#might do more chars later but this has exhausted my hand for the night

[huanliuan]

small.

[fortunatelyfresco]

A Holistic Integration of Type 1 Narcolepsy into the Reading of Moist von Lipwig

Literary Interpretation, Disability, and Finding Yourself Between the Lines

As it goes, "I wrote this for me, but you can read it if you want." It might be a fun ride for anyone who is very interested in Moist von Lipwig, or narcolepsy, or both, and/or anyone who enjoys collecting small details from within a body of work and arranging them into threads that are supportable by the text, without being actually suggested by it.

Personally, I find it very interesting to read the meta behind different headcanons, and see how creators can unintentionally write a character who fits certain criteria. There are only so many traits, after all, and some of them tend to travel in groups! Humans are pattern seekers, etc etc.

The first step of reading Moist von Lipwig as narcoleptic is wanting to read Moist von Lipwig as narcoleptic. Being narcoleptic myself and relating heavily to Moist, this step was very easy. I invite you to take my hand and come along, at least briefly, if you were interested enough to click the readmore.

Once you have taken that step, things start falling into place. At least they do if you're intimately familiar with narcolepsy, or if you first learn about it in detail through, for instance, a Tumblr post with an agenda :)

I'll break this down symptom by symptom, citing only the ones I both have personal experience with and see textual support for.

I'll be using OverDrive's search function to catalogue "evidence" in (the American editions of) Going Postal, Making Money, and Raising Steam, so I might miss passages that don't use certain keywords.

Please take any statements along the lines of "being narcoleptic means X" with a huge grain of salt. Sometimes it's just more succinct. Narcolepsy can manifest in many different ways, and is still being actively studied. Don't base your entire understanding of it on a fandom essay I wrote to cope with the crushing pressures of capitalism. I have not even fully read the scientific studies linked here as sources.

Here we go! Spoilers abound.

I. Excessive Daytime Sleepiness (EDS) and sleep attacks.

Being narcoleptic means (salt now, please) that your brain does not get adequate rest while you sleep, no matter how much you sleep. This is because of a disturbance in the order and length of REM and NREM sleep phases. This leads to constant exhaustion. Some sources describe narcoleptic EDS as "comparable to [the sleepiness] experienced by a healthy individual who has been sleep-deprived continuously for 48–72 hours."

(Source.)

Sleep attacks can come on gradually or suddenly. In my case, I become irritable and easily overwhelmed, and nothing matters except finding a place to lie down. A more severe attack, under the right circumstances, can put me to sleep while I'm actively trying to stay awake and engaged.

Moist refers to 6:45 am as "still nighttime." He is "allergic to the concept of two seven o'clocks in one day" and is "not good at early mornings," and the narration even cites this as "one of the advantages of a life of crime; you didn't have to get up until other people had got the streets aired."

In Going Postal, he repeatedly falls asleep at his desk. I can only find two instances, but the first one describes it as having happened "again," so it happens at least three times over the course of one week. Both of the times I found were after Mr. Pump cleared his apartment, giving him access to a bed, and I can't find any reference to the fire destroying it—just that his office is "missing the whole of one wall." His presumably wooden desk is still intact, even, just "charred."

There's also no build-up either time. No direct narration of the time right before he falls asleep, just retroactive accounting for it.

Which is primarily a function of stories not showing us every boring second, and secondarily one of the smaller ways we're shown Moist being overwhelmed and racing to keep up with himself, but tertiarily it's a great set dressing if you've already decided he's narcoleptic. Sometimes sleep is just a thing that happens, without any deliberate transition. Sometimes you sit down to catch your breath or get some paperwork done, and wake up several hours later.

I've found only one example in GP of Moist waking up in his actual bed at the post office: the morning after being possessed by all the undelivered letters. Presumably either they put him there, or Mr. Pump did.

There are two points in Making Money where Moist, in an effort to be a comforting and/or guiding hand, advises people to get some sleep. First Owlswick Jenkins, and then one of the clerks (Robert) who is worried about Mr. Bent.

I take the optimistic view that this is Moist genuinely caring about these people, not just trying to get them to do what he wants. He has always done some combination of those things (GP opens with him having befriended his jailers, after all), but there's definitely a thread of him learning to treat both himself and those around him more like real people. (See also.)

Looking at this thread through narcolepsy-colored lenses, you get Moist perhaps drawing from his own experiences in an effort to be helpful. In Owlswick or Robert's position, what is something he would want to hear from the man currently in charge of his fate, or at least his job? "Get some sleep."

If we accept this as a pattern, it culminates in Raising Steam, when Moist starts to worry about "Dick Simnel and his band of overworked engineers," fixating particularly on their lack of sleep.

What sleep they got was in sleeping bags, curled up on carriage seats, eating but not eating well, just driven by their watches and their desire to keep the train going.

[...]

"People are going to die if we push them any further," he said to Dick. "You lot would rather work than sleep!"

[...]

The young man swayed in front of him and Moist's tone became gentle. "And I see now that part of my job is to tell you that you need some rest. You've run out of steam, Dick. Look, we're well on the way to Uberwald now, and while it's daylight and we're out of the mountains it's going to be the least risky time to run with minimum crew. We're all going to need our wits about us when we get near the pass. Surely you can take some rest?"

Simnel blinked as if he'd not seen Moist the first time, and said, "Yes, you're right."

And Moist could hear the slurring in the young man's speech, caught him before he fell and dragged him into a sleeping compartment, put him to bed, and noted that the engineer didn't so much fall asleep as somehow flow into it.

Moist then recruits Vimes to help him talk the rest of the engineers into getting some rest. The two of them briefly commiserate about people not realizing how important it is.

"I have to teach that to young coppers. Treasure a night's rest, I always say. Take a nap whenever you can."

"Very good."

II. Insomnia.

This is a lesser-known but very common symptom of narcolepsy. Or a comorbidity, depending on how you look at it. It seems counterintuitive if narcolepsy has been presented to you as "sleeping all the time," but it makes sense once you know it's really a matter of disruption in the brain's ability to regulate sleep cycles.

The case for this symptom is flimsier, and I fully admit I'm just reading my own experience into it. But here are two excerpts from Going Postal that I find quite suitable for my sleepy agenda:

1. "A man of affairs such as he had to learn to sleep in all kinds of situations, often while mobs were looking for him a wall's thickness away."

I latched hard onto this detail the first time I read GP.

At my worst, I could not get more than a couple hours of sleep in my bed. I kept taking naps in the bath because it was one of the few places I could sleep. It seemed to fulfill some of the criteria (isolation, temperature control, etc) that my brain demanded in exchange for playing nice.

We're told over and over again, throughout Moist's books, that he functions best under pressure.

(Brief aside: This is often cited as a reason to interpret Moist as having ADHD, which I'm also fully on board with. Not coincidentally, narcolepsy and ADHD share a few symptoms, have a notable comorbidity rate, and are treated with some of the same medications. Source.)

So again, if you're already inclined to read Moist as narcoleptic, the following is an easy jump:

"Moist thinks he's good at sleeping in strange places under strange circumstances. This is because A) his basis for comparison is a disordered attempt to sleep in normal places under normal circumstances, B) something about danger satisfies his brain into running more smoothly, and C) he's a resourceful person who is 'not given to introspection,' and so is less likely to wonder why his body demands sleep at strange times and more likely to focus on finding a place for that sleep to happen, and chalk this up later as a skill."

And returning briefly to EDS: Why would someone like Moist waste time finding a safe place to sleep while people are actively trying to kill him? At the beginning of GP, he leaves Vetinari's office and immediately goes on the run. In multiple books, when he feels threatened, his brain instinctively launches into complex escape plans. We see him successfully blend into an Ankh-Morpork crowd at least once after becoming a public figure.

So why bother? After all, a safe place to sleep is also a safe place to change clothes, or at least remove whatever distinguishing features he's given himself. Why wouldn't he just become someone else and leave town immediately?

The obvious answer is that sometimes things just happen, and an author doesn't need to know or explain every single detail of a character's past.

I would suggest, though, that one of those things might be Moist reaching a point where sleep is just not optional. A point where he not only doesn't, but can't, care about anything else. Where he is too tired to think straight, too tired to talk his way out of trouble, too tired to even contemplate the long journey from one town to the next.

2. "Moist knew he ought to get some sleep, but he had to be there, too, alive and sparkling."

Sometimes (especially in combination with underlying mental health issues) narcoleptic sleep deprivation can bypass everything I've described so far, and lead straight into a manic state. You won't necessarily find that on Google, but it's been my experience.

That's obviously not what the text is implying. "Alive and sparkling" is just a very relatable description. And we do often see Moist getting away from himself, speaking without thinking, making absurd promises that he justifies immediately afterwards as Just Part Of Being Him, always raising the stakes.

And here are a couple of excerpts from Raising Steam that could be interpreted as Moist being a light sleeper, AKA struggling to get deep sleep:

1. "And slowly Moist shut down, although a part of him was always listening to the rhythm of the rails, listening in his sleep, like a sailor listening to the sounds of the sea."

2. "All Moist's life he'd managed to find a way of sleeping in just about every circumstance and, besides, the guard's van was somehow the hub of the train; and although he didn't know how he did it, he always managed to sleep with half of one ear open."

Moist is exactly the kind of opportunist to see that as a useful tool, isn't he?

III. Hypnagogic and Hypnopompic Hallucinations.

These are hallucinations that come on as you're falling asleep or waking up. They can also happen during REM intrusions while you're awake. My most memorable ones include piano notes, someone calling my name, being trapped in the waves of a large body of water, and a huge truck going over a guard rail and tumbling down a hill. These are often, but not always, accompanied by sleep paralysis (and sleep paralysis is often, but not always, accompanied by hallucinations).

In GP, Moist casually cites his own hallucinations as proof that what is happening at the post office is not one.

"They're all alive! And angry! They talk! It was not a hallucination! I've had hallucinations and they don't hurt!"

Obviously that's not true for everyone, but it's true for Moist, and he has enough experience that he immediately recognizes the difference.

At one point while awake, Moist "[snaps] out of a dream of chandeliers" to realize someone has approached him to talk, while he was busy having visions of what the post office used to look like/could look like again.

Now, that's cheating, because we're probably supposed to assume it's a side effect of being possessed, but... I'm putting it here anyway.

There is also perhaps a case to be made for the tendency of Moist's internal monologue to lapse into extremely specific and prolonged hypotheticals. The lines between hallucinations, waking dreams, and "regular" daydreams have always been very blurry to me. I'm especially curious about the example at the end of Going Postal, which goes like this:

"Look, I know what I'm like," he said. "I'm not the person everyone thinks I am. I just wanted to prove to myself I'm not like Gilt. More than a hammer, you understand? But I'm still a fraud by trade. I thought you knew that. I can fake sincerity so well that even I can't tell. I mess with people's heads—"

"You're fooling no one but yourself," said Miss Dearheart, and reached for his hand.

Moist shook her off, and ran out of the building, out of the city, and back to his old life, or lives, always moving on, selling glass as diamond, but somehow it just didn't seem to work anymore, the flair wasn't there, the fun had dropped out of it, even the cards didn't seem to work for him, the money ran out, and one winter in some inn that was no more than a slum he turned his face to the wall—

And an angel appeared.

"What just happened?" said Miss Dearheart.

Perhaps you do get two...

"Only a passing thought," said Moist.

In-universe... what is Adora reacting to? What did just happen? The fact that these incidents are not isolated to Going Postal is a point against it being some sort of literal timeline divergence caused by The Spirit Of The Post.

So maybe Moist visibly zoned out. Maybe he had some kind of minor but noticeable cataplexy attack (more on those later) as part of a REM intrusion, brought on by the intense emotions he's currently struggling with.

IV. Vivid Dreams.

Again, at least some of this is probably supposed to be part of the possession, but I've been professionally projecting myself onto the surreal dreams of magically afflicted characters for years. Do try this at home.

1. "Moist dreamed of bottled wizards, all shouting his name. In the best tradition of awaking from a nightmare, the voices gradually became one voice, which turned out to be the voice of Mr. Pump, who was shaking him."

2. Moist is uneasy about the Smoking Gnu's plan, and then he has an extremely detailed dream about the Grand Trunk burning down.

This culminates in "Moist awoke, the Grand Trunk burning in his head," followed by a paragraph of him thinking things through and starting to form his own alternative plan, followed immediately by "Moist awoke. He was at his desk, and someone had put a pillow under his head."

So he fell asleep at his desk, woke up from a vivid nightmare, was awake just long enough for a coherent train of thought, and then passed back out. Which once again is not "proof" of anything, but fits the predetermined interpretation like a glove.

V. Cataplexy.

Cataplexy is a sudden loss of muscle control, usually triggered by strong emotions. This is thought to be a facet of REM intrusion—waking instances of the atonia that is meant to stop us from acting out our dreams.

The most well-known manifestation is laughter making your knees buckle, but it's not always that severe. My own attacks range from facial twitching, usually when I'm angry or otherwise extremely upset, to all-over weakness/immobilization and near-collapse when I laugh. My knees have fully buckled once or twice.

This is the biggest stretch. This is the one that is absolutely only there if you've already decided to read entire novels between the lines. It's also not even necessary for the broader headcanon; plenty of people have narcolepsy without cataplexy (or such mild cataplexy that it's never noticeable, or very delayed onset, etc).

However. I am doing this for fun. So I want him to have it. It's also become a major part of how I imagine Moist engaging with emotion, and I'd like to make a case for that.

There are a few scattered references to Moist's legs shaking, or being unsteady, or outright giving way, but there's usually an external physical reason, and/or enough psychological shock to justify it without a medical condition.

The most compelling example I've found so far comes from Moist and Adora's conversation about people expecting Moist to deliver letters to the gods.

"I never promised to—"

"You promised to when you sold them the stamps!"

Moist almost fell off his chair. She'd wielded the sentence like a fist.

"And it'll give them hope," she added, rather more quietly.

"False hope," said Moist, struggling upright.

"Almost fell off his chair" at first sounds like casual hyperbole, but then "struggling upright" implies it was a bit more literal. It's also an accurate description of me recovering from my more severe attacks, supporting myself on a wall or my spouse, or pushing myself up if I've fallen over in bed.

That happens to me multiple times per day, by the way. It doesn't bother me, and I didn't realize there was anything unusual about it for a long time. I barely think about it, except to fondly note that my spouse is good at making me laugh.

Which is to say, even severe cataplexy is not always noticeable or debilitating. Sometimes it absolutely is! It can be downright dangerous, depending on where you are, what you're doing, and whether you have any other conditions it might exacerbate. I don't want to undermine that.

I am just hell-bent on justifying the idea that this fictional character could have repeated attacks throughout the canonical narrative that are so routine they don't merit an explanation, or even a description. Especially for someone who is used to hiding his few distinguishing features behind false ones that are much more memorable. (See also.)

(That link goes to my own fanfic. Sorry.)

On the milder side, between Going Postal and Making Money, there are three instances of Moist's mouth "dropping open" when he's shocked, upset, confused, or some combination of the three. This is the kind of thing that shows up a lot in fiction, but rarely happens so literally in real life.

(There's technically a fourth instance, but I'm not counting it because it seems to be a deliberate choice on his part to convey surprise.)

And then there's laughter. Or rather, there isn't. I could be missing something, but I've searched all three books for instances of laughter and various synonyms (not counting spoken "Ha!"s), and what I've come up with is:

Moist laughs once in Going Postal, when he receives the assignment for the race to Genua.

Two packages were handed over. Moist undid his, and burst out laughing.

There's also an instance earlier in the book where Moist nearly "burst[s] out laughing."

I find the specifics here interesting, and, for our purposes, fortuitous. Cataplexy is complicated and presents differently for everyone. In my case, when laughter triggers an attack, one of the effects (which is sometimes also a cause) is that I laugh very hard, with little or no control. "Burst out laughing" is quite apt.

Let's move on to Making Money, and start with a quick tangent:

Mr. Bent explains that he has no sense of humor due to a medical condition, and that he isn't upset about this and doesn't understand why people feel sorry for him.

Moist immediately starts in with "Have you tried—" before getting cut off by the frustrated Bent.

Out-of-universe, "Have you tried" is such a well-known refrain to anyone with an incurable condition, I'm not at all surprised to find it in a book written by someone who had at least begun the process that would lead to a diagnosis of early-onset Alzheimer's. And Pratchett has certainly never shied away from portraying ignorance in his protagonists.

In-universe, it feels a little odd. Moist's tongue runs away from him all the time, but usually in the form of making ridiculous claims or impossible promises. Moist's entire stock-in-trade is People Skills, and it feels strange for him to make this kind of mistake immediately after being told Mr. Bent is not looking for solutions.

But if one were reading with, for instance, the idea in mind that Moist himself has an incurable condition related to laughter and is enthusiastic about, but still relatively new to, the practice of drawing on his own experiences to help people... it is easy to imagine the gears in his head turning the wrong way, superimposing those experiences over the tail end of Mr. Bent's explanation. Disabled people are not immune to these well-meaning pitfalls.

There is another Mr. Bent moment that I want to discuss, but we'll circle back around to it later.

I found two instances of Moist himself laughing in MM.

1. "He said it with a laugh, to lighten the mood a little."

This is deliberate laughter, employed as a social tactic. A polite chuckle, probably. Not the sort of thing that generally triggers cataplexy.

2. "Moist started to laugh, and stopped at the sight of her grave expression."

The first and only involuntary laugh in MM. It doesn't always trigger attacks...

Which brings us to Raising Steam. Compared to the first two books, Moist laughs a lot here. I count nine instances. Two of them are "burst out laughing"s, a couple include him as part of a group, some of it comes off as deliberate, and some of it doesn't.

I've always seen a lot of... rage in Raising Steam. Combing through it for laughter, I realized Moist's emotions in general are much closer to the surface here, and he's much less concerned about letting people see them. He laughs with friends and acquaintances, he cries in front of strangers, he shouts at Harry King, he has that entire conversation with Dick that boils down to "I'm very worried about you," etc.

Opinions vary wildly and sharply on Raising Steam. I have my own hangups with it, as I do with most books in the series. (Every time I make a new Discworld post, Tumblr passive-aggressively suggests the tag "my kingdom for a discworld character who is normal about women and other species.")

But I like this particular change in Moist, and I choose to see it as character development. He's trading in the professional detachment of a conman for the ability to grow into himself as a person and make meaningful connections.

So, what does that have to do with cataplexy? A lot.

I don't want to get too maudlin, so I'll just say I have plenty of personal experience with emotional repression masking cataplexy symptoms. And so, I believe, does the version of Moist we've put together over the course of this post.

Which brings us back to Making Money, and Mr. Bent. He says something about Moist that I find very interesting: "I do not trust those who laugh too easily."

Unless I've missed something, at that point in the book, Moist has never actually laughed in front of him. And Mr. Bent is a man who pays very close attention to details.

So, what is the in-universe explanation for this? I'd like to propose that Moist is very skilled at seeming to laugh, without actually laughing. He smiles, he's friendly, and he makes other people laugh, which is another thing Bent dislikes about him. He gives the impression of being someone who laughs a lot. (He certainly left that impression on me; I was very surprised by the lack of examples in the first two books.)

Even staying strictly within the bounds of canon, it's easy to imagine why this might have become part of Moist's camouflage in his previous life. He wasn't looking to get attached to anyone, and he didn't want anyone getting inside his head. Engaging with people genuinely enough to laugh at their jokes would run counter to both of those things, but some of his personas still needed to come off as friendly and sociable.

Still working within the canon, it makes sense to assume he's similarly distanced himself from emotion in general. He sits in a cell for several weeks without truly believing he's going to die. He's bewildered when Mr. Pump points out that his schemes have hurt innocent people. He has no idea what to do with his feelings for Adora. Etc.

Interpreting Moist as having cataplexy adds an extra element of danger. Moist thrives on danger, but there's a difference between the thrill of a con and the threat of sudden, uncontrollable displays of vulnerability. And so it becomes even easier to see him stifling his own emotional capacity.*

We meet Moist at a moment of great upheaval. He is forcibly removed from his cocoon of false identities, and pushed out into the world as himself. And we are shown and told throughout Going Postal that he does not know how to be himself. (See also.)

He is repeatedly stymied by his own emotions. He gets tongue-tied and confused around Adora, he snaps at Mr. Pump, he lashes out at Mr. Groat, he gets lost in school flashbacks when he meets Miss Maccalariat. This thread continues in Making Money, where the sudden reappearance of Cribbins immediately rattles him into making an uncharacteristic mistake.

I called him Cribbins! Just then! I called him Cribbins! Did he tell me his name? Did he notice? He must have noticed!

Later in the same book, Moist misses a crucial opportunity to run damage control on the bank's public image... because he's excited to see Adora.

The Moist of GP and MM is not used to feeling things so deeply. It throws him off his game. I'm not at all suggesting cataplexy is the only (or even primary) reason for that, but I do think there's room for it on both sides of the cause and effect equation.

With or without the cataplexy, I find Moist's relative emotional openness in Raising Steam... really nice. (It's a work in progress. He's still getting a handle on anger.)

Cataplexy just adds another dimension. A physical manifestation of emotional vulnerability, which would have been especially untenable for a teenager on the run. Just one more facet of the real, human, fallible Moist von Lipwig who spent years buried beneath Albert Spangler and all the rest.

Another piece of himself that Moist is growing to understand and accept, as he learns to more comfortably be himself.

The Moist of Going Postal runs into a burning building to save lives without fully understanding why he wants to, and justifies it on the fly as an essential part of the role he's trying to play.

The Moist of Raising Steam mindlessly throws himself under a train to save two children, and then blows up at Harry King about the lack of safety regulations. Freshly traumatized by the murder of several railway workers and his own violent, vengeful response to it, he still offers, in the face of Harry's own grief, to be the one to inform their families. On a long and dangerous journey with plenty of moving parts to think about, he worries about Dick Simnel and the other engineers, and pushes them to take better care of themselves.

He also meets a bunch of kids who nearly derailed a train as part of a childish scheme. His admonishment is startlingly vivid.

"Can you imagine a railway accident? The screaming of the rails and the people inside and the explosion that scythes the countryside around when the boiler bursts? And you, little girl, and your little friends, would have done all that. Killed a trainload of people."

[...]

"I'll square this with the engine driver, but if I was you I'd get my pencil and turn any clever ideas you have like this into a book or two. Those penny dreadfuls are all the rage in the railway bookshops."

Maybe what he is also saying, between the lines, is:

I left home at 14 and began a life of smoke and mirrors. I was empty inside, and I thought everyone else was, too. It was all fun and games, and then a man made of clay told me I was killing people. Nip it in the bud, child. Write books.

------------

*There are studies suggesting that in addition to deliberately employed "tricks," people with cataplexy may experience physiological reactions in the brain meant to inhibit laughter. (Source 1, Source 2.)

Most of the information here is way over my head, but that second link also says "one region of the brain called the zona incerta (meaning 'zone of uncertainty') was only activated during laughter in people with narcolepsy, not in controls. Research on the zona incerta in animals suggests that it also helps to control fear-associated behavior."

The linked article about that (https://www.nature.com/articles/s41467-018-03581-6) is also over my head, but I would certainly describe Moist von Lipwig as having unusual fear responses.**

**Narcolepsy is a fun roller-coaster ride of constant scientific discoveries about exactly which parts of your brain are paying too much attention, not paying enough attention, or trying to eat each other.

[hamburgerhelpersotherhand]

the cheating scenario w/ hannibal was so good omg! would you do a part two? maybe reader has found comfort with Will and they start to pursue each other, would also love to see some jealous Hannibal 😏 I love your work!

Part 2 as requested ✨ I didn’t write much Hannibal in this, actually rhhdjshf I’m sure he’s great at hiding his true feelings.

*spoilers*

Will is sweet and all but I really like the idea of Hannibal setting him up as some ticking time bomb for Y/N to witness.

Warnings: Implied future mindbreak and dead pets.

Your presence in Will Graham’s home felt different. It was unlike what he had become accustomed to but things seemed to get better with time.

It was meant to only last a short while, giving you enough time to get yourself back on your feet with a clear mind and savings for your own place... but something bloomed between the two of you. Unintentionally, you might add.

So you stayed.

A human being often takes part in stupid things when life feels out of their control. But the decision to be with Will, physically and emotionally, never felt wrong. He was sweet, even kinder than Hannibal had led you to believe.

You had known Will for a while, but never well until this point. Up until now, Hannibal had never seen you around Will when you two had been together.

So when he had caught the slightest hint of your perfume on Will’s collar, you can only imagine his reaction.

“New cologne?” He asks Will, smoothing out his jacket.

“Mhm.” He replies, not giving it much thought as he sits down.

Hannibal notices his lack of care on the matter and drops it from the conversation.

“Alright, let’s begin.”

Hannibal likes Will, genuinely. But he doesn’t want you near him. Especially when he eventually breaks— and trust him... Will Graham is a twig under his boot.

But, as he’s listening to Will express the changes in his life— the new dog, the new diet and you- Hannibal quickly comes to a grim realization:

You’re going to have to be collateral damage.

