep picturing Sean Connery, or John Steinbeck in the later years.

[]9/8, 22:59[] I see you have a type.

[]9/8, 23:00[] Well, who do you picture when you think of me?

[]9/8, 23:01[] Hugo Weaving, Matrix era. Or Richard Feynman.

[]9/8, 23:02[] Well now I feel typecasted. Who’s Feynman?

[]9/8, 23:02[] An American Theoretical Physicist from the 40’s-60’s.

[]9/8, 23:03[] Ouch. How old do you think *I* am?

[]9/8, 23:04[] I’m afraid to answer that.

[]9/8, 23:04[] O.u.c.h.

[]9/8, 23:06[] You’ve been borderline flirting with me, and you just said you thought I was in my 60’s! What was I supposed to think?

[]9/8, 23:07[] If you’re looking in that age bracket, I’m sure I can get you the Biology Department Head’s number.

[]9/8, 23:07[] He’s 72 with rheumatoid arthritis.

[]9/8, 23:08[] You are hysterical. So funny.

Hotch is smiling wide down at his phone again, feeling lighter and glad he got them back on track.

But…

He can’t help but think back to what he just tried to drop entirely. Blame the Scotch, or whatever drive to know that makes him dig down and root out information in cold cases in his spare time, Hotch doesn’t think he can let it go. Not when it was something Spencer hadn’t meant to be a secret in the first place. Not when, knowing that it has created misinformation between them unintentionally, results in Spencer shying away and hesitant to tell Hotch anything more about himself.

Not when he’d said ‘flirting’, because that had been what Hotch was doing, and he can’t even describe how disappointing it would be to quit while he was ahead. When the build up has been so gradual and easy and everything he’d been looking for and could never seem to find.

Now, this slight disruption is sticking in his mind, sharp like a thorn in his side. Always there, making itself known, and he wonders if he is lucid enough to try and draw the information out of Spencer via interview tactics -- or if the brilliant man would see right through any of his attempts.

Probably. Who was he kidding? Spencer had more degrees and college hours under his belt than Hotch could manage in a lifetime. Best to do this the old fashioned way, then.

[]9/8, 23:10[] 38.

[]9/8, 23:11[] Oh. Really? That’s kind of young to be Unit Chief, congratulations.

[]9/8, 23:11[] No, not me. You. I’m guessing 38.

[]9/8, 23:12[] Oh.

[]9/8, 23:12[] Incorrect.

[]9/8, 23:13[] I don’t even get a hint?

[]9/8, 23:13[] Nope.

[]9/8, 23:15[] We’re not playing a game. I’m not telling you.

[]9/8, 23:15[] So you won’t guess my age, either?

[]9/18, 23:17[] Chicken.

[]9/8, 23:17[] 45.

Hotch near throws his phone across the room. Almost makes a quip about how reading his file is cheating -- but he knows Spencer just made a stupidly accurate ‘educated guess’ because he knows fucking everything.

They really should just put him on the payroll. Hotch is being selfish keeping the man all to himself.

But God, is he enjoying it, too.

[]9/8, 23:19[] There’s no way you profiled that with that kind of accuracy.

[]9/8, 23:20[] How do you do that?

[]9/8, 23:21[] Black magic.

[]9/8, 23:22[] I’ll get it out of you one day, I swear.

[]9/8, 23:23[] And as a man of your word, I believe that you truly believe that.

[]9/8, 23:23[] Full of jokes tonight, aren’t you?

[]9/8, 23:25[] I live to amuse.

[]9/8, 23:25[] And make you smile.

[]9/8, 23:27[] You are one of the few that do.

With a careful pause, nothing left in his glass, a thought perched on the edges of his mind that is already watery with cognitive dissonance, Hotch starts typing before he’s even fully made the decision.

[]9/8, 23:30[] You really think my flirting is borderline? I was going for subtlety, but I must be rusty.

[]9/8, 23:32[] Actually, I just thought I was projecting.

[]9/8, 23:23[] You were married, I didn’t want to presume.

Oh.

The consideration is touching, and sobering even in the dimness of his home office, but it draws the softest of smiles back to Hotch’s face when he begins to type out his answer.

[]9/8, 23:35[] Thank you, for thinking of me first.

[]9/8, 23:37[] But Haley and I separated a long time before she died. We were actually divorced before she went into WICSEC. I miss her every day. But I did try to date for a while, before that.

[]9/8, 23:39[] No luck? I would have thought the FBI badge would at least garner some interest.

[]9/8, 23:40[] I’ve been told I’m intimidating.

[]9/8, 23:41[] I don’t think you are.

[]9/8, 23:42[] You will if you ever meet me. I’ve made underlings cry before without speaking a word.

[]9/8, 23:44[] The Hotchner stare. Have you coined that?

[]9/8, 23:45[] I should. It’s got a ring to it.

They banter and causally slip a few more… flirtatious comments in, and Hotch realizes it really isn’t that much different than before. That he had indeed been flirting with the man long before he knew his age. Which was odd, he didn’t typically go for older men and women. But now that he’s aware Spencer is younger than he thought, possibly even his own age (he swears he is, would put money on it if he could), somehow there’s more of a charge in their correspondence, a warmth and buzzing elation that has nothing to do with his Scotch. Especially now that it’s long gone.

It’s all Spencer, and how they compliment each other, and Hotch finds himself near giddy with that information.

He tries, towards the end of the night where it tips over into the early hours of the morning, to imagine an image of Spencer again -- and finds that he doesn’t even care to. He’s enamored with the man and his wit and the way he makes Hotch laugh without trying. How he looks, his age, it doesn’t matter. Not really. Not to Hotch.

But he is still curious why Spencer won’t reveal it. He can’t be that young.

[]9/9, 00:43[] You really won’t tell me?

[]9/9, 00:45[] Maybe one day. When I’m feeling brave.

[]9/9, 00:46[] Well, I’ll be there. Waiting.

[]9/9, 00:46[] 32.

[]9/9, 00:47[] You’ll never guess.

[]9/9, 00:48[] There’s only so many numbers.

[]9/9, 00:50[] Goodnight, Hotch.

[9/9, 00:51] Goodnight, Spencer.

(tbc...)

Tagged List: @spencehotchner @ssa-sarahsunshine @gothamapologist @reidology @marsjareau @dragon-snaps-fandom @emmyraebird @just-an-emo-rat @aaron-hotchner187 @dk18077 @more-heid-pls @fakin-it-til-i-make-it @merpancake

#I've read and rewritten this chapter so many times I'm starting to hate it #but it's super important so I hope it lives up to expectations #we get to all the good stuff after this #but the development here is something I've spent WEEKS trying to make realistic so #I hope you all enjoy it <3 #Chapter updates are Saturdays at 5pm EST #if you want in on the tag list just message me <3 #HotchReid #Heid #katyswriting

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myownworstenemyyy · 4 years

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All I Wanted - Part 6

a Javier Peña x Reader series

Word count: 4k (gif by @pedropcl)

Warnings: FEELS, violence, mentions of blood/cuts/bruises, insinuation of having sexually assaulted someone (like, what?), PAIN, #justhospitalthings, dat angsty angst y’all know I love

S/O: my super lovely Tumblr wife Sarinaaa @captainclod (she writes AMAZING Pedro fics, go check her out - respectfully)

A/N: this is all from Javi’s POV, right after Part 5 (with flashbacks of course) Also, sorry if some of the medical lingo is super technical or completely incorrect - i hope y’all enjoy this one! Thanks for reading 💜 (masterlist in bio)

Part 6 – Feeling Sorry

“Wait - they put her into a coma?” Javier asks Connie incredulously, his hands propped on his hips. He’s been in the waiting room for hours, worrying, hoping, and sometimes even praying - though he only did that once Steve left him alone to interrogate one of your captors.

“Yes, a medically-induced coma. She suffered severe trauma to her brain and chest, Javi. The doctors were able to control the bleeding in her abdomen but all the bruising needs to heal on its own while she sleeps. She–” Connie takes a second to clear the lump that’s formed in her throat, “God, I don’t know how she survived all that,” Connie says softly, a pained expression plaguing her features.

Javier runs a shaky hand through his hair as he closes his eyes, but all he sees is your bruised and battered body being rushed on a gurney into the emergency room.

“Javi, you can’t come back here - it’s hospital staff and patients only,” Connie tells him quietly but urgently. She places her hands on his chest when he continues to follow the group of people wheeling you into the ER.

Steve had called Connie - who works as a nurse in the hospital - when they found you in that cabin, informing her of the extent of your wounds, so she could prepare hospital staff for your arrival. She met them at the hospital and Javier felt the tiniest bit of comfort knowing she would be there with you when he couldn’t.

“Connie,” Javier’s voice cracks when he looks towards her, reluctantly peeling his eyes away from the double doors they rolled you through just minutes before. For the first time in his life, he feels completely and utterly lost. When he’d barged into that room and seen you tied to that chair - seemingly lifeless - his whole world had shattered.

“I know, Javi. We are going to save her, but you need to stay out here, OK? I’ll come back with any news as soon I know anything,” Connie squeezes his arms in reassurance before rushing through the doors where hopefully - God, did Javi hope with every fabric of his being - the doctors could save you, even if it was only so he could have the chance to tell you-

“Javi?” Connie asks hesitantly when he doesn’t respond. He nods to let her know he’s still listening, though he’s struggling to focus on anything other than the fact that you’re somewhere in this hospital, fighting to stay alive, and in a coma.

“Can I,” Javier clears his throat before he continues, “Can I see her?” he asks quietly. He grabs Connie’s hand with both of his, whether to plead with her to let him see you or for his own comfort, he’s not sure.

She gnaws on her bottom lip as she looks behind her to the nurses’ station and back at Javier again. “Give me a second,” is all she says before she walks back to the counter and converses with one of the other nurses for several seconds. Javier remains awkwardly standing in the middle of the waiting room, picking at the bandages Connie had insisted on wrapping around his hand and wrist after seeing them bruised and swollen. He releases a shaky breath, feeling about as weary and hopeless as he looks.

Connie returns saying, “OK, I can take you back there now, but it’s family-only, so…I had to tell them you were her fiancé,” she says with the slightest of smiles before she continues, “I would’ve said ‘husband’ but I didn’t want you to have a stroke,” she tries for a light chuckle and Javi appreciates her attempt at humor, given the grave situation at hand. And though he’d never tell her, he really wouldn’t have minded if she’d told them he was your husband. His stomach flips just thinking about the hypothetical situation, but he quickly shoves that thought aside to dwell on at another time - like when you’re not lying unconscious in a hospital bed.

He nods in response and motions for Connie to lead the way through the double doors of the intensive care unit. The two of them walk silently down a long hall until they come to a stop in front of the very last door on the left. Javier takes a long, deep breath and motions forward before he’s stopped in his tracks when Connie gently grabs his arm, saying, “It’s - she looks pretty banged up, but she’s stable - for now. I just - wanted to warn you, I guess,” Connie’s sentence dies out when she sees the expression on Javi’s face. He looks like a zombie, the bags under his eyes making him look years older than he is and his hair is sticking out in odd places from him running his hands through it constantly.

Without a word, Javi turns and pushes the door open slowly, thinking he doesn’t want to wake you - but then he remembers you’re in a coma, so the likelihood of you being woken up by a creaky door is basically nonexistent. He takes about four steps into the room until he sees you lying in the hospital bed.

His heart nearly stops from the sight of your injured body decorated with an assortment of bruises and bandages, lying completely still - save for the subtle up-and-down movement of your chest. It’s that motion alone that has him moving his feet closer to the bed - she’s breathing, she’s alive, he reassures himself as he slides into the chair that rests by your bedside. He immediately reaches for your hand that’s resting on your thigh above the blanket. But then he stops just before making contact, looking to Connie for permission because he doesn’t want to hurt you in your already-fragile state.

Connie nods softly and takes a couple more steps into the room, closing the door behind her. Javi intertwines your fingers in his and the first thing he notices is that your hand is freezing, so he brings his other hand to cover the top of yours, trying to share his warmth with you. “What are - all these machines?” Javi asks, never looking away from your face.

“She has a couple fractured ribs, but the doctors didn’t think she was strong enough to fix them in surgery, so they’re keeping a close eye on her breathing and heart rate in case–” Connie cuts herself off, unsure if she should proceed with Javier already being so shaken.

“Say it,” he turns his head slightly toward her while keeping his hands intertwined with yours. Connie takes a deep breath through her nose and continues, “in case one of the fractured ribs punctures her lungs, and they need to resuscitate and intubate her - so she can breathe.” Connie looks down at her feet, afraid she might start crying from seeing the fear and pain in Javi’s eyes at hearing how perilous the situation is.

He nods his head, feeling desensitized to everything. He hasn’t really felt much of anything these days - ever since he’d discovered you had been captured. But at that moment, it’s as if he’s not really in his body - he feels your hand in his, slowly becoming warmer by the second, but that’s the only part of his body that has any sort of sensation. Every other part of him is just - numb.

Javier takes in a shaky breath and doesn’t release it until he’s sure the tears welling in his eyes won’t fall - not in front of Connie, at least. “I’ll leave you alone with her, stay as long as you like,” Connie murmurs as she slowly backs away towards the door.

“Hey, Connie?” Javi calls after her with a little more strength in his voice. He releases your hand and takes a couple steps until he’s standing in front of Connie. She stops and turns, looking at him expectantly, “Yeah?” He looks down into her now-glassy eyes, trying to convey how much he appreciates everything she’s done for you - for him, “Thank you - I don’t know what would’ve happened - what I would’ve done - if you weren’t here.” He takes her by surprise when he pulls her into a strong embrace.

Connie slowly reaches her arms around him and returns the hug as they stand like that for a few seconds, each trying to find comfort in the other. When Javi releases her and steps back, he watches Connie wipe her cheeks with her sleeve and sniffle. “Of course, Javi. You don’t have to thank me. I care about her too, and - it kinda sorta is my job to care for the sick and injured,” she laughs lightly and sniffles again.

Javi nods his head with the smallest of smiles and waves to her as she turns to leave the room.

He stands there facing the door for what feels like hours, but really is just a couple minutes. He can’t help but think that if it were anyone else - maybe even Steve - in that hospital bed right now he wouldn’t hesitate to walk through that door and never come back - not even for a visit. He’s always hated hospitals - hated the way he could practically feel Death lurking around in every room - but as he takes a step closer to the door and closes it with a click, he’s never felt more sure of himself - and more determined to keep Death from so much as thinking about entering your room.

Javier walks back to your bedside and sits in the chair, exhaling heavily. He takes your hand again and brings it to his lips as he leans his elbows on the bed, looking up at your sleeping face.

“You know,” he whispers, “that first day I saw you at the DEA - all smiles and greeting everyone like you’d known them for years - I thought ‘This girl’s not gonna last a week down here’,“ he smiles at the memory, "Then when I actually met you and I tried to mess with you with the whole ‘what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this,’ line and you smirked at me,” he chuckles to himself, “I thought maybe I had a chance at getting you into my bed. But then - you knocked me on my ass when you said, ‘I’m here to catch Pablo fucking Escobar. And you - what are you doing here?’” Javier closes his eyes as he remembers the details perfectly, “And you offered me the sweetest smile I’d ever seen. It was right at that moment that I knew I was in trouble.”

Javi leans back in the chair, your hand still entwined in his, “I knew I had to stay away from you - that I shouldn’t–” he wipes his other hand down his face with a sigh, “I couldn’t risk spending time with you or getting to know you because I knew - I knew I could fall in love with someone like you,” he’s quiet for a minute as he watches you sleep, seemingly lost in his own thoughts when he murmurs, “Guess I never stood a chance, huh?”

He throws his head back against the chair with a sigh, feeling the weight of the past few days finally taking its toll on him. It’s only a matter of seconds before he falls into a restless sleep.

“Fuck this,” Javi curses as he shoves his door open and jumps out, barely noticing the DEA vehicles driving toward him.

“Peña, what the fuck are you doing?!” a fellow DEA agent shouts from one of the approaching vehicles, but Javier doesn’t even acknowledge him as he sprints across the dirt road as quick as he can with the heavy weight of weapons and ammunition lining his bulletproof vest.

He barely stops to think as he approaches the front door of the cabin, taking the few stairs two at a time until he reaches the porch. With his back up against the wall, opposite the hinges of the front door, Javier takes a deep breath and closes his eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts. Please, God - whoever’s listening - please let her be alive. Please don’t take her from me.

Javier opens his eyes to find his partner approaching with a handful of agents following, all with their guns drawn and ready to take down anyone that walks out the front door unannounced. Steve looks his way with a nod - I’ve got your back, brother, he seems to be telling him when he and the group of agents come to a stop on the other side of the door.

Javi nods back and puts his hand on the door knob slowly turning it and, to his surprise, finds it unlocked. Those smug fuckers didn’t even bother locking the door, Javi thinks as he reaches into his vest for the smoke bomb he pocketed there earlier. Pulling the pin out with his teeth at the same time he opens the door, Javier tosses the bomb inside and waits one second, two seconds, then BANG, the bomb goes off just as it’s intended to and Javi swings the door open with his gun drawn.