“-he’s pushing me too hard. I’m inclined to believe her.” Will finishes.

Hannibal brings himself back into the conversation, having dozed off in his thoughts for the first time in a long while.

“Who’s pushing you too hard? Could you repeat yourself?” Hannibal asks.

Will shifts in his seat before speaking again.

“Y/N tells me Jack is pushing me too hard. And I’m inclined to believe her.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because I stay up until ungodly hours for work.” Will laughs, looking at his feet. He’s silent for a moment as he rubs the inside of his palm. “The truth is... I still have nightmares. Things have been looking good lately, but I can’t sleep at night.”

Hannibal watches him intently, feeling content with the revelation. He knows how to proceed.

“Have you spoken to Y/N about it? I’m sure she’d appreciate the transparency.”

“No.” Will shifts again. “Dr Lecter- I’m sorry, I— I honestly don’t feel comfortable speaking of her with you—” He rolls his wrist. “-given your shared past.”

“It’s no problem.” Hannibal stops himself from gripping the armrest and, instead, reaches for his notes. “Let’s move on.”

Will nods.

“I can prescribe something that will help, but you have to take it daily. Every night before bed.” Hannibal begins writing on his notepad. “It should help you sleep.”

And it did.

Will Graham had managed to sleep, but wild dreams still flooded his mind.

They felt vivid— real. But they were far from his previous nightmares. They were more along the lines of something a child would dream of- unhinged and randomized as they were.

He had taken the meds for about a week, and would always wake up in a different room than he had fallen asleep in. Hannibal had assured him it was because of his level of stress, and it would balance itself out with time and rest.

The sleepwalking was nothing to be scared of.

But on the seventh night, as he dreamt soothingly, his mouth became flooded with warmth, an unfamiliar beating played on his tongue and against his gums. When he had opened his eyes, falling away from the trance-like dream, Will Graham nearly choked.

There, in his gripping hands, he tightly held the twitching body of one of his smaller dogs. Bloodied and struggling, he could barely recognize it like this.

Will spat at the ground, his fingers dropping the animal as he tried to assess the situation. But his mind wouldn’t respond, only focusing on the here and now. He darted his eyes around as his breathing quickened at an alarming rate. He looked about his other dogs, all of which sat awake and cowering in the corners of the room.

As he later observed himself in the bathroom’s mirror, he became aware of the shaking in his hands and the bloodied mess covering his face. He felt sick.

His hands nearly stopped him from turning on the sink, but he needed to wash up as soon as possible.

As quietly as he could, he retrieved his phone from the bedroom and called Hannibal from the tight comfort of his car, explaining to him what had happened and wasting no time on blaming it on the medication.

“What if I killed her? I-I don’t know what to do— Hannibal, what if I killed her?” Will frantically begins to talk, spitting at the dirt from his open door between stops as if blood still flooded his mouth. “I don’t know what to do with the body.”

“Y/N’s body?” Hannibal asks.

“No—no, god no. I mean... the dog. The dog in my living room.” Will shuts his eyes and exhales. “Y/N is sleeping.”

“Will, it’s a dog.” Hannibal persuades, smiling as he does. “As sad as losing a pet may be, you haven’t committed a crime.”

~

The next morning, you awoke to a certain smell. It stung your nose until your eyes shot open at the realization.

You jumped out of bed and rushed to the kitchen. Will stood by the sink, filling up the water filter, but didn’t seem to notice the smoke coming from the iron pan on the stove.

“Will!” You shouted, grabbing a rag to move the pan away from the heat. He turns around and sets down the filter. Will grabs your arm before you could throw anything into the sink.

“It’s just a little charred.” He says quietly.

“Don’t you smell the smoke?” You look to him with concern. His responses have been slowed, almost slurred.

“I think I’m congested.”

You look down and observe the food. It’s burnt scrambled eggs with equally charcoaled diced ham.

“You can’t expect me to let you eat this—” You say, shrugging his hand away. His arm falls to his side as he watches you dump the iron pan, along with the blackened food, into the sink. “-especially if you aren’t feeling well.”

With a heavy exhale, you lean against the counter and look at him. Your observation lasts a while, and he seems to watch you as well. His eyes look weighted and tired.

“You’re exhausted.” You say, bringing your hand forward to brush the hair out of his face. “Did you sleep at all last night?” You ask.

He twitches.

“... No,” Will takes your hand into his own, rubbing gentle circles above your knuckles as he looks dazedly at your fingers. “I’ve been busy.”

[aethelflaedladyofmercia]

The Night the World Didn’t End

This fic was written for @bingokisses - the prompt was “Snuggling” but I got an attack of the sads and the soft angsts.

Ten vignettes looking at what everyone did the night after the Apocalypse.

You can also read on AO3, under my new secondary Pseud: Lady of Prompts.

--

The world hasn’t ended. Or it did, but not quite.

Saturday night, and everything is…thin. Uncertain. As if the universe might realize what had happened and change its mind. All around the world, people feel it, the hesitation, the uncertainty. Humanity can’t quite comprehend what it is, but it’s undeniable.

On a bus rolling slowly towards London, an angel takes a demon’s hand. No words are spoken, but a few kilometers later, the demon’s head falls onto the angel’s shoulder.

And a young boy sits on his bed in Tadfield and worries.

--

At Jasmine Cottage, a battered car rolls to a hesitant stop.

“Well,” Newt begins slowly. “This is it. It was…well, it really wasn’t nice at all. Parts of it were good.”

Anathema says nothing, her eyes still on the charred-black book in her lap.

“You’re not…not planning to live in my passenger seat, are you?” He asks with an awkward smile. It probably isn’t the right time for a joke, but Newt never really notices these things until too late. “Don’t think there’s, you know, space. I put my, uh, my groceries there and…”

Definitely not the time for a joke.

“Do you…” Anathema slowly looks up from the book. Her eyes land on Newt, but her mind is worlds away. “Do you want…to come in?”

He swallows, desperately wishing for a reason to say no, because saying yes is too terrifying. But a good terrifying. “Why?” he finally manages.

“I’m…I’ve never really…decided anything for myself before.” She turns the pages of the book, looking for one that doesn’t crumble to ash. “I don’t know what I want, or…or where I’m supposed to go. But I think…I think…” She looks up again, and this time her eyes hold Newt’s like an official Witchfinder pin. “I think I’d like for you to come in. If…you know…”

He gulps, at a loss for what to say. So he takes her hand.

It makes getting out of the car awkward, but they manage.

--

On the other side of Tadfield, Pepper drops her boots on the porch and heads to her room. She’s never felt this exhausted in her life, and she can’t quite remember why. The whole day is a blur, with some pieces missing - and others in stark, terrifying focus.

When she opens her bedroom door, she finds a mess – and not the mess she’d left this morning. Her comic books are spilled all over, pages wrinkled and ripped out as if struck by a tornado, and her sister sits in the middle of it all.

“I didn’t do it! It was an accident!” She’s been bracing for the argument, but her eyes aren’t defiant, just terrified and full of tears.

Pepper looks around the room. The two sisters have fought every day this summer, name-calling and arguments turning to stolen toys and pulled hair and screams for their mother. They don’t play anymore, or talk, or anything else. The five-year age difference felt insurmountable. 

But tonight...Pepper can’t seem to muster her anger. None of it feels important. She simply pushes the torn comics off her bed and crawls under the duvet.

“Are…are you mad?”

“Too tired.” Tired isn’t the word for it, but Pepper is eleven. She knows a lot of terms, but she doesn’t know how to describe the complete, draining emotional fatigue that comes from meeting a witch, fighting with your best friend, and stopping an apocalypse all between lunch and bedtime. She doesn’t have the energy for another emotion. “We can fight tomorrow. Promise.”

“Alright.” Her sister rests her head on the side of the bed. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“I miss you.”

Pepper shuts her eyes, not even sure what to say to that. “Just go to bed. It’s way too late for you.”

“Can I sleep with you?”

“No! What’s wrong with your room?”

“It’s too scary.”

“How can it be scary? It’s your room…” Pepper opens her eyes and meets the tear-filled gaze of her baby sister.

They don’t get along. They have nothing in common. Pepper doesn’t even remember what it feels like to be five-and-a-half. But tonight, she feels very young, and alone, and a little frightened, and perhaps that’s close enough.

“You know what? Fine.” She moves over and folds back the duvet. “Just don’t kick.”

--

The bus rumbles down the road towards London, passing a slow-moving scooter. The scooter has rolled along for hours, and as it crests another hill the speedometer creeps towards 10 mph.

“Can ye not be more careful, ye daft woman?” Shadwell’s arms are wrapped around her waist, holding tight, as if he is afraid to fall.

He isn’t afraid, or at least, not of falling. Parts of the strange day keep drifting back across his mind. He wishes he had a strong cup of tea. He wishes he had something a good deal stronger.

But one thought keeps coming to the fore. He’s spent nearly the whole of his adult life hunting witches, and now that he’s found one, he’s not letting her go.

He hasn’t yet worked out what that means.

“Ah! Look out! Did ye not see that branch in the road?  Yer gonna get both of us killed!”

Madame Tracy pats his hand. She’s been listening to him grumble for over three decades, and has learned which words to listen to. “Just hold tight, Mr. S. We’ll get you home safe in no time.”

--

Back in Tadfield, Brian dumps his bike in the grass and comes inside. He was supposed to be home hours ago. Instead, he’s been making circles through the village, trying to think.

His parents are still on the sofa, his father nearly asleep, his mother switching between three different shows. Waiting for him. When his mother looks up, she isn’t angry, just making a point. We’re up late because you didn’t follow the rules.

Normally, he’d apologize and go to bed.

Tonight, he slides onto the sofa between his parents. It’s a tight fit – Brian is big for his age – but he manages it, his father stirring enough to make room.

Brian leans his head on his mother’s shoulder. “Is this alright?”

“I…yes, it’s fine.” Brian doesn’t cuddle anymore. He outgrew that ages ago. “Did you have a bad day?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Did you fight with your friends?”

He bites his lip. “Yeah. But. It’s better now. Just don’t want to talk about it.”

“Alright then.” She leans closer and kisses his forehead. His father rubs Brian’s hair, as if he was still a little kid. Brian doesn’t mind.

They sit like that a long time, silently together.

--

In London, an International Delivery Man returns home after the longest day of his life. 

He hangs his hat and jacket, moves quietly into the bedroom. Maud is exactly where he left her, lying in bed, hair rumpled. Feeling a sudden urgency, he sits beside her, shakes her awake.

“Mmmh…are you finally home?” She blinks her eyes open. “What time is it? I waited all day.” He can hear the concern in her voice. “Thought something happened. You never even called.”

“I know, I’m sorry. Had an extra pickup to make, and…”

The deliveries, the final message, the strange gap in time and the half-memories that filled it.

“Lesley?” She sits up fully now, putting an arm around him. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He wants to tell her, but he wouldn’t know where to begin. He feels like everything should be different. Certain things you’re not supposed to live through, you’re not supposed to come back from unchanged. But he doesn’t feel different. Should he?

“Nothing. Sorry I woke you, love. Go back to sleep.”

But Maud knows that look. Knows his brain is still running, that it will be for hours yet. Lesley isn’t usually what you would call a deep thinker, but when he finally catches on something, he has a hard time letting it go.

So she takes his hand. “Do you want to know about my day?”

“Of course.”

Maud settles against him, with the familiar comfort of many decades of marriage, and explains all about the sales at the shop, and the unexpected weather, and her hunt for an umbrella.

--

The bus finally arrives in London, dropping off its last two passengers. They lean against each other as they walk, arms around waists, holding each other upright.

A few minutes later, the driver - dazed and uncertain why he drove all this way - finds the reservation confirmation for one night at one of the city’s finest luxury hotels, and a rather large meal voucher.

He barely uses the room.

Many of the guests have gathered in the hotel bar, long past the time it usually empties. It’s a subdued affair, fewer drinks than one might expect, quiet conversation. Just little groups of strangers, sharing their stories.

The other guests have paid more on this trip to London than the bus driver earns in a month. 

He sits at the bar, glass in hand, trying to decide who to approach and how. The bartender sees him hesitating, and moves closer. “Strange night,” she says, restacking glasses behind the counter. 

“Should have stayed in my room,” the driver says sourly. “But, dunno. It was too quiet.”

“Not the only one who feels that way.” She nods to a nearby group. “Normally would have kicked them all out by now but...just doesn’t feel right.”

“Hope they pay you enough for this.” The driver hasn’t even checked the fuel in the bus, but no doubt the difference will come out of his paycheck.[1]

“Well enough,” the bartender says, then lowers her voice. “But I might be taking some sick time next week. Head up to Kingham to see my folks.”

The driver blinks. “You’re from Kingham? Out by Chipping Norton?”

“Yeah. Heard of it?”

“Heard of it? I’m from Churchill.”

The bartender laughs, leaning on the counter. “What are the odds of that? What brings you down to London?”

“I haven’t the first idea.” The driver takes a drink, smiling. It feels nice to meet someone from his part of the world, a glimmer of familiarity amidst all this strangeness. “How about you?”

“Bit of a long story.”

The driver glances at the milling crowd, no sign of breaking up any time soon. “We’ve got time.”

--

In the Wensleydale household, the parents have long since gone to bed. But their son sits in the kitchen with the telephone and a list of names and phone numbers. He’s been working his way through it all night.

Most of the numbers are unfamiliar. Family and friends you see at Christmas, talk with, exchange sweaters and fruitcakes, and never really think of again for another year. People you have known your whole life, but never really speak to.

He listens to the phone ring, until someone picks up.

“Hello? Aunt Ethel?” He pauses. “It’s Wensley – Jeremy Wensleydale.” Odd. He’s used his full name more times tonight than he has in a year. It occurs to him that he might not like it.

He’s not quite sure what to make of that, what it might mean. But it isn’t important just yet.

“Yes, it has been a while,” he agrees. “I’m sorry to call so late, but I wanted to tell you, I really did like that book you got me for Christmas. It’s not the kind I usually read,” he adds, scrupulously honest, “but father said I should give it a try, and it really was quite interesting.”

Another pause.

“You’re welcome. How have you been?” His smile falls. “Oh. I’m sorry. How long were you in hospital?” He listens a little while longer. “That sounds serious.”

Wensley doesn’t know much about medicine. He likes science well enough, but his interests don’t lie that way. He is, however, more astute than most people think. He knows when someone’s upset, even when they try to hide it. He knows when someone wants to keep talking, but doesn't want to be a bother.

He’s felt these things himself.

“Actually, I’d quite like to hear more about the table tennis. I’ve only ever seen it on television, but it seems interesting. Did everyone at the hospital play?”

He sets down his pencil and puts the list aside. He knows if he stops to talk to everyone like this, it will take all night. But he doesn’t mind. Sometimes it feels good just to talk.

--

In a hotel near the airport, Harriet Dowling pauses on the way to bed, hearing the distinctive sound of a young boy trying not to cry.

She hesitates outside his door for a long time. It’s easier to get a nanny for these things. Nannies are trained, they know what to say. No one ever taught Harriet how to be a mother.

But, finally, she pushes the door open. “Warlock? Are you…do you need anything?”

“Shut up,” he snaps, sniffling in the dark. “Go away. I’m fine.”

Should she do what he says? Should she push back? “Honey…I know you aren’t fine. You can tell me. What’s wrong?”

“What do you think is wrong? I don’t want to go to – to stupid America. I want to go back to London, I want to see my friends again!”

“Warlock—”

“I want my Nanny!”

Silence fills the room.

“Warlock. Nanny is gone.” She hears him flump down angrily in the bed. Cautiously, Harriet steps forward, closing the distance. “I wish she wasn’t. She was a model employee, but she had to…” Her brain scrambles for a moment, unable to remember the circumstances of Nanny Ashtoreth’s departure. “She had to go home.” That seemed right.

“Why does everyone have to leave? Why does everything have to change?”

“I…that’s just how life is, Warlock.” No, that tone is all wrong. She tries again, softer. “Things never stop changing. We just…we do the best we can. We make mistakes, we adapt, we keep going.” She sinks onto the edge of the bed. “I know you miss Nanny. I miss her, too. She…she took good care of you, and I’m so grateful for that.”

“She cared about me,” Warlock snaps, accusing.

“I care about you, I’m your mother—” She takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I love you, Warlock, and…if you don’t know that, it’s my fault.” Harriet turns away, trying to hide her tears. “I wish she was here, too, but, well…it’s just me. But I’ll do my best.”

She doesn’t know what to say next, but Warlock grabs her, clings to her, cries into her shoulder like he hasn’t in years. Harriet feels the familiar wave of panic, and the ache, the need to find someone who can help her child.

But there isn’t anyone left but her.

So, uncertain, she puts her arms around her son. “It’s ok, Warlock. We’ll get through this. We’ll…we’ll find a way.”

--

The angel and demon don’t speak as they walk through the apartment, settle into bed. After six thousand years, some things don’t need to be said.

They reach out in the darkness, drawn together, warmth seeking warmth. Every touch of skin on skin is a comfort, a sign that nothing has ended yet, that the world continues to turn. They hold each other silently, pulling close, closer, as if trying to become one being.

The world around them trembles, and they feel every aftershock.

“Do you think they’ll be alright?” Aziraphale wonders, lifting his face from where it rests on Crowley’s shoulder.

“Who?” Crowley clings to Aziraphale, as if to absorb his strength, as if the angel were the last solid object in the world.

“Everyone. The humans. Earth.” When he sighs, the breath is hot on Crowley’s cheek. “If something happens to us, will they be alright?”

“Dunno. Not really up to us anymore, is it? You do your best, take care of them, send them out to live their lives, and just hope it all works out.”

Aziraphale nods, but he doesn’t feel any better. “They aren’t bad, you know. The humans. Yes they can be cruel and - and cold, and they’ve made mistakes but every one of them is capable of so much kindness. So much love. They just – they need—”

“I know.” Crowley runs a hand across his cheek. “If anyone knows, it’s me. And...yeah. I think they’re going to be fine.”

The angel pulls closer, burrowing against Crowley’s chest until he can hear his heartbeat, feel the rise and fall of every breath.

“But nothing’s going to happen to us, right?” The demon’s voice is as enthusiastic as he can make it, his fingers gently stroking through silver curls. “We’ll get out of this. We’ll be back. And then we’ll be able to do whatever the Heaven we want.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale watches his fingers curl along Crowley’s bicep. “Together?”

After six thousand years, it’s good to hear certain things out loud.

“Yeah. Together.”

--

Adam sits alone in bed, except for Dog, crouched by his feet and watching attentively. The boy moves now and then, reaching out a hand to scratch Dog’s head, but never opens his eyes. 

At the airbase he could see it. Could feel it. The world had gone wrong, very wrong; all day, all week. Some of the wrongness went all the way back to when he was born.

There’s no way to fix it all, no way to find every thread and put it back in place. That just disturbed other strands, and others, and others. And every one of those threads is a life.

Still, he keeps reaching.

A delivery man, safely home with his wife.

A telemarketer, waking confused from a terrible dream full of maggots and screaming, and a young child’s voice telling her she really ought to find another job. Tricking people into buying stuff is no good.

An ex-nun who didn’t deserve to have her business taken away over a misunderstanding with some guns.

A thousand people who’d been blasted with demonic power when they’d simply wanted to go for a drive.

One very loyal car.

Adam can’t put everything right. It’s too big a job, even for an Antichrist, and in any case who’s he to say what right is?

But he will fix what he can fix, and trust humanity to figure out the rest.

So, all through the night, Adam works; and all around the world, people hold each other a little closer, feeling afraid, feeling hopeful. Feeling loved.

[1]It won’t. The bus’s tank is full, and will remain so on the drive back. A miracle, but the sort that usually goes unnoticed.

--

Thank you all for reading!

[shreddedparchment]

Pseudo Princess Pt.16

A Shared Bed

11/17/2019

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader          Word Count: 6,113

Warnings: nakedness, angst, fluff, lots of fluff, finally some fluff, language

A/N: I don’t know how often I’ll be updating after this one as work is about to blow up with the holidays. Please be patient and thank you to those who already are! xoxo I hope you enjoy this chapter. I had such fun writing it and finally...just...FINALLY. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

TAGS ARE CLOSED FOR THIS STORY!

The castle is brimming with people.

They have been coming and going since late afternoon yesterday and you haven’t seen his Majesty since your reunion in the open courtyard outside of the gardens.

It’s all felt a little like a dream too good to be true. Except for the blonde. Lady Sharon. Who has stuck close to his Majesty’s side—or so you’ve heard from Peter who you finally sent for.

“Why is she with him?” You wonder, trying not to let your jealousy show but there’s an edge in your voice. You’re on pins and needles with this woman.

“They uh…” Peter hesitates, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably.

You turn to look at him, having been watching the come and go of decorators, musicians, and the general gentry. The castle is echoing with laughter and chatter and there’s an air of excitement flowing through the staff. Only your friends are receptive to your own mood.

Only Nat has been with you since yesterday and watched you go from a smiling idiot to a stressed-out pregnant woman.

She’d been a little surprised that you were so ready to forgive him, but she was also pleased.

“They have business to speak of.” Nat tells you, getting up from her seat by your fire and moving to serve you some tea. “Come have some tea. Don’t worry about Sharon. She’s nothing to worry about. Trust me.”

You turn to move to your designated chair, extra padding added at Grandmother’s request. She and Nat are serious ramping up the overprotectiveness as of late.

“Why don’t I need to worry about her? And what business would she have with him?” Okay, so you’re more than just a little jealous.

It’s icky, and deep in your chest. No, in your ribs. In your bones. Moving like searing magma, charring your insides and making you feel wretched.

“Didn’t he tell you that you didn’t have to worry about Sharon?” Nat asks.

“Yes.” You sigh, reaching for your cup as she holds it out.

“Steve is a man of his word. You have nothing to worry about.” She promises.

But you’re not convinced.

You give Peter a wary look and he seems to read you easily as he gives you a quick smile then backs out of the room and shuts the door for you to give you and Nat some privacy. Not that he won’t be able to hear you…but at least he won’t see you directly.

“But she had her hands all over him.” You sigh, taking a sip. “And she was so…”

You bite your lip, thinking of the regal woman you’d seen holding tight to his Majesty’s arm. The two of them had looked so right side by side. A beautiful couple. The queen he deserves.

“I know what she looks like. And she’s a lovely person. She wouldn’t try anything, Y/N.” Nat assures you, but you’re only half listening.

“Nat…” You begin.

“I promise you, Y/N. If he says that there is nothing to worry about-”

“No.” You interrupt her, “It’s not…I told him.”

Nat’s face blanks as she slowly sits herself down, placing the plate of cold meats she’d been serving you down.

“You told him you’re pregnant?” She whispers, so quiet that you have to read her mouth to understand.

Peter’s just outside.

“No.” You shake your head. “I…I told him that I’m not really father’s daughter. That he found me on the side of the road.”

“What?” Nat asks, her hand completely still, unlike the shift in her eyes that tells you she’s on alert suddenly. “Why?”

“Because he was telling me that I was his pearl and his gem and that I was true royalty and grace and all these other really nice things and I-I’m none of that, Natasha. I just couldn’t stand there and watch him make love to me thinking that I’m more than I truly am, so I told him.” You swallow hard, your mind reliving the beautiful memory over and over.

“What did he say?” She asks, voice tight and controlled.

“I know it was your specifically assigned task to keep my secret. To protect it. To make sure that I was never exposed but-”

“What did he say?” She repeats, a bit sterner.

“I told him I was no one. But he told me that I’m a Rogers.” The flutter that fills your chest is pleasant. The smile that tugs at your lips us unstoppable. “I thought he would throw me out.”

Nat releases a slow breath, then reaches over to place her hand over yours.

“And you haven’t told him you’re pregnant?” She asks, a bit more loudly than she probably planned but at this point, you figure she doesn’t care.

There’s an audible sound of a chair clattering on the other side of your door and you guess that Peter now knows.

A split second later, the door is thrown open.

“You’re pregnant?!” Peter gasps.

“Shh.” Nat chastises him, rushing up to shut the doors behind him after taking a quick peek out.

You’re smiling at him thought, biting into your bottom lip.

“And you’re not really King Stark’s daughter?” He shakes his head. “Not that it matters. You’re my queen. And my friend. I think. Right?”

You chuckle a little, so happy to have Peter in your life as your personal guard and a true friend.

“Of course, you’re my friend. More. You’re family, Peter.” And he beams. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my true-”

“As happy as I am that Steve seems accepting of your true lineage, we should not advertise it. There are people who would use it to hurt you. From this moment on, you don’t speak of it. Okay?” Nat orders, turning a rare look of authority on you and Peter.

“Right. Of course.” Peter nods.

You’re more intrigued by her reasons though and though you promise yourself not to bring it up again ever, your brow is furrowed with curiosity.

“Who? How would they use it to hurt me?” You wonder.

“There are people who don’t want Steve as King. People who think they could do a better job. People who don’t think he deserves to be on the throne.” Nat moves to push your plate food closer.

“Why? He’s a good king.” You observe, thinking about how he was so kind and accommodating during his meetings with the people. The way he’d praised you for taking the initiative to help the poor.

He truly seems like a good man trying to rule his kingdom as best he can.

“There’s only one reason that he would have reacted badly to your…revelation yesterday. And it’s exactly for that reason. Because it’s a weapon that his enemies might use against him. But he loves you too much to care about that now.” She says.

“So, my low birth wouldn’t have mattered to him to begin with?” You wonder, watching Nat as she settles into her seat and relaxes now that all your cards are on the table.

“No.” She nods at your plate. “Please eat.”

You pick at the food. “Why?”

Nat meets your eyes and offers you a smile.

~~~~~~~~~~

“No. Not that one. Blue or red. Keep the blues around my queen. She looks lovely in blue.” Steve gushes, smiling like an idiot. “She looks lovely in anything.”

Behind him, Bucky laughs. Sam’s smile is wide as he shakes his head.

“What?” Steve asks, turning to look at the two as they linger by the doorway.

“She’s forgiven you for a few hours and she’s already got you wrapped around her finger.” Samuel notices.

“I am not…” Steve begins, attempting to deny it but there is no sense in doing so. Every bit of what he just said is absolutely true. “I can’t help it. I thought I’d lost her.”

“We know.” Bucky assures him. “We’re happy for you, Steve.”

After a moment, Samuel moves over to a few of the decorators and whispers in their ears.

They drop their tapestries and tablecloths, ornamental candelabras, and plush reupholstered cushions. Quietly they leave the large room and shut the door behind them.

Sam follows. Checking to make sure the door is properly shut and locked before he moves with Bucky over to Steve as he fusses with your seat beside his. Both are even in height though before yours had been smaller.

Steve can’t believe he’d let you keep sitting in that. You’re his Queen.

He feels a sudden surge of pride and pure elation at the thought of such a woman by his side.

A pigeon you most definitely aren’t and he’s not sure why you’d pick that name of all the things he might call you.

“…I’m of no consequence.” You’d said. “I’m no one.”

He could see it in your eyes, the way Sharon must have made you feel. Out of place. Not good enough even though that’s far from the truth.

Sharon is trained, taught to be a lady from the day she was born. Like Maggie. Like all the other women in his life, save two. Natasha, and…

“How are you holding up?” Sam asks, and because Steve’s mind is already there, he knows what Sam means.

Steve moves to his seat and settles in, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

The sleeves of his plain cream linen shirt are rolled up, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. He’s sleepy. He hasn’t slept since the night before last. And yet, he smiles. His pink lips curl up into a small smirk as he looks up and meets Bucky’s grinning expression and Sam’s worried gaze.

“I’m fine.” He assures them, looking down at his hands. He can still feel you in them. Body trembling a little but pressed softly against his own.

You’d melted against him, as if you couldn’t help yourself. You still like him. For some odd reason…

“I didn’t think you’d be.” Sam says.

“I did.” Bucky counters.

“You always said-” Sam continues.

“I know what I said. I should have known better. My own mother rose from nothing.” He begins.

“Not exactly nothing,” Sam says, “She was a noble woman.”

“A poor one.” Steve nods.

Sam continues. “She owned extensive lands without having access to them because of the clause in her father’s will that she had to marry first. The dowager Queen was rich, Steve. Before she married the King. Not poor.”

“In name only. She didn’t have access to any of that wealth.”

“Point is,” Sam continues more firmly. “She was raised as a lady. She attended feasts and dances and she came to court which is how King Joseph fell in love with her in the first place. If Y/N had not agreed to do what she did, the two of you would have never crossed paths.”

“And I would have lost my kingdom.” Steve points out, feeling a little miffed that Samuel is painting this picture of you forever poor in whatever village you came from, away from him. Never to be seen or held. Not by him.

Maybe you’d have married some farmer? Or a butcher? Maybe you’d have married a drunk and he might have beat you every day?

Steve sits back and grips the arms of his chair, squeezing them until the woodgrain is etched into his skin and the creak of it bending in his angry grasp brings Bucky’s and Sam’s eyes to them.

“I don’t know what motivations Y/N had for agreeing to this arrangement. I know that it’s odd. It’s suspicious in some ways. But Tony trusts her, and I’ve seen her as she truly is. She’s not capable of deceit of this magnitude. Not on her own.” Steve’s grip relaxes.

“She has been lying to you about her lineage since she arrived. What do you mean she isn’t capable of deceit?” Sam questions, and although Steve knows he’s only doing his job as one of his advisors, he really hates him for planting these seeds of doubt in his mind.

You’re so sweet and perfect. Why can’t you just be you and not have an ulterior motive?

“Sam…” Steve sighs, shutting his eyes tight then opening them as if to clear them. “Why are you trying to ruin this for me?”

“I’m not.” Sam tells him. “I’m not.”

Steve opens his eyes and sees him eyeing Bucky who’s frowning at him.

“All I am saying is that you need to talk to her. Get her side of the story. The truth. Until we know everything, this is risky, Steve. We could be putting the whole kingdom in jeopardy.”

As if Steve doesn’t know that he would be the one putting the kingdom in jeopardy, not we as Sam says.

“I doubt she’s a spy, Sam.” Bucky interjects, moving to sit on the table fully, metal hand and flesh hand held between his legs loosely. “I met her in King Stark’s castle and she’s just as she was then, now.”

“And you’re probably right.” Sam nods. “She’s very sweet and kind and she is the queen our king deserves, but I just want to be certain.”

For a long minute, silence invades the room as Steve’s mind reels with the possibilities of what your lie might mean. You’d confessed so readily, as if you’d been dying to do so for so long.

He also knows you were coerced into confessing by jealousy.

He can’t help it. He smiles, cheeks sore from how happy he’s been, grinning like a fool.

“What?” Bucky checks, tearing his eyes away from Sam.

“Nothing.” Steve continues to smile. “It’s of no consequence.”

“That can’t be true if you’re grinning like that.” Bucky argues. “Tell me.”

“No.” Steve gets up then moves towards the doors.

“Come on, Steve.” Bucky complains.

“Maybe it’s private?” Sam offers.

“No. It’s not private.” Bucky realizes. “He’s just embarrassed. Are you being sappy again?”

Steve’s cheeks burn scarlet and his ears flame on as he stops by the doors, hands on the handles.

“She’s cute when she’s jealous.” Steve smiles. “She doesn’t know how impossible it is for me to want anyone else.”

“He’s being sappy again.” Sam agrees.

“You need a wife.” Steve tells Sam, then turns to Bucky. “And maybe if you were a bit more eager to make love to Natasha she would come around and finally say yes.”

“I do make love to her!” Bucky says. “I tell her how beautiful she is. I bring her flowers and gifts.”

“Nat said that Y/N hasn’t opened even half of my presents. She’s kept them in a pile in her room, but she reads my letters often. Sometimes, you need to tell a woman what you truly feel, or she might never know.” Steve looks at his best friend. “When’s the last time you told her you loved her and exactly what she means to you?”

Bucky opens his mouth to speak but then shuts it when he can’t remember when.

“I’m going to go remind my own beauty how much I love her. You’re welcome to tag along.” He offers, then turns and heads out the door as his decorators bow their heads.

Sam and Bucky watch him go, observing the bounce in his step.

“When do you think he’ll forgive himself?” Sam wonders.

“For which part?” Bucky asks. “Never, Sam. Even if they’re married all their lives. I don’t think he’ll ever stop trying to make up for what he did to her.”

“You mean their wedding night?” Sam nods.

“All of it. If I did to Nat what he did to Y/N…well, I’d be dead for one, but she would never forgive me.” Bucky moves towards the door as the decorators come rushing inside and back to work.

“Has she forgiven him?” Sam follows.

“I suppose there’s only one way to find out.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A knock on your door startles you.

“Wait!” Peter’s voice pipes. “You can’t go in there yet.”

“Why not?”

His Majesty’s voice sends your heart into a thrill and you quickly rise from your tub.

Freshly bathed, you make to step out, but Natasha throws her arms out towards you.

“Wait!” She cautions. “Don’t! I’ll come to you.”

The panic in her eyes throws you and you realize that she’s afraid you’ll slip. But you’re already halfway out of the tub so you freeze with one foot on the carpet and the other inside your tub.

“What’s going on?” His Majesty asks, knocking on the door again. “Y/N? Are you okay?”

“She’s fine. What do you want?!” Nat asks, irritated and rushing to you to help you step out fully and then wrap you up in your robe.

You look down as it clings to your form and you can see the bump of your barely forming belly and you can’t let him see you like this. He’ll know. You’re not ready to tell him yet.

I should tell him, though.

You chew your lip as Nat suddenly throws a thicker robe over your shoulders and wraps you up tight.

“There you go.” She smiles at you, reassuring you. “Should I let him in?”

“What do you mean, what do I want? I want to see my wife.” His Majesty argues, the grumpy note in his voice clear.

He doesn’t like being kept out of your room and it’s probably because he doesn’t want to take a step back after yesterday.

If you’re honest, you can’t wait to see him either.

You nod in answer to Nat’s question and she makes sure that your tummy is carefully padded with robe and then moves to open the door.

She cracks it open at first and you watch her back, relaxed from previous tension, as she looks through the split in the door up at a single blue eye as it peers in, eager to get a look at you.

“What if she doesn’t want to see you?” She wonders.

“Should I leave?” His Majesty asks, ready to comply but you can hear the regret in his voice and your heart gives a small ache.

You shake your head without speaking.

“If it was me, you’d be castrated and beheaded by now.” Nat informs him.

“Are you threatening your king?” His Majesty wonders, playfully though, so you know this must be normal.

“Every day.” She promises, then moves aside and pulls the door open.

His majesty is a vision…

He’s not dressed in anything fancy. He’s wearing a pair of plain trousers, the ones he wears when he goes on his rides or for a walk. His shirt is simple white linen, sleeves clinging tight to his arm’s muscles except around the forearm where they puff out and meet cinched at his wrist.

He looks tired, however. Eyes slightly dry. Hair a little limp. You can see it in him when he blinks, and his eyes struggle to reopen.

“You’re tired.” You realize, out loud, without meaning to.

The smile his mouth twists into, bright and brimming with joy dazzles you and you’re out of breath.

“You’re worried about me?” His gasps, moving towards you, ignoring Nat as he passes her.

Behind him, another familiar head with long black hair peeks in. Ice blue eyes look at the redhead and he wiggles his eyebrows. “My love.”

“What are you doing here? I thought you and Sam would be tied up all day.?” She wonders, reaching out for him and he takes her hand, kisses it, then smiles.

“I was given a lecture about showing appreciation for my woman.” Bucky explains.

“Your woman? Excuse you, good sir, but I am my own woman.” Natasha argues, her hand still in his.

“And yet, you’re mind. Come, let’s go for a walk before we lose the chance. You won’t mind if I steal my lovely betrothed, do you, your Majesty?” Bucky asks, looking at you as his Majesty reaches you and places his arms on your forearms, caressing them, holding them as he pulls you closer.

“N-no.” You reply, distracted.

“I’ll be back in half an hour to get you dressed.” Natasha says, fixing you with a reassuring gaze.

She wants you to tell him about the baby. She’s worried about the throne. She also wants you to be happy.

“Okay.” You whisper, very aware of the heat radiating off his Majesty’s body.

“Come on, Peter.” Natasha says, gripping his arm.

“What?” He replies in shock. “But-”

“I’m sure they don’t want an audience. Go get something to eat and maybe change for tonight? This’ll be your only chance.” She points out and without further argument, she closes the door behind her leaving you and his Majesty alone in your room.

The crackle of the fire is loud. Deafening in the weighty silence between you and his Majesty.

Your heart begins to pound. Nervous, you think about your tummy and almost look down at it but remind yourself that you shouldn’t, so you don’t.

When you think you might go crazy, your mind worrying about a million different things, you shut your eyes and inhale.

“Are you alright?” His Majesty asks. “I’m sorry I haven’t come to see you. I would have but something has happened, and we had to act very quickly.”

“What happened?” You wonder, grasping at anything to fill the silence.

His Majesty looks down at your chest then back up to meet your gaze as he considers what to say.

Does he not trust you?

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t trust me.” You say, miffed, and your voice is suddenly a bit colder.

“No.” He sighs. “No, Y/N, it isn’t that. I just don’t know how much to tell you. You need to know. It concerns your safety too.”

“My safety?” You ask, squeaking a little in fear but not for your own life but the one you carry in your tummy.

He nods. “Mmm.” His hands are explorative. Tracing the lines of your arms all the way back to your shoulders then down again.

As you begin to chew your lip, he reaches up and traces your bottom lip.

“Don’t be nervous, my flower. I’ll never let anyone hurt you.” He assures you.

You shut your eyes, relishing in his touch but also trying to comprehend this man with the one that wouldn’t let you touch him.

“I’m…I’m a little overwhelmed.” You admit.

“Why?” He checks, suddenly pulling you towards a seat by your breakfast table. He makes sure you’re sitting then squats down in front of you.

He’s so tall even low as he is, he’s only an inch or so shorter.

“This change between us-?” You begin, but he sighs, and you stop speaking.

“It’s my fault, this distance between us. We have a lot to talk about. More than you know but know that I’m ready for you now.” He nods.

“I wish you’d been ready before.” You sigh.

“Me too.” His Majesty admits. “Every word that I’ve written to you is the truth. I have loved you since almost the moment we met. I fought myself hard because I didn’t think it was right, but she would not have wanted me to be cruel. She would have wanted me to be happy.”

You frown, hating the mention of Maggie from him. It’s bad, but you can’t help it.

“And I know I’m risking expulsion from your presence again by bringing her up but trust me when I say that I will never compare you to her again. I-Do you want to hit me?” He offers.

“Will it hurt?” You wonder, tempted.

He smiles, a small smirk at your threat. “Probably not. But I’d understand that it should.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, your Majesty.” You sigh.

“Steve, please, flower. Call me Steve.” He begs.

“I can’t yet.” You sigh.

He buries his face into your lap, just hating himself more for what he’s done to you.

Your heartbeat spikes, he’s so close to your stomach.

“I don’t want to replace Margaret.” You continue, eager to move on. “I never wanted to. Or to hurt you. All I wanted was for you to give me a chance.”

He looks up at you and your voice nearly chokes. Somehow, you push through it.

“I love you.” You confess, and the brightness in his eyes becomes unbearably pleasant.

He takes a deep breath and his chest swells with pride.

“All I want is a fair chance.” You bite your lip again and this time his Majesty leans in, thumb smoothing out the softness of your lip before he reaches back to hook his hand behind your head.

Your lungs are suddenly empty, and you inhale and hold it.

“May I?” He whispers against your mouth, the heat of his breath overwhelming.

You nod.

His Majesty presses his lips to yours and you whimper a little, unintentionally as his lips move against yours.

He devours you, a smattering of wet tongue and a soft kiss as he settles in between your legs while dropping down onto his knees to kneel more comfortably.

Your hand closes around the neck of his shirt, gripping it tightly as you cling for dear life.

His hands are wandering, moving away from your shoulders down to your waist and awfully close to your stomach.

The kiss is heated but because you have both been wanting it for so long. As he pulls back to tilt the other way, you lick your lips and sigh, finding his hands with yours.

“I’m pregnant.” You whisper, shocked yourself that it slipped out. “I…”

His Majesty pulls back a little, face suddenly pained as he stares into your eyes to see if you might be joking.

“Grandmother says that I am about four months along?” Your shoulders heave up and down as you try to catch your breath.

Your little revelation makes it harder to breathe because you’re nervous about his reaction.

“I didn’t want to tell you because I-I wasn’t sure whether you really wanted me.” You sigh, voice cracking a little in sorrow. “You’ve pushed me away, told me in so many ways that you don’t love me and I was afraid that if I told you that you would want me only because I was with child and I don’t want that.”

You smile at him tightly, on edge. “I want you to love me because you love me and not because I’m carrying your heir.”

His Majesty is silent, watching you with that same pained expression until he reaches up and cups the side of your face.

“If Thor touches you again, I’ll have him beheaded. I don’t care if it brings about war. If he looks at you with that wistful look again, I’ll scoop his eyes out with a spoon. He’s one of my closest friends, but if he ever tells me again how you taste like honey, I’ll slice his tongue out. This is how I feel.” His Majesty says. “You are mine. And I am yours. Before any children. Before any obligations or duties, if I don’t have you by my side, I don’t want this crown.”

You know you can only believe so much. If he had to fight for the Kingdom to save the people, he would, but you also understand what he’s saying. He kissed you before he knew you were pregnant. He loves you.

How much, you’re not sure. But he does love you. You smile.

“Do we have to have this feast tonight?” You wonder, reaching up to trace the lightly discoloration underneath his eyes.

He really does look very tired.

“Yes.” He tells you, rubbing your back with his large heated hands. “I have to correct other mistake that I’ve made with you that are not as personal and more politically driven.”

“What mistakes?” You wonder, still tracing the shape of his cheek.

He reaches up to take hold of that hand and pulls your fingers to his lips to kiss and just hold against his lips.

“There are rumors that I hate you.” He sighs. “Rumors that I don’t care about you. That you and I only married because it was my duty. Our duty.”

“Which is true.” You point out.

“Yes. But I do love you. You are my chosen Queen. And maybe things were different before, but I need them to know that you’re right where you should be.”

“Because I’m not really-?”

“You’re true royalty, Y/N. Never doubt it. I will show them that you are irreplaceable. That they’re wrong.” He assures you and presses a firm kiss to your palm.

“There’s something else you’re not telling me.” You frown.

His Majesty sighs.

Suddenly he brings both hands to your waist and then carefully begins to undo your robe. Your cheeks burn savagely, neck coursing with sudden heat. As he exposes your first layer, he undoes the second robe and moves that open too.

You sit before him, naked, with only the edge of the fabric shielding your breasts from full exposure.

His eyes are not on your nakedness however, but on your tummy.

He slides his hands into your robe, caressing the sides of that belly gently while also greedily taking in the feel of your freshy bathed skin.

“You smell good.” He says without thinking.

“I j-just bathed.” You remind him.

“While you were gone, we made a show of playing up an illness for you. The word was spread across the people that you were sick and that is why you had not been seen in weeks. Most believed it. Some didn’t.” He sighs.

He runs his thumbs along your side and though you might have once been focused on his words, the fact that he’s never touched you this way also keeps your brain from focusing.

“The meeting yesterday was about a resurgence of what is known as Hydra.”

You gasp, knowing the name. “They’re back?”

“And I think they’re the ones that attacked you the day you came home.” He nods, looking up to meet your eyes, speaks in a whisper. “We think that there are spies in my council. Trying to destroy my chances at keeping the kingdom. That’s why you’re in danger.”

He looks back down at your tummy and renews his caress.

“You and our little one.” He sighs, smiles, and then his expression darkens.

“This isn’t good news then?” You sigh too, reading the situation with new eyes and a fresh perspective.

He tears his eyes up to you and shakes his head. “This is the best news.”

He smiles.

“Please don’t let my need to contemplate every scenario darken this moment for you. I am so happy that you’re with child. I’m only sorry that I didn’t do my duties as your husband properly. I’ll make it up to you.” He runs his hands back to your lower back and halfway down your bum.

You gasp lightly, your body reacting to his touch again.

“I promise.” He smiles.

No, that’s a smirk.

“I wanted it to be you.” You confess, dropping your voice to a whisper in slight embarrassment. “When Thor kissed me. When he touched me.”

His Majesty’s brow furrows, and he growls as he pulls you closer, dragging the chair along the floor so that it groans loudly against the stone. You’re surprised by the pull and your hands hurry to his shoulders to cling in surprise.

“I swear I’ll kill him.” He says.

You shake your head. “He’s why I came back. If he hadn’t shown me that it could be good…that there might be a different way with you…I would have kept running.”

Your legs are spread around him, lifted up slightly so that your feet are hanging off the ground as your knees rest on the sides of his hips.

“I want to show you how good it can be.” He whispers, bringing his left hand down to your ankle to take hold of it possessively. “I was a fool. An idiot. A moron in denial.”

“You’re tired.” You realize as he closes his eyes in one quick blink, but they stay closed a bit too long.

“I have enough energy for you.” He swears.

“Your Majesty,” You chastise.

“Steve. Please, please. Call me, Steve.” He begs, leaning up to kiss your neck.

You shut your eyes; lips slightly parted as he pulls your leg up higher against the side of his hips.

“I c-can’t.” You gasp, breathless.

“I’m going to make you scream it.” He whispers into your ear and your body is red hot metal iron, heated until pliable.

As his tongue traces the shape of your ear, a heaviness begins to settle on your chest. Your lungs struggle to pull in a breath, and your heart is racing but not in excitement.

“No.”

And as if a sudden gust of wind has blown out his flame, his Majesty pulls back, hands move to your waist again, and he gives you a bit of space.

“No, I…I can’t.” You shake your head, disappointment flooding your chest as the fear and tightness there takes hold.

“I…” But you don’t need to go on.

“I’m sorry, my flower. Forgive me. I’m a little eager.” He says, his caressing hands trying to reassure you that you are safe.

“I-I’m eager too, I just…”

“I know it wasn’t good with me.” His Majesty suddenly says. “And our wedding night was—I will never forgive myself for what I did to you.”

“You’ve said that before.” You point out, feeling calmer by the second.

“And it will never stop being true. I did something unforgivable and somehow you’re able to love me still.” He reaches up to stroke your cheek.

“We love you.” You remind him, then reach for his hand and drag it down to your stomach. “Both of us.”

His Majesty is all smiles. As he continues to stare and as he feels your barely there bump, his eyes grow misty.

“Thank you.” He gushes. “For giving me this gift. For coming back home. For putting up with me.”

You nod. “Thank you for trying.”

He dives down to kiss your belly, nuzzling it with his nose as you slip your hands into his hair hesitantly.

Will he like the affection? You’re almost afraid to give it.

As your fingers card through his hair, he relaxes more and shuts his eyes.

“How much time do we have until the feast?” You wonder, looking towards the window at the day outside.

“Hours.” He says weakly.

“I’m tired.” You tell him, hoping that if all of this devotion is really true, he’ll try to make you feel better.

“You’re tired?” He worries, sitting back again to look at you.

“Yes. But I don’t want to part with you yet.” You admit. “Do you have anything to do this afternoon?”

“Nothing.” He says eagerly.

“Will you lay with me?” You hope he doesn’t see through your ruse and even if he does, that he’ll pretend not to.

“Yes!” He says, too eager. “Yes, of course.”

Carefully he helps you to your feet.

He’s just like Nat and Grandmother already, protective. Watchful.

You peel off the top robe, the thicker one, and set it aside then move towards your bed as you tie up the first, much thinner one.

Dry, it sways around you smoothly as you climb into bed and look for his Majesty.

He watches you from the foot of the bed, a look of concern on his face.

“The last time we were here I wasn’t-”

It’s true, you don’t have good memories with him in this bed, but you’re eager to change that.

“Come.” You tap his side of the bed. “I’m cold.”

Like someone has kicked his bottom, he springs forward to his side of the bed and climbs in quickly.

He lays down. Feet hanging off the bed.

With a frown you move over to them and undo his boots.

“I’ll do that.” He makes to sit up, but you push him back with surprising force.

You make quick work of his shoes and then lay beside him before you roll into the circle of his arms and press your hands against his chest.

He’s hesitant, his arms hovering around you loosely.

“Don’t you want to hold me?” You probe, eyes already shut.

Tight arms pull you close, leaving you in no doubt that he does indeed want to hold you.

It takes ten minutes of his hands gently stroking your back before they still and you peek to find him fast asleep, mouth slightly open.

You shut your own eyes and hope this isn’t a dream.

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Epilogue: Ja Mata, Friends

I finally finished the Main Story Quest Rewritten Series! Yaaaaay! *Kermit Flail!*

Erii settled down on her knees and opened her little red suitcase. She wrote down on the paper notepad that she was supposed to be going to Korea to start a new life, but you notice that she didn’t pack very much. 

Your body still aches terribly to the point where you wanted to puke. Your eyes rolled with fatigue. But Erii was showing you her things and writing down her words in her way to chat with you even though you could only stare blankly.

You were in the middle of a graveyard of bones. The cooling effect of the broken canister of liquid nitrogen mixed with the spring air and created a dense fog in the Red Well. But you could still see the outlines of ribs, femurs and skulls among the pile of debris. Charred skeletons embraced each other in battle and deadpool remains mixed with human remains. It reminded you of a scene in an ancient fossilized tar pit. Over hundreds or thousands of years, countless animals and people fell into the pit and died together. Archeologists discovered them but their bones were all mixed up.

Erii showed you her Roman shoes, her white strapped shoes, her hairpins, stockings and ribbons all neatly packed. Then she showed you her little toys. Then she showed you her postcards.

“On April 24th, I went to Tokyo Sky Tree with Sakura. The warmest place in the world is on the Sky Tree.”

“On April 26th, I went to Meiji Shrine with Sakura. Someone held a wedding there.”