He hears the voices of two men cursing, no doubt because of the flash of light that went off just before the smoke erupted from the bomb. He scans the open area quickly, looking for the sources of the voices, when suddenly he’s getting tackled from the left side. He hits the ground with an oof! but quickly throws an elbow into the face of his attacker. The smoke clears as the two men get to their feet. Javier faces Serpiente, who now has blood leaking from his nose thanks to Javi’s elbow.

"¿Viniste a rescatar a tu novia preciosa?” Serpiente mocks, “¡Adelante! Yo ya la probé y - bueno - ella sí es un polvo MUY deliciosa,” he smiles darkly, baring his blood-coated teeth, and Javi reacts instantly, lunging at the other man with vengeful purpose. Serpiente knows it coming and goes to dodge, landing a punch to Javi’s jaw - but Javi recoils quickly, the assault only stoking the flames of his fiery rage. He shoves his foot downward onto Serpiente’s kneecap, sending him crumpling to the ground in pain. Then Javier really lets him have it.

Grabbing the man by the collar of his shirt, he roughly lifts him to his feet only to pound his fist into the fucker’s face, sending him back to the floor. He continues to pummel Serpiente’s face with his fist, all the while shouting obscenities in two different languages, “MOTHER-” a vicious strike, “-FUCKER,“ another merciless blow, “HIJO DE,” punch to the gut, “PUTA,” Javier slams his fist into the man’s face with a crack. Whether the crack is from Javier’s own hand or the other man’s mangled face, he doesn’t know - and I don’t give a fuck either, he thinks.

Javier leans into the man’s face, so close their noses bump. "Te voy a matar, cabrón,” he seethes as he clasps his hands around Serpiente’s throat with an iron grip. He’s so blinded by an all-consuming rage that he doesn’t notice Serpiente reach for the blade in his pocket until it’s raised above his head, ready to plunge into Javier’s heart.

But he doesn’t get the chance to bring the knife down on Javier before a bullet is put between Serpiente’s eyes. Javier snaps his head up and turns around to see Steve, his now-smoking gun aimed at Javier - no, aimed at Serpiente, whose body hits the ground with a dull thud.

Breathing hard from the exertion of the brawl, he struggles to find his bearings until Steve offers him a hand, pulling him upward. “Thanks,” Javier tells his partner, referring to more than just Steve helping him to his feet. Steve nods and tilts his head toward the center of the room. Javier looks around the room and sees another, more hefty-looking, man bleeding from his stomach on the floor across the way, but he couldn’t give two shits about ese cabrón.

Then he sees you, seated in - no, tied to - a chair in the middle of the space. Javier shoulders passed Steve and doesn’t stop until he’s standing toe-to-toe with you. ¿Dios mio - qué te hicieron? He thinks as he stumbles to his knees in front of you.

Your chest and arms are covered with various cuts and bruises - your shirt having been ripped open, leaving your chest exposed. Your bottom lip is split open and one of your eyes is bruised black. There’s a long gash on the side of your forehead that goes down to your temple and your cheeks are bruised various shades of purple and blue. Javier rests a shaky hand on your knee, “(y/n)? Hey, wake up! C’mon, hermosa, look at me,” he begs, his voice cracking.

When you don’t respond he places his hand on your cheek, careful not to touch the cuts on your face. His heart nearly flies out of his chest when you begin to stir - and even smile. “Please - please open your eyes,” he says your name in a voice that sounds as desperate as he feels.

“Ja-vi,” you croak out when you open your eyes, and he swears he’s never heard a more beautiful sound in his life. Sí, mi amor, soy yo - aquí estoy contigo y nunca te voy a dejar, he thinks, unable to speak because of the emotions overwhelming his senses and gripping his heart like a vice. You’re alive, you’re alive, his brain repeats like a mantra as he stares into your eyes for the first time in what feels like years.

And when you smile - God, he’s missed that smile - sunbeams burst through his chest. But then the pain-filled expression on your face brings him back to reality and he quickly goes to work untying you from the chair.

He notices the puddle of blood before he sees the stab wound in your side. The joy and relief he was feeling just moments ago is quickly snuffed out when he looks back to your face and notices for the first time how pale your skin looks compared to the last time he saw you.

“Javi I–” you start but it quickly turns into a wince of pain, making Javier’s stomach drop.

“Don’t speak. Save your energy. We’re gonna get you to the hospital,” Javi rushes the words out to prevent you from trying to speak again. It feels as if time is slowing down as he watches your eyelids start to close again. “Tell that ambulance to hurry the fuck up!” Javi shouts to the other agents in the room, his desperate tone instantly putting everyone on edge. No, God, please, he thinks as he cradles your face and looks into your eyes, “Hey, stay awake. You’re gonna be OK, mi amor, I promise,” his eyes frantically search yours for any indication that you’re hearing him. C'mon, hermosa, please - stay with me, but even his thoughts are laced with despair.

Then in a strained voice, “‘Mi - amor’?” you whisper and he nods his head, feeling a small ounce of relief that you’re still responsive. That’s right, mi amor - stay awake, let me see those beautiful eyes, he smiles softly and brushes his thumb over your cheekbone with just a feather of a touch. But his face instantly falls when your eyes close again, mumbling, “m-m - love.”

“No, no, no. Please, hermosa!” he repeats your name over and over while shaking your shoulders with desperation, but you never open your eyes again.

Javier wakes with a start, nearly falling out of the chair. His breathing is unsteady and he thinks he’s about to pass out again when suddenly he remembers where he is. He looks up and sees you lying in the hospital bed in the same position as when he first drifted off.

Breathing deeply, he leans his head back against the cushion of the chair and closes his eyes, but he quickly re-opens them because all he sees is your body sagging in that chair, completely lifeless. Fucking dream, he curses to himself as he finds your hand to take in his again. He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to your pale knuckles, which have gone cold again while he was sleeping.

How long was I out? He looks at the clock mounted on the wall and his eyes nearly bug out of his head, “Six hours?!” It felt like he was out for ten minutes, not six hours. Fuck - I don’t even feel rested after that fucking nightmare.

“Oh, you’re awake,” a quiet voice comes from behind him. A small, older woman with shoulder-length brown hair walks into the room carrying a tray with what looks like a medicine vial and a long needle. If she wasn’t wearing nurse’s scrubs, Javier would’ve grabbed his gun from his holster - the gun he had to give to Steve to take home because they didn’t allow firearms in the hospital rooms. Oh, right, Javier runs a hand down his face, willing himself to wake the fuck up.

“Sorry,” he mutters, not entirely sure why he says it but feeling the need to anyway. “No se preocupe. You must’ve been in a deep sleep. You didn’t even notice when I came in to check her vitals - twice,” the woman explains with a chuckle. He’s surprised she knows english so well, though the nurse has a bit of an accent, but he’s too tired to question any further. She practically skips to the opposite side of the bed and sets down the tray she’s carrying on the bedside table.

She turns to face Javi suddenly, saying, “You are Javi, right?” He nods his head, assuming Connie must have told the nurses who he was - he wonders if she also told them he was your “fiancè”. The nurse’s face glows with delight at his answer as she goes to work giving you medication. When she’s done, she looks up at Javi again and says, “I think she’s been dreaming about you,” she offers a sweet smile.

Javi furrows his brow in confusion and responds, “What makes you say that?” He sits up, suddenly very interested in what the woman has to say.

She brings her voice down to a whisper and leans forward like she’s sharing the hottest gossip in town, “Well, I was already in the room when they brought her in here and I heard her say - very clearly - ‘My Javi’ just before they put her to sleep,” the woman ends with a smile so wide, even Javier’s cheeks begin to hurt.

My Javi - he looks down at the very woman they’re talking about like he’s just seeing you for the first time. Your breathing is even, heart rate steady, and he swears there’s a bit more color in your cheeks than there was six hours ago.

My Javi - your hand is warmer now, so much so that you’re the one providing him warmth. He turns your hand over and kisses your palm, then places it against his cheek as he continues to gaze at you with adoration and awe and love.

My Javi - he closes his eyes and imagines you saying those words, the light bouncing perfectly off your skin and the way your eyes smile at him. He could fall asleep just like this and hope to never wake up if it meant being this close to you.

Javier is so lost in thoughts of you, he doesn’t notice the loud beeps of one of the machines until it turns into a low, consistent tone like a - flat line.

His eyes shoot open just in time to see the nurse smash a button on the wall as she shouts, “CODE BLUE! AYUDA!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Translations:

Viniste a rescatar a tu novia preciosa? - Did you come to rescue your precious girlfriend?

¡Adelante! Yo ya la probé y, bueno, ella sí es un polvo MUY deliciosa - Go ahead! I’ve already tried/tasted her and, well, she is a VERY delicious fuck.

Hijo de puta - son of a bitch

Te voy a matar, cabrón - I’m going to kill you, motherfucker (loose translation on the last word lol)

Dios mio - qué te hicieron? - My God, what did they do to you?

Sí, mi amor, soy yo - Yes, my love, it’s me

Aquí estoy contigo y nunca te voy a dejar - I’m right here with you and I’m never going to leave you

No se preocupe - Don’t worry about it/No worries

Ayuda - Help

****I was going to make the whole exchange between Javier and the nurse be in Spanish, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how “Code Blue” would translate in a Columbian hospital lol so I decided to just leave it in mostly English

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

What’d you guys think?? This chapter is probably the one with the most angst throughout, so we’re only going up from here lol i hope you guys enjoyed it, and thank you all SO MUCH for sticking with the series. it means a lot to me 😚💕

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pauldron-pieces · 3 years

Text

Captain Physalia's Backstory: At Your Own Peril

Fandom: Dungeons And Dragons (5E)

Pairing: N/A, Physalia-Centric

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: This is a hypothetical scenario featuring original characters in a world created by my Dungeon Master. As usual, this is non-canon and I own nothing aside from intellectual properties specifically attached to Captain Physalia. This installment is mechanically unsound in a multitude of ways and ignores certain important lore facets. Trigger warnings are listed inside. Enjoy!

Taglist: @sporadic-fics and @cookiethewriter!

Inspired By: Dragon Age; Inquisition: In Hushed Whispers

[Tieliaths are the result of a union between a tiefling and a goliath.]

[Captain Physalia is a level eleven Triton Ancients paladin, and her appearance can be found here.]

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: This installment contains multiple triggering scenes including violence, mentions of slavery and implied character death. Stay safe!]

Captain Physalia, at the helm of the Karyth Delta alongside Jupiter, finally gave a single nod of approval once they had cleared the shallow harbor. "You're getting better."

Jupiter went bright blue at what was lavish praise from the normally-stoic captain, trying and failing to hide her smile. "Thank you, Captain."

The other Triton merely nodded again, continuing her walk to the main deck. Her thoughts were preoccupied with their latest acquisitions, a troubled bunch to say the least. They had already been deposited to the safe haven of one of the many communities these islands fostered, but that community would in turn need extra supplies while the refugees recuperated.

A little human girl, barely in her fourteenth year, huddled beside a coil of rope. She believed she had stowed away and Physalia had humored the delusion until they had left the harbor. "What is your name, girl?" The captain queried, her hands clasped behind her back as she stood beside the rope and stared out at the darkness.

There was a beat of silence where Physalia could feel the panic rushing off of the little one in waves. Then, the child slowly got to her feet, head hung low. "Lara."

"Lara." The name was unfamiliar, difficult for her tongue. It hissed between her teeth. "Why did you sneak back aboard the Delta, little Lara? I had assumed that your last boat ride was sufficient."

"B-Because I...I know what you're going to do and I wanted to see it." The girl answered without guile.

"Oh? What is it that I'm going to do?" Physalia asked, feigning curiosity.

"You...Y-You're going to attack the ship of the flesh traders."

The captain gazed back out at the moonless night. "Perhaps. Does that trouble you?"

"No." Lara snapped, angry, young. She didn't know any better; she had been purloined from everything familiar and crushed into the hold of a ship with fifty-odd other women to be sold elsewhere. "You're the Triton captain of the Verdant Keen, the ghost ship that strikes the wicked from the fog."

The razing of the fishing village that occupied the lonely peninsula to the north had come as a shock to Physalia. Perhaps she had been optimistic to think that the legends would keep flesh peddlers away. More than mere legends hunted these waters though.

The Karyth Delta plowed through the waves, sending shocks of spray up around the figurehead. "I am no hero, little one. There will be no glamor in this." Captain Physalia warned. "Whatever you've heard about in stories, put it from your head. I know how much you land folk love to romanticize the sea, but she is as rebarbative and changeable as the men who plunder her waves."

"I understand."

She didn't, not yet. She was much too young to understand. But she would someday.

Atoll came to perch on the captain's shoulder and Physalia sighed. "Have our fog at the ready. Weislanda willing, the wind stays becalmed. According to the rest of the women, the ship will be empty aside from the crew and the shattered remains of their valuables." The captain gripped the railing when she spied the far-off twinkle of yellow lanterns close to the water's surface. "Lara, I need you to tell Atoll and N'inesmuch exactly what the ship looked like. Any and all details."

The girl looked up at the brightly-colored bird with a bit of confusion, but obediently held out her hand so the druid could swap her seating.

"You'll find N'inesmuch in the galley, I'm certain. You can't miss her." Physalia said dryly. The second mate was a large Tigris Tabaxi with a black circle around her right eye. She had a well-documented penchant for sweets that was encouraged by the quartermaster, who was a sharp-tongued Halfling named Spoon.

Once the girl had left, Rannock 'Broadside' sauntered up alongside the captain. "You'll send me in first, right boss?" He asked eagerly, making the Triton chuckle.

"Of course. I know how much you love a good fight. Just don't get too out of hand. Belle stayed behind and I don't need you and your half-brother butting heads again over your scratches." The captain reminded him sternly. "The captain of that vessel, whoever they may be, must pay for their crimes."

"And they will." The Tieliath swore, his eyes flinty with anger.

The Karyth Delta was not a particularly speedy ship. She was covered in moss, barnacles and vines and, for all intents and purposes, did indeed resemble a ghost ship far more than a seaworthy vessel. However, she possessed a singularly useful structural feature: her keel draft was exceedingly shallow.

This keel allowed the unwieldy-looking ship to easily maneuver over reefs and through channels that ought to beach it, giving her and her crew the tactical advantage in many a coastal fracas. It also made the vessel more responsive at the cost of stability, for if they came about with a full head of power she threatened to capsize. She was a touchy craft, scabbed together with the boney flotsam of other, less fortunate slavers and schooners. Much like the majority of her crew, the ragtag bunch scavenged from the waves.

But none had to endure. Physalia would force no being to remain aboard the Karyth Delta, and she demanded no such boons of loyalty from any innocent man who did not wish to stay. Her sailors were ever-changing, which suited her just fine. Though she had managed to gather a bit of a steady rogue's gallery.

First had been the surgeons, Livesey the Gnome and Ailsyuh the Goliath. They were a crotchety old couple with a bent for bickering that almost eclipsed their affection for one another. They were natives of the crown of islands, and were intimately familiar with the surrounding territories.

Closely following on their heels was Ailsyuh's younger half-brother Rannock, a Tieliath who had been raised by his Tiefling mother to prevent a scandal from occurring in the Shuliezka family. He was headstrong and mouthy, but possessed keen instincts and a sound tactical mind.

Spoon Mulberry (of the Castakay Mulberry family, not those thinbloods in Fhisklos, thank you very much) had been a strange case. The diminutive woman had just showed up at the docks one day, asking around for anyone that needed a cook on their next charter. By the grace of Weislanda, she had found the Karyth Delta and the rest was history.

Atoll had literally fallen into Physalia's lap while they were sailing around the cape of the mainland, the mermaid druid plummeting out of the sky after a wild scuffle with a larger bird had rendered her unconscious. While she lacked the affiliation of a larger clan of mer, she had a certain noble authority that could not be discounted. Physalia freely admitted her bias when she invited Atoll to stay on as first mate, the Triton just pleased to have another water-inclined individual aboard.

N'inesmuch had volunteered her services out of gratitude when the Karyth Delta rescued her from the wreckage of her forlorn little sloop, and over time had risen through the ranks to Boatswain. A formidable force in her own right, with the help of Atoll she had begun to master the green magics that ran deep within her bloodline.

Jupiter was their most recent acquisition, a juvenile Triton expelled from the deep reefs. She had clung to a rocky shoreline for the better part of two days before she was spotted by the returning Karyth Delta. Livesey had nursed her back to health and upon learning of her impeccable ability to decipher men's star charts, Physalia offered her a permanent position as her navigator. Being podless herself, the captain knew all too well how lonely the seas could be.

Tendrils of fog began to swirl as the preparatory orders went out and Physalia shook herself from her reverie to give Jupiter their heading. After that, the ship fell silent.