“On April 25th, I went to the amusement park with Sakura. The haunted house was scary, but with Sakura there it wasn’t so scary.”

You blink sleepily and suppress a yawn to avoid the pain of stretching your bones. “Hmm… at Christmas, I will take you to see Siberia.”

She nods seriously as this is a solemn vow to her.

Erii quietly took out some of her clothes and pressed them against your skin. The battle had ruined the last remnants of your wedding dress. She opened a blouse and slid it on your arms, pausing when you flinched and hissed in pain, only to continue when you relaxed. Then she buttoned up the front for you. She handed you her skirt and slipped it over your body. 

A soft noise, like a stone rolling down a hill made you sit up in alarm. Erii pressed one hand to your shoulder to keep you from standing. She wrote in her notebook. “Sakura is here.”

You blink at an approaching, staggering human shaped shadow in the fog. For a second, you think it’s Z and your heart lifts. In a few more seconds, Lu Mingfei came into view. Erii with her amazing hearing had already sensed his approach. That explained why she had dressed you and covered you up.

The man looked exhausted and soaked to the bone. At the sight of Erii’s wave, he relaxed to near collapse. “You’re here!” He exclaimed.

Lu Mingfei stumbled the rest of the way into her arms. He hugged her tightly and after a long time, he quietly began to cry. You watched them embrace, feeling happy for them at first, and your eyes grow dull.

Chance was gone. Ruri Kazama was gone too. He fell asleep in the mind of Chime and you would never be so greedy as to use the clapper on him to bring him back. Chime was off somewhere with his brother. It was uncertain if you’d ever see him again. Somehow, you’d seen the world, been wooed by the most beautiful men of Tokyo and still had ended up alone with no one to hold you and cry. 

Lu Mingfei had arrived in a black Mercedes and that’s what you took to get out of this place. You fell asleep on your way there.

You woke up days later to an IV in your arm in the comfort of the luxury suite. You stare up at the princess canopy. You’re surprised. How could it be that this place remained untouched throughout the whole disaster? Ruri Kazama knew your room. Perhaps by his fierce order, all the Devil Clan members knew not to destroy the bedroom of his precious love.

“MC…” A familiar voice speaks out of the dimly lit corner. You sit up. 

Renata was sitting next to your bedside. Her long blond hair was down over her bare shoulders. She wore a frilly blue lace top and a light yellow skirt with a white obi belt at her waist. A black knee brace interrupted her silhouette. For a moment you stare silently into each other’s eyes, expressionless. 

“Is there still a bug in this room?” You ask.

“I had Fingel remove it.” She said, standing and sitting next to you on your bed.

You finally wrap your arms around her, rest your head in her chest, and the tears roll down your face. Renata doesn’t cry but the strength in her arms as they hold you, so firm and so tightly, conveys her thoughts. You slept for twenty years and traveled all the way across the world. You’d fought with monsters and devils, gangsters and gods. But you still managed to find each other in the end. In this secret hide away in the dark, you could hold each other again. You press your ear to her chest and listen to that strong heavy heartbeat and hear her breathe in and out. “Renata… I loved you back then.”

“I thought so too. I was too embarrassed to say anything about it. I was afraid of getting in trouble with the nurses. But please. Continue to call me Zero. It’s more than my new identity. It’s who I am now.” She pulled away from you slightly. “Do you know about… him?”

You know she’s talking about Z and you nod. “A little.”

“Please keep it to yourself.” Her eyes were gentle, but her voice held a command. “There are things that are still far beyond that we cannot understand. But if you stay useful to the end, he will not leave you.”

It takes three months for everything to settle and, in the meantime, you stay with the men in Takamagahara Night Club. Your bloodline test returns completely clean and you are installed as a full member of Cassell College.  You don’t tell them how it happened, that you were bitten by the Light King parasite and filled head to toe with its fetal blood. When Erii embraced you, the effect was the same. She bathed in the blood of a young dragon and her bloodline issues resolved. In Caesar’s report, he simply states that your bloodline problems were clerical errors and you were never a dangerous hybrid.

In those months, the club Takamagahara was fully restored. Though Tokyo still lies in ruins, a great final performance has been arranged. You settle in your seat next to Zero and she looks at you and smiles.

The curtain was slowly opened. Caesar’s fingers ran across the keys of a piano, Chu Zihang blew out the first note on the saxophone and the applause rolled over like a tide. The spotlights swayed over them and the banners that read “Love Sakura!” “BasaraKing forever!” and “Sacred Ukyo!”

Zero huffed to your right. “Someone should stand behind Lu Mingfei before he faints.”

Erii sat next to you on your left and held up a sign. “Go Sakura!”

Tonight is his debut show and the farewell show for the three of them. The theme is ``Goodbye, Ikemen Team.” The TV regrettably announced that BasaraKing, Ukyou, and Little Sakura would be returning to the United States due to their expiring contract. Tonight is their last performance. They would also be ending their careers as performers, so this was truly Sayounara.

All the tickets were sold out in advance. Not even VIPs could get a hold of them. Whole bar fixtures were removed to accommodate more guests. The dance floor was full of women, young and old. Everyone was dressed in costumes from shiny sexy short skirts to dignified long black sleeves. In order to ensure safety, the Metropolitan Police Department temporarily activated traffic control measures and everyone had to walk to the Takamagahara.

Apparently, Cassell had pulled some sort of mass brainwashing. All the people who witnessed the raging deadpool in the club suddenly didn’t remember it that way at all. They only remembered you and the boys protecting and helping people during the storm and that was it. Cassell was scarily efficient at hiding the truth of the world from the world.

Lu Mingfei stepped to the microphone and looked at Erii and sang a shaky little “Sayounara.” He picked up the champagne on the piano cover and drank.

You only understand the word Sayounara in the song. It’s all in Japanese. Lu Mingfei might not have the best voice, but he does have the best Japanese of the three. You quickly pick up a handkerchief. “Erii… don’t cry! Come on, you have to give your support! You can still chat over Line tonight.”

There was no more fear that Erii would rage out of control and kill everyone. So she was free to express sad emotions like this. Now her red eyes ran with tears. “I want to go to the US with Sakura.” She wrote.

“And you will! You will! Eventually… Don’t despair okay?”

The best theater speakers in Tokyo were tuned to the use of the Takamagahara. The sound from the subwoofers burst like ten thousand cannons. Caesar’s piano skills were handed down to him from the world’s top masters and flowed into the sound system. Chu Zihang’s saxophone was also very good. The musical emotional refrain climbed higher and higher. And then when the hall seemed to no longer be able to accommodate such surging music, the top of the hall suddenly opened letting in the moon and starlight.

The spring had turned to summer and the warm air of the seaside city flooded in. You look up at the star strewn sky and grin. Your hand tightens on Zero’s hand. “Make a wish.” You whisper.

Caesar got up from the piano and Chu Zihang put down the saxophone. They all walked to Lu Mingfei’s side and the three took each other’s hands and bowed deeply. 

Cries and applause swept the stage like a storm. And the enthusiasm can't be contained. Women rushed the stage to embrace the young men who were leaving but the stage was too high to climb. So they throw roses, thousands of roses until the stage is covered with bright red, pink and white.

“Ukyou! Ukyou! BasaraKing! Basaraking! I love you! Don’t leave!”

It was time for the final rankings of the performers. At this moment, the spotlight suddenly came on to Lu Mingfei. Whale who had lost an arm in the disaster strode onto the stage. “According to Takamagahara practice, whether Little Sakura stays in our warm family depends on one thing - love! That is, your love!” Whale shouted. “Only the flower tickets of your love can get him to stay. So vote for him. Waiter! Please reveal how much love did LIttle Sakura get during his internship?”

A waiter came with an envelope on the platter. Whale tore it open with his teeth and shouted “320 flower tickets!”

“Oh…” You wince. Poor Lu Mingfei. Chu Zihang and Caesar and easily gathered over 900 ticket buyers in a few days. And after months here Lu Mingfei couldn’t gather half that.

But Whale continued. “In addition to the flower tickets purchased before the show, the total is 100,320 flower tickets! Congratulations Little Sakura, you passed the internship period and you are now a member of our Takamagahara club family!”

Whale took a check from his pocket. A projector enlarged the check until it was the whole background of the stage. It was a check for 100 million yen. Lu Mingfei stood in stunned silence. The check was signed by Erii Uesugi.

Erii had stood up at the end of the show but now she held up a new sign with a sad silent face. The sign read clearly. “Sakura, please stay.”

“Oh… Oh Erii…” Your heart was moved by this. You reach out to her.

Zero takes your arm and whispers urgently. “You have to go now. Or else you’ll miss them.”

You hesitate. Erii doesn’t look at you or shift from that spot. Lu Mingfei stares at her over the crowd but the curtain goes down in front of him. Zero is pushing you now and you have to go.

Erii still stands there even though the curtain is down.

Zero drags you out a side entrance to a waiting Alfa Romero Sports car.

“You can comfort her later.” Zero says as she shuts the door of the driver’s side of the vehicle.

“Yeah…” You buckle up and then do a double take. “Since when did you learn how to drive?”

“Since forever ago.” She turned her head and backed out of the alley and sped down the street so fast you were pressed into the leather. 

The helicopter was parked in a large parking lot two blocks away and the eight executive members of the Hydra lined up to send the Cassell team off. After this incident, the Japanese branch was established again, but a new agreement was signed. Anjou gave up his personal control over the branch, though he still holds the highest decision making power.

The last surviving member of the original family was Nanami Sakurai and she was promoted as Minister of Japan and the new acting director of the Executive Bureau. Chisei and his brother were missing in action and assumed dead. But before his disappearance, Chisei had left the leadership to Mrs. Sakurai. Caesar and Anjou spoke to Mrs. Nanami and she was impressed by their words enough to let you have a special internship and training as a White King bloodline operative and you would be handling all matters when it came to the Devil Clan and unstable hybrids.

“These small gifts left by the clan chief are not quite high end,” Crow gave sunscreen in glass bottles to Casear, Anjou, Lu Mingfei, Zero, and Fingel. “They’re his whole collection. He was really serious about going and selling sunscreen.”

“I’ll smear it on the prettiest girl’s back for him.” Caesar said.

“That would make him happy. That’s what he looked forward to the most.” Crow said.

Your heart aches slightly, thinking of Sakura Yabuki. You wondered where Chisei was now. You hoped he managed to find peace somewhere with his brother.

Caesar approached you. “Are you going to be alright by yourself?”

Your lips curl upward. Then you dip your head and delicately remove your contact lenses. Your eyes are glowing golden, permanently. One didn’t just brush up against the experience of being a dragon king and not be left with some sequelae. “Caesar… Are you going to be alright by yourself?” You ask in a sly voice.

Caesar averts his eyes. “Okay, okay, point taken.”

You replace the contacts in your eyes. “I’m no Caesar Gattuso, but I think I can hold my own here.”

Caesar’s eyes soften. “We’re going to look for him.”

Your smile fades. “Don’t look too hard.” Your chest aches again. “Chime needs time. And so do I.”

Caesar pulls you into a tight hug. You inhale deeply and focus on the bright sweet scent of tobacco. “Don’t forget to text me when you get in. And tell Nono I said hello.”

“I will.”

You approach Lu Mingfei. His eyes are dim and he doesn’t look up. You shake your head. You’re living because of this guy, so you can’t punch him or threaten him too badly. You tap his nose and he looks up at you, looking irritated. 

“Better step up, pretty boy. She went through a lot for you.”

“I know… I... “ Lu Mingfei rubbed the back of his head.

“Don’t say anything! I’m having the hardest time not dragging you back to the Takamagahara right now. It’s 100 mil yen man… come on.” You suddenly hug him tight.

“Ow! Ow! Have you been working out or something? Geez you’re gonna leave a bruise!” He whined.

“Text her.” That’s the last you say to Lu Mingfei.

You approach Chu Zihang. He looked down at you with golden eyes hidden behind black eyed contact lenses. Even now, you didn’t feel particularly close to him, especially not close enough to hug. Chu Zihang was holding a long white wood box that contained Chisei’s swords anyway. He nodded once to you.

“I will be following your progress closely.” He said.

Principal Anjou was blowing out a puff on his cigar as you approached him. He handed you a small white card. “This is your official Cassell Credentials. You’ll be on remote study, but given your performance, you can study at your leisure.”

“Thank you, Principal. I would like to learn Japanese, and how to drive faster than Zero.”

Zero looked up from where she was about to board the helicopter and rolled her eyes at you, but there was a trace of a smile on her lips.

The helicopter took them up into the sky and you watched as its white light disappeared like a shooting star flying into the distance, taking your friends away across the ocean to the United States. 

You turned back to Crow who bowed deeply until he was horizontal. “Mrs. Chief. Forgive my bad English, but your car is ready to go to your new accommodations at the Hydra headquarters in Genji Heavy Industries.”

You grin flashing your white teeth at him. “Arigatou.”

[rosethornewrites]

Monday’s T & G fics

Here are the fics I read today! Some of these are ones I’m subscribed to (and behind on).

Finished:

Rated T:

Encounter - Grass Butterfly, by ArchiveWriter

LWJ POV - set just after WWX's death and LWJ having suffered his punishment.

Context: Timeline mash-up. In my interpretation of events, Wen Quing and Wen Ning go to Jinlingtai alone; a lynchmob of clansmen led by Jiang Cheng besiege Burial Mounds whilst WWX is away with little Wen Yuan to try and get them back; when he returns, he can only hide the child in the charred tree before flying to face the massed clans in his last battle. LWJ chases after him – trying to find him after learning of the Wen siblings’ fate, he races to the old mountain, finds the child and rescues him to Cloud Recesses, then flies to the battlefield at Nevernight where he defends WWX and injures the elders of his own clan, who on behalf of his brother and uncle try to capture him and whisk him to safety before the clans overwhelm WWX (and potentially LWJ with him), then gets dragged off to Cloud Recesses after WWX jumps off the cliff.

two scheming babies scheme murder, by anxiouswreck0_0 (second in a series)

SangYao get married! Knowing how the last wedding went, how will this one go?

Mourning for Love, by bingolin

Lan Wangji had not thought about him in a while. But all who looked at him could almost see the ghost embracing him from behind and weighing him down- regardless of whether they knew to whom the ghost belonged.

Lan Wangji had not thought about him in a while.

But tonight, he was thinking about him.

Home is in Your Arms, by kitsyu

Lan Wangi is trying to grade papers; his husband is a welcome distraction.

(Just a short bit of post-canon fluff and domestic life in the cloud recesses. Minor spoilers if you squint)

Rated G:

In Which Lan Xichen Finds His Brother’s Behavior Concerning, by AshurbanipalJones

“He drank the wine he drank, suffered the wounds he suffered.”—Módào Zǔshī

But you're somebody else, by hamlets_ghost (second in a series)

Two brothers reunite for the first time after many, many years...

Wei Wuxian's plan for sneaking alcohol into the cloud recess is less than successful

Now I can't stand to be alone, by hamlets_ghost (third in a series)

Wei Wuxian is out night hunting alone and bites off more than he can chew.

Luckily a handsome rogue cultivator comes to his rescue.

Don't need you, by Poitre_4

Prompt: 178. "Don't do it. If you attack now, then I won't be able to keep you safe"

Character: Jin Ling

The Best Medicine, by BaconnEggs

Wei Wuxian knows something is wrong when he wakes up before Lan Wangji does.

It's nine in the morning. Waking up at this time is par for the course for Wei Wuxian, but absolutely unheard of for Lan Wangji. Wei Wuxian turns over to look at him, and even in the dim light filtering in from the curtains, the drawn paleness of his skin is hard to miss.Wei Wuxian grazes a tentative hand over Lan Wangji’s forehead and he seems to wince at the touch, face tightening as a low groan escapes his lips. The knuckles of Wei Wuxian’s fingers are met with dry, unpleasant warmth.

A fever.

(AKA Wei Wuxian takes care of a sick Lan Wangji because dammit Lan Wangji deserves to be taken care of and given soup as much as Wei Wuxian does)

Alternate Evil, by enchantingmiranchahalo

Post-canon Wei Wuxian time travels to the moment he's reunited with Lan Wangji and Jiang Cheng after the Burial Mounds.

Serial Killer, by nirejseki

“So what are you going to do about it, Xichen?” Jin Guangyao heard Nie Mingjue demanding, and paused, tilting his head to the side to listen rather than proceeding to enter the room.

Nie Mingjue had gotten increasingly irascible as of late, no doubt in large part to the growing influence of the Song of Turmoil that he’d been playing for him, and much of his ire was (correctly, although unknowingly) aimed at Jin Guangyao. It therefore would be better to stay outside and listen, to figure out what argument Nie Mingjue was using and design appropriate countermeasures – to convince Lan Xichen that Nie Mingjue was, as usual, making a fuss when there was no reason, and that it was safe to simply ignore him or downplay his concerns.

“Da-ge…”

“Don’t da-ge me! He’s killing people!”

Jin Guangyao tensed.

intersections, by sasamelons

He had just made it to the streetcar stop when he heard his name being called.

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Ying clattered his way down the street with his hastily-thrown on jacket and wild shoulder-length hair falling out of his ponytail. Lan Zhan had given up on trying to fight his way across the crowd before he left, had only managed to catch Wei Ying’s eye and wave from the other side of the room. His heart sped up at the thought that the other man had run out of the bar to say goodbye.

"Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan,” he said in between pants as he caught his breath. Despite his exhaustion and eagerness to get home only a moment ago, Lan Zhan had the sudden thought that he might be happy to stand on this street corner forever, if Wei Ying kept saying his name like that. “You’re leaving already?”

--

Growing up, at five intersections.

A Game of Chess..., by Ladycroft4evr

Just WangXian hanging out at Cloud Recesses, Life after Yi City... specifically after that insanely adorable bunny lantern/heart eyes at Tanzou market <3

Of course WangXian have a heck of a lot of free time between then and the Epic Confession @ Jinlintai :D So A bored Wei WuXian suggests a game of Chess (Weiqi/Go), small bet between WangXian...juniors make a cameo too lol.. Have fun, folks :)

Unfinished:

Rated T:

I've Heard of Second Chances, but This Is Ridiculous, by velvet_green

One of Wei Wuxian’s experimental talisman arrays sends himself, his husband and his brother to that mythical land of long ago – the Gusu Lan lectures of their youth.

Wei Wuxian is amused. Lan Wangji is silent. Jiang Cheng is angry.

And their younger versions are mostly just very, very confused.

Muted, by Akabara_13

Jiang FengMian thought the boy would talk again once the storm passed, but Madam Yu praised his silence. The boy would not talk to anyone, but his brother and sister.

demons run when a good man goes to war, by Miranda_Aurelia

In their attempt to consolidate power, Wei Wuxian is framed and executed by the Jin Sect.

A pity, because Wei-xiong was possibly the only person that could have stopped Lan Wangji from razing Koi Tower to the ground, thought Nie Huaisang uncharitably. As for him? They really should have left his brother alone.

Serendipity, by midnight_soul

Lan Wangji is tired of his family’s passive-aggressive persistence in his love life. He will not go on another blind date; the first two times were disastrous enough.

Wei Wuxian has had enough of his family telling him no one would want to stick with him, no one decent at least.

One trying to live his life peacefully and another wanting to prove his family wrong, how can their plan fail? They’re practically meant for each other.

Decay exists as an extinct form of life., by Amanie

Wei wuxian dies after years with the people he loved.

And then he woke up.

——

A jar of emperor’s smile crashed to the ground.

And Wei Wuxian screamed.

“How do you kill an immortal?”

Rated G:

The Undesirable Son, by FragranceLotion97

Wei Wuxian has been living with his Master, Baoshan Sanren, ever since his parents died at a Night Hunt when he was ten years old. Years later, his Master sends him off to join the lecture in Cloud Recesses for a special secret mission to save the entire Cultivation World from the heinous dictator, Wen Ruohan.

Wei Wuxian's journey in finding the real meaning of family and love in Cloud Recesses.

Patriarch, by nilavu

In which Hanguang-jun sends a letter to the Yiling Patriarch inviting him to Jin Rulan's one-month celebration and receives a surprising letter back.

[angelfishofthelord]

good tidings of great joy

“And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.” --Luke 2:10, KJV 

--A Christmas SPN fic--

Angels from the realm of glory

Wing your flight o’er all the earth

There’s very little glory remaining, either above or below. The absence has become a part of you, aching between the bone and marrow of this vessel. You walk this earth on feet strapped in the confines of shoes, with back bent carrying the remains of extinguished brilliance. Few can tell the difference between you and any of the other burdened mortals crossing the sidewalk; the aurora that used to halo you is less than a dull sheen.

You don’t mind the invisibility; the seamless stitches that hide you allow you to move unnoticed among humanity, like the air between the falling snowflakes. Humans have always been terrified of your kind anyways. Fear not is the most repeated command in the Bible. It appears 365 times; one sixth of those times is spoken by an angel.

Angels we have heard on high

Sweetly singing o’er the plains

The sweetness was never there in the first place, but you stop to listen to sidewalk carolers singing the lie, their upturned faces flushed with cold and joy. Humans have always written their own narratives about angels, from inventing their own version of your powers to restructuring your appearance and mannerisms. The fairy tales that shroud your essence would do well to remain instead of the nightmare of the truth.

You weren’t part of the flight who first appeared to the shepherds, but you’ve heard the story passed from battalion to battalion. How they were only half-shielded by the night to dim the inferno of their forms; how burnt wool and charred grass had the shepherds crying out in voiceless fear, had the captain begging for them not to be afraid. As if the human heart could anymore contain the palpitations towards the unknown than the heavens could not thunder in its every breath.

One caroler offers you a candy cane and you hesitate to take it.

“I have nothing to give you,” you inform the young woman. Receiving requires something like in kind, this you know. Nothing is free; a cost lies behind every extended hand or smile or place to belong.

“You don’t need to,” she beams. Snowflakes gather around her, glittering in her wool cap. “It’s Christmas.”

The shepherds ran to the village to spread the news, but not out of belief in the lore of a savior. They took one look at the distortion of celestial bodies and immediately vowed to spend their lives in devotion to whatever command was given in exchange for having their lives spared. Their declaration was one of warning, their faith born of terror.

“I can give it to my son,” you say finally. If you are not claiming it for yourself then perhaps the price can be waived.

She gives you two candy canes “so you can enjoy them together.”

  The angels knew what was to come

The reason God had sent his son

They knew that it was a test to humanity, to determine how to proceed with future involvement judging by mankind’s reaction to him. You don’t know which archangel came up with the plan; you were still under the delusion at the time that instructions were coming from your Father. The word spread among the hosts was that they should convince mortals that their Father had a single son; not thousands upon thousands cloistered in heaven, misshapen and deformed to the human eye. No, people needed to believe that God’s child looked like them and bled like them, not the other way around. Not the way angels made the earth bleed and burned brighter than the sun.

You pause under the awning of a closed church to check your phone. Dean wants to know when you’ll be back so they can start decorating the tree. “The kid’s impatient,” says the text. “We can only make so many cookies.” You think of Jack half covered in iced sugar and flour, licking the batter off his fingers and taking the tray out of the oven before they’re done. When the boy had called earlier that afternoon to ask if you could pick up some decorations on the way home the word “rainbow lights” had burst from his lips with such delight that you could almost see his smile, the way his eyes crinkled when he was happy.

Your son is happy. The thought is enough to move you out from under the shadow of the wooden cross above and continue on your way home.

Hark the herald angels sing

Glory to the newborn king

There never was any singing among the hosts. Choirs were the measurement term for the size of a flight one commanded. The strength of angel’s voices were used to contact each other midst battle, to send for help or reinforcements, and, on occasion when other weapons were exhausted, as a weapon against the enemy. You remember your own voice when you first spoke to Dean, how the pale faces of windows screamed and the parched throats of radios split. Your Father created you to be a creature that needed to be contained in order to be heard or seen; an anomaly suppressed in borrowed bodies that would remain forever incomprehensible by those you were charged to protect.

You can wrap yourself in cells and hair like them and still remain alien to them. Even as long as you’ve been on earth there are still words in your language this body’s tongue cannot pronounce, and colors you cannot find paints that come close to, and sounds no instrument can come close to mimicking.

There is still you, bundled beneath clothes and tissue and skeleton. You are the unknowable.

Sam brushes snow off your coat shoulders as you step into the bunker and he smiles at the face of the knowable you. Dean looks up from a tangle of evergreen boughs and welcomes you, the you that can fit in the door frame of this structure.

Jack. Jack looks at you, the entire visage of you in every increment of decaying glory.

And says your name like a song.

Sing choirs of angels

Sing in exultation