Atoll flew high overhead, out of the fog and towards their target. Far below beneath the waves, N'inesmuch and a few other crew members sped along in the form of sleek sharks or dolphins. Broadside paced the deck, sharpening his handaxe absently. The waiting was always the hardest part of any raid, but Captain Physalia preferred to have any and all advantages she could get. Added onto that was the benefit of knowing for certain that this was indeed the vessel of the flesh peddling captain.

/x\

The fog rolled in thick off the coast of Karyth, like it always did before the first storms of autumn. This wouldn't be particularly concerning aside from the fact that it was early spring. The young captain squinted upwards, pulling the collar of his peacoat a bit tighter around his throat.

It was a moonless night and the wind was faint, leaving the ship barely in motion through the dense miasma. "Helmsman, steady on." The captain called, trying not to let his nerves show.

Even if he was putting on a brave face, the same could not be said for the rest of his crew. They had been sullen all day, watching the waters with large, wary eyes. The more superstitious of them spoke in hushed tones of the Kraken, the many-armed Hafgufa and his terrible brother Lyngbakr, the impostor island who lured sailors to their doom.

Never mind that everyone was on edge due to them needing to jettison a majority of their plundered cargo so the overloaded ship would not sink in the squall they had run into. The storm had blown them a bit off course, further south than anyone would care to be. It was easy enough to dismiss such things as old wives tales during the bright light of day, but now the captain found himself at odds with what he sincerely hoped was his own imagination.

The vessel was still in deep waters, too far out from Karyth and the small belt of islands that it wore like a crown to be concerned about running aground. Yet he swore he heard the soft crashing of waves upon the shoreline.

He realized his mistake a bit too late to save them, regrettably.

An impact echoed from the prow of the ship and there was a loud cry that went up, "beast sighted!" The captain swung around, seizing one of the shuttered lanterns and raising it high as he heard the sounds of a short-lived scuffle break out. The light reflected off the fog, casting disorienting shapes in the black.

A shadow rose up, up, up, and a pitiful curse left the captain's lips when he caught sight of the massive, steer-like horns. The creature towered over him, looming luminous gray out of the fog with a devastating-looking handaxe gripped in one massive paw. Every man on deck was frozen, simply staring at this...hulking apparition.

"I seek your captain, boy." The creature spoke after a moment, its voice a rumbling threat. "Be a good lad and fetch them for me, would you?"

At that, the captain bristled. Drawing himself up to his inconsequential full height, he spat, "I wear my rank upon my shoulder, sirrah, and I see no such rank upon your own! Who's asking for the captain?"

"I am." The beast snarled, and the captain's burst of courage flagged almost immediately. "You're the captain? Suppose I should have expected it, you standin' there all puffed up like a peacock." It sighed heavily after a moment, nonchalantly pitching the axe to bury itself in the main mast just above the captain's head. "Disappointing."

The captain found himself abruptly snatched up by the collar of his jacket, dangling helplessly a foot or so off the deck as his men gawked. The creature was even more terrifying up close, pointed incisors sharpening its smile to a hungry leer.

"My boss seeks permission to come aboard your vessel, flesh peddler." It didn't seem to have any other tone aside from rumble. "I'd advise you to acquiesce before I snap your neck."

A new form solidified out of the fog behind the brute, one hand resting on the large creature's shoulder. It was a female, one of the sea folk. Triton or Mer the young captain could not say, they all looked grotesque to him.

The man opened his mouth to speak and the fish woman snapped her teeth at him. "Captain whelp." She addressed him through those sharp teeth. "Flesh dealer, human trader. Was it you and your sailors that sacked and pillaged the peninsula?"

"And what authority do you wield, sea beast?" The young captain retorted, a little taken aback that she knew of his ship and their shady dealings. But how? The Governess Of Bresh had a clean bill of sale and no record of unsavory practices! Even if this fish woman fancied herself an inquisitor of some kind, they had tossed all of the human cargo during the storm. She had no evidence! "Your behavior is absolutely piratical, and if you do not depart my ship at once I'll see you brought before the assizes!"

There was nothing but a breath and suddenly the woman's hands were wrapped around his throat. He hadn't even seen her cross the deck-!

"We will try again." She hissed in his face as he struggled against her hold. Her palms, cold and covered in a fine mesh of scales, heated briefly. "Was it you and your sailors that sacked and pillaged the peninsula?"

The captain opened his mouth to lie and instead the truth fell out. "Yes." The woman smiled slowly, sending a cold chill of certainty down his spine. "You're the captain of the Verdant Keen, aren't you?" He asked, muted horror washing over him. "The witch who stalks the Kraken's hunting grounds?"

"A witch, he calls me. But then, you men have many names for myself and my ship. You and your kind are warned off from this place, are you not? At your own peril, they mutter in port." The woman mused, her chuckle devoid of mirth. "You are very lucky that we were following you in the first place. I can only imagine how many more souls would be waiting to drag you down to the hells had we not collected your...abandoned spoils." Pitch black, fathomless eyes bored into his own. "This ship is ours now, whelp, and the fate of your men belongs to the sea."

"What?! That is inhumane, you cannot-"

"Inhumane?" The woman seethed, "or monstrous? Perhaps vile? Unbearable, unconscionable, barbaric? Tell me, flesh peddler, how many women have you widowed? How many children have you stolen from their homes? How humanely have you behaved, o righteous mariner?" She leaned in close, her grip tightening on his throat. "You are compelled to tell the truth at this point in time, Whelp Captain. Squirm all you want. Tell me who sent you."

The confession surged at his tongue, the young man pressing his lips together tightly to keep from revealing who his employer was.

The witch sighed heavily after a moment. "Broadside?"

"You want me to separate his head from his shoulders, boss?" The horned creature queried, cracking his knuckles before addressing the young captain. "You can either open your mouth or I'll rip your jaw off. No matter what you're dead, so it's understandable if you don't want to speak up. I don't blame you." His tone had gone alarmingly friendly. The captain got a sinking feeling in his gut even as he shook his head. "Right! I'll make it quick." The gray beast rumbled cheerily.

/x\

N'inesmuch had everything documented within two hours, the Governess Of Bresh stripped to her bare bones. The crew had all fled after their captain met his untimely demise, and if the waters churned a bit more aggressively than before, well…

Such was the nature of the sea.

Physalia and Atoll folded the last of the spare sails, the captain offering her first mate a weary half-smile. "It is good, yes?"

"You are too lenient." Atoll sniffed, their long-standing argument reignited once more. "Leaving them to the sea is too merciful. We should have tied them all to the mast before we set the craft ablaze." Her purple eyes sparkled like she was telling a joke and Physalia was reminded once more that Merfolk partook in certain diversions that Tritons did not.

"I am not a tyrant." The captain replied calmly. "Land is not far from here. Allowing someone to live is often a far better form of punishment." She leaned in, idly gathering Atoll's messy curls back from her face and fashioning them into a quick braid. "Killing them outright would have been the lenient option, my merciful first mate."

Atoll huffed, crossing her arms. A purple flush dusted her cheeks. "Oh, very well Captain. I suppose you could be right." She allowed after several moments. "Besides, we've gotten what we came for. That's all that matters."

"Aye." Physalia murmured, watching Broadside scoop the body of the arrogant young captain up and deposit it over the railing. "Lara and the others will be pleased to have their valuables back, I'm certain. Though it will not cure the loss of their homes, husbands or sons, they can rebuild." The crest that ran down the center of her head began to flare upwards once more. "And I will not allow such a thing to happen again." She muttered through her teeth.

"We will not, you mean." Atoll corrected.

Physalia inclined her head. "Of course, forgive me. We will not."

/x\

The flames that devoured the Governess Of Bresh lit the horizon long after the ship itself had faded into the distance. Captain Physalia stood beside Jupiter at the helm, her thoughts miles away. Belowdecks she could faintly hear Lara squeaking with delight as she helped N'inesmuch sort through their spoils.

The Governess had carried a great deal of foodstuffs as well as the ill-gotten gains they had pilfered from the peninsula. Far more food than they would have needed were this not a planned endeavor. Physalia had hoped against hope that they had simply been men who made a single terrible choice, but the amount of supplies they carried pointed to premeditation.

That complicated things. More would come. And if more came...

The captain's brow furrowed. More traffic, more ships, more activity would certainly stir the leviathan from its centuries of lethargy. A freshly-roused Kraken was good news for no one.

She shook her head after a moment. They would just need to be more vigilant, that was all. They could still put an end to the new trade routes. There was still time.

"Everything alright, Captain?" Jupiter asked cautiously.

Physalia mustered up her usual half-smile, tilting her head. "Don't fret, Jupiter. Your captain is prone to brooding." She said by way of apology. "You have our heading. I trust you'll bring us safely home?"

Jupiter fairly beamed. "Absolutely, Captain!"

#paladin backstory #dnd paladin #ancients paladin #backstory #captain physalia #ancients #dnd character #angst #character death #dungeons and dragons #dnd 5e character #dnd 5e #triton #dnd triton #I love physalia's concept a lot #I'd like to play her more!#she has a little lisp

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slimeyslimeyballsack · 4 years

Text

The Mix Up Part Three

Pairing: Mob!Steve Rogers x OFC (Adrien Bravo)

Warnings: violence, swearing, they’re not in love yet because they just met ya nasties, Bucky and Adrien flirting, mentions of sex but it’s not like- nobody is doing any sex, oh and she’s still tied up so also not good, shirtless bucky i was going to make her and bucky buddies but she bonded with thor in this one somehow, warning section lowkey just turning into my footnotes,

Taglist: @kayteewritessteve @wxstedhexrt @caps-lockdown @scuzmunkie @my-favorite-fics-and-imagines @champagnesugamama @weepingwillow2233 @ellystone

Part One Part Two

“James, you never cease to amaze me.”

Steve finally tore his gaze away from Adrien, and she had to admit she was a little relieved. He intimidated her, and that took a lot, granted he was a feared crime lord so maybe it was in the job description: be scary to look at. Check.

“Uh oh. Pulling out the first name.” Sam leaned into Bucky’s, (James’?) side and whispered. Well, it wasn’t really a whisper but he tried.

“Don’t think you’re off the hook Wilson.”

“Uh oh. Pulling out the last name.” Bucky mocked.

Adrien let out a huff of laughter. Because, holy shit she was about to be killed by guys with the IQ of drunk puppies, and maybe the personalities as well.

“Excuse me, sir,” Suddenly they were all looking at her and they all had the stare. Jesus Christ. “are you going to kill me?”

Steve cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. There was that stare again. Why did it give her shivers? He chuckled before settling on an amused grin.

"No, dear, I'm not going to kill you."

Thank god. At least she could relax a little. She could acknowledge her surroundings in a manner that wasn’t looking at what she thought was the last place she’ll see. She could look at the men who stood before her and holy shit, were they this hot the whole time? Of course, now that she wasn’t worried about imminent death the tight hold she had on her tongue went in the trash to the dump into the incinerator.

“Well that’s a fucking relief, my ass hurts, so maybe if I’m not gonna die, one of you hunks could show me to a more comfortable seat.”

She clasped her hand over her mouth. If she wasn’t going to be murdered before she certainly was now. Sam and Bucky exchanged wide-eyed glances, jaws slack before looking at Steve. Her whole life depended on his facial expression. Would his perfectly smooth skin be wrinkled in anger? Okay, he’s a criminal, maybe picturing how scary his gorgeous blue eyes would be when angry isn’t a good idea. Yeah let’s file that away and put it in the drawer that we never think about along with our eating habits, the fact that the Zodiac Killer was never caught, and our creepypasta phase.

She finally opened her eyes that had, sometime in her fear and embarrassment had screwed shut. He looked amused. Thank god. He has a sense of humor.

“Of course, how rude of me. Come along Miss Bravo.”

Again, her mouth betrayed her. “How am I supposed to follow you when I’m tied up like I’m about to have kinky sex. Which, not going to lie, would really bring up my mood right now.”

So long to her dignity. Steve chuckled and signaled to Bucky to untie the ropes.

“You have quite the mouth on you don’t you?”

“Yeah and I’m pretty good with it too.”

“I’m going to get the lady situated, you two wait, we’re going to have a chat afterward.”

Steve gripped her arm firmly but not so much as to hurt her. That seemed to be a tendency with these guys. Weren’t they supposed to be like monsters? You know, brutal, cold-blooded criminals? Steve was silent the whole walk. He kept his eyes forward and so did Adrien she didn’t even kind of trail behind to maybe check out his ass. She didn’t.

They came to a lovely room filled with lounge chairs and leather couches. Another handsome man stood by the door. Was it a requirement that you had to be hot to be in the mob or something? He was big and bearded and had long blond hair and also a criminal.

“Thor, I need you to watch Miss Bravo here while I attend to some things. I’d rather she be in the office as she’s not exactly mobbed up.”

He turned to face her. “There are food and drinks, just ask Thor. He can get you anything you like. Nobody will bother you in the office, and I will be back to address our situation.:” He said a few hushed words to Thor before exiting.

“Thor, huh?”

He raised an eyebrow at her. Okay, yeah he was a criminal, but like a little flirting never hurt anybody, did it?

“Like the Norse god?”

“Miss Bravo,”

“Call me Adrien.”

“Adrien, I was born during a lightning storm. The storm started when my mother was first having contractions and ended as soon as I stopped crying. Or so my mother said.”

“Well, Thor, I can say with certainty that that is actually very badass”

“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you here Miss Bravo?”

“Adrien. And that, my friend, is a long-ass story.”

By the end of that long ass story, which took forever to get through because of Thor adding his input and Adrien getting sidetracked, the two were laughing like hooligans. Like absolute madmen. Like nutzos. Like, they were laughing really hard. Every time they would calm down Thor would let out a breathless wheeze causing Adrien to burst into another fit of giggles. If they were being honest neither of them knew why they were laughing anymore. Not entirely. Every now and then Adrien would let out a loud, “Another!” before dissolving into more laughter.

Then the door opened. Adrien once again found herself meeting the intense gaze of Steve. The two tried to hush their laughter. Adrien mumbled out a ‘sorry sir’. Adrien shrugged and made a face at Thor, who let out a boisterous laugh.

“I like this one Boss.”

“Thank you, Thor. I would like to speak with Miss Bravo now. Tell Bucky that he can count the cash now if he would.”

Thor mouthed a ‘good luck’ before exiting the room. Leaving Adrien alone. With Steve. He gestured for her to sit before taking his place behind the desk. “Miss Bravo, I am Steve Rogers. I run this establishment. Now you understand, Miss Bravo, that I can’t just let you walk away from this. It’s a liability.”

“So you are going to kill me.”

“Of course not. We will just need to take measures to ensure our friends at the police station don’t hear about this incident. You understand.”

“Hey boss man, I’ve got bad news.”

Bucky burst into the room. He had tried to appear laid back, but his eyes displayed panic. He threw down a duffel filled with hundred-dollar-bills.

“Buck, we are trying to let Miss Bravo out of here relatively scot-free. How are we supposed to do that when you come running in her with garbage business dealings. Do you want us to have to kill her?” Steve looked thoroughly annoyed.

“No, no, no. I would never want such a lovely lady to die.”

Adrien winked. “Oh, I’m sure you could keep me alive.”

She eyed the bills again. She had never seen so much money in her life, not even on a bank statement. Money like that could pay for braces. Money like that could pay for a lot of things.

“That’s a fat fucking stash of cash.”

“Yes, and it’s all fake. The cash from Rumlow’s payment, it’s all counterfeit.”

Anger flooded Steve’s eyes. It was only for a second, but she never wanted to see it again, let alone be on the receiving end of it. She almost felt bad for this Rumlow guy.

“Could you two, if it isn’t too difficult for you, fetch Rumlow for me. I need to speak with him”

Bucky quickly hurried off.

“Mr. Rogers sir if you don’t mind me asking, do you make that kind of money regularly?”

It was hard not to notice the expensive clothes and lavish furniture. Clearly, somebody had money, and Adrien needed money. Adrien wasn’t averse to breaking the law when it came to providing for her two boys. They were her sons and they were going to get the best damn life they could live.

“That kind of money, when actually paid, is a small portion of the money that we earn. Employees are paid based on time commitment, loyalty, and type of job. But to answer your question, yes, that kind of money is made regularly.”

“So, if someone were to be interested, hypothetically, in a job offer, how would they go about that?”

For a vicious criminal, Steve had a very expressive face. Weren’t these guys supposed to be stoic? Was everything in the godfather wrong? Or perhaps she was just more perceptive than most people?

“I’m an excellent worker with flexible morals and a strong will, and I can fight, and I need the money for my brothers, sir.”

“Well, that’s admirable Miss Bravo but it’s a little more complicated than just signing up. We’ll have to do a background check, we’ll do an interview, a skill assessment. This would of course take several weeks. Here, I have some paperwork you can fill out.”

“Okay, thank you for your consideration, sir. I really have to head home now. I have to take the boys to school in the morning.”

“I’ll call you a car. Perfect timing. Bucky, can you drive Miss Bravo back to her residence? I’ll deal with Rumlow. We’ll be in touch, Miss Bravo.”

He left and Bucky led Adrien to a car similar to the one she was in earlier. It was all very silent as they got in. There was a tension in the air.

“Wow, it’s nice to sit in the front this time.” she tried.

Bucky gave her half a smile. They rode in silence until they reached her house. “Hey, you should put some ice on that.”

She pointed to the blooming black eye he was sporting. There were also several cuts on his face and hands. He probably had several bruises on his torso as well.

“I’ll be fine-”

“Absolutely not. You come inside. I’ll get you fixed up right now.”

She walked around and grabbed his arm, pulling him out of the car and into her apartment.

“Shirt off and sit.”

“Well, at least take me out to dinner first Miss Bravo.”

He still did as she asked, sitting on the island and removing his shirt, confirming her suspicions of further injuries. She grabbed the first aid kit and an ice pack before coming up to him to assess his injuries.

“Adrien. And I might just take you up on that offer Bucky.”

She gave him the ice pack to place on his eye. After cleaning the blood off of his face and stomach it was clear that the only actual issue was a split lip and eye. She was able to apply some Neosporin and butterfly bandages. She kissed the top of his forehead before freezing.

“I’m so sorry, I’m just used to fixing up the boys and, and, and I-”

“It’s quite alright. I should be heading out though.”

“Well, I’ll be seeing you.”

Bucky gave a sly grin before shutting the door on himself.

“You bet your ass you will.”

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ao3feedstuckony · 5 years

Text

Meet on the Ledge

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2HrjCtI

by Lorien, Lucidnancyboy

Bucky Barnes. Tony had no idea where to even start.

The ‘hypothetical’ mission to Wakanda to help a sassy princess build an arm for a ‘hypothetical’ one-armed man? The annoying chickens at Old MacDonald’s farm? Tony and Bucky bonding over boner jokes? Or should he jump right ahead to the part where Steve’s Boo from days of yore had asked Tony to tie him up? (Yeah, you read that right)

Somehow, what had started out as a ‘simple’ favor had become so much more, and now Tony found himself stuck between the stoner formerly known as Captain America and Bucky’s wonderfully fuzzy chest.

Maybe it wasn’t the beginning of the story that Tony should be worried about...

Words: 8093, Chapters: 1/4, Language: English

Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Iron Man (Movies)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M, M/M

Characters: Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers, Shuri (Marvel)

Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Past Tony Stark/Pepper Potts, Pre Tony Stark/James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers

Additional Tags: Canon Divergent, Post-Black Panther (2018), Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), winteriron, Stucky - Freeform, Stucky (background), Top Tony Stark, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Tony Stark, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Sexual Content, Light Dom/sub, BDSM, Light BDSM, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Panic Attacks, Explicit Language, brief mention of past sexual violence/rape, Corsetry, Comedy, Humor, Pining, Romance, Goats, Stoner Steve, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2019

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2HrjCtI

#ao3feed #Steve/Tony/Bucky #Stuckony

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ao3feed-stucky · 5 years

Link

by Lorien, Lucidnancyboy

Bucky Barnes. Tony had no idea where to even start.

Maybe it wasn’t the beginning of the story that Tony should be worried about...

Words: 8093, Chapters: 1/4, Language: English

Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Iron Man (Movies)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M, M/M

Characters: Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers, Shuri (Marvel)

Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Past Tony Stark/Pepper Potts, Pre Tony Stark/James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers

#Bucky #AO3 works tagged 'James Barnes/Steve Rogers'#ao3feed #stucky #steve rogers #bucky barnes #c

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ao3feed-buckyxtony · 5 years

Text

Meet on the Ledge

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2HrjCtI

by Lorien, Lucidnancyboy

Bucky Barnes. Tony had no idea where to even start.

Maybe it wasn’t the beginning of the story that Tony should be worried about...

Words: 8093, Chapters: 1/4, Language: English

Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Iron Man (Movies)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: F/M, M/M

Characters: Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes, Steve Rogers, Shuri (Marvel)

Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Past Tony Stark/Pepper Potts, Pre Tony Stark/James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers

read it on the AO3 at http://bit.ly/2HrjCtI

#tony x bucky #bucky x tony #tony stark x bucky barnes #bucky barnes x tony stark #winteriron #marvel

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izanyas · 7 years

Text

Well-Wishes

Commission for @onelovelysin! Feat. Chuuya getting injured and having a crush.

Rating: T Words: 3,900 Warnings: car accident, mentions of suicide

Well-Wishes

"One minute and thirteen seconds."

Chuuya's stream of consciousness after using Corruption had been identical the first two times. Now, as he lay upon the cold wet ground in the wake of the third, it didn't change at all.

It fucking hurts.

"Shut it," he rasped without opening his eyes.

Dazai chuckled coldly. Something skin-warm brushed over Chuuya's forehead, and Chuuya flinched away, unable to avoid crying out from the strain.

"Fuck, don't touch me—"

"You'd think I was diseased or something, the way you avoid me."

"You are! The sight of you makes me wanna barf!"

It took effort to open his blood-crusted eyes, but Chuuya did it, thankful for the soft moonlight around them. Dazai's head masked half of the sky that peered through the burst-open roof. He was crouched beside him, peering down with curiosity.

"I'm in perfect health," he told Chuuya. "If my handsome face is enough to make you puke then your stomach is way too weak for the job."

"Piss off," Chuuya spat. His saliva tasted of blood.

Dazai grinned.

He didn't try to touch him again, though. Not until Chuuya had regained enough of himself, enough warmth and movement through his limbs, to push himself into a sitting position. Corruption was easier to shake off now than it had been the last time, and it would be easier the next, he knew; but still it had run its rampage through his body, destroying blood vessels and bruising his hands and legs. His fingers thrummed with sharp pain.

"How do you feel?" Dazai asked conversationally.

"Like I've got arthritis or some shit."

"They do say the mind ages first."

"I'm sure that was a very smart and convoluted way of insulting me," Chuuya muttered, dragging his knees toward his chest, "so I'm not gonna give you the satisfaction of reacting."

"Oh, Chuuya." Dazai sounded positively gleeful. "Everything you do entertains me."

It was probably a lie, but Chuuya didn't know Dazai enough to even begin unraveling it. For the year they had sort of known each other, Dazai had acted like a constant, like someone playing a part, never like a real human. He threw insults like compliments and compliments like backhanded strikes, smiling coldly and staring with intent. Chuuya thought sometimes that Dazai liked him. He thought sometimes that Dazai hated him.

Trying to keep up with it was downright exhausting.

"Whatever," he groaned. He took a deep breath before shifting to his knees, swallowing back another cry of pain. "Just help me up."

"Of course."

At least Dazai knew how to handle him post-Corruption now. The first time, he had grabbed Chuuya by the wrist and almost made him pass out from the pain; now he took him by the middle, one hand at Chuuya's armpit as he dragged him to his feet. It was a lot more awkward but a lot less painful. Dazai frogmarched him like this through the upended floor, out of the ruined warehouse and back into the low-lit street. There was a patch of grass at the back of the building. They wiped the soles of their shoes free of blood on it.

Dazai didn't let him go, no doubt sensing that Chuuya wouldn't be able to walk on his own yet. Chuuya chose not to thank him for it—it was his fault Corruption had been needed in the first place—and instead said, "One-thirteen, huh," recalling Dazai's report.

"Yes. Last time's record still holds true."

"Do you count every time?"

Dazai shifted his hold on him, his grip lowering to Chuuya' waist. Chuuya ignored the warmth he felt at that. "So far," he replied.

Chuuya didn't know how to answer him. He didn't know how to make small talk with Dazai, who wasn't anything like the other people he took orders from or worked with. He made himself walk on aching feet, refusing to use more than the strength Dazai already allowed him to borrow. He felt too cold to be soothed by the cool nightly air. Corruption left him a mess in more than just the physical; Chuuya was fraught with anxiety, and he knew this wouldn't abate with time, no matter how many times he used the damn ability.

He still wasn't sure if Corruption was an ability in itself or just an extension of one. Dazai had been the one to come up with the name all those months ago, and he probably thought himself clever for the wordplay, but Chuuya couldn't find humor in it at all. He couldn't find pride in being perhaps the first person ever to hold two powers within himself, not with how this one manifested.

"It looks like it hurts," Dazai said lowly, as if reading his thoughts.

Chuuya snarled. "What the fuck do you think?" he replied. He tried to lift the hand that wasn't slumped around Dazai's back loosely, to show off the bruising, and failed.

Dazai's grip tightened around him. Chuuya could feel his chest expand every time he breathed, slightly off-tempo with his own.

"Do you remember anything when you use it?" Dazai asked.

Chuuya didn't answer. The feeling of his body moving of its own volition, the release of anger and tension as he watched from within the cage of his skull, the pain bursting through him that he could do nothing to flinch away from… those were not things he knew how to put into words.

"I just want to sleep," he muttered. "Hurry up and get us a cab."

"No cab's going to take us with the way we look, Chuuya. We're walking the way back."

"Ugh."

He let Dazai drag him on the sidewalk, and the way his legs pushed forward felt a little like he was trapped again. He blinked when tears started burning in his eyes. He was too tired to feel more than vaguely ashamed.

"You really need to learn how to control it," Dazai said.

They were approaching a crossroad. The only car in sight was still far in the distance, wavering slightly in its lane toward them. It stopped, at one point. Probably a drunk driver.

Chuuya hissed when Dazai hoisted him closer, and Dazai spoke again before he could protest. "I'm serious, hat rack. The fact that you call yourself my partner when you can't even control your powers is humiliating."

"I don't call myself your anything," Chuuya replied through clenched teeth, glaring at the side of Dazai's face. "And that's fucking easy for you to say, isn't it? Your ability is the easiest shit to control in the world."

"It has its disadvantages."

"Like what?"

He meant it as offense, because he couldn't imagine No Longer Human coming as anything but perfectly helpful, but Dazai said, "Well, even Corruption can't kill me."

It took a second for the words to register in Chuuya's mind. When they did, he kicked Dazai away from him.

It turned out to be a terrible idea—he was definitely not ready to walk on his own yet, and it took tremendous strength of will not to start heaving as pain raced up his thighs and back, and then down all the way to the tips of his fingers. Chuuya withstood it with gritted teeth, glaring at the way Dazai caught himself against the wall of the restaurant they were walking next to.

"What the fuck," he growled.

"I haven't tested it yet," Dazai said airily. He brushed imaginary dust off of the sleeves of his coat. "But I'm reasonably sure even your nifty little gravity bombs would vanish when touching me."

"You're not going to try."

"Why not?"

He had asked it with bright honestly, with no self-consciousness or shame at all. Chuuya could do nothing but stare, speechless.

Dazai smiled. It wasn't a kind expression at all. "Don't take it personally," he said. "Even if it works, Mori won't blame you for murder. He knows how I am."

"Shut up," Chuuya snapped. He wanted nothing more than to clench his hands into fists—only the perspective of pain prevented him from trying. He took a step toward Dazai and said, "Since you're so damn smart, did you think at all about how I would feel?"

"How you would feel?"

"Yes, Dazai. How I would fucking feel about killing you."

Dazai blinked at him slowly. "You kill people for a living," he pointed out.

"I kill enemies. Not coworkers."

The word felt weird—Chuuya didn't think of anyone as a coworker, not standing at sixteen years old in the messy hierarchy of the port mafia—but it was better than calling Dazai a partner or a friend.

He only had one friend, and she would be disappointed if she saw how worked up he was now.

"I'd die if you died before bringing me back," he said.

Dazai huffed. "Like I care," he replied. "Corruption might as well be my ability, when you think about it."

"It's really fucking not."

"It is. After all, you can only use it when I give you the go." His lips stretched again. He leaned against the wall nonchalantly. "So," he added, "technically, it would be suicide. You can rest easy, Chuuya, you wouldn't be killing anyone."

His words made the soft of Chuuya's belly tense and squirm, made his tongue feel so heavy in his mouth that he couldn't speak at all.

Dazai wasn't the one tearing holes through the fabric of the city with his fingers. Dazai wasn't the one making human beings' limbs vanish and leaving them to bleed out—he wasn't the one shaking from a rage whose inception was unknown, he wasn't the one trapped inside of his own head as his body decided that living mattered not, when one could die in a blaze of unstoppable violence.

He was shaking, he realized. His skin felt too tight around him, as if every bone in his body was now pushing outward.

"Fuck you," he breathed. "You're not using Corruption to kill yourself."

"Why are you so upset?" Dazai asked. It truly was his luck that Chuuya's anger had no more room to grow. "We're only speaking in hypotheticals—I know Corruption wouldn't work. It's not like you care if I die anyway."

Chuuya held his breath, paying no mind to the sound of the car from earlier starting again, its driver no doubt coming out of their early stage of coma. In the glow of its frontlights Dazai looked deathly pale, like a bleached rag, a bloodless corpse; Chuuya couldn't figure out at all the sort of answer he was waiting for, if he wanted Chuuya to lie and say that he didn't, if he wanted Chuuya to tell the truth and admit that he didn't know.

The light grew around them, the sound of the car's engine coming perilously close. Chuuya was still out of his own mind when he turned his head to look at it.

It was running on the sidewalk.

The strip of concrete was wide enough that two meters at least separated Chuuya from Dazai, without Chuuya having set foot onto the road; yet the car was close to the doors and devantures of the shops around them, its side mirror breaking cleanly away as it accelerated—Chuuya's head snapped back around with a warning, with Dazai's name etched on his lips. The sight of Dazai's face made it die without ever leaving them.

Chuuya's legs pushed him into a run, adrenaline canceling pain for the second it took to fist his hands into the lapels of Dazai's coat and throw him out of the way.

Then he felt nothing at all.

"I'm going to die," Chuuya groaned, blinking blearily at the ceiling.

Kouyou patted his greasy hair, not looking away from the screen of her laptop. Her lips were shaking between disgust and amusement. "You need a shower," she replied.

"You think I don't want one?"

All he could take were sponge baths, and he couldn't even take them alone. Chuuya still wasn't sure which was the lesser hell between letting Kouyou do it and letting the old, mean nurse who supervised the port mafia headquarters' hospital ward do it. At least the old mean nurse wasn't living with him.

He grunted weakly when pain traveled through his legs. "Can I get more—"

"No."

"Fuck you." He was grateful for the febrility that came with the painkillers, because he was pretty sure that this would have warranted him more than just a warning glare in normal circumstances. "M'sorry," he amended. "Shit, I think I want to die."

"Don't be so dramatic," Kouyou murmured.

"I'm so bored I might just die anyway. My brain's gonna atrophy."

"Not that there's much of a brain to speak of," came a new voice.

The sound of it was so absurd to Chuuya that he didn't even see Dazai at first. Dazai hadn't visited him at all so far. It had taken Chuuya almost an hour to even remember what had happened when he woke up, and when he had, only the drugs had numbed his worry. The old mean nurse only to visit him once every two hours, and he had been alone until then, wondering if Dazai had even made it. She had found him halfway through the wide room, crawling on the floor despite his injuries, checking each bed for sign of Dazai being there.

Of course, Dazai hadn't been there. He had escaped out of the accident with only a bruise. That had been two days ago already.

"Dazai-kun," Kouyou said pleasantly, at the same time as Chuuya spat, "Get the fuck out of here."

"How mean," Dazai replied, stepping into the room. "Not you, of course, Kouyou-sama. It's always a pleasure to see you."

He handed her a fucking bouquet, and Kouyou played along with glee, one hand pressed delicately against her lips as she took it. "My, you shouldn't have. I'll be sure to water them and keep them out of Chuuya's reach."

"I'll throw them out the window," Chuuya grumbled.

"See?" she said, getting out of the armchair. "He's never learned how to receive a gift courteously."

Chuuya glared at Dazai with all the strength left in him while Kouyou went to fetch water. Dazai didn't seem to mind, judging by the way he smiled down at him. Chuuya wished both of his legs weren't broken. He would've loved to kick him again.

"You should listen to her," he said, patting one of Chuuya's casts. He took a pen out of his pocket. "Hey, can I write anything on those?"

"No."

"However will you stop me?"

Chuuya did stop him, straining his abs to sit up on the bed and grab Dazai by his ridiculous hair before he was done writing half a kanji. Kouyou found them like this when she came back—Dazai grinning like a maniac and Chuuya spilling rapid-fire insults, ripping hair out of his scalp. She looked pointedly at them both.

They let go of each other. Chuuya felt more flustered than he had in eons.

"It's a good thing you're here, Dazai-kun," she said. She set the flowers on a table out of Chuuya's immediate vicinity and ignored the way he scowled at her. "I have to go take care of some business, so I can't take Chuuya out on a stroll like I did yesterday."

Dazai stopped smirking. Chuuya stopped thinking.