There hasn’t been any exaltation among your siblings for centuries now. Sorrow and greed and chaos have been the sole harmony they have sung, and not just since the averted apocalypse. Even in the earliest days when the presence of your Father blessed the halls of heaven strife still wrestled among the purity, staining it with betrayal and rejection that bled into Lucifer’s fall.

But here, in the warm womb of the earth with two humans and one child, there are notes of that wondrous jubilation the writers imagined in their seasonal songs.

Jack wraps himself up in the Christmas lights and Sam turns them on before he realizes it. When the boy laughs, unfazed by the buzzing bulbs braided around his arms, the panic disappears from Dean’s eyes. They open up boxes of decorations and scrape glitter from their fingertips, grumbling when it smears onto their clothes. Dean throws tinsel at Sam to put on the higher branches and his brother protests that he’s not a ladder. Jack picks up a small figurine and bends his small mouth into a frown.

“Angels don’t look like this,” Jack says and you look over at the small white fluffy statue in his palm.

Fear not. Humans have always sought to transform that which appeared unseemly. They have sanded down every possible edge and muted the scars of what it means to be angelic, turning an enormous and terrible being into something diminutive and fragile so even a child could smile at it.

“I think if I put a tiny trench coat on that Cas would kick my ass,” Dean remarks from under the handful of silver strands that a disgruntled Sam has dumped back on his head.

“No,” Jack repeats, holding the figurine between two fingers, “I mean, they don’t only have two wings. Or even one head.”

Sam bends back one unruly branch that is determined to attack him. “Do you…do you have more than one head?”

You shake your head. “Jack is a child, but more than that he's half human. He doesn’t have a true form like--” you push a finger against your chest “--we do, and he’s not in a vessel. He might get more wings later,” you add thoughtfully. There’s no archetype for nephilim growth, but when you look at Jack you see the strands of his soul and how the blend of hues there are unlike any other humans. You see the shiver of his two wings, full and bristling against the edges of space and time.

“We’ve seen your wings, Cas--well, shadowy thingies.” Dean stands up and squints as if straining his retina can enable him to better glimpse your frightening truth.

“That’s not how he really looks,” Jack beams and before you can put out a hand to stop him he pushes a finger against either brother’s forehead. “Let me show you.”

“Don’t.” The request escapes your lips too late, trailing after a plane that’s already left the runaway. Jack’s eyes are halos of gold and Sam and Dean stand awash in the tremors of his light, staring at you with speechlessly. You close your eyes, a very human habit that will shield you from nothing at all. Terror can slip through the seal of eyelashes as easily as a shadow under the door.

Fall on your knees

O hear the angel’s voices

There were very few who didn’t bow at the sight of your arrival. You wanted to tell them that they didn’t need to drop to the ground; you wanted to tell them you had no choice over the shape of your being. Eventually you let yourself believe that their reaction was because of the uniform you wore; soldiers are always greeted with trepidation, even human soldiers. They only appear in times of war and death; so you could reason that the hidden faces were because of that and not because of the horror of you.

But Sam and Dean are your family. They should not have to associate you with something as unnatural and ghastly as your mutilated true form. You know how the mind of humans work, how it loves the familiar and loathes the foreign. They see you as one of them because you look like them, and act much like them now, a comfort that will be erased now that they are seeing the difference of you.

Especially this you. Cut off from Heaven for years and eroded by the rivers of poison and possession that have ravaged your form, there remains nothing but mangled remains of monstrosity to see.

“Oh.” The breath swells from Sam, followed by an extended version of the vowel from his older brother.

When Jack pulls his fingers away and the illumination fades you open your eyes but keep your gaze to the floor. It won’t hurt any less but you want to delay being witness to the restrained revulsion in their eyes.

“I didn’t always look like that,” you say, as if it offers any excuse. “I had more…” you try to capture an appropriate English word to describe it “…fingers.”

“Where?” Dean sounds… curious. He sounds curious. Excited.

“On the..ah..faces.” You lift your head a little, waiting for their unease to fall like unannounced snow.

“Ah, the arches,” Sam says with pride, only to be contradicted by Dean.

“Wouldn’t that make them eyelids? Or eyebrows?”

“The faces aren’t structured like that; they could be arches or even parallel lines.”

“Okay, well, I know what I saw, and it was definitely eye-ish. I mean, that face was a leopard right? Leopards have eyes.”

“Cheetah,” Sam returns. “The spots are different, dude.”

“Those aren’t spots, those are the eyes,” Jack interrupts.

“So then the fingers do go on the eyebrow-y things. Like this.” Dean grabs a pencil and paper off the stack of books on the table and starts scrawling hurried lines. “And then the five and a half wings go there--and there---and I think one was there.”

“No, you’re getting the angles wrong, it came out of the elbow there.” Sam snatches a pen and scribbles out a corner of his brother’s drawing and adds something else.

Jack peers over their shoulders. “You’re forgetting the wheels.”

“They’re broken,” you point out shamefully, but no one hears you. Dean is swinging the pencil around the white sheet and Sam is accusing him of not knowing how to draw a circle and then Jack disappears and reappears with a box of crayons.

“Pink? I thought it was purple.”

“More like magenta.”

“Don’t get smart with me, Sammy. Jack, back me up here.”

They cluster around, crayon crumbs smearing into the white and elbows nudging each other for space to draw, and you stand there with a growing lump in your throat because they're not afraid.

Because Dean goes and grabs that little plush figurine and a white board marker and starts dotting the lace wings with spots for eyes. Because Sam gets toothpicks to stab the paper cut heads he’s drawn into the styrofoam body and Jack is twisting pipe cleaners into the bent lines of your wings. Because they fight over which side of the figurine to put two or three wings, and whether or not the rotating ram head should be in the front or back.

When they finally turn around and ask you if the bottle-cap wheel should be taped below or above the waist you try to answer without crying and it doesn’t work.

Fear not then said the angel

Let nothing you affright

There isn’t anyone else awake when Christmas morning first dawns. You leave behind the warmth of your room and go towards the center of this place you’ve christened home. Behind the staircase you find the plug and switch on the lights for the tree. They blink in a rainbow flutter against the synthetic branches, throwing tiny halos across the dangling snowmen and reindeer. Sitting on the table atop a stack of books is the angel figurine, now sporting a variety of hand-made appendages and hand-drawn additions to create some kind of composite creature.

It looks absolutely nothing like you.

You’ve never seen anything more beautiful.

Your hand slides into your coat pocket and you find the two candy canes from the caroler the day before. You find a branch to hang the red and white striped hooks on, somewhere between the mismatching socks that have definitely been put there without either brother’s knowledge and the actual baked gingerbread man that has Jack’s distinctive wiggly smile drawn on it in red frosting.

Before the sounds of your waking family come drifting down the hall you pause, fingers hesitating over the newly-crafted angel. You pick it up and move it to the top of the tree, wiggling it back and forth until it stands proud with all three crayoned faces to the sky.

You weren’t there for the first Christmas. And angels don’t sing or rejoice.

But you are here now, in this moment of Christmas.

Later Dean will be humming off-key when he pops marshmallows in the mugs of hot chocolate and Jack’s little squeal will ring out when Sam tries to stop him from opening the presents first. Later Jack will come tuck his arms around you for a sleepy hug and Dean will flash you a grin while he surreptitiously witches his mug for Sam’s. You will sit on the sofa cradling your own mug of hot chocolate and Sam will lean against your knees as he sits cross-legged on the floor flipping through the dictionary of dead languages you wrote for him. Later Jack will be wearing his new gloves and shadow boxing with Dean, both moving dangerously close to the tree. You will whisper “Merry Christmas” right before Dean’s leg twists around one of the lower branches and the six foot evergreen bows to the ground, sending the composite angel flying away on the wings of your laughter.

And ever o’er its Babel sounds

The blessed angels sing

Songs mentioned, in order of appearance: Angels From the Realms of Glory//Angles We Have Heard on High//The Angels Cried//Hark the Herald Angels Sing//O Come All Ye Faithful//O Holy Night//God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen//It Came Upon A Midnight Clear

[popsunner]

'Cause I Was Just Thirteen (when I got my first taste of danger)

@cubedleo​ this isn’t what you’ve been waiting for but it’s somethin’ sjdjb

A/N: I was trying to write the Spirit Sokka AU but my brain wouldn’t let me until I finished this,,, so. AO3 link!! 

Summary: 

“We’re just kids.”

“Are we?” Sokka asks, and the silence stretches between them.

(The answer is yes, but it’s easier to pretend they grew up a long time ago than admit they’re just broken children trying to fix a broken world)

When Sokka was twelve years old he carved a promise to be a warrior into a block of ice.

It took him an hour to chop out the crude symbols with the tip of his boomerang, and when he was done he was sweating, and his arm ached. War was in his blood, it was his main drive, his life.

He never understood the people who didn’t want to fight.

(Later in his life, he would meet a boy with a scarred face and a girl with dangerous eyes, and he’d know that in a different life, that could’ve been him and his sister)

(The desire to fight would all but fizzle out at that realization)  

There are few people left in the world who weren’t raised for war.

Bumi is one of them, and so is Aang. Sokka can see it in the way they speak, the way they move. The way they don’t shy away from fire or loud adventures that draw attention. He can see it in their smiles, wide and fearless and kind.

Bumi and Aang weren’t born into a world of destruction and stifling fear.

(Maybe that’s why Aang looks so much more hurt by the charred forests and waves of injured troops finally coming home)

(Sokka hurts too, but he’s tired)

(He’s so tired)

When the war ends, Sokka breathes for the first time in his life.

It’s like a wave of exhaustion hits him all at once, and if Suki hadn’t been supporting him and his broken leg, he would have crashed to the ground.

“We won,” Katara whispers.

No one cheers. No one smiles.

Slowly, Zuko stands, Katara’s hand hovers next to his hip and the second scar his family gave him. He holds a hand out to Aang, his face stone.

Aang doesn’t shake his hand or nod back grimly. He launches himself at Zuko and laughs with so much relief in his voice it reminds Sokka just how young he is.

(Aang wasn’t raised for war, but he was shoved into the middle with no warning, and expected to fix it)

Zuko shudders and stumbles, and Katara catches him and Aang before they all fall.

Sokka watches her, his baby sister, and realizes she’s been catching people her entire life. His eyes go blurry, and he staggers out of Suki’s grip to grab her shoulders and crush her against his chest.

“You made it,” he says into her hair.

Katara starts to cry.

Sokka isn’t sure how long they stand there after Toph burrows her way between them all and Suki wraps her arms as far as they can reach over the group, but it’s long enough for his leg to scream painfully in protest, and the weight on his chest to return.

Because it isn’t over yet.

Sokka looks down at his friends- his family , and realizes with a shaking breath that the war might be over, but the fight is far from done.

***

Getting used to a post-war world is more difficult than Sokka could have imagined.

For Toph, it’s not very hard. She was raised sheltered, and even despite her attempts to shun that lifestyle, she was never exposed to the loss of war or the scar it left.

Sokka is proud of Aang and Katara, who despite everything, held onto their wonder and inner light.

(the nights he spent pouring over strategies and plotting routes, burying evidence of scorch marks from around their campsite, the days he spent cracking jokes and letting them take out their frustrations on him through light hearted teasing paid off, and he’s so, so proud)

Suki was always an optimist, and Sokka is grateful for her every day, especially at night when he feels the guilt and fear grip his heart and threaten to undo him.

(She holds him and they whisper uncertainties and reassurances to each other until the sun rises)

Sometimes, though, Sokka just wants someone who understands what it’s like to live with what feels like the weight of his people on his shoulders, who knows what it means to grow up training every day for a fight he never asked for.

He finds himself sitting with Zuko more and more often after the war is over.

“Do you think they can ever really forget?” Zuko asks, watching a group of kids fly kites in the courtyard a ways away from where they sit.

“Them?” Sokka shrugs. “Yeah, they’ll forget. They’re just kids.”

Zuko’s eyebrows lower into something sad. “We’re just kids.”

“Are we?” Sokka asks, and the silence stretches between them

(The answer is yes, but it’s easier to pretend they grew up a long time ago than admit they’re just broken children trying to fix a broken world)

***

Hakoda is by no means old, even though his eyes crinkles at the corners and his hair is lined with wisps of white from years of stress, but war takes its toll on everyone, and the warrior has seen too many battles.

He walks with a permanent limp now, and when he asks Sokka to succeed him as chief of the Southern Water Tribe, he favors his right leg.

Sokka is eighteen, the same age his father was when he took charge, technically a full fledged adult now. But the sag in Sokka’s shoulders and the numbness in his eyes didn’t appear on his father until Kya died. His father grew up in a war just like he did, but he didn’t fight in it until Sokka was twelve.

There’s guilt in Hakoda’s eyes, so Sokka doesn’t stop himself from grinning and accepting happily, erasing any sign of the aching exhaustion off his face.

“Is this really what you want?” Katara asks him later, staring into the fire that crackles quietly between them.

Sokka wants to ask her if she’s ever asked Aang that, or Zuko. He wants to tell her he doesn’t have a choice, none of them ever had a choice.

Instead, he smiles. “Well, yeah! I was getting tired of Zuko being the only royal one.”

He can see it in Katara’s face, that she doesn’t believe him.

(But the war is over, the war is over so she lets him lie, the war is over and the worry lines on her forehead are slowly going away)

(Sokka knows now, more than ever, that the war isn’t really over)

(He lets her believe it is)

***

Sokka is at another meeting, another day long discussion of how to achieve peace when the sight of fire and red emblems still scares children, when all that conceals Ozai’s fallen statue in Omashu is a large, green canopy, when Sokka’s people are still scavenging for any food they can find, when Aang is still the only Air Nomad left.

Sokka forces himself to sit straight instead of prop his head on his hand and roll his eyes at Aang as the Earth Nation ambassador goes on and on.

Usually, Toph would be here to cut in with some crude one liner to break up the tension, and Katara would take notes for him when his mind wandered. Usually Suki would squeeze his hand under the table to keep him present.

But this is a closed meeting, as stupid as that is, and only recognised officials are allowed inside.

Zuko sits next to him, hands folded on the table, the epitome of royalty. Even Aang, who’d gotten such a sugar rush from his fourteenth birthday the day before that he tried to teach Momo to swordfight, sits stoically and nods along to the speech that’s been going on for an hour.

“-focusing our rebuilding efforts at this time on Ba Sing Se would be our smartest move,” the ambassador finally finishes.

Sokka raises an eyebrow. “Rebuilding what part?”

“Excuse me?”

“In your entire drawl you didn’t mention the outer rings of Ba Sing Se once. Do you really think we should spend more time and money on a rich inner ring that thrives off the other citizens' poverty?”

Aang looks surprised, like he’s trying to walk back through the meeting to figure out why he missed that. Zuko nods. “I spent time in the lower ring of Ba Sing Se personally, ambassador. I agree that you should be putting your main focus on the people there.”

If the ambassador were a firebender, he’d be blowing smoke out of his ears. “All due respect Fire Lord, but you’d really take the side of a chief of the most desolate land in the world over mine? A non-bender no less?”

Sokka’s wolf tail flips over his head as a rush of hot hair whips past him, from the Fire Lord and Avatar respectively. Aang is standing, his staff in his hand, and Zuko’s hands are clenched, his eyes flashing a warning.

Sokka holds up a hand, and Aang sits down, Zuko relaxes slightly.

(Because he might not be able to do the things they can, he might not have their power, but he does have their respect)

“You forget, ambassador,” Sokka says coolly, “that your king himself is a non-bender, and a personal friend.”

The underlying threat is understood loud and clear, and the ambassador sits down.

The discussion goes on, and Sokka has the taste of bile in his throat for the rest of the meeting.

It isn’t the first time he’s been disliked, like not being able to bend somehow makes him unfit. He sees the looks people give him when he walks alongside Aang on the street instead of behind him, when he tousles the great Toph Beifong’s hair or spars with the Fire Lord, when he teases his sister in public.

It isn’t the first time he’s been disliked for being a non-bender, but it’s the first time someone has said it to his face, in front of his allies. It’s the first time he’s heard the disdain voiced, and the ambassadors words cut sharp like a wip.

(The bile returns later, when he realizes his mind changed the title ‘family’ to ‘ally’)

***

The first thing Sokka does as the official Chief of the South is make plans for a memorial to commemorate the men lost in the fight, and the waterbenders lost in Ozai’s attempts to make sure that his grandfather's plan worked, that the Avatar wouldn’t survive.

(Sokka and Zuko find the place where the waterbenders were held a few weeks later, an entire underground fortress of cages)

(Every cage is full except one, there are no survivors)

(Sokka stares at Hama’s empty cage and forgives her)

It’s Katara’s idea to make the old Fire Nation warship part of the memorial, and with Toph’s help, the two of them build a statue that intertwines with the tarnished red flags and snow beaten metal. It means remembrance and hope.

Sokka’s tears freeze on his flushed cheeks when it’s finished.

“You know,” he tells Zuko the first time the Fire Lord sees it, “that ship isn’t all bad memories. It’s the reason we met.”

Zuko scoffs. “I thought that was a bad memory?”

“Funny how things can grow, isn’t it?”

Zuko has never looked more thankful than in that moment, and that night, sleepily sipping wine while Toph snores in his lap with her feet propped against Suki, watching Aang and Katara dance around the fire, he tells him so.

Sokka smiles, and looks around at his family. It seems like a lifetime ago when all he had was gran gran and Katara.

(Funny, how things can grow)

***

Rebuilding the South is… not easy.

Even with the men home from war, the South’s trade systems and outreach to the other nations had been completely demolished in the war.

The North, despite all its talk about rebuilding its sister tribe, does very little in the way of help.

The Northerners who moved with Sokka’s grandfather are angry, and a group of them plan to sail back to the North to convince them to bring aid.

Sokka lets them, and the day after they leave a blizzard hits the South.

Only four of the seven return.

(After the funerals, Sokka stands on the wall of ice surrounding their village and begs the moon for an explanation until his throat is sore and his voice is hoarse and raspy)

(She never answers)

***

Aang shows up one day, bouncing on his toes and grinning so brightly it hurts Sokka’s eyes, and tells him they’re taking a vacation.

Sokka has things to do, responsibilities and work that he can’t just blow (ha) off, and he just about says so when Appa roars, and Sokka remembers a time when he didn’t have to be chief or have the weight of his entire tribe on his shoulders.

(Somehow, the weight of the world felt lighter than this)

(Maybe because he grew up carrying it, or maybe because he never did, he only ever carried his friends)

Hakoda agrees easily to take over the Chief’s duties for the time being, and Sokka sees relief in his eyes when Sokka picks Aang up in a hug, and the two run off to the flying bison waiting for them.

Sokka sits in the saddle and stares at the back of Aang’s head, and tries to remember what it felt like when this was his life.

“Aang? Do you ever… miss when it was just us?”

The way Aang’s shoulders slump tells Sokka everything, and the younger boy nods. “Sometimes.”

(Sokka climbs up next to Aang and wraps his arms around his shoulders, and takes the reins when Aang turns to bury himself in Sokka’s shirt, because being Chief is hard, but being the Avatar is infinitely harder)

They meet at the Western Air Temple, because that was the first time they were all together.

Usually, there would be workers milling about, restoring all they can, but Aang got them to take the day off.

Katara hugs them both when they arrive. She cups Sokka’s face with her hands and squints at him like she knows he’s hiding something, and it takes all Sokka has not to crumble.

“Move aside!” Toph shouts, not giving Katara a chance to listen before she slides the stone under her out of the way. Toph punches Sokka’s arm hard, enough to make him wince, and then she drags both him and Aang into a bone crushing hug that they barely get out of alive.

Zuko laughs at them both, which is a welcome sound. Sokka only ever heard him laugh a few times during the war, and even fewer when they were all still navigating the new world. He steps forward and bows to Sokka, “Chief.”

Sokka doubles his dramatics when he bows back, “Fire Lord.”

Zuko snorts and stands. He pulls Aang into a side hug, and grips Sokka’s forearm. “It’s been too long.”

“The South Pole isn’t exactly a short walk away from the Fire Nation.”

“No,” Zuko smiles. “I guess I’ll have to plan more diplomatic meetings.”

Sokka groans.

Suki is a lot gentler in her hello, kissing Aang’s cheek and squeezing his shoulder, then wrapping herself around Sokka where she’ll stay for the better part of their meetup.

“Look at us,” she says, and she’s beautiful. “We’ve all changed so much.”

(Sokka hates how as the others smile, his stomach churns)

***

The anniversary of the end of the Hundred Year War is filled with celebrations, the steps of Zuko’s palace are transformed into a festival, a symbol of the Fire Nation opening its gates with kindness for the first time in a century.

Important people from every nation attend, and Zuko works with the Earth Kingdom to pay travel costs for as many citizens as possible, especially children.

Sokka has never seen so much food.

His stomach growls and his mouth waters, and Katara laughs at him when he’s led off to be formally introduced instead of being allowed to eat until he bursts.

Katara falls into step next to him, and Sokka takes a few seconds to take in how amazing she looks.

Her travels with Aang aren’t rushed or secret anymore, her eyes are brighter than he ever remembers seeing them, and she wears the Air Nomad cuffs Aang gave to her on her last birthday, a green headband holds her hair in place, and Sokka recognizes it as Toph’s. She kept the light-weight red shoes from their time hiding in the Fire Nation, and her blue dress has been altered to handle the hot climate most of the world shares right now.

Sokka thinks she’s the only one who could pull off wearing an outfit that includes all four nations, and he thinks she looks happy.

“I love you, you know,” He tells her, because he hasn’t seen her in months, because he missed her.

(He won’t admit it, but Sokka is still getting used to not having his sister at his side. His whole life, she’s been there. There’s something missing in him when she’s not)

Katara looks surprised for a moment, and then she smiles, and slips under Sokka’s arm, leaning against his side. “I love you too.”

Eventually, Sokka gets to eat, and relax, even if it’s only for a moment.

He watches Aang and Toph laugh at something Momo is doing as he devours a leg of meat he can’t name, and the sound of people enjoying themselves fills his ears.

Sokka had spent so much time staring at plans and treaties, organizing trades, building houses in the South, teaching people to fish and wash fur, that he hadn’t stopped once to look around him.

He’d spent so much time trying to heal the world, he never realized it was working.

(He loses his appetite then, but he still dances with Toph until his feet hurt, and he still tries to play Airball with Aang again, and he still smiles, and he still laughs)

(Because maybe he spent so much time trying to heal the world, that he hadn’t realized he was healing himself too)

***

People have tried to assassinate Zuko before. Sokka gets a letter from Toph (from Iroh, really, but they all pretend he’s not the one she dictates to) explaining a failed attempt in great detail at least once a month.

Toph finds it hilarious, but that’s because she’s there to take down the guy before they even make it into the palace.

Sokka finds it terrifying, because he’s halfway across the world with no way of helping.

It’s one of those sunny days that makes Sokka glad to be in the Fire Nation, and he’s sparring with Zuko, and for once, he might be winning.

Zuko’s dual swords clash against his singular one, and the two grunt as they both try to gain the upper hand. Sokka smirks and sweeps his foot out, tripping Zuko and knocking him onto his back. “Ha! I win!”

He reaches out to help Zuko up, fully intent on bragging for the rest of the day.

“Zuko move!” Toph shouts suddenly, and it scares Sokka so bad his instincts kick in, and he drags Zuko back to the ground, rolling away as a spike of ice longer than his wingspan flies through the air right where his head used to be.

Zuko breathes heavily under him, and Sokka slowly lifts himself off the ground, staying crouched as he scans the area.

Toph is on her feet, Katara at her side with a hand on her shoulder, and Aang is rushing forward, pulling Zuko to stand.

“Just so we’re clear, that wasn’t you, Katara, right?” Sokka asks, pulling his boomerang off his hip stealthily.

“What? No!”

“Didn’t think so,” Sokka says under his breath, and whips around to throw his boomerang towards Zuko and Aang.

Aang yelps and ducks behind Zuko, and there’s the sound of metal hitting something soft, and a loud ‘oof’.

Sokka barely has time to move before a wave of water forms a tiny tsunami in his direction. “Zuko, you need to get inside!”

People had tried to assassinate Zuko before, and it wasn’t out of the ordinary for the assassin to be from a different nation, though most of them were firebenders, loyal to Ozai.

Sokka realizes too late that this one being a waterbender is no coincidence.

His legs are swept out from under him and he hits the ground with a grunt. He’d slipped on ice like an amatuer. Sokka pushes himself up, reaching for his sword, and is met face to face with the assassin.

His eyes widen. “Nia?”

She snarls at him and yanks him into a choke hold, Sokka watches as his friends circle her.

“Let him go,” Zuko says, and it's only because Sokka knows him that he hears the tremor in his voice. “This is about me and you.”