"I'm sorry," the other replied smoothly. "I was only passing by—"

"Come now, boy," Kouyou cut in icily. "I know Ougai-dono has given you the day off. Surely you can help alleviate poor Chuuya's boredom—he's been rather vocal about how much he hates being here on his own."

"I don't want him taking me out," Chuuya protested.

"Warn Nurse Shido, will you?" Kouyou asked Dazai sweetly.

The subdued way Dazai obeyed her would've been hilarious if not for Chuuya's own outrage. He watched, scandalized, as Dazai walked out of the room, and Kouyou brought forth the wheelchair he had borrowed the day before.

"I can move myself around," he said.

"I know," Kouyou replied. "I'm not doing this for you." Before he could ask what she meant, she tapped the side of the chair and added, "Can you get in this alone or do I need to manhandle you?"

Chuuya floated himself to the chair wordlessly.

"I'll come by again tonight," she said once he was seated safely, his twisted arm now held in a sling. Then, as Dazai's steps approached again, she bent down and whispered, "Give him this, Chuuya. He was in quite the state when he finally managed to bring you home."

Chuuya had no idea what she was talking about, and he lost track of any Dazai-related thought when she pressed a kiss to his cheek. Kouyou laughed gently at the way his face darkened; he still felt as though all the blood in his body was hovering there by the time she left and Dazai came back in.

Dazai either didn't notice his blush or thought it due to the strain of moving. He approached with slow steps, looking intently over Chuuya's face and body—and somehow it made him feel even more restless, even more as if some energy he had no hold over was shifting under his skin.

When he was no more than a foot away, Chuuya said, "If you touch that chair I'm going to throttle you."

"Not my ideal way to go," Dazai grimaced.

Just like that, the weird tension was gone.

It had taken no more than ten seconds for Chuuya to figure out how to move the chair the day before. It took even less for him to move it now, making it weightless under him and pushing himself forward with his one good hand on the wall. The only thing Dazai did was grab the metal pole holding his medicine and carry it along.

"How long until you're out of the casts?" he asked, tranquil, as they reached the elevator.

"Two weeks for the arm and ribs," Chuuya replied, recalling Shido's explanations hazily. "A month for the legs. I'll have to lay off training for a while."

"So you will make a full recovery."

Chuuya glanced at him in surprise. "Yeah," he answered. "It's just a couple broken bones. Clean breaks, too. I got lucky."

Dazai didn't answer. He followed Chuuya to the tenth floor balcony in silence.

It was a thing of wonder, that balcony. Hirotsu's pet project. It more than made up for the lack of a garden, what with the flowers and small trees planted all along its length. It was turned toward sea and sun. Even mid-winter, this time of the day found it filled with light.

Chuuya relaxed a little. He let go of his control of the chair once he reached the edge and gathered his jacket closer around himself. "You got cigarettes?" he asked.

"Sure."

Dazai being accommodating was not something Chuuya was used to, but he was a little drunk now, with exhaustion and drugs and pain, so he didn't question it. He took the pack Dazai procured from him and dragged a cigarette out of it, placing it between his lips. He blinked in surprise when Dazai held a flame up for him to light it with.

"Does Kouyou know you smoke?" Dazai asked, snapping the lighter shut.

"If you tell her I'll tell Mori about the last 'sick day' you took," Chuuya replied. He air-quoted it, one-handed.

Dazai made a face.

They smoked next to each other, overlooking the sunlit bay. Chuuya couldn't see very far down from his seat in the chair, but the sky was enough for now. The fresh air had already calmed him down; the seagulls' songs ringing in the sea wind had lessened his headache.

"Chuuya," Dazai said. Chuuya looked at him lazily, and Dazai was staring ahead, crushing the lit end of his cigarette onto the bannister before throwing the stub into the street. "Why did you do it?"

"Do what?"

Dazai moved before he could, crouching down on the floor and then resting on his knees; he didn't sit either, just grabbed each arm of the chair and pushed forth into Chuuya's own space, until Chuuya was pressed into the back of the chair to avoid knocking their noses together. His ribs ached from the stress.

Dazai was a little below him like this. It was the first time Chuuya had ever looked down at him instead of up.

"You could've died," Dazai said. There was something a little loose in his expression, something a little greedy.

Chuuya tensed further. "I didn't," he replied. "I could've crushed that fucking car—"

"Then why didn't you?"

"Because there was no time, bastard, would you rather I'd let it hit you?"

He regretted asking as soon as the words left his lips, but Dazai didn't spring along with any sort of morbid humor. He simply looked at him.

Chuuya licked his lips quickly. "I don't know why I did it," he said. "I just did it."

"You're lying."

Chuuya glared at him. Dazai smiled slowly; he tapped his own cheek with two fingers. "You have a tell," he explained. "Your face gets all twitchy. You're very easy to read, you know."

"Fuck you. You don't know anything about me."

"Don't I?"

Dazai fell back a little, just so his backside rested on his heels. Sitting like this must be uncomfortable for him—Chuuya couldn't imagine that he was the type to kneel this way outside of rare formalities—but he didn't show it at all.

"You get angry easily, but you're also surprisingly level-headed," Dazai said. "You're loyal. You don't mind killing people as long as they're not your people. You enjoy going all out but you're scared of it too—you're terrified of what you can do. You're terrified of things you can't control."

Dazai's face at the time hadn't left Chuuya once since he woke up in the scratchy bed of the ward. The painkillers numbed him to the core and allowed him escape from the thunder-like quality of what he had realized, seeing him like this—struck immobile into the fast-approaching light of the car, wide-eyed, as if someone had pressed pause on a video—but he couldn't unsee it. Not ever.

Dazai had looked nearly childish. Chuuya saw it again now in the shadow of his eyes. He heard it in the frayed edges of his voice.

"You were scared," Chuuya said.

Dazai could talk all he wanted about death, about terror—he had been scared in that moment. He hadn't wanted to die. There was nothing else Chuuya could have done but answer his unspoken call for help.

He blushed at the thought and didn't voice it himself, but Dazai didn't need him to, if his knowing smile was anything to go by. "See," he said, using the arms of the chair to push himself upright. The movement brought him close enough that his next words broke over Chuuya's face with a shiver, spoken right by his forehead. "You are easy to read."

"I'm just tired," Chuuya replied, hoping in vain that his face wasn't too red.

He didn't protest when Dazai circled the chair this time, not even as he took its handles and steered him back toward the building.

"I guess I could do worse than a partner willing to jump in front of a car for me," he said.

"Don't get used to it, asshole. Next time I'm watching your sorry ass get hit."

Wind rushed through the opening of the door, swallowing the sound of the first genuine laughter Dazai had ever given him.

#bsd #bungou stray dogs #soukoku #nakahara chuuya #dazai osamu #fic: well wishes

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auskultu · 6 years

Text

The Ten Best Films of 1967

Bosley Crowther, The New York Times, 24 December 1967

THIS was the year in which Hollywood—or the home-grown film, if you please—made a remarkable emergence from the shadow of eclipse into which it had been cast by foreign imports and the weakness of its own energies in the past several years. Suddenly, against a record that showed a consistent decline in numerical representation since 1961, the Hollywood moviemakers have landed on my “10 best" list this year with no less than four solid entries, and with a respectable sprinkling on the honorable mention list.

Unstinting credit for this rebound to critical respectability must be given to those producers and directors who have finally responded to the cry for pregnant themes in the contemporary span of social tensions, rather than drift with a flat escapist tide. But it must also be acknowledged that a certain lessening was evident this year in the quality of foreign-language pictures, punctuated only by the emergence of individual, isolated surprises from young directors scattered from Sweden to Spain.

This was a year marked by ugly explosions of violence and sadism in many films, much of it meritricious and generated merely to shock. There are some elements of violence in films on the forthcoming list. But they are artfully restrained and developed to make valid and socially meaningful points. I am happy to conclude that the entries on this last year-end balance that I’ll draw up are as brilliant in their way and as impressive as those on the first I ever did.

So here they are, put down in the order in which they opened in New York:

La Guerre Est Finie (The War Is Over), screenplay by Jorge Semprun; directed by Alain Resnais; produced by Sofracime of Paris and Eu-ropa-Film of Stockholm; released by Brandon Films. This reflection of two days in the life of an aging Spanish left-wing agitator on a secret trip to Paris to visit his mistress and make contact with the Communist leaders there embraces a complex of emotions, memories, loyalties, and is ono of the finest comprehensions of growing old in today’s world yet filmed. Yves Montand, Ingrid Thulin and Genevieve Bujold play it beautifully.

Ulysses, screenplay by Joseph Strick and Fred Haines, based on the novel by James Joyce; directed by Mr. Strick; a Walter Reade, Jr.-Joseph Strick Production, released by Continental. A faithful and brilliant screen translation of Joyce’s classic novel, done with taste, imagination and cinema artistry. Most notable and commendable are the candor and clarity with which Joyce’s ribald language and erotic images are presented to achieve understanding and the rhythm and ring of poetry. Maurice Roeves as Stephen Dedalus, Milo O’Shea as Leopold Bloom and Barbara Jefford as his wife, Molly, are superior in an excellent cast.

The Hunt, screenplay by Angelino Fons and Carlos Saura; directed by Mr. Saura; an Elias Querejeta Production, released by Trans-Lux. In this brilliantly expanding drama of four men on a seemingly innocent rabbit-hunting trip in a barren area fought over in the Spanish Civil War, Mr. Saura vividly presents us with a bitter and horrifying expose of the spiritual poverty and frustration of middle-aged men who were involved in that war—on the side of the Falangists. One of the rare Spanish films released here, it acquaints us with a strong young directorial talent and new, bold spirit in Spain.

In the Heat of the Night, screenplay by Stirling Silli-phant, based on the novel by John Ball; directed by Norman Jewison; produced by Waller Mirisch of the Mirisch Company for United Artists. The hot surge of racial hate and tension as it has been displayed in many communities this year is fictionally isolated and put forth with realism and point in this strong drama of a Northern Negro detective up against a mystifying murder and an antagonistic white sheriff in the South. Sidney Poitier and Rod Steiger give Oscar-worthy performances.

Father, screenplay by Istvan Szabo; directed by Mr. Szabo and produced by Ma-film Studio III of Budapest, Hungary; released by Continental. Again, an exciting creation from a fresh talent on the European scene is manifest in this study of a young Hungarian's heroic fantasies of his dead father, wherein are reflected his emotional insecurity and his need for a sense of heritage in a changing world. Fine performances by several young people and a fluid, forceful cinematic style distinguish what might be considered a significant achievement of a Hungarian “new wave.”

Elvira Madigan, screenplay by Bo Widerberg; directed by Mr. Widerberg, and produced by Janco/Europa Film; released by Cinema V. A new, young Swedish director swims impressively into our ken with this pictorially exquisite and dramatically absorbing story of a pathetically doomed love affair between a young married Swedish cavalry officer and a beautiful circus girl, all in the serene long ago. Thommy Berggren and Pia Degermark fairly break one’s heart in the principal roles. The creative use of color and of Mozart’s music is memorable.

Closely Watched Trains, screenplay by Bohumil Hrabal and Jiri Menzel, based on a story by Mr. Hrabal; directed by'Mr. Menzel, and produced by Film Studio Bar-randov of Prague, Czechoslovakia; a Sigma III release. In the naturalistic tradition of several recent fine Czechoslovak films, this humorous, revealing and poignant drama of a hopeful, immature young railway-station attendant at a country station in World War II is richly cinematic and full of humanity and tenderness. Vaclav Neckar as the young hero and Jitka Bendova as an older attendant are delightful in a fine cast.

Cool Hand Luke, screenplay by Donn Pearce and Frank R. Pierson, based on a novel by Mr. Pearce; directed by Stuart Rosenberg, and produced by Gordon Carroll for Warner Brothers-Seven Arts. This tough convict-camp melodrama about a cryptic, alienated young chap, caught between the heroization of his fellow prisoners and the ruthless deflating of the guards, is a good, solid chunk of raw meat, cinematically and otherwise, in a year in which films of brutality and violence have too often been overdone. Paul Newman as the hero, George Kennedy as a fellow con and Jo Van Fleet in a small role do especially well.

In Cold Blood, screenplay by Richard Brooks, based on the novel by Truman Capote; directed and produced by Mr. Brooks for Columbia. Here, in this starkly realistic and electrifyingly illuminating film, based on the classic in-depth study of an actual Kansas quadruple murder case, Mr. Brooks brilliantly provides us with a comprehension beyond the scope of this one case of the harrowing hazard of random crime and senseless violence in our communities. Excellent performances by two comparative newcomers, Scott Wilson and Robert Blake, in the roles of the neurotic killers, and a strong, expressive musical-sound score by Quincy Jones are among the several Oscar-worthy efforts in this film.

The Graduate, screenplay by Calder Willingham and Buck Henry, based on a novel by Charles Webb; directed by Mike Nichols, and produced by Lawrence Turman for Embassy Pictures. This sharply incisive and funny picture about the social and amorous problems of a young man fresh out of college is thematically and cinematically one of the best American social satires that has come along in years, and it offers in the title role a new young actor, Dustin Hoffman, who is nothing short of superb. Anne Bancroft as a restless older woman and Katharine Ross as her daughter also shine.

There are my ”10 best” selections. But I would like, as I did last year, to note several films that were contenders for places on this list. They may be classed as Honorable Mentions, with no gradation among them—and here they are:

Persona — Ingmar Bergman’s superb, disturbing study of a clashing dual personality, beautifully played by Bibi Andersson and Liv Uilmann.

Marat/Sade — A brilliant cinematic enactment of the powerful Peter Weiss stage play about insanity and revolution, directed by Peter Brook.

The War Game — A hypothetical study, done in tele-vision-documentary style, of a nuclear bombing of Britain, directed by Peter Watkins.

Up the Down Staircase — The “blackboard jungle” broadened, with particular emphasis upon the devotion of a new high school teacher, played exceedingly well by Sandy Dennis.

Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner — A delightful, icebreaking drawing-room comedy about mixed marriage, charmingly played—and talked—by Spencer Tracy, Katharine Hepburn and Sidney Poitier.

The Battle of Algiers — Here is a scorching example of the old reenacted documentary-type film, directed with new vitality by Gillo Pontecorvo and played by a first-rate cast.

Privilege — What happens when a British “pop” singer is exploited for the benefit of The Establishment; highly suppositional but strong, also by Peter Watkins.

The Jokers — New British director Michael Winner satirizes the impatience and recklessness of younger members of the upper class.

The Tiger Makes Out — Murray Schisgal’s comedy-satire on New York loners, played delightfully by Eli Wallach and Arne Jackson.

There, that’s enough.

Here’s hoping for even better in 1968!

#bosley crowther #film #movies #1960s #sixties #60s #1967

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5hfanfiction · 7 years

Text

Messy - 3 (Lauren Jaurgeui/Kendall Jenner)

‘Kenren is so fucking on!’

'I knew it. Kendall’s gay.’

'Lol. Now we know Kendall’s type is ‘Lauren’.’

'This is so obviously PR for Lauren’s solo career. This is 5h last era.’

'THE REACH. What do you think Lauren can offer that will make Kendall do charity PR for her?? She’s barely a somebody.’

'Lol. Yes. I guess people don’t know who Fifth Harmony is. Who had 3 1 bil + views mv’s.’

'Exactly. GP knows who 5H is, not Lauren Jauregui. Desperation is real.’

'What can Lauren offer? I’m idk?? The LGBT COMMUNITYYY?’

'Sis, it’ll only work if Kendall is planning to come out some time in the future (if she is even gay or if PMK will allow it). Otherwise, the LGBTQ+ will burn LJ alive for queerbaiting.’

'Stop acting like this will actually do good than harm. Kendall is so messy. If you love your fav, you keep her safe somewhere far away from Kendull lol.’

'Why would they even hangout, do they even know each other??’

'Sis, did you miss when they were hanging out at the Gigi x Tommy afterparty or??’

'You’d think, after dating a weird college girl then jar jar, Lauren would have learned by now. I guess the poor girl will always have a tragic choice in relationships.’

‘What did Lauren ever do to any of you to think she can’t have real friends in this fucked up industry?’

‘FUCKING STUPID MORONS TALKING ABOUT PR THEORIES AGAIN!!’

‘L stans fooling themselves again just bec their fav is linked to another girl. Get the girl another fanbase.’

“You know it wouldn’t affect you if you won’t read any of that thing.” Normani’s voice made her jump that she almost lets go of her phone. Once she composed herself, she started ranting…

“We spent hours and hours of rehearsals, me doing cardios and eating protein bars so I can deliver some hard-ass choreos maybe just half as good as you, and you know what people focus on? A 3 second snap of me and Kendall hanging out! Like what the fuck?? Maybe I’ll just post selfies again and like put a link of our single, and be like, ‘Hey. Keep us number 1 on the charts for more selfies!”

“…”

After a few minute of silence, and her bandmates turning their attention to her, they started bombarding her with humorous suggestions.

“You know, that might actually work.”

Lauren quickly closes her mouth and stares in disbelief at Dinah.

“Shut up Dinah”, she says weakly.

“I was backing you up!!” Dinah stands up excitedly and walks towards her. Lauren widens her eyes and slowly sinks back to the couch hoping the taller girl won’t come any closer. “Clearly, I was joking!”

Last time Dinah had the look on her face, she practically told everyone about that bet, that later on, the whole world knew about too. Nope. Lauren had had enough of her crazy ideas.

“Well I wasn’t! We could be like, ‘buy our album, send us receipts, and I’ll follow you’” Dinah says laughing.

Lauren laughs at the incredulous idea, but stops when Ally joins in. Ally, of all people.

“M&G slots with chances of buying multiple album.”

Before Lauren can respond, Normani adds in, “Tour tickets with an exclusive merchandise.”

“Are we getting desperate? Guys, we’re selling, what are you–“ Lauren tried but was quickly cut off by Dinah’s booing.

“Lauren stop sucking the fun out of everything.”

“I’m not—”

=============================================================

She knows it’s childish and probably meaningless – ignoring Kendall and preventing herself from texting the girl, because no one would know about it, but she finds herself leaning away from the other girl to subside the rumors. She’s not ready for some drama. She wants to focus on the group and the other projects she has on. She’s actually finding it hard to act 'casual’ when inevitably asked about her 'friendship’ with Kendall.

They were touring in Nottingham, and they were actually having fun with this radio station they were in. They played a little game of continuing each other’s sentence, and she had the mistake of sitting next to Dinah, so she knew she was in for a treat. Nevertheless, she survived without embarrassing herself more. They were talking about a hypothetical reality show, Big Brother, that they could be in and the other celebrities they’d like to live in, until a fan out of nowhere shouted a big and loud, KENDALL JENNER.

Of course the fan girls couldn’t contain themselves no more and started squealing, and Dinah had the audacity to nudge her. Like it’s a goddamn inside joke.

Lauren shot her a look as if saying, 'What even?’

The interviewer pretty much grins like he’s just done his job without actually doing anything, and then asked her, 'Lauren, what about Kendall? Do you think you two can get a long in the same house in 1 month?’

Lauren briefly glanced at the camera, cursing inwardly at how this will forever be in the internet, before turning to the interviewer, forcing out a smile. “Of course. We’re friends. We’ll have so much fun.” She says, trying to be casual, but all she can think about is how she can punch this dude without getting arrested, and preferably without it being caught on camera.

The other interviewer, the blonde girl with the thick English accent looked clueless, or Lauren hope she is or else she’s planning to slap her too after this, asked, how they became friends.

Dinah answered for her, acting like they’re buddies now. 'Girl, have you missed the whole hot potato fiasco?’

Oh, right. She’ll slap Dinah next. Gahd, Lauren never considered violence as the answer in resolving problems but she’s greatly considering it now. She glanced at Ally, who was quietly snickering at her side, and shot her a pleading look.

Of course even with Ally’s help, all attempts were futile when Normani decided to join the dark side, and ganged up on her too.

Obviously she stayed away from Twitter. She only opened her IG to post a picture of their stay in England, thanking their fans and closed her phone immediately.

==============================================================

They’re eating dinner at a lowkey restaurant, which is an achievement for Lauren, and had congratulated her bandmates, especially Dinah, for not posting anything so they can sneak out.

'Well no one can be a ninja like you!’ Dinah exclaims as she applies her make up, all girls preparing for a night out in Nottingham, their second stop in their European tour.

'Dinah, they wouldn’t know where we are if they don’t have clues. They won’t have clues if you won’t post anything!’ Lauren says as she continues to reply to her messages. She’s always the first one to get ready because she rarely does anything to herself when they’re going out.

'Why do you always assume it’s me? Our fans can know where we are even if we don’t post anything. You should know how techy they can be.’ Dinah remarks. Subtly, but not really, hinting Lauren, and literally anyone associated with her, getting hacked, and violated.

Funny. Lauren thinks sarcastically. 'You’re lucky I love you.’

'I know I’ve always been your favorite’

'Hey! Let’s not assume things. But for the record, I’ve always been Lauren’s favorite.’ Normani counters Dinah.

Ally snorts as she plops down across Lauren, also finishes getting ready, 'Yeah, dream on girls. Alren for the win!’

It was all great until Dinah speaks up and says, “Well, lucky for you, you don’t have to worry about the whole Kenren thing–”

“I’m not worried. I haven’t even thought about it until you inevitably mention it…” Lauren says as she takes a sip on her drink, adding softly, “every single time”

Dinah continues, “–since Kendall’s seems to already have it handled.” Dinah shows her phone, and Normani and Lauren see a tabloid headline(?) of pap photos of Kendall with her friends on a night out in LA, with Kendall standing close with this other dude that Lauren has never heard of.

She rolls her eyes because Kendall did say that it gets worse for her, once a picture of her with literally anyone in a frame, was sold to any magazine, a headline would automatically generate something weird story like this. “That’s probably someone she’s never gonna see anyway, or friends. They’re probably just friends.”

“Sounds like someone is jealous”

“Why would I be jealous? One. It’s total bullshit. Two. It’s freaking tabloid. Like who cares? Three. Hypothetically speaking, even if they are dating, which I highly doubt, I couldn’t care less because there’s nothing to be jealous of.” Lauren moves her hand wildly to make a point, but it barely helped.

“You’ve never been that pressed unless it’s a social issue. Wow, Lauren. You sure you really couldn’t care less? I hate to imagine what you’d do if you actually care” Normani teases as she puts some fries in her mouth. Nothing she enjoys more than messing with Lauren on a late night. She knew Lauren had enough drinks and it’s been a long time since they made fun of her. And by long time, she meant, like 20 minutes ago.

Lauren groans in frustration. Is it too much to ask to never talk about her and Kendall’s nonexistent non-platonic relationship? She’s friends with her… Barely friends at that, and people, including her friends expect her to come up with some exciting story to tell about it.

“Is she bi?”

Lauren glares at Normani for even asking.

Normani shrugs and said, “hey! No one had the guts to ask outright.” When Lauren silently shakes her head, Normani continues, “Okay, Dinah can make fun of this whole Kenren thing as long as she likes, and we all know you’ll never be mad at her for something that harmless and petty. But I’m just saying, none of this will stick if there’s no chance of it being true.”

After contemplating over Normani’s words, and with Ally and Dinah staring at her expectantly, she stutters, “No… She’s straight.”

“But how would you know?”

Lauren glares at Dinah. “I just do. I spend time with her. I know her.”

Ally snorts and says, “yeah. You’ve hang with her twice!”

Lauren looks at her in disbelief, while Dinah and Normani high-fives, “Welcome to the dark side, Allysin.” Dinah said as she nudge Ally on the side.

Normani clears her throat and leans to Lauren, “Okay jokes aside, I’m just saying. People don’t just ship you just because you’re two girls who look attractively good together. Or aside from that hot potato thing.–”

“among other things”

“–I’m just saying, you're bi. And like a lot of people thinks Kendall is too. So you know. it’s not just straight girls shipping.”

Ally asks, “wait, how do you know what people think of Kendall?”

Normani says, “Lisa told me.”

“Our make up artist told you?”

“Dinah this is your fault. If you haven’t pretty much told everyone about that stupid bet, they wouldn’t–”

In which Dinah replies, “So you admit it? That there’s a possibility of you two dating?”

“For the nth time, there’s nothing to admit! She’s straight as fuck! And even if she is, which is ridiculous and beyond me, we’ll never date. I’m not her type. She’s not my type. End of story”

Dinah looks at her and quips, “You know what Justin Bieber said…”

Lauren deadpans, “Sorry?”

“Never say never.”

“Oh God.”

==============================================================

Lauren plops down her hotel bed and covers herself with the comforter as she grabs her phone to check her messages. She promises she’ll relax because she has an early wake up call tomorrow, but she couldn’t resist it. She notices a message notification from Kendall and she hesitates if she would open it, following the little conversation they had at dinner.

She realizes she’s being childish and her friendship with Kendall shouldn’t suffer just because rumors and talks can easily get under Lauren’s nerves. To be honest, the idea of sneaking out, was Kendall’s idea in the first place. She’s been here twice and she had suggested Lauren places to go if they had the time to explore.

Kenny: You still awake?

Lauren: Nope. I’m sleep texting

Kenny: Oh this should be fun.

Lauren looks at the clock and it says, 1:43am. She contemplates whether she should play this game with Kendall, but decided against it. She’s tired.

Lauren: Screw it. I’m about to go to bed. What time is it there?

Kenny: Thought so. I’m 8 hours behind you.

Lauren: Where are you?

Kenny: At home

Lauren: It’s Friday night. You’re not out?

Kenny: Can’t really go out when I promised my fav potato, I’d sit her dog.

Then she receives series of pictures: of Kendall and Leo sleeping (?), of Leo with a ball in his mouth and a text 'he mastered the art of fetch! I’m the best teacher!!’, of the two of them facing the camera, and one with the dog filter. Lauren smiles and can’t help but chuckle at how cute they are.

Before Lauren leaves for tour, Kendall had asked who she leaves Leo with when she’s gone. Lauren said that her friends take turns on who sits him, because luckily, all of them are fond of him. So Kendall had asked if it was okay for her to sit him too. After some back and forth of Lauren not wanting to impose, and Kendall guilt-tripping her by saying, 'he wouldn’t even know how to fetch if it weren’t for the great Kenny, the dog whisperer’ - in which Lauren found incredulous and funny but still true, they had finally agreed to set a date in which Leo would temporarily be at Kendall’s place.

Lauren replies with a bunch of emojis, raging from heart, heart-eyes, puppies, and so on.

Kenny: Amazing to find someone who uses more emoji than me.

Lauren: Shut up

Before Lauren can notice, she’s suddenly not feeling tired as they talked for two hours.

She woke a few hours later with only 3 hours of sleep, and she’s not even grumpy.

She ignores how this feels quite familiar to her. She definitely denies the idea of the late night conversation being the reason of her good mood today.

She’s done putting herself out there and getting her heart broken after. And more importantly, she vows never to fuck any friendship for a slight chance that it might work out in the end. Been there, done that, never coming back.

This friendship with Kendall, has to stay as it is.

#UPDATE #series #non AU #slash #alren #laurinah #based on song #humour #romance fluff #submission #Messy

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renaroo · 7 years

Text

Day 1 Magic: The Broken Wheel

Disclaimer: Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire series and related characters are the creative property of George R.R. Martin Warnings: Canon-typical violence & language, Past character deaths (canon and non-canon) Ships: DaenerysxSansa, past relationships mentioned including JonxDaenerys Rating: T Synopsis: [Hypothetical Ending AU] As warden of the North under Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of her name, Queen of Westeros, Sansa finds herself host to the woman she once bent the knee to, and is concerned with the prospect of history repeating itself. Little does she know, Daenerys shares a similar concern. DanyxSansa. Sapphic September: Magic

A/N: So basically this is a perceived future where the united kingdoms stave off the Long Night and the Night King, Jon impregnated Dany, but then he died heroically in battle. This is years later, featuring Daenerys, Sansa, and the remains of both houses with the figurative and literal future for them embodied in the daughter of Dany and Jon. It got incredibly long incredibly fast

While the Long Night had seen its end in a merciless prevailing of fire and sword, and the living men and women of Westeros and Essos were salvaged only by the innumerable losses of Westerosi and, for her concerns, particularly Northerners’ lives, it truly had been a long Winter. The longest to her memory, which reminded her of what Old Nan had terrified her with as a chid.

Fear is for the winter, when the snows fall a hundred feet deep. Fear is for the long night, when the sun hides for years and children are born and live and die, all in darkness. That is the time for fear, when the white walkers move through the woods.

Reality, bitterly enough, had been both greater and lesser than the tells of a midwife.

Lady Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North, Sworn protector of the First Men and the Free Folk, stood at the top of the eighty foot wall overseeing the white lands of her people. On her order, men and women were out there, even in the light falling snow, using brooms and at times shovels to clear the path to their hold from the Southern roads. They might not have done so happily, but they assuredly did so faithfully, and Sansa felt her gratitude for them far more than she felt the chill of winter anymore.

After a few moments of silence, Sansa took a collective breath, looking to the skies, out of instinct more than anything else, and then began to walk down from the wall, her embroidered dire wolf on her chest and the fur trimmings of her cloak nipping at the heels of her boots.

Winterfell was in a state of chaos in a way. An organized disaster under her very direction. Butchers preparing a feast worthy of a hundred men, the maids throwing out hot water over the grounds from their windows both from scrubbing the castle inside and for wetting down the fresh hay laid out over the grounds to keep ice and mud from coating where carriages and horses would be drawn in.

With a polite smile she nodded to each Northerner and Free Folk who greeted her or called her name as she passed them. But her stomach felt unsettled, and her heart heavy with memory.

“Lady Sansa, Lady Sansa,” a mocking tone came from over her shoulder.

Despite herself, Sansa turned enough to see what she already knew, her eyes rolling away from her sister as she turned back to looking where they were walking. “I told you not to do that,” Sansa admonished her sister. “Sneaking up on me like that, Arya… It just isn’t as funny as you think it is.”

“Even if it weren’t as funny as I thought, it’d still be funny,” Arya answered, picking up her step so she could be in stride with Sansa. Her clothes were heavier than Arya’s, thick with leather like armor, dull browns and dark navies. None of which was cut to the fit of a dress or even a lady’s pants like many Free Folk women would wear. Arya was just Arya. “Besides, you’re nervous and humor is supposed to help that.”

“I am not nervous,” Sansa argued, turning with Arya in toward the castle.

“You’re nervous and it’s making everyone else nervous because Lady Sansa is the Steel Wolf, she can’t be unsettled, all of her previous husbands had their cocks eaten off by dire wolves,” Arya joked, quoting the North’s favorite rumors concerning their Warden. “If Lady Sansa’s scared, every man, woman, and child be they Northern or Free will absolutely lose their shit when a damned dragon lands inside the walls again.”

Sansa was already in the process of removing her gloves when Arya began laughing. She gave her sister a disdainful look and used one of the gloves to smack her shoulder. “Stop it,” she all but hissed at her younger sister. “And they don’t call me Lady Sansa, that’s you. Only you.”

“Well I can’t very well go around calling you Lady Stark when I’m a Stark or else I’d have to start going around calling Bran Lord Stark and seven hells if he deserves more brandishing of his incredible ego,” Arya mocked.

They continued up the tower, unspoken but fully aware of both of their destinations. Along the way people scurried about fulfilling all of Sansa’s commands from earlier that morning when she first received the raven from Dragonstone and learned that Queen Daenerys was coming to Winterfell with a full company of servants and soldiers consisting of her most loyal men and women. Not to mention her daughter and the two dragons.

Sansa couldn’t even force herself to think of the dragons.

“What do you think that she wants?” Arya asked as they made their way down the hall and toward Ban’s room.

“The Queen?” Sansa asked, as if the same question had not been racking her mind ever since the message first arrived.

“No, Brienne, she’s so indecisive about how many additional guards the hold will need,” Arya mocked. “Of course I mean the Queen. It’s not like she just arrives all the time. Like anyone goes North without reason. It’s colder here than in the South and the South still has at least two feet of snow last I visited.”

“There you go,” Sansa uttered distractedly. “Arya, the assassin, the worshipper of the Many Faced God, can travel around the world on a whim, but the moment someone else leaves their hold she has to assume the worst of everyone involved.”

“That’s because I travel all the time. It’s normal for me. It’s the rest of the world that lives, breeds, and dies in the same shit town that they were born in most of the time,” she replied candidly. “Did I tell you that the last time I saw Gendry he was in Flea Bottom? Flea Bottom. A hero of the Long Night and he was hanging around in Flea Bottom last I saw him. Who lives in fucking Flea Bottom?”

“I was born in Winterfell, I’m Lady of Winterfell, I live in Winterfell as we speak, I intend to eventually die here, too,” Sansa remarked. “What is your point, Arya? Just out of curiosity.”

“Can’t say I intended to have one outside of the fact that what you just told me was dishearteningly pathetic,” Arya replied. “I love Winterfell, it’s home. If I die here I would come back so the Many Faced God could fuck me over even more in the second life but at least in exchange I’d die somewhere other than Winterfell.”

Sansa glared at her sister before rolling her eyes and pushing open the door to Bran’s library. “Bran?” she called out, only to let out a long sigh as she saw him across the room, his eyes milked over and head tilted back in his chair as he sat by the window.

“Fucksake,” Arya muttered, marching over to their brother in irritation. “Brandon Stark!”

Sansa stood back. She did not pretend to understand the magic that supposedly ran through all of their veins, but strongest within Bran himself. It terrified her more than dragons or white walkers, the possibilities of the Old Gods having a hand on her and all of her family in a way few others had… That was information she didn’t know how to correctly process.