“You think I’m here for the Fire Lord?” Nia spits, tightening her grip on Sokka’s neck. “I couldn’t care less about you or your people.”

And oh. Sokka should have known. He should have known because he knows Nia, he knows what she’s been through, what she’s lost. “This is about your sister.”

Nia’s breath quickens in his ear and she snarls. “You sent her back to the North, she died on that ship!”

Sokka should tell her it’s not his fault, but he doesn’t, because it is.

(He learned a long time ago that when you’re a leader, everything is your fault)

“You’re weak,” Nia continues, and Sokka can see Toph stiffen in the corner of his eye.

Katara’s glare is sharp. “Leave him alone. What happened to your sister was an accident!”

“It never should have happened!” Nia shouts, and her voice softens when he talks to Sokka’s sister. “If you were Chief, it wouldn’t have happened.”

For a moment, no one does anything. Everyone is still, frozen in a stunned and confused silence. Finally, Aang says, “What does that mean?”

“Our leader should be a bender! You and your father have made us weak! I saw it when I moved to the South!” Nia yanks on Sokka’s head, cutting off his airway with her grip. “With you gone, a bender will be in charge, as it should be.”

Sokka gasps on air, and closes his eyes.

That’s it. That’s always been it. Sokka can’t bend, which makes him less, which makes him weak.

History will remember the Avatar, and his three masters. History won’t remember Sokka.

(History has never remembered non-benders before)

(The world may have changed, but it hasn’t changed that much)

Maybe it would be better, with Katara as chief. She’s cool headed and smart, she pays attention in meetings, she’s respectful and kind and responsible.

Ever since they were kids, Katara has been everything Sokka is not.

Sokka coughs as a rush of air fills his lungs, and he grabs at the closest thing to him, which happens to be Aang’s hand, and holds tight. Zuko is holding his shoulders, searching his eyes for something Sokka isn’t sure is there. Katara has an arm around his back, and Toph is squating next to Zuko.

“Nia?”

No one answers, and Sokka understands. They caught her. She’ll be shipped back to the South for a trial. A trial Sokka will have to rule over.

(He’ll have to banish her, he knows. He knows and he hates it because she’s a child)

(She’s a child who was raised for war, and when it was won, she found another one to fight)

(Sokka knows, he knows and he understands)

His shoulders start to shake, the mask he’d been wearing for so long starts to shatter, and the hands holding him tighten, Toph says, “You’re not weak.”

“I would hate to be a chief,” Katara assures him.

But none of them say anything about Nia, and none of them try to stop his tears.

(Because in a world where children fight the battles, who really wins?)

***

Sokka is accompanied by his friends when he returns home, which sounds a lot better than saying he’s bringing back the Fire Lord, the Avatar, and the two most powerful water and earthbenders in the world.

He’s welcomed back with open arms.

The South has grown, refugees of the Water Tribe are returning home, the warriors are all home, the children are growing up on their own terms.

Hakoda tells him they found a place for Nia in the North, a school for kids who’d been traumatized by the war or the resulting events after it ended, and Sokka is so relieved that he spends the rest of the day letting Aang drag him penguin sledding and teaching Toph and Suki to spear fish.

They have a feast, and it’s the first time Sokka laughs in a long time. Aang doesn’t let go of his arm the entire time, and Zuko promises another spar.

Sokka isn’t perfect, and he isn’t all powerful. But when he looks at the shining, beautiful, alive faces of his family and his people, he knows he’s not weak, and he knows eventually, they’ll be okay.

When Sokka was twelve years old he carved a promise to be a warrior into a block of ice.

Now Sokka is nineteen, and he carves his name into a tiny corner of the icy memorial, right above Katara’s, to the left of Zuko’s, to the right of Toph’s crude fist print, and just above Aang’s.

Sokka was raised for war.

He held his sobbing sister as his father explained that the Fire Nation killed his mother. He watched the warriors ships sail away without him. He spent years teaching himself to fight so he could protect his family.

He was the newly redeemed Fire Prince’s first friend and the first (honorary) male Kyoshi Warrior. He fell in love with the Moon Spirit and crafted a sword from meteorite. He taught the first metalbender it’s okay to cry. He taught the Avatar how to deal with nightmares.

Sokka was raised for war. He was raised in fear and hate. He was raised to fight.

As the years go by, there are more people in the world who aren’t raised for war.

Sokka can see it in the way they speak, the way they move. The way they don’t shy away from fire or loud adventures that draw attention. He can see it in their smiles, wide and fearless and kind, and with those new faces and new hope, Sokka learns to forget.

(Of course he does, he was just a kid, and he learns to stop pretending he grew up a long time ago and admit he was just a broken child trying to fix a broken world)

(They all were)

[nostalgic-pancakes]

Room 73- Chapter 1/8

There is a being that lives in the chemistry building of Haley-Dove Secondary. It has been there longer than anyone’s living memory, and nobody questions it anymore.

Pairing/s: (Eventual) Romantic Prinxiety, Loceit and Pintroverts/Karrot Kings, Queerplatonic Intruality and platonic DLAMRT(N) with mentioned background Kailliot. Romantic (married!) Remile and mentioned Sanders Shorts characters.

Read on AO3!

Word count: 2950

Warnings: Mentioned bullying, allusions to the foster system, perhaps minor disassociation? Paranormal elements.

Other notes: So many thanks to my Beta (!!!) Juicyboxers for looking through this fic for me- and teaching me so much stuff about dialogue!! So if you notice that the dialogue here is better than the dialogue on my other stuff, than thank him!

Anyways, without further ado... (tinny drumroll)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There is a being that lives in the chemistry building of Haley-Dove Secondary. It has been there longer than anyone’s living memory, and nobody questions it anymore.

It’s a strange one, a space completely fuzzed out by something resembling static, but if that static could exist, could take up space, be real in a way static really can’t be.

The being lives on the third desk to the right, second from top, room 73. It seems to be on friendly terms with the thing that sometimes screams in the courtyard and the witch who lives in the woods surrounding the town. It doesn’t seem to like the slamming locker much, but it doesn’t hurt anyone, so nobody cares.

It lingers, at that desk, watching boys and girls and everyone in between study the sciences as the years go on, seeing the building as a boy’s school, then a bomb shelter, then a public school classroom, watching. Nobody knows what the being is, really, but it’s there, so nobody will say anything.

Across the country, three people grieve quietly.

…

”BEEP, BEEP, BEEP”

“Shu-Shuddup, Pat...” Groaning slightly, Janus lifts his covers from his head, just a little, to flip the bird at his brother, who clearly understood the concept of ‘don’t wake someone up before sunrise’. “...lemme sleep.”

Pat doesn’t seem to realize this, clearly and he continues making obnoxious beeping noises at him. Stupid Pat and his relentless cheer never letting Janus brood enough to fit the aesthetic.

“Alright Pat, let’s get up then. Besides, this has to be better than middle school.” Janus feels bad almost immediately for bringing that up because Patton’s eyes cloud over some, before clearing themselves up and his brother smiles again, a little wider, beckoning Janus out of bed.

“Pat, could you pass me my cape?” asks Janus, holding out his hand expectantly. He’s moderately surprised when there’s nothing there after a few seconds. He glances over, and his brother’s looking at him a bit cheekily.

“Aww Janny, couldn’t you possibly go without it for our first day? You wear it all the time!” Patton replies, picking up the cape and throwing it to him, Janus catching from below. It’s routine.

“No, and you know it. Now, slacks or skirt?” asks Janus, sifting through the small clothes pile Patton kept out for the week

“Skirt, please! The one with the suspenders?” “You have no taste”

“Says the guy wearing the cape, Jan.” when Patton takes the skirt, it brushes against the wall first, promptly setting off a chorus of whispering flowers gossiping. Jamus is really, really lucky that Patton hasn’t realised that that’s a viable way to wake him up.

Deeming themselves acceptable, they both go downstairs, with Patton skipping down the steps more than anything, and Janus trying to avoid the cracks on the eighth, sixth, and second steps. The shadow in the creaks always snarled at him if he stepped on a crack, and it was, frankly, annoying.

Emile and Remy were already in the kitchen, Emile making (slightly charring) breakfast and Remy brewing coffee while simultaneously downing his fifth cup of the stuff, shifting from foot to foot to some mid-2000’s pop playing from Emile’s phone.

“Hey there, small fries! It’s eggs and toast for breakfast, so gobble up before you go- breakfast is the most important meal of the day!” Exclaims Emile, as soon as he catches sight of Patton’s yellow skirt in the stairwell. Remy looks up from the coffee pot, acknowledges Both Janus and Patton’s existence, then nods and brings out two more mugs, one yellow and black and one yellow and pink onto the kitchen island, next to the Steven Universe and ‘I’ll sleep when I’m Dead’ cups respectively.

“Hi, Emile! I’m so excited for today- do you think Jan and I could make some friends today?” asks Patton, still smiling as he elbows Janus for the latter part of that sentence. Janus turns around, knocks the perpetrator’s elbow, and grins, sitting down to accept his burnt eggs and coffee while Patton gets his burnt eggs and sugar concoction. Remy takes up the seat on Patton’s other side, grunting as he downs his sixth cup of coffee and Emile swoops into his husband's space, plucking the empty cup from Remy’s hands and not letting him get a refill. Remy grumbles a bit, but there’s no real malice- this is routine, always has been, as long as there have been witch-hazel plants growing along the house and as long as Remy and Emile have known each other.

Emile plops down with his breakfast and his coffee mug- always too much milk- and turns to face Patton, straightening his sweater vest, beaming in a way that fools a lot of strangers into thinking that Patton’s actually biologically related to him.

“I think you two can, Kiddo! With the right people, you and Jan could set the world on fire!” he cheers, and even though the smile’s a bit smaller around the end, the statement is sincere.

“Hey, arson is fun.” quips Janus, and Emile gasps, but clearly is holding back a grin, while Remy is straight-up (nah) cackling, as Patton chokes a bit on his eggs at the deadpan delivery. Janus doesn’t make an expression, just puts another bite of eggs in his mouth, scraping the edge of the plate with his fork. He cringes at the sound some, but it’s over in a second, thankfully.

It’s only about ten minutes later that he and Patton are at the doorway, book-bags packed and ready to go, with Remy and Emile waving, does Janus finally realize that yeah, High School is starting, and he’s terrified. A year without Patton at his side constantly is crazy- they only have two common classes, and that means this year will have the longest amount of time they’ve ever been away from each other since meeting every day. Patton’s scared too, Janus can tell, because the hand that he’s using to play-guide Janus around (“Because you’re a SLOWPOKE!”) grips tighter and tighter every metre closer to the bus that the two of them get, till it’s nearly bruising, the same colour of the whispering flowers down by the creek.

But they make it to the bus in time, and it’s good that Patton and Janus are holding onto each other so tightly, because of the swarm of kids piling in. Without that grip, they might not have been able to snag an empty seat to sit in together, right across a kid their age, sitting with his back ramrod-straight, wearing glasses and… going through this year’s textbooks? Nerd. But hey, Janus likes dissecting Shakespeare, so what can he say?

The bus starts going, from dirt paths in the residential area to a better built road as they all get closer to the main town, with the offices and shops and buildings and well, the school. Everyone looks a little exhausted, and some even look a bit excited, but nobody here is really memorable except for textbook-kid. Midway through the ride, as the view of the woods on everyone’s right starts thinning out a little, the witch who lives there waves, and her daughter, who’s apparently on top of the seats, in the luggage shelf (because buying buses from airports makes total sense), hangs upside-down, grinning wildly with her tangerine-colored hair falling out first, as she waves to her mother, still wearing her gathering-dress. She vanishes again soon after, lugging herself back up, but that’s no matter. She seems happier there anyway.

As the sun starts to rise in earnest, a lot of the night plants growing along the bus poles start shrinking away, letting the morning glories take centre stage for a while as the bus pulls over into the schoolyard, with the kids who took their bikes here already in their classrooms or on their way there, it’s a bit of a frenzy.

Janus takes a look at Patton, whose nerves that had been kept at bay for the moment while taking the scenery coming back in full force, and tries to smile for him. His brother deserves that much. Patton relaxes, and gives Janus’s hand one last squeeze before getting off the bus, and immediately hunting for his homeroom. 9-D, Janus thinks. He’s in 9-C himself. He sighs and trudges forward, seeing the witch’s daughter and glasses-guy enter the same classroom and hoping this doesn’t end like middle school.

…

Logan and Virgil Varma are in no way looking forward to school. Never have, really. Brings too much back about being too ‘weird’, or ‘scary’.

“Pssh, other kids are scarier” mumbles Virgil darkly under his breath while putting his bike away. He notices Logan behind him, fresh off the bus, putting his biology textbook in his bag (more like stuffing it, but Virgil isn’t about to say anything)

“Virgil, I do not think that you should say things like that when ‘other kids’ can hear you, especially if I could hear you-” Logan’s cut off by Virgil, who smirks.

“Three feet away, I know, L. But you have one thing nobody else does-”

“Superhuman hearing!” They finish off together, knowing this routine by heart and then some. Logan giggles, and Virgil automatically feels better than before for making that happen. His smirk turns into a bit more genuine of a smile as they finish the walk into homeroom together, in the same room for once, thank fuck. Virgil really needs to thank his Mom for pulling that off. She really pulled some strings for Logan to have a better year this time ‘round.

9-C. That’s his and Logan’s homeroom. When Virgil looks inside, he sees a… decently eccentric class lineup. There aren't many high schoolers in this place, so there’s only about ten people here. Hildi, who he’d hung out with in middle school, who waved at him enthusiastically, fiery hair flying about. It’s infectious, so Virgil smiles a bit back and waves too, albeit a little less excitedly. Well, there’s one person Virgil knows.

There’s a person just behind her who’s dressed up like a nineteen-twenties mobster, with the yellow-black aesthetic and cloak. He has a giant scar along the left side of his face which looks a bit like snake scales, so Virgil’s going to dub him ‘Snek Boy’ for now. There’s two people next to him, too. One looks like the ‘Chad from the horror movie’ archetype incarnate, and is flicking spitballs at the other kid in front of him, who smiles and passes him a stim toy. That person’s most likely an introvert, with all the pins on his stuff. Well then hello, fellow pintrovert.

Virgil inhales, knowing that he’s about to run out of time to stay at the doorway without looking weird, and takes the seat just behind Logan. Back row, no sun from the window. Logan turns back to face him, and Virgil does his best to smile reassuringly. He’s… relatively sure it worked, because Logan smiles as well, adjusts his glasses and turns back to face the front of the class, where the teacher enters. They look decently severe, tall, and wearing a tweed coat over a sweater vest, in extreme contrast to his dark skin tone. He puts his files down, cleans his glasses and turns up to face the class.

“Hello. My name is Corbin Robinson, and I’m your homeroom teacher for this year. I use he/him pronouns!” the severe expression tapers off into a bit of a smile as he finishes off his sentence. “Now, could all of you come up here and introduce yourselves? Preferably with your preferred name, pronouns and one fact about yourself that pertains to your personality!” he takes out a notepad, and steps to the side. Chad walks up and clears his throat after about ten awkward seconds.

“Uh, hi! My name’s Brian. Brian Cornwall. I use he/him pronouns. This is my boyfriend’s jacket! We’re wearing each other’s jackets for good luck today!” Ch-Brian finishes. He’s blushing furiously by the end of his statement, but the entire room (Virgil included) is clapping for him anyways, so he ducks down a bit to go back in his seat. Professor Corbin’s looking at Virgil now, and what is he gonna say what if he’s dumb and says something wrong and--

Hildi hops up to the front of the room, and Professor Corbin’s attention is on her for the moment. Thank god. She winks at him, and he smiles weakly back.

“Hi! I’m Hildi, the witch’s girl and I use she/her pronouns! Fun fact about me… uh, I once got to find out who’s hand the disembodied hand in plaza belonged to- Some guy called Andy from the thirties.” Hildi finishes with her hands crossed on her heart, the typical greeting that her coven uses. Virgil nods and crosses his hands as well.

Professor Corbin’s eyes wander around the class, to find whoever hasn’t spoken yet, and they land on Virgil. Since Hildi’s gone up, the eyes stay there. Virgil takes a steadying breath, and fiddles with a loose string on his hoodie.

“H-hi, I’m Virgil. Virgil… Sanders.” Great he’s already fucking this up why did he do this--

Okay, breathe. In two three four, hold two three four, out two three four five six seven eight.

“I use he/him and they/them pronouns, but I don’t really mind whatever you do end up using for me, and uh… fun fact about me?”

“I’m a twin, and my twin’s the coolest person on this planet.” he finishes, and tries his best to smile over the nerves. He feels good, though, praising his brother. Logan smiles, properly now, even as he burrows himself into his shirt best he can. Virgil smiles back, and makes his way back, trying to get his breathing back under control. It works, and he’s breathing just fine by the time Logan walks up, shoulders set.

“Hello,” he waves. “My name is Logan Ejiah Sanders, I use he/him pronouns and am Virgil’s twin. A fun fact about me is that I only use blue coloured stationery.” Logan finishes, clipped as ever. He’s careful with what he shares these days, and using solely blue stationary is something that can just be summed up as a personality quirk, instead of something wrong, the kinds of wrong that made teachers sigh and avert their gaze or puff irritably or what made him cannon fodder to other kids.

Logan’s nervous, and Virgil wishes that he could’ve done something sooner.

The introductions slip by after that, Janus, he/him, vitiligo scar, Nico Flores, they/faer, aspiring writer, because Virgil’s too floaty to care. Hildi passes him a floating earbud, and he takes it.

…

Roman really doesn't know what to expect from high school. In the stuff he reads and watches, it's portrayed as this ecosystem with really strict rules. His family calls it the most idyllic time of their lives. College students call it hell. So yeah, Roman's confused.

Remus is in a different class entirely this year, which isn't weird, so he doesn't know why he thought that? Stupid brain.

Roman was already in a shitty mood, having had to skip out on seconds of bacon because he'd already eaten too much this morning and might have to miss lunch later for club sign-ups, which is terrible. He's hoping that at least his class isn't too bad this year. Haley-Dove is a small town, but small doesn't always mean nice. He'd know.

(Roman can't get the words out of his head anymore.)

Both Mitchell and Croft were forced to change schools from Haley-Dove Secondary but what if there are new people?

Roman shakes the thoughts out of his head. School. First day. Homeroom. Class 9-D. This is doable. Just breathe, 4, 7, 8 and walk into the classroom. You can do it Roman, where's that confidence? Wait don’t answer that question just GO--

bump

“Hi! Sorry, I was so clumsy. Hey, I’m Patton!”

Roman first needs to decode that sentence before answering. Okay- Patton, sorry for bumping into Roman. Okay. Greeting, so greet back. Performance time, baby!

“No problem, Patton! I’m Roman!” Patton visibly cheers up in front of him, skirt swishing sideways a bit in the wind. Patton notices Roman looking at the skirt starts talking again.

“Uh.. he/him pronouns- but my gender is weird, yanno?” Roman did not know, but it seemed to matter to Patton, so he nodded and smiled a bit.

“Tis alright! I use he/him as well! Now, what homeroom address have you got, dear Patton? Let us make haste!” Patton giggled at Roman’s antics, meaning it was working. Good. Both of them fish into their pockets for a piece of paper they got at the entrance, unfolding it. Roman’s reads 9-D, as expected, along with Pattons’s.

“Hey- this means we’re in the same class! Woo-hoo! That means one new friend, huh kiddo?”

“Kiddo?”

“Sorry, I call my friends that.” Patton looks sheepish, as if he doesn’t expect Roman to react well.

“Oh no problem, dear Patton! I look forward to going through this year with you!” they both giggle, and Roman actually feels like they can be friends- Remus will be proud.

“Well, I am too! C’mon, let’s go- we’re already a bit late for homeroom.”

Roman looks at the clock- 8:02. They are officially two minutes late. Remus is probably in class already, if not just to pull a prank on the new homeroom teacher, meaning Roman had better get to class already.

“Yes! Onward! To academic achievement!”

…

The chemistry room is a little cold all of a sudden, and something has clearly woken up.

School’s in session, everyone. Hope you’re ready for this.

[girlofmanyfandoms]

A/n: Next chapter is out! This one has a lot of setting up of the future plot points, it’ll be fun if y’all can pinpoint it. If the next chapter takes too long, I’ll post more of “The Plot out of context,” if it’s wanted!

Key:

Tater - @a-lonely-tatertot

Lynn - @lesbilynnette

Gray - @silver-snow

Lilah - @tribblemakingalicorn

Cadence - me

Ivy - @imaramennoodle

Molly - @molly-sencen

Farris - @everyonehasthoughts

Speens - @an-absolute-travesty

Holes - @holesinmyfalseconfidence

Connor - @linhammon-roll-bromance101

Panda - @worldwidepandamonium

Meg - @ultralazycreatorfan

Word count: 2,740

Warnings: Nothing makes sense.

“Lynn, can you have the next shipment of the Gatorade sent to my address in Peru?”

“Farris, what did you do now?”

“Nothing!” They grinned nervously.

“I swear if you moved to Peru just so you could buy an alpaca, I will-”

“It’s not that, I swear! Well, not just that. Boss called and said I have to be at the excavation site by tomorrow, that it might be a big break.” Farris scoffed. “As if. Last time, the only thing I found with my metal detector was someone’s Betty Boop keychain.”

“Yeah, I can ship them there,” Lynn sighed, exhausted from a night of getting a deal with the investor and setting prices for the products. “And that’s crazy.”

“I know right?” Farris answered. “Betty Boop? When was this person born, the 1950s?”

“That’s not- yeah, you’re right, Farris.” Lynn changed her sentence halfway through. “Any word back from Panda?”

“Yeah, Panda got back to me. Said that her sign is a Scorpio.”

“What?”

“Exactly, who would’ve thought Panda was-”

“Farris, you were supposed to ask about the chain restaurant idea!” Lynn massaged her forehead. “Why did we agree to be partners?”

“Because I threatened to blackmail you,” they responded, taking a bite out of an apple. “And I did ask about that. The zodiac sign was probably the question I wrote on my arm so I wouldn’t forget.”

“And?”

“She said the chain restaurant idea is a good thing to look into, as soon as we can make a good menu, hire some staff, good prices, nice locations, accessibility, y’know, all that jazz.”

“Because that’s so simple.” Lynn sighed, shuffling through the paperwork that had accumulated within the past week. “Alright, tell you what, I’ll get an artist to make an ad, maybe a social networker, I’ll set up a blog and we get the word out. As soon as you get back from the gig, you call me, alright?”

“Yup,” they agreed. “Oh, and Connor just texted saying he needs your help. I told him to wait ‘til I got back so I could teach him how to properly rollerblade, but the kid’s a madlad.”

“Anything broken?”

“His sanity.”

“Farris.”

“And a lot of furniture.”

“Guess I’ll have to find out for myself, huh?”

“You sure will.”

“Alright, I’m checking in with the supplier. Talk later?”

“Cheerio, mate,” Farris grinned, saluting her before ending the call.

Lynn opened her laptop and emailed her supplier, who had requested to remain anonymous. This was fine though, identities shouldn’t be known when dealing with the black market and pyramid schemes. Lynn was fine with using her real name because of her position as co-founder of Forbidden Incorporated. If she was going to go deviant, she’ll be damned if she didn’t do it with style.

_________

Cadence’s phone buzzed, as an email from a client had just arrived.

“Forks do not work with ice cream,” Tater yelled for the umpteenth time.

Holes clutched their head in a mixture of disappointment and annoyance. “Why would you use a spoon? It’s not soup, you can’t just spoon it out!”

“Then pop it in the microwave for a few seconds, for fu-”

“Crank it down 12 notches,” Molly suggested.

“-for Pete’s sake,” Tater acknowledged Molly. “And didn’t you just eat an entire bag of flamin’ hot Cheetos in one sitting?”

“They were good! And I’m fine,” Molly insisted. “Sure, we’re out of milk, and I have strep throat, but I just took a shower and I don’t think I’m gonna pass out just yet.”

Tater and Holes pulled out a Lysol can, masks, gloves, and a plexiglass barricade within seconds, clearly getting flashbacks from 2020. Cadence wasn’t paying attention, as usual, and kept writing her response to the email.

“Relax,” Molly laughed, clearly not finding it strange that they had those on hand at least a decade later. “I got my antibiotics, it’s not contagious anymore. And hey, good news: I made a questionable decision, and that’s also not contagious.”

They threw the equipment behind them, seemingly into the abyss, and relaxed a bit.

“Ok, now to address the real problem,” Holes started. “Who is Pete and why are we doing everything for his sake?”

“Oh my gods, it’s an expression, Holes,” Tater sighed.

“No, no, Holes, is onto something,” Molly said, grabbing the detective hat Lynn had designed for her and putting it on. “And I intend to find out.”

“Cadence, please make it two against two,” Tater pleaded.

Cadence glanced up from her phone. “What’s happening?”

“Oh my- you know what, I should’ve expected that, considering the Paint Water incident.”

“Ok, the Paint Water Incident was ONE TIME!”

“The what?” Holes looked interested.

“We don’t talk about it,” Cadence chimed in. “Think of it as the Great Gulon Incident of our group.”

“Great,” Holes sighed. “Another mystery. You’re all high.”

“I was fully aware of what I was doing in that incident.”

“Even better,” Holes commented dryly. “Nevermind, I don’t need to know.”

“Besides, there are great puzzles to be solved,” Molly continued enthusiastically. “Onward! We must scavenge for our first clue of Pete’s identity.”

Tater closed her eyes, telling her conscience to shove it for a moment. “Where do we start, Detective?”

Holes raised their eyebrows.

“If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em,” Tater shrugged.

Molly looked at Holes in expectation. “Alright, fine,” Holes caved. “But I’m taking Cadence with us, I’m not going crazy alone.”

“That ship has sailed for both of us,” Cadence commented, not looking up from her phone.

“Yeah, haha, very funny. Let’s check out the corner opposite of the one they’re searching.” Holes paused, waiting for them to be out of earshot. “We don’t have to do anything, just pretend to search, I’ll be watching to make sure they don’t get killed.”

Cadence looked down at the email from her client. A shipping of 500 bottles, and 3,000 containers of newer products. And to Peru? Why had they changed the shipping address? She sighed. It was going to be a long day.

________

Connor’s house was on fire. Connor’s house was on fire. Why was Connor’s house on fire, you ask? Well, if you need to ask, you clearly haven’t met him. Lynn gazed at the sight in front of her tiredly, not knowing how she hadn’t expected this to happen.

Speens was calmly watering the bushes surrounding the house, not giving a second thought about putting out the fire with the water they had.

Lilah appeared beside Lynn, startling her. “Oh, good, you came. Gray has been trying to help Connor stand up for the past 30 minutes, but he’s way too drunk and he keeps refusing to ditch the rollerblades. Oh yeah, and his house is on fire.”

“About that, how’d it happen?”

“He was rollerblading on the stair railings when he fell onto their lamp, which tilted over and fell onto the seance that he was holding earlier in the day so the candles fell onto the hardwood floor, and then he spilled vodka everywhere, and then the flames turned blue, so here we are,” Lilah recounted all in one breath. “It’s kinda beautiful to be honest.”

“Beautiful isn't the word I would use to describe it,” Speens called. “It’s interfering with the plants. Well, except for Suzy, she’s a stubborn one. She wouldn’t burn, and believe me, I tried to make her.”

“I believe you,” Lynn said, quite understandingly. She had seen Speens around on the Deep Web, but had respected their secret. They all had secrets, after all.

Lynn walked inside where the hose was already uncoiled and ready to be used. Connor, however, was clinging to Gray’s leg. “NO, DON’T USE A HOSE, THE HOUSE DOESN’T LIKE SHOWERS.”

“Connor, the house is an inanimate object, it does not care,” Gray told him, trying to get control of the fire in the kitchen.

Connor gasped. “How DARE you talk to Cynthia like that?! She deserves better!” He crawled over to a wall that was, inevitably, about to burn down, and he stroked it. “You’re gonna be okay, sweetie. Don’t listen to the mean person, they’re just a hater.”

Gray shook their head and sighed. “Hey, Lynn. Can you increase the water pressure?”

Lynn did so, much to Connor’s dismay. To make up for it, Lynn handed Connor a piece of a floorboard that had undoubtedly been broken into pieces when they fell off of the stairs. He hugged the floorboard close to his face, crying happy tears, not thinking about the possibility of splinters. Lynn was confused, but had a feeling she would need him as an ally soon, and this was the best way to start.

Lynn babysat Connor as Gray put out the fire. When they had finished, none of the house had fallen down. It was weaker, and very charred, but somehow it hadn’t fallen.

Gray reached behind them and pulled out a ladder and a blueprint covering the new design of Connor’s structurally damaged home. Everyone had become acquainted with such things being summoned when needed. “Alright, I got the materials in the car, but we need to fix this house, er, Cynthia, up.”

“Renovating a house, huh,” Lynn muttered. “Better than spending all day dealing with paperwork. But if I’m going to help you and Connor, I’m going to need both of your help. So, how about an offer?”

Gray narrowed their eyes. “What would that offer entail?”

“Well, for you, Gray, I’d need help renovating a certain building. We’re talking about new elevators, knocking down walls, putting up new ones, new furniture, everything businessy. As for you, Connor,” Lynn paused, waiting for him to look at her. “I need a spy. You don’t have to be sober, but you have to keep them talking alright?”

“I’m feelin’ woozy,” Connor giggled.

“Can you overhear what people say and report back to me when you hear something important despite the wooziness?”

“Yup, and I can be a skater dude, too,” he grinned goofily. “We can all live our dReAmS.”

“Well, I’m in,” Gray said, helping Connor lay down. “I’ll certainly need a team for that building of yours, but I’m in. I can’t repair a house on my own anyway.”

Lynn nodded. A team, huh? For that she needed customers, crazy, loyal, and determined enough to support her products. She had a few people in mind who might be able to deliver.

______

“Meg, you got the snacks?” Ivy called over her shoulder, setting up the gaming consoles. They had finally stopped procrastinating and organized a group hangout between Speens, Ivy, and Meg, making it a game night. Ivy brought the video games, Speens brought the hands-on games, and Meg was in charge of snacks.

“Yup,” she smiled, wheeling in a wagon of junk food. “Anything you could want, it’s here. What games you got?”

“Rocket League, Mario Kart, only the best of the best. How about you, Speens?”

“Uno, Jenga, Connect Four, Scrabble, Twister, Monopoly, you name it, I got it. Where do you want to start? Virtual or hands on?”

“Virtual, I guess,” Meg decided. “Haven’t played in a while, ever since a pigeon yeeted my controller out of a window.”

Ivy tilted her head, asking for an explanation.

“T’was like a message from an angry god,” Meg said wistfully, resting her head in her hands. “A god who preached ‘live, laugh, yeehaw, and stop playing The Last of Us 2 because it’s a trash game.’”

“Are you on drugs?” Ivy looked sincere.

“I mean, I wrote ‘gay’ and ‘yeehaw’ all over my dad’s truck, and later that night I had a dream about falling in love with the sister of this prince that I had to stop from destroying everything at exactly 12 AM, but I don’t think that’s what you’re looking for.”

“No, that answered my question,” Ivy said, setting up the board out while the sunset shined brightly onto their faces in the cool evening light.

Meg chose the monster truck token. “Refresh my memory, how do you play again?”

“It’s literally just capitalism for kids, and I am above you mere mortals,” Speens helped, choosing the rubber duck token, and taking a Snickers and KitKat from Meg’s snack wagon. What happened next was ungodly. Speens opened the KitKat bar and ate it. Without. Separating. The Bars.

Ivy reeled back in horror, and Meg hid behind her, terrified of the scene going on before their eyes.

“What?” Speens finished the chocolate and wiped their hands with a tissue. “Are we going to play this game or not?”

“Oh no,” Ivy said, pulling her hair slightly. “You don’t get to gloss over that. The Forbidden Spicy Gatorade is for all of us to share and enjoy once we get our hands on it, but you never, never, disrespect the KitKat bar.”

Speens scoffed. “You’re really going to dwell on that?”

“Going to dwell- I can’t even-“ Ivy took a deep breath to steady herself.  “I will not allow this in my house. So you know what? Let’s raise the stakes. We need this Monopoly game to be a game-changer.”

Speens narrowed their eyes. “What are you saying? You’re betting something?”

“Yup. If I win, you have to wear a hoodie that says “I love Holes” and you have to help me with a plan of mine. If you win, I’ll help you get revenge on someone.”

“And if I win,” Meg continued. “Y’all owe me a lifetime’s supply of fro-yo and you both have to agree to each other’s bet deals.”

“Deal from my end,” Ivy pitched in, selecting the top hat token. The other two agreed, and the game commenced.

By 3 o’clock in the morning, Ivy had been in jail 17 times, and Speens had one hotel left. With a few lucky turns, Speens was bankrupt.

Ivy smirked, having a good feeling about this. “I call upon the power of the almighty Top Hat!”

“Oh, don’t look so smug, Ives,” Speens scowled, opening their suitcase of vodka and pouring their version of two shots. “You can still lose to Meg, and she bet a lot.”

“True, but in reality, would you rather lose to Meg or me?” Ivy flashed a grin. “The hoodie’s in my room, by the way. Don’t worry- it’s washed!”

Sighing, Speens went to retrieve the hoodie. A deal’s a deal, after all. When they returned, they looked ready to kill someone. They wore a baggy bright pink hoodie with “I Love Holes!” spelled in purple glitter. “You better win this, Meg.”

Meg stuffed a hand in her bag of snacks and nodded. Ivy’s turn was next, and it brought Meg down to $100. Speens muttered something under her breath and waved her hand in an elaborate motion. Seconds later, a loud crash was heard, followed by the breaking of glass and the sound of spraying water.

Ivy frowned. “What was that?”

“Go check,” Speens suggested.

Ivy looked out of the kitchen window to see… no window. The top of a fire hydrant had come bursting off of its mounted position and had crashed through her window. “No!” She frantically ran to the street to assess the damage from outside.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Speens stirred their beverage casually. “She’s not looking, you can win this.”

“Even if it means you always have to pay for my fro-yo?”

Speens shrugged. “Beats having her win. Besides, I’ll eat just as much fro-yo as you do if I’m paying for it.”

Meg went through the cards quickly, ignored whatever magic just went on. With a lifetime supply of such an other-worldly snack, who wouldn’t? Meg found her card just in time, as Ivy came back in, looking surprisingly calm.

“I boarded up the window, insurance will cover it,” she explained. “Your turn, Meg.”

Meg pulled the card she had placed on top of the pile and made her move. She had done it. Ivy was bankrupt. Not only that, but she was going insane. She flipped the board, sending everything tumbling into the depths of her house.

“How did you- you had no chance-”

“Breath, princess,” Speens joked. “I know what’ll take your mind off of this: some good old fashioned revenge on an old rival of mine. Whaddaya say, pal?”

“This day could not get any worse,” Ivy whined.

Except it could. And it did.

The electricity cut out and Ivy let out an ear-piercing screech.

__________

A/n: Not my favorite chapter, but I have some freaking PLANS for the next ones. Stay tuned! And if I made any errors, let me know because I can’t sit still for more than 5 minutes, so I only corrected a few things.

[backtobackbakubabe]

Baby its Cold Outside (Part 5)

Bakugo x Reader

Just a really sad Bakugo

Words: 1729

PART 1 HERE, PART 2 HERE, PART 3 HERE PART 4 HERE PART 5 HERE , PART 6 HERE PART 7 HERE PART 8 HERE PART 9 HERE PART 10 HERE PART 11 HERE PART 12 HERE PART 13 HERE PART 14 HERE

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This can’t be happening. This isn't real. This was his biggest fear. Y/n lay limp in his arms, blood pooling at a rapid pace. 

He let an anguished, almost feral scream. It was so loud there was the slightest pause in all the fighting. He hugged you tight to him and rocked you back and forth. “You cant be gone. You cant. You promised. You promised me y/n that you wouldn't put yourself in danger...” He kept muttering as tears streamed down his cheeks. 

Iida knelt down next to him, “Bakugo, she’s still alive. Her pulse is faint but its there. She’s a fighter. Now I need you to let go of her so I can get her out of here and to a hospital. Okay?” 

He gave you one last hug before giving you a long kiss on the forehead. “Please save her Iida.... please.” 

Iida leaned over and picked you up gently before sprinting off, away from the fighting. Once Iida was out of sight Bakugo wiped his tears and looked to the ongoing fighting around him. Backup was on the way... but they weren't going to need them because... because he was going to kill all of them. 

Bakugo knew what anger felt like. Before y/n, it was his primary emotion. But now sitting here in a pool of her blood..... He had never felt a rage like this before. Ignoring the screaming pain in his legs he stood up. “ANYONE WHO DOESNT WANT TO GET BLOWN THE FUCK UP GET BEHIND ME NOW!” 

His fellow heros knew this was not an empty threat and all made an effort to scamper behind him. He didn't waste any time, sending off the biggest explosion he’s ever had right as the last person got out of the way. He could feel his hands cracking under the pressure and his head felt like a balloon. But he just yelled through the pain and pushed harder. These fuckers were going to pay for what they did. 

All the sudden it all stoped. He grunted in frustration as Aizawas hand came down on his shoulder, “It’s okay Bakugo... You got them.” In all honestly Bakugo’s emotional outburst scared his comrades. They had never seen him so out of control, so vulnerable,.... so powerful. He had left the entire alleyway in charred bits and pieces. His flames had gotten so hot that he could see a sizzling pile of bones off to the side. He was unstable. He was losing it. He was scaring them. 

He looked at Aizawa with numb eyes, “Is Y/n..... Is she.....” 

He couldn't even bring himself to say it. Saying it out loud would make it true. She's not gone, she cant be. 

“Last I heard she’s in critical condition. She’s in surgery and we won't know much more until she gets out.” 

Bakugo slumped down to his knees. Gravity was taking him. He was exhausted. He was in pain. His body was begging to just shut down so he didn't have to deal with this anymore. “Please bring me to her.”

Aizawa leaned down to inspect Bakugo's mangled leg, “Well she’s at the hospital which is where you definitely need to be right now. She won't be out of surgery for hours, so let’s see if we can get that leg looked at while we wait.” 

He gritted his teeth, “I don't care about my fucking leg....” 

This time Izuku and Kirishima stepped up next to him, each taking an arm to help him walk. Kirishima turned to Aizawa, “Thank you for coming to help... but I think we can handle it from here. We’ll get him to the hospital and call and let you know once we know anything.” 

Bakugo grunted as they started moving, “Deku... I asked you to do one fucking thing...” Then he blacked out. 

*************

He woke up to a beeping noise. He almost expected to wake up in a hospital bed. But instead he was on a cot in someone else's room. He groaned as he sat up. His head was killing him. 

“Hey man take it easy you’ve been asleep for for almost two days. Don’t sit up too fast.” 

Kirishima was sitting in a very uncomfortable looking chair with a magazine in his lap. “Where am I. Whats going on?” 

Kirishima gave him a sad look, “We’re in the hospital man. Recovery girl fixed up your leg but your hands are going to need a while to heal. You went plus ultra and them some... How are you feeling?”

The memories all flooded back to him and hit him truck. Y/n... 

“Don’t fuck with me and don't sugar coat it shitty hair.... Is she... Did she...?” 

Kirishima put a hand on his shoulder, “See for yourself.” And gestured behind him. 

Bakugo was slow to get up, almost scared at what he would see behind the curtain. He pulled it back with a bandaged hand and his breath got stuck in his throat. There you were. You had a thick breathing tube down your throat, and there was a bandage on your forehead but it was you. Tears pricked his eyes as he pulled up a chair and sat next to you and took your hand. “How did I get here... I mean why didn't I wake up in a room of my own?” 

Kirishima blushed, “Well uh... Technically you do have a room, and technically you are supposed to be in there. But I knew when you woke up the only thing you’d care about was y/n... and I was scared you might blow the place up. So I moved you here and have been keeping a lookout for you.” 

He didn't deserve a friend like him. 

And so a routine began. Bakugo sat in one chair while Kirishima sat in the other. Kirishima would always go get food sometimes Bakugo would actually eat it. They didn't talk much other than the occasional small talk, which he was thankful for. 

After about a week and a half Kirishima convinced him that he needed a real shower and good nights sleep in his own bed. But Bakugo didn't want to back to his apartment without you. It would feel too empty. 

So he did something kind of impulsive. He called your landlord and terminated your lease. He spent the next three days moving all of your stuff into his place. 

It was almost therapeutic. During this time he could pretend you were just off on a mission and he was going to surprise you when you came home. He cleaned out half of his closet and scoffed at how many pairs of shoes you had. He swears he’s only seen you wear like 3 or four of them. 

He was judging you the whole time he cleaned out your kitchen, “Shit does she really not own any real food.” He wondered how you survived before you started dating. 

He was doing okay until he got to the hoodie he ha leant you all those months ago in the snow. He held it to his nose and sure enough it smelt like you. He didn't have many tears left in him so he just sat there in the middle of your almost empty apartment and stared at it. Your last words echoing in his ears. 

You had said you loved him... And he never got the chance to say it back... What if he never gets to. 

Next thing he knew he was back at the hospital. It was way past visiting hours but he’d like to see someone try to keep him out. 

He ended up back in that same chair he basically lived in and took your hand. “Y/n.. you stubborn stubborn women. You have no idea what you’re putting me through. Remember when I asked you, no scratch that begged you to always put your safety before mine? I know you do because we’ve fought about, like a lot. Well you just had to have the last word huh?” 

He put his head down on his other hand while he played with your fingers, “I moved all your stuff into my apartment by the way. I know you’ll probably throw a fit when you find out because I didn't ask you first but I’m okay with that.” 

“You now you really need to wake up soon. Your birthday is coming up and if we’re being honest I don't remember which day it is. I only remember its in February because at UA I would always get you something and slip it into your bag when you weren't around. And you’d always comment later that someone kept forgetting your birthday but you couldn't figure out who it was... yeah that person was me.”

He didn’t know why he was so nervous. It wasn’t like you could hear him anyways. “Listen what I really came here for... was to tell you... I love you too. Its not a new thing either. I think on some level I’ve always loved you. Even that first day when everyone thought we were going to kill each other. Do you remember?”

“You were sitting on a bench in the courtyard practically shaking from nerves. You were terrified of the entrance exam. I, being the charming asshat that I am, decided to call you out for it. I think I called you a weak ass crybaby. Told you heros aren't scared of anything.” 

He paused laughing at what came next, “Well you weren't having any of that. No. So you teleported behind me and pulled down my pants in front of all the students about to take the entrance exam. Oh I was so mad! But then you teleported back with that stupid gorgeous smirk on your face and you told me, heros were never caught with their pants down either yet here we are. I remember I was so mad I blew up the bench you were sitting on. It’s still there you know? After all these years, there's just a charred bench that no body sits on.” 

He picked his head up to look at you, “You know if this was one of the cheesy movies you always make me watch, you would have woken up while I was talking... I really cant do this without you baby. Please wake up already.”

[mandelene]

England is taking care of young America and Canada but comes down ill. Cue overly concerned colonies calling France to come and make him better. England is secretly a bit glad that France cared enough to come. Bonus: Stubborn and in stiff upper lip style, England keeps insisting he is fine when it is clear he is not. Bonus 2: America and Canada try to help on there own first. Bonus 3: America and Canada weigh up the pros and cons of calling France (eg. Making England angry or upset vs having a

Here it is! :) Hope you enjoy it. 

Unlikely Ally 

Word Count: 1658

“England! I’m so hungry I could eat a whole buffalo,” America whines, swinging his feet back and forth from his seat at the kitchen table. 

“I can’t keep up with your voracious appetite,” England grumbles in response as he starts serving them the chicken, potatoes, and carrots he cooked for dinner. 

Cooked is a generous term, in Canada’s opinion, but he admires England for his effort nonetheless. The food his caretaker puts in front of him is laughable compared to the mouthwatering culinary delights France once fed him, but being wasteful is rude and childish. Thus, Canada forces himself to swallow a forkful of dry, unseasoned chicken. He has offered to help cook before, but, as with most things, England always insists that he’s too little and shouldn’t worry — he has it under control. 

“Yum!” America exclaims, digging right in. He has a stomach of steel. Does he not mind England’s cooking? Or is it all just for show? “This hits the spot!” 

England manages a soft smile and picks up his glass of water with a pale, trembling hand. “I’m glad.” 

So, Canada wasn’t imagining it then…

England has been acting strange since yesterday night. It seemed he had a headache before bed, and he must have felt quite weary because he didn’t have the same amount of enthusiasm and energy he normally exudes when reading their nightly bedtime story. 

Today, there are gray bags under his eyes, his nose is faintly hyperpigmented with tones of red and pink, and he looks disheveled rather than tidy and put-together. His shirt is wrinkled, his hair is untamed, and he’s been wearing his wool coat indoors. 

Canada doesn’t think America has noticed any of this, given that he’s not exactly a very perceptive person. He wants to ask England if he’s all right, but he doesn’t want to anger him, and besides, if he was well enough to cook, then it must not be anything serious. 

Still, Canada can’t untangle the knot of worry tightening in his gut. He’s started growing closer to the man — not nearly as close as America is with him — but close enough to not want any harm to come upon him. 

So when England tucks them in that night and asks if they can postpone their bedtime story because “I have important documents I really must finish tending to,” Canada is immediately concerned that he is going to overwork himself and become more ill. 

America shrugs it all off and goes straight to sleep, but Canada stays up a bit longer. No more than twenty minutes after England has left the room, he hears the man coughing in his study. 

Canada promises himself that if things aren’t better in the morning, he’ll devise a plan of action.

*******************************

As he feared, England worsens. The bags under his eyes darken significantly, his nose turns cherry red, and he doesn’t change out of the clothes he slept in. 

At breakfast, even America begins to realize there’s a problem.

“England? You okay?” he asks without any hesitation, giving voice to the question that’s been hanging off Canada’s tongue for two days now. 

“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?” England instantly replies in a nasally voice.

“You don’t look okay…” 

“Oh, it’s all right. I think I’ve caught a chill. Nothing to concern oneself with,” England assures, but given how downright exhausted he looks, Canada has a tough time believing him. 

“Are you sure—?

“Why don’t you boys play by the river today? It’s a beautiful day for a swim,” England interrupts America, quickly changing subjects. “Just be cautious.”  

“Yay!” America cheers, his concern already forgotten. “Hurry up and finish eating, Canada. I’ll race you there!” 

Canada frowns. If they leave to go play, then England will be all alone in the house, and is it a good idea to leave him when he’s like this? 

Unfortunately, he doesn’t have a choice in the matter because as soon as he swallows his last bite of charred eggs, America drags him outside by the arm, blissfully unaware. 

*******************************

This is bad. Very bad. 

When they return for lunch because America complains of starvation again, they find England fast asleep in an armchair in the sitting room, looking even more ragged than before. His breathing has become louder and shallower and he’s flushed with fever. 

“What do we do?” America asks, eyes glistening with tears. “What’s wrong with him? Should we wake him up?” 

“I think it’s probably better to let him sleep,” Canada reasons. ”We should get him a blanket or something…France used to put a cold rag on my head whenever I had a fever.”  

“Okay. Let’s do that.” 

Canada fetches a quilt and covers England with it, pulling it up to the man’s shoulders. America, meanwhile, readies the damp rag and places it on England’s forehead, but the dramatic cold sensation rouses him. 

England’s emerald eyes snap open, and he immediately jolts into a more dignified, upright position in the armchair.

“What’s all this?” he demands, and Canada takes several fearful steps back. 

“We’re trying to make you better since you’re sick,” America explains, rocking on his heels. 

“What in the world are you talking about? I’m fine.” 

 “No, you’re not. You need help,” America says more firmly, standing his ground. 

“I am fine. A bit tired, but that’s all…I think…I think I’ll have a brief lie down and then I’ll prepare lunch.” 

“You shouldn’t be cooking when you’re ill,” Canada timidly adds. 

“For the last time, I’m perfectly all right! What has gotten into you both? You’re being pests,” England gripes, casting the cold rag and quilt aside before standing on his unsteady legs.

He’s absolutely hopeless. 

*******************************

“He’s been sleeping in his room for three hours.” 

“I know,” Canada says, just as anxious. He wrings his hands and tries to think. “Hey…France should be here any day now. He’s supposed to be meeting with England about a trade negotiation soon, right? He might even be somewhere in town already. He’ll know what to do.” 

“France? But England hates France. He’d be angry at us for even talking to him.”

“I don’t think he really hates him…And we can tell one of England’s officers in town to send France over if he’s here.” 

“I don’t know…Maybe he’ll feel better after he wakes up.” 

Canada shakes his head. “He’s just getting worse.” 

America angrily rubs at his eyes, trying to hide his tears, and says, “Okay. I’ll go into town and find out if he’s here or when he’s gonna get here. You watch England.” 

“Okay.” 

While Canada is terrified by the idea of having to be alone with England when he’s clearly not in the best of moods, having to go out and speak to one of the British officers would have been even worse. 

While America goes off on the search, Canada brings a wooden chair into England’s bedroom, places it by the window, and sits down. If he bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, he’s distracted from his anxiety.

England’s breathing is labored—another worrisome sign that his health is continuing to deteriorate. Why would he be so ill? Economic or political trouble at home? Or is it just an ordinary human virus? 

Please hurry, America, he thinks. 

*******************************

“Where is he?” 

“In here.” 

“It’s going to be all right, Amérique. Don’t cry or fret."

France comes barging into the bedroom, startling Canada but also making his heart swell with glee. 

It’s been over a year since Canada has seen France, and while he would like nothing more but to hug the man, he knows it will have to wait. There will be time to reconnect later. 

“Salut, Canada, mon cher. What has this old fool done to himself now, hmm? Let’s see…Angleterre? Mon Dieu, he has a high fever…Arthur…Wake up.” 

England stirs slightly and groans but doesn’t open his eyes. 

“Big Brother France is here now to nurse you back to health, dear. I’m going to bring cold compresses and water.” 

It’s unclear whether England registers anything that’s said to him. He merely continues heavily breathing. 

It isn’t until France starts running another wet rag down his arms and chest that he finally becomes more alert. 

“What’re you doing here?” is the first thing he mutters. 

“The little ones called for me and said you’ve been ill. You haven’t been taking care of yourself and it shows.” 

“Ughhhh.” 