Arya stopped just in front of Bran and put her hands on his shoulders. “Whatever you’re watching in your head isn’t nearly as interesting as the mess Sansa’s made of Winterfell so come awake now. We don’t have time to play around like you’re dim, as funny as it is that most people in Winterfell whisper that that’s what this is.”

Bran took a deep breath, his eyes rolling back down with a blink and he looked expectantly at Arya. “You’re curious about Queen Daenerys and her intentions.”

“What, did you go and worg yourself into a mouse in the hall just to spy on what we were going to come up and tell you anyway? That’s completely useless,” Arya replied without missing a beat. “Sansa, tell him that if he’s going to go mental on us, he has to make it at least count.”

“I never waste my abilities on trivial matters. Everything the Three Eyed Raven does is for reason,” he assured Arya. “Good reason.”

With a dull look, Arya glanced at Sansa, as if she was supposed to be some sort of deciding factor in the tiff. Sansa felt a whole new wave of understanding for her mother she had never had before.

“I don’t understand any of this magic,” Sansa replied. “Bran can decide what he… worgs into and what he doesn’t. He’s a grown man.”

Bran nodded almost sagely.

“There you are, nervous again,” Arya replied, rounding Bran’s chair to grip onto its handles and push him. “Bran, what is the Queen coming to Winterfell for? Did you at least learn that instead of spying on us or whatever it is that you do.”

“Arya, the Queen is the mother to our niece,” Sansa reminded her. “Is it so outlandish to assume that Queen Daenerys would like for Princess Nathaleya to see the lands her father hailed from?”

“In all technicality, Jon was our cousin, son of Aunt Lyanna,” Bran reminded them, as if he had not told the story a hundred fold since the first days of the Long Night.

“He was our brother,” Sansa corrected. “Jon was and always shall be our brother, Bran. And even if you were very young when he left Winterfell for the Night’s Watch, I would hope you could remember him being our brother.”

“Besides, being reminded he’s not our brother makes me gag at who our cousin-in-law is to him,” Arya scoffed.

“Arya,” Sansa tried to correct.

“You both think it, too,” Arya insisted.

“I’m fairly certain that insulting the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms is a doomed endeavor,” Sansa remarked. “Punishable by dragon.”

“Only if you don’t kill the dragon first,” Arya continued jokingly, She then patted Bran’s shoulder as she pushed him out into the hall. “Come on now, tell me what you know. It’s always something, isn’t it?”

Bran glanced up to Sansa for a moment. He always had that look of knowing more than he should, though for the life of her, Sansa couldn’t figure out what he was thinking then and there with that look.

“What?” Sansa asked, that time hearing the nervousness in her voice herself.

“Do you know why Queen Daenerys is arriving from Dragonstone?” he asked curiously.

“No, why would I?” Sansa asked almost defensively. “I don’t… worg or… change my faces, or… There is nothing unusual about me.”

Arya’s cackling laughter filled the hall. “Nothing is more convincing of a woman’s normalcy than her declaring it,” Arya almost howled.

“You are a living Stark,” Bran added. “There is nothing more unusual in these changing times than that.”

A depressing silence fell over the three of them for a few more strides. There was a humility to the comment that was deafening.

“Princess Nathaleya has the blood of a Stark running thick in her veins,” Sansa stated lowly. “No man nor woman lived and breathed the words of our father the way that Jon managed. No one else embodied the name of Stark as Jon did. For every silver hair on top of the princess’ blessed head there is a bone or nail or eye or heart that is Stark.” Sansa made a point of looking Arya’s way. “That must be why Queen Daenerys comes to the North. Because it is where the Stark in our Princess thrives.”

Arya raised her brows slightly before leaning in over Bran’s shoulder and whispering loudly, “Perhaps Sansa’s magic lives in her tongue and that’s what’s come to interest the Queen.”

That time, as even Bran grinned at the comment, Sansa took both her gloves and used them to hit both of her siblings over the head.

“Muñnykeā,” rolled from the silver haired child’s tongue, her head rested softly beneath her mother’s breasts, back leaned completely back against Daenerys’ stomach to resist the winds that thundered over Drogon’s scales. “Gaomagon issa lēkia zaldrīzoti mirre mazverdagon ēdrugi?”

Daenerys was curled over her daughter’s back, gripping onto the spines of Drogon’s shoulders as they rode, keeping her precious princess safe through their travels. For as much as Daenerys trusted her first borns with the life of her daughter, there was still a great danger in riding dragons.

Even for a Targaryen. Even for the Daughter of Snow.

“Nathaleya, dragons tire their wings as much as a man tires his arms or legs,” she answered her child, looking down until her chin brushed against the furry hood of her daughter’s coat. “But Drogon and Rhaegal are mostly riding the winds on this journey, so they will travel farther but slower. You will have to know the difference when you are old enough to ride a dragon on your own.”

There was a soft pout from beneath Daenerys and she leaned further back, as if trying to escape back into the mother which she came from. “Tyron iksos verdagon ao ȳzaldrīzes isse quptenka ēngos.”

“I speak in the language I choose to speak, Little One, and you shouldn’t forget it,” Daenerys replied, pressing her lips against the back of the child’s head. “We’re going a slower route so that we will arrive at the same time as the caravan. Missandei is with them and you may speak to her in any language you please. But you will speak to others in the language they know.”

For a moment, her daughter was quiet. Nathaleya bravely — far braver than Daenerys at her age — leaned across her mother’s protective arm and peered past the gliding wings of Drogon to see the snow covered valleys below as they crossed.

“Will they like me if I speak to them?” the little princess asked.

“Your family loves you, as does your kingdom, as does your mother,” Daenerys assured her.

In truth, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the North. It held so many terrible memories for everyone who had fought on her side during the Long Night, who fought for the right of all mankind to live through the very long winter they were still in. And the Starks were the key to that fight, as they were the key to the relative safety the kingdom had known for the last six years of winter.

And of course, Jon Snow, the Prince that was Promised just as Daenerys was, and the father of her child, had been every bit the living embodiment of the North itself that the only end to the Long Night was for him to deliver its end to the Night King himself. The fact that he was lost to them so soon — lost to Daenerys so soon — had made the North more bitter than cold.

But the Starks were Jon’s family, and were indispensable to Daenerys through the years. But even if the Lady of Winterfell had bent the knee years and years ago, Daenerys still doubted whether it was taken for security, taken for loyalty, or taken for Jon.

Still, Daenerys trusted a Stark word above anything else, and found that their house was not one to be concerned with compared to Southerners with their prides and far too much time to find things to complain about to their queen.

Suddenly, Nathaleya grew stiff, her body rigid against Daenerys’ before she suddenly rocked back and forth in place. Despite the number of times Daenerys had told her to not let go of Drogon’s spines, she did just that in order to reach over Daenerys’ arm and point toward the grounds.

“Muñnykeā! Konīr airy iksos! Nye kostagon ūndegon ziry!” the child declared loudly in Valyrian. “Winterfell!”

Sure enough, Daenerys could see for herself that the winter hold was fast upon them, a steady line of Unsullied and Dothraki screamers surrounding drawn carriages entering from the Southern road. Some relief finally came to Daenerys as she could see that everything seemed to be fine, that a trip North had not spelled doom for any of her trusted advisors, soldiers, or allies. Even if in the current timid peace it was difficult to imagine what might have happened to any of them, there was always the unseen threat.

Ruling, after all, was not the job gods assigned to lesser men or women.

Leaning with her body, Daenerys steered Drogon to begin a circling descent toward Winterfell. In the distance, Rhaegal saw and followed his brother’s lead. They dove together in a spectacular display, the blistering winds racing against Daenerys and Nathaleya, prompting the Queen to hold tighter to her children and also be grateful for the foresight of her Hand for putting a scarf up to the Princess’ eyes in order to keep her safe from such cold winds.

When at last they landed, it was to the calls of shock and surprise of the Northerners within the walls of Winterfell. Judging by the reactions, it was the first time many of them had seen the legendary dragons which had helped stay the white walkers six years before, even though most were certainly old enough to have fought the battle for themselves.

At the royal carriage, Tyrion was already standing beside Grey Worm and Missandei, in line from across the line of Starks greeting them likewise. Drogon lowered his neck and shoulders low enough that Daenerys could safely slide her leg over his back’s scales and stand firmly on his haunches before reaching up and taking her daughter, a hand beneath each arm, and lowering her to the ground.

Once Daenerys had stepped off from Drogon she turned and patted his scales. “Jikagon sōvegon,” she told him in High Valyrian.

Dragon wasted no time in looking upward, out of the walls of Winterfell and taking off with the same grace and tenaciousness with which he had landed. Where he went, Rhaegal followed.

Excitedly, Nathaleya pulled away her scarf and stomped through the freshly laid hay on the grounds, looking up after the dragons and waving with both arms. “Germs alas, lēkias! Nyke jorrāelagon ao!”

“Nathaleya,” Daenerys said, grabbing her daughter’s shoulders to turn her to their guests and remind her of her manners.

Immediately, Nathaleya straightened up and folded her hands against her thighs before hurriedly stepping over toward the faces she knew. Daenerys simply shook her head, a fond smile on her face.

When Daenerys’ eyes shifted toward Missandei, her oldest friend and confidant smiled and nodded back before looking to the gathered Starks and Northern nobles and Free Folk chieftains.

“Here hails Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, First of her name, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First men, Protector of the Realm, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Unburnt, Mother of Dragons, Breaker of Chains, Queen of Mereen,” Missandei began, pausing so that her smile of pride could only grow larger. “The Queen that was Chosen.”

When Nathaleya had scurried close enough to her tutor, Missandei smoothly held onto her shoulders and lightly pushed her further toward the Northern audience. The little girl’s brown eyes could not have grown wider had they tried.

“And introducing to the Northern Realms,” Missandei called out with the same fervor, “Nathaleya Winterborn of House Targaryen, First of her name, Princess of the Seven Kingdoms, and the Daughter of Snow.”

At that, almost immediately, the entire crowd erupted into a cheer, “Daughter of Snow! Daughter of Snow!”

Face flushed, Nathaleya pressed back against Missandei’s firm hands. “Nyke jaelagon naejot jikagon lenton sir,” she said loud enough that the Northerners knew she was speaking a tongue foreign to them, a fact that made those closer slowly stop their praises in discomfort.

Tyron’s face twisted and he looked toward Daenerys before seeing Nathaleya’s scarf. He walked over best he could with his thick winter clothes, reaching down and taking the scarf — snatching it up in one swoop before walking toward Daenerys again, leaning slightly. “If I have told you once I have told you a thousand times, most of this kingdom doesn’t have an interest in being ruled by people who are not one of them, let alone are native in another tongue.”

“High Valyrian is a Targaryen’s mother tongue,” Daenerys reminded her Hand. “Nathaleya is nervous.”

“Of course she’s nervous, she’s six and just got dropped into a den of dire wolves,” Tyrion said before glancing around the area cautiously. “Possibly literally. I’ve heard stories from Varys that there is an entire pack of dire wolves that are free roaming the Northern countryside now.”

“Varys isn’t here to be blamed for spreading rumors,” Daenerys reminded Tyrion playfully.

“And just why do you think that is?” he muttered.

Daenerys walked with Tyrion back toward their party and in return, Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, stepped up to meet them.

“Lady Stark,” Daenerys greeted with a curt bow.

“My Queen,” Sansa replied, bowing lower. “Thank you so much for honoring the North with your visit during this long winter. The people feel remembered and appreciated by their ruler as a result and have brought supplies for a great feast.”

“The only gratitude here, Lady Sansa, is mine,” Daenerys assured her. “I will always remember the debt the living world owes the North and its people.”

Another rumble of supportive noises broke out from among the Northerners.

“Well alright then,” Arya Stark said, leaning out from around Sansa’s back. “Let’s get on about this feast then.”

“Arya,” Sansa hissed out of the corner of her mouth.

“The suggestion is a splendid one,” Daenerys agreed. “Lady Sansa, after you.”

Sansa smiled politely and bowed more stiffly before leading their procession toward the castle. And in that time it didn’t take long for Tyrion to find Daenerys’ side once again.

“Are you certain about this trip?” Tyrion muttered. “If Yara Greyjoy gets wind—“

“Tyrion, the wheel is broken,” Daenerys reminded him. “It’s time for a better example in the world. Starting with us.”

The dwarf huffed and shook his head at her. “I truly have spent too much time as your hand. I do believe I’m rubbing off on you. Once not so long ago you were never this excited to have a verbal put down.”

“It’s true, it’s a world opened up to me by you, Hand of the Queen,” Daenerys joked in return as they entered Winterfell’s inner castle.

Arya’s ability to tell stories, mostly ones with no basis in reality, to convince every solitary person in a room who knew better was one of the more astounding joys of the evening. No matter how many times Sansa herself was witness to it, she still was captivated by the story all the way until Arya stopped her telling, straightened herself, standing on the middle of the table in the great hall and looked around with her arms folded behind her back.

Then she asked the titular question which was always asked at the end of her game.

“Was it truth?” she asked, glancing around the room, listening for how many of the audience screamed truth back at her. “Or was it lie?” Again she took pause and listened for all the ones who screamed lie back at her. A coy smile never left her face.

Sansa had long ago made an oath to herself to never participate out loud and was just watching with raised eyebrows, wondering how much longer Arya would keep up her favorite game in front of so many people she barely even knew.

And in that moment, she almost forgot that she was sitting to the right of her sworn queen. And indeed did forget until the silver haired Targaryen leaned closer to Sansa.

In reaction, Sansa leaned back as well, eyes wide as she looked to see if perhaps the queen had too much wine. But the lean in seemed purposeful as she turned and looked at Sansa with a smile. “You know your sister’s heart better than anyone here, is this one true or is it a lie?” she asked in good fun.

For a moment, Sansa was too stunned to reply, but she shook the shock out of herself soon enough and smiled pleasantly back at the queen. “Just because I know her heart best, doesn’t mean that I know much at all. Only more than most,” Sansa confessed. “In truth, Bran is far better at this game than I am. It would be best if you were to ask him. He is something of our maester here at Winterfell. Not to the delight of our actual maester of course.”

The queen hummed, a hand against her cheek. “Would how well he does have anything to do with his rumored visions?” Daenerys asked casually, as if the secret of Bran was something discussed as commonly as anything else in the Seven Kingdoms.

“Beg your pardon,” Sansa replied quickly, protectively.

“I have a man who works with me, claims himself a spymaster. He says he has little birds in every part of the kingdoms, both Westeros and in Essos,” Daenerys explained. “His information is usually very reliable.”

Sansa thought quietly to herself for a moment before looking back to Daenerys. “You mean Varys. The spymaster who worked for King Robert.”

“Also for my father,” Daenerys answered. “His loyalty is to the lands, not the crown. Which is why his word is trusted in my confidence. Even if sometimes there are rumors of things like wild dire wolves running across the Northern countryside.”

Instinctively, Sansa glanced Arya’s way, remembering how her sister had the occasional run in with Nymeria. But she quickly looked back to the queen. “Sometimes rumors hold grains of truth. Sometimes they have none.”

Arya had finally worked the crowd up enough and she looked around, arms out. “It was truth!” she called out, the jeers and cheers of the entire room. The people called upon her for another round while some of the lower houses and soldiers exchanged betted coins and entrees according to their betting from the previous round.

“So you’re telling your queen that Brandon Stark of Winterfell does not claim himself to be a legendary Three Eyed Raven and capable of seeing the future and past and all between?” Daenerys asked, eyebrow raised. “Furthermore, would you not share such information with the mother of your brother’s daughter?”

Looking back at Daenerys, Sansa played a little game where she tried to imagine the intent behind Daenerys’ questions.

She did not like the least nice option, in truth.

“It’s simply that it’s not something to be told by others but asked of Bran himself,” Sansa answered. “I could not tell you what is in Bran’s heart no more than I could Arya’s. And that’s even with being the one left in the world who would know him most.”

Daenerys smiled at that, almost looking impressed. Her eyes then looked to the embroidered wolf across Sansa’s chest.

“Winter suits a Stark,” Daenerys complimented. “You have grown into a woman to be envied, Lady Sansa.”

“You may call me Sansa, my Queen,” Sansa replied.

Daenerys smiled more, her purple eyes shining in the flickering candles’ light. “In confidence, Sansa, you may call me Daenerys.”

Sansa smiled back, something warm within her at receiving such an honest compliment from their beautiful queen. “Thank you, m’lady,” she replied aptly.

“I could be persuaded to drop more of my titles in public if you could arrange for me to meet Bran in private after this feast,” Daenerys continued. “I would like to ask him myself about my question. And then depending on the answer I have many other questions for him.”

Inside her own mind, Sansa played a little game, watching the pieces move across the board throughout their conversation. She was a long time player, something Jon never learned nor her father, and even if she felt satisfaction in the North, she knew the Game was still being played in the South.

The union of the North and the South was always the most frayed, and it was also only when they were united that the Realm was truly changed. Queen Daenerys was known for inciting worldwide change in ways that no normal person, no non-magical person would have ever managed in the same circumstances. She was a mother to dragons, the literal defender of the realm.

And the daughter who she held so close to her, with her silver Targaryen hair and lovely dark, brown Stark eyes, was the future of that very necessary union between North and South. The North clamored to take pride in a ruler, even a future ruler, being tied to the North. It was why they were there.

But Nathaleya Targaryen was not queen yet, her mother was. And Daenerys had spent most of her life not in Westeros but in Essos. She had moved the capital to Dragonstone instead of King’s Landing, but it still was not North. And haven Northern blood but not experience in the North herself was not going to be enough for some Northerners and Free Folk to follow Nathaleya even in the future, let alone Daenerys now.

Which meant, politically, Daenerys’ best political move was to strengthen her alliance with the North by marriage.

And Bran was the only male Stark, legitimate or bastard, left of their once great house.

“I see,” Sansa replied stiffly at last. She swallowed, an unusual feeling catching her throat. “It will be done immediately after the feast, my Queen. I will see to it myself.”

The Targaryen queen’s own brows furrowed as well. “I meant my word when I said you could call me Daenerys, Sansa. I would hope that you could come to see myself and Nathaleya as family. We both have so little of it left.”

“I understand,” Sansa replied, confused by her own internal burning, like frostbite in her lungs. “I truly do, my Queen, but reminding myself of your title out loud is most comfortable for me right now.”

Daenerys slowly nodded, unconvinced.

From the middle of the chamber, Arya laughed out and held up her hands over the calls of the crowd. “Lie!” she declared to the ruckus of her audience once again.

The burning continued within Sansa’s breast, making her sit uneasily in her own seat, so she slowly scooted her seat back, drawing Daenerys’ attention to her again. “My sincerest apologies, Queen Daenerys,” Sansa uttered as she began to stand, mindful to keep her head bowed. “I must take leave for a moment, it seems like my body has grown confused on me.”

“Are you alright?” Daenerys asked in concern.

“I always am,” Sansa lied as easily as Arya for once as she slipped out behind the crowd and moved to the halls.

Her heart was pounding, the heat of hundreds of burning candles and the stink of a hundred or more people crowded within the great hall was enough to make most ill. But Sansa was not most, and the burning was not candles or heat, but something inside her confused and twisted.

She needed the comfort of the snow and ice. Of the weirwood tree and old gods who she didn’t talk to even when she remembered how.

It was the only thing she could think of with her eyes weeping without cause and her tightly held control over her small world of the North breaking apart before her hands.

And even still, those things did little to help her understand why she felt so much pain with her queen’s plans.

Daenerys stepped outside of the room after Brandon Stark’s counsel and was not surprised in the least to see Tyrion waiting in the hall, standing by Nathaleya as she sat on the floor. She stood, brows high, hands held together over her stomach as she looked down at the two of them.

“And the words of House Stark…” Tyrion led her.

Nathaleya groaned, cheeks smothered by her hands as they rested in her palms, she was looking down to the floor in a pout. “Airy iksos door kirimves,” she muttered.

Tyrion held a finger to her face. “You do that because you think no one else knows Valyrian but your mother and Missandei. But I am a fast learner, my little princess, and I disagree with you entirely. It is fun to learn because it is fun to keep your wits over others. It’s how you get to where you are in life. And knowing the words and sigils of the most important houses in your kingdoms is all that and more.” When he could see that Nathaleya’s interests were far from his reach, he opened and closed his mouth a few times before leaning closer. “House Stark is simple. What’s the one bloody animal we’ve seen on every tapestry, shirt, breast plate, and banner since we got here?”

“Dire wolf,” she answered finally.

“And the words of the house of your father?” Tyrion pressed.

“Fire and blood,” Nathaleya answered with a smile that said far too much about how she knew exactly how wrong she was being.

“That is Targaryen and you are driving me to drink,” Tyrion answered with a sigh as he reached toward the nearest table where wine and glass were waiting for him.

Daenerys looked to her daughter. “Nathaleya Winterborn,” she said sternly, causing Nathaleya to immediately look up with wide eyes. “The Hand is asking you a question. If you wish to be a good queen someday, to be the queen your people will choose for themselves, then you must have a wise Hand by your side. To teach you and steer you.”

Tyrion held his glass to his lips but he did not drink yet, looking almost moved by Daenerys’ words. He then glanced toward Nathaleya again.

Getting to her feet, Nathaleya took a deep breath and looked at Tyrion. “The house words of House Stark are… Winter is coming,” she answered at last. Then she spun around on her heels to look at Daenerys with a pout. “But that doesn’t make any sense because winter has always been here.”

“Certainly feels like it,” Tyrion said, lowering his glass. “Now, I said to Missandei I would keep with you waiting in the hall until your mother was done speaking to the Stark boy. She’s done speaking with the Stark boy so you should be running back to your room and jump in bed before a dire wolf finds you.”

Nathaleya stiffened at the threat and then ran to Daenerys to hug her waist.

Daenerys looked exhaustedly at Tyrion as she petted her daughter’s head. “A dire wolf, Tyrion?”

“You can only do so much with a six year old who is not afraid of being eaten by dragons and speaks three languages around you to make your head spin,” Tyrion replied.

Smiling down at her daughter, Daenerys said softly, “Jikagon naejot ēdrugon, issa sōna zaldrīzes. Nyke jorrāelagon ao.”

Smiling, Nathaleya buried her head against Daenerys’ dress. “Nyke jorrāelagon ao.” She then took off down the hall to the guest chambers she shared with her mother and Missandei.

Tyrion joined Daenerys in watching after the little girl before concentrating on Daenerys. “Well then, that was quite a long discussion. I think spring broke while you were in there,” Tyrion said in jest. “Tell me, how far does a Three Eyed Raven see? And was there an ounce of it that was not cryptic beyond the understanding of mere mortal men?”

“It was very insightful,” Daenerys replied. “I got the answers I came for. And was advised where I should go to break the news to Lady Sansa.”

Tyrion stared at Daenerys in disbelief. “So you are actually to go through with this plan,” he said as if he had just realized it himself.

“Of course I am,” Daenerys replied. “The wheel is broken. Changes have been made. I want a content kingdom.”

“And you think this will—“ Tyrion cut himself off and took a deep drink of his glass of wine. “This is what you do to me, Daenerys.”

Daenerys looked at her Hand intently. “Tyrion,” she said softly. “I… You know your counsel is held in my utmost regards.”

“When you want it, yes,” Tyrion replied, lowering his wine.

“And you know you have earned my faith this day and one thousand days over by now,” she continued.

“I should hope as Hand of the Queen I have,” he agreed.

“Then you know that if I should fail at anything I decide to do, that should I make a mess of things that I personally cannot escape, you and Missandei are the only ones within my circle who have my faith to keep Nathaleya safe. To keep her good. To make her the queen I failed to be.”

Tyrion took a deep breath. “You know I love Nathaleya as if she were my own daughter. But you also know that you are unlike any ruler in any history of any land, and most of that was earned without my counsel.” He looked at her almost proudly. “Sometimes it becomes the job of the Hand to put faith in the decisions of his queen.”

“Thank you, Tyrion,” Daenerys replied. She then adjusted her cloak. “Now, I will be meeting Lady Sansa at this grandiose weirwood tree over on the north part of the wall.”

Tyrion looked at her before shaking his head. “Well, is she at least expecting you?” he asked.

“No,” Daenerys replied. “I expect this to be another long talk. Are you going to wait on me for this one, too?”

“If I have not passed out on this Northern spit they call wine,” Tyrion replied. “Having shipments from Essos truly has spoiled me, you know.”

Daenerys smiled at him and shook her head before pulling up the hood of her cloak and heading out of the Stark’s castle and down to the main floor.

With her signature features shrouded by her cloak, Daenerys walked past the various guests of Winterfell with nary a second look from the majority. She walked straight out the doors to the courtyard and walked toward the northern exit where a large, sturdy woman soldier stood in wait, hand on he sword. She was unmistakable. Especially when she stepped between Daenerys and the path toward the weirwood tree.

“I am sorry, m’lady, but Lady Stark is in prayer and asks not to be disturbed,” Brienne of Tarth said sternly.

“As much as I wish to respect such a wish, I am afraid I am in need of her time,” Daenerys replied, lifting up enough of her hood that the noble knight could see who she was.

Brienne took a deep breath, and lowered herself to one knee. “My apologies, Queen Daenerys. I was not aware it was you.”

“As would be the point of subterfuge,” Daenerys replied, putting her hood back on. “Would it be alright for me to speak with the Warden of the North?”

“I can only assume if it is what you want then it is what will happen,” the knight replied.

“Let us both hope,” Daenerys replied.

Walking past the knight, the path was hard to trace, so covered in snow. Most of it was freshly fallen, but the faintest outline of previous steps made it clear to Daenerys where she should go.

Soon, through the darkness of night and bright against the soft whites and blues of snow, the blood red, five pointed leaves of the weirwood tree was visible. An ancient face grown into its bark weeped with red sap, and it looked upon a small bench where the Warden of the North sat, staring over a frozen pond. Her bright red hair shown as brightly as the leaves themselves.

Once she was close enough, Daenerys lowered her own hood. “My apologies for interrupting any prayers or meditations,” Daenerys said as she neared Sansa, drawing the Lady’s attention. “I’m unfamiliar with the customs of the Old Gods and don’t know what they look like.”

“They look like any other religion’s prayers,” Sansa answered. “Bent knee, bowed head, speaking to air with a glimmer of hope that it’s being heard.”

Daenerys stopped approaching, raising a brow at the response.

Sansa seemed to gather her senses at seeing Daenerys’ reaction and then flushed, lowering to her knees from the bench. “My apologies, my Queen. I did not mean to offend by speaking out of turn. I know what a comfort religions are to a great many of the Realms.”

“But not to you,” Daenerys inferred.

“I’m…” Sansa thought on it before looking up. “No. I’m afraid not.”

“Starks, so truthful,” Daenerys said, a smile coming to her lips.

“Clearly you weren’t paying attention to Arya’s game,” Sansa laughed.

“Fair enough,” Daenerys replied, looking to the unique tree again. “Now it’s my turn to apologize for speaking out of turn but… if you are not out here for prayer… do you mind telling me why you are here?” she asked. “It is rather cold. And rather lonely.”

Sansa nodded to the comments. “That’s fair. It is both of those things but… my father would come here and reflect. He was very loved as Lord of Winterfell, and trusted by the kingdom until the Lannister’s deceit to be an honest and true man,” she said, swallowing. “When I wish to have a tenth of his strength or a tenth of his honor, I come out here and try to think of all the trials he must have felt as Warden of the North when he came out here.” She smiled a bit, shaking her head. “I feel like I relate to him as a completely different person now. I know so much more about him and what he did even before he was Hand of the King.”

Daenerys listened carefully and took a breath. “And do you reflect upon your father for wisdom as well?” she asked.

A laugh came from Sansa that she quickly choked off. “Sorry. No. My father was very wise in his ways. But they were not the ways that wisdom came to me or how I got to where I am now,” she explained. “I feel, as unfortunate as it may be, some of our greatest wisdom comes from our most formidable enemies.”

Nodding, Daenerys found an entirely new respect for the Lady Stark. “You truly are wise.” She walked forward more, coming closer to Sansa. “I expect you know that with as much land and as many people as there are in my domains, I am looking to strengthen my alliances where needed, and to make moves which will incite change across all the kingdoms,” Daenerys explained. “And change, like so many other accomplishments, is best demonstrated by example.”

“Of course,” Sansa answered. “Which is why you spoke to Bran.”

“I sought his counsel on many matters for our Realm. It…” she hesitated, searching for a correct description. “It was fascinating.”

Again, Sansa gave a small laugh, though she didn’t try hard to hide it. “Arya and I long ago settled on calling it bloody weird.”

“It is,” Daenerys laughed in return. “But he made me more confident in what I want to do next.”

Sansa lowered her head. She seemed to have an expectant but still worried look on her face, refusing to meet Daenerys’ eyes. “And what would that be, my Queen?”

Daenerys looked at Sansa for a long while. “I wish to propose a union between our houses. Strengthening the connection between our people and ensuring that my daughter learns the values of the North which made her father such a grand leader that he was capable of uniting all people of all creeds.”

“It is a well thought out move,” Sansa replied. “Truly. And you need my permission to go forward with it all.”

A little confused, Daenerys tilted her head slightly. “I … would hope so, yes. I would not do anything that would force you… without permission or anything.”

Taking a deep breath, Sansa turned and looked at Daeneys, eyes hardened and smile all but fallen from her pale lips. “Very well, Queen Daenerys. As head of the House Stark, I give you permission to ask for my brother’s hand in marriage.”

Completely taken aback, Daenerys looked at Sansa like she was grown an extra set of eyes. Which, in turn, made Sansa’s stony expression disappear in turn for a confused and alarmed one.

“Your brother?” Daenerys repeated, laughing at the shock of it. “I… With all due respect, Sansa, I did just spend a lot of time with your brother and…” Unable to find a better term she laughed and continued with, “It was bloody weird.”

Sansa let out a sigh of relief and laughed with the queen. “Yes. It would… Yes definitely. But… If that isn’t your request… What is?”

Daenerys suddenly realized that her request was, for Sansa at least, coming completely out of nowhere. Completely without precedent. And, in truth, she shouldn’t have expected otherwise.

“I…” Daenerys breathed deep into the cold air. “Tyrion and I have this phrase we have used since we met. Politics, the way the world works, how ruling has been done for generations since Aegon the Conquerer landed on Westerosi shores. We call it the wheel. And my desire, my only true desire, has been to fight so that I rule and do so in a way which breaks the wheel entirely.” She leveled her gaze into Sansa’s eyes. “I believe a magic runs in the veins of certain men and women, that makes their dreams a reality should they fight for them. And I have fought, and fought, and fought. The reason that Missandei introduces me with all of my titles is because I take pride in the battle represented by each and every one of those names. And none more so than my last earned title — the Queen that was Chosen. It is important to me that people choose to follow me. It is important to me that my example changes expectations for rulers, for women, for foreigners, for magic brought back into our world.”

“Then what is the change you propose now?” Sansa asked curiously.

Daenerys felt herself uncharacteristically hesitant to answer that exact question. She put a finger to her lip in thought and then looked back at Sansa. “We are both getting older, Lady Sansa,” she started.

“Well, if I must be truthful for a Stark’s word to still have meaning, I suppose I can admit to that,” Sansa joked.

“And neither of us have taken up husbands, despite what the world has demanded of us as women,” Daenerys explained.

Sansa took a breath and glanced off. “My luck in marriage is tumultuous at best, Daenerys. With no offense to your Hand.”

“I’m aware,” Daenerys replied. “You could say much the same of me… but I think it’s important to note that we both are referring to marriages to men.”

Looking at Daenerys immediately, Sansa tilted her head. “What? Of course we are.”

“I wish to break the wheel, Sansa,” Daenerys continued. “I wish to strengthen the faith of the people of the North, and I want to change what they believe is possible. Not through magic and dragons this time, but through people. I want to marry so that others may marry, so that history will see an example of a union that was not merely political but reformatory.”

Truly taken aback, Sansa held a hand to the Stark emblem on her chest. “Some women like pretty girls,” she said to herself.

“What is that?” Daenerys asked, slightly confused.

Sansa looked back at her, eyes still wide from shock. “It’s… it’s something someone dear to me once told me. She tried to explain to me that most women don’t get to know what they like until they’ve tried.”

Daenerys understood. “And some women like pretty girls,” she agreed. “And I want that to be something that truly is okay, that is looked up to rather than down on for all of my people.”

They stood together in the cold, silent and hesitant.

But Daenerys steeled herself and held out a hand. “Lady Sansa, Warden of the North, Lady of Wintefell, will you help me break the wheel? Will you raise my daughter with me as your own so that she will know the values your your house as well as mine, so that she sees kinship with wolves as much as dragons. Will you be my queen, and show all the lands that some women like pretty girls, and our love for them is not lessened for it? That, perhaps, it can be even greater?”

Sansa was silent for what felt like ages, but Daenerys did not drop her hand, leaving it extended toward the Lady Sark.

Then, finally, Sansa delicately laid her hand in Daenerys’.

“Queen Daenerys,” Sansa answered, a true smile growing on her face for the first time that Daenerys had seen. “I want to break the wheel.”

They stood, breathless beside each other, hands gripping each other, then intwining fingers. They didn’t know what to do next, but like everything else in her life, Daenerys trusted her instincts and went in for a kiss against Sansa’s lips.

Fortunately for Dany, by some innate magic, her instincts were so often right.

#SaphSep2017 #writing #got fic #Sansa Stark #Daenerys Targaryen #Daenerys x Sansa #Arya Stark #Bran Stark #Missandei #Tyrion Lannister

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