“You’re fortunate that Amérique and Canada have more sense than you do. Here, take a few sips of water…You’ve caught something again, haven’t you? You’re so prone to human illnesses. Or is there something deeper going on?”

England wheezes and coughs. “Just a cold…”

“Hah—a cold. Look at yourself. It’s more than a cold. You owe the boys an apology—they’ve been worried.”

“M’sorry to have frightened them…” England tiredly looks over at Canada first and then America before offering them a strained smile. “Thank you both…” 

He then has a coughing fit, and for a split second, Canada genuinely believes that the man will stop breathing. 

France sits him up, pats his back, and passes him a glass of water again. “Finish it all, and I’ll bring tea. A spoonful of raw onion with honey will have you feeling better in no time.” 

 “God no. Please.”

“Works every time,” France promises, squeezing his shoulder. Then, he looks at the clock and glowers, “Is it that late already?”

“Are you leaving?” England whispers, and it almost sounds like he wants France to stay.

“No. Not until you’ve recovered. But I do have to go into the kitchen to cook for the boys and prepare your medicine, so go back to sleep and shout if you need me.” 

“…Don’t need you.” 

“Of course not,” France grins. He gives England’s back a final pat, helps him lie down once more, and beckons for Canada and America to follow him to the kitchen. 

Nothing seems scary anymore. 

[creative-poptart]

Okay so first of all HI ROLE MODEL and second of all can we get a kinda sadder Christmas ask where the SwapFell/Underswap bros' Honorary Sibling has a Christmas chorus recital they really REALLY want the skeles to go to because they've been practicing for months and for some reason the skele boi can't make it and HS is really sad because "I just wanted to show you I can do something good. I wanted to make you proud." Sorry for sad boi hours ROLE MODEL

*Aww, sad boi hours are back again. However, this is something that can be taken as really sweet in its own way, knowing that they wanted to go! I’ll still tag it for sad boi hours, though.

(Also this is super heckin late anD I SHOULD NOT BE A ROLE MODEL WHAT)

SF Sans/Black: He knows right from the get-go that you are positively buzzing with energy, getting ready for this recital. It was basically all you could talk about for a long time, and Black wanted to see you perform for almost as long. However, as he works with some reasonably sensitive information, and with some rather influential people, there are times when his schedule will change abruptly. You can’t really do much about it, but Black’s going to try his best to keep your spirits up. If there’s anything he can do, especially once you tell him that you wanted to do this for him, he’s going to do it. If he can schedule a meeting a day sooner or a day later, Black will pull any strings he’s got to make sure that he can go to your recital. If he can manage it, you’ll see him sitting in the front row of the audience, beaming up at you with a small smile the whole time.

“I, OF COURSE, WAS WORRIED THAT I WOULDN’T BE ABLE TO MAKE IT IN TIME FOR THE RECITAL, BUT THE MEETING FINISHED EARLY! SO HERE I AM. A WONDERFUL PERFORMANCE, BY THE WAY.”

SF Papyrus/Rus: If there’s something you’re going to be putting on, whether it’s a recital or a play, he wants to be there. Rus isn’t going to let many things get in the way of seeing his honorary sibling do something they love to do. The only possibility that could stop him would be if something catastrophic were to happen, and, unlucky you, it does. While Rus was trying to make you something special for the end of your performance, the oven catches fire, and he has to call the fire department. Both of you are now upset in that he can’t make it as he had to stay behind and make sure that the house isn’t going to crumble under the charred wood and material. You’re very upset at this, but Rus promises that as soon as he can, he’ll be coming to see you perform. It takes almost the entirety of the recital, but he finally shows up, just in time to watch your part.

“you really think i would just leave you hangin’ on tonight of all nights? ‘course not, i gotta see my ‘lil sib perform in their show, it’s my duty as your older brother, isn’t it? you did great, though.”

US Sans/Blue: As soon as he catches wind that you’ve got any kind of performance going on, Blue is ready to go! He even goes so far as to help be a part of the set-up/tear-down crew, if they need extra hands. There is hardly a single thing that would be untouched by him, simply because he wants to be able to be there to support you! The only downside is when the committee chair, who was supposed to be in charge of safety, fails to see something falling, Blue’s too much of a sucker for the sacrificial save. He pushes them to safety, and before he can shortcut away, he’s underneath a hefty stack of chairs. Blue will be okay after a few hours, but the recital is that night, and you had so looked forward to him being there. No matter what the doctor says about it, he’s going to be at that recital, even if it’s in a wheelchair, a small bouquet of flowers ready for you.

“THAT WAS INCREDIBLE, SIBLING!! I QUITE ENJOYED THE PERFORMANCE YOU AND THE OTHERS PUT ON! HM? OH, I AM FINE, JUST DON’T HUG ME TOO HARD, MWEH HEH HEH!”

US Papyrus/Stretch: As much as this skeleton is more neutral about the arts, there is no way that your recital is going to be missed. Stretch may not be super inclined to see all sorts of other performances, as he mostly sleeps through them, but for you? He’s going to take as many naps as possible before everyone gets started to see you. That plan backfires miserably when he has to go to work and stays up much later than he intended to. Now Stretch’s exhausted, unable to even see straight, and you’re really upset that he might sleep through the whole thing. You eventually have to go to the recital, picked up by one of your friends, and he’s going to take a quick nap, with his loudest alarm ready to wake him. Stretch almost doesn’t make it in time, but teleportation is a beautiful thing for circumventing traffic and other such roadblocks.

“of course i’m here, why in toriel’s name would i miss something like this? it’s important to you, so of course, it’s going to be important to me. there would be nothing keeping me from this.”

Thanks for the ask, @an-ironic-cheesecake!!

[smhalltheurlsaretaken]

Birthday prompt #8

(I have been posting these for so long now :’) my fingers and my brain are no longer connected. I need to sleep xD)

Read on Ao3 Birthday prompts masterlist

@xandiland

[Now that they’ve reunited with Elnor, who’s missed many of the events of the past few episodes, I’d like to see Elnor’s perspective on how the others approach Rios. Would he be disappointed in Picard for his brusqueness? Concerned that nobody else seems to see the pain he’s seeing? Who knows? But I think hyper-honest Elnor wouldn’t hold back in his assessment of the others’ failures and might finally get our boy Rios the caring and respect he so deserves.]

Elnor is overjoyed that Picard is no longer dead.

He would hold him and never let go if he could, but Picard isn’t very fond of hugs – a great pity – and Elnor himself is not entirely comfortable around him yet, and Picard is uncomfortable too since Elnor has told him that. Raffi and Soji and Doctor Jurati take all of Picard’s time anyway, so Elnor slips away one morning and goes to where la Sirena should be.

He thinks Seven might be there, and he hasn’t seen Captain Rios in a while now, and he misses both of them.

When he arrives at the charred spot where the ship initially crash-landed, he is surprised to see that there is nothing there. Why? Elnor wonders, anxiety coalescing in his chest into a mean jadashha that snaps and bite at his innards. Surely Captain Rios wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye? He wouldn’t leave Raffi, that is unthinkable.

But then Elnor remembers than Picard and Doctor Jurati used the ship to stop the Zhat Vash, and that they beamed down and left it up there. Nobody must have brought it back to the surface. Elnor goes back to the city and looks for Raffi, because she should know where Rios is.

He doesn’t find Raffi, but he finds Soji in a courtyard, angrily staring at her communicator. He doesn’t know Soji well, but he knows that Picard cares about her – that he died for her, which makes Elnor feel all kinds of sad and funny when he thinks about it – so she must be alright. She is Data’s daughter, and Elnor loved the stories about Data when he was a child.

“Soji,” he greets. He notices the pile of communicators next to her and the neural-enhanced portable replicator she is holding, and he frowns. “Do you have a problem with your communicator?”

“Yes,” she snaps, “how did you guess?”

Elnor is a bit taken aback, but he quickly understands the problem.

“You are frustrated, and you are not yet accustomed to the way of Absolute Candor, adding to your irritation. If you wish me to leave, I will go.”

Soji holds up a hand and beckons him closer, the “hold on” implied by her gestures. He approaches and studies the communicator she is holding. It does not appear broken, and the others don’t either. Elnor is puzzled.

“I do not understand, they appear to be functioning.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Soji sighs. She holds up the device for him to see. “It works well for on-planet communication, but I can’t seem to get a hold of Rios.”

Elnor perks up.

“You wish to speak to Captain Rios? I was looking for him, I haven’t seen him in several days. Or Seven.”

Soji hands him the comm badge and starts fiddling with another one.

“You are growing increasingly agitated,” Elnor notices. Out of curiosity, he taps on the badge himself and raises it to his mouth. “Hello, Captain Rios, this is Elnor. Can you hear me?”

Silence answers him, and Soji gives him a strange look. It might have been meant to convey “told you so,” but Elnor is not yet entirely familiar with Human facial expressions. They can slightly differ from Romulan ones, and there was no need for face reading among the Qowat Milat. He tilts his head and waits for her to stop trying to get the other badge to work, studying her in the meantime.

“Rios, come in,” she says curtly in the device. “I need to beam up.”

“You do not appear to be eager to speak to Captain Rios,” Elnor points out, confused. “You are angry and short-tempered, when there is no actual reason for you to be. What is the real cause of your frustration?”

Soji huffs and crosses her arms, and looks heavenwards.

“Nothing too important. I’m just… I just thought I would get away from the city a little bit, now that things are settling. I just want to spend a day and a night up there and come back.”

Elnor nods in understanding. He looks at the communicator again, just as Doctor Soong strides into view. Elnor doesn’t like Doctor Soong. He has already told him once and been informed by Picard and Raffi that it was not an appropriate thing to say, but now Doctor Soong knows and the dislike is mutual. The time for hostilities is past, though, so Elnor nods politely when the man walks to them.

“Soji, Elnor,” Doctor Soong greets, studying the communicator pile with the same interest as Elnor has previously displayed. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to call Captain Rios,” Soji explains, tossing one of the badges at Doctor Soong. “Is there a disruption in the planetary tachyon field? None of these seem to work.”

Doctor Soong frowns and checks something on a very small portable holo-transmitter he had in his pocket, frowning at the green floating screen. Elnor doesn’t know what the readings mean, so he waits.

“Well,” Doctor Soong says after a minute, “there is no disruption at all, and your badges are working just fine. Either the ship is experiencing a malfunction, or Captain Rios is ignoring you.”

The jadashha is back, gnawing at Elnor’s stomach. Captain Rios doesn’t ignore people. He listens, even if you are a despicable Zhat Vash assassin, and he talks, even if you are a very angry xB about to murder an old acquaintance.

“That would not be like him,” Elnor protests.

Soji makes a face.

“He hid in his quarters for a while when I got aboard la Sirena. Maybe he just wants some peace and quiet.”

“I do not believe that,” Elnor protests. And because he is now worried about Captain Rios and Seven of Nine, who is probably up there with him, he picks up one of the badges again and tries one more time. “Captain Rios? This is Elnor. I feel anxious because you do not answer our messages, and I would like to see you and Seven, to alleviate my worry. May I come aboard?”

Elnor dissolves away before Soji and Soong have had any time to call his endeavor pointless. He materializes on la Sirena’s transporter pad, of course, and Captain Rios gives him a two-fingered salute. Elnor copies it, and moves to hug him.

“It fills my heart with joy to see that you are alright,” he says as he folds the Captain into an embrace.

Rios laughs – it makes his chest rumble, and it’s a very peculiar feeling that Elnor likes – and he hugs Elnor back before gently pushing him away.

“Hey there, hermanito,” Rios grins. “Seven’s fine too, before you ask. I think she’s in the sonic. Or on the holodeck, I don’t know.”

Elnor nods and studies Rios, and he is disheartened by what he sees. The Captain looks tired and he has red eyes, like Humans get when they have not slept enough. He thinks it might be to make themselves more intimidating to compensate for their temporary weakness. Romulans do not get green eyes, so he cannot be sure. Elnor has seen the red eyes on Raffi, on Agnes, on Seven too, and even on Picard, but Captain Rios’ red eyes are worse. He must be feeling very weak.

“You are exhausted,” Elnor says. “I do not understand. We have won. Picard is alive. Are you not happy? Why are you neglecting to rest?”

Captain Rios stiffens like Elnor has just hit him. They stare into each other’s eyes for a long while, Elnor unblinking returning Rios’ scrutinizing gaze, and then Captain Rios sighs tiredly and motions Elnor to follow. They go to the bridge, and Captain Rios sits in his chair, leaning heavily against the back.

“It’s not that I don’t want to, kid,” Rios mutters, rubbing at his face. “I just… I just can’t right now. I don’t see pretty pictures when I close my eyes.”

“Is that why you were ignoring Soji’s calls? Because you did not wish for anyone to see that you are tired?” Elnor inquires. But wait, it does not make sense. “But Seven is there.”

Rios huffs.

“It’s not like that. I just don’t want to see people right now, especially not Picard or Soji.”

That confuses Elnor, but he decides to go back to that in a minute, once he has dealt with another puzzling aspect of Rios’ explanation.

“You are seeing me,” he says, sitting on the console so he can face Rios. “I am not people?”

Rios snorts.

“You asked, kid. And you were worried about Seven and me. I’m just not too keen on letting them touch my stuff right now.”

Elnor carefully reviews what he has gathered of Rios’ relationship with Picard and Soji. He remembers that Rios was crying too when Picard died, and that he came to find him and Raffi when they were both sobbing, alone. Elnor remembers what Raffi told him later, that Rios’ Captain died and that it involved Jana, a girl that looked just like Soji and Sutra. He remembers that Soji had only good things to say about Captain Rios, and that he’d accepted to let his ship go through a Borg conduit to reach Coppelius faster despite the damage it could cause to his home.

Elnor tries, and tries, and tries, but he doesn’t understand why Rios would not wish to see Soji. Picard, Elnor can understand, because things are confusing and awkward and even he cannot seem to know how to act when he usually never bothers thinking about it. But Soji?

“I do not understand,” Elnor states.

Rios huffs and tilts his head back.

“I just want to be alone, Elnor,” he says.

“That is a half-truth.”

“Mierda, you’re annoying,” Rios smiles. It’s a small smile and it’s tired, but it counts. “Okay, here’s the thing. I wouldn’t mind letting them come aboard if they asked, like you did. Soji hasn’t so far. She’s just told me she needed to be beamed up.” He takes in a deep breath. “La Sirena is my ship, kid. My home.”

“This is distressing to hear,” Elnor says sadly, mouth twisting into a little pout. “But if you told everyone how you feel, then they would ask.”

Rios frowns.

“Maybe I don’t do that because I’d like them to figure it out by themselves. I want them to get it.”

Elnor nods and got up. Captain Rios looks surprised to see him go, but Elnor has things to attend to.

“I will be back shortly,” he assures him, striding to the transporter buffet. “Please tell Seven I came by.”

“Sure thing, hermano,” Captain Rios says back.

Elnor teleports to the surface before any questions can be asked.

“Elnor!” Soji exclaims as she watched him reappear. “Are they alright? Why did he beam you up?”

“Because I asked,” Elnor answered curtly, brushing past her.

He needs to find Raffi.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I believe that your behavior has been unsatisfactory,” Elnor tells Picard in lieu of a greeting, earning himself a confused look and a raised eyebrow.

Picard does not believe he will ever get used to the way of Absolute Candor. But blunt as it always is, he has rarely heard Elnor speaks to him so harshly. It reminds him of Vashti, when fourteen years of pent-up feelings of rejection and bitterness were suddenly free to overflow, and Picard does not like it in the slightest.

“What are you talking about, Elnor?”

“I am talking about you and, and Soji. Raffi has told me much of what happened on the ship during my absence. It has made me very upset, and I am angered as well.”

Picard sits back in his seat and frowned, waiting for Elnor to elaborate. It might all just be a misunderstanding, or so he hopes. After the resolution of the threat to both the galaxy and the synthetics, and his own death and resurrection, Picard is far too tired to engage in more conflict.

“Explain to me what this is about before this conversation goes any further,” Picard requests.

“Captain Rios was very hurt by your words and actions when you and Soji came back from Nepenthe, and I do not believe you ever apologized.”

That’s unexpected. Picard frowns, trying to recall what he could have done to deserve the scathing rebuke.

“You yelled at him,” Elnor informs him before before he can wrestle with his memory any further. “Soji hacked his ship and tried to steal it. You mutinied. Those were not honorable actions.”

Ah. Picard can understand why Elnor would see it that way. It’s a good thing Rios doesn’t. Clearly, this is a case of miscommunication, like he hoped.

“Elnor, Rios agreed to bring us to Coppelius. There was no ‘mutiny’ and no hijacking.”

Elnor stares at him intently, and then shakes his head. Picard sees his eyes narrow. He doesn’t understand why right away, but he has the feeling that Elnor is somehow terribly disappointed.

“You sat in his chair,” Elnor counters. “You tried taking control of his ship. Soji used the name of a dead person from his past to get him to say yes. I fail to see how you do not grasp the extent of your disregard for Captain Rios’ feelings.”

Picard would like to argue, say that Rios really didn’t mind, but the truth is that he can’t be sure. They were all under severe amounts of stress after the Cube and Nepenthe. It is possible that in his own eagerness to help Soji, he failed to see Rios’ own struggles with the situation. It would certainly be in character for him, at any rate.

“Captain Rios agreed to take you to Coppelius because he is nice,” Elnor deems important to add. “You needed help and he could give it. That’s not a reason not to ask.”

Elnor is gone before Picard can think of an answer. He sighs.

“Soji,” he calls into his communicator, “could I see you for a moment? I think we need to give Rios a call.”

[brooklynislandgirl]

Word Drabble: Betrayed

Driftwood || Accepting

Beth leans against the counter closest to the fridge, fingers slackly holding a cup of coffee. Her gaze riveted to the dark liquid surface. Little waves appearing because those hands shook with the want to forget the last four days. Erase each horrible moment from the recesses of her mind, to regain a sense of the innocence lost with those moments as they were created. Drown out the screaming. Drown out the blood and the chains. Drown out as she watched the violations occur, heard the offer of self-sacrifice for her own physical well-being. To be rid of the niggling sense of doubt at the information she could only now begin to understand. The look on the boy’s face before she obliterated it with a single gun-shot. All of it. She doesn’t feel him come up. Doesn’t acknowledge that she’s been there long enough to turn to stone, that the scalding coffee had become colder than the chill air outside. How pulling the cup from her hand was not unlike he’d taken the gun away. ‘Beth?’  She shudders to life, bringing both hands up and instinctively taking up a defensive posture, almost a cat-step kata. The cup gets knocked out of his hand, dousing him from shirt to pants, before he manages to catch it, and put it on the counter, but not before cursing, because of course he does. She apologises profusely, instinctively reaching for the shirt as if she can pull the liquid out of the material, off his skin. She can’t. That isn’t her magick. He shrugs her off and takes a step back and that hurts her. He has no reason to be afraid of her. Her face shifts by micro-expressions, her nose scrunches, and she catches a whiff of burning food. She apologises for that too, mentioning that she’d spaced out and it’s true. She’d gone back to that basement, back to the incredible horror of it. The wink he offers is playful and doesn’t really register. He tugs at the shirt. “Suppose now that you’ve soiled my clothes, you’ll have to get me out of them.” She doesn’t take that as the invitation it sounded like. The smile offered less than stellar, less at home on her lips than it’s ever been. She takes a dish cloth, holds it underwater and squeezes it before making a little sound at the back of her throat. She’s always liked his sense of humour, but the words won’t come, neither will the laughter. The parallel in her mind is terrifying, in a way. She hears more than sees him backing away, pulling the shirt off. Uses it to mop at his leg, drying his chest. She doesn’t feel the way he eyes her, and maybe that’s a good thing. She could always turn her bones to jello with just a glance. She pushes his hands out of the way before he can do any more damage, and runs the damp cloth over his skin. No need to talk. No need to think. Gentle and slow, meticulous so as not to abrade the wounds he’s still healing from, despite an exhaustive expenditure of mana to heal him inside and out. All of her mocked by the one angry red at his ribs, the one that refused to obey her alteration of reality. He takes her hand and carefully twines their fingers together, enough give in that hold that she can escape it at will. She thinks it’s funny that he thinks she wants that. His whisper is soft, achingly tender, wraps her up in the dark silk of it as if nothing can touch them here. And it can’t, the entire building was warded against almost every possible intrusion. It’s why she insisted in coming.  “I’m alright,” he says. “I’m not,” she snaps. An arm on her shoulder, resting. “You will be.” ~*~ The Man in the trench-coat, tall and blonde and afflicted with a now familiar accent, looks at her expectantly, and quietly repeats himself. “Ye gotta light, luv?” The Man is not John. No matter how much she wants him to be. She sticks her hand in her pocket. ~*~

Beth reluctantly pulls her hand free and in turn pulls him closer, close enough that he can’t just disappear, turning his half hug into a full embrace. Winds her spindly arms around his waist. Rests her head against his chest because she needs to hear his heart beat. She needs to feel it strong and close and half belonging to her, even if it doesn’t, not really. She doesn’t care if it’s his turn to be stiff and unappreciative. And maybe that gives him the room to put his hands on her hips. Fingertips warm and calloused in a comforting way. He kisses her but not where she wants him to, settling instead for her hair.

She wants to tell him everything inside her head. Inside her chest. She still can’t get the words out though, not through the thickness of them pooling in her throat, threatening to choke her. So she holds him tighter, hoping he can feel them instead. His fingers climb up and down her spine, comforting or seeking comfort, occasionally fiddling with the robe she wears like armour. “Sorry,” she murmurs. “Jus’ a lil kine longah.”

“I’m sure I’ll cope somehow, in the meantime,” he says in that perfect deadpan.  That teases a short snort of laughter out of her and she manages to push at his shoulder. “I’m havin’ a moment,” she admonishes, not really angry. “No be one okole’ akamai.” “Thought ye liked my arse just as it is.” She disentangles herself, which might have been his goal, and scrubs at her face with the heels of her palms. There’s tears on her skin even if she doesn’t remember crying. Breakfast is ruined now, and she hates herself for being unable to give him even that, something to put in his stomach that doesn’t taste like death and char. “I burnt breakfast.” “Yes, you did.” He wouldn’t let her get far though, would he? Arm still heavy across her narrow shoulders, pulling her closer to him. Like he had to. He is nothing but the desperate gravity of a black hole. She could no more keep her distance than she could...finish a sentence with the right metaphor that didn’t sound stupid, apparently. “Why don’t you sit down before you murder any more defenceless breakfast foods? Ol’ John’ll make us some beans on toast.” “If dat’s exac’ly wha’ it sound like, mahalo an’ no.” Oh no, no no. Her stomach can’t handle the thought. Not that the sausages were any better, truth be told. She doesn’t put up any more of a protest, allowing him to take her silence as consent to sweep her away to the couch. She’s grateful to all the fates when he comes back with tea instead of food. Gives her something that feels almost normal. And she is grateful for that.

“Fags?” He knows she doesn’t like that term, even if it’s mental muscle memory for him. “Oh, I um... bought ya one new pack, but I smoked most of it.” “I appreciate the effort.” He accepts what’s left but made a face. Not his usual brand but they don’t sell Silk Cuts here, and she didn’t want to range too far afield. “But, where’s my coat?” “Charley took it.” “I see.” His body sinks heavily down beside her, while she’s still working things out, trying to figure out where to go. “Ya no seem very upset abou’ dis.” “Last time someone stole that coat, it killed three people and drove a professional hit man insane before I got it back.” She doesn’t even know if he’s making a joke of it, and she’s afraid that maybe he’s not. She side-eyes him. He only leans back and flashes her that smile, the one that makes the world fade out for the duration of its existence. “So good luck, Chuck.”

She can’t help but giggle. Which becomes a laugh, which in turn becomes so hard that she has to take shelter in his umbrage so that she doesn’t double over. She can’t tell if it’s hysteria or just them emotional dam giving way, but it’s something. She is amazed in the moment of his strength, his resilience. She knows if she’d been in his place back in that basement, there would have been nothing left of her worth saving. “You’ll be alright,” he says again, this time a little surer. Or maybe that’s the echo of his laughter.  “Yeah,” she had told him then. Rested her head on his shoulder and breathed everything about him in. ~*~ Little did she know then that she’d be lying through her teeth. Everyone had warned her. From Charley on down to the paperboy. That John would sell her out. That he’d leave her. That he’d take something from her. That he was a con artist as much or more than one of the most powerful of magicians. And on some strange level, it was true.  But the betrayal in the situation is hers. She’d vowed to do no harm, and shot a man in the face, killing him. She’d left her cabal without a single backward glance to follow him into the night. She’s given every bit of herself to John without reservation and expected that for once she might be different. Here she is, years later, still waiting for him to come back.

The man thanks her for the use of her lighter and hands it back to her. He doesn’t make mention of the seal she’s had engraved into the brass. John had promised she’d be alright. She should have known he was lying.